#once I get everything started usually I’m all good to go!

[gay-dorito-dust]

Oh, should i request it again then?

Damian pining after a male reader, its like his first big crush, its like their first patrol and damians all like "should i confess or nauh..."

Damian didn’t do feelings, or at least he liked to say he didn’t but in actuality he was raised by those who felt that emotions hindered his potential, his progress and thus installed the idea that the moment he started to feel something; he was bound to become a dead man.

So when he realised that he was developing a crush on you- a fellow vigilante- Damian knew he was a man doomed to fall upon his sword because he felt as though he needed to keep you safe, despite knowing well enough that you were capable of taking care of yourself if you managed to stay alive as long as you had.

However main couldn’t help but notice how vastly different you both were from one another. He had rough edges, a sandpaper like surface that felt like thousands of sharp teeth like fangs, he wasn’t exactly a welcoming presence to others; unlike you as you were the exact opposite of him. You were soft yet firm, strong enough to be able to give other kindness, and wielded a will power of pure iron and unyielding strength to push through any and all adversity.

A true reason for people to hope for a brighter future in comparison to him, but as Dick told him once, opposites attract and it was only natural for Damian to feel pulled towards you that he couldn’t explain. He still couldn’t explain it and it sent him mad at most times, but now that he was here with you on patrol, he couldn’t help but feel that things were becoming clear to him now as your presence tended to clear the fog within his head and help things seem clearer then before.

Now Damian faced a completely different challenge, should he confess to you of his innermost feelings, or remain true to what he was taught and keep the emotions within his chest until he -or they- died. This conflict raged even more within poor Damian as his shoulder brushes yours ever so slightly, causing his breath to hitch and his body to straighten upon instinct, all the while you only smiled at him and Damian damned his heart for speeding up at the sight of such a small thing.

‘You okay dami? You seem a little more brooding than usual.’ You said teasingly.

‘It’s nothing.’ He replied straightforward, his eyes firmly locked on the city you both swore to better, to protect and change.

You furrowed your brows, concerned. ‘Are you sure? If you don’t feel up to going on patrol with me I can always get dick to-‘

‘No.’ Damian almost shouted at the idea of having to deal with his brother talking his ear off about how he missed his opportunity to confess to you tonight, and how he’ll have to try and find another way to set you and him up on a mission. ‘I’ve just got a lot on my mind, I’m sorry if I come off as snippy or rude.’ You smiled and rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing as all Damian could do was get lost within your gaze, words that he wanted to say died on his tongue as his mind blanked everything out but you.

‘Good, I wouldn’t want my Damian to get bored of me now.’ You joked as you patted his shoulder twice before letting your hand drop to your side again before choosing to overlook the city yourself. Unaware that Damian’s eyes had long shifted to you in the process. He hated how you made him feel but didn’t want to live in a life without it either, it was the most frustrating thing he’s ever felt but yet the most beautiful and he wanted to explore it deeper, it reminded him of how he often had issues with how his art came off a times to the point he had to redo the entire piece all over again.

‘Bored? You’re the only person I can wilfully tolerate on patrols.’ Damian found himself saying upon instinct but thankfully for him, you didn’t think more of it other than him being blunt.

‘I’m glad because I’m staring to like you Damian.’ You admitted.

Damian wondered whether you knew what you were saying and the way they made him feel half of the time, but at least you were more open with your emotions then him, so when Damian went back to the thought of confession to you he decided that tonight wouldn’t be the night; he still had time to do so and besides Damian didn’t fell it would be appropriate to confess on a patrol, perhaps an outing with his dogs would suffice instead?

[kindashywriter]

@drowsyartist Stfu, yeah it is sometimes. Leave me alone-

[bookishdiplodocus]

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

(Even when life beats you down)

Look, I’m a mom, I have ADHD, I’m a spoonie. To say that I don’t have heaps of energy to spare and I struggle with consistency is an understatement. For years, I tried to write consistently, but I couldn’t manage to keep up with habits I built and deadlines I set.

So fuck neurodivergent guides on building habits, fuck “eat the frog first”, fuck “it’s all in the grind”, and fuck “you just need time management”—here is how I manage to write often and a lot.

Focus on having fun, not on the outcome

This was the groundwork I had to lay before I could even start my streak. At an online writing conference, someone said: “If you push yourself and meet your goals, and you publish your book, but you haven’t enjoyed the process… What’s the point?” and hoo boy, that question hit me like a truck.

I was so caught up in the narrative of “You’ve got to show up for what’s important” and “Push through if you really want to get it done”. For a few years, I used to read all these productivity books about grinding your way to success, and along the way I started using the same language as they did. And I notice a lot of you do so, too.

But your brain doesn’t like to grind. No-one’s brain does, and especially no neurodivergent brain. If having to write gives you stress or if you put pressure on yourself for not writing (enough), your brain’s going to say: “Huh. Writing gives us stress, we’re going to try to avoid it in the future.”

So before I could even try to write regularly, I needed to teach my brain once again that writing is fun. I switched from countable goals like words or time to non-countable goals like “fun” and “flow”.

Rewire my brain: writing is fun and I’m good at it

I used everything I knew about neuroscience, psychology, and social sciences. These are some of the things I did before and during a writing session. Usually not all at once, and after a while I didn’t need these strategies anymore, although I sometimes go back to them when necessary.

I journalled all the negative thoughts I had around writing and try to reason them away, using arguments I knew in my heart were true. (The last part is the crux.) Imagine being supportive to a writer friend with crippling insecurities, only the friend is you.

Not setting any goals didn’t work for me—I still nurtured unwanted expectations. So I did set goals, but made them non-countable, like “have fun”, “get in the flow”, or “write”. Did I write? Yes. Success! Your brain doesn’t actually care about how high the goal is, it cares about meeting whatever goal you set.

I didn’t even track how many words I wrote. Not relevant.

I set an alarm for a short time (like 10 minutes) and forbade myself to exceed that time. The idea was that if I write until I run out of mojo, my brain learns that writing drains the mojo. If I write for 10 minutes and have fun, my brain learns that writing is fun and wants to do it again.

Reinforce the fact that writing makes you happy by rewarding your brain immediately afterwards. You know what works best for you: a walk, a golden sticker, chocolate, cuddle your dog, whatever makes you happy.

I conditioned myself to associate writing with specific stimuli: that album, that smell, that tea, that place. Any stimulus can work, so pick one you like. I consciously chose several stimuli so I could switch them up, and the conditioning stays active as long as I don’t muddle it with other associations.

Use a ritual to signal to your brain that Writing Time is about to begin to get into the zone easier and faster. I guess this is a kind of conditioning as well? Meditation, music, lighting a candle… Pick your stimulus and stick with it.

Specifically for rewiring my brain, I started a new WIP that had no emotional connotations attached to it, nor any pressure to get finished or, heaven forbid, meet quality norms. I don’t think these techniques above would have worked as well if I had applied them on writing my novel.

It wasn’t until I could confidently say I enjoyed writing again, that I could start building up a consistent habit. No more pushing myself.

I lowered my definition for success

When I say that nowadays I write every day, that’s literally it. I don’t set out to write 1,000 or 500 or 10 words every day (tried it, failed to keep up with it every time)—the only marker for success when it comes to my streak is to write at least one word, even on the days when my brain goes “naaahhh”. On those days, it suffices to send myself a text with a few keywords or a snippet. It’s not “success on a technicality (derogatory)”, because most of those snippets and ideas get used in actual stories later. And if they don’t, they don’t. It’s still writing. No writing is ever wasted.

A side note on high expectations, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism

Obviously, “Setting a ridiculously low goal” isn’t something I invented. I actually got it from those productivity books, only I never got it to work. I used to tell myself: “It’s okay if I don’t write for an hour, because my goal is to write for 20 minutes and if I happen to keep going for, say, an hour, that’s a bonus.” Right? So I set the goal for 20 minutes, wrote for 35 minutes, and instead of feeling like I exceeded my goal, I felt disappointed because apparently I was still hoping for the bonus scenario to happen. I didn’t know how to set a goal so low and believe it.

I think the trick to making it work this time lies more in the groundwork of training my brain to enjoy writing again than in the fact that my daily goal is ridiculously low. I believe I’m a writer, because I prove it to myself every day. Every success I hit reinforces the idea that I’m a writer. It’s an extra ward against imposter syndrome.

Knowing that I can still come up with a few lines of dialogue on the Really Bad Days—days when I struggle to brush my teeth, the day when I had a panic attack in the supermarket, or the day my kid got hit by a car—teaches me that I can write on the mere Bad-ish Days.

The more I do it, the more I do it

The irony is that setting a ridiculously low goal almost immediately led to writing more and more often. The most difficult step is to start a new habit. After just a few weeks, I noticed that I needed less time and energy to get into the zone. I no longer needed all the strategies I listed above.

Another perk I noticed, was an increased writing speed. After just a few months of writing every day, my average speed went from 600 words per hour to 1,500 wph, regularly exceeding 2,000 wph without any loss of quality.

Talking about quality: I could see myself becoming a better writer with every passing month. Writing better dialogue, interiority, chemistry, humour, descriptions, whatever: they all improved noticeably, and I wasn’t a bad writer to begin with.

The increased speed means I get more done with the same amount of energy spent. I used to write around 2,000-5,000 words per month, some months none at all. Nowadays I effortlessly write 30,000 words per month. I didn’t set out to write more, it’s just a nice perk.

Look, I’m not saying you should write every day if it doesn’t work for you. My point is: the more often you write, the easier it will be.

No pressure

Yes, I’m still working on my novel, but I’m not racing through it. I produce two or three chapters per month, and the rest of my time goes to short stories my brain keeps projecting on the inside of my eyelids when I’m trying to sleep. I might as well write them down, right?

These short stories started out as self-indulgence, and even now that I take them more seriously, they are still just for me. I don’t intend to ever publish them, no-one will ever read them, they can suck if they suck. The unintended consequence was that my short stories are some of my best writing, because there’s no pressure, it’s pure fun.

Does it make sense to spend, say, 90% of my output on stories no-one else will ever read? Wouldn’t it be better to spend all that creative energy and time on my novel? Well, yes. If you find the magic trick, let me know, because I haven’t found it yet. The short stories don’t cannibalize on the novel, because they require different mindsets. If I stopped writing the short stories, I wouldn’t produce more chapters. (I tried. Maybe in the future? Fingers crossed.)

Don’t wait for inspiration to hit

There’s a quote by Picasso: “Inspiration hits, but it has to find you working.” I strongly agree. Writing is not some mystical, muse-y gift, it’s a skill and inspiration does exist, but usually it’s brought on by doing the work. So just get started and inspiration will come to you.

Accountability and community

Having social factors in your toolbox is invaluable. I have an offline writing friend I take long walks with, I host a monthly writing club on Discord, and I have another group on Discord that holds me accountable every day. They all motivate me in different ways and it’s such a nice thing to share my successes with people who truly understand how hard it can be.

The productivity books taught me that if you want to make a big change in your life or attitude, surrounding yourself with people who already embody your ideal or your goal huuuugely helps. The fact that I have these productive people around me who also prioritize writing, makes it easier for me to stick to my own priorities.

Your toolbox

The idea is to have several techniques at your disposal to help you stay consistent. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket by focussing on just one technique. Keep all of them close, and if one stops working or doesn’t inspire you today, pivot and pick another one.

After a while, most “tools” run in the background once they are established. Things like surrounding myself with my writing friends, keeping up with my daily streak, and listening to the album I conditioned myself with don’t require any energy, and they still remain hugely beneficial.

Do you have any other techniques? I’d love to hear about them!

I hope this was useful. Happy writing!

[tender-rosiey]

yoo rose I started following you a little while ago and I really liked you. I saw that your requests are open and I would like to ask for a scenario where Nanami arrives drunk and his wife takes care of him while he talks about how he loves her I liked all your stories with my businessman <3

unsteady love — nanami kento x f!reader

a/n: so glad that you do, love! <33 hope you like this one too 🫶🫶

kento stumbles slightly into your house, catching himself against the wall before you steady him, “kento… you’re drunk.”

he blinks down at you, the usually serious expression on his face replaced by something softer, more relaxed. there’s a faint flush coloring his cheeks, and he lets out a low, rumbling chuckle.

“I am not drunk,” he declares, his voice slurred just enough to betray him. “I’m... just—” he waves his hand vaguely in the air, searching for the right word. “...enlightened.”

you suppress a smile and guide him to the couch, sitting him down gently. “sure, ‘enlightened.’” you shake your head, amused. “stay put, I’ll get you some water.”

as you move to the kitchen, you hear him muttering to himself. “can’t believe I’m drunk,” he grumbles, almost like he’s scolding himself, “what kind of a husband does that?”

when you return, cup in hand, he’s sitting with his head leaned back against the couch, his eyes half-closed. but when you approach, he perks up immediately, watching you with a soft, slightly dazed look.

“you’re so beautiful,” he says. his voice is quieter, more sincere, and it catches you off guard for a second. nanami isn’t exactly shy about how he feels, but this is a side of him you don’t see often.

“drink,” you instruct, handing him the water to avoid the sudden rush of emotions his words bring. he takes the glass without complaint, but even as he drinks, his eyes never leave you.

after a few sips, he sets the glass down on the table and leans back again, sighing contentedly. “you take such good care of me,” he says softly, almost to himself, “I don’t deserve you.”

you chuckle at the sudden sentimental turn. “kento, you’re acting like I’ve just saved your life. you had a few drinks. you will be okay.”

he shakes his head, looking at you with those hazy, half-lidded eyes. “it is serious. you’re always here for me. always... my constant. my…” he trails off, struggling for the right words in his drunken haze, “you make everything better. I love you.”

his words are raw, unfiltered by the usual restraint he keeps on his emotions. there’s a vulnerability in the way he says it that makes your heart tighten.

“I love you too,” you reply, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

but before you can pull away, he grabs your wrist gently, pulling you closer. “no, you don’t get it.” he’s more insistent now, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that’s surprising given his state. “I really love you. I think about it all the time, all—the time.”

you laugh softly, though his words tug at something deep inside you. “you can tell me all about it when you’re sober.”

he doesn’t let go, though, his grip still gentle but firm. “I mean it. you make the worst days worth it. you... you’re everything.”

a soft laugh escapes you, touched by his sincerity but also aware of how much the alcohol is loosening his tongue. “I know, kento. you’ve told me before.”

nanami pouts—a rare expression that looks so out of place on his usually stoic face. “but I don’t say it enough. you deserve to hear it.”

he blinks sloppily as he stares at you before murmuring, "I need to marry you."

you let out a soft laugh and kiss his cheek, "we are married, you silly man."

in a once in a lifetime incident, your husband stares at you, eyes wide, face reddening by the second. he looks down at his feet for a few moments, then you see him hum, "that's nice."

his seriousness is almost comical given the state he’s in, and you can’t help but tease him a little. “y'know, you’re awfully chatty for someone who insisted they weren’t drunk.”

he lets out a sigh, leaning his head back again and releasing your wrist, “fine, fine. maybe I’m a little drunk. but it doesn’t change the fact that I—”

before he can finish, he shifts too quickly and almost topples off the couch. you rush to catch him, but you fall with him, and he blinks, disoriented, before breaking into a lopsided smile. “maybe a lot drunk.”

“yeah, maybe,” you say with a laugh, helping him sit back up. “come on, let’s get you to bed.”

as you help him to his feet, he leans heavily against you, his arm draped over your shoulder. you guide him down the hallway, his weight familiar but the situation still amusingly foreign.

normally, he’s the one doing the taking care of—you can’t help but relish this rare moment where the roles are reversed.

once you’ve managed to get him into bed, he pulls you down next to him, refusing to let go of your hand. his eyes, though heavy with sleep, remain fixed on you with that same soft, adoring look.

“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he mumbles, his voice thick with exhaustion and sincerity, “we have to go to malaysia together.”

“sure,” you smile, brushing your fingers through his hair as his eyes finally flutter shut. “goodnight, kento.”

just as you’re about to pull away, his hand tightens around yours once more, and he whispers, half-asleep, “I love you.”

his words are softer now, less dramatic than before but still brimming with emotion.

you watch him for a moment, his features relaxed in the dim light, and feel a warmth spread through your chest. this side of him—unguarded, affectionate, and a little silly—is one you cherish just as much as his usual seriousness.

as he drifts off, you press a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting his words linger in the air, “I love you too.”

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[byoldervine]

Types Of Writer’s Block (And How To Fix Them)

1. High inspiration, low motivation. You have so many ideas to write, but you just don’t have the motivation to actually get them down, and even if you can make yourself start writing it you’ll often find yourself getting distracted or disengaged in favour of imagining everything playing out

Try just bullet pointing the ideas you have instead of writing them properly, especially if you won’t remember it afterwards if you don’t. At least you’ll have the ideas ready to use when you have the motivation later on

2. Low inspiration, high motivation. You’re all prepared, you’re so pumped to write, you open your document aaaaand… three hours later, that cursor is still blinking at the top of a blank page

RIP pantsers but this is where plotting wins out; refer back to your plans and figure out where to go from here. You can also use your bullet points from the last point if this is applicable

3. No inspiration, no motivation. You don’t have any ideas, you don’t feel like writing, all in all everything is just sucky when you think about it

Make a deal with yourself; usually when I’m feeling this way I can tell myself “Okay, just write anyway for ten minutes and after that, if you really want to stop, you can stop” and then once my ten minutes is up I’ve often found my flow. Just remember that, if you still don’t want to keep writing after your ten minutes is up, don’t keep writing anyway and break your deal - it’ll be harder to make deals with yourself in future if your brain knows you don’t honour them

4. Can’t bridge the gap. When you’re stuck on this one sentence/paragraph that you just don’t know how to progress through. Until you figure it out, productivity has slowed to a halt

Mark it up, bullet point what you want to happen here, then move on. A lot of people don’t know how to keep writing after skipping a part because they don’t know exactly what happened to lead up to this moment - but you have a general idea just like you do for everything else you’re writing, and that’s enough. Just keep it generic and know you can go back to edit later, at the same time as when you’re filling in the blank. It’ll give editing you a clear purpose, if nothing else

5. Perfectionism and self-doubt. You don’t think your writing is perfect first time, so you struggle to accept that it’s anything better than a total failure. Whether or not you’re aware of the fact that this is an unrealistic standard makes no difference

Perfection is stagnant. If you write the perfect story, which would require you to turn a good story into something objective rather than subjective, then after that you’d never write again, because nothing will ever meet that standard again. That or you would only ever write the same kind of stories over and over, never growing or developing as a writer. If you’re looking back on your writing and saying “This is so bad, I hate it”, that’s generally a good thing; it means you’ve grown and improved. Maybe your current writing isn’t bad, if just matched your skill level at the time, and since then you’re able to maintain a higher standard since you’ve learned more about your craft as time went on

[irisinluv]

Isekaied as the Yandere Villain!? Pt 2

Part one

It was almost 2 minutes before I realized I was still dragging the crown prince behind me. I quickly dropped his hand and looked at him, not able to hide the embarrassment on my face. Listen- I’m committed to the bit. I WILL be the crazy jealous fiancé. But… I’m still human ok. I just dragged a full grown man down several halls and a flight of stairs while I spaced out thinking about how I’m gonna buy my cat premium wet food once I get back home to her.

It’s fine, I’m not flustered at spacing out about my cat, my characters just flustered because she’s been holding the hand of the man she’s obsessed with, that’s all!

“Well…. Did you still want to dine and take that walk?”

I expected him to scold me for my mistreatment of Cressida, grow irritated from me dragging him along like this. Instead, he chuckles and threads his arm in mine, and begins escorting me down the hall.

“Absolutely, have you dined outside by the roses yet? There’s this lovely pavilion that I am eager to hear your thoughts on.”

And that’s how I found myself under an impressive array of roses, all trained up and around a cozy dining area, creating a canopy of green and pink over an intimate tea table. The food was equally impressive, I had to keep reminding myself that the other me is used to this lavish lifestyle, to not gawk at the fancy tiny sandwiches and deserts.

“Well? Is everything to your liking? ”

I’m going off script here, how am I supposed to know how the villainess would react to a romantic scene like this?? If my “evil crazy” side isn’t supposed to be directed at him, and she’s usually kinda distant and unsure around him…. That means I should probably respond pretty curtly, polite, yet not really engaging. But…. I’ve already messed that up…. I guess I can be more genuine when it’s the two of us like this. He can think that this version of me is the facade, that I’m pretending to be pleasant, and then will start to see what a jerk “I” truly am when Cressida’s around. Besides…. I almost feel bad for the villainess. She really just seems like she was shy. Who knows- maybe, if given the opportunity, she really would have opened up more. It’s clear she loved the prince, and just didn’t know how to show it. So, with that thought, I made up my mind.

“It’s breathtaking! Roses are my favorite flower, and I’ve never seen so many kinds in bloom at once…. Plus the food and company leave little to be desired.”

There you go- slip in some subtle flirting! I’m not quite sure what time period this is supposed to be, but I get the impression flirting as bit more high class here, and I think I can have some fun with that.

“I’m glad, to be honest I was a bit flustered asking you to dine with me… you caught me quite off guard today, but in a good way.” He reaches his hand across the table and places it on my own, “I’d like to do this more often, you and I. I feel like the confines of our current arrangement have left us practically strangers, despite being engaged for several months already. I’m enjoying just being companionable with you, even if it’s just existing comfortably in the same room.”

Ohhhh, I know I’m the villain in this story but I can’t help but root for him- what a sweetheart! It’s so obvious he’s been lonely, I can’t wait for him and Cressida to fall in love and have a couple of kids that they’ll spoil rotten. And in the meantime…. Maybe I do have a bit of evil in me, because I’m going to selfishly enjoy this handsome man treating me to lunches under roses and reading in cozy libraries while I can.

“I know exactly how you feel your highness. Now, you mentioned a walk?”

We spent the afternoon laughing and chatting, and it felt nice to chat without worrying too much about my role. He asked me about that book I picked out earlier, and listened attentively as I caught him up with where I’m at in the plot. In turn, I asked about what papers he’s been signing, documents he’s been drafting, etc.

The only thing I had to do was send glares to any young ladies we passed, settling my hand on his arm possessively, and I saw their eyes widen and faces disappear behind fans as they whisper to one another. I can picture this illustrated in a manhwa- the nasty princess sinking her claws into the gullible prince… hopefully all these ladies will start gossiping and we can really cement this evil persona of mine now that Cressida’s here.

When we returned to our separate apartments, I explored my rooms a bit until servants came to get me ready for dinner, and I slipped back into the frigid bitch persona. The servant girls dressed me in a slightly stuffy gown, but I had to admit, I looked gorgeous. I sat stiff and straight as they did my hair, forcing myself to be the very picture of cold indifference. I then dismissively thanked them for their help, then sat there awkwardly as they stared at me like I was crazy.

Ohhhh shit…. The original story hadn’t prepared me for this. My character was a villain, yes, but a side character for the most part! How was she supposed to act towards her servants? I went over what I knew- the novel showed the villainess alone quite often, usually obsessing over Eric and plotting/stalking. It showed her with Eric, and how distant and awkward their relationship was when together. And then of course the numerous scenes with Cressida where the Villainess did all sorts of heinous things to the sweet girl. But… it never depicted her with servants, or even any friends or other nobles. Just… Eric and Cressida. Was other me not actually a bitch all the time? Am I being unnecessarily rude right now? Oh god I’m such an idiot.

The story is told through Cressida’s point of view- of course there’s more depth to my own character than I initially thought! The Villianess must be a misunderstood introvert! Unsure of how to act around her crush, she’s fiercely insecure and jealous of this new girl who doesn’t struggle the same way she does. When she notices the prince slipping from her grasp, she acts out against Cressida because she can’t bear to lose Eric!

As someone’s who’s worked minimum wage jobs and struggled with social anxiety most of my life, I try to be nice to the people just working to survive, but here I am acting like these poor women are the dirt beneath my shoe…. Ok. Um. Well they’re still standing there in shock, I can fix this….

“You really did a lovely job… my hair has never looked so gorgeous, you’re truly talented! And I think the prince will be very pleased with this choice of ribbon!”

There- I was nicer, and I brought it back to Eric, so I’m still the lovesick fiancé whose entire world is waiting for her in the dining room. I frowned as the servants scuttled out of the room with hurried excuses, all of them looking like they were about to faint. Damn it… I can’t believe I misread the relationship between us. I probably just ruined their night by being uncharacteristically rude. I’ve gotta learn their names next time…. Maybe ask them to help me eat some fancy pastries as an apology…?

I didn’t know it, but while I was lamenting how wrong I was about the Villainess’ character, the servants were all gossiping to the others about what had just transpired.

“You’re telling me she said THANK YOU!?”

“Yes!!! And then you should have seen how nervous she got! She just rambled, blurting out such a sweet compliment, and she even tied it back to the prince!”

“I had no idea how precious she was… I can’t believe I never realized she’s just shy! In a new place, all alone aside from her new fiancé…. Who I gather she’s got a bit of a crush on! Poor dear.”

“Ohh our sweet girl, I’m sure it must be hard bonding with the prince, when all you do is sit yards apart and hardly speak …”

“Well I may have some news about that… and it’s no wonder she was a bit flustered today, because I saw the two of them in the gardens today! They were both nothing but smiles- absolutely smitten with one another!”

“Such a lovely girl, and we never knew it all this time!”

Apparently, I had it backwards. The real villainess truly was a 2D, basic character. She was insecure and possessive over the prince, bullying Cressida half to remind her who Eric belonged to, half for the fun of it. But she didn’t let on to anyone about the true depth of her love for him. She didn’t gossip to her handmaid, didn’t ask the servants which dress he would like better. Simply acted as if they did not exist, hardly saying a word to them.

While I thought my blunt “thank you” was colder than they were used to, and then tried to smooth things over…. It was more words than they’d heard from me in the whole time I’d lived in the palace. They lapped it up and declared me their own shy little dove after that.

When I arrived to dinner, I realized why daily dinners weren’t exactly a bonding activity for the villainess and Eric. The table was massive, and only held two chairs, one at either end. It felt so…. Cold?

Eric had beat me there, and quickly stood up from his seat, waiting until I sat and a servant pushed in my chair to retake his own seat. He smiled at me and said,

“Good evening, princess.”

He had to project his voice slightly. It wasn’t like he was shouting or being loud, it was just the manner of speaking you use when talking to an elderly relative, clearer, and enunciating better so they could hear you.

I replied back, projecting my voice similarly, and found the conversation was, in fact, more awkward than it had been earlier. We ate our food mostly in silence, occasionally one of us would say something and the other would stop moving their utensils on their plate, listening closer as they ask,

“What’s that?”

By the time dinner was over and we each went to bed, I felt drained. I could have just been louder I suppose- but it’s so hard to keep up a conversation like that. I know we get along- we had chatted all afternoon after all. But some part of me realized it’s probably good to keep a bit of distance between us, even if I’ve rewritten things to be a bit chummier between the two of us. Cressida needs to swoop in and steal him from me… and my job is still to leave that room for her to do so.

It’s hard trying to be someone else, yet also making sure you lead the plot in the right direction- it’s exhausting! I feel like both director and actress!

It’s with this in mind that I launch myself into the softest bed I’d ever felt, and passed out. My first day as princess consort, the Yandere fiancé, complete.

While I was getting acquainted with my feather bed, Eric was speaking with the head waitstaff.

“Yes, tomorrow, would you mind adjusting the seating situation? I’d like for the princess consort and I to be closer together from now on. Yes, and ask my assistant to arrange my schedules like so, I’ve detailed it here. Thank you.”

At the same time, Cressida was recounting her run in with the prince and I to her handmaiden as she finishing unpacking and settling into her family’s guest apartments. Which, unbeknownst to me… was right across the hall.

Aaaa! You survived your first day! And look at you- doing suuuuch a good job staying true to character. Nothing could go wrong… right?

Tag list for the series;

@bitternsweet @tonightwrites @confused-they @lanxianschoenheit @poptrim @siriuslyobsessedwithfiction @one-really-annoying-tree-rat @anonymousdisco @forbidden-sunlight

Tag list closed! Stay tuned for part 3!

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Till The Water Boils Over Or The Frog Drowns.

Pairing: Yan!Gojo x Reader x Yan!Geto (JJK).

Word Count: 5.8k.

TW: No Curses AU, Dub/Con -> Non/Con (Revoked Consent), Fem!Reader, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Kidnapping, Financial Abuse, Psychological Abuse, Infantilization, Spanking, Unbalanced Power Dynamics, and Forced Codependency. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

[Part Two]

It started the day Satoru first introduced the concept of ‘time out’ to your relationship.

He was immature and you were stubborn. You loved him, but without Suguru’s even temper and calming presence, sparks tended to fly in a way that left you at each other’s throats. With your arms crossed over your chest and your eyes narrowed, you’d watched him sigh, roll his eyes, and storm out of your shared bedroom, slamming the door behind him. You gave yourself a second, then another – sucking in a shallow breath and shutting your eyes, talking yourself through all your usual cool-down methods. You were supposed to go out, tonight, to a restaurant you and Satoru had both been talking about for weeks. You still had about an hour before Suguru was supposed to get home, before you were all supposed to leave together. It wasn’t a good day to fight, even if you knew Suguru would smooth everything over as soon as he got home.

When you were done, you moved to the bedroom door. One hour was plenty of time to talk things out. One hour was plenty of time to kiss and make up, even if you would hold a grudge for a—

You pushed gently on the door. It didn’t budge.

You tried the knob. It turned, but the door still didn’t open.

You pressed your shoulder into the wood, shoving with more force than you ever should’ve had to use. Something shifted – a chair slotted underneath the handle, Satoru’s back leaning against the other side of the thin wood – but didn’t give.

The frustration you’d only just managed to suppress resurfaced immediately. Still pressed against your side of the door, you called out, attempting to keep your tone soft, light. “Satoru? Baby?”

 The sweetness in his voice was equally artificial. “I’m right here, angel.”

“I—I think the door might be jammed.” You tried the knob again, rattling the metal for emphasis. Satoru only hummed in response, and you grimaced. “Are you gonna let me out, ‘toru? I really don’t have time to be—”

“Ninety minutes.”

“…ninety minutes?”

“Ninety minutes,” he repeated. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “After that, we can check and see if you’re still feelin’ so bratty.”

You were almost thankful there was a door between you. If it hadn’t been there, you might not have been able to stop yourself from throttling him. “Satoru, I really don’t have time to—”

There was an obnoxiously loud hum, the sound of footsteps moving down the hall. You groaned, resting your forehead against the cool wood. Whatever. He was being petty, again. You could do ninety minutes. And, even if you couldn’t, he’d probably be back in ten, tail between his legs and pouting for your attention.

You quickly resigned yourself to passing the time as quickly as possible. You laid face-down on your bed, bemoaning your taste in men and picturing all the ways you could break up with Satoru, once he let you out. You scrolled through your phone, spamming Suguru with half-coherent messages and memes from the very depths of your camera roll. You re-organized your closet, sorting your clothes by color and alphabetizing your shoes. You managed to read a full page of one of the bulky historical fiction novels Suguru kept on the bedside table before deciding you’d be better off breaking up with both your current boyfriends.

You checked the time when you were done, and discovered that you’d managed to kill a whopping fifteen minutes.

God, you were so fucked.

Only half-consciously, you gravitated back to the door, slumping against it. You opened your mouth, ready to call out to Satoru and say whatever you had to say to get out, but another voice cut in before you got the chance. “Baby?”

Suguru. He must’ve gotten back early. You let out a shallow sigh, letting your head fall forward in relief. “Right here,” you said, making no effort to hide your exasperation. “Can you open the door? I think ‘toru blocked me in.”

His deep chuckle was muffled, but still clearly audible. “I’m afraid I can’t. He’s still pretty mad, couldn’t stop talking about how you copped an attitude with him.” There was a pause, a shoulder being rested against the other side of the door. “I think he mentioned something about a dress?”

You were glad he couldn’t see you – he would’ve hated the way you grimaced at the reminder. “It’s a nice restaurant. I wanted to dress up a little, but he’s just so immature, and when he saw the dress I wanted to wear—”

Suguru cut in. “The red one, right?”

“Yeah, with the window on the chest.” You sighed. “Please, Suguru? I really don’t want to spend the next hour of my life locked in my own bedroom.”

Another laugh, this one more stifled than the first. “He just knows how pretty you’d look, babe. Probably doesn’t want anyone else to find out how beautiful our partner is.” When you didn’t respond, he added, “Didn’t he just buy you somethin’ brand new? He can’t complain if he’s the one who picked it out, right?”

You pursed your lips. He had – a pure ivory dress, a little shorter than mid-thigh and sleeveless, not exactly conservative, but not meant to show as much skin as you usually preferred to. It’d come with matching gold jewelry, and you’d politely accepted the gift, kissed him on the cheek, and stashed it under your bed to rot. It wasn’t ugly, nothing so expensive could be, but it suited Satoru’s tastes, not yours.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, trying to soften the harsher edges of your distaste. “You know how Satoru is. Everything he picks out is just so—so him.”

“I’m starting to think you both might be causing problems.” You kicked the base of the door, but Suguru didn’t indulge your outburst with acknowledgement. “Just try it on, alright? If it’s that bad, we can always go without him.”

It took another minute or so of condoling, but soon enough, you were slipping into Satoru’s gifted dress, cursing as you struggled with the tiny, finicky zipper and smoothed wrinkles out of abused silk. You pulled your fingers through your hair once before returning to the bedroom door and knocking defeatedly. As if to add insult to injury, the door swung open in an instant, a smiling Suguru waiting on the threshold.

“See? Absolutely gorgeous, as always.” He leaned forward, cupping your cheek. You let his lips brush over your forehead before pulling away. Thankfully, he wasn’t cruel enough to draw it out any longer – his hand falling to yours and taking it up, tugging you gently towards the living room. “Satoru’s going to forget he was ever mad at all as soon as he sees you.”

You didn’t bother responding, only slumping against his side and letting him guide you forward. Distantly, you heard Suguru calling out to Satoru, but you were already busy – too occupied promising yourself that this would never, ever happen again to care what either of them was saying.

You would, of course, be wrong.

~

Barricaded doors quickly became a weekly inconvenience. You and Satoru fought often (never intensely and never for very long, but often), and he owned the apartment – meaning, despite all your whining, you couldn’t exactly tell him that his doors couldn’t all lock from the outside. Your ‘cool-down sessions’ (Suguru’s words, not yours) lasted anywhere from twenty minutes to a couple of hours, and Suguru was always the one to let you out. When you couldn’t be locked up and left to stew, Satoru would take it upon himself to leave the apartment – if only for as long as he thought it would take for you to forget you’d argued at all. You got used to it quickly. It wasn’t fair, you didn’t enjoy it, but you got used to it. You’d always had more patience than you really should’ve, when it came to Satoru’s antics.

And then, Suguru started showering with you.

Finding time to spend together was an ever-present obstacle in your relationship. Satoru alternated sporadically between planning lectures and grading papers late into the night to rolling his eyes at the concept of due dates and dulling out extra credit on a whim, and trying to guess if Suguru would be free was a pursuit in futility – his sermons were scheduled, but he was almost always being called out on some mysterious errand on behalf of one of his countless, faceless apostles. You didn’t work at all, but you went to school, and you kept yourself busy. You’d never be as busy as Satoru and Suguru, but you did your best to keep up with them.

Currently, you were basking in the afterglow with Suguru, your head resting on his chest and his arms wrapped loosely around his waist. Satoru was already gone, rushed off to some early-morning lecture, but Suguru didn’t have anything to do, and you—well, you could miss a lecture or two if it meant spending time with him. And, even if you couldn’t, it was hard to imagine tearing yourself away from the feeling of his calloused fingers tracing aimless patterns into the small of your back, of his lips pushing warm, open-mouthed kisses into your shoulders, your collarbone, your throat. His hands drifted to your hips, grip tightening ever-so-slightly, and you felt a raspy groan reverberate against the side of your neck, Suguru pulling you close as he—

“Save it,” you said, drawing back. He pouted and you grinned, pecking the corner of his jaw and sitting up, letting his sheets pool around your waist. “Just for a few minutes – I feel gross.” A full groan, this time. You laughed, combing his disheveled hair back and pressing another kiss into his forehead, this one lingering just a beat longer than the first. “You’ll survive a shower, Suguru.”

You felt him shift underneath you. Before you had a chance to pull away, he was sitting up, his arms still around your waist – keeping you messily laid across his lap. “I’ll come with you.”

“You’ll wait your turn.” And then, when he only hummed in response, “I’m being serious. Somebody in this relationship has to wash their hair every now and then.”

His face was already buried in the crook of your neck, and he was moving toward the edge of the mattress with your body still tucked against his chest. He was planning on carrying you, presumably. Sometimes, it felt like if it were up to Suguru, you’d never walk anywhere on your own again. “I know.” His voice was still raspy with sleep, his usual articulation weighed down by the fatigue that came with a morning spent in bed. “I’ll help.”

“That’s really sweet, but—” You strung your arms around his neck as he stood up, taking you with him. “—I think I’ll be alright on my own, Suguru.”

For the first time all morning, his eyes flickered open, wandering idly in your direction. He held your gaze for a beat, then another.

Finally, the edge of his lips quirked upward – the sly, knowing grin you’d fallen in love with soon painted across his lips. When he spoke, it was in a tone to match, all confidence and cloying, calculated sweetness. “No.”

You faltered, at that. “…no?”

“Don’t wanna be away from you for that long,” he mumbled, by way of explanation. “Whatever you need to do, I’ll take care of. Don’t want you to have to worry your pretty little head over anything.”

You tried your best to laugh, but it was a weak effort, better left unacknowledged. “I don’t know how I feel about my boyfriend offering to, I don’t know, shave my legs or something.”

He only soldiered on, as if you hadn’t said anything at all.

~

You felt Satoru’s hands on your waist first, then his chest against your back. His mouth found the curve of your throat as if by instinct, teeth grazing against a bruise Suguru had left in the same spot the day before. You felt him lean against you and dropped the knife you were holding onto a nearby cutting board, bracing yourself on the edge of the counter to compensate.

You glanced over your shoulder as his head bowed, face soon buried in the dip of your shoulder. He must’ve just gotten home – he was still wearing his sunglasses, only the first three buttons on his shirt undone. You grinned, twisting around just far enough to kiss the top of his head before turning back to your ingredients. “Rough lecture?”

“Grad students,” he muttered, the dread in his voice plainly audible. “One more fucking extension request, and I swear, I’ll fail the entire class.”

You hummed, letting him sink further into you. You might’ve let him stay there, too, if one of his hands hadn’t fallen to your ass while the other slipped underneath your loose shirt. Before he could creep upward, you jabbed an elbow into his chest. “Keep it in your pants. You still smell like a college campus.”

Of course, he didn’t budge. “But I missed you,” he whined, as shameless as he was clingy. “I had to leave so early, and I was stuck in my office for so long, and I’m gonna die if I have to wait any longer. Is that what you want? For me to die?”

“You could always go to Suguru, if you’re that insatiable.”

“But I want you.” You felt a thumb slip below the waistband of your sweatpants (or, Suguru’s sweatpants, technically – he’d been unbearable unless you were wearing his clothes, recently) and batted his hand away. Your efforts were, predictably, unsuccessful. “Please, baby?” And then, after a beat. “You don’t care about dinner more than you care about me, do you?”

You felt something delicate inside of you falter, crack, then fall apart entirely. It was strange – how long you could nurse a wound without acknowledging it existed at all. “It’s not that, I just—” You stuttered, then stopped entirely. You deflated underneath Satoru’s weight, and as if in response, he held you that much tighter, keeping you as close as you could be, lest he carve open his chest and force you into the open cavity. “I… I guess I feel like I haven’t really been doing a lot for you two, lately. You pay all the bills, and Suguru goes out of his way to take care of me, and there just… It makes me feel kind of useless.” You tried to punctuate the confession with a smile, a laugh, but both were hollow beyond the point of recognizability. It would’ve been better if you hadn’t tried at all. “You get it, right? I just—I don’t want to be the only one not doing anything.”

There was a beat of silence. You felt Satoru settle against you, his chest pressing into your back before he pulled away, detaching from you entirely. You sighed, letting yourself relax.

And then, just as suddenly, you were off of your feet and in Satoru’s arm, one tucked under the bend of your knees while the other supported your back. You managed a stammered, half-coherent protest, but if Satoru was listening, he wasn’t bothered.

He carried you out of the kitchen and into the living room, your half-finished recipe forgotten in favor of dropping you onto the nearest couch and kneeling over you, already pulling on the collar of his shirt. “Sounds like our baby’s been thinkin’ too much.” He was grinning, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose. “Let me put a stop to that.”

You opened your mouth, but you didn’t have time to respond. His mouth was already crashing into yours; swallowing down anything you might’ve said and replacing it with a breathy moan, a haze over your conscious thoughts.

You didn’t bother trying to talk your way out from underneath Satoru, again.

~

You couldn’t breathe.

It took you a moment to realize what was wrong, another to put together why. You felt the blunt tip of Suguru’s cock hit the back of your throat as Satoru’s chest pressed into yours, the latter pressing the air out of your lungs while the former forced you to choke what little was left up. Satoru had set a relentless pace; his thrusts brutal, his tempo erratic, his hips crashing into yours with enough force to bruise. Two of Suguru’s thick, calloused fingers were lodged between your body and Satoru’s drawing quick, precise patterns into your clit, while both of Satoru’s hands were wrapped around the underside of your thighs, keeping your knees pinned to your chest, your body folded in half and pressed into the mattress. They’d always been taller than you, with Suguru kneeling by your head and Satoru looming over you, they both seemed so much bigger. They both seemed so, so much stronger than they ever had before.

You couldn’t breathe. The lack of oxygen was already rushing to your head, already replacing your sense of logic with a shrill, panicked buzz. Your body hurt everywhere they touched it, the warmth pooling in your core and arousal left behind by previous climaxes not enough to dull the sharp sting of Satoru’s nails against your skin, not enough to soften the harsh edge of the grin you could only barely see spread across Suguru’s lips out of the corner of your eye. It was a struggle just to move your jaw, and even then, any sounds you were able to make were borderline incoherent – your little chants of ‘red, red, red’ so stifled and so garbled by Suguru’s cock that you couldn’t have blamed him for not hearing you at all. It was only when you tried to pull your head back that his eyes fell away from where Satoru’s cock was fucking into your dripping cunt and to your face, tears of distress already beginning to prick at the corners of your eyes. You let out one more panicked cry, hoping beyond hope that he’d be able to see the fear in your expression and know something was wrong, but that grin you had loved so much only widened, sharpened. “Like that, princess?” You felt his free hand on the top of your head, fingers carding through your hair while the patterns being pushed into your sensitive clit sped up, intensified. “Faster,” he cooed to Satoru, his voice laced with something vicious and mocking. “If she can still cry, she can still fuck.”

He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it. Suguru just liked to be mean in bed, and Satoru liked to indulge him. That was the only reason they were doing this to you, that was the only reason Satoru listened; leaning that much more of his weight onto as his cock beat against the walls of your cunt. “Fuck,” Satoru muttered, as Suguru’s cock twitched against the roof of your mouth. “Got tighter when you said that. Is that what you want? For me and him to fuck you unconscious?”

This time, you didn’t try to pull back, you jerked – lurching out of Suguru’s hold, drawing back until you could gasp and pant and fill your aching lungs. “Red,” you half-choked, half-cried. “Red, red, stop, too much, I can’t—”

Satoru cut you off with a throat groan. You felt his form tense against yours, heard a shameless moan spill past his lips, and suddenly, it was like you’d forgotten how to breathe entirely. “Too close for that,” he muttered, his lips close enough to ghost over the shell of your ear. “You can take it for me, angel.”

You couldn’t, but you didn’t have time to tell him that. You opened your mouth, but all you could seem to spit out was a keening, pitiful whine as you felt something deep in your core pull taut and snap, as your cunt clenched around him and you came undone on Satoru’s cock for the nth time. At the same time, he went stiffed above you, forcing his hips flush with yours and filling your abused pussy with something thick and searing. The feeling was alien, strange. You could’ve sworn he said he would wear a condom, tonight.

It felt like you laid there for a small eternity – trapped under Satoru’s limp body, Suguru still petting idly through your hair. You stared unblinkingly at the ceiling until, days later, Satoru pulled himself upright with a raspy grunt, turning to Suguru. You were vaguely aware of his head being lowered into Suguru’s lap, moving to finish the job you hadn’t wanted to, but that seemed distant, unimportant. The room was too small, too closed-off. You weren’t getting enough air. You were too warm. You were too small. You—

You needed to leave.

Your body was on the edge of the mattress before your mind could make the conscious decision to move. You were shaking, despite the damp humidity clinging to your skin, but you tried to ignore that and focus on getting your feet underneath you, on fishing Satoru’s shirt off the floor and pulling it over your head. You’d need pants, too, and your wallet – maybe you’d still have a little cash stowed away, something from before Satoru insisted you start carrying one of his platinum cards. You’d spend the night in a hotel, or better yet, rent a car – get out of Tokyo altogether. You had a friend who lived outside of the city – or, you used to, at least. You couldn’t remember the last time you talked to someone other than Satoru and Suguru.

You made it to the doorway before Suguru called out. “Going somewhere, princess?”

You froze, but didn’t look over your shoulder. You could barely stand. You needed to go. “I just—I think I need a little air.”

“Give us a minute. Me or ‘toru should go with you.” There was a lull to his voice, an airiness just barely audible over the slick, sloppy sound of Satoru’s mouth moving over his shaft. You could remember admiring that about him, once, constantly thinking about how lucky you were to have such a cool, confident boyfriend. Right now, though, it was hard to think of his unfaltering composure as anything but inhuman. “It just wouldn’t be safe to let you—”

“I need air,” you repeated, because it was true, because you did. Little, black spots were already starting to dot your vision, and it felt like someone was trying to wrap their hands around your throat and squeeze. “I… I think I might be gone for a while, too.”

For all his tenderness, Suguru didn’t sound very concerned. “How long?”

“A couple hours,” you tried, and then, much more quietly, when he let out a disbelieving hum. “…a few days?”

This time, Suguru didn’t have to say anything at all. Leaning against the doorway, Satoru’s cum still dripping down the inside of your thigh, it took less than a minute for you to crack on your own. “I think we… I think I might need a little space.”

There was another beat of silence, occupied only by a soft groan from Suguru, the sound of noisy swallowing from Satoru. Finally, he sighed. You didn’t dare to look, but you could picture him shaking his head, smiling as he rolled his eyes. Acting as if you’d just said the stupidest thing in the world. “What do you think, Satoru? Have we waited long enough.”

“—too long.” Satoru’s voice was hoarse, breathy. In your peripheral, you could see him dragging the back of his hand across his lips as he raised his head. “We’ve had everything ready for months, now.”

That was all Suguru needed to hear. He turned back to you, letting his head lull to the side. “Come back to bed, won’t you, princess?”

You didn’t respond. What little air you still had hitched in your collapsing throat as you attempted to move forward, only for a hand to catch your shoulder and hold you in-place. It was Satoru – now standing less than a full step behind you. He didn’t bother with a warning before wrapping his free arm around your waist and dragging you into his chest and off of your feet. You made a weak effort to thrash, to squirm, to dig your nails into the forearm laid over your midriff, but Satoru didn’t make a sound, didn’t let you go, only hauling you back to where Suguru sat on the edge of the mattress. You shouldn’t have felt as betrayed as you did. They’d both always been able to pick you up and throw you around like a kitten, being carried from place to place by its scruff. It was always only going to be a matter of time before they stopped listening to your half-hearted protests entirely.

“Over the knee,” Suguru said with a sort of flippant, beckoning gesture. “I want to make sure we get off on the right foot.”

Wordlessly, unceremoniously, you were dropped face-down into Suguru’s lap – his thighs pressing into your exposed stomach. Satoru lowered himself to the floor in front of you, sitting cross-legged and reaching out, cupping your face delicately. More out of reflex than anything intelligent, you tried to push yourself up, but a hand on the small of your back was enough to keep you paralyzed. Sometime between the doorway and the bed, the shaking had gotten worse. You doubted you’d be able to keep your legs underneath you, anymore. “Twenty-five,” he announced – an executioner reading out his victim’s sentence. “Fifteen for trying to leave us, and ten more for not listening to me. Does that sound fair, Satoru.”

“So mean, Sugu’,” Satoru whined, but you could already see a crooked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “The poor thing doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

“Which is why we have to make a strong impression. I want her to know there’ll be consequences for misbehavior.” You felt his hand drifting up the length of your spine, lingering on the sensitive junction between your shoulder blades. “Twenty-five, okay, princess? I’m going to need you to count for me – if you lose track, we’ll have to start over.”

“Suguru, ‘toru, I don’t—I don’t understand what—” You were cut off by a sudden, bruising blow to the plush of your ass – all force, no friction. It took you a second to realize that it was Suguru’s hand, another to consciously acknowledge that he’d spanked you. Like you were some bratty toddler. Like he wanted to hurt you.

It took another lash to know you out of your spell-bound state and send a keening, pitchy cry spilling past your lips. The tears you’d managed to hold back minutes ago were back in full-force, dripping down your cheeks and pooling on your chin, accompanied by the occasional sniffle or ragged sob. Suguru hummed, but any sympathy he might’ve had remained unexpressed, hidden behind a thick veil of strict impassivity. “I need you to count. I know it’s hard, but it’ll only get more difficult if you don’t cooperate.” He paused, clicked his tongue. “We’re still on one. Are you going to be good, or do I have to get the belt?”

“Hurts, Suguru, you’re hurting—”

Another blow, this one to the back of your thighs and twice as harsh as the first two. Meekly, you mumbled a weak “…one.”

You couldn’t see past your own tears by the fifth strike, and by the tenth, you were sobbing openly. Each blow leaves your skin burning and your ass pulsing, but despite everything, he was far from brutal. His pace was measured, precise, and he was strategic – careful to never abuse the same spot to the point of numbness. After the fifteenth, you sniffled and forced yourself to raise your head, meeting Satoru’s eyes and silently pleading for his pity, for his help. Rather than empathy, you found a glassy stare and his hand in his lap, pumping idly over his cock. A few hours ago, you could picture yourself teasing him for not being able to go a full minute without someone touching him, even himself. Right now, the sight alone was enough to make bile rise into the back of your throat.

His thumb ran over your cheek, his palm settling under your chin and tilting your head back. “Don’t give me that look. This is twice as gentle as he’s ever been with me.”

By the time it was over, you were near-inconsolable, every number followed immediately by a string of distorted gibberish, a disjointed plea for him to stop, or be gentle, or let you go. You laid limp across Suguru’s lap as he drew slow, tender patterns into your abused flesh, every little touch sparking a new kind of pain, dragging another ragged sob up from somewhere deep and visceral in your chest. He was talking to you, cooing sweet nothings, but you couldn’t hear him. You didn’t want to hear him. You wanted to leave.

But, you couldn’t, and even if you’d had the strength to try, you wouldn’t have gotten very far. You hadn’t seen him move, but at some point, Satoru must’ve left the room. When your crying began to wane and you could bare the thought of opening your eyes, you found him standing in front of you, holding a glass of water in one hand and three white pills in the other. “Open up,” he said, drawing out each syllable for a beat longer than he really had to. “It’ll help with the pain, promise.”

You pursed your lips, grit your teeth, but Suguru’s thumb pressed into a fresh bruise and fear immediately overwhelmed your sense of caution. Suguru took precious seconds to reposition you – drawing you up by your shoulders to straddle his thigh – and Satoru’s hand found its way back to your cheek, his thumb tapping your bottom lip and slipping onto your tongue as you, reluctantly, opened your mouth. The pills were first, allowed to sit on your tongue until their bitterness reached the back of your throat, then the water, poured sloppily enough for the excess to spill out of the corners of your mouth. The reaction was instantaneous – a wave of nausea, then fatigue, your eyes immediately too heavy to keep open, your body too distant to justify attempting to control. You went slack, falling against Suguru, and he chuckled, bowing his head.

The last thing you felt was his mouth against your throat before everything went numb.

~

You woke up hours later, tucked into a bed that wasn’t yours and in more pain than you’d ever felt before.

Shock and terror startled you into consciousness before you could so much as attempt to fade back into blissful oblivion. You tried to curl up, to make yourself as small and as safe as possible, but your leg caught on something – a leather cuff, discovered after throwing the sheets that’d been laid over you to the side. A shackle, lined in velvet and sitting loosely at the base of your ankle, a silver chain connecting it to an unseen point underneath the bed. You gave it another tug, just to check, and unsurprisingly, it refused to budge. You choose to look away before the pit quickly opening up inside of your chest could deepen any further.

Instead, you turned your attention outward – to the rest of the bedroom. It wasn’t the one you shared with Satoru and Suguru, or the undecorated guestroom Satoru had semi-converted into a home office. The walls were a pale pink, the shelves already stocked with stuffed animals, fairy lights, jewelry boxes that (knowing Satoru) were no doubt filled to the brim. You weren’t wearing Suguru’s shirt anymore, either. Your blood ran cold as you glanced down and found yourself in a pastel blue nightgown – all lace and silk and frills no one could ever hope to actually sleep in. You didn’t know whether to be disgusted that they’d re-dressed you while you were unconscious, without your permission, or thankful they hadn’t waited until you were awake enough to try and stop them.

Seconds seemed to move in thick, dripping clumps. You couldn’t be sure how long passed until your disoriented stillness was interrupted, but by the time the plain, white door (a neat row of undone deadbolts visible above to the knob) swung open, Satoru stepping through with Suguru following shortly behind him. Automatically, you started to move towards them, but caught yourself, pressing you back into the headboard and crossing your arms over your chest, as if that gave you any kind of authority. As if there was any authority you could have, chained to the floor in the bedroom of a pre-schooler.

“You were beginning to worry us,” Suguru started, sitting on the foot of the bed. “But, then again, our little princess was always a delicate one, wasn’t she?”

You stiffened, bristled. You opened your mouth, but closed it as Satoru draped an arm over your shoulders, collapsing next to you. “Here,” he said, holding something out. “Suguru wanted to make you ask, but I’m not that stingy.”

 You attempted to shift away from him, but Satoru had never made things that easy. He clung to you that much tighter as your eyes fell to his hand, finding—

A cup.

A sippy cup, pink and plastic and decorated with little, glittering clouds.

The nausea was immediate, nearly overwhelming. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to throw it across the room. You wanted to do anything but accept it, but your throat was bone-dry, a steady throbbing already begging to root in the back of your skull. Wordlessly, you snatched it out of his hand and (with more than a little strain) pulled off the lid, drinking as quickly as you could. Satoru’s nails scraped against your bicep, but neither of them commented.

Suguru waited until you were finished to go on. “You’ll get used to it, after a few weeks. It’s really not that different from our prior relationship, just a few aesthetic changes ‘toru and I thought a—” He paused, grinned. “—softer environment might suit you.”

“We can be more honest now, too.” Satoru sounded too giddy, too happy. “Those last couple of days practically killed me – having to watch you leave the apartment, acting all independent n’ shit. This way, there won’t be anything stopping us from keeping you all to ourselves.”

A beat passed in silence. It took you a moment to realize you were supposed to say something, and another to actually open your mouth, to find your voice when all you wanted to do was shrivel up and shut your eyes. “I don’t really understand what’s going on,” you muttered, like that would make it true. Like enough stuttering, simpering obliviousness would be what made them change their minds. “When are you going to let me go?”

Beside you, you heard Satoru try and fail to suppress a breath of a laugh, and Suguru’s grin only seemed to widen.

[aritany]

I'm sorry your writing strategy is WHAT?? I'm going to need a thorough explanation of this because I'm FASCINATED

[brian murphy voice] I DIDNT SAY ANYTHING WEIRD!!!

okay i did. but also! if it ain’t broke…

here’s how this crumbles cookie-wise. sometimes (as is currently the case) i feel like i am trying to hold onto a whole novel in my brain at once. this does not feel particularly good because the novel doesn’t belong in my brain it belongs Out There. so i make a very detailed outline and then i start at chapter 1, and i write to 100 words (give or take a few). then i move on to chapter 2 and write to 100 words. then to chapter 3 and so on until i have at least 100 words in each chapter. then once i’ve run through the whole book, i go back to the beginning and make sure each chapter is up to 200. then i’m usually in the Meat of each scene so i’ll get everything up to 500, then 1000, then 1500 and then usually i clock out of chapters around or just under the 2k mark.

this appeases the hyperactive part of my brain by making sure i’m never bored, and helps the project manager in my brain so i can keep track of many moving parts in the novel and also ensures that scenes at the end speak to scenes at the beginning since i’m (sort of) writing the whole book at once.

NOTE: sometimes i get lost in the sauce and write way past 100 or wherever im at, and that’s fine. it just means i probably skip that chapter during my next pass since it’ll be past my goal wc for each chapter of the run.

that is all. try it, if you want. i honestly don’t know how to write books any other way

[yieldtotemptation]

ANIMALS ft. Natty

natty x male reader smut

10k words

“All I’m saying is,” Natty starts, like she always does, with more unsolicited advice than you can handle at 2 AM, "for someone that complains so much about not having a sex life, you really don’t do much to fix it."

“And what, oh wise friend of mine, is your recommendation.”

“I don’t know. Get a haircut. Dress better. Try not being a massive pussy?” Natty shrugs. Or at least you think she does. Only so much you can tell over the phone.

You sigh. Bite back the urge to tell her to fuck off. But then, who else would talk you to sleep at this ungodly hour? So instead, you concede the point. “Noted.”

“Or, you know, if it’ll stop you from being such a little bitch,” and now she’s laughing, cackling really, and not once has that ever, ever meant anything good. "You could always just fuck me."

—

Two weeks and twelve hours post-Natty’s incredibly unhelpful suggestion that did absolutely nothing to alleviate you of your insomnia, and you’re back on the phone with her.

Only this time, there's video.

So, yay.

"Help me, please."

It’s a Friday and Natty's begging, again.

Because she knows she can count on you, knows that you’ve long since resigned yourself to your fate as Natty’s on-call ‘fixer’. There for everything from life-changing career decisions to helping her figure out what show to stream next.

And now, apparently, choosing her outfit for tonight.

“Help me, help me, help me, help me.”

God, this woman and her begging. Knowing full well that it’s your kryptonite.

"Okay, okay, okay," you're relenting, much earlier than usual. Mostly because as far as Natty’s petulant requests usually go this one’s a walk in the park. “But don’t you have people for this sort of thing? People who don’t, and I quote, ‘have a dogshit taste in style?’”

“It is dogshit!” Natty calls out, already turned around and leaving you (her phone) on the vanity, facing out to her bedroom and all its hideous pinkness. She disappears from the screen, diving deep into her closet for yet another pair of shorts that will most certainly hug way too close, or a top that dips way too low, or a pair of heels that scream—'hey, I have legs, would you like to spread them?' "But!"

Natty returns to the camera with a leather belt—oh no, that's a leather skirt—in hand; clad in nothing but a casual cotton bra/underwear combination that she’s filling out far too well for your sleep-deprived brain to handle.

She holds up the skirt against her waist for your consideration. Poses. It wouldn't cover a thing. Or maybe that's the point—again, you don't have any fashion sense, whatsoever.

“You’re a man, and I need a man’s opinion because I’m hoping to take one home tonight to fuck my brains out until I forget about this shit-storm of a week. So, you know—help a girl out?”

“As always, you have quite a way with words.”

Natty leans towards the camera, bending down to stare right at you. It makes entirely too much sense that she’s built an entire career around doing just this.

“It’s my third language, asshole.”

The insult lands softer than she likely intended, considering well, you’re a little too distracted to take it. It’s entirely her fault. The angle makes her tits look far too immaculate to pay any attention to her mouth.

Maybe she should consider going out just like this?

Yeah, that’d definitely get her fucked.

But, she frowns before you can make the suggestion, turning on her heels and sashaying back to her closet, leaving you to choke on air at the sight of her ass stretching out her favourite pair of panties. (The white pair with the pretty-pink bows. The one that rides up her ass when she stretches, bends, sneezes—basically any time she’s not standing perfectly still. And even then.)

Anyone else and this whole thing would be weird. Well, weirder than it already is.

See, you and Natty have this thing; this odd, cat and dog relationship that’s been going on since what feels like the dawn of time:

You’ve watched her shamelessly cycle through men faster than a teenager through a box of tissues, leaving a trail of broken hearts and broken cocks in her wake.

While she’s been forced to witness every time you’ve met ‘the one’, only to be there months later to help pick up the pieces when you’re burying your feelings in video games and alcohol and porn, wondering how it all went so wrong.

All this to say that seeing Natty bouncing around in her underwear with that laser-beam of a smile of hers; with all of her soft curves, thick thighs, her ridiculous ass and again, those immaculate fucking tits isn't that unusual.

In fact, it doesn't really do anything for you at all.

(Fucking liar.)

“Here, how about this.” Natty appears from the corner of the screen, having found a top that’s somehow made of even less material than the bra she’s already got on. The gall of her to ask, "Too much or not enough?"

You deadpan. “Does it come in adult sizes too?”

Natty grins, because she can read it right on your stupid face. She looks so, unbearably hot. Without even trying that hard. This bitch. “So just right, then.”

And then she twirls, leaving you to face her back, and before you even have time to blink, Natty’s bra has fallen down her shoulders; and you’re hating how you lean in to look because this damn app has no zoom feature to save your sorry eyesight.

Her fucking tits. Perfect, bouncy. Even through the pixels, even from behind, you can still see the way they spill.

She slips on her chosen top for the evening—a tiny, strappy number—and spins back around to face you in all her Natty glory. By the skin of your teeth, you’re looking away and leaning back, feigning nonchalance and leaving her none the wiser.

You think.

“You know,” Natty says, tilting to one side, hand on hip. Fuck, even that slightest movement makes them bounce. Utterly, utterly obscene. “You should just come tonight.”

You’re saying, “Fuck no,” before she’s even finished her sentence. ‘Coming tonight’ means ‘clubbing’, and ‘clubbing’ means being stuck listening to the shittiest music, surrounded by the worst people in all of Korea, drinking overpriced slop and watching Natty turn down a revolving door of douchebags on the dancefloor.

So, yeah.

If ‘fuck no’s’ were bricks, you’d be building the Great Wall of ‘Fuck No’, big enough for aliens on the other side of the galaxy to see with a fucking telescope and have their first contact with the human race be a giant ‘Fuck No’.

And that’s your polite way of turning her down.

Yet somehow, Natty’s hardly deterred.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Natty sing-songs, shuffling on her tiptoes, shifting her weight from foot to foot, making her entire body jiggle. It’s like she’s intentionally trying to sell you on the idea with every little movement. Make you believe that if you came with her, you’d be able to find someone who comes close to looking half as good as she does in that… whatever-the-fuck that is. Bralette? Crop top? Whatever. Fat chance. "Come on, come, come, come. Be my wingman please!"

You already have your second ‘fuck no’ queued up, but Natty just won’t stop fucking talking.

“Don’t you want to get laid? Don’t you think you need to have fun after what’s-her-name?” Natty continues, pouting at you through the screen.

And there it is, a study in how Natty usually gets her way—jutting out her bottom lip, digging her thumb into the waistband of her panties to expose just a smidge more skin, leaning just right to make her tits look like they’re about to pop out. It’s like she’s got a fucking manual.  

“Don’t tell me you’d rather stay at home with Handalf the Grey than come out with me and all my hot friends?”

“You mean having to clean up after all your ‘hot friends’ and their bullshit while you run off to score free drinks?” You retort, recalling all the other times when she managed to entice you out of your self-imposed isolation and into the deafening, sweaty hellhole known as a nightclub.

“Said hot friends that you’re too much of a pussy to hit on, mind you,” Natty chides, and then oh-so-casually decides to drop this nugget: "They all like you, you know, they'd be more than happy to break this dry spell of yours if you just asked. Don’t act like I haven’t seen the way you look at Julie."

You can feel your cheeks reddening. You’re not a teenager. You shouldn’t blush at this shit. But here you are, falling for Natty’s words and their magical abilities to needle at your insecurities and fill your head with thoughts of her friends and all their... well, incredibly positive attributes.

Natty pounces on your lapse in composure and gets closer to the camera, crouches. Drops down so she’s on her heels and all you can see in that tiny window of your phone is the red of her plush, plump lips.

“Come, you pussy—”

“Natty—”

“Do it pussy—”

“Natty, if you think that’s going to work—”

“Pussy, pussy, pussy—”

You’re yelling down the phone: “Fuck, fine!”

Natty’s victory dance is already in full swing before the words have even left your mouth. Bouncing around her room in pure joy at once again having ruined your evening. Dancing in that barely-there outfit, treating you to entirely sinful ripples across her curves and dips, pure sex on a pair of toned legs. Really makes you wonder how the fuck is she not illegal in at least fifty different countries.  

You hide your face in your hands, because there it is, the reason you’ve never really been able to deny her:

Her laughter, her energy, her fucking shameless glee whenever she manages to get her way (which, if you’re keeping count, is every single time).

She’s just so frustratingly adorable.

Somewhere in her celebrations, Natty finds exactly what she was looking for. Reaches down to the floor, picking up a belt—no, that’s another skirt—this one even tinier than the first.

“Oh, this is perfect,” she preens, holding it out to the camera (to you), before stepping right into it. She spins around, making it dance around her hips. It does wonders for her thighs. "How do I look?”

You swallow. “Like you’re going to get fucked tonight.”

The glint in Natty’s eyes. Like you’ve just served up the finest compliment on a silver platter. You feel sorry for whatever poor soul crosses her path tonight.

Natty winks. “Here’s to hoping.”

—

Guess what?

Turns out you were right: this is the worst place in the world.

Only, you’re the sole person here that seems to think that.

Hours have passed since you helped Natty look perfectly fuckable and you’re at the bar, trying and failing to get the attention of the bartender. Unfortunately, he, like every other male with a beating heart and a boner seems far more interested in Natty’s little dance routine than his thirsty clientele.

You can’t blame him, really. It’s built in how she moves.

Strobe lights cutting through the air like knives, slicing her into this series of absolutely pornographic snapshots as she dances. And she’s not alone, she has friends—beautiful, all of them, in their own ways. They spin and twirl around her; but Natty’s the sun here, the star that everything orbits.

(You included).

You see it play out—the Natty effect. Men, even women alike gravitate to her, drawn by that magnetic force that is Natty at her very best. Trying to get a dance, maybe whisper a line they stole from some movie in her ear, even dare to reach out to touch or press themselves up against her.

But she’s a black hole, a dark star. Can’t get too close.

One by one, they’re swallowed up by the void of Natty’s disinterest. The shoulders slump, the smiles falter, and the hope in their eyes dies as Natty, with a simple flick of her wrist sends them stumbling back into the crowd, forgotten almost immediately.

And the whole time she’s doing this, she’s got you in her line of sight. A wink here, a smile there, a dance on its own; and all you can do is nod and pretend like you’re okay with all this.

You inhale. Deeply.

Her outfit looks even tinier in person.

You turn away for just a moment, shaking off thoughts of Natty, of her hips and their sway and her winks and her smile; attempting (and failing) to flag down the bartender once more.

This fucking night.

But, when you look back, Natty’s no longer on the dancefloor.

She’s standing next to you. Arms looping around your neck.

“Natty—”

But she’s not listening. Her eyes are darting around the room, searching for something—or someone—that you can’t see. Your stomach clenches, because that look on Natty’s face? That’s not her usual I’m-about-to-make-some-poor-soul-my-bitch look. That’s something else entirely. That’s fear.

“Shut up, I need a favour,” she’s in your ear, yelling over the thrum of the bass that’s rattling your ribcage.

You lean in, bend down to meet her, because, frankly, you’re worried. You’ve never seen Natty like this, wide eyed and shaky. Never seen her be anything but comfortable.

You’ve also never been this close to her. Felt her breath hot against your neck, felt her body press up against you, felt her softness, felt her—

Fuck, you should be asking her what’s wrong, but before you can even do that, the bartender's filling two shot glasses and sliding them over to Natty.

She takes one. You take the other. It tastes lethal.

Natty’s nails dig into the back of your neck, and she looks at you, intense. Words fast and frantic. “Just pretend we’re together, okay? For a bit. Until I can figure this out. Just—just keep playing along, yeah?”

You blink. The room blurs around you. You think you might’ve misheard. “What?”

“Be my boyfriend,” she says, taking a second shot before you can even digest the first. “I need you. There’s some creep and I need you. Now, please?”

You turn immediately, scanning the floor, but the lights and shadows make it near impossible to make out anything other than vague shapes and strobes of colour, let alone pinpoint a face. "Natty, where is he, I can—"

"No, no, no," she cuts you off with a shake of her head. “Focus on me.”

“Wait, why do I have to—”

“Oh, shit there he is—”

And then she’s kissing you.

Ending whatever argument you may have had, because she’s grabbing, pulling you in, and her lips are on yours and oh fuck, she’s really, really kissing you.

It’s a slap to the face, and you need to reel in from the sting. Because you’re already forgetting what you’re doing, forgetting how your limbs work, because Natty’s putting on the performance of a lifetime and you’re having trouble keeping up.

Her hands are in your hair, yours at the small of her back, and she’s pulling you close, squishing against you and the taste of her—sweet like candy and sharp like vodka—filling you all the way up.

Your tongue catches up, flicking against hers, licking inside of her mouth and she’s even convincing you—as if she’s the one that’s always been into the love at first sight bullshit and you’re the non-believer.

And it’s a problem, how right this feels. Because this isn’t what friends do—definitely not Natty and you. But still, you can feel her tension, her need for this to be believable; and you don’t dare to fuck it all up.

So you kiss her back, because that’s what you do for Natty.

You always do what she needs.

You’re about to pull away; this should be enough to have every single person here convinced that you’re hers and she’s yours. But Natty’s already sliding her tongue back in your mouth, pleading, “Keep going,” the moment a gap opens between your lips; and you’re diving back into the kiss without a second thought.

And then you hear it.

A flash of a camera.

A cheer.

A whistle.

Julie, Haneul, Belle—Natty’s friends, staring at you like proud fairy godmothers witnessing their own magic at work.

You break the kiss. You look down at Natty.

She giggles.

You feel like a fucking idiot.

"There is no creep, is there?"

Natty shrugs, looks up at you, and she actually looks—what is this? Shy? Embarrassed?

"There could’ve been," she says, her eyes wide and innocent, a mask. You see through her like you should have when she first wrapped her arms around your neck.  Oh sure, like she’s ever been innocent for a second in her entire life.

She’s far too smug for that.

You roll your eyes. You feel like every other idiot that’s ever fallen for a bat of her lashes and a peek at her tits. Hope is a hell of a drug, especially when Natty’s the dealer. And yet, despite yourself, the corner of your mouth quirks up. "You're fucking insane."

“Maybe.” There’s a long pause. She’s staring at your mouth. She presses a finger to your sternum. “But I had to do something.”

It takes a second. What?

What does that mean?

You stare at Natty, lick your lips. Her taste still lingers.

“Ask yourself the same question I’ve been asking myself for months now,” she says, louder this time, her voice cutting through the noise of the club and hitting your ears with a sobering clarity.

You know what she’s going to say—what she’s going to ask before she’s even opened her mouth. You’ve been asking yourself the same thing too.

So, swallow hard, try to ignore the way Natty’s friends have gone quiet. Try to ignore Natty’s hand still resting against your chest, her eyes burning a hole right through you.

“Why haven’t we had sex yet?”

The blood’s rushing to your cheeks; the music's too loud, the lights too bright, and the room's suddenly spinning around you like a carousel.

Fucking embarrassing.

But Natty doesn’t crack a smile. She just looks up at you. Hopeful. Searching you, searching your eyes for an actual answer; and you already know what it is.

“Because, Natty, we’re friends.” You offer up a weak smile, hoping against hope that she’ll buy it.

But she shakes her head. “Oh, please. Like that’s ever stopped anyone before. Besides, if you want to put a label on it, call it whatever the fuck you want. I just know what I need. Do you?”

You sigh. She gets closer. And closer.

Until your nose is brushing hers. Until her breath is hot on your face, until your heart is racing so fast you can feel it in your ears. Until her hand is sliding down, down, down, until it’s resting over your pants and oh, oh no, you’re straining.

You gasp. She smirks.

“See? You want it too. And I know you do, because, sweetie, your cock’s practically begging me to pull it out and shove it between my tits right here in front of everyone.”

She just throws it out there, so casually, so bluntly, she might as well be talking about the weather. And maybe, maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just Natty being Natty, but fuck you can’t do anything but stay frozen still.

You’re letting her hand linger. You’re letting her touch you like she’s got every right in the world. You’re letting her because there’s a part of you—the part that’s growing by the second—that wants to see just how far she’ll take this.

“So, what is the real reason, ba-by?”

Because you’re in love with her. You’re in love with her, and you can’t just have casual sex with someone you’re in love with because it will ruin you.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you just tell her: “Timing.”

That makes her laugh. Has her closing what little gap remained between your bodies, until her tits are flush against your chest, and you’re coming to the conclusion that, yes, you did help her pick out the perfect outfit for tonight.

Perfectly, hopelessly, fuckable.

“Well,” she says, and she’s pulling you back down again and shutting you up with yet another kiss. “We’ve got all the time in the world now, don’t we?”

—

You’ve been here before.

Many, many times before.

You installed the showerhead and fixed all the cabinets yourself. Even secured the lock that you’re now unlocking with the digits that you coded.

But somehow, it feels like a first.

First time you’ve kissed her in the back of a car, pushed your hand up her skirt, felt the heat of her against your fingertips. First time you’ve pinned her against the wall of an elevator, made her feel just how desperate you were for her against her thigh, made her promise to be so good for you when you got to her door.

First time being pulled through the threshold, hands at your chest, tearing your shirt off you before you’ve even stepped foot in her apartment. Had her smiling against your mouth, because she’s won, again, and you can’t even bother to argue because you’ve lost to her so many times now that this shouldn’t be so surprising.

What is surprising though is how you’re naked first.

"Terrible, terrible taste." Natty's clicking her tongue as your shoes, your shirt, your pants are scattered along the floor behind you. “We’ll have to fix that.”

And then she’s moving on, hands clawing down your stomach to land at the waistband of your underwear, hooking her thumbs in and yanking down. You’re so obviously hard—you’ve barely made any effort to hide it from her—fuck, you pretty much flagged down the taxi with it.

"Holy fuck," is the first thing out of Natty's mouth when she takes a hold of you, feeling the naked weight of you in her palm. "You’re really not messing around, are you? I was expecting—"

"A sad, lonely little thing," you finish for her, because you've heard it before. "Yeah, you like to mention it a lot."

But Natty’s not laughing now.

She’s just staring. Almost reverently. She decides, her voice a little raspy, tinted with an apprehension that you never knew she was capable of mustering, "I like it. It's... massive."

You lean in, pressing your mouth against hers because if she’s going to say that, you’re going to kiss her, again and again, and there’s a strong possibility you're never going to stop.

She whimpers, gasps into your mouth, says your name for the first time—not some nickname, not a jab or an insult. Just your name, in your ears, like it’s something sacred.

You’re not a saint. You can’t ignore that.

Your cock jumps in her hand, and as if on instinct, she strokes you.

It's slow, purposeful. She's too good at this. Knows the right pressure, where to twist and wind her wrist. How to sweep her thumb over the tip, smear pre-cum over your skin, and this entire time she's staring down at your cock like she's discovered something new.

“This is going to ruin me, isn't it?” she whispers, and you nod, because your voice is lodged in your throat and she’s stealing the air from your lungs. “Going to fit so fucking nicely inside me. Fuck it’s going to stretch me.”

You groan, collapse your weight into Natty, press your lips against the column of her throat.

Both hands now, one underneath, toying with your balls, balancing them in her fingers, and the other doing its best to squeeze, to pump, to make you fall for her with every stroke.

“I can’t wait to ride this,” Natty kisses these words into your cheek, your jaw, leaves these marks all over your collarbone. “I wonder if I can fit it down my throat. God, can you imagine what it’ll look like between my tits?”

And that makes your cock throb.

Because face it, Natty has always had a way of getting into your head; is far too dangerous with her words, and she’s all too willing to abuse this power she has over you to get you do what she wants, which is now, apparently, fucking her senseless.

You let her, let her build and build this pressure, let it coil inside you, tighter and tighter. Until the need to feel her, all of her, is too much to handle.

Until you grab her, take her by the shoulders, push her—not hard, but firmly—against the nearest wall.

You’re not gentle about it, because Natty doesn’t want gentle. She wants rough, she wants passionate, she wants to be fucked and have her cunt worshipped by way of complete ruin.

She’s told you as much.

"That's more like it," Natty bites into your ear, grips your shoulders. She follows your eyes. "Let me guess, my tits?"

So, maybe she has caught you looking once or twice. Either way, you don’t care much for her top anymore, it’s served its purpose. You take a fistful of it and pull, ripping it right off her and tossing it to the floor with everything else that’s kept the two of you from tearing each other apart.

“Better?” Natty poses for you, puts her tits on display—and yeah, you were right all along. Fucking immaculate.

You take a hold of one, palm it; fill your hand with flesh, twinge those dark, plump nipples, because of course you’re going to. You’re going to pinch and squeeze and suck on them. You’re going to mark her like she’s already done to you. Mark them, with your teeth, with your tongue. Fuck, you’re going to make them yours.

But for now, you're just going to slap them, because you want to watch them jiggle up close.

You laugh. Natty does too.

"Much better."

And with that, you’re back on her. Kisses that are sloppy, wet, and filled with all the pent-up want that's been simmering for months. You don’t even know where to begin with Natty, but you start with her mouth. It’s a good place. It’s always a good place with Natty.

Her hand doesn’t stop moving, can’t, won’t. The friction is heaven; you just let her touch you, fuck her hand while you indulge in her tits. Get to know the weight of them, the balance, the softness.

A sigh into your ear as your tongue finally finds her breasts, deep and messy, sliding over her nipple—she’s already so sensitive, just a flick and she’s gasping. You’re not even trying to be precise anymore, not that Natty needs it, not that she needs anything but for you to enjoy yourself against her.

It all makes the room seem smaller, the walls close, surrounding you with the scent—cinnamon and sweat and something else that’s just her.

“See this is why fucking me is such a great idea,” she slurs against your shoulder, hand tightening, stroking you harder, faster.

You mumble an affirmative into her breast. It’s a miracle you can still stand upright.

“Isn’t this so much better than like everything else? Anyone else?” She sighs, breathy, sweet sounds, as she takes you by the wrist, guides your hand southwards.

Fingertips graze her stomach, trace around her belly button and lower; until you’re digging into her skirt and feeling the heat rise off her skin. She’s soaked right through her panties, dripping with it. Another place for your tongue to land.

“We can just be fucking honest with each other,” Natty’s explaining, eyes tearing when your finger pads her clit, pressing down just right. “You already told me all the things you hate. All the things your bitch exes never let you do.” And she smiles, wicked. “Never had the tits to give you.”

Christ.

“And I can get you to fuck me exactly how I want with this big, fucking cock,” Natty finishes. "We’re a perfect fucking match."

It’s at that moment you find the zipper of her skirt, tugging it down, watching it fall to the feet. Leaving Natty to step out of the tiny scrap of fabric she calls her panties; abandoning the sticky mess of cotton.

You take a step back, unlatch your lips from her tits, because you need to see it. Need to finally see her, see your Natty, see the Natty you've never allowed yourself to look at.

So, take your time, drink her in—because the way she’s standing there, the way she’s touching herself now; biting her lip, sighing your name. All but saying, ‘Look all you want, but don’t you dare look away’.

Look at the arch of her neck, the red you’ve left there, that trail you’ve burned down to her tits. Bruised and swollen from your tongue, your kisses, and yet still not marked enough. Follow the curve of her hips; how they flare out from her waist, the plush squish of her ass cheeks against the wall behind her.

You want to kiss her, from the tips of her toes to the top of head; all of her, every part of her, because now she’s going to finally let you.

Because now you're going to fuck her until all she knows is you, going to make her scream your name, going to make her beg for you to fill her with your cock and cum and never ever leave her cunt empty again.

That’s the plan, anyway.

But Natty’s got plans of her own.

“Didn’t you say,” Natty begins, sighing, circling her cunt in a rhythm that you’re dying to recreate. She licks her lips. “That your last ex refused to suck that lovely, magnificent cock of yours?

"Yeah," you stammer, at a loss for breath at just the sight of it all. “And weren’t you trying to find someone to fuck your brains out?”

Natty’s eyes light up; and there's that easy, charming grin that knocks you right off your feet. "You’ve always been such a good listener."

—

Natty's plotting to ruin you.

It's the only possible explanation for the way she's looking at you right now—on her knees, at the foot of her bed, flanked by walls painted an ugly shade of pastel pink and Natty's tits, sandwiching your cock.

You’d imagined it, thought about it when you shouldn’t have been thinking about it. Whenever she brought you to watch her perform, whenever she sent you pictures of her outfit of the day. But your eyes always went there. Straight to Natty’s tits, every time.

You knew they were big.

You’ve felt them, on accident (though they don’t seem like accidents anymore).

But now, to have them enveloping your cock, drowning your shaft in their softness, and to have her, staring at your face with so much fucking excitement as she gives you everything you’ve ever wanted—it’s surreal.

You’re dying to paint them white.

“Looks like you’re already about to fall apart, baby,” she teases, and it’s even worse now that she’s calling you these sweet names, saying them like she’s always wanted to, like she’s finally letting herself. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

“Fuck, Natty—” you breathe out, your hands finding her hair, tightening, because that’s all you can manage to do when Natty’s in control. Like she’s always been.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, keeping her eyes on you, making sure you’re watching, even as her tongue flicks out to taste you. A slow, taunting lick to make you buck your hips, desperate to feel the suction of her lips. “You must have been dreaming about this, huh?”

You don’t bother lying. She already knows the answer. “Every. Fucking. Night.”

Natty’s smile spreads across her face, and she rewards you with a kiss, pressing her lips down onto the head of your cock; before sliding them lower, eyes fluttering shut with the first taste of you. “Well, what took you so long? All you needed to do was show me your cock and I’d have been happy to do it whenever you want me to. Happy for you to use my tits as your cum rag. You know that, right?”

She moves; and the sight of it alone—Natty’s tits wrapped around your cock, bobbing up and down, hypnotising you with the flicker of her nipples—up and down, up and down. It’s merciless, unrelenting, and she keeps talking, keeps kissing these sweet little words into your cock that makes your hips jerk, trying to fuck her tits faster, harder.

"Look at how perfect you look," Natty keeps going, "how your cock fits so snug."

The sounds she’s tearing from your throat as her tits take you, and she’s barely even started.

“But we can do better, can’t we?”

Her pace picks up, and with it, the tightness of your grip on her hair. She’s pushing the ample mounds together, squeezing, putting her whole body into it, into this new art she’s pioneering. Driving you insane with just her breasts, making you swell between them, throbbing as she works you over.

“So big," she’s panting from just the effort, the bounce, bounce, bounce of it all, "I can feel you getting so much bigger."

Everything’s going too fast, her tits are too soft, her lips on you too hot, and she’s drooling, her spit dripping down onto your cock. You want to tell her to stop, that you can’t take it, but Natty just keeps going.

"Fuck,” Natty mewls, pinching her own nipples, for you, for her. Pinching and rolling them, making them nice and stiff and swollen. “Let me just try and—”

She cranes her head, bends; takes your cock deeper into the warm, wet heat of her mouth. Her tongue darts out licks your cock, gets that sweet spot on the underside, makes you shake underneath her.

Natty holds you there, even as you groan, even as your hips rise; just licks, spits, sucks. Her mouth moving up and down on you, making a mess down your shaft, down her tits. Taking you deeper, deeper, until you’re fucking her face.

She moans around you as your hips buck and you push deep, desperate for it. Her eyes water, her cheeks hollow, and she’s got you. You’re in her mouth and she’s loving it. Loving the power she has over you, loving giving you what she wants, loving how you’re pulling her by the hair, desperate to feed her more of your cock into her throat.

Like your entire relationship has been building up to this moment—to Natty’s tits wrapped around you, her mouth all over you, her eyes on yours, watching as you fuck her face.

"Fuck, Natty," you grunt, your voice barely recognisable. "What the fuck—"

But Natty's just smiling, you’re fucking that smug little smile on her lips, and she’s taunting you. "Come on baby, keep going, keep going."

It’s utterly obscene—the smack of her lips around your cock, her slobbering all over you, her gagging, her moaning around you, looking up at you and asking, “Is that all you’ve got?”

You're so close, so fucking close, and she knows it. Moving her tits faster, faster, and you're about to blow your load all over Natty's pretty face, her chest.

But she keeps talking.

Even as you stuff her cheeks, even as you muffle her, “None of those other skinny bitches could do this, could they, could handle this big, fat cock?”

Even as you force her down, pull her by the hair, “You’ve been so obsessed with my body, so obsessed with my tits, haven’t you?”

Even as her tits slide off you and your cock smacks her across her cheek, “I always saw the way you looked at them, fuck I was showing them off for you, you just took too fucking long to notice.”

She won't stop fucking talking.

You finally snap. "God, are you ever going to stop?"

But Natty just laughs, bats her lashes. Slides her tongue from your base to your tip. "Maybe you should find something to gag me with."

Your hand wraps around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes go wide, to make her mouth pop open. She rolls out her tongue for you, and you know what she expects you to do, what she expects you to fill her mouth with.

But you don’t—instead, you fill it with your kiss.

It's deep, it’s bruising, it’s saying ‘fuck you’ in the sweetest way possible, without uttering a single syllable. Natty laughs against your mouth, a ‘fuck you’ right back with her teeth, biting down on your lower lip. Not breaking skin—not yet—but the promise is there.

Her hand leaves your cock to wrap around your neck, pulling you closer to her, her mouth eager for yours, and you don’t even think twice before you hoist her up, her legs wrapping around your waist. Giggling again—another sound that’s going to be your undoing—before you’re both stumbling back onto her bed.

The mattress dips under the weight of your bodies falling back into it. Natty straddles you, presses her cunt down onto your thighs. So wet you can feel it on your thigh, leaving your skin sticky and stained with her. Your hands move to her hips, dragging her closer, so you can feel the friction grinding against your cock, making you ache.

She breaks your kiss, gasping for air. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide—seeing her pant like this, it’s not even fair. She’s just so fucking beautiful, like a painting you’re afraid to touch because you might smudge it.

You tell her as much.

She blinks. Blushes.

Grins.

“You,” Natty breathes, her hand trailing down your chest, finding your heartbeat, resting there for a beat, two, “are so fucking in love with me.”

You don’t argue because she’s right.

Her hand slides up your arms, nails dig in and she’s got your wrists, pinning them over your head. You let her. Let her grind herself against your cock, feel the warm, wet heat of her cunt against the tip.

She takes her sweet time, melting herself into you, pressing her tits into your chest, and you can feel her heart racing against yours.

She whispers, “God, I’ve waited so fucking long for this.”

You can’t even form a coherent thought, so you just grunt.

“I’ve dreamt about this so much,” she continues, breathless words sending shivers down your spine. “Your cock, fuck, it’s just as perfect as I imagined. And now, it’s all mine.”

And then she does it—she sinks down onto you, slow and sweet, her pussy taking you in inch by glorious inch. You groan into her shoulder, your eyes shut as Natty’s tight heat surrounds you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before; sure there’s been others but something about Natty’s cunt is so intense it’s almost painful.

“So tight,” you grit out, the words torn from your chest like they’re made of glass. She just laughs, low, sultry, and starts to move.

It’s a dance, a rhythm that’s been building between the two of you for what feels like an eternity. She’s rocking her hips back and forth in this torturous grind. Fucking you like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do, like she needs to make the most of it. Like you’re going to vanish into thin air the second she lets you go.

“I knew you’d feel this good,” Natty sighs into your neck, already surrendering to your cock. “Fuck, I knew it—why did you keep this from me?”

You can’t answer, not really.

You’re too lost in the feel of her, too consumed by the way she’s moving on top of you. Every inch of her body is pressed against yours, and she’s so warm, so alive, that you can’t think of anything but how Natty’s finally letting you in. How she’s letting you make her whole.

But it’s too much. Natty’s cunt, tight and wet, fucking you so slow it’s a fucking crime. Pinning you down, a butterfly on a board spread out, displayed, unable to do anything but take her sweet, sweet punishment. And she’s whispering it in your ear, grinding down, rolling her hips, “Fuck you. Fuck you for keeping this from me,” with every stroke.

She’s doing it on purpose, you’re sure of it. Driving you crazy, making you beg, making you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life. Your hips jerk up to meet her, trying to speed things up, to get that friction you need, but Natty just pushes down on your shoulders, keeping you in place.

So you tell her, "This is fucking torture."

Natty just smirks, her hips never stilling. "Is it?" she asks, as if this all isn’t intentional. Like she doesn’t have some grand plan to ensure you never forget the things her cunt can do to you. "Do something about it then."

So, you do.

It takes more effort than you’ll ever admit, but you break her grip on your wrists, grab her hips, and flip her over, sending her sprawling onto the bed, face down.

The squeal from her. It’s music.

How her eyes go wide when you treat her like a ragdoll, how her tits juggle and bounce, smacking the mattress. And when you push down into her, slamming your hips into her ass, how she arches back into you, her back bowing like a fucking violin.

“Yes!” She cries, fucking cheers into the mattress, like she’s been waiting for this—for you to have had enough of her shit and take her without asking. “Yes, yes, yes—”

You hover over her, throb inside her. "Is this what you fucking wanted?"

Natty sighs into the bedsheets, urging her hips against you, begging without words, begging for you to do more.

“You want it rough, baby?”

“Yeah,” Natty says, pushing back against you again, nodding immediately. “If you can.”

Still with the provocations, unable to resist pressing at your buttons.

You grab her hair, yank it back so she’s staring at you, force her to look at you. And you fuck her hard. Fuck her like you’ve wanted to since the first time she walked into your life and decided to make it all about her.

You fill her with deep, long strokes, fill the room with the smacks of your hips colliding against her, of your cock thrusting into her cunt again and again.

She claws at the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to push back against you. But you’re too strong, too desperate.

You pound into her, impale her with your cock, watch her face twist in pleasure, in pain. You’re fucking her like you’re trying to break her, like she asked. Trying to solve her—how hard can she take it, how deep, how fast.

But Natty won’t give you an answer, she just takes it all—every inch, ever pump into her sopping wet cunt. Just grins and takes every bit of your need, your frustration. A bottomless pit of pleasure, begging for more with every whine, every little noise she makes that’s not quite a scream but is so close that it rattles your brain.

And when you finally let go of her hair, Natty’s licking her lips, and without even a care for what it does to you, she coaxes, “You can do better.”

You don’t know how she can talk right now, how she can even think with your cock so deep inside her, but something about the way she says it makes you want to test the limits of her ability to stay coherent.

But first, there’s the problem of her ass.

“Let’s see about that,” you murmur, dragging your hand down her spine, feeling the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, and coming to a stop at her perfectly rounded ass. It’s a masterpiece, a work of art, and you’ve always had a bit of an artist’s soul.

You do what comes naturally.

A spank against Natty’s ass. Hard, hard enough to make her yelp.

Again—another slap, another yelp, louder, better.

You keep fucking her, keep spanking her, keep watching red bloom across her cheeks and Natty squirm underneath you. The whines get louder, her cunt gets wetter, but it’s still not enough to dull that smug look on her face.

“Fuck yes,” Natty gasps, raises her ass, presenting it to you like a trophy for you to claim. “I always knew you had it in you.”

You grab her hips harder, your knuckles white, your hand a blur as it connects with her ass. It’s so explicit, the sound of it in the quiet of Natty’s apartment—each spank echoing through the room like a gunshot.

But Natty just takes it, her body jolting with each hit, her cunt tensing and tightening around you.

“God, don’t fucking stop,” Natty sputters, tears of pained pleasure leaking from the corners of her eyes. “You’re using me so good.”

You lean down, kissing hard against her neck, branding her shoulder. You want her to feel you, to remember you. To not be able to ever feel remotely good again without first thinking of you.

"It's your fucking fault, Natty," you growl into her ear. "You drive me mad."

And she laughs, the sound vibrating through her body and going straight to your cock. "Good," she answers, "Good. Be mad. Be angry."

But you’re beyond that now, beyond the point of no return. All that you know is Natty’s cunt, Natty’s ass, Natty’s moans, and Natty’s grin that you’re aching to wipe off her face.

"Fucking hate me if you want," she’s saying, and she can’t seem to stop, "just don’t stop fucking—ah!”

You nearly stop when you realise you’ve finally done it. Finally left Natty out of breath, lost for words. A fucking miracle, really—the kind that makes you feel like a fucking god.

It doesn’t stop her cunt clenching around you, tight as a vice, because even now, Natty’s got some kind of death grip pussy, and she’s using it to fucking kill you.

You whisper in her ear, “You like that?”

Her only response is a breathy, needy little whine, so you spank her again.

And again.

Her cunt tightens. She’s close, so close. You can feel it.

“You like it when I use you, Natty?”

She nods, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth crying into the mattress, a mess of hair and sweat and utter bliss.

“Say it,” you demand, slapping her ass once more, watching as the pain ripples through her. “Say it.”

And Natty does, because she’s a good little whore, because she’s yours now. “Yes, yes, I like it when you use me, when you fuck me like this, when it’s only about you, your cock, your needs, your pleasure—”

God, it feels good to hear her say it, but you still want more than just words. You want her to fucking scream it.

You make the bed shake, knock the headboard against her wall, it’s a competition of what’s going to break first—the frame or her.

“This cunt. Your cunt. I’m going to use it. Fuck it whenever I want.”

But Natty catches you off guard, because that’s what Natty does best. She opens her eyes, looks right into yours, and suddenly she has her voice again: “Whenever I want. You’re going to fucking move in with me.”

You freeze. Your hand mid-spank. Your cock mid-thrust. It throws you entirely off, because, what the fuck?

"You're going to be my boyfriend now," Natty says, wrenching back control, fucking her ass back into you. Stating not asking, leaving no room for argument. "Move in with me, your place sucks anyway."

"You're out of your fucking mind," you start to protest, but she cuts you off with another squeeze of her cunt around you, and now she’s the one fucking you, her hips rolling back and forth in this maddening, sinful way that has you biting down on your tongue to keep from shouting.

"Move in and just fuck me every day," she says, all light and airy, like it’s already been decided, like moments ago you didn’t have her dead to rights. "Morning to night. It would be so fucking nice."

This is real, you know that for sure. It’s not just something she’s saying to get off, not another way to get under your skin. You know it in her voice, she’s deadly serious and suddenly your mind’s racing.

"Come on," Natty purrs, punctuating each word with a slap of her ass against your waist, "You know you want it, why fucking wait?"

She’s not wrong. It makes too much fucking sense to deny. And yet, part of you still can't believe it. That Natty, the girl who's had countless men at her feet, could have any man at her feet, actually wants you. That Natty is underneath you now, eyes glossed over with need, mouth swollen from your kisses, ass cheeks flushed crimson from your palm.

"I'll take such good care of you, baby," she says, unaware that she’s already completely won, unaware that her cunt already has you bending to her will. "Every day, every night.”

You can't help but nod. You're too consumed in her to do anything else. You just let go of everything. The fears, the doubt, the fucking logic.

And Natty says it, the three words that seal your fate—"I'll love you," she cries out, "I'll fucking love you forever if you just keep giving me this fucking cock."

It's like the world stops, like everything you've ever wanted is right there in front of you, wrapped up in Natty's tight fucking body.

You're so close, so fucking close, that you can almost taste it—the sweet release of your orgasm; giving in to Natty’s unbelievably sensational cunt sleeving your cock, pulsing with each thrust, desperate to milk you dry.

There’s nothing left to do but give Natty wants. Fuck her, hammer into her so hard that you’re going to fuck a Natty-shaped hole into the mattress, fucking shatter her bedframe, and then keep drilling her straight through the floor.

And she’s crying out your name, forgetting about everything that isn’t you, isn’t your cock, isn’t the dream of your cum filling her to the brim and spilling out of her cunt every single day for the rest of your fucking lives.

“Are you close, baby? Are you going to cum for me? Please, give it to me, I need it so bad, I need it now, because I'm about to, about to, about to—"

And then it happens.

Fucking destroys her.

It hits. A crescendo that peaks as you bottom out inside her, shaking her to the core. Her cunt spasms about you, her body rises off the bed as if you’re performing a fucking exorcism, and she screams your name so loud it’s only a matter of time before the neighbours come banging on her door.

"Oh my fucking god you—"

Natty gushes around your cock, juices running down your shaft, your balls, and she’s squirting. Oh god, she’s squirting all over the fucking place.

Natty’s body goes rigid, her back arching so much it’s like she’s trying to fold in half, crying, sputtering these words that don't even make sense—until you realise she's speaking an entirely different fucking language.

Not that it matters, because you can tell what she's saying, read it in her body, in the way she's spurting and making a big fucking mess beneath your bodies. Whatever she’s saying sounds utterly depraved, filthy and so, so good to your ears.

It keeps going and going, until she has enough sense to speak your language again, needing to make sure you hear it when she says—"fucking fill me, baby," she whimpers. "Give me everything, all your fucking cum."

And it’s your turn to be hit—like a fucking freight train.

You're cumming, hard and fast and out of fucking nowhere. Your balls tighten, your cock throbs, and you’re flooding Natty’s cunt.

It’s biological, in every cell of your body—like your entire being is coming undone, and the only thing holding you together is Natty, Natty, Natty.

Her body shaking beneath you, her cunt contracting around your cock as wave after wave of cum fills her up.

She’s so fucking tight, so fucking perfect, that you can feel every pulse of your orgasm, every drop of your cum spurting into her. You're not sure how long it lasts, how much you give her, but it’s enough to make your muscles shake, enough to knock the architecture right out of your limbs.

"So fucking good, so fucking good," Natty coos. "Fucking finally, finally filling me up so good."

Her moans a lullaby, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body with every syllable. You lean down, burying your face in the crook of her neck, your every inhale and exhale ragged as you try to catch your breath. Still twitching inside her, still releasing the last of your cum, and Natty’s just lying there, her body limp, her eyes closed, basking in it all.

"So perfect," she keeps repeating, right up until the very end, “So, so, perfect.”

You collapse on top of her, just lie there shivering together, your face next to hers. She’s got this look on her face, a victorious glow, and you just have to accept it. Yeah, she’s won again, in devastatingly convincing fashion.

For a second, you’re both just that—spent, exhausted, entirely drained. Like you’ve just run a marathon. Or been in a fight. Or both.

Then Natty’s got the nerve to stir, to kiss your cheek with the tenderness of a whisper. Lips softer than you thought possible, given how hard she’s just been fucking you. And that’s it, the moment your body decides it’s had enough of playing dead, enough of lying there like a sack of potatoes.

You roll over, bringing Natty with you, her body curling into yours like she’s been made to fit there. Her head rests on your chest, her legs entwined with yours, and for a moment, you just hold her close.

It feels fucking right.

"Tomorrow," Natty sighs contentedly, her cheek finding home atop your heartbeat.

You blink. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, you're moving in tomorrow." Natty’s deciding for you already, setting the dynamic for the rest of your future. Doing all this with her eyes still shut as she snuggles closer to you. "I'll hire the movers."

You sigh, the weight of the world and Natty's body both feeling surprisingly light. You think about the next few days, the weeks, the years even, with Natty. The idea is so ludicrous, so absurd, that it feels like a fever dream.

But as you hold her, feel her warmth, her unabashed, blatant satisfaction, something inside you shifts. A reframing of the concept of Natty that you hold in your head. The thought of her naked body in your bed, her laughter in your living room, her mess in your kitchen—it doesn’t feel like an intrusion, it feels like home.

"Are you sure?" you ask. A little shaky, a little hopeful.

Natty opens one eye to look at you, a laugh playing on her lips. "Oh, you know I'm going to be the worst fucking roommate ever."

"Yeah, I can see that. But as long as you keep being the best fucking everything else..." Your words trail off into a whisper, your hand tracing idle patterns on her back.

And then she says it again.

"You’re so fucking in love with me."

Natty kisses you hard, deep, her tongue sliding against yours. And you know, you fucking know, that she's right. You are desperately, entirely, so fucking in love with her, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You laugh, the sound a little desperate, a little wild, and roll her again, pin her down again. A strange feeling rushes through your mind. Like you’re going to be repeating this exact same motion for the next hundred years. And somehow, that doesn’t sound like the worst thought in the world.

Natty squeals, cheers, moans when you settle between her legs.

"Fuck you, Natty."

"Oh, baby," Natty giggles, reaching down between your legs, squeezing you. Once. Twice. Until you're filling her hand once more. "That's what I'm here for."

[paradiseprincesss]

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ 𝑻𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝑬𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒏 𝑨𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 | Jonathan Crane

NOTES -> Hello hello! im gonna be in uni full time again starting first week of september so uploads will be much slowerrrr im sorry. I’ll try to write as much as i can for u my little loves!

REQUEST -> Based off the prompt 15 from this list here

SUMMARY -> Your boss, Jonathan Crane, plans on isolating you away from your old life, consuming you whole until you become nothing but devoted to him...and you're too naive to see the mind games that the expert psychiatrist is playing.

WORD COUNT -> 3.3k

WARNINGS -> Smut, p in v, soft!dark Jonathan, doctor/nurse relationship, boss/employee relationship, creampie

MASTERLIST

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Jonathan felt his chest tighten as he narrowed his blue eyes behind his glasses. His focus was locked on you and only you, along with the orderly speaking to you for the last few minutes.

You were a nurse at Arkham, young and bright-eyed, so full of energy — and that caught Jonathan’s attention. Your unusually cheerful demeanour and sweet aura drew him in, whether he liked it or not. Maybe it was how you’d always give him a cute little wave every time he’d pass by you, or maybe it was how you’d smile at him when everyone else seemed to cower away from the stoic doctor. 

Or maybe it was because once he saw you leaving work in your everyday clothes instead of your usual scrubs, and when you seemingly bent over to pick up your keys which you dropped on the ground, he could see the lace of your pink panties poking out of your low-rise sweatpants — but I guess we’ll never know. 

See, that was the problem. You were so sweet, but you were like that with everyone you worked with; which made Jonathan feel inferior in many ways, but he promised himself that he’d have you eventually.

He didn’t want to hurt you by any means — oh god, no. He’d rather torture himself than watch you suffer through any anguish. However, he did want everyone around you to fall victim to a rather sinister fate if it meant they stayed away from you. 

Jonathan didn’t really consider himself a sadist, but watching those around you seemingly go missing and suddenly quit their jobs at Arkham (unwillingly, of course), derived an innate sense of pleasure within him. 

That was one of the perks of being the chief psychiatrist — he had all the power in the world to do whatever he pleased within the walls of Arkham, no matter who he hurt in the process. Jonathan would quietly fire many employees who he felt were “too friendly” with you, but he’d always tell you that they’d mysteriously quit or that they had changed jobs. 

“Perhaps they just didn’t have it in them to help the…unique patients we house here,” he’d say to you. “Not everyone is as dedicated and as kind as you are, you know?” 

Foolishly, you let his flattery get into your head; you let yourself fall for him without even realizing it.

You believed that the universe divinely guided you to him. You were sure of it — he was just so kind and understanding. You couldn’t believe the other staff of Arkham didn’t see him the way you did! How could they dislike him? Fear him? 

To Jonathan, you were like an angel that fell from above, capturing his cold, dead heart within your warm, beating, and very alive one. You were so kind to the patients, so gentle with them — and your patients only ever had good things to say about you. 

As you spoke to the orderly in front of you about what you did over the weekend, you noticed your boss looking rather tense from the corner of your eye. His jaw was clenched slightly, and his expression unforgiving. He exhaled sharply before ushering you over toward him, causing you to excuse yourself from your current conversation. 

“Doctor Crane,” you greeted sweetly, “how are you?”

“I’m rather stressed today,” he answered softly, taking on that same gentle tone that he always seemed to take with you. 

“Is everything okay?” 

“Everything is fine, but I'm worried about you.”

“What do you mean?” you asked innocently, cocking your head to the side slightly as if to emphasize your confusion. 

“I think perhaps we should speak in my office about this,” he offered. “Come with me, please.” 

Your smile suddenly faltered slightly as anxiety and paranoia ran rampant through your veins.

Your paranoid thoughts had to be put on the back burner as you took a seat across from him in his office, watching him as he sat down at his desk. His suit was pristine as always — and today, he opted for a brown sweater vest underneath it.

You’d count every thread and stitch on his suit for him if he asked you to. 

“Doctor Crane—”

“Just Jonathan is fine,” he interrupted before clearing his throat. “I wanted to speak to you in private about a certain concern of mine.” 

“What is it?”

He sighed before he took off his glasses and meticulously placed them on his desk. He leaned forward slightly, and you stayed quiet as he hesitated for a moment before his smooth voice finally cut through the silence in his office between the two of you. 

“I’m worried that you may be overworking yourself,” he explained, looking at you with his tantalizing eyes. “I notice you pick up shifts and work overtime frequently, and I worry that you may be taking on more than you can handle. As your boss, I just want to make sure that you’re not burning yourself out as that can’t be good for you, and I believe in a healthy work-life balance.”

You made an ‘o’ shape with your mouth, unsure as to what you could say to him — that wasn’t what you were expecting him to say to you. Perhaps you had been overworking yourself, but that was just a part of you. Having a strong work ethic was something you strongly believed in, but maybe he was right. You couldn’t care for your patients if you were too exhausted to, right? 

Now that he mentioned it, you were quite tired today. You started to think about it — as of recently, you’d been slamming coffees left right and center to stay awake at work, hadn’t you? You just wanted to help out since you were fairly new around here, but maybe it was doing you more damage than good.

Jonathan saw your usually cheerful demeanour deflate in his office, and he looked at you sympathetically, “I know this is not something you’d want to hear, especially from your boss of all people — but I just want to ensure that all my staff are doing well, you know?”

You bit your lip for a mere second, hesitating to speak before you let the words fall from your lips, “You know, Jonathan, sometimes I feel like you’re the only person here who actually…cares about me.” 

He internally applauded himself — in a moment of vulnerability, you sought out comfort in him. Just like he had planned. Just like he wanted.

“I think you’re an exceptional nurse,” he mused, “and truthfully, I do enjoy working alongside you. So yes, of course, I care about you. I remember when I first started working after finishing my residency, I would exhaust myself constantly. I’ve learned through many years that it’s just not good for you.” 

Jonathan’s plan was being executed perfectly — he wanted to isolate you. He wanted you to come running into his arms, far away from everyone else around you. He was on his worst behaviour today, but he believed you brought out the best in him. 

You weren’t overworking yourself, but with Jonathan’s quick wit, years of training in psychology, and exceptional gaslighting skills, you thought perhaps he was right. Maybe you should take some time off of work, you thought.

“Tell you what,” he said softly, “how about you and I have drinks tonight instead? Forget about work and such. I think you need it.”

His words caused your cheeks to heat up. He was your boss, and this was way out of line for a boss to ask an employee. However, it didn’t help that you were very attracted to him.

“Drinks?”

“My place at eight. I have a bottle of cabernet I think you’d enjoy — If I remember correctly, you said it was your favourite?” 

“Y-yeah,” you stammered. “It is.” 

“So I'll see you tonight at eight, then,” he smiled softly, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. “I’ll text you my address.” 

You nodded, slightly starstruck. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Once you’d parked your car on the side of the neighbourhood street, you stepped out into the chilly night, your high heels clicking against the pavement of the ground loudly as you made your way onto his porch.

You gave three soft raps to his front door before you heard shuffling coming from inside the house. After a few moments, the front door swung open gently, and Jonathan stood there with a small smile on his face.

“Come inside,” he ushered you, “make yourself at home, darling.”

And so you did. 

You two talked over a few glasses of cabernet, bringing up the topic of work a few times here and there, but he mostly attempted to get to know the real you. What you did in your spare time, what your hobbies were, if you were seeing anyone…

“Out of curiosity, are you seeing anyone?” Jonathan asked you casually, but his voice dropped an octave as he looked directly at you, resting his hand on your thigh rather boldly. “I’m asking because I've seen the way you look at me…” 

“I-I’m sorry?” you stammered, your cheeks feeling warmer and warmer by the second with the way his hand was now resting on your leg. You couldn’t deny it now. “I didn’t mean…um, I just — you’re always so kind to me…and I–”

He shushed you softly, creeping his hand up a little further. “I’m quite flattered, darling. Not to worry,” he purred. “I figured it wouldn’t be very appropriate of me to tell you how hard it is for me to not look at you when you’re at work, but after today, I just don’t think I can help myself anymore…” 

Suddenly, his lips brushed up against yours, and as if it was instinct, your hands came to wrap around his shoulders. He let you pull him in even closer, his hands now coming to rest on your hips as you two kissed feverishly on his couch.

You and him were like a chemical reaction — explosive, unpredictable, and potentially fatal.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered against your lips in between kisses. 

A shiver ran down your spine as his hold on your hips tightened slightly, his words causing your brain to short-circuit for a moment before you could think clearly again. 

“Jonathan, I–”

“Don’t speak, just give into it, my darling.”

You let yourself get lost in the constellation that was Jonathan Crane, letting him run his hands all over your body and kiss you with an insatiable hunger. Soft moans left your mouth as he peppered kisses down your jawline and neck, nipping at the delicate skin gently. 

You would’ve been worried about him leaving marks because you wouldn’t want your boss to see the next day at work — but you had to remind yourself that he was your boss. 

But none of that mattered when it felt so right; when his lips felt so good against your skin.

“Can I take this off?” he rasped, toying with the strap of your dress. 

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Please, Jonathan…”

Slowly, he took the dress off of your body, gently tossing the garment to the side as he looked at you in absolute awe. It was like looking at a priceless piece of art in a museum exhibit to him — nothing could compare. Even a picture wouldn’t do the sight in front of him justice. 

“Should we go upstairs?” you suddenly asked. 

Maybe it was the handful of wine you’d shared that evening, or maybe it was just sheer arousal; you weren’t sure which one, but all you knew was that you needed him to have his way with you. 

“Yeah, of course,” he agreed, taking your hand in his. “Just up the stairs to the left — I think I'll let you lead the way, darling…”

The two of you got up from the couch, hand in hand, and Jonathan’s eyes roamed your body from behind as you made your way up the stairs together. 

Of course, you came prepared — you know, just in case things were to happen. Before you left, you threw on your sexiest, laciest, lingerie underneath your dress, and it was a good thing you did because that investment certainly paid off.

He watched your hips sway in your lingerie, along with the heels you were still wearing (because we simply can’t forget about those), and he could feel his cock straining against his pants. “Pretty girl,” he mumbled from behind you. “Your body is heavenly.” 

“Shush,” you giggled, grabbing him by his tie and pulling him close once you reached the bedroom. 

He looked down at you in the dim lighting of his bedroom, noticing the way your skin was glowing under it. Your hair was slightly messy from making out on the couch earlier, and you had a small smile tugging at your lips — you were perfection if he’d ever seen it. 

Jonathan kissed you rougher this time, his hands finding their way into your hair, tugging ever so gently against your scalp. He backed you up onto the bed, pushing you down onto it as he undid his tie, looming over your delicate body which was sprawled out on his king-sized bed. 

After taking his tie off, he threw off his suit jacket and started to unbutton his shirt. You hummed softly, running your heel against his leg as he rushed to get himself out of his clothes. The tent in his pants made it all the more obvious how desperate he truly was for you, but you stayed patient. 

Once he was on the bed with you, he helped you out of your bra and panties, causing your cheeks to heat up from how exposed you felt. “You’re cute when you blush,” he commented when he noticed your blush, making you all the more flustered while he undid his belt. 

After freeing himself, his thick, veiny cock caught your attention, and you swallowed the lump in your throat. He was big — you weren’t sure how that was supposed to fit, but right now you were so wet, you were almost certain your walls would stretch out around him with ease. 

He lined himself up with your dripping entrance, giving himself a few strokes before looking at you with his lip caught between his teeth. “Are you sure?” he whispered, and you nodded feverishly. 

“Please,” you whimpered.

Your back was arched and you let out a filthy moan as he slid himself into your warm, sticky cunt with little resistance. The sheer size of him alone had you feeling so full, and he stilled as he bottomed out in you so that you could adjust to him. “Tell me when,” he said softly, his hand coming to brush up against your hips softly. 

“You can move now,” you breathlessly said, giving him the green light. Your breath got caught in your throat as he started to set a gentle but deep pace, the tip of his cock brushing against that spongy spot inside of you with every thrust. 

“O-oh–” you moaned.

His hands found purchase on your hips, and his eyes trailed over your face as he fucked you sensually, but slowly, eventually going harder and faster as you got accumulated to him. “So fucking tight, Jesus—” he choked out. You’d never heard him curse before, and his smooth voice had you clenching around him, to which he let out another moan. “Fuck, darling — you feel so good.” 

“Mm-hmm!” you squeaked, taking his cock deeper and deeper into your soaked cunt with every stroke. “Jonathan, fuck—!”

“Right there, darling?” he cooed softly, slamming his cock into your hole much rougher now, causing you to see stars as he stretched you open on his thickness. “Feels good, baby?” 

“Yes, yes, yes — oh my god!” you chanted, grabbing onto his biceps as you felt his fat cock drilling you. You were letting out feverish moans, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you became increasingly more cock-drunk by the minute. 

Your moans were like music to Jonathan. Like the sound he would hear being played once he died and went to heaven — because to him, this was heaven. You’d come running into the arms of the man who was slowly isolating you, breaking you; cornering you into his heart. 

But there’s always something so right about something so inherently wrong, isn’t there? 

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he groaned, watching you with furrowed brows as he concentrated on your pleasure. “Are you close, darling? Fuck, you are, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimpered breathlessly, moans being forced out of you with every delicious thrust he gave your cunt. “Gonna– oh, I’m gonna cum!” 

Jonathan watched in a mixture of pure bliss, awe, and satisfaction as you fell apart in his very hands. Yes — this is where he wanted you. He just wanted to love you, to show you how perfect he was for you, to take care of you and make you see that everyone else around you was just a waste of time. 

No more talking to orderlies who’d flirt with you, no more going out for after-work drinks with the other nurses. No, none of that. He was going to make sure that you’d work under him only, figuratively and literally.

“Gon’ cum,” he groaned, feeling his cock spurting ropes of cum into your warm, tight hole as he gave you a few more lazy thrusts, not bothering to pull out. Your mind went blank as he filled you up wholly, stuffing you with his sticky, warm seed as you lay there fucked out from what just happened moments prior. “Why don’t you stay over tonight?”

You looked up at him groggily, mind still foggy from your orgasm. “What? I work tomorrow–”

“Take a paid day off,” he shrugged, pulling his softening cock out from your worn-out hole. “Use as many as you’d like darling, I won’t tell.” 

His teasing words caused you to throw your head back into the pillows blissfully with a sigh, genuinely believing that he only had your best interest at heart — he just didn’t want you to overwork yourself. It’s not like he was planning on totally locking you away from every living being in Gotham besides him or anything…

“I feel bad though,” you murmured sleepily. “I feel like I’m – I dunno – abusing my privileges.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, pretty girl,” Jonathan assured you softly, turning off the lights so that only the moonlight was dimly shining into his bedroom. He placed a soft kiss on the top of your head as he pulled the covers over you both, cradling you in his arms like you were made of fine china. “You know I only want what’s best for you.”

“You’re so lovely, Jon. You truly have such a kind soul.” 

“Surely nothing compared to yours, my darling,” he whispered against your hair as you closed your eyes. “Now, get some rest. We can talk about moving your things in here in the morning…”

Unfortunately, you had already dozed off in his embrace; too busy being washed away by sleep to hear his words. Jonathan smiled to himself — he’d never let you go now. You’d lost all control the moment you stepped into his house, unknowingly making yourself a hostage of some sort.  

In the end, as you clung to him, believing he was the saviour from your exhaustion, you failed to see that it was his “love” that had slowly consumed you whole, leaving you nothing but a hollow shell, devoured by the very hands that promised refuge.

Sometimes, the most dangerous traps are the ones we walk into willingly, thinking they’re the key to our freedom, as they say. But the cruel irony of it all is that we think we’re being saved from the jaws of this terrible world, only to be eaten alive by those who we call our saviours. 

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

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[hadersversion]

I. i can fix him (no really i can)

“he had a halo of the highest grade, he just hadn’t met me yet.”

pairing: rafe cameron x innocent pogue! reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: 18+ minors dni!! language, soft rafe cameron because my boy just needs some love, slow burn!!

mood board!

“hey,” i said, nudging him with my foot. “hey, rafe, i think it’s time for you to get up.”

i look down at the boy who was passed out on the ground of the beach. his shaved head covered in sand as beer bottles surrounded him. his eyes fluttered open at me, staring at me. “w-where the hell am i?” he said, slowly sitting up.

“the beach, it’s 6:30 in the morning.” i sigh, looking at my watch. “i assume you were at a party here last night and got ditched on the beach by your friends.”

i watched as he looked around the empty beach and groaned, covering his face with his hands and yawning. “fuck.” he mumbled to himself. he ran his hands down once before looking back at me. “thanks, for uh-….”

i laugh to myself. “making sure you were alive? don’t mention it.”

he nods with a smirk. “yeah, that.” we stay there in silence. “i’m sorry, w-what’s your name again? i recognize you from your friends i just…”

“y/n y/l/n.” i nod at him.

“y/n y/l/n.” he repeats back at me, not once breaking eye contact with me.

i feel my face heat up, not knowing what i’m feeling in this exact moment. this is rafe fucking cameron, kook prince and sworn enemy to my friends. he’s not a good person. i know who he is and i should hate him, but when his eyes pierce through me like that…like he knows all my secrets….that’s when i start to question reality. “well, i should get going.” i say, pointing awkwardly to the beach.

“it’s 6:30 in the morning, where could you possibly be going?” he asks, pushing his knees up and resting his arms on them.

i sigh and look around, feeling like i’m in the hot seat. “uh…it’s uh…it’s dumb, you wouldn’t wanna know.” i try to dismiss him.

“no, i wanna know, tell me.” he says, sternly.

i bite my lip and sigh. “towatchthedolphins.” i say in a fast whisper.

“what was that?” he asks with a cocky smile, making me blush. “i couldn’t hear ya, could ya speak up?”

“i’m watching the dolphins!” i say more clearer, looking down at him. “i’ve been waking up early and watching the dolphins. this is like their prime time, so i like to sit and watch them while i have my breakfast.” i admit to him.

i wait there, expecting him to laugh or do something heinous that rafe cameron would do to a pogue. but he doesn’t. he just nods. “cool, i didn’t know that was like a thing.”

did i take one of kie’s edibles this morning by accident? did i actually never wake up to my alarm and i’m still tucked away in bed? or did rafe cameron just have a super normal reaction to something i said to him?

“yeah, right now is the best season for it.” i inform him with a shy smile on my face.

he continues to stare at me with those fucking perfect blue eyes. he rakes over my body once and stands up. did he just check me out? “well, y/n, enjoy those dolphins. i should probably get home before my dad has a bitch fit. thanks again.” he waves goodbye to me before staggering away towards the exit of the beach. my body lets out a breathe that i didn’t even know i was holding and i start to feel tingly inside.

what the fuck just happened?

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

after that, i seem to find rafe cameron everywhere. as i ride my bike to work, go to the beach, hang out with the pogues. he’s clouded up my brain and i have no idea what to do. it’s not like i can tell anyone, i’d be marked with a scarlet T for traitor. but my thoughts can’t stop themself from being infiltrated by him.

“yo, y/n, everything cool?” jj asks me, sipping from his beer.

he snaps me from my rafe cameron brain rot, taking me by surprise. “yeah, everything’s alright. sorry, just a little tired.”

a whole group of us hang out by the beach at the boneyard, the usual pogues, some kooks who we invited in to fuck with, and the vacationers. everything was going alright, until i saw him.

“ain’t no fuckin way.” i hear jj spit.

rafe and his friends stroll up to the party, with a few girls scattered around them. i feel my face goes hot as my friends spit their remarks about him.

“what makes this douchebag think it’s okay to just show up here?” i hear kiara say.

“i don’t know but i don’t like it.” john b adds in.

my eyes can’t seem to leave his figure. he looks just as handsome as i remember from the beach. i know i am staring but i just cannot seem to care. but my brain short wires when he looks up, meeting my gaze with a cocky smirk. shit.

i feel my face get darker as i quickly avert my gaze down to my feet. "uh, i'm gonna get a beer. anyone want one?" but before my friends can even answer my question, i quickly make my way over to the coolers. once i know i am out of their sight, i take a well needed deep breathe and try to ground myself. my brain feels fuzzy with thoughts of rafe cameron but i have to push them down.

i bend over to grab a beer from the cooler when i hear a familiar voice behind me. "mind if i grab one?" i quickly turn my head to see rafe, staring into his blue eyes like they were the goddamn eighth wonder of the world.

he's so close yet so far away, i can smell the expensive cologne he has on. my brain gets off of autopilot and screams at me to put space between us, which i attempt to do. but before i can think, i'm tripping over my own feet, almost falling back. but i feel rafe's large hand quickly land on my lower back, saving me from the tumble.

"woah, there, did you already have that much to drink?" he jokes.

i stare at him, my face probably matching the color of a budweiser can. "i...uh...i..um..." i feel myself babbling on, unable to form a single thought as he has his hands on my body. "s-sorry about that. but i...i've only had one beer, i'm just a total klutz sometimes i swear."

he keeps his hand on my back, i can feel him slightly rubbing it, sending goosebumps all over my body. he keeps looking into my eyes, which seems to be his favorite hobby at this point. "well, i'm glad i caught ya." we stand there in silence for what feels like an eternity, until i remember where i am. who i am here with.

my friends.

i frantically look around, making sure they aren't looking at me dying under rafe’s touch. i pull away from him quickly.

"don't worry they aren't looking." he reassures, grabbing my beer and opening it for me. "i assume it's your friends you are looking for." he hands me back the cold beverage, our fingers brushing against each other.

i quickly snap my hand back and look up at him, he has a small smile on his face as he looks down at me. "sorry, but, i mean...you understand, right? my friends don't like you, you don't like them. if they see me talking over here with you...it'll be a whole thing."

"i didn't peg you as someone who cares about what other people thought about them. i don't know, i mean you did admit to me very easily your love for dolphin watching." he smirks as he grabs a can of beer and opens it. "just saying."

i want to hide away forever. "p-please don't mention that to anyone else. please." i beg with an awkward smile.

"i won't, i won't. don't get so freaked out." he takes a long sip of beer. "it's kinda cute." he says so nonchalantly.

did he just call me cute?

this is a prank, this is merely a big joke to him. it has to be.

i can tell i took too long to process what he just said because he nudges me lightly with his elbow. "did i lose you there?"

i shake my head and laugh. "sorry, i'm all good." we stand there, sipping our beers in silence. "why are you here?" i ask with no hesitation, which earns me a wide-eye reaction from rafe. "that was rude but...like for real, why? you never come to pogue parties. i thought we were too beneath you to ever join us."

"i mean, you have a point." he looks down at me with a smirk, which makes me flip him off. he chuckles at me and sips his beer. "honesty?"

"please." i say.

he sighs and looks around. "i'm here to see you."

i choke on the sip of beer i'm taking, too shocked at what he just told me. i watch as he steps forward in concern and tries to put his hand on my back, but i move away quickly. i cough agressively before turning to him. "i-i'm sorry, what?" i almost laugh in his face.

"i'm pretty sure you heard me, y/n. i'm here for you." he admits.

i stare at him, waiting for him to laugh, admit that it was a joke, or even a ploy to mess with the pogues like some kind of goddamn trojan horse. "you're serious?"

"i think you would know if i'm lying." he shrugs.

i stand there, unable to wrap my head around what he just said to me. "you're so full of shit." i blurt out.

he just laughs. "am i now?"

"you're here to see me? the girl whose name you couldn't even remember a few days ago?" i cock my eyebrow at him.

"is it so horrible to believe?" he questions. i look at him, trying to tell if this is real or fake. he waves his hand in front of my face. "i lost you there again."

"i'm sorry, it's just...i'm me...and you're you. we exist on totally different planets...universes." i tell him.

"yet here we are, right next to each other on planet earth." he says.

he got me there.

"y/n!?" i hear kiara yell.

rafe turns his head to the voice calling my name and then back to me. "that's your cue to leave, i think."

i cannot turn away from him, too dumbfounded about the past 5-minute conversation we just had. "you're not slick." i say, starting to walk away backwards so i'm facing him.

"i didn't think i was being slick!" he says, with his hands up in his defence.

"i see through you and your lies, rafe cameron! i really do!" i yell at him as i get further away.

"yeah, i'd like to see you try, y/n y/l/n!" he shouts back, smiling at me.

i crack a smile back to him and flip him off before walking into the crowd, looking for kiara.

she comes up and puts her shoulder around me. "you all good? was he bothering you?" she asks, looking back to where rafe and i were.

i follow her gaze and see rafe still standing there with that same look on his face. "no, he wasn't. i'm all good, i swear." i say honestly. "just having a small talk."

"with the kook prince? no one ever just has a 'small talk' with rafe cameron, y/n." she says, squeezing me tighter.

"well i guess i'm the first person to ever do so." i shrug and continue to walk back towards the boys, trying to hide the stupid smile rafe cameron put on my face.

[mattybsgroupie]

homework | matt sturniolo

contents: making out; oral (f receiving); handjob (m receiving); sub!matt

- ♡ -

notes: my plan was to post this during the weekend but im anxious to go back to college and i couldn’t help myself and ended up writing everything yesterday lol very nerdy subby matty receiving his first handjob ♡ as usual not proofread but hope you enjoy it lots! tysm for over 1,1K followers ♡ much much love always!

- ♡ -

i heard three rhythmic knocks on my bedroom door and quickly got up, unlocking it and suddenly bumping into matthew, the smartest guy in my class. matt was clever, but extremely quiet - which only made him more charming. i recalled his ears turning a bright red when i asked him for help with my homework, shyness taking over him as he briefly nodded his head.

“hey!” he greeted me, offering a handshake. i touched his hand, slightly caressing his palm with my index, watching as he tried to look away. “we talked yesterday, about… some lessons? you need help with homework?”

“yes!” i happily agreed, spreading the door open. “come in matt, make yourself comfortable”

matt nodded, holding tightly to the books hidden under his arm. “is it really okay for me to be here?” he chuckled. “i mean… it’s the girls dorm”

“don’t worry about it, boys come here all the time” i winked at matt’s figure, balancing his weight from one foot to another, clearly anxious. “unless you… wanna go to the library or something?”

“no!” he eagerly answered. “i-i can teach you here. it’s okay”.

- ♡ -

i wasn’t listening to a single world he said.

matt’s blue eyes underneath the round glasses seemed agitated, following the numbers i had previously written on my notebook. i could see matt’s lips trying to hold a smile at each wrong result, his digits tapping on the yellow pencil between his fingers.

“… so if you divide it by 100, it’s easier to find the percentage” he took me out of my trance, turning his head to stare at me with a confused expression on his face. “am i doing good? are you getting it?”

“you’re doing so good, matt” i let it slip out of my mouth without even thinking, my head resting on my hand while i admired matt’s cheeks flushing red as he gulped. “look at me” i said, raising my finger to his jaw as he tried to look away.

i could feel his breath getting heavier, lips slightly parted as he stood still, not moving an inch. i got closer to him, brushing my lips over his before sealing them together in a small kiss. matt’s hand quickly went to the back of my neck, deepening the pressure of his lips against mine. when i opened my mouth so he could slide his tongue in, matt pulled away - but not far enough, a string of saliva still connecting us to each other.

“i-i’m sorry” he looked at me, panting heavily. “i shouldn’t have done that, i’m really sorry”.

“don’t be” i cupped his cheeks in my palms, giving him a soft peck. “i want it matt, i really do”

“but” he started, eyes traveling through the room, as if he was checking if someone caught us. “i thought y-you wanted to study”

“you already taught me so much” i jokingly pouted, pretending i was tired. the more matt talked, the wetter my panties would get. “why don’t i teach you a few things?” i said, letting one of my hands rest on his thigh.

“like what?” matt asked me hesitantly, looking at how my hand caressed his covered skin. i reached closer to his crotch, accidentally brushing my digits on his half-hard cock, tenting starting to form on his pants.

i smashed our lips together once more, this time hungrier, the wet sounds of our tongues interlocking taking over my dorm. my fingers tangled on matt’s brown curls, carefully pulling his hair so i could get easier access to his neck. i unbuttoned the closed collar of his shirt, traveling down the fabric and repeating the process over and over again.

matt took his glasses off, tossing it over my study table, his hands finally coming to my waist. he didn’t have the courage to tighten his grip and i knew this was the boldest move he’d be able to make, so i grabbed matt’s wrist and brought his palm to my chest, letting him grope my covered tits.

i gasped from the sudden touch, noticing how this made made hesitant to keep kissing me. “a-are you okay?” he asked with puppy, blue eyes.

“yes, fuck- you’re being so good to me”, i sighed heavily and matt nodded eagerly, bringing his mouth to my neck, sucking onto my skin. “what got you so worked up hm?” i asked as i watched his pants getting tighter, fully hard cock.

“fuck! i’m sorry- i didn’t even notice” matt looked down, eyes widening. “you’re just so pretty” he confessed.

“you’re so cute, matt. do you want me to help you out?” i asked, palming him over his jeans.

“please” he let out in a choked moan, “please touch me”

the grin on my face grew wide as matt sunk his teeth on his bottom lip, trying to cover his soft whimpers as i kept on stroking his clothed cock.

i unzipped his jeans, sneaking my fingers into his underwear so i could pull out matt’s dick, which quickly sprung against my palm, almost hitting his own belly. matt adjusted himself on the chair, spreading his legs apart as his mouth hang open. i finally got a proper grip of his shaft, wrapping my fingers around his surprisingly large cock.

matt let out a loud groan when i finally started twisting my hand, lifting his left arm to cover his own face. “why are you so shy, baby?” i whispered in his ear.

“n-never… never done that” matt said, squirming on his sit as i pumped him.

“never had a girl touching you like that?” i cooed, watching matt nodding vigorously. “it’s okay, i promise it’s gonna feel good”

“it- mhm- feels good!” he bucked his hips forward when i moved my thumb upwards, circling his leaking tip. “i’m not g-gonna last long” matt said as i tightened the grasp on his length. he kept on jointing his hips, trying to fuck into my fist in a pathetic, sloppy pace.

“you wanna cum for me, matt? wanna show how much of a good boy you are?” i kissed his cheek and tucked his hair behind his red ear, continuously jerking him off.

“fuck, please!” he said, the loudest he’d been the entire night. “i’m your good boy! wanna cum, p-please”

“go ahead” i allowed him, peppering pecks on his damp forehead, sweat dripping from his neck all the day down to his tummy, which was soon painted white from matt’s release. he threw his head back, whimpering as he came on my hand, thick spurt messing us both. 

i got up to wash my hands and grab him a towel, letting matt rest as he came from his high, chest still rising rapidly.

“thank you” he mumbled when i offered to clean him up. “i’m sorry i made such a mess” matt chuckled, watching as i wiped his cum off. “don’t apologize, you did really well babyboy” i praised.

“can… can i try?” he asked me, reaching for his glasses over the table. he quickly put them on again, reading my confused expression. “i wanna make you feel good too” matt said, turning his body to face me.

“you want me to teach you how to please a girl?” i teased him, bringing both of my legs to my chest, exposing the back of my thighs to him.

matt checked me out from head to toe, stopping where my feet landed and not being able to take his eyes off the panties i purposely wore. i knew he’d love pink. “no, not any girl. you- wanna be good for you” he confessed, sliding off his chair and kneeling on the ground.

i widened my eyes, not expecting matt’s sudden move. he touched the hem of my shorts, silently asking me to take them off. i quickly removed it, letting it slide down my legs along with my panties, fully exposing my pussy to him.

“oh, fuck” he mumbled. “it’s so pretty and it’s… it’s all wet”

“you did that to me” i told him, moving my hair to the side so i could get a better look of matt eating me out for the first time.

“how should i do it?” he asked, blue eyes looking for reassurance. my hands went to his brown curls, bringing his face closer to my crotch.

matt stuck his tongue out, slowly licking my lower lips. he widened his eyes once again, probably surprised by the taste and gave it another try as i giggled at his shy performance. matt’s large hands went to my thighs, forcing my legs open as he fully went for it, pressuring a kiss against my clit. i gasped when he started to swirl his tongue on me, spit drooling down his chin as he licked me in the messiest, sloppiest way.

“matt” i called but he didn’t even listen, still eating me out, only raising his eyebrows as he looked at me through his glasses. “you never done this before?” i sighed deeply, tangling my fingers on his hair as i lowered my hips on him.

matt hummed something, probably agreeing with what i had asked, but this only send a wave of vibrations through my folds, my thighs suddenly closing around his head as i felt my orgasm approaching. he was way too good for a virgin.

“matt- fuck!” i moaned loudly, the knot on my lower belly begging to be released. “i’m gonna cum!” i warned as he was about the have a taste for the first time. he moved downwards and started to tease my entrance, his tongue pushing inside my slit as i kept on moving my hips, practically humping his face.

matt continued to eat me out as my orgasm washed over me, making me throw my head back and my body tremble due the overstimulation. i had to pull his hair so he’d remove himself from me, watching his swollen lips covered with my cum. matt licked my release and went back to my thighs, biting my bare skin. “enough, baby” i moaned, feeling his hands holding me in place. “matthew, i said enough”.

he groaned in protest, not wanting to stop. matt gave a few more kisses down my legs, pulling away and staring at me with puppy eyes. i caressed his brown strands, soon cupping his cheeks and sealing our lips. “you did really well for a first time, matt” i thanked him as he got up, sliding his jeans back on.

“so…” he started. “i’m guessing you gave up on your homework?”

“of course not” i rolled my eyes, watching as he buttoned his shirt. “i’m gonna need this good boy to help me every week”.

- ♡ -

taglist (drop a 🌸!): @thepubeburgler @submattenthusiast @pearlzier @mattsfavbitchhh @her-favorite @bugeyedgrl @mattslittlecumsslut @sturncakez @riowritesitall @joemamaaa42069 @mattsturnswife @sturnsmia @sturnthepot @mattscoquette @sturniolofandomthings @conspiracy-ash @ilovemattsturn @lizzymacdonald06 @sofieeeeex @blahbel668 @fratbrochrisgf @bagsbyclair0

for this fic: @sturnstar169 @anitahunt333 @mattgirl4lyfe @fratboychrisera

[luv4fushi]

thinking about arguing with husband!gojo. it’s funny because he’s the strongest sorcerer alive with several other, more wicked enemies harboring one sided hate for him, yet he’s anxiously glancing at you every now and then as you hiss at him. you’re the only one who can make him doubt his strength.

he usually finds you cute when you’re mad, but right now he doesn’t really appreciate the way your face is scrunched up and how you’re yelling at him.

it’s not his fault. he thinks you’re being so dramatic.

“you’re laughing at me,” you deadpan. “why do you never take things i say seriously?”

“because i honestly don’t think it’s that serious,” he fires back, and your eyes narrow. oh, fuck.

arguing with your husband is never fun. it’s probably because the both of you are stubborn; you’re stubborn because you’re simply right all the time, and satoru’s stubborn because if you’re not right, then he is.

you pause for just a second, but it’s enough to sprout a moment of extreme tension between you and your husband.

“right,” you scoff after you inhale sharply. “you just don’t care, do you?”

“don’t fucking say that,” satoru snaps. “i do care. that’s why i’m here.”

it takes everything in you to not shoot him another death glare. “so i should be thankful for the bare minimum?”

satoru blinks. he would’ve flinched, but he refuses to let you have that sort of power over him. “i’m not giving the bare minimum.”

“yes you are,” you argue back, voice straining as you swallow a lump of anger down the back of your throat.

the both of you are still. it feels like an eternity passes before the anger in you wanes. you’re exhausted and this fight with satoru is surely going to make the both of you upset enough to not talk for the rest of the night.

“i’m sorry that i’m not good enough,” satoru says, breaking the silence. you’ve never heard his voice so small, so pathetic—he’s never, ever shown you this side of him, and you’re starting to feel that dreading pit of guilt tug at your gut.

“that’s not what i meant,” you force yourself to say, sighing.

“but that’s what you’re thinking,” satoru mumbles. he avoids looking at your face.

“no it’s not,” you deny. “it’s never been about that.”

satoru gives you a wary look. “then what is it about? because i’ve done everything i can.”

“everything? really?” you sneer. “do you even love me anymore?”

silence. satoru swears he can hear your heart break.

“baby, don’t say that,” he groans, “c’mon, we were ten points away from three stars. that’s a single plate—one you didn’t turn in because you somehow forgot how to dash!”

you whip around to glower at satoru, your face twisting into an offended expression. “you set the kitchen on fire! how could i do something like serving a dish if the kitchen is on fire?!”

“baby, it’s the same button that it always has been this entire game!” he whines. “and you set the kitchen on fire! you keep forgetting to take the rice off the stove!”

you sigh exasperatedly, crossing your arms to act like some sort of shield between you and satoru’s (truthful) words.

“but you don’t chop up your stupid fish!” you protest. “so i end up doing five things at once!”

satoru opens his mouth to speak, but he knows you’re in the right. he opts to click his tongue instead.

“and every time i asked for help,” you add, frowning, “you just kept bringing out more of the dumbass cucumbers! we don’t have counter space for that!!!”

“that’s for prep to maximize our sushi making! throw it on the floor!”

“are you kidding me? that’s so unsanitary!”

“it’s a game!”

you’re both panting by the end of the fight. you’re biting down on your inner cheek and satoru is scratching the nape of his neck awkwardly.

“… sorry,” he mumbles. “i won’t bring out cucumbers anymore. and i’m also sorry for being mean about you not knowing how to dash.”

“good,” you huff. “‘cause i was seriously not gonna play anymore.”

“and…?” he prods, nudging you in your ribs. you can tell what he wants just by the sound of his voice.

“and i’m sorry for getting mad at you even though you’re doing you’re best at carrying me in this game…” you murmur, rolling your eyes.

satoru’s face brightens and he places a wet kiss on your cheek. “you’re forgiven.”

“love you, dummy.”

“love you too, baby.”

“no more cucumbers unless the ticket calls for them,” you remind him pointedly.

“yes, chef!”

[tootiecakes234]

“Hey Katsuki”, you scream from the your bedroom.

“What” he yells back at you from somewhere else in the house.

“Where ya at?”

“In the game room.”

So you get up and head that way. When you enter he’s sat in his gaming chair with his headset on.

“Hey bub…. Hey guys” you say loud enough to be heard through his headset.

“Yea yea. They all said hey.” You knew Kirishima and Kaminari were on the other end. Maybe even Mina too cuz she wasn’t texting you back.

“Kit-Kat, I’m getting hungry. Do you know what sounds really good for dinner?”

“What?” he questions without taking his eyes off the screen.

You walk behind him and slide your arms around his neck and nuzzle into the back of his head. You’re trying to butter him up because you know he’s not gonna wanna make what you’re craving.

“You remember those dumplings you made from scratch a while ago?” You ask with your voice dripping in as much sweetness you can muster.

“No.”

“No you don’t remember or no you’re-“

And he interrupt you before you can even finish. “No im not cooking that. There are frozen dumplings in the fridge.”

“But Sukiiiiii, those aren’t as good as the ones you make. The flavors aren’t the same and yours are so crispy and doughy. Pleaaasseee.”

“Hey you assholes shut the hell up. No ones talking to you.” He responds to his friends in the headset. “You want her to have ‘em, bring your ass over and make ‘em”

“I’m not doing this. You idiots hold on.” And he pauses the game and turns around to face you and removes his head set.

“Look we can order takeout if you want, but I’m not about to make freakin dumplings from scratch cuz you have a craving. I’d have to go to the store and get ingredients and taking the time to make the wrappings. ‘S too much.” He tries to explain to you in a rational way .

“I knooowww…. I’d go to the store with you though and I’ll help you make them…. Pretty please” you whine and stick you lowere lip out just a little with your eyes as pleading as you can make them.

Katsuki rolls his eyes and throws his head back.

“You don’t get whatever you want just because you pout at me. Spoiled ass. Not today. Maybe sometime later this week.”

You didn’t actually think he’d tell you no. He usually never does. Maybe you are spoiled. Still makes you sad though.

So you put on your big girl pants, tuck your lip back in and give him a soft “ok” before you lean down and press a soft kiss to his lips so he knows you’re not upset with him.

He is allowed to say no.

“Is Mina on the game with you guys?” You ask him when you pull back.

“Yeah she is.”

“When you get back on can you tell her to stop being a bitch and answer my phone call. I have tea to spill.”

“I’ll tell her.”

And with that you head toward the door and leave.

Once you’re back in your room it takes Mina about 3 minutes to call you and you start catching her up on everything.

You guys stay on the phone for about 30 minutes before she has to go.

After that, you bury yourself in the blankets and start reading the manga you had lying on your nightstand.

Before you can really get into it, Katsuki is walking into your room and going into the closet.

“Get your ass outta bed and get dressed before I change my goddamn mind.”

“What?” You ask because now you’re confused.

“You said you were gonna go to the store with me to buy all this shit so get your ass up and let’s go.”

“Kats you don’t have to, it’s fine.”

“Look ya spoiled brat, if I gotta tell you to get up one more time we are gonna be in here fightin.”

And the smile that breaks out on your face. You hurry and get outta bed and rush him. “Awwwww my sweet boy”

“I swear to god, I’m this close to letting your ass starve.”

And you wrap your arms around him and start kissing everywhere on his face. When you pulled away he has a deep frown on his face but you can see the sparkle in his eyes that he gets when you’re super happy.

You pull away and scurry off to get dressed.

He really needs to start saying no to you and meaning it before you really lose the understanding of the word.

Katsuki Masterlist

Tags: @dreamcastgirl99

*if you want to be added to the tag list, let me know💕

[minarinnn]

“notice me”

luke castellan x aphrodite!reader (pt2 here)

content/trigger warnings: fem! reader, doesn’t follow the plot of tlt!, mentions of smut, sexual tension, manipulation?, groping, reader making luke jealous

a/n: the show has once again sparked up my love for the percy jackson book saga and charlie bushnell has me weakkk ughhh.. i normally don’t write for pjo characters but oh well, lmk if y’all want a continuation of this or just more luke castellan in general ;)

you had always been so used to being the center of attention. as a daughter of aphrodite, you had always been the most popular girl in school, and there was no shortage of boys falling for your charms

arriving at camp half-blood didn change that, nothing was different. except that, for the first time in your life, you found yourself chasing after the attention of a certain boy. luke castellan, the son of hermes and the head counselor of his cabin, he just wouldn’t fawn over you like the others would. despite your best efforts, luke had always remained indifferent to your constant flirting, leaving you feeling frustrated and determined to change his mind

you found yourself spending every waking moment trying to get his attention, trying to find some way to charm him and make him see you the way the other boys did. but no matter how hard you tried, luke remained distant and unimpressed

this week you were extremely busy, you were helping out in the infirmary, one of the apollo kids who usually worked in the infirmary had been sent on a quest and you were asked to fill in until they came back. juggling that with all your other responsibilities as counselor had you beyond occupied

during that week, annabeth barged in with two other guys; percy and luke. apparently their sparring session had gone a little out of hand and they were both injured

luke was already aware of how you’ve been trying to get his attention these past few years. he actually seems to quite like having you, the most fawned over girl at camp, fawning over him instead. he liked the attention you gave him, though he knew that if he ever gave in to your charms you would stop, so he didn’t

he was fully prepared and expected you to be the one to tend to him, so when he sees you head to percy and tend to him while an apollo girl tended to him he was confused

what happened? why would you choose percy over him? we’re you tired of him? did you give up on trying to win him over? luke’s confusion quickly turned to frustration, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as he watched you tend to percy’s wounds

"how are you feeling, percy?" you asked, giving him a warm smile, one that always had the boys weak in the knees. "n-not great, but i’ll manage" he laughed awkwardly, suddenly nervous. you put your hand on his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze "oh, i’m sure you’ll live”

out of the corner of your eye, you saw luke. he was watching you, watching the way you cared for percy. this was the first time you had ever caught him staring at you with such intensity

so you’re plan was working. you had tried everything to get his attention and you had only one trick left in your arsenal; jealosy. no boy is immune to jealousy, and that was exactly how you were gonna get him

in the end, all you had to do was throw some water at percy and he was good to go. luke though, he had to spend the night in the infirmary

the other apollo kid had left a few minutes ago, something about ‘having other things to do’. so it was just luke and you in the infirmary. you walk over to luke's bed and start tending to his wounds

“oh so now you wanna take care of me? how nice of you” he speaks, sarcasm dripping from his words. “you can tough it out, can't you?" you tease, dabbing away at his cuts with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. luke is watching you intently and you can feel the tension in the room increasing, his eyes fixated on your hands as you work

luke’s eyes narrow, and you can see the rage boiling beneath the surface. he’s frustrated, jealous, and he doesn't know what to do with all these emotions. you’ve never seen him like this before, and it's a thrill to know that you have the power to make him feel this way

you try to ignore the tense atmosphere in the room, focusing instead on luke's wounds. you finish cleaning and bandaging the cut on his wrist, holding it up to your face to land a soft kiss on the bandages. “all done” you whisper. he tenses at the feeling of your soft lips, and you can see the anger in his eyes. however, you can also see a hint of something else— desire

you look up at him with a smile, knowing that you've got him right where you want him. his eyes are locked on your every movement. you know that you have him wrapped around your finger, and it's a delicious feeling of power

luke’s expression is one of confusion, a mix of rage and desire. he wants you, and he wants to hate you at the same time. it’s a weird combo, but it's working for you.

you lean closer to him, your lips inches away from each other. you can feel his breath on your skin, the heat of his body as he's lying there

"you’re not stopping me" you state, breaking the silence. it’s a quiet, soft whisper, filled with a tiny bit of amusement

"maybe.. maybe i don’t want you to stop" he says, his eyes locked on yours, voice low and husky. you can see the desire building in him, how his gaze trails down to your lips

luke’s breathing quickened, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. he knew that this was a game for you, a game where you would always be determined to win him over, but now, in this very moment, he felt like he was losing

he lets out a hiss of frustration, of desire, of... something. he’s sure knows that you're proud of it, but he’s not quite sure what to do about it

you leaned in for the kiss, your lips pressing gently against his, your hand running through his hair. you could feel his body tensing, his hands gripping your waist as he attempted to pull you on top of him

you pull away from the kiss slowly, your lips still pressed to his. luke is still trying to catch his breath, his eyes fixed on yours, searching for any hint of what your next move will be

"not bad" you whisper. "you’re playing a dangerous game here” he chuckles lowly, making your lower regions throb. you smirk softly and brush his hair out of his face “i’ll take my chances”

despite being injured, he pulls you on top of him, making you realize just how hard he’s been this whole time. his eyes are dark, and you can see the lust burning within them

you lean in for another kiss, this one soft and gentle. luke groans when he feels you grind against him, his hands moving down to grab hold of your ass

“i need you s’bad” he mutters out. you smirk as you slide off him, making him furrow his brows in confusion. you land a soft kiss on his cheek. “let’s do this when you’re not injured” you whisper in his ear. now he was alone and hard in the infirmary, how nice

© MINARINNN 2024 - please do not plagiarize or upload my content on any social media platform.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Hiiiii couldn’t help but see you do requests, could you do something where after a hard race reader placed on the podium but felt sick and Max catches her when she collapsed after getting out of the car? Maybe with the words "I can't... my legs... everything's tingling..." and him being super worried. Basically a little angsty with a fluffy end where he’s checking on her, can be established relationship or not.

OH ANON. this was so fun.

Enjoy!

Heatstroke In which, as it turns out, Max wasn't just 'Maxplaining' the difficulty of Singapore to you after all

Pairing: Max Verstappen X FerarriDriver!Reader Warnings: fainting, getting sick/weak, max being a knight in shining armor. Word count: 2.2k Masterlist

Max tried to warn you. Lando tried to warn you. Checo and Lewis had tried to warn you. Hell, the entire fucking grid had tried to warn you that Singapore was a different beast. You had thought they were just coddling you and being over dramatic, as the boys tended to be with you. It was a hazard of being the only woman on the grid, which frankly, drove you bat shit crazy because you had earned your way into the red Ferrari seat next to Charles on your own, thank you very much. You didn’t need to be coddled and you didn’t need to be warned off anything. 

But they were right. 

Singapore was a different beast. 

The heat during the day was oppressive but at night? There wasn’t any relief once the intense sun went down either. You were from Michigan though, that midwestern state being famous for its hot and sticky summers so you had thought you’d been prepared.

As you claimed into your sleek red car, lining up P3 behind Max and Lando though you knew you were in trouble before the green flag waved. The thing about sweating in the humidity like this is that there’s no where for the moisture on your skin to go, the air already too heavy so that slick sweat sticks to you, making you even hotter than before. 

“Fuck, this is going to be brutal.” You mumble, hoping that the braid you tied your hair in would stay for the entirety of the race. Suddenly, shaving your hair into a pixie cut like Fred had been suggesting (mostly jokingly) for weeks seemed like a good idea.  

The formation lap is fine. 

The first ten laps are fine, if not a little squirrely thanks to your car being wildly loose. 

The first fifteen laps are fine, if not a bit hot. 

But on lap 23? All hell breaks loose. 

First, your hydration system fails and you’re completely unable to get any water through the tiny straw that you usually flip into your mouth on the straightaway, just like Danny taught you. You’re sweating up a storm with no way to replenish those valuable electrolytes. 

Then, you’re so busy focusing on the fact that you’d give your first born child for a sip of water you nearly slam into the same exact wall that took George out on the last lap of last year’s race. You yank the steering wheel around so hard, you feel something in your wrist pop. The searing pain causes you to over correct and you nearly drive right into your own fucking teammate. 

“Fuck. Tell Charlie I’m sorry.” You groan over the radio, telling your engineer to pass on the message to Charles. 

“Focus on your race.” Your engineer tells you, voice obviously strained just as yours is. “Charles is fine.” 

Well, I sure as fuck am not fine. You think as you fight the car down towards the starting line. 

On lap 45, you’re granted a reprieve when a Sauber goes into the wall, bringing out a yellow flag. The leaders all duck into the pits, including yourself. There’s nothing anyone can do about your water situation and at this point, your instincts have kicked it. 

Max was right and you knew it. Singapore was hell. He had tried to tell you last night, as you had been snuggled up in bed with him, a ritual that you both had become dependent on this season. It seemed cliche, you falling for one of your rivals. You hated it but there was no denying that there was a magnetic chemistry between the two of you that had started the moment you had met last year while you were still driving in F2. 

You had resisted his charm for a while but things had taken a turn the night it was announced you’d be driving for Ferrari alongside Charles. Several of the drivers that lived in Monaco full time insisted on taking you to Jimmy Z’s to celebrate and who were you to say no to a bunch of handsome men paying for your drinks? 

The night ended just as you might expect it: Max drunkenly confessing his year-long crush on you and you drunkenly kissing him in a dark alleyway as you waited for your Uber. What had started off as a drunken confession and your reckless response that wasn’t supposed to mean anything had turned into one of the greatest things that has ever happened to you. Max and you? The pair of you were endgame. 

But none of that mattered now. Not here, in the raging heat and humidity of Singapore. You knew that Max was going to give you shit for not being better prepared the moment you got out of the car. You knew you were in for an ‘I told you so’ lecture on the plane ride back in the morning. You knew Max was right and you had been stupid to underestimate the power this track had over drivers. 

Looking back on your first race in Singapore years later, you don’t quite know how you managed to finish those last laps. Pure determination and stubbornness, Max would insist later on that night. But before you’re able to fully wrap your head around how dangerous of a situation you’d gotten yourself into, the checkered flag is waving and you’ve crossed the finish line in P3, right behind Lando and Max. 

Your third podium of the year. If you had been more coherent, you probably would have been elated. But all you could think about as you pulled your car into parc ferme, right behind that little cardboard 3 sign, was the ice bath you knew was waiting for you somewhere in the paddock. 

Your red racing suit is soaked through and through, you can feel it before you even get out of the car. It takes a mammoth effort to pull the steering wheel out of it’s dock and for a moment, you worry you’re so weak you can’t even do that. In front of you, you see Lando pop out of the car in the P1 spot, elated to have won with a healthy margin of over 20 seconds for the second time that season. 

Max is out of the car too, albeit a bit slower than Lando. There’s a distant buzzing in your ear that sounds eerily like your engineer’s voice asking if you’re okay. But you’re completely unable to focus on anything beyond the tingling sensation in your legs. This wasn’t something you’d ever felt inside a race car in all your years of driving. Everything stung, like a million little fire ants were making a meal out of your flesh. It took every ounce of strength, of which you didn’t have much, to hoist yourself up out of the car. 

Your head swims the moment you stand up straight, and you feel your legs collapse under you. Somewhere off in the distance, you hear Max calling your name but you can’t look up, your helmet suddenly feeling like it weighs 300 pounds. 

Crouching in your car, you desperately try to pull yourself together before anyone notices you’re struggling. You didn’t want to give the media the satisfaction of pulling another ‘look, another woman who thinks she can hang with the rest of the F1 drivers.’ Like they’ve been attempting to do all season. 

Your eyes are closed but you still hear the faint call of Max’s voice somewhere off in the distance. The entire world is reduced down to a singular pin prick of light while you fight to stay conscious, the heat and humidity wrapping their ugly little fingers tightly around your throat. 

Just as you’re about to surrender to the warm quiet of the darkness that seems to be calling out to you, a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, hauling you out of the car like you weigh less than a bag of potatoes. You go limp in the arms of whoever has come to your rescue, collapsing under the strain of what you just put your body though. 

“Baby, please. Look at me.” 

Somehow, your helmet has been removed and you find yourself blinking up at Max. 

When did he get here? You wonder idly, not realizing it was him that pulled you out of the car. 

Max had gone practically feral when GP told him that you’d gone nearly 3/4 of the race without water. He knew how brutal this race was, and the humidity was unusually high tonight. He had gotten out of the car fairly quickly but had panicked when he saw your helmet tipped forward, resting on the halo device and you not moving. 

You lift your head, still wondering where your helmet was and instantly found yourself staring straight into the baby blue eyes of your boyfriend. “Maxie?” You croak, throat feeling like you just dined on a three course meal of sand and gravel. 

“Hey…” He coos, bringing you closer to his chest. “There’s my girl. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” He rubs soothing circles over your back, not caring that the press is having a field day with this. 

“I can’t…” You stutter, struggling to make the words in your head sound coherent when your mouth tries to form them. “My legs…everything is tingling.” 

If you had been a bit more coherent, you would’ve seen the look of absolute panic cross Max’s face. He frantically looks around as he lifts you into his arms, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back against his chest. He knew you were going to absolutely murder him when you come around and see the pictures. You hated being coddled and hated showing affection on the grid even more. You and Max weren’t really hiding the fact that you were together, most fans knew and it was common knowledge around the paddock but the causal fan might be surprised to find out the lore between the two of you. So this outright show of concern, affection, and panic over the state of you that Max was showing right now? It was absolutely not a common occurrence 

“Interviews are going to have to wait.” Max barks at Jensen, this weeks post-race presenter. “She needs medical attention.” 

Jensen simply nods, allowing you to pass. 

Fred and Charles intercept you half way to the tent, insisting that getting you in the ice baths will be the thing to help you the most. Max, nearly delirious with worry because while your eyes were open and you were somewhat alert, follows their instructions and takes you back behind the garage area where the ice baths had been set up. 

It’s all you can do to stand upright as Max unzips your race suit. It’s so heavy with your sweat that it practically peels off of you with no effort, gravity doing the work for Max. And then your left in just your fireproofs. If you hadn’t been in the middle of the paddock with thousands of people and cameras around, Max would have stripped you down to just your underwear, but that wasn’t an option. 

WIth Max and Charles’ help, you’re able to hoist yourself into the waiting ice bath. The shock of the frigid water jolts some awareness back into you the moment your body is submerged in the glacial water. 

“Holy fuck.” You grit out, eyes closing in pain. 

“I know…I know, schatje. But it’ll get you feeling better so much quicker than anything else. 

You nod, still not fully aware of how you got here but thankful for Max’s steadying presence beside you. He’s crouched down so he’s eye level with you as you ball yourself up to get as much heated skin under the cold water and the worry etched all over his face is enough to steal your breath. 

“Max. Holy fuck. That was…you weren’t just Maxsplaining to me last night, were you?” 

A chuckle finds its way out of his lips, despite the state of panic Max is in. “No, I was not just ‘Maxsplaining’ anything last night, silly girl.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You’ve got your fire back, I see. I think you’ll live.” Max leans in to press a kiss to the crown of your head before dropping another kiss on your temple, then your cheek, and finally his lips find their home on yours. Right where they belong. It’s not a lingering kiss, or a passionate one. No. This kiss is filled with gratitude and relief and sheer dumb realization of how much this man loves you. 

Your eyes are open more now, a few minutes in the ice bath doing your heat stroke symptoms good. It takes you a few moments to really grasp the severity of what just happened. How close you came to passing out mid-race. How it was Max that got you out of that car and was at your side before anyone else. 

All around you, the paddock is bustling to life. The scene Max created by hauling you over to Ferrari’s garages has somewhat dissipated. Only a few onlookers are stopped still, but your team remains solidly around you, faces a mask of concern. But the only person you see is Max. 

“Thank you, baby.” You murmur when he leans in for another kiss. 

“Anything for you, schatje.” He rasps, emotion clawing at his throat. “Anything.”