#the dynamic is IMMACULATE as always

[muscari-melpomene]

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I will be elaborating in the tags because I cannot be coherent outside of them

Hi hi! I just rediscovered your writing tag; I know I binged the whole fae au ages ago but good grief have I caught the brain rot again. If you feel like taking a request, could I ask for fae au Chase having to deal with one of his eldritch housemates losing their temper, potentially with some protective Anti if that’s a vibe? No worries if not, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask :)

Pfft, you and me both. I've been thinking about them quite a bit. You can absolutely ask for it; I hope you enjoy!

Warnings for... not much, really. Nobody gets grievously injured or manipulated.

--

Chase is only aware that something is wrong because when he walks into the kitchen, Jackie has cornered himself by the cabinet, five feet and three hundred and twenty pounds of pure wolfish muscle.

He snarls at Henrik, which is the other sign that something is wrong- Jackie would cut off his own godsdamned hand before ever threatening Henrik.

Henrik, for his part, is frozen; unsure of whether to run, or approach, Chase would assume.

Circling around, Chase keeps his steps audible, his voice low.

"Jackie?"

The wolf crouched by the cabinets snarls at him, muzzle wrinkled with fury. There's no hint of recognition in those brilliant amber eyes, and Chase casts his mind back, casts his thoughts to the calendar-

He edges around the corner to the window, just enough to see the moon hang, swollen and bloody, in the sky.

Ah, shit.

He needs Henrik out of here. Then he can- he doesn't know, open a door, lure Jackie out-

"Henrik," he hisses softly. "Henrik."

He sees Henrik's eyes flick in his direction, but no other movement. Jackie picks up his head, muzzle wrinkling, and growls in Chase's direction; Chase keeps his hands out and open, movements slow.

"Easy, Jacks," he soothes, voice low, in the same tone he uses to calm a spooked Henrik, to talk down Marvin and Anti from yet another spat, to soothe the snag-toothed magic under their skin. "It's just me, yeah? It's just Chase. Bet you're feeling all sorts of trapped in this tiny apartment, I've been telling Marv for ages we needed to move, but what can you do with rent."

It's all nonsense, soothing nonsense, and it doesn't make Jackie's hackles come down, but he can see Henrik's shoulders loosen. He'll take one out of two.

He gestures, a tiny motion, with his head; Henrik begins to edge back his way, eyes back on Jackie. The wolf snarls at them, fur rising along the ruff of his neck. Really, he's a gorgeous wolf, Chase thinks idly, all rich brown fur, a pelt thick enough to sink into.

Right now, he's fucking menacing.

"We'll leave you be," Chase soothes, watching as Jackie pulls himself to his feet with more than a little concern. It's a wonder his voice doesn't shake; he's gotten good at managing the adrenaline. He has to be, when ninety percent of their household can smell if his heartrate jumps a beat because he got startled by oil popping too furiously. "Nothing to worry about here, Jacks."

Henrik gets to within inches of Chase; Chase shifts aside to let him reach the doorway.

Later, he'll wonder if one of them moved too quickly; or if Jackie had simply reached the end of his limited patience.

In the moment, Jackie uncoils, and lunges.

Henrik shouts- Chase doesn't think before pulling Henrik back. Unfortunately, this means taking a solid three hundred pounds of muscle head on- he hits the floor hard enough that he hears something crack, and his vision fuzzes out. He can't seem to catch his breath, though that could also be the fact that there's an entire direwolf on top of him.

Someone's shouting. He doesn't have the voice for it, so he's assuming Henrik's shouting something- he can't quite make out what, wheezing for breath.

Above him, Jackie snarls, and Chase can count each claw digging into his shoulders. He drags in another breath, trying to force his lungs to expand past the weight on his chest. Don't panic, don't panic, he chants in the back of his head, through the haze of fear that thickens.

This is Jackie. He won't hurt you.

This is Jackie. He doesn't recognize you.

"Jackie, Jackie, it's me," he wheezes out, forcing his arms up between him and the snarling wolf's muzzle. Jackie snaps at him; Chase can only wedge his hands between them like a prayer to a god he's long stopped believing in. He's a journalist, not built for wrestling werewolves twice his size off of himself. He'll be lucky to make it out unbitten, be lucky to make it out--

"Be still."

The corners of his vision sharpen into almost painful detail. Jackie freezes, ears swiveling straight forward before they pin flat to his skull. A wolf recognizing the bear lumbering by.

Anti stalks through the door, all liquid grace and barely restrained fury.

These last few months, he's gotten good at... not tamping his otherness, but not smothering them. Most days, the hair on the back of Chase's neck doesn't do more than prickle, a lurch in his gut that he leans into.

Right now, Anti does not give a single shit about restraining even a sliver of his thunderous nature. Chase doesn't dare to move, doesn't dare to remind Jackie that he has a very vulnerable chewtoy beneath his paws, but he thinks he could've started dancing the cancan and Jackie wouldn't have looked.

"Up."

Anti isn't even looking at him; Chase can still feel the itch in his bones to obey, as Jackie staggers to his feet, a puppet unsteady on its strings. His tail tucks between his legs, an uncertain snarl wrinkling his massive muzzle.

Anti does- Chase doesn't know how to describe the sound he makes in response. It's too guttural to be a snarl, too harsh. Chase reels back against it, and Jackie takes a step back, and then another.

Towards the open door.

If Anti commands him to leave, Chase knows that he will not return. That they'll be lucky if he doesn't run himself into a bloody grave.

Pushing himself to his feet, he watches Anti's eyes flick his way. There's flecks of silver, brilliant shards of starlight reflecting back at him; the low light of the kitchen makes it downright eerie. He is very, very keenly aware that he's the only human here.

In any other case, he would consider himself outmatched- and on some level, he knows he is.

But he exhales, and then carefully, steps away from Jackie, grimacing a little as the world spins around him. He doesn't have a chance to waver- an arm, cool and steady, wraps around his waist.

"I'm alright," Chase murmurs, half a warning, half a reassurance. Anti's lip curls at that, eyes cutting back to the frozen werewolf crouched before them. Chase swears that he can feel the walls press in around them that inch more in response, and he squeezes what he can reach of Anti's arm. "I'm fine," he repeats, knowing that Anti can taste the half-truth.

"You know Jackie wouldn't in his right mind. We were surprised." Full truth.

After a long moment, Anti only shakes his head, and with the same finality as the sun setting, tells Jackie, "sleep."

The werewolf doesn't so much curl up as he drops; Chase starts, but Anti's already steering him away, and Chase knows full well that the fae is going to be hovering.

"He will wake up," Anti says with that odd finality, before giving Chase a familiar side-eye. "You would not have if we didn't hear you. Henrik."

Chase waves a hand, and immediately regrets it; his shoulder fucking burns. He's going to have to wrap it, probably. "I knew you would. And Jackie-"

...Well. Jackie like this would have easily ripped his throat out. A full moon already heightened his irritation; an eclipse like this would only make it worse. He wisely keeps his mouth shut.

Anti must read the way his expression tightens, because the tips of his fingers prickle, the taste of winter ice seeping into his mouth. The aching eases, and Chase lists further against Anti, who all but pours him onto the couch, and curls around him. Distantly, they can hear a pair of footsteps- Henrik, then, and possibly Jameson, likely at the feeling of magic as wild as Anti's flaring within their threshold.

"Every day," Anti mutters under his breath, shifting to allow Chase to pillow his head on Anti's lap. "Every day you find new ways to flirt with death. They are not that compelling, you know."

Chase huffs a soft laugh, and shuts his eyes, floating on the dizzying feeling of Anti's magic throbbing under his skin. A nap would probably do him good.

"I thought you liked it interesting."

"I like it when you are here," Anti snips back, and tugs a little at a lock of hair. "And death will like not having to gamble against me again."

He's going to shelve that for later, instead humming, and nuzzling into Anti's touch.

"Bet you'd cheat."

"They have no proof," Anti returns archly, but Chase can read into his words well enough. He'd rob death and all of their cousins blind if he had to, and something about that warms him all the way to his bones.

He only laughs, and curls closer to Anti, who's pressed close enough that you couldn't slide a sheet of paper between them. A nap really is looking heavenly, now, and Anti seems faintly smug about that; he's safe, here.

"Wake me up when Jackie's up," he says, quietly, and Anti grumbles indistinctly; when Chase opens an eye, he finally huffs.

"Sleep," Anti says, instead, and tangles slender fingers through his hair. "I will wake you."

There's no command in his words, but he's never needed it; Chase closes his eyes, and falls.

[vaguely-concerned]

speaking of jareth and also once upon a witchlight, I love how blatantly the king of hearts is introduced crotch first as an expy/homage to him. too iconique a design and character to pass up, this was undoubtedly the correct decision. (also still reeling with delight from kremy 'born opportunist' lecroux asking him to have a threesome with him and his husband. no notes, perfect. you miss a hundred percent of the shots at hot morally amiguous arch fey you do not take. shut up gricko I'm trying to pull here)

[atopvisenyashill]

ugh okay it’s frustrating bc again. have i not been preaching and saying yada yada about how we should be getting more helaena & alicent scenes, and scenes with the two of them from helaena’s pov & and not just alicent’s.

and then it’s like. alicent turns on aemond & surrenders to rhaenyra to protect helaena. they don’t have the relationship with each other that either of them wants, and yet it is a relationship that both of them very purposefully build their lives around whenever they are able, whenever they have the choice. helaena will comfort her mother as best as she can in ways she would never attempt with anyone else. alicent puts her body physically between helaena and a crowd as alicent’s final safe space is taken from her. helaena allows physical contact when they are safe in the carriage. alicent shares this small little dream of leaving KL with helaena, picturing them both safe, and helaena shows hope for the future for the first time. and alicent reaches her limit when aemond hurts helaena!

i think building up to alicent finally reaching the end of her rope and surrendering for helaena’s safety is not bad!! but instead of building up that relationship they did That. bleh!

[iridescentscarecrow]

getting annoyed by the "yoshiden is so over" posts like 1) learn to multiship 2) do you Not get yoshiden beyond their visual characteristics do you Not did you not read part 2???

[llycaons]

Everything these long months since their parting has been about finding Wei Ying. His one central focus, the one keeping him steady and moving despite the growing challenges of a chaotic world. But these methods. These things Wei Ying has done. They are wrong. They are fundamentally opposed to all Lan Wangji has ever been taught, all he has aspired to do.

no matter how many times I experience it the sunshot-era drama always fucks like a machine

[the-darklings]

FOR YOUR ARCANE PROMPTS LIST POOKIE: "hands under your lover's clothes" w/Silco??? perhaps?? perchance?? PLS PLS POOKIE, MY GLORIOUS QUEEN, MY EVERYTHING <3

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ silco x gn!reader, complicated relationship, a little angst, no spoilers for s2, cat & mouse dynamic but who is who? wc: 768

“It’s dangerous playing games with a patient man.”

“Are you? Patient?”

Silco’s mouth flutters into what could pass for a fleeting smile. It’s a rare expression on him, an ease that is seldom seen in the years since he left Vander’s side. Nowadays, he is nothing like the fresh-faced youth so desperate to fix the world you first met.

“More so than many, I’d reckon,” he replies placidly, watching you with idle interest. You lean on his oak wood desk, the rough grain of the wood warm beneath your fingers as you skim over his notes and ledgers. His meticulous nature is evident in the way he organised everything about the Shimmer trade. It’s almost irritating. “You are here for a reason.”

The gentle accusation falls on deaf ears.

“I was just saying hello,” you drawl, your voice low, swinging your attention his way. Silco’s scoff is a low, throaty sound, barely audible, but filled with disdain. 

You’re not sure when it started, you and him. If it was survival or a desire for a better life that drove you both from the start. You wanted freedom and independence and then he took the Undercity, and, in a way, you too. Since then, you’ve existed in his sphere, enjoying his favour. Flaunt it without making it obvious, slipping past the cracks of his rules. 

He appears so collected on his chair, a king on his throne in truth, but his immaculate clothes are wrinkled, buttons undone, and his Adam’s apple bobs when you touch his tie. You know better than to go near his throat. The last time you did, fingers eager and teeth nipping at the taut flesh there, he jerked back as if shocked. Terror and rage had overcome him, twisting you on his bed, still tangled in each other, before you could turn back your instincts. When his hands closed around your throat in response, you didn’t fight him off, and maybe it was that above all else that made Silco snap out of his spell.

No, instead, you slip your hand past the unbuttoned shirt, tracing over his sharp collarbone. Silco rests his cheek lightly on his hand, watching you through a narrowed eyed stare. Daring you, yes, but also curious. The heavy scarring on his face never bothered you. You didn’t lack scars of your own, but this… 

You slip forward, knee resting on the chair between his parted legs, hand slipping lower, to rest over his thudding heart. 

“Hello.” Your lips shape the word before you breathe them against his lips again. Your free hand cups his face and the hard beat of his heart echoes against your palm. 

The kiss is gentle, more civilised than either of you are used to, a sweetness that lingers even though it’s not what either of you normally craves, but when he doesn’t pull away, a secret thrill shoots up your spine. His deep inhale fills your ears, the heat of his lips imprinting on yours. A deep, rumbling sound vibrates through his chest when you deepen the kiss, your fingers moving in gentle circles over his skin. 

With a viper’s swiftness, Silco snaps his hand behind your head when you break the kiss, keeping you close. Nose to nose, your breaths mingle. You can’t quite tell what lingers in his burning gaze, one icy blue, another molten gold. 

“Are you hoping to endear yourself to me?” he asks, knowing and throaty. “A foolish play.”

“I won’t say that,” you say, breathless. “And if I was… well, I think you’re holding up just fine.”

Licking your lips, you pull back, grinning at him. He hasn’t moved, his knuckles returning to his cheek. Nonchalant, except for the heavy weight with which he still examines you. Silco won’t indulge you in admitting you do this because you’re the only one he can rely on in this shitty, twisted world of yours. You support his vision, you’ve always believed it, even when you were younger. 

Adjusting your dishevelled clothes, you look over at him once more. Not so crisp and orderly for once. Satisfaction nestles in your gut at the observation that the usually perfectly groomed and dressed man—this infamous crime lord—is a mess in the dim light of his office. Undone. Caught. Even if predatory hunger reflects in that golden hue. 

You wag your fingers in a playful wave. “It’s dangerous playing games with patient people, love, haven’t you heard?”

[recareels]

something ‘bout you

character: professor!alhaitham

genre: smut ; modern university au set in teyvat

notes: waaaah it’s finally finished!!! i have no idea how this piece got to be as long as it did but alas, here we are. this has got to be the longest blow job i’ve ever written ehehehe. as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: dangerous woman by ariana grande

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, praise, professor/graduate student relationship, sir kink, face fucking, cum swallowing, a teeny tiny bit of manipulation, lying via omission, reader is a film and linguistics student, a bit of academic jargon but nothing crazy or crucial, dom/sub dynamics

words: 8k

synopsis:

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers.  He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning.  “Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?”  Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights.  The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea.  He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes. “I want you,” you admit instead.

The banquet hall is small yet elegant, beige walls warmed by the fuchsia beams of the setting sun, streaming in thick strips through the floor-to-ceiling crystal windows. Silverware clinks delicately against fine china, glass champagne flutes clacking with front teeth as lips wrap around the edges, daintily mingling with the soft murmur of voices blanketing the room. 

Such is the life of a University of Sumeru elite. 

Classes don’t officially begin until Monday, but the entire graduate faculty of the Department of Linguistics had been invited to a prefatory mixer held at one of the grand hotels in the city. 

It is a long-standing tradition, the email invite had informed you, that the professors and supervisors of the department throw the graduate students—new and old—an intimate yet extravagant start-of-the-year dinner. 

It’s mostly meant for new students—only five accepted into the program per year—to introduce themselves to their colleagues and supervisors, becoming familiar with the faces they’ll be seeing for the next one-to-five years of their lives. 

You had been special enough to receive an acceptance letter into the PhD program, travelling from your Masters program in Liyue to the city of Sumeru to study under some of the most renowned scholars of the subject. 

And so now you stand, lingering near the immaculately organized table of hors d’oeuvres and fidgeting with the crystal flute between your palms, index finger absentmindedly tracing the rim as eager, interested eyes sweep across the room again, soaking up the atmosphere. 

You have worked so hard to get here, to get to this point, to stand in this room with the gilt-edged supremes of the scholastic world and be one of them—a part of this exclusive, highly-coveted club composed of the outstanding, the superior, the royals of academia.

A large, smooth hand yanks you, rough and abrupt, from your appreciative daydream, blinking rapidly as you stare up at the man who is unexpectedly talking to you—talking at you—as if he knows you well, already mid-sentence about the legend of King Deshret by the time your shock dissipates, concentration tuning into his frequency.  

“—And that’s why he went mad.”

Teal eyes hold yours, steady and intent and willing you not to look away, the fingers wrapped firmly around your bicep flexing the moment your stare begins to stray, watching through your peripheral vision as a man with white hair and rust eyes passes by, features set in hard stone. 

It is only after the man is out of earshot that your captor relaxes, fingers loosening but not fully releasing their grip on your flesh. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, suddenly sounding disinterested and distracted, gaze flitting around the room. 

“Was that true?” 

“What?” he looks back over at you, as if he’s surprised you just spoke to him. 

“Was that true?” you repeat. “I thought that since Nabu Malikata had warned him of the repercussions of the ritual prior to them performing it that he knew she’d die—that he knew she had chosen to die—and went mad with guilt due to him choosing his own selfish desires over the love of his life.” 

He shakes his head, swallowing a mouthful of his scotch. “A common misconception, often due to mistranslations and the incorrigible feelings of the translators themselves. Romantics, you know,” he shrugs, head tilting as he observes you, bright yet sharp eyes studying your face in slow, excruciating detail, as he he’s trying to divest your thoughts through your features. “Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around the department before.” 

Razored teal glints like a scalpel as it attempts to dissect you, his scintillating gaze carefully shaving away at any pretences. 

“I am,” you confirm with a nod, struggling to suppress the pride tugging at the corners of your lips as you introduce yourself. “One of the three lucky souls to have been accepted as a PhD Candidate.” 

“Nice to meet you,” the man murmurs, giving your arm another little squeeze in greeting before finally releasing it. “I’m Haitham. Alhaitham, if you want to be formal, but Haitham is fine.” 

His body relaxes, shoulders no longer pinched, muscles no longer coiled as he gets more comfortable, leaning against a large column, his stance becoming permanent. 

“So, tell me. Where did you complete your Masters?” 

Your heart thumps against your ribs, pushing hard breath up your throat, nerves suddenly buzzing beneath the swelter of his intense stare, fighting the urge to shrink away from his fulgurous attention. 

“Liyue,” you say. “I studied under the guidance of Professor Zhongli.” 

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow in lazy intrigue, notes of condescension glazing his tone, a small smirk adoring his lips. “That’s impressive.” 

“You know him?” 

“Everybody in the academic world knows him, sweetheart. I’m sure you know that, as well.” 

Bashful heat seeps into your cheeks, tingling little pinpricks of embarrassment sprouting beneath your skin. 

“Well, I just—”

“Please,” Alhaitham cuts your off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The man is a master in several subjects; there’s not a chance anyone who is a true scholar hasn’t encountered and studied his work. What did you study beneath him?” 

“Um,” you begin, wincing at how idiotic it sounds, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “I wrote my thesis under his supervision. During my undergrad I majored in linguistics and specialized in cinema studies, so naturally my thesis aimed at analyzing and dissecting the role and importance of language in film—more specifically, how particular language conveys meaning and impacts the psychology of the viewer, as well as how particular language influences, dictates and affects the way a viewer derives meaning from the piece.” 

“Wow,” Alhaitham breathes, and for the first time tonight he sounds genuinely impressed, sincerely interested, notes of intrigue imbuing his tone. “I’d love to read it, if you’ll allow me.” 

“Of course,” you preen, the pressure on your lungs letting up a little beneath his praise. “It took me nearly two years to complete, and under Professor Zhongli’s supervision I was even able to conduct field studies and experiments to gather information and data.” 

“Is that so?” his smirk grows into a lopsided grin, his eyes sparkling with supercilious amusement. “Like what?” 

“As I’m sure you’re well aware of, how a certain character speaks and the words they use says a lot about who they are and where they hail from, but that’s only half the equation. The other half depends on the viewer themselves—their own background, upbringing, experiences, beliefs, and intelligence all influence the way they will perceive and derive meaning from an individual film. The research concluded that, based on these factors, two individuals from separate classes more often than not arrive at substantially different meanings of the information provided from the same film.” 

“Well done,” he murmurs, appreciative, and you can’t help but glow beneath his words, his commendation a beam of nurturing sunlight, drawing you closer to his heat.

“Thank you,” you say, bowing your head respectfully. “And what about you? Are you a student?” 

He laughs, bright and warm, almost as if your mistake is cute. 

“No, no, I am a Professor.” 

“What do you teach?” 

“Syntactic Patterns in Ancient Runes, and Advanced Morphology,” he says easily. “Speaking of which, will you be TAing any classes this year?” 

“I will! Though I have not yet been approved to teach my own class, only tutorials for the first years. Understandable, I guess, since I’m a new student and all.” 

Your disappointment is palpable, hanging thick and heavy in the air, and his demeanour softens a little, a warm hand clasping over your shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “I’m positive they’ll give you your own lecture the moment you hit your third year—those positions are usually reserved to upper-year PhD’s.” The tips of his fingers press into your muscles in a comforting massage, and you can’t help but lean into his touch a little, body deliquescing. “Which class will you be TAing for?” 

“Intro to Linguistics: Sentence Structure and Meaning,” you make a face, the thought sobering you slightly. “By the way, would you happen to know who’s teaching that class this year? There’s no professor listed on the website yet, but if they’re here I’d love to introduce myself.” 

Something darkens his eyes, his smile turned wolfish, a shock of unease unravelling slow and sticky in the pit of your belly.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” he says dismissively, though there’s a shard of something submerged in teal irises, sharp and dangerous, glimmering beneath crystal lights. “He’s a jackass anyway. Antisocial, selfish, you know the type. Introducing yourself to him wouldn’t make much of a difference—he isn’t a fan of those overeager polite types, not unless they’re genuine.” 

“Oh,” you frown, deflating a little, ignoring the ice prickling at the base of your spine. “That’s a shame. I was hoping to be on good terms with him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s on good terms with him,” Alhaitham mutters dryly, eyes narrowing as they sweep across the room, almost accusing in manner. “But who knows,” he says as he looks back at you, hard gaze palliating just a touch. “You might be the one to change that.” 

Confusion sprouts across your face, features crinkling as you draw in a breath to inquire, but a booming voice cuts you off, briskly announcing that it is time for dinner and requesting everyone take their seats. 

“Here,” Alhaitham murmurs as slim fingers cuff your wrist, leading you. “Come sit with me.” 

The dinner is several courses long, but you hardly remember any of them, too caught up in teal eyes and a velvet voice, in the hand that has found it’s way onto you knee, thumb stroking the bone in rhythmic motions through your tights, in the ankles currently tangled around your own, tightening every so often and hauling you a little bit closer—any time you say something that procures that amused little sound, playing on the back of his tongue; any time you say something that raises his brows and leaves his eyes shimmering, head tilted cutely in curious study.

The conversation flows seamlessly as the night passes, as servers bring and remove plates, as guests mingle around the ballroom, arriving to and departing from your table—but the two of you don’t dare move an inch, entirely captivated by your intimate discussion; heads bowed, legs locked, words murmured between the steadily dissipating space between your mouths. 

He tells you about his most recent excavation into the long lost tomb of a prince, about the runes he found intricately engraved on the gorgeous sarcophagus, about what they said and how they fit into his most recent collection of essays—highly coveted information, he had mentioned, sure to note he hadn’t told anyone about this; not until tonight, not until you, his voice taking on a slight air of incredulity, as if he can’t believe he just revealed such information so easily. 

You tell him about the research Zhongli personally funded after you were nearly expelled from the program for sneaking into the film reel archives despite being explicitly denied access—all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course, you had bristled with a roll of your eyes, insisting that such important pieces should not be so inaccessible to scholars—and of the many trips your valued Professor took you on, traversing film festivals across the whole of Inazuma. 

He tells you about his childhood in Sumeru, about what got him interested in semiotics and linguistics, about the first language he learned—and about how his grandmother taught him, eyes gone soft with fondness for the since passed woman. 

You tell him about your childhood in Fontaine, about scraped knees and local theatre and sparkling blue water, about your favourite Fontainian film movements and how they first sparked your passion for the performing arts. 

“I don’t know anything about Fontainian Neorealism or the Fontaine New Wave,” he admits, “but I do know that Sumeru has a flourishing arts and culture sector—and I assume that’s why you’ve chosen to study here. Am I correct?” 

“You are,” you nod with a small smirk, sipping on red wine. “It is exceptionally difficult to study Sumeru’s robust art history without actually being here. All I know are the things I’ve read in books—which are not nearly a suitable substitute for experiencing it with your own eyes.”

“Mm,” he hums in agreement. “Let’s make a deal, then.” 

“A deal?” 

“A trade, of sorts,” he begins, smirking when you blink twice in curiosity. “I’ll take you to a performance at Zubayr Theater, and you take me to see a Fontainan film. Sound fair?” 

“Sounds wonderful.”

A small smile graces his lips, wispy at the edges, a peculiar sentiment sparkling in his gaze. “It’s a date, then.” 

And you can’t help the fizzy feeling that starts to froth in your veins at the word, at the promise of seeing him again, of spending more uninterrupted time with him, just the two of you. 

It must show on your face in some way, must be evident in the sweet, girlish giggle that bubbles uncontrollably past your lips, because his smile stretches, still soft, and he chuckles gently, nothing more than a huff of breath on his tongue.

“I’m looking forward to it, too.” 

The palm cupping your knee is hot and heavy, his grasp flexing with his response, staying itself for a moment before it slides up your thigh, slow and careful and appraising, thumb stopping a millimeter shy from the hem of your short black dress.

Keen teal eyes stay trained on your face, focused in their evaluation, ready to analyze any slight change in expression his action may elicit.

But you only lean closer, legs spreading an inch or so wider, shuffling to the edge of your seat, a silent plea for more. 

A silent plea that does not go unnoticed by Alhaitham, as indicated by his small smile, sharp eyes dulling a little with their inquisition and fingers sinking into plush flesh, grip strengthening before relaxing again, the tip of his thumb stroking the material of your dress.

All without a single hitch in his words, swiftly and smoothly moving onto the next topic. 

And you only fall further. 

You can’t manage to keep your hands to yourself, either, it seems, touch vying and voracious for more of him: playing with the gold bangles encircling his wrist; twisting the gilded jade class ring pressed firmly against his second knuckle; drifting over the back of his hand, a single fingertip outlining the bones and veins contouring his flesh. 

He doesn’t appear to mind, though, flipping his hand over to gift you more access, allowing you to trace the lines of his palm with a manicured nail, his fingers spreading wider, presenting more of himself to you as you vividly discuss Metz and how he built his cinematic semiotics theory off of structural linguistics. 

His hand is nearly in your lap now, your thighs cushioning one another’s, knees bumping clumsily against the edge of each other’s chairs as you subconsciously try to inch closer, caught up in every fucking thing about him; his viscous voice, cascading over you like melty syrup; his vivid stare, so bright and full of passion it’s practically glowing; his magnificent mind, gears churning at a rapid yet efficient pace, producing ribbons of wisdom, flowing smooth and fluid from his lips, confident and self-assured. 

You’re drowning in him, submerging yourself further and further into his presence, more intoxicated by his aura than the wine roiling warm and sweet in your belly. It produces something insatiable, a starved clawing at your chest that grapples for more and more and more of him, every fragment of information you manage to extract doing nothing to satisfy the hunger, instead exacerbating the craving. 

You’ve never met anyone like him before; never met anyone so blunt and real and unabashedly themselves, never met anyone so sincerely scholarly, so dedicated to their studies, so zealous in their never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

It’s inspiring; it’s intoxicating.

Alhaitham’s mind is brilliant, beautiful, an ornate maze of thoughts, each one leading to something new, each one unravelling like the petals of a lotus, sparking further debates, remarks, ponders. 

You could get lost in here forever, you think—stumbling your way around sharp corners and down twisting corridors, consistently in awe of the next thing you discover. 

You must murmur it out to him, dreamy and wine-drunk and wrapped up in him, sentiments streaming seamlessly from your brain to your lips without your permission, because he laughs, the sound mild and tender, his gaze softening. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm,” you nod, lazy and languid. “It’s so beautiful, Haitham.”

“I’ve never had anyone call my mind beautiful before,” he muses. “But I think it might be my favourite compliment to receive yet.” 

Bubbles of pride tingle behind your ribs, and your chest puffs out a little, spine straightening beneath his praise, murmuring out a little self-satisfied, well, then, you’re welcome. 

“Proud of yourself, huh?” he teases, though the notes infusing his voice are playful, his eyes shining as he studies you, cataloging your expressions.

“Yes, Sir,” you confirm. “You’re a hard man to please.”

“Oh, am I?” he snorts, head tilting in question.

“S’not a bad thing,” you continue, words slurred just a touch, heavy with admiration. Dainty hands find his own, your fingers beginning to toy with his, idle and absent-minded as they curl and straighten knuckles. 

“No?” he smirks, pinky catching yours in a swift hook. “I mean, you seem to be doing a pretty good job so far.” 

“I could do better, if you want me to.” 

It’s bold, brash, and entirely unbefitting, but the offer slips from your mouth without thought or consent, startling you in it’s veracity, a jolt of desire zipping through your veins. 

Your hand moves entirely of its own accord, touch tiptoeing up his thigh in invitation, inching toward the half-hard lump in his trousers. 

He catches your wrist just before you reach his cock, slim fingers braceletting your arm and squeezing once in warning. 

“Are you sure you want to go down this path, sweetheart?” 

Hooded teal observes you closely, irises shaded into a deep navy, glimmering under the chandelier lights. 

The question drips from his lips in a dark, decadent murmur, simultaneously an enticement and a warning, his thumb idly stroking your skin as he awaits your response—an action that brings some semblance of comfort, despite the dangerous thrill sparkling in his eye.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. Despite speaking to him for the duration of the night, you don’t know this man—don’t know his rank in the department or his status among his peers and how that may impact you in the future. On all accounts, it most definitely is not a good idea. 

He seems to know so, too, if his timbre of caution is anything to go by, but that ray in his eye flares, begging you to say yes.

Because the desire is too strong, a potent drug infusing your blood and hazing your brain, overwhelming your senses and overriding your better judgement, and you find yourself unable to resist, easily placing blame on the wine and the party and the undeniable allure of this stranger, instead of your own ravenous craving. 

“I want you,” you admit instead, the confession oozing from between pouted lips, stark with it’s honesty, unapologetic with your longing. 

Alhaitham laughs, low and smooth, watching you through thick, fanned lashes. 

“How do you want me?”

He’s playing with you now, a hawk toying with his food between razored talons, forcing his prey to go exactly where he wants it to. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

“However you’ll give you to me,” you respond, brazen but sincere, glassy eyes wide and captivating his own. 

Teal searches your face for a moment, pries apart your features in search of falsities and finds nothing but unadulterated candour, so sheer it boarders on pathetic. 

“All right,” he finally says, hand smoothing along your wrist to press your palms together, lacing your fingers with his and giving a gentle tug. “Come.” 

You tread behind him like the sweetest little kitten, inebriated galaxies swirling in your irises, desperate and obedient and eager for your treat. 

But you’re just a touch too impatient, it seems.

Because he barely makes it to the washroom, free hand on the doorknob, intending to throw one last glance back at you—one final confirmation, are you sure? written in the motion—before you’re surging forward, soft palms cushioning a defined jaw, dainty fingers hooking behind the hinges and yanking, crushing his lips to yours.

It isn’t graceful in the slightest, a rough mangle of tongues and teeth, incisors catching on lips and canines scraping slick muscle, but Alhaitham recalibrates quickly enough, large hands curling around your hips and pulling you to his form. 

The door to the men’s washroom swings open as your knotted bodies fall through it, hinges loose and creaky, the metal handle slamming against the tiled wall, the resounding bang! bouncing throughout the room.

The stumbling of your footsteps echoes around you, obnoxious smacking of lips and slurping of tongues amplified by the open space as you gulp down his breathy little chuckle, the sound warm and tingling as it spills down your throat. 

A tangled mess of legs and limbs, you fall into the first available stall, rickety door whacking off the side, the lock jingling from the force. 

He allows you to crowd him into a corner, hinges of the flimsy door tinkering again as your legs slotting together and your tongues grind, tips teasing each other in curling little licks, catching one another and then slipping away, tracing the ridges of teeth, burrowing into the divots of cheeks. 

A strong hand stays wrapped around your neck, nails just barely nipping your skin as he grips you in place, his other hand busying itself with a palmful of your ass, fingertips planting bruises into soft flesh. 

A responding hiss slithers from your mouth into his, the sound massed on his tongue, the muscle folding around it and sucking, savouring your pain until it melts into his flesh.

Your hands are indecisive, traversing the buttons of his shirt and the loops of his trousers until, finally, they find his belt, fingers eager and vying as they pick at the heavy buckle, and he snorts. 

“It’s cute, how utterly desperate you are,” he mumbles into the kiss, slippery mouths sliding together, leavings streaks of saliva painted across chins. 

You are desperate, too desperate, and if you were of sound mind you’d be rightfully embarrassed of such behaviour, pawing at him like some impatient teenager, pathetically aching for more of him. 

But the wine and the glamour and Alhaitham’s intoxicating taste—cedar wood and mint, cloaked by expensive scotch—has cast a murky cloud over your brain, stuffing your skull full of nothing but ardour, dulling all of your senses, honing all of your needs, to him, him, him. 

The thigh wedged between your own, sculpted from strong, lean muscle, flexes twice, hitching up further into your core, a pitchy mewl spilling onto his tongue as a reward. You can feel his cock, hot and hard and pressed tightly against your hip, rutting into you in small, uneven little motions, dense heat sprawling, slow and sticky, in the pit of your tummy. 

“God, you’re already making such a fucking mess,” he nearly moans into your mouth, thigh tensing again in emphasis, cotton doused in slick arousal. “And I’ve barely even touched you. I guess you really do want me, don’t you?” 

And although his words are teasing, imbued with notes of playful mocking, his tone is sweet, almost as if he’s in awe of how honest you were. 

“S’bad,” you whimper, tongue sketching out the curve of his cupid’s bow. “So bad.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he pants, a hand wreathing around your jaw, keeping your stare trapped in his. “Tell me what you want.” 

The demand is damp as it drifts across your face, scalding little pinpricks erupting beneath your skin, paired with a low whine of embarrassment. His gaze is too vehement, eyes wide and unblinking as they impel you, your own lids squeezing shut in the face of such fervour. 

“Ah!” the hand clamped around your jaw tightens. “Open them. Look at me, and tell me what you want. You’re a big girl, I know you can do it.”

It almost hurts to look at him, another bout of humiliation flushing through your veins as you squint, features twisted up in a wince. 

“C’mon,” he goads, fingertips thrumming against you cheek once in a fluent wave. “Where’s that big beautiful brain gone now? You were so eloquent at dinner.”  

“I—I wanna ride your cock!” you nearly sob, the profession a stringy plead shoved from your tongue, tangled in threads of saliva. “I really wanna ride your cock.” 

“Aw, how precious,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a shame, words filtered through a slight faux pout. “Too bad naughty girls don’t get to ride my cock.” 

“Wh-What?” you blink, tears beading at the corners of your eyes, just barely caught in outer lashes. “Naughty?”

And, oh, the smile that spreads across his cheeks is downright sinister, eyes flashing with levity. 

“Do good girls put their hands all over a stranger’s cock?” he tilts his head, that shiny sliver in his iris catching in the light. “Does that not qualify as misbehaviour to you?”

“But—But I—I’m good!”  

The response is automatic, barreling up your throat and out your mouth before you have a moment to seize it, a fierce need to prove yourself igniting behind your ribs, eyebrows knit cutely as you stare at him, eyes beseeching despite your bratty tone. 

“Are you?” he raises a brow, eyes hard, but mirth plays with the corners of his lips. “Your behaviour thus far says otherwise.”

“I am!” 

Your gaze steadily holds his own, daring, challenging, insistent, your features scrunched up in a stubborn petulance.

“All right, prove it to me,” he says after a beat, exhaling an amused little huff. “Show me you’re a good girl and suck my cock.” 

And that’s all the encouragement you need, really, desperate to prove yourself worthy and capable as you slide down his body, knees on his toes, lidded stare never breaking contact with his own—heavy, dark, starving.

His collarbone, sharply prominent and peeking out from beneath his shirt lapels, heaves a little with his laboured breaths, the faintest sheen of sweat beginning to lacquer the bones, catching delicately in the fluorescent light. 

Nosing along the impressive bulge straining against his trousers, you hum a little in appreciation, trailing hot, humid kisses up the length in a haphazard outline. A hushed giggle vibrates in your throat as his cock jumps beneath your touch, begging for what Alhaitham would never dare to, tongue unfurling from your mouth to roll, slow and hard, over the clothed head. 

The slick muscle wraps itself around the tip as best it can, wet heat seeping through his pants as your tongue siphons his cock into your mouth, lips closing around the head and suckling, hard. 

A breath snares on his sternum, his hips twitching once in complement, chased by a low, alluring chuckle. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, though the letters are breathless. “I didn’t know good girls were little teases…” 

The implication is not lost on you, and you roll your eyes, grumbling out a muffled no fun into his groin before your fingers immediately get to work—button popped, zipper tugged, knuckles curled in the elastic waistbands, hauling his pants and briefs midway down his thighs. 

His cock is just as gorgeous as he is, thick and velvety and twined with pulsing veins that surge and swell the moment they’re wrapped in your tongue.

It’s impossible to silence the pathetic whimper of appreciation that spills from your throat the moment his cock is free, massive and magnificent, and you can’t resist nuzzling your cheek into it in admiration, catlike, the flushed head leaving a fat streak of pre-cum painted just below your eye.

A curse pries its way past his lips, fading into a breathy exhale, his fingers latching beneath your jaw and tilting your face to his, taking a moment to cherish the sight. 

You look so beautiful stained with him—glistening pre-cum dashed across your check in a perfect stripe; lips swollen and licked raw, shimmering with his spit—and he can’t help but stare, ravenous pupils having gnawed away at teal irises, desperate to soak up as much of the scene as physically possible, leaving nothing more than a thin ring to outline the orbs. 

His thumb swipes through the sticky substance, rubs it into your skin until it’s gone dry, seeped into the tissues and absorbed completely, and your neck strains a little, yearning to present more of your cheek to him, offering.

Another second or two passes as he grants himself one final moment of marvel, before his fingers release your head, a non-verbal command to continue. 

And you obey flawlessly, instantly. 

A dainty hand wraps around the base of his cock, tongue darting from between raw lips to lap kittenishly at the head, flattening along the curve and dragging twice in unhurried succession before digging the point into his slit, procuring another pretty pearl of pre-cum, oozing enticingly to adorn the tip. 

It’s so dense, so bloated it looks mere moments away from dropping, your tongue stretching out   far and wide in a precursory measure, ready to catch it when it falls. And it does, only a beat later, dripping slow and gross into your waiting mouth in a single strand, thick and viscid.

A hefty moan resounds in your throat as it seeps into your tastebuds, his flavour bitter and strong, fluttering lashes framing rolling whites. 

The noise that splinters in his throat is strained, yearning beneath a heavy hedonism, and his fingers tighten in your hair, a subtle caution. Smirking, your glance up at him again, sinful tongue laving lasciviously over your puffy lips, yet your eyes are not bratty, instead glittering with such potent awe it almost hurts, like he’s some sort of veneered saint, exalt pouring from your gaze. 

It crushes down on his chest, flattens his lungs and makes it difficult to draw in breath, oxygen stalling in his throat, the urge to yank you up and kiss the goddamn life out of you near unbearable as it tears at his chest. But he comes back to his senses, restraint held intact by a single spider silk thread, a dull, distant voice in the back of his skull reminding him of your task, of your lesson.  

You seem to know, too. 

No words need to be spoken, no warnings need to be issued, the hand around the base of his cock flexing slightly as it readjusts its grip, feeding him to yourself, taking him inch by inch down your eager throat. 

“S’it,” he encourages as he watches you, eyes lidded and hazy with lust. “That’s it, baby, take as much of it as you can for me.” 

The incentive, haunted by the ghost of potential praise if you succeed, only makes you more avid in your quest, throat stretching around his girth as you stuff it full of his cock, reflexes instinctively attempting to push him from the gummy column, constricting as you gag around the head.

It’s hard to know what he likes—how fast, how deep, how rough and filthy—but from the limited information you’ve gathered tonight, you can infer that he isn’t a fan of teasing; at least, not when he’s the one being teased. 

“A little more,” he instructs, but the command is gentle, a thumb skimming along the line of your jaw, hinges straining as you immediately submit, mouth opening wider, throat sexpanding further as you take more of him, more for him.

“Fuck, look at that,” he pants out, thumb caressing your jaw again before his palm cups beneath your chin, tilting your head up, the action inadvertently forcing his cock farther down your throat. “You’re so good.”

Blinking twice in response, you stare up at him, irises encrusted with stars of worship, their shine unhindered by the bleary gloss of reflexive tears that have already begun to collect, lashes clumped into soaked spikes, just barely keeping the torrent at bay.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt more respected, revered, in his entire life. 

Another blink—a quick beating of lashes—sends crystalline dewdrops flowing down your cheeks, the softest sniffle, half-stifled, shuddering delicately around his cock. 

“H-Hah,” he breathes out, an involuntary little sound pulled from deep within his chest, your agape mouth working itself open greater, lips stretching over his bulk.

He holds you still for a moment, takes time to admire such a pretty sight, hips jolting slightly, eyes watching as the bulge in your throat jumps, as you choke around him but don’t dare push him away, instead squeezing the base of his cock, attempting to jam it down even more. Your chin juts forward in a futile attempt to aid, salacious squelching echoing throughout the bathroom as you swallow, hard and with conviction, trying to lead him further into your body. 

The back of his knuckle swipes through a stream of glittering salt, collecting your tears on his skin and bringing it to his mouth, tongue washing over it slowly, savouring your taste. 

And you wait. 

How very good of you.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he finally says as he releases his grip, permitting you to take control again. “Show me how much of me you can take down your throat.” 

And, really, that’s all of the enticement you need, head beginning to move the instant he demands it, mouth gliding down his shaft, slow and steady, until the tip of your nose just barely brushes your second knuckle. A pause, a mere millisecond for him to feel your throat convulse, before you’re pulling back up, lips puckering as they tighten around his shaft, glazing his flesh in a thin, shimmering film of saliva. 

Each stroke of your mouth has your pace accelerating, opting to keep your fist wrapped firmly at the base of his cock to steady it instead of allowing it to follow the trajectory of your lips.

It grows sloppy quick, your spit-soaked hand readjusting it’s slippery grip as your upper lip repeatedly bashes into it, the threads of saliva keeping your mouth and finger connected snapping each time your lips reach his head, nearly pulling off of his cock completely before your mouth sinks down again

“Yeah, yeah, there you go,” he grunts out, words torn around the edges, breathing raw and ragged. “Good girl, my perfect girl, doing so well for me.” 

A whine reverberates around his cock, your legs spreading slightly as your back bows and your neck arches, an ambitious attempt to take more of him, throat gaping and split open, drenched cunt grinding into the toe of his polished shoe. 

He groans a little, the sound tapering off into something choked and broken, his hips stuttering forward and involuntarily plunging his entire length down your throat, body retching at the abrupt intrusion. 

And suddenly, all of this isn’t exactly enough for you. 

Because while you can nearly fit all of him down your throat on your own, and while he seems to be more than satisfied with your progress, there’s still an inch or so that you’re missing, palm curled around it in a manner that’s almost protective, and you want to take all of him. 

You want to prove that you can take all of him, for him. 

A thick, milky string of spit and pre-cum dangles and droops heavily in the space between your lips and his cock as you peel your mouth from his shaft entirely, wrecked little coughs furling on your tongue, eyes wet and wide and full of reverence as you look up at him, imploring.

With a little effort, he hefts his lids open from their sedative state, staring down at you with glazed, gluttonous pupils, head tilting a little in inquiry.

“I want you to fuck my throat, Sir,” you rasp out in explanation, voice rough and raw, request grating against your throat. “Please, fuck my throat, Sir, please.” 

The plead is garbled, drooled out from the corners of your mouth curled in copious drivels of foamy spit, collecting on your chin and dripping off your jaw in viscous glass cords. 

Chest heaving with ragged breath, he watches as drool drizzles across your collarbone and exposed bosom, sticky and sloppy. You’re making such a mess—he’s making such a mess of you, and you’re so willing, so unwavering, raring for more. 

“Fuck,” he nearly whines out, the curse cracked. 

Deft fingers grip your face, blunt nails biting into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, an attempt to get a better look at you. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, the word drifting across your face, eyes hunting after it in an almost rabid manner. “You want Sir to fuck your mouth?” 

A whimper vibrates on your tongue, head nodding as best it can in his firm grasp. 

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, wanna take as much of you as possible, Sir; wanna take all of you, Sir; wanna be so good for you, Sir,” your head quirks a little, nuzzling into his touch. “Please, help me, help me show you how good I can be.” 

Your confession is molten and dreamy, flowing from your lips in one thick, continuous stream, your eyes limpid, desperate with the desire to please. 

“Though you’ve proven you are capable of doing it on your own, it’s precious that you’re asking for my help.”

A hum of contemplation rumbles in his chest, head tilting in observation, his scrutinizing gaze framed by heavy lids, eyes now slow and steady as they search your face.

“You need Sir to guide you, huh?” he’s asking as his other hand replaces your own, wrapping around the base of his cock and giving it two good, quick pumps before bringing the head to your lips, mouth obediently dropping open, a sound of confirmation playing on the back of your tongue.

Yes, yes, you’re nodding, tongue curling in the air a little, almost as if enticing him closer.

“No, not need,” he revises, smudging a thin stroke of pre-cum across your waiting, urgent tongue. “Want. Isn’t that right?” 

It’s true—you don’t technically need his assistance, could manage perfectly well on your own the task of sucking him off and stuffing your throat with his cum, but you want his aid; want to show him that not only can you succeed, but you can surpass.

“Please,” you whimper, the word a distortion trembling against the tip of his cock. “Please, help me be the very best for you, Sir.” 

Something sharp flashes in his pupils, hungry and craving and full of teeth, his chest stuttering with it—a growl he snuffs out, strangles in his throat before it can grow into a coherent response, replaced with a simple nod.

“All right, all right, baby,” he’s pacifying as you take his cock down your throat again, the hinges of your jaw straining as your mouth stretches around him. “Sir will help you out this time.” 

A mewl of thanks vibrates around his cock as he threads himself down your throat, his hips jerking once, fast and short, a matching whimper spilling from his lips. 

Delicate fingers curl in his waistband and tug a little, begging him to fuck deeper, and he concedes, groaning out breathy praise as your nose presses into that neat smattering of curls adorning his pubic bone, lips kissing the root of his shaft. 

“Christ,” he whines, hips thrusting forward a hint further as he leans back against the stall wall to get a better view, your throat tightening around him with the action. “So fucking gorgeous.” 

The stuffed full column of your throat ripples around him as you swallow with conviction, a greedy attempt to garner him even deeper into you, his shaft swollen and protruding in your neck. Tear-lacquered eyes close briefly, forcing streams of crystal to leak from the corners as you nuzzle into his groin again, the laudatory action causing gummy walls to spasm around his cockhead. 

“F-Fuck,” the curse fragments on his tongue, head tipping back against the flimsy stall wall, angular jaw and Adam’s apple on display. “Look at you, so full of me.”

There isn’t any more time to admire, though, as idle chatter, muffled and indistinct, seeps under the heavy washroom door, yanking both of you from the heavenscape you had conjointly created and shocking you with a bitter dose of reality. 

There’s no warning after that, the brute reminder of the steadily encroaching public entirely shattering whatever trance the two of you had been enveloped in, Alhaitham’s hips snapping sudden and sharp, fucking your throat with a renewed vigour. 

Your grip on his slacks tightens, knuckles curling over the waistband in a feeble attempt to help him, to pull him even closer, jaw wrenched open even wider as his hips work, so fucking dedicated to him, to pleasing him, despite the pang beginning to settle deep within the hinges.

It’s rough, and sloppy, and so fucking hot, scalding saliva smeared all over him—coating his thighs and dribbling down his balls and soaking the matted curls at the base of his cock, slippery and sticky and stained with you. 

“Doing so—so fucking good for me,” he pants out, pace never faltering. “My perfect little toy.” 

Something mangled and muted sounds in your throat, another pair of tears cascading down your cheeks and streaking them with pretty gleaming trails.

It hurts, your throat burning and fucked raw with every ram of his cock, your lungs beginning to shrivel as he smothers your breath, routinely shoved back down in time with the piston of his hips, chest swelling painfully beneath the backlog of unreleased air. 

Hiccups splutter around him as you desperately try to draw in tiny gulps through your nose, the fluttering of your throat eliciting another hoarse groan, tumbling from his lips. 

The ache in your jaw has radiated across your face now, a pounding in your temples keeping flawless rhythm with Alhaitham’s thrusts, a twinging in your cheeks weighing heavy on the bones, creeping into your sinuses.

Yes, it all hurts so very much, but you take it all for him, just like a good little girl is supposed to, just like he asked, just like you promised you would—dutiful, doting, devoted.

And even though his hips are ruthless, avid in their chase to catch his impending high, his grip is tender, the knuckles rooted against your skull firm but not painful as they hold your head in place, his thumbs massaging soothing little circles along your hairline.

You’re weeping around him now, a potent concoction of drool and tears trickling off your tongue in viscid strings, the slick muscle curled flush around the underside of his shaft, protecting sensitive skin from the edges of sharp teeth. 

A dull pain is beginning to seep into the tip of your nose, no doubt a response to the constant collision of your face into his pelvis, and you can feel the early formations of a bruise, fragile capillaries busted open from the consistent blunt force. 

“Oh, Christ,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before springing back open, gazing down at you with fervour. “M’gonna—ah, ah—” his hips judder, thumbs pressing into the sides of your head, steadying his grasp. “M’gonna cum, and I want you to—f-fuck��to swallow it all, y’here me? Don’t waste a single fucking drop.” 

And, well, you’re nothing if not unwaveringly obedient.

Two more drives of his cock, rough and rapid, and then he’s forcing hot, thick cum down your throat, stuffing the column full with his potent seed.

It’s so much, too much, and you sputter around him, the syrupy substance overflowing back up your throat and into your mouth to seep, slow and sticky, past the tight seal of your mouth.

But he helps you with that, too, holding your head still and pressing your face tightly to his pubic bone, ensuring that his cum shoots straight down your throat as his cock continues to throb weakly, weighting your tongue. 

And you, obedient little girl that you are, devour all of it, even the few stray dollops of cream that managed to escape your mouth and roll down his balls, tongue curling hungrily around them and sopping up the remnants with gentle sucking. 

Truly, you did not waste a single fucking drop. 

And he’s so proud of you. 

“C’mere, precious,” he’s breathing out once he’s sure you’ve swallowed it all, releasing his grip on your skull and hoisting you up, strong hands hooked beneath your armpits. 

He hauls you to your feet in one fluid movement, pliant legs struggling to find stable footing on the tiled floor, and props you up against his body, supporting you. Those big hands cup your jaw, tilting your face to his, aquamarine flying across your features—quick, but efficient—and surveying the damage.

“You were so perfect,” he murmurs, sowing a smattering of chaste kisses along the top of your head. “You were so, so perfect for me.” 

A response hitches in your throat, mangled by the sob desperately attempting to claw past it, and Alhaitham frowns, concern creasing his forehead. 

“Hey, you okay? Huh?” gentle palms tip your head up even further, thumbs killing tears as they swipe over your cheekbones. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“M’fine, Sir,” you croak out, voice ruined but eyes filled with reverence. “Th-Thank you for giving me your cum.” 

The worry saturating his features is eradicated in an instant, eroded by tender awe, his lips twitching into a small smile as his eyes sweep across your face again—slower, this time, more deliberate, appreciative—thumbs continuing their soft caress. 

The sudden shouting of his name decimates any potential response before it has a chance to form in his mouth, a low growl of irritation rumbling in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he calls back, the moment the washroom door swings open, effectively halting the perpetrator in their steps. “I’ll be there soon. Give me a moment.” 

His voice is hard, stern, cold yet dripping with authority, the meek messenger squeaking out some semblance of acknowledgement before rushing from the room. 

You’re still sniffling, cheeks stained with dried, crusty salt, hair mussed and messy, and his frown returns as he looks back at you, his features pinched, reluctance weighing heavy on his form. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?” 

“I am,” you nod in his grasp, finally standing on your own two feet, as if to prove it. “Promise.”

His eyes hold your own for a moment longer, assessing, before he accepts your answer as truth, fingers beginning to fuss with his dishevelled tie. 

“All right,” he sighs out the words as he primps, palms smoothing down his shirt, wrinkles casualties from your fingers. “Take your time to regain your bearings.” He looks up, a sardonic grin on his face. “I, unfortunately, have business to attend to. Such is the life of a Sumeru professor.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s such a drag to be faculty at the top university in the world,” you snort. 

“Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts,” he retorts, but his smile has softened to something playful. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

“Looking forward to it, Sir.” 

“Good.” 

He refolds his lapels one last time, squaring his shoulders as he mentally prepares, turning toward the stall door.

“Oh, and uh,” hand curled around the stall handle, he pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder, eyes shining with something mischievous. “Maybe next time you can actually ride my cock, like you wanted to.” 

Head quirking, confusion crinkles your brow, your eyes searching his face. Next time?

A smirk spreads across his lips, smug and supercilious. 

“See you in class on Monday, Teaching Assistant.” 

[zuzuelectricbugaloo]

Definitely. It will be a long while before Killer and Cross can reach the level of camaraderie that the rest of the Crew share. Killer would especially be both envious and disdainful of Cross for his reminders of Chara (to Killer, given that Cross always has the heart locket on) and lost the tie his Chara had to his Soul (XChara no longer fused to Cross’s Soul).

Cross still has Determination, his Soul won’t ever be a truly normal monster’s Soul again, but at first glance it looks like a normal monster Soul. And Killer would both envy and scorn him for that, I think. Because by then, even though it’s a good ending, Killer has accepted that he’ll always be a blasphemous hybrid mutliating the laws of nature for both species.

Piteous of Cross, because Cross lost that connection to the Players (losing the ability to Reset or summon the special blades when he and XChara shared a body) and therefore lost his connection to divinity.

Yet also envious of Cross because Something New Chara is his abuser and they’ll forever be a visible stain on his Soul and a living phantom haunting his thoughts. Whether they’re there or not, they’re real to Killer. But Cross is a deceiver of what he truly is, and no one else who Cross doesn’t allow to get closer to him will know the truth that his monster Soul is a hybrid.

Killer’s Soul can never return to the sanctity of his body. Cross’s can.

Killer’s Determination and corroded insides from the Trait continuously leak or pour out his sockets and other orifices. Cross’s only leaks when emotionally unstable. Even then, his bones aren’t stained permanently in heavily concentrated areas like Killer’s is.

Cross is weak to Killer. He is a trained and dedicated soldier but he didn’t have to struggle or mutilate himself over and over and over again until he’d changed himself entirely to survive. Cross lets his anger overwhelm him and often acts on impulse instead of adapting to the situation and person(s) in that moment and reacting in whatever is the best way to survive.

Cross threatened the safety of the entire Multiverse, just like Killer, under Nightmare. Yet Cross was largely forgiven and even had several fans in the Omega Timeline while Killer is still greeted by scornful stares when his friends are unaware.

Although Cross had, unknowingly to Killer, believed he deserved help and the chance to change just as Cross had been given and had sided with Epic in helping Color have the means to reach out to Killer. Killer still perceives the Chromatic Crew at first as potential threats to himself or his friendship with Color and believes Cross is like Delta (in the beginning of Killed joining the friend group) and thinks Killer is a threat to Color’s well-being and the others’ safety. Especially given the past where Cross had temporarily joined the Stars and ripped off Killer’s entire forearm in one of many brutal fights they’ve engaged in. Cross has lethally hurt Killer in the past, and he’ll always be weary of the soldier in every interaction they have and never able to forget the pain and torment it had caused him.

(He’s comforted some and knows at least that Cross won’t try to steal Color from him due to the evident closeness Cross and Epic share as best friends. Killer desires that for himself and Color and uses their relationship as a reference when he struggles to understand or feel emotions when discerning what he wants from or feels for Color).

Someday, Killer will lesson his firm viewpoints on Cross and they’ll be real friends. Someday they’ll bond over the shared understanding of Determination forever changing their magic and the life-lasting impact of being a hybrid. Someday they’ll bond over special interests in blades and spar with each other using different knives or swords or whatever else they’d like to fight with that day. Someday they’ll bond over their love for their best friends, and can all hang out together and enjoy the mutual understanding of what it is to care for someone so deeply.

For now, Killer’s adjustment to the Chromatic Crew and clashing with Cross will be rough, and their dynamic is one founded on petty disputes and physical altercations.

But someday, they’ll be family.

I’d imagine cross and killer would have a lot of stuff to work through in a chromatic crew ending.

especially if cross seems to be adjusting better to this new environment, this freedom, than killer is—frequently acting as if they haven’t truly escaped, as if they aren’t really free, and talks about nightmare as if it wasn’t hell to be trapped beneath him. as if it really wasn’t that serious.

the things they did to others and with nightmare as if it wasn’t that big of a deal or anything to blink at. as if killer can’t understand or trust or allow himself to trust that they’re actually free and safe—or as if he doesn’t know what ‘free’ means anymore.

[mysteria157]

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: explicit sexual content, cowgirl, vaginal sex, light bondage, power dynamics, teasing/edging, sweating Kento out because that's what I love most, established relationship, MDNI!

WC: ~5.9K

Summary: What happens when you playfully suggest a new dynamic in the bedroom? Utter torment for Nanami, of course. What else is new?

a/n: The writer's block has been absolutely atrocious, but I was able to break free of its clutches with this. Is it Sheriff Nanami? No. But it is smut that's been sitting in my mind so long that it gave me a fever. So...here ya go lol.

Ao3 | JJK Masterlist | Divider: @cafekitsune @strangergraphics | Part Two | network tag: @pixelcafe-network

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

The silk of his favorite tie is familiar to him—the way it slides through his fingers each morning when he gets ready for work, the weight of it loose around his neck as he shaves, the pop of black against gold in his reflection when he secures it beneath his collar. But it’s never quite felt like this—wrapped snugly around his wrists, rumpled and stretching with every pull of his hands, growing damp with sweat from his wrists as he watches you ride him within an inch of his life.

Nanami hisses, dark blonde eyebrows pitched deep in concentration as he gazes up at you. His usually immaculate hair is a mess, flaxen strands plastered to his forehead with sweat that trails down his neck like a lover’s caress, slipping beneath his shoulder blades to soak into the sheets of your shared bed.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grits out. He means to sound indignant, frustrated in light of what he’s gotten himself into, but his body tells a different story. His hips itch to cant upward, fingers clench like a madman for purchase into your skin, jaw clicking as he grinds his teeth against mounting pleasure.

You snort as if the very thought of conceding is laughable. The consistent jump of your hips stops, the action shooting a flare of want up his stomach. Your fingers flex on his chest, pressing further as you lift your hips up and up, exposing more of his wet cock to the cool air until just the tip remains encased in your heat. He yanks at the restraints before he can stop himself, a silent plea that makes you smile.

“Are you sure?” you tease, rotating your hips, and the feel of it makes his eyes cross. “If you’re not comfortable, Ken, we can stop.”

The thought of stopping makes his cock throb traitorously, even as his body feels flayed open, every nerve ending exposed and singing. He did agree to this, after all. 

It was meant as a joke. Just a random comment you made three mornings ago while fixing his tie like any other day. Like always, Nanami used those precious moments before departing for work to drink you in—his own private ritual of worship. The gentle sweep of your eyelashes as you focused on his Windsor knot, the way the morning light caught the rich undertones of your melanin-kissed skin, that unconscious purse of your lips that made him want to be late every morning. 

“You ever thought about letting me tie you up?”

The question struck him like a match against kindling. Nanami is not really the adventurous one in the bedroom—that’s your domain, and he follows willingly where you lead. But the thought of being at your mercy, of letting go of his ingrained control to watch you take whatever you want from him, had his ears ringing. It was something about the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes, the subtle dip of one side of your cheek as you bit down on it, the want radiating from you like heat from a flame…

When it comes to you, he will try anything once. 

A joke that became an agreement. An agreement turned into tonight—you in that devastating dress over dinner, his fingers leveling enough strength not to shatter the wine glass he drank frivolously from as he watched you toy with your necklace, knowing what was to come. An agreement turned into a frantic mess of hands undoing zippers and buttons, of smoothing along the soft planes of your inner thighs before his mouth feasted on the pearl in the center, of you giggling like a wanton feign as you wrapped his wrists and notched them to the bed frame. 

Just a joke. Just an agreement. Now, here he rests, on his back, on fire, and subtly regretting his choices because he’s a selfish man who wants all of you all the time. And Nanami, like the fool he is when it comes to you, truly thought he could bear it. 

“Focus, Ken.”

An absolute fool.

“I’m not uncomfortable. But you’re hardly playing fair.”

You never do. How could you? You’re divinity made flesh, mischief molded from clay—a goddess who delights in reducing him to prayers and pleas. He loves you, desperately so, and has long since accepted that his soul will forever chase the wonderful chaos you bring to his carefully ordered world. 

“What could you possibly mean?” you’re coquettish in your question, biting the corner of your lip in that way that makes his spine straighten. His eyes linger on that lip, remembering how it feels beneath his thumb, against his tongue, between his teeth.

“Darling—”

He doesn’t get far. Before the rest of his words can leave his mouth, you’re dropping back down onto him, enveloping his cock in a blistering heat so intense it borders on religious experience. Every nerve ending ignites at once, pleasure searing through him like a brand.

“No talking.”

And isn’t that funny? Because any words Nanami has disintegrated into a powdery mist seconds ago. So, of course, Nanami has no choice but to bite the inside of his cheek until he can taste coppery tang, pulling at his restraints for the nth time of the night and wishing in this very moment to be oblivious to the sounds of your wanton moans that echo in the air.

Nanami’s groan starts deep in his chest, reverberating through him like a growing monsoon as you lean forward, trailing your nose along his throat. Your scent—Shea butter and feminine heat—fills his lungs like incense, a temptation he can’t answer, a shrine he cannot appreciate despite every cell in his body screaming to touch.

“You agreed.”

“To the restraints, not torture.” He can hear the hitch in your breath, that light choke as you try to hold back a laugh. Your hips give another sensual twirl, and Nanami can hear the clench of his teeth. “I want—I need to touch you.”

“Come now, Kento,” you coo in his ear, sliding your tongue along his lobe before you bite down into the cartilage. He grunts, flinching back even as his cock twitches inside of you. “You married me remember? Surely you know my ways.”

“My love—” You twirl your hips again and again and again. Each swivel is representative of a slow churn of his rapidly loosening arousal. 

Nanami has always been spellbound by your beauty. From the moment his eyes open in the morning to the moment they close at night, you are all he knows. The curve of your smile makes his heart beat faster, the music of your laugh fills his stomach with butterflies. Without intention, you undo him.

Even now, bouncing on his cock like the vixen you are, you are ethereal. Your box braids sway with each movement, catching the artificial light as they brush across your shoulders that gleam with exertion. Sweat has transformed your baby hairs into delicate curls against your temples and hairline, giving you an almost feral beauty that makes his mouth run dry. 

That’s what makes it all the more painful for him. The way sweat slides down your brown skin, the pebble of perspiration along the curve of your stomach, the hypnotic sway of your breasts as you take what you want, it all beckons to him. His mouth waters like a starving man at a feast he’s forbidden to partake in. The base of his spine coils with an inexplicable pressure that blooms along his back. The tips of his fingers tingle from the loss of blood from the restraints and with the desire to touch you.

It’s not fair. 

It’s frustrating. Agonizing to the very depth of his soul how badly he wants to reach for you. He’s strong enough to snap these damn restraints—he could easily do it. The image floods his mind unbidden—how easy it would be to snap these ties, to flip you on your back and fuck you so hard you’re crying his name. He can almost feel it—the sharp sting of your nails (freshly done, he notices even in his delirium) scraping down his back as he drives into you without mercy, the way you’d arch beneath him, how your defiance would melt into pleas. His muscles coil with the phantom sensation, his ears echoing the ghost of your cries he could draw from you.

But you wanted this. You’ve asked for a slither of control he freely gives, and he refuses to see a shred of disappointment on your face because he was impatient. 

So he waits. Even though his skin is burning from the inside out. Even though his heart is beating so fast, it feels like his chest might cave in. He waits. His cock feels so tight that he’s almost feverish with worry if he can hold on much longer. The feel of your essence coating his thighs and balls, the sound of your moans, the sight of the column of your throat when you throw your head back.

It’s truly not fair.

“My love, please,” he can’t help but beg. He’s never against begging. Not when it comes to you. Not when it comes to unraveling the knot you easily twist inside of him. Already, he’s backtracking. He reaches up just a little, hoping you’ll grant him some part of you—the smell of your skin along his nose, the taste of your sweat on his tongue, anything.

“No.”

You leave no room for argument, pressing against his chest to force him back into submission. Frustration flares like a demon in his chest, curdling and dying instantly against the want that oozes from him. 

“Come on, Kento,” you chide, moaning breathlessly as you double your efforts. “Don’t you want to give me what I want?”

Of course, he does. But in moments like this, Nanami wishes he were a weaker man because you’re too wet, too hot, too soft, and tight around him. The silk-soft clutch of your body is turning his mind to static.

Just the thought of how you feel around him threatens to shatter his composure. Pleasure pools molten in his lower abdomen, every muscle tight as a bowstring as he fights his body’s betrayal. He hisses through bared teeth, digs his fingers into the silk encased around his wrists, and yanks until the bed frame groans. His control is quickly failing him, your moans a siren’s song in his head urging surrender. His body responds without question—feet seeking purchase on the mattress, thighs tensing as instinct fights restraint. It will only take a second for him to plant his feet and drive up into you until you’re seeing stars.

But you’re faster. You lean forward to slide your hands behind his neck, delicate fingers weaving through the sweaty strands of his hair before you pull tight, angling his head back so his neck is bared to you in willful submission. The sharp difference between your soft touch and the display of dominance makes his eyes roll back, swimming in the viscera of his brain as a broken sound escapes him, his resistance melting away. His heels slide back onto the bed, forgotten.

Your soft lips press at the juncture of his neck, your braids falling around you both like a curtain, the ends tickling his chest. The scent of your coconut hair oil mingles with the Shea from your skin, making his head spin. The feel of your smirk on his neck—victorious—makes his cock throb, a tight rubber band behind his belly button fraying on the edges, warning him that his time is running out. 

You move agonizingly slow with each roll of your hips, sending electricity up his spine, searing his skin everywhere you touch and aching where you don’t. His skin feels too tight, like his bones don’t fit, and the discomfort is as satisfying as it is jarring. He yanks, sweat beading at his temples, sliding down his neck, making everything feel slick and hot and maddening.

When you sit up, you trail your hands down the rigid lines of his straining muscles, admiring the jutting veins and sinew. You hum in appreciation, pupils blown black as you take him in. The small of Nanami’s back arches in just so, preening under your rapturous gaze because he hopes he’s doing well. Even like this—bound and helpless beneath you—his desire to be good wars with his desperation to touch. The praise in your eyes soothes even as it burns.

Look how still he stays for you. Look how good he’s being. 

Nanami’s thighs tremble with the effort not to thrust, not to take, not to claim. Each second stretches like the most painful torture as his mind fractures into desperation—just one thrust, one press of his tongue to your skin, one moment of control. Please. Please. The word burns behind his teeth, unspoken and curdling but screaming like a banshee in his blood. 

“Getting frustrated, Ken?” Your voice is honey-sweet poison, made breathier by your movements. He won’t rise to your taunts; he lacks the strength for it. So he basks in the attention you lavish with your eyes, your silent praise like invisible hands along his skin. Just as quickly, he closes his eyes tight. If he looks a moment longer, this night will have an unfortunate end for you both.

“Look at me.”

Your demand cuts through the haze of his desire, sharp and unyielding. He’s too slow to respond to you, and all too quickly, he feels your fingers dig slightly into his jaw, forcing his surrender as his eyes flutter open. His restlessness must show because there’s that wicked glint in your eyes, and you thrive on his misery, rewarding him with a kiss so quick and gentle that he’s chasing after your lips for more. You press your hands firmly to his chest, a clear command to be still. With no friction, it’s just blistering heat, his cock pulsing, a whimper dying in the back of his throat.

You shift, and Nanami’s ears register a faint click that he catches with his eyes. Your heels, oh, those clear heels, glimmer up at him as you plant your feet on the soft sheets. Delicate clear straps wrap around your ankles like ribbons on a gift he’s held all night and still not allowed to unwrap, the nude leather making your brown skin glow in the dim lamplight. 

The moment you put them on earlier in the evening, they haunted him—from the restaurant to the ride home, the way they made your legs look endless in that dress when you crossed them in the passenger seat. Now, they dig into the sheets on either side of his hips as you use them for leverage, the crystal clear stilettos catching the light like ice. The sheer difference of something so elegant being used in such a primal way makes his breath catch—much like yourself, refined on the outside but capable of reducing him to nothing but baseless need.

“Watch me,” you command. As if Nanami could look away if he tried. Damn you. “Watch how well I ride you while you can’t touch.”

He loathes how the new angle makes his vision swim at the edges, hates even more how each movement strips away another layer of his composure. Every bounce drives him deeper into insanity, making him strain harder against the ties that keep him from you.

“You poor thing,” you coo, the false sympathy in your voice making his upper lip curl, a growl simmering in the back of his throat. “You want to touch so badly, don’t you?”

God. He wants, he wants. He wants with an intensity that frightens him.

You’re a taunting vision above him, and he eyes the champagne-colored dress that’s now bunched carelessly at your waist. It was the perfect compliment for you, silken and caressing your body during dinner while he swallowed his bubbling desire with every generous gulp of red wine. A halter top dress fastened behind your neck that was quickly undone when you pushed him on the bed, your breasts spilling from their lustrous confines.

The hem is rumpled, kissing the tops of your curvy thighs and falling open with your new position so he can see everything between your legs. Dimpled skin that rises up and down, beckoning that he grip your hips and trace your curves with his tongue. 

The wet sound of skin on skin drowns out even his thundering heartbeat, and he can’t decide which is worse—watching you take your pleasure or being forced to listen to how perfectly you use his body for your own needs. That controls splinters, cracks, disintegrates, and flutters like ash in the wind. 

He’s never wished more in this moment for you to tire out, for your stamina to be next to nothing. But no. You knew exactly what you were doing when you fastened his tie three days ago. 

“You ever thought about letting me tie you up?”

Nanami, in his stupidity and endless love for you, saw what he wanted in your eyes. What he mistook for aimless curiosity, was actually calculated, unadulterated mischief. 

Of course, he would agree.

That’s why you punctuated your victory with this dress. That’s why you got your hair done yesterday. That’s why you wore these new heels and lathered your body in the Shea butter lotion he loves so much.

A level of strategy so calculated that Gojo Satoru himself would be envious of its perfection.

God, he loves you. Even as he silently begs whatever entity will listen to him to be free of this prison you’ve created, he loves you beyond reason.

“Poor Kento,” you purr, your words cracking through his spiraling thoughts like a whip. You lean back on one hand, the arch of your back pushes your breasts forward, and his mouth waters at the sight. Every cell in his body strains toward you, pressing beneath the surface of his skin and coagulating into a congealed mass.

But it’s the sight of you spreading your legs wider, of giving him a view of all of you, of your other hand sliding down your stomach that truly threatens to break him. Your fingers find your clit, and the wet sound of you touching yourself while he’s buried deep inside makes his vision blur. Those should be his fingers bringing you pleasure, his touch pushing you toward release. Instead, he can only watch, desperate and aching, as you chase your own pleasure.

“Look how wet I am,” you breathe, and his hips buck involuntarily at your words. He doesn’t even bother to feel shame at the glare you shoot his way for disobeying. “Don’t you wish these were your fingers? Making me feel good?”

“Don’t be cruel.” The ties might actually snap from how hard he’s pulling now, watching your fingers work in tight circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves, your cunt squeezing him like a vice. You’re getting close—he can tell from the way your thighs start to tremble, the way your breath shakes.

Your laugh in response sends searing heat down his spine—musical and breathless and utterly wicked, even though it makes his blood boil. The sound mingles with the wet noises of your fingers working between your legs, the sight and sound of you nearly driving him mad.

“I need—” he chokes on the words as you clench around him in reprimand, his tongue thick in his mouth. “I need to cum. Please.”

“No.” Your voice is firm despite your breathlessness, your fingers never stopping their circles against your clit. “Not until I’m done with you. Can you hold on? Can you be good for me, Ken?”

Good.

A word so simple to a weaker man, but absolute devastation to him. His cock throbs to the increased tempo of his pulse, the festering heat of pleasure pulls behind his belly button, the base of his spine coiling like a snake backed into a corner. His wrists burn from the careful strain of being at your mercy and not breaking free. He’s fighting, but he’s trying—fuck help him, he’s trying to be good for you. 

You purposefully clench around him, tight and hot and perfect, watching his face contort in pain. “Stop,” he growls, the sound raw and anguished in his throat.

Your answering giggle is like a knife to his chest, delighted by his desperation. “Make me,” you challenge, knowing full well he can’t. You do it again, squeezing around him as your fingers work faster. “What’s wrong, Ken? Too much?”

His growl turns into something close to a whimper as you torment him with another deliberate clench. And another, and another, and another. The ties creak ominously, his whole body trembling with the effort to hold back.

“You’re cruel,” he pants, but the accusation only makes you smile wider, your movements growing more erratic as you get closer to your peak.

Every bounce of your breasts, every flutter of your lashes, every rapturous moan—it’s all burning into his memory like an iron on his skin. His hands ache for the soft crease where your thighs meet, where your thick curves swell so perfectly beneath his thirsty gaze. The sheen of sweat between your breasts calls to his tongue, taunting him with memories of your salty taste. Everything within reach, yet forbidden.

Nanami licks his lips, his tongue catching the subtle tang of your fading arousal from earlier in the evening when his face was buried between your thighs. Saliva pools in his mouth with the phantom taste of you. His breath catches in the dry crevices of his throat, gargling on a guttural whimper as he catalogs you in your utter devastation.

The crystal clear heels, purchased on that rainy Saturday when you’d lingered at the store window with wanting eyes. The champagne silk dress now bunched carelessly at your waist, chosen by him because he loved how the fabric made you shiver when you ran your fingers against it at the store last week. Those delicate black lace panties, pushed to one side of your pussy and soaked through, that he’d selected with trembling fingers weeks ago, imagining the many times you’d left them on while he fucked you into the mattress.

The gold chain at your throat catches the light with each bounce of your body, dancing across your collarbones like encapsulated sunshine. He remembers fastening it there for the first time on your anniversary, his lips following the metal’s path. Your body is decorated in diamonds like stars—the studs in your ears, the tennis bracelet on your wrist, the anklet that glints at him from his restraints. But it’s the wedding ring that truly breaks him—that symbol of his eternal devotion joining two other fingers that now press against your clit as you climb higher.

His marks cover you like a map of worship—the jewelry he chose, the silk he bought, the lingerie he selected. Every adornment screams his claim, but his hands remain tied, denied by the very exquisite canvas he’s painted with such adoration.

He sees the faint vestiges of the finish line, that light at the end of the tunnel when your hips stutter in movement and your breathless pants fall into a surprised moan that makes you stop. Your head falls back again, exposing the delicious column of your throat. His gums itch, inner cheeks sweating with saliva with the primal urge to dig his teeth into your soft skin. Your body is normally decorated with little marks from him—bruises from his fingers on your hips and thighs, hickeys on the curve of your breasts, cum dripping from your cunt. But tonight, you’re a blemish-free beauty in appearance, devilish in motivation. 

“Untie me,” Nanami whispers, not bothering to coat the begging lilt in his tone. “Untie me, and I’ll give you everything you want, love.”

Your head rolls to the side with serpentine grace until your dangerous gaze meets his. You’re glaring without any heat, narrowing your eyes in that playful manner that is always preceded by making Nanami’s life blissfully miserable.

You lift your hips slowly, slowly, slowly, and his eyes fall on the inches of his thick cock that become more exposed to the elements. He takes the abundance of your slick coating him, the thin gossamer bands that lengthen from your joined bodies and snap as the distance grows, the subtle flutter of your walls that suffocate him. Then, without warning—you drop. The sudden rush of wet heat around him shoots electricity up his spine and along his molars that he grinds into dust. He moans harshly, deep, and tortured, shaking from his mouth like a staccato as he tilts his head into the pillow beneath him.

“So good,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him, the words falling from your lips like a prayer. “So good for me, Ken. Always so good.”

The praise pierces something raw inside him. His cock throbs with each word, his fingers cramping white-knuckled around the ties as his body screams louder for release. Your movements grow erratic—hips stuttering and the careful teasing you brandished like a sword dissolving into pure need as your fingers frantically rub against your clit. He cranes his head forward just in time to watch you fall onto your knees, planting one hand on his shin while the other chases your orgasm with single-minded determination.

“Such a good boy,” you gasp, and the words feel like salvation against his skin and damnation all at once. “So good, so perfect, letting me take what I need—staying so still for me—such a good boy—”

He’s never heard those words from your lips before, never heard this particular praise, never heard you whisper in such a way that it sounds like you’re in disbelief by his submission. Something fundamental splinters inside him. The veneer that he’s precariously kept around himself all night fractures with each bounce of your hips. Every muscle in his body pulls taut as he watches you, your breathless chant of “good boy” pushing him dangerously close to his limit. 

Your pleasure crests like a tsunami. The bed protests beneath you both, a symphony of creaking wood and flesh on flesh as your hips slam down on him. Your voice rises, tight and pinched fuckfuckfuck's spilling from your lips like a mantra.

Even though he can practically taste his orgasm, his vision tunnels, focusing only on you. He takes in the violent brush of your box braids against your shoulders, the bunching of your stomach, the pebble of tears that gather at the corners of your eyes like the diamonds on your body. Your cunt grips him tighter, so impossibly tight, a velvet vice that threatens to rip his soul from his body.

And then you shatter. Your head snaps back; your jaw drops in shocked ecstasy as his name tears from your throat like a revelation. The sight of you coming undone above him, because of him, despite his restraints, worms itself into his memory. Your walls pulse around him, your fingers rapidly rubbing your clit to draw out your orgasm, milking his cock with an intensity that nearly destroys him. But he waits, trembling on the knife’s edge of his own release until you draw in one shaking breath. 

Then he snaps.

With a sharp crack, the ties give way, snapping from the bed posts but still dangling from his wrists. In one fluid motion, he sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, gathering you in his arms with barely concealed strength. One hand tangles into the braids at the nape of your neck while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’ve had your fun, love. Now let me have mine,” he growls against your ear, pulling your lobe into his mouth and using the leverage of your body and feet planted on the ground to drive up into your oversensitive and still fluttering heat. 

The feeling of finally, finally being able to touch you after being denied so long makes his head spin. The feel of you along his fingertips is enough to make him spill inside of you prematurely. Instead, he pistons his hips upwards, sliding his tongue along the skin of your neck as his pants dry his saliva on your skin. He’s earned this—earned every whimper, every clench of your pussy, every broken sound you make. Now it’s his to swallow and take as he chases the burning in his lower back.

You’re completely undone from your orgasm, arms draped loosely around his neck, and barely able to hold yourself up as the painful pleasure of over-sensitivity wracks your body. The sound of you in his ear, the press of your cheek on his skin, and the wet feel of what has to be drool on his shoulder, only drives him faster.

Every thrust up makes you whimper, all exposed nerves, and helpless to do anything but take what he gives. The hand on your hip guides you down to meet each drive of his cock, the movement desperate and precise. Control—something he’s prided himself on his entire life—is slipping through his fingers like water with each pulse of your walls around him.

“Perfect,” he pants against your ear, feeling you shudder at his voice, at how it breaks with need. “So perfect for me. Taking me so well even after—” Words fail him, dissolving into a heady groan as pleasure hot like ecstasy builds in his core, a tide rising higher and higher with each thrust. The sight of you so thoroughly claimed, slurred renditions of yes, yes, please, Ken, please sliding into his ear only drives him faster.

“Always teasing me,” he growls, digging his fingers into your hip and punctuating his words with a particularly deep thrust that makes you whine. “You love—you loved it, didn’t you? Making me wait—making me watch?”

Your only response is another broken moan, your body pliant and trembling in his arms, your cunt hot and thrashing around him. He groans softly, kissing your neck once before he digs his teeth into your skin. You yelp from the feeling, clenching around him so tightly that he feels his orgasm creep like a shadow at the edges of his consciousness.

“I’ll have to get you back for this.”

His threat is undermined by the pure devotion in his voice, the way his hand gentles in your hair even as his hips maintain their relentless pace. 

As quickly as his ferocity comes, it fades. He has no more strength to whisper grievances in your ear, no more energy to enjoy your body before he walks to the finish line.

No. Now, he sprints.

That rubber band behind his belly button begins to fray, a thin sliver being held together. The pressure at the base of his spine balloons, pressing against his nerves to make them pulse in time with his thundering heartbeat. His world narrows to only sensation—the wet heat of you, the silk of your skin, the wet smack of his balls against your throbbing pussy, the pounding of his heart against his ribs. He can feel it at the base of his cock, tingling and tight, begging to be let loose and fill you up.

Right there, right there, so close he can taste it on his tongue. His teeth dig deeper into your neck, anchoring himself to you as if he might float away in the thick fog of pleasure. The bed screams, and the broken ties—now a symbol of his freedom—dance along his forearms. But just as he teeters on the precipice, just as he’s about to topple over the edge, you find your strength again. His fierce, untamable love presses fingers into his back, and your lips brush his ear with deliberate wickedness.

“Be a good boy,” you whisper, voice hoarse but triumphant, “and cum for me. Fill me up, baby.”

He’s learned nothing from your devious ways. Those words—though repeated through the night—strike like lightning to his core. Gone is his rhythm. Gone is his control. Nanami’s jaw slackens, a desperate sound caught in his throat as his hips stutter and fail. 

His orgasm punches him in the gut, a moan belting from his throat and mixing with sounds he didn’t know he could make. He crushes you against him as he finally breaks, vision whiting out at the edges, hips snapping erratically as he chases every last spark of pleasure you offer him.

Your name falls like reverent worship from his lips, deep moans sliding along your skin like honey as you hold him through it. He’s lightheaded from you—your breathing on his shoulder, the press of your skin against him, the feel of his cum and your slick sliding between his ass. He relaxes his hold on your hip, smoothing his touch over the crescents in your skin and massaging the muscle, feral need giving way to worshiping love.

Seconds pass, then minutes. His mind slowly pieces itself together, orienting himself to reality as pleasure oozes over his skin like molten lava.

His breath is still evening out when he feels you shaking against him. You’re giggling freely, and he can smell the mischief that leaks from your pores. You’re proud of yourself; like all times when you can make him blush and trip over his words, this is no exception. He pulls back to level you with a look that’s meant to be stern, but your laughter only grows, bright and unrepentant as you card your hands through his loose and sweaty hair. 

He takes the time to admire you, his beautiful wife. Your skin glows in the aftermath of your lovemaking, the subtle sheen of sweat on your neck and breasts beckoning his gaze. The curling baby hairs kiss the tops of your ears, the glint in your eyes shining with endless love. You kiss him softly, giggling against his lips before pulling away to litter kisses down his neck.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask sweetly, a smile evident in your voice as you trail your love along his collarbone.

His hand strokes up your spine, humming softly. “Never. Though you will pay for this, love.” The threat holds no real heat— how could it, when you’re curled against him so perfectly, when your laughter makes his heart feel so full in his chest that he aches?

“Is that so?” you purr, disbelieving but fully prepared for the punishment if and whenever it arises. “I don’t think you have it in you.”

He won’t rise to your taunts. No, Nanami will get you back, and the next time those tears gather in your eyes, it will be because he’s dangled you over the precipice for so long that you won’t remember your name.

But that’s plans for another day.

For now, he’s content to pinch your side in playful reproach and relish in the harmonious giggle you give him. Before he can react, you’re pressing him back into the mattress, claiming his lips in a deep kiss that tastes of the wine that you both had at dinner. He melts into it despite himself, arousal stoking to life as his cock, still nestled in your warmth, twitches inside of you, his hands sliding up your back as he forgives you without words.

Thanks for reading!!

[specialgradefckr]

tw: explicit content. geto/reader. gojo/geto, gojo/reader. heavily implied incest. toxic dynamics (geto and reader have ulterior motives for having sex).

it really is surprising, how much you look like him up close.

pressed up against you as he is, cock grinding against your entrance to slick it up, suguru can see you in immaculate detail.

and fuck, are you beautiful.

but of course you are; from your pretty pale eyelashes, to the smooth curve of your face, that charming nose and inviting lips; you resemble satoru from your features, to your sultry but shy mannerisms.

somehow he always managed to be slutty, demanding, and act like a virgin being ravished all at once.

from how you're acting? must be genetic.

the only thing missing is a pair of glowing eyes piercing through him. but the look you're giving him now is good enough.

"come on," you pant, hands squeezing where you've grabbed him by the shoulders, "put it in already."

suguru isn't sure why you're in such a hurry. he's not sure why you're fucking him, either; he knows satoru won't like this.

he finds, as he watches your face flush when he smirks down at you, chuckling lowly and lining himself up with your entrance, that he doesn't care.

so pretty. so lovely. white-haired, blue eyed, squirming underneath him, lashes fluttering as your whole form shivers when he holds you down. you're just like him.

maybe that's why he's able to get it up. he's never been that interested in women - never interested in anyone, until satoru.

and then you came along. you approached him, with your pretty face and unmistakable features.

to piss off satoru? or maybe you were angry at him for stealing your brother away, and this was your way of trying to ruin things between them?

none of those thoughts stop him from driving his cock into your wet, inviting cunt, groaning as he feels you shudder underneath him.

his hands are so big on your body. your skin is the same, and the lean, lanky build, but you're softer than satoru. not as squirmy. easier to hold.

you feel so good in his hands. easy to bruise, too, he thinks, as you whimper in a way that makes his heart ache (and his dick throb).

and the way you clench him - you're not as tight as satoru, but you're wet. slick and hot and snug in a way he's never been.

he'd always tell satoru they should use more lube, and he'd always insisted it was fine, the little masochist.

it's a marvel. he just glides through you, slick and giddy while your cunt just seems to embrace him. like it never wants to let him go. like this is where he belongs.

jesus. fuck satoru for having such a hot sister. fuck him for the fit he's inevitably going to throw when he finds out -

he smiles to himself while he looks down at you, all teary-eyed and panting from the stretch of him. prefect and ruined.

oh. he has an idea. he knows what he's going to do.

"you like that, gojo?" he purrs, grinding up into you, reaching down to rub over your clit with his thumb.

it's thrilling, the way you jerk at the touch, seizing up in pleasure, whimpering and squeezing his shoulders while you nod shyly.

fuck, fuck, you're beautiful.

and why wouldn't you be? you're a gojo, through and through.

he can call you gojo, but he always calls your brother satoru.

if he calls satoru "gojo" when he fucks him - then he'll know something is up. that geto is fucking another gojo and trying not to slip up.

his grin gets wider, thrusts faster. your legs lock around him, hips bucking up to meet him.

god, it's good. you feel so fucking good.

he rubs faster on your clit, until your whimpering grows high, breathy, until your nails are digging beautiful marks into his shoulder that he's sure satoru won't miss.

you haven't told him not to, either, so with one last thrust and a deep, resounding groan, he cums inside you, all hot and throbbing and euphoric.

"gojo!" he groans out, and it's not even that hard to keep his name from his lips -

"s-satoru!"

...what?

[nameless-jamie]

✨💖 The vibes of your writing are immaculate. And I love your series and the new chapters. Would you ever write about an anxious/ shy reader?

Blush

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! shy receptionist reader

TW: cursing, kissing

A/N: Are you ready for a looooong one? Thank you for the request! I had a whole field-day writing this because I myself am pretty shy in real life. That's why it is veeery long. I actually also had another few paragraphs of the morning after their date, but I edited it out because I guess it would've been too long.

The AFC Richmond front desk was Y/N’s safe space. She had a whole routine. Come in early, set up at the front desk, answer calls, and avoid unnecessary conversations. She liked her job as a receptionist—AFC Richmond had always felt like a family, even if she sometimes felt like the quiet cousin at the reunion. She had her friends, though: Will, the ever-cheerful kit man, Roy Kent, who, for some reason, had taken a liking to her despite his usual grumpy demeanor and of course Keeley!

Most people in the club were kind enough to respect that she wasn’t the most talkative person, even though it is literally her job to greet people.

Jamie Tartt was not most people.

Jamie was… different. Not in the way Roy was—gruff but secretly soft. Not in the way Ted Lasso was—easygoing and goofy. Jamie was loud, confident, and impossible to ignore. And worst of all, he had somehow decided she was his new favorite person to talk to.

“Alright, love?”

She didn’t have to look up to know who it was. That familiar, cocky voice sent a nervous jolt straight through her. Slowly, she lifted her head, only to find Jamie leaning against her desk, arms crossed, signature smirk in place. It was too early in the morning for that level of handsomeness. Yup, Y/N had a crush on Jamie since she started working here. But, oh no, she would never make a move or even show it.

He grinned. “Hi, Jamie,” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “C’mon, you gotta give me more than that. Thought we were mates by now.”

Mates. Right. Because that was a normal way to describe their dynamic—Jamie showing up at her desk every day, teasing her until she was a flustered mess, then walking away like it was just another training session.

Y/N cleared her throat, fingers tightening on her pen. “Do you… need something?”

Jamie tilted his head. “Nah. Just here to check in on my favorite receptionist.”

She bit her lip. “I’m the only receptionist.”

“That’s what makes it so easy.” He winked. “Just wanted to see you.”

God, he was relentless. And it wasn’t just the flirting—it was how easy he made it look, how effortlessly charming he was. Her face went hot instantly, and she ducked her head, pretending to be very interested in the email she had already finished.

Every time he saw her, he had some new way to fluster her, whether it was winking at her from across the hallway, complimenting her dress, or just plain staring at her until she got nervous.

It wasn’t fair. He was a world-class footballer, and she was… well, the receptionist.

Before she could figure out how to respond, Will the kitman appeared, grinning. “Oh, is this the daily ‘Jamie makes Y/N blush’ session? Should I be taking bets?”

“Shut up, Will,” she mumbled, burying her face in her hands.

Jamie, completely unfazed, smirked. “You should. I’d win every time.”

Roy walked by just then, glancing at the scene before stopping. He squinted at Jamie, then looked at Y/N, who was still avoiding eye contact.

“What the fuck is goin’ on here? Is the prick bothering you?”

“Actually...Jamie’s bullying me,” Y/N blurted out and pointed at the latter, because she found it funny how Jamie shrunk in Roy's presence. She can be a tease if she wants to.

Jamie clutched his chest like he's been shot. “Bullying? Me? Love, I’m flirting. If I was bullying ya, you’d be crying.”

“I don't like any of you, but you,” Roy jabbed a finger at Jamie. “Quit makin’ her uncomfortable, Tartt.”

Jamie held up his hands in mock surrender. “She’s not uncomfortable. Are ya, love?”

Y/N hated that the question made her heart race. He was looking at her like she was the only person in the room, like her answer actually mattered.

“No! I mean—well—I—I mean, it’s fine,” she mumbled.

Jamie grinned like she had just told him she loved him. “See? She likes me.” Roy groaned.

Roy let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re both fuckin’ idiots.” Then he jabbed a finger at Jamie. “Quit pissin’ her off.”

“Never,” Jamie shot back cheerfully.

Roy muttered something under his breath and stomped off.

Will snickered. “Roy’s gonna end up chaperoning your first date at this rate.”

Y/N let out a strangled noise. “There is no first date!”

Jamie, though, just smirked. “Not yet.” Then he winked and strolled off, leaving her an absolute, blushing mess at the front desk.

The next few days were worse.

Ever since Jamie’s little not yet comment, Y/N had been on high alert. She tried to convince herself that he was just joking, just messing with her like he always did. But then he started upping his game.

It wasn’t enough that he stopped by her desk every morning—no, now he had to wink at her across the hallway, greet her with a Good mornin’, love like he was starring in some kind of rom-com, and worst of all, he started waiting for her after work.

The first time it happened, she thought it was a coincidence.

“Oi, you’re taking really long,” Jamie said, leaning against the front doors of the clubhouse, arms crossed as she finally stepped outside.

She blinked. “What… are you doing here?”

“Waitin’ for ya, obviously,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “S’not safe for a pretty little thing like you to walk alone.”

Y/N nearly tripped over her own feet. “I—I always walk alone.”

Jamie frowned like this was a deeply troubling fact. “Well, that’s fuckin’ tragic, innit?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Colin and Isaac, who where the last to leave besides the locker room, grinned. “Ooooh, bodyguard Jamie.”

Jamie smirked. “Damn right.”

“You’re not my bodyguard. He's really not.” Y/N muttered in her soft voice, slinging her bag around her shoulder.

Jamie only grinned wider. “Nah, but I could be.”

Colin gave her a pointed look. “You should just let him walk you home. You know he’s not gonna give up.”

Y/N sighed. They were both right—Jamie Tartt was nothing if not persistent.

So, against her better judgment, she let Jamie walk her home.

And then he did it again. And again.

And again.

By the end of the week, it was just a part of her routine, like he had wormed his way in without her even realizing. He’d meet her at the doors, hands in his pockets, waiting for her like he had all the time in the world. They’d talk, mostly about silly things—Jamie complaining about Roy, Y/N teasing him about his shoe obsession, Jamie trying to make her laugh.

And she did laugh. More than she had in a long time.

Which was exactly why it was terrifying.

Because Jamie Tartt was flirty, and charming, and kind, and so out of her league that it was almost funny.

And yet…

She caught him looking at her sometimes. Not in the way most guys did, not like she was just another girl to conquer. It was softer, something she couldn’t quite place. Like he actually liked being around her.

Which was ridiculous. Right?

She was still trying to make sense of it all when, one afternoon, the teasing from the team finally reached its peak.

She was organizing paperwork at her desk when Dani Rojas, Sam Obisanya, and Colin strolled past.

“Sooo, Jamie and the receptionist,” Dani said in a sing-song voice.

Y/N froze. Oh no.

Colin grinned. “Yup, they’d be cute together.”

“I think they are already together,” Sam added thoughtfully.

Y/N choked on absolutely nothing. “Uhm- No actually we are not together.”

Dani gasped. “But he walks you home every night!”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

Sam and Colin exchanged a knowing look.

“But you like him,” Colin said, pointing at her.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do,” Sam said. “And he definitely likes you.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but then—

“I definitely like who?”

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

The universe hated her. That was the only explanation for why Jamie Tartt had appeared at the exact worst moment, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Dani beamed. “We were just talking about how you and Y/N like each other.”

Y/N wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Jamie, to his credit, didn’t even blink. He just turned to her, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face.

“I mean, I do.” he said, then turned to her. “That true, love, you like me?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, face burning. “I don't like any of you.” She mumbled.

Colin grinned. “That’s not a no.”

Jamie chuckled, eyes locked on her. “Don’t worry, love. You’ll admit it eventually.”

And then, just like always, he winked and walked off, leaving her to suffer.

Dani patted her shoulder sympathetically and ran out the door. “You should just date him.”

“I should just quit,” she muttered to herself.

But we all know she wouldn’t.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t really want to.

Y/N had two choices this next week:

Continue pretending that Jamie Tartt wasn’t blatantly flirting with her every single day.

Accept that she was completely, undeniably screwed.

She tried to go with Option 1. She really did. But then Jamie started making it impossible.

It wasn’t just the daily morning greetings anymore. Now, he even brought her coffee.

“Dunno what ya drink, so I got three different kinds”

He sat across from her at lunch even when she definitely did not invite him, and—worst of all—kept finding excuses to touch her.

A light hand on her shoulder when he walked past. A nudge of his knee against hers when they sat near each other. Once, when she had been carrying a heavy box of paperwork, he had taken it right out of her hands, smirking at her grumbled protests.

It was driving her insane.

She was still overthinking all of it when she got to work one morning and found Jamie already there, leaning against her desk like he had nothing better to do.

She frowned. “Why are you here before me?”

Jamie grinned. “Missed ya, didn’t I?”

Her brain short-circuited. “You—what?”

Jamie just shrugged like he hadn’t just sent her into cardiac arrest.

“I have missed you, did I not." he repeated himself doing his best to talk accent-free, as if she didn't understand him the first time.

"Also, I might’ve left my headphones in the gym. But mostly the first thing.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “You… are insufferable.”

“Yeah, but I assume you love it.”

She did not. Except—okay, maybe she didn’t hate it. And maybe, just maybe, she had started to enjoy their little routine. Fuck, she loved it.

Which was exactly why it was so unfair that Roy Kent had to go and ruin everything.

Because of course, right as Jamie was giving her one of those stupid flirty smirks, Roy appeared out of nowhere like a grumpy, swearing bat signal.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Y/N groaned. “Roy, Hi! Jamie was just—”

“No,” Roy cut her off, pointing aggressively between her and Jamie. “I cannot watch this anymore.”

Jamie blinked. “Watch what?”

Roy let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “This. The fuckin’ pining. The flirting. The lookin’ at each other like a couple of lovesick puppies.”

Y/N’s soul left her body. “We do not do that.”

“You absolutely do,” Roy grumbled pointing at Y/N. “ You're doin' it right fucking now! It’s disgustin’.”

Jamie, to his credit, didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just raised an eyebrow at Y/N. “So, you have been lookin’ at me?”

“I—no!”

Roy groaned. “Oh my fucking God.”

“Alright, alright,” Jamie said, laughing as he held up his hands. “I get it. You think we should just shag and get it over with.”

Y/N choked. “Jamie!”

Roy looked physically ill. “That is not what I’m sayin’.”

Jamie smirked. “So, you want me to take her on a proper date, then.”

Roy stared at him like he was debating whether or not to commit actual murder.

“I hate you,” Roy muttered. “But yeah, you’re both bein’ fuckin’ stupid, so someone’s gotta do somethin’ about it.”

Jamie turned back to Y/N, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You hear that, love? Roy Kent’s givin’ us his blessing.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “This is a nightmare.”

Roy let out another long-suffering sigh and turned to leave. “Just sort it out before I retire, yeah?”

Once he was gone, Y/N peeked up at Jamie, who was still smirking at her like she was the most amusing thing he’d ever seen.

“You do like me,” Jamie said smugly.

She groaned. “I am going to throw myself into the Thames.”

Jamie just grinned. “Nah, you won’t.”

Y/N didn’t know how it happened. It was the day after the incident.

One second, Jamie was teasing her at the front desk like usual, and the next—

“So, what time should I pick you up tomorrow?”

She blinked. “What?”

Jamie smirked. “Our date, love. Thought we should make it official, yeah?”

Official. As if this wasn’t already the most humiliatingly obvious crush in all of AFC Richmond. As if half the team hadn’t already been placing bets on when Jamie would finally get his act together and ask her out.

She swallowed hard. “You’re… serious?”

Jamie gave her a look. “Obviously. Been serious since the day I met ya.”

Her brain short-circuited.

“Um,” she said intelligently.

Jamie’s smirk softened into something… gentler. “Look, if you don’t wanna, that’s alright. I can handle rejection. Probably. I actually never been rejected,” He grinned. “But I reckon we’d have a good time.”

She was so screwed.

“…Seven?” she squeaked out.

Jamie beamed. “Seven’s perfect.”

And that was how Y/N found herself sitting across from Jamie Tartt at a very nice restaurant, wondering how she ended up here.

Jamie, to his credit, was being ridiculously sweet. No teasing, no cocky comments—just full-blown, charmingly attentive Jamie.

He pulled out her chair for her. He asked her about her day (and actually listened). He even gave her his jacket when she shivered, despite insisting she was fine.

But now, as she stared at the menu, her anxiety was creeping in.

The restaurant was a bit fancier than she was used to. And while she technically knew how to read a menu, the pressure of making a decision in front of Jamie was immense.

She didn’t want to pick something stupid. Didn’t want to mispronounce anything. Didn’t want to hold up the waiter.

So, when the server came over, she panicked and just pointed at something random.

The problem? It was not what she wanted.

She realized it too late, eyes widening as the waiter scribbled down the order and walked off.

Jamie noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated. “I… I meant to order something else.”

Jamie tilted his head. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

She swallowed. “I—I didn’t want to be a bother.”

Jamie’s face softened.

“Babe,” he said, voice low and warm, “you’re never a bother.”

Before she could even process that, Jamie waved the waiter back over without hesitation.

“Hey, mate,” Jamie said easily. “Think we got the wrong order—she actually wanted the pasta.”

The waiter nodded, jotted it down, and walked away without a fuss.

Y/N, meanwhile, wanted to melt into the floor. “I could’ve just eaten the other thing…”

Jamie shook his head. “Nah. If you want pasta, you get pasta.”

She bit her lip. “I just—I don’t like making a fuss.”

Jamie leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as he studied her.

“I get it,” he said. “But you don’t gotta be scared with me, yeah? I like lookin’ out for ya.”

Her heart did something stupid.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

Jamie grinned. “Good.”

And the thing was—he meant it.

All night, he made sure she was comfortable. He didn’t rush her when she had her shy moments, didn’t tease when she took a little longer to answer. Instead, he just smiled at her, soft and patient, like this—like her—was exactly where he wanted to be.

By the time the check came, Y/N had stopped second-guessing everything.

Because Jamie liked her, exactly as she was.

And maybe—just maybe—she was finally starting to believe it.

Jamie insisted on walking her home after the date.

“You know I always do that, love,” he had said when she tried to protest. “Can’t have ya gettin’ kidnapped, can I?”

She had rolled her eyes, but she didn’t fight him on it.

So now, they were strolling through the quiet streets, their hands occasionally brushing as they walked. Every time it happened, Y/N felt like she was about to combust, but Jamie acted like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “best date you’ve ever been on, yeah?”

Y/N smiled to herself. “You sound confident.”

Jamie smirked. “Well, obviously. I planned the whole thing, didn’t I?”

She laughed softly. “Alright, I’ll admit it—it was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Jamie grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Yeah? Who knew I was a proper romantic?”

“You are,” she murmured, half to herself.

Jamie glanced at her, his smirk faltering into something softer. His voice dropped. “Careful, love. Keep talkin’ like that, and I might have to kiss ya.”

Her breath caught.

Jamie must’ve noticed, because his smirk came back—smaller now, more teasing than cocky. He nudged her shoulder with his. “Relax, I'm just joking, yeah? Not gonna do anything you’re not ready for.”

That was the thing about Jamie—he flirted, teased, pushed just enough to make her heart race, but never too far. He knew her limits, never made her feel like she had to do anything just because it was expected.

She liked that about him. Really liked that about him.

Maybe that’s why, as they reached her front door, she hesitated.

Jamie stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Guess this is goodnight, then.”

She nodded, suddenly nervous.

Jamie chuckled. “You’re lookin’ at me like you wanna say somethin’.”

She swallowed hard, gathering every ounce of courage she had. “I just… wanted to thank you. For tonight.”

Jamie tilted his head. “Was my pleasure, love.”

She took a shaky breath. “It really was the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Jamie’s expression softened. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

And then, before she could overthink it—before she could let the nerves ruin it—she leaned up on her toes and kissed him.

It was quick, just a press of her lips against his, but Jamie froze like she had just short-circuited his entire brain.

By the time she pulled back, her face was burning. “Um. Goodnight.”

She turned, reaching for her keys, but before she could even get the door open, Jamie’s voice stopped her.

“Oi.”

She turned hesitantly.

Jamie was grinning. Beaming.

“That was—” he said, voice warm and full of love, “you are full of surprises.”

And with that, he gave her one last lingering look before stepping back, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked away.

Y/N stood there for a moment, heart racing, before slipping inside and leaning against the door.

She had kissed Jamie Tartt.

And by the look on his face—he was definitely going to kiss her again.

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ alastor + dressing you

character: alastor warnings: 18+ for mature themes (no smut) minors do not interact, fem!reader, pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (possessiveness; reader is nothing more than a silly little doll for alastor to play dress up with), implied size difference, a hint of blood words: 1.1k

Alastor is a creature of habit, a man of routine. He has his daily rituals, his rigorous schedules, his lists of tasks, all performed to perfection each and every day. 

And Alastor likes to begin his mornings in a very specific way. 

You know the procedure by now inside out, upside down, could recite it backwards, if he so desired you to. 

By the time he wakes you, he’s already laid out your outfit for the day; intimates, dress, socks, accessories, all spread in an immaculate flat lay on his seldom-used bedspread. 

You are always expected to adorn yourself with the garments he’s selected, to pull on each and every piece all on your own, fabrics lovingly caressing your exposed flesh as his gaze slithers after the material, leaving burning smudges on your skin.

But, of course, you can never do it all completely right—not like Master can. 

Because it always ends the same, this little morning sacrament: with Alastor fussing over you—straightening out a bow, smoothing out a wrinkle, tugging up a sock, readjusting a sleeve.

There is always something wrong he has to fix, to make perfect. 

And the finishing touch, the finishing touch is always for Master to add. 

A leather collar, as red as his eyes and adorned with a heart-shaped tag, his name in an elegant scrawl engraved in the platinum. He’s always so tender when he fastens it around your neck, after he has thoroughly approved of your dressing for the day, more tender than you’d ever thought him capable of; more tender than he ever is otherwise. 

It’s all just another way he claims you, degrades you, announces that you are his—his to decorate, his to desecrate, his to do whatever the fuck he wants with you. 

That pretty little silver heart that rests so daintily against your clavicle, that rises and falls and glitters with each of your gentle breaths, will never let you forget that. 

Today, as it is with most days, he has chosen a white colour palette. 

Sitting in his usual armchair with his legs crossed, folded hands resting in his lap, he watches as you undress in front of him, left vulnerable and raw to his gluttonous glare. It stings, his gaze razored and slitting into your skin, prickling as it rakes over your unprotected form, leaving you feeling hypersensitive, overexposed, like he’s stripped away some fundamental layer and left you barer than bare.

Yet to the untrained eye, he would appear only mildly interested, possibly even teetering on indifferent, but you know him better than that.

You are not the untrained eye—not anymore.

You know that the glowing in his gaze is brighter, bolder and more brilliant than normal as he sharply catalogues every action—pretty silk slipped off, dainty lace sliding on. 

You know that his pupils are abnormally large, having gnawed away at his irises in their attempt to consume the scene in front of him—a scene he’s witnessed a hundred times before; a scene he never tires of nonetheless. 

You know that his smile, usually sharp and stretched, is a little bit softer around the edges, a little bit sweeter as it seals hungry teeth behind curled lips.

His chest swells and deflates with calm, even breaths, his unblinking gaze holding yours for a moment—in, out, in, out—and you stand still as a statue, waiting.

Such a good little pet he’s got himself. 

He lets the moment linger for a little, basks in the exquisiteness of your obedience, allows that sweet suffocation of your compliance to grow until it’s nearly unbearable, until you’re struggling to keep stationary under his unrelenting stare, until the weight of it is crushing, compressing your ribs, flattening your lungs as you anticipate his approval.

Finally, he nods, and then, you begin.

First, the intimates; pure snow-white lace encrusted with tiny crystals, dainty material skimming your flesh in a faint caress, clinging to your supple curves as you fasten hooks and adjust waistbands. 

Next, an ivory milkmaid dress, complete with cinched puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, the corset top outlining the natural lines and bends of your torso, skirt flaring slightly at the hips and flowing into loose pleats around your thighs. Little white flowers detail the garment, embroidered in silk across the linen, blooming with each of your graceful inhales. 

Then, a pair of white thigh-high nylons to garnish the outfit, adorned with tiny white polkadots, sleek and sheer as they hug your legs. 

He doesn’t miss the ripple of chills that follow after his eyes as they glide up your body, trailing the curled knuckles hooked in the band of your stockings. Nor does he miss the delicate shiver that dances up your spine, or the tensing of your muscles as you linger in limbo beneath his stare, anticipating his next order.

No, he witnesses it all.

And he smirks, huffing out an airy snort, your frame flinching with the sound.

“Does my gaze make you uncomfortable, dear?”

“No, Sir, of course not,” you respond immediately; well-trained, obedient. 

“No? Then why has your body gone rigid beneath my eyes?” 

“I just—” you begin, faltering a little, a small frown on your face. 

Suddenly, he rises, stalking toward you calmly, both hands clasped behind his back. That infamous collar, held securely in his grasp, jingles with each of his steps, such a delicate sound for something so sinister. 

Stopping an inch or two from your face, your head snaps up, the motion instinctual, eyes wide and subservient—searching for guidance, awaiting your orders like the good little girl you are. 

A palm wreathes around your jaw, points of his claws pressing into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, revelling in the soft pained yelp that hitches in your throat, tangling on a gasp.

“Do you feel like a piece of meat, on display for your owner?”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

Crimson searches your face, slow and scrutinizing, lids narrowing slightly as his smile sharpens.

“Nothing more than a pretty little prize to be paraded around on my arm, proudly and in public?”

“Yes, Sir.” 

Leaning down, he grinds his forehead into your own, inhibiting your gaze from fleeing his, neck bent at an unnatural angle as he looms over you. He stares at you for a moment, scarlet so bright it hurts to look directly into, so brilliant you’re sure it’ll leave sunspots blotting your vision when you finally look away, but you don’t dare to blink. 

Slim fingers flex around your jaw, tightening, and his claws pierce your cheeks—shallow little pricks that’ll be unnoticeable in a few minutes, dots of blood rushing to fill the tiny dents. His tongue laves over each in a single, slow drag, wide and wet as it cleans the wounds and streaks his tastebuds with copper, sealing them with a thick salve of saliva before pulling away. 

“Good,” he finally murmurs, the word a puff of breath wafting across your face, warm and woodsy. “Because you are. And Master likes for his things to look presentable.” 

[austinbutlerslovers]

The Belt

Label Mature 18+

Summary During the cast party for his latest film, you spoke very poorly about Austin to a co-star, confessing your dissatisfaction about him being overly controlling when he is stressed at home and a neglectful workaholic when he is not.

When word gets back to Austin about what you said, he is livid because you didn't tell him and he prides himself on his professional reputation. Despite him giving you everything you desire, you still remain unsatisfied, behaving like a brat. He decides it's time to punish you again teaching you a lesson to make you behave.

When he summons you to his office, you already know he's going to punish you and that somehow, word got back to him. If he weren't so dominating, you might even enjoy it. However, he loves to make you red and raw until the very end, providing you with sexual relief only when he's ready.

Established relationship married 💍

⚠️ Hardcore Smut ⚠️ Male dominance • spankings• name calling•choking •overstimulation •nipple play • biting • manhandling •manipulation •oral sex on male by force • clit play• body slapping • humiliation kink • dirty talk•oral on female •cum eating•multiple orgasms

You guys voted hard for this……😬🫡 💀 Austin Punishment level 💯

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The Belt

Austin sat in the leather reading chair of his office. The room was a grand sanctuary adorned with movie posters memorabilia and mantled awards that attested to his successful acting career. The city skyline glimmered through the expansive window behind him contrasting sharply with his tensed demeanor.

He glared at you upon entering the room his fingertips pointed together on his lips, his hands were interlaced palms apart, and his elbows were firmly rested on the armrests.

He was in a pose of deep contemplation, his legs spread wide one tapping restlessly in agitation the only movement betraying his otherwise calm demeanor.

He looked immaculate wearing a sleeveless black tank top accentuating his muscular defined arms. His leather pants hugged snugly around his firm legs, the material molding to every curve and contour. A belt adorned his waist fastened with an ornate silver buckle that gleamed in the low lighting.

He was the definition of a sex god. His sandy brown hair tousled perfectly contrasting sharply with his furrowed brow. His blue eyes were intense and piercing as they bore into yours, making it impossible to look away.

You understood exactly why he summoned you to his office of your shared estate. A sense of apprehension filled the room as you awaited his response. You knew full well he was displeased with your recent behavior.

There was an unspoken dynamic in your marriage. The more he sought to control you, the stronger your desire to rebel, the tension between you two increasing drastically whenever he was away.

This time, when he returned from filming his latest movie, his absence once again fueled the familiar strain on your marriage and feeling neglected, you pushed back against his control upon his return. The intensifying conflict finally reaching its peak at one of his events.

During the extravagant cast party celebrating his latest film, you committed a cardinal sin: divulging intimate details about your marriage with him.

After a few drinks and meaningful conversation with his co star at the party you began to blabber about Austin over the loud music.

“He’s profoundly loving and handsome on one hand always making me feel special and adored.” You confided taking another sip of your drink before continuing. “But on the other hand, he has this intense need for control over me. When he isn’t obsessing over every detail of my life, he’s a total workaholic, letting ‘his craft’ overshadow everything he does and completely neglecting me.” You added downing the last of your drink. Even though your words are true, his co star gave you a concerned look, it didn’t sound like Austin at all.

Those words would come back to haunt you because if there was one thing Austin prided himself on, it was his reputation.

Word reached Austin swiftly due to it sounding so out of character. His co star only relaying to him.

“You might want to make sure your wife is okay, she mentioned something about feeling neglected and controlled?”

The remark ignited a fury inside of Austin. Though he didn't show it outwardly, he was seething inside. You had been behaving so well, and he was giving you everything you desired while he was away filming his newest film; your betrayal cut deep.

Now in his office as you stood in front of him the intensity of his gaze bore down on you, the tension in the air was thick. You knew from his clenched jaw and furrowed brow that he was deeply displeased. It was in the way his eyes narrowed, glinting with a mixture of disappointment and frustration.

You had seen this look before feeling the sting of his reprimands. It was a familiar pattern, one that left no room for doubt. As you stood there chest tight with anxiety, you braced yourself for the inevitable consequences of your disobedience.

"Well?" Austin demanded his voice ripping through the silence of the room. "Did you or did you not share personal information about me with my co star last night?" He inquired.

You took a deep breath before answering already feeling the depth of his dissatisfaction.

"Austin, I didn't say anything," you lied, your voice trembling slightly under his intense gaze as he glared at you from his chair.

Austin took a sharp inhale and sighed heavy with disappointment.

"As soon as I ask the one you told, it’s going to get back to me exactly what you said. It's better you tell me now, and I punish you, than I find out from the other person and punish you even harder." He relays as his eyes narrow awaiting your response.

Your breath catches in your throat from his intense gaze. You understand exactly what he means by ‘punish you harder.’ No matter what you know he wont be able to contain his temper for what you did. With your heart beating wildly, you nod in acknowledgment.

"Alright, Austin, I did say some personal things about you. I told your co star you were extremely controlling over me, a workaholic who when isnt obsessing over me, ignores me completely," as soon as the words leave your mouth, Austin's eyes burn with displeasure.

"Bend over my lap "he orders in agitation.

“Austin this is exactly what I mean by your control! You can’t discipline me like this I’m a grown woman!” You say firmly standing up for yourself for the first time wanting a more reasonable way to resolve the issue.

Austin remains stoic and places his hands calmly on the arm rests of his chair.

"Age has nothing to do with it, it’s about respect," he says with his tone resolute.

“You're my wife, I keep you safe, I feed you, I clothe you, I deeply care for you. Nothing you have is yours without me, and yet you disrespect me at a party hosted for my film? in front of my co stars ?" he questions, his voice rising in anger on each word.

After a contemplative pause he makes his decision.

"You’ll get your spankings with my hand for disrespecting me and then youll get the belt for lying to me about it."

Your heart drops

“Please Austin not the belt!” you beg, your legs almost give out knowing you’ll be sore for hours if not a full day.

“You brought this on yourself,” Austin replies sternly. “You need to understand the consequences of your actions.”

"Austin, I confessed!" you plead, your voice filled with desperation, hoping to reduce the punishment but It only enrages Austins and he erupts.

"But you lied first! You lied to me to cover your own ass because you knew what was coming. Now get over here and kneel," he snaps, and you hesitate. Your heart pounding loudly in your chest from the adrenaline.

“Don’t make me get up,” he says sternly, and by the tone in his voice you quickly come to kneel in front of him.

“Take off my belt,” he demands staring down at your kneeling form and you slowly reach to his waist, unclasping the buckle as you shudder at its thickness.

All you can think of is how painful it will be snapping across your ass as you pull its thick length through the loops of his pants.

As you work, your forearm brushes against his hardening cock. His pleasure is evident, he will become extremely harder as he spanks you. The power play of his dominance is too intoxicating.

Once the belt is free, you hold to up to him, but he pushes it back.

“You hold the belt this time while I’m spanking you so you know what’s next,” he says adding another layer to your apprehension.

You hope maybe he will soften his resolve if you apologize first this time.

"I'm sorry, Austin," you say quickly, your voice trailing off as you await his response.

"No you’re not sorry yet, but you will be.” He says eyes narrowing.

He firmly grabs your arm and swiftly pulls you across his lap. He positions you in a submissive posture over his knees, and you close your eyes bracing for the inevitable, as you hold his belt in your hands awaiting your punishment.

Austin rests his large hand on your skirt, rubbing it over the thin material as he speaks.

“You think you can get away with disrespecting and lying to me? You’ll learn your lesson tonight.” He pauses, letting the words sink in before continuing. “Now, let’s see how sorry you really are.”

He raises his hand and brings it down with a resounding swat on the back of your skirt. The force of the spank rocks you on his lap, but it doesn’t hurt.

He brings his hand down several more times, each spank forceful enough that you begin to feel the heat radiating from the impact. His cock pokes into your stomach with each strike in rhythm with the sound of the spanks echoing the room.

All you can think of is what is to come, how he will pull your skirt up and pull your panties down and the spankings will really begin.

As you feel Austin begin to peel your skirt up, you tense feeling the material slide up your thighs and over your panties, exposing your ass.

“You wanted to test my patience?” He says gripping and squeezing the soft skin of your ass with a seductive dominance.

“You’re about to find out exactly what happens when you push me too far.” He rasps and hooks his hand into the band of your panties sliding them down and revealing your pussy.

His cock pokes into your stomach at the sight.

“You’re fucking wet!” he confirms firmly grabbing your thighs pulling them apart.

“Mmm" you whimper from his rough handling. “Moaning too?" He questions. “Why are you so fucking wet this is a punishment?" He demands but you have no answer.

He spreads your ass cheeks apart, squeezing each one and exposing your pussy. Then he realizes he doesn’t just want to spank you anymore he wants to fuck you.

"I don't think spanking and using my belt is going to cut it this time.” he says sternly.

Your eyes grow wide as he firmly presses his large hand on your back holding you in place in his lap.

“What are you going to do Austin?" You ask panicked.

"You will have to wait and see. But for now I have a special punishment for my defiant little whore wife who gets wet from spankings."

Before you can protest Austin claps his hand hard on your bare ass cheeks in rapid succession intensifying each smack harder and faster until they are burning red. You begin to squirm in his lap with each sharp clap of your skin echoing in the room.

He alternates striking the bottom of one cheek to the other relentlessly harder on each pass until you begin to moan. Your skin starts tingling as you go numb from the pain. With each loud clap, you begin to grunt through gritted teeth, struggling to endure, your body tensing with each strike. Sensing your limits, Austin finally stops and rests his hand gently on your reddened skin.

“You’re handling these spankings like a pro” he says with a smirk playing on his lips. His touch becomes gentler and he moves his hand in slow deliberate circles over your reddened skin soothing the sting away.

Then he delivers a series of sporadic, loud resounding spanks, each one harder than the last, until you are struggling in his lap, groaning to endure.

“Austin …please” you beg through gasps. When he doesn’t stop at your limit your cries begin to mix with the sound of each impact, echoing through the room.

“Take it,” Austin growls low and commanding. “Feel every bit of it.” He continues. The intensity of each spank sends shock waves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body.

You gasp for air as your body constricts against him. Your muscles tighten with every spank until desperate breathy noises escape your mouth in a mix of agony and ecstasy.

Austin suddenly stops with his hand lingering on your reddened skin.

“You’ve had enough for now,” he reassures, allowing you a moment to catch your breath.

Your entire being feels consumed by the intensity of his spankings. The heat and stinging sensation radiates from the aftermath of his relentless discipline but you know it’s only the beginning.

As you hang over Austin’s lap holding his belt you want to reach back and rub your soreness but you know he won’t allow that he isn’t done with your punishment yet.

Austin’s touch transitions to soothing again as he rubs down your back and traces his hands along your inner thighs, his fingers are firm yet firm gentle against your skin.

When he grabs the tender flesh of your ass, you flinch and cry out from the pain and he swiftly gives you two sharp swats on it intensifying the pain making you cry out and squirm even more.

“Hold still,” he orders angrily as he holds you tightly in place. You realize he will spank you even more if you disobey.

His breathing is heavy as he releases you revealing his arousal in the moment as he forces you to endure him rubbing your sore cheeks. You remain perfectly still wincing as you bear through the pain.

His hand changes to moving down your thighs with deliberate slowness before his fingers brush against your soaked pussy and you softly moan overwhelmed with the sensation.

The contrast between the intense stinging of his spanks and the tender teasing touch of his fingers against your pussy leaves you breathless and craving for more.

"Why are you moaning? Do you like it when I touch you like this? " he asks.

“Yes Austin” you beg “please more” You say feeling the pleasure course through your entire body as he continues.

“What makes you think you deserve to have me touch you like this hm?” he asks, his tone low and commanding.

He wants you to face him and takes ahold of your waist forcing you to sit up in his lap. You wince in pain when your skin makes contact with the slick leather of his pants rubbing against your soreness. Once you settle he studies your face locking eyes with you.

“With that smart mouth” he says holding your jaw firm in his grasp “you’re lucky I touch you at all,” he chastises but his gaze is intense and seductive unable to hide his desire for you.

“Show me your pussy,” he commands, and you obey, opening your legs wide in his lap and leaning back to hold onto his knees for support. The erotic sight enraptures him entirely and you hope that means he is done with your spankings.

With a skillful movement you slowly release his belt from your hand allowing the leather to slide through your palm until the buckle softly thuds against the floor.

You feel a surge of excitement when he doesn’t notice.

“I can’t see your pussy that way,” he says, his voice low and commanding. “Show me your full pussy.”

Wanting to prove your obedience, you take one hand and spread your pussy lips open with two fingers giving Austin a clear view of your wet entrance.

Austin’s eyes are fixated as his large hand moves with a deliberate slowness grazing his fingertips along your sensitive folds.

The touch sends shivers through your entire body making you relax in his lap as his fingers slide through your slick folds tracing the outline of your wet entrance.

He slowly circles your clit with his thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you gasp. Each touch is deliberate his thumb moving in slow tantalizing circles that send waves of pleasure radiating through you.

“You feel how wet you are for me?” he asks alternating between gentle strokes and firmer presses through your slick folds as he smirks at you.

“Y-yes, Austin,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, your breath hitching at his soft touch.

His fingers slide lower teasing your entrance before returning to your clit increasing the intensity.

“Tell me how good it feels.”he says low and seductive.

“Austin it feels so good” you relent. Every touch, every word drives you closer to the edge, your body responding eagerly to his skilled hands.

“I can feel you trembling” he says with a grin as your thighs involuntarily shudder. You’re getting close” he observes with a devious stare.

“…-Yes…” you pant, the sensation of his touch is almost too much to bear as your breath hitches with each delicate stroke.

You begin to arch into his touch and he abruptly removes his hand leaving you yearning for more.

"Austin . . . Please " your beg almost at tears.

“You’re even wetter than I thought.” he observes, seeing your glistening folds.

“These spankings are a reward for you, aren’t they?” He asks glaring up to meet your gaze, his eyes piercing yours with intensity.

“No! Of course not Austin!,” you protest in shock.

“Let’s see how wet you get from me spanking your pussy, then,” he says with a sadistic gleam in his eye. With deliberate precision, he begins delivering sharp swats onto your spread pussy as you hold it open.

“Oww, ow!” you cry with each swat as jolts of pain shoot through your sensitive clit. Tears begin to well up in your eyes as he increases the intensity.

“Please, Austin, it hurts so much,” you finally whimper, feeling like the punishment is going on forever.

He looks up into your pleading eyes, his expression softening slightly.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me taking your punishment,” he says with a mix of sternness and affection as he looks over your body. “Let’s see if I can make you feel better.”

Austin pulls your shirt up, exposing your chest. His fingers gliding along your supple skin, caressing your breasts gently until your nipples harden under his touch then he catches one between his fingertips and rolls it, eliciting a soft moan from you.

“Does that feel better?” he asks, his tone softer “Do you want more?” His eyes search yours, waiting for your response.

"Y-yes …Austin” you say barely above a whisper wanting him to give you more. You know you’re still being punished somehow but you are relieved he isn’t spanking you anymore.

“Please keep touching me softly like this Austin,” you beg tilting your head back and replacing your hand to his knee, surrendering to his touch. He catches your other nipple between his fingers rolling it gently before giving it a firm squeeze making you gasp.

He watches your reactions intently a smirk of satisfaction playing on his lips at how easily you give in knowing what he can do.

His hand gently cups your breast and he splays his fingers out to squeeze and knead the soft flesh. His thumb brushes over your nipple, sending a shiver down your spine as he teases the buds.

He leans in and brushes his lips against your other nipple. His warm breath fanning across your skin heightening your arousal to a peak.

He takes your nipple into his mouth sucking it gently at first, then with more intensity drawing it in deeper. His tongue swirls around the peak, flicking it teasingly before he sucks hard and his teeth graze the sensitive flesh just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you.

He continues to cup your other breast, squeezing it firmly digging his fingers into your flesh. He rolls your nipple between his fingers pinching and pulling it harder causing you to gasp and arch your back pushing your chest closer to his mouth.

He moves his mouth back and forth between each breast, lavishing attention, gently sucking and flicking his tongue across each nipple, eliciting soft moans and gasps from your lips. Then he releases sucking your left nipple with a wet pop, focusing all his attention on the right one.

He sucks it deeply into his mouth, his tongue pressing and flicking against it as his hand continues to tease and squeeze your other breast.

The combination of sensations makes your head spin every touch and suck of his mouth sending waves of pleasure coursing through your core until you are practically dripping with arousal for him.

He gently releases your nipple, his lips glistening as he looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks low and seductive as he cups both of your breasts, squeezing them affectionately.

“You just want all my attention because I’ve spoiled you too much,” he reveals. Not waiting for your response he brings his lips over your breast again, capturing your nipple in his warm mouth, sucking and licking it with such intensity that you become breathless.

The urgency of his suckling, the heat of his mouth, and the way he teases your other breast is too much for your body to handle. Your moans and gasps begin to fill the room as you endure so much pleasure you cave in and orgasm your walls throbbing around nothing pushed to the edge and beyond.

He pulls back to study your condition. You are panting with your pupils blown wide and look of pure sexual bliss on your face. He knows you are reeling in the high of your orgasm completely forgetting you are being punished, and he smiles seductively before returning to his torturous routine.

He leans in and closes his lips over your nipple again, this time holding you tightly in place as he tugs on it with his nipping teeth.

“Ow, Austin!” you exclaim angrily and glare down at him. He abruptly stops and slaps you hard across your breast. “Stop whining,” he reprimands, and you stifle your cry, looking at him in shock.

Locking eyes with you as a warning, he moves to your other nipple, his lips parting slightly as he takes the bud between his teeth. With deliberate precision, he nips and tugs on your nipple with a piercing bite inflicting just enough pressure to elicit a tantalizing mix of pleasure and pain to course through your core before he releases it

“You think your punishment is over don’t you?” he asks, as you feel the radiating sting of his bite. You don’t react to it, knowing he will slap it harder.

"Where’s my belt ?" He asks commandingly

"No, no please Austin ," you plead.

“Baby… don’t make me ask twice,” he says with a threatening tone. You immediately lean back, feeling a surge of adrenaline, as you pick up his belt from the floor. You hold it tightly in your grasp presenting it to him ready to obey.

“Stand up,” Austin commands, and you rise on your feet, feeling the soreness from the spankings you just endured flood through you all at once.

He stands up from his chair, towering over you. His height is accentuated by the way he squares his shoulders making him appear even more imposing as he looks down at you.

“When you misbehave like this, it makes my dick painfully hard. Do you enjoy making me so hard that it’s painful?” he questions, a mix of frustration and desire in his tone.

Your gaze naturally drifts down his commanding figure, settling on the piercing, erect bulge straining against his leather pants. Feeling the intensity of his gaze, your eyes return to meet his.

“No, Austin.” You reply softly.

“Good because you made me this hard now you’re going to take care of it,” he commands, his voice firm and demanding.

He grips your shoulders tightly and forces you down on your knees. He steps closer with his cock inches from your face as he looks down on you with intent.

“Take me out,” he commands, and you obey placing the belt down on the floor. You reach up and unbutton his leather pants lowering down his zipper, the sound sending a shiver of anticipation through you.

As you reach inside, you feel the warmth of his hard erection and gently wrap your fingers around his thick shaft pulling his cock out from the confines of his pants, revealing his throbbing length in all its pulsating glory.

The sight of his impressive cock wrapped in your hand fully arouses you, sending a surge of desire through your body as you prepare to please him.

He guides you with a firm hand on the back of your head and you feel his control as his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer to his erect cock.

“Take it deep,” he commands, his voice tense with desire. “Show me how much you want it.”

You look up to him as his large cock enters your mouth and fills you up stretching your lips around its girth. “That’s it, baby,” Austin groans, his voice husky with desire. “Take me all the way in.”

The sensation is overwhelming, the weight and heat of him pressing against your tongue with each glide in and out as you feel yourself succumbing to his rhythm. “That’s my good girl,” he praises, his words spurring you on.

Your tongue traces along his shaft as he moves, exploring every ridge and vein, and Austin groans in response as his hand grips into your hair harder “Don’t stop,” Austin urges, his voice thick with need.

The taste of him is intoxicating, and you feel the fullness of him as he thrusts deeper, filling your mouth completely on each movement. With every stroke, you feel yourself growing more aroused, the intensity of the moment building with each passing second.

“I’m so close baby….-keep going,” he says, his voice strained with arousal. He places both of his hands at the back of your head with his fingers tangling in your hair he begins bucking his hips thrusting into the back of your throat.

Each thrust becomes more deliberate, and you struggle to accommodate him, feeling the strain on your jaw stretching as the sensation pushes you to your limit. You finally gag as tears brim your eyes looking up at him through wet lashes, overwhelmed by the intensity of his thrusts.

“You take me so well, don’t stop,” he growls, his voice thick with desire. You try to relax your throat as your mouth works to bring him over the edge, but he’s too forceful, each movement becoming more demanding as you feel the strain on your jaw and throat with each intense penetration.

The tension is evident in the way you gasp for air between his movements. Your moans of discomfort come in short wet gurgles around his cock, unable to keep pace with his relentless rhythm.

You claw at his thighs and whimper around his thrusting cock. Despite your efforts, he doesn’t release his grip, his hold on you firm as he continues thrusting into your mouth, driving deeper into your throat.

“Just like that, keep going oh fuck,” he urges, his grip tightening. “Oh fuck…oh fuck! I’m gonna cum,” he rasps.

As he reaches the peak you hear his primal cries of release echoing in the air as he ejaculates, filling your mouth with his warm cum. On his final thrust you swallow every drop savoring the taste of him.

Spent and satisfied he makes small sounds of pleasure as he pants, slowly withdrawing his cock from your wet mouth.

He looks down at you while you kneel before him, a mix of exhaustion and contentment washing over his face. You feel utterly drained your eyes wet and your body trembling from the intensity of the encounter.

His gaze shifts to the belt lying beside you and he nods towards the leather strap wordlessly instructing you to pick it up.

“You were a good girl,” he praises, his voice low and husky. “But we’re not finished yet.

With a sense of apprehension, you reach for the belt and take it in your hands knowing that it signifies the next phase of your punishment

“Stand up,” he commands, offering his hand to guide you to your feet. You feel a mix of anticipation and apprehension as you grasp his hand and rise from the floor.

“We’re going to the bedroom,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He tucks his cock away into his leather pants and takes your hand firmly in his, while you clutch the belt in the other, its weight a constant reminder of what’s to come.

He leads you up the stairs as you try to think of a way to avoid your fate. The hallway seems longer than usual and every step amplifies your anxiety. When you finally reach the end of the hall, he opens the door and pulls you into the master bedroom. As he closes the door behind you, the quiet click of the latch sends a shiver down your spine.His eyes are dark with intent he approaches.

“You know what’s coming next, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low and almost dangerous.

“Hand me the belt,” he demands and your hands tremble as you hold out the belt, your eyes pleading for any hint of leniency. The feeling inside of you a mix of fear and anticipation.

He takes the belt from you without a word, his gaze unwavering and stern. You feel a wave of anxiety wash over you, the room around you blurring slightly as your focus sharpens on him and the belt.

“Go on, get on your hands and knees,” he says, pointing to the bed with the belt. His voice is firm, leaving no room for hesitation.

You climb onto the bed, the soft sheets a stark contrast to the hard reality of the situation. Your heart pounds in your chest as you assume the position, hands and knees resting centered on the mattress.

The anticipation is almost unbearable as you wait for his next move knowing that whatever comes next it will be intense and unforgettable.

“Please, Austin, I’m sorry,” you beg as a finale cry hoping for an any sort of leniency.

“Do you understand why you’re being punished?” he asks, his voice a mix of frustration and authority as he collects the belt running it through his hand.

“Yes Austin,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“And you know it’s for your own good, don’t you?” he continues, his tone softening slightly as he slaps the belt in his palm.

Yes,” you reply struggling to contain your anxiety hearing the leather slap against his hand as he tests it.

“Good,” he says and you hear the faint sound of his zipper as he begins to strip naked. You peek over your shoulder, wondering why he hasn’t spanked you yet.

He climbs up behind you, his knees sinking into the bed, and you feel his hand roughly tugging your skirt up, making sure your red ass is fully exposed.

He raises his arm to bring down his thick belt across your exposed ass, but then he hesitates. Seeing your glistening pussy, he falters, deciding the spanking can wait. His cock is aching to be inside of you again.

“Look at you, dripping for me,” he mutters, his voice thick with desire.

“You think you can tease me like this and not face the consequences?” he rasps, pressing his hard cock against your entrance.

You feel a sense of relief wash over you when you hear the belt buckle hit the bed.“I-I’m sorry,” you say, fully aroused, feeling the heat of his tip pressing and slipping against your entrance

“Sorry isn’t enough,” he whispers, gripping your hips, enjoying the feel of your wetness covering his cock. “You’re going to take every inch of me first. Then we’ll see if you’re still sorry,” he says.

With that, he thrusts into you,and you moan as he fills you completely. His grip tightens as he sets a relentless pace, each movement sending waves of pleasure and pain through your body. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, mingled with your gasps and his guttural groans.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growls, his voice strained with pleasure. “You’re so tight, so perfect.”

Despite the initial shock, you quickly find yourself gasping in pleasure feeling the intensity of his desire. Your body starts responding eagerly to his every thrust. “Austin, oh God, don’t stop,” you manage to say between breaths.

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear. “I won’t stop until you’re begging for more,” he murmurs, his pace quickening, the sound of his hips slamming against you growing louder.

“Austin you feel so good,” you cry out your voice filled with lust.

His breathing becomes ragged as you match his rhythm, pushing back against him, desperate to satisfy him. The tension in the room mounts, every touch, every sound amplifying the connection between you.

With each powerful thrust, he collides his hips into yours, the intensity driving you over the edge. “Austin, I’m going to cum,” you say, your voice filled with ecstasy.

He groans in response, his own pleasure evident in the primal sounds escaping his lips. “Don’t cum yet …-you need to…-learn your lesson ” he urges, his voice husky with desire.

He pulls you up to him, his hand wrapping around your neck with just enough pressure to make you gasp. Your breath catches in your throat as waves of pleasure wash over you.

“You ever going to disrespect me in front of my friends again?” he demands, his voice low and intense.

“No, Austin,” you promise your voice trembling with arousal. His grip tightens slightly, sending a shiver down your spine as he thrusts harder.

"What about lying to me?” he asks with authority.

"I won’t lie to you! Austin I promise!” you cry out obeying his every word as his hips clap against you.

"Good girl.” He says bringing his other hand down spreading your pussy lips wide and rubbing around your clit.

"MMMM Yes !" You cry out feeling like it’s a reward from his punishment.

"Do you like this, baby?" he asks, rubbing a little harder.

"Yes Austin! Please more!" you beg and he slows his thrusts focusing his attention on your aching clit.

“Good,” he growls, his lips brushing against your ear. “I like when you’re a good girl for me you’re going to take every bit of pleasure I give you.” He says as his fingers continue to work your clit, each movement sending sparks of ecstasy through your body.

You moan loudly, the sound reverberating his hand around your throat. He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, “I want to feel you cum for me now.”

You are unable to form words, completely lost in the sensations he’s creating as he sets a relentless pace slamming his cock deep within your throbbing walls. His touch becomes more insistent, his fingers moving faster on your clit as he brings you closer to the edge. The rhythmic clapping of his hips against yours fills the room as your breaths come in short, desperate gasps, mingling with his groans of satisfaction.

“Oh fuck Austin” you moan out feeling dizzy from so much pleasure coursing your entire body at once.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice filled with desire. “Let go for me. Show me how much you need this.”

He chokes you, and it cuts off your moans as he pounds into you. With a final fluttering of your walls on his cock, your body trembles as you reach the peak of your pleasure and you orgasm. Austin’s grip on your throat loosens and he watches you with a satisfied smile as you fall apart.

“That’s it, baby. Let it all go,” he whispers, his voice husky with satisfaction feeling your walls flutter on him with each thrust.

He holds you in his arms, pulling you close as your body endures wave after wave of intense pleasure until you go limp against him trembling and moaning.

“You came so well or me,” he whispers in your ear.

You pulse around his cock as he nears his climax and his movements becoming erratic, his sounds more primal. “I can’t hold back…” he gasps feeling the surge of your arousal.

With a final, shuddering thrust, he reaches his peak, his cries of release filling the room as he orgasms, his cock pulsing rope after rope of cum into you as he holds you steady breathing heavily.

As you both catch your breaths the intensity of the moment begins to fade and he withdraws from you slowly, his movements gentle yet deliberate.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his voice husky with satisfaction as he pulls you down on the bed with him and wraps his arms around you. “You were amazing,” he whispers, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

After a moment he gently strokes your hair, his eyes softened with satisfaction. “You really do satisfy me,” he admits, brushing his hand along your jaw. “Even when you rebel like this and I have to punish you.” He grins his pleasure evident that he’s regained control.

He kisses you deeply as his earlier anger melts away. “I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you too Austin” you confess feeling complete.

He holds your jaw firm locking eyes with you “But don’t think I won’t punish you if you misbehave again.” He finalizes.

You nod in agreement as his words linger in the air, both a promise and a warning as he pulls you into a tender embrace.

Deep down, you revel in testing the limits of his control, feeling his passion, his desire, and his unwavering commitment to you. In those moments, you feel exhilarated beyond compare.

It’s a thrilling exchange of his controlling power and your submission of rebelliousness that reinforces the dynamics of your relationship. His punishments make you feel alive and deeply connected to him in a way that nothing else can.

⛓️‍💥 End ⛓️‍💥

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[wandasaura]

TOO IN LOVE TO THINK STRAIGHT

summary — when you mention to your dominants that you want to further explore the dynamics of your relationship, they’re all for it

warning(s) — established relationship, married wandanat, dom/sub dynamics, exploration of non-sexual bdsm, purposefully triggered subspace, implied mommy kink (never said), implied daddy kink (also never said), brief mention of sensory overstimulation, literal fluff to the fullest extent possible, men/minors dni

authors note — i committed to the lyric titles too hard, but wonderland perfectly describes this fic! daddy nat lovers, i see you

you are in love universe

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff ✧

“Are you excited?” The soft vibrations have become a fond sensation as you peer out of the car window and admire all of the buildings that you pass. You’re not in the best area, one of the worst actually, but you find something so calming about the construction crowded roads and graffiti covered storefronts. You’ve been stuck in bumper to bumper traffic for the last half hour, a plethora of detours and u-turns standing in your way of where you really wanted to be, but every time Natasha eases her foot back onto the gas and shoots between lines of cars that don’t have the balls to make the move themself, you hum in contentment. You’re okay with being stuck if you’re stuck with them. 

They’d been promising you this day for months, and although it had been canceled two weeks ago when you came down with an unexpected cold that left you miserable and bed-ridden for three days, it was finally here. There was no time left for another extenuating circumstance to push the date back farther. You hadn’t stopped bouncing in the backseat since Wanda had affectionately buckled your seatbelt, your fingerprints are smeared against the backseat window from how you point out the exit signs that mean your destination is growing closer. Natasha had long since stopped asking you to refrain from touching the glass she kept spotless, looking back at you through the rear-view mirror with fondness whenever a lull in speed occurred. Now was one of those moments. The line of cars all waiting to merge back onto the Garden State Parkway kept the car still, the break was applied heavily and wasn’t going to be let off soon. Unlike the other times she had looked back at you, she craned her entire body now, and you grinned at the easy way about her expression. 

Your fingers left behind the glass of the backseat driver side window to press firmly against the tip of her nose, wanting to see it scrunch up in annoyance like it always did when you poked it. Natasha was less compliant with your need for physical touch then Wanda was, but she allowed you small victories every once in a while. Today was one of those days where everything seemed to fly. You had eagerly pulled her around the house all morning, sat in her lap at breakfast, and all but forced her to help you dress when you decided picking the perfect outfit was too hard to do on your own. The women had immaculate taste in fashion, you supposed it was something that needed to come with their high-profile occupations, but you’d never complain about them making your old clothes look fresh and new without adding anything tasteless or unnecessary.  You hadn’t wanted to be apart from her since your eyes had peeled open at seven, the excitement in your belly too strong to ignore despite Wanda telling you that you wouldn’t be leaving the house until eleven. You were so beyond grateful that Natasha had been serious about taking you out when her and Wanda’s schedules allowed, that it didn’t matter to you if your earlier than usual wake up time meant having a full four hours to merely sit around and wait. 

You nodded your head at her simply asked question, bearing a smile that compiled a list of words you’d be happy enough to use in a sentence if she so desired. She didn’t though, you knew she was well aware of how excited you were and was merely pulling your leg because she herself was bored. There was no way she could be oblivious to your hyperactive movements when your feet kicked the back of her seat every handful of minutes, but she’d not asked you to stop only rolled her eyes in fond exasperation and murmured to Wanda about the copious amounts of fingerprints and scuff marks she’d have to tend to later. Natasha and traffic were not things that should exist in the same sentence. For as patient as the woman was, she quickly lost her composure when ‘assholes in black hondas don’t know what the fucking speed limit is’. The first time she’d bellowed in annoyance you’d shook your head and giggled into your hand, your eyes connecting with Wanda’s who had glanced back at you in a silent threat to not egg Natasha on further. You’d tried to keep your amused reactions to yourself after that, but it was hard not to laugh at Natasha’s annoyance for anyone going under eighty miles an hour; especially considering the speed limit was only sixty-five. 

The drive wasn’t meant to be any longer than an hour and a half, Wanda had meticulously gone over each and every available route before she’d loaded you and Natasha up in the car, but construction hadn’t been something to consider while she was planning your departure. It seemed every major highway and backroad was under construction lately, even the roads that led down to the shore in Westview. You didn’t mind it, occasionally pointing out the names of the yellow vehicles as you passed them, but you worried how little time you’d have to explore as the second hour of driving came and passed. When your legs grew restless, you settled for sitting cross-legged in the backseat, your elbows pressing firmly against your knees as you craned your neck to see between the head-rests on the couples seats. The sky was open and blue, no trace of clouds but apparent wind. The trees on either side of the road rustled with the flow of the breeze, and if you stayed just quiet enough, you could hear it howling outside of the windows. The sight of wind was a ploy to get unsuspecting people out of their houses. The weather was hot and humid, temperatures climbing into the low hundreds, but your destination was indoors, so thoughts about how you’d melt beneath the sun didn’t have valid reasons to come. 

Wanda’s eyes locked on yours when Natasha eased onto the gas again, pulling off the exit ramp like a bat out of hell and dodging oncoming traffic that honk and scolded her boldness. You giggled when a particular car just to your left raised their hand at her, a single finger pointed toward the sky. She was unaffected, returning the gesture with passion. Your smile fell off your lips when your gaze shuffled over to meet Wanda’s, and the Sokovian looked at you with displeasure. “Feet on the floor.” Wanda reprimanded when she knew she had your attention, and you sighed but complied with the request. “We'll be there soon. Why don’t you tell me about what you're most excited to see?” 

That had inspired a full tangent of thoughts that were only half complete to spill from your lips like rushing water off a cliff, but neither Wanda or Natasha had tried to interrupt you and get the full version of your story. They were happy enough to listen to you ramble nonsensically, your fingers twisting together in your lap out of pure elation that you had no other way to express. Wanda was simply content with knowing that should Natasha crash, you were sitting properly in the backseat. It wasn’t another half hour before Natasha was grabbing a ticket from the machine at the entryway of the parking garage and pulling into a reserved spot on the very first level by the exit. You’d known they would go all out for today, they always did, but it never failed to make you feel incredibly special to be getting such attentive treatment from two of the most willing and powerful women in the world. You flew out of the car before Natasha even had the engine off, feet not even hitting the pavement beneath you entirely before you raced around the back of the Stingray so you could pull Wanda’s door open for her. You bounced excitedly on your toes throughout the entire exchange, grinning up at her with an expression of complete innocence. The Sokovian smiled down at your adoringly, capturing your face in her gentle hands and pulling you just close enough for your forehead to fall against her lips. 

“Such an excited little duckling.” Wanda mused with gentle laughter, her breath warm and thin as it fanned across your temple and shot sparks of pleasurable admiration through your belly and across your spine. You would’ve stayed permanently fixed on her tender expression had you not heard Natasha’s door swing closed. Your eyes trailed over the top of the car until they met the sight of her, dressed casually in a white t-shirt and jean shorts, her red locks had been pulled up and away from her face in a fleetingly worn ponytail that swung behind her head with every subtle move her body made. You could drool over the sight of her, but there were other priorities at the forefront of your mind. 

“Can we go now? Please?” You bounced eagerly beneath their transfixed stare, your hands grabbing eagerly at Wanda’s who still had a soft grip on your cheeks. You knew the rules of walking in busy parking lots well, and although they’d made you feel like an incapable child at one point, you adored and craved them now. The lawyers reminded you so often that just because you are a capable adult, doesn’t mean you have to act like one when they’re there to take care of you. You let them take control easily now, no willingness to fight left to linger in your instincts, even in something as simple as finding your way through busy parking lots. 

A smirk splayed across Natasha’s lips as she approached you and Wanda, her hand shoving her phone and wallet into one of the back pockets of her denim shorts. You should be ashamed for finding the simple action so attractive, but you didn't. You'd stopped letting yourself feel embarrassment for merely noticing their beauty long ago, and greedily your eyes trailed over the muscles in her shoulder and bicep that flexed as she reached toward her back. Natasha chuckled knowingly, sending a wink in your direction before she purposefully flexed her biceps. You wanted to roll your eyes and tell her to knock it off, but Wanda had beaten you to the punch and sent her wife an exasperated hit to the gut. “I don’t know, malyshka. Can we?” Natasha answered your earlier question, letting her feet carry her impossibly close to Wanda’s side. You wanted to groan aloud when the Russian’s hand slid comfortably into the back pocket of the Sokovian’s denim shorts, but you were too excited to dwell on the fact that Wanda’s ass had definitely just been squeezed roughly and possessively. 

“Yes.” You made the executive decision with a curt nod of impatience, already setting your pace toward the exit, dragging Wanda behind you with rushed steps. It was the exact opposite of what she intended to happen when she’d first implemented the rule of wanting you to hold either her or Natasha’s hands in busy spaces. You were now the one leading her around by the hand, and quite blindly if she wanted to put it nicely. You’d hardly noticed when you led her body straight into a traffic cone, her feet just barely able to avoid tripping over the bright orange safety measure. Natasha had to stifle her laughter as she followed, her hand still in Wanda’s pocket and effectively pulling the Sokovian in two different directions as she remained a couple of steps behind. 

Wanda placed a firm hand overtop of your wrist, catching your attention as you looked back at her with a whine of impatience toward the back of your throat, ready to be unleashed if she didn’t make whatever she needed quick enough for your standards. You were almost there, almost to the long line of parents and children that wrapped themselves around the building in an unruly line. You could see the electric blue sign on the top of the structure perfectly, the artwork on the sides of the building visible but intercepted by bobbing heads and tall bodies. Her abrupt stopping when you were so close to where you desperately wanted to be was the cruelest thing that had ever happened to you. “Why don’t you leave the dragging around to me, lyubov’. Unless you want me to end up in the infirmary before you even get to see the sharks.” 

You groaned at her teasing, a fierce blush crawling up your neck that couldn’t be blamed by the unforgiving heat. You didn’t let her words sink beneath your skin however, deciding that pulling at her hand was effective enough. “Will you hurry up then?” You groaned, smirking victoriously when Natasha laughed at your antics and placed a kiss on the top of your head. 

“Yes, milaya. We can go.” Wanda rolled her eyes but agreed with your demand, already beginning to set your pace at a significantly slower speed before the rest of her sentence even lingered in the air for your ears to pick up on. You practically skipped beside her, a broad smile on your face as you once again droned on and on about everything you couldn’t wait to see and have. Natasha had promised you a stuffed animal from the gift shop, knowing that you’d never had many in childhood. You’d decided that today would be one of the first times you explored your dynamic outside of the house, and the Slavic women were sparing no experience in giving you the purest taste at reclaiming your lost childhood. It felt too good to be true, to just surrender your conscious mind and let them take control, but you found yourself submitting to them easily. They wanted to do this for you, they enjoyed playing up their roles in this aspect. It was still hard to grasp that something that could be so kinky in bed could also be so pure outside of it, but they were allowing you to learn at your own speed, and selfishly they loved how inexperienced you were. There was no former training to unwind from your beliefs, there was no burned skin around your heart that had been failed by somebody else. You were fully theirs to shape, and they intended to show you the purest sides of this dynamic. 

You frowned when Wanda began to lead you toward the front of the building, getting farther and farther away from the long line of people waiting their turn to enter. Toddlers pointed at you and tugged on their parents arms, not so quietly wondering why they couldn’t follow you and go around the line. A blush settled onto your cheeks when a little girl, no older than six, tugged at who you assumed was her fathers hands and boldly declared that you were ‘cutting’. Natasha and Wanda were in their own little world it seemed, laughing and talking with one another in quick Russian that you couldn’t comprehend, not batting a blind eye to the whispered accusations that were being pointed at you. 

“The lines back there.” You whispered albeit a little self-consciously, not wanting to draw attention to yourselves anymore than the redheads adoring your waist already had. The sight of you together dripped with wealth. The diamond studded Chopard watch on Wanda’s wrist dazzled in the sunlight, the yellow gold Tiffany hoops in Natasha’s first piercing swayed when the breeze caught them. You looked properly out of place amongst the parents and young children all waiting in line. 

Wanda stopped walking at your timid statement, looking down at you with a look that could only be described as dominating. It wasn’t hard, wasn’t demanding, but rather apologetic and soft. You felt entirely small beneath her sage green stare. “What did you want to try today?” Wanda reminded you softly, her body language not portraying the suggestiveness behind her quiet words. To any of the parents standing feet away, it looked like she had simply paused to ask you a well-intended question, which you supposed was true, but it wasn’t as innocent as it appeared.  

You deflated slightly, leaning into the touch Natasha had placed on the small of your back minutes ago. You were becoming fuzzy, a feeling you’d associated with rough sex, but there hadn’t been any of that today. The closest thing to having their bodies had come when Natasha pulled you into a bruising kiss before you left the house. “Letting you have control.” 

Wanda hummed, content with your answer, knowing that once again she had full control. Her fingers that always seemed to be perfectly polished ghosted over your cheek, and you could assume she’d attempted to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear like she always did, but today your hair had been tied back into two french braids that Natasha had suggested. “So let Mommy worry about where the line is. That’s not something for little girls like you to be concerned about.” 

You nodded softly, unable to help the rush of something sweet that further propelled the dizziness in your mind forward at the Sokovian’s dismissal. Although you didn’t resume your skipping like you had been doing when Wanda guided you across the street, your footsteps came lightly and with a bounce as you became lost in the simple action of counting the many cracks that adorned the sidewalk as you stepped over them. At some point, your hand had grabbed Natasha’s, and you swung your arms back and forth absentmindedly. The day was hot, unforgivingly so, and the natural flush across your cheeks was becoming annoying. You were ready to start vocalizing your discomfort when Wanda guided you inside of the aquarium, saving her the headache of listening to you whine about something she couldn’t control. 

You gawked at the sight of light blue painted walls and elaborate glass tanks that held any color coral you could imagine. The front desk was a giant fish tank, and little orange and white clownfish swam around the enclosure blissfully. You were practically vibrating beside Natasha as you looked around at the little details that had been incorporated into the entrance of the building. The ceilings were high, and painted across them were sharks and whales and every kind of fish you could even imagine. There was no embarrassment when you pulled at Natasha’s hand and let your own little finger shoot up to the ceiling, excitedly pointing out a boesemani rainbow fish that swam beside a hammerhead. Wanda had gone to check you in for your reservation, or at least you assumed that was what she was doing as she stood closely to the front desk and nodded at the teenager behind the counter. His eyes briefly flashed over to you when he noticed your head craned toward the ceiling and overheard your loud exclamation, but Wanda must’ve said something that made his attention snap back to her just as quickly as it had left. 

“Inside voices, dorogaya.” Natasha smiled sweetly at your excitement, having no real issue with the volume that you had spoken at before, but she knew it would bother you if you caught onto the lingering stares of judgemental adults who couldn’t possibly understand that not everything was meant solely for children. You had just as much of a right to enjoy these little things as the toddlers who ran free, but she couldn’t change everyone's opinion even with her deadly glare. 

Your cheeks flushed pink, and not because of the blistering sun, but you nodded to her request and tried not to let it sting. You’d been told all your life that you were too loud, reprimanded by your mother until you’d just fallen silent. You knew she hadn’t meant it in any particular way, but some things still struck a chord in your heart. The crushing feeling hadn’t lasted long, too comfortable in Natasha’s presence to dwell in self-consciousness. Your eyes went back to trailing all of the open space that you could see, and when they landed on a particular tank beside the single hallway that led into the larger room that veered off in several separate directions, you attempted to jut off. A whine rippled through your chest when your hand was squeezed and Natasha didn’t follow you forward, cemented in the place where you’d been instructed to wait for Wanda. 

“Seahorses!” You tugged at her hand, earning you a disproving expression complete with a single raised eyebrow. You sulked back toward her, giving the tank one last sad glance before you focused down on your shoes, a frown on your lips.

“What are we meant to be doing, hm?” Natasha didn’t allow you to keep your gaze transfixed on your shoes, one of her slender and ring adorned fingers guiding your chin upward until your eyes flickered to hers. Her heart clenched at the sad frown that clung to your features that had been so happy not even seconds ago, but she didn’t let your pout sway her decision. After all, Wanda had given you a clear direction, and she expected that you follow it. “Can you tell me what we’re meant to be doing?” 

You sighed, glancing back over at Wanda who looked to be wrapping up whatever conversation she’d been having with the teenager behind the counter.  “Waiting for Wands.” The words slipped past your lips softly, your eyes trailing back over to Natasha’s. “But there’s seahorses.” 

“And the seahorses will still be there when Wands is done. We’re gonna have our listening ears on today, aren’t we?” Natasha was really laying it on thick, even she knew that, but it was hard to help herself when you looked so soft and pliant standing in front of her dressed in an outfit that she picked out. You nodded your head, shuffling into her embrace, sadness still tainting your features. 

Natasha kisses the top of your head, wrapping her arms around your torso as she lets you have your feelings against her chest. She knows they’ve been guiding you into a stage of subspace all day, it had been perfectly intentional, but how you handle it is still a wildcard. Much to your misconception, subspace wasn’t always brought on by getting railed, as you liked to refer to it as. Any form of submission could send you down that rabbit hole, including following instructions; which you’d been doing all day. Subspace wasn’t about the weight of the scene or how badly your body ached afterward, it was just about trust and the right amount of guidance. They’d been doing something right, and Natasha could recognize the glassy sheen over your eyes as you peaked up at her and then over toward Wanda who was finally, finally, walking back toward you. 

The Sokovian had three brightly colored bands in her hands, her lips curled into a bright grin that crinkled her eyes. She stopped just in front of Natasha, effectively blocking you from view as she felt the eyes of the teenager behind the counter try to burn into your form. “What’s with the frown?” 

“Seahorses.” You pouted up at her, much to Natasha’s amusement. The Russian’s hand ran over your back soothingly, though she couldn’t fight her bright smile when you again tried to wiggle out of her arms and rush over to the cylinder tank now that Wanda was back in sight. 

“She wasn’t very pleased that you asked us to wait for you.” Natasha filled in the gaps, your explanation rather vague and rushed; if you could even call the one word response you gave much of an explanation at all. “Why don’t you tell Wands what kind of fish you found on the ceiling?” Natasha nudged you, prompting your attention onto something other than seahorses. You beamed at the excuse to ramble again, your finger pointing up to the ceiling like it did the first time, and even if Wanda couldn’t follow your finger to the specific fish she was meant to be looking at, she smiled encouragingly. 

“It’s a boesemani rainbow fish! They get brighter when they get older!” You laughed, your pouty face no longer a visual that filled the entrance of the aquarium. Wanda had not the slightest care in the world for the fish you were pointing to, but she praised your knowledge either way. She’d pretend to care about anything if it meant seeing that bright smile linger on your lips even after the words stopped coming. “Can we see the seahorses now?” 

Already anticipating how the rest of the afternoon was going to play out, Wanda laughed at your eagerness but nodded her head. You were just out of Natasha’s grip when she captured you in hers. This time, you did whine, sad eyes stuck on the tank in the corner of the room. Neither redhead could blame you for your distress when you’d been intercepted on your way to the seahorses twice now, and so neither scolded you for the sharp sound that reached their ears. “What are the rules if you’re not holding mine or Natty’s hand?” Wanda quizzed softly, her voice taking on a tone that had made you weak in the knees too many times. It was a voice Natasha called her ‘Mommy Voice’, which usually led to the Russian getting slapped upside the head when Wanda overheard. 

“Stay where you can see me.” You bounced on your toes, still pulling at Wanda’s hand and glancing between her and the seahorses with a desperate plea in your wide and glassy eyes. “Please!” 

She nodded at you with encouragement, smiling fondly when you raced over to the tank, carefully not to place your hands on the glass though it was already smudged with little fingerprints and what could only be assumed to be saliva. You marveled at the seahorses that bobbed in the water, illuminated by an electric blue strip of lights that made the gradient of colors on their bodies pop. You would’ve stayed staring at the seahorses all afternoon had Natasha not been the one to softly guide you away after five minutes of soft oohing and awwing. There were so many more tanks and creatures to see, she didn’t want you wasting any more of your time on just one tiny tank. You’d been upset about her gentle hands guiding you away until you’d turned a corner and spotted a tank of hippos in the distance. Your eager hand had pulled her through the crowd with Wanda following hot on your heels. 

You showed the same level of excitement at every tank and exhibit, which neither lawyer thought was possible. There was no lull in your squeals and shrieks, and both of their wrists hurt by the time they sat you down for a late lunch. You’d abided by their every rule, including the ones that seemed stupid to you, what was so wrong about falling into the penguin exhibit, it was an easy enough climb back over the thin glass barrier? They’d expected lunch to go smoothly, you’d been so well behaved that they’d even considered buying you ice cream first, but unfortunately for them, the small cafe in the heart of the aquarium was directly beside the shark exhibit. 

“Milaya, we will see the sharks after we eat.” Wanda cooed sweetly for the umpteenth time, trying not to let her face crack as she contemplated just giving into your pleas. Their firm voices and whispered praise had guided you into what Natasha referred to as the ‘sweet spot’. You weren’t so blissfully fuzzy that you couldn’t comprehend their words, but you were beyond the point of making a rational decision, and listening seemed to fall into that category as you struggled against Wanda, eyes fixed on the large sign that comically had a massive bite mark in the side. It was the little things that lingered throughout the building that made it more immersive, like the stickers on the floor in the shape of penguin footprints that lead to their enclosure, and the bite mark in the sign that led to the sharks. Your eyes searched to find every little detail that anyone else would overlook. 

“I want to see them now.” Your crestfallen face was enough to weaken the reserve both redheads had been putting forth since your little meltdown had started. They hated to think that had you not been so high on endorphins and adrenaline, you never would’ve expressed how much you enjoyed all the little things that the aquarium had to offer, but they were still working to earn this level of trust from you when peptides weren’t at an all time high. With your head firmly planted in subspace, there wasn’t a single insecure feeling prickling beneath your skin. You were utterly free, control sitting in their hands and they had to force themselves to remember that. 

“Not now, detka.” Natasha stepped in, guiding you toward the only empty table in the cafe. Your lips were turned downward in a persistent frown, but by some miracle, you’d actually sat down on the chair and let Wanda name out the options on the menu. It was no surprise to either of them that you pointed toward the chicken tender basket, but it was good enough for them to fulfill your request immediately. 

Wanda left to order the food while Natasha kept you occupied at the table, ensuring that you didn’t start to fall out of the state they’d been working you into all day. She offered praise when you answered her little questions about the fun facts you’d been reading on all of the displays, and she tutted disapprovingly when your fingers ripped apart a napkin that some other family had left on the table. When Wanda came back with a tray of three chicken tender baskets because it felt wrong to eat any of the seafood that was offered, you were firmly engaged in a conversation about the stingrays that had been yet to be spotted. You’d explored more than half of the aquarium, finding out that the pink band around your wrist was a pass to all of the activities that lingered around. You’d fed the penguins, given the seals high-fives, and watched a 4D movie that made absolutely no sense, but had dispensed bubbles and sprays of water that were fun enough. All that was left to do was walk the roped path overtop of the shark exhibit, but that didn’t sound like something you wanted to put your faith in, even if hundreds of people did it every day. You, nor Wanda, would be walking across a shark infested tank, though Natasha had plans to do it herself. She’d always been the more daring of the couple. 

When your lunch was finished, or when your lunch was picked over enough for Wanda and Natasha to set you free again, you wasted no time in grabbing both of their hands and zipping through the families that stood in your way. You’d been too distracted with the bamboo sharks to hear Wanda mutter to Natasha about how your crowd direction was just as bad as her driving, but you’d turned around in time to watch Natasha roll her eyes and whack Wanda’s bicep. 

In your fuzzy headspace, their rules engraved in your mind, one of them being to show respect to others, you frowned and settled both hands onto your hips. “You broke rule number six!” You stated rather angrily, stalking up to Wanda with long strides that didn’t match the innocence in your eyes. You kissed her arm softly, the place where Natasha had hit her engraved in your mind. 

“Yeah Natty, you broke rule six.” Wanda’s amusement wasn’t so easily hidden in her tone as her lips curled into a smile and she pulled you into her chest, settling a kiss onto the top of your head as you both sent glares toward Natasha. Yours was littered with a protectiveness that almost outshone the glassy gleam that had settled, Wanda’s however, was riddled with enjoyment and humor. “What should she do, detka?” Wanda giggled, leaning down to whisper in your ear though it was loud enough for Natasha to hear, and the redhead was just barely keeping the smile off her face as she watched you and Wanda conspire against her. 

“She’s gotta say sorry!” They’d noticed that in your fuzzy state, you’d shied away from the bigger words that slipped into your vocabulary normally. You weren’t yet at a point where communicating your needs was impossible, but you weren’t actively fighting to clear your head and search for words like apologize and blasphemy either. Natasha would never forgive Yelena for throwing that word around so often you’d started to pick up on it.  

“Well?” Wanda jutted out her hip, placed a perfectly manicured hand just above where her bone rested. You mimicked her stance, though you were significantly less threatening than Wanda with your french braids messy from the humidity that drafted in from windows, and your baby blue colored corset shirt that was adorned with intricate lace patterns and ribbons that tied the back together. 

“Ona razob'yetsya v mashine.” Natasha hummed, and although you knew enough Russian to know that wasn’t an apology she had uttered to Wanda, no, it was a very true statement that you’d crash in the car on the way home, the Sokovian had accepted it and laughed. 

Despite your excitement to see the sharks, you didn’t hang around the exhibit for long. There were too many people and you seemed to become overstimulated more easily when you were flush full of endorphins, so Wanda had been the one to lead you away toward tanks of lobsters and jellyfish. She started walking down the hallway, leaving you with Natasha, wanting to find a sign that could lead the three of you toward the stingrays because she knew you wouldn’t enjoy the aquarium for much longer. It had been hours, and in your sensitive headspace, the bright lights and sounds were quickly becoming too much to handle. You’d been so brave, trying this out with them and trusting them fully, but Wanda wasn’t about to compromise your happiness for a few more hours of mindless walking from room to room when you’d already seen everything that interested you. All she cared about was making sure you had a good time, even if she thought aquariums were savagely overpriced now. 

Wanda frowned when Natasha found her way over to her without you. Her eyes flickered around the long hallway, searching for your blue top that stood out brightly against the sea of other colors that adults and children wore. It was such a specific shade that even if seventeen other people all crowded around to watch jellyfish bob had blue on, you stuck out like a sore thumb. “Where’s Y/N?” Wanda questioned and Natasha frowned. 

“I thought she was with you.” The Russian quickly realized that no matter how many times she spun around in circles, you weren’t anywhere in sight. She distinctly remembered you telling her that you wanted to go with Wanda, so she hadn’t questioned when you walked off and toward the direction that the Sokovian had gone in. Natasha was properly panicked when thirty seconds went by and she still couldn’t spot you, but Wanda at least had the thought to check the next hallway before she let herself spiral too. 

The stingray exhibit turned out to be in the next room over, crowded by kids and parents who talked about the sea creatures with excitement in their quiet tones. The occasional toddler bellowed in disgust when they realized how slick the back of a stingray was, but for the most part, the room only vibrated because of the sheer number of voices that occupied it, not because of volume. You were hunched over the edge, elbows deep into the shallow water when Wanda and Natasha spotted you. Each let out a sigh of relief, but nothing was going to stop them from marching over to you and pulling you away from the water. 

“What were the rules, milaya?” Wanda asked you, her voice not as soft as it had been all day, but not hard either. They’d never been out of the house while you were lingering in subspace, and though they never wanted to lose you, it hadn’t been something that never crossed their mind. You wandered away even when your head was clear, your lack of impulse control only heightened that need to trail off.  

“Stingrays!” You beamed at Wanda, not taking into account the thin line that settled over her eyebrows as she peered down at you. Your excitement was cute, a telling indication that you really hadn’t meant to wander away and give them the scare of their life, but it wouldn’t get you out of the scolding Wanda had ready on the tip of her tongue. 

“Not stingrays, utenok. What were the rules?” Natasha laid heavy emphasis on the last word of her question, and though your eyes were more glassy then she’d seen them all day, she could see the wheels turning as you tried to process her words. 

“Oh.” You mumbled when you finally came to the conclusion, your shoulders deflating as your head dipped down and set your gaze on your shoes. “Sorry.” 

Wanda, who had been prepared to dig into you, sighed softly and dropped the topic. She may be a stickler for the rules but she knew it would only cause further damage if she laid into you about listening. Your disappearing hadn’t been intentional, and even she could see the tears threatening to spill over as you brewed in your own feelings of disappointment. 

“I want you holding my hand, dorogaya.” She instructed firmly, “No more walking by yourself. We don’t wanna lose such a sweet little duckling, huh?” Wanda lifted your chin, smiling reassuringly down at you. Her rings caught the light, glimmering like a million little stars that cried to be released from the gold adorning her fingers. It was over after that, you’d fallen too deep into the sea of bliss to want anything other than her. You shuffled close, all thoughts of stingrays forgotten as you breathed in her scent. Sensing your loss of interest, Wanda shared a silent conversation with Natasha who nodded. 

“Why don’t we go check out the gift shop?” Natasha claimed one of your hands, engangling you from Wanda before you could sink any deeper. They needed you coherent enough to get back into the car, and then you were free to settle deeply beneath the blanket of comfort they’d slowly been laying over top of you all day. Natasha held back on delivering any further praise, knowing it wouldn’t help you coming closer to the light. 

She guided you through hallways and crowded rooms, occasionally squeezing your hand when you winced at crying babies and strong fishy odors. She herself was over the aquarium, but she’d been holding out for you. She was glad she didn’t have to fake her enthusiasm anymore, though Wanda was certainly getting a kick out of all the exasperated eyerolls the Russian hid from you. 

The gift shop was practically empty when you shuffled inside, clinging to Natasha who didn’t mind the contact. She led you through rows of toys and puzzles, some not having any connection to the aquarium while others quite boldly sported the name in a thick black font. You found interest in none of it, which she couldn’t blame you for. Everything looked tacky and far too cheap to be as expensive as the prices on the shelves said, but still she guided you around encouraging you to pick something out. She’d promised you a stuffed animal, but when you finally reached the back wall where all the cuddly toys were lined up in rows, neither of you liked any. They were all filled with stuffing that was too stiff to cuddle, and you retracted your hand quickly when you reached out to touch one. Whatever had been used as fuzz was scratchy and coarse, and you hated it with a passion. Eventually, when Wanda came up to you holding a soft gray crewneck with an embroidered whale shark and the name of the aquarium on the front, you agreed to let it be purchased for you, and although it was still in the highest temperatures that New Jersey had seen all summer, you wore it out of the aquarium with a smile. 

When you reached the car, there was no keeping you afloat any longer. Natasha had uttered the first bit of praise in minutes, and you surrendered fully to the warmth in your mind. Wanda smiled, usually the one who you attached to when you fell over the edge, but Natasha had been your chosen pick today. 

“Just get in the back with her, Talia.” Wanda rolled her eyes after three minutes of Natasha trying to detach you from her arm, each attempt ending with whines and stomped feet as you tightened your grip. 

Natasha sighed, able to count the number of times she’d let Wanda drive her car on one hand, but she wasn’t getting away from you right now, and she didn’t really want to anyway. “If you so much as leave one fingerprint on my radio you won’t be getting laid for a week, Maximoff.” 

Wanda rolled her eyes, snatching the keys from Natasha’s outstretched hand and opening the driver's side door more aggressively than needed. If anyone was going to be leaving fingerprints it was Natasha, who could never decide which type of music she wanted to listen to. Seeing that you had gotten your way, you smiled up at Natasha with a grin that was only right to describe as cheeky. The Russian rolled her eyes and settled you into the backseat, shushing your protests when she strapped the seatbelt over your chest and made sure your feet were planted firmly on the floor. 

She pulled you into her side when her own seatbelt was clicked into place, gently releasing your hair from the tight braids that had been twisted together all day. At the first pass of her fingers across your sensitive scalp, you all but melted into her chest and let your eyes flutter closed. It wouldn’t take six minutes before you were asleep against her chest, clutching desperately to the white t-shirt covering her torso. With the absence of your questions and excited statements, the car settled with silence, filled with only the sound of the engine revving when Wanda stepped on the gas. 

“Did you have a good day, moya lyubov’?” Natasha asked, extending an arm to run over fingers over Wanda’s shoulder. She couldn’t see the Sokovian’s face, but she knew there was a satisfied smile settling over her lips. 

“I did.” She breathed out softly, flicking the right blinker on when she merged onto the parkway, thankful that all the construction seemed to have been paused for the day and the road, though filled with typical traffic, was clear of any major dead stops. “Did you ever think we’d be here?” Although Wanda hadn’t been specific, Natasha knew she was referring to you. You were practically the sun in their own two planet universe, everything they did revolved around you now, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. Things got boring when it was merely her and Wanda in a universe void of endless light and warmth. 

“I hoped.” Natasha kissed your temple softly, glad that she hadn’t stirred you awake. 

When Wanda pulled into the driveway, you were still sound asleep and the sky was dark with nightfall. It was early to call it a night, but the couple did so without complaint. You settled into Natasha’s chest with only the aquarium crewneck on your body, and Wanda had shuffled into the space in bed where your body typically rested, laying her head down on Natasha’s shoulder and placed a heavy hand on the small of your back. 

“Goodnight my little utenok.” She whispered into the thick stretch of silence before sleep overcame her too, and although the night carried on outside of your small bubble of peace, none of you had any idea.

[fangdokja]

You’ve never feared a kiss before, but his feels like a loaded gun.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Sugar Daddy x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. #1

♡ Word Count. 1,197

Psychological Profile:

A true alpha male archetype: commanding, strategic, and ruthless. Every move he makes is calculated for maximum efficiency. In his world, emotions are a weakness—except for the one crack in his perfect façade: you.

He shines through in the sheer dominance he exerts over every space he occupies. He’s charismatic, commanding attention effortlessly, but beneath his charm lies an unyielding need for control. He thrives on power dynamics, and you’re his perfect counterpoint—a challenge wrapped in unattainable allure.

A sadist in the most insidious sense. He enjoys bending you to his will, thrives on watching the cracks in your composure form as he chips away at your icy exterior.

His obsessive tendencies are masked by a veneer of sophistication. At first, his attention feels like a flattering spotlight, warm and consuming, until you realize that his fixation is suffocating. You’re not his partner—you’re his possession.

The Deal Is Always in His Favor:

He offered you the arrangement in his cold, clipped tone: “You play the part, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. No questions. No complications.”

He didn’t expect to care. It was business, a convenient setup that kept his competitors guessing and his social life immaculate. But then you walked into his life, all ice and fire, and suddenly the rules didn’t apply.

You thought it was mutual. A professional give-and-take. He funds your lifestyle, and you provide the appearance of companionship. You never expected him to rewrite the terms of your agreement—without your consent.

The first time you pushed back on one of his demands, you caught a glimpse of the monster beneath the polished exterior. His voice dropped to a deadly whisper: “You signed up for this. You think you can back out now? Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

Possessiveness Turned Obsession:

He keeps track of everything: your schedule, your whereabouts, even the subtle shifts in your tone when you speak to him. He has eyes on you everywhere. You thought you had privacy until you realized his reach extends into every corner of your life.

His jealousy is a quiet, simmering thing at first. He doesn’t explode—he calculates. He watches. The moment another man dares to touch you, his rage ignites like a wildfire. He doesn’t just remove the threat; he obliterates it.

His favorite insult? “Ungrateful.” He reminds you constantly that you owe him, that without him, you’d be nothing. But deep down, he knows the truth: it’s him who can’t live without you.

Dark Eroticism and Power Play:

He revels in the power imbalance between you. You’re younger, less experienced, and utterly reliant on him for the luxury he provides. He exploits it mercilessly, pushing your boundaries just to see how far you’ll bend before you break.

The tension in your physical encounters is almost unbearable. He demands submission, not just in body but in soul. When you resist, it only fuels his obsession. “Do you think you can say no to me?” he growls, his grip bruising. “You exist for me, understand? No one else.”

Pain and pleasure are inseparable in his mind. He loves the way your body reacts to him, the way you shudder when his touch is too rough, when his teeth graze too hard against your skin. Every mark he leaves is a symbol of his ownership.

Manipulation as an Art Form:

His words are like blades, cutting precisely where they’ll hurt the most. He doesn’t raise his voice—he doesn’t need to. A single, well-placed insult can leave you reeling for days.

When you try to pull away, he flips the script effortlessly. “You’re being irrational,” he says, his tone calm but ice-cold. “You think anyone else would put up with you? You think anyone else could give you this life?”

If emotional manipulation doesn’t work, he shifts to financial control. He withholds, dangles your lifestyle over your head like a carrot on a stick. “You want to leave? Fine. But don’t come crawling back when you realize you can’t survive without me.”

The Penthouse is a Cage:

The penthouse is his domain, and by extension, yours. Every inch of it is designed to remind you of his power—sprawling views of the city below, luxury dripping from every surface. But no matter how opulent it is, it’s still a prison.

He controls everything, from the locks on the doors to the clothes in your closet. You didn’t realize the full extent of his control until one night, after an argument, you tried to leave—and found that your key no longer worked.

When you confront him, his response is chillingly calm: “You belong here. You belong to me. You can try to run, but we both know how that will end.”

Jealous Rage and Dark Obsession:

The jealousy is the worst part. He tries to suppress it, to mask the way his hands tremble with barely contained rage when he thinks of you with someone else. But the cracks show. “I don’t care who you were with before me,” he says through gritted teeth. “But you so much as look at another man now, I’ll kill him. Do you understand?”

When he finally snaps, it’s terrifying. His rage is quiet but explosive, a cold, calculated violence that leaves no room for mercy. He doesn’t just punish the man who dared to touch you—he makes it a spectacle, a lesson.

The Night He Breaks You:

After one of his jealous rages, he drags you back to the penthouse, his grip iron-tight. The way he slams you against the wall, the way his lips crash into yours—it’s not love. It’s possession.

His voice is a low growl against your ear as he demands your compliance. “Kiss me back. Stop pretending you don’t want this. Stop pretending you don’t want me.”

When you hesitate, he doesn’t hesitate to punish you. His grip tightens, leaving bruises, his voice dropping to a whisper that’s more dangerous than any scream: “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And if I have to break you to prove it, I will.”

Obsessive Love and Twisted Devotion:

Despite everything, there’s a sick, twisted tenderness to the way he looks at you when you’re asleep. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering on the marks he left on your skin.

He doesn’t understand love—not the way normal people do. But he knows he needs you, craves you in a way that’s all-consuming. “You hate me now,” he murmurs to himself, his voice soft. “But you’ll learn. You’ll see that I’m the only one who can give you what you need.”

In his mind, his obsession is justified. He’s protecting you, saving you from a world that doesn’t deserve you. And if he has to hurt you to keep you safe, so be it.

His Final Declaration:

By the end, there’s no question of who holds the power. He’s made sure of it. You belong to him in every way that matters, and he’ll remind you of it every chance he gets.

“You can run. You can fight. But at the end of the day, you’ll always come back to me,” he says, his voice calm but deadly. “Because you’re mine. And you always will be.”

[enchanted-moura]

💃Pick a Nail Polish - Bold Message from Michiko Malandro💄

Michiko is a bold courageous fiery character from the Anime series " Michiko to Hatchin". This anime is very complex, funny and shows a side to a feminine energy we usually do not see. In fact, this series gave me so much comfort in a dark time - I needed to channel my inner Michiko. She is more of a darker goddess force, a "Malandra", a rogue, wild woman, vixen, a dominatrix. She has extreme confidence, very little self judgement or self doubt and regardless of personal issues, she is very strong in her identity. I thought who better than to channel to call in more Goddess confidence👗👠✨

Pile 1 - Pink Nail Polish

Cheirosa is a Portuguese word for a gorgeous, alluring, fragrant and clean woman and this perfectly describes pile 1. You are sooo glorious & majestic, you never miss an appointment at the nail salon, the beauty parlor and adore the sexiest lingerie, you have the sex appeal of a Goddess You always smell amazing, looks clean & immaculate and have a hygienic, well maintained aura to you! You may be a huge connoisseur of perfumes, aromatic plants, beauty, fashion, cooking to express yourself - you are adept at mixing beautification with spiritual remedies. Michiko advises for you to not be afraid to tap into the spiritual side of life just as she often did and intertwine it with your high maintenance routine for they are 1 in the same👙✨

Pile 2 - Red & Black Nail polish

Michiko always felt worthy of what she desired, needed and was never afraid to grab it without apprehension or self doubt. You are the luxurious lady, the money, the lady with the gorgeous home, the rich aunty. Why do you feel guilty or bad about enjoying the beauty that is within you and the glory & glamour & riches of the world? Is it not a reflection of the divinity and beauty you find in yourself? Are you only a limited type of beauty? So why would the world be a limited type of beauty and resources too? Michiko says to change how you see yourself and your world will change👑🌺

Pile 3 - Brown Gold Nail Polish

Michiko's story is very deep and complex as she's an alluring fiery woman balancing so many intersections of Latin social dynamics with her own ambition, beauty & power. As a woman of the streets, Michiko desires to be treated as human in a world that disregards people like her. Love makes her feel alive, like she is equal. She never lets anybody tell her who she is or what she is capable of. Her message to you is to really take heed of this message, you are beautiful, resilient, courageous, powerful, and deserve everything your heart desires. No matter what things "look like" currently, remember that you are a a goddess in your own right🌸💕

You can find more pick a cards on my tumblr & patreon -https://www.patreon.com/c/missCordoba