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#i wonder if any of you will catch that reference
maelstrom007 · 7 months
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New Face, Who This?
Don't mind me, just playing in the sandbox that is @ghouldjams cod fae au. Mal switches things up, as they are wont to do, and trips up a certain fae in the process. Featuring ghouls oc Witch who I adore.
Mal looked at themselves in the mirror. They turned this way and that, but something just felt. . . off. Pursing their lips they sighed, changing into the fifth outfit that morning. Ugh, still not right. 
“Maybe it’s time for a change,” they murmured. When was the last time they did this? Twenty years ago? Maybe more? Yeah, it was time to switch things up. 
Stripping bare, they stared at the mirror once more. It was always easiest if they could see what they were doing. To start Mal focused on their face, studying the wide jaw and square face they had become accustomed to for the last however many years it’s been. Reaching forward toward their reflection, fingers splayed, they twisted their wrist. Mal’s reflection fractured, tesselating out in patterns and colors like a kaleidoscope, before suddenly snapping back into place. 
The face staring back at them was much softer, rounder around the cheeks with a charming mouth. Some things remained unchanged, like their fiery red hair and their bold eyebrows. For whatever reason they always stuck around. 
Moving on to the rest of their body, they wanted to move on from the sleek and slim rectangular build. In the end, they went for something a little more filled out, hints of muscle and practical strength within a sturdy frame. They’d have to workout to maintain it, they were using magic afterall, not working miracles.
With the excitement of a new canvas, finding an outfit was easy, opting for a long sundress. The lack of sleeves accentuated the new muscles in their arms nicely, while also complementing their new more feminine face. A last little splurge of magic allowed their hair to grow just long enough to place in a messy bun. 
As usual, the day was rather slow, mainly spent at their combination check out and consultation table project planning for recent clients. Creating patterns, planning dye lots, etc. etc. Their project ledger wasn’t completely full yet, so their curtains were pulled wide open, and a sign that said ‘Welcome, during business hours’ hung from the door. 
This meant that a certain handsome fae could slip in with no resistance, immediately waltzing up to the counter with a confidence that should have been annoying, if they weren’t in such a good mood. 
“Well hello, I - oh.” He started his greeting, but stumbled mid way through as Mal looked up from their ledger. 
They raised an eyebrow, “Hello to you too.”
Confusion was visible on his face, “Sorry, I was just expecting someone else.”
“And who would that be?”
“The last time I came in, maybe a little over a week ago, there was someone else here. Kind of small, very cute, with shaggy red hair almost the same color as yours.”
“Hunting for information, are we?”
A boyish glint sparkled in the others eyes as he leaned over the counter, “Now that I think of it you two look quite a bit alike. You two wouldn’t happen to be. . .siblings, would you?” 
Before Mal could even begin to think of a way to respond to that Witch glided in through the door, the wards tingling in delight and recognition of their clever creator. “Oh my gosh you will not believe the tea I have for you today, I heard that -” 
It only took Witch a second to notice the changes, and only a few more to piece together what Mal had done, “Wow!!!! You look great! I love what you’ve done with your hair, and that dress looks gorgeous on you, did you make it yourself?” 
Gossip forgotten, Witch ran up to dote on Mal, feeling the material and gushing over their new look. After a few minutes of this, the fae man coughed gently. 
“Shit! Sorry, I’ll let you finish up with your customer,” Witch said.
“Oh, I’m not a customer,” he said.
“Then what are you?”
“A nuisance,” Mal said, “a nosy one at that.”
Witch snorted, but said nothing. 
If he took offense to Mal’s comment, he didn’t show it, “All I want to know is who that fae is that I talked to a few weeks ago. About yea tall, pretty hands and shaggy red hair kind of like yours? Tell me, is red hair and attractiveness a job requirement? Or am I just incredibly lucky?” His lopsided grin would have been annoying if it didn’t look so good on his face.
Witch opened her mouth, “M-”
At the sound of their name starting in Witch’s mouth, Mal gave her a desperate look in warning. Even though ‘Mal’ wasn’t really their true name, it’s not something that they gave out left and right, let alone to loitering mystery fae. 
With barely a stumble in her speech, she corrected herself, “My friend here runs this shop by themselves. And damn well at that.”
He chuckled, “Well then, aren’t you full of surprises.” This time, Mal didn’t miss the once over he gave them. When their eyes met, his golden eyes looked molten hot. 
A blush rose to their cheeks unbidden, and Mal brought their hands together in a decisive clap, “Well! If you’re not a customer I must ask you to leave immediately as is shop policy,” a delicate line of fine print illuminated itself in recognition on the welcome sign, “Good day to you sir.”
The typically controlled and smooth wards were swift and erratic as they buffeted the mystery fae towards the door, however he resisted them as much as he could, “Tell me your name! What may I call you?” He called out frantically, attempting to brace himself against the wards unseen force. 
Mal raised their hand to aid in one final push to send him out the door, but paused as their eyes met once again. There was a desperation and sincerity in his features. Before Mal knew what they were doing they opened their mouth. 
“You may call me a fox, sir hunter, for that is all I am to you.” 
“And a lovely Fox you shall be,” he said, before he was sucked out of the door and summarily deposited on the street, curtains closing with a solid thwunk. 
The silence was thick in the shop before Witch broke it, voice strained with barely contained laughter “~You may call me a fox for that is all I am to you~”
“Shut upppp”
“Well, he’s a handsome hunter, I'll give him that.” 
Mal put their head in their hands, “He’s a nuisance and nothing more.” 
“Suuuure.”
They giggled desperately, “He is!! He comes waltzing in saying that he doesn’t want anything and then I kick him out cause he’s loitering!”
“God Mal you’re insufferable, he’s flirting with you you idiot.” 
“He is not.” 
“If you say so. But you best believe that I am going to bring this up over dinner because never in the time that I’ve known you have I seen your wards react like that.” 
Mal raised their head, eyebrows furrowed, “Dinner?”
Witch gave them a confused look, before letting out an exasperated sigh, “I forgot to say it out loud huh.”
“Yup.”
“Well, your ass, my house, I’m making dinner cause I haven’t had you over in ages. Be there or be square.” 
“I wonder if I could actually turn myself into a square.”
“Dammit Mal.”
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bigmeandragonlady · 11 months
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i really have to find a way for Klaus and my oc to interact that isn't threatening to kill each other, taking jabs at insecurities, or physical violence
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groguspicklejar · 3 months
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I love your mafia!141. Its so interesting and realistic at the same time, its just wonderful. But what if... someone tried to frame the reader and succeed. The reader was just at the right places at the right time and some uses it against them and with the tention between the reader and mafia!141, it was so easy to belive they betrayed them. So they interrogate the reader and hurt them to get answers that dont exist. And by the time they realize what they did, it's too late. They go looking for they were they last left ( unceremoniously dumped) them and find nothing. The reader gone in the wind as if they never existed. The reader however was surprisingly help by someone passing by that just happens to be an agent of some sort and gets put under witness protection. Now its been six /seven years later, the boys think the reader is dead and the reader is living a life somewere new with her twins ( heteropaternal superfecundation), a pale skined,blue eyed and brown haired boy and a chocolate skined, hazel-eyed and curly haired girl. And one day the boys have to do business in a different city and see the reader somewhere with the twins. The guys are shocked to say the least and think they mite have seen a ghost, till they see them again one morning as the reader is taking the twins to school. And thus they realize they have kids with a woman they thought they killed... And so i leave the rest to you if you do deside to use any of this.
your mind is so wrinkly but i kinda hate you for putting this in my head because this trope is my weakness👽 I've only seen one reference of heteropaternal superfecundation in mainstream media, which was from s1 of American Horror story and it's a nice touch to bring the idea here👌🏽 not going into the canon timeline of mafia!141 but i'm leaving this here for all to see because it's just too good to leave rotting in my inbox🫠🫠🫠 warnings: dark themes, stalking, mentions of torture, elements of ptsd, unconventional parenting schedule/custody arrangements, a looot of guilt.
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it's unclear whether they're devastated, relieved or just in pure shock upon seeing you after all these years. and with two boys too, aged eight now.
eight years. eight fucking years since they last saw you. that can't be a coincidence.
they kept a close eye on you, so they don't lose you again. kept your movements tracked, learned where you live, where you work, where your kids go to school, who you and your kids hang out with, the whole nine yards and more.
they don't approach you for a good while, at least a few months. too afraid that they might spook you. too afraid that you might take off and leave without a trace. this time with your children— their children.
but eventually, due to your past trauma, you catch on to the fact that you're being followed. that unnerving itch at the back of your head, a quiet whisper telling you that you're being watched. it nags at you, makes you fearful that you're in danger, that your boys are in danger.
so you quietly pack up all the necessities you need to get out in case things turn sideways fast. and your sons have already made aware that they're going on a trip, but they're smart, as kids are. they notice that something's wrong and it's making their mom worried.
but the second you try to run, they're already at your doorstep because, again, they've been watching you closely.
you're not surprised when you opened the door to find Price standing there.
"can i come in?"
if he's here, then no doubt the others are too. watching. waiting for you to make the wrong move. you have no doubt that the house is surrounded. that even if, by some miracle, you get through Price, either Soap or Ghost will be waiting for you and Gaz is somewhere on higher ground, watching through the scope of a rifle.
no way out. just like last time.
you don't look away from Price as you call out, "boys, go to your room."
their footsteps quickly patter down the hall and you hear the door close. you step back to let Price in and close the door behind him. you don't offer him a drink, don't offer him a seat. nothing. he deserves nothing from you.
"beautiful home." he muses, glancing around the cosy interior of your house. he turns to look at you with a wry smile. "beautiful children."
you can't think of anything worse than him getting his hands on your sons. what they put you through was bad enough. in fact, it should've killed you.
you would rather go through all of it again than let them harm a single hair on your children's heads.
"keep them out of this." you spoke too sharply. the words cut through the air.
you think maybe it's not such a good idea to speak like that to someone who holds your life in the palm of his hands.
"please..." it's a whisper this time, a plea. "please keep them out of this."
something crumples in his eyes. a flash of heartbreak, of a devastation that will take an eternity to heal. but it's fleeting. gone as quickly as the wind. what's left is something somber.
"i just want to talk." he finally says.
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the boys stick close to you. naturally, they feed off of your energy. they watch you closely, see how you react to things and follow your lead. rightfully so; after all, mother knows best.
you hardly go anywhere far when 141 is around them. always ready to step in if you feel that your sons need you. always beckoning them when you can't see them for more than a few minutes.
Gaz and Soap might be fathers to each boy, but that doesn't change how unsafe you feel around them.
the fact weighs heavily on all four of them.
Price and his boys don't uproot you and your children. not this time. they learned the hard way that doing so will only make you more fearful and by extension, making the boys less trusting of them.
instead, it's better to work around your already established life and schedule. even if it means moving 141 headquarters to an entirely new city, they'll do it. they'll do whatever you want, as long as you keep them involved in your and your sons' lives.
Ghost and Price are good to your kids. Price adores listening to them talk about school and Ghost sort of treats them like mini-adults because he feels sort of out of his element when it comes to children.
but they can't help but think that you're only allowing Soap and Gaz supervised visitations to keep some semblance of peace. because deep down, they know you feel as though you don't have a choice, that things will be worse if you don't give them something to work with.
deep down, they know that if you had the power, your sons would be kept as far away from their fathers as possible. and not out of spite, it's out of fear. you're terribly afraid that they'll hurt your children.
yet, that's not even the worst part.
slowly, with time, the boys become a little more open towards their dads and their uncles. they smile more, they're more playful, more talkative. but you remain steadfast in your cold demeanour.
if the boys need new clothes, you remain afar while Soap and Gaz take their pick from the clothing aisles and do their shopping. you hardly say a word during the process. you treat it more as a tedious task, rather than a bonding ritual. and you don't accept any gifts from Soap and Gaz either.
any stray dresses or accessories that don't look like they're for kids that wind up in the shopping basket are promptly taken out and put back where they were found when your sons aren't looking. you either claimed that you didn't like them or don't have anywhere you'd like to wear them to.
which, technically, isn't a lie. you hardly have any friends. you just don't trust people nowadays.
you keep yourself seperate from them, aside from the supervised visits. you don't allow for them to get close too you because you don't want to have to go through the same heartbreak before if someone betrays them and thinks you did it again.
and they hate themselves for it. it's not your fault you're so aloof with them. not allowing them to touch you, to hold you, even for just a few seconds. refusing dates, refusing gifts, not using their cards for your own stuff like treating yourself with a spa day or a shopping spree.
the only notifications that come onto their phones are food and stuff you bought for the boys. that's it. nothing else. and it hurts because they adore spoiling you rotten and you won't let them like before.
it's their own personal hell. being so close, yet so far from you. held at arm's length as if they were mere strangers.
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banners by @cafekitsune mafia!141 masterlist offer a note in the picklejar
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Keep Moving Forward
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Pairing: König x Reader
Summary: You're determined to find out why everyone thinks König is so scary, afterall he's just some guy that's taller than most people right? He's probably harmless! Well, he's a little scary, but you still like him anyway.
(No use of y/n or mention of gender/race)
AN: Just want to say a massive thank you for everyones lovely comments on the last part, I can't believe how many notes that has now 😱 I've got a taglist so if you want to be added or removed (I just stuck down everyone that commented or reblogged the last one with tags/comments) lemme know! Also I've got my own version of what König looks like and I've been including details so hopefully you like my thoughts on him 🥰
Part 2 of A Rocky Start - Full Masterlist Here
-☠️-
A forbidden crush, a whole unit of men watching out for any missteps and a job that required you to be on your A game - it all sounded a bit like a bonkers netflix plot, but no this was your life now. You were desperately trying to hide your little (massive) König crush, while trying to get through your days and it was going horribly. The universe was working against you. 
König kept appearing for one. Now that he knew you weren’t talking to him just to fuck with him, you’d been meeting more and more and talking for longer each time. In fact, you’d come to learn a lot about the man in the short amount of time you’d spent together and unfortunately for you, nothing about any of it turned you off.  In fact, you were only falling harder for him. 
Every touch, every grazed hand when you were reaching for mugs and brushed sides when you sat together on the couch - they were driving you crazy. Not to mention catching little details about him here and there, painting a mental picture that rivalled the mona lisa. 
You’d caught a glimpse of a scar that snaked up from his lip and a few that marred his hands and arms, you’d noted bruises that carried back from missions and most of all you couldn’t help but think of the little birthmark on his left hip that he’d exposed when he’d been reaching for tea. You thought about running your fingers along them often, kissing them all better. 
You’d learned that it was pretty much pointless to make movie references to König because he barely took time to watch them. He was much more of a doer, he didn’t like to sit still for long and most film runtimes were over an hour and a half, which was no good for him. And so you’d slowly gotten a peek into his more active hobbies. Hiking, rock climbing and skiing, only to name a few. The man was an athlete that rivalled most of the soldiers you knew.  
“And this was the view from top!” he’d proudly said after he showed you another picture from one of his hikes.
“Woah, no wonder your legs are like tree trunks,” you’d murmured, raking your eyes over his thick thighs.
“What was that?”
“Oh! Just- you must get a good workout climbing all those hills.”
Just one of the many times you’d let your appreciation for him slip. You could barely help it most of the time, he had your words fizzling out like some kind of mentos and coke explosion. The highly trained soldier in you died the minute you were in a room with him. 
It was when he grabbed you that you finally went stupid for him. König was - as Captain Price had described him - a mammoth in many regards. You’d already taken note of his verging on monstrous height, but you’d come to learn a lot more about his strength. He could lift you like you were little more than a lap dog.
How had you come to find this out? Well -
“Watch out!”
Your head had been completely in the clouds, busy catching up with messages from your family, when suddenly you were in the air. You gasped as you felt a pair of hulking arms pick you like an apple from a low hanging branch and squeaked when you looked down and came to notice the pile of vomit that lurked below your flailing feet. Gross. 
Then you’d come to the slow realisation of exactly whose arms were wrapped around you. Suddenly the rising feeling of nausea was replaced by hordes of stirred up butterflies.
“Are you ok?” 
You blinked, still shocked that König was holding you like you were nothing.
“Uh- ah- yeah! Yup! All good, big guy!”
You’d hurried out your reply, sputtering out your words like a leaky tap. You felt like an idiot. Then the feeling intensified when he put you down and turned you to face him. In fact, you felt like someone had placed a heat pad to your face after running a marathon.
If he could lift you that easy when you were limp, imagine how easy he could lift you up against the wall and-
“Are you sure you’re ok? You look…not so good?.”
You gulped and offered him what you hoped was a reassuring smile and then - to make matters worse - a double thumbs up (who did that???). You silently cursed in your mind, but covered up your embarrassment by staring back at the sick pile for a second and then facing König again.
“Ew…thanks for saving me from that! I would’ve been throwing up as well if I’d had to clean that outta my shoes.”
“Any time, friend!”
Friend.
It stung a little, but then you had to remind yourself you were both supposed to be acting professionally, this was a base afterall, and quickly righted yourself. Friend would do fine in a setting where Price would have your head for even looking at König a little flirtily. Especially when the resident gossips had continued to grass you in for any interactions they caught. 
-☠️-
“That was some amount of whitey those new recruits left all over the hallways yesterday,” Soap had remarked after finishing a set of pull ups. 
You hummed in agreement, remembering back to being lifted and growing quiet as you thought about Königs bulging arms. It had been a recurring thought for the whole twenty two hours since it had happened. Not that you were counting or anything, especially not being obsessive by any means. It was just that the electricity that had been sparked by that touch had been racing around your body and now you were stuck replaying the scene over and over in your head like an accursed rerun. 
“English, Soap,” Ghost grunted, from a nearby bench. 
“There was a lot of puke all over the place yesterday,” Soap sighed, rolling his eyes at the Lieutenant. 
“Oh yeah, I heard about that. Did you hear sneaky almost stepped in it?”
“Ooft, that’d be a shite shift cleaning that off.”
“I know. Luckily little sneak got airlifted to safety,” Ghost said slyly, giving you a pointed look. “Got snatched away by a certain giant before they stepped right in it.”
You froze in your spot, just about to curl a weight upwards before letting it crash out of your hands and onto the floor. That fucking, no good old dear prick! How had he heard about that? You hadn’t thought anyone else had been around when it had happened. 
“Careful, sneak. The German’s not here to stop that from stubbing your toe,” Ghost chuckled.
“He’s Austrian actually…And how did you know about that?”
“Oooh! Austrian,” Soap snickered.
“Well I do apologise. You should know by now that I hear about everything when it comes to our unit, sweetheart.”
You hated that. Whenever Ghost patronisingly called you sweetheart it made your blood boil and clouded your thoughts like a thick red mist. Though, there was nothing you could do about it. He wasn’t someone you could wage revenge on without being thoroughly outgunned in all respects. Plus, it would only make you look more guilty. 
“Well, you didn’t even know what nationality König was so you don’t know everything,” you muttered.
“Well, now that you’ve filled me in, I can go tell Price you were getting lifted up by the big Austrian cunt that he told you to stay away from,” he countered smugly. 
“What! I can’t help who snatches me out of the air from nowhere,” you hissed. “Have you seen the size of him? I can’t exactly stop him.”
He tisked. 
“Well then, soldier. Sounds like you need more training. C’mere, we’ll practise getting out of holds!”
You yelped as Ghost had come crashing toward you and dove out of the way just in time to miss his outstretched arms. Even if he was smaller than your new companion, Ghost was still built like a tank - and he would pin you down like a mouse under the wheel of a 4x4 if he caught you. 
“Stay away from me!” you’d squealed, running away from the gym. 
“Oh now you’re suddenly averse to getting grabbed!”
-☠️-
Essentially, you were discovering a new level of hell every day. Your entire unit had cottoned on to your little thing with König and now there was no escape from the jokes they made. Well that is until Price came along and no one was quite enough of an asshole to mention your activities to him. You all knew the consequences of getting his back up and it wasn’t worth the stress for anyone. 
Though, not everyone was aware of that - König himself for one. Unluckily for you, you’d found yourself in the kitchen with Price and Soap and just as the kettle was put to the boil, who should walk in but the Austrian giant himself. 
“Evening,” he murmured, barely loud enough to be heard over the kettle. 
Soap looked up from his phone as he noticed König and widened his eyes before searching you out and giving you a sly smile. Oh lord. You knew he was going to love watching you squirm. 
Suddenly your heart was thudding like a samba drum and your mind was racing to find your self restraint. Don’t let Price see you turn into a nervous fucking wreck! You repeated that over and over like a mantra, turning it over in the sands of your mind as if you might find some calm that way. 
“Evenin’” you smiled, feeling your voice lilt.
Oh god. 
You smiled at König as he approached the counter and promptly scampered away to the table, hoping that by keeping some distance you wouldn’t be so transparent. Fat chance considering the stupid smirk that was all over Soap’s face as he pretended to batter his eye lashes behind Price’s back. Asshole!
You knew you looked guilty as hell, even if you were walking away from König. However, any chance of not being caught ogling by Price was worth taking. So you figured you’d stare at your phone instead and prayed to all the gods you knew of that König was busy and he’d have to leave again after getting himself something to drink. 
Why didn’t he ever go out for food? There was a perfectly nice pub just over the road and he could easily go there instead of looking over you all the time - putting you in grievous danger of toilet duty. You’d have to tell him about it sometime, and hope that he’d ask to go with you. 
“Anyone else want a brew?” Price offered, in the midst of pouring his own cup. 
You looked up from your phone screen, darting your eyes over to the captain. Answer him! Speak normally!
“Oh! Yes, me please.”
Maybe that was a little more polite and nicey-nice than usual, but at least you were coherent. That was something, a small victory.
“Coffee for me, Price,” Soap grinned. 
You breathed out a small sigh now that Price was distracted by Soap and let your eyes wander over to König, resting your chin in your hand. He was so big, he towered over the two other men by a few heads at least. He could pin you down like a lion and there’d be nothing you could do about it, nothing you’d want to do about it. 
“That’s the wrong one.”
You jumped as König’s accented voice interrupted the thankful silence and widened your eyes as you watched him turn to Price. What was he doing? You sucked in a breath and watched as the two men became locked into an exchange and silently hoped a rogue sniper might take you out. 
“Sorry, what was that?” Price asked, frowning deeply as he stared at the masked man.
“That’s the wrong tea,” König supplied helpfully. “Sneaky likes this one.”
As if correcting Price on his choice of tea wasn’t enough, König went to the lengths of picking a bag of your herbal stuff out. He dropped it into the mug and stuck the other bag back in the back, tilting his head as Price stared at him with a raised eyebrow. 
“Well then…thanks for the advice,” he finally said, turning to stare you down. “It’s never nice when you expect one thing and get the other.”
You were in deep shit. 
He was giving you the ‘I’ve killed before and I’ll do it again’ look. You gulped and slumped in your chair, feeling like a tiny child that was about to get reprimanded. Price was going to learn all about your involvement with König soon, the game was up. 
“Oh yeah, no problem!” König said, sounding like he was smiling under his mask. 
That idiot! 
Though, in fairness to him he knew nothing about the toilet duty thing. He didn’t even have any idea that you weren’t supposed to be interacting with him, especially when you’d gone so out of your way to do it over the past month. It wasn’t his fault, but at the same time you could strangle his beautiful massive neck for what he’d done. 
“Sneak, would you mind coming with me for a moment? I think we should have a little chat,” Price smiled. “I’ll bring your tea.”
He was probably omitting that he was going to dump it over your stupid head, you thought worriedly. This wasn’t good at all. 
You gulped and nodded at him, slinking out of your chair like a dog about to take a beating. Though, you continued to follow behind him just as dutifully - Ignoring Soap as he gave you a little wave off and a snarky smile. You knew as soon as you’d left that he was messaging the group chat right then, and the whole 141 would know that you were getting pulled up for speaking to König. 
He lead you down the hall and into an empty meeting room, setting the two mugs down on the table, they hit the wood like death knells, and pointed to the chair in front of him. It all felt very formal, like this was going to be one of the worst telling offs of your life. 
“Don’t look so scared, kid.”
You bit your tongue and chanced a look in his eyes, seeing the glint that lingered within them. He didn’t look furious, but he didn’t look like he was going to offer you a cuddle and kind words either. It made you sweat a little less, but you weren’t dumb enough to completely untense your body yet. 
“Y-you’re not annoyed that I’ve been speaking to König?” You asked, chancing your luck.
“Oh, I’m annoyed, but I’m not going to kill you for it,” he laughed humorlessly, leaning back in his chair. “You look like you’re going to shit yourself.”
“I think I might,” you said, biting your lip and fastening your shaky hands around your warm tea cup. 
“See, that’s why I’m concerned about this…relationship you’re building with König. I worry about you.”
You frowned, thoroughly surprised by his reaction. He was being a damn sight more sympathetic than you were expecting. This wasn’t a bollocking, this was an intervention. 
“You don’t have to worry. We’re just friends - strictly platonic! We talk and have tea together, nothing more than that,” you explain breathily, hoping it’ll appease the captain.
He strokes a hand through his beard and eyes you warily. He’s clearly unconvinced. His jaw is set into a worried line. 
“Hmm.”
He doesn’t give much away. 
“Really, I’m not trying to take things f-further.”
You stutter like a liar. Really, that is what you’re doing if you’re honest with yourself. You might not be asking König out on dates and braiding flowers into his gear, but you have been shamelessly flirting with him and getting into close proximity with him at the slightest chance. Plus, Price practically knows you better than your own parents, he’d be able to tell when you were acting differently, like you were in terminal stages of puppy love. 
“Look, he’s not part of our unit, so really it’s none of my business, I can’t actually do anything about it - as much as I’d like to,” he says, glowering for a moment. “I just think that he’s dangerous and I don’t like the thought of you getting close to him. For all I know, he’s nice enough to you, but when he’s on the field that man’s an animal. There’s something wrong with him.” 
You gasp a little as he says it, shocked that he’d say something like that to you. What did he mean there was something wrong with König? Sure, you thought, he was quiet and intimidating but he was so polite and cheerful when you’d gotten to know him more. It’s not like most people were their best selves on a battlefield - it was in your training to leave all that behind. It was hypocritical to judge Königs actions given your experience with the 141 out on missions. 
“What do you mean there’s something wrong with him?” You finally asked, curious to know just what Price meant. 
“He takes too much pleasure in the work he does. He’s sick when he’s out there- like letting a rabid dog out of its cage. I worry about you getting involved with him and being at the mercy of a man like that. You wouldn’t have any chance against him, Sneak. I’ve seen him crush bones like they’re twigs, he’d snap you like a toothpick.”
You can feel your pulse in your ears, can hear it working away like a jackhammer. You don’t know how to respond. The fact that Price is this worried for you really does concern you, but on the other hand König has never given you any reason to be scared of him beyond that first encounter you’d had with him. Then again, you reasoned that that surely wasn’t the real him - that was guarded walled up version of him. Right? 
“I see,” you sighed, not able to come out with more. 
“I know you won’t want to take my word for it, and you’re going to keep doing whatever it is you're actually doing. I just want to know that you’ve been warned and you’re going to be careful.”
You took a breath and looked away, roving your eyes over the assortment of chairs on the other side of the room. Sure, you could take his warning on. Though, it didn’t feel like it was going to stick, not when you thought back to his arms wrapped around you and making you feel like a precious gem. 
“I’ll keep what you’ve said in mind,” you acquiesced. 
“Good soldier,” Price smiled, leaning over and patting your shoulder.
You swallowed thickly and stood up, feeling your breathing return back to normal. Well that was it then. You weren’t going to be killed on sight and you didn’t have to worry about staring down the bowl of a toilet for the rest of your miserable life. 
You both stepped out the doorway and into the light of the hall. You felt dizzy on your feet, but relieved that you were getting away without any punishment. Well, other than the fact that König might be someone to worry about rattling around in the back of your mind, that is. Then again, you had a sneaking suspicion that you’d forget all about it as soon as you were in his company again…
“Remember what I said, Sneaky! Otherwise I’ll let you think about it some more while you’re on your knees scrubbing toilets,” Price said over his shoulder, taking an indulgent sip of his coffee afterwards. 
You stopped in your tracks and shared a look with Soap, who’d poked his head out of the kitchen to check on you. Well, maybe you weren’t going to completely forget Price’s warning. His lingering threat would keep you on your toes. 
-☠️-
“It seems a little late for you to be out walking,” you noted.
You watched as König whirled around, and went wide eyed when he looked like he might hit you. His fist was drawn back and just when it looked like he was about to swing it - he stopped and let it fall flatly to his side. As soon as he’d scanned his eyes over your shrinking form he went limp immediately. 
“Scheiße! Where the hell did you come from?” he cursed.
You took a moment to recover but eventually found your heartbeat returning to its regular rhythm and swallowed, relaxing your shoulders soon after. That was close. You assumed he’d have known you were sitting there on the wall, he always seemed to have a hyper awareness of you as if he was some kind of bat. Though his echolocation must have failed for once, you’d been too obscured by the untrimmed tree branches that had surrounded you, most likely.  
“I-I come out and sit here sometimes, its nice to look at the stars.”
König regarded the wall you were sitting on, just a low down thing made of worn stone and his head followed where it stretched down the road. It cut off the pavement from the small scatty park inside. Then when he looked back at you with his twinkling azure eyes, those eyes that had you forgetting all about the near miss that just happened, you finally got to take him in properly. You watched him as he settled next to you on your makeshift seat. 
Two things struck you all at once. Firstly, König was wearing a neck warmer instead of his usual sniper hood, probably so he wouldn’t scare any civilians more than a hulking giant like himself normally would, it was drawn way up to the bridge of his nose, but nevertheless you knew it was him under there. And next - the mess of shaggy dirty-blonde hair on top of his head. You had to fight the urge not to ask if you could run your hands through it. It was like putting a moth in front of a thousand watt bulb. You ached to feel the fuzz of his faded sides and get to rearrange the chaotic locks above that sprawled in every direction.
“You’re staring.”
You bit your lip as he said it, and looked away guiltily. Oh fuck. It’s not like it could be helped though, this was the most you’d gotten to see of him. He was always so covered up and burdened by gear you could barely make out the man from the material - and now you were getting to see what was basically a visual buffet of König. It wasn’t fair. You could look at every inch of him that he’d let you see all day. 
“Sorry,” you finally breathed out. “I just- uh was surprised is all.”
“Why?” he smirked, eyes crinkling as he stared right back. 
“Didn’t think you’d be blonde,” you say, thinking blessedly quickly. 
“What is it they say? Blondes have more fun?” he chuckled, coming to sit on the wall next to you. 
You snorted and looked away from him again. Even though you’d been talking for a while now, his silly humour could still surprise you, especially when you recalled the way everyone acted around him, as if he’d bite them if they got too close. It was like getting to see a tiger roll onto his stomach when no one else was around. 
“How come you don’t wear that around the base?” you asked, tilting your head at him.
“Why would I? I can wear my hood there without getting questioned about it.”
“But isn’t it less stuffy with the neck warmer?” You ask, crinkling your nose at the thought of being trapped under that heavy material all day. 
“Yes, but it’s as though I can physically feel people's eyes cutting into me when I wear this - or nothing. The staring is too much.” 
You pause for a second and laugh at yourself, feeling a little more embarrassed.
“...Like I was just doing to you there.”
König laughs a little with you, but after a second he shakes his head and breaths out into the frigid night air. The skies had been dark for a little while by that point and the light of the moon was bright and shiny, reflecting in König’s eyes like a gleaming pearl. It was probably the first time you ever recalled admiring the moon that much. 
“I didn't feel like I was being dissected by you, no.”
You felt a little tingle run rogue down your arm. So he didn’t mind you looking at him? You smiled a little wider to yourself and tried to conceal it with a scratch of your cheek. 
“Really? Why’s that?” You asked, feeling a little brave. 
“You stare at me all the time, I’m used to it.”
Instantly it felt as if the air had caught fire and was charring you into oblivion. He’d caught you? Why hadn’t he said anything before? You opened your mouth ready to come up with some kind of silly excuse, too flustered to think of something good. Though he interrupts you before you can get a sound out. 
“I didn't mean to embarrass you, I find it endearing,” he soothed.
“What? Why?” you ask dumbly.
“The way you look - with your wide doe eyes…” he says trailing off. 
Now he cant look at you. His head turns away. You can't speak either, so you're both left frozen in place.
“The way you’re looking at me now,” he finally says.
“Maybe I just can’t stop staring at your messy hair,” you chuckle, trying to awkwardly change the subject. “Someone should fix that for you.”
“Does someone want to?” he asks, his brows setting as he tilts his chin. 
Oh no. You bite your lip feeling like your body’s going to astrally project onto another planet. Was this really happening? Did he actually just give you permission to touch him, no, run your hands through his hair? 
Part of you wants to laugh him off and prevent any embarrassment when he turns around and says he was kidding, says you’re a weirdo for wanting to touch him like that. Your mind starts going down avenues of all the awful things he could say about the little freak that looks at him too much, but then the sane part of your mind kicks and acts as a buffer stop, halting the run away anxiety train. König would never do that to you. 
You were far too used to dealing with Ghost and Soap, and all of their stupid teasing. But even then, not even they would do something so cruel. 
“I do,” you murmur. 
König nods and leans forward and closes his eyes, giving you what little advantage he can with the amount of height he has on you. At first, you’re incredulous that you’re in a real life scenario and not locked into a fantasy seven layers deep, but you quickly give up that idea and decide to tentatively reach out. You’re too excited not to take the opportunity. 
Your hand shakes a little at first as you make contact with his soft hair, and immediately you think of the devil dog your neighbour used to have when you were a kid. It was a huge old thing that barked like a foghorn, but once it got to know you, it would roll over and present its downy fur and you could spend hours at a time running your hands through it. Now, though, it’s not the scary shepherd you’re taming, it’s König. 
He sits perfectly still while you sort through all the strands, smoothing them back and fixing them into place. You swear you can hear soft groans coming from him, but they’re so quiet you could be mistaken. That, and you’re too mesmerised by the task at hand, forming his hood mussed hair into a style. 
When you’re done and his hair is mostly settled - apart from a small cow lick you can’t seem to fix - you can’t help but run your fingers over the fuzz on the side of his head. Immediately he shivers like a harsh breeze has rolled in, surprising you, but when he snaps his eyes open they don’t look annoyed like you worry he is, instead he looks ready to pin you down and take you right there against the wall.
“That felt very nice,” he said softly, blown out pupils shifting away from you as he straightened.
You’re not sure what to say, you just smile and bite your lip, keeping your eyes fixed on him. You know rightly that your pupils are just as wide as his, you can practically feel the explosion that’s going on. You want him. 
“König I… I uh-“ 
Footsteps sounding from nearby, crunching up the leaf littered pavement, interrupt all your thoughts and both of you turn your heads as someone walks up to you both. You hold in a breath, feeling like you’d scream otherwise and watch as a face comes into view from out of the shadows. 
Mercifully it’s not Ghost or Soap that marches up to you, it’s Gaz.He’d been the only one not to completely batter the dead ‘Sneaky and König up a tree’ horse. He stops when he sees you both and his eyes widen as he spots König, probably just as shocked as you were when he realised he can see his face. Though, he quickly averts his eyes and looks at you instead, awkwardly shifting his hands in his hoodie pocket. 
“Captain said to tell you we’ve got an early start tomorrow,” he says looking at you pointedly , “we’ve got a briefing at four. Said you best get all the sleep you can.” 
“Oh…do you know anything about it?” You ask, still feeling a bit breathless from before.
“From what I gather, the 141 and KorTac are heading out together, but I don’t know much beyond that,” he shrugs. 
You give a sideways glance to König and watch as he regards you the same way. That meant you’d be working together for the first time. You take a breath and look back at Gaz, finally nodding your head.
“Thanks for coming to let me know, I’ll head in in a minute,” you assure him. 
Gaz nods back curtly and turns on his heel, retreating to the base again and leaving you alone in the only silence. You finally look back at König, only once you’re sure there’s no one lurking around and looking to catch you with him, and smile softly. 
“Looks like we’ll be working together then,” you laugh awkwardly.
“Seems like it,” he replies, lowering his head. “Perhaps we should listen to the captain’s advice and head in.”
You feel a stab of disappointment tear through your heart immediately. You’d wanted to resume things from where you’d left off. You wanted to pull back the cloth from his face and kiss him under the stars as if they were watching and you were the only ones there. There were fireworks and sparklers going off in your mind, but now they were being snuffed out as you watched König stand up from your not so secret spot. 
“Come on, you need your rest,” he insists, holding out his hand. 
You raise your eyebrows, but put your hand in his and rise as he guides you up. Even with you standing, he towers above you. It’s especially noticeable as you stand so close to him, almost pressed to his big wide chest. There’s a snapping creature in your mind that distantly wishes to jump onto him and kiss him, but you beat the thought back and look away from König instead.
“Hey,” he says softly, tilting your head back with his rough gloved fingers. “I want to pick things back up too, but…not before a mission. We can do this again after all that. Yeah?” 
You gulp, feeling your spine light on fire with tingles. Did he just acknowledge that things were about to go further there? So he definitely felt the same as you…
“Makes sense,” you murmur, feeling your desperation roll off you in waves. 
He is speaking sense, but you don’t want him to be. 
“You can fix my hair for me again when we get back,” he teases, rubbing his finger against your jaw again. “I’m sure it will be very messy.”
“Am I your stylist now?” You smirk, feeling your mood lift. 
“Amongst other things,” he says, eyes showing the smile that was surely on his lips. 
You raise your eyebrows and just as you’re about to ask what things, he silences you with what he does next. He leans down and brings his lips to your cheek, and through his mask, kisses you. 
You freeze in place, your heart thudding like it’ll explode and close your eyes. You can’t believe what just happened. You laugh a little to yourself - letting loose a giggle and open your eyes, watching as he smiles back at you and gestures his hand back to base. 
“To be continued,” you whisper to yourself.
-☠-
Next Part Here
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buhok-ng-bruha · 2 years
Text
Uh oh! A Jehovah’s Witness is at my door!
A guide on what the fuck is happening and what to do about it as a never JW, from an exJW.
JW congregations have just been told to start doing door-to-door preaching (aka ‘service’/‘service work’/‘witnessing’) again this September. They stopped for the past few years due to…well. The whole state of things. But it’s starting again! Fuck!
So, to get you folks in on the Secret Inner-workings of a Cult:
JWs do service work mostly on Saturdays and Sundays, but any day of the week is fair game, just less of them will be out on other days. Generally it’ll be in the mornings (anywhere between 9AM to 1PM being common, my family did 10AM to noon Saturdays), but any time of day is also fair game. Evening witnessing is encouraged, to catch parts of the service area who didn’t answer during morning service, like people who were at work or asleep.
JWs are given ‘territories’: entire neighborhoods if they’re a majority language and can generally bet on most of the people in a given area speaking that language; SPECIFIC ADDRESSES if they belong to a smaller language demographic. These are on ‘territory cards’, which include areas to fill out once they’ve called on houses. They often pull addresses from the phone book or other such directory, pulling based on name, or get referred new addresses from neighborhood sweeps in other congregations and were told x language was being spoken, so if you get called on by someone speaking your language and wonder how they got your address, it’s because they’ve collected data already! On You!
On that note: JWs collect data on you! A lot of it!! Those territory cards they fill out? They can include any information they gleaned from conversation (age? gender? personal details like if you’re married, if you live with your parents, etc? what religion do you belong to? any problems in your life they can ‘help’ with? any ‘problematic’ details, like if you’re queer? all of it.); if someone was home or not (yes we can see you peeking out from behind your curtains! we looked in windows!); if the person answering the door was uninterested; if they were aggressive; if they have dogs; if we were able to leave any publications with them; the details of any conversations we had, like which topics we discussed and which seemed to interest you the most; when to call on you again. The areas to fill this in on these cards are rather small so they usually only write down the most important information, but it is the most important information for trying to indoctrinate you into a cult. DO NOT give them any personal information. It will be used against you.
So that’s the gist of it. Now, you don’t want them at your door, probably.
Please do not harass them.
I know they’re annoying. We always knew we were being annoying. They do it anyways because they think they’re helping you. They often have children with them - not only because it’s often families going preaching together, but also because it’s a well known tactic to get a softer response from people they call on, to have a child with you. Even if there are no children, please do not harass JWs - they are cult victims, and doing so will only enforce their ‘us vs them’ mentality, and discourages members from leaving. The outside world hates you so much, so how can you leave?
“But what if—“ Nope! Beyond the whole ‘don’t be fucking cruel to abuse victims’ thing, it doesn’t even work! I’ve been threatened with dogs; my mother has been threatened with machetes; others have been flashed, or physically assaulted - we still went back eventually. Usually someone else would get the assignment, and usually we’d wait a bit, but we still went back.
“Okay, but what the fuck do I do, then?”
You open the door (yes, open the door; if you ignore them they’ll return again, assuming they just missed you or you were busy), let them tell you what they’re there for, and before the conversation goes further, you simply say:
“I’m not interested. Please put me on your do not call list.”
And then you tell them goodbye. Nothing more. Don’t say you have your own religion. Don’t say you’re queer. Don’t try to use the ‘magic word’ apostate - actual former members can get harassed.
Unfortunately, despite this being the most successful and least harmful strategy, it isn’t 100% foolproof. They’re supposed to write ‘do not call’ on the territory card next to your address, but they’re human and forget sometimes (or might not mark it intentionally, though I haven’t seen that personally); the next person who gets that card might not see the mark, as well. On top of everything else, even if not forgotten, they will eventually come back. It’s policy to come by after some time to check on you, ‘just in case’: just in case you changed your mind, just in case you moved and there’s someone else there now, just in case, oh, you recently had a loved one pass away and suddenly find yourself in an emotionally vulnerable position in need of support and sympathy.
If you have the knowledge and mental/emotional energy and stability to, you can go about trying to debate them, maybe help some of them doubt, but it is no easy task and there is no guarantee of any success. It takes a lot of patience. They are undergoing some extreme brainwashing and ‘waking up’ is incredibly traumatizing, and you will face a lot of resistance in trying to deconvert any of them. Again, only attempt this if you have the energy, stability, and knowledge required - the delicacy required, too. Otherwise, remember, it’s
“I’m not interested. Please put me on your do not call list.”
Nothing more.
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accio-sriracha · 4 months
Text
Sirius Anything-But-Black.
~~~♤~~~
Sirius hates his last name. He always joked around by going by his friend's names instead.
Sirius Potter was the most common, of course. He was practically raised by the Potter's, he and James had been brothers for years of course he was a Potter.
Second was Pettigrew, mostly when joking around with Peter.
He'd make comments like "This is why it's so great to be a part of the Pettigrew family!" and "Don't you dare disrespect the Pettigrew Brothers!"
A handful of times he even used Lily's last name, referring to himself as Sirius Evans.
She finds it hilarious, as soon as she catches on that he hates his last name she starts calling him Evans too.
Whenever she'd pass by the group and greet James as Potter, she'd always make sure to reply to Sirius' "Hey, Evans!" With a "Hello, Evans." In return.
Every once in a while he used their other friend's names too; Meadowes, Longbottom, McKinnon, he went as far as to use McGonagall once and nearly got detention for a week.
But he never used Lupin.
Remus asks him one lazy Saturday morning as the group was sprawled across the furniture in the common room.
He'd wondered for years, they all secretly had, but it never meant enough to any of them to really ask.
"Why do you never go by Sirius Lupin?" Remus asked, filling the lull in conversation.
It was supposed to be a casual question, but there was nothing casual about the look Sirius gave him when he replied,
"Because you haven't asked me to marry you yet, Moons."
The room was silent. Remus and Sirius were staring at each other for a long time. Remus slowly stood up and walked over to him, kneeling down in front of his chair,
"Sirius, will you marry me?" He whispered.
"Of course, Remus." Sirius breathed.
Nobody else could tell if they were joking or not. They'd never once shown feelings towards each other, nothing more than what they normally did.
Remus wasn't even gay.
But then, all of the sudden, Remus and Sirius were found walking the halls hand in hand, placing gentle kisses on each other's cheeks.
They started sleeping in the same bed at night, Remus curled on his side with his nose nuzzled against Sirius' neck.
Sirius exclusively went by Sirius Lupin now, refusing to go by anything else. He also made it very clear to all of his suitors that he was engaged and off the market.
The others still couldn't quite tell how much further they would go for the bit, but they seemed happy?? So they were all happy too.
Immediately after graduation they got married and made it official. Everyone was kinda blown away, but then again, it was Remus and Sirius, they've kind of always been dating, even when they weren't.
The others finally asked years later if they'd been secretly dating prior to that, since it was the only thing that made sense.
Sirius shook his head, "No, I had no idea Rem liked me back. I was just really in love with him."
Remus nodded, explaining he wasn't actually sure if Sirius was joking or not either at first, but he was too in love to question it, and took the chance he got.
It ended up working out, Sirius was now- in all ways including legally- Mr. Sirius Lupin.
And he'd never been happier.
~~~♤~~~
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itostea · 4 months
Text
rings (gojo x wife! reader)
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in which you want your arranged husband to finally give you a ring
warnings: arranged marriage au (part of the gojo's wife series), gojo calls you his wife, suggestive bc gojo is a menace, reader lowkey downbad, i'm back after 4(?) months oops & lmk if i’m missing anyone for the tag list
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There’s a gentle breeze that escapes from the open windows of the cafe you sit in, the quiet chatter blending in with the bossa nova jazz that plays from the speakers. Only a few people reside in the building–some of which include students, friend groups, or strangers just hoping for a nice cup of coffee. 
Your eyes flit to Utahime using a straw to make circles in her drink. She was the one who recommended this cafe, referring to it as an “underground” location–a phrase that you would’ve not expected her to use. Correctly at that. 
“How are you doing with that idiot,” your other friend, Shoko asks. “Do you guys still sleep in separate rooms?”
You watch her reach for a cigarette and frown, your hand slapping hers lightly. “There's a ‘no smoking policy’ here. And to answer your question, no we’re not. We’ve been sleeping in the same room for a little over a month now.”
“On the same bed?”
“Yes?”
“And that’s it?” She drawls, arching an elegant brow as she puts her box of cigarettes away–taking another sip of her black coffee. “Nothing else? You know, like clothes gone, french kissing–”
“Yes that’s it! Keep it down here,” you hiss, shooting another glare at Utahime who stifles a laugh by pretending to drink her tea.
Shoko rolls her eyes, taking another sip of her coffee–this time narrowing her eyes at you. “So why are you sulking?”
“I’m not sulking.”
“Yes you are,” she retorts and you frown when you hear Utahime agree. They’ve always been so sharp. “Something’s bothering you so tell us.”
You purse your lips, gripping your cup a bit tighter as you heave a sigh. You’re avoiding their gazes, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s stupid.”
“We’re not gonna judge you,” Utahime gives you a reassuring smile, nudging Shoko who tries to take out her cigarette box again.
“Okay,” you start. “Something feels like it’s missing. Not that it’s ‘Toru–”
“You call him ‘Toru?” Shoko laughs quietly, rolling her eyes when you narrow your eyes at her. She sighs. “Continue.”
“There's nothing wrong with ‘Toru and I feel like I’m expecting something from him. We’re making progress with the whole husband and wife thing but I guess I just want,” you pause. “I guess I’m just wondering when he’s gonna give me a ring…”
They both blink at you, with Utahime making a sound with her throat. “There’s no way that idiot’s that stupid.”
“But that makes sense. The wedding just happened on paper since the elders wanted Gojo to get married quickly,” Shoko adds. “So? What are you gonna do? Drop hints?”
“That’s not really my way of doing things…”
Shoko rolls her eyes for the nth time, frowning at the lack of coffee in her cup. “Things would be a lot easier between you two if you just communicated,” she says, holding a hand up when you’re about to respond. “But I say give him some time. Gojo might be a lot sharper than he lets on.”
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You replay your friend’s words in your head as you dice the carrots mindlessly–throwing them in a bowl with chopped up potatoes. Ever since Gojo told you that he hardly has any time to cook with the sudden rise of curses, you’ve been wanting to surprise him with a home cooked meal: curry rice. After all, you were finally granted some leisure time after a mission so you were more than happy to set up a surprise.
Not that it was much of a surprise since he was home earlier than usual–not that you were mad since it was rare for him to arrive home just a little after you did. You perk up, catching a glimpse of his boyish grin that seems to spread across his face. “Oh? What’s this?”
You clear your throat, feeling a bit bashful at how pretty his smile was. “I’m making dinner for us since we haven’t been able to have a home cooked meal in a while.”
“Well, aren't I a lucky guy?” He ruffles your hair as if it were a habit of his, his eyes as soft as his voice the moment he leans down. “You mind if I take a shower first? I promise it’ll be quick.”
“Your shower’s are never quick,” you comment, giggling at how he acts as if he’s been caught. As he leaves, you feel yourself getting giddy at how wide his grin had been when he saw you. You wonder if he always looked at you like that and you have to mentally calm yourself down by reminding yourself to not get too excited. 
By the time you set the plates down, you already hear the padding of his feet against the marble floor. He’s dressed comfortably in a pair of sweats and a pullover, sitting in front of you. He smiles again, murmuring a low “hello” as if somewhat shy. 
You smile in return, observing him as he takes a bite of the food you made. Your heart stops for a few seconds, gauging his expression for any sign of disgust–feeling it explode in your chest when he eats it like a starved man. “Is it good?” 
“So good,” he answers without hesitation, flashing another grin at you–the same grin that makes you feel warm inside. “My wife’s so talented.”
“It’s just curry rice,” you respond, feeling a bit sheepish at how easily he sings praises to you. You realize you’ve been watching him eat for a little over than a minute, your hands reaching to the utensils to try your own food. 
The conversation takes off naturally. He’s asking about your day at work and you do the same; he teases you and you shoot another remark at him. It’s all good-natured until he pauses, looking a little hesitant. “Listen (Name),” his voice is lower, nervous. “I know I should've done this before but it really didn’t cross my mind…”
Your reaction is instantaneous as much as you try to hide it. The ring. Was he going to give you one? Your eyes flit to his furrowed brows and the way he pokes the inside of his cheek. If he’s this nervous, then it should be pertaining to a ring right? You’re already answering before he can finish. “Yes.”
He blinks, peering directly at you. “Really?”
“Really,” you nod, your smile wide as you lean a bit closer to the table. 
He breaks out in a large smile, breathing a sigh of relief. “Wow I didn’t know you liked Netflix so much.”
All of a sudden, the delusions you’ve been building up topple like dominos. Your voice’s stuck in your throat as a wave of bemusement hits you. “Huh?”
“I was gonna give you my Netflix account! I completely forgot to give you it for a while and the kids have been on my ass about it.”
“Y-Your Netflix account?” You murmur in disbelief, wondering if sharing a Netflix account was a golden rule couples had to obey. 
It was Gojo’s turn to be confused, his pretty blues blinking at you. “That’s what we’re talking about right?”
Disappointment drenches you from top to bottom but you quickly mask it with an easy going smile. “Yeah! I love Netflix…”
You breathe a sigh of relief, mentally applauding yourself for not mentioning anything about a ring. You take another bite of your food, not noticing the way Gojo looks at you–gulping as if hiding a secret of his own. 
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“I want to give you something,” your husband’s voice is gentle, velvety as he pulls you towards the couch. 
He smells good, you think to yourself–earthy and fresh. It’s faint yet it’s enough to make you dizzy. “Something?”
“That’s right,” he coos, grinning down at you from the couch. Again, you have that undeniable feeling of hope choking you, trying your hardest not to show your excitement as he reaches in his pocket.
Yet, instead of a small, round object, you’re faced with a card. A black card. Not a ring. Your lips part in shock as the initial disappointment becomes surprise. “I can’t take this!” 
You’re left with more disbelief at how his expression seems to fall dramatically. “Why not…?”
“Because I just can’t!” 
“But you’re my wife and I wanna spoil you,” he tries to reason and you have to try not to swoon how he calls you his wife even though you already know it. You clear your throat, shaking your head rapidly. 
“I can’t ‘Toru–”
“Yes you can,” he huffs, his lips falling into a pout that you would’ve found funny if he didn’t just hand you his card. “Trust me on this one. You’ll make me happy if you use it. So treat yourself, alright?”
You frown, murmuring another protest and stopping when he glances at you from under his shades, his lips curling into a coy smile once he sees the guilt in your eyes–his mind piecing things together. “Aren’t you a sweetheart?” He ruffles your hair once more, making your heart do another jump. “Just take it. Please?”
You think he’s doing it on purpose–the way he looks at you as if you’re a diamond among rocks. It’s hard not to say no when someone looks at you like that–harder when it’s Gojo. You sigh. “Fine. But I’m not gonna use it often.”
He grins that smile you like again, his thumb grazing your jaw. “That’s my girl.”
You avert your eyes at his binding smile, ignore how he seems to enjoy teasing you a bit too much. You sigh, ignoring the way your heart flutters all over again. And with the way he watches you, you think his stomach’s doing somersaults as well
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It’s early in the morning, dark in the room you share with Gojo–the sun barely awake just as you were. There’s the sound of quiet shuffling, the spot next to your empty. It must be one of those missions, you think to yourself.
You hear him murmur a low curse at the sound of something dropping, feeling amusement at how he tries to quietly put the item back in its original place. You think of falling asleep again but your gut tells you to stay awake, still listening to his quiet pacing. 
You feel how the mattress slightly dips, his cologne filling your senses–luring you to sleep. Out of sheer willpower, you try not to react as his fingers reach down to graze your cheek–try not to open your eyes to see what kind of expression he wore. You wonder if he did this every time he had a mission so early in the morning, feeling an unfamiliar feeling tug at your heart. 
His voice is barely above a whisper as he leans down. “I’ll be back home by dinner today. I promise.”
Part of you debates on falling asleep and it wins, until you feel him shuffle a bit closer. And just like that, you feel cold metal slip on your finger–your ring finger. The material fits perfectly around your finger and your hand twitches as you hear him stand up to leave. 
It hits you a bit later than you’d expect and you would’ve never thought realization would sound like the front door opening. You scramble out of bed, tripping on the blankets as you smile so hard it hurts. 
“Toru?! Wait! Don't leave yet! Toru come back!” 
And like you hoped, he looks back, the metal of a ring similar to yours greets you.
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fatesundress · 10 months
Text
⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader
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summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.
tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people
note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡
word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)
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You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.
You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.
He evidently does not.
“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.
You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”
“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”
“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”
He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.
It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.
There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.
That decides it. Flotsam still floats.
Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 
…It’s just that he’s insufferable.
The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.
Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 
“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.
You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”
“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”
In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.
I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.
You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.
It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.
Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.
You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.
When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.
You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.
Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 
Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.
You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.
For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 
You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.
It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.
Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.
You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.
Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.
“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.
Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.
“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”
“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”
“I wonder why.”
He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.
“What, Tom?”
He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”
You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 
It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.
“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”
“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”
“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”
All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 
Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.
Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 
You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 
For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.
He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)
Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.
You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 
They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.
You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.
“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.
He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”
“Curiosity—”
“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”
He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.
You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.
But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.
“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.
“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”
“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”
This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 
“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”
He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 
It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.
The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 
The worst of the world has impeccable timing.
A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.
So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.
And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.
BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER
MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES
DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN
All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.
The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.
It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.
In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 
You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.
Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.
But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 
He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.
You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 
You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.
“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.
Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.
He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”
“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”
You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 
“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”
“An altercation.”
“Very good, that is what I said.”
You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 
“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.
You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.
You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 
But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 
She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.
For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.
Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)
Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.
“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.
“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.
“What? Malfoy?”
You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.
But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”
Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —
“A professor?”
“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.
He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.
It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.
He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.
Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.
You consider it a warning.
Tom does not.
“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”
His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.
“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”
“So?”
It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.
“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”
He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.
“Are you stupid, Tom?”
You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.
“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”
Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.
Tom acts stupid.
Dumbledore knows.
It all happens very fast.
You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.
You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.
You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.
“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”
Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”
You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.
“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”
“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”
“I —”
“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”
You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.
“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”
“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”
“So nothing novel then.”
“D’you want me to blast you again?”
His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.
You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”
That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.
“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.
“Tom.”
“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”
“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”
Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”
“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”
And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.
It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.
The day everything changes starts the same as any. 
You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 
Tom has cracked the book.
It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.
“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.
He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.
“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”
“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”
You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”
“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”
“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”
“I have no need.”
You frown. “You… you already know it.”
“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —
“You’re not muggle-born.”
“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”
“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”
“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”
You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.
“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”
He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.
“Are you trying to murder me?”
“I might.”
“You’d be the first suspect.”
“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”
Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.
He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 
It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.
“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.
There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.
“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”
You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”
The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.
“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.
He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 
“Should I?”
And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”
It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.
Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”
The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.
You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.
Summer blisters when it comes.
Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 
And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.
A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.
Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.
But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.
It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?
You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.
“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.
“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”
And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.
He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.
Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.
You always are.
The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 
Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.
He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.
And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.
Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.
You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.
You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.
You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.
Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 
You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.
So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 
It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.
It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.
Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.
The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 
You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.
Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 
But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.
“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.
Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.
“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”
He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.
You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”
“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.
“You’ll get sick.”
His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”
Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.
Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.
When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 
What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.
You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.
Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.
You are regardless. 
It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.
A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.
Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.
It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.
You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.
And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.
“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.
He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”
“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”
“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”
“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”
“Why?” he deadpans.
You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”
“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”
Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.
To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.
“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”
You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.
You are not his keeper. You know that. 
“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.
He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.
And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.
What? Sorry. What’s going on?
He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”
You’re almost positive you did not.
Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.
You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.
Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.
Your contentment is remedied quickly.
Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.
You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.
Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.
“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.
You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”
He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.
You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”
“How’s that?”
“No one would be senseless enough to try.”
And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.
One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.
It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.
You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.
It happens again.
Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.
There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.
You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.
This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.
You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.
You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)
He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 
And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.
Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.
And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.
The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.
The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.
That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.
One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.
The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?
You take to the library.
Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.
The third sign is the end. 
You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.
He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 
And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.
So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.
Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.
He’s something else entirely.
What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.
You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.
His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 
You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 
“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.
You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.
“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.
Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”
“I’ve been good at it.”
His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.
His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.
“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.
You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.
You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.
He sees all of you.
Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.
“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.
“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."
He stares at you. There’s nothing there.
“Tell me, Tom.”
Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.
“I cannot.”
Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.
It’s late winter and it’s too cold.
“You killed her,” you say quietly.
“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”
“What are you… so it was an accident?”
“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”
“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.
He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.
“You told me to change things —”
“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”
“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”
“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”
“Do you want me to lie?”
“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”
“Her death is the first step to —”
“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”
“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.
All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.
“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."
You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.
“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."
“...What?"
“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”
You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”
“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.
“How lucky for you.”
“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”
“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”
His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.
“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."
“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”
And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 
You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 
“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 
Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 
Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.
“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 
He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.
After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"
“I thought I would have time.”
“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”
He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”
Fuck him. “Fuck you.”
“Very cogent.”
“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."
He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”
You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.
“You have lost me, Tom."
He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.
You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 
You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 
There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.
You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.
Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.
That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 
You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.
And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.
You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.
It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.
Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.
Be well.
You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —
You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.
Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.
Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.
It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.
You find that to be true.
Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.
Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 
“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.
You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 
Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.
Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.
Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.
Due February.
It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”
Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”
Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.
You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”
Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”
And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.
Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.
You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.
You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.
In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.
Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.
You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.
But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.
You drink, and don’t look away.
By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.
There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.
You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 
An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.
You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 
You’re better than them. You can do it forever.
The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.
The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.
“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.
You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.
You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.
The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.
He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.
You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.
Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)
“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.
You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.
Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”
You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.
“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”
“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”
“I take that back.”
She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”
Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.
You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.
It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.
On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.
There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.
Indifferent it is. 
“Can I help you?”
“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.
You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.
“Am I?”
“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”
“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”
Indifference effaced. You’re angry.
He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”
Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.
It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.
“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”
Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.
He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.
He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”
You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.
“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.
Where is Mari?
“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”
You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?
“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.
You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.
“Well then —” 
Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.
His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.
“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —
“That would be wise.”
He’s still looking at your lips.
No one else is looking at you at all.
It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.
Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.
“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.
“I haven’t protested.”
But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.
“But you will.”
His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”
You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.
The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)
You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”
“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.
“You still lost me.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
He pauses for a moment. “I know.”
You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.
“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”
You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.
He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.
“My door is always open,” he says.
He lets you go.
You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.
Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.
If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.
It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?
You think of him often. You think of his offer.
My door is always open.
Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?
Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.
It’s a tempting door.
The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.
You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.
The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.
Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.
The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 
It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.
But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 
A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.
My door is always open.
Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.
Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.
She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.
When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.
It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.
A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.
“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.
“Renauld?”
He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.
“Well, yeah —”
You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”
“But McCormack sent him.”
“Where is it?”
“I… McCormack said that —”
“Where is it, Flack?”
“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”
That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.
The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.
But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.
“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”
You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”
“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”
You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.
It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.
“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.
Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”
“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”
“Who authorised you?” he hisses.
“I did.”
In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.
But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.
You were completely out of line and utterly right.
It isn’t something people like you are allotted.
Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.
And… he does.
With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.
It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.
There’s really no choice but to promote you.
Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.
By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.
The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.
Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.
After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.
“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”
“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”
Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.
“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.
“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”
“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”
“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.
“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”
“Alves, I’ll have you know —”
You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”
She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”
You roll your eyes, taking a drink.
That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.
But something about it itches.
You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.
You are green, through and through.
Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.
You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.
You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.
And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.
That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 
There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.
“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”
“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”
“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”
You’re incredibly daft about it.
There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 
The itch exacerbates.
You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.
You wake up and he isn’t there.
It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.
The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.
And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.
You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.
You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.
All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.
R.R
It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.
You return to Hogwarts posthaste.
It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.
The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 
You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.
“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.
Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.
“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”
“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”
And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.
Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.
There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.
But you do, because he told you.
You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.
It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 
It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.
You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.
The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 
It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.
You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.
He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.
“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.
“I thought your door was always open.”
You see his posture change from just his silhouette.
“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 
He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.
“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.
You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.
You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.
“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."
“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”
“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."
His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"
“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 
Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.
“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”
“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 
You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"
“Yes."
You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.
“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”
“I earned this,” you hiss.
“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”
“Fuck you.”
He smiles. “There you are.”
“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”
The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.
“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”
“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.
You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”
“I’d need a Vow for that.”
You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”
“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”
“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”
“A Vow.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Tea, then? Biscuits?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”
“Hm. Terrible shame.”
Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”
He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”
“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”
“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”
“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”
Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 
“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 
He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.
“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 
You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”
Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.
“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.
“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”
He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.
He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.
“I should have killed you,” he repeats.
It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.
“Yes,” you agree.
It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.
Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.
There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.
He was your first in everything but this.
You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.
You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.
“How long?” he asks thickly.
You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 
“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."
You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"
You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"
His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 
You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 
“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"
“N-no.”
He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."
Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 
But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 
You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.
He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.
Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.
His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 
You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.
He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.
“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.
You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.
“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”
And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.
You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.
He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.
You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…
A finger presses inside and you moan.
“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.
“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.
He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”
Oh, fuck.
He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”
Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.
You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 
Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.
You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.
He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.
But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.
Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.
“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.
“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.
“Will you give me more?”
Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.
He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.
You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.
He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —
“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.
That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.
You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”
A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?
And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.
Maybe you already do.
Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —
He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.
“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”
You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.
“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”
You whimper.
“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.
If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.
“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”
Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.
“You can — uh — you can — ”
"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”
And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.
You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.
“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.
You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”
You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.
He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 
He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.
You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.
But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.
Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.
“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.
You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.
He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.
You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.
“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.
You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.
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halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months
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Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (I)
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AU MASTERLIST || PART II
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PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)
WORDCOUNT: 7.7k
WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, angst, mutilation, violence, death, being hunted, reference to unwanted attention from a man, 1890s period standards for men/women, religious references, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
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“Miriam?” Your voice carries over the open street, one of the two small steps leading into your nonexistent front yard firm under your feet. Across the way and one house to the left, your older neighbor, Miriam, readies her horse for you—kept behind the paddock door of her attached single-stall stable. Men and women shuffle past along the cobblestone, clopping hooves and tipping soft caps. Giggles and gloved fingers. 
The city is lively today, and you’ll be glad to be out of it for the better part of the morning.
You brush down the front of your shirtwaist, patting at the pleating along the front before folding your shawl across your shoulders; hiking it farther into your high-collared garment. 
“Miriam!” You call again, shuffling down that last step and trying to shove yourself farther into the crowd. Keeping your black skirt close to you, you sigh long and pray the pouch at your side will stay away from the hands of pickpockets—a tailor gets off well enough, but every penny was worth it. One setback could ruin you.
Which was the reason you were now making your way into the country on your neighbor's horse. 
Miriam glances up from where she fiddles with the bridle strap, her head mixed in with the masses. You smile, raising a hand far above the sea as men sneer down at you, hearing the tinkling bells of her laughter. 
You make it to her and Whistlejacket the Thoroughbred as you huff, rubbing your gloved hands together before the clicking sound of your heeled shoes can catch up to your ears.
“By the Lord, it’s chilly, Love,” Miriam utters, patting the horse as you softly rub the animal's neck. Black ears twitch to you, chestnut eyes soft and pliable. You smile before replying with a chuckle. 
“And the chill won’t stop Mrs. Ida from having my hide for that wool-lined cycling jacket, unfortunately.” 
“Ah,” Miriam scoffs, “Mrs. Ida. I’d tell that one to mind her manners to the fine lady who makes her husband's waistcoats.” 
“She always asks for them a size small,” you hum, rummaging through your satchel to make sure you have the money you need for the wool that’ll go inside the order. “One with more of a brain would say she was trying to say something.” 
Your eyes glimmer as you send your neighbor a glance. Miriam slides you a cheesy look.
“‘More of a brain’, the girl says,” she mutters as you laugh brightly. “A wonder you’ve not found a husband yet.”
You ignore the comment, sliding down Whistlejacket’s side to slip your foot into the stirrup, huffing at the beast’s size before shimmying up with all the grace of a young hooligan. Panting on the saddle, both legs over one side on account of your skirt, you take a breath and happen to glance at the dark house that borders Miriams.
“Miriam?” The words escape you in a moment of curiosity. “Pray tell…is Mr. Riley back from his trip to London yet?”
Mr. Riley—Simon as you know him to be called by only a whispered passing. It was apparent with your little…interest in him. It wasn’t a carnal interest, no, God forbid, it was a hesitant need to understand him. 
You’d never sown nor mended so many clothes than to his own collection. 
Frock coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, and trousers all—ripped to shreds before being placed on your counter like it didn’t matter a smidge. And those deep brown eyes of his…endless; seemingly incapable of human emotion above the tight layer of silk that the man wears up to his nose. There was something strange going on with Mr. Riley, and you were determined to figure it out, but he was also quite alluring to you in a simpler sense. 
You liked how he spoke to you.
“London?” Miriam asks, putting a hand to her wrinkling chin. “My, was that where he was off to—how do you hear about these things, Girl?”
You clear your throat, putting back on your smile. “Oh, never mind that. I was just curious, see.”
Whistlejacket’s feet shuffle from under you, the tall beast’s strength seen through his broad neck and well-bred attitude. Miriam’s husband had been a carriage driver, and when he died, the widow had taken Whistlejacket into her care as the only living family she had. 
You rub at his neck again, and the horse nods his head up and down, knickering. 
“You’ll take care of the old fellow, then?” The question is layered, anyone going through the forest to the farmer’s fields knows that the shadows grow long. 
Knows what can hunt you. 
You glance at the woman, nodding firmly. “And bring you back your share for taking the lovely creature out.” 
With that you’re out, taking the reins in your hands before easing Whistlejacket into a walk and entering the flow of traffic; waving a hand behind you in goodbye. Miriam calls on the smoggy wind.
“D-don’t stray from the path, Love!” 
A path wouldn’t save you from the Ghost.
It is the year 1897, and beasts live here. 
They roam in the dark corners and the forgotten alleys of every city and street—silent, unseen. Waiting to strike with white fangs or sharp claws; a snarl or a whisper. Vampires, demons, specters lost to time…Werewolves. 
Nowhere was safe, and so, the world had to adapt. 
As Whistlejacket’s hooves meet the slowly depleting cobblestone of the outer city, the clink of the metal bit dances in your ears; your face roves back and forth through the fields, those far in between houses. In your bag, you have more than just money. 
Holy water, a crucifix, and, of course, a knife made of pure silver. When in doubt, silver was always the safest bet.
But the forest…the forest was unpredictable. 
You breathe slowly as it comes into view hours later, those creaking branches and the breeze that speaks to you—in your head, you hear the plea. Or the threat. 
Turn back. 
The both of you stop only a foot from the treeline. Whistlejacket knickers, feet shuffling. Your hand finds his hide, rubbing soothing circles as your lips thin. 
“Easy,” you whisper, but nothing could be farther from easy. Your fingers brush through the horse's hair as he moves his head, hooves taking a step back. “Easy.”
The blackness of this forest is unnatural—the others in the city and town go around it; a four-day trip. You didn’t have four days. Like a moth to a dark altar flame, the oblivion takes you in and the forest expands in your view the longer you stare into it, down that path of overgrown grass and gravel. Rocks and twigs. 
With one hand you grab at your shawl and pull it closer to your neck, holding the reins lightly as your fingers twitch around them with the other. 
“Easy,” you say for a third time, quickly looking away from the path and clearing your throat. 
Clicking your tongue, your boots tap Whistlejacket’s side and after a puff from his large nostrils, the animal ambles forward, far slower than he had before but still moving nonetheless. Your hesitance bleeds into him, and you know the horse's senses are far better than your own.
But you were stubborn—you’d come too far to go back now, and if you wanted to be home by supper you had to buy the wool you needed and leave as quickly as possible. Going through this forest would take up most of that time. 
The trees enshroud you, and in their brimstone grip, they reach with gnarled fingers like a leering phantom. You lean to the side to avoid one branch, feeling it pull at your shaul slightly; trying to grab at you, it seemed. This place would devour you whole, but you were less scared of the general aura and more of the fabled monster that patrols this place. 
The Ghost.
Whistlejacket is unsure of this, despite the journeys you’d both been on. It always worried you how such a large carriage animal could still get so nervous after years of desensitization—the horse didn’t flinch at the yells from the city; or the howl of mutts at midnight. But this brimstone forest made him shiver under you like a child in the cold.
As you speak to him lowly, your hand reaches into your satchel and grasps that tiny silver blade, attaching it to your cinched belt as your skirt sways in a dead breeze. A chilled puff of air falls from your lips, though there is no coldness in these standing sentinels—it is a dead-like atmosphere. Every pound of your heart can be heard. 
“You know, old fellow,” Whistlejacket’s ear twitches back to you, but his eyes do not leave the path. You spare a tense chuckle. “I’ve half the sense to tell Mrs. Ida to shove that wool lining right up her—”
Something sharp echoes far off into the trees and you pull on the reins with a tight breath. 
Whistlejacket squeals, trying to bolt, but you keep a strong hand on him—eyes flashing from one dark void to the next in between the trees as his hooves dance. Your head bobs with every jerk of his legs, yet you barely notice it. 
A twig? You ask, heart hammering. No, no that sounded like an entire tree getting snapped in half.
Eyes glancing over your shoulder, you look back down the road and find the tiny speck of light that signifies the exit of this place, the last glimmer of home. With a heavy look around, you close your eyes and shake your head. 
Mrs. Ida was…something else…but she was one of your best clients for all her abhorrent behaviors—money was tight as of currently, and the woman’s husband was incredibly rich due to his practice as a physician. This wool was needed not only for the jacket but for your shop upkeep and the price of fabrics, needles, and threads. This wool was an investment you couldn’t miss.
“Whistlejacket,” you click your tongue but the animal snorts and shakes his head, backing up. “Whistlejacket!” Your voice carries despite not even being above a hard whisper. 
“I promise you, when we get to the farm I’ll let you eat all of the sugar cubes you want—my treat.” Your hand finds the space between his ears and below his skull, the soft black mane twisting in your fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Your eyes are half-narrowed. 
That wasn’t a twig.
Monster Hunting was a booming profession—and many took to it out of glory or need for coin. Those hunters had been in and out of this forest for short generations, trying futilely to catch what was rumored to lurk here before they got ripped to shreds like their fathers had. 
The Ghost. 
Some say he stands over nine feet tall; and has fangs that are bigger than a man’s palm—claws like butcher knives. Blackened and dead is his brain, cruel and maniacal. 
The Werewolf’s heart is chained to hell, and his soul to Satan. He is cursed ever to walk like a beast and feast on human flesh while in his wolf-skin and out of it. 
A ghost.
The Ghost.
You close your eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the stench of blood or the injuries you’d seen those hunters bore—being dragged back into the city screaming and wailing in pain. Arms and legs ripped clean off, never to be found. Most never came back at all.
“Please, Whistlejacket,” you plead, bumping your forehead into his neck. Whispering into his skin, you take a deep breath. “We need to go on. Quickly. We can’t stop here.”
Stopping was making a bigger target on your back—letting your scent linger in the stale air. 
With one last whinny, his fast flinching feet, the horse pushes forward as you click your tongue again; faster and more uneasy. But you didn’t slow him, no, if Whistlejacket was going to speed up, you were completely fine with that.
Moving again, you loose a sigh from your lips. 
There were many dark stories living here, some too heavy to tell aloud, even—one specifically was the tale that you’d overheard in your shop while helping Mr. Riley fix a large hole in his waistcoat. 
Riding along the path, you guide your steed down a small indent, blinking at the images your mind conjures up. 
Mr. Riley had been far quieter that day than in the recent past, and you thought perhaps he was beginning to warm to you after a few long months of silence and clipped business talk. That day, though, you had your doubts. 
Mr. Moore and Mr. Hill were coming in to inquire about the state of their overalls, working-class both and eager to have their second pair of articles fixed. Mr. Riley had been there first, and thus, you’d been talking to him for the better part of ten minutes.
“Mr. Riley,” you’d explained, holding his black silk waistcoat in your hands while opening and closing your lips. “I…I really must begin by asking how exactly you manage to do this to your clothes. In good faith, I half-believe you have a habit of getting into bar fights with a knife-wielding fiend in your free time.”
Brown eyes had stared at you above that cloth of his, soft cap on his head protecting blond tendrils of hair. Scars peel at his skin, old and pale. 
You’d never been afraid of him, despite his large frame and his intimidating muscle—the gruff aggressiveness of his tone. It was strange, but you had a feeling he would never do anything nefarious…perhaps his morals shone through far better than his conversational abilities.
“Can you fix it or not?” He grunts in question, hands in his pockets. Eyelids blink at you slowly, long lashes caressing flesh. 
You roll your eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I can.”
In that intermission of silence, you’d heard the words from the men behind Mr. Riley—missing the spark of amusement that had coated those brown orbs as they watched you. 
“Did you ‘ere, then, Mr. Hill?” A sharp, hurried whisper. Your eyes blink at the two as the man ahead of you slightly shifts his shoulders, tilting his head to the side to stare behind him. “There’s been killin' in the East district—they’re callin’ the ‘unters in, see.”
“Hunters?” Mr. Moore huffs. “They’ll not make a smidge of a difference now. I’ve heard about it—they say the Ghost slunk in from the Forest and ripped the man to pieces.”
“Aye! They found pieces of flesh hangin’ off the shop signs. Like he’d been put through a machine, I hear. Half a jaw was left in the street, an eye leading into the trees, and…and…”
“Gentleman,” you call, oblivious to how Mr. Riley is as tense as a rope, eyes small and tight on the two men. He barely breathes. 
The two look to you as if being caught by their mothers. You frown. “Time and place.”
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
“M’sorry, Miss, lost myself.” You smile through a sigh and turn back to Mr. Riley. 
“Well, now then, I…” He quickly walks to the door, boots heavy and knee-length frock coat swishing as he pushes open the barrier and slips through. You gape, confused for a moment. By the time you think about opening your mouth again, you can already see him entering his own house across the street and pulling the door closed firmly.
The curtains close. Black night leaking out around the illumination of the oiled street lamps. It was the news in the morning that called to the true horror that you’d overheard in your shop. 
Mr. Lambert was never your favorite patron, in fact, you’d call him a creep at best—insistent on marriage to you and a hazard, considering that your home was connected to your shop. He knew exactly where you lived and when to use your time in his less-than-pure favor. 
Mr. Riley had been a natural deterrent in recent months, but what really struck you was that the brown-eyed man had managed to show up exactly when you needed him regarding Mr. Lambert. The small silver bell above your door rang his arrival whenever the other was trying to lean over your counter, smiling sweetly at you as if you were a prize to him and his leering eyes. 
Mr. Lambert would instantly straighten, tense, and dart away with a metaphorical tail between his legs while shooting nasty glances. 
But you’d never imagined him to be dead.
You’d never imagined his body to be hung from the trees that border the forest like a trophy—the Ghost had dragged him out of his home, the door busted off its hinges, and the inside all but demolished by fighting bodies. Neighbors said they’d heard howls on the wind; yowling and wet snarls like a rabid dog. 
Mr. Lambert was mutilated. Unrecognizable mass of flesh and hair, bone seen through shredded skin and tongue lulling from a ripped-off jaw. One eye and a branch through his toro to hold him up.
Now halfway through the forest, in the densest bit of trees, you can’t help but imagine becoming just like him.
You hadn’t spoken besides to reassure Whistlejacket, yet the fact was that you couldn't even reassure yourself—like a child, you cling to the animal below you and try to ignore the murmurs. Your shawl had been pulled up and over your head, creating a sound barrier for you that truly did nothing to help. 
Looking slightly to the side at a large and moss-layered boulder beside the path, you shiver not from the cold. 
“Maybe I should have just waited the four days…” Your whisper leaked out, and it seemed a sin to break the silence that had been layered here. 
A shadow filters past the side of your eyes, a silent motion atop the boulder that you think perhaps is a crow. You pull at your shawl to show your face a bit more, turning your head upward. 
Atop the stone is not a bird—it is not an animal of natural birth or of sound mind. It is a beast of ancient rites and white-fanged dreams; left here among the living in a sick game of predator and prey. 
You don’t register that it’s really there, the Ghost, until its blackened form stands to its full height, great shaggy fur under the remains of clothes scraps, and muzzle curled to show off fangs and pink gums. There are his ears, atop that head; they point to the sky before flinching back to staple themselves to its elongated skull. Long hands that scrape the stone below it near the claws that dig into the rock until they make long scratches. 
Like a demon made flesh, this Werewolf was the epitome of nightmares. So strangely human and monster at the same time. 
Eyes like a burial mound. 
You stare in numb horror, gloved hands steadily tightening over the leather reigns until your knuckles pop. Whistlejacket does not yet know the beast is here, glaring into your soul and branding it; taking a large step closer to the edge of the boulder as the moss flakes under his egregious large paw-pads. 
A low rumble is all it takes, those pupils small and beady, from within the breast of the Ghost’s expansive chest. Whistlejacket’s nose sniffs the air, his head turning and already tense. 
The horse screams like a dying banshee, spine curling and legs kicking out. He bucks as the Werewolf snarls through a loud howl, all four limbs connected to the stone and roaring. Your back slams into the ground as you’re tossed off Whistlejacket, your mouth releasing a scream to join the rest of the noises that echo off the foliage. 
Crashing into the path, your neighbor's horse disappears with one last high-pitched squeal into the darkness as you feel your bones rattle at the connection to your spine. Tumbling down a slight hill, you quickly get your skirts in order before scrambling to your feet with pain brimming in your scraped skin. Looking back to the boulder, your pounding heart rampages. 
But the Ghost isn’t even there. 
“Oh, Lord Almighty,” you whisper, backing up multiple steps. “Oh, Lord.” 
The blade is missing from your belt—you don’t know where you’ve dropped it in the fall and that might just be the death of you. Mr. Lambert’s story infects you; the other hunters.
You frantically look at that mighty stone, up and down, while skittering backward. 
Where did it go? 
Panting, you only stop when you hit the firm frame behind you, a large tree trunk of fur, and a hard chest that you sink into. You freeze—eyes wide and unblinking. A thin squeak exits your mouth, and a reverberating call purrs over your vertebra, making you shiver with fear. 
Minutes draw before you gather the courage to delicately turn your head upward.
Those eyes meet yours again, small and coated over with rage; pale fangs so close to your forehead they’re like ivory with dripping saliva. One drop hits your flesh, but you fail to register it. 
Those eyes. 
Up close you’re completely stolen by them, sucked in and whisked away as a bride, this mixture of dark wood and earth. Brown so rich you’d never seen something like it…or…or had you?
Incredibly, in between your panic, something sparks you as being familiar in a way you can’t quite place in this state. 
The Ghost is gargantuanly large, so much so that he bends his spine to lean over your entire body and growl down at you, the sound starting in his gut and expanding up to his throat. The fur around his neck is so thick it’s like the mane of an exotic cat, ironically, as tufts of hair are on the tips of his ears. 
You stare and try to memorize the look in his eyes as clawed hands come up at your sides, horrifyingly human with long fingers; five-pointed except for the fact that the skin is blacked like hide. Sweating, you shake before your lips start talking for you, as they usually do. 
“I do hope I’m not intruding, Kind Ghost.”
The beast halts his slow entrapment, right ear twitching forward at your voice. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth does not close. 
“I…I only wished for safe passage.” Internally you wonder if you’d lost your mind—if it had broken in this moment of hysterics. Your voice is far more steady than it should be. “I must get to the other side of the forest, you see. Urgently. I have business that must be settled. Though,” you add quickly, tone cracking for a moment. “Though, I knew not how to contact you to ask.”
The Werewolf’s heart can be felt on your back, a deep thum of pulsing power and raw death. It watches, its mouth twitching a smidge more closed and lungs rising. Its feral heat leaks through your clothes into your flesh. 
A furred hand connects with your hip and you squawk as you’re shoved to the ground very suddenly, thrown to the side onto the grass with only your palms to catch you. You’re flipped over, those same claws slamming beside your head before you can push back up and try to run. But there could be no running. Like a moth to flame the Ghost would hunt you down until there was nothing left of you but bloodied carnage. 
You throw up your hands in front of your face, the great form splayed over you and a sniffing nose digging into your stomach. There is a low whine of a hungry maw as the shaggy head moves up and around. Like a human, the Werewolf’s hand grabs at your wrist, pinning it down to the ground as the other digs into the earth, dragging it up like a farmer’s plough. 
 “H-hey!” You shout, pushing with your free fingers at the muzzle—in sound mind, you’d never even think to do such a thing. “Get off of me!” 
You should have been terrified, and maybe you were, but you’d gone past the point of knowing it. This beast was leering over you like Mr. Lambert, but far more dangerous and…and…
“Are you smelling me?!” Your angry voice makes his dark eyes snap to yours, and in an instant, you’re staring up his muzzle, body splayed out below him. 
You shutter.
“Eh…Just don't…rip anything, would you?” You were talking to a Werewolf as if he was capable of higher understanding in this form—as if still human. Voice small, you thin your lips and feel sweat run your eyebrow ridge, heart pitter-pattering. 
Why were you still alive?
The snout resumes, running along your shoulder and finally stopping at your neck with a pass of the Ghost’s tongue over his lips. You close your eyes tight.
This was it, you think. Of course, you’d be the one to lose the only blade that could let you actually damage this monster, the silver glinting in your mind as you curse yourself violently. You feel the puff of his vile breath on your neck, his claws peeling at your shirt collar slowly back. 
Your breath hitches, fingers winding through the fur below your grip, but the confusion breeds with the horror. The sensation of his soft fur wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was perhaps the finest material you’d ever handled. While it wasn’t the time for this, your occupation was impossible to ignore…this texture was far better than any silk.
But he’s stopped moving entirely. Lids fluttering, you open your eyes slowly, afraid but addled at the inaction. 
Brown side-eyes you closely, fangs dripping next to the meat of your neck and parted to show a lulling tongue. The beast purrs as you stare, looming with enough mass to block the sun and moving that muzzle closer to your pulse. In an act of pure desperation and womanly instinct at the sight, you snap out your leg and, not hesitating a moment longer as the animal’s tongue meets your flesh, you send your shoe straight in between the monster's legs.
A sharp yowl makes your ears ring, but you slip out from under the Ghost as it banks back, snarling and yapping before it rights itself with a shake and rabid hunger. The look from before is gone—but you’re already through the trees by the time the enraged hunting cry makes your neck hairs rise. 
Guttural, savage, and devoid of humanity. 
On the path you find your blade, and you snatch it as you gather your skirt in the opposite hand and dash away. To where, you have to tell yourself, you do not know. But it’s human nature to run, to sprint until your throat tastes like blood and your stomach rolls with bile—all of that can be tolerated if for the simple promise of survival. 
So run you did. 
Faster and harder than you ever had in your life, you sprinted into the brimstone trees and the dead thorns, not looking over your shoulder at the noises of snarls and breaking tree trunks; claws through the earth, and the primal howl of a hunt. Your throat is raw and scraping, clothes thoroughly ruined as you crash through a thorn bush while cutting up your arms and legs in tiny streaks of crimson. 
Droplets make a path behind you, a path, and a scent to tell you by. But with how the Ghost had been smelling you too deeply, you doubted it would be long before he tracked you down to finish the job.
You lose a shoe in the mad dash, lungs heaving and whimpering from the sudden absence of sounds entirely—as if the beast had disappeared into thin air. Still, you don’t brave a glace behind as you take turns and bends in the earth at random, running deeper and deeper into the foliage. 
Bloodied and running out of strength as you hop a small stream, yelping when you slip and bash your wrist into the ground, you had never wished for Whistlejacket more. All you could hope was that the horse was making his way out the other side of this hellscape. 
You never should have come through here.
Tears stain your eyes, blurring the edges as you manage to run into a small clearing, head whipping back and forth from one area to another. Every turn was the same—every tree similar! 
But the house was different. 
No more than a hut, really, it was stone and had a thatched roof, nestled in a field of black flowers and wisps of dead grass. The door was opened, but the ground was torn up by claw marks—spanning up the sides and near a broken widow.
You rush to it without a blink, and just as you make it to the threshold, you grab the thick oak door with your torn gloves. Turning, you find him across the open glade. 
Air is shoved from your lungs as you wheeze, the black shadow in the tree line. Brown eyes burn past flesh and bone—beady. Twitching lips and high-pointed ankles with rising fur. It was like a statue. Not even moving; barely breathing as it…watches. 
What had happened to the snarling—the howling hunt?
Had…had he been behind you the entire time?
You whip the door closed and frantically slam the bolt in place, the blade brought to your side and shaking in your tight hold as you back up quickly. 
“Oh, Miriam, damn you, you’re always right.” You gasp, back hitting the edge of a table. “Curse me for never listening.” 
Your neighbor had expressed worries the day before your departure, but you’d been stubborn as always—wool, you said you needed. Just enough for a coat. It was nothing; nothing that should have led to this. 
You feel like passing out, bile rising into your throat before you swallow it back down and breathe in quick heaves. 
But the door didn’t cave in, and no great monster barreled through to eat you up and pin you into a tree branch. The house settled, the minutes dragged on…
…and nothing happened. 
Your heart slowly goes back to a hesitant normal, like a mouse after being chased by a hawk; a lamb by a wolf. Standing up straighter with blood saturating your clothes, the uneven strides of your shoe-less foot mean little to you as your form slinks to the broken window. You don’t feel the pain in your cuts—the sweat or dirt—before you bend down and hiss at the stretching flesh.
Knees knocking on the floor, you peek above the sill slowly, eyes wide open and tiny pupils quivering. 
“Why didn’t it come into the glade?” You ask yourself, seeing the large shadow in the far-off coverage of the dropping leaves. A steadily dying sun. You weren’t making it back home tonight. “Why is it staying away—it knows I’m in here.”
Surely it wouldn’t let you live? 
Your brows tighten, swearing there are eyes looking back at you through the kaleidoscope reflections of the glass. You duck down, vibrating as your vision runs across the strange hut.
One room, it only held a table, a tiny desk, a trunk, and a bed. A fireplace with no logs. Dust lived in the corners, and candles that were unlit were melted in plates and cups all around your view—score of them as if the dark was something the owner feared vehemently. 
This would be your sanctuary for the night. 
“Do Werewolves not come upon hallow ground?” Your voice bounces off the stone. “Was this a priest's hut?”
If there was a church nearby in this damned place, that would truly be the best scenario. Churches held hunters more often than not. 
Standing, you walk the space, feet aching as the adrenaline wears off and it all sets in. You place your blade into your belt, but your fingers never leave the pommel. First, you go to the desk, picking through letters and thin papers. 
Blinking, you pass them over in favor of the journal, the one next to the hastily thrown down quill—the spilled ink. 
Your hand touches the leather and flips it open, ears peeled for any noise from outside. The drawings come into focus quite quickly. 
Diagrams and intense study fill your brain, images of the Ghost sketched so lifelike that you flinch back and physically recoil until you gather your bearings. 
“I don’t suppose this would be of any help,” you utter with a frown. “Will it tell me how to make silver bullets? Give me a revolver?” 
Shaking your head, you close the journal before the faded name on the cover register—you walk away slowly before you halt. 
"Simon Riley."
Your heart tightens and those brown orbs come back to you. It’s like your mind expands in a millisecond.
Simon Riley and his frequent trips out of the city. Simon Riley and his shredded clothes exactly like the ones that the beast wears. Simon Riley and his silent, black, soul. His secrets.
“No,” you try to convince yourself, chuckling as your panic spikes. Every interaction whizzes past with surety. “No, that’s not possible. I couldn't have been that inept when he was right in front of me.” 
Anger pierces you, and all sense leaves. You know it to be true, know it to be the reality even if you'd just put the pieces together yourself. This was too perfect that God himself must have come down and laid it out for you to find.
In a moment of raw rage, you stomp to the door—hand snapping to the bolt and reaming it back. The outside chill makes you growl, but you exit the hut nonetheless. It was like a spit in your face.
“Simon Riley!” You scream into the air, hand in fists. “Get your arse out here and explain to me why I’ve been fixing your fucking clothes while you’ve been galivanting around the bloody forest!” 
Call you insane, but seeing your work constantly ruined made you more mad than being chased like an animal, especially if this animal had no intention of killing you. He'd had the option, but he hadn't.
That only serves to make you even more angry.
Your finger points into the tree line. “I spend my God-given time to make them perfect for you, and this is how you repay me?” A rustling from the bush to your left. You snarl and turn to find the upright form as it blinks at you, muzzle closed and ears forward. It steps out into the grass with one paw before you brandish your blade at it.
The Werewolf freezes, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest.
“I’m going to rip that damn fur from your body and teach you what it’s like to have your practice insulted, you twat.” Those eyes don’t stray, just like they never had in your shop. 
Yet there was a more primal tint to them—more wild, unrestrained. Aggressive. 
The monster stalks forward with slow and heavy steps, walking up to you until it can once more stare you down. You take down a shaky breath and press your knife into his abdomen as fur encompasses your field of view. 
Your confidence wavers.
“D-don’t you know it’s rude to chase down a lady in her travel shoes?” 
A snarl grinds itself out in cut intervals as if he were trying to speak to you, snapping fangs and tilting head. You have somewhat of an idea of what it means.
“I’m not apologizing for kicking you in the balls, Mr. Riley. You deserved it.” You lower the knife from his abdomen. 
A nose pushes itself into your neck again before you shove him off with a curse. He doesn’t even flinch before he tries once more.
“Would you quit it?!” You yell, scoffing. “What in the devil is wrong with you?” 
It was like he was trying to rub his head all over you—as if nothing but a dog scenting a bone.
Isn’t he? Your lips thinned. It wasn’t foreign to think he wasn’t in the right state like this. Of course, he wasn’t. Mr. Riley would never act like this, even with how often you saw each other.
Lord, you didn’t even know if he liked you that much, but judging by whatever this is, it happened to be quite a bit. You huff and push him back with a scene of finality, slithering backwards into the hut before slamming the door. 
There’s a low grumble from outside, the barrier shaking as a large paw presses on it with immense force. 
“No!” You order, pulse running. “No—you figure yourself out first! I’m not letting you in like that.” 
The sudden enraged roar is so loud the broken window shakes. It makes your veins quiver under your skin. But there's a heavy slam of leaving feet moments later, the sound of screeching trees as branches are bent back. 
You pause and stand straighter after a long minute. Your lungs inhale.
“It listens better than the man,” you breathe, feeling weak. Bravery was tiring. 
Yet, there was still the problem of the dead.
Simon Riley was the Ghost—a Werewolf. He’d killed people, many, many people in these trees. 
You grab at your neck softly, the scent of earth and blood stuck under your fingertips, infecting your very soul. 
“...So why didn’t he kill me?”
You helped yourself to the clothes in Mr. Riley’s trunk, taking what you could find and slipping into it for bed. It was nothing more than a large undershirt and pants, but you wouldn’t be the one complaining. Luck was back on your side, as you also found a small package of bandages and matches. 
Lighting the candles one by one, afterward, you did what you could for your wounds. You weren’t keen on traveling to find water to clean them out, so, for now, a wrapping would have to do. 
The beast patrolled the glade. 
You’d hear him occasionally bend by the door, shadowing along the crack before there was a tapping of claws on stone and a huff of hot breath. He’d always leave you unaccosted, a smacking of gums and licking of chops heard through the cracked window before the dog darts away. 
Where fear had been previously, curiosity starkly remained at the forefront. 
“Simon Riley,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of his bed after that same event that had happened not an hour earlier. And the same an hour before that. Clockwork. 
A wolf stalking his hunting grounds, making sure all is where it’s supposed to be.
He smells you in here. 
“It’s too damn late for this,” you huff, rubbing at your face. Ideally, you’d like a bath and a hot meal, but there was no supper here. No food at all, really. 
You plop down into the feather pillow, face nuzzling into the deep scent that you remember smelling from Mr. Riley as he came into your tailor’s shop. This was demented—unholy action. 
If this were a different woman in this bed, she might be praying to her God for some salvation, an angel to come down and whisk her away. But the thought is like a stake in your heart. 
If there were a different woman in this bed…would she even be breathing as you were?
You shiver and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them up to your chin. For whatever reason, Simon Riley, the Ghost, had stayed his fangs from your supple flesh; now you weren’t even sure that when he was leaning over you he had any intention to hurt you at all. He had seemed like he was…waiting for something.
Simon Riley, your neighbor. 
Your neighbor the Werewolf. 
You groan and hold yourself in the candle-light, unsure. You’d heard the tales—the murders. Mr. Lambert. Those countless hunters mutilated. Like a child, you pull sparse memories that bring it all to light.
Mr. Riley was quite the gentleman when you happened to catch him. 
There was never a time when you had to carry in your own fabric shipments—he was always outside to grab them before you could get one hand on the carriage compartment; it all seemed like lifting a feather. You’d speak to him about his day and his trips to the bigger cities that he always frequented. 
He’d told you it was because of his business, and you’d refrained from asking what exactly it was that allowed him to purchase such exquisite clothes—or even how they always ended up ruined. 
As your eyes flutter in this bed full of long black hair, you sigh and listen to the howls from far off in the distance; shivering.
“Where do you need ‘em, then?” The accent was aggressive, yes, but the tone was casual. You smile over at Mr. Riley and see the large trunk in his hands as the carriage leaves outside. 
“I don’t know,” you tease, “But I think you look quite dashing being such a ready and willing neighbor, Sir.” 
“That it?” He raises an eyebrow, but no expression slashes his visible face. To even get that was something to celebrate. 
You raise a hand and wave him behind your counter, chuckling. 
“I jest, Mr. Riley. Right back here the same as always.” He wordlessly ambles forward, feet heavy upon your wooden floors. 
You smell the scent of fresh earth as he passes, and your fingers twitch at your sides. Clearing your throat, you ask easily as the man strangely flinches as he brushes your arm, eyes flicking just a smidge wider. 
“Any more travels this month, then? I am a bit curious to hear about where you’ll be off to this time.” 
“London,” is a swift answer. Brown eyes glance at you as the trunk is set down with a puff of breath in the space below the shelves. “Ever been?”
You shrug. 
“No, unfortunately.” Simon stands to his full height, hands finding the insides of his pockets. You should be hesitant of his stature—his great shoulders—but you find it suits him. He tilts his head at you, his cap off today to let his wisps of hair collect at his temple. “You?”
Mr. Riley grunts, feet shifting. 
“Quite a few.” He blinks slowly. “Not missin’ much. Bloody filthy.” 
You laugh and tilt your head down, staring at the floor for a moment as your cheeks heat up. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” 
Simon puffs a sound of amusement, looking you up and down. He stares at your waist before he hums. 
“That a new one?” You look down at your corset above your blouse, putting a hand above the embroidery and nodding earnestly, touched that he’d seen it. Mr. Riley was far more in tune with his surroundings than others. 
“Yes, had a horrible time with the designs—I’m not quite sure I like it yet.” 
“It’s nice.” The man seems just as surprised about his quick outburst as you do, wide eyes meeting each other to connect with bare emotion. 
It’s a long pause that leaves you stuttering, your heart skipping a beat as your flesh burns with brimming affection. Simon grunts tensely and darts his eyes away to stare hard at the counter behind you.
“Well, I…” you tilt your head, beaming through a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s high praise coming from you.” 
“It’s nothing.” He takes his leave, firmly moving past you and shifting his body to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into you. “Wear whatever you want, won’t make a difference… You’ll still be lovely.” 
Before you can gape into the expanse of his back at the blunt compliment, he’s already out of the door with a whisper. You watch him cross the street from the window and see him climb his steps, sucking down a shaky breath. 
An embarrassing giggle meets air. 
The man far across the street pauses in front of his door, gloved hand outstretched. He stays there for a hint of a moment, and you swear he turns his head to space you a tiny glance over his shoulder. 
Suddenly feeling as if you’d gotten caught, though you don’t know why, you squeak and hurry away into the back room. 
You wake up to the sound of the door opening. 
Drowsy and fatigued, your ears twitch to the sound of low groans and clipped growls—thick curses that would make any mother go shy that slip in and out of your reality. 
You should be afraid.
Footsteps stumble in, the thick closing and bolting of the door eching. Candles flicker through your eyelids, and you make a low noise in your throat as your face scrunches. 
All sound ceases. 
So quiet that death himself would vacate the area, your brain catches the end of a set of surprised footsteps coming to the bed and a sudden low exclamation of, “Bloody fucking hell.”
It all fades in and out, glimmering and glinting. 
A swift cleaning of the objects in his possession, organization, and fixing—moving papers. Feet stop at every other minute, and eyes burn into your face from above the covers. 
His fingers pull back at fabric, seeing the clothes you wear, the ones that he needs as of currently. 
A deep chuckle encircles you; your sleep deepens. Those same fingers, like a plague of slumber, travel up your bandaged arms and twitch along your shoulder—moving up until they come to the pulse at your neck. They add pressure and a breathless grunt is expelled as you tilt your head farther up. 
That touch is moved to your chin, moving it back down to hide your flesh from that brown gaze before a heavy sigh brushes over you. The covers are all at once pulled farther up along your form. 
The shadow disappears, and with it, it takes the extra blanket from the end of the bed, harshly grunting as the fabric is shuffled around and wrapped. A tiny mutter.
“You have a fuckin’ horrible habit of complicating things.” 
You sleep on, and, if you were conscious enough to realize it, you would have felt the gaze on you for the remainder of the night from the table—watching, barely blinking above the heavy press of eyes. 
Silent, if only for the soft breaths taken and no sooner exhaled on long, even, airways. 
As if not but a dog that watches the moon under starlight; the gentle sight of snow falling outside of the den. 
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carakook · 5 days
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🎀 A “Coquette” Misunderstanding 🎀
“Mmm… depends. You gonna let me put a real bow on your dick? Make it all cute and coquette?”
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♡Pairings: fuckboy!Jeon Jungkook x fem!reader
♡Synopsis: Jungkook has been a self proclaimed fuck boy after his last relationship ended fairly messily… until he met you. Started out as fuck buddies, but he always had a huge crush on you. With time, he realized that he’s actually falling in love with you, and he is itching to make you his girl. He knows being a fuck boy means he has to prove himself when it comes to being serious, so he comes up with the perfect gift to give you when he confesses… only for it to turn into the biggest fucking mess.
♡Genre: Romance/Comedy
♡Word count: 5k+
♡Warnings: 18+ for mature audiences only, MDNI, mentions of sex, lewd references, lots of talk about penises, talks of being in love (ew!!!), arguing, mentions of alcohol, no smut but this fic revolves heavily around sex, making out, Jungkook is kinda stupid (bless his lil heart), also kind of weird in general? Let me know if I miss anything!
♡Disclaimer: This story in no way reflects the characters of those who are mentioned. It is pure fiction and for entertainment purposes only. Please don’t take it seriously. Nothing is real in this story.
♡A/N: This is my first request! I hope whoever requested it likes it, it was supposed to be a Drabble but I got a lil carried away… oops! The request was fuck boy Jungkook falls in love with Y/N, but there’s a misunderstanding that eventually gets resolved and they live happily every after! I have no idea how I came up with this 😭 it’s kinda silly and kinda weird but I think it’s cute. I hope you guys like it. 😅
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Jungkook finds himself wondering if he can possibly get anymore fucking stupider than he feels right now.
It seems when it comes to you, he simply loses brain cells. He’s not sure what it is about you, but anything involving you short circuits his brain as of late, and he is continuously fucking things up.
Maybe it’s because you’re so fucking pretty. Maybe it’s because the way you look at him makes his knees weak. Maybe it’s simply because he’s a man, and men are stupid… Or maybe, it’s because he had the recent revelation that for the first time literal in years, he has caught feelings.
And what’s worse is that he’s realized this isn’t just a little crush. He’s fucking in love with you, and it’s making him forget how to function.
Jungkook doesn’t catch feelings, not since his last relationship ended very messily two years ago. The way the relationship ended left a very bad taste in his mouth, so he decided to go back to his college days of being a fuck boy and never falling in love again…
Which was working for some time. It was freeing to be able go back to his old ways; he could enjoy a woman’s body and worship them like the goddesses they are, and then wake up the next day without feeling any obligation… or anything at all, really.
Until you came along.
You had been friends for years, although you were never very close. He always thought you were one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, but he also thought you were so out of his league. You weren’t the type of girl to go for fuck boys; you were put together and had very high standards, you knew your worth. He liked that, but never really had the guts to push it because he was sure he didn’t fit those standards.
That is, until one drunken night at one of Jimin’s parties… you flirted with him heavily. It was the biggest fucking ego boost that he ever had. He never assumed you would be interested in him, because his noncommittal habits weren’t a secret. But on this night you were very obviously interested in him. You were being touchy, and sweet, and you just looked so fucking pretty.
This was the first night you slept together, and Jungkook doesn’t like admitting that you unraveled him in a way no other woman had. The sex was mind blowing. He has never felt such intense chemistry with someone before… and fuck, you gave the best head he ever gotten. He was addicted after that, he knew he didn’t want it to be a one time thing.
He didn’t want to make you his girlfriend necessarily, good sex still wasn’t enough for him to consider being with someone seriously again… but he did want to see you again. The next morning he was bashful; made you breakfast, drew you a warm bath with essential oils and pretty smelling soap, and even ordered you a very last minute bouquet of flowers to wake up to.
This alone should have told him that things would be different with you, because although Jungkook always treated a woman with love and care when they gifted him their body for a night, he never went this out of his way to impress them.
He told himself it was because he felt the need to overcompensate. In bed he’s very confident, but out of bed, he’s not as sure of himself… especially with you. He felt lucky to have a night with you, and he knew he needed to put an effort in to keep you interested in him because he wasn’t exactly your type. If he was able to keep you interested, then maybe you’d see him again.
He was right, you didn’t normally go for fuck boys. Casual sex wasn’t exactly your favorite, because men often forget to focus on the woman, too. You weren’t exactly looking for anything serious, but you also weren’t looking to sleep with some guy who only cared about himself in bed. And most hookups you had thus far ended with you less than satisfied.
It was uncharacteristic for you to sleep with guys like Jungkook, or really give them any attention at all. But Jungkook has always been pretty, and he’s always been so fucking sweet… that night at the party, he looked extra appealing to you.
Even then, you weren’t planning on doing it again. The chemistry was undeniably intense, but you weren’t a fan of sharing. There were health risks to sharing partners if one of you weren’t careful, and you didn’t like that it made you question yourself. You tried it before, and it just wasn’t for you. You like exclusivity, and that’s ok. Everyone has preferences and boundaries and not everyone will agree with yours.
This is why you didn’t plan to see him again. But when you woke up and saw all the sweet little things he did for you, you were definitely tempted… what really got to you was how he fucking looked at you; he looked at you like a love sick fucking puppy and it was the most adorable thing you’d ever seen. He was adorable. You’d never been with a man who was so fucking sexy but also so goddamn cute at the same time.
No guy had gone through such trouble after what was supposed to be a one night stand before. It was like he really was a dog; he brought you these little gifts in the form of acts of service in the hopes you would continue giving him head pats. Or, actual head in this case…
And although he wasn’t actually love sick, he definitely was a bit pussy whipped.
Temptation won in the end.
There was no spoken agreement between you two… you just started having sex regularly. And every time it was fucking toe curling. No man took care of your body so perfectly and left you 100% satisfied. But beyond the sex, you both found that you thoroughly enjoyed being around each other. You’d never knew each other well before this, you were mere acquaintances who were familiar with each other because of mutual friends, but you grew closer and got to know each other as time went on, and in the end you kept it going.
Of course you were worried about his reputation, but you didn’t push him or even ask for exclusivity. He never explicitly said that he wouldn’t be exclusive with you, but you started liking him and the sex was enough to let go of that boundary and make an exception for him. You knew he was safe and you knew he would always treat you right. This was enough for you… even if it sometimes bothered you that you didn’t know whether he was sleeping around or not. He wasn’t your boyfriend, just a fuck buddy you grew fond of.
Little did you know, he had no desire to sleep with anyone else. You didn’t even need to tell him these boundaries, because he knew without you telling him. He wouldn’t dare do something to fuck this up. The sex was so good that he didn’t have the want for anyone else, he didn’t even think about it. He still wasn’t quite ready to be serious with someone, but he was content with you in a way that he never had been any of his previous hookups or fuck buddies. He wanted to keep you as long as you’d let him.
A routine started; as time went on you spent more time together, hung out often, and fucked like rabbits. You played with his hair and scratched his back, you picked on him and made fun of him in a way that made him laugh every time, and you knew exactly how to handle him even when he was a bit overwhelming. He was so content with what you both started.
Until recently.
Jungkook started realizing a few weeks ago that maybe having thoughts of an entire future with someone who’s only supposed to be your fuck buddy isn’t exactly normal. Sometimes he’d lay awake at night thinking of you for hours… he’d imagine taking you on actual dates, not just little outings disguised as friends hanging out. He’d imagine getting to brag about you being his girlfriend. But what really started to make it obvious was when he imagined what you’d look like in a wedding dress…
Five months in and he realized he’s falling for you. He’s so fucking gone for you, and for once, he’s giddy about it.
You’d both developed this sort of playful relationship. When you weren’t fucking, you were always joking around and making each other laugh. You both had a very crude sense of humor and so many little inside jokes. It was comfortable, and he started feeling like a kid on Christmas Day at the thought of keeping it going forever.
He wanted to ask you to be his girlfriend, but he knew you’d be hesitant because of his history. He wanted to do something for you that not only would prove to you he’s serious, but something that was special. He didn’t want to get you a piece of jewelry, or a bouquet of flowers with a card; he wanted it to be something only you would experience. He wanted to go all out for you.
He recalled a conversation you both had one time over dinner at his place while watching a drama. The guy in the drama was proposing to the main character, and it was as cliche as any other drama.
“That’s so cheesy. Why can’t guys be more creative? He’s asking her to spend fucking forever with him, more thought should go into it.”
“Yeah? Well if a guy proposed to you how would you want him to do it then?”
“I dunno… but not like that. Forever is a long fucking time, whoever decides to propose to me better do something more special than a damn ring.”
“But that’s literally what a guy is supposed to do, how else would he do it? You’re supposed to get the girl a ring and get on your knees n’ shit.”
“That’s so cliche though! I dunno, I’d rather something else… like maybe a dildo that was a replica of his dick. Something to the effect of ‘will you ride my dick forever?’”
That conversation ended in laughter of course, because you were only joking… but also, as Jungkook thought back on it, it would be so fucking perfect.
Not only would it show that he remembered the little things, but it would also break the stigma that he created for himself; it would show you that he was serious, he had no desire to be with anyone else sexually emotionally, and it would fit in with your playful dynamic. Like a little inside joke, and although he isn’t asking you to marry him, he wants the message to be clear that he wants to build a forever with you.
So he did some research. He original thought about getting you a dildo that was a replica of his dick, and found that there were DIY kits he could buy to make it himself. But also… why would you need a dildo if you had him? So he researched the more artistic aspect of things and found that there were actually a lot of artists who specialized in making replica sculptures of men and women’s body parts.
He liked this much more, because he felt it was a bit more sentimental and maybe more fitting. He found one artist in particular who’s sculptures and paintings looked very realistic. In their portfolio, they featured some comparisons of the pictures that inspired the sculpture vs. the sculpture they made, and there was barely a difference. They clearly had talent, and he was totally fine dropping however much money to get this done for you.
So he contacted the artist to order a commission. It was a hefty price, because he paid to have the process expedited. He wanted this done as soon as possible because he was practically shaking with excitement at the thought of asking you to be his girlfriend. But the price was worth it. The artist asked him some questions and listened to his requests. His only request was that it would be life sized, it would have a little pink bow wrapped around it (because you loved cute things, he remembers you called it ‘coquette’ once.), and somewhere it would have ‘Property of Y/N’ on it. The artist was confident that they could have it sculpted, shipped, and delivered by the end of the week. All the artist needed was a picture of his penis for reference.
Awkward, but understandable. It was very professional, obviously if he wanted the sculpture to look like his dick the artist would need a reference photo. This was purely for artistic purposes, it’s not like he was sending nudes or getting off on it. He was doing this for you and he couldn’t fucking wait to see the finished product or hear your little giggles when he presents it to you.
But of course, in his excitement, he fucks up exponentially.
He was supposed to email the photo of his dick to the artist. So he has no fucking idea why after he took the photo, he texted it to you… probably because subconsciously, who the fuck else would he be sending pictures of his dick to? He’s not even the kind of guy to send nudes, but he has a few times with you on nights that you’re both too busy to actually meet up and have sex.
He could’ve just played it off and said something stupid like ‘surprise’, but he immediately panicked because he was afraid you’d figure out what he’s doing. Which is so fucking stupid because how the fuck would you ever guess what he’s doing?
So what does he do instead?
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He handled it very poorly, to say the least. He didn’t know what the fuck to do, and he had no idea why the told you he sent it to the wrong person. It was because it was the truth, that’s why. He didn’t really think anything of it when he admitted he sent it to the wrong person, because he had a clear conscious. Why lie when he has a clear conscious?
He panicked not because he was guilty, but because he was scared that you would catch on and the surprise would be ruined… which is so fucking stupid. Out of everything, you couldn’t possibly guess what he was doing.
He didn’t think about the implications of telling you that it was the wrong person, and it just went downhill from there. He really should have just told you the truth in that moment, but he doubts you would have believed him. The story would seem far fetched at this point because of how vague he was being in the beginning.
And you really didn’t believe him. You trusted Jungkook, but that message reminded you that you aren’t exclusive with him. He isn’t your boyfriend. He has a reputation of being a fuck boy and he’s just your fuck buddy. So it wouldn’t have been a surprise if he really was messing around with other girls considering he technically has every right to… but it still stung.
If he had come out and admitted it was meant for another girl, you would have probably been a bit bitchy about it, but you wouldn’t have fought with him over it. He has the right to see other people when you both never agreed to only see each other. It was that feeling of being lied to that set you off, you fucking hate being lied to. You have your fair share of history involving men who lie, and although you made an exception on one of your boundaries for Jungkook, you refused to make an exception on being lied to for any man.
And even though he wasn’t actually lying, how the fuck would you have known that? He’s right, if he did send you some elaborate paragraph about what the picture was actually for, and how he just instinctively sent it to you after taking it, you probably wouldn’t have believed him after he denied it so vaguely like he did.
For days he tried to talk to you. He blew up your phone, called and texted hundreds of times, blew up your Instagram notifications, and even started fucking making tweets on Twitter begging you to talk to him and let him explain (dramatic as fuck, his friends made fun of him for it, and he didn’t care because he was desperate.) You ignored him, of course, because deep down you were a bit hurt. You really couldn’t stand the thought that we was sending nudes to someone else, possibly fucking them, and then lying to you about it.
It reminds you as to why you have the boundary of exclusivity… and also makes you realize that maybe you like Jungkook a little more than you thought you did.
He’s a mess. He kept debating whether or not to just show up to your place, get on his knees and beg you to listen to him… but he knew you wouldn’t let him in, not unless he had proof of what actually happened. He feels so goddamn stupid. He could easily show up and show you the email as proof, explain his thought process and what the picture was for, what he was doing, confess that he’s fucking in love with you and wanted to do something to show you how serious he is…
But he decides to give you space. He knows that it’s unlikely you want to listen to him or see him right now, and he needs to let you cool off. By the time the sculpture is delivered, he can show up, explain himself, and do everything as planned.
It’s the longest fucking week of his life. His thoughts are consumed with you and he prays that when he does show up, it isn’t too late, and you’ll let him explain himself.
That you’ll say yes after it’s all said and done.
The next Friday, he receives the package. He nearly fumbles with it as he opens it, wanting to get this shit over with so you guys will be ok again.
Just as expected, it’s perfect. It’s obviously not the exact same as his dick, but it’s pretty fucking close. It looks exactly as you would expect a sculpture of a dick to look like. The bow that was sculpted onto it is perfect, pink and detailed, wrapped between the tip of the sculpted dick and the base. At the very bottom of the base, in tiny cursive letters reads ‘Property of Y/N’. He thinks it’s perfect, and if you find it in yourself to hear him out, he knows you’ll love it. He can already imagine your cheeks getting pink as you giggle at the absurd gesture.
He gets himself ready. He puts on some cologne, brushes his teeth, stares at himself in the mirror a little too long trying to psych himself up. He knows showing up without warning is probably not the best way to go, but he hopes that once you open the door and see him bearing gifts, you’ll be more open to listening to what he has to say.
He makes a stop on his way to your place because he impulsively decides to buy you some flowers and a cute gift box for the sculpture. He’s in a rush because he feels like he’s dying on the inside with you so upset at him. When he gets the flowers, he just stuffs a wad of cash in the florists hand before running back off to his car. He probably overpaid for them… but he doesn’t care.
He makes quick work of putting the sculpture inside of the pink box he picked out, adds a matching pink bow for good measure. Once he’s satisfied, he carefully placed the flowers and the gift box in his front seat, and nearly peels out of the parking lot in a hurry to get to you.
You’ve been sulking all damn week, because you miss him. At first you were pissed, because you swore he was lying, he just had to be. Why else would he be sending dick pics to someone? But as the week went on, you did start to question yourself. Because Jungkook had never given you a reason to not trust him, and despite that fact that neither of you have ever explicitly said it was exclusive… you know that it is.
Because when you’re both in a room full of people, his eyes never stray. When he tells one of his stupid jokes, the first person he looks for a reaction in is you. When he goes to the grocery store, despite you not living together, he always stocks up on your favs. And every morning and every night, no matter what, you are the first and last person he talks to. The little things tell you everything you need to know.
Even now, after he stopped blowing your phone up because you continued to ignore him, he made sure to text you good morning and goodnight.
So why would he lie? Why would he lie when all of the signs are there that you are his sole focus? You may be unaware of how deep his feelings are for you, but the little things show where his loyalties lay.
It’s just so hard to believe him because you can’t possibly fathom who else he could be sending nudes to, and if the reason wasn’t sexual, then why? You don’t exactly send pictures of your genitals to someone for casual or platonic reasons, so…
You’re sitting on your couch watching TV and pouting when he knocks at your door. You aren’t expecting anyone, so you have a feeling it’s him… you debate not answering the door, but in the end you do, because you’re just as irritable without him as he is you.
You open the door and keep a neutral expression on your face, you see him standing there with those same love sick puppy eyes and you nearly fold right then and there.
He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his hand and a fairly large pink box with a bow on top. So he came prepared, it seems. You don’t know whether to be flattered or offended at the supposed bribe, but you keep an open mind.
“What do you want?” You say cooly… as if you’re not going to let him in anyway.
“Y/N can we please talk? I know you hate me right now, but please just let me explain myself. I swear this is all just a really big and stupid misunderstanding.”
He has no idea what’s going on in your head right now because you seem so calm, so collected. He wishes he could be like you, because if you don’t let him in, he swears he’s gonna cry and bang on your door until you let him. He’s not above throwing a fit at this point.
You stand there for a moment staring at him, making it seem as if you’re skeptical… but really, you just missed his pretty face.
“Fine.”
You open your door for him and he nearly fucking pushes you down when he barges his way in, afraid you’re going to change your mind.
He makes his way to your couch and sits down, pats the spot next to him and sits the gift box down on your coffee table along with the flowers.
“These are for you… open it first.”
You cross your arms and scoff at him, don’t sit down yet. You start to wonder if he’s avoiding actually explaining, wanting to butter you up first so that you’ll be more willing to forgive him.
“What? No, explain why you lied about sending—“
He holds his hand up to stop you from speaking, “Dammit, Y/N, open the damn gift first. You need to see it in order for me to explain. Please.”
You huff at him in response, because it’s kinda hot when he talks to you like that… but now is not the time to get hot and bothered. You don’t even know what his supposed ‘explanation’ is or if it’s something you’re willing to forgive.
You do listen to him though, you take a seat on the couch and grab the pink box. You take off the bow, which you love, and you carefully open up the box to reveal…
A penis. Hm.
You take it out and start inspecting it… you don’t know how to feel yet. You’ve been sleeping with him for months, you both know each others bodies very intimately, so you can immediately tell that it is indeed his dick, specifically because of the little heart shaped freckle down the shaft. You notice the bow that’s sculpted into it too, and you find yourself giggling at it without meaning to. Just like he thought you would. The entire gesture makes your cheeks warm. Such an odd fucking gift, but you already love it.
You turn it over, and you see at the base of it right above the testicles of the sculpture, in cute little letters ‘Property of Y/N’.
As weird as it is, you find the gesture so fucking cute… but you also don’t understand it. You don’t understand why he just gave you a coquette sculpture of his dick, what this has to do with the dick pic, and why it says property of Y/N, because that’s a very serious thing to put on a sculpture of his dick that he just have to you.
Before you gush over how much you love the silly thing, you ask wearily, “Ok… but like… what does this have to do with anything?”
Jungkook let’s out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in and his heart pounds because he’s so fucking thankful you seem to be open to hearing him out.
He begins explaining hesitantly, “Yeah, right, so umm… lately I’ve been thinking… about us. And I sort of realized that I… like you. Like, a lot. Not just the sex or the whole fuck buddy thing, but I really fucking like you as a person Y/N.”
Now your heart is pounding because you genuinely didn’t expect this confession. Which in return, makes you impatient… because you like him too. But you can’t tell him that until you figure out what the fuck happened with the dick pic and wether or not you need to stop this before it starts, or forgive him, or even apologize for not letting him explain.
“Ok but what does that have to do—“
“I’m getting to that. Just… ugh, shut up, this is embarrassing.”
He looks away from you and starts biting at his lip ring. You feel kinda bad, because he really does look embarrassed about it. But oh, it is so fucking cute…
You nod at him and lean back into the couch, the sculpture in your lap as you silently agree to let him continue and try to keep your impatience in check.
He reluctantly continues, “After realizing this, I wanted to… tell you. Wanted to ask you to be my girlfriend. But I didn’t want to be cliche about it, I remember us talking about it before… so I wanted to do something special… something only for you.”
He lets out a breathy laugh and squeezes his eyes shut, because he starts overthinking a bit. He wanted to to something special for you, so he got a fucking sculpture of his dick made… ridiculous train of thought. Such a fuck boy thing to do.
“I remembered you making a joke about how if a guy proposes, you’d want it to be with something other than a ring… and I’m not proposing! But you know, it’s similar so… yeah. Fuck. Anyway, I did some research and found out that apparently dick sculpting is a type of art? And my dumb ass thought that was perfect…”
He chances a glance at you, looking up from his lashes as he sits forward and rests his elbows on his knees. So far, you seem receptive of the story… you don’t seem to be suspicious of him yet. Thank fuck.
“I commissioned an artist to make a sculpture of… my dick. For you. And they needed a picture for reference… it was all very professional. But when I took the picture, I guess I just automatically sent it to you, because I don’t do that shit with anyone else. So I didn’t think. But when I realized I texted it to you, instead of emailing it to the artist… I told the truth because I didn’t think about the implications. And I did a very fucking bad job at attempting to explain when you did start questioning it. That’s my bad…”
It’s slowly starting to make sense. The story is a bit… far fetched. But it’s so far fetched that you highly doubt Jungkook would have gone through the trouble to actually commission an artist and drop who knows how much on this sculpture just to save his ass. It may be a very specific situation, an original experience, if you will… but the proof is in the pudding, and you can tell by the look on his face that he isn’t lying.
“I should’ve just told you what happened but I doubted you’d believe me after how badly I fumbled. So I waited for the damn thing to show up. I can show you the emails back and forth with the artist and stuff too if you want… but Y/N I swear I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I haven’t fucked or even looked at another woman since we started messing around… don’t want to. Only want you. So please believe me.”
He looks at you with pleading eyes, and gives you a small pitiful smile. You do believe him. You really didn’t have any reason not to to begin with, but the miscommunication prevented you from seeing that.
It really was just some very stupid misunderstanding.
You say nothing. Instead, you set the sculpture down carefully, and you scoot closer to him. You grab his face gently, and lean in to kiss him.
Fuck. He missed your lips so bad.
He immediately kisses you back, damn near whines at how good it feels to have you again. To see that you aren’t rejecting his explanation or refusing to trust him, but you’re forgiving him. He kisses you back sweetly, one of his hands coming to the nape of your neck while the other cradles your jaw.
You pull back and murmur, “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Was stupid of me. Forgive me.”
He smiles so fucking stupidly at this and nudges his nose against yours. He starts peppering your face with little kisses as he says, “Forgive me for being a fucking idiot…”
One last huge smooch to your forehead, and he pulls you into his lap. He feels so much more lighter now that things are cleared up. God, he wants to fucking laugh at how absurd it all is. All week he started to regret ever choosing to get a sculpture made of his fucking penis as a way to ask you to be his damn girlfriend… who the fuck does that?
Him, apparently. And he started wishing he fucking didn’t.
But seeing you now, seeing how you’re smiling at him with the same adoration in your eyes as him, he’s thankful he did it. Sure, was a very odd gift to get you… but it suits your dynamic perfectly. And the way you giggled at it bashfully, he knows you absolutely loved it.
He reaches down and squeezes your ass as you sit on his lap, not trying to initiate anything, just wanting to touch you. He stares at you in silence for a moment, because a week away from your pretty face was far too much.
He flicks his lip ring with his tongue before asking, “So… does that mean you’ll be my girlfriend then…?”
He doesn’t mean to sound so awkward when he asks, but he’s nervous that you’ll say no because you didn’t really say anything when he explained earlier…
Stupid boy, can’t he see how much you fucking adore him? Of course you’ll say yes.
But even then, you hum in response as your hands reach up to play with his hair, as if you’re mulling it over and considering your options.
“Mmm… depends. You gonna let me put a real bow on your dick? Make it all cute and coquette?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. Of course he will. Fucking anything you want if that means you’ll be his girlfriend, if you’ll let him love you and fuck you and take care of you for what he hopes is forever. And honestly, the thought of you putting a bow on his dick weirdly turns him on.
You giggle at him, lean in and press your lips against his again. You kiss him once more, a bit more tongue this time just so you can hear him pant and feel his heart beat faster against your chest.
When you finally come up for air, you say against his lips, “Then yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, was nervous you were going to say no. But you didn’t. And he has never felt so fucking excited or proud about something, he swears.
He can actually say that you’re his girl now. Thank god for his coquette dick.
863 notes · View notes
jeneveuxrein · 4 months
Text
safety net [1/2] (BLACKPINK Rosé)
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word count: 25.8K
part 1 (14.8K) | part 2 (11K)
(thanks to everyone who read the first story i published, truly appreciate it! this one's more plot than anything with a smidgen of you know)
“Hey.” 
You glance away from your screen to Park Chaeyoung standing in front of you, a determined look on her face. You prefer to call her Rosie, mostly because you know how much it irritates her, and you’re the only one that calls her by her English name.
“Uh hey Rosie,” You greet, slightly closing your laptop. “What’s up?” 
“I have a proposition for you,” Rosie leans over the table. “And please listen to it before you flat out say no.”
You raise an eyebrow, shutting your laptop completely. You start packing your belongings. 
“Wait what? What’re you doing?” Rosie straightens, taking a step back. 
“Well I’m hungry, and if I have to listen to you, I would rather do it while I’m eating,” You swing your backpack over one shoulder, adding, “You’re paying by the way.” 
As you walk away, you hear Rosie huff. You smirk when her arm loops with yours. 
“Fine,” You don’t have to look at her to know she’s pouting, but you wonder what, of all things, she needs you for.
Guess you’ll find out. 
--
The server places your orders in front of you, as Rosie sits across from you, sipping her iced coffee. You give a small thanks as your mouth waters at the sight of the burger. 
“You act like you don’t eat,” Rosie comments after you take the first bite. You flip her off after taking another bite. You hadn’t eaten lunch, so you were starving. 
“What do you want?” You ask before you continue eating, ignoring her comment. No matter what, you were ravenous. This burger would be gone before she finished.
“Okay,” Rosie takes a breath, composing herself. You realize that whatever she’s going to ask you is big, especially if she’s asking you. Though, you keep eating. “So you know how I’ve never been in a relationship right?” 
You nod. It wasn’t any of your business, nor did you pay any attention to her dating life specifically, but your friends, the girls mostly, commented a lot about her lack of dating, or really lack of interest in anyone.
“Well, there’s this guy who I’ve been talking to lately and I think I like him,” Rosie takes a small bite of her salad. “The only problem is my, I guess, experience, if you’re catching my drift.” 
This burger is too good for you to stop eating, but you nod anyways, having absolutely no idea what she’s referring to.
“I was wondering if you could help me in that department,” You raise an eyebrow, which you’re paying attention now. “I mean, will you show me how to have sex?” 
You choke, being mid-bite, that the burger falls apart onto the plate. You cough as Rosie’s suddenly next to you, hitting your back. 
“Oh my god, are you alright?” Rosie asks once you’ve stopped coughing.
“Yeah, I’m good,” You nod, waving off the server who was walking towards your table. “I’m good,” You repeat and Rosie takes her seat again. 
“So? What do you say?” 
“No,” You say flatly, staring at the deconstructed burger on your plate. Thankfully you finished most of it, but still.
“What? Why?” Rosie crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. 
It doesn’t faze you. You’re used to this, especially if it’s with Rosie.
“First let me ask, why me?” You attempt to put the burger back together, distracting yourself from the thoughts of Rosie like that.
“Well, it was Jennie’s idea really,” Rosie confesses, watching you rearrange the meat patty. “She said that if I want to feel comfortable doing stuff with Soohyun, I should just get it over with.”
Choi Soohyun, the rich pretty boy at your university. You’ve met him a few times, and he’s nice enough. You know his track record with women is on par with yours, but the difference is that he uses his father’s money to pull them in. You, on the other hand, come from a relatively wealthy family as well, but only Rosie and her three best friends know that. 
“And it has to be me?” You ask bluntly, appetite suddenly gone as you push the plate away.
“Yes,” Rosie nods enthusiastically, “As much as everyone calls you a playboy, girls talk. You allegedly know your way around a bedroom, and what better way for me to learn is from you.”
“Chaeyoung, absolutely not,” Using her real name was only saved for serious moments, and this was way too serious for a Tuesday afternoon. 
“Why not?” Rosie argues, rolling her eyes. “It’s just sex, isn’t that what all guys want?”
“I’m not sure what guys you’ve been hanging out with, but no, not all guys want just sex,” You mock, leaning back into the chair. “And shouldn’t your first time be special with someone you actually, I don’t know, like?” 
“In an ideal world, yes,” Chaeyoung answers, aggressively stabbing a piece of lettuce. “But I don’t care much for that stuff. You’re not answering my question, why won’t you have sex with me?” 
There was a list of reasons you could think of as to why you won’t have sex with Rosie. 
Number one, and the only one you were concerned about, being the history you have together. 
You’ve been sworn enemies since middle school, but there was a time before that where you were actually close. You grew up in the house next to hers, and your parents set up multiple play dates that she was someone you enjoyed spending time with. You considered her your best friend. It changed in middle school, for reasons you still didn’t know. You didn’t have the mental capacity at that age to fix it because you missed her, but you’ve never told her that. 
In high school, it was better, but you feigned indifference while she flat out ignored you. Unless your families were having dinner, but even then that consisted of snarky comments and petty arguments. The amount of times her older sister had to step in were too many to count. 
You thought university would be your fresh start, but lo and behold, you couldn’t seem to shake her presence from your life. You thought you wouldn’t see her as much since you were taking different subjects, but your friends ran in the same circle, so you saw her more than you needed to. 
“Do you not find me attractive?” Rosie’s question catches you off guard when you don’t respond. 
You’d be lying if you said no. You’ve been a witness to Rosie turning into a beautiful woman, but if she knew that, especially coming from you, her ego would skyrocket. A lot of the men, even women, on campus have a crush on her, but she typically rejected anyone because she was too focused on school and her dream of becoming a fashion designer—something she was very close to achieving with the amount of internships she’s been receiving from companies abroad. 
“Shut up, you know it’s not that,” You mumble, ignoring the smirk forming on Rosie’s face. “It’s you and me. We haven’t gotten along since we were like seven, now all of a sudden, you want to,” You pause, thinking of how to say it, “Have sex with me because of what you’ve heard?” 
“Look,” Rosie sighs, face falling. You detect the desperation, but she’d never admit it. “I know our relationship is complicated, but you’re the only guy I can trust to do this. Jungkook would blab. Taehyung would be an ass. And Yoongi’s too nice. Everyone else has a girlfriend who I very much would like to stay friends with. Can’t we just put the past behind us?” 
You didn’t want to further complicate things. At best, you two were civil. At worst, Rosie would be yelling at you along with repeatedly hitting your shoulder to take back whatever set her off. 
Adding sex into the mix? It’s a bomb waiting to go off. 
“I don’t know, Chaeyoung,” You say softly, pushing your plate away. “As much as you’re a pain in my ass, I don’t think I could do that with you. It would feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” 
Her face softens, and she reaches for your hand, “You’re not taking advantage of me. If anything, I’m taking advantage of you. It’s not like we have feelings for each other right?” 
You don’t, as far as you’re aware, but you have always, and will always, have a soft spot for her. You may not have gotten along over the years, but you’d still have her back. If she means what she says about her trusting you out of all the friends she has, it’s important. 
“No,” It feels off saying that, but you ignore it. “Fine,” You relent. You couldn’t believe you were agreeing. “But we have to set rules.”
“Really?” Rosie beams, clapping her hands. “Yes yes, of course.” 
“Uh, first rule, we’ll do it at my place since I live alone. I don’t need Jennie or Lisa or Jisoo hovering,” You say, which she nods. You love the girls, hell you’ve slept with Jennie on a couple occasions, but they can be nosey and overly critical. 
“That makes sense. Rule number two, no sleeping over,” She makes a face, “I will literally bring you home if it’s super late, or I’ll just bring you home in general.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” Rosie rolls her eyes. 
“I know I don’t, but I’m not budging,” You’re firm about that. Your parents would kill you if anything happened to Rosie and you were the last person to see her. 
“Rule three, if you sleep with other people, please let me know and use a fucking condom,” Rosie says, “I don’t want my first time to end up with a disease.”
You’re slightly offended because as much as you have sex, you are safe. Even when girls don’t want to use protection, you do. 
“Obviously I will.”
“Good,” Rosie nods, “Last rule, no feelings. If at any point you or I feel something more than our mutual disdain for each other, we stop.” 
“Okay,” You roll your eyes, “Like I’d ever fall for you, but fine.” 
A pit forms in your stomach after saying that, but again, you brush it off.
“Right back at ya,” Rosie winks, smiling brightly that she accomplished her mission. “So what’re you doing tonight? Can we start?”
You nearly choke on your saliva, eyes bugging out as Rosie looks completely serious. 
“Uh,” You don’t have anything planned. You still have to finish the budget report your professor assigned, but it wasn’t due for another week. “You want to start tonight?”
“The sooner, the better right?”
“Okay,” You nod, suddenly nervous about this whole situation. “Okay,” You say a bit more confidently. “You’re paying for this.”
“I know,” Rosie chuckles, signaling to the server for the bill. 
What did you get yourself into?
--
You open the door for Rosie, letting her in first before following. You shut the door while she takes off her shoes, neatly placing them to the side as you take off your coat. 
“So this is your place,” Rosie comments, walking along the wall as she inspects the photos. It is her first time here, not that she was never welcomed. Your apartment has always been your safe place, only allowing a select few here.  “Did you take these?” 
“Yeah, I’m minoring in photography, so,” You shrug, walking past her as she stares at a photo from Jennie’s birthday. “I’m going to change into sweats, did you need anything? Water? Soju?” You offer because you’re considering taking a shot before you get started to ease your nerves. 
Rosie laughs, shaking her head, “Soju? Really? You need that?” 
“Don’t make fun of me. It isn’t every day that one of the hottest girls at school asks me to teach her to have sex,” You mutter, but Rosie hears you loud and clear. 
“You admit that I’m hot then?” You swear you can hear her smirking behind you. 
“Fuck off, help yourself to whatever,” You roll your eyes as she laughs. 
You don’t bother entertaining her any longer, making your way to your room. You change into something comfy—grey sweats and a white shirt. You hadn’t expected company tonight, nor had you expected having sex. It’s been about a week since, even though your ex-girlfriend messaged you about hooking up for fun the other day. You didn’t even respond, knowing that would just end up messy.
When you return to the living room, Rosie sits on your couch, legs crossed as she types away on her phone. You’d bet she was texting Jennie. 
“So how do you want to do this?” You ask awkwardly, scratching the back of your neck as you sit next to her. You leave a decent amount of space in between, not wanting to seem too eager. 
“I don’t know,” Rosie sighs, “Is there a way we can just ease into it?” 
“Like making out and stuff?” You’ve never spoken about sex so mechanically, that this is a first for you too. 
“I guess? I don’t really know how to start this,” Rosie says unsurely, looking away. 
“Hey,” You reach over, a finger gently tilting her chin to look at you, “There’s no pressure okay? We can just watch TV first and go from there. We literally don’t even have to do anything. As long as you’re comfortable.”
You watch her lip quiver. You hope she doesn’t cry. The last girl you made cry was Nayeon when you broke up with her.
“Okay,” Rosie nods, leaning into your hand. “Thanks again for this. I know this whole situation is awkward.” 
“Stop,” You wave dismissively, rubbing her cheek with your thumb. “It’s important to you, so I guess by default it’s important to me. Your pace,” You smile. 
When Rosie smiles back, you can feel something itch behind your rib cage. You quickly shake that away before retracting your hand. “Here,” You grab the remote, “Put something on, I’ll get us drinks.”
“Oh there’s this new Netflix reality show I want to watch,” You hear Rosie say as you walk to the kitchen. 
You didn’t have that much to offer, since you hadn’t had the time to head to the store. You do opt for a couple bottles of soju to ease both of your nerves along with water because hydration matters. You peruse your pantry and there’s a bag of unopened chips, figuring that would be good to have too. At least for yourself to keep your hands busy. 
When you return to the couch, placing the items on the coffee table, you see the opening credits of what looks like university students? 
“What’s this about?” You ask. This time, you sit closer to her, so that any shift in your leg, your knees would touch. 
Rosie goes on to explain the premise of the show, where people are about to be of legal age and how they form relationships in two different settings. She heard about the show from Lisa who binged it with Jennie in one night. 
“Is this sappy?” You pour a shot each, handing Rosie the glass. 
“Probably, but it’s wholesome,” Rosie raises the glass, “To my virginity?”
“I’m absolutely not toasting to that,” You roll your eyes, taking the shot without waiting. 
Rosie scoffs, downing the drink in one go before putting the glass on the coffee table. “You’re so annoying sometimes.” 
You don’t respond, instead choosing to pour another shot as the contestants of the show enter the classroom. You usually don’t drink this much on a weekday, but this situation warrants it. It feels surreal to be with Rosie, alone, in your apartment of all places. You couldn’t remember the last time you were willingly alone with her, but the thought of those memories were tucked away. 
“Here,” Rosie grimaces at the drink. “Just one more.” 
Rosie relents, taking the shot without making another annoying toast. You smirk before following. The liquid goes down smooth, but you feel the effects starting. Your cheeks feel warm, soothing some–not all–of the nerves. 
You lean back into the couch, throwing an arm casually over the cushion. Rosie automatically leans into you, sighing deeply before resting her head on your shoulder. 
“You smell good,” Rosie comments, snuggling deeper into your side. The compliment throws you off because she hadn’t said anything remotely nice to you in years. 
“Uh thanks,” You bring your free hand to scratch the back of your neck. Rosie doesn’t say anything else, nor do you. You settle in, letting what’s on the screen take your attention. 
The show is corny, but you understand why Rosie said it’s wholesome. The sense of innocence and pureness everyone has when it comes to relationships is something you miss. You hadn’t had that kind of outlook in years, which slightly makes you want to go into your future relationships more honest about how you feel.
But Nayeon cheating on you over a year ago left its damage on you. 
You’d never be disrespectful towards women, but you were upfront that whatever you did with them would never be serious. You couldn’t let it get too intense. Sure they’d always want more, but you couldn’t give yourself to someone like that again. 
At least not yet. 
“What’re you thinking about?” Rosie asks after a few minutes, resting her hand on your stomach. 
“Nayeon,” You say simply. 
She raises her head to look at you, “Huh, what why? Didn’t you break up like last year?”
“This show’s making me a little sentimental,” You say sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck. 
“Why’d you two break up anyways?” 
“What’d you hear?” You prod, curious as to what Nayeon told people. 
“According to Jennie, who heard it from Sana, Nayeon was tired of arguing,” Rosie furrows her eyebrows as she remembers what she heard. 
That’s one way to put it. 
“Ah well I guess so,” You shrug. 
“There’s more to it huh?” She's as perceptive as ever. 
“She cheated on me,” Rosie’s eyes widened. “We got into an argument about her meeting my parents. She kept pushing the issue, but you know how my parents are. She storms out and next thing you know, I’m getting a call from Jungkook to come to this party to pick up Nayeon cause she’s wasted.”
You remember that night clearly, something you wanted to very much forget. 
“I got there. I’m looking all over for her, Jungkook and Taehyung have no idea where she went. We pretty much split up looking for her, and lucky me, the first door I opened, Nayeon’s naked, on top of some guy.” 
Rosie sits up straight, crossing her legs on the cushion as she faces you. The concerned expression etched on her face has you believing she almost cares, but you don’t. 
“And she sees me, which immediately sobers her up. All I could do was nod, telling her that we’ll talk in the morning,” The memory still hurts to think about. “Nayeon, being Nayeon, followed me out, apologizing, saying it was a mistake.”
Rosie takes hold of your hand, and you let her. Letting this out feels nice since you hadn’t told anyone what happened. You told Nayeon to tell people whatever she felt was best, and you’d keep the real reason a secret. 
“Anyways, next day, we talk and she’s sorry, of course, but she just didn’t understand what the big deal was. It’s not that I didn’t love her, cause I did, but I didn’t think we were there yet for her to meet them,” You sigh, shaking your head. “But yeah we broke up. I didn’t care what she said, and I didn’t defend myself when Sana and Jihyo cornered me, calling me an ass. I just started to sleep around, which probably was the reason why I got that playboy reputation.” 
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Rosie says quietly after a minute, the words sinking in. 
You smile sadly, “It wasn’t for anyone to know, but it’s okay. It really is. Relationships are messy, which is why I avoid any emotional connection with girls. Not because I think less of them, but because I think the least of myself in that regard.”
“Stop,” Rosie squeezes your hand, forcing you to look at her. “I don’t know how you are in relationships, but I’m sure that whoever you’re with is lucky.”
“You’re just saying that,” Self-deprecation is something you’ve mastered in the past year.
Rosie tugs your hand with enough force so your face is in front of hers. You could feel her breath against your skin, the faint smell of alcohol lingering. “Stop,” She whispers. “I’m not.”
Blame it on the alcohol. Blame it on the sudden confession of why you are the way you’ve been. 
You kiss her, bringing your lips to hers. You sense her freeze, but she sighs softly after a moment. It ignites a fire in your chest, wanting nothing more than her close to you. 
You pull away, leaning your forehead on hers. You open your eyes first to see hers closed. 
“Sorry, I-”
“No,” Rosie cuts you off, cupping your face before kissing you again. 
Out of pure reflex, you pull Rosie on top of you, straddling your thighs as you wrap your arms around her waist. She lets out a small oomph, which you pause, but she continues moving her lips against yours. 
You dip your tongue in between her lips, earning a moan as she threads her fingers in your hair. A shiver goes down your spine as she tugs lightly, a move that turns you on immensely. Your cock stirs as her kisses become firmer, more sure. 
Rosie’s body starts to move. It’s subtle, but her hips slightly shift, causing you to pull away, groaning. 
“Chaeng,” You pant, hands gripping her waist to steady her. 
“Am I doing something wrong?” Rosie asks softly, chest heaving as she rests her forehead on yours. 
“No,” You kiss her on the nose. “You’re doing everything right. I just have to control myself,” You let out a breath. 
“Would it be the worst thing if you lost control?” Rosie murmurs, pecking you softly on the lips. 
The question goes straight to your cock. It doesn’t help that she’s seated right on top of it that you have to remember that this isn’t about you.
Yes is what you want to say because this is still new to her, and as lame as it sounds, like you actually care about her, you do want to make this enjoyable.
“I don’t know,” You shrug, loosening your grip. “But I don’t want to rush into it. Small steps right?”
“Right,” Rosie nods, kissing the corner of your mouth. “So what next?” 
“Uh,” Your brain’s short circuiting because all the blood in your body seems to have rushed south. “Maybe just rock your hips and see how it feels?”
“Like this?” She gently rolls herself over you, testing the waters. 
“Is it doing anything for you?” You grit out. 
“I’m not sure, let me try again,” She rolls her body again, but with a little more pressure that she moans softly. “That did.”
It definitely did something for you because your cock stiffens at the contact. 
“Just do what feels good for you,” Your head falls back as she repeats the motion, undulating her hips over your erection. “Yeah just like that,” You sigh, guiding her movements along your length. 
All you feel is Rosie. She’s wearing leggings, but the friction over your sweats overwhelms your senses. You act on impulse, kissing her again. She returns the kiss with the same enthusiasm, grinding down. 
You didn’t think dry humping would get you this worked up, but the small moans Rosie lets out against your lips has you hoping you don’t make a mess of yourself. 
“Fuck,” Rosie moans, tearing her lips off yours as her rhythm falters. 
It leaves her neck exposed, so you trail your lips along her chin, peppering soft bites that has her gripping your shoulders tightly. 
You feel her nails digging into your skin. Her pace quickens before her body suddenly seizes, jerking on top of you, as she moans loudly.
Fuck she’s coming. 
Doing what you can to prolong her orgasm, you rock up into her, hoping you’re hitting her clit at the right angle. Her body freezes, shaking that you didn’t have the reflex to control your own body before cumming into your sweats, groaning in the crook of her neck. 
You hadn’t had a visceral response like that in years, but that was the hottest thing you’d ever experienced. The fact that Rosie got off by rubbing herself against you goes straight to your head. 
Rosie’s breathing heavily against you, playing with the hairs on your neck as you try to regulate your own breath. 
“I—fuck, I’m so sorry,” Rosie says softly, resting her butt on your thighs. 
“What?” Your voice comes out hoarse. “Why are you apologizing?” 
“I don’t know,” She buries her head into your neck. 
“That was hot,” You confess, placing a soft kiss on her neck. Her body shivers at the contact, causing you to smile.
“Really?” She sounds so unsure, that you don’t know how else to make her believe you. 
“Really,” You pull back to her, avoiding your gaze. Her cheeks are flushed, hair a little wild, but she looks hot either way. 
Maybe it was the release of hormones after an orgasm that could be clouding your thoughts, but you find her so attractive at this moment that you want to kiss her again. 
“Did you, you know?” Rosie glances down, biting her lip. 
“Uh,” You force out a chuckle. “Yeah… Sorry about that. I should probably change.” 
“Right,” Rosie’s eyes stay looking at your crotch before she shakes her head. “Right,” She repeats and moves off your lap. 
“Give me a few and I’ll drive you home, okay?” You stand, placing a hand over the wet spot on the fabric. 
“You really don’t have to, I can call a car.”
“No,” Shaking your head, “I insist.”
“You’re so fucking stubborn sometimes,” And just like that, it’s back to normal. 
“Yeah and you used me to cum, so,” She throws a pillow at you, which you easily dodge, laughing as you walk to your room. 
--
--
Can we meet tonight? 
The words glowing on your screen as you walk out of the building, just finished your last class of the day. 
It’s been about a week since Rosie asked you. You hadn’t seen her, but she occasionally sent you articles regarding sex and if you ever experienced such things. The one that had you almost drop your phone was if you ever made a girl squirt, which you haven’t, but you explained not all girls can. 
Instead of replying back with a message, you call her. 
“Hello?”
“Where are you? We can do take away,” You offer, walking in the direction of where she might be. 
“I’m in the music building with Jennie,” You immediately turn around to go the other direction. 
“Okay I’m on the way, I’ll be there in a little,” You hang up without waiting for her to respond. You’ll probably get a slap or two, but it’s not like it matters. 
By the time you reach the music building, Rosie and Jennie are outside, talking with another person. You can’t see who it is, but as you get closer, it’s Nayeon. 
Fuck. 
It wasn’t like Nayeon and you were on bad terms. You were always polite and treated her with the same respect you would like anyone else. It would just look suspicious to be walking alone with Rosie since she always made remarks about the weird feeling she got when you were in the same vicinity. She described it as unresolved sexual tension, but it never felt like that to you. 
“Oppa,” Jennie greets, her gummy smile forming as you walk up to them. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes as they dart between you and Rosie because of course she knows about the arrangement. 
“Hey,” You smile, waving awkwardly to Nayeon. 
Nayeon gives a small hi while Rosie slaps your shoulder, “That’s for hanging up on me.” 
“Okay,” You rub where she hit. “Ready to go?” You ask, reaching for Rosie’s bag without thinking. 
“Uh?” Jennie’s eyes widen while Nayeon’s narrow at the gesture. “How nice of you?” Rosie reluctantly hands over her bag. 
You don’t know what came over you because you definitely didn’t just carry a girl’s bag, which Nayeon was very aware of. She knew you only carried stuff for the girl you’re dating, something she experienced firsthand. 
“My way of saying sorry for hanging up on you,” You say smoothly. Her bag is heavy, which you hope they can’t tell you’re struggling.
“Nayeon was telling us about a party this weekend,” Jennie says. 
“It’s Mina’s birthday,” Nayeon says softly, eyes on you. “You should come if you’re free.” There’s a hopeful tone in her voice.
“Um,” You’re put on the spot, wracking your brain for any excuse, but Rosie saves you. 
“Don’t we have dinner with our parents? If we get back early enough, you could probably make it.”
You try to ignore the way Nayeon’s face falls, but you can’t ignore Jennie’s confusion since she obviously would’ve known. 
“Oh yeah, you’re right,” You play along. You hadn’t had a family dinner in months, but it was a somewhat believable excuse. “I’ll see if I can make it.” 
You listen as the girls say bye, Jennie opting to walk with Nayeon to catch up. When the two women leave, Rosie tries grabbing her bag back. 
“What’re you doing?” She huffs when you don’t let go. 
“I can carry my own bag, you know,” Rosie walks in front of you, clearly annoyed. 
“I know, but just let me do this for you.” 
“You’re most likely giving me an orgasm tonight, you’re doing enough,” Rosie rolls her eyes, attempting once again. “I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.” 
“Fine, here,” Her comment pisses you off, but she has a point. The university playboy holding the bag of one of the most wanted girls on campus? That would surely be part of the gossip mill. You hand over the bag, a muttered thanks makes you roll your eyes. 
“You’re paying for dinner tonight,” Rosie states. 
You honestly already planned to, but you nod anyway. 
--
“Can you take your shirt off?” Rosie asks, out of breath, as you hover over her. 
“Uh yeah,” You lean back, pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere to the side before bringing your lips back to hers. 
That same show plays in the background, unopened food forgotten on the coffee table. The plan was to eat then fool around, but Rosie had something else in mind. 
“Okay don’t let this get to your head,” Rosie says against your lips, in between kisses, trailing a finger over your abdomen, “But you’re actually hot.” 
The muscles flex under her touch, that you pull her body to the edge of the couch cushion, “I know,” You smirk, dipping a hand underneath her blouse. “Is this okay?” You ask. 
“More than okay,” Rosie spreads her legs wider to let you rest in between. 
You grind yourself against the apex of her thighs, thankful she wore a skirt today. She moans as it spurs you on to do it again. Mimicking the motion of thrusting in and out of her has your imagination running wild as to what it will be like when you’re actually inside her. 
“Fuck,” Rosie grips your arms as you continue the motion. “Don’t stop.” 
You won’t until she cums, and her back arches as she rolls her hips down to meet your thrusts. After one particularly hard thrust, her body tenses and bingo. 
“There?” You breathe out as you hit the same spot again. She nods, as you watch her face scrunch up. “Gonna cum for me?” 
“Yeah,” Her eyes open, gaze locked in between your legs. “Fuck, Jennie was right. You’re huge.”
As if your ego couldn’t get any bigger. You’re sure she felt just how big you were last week, but she most likely didn’t see it. It probably didn’t help that you were wearing sweats that accentuated your size. 
“Thanks,” You grunt, too focused on her pleasure and your own. 
You flip her skirt up, mouth watering at the sight of her choice in lingerie. A simple lavender thong with a small bow at the waistband has your hips rutting into her faster. 
“Fuck you’re so hot,” You bite your lip, head thrown back as she moans louder. 
“I think I’m—oh shit,” Rosie’s body tenses in your hands, back arching as her orgasm washes over her. You feel her clit pulse through your sweats that you continue grinding against her. 
You’re more composed this time and don’t prematurely cum. However, your cock hurts from not having a release. You’ll likely just suffer through it and deal with your problem after you drop her off. 
You don’t move from your position, keeping the pressure of Rosie’s cloth-covered pussy against you. You might not get to cum, but it still feels nice. After a few minutes of her regulating her breathing and you thinking of everything not related to fucking her, she smiles up at you. You return the smile, tickling her skin that she squirms in your hold. 
“Stop!” She slaps your arm. “You know I’m ticklish.” 
“I know,” You fold over, resting your head on her stomach. “Was that okay?” Her skirt hasn’t moved, and you’re trying very hard not to touch her there. 
“Yeah, that was… something,” Rosie sighs, placing her hand lazily on your head, lightly scratching. “Can you do something else since we’re already here?” 
“Sure, what?” You look up to Rosie biting her lip. 
“Can you touch me?” Rosie asks softly, adding, “Like down there?” 
Your palm twitches at the request, hell, your cock twitches too. 
“Uh, yeah,” You push yourself up, kneeling in between her legs. They try to close, but with how you’re positioned, it doesn’t go very far. “Just let me know if anything hurts, I’ll stop.”
Rosie nods, giving you the signal to do something. What you really wanted to do was find out how she tastes, but you tuck that thought away for another time. There will be a time in the future where that’ll happen. 
You reach under her skirt, gently pulling the fabric down. She kicks it away, leaving her completely bare from the waist down.
You’re fucked. 
Your mouth waters at the sight of her. Your gaze must’ve made her nervous because she quickly covers herself. 
“Shit, I’m sorry,” You pull back. 
“No, no,” Rosie shakes her head, crossing her legs. “I’m just nervous.”
“Hey,” You move to sit next to her. “We don’t have to do anything.”
“Can we go to your room?” Rosie offers weakly, which you nod, standing, extending a hand out. She gives you a small smile, taking it before you pull her up. She stumbles a little, but you’re there to catch her. “Lead the way?” 
You guide Rosie to your room, nerves prickling at you because no woman has ever been in your room except Nayeon. You had a strict rule of sleeping with women at their place, never yours. Rosie notices your hesitation when you stand in the doorway, asking if you were okay. 
“Um, this is going to sound bad, but the last woman that was in my bed was Nayeon,” You say quietly, letting go of Rosie’s hand. 
“That’s okay?” Rosie says unsurely. “If it’s too much for you, we can go back to the couch.” 
You shake your head. It isn’t that big of a deal, you were probably overthinking it. “No, it’s okay. I just felt like telling you that,” Which was true. You wanted to tell Rosie that, even though there wasn’t a reason to. 
Rosie kisses your shoulder softly before walking around you towards your bed. She slips underneath the comforter, which you follow right after her, laying on your side as she’s on her back. 
“You okay? We don’t have to do anything else tonight,” You prop your head on your hand, staring at her as she looks at the ceiling. 
“Yeah I’m okay, more than okay. It just feels…” Rosie trails off, pouting a little as she tries to find the words. She looks pretty cute like this, but you immediately shake that thought away. You aren’t supposed to be having thoughts like that when this whole situation was transactional. “Intimate, I guess. To be in your bed like this.” 
“I suppose so.” 
“But yeah let’s keep going,” Rosie glances at you before turning to face you. “How should we…?”
A question pops into your mind, “Have you ever touched yourself?” 
“Err, yes?” 
“What does that mean?” You chuckle.
“I guess I have. I’ve never gotten off on my own though. I’ve put a finger inside myself, but it felt weird so I just stopped,” Rosie blushes, turning away. 
“Uncomfortable?” You ask softly, bringing your hand to rest on her stomach. 
“I guess? I don’t exactly know what I’m doing,” Rosie mumbles. 
“Let me, yeah?” You move so you’re sitting up, back against the headboard. “Come here, sit in between my legs.” 
Rosie complies, settling in between your legs as she lays against your chest. You kiss the crown of her head, sliding your arms around her body. 
Now this feels intimate, and oddly feels right to be with her like this. Again, you shake that feeling away, reminding yourself that this is just sex. 
A finger traces down her stomach aimlessly, hoping it relaxes her. She sighs contentedly before resting her head on your shoulder. You kiss her neck, and she giggles. 
“That tickles,” Rosie says shyly. 
“But in a good way right?” You murmur, bringing your hand lower. Her legs automatically widen and her breath hitches as you apply light pressure on her hip bone. 
“Yeah,” Rosie sighs, shifting against your cock. 
“Good. You trust me right?” You dip your hand in between her legs, resting on her pubis. Her hands find your thighs to hold on to, nodding. 
You swipe a finger in between her folds, slowly, and she’s absolutely soaked. Your cock twitches at how wet she is. You’re sure you’re leaking into the fabric of your sweats. 
“You’re wet,” You don’t recognize your voice. 
“I’m sorry?” Rosie moans as you swipe through again, gently brushing over her clit. 
“No, it’s fucking hot,” You murmur and her nails scratch at your skin. “So fucking hot.” 
You repeat the motion a few times, eliciting soft moans as she squirms against you. Your other hand carefully unbuttons her blouse, and when the last button comes undone, you cup her breast, squeezing lightly. 
“You’re being a tease,” You smirk against her skin, nipping lightly as she drops her head down. 
“Just making you feel comfortable,” You chuckle as you swipe down, dipping your index finger inside. 
“Oh shit,” Rosie throws her head back when you pull your finger out. 
Your finger circles her entrance slowly as her legs spread wider. This position isn’t the best and you’ll likely strain your wrist, but you couldn’t care less about yourself at the moment. You insert your finger in again, but this time, you don’t pull out, letting your finger rest inside her. 
You imagine your cock inside her, stretching her out. Your cock literally aches to be inside her because if this was how she felt—tight, warm, wet—you’d bust. 
“Move,” Rosie commands through gritted teeth, her hips rolling down to get more of you inside her. 
“So impatient,” You whisper, biting her skin softly. “It’s like you want me or something.” 
“Oh fuck you,” Rosie’s nails digging into your skin as you start to move. 
“You will,” Your voice comes out low, slowly moving in and out of her slick. “Not tonight,” Unfortunately, “But you will.” 
“You’re so—fuck,” Rosie chokes on her words when your palm brushes over her clit, the penetration overstimulating her. 
You smirk, freeing your hand from her chest and bringing hers under yours, “Touch yourself.”
Rosie easily obliges, rubbing her fingers over her clit as you begin pumping a smidge closer. Her pussy’s still tight, but her body’s slowly welcoming the intrusion. Based on the blissed-out expression on her face, eyes closed, she’s biting her lip. 
“Don’t be shy Rosie,” You kiss behind her ear, “Let me hear you.” 
Her eyes open, and the lust is there. She moans louder as her fingers move faster, causing you to match her pace. Your cock aches, wanting some sort of relief that your hips lightly thrust against her backside. 
“Fuck,” Is all you can say because you want to fuck Rosie, especially with how her walls are squeezing your fingers.
“Cum,” You say simply and she does.
Her body spasms, back arching as she presses her butt directly on your cock. She lets out the sexiest moan you’ve ever heard, drawn out as her free hand reaches for your neck. Her walls aren’t letting your fingers move, so you opt to gently move them to prolong her orgasm.
After a minute, or two, Rosie falls limp in your hold, her arms flailing over your thighs. You slowly pull your fingers out, peering over her shoulder to see her slick. A nasty thought comes to you, and you bringing your fingers to your mouth, cleaning them to see what she tastes like, and dear fuck you want it directly from the source. 
“You’re fucking gross,” Rosie pants softly, weakly lifting her arm to swat your hand away. 
“You wanna taste yourself?” You brush your finger against her lips, and she makes a disgusted face. “Eh, if not now, later.”
Rosie tries to sit up, but she falls back into your chest, resting her head on your shoulder as you bring your arms around her stomach. You kiss her neck, murmuring, “Was that okay?” 
“It was great,” Rosie nods slowly, turning her head slightly to kiss your cheek. “Thanks for that. I see the appeal in it now.”
You chuckle, chest vibrating against her body, “Yeah sex is pretty great.” 
“I’m so tired,” Rosie yawns.
“Uh,” You’re still hard, which you hoped Rosie was too blissed out to notice. “Let me just shower first and I’ll take you home.” A cold shower was needed. You’ll probably give yourself relief when you get home, but you don’t think you’ll be able to survive the drive. 
“Okay,” Rosie yawns again, “But can we stay here for a few more minutes?” 
“Of course.”
Rosie sighs contentedly, snuggling into your chest. You typically didn’t cuddle after, but with her, it felt warranted. You wouldn’t say it felt right, but it didn’t feel wrong. You were comfortable doing this with her, and you hadn’t felt that since Nayeon. 
You would be lying if you said you hadn’t missed Rosie. Child-you would be happy to spend time with her, but adult-you knows what this is—sex. A knot forms in your stomach at the thought, but your rational side knew you  and her weren’t ever going to be together. 
Weird, but you dismiss the feeling completely.
“I’ll give you some clothes to wear,” You offer, nuzzling your chin into her. 
“They’ll give you shit, you know that right?” Referring to her friends.
“Tell Jennie she never got anything from me,” You quip, earning a light slap on your leg. “What! She didn’t!” 
“Stop talking about my friend who you’ve slept with after you just gave me two orgasms,” You didn’t need to see her face to know she rolled her eyes. 
“Sorry,” You mumble, kissing her neck. 
Rosie laughs, a sweet airy laugh that has your heart fluttering, and you think that it’s a sound you’d want to hear more often. 
--
--
Someone ruffles your hair as you’re zoned in on finishing this expense report and you hear laughter behind you. 
“What the fuck,” You pull your headphones out to see the offender. 
Rosie. 
With Lisa right behind her. 
“Sorry,” Lisa peeks her head over Rosie, “You just looked too focused that I wanted to mess with you.” 
“What do you two want?” Your eyes narrow as Rosie smiles. It eases your irritation, but still.
“Figured we’d say hello. Chaeng saw you, but didn’t want to disturb you. I, however, did,” Lisa answers, stepping forward. There’s a shit-eating grin on her face. 
“Hey,” Rosie says softly. “I’m sorry. I told her not to.” 
“It’s okay,” You shrug, checking your watch. 
“Do you have plans tonight?” Lisa wiggles her eyebrows, eyes darting to Rosie, who slaps the back of her head. “Ow.”
“I have a game with Yoongi in about an hour.” 
“Oh we should watch!” Lisa nudges Rosie, who rolls her eyes. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” 
Rosie gives you a look, as if she’s waiting for you to invite her yourself. You smile, giving a small nod. 
“Okay fine,” Rosie sighs, shaking her head, but she smiles at you anyways. 
“Are you good oppa? I’ve seen Yoongi play, and he’s pretty good,” Lisa asks as you start to pack your stuff. 
“I guess you’ll see,” You didn’t like talking about yourself. You considered yourself decent, but there would always be someone better. 
When you finish, you decide you wanted to tease Rosie. You wait until Lisa’s a few feet away, leaning forward, “I’m usually pretty riled up after a game, so I hope you’ll come over after.” 
The blush on Rosie’s face has you grinning, which gets even wider when she gives you a small nod.
--
“I don’t get why you do that.”
“Do what?” You ask, mouth full of mandu. 
“Say you’re not good, but then score twenty points like it’s nothing.”
“So you were keeping track?” You smirk, reaching for another mandu on the table with your chopsticks. 
“No, Yoongi told me after the game,” Rosie huffs, crossing her arms as she slouches into the couch. 
“It’s okay if you did, I’m flattered you paid that much attention to me.” That earns you a slap, but you couldn’t care. You played the whole game so you were starving. 
You’re back at yours, just hanging out. You really had no intention of doing anything with Rosie tonight, even if you did tease her about being riled up. As much as you’d hate to admit it, you enjoy spending time with her as of lately. 
Lisa gave you a thumbs up when Rosie told her she’d be leaving with you. No one seemed to notice when you two walked out together, but Yoongi did text you asking where you went since the team usually went out after. 
“I have a question.”
“Go for it.”
“Do you ever feel frustrated after we you know?” 
“Uh,” The question catches you off guard. 
It’s been two days since, and you can admit it was a struggle after feeling her cum on your fingers. You thought about having sex with someone to give you some relief, but that thought had the knot in your stomach tightening. 
“Frustrated in the sense I need to release,” You answer honestly, but quickly followed up with, “But it’s not that big of a deal. I took care of it.” The tips of your ears burned at the implication.
Rosie sighs next to you, shaking her head, “Okay can I be honest?” 
“Uh of course?” 
“I feel bad,” You were about to bite into the last mandu, but you stopped. “I feel like you’re always making me feel good, but I feel like I’m doing nothing in return.”
You place the mandu back in the box, dropping your chopsticks with it. 
“Believe me you are,” The memory of Rosie’s face as her orgasm hit was something that could not be forgotten. 
“But it doesn’t feel like it!” She throws her hands up dramatically. “I haven’t even seen your you know yet.”
“Oh my god,” You chuckle. “Just say it. It’s not a bad word.” 
“Cock?”
“No.”
“Penis?”
“No.”
This conversation is getting nowhere. 
“Take it out,” Rosie says suddenly.
“Only if you say cock,” You raise an eyebrow. 
“No.”
“Then no cock for you,” You poke her nose after she huffs, hitting your leg. 
After a minute, Rosie shoves her face into your chest. She mumbles something that you can’t quite make out, asking her to repeat. 
“Cock,” Rosie says quietly, rubbing her face deeper from embarrassment. 
“Was that so hard?” You smile, kissing her head. “Do you really want me to ‘take it out’ as you so eloquently put it?” 
“Yeah,” Rosie mumbles, and you swear there’s a pout. 
“You do it,” You offer, shifting slightly to wrap an arm around her. “No pressure Chaeng. Do whatever you feel is right and if anything hurts me, I’ll tell you.”
Rosie shyly asks if you could move to your bed, which you happily oblige. You swoop her in her arms, causing her to scream and slap your chest the whole way to your room. You laugh as she curses at you, but it’s fun for you and you know she thinks it is too. 
“You’re annoying,” Rosie comments after you drop her on the bed. “Literally the most annoying person I know. How do girls put up with you?” 
“I can think of a few ways that make up for it,” You sit on the edge of the bed, facing her. 
“Arrogant too,” Rosie adds, shifting her body so she’s next to you. 
Neither of you say anything while you’re sitting. You’re trying to think of how to guide Rosie while she stares at the floor. An idea pops into your mind, as you scoot until your back is pressed against the headboard. 
“What’re you doing?” 
“Seduce me,” You say simply, patting the space next to you. Her eyebrows furrow, but she’s right back next to you in no time. 
“How?” 
“We’ve done a few things together, I’m sure you could figure it out.” It wouldn’t take much to turn you on. Your control slips every time Rosie’s over that your body has a mind of its own. 
She could kiss you and you’d be hard, as embarrassing as that is.
“Um okay,” Rosie bites her lip as she looks at you. 
You smile, winking even, that makes her roll her eyes. 
Rosie leans forward, kissing you softly on the lips. You keep your hands still, but your lips move easily against hers. She lets out a small moan when you dip your tongue into her mouth. Her arms circle around your neck, pulling you closer.
The blood in your body rushes south, waking your cock as Rosie presses against you. Kissing her has become one of your favorite things even if you’ve only done less than a handful of times. As someone who has had a healthy sex life, it’s scary how easily your body reacts to her.
She detaches her lips, placing soft kisses along your jawline. You let her, relaxing into the headboard as your eyes close.
A groan escapes from your lips when Rosie places her hand over your crotch. 
“What?” She pulls back, a concerned look etched on her face. Her hand doesn’t move though. 
“Nothing, you’re doing great,” You take a breath, “Just caught me off guard.” 
Rosie makes a sound, but goes back to kissing your face. Her hand starts to move, palming your cock over your sweats.
Your body immediately reacts, hardening underneath her touch. She smirks against your neck, “Well hello.” 
You laugh, shaking your head before kissing her sweetly on her forehead, “It’s a bodily reaction, what do you expect?”
���I think your body likes me,” Rosie brings her lips to yours before sitting straight. In a swift move, she swings her leg over you, cupping your face and bringing you in a bruising kiss, not giving you a chance to answer.
You instinctively rest your hands on her waist, pulling her body flushed against yours. She lets out a moan as your grip tightens. 
You’re too lost in the kiss to notice Rosie sneaking her hand in between. Her fingers brush against the waistband of your sweats, abdomen tightening at her touch. You mumble a pathetic please because all she’s doing is riling you up. She smirks against your lips, dipping her hand to actually touch you. 
Your head’s spinning and your hips involuntarily thrust into her hand. Given the space, it’s a little tight, but Rosie’s hand wrapped around you has your control slipping faster than before. You pull your sweats down so you’re fully free.
“Is this okay?” Rosie asks in between kisses as she slowly moves her hand up and down your length.
“Fuck yes,” You groan, detaching your lips from hers as your head falls backs. 
Her hand’s soft, velvet-like, as she strokes you. You’re almost scared to look down because you feel yourself leaking as she cups the tip. She tentatively spreads it over you, that it’s making you lose your mind. 
You open your eyes to Rosie intently staring at her ministrations, her tongue slightly peaking out. 
“You can squeeze a little, but—ow shit!” Your hand shoots out, holding her wrist as you gasp. 
“Oh my god,” Rosie automatically lets go, “I’m so sorry!” 
You cough, catching your breath. You’re already sensitive, but it felt like Rosie was about to rip your dick off. “I’m fine,” You cough again, “Just a little lighter.” 
“Sorry,” Rosie mumbles, looking away. 
You place your hand over hers, together enclosing over your cock. “Like this,” You slowly move her hand under yours, applying enough pressure. Her hand’s smaller than yours, so she can’t completely fit around your girth. 
“How does it feel?” Rosie asks softly. 
“Good,” You nod, eyes rolling back as you let go of her hand. “So good.” 
Rosie experiments with her grip and pace for a while, going faster at times while squeezing the right amount that has you seeing stars. You’re too focused on her hand that you don’t notice her move off your lap. 
Something warm envelopes your cock and your eyes shoot open to Rosie’s mouth around the head. 
“Fuck,” You grip the bedsheet, nearly tearing it off. “Give me a warning next time,” You moan. 
“Sorry,” Your cock fucking pops out of her mouth as she continues to stroke you, “It seemed warranted. Too much?” 
“Not enough,” Your abdomen tenses as she engulfs you again, going farther down your length. 
Her tongue licks your tip as you watch her cheeks hollow out. You're mesmerized as she moves her head up and down your length, and each time she gets lower. 
“Has anyone ever deepthroated you?” Rosie asks, catching her breath, but her hands don’t remain idle. 
“Uh,” You barely hear her question, “I don’t know,” You couldn’t give a fuck about anyone else at the moment, but if she wants to try, you’ll let her. 
“Can I try?” Rosie places a sweet kiss on the tip, making a face as a smidge of precum gets on her lip. 
“By all means,” Your eyes roll back. Your hand itches to hold onto her head, but you’re scared of forcing her to take more than she can. 
Rosie’s lips are around you once again, and the tip hits the back of her throat. There’s a sharp inhale, and you’re not sure if it’s from her or you, but that doesn’t deter her. 
“Chaeng,” You grit out and your hand moves to the back of her head, threading your fingers in her hair. You don’t push down, but her throat relaxes and takes you all the way. “Fuck,” Your fingers fist through her locks, keeping her there until her finger taps on your thigh. 
You immediately let go, and she comes off your cock, a slight dribble of drool on her chin. 
“How was that?” Rosie smirks. 
“Either make me cum or fuck off,” Your eyes narrow, challenging her that she doesn’t reply, instead taking you down her throat once more, swallowing around your length that you cum without warning. 
You try to pull her off as your release shoots down her throat, but she’s adamant to take all of you. Your eyes roll back when she swallows, the pressure becoming too much as your hips thrust up into her mouth. 
Rosie’s mouth is dangerous, and you’re thanking whatever deity for her skills. You’ve had your fair share of blow jobs, but she’s number one in your book. You’re definitely never going to tell her because practice makes perfect, and you know she’s a perfectionist. It might be a little selfish, but you’ll gladly be willing to take whatever she gives you until this is over. 
Once your orgasm and she’s drained you for all that you’ve had, your hand relaxes, dropping to the side. She slowly comes off your cock, overly sensitive, but she licks the underside and that has your head spinning. 
“So,” Rosie sits in between your legs, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, “How was I?”
You’re still trying to catch your breath, but you weakly get out, “There’s always room for improvement.”
“Really?” Rosie raises an eyebrow, eyeing your now-soft cock. “I drained you in less than fifteen minutes.” 
“I’ve been pent up,” You mumble, eyes closing. “I blame you.”
“Just admit you think I’m hot,” Rosie’s suddenly hovering over you, hair tickling your face. 
“Move your hair,” You try to push her off, but you’re bone dead. Playing a game followed by this has your body exhausted. 
“Admit it,” Rosie kisses your lips, a slight tang on them. “I did,” She adds. 
You groan, wrapping an arm around her so she’s fully on top of you, “Why do you need to hear that?” You know she knows you think so. 
“Cause,” She kisses you again, leaving her lips on yours.
“Cause what?” You sigh, lazily moving your lips against hers. 
Rosie’s tongue dips into your mouth, short circuiting your brain before murmuring, “Cause it’s you.”
Your eyes feel heavy, wanting to pass out and you actually might. Something washes over you before your body shuts down. You don’t know why, but you tell her, “You’re not hot, you’re beautiful,” before sleep takes over completely.
(You wake up a few hours later, alone, but not without a note on your nightstand, groaning at Rosie’s cursive— 
Thanks handsome guy <3 see you around. 
ps I called a car, and before you beat yourself up, it’s okay)
--
--
It’s stupid. 
You’re stupid. 
A fool, some might say.
You’re calling yourself a fool. 
What compels you to be at Rosie’s apartment door, waiting, holding a bouquet of roses, without even asking if she’s home, is beyond you. 
It’s a risky move, the longer you wait for her—or anyone for that matter—to open the door. 
You immediately felt guilty waking up to Rosie’s note. You didn’t even return the favor, and you’ve been wanting to. In your mind, showing up at her place, uninvited, with flowers, was a way to make it up to her before asking if she wanted to come over so you could thoroughly make it up to her. 
The door swings open and it’s Lisa, clothes wrinkled and hair all over the place. You don’t comment on it because you know something’s going on between her and Jennie, but it wasn’t your place to ask. Instead you ask, “Hey, sorry to bother, but is Rosie in?” 
Lisa smiles, and your face falls, the answer doesn’t need to be said, but she invites you in anyways. 
You don’t know why you just don’t leave, but you enter their apartment, slipping off your shoes while awkwardly holding the flowers. 
“Here, let me take those.” They’re out of your hands before you could respond. “Make yourself at home.”
You’ve been here a handful of times, mostly when there was a party or someone needed a ride home, but it feels off being here. 
Or does it feel that way because she wasn’t here? 
You follow Lisa to the living room, seeing Jennie seated on the couch in the same disheveled appearance. Her eyes widen when she realizes it’s you here, but she doesn’t say anything except for a polite hello. 
Neither of the women say anything, but Lisa prepares the flowers in the vase. You stare at the coffee table, trying to find any words to explain why you’re here. 
“So what brings you here?” Jennie asks a question she knows the answer to. 
“Uh, I thought Rosie would be in,” You answer, scratching the back of your head. You notice the silent exchange between the two, but the sad smile that forms on Jennie’s face says enough. 
“She’s out at the moment,” Jennie bites her lip, thinking of what to say. “She should be back in an hour or so. You’re more than welcome to stay.”
“I probably shouldn’t,” You sigh, realizing just how stupid it was for you to show up. Your thoughts stray that she’s out with Soohyun, but that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. 
“She’s having dinner with Soohyun,” Lisa says and you watch Jennie’s eyes narrow, rolling her eyes. 
“Lisa.”
“What? He should know,” The woman shrugs, acting as if it’s not a big deal. 
And it’s not. 
At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself. 
“Rosie can do whatever she likes,” It comes out harsher than you intended, but you’re feeling something that you don’t want to acknowledge. You stand, “I should get going. Uh, you guys can keep those. No need to tell her that’s for her. Sorry they’re not blue Jen,” You add, knowing those are her favorite. 
Jennie gives you a sympathetic smile, shaking her head, “You’re sweet, you know that right?” 
“Sure,” You shrug, walking towards the door. “Sorry to bother you both,” You bow after slipping your shoes on.
“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Jennie asks, meeting you by the door. 
“Yeah, it’s okay. Please don’t tell her,” There’s a fifty-fifty chance Rosie would find out, odds being Lisa telling her where the roses came from. 
“Why not? It’s sweet you brought her flowers.”
“I don’t really have a reason as to why,” You do have a reason, but you’re not sure how much Rosie shares with them. 
Jennie looks like she doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t press you anymore, nodding. “See you at Mina’s?” 
“Maybe,” You answer vaguely, remembering that you actually have to see your parents this weekend sans the Parks. “I have a business meeting with my parents, so I doubt I’ll make it back in time.” 
“With Chaeng?” Jennie raises an eyebrow. 
“No, just me, so I’ll be in Seong-buk,” You grimace at the thought of having to sit in this, but your father’s adamant it’s good exposure for you. 
“Well I hope you can make it,” Jennie reassures, hugging you briefly before taking a step back. 
“You’ll see me if I do,” You wink. “Thanks again Jen.”
Once the door shuts, you sigh. You couldn’t believe you showed up at Rosie’s place, unannounced. What were you expecting? You’re still not entirely sure, but you’re disappointed nonetheless. It’s almost been two weeks since this arrangement started and you’re scared you’re getting attached. You’ve had longer flings and felt zero attachment to them. 
You question why it feels different, and you toy with the idea of joining Jungkook in Hongdae to remind yourself that you don’t get attached. A wave of guilt passes through you, which you’re torn on what you should do. 
“Fuck it,” You mumble to the empty hallway. 
--
You hear the door knock and pause the show you’ve been sort of watching with Rosie. You’d rather drown in the river than admit you actually like this show. 
You aren’t expecting anyone except the food delivery, so you are surprised when you open the door to see Rosie. 
“Uh hey?” You greet. One look at her and you know she’s upset based on the fire in her eyes. 
“What the fuck,” Rosie spits out. 
Great. Fucking Lisa. 
You aren’t given the chance to ask anything as she barges through the door. You turn around once the door’s shut, and she’s seething. 
“What’s wrong?” 
“Why the fuck did you show up at my place?”
“Drop off flowers for Jennie and Lisa,” You answer noncommittally, crossing your arms as you lean against the door. 
“Bullshit. Tell me why,” Rosie steps forward, invading your space. Her perfume makes you dizzy, but you can’t dwell on it too much since she looks like she’s about five seconds away from ripping your head off. 
“What do you want me to say?” You deflect. You didn’t want to get into the reason why—the actual reason—that had you take the train back to yours instead of a club. 
“The fucking truth!” She throws her hands up dramatically, shaking her head. 
“I came over because I wanted to make it up to you for completely knocking out last night, happy?” You roll your eyes, pushing yourself off the door and walking past her. 
“No, I’m not—hey! Get back here, I’m still talking to you,” Rosie’s hand encloses over your wrist. 
The move forces you to turn around, reflexively pulling her into you so that you’re face-to-face. 
“Don’t,” Your voice comes out low. “I’m being honest. Your turn now, why are you here?” 
“Because,” Rosie tries to get out of your grasp, but it’s futile. “As soon as I get home, Lisa fucking singsongs that you dropped by with flowers to see me. Then she told me she mentioned to you that I was out with Soohyun.”
You let go, dropping her hand completely before taking a step back. Hearing his name makes you sick, but you refuse to admit why. 
“How was that?” You ask, tired, because you knew what you signed up for. 
“Do you really want to know?” Rosie crosses her arms, glaring. 
“I don’t, but you’ll tell me anyway.”
“It was good. He’s funny. He’s polite, offered to pay the bill, and walked me to the door,” Each word digs at you, but you don’t let it show. “He wanted to come in to say hello to the girls, but I told him I just wanted to sleep. He asked me out again.”
“And? Is there going to be a second date?” 
“Yes,” Rosie says flatly. 
“Good, happy for you,” You hoped you sounded as detached as possible. “Now you still didn’t answer why you’re here if you ‘just wanted to sleep’?” 
“Because I’ve been fucking frustrated since last night,” Rosie sighs, shaking her head. “I didn’t think I would be, but you fucking fell asleep. I tried dealing with it myself, but that made it worse.” 
All you’re imagining is Rosie, in her bed, touching herself, which has you immediately hard. But you’re a little ticked off at the moment to fully enjoy that imagery.
“Why didn’t you ask Soohyun to help you?” It’s a low blow, but you couldn’t help yourself.
Rosie pushes you, like actually pushes you, with enough force to move. 
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Rosie seethes out, turning to walk out. “I planned on coming over after the dinner for you to take care of the problem you created.”
You’re faster, grabbing her arm to pull her body flush against yours. 
“So you couldn’t cum?” You whisper. 
“Fuck you,” Rosie struggles to get out from your hold, but you have one arm securely wrapped around her waist. 
“I don’t think we’re there yet,” You murmur, “But there is something I still haven’t done.” 
“I’m mad at you,” Rosie ignores your suggestion. 
“If I do what I want to do, I promise you won’t be mad.”
“Doubtful,” Rosie pouts, relaxing into your embrace. 
“I’m sorry,” You mean it.
“I’m still mad,” She huffs, burying her face into your chest. 
“Let me make it up to you,” You tilt her head up, forcing her to look at you. “Please?” 
“Fine. On the condition I sleep over.”
You freeze, vividly remembering the rules you set in place that she wouldn’t sleep over. 
“Our rules?” 
“You broke the first one by coming over without telling me,” She reasons. 
“Do you want to spend the night?” You ask nervously. You hadn’t spent the night with a girl since Nayeon. Every time you had sex, you’d leave before they woke up, or right after. 
“Yes,” Rosie rocks on her tiptoes to kiss you briefly, wrapping her arms around your neck. “It makes things easier for us.” 
“Can I still bring you home in the morning?” You ask shyly, looking away. 
“You better,” Rosie smiles. “I’m still mad though.” 
You roll your eyes, using your strength to pick her up, wrapping her legs around your waist, “I’ll make it up to you.” 
Rosie squeals, hitting your shoulder as you carry her towards your room. “Don’t drop me!” 
You chuckle, shaking your head, as you kick the door open, “You’re fine, trust me.”
You do drop her on the bed and Rosie huffs as she sprawls out on the bed. You take in her appearance—a simple black dress that falls mid-thigh with her hair half-up. She’s beautiful, but you won’t say it out loud—even though you feel like you’ve told her. 
“You’re staring,” Rosie comments, resting on her elbows, a small smile tugging at her lips. 
“Can you blame me?” You drop to your knees, pulling her towards the edge of the bed. “Do you trust me?” You ask softly, locking eyes with her.
“Yes,” And that’s all you need.
— 
You wake up slowly, yawning and stretching. Your arm hits a body, causing you to almost jump when you notice a body’s pressed to your side. You remember that Rosie stayed the night after spending a good amount of time and effort in between her legs. 
She had physically yanked you away from overstimulation, but it was worth it. The sounds she made along with how she tasted was something you wanted to do again. You barely scratched the surface, but you were addicted. 
You had to give her credit because she came three times. You tried to go for a fourth, but she mustered enough strength to kick you away. You wouldn’t let up until she wasn’t mad anymore. By the second orgasm, she wasn’t, but you had to make sure. 
When you were done, cleaning up the mess you made, you kissed her softly as she laid limply on the bed. “Thanks,” She mumbled, sighing contentedly as she played with the hairs on the back of your neck. “I’m not mad at you anymore.” 
“I know,” You smirked, kissing her again before laying your head on the pillow. 
Rosie wanted to return the favor, but you shook your head, embarrassed to share that you were touching yourself while eating her out. She found out anyway because you couldn’t lie to her. It went straight to her head, teasing you that you couldn’t help yourself. She kissed the pout away before falling asleep. 
You check the clock on your nightstand, “Fuck,” You mutter, stirring Rosie awake. 
“What’s wrong?” Rosie’s voice comes out hoarse, slightly turning her body. 
It’s almost noon, and you haven’t finished looking over the reports and proposals your father sent over last night. 
“I’m so sorry,” You sit up, shaking your head in frustration. “I would make you breakfast, but I have to review some things for tonight.” 
“What’s tonight?” You watch her rub her eyes, and you can’t help but think how cute she is. 
“I have a business dinner with my parents.” 
“Oh.”
“Yeah…” You trail off. 
“Do you want me to go with you? I’d just have to stop by my place to change, but I can go,” Rosie offers, turning as she pulls the blanket over her. 
Your heart flutters. If there’s anyone that knows your parents, it’s Rosie. She’s known them since you were kids, seeing just how much pressure was put on you being their only child. It sucked a lot when things changed, but you couldn’t dwell on it that much. You were just trying to appease what they wanted, even though you knew it would never be enough. 
“Alice is home too,” Rosie adds when you don’t respond. “I can just hang out with her until you’re done.” 
“Are you sure?” You didn’t want to impose on her plans for the day. 
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t,” Rosie sits up, the blanket falling slightly down her body. You glance and remember she was wearing one of your shirts that was a little too big on her. “Mina’s party is later, so we could go after if you need to blow off steam.”
“We’ll see how I feel,” You scoff, knowing exactly how you’d feel after. “But thanks Chaeng, it means a lot.” 
“Eh, I know how they are, so,” Rosie shrugs, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. She rests her head on your shoulder, laying an arm along your stomach. “I’m sorry it hasn’t gotten any better.” 
“It’s okay,” You say a little too quickly, but she doesn’t press the issue, snuggling deeper into your side. “Thanks,” You mumble. 
“You could always do whatever you want, they’d come around,” Rosie suggests, tracing a finger up and down your abdomen. 
“Yeah, like being a photographer would make enough money for them. They’d see it as a hobby, which it is, not as a career,” You say bitterly, shaking your head at the memory of when you suggested it that one time. 
“Well you could always take pictures of me, and you know, I know people in fashion that could see your portfolio.”
“Chaeng, you’ve done enough for me,” You’re shocked that she’d even offer this. You knew that she had connections, but she worked hard for those. It would feel wrong to actually take her up on it. 
“You’ve also done enough for me,” She pokes your cheek. “Just think about it, the offer’s there.”
You don’t know what to say. You deflect with humor and sarcasm because it’s what you know, especially with her, “Careful, it sounds like you actually like me or something.”
“Oh fuck off,” Rosie slaps your chest, giggling. 
She doesn’t confirm or deny it. You’re left wondering if she ever could. 
--
The car’s silent except for the music Rosie asked—demanded—to play, connecting her phone before you could say yes. You’re on your way back to the city, finished with the business meeting with your parents and some overseas executive who brought his daughter too. 
You were completely blindsided. It was a business meeting disguised as a fucking introduction to a ‘potential’ wife that your parents shamelessly arranged on your behalf. You weren’t that much of an ass to be completely rude to the girl—Kazuha—who also didn’t want to be there. She flat out told you what the meeting was, which you appreciated her honesty.
Nakamura Kazuha was pretty, an innocent air around her that would have you interested if it was under normal circumstances. Your parents coincidentally left you alone for a bit to get to know each other, and she seemed like a great person. She was shy, but polite. She was funny, in a quiet sort of way where you had to be paying attention. 
Kazuha told you she had a boyfriend that she wanted to be with; however, her parents didn’t approve. It was a point of contention because it wasn’t like Satoshi was a bad person, he just didn’t meet the standards they had—in other words, not wealthy.
You shared that same sentiment, explaining your last relationship with Nayeon and how she was a great person, but you knew your parents would never approve. 
“Who was that girl you dropped off?” Kazuha asked once dinner was over. Your parents off to the wine cellar. 
What? 
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry,” Kazuha smiled. “We arrived the same time you did and I saw you walk a girl to the house next door.”
“Oh uh that’s Rosie,” You answered vaguely. 
“She’s pretty. Are you two dating?” 
“What? No, she’s just a friend,” You rushed out, but Kazuha wasn’t dumb. She could tell that you weren’t just friends. 
“Interesting. I don’t know many guys who walk friends to the door, but,” She shrugged, “It’s none of my business. That’s sweet of you though.” 
When you only nodded, she smiled again, moving on to talk about other things. The thought of her observation struck a chord, causing you to dwell on it for the rest of the evening. 
“Do you want to talk about it?” Rosie’s voice cuts through your thoughts. 
“Do you want to hear about it?” 
“I do,” Rosie nods in your periphery. 
You tell her everything. 
How the meeting wasn’t actually business for your parents. How they purposely set you and Kazuha up. How your father tricked you into preparing for something that was already signed. How your mother boldly asked when you and Kazuha would see each other next—when she lived in another country. How you were pissed and irritated and upset. How you were just tired of it. 
“I mean, fuck, at this rate, I might as well just go along with it because every single choice is made for me,” You hit the wheel while stopped at a redlight. 
“Hey,” Rosie coos, reaching for your hand, the tension melting away from your touch. “Don’t say that.”
“Well it’s not like I have any other fucking choice, unless I end up with someone who’s as rich or richer than my family, they’ll never approve. I’m literally setting up my future wife for a lifetime of disapproval. Look at Minjun, his wife hardly even attends family gatherings,” You scoff. 
You saw firsthand how your cousin’s marriage was affected by someone your family deemed ‘not good enough’. You also admired how Minjun stayed with his wife when everyone, even you, said not too because it wasn’t worth the headache. 
Rosie tugs your hand to look at her, a sad smile etched on her face, “Well then you just haven’t met that somebody yet.”
“How can I when I’m literally getting put into arranged marriages at this point?” You sigh, tired from the dinner. 
“You will, I’m sure of it,” She squeezes your hand, interlacing your fingers together. “You’re smart. You’re kind. And don’t let it get to your head, but you are good-looking. Anyone who gets to be with you would be lucky.” 
Your ears burn from her compliments. The comment of your looks does go to your head, but you don’t want to ruin the moment. 
“Thanks,” You mumble shyly, looking away as you start driving. 
“Are we going to Mina’s?” Rosie asks, keeping your hand on her lap. 
The use of we has you confused. 
“Uh, I was just going to drop you off and stay in. I don’t feel very social anymore. I’m still worked up,” You roll your eyes, turning right onto Mina’s street. 
Rosie squeezes your hand, her thumb rubbing your skin, “Are you sure? It could help you get your mind off things.”
“The only thing that would get my mind off anything is I fuck someone,” You say crassly. 
“I’m right here,” Rosie lets go of your hand, huffing.
“Yeah but I have a bit of aggression at the moment. I can’t exactly take you roughly,” You pull up to the curb, a few houses down from Mina’s. 
“And why not?” Rosie unbuckles her seat belt, crossing her legs on the seat to face you. 
“You think really low of me if I’d have your first time be like that,” You reason, rolling your shoulders as you shut the car off. 
Could you imagine taking Rosie roughly? Absolutely. You know how flexible she is, and you could have fun with her body if she gives you enough time with her. You wanted to prolong this arrangement because time’s running out. You weren’t sure if it would be a one and done type of thing, but you didn’t want to ask. 
“I don’t,” Rosie scoffs, leaning forward to kiss you softly on the cheek. “But I hope we’ll get there.” 
The kiss sends a shiver down your spine, melting into the car seat. You turn to kiss her on the lips, a simple peck that she deepens, pulling you into her that has your body on fire. 
“Can I convince you to stay?” Rosie murmurs, sneaking a hand to your slacks. She palms you through the fabric, causing you to groan against her lips. “I think I can.” Her hand deftly lowers the zipper. 
“Chaeng,” You tear away your lips, head falling back on the headrest as you watch her take your cock out. 
“Yeah?” Rosie moves over the center console, dropping her head. 
“We’re in public,” Your voice comes out hoarse as her head goes lower, tongue slipping out to lick your tip. 
“It’s dark,” Rosie kisses your cock, “Better be quick then.”
In a swift move, Rosie’s mouth encloses over you and you’re a goner. 
--
You laugh at the nonsense Jungkook says in an attempt to distract the pair across the table from missing the shot. It works, and you’re one cup away from winning again.
You feel lighter than you did an hour ago. All thanks to the woman who happens to be sitting very closely to the man she’s interested in. Although, you’re trying your best not to dwell on the sinking feeling in your stomach every time you glance her way. 
“Dude you got it,” You nod to Jungkook who’s a bit drunk, but he swears his coordination gets better the more he drinks. 
Your best friend smirks, winking at the other team before smoothly tossing the ball and it falling perfectly into the lone cup. 
“And that’s game,” Jungkook puffs his chest out while the other two roll their eyes. “Who’s next?” 
“Take Yoongi for this round, I need some air,” You say without waiting for his response. You walk off to the kitchen, grabbing a beer before you make your way to the backyard. 
A few people stop you, mostly girls, asking what you’re doing after. You give a noncommittal answer because you would like to leave with Rosie, but the odds of that happening are low. 
The cool air hits your lungs and you let out a breath. A much needed one with the amount of people that are inside. There’s a few people, but they’re all in their own conversations, not paying you any mind. 
You find an unoccupied couch, deciding to sit alone before Jungkook finds you. You’re not drunk, but you’re not sober either. You’re in that limbo of a few more drinks might put you over the edge. 
Your mind vividly replays Rosie ‘convincing’ you to stay. She didn’t need to do much to get you to cum, but she did well to get you there in less than five minutes. You were almost tempted to say fuck the party and head back to yours, but after she swallowed you for all you had to give, she patted your head and said it was time to go inside. 
“Can I sit with you?” A voice immediately brings you out of your thoughts, your gaze falling on your ex-girlfriend. 
“Sure,” You scoot over, making some room on the couch. 
You take a sip of your beer, letting the bitter liquid sit in your mouth as you gather your thoughts. It wasn’t that it was hard to be around Nayeon, it was just awkward. You two were cordial, and you knew–thanks to Sana–that she wanted to get back together. You tried avoiding her, but running in the same social circle made it difficult. 
“How’s your night?” Nayeon asks after a few minutes. 
“It’s good,” You answer politely. “How about yours?” 
“Same.”
The noise from the house fills the silence when neither of you say anything else. 
You were with Nayeon for almost two years, and there was never a lull in the conversation. She would either be asking you a million questions or she would be telling you about her day in great detail. You tried to be friends with her after you broke up, but you didn’t think it was worth it. 
“How are you and Chaeyoung?” Nayeon asks nonchalantly that you pause mid-sip. 
“What’s there to know?” You finish your beer, placing the glass bottle on the table. 
Nayeon shrugs, sipping her wine, “I saw you two walk in together.” 
“We had dinner with our parents,” You lie, but it was more a half-lie since you actually did have dinner with your parents, just separately. 
Nayeon makes a humming sound before saying, “Your relationship with her was always interesting to me.” When you don’t ask what she means–she’ll tell you anyways–she continues, “I knew you two quote unquote hated each other, but regardless of that, there was always something that made me think you, or her, might’ve had feelings.” 
“What the fuck are you talking about, Nayeon?” You sigh. The way this conversation was going instantly killed your mood. 
“It’s hard to explain,” Nayeon shrugs, taking another sip. “But she likes Soohyun right? Or they’ve gone out together.” 
“I don’t know who Rosie likes, and it’s honestly none of my business,” You were getting irritated, especially since his name was now in the conversation. 
“I’m not saying it is your business, but all I’m saying is to be careful. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” 
“That’s rich coming from you,” You snap. “You literally fucking cheated on me over an argument.” 
“You don’t think I regret that?” Nayeon’s voice cracks. “I’ve regretted that ever since.” 
“It’s too fucking late for that Nayeon, I don’t want to hear it,” You stand, blood boiling. “I’m fucking over this.” 
First the dinner with your parents, now this. You didn’t want to rehash the past with Nayeon. It was over. You got cheated on by a girl who was your first serious relationship, someone you loved, and thought about a future with. Then said-girl was telling you to be careful with Rosie, of all people. 
You knew what you were doing with Rosie, but for Nayeon to say what she said struck a chord.
Why? 
That was something you weren’t ready to admit. 
You walk away from Nayeon, leaving her alone. As soon as you enter the house, Jungkook calls you over, but you beeline for the front door without a second glance at Rosie. 
(But if you did, you would’ve seen her stand up from her seat next to Soohyun.) 
“Hey!” Rosie calls out to you. You don’t turn around, your pace picks up. “Hey, what the fuck happened?” Her hand encloses around your wrist, stopping you as soon as you reach your car. 
“Nothing,” You pull your hand away, jaw clenching as you try to compose yourself. 
“That’s a fucking lie.” 
You turn around, eyes glaring to the same expression, “Just let me be. I don’t want to deal with anyone else tonight.” 
“Too fucking bad, I’m not letting you leave until you tell me what happened,” Rosie crosses her arms. “I also have your fucking keys dumbass.” 
Fuck. 
“Give them to me,” You reach around her, knowing she put it in her back pocket, but she was faster. She took the keys out of her pocket, holding it up in front of your face. “Chaeng.” 
“You’re not fucking driving in this state. You’ve been drinking and you’re obviously pissed for whatever reason. I’m calling us a car and we’ll get yours in the morning. Don’t fucking fight with me about this,” Rosie glares, raising her chin defiantly. 
“Fine,” You roll your eyes, leaning against your car. 
You watch Rosie pull her phone out, calling a car or whatever. The alcohol was catching up to you. You close your eyes, trying to calm your nerves because you were still pissed off. You shouldn’t have taken it out on Rosie, but you weren’t expecting to see her for the rest of the night. 
You feel arms wrap around your back, Rosie’s perfume suddenly invading your senses, as she rests her head on your chest. 
“Let’s just sleep tonight okay?” Rosie whispers against your chest. “You’ve had a long day.” 
“I’m sorry,” You mumble, realizing your mistake. 
“Don’t be,” Rosie’s hand finds its way underneath your shirt, soothingly rubbing your lower back. 
“What about Soohyun?” You ask, doing your best to not sound like you were watching her. 
“He’s not relevant right now,” Rosie says softly, looping her fingers through your belt loop. “I’ll talk to him this weekend.” 
It annoys you a little bit, but you can’t help but think you’ve won some non-existent, one-sided competition with Soohyun. Rosie’s leaving with you and not him. 
You’re treading a thin line, crossing into dangerous territory. You’re hoping that once you have sex, all these feelings and thoughts that have been plaguing your mind will vanish. 
Because getting involved with Rosie was never on your mind. 
--
--
--
(It was way too long to fit in one post -_-)
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cherrifire · 30 days
Note
Please share your thoughts on the other 5 cutie marks, I'd love to hear!
Hi everypony! I got like 20 asks for the Dogwarts cutie mark lore so I'm here to speak my truth!
Before we start, I would like to write a quick reminder that a pony's cutie mark is not always their "special talent", but can also represent who they are, their personalities, and a possible destiny. Different cutie marks have different meanings and interpretations, but they're not just about representing what you're good at.
That being said, let's start with the cutie mark design I'm proudest of!
Ren's Cutie Mark
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Ren's cutie mark is of a sunrise and looks pretty simple at first glance but there was a lot of thought that went into this one.
First of all, I bet you're wondering why a sunrise? Well, in the show, it is pretty typical for unicorns with great magical abilities to have one relating to space (examples being Twilight Sparkle, Sunset Shimmer, Starlight Glimmer, and Sunburst). And I figured since I wanted Ren to fall into a similar position of potentially becoming an alicorn, I gave him a cutie mark following the same trend. And I chose a sunrise to reflect the way Ren seems to glow when he enters a room. The way he carries himself is very warm and bright it just catches your eye in a similar way the sun would.
Also, Ren wears sunglasses. So a sun-themed cutie mark seemed appropriate.
Additionally, there are a couple of smaller details I want to point out too. Like the sun rays, if you look at them for a moment you'll see they're shaped like little crowns! I of course had to put a crown in thanks to how much Ren likes to play royalty, so I snuck it in there. And then the red spots underneath could both be interpreted as the sun reflected over water or blood. (But of course, this is a kid show AU so there wouldn't be any blood in Ren's destiny, just a fun reference to the red king and his whole thing about blood dyeing the snow red)
Martyn's Cutie Mark
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I explained this one in an earlier ask but I thought I'd explain it again here for anyone who didn't see it!
Martyn's cutie mark is of a chopped log and a small stick.
This one is mostly a play on the name "Littlewood" but has other meanings too. As a character, Martyn tends to travel and explore quite a bit. In the Life Series specifically, he is usually the last one to find a permanent base and even then doesn't spend a lot of time in one place. Always on the move. Additionally, he's more of a wild card compared to other characters, always trying to be as unpredictable as possible.
The smaller detail here is the little swirl on top of the log is the same as the one on his Minecraft skin's shirt.
BigB's Cutie Mark
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Cookies! Cookies! Cookies! BigB's cutie mark is of 3 cookies where one is trying to eat the others. There are also a few sprinkles there made to look like action lines.
We all know BigB loves cookies so of course I had to give him a cutie mark with cookies in it. For this one, I decided to follow the cutie mark trend of "symbol/item important to the pony duplicated 3 times" (examples being Fluttershy, Applejack, Rarity, Pinkie Pie) but I added a bit more creativity to it with the top on trying to eat the others to represent just how tasty they are 😋
Additionally, rather than the first cookie trying to eat the others, you could interpret it as opening its mouth to talk. Because BigB can not keep a secret to save his life! In Double Life when he started "secret soulmates" with Grian, he didn't last a day without opening his mouth. He told Ren about it immediately because he felt bad for keeping things from him.
Also worth quickly mentioning: People pointed out in my original post that they don't think BigB would be the element of honesty because of his behaviour in Secret Life. But that's just Secret Life. I think Secret Life to BigB was like that episode of My Little Pony where Discord makes the main 6 act the opposite of their true element. BigB was just going through a weird phase of telling very obvious lies because a book told him to.
Skizz's Cutie Mark
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Skizz's cutie mark is of a lightning bolt from a couple storm clouds hitting the ground.
I think this is the cutie mark with the least thought put into it, unfortunately. There was still though just not as much as the others. The big thing I thought was fun was I made the lightning bolt shaped like an "S" to stand for Skizzleman. But other than that, this cutie mark sort of has the same meaning as Rainbow Dash's cutie mark. Quick like lightning, loud, bold, dangerous, and powerful.
Impulse's Cutie Mark
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Impulse's cutie mark is of a lit-up lightbulb.
I absolutely crowded this cutie mark with the letter i. If you look closely, there are 6 of them. Impulse's design also has an i-shaped pattern on the belly if you look closely enough. But that's more of a fun easter egg and doesn't exactly reflect Impulse as a character.
There are a couple of reasons I chose a lightbulb for Impulse, the first and probably most obvious is that he's a redstone guy! He's a technical guy who likes to work smarter, not harder. So I figured the My Little Pony equivalent would be a light bulb/electricity. The second reason for the lightbulb is that it's usually used as a visual representation when characters have that "eureka!" moment in cartoons. When someone has a brilliant idea a little lightbulb turns on above their head. So since Impulse is the ideas guy, I figured a lightbulb would work for his cutie mark.
Etho's Cutie Mark
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Etho's cutie mark is of a snowflake with a missing branch.
I promise there is more to this cutie mark than just "Canada is cold" even if that's part of the reason I wanted to give him a winter-themed cutie mark. While it is fun to make a nod to Etho being Canadian, I thought a winter-themed cutie mark would be fun to represent how he sometimes presents himself. Cold and a bit mysterious. I think deep down once you get to know him, those attributes melt away, but for people who have never met him, he may be intimidating that way.
I'll be honest, I don't watch a lot of Etho content, but I do have a few friends who identify as Etho girlies so I did my research. I was told in his Minecraft Let's Play World, that he has a snowflake build somewhere. I believe they said it was an iron golem farm? (Please correct me if I'm wrong) but I thought that was perfect for the cutie mark. And if you're wondering why there's a branch missing, it's because one of my friends said he was incapable of finishing builds sometimes so I thought that would be fun to include.
-=+=-
Alright. Rant over. To celebrate, here are a few pony doodles so I can put this post in my art tag.
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lovebugism · 2 months
Note
I had this idea about eddie dating reader who is obsessed with pop boy bands! tysmm
i'm so obsessed with this idea bless you anon — the town freak tries to impress the local cool girl and, in true eddie munson fashion, it doesn't go as quite expected (friends to lovers, fluff, shameless it reference, 1.1k)
bug's one year celebration ♡
Eddie stands across the counter at Family Video and lays a collection of cassettes on top of it. 
Steve blinks once at the tapes, then twice up at him. “…What is this?” he wonders, visibly dumbfounded.
“Do you interrogate every customer that comes in here?” the wild-haired boy quips, digging into the pockets of his leather jacket for some wadded-up bills. “Just scan it.”
“New Kids on the Block? New Edition?” Steve announces as he bags each plastic case. His chiseled features twist in confusion. “Who are you, and what did you do with Eddie Munson?”
“It’s not for me, dingus.”
“First of all, don’t call me that. And second of all, who the hell is it for then?”
“Someone. No one,” Eddie mumbles, shrugging and shifting his weight on his feet, doing a terrible job of hiding his sudden sheepishness. “Don’t worry about it.”
Steve’s eyes narrow. “A girl?”
“…Maybe.”
“A pretty girl?”
Eddie scoffs an unamusing laugh. “Sure. If that’s the only way your pea brain knows how to describe someone as… uncanny, and demonic, and fascinating as she is.”
Steve’s brows pinch in a subtle horror. He’s not sure what most of those words mean, but they don’t really sound like compliments. He just shrugs and decides not to press it any further. “…Okay.”
“She’s just into this stuff, okay?” Eddie confesses, gesticulating wildly with his ringed hands. “And I wanna like the things that she likes— Is that so bad?”
“Yeah, actually. It’s very, very bad,” Steve answers without thinking twice. He passes him the plastic bag full of tapes with a sympathetic glint in his eye. “’Cause that means you’re in love.”
————— 
Eddie stands outside the arcade in wait for you. He knows you always come to The Palace on Fridays — right before the school day ends, so you have a couple hours of peace before the snotty middle schoolers run you out with their post-P.E. stench.
He wears a set of headphones over his untamed curls and a walkman clipped to his jeans. It plays a pop song he’s only ever heard on the car radio. Steve’s radio, specifically. He’s heard you hum it a time or two, and it’s the only time he’s ever been able to stand it — as if he needed another reason to prove Steve right. 
He was head over heels, disgustingly, wretchedly, completely, utterly, and totally in love with you.
Propped against the driver’s side door of his van, he exhales smoke from his lungs and sees you walking down the sidewalk. 
Your pink tights swish at the knees while your plaid skirt, in a grass green color, flutters around your thighs. Your sweater’s bright blue, and the only thing halfway matching the rest of your outfit is the bright emerald dinosaur pictured on the front of it.
You beam at the sight of him. “Teddy? What are you doing here?”
“I’d guess the same thing you’re doing here, sweetheart,” he quips, playing cool as he snuffs out his cigarette with the heel of his worn sneaker.
“Normally, you’re busy on Fridays… I’m starting to feel like you’re stalking me.”
Eddie’s deep brown eyes narrow, twinkling with dark chocolate. “And how would you know that I’m busy on Fridays?” he teases, tilting his wild head to his shoulder.
You shrug, faltering for a blink of a moment. “Corroded Coffin always performs on Fridays. Everyone knows that.”
“Well, maybe just you and the… four other drunks that happento come to the Hideout on Fridays,” he jokes with a boyish laugh.
“Touché,” you concede, smiling wider. “Whatcha listening to?”
You reach out for him, taking the headphones from his ears like you always do. You place them over your own head and expect to hear something loud and heavy — that’s what you usually catch him listening to, anyway. A wide smile blooms on your lips when a familiar song fills your ears.
“New Kids on the Block?” you wonder with a scrunched nose, voice distant with disbelief.
Eddie had been expecting this. He’d spent ten minutes praying this exact moment would happen, but he stumbles over himself about it anyway. “Yeah. Uh, Family Video— They’re selling tapes and stuff now— To keep from going out of business, I guess,” he stammers, laughing awkwardly as he scratches the back of his neck. “So, I don’t know. I guess, I thought I’d—”
“Buy it for yourself?” you finish for him, with a knowing grin on your petaled mouth. “And then try to impress me by waiting outside the arcade I go to every Friday? Even though you’re usually busy practicing?”
You see right through him with little effort. Mostly because you’re one and the same — hopelessly in love and tripping over yourselves with it.
Eddie nods, then laughs. “Yeah, actually. That’s— That’s the half of it, yeah.”
Your smile quietens when you slip the headphones back over his head, fingers brushing his curls and palms grazing his flushed cheeks. “Maybe we can go together sometime?” you offer and step back from him again. “I can show you where they kept the real music. You know, make sure they got the right stuff to listen to.”
His chest swells. He almost forgets to breathe. 
He never, in a million years, would’ve expected his first unofficial date with you to be at Family Video, of all places — but he’s grateful for it nonetheless. He figures he could go just about anywhere and be happy as long as he could look over and see you standing right beside him.
Eddie nods until the words catch up to him. “Yeah. Sure. Yeah. That sounds— That sounds good.”
“I’ll call you when I’m free,” you tease and walk on by him. 
You’re always free. He knows that. You’re always everywhere and nowhere all at once. Even now, standing right in front of him, you’ll disappear like you’d never been there at all. You just like to keep him guessing, really, and he knows that, too. It’s why he melts for you so easy.
“Okay,” he nods, rapid and utterly dumb.
“I’ll see you soon. Maybe.”
He watches you meander towards the entrance of the arcade. Words start to bubble in his throat. They spill out before his brain can decide whether or not to actually say them. “Please don’t go girl,” he blurts while the lyrics of the same song croon in his ears.
You spin around and blink wordlessly at him. You don’t look confused, but you don’t look impressed either. Eddie can’t gauge the emotion on your face, and he falters.
“That’s the... That’s the name of… of one of their songs,” he stammers.
He blinks, and you’re beaming again. A golden laugh spills from your lips, like honey and summer and sunshine. “I know, Teddy,” you grin — voice as warm and as fond as your glittering gaze. 
He grieves when you turn away again, walking into the arcade without looking back at him once.
Eddie doesn’t breathe again until you’re gone, forgets how to until you’re done clouding his vision.
You’ll be the death of him yet.
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faevi · 5 months
Text
HEAT WAVES. - (gojo smut)
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Scenario: The heatwave is unbearable and your landlord threatens you with a bill. You find yourself desperate to make money before losing your home. Good thing, your kind boss Gojo Satoru is here to save you.
Word Count: 20,486 (i'm so sorry LMAO).
Content / Trigger Warning: female reader (she/her). DARK CONTENT (i mean it), manipulation, corruption, bribing, brainwashing, dubcon, sacrilegious, worshipping (a human as a god), dacryphilia, humiliation, fear of becoming homeless, fear in general, degradation, possessiveness, innocence (doesn’t know much about sex asides from what media teaches aka it’s mostly beneficial for the man), loss of virginity, master kink, handjob, blowjob, fucking reader’s mouth, swallowing cum, fingering, cunningulous, unprotected sex, creampie, slapping (on the breasts), pain, bowing to a man, so i guess sorta dehumanising content, sadism/masochism, hickeys, pet-names, satoru really is just.. lowkey nasty & immoral - but he cares in his own way, obsessed gojo, really messy - saliva, cum, etc. he cums twice, huge cock, dirty talk, reader is referred to as a maid —
i think that’s it? please (kindly) let me know if i unintentionally missed something.
Note: Important to warn that there’s mentions of stress about money and losing a home, so desperation to not become homeless etc. If this is a sensitive topic for you, please don’t read! But also remember that this is just fiction and in no shape or form do I agree with such actions in real life. Absolutely not. I would not want anyone to ever be in this position. I wish I don’t have to state the obvious but alas, better to be careful. People enjoy things differently within fiction compared to the real world. Look at people who love horror, for example. Fiction doesn't equal real world, please remember. <3 p.s. not my best writing and i'll always say that. always room for improvement. If you find any mistakes, please ignore!
I also want to give a little thank you to @mochimooon for listening to my idea, helping me out & even inspiring some of my writing/quotes. Please check them out! c:
I hope you enjoy if you’re reading and please let me know if you do! <3
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS, PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT!!!
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Fuck, it’s hot.
Obnoxiously so, you think as you hover your face in front of your fan that sits on top of your dresser. It’s small & cheap. Just like most things in your very tiny apartment. You frown in annoyance as the fast-spinning fans begin to stutter. “Don’t you dare.” You threaten the piece of junk before sighing and tugging the third drawer, angling it right so it actually opens. Hands blindly pull out the last set of pants in hopes of wearing them for your shift. You ignore with guilt of the pile of washing sitting in the corner. In your defence— You’ve been too busy worrying about bills and your health than dirty clothes.
Bills. The absolute pain of your existence, minus the current heatwave that has hit the city like a tonne of bricks, surprising everyone. You bring the piece of clothing to your nose, sniffing. “Excellent, sniff test passed.” You joke lightly before holding them to your legs… There’s a big hole directly in the middle of the pant leg. A whine falls naturally from your parted lips, feeling almost disbelief at how things aren’t going your way this morning. One hair grips your hair anxiously, wondering what you could wear to your shift.
It may just be a housekeeping job but, you’re still supposed to look somewhat presentable. The only options you have are tiny shorts. They may be a blessing for this heatwave because it’s not so suffocating but there’s just no way… Is there? You think for a moment, falling down onto your bed and hearing it creak.
The man you housekeep for; Gojo Satoru, is usually at the office building, trusting you enough with a key to come in, clean up and do other duties before greeting him briefly in the evening and leaving. Sometimes you catch him in the morning to wish him a good day and he’s always wearing that handsome grin on his face, crystal blue eyes holding warmth. It always made your day better when you saw him. Satoru is a good boss to have! That’s all. He’s nice enough to understand most situations and pays your wage the proper hourly rate. Surely, he’d understand the misery of working in heat (you just know it’s hot, even when the aircon is blowing) and that shorts are the solution. He won’t be there to see how tiny they are until the very end and it is long forgotten until the next day.
Yeah. You think it may work. You being the professional and polite girl that you are, will still ask him through a message on your phone. You crawl over to snatch your phone up, ignoring how your heart starts to speed up, cheeks all hot. It’s the weather. You breathe in deeply, fingers rapid on the keyboard before you press enter and toss your phone, suddenly feeling flustered.
{ Y/N } good morning, sir! i hate to trouble you before i even arrive, especially since you must be busy getting ready to leave. do you think it’s okay if i change my uniform for today and wear shorts? the heatwave is calling for a change! i promise to still work hard!
It was mere seconds before you heard your phone vibrate, frantically grabbing it to read his response.
{ boss 😇 } mornin’! go for it :) maybe i’ll wear shorts too 😌.
An amused giggle falls from your lips, mind-visioning the sight of the tall male in a pair of shorts at his workplace. It’d be a sight to see. Perhaps a sight you’re actually starting to crave… Shorts to reveal his toned thighs? You frantically shake your head to snap out of the thoughts, almost embarrassed to catch yourself thinking of your boss like that. “Stay professional, Y/N..” You mumble before you finally stand up to get ready, actively trying to think of anything else besides the overdue bills and your charming boss.
--------------
Finally ready to leave for work, you hastily grab your bag and move towards the short hallway. You briefly pause to inspect yourself in the mirror, cheeks feeling hotter than before. The pair of shorts were— Well… /short/. Tightly fitted around mid-thigh, fabric cupping around your ass cheeks and threatening to ride up with every small movement. Your shirt is sadly your typical polo work shirt. It’s a bit baggy so you’re able to move freely but regrettably not long enough to hide your lower half. The first button on the shirt is undone to pitifully attempt to cool off in the heat, only wishing the other two were undone as well.
You sigh softly, pinching the bridge of your nose. Satoru won’t be home as you work around his loft. Maybe if you move fast enough, he won’t even have time to check out your temporary uniform change before you step into the elevator in the meeting. You breathe in deeply, index finger pressing against the mirror. “It’s fine! Just go succeed the—“
There’s a loud knock on the door. Your head snaps towards it before hastily approaching to yank the door open. You have to use force to even open it. You often try to mention that it seems dangerous if there’s a fire hazard. What if you get stuck? You’re face to face with your landlord. An unpleasant old man who just shoves multiple envelopes against your chest.
“Your rent is overdue, here. Also got your other mail for you. If you don’t pay by the end of the week, you’re outta here.”
Your eyes widen, hands clammy as you take hold of the envelopes, your heart drastically sinking. “Wh-What? I just paid—“ You attempt to defend yourself and it only falls on deaf ears as the landlord grins at you. “Don’t care, that’s your problem. Not mine. Seven days, Y/N.” He warns before hoisting up his pants and moving down the hallway, probably eager to torment his next victim. You hastily rip open the envelopes to see the amount of money you owe. It’s not only rent but, other necessities as well. Tears threaten to spill and you bring a hand up to wipe at your eyes.
How are you going to get this large amount of money before the week ends? You’ll be kicked out and have nowhere to go. Living out of your car would be the last resort and the one you’re forced to take. A shaky breath escapes, stuffing the envelopes into your backpack before slamming the door shut behind you. You have to get to work. It’s the only way you get money even… if it’s not going to be enough. Still, your heart feels thankful towards Gojo Satoru for hiring you and you weren’t gonna let him down.
So quietly, mind swirling with disastrous thoughts and eyes stinging; you travel to work.
--------------
You find yourself on the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in the city, keycard swiping against the small machine lodged into the wall and pressing the four-digit code. The door unlocks and smoothly opens as you push it. Nothing like your one. You didn’t bump into Satoru on the ground floor as he usually makes his way out. So naturally you just assume that he’s left for the day. It’s a relief to you. You’re paranoid that your face is all puffy from crying hard in the car; cursing at bills and the heat.
Ugh, the heat. Thank goodness for the gentle cool air blowing through the vents. Did the man in charge of you turn it on for you before he left? You smile softly, dropping your backpack in the usual corner. People often depict Satoru as this overly confident man without a care in the world, often oblivious to how selfish he can be — He may have his moments but, you know how kind he can be. Not to mention hot… You frantically shake your head, hands slapping against your cheeks. “Now’s not the time to be giddy over your dumb crush on your boss. Work.” You mumble under your breath, teeth gnawing on your lower lip.
You open one of the many doors in the long hallway to reveal your cleaning supplies. Satoru allows you to keep it in his home so you don’t have to tug it along for each journey. Yet again, kind. Finally, you get to work and desperately try to ignore how tight the flimsy shorts feel around your ass each time you bend over. You also try to ignore the haunting thoughts of your bills.
It’s going to be a long day…
--------------
Satoru isn’t in the office building today. He decided to stay home, unable to be coaxed out of the penthouse because of the nasty heatwave. That and he’s been ‘inspired’ by a very polite text message about shorts and why the hell would he leave now? The white-haired man glances towards the office door that’s slightly ajar, listening to muffled sounds of you already starting to work. Utterly oblivious to him being home.
Fuck, he finds you so cute. He remembers since the day he met you that he’d hire you instantly. Bowing towards him and looking so innocent as you express eagerness to be his maid— He refuses to call you ‘housekeeper’. It’s far too boring. It’s a pity that society deems it unethical and also impractical to wear pretty maid dresses to work. Now it’s a dumb polo shirt and usually pants. Usually… Not today. His gaze is wide and manic. He’s so eager to see you in a pair of shorts. The white-haired male doesn’t care if they’re just baggy basketball shorts either. Shorts are shorts. Shorter than pants. Skin is showing. Your soft, pretty skin.
Satoru groans quietly, annoyed with his stubbornness to hide for a while before surprising you. He wants to see you now. Long fingers thread through his white hair, crystal blue eyes falling back to his laptop and lips forming a natural pout, typing dramatically slow on the keyboard with one hand. Still, it will be worth it to see you let your guard down before being surprised by his presence. He can already tell that you’d behave so cute that it’s a miracle he won’t bend you over any flat surface and pound into you until you’re a babbling mess. “Safe to say you’re obsessed and want your dick wet with her cute pussy, Satoru..” He mutters beneath his breath, snorting.
Obsessed feels like an understatement. Satoru feels his infatuation for you grow deeply every day. Every single time you bid him farewell and smiled so sweetly, leading him to jerk himself on the couch with your name escaping his lips. He even deliberately goes late to work just to catch you in the morning, swearing you’re the reason for a good day and everything going his way. Nearly everything. He often thinks of just how exactly he could really get you to be his. It’d be scary to a normal person if they could ever read his mind and realise the dark thoughts he has to try and charm you. It’s just so hard when you’re determined to stay professional and keep things to be strictly business. So yeah, maybe he has to stick to his filthy fantasies for now. Satoru always gets what he wants in the end. He just needs to be patient.
The penthouse is big and with a glance at the time, Satoru assumes you’re in the kitchen by now to clean and prepare meals. Perfect time for a coffee. The corners of his lips twitch, biting back a childish grin and lifts himself up from the office chair. He knows he mentioned wearing shorts in the text message but, he decided on the other way around. Tracksuit pants and no shirt. He works hard at the gym daily and so surely, his beautiful toned body would entice you or at least distract you. The elastic band of the tracksuit pants hang low on his hips, revealing the sinister ‘v’ that leads down to somewhere that will hopefully make you look. He’s downright awful for this behaviour. Terribly unprofessional but all he can think of is his cock.
He quietly steps out of the office room, thankful to actually step away from the screen and walks through the hallway and then the large open space that connects the lounge area with the dining and kitchen. Satoru stuffs his hands into the pockets of his grey tracksuit pants before approaching the kitchen and, holy fuck. His eyes instantly focus on the gorgeous sight of you bending over in front of him, wiping your cloth across the cabinet doors. The pair of shorts aren’t like basketball ones at all. Silly of him to think baggy clothing just because your aura is so innocent. It distracted him from the idea of tighter clothing. Just like your booty shorts now, riding up between your perky ass cheeks and squirming to try and feel more comfortable. He’s going to hell for imagining himself yanking the fabric up further until you do that cute little gasp of surprise and look so embarrassed. Satoru just knows, deep in his core, that embarrassment would look good on you.
Still, he needs to behave. Just a little. You’re a sweet person and he needs to keep his sadistic ways away from you. In his defence (he’s often trying to defend himself against his own thoughts), he has ‘loving’ fantasies towards you. He just wants you to himself. Satoru shakes out of it before casually walking over until he’s standing directly next to you, flicking the switch on the kettle. “Morning, Y/N. You don’t need to work so hard, y’know? Give the dust monsters a fighting chance.” He jokes, reaching for his favourite mug; a gift from you. It’s crystal blue and reminds him of how flustered you were when explaining it made you think of his eyes.
You gasp sharply out of surprise at a sudden presence, trying to grab onto the edge of the bench for support but failing to do so and fall directly onto your butt, eyes wide as you look up at the tall male beside you. He’s home!? Heat rises in your cheeks and you scramble to stand up, fingers twisting the cloth. “S-Sir! I didn’t- I didn’t know you were home. I’m so- Sorry. I should have greeted you…” You trail off quietly, shy gaze lingering on his toned upper body. He’s shirtless. Oh god, he’s shirtless. It’s not shorts that he decided to wear for the heat. It’s less clothing.
The corners of his lips curl up to form an amused smirk, eating up every bit of your reaction. It’s just what he wanted. Luck really is on his side every second of the day. He especially enjoys the lingering gaze of yours on his body. Being shirtless was the right call. He feigns innocence as he spoons the coffee ground into his mug, smiling gently in your direction. “Don’t apologise. It’s on me for being a hermit in my office. It’s too hot to go to work. I’d say it was a good call on those shorts.” Satoru says, voice low and smooth. His eyes shift down to look at your shorts once more. The front view is even better. You laugh shyly, thighs pressing together in a pathetic attempt to try and hide. It does nothing but fuel his secret desires further. You turn away to start wiping another flat surface, hand trembling. You need to stay professional and stop looking at his eight-pack. It was a nice distraction from your thoughts of bills at least. Satoru’s presence alone is always enough to do that.
The white-haired male forces his eyes towards your face this time, blindly pouring boiling water into his mug before slowly setting the kettle down. You’ve been crying. He can tell by how puffy it is around your eyes and how your free hand tries to rub any evidence away. Oh no… No, no, no. He doesn’t like you upset. Satoru stays quiet, lips pressing firmly together as he stirs the coffee. Who does he need to hurt, he wonders. Is it a boy? God, if it is… His knuckles are going to be all bloody and bruised. Fuck. He’s jumping to conclusions again. He clears his throat, body turning to face yours. “Y/N, are you okay? If you’re feeling unwell, you can take time off... You know that, right? You’ll still be paid.” Satoru expresses with warmth to his tone, taking a sip of the bitter coffee.
Your head whips right around, eyes wide and hands coming up to shake frantically. “No! No, I need to work. Please. I’m honestly okay. I love working for you. You’re always so kind and thoughtful. Please, don’t think anything. Let me keep working. I’m okay, see?” You express earnestly, lips curling to form a wide grin. It prompts a soft smile to grace his features, stepping closer until there’s only a tiny gap between you. You could practically feel the warmth radiating off of his bare skin. His free hand tenderly cups your chin, thumb rubbing over the soft skin. Oh. He’s touching you for the first time. Why does it feel so good? You shyly shift your gaze upwards, looking up at him from beneath your long lashes.
Satoru curses internally when he feels his cock twitch from witnessing such a sweet look from you. He knows that he shouldn’t touch you. It’s breaking boundaries but, he really couldn’t resist. Not when you’re clearly haunted with thoughts and pretending to be okay. He cares for you. In so many ways. “Alright, keep working. Just know that if you ever need something, your master is here for you. I’ll take care of you.” He says rather boldly before pulling his hand away. “I’m going back to work. My door is open.” Satoru reminds, leaving you speechless as he returns to his office, sipping on his coffee.
Master…
Satoru really just called himself that. A hand presses against your chest, feeling your heart race. That’s the first time you’ve ever heard such a title in person and yet, it sounds so much prettier than ‘boss’. He even said he’d take care of you. You twist the cloth in your grip, trying to force down the giddiness you start to feel. You’re so thankful to have someone so kind in charge of you. Still, he’s not paying you to stand around! You need to repay him for his kindness. With a swirl of Satoru’s words and thoughts of your overdue bills in mind, you push yourself to work.
The tall male slumps against the inner wall of his office, crystal blue eyes staring blankly ahead and a sigh escaping from his lips. That was a dangerous game to play and yet, Satoru couldn’t resist the chance of putting ideas into your head. You may be so innocent but, he’s determined that his words would have done something to you. However, he wonders what does trouble you. Even he would put a pause on his selfish ways to help you if life calls for it. He walks over to his chair, setting his mug down before slumping into his chair, long legs spreading out. He stares at the mug, mind already starting to be pumped full of images in tight little shorts and his large hand mindlessly palming himself. You look so cute today and he just wants you so badly… What he really needs to do is pay attention—
Satoru snaps out of his thoughts once more, grumbling before resuming work, hoping that you’ll visit him throughout the day.
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You’re stupid for thinking that you could go through the day without your stress levels rising. It’s the middle of the day now, most rooms clean and what you should be doing is making lunch for the older male. The one who is so sweet to you and yet, you’re standing in the middle of the lounge room, tears spilling down your cheeks and hands trembling as they frantically try to wipe them away. You’re supposed to be strong and resilient; think you could get through anything the world throws at you. Yet, you’re going to be homeless by the end of the week and living in your tiny car. You barely have money in your bank account to cover even a phone bill let alone rent.
You sniffle quietly, chest feeling tight as you glance towards the scattered letters at your feet. Life is far too cruel to you. Especially when you work for someone so wonderful. Satoru pays you well and yet, it’s not enough for your stupid landlord. Satoru… You look towards the hallway, eyes focused on the open door to his office. He did say he’ll take care of you, right? Will he help find a solution to your hot mess? Will he even comfort you? Oh, how you crave to just be surrounded by his warmth. You breathe in deeply, ignoring how shaky you sound when you exhale and slowly begin to approach Satoru’s office until you’re standing outside and looking into his world.
He’s working hard, fingers rapid on the keyboard but they stop instantly and his crystal blue eyes look up towards you, lips curling. He’s always able to sense your presence. “Y/N, finally visiting me? I was counting down the time.” He half-jokes, standing up from his chair. Satoru instantly notices your misery and how it’s written all over your face. “What’s wrong?” He asks, brows knitting together to form a frown of concern and quickly walks around the desk to approach you. Instantly, you stumble forward until you’re pressing into him, hands clenched together as if you were about to pray to him. “Please— Please, give me extra sh-shifts. I need to— I need to work more. I have bills to pay.” You hiccup between the words that frantically spill from your lips, tears gliding down your cheeks.
Satoru finds his heart racing, conflicted with himself from finding the sight of you begging to be heavenly. His large hands rest gently on your shoulders, giving a squeeze before stroking along your bare arms. “Extra shifts? What, you already work nearly every day, Y/N. That’s not healthy... Bills?” He asks, hoping for more of an explanation. Why is his heart racing with hope from the sight of your despair? He’s a sick individual. Your weight is leaning on him entirely now and Satoru wraps his arms around your trembling figure to provide you with the comfort you were craving. Your tears smearing against his bare chest.
You could barely focus on how being embraced by your superior has always been a secret dream of yours; feeling too much distress and fear of what’s to happen to you. You sob loudly and Satoru is thankful you’re not looking up at him to see the complete bliss written across his face. You’re relying on him. Not someone else. It’s him that you’re clinging onto and begging for help. He should feel guilty for being so happy in this moment. Your nails dig into his bare skin as you cling, your voice muffled against his chest. “Please... Just give me more shifts… If— If I don’t pay my bills by the end of the week, I’ll be homeless! I’ll have to... I’ll have to live in my car and I just need to pay these bills. I have nowhere to go!”
Satoru isn’t going to hell. That’s not what it feels like now. No. This must be heaven. Everything just keeps landing in front of him on a silver platter and he’s more than ready to devour. You’re desperate and in need of money for petty bills and he has more than enough to buy that shitty apartment complex ten times over if he really wanted to. He swears he’s not evil. He cares for you. It’s just that he’s selfish and perhaps a little sadistic. Well, he tries to convince himself of that. It’s going to be a pleasure to finally corrupt you to the core and have you tangled around his long fingers. The plan just instantly appears in his head like a lightbulb flicking on, listening to your sweet cries.
“Oh, sweetheart. That’s awful. How could your landlord be so mean to you?” Satoru says so softly, strong arms wrapping around your smaller frame and he hugs you tightly, not allowing you to see the brief sinister smirk that lingers on his lips and the way his eyes darken with joy for what he’s going to do next. You continue to whimper out your pleas against his broad shoulder. Your boss— No… Master sounds so much more comforting. Your Master is so kind to you. You could feel his warmth soak into your trembling body. The summer heat couldn’t even make this unpleasant.
“I... I don’t know… I already paid rent and he just hits me with more bills. Sir, I have nowhere else to go! I really need the money! Please, I’ll do anything you say if you can just give me more shifts or something? I— I’ll fix things, or try to! I’ll go deliver things? Please—“ You feel his hands gently prying you off of his body, eyes meeting. He’s looking at you with so much kindness. How could anyone ever think that this man is selfish and cruel? The white-haired male cups your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the tears as he gently shushes you, coaxing you to slowly calm down from crying. Tiny hiccups escape and snot threatens to drip. Still, you don’t think anything could stop your tears besides a wad of cash.
You’ll do anything for him. It’s like music to his ears; aside from your pretty crying. “I don’t know, Y/N... You already do so much, I can’t really think of anything..” He sighs, watching the way your eyes widen with horror at the thought of not being able to make enough in time. Fuck, his cock is throbbing so hard. He’s awful for doubling the fear you feel. His hands take hold of yours to give a squeeze and pull you into a tight embrace again, a hand resting against the back of your head. It feels so nice, the way his hand strokes your hair. “I can’t give you extra shifts, but I’d love to help you out. I can give you the money to help you not lose your home..”
Your heart sparks with hope! Satoru is so caring towards you. You look towards him, fingers curling into fists that rest against his toned chest. Cute, he thinks. His eyes light up, lips curling to form a smile.
“Except, you’ll have to do something for me in return. You said you’ll do anything, right? It’s nothing too difficult, love.” Satoru purrs, head mimicking your own head tilting, finger tapping against your chin. “I’ll help you with rent if you let me have you.” He proposes, trying not to laugh with endearment from your look of confusion. You pull back a little, though hands refusing to leave his warm torso.
“Have me? You already do, sir. I work for you. What do you mean..” You trail off, heart starting to speed up anxiously, though laced with excitement. You couldn’t understand why. The white-haired male chuckles, pushing hair out of your face and forcing you to look up at him with a grip on your chin.
“I mean, I’ll take care of all those troubling and nasty bills if you let me have your body, Y/N. It’s that easy. You’ll feel so good, too. There’s nothing else you could do for me because you already take such good care of me.” Satoru says, hand tenderly stroking your arm.
You look at him in wild confusion, merely because you didn’t ever expect this to be the answer. He wants your body. Satoru laughs a little, thinking you’re cute for the thousandth time. Dumb little brain needs to be taken care of, too. “Sex, Y/N. Making love.” He emphasises the last term. It’s deliberate as he thinks it’d entice your sweet heart more than the blunt term ‘fucking’. Everything he says, every touch he gives; all have a motive.
Embarrassment washes over you and your hand grips helplessly onto his muscular bicep. “I know what you meant! I just—“ You pause, mind thinking it over. Satoru, the man who has hired you, will give you money to take care of bills and in return, you sleep with him. Your mind is a hot mess, thinking so many things and especially why on earth would someone so gorgeous and with a heart of gold; want you. Your mind travels to a memory. One of when you were in university before you dropped out because of not being able to afford it. A professor got fired and a student was expelled because she had sex with him for good grades in return. Such situations are viewed down upon.
Satoru isn’t worried. He just watches you with patience (though his cock certainly wasn’t feeling that) and his long fingers lightly play with yours. He knows you’ll give in because he’ll lead you to that path. Besides, he knows you’re attracted to him to some degree. That’s been obvious since day one. He pulls away to walk towards a cabinet as you begin to speak.
“Sir, I-I’m flattered that you want to help me and… that this is the only way but, isn’t it against, you know, rules?”
Satoru laughs lightheartedly at your words, prompting you to feel hot in the face again. He reveals a safe, typing in the passcode swiftly before opening it up. Again, every action of his is intentional. Especially when the insides are exposed to you. Stacks and stacks of cash. One tiny stack alone could pay rent for a year. He tilts his head, noticing your shocked expression at the sight of the small percentage of his riches.
“I make the rules, Y/N. Do you really think I’d let you get in trouble and suggest this? I care about you.”
You feel your heart flutter gently from those words. He cares, you know he does. Always so friendly to you and goes out of his way. This really must be the only option he has left if he wants to help you. You sniffle quietly, a hand rubbing at your eyes that feel so puffy and tired. How’d he even think of choosing your body after seeing you cry is a miracle. Still, you don’t know if you should do this. Especially since you’ve never had sex before. You better speak your truth before it’s too late. “Sir, I don’t think I can…”
Satoru sighs out dramatically, hand moving to close the safe, his broad back facing you. You’re not able to see the sinister smirk he’s displaying as he speaks. “Then I don’t know what to do, Y/N. Sweetheart, you might actually end up on the stree—“
“No, I just mean I’m a virgin! I want to take up this huge favour that you’re willing to do for me but I’m a virgin, I haven’t done anything let alone be kissed. You deserve someone experienced, I can’t give you what you need.” You begin to choke up as tears begin to spill down your cheeks when you realise that nothing can be done. You feel utterly hopeless and even useless. Your boss— Master, is stretching out his hand to save you, only asking for your body in return and you can’t because why would he want someone so stupidly inexperienced?
The white-haired tilts his head upwards after hearing the wonderful news. A virgin. Untouched. Innocent. You haven’t been touched by anyone and could be all his to corrupt. He can be the one to twist and shape you into someone that revolves around him. You could even become the one to worship him like a God who saved you from your pitiful life. It feels even more special because of the simple fact that it is you. The one he’s been craving hungrily for since day one. The one he really wanted to have fall for him and rely heavily on him. That you’d only ever look his way because how could some other person, man or woman; ever conquer when it’s him who’s taking all of your firsts and having you tangled in his web. He will become your one and only to worship and cherish.
You definitely wouldn’t want someone else when he’s manipulated you into agreeing and finally having your eyes open to pleasure. Pleasure only he can give. Satoru feels that confident in himself and his shoulders nearly shake from silent laughter. He already feels like he’s won. Satoru breathes in deeply before he turns around to face you, eyes now showing concern for you. He frowns, pretending to not be giddy at the sight of your tears and walks back over to you. The safe is opened slightly to still reveal the contents.
“I accept you for who you are, Y/N. It might be off-putting to other men that you’ve never had sex or as I like to say, make love but, it isn’t to me. It just makes you even more special in my eyes.” Satoru says, hand tenderly stroking your cheek and gently wiping the tears away. Fuck, how he’d love to lick them off your cute face instead. You frown a little at first at his words, an unpleasant twist in your stomach that prompts your hands to reach out for him. For comfort. He’s right. Other men would look at you unpleasantly for being so inexperienced…
Satoru thinks you’re special, though. It coaxes butterflies to appear in your stomach, reminding you how they often seem to come alive whenever Satoru is around. You smile shyly, cheeks stained with tears and you tilt into his hand, thinking of his proposal. He’ll help you with your bills if you just give your body to him. He doesn’t care about your virginity and is still willing to. You bite down on your lip, leaning in close and a fleeting glance at the safe full of money. You care for Satoru and deeply respect him. Still… Is this right?
He notices it and bites back a chuckle. You’re clearly desperate to not lose a roof over your head. In all honesty, Satoru wants to beat your landowner up. Violently. It angers him that you’ve been put in a position and feel complete despair. He hates when others are cruel to you but, he’ll still selfishly take the chance to take you for himself. Nothing could put a stop to that. Not even a gun to his head. It’s safe to say that Satoru knows that he lacks morals. Does he care how unethical it is to coax his personal maid into sex? Fuck no. His dick definitely agrees with his plan, too. He continues to gaze down at you, stroking your cheek. You just need a little push and he knows you’ll fall over the edge and desperately reach for him. He’ll bless you with his hand reaching out to hold you before you could fall into darkness.
“Let’s make love, Y/N. I’ll pay your rent just as I promise. Besides, don’t you want to give up your virginity to someone who truly cares about you or would you rather give it to some man at the bar, just wanting to get his dick wet? I’ll make you feel good. Let me take care of you. Let me save you.” His voice is quiet and low as he bends down to whisper against your ear, warm breath fanning against it. Checkmate, he thinks as his eyes never leave his prize.
This is your virginity. You only get one shot. Body, heart & soul already yearn for the older male, yelling at you that there’s no one else you could find that would do better than Satoru. They agree with their Master’s words and now your mind is starting to agree too. No one else could do it. Satoru wants to make love with you and help you ease your troubles. No one would ever do that. Just your master. This tall, white-haired man has always been so selfless. So kind and loving towards you. You won’t have to worry anymore. It just makes sense to agree.
Shyly, your arms wrap around his neck and you have to lean up on your toes. Has he always been so tall? He towers above you, physique looking so beautifully carved like it’s a Greek statue of a God. You feel so hot despite the cool air blowing from the aircon, looking up at him. Satoru’s hands are cautious on your hips, thumbs dipped beneath the shirt to rub comforting circles against your soft skin. He really is willing to save you. “I want to, Sir. If I give myself, you’ll help me with my bills and take care of me for my first time... It makes sense. I want it all with you.” You express through a whisper, ignoring how your heart races so excitedly for sins that are about to be committed. You always had an innocent crush on your boss and now he’s doing all of this. For you.
An almost manic grin appears from hearing you finally agree, bending slightly to press a kiss to your jawline, breathing in deeply. Satoru could smell your sweet perfume mixed with your sweat. Fucking perfect. He’s finally getting what he’s always wanted. Thank fuck for the overdue bills. “Your Master will take good care of you in return, baby. Don’t worry your pretty little head about those bills anymore. Just let go and succumb to me.” Satoru purrs, coaxing you into feeling a mixture of giddiness and embarrassment as you nod with eagerness.
“Don’t think the office is the right place for this.” Satoru thinks aloud before easily hoisting you up into his hold. He guides your legs around his waist, hands cupping just beneath your perky butt and briefly, he thanks the heatwave for prompting you to wear shorts. “Sir? Where will we go?” You ask, too flustered to use logic at the given time.
“Mm, call me Master from now on. It’s cuter from your lips. Is there nothing in that small brain of yours, baby?” He teases, walking down the hallway. Your cheeks flush from the humiliation of his words, trying to hide your face. He looks up above, mouthing ‘thank you’ — To himself. All his hard work has paid off. “Where does sex usually happen, do you not know?” He mocks, cock straining against his tracksuit pants.
You whine, frantically pulling away to look at him. “I know where sex happens! I just had… a dumb moment.” You huff, helping with pushing the door open to his master bedroom as he nudges it with his foot. He coos, endeared by your brief feistiness and kisses your temple. “Of course you do, Y/N. Only a dumb baby sometimes.” Satoru chuckles and you feel your heart flutter from hearing one of your favourite sounds. It relaxes you. Only a little, which is only natural for something big that’s about to happen in your life. Satoru gently sets you down on the polished wooden floor and walks slowly over to the bed, pretending to inspect it. There’s a circular rug beneath the king-size bedroom. He may have been prompted in the shop by how you praised the fuzziness of it and that he wouldn’t want you hurting your knees when he finally gets you between his legs. Ha. He really is a winner. Never the loser kind.
He stands there before the bed. He sighs deeply and turns towards you. Satoru has to ignore how his heart aches from the cute sight of you nervously fidgeting. “You know, Y/N... I’m really helping you here. You’re always so polite to me but, I was wondering if you could show me how deeply thankful you are for me, your master. Will you?” He asks, voice laced with sweetness. You’re oblivious to the fact that he’s testing your obedience, curious if you really would do anything. Including something some would say is humiliating.
It’s not humiliating at all to you and instead, it makes perfect sense to you. He’s gone out of his way a few years ago to hire you and now he’s going even further. Quickly, you drop down to your knees and your face scrunches slightly from the impact. You’re not close enough for the fuzzy carpet. Even though you feel so flustered, you lower your upper body until your nose presses against the wood and your hands overlap just before you. You’re bowing as deeply as you can, tears of relief threatening to spill. “Th-Thank you, Master. This means the world to me. I’ll thank you over and over.” You whisper breathlessly. You could feel your shorts rising from the movement, perky ass cheeks on display as you bow towards him.
Satoru is more thankful for his phone in his pocket, slyly pulling it out to hold it up and snapping a photo of the glorious sight of you bowing before him, thanking him for how his thick cock will stretch out your virgin pussy— Well, he knows the gratitude is beyond that. He’s grinning a little, still in almost disbelief that everything is going his way. He may be confident in his abilities but, there was always that chance of everything falling apart and you leaving. His heart aches at the thought of that. He’d do anything and everything to make you stay. Even force if he had to. He clears his throat, grin lessening to a soft smile. “You’re okay with me taking a photo, right? Sweet girl, you look so cute when you’re bowing to me.” Frankly, he’d still keep the photo but it’s nice to get your consent either way.
You whine quietly at his words, peeking up at him and noticing him setting his phone aside. “Master can do anything he wants..” You mumble shyly, face feeling hot once more. Is your heart going to leap out of your chest? That’s what it feels like. Satoru walks over until his bare feet are in front of your eyes. You lift yourself up a little to look up towards his gorgeous face as he towers above you. Your saviour. “Y/N, are you happy to give me your first of firsts?” His voice is low and deep, yet so silky smooth that you find yourself nodding eagerly. Truth be told, you always dreamt of giving him your first kiss. You have been crushing on him hard and just stubbornly tried to stay professional.
“I want Master to have it! I want him to show me what it’s like, I want…” You trail off, longing gaze falling to his soft-looking lips. “To taste my Master.” You finally confess and Satoru couldn’t stop himself from smirking, pleased with your response. You’re still in disbelief at everything that is going on. Still nervous about the bills— It’s hard to take your mind off of them. Satoru will help with that. You watch as he stands up and your lips part in silent awe. From this angle, he really does appear like a God saving you. His crystal blue eyes focus on you as he begins to step away, his heart leaping when you desperately reach out for him. “Come on, baby girl. Crawl. You’ll reach the bed soon or, is it me that you’re wanting to reach?” He teases lightly, prompting you to huff and start to crawl on all fours in his direction, ignoring the annoyance of your booty shorts riding up between your ass cheeks. It’s definitely him that you want to reach.
Satoru settles on the edge of the king-size bed, eyes refusing to blink as he watches you crawl over to him like his very own personal pet. It’s a sight he wants burned into his mind to remember for eternity. He could still sense your shyness and while others may have told you to get over all of this; the shyness only fuels his desires further to corrupt you and shape you into his. He bends down once you reach him, arms beneath your underarms and hoists you up with ease onto his lap, directly onto his crotch. He shifts to hug around your waist, pulling against him and you can’t stop yourself from feeling flustered or how your heart seems to race even faster. It’s to be expected, right? Everything is new and it’s all involving the man in charge of you.
“You’re cute when you’re nervous but, trust me. You trust me, right? I would never let anyone hurt you, not even myself. I’m just here to take care of you. Save you.” Satoru whispers, leaning in as his lips hover over yours, not kissing you just yet. A shaky breath escapes, your hands gently gripping onto his broad shoulders for support. He’s saving you. Won’t let any harm come your way. No more mean bills to make you cry. “I trust you..” You respond softly and soon feel his lips pressing against yours. One of his large hands comes up to cup the back of your head to keep you in place, fingers threading through your hair to grip as he moves his tiers slowly against yours, guiding you through your first kiss. He could tell you’re new to everything; not exactly knowing what to do with your lips besides what you see in films.
Satoru couldn’t help but smile into the kiss. “Just follow your Master, baby girl. Let him guide.” He mumbles against your plump lips and you relax on his lap, arms now snaking around his neck as you follow his lead. It’s not so clumsy anymore as you kiss him. Lips moving against lips. Tongue peeking out to swipe across lower tiers. You’re a quick learner, he notices. He fucking loves that. He continues to make out with you, time easing away and the kiss being fuelled with more passion. It’s sloppy, saliva smearing and neither of you seemed to care. You feel a mixture of peace and excitement as you kiss Satoru. Each touch is a reminder to you that he cares for you. That he won’t let anything happen. Not to mention that he’s just really good at taking the lead and kissing you breathless. You wonder if you’ll be allowed to kiss him more after, easily sinking into his trap.
You sigh happily, body moving on its own as you shift to straddle him properly, fingers threading through his white hair to gently pull on as you press flush against him; your covered breasts against his bare chest, unintentionally rubbing. You’re unaware of how you’re moving, just getting lost in the kiss. Satoru on the other hand, is deeply aware. Especially when you’re causing friction against his crotch and causing him to groan into the searing kiss. For a virgin, your body definitely has been craving to be touched. By him only. His tongue drags slowly across your lower lip until your lips part to whimper and he slides his tongue in with ease, gliding it across every inch of your mouth, eager to have your sweet taste permanently on his tongue. His hands are tight against your body to keep you in place, causing you to squirm and press into him, only craving to drown in the kiss.
You feel him slowly devour you, hand caressing along the length of your back and you just simply melt, completely dazzled by everything that is Gojo Satoru. It’s only a kiss, too. Will everything feel so good? His tongue rubs against yours as your pair of lips continue to move against his until eventually, he decides to part. There’s a string of saliva connecting your lips together, causing you to feel flush. “You’re a fast learner, Y/N.” He praises, intentions to trap you and reel you in further. You often enjoyed being praised by him for your work, so it only makes sense to him. His assumption was correct, eyes lighting up at his words and a hand quickly wiping away the saliva. “You’re a good teacher, Master.” You say softly, causing his ego to swell up.
His gaze darkens, using his strength to easily manhandle your body around until your back meets the bed and he’s pinning you down, one hand gripping firmly onto your wrist and his other stroking your side every so lightly. You choke on a surprised gasp from the sudden movement, staring up at him with wide eyes, long lashes fluttering gently. Is your heart racing from nerves? Excitement? “Baby..” He trails off, leaning down to brush his lips along your jawline, whispering. “You’re going to do something for me, aren’t you?” Satoru peeks up at your face and even someone untouched can pick up on the implication. You squirm nervously now. It’s all new. What if you’re not good at it? Should you really be doing this? Would Satoru want you if he wasn’t doing you such a huge favour? What is your worth? Your mind tends to still leave questions and Satoru doesn’t like that. He wants your mind free of everything but his voice.
“Remember that I’m doing you a favour, Y/N.” He growls lowly, teeth nipping at your flesh. He’s awful for being further aroused by instilling fear into you. It’s a necessity if he wants you to break and finally realise the truth properly. That you live to serve him completely. “Don’t be so scared, my sweet maid. You want this, I know you do. We’re taking our time. It’s just… Master is aching. Only wants your touch.” His large hand smothers one of your own, slowly guiding it towards his crotch. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be crying on the streets in just seven days. So baby girl, just forget it all. Let me take care of you as you take care of me.” His words are low and soothing, listening intently to every word that he says like it’s a prayer to memorise.
That’s right. If it wasn’t for him, you’d be completely doomed. With determination pumping through your body, you move to sit up, hands pressing against his chest and he allows you to move him until he’s lying down on his back now, gazing up at you with a victorious grin displaying on his swollen lips. Fuck yes. You’re so easy to manipulate and it riles him up. He pretends that he’s calm, just adjusting the pillows beneath his head before a hand comes down to give your closest thigh a tender squeeze. It’s encouraging to you and you clasp his hands between both of yours, pressing it against your chest. You look at him like he’s everything to you. He always has been. That small crush turned into something more. Foolish of you to realise only now.
“I live to serve you, Master. I know I’m new but, I’ll do everything I can to make you feel good. Please teach me when I need it.” You express breathlessly before letting go of his hand to crawl between his parted legs. You curl up, leaning forward until your face presses against his crotch, nuzzling so lovingly and breathing in the scent of Satoru. He grits his teeth, long fingers twitching before he grips onto the blanket beneath him for now. The white-haired male didn’t expect such a filthy yet endearing gesture but it only causes him to ache, wishing for his cock to be freed already. “Good girl, you’re so good.. Show me what you know,” Satoru says through his clenched teeth, not daring to look away from the pretty sight of you between his long legs. Truth be told, you found that you’d just be happy to exist with your face nuzzling between his crotch, inhaling in his comforting scent. Yeah, sweat mixed with cologne. Some might find it off-putting but it’s Satoru! Your beloved boss.
Remembering scenes from films and your own curiosity as your motivator, you press your tongue flat against the fabric that restricts him, dragging it slowly across the mysterious thickness that his pants are hiding. It prompts a soft groan to leave Satoru, teeth latching onto his lower lip. He didn’t expect you to do something so teasing and lewd. It’s so long, you noticed. Your tongue reaches the end and that’s when you notice the leaking tip just peeking out from under the elastic band, his cock straining against it.
“Are you smiling because you get to see my cock? Dirty girl.” He snorts lightly and you bring a hand up to your mouth, noticing that you really were smiling down at his crotch. You assume it’s because you’ll get to give someone you adore some pleasure. Right? “Can’t help myself.” You tsk lightly, hooking your fingers beneath the elastic band and finally begin to hastily pull down. It seems like you’re pulling and pulling until finally, his erection springs out, slapping against his toned stomach. Your jaw drops in shock from how big it is. You’ve seen porn and obnoxiously big dicks but— Satoru’s is on another level. It’s not obnoxiously long that it seems fake but, it’s still huge. Thick, too. You can only imagine that your fingers will struggle to meet around it. There’s a pretty curve to the pulsating length, protruding veins along the sides. Your gaze is completely fixated on the beauty of it and something just clicks in your head as a droplet of pre-cum leaks from the head and down the many inches. It just clicks that, of course, Gojo Satoru would have the most beautiful cock in the world. Of course, it’d be attached to someone who deserves to be worshipped daily.
Satoru’s confidence just rapidly increases, casually resting an arm beneath his head, smirking at the cute sight of you being in a shock of silence. People in the past often said that he’s got a big dick but your face just says so much more. Mind games and all, it seems it’s just all falling into place and he’s pleased. “My sweet maid.” He calls out softly, his free hand managing to reach out to pet the top of your head as you stay kneeling between his legs. It coaxes you to lean down so it’s easier for him to pet you like some animal, making you silently wonder why you like the feeling of it. Why were you so foolish to call yourself his housekeeper for years when you were more than that? Being his maid is special. Intimate. It means you can do everything for him and he’ll keep you under his protection in return. “Go on, baby. I know you want to touch my cock and it’s cause of you that I’m so hard. Make me feel good…” He smiles to himself. “Paying your bills after all and taking care of you.”
That’s right! You can’t just keep sitting here in absolute awe when he’s waiting for pleasure in return for his help. Besides, he’s even further correct on you wanting to touch him with your virgin hands. You laugh shyly, fingers curling around the thick base and feeling it throb from your touch. The very tips of your fingers just are able to make contact. “I’m sorry, Master. It’s just— I’ve never seen… Only in media, y’know. You’re just so— Huge. So pretty.” You purr, now tenderly stroking along the length, making sure to touch every single inch.
His abdomen tenses from the touch, exhaling low through his mouth as he feels the pleasant warmth of your palm as you stroke gently. He closes his eyes for a moment. Satoru can feel your hand dragging, causing friction from the lack of lubricant. He briefly looks towards his drawer where he knows there’s a barely empty bottle of lube. He uses it a lot to the thought of you and now that he has you? Perfect. “Spit on it, baby. It will make me feel good. Take your time, do what feels natural.” The gentle order falls from his lips as he sighs. Usually, he’s an impatient man who’d just love to bend you over and rail your ass until you’re crying but this is his first time with you. He may have perhaps manipulated to get his way but he’s not going to rush such a perfect moment. Especially when your hand feels so snug and warm.
Spit on it… Right. You’ve read somewhere that dry friction is somewhat unpleasant and so you lean down, tongue hanging out just over the pretty tip and saliva begins to pool, slowly dripping out until you’re practically drooling over his cock. The pair of you actually moan together at the filthy sight, feeling the spit meeting the top of your hand and you begin to stroke until you’re coating his throbbing member with your own spit, pleased with the way it glistens beneath the light of the bedroom, making his cock entice you in further. You pick up the pace of your strokes, wrist twisting each time you slide your hand up and down. Your thumb rubs against the sensitive tip and he grunts, hips stuttering in response as the pleasure leaves him tingling.
You’re a natural when it comes to giving Satoru a handjob. His eyes nearly falling shut; half-lidded gaze focusing on the sight of your hand quickly stroking along his shaft, smearing the saliva that you continue to let drool out onto his tip. Satoru is breathing deeply, nails scraping against his own scalp as a pitiful attempt to contain himself through the gentle waves of pleasure. You’re still on your knees between his long limbs, though leaning down and ass pushing up into the air, appearing so inviting. You keep your face close to his throbbing cock, wanting to memorise the pretty sight and how it feels heavy against your palm. Wrist continues to twist with each stroke before you hear him groaning out your name. You feel pleased to be able to give your Master the pleasure he deserves.
You whimper in question when his hand grips firmly onto your hair, glancing up at him. Suddenly he’s pressing your face against the underside of his cock and you could feel your own spit against your face. “Use your mouth.” He pants out heavily, eyes swirling with victorious lust. You’re quick to oblige, mimicking with what you did before by dragging your tongue slowly along the underside, tracing along a vein until plush lips press against the pretty pink tip. You already find yourself loving the taste of him, craving more. You kiss sloppy innocent kisses to the leaking tip before you wrap your lips around it, suckling on it gently as you look up towards your Master.
Satoru rolls his eyes at the wet warmth of your mouth and your daring tongue sliding across the sensitive head. He waited far too long, mind momentarily wishing you were desperate for him to save you earlier. He’s a sick individual and gives no fuck. Being selfish gets him what he wants and that is every part of you. You look up towards his face with absolute adoration for the older male, tongue lapping at the tip and swirling around like it���s your own personal candy to enjoy. You’re unable to stop the soft moan from escaping and he inhales sharply when he feels the vibration along his thick cock. One hand continues to stroke and lovingly squeeze around the base of his length, mouth parting wider as you take more of him into your wet cavern.
Your jaw is tense, locked in place as you slide your mouth up and down the very first few inches, feeling it rub against your inner cheeks. You find that you already have to slurp up the large amounts of saliva that seeps out. Satoru feels himself twitch in your mouth, one arm briefly draping over his eyes as he focuses on nothing but the sweet wet mouth that surrounds his raging erection. His face scrunches up as the pleasure surges through him, groaning softly. He brings his hand down to firmly grip your hair from the back of your head, eagerly pushing down. Satoru knows that it’s so wrong to urge a virgin to go beyond their comfort levels but, your mouth is too heavenly to ignore & to be frank, he knows he’ll get away with it because of the ‘special’ situation. Hell, he knows that urged him to do it.
Your eyes widen as you feel the force against your head, whines muffled by the aching tug on strands of hair. For him— Satoru, the one who is giving you everything; you’ll do it for him. Happily. Inexperience and nerves be damned. You try to widen your mouth, gagging audibly when the tip of his thickness brushes against the back of your throat, choking as you pull away to look at him with wide eyes, spit mixed with pre-cum smeared and dripping from your chin. “M-Master, it hurts my jaw. I don’t know what to do, I really want your cock. I want to give you pleasure.” You plead breathlessly, eyes stinging with tears. You can’t screw this up.
It does the opposite of screwing up. Satoru is just so happy to not only have you, but a virgin to shape and play with. You’re going to accept anything he throws your way like a dog with a bone. “Baby girl, so inexperienced. Where would you be without me? You’re so lucky that I love to guide you through things.” He murmurs, fingers gently caressing along your jawline, leaning up on the elbow of his other arm. “Other men would find you so embarrassing but I just adore your innocent eagerness to please me. Just relax your jaw, Y/N. Relax as you take me in, okay? You’ll find yourself better at it than forcing yourself. I know my cock is so big for your cute mouth but you’ll take it all, won’t you? For me?” He explains, watching your eyes light up from the ‘teaching’ and helpful information.
“Of course, Master! I won’t dare miss any of you! Every inch of your beautiful cock deserves to feel pleasure. I can do it.” You insist, tears of worry glued to your long lashes. He has to tilt his head away to mask his look of disbelief. A true jackpot. Satoru simply nods to give you permission to continue. Your body muscles soften when you realise he isn’t giving up on you. The deal or whatever is still in motion and you’re just so thankful. He’s right that others would have rejected you. His kindness deserves to be shown your gratitude. Your plush lips wrap once more around the tip, bobbing your mouth up and down the first few inches slowly, eyes focused on him and the way his chest seems to stutter with his heavy breaths.
You squeeze your hand around the base before you start to slide your hot mouth down further, listening to his words from before and just relaxing into it. You close your eyes, nose scrunching slightly but you fixate on the taste of his cock against your tongue that caresses the underside of his twitching length, head tilting as you take more in. You find that you’re lacking oxygen with your mouth stuffed full and start to breathe through your nose. Saliva continues to dribble out, keeping that beautiful sheen over his cock whenever the spit meets the bedroom light. Even with advice in mind, you can’t help but gag on his throbbing cock whenever it presses against the back of your throat.
It’s become one of his favourite sounds. The sound of you choking on his fat cock, only eager to take every part of him. “Mm, fuck… Good girl, doing so good.. Fondle with my balls as you suck like the filthy girl you are for me, baby.” The dirty words just fall from his lips so easily when he feels the velvety feeling of your inner cheeks rubbing along his cock, brows furrowed as his hand returns to your head once more to push. Usually, such words may have shocked you but now with lips stretched so wide around his girth; you discover something new. You love his dirty talk. You worship every single word he says like nothing else holds value. It’s like he is your Go—
You’re yanked out of your loving thoughts when he snaps his hips up, now being the one to force his thick cock down your throat. He’s allowed to do whatever he wants, after all. Your hand cups his balls to tenderly fondle as you breathe heavily through your nose. A few droplets of tears glide down your warm cheeks, feeling the ache at the back of your throat as he keeps his dick stuffed down the warm hole, groaning out happily from the pleasant feeling. He can feel the way your throat muscles constrict and tighten around his invading cock, only driving him further as he begins to fuck your mouth, hand firmly on your head to keep you in place. He’s sliding his cock against your wet tongue, head tilting forward to see the pretty sight of you in tears and struggling to breathe properly.
“Such a cute virgin.” He pants out, causing your heart to flutter, happy that he’s able to find your inexperience and struggle cute. It didn’t matter to you at all, the painful ache and continuous gags rising up loudly whenever his erection slid out to let that moment of air before quickly taking it away from you. Even with your throat acting as some guard to prevent him from going further couldn’t stop him. No, Satoru would just push on your head as his hips snap up rapidly, grinning lightly from the wet squelching. Your nose keeps pressing against his stomach, muffling your needy sounds. The white-haired man coos mockingly when your hands flail, not knowing what to do with them as he fucks your open mouth roughly.
“Come on, baby. Put them to use. You wouldn’t want to make a mistake and lose your chance, would you? Even worse, you wouldn’t want to lose me.” He hisses out lowly, head tilting back as he moans, thankful for his own stubbornness to hold out just that bit longer. He wouldn’t leave you, but he sure loves to see you in momentary fear. The words send you into an internal panic. No! No, no, no! You don’t want to lose your Master! One hand quickly grips the side of his toned thigh to caress, the other returning to squeeze lightly and fondle his balls lovingly, eager to make the male happy.
Satoru’s eyes roll, widening for a moment before closing tightly. He can feel himself approaching his high quickly as his hips continue to snap at a fast pace to fuck your mouth nice and deep. If your mouth feels so good, Satoru couldn’t wait too long to stuff your virgin pussy with his monstrous-sized cock. It’d be even better. You feel lightheaded from not being able to get the proper amount of oxygen and it feels rather nice. Fuzzy. Nicer if you think about how much you trust Satoru and that he’s clearly loving your mouth. You’re happy to be so useful with just one of your holes. Still, it doesn’t stop you from choking, swallowing around his length as it slides beyond your cheeks and down until you can feel it when your hand quickly touches your throat. You could feel when his cock makes your throat bulge and hurt, tears and spit causing you to look like a hot mess already. It’s a miracle you chose today to not wear make-up, you would have had mascara running down your cheeks.
“Fuck— Fuck, Y/N. Take it. Be a good girl—“ Satoru gasps sharply, both large hands gripping onto the sides of your head to prison you in that only spot. A wave of ecstasy washes over his long body, causing his muscles to tense up and shake slightly as his cock finally pumps out ropes of sticky cum that paint your throat white. You breathe heavily out through your nose, eyes wide and frantic from something new filling your mouth and you have no other option but to swallow.
Why does it taste so good? You taste the saltiness of his cum and it lingers even as you happily swallow each drop that he’s blessed you with, feeling so special. You are, after all. He chose you and in return, you’ll be happy to receive anything from him if it means giving joy back. His nails scrape along your scalp, moaning deeply as he simply enjoys riding the wave that is his orgasm. Half-lidded gaze once more and he looks at you, cheeks puffed out from being pumped full of his cum, watching intently as you refuse to let any dribble out. Fucking hell, what did he do in his past life to be able to witness this?
He guides your head up and slowly off of his cock that slaps against his stomach once free. It already starts to twitch just as he watches you sputter. You’re dry-heaving deeply, hands gripping onto his thighs for support and feel relief for a moment that you can breathe through your mouth. You cough, strings of saliva still connecting to his sloppy cock and you wipe them away, trying to wipe your face clean. Your saliva mixed with his dry-cum already feels dry and crusty on your face. You must look awful, causing you to raise your hands to pitifully hide. Instantly, Satoru’s hands grip your wrists as he shifts to sit up with you, staring heavy and firm.
“No hiding.” He warns before his gaze softens, leaning in. “I think you look even prettier when you’re all messy like this. All thanks to me.” Satoru reminds gently, massaging small circles against your wrists. You feel your heart leap from his words, looking at the white-haired male so fondly. Master. Saviour. “Th— ank you.” You manage to rasp out despite your abused throat aching. Satoru coos endeared entirely because of you and presses multiple kisses to your swollen lips. He could taste himself. “How’d I taste, my sweet maid? You better expect more.” He chuckles gently, nose pressing against your temple as he inhales deeply. He could smell your sweat laced with your favourite perfume and silently thanks the heat.
You don’t realise it but your eyes light up at his words, giddy from realising this isn’t the end. Your nerves may never be conquered until it’s over and you have given your true first to him but, you couldn’t deny that you actually enjoyed having him inside your mouth. Especially when he started taking control and you just had to take it. Mess and all. Maybe it’s scary for a virgin to be thinking this but… It just feels like this is what you’re destined to do. To truly serve Gojo Satoru. He’s offering to pay your bills, too. A bonus, really.
“Your cum… It’s my favourite taste now.” You confess sheepishly and his ego just explodes from hearing that, toned arms wrapping around you to pull him down into his crushing embrace. You giggle happily, pleased by his reaction and press loving kisses to his sharp collarbone, hand between bodies coming down to caress along his length lightly. “I’m not afraid to continue, Master.” You express, worried that he might think otherwise. You can’t lose this. “I want you.” You whine, pressing into his bigger form.
Satoru is smirking over your shoulder, hand rubbing along your back. You’re still clothed and finally, he’ll be able to really see everything and burn it into his mind. Fantasies no more when he has the real deal being shaped into craving him and wanting to do everything he says. “You want me. I always knew you did. It was written all over your pretty face. Especially when you’re so scared and desperate, hm? You just want me to take over, so you can be my cute little maid who doesn’t need to think.” Satoru whispers, lips brushing against your ear. His long fingers now coming down to run along the edge of your booty shorts, smiling when you squirm. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks from the white-haired male reading you a bit too well, leaning into his touch.
“Soon, we’ll make love.” He says, eyes focused on your reaction. There it is. He can say the way your eyes cloud over and lips curl into a smile. You’re far too easy to trick and Satoru thinks to himself that if any other person tries, he’ll destroy them. You are his to mess with. “First, though... Let me make you feel good. Get you all relaxed and comfortable.” Satoru purrs against your ear before he lifts himself up to stare down at you, feeling eager like a puppy for a treat. You are his treat. All his for the taking. You give him a questioning look, fully expecting him to just yank your clothes off and shove his length into your virgin hole. That’s what you’ve seen in the media. That’s what your friends tell you when they gossip about their sex lives. Sex is something rushed and mostly for men to feel good.
How wrong you were. You close your eyes tightly, waiting for what you expect to happen, but nothing does. Satoru is gazing down at you and he’s no mind reader but he basically could read you from how you’re behaving. Ha. Every moment just seems to reward him with something. You, the one that he has been craving deeply for a long time, happen to be a virgin and not only that, you’ve clearly been watching the wrong set of media and have the pitiful thoughts that it’s just for a man to fuck a hole. He gets to be the one to teach you that it is so much more than that. You won’t view him the same as other men, but someone above them. He’ll get to trick that pretty little mind of yours that he is one of a kind and to never let go of him. You’ll truly believe that no one else can take care of you and you’ll be happily devoted to him. Call him confident or cocky, Satoru doesn’t care when it’s true. Besides, he really thinks no other man can compare to him.
His bigger form leans down over you, warm breath fanning against your neck before he begins to leave a trail of wet kisses, tongue teasingly dragging along your soft skin and teeth nipping at it as well. You squirm a little, raising to rest a hand against his broad back, feeling the way his muscles move beneath your palm and you sigh out softly, already feeling all tingly. “Don’t you want to fuck me, Master? Why aren’t you?” You question quietly, words trailing off as a needy moan escapes you. He’s sucking harshly on the flesh, making a dark bruise starting to form as he pulls away, looking down at you. He laughs, one hand cupping your chin and long fingers squishing your cheeks together until your already swollen lips pucker up.
“Make love.” He corrects deliberately, though you’re of course utterly oblivious and just look up at him in complete awe. “You don’t need to worry, Y/N. I’ll be making love to you and you’ll be free of all worries, I’m doing all of this for you. Remember?” He waits for you to nod before pecking your lips, teeth latching onto your lower lip to suck on gently before pulling away, saliva connecting your lips with his once more. “I want to take my time. You’re new to all of this and you clearly don’t know what sex is really about, my pretty girl. I’m here to show you.” He says before returning to kiss your neck sweetly, one hand slowly unbuttoning the last few buttons of your work shirt.
You couldn’t stop a smile from appearing on your visage, arms wrapping around his strong body to cling onto as you feel his lips on your neck, whimpering occasionally from feeling the light ache of him sucking harshly until for hickeys to form. You really struck gold and to think that your world was going to crash and end in just a few days. Not only is he saving you by paying bills; but he’s going to make your first time one to remember. Even if it’s been a bit rough with the way he relentlessly fucked your mouth until you were gagging and choking for air, you discover that you… actually enjoyed it. You don’t want to trouble yourself with understanding why and just focus on the moment with Satoru as he gives it all to you.
The white-haired male sits up, long fingers pushing strands out of his crystal blue eyes before he grabs the hem of your shirt and begins to tug up. He didn’t have to ask as you obediently lift your arms up and that just makes his cock throb. Perfect. Satoru smirks behind the shirt that he lifts over your head and you can’t see his face, whining when it gets stuck on your head. “Take it off, I want to see you..” You plead quietly and Satoru laughs, pleased by your words. He’s a sucker for someone needy and dependent on him.
“Who chose this stupid uniform for you to wear—“ He huffs, yanking it off swiftly and you laugh with amusement, shaking your head. “Um, you did?” You tease the male lightly and he rolls his eyes. “Right, dumb choice that was. Personally, I like maid uniforms. They’re a lot cuter.” Satoru tosses the shirt aside, eyes lingering on the gorgeous sight of your breasts being pushed up by the bra. You feel your cheeks becoming hot and look off to the side. Maid dresses? That would be so inappropriate and yet, you don’t care. He’s right. They are cuter. “I think maid dresses are nice... I could wear them instead..” You suggest quietly, too flustered to look at him.
Bingo. Satoru can see the signs of you falling for him when you agree so easily and it makes him grin down towards you, eyes holding warmth. “Conversation for another time, Y/N. Right now, I want to focus on you.” He sighs as he cups your breasts over the bra to give a small squeeze, noticing the way your hardened buds press against the fabric. You whimper behind your hand as his expert hands continue to fondle, giving a harsh squeeze every so often and it feels so good— You even feel your pussy leak further with aroused juices, soaking through your panties and shorts. He cups the back of your neck with one hand to guide you up towards his chest other hand unhooking your undergarment before rather hastily moving you out of it, feeling the straps slide down your arms until you’re on your back again, breasts exposed to the tall male. “Fucking hell..” He mutters under his breath, hands cupping the sides of your boobs, loving the sight of how the squishiness fills the gaps of his fingers and presses your breasts together until he leans down to bury his face, happily nuzzling against the soft mounds.
You bring a hand up to stroke along the back of his head, a mixture of giddiness and embarrassment washing over you from the fact that the man in charge of you is clearly favouring your boobs right now. “Ah, are you a boob man? You must be.” You joke lightly, giggling behind your hand. Satoru snorts, peeking up at you. “I’m a Y/N man.” He answers, not caring if it makes sense. His hands continue to massage, thumb brushing against your sensitive buds and you whine, pulling on his hair until he groans. Your heart easily flutters at his words, keeping your head tilted up to gaze up at the ceiling, feeling a sweet daze coming over you as he gives your chest special attention.
Satoru’s tongue drags flat over your left nipple, swirling it around and flicking the tip against it, all the while his hand continues to pinch and twist the right, coaxing out mewls and moans right from your mouth and it sends excitement straight to his dick that is already starting to harden despite releasing cum so recently. Just the reminder of you swallowing his cum causes him to rut slowly against the king-size mattress. It’s cute, seeing you so reactive from this alone. His piercing gaze never leaves your scrunched-up face, lips puckered around the nipple to suckle on gently, long fingers squeezing the flesh harshly.
You whimper out for him; your Master. You could feel the cool air of the aircon drying the saliva that coats your breasts from him licking around the soft mounds, biting down on the flesh to scatter hickeys across. You’re like his own personal canvas for him to enjoy marking up and truth be told, Satoru is holding back in that department. He may get aroused by your fear but anything too terrifying could have you running. He needs to pull you in slowly until your devotion to him is unable to be tainted. Besides, Satoru also selfishly doesn’t want to expose you to everything that fuels him so you’ll keep coming back with eagerness for this new world.
It’s hard to stay quiet, feeling his tongue dance across each breast and sloppy kisses pressed against them. You quiver with pleasure floating through you whenever he makes contact with your nipples, trying so hard to not cover your face with your hands. Satoru lifts himself up, exhaling out loud and dramatic. “Your tits are the best I’ve played with.” He chuckles, glancing up to see your reaction. He notices your cute pout, prompting him to grin down at you, hand covering your left breast giving a squeeze.
Jealousy bubbles up inside of you and you try to frantically shake it away, thinking to yourself how silly you’re being. It doesn’t matter if you’ve had a big crush on Satoru since the dawn of time. He’d clearly see other women, maybe even men. He’s ridiculously hot and besides, he’s doing you a favour… Even if some little beast inside of you growls to possessively have him; you swat it away, desperate to keep the jealousy hidden. “Hmph, well.. Maybe it just means you need to play with them whenever you want to, Master. I am your maid, after all.” You say with a sweet smile gracing your lips and long lashes fluttering, drawing him in so easily. Satoru’s gaze is hot with passion, swirled with a sense of possessiveness. Truthfully speaking, Satoru hasn’t slept with anyone since the day he met you. He just cut them all off, imagining his hand as your tight cunt instead as he jacks himself off on a daily basis. Usually after bidding you farewell. Obsession at its finest and he knows.
He hums softly, suddenly giving your tit a swift slap to watch it jiggle and you breathe in sharply from the sting of pain that spreads across your breast. You didn’t expect it, though your thighs are now starting to feel sticky from how much your aroused slick just soaked your clothing. Confusion settles over you when you realise you enjoyed it and being the mind reader that Satoru is; slaps the other one, enjoying the numb feeling that spreads across his palm. You let out a whimpering gasp as the burning sensation spreads across, looking up at him in admiration. Your brows furrowed and lips parted, fingers gripping onto sheets. How does he know your body so well? How does he know you so well? You start to wonder… Were you destined to serve him and be blessed with a higher being knowing you to your core? To be able to let go and be taken care of in every way, including your body? You never thought pain could be so sweet and maybe it’s because it’s from Satoru.
The corners of his lips twitch as he watches you intently, endeared by the sight of you potentially coming to terms that you like pain by his hands. A masochist to his sadist self. He could never let go. Still, he keeps it minimal. Giving you only a taste of the world that could open up with him. One hand grips your hip, the other giving a few more fleeting slaps across your breasts, cock swollen just from watching them jiggle and you squirm beneath his grip, biting down on your lip as if that could prevent filthy sounds from escaping. The repeated harsh stings now become numb as he tenderly massages to ease the impact of his palm, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple, whispering. “How’d I know that my innocent maid would be a slut for pain? Might be something I have to warm you up into taking more. You do look cute when you squirm from a mere slap.” The humiliation from his words settles over you, shyly tilting your head away to avoid eye contact.
It’s even more embarrassing because you didn’t know you could be physically more aroused and yet, you feel more of your juices seep out. Your body is clearly eager to take something more. Something a lot bigger. Satoru tsks lightly, a finger pressing against your chin to guide you back into looking at him. It’s only a warning. You watch as his large hands spread across the top of your thighs, nails digging into the warm flesh and pushing your legs open until your covered pussy is on display. “I sure hope it’s me that you’re so drenched for and not for having your bills paid. You wouldn’t be like that, would you? Is it the money that arouses you?” He feigns the insecurity with a sigh and you practically leap at the chance to reassure a man who has nothing but a huge ego and confidence.
“N-No! I mean— I’m thankful, Master. You know I am, but this is so much more! You’re taking care of me and showing me new things... I don’t trust anyone but you. Besides, it’s you that’s—… making me horny, not money.” You mumble out quickly, words slurring together. It’s hard to confess to your superior that you’ve been crushing on him since day one. All thanks to his good looks, kindness and irresistible charm. The fleeting moment of panic causes him to coo softly, pressing tender kisses down along your soft stomach as he bends over you, long fingers hooking beneath the fabric of your shorts and panties. “Of course, sweet girl. You wouldn’t be like that to me. So very horny and all for me. Drenched and I’ve barely touched you.” He teases as he uses his free hand to grip the side of your leg, guiding upwards and your other leg follows. His caress is a form of silence praise before he hastily tugs the clothing along the length of your legs until he’s finally able to toss them aside.
He was a lover of those shorts, really. Thankful to the heat waves for prompting you to ask for permission. Ugh, it was mere hours ago, but he clearly remembers his body being crushed by arousal just from picturing it in his mind. Now he’s eager for the soaked-through summer piece to be gone. Hands come up to cover your face quickly, overcome with a mixture of emotions. No one has ever seen you completely naked. Nor in such a vulnerable position. Satoru’s gaze darkens, though fond, as he witnesses you try to pitifully hide. His hands grip on the inner sides of your legs and gently forces them apart until he can finally see every part of you.
A shaky exhale escapes his parted lips, eyes rather manic and eager as he continues to look. He’s been waiting for so long. Too long, in his opinion. He wishes there was an earlier chance. Your legs drop back down onto the mattress on either side of his bigger physique. Your pussy is on complete display for Satoru. Even when he’s sitting up, he can see your excited juices coating the folds, droplets slowly dropping onto the sheets and the slick smeared across your inner thighs. Ego is through the roof, knowing that this is all because of him. Kissing. Fucking your mouth. Giving your breasts attention. Not much to take you dripping for him. Long fingers push white strands of hair out of his eyes, grinning to himself.
Satoru leans forward to take hold of your wrists, pulling your hands away. “No more hiding, I want you to watch what I do for you. I want you to see how good I’ll make you feel and no one else can do what I can, understood?” He asks, prompting you to frantically nod your head. “I understand.. Master? It’s— It’s going to hurt, right? What if I bleed? I’m a little bit scared, of just— you know..” You stumble over your words, looking off to the side. Satoru couldn’t help but soften. It’s hard not to, even when he’s usually gleeful from witnessing you be nervous. He may be sadistic and a huge manipulator but, he still cares so deeply for you. Feelings just don’t get tossed aside just because he’s getting his dick wet.
“Firstly, baby girl. I’m not doing that just yet.” He laughs lightly, lowering himself down until he’s pressing you into the mattress, forearms on either side of your head to hold himself up. One hand strokes along the top of your head lovingly, smiling down at you. “I promised to take good care of you, didn’t I? So that doesn’t mean selfishly shoving my dick inside of you. Though, the idea is hot.” He pauses, letting you giggle softly in disbelief at his crude words. “It means preparing you and coaxing you into a state of complete bliss. Besides, I’m a lover of eating out.” He purrs lowly, kissing along your jaw lightly, nipping at the flesh. “Also, not every girl bleeds so you might not. You’ve really been so poorly educated and believing misconceptions, but I’m here for you now.”
It’s somewhat embarrassing that you believed things so easily. Truthfully speaking, he’s sadly right. You’ve never been the type to just deeply dive into the world of Sex. You always thought of it as something you’d wait for the right time to properly experience it. You just knew what you’ve heard from gossip and media. Naivety at its finest. Still, you have Satoru now. Teaching you everything right and how sex isn’t just revolving around a male’s pleasure. Satoru is a true man and it feels so right to give him everything, despite the circumstances.
Wait— Eating out? You feel yourself feel hot all over from realising what else he expressed. Is he really going to do that? Fuckboys in your past who have tried to win you over; often said that shit is gross. Yet, Satoru loves to do it? You laugh out shyly, hand caressing along his toned back. “You’re so bold.” You mumble, eyes becoming half-lidded as you focus on the pleasant feeling of the tall male trailing kisses down the length of your body. He takes his sweet time with it. Each kiss is tender and loving. It feels as if he’s trying to reassure you that everything will be okay. Satoru easily shifts his body down with each kiss until he’s laying on his toned stomach, face hovering over the heavenly sight of your dripping cunt.
You feel the warmth of his breath fan across your pussy and it’s like your body acts on its own; pussy clenching around nothing. Is he really about to? Your hand quickly comes down to grip his hair, causing him to grunt in question, looking up at you. Flustered, you squeeze your legs against the sides of his head as if that will stop him. “You’re not really? I might taste bad!” You whisper loudly and frantic, trying to pull him away by the hair. It only fuels his eagerness. Satoru doesn’t even speak, arms just snaking around your quivering thighs to forcefully hold them apart before he leans in and finally, drags the flat of his tongue between your slick folds.
Pleasure jolts through you like electricity from the first touch of your pussy by another, causing you to gasp sharply, fingers through his hair trembling. The corners of his lips curl up, smiling against your pussy before he continues to slowly drag his tongue between your folds, moaning at the sweet taste that fills his mouth. “So fucking sweet..” He mumbles, words muffled as his lips press against your cunt, slurping loudly and devouring you for the first time. His nails dig into your thighs, tongue swirling around your sensitive clit and you couldn’t stop the needy whimpers from escaping.
Everything felt so new. So good. Your hips buck upwards every time there’s pleasure just surging through you, directly from your core. He firmly holds you down against his mattress, refusing to pull away. He doesn’t dare to stop now, after finally capturing what he’s been chasing for years. Satoru kisses your clit before sucking gently, tongue flicking against the nub and you cry out loudly for him. Completely blissed out already, hands desperately gripping his white hair as a way to ground yourself as your head tilts back, chest arching upwards.
Satoru feels as if he’s in heaven with you. Just from the sweet taste that overwhelms his mouth from how much you’re leaking, to your adorable needy sounds. The painful tug on his hair only drives him further, pressing his mouth firmly against your cunt as he makes out with it, lips moving hungrily as his tongue continues to tease the clit or drag along your folds. It’s as if he’s scared that your excited slick will go to waste. He couldn’t let that happen. Selfishly, every drop is for him and him alone. He unwraps one of his arms from around your thigh to bring towards your womanhood. Two long fingers part your folds and he curses from seeing the strings of your excitement, tongue dragging between to break them.
You whimper, toes curling as a way to try and not be overwhelmed by the pleasure. Impossible not to be. You could hear the loud sounds of him slurping up your mess as he eats you out with so much desperation, gasping loudly when his thumb pressed against your clit to rub gently in a circular motion. “Fuck, I’m so obsessed with your pretty pussy. Taste so sweet, baby. Want to devour you always.” Satoru groans breathlessly, feeling intoxicated from your taste alone, watching with great fascination as your slick coats his fingers. It only leaves him wondering what it’d be like to be inside of you, buried in deep to the hilt.
“Master, ah—! Why does it feel so goo’…” You slur out happily, body so much more relaxed compared to just moments ago. Your eyes roll as he continues to rub his thumb against your clit, pressing sloppy kisses down along your folds until his tongue meets your entrance. He teasingly continues to drag his tongue around it and you couldn’t stop from doing tiny kicks of frustration against the mattress, wanting more. He laughs mockingly at your eagerness. “Look at you now, all you want is me, isn’t that right? Can’t live without my touch.” His words are muffled, squirming from the feeling of his lips moving against your cunt as he talks. You pant softly, tongue lolled out and eyes unable to focus on anything.
Satoru is right. He’s always right. Of course, it’d only take one touch; one caress and even a simple kiss to drag you into his depths, tangled and completely devoted to him. His talented mouth washing away all your worries you have of losing your virginity. Bills be damned. He takes care of you so well. The only one who takes care of you. Satoru is the one you wish to worship like your own God. He presses sloppy kisses to your clit, one finger caressing your hole before slowly pushing in— And fuck, he could feel your velvety walls stretch around the new invasion but wrapping so snug and tight. He wishes it was his cock already.
Your brows furrow, lips parting slightly as you feel his long finger sliding in so easily, thanks to your slick and relaxed body. It’s a new feeling. It’s not too painful, easing your worries further. Satoru didn’t wait to start moving his single digit, sliding it in and out of your warm tightness slowly, voice low and soft. “You’re doing so well with everything, Y/N. Such a good girl, not scared of anything. You trust me that much and I’m thankful, will only reward you with pleasure.” Satoru continues to take his time with pumping his finger, forehead resting against your quivering thigh for a moment as he fixates on the sweet feeling of your walls squeezing around. It takes everything within him to not pin you down and just have his way. It’s not just about him and never will be, even if he enticed you this far.
With a glance up towards your face and noticing how buzzed out you appear to be from the pleasure, Satoru slides his finger out, now pressing two of his fingers against your tight entrance. His tongue swirls against your throbbing clit as a distraction, sliding both of his fingers slowly, feeling your walls stretch even further. You whine from feeling your pussy stretch around his fingers, head tilting to the side to nuzzle against the pillow that smells of him, closing your eyes. There may have been a further stretch but everything still feels so fucking good as he pumps the two digits at a slow pace, sucking gently on your clit to further the pleasure.
You look so perfect in his eyes. Satoru is thankful to both destiny and himself, to be able to get you to this position and able to open your eyes to the world of pleasure. The world of sex. He angles his fingers as he picks up the pace of fingering you, desiring to find a certain spot. It didn’t take long at all, he realises. You cry out in surprise from feeling a more intense jolt of pleasure pierce through your body from your core, fisting the sheets and your hips start to roll, grinding down against his fingers. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Satoru curses repeatedly from witnessing the slutty sight of you now starting to fuck down against his long fingers. The very same fingers that rub against your sweet spot, causing moans to fall from your swollen lips, eyes clouded with new-found lust and your slick pooling out practically from how excited you are.
The lower half of his face is smeared with the same mess, pressing a final kiss to your clit before he moves himself up so he could hover above you properly, caging you in once more. The squelching sound of his fingers slowly fucking into you doesn’t embarrass you anymore and he only finds it to be hotter. You snake your arms around his neck to cling onto him, lips dragging along his broad shoulder. “So fucking pretty and all mine..” He breathes out, slowly inserting a third finger to properly stretch you out for him.
Your face scrunches up from feeling the subtle pain of your walls stretching out around the three long digits. He hushes you gently, lips to your temple and you could hear him mutter praise. It leaves your heart thumping fast with joy that the praise is for you and not some other girl. It’s all you. You feel his three digits drag along your velvety walls covered in your juices, the subtle pain slowly subsiding and turning into pleasure. It feels so good, the way they slide in and out. To be able to reach deeply but, it makes you wonder how deep his cock could go. You whimper, tightening your hold as you look up at him in complete admiration.
He cares for you so much. It’s that thought; the one repeating in your mind like a mantra that makes you realise. You’re ready and you want it now. You want him to finally take what you’ve been slowly craving to give him. You squeeze your thighs around his wrist, stopping his fingers that are buried inside of you. Satoru looks towards you, his free hand stroking along your hair lightly. He grins a little, unable to stop himself. “Ready, are you?” Finally. Satoru pulls away, fingers sliding out of your core, inspecting them. Strings of slickness connect his long fingers together and not wanting to waste a drop, slowly drags his tongue along his fingers to lick off your juices with a hum. Feeling flustered, you look away from the hot sight. He chuckles lowly and shifts himself until his cock is positioned near your womanhood but not quite. He’s pretending to reach towards his drawer. “Condom, I suppose.” He says and your hand whips out to grip onto his wrist, looking up at him. Satoru had a feeling that you’d stop him. Call him crazy, but he knows you pretty well. He feigns surprise, eyebrow raising.
“You don’t want me to use a condom?”
“Nn… No, I want to feel you properly.”
“Ah, is it because I’ve slept with others and used condoms?” Satoru teases and you huff, squeezing his wrist. Perhaps he’s sort of right. It seems your own selfishness is growing along the side of his and now that you’re in this position, about to give something special; you want to be the special one in his eyes. The chosen one. He laughs lightly, almost mocking, but really he’s endeared and quite pleased. This is what he wanted. “No condom when it comes to my sweet maid.” Satoru agrees before moving back, condoms lying forgotten at the back of his drawer.
One hand grips your hip to keep you in place as he positions his thick, pulsating cock against your pussy. He slowly grinds, watching in complete awe as his length slides between your folds, coating in your juices. You whine, sensitive whenever you feel him grind against your clit. One hand holds his cock by the base and he slaps his cock against your pussy with a happy sigh, head tilting back. ‘Fucking finally’, he thinks. Quietly, Satoru positions himself until his tip is pressing against your entrance.
Nerves flare up when you realise what’s about to happen and even though you deeply want him, you couldn’t help but wonder about the pain. He’s a lot bigger than three of his fingers. Noticing your nerves, Satoru reaches for your hand with his free one, lacing his fingers with yours and giving a squeeze. “The pain will go away quickly, baby. Do you trust me? You know I wouldn’t do anything bad. This is all for you… Everything is for you.” He says softly, the comforting words washing over you. You nod his head and smile gently, holding onto his hand. “I trust you, Master… I’m ready.”
With that, Satoru presses the tip of his leaking cock against your hole, brows furrowing as he realises truly how tight you are. It takes a little bit of force but he manages to nudge his tip inside of you and slowly begins to push his cock inside of you. You strangle out a cry, eyes widening as you look up at him in a mixture of emotions. Disbelief from how huge he is. The giddiness that you are finally giving him what he deserves to have. Pain from the wide stretch as your own cunt has to adjust to the new size. Tears glue to your long lashes, panting heavily to try and calm yourself down as your walls forcefully stretch around the new invasion. Something so much bigger than anything else before.
He’s squeezing your hand, groaning from feeling your velvety slick walls squeezing around his throbbing cock. It’s only a few inches but he pauses to allow you to adjust. Even though his body wants to act on its own and start jackhammering your tight pussy with his huge cock. You’re silently thankful that he’s pausing, nails digging into his hand as you close your eyes tightly. The tender strokes of his other hand aid you in relaxing. “My pretty girl... Sweet Y/N. It will be okay soon, I promise.” He reassures softly.
You eventually nod your head, a bit dazed by everything. With the sign to continue, Satoru pushes his hips forward. He slowly slides his length inside your core until he’s completely buried deep inside of you, every inch of him finally covered with the wet warmth of your heavenly walls. His muscles tense, head tilting back as he pants deeply from the sensation he feels, You choke on a moan of his name when he’s pushed deep inside of you and it hurts so badly to be stretched out to where you’ve never been stretched out before.
Satoru pushes through his selfish needs to lean down and embrace you, pressing loving kisses across your face, gently hushing you. “I know, I know... It will feel good soon, I promise. Baby girl, believe your Master. You trust him, don’t you? It will feel so good for you.” He whispers, keeping his throbbing cock still inside of you so your now non-virgin pussy could get used to the feeling. Thankfully, it’s not as bad as it could have been. You know that now. He did take care of you to feel good. To get that glimpse of pleasure and truth to be told, beyond the stretch? You love the feeling of being stuffed full of his beautiful cock. It makes you feel complete.
His large hands caress along your sides, lips brushing across your hot skin as he continues to help you ease into relaxing, forcing himself to ignore the way your walls keep clenching around his cock, wrapped around him so perfectly. You’re too out of it to be aware of time, but soon enough you start to move a little. It’s a signal for him to continue and that you’re ready for more. The white-haired male keeps his bigger body pressed against you, embracing you as he starts to move his hips, slowly fucking into you.
You whimper from feeling his hard length slowly slide within you. He doesn’t pull out of you entirely, thinking you’re not ready for it. Just keeping everything gentle and taking his time. Even though his hips stutter, eyes rolling at the pleasurable feeling that washes over him from your slick walls rubbing along his length. It hurts at first and you have to contain yourself through clenched teeth and nails digging into his hot flesh. You believe him that it will start to feel good and—
Oh… The pain is finally subsiding, being replaced with that pleasure that you’ve been hoping for. It’s subtle at first, leaving you all pleasant and tingly as you cling to him. You squeeze around his cock, moving your arms to wrap around his neck. He tilts his head to look at you, eyes swirling with lust mixed with something deeper that you don’t know. Satoru smiles down at you, leaning down to press his lips against yours to form a kiss as he picks up the pace of his cock thrusting into you. He’s right and always has been about everything. Foolish of you to have been nervous. The pleasure leaves tingles across your body as you feel his cock sliding in and out with ease from your aroused juices. He starts to move more, grinding down deep against you, hands cupping your sides to hold you. You moan happily into the kiss, fingers tangling into his hair to pull on. The ache that he feels only encourages him to move fast and deep. “Fuck, you’re so tight. So fucking good for me.” He moans against your lips before pulling away to look at your fucked out expression. Eyebrows knitted together to form a frown, lips open wide and eyes watery from tears that threaten to spill.
Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. Satoru’s nails drag along your sides and you squirm, enjoying the light burn you feel from the nails scraping your skin. You spread your legs wider like you’re some eager slut for him to see everything and he loves it. He lifts his body off of you to finally witness the sight of his thick, long cock sliding in and out of you with ease. Your velvety walls continue to wrap snug and tight around his length whenever he pushes in, dragging along his cock when he slides out as if your needy cunt is desperate to keep him deep inside of you. It feels so fucking good to be filled by him.
It truly is a beautiful sight to see his cock appear and disappear before his eyes, loving the pleasure that surges through him from his cock whenever he’s buried deep to the hilt. “You’re all mine, fuck. Can’t believe it’s taken this long. Pretty pussy clenching around me. Never had something so big in your life, huh? Look at it making you bulge.” The filthy words continue to fall from his lips between grunts as his hips snap forward, thrusting into your pussy hard. His hand presses against your lower stomach to feel his thickness fucking into you. There’s no pain anymore, minus the burn of his scratches and sting when his balls slap against your ass as he pounds into your wet heat relentlessly.
All you can see are stars as ecstasy just washes over you in crashing waves. One hand helplessly gripping onto him and you could feel your breasts bounce with each hard impact. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mixing with the lewd sounds of your needy, high-pitched moans and his groans. You look at him in absolute awe, tears threatening to spill. He notices your expression mid-fuck and it only drives him further, each deep thrust of his throbbing cock becoming rough. “Fuck, god—” He curses and you cry out, latching desperately onto his words.
“Y-You’re my God!” You stutter out quickly, heart hammering from your confession. You couldn’t be in denial any more. He truly is your saviour, after all. Bills aside, he’s making love to you in the best way possible. A God does everything for their believers. He does everything for you. He took you in and eased your troubles. He’s giving you pure ecstasy in the form of his cock. Satoru has saved you. Satoru’s heart leaps from your words, driving to the point of insanity as he gazes down at you with pure satisfaction. You’re giddy from seeing how pleased he is, clinging hopelessly to the taller male.
“My perfect girl.” He huffs out, pulling his throbbing length out until only his tip is inside. Satoru didn’t even wait until he slammed himself in, feeling your slick walls gripping onto his cock, prompting you to scream out for him, tears spilling down your cheeks. To have you worshipping him and crying out in pleasure become his reality; leaves him feeling so happy. Happiness wrapped in his own ecstasy. You’re so happy as he continues to relentlessly fuck into you, feeling so empty whenever his cock slides out, only to pleasantly surprise you by filling your core to the brim again. It feels so fucking good. You swear you’ve never felt anything like this before.
Addiction for not only his cock but, the male in general begins to grow. Your fists grip the crinkled sheets to stabilise yourself as each rough thrust, though it seems to do nothing. His strength behind his thrusts is more than enough to cause your body to jerk upwards, moving against the mattress. As you continue to squeeze so sweetly around his pounding cock, Satoru pants heavily, completely tangled up in the pleasure that continues to surge through him, even causing his toes to curl. One hand fiercely grips your hip still, the other coming down to rub your clit. You strangled out his name, too blissed out to be embarrassed by anything. Not even how heavy you seem to cry from the pure euphoria that drowns you.
Satoru burns the image of you sobbing into his mind, wanting to forever remember the way your face scrunches up or how your eyes roll from the complete bliss and cheeks stained with tears. His thumb continues to rub in a circular motion, panting heavily and head tilting back, unable to contain himself like he could with other girls. No, you bring out the beast that resides within him. Relentless with his fucking and possessive growls parting from his lips. “All fucking mine, got it? No one else can have you. I’ll break them. This pussy belongs to me. You belong to me.” The white-haired male groans out, muscles tensing.
You’re barely able to process the hot words, only knowing it fuels your desire and happiness to be owned by the male. Your beloved God. Master to serve, always. Your stomach begins to feel tight, clit throbbing and with no true experience of an orgasm; even you know what rapidly approaches you as he fucks into your cunt. You squeeze around his length, whimpering loudly. Satoru can just tell when he looks down at you. Maybe from looking so fucked out by him and it makes his ego rise, but he’s eager to give you what you deserve for being so cute and obedient.
“Let it go, baby girl. Fall into it.” He whispers and you manage to tug him down so you’re clinging, trembling legs wrapping loosely around his waist for support. He presses a tender kiss to your temple, panting heavily and with his cock sliding out to the tip, he slams back into your warm hole and everything just seems to explode for you. Pleasure surges through your trembling body, leaving you gasping sharply and babbling out moans, unable to truly comprehend the ecstasy that you feel as you come around his cock. Your walls flutter, clenching repeatedly around his cock that starts to sloppily fuck into you. Your eyes are rolling, desperately gripping onto the taller male as your body continues to tense up before relaxing through a tremble. the intense orgasm easily overwhelming you.
Satoru hips stutter, driving himself further to his own orgasm as he feels your slick walls dragging along his thrusting length, pulsating around his thickness. His forearms pressed against either side of your head, panting heavily. “Fuck, good girl—” He praises you for climaxing, hearing the obnoxious squelching sound lacing with the slaps of his balls against your ass. With one look at you, Satoru slides out before sheathing his cock deep inside of you for the final time. His own waves of complete euphoria crash down on him and he moans out sweetly for you, forehead resting against yours as ribbons of white sticky cum start to fill you up. You feel so fucking full, stuffed with his throbbing length and his cum that continues to just pump inside of you, leaving you breathless and your head positively spinning.
Muscles like jelly, Satoru collapses onto you, trapping you down against the mattress and smothering you with his warmth, body light with sweat. Your breasts squish against his chest and fuck, even that makes him happy. He’s panting heavily, head resting next to yours and staying buried inside of you, not wanting to pull out. You still feel the bliss from your first proper orgasm, hand coming up to stroke along his toned back, letting yourself stay in the pleasant daze. He smiles softly, endeared by not only your gentle touch but the expression you wear. He leans in to scatter light kisses against your neck, hand coming up to tenderly cup your cheek. When he does manage to lift himself up, Satoru gazes at you with something you couldn’t quite figure out. It did make you feel all warm and happy though.
His thumb brushes tears away, kissing your forehead before he finally decides to slide out of your tight heat. You pout at the loss, feeling your hole clench now around nothing. His sticky cum already starting to seep out and smear across your thighs when you clench them together, wanting to stay full of his seed. He slumps onto his side, draping his arm across your body to pull you in. He actually got what he wanted and not only that, you’ve been shaped into someone who craves to worship him. That and, you felt good from him fucking your cunt. All wins in his book.
You shyly look towards him, rolling over to face him properly. A mixture of emotions begins to overwhelm you. You feel gratitude that he did this for you but, sadness seems to be stronger now. He only did this— He only made love with you because there was nothing else you could do in return for bills to be paid. What if you want more of him? Your bottom lip trembles and bring a hand up to wipe at your eyes. “Thank you, Master… For doing this. I know it— must be hard 'cause there was nothing else and I really appreciate that you’ll pay my bills so I won’t be homeless… And I’m even more thankful that you made my first time feel good.” Your voice is breathless, clearly, your throat is tired from all of the crying out for him.
His lips curl up into a knowing smirk, noticing the fear start to appear in your face once more. You want to rely on him. He leans up on his elbow, hand cupping the side of his face and he sighs, a little dramatically. “Yes, well. I’m always happy to help my sweet girl out. Don’t feel too guilty, you made me feel good. I really enjoyed myself, Y/N.” He says, free hand coming up to brush hair out of your eyes. He pretends to think deeply and you notice the frown appearing, eyes widening. “What? What is it? I’ll— I’ll do more if I have to? I want to. I don’t feel guilty, I really liked it.” You ramble out nervously, hand pressing against his toned chest. Deep down, you know it’s just you craving to touch him again. Satoru shakes his head, ignoring the way white strands of hair stick to his temples from sweat. His hand comes up to cup over yours, giving a loving squeeze.
“No, I just have an idea… Do you always want to worry about bills, Y/N? You’re always so stressed, I see it on your face all the time when you come to work. It concerns me. Every single day, your mind seems to be filled with your worries. Bills. Appointments. The potential threat of being homeless. Not being able to eat or time to wash clothes..” He trails off and you feel embarrassed that he seems to read your mind. It’s one of the main reasons you asked to wear shorts. Yet, why do you feel yourself starting to fill up with hope? What is this idea? “What is it, Master?” You whisper, leaning into him and eyes just showing are willing you are to be completely devoted to him. It’s a miracle his cock doesn’t start to harden for the third time. That would be pleasantly painful for him.
Quietly, Satoru laces his fingers with yours and brings them up to his lips, kissing your knuckles as his crystal blue eyes never leave yours. “Instead of being filled with worry, why don’t you live with your Master? Your God.” He emphasises, leaning in so his lips hover over yours. “I’ll take good care of you and not a single thing in that cute brain of yours will have to stress you out anymore. Just live day by day, happily by my side. Do whatever you want in your new home. You can continue to serve me, which I know you enjoy doing… In multiple ways, it seems.” He chuckles at his own implication and your heart starts to race.
Just the mere idea of living with him leaves you feeling ecstatic. It’s something you always wanted, really. You hated being so far away from him in the first place. You’d often think what if he needed you during the night? He cherishes you so much. Satoru has never been too strict with you. Always praising and spoiling you in his own ways. Wouldn’t that only grow if you lived with him? It excites you. Just the thought of always being around him. To be able to welcome him home from work properly. Besides, after making love with him… How could you not already crave more? Satoru waits patiently for your answer, pressing a tender kiss to the crook of your jaw. He already knows what you’ll say. He’s confident in that. Again, he selfishly thinks how you are meant for him, and he’s meant for you. You squeal softly, launching yourself at him and he manages to take hold of you, rolling together until he’s on his back and you’re on top of him, looking ever so pretty in his eyes; even with dried tears on your cute face and sweat coating your body.
“I want to live with you, Master.” You whisper, tears of happiness in your eyes. No more worries. Only comfort, peace, happiness and pleasure. Of course, the pleasure. Satoru smiles up at you, pleased with the success of his manipulation. All his for good. He remembers something. “Yeah? In that case, will you also wear cute maid outfits while you work?” He teases lightly, knowing you wouldn’t deny it. You nod eagerly, not bothered by how inappropriate that would be. You’re living with him as his ‘sweet maid’. Besides, maid outfits are cute; thoughts copying his from moments ago.
“Good girl. Now c’mere and give me a kiss.”
You oblige happily.
871 notes · View notes
atokirina-writings · 1 year
Text
“Omatikayaru tìhawnu sivi”- Protect the people.
sully family x reader
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shoutout to @eywas-heir for giving me the idea for this fic, i hope i did it justice :)
pairings: sully family x reader, neytiri x daughter!reader, jake sully x daughter! reader, neteyam x twinsister!reader etc.
notes: this is set during the events of avatar twow and I had sm fun writing this! this fic is 2k+ words so be prepared
synopsis: you’re the twin sister to neteyam. growing up you served as the families little bit of peace, even when quaritch threatens everything you know and love.
…Mìpa tìreyti, mìpa tìkanti. Lawnol a mì te’lan.
One of your earliest memories was your mother and father cradling you and your twin brother Neteyam, while your mother sings her songcord. Your mothers voice always had an affect on you from a young age.
“y/n, please stop fighting with your brother.” You always listened to what your mother had to say, even if it was a scolding. You loved your dad endlessly but you were a mama’s girl at heart, and everyone knew it.
She sees a lot of her late older sister in you. Your compassion for Pandora’s animal life, your strong will, and your love for the people.
“Ma' ite, she is beautiful.” Your grandmother constantly reminded your mother how happy she is that you’re her first grandchild. Your whole family adored you and that continued even into your teen years
“Ma sempul Lo’ak has done nothing wrong, let him be.” You never failed to stand up for your younger brother to your father, even when what he did was truly stupid. You never let your brother feel like he was not supported by you. Today however, was different.
When you got the message that Lo’ak, Kiri, Spider, and Tuk were at the old shack with sky people present, you felt could not defend him. He had put himself and your siblings in a dangerous position.
After rescuing your siblings from Quaritch and his people, you couldn’t help but to let your anger with your brother dissipate. Your gratefulness for their safety was a stronger feeling than your anger for them being in that situation in the first place.
꧁꧂
Later that night after finishing a conversation with a few of your friends you make your way back to your families tent. You catch your siblings seated outside of your home seemingly listening to someone’s conversation. “Guys what are you do-” Kiri sushes you, gesturing for you to sit down with them.
“I can not, you can not ask this. I can not leave my people, I will not!” Your ears perk up at the mention of leaving the people. ‘What’s going on?’ You wonder. Your father says something about him targeting your family. You immediately know who he’s referring to. “You can not ask this! The children everything they’ve ever known, the forest, this is our home!” Your mom bites back. Tuk winces upon hearing your mom yell at your dad. Placing a hand on her shoulder you nod at her, giving her a faint smile attempting to keep her grounded.
“My father gave me this bow as he lay dying. And he said ‘protect the people’ you’re Toruk Makto!” At this point you and your siblings are all on edge, as you begin to understand what your dad is insisting. Tuk wraps herself in your embrace as you attempt to soothe her irregular breathing. Kiri has a hand over her mouth as she lets out quiet sobs. Your brothers have serious faces on with saddened eyes.
“But I know one thing, wherever we go this family is our fortress.” You and your siblings make eye contact sharing a knowing look. Your father has never given your family any reason not to trust him, this is no different.
꧁꧂
Turning back you’re met with the forest, your people, and your home getting smaller and smaller as you ride off with your family to a new region of Pandora.
You learned how to hunt there, you bonded with your Ikran there, you attended Tsahìk lessons with your grandmother there. The forest is your home and your life’s first love. Nowhere could ever replace it.
Although if this is truly the best choice for the safety of your family, you’re willing to go as far as it takes.
꧁꧂
Arriving at Awa'atlu, everything felt wrong. You felt outcast for the first time in your life. You and your siblings immediately being subject to the bullying of the Olo'eyktan’s son Ao’nung and his friends didn’t help the feeling either.
“Leave us alone!” Your ears perk up, your head swiftly turning to where you’re hearing the commotion. Your eyes land on the sight of Lo’ak and Kiri being harassed by Ao’nung and his friends. Making eye contact with Neteyam you both make your way over to your younger siblings.
Roughly shoving Ao’nung away from your brother and giving him a deadly stare, your eyes narrowing at him. “You heard what she said, leave them alone.” Neteyam demands. One of his friends attempts to talk back to him and before you can respond to him Ao’nung raises his hand infront of is body, silencing him. “Back off now!” You hiss tilting your head, daring him to say anything back. Ao’nung then raises his hands in surrender. “Smart choice, and from now on I need you to respect my siblings.” Checking to make sure all of you are ok you begin to retreat back to your marui pod.
Walking away they begin to talk more shit under their breaths about your family. Lo’ak stops walking with us and turns back. Neteyam warns him to stop but Lo’ak dismisses him and continues to walk over to the group. Neteyam makes eye contact with you, clearly confused as the two of you watch the scene unfold.
Suddenly Lo’ak punches Ao’nung in the face twice, and he’s sent back by the blow into the sand. “It’s called a punch bitch!” They immediately gang up on your brother, he starts losing the fight and fast. “Teyam do something!” You whisper yell to your brother. He looks at you scratching his head contemplating getting into a fight for his little brother, ultimately deciding to jump in to help him.
꧁꧂
After all the fighting Lo’ak and Neteyam returned home all bruised up. Your father was not having it, ordering you all to go make peace with Ao’nung. Once your brothers left with defeated faces you stick behind to talk with your dad.
“Lo’ak was only defending Kiri, Sully’s stick together and that’s what he was doing. The execution wasn’t the best sure but he still stood up for her, don’t be so harsh.” He sends you a sympathetic smile and pulling you into his chest, wrapping you in his strong arms, and kissing the top of your head. “Alright babygirl.”
꧁꧂
The peace that was made between the two families was soon destroyed when Teyam comes in dragging Ao’nung by his arm “Tell them what you told me” Looking at your parents in confession you listen to what Aonung has to say.
The color drains from your face he reveals what has happened with your brother. Throughout the night you wondered where he had gone off to, figuring he was out doing his own thing with his new friend Tsireya you brushed it off.
When your little brother returned home you ran to him trapping him in a tight embrace, thanking Eywa for his safety. He relaxes in your embrace but quickly tenses back up at the sight of your enraged mother.
꧁꧂
The following weeks at Awa'atlu were rather peaceful for you. Lo’ak told you all about Payakan, the clan shamed him for it but you found it interesting and agreed with him that Payakan is a hero. So did little Tuk, she constantly asked him about his new found friend.
The Tulkun returned home, and you swear to Eywa it was the most beautiful sight. You got better and better at riding your ilu and holding you breath thanks to Tsireya’s lessons. Things for your family were starting to look up.
꧁꧂
You were cooking dinner with your parents when you got the news that started the spiral that sent everything downhill.
You and your mother were laughing at your father’s corny jokes, simply enjoying one another’s company when Tonowari walked past your marui pod, causing you all to fall silent. Your mom gave your dad a questioning look as he makes his way to Tonowari.
꧁꧂
Ronal’s spirit sister and her baby were killed by Quaritch. Noticing how your mom’s heart clinches at Ronal’s cries reminding her of when her own sister was taken by the sky people, you place a hand on her shoulder trying to soothe your mother.
When the clan gets word on what has happened, all hell breaks loose. Your father attempts to reason with them that attacking the sky people will end in defeat but they persist. “Please, listen to my father!” You beg the people to hear him out but their war cries only grow louder.
Your father shows off the tracker to clan, silencing them all. It is decided that the clan will warn the tulkun and tell them to leave. The clan thinks this is about the Tulkun but your family knows it’s really you being hunted.
Lo’ak runs off to the docks, Neteyam and you following after him knowing he’s going to warn Payakan. Lo’ak argues with Neteyam about him being the perfect son he’ll never be and it hurts your heart. He jumps into the water and takes off on his ilu. Neteyam and you yell his name in unison as you jump in after him, commanding your ilus to follow him.
꧁꧂
When you find Payakan, he has a tracker lodged in his arm. Using the strength of You, Neteyam, Lo’ak, Rotxo, Ao’nung, and Tsireya you manage to pull the tracker out. Successfully rescuing him.
In the process Kiri, Tuk, Lo’ak, and Tsireya are captured and bound the the ship. Your parents along with the metkiyna warriors arrive aiding in the fight, Payakan does too.
Dodging every bullet from underwater effortlessly, you make your way to the ship. Emerging from the water you run to Lo’ak cutting him loose while Neteyam frees Tuk and Tsireya.
“Did ya miss me little bro?” You tease. Rolling his eyes and shaking his bound wrist “Just hurry up!”
Cutting him loose “Cmon bro lets go.” Neteyam and you begin to exit the ship but Lo’ak turns back, taking a gun from a dead sky person.
“They have spider” Lo’ak begs you and Neteyam to save him. You know how much Spider means to him, they grew up together after all. Sharing a look with Neteyam he groans and reluctantly agrees.
Together You and your brothers take out every last human in the area seamlessly. Using your knife to puncture one of its oxygen mask while kicking the back side of their knee bringing them to the floor, slitting their throat. Successfully retrieving Spider you rest your hands on your knees trying to calm your uneven breathing, “Nice kill sis!” Lo’ak praises, hitting the back of his head in response annoyed by his joking in a serious situation.
“Guys go! go!” Neteyam shouts,redirecting your attention to the avatar shooting at the three of you. Once the four of you reach cover you take the gun out of Lo’ak’s possession, firing back at your attackers.
“Lo’ak jump go!” You order and be wastes no time jumping off of the ship into the water below, the other two boys following right behind him. You stay behind continuing to fire bullets at the group shooting at you, you’re out numbered now. Quickly reciting a prayer to Eywa you dive into the water.
When you emerge from under the water you gasp at the stinging sensation in your shoulder.
“Oh shit y/n.” Spider gasps and everyone’s attention is on you in an instant. You feel yourself being pulled onto an ilu as your eyes start to feel heavy. “Y/n hey, hey, stay awake ok?” Lo’ak pleads as he cradles you in his arms.
꧁꧂
“Watch her head! Watch her head” You hear someone frantically yell. You gather that you’re being pulled onto some form of land. Feeling strong hands grasp your shoulders examining your body, your eyes flutter open. “Babygirl? Hey sweetie keep your eyes open for me yeah?”
You feel heavy, your eyes are clouded with tears, everything hurts. As you blink in and out of consciousness you notice everyone is hovering around you in a circle, and a new figure emerges.
“Oh my sweet girl, Eywa please.” She begs “Momma i’m scared, I want- I want to go home.” You choke out, through the pain getting worse and worse by the second. “We’re going home baby, we’re going home.”
Your eyes unfocus from the world around you.
You can hear cries from over you but you no longer have the energy to inspect it.
꧁꧂
Your eyes open to Tsireya and Ronal kneeling over you. You groan at the light beaming painfully into your eyes. “She is awake, everyone she is awake!” Tsireya calls out and in an instant your family rushes in.
Your mother walks up to you falling to her knees at the sight of your hurting figure. “Thank you great mother, thank you.” Hot tears fall from her face onto your chest as she litters kisses on your forehead.
Looking to your other side you see your dad staring at you with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. “Dad it’s ok, i’m ok now.” You reassure. Your voice is hoarse and dry, from the lack of talking you’ve been doing.
“I’m just happy so you’re safe baby.” Your dad says sending you a close lipped smile. Using all the strength in your body you extend your arms out to your family, inviting them into all into a hug.
Your parents place their foreheads on yours, your brothers hold each of your hands, and your sisters rest their heads on each of your legs.
Melting into your family’s embrace, burning this moment into your memory.
Sully’s stick together.
tysm for reading! a like and reblog is deeply appreciated <3
Taglist: @multifandomgirllol @23victoria @avatar4eva @simp-erformarvelwomen @themysteriousslenderman @hannahboobanna @uglymammoth @onlytays @bvbblepopp @lets-candice @mrs-sullys-blog @ssc7514 @neteyamforlife @iloveavatar
3K notes · View notes
gureumz · 11 months
Text
kingdom come
rating: explicit
member: sunghoon
notes: fem-bodied reader, dom!sunghoon, friends to lovers, pwp, BLASPHEMY, religious references (specifically catholic allusions), slapping, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie, reader and sunghoon are students in a catholic college institution
a/n: finally, my blasphemous sunghoon piece that was supposed to coincide with holy week lol i struggled with this a bit but i did my best </3 enjoy!
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"holy fuck, wasn't it just sunday yesterday?"
you giggle as you trudge along the halls of your school, sunghoon's voice carrying over to your other classmates' ears. a few of them snicker along while others glance ahead nervously at the professor leading your class to the chapel.
you look up at him, your duly declared best friend, who also happens to always be conveniently right next to you when your class lines up to go anywhere.
"you do know, with you being the tallest out of all of us, your voice is most likely the first to be heard, right?" you ask, grinning mischievously up at sunghoon.
sunghoon flashes you the middle finger. you let out a sound akin to an incredulous gasp.
"i'm telling on you," you tease, punching sunghoon on the arm.
"what are you, five?" sunghoon bites back, pulling lightly at your ponytail.
"oh, wait—," sunghoon hurriedly continues. "you are five. five feet tall, that is."
before you can counter with your own insult, the professor whips his head around and gives both you and sunghoon a pointed look. your head immediately lowers in embarrassment.
sunghoon chuckles one last time beside you, shoving you lightly. you return with another punch, this time to his chest. sunghoon lets out a strangled noise of pain.
eventually, your class arrives at the chapel, your two lines filing into the quiet space. your professor seats you on the pews alternately, one girl, then one boy, then another girl, and so on. presumably, this is done to avoid any gossiping or roughhousing between the female and male students, respectively, but as you seat yourself beside sunghoon, you know that your professors will always forget that you and sunghoon have been inseparable since the day you stepped foot on campus.
"hi," sunghoon whispers, tilting his head down towards you.
"fuck off," you whisper back, but you're already smiling.
sunghoon smiles back, eyes glancing down momentarily. you follow his line of sight, rolling your eyes as you realize the buttons on your blouse are barely holding it together.
"you're such a creep," you mutter, shaking your head.
"you need new blouses," sunghoon says matter-of-factly. "and maybe a bra that isn't a push-up one."
you reach over to pinch sunghoon's thigh. he curses a little too loudly, other students' heads whipping around in your direction.
"is your love language physical harm?" sunghoon complains, rubbing at the spot where your fingernails dug themselves into his thigh.
"wouldn't you wanna know?" you reply sarcastically.
you observe the way his forearm flexes as he continues to absentmindedly soothe the skin underneath the fabric of his pants. your attention is then brought to the stretch in his gray uniform slacks, large thighs practically bursting from the hours sunghoon spends in the college workout room.
your mind had just started to wonder about the veins in sunghoon's hand when the commentator's mic screeches on.
the first half of the mass goes by uneventfully, with you going through the motions of it, standing and seating and responding whenever needed.
you plop down on your seat as the homily begins, most of your mind already tuned out from whatever lesson in conjunction with the gospel the priest is about to rattle on about.
your eyes wander around the chapel at this time, thoughts floating to whatever catches your attention. one minute, it's the gaudy gold trimmings of the altar decorations, the next, it's the sleepy gazes of the mass servers.
and the next minute still, it's the clenching of sunghoon's jaw. you gulp, unaware of just how hard you're staring.
you're not sure when it started, where the playful remarks between you two turned into borderline dirty jokes and the casual playfighting became excuses for you both to let your touches linger on each other for more than what was deemed appropriate for friends.
you're not one to assume, but none of your other guy friends had the audacity to comment so openly on your boobs.
sunghoon catches your eye and his expression shifts to a playful smirk.
he lays a hand on your bare knee, squeezing lightly. you remain nonchalant, ignoring the sneaky side eye you get from jungwon, the guy seated directly to your right who also happens to be the class president.
sunghoon leans ever so slightly toward you, whispering lowly, "are you bored? cause i'm bored."
"shut up, i don't feel like getting in trouble for talking during mass," comes your curt reply.
sunghoon hums in acknowledgment. "i can do the talking. you can just listen."
sunghoon is drawing patterns on your knee and part of your exposed thigh, fingertips swirling over your skin. goosebumps erupt all over your body and you know sunghoon can feel it.
"shut up," you say through gritted teeth, sunghoon's fingers stopping right as they've slipped beneath the hem of your skirt.
sunghoon straightens up, hand unmoving on your thigh.
there it remains for the rest of the homily.
---
"i'm honestly so exhausted," sunghoon grumbles, the two of you walking amongst the throng of students pouring out the chapel doors.
sunghoon has an arm thrown lazily around your shoulders, his perfume coming off strong as he pulls you closer to him.
"i'm so tired of being woken up at ass o'clock in the morning for mass," sunghoon continues.
"same," you agree, trying to conceal the quiver in your voice when you feel sunghoon absentmindedly toying with the patch sewn onto your blouse, the embroidered school's logo conveniently placed right at the upward slope of your breast.
"we can go back to the dorms," you suggest, gently nudging sunghoon's hand off the vicinity of your chest. "take a nap until lunchtime."
sunghoon grins at you, winking. "my place or yours?"
"honestly, you need to stop with the innuendos," you complain, rolling your eyes. "it's getting a little weird."
sunghoon laughs, tightening his arm around you as he maneuvers you toward the direction of the dorm.
sunghoon leans in close to your ear.
"oh, please. i know you like it."
---
normally, girls aren't allowed in the boys' dorm and vice versa, but the security sitting leisurely by his desk outside the squat two-story building of the boys' dorm doesn't care nearly as much as the one standing watch outside the girls' building.
you step into the small common area where there are a handful of students lounging about. they barely spare you and sunghoon a glance as the two of you make your way up the stairs.
you arrive at sunghoon's room at the very end of the hallway, with him opening the door and motioning for you to get in first.
already well-acquainted with your best friend's room, you head straight for sunghoon's bed, sprawling yourself over the comfy sheets.
"move," sunghoon says with a laugh, coaxing you closer to the wall where the bed is pushed up against. you comply, curling into yourself as you press your back against the cool concrete.
sunghoon settles beside you, stretching languidly, his polo riding up his body and revealing part of his toned stomach.
you pretend not to notice.
sunghoon turns to his side, facing you.
"you're incredibly pretty today," sunghoon says right out of the blue.
you giggle, despite the blush you feel creeping down your neck. "i know."
"ooh, confidence. i like that," sunghoon comments, reaching over to toy at the ends of your hair.
"you've been awfully touchy lately," you reply, a shiver running up your spine as sunghoon slowly undoes your ponytail.
"and they're observant, too," sunghoon points out, pulling your hair tie onto his wrist.
"another point for you," sunghoon adds, raising his eyebrows at you.
you bite down on your lip, your heart hammering against your ribcage.
"just tell me whatever it is you want to tell me," you urge.
sunghoon moves closer, your knees knocking against his. he slips a leg between yours, tangling your limbs together.
"i have no idea what you're on about," sunghoon says with a smile and a shrug.
you roll your eyes, giving sunghoon a look.
a few seconds pass by and neither of you has spoken a word. finally, sunghoon takes in a breath.
"as you already know, despite being enrolled in this obviously catholic institute, i was never one for religious worship," sunghoon begins, tracing a finger down from your shoulder to your wrist.
"but when you look the way you do today, sitting so clueless under the chapel lights and in front of the son of God himself, i might just start believing in the divine."
you're bewildered at what you just heard. you're so dumbstruck, you start to laugh.
"you're so full of shit," you say, shoving at sunghoon's shoulder.
sunghoon's expression turns into surprise for a moment before shifting to amusement.
"i thought girls liked romance," sunghoon points out. "i just said 'you're pretty' in the most poetic way i can."
you laugh even louder this time.
"didn't know you were one for poetry," you reply, reaching a hand out toward sunghoon's face. hesitantly, you start to run your fingers through his dark hair.
sunghoon makes a sound of satisfaction as you tug a little near the nape of his neck.
"when you listen to scripture enough times, it starts to sound a little like poetry," sunghoon explains, eyes blinking lazily as he takes in your appearance.
the two of you had moved closer to each other without even noticing.
"that's kind of naughty, don't you think?" you tease, running your nails against sunghoon's scalp. "using the word of God to practice picking up girls?"
sunghoon looks stunned for a second but his laughter soon follows.
"what if i meant to get a little naughty?" sunghoon says with a raise of his brow, pulling your hand away from his head before placing featherlight kisses on your knuckles.
your heart leaps in your chest and your whole body suddenly feels warm, despite the air conditioning in sunghoon's room on full blast. you swallow, trying to find the words to say.
before either of you can get another word out, the bell from the main building on campus tolls noon, signaling the start of lunch.
you bolt upright, palms sweaty as you scoot away from sunghoon.
"we should go eat," you say through unsteady breaths. "the cafeteria will be full, for sure."
sunghoon wordlessly nods, eyes following the curve of your body as he watches you straighten yourself in his mirror.
---
you and sunghoon make your way across campus, at a much slower pace than one would expect from people who are supposedly in a hurry to get lunch.
you walk ahead of sunghoon, replaying in your mind the scene that played out in his room. you can feel his eyes burning through the back of your head but you continue along.
you enter the main building, nearing the chapel once more. you maintain your distance from sunghoon, determined to get to the cafeteria on the second floor. just as you were about to pass by the heavy wooden doors of the chapel towards the stairs, you feel a hand circle around your wrist, pulling you back.
you look up to see sunghoon walking backward toward the chapel, a mischievous glint in his eye. with his overwhelming strength, you can't help but move along with him.
"what are you doing?" you say, eyes wide as sunghoon momentarily turns away to open the chapel door. he slips into the room, pulling you along with him.
sunghoon closes the door behind you as carefully as he can, letting out a breath as he hears the mechanism click in place. he reaches over to lock it.
you're about to protest once more when you feel him press up against you, forcing you against the firm wood.
"i like you," sunghoon blurts out, resting a large hand against your hip.
you stare at him for a moment, expressionless.
"i know," you finally respond, smiling up at him.
sunghoon lets out a chuckle, wrapping his arms around your midsection, pulling you flush against him.
you feel him press his lips against yours and your hands automatically reach up to hold his face steady.
sunghoon kisses you deeper, leaving no space between you as he practically flattens you into the chapel doors. sunghoon's movements are frantic, rushing against the possibility that anyone can find the chapel suspiciously locked at this moment. it wasn't that hard either to request for the key.
you gasp as you feel sunghoon kiss his way down your neck, sucking at a spot just above your collar.
"i know you—fuck—don't really subscribe to the whole religion thing, but in here? are you sure?" you question, growing more breathless by the second.
sunghoon returns to your lips, his hand slipping under your skirt and giving your ass a harsh squeeze. you moan loudly into the kiss.
"you said it yourself. i don't subscribe to the whole religion thing," sunghoon points out as he pulls away, hooking his fingers through the waistband of your underwear.
"in here is perfect."
you have to stop yourself from whimpering at his words, your panties slipping off easily and gliding down your legs as they fall to your ankles. you lift a leg up to quickly grab the lace garment, shoving it deep into sunghoon's pocket.
"that's my girl," sunghoon praises, grinning down at you.
sunghoon pulls you towards the nearest pew, seating himself right in the middle. you climb onto his lap, letting your bare ass press down perfectly with his straining bulge.
"you're gonna stain my pants, baby," sunghoon points out, reaching under your skirt to prod at your core. you gasp when you feel him graze your clit.
"i mean, you're already soaked," sunghoon adds, running his fingers up and down between your pussy lips, gathering more of your arousal.
"hurry up, then," you challenge, glancing briefly at the door.
"so mouthy as always," sunghoon says, grabbing at your chin. you moan, surprisingly pleased at his sudden display of control. his eyes flit toward something behind you.
"and in front of Jesus, no less," sunghoon reminds with a laugh, tightening his grip on your jaw.
you try to get your next words out as best as you can through sunghoon's hold on your face.
"you're the one who brought me here."
sunghoon's eyes darken. he lets go of you, both of his hands grabbing harshly at your boobs instead. he's nowhere near gentle, nails digging through your blouse.
you cry out in surprise, a jolt of pleasure running through you. your hips start to grind against sunghoon but you stop short when you feel him land a slap against your cheek.
"weren't you taught to be quiet in the house of the Lord?" sunghoon asks, brows furrowed as he looks at your bewildered expression.
the skin of your cheek seems to be screaming, red hot with the blood rushing to it.
"i-i'm sorry," you mumble, cradling the side of your face.
sunghoon's expression softens. he leans in, pulling your hand away to kiss the warm flesh of where he had just smacked you.
"good girl," sunghoon says. you shiver as you feel his breath tickle your face.
sunghoon pulls away, tucking your hair behind your ear.
"you okay?" sunghoon asks, his eyes running over your features in concern, and suddenly, he's back to being your playful, pain-in-the-ass best friend.
"i'm fine," you assure him. "but, i swear if we don't hurry up..."
you trail off, grinding your hips down again. you see sunghoon visibly tense, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth.
"go on then," sunghoon says, expression stony once again. "take it out."
he motions to the tent in his pants and you hurriedly oblige, pulling his zipper down. you reach beneath his underwear, tugging it down enough to let his cock free.
your mouth involuntarily waters at the sight, sunghoon's tip an angry red as it oozes precum. the rest is pale, even paler than all of his body, with veins all over.
"i thought you were in a hurry?" sunghoon's voice cuts through your thoughts. "don't keep me waiting, angel."
you move closer, angling his cock right at your aching entrance. sunghoon holds onto your waist as you guide him through your hole.
both of you sigh when you feel him enter you. you lower yourself until all of him is inside you, so impossibly deep you can practically feel it in your belly.
"come on, baby," sunghoon encourages, lifting you off his cock and bringing you back down. you clamp a hand over your mouth, the stretch and feel of him inside you overwhelming your entire body.
you start to move on your own, moving your hips up and down. your knees strain against the wooden seat but you anchor yourself against sunghoon, trying to find the perfect pace.
"that's it," sunghoon says lowly, watching as you ride him, your skirt hiking up higher and higher on your body, leaving you looking totally debauched with your uniform in disarray.
"fuck, _______. just like that, angel."
sunghoon throws his head back, exposing his smooth neck to you. you quicken your movements, whining when you feel the pleasure double. you lean forward, suckling near sunghoon's adam's apple.
"oh God," sunghoon groans, threading his fingers through your hair. he pulls you away from his neck abruptly, looking over your head and right at the altar.
"you see this, God? all that talk about finding your kingdom, but it's right here in—shit—in their warm, sopping wet pussy."
you whine at his words, cheeks burning at how absolutely filthy they are, but the thrill of doing this, of saying all this, right in the very heart of this whole school's foundation, sends you reeling and wanting more.
"up," sunghoon commands, pushing you off him.
confused, you do as he says, standing shakily. you let out a yelp when you feel him turn you around, pressing you against the pew in front of you. you brace yourself against the backrest as sunghoon slips back inside you easily, leaning down so his chest is right against your back.
your eyes roll into the back of your head as you feel sunghoon set up a relentless pace, taking you from behind as you both gaze upon the religious relics in front of you.
"so dirty," sunghoon comments. the sound of his skin slapping against yours bounces off the walls of the chapel.
"such a slut for letting me fuck them in a chapel."
you cry out, collapsing against the pew as you feel your orgasm quickly approaching. sunghoon grunts when he feels you clench around him, tightening his hold on your hips, fucking into you even rougher than he already was.
"gonna cum, baby?" sunghoon asks. "say a little prayer when you do, 'kay angel?"
"oh my God," you whimper as you reach down to rub your clit, urging yourself closer and closer to your release.
you hear sunghoon laugh breathlessly behind you but you barely take note of it because the floodgates in your abdomen open and the rush of your orgasm quickly takes over you.
a string of curses, sunghoon's name, and some variations of 'oh my God' spill out of your mouth. you deem this close enough to prayer as you can get.
sunghoon groans in your ear as you clamp down tightly around his cock. he gives a couple more thrusts before he shudders, spilling himself inside you.
you lay limp under sunghoon, catching your breath as your bleary eyes stop to observe the crucified Jesus in front of you. you shiver as you realize what you've just done.
"hoon," you let out weakly. "hoon, we need to get out of here."
sunghoon pulls out of you, quick to shove two fingers in you to keep his cum from leaking out. you gasp at the feeling, shooting sunghoon a death glare.
sunghoon laughs, leaning in to kiss you.
"oh my sweet, sweet angel," sunghoon singsongs, kissing you all over your face.
"you're nasty," you say with a scowl, pushing sunghoon away. he takes his fingers out, reaching into his pocket to hand you your underwear back.
"here, wouldn't want the whole school to know i just filled you with my cum," sunghoon offers with a wink.
you grimace, landing a soft punch to sunghoon's stomach.
"so nasty."
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