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blitzyn · 8 months

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stop moving

re4r leon s. kennedy x m!reader

request: none

synopsis: After finding yourself stuck in a closet with Leon, you end up squirming just a little too much.

a/n -> i have fallen victim to the leon lover rabbit hole. ALSO. I FUCKING FRACTURED MY FINGER??? guys i almost cried when i had to write the word balls. </3 but thank you all for 1k followers! tbh i only started this acc because i liked the font when i wrote something in my drafts lmao. but still! it means a lot to me and im happy to have gotten this far!

wc -> 2.5k

cw -> thigh fucking, hiding in a closet, spit as lube, handjob (r receiving), pet names (baby x2, sweetheart x1), he's kinda possessive tbh, not beta read

This was supposed to be relatively simple: get in, figure out where the president's daughter was, save her, then get out. Sure, you've seen your fair share of weird shit — especially after the outbreak in Raccoon City, but finding out that there was a whole religion dedicated to spreading a plague for the sake of taking over the world definitely takes the cake. For now, at least.

But finding yourself cramped in a closet with Leon, surrounded by a horde of hostile cultists, also wasn't something you expected to happen throughout the entire mission.

"Stop moving so much," Leon quietly muttered from behind you just as you shifted.

"I'm not," you huffed, a bit annoyed that you had to hide in this stuffy closet, even if you knew that you'd probably be dead by now if it weren't for your partner's quick thinking. Against his words, you adjusted yourself again, trying to find a decently comfortable position. Suddenly, you felt his hands on your hips and the warmth of his chest pressed to your back as he pulled you flush against him.

"I said, stop moving," he repeated, whispering in your ear. You held back a shudder at the feeling of his breath ghosting over the shell of it, stilling completely in surprise. Just then, thunderous footsteps could be heard outside the closet; slowly, listening for any sound that might reveal where the two of you hid.

You tensed and instinctively backed up to further yourself from the perpetrator, even if there wasn't much room to move to begin with. You could faintly hear Leon grunt from behind you, but you were in no position to apologize at the moment. Your eyes were glued to a crack in the old, wooden door, watching as the light shifted when the person passed by.

You waited with bated breath, hoping that it wouldn't come near. But, like some cliche horror movie, you could see the light at the bottom of the door disappear, meaning it was far too close for comfort. With every second the person stood there, the tighter Leon's hold on your hips became. The two of you went so silent your ears rang, and you were briefly afraid that it'd hear the sound of your racing heartbeat.

But after what felt like an eternity, its heavy footsteps started up again and away from the closet. You heaved a sigh of relief when the front door slammed shut, rendering the building empty once more.

"Fucking hell, sorry," you mumbled, trying to shuffle forward and give Leon his space when you realized that he hadn't let go of you yet. "You okay?"

Using the dim light that filtered through the cracks in the door, you lifted your arms a bit and curiously peered at his hands. But that's when you noticed the black lines covering his arms. Upon closer inspection, you quickly realized that they were his veins.

"Christ, Leon, what—"

"Be quiet. Just—just for a second."

You found it hard to tear your eyes away from his arms, waiting in silence. You focused on the sound of his labored breaths, biting your tongue to keep yourself from questioning him even further. Your mind couldn't help the invasion of 'What happened?' and 'What is that?' that threatened to spill from your lips. How did you not notice this earlier?!

You were pulled from your thoughts when you felt him rest his forehead on your shoulder, muttering and grunting under his breath. And that's when you felt it — the reason why he was so reluctant to move just yet: he was hard.

"Oh." You couldn't help it, even if he had already told you to shut your mouth twice already. The silence from then on was painfully awkward as the two of you tried to figure out what to say. With a deep breath, you miraculously found the courage to speak up.

"Do you... Can I help you?" You offered, remaining still to keep yourself from accidentally pressing yourself up against him again. It was silent while you waited for his reply, embarrassment wriggling its way through your chest the longer the two of you kept quiet.

"I mean, you don't have to accept, you can just ignore me—" you began to ramble on, mortified that you even asked the question. "I just thought, cause, like, it'll be hard for you to—shit, I didn't mean it like that—"

"[Name]," Leon interrupted you, finding your instant silence charming in its own way. You could hear him take a deep breath in just as his hands slid further up to firmly caress your waist and abdomen. Electricity shot down your spine and pooled in your gut when he tugged you closer to him, grinding himself against your ass. "You can."

He reached for your hand and brought it behind you, placing it directly onto his cock. You gave it a tentative squeeze, savoring the quiet grunt that came from him, feeling your confidence grow by the second. You heard the gentle jingling of his belt as he undid it just enough for you to dip your hand underneath the waistband of his pants and boxers.

"Not wasting a second, huh?" Amusement and lust were laced in his voice as he spoke, a quiet moan spilling from his lips soon after.

He was hot and thick in your hand, throbbing rhythmically. You swiped a finger over the tip that beaded precum, savoring the shudder that came from his body. His hips trusted up into your fist, seeking more, and you were more than happy to oblige.

With a steady pace, you moved your hand up and down, tracing the prominent veins. You felt your own cock twitch at the sound of Leon's breathy groans and sighs, but you ignored it in favor of getting him off.

"Fuuckk," he drawled out, leaning forward to press his lips on the side of your neck. "You're good at this. Makes me think you've done this typa thing before."

"No," you responded, gently rubbing the spot on the underside of the tip. "You're the only one."

"I get the special treatment?" He muttered teasingly, his breath hot against your skin. "Must be my lucky day."

He could feel his body buzzing with adrenaline as he peppered open-mouthed kisses on the side of your neck, untucking your shirt to slide a hand up your torso to pinch and toy with a nipple. His free hand traveled lower, slipping his cold fingertips underneath the waistband of your pants, but refused to go further than that.

You could feel his lips curl in a subtle smirk, but even as you realized he was teasing you, testing your patience, you had no intention to retaliate. Christ. The hold this man had on you. It was downright pathetic.

"God," he started, pressing his palm flat on your chest to bring you closer to him—eager for more of your touch. He let his teeth gently scrape against your skin, threatening to bite—to mark you, but he forced himself not to. He couldn't. Not right now. "I want to fuck you so bad."

His words were breathless, borderline desperate, as they left his lips. He couldn't help but thrust his hips up into your fist, pushing and pushing until your hand was flush against your ass, keeping you from jerking him off as he rutted against your hand.

"We can't, Leon," you muttered, disappointment lacing your voice. As much as you'd love to have him inside you, fucking you deep, you knew you couldn't. Not when the Ganados were still outside, at least. "Just let me finish you off."

Leon let out a low growl, knowing that you were right. There were a lot of things the two of you couldn't do inside the confined space of the closet, forcing him to conjure up ideas of what he wanted to do when all of this was over.

But for now, he settled on the second best option: your thighs.

"I know," he murmured, breathing in deeply as he pulled your hand away from his throbbing cock. "Then let me fuck your thighs. I'll be quick, I promise."

You mulled over his words, unsure if it would be a good idea.

"Please, baby," he pleaded, his voice heavy with lust. "Just this once. Then, when we find Ashley and get the hell outta this place, I'll make sure to fuck you properly. Nice 'n hard 'n deep. Wouldn't you like that?"

Fuck it.

"Mhm, yeah, go ahead." You relented, knees weakening at the thought of having his thick cock inside you, stretching and filling you up perfectly.

"Atta boy," he buried his thumbs underneath your pants and boxers, pulling them down to let them drop to your ankles. "Knew you'd come around."

He groaned at the sight of your bare thighs and drooling cock, running his hands along the curve of your ass to lean back and spread it, focusing his gaze on your asshole. "Fuck," he hissed. "Can't wait to feel your tight little hole around me later. Gonna fill you up with my cum, make you mine."

Arousal sank in your stomach like a rock as your hole clenched around nothing. Whatever's coursing through his veins made him more impulsive, more desperate, but with the fog that clouded your thoughts, you hardly found it in you to mind.

He spat on his cock and moved a hand away from your body to briefly jerk himself off and smear the saliva around.

"Open up, baby," he instructed as soon as he was done, raising his hand to caress your hip. "Spread your legs a little."

Like a trained puppy, you obeyed, widening your thighs just enough to let him guide his hard cock in between them. Your breath hitched at the sight of the head peeking out, squeezing your legs around him just a bit tighter.

"Jesus fuck, [Name]," he groaned, leaning forward to press his chest against your back. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you close to him. Through the hazy mess that was in your mind, you found comfort in the warmth and firmness of them as you placed your hands on his forearms for some sort of stability. "That's it. Squeeze me just like that."

You could feel every twitch and throb, and you were sure he could feel yours, too. It felt like your senses were on overdrive as you listened to your labored breaths, his pleased sighs and grunts, and the slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your thighs. He set a leisurely pace, rocking his hips back and forth.

"Shit..." He hissed, speeding up his thrusts as his dick rubbed against your balls, smearing his makeshift lube across your skin.

His hips met yours with quiet slaps, making sure to keep the noise level at a minimum despite the overwhelming urge to just bury himself inside you right then and there. He mouthed at the nape of your neck, tasting the salt of your skin, gently pressing his teeth down hard enough to send sparks down your spine.

His fingertips pressed into your sides so firmly it hurt, but it only served to mix in with the desire that burned brightly in your belly. He fucked your thighs with a sense of urgency, as if trying to satiate a hunger deep within his subconscious—not that you minded.

He grunted and groaned with every thrust, tightening his arms around your waist to tug you back to him whenever your hips jolted forward. It was intoxicating; the way he so effortlessly turned your body into a sensitive mess left you wanting more.

But as soon as a strong hand wrapped around your aching cock, you nearly came on the spot. One of your hands left Leon's forearm to slap it over your mouth as you tried to keep yourself from moaning too loud.

He breathily chuckled beside your ear. "Is this what you wanted?" He rhetorically questioned, swiping a finger over the leaking head so perfectly it left your skin tingling. "Tell me, sweetheart."

"Ohh, fuck," you hissed. It was embarrassing how you so eagerly responded to his touch. "Yeah, th-that's it...!"

Your eyes fluttered shut, focusing on the feeling of his slick cock moving in and out from between your thighs. Your lips parted from behind your hand to let out quiet pants and moans, digging your nails into his forearm the closer you got to your orgasm.

"Oh god, Leon—!" You moaned, pressing yourself further against his back. You could feel your legs faltering, but he didn't seem to mind having you rely on him to stand up.

"I know, baby, I know," he muttered, his voice tight and strained as his thrusts gradually grew sloppy and weak. "Me too."

His cock pulsed and twitched, and he can't help himself from clamping his teeth over the side of your neck this time. It wasn't hard enough to draw blood, but it left a noticeable bite mark that dully ached.

"Come on, baby, cum for me," he instructed, and you had no choice but to comply.

With a muffled moan, you arched your back and finally came as ropes of your semen coated the dusty wooden floor and Leon's fingers. He stroked you until he was sure that you were spent before letting go to chase after his own release.

"Shit," he cursed, breathing heavily. "I'm gonna cum so... so fucking hard...!"

With a strained groan, his hips jerked erratically as he came, holding you tight enough to leave bruises. You gently rub your thighs together, helping him ride out his high. It wasn't until a few moments later did he finally stop, breathing hard against your neck as he calmed down. But that's also when the clarity kicked in.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered, moving his head from you. "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened—I just—" he apologized, sighing in defeat a moment later.

"It's fine," you replied, patting his arm. You had to suppress a shudder when he pulled away from your thighs. The cum that ended up on the insides of them quickly cooled, leaving an uncomfortable sensation on your skin. You were just gonna have to suck it up.

"Let's just get outta here, already." You shuffled forward a bit to tug your pants back up your legs while Leon composed himself.

"Yeah," he said, pressing an arm against the dusty, wooden door. Through the dim light, you could see that his veins were no longer visible again, but that thought was going to have to hold off until later. "You ready?"

"Yup." You nodded after briefly making sure you still had everything in place.

Without further thought about what happened just a few seconds ago, Leon pushed the door open and quickly left the closet as you trailed close behind. Now, it was back to work.

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tojjist · 1 month

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𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘 ↳ r. sukuna

in which: the king of curses left you the moment you announce your pregnancy to him. but after nearly losing you... he might be having a change of heart contains: very slight objectification of reader, reader is a half-curse, mentions of injury and near-death experience, reader is pregnant, slight mention of pregnancy sex, sukuna is really ooc tbh A/N: yall really wanted soft sukuna lmao. i js wanted to write something more in my own style instead of the tumblr style. It's all over the place really, also obv trueform! sukuna. w.c : 1.6k

“Sukuna-sama?” Your voice comes out a breathy whisper, barely audible.

“Do– ugh,” The pink-haired curse sighs. “Don’t call me that. And don’t make me repeat myself.”

You haven’t known Sukuna to be tender. Actually, scratch that. You used to genuinely believe he mistook the adjective for an affront. He probably still does, despite the sheer softness of his actions. His mind is a marvel far beyond your, or anyone else's, comprehension. And if Sukuna hasn’t always been complicated, his sudden switch of behavior recently has rendered unriddling the complex being that he is even harder.

“What do I call you then?” There’s confusion in your tone; confusion fused with unadulterated innocence. His eyebrows crease further. He loved how naive and ingénue you are. Such a simple, sheepish thing. Easy to lead one, easy to use, easy to hurt. But as of late, he’d come to hate it.

He hates that he hates it. He shouldn’t care.

“I don’t fucking know,” he snaps back. It’s enough to bring you silence, the somber tone he uses coming with a sense of finality.

Rough callouses are surprisingly gentle against your flesh—callouses that slap, bruise, grope, but never caress. Despite that, he pulls your underwear up your thighs with utter care. If you didn’t know any better, you might even dare call his actions delicate.

“Does it hurt?” He reminisces. Curious digits stroke your lower abdomen and across the swell of your belly, where an ugly scar sits. It decorates your skin with a long, uneven line of dried blood cells.

“It’s not too bad,” You assure, daring to test your luck by bringing your own hand to his hair. It causes the king of curses to pause. His ember eyes continue to stare at your scar, unable to swat your hand away for some reason. The wooden floor beneath him feels too cold. Or he feels too hot. He’s unsure.

In the dimness of the room, there is no light but the flickering glow emitted from the fire, ensconced within a cage of brick—a fireplace, by name. Yet, the warmth that enfolds you does not excrete solely from the flames. It originates from within, a pulsating heat that comes with the beat of your heart as a large palm finds your shoulder, urging you forward with an urgency that seems to echo through the very fibers of your being.

“What about this one?”His intense glare persists, averting your demure gaze. Never before have you witnessed him in such a state, making you wonder whether this demeanor is a consequence of recent events.

“It’s fine, I promise,” Your whispered words cause his gaze to harden even further, his thumb tracing over another, deeper cut nestled in the valley between your breasts. This one could have been fatal. The realization sends a shiver down his spine, unsettling him to his core. Sukuna, the ancient and ruthless curse, has borne witness to countless horrors in his long existence, inflicted unspeakable cruelty upon countless souls, but none have shaken him to his core quite like seeing you teetering on the brink of death. The memory stirs within him an unfamiliar sense of disquiet, a realization that his desires may have consequences far more profound than he ever anticipated.

The brawny curse grunts in response, opting to continue examining the scar. He’s careful to not stretch it as your human flesh would hurt.

Sukuna’s agenda never included leaving a child within you. It never even crossed his mind. Such muses were not to be entertained, especially not with you.

You. Yeah, you who doesn't try to kill humans simply for the pleasure it brings. You who takes life so lightly, as if you have several souls to spare. You who accepts every word Sukuna says as an indisputable fact, every order executed before he has a chance to reconsider.

You, who has shared your bed with the strongest curse more times than he cares to count, always intrigued him—an enigmatic subject for his manipulations. You, who confided in him the startling revelation that your half-cursed body now nurtures a growing fetus.

At first, Sukuna swore he'd never visit you again, adamant in his belief that he wanted no involvement in your pregnancy, leaving you to navigate the situation alone. Despite his capability to end your life without hesitation, he chose to spare you. Sukuna granted you a reprieve under the condition that he never crosses paths with you or whatever child you carry. He told himself time and time again that you would be a rather boring kill, not worth the effort. But it wasn't about the difficulty of ending your life—it was an excuse. He'd never admit that he doesn't want your blood staining his hands

Sukuna swears he’s not soft, that he doesn’t care for you at all.But the notion of being the one who brings you to your end does not enthrall him in the least.

He doesn’t care for the inferior likes of you, he reminds himself. That’s absurd. It’s laughable. It’s offensive, even. He doesn’t ‘care’, It’s simply curiosity that keeps him around. Curious of what kind of child the one you carry would come out to be. To see if they’d be worthy of being called his kin or not.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Your voice is dulcet, a melody that cuts his train of thought smoothly. Unlike anything he’s ever heard before. There’s a pleading tone, a need so urgent it's almost painful. He finds pleasure in that. Your perpetual longing for him, your unwavering loyalty even after his defeat by sorcerers the first time around—you kept him close like a devoted guardian to a fallen hero, even when you knew is anything but a hero. It's a power unlike any other—staying but not out of fear, it's a choice. A strong belief.

Balancing on his knees between her parted legs, he reaches out, his fingers finding purchase on the edge of the bed. His grip tightens instinctively, fingers slipping beneath the hem of the sheet as he steadies himself. With a controlled effort, he pushes upward, leveraging the bed for support as he rises to his feet

“Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?” He muses, his towering frame looking down at you. The flickering flames of the fire, their orange hues swirling and weaving a macabre tapestry around his countenance, lend him an aura of terror that would instill fear in any who behold him. Yet, unlike others, you find his presence strangely comforting. Despite the aura of terror he exudes, you've grown accustomed to it, finding solace in his formidable presence now more than ever before.

Your only reaction is to chew on the inside of your cheek, careful to not bite the fiber too hard. There’s an ambivalent air to him, remaining motionless as he towers over you. It seems as if he’s looking for something. Anything. He wants a reason to stay, but he can’t seem to find one satisfying enough.

He owes you nothing. But when you look at him like that… He’s never been one to falter at your pleading face, but perhaps he’s changing little by little. He staunchly refuses to acknowledge this change still, for him to do so would be an admission of vulnerability, a humiliation he cannot bear, even to himself. How he yearns for the willpower to end you, to push you away so you never obstruct his way like this again.

The worst part of it all is his acute awareness of why he feels so strongly now. He knows that it’s all him, and not at all you. He can pinpoint the exact moment he regret leaving your side. The memory is seared into his very core.

He wishes he could forget, to erase the haunting image of you, wounded and bleeding, from his mind.

It was when he came back a few days after his departure, for reasons he can’t recall, only to be greeted by the sight of a malevolent curse looming over you, hungry and poised to make you its next meal. He shouldn’t have intervened. It's the natural order—a relentless cycle where only the strongest survive, preying upon the weaker. He knows he's no exception. Nor are you.

But seeing you sprawled out on the floor, barely intact, with his child inside of you.

He gulps at the memory, feeling an overwhelming urge to touch you once more, to make sure you’re not some figment of his imagination. To keep you from harm. You’re so stupid, so goddamn naive. He doesn’t know what to make of you. Other than a fucking headache.

“What is it? What do you want, brat?” He hopes to catch some semblance of his normal attitude. “Get it over with.”

“Please stay,” You plead, fingers gently gripping the open kimono he had thrown on once finished with you. “Please, Sukuna-sama.”

He sighs. You’re so obstinate.

Perhaps it's his lack of understanding that breeds hesitation within him, or perhaps it's his inherently fierce nature. A thing like you deserves to be treated with the utmost delicacy, cherished and nurtured. Sukuna, with his staunch commitment solely to his ideals, can never be the one assuming such a role for you.

“You’re doing things to me, you know?” Sukuna gets down, kneeling between your parted legs again, placing a warm palm in either side of your hips and seizing you within.

Maybe… staying with you tonight wasn’t such a ludicrous notion. He’s the king of curses; he has all the time in the world to fret the trivial details.

#arabella writes #jjk #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #jjk fluff #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna fluff #sukuna x reader #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #jjk smut #sukun x reader smut #ryomen sukuna smut #dividers by benkeibear

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angry-geese · 4 months

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The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek.

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing.

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came.

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father.

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards.

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you.

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match.

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him.

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking.

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says.

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it?

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood.

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them.

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!”

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago.

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters.

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear.

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear.

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams.

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders.

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says.

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die.

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says.

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind.

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this.

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity.

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you.

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious?

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore.

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.”

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things.

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down?

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after.

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods.

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long.

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk.

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire.

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says.

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse.

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say.

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear.

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough.

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living.

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river.

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff.

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say.

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you.

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly.

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours.

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it.

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse.

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #ryoumen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x reader smut #not osha compliant #jjk #my writing

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hannieehaee · 6 months

Note

Heyyy!! Could you do a seventeen reaction to the reader saying another member's name while sleeping? 🙃 Btw, I really like your writing!! ❣

you saying another member's name in your sleep

wc: 1027

a/n: thank u sm for requesting <3 sorry i took so long with this T-T

masterlist

seungcheol -

this man is possessive as shit. he'd immediately wake you up and whine at dokyeom's name leaving your lips. you were most vulnerable when you were asleep, right? so why were you saying another man's name?? he wouldnt accuse you of anything, but he'd be pouty and genuinely a little upset that he's not the only man on your mind 24/7. you'd have to comfort and reassure him for a good hour as soon as you woke up.

jeonghan -

he loves his members more than anything, so any interaction between you and them made his heart melt. if you were asleep next to him and happened to say chan's name, he'd probably lightheartedly curse chan out next time he saw him. but when it came to you he'd do nothing further than tease you about it a little bit when you woke up, asking you if you had a lil crush on him or something.

joshua -

he'd tilt his head to the side the way confused puppies do. why were you saying jeonghan's name while lying in his arms? he wouldn't be offended by this, but just very confused. jeonghan? really? well, he couldnt really blame you. he'd think about doing it back to you but would decide against it upon taking another look at your curled up form against him. he'd have to take this up with jeonghan.

jun -

he probably wouldn't think too much of it. when he heard you say wonwoo's name, he'd probably let out a quiet 'oh?' and try to check if you were really asleep. he'd be confused as to why you were even thinking of wonwoo and would ask you about it the next morning. he's a little silly sometimes so he'd probably accidentally bring up the incident in front of the boys, rendering you extremely embarrassed.

soonyoung -

he'd find it so funny, giggling every time you repeated vernon's name. he wouldnt even think about the fact that you were saying someone else's name, he'd just find it funny that you were talking in your sleep without realizing it. he'd feel like he was being let in on a secret. he'd also bring it up one day as a 'fun' anecdote next time you and him hung out with the members, not realizing how embarrassing itd be for you to look at vernon in the eye after that.

wonwoo -

he'd lift his head up from his game at the sound of your voice, not knowing you were asleep and asking if you called him. he'd get no response, so he'd go check on you up close, only to realize you were asleep. when you'd unknowingly repeat yourself and mumbled a quiet 'kwannie', he'd be confused at the mention of his friend. he's not a jealous man, but this would unconsciously get him to turn off his game and hold you to sleep, wanting himself to be the only man in your subconscious.

jihoon -

you kept mumbling over and over while you slept. he ignored it at first, not understanding what you were saying, until the three syllables caught his attention, causing him to flip his chair around to face you. did you just say joshua? but the sight would make him too endeared to complain. you were curled up on his couch, having fallen asleep as you waited for him to finish working, insisting on staying with him. okay, it's fine if you dreamt of other men as long as you liked him the most.

dokyeom -

he had the tendency of talking in his sleep, often saying nonsensical stuff that didn't hold any meaning. so when he heard you say jun's name in your sleep, he decided to not let himself be bothered by it and just nudge you awake. he'd ask you what you were dreaming about, to which you'd respond a sleepy 'you', not even processing his question, making him coo at you and rest with you, forgetting you even said anything before that.

mingyu -

he'd whine as soon as you mumbled minghao's name, nuzzling further into his chest. you were nuzzling while thinking of minghao? what was he supposed to think about this? he'd whine to you about it as soon as you woke up, complaining that it wasnt fair you thought of other boys while you were the only girl in his mind. you'd have to comfort him, even though he'd he half-joking, only having wanted your attention.

minghao -

he wouldnt really think much of it. he knew some people had the tendency to talk in their sleep, also knowing that dreams were uncontrollable and meant nothing. he couldn't blame you, he was also a big fan of jihoon's. he'd probably wake you up, though, assuming this was your body's way of telling you you wanted to be awake. he wouldn't ask about it but would subconsciously stick by you a little more throughout the day.

seungkwan -

soonyoung? that guy? you were having a dream about that tiger obsessed freak? seungkwan loved soonyoung, but hated the idea of you thinking about him in your deepest state of relaxation. he'd be yet another member to whine and complain as to why you thought of other men. no, it didnt matter it was a mutual friend of yours! your mind was meant to be plagued by seungkwan only!

vernon -

he's so distracted he'd think you were making conversation with him at first. after you'd said 'cheollie', he'd respond with a mumble of 'yeah, what about him?', not even looking up from his phone to see you asleep. when he finally noticed he'd be more impressed at the discovery that you talk in your sleep than at the mention of his friend.

chan -

you were his little piece of heaven away from his 12 brothers who would tease and baby him all day. so when he heard you mention the name of one of the aforementioned brothers while he held you in his arms, he had to admit it kinda peeved him. why were you mumbling mingyu's name?? was it the muscles? was it the height? but this was all forgotten the next morning, when you decided to make it up to him as soon as he whined at you about being your favorite boy.

#seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen #svt fanfic #svt #svt x reader #seventeen imagine #seventeen oneshot #seventeen reactions #svt reactions #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios

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roosterforme · 5 months

Text

How You Play the Game Part 6 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You find more comfort in Bradley's home and in his arms than anywhere else. But time is ticking down, and only a win by the Angels on Saturday evening will give you more of both. Bradley tries to make a compelling argument, because he knows it's finally time to start speaking his mind.

Warnings: Swears, fluff, angst, oral and smut (18+)

Length: 7600 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x female reader

Check out my masterlist for more! How You Play the Game masterlist. Banner by @thedroneranger

You woke with a small jump as soft lips and a bristly mustache met your cheek. "Bradley?" you mumbled as his deep chuckle next to your ear made you shiver. When you started to push the covers off and open your eyes, you felt a hand on your shoulder.

"I'm leaving for work, but you should stay in bed. You deserve a day off."

Now you were looking up at him standing next to his bed in his khaki uniform with all of his pins and his name tag. And he looked so good, you knew you were staring. It was almost startling seeing him like this when you were so used to all the Padres shirts and snug fitting jeans. Most of the people in his life were probably more used to this look. The Lieutenant Bradshaw look. But it was rendering you speechless.

"Can I come to work with you today?" you asked him, earning another chuckle. Spending the day at his house doing your laundry, relaxing and eating everything in his refrigerator sounded actually pretty perfect, but you'd just rather be doing all of that with him here, too.

"It's not Take the sports writer you're completely infatuated with to work day."

Now you were the one laughing as you set up in bed and reached for him. "When's that day? I'll make sure I'm off."

He kissed you sweetly as his hand found your hip. "I think it's in April."

You were giggling against his smiling lips when he suddenly groaned. "I need to go. Text me if you need anything? Or if you just want to distract me?"

"I will."

"See ya, Ace."

When you heard the front door open and then close, you rolled over in his bed and buried your face in his pillow. Then you squeezed it to your body. Bradley smelled incredible, especially since you were so used to the sterile bleach scent of hotel bedding and the stale air of ballpark press boxes. You wished you could bottle this up and take it on the road with you. Take a little bit of Bradley wherever you went.

Before that thought could take further shape, you climbed out of his bed and shivered in just his TOP GUN tee shirt. Since he told you to make yourself comfortable, you allowed yourself to root around in his dresser drawers in search of a pair of socks. Your eyes caught on the frame of his mirror hanging over the dresser, and you smiled at your reflection as you reached up and touched the ticket from game one. It was the media pass he won from the radio program, and you traced the corners of it before you sat on his bed and put on a pair of his comically large socks.

It was early, but you were hungry, and you found a fully stocked refrigerator when you went to the kitchen. Bradley's home was a treasure trove of things that were normal for other people but not for you: bedding that smelled like heaven and a delicious assortment of fresh food. You pulled out a container of berries and then found oatmeal in his cabinets. Your stomach was growling loudly as you poured yourself some coffee from the pot he left out for you.

You sat on his living room couch with your breakfast and looked out the window. It was probably always this sunny here, always this inviting. Bradley's cottage was easily five times the size of your apartment, which you rarely thought about beyond it being a place to hold all of your things that didn't really matter. You didn't have time for stuff; just the clothes on your back and your computer.

When you finished the last bite of oatmeal, you felt tears in your eyes. You were so lonely. You were so tired of forcing yourself to work harder and harder to make up the deficit between yourself and your colleagues. You just wanted to hide here, in San Diego, with Bradley. You felt safe and desirable, and he wasn't yelling at you or telling you that you needed to go to Boston.

You took a deep breath as you went to the kitchen sink with your bowl and mug. There were a few other dishes there, so you washed everything for him and set them out to dry. It had been years since you hadn't done at least a little bit of work on a day off, so you went to get your computer out of his bedroom. But it smelled too good, so you carried your computer back to his bed and snuggled in where you could work on the beginning of your next article before the game tomorrow afternoon.

Your inbox was completely filled with offers from recruiters with other newspapers and online outlets. You knew some of them would send you a job offer in an instant without even asking you to interview with them. Some of them had even managed to corner you when you were on the job; they knew your schedule as well as you did. You were always sent to the most high profile matches and events. And while some aspects of what they were offering you sounded very enticing, you were already at The New York Times.

After you took some deep breaths, you deleted all of them and opened up a blank document and got to work. But you didn't get far before you closed your laptop, because writing baseball stats was a lot more fun when you were sitting on Bradley's lap. You decided to text him.

How's work?

Then you remembered he told you that you could check out his collection of baseball cards in the garage. You jumped out of bed and walked down the short hallway, peeking in the extra bedroom on the way. You opened one door, but it was just a linen closet which he actually had organized by color, which you found charming. The next door led you out to the small, attached garage which was also very tidy. You looked at everything on his shelves before you found some boxes that said Nick Bradshaw- Baseball Cards. The marker was very faded on the cardboard, so you slid the first one down very carefully.

When you carried it back inside to the living room, you felt your phone vibrate in your hand. Once you set the box down, you saw that you had a new message from Bradley.

Bradley Bradshaw: Work is not as fun as playing hooky with you. What are you up to, Baby?

You took a selfie with the box of baseball cards which you assumed had belonged to his father. You added the caption 'About to dig through these and swoon all over your living room.'

The collection was impressive to say the least. You didn't collect cards, because you didn't have the time or space for them, but you knew which of his were valuable when you looked through them. You thought about how much fun it would be to organize these a little better with him. Your phone was vibrating again.

Bradley Bradshaw: You look gorgeous. Send me another picture?

You sent him another selfie, and then he asked for another one. This game went on and on until lunchtime when you decided to mess with him a little bit.

Now send me one, and you'll get something sexy in return.

He didn't respond immediately, and you figured he must be busy. You made a sandwich for lunch and ate it with some potato chips. Then you found his washer and dryer in a little closet across from the bathroom door and started a load of your dirty clothes. And then you got ready to get in the shower.

Your phone vibrated on the sink vanity, so you grabbed it before you stepped under the spray of hot water. And you almost dropped it when you saw a set of two photos of Bradley out in the bright sunlight in his uniform. In the first one, he was wearing some aviator sunglasses and smirking. In the second one, the sunglasses were gone, and he was smiling.

"Fuck," you moaned as you looked at the photos, making sure you didn't get your phone wet.

Bradley Bradshaw: Now where's my sexy Ace?

Before you could tell yourself what a big mistake you were making, you snapped a photo of yourself, water cascading down your breasts and a grin on your face. You sent it with the caption 'You look so good in those aviators, I'm about to start touching myself.'

You were standing there thinking about it. Your nipples were hard, and you were thinking about the scratch of Bradley's mustache on your skin. But his next message had your hand pausing before you could touch your clit.

Bradley Bradshaw: Jesus Christ, Baby. How am I supposed to focus when you send me something that good? Don't you dare touch yourself. I want you dialed up to eleven for me when I get home.

And now you were a whimpering mess as you tried to shower without letting yourself get off, wishing you had brought some sexy underwear on this trip with you.

-----------------------------

Well now Bradley was a mess, thinking about your body while he was supposed to be listening to a safety demonstration out on the tarmac. Why had he bothered to come to work today? He should have taken a second day off and spent it with you.

But you were leaving soon, and that was why he decided to try to keep to his normal routine. And you were exhausted whether you thought so or not, so he wanted you to have time to relax and unwind.

"Hey," Nat whispered, nudging his arm. "You okay?"

Bradley sighed and nodded, and then he held up his phone with a photo of you with the baseball cards for her to see. Nat pushed him a little further away from the group and hissed, "She's at your house? Are you insane?"

"Nat," he started, running his hand through his hair. "I know-"

"No, I don't think you do, Rooster. You're going to get your heart broken."

He nodded and looked down at their feet. "It's already unavoidable at this point. And she makes me feel so good."

His best friend sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You know you're supposed to come to the Hard Deck for Mickey's birthday tonight, right?"

His plan was to bring you along, buy you a few drinks, maybe dance to the horrible collection of songs in the jukebox with you. "Yeah," he replied. "I'll come if she wants to join me, but I don't want you giving her the stink eye all night."

She scoffed. "I'll be perfectly nice to her."

Bradley shook his head, starting to get pissed off. "Will you though? See, the thing is, I'd like to think that I'm not the only one headed for some heartbreak here, Nat. I'd like to think she feels the same way I do. Like maybe I'm too good to be true, too. And maybe spending time with me now is worth the pain later."

Her face softened immediately. "You are, Rooster. You're too good to be fucking true. I promise I'll be nice. At the Hard Deck and next week if you want to talk about it then."

After that, Bradley just left early instead of hanging out on the tarmac with the others. He skipped the showers since he'd barely even done anything today. Then he could get home sooner and see you and just shower there. When he climbed in the Bronco, he texted to let you know he was on his way. And then he sat there with his key hovering next to the ignition.

You'd be gone by Monday morning. This was the only time he'd ever get to tell you he was on his way home to you. More than anything, he wanted to know if you were falling in love like he was. He wanted to know if there was even a tiny part of you that wanted to stay.

Ace: Hurry! I'm making dinner. And you should keep those aviators on when you get here... I'm dialed up to eleven.

He shoved the key into the ignition. He was pretty dialed up as well, but he knew it was at least in part because his heart was invested. He lived so close to base, it only took him a few minutes to get home. When he reached to remove his sunglasses and leave them in the cup holder, he smiled. Then he dashed up the walkway to his front door with his keys in hand and his aviators perched on his nose.

You were right there when he walked inside, wearing one of his favorite tropical print shirts and a pair of his socks and a bright smile. His house seemed more inviting than it ever had before. It even smelled like you were making something delicious. And then you were in his arms, and his hands were inside the unbuttoned shirt all over your soft skin.

"I missed you. Been thinking about how good you look in this thing all day long," you moaned, running your hands up and down the front of his uniform shirt. "But the sunglasses make it magical."

"I missed you, too." Bradley kissed you as your hands made their way slowly down to his pants. "You had me dialed up all day and I wasn't even with you." He wanted to ask you so many questions right now, but you were kissing his mustache and bumping his sunglasses with your nose while you wrapped your hand around his cock and started jerking. And then he couldn't remember anything except how happy you made him.

When you sank to your knees in front of him, Bradley yanked his aviators lower on his nose. You were smiling up at him as you yanked his pants down a little lower and licked away the bead of his precum before you kissed his tip. "Why is this so hot with you in your uniform, Lieutenant?"

Bradley groaned loudly as you took a few inches of him with a smirk. "Why is this so hot with you in my shirt and socks?"

You popped him free and giggled. "All my clothes are in your washing machine. Even my underwear."

"I love that for myself," he grunted as you took him deep. With gentle fingers, he stroked your face as you gave him head in his living room. It was like some depraved housewife fantasy, the way you felt so familiar to him. The way he could smell dinner cooking. The way you bobbed your head and moaned for him.

You sucked on his balls and ran your tongue slowly back and forth as you looked up at him. You had one hand wrapped around his length, and you were touching your tits with the other. Your gaze was the neediest thing he had ever seen as he stroked your cheek. Every time you released him, he groaned for you, and then you just started sucking on him again. He could feel himself tightening up as you kissed his balls and whimpered.

"Fuck," he growled, hauling you to your feet and getting his lips back on yours as you gasped in surprise. "I wanna fuck you."

"Please," you gasped, nodding and looking toward the couch.

He shook his head and lifted you up with both hands on your bare ass. "In my bed, Ace."

"That's even better," you whispered, sucking on his neck and raking your fingers through his hair. "Your bedroom smells like you. I love it in there."

"Fuck," he grunted again, his cock slapping against your ass as he carried you to his bed. And then you were on your back with your head on his pillow as he took off his aviators and tossed them down next to you. His shirt was hanging open on you, and his socks looked ridiculously adorable on your feet, and your legs were spread wide, your pussy already so wet for him. "You are the hottest thing I have ever seen," he announced before burying his face in your pussy and making you scream his name.

"Bradley!" you screeched and gasped over and over again as he got his face all wet from you before bringing his lips up to yours for a kiss. His uniform pins were brushing against your breasts and you were grinding your pussy against his cock.

"Shit," he gasped, pulling your lip between his teeth and releasing it. "Where are the condoms?"

"In my suitcase in the hallway," you whimpered. "Skip it if you want. I have an IUD."

And if Bradley thought he was losing his mind ten seconds ago, it was nothing compared to letting himself slip inside your warm, wet pussy with no protection at all. "Ace," he rasped, watching your face as he pushed himself deeper until your back arched off the bed. He fucked you with his hands on your hips until your legs were shaking. You had your hands all over his face, continuously pulling him in for kisses.

"You feel so good," you gasped, running your feet along his thighs.

He pressed his lips to your ear and asked, "Are you getting close for me?"

"Yes," you moaned, reaching for his hand and drawing it up to your lips. You sucked on his fingers for a few seconds, taking him painfully close to the edge, and then you pressed his fingers to your clit.

He worked in quick strokes, listening to the sounds you made as you got louder. When you pulled him closer for more kisses, he indulged you before he said, "I wanna watch you come for me, Baby."

And then you did. You came apart with his fingers on your body and his name on your lips. Your face was beautiful as you gasped and babbled nonsense as your pussy drained every drop of cum from him. You were perfect as you reached for him and said, "Now you better kiss me."

You and he had your lips all over each other for so long after you both caught your breath that he was surprised and delighted all over again when he started to pull out of you and remembered he came inside you.

"You're blushing," you whispered as you looked up at him on his knees between your legs.

His cum was slowly oozing out of your opening and dripping down to your ass. "Baby, if you could see what I see, you'd understand." He was transfixed. Obsessed. He leaned down to kiss your pussy and taste himself there, licking along your skin with a soft grunt.

You propped yourself up on your elbow and tugged him by his hair, and he just knew you wanted to taste it, too. So he kissed you, letting you suck on his tongue. Then he jerked away from you and turned toward the door.

"Is something burning?"

-----------------------------

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Bradley said for the hundredth time as you sat on his couch with him eating pizza. "This isn't as good as yours would have been."

You just laughed. "Seriously, this is probably better. I'm not great at cooking. I was just trying to impress you."

Why exactly, you weren't sure. What difference did it make to Bradley if you could cook a chicken casserole that was good or not? He wasn't yours to impress. You weren't going to be here past Sunday night at the very latest, and that was only if the Angels won game six tomorrow.

"I'm impressed," he replied, his cheeks a little pink again.

"Yeah," you said, trying to push your feelings to the back burner. "I could tell how impressed you were with me in your bedroom."

"That's not what I meant," he said, looking down at his lap with a frown that made your heart ache. You tossed your pizza crust into the box and climbed on his lap. You and he had taken a quick shower together after he called in a pizza order, and now you were both in your own clothing.

You kissed him and tried to change the subject. "What time are we leaving for the bar?" you asked.

When he met your eyes again, he said, "We can go whenever. And we don't have to stay long. Just long enough to say happy birthday to my friend and have a drink?"

You could hardly believe he wanted to take you with him. His friends would want details about who you were and why you were together, so you would just follow his lead.

It was a short drive in his cool Bronco to the bar, and he sang along to the radio and held your fingers laced with his the whole way. And then he paraded you inside with him like it was the most natural thing the two of you could be doing. "That's Mickey, the birthday boy wearing the blue Captain America shirt. And that's my best friend Natasha wearing the annoyed expression because someone is talking to her."

You laughed, and he leaned down to kiss you as you walked toward the pool table. As you walked past the bar to meet everyone, you noticed the bartender's gaze following you and Bradley as you went. Her expression was one of curiosity as she mixed a drink.

"Ace, this is Nat," Bradley was saying, and you turned in time to grasp hands with the woman that he referred to as a 'mean little spitfire'.

"It's nice to meet you," Natasha replied. She didn't look happy exactly, but she didn't look like she was upset that you were here. "I've heard a lot about you."

You looked up at Bradley, a little surprised. "Oh. I've heard a lot about you, too. Bradley said you're smarter than all the guys."

She nodded and smiled. "Yes. Yes, I am. Thanks for acknowledging it, Rooster. You two want drinks?" she asked.

"Go ahead," Bradley replied. "We'll get some in a minute."

"Hey, Rooster!" Mickey shouted as he waved in between taking shots.

You laughed. "I don't know if I'd ever get used to everyone using your call sign," you told him. "It's so amusing to me."

Then Bradley wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you in closer. He kissed your forehead softly, but he looked serious. "If you stick around in San Diego, I bet you'd get used to it, Ace."

You swallowed hard as you looked up into his brown eyes. You could tell he was being sincere, which made everything hurt a little more. But you were saved by the group of guys all calling for him. Bradley sighed and kissed your forehead one more time before you and he were absorbed by the group.

A few minutes later, your head was swirling with names and faces when Bradley asked, "Do you want me to get you a drink?"

"I'll come with you," you told him, and he nodded before taking your hand a little hesitantly. You were confused, because then he wrapped his arm around you just like he always did, and his fingers were softly stroking your side through your shirt. But then when the bartender turned your way, it clicked. She and Bradley had slept together before. You could just tell.

"Hey, Bradley," she said, already reaching for a pint glass and pouring what must have been his usual beer. The way she looked at him and talked to him was just a tiny bit too familiar.

"Hey," he grunted before turning your way. "What do you want to drink, Baby?"

You met the bartender's eyes and couldn't help but smile as Bradley brushed his lips along your temple. You weren't his, but he was choosing you right now. And it felt incredible. "I'll have the same thing," you told her before turning your face so he could kiss your lips.

Bradley dug out his wallet without really looking at her, and she ran his credit card as you sipped your beer. He wasn't being a jerk, and she didn't seem overly jealous, but you just knew they had a past.

Then the two of you threw some darts and played some pool, and Bradley was more than happy to point out that mini golf was probably your worst game. "Happy to see you can handle a pool cue better than a putter," he whispered with a grin.

"Be nice, or I'll leave my golf ball behind at your place," you replied.

He looked a little sad as he shook his head. "I want you to keep that." You knew you would, and he knew you would. You could picture the perfect spot for it in your apartment, but you already knew it would never make it there. You'd keep packing that stupid blue golf ball from your date with him in your luggage and take it everywhere with you.

"Can we go now?" he asked suddenly, his face a little sad. "Back to my place?"

"Yeah," you agreed, and after a round of goodbyes, he led you back past the bar with his arm around you. The bartender tracked your movements, but you didn't care. He was yours right now, the way he was touching you.

And he was yours when you got back to his house, the way you were touching him. "Ace," he sighed as you rode him in his bed. His body was delicious, but his voice was what had you a mess. "Baby, you're so good. Can't get enough of those little noises. Keep going." The feel of him once again inside you without a condom as he verbally coaxed you to orgasm was only part of what you knew you were going to miss.

Because the rest of it came next, when he was curled up with you in the dark, quiet room, his arm draped around you, pulling you close. The only sounds were his breath next to your ear and his deep whisper. "Night, Baby."

-----------------------

"Stay in bed," Bradley whispered again. It was Saturday. Game six was this evening, and he was trying his hardest to draw you back to him again. He had successfully made you snuggle in and fall asleep with him again after the first time you woke up.

"You'll mess up my sleep cycle for when I'm in Boston," you murmured before you snuggled against him with the covers pulled up to your chin. "But you're so warm."

Bradley indulged in a brief fantasy where you would fly out to Boston, complete your assignment, and then fly back to San Diego to be with him until you had to go somewhere else. And you'd be here when he got home from a long deployment. Ready to take him to bed and hold him just like this.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked as you ran your nails along his cheek and kissed his nose.

He couldn't tell you, no matter how much he wanted to. "Thinking about how I'm still the worst Padres fan ever. The Angels better win today. We deserve seven games, Ace."

"We do," you agreed, and Bradley was delighted that you fell asleep in his arms again.

When you and he finally got out of bed, you went to his dresser and pulled on one of his tee shirts like this was a normal occurrence. "Will you let me make you breakfast?" you asked with a smile.

"I was going to make breakfast for you," he replied, patting your ass on his way to the bathroom. "But we could make something together."

You were already in the kitchen, kneeling on the countertop and looking in his cabinets when he came out of the bathroom. "Do you have chocolate chips?" you asked. "We can make chocolate chip pancakes, eggs, maybe some oatmeal. Sorry, I'm just so excited for something other than a free continental breakfast."

He wrapped his hands around your waist and lifted you down as you squeaked. "Not up there," he whispered, kissing your neck as he set you on the floor. "In the pantry."

You turned and scampered across the kitchen, and now Bradley was sincerely hoping he had all the ingredients you'd need for pancakes just so he could make you happy right now. "Found them!" you announced, holding up a bag with a smile that made him weak.

"Let's get started."

It was too much fun being with you. The pancakes you made turned out beautifully, and you and he ate on his couch again. This time he accidentally dripped maple syrup on his bare abs since he wasn't wearing a shirt. "I feel like you did that on purpose so I'd either buy you another shirt or lick it off of you."

He smirked. "I mean, I wouldn't be mad if you did."

You sighed dramatically as you set your plate on the coffee table next to the box of baseball cards. "Fine. Extra large shirt? You want the Padres this time?" Bradley laughed at your words, and then you leaned down and licked him clean as you looked up at him. Then you climbed into his lap and kissed him.

"The Angels better win tonight," he murmured against your lips. "I need them to."

"Do you want to go back to bed?" you asked, and he carried you there, expecting maybe some more tongue exploration. But what he got was you curling up in his arms again, your lips pressed to his chest. You were quiet for a bit before you asked him softly, "What would it be like being in a relationship with you?"

This was an echo of his question from Thursday night, and now he could appreciate that he had really put you on the spot then. How could he describe something spectacular that he wasn't going to get to experience with you, in a way that would make you remember him fondly. Bradley made sure his breathing was calm and even as he said, "Probably just like this, Ace. A whole lot of this right here."

You didn't say anything for a long time, and you kept your face buried against him. But eventually you nodded and said, "I would like that."

-------------------------

When Bradley held your hand during the game at Petco Park, everything seemed a bit more somber today. The press box was quieter than usual even though the crowd was going crazy. During the seventh inning stretch, when you leaned in close and kissed his cheek, Quincy turned around and asked, "You bring him to every game now?" as he nodded at Bradley.

"He's my intern and my sex slave, Quince. And that's strictly on the record."

But Quincy was undeterred today even as you and Bradley laughed quietly together. "Heard Greg was thinking about pulling you out of here early to send you to the Bruins? He only pays you so much because you're useful to him. Being a woman and all."

Bradley watched your head snap to face Quincy with a look of barely concealed rage. "Try not to cry too hard over the fact that I make more money than you even though you're twice my age."

Quincy grunted and muttered, "Same old, same old with you. Always gotta be on top. Always gotta get the last word in."

Bradley watched you press your lips together like you were trying your hardest to not have the last word right now. It was obvious that wasn't why you made it as far as you had. It was also obvious Quincy was trying to bait you. Bradley just felt a little bit bad that he could be used as ammunition against you. "You want something to drink, Ace?"

When you nodded, Bradley stood and went to get you a water bottle. "Thanks," you muttered, looking down at your keyboard as he handed it to you.

"Hey, don't let these assholes get to you," he whispered as he slipped back down into his seat.

He was drawing little shapes along your back with his fingers as you looked up at him in surprise. "I don't fucking care about Quincy.... the Padres are up three to zip." You laughed sardonically. "You know I'll have to leave in the morning if they win, right?" you asked him.

Bradley nodded. He couldn't even say the words out loud. So he focused on the game and held your hand tight. The Padres were using their relief pitcher a little early, and he looked fatigued. His pitches were wild, and he was walking batter after batter. Then right at the top of the eight inning, Bradley heard the crack of a perfectly hit ball.

"That's a grand slam," you whispered before the ball was even beyond the fence. Instead of marking it down on your stat sheet, you tossed your pencil aside and kissed him. "Angels up by one run," you said against his lips.

"They need to hold the lead," he replied, letting his forehead rest against yours. "They need to. I don't care who wins the World Series, but they need to do it in game seven, not game six."

His words made you smile so much, he wrapped his arm around you to keep you as close as he could. And when the final score was the Padres with three runs and the Angels with four, you were practically on his lap. You were even smiling when Greg called you a minute later to tell you to get to Boston first thing on Monday morning after game seven on Sunday night.

"I'll have to book my flight," you said to Bradley as everyone started to flood out of the press box ahead of the crowd. "But we have two more nights together instead of just one."

You and he were quiet after that, your fingers laced together as you walked out to the parking lot and rode back to his house. He didn't feel like he needed to rush right now as he unlocked his front door and followed you inside. You pulled him in for a kiss that was so sweet, he was surprised. Just your arms around his neck and your lips moving gently on his.

"We have some time before my midnight deadline. Can we get changed and snuggle in bed like earlier?" you asked him, your eyes closed as your lips hovered near his. "I want to change into your Padres jersey."

Bradley had goosebumps on his skin as he whispered, "It's your Padres jersey now."

You looked so damn pleased with yourself as you ran toward his bedroom, shedding your clothes on the way. Bradley undressed down to his underwear while you did the same and then slipped his jersey on before heading for his dresser. "Your floor's cold," you mumbled as you grabbed a pair of his socks and put them on before jumping into his bed. "And now I look ridiculous."

Bradley shook his head as he stared at you. He'd been holding back enough, and he just didn't want to do it anymore. "Nah, Ace, you look... like everything I want."

"Bradley," you whispered, pulling his blanket up over your face. "You can't."

He slipped in bed and burrowed under the blanket with you. Your eyes were bright as you looked at him in the dim bit of light. "I can't help it," he replied, and you eased yourself into his arms. "There's nobody like you. You're the Ace for a reason."

"God," you whimpered, kissing his lips and his cheeks, and teasing your fingers through his hair. Your palms were warm on his cheeks as you traced every single scar and the curve of his lips. You ran your nose along his mustache, and you just snuggled closer and closer to him. "I can't think straight when I'm with you. It's like, I feel like I could..."

"Like you could what, Baby?" he begged. He needed you to finish that sentence, but you didn't. You just kissed him until you were the one begging and pleading. It was so easy to give you what you wanted right now, because he wanted it, too. He yanked his underwear down and pulled yours to the side, and when he slipped inside you, he watched you pull the blankets down. And now he could see you a little better, and you really were exactly what he wanted.

It was slow and sweet, and he knew he'd never feel this good with anyone else. He didn't want to let you go. He held your thigh on his hip and rocked into you, thrusting as he thought 'stay, stay, stay'.

"Bradley," you moaned, pushing him onto his back and riding him until you came. He was afraid he was saying exactly what he was thinking now as words like need and permanent surfaced in his mind while he babbled. You told him to cum inside you again, so he did. And when you curled up on his chest, he kissed the top of your head.

Your lips were on his neck as you silently ran your fingers through his hair. "Ace," he whispered, but you just shook your head. So he pressed his lips together and rubbed his hands up underneath the jersey, and you shivered against him.

A few minutes later, when he was nearly soothed to sleep with his cock still nestled inside you, Bradley felt your body jerk. "Oh no. What time is it?" you gasped. You climbed off of him abruptly, a look of panic on your face as you searched for your phone. "Fuck!"

Bradley climbed out of bed as you fumbled your phone and ran for your computer which was charging on his chair. His cum was on his abs and your legs, but you didn't stop to get cleaned up before you ran for his kitchen table. "What can I do to help?" he asked as he followed you.

"Nothing," you snapped, booting up your computer. It was almost 11:30, and Bradley wasn't sure exactly how much you'd written before and during the game; he had been too concerned about the Angels winning tonight.

He got you some water and whispered, "I can help you proofread it," but you didn't respond. You just typed away frantically while he hovered around the living room, glancing in your direction constantly. Your brow was creased in frustrated determination, and Bradley felt like an asshole for not suggesting that you or he set an alarm before climbing in bed. Because he could absolutely lose all track of time when he was with you, whether you and he were fucking, talking or cuddling. And he knew it.

When he looked at the clock on the microwave, he winced. It was nearly midnight, and you were still typing and looking at your stat sheet. "Anything I can do?" he asked again, but you just shook your head, so he went to the bathroom. He got himself cleaned up and then just leaned on the sink vanity with his head cradled in his hands.

Fuck. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel any stress when you were with him. He felt like an idiot. When he finally returned to the table, the clock said 12:01 and you were still typing. He was waiting for your phone to ring. Greg would be calling you to start screaming any second now. And he had to stand there and watch it all unfold. You submitted your article at 12:07, and you looked up at him with sad yet determined eyes before you answered your ringing phone.

"Greg," you said, your voice sounding strong and sure even though your face was defeated. And then Greg was hollering nonstop as you held the phone a few inches away from your ear. Bradley hated it so much. He leaned down to kiss your forehead and then your cheek while Greg reminded you not too kindly that you missed your deadline by seven minutes. Then Bradley cupped your face in his hands and held eye contact with you while you told Greg it wouldn't happen again before you ended the call.

The silence was almost deafening as you held your phone and looked up at him. Bradley swallowed hard, but his voice was still a harsh whisper as he said, "I hate it when he yells at you."

You shook your head and grimaced as tears filled your eyes. "Well, I missed my deadline, so he had every right to-"

"No," Bradley said, dropping to his knees in front of you on his kitchen floor. "He doesn't, Ace. He shouldn't do that. It's just seven minutes."

"But it's a deadline for a reason," you supplied immediately, looking down into his face. "One minute is the same as seven is the same as sixty. It shouldn't happen at all."

Bradley scoffed. "So he sits up until three in the morning in New York just to call you and scream? That's fucked up."

You swiped at your eyes as you whispered, "I let myself get distracted by you. This is my fault. But when I'm with you, I can't think straight. Which is bad."

"Ace," he whispered helplessly as you cried. "But if we were together-"

"We can't be together," you told him. Your voice was soft and sorrowful, but it felt like a gunshot to Bradley. His ears were ringing from the sound of it. He could tell you were stubborn, but right now, he felt stubborn, too. It wasn't very often that he allowed himself to want something, and never on the scale of how badly he wanted you, but he thought right now it would be worth fighting for this.

"I've seen your email inbox," he whispered, and your eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't need Greg or the New York Times to be successful, Ace. You bring everything to the table, and clearly other people see that."

"Bradley," you said, shaking your head sadly. "It's the New York Times. The pinnacle. There's nowhere else for me to go that wouldn't be a step backwards in my career, and that's a fact. My job is important to me. Writing is important to me."

"But you're more than who you write for-"

You cut him off as you raised your voice. "You knew immediately who I was when you saw my name, because I work for The Times!"

Bradley buried his face against your thigh as he tried to will his heart to stop pounding so hard he could barely hear. He kissed you there before he looked up at you again in agony. "People would follow your writing anywhere, because you're that fucking good. Have you ever thought about writing for someone else?"

You swiped at your eyes as you whispered, "No." "Baby, you could make a big name for yourself on an independent platform. Your style is fun and it flows. You can find something better for yourself than the New York Times. This doesn't have to be that hard."

"It's not that easy either. I told you how it would be, Bradley," you said, your voice taking on a pleading tone. "You would hate it when I was away for long stretches. You would want someone else. Someone easy to be with. Someone who was always in San Diego."

"That's a fucking lie," he growled. "And you know it."

You were silent for a minute as your eyes settled on your lap. "New York is my home. I'm settled there. And you're settled here."

He felt sick. The words had too much finality. But you were waiting for him to confirm, and the last thing he ever wanted to do was let you down. "Yeah. I am." Then he realized he was crying as well when he reached up to cup your cheek again. You melted into his touch before you slid off the chair and onto his lap on the floor. "Ace. Look at you," he whispered, and you met his eyes as your lip quivered. "You're perfect. The perfect woman. I want to be with you. And I think you want to be with me, too."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, and he held you while you cried. "I'm sorry, Bradley," you murmured against his shoulder.

He knew you were scared to even think that something might be a better fit for you, and maybe he was wrong. Maybe it would be career suicide if you left your job. He didn't know a damn thing about it really. All he knew was everyone wanted you with them. Including him. It was hard for him to breathe as he asked, "What do you have in New York that you couldn't have in San Diego? Here. With me."

But you didn't answer him. You just stayed curled up on his lap until after one in the morning with your arms wrapped around him and his securely at your back. He tried his best to memorize how good and yet terrible this felt, because in a few days, he knew he'd probably give anything to feel you in his arms.

When you finally eased away from him and kissed his lips, you tried to smile as you said, "Let's just enjoy our last day together."

Bradley closed his eyes against the pain. "Sure, Ace."

--------------------------

All I feel right now is pain. I miss feeling joy. The final game is next. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 7

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hwanghyunjinenthusiast · 1 year

Text

✨️1K Followers Celebration Day 2: NCT bias wrecker - Jaehyun✨️

In the a.m.

AN: I was originally planning to post another fic today but, it got too frustrating so, I scrapped it for another day. Fortunately, my brain seems to have plenty of ideas when it comes to Jaehyun. Also, yay to the first NCT fic on the blog :D

Synopsis: Some harmless scrolling on Instagram takes a turn you could've never seen coming.

Heads up: Jeong Jaehyun x Fem! Reader, friends to lovers, Reader going through it because of her feelings for Jaehyun, Reader mentions wanting Jaehyun to choke her one time, Jaehyun being a little shit, mentions of facesitting, dirty talk, video call sex, guided masturbation of sorts (f. receiving), mutual masturbation, praise kink (f. receiving) and Jaehyun calls Reader pet names a lot throughout this.

Word count: 2989

I will block you if you are a minor and/or have no easily visible indication of your age on your blog if you interact with me in any way.

You don't expect much when you open Instagram.

It's been a relatively uneventful Tuesday night, all things considered. Your laptop sits on your desk, reminding you that you very much have work you should be attending to, but you try your best not to pay it any mind.

Your mindless scrolling comes to a halt when you notice a post from Jaehyun.

It's honestly embarrassing how much just seeing him affects you. Your heart stuttering in your chest as you take in his carefully dishevelled, dark hair and his handsome, almost apathetic expression. You're probably reading more into a singular picture than strictly necessary, but the way his face is angled makes it look like he's looking down at you, and that only causes you to spiral further. Insides squirming violently.

It definitely doesn't help that you wish his hand was around your throat inside of his phone, too.

You're honestly just speechless. You knew you were really looking for ways to procrastinate if you resorted to Instagram of all platforms but, it's a blessing in disguise since you were graced with this.

However, because you're an idiot and you weren't careful, you like the post without thinking. A post he made months ago.

Would it be too much to hope for the Earth to open up right now and swallow you whole?

Panic takes over then. Maybe you could just uninstall Instagram, and he wouldn't notice or get the notification. Maybe you could just unlike it really quickly and he'd never even know-

Luck is not on your side, however, because you notice a message from Jaehyun, and you've never wanted to cease to exist more than right now.

Maybe you could just pretend you magically passed out seconds after liking his post. That wouldn't seem too suspicious, would it?

However, because you're still an idiot and a curious one at that, you open his message.

Jae💕: See something you like?

The fucking nerve of this man. You resent the way your body betrays you. Your face heating up considerably as you just try to comprehend what the fuck is happening. Is he...flirting with you? It wouldn't be the first time. Jaehyun enjoys flustering you, and it works more often than you care to admit. However, flirting with you when you're pretty sure it's around 3 a.m. in Tokyo seems like a little much, even for him.

You: Shouldn't you be asleep? Isn't it like 3.am. there?

Jae💕: Couldn't sleep. Then I got the notification that you liked my post. Isn't it pretty late over there too?

You groan into your pillow. Jaehyun doesn't need to know about you lusting after him so late at night.

You: Yeah, I was doing some work but, I'm pretty much finished for the night.

Jae💕: And you were thinking about me after finishing your work? I'm flattered, baby

Jaehyun has called you baby before. It's nothing new. Honestly, the pet name would make you cringe if anyone else was saying it, but, as you're coming to discover, apparently anything and everything he says and does renders you a flustered mess.

You: No! I was just scrolling, and I accidentally liked it. Don't flatter yourself

Jae💕: Sounds like denial to me~

You: You're so annoying 🙄

What you don't anticipate, on this already fever dream of a night, is for your phone screen to light up with his name. You only hesitate for a few moments before answering.

"I'm annoying, huh? That hurts my feelings," he teases. You can hear the smile in his voice, and the mental image of his dimples hits you like a truck. Though he said he couldn't sleep, his voice sounds gravelly and, you feel yourself squirm instinctively.

"Something tells me your feelings aren't all that hurt," you retort, hoping against hope he doesn't notice the breathy edge to your voice. Talking to Jaehyun always left you feeling a little lightheaded.

"Now you're calling me a liar too? I was being serious earlier. I am extremely flattered that I was running through that pretty mind of yours,"

Yeah, you're definitely going to uninstall Instagram after tonight. You don't even want to begin to unpack him calling anything about you pretty.

With a heavy sigh, you respond, "You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Nope," and he has the nerve to chuckle.

"You really are so annoying. You're lucky I like you and you're cute,"

You were wrong. Now, you've never wanted to cease to exist more. Why in the fuck would you ever say that? Especially tonight? Yeah, sure, some harmless flirting isn't out of the norm between the two of you, but tonight feels decidedly...different. You can't help but feel you're treading a very dangerous line here.

You're half-tempted to just hang up before he responds, "You like me and think I'm cute, huh? If you wanted to ask me out, you could've just said that."

"That's not- I wasn't trying to- I didn't mean to say that,"

"You don't have to get all shy, baby. If anything, the feelings are very much mutual,"

That stops all your higher order functions all together momentarily. What. Jaehyun likes you? Is this actually happening?

"W-what?" Your brain intelligible supplies.

"You really think I just call everyone baby and flirt with them. I'm a little surprised it took you so long to catch on,"

Now that you think about it, he has always treated you...differently compared to your other friends. Johnny and Mark had teased you about it from time to time, but you always thought they were just being little shits. Guess you should learn to take your friends' word more seriously moving forward.

"You could've just been direct with me,"

"Where's the fun in that?" He laughs, but his tone shifts to a more serious one, "I wasn't sure if you felt the same way. I know I joke, and I tease, but you-you mean a lot to me, and I didn't want to jeopardise the friendship we had. I was content to have you in any way you wanted me, even if it was just as your friend."

You were reeling. You couldn't respond to him even if you wanted to for a few seconds. Your brain trying to pull itself together enough to say something.

"You know, this isn't how I was expecting my Tuesday night to go,"

His laugh is warm and throaty and quiet, and all the months of pining finally boil over.

"In case it's unclear, I like you too. Like a lot. Um, yeah,"

"Well that's a relief. I was worried there for a sec," god, you wish you could see his face. You know he's probably grinning ear to ear. Well, you could...

"Jae?"

"Hmm?"

"Could we video call instead?"

"Sure but, do you mind me asking why?"

"I want to see your face,"

You're sure that'll inflate his ego for weeks to come, but you can't bring yourself to care.

You're already proven correct when you see him with the world's largest shit-eating grin and the butterflies in your stomach flutter more violently.

His hair is even more dishevelled than in the picture, and you can see his sleeping shirt cling to his shoulders in a way that heats the blood in your veins.

"Here I am, baby. It's nice to see you too, if I'm being honest," it only hits you when his usually mischievous eyes are heavy with something else entirely as he takes in the sight of you on his screen what you're wearing.

"You're such a perv. I was trying to be sweet,"

"I'm being sweet too! I just have eyes. Also, I saw that look in your eyes. Don't play coy with me,"

"I have no idea what you're talking about,"

"Really?" His grin takes on a more sinister edge, "because I definitely noticed you looking like you wanted to sit on my face as soon as I popped up on your screen."

You're sure you look stupid with how you're gapping at him. Too stunned to speak and your body, once again, betrays you when you feel yourself clench at his words.

He's not wrong but, he doesn't need to just say it like that.

"You can't just say stuff like that, Jaehyun," you whine, and you see his eyes flash so briefly you're wondering if you imagined it.

"Why not? We both know it's true. It's just unfortunate that I'm not there right now to give you what you so obviously want," he drawls, lidded eyes dropping to take in as much of your generous cleavage as he can.

The butterflies shift lower.

"You'd let me sit on your face?" Maybe you're finally learning to just embrace the unexpectedness of this night. You two like and obviously want each other. Fuck it.

He chuckles again, but his voice is already a few octaves deeper, and you feel yourself growing slick. Thighs rubbing together in a way you hope is some level of unnoticeable.

"Happily. I'd do a lot of things to you if you'd let me,"

You're finding it really hard to think straight right now.

"Really? Like what?" You're too far gone for him to even feel ashamed how delicate your voice already sounds.

"And you were calling me a perv earlier," You're not sure if you want to punch him for attractive that arrogant, dimpled smirk of his is or kiss him. God, you really wish he was here too.

He continues before you can butt in, "Well, I'd take my time with you." Your blood feels molten as his lidded gaze takes in every detail of your face, stopping briefly to stare at your lips, "I'd kiss you until your lips were bruised and all you could think about was me."

This time, Jaehyun notices you squirming, and he pounces.

"Aw, is my poor baby already getting all hot and bothered just from me talking about kissing you and letting you sit on my face?"

A desperate whine tumbles out of your mouth before you can help yourself. Between him calling you his fucking baby constantly, what he'd do to you and the gravelly quality of his voice, it's no wonder you can feel yourself begin to leak onto your panties.

"Jaehyun,"

"I asked you a question, baby," his tone is still mostly playful, but you can hear the command clear as day.

"Yes,"

"That's a good girl. Why don't you show me just how hot you are for me?"

Honestly, you should probably feel some semblance of hesitance, but the exhilaration that comes with his praise would likely make you do anything.

You angle your phone as best as you can, the low light of your bedside lamp illuminating the visible wet spot on your panties.

"Fuck, baby," he groans and your pride swells at seeing him just as affected by all of this as you are.

"Can you show me how you touch yourself?"

Your unoccupied hand flies to your panties without much thought, ready to slip a few fingers past the waistband-

"Wait, don't touch yourself directly yet. Touch yourself over your panties,"

"But Jaehyun," you whine, sounding a little pathetic to your own ears, "I'm so wet, and it aches."

He shuts his eyes for a few moments, jaw clenching as he tries to find his words.

"I can't wait to get my hands on you," he mutters, but you don't think he meant to verbalise that particular thought. Either way, the feeling is very much mutual.

"I know, baby, but if you're good for me, I'll reward you, okay?"

You nod almost frantically, and he tuts in response, "Words, baby. Don't make me remind you again."

"O-Okay,"

"Good. Now I want you to touch yourself how you usually would, but over your panties,"

You do as he says. Drawing slow circles against your clit. The brushes of the fabric of your panties and the pressure from your fingers making your eyes flutter. More and more of your wetness drips out of you, making your panties stick to you. Your hips jolt up into your touch sporadically, quiet moans falling from your lips.

"You look so pretty playing with your pussy for me, princess," Jaehyun breathes, his own hand slinking down his body.

You keen at the praise. Adding more pressure to your ministrations against your sensitive clit, "Jae-Jaehyun ah please. I'm so - it's so -" you whimper, your train of thought leaving you with each brush.

"I know, baby. I know. You're doing so well," groans, his heavy gaze intently focused on the mess you're making between your thighs. His cock throbbing in the confines of his boxers with every twitch of your hips and quiver of your thighs.

"Can I see you too?" You ask, clamping down hard around nothing when you notice his arm moving. Putting two and two together and coming to the realisation that he's palming himself.

"Well, since you've been doing so well. I suppose you deserve some kind of reward," he says after some faux deliberation. Angling his phone downwards. Your thighs squeeze your hand hard, never feeling excruciatingly empty as you take in the way his cock strains against his boxers.

Considering the menace he's been all night, you expect him to tease you. Touch himself over his boxers until you're begging to see him properly. However, Jaehyun loves to keep you on your toes.

The air is knocked out of your lungs when he haphazardly tugs his boxers down. His cock smacks against his toned abdomen, flushed and hard and looking good enough to make saliva pool in your mouth.

"Too bad you're not here to sit on it but, I guess we'll have to make do for now, princess,"

Jaehyun is trying to kill you. That's what this is. An elaborate plot to stop your heart right here and now.

"Jaehyun, please. Can I touch myself pr-properly please? I've been so good. Please," you whimper. Slick walls throbbing incessantly when you notice his cock twitch in his grasp.

"I don't know, baby. How badly do you want to?"

"So badly. Please, please, please, I'll do whatever you say. Whatever you want,"

His eyes glint at that, and nervousness and anticipation course through your veins. Maybe he was more calculating than you gave him credit for.

"Since you ask so nicely, go ahead. Take your panties off for me, and let me see you play with yourself properly,"

In a likely incredibly ungraceful display, you impatiently tug your panties off with one hand. Tossing them aside and shoving your hand back between your thighs. Your eyes shutting when your fingers finally come into contact with your poor clit. Whimpers and curses and moans of his name falling from your lips with every circle.

"Fuck, you look so fucking pretty, princess," he groans and, you open your eyes to look at your screen. Fresh wetness gushes out of you when you realise that he's stroking himself. His tip now broaching into an angry red territory, and he's slick with pre-cum.

"I wish you were here," you whine out, increasing the pace of your fingers in time with each stroke of Jaehyun's hand. The obscene sounds emanating from your phone's speaker going straight to clit.

His chuckle is even more gravelly than before, "Me too, princess. Watching you like this...fuck. You're driving me insane," he mutters, hips jolting up to fuck into his fist. You've never envied a hand more than in this moment.

"Th-the feeling is mutual. I'm so-so ah,"

"Are you close, baby?"

"Ye-yes," you whimper, your toes beginning to curl, and the knot that's settled in your core tightening more and more and more.

The moan that falls from his lips is low and drawn out. His hand picking up its pace considerably as he watches you begin to fall apart on your hand.

"You're going to be a good girl and cum for me, right?" Oh god. The whine that's ripped from your throat is desperate and pitchy, your wetness drips down your thighs and begins to pool onto your sheets.

All your brain can manage is a jumbled mess of what you think is his name and 'please' and choked noises of pleasure. You're so close you can practically taste it.

You're distracted from your encroaching release when you hear Jaehyun's own sounds of pleasure. It takes a considerable amount of effort to open your eyes and, you're glad you do.

You open your eyes just in time to watch Jaehyun cum. His cum spurting onto his toned abdomen, parts of his thighs and all over his pretty hand. Strained, breathy gasps flooding your ears and the soft blush on his face, all combining to send you over the edge.

You try your best to muffle your cries as your hips twitch away from your hand. Insides spasming sporadically and even more wetness gushing out of you. Smearing your thighs and adding to the mess on your sheets.

It takes you both very long moments to regain your higher order functions. The stickiness underneath you and between your thighs quickly becoming uncomfortable but, you can't bring yourself to care right now.

"This is probably the most unconventional way anyone's ever confessed to me and asked me out,"

The laugh he gives you makes the butterflies roar once more. Considering you just watched each other cum, you suppose you have no real reason to be shy anymore.

"It's definitely the most unconventional way I've asked someone out. Luckily, the Japanese leg of our tour ends in about a week, so I can take you out properly then,"

"A whole week huh," you pout.

"Unfortunately, princess. Hey, I'm not opposed to more calls like this until we're able to meet in person," he responds with a wolfish grin.

You resent the way your still sensitive walls clench at the suggestion.

#jeong jaehyun smut #jung jaehyun smut #jaehyun smut #nct 127 smut #nct smut #1k followers celebration day 2 #1k followers celebration #1k followers milestone

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soupthatistohot · 25 days

Text

BSD: An Absurdist Analysis - Ch. 114

My thoughts on "Crime and Punishment"

[BSD Absurdism Masterpost]

Okay, so! Fyodor probably isn't dead.

And my theory for what his ability is would tie into Asagiri's absurdist storytelling thus far.

In Sigma's flashback, we see Fyodor get impaled in a manner that is eerily similar to how he dies in the helicopter, a way that pratically guarantees his death. Yet, as Sigma observes, he must have escaped the execution in order for him to still be alive.

My theory, put simply, is that when someone successfully kills Fyodor, he takes their place.

His ability is called Crime and Punishment, right? And if the ultimate crime (sin) is murder, then the punishment would be death. So, then, perhaps when someone is able to kill Fyodor, it causes their death, and somehow Fyodor takes on their lifeforce (for lack of a better term) and is able to keep living.

This would also explain why he has been able to live for such a long time. If he keeps getting killed by people whose lifeforce he assumes, then he can theoretically live forever as long as people keep attempting to murder him.

This would explain the end of the chapter where the body is shown to clearly not be Fyodor's. The helicopter pilot would have paid the consequence for Fyodor's murder, and thus been the one to die. For whatever reason, I suppose this means he and Fyodor switched likenesses? This is further supported by the panel in the flashback/memory where something seems to be happening to the man who impaled Fyodor after he does so. This part I cannot explain as well, but I think y'all can understand what I'm getting at with this.

Additionally, this theory of Crime and Punishment explains the purpose of the prison-break game, he's been trying to goad Dazai into killing him all along so he can die in turn, and finally be rid of his rival.

(Edit: the above point is likely rendered invalid because No Longer Human would very likely protect Dazai from death by Fyodor’s ability. That being said, it further explains why Fyodor is so determined to kill Dazai — not only is he his match in wits, but he might be the only one capable of killing him for good.)

Further, it could possibly explain Nikolai's desire to kill Fyodor. Perhaps Nikolai knows the nature of Fyodor's ability, and is the only one who does, which is why he considers them to be so close. He idolizes Fyodor, and so he desires to one day kill him, because he knows it will kill him in turn and Fyodor will get to continue living on. This one's a bit of a reach, but I do think it's a potential explanation if my theory about Crime and Punishment is correct.

And now for how this all fits into absurdism!

Fyodor has been the main antagonist for a really long time, basically for half of the manga's run. Up until this point we've had little to no clues about the nature of his ability and if my theory turns out to be correct, wouldn't that just be the greatest absurdity of all time? A villain that literally cannot die because when someone kills him, they actually die instead of him? How do you even defeat such a person?

I'm fairly confident about this theory, my only question would be why he would reveal this now? Surely, he knows that Dazai would figure it out, both from Sigma and from the corpse clearly not being him, so what benefit does Fyodor gain from revealing not only that he's survived, but what his ability is?

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bsd manga #bsd manga spoilers #bsd 114 #fyodor dostoevsky #sigma bsd #dazai osamu #bsd absurdism analysis #soup rants

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boneblushed · 7 months

Text

Untouchable

masterlist | part 5 | part 6

synopsis the if only conundrum.

wc 4.6k

“Rafe,” you warn.

“Y/N…” he echoes, his finger sweeping over your warm cheek.

He’s too close, closer than he should be, far closer than your own good or his would sanction.

And it’s as though his stupid, familiar scent has immobilised you, the rough chlorine and vetiver like a disarming agent, liquefying your limbs. His lips draw nearer, less than an inch from yours now, and your pathetic heart jumps into your throat in tandem.

Is he having as much trouble catching a breath right now as you are?

Your gaze staccatos as you force it up to his features, halting on his bobbing Adam’s apple, the shadow of stubble on his neck. At his mouth now, you watch his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip. Pause. His eyes are all pupil with a thin wafer of deep blue, like the rim of the horizon before it descends into velvet dusk.

He leans in further, reinforcing his hold on your jaw, and rather than doing the same, you find yourself freezing in place.

Perhaps it’s the fact that this is all becoming too real too fast—Rafe Cameron with his hand on your face, Rafe Cameron with zero regard for personal space. Rafe Cameron making the same move on you that he’s no doubt made on every other girl on his roster; he’s this close to sealing the deal, tasting your lips and marking you his, when you realise that you don’t want to be another name he gets to cross off his list.

If only you knew.

You press the heels of your palm against his chest hastily, hesitant more than firm, enough force for Rafe to stumble back in surprise.

His chest lurches in protest, his skin singed where your hands made contact.

“Rafe,” you resound, letting out another shaky breath. Unsure. “Stop.”

“I — shit,” he mutters back, his voice gruff, almost languid. He straightens a little and runs his fingers through his hair, the soft, dirty-blonde locks limp against his touch. “Why?”

You wince. “I could ask you the same question.”

Rafe falters, momentarily caught off guard, his thick brow furrowing as he looks back down at you. “Are you kidding?” He rasps, as if trying to catch his breath. “You have to know that not kissing you right now is fucking torture.”

“We… we can’t,” you say then, grappling for excuses that are quickly slipping through your fingers. “Our relationship is strictly professional, and —”

“Oh come on,” Rafe interrupts then, reclaiming his hold on your jaw so that he can prompt your gaze up to meet his. “The way we look at each other is the exact opposite of professional.”

Your eyes widen slightly, disarmed by the revelation, and you find yourself struggling to deny the truth of it without outright lying.

“The amount I think about you,” he continue lowly, his voice gravelly around the edges. “Would put Cromwell into a fucking coma.”

The things I want to do to you, he wants to add, would definitely have that effect. Maybe—definitely—that’s overkill. Perhaps it’s your closeness that’s rendered him defenceless, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s superimposed by your wide eyes and pretty mouth. Christ, you’re going to be the death of him. He wonders whether you know that you’re pressing your cheek into his palm right now, vying for more of him. You have these tells that he’s yearned for since before tonight, before this year, before the year prior and probably even before he tried to ask you out.

A beat. You want to believe him so badly your heart aches, but there’s a nagging in your chest that makes it difficult to focus on anything else.

“Why now?” You whisper, uncertain.

“Didn’t think I had a chance til now,” he murmurs back.

What happens if it doesn’t work out? It taunts, refusing to relent. What happens if he loses interest just as you’re ready to accept it?

“It’s not the right time, Cameron,” you reply finally, letting out a languid sigh. You push away from him again, more sure this time than you were before. “It… it’ll overcomplicate things.”

“The way I feel about you already happens to do that,” he murmurs back, though it’s clear he’s beginning to acquiesce. He sighs too. “But,” he takes a step back, and your heart pulls, “shit… as much as I don’t want to, I get it.”

“Okay,” you say, swallowing thickly. Selfish as it is, you sort of wish he’d fought you on the fact harder.

“Okay,” he echoes, clearing his throat. Another beat as the pair of you regain your composure, or what’s left of it after the havoc wreaked by the promise of something more.

You nod in assent, try for a smile. It’s as you’re readying yourself for the let’s-pretend-this-never-happened speech that the pair of you are interrupted by the sound of a car fast approaching, the turbulent ignition like a blade through the silence.

Your father pulls into the driveway just as Rafe turns to face it, his headlights bathing the two of you in yellow light. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of Rafe’s body heat on your skin. It’s as though having a witness has shrunk the inches between your figures; you step away quickly, feel him do so in tandem, and try to act normal whilst feeling the exact opposite.

The ignition quietens, and your father climbs out of his car with subtle surprise etching his features.

“Mr Y/L/N!” Rafe exclaims, plastering on that charming smile of his. Effortlessly—like it’s nothing. Your heart pulls again. “How’re you doing?”

“Rafe,” he acknowledges, raising his eyebrows. Not unpleasantly; he just isn’t sure what to make of the pair of you outside of an Academy setting. “What brings you here?”

“I was just leaving,” he answers swiftly, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “I… uh, Mrs Y/L/N was kind enough to invite me inside for dinner.”

“Ah.” Your father’s eyes dart to you, searching for an explanation. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Rafe shakes his head in response, turning toward you and beginning to walk down the porch steps backwards. “I’ll, uh,” he sounds more breathless speaking to you than he does your father, his heady gaze softening as it falls over you in paces, “I’ll see you later?”

“At the next meeting, yeah,” you answer with a nod, trying to sound nonchalant. (Failing miserably.)

He pivots on his heels and slides his keys out of his front pocket, his heart doing this odd little lurch as the distance between the pair of you increases. His skin burns despite the Autumn chill, the phantom of your touch still pressed into his torso.

Don’t turn back, he thinks. He hears your father’s footsteps ascend the porch, hears your front door open and close after you greet him. He doesn’t see the knowing look he shoots you, nor does he hear the flustered waver in your timbre. Or the way your gaze lingers on his figure. When he sits down in the driver’s seat and does catch a glimpse of his reflection in his rearview mirror, all he can see is the same mouth that should’ve tasted you by now. He closes his eyes, and all he sees is your pretty face looking up at him, blurred around the edges.

—

You’re doing a good job at being normal about it all.

Too good a job, it seems; two weeks on from your porch-side rendezvous, it appears as though Rafe Cameron has resigned himself to his apparent fate—that he’s never going to be able to call you his.

How do you know? You’ve returned to professional pleasantries sans any playful teasing—sans any lingering glances or too-close proximity, the unbearable tension between you notwithstanding.

And the worst part of it all, you’re quickly realising, is that it’s based on a fate that’s very obviously untrue. Because the thing is, you do feel something for him, try as you might to vehemently deny it. And you know that it’s selfish, hoping he keeps pursuing you despite shutting it down already, but there’s this part of you that wants him to want you despite it all.

Again, if only you knew.

Rafe Cameron’s favourite deflection tactic is moving on far too fast.

“Any other notices?” You ask, looking out over the room-full of tired prefects in front of you.

Dalton raises his arm, the rolled sleeve of his uniform shirt pulled taut. You narrow your eyes at him, skeptical about the merit of his announcement. “Notices that aren’t just party invitations,” you add, sending him a stern glare.

Dalton grins roguishly, lifting his other arm in surrender. “Third one this year you haven’t attended, Y/L/N. Where’s your team building spirit?”

You roll your eyes, your gaze darting to Rafe momentarily, a knee-jerk response. Usually, this is where he’d jump in and interject. Recently, however, it feels as though he’s more afraid of the consequences of a possible imposition.

It makes your undeserving pulse lurch, your lips pulling down into a frown without meaning to. “You know what, Haynes,” you say after a beat, looking back toward him. “You’re right. When’s the party?”

Rafe falters, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Dalton’s too busy looking pleased to notice this reception, and he pushes back against his rickety chair, balancing it on its hind-legs. “Tonight,” he answers, flashing you another grin. A muscle in Rafe’s jaw ticks. “At mine. Cameron’ll get you the addy, won’t you brother?”

A beat. When Rafe doesn’t respond right away, you look up at him expectantly, your brow furrowing at the odd expression on his face—almost strained.

Your heart flounders.

You begin overthinking the invitation and your subsequent acceptance; why did you assume he’d want you there, anyway, at a party with all of his friends in the middle of his affluent neighbourhood? What were you trying to achieve by agreeing to go to it, some non-Academy time to solidify all this awkwardness?

Besides, you’d never fit in with a crowd like theirs, not without his Rafe Cameron charm as a buffer.

“Yeah, course,” he answers after pause, an unreadable emotion flashing across his blue irises. If you’re being honest with yourself, it looks dangerously close to reluctance. You resist the urge to grimace.

“Alright,” you say, clearing your throat awkwardly. “If that was all, we’ll lock in another meeting for the same time next month.”

A murmur of assent moves over the room, punctuated by the clamour of backpack zips and car keys jangling. You hesitate before retrieving your own laptop and placing it into your tote, Rafe’s imposing figure still frozen in place beside you.

Unbeknownst to you, he’s going through his own, exhausting turmoil of emotions. They start and end with you, the way they always do; almost kiss turned rejection or not, he’s pretty sure that your implacability in his mind is inevitable.

He’s pretty sure he’s actually fucking fucked, all things considered. (Read: wants you so badly it genuinely hurts sometimes.) Sure, the risks that come with being together may overcomplicate this whole head student thing, but not doing so is torturing him enough to render this a mute point.

Because, really, when have you ever accepted an invitation to one of his parties? Of all the absolute douchebags that make up your graduating class, why did you have to settle for someone as mediocre as Dalton fucking Haynes?

“…Cameron?”

It’s the third time you’ve said his name, just loud enough to break his reverie. He blinks a few times, glancing down at you. “Yeah?”

“Listen,” you say, frowning a little. “If I’ve… uh, I don’t know,” you pause, wincing, “overstepped, or something…”

There’s this slight, guilty inflection to your tone, and it makes Rafe feel worse, as if that was fucking possible. “Are you kidding?” He asks, shaking his head and plastering on a grin. “Of course not. I’ve been trying to get you to one of these parties for months!”

Your frown acquiesces a smidge, and you look up at him, your wide eyes messing with his brain. “I just mean… they’re your friends, and I know they never actually expect me to come to any of these things —”

“No, you should come,” he interrupts. “Get to know everyone. The girls. The boys,” he raises his eyebrows in what he hopes is a playful jibe, “Dalt.”

You lift your own in surprise, making to shake your head. “I’m not —”

“He lives at the end of the Strand Street cul-de-sac, super close to my house,” he interrupts again. “D’you need a ride there?”

And very far away from your own, as Rafe already knows. You try not to read into the fact that he’s willing to go out of his way to pick you up.

“I’ll be okay,” you respond slowly. “Listen, Cameron, I’m not trying to —”

“I’ll look out for you, yeah?” He says then, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. You’re close enough for his elbow to nudge yours as he does so, shifting a jolt of static through your bones. “Be your wing-man or something.”

You’re unsure what to make of his insistence, so you pause, chewing on your bottom lip thoughtfully. Maybe he’s already forgotten about the same almost that’s plaguing you; maybe this is his gentle way of telling you he’s over it. Or maybe, and your mouth goes dry as you consider it, he’s moved in with someone else and doesn’t want you feeling awkward about the fact that you haven’t.

He’s sweet when he wants to be, you think.

“Alright,” you say finally, forcing a smile.

He throws his backpack over one shoulder, jogging backward toward the door. “No bailing last minute, Y/L/N.”

He’s gone before you know it, disappearing around the corner and no doubt catching up with his football posse. Your smile fades. It isn’t lost on you that this is the first meeting after which he hasn’t offered you a ride home.

��

Dalton Haynes lives in a magnificent palazzo in the heart of the Eight, its polished glass windows aglow with technicolor lights. The sharp edges are bordered by a cloudless sky, sunset orange transforming into deeper plum.

From the heavy bass reverberating through the air as you near, it’s clear that the party is already in full swing.

“Y/L/N!” Dalton exclaims, joined by Kelce on the front porch. “Look at you! You made it!”

You smile bashfully, clearly a little out of your depth, allowing him to pull you into a side-hug once you’re at an arm’s length. “I made it,” you agree, nodding at the pair of them. “Everyone else inside?”

Kelce raises his eyebrows, sharing a knowing look with Dalton before grinning roguishly. “Cameron’s inside, yeah,” he answer, taking a generous pull of his half-empty beer. Beads of condensation roll down the aluminium can ominously. “But I think you need a drink in your hand before you start mingling.”

“Uh,” you hold out your empty hands expectantly, “bit difficult considering I didn’t actually bring any.”

“No biggie,” Dalton answers good-naturedly, throwing his arm over your shoulder. “What d’you usually drink Y/L/N? I’m sure we can find something you’d like in the fridge.”

“Usually?” You echo diffidently, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. You aren’t sure you’ve done enough underage drinking to justify a predisposition to any sort of liquor—the odd, too-warm beer at a bonfire, a glass of moderately priced champagne if you’re at a celebration. A Mai Tai, once, at that exclusive PTA dinner at the Island Club last year.

With Rafe. And the rest of the association, of course, but it’s Rafe you remember, in his tailored suit and polished dress shoes.

Rafe, with the glinting cuff-links and generous wad of cash redeemable for fancy drinks and bar-staff compliance. Rafe, with the charming grin and really really distracting biceps. Aftershave, vetiver, and the saccharine scent of orgeat syrup. You didn’t realise, until just now, how much of him you remember from that first night as head students.

“Yeah,” Dalton prompts, retrieving his arm from your shoulder to pull open the fridge and peer inside. He’s led you down the hallway and into the busy kitchen, his large house suffused by varyingly familiar upperclassmen. “We’ve got some of my sister’s leftover White Claws, half a bottle of Sav, three of those Mai Tai drinks, oh — and a few cans of my beer, which you’re absolutely welcome to but I assume that you aren’t a big Budweiser girl yourself.”

“Mai Tai’ll do,” you answer, “thank you.”

“Easy,” he nods, handing one over before closing the fridge and straightening. He clinks the rim of his can against yours, making a noise of approval when you hiss it open. “The head girl at a party,” he says, grinning as he tips back his beer to take a sip. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

You roll your eyes, sending him a faux-glare. “You make me sound like such a fucking bore.”

“Not my intention,” he answers, raising his arms in surrender. “You just intimidate the living Hell out of me, and this laidback environment tends to take the edge of that a bit.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, shaking your head. “If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s working,” you say, turning to face the living room. You lean against the kitchen island in front of you as you survey the scene, the smooth marble like glacial lava on your forearms. And your gaze moves over the scene absentmindedly, a fact that isn’t lost on Dalton. It’s as if you’re trying to find someone in secret—catch a glimpse of their figure and then pretend that you didn’t.

He leans forward in tandem, taking another pull of his beer. “Oh, I’d never dream of flattering Cameron’s girl without his permission.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, you face whipping around to face him. “I’m not —”

“Oh, sure, maybe not right now,” he allows, raising his eyebrows. “But I think it’s pretty obvious you’re the reason that he’s been flirting with Leighton all evening, don’t you think?”

“Leighton?” You echo, frowning slightly. “Where’s —”

Dalton places his hands on your shoulders firmly, pivoting you on your heel so that you’re facing the kitchen window. It overlooks one side of his wraparound deck, and in amongst the ruckus, Rafe is standing too close to the girl named Leighton. She’s undeniably beautiful, all glowing limbs and cheeks that are rosied by the chill. And a hand on Rafe’s—your Rafe’s—bicep.

You blink. There’s an unfair wrench in your gut. Suddenly, the fact that you didn’t almost kiss him when you had the chance feels like a cruel twist of fate, entirely unbearable. He’s already moved on, the way you predicted that he would, but the vindication of being right doesn’t feel nearly as good as it should.

This isn’t his fault, you have to remind yourself. But that doesn’t matter, the nagging voice screams, seeing him with someone else still hurts like a bitch. Granted, a wholly unjustified bitch, seeing as you’re the one that insisted you keep this professional. You blink again. Her hand’s still abutted in all it’s manicured glory, on his stupid broad bicep as though it belongs there.

“Oh,” is all you say.

Dalton frowns. “Dude, did you hear anything I just said? The only reason he’s even talking to her is because of you.”

“You don’t know that,” you answer, forcibly peeling your gaze away from him. “Besides, nothing even happened between us.”

“That’s the point,” Dalton urges, sending you an assessing look. “Better an oops than a what if, right?”

You shrug helplessly, your gaze moving back toward Rafe without meaning to. He’s smiling down at the girl named Leighton, this real, genuine grin that makes you honest-to-God ache, and another ugly bout of jealousy sears through your ribcage, forcing you to resign yourself to your fate.

“Except,” you say finally, turning away from the kitchen window, “that there wasn’t ever a what if in the picture to begin with.” You pull away from the smooth marble countertop, making for the yawning stairwell before looking back expectantly. “What’re you waiting for, Haynes? You going to give me a tour of this place or what?”

—

The tour, whilst a useful way to pass time, fails to distract you from the envious turn of your stomach. It feels as though every window you peer through allows a crystal-clear view of Rafe Cameron and his latest conquest—his figure too-close to hers, his elbow nudging her slim waist, her pretty hand on his bicep, on his shoulder, ever-present.

“You need a top-up?” Dalton asks, pointing his can at yours questioningly. You’re halfway down the stairwell and fast approaching the kitchen, the burnt ochre hue of sunset transforming a deeper velvet.

You tip back your Mai Tai for its dregs, nodding in response.

“Y/N?”

He doesn’t use your first name very often. His gravelly timbre tends to oscillate between your surname and whatever pet-name he’s in the mood for; less so after you made it clear that it irks you.

If only he knew.

He’s thought about you a pathetic amount tonight. Where you are, when you’ll arrive, how he’ll play it cool when you’re with Dalton (fucking Haynes) despite wanting to die inside. And now, it feels as though his worst fears are manifesting before his eyes—gorgeous you in a singlet and jeans with a slice of waist exposed, with maddening spaghetti straps made of almost see-through material. With pretty eyes, prettier cheeks, glossy lips that he knows smell like peach. (And feel like satin, and taste like something illegal; taste like the absolute fucking death of him.)

If it isn’t already obvious, Rafe Cameron is spiralling. He doesn’t do that very often—ever.

As you complete your descent of the stairwell, he runs his fingers through his hair, drawing your attention to his taut biceps and strong forearms.

“Oh, hey!” You exclaim, a little sheepish. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“Been here the whole time Y/L/N,” he responds evenly, his gaze darting to Dalton beside you. Less even, now. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Not long,” Dalton supplies, moving past him post-descent. “Just gave her a little tour of the humble abode.” He turns to back toward you expectantly. “Another Mai Tai, head girl?”

“You can go now, Haynes,” Rafe says, not bothering to look back at him.

Dalton raises his eyebrows at Rafe over his shoulder. “You’ll grab her the drink?”

Rafe ignores him, and you frown, evidently bemused by his unfriendly reception. “I’ll grab it myself Dalt,” you say, raising your empty can in farewell. “Thanks for keeping my company!”

He sends you a mock salute in response, and you swear there’s an imperceptible wink thrown in too. You frown harder, a question, but he’s too busy disappearing into the hallway to particularly notice it.

“So,” Rafe begins. A pause. “You and Haynes, huh?”

You look up at him, your pretty brow furrowed. “Did you guys get into a fight or something? Because this morning —”

“Yeah. Over you.”

You falter. “Me?”

Rafe sighs languidly, raking his fingers through his hair again. It prompts his figure an inch closer to yours, the scent of his musk and vetiver aftershave rendering your poor insides jelly. “Why didn’t you come find me when you got here, Y/L/N?”

“You were with a girl!” You protest. “I didn’t… I don’t know, you were busy.”

“You came to his party,” he continues slowly, his voice low, “I’ve invited you to so fucking many and his is the one that you finally attend.”

“For you, you idiot!” You exclaim, and then you falter, grimacing abashedly. “I mean,” you sigh, “I… I don’t know, I was sick of things being awkward.”

A pause. An unreadable emotion flickers over Rafe’s blue irises, and he takes a small step forward, caging you into the stairwell bannister. “For me?” He asks, his heady gaze trained on your features.

“Besides,” you continue, choosing to ignore him. “You — you were teasing me about the invitation, going on about how you’d play wing-man when I’m with Dalt.”

He raises his eyebrows. “‘Dalt’, huh?”

“You called him that,” you defend, “Not me. And — and you were with some other girl when I arrived —”

“Leighton’s a family friend,” he interrupts, inching closer still to rest his arm on the rounded newel at your side. His bicep on your shoulder now, a body-heat wall of muscle. “She was telling me about the college guy she’s seeing.”

You swallow. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Rafe agrees.

A beat. You can hear the steady thump of your heartbeat in your ears, the music and party clamour like long forgotten white noise. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, breaking eye contact.

Rafe frowns. “For?”

“I know you didn’t want me to come tonight.”

Another beat. When he doesn’t respond—argue with you—right away, you feel your stomach drop, your unsure gaze moving back up to him.

His once-blue irises have given way to dilated pupils. You swallow again.

“True,” he murmurs finally, his voice rough.

“Because this is your crowd,” you explain unnecessarily, talking faster, “not mine. And your friend’s the one that’s hosting. And there’s no real reason for me to be here except you, but our relationship’s supposed to be strictly professional and I’m the one that’s been harping on about —”

“Because,” Rafe interrupts firmly, his calloused palm find the contour of your jaw and pulling you closer. “Not kissing you two weeks ago was hard enough as is.” He ducks his head to eye-level, his nose brushing over yours gently. “And I don’t think I have it in me to control myself any more.”

You inhale in surprise, your lips parting slightly. “That sounds complicated,” you murmur.

“So fucking complicated,” he agrees lowly, his spearmint-and-beer breath fanning over your warm cheeks. Your lashes flutter. “Christ Y/N,” you can feel his lips ghosting over yours, now, “will you let me in complicate it some more?”

You may lean in first, but Rafe leans in harder. His free palm finds your waist and presses you against the stairwell bannister, torso to torso with enough conviction to bruise a little, your figure like putty in his hands. And his mouth is all youthful and rough, infused by Budweiser, his warm tongue moving over yours with desperation. Like he doesn’t fucking believe any of this is happening—doesn’t believe how soft your skin feels, how sweet your lips taste, how wretchedly he wants to feel more of you, all of you.

His hand slips underneath your singlet to knead the bare skin he finds there, his bruised lips dragging along your chin to your jaw. “Complicated fucking neck,” he mutters gruffly, pressing teeth-scraping kisses along your throat. His hand slides down to the curve of your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. “And shit, don’t get me started on how much these jeans are over-complicating everything.”

“Says you,” you gasp, your arms circling his neck to allow your fingers free reign on his hair. “Your hair’s cuter when it’s a little damp like this, y’know that?”

Rafe groans, his forehead falling to your shoulder in faux-defeat. “Compliments. Complicated.”

“No compliments,” you say as he lifts his head again, smiling. “Noted.”

“No talking,” Rafe agrees. He leans in again, pressing his lips to yours, hard. “Just kissing.”

“Kissing, huh?”

The voice makes the pair of you freeze, spring apart in tandem. Standing at the end of the hallway, a condensation-shiny Mai Tai in hand and triumphant grin on his face, Dalton Haynes’ knowing gaze is trained on your figures. “Please,” he adds then, raising his arms in surrender and beginning to walk backward, “don’t stop on my account.”

He disappears around the corner, and you turn back to Rafe, noticeably chagrined. Shit, you think, mostly because you want to kiss him again. You’re totally fucking fucked.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader

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oftidheard · 5 months

Text

@ginarely-blog ♡ established relationship, set in an au where each tribute has two mentors; reader and coryo shared lucy gray

❄ burn me twice and the blame walks for you ㅤ⠀coriolanus snow x reader ㅤ⠀↳ 1.5k ↳ angst with some comfort ↳ feminine

through heavy doors and the cracks beneath them, you can still hear the remnants of cheers of winning and tantrums of loss echoing from heavensbee hall. it had been thrilling to be amongst the crowd of classmates yelling of your winning tribute, and you'd never deny the potent victorious chill that ran through your veins when you'd finally won — but it had grown suffocating.

now, your senses are overcome with the deep thump of your heartbeat choking you, and the leftover pressure of coriolanus's hand, pushing your shoulder out of the throng of celebration when he'd noticed your breaths had begun to grow laboured and rapid.

he's good at that, knowing when you're about to burst into flames or whither away like a forgotten houseplant, and now — just like every other time he saves you — you're more than grateful that he got you out of the hall before you grew lightheaded.

he, though, still remains inside. you'll never truly understand your boyfriend and his web of intricacies, but you tend to understand his thought processes more often than not; like now.

when the cameras had cut from the arena, and lucky had shoved a microphone in your face with hundreds of questions running off his tongue, you'd been frozen with a wide grin and your only form of communication rendered to shocked gasps. he'd joked and graciously moved on to save you from further embarrassment — though more likely you suspect because ten minutes of an academy student staring at a camera without a word wouldn't be very entertaining.

but that left coriolanus, the more charismatic half of your mentoring pair, to converse with the host.

if you sift through blood pumping in your ears and heavy breaths, you can probably make out the voice of coryo being interviewed. and as much as you wish you could have him here reminding you to breath and reassuring everything worked out, you know that if both the mentors of the winning tribute were to suddenly disappear when they should be basking in their win, it would raise suspicion.

the last thing you need is more eyes on you. even hidden in an unfrequented hallway you don't feel truly safe, but you remind yourself — because the comforting voice of your boyfriend is not here to do it for you — that you made it out the other end; and you will no longer need to fret over loose ribbons or compact mirrors being traced back to you.

that had compressed your chest and shook the tips of the fingers from the moment you'd slipped the little thing between lucy gray's hands, and coriolanus had returned from dr. gaul's lab without the accessory you'd given the same songbird for her live interview. the deception, the sneaking around, the betrayal; it had eaten you alive. but the reward of it all paying off had fed your throbbing heart enough for the scars of your actions to fade until it was as if they were never there.

as if the only two people who will ever know what you did to keep that girl alive will be those who know to never speak of it again.

you feel as though you can't think of it either, as if a thought just a bit too loud will be displayed across your forehead for all to see.

you try not to let it rattle you when, after failing to supress — what should now be your inconsequential — fear of being caught, you hear footsteps approach.

deep breath. you take one in and one out, and remind yourself that your reasonable boyfriend would laugh at you for believing in such a superstition that your mere thoughts could draw in something tangibly malicious. you're overthinking, and that's that.

but you hope the terror is not visible on your face, and that your smile is sufficiently polite, when you recognise the person joining you in this gap between halls to be dean highbottom.

he isn't a jolly man, so you try not to let his refusal to return your kind greeting deter you.

"you won."

you're almost grateful he's not one to force students into uncomfortable silences as some sort of intimidation tactic — as you are well familiar with and despise the several professors who enjoy simply walking up to you with an unbreakable quietness that always forces you to meekly start conversations.

"lucy gray won, really."

the man is unreadable, beyond the constant state of being unimpressed, you cannot puzzle together what he could possibly thinking. for all you know he's purely congratulating your success.

"unexpectedly," he simply says, and already in your 'impress officials' mode, you find a loophole to continue the conversation — even if the lump in your throat begs otherwise.

"well, who doesn't love an underdog."

he makes a hmph noise, and takes a swig from his silver flask. you wonder if there's a way to bring a civil end to a conversation that is only serving to slowly inject a nauseating anxiety into the depths of your stomach.

he parrots with an unrushed rhythm, "who doesn't love an underdog," and it feels like a threat, like you should run away right now. your feet sink slowly but surely into wet cement that dries in the blink of an eye; you're trapped.

your smile must undoubtedly look like you're begging to be set free now, and you can't even push out a well-mannered noise of agreement without your lungs quivering for air.

"people prefer their underdogs to play fair," and all of a sudden, the conversation is entirely one-sided. a man who despises your boyfriend and now has the means to drag him — as well as his partner — down, versus a girl who is about to pass out.

"enjoy the celebrations while they last," he takes another sip, as his eyes draw to the sound of a door opening and closing behind you.

your mind is too far gone in the depths of your realisation that you are unequivocally screwed to even care for the brisk footsteps behind you, until they're replaced by an eery silence and a firm arm around your waist.

the scent of roses wafts around you, and your heartbeat 'slows' back down to the quick speed it had been rising from a moment earlier — only slightly quelled by the general calmness you feel when near coriolanus.

though you are not unlike a defenceless prey grazing in a field — one that has only just become acutely aware of their soon to be killer hiding in the bushes, but cannot find it in themself to fight their instincts to just freeze, even if it may cost their life — you are well acquainted with coriolanus's feelings towards the dean. and through the buzz of your innate terror, you just as well recognise the hardened look he adopts whenever faced with the man; you're certain if you were brave enough to even move a muscle, you'd find him wearing that same stone-cold look in his eyes and down-turned lips right now.

the silence is potent and hard to breath through. you count the seconds it lasts — an attempt to ground yourself — with all you can see being dean highbottom hiding a smirk you've never seen on him before, and all you can feel being the sweat running down your neck and your boyfriend's grip on you tightening protectively.

"i have a feeling dr. gaul will want to discuss some interesting news with you tomorrow."

you almost gasp when highbottom speaks again — and helplessly watch him walk away, dragging down your hopes with him.

in tune with coriolanus, you know just how long it will take for him to move from his statuesque tenseness; and let yourself take a gasp for air when he turns you in his arms with a chillingly serious look.

"what did he say?"

in a beautiful show of a girl made of glass being tossed to the floor, your composure finally shatters, and you stumble further into coryo's embrace with aggressive sobs shaking through your core. his free hand cups the back of your head as he attempts to hold your gaze.

"he knows," you whisper, and his arms feel as though they're tight metal bars solidifying a cage around you, "i don't— i don't know how but he knows we— we—" cheated.

coriolanus's jaw tightens, and his deep eyes no longer search you, but now gaze past your wet cheeks and dry lips. it doesn't usually, but in your state, it frightens you to see him like this — planning, plotting, coldly looking past his girlfriend to search for a way to remedy a situation so stacked against him. and you know, in some part of you, that he must also be doing this to save you too; if you fall for this, he falls with you.

(you truly believe even if his head weren't on the chopping table, he would still fight to save you.)

but in a painfully human part of yourself, all you want — after all these hours that have chipped you down to your very bone — is to be held, to be comforted, to be kissed atop your head and told that your boyfriend is here for you, and that you are okay now.

his eyes meet yours again, and the coldness is gone.

the piercing blue of his irises seems to soften just for you, he holds you less fiercely, and instead embraces you.

"i'll take care of it," he whispers, "it will be okay, it's all okay."

and you start to feel okay again. and you believe him.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #tbosas x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes x reader #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games x you #the hunger games x y/n #thg x reader #❤︎ — the mockingjay sings

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atrueneutral · 2 months

Note

Feel free to just ignore this if the prompt is too horny but uh...

Mephistopheles having some fiends deliver a present to the boudoir (for Raphael or Haarlep). That present is a very confused, but also very naked, Tav who is all tied up with silk and has a collar and chain on her neck. (for her part, Tav isn't opposed to being in this... ah... position, but she'd have preferred Raphael or Haarlep be the one to have brought her here via invitation rather than... whatever this is)

I hope you don't mind a little humor! ---

Of all the strange situations Tav had found herself in (including the entire tadpole debacle), it was safe to say that this was the one of the strangest.

How it happened - well, frankly she’d been kidnapped!

It all started when she’d received a message from Helsik by way of a Scroll of Sending; the message wasn’t very descriptive outside of ‘please come to the Devil’s Fee at your earliest convenience’, and, thinking it was a job to add more (needed) coin to her pocket, Tav had gone immediately.

Into the Devil’s Fee she walked without a care in the world, only to have Helsik give her an empty smile and an emptier apology. Tav had no idea what the apology was for until two fiends burst forth from nowhere. They quickly rendered her immobile with a spell (before she could even think to defend herself), and she was subsequently blindfolded and spirited away.

By the time the blindfold had come off, Tav was naked.

Naked on a bed.

A bed in a boudoir.

A boudoir in a House of Hope.

Above her, a golden horned devil head was laughing at her predicament from where it was centered at the top of the velvet tufted headboard her back rested against. A lengthy piece of red silk hung fastened around its neck, and at each end were her bound hands. Her feet were in a similar state, ankles tied together by another piece of silk, and she was annoyed to feel a leather collar against the skin of her neck. Attached to the collar was a weighty chain that messily decorated the silk bedding.

It was an added frustration to see an unattainable, sealed note at the foot of the bed. She assumed it likely wrote out an explanation on why she’d been plucked and placed in Raphael’s gaudy boudoir.

For a split second, Tav thought to call out to Haarlep; the boudoir was mostly their domain, and maybe they would come and help her. But she wisened up and remembered that Haarlep’s definition of ‘helping’ was wildly different from that of a morally inclined person; she’d be inviting the incubus to tease her, grope her, and use her.

Which would be fine on a day where she’d been told in advance and had some semblance of knowing what-the-fuck-was-going-on.

It was probably in her best interest to call for Raphael, as embarrassing as the situation was. She expected he’d be equally perplexed by why she was in his House, naked, tied up, and in his bed.

“Uh, Raphael?” she called out meekly into the ether, thinking he could somehow magically hear her from wherever he was. “You, uh, around?”

After about a minute of getting nothing in response, Tav cleared her throat.

“RAPHAEL! You bastard! I’ll loot this place dry once I figure out how to untie myself!”

It took about fifteen seconds, but there was a burst of fire and embers - signifying the arrival of-

“What have we here!” trilled a voice that sounded vaguely like Raphael but assuredly wasn’t Raphael. “I thought I heard a guest yelling in the boudoir! And yelling without me?”

They tutted, and Tav inwardly cursed the gods.

“Not you…” she bemoaned.

“Now why do you say it like that, little thief?” Haarlep faked a frown as they sauntered over to the end of the bed. The frown didn’t last; it flipped into a fiendish smile when they devoured the wickedly risque picture she made. “Have you gifted yourself to us? It’s good to see some results after master’s constant planning…”

“Aha! So it’s his fault I’m here!” Tav shouted like she’d deduced the perpetrator for a murder, but as Haarlep’s words further registered, the perpetrator suddenly looked like Raphael and the person murdered was her. “Wait - what do you mean ‘constant planning’?”

Haarlep continued to smile with mischief dancing brightly in their infernal eyes. They scooped up the note and slid a clawed finger under the folded flap, breaking the wax seal. Their gaze shifted from Tav to the words on the parchment.

The incubus grimaced. “And here I hoped you’d already signed yourself away to us.”

“Not today, I’m afraid,” Tav said. She awkwardly readjusted in her bindings. “What does it say? Who is it from?”

To her horror, Haarlep decided to join her on the bed with the note in hand. They crawled over, mattress dipping with each knee they took, and they situated themself over her so that their legs braced either side of her thighs - giving Tav a bird’s eye view of their barely clothed erection.

Haarlep (thankfully) shoved the note in front of her face rather than their crotch.

”I can’t read it,” she said dryly.

“Poor thing.”

To help, Haarlep read it out loud.

“Haarlep,

This mortal is a much better distraction to my son’s ambitions than you.

I suggest tempting her into a contract with your persuasive talents.

Lord Mephistopheles”

Tav swallowed. “This is a joke, right?”

Haarlep folded the letter and tossed it aside on the sheets. The back of their fingers came to caress her cheek. “Mm - no, little thief. It’s very real, as are you… here, tied up… helpless…”

“While that may be true…” Tav was beginning to feel nervous, and she resisted the urge to wriggle underneath them lest it provoke them. “Unfortunately, this situation isn’t as much of a turn on as it would be if I was here of my own volition.”

“It’s a turn on for me regardless.”

“Sure…” Tav officially hated the gods. She did not know how she was going to talk herself out of this with an incubus who was hovering over her restrained body with a hard-on, a lust-filled gaze, and an order to get her to ‘sign a contract’. She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper. “But you know what really gets me wet and wild, Haarlep?”

“Do tell…”

She raised herself up an inch by pulling on her bindings and stared at them with budding (pretend) lust.

“Not signing a contract.”

Was that jingling bells she heard entering the boudoir?

“Do you not want to stay here with me?” Haarlep purred, their hand trailed down to grip her chin while the other found and her collar’s chain. “You’d get to be master’s pet - my pet…”

They tugged up on the chain and Haarlep’s head moved in for the kill - intent on giving her an intoxicating kiss that would turn her to putty in their hands.

Shit.

“Ra-” Tav attempted to shout, but the cambion’s name was cut short by Haarlep’s smiling lips pressing against hers. The chain was given a light tug to force her closer, and their hot, forked tongue slid across the seam of her locked mouth…

She did not know how long she could hold out; her lips were tingling in a pleasant way, her blood was racing, and the promise of pleasure was right there if only she would give in…

The lust she felt was no longer the pretend kind.

“Haarlep, pray tell, who is your wayward plaything?”

Tav mentally and woozily cheered; it was Raphael!

“Was my warning not explicit enough? I will not tolerate you inviting in stray visitors because you’re bored,” continued her maybe savior.

Tav could not see Raphael, as she was too busy being lip locked with a younger version of himself, and she wasn’t sure if he could see her with Haarlep’s wings and body in the way.

The chain went slack as Haarlep broke away. They relinquished their hold on her leash and discreetly swapped the chain for the nearby note. Between their bodies, the piece of parchment combusted into flames - destroying the proof of Mephistophele’s intentions.

Tav hissed as the melted seal dripped hot wax onto her chest.

Haarlep winked at her, and she responded with a glare.

Meanwhile, jingling boots arrived somewhere around the foot of the bed.

“Look who is here, Master!” The incubus said suddenly, removing themself from her body and moving over enough to reveal Tav in all her naked, restrained glory. “I wrapped her up like a little present! Just for you - specifically as she instructed…”

Heat crept up her body and flared in her loins.

Raphael, a talkative fiend who often talked too much, was rendered speechless and slack jawed. His brow furrowed and his nose scrunched while his mind worked to process what and who was in his bed.

It was a reaction that almost made up for being kidnapped.

His confusion cleared when his mouth snapped closed, and the look in his orange and yellow eyes turned insanely desirous.

“Uh, hello,” Tav said, giving him a polite wave while also trying to ignore the wetness that rapidly continued to pool between her thighs.

Her lips still tingled from Haarlep’s kiss, and the scene wasn’t too far off from a fantasy she’d had more than once.

“What are you doing here, Little Mouse?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Haarlep unhelpfully supplied. “She’s here to have fun with us!”

She was grateful that Raphael looked somewhat skeptical. “Is this true, my dear?”

“It’s kind of a long story…” Tav replied.

Raphael glanced at her silk bindings.

“Forgive me - I don’t see you going anywhere anytime soon?”

“Ah, yes. Touché,” she conceded.

“I want to hear it from you,” Raphael said, a warning threading into his tone. “Why are you here?”

She looked to Haarlep, and they seemed all-too-curious in what answer she would give. It was anyone’s guess as to why they destroyed the note from Mephistopheles, and Tav wondered if they would feel at all indebted to her for not spilling the beans.

“Korrilla told me it was your Name Day last week. I realize I’m a little late, but I wanted to do something extra special since it was your… wait, how old are you exactly?”

“Funny.” Raphael’s thin smile did not reach his eyes. “Try again.”

“I was kidnapped?”

Why did it come out as a question?

“Haarlep, do get the mouse’s lips moving, won’t you? I think I will get comfortable and watch…”

The incubus happily motioned to return to his previous position over her.

“Alright - hold on!” Tav yelled, causing an amused Haarlep to stop. “I’ll tell you the truth - under one condition.”

Raphael barked a laugh.

“Again you show up in my House uninvited, this time naked and fettered to my bed, and you think you have the right to demand conditions?” His gaze turned stormy. “You are lucky that my fondness for you extended into forgiveness the first time.”

“You’ll forgive me for this second time as well, I think.” Tav smiled mischievously and parted her legs to give both cambion and incubus a better view of her sex. “I’ll give you the truth, Raphael; what I’m asking for is that I be returned home, safe and sound after we… reacquaint ourselves - without the talk or the signing of any contract.”

“You’ve already honored your contract, and I have not yet come knocking at your door with another.”

She shrugged with a shoulder. “I’ve learned you can never play it too safe with devils.”

Raphael turned suspicious. “What are you up to?”

“Just agree, Master,” Haarlep said. They licked their lips. “I’m tired of waiting.”

Judging by Raphael’s dark expression and the stiffness in his breeches, he was also tired of waiting.

“Very well; I will return you to your home, safe and sound - albeit sore. No contract will be signed during this visit. Now, the truth.”

The words easily left her.

“The truth is I want you to fuck me, Raphael. I’ve wanted you undiluted and raw since meeting you, and imagine my disappointment stumbling upon Haarlep on my first visit. You should know they said some very scandalous things about your… performance.”

The (undiluted and raw) darkness that overtook Raphael’s features would have frightened her… if she weren’t so turned on by it. It was a dangerous mix of desire and fury; desire for her, fury for Haarlep.

“What did you tell the mouse, Haarlep?” he asked, head canting with a piercing stare directed at the incubus. “About my performance.”

Haarlep did not immediately respond; Tav could tell they were frantically plotting how to navigate a floor covered in eggshells.

“The mouse asked if you were good in bed...”

“And you told her?”

It was Haarlep’s turn to be nervous, and Tav savored every second.

“And I said, jokingly, of course, that you… weren’t. A-ha!”

“I see,” Raphael said flatly. “Well, since I am not ‘good in bed’ your participation privileges for this bed have been revoked.” The cambion’s unblinking, penetrative stare turned to her as he stalked over to the side of the bed.

“It was nothing but a joke, Master! At least allow me the opportunity to watch you fuck and fill the mouse?”

“No.” Raphael picked up the end of the chain and wrapped it once around his hand. “She’s mine...”

Sinfully wet after such a declaration, Tav turned her head to throw a secretive wink at a pouting Haarlep before they resentfully disappeared with a burst.

There was a snap of fingers, and Raphael came to be instantly naked and was very, very aroused. A second snap followed, causing a flash of heat to singe her skin as her silk bindings went up in a puff of smoke.

The cat gave the chain a tug.

“Come to me, my little mouse.”

Before her mind could be overrun by sex and pleasure, Tav thought of a note to (never) send back to Mephistopheles.

Lord Mephistopheles,

No need for a kidnapping; all you have to do is ask. I’ll be more than happy to return to your son’s bed, no contracts necessary.

Sincerely,

The Better Distraction

#thanks for the prompt!#this became longer than expected #bg3 #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav #raphael x tav fanfiction #my writing #answered #haarlep bg3 #haarlep #baldur’s gate 3 fanfiction

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angelltheninth · 9 months

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Vegeta brainrot lets goooo! Can you do number 19 with him? While he has his tail ofc cause what you said really got me thinkng.

Hmm, okay, okay, I see what you're saying Anon. I've got something for you.

Pairing: Vegeta x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, bondage (with tail), rough sex, dirty talk, biting, doggie, creampie, breeding kink

A/N: Him losing his tail is the biggest tragedy in the franchise, he was so hot with it. Every day I want it to come back.

19. “Don’t cover your mouth… I like hearing you.”

For the most part when you had sex Vegeta loved to manhandle you, bending your body in a position best fit to take his thick cock as deep as it was possible. But there were times where he let his hands stay in one place, in this case on your hips, and let his tail wrap around your wrists, rendering you unable to move as he pounded you from behind.

And why did he do this?

Well it was because he noticed you covering your mouth, getting in the way of him fully enjoying the moans you made, the pleasure he gave you, the absolutely sinful sounds you made while he fucked his cum into your womb.

"Stop that." He warned against your neck, his tongue smoothing over the bite he just made, licking up the blood that was dripping down. The soft yet strong tail wrapped around your wrist and pulled your hand away from your mouth, then around the other, holding them tight. "Don't cover your mouth... I like hearing you." He pushed them against the pillow right above your head.

In this position you were forced to bend your back downwards and push your ass further up, resulting in very loud slapping sounds every time he thrust his hips forward, "But Vegeta, I'm... so embaressed."

"Are you now? Whatever for?" He smiled against your ear as one of his hand made its way between your legs, expert fingers pressing over your clit, "From the sounds you're making I'd say you're really enjoying it. It's not just the sound either, the way you're squeezing my cock, so tight even with all my cum in you making it slippery."

"All your cum. There's already so much. If you keep it up I could-" You bit the inside of your cheek, fully knowing what saying the next words would do. The effect it had on the Prince.

Even without them Vegeta started fucking you faster, almost in a frenzy, almost making his cock feel like it was vibrating every time it hit inside of you. His cock might not but the fingers on your clit sure were, "Mhm. Why do you think I've insisted on giving you my seed every night? Did you forget my keen sense of smell? I can smell you're in the perfect time to be breed."

This was probably the closest you'll ever get to him admitting he loves you enough to have a family with you. With how cagey Vegeta can be with his feelings sometimes fucking them out is the only way he can express them towards you. Okay all the time, he needs to do it all the time.

"I want to hear every noise you make while I fuck a baby into you, pump you full of my cum. Moan for me, let your Prince hear you." His fangs returned to their previous spot, his teeth sinking in right in time with his fingers stilling completely on your clit and pressing your lower half towards his, a thick, warm flood of cum flowing into your pussy and womb.

"Please, please, yes, more, Vegeta!" Vegeta didn't need the encouragement but who was he kidding, his ego was stroked as often as his cock, so of course he loved hearing these things from you. "Yes, feels so good to be filled by you!"

By the time he was done he knew he made it, he got you pregnant, in just a few months time you'd begin showing, and you'll look so fucking pretty for your Prince.

#vegeta x reader #vegeta x you #vegeta smut #dbz x reader #dbz smut

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elaichoi · 11 months

Text

greed ! yeonjun

%PAIRING— yeonjun x fem!reader.

C0NTENT WARNING!— nipple play, dom!yeonjun, creampie, breeding kink, slight hint of possessive/yandere yeonjun.

WORD COUNT—1.3k. ..... (!) this was meant be a drabble! and is based on this post!

it all started with one needy little nudge of his hands; languidly sliding from your forearms to your wrist—grasping it tightly to pull you closer to his lips.

downcast eyes focused on the way your lips are parted, yeonjun's hands swiftly place his nimble finger on either side of your jaw; applying just enough pressure so you lips pucker out for him. he doesn't wait long before the tip of his tongue slither out and licks a stripe from your chin to your pouted lips before finally catching your upper lip between his own teeth.

it hurt a bit for you, but the pleasure that was swirling in your core, and the heat in your stomach kept you from indulging in it. yeonjun sucked on your lips as if they were coated with honey—perhaps for him you were made of nectar. you tried to keep up, sucking onto his bottom lip ceaselessly. yeonjun's hands had long abandoned your jaw to come and undo the meddlesome buttons of your shirt—but patience probably wasn't yeonjun's best virtue. before he could open the last two buttons, the last silver of his chivalry dwindled as he ripped it open; sending buttons flying everywhere.

his slender fingers grabbing at your breasts; kneading them to his liking, while his lips devoured you. his fingers pulling on the pebbles of your chest to his liking—eliciting sharp pain through your body, masked by the carnivorous lust that pooled at your core.

the more noise you made into yeonjun's mouth, the worse he got. his bulge almost touched your belly, and yeonjun only pushed further into the softness to alleviate some of the ache in his groins; enclosing you against the wall of your room.

"gotta fuck you now, or ill explode," yeonjun confessed against your bloodied lip. his warmth breathing fanning the sweet injuries he adorned you with. you didn't need much convincing to begin with; already aching to be filled by him.

"god me too," a timid groan left you as yeonjun distanced himself from you. even the ephemeral pressure of his cock on your stomach rendered you empty; shamelessly whining to get more. the eagerness of your action driving yeonjun further into the rapacious frenzy as he quickly undid his pants— your eyes ravenously observing his each move before he stood before you in only his underwear. the pants were still at the base of his ankles but yeonjun couldn't care less as he grasped your arms and turned you around to face the wall.

yeonjun quickly unraveled his hard on, stroking it languidly in his hands as he took in the sight before him.

you both had quite a history to share, but he had never in his wildest thoughts that he would be able to have you like this.

yeonjun's hands slipped underneath your pants and he pulled it down along with your underwear half haphazardly, waiting no time as he placed his cock against your pussy—forcefully wiggling it around to coat himself with your slick. listlessly thrusting it against your clit. yeonjun's little act drove you to a path insanity as he continued on with no intention of sticking his cock inside.

"yeonjun," you wanted to sound authoritative—scary enough for him so he'd cut the bullshit and do what's he's supposed to—fuck your brains out. even though it wasn't nearly as fearsome as you had hoped, it still did the trick when you felt yeonjun line his cock against your fluttering hole.

somberly pushing the tip in—penetrating through the tight ring into your gummy walls. taking as much space as he needs as you fucks into you slowly—your eyes had rolled all the way to the back when yeonjun had finally bottomed out into you. the sensation of feeling full already pushing you to the edge of the bittersweet limbo of carnal desire.

"fuck," you heard yeonjun moan into your hair, his fingers digging into the soft of flesh of your waist as he placed his chest onto your back—cluelessly putting all his weight on you, pushing your naked nipples onto the cold wall. you bit your lips to stop yourself from moaning when your hard nipples brushed against the texture when yeonjun stilled himself deep inside your cunt. the sudden motion sends vibrations allowing your breasts to jiggle against the concrete. the cavernous moan that you were holding back slips out before you could get a hold of your wits.

yeonjun calculatively takes himself off your capricious cunt—the soft flesh stretching itself to prevent him from escaping—until only the tip of his dick is left inside of you, throbbing and rock hard.

"your cunt doesn't wanna let go my dick," yeonjun crudely laughs before his waist snaps against your ass, sending your upper body flying against the wall once more. you grunted in a mixture of pain and pleasure, as you felt yeonjun gyrating his dick inside of you—cruelly rubbing against your g spot while holding the base of his dick.

despite being just as needy as you were, yeonjun still liked to make you feel he held the reins.

"rub your tits on the wall,"

"huh?"

"don't play dumb with me," yeonjun chuckled, approaching the shell of your ears. carelessly licking the shape of it before taking your earlobe into his mouth, enticing a sweet little squeak from your mouth in the middle of the heavy panting urged by the primitive grinding of his dick inside of you.

"i saw how you moaned when you tits rubbed against the wall," yeonjun pulled himself back, his hands pulling your waist with him, causing your back to arch just slightly with your chest still pressed against the wall. the new position burned, but it also leisurely simmered into a dulcet colic.

"its okay," yeonjun bit his bottom lip, pulling his cock out once again, "ill help you." and pushed it back with such a force that it has your upper body sliding against the wall to keep your balance—all while stimulating the bundle of nerve on your nerves triggering you to moan incessantly, goading yeonjun's ego.

"fuck you feel so fucking good," yeonjun gasped, continuinally hitting your ass with his hips as he thrusted inside of you, "god this pussy is made for me!"

your hands were on either side of the wall with your chest pushed against wall—the erect nipples being pushed around by the wall according to the rhythm of yeonjun's push sending you to a divine rampage of rapture from both sides albeit lined with a bit of sourness of impatience.

although that too was soon taken care when yeonjun's hands snaked itself to your core, pressing against you swollen clit, rubbing slow circles.

"cum for me," yeonjun sighed, his hips still pushing forward—propelling you against the wall and of course his fingers working on your clit. you were hanging by a fragile thread that could snap soon—and it happened sooner than you'd have guessed. washing over you like a tsunami as it left you writhing against yeonjun.

yeonjun quickly took over as you convulsed in his arm—your nipples were too sensitive to even graze any object. he felt a sense of pride, seeing your shaking in his arms as with his dick buried inside your cunt. he took his cock out—the friction marginally less as your cum coated him, resulting in sloppier, and messier thrusts.

yeonjun turned your face around him. a grin embracing his lips when he saw the hazy downcast of your leafy eyes and the fucked out expression—yeonjun felt fulfilled. he took your tongue into your mouth, lapping it up as his own thrusts grew slower, and slower until he stilled himself inside you once again, coating your walls white with his seed.

"youre so cute," yeonjun cooed, looking at your dazed eyes, "maybe i should give you a baby so that your pussy is always mine, hm?"

#yeonjun smut #yeonjun #yeonjun hard imagines #yeonjun hard scenarios #yeonjun hard thoughts #txt smut #txt hard imagines #txt hard scenarios #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours #yeonjun hard hours #txt x reader #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun drabble #yeonjun hard drabble #itgirlspice

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burningvelvet · 5 months

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Why Mr. Rochester and Bertha Mason Couldn't Get a Legal Separation; or, the Utter Madness of Marital Laws

So I saw a Jane Eyre post discussing why Mr. Rochester and Bertha Mason couldn't get a legal marital separation. I've thought a lot about this topic, and in order to procrastinate writing the final for my upper-level Brontë class, I've decided to write this sort of convoluted analysis instead. I know many others have written about this subject, but I wanted to explore a bit further on my own.

Preliminary context about me, the Brontës, their Byronic inspiration, etc.: I've learned a lot about 19th century British marriage laws recently in my classes on old British literature, as well as by having studied Byron, whose marital separation in 1816 was a notorious part of his history & also reverberated through 19c literature. He refers to this separation in many of his works, most famously in his notorious poem "Fare Thee Well." Harriet Beecher Stowe, the most famous American female writer at the time, was friends with Lady Byron and wrote a book defending her called "Lady Byron Vindicated: A history of the Byron controversy from its beginning in 1816 to the present time" (the original callout post).

Insanity accusations did factor in to Byron's separation. Many scholars have remarked how the Queens of Byronic Criticism, the Brontë sisters, took significant inspiration from their well-worn copy of Moore's biography Life of Byron when creating their works. The Brontës would have been very familiar with marriage laws not only due to their knowledge of Byron's trainwreck of a marriage, but also due to being well-educated women at the time who knew that marriage was the most important economic decision of one's life and could very well make or break a person. As a result, marriage plays a significant role in their novels.

More relevant preliminary context about the novel: Jane Eyre actually takes place in the Georgian era, despite most adaptations and anaysis presenting is as a Victorian piece due to the novels publication date (this drives me crazy; same goes for the other Brontë books). Marriage laws did not change drastically from the time the novel is set to the time Brontë was writing the novel, but things were a bit different socially. Rochester was also married 15 years before his attempt to marry Jane. According to this very good analysis, Rochester and Bertha probably married in or around the year 1793: https://jane-eyre.guidesite.co.uk/timeline.

Now, here are the reasons why Rochester couldn't separate from Bertha:

1) Insanity wasn't grounds for divorce/separation in the Regency era.

Rochester himself says that he couldn't legally separate from her because of her insanity, which presumably rendered any of her faults null on the grounds of that marital vow "in sickness and in health." This is possibly one of his biggest reasons:

"I was rich enough now – yet poor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was associated with mine, and called by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not rid myself of it by any legal procedings: for the doctors now discovered that my wife was mad — her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of insanity [..]"

2) Divorce was nearly impossible anyway.

There had only been around 300 divorces in English history at the time. Almost all of them were husbands divorcing their wives for committing adultery. Only a handful of divorces had succesfully been obtained by women, and they were only in cases where the husband had committed incestuous adultery or bigamy, and was extremely physically cruel. So technically after his bigamy attempt, Bertha may have had more grounds to obtain a divorce than Rochester would have, if only she were lucid enough to do so. However, in that scenario infertility would have helped their case, and Adèle's existence would have harmed their case if he attempted to seek a divorce before marrying Jane. Though as the novel explains, Adèle is probably not his, she definitely would have been used against him, as would the fact that he kept Bertha's existence a secret in England. But he wouldn't have tried for divorce that late in the game anyway, considering it was one of the most difficult options.

3) Female adultery was your best bet at divorce or separation, and this probably wasn't applicable to Mr. & Mrs. Rochester.

Although some scholars claim that there is subtext hinting that Bertha was adulterous (which some adaptations, like the 2006, include), you needed substantial proof of the adultery, which Rochester may not have had if it did occur. Being a proud man, he also wouldn't have wanted to be humiliated in that way by letting it be publicly known (as shame is one of his main reasons for hiding their marriage to begin with).

However, I lean toward the idea that Bertha may not have committed adultery. If she definitively did, seeing how affected Rochester was by Céline cheating on him (he shot her lover in revenge and left her with a stipend), if he ever suspected adultery on Bertha's part then I'm sure he would have been at court the very next day. I also think Rochester tries not to be too much of a hypocrite, and he is well aware that he himself is an adulterer, so he probably doesn't want to accuse Bertha of a crime he's committed and which he couldn't definitively prove she did.

Rochester does talk about hating Bertha's "vices" when they lived together, citing drinking, arguing, cruelty to servants, cursing, her being "unchaste," a "harlot," etc. - the last epithets, combined with her supposed lack of morality, and her being described as seductive, heavily imply that adultery could be added to her list of offenses. However, if she did truly cheat on him as well, I don't see why he wouldn't plainly tell this to Jane as well. I would imagine it would be his first complaint, and it would probably be considered his most justifiable reason against her by their cultural standards.

I don't see why he wouldn't jump to take Bertha's infidelity as an opportunity to defend his own actions, considering how open he is with Jane about his own adultery and being cheated on by Cèline Varens. While I can see how some of the textual evidence may strongly suggest Bertha's adultery, we cannot be fully certain, and that may be because Rochester himself is not fully certain. I cannot see why he wouldn't have sought legal advice on that account alone.

In short, if Bertha was an adulterer, there must have been no evidence to convict her.

Also: while the double-standard may seem odd and trivial to us, the reason why female adultery held more weight than male adultery has entirely to due with old patriarchal inheritance laws; i.e the risk of a wife getting extramaritally pregnant and passing the illegitimate child off as her husband's heir was considered too great of an affront. A man could have as many bastards as he wanted because he would know they were bastards and were not at risk of inheriting his stuff. One needed legitimate heirs to justify passing on one's ancestral wealth to. Essentially, marriage was a mere economic tool, and the economy was and is inherently patriarchal. I digress.

4) Rochester's lack of social & economic leverage, and risk of social ruin in general.

Only the wealthiest of the wealthy could obtain divorce or official separation, and it often led to social ruin. Rochester is rich, but he has no title and no great network of supporters due to being a younger son and having been abroad for most of the past 15 years (this was the length of his marriage to Bertha, stated by Mr. Briggs during the bigamous wedding attempt). He doesn't have as much leverage as Lord and Lady Byron had.

To continue on official separation, like Lady and Lord Byron obtained. Just like divorce, this was also a messy and scandalous legal proceeding, and required numerous good reasons to obtain, and being well-connected Lords and Ladies really helped your case. You also needed many witnesses and written statements as evidence. Bertha's family, as we see with Mason, would have been unhelpful to Rochester, and due to his shame and secrecy, no one could really testify on his behalf I'm assuming.

5) Unofficial separation would have been inconvenient, especially in regards to living situations.

Aside from divorce, which was extremely rare, extremely controversial, and only for the wealthiest members of society — there were unofficial and official separations. An unofficial separation was simply living apart from one another. I've often wondered why Rochester didn't simply move Grace Poole and Bertha somewhere else, but my main theory is that it would have been cost ineffective, and due to his family who were implied to be shitty, he probably really didn't want to live at Thornfield anyway so thought it would be convenient to place her there. Rochester says it would be dangerous to place her in his other residence of Ferndean:

"[..] though I possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the arrangement. Probably those damp walls would soon have eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice; and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate."

6) Annulment was likely impossible given their circumstances.

Annulment means evaporating the marriage, acting as if it never existed, that it was a mistake. This was rare and only granted in unique circumstances, and I believe it was more common with aristocracy and royals. I believe you could possibly get an annulment if you could prove that the spouse was insane at the time of the wedding and you did not know. However, Bertha did not begin to truly deteriorate until after they had been living together for a bit. And while Rochester says that he did not know her mother was in an asylum until after the wedding, having an insane mother doesn't mean that you are insane, which Bertha clearly wasn't at that point, at least not in a way that people would have publicly acknowledged, since Rochester says she attended parties and her hand was highly sought after.

Generally, the longer a marriage had gone on, the harder it was to prove why it could not go on. Rochester says that he and Bertha "lived together" for "four years" in Jamaica while her condition deteriorated and he tried to make things work. And again, after the wedding he found out her mother was "mad, and shut up in a lunatic asylum." So we have more reasons for Rochester's difficulty: the fear of Bertha going to an asylum while she was still mostly lucid in those first four years, combined with the fact that they openly lived together and certainly must have consummated their marriage (things which would further prevent annulment), and were certainly publicly recognized as a couple in Spanish Town society, and her family wanting the marriage to continue so she could have children of "good race" i.e. to produce heirs.

Here's an important passage that to me suggests that Rochester and Bertha not only had an initial flirtation but likely consummated their marriage, likely had a passionate sexual relationship for some time, and likely implies his feelings for her were more complex than we'd initially assume, making annulment not so clear-cut of an option to him at the time:

"My father said nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram; tall, dark, and majestic. Her family wished to secure me because I was of a good race; and so did she. They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her alone, and had very little private conversation with her. She flattered me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All the men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimulated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no folly so besotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, the rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its commission. Her relatives encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she allured me: a marriage was achieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no respect for myself when I think of that act! — an agony of inward contempt masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even know her."

7) Spousal abandonment wasn't possible, and on some level he honored his legal and financial obligations to her and the Mason family.

Bertha's family likely refused to house her for legal and personal reasons, and spousal abandonment was forbidden due to the husband's financial responsibility as well as the law of coverture (a wife became her husband's full legal responsibility; some say "property"). Like we see in Anne's Tenant of Wildfell Hall, if a woman ran away from their spouse they would have to live in obscurity and be at risk of being sussed out. You couldn't just abandon your partner. Still, people did, because it was the easiest route to take.

But the more upper-class you were, and the more financial entanglements you had, the more inconvenient this was. We know that Rochester and his family became enmeshed with the Mason family, and he got a lot of money from Bertha, so her father likely would have taken him to court. At any rate, Rochester was legally bound to bring Bertha with him to England when he left Jamaica. If he attempted to abandon her in Jamaica, the backlash it would have brought would have brought him social ruin and foiled his chances at getting away with any bigamy attempts.

All this brings us to a further notice of Bertha's family situation. Based on Charlotte Brontë's positive comments about Rochester's character (https://www.tumblr.com/burningvelvet/731403104856195072/in-a-letter-to-w-s-williams-14-august-1848) I see no reason to suspect him, like many feminist critics do, of being an unreliable narrator or of lying about Bertha Mason's history. Everyone is entitled to their opinions, and in mine, that is simply not the novel Charlotte wrote. By her own admission, she wanted his narrative to be a path to further goodness.

It makes no narrative sense for our explanation of his and Bertha's history to be full of lies when he's trying to make ammends with Jane, who never suspects him of lying during his admission, but who does critique him and figure he'd tire of her like she was one of his many mistresses. Jane wonders if Rochester would lock her in an attic too, which he refutes on the basis that he loves her more than he loved Bertha when she was sane, and so he would care for Jane himself. Jane also tells him that it's not Bertha's fault that she's mad. So in my opinion, if Charlotte wanted us to believe Rochester was lying about his and Bertha's history to make himself look better or Bertha look worse, I don't see why she would have been vague about it, and I don't see why Jane wouldn't have called it out like she does everything else. I don't think Rochester is really a villain who locked his harmless wife in the attic for giggles; I think he weighed most of his options and found, like most people back then and even today, that keeping his problems locked up and ignored was the best solution.

Now, on with the point. I have often wondered why Rochester didn't simply "unofficially separate" from Bertha by leaving her with her family when he left. Why did he take her to England? Why didn't he just run away? It wasn't because he was an evil villain who wanted to keep her as a trophy. It's because 1) I don't think her father would have let him, as he was so quick to marry her off, 2) he felt obligated to her, and 3) it was criminal for men to abandon their wives, and it would have attracted publicity, which is what Rochester was avoiding by taking Bertha to England and sheltering her in secrecy.

Many claim that Rochester's adultery is a betrayal of his wife; and while religiously, narratively, socially, we can accept this statement, it was not legally a crime. While Rochester does honor his financial and legal obligations to his wife and her family, he does not take the religious part of the vows into account, and that's why he's cosmically punished and only rewarded after he repents, as he explains toward the end of the novel.

Another interesting point is that when Rochester recounts his decision to move back to England, he tells us that Bertha had already been declared insane in Jamaica and that she was already confined there (presumably around the 4 year anniversary before they left), meaning her father probably knew about confinement:

"One night I had been awakened by her yells (since the medical men had pronounced her mad, she had of course been shut up) — it was a fiery West Indian night; [..]"

Locking away "insane" people was standard procedure then, and if this was done with Bertha's father's knowledge, considering he locked his own wife away in an asylum, then this further absolves Rochester of a lot of the blame in my opinion. It more than likely wasn't his idea to lock her away, but the advice of "the medical men" and presumably her father's consultation as well.

8) Even if he divorced or separated from her, he couldn't remarry. Attempting these, or getting caught attempting abandonment, would have brought negative publicity that would have likely prevented the success of any future bigamy attempts. To him, secrecy and bigamy seemed better chances at securing happiness than the social ruin and likely failure the other options would have brought him.

Aside from Rochester's own explanation (which I supplied in #2 re: the separation veto inherent to Bertha's insanity), the other biggest reason as to why Rochester wouldn't seek a separation/divorce even if she hadn't been declared insane and even if he were willing to accuse her of adultery truthfully or not, is due to the fact that one could not legally remarry upon separation or divorce (unless you were Henry VIII and got God's permission lol). Rochester's impossible dream is that he wants to be married to someone he really loves, and if secrecy and bigamy are his only options then he is willing to succumb; this is shown in numerous passages:

"[..] I could reform — I have strength yet for that — if— but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may."

"I will keep my word: I will break obstacles to happiness, to goodness — yes, goodness; I wish to be a better man than I have been; than I am — as Job's leviathan broke the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hinderances which others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and rotten wood."

"Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment — I wash my hands thereof. For man's opinion — I defy it."

Closing remarks on the above's validity: I can't cite all my sources because a lot of this stuff I learned from lectures via my professor who specializes in 19th century English literature & history. But here's some recently published information from a historian, taken from "Inside the World of Bridgerton: True Stories of Regency High Society" by Catherine Curzon (2023):

"And if you were one of the newly-weds, you really did hope things would work out, because in the Regency till death do us part wasn't just an expression. As the Prince Regent himself had learned when he separated from his wife within eighteen months of their marriage, obtaining a divorce in Regency England was no easy matter. He never achieved it, and for those who did the stakes could be high and the cost ruinous in every sense."

"Until the passing of the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857, which legalized divorce in the civil courts, it was governed by the ecclesiastical courts, and the Church didn't end a marriage without very, very good reason. Even these divorces didn't allow a couple to remarry, though, and they were more akin to what we would today call a legal separation, with no shared legal or financial responsibilities going forward. It was freedom, but only to a point."

"The only way to obtain a complete dissolution that allowed for remarriage was to secure a parliamentary divorce, and these were notoriously difficult to obtain. They began with a criminal conversation case, because they relied on adultery by one of the parties to make them even a slight possibility. If a woman committed crim. con., her life in polite society was over."

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alwaysmicado · 1 month

Text

Fleshlight

5.2k | 18+ MDNI | Nathan Bateman x f!reader

Warnings: pwp, D/s dynamic, vaginal fisting, object insertion, p in v (kind of), edging, pussy & face slapping, degradation, dacryphilia, soft(ish) Nathan Summary: Nathan punishes you for being a spoiled brat by edging you in various ways. A/N: I don’t have an excuse for this one...please just know that it’s not my fault. It’s his. Can be read alone or together with my other Nathan fics. Enjoy and let me know what you think! 🤍

“I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?” he asks you with a raised eyebrow, his fingers lightly tracing your naked belly. “Go on.”

You shakily exhale, the sensation of Nathan’s touch overwhelming your already oversensitive body. Nathan knows perfectly well that every caress, every contact sends your brain into a frenzy, rendering coherent thought or speech impossible. The self-satisfied smirk on his stupid, handsome face tells you as much.

The fact that he’s stroking his cock while sitting on his heels between your spread legs isn’t helping either.

Not at all.

“Hey,” he slaps you hard across the face when you take too long to answer him. “I’m not telling you again.”

The dark glint in his eyes and the harshness of the slap tell you that he means it. His stinging hand goes back to caressing your naked belly, moving further up to your exposed tits.

You take a second to process the searing pain spreading across your cheek before your brain urges you to speak. “I’m sorry, it just–” Your voice catches in your throat as hot tears well up and trickle down your temples. Your whole body is trembling. “It hurts so bad.”

A sob escapes your quivering lips. They’re swollen and bruised from all the nipping and sucking Nathan’s been doing over the past hour, dried blood visible in the left corner from where he struck you particularly hard.

Nathan chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his whole face lighting up with genuine joy at your despair. “If you think this little show of yours is gonna get you out of your punishment, you’re mistaken, baby. Now get the fuck on, or I’ll double it.”

His hand explores your left tit, caressing it, squeezing it, savoring the feeling of your warm, soft skin.

“I don’t deserve to come because I’m a spoiled brat,” you whine as he brushes over your erect nipple, a jolt of electricity shooting through you.

“Hmm, is that so?” he asks facetiously, pinching your nipple and tugging on it so hard you cry out and yank at the cuffs binding you to Nathan’s bed, writhing in pain and ecstasy.

At this point, you could probably come from him pinching your nipple long enough.

“Yes,” you pant, your chest heaving as he’s moved on to your right tit, circling your nipple with the pad of his middle finger.

“You know, it’s funny. I hear your words, but I still don’t think you actually mean them.”

Nathan abandons his cock to reach for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, pouring a generous amount of the cold fluid onto his right hand. Your alert eyes follow each of his movements, and a whimper escapes your lips as you realize what’s coming.

“‘Cause you wouldn’t be such a whiny crybaby if you really meant what you said,” he sighs, his dark eyes studying your face with satisfaction. You’re sweaty, teary-eyed, desperate, and undeniably beautiful.

He spreads the lube over his fingers, his palm, and the back of his hand, meticulously coating them in the slick substance. With a swift motion, he wipes his left hand on the towel beside your torso before sliding his lubed-up fingers up and down your puffy folds. Your eyes flutter shut at his touch, and a moan escapes your lips as you eagerly arch your hips, craving more of his touch.

A harsh slap on your swollen, oversensitive clit jolts your eyes back open as you cry out in agony. Overwhelming pain shoots through your body, leaving you gasping and writhing against the restraints. Desperately, you attempt to wriggle away and close your legs, but the taut ropes don’t allow you to move much at all.

They’re attached to the cuffs around your wrists and your thighs, right above your knees, connected to the headboard. You have no chance of getting away.

You’re bound, helpless, spread open—completely at Nathan’s mercy.

The stinging sensation from his slap is so painful that a fresh wave of tears streams down your temples, your attempts to stifle the pained noises leaving your lips proving futile.

“I decide how and when to touch you, slut,” Nathan purrs in a deceptively calm voice. “You understand?”

When you don’t respond quickly enough, he delivers another sharp strike to your clit, eliciting a mixture of yelps from you, blending agony and elation. Your body’s wound so tightly that if he keeps this up, he’ll make you come from his slaps alone.

“Yes,” you blurt out, tears stinging your eyes. “I understand.”

Nathan’s been edging you for what feels like an eternity—torturing you with his tongue, his fingers, his voice. Each time he’d get you close to coming, he’d stop all movement, reveling in the progressively more desperate pleas and screams falling from your lips.

“What’s your color, baby?”

He watches your face intently as he slides three fingers inside you in one swift movement, leisurely fucking your dripping wet pussy.

“Green,” you moan, arching your back as your walls clamp down hard around Nathan’s digits. His left hand grips your thigh, his fingertips digging into your skin.

Satisfied with your answer, he pulls his fingers out of you and glides his lubed-up hand through your folds, tracing a path from your swollen clit down to your asshole. After thoroughly covering you in lube, he withdraws his hand and looks at your face. Your eyes are filled with lust, your pupils dilated, your gaze locked onto Nathan’s dark eyes.

“Mmm, I love when you look at me like that, slut,” he murmurs, brushing his fingertips over your clit.

The low sounds of pleasure from your lips are sweet, but Nathan’s searching for harder sounds of ecstasy.

Holding onto your hip with his left hand, he slides his fingers back inside you, adding his pinky this time, slowly pushing all four fingers all the way in. You gasp as he stretches you, holding his fingers inside you so you can adjust to them. Encouraged by your desperate noises, he rotates his hand clockwise and counter-clockwise, feeling your muscles gradually yield and welcome the intrusion.

Your body trembles under his touch, each sensation sparking a surge of electricity that courses through you, igniting every nerve ending with a fiery intensity.

With an extra little push, the big knuckles of Nathan’s hand press against your glistening, stretched lips, your moans escalating into a squeal of ecstasy.

“Oh, fuck, Nathan!”

He holds his hand still for a moment, scanning your face for any signs of discomfort, before easing back an inch and gradually sliding back in. Your body responds with urgency, writhing against the restraints as you moan and whimper at the sensation of Nathan's knuckles disappearing inside you.

“Almost there, my filthy little whore,” he murmurs, amazed by the elasticity of your pussy.

He squeezes more lube onto his exposed hand and maintains the slow, rhythmic in-and-out movement. After a minute, he reaches the point where all he has to do is tuck in his thumb and push, and his hand would slide in the rest of the way.

“You wanna feel my fist inside you, slut?” Nathan’s dark eyes pierce yours, the hunger you can see in them causing your pussy to clench around his fingers.

“Yes,” you let out, breathless, helpless. You’re a puddle from his touch, and all you want is for him to keep filling you, your desire for him insatiable.

After a few more pumps, he pulls his fingers out almost completely, and moves his thumb into their wet embrace. Slowly, savoring the delicious feeling of your warm cunt around his fingers, he pushes all five digits into you, past the first knuckles, past the second knuckles, holding them still for a moment, listening to your breath, to your rising sounds of ecstasy.

Nathan begins to move his hand out slightly, then in slightly, his wrist twisting subtly with each motion. With every inward push, his hand penetrates a little deeper, methodically stretching you and testing your limits. He halts with the base of his thumb resting against your opening, teasingly maneuvering his hand in and out before applying pressure once more.

Each push elicits another moan from you as his hand slips deeper, gradually stretching you open. To distract you, he pinches your clit as the base of his thumb disappears inside you.

“That’s it, baby,” he encourages you as his hand slides fully into your cunt, your muscles closing around his wrist. He keeps his hand still, allowing your body to adjust to the stretch.

You moan, deep and low, trying not to move at all. Any movement touches upon his hand inside and causes a delicious pain he’s only made you feel once before. Gasping for air, you struggle to maintain your composure.

“Breathe, baby. Slowly, in and out,” Nathan coaxes, his voice a soothing contrast to the intensity of the moment.

You let your head fall back onto the soft pillow and do as instructed, focusing on slowing your breath and calming your racing heart.

“That’s a good girl,” he coos. “You feel so fucking good.”

Nathan’s in heaven. There is nothing in the world he could ever buy or create to equal the intoxicating rush of power he’s feeling right now. With deliberate care, he curls his fingers into a fist, and he holds you, owns you completely. In this moment, you are wholly his, lost in ecstasy, panting and whimpering as your body submits to his command.

He feels your walls tense, wrapping tightly around his fist, then relax slightly. Your face contorts in agonized bliss as he rotates his wrist, feeling the walls of your flesh rub against his hand and knuckles.

“Oh fuck,” you groan as he begins to slowly thrust his fist in and out of you, the squelching sounds coming from your dripping hole amplifying the arousal between you both.

“I’m–I’m so full. It—shit—it feels too good, Nathan. You’re—oh fuck—you’re gonna make me come like this.”

“Look at you,” Nathan chuckles, increasing the pace of his strokes, while his other hand pinches your clit. You yelp, feeling yourself edging closer with every movement of his fist inside your cunt.

“You’re a filthy little whore, aren’t you?” he says, his breathing labored. “Yeah, you are. Letting me destroy your pussy like this and enjoying it. Filthy.”

You rock your hips, your body responding eagerly to Nathan’s touch, every sensation heightened to an almost unbearable intensity. Suddenly, you feel the overwhelming urge to come, knowing you can’t hold it back much longer.

“Please, Nathan, can I please come?” you cry out, your pussy contracting around his hand, your legs trembling. “Please, I–I can’t–”

You hear his harsh voice, “No, baby. You better hold it or you’ll be in even more trouble.”

You barely comprehend what he says to you, but you can tell by the sound of his voice that he’s not going to relent. He doesn’t give you a second to rest, continuously sliding his slick hand in and out of your pussy, greedily absorbing your delicious groans.

You close your eyes as you strain every single muscle in your body, biting your lip so hard you can taste blood, doing everything in your power to resist tipping over the edge.

“Open your eyes,” Nathan’s voice penetrates your foggy mind. “Look at me.”

You have to fight to open your eyelids.

Nathan’s gaze darkens, locking onto yours, willing you to keep your focus on him. Your body is slick with sweat, chest heaving with each labored breath as you find yourself enveloped in a haze—a trance of pure ecstasy, pain, and submission.

Nathan’s eyes drift downwards to where your bodies are connected, marveling at the sight of his wrist wrapped by your eager lips. His cock is throbbing, leaking precum onto the bed, begging for release. With a sense of reverence, he holds his hand still inside of you for a few moments longer, relishing the sensation, all while studying your expression and absorbing the symphony of your blissful pain.

“Please, Nathan,” you whine, tears welling up in your eyes, spilling over, and running down your temples. Nathan’s cock twitches at the sight.

“No, baby, you’re not allowed to come,” he says calmly, his tone laced with feigned pity, even as he continues to slide his fist in and out consistently. His eyes bore into yours and you feel like he’s penetrating your soul.

“You came into the lab looking like a hooker, interrupting my work because you were bored. I explained to you that I was busy and that you’d have to wait until I was done. You were mouthy and acted like an entitled princess, so I told you to leave and that you’d be punished. This is your punishment. You’re not allowed to come for a week and during that time, I’ll edge you as much as I please.”

“I know, I know,” you stammer, your voice breaking. “I’m so–sorry, Nathan, please.”

“Not good enough, baby. You made your choice, and now you have to face the consequences like a big girl.”

Feeling your walls flutter around his fist and hearing your moans grow louder, Nathan stops all movement, keeping his hand nestled inside you, waiting patiently for the wave of ecstasy to subside.

Your pathetic whimpering only serves to fuel Nathan’s arousal further, his cock aching to finally get some relief. Deciding that you’ve been stretched enough for what he’s got planned for you, he begins the slow process of withdrawing his hand from your cunt.

“Deep breaths, baby,” he whispers, lightly brushing over your clit with his left thumb.

“Oh, fuck! Fuck, fuck fuck!” Your cries echo through the room as your tortured pussy begins again to open wide for him.

“That’s it,” Nathan murmurs, his voice a husky blend of primal satisfaction and raw desire, on the verge of coming untouched as he watches his hand slowly sliding out of his favorite place in the world, your trembling, slick lips parting reluctantly to release him.

The gentle grazing of his hand against your walls ignites waves of exquisite pain, and as his knuckles spread you open, the sensation intensifies, stretching you to your limits and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your body.

“Please, Nathan, please, please, please,” you whimper, your pleas escaping in a desperate cascade of need. Your mind wanders, losing itself in another realm where you soar, liberated and weightless.

Nathan can feel the involuntary pressure of your body starting to push him out, but he resists the pressure to avoid a sudden exit that might cause you to faint. He needs you awake.

“Easy, baby,” he whispers, softly stimulating your clit with his thumb again.

As his hand slowly emerges from your raw, sensitive pussy, your body begins to shudder. Your abused hole is gaping, liquid flowing from its opening. Your eyes are glossy as you look at Nathan, your tongue absentmindedly licking over your chapped lips.

He sits back on his heels and lightly pets your thighs, spreading the combination of lube and your slickness across your skin.

“Color, baby?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

You take a deep breath before responding, “Green.”

“Very good,” he acknowledges with a smile, giving your clit a tap before rising from the bed. “Cause I’m not done with you.”

He walks over to the nightstand, picks up the glass of water, and brings it to your lips. With a supportive hand, he steadies your neck, encouraging you to take a few sips.

Satisfied with your intake, he gently lowers your head back onto the pillow and sets down the glass. Then, he retrieves something from the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

His smirk worries you.

As he’s moved away from the bed, your gaze is drawn to the mirrors opposite the bed, reflecting your disheveled form. You observe your puffy, glistening folds, the wet spot on the sheets between your legs, your red eyes, your bruised and bloody lips—you’re a complete mess. A complete, happy mess.

Nathan rounds the bed, standing in front of you with the object of his desire. It takes your hazy brain a few seconds to register what he’s holding in his hand, but when you do, your face falls, and all you can do is let out a pathetic little whimper.

No.

He wouldn’t…right?

Oh, who are you kidding, of course he would.

He scoffs at your shocked face as he spreads lube around the silicone fleshlight, taking his time to insert his slick fingers into the tight opening, humming in satisfaction at the sensation.

“Dumb baby,” he coos sardonically. “Did you honestly think I was gonna fuck your loose pussy after I just ruined it with my fist? I wouldn’t feel shit.”

He kneels on the bed before your spread legs again, pumping his cock slowly with his lubed-up hand. Your wide eyes follow his every movement, the desire to feel him deep inside you, to come around his cock, to have him fill you up consuming your entire being.

But you realize that none of that is going to happen.

Instead, Nathan teases your entrance with the fleshlight, eliciting a low moan from you. He starts pushing it in slowly, only an inch or two at a time, before smoothly withdrawing it again. The sensation is quite nice, like he’s fucking you with a thick dildo, and after having his whole fist inside you, the toy glides in and out of you without much resistance.

Finally, he pushes it in until it’s fully seated inside you, leaving it there to fill you completely.

“That’s much better,” he says with a smirk as he brushes over the silicone clit and further upwards over yours a few times, then lines the tip of his cock up with the silicone lips that are beautifully framed by yours. He slides inside with one smooth thrust, groaning at the delicious feeling of the ribbed texture massaging his length.

“Fuck me, that feels good,” Nathan moans, his cock twitching inside the fleshlight as he observes your pained expression. “Such a perfect, tight pussy.”

He leans over you, his face hovering above yours, his hands resting on the bed next to your torso.

“Do you feel that, you little slut?” he murmurs as he thrusts his hips, his balls hitting your asshole repeatedly. “Do you feel how I’m fucking this tight pussy, huh?”

When he notices tears welling up in your eyes, he crashes his lips onto yours, his tongue sliding between your lips with a fervent hunger. As you eagerly reciprocate his kiss, moaning into his mouth, you can taste yourself on his lips and beard from when he ate you out earlier, the heady flavor sending your senses reeling.

Breaking the kiss and straightening back up, Nathan firmly holds onto your thighs as he mercilessly fucks the fleshlight. His gaze never wavers as he tells you what a good little sleeve you are for his favorite pussy, how much he enjoys fucking it, or while detailing his plans to use it in your ass so you can cockwarm him all night long.

Every single word that spills from his lips has you dripping and moaning, lost in a whirlwind of desire and submission. There’s something so incredibly humiliating yet undeniably exciting about being taken by him like this.

You love hearing his groans, you love feeling his possessive grip on your thighs, you love the feeling of his cock slamming into the fleshlight inside you—but at the same time, an increasingly big part of you is struggling with what you know is coming next.

He’s going to have an orgasm and you’re not. It’s your punishment.

The feeling of almost unbearable frustration that you know will well up within you when he fills the silicone pussy with his cum but leaves you aching is something you both crave and dread.

You’ll be all revved up with no possible release, and that’s brutal.

You try to focus on the stimulation you’re getting from the fleshlight moving inside you as Nathan keeps fucking it. And, more importantly, you try your hardest to focus on the pleasure you’re making him feel, rather than getting preoccupied with the fact that you won’t be getting any physical release.

Most of the time when edges you, you don’t have very much trouble with it, but for some reason today, it’s much more difficult for you to handle.

Nathan pulls you out of your thoughts as he moves his hands from your thighs to your tits and starts squeezing them so roughly that it’s painful. You guess that this means he’s about to come—he loves hurting you when he’s close.

Sure enough, a few strokes later he’s coming with a low groan, digging his nails deeply into your tits at the exact moment he shoots his load into the silicone pussy.

He keeps his cock buried deep inside the fleshlight for a few moments, allowing himself to empty his balls completely and catch his breath. Then, he leans back, letting his cock slide out. The sight of his cum dripping out of the fake pussy inside yours is something he wants to treasure forever.

And he can—thanks to the two 4k cameras recording everything that ever happens in his bedroom.

“Relax, baby,” you hear him say before you feel him slowly pull the fleshlight out of you. He lays it down on the towel next to you, then directs his attention to your gaping pussy. Mesmerized, he gently spreads your lips with his thumbs, his soft cock witching at the sight of your abused hole.

While Nathan’s inspecting you closely, like you’re an android he’s trying to perfect, your head is swimming with all the intense emotions you’re feeling—the deep satisfaction and pride at having pleased Nathan by enduring his punishment, the physical pain, your own frustration.

It’s all completely overwhelming.

You’re just grateful that, now that it’s over, you’ll have some time to calm down. Right now, you want to come desperately, and it will take you a while to get past that feeling, but you know you’ll be able to manage it eventually.

That’s why you’re so shocked by the sudden sensation of Nathan’s right hand between your legs, rubbing, while his left hand wanders up to your tits, squeezing them alternately.

You moan and close your eyes, lost in the ecstatic feeling of his touch. He’s drawing tight circles on your clit, knowing exactly how you like to be touched, and it feels incredible.

But only half of your brain is overcome with pleasure. The other half is in full-on panic mode. You already know for a fact he isn’t going to let you come, so this is just another round of torture for his sadistic amusement.

His fingers feel so painfully good on you, far too good. He keeps alternating between squeezing your tits and digging his nails into them with his hand, intensifying the sensation of his fingers rubbing your swollen clit.

With how sensitive you already feel from him eating you out, edging you, fisting you and kind-of-fucking you, it’s only a matter of minutes before you’ll be getting close again.

You’re usually pretty good at coping with the pain of repeated denial, but right now, you feel like your level of frustration goes past your ability to handle it. The thought of reaching the precipice again, getting so close that another second would bring you to the orgasm you want so badly, is just too much to bear.

You can’t do it without losing your mind. There’s no way.

“No, no, no, please, Nathan, I can’t…Not again, please,” you plead, genuine panic evident in your strained voice.

Nathan slows the movement of his fingers on your clit, raising his head to meet your eyes with intense focus.

“Look at me, concentrate on me, baby,” you hear him say in a stern yet calm voice. “Do you trust me?”

You bite your lip hard, close your eyes with a deep exhale, then open them again. “Yes,” you choke out, your throat tight as you struggle to focus on his words. Your heart races, pounding so hard you fear it might burst from your chest.

“Listen to me,” Nathan commands. “I want you to calm down and relax, do you understand?” he asks you.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice strained.

“This isn’t up for debate. I want it, it will please me. You belong to me, your body belongs to me, and I will use it how I see fit. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Nathan,” you repeat weakly.

He returns his attention to your pussy, skillfully stimulating your clit. His eyes never leave yours as he relishes the pained expression on your face. “You’re doing great, baby. Keep breathing and stay focused on me.”

“Uh-huh,” you breathe, involuntarily rocking your hips as Nathan, yet again, brings you closer and closer to your high with every precise movement of his fingers.

“I’m gonna come soon,” you pant, your voice tinged with hope and desperation, wishing he would relent before it becomes too overwhelming.

“Very good. But I’m not going to stop until you’re right on the edge.”

“Okay,” is all you can get out, resigned to your fate.

It only takes another minute. You feel the orgasm building inside you, right there, ready to wash over you in just another second. You feel a tiny, nagging impulse to lie, to tell him it’s come on so fast you couldn’t stop him in time. But you know if you did that, you’d feel so guilty you wouldn’t even be able to enjoy the orgasm.

So, instead, you yell, “Stop!”

He does, sitting back on his heels, hands off your body.

You yank at the restraints securing your wrists and legs, writhing and screaming at the torturous feeling of your imminent orgasm being taken from you so cruelly. Your clit burns and pulsates, and your sore pussy clenches around nothing in a vain attempt to bring you to completion.

You take deep breaths, attempting to steady yourself. Your chest is heaving and your body’s trembling uncontrollably. Whimpers and sobs escape you as you bury your face into the pillow, eyes tightly shut.

Your orgasm was so fucking close, and having it ripped away by a man whose smirk you could see through tear-filled eyes has you ready to punch a wall…or claw his eyes out.

You feel a very unsubmissive urge to tell Nathan he’s a bastard for doing this to you. He knows damn well how hard edging is on you, so why the hell is he putting you through this? Just because you wanted to spend more time with him? It’s not fair.

He’s already untied both of your legs and let them down gently, making sure you slowly stretch them for the first time in over an hour. He kneels beside your torso, releasing you from the cuffs around your right, then your left wrist. He watches your face intently, savoring your tears and the pained sobs escaping your swollen lips.

If you weren’t sore, he’d fuck you right now. You’re so beautiful when you’re hurting.

You turn onto your left side, away from Nathan, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. You’re scared by how angry you are at him and want to feel as small as possible because it makes you feel safe.

Nathan lies on his side behind you, drawing the covers over your trembling body. Propping his head up on his hand, he places his palm on your shoulder, stroking your arm gently. Your muscles tense at his touch, conflicted emotions swirling within.

“You wanna come, baby?” he coos, a hint of sadistic amusement in his voice.

What the fuck do you think?

You don’t say anything, weak sniffles occasionally breaking your silence.

Nathan sighs deeply but decides to let your non-response slide. He’s pushed you a lot today, and as he observes your fragile state, he’s prepared to cut you some slack.

“Tell me why I’m not letting you.” He puts a soft kiss on your damp shoulder blade, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine.

“Because my pain makes you happy,” you say, your voice strained.

“Yeah, well, that’s a given,” Nathan says with a hint of amusement. “But seriously, I want you to tell me why I’m not letting you come.”

You’re biting your tongue so hard to refrain from saying something you’ll regret, acutely aware that your frustration is clouding your ability to find the part of your mind where the right answer Nathan’s looking for is located.

He gives you a moment to gather yourself, confident you’ll be able to overcome your anger.

Eventually, you relent. “I don’t deserve to come because I’m a spoiled brat,” you murmur into your pillow. “I–I lashed out at you today because I felt neglected and that wasn’t the way to go about it. I need to be punished for that and I trust you to make the right decision about what that punishment should look like.”

Nathan listens attentively, his expression softening as he hears your words. “That’s exactly right, baby,” he says gently, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on your shoulder blade and neck. “See? Even a dumb little toy like you gets it eventually.”

He sits up, leaning against the headboard. “Come here,” he murmurs, motioning for you to lay on him. Meeting his gaze for a second, you obediently nestle your head on his warm skin, your left arm draped over his torso.

He allows you a moment to calm down, gently scratching your scalp, the rhythmic beat of his heart relaxing you. You savor the fleeting intimacy, fully aware that he’ll soon ask you to leave as he has an important meeting scheduled in half an hour.

Your ears perk up when his low voice breaks the silence, his chest vibrating with each word. “I know edging is hard for you, and I’m glad to hear you understand why things need to be this way. I’m proud of you.”

You nuzzle your head against his chest, an overwhelming feeling of warmth spreading through you. Nathan’s proud of you. No orgasm in the world could ever compare to the feeling of hearing those words from him.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you today,” you murmur.

“Apology accepted,” he says, his tone sincere. “Now, go to the bathroom and take a shower. Dinner’s ready in twenty minutes and I bought that stupid Dune movie you won’t shut up about.”

You lift your head and stare at him in disbelief, convinced that your brain—or Nathan—is playing a trick on you. You’re so confused.

“But what about the meet–”

He raises an eyebrow. “If your ass is not out of this bed in the next ten seconds, I’m tying you up again, and I promise you won’t like what I’ll do to you then.”

You can’t hold back the dopey grin that spreads across your face as you pull back the covers and scurry to the bathroom as fast as your weak legs will allow.

Nathan watches with an imperceptible smile as your silhouette disappears behind the automatic door.

– – –

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