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blazedgraysons · 4 years

Note

virgin reader giving grayson a bj

a/n: i promise i’m working on requests, my life has just been incredibly busy along with me working on the no nut fic and some other exciting things for y’all!! anyways thank you for the request angel, hope you like it🤍🤍

warnings: first-time bj’s, lack of communication between these two, and grayson having a bit of innocence kink if you squint

this is a continuation of this request. you don’t have to read it to understand what’s going on here (but you should read it anyways bc it’s kinda good lmao)

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If you were to list your worst moments when it came to love and dating, your first blowjob had to be near the top.

It was high school, junior year with some football player named Chad Daniels. You both were at a party, and honestly, the whole experience was less than extraordinary. It only took two seconds before Chad immediately tried facefucking you. All you could remember is the pain you felt from gagging and choking and almost instantly pushing him off of you.

Needless to say, it wasn't your favorite activity nor something you were that desperate to try again. Until Grayson.

It wasn't like you were dumb; you knew how much guys love getting their dick sucked. And with Grayson doing everything he can to please you, you wanted to return the favor.

You had planned to wake him up with morning head after that first time he ate you out, something cute, intimate, and if you're honest, probably very ambitious for your first time.

However, any worries you may have had were proven to be completely unnecessary when you woke up to Grayson licking into you. You jerk roughly awake, legs only staying in place due to Grayson's firm grip. It doesn't take long before your scream of surprise turns into moans, growing louder when you watch your insanely cocky boyfriend wink at you.

"Grayson, what the- what the fuck?" You softly moan out the last part, shuddering at the way he starts sucking on your clit.

He pops up, a cheeky grin on his face and lips red and shining.

"Morning!" He goes back down and continues working you higher and higher to your orgasm. It doesn't take long, melting under Grayson's touch. He watches your face, his expression star-struck, and just so fucking in love as he sees how he just made your body fall apart.

"You couldn't wait until after breakfast?"

"Angel, that was my breakfast." He kisses you softly, leaving you dazed as he walks to the bathroom.

It started to become a drug for him; Whether he was stressed, happy, or even just bored, Grayson was beginning to find a new home in between your legs. And with him dropping to his knees more and more, it only furthered your desire to do the same.

You started to notice. He would eat you out, make you cum, and then leave to go take care of himself. It was an annoying pattern that was being formed, but no matter what, he wouldn't let you do anything about it.

"Step-by-step, remember? This is about you." was always his answer, and while you appreciated his devotion to your pleasure, you were starting to crave him. Crave the weight of him in your mouth, the heady taste, and most of all, the visual of him cumming from your doing.

If you were ever going to take this any further, you needed to figure out how to show him that you're not just doing this out of an obligation, but because you absolutely desire to make him feel as good as he does to you.

So you follow his advice and take it slow. You start with light brushes, lingering touches on his chest and thighs, flirty glances. Grayson notices; he makes a few quips about how touchy you've become but ultimately believing it's the result of the two of you taking your relationship further. You move on to suggestive comments, openly making jokes about blowjobs and talking about his dick. If he notices, he doesn't say anything, just laughs and shakes his head, playing it up for the vlogs.

You sit on his lap when the car is too crowded, he moves you so you're not directly on him; you suck a lollipop in front of him, he goes into another room to "finish editing." It was almost as if the roles had reversed, him now being the one to run away. You were starting to feel frustrated, thinking he was getting some twisted joy from seeing you so flustered.

So you decide to approach it head-on, bluntly asking him during lunch,

"Why won't you let me suck your dick?"

He chokes on his sandwich, staring at you, shocked.

"Angel, what?" He dramatically coughs out, and you roll your eyes at the theatrics.

"Why won't you let me suck your dick?" You enunciate, speaking slowly while raising an eyebrow. He just stares back at you, not speaking or moving before going back to his food.

"S'fine, Y/N. I can take care of myself. This is about you." He doesn't look at you when he speaks, more preoccupied with his vegan BLT (which he made so you know it can't be that damn good)

You pout, pushing your food around with your fork. It's the same response he's been giving, and at this point, you're worried you might snap if you don't get a real answer.

"Are you seriously trying to tell me that whatever you're doing with your hand is better than my mouth?" He takes a sharp breath, pushing his plate away from him.

"Enough, Y/N. I don't want to talk about it.". If you were stupider, you would've dropped it, let him continue with his lunch, and let him go at his own pace. But you were becoming worried, wondering why he would shut you out instead of opening up.

"Gray," You move to sit next to him, playing with one of his hands as you continue. "You told me all you want is for me to be honest with you. Can you please do the same?" He sighs, taking a moment before answering,

"I'm just scared that once we start, I won't be able to stop. It's not that I don't want you to, it's just— I don't want to lose control and ruin anything for you." Whatever you were expecting couldn't have prepared you for that, and honestly, you were a little surprised. Selfishly, your fears were centered around your own insecurities: that Grayson didn't think you were good enough to, that he wasn't attracted to you, etc. As usual though, Grayson shocked you with how his universe seems to entirely revolve around you and your happiness.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. That was stupid." Grayson takes back, scared that your silence is one of fear or disgust. You place a hand on his arm, moving closer.

"Amour, don't apologize." You kiss him lovingly, feeling soft over how sweet your boyfriend can be. You pull away, kissing his cheek before continuing.

"Us taking this slow isn't just for me — it's for you too. And you know that whatever you want to do, I'm obviously down for as well" He smiles stupidly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But believe me, you've been making me feel really good lately." He perks up at that.

"And I really, really, really want to make you feel good too." You take his hand, leading him to the couch. His eyes follow your every move, not wanting to miss a single thing. You kiss him again before pulling away quickly, a thought coming to your head.

"You're gonna have to help me. I haven't done this that much." He nods rapidly, pants growing tighter with every word. He doesn't have exact words to describe it, but there's something so hot about the innocent look on your face, the way you're looking at him wide-doe eyes and waiting for his instruction. Something so pure about the knowledge that you still held onto so many of your first, yet so sinful that he was going to be the man to ruin that. You lightly lick your lips as you put your hair up, and Grayson's mouth goes dry at the movement.

"I'm pretty sure I've dreamt about this before."

"Let's hope I live up to the standards." He groans lowly as you sink to your knees.

"Trust me, you're already pretty close." His heart sinks when you rest both palms above his knees, and he can tell he's working himself up. After going a while without doing anything remotely sexual, the slightest touch sends little shockwaves straight to his dick. If the anticipation meant anything, he would probably cum the second you actually touched where he needed you most.

You unbutton his pants, sliding them down with his help. You stare at how his boxers are already tented, forming a nice bulge. Already you're feeling overwhelmed, not sure where you want to start first while just wanting to show him how much you adore him.

You watch as he slides his boxers down, and your mouth starts watering. Grayson obviously radiates big dick energy, that's no secret to anyone, and you've seen him freeball in grey sweats enough times to at least have an idea of what he's working with. Seeing the real thing, however, has you more turned on than you've been before.

"So big," You whisper, and Grayson's sure he could cum then and there from the awestruck look on your face. You kiss his upper thigh, right next to his medusa tattoo, before tentatively kissing the tip.

"Angel, please." He could cry, finally having you where he wants you, but not doing enough to relieve any of the tension he's feeling. He knows you're not teasing, not even entirely sure of what you're doing to him, and while he's usually not a beggar, he'll do whatever it takes to finally get you on him.

You nod, growing wet at his soft pleas before licking from his base to his tip. You take him into your mouth, sucking the head while watching Grayson's head fall back onto the couch. You lean back a little, spitting before taking him back in your mouth, going further than before. You continue that for a minute, bobbing your head slightly. You moan softly at your boyfriend's blissed-out expression, eyes glazed over as he looks at you sucking him off.

"Your hands, angel —use them. Please," He moans out the last part, having already added your hands the minute he said the word. You stroke up and down the part that can't fit, experimentally twisting them.

You're drooling now, covering both your chin and his dick, and honestly, your jaw is starting to hurt, but the look on Grayson's face is more than enough to keep going.

"Wait, off. Angel, get off." You pull off of him, scared that you've done something wrong. One hand is still lightly jerking him off while the other rests on his upper thigh.

"Gonna —gonna cum. Didn't want to in your mouth." He's breathless, panting to calm himself down from how you've worked him up. You push the hand away that is moving to replace yours and start sucking again.

"You're okay with that?" He questions and you nod as best you can, humming happily. Between the vibrations, how wet your mouth is, and the way your hands are moving, Grayson is done, cumming with a silent moan and eyes closing.

You take every drop, swallowing before pulling away to jerk him slowly. You watch with big eyes as he twitches and slightly jerks in your hand, riding the after waves of his orgasm. Once you feel he's finally done, you move up to sit next to him.

"How was that?" You're genuinely curious, wanting to know if it was as good for him as you thought. He opens his eyes, pupils blown and breath still a little ragged.

"Perfect." He kisses you deeply, shivering slightly when he tastes himself. "You're fucking perfect." He moves his hand lower, already reaching for your shorts, but you stop him.

You're tired, exhausted really. So you take him to bed, silently suggesting a nap, unaware of Grayson's self-promises to make you feel twice as good when you wake up.

#remember ladies #if you're man doesn't kiss you after you suck him off #he doesn't deserve head #grayson dolan #grayson dolan fic #grayson dolan blurb #grayson dolan smut #dolan twins #dolan twins fic #dolan twins blurb #dolan twins smut #blazedwritings

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sondepoch · 4 years

Text

Chapter 1

Hearts on Three (Satan x Reader)

The athlete and the nerd. The rich kid and the scholarship student. The girl who will constantly joke about breaking your knee caps and the boy who will actually do it. There are so many ways to describe your relationship with Satan. Too many, if you’re being honest. He’s your best friend. The smartest tutor you’ve ever had. He also spends thousands of dollars for you at the drop of a hat and holds your hand when you’re feeling down. And in the beginning, that's okay. Neither of you let yourselves get bogged down by labels, both of you content to just savor this newfound friendship. But deeper feelings always have a way of complicating things. And for better or for worse, you and Satan are no exception.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ✎

MASTERLIST

Volleyball is far from a quiet sport.

No matter what's happening, there's always noise: the sound of a hand colliding with a ball during a serve, the sound of shoes squeaking against the floor in preparation for a receive, the sound of hoarse shouts and strained calls whenever someone is open, ready to take the next touch.

The sport is built out of the fabric of communication, players constantly shouting to claim balls, ask for a toss, ready the team for defense.

Add in the cheers of the audience, and then it's as if the noise never stops.

"Game point, girls!" Your coach's words are almost inaudible, hovering under the roars of the audience who are still cheering for the last point. "Keep it up and we end this here!"

You echo similar words of encouragement to your team before finding your position, staring straight ahead as someone serves the ball over.

Your feet move the moment you hear the slap of the serve, darting to your defense position as you bend your knees and crouch low. You can tell that the ball is going to soar back onto your side of the court as soon as you see the way the opposing team's libero has positioned her arms—the limbs perfectly parallel but far too deep for the ball to go anywhere but back to you after one touch.

"Freeball!" You shout, stepping away from defense to back into your approach line, but by the time you're ready to call for the ball, your setter has already tossed to the right-side hitter.

Inwardly, you can't help but feel a pang of jealousy at that. You know it's stupid, that you're the one person on the team who's probably touched the ball more than anyone else, but your fingers ache for more. Adrenaline runs through your veins thicker than blood at this point, and all you know is that you want it to be you who ends this match.

"Back, back!" The team's libero calls the ball as she positions herself under it. This time, it bounces off her arms and sails straight into the hands of the setter, who tosses it to the outside hitter.

But then, the team sends the ball flying straight toward your defense specialist.

It's the worst mistake they can make, with match point weighing against them.

You lock eyes with your team's setter the second you sense the trajectory of the ball, mirth coloring both your expressions as you collectively realize that the match is as good as won. As expected, the ball arches into the setter's hands within seconds, and then you've begun your approach, your feet tracing the familiar left-right-left pattern before you jump up, flying high.

You don't bother calling for the ball, seeing no need to alert the setter of your readiness. You already expect her to toss to you—the look in her eyes earlier was practically screaming it.

What you don't expect is for your silence to reward you with an empty defense, the entire court diving to block the other hitter as the girl on the other side of the court calls for the ball at the top of her lungs, none of them realizing that the ball is being delivered to you until it's too late.

Another mistake.

The last one they'll make in this game.

The ball connects with your hand at the peak of your jump, when you're so impossibly high above the net that you can see the disbelief on your opponents' faces even as you jerk your arm down and slam the ball into the ground, letting it fall with enough force to make every one of them flinch.

The cheers begin before your feet have even landed on the ground.

You don't hear the referee when he blows the whistle, the sound of it drowned out by the whooping and hollering of your school in the bleachers, all of them screaming in support for what was definitely one of the most intense matches you've had thus far.

A grin spreads across your face, proud and confident.

Your team lines up behind you within seconds, all of them eager to shake hands with the team and then break off to continue celebrating. It's all over so fast, and you don't even have time to begin shifting impatiently from foot to foot before the girls are done, arms thrown up in celebration as they dive into a celebratory huddle in the center of the court.

You waste no time in running to join them, literally throwing yourself at the heap of girls and landing with your weight balanced on a poor sophomore as you high five everyone on the team.

"That was amazing, guys!" You don't bother jumping off the sophomore's back, making yourself comfortable as you begin going over everything you guys did right, and how proud you are of the team.

At least, that's what you would do.

A cough from behind you stops you in the middle of a sentence, and you turn around, already knowing who to expect.

"Hi, Headmaster Barbie!" You give an enthusiastic wave to the man in front of you.

"Please," He begins, his expression mortified as usual when you address him so casually. "Do not call me that. We have had this conversation before."

"Yeah, yeah," You mumble, hopping off the girl you'd been piggybacking on. "What can I do for you, Big B?"

The man sighs. He should have known better than to expect you to call him by his proper name. You've called him 'Headmaster Barbatos' precisely once in your life, back when you first met him. Never again.

"We discussed over the summer that you would be needing a tutor should your grades fall to a certain point—"

A small part of you cringes, having taken that memory and burnt it to a crisp. But now you remember that Barbatos did tell you that if you wanted to stay on the volleyball team, you couldn't fail any classes.

And you're currently failing all of them but one.

"Gosh, Big B, I'd love to stay and chat, but I actually think I should go talk with my team for now. We just won, you know? I should be with them. Plus, I can't let them get too cocky. It's captain's responsibility to go over the things that went wrong, and I should head over—"

"Your co-captain appears to be fulfilling those duties just fine for you."

You can already hear your team's setter chastising one of the girls for calling a few balls at the beginning of the game that she should have left to the libero, and you bite your lip. As usual, Barbatos is one step ahead of you.

"Okay, but there are more than a few recruiters here today. I'm sure they want to speak with me. That last hit of mine was really flashy, y'know? Anyways, I should probably go. If you think about it, it's technically my future at stake. Wouldn't want to compromise that, so I'll just—"

Barbatos steps in front of you before you can slide out of the situation, sealing off your escape route.

"You spoke to four recruiters before the match began."

You want to correct him, want to tell him that you were actually approached by five, but you feel like that won't help your situation.

"Moving on, you have either ignored all the letters sent to your mailbox telling you to improve your grades, or you have attempted to fix them and have still failed. In light of this, the school has decided to assign you a tutor."

"You mean you decided to assign me a tutor." You throw a pout at Barbatos, making it obvious that you hate the idea of spending any more time with studies than you have to.

"Yes, I made the decision to assign you a tutor. The alternative was allowing you to fail all your finals this trimester, whereupon you would be kicked from the volleyball team, lose your scholarship, be removed from the school, and be forced to repeat your senior year elsewhere."

You say nothing, merely opting to frown at Barbatos's shoes. Stupid leather loafers. What business do they have looking so pristine?

"Anyway, I managed to find a suitable student willing to be your tutor, and—"

"A student?"

Your ears perk up at that. You were expecting that you'd have to sit for three hours a day with some old fart who doesn't know the first thing about volleyball. But if it's a kid your age, then…

"Yes." Barbatos gestures to the student next to him, whom you only now realize has been standing here the whole time. "This is Satan. He's going to be responsible for making sure you pass your midterm and final exams."

"A pleasure to meet you." The boy forces a curt smile to his face, nodding at you.

You stare at him.

Tall. Blonde. Green eyes. Attractive in the stereotypical sense, the kind of prettyboy one of your teammates might date. Looks like he might be athletically inclined, but his manicured nails make you doubt he's played any intense sports within the past three weeks.

"Hi!" You blurt, extending a hand out for Satan to shake. You internally cringe, wishing that Barbatos hadn't chosen to introduce you to your tutor immediately after a match. There's sweat dripping down the back of your neck, and you haven't even had time to drop your knee pads to your ankles. You can feel hair sticking to your forehead.

I look like a mess.

Satan is enough of a gentleman not to comment on it, shaking your hand politely.

"Have we…" You study Satan's face, wondering if it's just your imagination. "Have we met? I feel like I've seen you before."

Satan arches an eyebrow, glancing at Barbatos. You might be reading their expressions wrong, but you swear they seem to be asking each other a silent question: Is she serious?

"You…" Barbatos shakes his head, sighing. "Satan is your student president. Your class elected him."

"Hm," You mumble, skeptical. "I don't think that's how I know him. I had a tournament during elections and all, so I didn't see any of this year's candidates."

The edge of Satan's lips quirks up in amusement.

"Satan has been your student president," Barbatos informs you. He's practically hissing, his voice taking on the tone of a parent embarrassed over their child. "He's one of our best and most prolific students. Your class has elected him all four years. How have you not noticed?"

You frown, tapping your chin.

Now that Barbatos mentions it, you are pretty sure you've heard of Satan before. But that doesn't explain why you recognize his face. Your life has been centered around athletics from the day you found volleyball—and Satan might judge you for it, but you've never paid attention to the school executive board. Anyone who isn't an athlete gets lost in the sea of faces, and...oh!

"Freshman year!" You exclaim, eyes lighting up. "I saw you when we were in our freshman year! You were on the Varsity winter track team—and—and—and your mile time was 5:11.02! I remember because it was even faster than mine!"

You can see Satan's eyes widen the second you rattle that number off, definitely having forgotten it but recognizing it as correct the moment you mention it to him.

"How do you remember that?" He asks incredulously, looking almost mortified that you know him not for any of his academic achievements but for something he clearly attaches no significance to.

"How could I have forgotten?!" You ask in response, eyes wide in wonder at the realization that this absolute legend is going to be your tutor.

"See?" Barbatos smiles. "She has a good memory for things that she cares about. Your work is already cut out for you, Satan."

The man flashes you his usual cryptic smile, though you swear you detect a hint of pride in his gaze.

"Regardless, I'll leave you two to acquaint yourselves. Satan, I trust you'll be able to find your dorm. And you," Barbatos's expression morphs into one of warning, though the amusement beneath the mask is easy to find in his eyes. "Stay out of trouble."

"Thank you, Barbatos."

"Later, Big B!"

"That's Headmaster Barbatos to you both," He mumbles under his breath, shaking his head as he leaves you and Satan to go speak with your coach, likely to inform the man of your poor academic state.

Next to you, Satan laughs.

"I've never seen someone actually make that man express emotion." Satan flashes you an approving glance, impressed. "You really must be something special."

"I totally am!" You don't bother pretending to be humble. "Did you see my hit at the end of the game? It was perfect! I can't remember the last time I got to spike down on empty defense!"

You continue to chatter animatedly, waving your hands around wildly as you describe all your favorite plays from the game.

"Oh, oh, and did you see that feint my co-captain did in the first set? The other team was so confident when they went to block me—even I was surprised when she just set it over! She's such a great girl, you know? You should come to more of our matches! Maybe we could even set up a day where I go to one of your track meets and you come to one of my matches, and—"

For the first time since you began rambling, Satan interrupts you.

"I don't do track anymore."

You blink.

"Wait, really?" A momentary stupor washes over your senses as you try to recall everyone on the Varsity track team. Sure enough, Satan's face doesn't come to mind—probably the reason why it took you so long to remember him in the first place. "Why'd you quit?"

Satan grins at you.

"I'll tell you when you get your first A."

Satan is utterly unsurprised to learn that his dorm is in the same building as yours. It's exactly the type of thing Barbatos would do—that slimy bastard—force the two of you together so that Satan has no choice but to tutor you, bringing your grades up so that the school doesn't have to lose its oh so precious star athlete.

Yeah, Satan isn't too excited at the prospect of having to tutor you.

And in truth, who would be?

An athlete like you screams trouble. Sure, you seem like the nicest person Satan has ever met and yeah, there's a certain quality about you that makes you impossible to dislike. But the blonde is too familiar with the world of jocks to fall for appearances.

He eyes the corner of your hand, studying the various envelopes that you balance between your fingers.

Some of them are letters from recruiters, he knows, and others are random brochures. He sees a sheet of notes your coach had handed to you, telling you to go over it so that you could run it by the girls tomorrow at practice, but most prominent is the variety of colorful envelopes that are wedged between your index and middle fingers.

Confession letters.

Three of them, to be precise.

And this wasn't even one of your biggest games.

Those letters are probably the single biggest reason why Satan is eyeing you so warily. He doesn't know a single person in the world who can accept love letters on a regular basis and not let it get to their head. Hell, Satan used to receive love letters on a regular basis, and he let it get to his head.

It was almost strange, Satan remembers, watching you accept all three confession letters with such a sweet smile—your bright eyes never once taking on a tint of condescension even as suitors readily set you up for it.

The boy frowns to himself, shaking his head.

Satan knows what people are like. He knows what you're going to be like. Too much of the spotlight will burn anyone in the long run, and Satan's been hearing about your volleyball skills from his friends long enough to know that you've been under the spotlight longer than anyone should be. That kindness you wear so naturally has to be nothing more than a facade, a mask of lies to make people like you. You look sincere enough, but you're obviously just a brilliant actress. A wizard at hiding your true expressions. Dumb when it comes to school, but secretly a mastermind of manipulation.

"Wait!" You blurt, eyes wide. "We have to go back!"

"Oh?" Satan arches an eyebrow, not particularly bothered by the idea. "Why?"

"I left my kneepads in the gym!"

Satan blinks.

Okay, he takes all of that back.

There's no way you're a mastermind of anything. Except volleyball, maybe. And if your head is this empty, it's a wonder you're even able to be that good at that.

"The kneepads," Satan begins, impossibly slow, hoping that you'll come to the realization on your own. "That you left in the gym," He continues, eyes round in disbelief as you nod your head ardently. "That are currently on your knees?"

You blink. Once, then twice. And then you slowly drop your head to your knees, eyes widening as an impossibly quiet "oh" escapes your lips.

Satan snorts.

"I thought you had a good memory for the things you cared about," The blonde says, arching an amused eyebrow your way. It's probably the first time tonight where he's seeing you genuinely embarrassed and not just recklessly optimistic.

"I—I do!" You defend indignantly, hiking your duffel bag higher around your shoulder as you awkwardly try to find your balance under the weight of it. "It's just that I normally put my knee pads around my ankles after a game, and so I assumed that I left them behind when I couldn't feel them there!"

A pretty decent excuse, the blonde knows. Heck, even he was a bit thrown off today when Barbatos approached him and told him that this was the day he would get to meet his tutoring student. But Satan finds mirth in your momentary fluster, so he doesn't let you know any of this, his grin only widening as he nods disbelievingly.

"I'm sure," He says with enough dismissal in his voice for you to know he doesn't believe you.

"Hey!" You protest. "I'm being serious! I'm not stupid!"

"A debatable subject, based on recent evidence."

Satan can't even get another step in before you've slung your duffel bag off of your shoulder, whacking Satan straight in the chest with it. The blonde stumbles at the force of it, abruptly realizing that the muscles on your arms are no joke, but he regains his balance soon enough.

"Is that seriously any way to be treating your new tutor?" His words are serious but his voice betrays him, amusement sliding in when he was hoping to tease you some more.

"If anything, you should be treating me better," You argue back. "Aren't you, like, supposed to be getting me hyped about learning or something?"

"All in due time," He responds with a sigh, heart deflating at the prospect. Again, you seem like a nice enough person. But Satan's intuition is screaming at him that you're going to be a nightmare of a student—no matter how fun you seem to be.

"Is this our building?" He asks, trying to read the sign in front of the dorm in the darkness, to no avail.

"Yup. Haven't you been here before?

"Only once," Satan mumbles as he holds the door open for you. "Barbatos had me move in today. He probably wanted me here to keep you in line."

You roll your eyes at that, not dignifying Satan with a response as you pass the sign-in log to him, waiting so that the two of you can walk to the elevator together.

"What's your room number?" He asks, only when he's trying to figure out which button to press.

"665. Top floor."

Ah, Satan thinks, amusement flooding his veins as he presses the neon six. So not only are the two of you in the same building, but your rooms are literally across from each other.

Definitely something Barbatos would do.

Satan feels like he should be annoyed at that, because it certainly wasn't a part of the bargain he struck with Lucifer and it should have been mentioned to him at the start, back when he first agreed to become a tutor.

And yet, he can't bring himself to give in to the familiar simmer of wrath, not with you standing so close next to him, wiggling your eyebrows and making silly expressions in the mirror that Satan can only pretend he isn't enjoying.

MASTERLIST

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ✎

Word count: 3.7k

Notes: okay what up so this series is going to be different from everything i’ve done before because (1) there won’t be an update schedule, ima try my best to update at least weekly (maybe even twice per week :3) but college will definitely be taking priority (2) i usually try to avoid referring to gender, even in my fics where mc isn’t gender neutral, but because this is an mc on a girl’s vball team, her gender will be referenced a lot (3) this isn’t going to be plot driven like most of my works, it’s honestly just an indulgent slow burn fic and that is the driver (4) yeah you might have already figured this one out but the mc in this fic has personality. she is confident, spirited, and full of life in every way - and although most of my reader inserts normally have some semblance of a personality, i’m rlly not holding back with this one. i totally totally understand if any of these reasons make you not want to read this story. if that’s the case, i thank you for even giving it a chance - but if you’re down to stick around, buckle up bc this series is going to be a LONG ride and i can’t wait to go on it with you all <3

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Thank you for reading <3

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

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