#such a fascinating gif set isn't it | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mggslover · 2 months ago

Text

POSITIONS — aaron hotchner x derek morgan

In which two FBI agents ask you to reenact a crime scene with them, and you find yourselves in a very interesting position.

genre smut (18+) cw porn with plot, crime scene inaccuracies, early seasons hotch & morgan (just pretend hotch isn't married), reader grew up/lives in paris, reader has a dad, some spanking, threesome in eiffel tower position: blowjob and p in v, semi public sex, creampie wc 4,9k a/n i’m really curious to know who you guys would prefer to have in front and who in back in this position. i think i went with the general consensus, read to find out ;) kink: threesome “eiffel tower”

If there’s one thing significant about Paris, it’s the Eiffel Tower.

Ever since you were a little girl, you had a deep fascination with the monument. Maybe that had to do with the fact that your father was the owner of a well-established restaurant inside of the tower. You grew up with all sorts of magical stories about the place, and once you reached the age of twelve, your dad let you work with him on the weekends and during the holidays.

The experiences you’ve had as a teen were just as amazing as you predicted them to be. The crew had taken you in like you were just as much their blood-related kid — which was necessary considering your dad didn’t have the time to treat you like his. Instead, he saw you as a colleague, counted on you as a colleague, and honestly, feeling useful and needed was the sentiment that made the experience as special as it was.

Growing up came with more tasks and responsibilities, and you handled them well. So well that you decided that this is what you wanted to do for the rest of your life: follow in your father’s footsteps and inherit the business one day.

It sounded all fun and games, until your father had reached an age where he had to take some steps back, work more from home instead of being at the restaurant all day, every day.

That’s where you came in the picture. It had taken you years of hard work (yes, the boss might be your dad but he didn’t play favorites) when you finally received the title of manager.

It was another fancy term that hid hours of stress and sleep deprivation, because now, being the head responsible, you could not fuck up.

But you did.

Hard.

Certain mistakes were to be expected: getting into an argument with a customer, dropping a new set of plates, adding the wrong date of a large booking in the calendar. But accidentally hiring a hit woman who got two of your star customers killed off was a rather large fuck up.

It wasn’t your fault; it was the sentence you’ve been repeating like a mantra for the past week. The popularity of the restaurant has blown up since you became manager. You had made some stylistic choices in both the interior and the menu that attracted a bunch of new customers. So many that the workload became overbearing, there was no other choice than to start hiring new employees.

The woman you had hired seemed the perfect match. Her resume was impressive — something you later found out was completely made up (you had no time to double-check, okay?) — and most important of all, she was available right away.

With full faith, you had let her take the night shift, giving her the responsibility of closing the place after hours. That following morning you received a call from your coworker at 5AM. You were certain it was something bad (having warned everyone that you’re not a morning person and you’re only available for emergencies), though what you didn’t expect was to hear how your star customers — two successful businessmen who had been dining at the restaurant — were brutally murdered, shot by a bullet through their heads, the new employee having fled the crime scene.

So, here you were, having to deal with the consequences of your actions. The FBI was alarmed and on their way, and you got ready as fast as you could before heading over to the restaurant.

-`♡´-

“It’s fine, Alain,” you repeat with a sigh, rubbing your temples in frustration.

Alain, the coworker who had informed you and the police, was running around in circles, absolutely freaked out. You couldn’t blame him; he was the one who found the bodies and who instructed the forensics and medics when they had arrived.

“Just… slow down, okay?” you remind him. “Can you please talk to the other agents outside? I’ll handle the ones that will investigate the scene.”

He swallowed, eyes still wide in adrenaline and anxiety, but eventually gave you a stern nod and a “Yes, boss,” before walking out.

You tried keeping calm as you took your place behind the reception, keeping your mind from wandering to all the cruelties of what had happened and of what will happen once your father is informed of the events.

You didn’t need to distract yourself for long, because the sounds of footsteps and muffled muttering entered the room.

Two neatly dressed men appeared in your periphery. Just by their walks, you could tell that they meant business. Their faces too were etched in serious determination. You predicted the one on the left to be around your age, the one on the right a couple of years older than you, but still young. They were attractive. Too attractive for your liking.

“Are you the owner?” The agent on the right asked you.

You wished you could respond to that with a “Well yes, indeed I am”, but lying to the cops after a murder had taken place didn’t seem like the smartest idea. “I’m the manager,” you eventually answer.

The man nods, reaching his hand out toward you. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he tilts his head to the man beside him, “and this is my colleague, Special Agent Derek Morgan.”

As a manager, you’ve shaken many hands in your life; a handshake could tell a lot about a person, but all this handshake did was make your brain short-circuit. You felt a tingle in your stomach as Aaron’s large palm made contact with yours. His grip was firm, but you could tell that he was holding back, careful not to bruise you, although you wouldn’t have minded that. Looking up through your lashes, you caught his dark colored eyes already focused on you. He brushed his thumb over your skin, ever so light, but you noticed the action came with a small gleam in his eyes.

The other agent, Morgan, cleared his throat. “The bodies were found by that window?”

His question snapped you out of whatever mental fantasy you had found yourself in. To your dismay, Aaron let go of your hand, the intertwining of your fingers breaking as your hand fell to your side, palm still clammy as a reminder of his touch.

Awkwardly you scratched the back of your neck, following his gaze to the window and trying not to comment on the way Derek’s lip curled as he patted Aaron on the back, oblivious to you catching on.

“Uh, yeah. My colleague told me it happened right here,” you explain, pointing toward the glass wall just a few feet away.

“Mind if we take a look?”

“No, not at all,” you say in quick permission. “Go ahead.”

The second they turned their backs to you, you allowed yourself to take in a deep breath. It truly was comedic how, out of every event this morning, a polite handshake was the thing that seemed to have the most effect on you.

Maybe you were more touch-deprived than you thought you were. It made sense, honestly. It was another reason why you were on the hunt for new employees: needing more personal time, sexual time included.

You watched the two males from a distance, hands gripped tight around the wooden desk, like you were trying to keep some sexual beast from escaping out of you.

“Hey!” You scoffed when Derek wiped his gloved thumb over the window. Those were cleaned just two days ago!

He turns his head to you, brows furrowed in question. “Have these holes always been in here?”

Have these holes always been in here? You repeat in your hand with a mocking tone. Of course there haven’t been holes in the windows; this is a well-established restaurant!

You spoke up, your tone sounding softer than it was intended. “What do you mean?”

Aaron made a gesture with his hand, asking you to come over, and you did your best to not imagine what it’s like if he curled his fingers like that in a different situation.

You patted your clammy hands on your pants, straightened your back, and walked over to them.

The moment you stood in front of the window, you noticed it: there were two clean, bullet-sized holes at varying heights, around three feet away from each other. You let your hand ghost over the window, feeling a slight breeze coming from outside.

“See this?” Derek circles the hole with his thumb — an act that your mind is also turning dirty. “You can tell that the shot is fired from outside.”

“Did they do it from the roof of that apartment?”

The observation seemed simple to you; the beige-colored apartment building facing the restaurant had the perfect viewpoint to aim directly at the window where you stood. But apparently you had said something genius, because Derek’s brows raised and Aaron’s eyes glazed over you with a look full of surprise and pride.

He nods. “That could be it. I’ll call Garcia.”

You had no clue who Garcia was, only that the call was so urgent that Aaron took large strides to the other side of the room, leaving you and Agent Morgan alone.

“You shouldn’t have touched the glass,” you muttered. It was very nitpicky, you were aware, but something in you pulled you to Derek Morgan — to the both of them, for that matter — that made you want to speak to him, no matter the subject.

He chuckled, moving his eyebrows in an expressive way. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

You kept your voice steady, wanting to radiate confidence. “I got them cleaned two days ago.”

That made him laugh even more. “You got them cleaned?” He shook his head in slight disbelief, still smirking. “You didn’t even clean them yourself, princess. You have no right to complain.”

The nickname easily rolled off of his tongue, and you could imagine you not being the first person receiving the pet name. Still your stomach fluttered.

He leaned closer to you, and you almost jumped when his muscled arm grazed yours. “Do you like being called princess?”

You scoffed a laugh, not showing the effect his words had on you. “What? You’re a mind reader?”

“I’m a profiler, princess, I work at the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.”

Ah.

Just when you were about to tease him back, the now familiar clicking of Aaron’s dress shoes filled the room.

“You were right,” he started, announcing his presence. “We knew she was a hit woman, but Garcia found out she never works alone. We’re assuming she had two sharpshooters with her who shot the men from the apartment building when she gave the sign.”

The two agents eye each other, then the window, conspiratorially.

“She had to have lured them to the window somehow.” Morgan analyzes, observing the ground he’s standing on. “She must’ve stood in the middle, one sharpshooter taking a victim each.”

Hotch is quiet for a moment, taking his words in. “There’s a lot of space in between them.”

“Maybe she wasn’t standing.”

You don’t know what possessed you to speak up again. You have no experience in the field; hell, you don’t even have enough free time to watch any crime shows.

“I’m sorry, I won’t interrupt anymore.”

“Do you think she was lying down?” Aaron asks you. Nothing about his looks or tone told you that he was joking. He was serious. He genuinely wanted to hear your opinion.

Still, you rub your neck, scared to say something stupid. “Uh, I don’t know. It just makes more sense, also with her height and stuff.”

“Was your coworker a flirt?”

Aaron and you tilt your face to Derek. As Aaron tries to figure out what the logic behind the question was, you think back on your coworker, and suddenly puzzle pieces start to connect.

“She hasn’t worked here for long, but she’s always been a bit flirty with them. The uh, the victims.”

Derek nods, shaking his head, his tongue poking into his cheek to hold back his sly grin. “This might sound crazy.”

A breathy chuckle escapes you. He cannot be thinking the same thing as you are.

Aaron is the only one not catching on, blinking between you guys. “What is it?”

-`♡´-

That’s how you found yourself balancing on the soles of your feet while Aaron stood behind you, his hands holding your hips steady while you had your back bent with your own hands clawed around Derek’s thighs as he towered over you.

And to not leave any details behind: Aaron was slowly rubbing the head of his cock along the swollen lips of your pussy, while your tongue was toying and teasing the lines along Derek’s length.

Okay, it didn’t happen that fast. You were desperate, but you still had some manners.

Derek was quick to find out that the unsub had used sex to lure the men to the window. It was because of a mutual effort that you figured out the position: Eiffel Tower.

It was ironic, sure, the Eiffel Tower sex position in the Eiffel Tower itself. You had stupidly laughed about it and had tried to mimic the position to Aaron with your hands. But instead of joining you in your joking, his expression remained neutral. He had considered your words… and it sounded plausible to him.

First you had watched as Aaron and Derek stood on the spots where the victims had stood last night. They spoke to themselves, pretending to be them in this strange sort of role play of the dead, trying to get a glimpse of whatever the victims and the unsub must’ve been thinking at the time.

It was Derek who had called you over. His voice sounded casual, strictly business, as he asked you for your help. As if reenacting a sexual position with two federal agents was the usual procedure.

Not one to decline the commands of authority, you had given a tight-lipped smile, maneuvering yourself in between their broad bodies. Grateful that running around the restaurant on the daily had kept you some sort of flexible, you had bent your back, clawing onto Derek’s thighs to keep yourself steady.

It was only when you blinked up that you noticed how incredibly close your face was to the agent’s groin. “Oh, sorry,” you apologized in embarrassment, taking a small step back until you bumped your ass against the stiffening length in Aaron’s pants.

You stayed still, as if keeping quiet for the next moments would magically make everyone forget about what had just happened. What you had just felt.

Derek spoke up first, trying to lighten the mood by giving a low whistle. “Now this is a sight for sore eyes.”

Aaron cleared his throat, remembering what he was here for. “This could be the position.” His gaze flicked to the bullet holes in the glass that matched almost precisely with their heights. “A clear shot straight through their heads.”

Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t give you a Thank you for your help, we know enough. No, he stayed right in place. He even shuffled closer to you, the heat radiating off of him.

And then he pressed his hips forward. Just slightly. Just to let you feel him, to see what kind of reaction he could get out of you.

The air left your lungs in a quiet gasp, the action catching you off guard. You hadn’t even realized how turned on you were until you felt how damp your panties clung onto you now that his hips were pressed against yours.

Inevitably, you followed the gasp with a moan. A loud one at that, showing just how desperate you’d been for a single touch.

God, you were embarrassed. You wanted to dig a hole to crawl in and not get out for the foreseeable future. But apparently the agents didn’t share that same sentiment. To be more precise, Derek let out a groan in response, throwing his head back like he had been holding it in this whole time. As if his dirtiest dreams just came to life right in front of him.

You noticed his pants creasing around his crotch as his hardening cock filled out the fabric. Words only made things awkward, more difficult than they had to be, so you let your hands talk.

“That’s it, princess,” Derek sighed in pleasure as your fingers brushed over the thick outline of his length.

Some of your senses seemed to sharpen — finding yourself in some weird trance while you played with him, already fantasizing over how his cock would look and feel when there’d be no clothes separating you. Other thoughts (mainly worries) faded to the background in a blur. You didn’t — couldn’t — think about the fact that you were doing this in public. With one turn of your head, you’d be able to look out of the window and see the panoramic view of Paris, all of its citizens. But it didn’t matter to you. Neither did it matter that you were about to have sex at an active crime scene nor that a bunch of reporters were standing outside, eagerly waiting for the agents to leave the tower.

How could you worry about those things when you were squished in between two federal agents? Agents who are meant to protect you, and in this case, please you too.

Aaron held you steady by your upper thighs, enabling you to play with his colleague’s cock. You looked up at Derek with darkened irises full of lust, and it only took one nod from him to give you the go sign.

Hungrily, your hands fiddled with his slacks, grateful that he wasn’t wearing a belt so that you could pull them down with a single tug after undoing the button. Your heart hammered in your chest, breath heaving in anticipation as you sneaked your hands into his pants. A hum escaped you when you felt the muscles of Derek’s firm thighs.

Not only had your hands moved in greed. Simultaneously, Aaron’s strong, calloused fingers had slipped into the waistband of your pants, mirroring your movements. You stopped your own ministrations, facing Derek’s well-groomed v-line as you helped Aaron by stepping out of your pants, your underwear smoothly coming along.

“Shit, look at you,” Aaron praised in a husky voice.

There was no time to process his words as a sharp sting bloomed across the cheek of your ass. Then another. The delicious impact made you stumble forward, your nose brushing against Agent Morgan’s shaft that was still mostly covered by his boxers.

You surprised the both of them by being into it (very much so), placing a wet kiss on the exposed shaft, using your dominant hand to bunch the fabric down in a hurry until it pooled at his knees.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Derek breathed out, his hands finding your hair as you got to work, peppering kisses along his stiffening heavy length. “Come on, take it. It’s yours.”

Using only the tip of your tongue, you pushed the head of his cock up until it lay flat in your mouth. Then, trying to keep some composure, you carefully swallowed him inch by inch until he was comfortable filling your throat.

Behind you, Aaron had busied himself with taking off his pants, only catching your attention when his belt hit the floor with a loud clang. He had fisted his leaking cock in a tight grip, pumping himself a few times for good measure before aligning himself with your cunt. His arousal dripped onto your needy folds, adding to your slickness.

You moaned around Derek’s length, eyes watering from the ache in your jaw and the teasing pressure of Aaron’s cock against your swollen clit.

Aaron had set a steady pace, dragging his tip along your folds — occasionally slipping an inch into your entrance just to tease you — and you followed that rhythm by bobbing your head up and down, connecting the three of you in this filthy dance.

“Feel that?” Aaron hissed as he slipped his tip back in. “How she’s pulling me in?”

It truly was a challenge to communicate with someone when you had your mouth full of cock.

“Oh, she’s enjoying it,” Derek answered for you, hands tightening into your hair and tilting his head back to get a better view of his colleague’s cock disappearing into your pussy. “I think she wants some more, Hotch.”

Thank you.

“I know she wants it, Morgan. Her pussy’s begging me for it.” And with that, his thick girth slides into you. Not inch by inch like Derek’s had — no hesitation — just one smooth, long stroke until he bottomed out.

“Fuck!” you cried, sputtering for breath as your hand replaced your mouth on Derek’s length.

Your pussy clenched around him, swallowing him deeper until the rough hairs on his happy trail tickled your skin. Every sliver of your skin felt like it was on fire, your entire body charged with pure bliss as the hands of two men played with you.

“Don’t get distracted now,” Aaron spoke in a low tone, keeping his hands splayed out on your thighs, fingers digging into the plump flesh as he thrust himself into you.

The initial burning of being filled was quick to dissolve into pleasure. The girth of his length dragged along your inner walls, stretching you open with each push and pull of his hips.

Meanwhile, Derek was getting impatient. He lazily fisted his cock, now standing fully proud and erect, practically begging to enter your tight throat again.

He grazed your jaw with his knuckles, coaxing you to look up at him.

“Come get another taste, pretty girl,” he cooed, using the blunt head of his cock to paint your lips in a slick gloss.

“That’s it,” Aaron hummed in satisfaction, watching the scene unfold in front of him. “Now give him a little kiss.”

His words ignited a spark in you, the tingling sensation shooting directly to your core. You licked your lips, savoring the salty and inviting taste before parting your lips and taking him in. Your mouth happily welcomed him back, already used to his size as you explored his cock further with your tongue.

Aaron’s hands were exploring your body, not knowing where to settle his palms as they roamed from the soft skin of your stomach that hid beneath your blouse back to the plump swell of your ass as he continued fucking himself into you.

“Fucking perfect,” Aaron grunted. “Taking us like it’s nothing. Like you do it every day.”

If they only knew that you hadn’t gotten laid in months, that this is a result of the sheer desperation that had been building up.

“She needed this bad, Hotch,” the profiler in front of you spoke knowingly. His eyes found yours, cupping your jaw that held his heavy length inside of it. “I think we should give her a little more. You deserve that, don’t you, baby?”

Instead of nodding, you shook your head to take more of him in, licking a bold stripe to the underside of his cock to agree. Then you tightly clenched your walls, repeating the message to Aaron.

“Is that what you want, honey?”

Another clench.

“Alright, then,” he breathed, squeezing your ass. “You’ve asked for it.”

Suddenly his cock slipped out of you, leaving you painfully empty. But before you could whimper in complaint, he had dropped himself to his knees, fingers gripping your hips as he pulled you down with him, his cock entering you again in a single, smooth motion.

The hard floor bruised your knees, positioned in doggy, but with your upper body bent as you held onto Derek’s thigh. The Eiffel Tower now more reminiscent of the Tower of Pisa.

Aaron angled his cock into you so that his tip comfortably nuzzled into your G-spot, drawing a low whine from your mouth. Either Aaron was a great profiler in areas outside of crime too, or this man was very experienced — because he knew exactly how you liked it: lifting your hips up and down his cock, giving you full-body shudders with every thrust.

Derek’s cock hovered above your face, just inches away from your mouth. This time he didn’t have to ask, because in a second you had greedily wrapped your lips around him again, craving his taste after the momentary loss.

You wrapped your soft fingers around his shaft, stroking him with practiced ease, matching the movements of your head.

You knew you were done for when Aaron’s palm dragged from your lower stomach to your heat. His long fingers spread open your folds. Your clit was already throbbing, awaiting his touch. The little bud twitched when he pressed the pad of his finger against it, not even needing to circle it for you to start moaning out, the weight of the contact enough to drive you crazy.

“There she is,” Derek hummed, proudly watching you as you hollow your cheeks around him. “Still sucking me so good even when that tight pussy is getting used.”

You speed up the flicks of your wrist, pulling your mouth back to catch a deep breath. A moan leaves your lips just by seeing how the agent is hovering over you — his lip caught in between his teeth, eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes blinking tightly shut when you tease his slit with the tip of your tongue.

“Fuck, babygirl, you’re gonna make me come like that.” He hissed.

“That’s exactly what she wants, Derek,” Aaron grunts, fastening the drags of his finger over your clit while he moves his cock in and out of you in deep strokes.

“This sweet pussy is going to come all over me,” he continues, voice raspy. “She wants you to fill her mouth. Give her something back.”

Derek smirked. “I’ll give you what you want, but… ladies first.”

Hearing his words made you realize that you were subconsciously waiting for some sort of permission to let go. The second that Derek had finished his sentence, your legs started trembling. Aaron’s pace was relentless, marking you up from the inside. The head of his cock kissed your G-spot with every push of his hips, and you desperately clung onto the warm wave that was building deep in your stomach.

“Doing so good for us, you’re almost there.” Aaron praised you. “Let us fill you up, honey, give you what you deserve. All you have to do is let go.”

A cry tore from your lips as your walls broke down. All of your muscles spasmed, hit by one aftershock after the other.

Your orgasm tipped Derek over the edge, palms holding your head steady as he spilled into your mouth.

Aaron placed his hands in the air in surrender, watching in awe as your body shook and pulsed around him. How the muscles in Morgan’s pelvis clenched as he shot his warm release down your throat.

Your cunt was gripping him so tightly. Fucking weeping for more.

And Aaron gave it to you.

A loud, guttural moan echoed through the restaurant as his hips stuttered, painting your walls white.

“That’s a good fucking girl,” Derek breathed out, head thrown back with a lazy grin.

Derek’s cock slipped out of your mouth, traces of your saliva and his cum dripping off his half-hard length.

“You got a lil something—“ His thumb brushed some slick off of your chin before pushing the digit into your mouth. You licked his thumb clean with a flick of your tongue, moaning as you did so.

When he removed his finger, you allowed yourself to lean back into Aaron’s chest. Collapse, more like. His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, and you took comfort in the way his cock softened inside of you.

Not as fazed as you are, Derek pulled his pants back up. He shoved his cock into his boxers, not minding the wet stain that he left on them.

“The bodies must be at the morgue right now. I’ll meet Spencer there.”

Only now did your mind feel clear enough to realize the gravity of the situation.

It became even more clear when Aaron gently pushed you off of him, taking your hand to lift you up. Then he repeated Derek’s acts by dressing himself.

Hurriedly you did the same, ignoring the warm semen that dripped down your thighs as you pulled your underwear up.

Aaron waited until you were done and then held out his hand, a white card seated between his thumb and pointer finger. “Thank you for your help. We’ll contact you when we know more about the case.”

-`♡´-

It was several days later when your phone rang.

It was a habit to pick up right away. As a manager, being the one all clients and establishments will reach out to.

“Hello?”

“It’s SSA Aaron Hotchner. We have an update on the case.”

“Oh,” you breathed out. Not your most clever response, but not yet having whipped your head around the fact of who’s on the other side of the line.

“Agent Morgan and I need to see you in private. Are you free tonight?”

1K notes · View notes

vitoriadior · 7 days ago

Text

YOU GOT ME FEELING HELLA GOOD

Clark Kent x Model!Reader.

Where Clark is front row during the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show in awe. Just like he's all blushing in the dressing room full of lingerie models, waiting for you

Masterlist <3. Request! Model!Reader series

It's summer. It's Victoria's Secret, it's New York. You know what that means.

Clark doesn't know the difference between you opening the show or appearing at any other time. But It's not just any old thing! The model who opens the show is always the one who deserves it the most; she's the first one everyone sees and scans in fascination.

Clark still doesn't understand. But he knows it's important to you, so when you excitedly tell him you've just been chosen to open the New York show for the renowned lingerie brand—he's happy for you. "You deserve it, babe. You've worked so hard."

And you worked really hard. Clark has watched you take off and put on those Angel wings always with different themes these past two years, hoping that next year you'll be the one opening. And it's happening. So of course you make sure your boyfriend has a front-row seat, where only special fashion critics and celebrities are supposed to go. The entire floor where the models and angels are supposed to be modeling is covered in pink glitter, giant decorations that match the theme of the runway.

In the models' dressing room, the Victoria's Secret cameraman is with you and the rest of the models, all having a good time while you all get your makeup done and your lingerie sets put on. The cameraman approaches you and focuses on your face. "Waiting for someone special?"

"Maybe," you answer, and all the models laugh and give you little pinches while you shake your head, smiling.

A few rows behind Clark are Jimmy and Lois, who promised Cat an exclusive on the fashion show. Of course, get two more seats for your boyfriend's friends who already know you as his girlfriend. Today, if there's time, you'll get to know them better—until now, you've only known the things your boyfriend told you about his day at work. Lois puts too much sugar in her coffee; Jimmy went on a date with this girl.

"Cat's going to go crazy with all this." Jimmy holds the camera up, focusing on the long runway in the center of everyone. "Do you think Clark's girlfriend lets me photograph her inside the dressing room?"

"That's so creepy Jimmy," Lois frowns, and Jimmy drops the camera in his lap to defend himself. "I'm not a creep! There are always journalists inside the models' dressing rooms. Journalists way better paid than you and I combined."

Clark is thinking about what to answer when a journalist from a European fashion magazine asks him who he is with a camera in front of his face. The lights dim and focus on the runway. Clark and the journalist fall silent, as does Jimmy and Lois, and everyone else in there.

The lights come back on—but they're almost unnecessary because of all the camera flashes surrounding the runway when the music starts playing. Something sexy, something rock, something Victoria's Secret hottie. Clark's is frozen as the show welcomes you: the flashes become even stronger, reflecting off your body and hair.

You start catwalking and and Clark's jaw is already on the floor—of course, after dating for quite some time, it wasn't the first time he'd seen you in your natural habitat. But a "casual" lingerie runway is very different from seeing you with angel wings hanging off your back, moving with you as you walk without tripping, your eyes focused straight ahead.

Clark doesn't know much about fashion, but he can tell that the bra you're wearing isn't anything like the other models', just as not all of them wear angel wings—as if it were some kind of prize you have to work for. You turn around on the runway to catwalk backstage gracefully, the flashing cameras something you were practically born with.

After what was roughly an hour of glitter, music, wings, lingerie, and your boyfriend being amazed by every second he spent sitting there—front row, watching the literal angel of his dreams—the show ends. The press becomes even more scandalized, talking to everyone and practically everyone while cameras try to find you and the others.

You had sent Clark a message that you were backstage, so he came looking for you, eager to see you and congratulate you on how great you were—more than great, amazing. Clark saw the door you'd told him about and opened it, smiling.

Clark swore he thought it was a private dressing room. But all the girls in lingerie and robes told him otherwise.

Models eating, others taking off their clothes to get into their robes, giggle as soon as they see Clark. Yep—that's your boyfriend. "Clark!" You go to the door laughing with your friends after Clark slams the door as soon as he realizes it definitely wasn't an exclusive dressing room.

"Hi, Clark!" all the girls say in unison, smiling when they see your boyfriend again, a mess holding your hand as if afraid of losing you among so many women. "See you in a bit, girls!" You say before heading out with Clark.

"Did you loved it?" You say quietly once you're alone. There's no press, no sudden girls in lingerie—just you and him. You and Superman.

"Everyone loved it," Clark remembers Jimmy's expression once the show was over. He took pictures of literally everything and gave his camera to Clark, making him promise to take a picture of the inside of the dressing room for Cat. You take the camera from your boyfriend's neck.

"Yeah, but—did you loved it?" You stare at the camera for a few seconds and then you see him—your eyes are bright and your cheeks are as red from both the past excitement and the man in front of you. You see Clark scratch the back of his neck, shrugging.

"I loved it," and you both laughed at the same time. "I think any man would be jealous of me right now. Especially back there, with your friends."

"But especially here. With you."

You two kiss with love, you kiss with need. Clark's arms wrap around you, almost afraid of breaking you. You only separate for air, and you feel him smile against your lips, making you want to skip the after-party and run away with him.

"Let's take a picture," you raise the camera with your hand in front of his face and yours.

An exclusive for the Daily Planet.

Taglist: @starincarnated @angelicp0etry @yeonalie @lator-gators @starssfall @moomumu @chamorunsmiles @urlittleangelbaby @americanboz0 @mysticdinosaurpirate @spiidergwenn @sugarbutterbailey @pestoluvr8 @ilovemangoes444 @kaiparkerwife @qardasngan @animegamerfox @helloimamistake @rinapomu @chaoticroaddreamerpasta @ryomku @dreamlesssleepsaga @yzuposts @mickey-mouse-crackhouse1902 @j07lvrg @khxna @1wannab3inaband @wintersoldierenthusiastt @yyiikes @rosie-hao @psiiconic @httpstoyosi @lettucel0ver @scorpio-echo @iveofficiallylostmymarbles @aratakiittooo @angelicprincess12 @pinkluv29

@shine101 @karimestarksworld @lortheswiftie @bangtanevermore @njdluvr @justamina-blog @avroravia @m3lod7 @just-pure-trash @pprettyvisitorr @againanothersideblog @differentcandycreation @hagarsays

623 notes · View notes

mikkies · 2 months ago

Text

「 I'M SO TIRED ALL THE TIME. 」

Multiple! Forsaken x GN! Sleepy! Reader

warnings: none!

notes: tbh, I kind of got confused(?) but hopefully I did it right🙇‍♀️

SURVIVORS REACTIONS:

• GUEST 1337

• "They're...asleep again, aren't they?"

• Guest initially tries to wake you up. He’s waving his arms, stomping loudly, and even calling your name. When it’s clear you’re not budging, he sighs and resolves to make the best of it.

• He might jokingly block your path when you're stumbling half-asleep, protecting other survivors but ensuring you don’t get hurt either.

• ELLIOT

• "No way, they're literally asleep as the killer?!"

• Elliot is half-annoyed, half-amused. He takes this rare chance to hand out pizza freely without being interrupted by a rampaging killer.

• Snarky comments are guaranteed: "Wow, killer of the year material right there."

• 007N7

• "They’re so tired all the time… Are they okay?"

• While others might find it hilarious, 007n7 feels genuinely bad for you. He probably even suggests taking a break.

• He avoids causing trouble, just teleporting around the map to ensure you’re not waking up to chaos.

• BUILDERMAN

• "Well, at least I can focus on repairs without getting attacked."

• Builderman uses the opportunity to upgrade and set traps for when you do wake up. He mutters about how the round’s timer keeps extending because of your naps. (even if you don't kill anyone.)

• Secretly grateful since it gives him time to build without the usual stress.

• TAPH

"🥱🤔❓" (Asleep? Again?)

• Instead of waking you, he flutters closer with smooth, almost gliding movements, crouching beside you with a playful flick of his smaller wing-like ear appendages.

• He finds the situation fascinating and a little ridiculous. You, a chosen killer, asleep on the job? It's enough to make him hide his face behind his wings, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

KILLER REACTION (SPECTATING):

• 1X1X1X1

• "Pitiful."

• Finds the situation absurd but entertaining. They remark on how "Robloxian incompetence" always surprises them.

• If allowed, they will target you next round so you can move more instead of sleeping.

• JOHN DOE

• "This is a waste of an opportunity."

• John Doe watches you with cold calculation, his corrupted claws twitching slightly as the binary code seeps off his body. To him, this isn't funny—it's a tactical disaster. A killer who spends the entire round asleep? Unacceptable.

• At one point, he leans closer to the screen, his red eye flickering as he considers how he would have approached the round differently. His voice is a distorted hiss, but you can sense the frustration.

Did this one fast since it's a headcannon🙇‍♀️

932 notes · View notes

ghostlyferrettarot · 3 months ago

Text

⋆.˚✮🔑✮˚.⋆ How do others see us according to our Rising sign? ⋆.˚✮🔑✮˚.⋆

❗️All the observations in this post are based on personal experience and research, it's completely fine if it doesn't resonate with everyone❗️

✨️Paid Services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

🫧Join my Patreon for exclusive content!🫧

.*+’⭐️If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!˖°.*+’⭐️

₊˚ʚ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎₊˚🔑 ﾟ.Masterlist₊˚ʚ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎₊˚🔑 ﾟ. ₊˚ʚ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎₊˚🔑 ﾟ.Masterlist 2₊˚ʚ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎₊˚🔑 ﾟ.

⋆.˚✮♈Aries risings: Your presence is intense, full of courage and an unwavering drive to act. You project a challenging and advanced vibe, as if you are ready to take on the world head on. Some people may see you as impulsive, but your determination is what defines you the most. They see you as firm, determined, and with a leader energy that sets the tone.

⋆.˚✮♉Taurus risings:: With Taurus Ascendant, your vibe is one of calm and security. Your practical approach and connection to material things make others see you as someone who is firmly grounded. You project a vibe of reliability. People see you as someone who has a quiet strength, and they seek your company when they need comfort or stability. People see you as someone they can build and grow with.

⋆.˚✮♊Gemini risings: Gemini rising people are perceived as interesting, fun, and with an energy of variety. You give off a vibe of someone who is always on the go and looking for new experiences. You have a way of connecting with people quickly, and your curiosity leads you to constantly learn new things. You give off a vibe of a natural communicator. You are often seen as the person who breaks the ice in any situation.

⋆.˚✮♋Cancer risings: Cancer rising people have an energy that reflects compassion and protection. You give off a caring vibe, as if you can offer an emotional refuge to others. Your connection to your feelings is deep, and that makes people see you as sensitive and attentive. People perceive you as someone who is very emotional and highly sensitive.

⋆.˚✮♌Leo risings: Leo Ascendants are known for their charisma and their ability to effortlessly attract attention. Your vibe is that of a natural leader who isn't afraid to shine. You project an energy of pride, confidence, and greatness. People see you as someone who takes control and inspires respect and admiration. You give off a royal vibe. Full of optimism, and with a natural ability to lead or be the center of attention.

⋆.˚✮♍Virgo risings: You project a vibe of order and efficiency, as if everything in your life has a reason for being. You are perceived as someone who focuses on details and has a clear vision about what is needed to achieve success. People tend to see you as someone who has everything under control and with a problem-solving approach.

⋆.˚✮♎Libra risings:: Libra ascendants are perceived as charming people, with an energy that seeks harmony and balance. You emanate a vibe of diplomacy and empathy, always looking for the best in others. Your ability to connect with people and keep the peace makes you very well-liked. People perceive you as someone who is easy to get along with, always willing to listen and understand others.

⋆.˚✮♏Scorpio risings: Scorpio rising people project an intense and mysterious energy. They may sometimes see you as reserved, but that only increases the fascination others feel for you. Scorpios tend to be intense, with a marked face and piercing eyes that seem to read the emotions of others. You project a vibe of mystery and authority. People sense there is something deep about you.

⋆.˚✮♐Sagittarius risings: Sagittarius Ascendants are perceived as optimistic, sociable, and with an expansive energy. Your vibe is that of an explorer who is always looking for something new.You project a vibe of adventure and freedom. People see you as someone with an independent spirit and who always brings a positive outlook to any situation.

⋆.˚✮♑Capricorn risings: Capricorn Ascendants project a serious and determined energy. You exude a vibe of responsibility and ambition, as if you are always focused on your goals and building something lasting. People see you as practical and reliable, but they may also perceive you as somewhat reserved. Others see you as someone who is down to earth and determined to achieve success.

⋆.˚✮♒Aquarius risings: Aquarius ascendants have a very original and unconventional energy. People see you as someone who is constantly looking to change the rules. You emanate a sense of being someone with a unique vision of the world. You project a vibe of freedom and authenticity. People see you as someone who thinks differently and acts according to their own rules.

⋆.˚✮♓Pices risings: With Pisces Ascendant, others perceive you as a sweet, loving, and very sensitive person. Often, people see you as someone who has a deep connection with emotions and can understand the needs of others without words. Your energy is that of someone who has a dreamy nature and great intuition. You are seen as someone who is very empathetic and has an incredible ability to emotionally connect with others.

782 notes · View notes

inlovewithquestionablecharacters · 1 year ago

Text

Will Graham X Reader: Nightcap

Summary: Will needs a little help going to sleep after a nightmare.

Warnings: not proof read, smut, cowgirl, oral (f & m receiving), penetration ( p in v), pet names (baby), cursing, nightmares, cum eating, no use of y/n.

Word count: 1,8 K

He’s sweating through his sheets.

Even in his hazy state he can feel the cold sweat that covers his body. He tries to wake himself up but his body refuses. He’s staring at the stag before him. The animal itself isn't threatening. It's the feelings that come with it that cause Will to shake in bed. He feels something grab onto his shoulder and turns to look at what was touching him. His eyes find you, your mouth is open wide as if you were screaming but no sound comes out. He calls out your name just as his body sinks into the ground.

Will snapped up from his bed, his heart hammering in his chest. His wet clothes cling to his body uncomfortably. He’s been in this situation before, the only difference is that this time he’s not alone. You're here with him. He feels bad for waking you up but he's glad he’s not alone. The palm of your hand warms his arm, causing him to stare at it.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Nightmares.”

“Are they always that bad?”

Will stops staring at your hand on him opting to look at your face. You're looking at him like a wounded animal and he hates it. But he supposes it's better than looking at him like he’s crazy.

“Not always but yeah most of them are…”

“Intense?”

“That's a word for it.”

Of course the only night he has someone sleep over he has one of the worst nightmares he’s had in months. He must have been quite loud for you to be able to hear him from another room.

“Sorry for waking you.”

“You didn’t. I couldn’t sleep. I was on my way to get a cup of water when I heard you. You sounded scared so I thought maybe I should check on you.”

Your relationship with Will was odd. You weren’t exactly friends but you weren’t just coworkers either. You’d been helping him organize information for his next class and hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. Will hated the thought of you driving in the dark because of him so he offered you a place to crash.

It was the first time you’d truly seen Will. You helped him cook dinner and the two of you had shared a bottle of wine. You talked until your eyes started to feel heavy. Will showed you to your bed and bid you goodnight. It all felt very intimate. You weren’t sleeping in his bed but this was the closest you’d been to each other outside of work. Will didn’t really know how to behave around you. He’d flush when you said anything remotely flirty to him and he would often find himself observing you as you worked. He was fascinated by you but instead of telling you that he bottled his desire deep inside himself.

“Do you have more sheets?”

“Yeah in the closet.”

You moved over to the closet, searching for a fresh set of sheets. Will rose from the bed beginning to tug on the soaked sheets. He bundled the fabric in his hands before throwing it into the hamper. You made your way to him, handing him the clean sheets. The two of you worked together making the bed quickly. You pat Will's pillow lightly before moving away from the bed.

“There. Good as new!”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Silence fell over the room. You started at the bed wondering if anyone had ever had the pleasure of sharing the space with Will. Will watched you deep in thought. He used the opportunity to observe you. Your body was covered by one of his shirts. It was an old piece of clothing, worn down by time but you made it work. An overwhelming need to move closer towards you consumed him all of a sudden. He decided to act on it. He inched himself towards you slowly, not wanting to break your train of thought.

You didn’t notice him move. When you turned to look at him, expecting him to still be far from you, you bumped into him accidentally. The palms of your hands came in contact with his chest. Will looked down at where your body touched his. Before he could do anything you pulled away, creating some distance between you two. You let out a small laugh, stuttering a bit as you spoke.

“I’m gonna get out of your hair. Goodnight.”

You spun on your heels rolling your eyes at yourself. How could such a small amount of contact flustered you so much? Will reached out to you, his hand grabbing onto your arm. You felt the tug on your arm making you stop and turn.

“Stay.”

“We have work tomorrow. You need to sleep, Will.”

“I won't be able to fall asleep anytime soon. Stay with me. We can talk until we feel tired again.”

You knew you should say no but the way Will was looking at you: eyes glossy due to lack of sleep, hair tousled due to his abrupt awakening, lips slightly parted as he waited for your response, made it impossible. So you stayed.

What's the worst that could happen?

Things escalated quickly. You’d gone from talking about work, to intensely making out, to Will begging to eat you out in a matter of minutes.

And you let him.

Your hands curled into Will's curls as his tongue moved over your clit. His hands grab onto your thighs as you squirm beneath him.

“Will ah i can’t-”

“Come on just one more. You can do it baby.”

He’d said he needed to destress a bit before going to sleep again and what better way to take his mind off things than absolutely ravaging you with his tongue. He’d already made you cum twice but he needed to feel you spill your juices one more time. Just a bit more and he’d be satisfied. He’d said that but it was a lie. From the second he’d felt your lips on his he knew he’d never get enough of the taste of you. He was clawing so harshly at your legs you were sure you’d have scratch marks tomorrow. The thought of having a reminder of him on your body, even if for a little while, exited you. Your hips rose from the bed as you reached your third orgasm. Will kept licking at you until you had to physically push his face off you. He laid his head on your thigh, staring up at you like a puppy. A warm smile spread over Will's face as he watched your chest rise and fall. He would have never imagined he’d find himself in this situation. You let out a content sigh, finally opening your eyes to look at him. He was looking up at you like a god. It was then that you noticed he was waiting for you to tell him what you wanted. You placed your hand on his face, thumb stroking his cheek as you called out his name.

“Yes beautiful?”

“Come give me a kiss.”

You felt the weight on your legs dissipate as he rose from the bed. He crawled over your body, arms flexing as he moved. Once he’d gotten face to face with you he leant down slowly to place a kiss on your lips. You held his face, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. Your legs wound around Wills hips as you made out. He let out a small grunt when you accidentally grazed his hard on. Using all of your body weight you managed to flip your positions around so that you were on top of Will. You grinned down at him, hands splayed against his chest as you rocked your hips slowly.

“My turn.”

You inched your body down his. Will's breath hitched as you gave his hipbone a kiss. His hands gripped at the fresh sheets as you continued to tease him over his boxers. It was only when he let out a breathy “please” that you decided to indulge him. You tugged his boxers down, freeing his dick. You held him in your hand enjoying the weight for a moment before beginning to stroke him. The Will Graham you were currently seeing was nothing like the one you were used to. You’d never seen Will's body so relaxed. Your lips ghosted the tip of his dick causing him to whine.

“You want my mouth Will?”

“Shit baby please.”

He sounded so pretty for you. How could you deny him? As soon as your lips wrapped around his dick Will swore he’d never be able to forget the feeling. You boobed your head, tongue moving over the veins of his dick. Will tugged at your hair roughly, not being able to control his strength due to the pleasure you were giving him. Tears fell from your eyes as you gagged around his dick. He felt the droplets fall on his thighs causing him to raise his head from the people to look at you. A deep moan made its way out of Will as he began to buck his hips. Your grip on his legs tightened as he fucked into your throat. He was getting closer and closer to the edge. You waited eagerly for him to blow his load but then all of a sudden he was tugging you off of him.

“ Will what’s wro-”

“Sorry baby can’t take it any longer.”

Will roughly tugged you onto him. He positioned himself at your entrance and before you could even process what was going on he sunk into you. You moaned out his name as he filled you up. On instinct you started bouncing on his dick.

“That’s it baby. Ride me.”

“Jesus Will…you feel so good.”

His hands guided your movements forcing you to move faster and faster as he desperately tried to find release.

“Fuck i’m gonna cum”

“Give to me Will.”

“Ah shit!”

Wills hips bucked up one last time spilling his load into your. YOu continued grinding on him as he came down from his high. Your hands moved to remove the curls that stuck to his forehead. Will gave you a sleepy smile as you caressed him. You leaned down to give him a kiss. His arms wrapped around your body holding you to him. You closed your eyes hearing the small snores that started to slip out of Will. You nuzzled your body closer to him.

“Good night Will.”

When Will woke up the next morning he found your frame nuzzled into his side, his arm slung over your waist. He placed a kiss on your temple before closing his eyes again. Sleep washed over him quickly.

He waited from the nightmares to come.

They never did.

2K notes · View notes

withoutyouimsaskia · 9 days ago

Text

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 9)

GIF: Originally posted by @elvenlords

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Language. Nightmares.

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Hello there! Long time no update! Thank you for your patience and for all the lovely comments, likes and reblogs that have been coming in since S2 dropped. What a series. It has both simultaneously fired up my imagination and destroyed my emotions in equal measure.

As always, I hope you enjoy and would be very happy to hear your thoughts, especially after all this time between chapters. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

"Open. Open. Come on. Just fu -"

You break off with an exasperated huff. You have been at this for a while now. Palm flush with the wood of the door, trying to somehow channel the power within your soul to get out of the cage that Morpheus so effectively persuaded you into.

Moving closer, you lay your right cheek against the lacquered surface.

"Let me out of here," you whisper. "Please. Just let me out without him knowing. It can be our little secret."

It's not lost on you at how unhinged you sound - talking to an inanimate object, hoping to coax it into obedience but no other feasible course of action springs to mind. Not with the pressure of his return looming over you. There is no telling how long you have and the words he had spoken hadn't exactly given you faith that he was going to yield.

Escape is your sole option.

To get out of the palace and into whatever lies beyond its walls. There's no guarantee that you will find a way back to home but in the very least you will have space to think. A change of scenery usually brought benefits to mental clarity when you felt restricted, though your bindings were always non-physical.

The dire thought lets slip a humourless cackle. Being kidnapped wasn't exactly a consequence you had considered in accepting Morpheus' affections. Then again, do the majority think things will end badly when starting any kind of relationship? Not if the blindfold of lust had any say in the matter, you suppose, and you have no grounds whatsoever to say that your case is any different.

This also isn't an ending, you remind yourself. The end comes when all options have been exhausted and you haven't even begun to try.

You close your eyes and focus all effort onto mapping out the energy housed in your chest. Endeavouring to picture it. Opulent blue intertwining with the natural luminescence, showing your attachment to him and the potential for goodness knows what else.

His abilities could be limitless. Mind influencing. World altering. Universe conquering. But for now you just need simple. You hone in on that word, devoting every ounce of concentration to picturing one, single eventuality. The door no longer being in your path.

The threads of his power tremble as your manifestation sets in stone, in turn reaching out with the likeness of a handshake, nudging you to trust them with your getaway.

They whisper promises with their gentle touches, echoing your want, reaching out out out beyond the confines of your chest.

Let me through.

Your hand passes through the wood.

You stumble at the sudden boundary change, forearm following up to your elbow joint, breath hitching with an audible click as the fascinating realisation hits. The door is still there - for you can see it when you look down but its molecules have become as dense as vapour. All it takes is one large step and you're all the way through.

The hallway beyond is just as dark as you pictured, eerie even, but it doesn't deter you from throwing yourself into its gloomy unknown. A short landing gives way to a torch-lit stone staircase; you descend them at the briskest pace you can achieve without it feeling unsafe.

The sections wrap back and forth on each other, blocking everything more than a minute in front of you, fuelling your fear of interception even further. It's some time before you reach the bottom. There's no door; you simply walk out into a corridor. This confuses you. It seems too easy. You can't take it for granted though for you must keep moving.

You head for a window positioned about ten paces away from where you emerged. It's a shame that you are unable to appreciate the view for anything more than the 30 seconds you assign to finding your bearings. You're quite a way from the ground floor of the building, and also from the bridge that traverses a lake. It's clear that you need to move left and down.

You start with the first direction, creeping down the corridor, allowing yourself a bit of bandwidth to notice the details around you. The décor is gorgeous; with the intricately patterned wallpapers, the sunlight refracting prettily through the crystals of chandeliers, and the cabinets and credenzas laden with artefacts and trinkets - it's a world away from the horror that Morpheus had implied when discouraging your curiosity.

Every time you reach an intersection, you pause and listen - for footsteps, voices, any signs of life before launching hastily into the next stretch. Finding none is confusing for the size of the palace.

Surely there had to be someone else here?

You don't let the thought deter your progress. In fact, it becomes even brisker when you find a spiral staircase that takes you down into the belly of the castle. The speed of your heart rate makes you feel unsteady as you jog down for there is no where to hide in between the landings; each offshoot you clear without incident is a small victory.

Soon enough, according to a panoramic window you find in an airy antechamber, you are within touching distance of the ground floor and it's tough not to throw caution to the wind by ditching your hypervigilant measures. It is only the firmness of your inner voice that prevents you from ploughing ahead, and you are rewarded by the grand entrance hall.

The skeleton hanging from the ceiling makes your eyes widen. Manta ray like in form, its shadow flickers in the light cast by numerous candles and torches. Warmth thrown from those same flames bring a flush to your exposed skin as you sneak past the open archways leading off into other parts of the palace, and go for what can only be the front door.

It is the first one you have seen since you left Morpheus' chambers - an infinitely larger and grander one yet you don't let it intimidate you. Confidence sparks in your nerves as you approach and lift you hand. You don't even have to make contact for it to dissolve into translucency.

The change in air pressure sets all the mini fires behind you guttering violently. Golden light pours in. The windows set into the ceiling of the entrance hall had hinted at the strength of the sunlight outside, however you are wholly unprepared for the fortitude of the output from the winter sun that hangs low in the sky. It makes you squint, throwing a hand up to protect against its glorious glare as you register an unsettling noise in the distance. Like hardened keratin across a slate or the banshee cries of foxes, the notes of the sound cause chills to erupt all down your back. Everything about it indicates that something is wrong.

Perhaps it is the reason for which Morpheus was forced to leave. Concern niggles your conscience; was it a serious matter?

The thought is fleeting - you are going to use whatever it is to your advantage. You cross the threshold and take yet more steps down to the bridge.

It would be impossible to miss just how exposed you are going to be for the next part of your journey. There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to go if you are noticed by someone, except for jumping into the lake below. And while it looks perfectly placid, you are quite adverse to trying. The stillest of waters can often run the most dangerous.

You can't turn back now though. Not when you've got so far. Plus, come to think of it, would the adrenaline-spiking act really pose a risk to you? You are immortal after all.

Immortality. It's a horrific notion, one that you really don't want to accept as your truth, causing a quiver to permeate your body juddering all the way through to the bone. The very thing that defined your humanity had been taken. Snatched from you without forewarning and covered up by the person who had behaved towards you with such passion and tenderness. Apparently his affection didn't stretch that far though.

Your teeth clench in a show of anger. It's the secrecy of it all that stokes the fierce emotion. You cannot abide his deception, nor his disregard for your sanity. Going home is the only thing you want - to be among the people you love, those who don't lie and manipulate and coddle.

But even then, if you did manage to find a way back to your waking life, would you still have a place there with the immortality? It's not exactly something that people would overlook; their growing old while you remain frozen in time. All your relationships and interactions would be temporary, fleeting.

So caught up in your morbid thoughts, you are taken aback when your feet make contact with a surface other than stone.

Grass. The greenest you've ever seen, made dewy by the winds coming off of the water - you feel the mist clinging to your skin too.

With a curious gaze, you take in the village and the fishing boats to the right of you. The stillness here is not as profound as it was by the castle; an indication that there are likely people within the houses.

You pick your way along the path that runs adjacent to the village, enjoying the sink of your heels into the compacted peaty soil - though not quite enough to stop you from anxiously fiddling with the ring on your finger. The stakes feel infinitely higher now and you have to really stop yourself from squeaking when you hear a dulcet, gravelly voice coming from the house you have just walked by.

"Do you think it's over yet?"

Unable to control yourself, you pause in walking to curiously listen in. You've not heard another person except Morpheus since you got here.

A second voice answers, this one equally soothing. "From the lack of dreamers, I'm pretty sure the answer is still no."

"But I'm bored."

"I am more than aware, my dear."

The unmistakable noise of pacing footsteps starts up.

"Why can't we just go across to the pocket dimension that he sent the dreamers to?"

"I imagine because it is safer that they remain separate to everything made in the Dreaming, and because Lord Morpheus has bigger things to worry about than your boredom levels."

A couple of seconds of silence ensue.

"I guess you're right."

You hear the scrape of a chair's legs on floorboards.

"Would it help if we went on a walk together to pass the time?"

You don't wait to hear a reply; the risk of interception becoming a shade more realistic for your liking. You run, grateful for the muffling ground underfoot, silent as a deer. There are trees up ahead - they can be your cover.

Even when you reach them, you do not let your guard drop, choosing a much less straightforward route than perhaps is necessary, keeping to the grassy verges over the lone marked path; the crunch of frosty gravel too risky after such unimpeded progress.

That unsettling noise from before is dampened by the denseness of the trees; cedars and pines and firs standing strong in the winter air - and many other deciduous species that are hard for you to identify with the absence of their leaves. The mix of tree types is not particularly reflective of real world biomes but, as you remind yourself: this is a place of dreams. There are no fixed rules. It's a beautiful environment to be surrounded by, one that contributes to the slight calming of your heart rate.

The elevation of the terrain to the left of your vision field is sharply inclining leaving you with a choice: go up what you assume is a hill, or stay on your current course. The climb will no doubt slow you down but the lure of a lookout point is tempting. If only you had a coin to toss.

You opt for left and with every ascending step you take, you are prompted to wonder if it is adrenaline or immortality that's stopping your legs and feet from hurting. Whatever it is, it's no match for the horrible sound; it gets louder as the trees shrink in size and you are wincing from exposure by the time you reach the comprehensive vantage point at the crest of the hill.

You shield your eyes once more and survey the landscape. A snow smothered mountain range giving rise to the lifeblood of the region; spring to stream to river. A valley cut in half by that passage of water. Copses, glades, meadows. A gate.

That really piques your interest. A gate maybe meant further passage was attainable. You dial into your power once more and ask the question: Can I get home through there?

The warm flutter in your chest is all the answer you need. Even better, it appears that the route is straightforward - find the river and follow it almost to the mountain on its flank. You set off in search of it, using the ever-intensifying sound of the running water as your guide.

The river is as clear as freshly polished glass. Shards of ice bob in the gentle current, their slow passage a stark contrast to the erratic flight patterns of the small birds that forage for food in the now desiccated thistles and bulrushes.

Some of their wings feature patterns and colours that you know cannot be found in ones from Earth. Dream birds. Ones that he must have created.

How you wish that Morpheus could be here beside you in this moment. He should have been showing you all this stark beauty.

The thoughts are hurtful ones, pricking at your eyes, trying to tease out tears. You tilt your head back with an inhale, like you could somehow coax them back into your tear ducts with gravity.

You cannot afford to cry. Not when your sense of hearing is still so impacted by the hideous tone; your eyesight needs to be in tact for perceiving potential threats. You pick up your pace again, building to a run. The width of the river gets narrower as you close the distance to its source.

Your stamina holds well, as does your speed. It's impossible to quantify without the necessary tools or equations however the blur of the scenery implies you are fast.

The feat would be exhilarating if it wasn't so tragic - you are quite literally running for your life. Your waking life.

It's feels within reach, until the hair-raising noise stops.

You stop short, gulping in breaths, knowing all too well that things were likely to take a turn with the fortuitous distraction gone. There is no way of circumventing the eventuality that your soulmate was about to discover your fleeing. And you have no idea how far you are from reaching the gate.

You take in a slow and steady abdominal breath and close your eyes to re-centre yourself. Repeatedly counting to four as you employ box breathing. Your brain calms.

What you find upon opening your eyes sends you back the other way.

A figure. Humanoid - to a point, for there are wings sprouting from their back; the winter sun catches on the electric pink and aquamarine colouring as well as the intermittent snowflakes that have begun to fall around them. Distressingly, you are in the scope of their vision.

Or at least you would be if not for the good fortune that they are currently facing away from you. That changes quickly, doubtless caused by your once more panicky breathing.

With the lack of nearby foliage it's near certain that they will see you, bringing the risk of game over to probable odds, for you deduce that they are a dream that has been allowed back to their work.

Only one thing crosses your mind as the entity begins to turn.

Don't see me. Please don't see me.

And fortuitously they do not.

Instead they look right through you. There is no interpreting it as anything else. Their expression is perplexed, gleaming eyes focused right where your nose should be, searching for a sign that their auditory sense hadn't been inventing stimuli.

You take an exploratory sidestep, praying that the illusion holds and rejoicing when the dream flies away humming a beautiful song.

As soon as they're out of sight, you're swiftly back to running all the while repeating your mantra. Don't see me. It works for the handful of other beings you pass by. It's thrilling; you begin to truly believe that you'll get out. A dangerous spark of hope to have, however the reappearance of the warm rumble in your chest makes it hard to quash.

You must be close.

The terrain changes with the river becoming a stream that curves away. You are so preoccupied with chasing it that you fail to clock an oncoming blip in the green.

In fact, it appears to be an absence of light entirely. A space shrouded by a swirling fog; a double of the void-filled box that had featured in your recent nightmare. You don't have enough time to stop yourself before you are hurtling into it.

The effects of the space are instant. Clammy skin and goosebumps and trembles; not unmanageable but nonetheless unpleasant.

Even though you cannot see past the fog, your intuition tells you that the gate is just beyond the clearing. It's not as if you have a choice anymore other than to press on. You can barely tell up from down, let alone backwards. You force your feet to take a couple of steps, trying to push the feelings away but all this achieves is provocation.

An icy breath caresses the nape of your neck. You startle, muscles engaging to get you away. Yet you cannot move.

There's little time to process this paralysed state before claw tipped fingers are stroking over the shell of you ears, velvet coated whispers crowding, delving, permeating.

"You can't leave."

"You've only just got here."

"Stay with us."

Had you been able to shriek you would have done with fervour. Alas your mind has left your body. It thrashes, desperate to regain control - you are instead forced to watch from the third person. Your ashen face, pupils gaping holes seeing too much and not enough.

The concentric rings of gravestones surround you like ominous sentinels. A statue of an angel watches on in pity. Ironic - for there is no prospect for miracles here, that you are certain of. Right in the middle of a widow's web, the nightmare has you suspended in weightlessness.

You wonder if this is for Morpheus' benefit? Does he know that you have fled? Has he put out a plea to find you? Are you being punished, or worse trapped in another prison?

Ultimately, anything was better than being confined to that room. You have been so achingly alone. At least you were able to fucking feel something here.

A hand finds purchase on your own.

"It's okay. We've got you," the echoed whispers raspingly console.

The sensation of the nightmare's cool skin, the charges of preternatural energy snaking up your limb to your most vulnerable centre; it comforts you despite the melancholia, feels good to brush up alongside your soul. Perhaps a small piece of it decides to take root. Or you let it. Maybe if you had to stay in the Dreaming you could exist here. Your soul is at peace in this darkness. You can see yourself smiling now.

But then comes a downward plummet. You are knocked from the curious reverie by a great tremor that rips through the Dreaming. The sun is blotted out and an almighty storm is unleashed.

Though dazed and reeling, you are lucid enough to know the period of grace is over. You swear you can hear the notes of his desirous temper threaded among the curls of wind that cut against your cheeks.

The draw inside you to reach the gate transforms to acute and with no time to waste and adrenaline spiking, you pick your way through the neglected gravestones, nearly slipping on the mud that the deluge so effortlessly fabricated.

The instant you see the gates up close triggers a visceral reaction. The energy coming off the stone pulsates with such intensity that you feel you might puke. It is how you imagine a nuclear reactor might feel. Volatile and incomprehensible. Capable of wiping out all matter, tangible or not.

For the second time in a few minutes you feel kinship to the power on show. It is archaic. A parallel to your soul bond. You are one and the same.

A sharp caw punctuates the storm, startling your concentration, drawing your attention up. Right to the blade-sharp beak that the ominous sound came from. An imposingly large corvid glides atop the slip streams. So large that it could only be a raven, its feathers beautifully glossy as it fixes its beady gaze right on you.

Whether due to the nightmare or the bird's call, you are no longer invisible - the bird's course correction tells you as much. Your dread is plutonium; another jolt of adrenaline somehow overcomes the weight of it.

Senses sharpened, you can hear the sound of waves lapping, smell the scent of salt. Is there an ocean past the gate? You make the final few strides towards your escape, ready to slam your hand onto the stone when...

Morpheus appears at your side.

Your soul leaps. That traitorous fragment of you that threatens to override your logic - all achieved by one look at his perfect face. You would hate yourself for it if you had the cognition; between the gate's energy and the desire to be in his arms, you are losing your rationality.

"You left," Morpheus states. He blinks slowly taking a reading of the probably unanticipated situation, head tilting, a showcase of his intrigue. "How?"

"The room let me leave," you say with as much neutrality as possible, head turning back to the immense structure before you.

He comes into your peripheral vision with startling speed, his tone just as urgent. "What do you mean by that?"

To answer him would be to delay your escape even longer. You focus instead on the green growing on the walls. Mosses, lichens. The tightly twisting ivy that mirrors the hold he has on you. You are having trouble tuning into your power with his proximity.

"Y/N." He coaxes gently, searching your drawn features with unblinking, trepidatious eyes.

It scares you that you notice this. You cannot remember making the decision to look at him. Perhaps it is the sibling of the involuntary impulse that makes you answer him.

"I asked for help in leaving and the door dissolved."

His lips part in surprise. "You manipulated the fabric of the Dreaming." He sounds impressed.

You huff sardonically, muttering, "Another side effect of the soul bond, I guess." Then reaching towards the stone gate with a flattened palm.

"What do you think you are doing?" Morpheus' question is authoritative however you can detect a note of fearfulness in the mix. It gives you courage that your journey here was not for nothing.

"I'm going to do the same with this gate as I did with the doors. I'm going home."

"I cannot allow you to do that." Morpheus moves into a wary stance, as if you have just transformed into a scorpion and he is trying to avoid your sting. "It is dangerous to wield such power when inexperienced."

Your soul burns astringently as you dismiss him. "It's been serving me well so far."

The rain lessens a fraction, a little too late for you are both soaked through. Morpheus does not seem to notice - he is unfalteringly focused on you.

"Y/N, I implore you to listen to me. There is a significant risk you would find yourself in the space between realms. Or somewhere considerably worse."

A flare of rage manifests at the ease of which he can still be so vague with his threats.

"How do I know you're not just saying that!? You told me that it was unsafe to leave that room and yet I got here without any problems."

Not entirely truthful; you purposefully neglect to tell him about the absolute terror the graveyard initially caused, the information does not serve you at present.

You take a step away from him and internally root for the power to get you through the gate. Morpheus zeroes in on your chest, clearly feeling you engage with it.

The rain turns back to torrential and his eyes darken as you hear his commanding voice inside your head. "Stop this now."

"No, you fucking stop!" You explode. "I am done listening to your lies, and I am done with your fucked up fantasy. I don't care what fate intended or what is in my soul. I am leaving you and if you have any sense at all you will leave me the fuck alone!"

Your words are so full of vitriol that it is clear that no amount of pleas can be made to sway your decision. It pushes Morpheus to sheer, instinctual desperation as he finally tries to snag your hand with his, and with the residual anger inside it's all the encouragement you need to press your outstretched one to the gate.

The energy recoil is punishing. It takes everything within you to stand your ground. Morpheus is speaking - the precise words are lost to pressure change in your ears.

Let me go home. You assert to the gate.

The stone becomes translucent and then you are falling.

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

Without Morpheus there to steady you, your passage is far less smooth. For a moment you fear that his talk of ending up in limbo was rooted in accuracy. Yet you make it unscathed. And you're right back where it all started. The same rain washed street outside the function hall, the same flyers up by the entrance begging the question: could you have been returned on the same day that you left?

You nudge the door to see if the venue is still open. It is, so you slip inside. You reason that being around other people is the safest thing for you should you have been followed the Dreaming's king. The warmth of the central heating is tempting too for you are still saturated from the storm.

The squeak of your boots on the wooden floor draws attention. You hear a chorus of assuaged exhales, see a blur of movement.

Danisha. She's in your personal space within seconds, a justifiable mixture of fury and relief sparking in her big brown eyes. "Oh my god, where were you? I was so worried."

Your other colleagues stand nearby at the front desk, and you overhear them trying to tell the staff that everything was okay. That you weren't missing after all. What trouble you've caused.

"I'm so sorry," you whisper, throat thick with guilt and tears. "Something urgent came up."

"Urgent enough to go missing for over an hour without telling anyone?"

Only an hour? It felt like a week had passed in the Dreaming. The adage that time passed differently in dreams carried some weight.

You twist the ring on your finger as you tell your half-truths. "It was an emergency. Everything happened so fast. I know how it must have looked."

"Damn right. I got the venue staff to check the CCTV outside but the memory was corrupted. I was so close to calling the police."

"What stopped you?"

She pauses, contemplating how to phrase her reply.

"I don't know. I had this weird feeling that you would come back if I stayed here..." Danisha smiles for the first time since you were reunited. "And you did, thank the universe."

You can't help but wonder if divine intervention stepped in for you both.

"I'm really sorry I worried you."

She nudges your shoulder playfully.

"Yeah, me too. I had to make that speech you promised me you'd give."

Your mouth drops open. "We won?"

"Hell yes we did," She says feistily. "And thank fuck you left your shout-out list on the table 'cause I'd have been absolutely screwed without it."

Your chest swells with pride. "I'm so proud of you, D."

Her nose crinkles endearingly.

"Don't pass judgement just yet. I'm fairly certain that Tomas recorded it, the little shit." She turns around and shoots your colleague a joking death glare. Tomas clutches his chest in mock pain and all three of you laugh.

"We're still going to The Bridge like we planned?"

Danisha hands your bag and phone over. "Yeah. You need a drink?

You laugh dryly. "You have no idea."

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

Danisha refrains from asking more questions about your AWOL moment as you traverse the damp streets to your team's favourite bar - a fact that you are infinitely grateful for because it would be much more challenging to disguise your unease.

Naturally, you are relieved to be back in familiarity with your beloved friends but every movement out the corner of your eye or snippet of conversation in a deep voice is a jump scare.

How could it not be? Morpheus made his disposition clear; he wants full possession of you, which is why it is surprising that he has not followed you thus far. Not that it would serve him well; you would scream bloody murder if he came near you.

The feeling of shedding your sodden coat when inside the warm bar is luxurious, as is the first sip of the espresso martini you ordered - chosen for its sleep repelling caffeine content.

Friday night means the establishment is packed and the hours slip by in relative delight. Full of celebration and throwing caution to the wind.

The award is passed around with the realisation that you'll need to get a bigger shelf installed in the office. You crowd round Tomas' phone to watch the video of Danisha's speech, which is promptly deleted after she wrestles it out of his hand, claiming that: 'no one else ever needs to be subjected to her sweaty face'. The whole tussle had been immensely comical and you laughed so much that your stomach went into spasm.

With happy tears in your eyes, you get the attention of the middle-aged bartender and order yourself another drink. There's a group of students to the right of you, living it up with the exuberance of those who are still too young to know the meaning of debilitating hangovers.

One of them begins to fake whispers excitedly. "Don't look now but a 'sunglasses indoors' just walked in the door. And they're seriously hot."

The whole group look in unison and you are ashamed to admit that you do the same - not because you want to gauge their attractiveness for yourself but rather to check if they were famous. Who else would wear sunglasses inside at night?

The instant you spot him, you notice a disconcerting tightness settle in your chest.

You feel like you know him.

And from the beaming smile he is directing towards you, it seems like he feels the same way.

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

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines @the-ruler-of-death @mimrntgx @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol

"Cause they watch us in sleep. And the language that we speak. And the secrets that we keep to ourselves in our dreams, in our dreams."

186 notes · View notes

woso-dreamzzz · 10 months ago

Text

Miracle III

Aitana Bonmatí x Baby!Reader

Summary: An early morning with Mama

The sunlight filtering into the room has Aitana blinking awake, squinting as the soft rays of sun glow directly in her eyes.

She yawns, glancing away from the gap in the curtains to look directly at the baby monitor on her bedside table.

The image shows you clearly, wide awake and standing. One hand grips your pegasus plushie while the other stretches up to play with one of the hanging stars on your mobile.

You're probably getting too big for it now, developing quickly from baby to that weird baby-toddler in between that Aitana can remember happened to Skatt and before Skatt, Conejita.

She wishes that she'd studied them more carefully so she'd be prepared for this.

You seem to realise she's watching you though with the same weird sixth sense you have when you're playmates are ready to climb in the playpen with you at training.

You babble a bit, interspersing nonsense with real words as you blow spit bubbles.

"Mama Ta-Ta! Ta-Ta!"

Aitana finds a fond smile appearing on her face as she rolls over in bed, slipping her feet into a pair of fluffy slippers and pulling on a bathrobe to keep the early morning chill out.

You make a little noise of happiness when your bedroom door opens and Aitana plucks you into her arms without anymore nagging.

"Good morning, estrella," She coos, dropping a soft kiss to the end of your nose which makes you go cross-eyed.

"Mor'ing Mama Ta-Ta."

You reach out a hand to grab at Aitana's face, scraping weak little fingers against her cheek before finally getting a grip on her ear.

She laughs, gently pulling your grabby little hand away as she checks the funny little cuckoo clock Mapi had gotten you as a joke.

It's still early.

Too early to be up on a day off.

"Let's go to my bed."

You seem fascinated with the soft blanket covers as Aitana lays you in the middle of her bed as she strips back down to just her pjs, running your fingers over the patterns again and again as you gnaw on pegasus' wing.

Aitana drags you towards her in just the way you like, pulling out your fuzzy onesie legs until you're right next to her.

You kick out happily as she gently manoeuvres you into a sitting position.

There's no hope in getting you to sleep again, not when you're wide awake like this but that doesn't mean the two of you can't stay in bed for a little while longer.

Aitana is easily amused by the funny little sounds you make and the way that you try to sound out words you've heard her say before.

You're startlingly intelligent for your age, far advanced than what Aitana can remember baby Skatt and baby Conejita to be like. She isn't quite sure whether it's a genetic thing or just how much time she dedicates to your education, young as you are.

Tv time is spent only watching educational kid's shows or some documentaries. Time is set aside to watch a bit of football together of course but even then, Aitana waffles on about tactics and formations and everything else under the sun she can think of.

She's read all the baby books about raising children bilingual and how to foster a love for reading in them. She'd taken you to her parents once and returned to find her mother reading a university grade textbook to you before bedtime.

She doesn't know if it's just a Bonmatí thing or if it's how she's raising you.

Either way, she's glad because even now you're working your brain and you've barely gotten up.

"Mer-ry," You say and Aitana smiles.

"Mercury," She corrects.

"Mer-cry."

"Mer-cury."

"Mercury!"

"Good job, estrella!"

You giggle as Aitana tickles your tummy, hand coming out to imitate her movements but Aitana captures it easily, pressing a soft kiss to your palm.

The rest of the early morning goes the same way, with you struggling to say all the planet names until Aitana helps to correct you.

At some point, you migrate to her lap, head tilted all the way back on her shoulder so you can see her clearly.

Something about the way you look at her, your soft baby features, the smile on your face, the sparkle in your eyes, has Aitana's chest bursting with warmth.

"I..." She says, feeling slightly choked up as your hands gently explore her fingers," I love you, estrella."

"Lub you," You say back," Lub Mama."

The warmth turns to ice instantly, like a lance cracking her chest open and finding a home in her heart.

"No," Aitana says gently," No Mama. Mama Ta-Ta, remember? You've already got a Mama."

You shake your head. "Mama."

"I...Estrella...Estrella, no. I'm not Mama. I'm Mama Ta-Ta."

It feels disrespectful to take that role.

This was never the life Aitana was meant to have. You were hers biologically. That had been the plan.

She was meant to donate her egg, the least she could do for her two best friends who desperately wanted a child but couldn't have any of their own. She was meant to be Tia Aitana, Tia Ta-Ta who would swoop you up occasionally and show you the joys of life. The one that you could come to when you were a moody teenager and in that stage where you 'hated' your parents.

Maybe if you had called her 'Mami' it would be different but Mama was the name that Aitana's friend referred to herself as. She was meant to be your Mama, not Aitana.

Not Aitana who is already pushing invisible boundaries by allowing herself to be called Mama Ta-Ta.

You shake your head stubbornly. "Mama!"

It seems you've inherited the Bonmatí stubbornness too as your smiling face sets into a little frown just like Aitana's.

She doesn't know how to explain it to you, doesn't know how to explain that she can't be your Mama. No matter how much she wants to.

"Mama..." You whine, frown morphing into a chin wobble and a chin wobble morphing into big fat tears rolling down your face.

"No, no, estrella! It's okay! Don't cry! I'm sorry!"

Aitana desperately tries to bounce you, to soothe your tears but you're inconsolable until you're tucked into her chest, hand reaching up to tug at the collar of her sleep shirt.

"Mama," You babble through your tears, trying to shuffle even closer," Mama, please."

Aitana's own bottom lip wobbles as tears prick in her eyes.

She rests her cheek on the top of your head, breathing in the soft baby smell that never quite left, lingering on the edges of her senses like it had the first time she'd met you.

It feels disrespectful to take her friend's name but at the same time, it feels right.

To be your Mama.

To take the name that you've so happily bestowed upon her.

The name you've chosen for her.

No longer Ta-Ta or Mama Ta-Ta.

Just Mama.

You whimper a little, wiping your runny nose all over the front of her shirt. "Mama?"

"Yes, estrella," Aitana says," I'm your Mama."

#woso x reader #aitana bonmati x reader #aitana bonmati #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso

597 notes · View notes

omgeto · 2 years ago

Text

☆ GIMME, GIMME MORE — GETO SUGURU

summary: you were just a stripper who had no desire to fuck with any customers, but there was just one you couldn’t shake. once he laid his eyes on you, he wanted you. and with every little piece of you he got — he wanted more.

wc: 6.5k (my longest fic ever, lord help me) its a lot of plot with a nice chunk of smut

cw: afab!stripper!reader, angst to fluff, smutty smut, you fuck in his car, you fuck in a private room (i remembered condoms this time) so mdni sassy geto, if you squint.

an: listen to this song to feel the vibe, I love me some geto and I’ve yet to do a fic for him so I hope you enjoy this one.

the entrance to the high-end club exudes an air of opulence, with its glimmering lights and sophisticated clientele. geto suguru strolls in alongside his best friend, gojo satoru, the low hum of the music washing over them. the glances around, a mixture of boredom and detachment etched on his face. this isn't really his scene, but gojo had insisted on a night out.

as they find their way to a table, surrounded by plush seating and an atmosphere of indulgence, geto's attention wanders. the dancers on stage move with practised sensuality, but his gaze remains distant. until, that is, a change in the music's tempo signals a shift in the performance.

the spotlight illuminates the stage, revealing a figure that seems to command the room's attention effortlessly. you move with a fluid grace, your body swaying in time with the sultry rhythm. the way your hips move, the confidence in your eyes, it's as if you own the room. gojo's earlier detachment gives way to fascination he can't deny.

he couldn’t take his eyes off the way you were sliding down the pole, leaning forward in his seat to see more of you. the star shaped nipple covers and the gem encrusted thong you were wearing left nothing to the imagination. but still he couldn’t help but picture it all off of you, leaning forward in his seat to try and get a closer look.

gojo nudges him playfully. "not bad, right?"

geto’s response is a low, appreciative whistle as his eyes remain locked on the captivating dancer. his heart races as he watches you command the stage, a magnetic presence that draws him in despite his earlier disinterest. he couldn’t help but feel that you were dancing for him, call him cocky but the way your eyes were locked on him as you threw your ass back against the pole — he knew that was just for him. he looked around the room and saw that everyone else was just as captivated by you as he was.

“she’s the best performer here, she doesn’t do private dances, she doesn’t even do a long set,” gojo brags to geto but he’s barely listening, his eyes too focused on you, “this is as much of her as we can get.”

as the performance reaches its climax, geto’s lips curve into a slow smile. gojo’s grin is knowing. "looks like someone's found their muse." geto’s tears his gaze away just as you exit the stage, his interest piqued.

“you’ve got a request,” your boss announces insistent and smug, cornering you immediately after you exit the stage.

“you know i don't do requests, i come here, i do a 30 minute set and i leave remember?” you retort, stepping to walk straight past him, but he stops you, standing in front of you to block your path.

“this is a request you can’t refuse,” he adds, a smirk forming on his lips. your eyes narrow at his words, already feeling a sense of unease.

“oh i think i can,” your intention is clear as you step forward, intending to brush past him and continue on your way. but he remains unmoved, determined to stand in your path, his stance a physical barrier you can't easily circumvent.

“there’s a special guest tonight, someone who’s willing to pay handsomely for a private performance,” he explains, his tone implying much more than his words reveal.

you pause, folding your arms, sceptical. “how much are we talking about?”

he names a figure that makes your eyebrows shoot up. It’s a significant sum, the kind that could cover your bills for months, or even help you save for a future beyond the club. but still, you hesitate.

“like i said, i don't take request,” you conclude, brushing past your boss.

“i don’t think this particular patron will like that,” he tries to argue, following directly behind you.

“ask me if i care,” with those words, you step forward once more, your purpose clear as you attempt to carry on. but his presence remains a persistent shadow at your side, his attempts to sway you far from over.

his argument falters momentarily, but he regains his composure quickly, his tone becoming insistent. "this particular patron isn't accustomed to denial. I don't think he'll take kindly to it."

a defiant smirk tugs at your lips, your patience waning as you find yourself driven further by your own principles. "well, here's a thought—perhaps he should learn."

with that final retort, you pivot on your heel, striding purposefully toward the locker room. the temptation of the significant sum and the vague promise of this special patron tug at the edges of your thoughts, but your determination remains resolute.

“if you don’t do it your fired.” he calls out after you, a desperate final attempt to get you to agree.

you knew you were going against your better judgement, but you turn back to face your boss and with a deep sigh you agree, “fine, i’ll do it. but you owe me.”

with simmering frustration bubbling beneath the surface, you push open the door to the private room, your entrance punctuated by the subtle swish of the heavy fabric. the air within was charged, a blend of anticipation and tension, as you found geto suguru lounging on the plush sofa, his presence an unwelcome sight that intensified your irritation.

your words come out abruptly, a firm reminder to both him and yourself, “i don’t fuck clients,” you state, a touch of defensiveness in your tone. you wanted to establish your boundaries, to make it clear you wouldn’t be swayed easily.

he chuckles, catching you off guard, his amusement evident. “thats nice…” he adds, with a hint of playfulness, “i just wanted to talk anyways.”

“to talk?” you question, surprised at his request, as you knew what went on in the private rooms and talking was far from that.

“yeah, just wanna get to know you,” he explains casually, his eyes studying you.

“i don’t do time wasters,” you complain, ready to leave the room, “and i don’t have time to waste.”

“even if im paying for your time?” he bargains, raising his eyebrows, “im sure your boss told you the pretty expensive bill im footing just for your time.”

crossing your arms, you met his gaze with a steady one of your own. “look, mr…?”

“just call me suguru,” he interjected with a smile that held a hint of charm.

“alright, suguru,” you continued, your tone resolute, “i'm not here to entertain idle chit-chat. i’ll dance for you for an hour and thats it. just abide by the club rules, otherwise im out.”

“why don’t you take private requests?” he inquiries, disregarding your comments.

“because i don’t have to,” you respond nonchalantly, “why are you so persistent that you pay for my time. there’s tons of other great strippers in this club.”

“because i want you.” he shrugs.

“well too bad,” you mock, “just because you have money doesn’t mean you can buy everything.”

“everyone’s got a price,” he argues, chuckling softly, a condescending tone underling his words, “ah, but isn't that the way the world works? everything has a price, even principles.”

the audacity of his statement ignited a fire within you, your voice heated with defiance and scorn. “you think im for sale? you think i’d compromise my integrity just for a fat stack of bills? you’re delusional.”

“oh but isn’t your integrity already compromised,” he teases, raising his eyebrows, “is miss, ‘i dont do private dances,’ not in a private dance with me right now?”

“you know wha–”

“i changed my mind. i don’t want to talk anymore,” there was a shift in his tone, amusement danced in his eyes, “strip for me.”

you were pissed. but you couldn’t actually argue – he was right. he was paying for your time and he could spend it anyway he wanted to. you’d rather have him silently watching you anyways than talking to you.

the music blared through the speakers in the room, and you immediately straddled geto, you could feel his dick harden underneath you. the only thing separating you two was the thin layer of fabric of your thong.

you could see him smirk at you, but you ignored him, grinding your hips down on him to the beat of the music. his starts to trail down your sides, but you give him a pointed look reminding him of the rules – no touching. he surrenders his hands placing them besides his head, content in watching you dance on his lap.

you moved off of him, using the pole that was in the room, his eyes stayed fixed on you. you wanted to put on a show for him, so you move your body expressing a mix of sensuality and power, your eyes lock onto his, daring him to challenge you further, to push your boundaries even more.

the hour was eventually up, and geto didn’t say anything as he left, he just leaves a fat stack of bills on the table, and for some reason you couldn’t bite your tongue, “is that it? you’re just going to leave?”

“well the hours up, no?” he responds, checking his watch, “and, i’ve paid you for your time.” you couldn’t argue with that, so you remain silent watching as he turns his back on you to leave the room.

“suguru,” you call out, getting him to pause, “wait.”

“i thought you didn’t fuck clients,” he smirks, coming up from in between your thighs, “but i am not complaining”

“s-shut up,” you exhale, you’d like to believe that you didn’t expect this to happen, but you knew that was a lie. you didn’t get far out of the club, in fact you didn’t make it out of the parking lot. the back of geto’s car seemed to be perfect with the way he was eating you out.

the feeling of geto sucking on your clit, had your head empty. his head being pressed between your thighs makes your back arch as you push up against his face. he laps against your folds, drowning in your wetness.

“‘i don’t do private dances,’” he mocks your previous words, amused with himself, “oh if only you could see yourself now.” he enjoyed you like this, pinned under him, your pussy dripping all over his face, you were a writhing mess; no longer complaining to him about his actions, you were reduced down to moans and incoherent sentences, the only thing he could hear clearly was his name.

“suguru ah s-shit,” you curse, as he presses down on your clit, “do you always talk this much?” you tangle your fingers in his hair, guiding his face closer in your pussy, his nose deep in your arousal. he was practically inhaling you, swirling his tongue deep inside, trying to taste every inch of you.

“‘m close suguru,” you whine, thrust up against his face aiming to reach your peak on your own.

“calm down princess,” he teases, pulling his lips away from your pussy, “didn’t know you were this eager.” he presses his lips down on yours, making you taste yourself as his hand goes behind your neck to hold you in place. “see how sweet you can be?”

he takes his dick out of his pants, quickly putting on a condom, not even giving you much time to think before he’s slamming into your cunt. your eyes widen as your pussy stretches, and geto can only bite his lip as he feels you clench around him.

“you feel so good, y’know that right” he murmurs, forcing himself into you deeper, “so fuckin’ tight.”

he was merciless, gripping his hands on your tits, as he pistons out of you. he could only focus on how your cunt tightens around him with every push. you were pushing yourself down on him, fucking him right back. you didn’t care for his praise, you just wanted to cum.

“‘you’re t-too much, i-it’s too much”

“but you’re taking me so well,” he argues, with a grin. peppering kissing against your neck as he fucks you to a hilt. your hands find their way back into his hair, pulling and tugging at it as you moan out his name.

his dick twitches inside you as you call at his name, you could feel that he was about to cum. his strokes were getting sloppier, and his mouth went from biting to sucking on your neck. you could feel yourself about to climax, clawing at his back, as he continues to hit your spot.

“suguru, i’m about to–”

“cum with me,” he demands, swiftly pulling out of and leaving his cum all over your stomach. you release onto his car seats, your cum spilling out of your pussy, pooling into his car seats.

after coming down off your high, you come to your senses. “this doesn’t change anything.” you remove yourself out of his hold, pushing him off you.

“you really gonna say that after i gave you the best time of your life?”

"'best time of my life?'" you echo, a smirk tugging at your lips as you gather your belongings, "someone's cocky."

“i'm starting to feel you like me that way,” he teases, his words a playful challenge.

you roll your eyes, not willing to engage in his banter any longer. "goodbye, suguru," you reply, opening his car door. "don't return to the club."

“oi princess,” he calls after you, “you left your thong.”

“keep it.” you wink as you step outside of the car, “think of it as a souvenir.”

“why would i need that, when im going to see you again?” you don't respond, shutting the car door with a smile on your face as part of you hoped that he did return.

geto did see you again, practically every day after that. it became a consistent routine, he’d book a private room for a couple hours, you’d fuck, you’d talk and see each other whenever he wanted. he came when he needed you – and he always needed you.

as a stripper, you’ve always had one rule ‘don’t fuck with clients,’ but the moment that geto suguru laid his eyes on you – you were his. there was something about him that made him different from all the other patrons, although they were all snobby rich guys, the way that geto carried himself made you feel like he was worth breaking your rule. or at least that's what you told yourself.

you didn’t just fuck each other – sometimes he just wanted to talk to you, to ask you about your day, to get to know you. and you could tell he was starting to catch feelings that you weren’t prepared to deal with. however, despite him being rich, there was something endearing in knowing that he went out of his way, every day, to pay just to see you. even when you were mean and standoffish.

you always spoke for longer than you expected – longer than he even paid for. geto surprised you, he was actually interested in talking with you. as the minutes turned into an hour, the conversations flowed in unexpected directions. you found yourselves sharing stories, discussing interests, and laughing at each other’s jokes. geto’s charming demeanour and genuine interest gradually chipped away at your initial reservations.

“did you always want to be a stripper?” he asks, you had just finished fucking and he still had an hour left of paid time with you, and he was going to use it.

“do you always pillowtalk?” you retort smartly, evading his question.

“who would’ve thought you’d still be this bitchy after being fucked so good,” he jokes, pulling you into his hold that you quickly ease into, “girl just answer the question.”

“i don’t know,” you sigh, “i needed the money, i loved to dance, so being a stripper was a no brainer to me.”

“do you like working here?”

you shift slightly in his embrace, your fingers idly trace patterns on his chest. "liking it? well, it pays the bills, if that's what you're asking."

his fingers brush against your hair in a soothing gesture. "but is that all? just a means to an end?"

you sigh, a mixture of vulnerability and honesty in your tone. "i mean, it's not like i dreamt of becoming a stripper when I was a kid. but it's a job that's allowed me some financial stability, even if it's temporary."

geto's voice was gentle, his curiosity evident. "temporary for how long?"

you hesitate for a moment, contemplating how much to reveal. "i don’t know, i haven’t thought that far. i just wanna make money.”

"well, if you ever get tired of dancing, i can always buy the club for you." his response was unexpected, a mixture of humour and absurdity. “i think you’d make a good boss.”

“ha, if you did that i’d know that you’re truly obsessed with me,” you chuckle, his words catching you off guard. “i know you enjoy this place, but that's a little extreme, don't you think?"

"maybe, but you're worth it." he grins, his playful demeanour unwavering. "you're more than what you do here, you know."

a soft, ironic chuckle escapes your lips. "funny, coming from someone who's always here."

his grip on you tightens slightly, his voice holding a trace of seriousness. "perhaps I come here because I want to be around you. not just the dancer."

it was as if his presence had chipped away at the walls you had erected, leaving you exposed to a whirlwind of feelings you hadn't anticipated.his gaze, unwavering and intense, held yours as if searching for a sign—a spark of recognition that you too were experiencing this undeniable pull.

"suguru," you begin, your voice a whisper that barely bridged the distance between you, "this... whatever it is between us, it can't be as simple as you wanting to be around me."

he smiles softly, a gentle curve of his lips that holds both understanding and patience. "you're right, it's not simple. but isn't that what makes it worth exploring?" his words were a delicate melody, an invitation to step beyond the boundaries you had created.

you met his gaze with a mixture of uncertainty and longing. the weight of his presence was undeniable, a force that had drawn you in and left you yearning for more. but your insecurities whispered caution, reminding you of the differences that set you apart.

"suguru," you admit, your voice softer now, "i've never let anyone get this close. it's complicated, and I don't even know where this could lead."

“it doesn’t matter where it will leads,” he says, “what matters is that you like me? right?”

his words hung in the air, a direct question that pierced through the layers of uncertainty and vulnerability that surrounded you. the room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of his question settling like a delicate veil over the intimate space you shared.

your breath caught, and for a moment, time itself seemed to pause. the truth, the raw honesty that had eluded you, stood before you—bold and unyielding. you looked into his eyes, his gaze unwavering and patient, as if he was giving you the space to find your own truth within the question.

your voice, soft and tinged with a mixture of trepidation and longing, finally found its way to the surface. "i..." you pause, the words catching in your throat. but in the depth of his gaze, you found a strange sense of comfort, an assurance that you could be honest without judgement.

"maybe," you admit, your voice a whisper that carries the weight of your emotions. "maybe i do like you, suguru." the admission felt like a release, letting go of the barriers you had constructed to protect yourself.

a slow smile curved his lips, a genuine expression that lit up his features. it was as if your honesty had unlocked a door, allowing both of you to step closer to a truth that had been waiting to surface. he replies with deep content, "maybe is a good start,"

the room felt charged with an energy you couldn't quite define, a tension that simmered beneath the surface. your eyes held his, a silent conversation that spoke volumes—an acknowledgement of the unspoken connection that had grown between you.

as you lay there, cocooned in the aftermath of both physical intimacy and heartfelt conversation, an internal struggle brewed within you. your heart was stirred by the sincerity of geto's words, by the connection that seemed to grow stronger with every interaction. yet, amidst the warmth and comfort, a sense of bittersweet uncertainty gnawed at you.

the boundary you had set, the rule you had vowed to uphold, wavered under the weight of emotions you hadn't anticipated. you were drawn to geto, but a tangle of reservations held you back.

in the embrace of the night, you found yourself torn between the allure of a connection you had come to cherish and the lingering fear of what being with him might entail.

“you’re here early,” you comment, seeing geto in his usual seat. at this point, you were practically excited to see him, happy to go to work knowing that he’d show up.

“i guess i thought i’d change things up a bit,” he mutters his tone of voice off, “we’ve got to make this quick, though” he starts to undo his belt, “i’ve only got an hour till my next meeting.”

“wow no talking today?” you ask amused. geto usually is the one that likes to take his time, he always says he prefers to stimulate your mind before anything else, but today was different.

he gives you a pointed look, not bothering to respond so you continue to say, “an hour?” smirking as you straddle his lap, freeing his dick, “i think that’s more than enough time.”

“new outfit?” he muses, pulling at the straps of the lingerie you were wearing. you nod, focusing on stroking his dick, “red’s your colour, i like it. but i’d rather see it off you.” suddenly, he rips off your bra and forces you up to take off your panties. you bend down to take off your heels, but he pauses you, “keep those on.”

“get my fingers wet for me,” he commands, dragging you back onto his lap. you happily comply, taking in two fingers into your warm, pouty mouth. he caresses your jaw as you greedily nibble on his fingers.

he pulls them out thoroughly coated with your saliva and shoves them into your pussy. you gasp at the contact, and crumble into his side but he forces your head up with his hand pressing a rough kiss to your lips.

“w-whats with you today?” you query, as you see the look on geto’s face – something was off with him. although you couldn’t deny the pleasure you were getting from his current roughness, you were used to a gentler geto.

“nothing,” he dismisses you, slipping in another finger into your soaking pussy. his thumb rubs against your clit as his fingers easily glide in and out of you. you felt like you cum off of his fingers alone, you grind down hard against his fingers aiding yourself in reaching your climax. but just as you were nearing, he swiftly removes his fingers landing a fat smack against your clit, “i know i said i had to make it quick, but i didn’t think you’d be this excited.”

geto swiftly puts on a condom, raises you up slightly before slamming you down on his dick. he smiles as your legs wrap around his back, pleased by the sound of your heels clacking together. you shudder as he immediately fills you, your pussy stretching, taking all of him.

he thrusts into you hard, and you try to meet his pace and fuck him back as hard as he was doing to you – but you were no match for him. you were practically a ragdoll as he hammered into you, your arms flinging around his neck to hold yourself up.

“f-fuck,” you moan, clawing at his back, “im gonna cum.”

“hold it,” he demands, continuing to give you strong, relentless strokes. your head falls into his shoulder in submission, you were already gushing all over him, but he keeps going, hard and fast. he lifts up your head, and presses a soft peck against your lips before saying, “cum.”

geto movements turn sloppy as he finishes into the condom. you release all over his dick, shuddering as you feel your peak surge through you. he presses one more kiss to your neck, before you move off of him.

“are you good?” you finally ask him, as you put back on your outfit, “you seemed a little out of it tonight.”

he shifts on his feet, his restlessness palpable as he watches you. "yeah," he mumbles, looking around the room at everything but you, his fingers fumbling with his belt as if seeking something to anchor himself. "i'm alright."

"you sure?" you persist, a touch of concern pushing you to press further. usually, you wouldn't challenge him this way – because whatever he says goes in the time that he pays for. but the stark contrast to his usual demeanour gnaws at your thoughts. "i just want to make sure that you're okay–"

"didn't I say I was alright," he sneers, a defensive edge entering his tone, "it's like you don't listen or something."

“see, there is definitely something wrong with you,” you snap, screwing your face up at his tone, “since the usual geto that walks up in here knows that he’ll have my heel shoved up his asshole before he can talk to me like that.”

your words hang in the air, the charged tension growing thicker as you each hold your ground. he shifts his weight, his gaze flickering toward you briefly before skittering away. the air seems heavy with unspoken words, a tangible unease settling between you.

"i've actually been wondering how long we're going to be doing this for," he finally says, his voice low, almost as if he's reluctant to voice the thought.

“this?” you question, a confused look appears upon your face as you fold your arms. you knew what he was getting at – you just wanted to hear him say it, “you mean my job.”

his gaze finally lifts to meet yours, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "oh, I didn't know it was your job to fuck the customers here. I thought you were just a stripper… not a prostitute."

his words hit like a jolt, a rush of emotion flooding your senses as you absorb their implications. your jaw tightens, a surge of frustration warring with a pang of hurt. "don't be condescending."

he chuckles, the sound a mix of amusement and something else you can't quite place. "why not? you seem to be a pro at it."

“fuck you.”

“y’know, i’ve figured a lot about you in these times we’ve spent together – despite the fact that you don’t talk much,” he starts to say, his grin getting wider with every word, “i’ve worked out that you liked to be chased, you like the fact that I was intrigued enough to make you break your dumb ass rule, you like the fact that even after I managed to break down your pussy walls, I still wanna take your rude ass to dinner.”

his words cut deep, the truth laced with a mocking tone. you glare at him, the mixture of attraction and anger churning within you. he was right in a way – you did like the chase, the thrill of his attention.

"you really have it all figured out, don't you?" you retort, your voice dripping with sarcasm. his observations stung because they hit too close to the mark. but there was a small part of you that reminded yourself that he was just like the rest of the rich assholes that strolled through the club – and he was proving you right in this very moment.

“well suguru, i’ve worked some things about you.” you sneer, “you’re not the first wealthy lame that has walked into this club demanding more from me than a lap dance and some ego stroking–”

“but i’m the first to get it though aren’t i,” he interrupts, his tone teasing, “what does that say about me?”

you scoff, rolling your eyes as you cross your arms defensively. "it says that you're just like the rest of them, thinking you're different, thinking you're special."

his gaze narrows, the spark of something more intense gleaming in his eyes. "oh, I never said I was different. but I am special, darling, and you know it.” you huff defiantly, sitting back down on the couch – this was an argument you couldn’t. because although he was cocky, he was right.

geto joins you, his hand coming gripping your thigh to get your attention, “look i don't want to be doing this with you, all i want is to spend time out with you outside these four walls,” he says as you gnaw on your lip, considering it, “it would be nice to see you with some clothes on for a change.”

he holds your gaze, his fingers tightening slightly on your thigh as if trying to anchor himself in the midst of the storm of emotions you've stirred. his vulnerability is a stark contrast to the confidence he usually exudes, and it catches you off guard. for a moment, you're caught in a whirlwind of conflicting feelings – his words tugging at something deep within you that you're not quite ready to acknowledge.

but then, you remember the rules you've set for yourself, the boundaries you've fought so hard to maintain. no matter how much he may want to blur those lines, you can't afford to give in.

without giving him a direct answer, you shift slightly, his hand sliding off your thigh as you put some distance between you. your gaze flickers away from him, focusing on some distant point in the room as you compose yourself.

"well, hour's over," you finally say, your tone a touch colder than before. "leave the money where you usually do."

his face falls, the vulnerability replaced by a mixture of disappointment and frustration. he opens his mouth, as if he wants to protest or say something more, but the words seem to die on his lips. the atmosphere between you turns tense once again, the unspoken words and desires hanging heavily in the air.

you don't meet his gaze as you move to gather your things, your actions brisk and efficient. you've mastered the art of detachment, of creating a barrier between yourself and the clients who come and go, no matter how they may affect you.

as you head toward the exit, your heart beats a little faster, a mix of regret and longing that you refuse to entertain. this is how it has to be – business, no matter how much your heart might argue otherwise.

behind you, you hear him sigh, a sound heavy with frustration and resignation. the door clicks shut behind you, the echo of the room's tension lingering in the silence.

he never returned after that. days turned into weeks, and still, geto's presence remained absent from the club. while you hadn't expected him to return, a small part of you had held onto a glimmer of hope that he might. but the weeks turned into months, and the emptiness left by his absence lingered.

life settled back into its routine – the dimly lit stage, the rhythmic music, you danced, you entertained, you put on a show. yet, there was an ache within you, a void that refused to be filled.

as time went on, you found yourself replaying memories of his presence in your mind – the teasing glint in his eyes, the genuine concern in his voice, the way his smile could light up a room. the connection you had shared, brief as it was, had left an indelible mark on your heart.

you missed the daily banter, the way he would surprise you with his insights, the simple pleasure of knowing he was there. the club felt different now, as if it had lost a part of its vibrancy. the nights were quieter, the laughter more subdued, and the glamour that once surrounded your performances felt somewhat dimmed.

despite your best efforts, you couldn't shake the longing that had settled within you. you had a taste of something more with him, a glimpse of a world beyond the club's confines. and now, as you danced under the neon lights, you couldn't help but wonder if you would ever find that connection again.

the longing in your heart grew with each passing day, a constant reminder of what had been and what might have been. yet, even as you missed him, you were grateful for the moments you had shared – moments that had shown you a different side of life, a side you had almost forgotten was possible.

as you stepped into the club again to start your shift, an unsettling feeling settled in your stomach. the club, which was typically alive with the pulsating beat of music and the murmurs of patrons, was eerily quiet. it was as if the very essence of the place had been stripped away, leaving behind an empty void.

confusion crept into your mind as you glanced around, searching for any sign of movement or life. your footsteps echoed in the emptiness, the sound feeling unusually loud against the backdrop of silence. what was going on? had something happened that you weren't aware of?

just as you were about to turn and leave, the sense of unease growing stronger, your eyes land on a figure sitting on the main stage. your heart skipps a beat, a mix of surprise and a rush of emotions flooding over you. it was him – geto. he was here, his presence filling the void that had gripped the club.

he sat there, as if he belonged on that stage, his posture relaxed but his gaze intense as he watches you. the familiar, cocky smirk was ever present on his lips, and despite the confusion that clouds your mind, a warmth spreads through your chest at the sight of him.

as you draw closer, his smirk softens into a genuine smile, a glimmer of something unspoken in his eyes. the air was thick with tension, a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty hanging between you. your heart races in your chest, the space between you charged with unspoken words and unresolved feelings.

"suguru," you finally breathe his name, your voice a mere whisper in the stillness.

he stands, his movements fluid and confident, as he closes the distance between you. "hey," he greets, his voice carrying a warmth that echoed through the empty club.

"what are you doing here?" you ask, your voice tinged with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

“let’s just say there’s new management here”

“you bought the club.” you interrogate, “why?”

“i don’t know, im a guy with a lot of money, so i bought a business.” he shrugs blatantly lying, “that’s what guys like me do…”

"you missed me," you conclude, with a grin.

he nods, "I guess I missed you...or whatever," his facade drops immediately. "it's just after you rejected me, i was pissed. all i wanted to do was to show you that i actually cared about you, for you to give me a chance.”

“and buying the club was the most logical way for you to show me that you care?” you argue. “you didn’t have to do that,” emotions swirled within you – a mixture of surprise, hope, and a spark of something you hadn't allowed yourself to feel in a long time. before you could respond, he took a step closer, his fingers gently brushing against yours. it was a simple touch, but it held a promise, a connection that went beyond words.

"why do you always have to be so difficult?” he questions fiercely, “why can’t you just let me show you that i do care about you?”

the weight of his words hung in the air, and as you looked into his eyes, you saw the vulnerability, the sincerity that had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. “why do you care?” you retort, almost childishly. you knew that he cared, you knew why he cared – you just had an affinity for making things difficult.

he rolls his eyes at your hard front “if it was anybody else, he would’ve given up a long time ago. but for some reason you were worth it. “because i see you for more than just the standoffish dancer who doesn’t let anyone get to her, im sure you know this by now.” he pulls you closer to him, into a strong hold. “now will you stop fronting and let me have you – all of you?”

you nod with mock reluctance, practically melting in his arms, “but what about my job? I’m not gonna stop being a stripper just because of you.”

“and i wouldn’t even ask you too,” he says quick with reassurance, “besides i find it hot that everyone gets to see you this way but they just can’t have you like i do.” he starts to work your top off your body, unhooking your bra, exposing your tits, “like just imagine, a crowd full of people watching me fuck the shit out of you — wanting you so badly, but not getting to touch.”

“we can’t do this here,” you gasp out as his fingers start to toy with your hard nipples, pinching and twisting them.

“why not?” he smirks, “you’re the boss aren’t you?”

“me, but i thought you bought the club.”

“you’re the one who said if i bought it you’d know that im truly obsessed with you,” he reasons, his lips pressing a kiss under your ear as he whispers, “do you get the picture now?”

“like I said you really d-didn’t have to do that,” you say, “i was the one that fucked things up here. you didn’t have to buy a whole business for get me to tell you that i like you.”

“oh so you do like me,” he comments sarcastically, “who would’ve thought.”

“shut up,” you grumble, swatting at his chest as he laughs, “i am sorry though. i don’t know why i pulled you into my little game, i knew i liked you a long time ago — but I just couldn't bring myself to admitting it. and I'm sorry for that .”

“it’s fine,” he reassures, “i knew dealing with you would be a challenge — granted i didn’t think it would be this hard — but i knew in the end it would be worth it.” his hands lower down your body, shimmying your pants off of you, “so now you gonna show me how sorry you truly are?”

AN: um so this was A LOT my longest fic ever, please lemme know what you thought since I am SOOOO UNSURE ABOU THIS ONE. thank you to my baessss @kazushawty @satoruhour for beta reading (I owe you two my life) also ur boss was pissed asf to find out that the club he owned was bought and given to you when he was the one that basically got you and geto together in the first place. ill make a part two where gojo comes back to the club to see the pretty little stripper who's got all of his besties attention looool jk

#stampedwithanE★#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto x reader #geto smut #geto suguru x reader #geto angst #jjk angst #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #geto suguru #jujutsu kaisen angst #geto x you #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x you

4K notes · View notes

cellarspider · 5 months ago

Text

Rambles in Star Wars History: The extreme shenanigans that changed an Empire

Bioware games can absolutely fascinate me, in part because of their worldbuilding, and in part because of where the worldbuilding ends. I mean, I did a whole long series of posts on the grammar of Qunlat and I have at least a dozen essays worth of material of exegetical analysis of religion in Dragon Age kicking around in my brain, which I keep threatening to actually manifest.

But since I'm here with my worldbuilding hat on, I'm going to ramble about Star Wars: The Old Republic, focusing on some of the sometimes-hilarious drama that's implied by the plot, and the implications for how these shenanigans remade a major galactic society in the process. Involved will be a man who faked his death to get out of going to meetings, a wine uncle who might become emperor, a living scowl with dangerous shoulders, and other assorted animals.

Expect a lot of bonus rambles in the image alt-texts, which is where I store commentary and jokes that I can't fit into the flow of the main post.

———

Before I dig into the topic at hand, I have to set the scene for those who don't know the game, or have forgotten in the fourteen years since the game launched.

Spoilers in the post below for Act 1-3 of the Imperial Agent, Sith Warrior, and Inquisitor storylines, Act 1 of the Jedi Knight storyline, the post-Act 3 Battle of Ilum flashpoint, and for various expansions including Rise of the Emperor, Knights of the Fallen Empire, Onslaught, and Legacy of the Sith. Assume that all reference links to Wookieepedia contain major spoilers.

SWTOR is an MMO set 3600 years before the Skywalkers crashed through the ceiling tiles of the galaxy, though it's not to say anything was less chaotic back then, just different chaos.

(Pictured: Anakin Skywalker, circa 32 BBY-4 ABY)

In this time, the titular Old Republic is opposed by a Sith Empire, which is precisely as functional as one might expect. After a decades-long conflict that ended with a Sith victory but left both sides exhausted, a state of cold war began. The Jedi, their Grand Temple destroyed, left Republic space to settle on an ancestral world. The Republic, battered and reeling, tried to recover its stride through use of its superior size and resources, and producing a truly unhinged number of superweapons.

The Sith Empire, in some ways, tried to pretend everything was fine for quite a while. They had successfully forced the Republic into a favorable treaty to end the war. They'd gained territory, they had a lot of work to do there.

…But as things started to look more and more like war again, they were left with the uncomfortable realization that they had sorta kinda killed most of the Sith in the last war, and Imperial citizens in good standing weren't producing enough Force-sensitive kids fast enough to rebuild the losses. Might've had something to do with most of them being dead.

The Empire, of course, is an absolute clusterfuck of a society. Slaves toil to maintain its power. Children of a slave and a citizen will be citizens themselves—unless they're "aliens", a category that includes everyone that isn't a human or a Sith pureblood, the original Sith species.

Being a citizen isn't great either: The Force-blind face mandatory conscription into the military, and can never rise to the highest echelons of society. Above them, the Sith act as a semi-hereditary aristocracy of evil space-wizards that serve an immortal, eldritch Emperor, their living god who has also kiiiind of gone AWOL for reasons only a few of them understand. He's torn between doing his job or staring at a living paperweight, and the paperweight has been winning. He also recently got trapped by an evil hole in the ground, it's complicated.

With the Emperor incommunicado, the duties of the state fall to the Dark Council, a ruling body of up to twelve Dark Lords of the Sith. Each have their own sphere of governmental influence, which are, one can only assume, very dark as well.

Presumably, the Dark Council had something to do with the inevitable yet still surprising solution to their space wizard deficit: over a thousand years of laws were suddenly overturned. Slaves, aliens, and prisoners were not only permitted to become Sith, it was now mandatory that they report for induction into training programs if they possessed any hint of Force-sensitivity.

This is how one of the eight protagonists of the MMO gets their start: if you play the Sith Inquisitor plotline, you begin as a former slave who has survived basic training and made it to the Sith Academy, where your teacher dearly wants to kill you. Your first mission: survive school.

I'm sure this is very relatable to quite a lot of you.

Now that I've got my PhD with only a few gray hairs, I'm looking back at this premise and thinking: This would completely upend the social framework of the Empire. You'd have every established Sith Lord in the Empire scrambling to kill these threats to their power, or harness them against their enemies, or both.

This is actually canon, but canon never touches on the broader, systemic implications of what the new Sith would do, and who they were before—Sure, the overseers of the training programs seem to be doing their damnedest to kill and undermine the newbies while maintaining plausible deniability, but enough of them survive to reshape the Empire. We know that. You play as one of them.

How in the fuck did the Dark Council ever manage to get this policy implemented in the first place? Obviously they did somehow, but the specifics are never mentioned.

But the specifics have the possibility to be hilarious.

The Dark Council itself is composed of Sith who either killed their way to the top, or inherited their seat from their Sith master—who they probably murdered. Turnover on most Council seats is incredibly high. The Spheres of Ancient Knowledge, Technology, and Military Offense each have three different Councilors within a single year, for example.

This also means that whoever ends up in charge of a Sphere might be entirely unsuited for it. Who heads up the Sphere of Expansion and Diplomacy? The least diplomatic guy on the Council, naturally. He goes by Darth Ravage, which fits in well enough with the three different Darths whose names mean 'death' (Thanaton, Mortis, and Rictus). The player can even end up as Darth Nox--'Darth Night'. You get the title by killing one of the Darth Deaths.

So, which of these barely-domesticated evil goths probably voted to allow 'inferior' beings to become Sith, overturning a fundamental tenet of imperial sith philosophy? Probably not the guy in charge of Sith Philosophy! We never see him, but he seems to have been a traditionalist. On the other hand, Darth "Murder has no rules" Ravage might not be huge on tradition, so we can mark him down as a "maybe". But he doesn't seem to be an instigator for something like this.

But on the subject of instigators: Darth Jadus.

Darth Jadus is an experience. While many of the other Council members make it quite clear they're angry enough to chew on the furniture, Jadus unnerves all of them by being utterly calm and composed, as long as you don't count how intensely fervent and irrational he sounds when he starts talking about the Dark Side. He's unhinged in a distressingly hinged-seeming way.

Heading up the Sphere of Intelligence, Jadus is a noted iconoclast on the Dark Council, using his authority to open Imperial Intelligence positions to aliens. He chooses slaves and Force-blind citizens to be his advisors and agents, ignoring the traditional power structures of the Sith. He prefers his literal cult following of fanatical adherents instead, who see him as a visionary savior, a terrifying inevitability, or both.

This means he seems to have basically no interest in elevating other Sith. In fact, he hates the way the rest of them run the Empire. Making more of them might potentially be against his interests.

Or at least it would be, if he didn't have some long-running secret plans that he wants to keep the other Dark Council members from catching wind of. Advocating for slaves, aliens and convicts to become Sith would superficially fall in line with his philosophy, and just raising the idea in public could cause such social chaos that his true plans would benefit from it. Jadus is also the most genre-savvy sith in the entire game: he seems to almost be aware at points that he's neither the protagonist nor main antagonist, and thus his evil plans involve not messing with either of them. When he jostles up against the main plot and realizes he has no plausible means to derail it, he responds by leaving the plot entirely.

Given the tactical chaos and uncomfortably fourth wall-touching strategies Jadus makes use of, let's mark him down as a "yes".

But Jadus is an unpopular one on the Council. He's creepy. Sith HATE feeling creeped out. That's supposed to happen to other people, dammit, not them! And with his disinterest in politics and his deep interest in foisting his manifesto on everyone, he's not the most effective Dark Councilor.

He might be able to pull in a few—Darth Decimus, head of Military Strategy, seems to have been quite willing to exploit any advantage he might be able to squeeze out of a situation. Fun side note, his voice actor also played the First Order officer who was just so done with Hux at the beginning of The Last Jedi.

youtube

[Video Description: A compilation of Mark Lewis Jones as Captain Moden Canady from The Last Jedi, with the video quality partially encrunchified by YouTube. This includes all of his shots from the film, from arrival of the Seige Dreadnought Fulminatrix, to the extremely annoyed look he gives the fireball that kills him. Sound supervisor Matt Wood was apparently pretty sure "FIRE ON THE BASE!" was going to be used as an EDM drop, and I can confirm, I've heard it out in the wild.]

Who else have we got rattling around in this Council, who might have extremely ridiculous reasons to vote yes? Well, we have Darth Vengean, head of Military Offense, was all about the Offense. Who needs defense? That nerd Darth Marr? HA! No, Vengean wanted to restart the war with the Republic. More bodies for the war machine would probably be fine with him.

Speaking of that nerd Darth Marr, Darth Marr.

Apparently he designed this armor himself. Solid effort, my man.

Marr is in his sixties by the time the game happens. He's one of the longest-surviving Dark Councilors, and he sounds so tired of his coworkers in every scene he's in. Heading up the Defense of the Empire, Marr also is the de facto leader of the Dark Council, by dint of being the only adult in the room.

Much like Jadus, he distances himself from the backstabbery and rivalries among the Council members. Unlike Jadus, he 100% means it, and has been focused on not making the Empire explode. He eventually ends up as the unofficial leader of the Empire until he gets one-shotted so hard it makes his ghost chill out a bit. He keeps the spikes, though.

So, if there's anyone on the Council who might vote for this on purely practical grounds, and has the power to push others into agreeing with him, because so help him if they don't stop holding duels in the conference room he's going to turn this Empire around—

Nobody listens to him on that, by the way. Both the Sith main plots involve duels in the conference room.

In fact, one of those duels is egged on by our last suspect. Marr might be a contender for longest-running Dark Councilor, but there is another candidate: Darth Vowrawn, who seems to be having a much better time being on the Council than Marr. I suspect the only reason why he doesn't have a bucket of popcorn with him in the Council chambers is because somebody made a rule that he had to stop doing that.

Vowrawn is a surprisingly cheerful old bastard who seems to have turned his hobby into his job. He shows up 'fashionably late' to someone else's attempted coup, after lamenting he can't sell tickets to the clusterfuck that's about to commence. In the expansions to the game, he can outmaneuver and outlive all of the competition and end up becoming the Emperor, at the age of 87.

Vowrawn is also indifferent to against the Empire's policies--he supports the ascension of a Zabrak to the Dark Council, and takes one as an apprentice as well. Beyond that, Vowrawn would have to support this move, because he's instrumental in any large project like this, both politically and practically. While the others I've mentioned all have roles explicitly to do with the aggressive expansion or protection of the Empire, Vowrawn heads the Sphere of Production and Logistics. In essence, he's the one who can decide whether all these other bozos get to eat or not.

If Vowrawn didn't accept this change, then it would have failed. So, he's a definite "yes" by default.

Speaking of bastards who are still active well into their eighties, we have one last major figure who isn't on the Council that likely advocated for this: Darth Malgus.

youtube

[Video Description: The "Deceived" trailer, set ten years before the game. God, I love this thing. This was the first trailer I saw for the game, and it got me, it really did. The Sith are just as ridiculous as they should be, combined with choreography that feels a lot more crunchy than lightsaber combat had been before, with distinct combat styles for the two main fighters. It's quick, it's impactful, and it's got a memorable conclusion. Love it.]

Malgus is as anti-racist and anti-classist as Jadus is, but without the insane transcendental Dark Side philosophy. Instead, he has an insane philosophy of bettering the Empire through eternal war, which he believes everyone should have an equal ability to participate in. He is what would happen if a Warhammer 40k character had an inside voice.

youtube

[Video Description: The "Disorder" cinematic trailer, set before the Legacy of the Sith expansion. Malgus is 75 here. Man's held together by spite and screws and whatever nutrients you can absorb by being thrown through walls. He's fully given up on the Sith Order at this point and is trying to do his own thing, and he makes it look rad. The choreography has only gotten better, goddamn. Why did it take me three goddamn years to watch this. IT'S REALLY GOOD.]

Malgus is a big deal in the military, with a lot of support from both the Force-blind soldiers and earning the loyalty of a surprising cross-section of Sith. We know this, because he nearly hijacks the Empire at one point in the early expansions. He'd be into this idea, and he probably advocated for it. While he'd have the most direct interaction with the military-related Councilors we already have in the "yes" column, he also has a history of annoying the bejeezus out of other Sith on "his" turf, so who knows! He may have been more persuasive to the others we haven't dug into.

And we can't really dig into all of them at the depth we have with some. Despite how bogglingly huge SWTOR is and the two thousand four hundred and ninety-five named characters and "Additional Voices" credits in IMDb, we never meet some of the Dark Councilors. If you don't play all the eight main storylines, you won't see all of them in the game. I'll admit, I've never seen Darth Hadra, because I've never gotten that far in a Republic-aligned storyline! The Sith you encounter in their stories can often be more one-note, because they're purely there as antagonists rather than people you are legally required to hang out with, and thus have more opportunity to pester mercilessly.

[Video Description: A clip from my own Warrior run-through, featuring my big lad Rejalgar, his coolest friend Vette, and his boss, Darth Baras, who is presently having a screaming tantrum, which Rejalgar makes worse with the most delightfully straight-faced "Is there a problem here?". The Warrior plotline lets you play things sincerely evil, sincerely noble, or sincerely hilarious. Do you want to see Jedi bluescreen when a Sith just straight-up refuses to be violent? Do you want to sidestep a boss fight by offering a family a government pension, something your boss commends as being very devious and evil? Do you want to break up a fight between gangs by threatening to eat them? Come play the Sith Warrior storyline, and be the chaos you want to see in the galaxy!]

youtube

[Video Description, from a clip I uploaded to YT specifically for this post after I found out you can only upload one video per tumblr post wtf: A clip from my Inquisitor run-through, featuring my extremely shirtless lad, Sericus, playing coy and a little airheaded when called up by his Sith master, Darth Zash. Back in the day, Purebloods weren't supposed to be played as canon for this storyline, but there were tweaks later made to dialog that provided a canon explanation for how someone with visible Sith ancestry could end up in this situation. The storyline, however, unfortunately does not fully account for a character whose ideal job description is 'villain's beautiful and deceptively intelligent consort, the true power behind the throne'. It assumes you're playing a character who wants to go conquer and/or do mad wizard-science. Bonus points for eventually letting you marry your eight foot tall razor-faced cannibal thrall though, that's very fun.]

Why don't we see all of the Dark Council? Well, because they're ultimately not important to the story as a group. Events keep you locked tightly under the purview of just one or two of them on the Sith side of things, before the post-game and expansion plots launch you into the experience of being a major player in Imperial affairs, and Imperial affairs launch themselves at you in return.

Everyone realizes the Emperor wants to eat them. Then he dies, except he doesn't. Malgus takes over the Empire for a few weeks. Marr takes over, but half the Council is dead and the rest are still in orientation and are probably also dead, because their would-be successors assassinated them. The Emperor, only mildly inconvenienced by also being dead, eats a planet. Then things go completely off the deep end, and the Dark Council is no longer your concern at all.

It's economical storytelling to not belabor the rest of the Councilors, and playing through as an ex-slave Inquisitor, you continue to face enough challenges directly linked to your background that the resistance feels systemic, even if you don't actually see all that many others who are facing the same issues.

But I think there's a lot of potential for some really wild storytelling in there. Your character receives some level of basic training before they reach the Sith Academy, along with a whole batch of ex-slaves. What did that entail? How was it organized? What happens when folks from abolitionist movements start being trained as sith, gaining all the attendant legal authority over the life and death of others?

And what about the prisoners who were released for training? While one canon option is to play a character who was facing immediate execution for participation in violent anti-Imperial resistance, at least a fair chunk of Force-sensitive prisoners were probably serving longer sentences. What happens when prison gangs start gaining a foothold in the Sith Academy, where they're too dysfunctional to even form Mean Girl cliques? What happens when some of their members become full Sith? How many of them might have Hutt backing, or even funding from the Republic Secret Intelligence Service?

These are the sorts of things the Sith themselves are terrified of. This earns a very sarcastic thoughts and prayers to them, of course. Yet it truly is wild to think about the decision-making process that went into this massive societal shift that the game treats as simply a piece of inciting incident for two plotlines out of eight: Twelve unhinged people sat down in some extremely high-backed chairs one day and voted to give everyone equal access to lightning.

I love Star Wars, it's just the funniest shit imaginable sometimes.

#star wars #star wars: the old republic #swtor #swtor meta #darth jadus #darth marr #darth vowrawn #the sith empire is held together with only chewing gum and bad vibes #and it's hilarious #love these terrible idiots

347 notes · View notes

pastafossa · 4 months ago

Text

Thoughts on Matt's 'This all feels fake' line from the last DDBA episode and why it was a genius move

I've had a night to think and process the episode last night, and the more I think about it, the more I think that line was the absolute best way to go.

Obviously, spoilers ahead.

Let's set aside 'is the show good or bad' for a moment since everyone's vibing with it differently (we know where I stand, I'm happy and having a grand old time, but that's not important). Let's instead think about where Scardapane and the new writers found themselves when they were hired on to do the rewrites and reshooting.

Imagine being a cook. A good one. And someone comes to you, with an absolute dumpster fire of a cake. 'Hey man, we got the potluck in a few hours. It's really important there's a cake since it's someone's birthday. If you fix this, I'll let you bake the next one.'

Except the cake is a mess. Parts of it are burned, the flavor's all wrong, it's unfinished, and you have no idea why it's shaped the way it is.

You don't have the time or all the ingredients needed to entirely make a new cake. Your only option is to save what you can and cut off what you can't, and then build from there.

But how do you do that?

That's essentially where they were, writing-wise. The OG writers had created an absolute mess, something that didn't feel like Matt at all, something that had no respect for all of the lore and character building that came before. And it's definitely not the Netflix vibe show that Feige had asked for (which was why that team was fired, shocker). But reshooting the entire season would have thrown off the larger schedule, it would have required contract changes, and it'd be expensive as hell. That meant they had to use at least some of the footage that had already been shot, and build onto it rather than sweeping it away. But what do you do when the new footage you want to shoot has a very different vibe than the old footage? Especially when those two energies are very, very different?

Answer: you acknowledge it.

There's a technique in writing known as lampshade hanging, when instead of ignoring something that's implausible or weird, you point it out instead and move on, while also sometimes using it to advance the narrative. It's one of my favorite tropes! I love to use it, and I love to see it used.

Even better? They made it feel weird, which is something multiple people have brought up as a theory, this idea that it's intentional, and I agree with them. Even some of the teaser trailers before DDBA came out even played off of that feeling, Matt's voice hoarse and dark as a monologue while beneath his voice you get an eerily soundtracked montage of him going through his new 'normal' life day after day after day in a way that makes it clear this new life doesn't fit, and it never will.

I've been fascinated by how they've played it over this first season, both the writers and Charlie himself, using these jarring tonal differences to leave you intentionally unsettled. Sometimes it's done with music, like that early scene where Matt's getting ready for his day, clearly repressing and disassociating his way through life, all while more upbeat music is playing, or the slight alteration to our OG Daredevil theme. Sometimes it's a subtle pattern, these little ticks and tells from Charlie's portrayal - Matt always wearing his glasses even in softer scenes because he doesn't feel safe with these new people around him that are supposedly his friends, hell, even in his own apartment when he's entirely alone because it's not a home like his last place was.

And then there are moments like last night, when Matt literally came out and said it: this all feels fake sometimes. It's not my home. This isn't my life.

We know he doesn't belong there. And they managed to change the original story so that Matt? Matt knows that, too. He's known the entire time.

It weaves a thread through all the original footage, the tonal differences, and Matt's behavior. It's a thread that not only amounts to the new writers saying to us, the audience, 'trust us, we know,' but it's also one that reinforces this idea that Matt is literally just fucking faking it in the hopes that it will keep him away from Daredevil, in the hopes that he can be the man he thinks Foggy would have wanted. He's trying so hard to live that perfect, happy, wonderful life while repressing all of his trauma and depression and it's left him in this bizarre otherworld that he doesn't recognize. He's not himself. It grates on him every day.

And it makes that creeping darkness, that gritty reality, that dirt on his hands and the blood on his lips and his visceral screams all the more thrilling when it edges in, because that? That is the real Matt, his true self, the Devil tearing its way out of the prison he's trapped it in just long enough to bare its teeth and snap and bite before he forces it back into its cell.

And god does it feel real compared to the moments where Matt is just pretending this is all fine, all bright, all good.

I fucking love that they went in that direction. It's the best thing they could have done when locked into reusing the old footage which was different in tone than the Netflix vibe they want to bring back. It was always going to be jarring mashing both of them together. So they ran with it.

Like I said, I'm already really happy with DDBA. Some eps nailed it for me better than others (Ep 6 is just an absolute blast), but even when it gets a little rough, there's this sense of Scardapane and the new writers giving us a wink going, 'yup, we know. Just hang in there until we're not bound by old footage and we can take you on a fucking ride.'

They want what we want. And they're going to take us there. That line solidified it for me. I'm so fucking pumped for Season 2 when the chains are off and they're free to come out swinging.

Anyway thanks for coming to my rambling ted talk.

#ddba spoilers #ddba #daredevil: born again #matt murdock #charlie cox #honestly this line has been circling my head since the other night #they were already making it pretty clear Matt's just pretending to be fine (and failing) but this was such a lovely like #little lampshade knock on the fourth wall moment

279 notes · View notes

redd-blushing-roses · 1 month ago

Text

An Afternoon With Alpine

word count: 1.0k

pairing: (FarmhouseAU)Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: a soft afternoon with Bucky and Alpine.

notes: just a little something I had saved for my farmhouse au. I love the idea of soft quiet moments, days where nothing really happens. it's set a couple years before my previous farmhouse fic (which you can find here!) this one is just a fluffy oneshot.

(oohh and fun fact for you, I find it fascinating how cats become super attentive and attatched to women during pregnancy- which isn't explicitly stated for this fic, but you could read it as a sign if you'd like- it's so fascinating to read on!)

enjoy reading :)

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

Bucky is quiet in the garage, sweat dripping down his brow as he moves about, tools gripped in his hand. He’d been working on his bike for the better part of the morning, trying to repair it after totalling it in a mission with Sam.

You’d woken up to Bucky kissing your cheek, whispering he’d be outside if you needed him. It had been a peaceful morning, making yourself coffee (and bringing him a cup of course), tending to the chickens and the cow, hanging laundry to dry, pulling weeds and repotting plants, washing and cutting fruit Bucky had bought at the Farmer’s market yesterday.

It was all routine, but now you were missing him. You pull on your mud boots and grab the large wicker laundry basket, walking out the backdoor, Alpine in tow. She’d taken to trailing you everywhere lately.

You pull down the clothes which had finished drying as the afternoon sun had begun to shine, glancing at the garage where you could see Bucky bent over his bike, cranking his arm up and down as he tried to fix a gear. With all the clothes in the basket, you make your way across the yard to him, past the chicken coop and cow pen, the peach trees swaying in the soft breeze.

Bucky doesn’t notice you at first. He’s mumbling about something wrong with the bike, scratching the back of his neck with his dirt stained hand.

He feels Alpine nuzzling against his jeans first, her body pressed against his calf. Bucky smiles down at her, crouching and gently scratching her ears. If Alpine was here, you couldn’t be far behind.

Bucky turns and finally sees you in the garage’s doorway, laundry basket at your hip. You’re smiling, as if you’d stumbled upon something secret, precious. You speak first.

“Hi stranger.”

“Hi yourself.” Bucky stands, leaving Alpine to pad around his bike. He comes over to you and accepts the kiss you gently give him, lips soft against his.

Bucky stands beside you and the two of you stare at the bike. He sighs.

“Is it giving you a tough time?” He shrugs.

“A little. Sam dinged it up real good this time.” You raise your eyebrow.

“Sam?” Bucky glares at you playfully.

“He’s the one that barreled into me with his fancy wings.”

“Didn’t you give him those wings?”

Bucky pinches your side and you yelp, pushing him away playfully.

“What, are you trying to rile me up?”

“No,” you laugh as his arms come around you, removing the basket from your arms so he can fully envelop you. Bucky holds you close and you lean into him, your head coming to rest on his chest. “No, I just missed you.”

He sways you a little, gaze thoughtful as he rests his chin on the top of your hair. It smells good. Fresh. He probably smells like sweat and grease, and the metallic scent which always seemed to permeate his skin because of his arm.

Alpine is in between your legs again, and you look down, the feline purring against you.

Bucky chuckles, picking up the white ball of fur.

“What has gotten into you, Pinenut? You’ve got more attachment issues than me recently.” You scratch Alpine’s fluffy head, her eyes closing with pleasure. She jumps from Bucky’s arms into yours and you gladly cradle her as she snuggles close, rocking her gently, as if she were a baby.

Bucky smiles at the sight, his heart tugging as a thought flitters into his head.

He pictures you standing there rocking a small baby instead, a miniature mix of the two of you, but the thought disappears before it fully forms as Alpine jumps out of your arms, moving to chase a bug across the yard.

You sigh, hands coming to your hips.

“Do you want some lunch?” You ask.

Bucky nods, putting his tools back onto the large red chest by the wall and rinsing off his hands in the sink.

“Sure. What are you making?” You give him a playfully thoughtful look, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“I was thinking burgers? From the diner actually.” You give him a sweet and pleading smile, when he cocks his head. “Just this once. I promise I’ll still make dessert tonight.” He rolls his eyes playfully, pretending to think.

“What kind of dessert?”

“Whatever you’d like handsome.” You move closer, fingers trailing up his metal arm, coming to rest playfully on his shoulder.

You’re practically glowing in this afternoon light, the blush across your cheeks pink, your hair gently moving with the breeze.

“Alright,” he finally concedes, drying off his hands and picking up your laundry basket. “Burgers for the pretty lady.”

You grin and kiss his cheek, walking with him up the path to the farmhouse, Alpine leaving the bug to trail behind you again.

“And I’d like pie. Cherry, please.”

"I’ll get right on it, Sargent.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #marvel #bucky x reader #alpine #farmhouse bucky au #bucky barnes fluff

131 notes · View notes

stellaspectral · 4 months ago

Note

Can you do a Bayverse Raph x Childhood best friend reader who's kind of a girly girl (loves pink, knows a lot about makeup and fashion, likes dressing up in pretty and cute outfits, and is an absolute sweetheart).

During when the tower is falling (reader isn't here for this) and Raph is cofessing, is where he spills that he's loved the reader for years but never said anything because he felt like he wouldn't be good enough for her and that she deserves better is also around the time they just landed on the ground and his brothers as well as April know the truth about Raph's feelings for her, and reader feels the same but also didn't say anything because she was worried it would affect their friendship in a negative way.

The way they confess to each other could be very similar to Lumity, where his brothers set them up on a 'mission' together. Which is actually a set-up date that Raph destroys out of embarrassment and fear of getting rejected, which makes the reader sad because she thinks he doesn't like her. But after something goes wrong and protects the reader from it is when they finally tell each other

A/N: Hello, anon! I haven’t watched The Owl House in a hot minute, but I tried my best to capture the vibe of *that* episode in a TMNT context. Thank you so much for the request; it was fun to finally write some Bayverse turts!

Rooftop Confession (angst/fluff)

❤️ Bayverse Raphael/Female Reader ❤️

CWs: Near-death situations (past & present), angst/insecurity, mutual pining, first kiss, happy ending. Takes place between the first movie and Out of the Shadows. All characters are aged-up.

The memory still hits Raph sometimes, sharp and sudden. Hanging onto that crumbling tower, the world tilting beneath him, the certainty of oblivion pressing in. He remembers that moment when, with everything stripped away, the raw truth clawed its way out.

“I … I shoulda told her,” he remembers choking out, the words torn from him by fear and regret, barely audible over the roar of destruction.

Leo, Donnie, and Mikey—they heard it. April, clinging nearby, heard it too.

“I always loved her. Since we were kids. But she deserves better. Someone … normal. Not a freak like me.”

They survived, somehow. Landed hard, bruised and battered, but alive. The confession hangs in the air between him and his brothers, an unspoken acknowledgment. They know. April knows. The only one who doesn’t know the depth of his feelings for you is … you.

❤️ Some Months Later ❤️

You adjust the bow on your pastel pink crossbody bag, humming softly as you follow Leo through the lair’s entrance tunnel.

Tonight’s outfit is one of your favorites: a soft, lavender A-line dress with little white flowers embroidered on the hem, paired with cute white sneakers that have delicate ribbon laces. You’ve also done your makeup—a shimmery pink eyeshadow, a touch of blush, and your signature strawberry-scented lip gloss.

Dressing up always makes you feel happy, even if you’re just hanging out in a sewer lair with your giant turtle friends.

Especially one giant turtle best friend specifically.

Your heart does its usual little flutter-kick when you see Raph leaning against a wall, arms crossed, looking characteristically grumpy. But you know him, know the slight softening around his eyes when he sees you, even if he tries to hide it. You’ve been friends since you were both kids—you, the bright-eyed human girl fascinated by the shadows. And him, the equally fascinated mutant turtle hiding within them.

You share secrets, scraped knees, and watch terrible late-night movies together. And somewhere along the way, your childhood affection has blossomed into something deeper. Something you are terrified to name for fear of shattering the precious bond you already have.

“Alright, team,” Leo says, clapping his hands together. “Quick recon mission tonight. Donnie picked up some unusual activity near the old waterfront warehouse district. Could be the Foot stirring things up, so we need a quiet approach.” He looks pointedly between you and Raph. “Raph, your strength might be needed if things get heavy. And you—your observational skills are top-notch. And frankly, you blend in better than the rest of us. But make sure to keep comms open and report back.”

You try to ignore the way your stomach flips at the idea of working closely with Raph tonight. “Just us? Are you sure, Leo?” you ask, tilting your head.

Mikey practically vibrates with suppressed energy behind Leo, giving you an overly enthusiastic thumbs-up. Donnie adjusts his glasses, looking suspiciously focused on a scanner that isn’t turned on. April, leaning against Donnie’s desk, offers you a small, encouraging smile.

Something feels … orchestrated.

“Positive,” Leo answers firmly. “Now gear up, you two.”

Raph grunts, pushing off the wall. He doesn’t meet your eyes directly, which is odd. Usually, he’d at least give you a nod or a gruff, ‘hey.’

You grab Donnie’s enhanced binoculars and a pair of comms devices from his desk, attaching one to your dress. You hold the other out for Raph, who takes it without a word. His thick fingers brush yours for the briefest second, and a pleasant jolt zings up your arm. He recoils as if burned, shoving the device into a belt pouch before storming towards the exit and muttering under his breath.

You follow him out, casting a quick, slightly bewildered glance back at the others. Mikey is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, Donnie is suddenly very interested in polishing his glasses, Leo gives a sharp nod that feels more like a dismissal, and April just winks.

Okay, definitely orchestrated.

You hurry after Raph, your sneakers quiet on the concrete floor. “Raph? Everything okay?” you ask softly as you catch up in the tunnel leading out.

“Peachy,” he grunts, his voice tight. He won’t look at you.

The silence stretches between you as you walk. Usually, these tunnels echo with your shared laughter or Raph’s rumbling complaints about Mikey’s latest prank. His shoulders are rigid, his sais held tight at his sides, radiating a tension that has nothing to do with the upcoming mission. It prickles against your skin, making your own nerves fray.

You risk a sideways glance at him. His jaw is tight, his gaze fixed firmly ahead. The usual grumpy facade is there, but underneath it simmers something else—something agitated and uncomfortable. It hurts, just a little, this sudden wall between you. He’s never been this closed off before.

“So,” you try again, keeping your voice casual. “Waterfront warehouses. Creepy. Think we’ll see any ghost pirates?” You’re referencing an old inside joke, a ridiculous B-movie you watched together years ago. Normally, it would earn you at least a scoff, maybe even the faintest hint of a smile.

He doesn’t break stride. “Focus,” he grunts, the word clipped.

You bite your lip, feeling a flush creep up your neck. Fine. If he wants to be all business, then so can you. “Right.”

You adjust your bag again, suddenly self-conscious about your dress and sneakers. Maybe dressing up wasn’t the best idea for potential Foot Clan trouble. But Leo knew what you were wearing …

You pull your own focus inward, scanning the tunnel ahead, trying to push down the disappointment churning in your stomach. Why is he acting like this? Did you do something wrong?

You emerge from the sewers near the waterfront. The air here is cool, carrying the distant sounds of the city—a lone siren, the rumble of traffic on a far-off bridge. Ahead, the hulking shapes of the warehouses loom against the night sky, their windows dark.

“Okay, Leo said quiet approach,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Raph, pulling out the binoculars. You scan the nearest rooftop, looking for movement or any sign of Foot activity.

Raph moves ahead, his enormous frame surprisingly silent as he hugs the shadows along the alley wall ahead. He pauses at the corner, peering around it cautiously before gesturing for you to follow. As you move to join him, your sneaker catches on uneven pavement. You stumble, letting out a tiny gasp.

Instantly, a large, three-fingered hand shoots out, steadying your arm. The touch is firm, grounding, and sends another jolt through you. You look up, surprised, straight into Raph’s eyes. And for a fraction of a second, the wall is down.

You see the worry in his gaze, the familiar protective instinct overriding whatever else is bothering him. His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a reflex honed over years of watching out for you. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

He snatches his hand back, turning away sharply. His shoulders tense up again, maybe even more than before. “Watch your step,” he mutters, his voice rougher than usual. He doesn’t wait for a reply, just melts back into the shadows at the corner, resuming his watch.

Your heart skips a beat, though it’s tangled with confusion. That brief moment—that flicker of the Raph you know—only makes his current behavior more baffling. He’s here, right beside you, but he feels miles away. And whatever this mission is, you have a growing suspicion that the real challenge tonight won’t be finding the Foot.

It’ll be navigating the strange, sudden distance between you and your best friend.

You activate your comm. “Okay, Leo, we’re topside at the waterfront. Area looks clear for now. Anything else we should be looking out for?”

There’s a crackle, then comes Leo’s voice. “Negative, just keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. How’s … uh … how’s the teamwork going?”

You glance at Raph’s stiff back. “It’s … quiet,” you say carefully.

“Good! Good! Quiet is good for recon!” Leo replies quickly. Then you hear a muffled shuffling sound and what might be Mikey whispering, “Ask them if they’re holding hands yet!” followed by a sharp “Mikey!” presumably from Leo or Donnie, and then static.

Your cheeks flush. Okay, now you know for sure. This isn’t a mission. This is a set-up. Raph’s brothers—they’ve thrown you two together out here. But why? And why is Raph acting like he’d rather wrestle Shredder blindfolded and unarmed than be alone with you?

“So,” you say, deciding to push forward with the charade, mostly because you don’t know what else to do. “Rooftop access?”

Raph grunts and points at a rusty fire escape ladder on the side of the nearest warehouse. “There,” he says, moving towards it.

He tests the lowest rung, satisfied when it holds his weight, and begins to climb without a word. You follow, hoisting yourself onto the first rung. You focus on the climb, placing your feet carefully, acutely aware of his broad back moving steadily above you.

Normally, Raph would check back, offering a hand even though he knows you’re capable, grumbling about making sure you don’t fall. Tonight, he just climbs, putting distance between you—and the hurt twists a little deeper in your chest.

You reach the flat, gravel-strewn roof, panting slightly. Raph is already crouched near the edge, his silhouette stark against the faint glow of the city lights reflecting off the low clouds as he scans the cluster of warehouses. You join him near the edge, keeping a respectful distance, the silence stretching taut between you.

The rooftop overlooking the warehouse district is surprisingly nice, in a way. The city lights glitter in the distance, reflecting off the dark water. There is even a small, neglected rooftop garden across the street with overgrown planters. It feels almost … romantic.

You take a deep breath of the crisp night air. “It’s actually kind of pretty up here, isn’t it?” you offer, trying to break the tense silence.

Raph swats away a loose piece of gravel. “It’s a rooftop. Concrete and pigeon crap.”

You wince slightly at his tone. “Right. So, uh … any signs of Foot activity?” you finish lamely, pulling the binoculars back up to your eyes, though you’re not really looking at anything.

He shifts beside you, sweeping away another stone, sending it skittering across the rooftop. “Nope,” he grunts. “Place is dead quiet. Just like Leo probably knew it would be.” There’s an edge to his voice, a raw frustration that goes beyond simple grumpiness.

Lowering the binoculars slowly, you turn to face him more directly. You can feel the thump of your own heart against your ribs. “Raphael,” you begin, your voice softer than you intended. He flinches, just slightly, like the sound of his full name startled him. He finally glances towards you, though his gaze lands somewhere near your shoulder, not quite meeting your eyes. “What’s wrong?”

He stiffens immediately, crossing his thick arms over his plastron. “Nothin’s wrong. Told ya. Just doin’ the mission.”

“No,” you persist, finding a little more firmness. You know him too well to buy that. “Something is wrong. You’re barely speaking to me. And you’ve been acting weird ever since we left the lair. Did I … do something?” Your voice trembles slightly on the last question.

His head snaps up slightly at the tremor in your voice, a flicker of alarm crossing his features before he clamps down on it. “No!” he says, the word sharp, almost explosive. Then, quieter, more strained, “You didn’t do nothin’. It’s just … this whole thing is stupid.”

“Stupid? The mission?” you ask, latching onto the excuse, even though your gut tells you it’s not the entire story.

“Yeah! The ‘mission’!” He practically spits the word out, gesturing vaguely at the empty warehouses spread out below. “Leo sends us out here for nothin’. Just … gawkin’ at empty buildings in the dark.” His frustration is palpable, rolling off him in waves. He still won’t quite look at you.

“So you’re mad at Leo?” you probe gently, sensing you’re circling the actual issue.

He scrubs a hand over his face, his expression a turbulent mix of anger and something else. Embarrassment? Conflict? “Yeah. Mad at Leo.” He pauses, then mutters under his breath, almost inaudibly, “and Donnie. And Mikey.”

“Why?” The question hangs in the air, though the orchestrated nature of the evening has become blindingly clear. “Because they sent us out alone?”

Raph finally looks at you.

The raw emotion swirling in his eyes makes your breath catch. It’s frustration, yes, but tangled with a vulnerability that mirrors the look you saw when he caught you stumbling in the alley. He is watching you, a strange mix of frustration and something softer flickering in his eyes before he quickly looks away, scowling harder.

“This is dumb,” he growls, suddenly rising, pacing back and forth. “Just standin’ around. We should be doing somethin’.”

Your usually bright demeanor dims again, and a knot of disappointment forms in your stomach. Usually, even when Raph is moody, he isn’t this dismissive towards you.

You hug your arms around yourself, the pretty dress suddenly feeling even sillier. “If you don’t want to be here with me, you can just say so. Leo can send Donnie or Mikey.”

Raph stops pacing, looking genuinely taken aback for a second. “What? No, it’s not … It’s not you. It’s this whole … mission.” He gestures vaguely again, looking flustered. “It’s pointless.”

His words, meant perhaps to reassure, land wrong. This—being here with you—feels pointless to him?

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and you quickly blink them back, turning away to stare fixedly at the skyline. “Oh. Okay.” Your voice is small.

Raph opens his mouth, then closes it, running a hand over his head in frustration. He looks utterly miserable, caught between his fierce feelings and his equally fierce fear. He hates seeing you sad, especially when he knows he is the cause. But the thought of confessing—of seeing potential pity or rejection in your eyes—it paralyzes him.

This whole set-up by his brothers is backfiring spectacularly.

Suddenly, a low groan echoes from the structure beneath your feet. Not metal stress. But something heavier, older. Concrete shifts.

“What is that?” you ask, glancing down nervously.

Before Raph can answer, a loud CRACK splits the air. The section of rooftop near the edge, right where you are, buckles violently. A chunk of concrete the size of a small car breaks loose, plummeting towards the alley below, and taking the patch of roof you are on with it.

You cry out, stumbling backwards as the ground disappears beneath you while Raph roars your name.

In a fraction of a second, all his awkwardness, fear, and frustration vanish, replaced by instinct. He launches himself forward, his massive green hand clamping around your wrist like a vise just as your feet leave the stable part of the roof. He hauls you back, stumbling himself but managing to pull you against his plastron, shielding your body with his own.

You land hard against his chest, the air knocked out of you, heart pounding against his like a drum. His arms are iron bands around you, holding you so tight you can barely breathe. Dust fills the air. Below, the chunk of concrete smashes into the alley with a deafening crash.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You are trembling, clinging to the rough texture of his skin, the solid reality of him beneath your hands. He is holding you as if his life depends on it, his breathing ragged.

Finally, he loosens his grip slightly, tilting your chin up with one finger, his eyes scanning you frantically. “You okay? You hurt?” His voice is raw, thick with adrenaline and fear.

“I-I’m okay,” you stammer, tears finally spilling over, born of shock and relief. “You … you saved me, Raph.”

Seeing your tears, his expression crumples. “Aw, hell, I …” He trails off, looking down at you cradled in his arms, so small and fragile compared to him. The nearness, the lingering danger, almost losing you—it breaks down the last of his carefully constructed walls. “I’m sorry. For before. For bein’ a jerk.”

You shake your head, still trying to catch your breath. “It’s okay.”

“No,” he insists, his gaze intense, locking with yours. “It’s not okay. I ruined it. This … this whole thing.” He takes a shaky breath. “Leo an’ the guys—they set this up. This wasn’t just recon. It was supposed ta be … somethin’ else.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Like … a date?

“I panicked,” Raph admits, looking deeply ashamed. “Because … look at ya. You’re amazing. Always have been. So bright, and kind, and perfect.” He gestures at himself. “And I’m just … this. And I freak out, thinkin’ there’s no way someone like you can ever”—he pauses, swallowing hard—“feel the same way about someone like me.”

He finally echoes the words he confessed on that falling tower. “I’ve loved you for years. Since we were kids, watchin’ cartoons. But I was scared. Scared I’m not good enough. Scared I’ll ruin everything. I think you deserve … better.”

Waves of emotion wash over you—shock, understanding, overwhelming relief. The tears flow freely now, but they aren’t sad tears.

You reach up, your hand trembling slightly as you cup his cheek. “Oh, Raphie,” you whisper, using his old childhood nickname. “You idiot.” A watery giggle escapes you. “You big, strong, wonderful idiot.”

Now, he’s the one whose eyes widen in surprise.

“You think I didn’t feel the same?” you continue, your voice gaining strength. “You think I didn’t spend years wondering if you saw me as anything more than just your human friend? I was scared too, Raph. Scared of losing you, losing our friendship if I said anything, if I misread everything. Scared I wasn’t tough enough, or cool enough, for you.”

You press your forehead against him. “You’re not ‘just this.’ You’re brave, and loyal, and you protect the people you care about more fiercely than anyone I know. You have the biggest heart, even if you try to hide it under all that grumpiness. How can I not fall for you?”

He stares at you, his usual scowl completely gone, replaced by stunned vulnerability. “You … you mean that?”

“Every word,” you breathe.

Slowly, tentatively, he leans down. You meet him halfway, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that is hesitant at first, then deepens with all the years of unspoken longing. His hands are infinitely careful as one cups the back of your head, the other resting gently on your waist.

And when you finally pull back, breathless, you are both smiling.

“So,” Raph mumbles, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “This, uh, date kinda sucked hard until the end.”

You laugh. “Yeah, well, the ending was pretty spectacular.” You feel safe and warm nestled against him, the earlier hurt completely forgotten. “Maybe we can try again? Somewhere more structurally sound?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I’d like that,” he says, tightening his arm around you protectively.

Your comm crackles to life. “Uh, guys? Everything okay?” Leo’s voice sounds cautious. “Donnie lost your signal for a minute after that tremor.”

Raph glances down at you, a smirk playing on his lips as he switches on his own comm. “Yeah, Leo. Everything’s fine. More than fine.” He pauses, then adds, unable to resist, “Mission accomplished.”

You giggle, burying your face against his plastron as you hear Mikey whooping victoriously over the comms. The set-up might have gone disastrously wrong, but sometimes, it takes a little chaos to finally knock down the walls and let the truth come tumbling out.

And looking up at Raph’s relieved, smiling face, you know one thing for certain …

This ending was worth the wait.

#my writing #filled requests #tmnt bayverse #tmnt raphael #tmnt raph #tmnt x reader #tmnt bayverse x reader #bayverse raphael #bayverse raph #bayverse raphael x reader #bayverse raph x reader #raphael x reader #raph x reader #tmnt raphael x reader #tmnt raph x reader #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt requests #scheduled post

307 notes · View notes

leyiorr · 1 year ago

Text

heian era satoru is a god among men. gifted with the looks and prowess of the deities - he alone bares the title of 'the strongest'. with the ability to distort and expand space itself, there are few who hold a candle to him, let alone foolish enough to challenge his authority.

he's gorgeous, the kind of beauty that only higher beings possess. every contour of his skin is sculpted to perfection, every line carefully painted, pale skin a testament to the star from which he was born. behind bandages that cover the upper half of his face are the jewels he called eyes. not two like the normal person, but six, proof of his inhumanity. they're an arctic shade of blue - icy and cold.

as a ruler, he is far from merciful. he does things according to his own rulebook, and anyone who steps out of line does not live to tell the tale. corpses are unable to talk, unfortunately.

his personality is of the worst kind; he's cocky, arrogant and self-indulgent. it's especially noticeable when he's in battle. he enjoys the high and thrill of bloodshed, and he encourages his enemies to fight with everything they have. toppling their pride feels better that way.

he has no need for a wife or concubines, no matter how many women throw themselves at his feet or how many are offered up by their parents. his absence at marriage meetings becomes the norm, and the most eligible bachelor quickly becomes unattainable.

he stands alone in all of his glory, pleas for wife and future heir falling on deaf ears. no matter how much the elders try to convince him he is adamant - he will not have either.

that is, until his six eyes catch sight of you.

you - aphrodite's personal creation. from the first look, satoru is hooked.

he makes a weak attempt to swallow - he's oddly parched. he isn't sure what is; be it pure, innocent curiosity or the deeper, more sinister seeds of obsession, he allows his feet to move like moth to flame.

he looks at you like he sees god, like the perpetual ticking of time has come to a halt. like he's in the presence of divinty.

you greet him like everyone else, bowing in respect and calling him by his title. 'your majesty'. it doesn't sound right on your lips, he thinks. so he requests for you to call him by his first name and you do, who are you ro refuse your ruler?

but satoru? satoru, god, satoru forgets to breathe.

he's ready to tear out his beating heart and place it in your hold already. he's sure you'd take good care of it.

the syllables that make up the name 'satoru' have never sounded more beautiful. with a voice honeyed and dipped in sugar, you introduce yourself, and your name ricochets off the bone of his skull before it buries itself in the tissue of his brain known as memory.

he has never lowered himself for anyone but if you asked he'd be on his knees in an instant.

he sets about courting you. you find roses dyed a deep royal blue on your balcony, along with a note from their sender. the finest jewelry find purchase on your dresser - probably from villages he'd massacred - and the newest silks rest against your figure (your favourite garment is eerily similar to a woman's who had badmouthed you in satoru's presence). all from him. you deserve the best, after all.

he takes note of your likes and dislikes, ever fascinated by how expressive you are. he's infatuated, but it doesn't feel half bad. instead it feels like it's what he was made to do. he's convinced that you and him were written in the stars; that the gods themselves would envy him for taking you as his own.

and you? you revel in your newfound power over the most powerful person of your era. you'd asked him once if he'd kill for you and his answer was instant. a simple yes.

perhaps your personality is as twisted as his, but it felt so good.

#ᯓᡣ𐭩 kiyara.#✎ᝰ.#idk what this is #forgive me....#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x you #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo x reader #feral gojo #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader

688 notes · View notes

plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 5 months ago

Text

exhibitionism

part II

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: If someone had told you a few nights ago that you'd be in the penthouse of some fancy high-rise—with a man that looked like salvation and sin had a baby, talking about him paying your rent—you'd have laughed in their face... but here you are. Guess the price of a drink isn't so much after all.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 6,170

A/N: Fr, I disgust and fascinate myself. Sometimes I feel like I should either be sectioned or studied, and there is no in between. I am so excited to get the next few instalments of this out... this one is kinda like, me trying to manifest. Wish I could just get picked up at some bar by a rich, pretty man who fucks like he's gonna kill me—but then I'd have to actually leave my house, so it's a no from me. Sigh. Anyways... the same usual bullshit, please let me know what you thought, I hope you enjoyed, and if you read part one and this one??? Thank you so much from me, my vile brain, my rotten heart, and my unsalvageable soul. <3 This is part two. You know the drill: if the warnings listed above aren't evident yet, they will be. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

You were buzzing.

Coke and whiskey in your bloodstream, Ben in your mouth.

Your dress was bunched high around your waist, tight and crumpled from how fast he’d hauled you into his lap. His shirt was ripped open, top buttons gone, fabric hanging loose against his chest, but he didn’t give a fuck.

Didn’t give a single fuck about anything but the way you moved against him.

Because you were squirming.

His grip on you—firm, commanding, possessive as hell—only made it worse.

One hand tight around your throat, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The other? Knotted into the fabric at the small of your back, using your own dress as a fucking handle, keeping you grinding down onto his lap.

And fuck.

You could feel him.

Hard and heavy beneath you, his dress pants doing nothing to hide it, nothing to stop it from pressing right against your core.

Each pass of your panty-clad cunt over his cock had you panting into his mouth.

And Ben fucking loved it.

"Goddamn, look at you," he rasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to smirk, smug and filthy, licking back into your mouth like he was staking a claim. "Grindin’ on me like you need it."

His grip flexed, a rough squeeze at your waist, shifting you down harder.

"You got a hot little body, sweetheart."

A pause. A smirk. A slow roll of his hips up into you.

"Bet I could throw you over my fuckin’ shoulder."

The words sent a pulse of heat straight through you.

His hands were everywhere, sliding slow over your waist, over your ribs, mapping you out like he was taking his time figuring out where he wanted you most.

Then—low, thoughtful, teasing, like he was talking more to himself than to you—

"Wonder how many places on you I could do a line off."

Your breath hitched.

Ben leaned back slightly, eyes dragging over you, appraising. Then, the tip of his finger—a slow, lazy drag over your collarbone.

"Right here’d be nice."

His grip shifted, moving you higher in his lap, adjusting you like you weighed nothing.

"Bet your ribs would do real fuckin’ nice, too."

Then—rough, slow, hot—his hand slipped beneath your dress, palming your tits, kneading once, twice, fingers curling just enough to make you shudder.

A pause. A smirk. A squeeze.

"Shit. Definitely these."

Your breath left you in a stuttering exhale, body already pliant beneath his hands, already drowning in the high, in him.

And Ben just grinned, because he wasn’t even close to done.

His hands were a map, and you were territory he had every intention of conquering.

A rough palm dragged slow, deliberate, up your ribs, fingers spreading wide over your sides like he could measure you by touch alone. Like he was memorising you. And maybe he was. Maybe he wanted to know every dip, every ridge, every place that made you whimper when he pressed down just right.

And God—he pressed just right.

Calloused fingertips brushed the underside of your breast, teasing, testing, like he was deciding whether he wanted to be soft or cruel. A moment stretched between you, held taut, suspended in the space where anticipation turns to ache.

Then—

A squeeze. Firm. Commanding. No hesitation.

Your breath hitched, body jolting like you’d been shocked, like every nerve ending had just woken up all at once.

Ben grinned.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice low, rough with satisfaction. “Knew you’d be sensitive.”

His thumbs dragged slow circles over your stiffening nipples, teasing them through the fabric, revelling in how your body reacted to him, how easy it was to pull you apart.

“You like that, huh?” He teased, voice thick, edged in amusement, but his hands were anything but playful.

They were greedy.

Sliding beneath the fabric, tugging it down, baring you to the open air. And fuck—the moment your chest was bare, he exhaled sharp through his nose, like the sight alone did something to him, like it got to him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Shit, sweetheart.” A slow, appreciative drag of his thumb over your bare nipple, teasing, testing. “You got perfect tits.”

You shivered beneath him, squirming in his lap, hips dragging over the thick ridge of his cock. His jaw clenched at the friction, breath hissing out through his teeth.

And then—slow, indulgent—

He dipped his head.

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on you, open, wet, tongue dragging hot over your nipple. His teeth followed, a sharp, deliberate graze that sent a lightning bolt straight between your legs.

Your moan broke apart in his hair, fingers tangling in the thick waves, nails digging in like you needed something to hold onto, something to ground you while he devoured you.

And Ben—

Ben fucking loved it.

He groaned low in his throat, biting down just to feel the way you jerked against him. He pulled away with a wet pop, smirking as he sat back to admire his work.

“You should see yourself,” he muttered, gaze heavy-lidded, voice molten. “S’fuckin’ obscene.”

His hands flexed on your waist, like he was grounding himself, like he needed something to keep him tethered to control.

Then, his gaze flicked up, slow and knowing.

“Bet they can see you,” he murmured, voice dipping low, dangerous.

Your stomach clenched.

The windows. The massive, floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ben shifted beneath you, dragging you forward just a little, tilting your body just enough toward the glass.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice thick with amusement. “That’s a fuckin’ view.”

Heat roared up your spine, an electric thrill that burned hot and fast.

“Ben—”

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat. He grinned.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he crooned, voice all whiskey-smoke and sin. “Give ‘em a show.”

Your dress was bunched around your waist now, little more than a crumpled band of fabric cinched tight around your middle, the only thing stopping you from being entirely exposed. Not that it mattered—Ben’s hands were already everywhere, pawing, gripping, rubbing, mapping you out like he owned you.

And fuck—maybe he did.

Because you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but react as he dragged his teeth over the curve of your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you gasp. His hands flexed at your waist, fingers digging into soft flesh like he could mould you into something that fit against him just right.

And then he laughed—low, rough, filthy—the sound rumbling through his chest where it pressed to yours.

“Yeah,” he muttered, lips brushing your skin, voice thick with amusement, thick with certainty. “Yeah, think I am gonna pin you to that fuckin' window.”

Your stomach clenched.

“Think you’ll look real fuckin’ pretty,” he continued, almost to himself, like he was picturing it already. “Facedown, hands pressed to the glass, legs shakin’ while I split you in two.”

A sharp pulse of heat slammed through you, left you breathless, trembling against him.

And then—

A thought.

A horrible, crashing realisation that sent ice cutting through the heat.

You only met this man hours ago.

Hours.

You had told him, told him, that you weren’t the kind of girl to go home with a stranger, to let yourself fall into something like this—

And yet, here you were.

Ben stilled against you.

And then—slow, deliberate, knowing—

His hand came up, fingers curling around your jaw, thumb pressing soft against your cheek. A firm, grounding touch.

His gaze flicked over your face, sharp, assessing, before he smirked.

“You wanna do another bump?” He murmured, voice almost gentle beneath the rasp, like he was offering you an out. “We can just do more blow, sweetheart. Ain’t tryin’ to break your pretty little brain.”

The words knocked something loose inside you, sent a rush of something devastating straight through your ribs.

Because he wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t making this decision for you.

He wanted this. That much was clear. But he was also giving you the choice.

And God—that almost made it worse. Because now? Now, you wanted both.

A whimper slipped past your lips before you could stop it, and Ben grinned. His fingers trailed slow, teasing, over the front of your panties. A featherlight touch, barely there. Not enough.

You jerked against him with a gasp, body betraying you, every muscle locking tight.

Ben chuckled. “Better fuckin’ answer me, though, sweetheart,” he drawled, teasing the fabric again, rubbing just right, just enough to make your thighs twitch. “Or I’m gonna take your silence as an answer.”

Your lips parted, the words stuck somewhere between your brain and your tongue. “It’s just—” You swallowed, voice unsteady. “It’s moving very fast, and I’m a little—”

Ben barked a sharp, amused laugh. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he snorted. “My coke’ll do that to ya.”

And then—before you could say another word—

He bit at your shoulder, dragging his teeth over your skin, pulling a breathless little whimper from your throat before he reached up and tugged the straps of your dress back over your arms.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he muttered, smoothing the fabric into place, voice dipping into something lower, steadier, controlled. “You’re gonna have some more to drink, and if you feel like pickin’ this up later, we will.”

His hands flexed against your hips before slipping away entirely.

“But right now?” His gaze flicked up, locking onto yours, something smug and knowing behind the dark green. “I wanna know why a pretty girl like you is all on her own in New York, hangin’ out with rich little valley-girls who don’t got half the braincells you clearly do.”

A pause. A smirk. A slow lean back against the couch, like he had all the time in the world to sit here and unravel you one conversation at a time.

“So c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, nodding toward the glass. “Drink up. Talk to me.”

Ben didn’t let you move.

He kept you right there, nestled in his lap, dress still bunched around your waist, your bare skin pressed against the warmth of his chest. He was solid beneath you, unshakable, the heat of his body sinking into yours like an anchor, like he wasn’t letting you slip out of his grasp just yet.

Not until he got what he wanted.

With a lazy reach, he snagged your drink off the side table, passing it to you without a word. Then—slow, easy—he leaned forward, fingers brushing the small of your back as he stretched for his own glass on the coffee table. The ice clinked when he lifted it, settling back against the couch with a slow sip, swallowing deep while his eyes stayed locked on you.

Expectant.

Waiting.

You curled your fingers around your glass, rolling it between your palms for a moment before finally exhaling through your nose.

“There’s really not much to tell,” you murmured, lifting the whiskey to your lips, letting the sharp burn settle on your tongue before swallowing. “I wanted to go to college. My parents didn’t want me to.” A small shrug. “They gave me a choice—them, or school.”

Your lips twisted. A humourless little smirk.

“I chose myself.”

Ben hummed, something dark and approving curling beneath the sound, something satisfied.

“Luckily, I had some savings,” you continued, fingers tapping against the glass, eyes flicking somewhere over his shoulder, like you weren’t sure you wanted to see his reaction. “And I got into NYU—lit and language courses. Managed to find a little apartment in the city, scraped by.”

Ben watched you closely, drinking slow, letting you speak at your own pace.

“I met a lot of the girls by accident,” you admitted, a small laugh slipping out. “Only one of them was in lit and language, and she dropped out the second she realised it wasn’t all easy poetry and love sonnets. She struggled with the classics.” A small, wry shake of your head. “Most of them are talking about dropping out, and honestly? I’m surprised they’ve stuck with it this long.”

Ben’s lips twitched like he was amused.

“They obviously don’t actually want to study,” you mused, swirling the whiskey in your glass, watching the amber catch in the dim glow of the penthouse lights. “I love them, don’t get me wrong—they’re good friends. But they don’t have a clue what the real world is like.”

That made Ben laugh.

He squeezed your hip, fingers flexing, kneading you like he was rewarding you for that answer, for that little glimpse into how your mind worked.

“And what do you think the real world is?” He asked, amusement laced beneath the rasp.

You took another slow sip, savouring the burn before meeting his gaze.

“The real world isn’t sweet,” you murmured, voice dipping low, steady. “It’s not easy. It’s not some fucking apple-pie life.” Your nails tapped against the glass, a slow, idle rhythm. “It’s hard work. It’s grit. It’s having the fucking backbone to put yourself ahead of everyone else—even if it means being alone.”

Ben didn’t answer right away.

He just nodded, like he was really listening, like he was taking in every word, turning it over in his mind, rolling it around to see how it fit.

Then, his head tilted slightly, something thoughtful tugging at his brow.

“So you’re cut off from your parents, then?” He asked, voice quieter, weightier. “They ever try to get back in touch?”

A pause. A slow inhale through your nose.

“No,” you admitted simply, setting your drink aside. “I’m on my own because I chose it.” Your lips curled, something bitter, something faintly wry. “And they’re too bitter to accept that.”

Ben studied you for a long moment, his hand smoothing absent circles over your bare thigh.

Then, he nodded once—accepting.

“Good,” he murmured, like the answer satisfied him, like it made sense to him, like he could understand you now.

And then—slow, deliberate—he leaned back, finishing the last of his drink, ice clinking against the sides of the glass as he swallowed deep.

“Y’know,” he mused, smirking now, shifting slightly beneath you, letting you feel the solid weight of him still pressed between your legs. “I was plannin’ on fuckin’ you stupid tonight…”

A slow grin. A squeeze at your hip.

“But I gotta say—this is just as fun.”

Your smile lingered as Ben reached lazily for the table, fingers deft as he pulled his pack of cigarettes free. He tapped one out, then another, pressing the first between your teeth, the second between his own. The silver flick of his lighter cut through the dim light, and he leaned in, lighting yours first, then his, a slow, practiced inhale.

Smoke curled between you, hazy and slow, as his hands drifted back to your bare thighs, rubbing idly, his touch warm, absentminded—like he was meant to be touching you, like it was second nature.

You took a drag, held it, then exhaled as the question formed on your tongue.

“Why’d you pick me up tonight?”

Ben scoffed, a sharp, amused sound, shaking his head like it was a stupid question.

“‘Cause I saw you,” he muttered simply. “And somethin’ in my brain just… went off.”

You arched a brow, waiting, smoking.

He exhaled slow, watching the smoke billow toward the ceiling. “Wasn’t even lookin’ tonight,” he admitted, flicking his ashes into a crystal tray. “But then I saw you, and I knew.”

A pause. A thoughtful shift of his thumb over your inner thigh.

“I been lookin’ for somethin’ for a long time,” he murmured. “Every time I think I found it, turns out I ain’t.”

You watched him through the haze, waiting for him to elaborate.

He did.

“I want a girl with brains,” he said, voice smooth, slow. “But one that needs someone to take care of her.”

Your lips parted slightly, cigarette perched between them as you exhaled.

Ben smirked, watching your reaction as his fingers flexed against your thigh.

“Someone to look after,” he mused. “To pay for. To pamper. To spoil.”

His eyes dragged over the bare skin of your legs and stomach, the bunched-up fabric of your dress still wrapped around your waist, like he was already picturing it. Already imagining it.

“Someone I can take out,” he added, voice dipping lower. “Show off.”

A slow drag of his cigarette, another exhale.

“And the fact that you ain’t got a dad in the picture?” A sharp grin. “Sure as shit makes me think you need that, too.”

Your inhale was too sharp—you choked slightly, the smoke catching in your throat as you stared at him.

“Excuse me?” You coughed, voice incredulous.

Ben just laughed, unbothered, amused.

“I want a cute little trophy,” he said, shrugging, like it wasn’t a hard concept to grasp. “Someone to spoil.”

You squinted at him, suspicious. Accusing. “That sounds too good to be true.”

Ben barked another laugh, shaking his head.

You exhaled smoke through your nose, studying him. “What the hell do you even get out of that?”

His grin turned slow, sharp. Hungry.

“Gets me hot and bothered knowin’ someone relies on me for that shit.” His voice was easy, unashamed, a low hum of ownership beneath the words. “Makes me feel powerful.”

Your brows lifted. “I wouldn’t be comfortable accepting money.”

Ben clicked his tongue, shaking his head, fingers tightening slightly on your thigh.

“You’d be earnin' your fuckin’ money’s worth, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dipping into something darker, something heavier. His fingers traced slow, teasing circles against your bare skin. “I got some pretty specific tastes.”

Your breath hitched.

Ben smirked.

“Figure we should talk logistics,” he murmured, voice all silk and sin, exhaling a slow drag of smoke. “Before you start tellin’ me what you would and wouldn’t be comfortable with.”

You took another slow drag, the cigarette perched between your fingers, the smoke curling soft between you. “So,” you exhaled, tilting your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What exactly are the logistics?”

Ben smirked like he’d been waiting for that question. Like he knew it was coming.

“Considerin’ it, sweetheart?”

You hesitated.

Because—fuck.

You barely had enough for rent this month. You’d been stretching meals, scraping by, barely keeping your head above water.

And this man. This stupidly gorgeous man—was offering you a lifeline.

A beautiful lifeline. A dangerous lifeline. One that looked like it belonged carved into stone, worshipped in some forgotten temple, decadent and divine, but somehow? Somehow, it was being handed directly to you.

You took another drag, exhaled slow, shrugged. “I’m thinking.”

Ben grinned, teeth flashing white in the dim light.

“Good,” he said, fingers flexing on your thighs. “I’ll pay your rent.”

Your stomach dropped. “What—”

“But,” he continued smoothly, like he hadn’t just casually shattered your entire world, “you gotta be here on weekends. Non-negotiable.”

You blinked. Stared. “You’re—serious?”

Ben lifted a brow, clearly amused by your disbelief. “Course I’m fuckin' serious.”

Your mouth opened, closed, opened again. Rent. Paid. Like it was nothing. Like it was spare change.

Ben chuckled at your expression, rubbing slow, warm circles over your inner thighs. “Hell,” he mused. “I can find you somethin’ a little nicer if you want. Maybe somewhere with a little balcony 'stead of a fire escape.”

Your breath hitched.

Because earlier, you’d told him you liked sitting on your fire escape in the rain, reading, listening to the city hum beneath you.

And he’d remembered.

Your fingers tightened around your cigarette. “I—I—” You choked slightly, shaking your head. “I couldn’t possibly accept that.”

Ben waved a hand, unbothered. “I’ll get you whatever clothes, shoes, bags, toys you want.”

Your brain short-circuited at that last word. Ben smirked.

“But,” he continued, “you gotta give me options at the start of the day.” A slow drag of his cigarette, eyes flicking over you, watching the way your breath stuttered. “I’ll be pickin’ what you wear.”

You let out a surprised laugh, shaking your head. “Jesus.”

He grinned, leaning back, satisfied. “You’ll have to come with me to events, too,” he added, like it was nothing. “Gala shit, whatever bullshit of the month I gotta do.” He exhaled smoke through his nose. “And I’ll be pickin’ your dresses, how you’re styled. All of it.”

You narrowed your eyes, squinting accusingly. “So you just want a doll, then?”

Ben grinned. Stubbed his cigarette out. Leaned forward, and nipped at your throat.

You gasped.

His hands were hot, heavy on your waist, fingers flexing like he could feel the way your pulse jumped.

“Exactly,” he murmured against your skin.

A slow lick up your throat.

“A doll to dress however I want.”

A sharp, teasing bite to your jaw.

“A doll to take out on my arm,” he murmured, voice thick with possession, “and make everyone jealous.”

A slow drag of his teeth over the curve of your chin.

“A doll to fuck however I want.”

And then—a harsh, wet suck to your bottom lip.

You twitched against him, hips reacting before your brain could catch up, a sharp little grind forward like your body already knew what it wanted.

Ben felt it. And grinned.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice dropping, hands flexing hard at your hips. “I think this’ll work just fine.”

A whine slipped past your lips, breathless and needy, as Ben sucked slow, wet bruises into the column of your throat, claiming you in real time. His teeth scraped against your pulse point, biting just enough to make your breath hitch, to make your thighs tremble against the heavy spread of his own.

“What’s the catch?” You murmured, laughing softly, your voice breaking slightly as his fingers dug into your thighs, hard enough to bruise, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

Ben chuckled against your skin, teeth flashing before he bit down again—just because he could.

You inhaled sharply, tried to breathe through it, then muttered, “You’re not, like, exclusively into—” A pause, another quick inhale as his lips traced dangerously close to your jaw. “Butt stuff or something, are you?”

Ben’s laugh was a rasp, deep and rough, breaking against your skin as he rutted up into you, slow and deliberate, letting you feel how heavy and hard he still was beneath you.

He pulled back just enough to cock an eyebrow, amusement sharp in his darkened gaze.

“Not exclusively,” he murmured. Then, with a rough, deliberate squeeze to your ass, voice dipping into something filthy—

“But with an ass like yours?” He exhaled sharp through his nose, shaking his head slightly, almost disbelieving. “Jesus, sweetheart. Maybe I could be.”

A breathless laugh spilled from your lips, something light, heady, reckless, as you reached over to stub your cigarette out in the ashtray, right where he had stubbed his before.

Then—

You turned back to him, fingers threading through the thick waves of his hair, tugging him out of your neck just enough to force his gaze to yours.

And then, quiet, serious—

“You’re really serious about this?”

Ben’s gaze flicked down between you, grinned, then ground up into you again—

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

Your lips parted, barely biting back a whimper, heat pooling between your thighs, an electric shiver snapping down your spine.

“That serious enough for you?” He rasped, voice thick with arrogance, with smug possession.

Your breath came shaky, uneven, and he grinned, knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

“But,” he murmured, fingers skimming over your waist, “you gotta take care of me too, sweetheart.”

A pause. A slow drag of his hands up your sides, down your thighs.

“You gotta be here weekends,” he continued, voice easy, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to spell this out for you. “Feed me. Cook for me.” His fingers flexed at your waist, grip tightening slightly. “Clean my clothes. Iron ‘em. Tidy up.”

Your breath stilled, your pulse skittering beneath your skin.

A good little housewife.

Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak—you just leaned in, pressing your mouth to his, soft at first, questioning, testing the weight of what he was offering.

Ben groaned low in his throat, hands tightening, pulling you flush against him. Between heated, messy kisses, he murmured.

“And you gotta be free-use.”

Your eyes widened, body tensing for half a second.

Ben chuckled against your lips, dragging his teeth over your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth.

“I’m gonna be fuckin’ you constantly if you agree to this,” he muttered, voice deep, low, filthy, sending another violent shiver racing down your spine.

A whimper caught in your throat, and you kissed him harder, giving in, sinking deeper into him.

Ben groaned, deep and approving, before his fingers trailed slow, teasing, down. A slow, lazy stroke over the front of your panties.

The second he felt it how soaked they were, sticky, slippery, ruined with your arousal—

A deep, throaty groan ripped from his chest, hips jerking sharply beneath you.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, breath heavy, eyes dark. His fingers pressed in, slow, taunting, like he was savouring it. “You like that idea, huh?”

His grip tightened at your waist, his touch dangerous.

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing yours, smirking. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

Ben’s smirk was dangerous.

“So,” he murmured, voice smooth as smoke, thick as honey, as he dragged his hands slow up your thighs, back to your waist. “You want a little preview?”

Your breath hitched.

A preview. Like you hadn’t already been teetering on the edge for what felt like hours. Like you weren’t already dripping onto his expensive dress pants.

Ben dragged you against his hips again, grinding slow and deep, letting you feel him, feel how thick and aching he was beneath you.

You whimpered, fisted your fingers in his hair, yanking his mouth to yours, desperate, hungry. Ben growled, lips crushing against yours, the sharp scrape of teeth, the hot slide of tongue, a filthy, unrestrained kiss.

He smirked against your lips. “That’s a yes.”

His grip tightened at your waist, and suddenly, you were on your feet, standing between his spread legs while his gaze never left yours. His fingers hooked into the back of your panties, knuckles brushing the curve of your ass as he dragged them down—

Slow. Excruciating.

When they pooled at your ankles, he finally let his eyes drop, taking in the sight of you—bare, soaked, completely exposed.

A deep, rough growl tore from his chest. “Get the fuck back here.”

You obeyed instantly, sinking back onto him, pressing tight against his chest, your breath ragged, your body shaking.

Ben wasted no time—

His mouth was everywhere. Dragging hot, open kisses down your throat, sucking, biting, licking, his tongue lapping at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

And then his hand. A slow slide over your inner thigh, up, up, up. His thumb swiped over your clit at the same time two fingers plunged deep inside you, curling immediately.

Your moan was loud, wrecked, head tipping back instinctively as heat snapped through your core, leaving you breathless.

Ben grinned against your throat, savoured the sound, pressed his teeth into your pulse point just to feel you jerk against him.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart,” he murmured, mocking, smug, dragging his tongue up your neck. “You’re so—shit.”

His fingers worked you open, pressing, coaxing, owning.

“Look at you,” he crooned, filthy, adoring, watching you squirm against him, helpless. “So fuckin’ needy.”

He kissed along your jaw, slow, wet, his free hand gripping tight at your hip, keeping you right there.

“You like that, huh?”

A curl of his fingers. A rough stroke. A slow circle of his thumb over your clit.

You whined, head dropping forward, breath stuttering against his cheek.

Ben groaned low in his throat, voice pure gravel, pure sin. His fingers kept working, his mouth still on you, and you were already so close, stupidly close, fucking ruined in his lap.

You reached shaking hands down his chest, fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate, needing to feel him, needing him inside you.

Ben hissed at the touch.

Then—

“That’s my girl.”

Your hands still fumbled with his belt, fingers desperate, shaking, but Ben was already helping you, one hand lifting his hips, the other working your cunt open, his fingers still deep inside you, still coaxing, still fucking owning you.

The moment you freed him, his cock slapped against his stomach, thick and aching, flushed deep, angry red, already leaking.

You whimpered, breath ragged, and Ben groaned, deep and wrecked, before his free hand snapped up to your throat.

Firm. Not tight. Not choking. Just holding. Keeping you right where he wanted you.

You gasped at the loss of his kiss, at the distance, at the way he held you away from his mouth, away from where you wanted to be. You pouted, lips parted, eyes wide, pleading.

Ben laughed. Right in your face.

“You’re comin' before I fuck you.”

Your stomach dropped. Your thighs twitched.

His fingers squeezed the sides of your throat, not blocking air, just fucking with you, messing with the blood flow, sending heat flooding through your body, rushing straight to your cunt.

His fingers inside you curled—

Again. And again. And again.

Hitting that gummy, wreck-you part inside you with devastating accuracy, with purpose, control, intention.

Your entire body seized, shook, pleasure snapping through you like a live wire, dragging you under, tearing you apart in his lap. Ben groaned, feeling you grip his fingers, feeling your aftershocks tremble through you.

And then—

Before you could even ride it out. Before you could breathe. Before you could beg, he lined up and slammed into you from underneath.

Fucking buried himself in one brutal thrust.

Your gasp broke apart into a choked, wrecked moan, body spasming, still twitching from your orgasm, from the aftershocks, from the fucking stretch of him, from the way he split you open in one sharp stroke.

Ben groaned, deep and filthy, head tipping back against the couch, grip tight at your throat, still holding you away from his mouth, still keeping you where he wanted you.

“That’s a good fuckin' pussy,” he rasped, voice thick, heavy, wrecked.

A flex of his fingers around your neck. A sharp roll of his hips.

“Good girl.”

Your eyes rolled back, mouth open, hiccuping against the force of his thrusts, against the brutal, relentless pace he set beneath you, slamming into you, dragging you down onto him, using his grip on your throat to keep you right there.

Your moans turned into high, breathless whimpers, gasps, little hitched cries, and Ben laughed, low and mean, teeth flashing in the dim light.

“Shit. Look at you,” he rasped, dragging you forward, crushing his mouth against yours, swallowing your whines, your pathetic little noises, smirking against your lips. “Needy. Desperate.”

A sharp thrust, a deep grind, and you shattered, crying into his mouth, body wracked, trembling, the pleasure too much, too thick, too hot.

Ben just grinned, lips brushing yours, taunting.

“You’re gonna say yes.”

His pace didn’t slow. Didn’t falter. His cock dragged against everything, hitting so deep it was ruinous.

“You’re gonna be my little fuckin' doll.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, a blur of pleasure and pain, all-consuming, all-encompassing. You nodded against his mouth, whimpering, mindless, wrecked, owned.

Ben groaned, deep and fucking satisfied, sinking his teeth into your jaw, licking, biting, savouring.

“Yeah,” he muttered your name, voice dark, hoarse, so fucking smug. “That’s what I fuckin' thought.”

Ben didn’t slow. Didn’t let up. Didn’t give you a second to breathe, to think, to process. Just slammed into you, relentless, hips snapping up, driving his cock so deep, so brutal, that every sharp stroke sent another wrecked, hiccuping moan tumbling from your lips.

And he was loving it.

“Jesus fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, his voice pure filth, mean, mocking, laced with something so cruelly affectionate it made your stomach twist. “You’re just fuckin’—takin' it, huh?”

A sharp thrust. A grind. A deep, dragging stroke that had you wailing into his mouth.

Ben laughed, right against your lips, mocking, mean, so fucking smug.

“Shit, maybe you don’t even get to make the decision now,” he muttered, smirking when you whined, when your body jerked, your pussy clamping down around him. “You think I’m lettin’ you go after this?”

Your whimper was loud, desperate, needy, and Ben fucking loved it.

He grinned, teeth flashing, hips still pounding into you, cock dragging over everything, ruining you, wrecking you, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“You like that, huh?” He rasped, dragging his teeth over your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Like the idea of bein’ kept?”

You whined again, thighs trembling, body twitching, so fucking close again.

Ben growled, hands snapping into your hair, fingers fisting at the nape of your neck, yanking your head back so he could look at you.

“Look at me.”

You obeyed immediately, eyes wide, glazed, ruined.

Ben’s grin widened, sharpened, before he patted your cheek—slow, patronising, possessive.

Then—

A smirk. A growl.

“You’re mine.”

Your body spasmed, another broken whimper ripping from your throat.

Ben felt it. And fucked you harder. His free hand slid between your bodies, thumb pressing down hard against your clit, circling, pressing, owning.

“Give me another one,” he demanded, voice low, commanding, dark with possession. "Come on, give me a-fuckin'-nother one, you dumb, little fuck."

Your body jerked, thighs twitching, cunt clenching down around him, and Ben groaned, sharp and wrecked, feeling you start to fall apart again.

“That’s it,” he crooned, mocking, sweet, the contrast so cruel it made tears prick at your eyes. “That’s my good fuckin’ girl, good little holes.”

Your breath stuttered, your mind blank, your body no longer yours.

Ben was ruining you. And ruining you for all other men. Because this was it. You were his. And you didn’t even need to say it. You both knew. He snarled into your neck, slamming into you, pace brutal, mean, relentless, pounding it home like he was forcing his claim into your body.

Your moans had long since melted into wrecked, broken noises, gasping, hiccupping, helpless little sounds, your body no longer your own, just something he was using, something he was taking apart, piece by piece.

And Ben? Ben was so fucking mean about it.

“Christ, listen to you,” he mocked, voice wrecked, gravel-thick, thick with filth, thick with praise disguised as degradation. “You really are just takin' it. Fuckin’ bred to take it.”

Your whimper was pathetic, and Ben grinned, laughing, low and cruel, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back, making sure you had no choice but to look at him, no choice but to see just how wrecked he was, just how much he was enjoying this.

“Not even thinkin’ anymore, huh?” He mocked, tilting his head, grinning when your eyes started to flutter, when your body trembled, when you swayed against him. “Look at you, goin’ all dumb on me, little fuckin' pussy.”

Your vision blurred, black creeping in at the edges, pleasure suffocating, overwhelming, too much, too much, too much—

A sharp slap to your cheek.

Your eyes flew open, a gasp breaking from your lips, and Ben laughed, feral, wild, fucking mean.

“Don’t you fuckin’ pass out on me now,” he growled, grip tightening on your throat, fucking into you harder, punishing, ruining. “You take it.”

You sobbed, body shaking, helpless, but Ben just grinned, groaned, felt you clenching down around him, felt you breaking apart in his lap.

And then—

His thrusts turned shallow, sharp, fast, urgent.

His fingers dug in, grip bruising, owning you, keeping you, claiming you.

A rough groan. A sharp snap of his hips. And Ben buried himself deep, cock pulsing, thick, hot, filling you up, owning you from the inside out.

You whined, legs trembling, and Ben just laughed, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses up your jaw, nipping at your cheek.

Then a pause. A smirk. A quiet, mocking chuckle.

“You on birth control?”

Your head shook against his shoulder, weak, unable to speak.

Ben grinned. Laughed.

“Guess I’ll pay for a Plan B in the mornin',” he murmured, voice thick, taunting, low and dangerous, dragging his teeth over your cheekbone, biting, savouring, possessing. “Not that it really fuckin’ matters.”

Another kiss, another nip, another mocking stroke down your spine.

“You made your choice yet, sweetheart?”

A shuddering breath. A wrecked, ruined nod. Your voice barely there.

“Yes.”

Ben exhaled, deep and satisfied, lifting you effortlessly, keeping you pressed to him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“Good fuckin’ job,” he murmured, voice dark, low, pleased, as he carried you through the penthouse. “‘Cause I wasn’t lettin’ you go either way.”

Ben held you in the shower, arms tight, body steady, keeping you upright while the hot water rushed over you both.

Your limbs were useless, muscles wrecked, body limp against his. Every shift, every movement, had you sliding against his chest, slipping through his hands, too exhausted to even try and support yourself.

Ben just laughed, low and cruel, mocking but fond.

“Useless little thing,” he muttered, amused, one hand braced against your hip, keeping you steady, the other dragging between your legs, spreading you open, fingers grazing where he was still leaking out of you.

Your breath hitched, a pathetic whimper escaping your lips as his thumb pressed in, smearing his cum deep, playing with it, watching it drip, watching you shudder beneath him.

“Poor thing,” he crooned, voice thick with mock sympathy, fingers dragging slow, cruel strokes against your wrecked cunt.

You tried to move away, tried to breathe, but Ben just held you there, trapped, grinning against your cheek as he kept playing with you.

Then a slow, firm press against your clit. A teasing circle. A sharp, mean flick.

Your entire body seized, pleasure crashing into you, so overwhelming, so brutal, that you sobbed against his shoulder, wrecked, shaking, broken apart again.

Ben just hummed, pleased, dragging his fingers away, leaving you twitching, gasping, your entire body trembling.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, shaking his head, mocking, adoring, as he lifted you up, turned the water off, carried you from the shower, still laughing to himself as you hiccupped against his skin.

He dried you off, hands rough, quick, then carried you to his bedroom, laying you both down, pulling you onto him, keeping you pressed against his chest.

His hands were slow now, absentminded, soothing, dragging lazy strokes down your spine, over your hips, fingers tracing over your wrecked, ruined body, feeling the aftermath of what he did to you.

“Takin' you out tomorrow,” he murmured, voice gravel-thick, thick with satisfaction, possession, something darker.

Your eyes fluttered, already halfway to sleep.

“Wanna see the shithole you live in.”

Your lips parted. A weak protest, a pathetic attempt at arguing. But you were too tired, too gone, too fucking wrecked. You just nodded, body soft, pliable, sinking deeper into him.

Ben grinned, fingers flexing against your waist, dragging you tighter against him.

“Good girl,” he muttered, pressing a slow, claiming kiss to your temple. “Get some rest.”

A squeeze at your hip. A slow, mocking drag of his fingers over your spent, oversensitive cunt.

“Givin’ you a rough wake up call in the morning.”

Your breath hitched, body tensing, but before you could even process it, before you could react, sleep took you under.

@mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @itshellfire @nevercameraready @suckitands33 @kayleighwinchester @imtheworst123 <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #the boys #soldier boy au #soldier boy fic #the boys smut #the boys au #the boys fanfiction #the boys fanfic #soldier boy x female reader #the boys x female reader #the boys x reader #the boys x you

256 notes · View notes