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gumii-bearr · 5 months ago

Text

❝ not even a little ❞

summary: megumi fushiguro is your roommate, he's also a scary guy... a scary guy that's weak for you.

featuring... megumi fushiguro

content warning: MDNI (18+), afab!reader, roommate!megumi, college!au, angst, fluff!!, alcohol, vomiting (from being so drunk), mentions of weed, hangovers, reader cries a few times, slow burn ish, these two are pissing me off, smut, dirty talk, cunnilingus, blowjobs, handjobs, fingering, cum eating, virginity loss (?), mentions of a cheating ex (there is Hana slander im sorry), emotionally stunted megumi, swearing, megumi is so bad at feelings oh my god, ozawa x yuji mentions

word count: 13.8k

author's note: MEOW– guys i been working hard on this FUCKER!

chapter two

You’re pretty sure he hates you.

Your new roommate, that is.

“Fushiguro, right?” You led with friendliness, hoping to win him over with your charming personality and half the share of the rent. But he was beyond intimidating, standing at the front door, eyes slanted and harsh with boredom. His hair was messy but it almost seemed intentional with how much it complimented and framed his angular face.

He was gorgeous.

Yuko had neglected to tell you just how attractive your new roommate would be when she sent you the address the day before. Though, it made sense that she wouldn’t notice since she’s dating Itadori, not his old roommate.

He looked you up and down as you stood at his front door, a nervous smile twinging at your lips as an awkward tension consumed you. Though he didn’t seem overly bothered by the awkwardness, simply humming in acknowledgement of his name before standing aside to let you into his apartment.

It was nice; very organised for a guy, you thought. He wordlessly led you to your new room, which was Yuji’s old room, and gave you the rundown of the rent and utilities while you tried to not melt at the deep smoothness of his voice.

What the hell had you gotten yourself into?

“You didn’t tell me he was hot, Ozawa,” you grumble as you tighten the group head into the coffee machine. It’s quiet in the cafe that day, just you and Yuko behind the counter trying to shake off your lack of sleep with iced coffees and fries from the stainless steel bowl sitting at the kitchen window. The line chef doesn’t care that you’re stealing the fries, too busy scrolling on his phone and attempting to blink away his hangover.

Yuko takes a sip of her coffee, her brows knit in confusion, “who?”

“Fushiguro,” you clarify, pressing buttons on the coffee machine.

Yuko was your friend from high school and she was the one that hooked you up with the apartment. All she told you was that he was Yuji’s best friend and old roommate before she and Yuji moved in together. She told you he was in his second year of college, he needed help with the rent and that he was a nice guy.

“You told me he was nice, too.”

“Fushiguro is nice,” Yuko retorts, restocking the paper cups next to the coffee machine.

You give her a look, “nice my ass.”

“You just said he was hot!” she laughs at that, nudging your shoulder playfully.

“You can be hot and mean at the same time, they’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Mm,” she hums, “sounds like your type.”

“Rude,” you mutter.

The bell above the door dings, your eyes peeking over the coffee machine to spot Yuji walking in with a wide smile, “hi baby!”

Yuko grins, “Hey, Yuji.” She leans over the counter, allowing Yuji to press a kiss against her cheek with a loud muah!

“What’s up?” Yuji asks curiously, letting his chin rest in his own palm.

“Y/N was just telling me about her first night in her new place,” Yuko replies.

“Ooh!” Yuji sings.

“She said he’s hot,” Yuko giggles.

A big smile spills across Yuji’s face and he teasingly wiggles his brows, “you got a crush?”

“No,” you say defensively. “I don’t even know him.”

“You can crush on someone and not know them,” Yuji shrugs.

“I don’t think you can.”

Yuji tuts, “ah-ah! Jennifer Lawrence, I don’t know her, but I have a crush on her.”

You look to Yuko, “you gonna let him say that?”

Yuko shrugs sheepishly, “I have a crush on her too so I think it’s okay.”

Yuji points at her, “see?”

You just playfully roll your eyes, “but seriously… What's the secret? Cus I think he already wants me to move out.”

“Fushiguro just takes time to warm up to people,” Yuji explains. “Just give it time.”

You wonder how long it’ll take for him to warm up to you. You’re a friendly person and you’re pretty bubbly but he just intimidates the hell out of you. But his apartment was way nicer than any of the other apartments near campus. And bonus points because the rent was rather cheap compared to other places you’d seen. So you can’t screw this up.

But again, you’re pretty sure he hated you.

He was always grumbling around and seemed to get annoyed when you would put the dishes away in the wrong spots (though he never outright told you this). And he seemed to get annoyed when you were in a shared space, either sitting down on the floor in front of the TV to study or at the kitchen counter with your textbooks strewn about.

But no way in hell were you going to poke the bear and ask him if he hated you.

Because Megumi Fushiguro was a scary guy.

You think you’ve screwed yourself when Megumi makes a bee-line for you a few weeks later.

You’re sitting at your desk in your room with the door slightly open. You’re focused on the essay you’re trying to edit but it’s hard to ignore the dark and brooding cloud that is Megumi Fushiguro.

“You touch my shit?” He asks. It doesn’t sound mean or accusing but just the depth of his voice alone makes you nervous.

“Huh?” You squeak out, eyes shifting nervously.

“My clothes,” he holds out a folded shirt for emphasis, his other hand holding your door frame (and jesus christ his muscles look so good).

Fuck.

You gulp, “u-uh, yeah, I did. I needed more darks so I just… used some of yours…”

Megumi just stares at you, steely eyes narrow and harsh.

You smile sheepishly, though it’s not really a smile, more of a nervous twitch in your lips, “I’m sorry–”

“Just,” Megumi starts before he sighs, “don’t touch my shit.”

You nod quickly, “right. I’m sorry.”

It’s funny.

You’ve only been here for a few weeks and Megumi is growing more and more frustrated by you.

How you always manage to be there when he’s trying to use the shower or the kitchen or do his laundry. He realises the irony given you’re his fucking roommate but he can’t cope with this shit.

He finds himself staring when you walk around in tiny shorts and tight tank tops. Or when you slink down the hallway wrapped in a towel like he can’t see you. Or when you stretch your arms above your head while you’re studying, your shirt riding up and giving him the perfect view of your tummy–

Megumi stands outside the bathroom door, towel and a change of clothes in hand.

He knew girls took a while in the shower but this? You’d been in there for around fifteen minutes, the shower running and your music playing softly from inside. Megumi and Yuji used to function fine with one bathroom between the two of them, but sharing with you, a girl, proved to be a little different.

“M’so sorry,” you squeak as you pull the door open, your hair wet and combed back, your face free of your usual makeup.

“S’fine,” Megumi murmurs.

You quickly duck your head and slink away and Megumi just fucking stares. His breath gets caught in his throat at the sight of your towel pulled tight around your body, giving him a perfect view of the outline of your ass. His eyes raked over your bare shoulders and he almost felt dizzy at the lingering smell of your strawberry scented shampoo.

Megumi coughed into his fist, feeling a certain stiffness in his pants making itself known. It’d been a while since he got laid so he’d just deal with it using a cold shower and thinking about violent video games or something.

You’re finding you have the same problem.

You feel your face flush when he comes home from the gym in compression shirts and sweatpants, an earbud stuck in his ear and his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. And you just sit there in the living room gawking like an idiot as he mumbles an annoyed ‘hey’ then proceeds to ignore you the rest of the night.

He’s caught you staring a few times, especially when you’re waiting for him to get out of the shower so you can use the bathroom and he emerges wrapped in nothing but a towel, his hair dripping water down his pale chest.

And you totally check him out before slapping a hand over your eyes, cheeks flushed as you squeak out an embarrassed, “sorry!”

He just rolls his eyes with a huff and disappears into his room, leaving you to bang your head against the wall because you’re so dumb.

Yuji was right, you do have a crush.

It’s truly a tragic predicament because he seems to have no interest in you. He barely acknowledges you, humming when you greet him and brushing past you when you’re using a shared space at the same time. It’s almost as if he’s actively avoiding you.

“I made you a coffee,” you’re trying to break the ice somehow because Megumi is so unbelievably unreadable that it hurts.

Megumi looks at you, half-lidded eyes tired and bored as he studies your nervous expression. You place the mug of hot coffee on the counter next to his set up of textbooks, notebooks, pens and his laptop.

You fiddle with your hands, “it’s just coffee and milk, I didn’t know if you wanted sugar–”

“Thanks,” he simply says, nodding with a tight-lipped smile before sticking his earbud back in his ear.

You stand there dumbfounded for a moment before you awkwardly shuffle off to your room. Completely missing how Megumi watches you leave.

Once midterms roll around, Megumi disappears off the face of the earth. You don’t see him for weeks because he’s either cooped up in his room or he stays late on campus and you hear him get home at stupid hours of the night.

The next time you see him is at a party.

The frat house you’re at is packed with college students all at varying stages of drunkenness. You’ve maybe had half a drink, deciding to hide away in the kitchen and people-watch. Yuji and Yuko convinced you to come along since midterms were over and the stress swallowing the entire college campus had seemed to somewhat dissipate.

One party wouldn’t hurt.

“Yooo! Y/N you made it!” Yuji exclaims, an arm thrown around Yuko’s shoulders, the two of them clutching red plastic cups full of some mysteriously coloured alcohol.

“Yeah, I thought I’d try and make some friends,” you reply as Yuko hands you a drink.

“Damn, then what are we?” Yuji’s teases, gesturing between himself and Yuko.

You roll your eyes playfully, “more friends, Itadori,” you clarify.

Yuji was a guy that was easy to get along with, always making friends no matter where he went. You became fast friends with Yuji after he and Yuko started dating since you were instrumental in convincing Yuko to give her number to him way back when.

“You and Fushiguro friends yet?” Yuko asked curiously, slightly yelling over the music.

You grit your teeth, “don’t think so. I put the dishes away wrong once and I think he’s hated me ever since.”

Yuji blows a raspberry, “yeah right, you should try and talk to him tonight, maybe hit on him, hm?” Yuji wiggles his eyebrows at you.

“Why tonight?” You ask curiously.

“Cus he looks lonely,” Yuji points to the other end of the room.

You follow his finger and spot that familiar mop of messy black hair rather quickly. He’s leaning against the wall cradling a drink and damn he looks good in the black shirt he’s wearing, allowing you to totally check out and gawk at his lean muscular arms. He looks beyond bored, his steely blue eyes scanning the crowd with complete disinterest.

You didn’t even know he was coming to this thing and now you’re suddenly motivated to stay.

You gulp down the lump in your throat before squeezing the plastic cup of whatever the fuck in your hand. You lift it to your lips and chuck it back, the bitter alcohol burning your throat on the way down.

“Atta girl!” Yuji exclaims, “go get your man!”

“You’re for the girls, you know that, Yuji?” You grin.

“I’ve been told,” he beams happily.

You take Yuko’s drink off her and quickly throw hers back too, needing some liquid courage to get you over there because at least if you say something stupid, you can blame it on the alcohol.

“Okay, maybe don’t overdo it,” Yuko pats your shoulder.

You take in a breath before nodding and squeezing past your friends, making your way toward your roommate. You didn’t even know he would be at this party, that’s how little you talk to one another. Yet you find yourself getting nervous and stupid around him.

You’re barely five meters away from him when you stop dead in your tracks.

A blonde girl approaches Megumi, her shoulder bumping his as she leans against the wall next to him. He eyes her before taking a sip of his drink. You don’t hear what she says but he seems vaguely amused by it and you find yourself almost jealous that some random girl managed to get more emotion out of Megumi in the last two seconds than you have in the past two months.

Your heart thumps in your chest and you suddenly feel small and ridiculous. You clear your throat and quickly spin on your heel, heart thumping in your ears as you pick up another drink of whatever crazy jungle juice they’re serving at this frat party and chuck it back.

He doesn’t even know it and he just crushed your spirit.

“Uh oh,” Yuji grits his teeth.

“Why’s she coming back?” Yuko asks Yuji.

“I’m going to stand on a highway,” you grin maniacally. Yuko and Yuji peer behind you and spot the same blonde girl talking to Megumi, only this time she’s turned toward him, giving him her undivided attention as she yaps on about something. Megumi still seems vaguely uninterested but he nods along slowly.

“Yikes,” Yuji cringes, “not him talking to his ex.”

“Ex?” you squeak out.

Yuko nudges Yuji’s shoulder, giving him a ‘what the fuck, bro?’ look. Yuji quickly stammers, “I-I mean, they’ve been broken up for like two years, there’s nothing there.”

You don’t believe him for a second because it certainly didn’t look like nothing. You peek back over your shoulder and watch as Megumi chugs the rest of his drink and leaves, the blonde girl trailing behind him. Great, they’re gonna go have sex and you’re stuck having a crush on your roommate who will probably kick you out when he gets back with her.

Great.

You turn back to Yuji and Yuko with a wide-eyed nervous smile.

Yuji grits his teeth, “you okay, Y/N?”

You squeak, “mhm, so good!”

Yuko and Yuji share a look with each other before Yuko sighs, “he’s not worth it anyway, you’re a catch, if he can’t see it then he’s stupid.”

You know she’s trying to make you feel better and you’re a relatively confident person, but when you start to crush on someone and they don’t offer any kind of reciprocation for your feelings, you start to feel a little… not so confident.

Yuko and Yuji try to make you feel better, introducing you to their other friend Nobara who is much more aggressive in her pep talk.

“You’re a hot, sexy mama!” Nobara shakes your shoulders, her speech slurred slightly. “Who cares about that emo hoe anyway!”

You want to laugh but she honestly kind of scares you.

“You gotta get laid by some other guy! A hot guy!” Nobara hiccups, taking another swig from her cup. “Maybe fuck your ex or something! Or, or, or! Fuck one of Fushiguro’s classmates!”

“Uh, I don’t think losing my virginity at a party is exactly ideal,” you reply.

Nobara’s eyes bulge out of her head, “you’re a virgin!?” She says it so loud that a few heads turn and you shush her quickly.

“Tell the whole campus why don’t you?” You scold in a hushed tone.

“You’re hot though, babe,” she hiccups again. “You could pull anyone!”

“Funny.”

“I’m serious!”

You let loose after that, deciding to drink and do shots to avoid thinking about Megumi as if you don’t keep looking for him all night. You’re always peeking over your shoulder, searching for him in the crowd and flat out ignoring the guys Nobara and Yuko attempt to introduce you to.

You’re not interested in the pre-med students or the business students or whatever the fuck.

You’re more interested in the tall, lean, handsome vet student who happens to be your roommate and who you haven’t seen all night.

After many more rounds of shots, a game of beer pong and poorly deciding to bet Yuji you could drink him under the table; you’re so drunk. You stumble around the party, hanging off Yuji, Nobara and Yuko since they are clearly equally as drunk as you with how they encourage your behaviour.

Your head is fucking spinning and you feel like you’re going to be sick.

You stumble around the house, clutching the wall and stair bannister as you attempt to find the bathroom. You open a few random doors, spotting people making out, some other people fighting before you finally find the bathroom, bile rising in your throat and your vision going fuzzy. You find a bunch of people smoking what smells like weed in the bathroom, the smell hitting you in the face like a brick wall.

They all start yelling at you to shut the door and you quickly slam it shut before you stumble back down the stairs, racing to the back door as you feel the vomit start to claw up your throat. You shove the door open, the outside air freezing cold and nipping at your hot skin.

You half crawl toward the back fence, your stupid heels betraying you as you pathetically fall to your knees and throw your guts up in the garden.

Your brain is on fire and your stomach aches as you throw up all the alcohol in your system. You really shouldn’t have been mixing your alcohols, but Nobara was so convincing and Megumi had just stomped on your heart.

You suddenly feel two cold hands against your head, brushing over your ears as they pull your hair into a makeshift ponytail, holding it out of your face as you throw up. You’re thankful to whatever stranger is helping you out right now because you feel awful.

Tears prick at your eyes, a mix of tears and mascara running down your face because you really fucking hate throwing up and you really hate Megumi Fushiguro right now.

“You okay?” The man’s voice is distant and a little fuzzy.

You wave him off, “m’fine.”

“You’re crying,” he says softly, listening as you sniffle and wipe your tears away with the ball of your palm. There’s a pause, the man still holding your hair back, “why’re you crying?”

You shrug, “cus I’m sick and I’m s’drunk and some stoners yelled at me and roommate is an ass.”

He hums, “what’d he do? …Your roommate?”

“Nothing,” you whine with a soft sniffle.

“Nothing?” He repeats, his voice sounding slightly amused.

“Nothing,” you say again, “that’s the problem.”

There’s a pause. “Why’s that a problem?”

You groan quietly, “why’re you grillin’ me? I’m s’drunk.”

He chuckles softly, “right, sorry.”

You don’t even know this guy and you immediately start rambling, “my friends helped me find a roommate and everyone neglected to tell me he ws’ hot! And I’m tryin’ to get him to like, notice me, but he’s so mean and I’m like ninety-nine percent sure he hates me. Then he was with his ex at this party right before I ws’ gonna go talk to him! Can you believe that?”

“Wow, he is an ass,” the man says matter-of-factly, validating your feelings.

“Thank you,” you slur before you feel your tummy do a flip and you’re throwing up in the garden again. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing your lipgloss messily. You sniffle again, “m’sorry stranger.”

“S’okay,” he rubs your shoulder, still holding your hair back.

You wake up the next morning with the most vicious headache.

You roll over with a groan, your head pounding and your mouth tasting of acid and whatever the hell was in that jungle juice last night. You press your face into your pillow and groan softly, your entire body feeling like shit. After a few painful seconds, you pry your eyes open, your vision fuzzy and your eyes sore.

You’re in your bed.

Now how the fuck did you get here?

You sit up slowly, your head pounding and spinning with a wonderfully terrible hangover. You spot your shoes on the floor of your room, neatly sitting next to your desk along with your folded jacket. You half remember someone taking you home, maybe it was Yuji? Fuck, you better thank him.

You take your phone off your side table (which was miraculously put on charge last night) and search for Yuko’s number, you press her name and the phone rings a few times before she answers.

“H-Hello?” Yuko groans, her voice saturated with exhaustion.

“Are you as lucid as I am?” You cringe, rubbing your eyes with the ball of your palm.

You hear Yuko muffle a groan into her pillow, clearly as insanely hungover as you, “we got so drunk.”

“Is Itadori okay?” you ask with a wince.

“He’s throwing up in the shower right now,” she replies.

“That’s rough,” you want to laugh but it hurts too much.

“Well he did crash the beer pong and drank half a bottle of midori so,” she trails off.

“Can you tell him thanks for taking me home?” you sigh.

Yuko pauses, “Yuji didn’t take you home.”

Huh?

“What?” you sit up in bed.

“Babe, Yuji was so drunk he tried to pet a rat in the street, he did not take you home,” she says.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Then who did?”

“Y/N… Fushiguro took you home.”

What?

—

Megumi nurses a drink in his hand as he watches you from across the room. He can’t help the way his chest tightens as he hears you laugh at something Yuji says, your nose scrunching cutely as you let out a bubbly laugh.

He also can’t help the way his eyes drift down your body, thinking you look cute with your hair done like that. You’re usually wearing baggy sweaters and shorts around the house, he’s never seen this outfit before and he really likes it.

He thinks you look pretty. You always look pretty but this outfit in particular has him short-circuiting like a teenager.

He thinks back to when he got unnecessarily mad at you over washing his clothes and how he’ll never fucking admit it but they smelled so good. He’s not sure what the hell you used to wash them but they smelled amazing, they smelled like you.

Megumi has to tear his eyes away when his gaze drops to your cute little ass in that mini skirt. He feels like a perv. He lives with you for god sake, he can’t be thinking such things about his roommate. Not when he has to live with you for the next few years.

Megumi takes a long swig of his drink, attempting to stifle the thoughts with terrible tasting alcohol and pure willpower.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see Megumi Fushiguro at a party.”

Megumi has to stop himself from rolling his eyes when he hears her voice.

Hana leans against the wall beside him with a sly grin on her face, her shoulder bumping his. He knows she’s doing it just to annoy him, of course she is.

“Why’re you talking to me?” Megumi grumbles out, refusing to give her the satisfaction of eye contact as he sips on his drink because he’s gonna need alcohol or a fucking hammer to the head to get him through this interaction.

“Can’t say hi to my ex-boyfriend?” She teases, leaning her head toward him.

Megumi rolls his eyes for real this time, “you’ve said hi.”

“Oh, boo, you’re so not fun,” Hana playfully shoves his shoulder.

Megumi lets out a huffed fake laugh, “I’m really torn up about it.”

Hana talks to him about some random bullshit and Megumi isn’t even listening because he knows she’s drunk and she would be stupid to approach him sober. His eyes are instead glued to you, feeling himself get slightly jealous when Yuji puts a hand on your back to lead to toward the kitchen–

“–and you’re still mad,” Hana slurs. Megumi didn’t hear a word she said up until now.

Megumi side-eyes her, feeling rather annoyed by her incessant nagging, “you done?”

Hana rolls her eyes, “I’m just saying you could at least have a civil conversation.”

Megumi feels his eye twitch, “I think you lose civil-conversation privileges when you– I don’t know– lie and cheat?”

Hana scoffs and Megumi decides he doesn’t want to listen to her bullshit anymore and promptly walks off, shoving his hands in his pockets as he attempts to lose Hana in the crowd. She follows him around like some stupid puppy for a while before growing bored, probably going off to annoy some other poor sucker.

She also seems to lose interest when she notices Megumi simply doesn’t care anymore. She does this sometimes, drunkenly messaging him every few months only for him to promptly block her account without a word. He’s starting to think she’s the one that won’t move on.

Megumi sighs when he steps outside into the backyard, sitting down on the edge of the porch and deciding to look busy by scrolling on his phone. It’s quieter outside, the backyard mostly empty apart from a few people smoking cigarettes and vaping by the back fence.

Megumi Fushiguro is lonely.

Lonely in the sense that after Hana, he became decidedly more stoic and standoffish. She was his first serious girlfriend and he was stupid and naive for so long before Yuji and Nobara pointed out the rather obvious red flags that Megumi was painfully unaware of.

Because he was young and she was a little older, so she had to know better, right?

Maybe he really was too clingy and maybe he really did need to stop asking to hang out all the time. He felt utterly stupid when he found out she was cheating on him. It made sense, he was too clingy, too needy, too much.

Megumi reverted back in on himself for a long time, becoming sad and angry before he just stopped giving a shit.

He did a lot to forget about the anger and pain he felt from Hana.

He slept around to forget about her, becoming reserved and aloof over time. He eventually did get over it because why the fuck was it his fault that she cheated on him?

But the things she made him feel about himself lingered.

Made him wonder if he really was too needy and clingy to be a good boyfriend. Maybe he wasn’t respectful enough of a person’s space and he needed to stop trying so hard.

He didn’t go on dates much, everyone always thought he was too mean or rude to ever ask a girl on a date. Sure he slept with girls but they were quick to leave right after with a “yeah, yeah… I can call you if you want?”

If you want.

He just felt embarrassed, letting them gather their clothes and leave his apartment or usher him out of theirs while half-assed promising to text him later. Megumi didn’t know who was using who at that point.

Megumi is shaken from his thoughts when a body almost falls into him. He goes to argue with whoever the fuck can’t watch their step when he sees you.

Your shoes half fall off as you crawl toward the back fence to hurl up everything in your stomach. Megumi quickly slips his phone in his pocket and strides across the lawn toward you.

You’re totally out of it.

Megumi pulls your hair out of your face as you vomit, tears slipping down your cheeks. Your skirt is riding up and your top is pulled low on your chest.

“You okay?” Megumi asks softly, maybe one of the very few things he’s ever said to you. He gently adjusts your top, pulling the strap back onto your shoulder and pulling it up a little to cover the lacy material of your bra. You obviously don’t realise you’re compromising yourself and he adjusts himself behind you to cover your skirt as it rides up your thighs.

There are guys who are nudging each other and pointing at you and Megumi’s gaze hardens on them, suddenly feeling agitated.

“M’fine,” you mumble out with a soft sniffle.

Megumi’s heart melts, “why’re you crying?”

You proceed to sniffle and pout while you tell him all about how your roommate is an ass… without realising you’re talking to your roommate.

He thinks it’s cute, finding you so adorably amusing with how animatedly you speak despite being rather drunk and sick. He finds it sad though that it took you being so drunk for him to sum up enough courage to talk to you.

It scared him how you made his heart hammer in his chest, how your mere gaze on him suddenly made him nervous. But he couldn’t stop himself from staring. You were too cute with your dorky little grin as you stood at his front door telling him all about how you were his new roommate. He made a mental note to curse Yuji out for not telling him Yuko’s friend was a pretty girl and not the six foot two fucking pro wrestler guy he made you sound like.

You can’t possibly have any more to throw up, your skin feverish and clammy as your fingers curl into the grass below you. Megumi rubs your shoulder gently before he feels you slump against him, sniffling and tiredly whimpering beside him.

Megumi goes stiff, unsure of what to do with you.

He should probably take you home.

“M’gonna take you home, okay?” Megumi says, feeling your body go a little more limp as you nod and pout in response.

Megumi easily picks you up, your legs dangling and your head falling against his chest, then he feels like he can’t breathe.

You look so pretty even when your skin flushes a little pale from being so sick and your baby hairs stick to your clammy skin. He carries you around the side of the house to avoid taking you back through the loud ass party.

You don’t make a peep as Megumi sits you in the passenger seat of his car, your head falling against the car window as he pulls your seatbelt over your shoulder, clipping it by your waist. He quickly sends Yuji a message to let him know he’s taking you home, though he doubts Yuji will pay attention to his phone since he seemed to be having a really good time taking shots and singing bad karaoke.

The car ride is silent and all Megumi can think about is what you said.

Maybe he kind of was being an ass to you. He hadn’t made much of an effort to get to know you or make you feel welcome because, in all honesty, you freak him out with how you made him feel without even trying.

So instead, he ignores you.

Pretending he doesn’t notice how your tongue pokes out from between your lips when you’re deep in focus, or how you always wear fuzzy socks around the house when you don’t have classes, or how you do a little jump to reach things on the higher shelves (which makes him melt), or how you still look at him with such kindness despite how piss poor he behaves around you.

Megumi holds you close as he opens your bedroom door, pushing it the rest of the way open to set you down on your bed. Your hair is messy and your clothes are disheveled, a little pout on your cute little lips as you sway slightly.

You fall back onto your bed, your head hitting the soft pillow. Megumi sighs before sitting on the edge of your bed, large hands reaching to pull your shoes off for you.

Your feet look like they hurt, little red blisters forming on your heels and toes. He gently pulls your shoes off and sets them down by your bedside table. You sigh with relief at the feeling of having your feet free of their heel prison.

Megumi breathes softly and just studies you for a moment. It’s dark in your room but he can see the gentle outline of your face and the curve of your cheek. Your room is quiet apart from your soft breaths and Megumi prays you can’t hear his thumping heart.

Megumi lets his eyes wander, unable to tear his gaze away from the soft lacy hem of your bra peeking over your top. His breath hitches in his throat and he suddenly feels disgusting for wondering if your panties match your bra— He closes his eyes, biting the inside of his lip.

You whine in your sleep, some of your hair falling in front of your face as you squirm. Without thinking, he reaches up and tucks some of your hair behind your ear, thumb brushing over your cheek.

You stir at the feeling and Megumi pulls away, scared he woke you.

“Mm, where’m I?” you slur, eyes still pressed closed.

“You’re home, don’t worry,” Megumi replies softly.

“Mm, okay,” you breathe, “thanks, Yuji…”

Megumi’s heart sinks but his face remains unchanged. Of course you’d think Yuji took you home, he’s your friend. Why would you Megumi do something like that for you?

He pulls away from you with a quiet sigh, “get some sleep, Y/N.”

—

“How do you know he took me home?” You ask, shaking your head slightly as you restock the mini fridge under the counter with milk.

You managed to shake off the hangover after three days of staying curled up in bed drinking water, throwing back ibuprofen and watching kitchen nightmares on your laptop with all the lights off. But now you’re back at work being blinded by the awful fluorescent lights and smelling of burnt coffee.

Yuko presses a button on the coffee machine, “he texted Yuji, told him he was gonna take you home,” Yuko replies, her hands on her hips.

You let out a shaky sigh, eyebrows furrowed in confusion because why would Megumi have taken you home when he seems so perpetually annoyed by you?

And how did he even find you? You remember the smell of the weed in the bathroom and people yelling at you, then you remember stumbling into the backyard like a bumbling fool, then—

Oh, no.

“I don’t even know where you went, you’re lucky Fushiguro kept an eye on you–”

“No!” You suddenly squeak.

Yuko gives you a dazed look, “what? What happened?”

You press your hands to your face, drawing out a muffled groan because it just fucking dawned on you who held your hair back in the garden that night.

“It was him!”

“What are you talking about? Who?”

“Fushiguro! He held my hair back in the garden! I called him an ass!” you whine.

Yuko pauses for a moment before she just starts laughing, pressing her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. You look up at her with the most offended look on your face.

You throw a rag at her, “don’t laugh! I was so mean!”

“That’s one way to break the ice,” she giggles, flinching away from you as you playfully swat at her leg with another rag.

“Ozawa…” you whine, “he must be so mad at me.”

“He still took you home after that though? I think you’re overthinking it.”

“He should have left me there in that damp backyard in my own vomit!” you say dramatically. “No wonder he thinks I’m a fucking idiot.”

“I really doubt he thinks that,” Yuko rolls her eyes, becoming sick of this beating-around-the-bush mantra you’ve got going on.

“I have to pay all the rent for like, a year as an apology.”

“Can you even afford that?”

“No!”

You slug around for the rest of your shift, moping about behind the counter and wishing the ground would just swallow you whole. When the end of your shift rolls around, you feel more and more nervous about going home now that you’ve figured out you called Megumi an ass to his face.

Before you clean the coffee machine, you make a coffee to take home for him since he seems to always drink the coffees you make for him even if he seems annoyed by you interrupting his studying.

Your hands are shaking as you unlock the front door, holding a cup of hot coffee and a cinnamon bun in a paper back in your other hand. Your heart is in your throat as you push the door open, peeking inside.

You see Megumi from the front door, he’s sitting at his desk in the living room, laptop open and a few notebooks stacked beside him. Classes haven’t even ramped back up yet and he’s already studying.

You kick your shoes off and shuffle down the hall, heartbeat thumping in your ears and suddenly feeling a chill down your spine at the idea of facing your roommate who you insulted.

You clear your throat, “uh, h-hey.”

Megumi has his earbuds in but he notices you standing there in the corner of his eyes. He takes his earbuds out, “you okay?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “I got you a coffee.”

You place it down beside him. He doesn’t take his eyes off yours.

Your knees feel weak under his steely gaze. You quickly hand him the paper bag, “and a cinnamon bun.”

“Thanks,” he says simply.

There’s a long awkward pause before you huff out a shaky sigh, “listen, Fushiguro– I��m sorry about the other night when I like, threw up everywhere and called you an ass–”

“S’fine,” Megumi replies blankly.

“No, really, I was mean and rude and I didn’t mean it–”

“I know, idiot,” he cuts you off again, “seriously, it’s fine.”

Your lips form a tight line, eyebrows furrowed with worry because it’s not fine. You want to say more but you’re pretty sure Megumi doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. Which is understandable, you’re just happy he hasn’t kicked you out yet.

You toy with your fingers for a moment before you nod awkwardly, shuffling off toward your room. You miss as Megumi watches you leave again, feeling stupid for how bad he is at talking about his feelings.

You avoid Megumi like the plague after that.

You’re so utterly embarrassed by what you said and you can only imagine how mad he is about it but at least he’s doing you a favour by not mentioning it.

You disappear from any room he walks into, slinking by and apologising awkwardly when you take up too much time in the bathroom, or bowing your head and averting your gaze when he walks into the kitchen, you’re embarrassed and you feel awful, and it bothers you that Megumi is so vague and mysterious about how he feels about you, sure he took you home and pulled your dirty shoes off your feet and put you to bed. But he also gives you curt nods and vague responses that leave you wondering whether or not he likes you or just tolerates you.

Are you friends? Just roommates? Does he like you? Does he hate you?

You’ve got no earthly idea and the easiest way to survive in such a predicament is to just avoid the very thing that’s causing the problem.

And Megumi is so damn annoyed by it.

At first it was him who was avoiding you, hiding away in his room so he didn’t have to interact with you and now that he knows you’ve been trying to get him to notice you, he’s been trying to linger around nearby and sort of force the proximity because he has no idea how to approach you like a normal fucking person.

He reaches things for you on the top shelf when you can’t reach them, he makes sure to take your sweaters out of the washing machine so they don’t shrink, he even sets aside the caramel flavoured coffee pods for you because he knows they’re your favourite.

He’s bad at all of this. The talking part.

What if you think he’s too needy or too clingy or too much? That would just embarrass him even more than he already is.

Megumi lets you be, assuming that you’re probably regretting everything you said that night after he so blatantly blew you off when you brought home a coffee for him the other night.

But you talk again when your car doesn’t start.

“Fuck,” you groan, turning your key in the ignition for the third time in the past minute, the engine ticking, ticking, ticking before you give up. You whine and give a half-hearted punch to the steering wheel.

You knew this would happen eventually.

Your car is run down and sort of shitty. You have to basically shoulder check the driver’s side door to get it open and you can’t actually open one of the back doors anymore because it refuses to unlock. But you’re broke and the damn thing gets you from A to B, except for today.

It’s raining and your hair is stuck to your head from the mad dash you did from the front door to your car and now it won’t even start.

You’re basically drenched when you step back inside the front door.

“I thought you left already?” Megumi questions from the kitchen, holding a bowl of cereal in his hand.

“My stupid car won’t– oh,” you cut yourself off when your eyes meet with Megumi clearly fresh out of the shower.

He’s wearing grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips and no shirt, little droplets of water slipping down his broad shoulders and chest from his slightly damp hair. He’s looking at you with a bored expression, waiting for you to continue.

You clear your throat and decide the ceiling is so very interesting, “u-uh, yeah, my car won’t start, ‘m just gonna walk–”

“You’re gonna walk?” Megumi’s eyes narrow.

“I mean I’m poor so,” you give a sheepish laugh.

Megumi rolls his eyes, putting the bowl of cereal down on the counter and turning on his heel to pull his black hoodie off the couch, slipping it over his head.

“We’ll take my car,” he says, grabbing his keys off the side table beside the couch.

Your eyes widen, “huh? What– no, it’s fine–”

“Walking in this weather would be dumb,” Megumi grumbles, “just get in my car, idiot.”

You press your mouth shut and do as you're told, trailing behind him as he picks up his umbrella by the door, holding it over your head as you take the short walk to his car. Megumi holds the umbrella completely over you, the heavy rain completely drenching his left shoulder.

“You’re getting wet,” you point out.

“M’aware,” he retorts without looking at you.

Your shoulder bumps with Megumi’s bicep given the height difference between you. You’ve never been this close to him before, well, at least not sober. You never realised how much taller he is than you, it makes you feel kind of safe.

Megumi unlocks his car and opens the door for you, holding the umbrella completely over you until you’re safe in the passenger seat of his car. You curl your fingers around your tote bag nervously, Megumi getting in the driver’s seat.

“Thank you,” you squeak out.

Megumi starts up his car, his car being one of those ones that has a push button to start instead of a key, “I don’t mind,” he shrugs.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, your heart punching against your chest. You take a breath before you look over at Megumi.

“Do you hate me, Fushiguro?”

The question just hangs there and Megumi feels his heart falter at such a question because no, he doesn’t hate you. Not even a little.

It upsets him that you think he hates you, that you think so little of yourself that you let yourself get torn up over what he thinks of you.

He had no idea he was coming off that way, that you genuinely thought he hated you.

He opens his mouth to speak but it never comes out. He’s not sure what to say or what to do to make you see that hate is the furthest thing from his mind when it comes to you. But instead, Megumi’s mind is choked with thoughts and it’s so overwhelming that he just clutches the steering wheel and silently drives you to campus.

He still hasn’t spoken when he parks the car.

The two of you are silent for a moment before he hears you sniffle, his heart snapping in two at the mere sound of it.

“T-Thank you,” you murmur, quickly pushing the door open and shuffling out before Megumi can protest.

No. Fuck. No, he didn’t mean it like that.

“Y/N, wait,” he gets out of the driver’s side, umbrella clutched in his fist.

You’re holding your tote bag tight to your chest as you walk across the pavement in the pouring fucking rain.

“Y/N!” Megumi is behind you, his hand curling around your upper arm and stopping you in your tracks.

You pause, turning to face him, eyes glassy and doe-like as you stare up at him, “what is it?” you force out.

You both hope he says something, anything. He pants, his hair sticking to his face as his steely eyes show the first ounce of emotion you’ve seen from him.

“Y-You…” Megumi doesn’t stammer, he never does. “Take it,” he holds out the umbrella for you.

A silence hangs between you and you sigh, taking the umbrella from his grasp and opening it above your head, leaving him there in the carpark.

—

Megumi beat himself up over it for days.

He picks you up that same rainy afternoon, the two of you not uttering a single word to one another other than a ‘hey’ from him and a ‘thank you’ from you. He wants to tell you everything, that he’s really bad at talking about things and that he doesn’t hate you.

He’s not sure how to prove it to you, the words dying in his throat the moment he shares a room with you for more than five seconds. He’s not sure what to say or how to say it.

Hana always told him he talked too much. Which was crazy because Megumi was a man of very few words. But when the two of them would fight, he was always so adamant at resolving the issue and getting to the root of the problem instead of just letting it hang in the air and choke him.

He sometimes wonders if that’s why she cheated.

You don’t talk to Megumi for a while. Feeling small and embarrassed about asking him such a question when you knew deep down it wasn’t true and you just wanted to hear it from him.

But it hurt when he didn’t deny your question, when he just stayed silent and let you fuss over it for days. You’ve lost sleep, laying away at night and wondering if you should just talk to him.

Megumi tries to approach you, he really does.

He thinks about knocking on your bedroom door late at night but every time he finds himself standing outside, arm held up about to knock, he stops himself and wonders if he even deserves to talk to you.

If he even deserves to try again.

“I’m the best you’ll ever have.”

He knew it wasn’t true at face value. He knew Hana wasn’t good for him in the end, but it’s hard to ignore such bitterness coming from someone you used to love.

“Hey, Yuko,” you greet softly, phone pressed to your ear. “Can I ask a favour?”

“Of course… you okay, Y/N?” Yuko asks slowly, her voice gentle.

You pause, “I just… I need a ride to campus until I can get my car fixed. Would you and Itadori mind if I tagged along? I’ll give you fuel money.”

Yuko pauses this time, “…You didn’t ask Fushiguro?”

You toy with your fingers nervously, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She hums and nods, “We can take you, Y/N.”

Yuko knows you well enough to know that something happened. You spoke so timidly and she could tell you were nervously fiddling with the sleeves of your sweater. She would talk to Yuji about it; hopefully he could knock some sense into his best friend.

It's first thing Monday morning when you emerge from your room with your tote bag over your shoulder and your hair done in a messy claw clip. You look tired, bags forming under your eyes and you make a beeline for the door without even acknowledging Megumi.

��Do you need a ride?” Megumi sits up straighter on the couch and holds his keys up as if he didn’t set an alarm just to take you to class.

“Uh, no, thanks. Ozawa and Itadori are taking me,” you say sheepishly, barely offering him a glance.

Megumi’s heart cracks a little. He wants to say something, tell you he’s sorry and ask if he can please take you to class. But he doesn’t, mouth staying shut as he nods quickly, “right. Okay.”

You leave without another word, the apartment feeling awful and still without you. Megumi’s leg bounces nervously and his blunt nails scratch at the inside of his knee. He’s anxious and he wants to fix it so desperately but he feels like he’s only making it worse.

“Hey, Y/N,” Yuji greets with a warm smile.

You offer him a half smile before getting in the back seat. Yuko and Yuji share a look with one another before Yuji backs out of the apartment parking lot. There’s an intensity hanging in the air and you just stare out the window with a blank expression, vaguely paying attention to the music on the radio.

“Are you okay, Y/N?” Yuji asks softly, eyeing you through the rearview mirror.

“M’fine,” you whisper back, too afraid to trust your voice.

“What happened?” Yuko reaches back between the seats to touch your knee affectionately.

You shrug, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Yuko pulls her hand away from you and glances at her boyfriend, the two of them making a silent agreement to talk to Fushiguro after dropping you off instead of going to their morning classes.

Yuji slams the door open, nearly sending Megumi flying into the roof with how loud it was, “Fushiguro!”

“The fuck are you yelling for?” Megumi spits, gaze softening slightly after realising Yuko was trailing behind Yuji.

Yuko frowns, “what did you say to Y/N?”

“What?”

“She was upset, Fushiguro,” Yuji crosses his arms, “what did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” Megumi defends quickly.

“Then why is she upset?” Yuko’s brows furrow.

Megumi sighs, “she just asked me if I hated her–”

Yuji cuts him off, “and what did you say?”

Megumi averts his gaze, “nothing.”

“You said what?” Yuko presses.

“I didn’t know what to say–”

“You say, ‘no Y/N, I don’t!’,” Yuji mocks before landing a punch to Megumi’s shoulder, “you upset her, bro.”

“I know,” Megumi grumbles.

“Then why didn’t you apologise?” Yuko asks.

“I didn’t know how,” Megumi dejectedly sighs. “I didn’t expect it.”

“She likes you, man. Like a lot,” Yuji shakes his head, his heart hurting a little at the fact that Megumi looks really torn up about the whole situation too.

There’s a long pause, “can you lie to her?”

“What?” Yuko and Yuji ask in unison.

“Tell her you can’t pick her up,” Megumi adds, “please.”

Yuji and Yuko share another look and Yuko sighs before nodding her head, taking out her phone to tell you that she and Yuji can’t come get you because Yuji’s brother called and needed his help. It’s not a great lie, but you’ll believe it at first glance.

—

Your phone buzzes in the middle of class. You’re tired and you feel like shit and the professor’s monotone voice is boring you half to death. You flip your phone over and read the message from Yuko.

Yuko <3: Hey, Y/N. Choso called and he needs to borrow Yuji’s car, we can’t come get you this afternoon. Sorry hun x

You frown.

Yuko <3: But don’t worry, Fushiguro is coming to get you.

You panic, quickly unlocking your phone to message her back, telling her you’ll get an uber or just walk but you get a message from an unknown number only a second later.

Unknown: I’ll come get you.

You rest your head in your palm and go to message him back telling him it’s fine but the speech bubbles appear and reappear before he sends the message.

Unknown: Please wait.

You let out a shaky breath, your heart pittering loudly in your chest. You zone out for the remainder of the class, nervously chewing on your nails and tapping on the desk. You don’t want to talk to Megumi, you really don’t. At least not while you feel like shit and your thoughts are a huge mess.

You sit on the grass after your lecture, pulling at the blades of grass by your feet while you stare at the ground, teeth nipping anxiously at the inside of your lower lip. You don’t know what Megumi wants to say to you or why he even agreed to pick you up if he was so against talking about whatever the hell was going on between you two.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when a pair of black sneakers intrudes on your line of sight, you know it’s Megumi from the little scuff marks on the edge since they’re so worn out but they’re his favourite pair.

He doesn’t say anything as he stares at you, hands shoved in the pockets off his hoodie like they always are. You wordlessly stand up, pulling your tote bag to your chest and pushing past him without a word.

“Y/N, I–”

You’re too far ahead of him now, making your way to his parked car on the curb. His head hurts and his chest is tight with nerves but he’s quick to unlock the car for you and let you scoot into the passenger seat.

Megumi quickly joins you, turning on the car and just sitting there for a moment, hands tight around the wheel.

“I–” Megumi feels his throat close up, “I’m sorry.” You feel your eyes glass over but you don’t offer him anything else but he continues, “I don’t hate you, Y/N.”

“S’fine if you do,” you say quietly, “I know I can be annoying and intrusive–”

“–What? You’re not–”

“And I understand if you want me to move out–”

“No, Y/N, I don’t want that–”

You’re rambling now without thinking, “–nd I know you probably need me to move out cus of that girl at the party–”

“What girl?” Now he’s fucking confused.

“And she’s pretty and I saw you talking to her–”

Wait, his ex?

“–Wait, Y/N, that’s not–”

“And I’m sorry I was so drunk–”

“Y/N, stop!” Megumi didn’t mean to yell, but it instantly shuts you up. He peers over at you and you’re crying, tears slipping down your flushed cheeks. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.”

“S’okay,” you sniffle, wiping your tears away.

“No, it’s not… You just wouldn’t shut up,” Megumi makes an attempt at dry humour, letting you know it was a joke by following up with a half-assed breathy laugh.

You just look at him, eyes slightly red.

“I– Fuck,” Megumi curses, knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel.

The two of you stay silent, the only thing either of you hear is your quiet sniffling. Megumi sighs, running a hand through his messy hair before speaking, “...she cheated on me.”

Your eyes widen a little.

“That girl you saw. Yeah, she was my ex but… she cheated on me.”

“...I’m sorry, Fushiguro.”

“Stop calling me that,” he grumbles.

“It’s your name,” you retort.

“I don’t want you to call me Fushiguro,” he presses his eyes shut.

Your lips form a tight line and you just watch him, waiting patiently for him to continue because you can tell he’s trying really hard.

“Can you just call me Megumi,” he sighs. “Please?”

You nod, “okay, Megumi,” you whisper softly.

“...I don’t hate you, Y/N. Not even a little,” his eyes finally meet yours.

“You’re really bad at showing it,” you say with a breathy laugh.

“I know… M’just really–” he stops himself, his hand scrunching against the material over his thigh, “I’m just scared.”

Your heart shatters, a pout pulling at your lip because you feel like you’re about to cry again. You study him for a moment, your heart warming at the sight of Megumi Fushiguro being so utterly soft and nervous.

You hesitate for a moment before you reach your hand over the centre console to stop him from grabbing and pulling at his own thigh. His hand is cold and his palm is rough but it’s him. And you were sitting here thinking you needed his comfort when really he needed yours.

He flinches at the gentleness of your touch, your hand is smaller than his but it’s so soft and warm.

He lets you wrap your fingers around the back of his hand, lets you roll his hand over and press your palm to his. It’s comforting and it’s sweet.

“You don’t need to be scared, Gumi.”

His heart flutters at the nickname and his steely blue eyes nervously meet yours. He nods his head slowly and you smile.

“Feel better?” You ask softly.

Megumi holds your hand in his, eyes still searching yours before they flicker down to your lips briefly. You catch the quick movement and your body reacts without any input from your brain, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.

“Gumi?”

Megumi doesn’t need much more motivation than that and his other hand lets go of the wheel to reach over and cup your warm cheek. Your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes flicker between his nervously. His eyes are half-lidded, nose grazing yours and your hand squeezes tight around his.

“S’okay,” he coos softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “M’gonna kiss you.”

Your heart is in your throat and you start overthinking it, thinking back to the maybe handful of times a boy has kissed you, but never a man, never someone like Megumi.

You nod your head quickly and a smile tugs at the corner of Megumi’s lip because you’re so fucking cute.

You feel the world melt away when Megumi’s breath fans across your lips, his hand coming to cup the back of your head, guiding you to tilt your head slightly as he finally, finally, closes the distance between you, his slightly chapped lips meeting yours.

You melt into his warmth, one hand nervously holding his while the other has a death grip on the strap of your tote bag.

His lips move against yours, becoming a little more feverish and needy when you let out a soft whine. He feels himself go feral, wanting to drag you into the back seat and take you in this stupid parking lot where everyone can see.

But instead he takes it slow, pressing your lips against his and his hand tangling in your soft hair. You’re nervous and a little inexperienced, he can tell but it only drives him more insane.

He pulls away only a fraction, a cheeky smile pulling at his lips when he realises your lips chase his, your other hand coming to curl around his hoodie sleeve to bring him closer.

“Wasn’t so bad?” Megumi whispers.

You have the most innocent little look on your face, “does that mean you like me?”

Megumi can only chuckle softly at how damn cute you are, “I don’t just kiss any girl like that, Y/N.”

You nod timidly, “m’kay, Gumi.”

Megumi wants to kiss you again but refrains because he knows he’ll want to do other things to you with how you utter the nickname with such innocence, but you’re in a parking lot on your college campus and there are about fifty people that have walked by in the past ten minutes.

But when you get home?

“Megumi–” your hands are clutching the front of his hoodie as he kisses the side of your cheek, then your temple, then above your eyebrow, “wait a second.”

“S-Sorry,” he mutters against your warm skin.

You’ve barely got one foot in the door and Megumi already has you pinned against the wall in the hallway, a large hand cupping your head while the other rests on your waist. He pants softly, lips itching to kiss you and kiss you hard.

“I’m sorry too,” you say breathlessly. “For not seeing.”

Megumi shakes his head, “you don’t need to be sorry.”

“But I am,” you murmur, “you’re really bad at talking about your feelings but I should have been more observant.”

“S’okay, Y/N,” he rests his forehead against yours, “m’just glad you let me pick you up.”

“I thought about just walking,” you giggle, “letting you grovel for a little longer.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.”

“I’m glad you didn’t either,” he smiles softly, running the pad of his thumb along your cheek.

You fall silent, hands just holding onto his hoodie while he presses feather-light kisses to your face. You suddenly feel nervous when you feel a certain stiffness against your thigh.

“...Do you want to–”

“I’m a virgin.”

Megumi pulls away from you, “W-What?”

“You were gonna ask if we could… y’know,” your eyes shift away from him, “I panicked.”

Megumi laughs, like actually, laughs at that.

“Don’t laugh,” you playfully punch his shoulder, your bottom lip sticking out in a pout. “A lot of people are still virgins in college.”

“M’not laughing at that,” he grins. “You’re just… you’re really cute.”

You feel your face heat at that, “stop it.”

“M’serious.”

“You’re always serious.”

“Whatever.”

You giggle softly, letting him press a soft peck to your lips.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to watch a movie,” Megumi lies through his teeth, liking the way you flush and stammer at outing yourself.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

“Why ‘oh’?” He teases.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, brows knit.

“What?” he presses with a shit-eating grin.

“Nothing,” you retort.

“...Did you want to have sex?”

Your heart drops, eyes widening slightly because yes, you do want to have sex with Megumi. You’d never really thought much about sex until him. Never thought you’d want a guy to manhandle you or put his hands all over your body until Megumi.

“Can we?” you ask timidly.

Megumi feels a pang in his heart because you’re so fucking cute he might pass away. He smiles before pressing a kiss to your forehead, “if you want to.”

“But do you want to?”

Megumi doesn’t need to think very hard about that one.

“I’ve wanted you in my bed since I first met you, Y/N.”

You breathe hard, your heart racing in your chest and you’re sure it’s loud enough for Megumi to hear how fucking nervous yet turned on you are. Your eyes fall to his lips again, revelling in the feeling of his breath fanning over your lips.

You press up on your tiptoes, Megumi’s head slowly tilting and following you, wondering what you’re doing. Your soft lips graze the shell of his ear and you smile cheekily, about to fucking out yourself with the last of your confidence.

“Fuck me then.”

Megumi slams you against the wall, arms caging your body as he presses his lips hard against yours. The kiss is needy and feverish, a mess of clashing teeth and wandering hands. Megumi’s hand cups the back of your head, tilting your head to the side to deepen the kiss.

His tongue presses against your lips before sliding into your mouth, earning a soft whine from your throat that you didn’t mean to sound so desperate. Your fists curl around the material of his hoodie, pulling Megumi impossibly closer.

Megumi’s free hand drops from your waist to your hip, squeezing your skin. His other hand drops from your head to curl over your hips and grope your ass. Both of his hands cup your ass, kneading the soft flesh and earning a soft mewl from your throat.

“You sound so pretty, baby,” Megumi mutters against your lips, his messy hair tickling your forehead. You want to moan and whine at the nickname but instead you kiss him again.

You’ve got the hang of this kissing thing but you still have no fucking idea where to put your hands without making him uncomfortable– as if his hands aren’t groping your ass.

Megumi pulls away slightly breathless, “you wanna stop?”

“No,” you shake your head quickly, “no, I don’t wanna stop.”

Megumi grins, kissing your cheek, “okay, sweet girl.”

Megumi leads you to his bedroom, his hand never leaving yours and your other hand never letting go of his hoodie sleeve. He pushes his bedroom door open, his lips on your instantly as he backs you up to his bed. The backs of your thighs hit his mattress and you fall backward, bringing Megumi with you.

Megumi chuckles softly against your lips before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the underside of your jaw, then your neck. His hand paws at the bottom hem of your sweater, his fingers slipping underneath to ghost over the skin of your bare tummy.

“M’gonna take it off, okay?”

You nod sheepishly, “okay.”

“You tell me if you want me to stop,” he breathes.

“I will, Gumi,” you reply with a whisper, kissing the tip of his nose.

Megumi grins affectionately before his hands grip the bottom of your sweater, pulling it up slightly. Your breath hitches in your throat and he slowly pulls your sweater upward and over your tits. You’re not wearing a shirt, just a lacy black bra, just like the one he got a peek of at the party.

“Pretty,” Megumi murmurs, pressing a kiss to your chest, right between your collarbones.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him against your hot skin as he peppers kisses across your chest, finally pulling your sweater over your head and tossing it aside. You’re left in your pretty bra and a short little skirt that finished above your mid thigh.

God how he wants to bite and suck on your pretty plush thighs.

His hand snakes underneath you, fingers fiddling with your bra clasp at your back. Your breathing quickens and Megumi kisses your cheek, “s’okay… m’here.”

He unclasps your bra, the cups loosening around your tits and the straps going slack on your shoulders. His fingers ghost over your shoulder as he pulls the strap down your shoulder, pressing soft kisses in his wake.

“C-Can you go faster?” You whine, your voice quiet.

Megumi chuckles, lifting his head to peer up at you, pupils blown wide, “am I going to slow for you, pretty girl?”

You bite your lip, “mhm.”

Megumi lifts his thigh, pressing it between your legs to where you desperately want him. You whine when he presses his strong thigh against your clothed heat, your skirt bunching up at your waist. Your skin feels hot and you feel a wetness pooling in your panties, making your face flush with embarrassment at your own neediness.

“I’ve thought about this,” Megumi whispers, pulling your bra cup down, his large hand cupping your plush breast. “A lot.”

You moan softly, your nipples hardening under the cold chill of the air in his room.

“Thought about what you’d sound like.”

He lowers his head slightly, pressing long, wet kisses to your pretty nipples. Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing him down and forcing him to nip and suck at the soft skin.

“Thought about how you’d look.”

You roll your hips involuntarily against his strong thigh, feeling the friction against your poor little clit. You moan underneath him, your heart racing as he lowers his head to kiss down your tummy to the hem of your skirt.

“Thought about how you’d taste.”

You suddenly let out a surprised gasp when Megumi pulls your lower body off the bed, your hands curling into his bedsheets for support. You peer down at him, your heart in your throat at the sight of Megumi between your legs, his fingers curling underneath the waistband of your skirt and pulling.

He drops the material on the floor, his large hands curling underneath your thighs and pulling them apart, “w-wait, Gumi.”

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, “what is it, princess?”

“W-What are you doing?”

Megumi smiles against the inside of your thigh, “m’gonna eat your pretty pussy.”

Your hands curl into the sheets and you feel a glob of arousal seep from your cunt. If this is how fucked up he gets you just from kissing you, how the hell are you going to hold up with his tongue inside you?

“You okay with that?”

You nod your head quickly without thinking, a thin sheen of sweat already coating your skin. “P-Please–”

Megumi chuckles softly at how damn cute you are, his fingers hooking under the sides of your panties, pulling them down your legs. They’re covered in your arousal, your pretty pussy glistening under the warm glow of the setting sun.

God he wishes he could take a picture.

“G-Gumi?” You peer down at him, “s-stop staring.”

Megumi pulls your thighs over his shoulders, his hair tickling the insides of your spread legs, “sorry, sweet girl, she’s just s’pretty.”

You let out an involuntary moan when he presses a kiss to your swollen clit, the sudden attention sending a jolt of pleasure through your tummy. You want to slam your thighs closed, your body desperate for friction.

“Don’t tease me,” you whine. “Please–”

Megumi’s fingers curl into your thighs, pulling them apart further and forcing your pussy lips open to press the flat of his tongue against your awaiting clit.

“M-Megumi–”

You throw your head back against the bed, one of your hands pressing against the back of his head, forcing him closer to your pussy. No one has ever touched you like this, no one has ever put their mouth on you, no one has ever seen your pretty pussy and you couldn’t think of anyone better than Megumi Fushiguro to be the one to tongue-fuck you right now.

“You ever masturbated, baby?”

You whine, “a-are you teasing me or something?”

He smiles against your clit, tongue dipping down to lap up your slick, “maybe a little. I just wanna know if you’ve ever had something inside you.” His thumbs spread you open, his tongue flicking against your clit and making you whine even louder. “Shh, baby, we have neighbours.”

You don’t give a fuck right now.

“I’ve masturbated b-before,” you say after a hard huff, you feel fucking breathless.

“Oh, yeah?” Megumi presses his tongue against your little hole, lewdly slurping up the insane amount of arousal leaking from you. “You should show me.”

“No!” you whine, “so embarrassing.”

“I think it’d be hot,” the tip of his middle finger presses against your hole. “Maybe some other time.”

You cry out, hands gripping the sheets when Megumi presses the tip of his middle finger into your cunt. His fingers are thicker than yours and you can only imagine so much longer, able to press against parts of you you’ve never reached before.

“Gumi–” you pant, “m-more.”

“More?” He raises a brow at you.

“Please, please–”

“You’re so cute.”

“Shut up!” you whimper, “js’ touch me–” Megumi can’t deny you, not when you sound so fucking gorgeous and you taste like fucking heaven.

He presses his finger into you, twisting his hand around and curling his finger inside you. You want to cry, your eyes screwed shut and your belly burning. He fucks his finger into you slowly, his tongue lapping and sucking your clit while your thighs press against his head.

“Gonna add another one, okay, baby?”

You nod your head desperately and he smiles cheekily, pressing a second finger into you to stretch you open. You throw your head back at the delicious stretch, your slick coating Megumi’s fingers and dripping down his wrist.

Megumi feels your thighs pressing together harder and he forces your thigh down with his free hand, your knee almost hitting your chest with how he pins it down. He’s spreading you open, tongue flicking against your clit and fingers curling against your gummy walls.

“Gumi– m’gonna–” you feel your tummy burn and you’re so fucking embarrassed that you’re about to cum from just having two fingers inside you. You start to pant, hands tangling in his hair as lewd slurping and squelches fill his room.

“S’okay, baby. Cum on my mouth,” he groans against you, his cock rock hard from feeling your hips grind against his face. You might be a virgin but your body knows what it wants as you rut against his tongue and your legs shake.

Megumi suddenly shakes his head over your clit, his mouth covered in your slick and you just cum. It crashes into you like a fucking train and you whine and moan against the back of your hand as Megumi fucks his fingers into your sopping cunt, your hole spasming and clenching down on his fingers.

He scissors and curls his fingers inside you, fucking you through your orgasm and feeling a sense of pride but also getting a huge fucking ego boost that he’s the first man to ever make you cum.

Your chest is heaving up and down, your vision cloudy and your mind feeling fuzzy as you come back down from your high. Megumi pulls his fingers out of you, kissing the inside of your thigh and lapping up the mess you made all over yourself.

You sit up on your elbows, face flushed and hair dishevelled as you peer down at Megumi. You suddenly feel immensely embarrassed that he was just between your legs, his tongue flicking over your clit and his fingers deep inside you.

“Fuck, you taste better than I imagined,” Megumi licks his fingers clean while holding eye contact with you.

You whine and flop back onto the bed, earning a soft chuckle from Megumi as he gets to his feet, attempting to find a towel or old shirt somewhere.

“Where are you going?” You ask timidly.

“M’gonna clean you up, don’t worry, I won’t go,” he replies, quickly pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“But…” your eyes flicker to the obvious bulge in his pants.

“Hm?” He follows your gaze. “Oh, m’okay, princess. It’s not about me anyway.”

“But, I want to–”

“S’okay, Y/N,” he lifts your hand, kissing your knuckles softly, “you can try some other time.”

“...Do you not want to?”

He grins, “course I want to.”

“Then let me,” you whine, pulling him closer to you. “Please.”

Megumi ponders it for a moment. He doesn’t want to frighten you and he’s so fucking scared of losing control and just bending you over and fucking your brains out. But the way you look at him with your pretty wide eyes and your hands gripping his thighs as he stands between your legs–

How could he say no?

“You want to, baby?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay… we’ll go slow,” he urges, petting your hair gently.

You’re so fucking eager to please him that it makes him weak. Your post-orgasm body is shaky as you reach for the zipper of his pants, your fingertips grazing against the sensitive bulge. He groans softly, hand petting your head as he lets you figure it out, slowly unzipping his pants and pulling them down a little.

There’s a dark wet patch on his boxers, he’s so fucking turned on by your pretty sounds and your intoxicating taste that his cock is leaking and begging for attention.

“S’big,” you whisper, eyes widening.

And he hasn’t even pulled his cock out of his boxers.

He chuckles, “you flatter me, pretty.”

“N-No, really,” your pretty eyes meet his. “Is it gonna fit in my mouth?”

Holy fucking shit.

He was thinking you were just going to give him a handjob and now you’re asking if he can fit in your mouth.

Megumi runs a hand through his hair, “fuck you drive me crazy.”

“I-I thought you wanted me to–”

“Baby. You can do whatever you want to me.”

Your eyes blow wide and you just about sparkle with anticipation, “then… can I suck your dick?”

Someone kill him and put him to rest because you’re about to be the death of him.

“Fuck yeah you can, baby.”

Megumi has to help you pull his cock from his boxers and your eyes just about bulge out of your head at the size of him. He’s long and thick and the tip is a pretty pink colour. It’s heavy too, almost too heavy to hold itself up.

He sits down on the bed and you get on your knees in front of him. He strips his hoodie off, his abs flexing as he leans back on his elbows, just watching you.

You bite your lip, suddenly intimidated.

“S’okay… just take it slow.”

You nod your head before your hand wraps around the base. Megumi suddenly groans and you pull away with a fright, “s-sorry!”

“No, no, baby–” he chuckles breathily. “Js’ a lot to take in having a pretty girl with her hands on my cock.”

You look away shyly and Megumi laughs, reaching out to cup your jaw, forcing you to look back at him. He sits up, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. You taste the remains of your orgasm on his tongue, pressing your thighs together as you feel yourself become a little aroused again.

He kisses you deeper, reaching his free hand out to cup your own, guiding you toward his hard neglected cock. “You can touch me, baby.”

Your hand wraps around the base and you squeeze softly, earning a groan from your pretty roommate. He guides your hand up and down and it’s painfully fucking slow but he’s just happy to have your hands on him.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs. “Doin’ so good.”

You beam at the praise, pressing your thumb against the leaky slit of his pretty cock head. Megumi groans, leaning back on his elbows and tipping his head back. You continue the motion, eyes gleaming with pride and innocence as you just watch him fuck your hand.

His hips jerk up, his cock pulsing in your hand.

You suddenly feel the urge to press your lips to his tip and when you do, Megumi nearly cums like a fucking teenager.

“F-Fuck,” he grunts, his hand unintentionally pulling your hair, forcing out a pretty moan from your lips.

You take the tip in your mouth, your tongue flattening against the head. You wonder if you’re doing it right but the way Megumi groans and his hand pushes your head further down his length, you think you’re doing a pretty good job.

“Such a good girl,” Megumi sighs, “feels s’good.”

You moan at the praise, taking a little more of his length down your throat. Your hands are squeezing his thighs, nails scraping against the taut skin and Megumi is doing everything in his power to not fuck his cock down your throat.

You start to drool, saliva slipping down your chin and coating his pretty cock. You suddenly gag on his cock, the tip hitting the back of your throat.

“F-Fuck,” Megumi feels his cock twitch at the cute fucking sounds you’re making. Your eyes are glassy, and you’ve got drool dripping down your chin and your cheeks are flushed so pretty. “You’re gonna make me cum, baby.”

You pump the base of his cock, your tongue clumsily swirling around his tip, eyes glued to him as you watch for his reactions. Megumi suddenly sucks in a breath and pulls your mouth off his tip with a quiet pop! quickly pumping his cock.

Hot ropes of sticky cum spill across your lips and face, Megumi tipping his head back with a deep groan, squeezing the base of his cock as it twitches and jumps.

“Fuck– you sure you’ve never sucked dick before– Oh, fuck.”

Megumi’s eyes dilate at the sight of his cum painting your pretty little face, your fingers swiping at the ropes of cum before you push them into your mouth, tasting him.

“I do good?”

Megumi laughs breathlessly, “you did so good, baby girl.”

Megumi is quick to clean you up, using an old shirt to wipe the cum off your face while you sit there all pretty on your knees in front of him. He presses kisses to your face and your hair before pulling you into bed beside him, his fingertips tracing over your shoulder as you lay your head on his chest.

“You mean what you said?”

“Hm?”

“You like me?” You ask sweetly, resting your chin on his chest to look up at him.

Megumi sits up a bit, “I like-like you.”

“Wow. That’s a big call, Fushiguro.”

Megumi chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “remember it’s Megumi.”

“Gumi?”

“I like that too.”

“Mm, Megs?”

“Don’t push it.”

You giggle softly, curling into his side with a wide smile.

Megumi takes you to work and campus every day after that night, his hand always in yours when he walks you to class and he likes to pretend it annoys him how you wrap your hand around his arm and how you squeal his name when you see him after class.

When in reality, Megumi couldn’t be happier. In a twisted way, he’s glad you asked him if he hated you, because he was able to summon the courage to tell you the truth.

That he didn’t hate you. Not even a little.

author's note: the way i been pulling all nighters for DAYS. i was about to kill these two I TELL YOU JUST MAKE OUT PLS I CANT–

taglist: @starpachinko @2ukika @sukunabish @somethinglikero @wannabewolf @milliex01x @princessa143 @hrithi11 @katsukita69 @slayzzz @arcanefeelings @shirabu-k @izzzzzzig @zah2890 @evergumi @aerareads @flashilyquinn @raedollsstuff @happylildeath @anormieee @l1v1ngzomb1e @kimkimoruo @sunnyf4lls @saekolust @kalulakunundrum @xastoriaaurax @feliaeae @sleepyxzn @mahazsine

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #megumi x reader #x reader #jjk megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #jjk smut #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro smut #megumi smut #jjk x reader smut #fushiguro megumi #megumi #jjk megumi #jujutsu kaisen megumi #yuji itadori #yuji itadori x reader #yuji x ozawa

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smileysuh · 2 months ago

Text

no face

🌙 starring. Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. Wonwoo is even more gorgeous than you’d ever imagined the anonymous No Face being, and this time, when you close your eyes to listen to the cam boy moan, you imagine your history partner above you, his hand down your pants as he rubs you closer and closer to the edge.

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, mutual masterbation, mention of cam shows/watching cam shows, extreme dirty talk, alter ago dom cam boy Wonwoo, pussy eating oral, multiple reader orgasms, overstimulation, praise, encouragement, multiple sex scenes, fingering, body/breast worship, etc… I pet names: (hers) baby.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.6k

🍭 aus. Svt cam boy au, frat au, university au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This is part 1 of a 3 part cam boy svt au. Each story can be read as a stand alone, but exists within the same universe :) Wonwoo is April, Seungcheol is May, and Mingyu will be in June. As soon as all 3 are up, a masterlist will be created, which will then be linked here.

Prologue:

You never thought you’d be the type of girl to enjoy watching men get off through a computer. But then someone had recommended a cam boy to you, and one video had hooked you unlike anything else.

Being in university isn’t easy. It’s stress on stress on more stress and then a little bit extra stress just to round things out- and sometimes, a girl just has to get her rocks off without worries.

To you, cam boy No Face is the perfect distraction.

This faceless man, who usually films from the shoulders down. There’s something so specific and endearing about him. His pretty veiny hands, forearms showed off by black compression shirts with the sleeves rolled up-

His sounds are also like heaven, and sometimes you close your eyes and just listen to him, imagining he’s the one getting you off.

People talk about the dangers of porn, but fuck it, being a tad addicted to No Face is your own kind of dark chocolate and red wine, and no one is going to make you feel bad about needing an outlet for your pent up sexual energy.

He’s a gamer too, a faceless one the likes of Corpse Husband and Dream (before the face reveal of course), and you love the fact that he’s multidimensional.

When you’re studying, his gaming streams are in the background, and when you’re done studying and ready to reward yourself, it’s straight to his OnlyFans.

Recently, he’s taken to wearing a neon blue accented purge face mask, and you love the way his dark curls obscure around the plastic.

He’s a handsome man, you can just feel it in your bones, and you can feel your orgasm roll through every inch of your entire body every time you cum with the help of No Face.

One:

History classes can be a bit of a bore at times, and as someone of a recluse, you don’t get the joy of friendly chats with other girlies. No, history is your solitary work load, which is why you’re dreading the group project that’s being set up today.

The teacher gives students the benefit of choosing their own partners. This isn’t high school, and your professor knows most people already have connections that work well for this sort of thing… most people.

You look around as people pair up, and you feel like there’s a frog in your throat. You don’t have it within you to make that leap, to ask someone to be your partner-

Which is when you notice the other antisocial person who sits at the back of the class. He’s handsome, with an angular bone structure. You’ve never once seen him smile, and that mirrored recluse nature throws you off a bit.

To make matters worse, he has dark curly hair, just like your No Face, and everytime you look at him, your mind conjures up whispered words of encouragement to throw you over the edge, and your panties get wet in history, which is a very inopportune time to be getting horny if you’re honest with yourself.

His eyes meet yours, and you immediately look away, but you can sense him standing up to talk to you.

“Do you have a partner?” he asks.

“Uh… not really.”

“Me neither.”

There’s an xawkward silence for a moment, and then you release a sigh, looking up at him. “So… should we do the project together.”

“Guess that makes sense.” He nods.

You tell him your name, and he introduces himself as Jeon Wonwoo. You exchange details and as he speaks, there’s something even more familiar about him, but you brush it off.

“So… when are you free?” Wonwoo asks, pulling you out of your daze.

“I could do the library after my last class ends, let’s say four oclock?”

“I’ll see you there.”

Two:

Wonwoo is easy enough to work with. He’s not very opinionated, and he has let you choose what topic you wanted to work on for your project. Now, the two of you are getting preliminary readings out of the way, looking into the online research that would provide the backbone of your argument for the essay portion.

You find yourself looking at him very frequently, after all, he’s a striking man, and you’re a horny girl who has been so busy doing university courses that you haven’t had the time to get laid in forever.

Your gaze dips, and you stare at his hands as he toys with his pencil. It must be some sort of anxiety calming repetitive behaviour, the way he flicks it, traces his thumb and pointer down the wood, then flicks it again.

As you’re looking at him, you notice the details of his fingers.

Although No Face’s cock is significantly - significantly - bigger than this tiny pencil, the phalic shape is the same. You’ve watched so many No Face videos, and Wonwoo’s fingers are undeniably the same as your favourite cam boy’s.

You feel like you’ve choked on air, and you look up at Wonwoo, imagining him with that neon blue purge mask.

He’s got the dark hair, the curls- he’s even wearing a black compression shirt today.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, drawing his attention immediately.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, fuck, uh-” You look away, feeling your skin heat with embarrassment. “It’s just hot in here.”

Wonwoo simply gazes at you, and you find yourself standing up.

“I’m just going to pop outside for some air,” you tell him, not even waiting for a response as you grab your phone and dart away.

It’s only once you’re under the blue sky, feeling the cool air against your skin, that you’re able to take a moment.

You’re in a group project with your favourite gamer boy OnlyFans model, and you’re going to have to pretend as if you haven’t cum to his videos countless times.

If this is how you’re going to react every time he’s around - skin heating, heart racing, hands getting clammy - well, you’re in deep shit.

Three:

“No, I swear to God, Tina, my history project partner is No Face!”

Your friend is silent for a moment, simply watching you. “But like… how sure?”

“Tina!” You narrow your eyes at her with exasperation. “You know I watch him religiously!”

Tina nods. “I mean… there are rumours that some of the Sigma Veta Tau frat guys are into the whole cam thing, some of the sororities too.”

“Rumours?”

“Nothing confirmed, obviously, if any of them are in on that whole OnlyFans world, they’re smart enough to not show their faces.” Tina releases a sigh. “There’s a frat party tomorrow at SVT actually, maybe… we should go and I can see Wonwoo for myself.”

“Okay, but! Tina, I’m calling dibs.”

“You can’t call dibs! I showed him to you!” Tina argues.

“This isn’t time for girl code or anything else, I know you watch multiple streamers- No Face is the only one I watch, no one else has ever interested me. And I’m the one who made the connection! Tina, for real. Please.”

She releases a deep groan. “Fuck it. Fine. I guess. But if he hits on me, I’m going for it.”

“I guess you’re wearing a full sweater and showing no skin at the party tomorrow then.”

Four:

Wonwoo’s shocked to see you at his frat for a party. From being in classes with you for the first part of term, he’s pegged you as a shy and quiet type, much like himself. All month, he’s never seen you speak to anyone. You show up, take your seat at the very back of the room, and don’t open your mouth for anything.

Luckily for Wonwoo, he’s into the shy and quiet type. While his best friends are loud and boisterous, he could never see himself with a party girl, which is why he doesn’t have much of a social battery for being at his frat parties for longer than absolutely necessary.

Mingyu - the aforementioned loud and boisterous best friend - is next to Wonwoo, and Wonwoo can feel his gaze.

“Are you checking out that girl?” Mingyu asks.

“I have a class project with her,” Wonwoo responds casually, sipping his beer.

“She’s cute.”

Wonwoo simply shrugs, not wanting to divulge too deeply into his interest of you just yet. He’s a careful type, and with his scandalous online alter ego, he has to be.

“You should go get her a drink,” Mingyu continues.

“She’ll be fine.”

“If you don’t get her one, I will.”

Now Wonwoo turns to look at his friend, and the challenging gaze he receives in return makes him sigh. “Fine.”

“That’s my boy!” Mingyu grins, clapping Wonwoo on the back.

Despite Wonwoo’s confident persona online, he doesn’t have much experience with women. He’d gotten into the gaming scene first, learned how to be social and how to talk to followers of all types. Somehow that had translated to making an OnlyFans.

Choi Seungcheol, frat president, had seen his follower number on Twitch, and had suggested the creation of OnlyFans. Sex sells, and the business major had run the numbers. Cheol had broken down that if even one percent of Wonwoo’s following made the transfer to OnlyFans, Wonwoo could be making serious bank every month.

Both men were shocked to find a whopping five percent of Wonwoo’s followers had initially made the move with him to OnlyFans, and since then, that number has only grown.

Wonwoo tries to channel that confidence as he approaches you, and he kind of likes the way you jump when he gently touches your elbow to gain your attention.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you respond, eyes wide. You look like a frozen deer, caught in headlights, and Wonwoo’s not sure if he wants to swerve, or hit this whole thing with full force.

“Want a drink?”

You nod, and Wonwoo leads you to the kitchen, where he finds you a beer.

“I’ve never seen you at one of these things,” he notes, stepping closer to you so you can hear each other over the loud music.

“I’ve never been to one,” you admit.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Wonwoo asks next, although, he suspects he already knows the answer.

“Uh… it’s loud.”

“Do you want to move somewhere quieter?”

He notes the way you swallow thickly, the way your pupils blow- but you nod, and Wonwoo once again grabs your arm to gently lead you to a different destination in the house.

His room is on the third floor, and he’s one of the lucky few that doesn’t have a roommate. The sound dies down significantly as soon as the door is shut behind the both of you, and Wonwoo welcomes the reprieve.

“I like your set up,” you tell him, looking around at all the neon blue and the PC set up.

“Yeah, I’m a bit of a gaming fan.”

“I can see that.” You’re quiet for a moment, and then you ask, “What are your favourite games to play?”

“Call of Duty is fun, League of Legends, Fortnite, all the usual ones,” he responds, moving toward his bed, where he takes a seat.

“Ah, right.” You nod, taking a sip of your beer.

“Do you game?”

“I watch gamers more than I play, you know, something to have on in the background while I study.” Your eyes meet, and you quickly look away.

There’s something in your body language that is throwing Wonwoo off, and the fact that you’ve just mentioned you watch streamers is a bit of an indicator that things might not be all that they seem with you.

Could you know who he is?

Was bringing you up here a mistake?

If you’ve ever seen one of his Twitch streams, will you be able to make the connection between him and the room?

It’s not like his streams show a lot of the room, but they show enough- and neon blue is a bit of a signature colour of his.

Neither of you say anything, and then you take a quick breath. “Anyways, I’m here with my friend Tina, and she’s probably wondering where I am-”

“You should get back to it then,” Wonwoo tells you.

“Yeah. But uh… we’re still on for our library study thing on Monday, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Five:

When No Face puts up a new video on his OnlyFans, you take the opportunity to get a better look at his bedroom.

Two seconds into the video you’re convinced that your quiet history partner is, in fact, the notorious faceless gamer turned cam boy, and it makes your stomach turn into knots.

Is it bad to keep watching this, knowing what you now know?

Is it… disrespectful to Wonwoo to be watching him? To have your hand slowly snaking into your pants as your pussy gets wetter by the second?

Do you have any chance with him?

Is this whole thing a dream?

You’ve been obsessed with one gamer/cam boy in your life, and suddenly he’s your history partner?

You thank whatever God is out there for this coincidental and miraculous turn of events, and you let out a breath as you begin to toy with your clit, relaxing against your pillows.

No Face has such a pretty cock. It’s the perfect size, and it looks even better with his long, slender fingers wrapped around it.

You listen to his quiet moans, and they urge you to echo them as you masturbate in your room.

Wonwoo’s only ever filmed himself. He’s a strictly solo man… there’s a possibility you have a chance with him romantically - or maybe even just sexually. If he gives you any chance at all, you’ll take it, everything else be damned.

Wonwoo is even more gorgeous than you’d ever imagined the anonymous No Face being, and this time, when you close your eyes to listen to the cam boy moan, you imagine your history partner above you, his hand down your pants as he rubs you closer and closer to the edge.

Six:

You need at least one citation from a physical book for your report, so today, you and Wonwoo are perusing amongst the shelves, searching for a few titles you have identified for possible quotes.

Your heart is racing just from being near Wonwoo, and you sense his gaze more often than not.

“You okay?” Wonwoo asks.

“Hmm?”

“You’re quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet,” you retort… quietly.

Wonwoo releases a chuckle, and you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him smile. The sight of his pretty pearly whites, the sharp canines, the way his eyes crinkle- it has your stomach erupting with butterflies.

“More quiet than usual,” Wonwoo corrects himself.

“I think you’re more talkative than usual,” you point out.

“Maybe.”

You take a breath, wondering if you should tell him that you know who he is.

If you tell him, it’s an admission that you’ve seen his Twitch or his OnlyFans- and you wonder if that will make him uncomfortable.

The two of you are quiet for another couple of minutes, but finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I’m just going to say it,” you blurt out, drawing his eyes. “I know who you are.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re No Face, aren’t you?”

Wonwoo is quiet.

A groan escapes you. “Fuck, this whole thing is so uncomfortable, I shouldn’t have said anything, because now it’s going to make you uncomfortable-”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he interjects.

“You’re not?”

Wonwoo shakes his head. “Just wondering which platform you’ve watched me on.”

Your heart lurches violently in your chest, and your throat all but closes up again. You choke a little on your response. “I, uh- I-”

“I’m guessing both,” Wonwoo concludes.

You’re gaze moves down the floor immediately, that familiar heat blooming through your skin, a sign of the embarrassment that surges through you.

“It’s kind of hot that you’ve watched me before,” Wonwoo sighs. “How could you tell it was me?”

“Your hands,” you say meekly.

“My hands?” You can hear the shock in his voice. “Wow, you must watch me a lot.”

“I do,” another half whimpered response, an embarrassed admittance of your cam boy loving ways.

“Don’t be shy about it,” Wonwoo tells you, and he steps closer. You instinctively move back, only for your shoulders to bump into the shelves behind you. It’s interesting how suddenly your history partner has changed from shy boy Wonwoo, to confident cam boy No Face, and you can feel your core getting wetter with each tension fueled moment. “I appreciate you being transparent with me.”

You finally look up at him, and you catch Wonwoo’s gaze dip to your lips.

Before you can even register what’s happening, Wonwoo is leaning in, and your body reacts on it’s own accord.

Your arms throw themselves around the back of his neck, and you press your lips to his. Your chests meet as Wonwoo wraps you in his embrace, his mouth hot as it moves on your own. He pushes you back against the shelves and you can’t even find it within yourself to care that you’re making out with him in a library.

There’s no shame as you make out with Wonwoo, accepting his tongue into your mouth with a delighted groan, there’s only intense pleasure, and an ecstasy like feeling of absolute elatedness that you’ve never experienced in your whole life.

Then- a sound in the periphery of your surroundings makes you jump, and you pull away from Wonwoo, looking around wildly.

“Shit,” you whisper, tearing yourself out of his embrace. “This was- uh, that was- um… I have to go!”

You find yourself running away, and you’re not even sure why. All you know is that you’re completely overwhelmed, and once again, being in the presence of the notorious No Face has you needing air like a fish out of water needs H2O.

Seven:

You shouldn’t be shocked when Wonwoo sits next to you in history class. He doesn’t say anything, but half way through the seminar, his hand moves to your knee.

Your heart is racing in your chest, a mix of anxiety and excitement. He hasn’t reached out to you since you ran away from him in the library, and you have no idea where you stand with him, so instead, you just stare at his hand.

There’s this general sense that you both deeply want each other, and it distracts you all the way until class is over.

As students stand up around you, hurrying to their next engagements, you turn to look at Wonwoo.

“What are we doing?”

“A project.”

“You know what I mean,” you sigh.

“We’re doing whatever you want.”

“Okay,” you take a breath. “But I’m shy, I don’t normally do hookups, and-”

“I don’t do hookups either.”

“You don’t?”

“There’s a reason I do solos,” Wonwoo points out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“Does the whole No Face thing bug you?” he enquires.

“Not really,” you admit. “I mean, in this day and age, most people have done it. Not me, but, you know, most people.”

Wonwoo lets out a chuckle, then it dies down. “So… do you want to be there for my next stream? You know, sitting behind the camera, watching?”

You swear it’s as if there’s a flood in your panties, and your heart leaps like a professional olympic high jumper.

“Yes,” you squeak.

Wonwoo smiles broadly. “This will be fun.”

Eight:

You’re sitting on Wonwoo’s bed, body tense with anticipation.

His camera is set up, and it’s the only thing between the two of you as he lounges in his gaming chair.

The neon blue purge mask is obscuring his features, but you can feel his eyes on you. He’s hit the record button, and you’re committed to being a silent watcher as Wonwoo visibly slips into his No Face alter ego.

There’s something about the way his shoulders drop, the way he tilts his head back, exposing his pretty throat as he gets comfortable in the chair.

Wonwoo’s hand drops down to the front of his pants, and he palms himself gently, releasing a sigh.

“Feels good,” he muses, voice deeper than it usually is in every day life. “Wish it was your hands touching me though.”

Your body tingles with the realization he’s talking to you. Sure, he dirty talks for his shows all the time, but today, it’s different.

Today, No Face is literally talking directly to you, but all his words will be eaten up by his subscribers too. It’s your very own personal cam show, and no one else ever has to know.

“Are you going to get started too, baby?” Wonwoo asks. “I can’t be the only one getting off, and we both know you’re here watching this because you want something in return. So don’t be shy.”

You swallow thickly, heart racing in your chest.

“How about this, I strip tease for you, and in return, you get yourself ready for me?” he suggests.

It’s almost hard to breathe now, but you nod, staring directly at Wonwoo. You know his eyes are on you. At this point, it’s clear he’s ignoring the camera completely, but with his face obscured by the mask, his subscribers will be none the wiser to the true event taking place.

Wonwoo starts by gently lifting up his shirt, exposing hard abs and a lean muscled body that has your core already throbbing with need.

Compression shirts are part of his brand, so Wonwoo stops the teasing there, hands instead dropping to the belt of his black jeans. He’s slow with undoing it, slow with the way his long fingers toy with his button and zipper.

He releases a sigh as he lifts his hips, pushing his pants down to his knees. His thighs bulge where they press against the black leather of his gaming chair, but the bulge in his underwear is even bigger, and it makes you unconsciously lick your lips as your eyes stay glued to every motion.

“Come on, baby, be good for me,” Wonwoo tells you, and it snaps you out of your trance.

You realize you need to be doing something too- that’s the whole intrigue of this. Wonwoo gets off on camera, and you get off behind it. Mutual masturbation, in the sexiest possible form.

Truly no hands on, just self gratification while watching the other pleasure themself.

You remove your shirt, and Wonwoo lets out a groan. “That’s it.”

Deciding to keep your bra on for now, your hands slip to your own pants, and you carefully take them off.

“Want to see you,” Wonwoo says, palming himself through his underwear.

Your hands are shaking as you remove your panties, body alight with energy. It’s not shyness per se- more like shock that you’re even in this situation.

You want it, so fucking bad, but it’s a truly difficult thing to wrap your head around. This situation is unlike anything you could have imagined in your wildest dreams, and you’ve never been more turned on in your entire life.

You’re now bare on your lower half, and you relax against the bed, lifting your legs so your feet are on the mattress, your pussy spread for Wonwoo.

He releases another deep groan, shifting his own underwear down.

His beautiful cock slaps up against his stomach, and he immediately wraps a hand around it.

There’s a bottle of lube next to him, and you watch him spurt some onto his palm, when he brings it to his cock again, you begin to touch your pussy.

You start with your clit, drawing slow cirlces while Wonwoo strokes himself, matching your pace.

“Mmm, that’s good,” Wonwoo muses, relaxing back against his gaming chair. His head lolls back, but you know his eyes are still entirely focused on you. “I know you’re feeling good too, aren’t you, baby?”

Since he’s on camera, you know you can’t make a sound, but you nod aggressively, swallowing the lump in your throat as you apply more pressure to your clit.

“That’s it, rub harder,” Wonwoo encourages you. “Bet you’re all nice and wet for me already, huh?”

It’s hard to hold in the moan that threatens to escape you, but you nod again, biting your lip to force yourself not to make a sound.

“I can just imagine your mouth on my cock, sucking me so good,” Wonwoo says. “How I’d grab your hair and help you find a rhythm. Bet you’d kind of love choking on it, love the way tears roll down your cheeks as I use you.”

Your toes curl at his words, and you rub your clit even harder, the knots in your stomach tightening deliciously.

“When you got me to the edge, I’d switch things up. I’d lay you down on the bed, eating you out until you cum on my tongue, until your thighs are shaking around my head. I’d hold you down too, because I know you’d like that. Something tells me you want to be dominated, and I could show you what that’s like.”

It’s as if he’s read your mind, as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Once you’re good and ready, I’d finally give you my cock,” Wonwoo groans, increasing the pace of his strokes along his length. “Bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Love to have me spreading open your insides and fucking you stupid.”

Your breathing is shaky as you rub your clit, your heart racing in your chest. Your eyes close a little as you focus on the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that’s beginning to blossom inside of you.

“I think you should slip a finger in, baby, imagine it’s mine.”

Your eyes snap open again as you stare at him.

“Come on, do as I say.”

With a shaky hand, you bring your fingers to your core, slipping one into your obscenely wet hole.

“Hmm, that’s it,” Wonwoo groans. “Bet you wish it was bigger though, huh?”

You nod, biting your lip even harder in an effort to control yourself.

“Add another finger then. They’re still not as big as mine, but you can dream, right?”

God, you were not mentally prepared for this.

To be the sole focus of No Face is the most sinfully wonderful thing you could ever experience, and the way your body reacts to his commands- following through without your mind even registering it now-

Wonwoo has you in a daze, and you kind of love it.

“Fuck that pussy with those tiny fingers, baby,” Wonwoo encourages you. “I wanna hear it.”

You’re so wet you’re almost afraid his camera will be able to pick up the sound of your squelching pussy, but fuck it- he’s given you a command so you’ll follow through.

“That’s it, feels good, huh?”

You can see he’s stroking his cock harder, and it makes your mouth begin to salivate as you watch.

“Do you think you’re close, baby?” Wonwoo asks.

You nod.

“I’m close too, something about this has me hornier than usual. Thinking about tasting you, about fucking you with my fingers then railing you with my cock- you’re doing something to me, baby, and I know I’m doing something to you too.”

You nod again, more enthusiastically this time.

“Rub your clit again, want to watch you cum for me.”

You do as he says, and you bite hard on your lip again, throwing your head back, eyes closing as you focus on the feeling.

Wonwoo begins to moan as he watches you, and you’ve seen enough videos of his to know that this is a sign he’s near the edge too.

You can hear the wet slapping of his lubed hand now, and you know he’s beating himself off hard and fast- you bet he wishes it was your pussy on his cock right now, and it makes your toes curl again as you get closer and closer to your own high.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Wonwoo moans. “Come on, you can cum for me.”

You nod, muscles tightening to an impossible limit-

“That’s it, that’s it-”

Wonwoo’s encouragement throws you over the edge and you fall backward onto his bed, grabbing a pillow to put over your face, muffling your moans as your orgasm washes through you.

Your whole body is throbbing with sexual energy, thighs already shaking as you continue to rub yourself through it- having not received a command that you could stop.

You pray to God that the pillow is enough to muffle your sounds, because the whimpers escaping you are no longer something you can keep in- especially when Wonwoo releases a grunt of his own, a sign that he’s cum too.

A shiver of tingles errupts through you at the notion that he’s tipped over the edge, that the two of you have cum together in a situation like this.

Your mind is practically blank except for this moment, and as your orgasm dies down, you can’t ignore the racing of your heart in your chest.

“That’s a good girl,” Wonwoo groans, voice drawing you back to reality.

You move the pillow away, pulling your hand from your core as you sit up again, blinking at Wonwoo.

He’s cum all over his chest, and it’s a big load too- fuck, part of you wants to just lick it up.

“You were a good girl for me tonight,” Wonwoo says. “Such a good girl.”

He’s gently toying with his cock still, but finally he stops, and after a deep sigh, he turns off the camera.

The two of you sit there in silence for a moment, and once Wonwoo has the cap back on his camera’s lens, he pulls off his mask.

His skin is flushed, and he looks absolutely beautiful. There’s nothing like a post orgasmic glow to bring light to someone’s eyes.

“You good?” he asks, voice returning to its normal tone.

“That was amazing,” you whisper.

“I can’t believe you’re seriously okay with all of this,” Wonwoo admits with a sigh, running a hand through his unruly curls before reaching for some tissue to begin wiping up his mess.

“I am.”

He chuckles. “I can tell you’re overwhelmed though.”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, anticipation bubbling through you.

“I think it’s best if we call it a night.” Wonwoo says, and something sinks within your chest at his words. “I want to fuck you, I do, but… I want to give you time to think about all of this.”

“I have thought about all of this,” you counter.

“You’ve thought about fucking No Face, but off camera, I’m just Wonwoo, and I don’t want you to be disappointed with… the reality of me. No Face is a persona, and I need to know you understand that.”

You consider his words, and nod. “I’ll spend some time thinking about all of this.”

“But we’re still on for studying in a couple of days, right?”

“Regardless of us, we have a project to finish,” you nod.

Wonwoo smiles. “Thanks for coming today, it made a difference.”

Nine:

The two of you are studying in Wonwoo’s room, and as hours pass by, it’s getting harder and harder for you to focus.

There’s a tension in the space that you could cut with a knife, and your panties have been wet since you arrived.

In the past couple of days, you’ve given the whole situation a lot of thought… and you may have rewatched the camshow you did with him about a hundred times too.

“Wonwoo?” you ask, putting your laptop to the side.

“Hmm?”

“I wanted to talk to you about us.”

He gives you space to continue and you take a breath.

“I know that the whole No Face thing is a persona, and while he’s not you, he’s still part of you. Despite that, I like who you are too. You’re calm, and smart, and level-headed- and respectful too. Most men wouldn’t have done what we did and let me go home to process the situation. You could tell I was overwhelmed and you didn’t take advantage of me, which shows you’re respectful too. I think… you and I are kindred souls, and I’d like the opportunity to get to know you better, the real you, not No Face.”

Wonwoo nods, and you can tell he’s thinking about what you’ve just said. “I want to know you better too. I never thought I’d find a cute, shy girl who would be okay with the whole OnlyFans thing. You’re quiet, but you’re kinky, like me, and I really like that.”

Your skin heats at his words, and a smile works its way onto your lips.

“Doing this project has been great,” Wonwoo continues. “We work well together, and yeah… I like you a lot. I want to give it a try too.”

“Good.” You take a breath, sitting up to move closer to him. “So… I think we’ve done enough studying, don’t you?”

Wonwoo chuckles. “Feeling needy, huh?”

“You’ve got a half chub already, so don’t talk to me about feeling needy,” you tease with a grin.

“Talking back, are you?”

“You said it yourself, you’re not No Face, you’re Wonwoo. No Face is a dominant, but Wonwoo… I’m getting vibes from you that you’re something else.”

He cocks his head to the side, looking at you with a smile. “I guess you know the real me better than I realized.”

“You talk a big game about being a dominant on cam, but… my guess is you’re softer in person, softer like this.” You reach out to stroke his face, and Wonwoo leans into your palm.

“Are you okay with soft?”

“I’m okay with a mixture,” you tell him. “Whatever feels right in the moment.”

“Part of me wants to fuck the shit out of you,” Wonwoo notes. “But… as a first time, another part of me wants to just be nice.”

“Then be nice, you can be rough later, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“You better.”

You move his laptop out of the way, swinging your leg over his hips so you can mount him where he’s seated on the bed.

His hands find your waist, and he looks up at you. God, he truly is so beautiful.

You’ve kissed him before in the library, but that had been all fire, all passion, all pent up tension- as you lean down to press your lips to his now, you get the sense that everything about this interaction will be softer.

He’s not playing off as his alter ego, he knows you accept the real him, that you want to experience Wonwoo tonight, not No Face.

As amazing as No Face was, you don’t want him to think that’s all you’re here for.

He kisses you gently, one hand moving up to cup your cheek. His tongue is tentative as it runs along your bottom lip, asking for entry instead of demanding it.

You tilt your head a little to make things easier as the kiss deepens, his fingers digging into your hip.

You begin to grind down against him, enjoying the pressure on your clit. He’s already hard, and you know he wants this as badly as you do, which lights a fire in the pit of your stomach.

With one movement, Wonwoo has you both rolling, and you end up with your back pressed to the bed, Wonwoo on top of you.

Now it’s his turn to grind down against you, and you kiss him harder, whimpering against his lips.

One of his hands snakes up to your breast, and he squeezes you through your shirt, groaning at the way you fit in his palm.

“Can I take care of you?” he asks.

“You can do anything you want,” you assure him, heart beating rapidly in your chest.

Wonwoo’s lips move to your throat, and then the swell of your cleavage. You throw your head back, closing your eyes and enjoying the sensation.

He’s gentle when he removes your shirt, followed quickly by your bra, and then his mouth is on your chest again. His lips are soft as they suck on your nipple, his tongue flicking the sensitive bud.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tangling in his curls as you enjoy the worship he’s providing you. Wonwoo takes his time with your breasts, and you can feel your pussy throbbing- you wonder if this is what blue balls feels like for men- this insatiable need to have attention on your core instead of the erogenous zone he’s currently enjoying.

Soon, Wonwoo’s mouth is moving down your body, and he slips onto the floor next to the bed. He takes off your pants and panties, moving slowly as if to give you time to change your mind.

But you’re not going to change your mind.

You want this more than you’ve ever wanted everything, and as he drags you to the edge of the bed, intent on eating your pussy like he’d talked about on cam, you give yourself over to him fully.

His hands massage your legs, and he peppers kisses up your calf, tickling your knee as he moves to your thighs.

Your legs adjust over his shoulders, and his hands grab at your hips as he leans in for his first lick of your pussy.

The contact of his tongue on your clit has you releasing a squeal of delight, your entire boy tingling with pleasure.

You can feel Wonwoo’s eyes on you as he begins to eat you out, his tongue pushing into your wet pussy before flicking back up to your sensitive bud again.

“Feels good!” you tell him, muscles already beginning to tighten with pleasure.

His fingers get a better grip on you, one hand moving to your thigh to hold you in place as he devours you.

He sucks your clit into his mouth and it’s a sensation that has your entire body reacting, the cord in your stomach tightening even more-

No one has eaten you out in practically forever, and to be having a man worship you like this- it’s getting you closer to the edge, faster than anyone else before.

“Shit,” you whimper, tangling your fingers in his hair again, back arching as the pleasure begins to build.

Wonwoo doesn’t relent, he eats you out like a starved man, his eagerness only growing with each second-

Your whimpers are getting louder, the sensation building more and more-

“I’m gonna cum!” you announce, eyes clenching shut as you teeter on the edge-

Suddenly two fingers are slipping into your pussy, crooking up so his digits can touch your sweet spot, at the same time, he sucks roughly on your clit and that’s all it takes to make you cum.

You gasp, your orgasm exploding inside of you unlike any other.

It’s all consuming in the best possible way, your body throbbing with unknown pleasure.

Wonwoo continues to finger fuck you, working you through it as wave after wave of ecstasy consumes you.

Your clit is almost too sensitive now, your thighs shaking, muscles beginning to hurt from the power of your high.

“Fuck, Wonwoo-” you whimper, pushing at his head.

He pulls away from your clit, his fingers slowing inside of you, and you can feel his eyes.

“You good?” he asks.

“Fuck, that was so good-” you groan, another shiver erupting through you when he strokes your inner walls again. “Need more.”

“Need what?”

“Your cock,” you tell him. “Need it so bad.”

“I’ll grab a condom,” Wonwoo muses, pulling his fingers out of your pussy only to plop them into his mouth.

As he stands, you freeze. “Wait! I’m on birth control!”

He stops, looking down at you. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure I’m on birth control, yes.”

“No, I mean, are you sure about unprotected sex?”

“Well… I’m clean,” you point out. “I haven’t had sex in forever-”

“Me neither,” he admits. “Other than, you know, sex with my own hand.”

You stare at him for a moment, and from the way he cracks a smile, you know he’s making a joke. So you begin to laugh too.

“How have we both not gotten laid in a while?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Guess we’re both pretty shy.”

“And school is busy,” you point out.

“School, gaming and OnlyFans is definitely a lot,” he agrees, pulling off his shirt then kicking down his pants. “Move up to the pillows for me, want you to be comfortable.”

You do as he says, watching eagerly as he gets fully naked for you.

God, his cock is even prettier up close, and you bite your tongue as he gets onto the bed with you. Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, and you pull him in for a passionate kiss.

He begins to grind down against you, stimulating your oversensitive clit in a way that has you squealing with delight.

“I like your sounds,” Wonwoo muses, lips moving to your throat and ear, where he gently bites your lobe. “Was a shame I didn’t get to hear them during the cam show.”

“I tried to be good and quiet for you.”

“You were very good for me,” Wonwoo groans, voice dropping into the No Face cadence, which has your stomach flip flopping, pussy getting even wetter.

Wonwoo reaches between your bodies, adjusting the tip of his cock to your pussy. “You said you haven’t been fucked in a while,” he muses, “so if this hurts, or you need me to go slow, or stop-”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure him, cupping his face. “Just fuck me, please.”

Wonwoo kisses you then, slowly pushing his rock hard cock into you as you whimper and claw at his shoulders.

He fills you so well- your inner walls finally receiving attention from a real sized cock after way too long.

Your fingers - hell, even his fingers - don’t do his full length justice, and it feels like heaven once he’s fully bottomed out.

You both release a low groan, your toes curling with pleasure.

“I’m good,” you tell him, pressing kisses to his throat as your fingers explore his broad shoulders. “Feels good.”

“You feel good,” he counters, beginning to move.

The drag of his cock along your core has you groaning, eyes closing as pleasure consumes you.

“Shit,” you whimper, holding him tighter.

“Shit,” Wonwoo echos again, picking up his pace.

You lay there, enjoying everything he’s giving you. As himself, Wonwoo’s not much of a talker, but you’re okay with that. The two of you simply gasp and moan as conversation, and you enjoy the feral aspect of sex, the part where you’re both overcome by the feeling of each other, so overcome that words aren’t even necessary.

Wonwoo presses his lips to yours again, kissing you fiercely as he fucks you harder and harder, until his bed is rocking and you’re scared people outside his door will be able to hear you moaning.

But part of you doesn’t even care, you don’t want to hold yourself back with Wonwoo anymore, not like you did when he was on cam. No, you want him to hear every whimper, every groan, every squeal of pleasure as he fucks you better than anyone else ever has.

There’s a connection here, a spark, and it lights a fire inside you as Wonwoo fucks you for the very first time.

It’s passionate as you remain lip locked, your hands grabbing at his strong shoulders.

You don’t even care that it’s clear this will be a one position fuck session. Missionary has always been one of the more boring ways to fuck, but with Wonwoo- it’s downright magical. There’s nothing like it, being pressed chest to chest- as close as you can be as you do this.

Wonwoo’s groans are magic too, and they have your pussy throbbing depserately around him-

Then he slips his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit-

Your pussy clamps down on him, a gasp escaping you as you break the kiss to look up at him.

“Want you to cum with me,” Wonwoo groans. “Please.”

You can’t respond, all you can do is focus on the building sensation- and in no time at all, you’re tipping over the edge with a loud moan.

Wonwoo returns your sound with a grunt, burying his face against your throat as he cums with you.

Your pussy throbs around him, milking Wonwoo of all he’s worth as he moans in your ear, fucking you through it all.

His hair is tickling your cheek, but you can’t even care as the orgasm swells through you like the waves of a warm summer ocean.

Your chests are still pressed together, and you can feel the beating of his heart. It’s almost dizzying, feeling this connected to another person, and it leaves your mind blank as you enjoy it.

Your arms are wrapped around him, cuddling Wonwoo close as his motions come to a stop, and then you just pant together, doing your best to catch your breaths.

You stroke his hair, releasing a deep sigh.

Wonwoo presses one last kiss to your throat before pulling away. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“Perfect.”

Wonwoo grins. “Me too.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! This was so fun to write, I can't wait to explore this au more in other chapters!

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below!

🔮 preview. You know there will be no more rough housing, no more use of the paddle, because No Face might be somewhat of a sadist, but Wonwoo is a pussy whipped softie, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, foreplay, dirty talk, blow job, pussy eating, hand job, commanding/dominant alter ago Wonwoo, use of paddle, impact play, pain kink, fingering, slight sadism Wonwoo, multiple reader orgasms, mentions of sex toys, creampie, etc… I petnames. (hers) baby.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 3k I teaser wc. 110

🌙 starring. Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader

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You love Wonwoo. You love him for all that he is, No Face and all, and you also love that despite his online alter ego, he’s very soft and giving in bed. However… sometimes, you just want to be man handled and dirty talked until your head spins, and your lovely boyfriend is more than willing to provide that for you on special occasions.

Today is your birthday, and after you’re done classes, you go back to your apartment to shower and get ready.

You’ve bought a very sexy outfit. Garter connected fishnets, a black push-up bra, a corset, sexy high heels, and a thong to complete the whole look.

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yeyinde · 9 months ago

Text

bos taurus | dogmeat series pt., i

mafia butcher Simon Riley x Reader

You don't question your brother when he sends you to drop off packages to his friends, but when the enforcer for the 141 shows up to teach the small-time dealer selling on their turf a lesson, you realize there are different ways to pay someone back with pounds of flesh.

(OR: your brother owes them, and Ghost is content to let you settle the debt. after all, if you wanted freedom, then you shouldn't have caught the eye of the butcher of the 141, should you?)

18+ SMUT. noncon. objectification. marking. kidnapping. threats of violence. unsafe sex (manipulation into unprotected sex). rough sex. size difference. breathplay. 10k of foreplay. light pussy slapping. overstimulation. mafia au.

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3

The goal is to be as quick and discreet as possible.

In and out, he says, looping the baggie around his index finger. Inside, a snowfall of white powder settles at the bottom.

Meth this time. Oxytocin the last.

He ties it tight before giving the bag a quick shake, breaking up the clumps. Satisfied with the way it looks, he turns toward you. Levels you with a sombre look, the picture of a concerned older brother.

You almost fall for it. Believe it. But the clouded, flat edge to his gaze undercuts his worry for what it really is. A farce.

“And if it seems sketchy—”

—run.

But your knees are locked, soles glued to the pavement. You can't move even though everything is screaming at you to flee.

The problem, maybe, is that there's nowhere to go. Escape cut off, filled by a body, a man—even though the idea, the mere notion, of thinking this behemoth as human, flesh and bone; blood and tissue, is laughable when he's so clearly a beast. A monster.

He fills up your field of vision. Your line of sight was eclipsed by the thickness of his waist, the broad expanse of his shoulders. Thighs that are as wide as the trunk of a tree. Arms boxing you in. A prison of obsidian. A black shadow.

In the panic that surfaces, surging to the top like an oil spill, you catch a pocket where he doesn't root. A small alcove between the bend of his elbow and the slot of his knee perched against the wall. Enough room for you to—

“Wouldn't do tha’ if I were you.”

His voice seems to shake the earth, rolling out of his broad chest like the low, brassy roar of a lion; a rumbling thunderclap.

You feel sick—

The leather covering his hand is cold when it closes around your arm, grip tight. Bruising. Trapping you with just the slightest effort.

“Go’ a problem, you and I,” he starts, and it's almost conversational. Might be, perhaps, if the clean, sleek outline of his gun inside the unclasped holster around his ungodly thick waist wasn't threatening you more than the grip he has on your arm. “How do you reckon we can fix it?”

You have a meagre twenty dollars in your pocket. Less money for them to take if things go awry. If they decide that the little girl standing in for her older brother was an easier target to rob—money and drugs—than to settle things fairly. Money, goods. Hand over hand.

Just like the movies, he'd said.

Just like the movies, you think when he leans in closer, bulk swallowing you whole.

There is a pockmark in the corner of his crooked, misshapen nose and the crease of his eye. A scar, maybe. It's circular—almost perfectly so; a silver-pink moon on the angular ridge of his nose. Uneven, craggy, like crumpled printer paper.

It looks almost like—

You think of the mark on your arm. Soot-stained. The smell of burning hair, tissue. The searing pain.

“I–I can pay you—” you stammer out, tearing your gaze away from the ugly mark on his skin. A cigarette burn. It makes you shudder.

He cocks his head slowly like a big, dumb dog, but there's something eerie in the ink spill of his eyes. The soft matte of a saltwater crocodile staring at you from beneath the murk. Calculative. Hungry.

“Pay me?” He echoes slowly, dragging the words out mockingly. “D’you know ‘ow much trouble your brother is in? For sellin’ ‘ere of all places?”

“No,” you swallow. It feels like your heart is stuck inside your throat. “I–I just—”

“Run ‘is errands,” he finishes cruelly but you can't deny it. “Ain't you a good little sister? Almost makes me wish I ‘ad somethin’ as sweet as you f’myself growin’ up.”

You don't answer. He doesn't seem to be looking for one, really; just empty words to fill space. To echo in your head, barbed wire around any sense of comfort you might have felt. Punishing cruelty.

He has the upper hand, it says. He's the one who makes derisive jokes while you tremble in his grasp, and try to make yourself as small, as unassuming, as possible. Hiding from the predator in plain sight. Hoping he passes you over for something bigger, more calorie-dense; the effort to catch and consume you expends more energy than the return. Hardly worth it in the long run. The comfort of a risk-reward ratio, right?

But he's opportunistic, it seems. A snacking scavenger.

Could eat, it says, like a basking tiger keeping a mouse trapped between his paws, letting it squirm and squeak as he slowly licks his lips. Not enough to fill its belly but enough to satisfy the gluttonous urge a predator has to eat. Sharpening its teeth on flimsy bones. Child’s play.

It's a fitting image, especially with the way he arches over you, looms; fingers looped around the thick of your arm, holding firm, but not—

Not as tight as he could.

It's a loose-fisted grasp. Lazy, almost. He knows you won't run—or, at the very least, knows you won't get far.

You peel your gaze away from his, dropping it to the curve of his shoulders—the width of them is just as dizzying as his height; broad, muscular. Pulling it further down the length of his arm, covered in a thick jacket. Black corduroy. Ashes stain the cuffs. A bulky watch juts out from his wrist. Gold. Glinting even in the grey-blue gloom of an overcast evenfall.

His muscles tense. Hand tightening around your arm, fingers digging hard. Rubbing muscle painfully against bone.

A warning, maybe. Stop looking—

But something else catches your eye. Blood red. The colour of meat. A fresh kill.

The back of his hand has a blooming rose. Petals spread out, unfurled. In the middle, a milky skull sits. Stencilled in boxy, yellow letters is ONE-FOUR-ONE—

You know what it means even as your mind whirs, gears turning, turning; plummeting into a tailspin, making excuses as it falls, dragging your heart down alongside it. An area code. Some special date. An inside joke.

But you've seen the marking around town before. Heard whispers about them from your brother, his friends. 141, they say, and then: mafia.

The real deal, he said, puffing around a joint his friend rolled. It's too tight. He scoffs, and rips it out from between his lips. Shitty roll, man, make another one—

Mob. Mafia. Gangsters. It seemed so extreme, Hollywood. Fiction, fantasy, all rolled into one. Tony Soprano. Ralph Cifaretto. Michael and Vito Corleone. Tony Montana. Larger-than-life men created on paper.

You think your brother thought so too. Child's play. Grown men selling weed to kids for two hundred an ounce. Buying themselves sleek, black cars—G Wagons, Escalades, Cullinans—on the Xanax they sell at clubs, parties. Cocaine. Heroin.

Nothing to worry about.

Then his friend went missing.

Sent out on a routine delivery to drop off cocaine to well-dressed men in suits outside of a local butcher shop. A normal, nondescript Tuesday.

But he wouldn't answer his phone. Texts were being delivered, read, but no chat bubble appeared. Nothing sent back. Calls went straight to voicemail. He wasn't at home. Wasn't at his mum's. No one saw him. Heard from him.

Your brother didn't call the police. Didn't report him as missing.

It's just not what they do, he said. You don't involve them. Ever.

The most shocking part of it was that no one saw anything. He just vanished. Disappeared—stock an’ all, your brother angrily spits—without a trace, picked up off the streets.

If it was the police, someone would have said something by now. They're hardly discreet. And a rival—

Well.

The biggest problem was that your brother was blindsided by his own small-time success. An accumulation of little wins bolstered his confidence. Overfed his ego. This fallout was tunnel vision. A refusal to see the bigger picture.

Or the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

You'd heard of the 141 in passing. Little quips, anecdotes from the passel of friends that congregated around your brother—often getting high on the couch and watching old cartoons; sharing a joint back and forth between gossip.

Through rheumy eyes, they'd talk about the real gangsters in town—much to the irritation of your brother—and swap tales of run-ins and feats they heard from a friend (of a friend, of a friend). Most of the guys were known already. Soap and Gaz are the biggest names that cropped up on the streets through reputation alone. Both fighters for a gym. MMA, mostly, but whispers of street fighting and extracurricular activities weren't uncommon.

Liked the thrill of it, they said. But the worst was a man simply known as the Ghost. An enforcer for the 141—a fucking butcher, more like, Liam cut in, jaundiced eyes widening—the guy who took care of problems.

“Can't be,” your brother scoffed, lifting off the couch to reach in his back pocket for his wallet. A small anthill of white powder poured into the glass table. “They don't get involved in our shit—”

And for the most part, you're sure that's true. Dealing to the same circle of people—outreach spread through word of mouth—seemed paltry in comparison to the scale of an operation that had a money laundering gym. But the problem was that your brother lacked common sense. His ego often got in the way of foresight. The shadow greed casts blocking out the bigger picture.

Like—

Territory is territory—regardless of what's being pushed.

You wish there was a modicum of surprise when his friend turned up. Barely recognizable. Sent right to the morgue as a John Doe.

Most would see the marks on the man's skin—the distinct lack of blood—as an indicator to abandon ship, find the boss, beg for forgiveness, and maybe even try to strike up a deal. But—

That picture is hidden under his anger. Greed. Selfishness.

He sends you instead.

You're somethin’ they ain't expectin’, he said. Won't mess with you.

Right.

He catches the realisation dripping down your brow—beads of sweat gathering at your hairline; anxiety, fear, churning your stomach—and hums. Cocks his head to the side.

“Was expectin’ ‘im t’show up, though—” he murmurs, hand tightening around your arm. The pressure, the sting, is eclipsed by the gnawing sense of dread biting viciously into you. “Told ‘im if I caught ‘im sellin’ on our streets again, there'd be trouble. Thought we ‘ad an agreement after ‘is friend. But—”

His eyes cut to yours. It feels like a knife to your guts, sinking into soft tissue. A pain you can't breathe around.

Won't mess with you, you think, and then viciously—sadly—he knew. Was warned by them and still sent you out. Let you take his place for whatever comeuppance they decided he deserved.

It should shock you. You almost wish it did. Desperately clinging to the threads of surprise that slip through your oily fingers, grasping onto the nothing but empty air. Numbed to the resignation that trickles in.

Of course he would leave you here to save himself. Letting you fend off whatever they threw at you alone. Leaving you trapped between a brick wall and a wall of a man.

The excuses are there. They pool on the tip of your tongue—it isn't me, don't do this, it's my (stupid, selfish) brother you want, not me—but you swallow them down and try not to wince at how quickly they dissipate when you do. It doesn't matter in the end because whatever you have to say won't negate the drugs in your backpack. The empty house you'll lead them to—your brother probably squirrelled away somewhere until this blows over. Half-hopeful you'd call him and say everything is fine, the deal went smoothly. You're on your way back. Or that the debt he racked up with them is settled by you.

It's half-hearted when it slips out again, caught between resignation and dread. A brittle whisper. A prayer—

“I can pay you. Whatever he owes, I can—”

He's already shaking his head.

“Too late for that, birdie. ‘sides, I don't want your money.”

He moves back, rocking on his heels to put a small measure of distance between your bodies. In that scant space, he drops his gaze, sweeping it over you. His eyes darken.

When he pivots them down, catching yours, you can't stop the shiver that crawls up your spine.

That calculative gleam is back.

“But I think we can work something else out.”

Something else turns out to be ushering you into the backseat of an old Ford pickup.

The door whines when he opens it. Rust flaking off, falling to the ground by your feet. Your mind reels. Spins comparisons to falling snow, dried blood.

He hauls you in with his hand wrapped around the nape of your neck, thick thigh sliding between your own to boost you up. The protest—a mindless, reactionary squeal at being manhandled—only makes him chuff. A brief flex of his fingers around the skin of your neck is the only warning he gives before it pulls away, and wraps tight around your waist. His thigh flexes, muscle drawing taut as he shifts his foot up to the running board, lifting your feet off the ground and seating you fully on his leg like a child.

(In his hands, you feel like one, too.)

The motion makes you slip, back glueing along his broad chest with a shallow thump. You feel the rumble of his laugh trembling up your spine before you hear it.

“Careful,” he drawls, oiled with amusement. “Might slip.”

Anything you could say in response is choked back when he bumps the corded steel of his thigh into the seam of your legs, pushing tight to your clothed cunt. His intention is unmistakable this time. Unignorable. And with the rasp of filtered, balmy air against your crown; the pull of a groan when you rock back into his groin, the noise still slicked with mirth, you feel a knot of dread spool tight in your belly.

Something else is dragged back to the forefront, coiling like wisps of smoke around you.

And you knew. It's shocking, you think, but not necessarily a surprise. To call it a dichotomy would be lying to yourself, and so, you settle against it. This notion that what he wants—wanted—is flesh. Not money. Not retribution.

Not to talk things out like you'd hoped he’d try (grabbing onto the idealistic thread, holding it tight to your chest); bringing you in and forcing you to convince your—stupid selfish greedy—older brother that quitting was the only option. Dangling you—baby sister—over his head in an appeal to his emotions. Familial bonds. Love.

That thread is cut. Snipped.

Probably severed when they first came to him with an offer. No strikes against him and yet—

The idea of using you to make him bend was expunged from the drawing board. It's not even a plan b, or c, or z.

And—

You knew. Have known. Maybe that's why it's so easy to swallow around the panic when it lances through your chest, climbs up your throat. You can think and feel and breathe around this dagger in your back like it was there the whole time and you've only just noticed it now.

Nothing but a small, whispered oh in the roiling polyphony of your emotions.

It sits there as he manuevers you into the passenger seat of his truck, your head spinning around the indescribable sensation of being woefully cognisant despite the paralysing fugue pressing against the bubble of stark awareness that keeps it at bay. It manifests itself as a numbed sort of shock. Or more accurately—

Indifference.

Defeat.

His hand brushes your cheek, the snag of dry leather against humid skin tugs uncomfortably at your flesh, stinging as they dance down to your jaw, the delicate line of your vulnerable throat, skimming over the curve of your breast—

And it's too much. Too present. Too real.

Autopilot. Dissociation. Derealisation. All of these concepts slip past the bubble of hypervigilance, skidding the surface like a pebble thrown over a lake. Out of reach as he unashamedly gropes you, barely making an effort to mask his actions as just buckling you in.

You pretend, though. Curl your fists around the sides of the seat, fingers digging into the worn foam. Head lulling back on the headrest. Eyes fixed out the window as he walked around the front, head and shoulders still visible in the windshield despite the height of the truck. It makes your heart leap, stuttering in your chest as the absurdity of his size is brought back into focus. Too big, you think. Grossly so.

There's a moment when you think about running. Toying with the idea of sliding your hand over the lock, pulling the door open when he's too busy on his side to notice. It'll give you an advantage—a head start. Enough time to slink through the dense forest of concrete buildings lining the industrial zone, and into somewhere safe. Help, a behemoth is chasing me—

But the door clicks. Swings open with a squeal of rusted metal just as your fingers twitch toward the handle. Hope evaporates with each lurch of the cab as he climbs inside, metal creaking under his weight when he settles in the seat.

From the corner of your eye, you can see his head tip. Chin angling toward you. Staring. Assessing.

When he speaks, you feel the words like cold fingers dancing maliciously down your spine.

“‘pected you t’run.”

It's said idly enough. Nonchalant. Tone even, if a little cruel, and you wonder if this is some test. One that you passed—and failed—in equal measure.

He doesn't look away. It takes less effort than you wish it did to peel your lips apart, to breathe in the stale, mulch scent of the cab—something overgrown, rotting, and damp—and mumble:

Where would I go?

It seems to amuse him. He hums around a mouthful of mockery before turning away, pawing at the ignition. Gloved hand curling over the wheel.

“Smart girl.”

You don't feel very smart. In fact, you feel very small. Stupid. Maybe you should have taken a stab at it—running. Tried, at least, to save your own life before the jaws of the beast closed over you like an iron bear trap around your ankle. Fought like hell. Clawed and kicked and screamed.

When most kids read the back of a cereal box, you learned about secondary locations. You know better than this.

But the truck sputters to life in a belly-deep rumble, hacking up soot into the air as he pulls the lever into DRIVE. The fight inside of you—however ephemeral it might have been—dies inside the smoke spilling out of his exhaust. Gone so quickly that you begin to wonder if it was even there at all—

Must be, you think, eyes listing outward. Keen. Mapping the twists and turns—a futile effort in the end: he doesn't bother hiding where he's taking you, and you've been down these old, grim streets more times than you can count.

It doesn't surprise you much when he turns down the street leading to the butcher shop. An old relic that still carries the marks of a booming farming town before it fell victim to industrialisation. Concrete skyscrapers in place of lush cornfields. Warehouses over old barns, ranches. Cattle, meat, produce—it all used to be a mainstay here but now hides under layers of steel.

The dark windows of the small shop gleam with hazy smears of neon blue, red, when you pull up, catching on the array of rowdy bars across the street. All clubs that belong to the 141. A playground of drugs, sex. More money than you'd ever see in your lifetime.

It's an uncanny juxtaposition to the quiet, assuming street right across from it. Barber, butcher, accountant firm, antique store. All dark inside and bathed in the smeared stream of glimmering neon as lights flash in the fading glow of twilight.

He pulls up to the curb in front of the shop. A bold move if the streets weren't so empty. Lifeless. The clubs won't be open for four more hours. Everything else follows the same nine to five as the rest of the world. The shops closed an hour ago, and everyone in town seems to know not to linger here after dark.

The air seems to stagnate in your lungs when he cuts the ignition. Slips the key into his pocket.

“Don't get any funny ideas in tha' pretty little ‘ead o’yours.”

“Funny ideas,” you echo, toneless. Flat. It rolls out with your exhale. Words that might have been smarter to swallow down. “Like following a stranger to a butcher shop?”

“Lippy little thing, ain't you?” He scoffs. The truck creaks when he shifts. “Ain't go’ no one t’blame but yourself. Told you what would ‘appen if you kept sellin’ in our territory. You should ‘ave known better.”

“That was my brother.” The words slip out before you can stop them. “Not me—”

“‘ow am I suppose t’know that? You were sellin’ where I told ‘im not to—” he has the gall to shrug. Spit these careless words at you like it wasn't life or death. “That's all there is to it, birdie.”

“That's not fair—”

The truck groans under his weight, shaking from side to side as he leans over to push his door open before turning back to you, rolling his eyes.

“Life ain't very fair, is it?”

The acerbic words are flicked out from between his teeth; an apathetic, droning curl clinging to each syllable. He doesn't care. Won't. What happens to you next is your choice, and yours alone.

And he's just doing his job—

“When I get out of ‘ere, you ain't gonna do anythin’ funny—”

His hand lashes out. Gloved fingers close over the thick of your throat in a blink. Fear lags by a beat, giving him enough time to sink his fingers over your neck, and when it catches up—heart rabbiting in your chest, thudding in your ears; roaring as your pulse thunders beneath the press of his thumb—he’s already got you in his hold. The width forces your chin to lift, stretching up to accommodate the curl of his hand around you.

Trapped like a rabbit. Cattle to the slaughter.

He tilts his head down, keeping his eyes on yours as he forces your crown into the headrest, chin lifted up. It's uncomfortable. The curve of your neck cuts off your airways. Constricts your breathing to shallow gasps. An ache grows in your nape.

The swell of panic, fear, in your eyes makes him hum. But there's nothing echoing back. An absence of light in the deep, placid pits. It looks like still water. A stagnant lake.

It's unnerving how dispassionately expressive his eyes are. Wild, wild. Vats of ink. Pools of obsidian. Ringed in red-lined ivory. Long, ashen lashes dusting over the smears of charcoal under his eyes. Sleepless nights, maybe. Fatigue. The corners are tattooed with coal, leaving behind a thumbprint in the crease.

But empty. Barren. No light.

Like black holes. Eating everything around it. Devouring all that gets too close, but giving nothing in return except a bottomless crater in the bruised-plum nebulous of space around it.

You're not sure you like it. You can't look away.

But in staring back so hard (getting pulled in deeper and deeper), you catch the twitch in his left eye. A shallow spasm. It throws off the symmetry when he blinks, one eye a sliver of a second behind. Desynchronized in a way that seems so—

Unlike him.

Disjointed.

You blink in response. Perfectly synchronous.

His lid twitches again. Just once. Brief. Pale, pink eyelids drop, unveiling a nebula of indigo veins on the smooth, thin surface as they roll down to half-mast over his eyes, now narrowed slightly in contemplation. Thought.

Whatever is happening in his head can't be good. It causes a ripple over the lake. Little rings rebound outwards.

He looks away first. A quick slide of his eyes to the corners, glancing out of the passenger side window. Whatever catches his attention is unknown to you. The anchor on his hand around your throat keeps you still. Immovable.

(Every instinct in your body compels you not to look away from him because nothing outside could ever be scarier, more dangerous, than him.)

A second later, he breathes in through his nose. The fabric of his mask is pulled into his nostrils from the force, forming little black holes under the crooked arch.

You hadn't really given much thought to his appearance outside of big, massive. But there's a strange asymmetry to the slopes and valleys beneath the balaclava. Trying to map his face, fill in the blanks with just black cloth and vague, lopsided outlines, is impossible. There are too many gaps. Too many missing pieces. You can only wonder, then, what he looks like under it.

Monstrous, you hope.

It's just a coincidence that he looks at you the moment the thought passes, but you flinch like a naughty child getting caught doing something you shouldn't when the heavy, dour weight of his impenetrable stare is levelled at you once more. Your heart stutters. It's loud in your ears. In the truck.

You wonder if he can hear it just as loudly as you do—

Another blink, and his gaze flickers down, settling on the gap between your lips, watching the little tremble they make with each shallow hiccup of air you greedily suck in. His head tilts to the side, eyes never leaving your mouth even as he leans down, masked lips brushing over the beading sweat gathering on your hairline.

It's a brief touch. A taste. You tremble when he pulls back, fingers tightening around your flesh.

His eyes are lavascapes.

“Are you, birdie?”

You almost forget what he's asking. The conversation hidden between the scant beats it took for him to measure your worth with the blistering intensity of his stare, and the tumult of your feelings still looping around each other in your belly. Knotting up tight into a ball. There's fear, of course there is.

But the rest—

You'd rather not think about.

The grip on your throat eases just enough for you to shake your head no to whatever he is asking. Doing anything funny, you think, scrambling at the tangle of memories flipping past, trying to connect the pieces to a puzzle you've already forgotten.

It must be the right response. Or maybe it's another question like before, a test where there’s no right answer.

Run, stay.

Smart and stupid.

But it seems to appease him—marginally. His eyes crease. Tightening. His other hand folds over your throat, sliding until his palms kiss the sides of your neck in a near-perfect symmetry.

Something frissons across the blank, placid lake of his expression. Another ripple. A shudder. He leans in for a moment, nose touching the apple of your cheek, and when he breathes in, it’s sharp, reedy. Cold air ghosts over your skin. Long, pale lashes flutter when you swallow.

He hums quietly under his breath before peeling back. The flatness to his gaze is back; a cold, impenetrable distance widening like a chasm as he uncoils around you. You almost fall for this—this indifference. An icy nonchalance. But you've been eating the minuscule quirks of him just as ravenously as he's been devouring yours.

There is something there. A fracture, maybe. A splinter.

But what leaks through from the other side isn't anything close to warmth. It's—

Hunger.

The shift in your throat draws his molten gaze to your neck, still wrapped tight in his firm grip. Your reflection blooms in the vat of black; eyes wide, all white. Pupils narrowed to a pinprick. Mouth slack, corners tugging downward from the pressure of his hand. The tilt of your head. His thumbs press under your chin, pushing you back further until it feels like your neck might break—

He stops. Shifts. You puff out a shallow breath.

What looks back at you is unremarkable in the murk. A sliver of fear. A slip of unease.

Eye of the beholder, you think when his breath chuffs out shallowly through the mask. When that hunger is ground down to a raw, esoteric fissure hairlining the black of his eyes. The widening expanse of his pupil.

You wonder if it's your fear that itches under his skin, dredging up something predatory in his hindbrain. The urge to chase. To bite.

But the nearly indiscernible flicker of his gaze has you brushing that idea aside when it snags on the expanse of his hand coiled around your throat. Easily swallowing it whole with just his palms.

You're not a small thing, but the indomitable size of him makes you feel insignificant.

You think he feels it, too.

His fingers flex over your nape, stretching. Pulling. It pushes the flat of his palm into your throat, ridges crushed against your trachea. But you can still breathe. It's shallow. Hoarse. A touch painful. Dizzying in a way that makes you feel like you're on a rollercoaster. A teacup ride that just spins and spins and spins—

The gap closes. A sliver of air snakes down your throat. Muscles flexing, shifting. Struggling to swallow around the pinch of his hand. A harrowing task when you feel the gloved fingers link to the first, then the second knuckle, tying together in a too-tight, impossible, noose around your neck. Thumbs overlap. Fingers slide into place. It forms a chain of his hands with no gaps between them. Not a single sliver of skin shows from under the leather of his gloves.

He makes a sound when they meet—a nasal groan in the back of his throat, mouth clenched shut so the air has no choice but to tear through his nose. It's raw. Fractured. The devastating moan of a tiger nuzzling at its meal.

Your vision blurs. A black fog presses into the edges, seeping over the arch of your peripherals. Dripping down slowly over the hazy smear of the man. The way the ochre sun peeks over the angular roof of the accountant's office illuminates his back and casts swaths of shadows over his front. Drenching him in murk.

Despite the flickering darkness shuttering over your sight, you don't blink. Even as the tears prickle at your eyes, they stay open. Fixed on him. Black holes, you think, watching as the fever marbling those obsidian pools recedes. Cools.

He makes that noise again. Softer this time. A purr from deep in his chest. A breath. And then he peels back. His hands go slack. His shoulders slumping back into the lax, easy spread from before as you gasp hard, nearly choking on the flood of air that roars down your throat.

Your cheeks feel hot for a moment, and then cold. Icy. You don't have to touch them to know that you're crying. That the deluge clinging to your lashline spilt over, dripping messily to the collar of your shirt.

The placid lake is back. In the stillness, you heave. Mouth hanging open, chin quivering. His thumb lifts, slides over the curve of your chin. You don't feel it. Numbed, maybe, by the brief kiss of hypoxia. But you see it. Watch as he slides it up to the jut of your lower lip, the black, angular tip tickling over your skin. He follows the seam between skin and lip, tracing it to the corner of your mouth. It's slick. Drool pools in the crease, dribbles over the top of his finger. His eyes drop when he mops it up, catching it on the pad.

He makes another noise. An arid rasp bubbling between the soft tissue behind the roof of his mouth and the back of his tongue. It's ugly. The shiver you try to fight back slinks through.

His hand peels away from your neck, movements lax. Slow. The unwinding gait of an idling tiger in no real rush, no hurry, because there's nothing in the frigid Arctic that can touch him.

You watch him with flared eyes as he brings his thumb to his clothed mouth, and rubs your spit into the fabric of his mask.

His eyes don't break away from yours once.

Your spit doesn't stand out against the black of balaclava, but the idea of it burns through you. Throwing you headfirst into a dazed stupor. Dizzy. Confused.

Satisfied with whatever it was supposed to mean, he clambers out of the truck before coming around to your side. Distantly, you're sure this is what he meant by funny ideas when he passes the headlight, head straight and eyes gliding around the empty street. An opening to run. You know where you are. It would be easy to flee. Hide in the construction zone just ahead, tucking yourself into the tightest corner you can find until help arrives.

Help, though.

Officer, please. I got caught selling meth in the mob's territory and now they're going to skin me alive. Please hurry—

Right.

They'd rather help bury your body than get in the way of the mafia. Gangland violence isn't their concern unless it tumbles out into the street. Fat wallets keep even the most compassionate person quiet. Willing to turn a blind eye.

You'd be thrown in a cell. Or dropped off at their doorstep.

Either way—

You won't be coming back alive.

There's nothing to steel, harden, when he pulls the door open, your nerves long since ground down to fine powder. Nothing to fight against, either. He hauls you out of the truck, hands firm on your skin. Bursting blood vessels easily between his fingers. Barely any effort at all to crack your bones.

The moment in the car seems miles away when he pulls you in front of him, hand curling over your nape. Any flicker of humanity rendered out when he pinches you tight and shoves you forward. Dragging you back to the butcher shop by the scruff of your neck, leading you down a narrow set of stairs to the basement where pale white carcasses hang from hooks on the ceiling. He laughs when you tense. When your heels dig into the brown-stained linoleum.

Ain't gonna hang you, he mocks, fingers dipping punishingly into the sides of your neck. “Not yet, anyway—”

It brings little comfort when he drags you to a room in the back, kicking open the door with the toe of his boot before pushing you inside with a nudge against your nape.

It's dark. Walls covered in stains; mould, mildew. Something you hope is just rust. A single mattress is shoved into the corner; sheets stained with sweat and grime. Tinged a pale brown. Two pillows sit at the top, lopsided and matted with use. Threadbare. A twisted, black heap of fabric sits at the bottom. Wisps of cotton poke out from the cigarette burns.

A pair of muddy, black boots sit against the wall at the end of the bed. A basket of clothes—jeans, black shirts, black sweaters—is piled on the wall across from the door.

The room smells of stale sweat and old cigarettes.

You don't want to be here. The thought is abrupt. Immediate. Unease prickles along your nape, warmed and damp under his gloved palm. Between the look of the room—the floors stained the same suspicious brown, the rumpled bed in a corner—and the smell, you know this is not a place you want to stay. To be trapped inside with a man cut from Everest; whose hands are more dangerous than the sharp end of a knife.

He must feel the tension brimming beneath your skin; the spark of adrenaline surging through your veins. The clamp of his hand on your nape digs in tighter. Holding firm.

A breath tumbles out, thickening with mockery. “Like I said,” he leans down, pressing the mountainous width of his chest into your spine. The accentuation in your size difference, how big he is in comparison to you, makes you feel like prey. Small. Brittle, thin. He eats you whole. Spares nothing for later. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Another nudge and you're pushed further into the room. He leans away, foot shoving back on the door until it snaps shut with a noise that cuts through the gossamer that spun around you, bifurcating reality from dream. The haze is wafted away, and all that remains is a barren room with a lumpy mattress, the smeared stain of rotten blood coagulating on the floor, and his body boxing you in. No escape.

The rumble of his chest shakes loose the cobwebs spooling across your thoughts. A brush of humid air ghosts along the line of your jaw, dampening the skin below your ear as he leans in close, too close, and purrs:

“Go on now. Strip for me.”

Each scrap of clothing you slowly roll off of your body is exchanged for a slip of information about him—who he is (Simon Riley, the name rumbled through the split between his teeth; a low, brassy purr as his eyes gleam in the dark, drilling into the expanse of skin unveiled to him)—and what he wants—

Nothing, he tells you, lifting one massive shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. Jus’ what's owed to me, pet. For stickin’ my neck out f’you.

You don't think he did. Not really. But you're harshly reminded of the unsubtle threat. The gun balanced on his massive thigh. So wide, so big, it seems to make it look smaller in comparison. Tiny. A toy.

Child's play.

It's made worse, somehow, as he lounges. Sprawls out on the bed, legs spread, pulling taut on the jeans that stretch around the thickness of his upper thigh, bunching around his calves in a half-tuck inside his black boots. Arms flexing. Folded over his broad chest. He rolled the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbow, showing off an impressive tapestry of harsh, faded black ink. Crisscrossing lines. All asymmetrical. Guns, barbed wire. A bullet with a wide, toothy grin—

All of it knits together; woven into a tangled mass of muscle. Of man, hidden under scar tissue. Rope burns on his wrists cut so deep that the skin is permanently dented in. More cigarette burns hidden inside the mess of ink. Jagged lines—from a knife, maybe; bullet wounds.

His skin tells stories of a terrible life. Ink spills over the worst of them, but they're visible under the fading charcoal. A series of burns—acid, fire, chemical—and raw, torn skin. He looks like he's been mauled. Pressed into the cold metal of a wood chipper until chunks of flesh were taken out. But even with these deep gouges, craters of missing tissue, he's big. Bulky. Soft—like a tiger. Predatory muscle tucked away under a thick layer of fatty tissue.

The pillowed pouch of his belly, the softness around his biceps—

It belies the danger underneath. The steel.

But as scary as it is, it has nothing on his eyes.

Glinting in the dim room. Dark pools of obsidian that follow each movement with an almost clinical keenness. Sharpened to a razor's edge.

They might be pretty, you think, if they weren't so intense. So liquid. His eyes gleam like wet ink, languidly rolling along his lashline as you clumsily shed your jacket, your blouse. Shoes, socks. Pants. Until you're in nothing but your panties.

Swallowing around the influx of panic that flutters like little birds beating their wings against the soft walls of your throat, you slip your fingers into the hem, now or never, and—

And you hesitate.

There's a difference between undressing willingly and doing so to save your life. It should spurn you on—survive, survive, survive—but you freeze at the apex. The summit is within reach.

You know what happens when you climb it. Cross over the invisible threshold.

What you've been trying to ignore this whole time, ever since he shoved you into the room with a huff, taking his perch on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, but in such a terrifying state of vulnerability, nearly nude, you can't any longer. Can't avert your gaze to the stained linoleum in a thinly veiled effort to keep from glancing at the thickening bulge lying prone against his thigh.

His—

Well.

You knew what he wanted when he grabbed your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pursed, puckered for him to run his finger along the inseam. Prying your teeth apart. Rubbing his finger over your tongue, eyes dark—full; black holes pulling, tugging you in, dragging you closer to the event horizon framed in a ring of arsenic—and locked on to the sight of his gloved knuckle disappearing into your mouth. Wanting. Hungry.

You knew. And now—

Committing to it is legions above what you’re mentally prepared for. Nausea brims, churns your stomach. Unease curdling inside of you like rotten milk.

You don’t want this. But you don’t have a choice, do you?

That notion, the idea, prickles along your nape, raising the fine, peach-fuzz there until it stands on end.

You freeze. Movements still as every muscle in your body tenses. Coils. You can't do it. Can't—

A huff is dragged out of his chest as he sits up, knocking the gun carelessly to the mattress. His eyes daggering, sharpening into needlepoints, as he stares at you.

“Gotta do everything f’myself, do I?”

A grunt and he’s up. Pulling himself to his feet with nothing but the flex of his abdominal muscles.

There's no reprieve. Not a moment graced to gather your bearings before he crosses the distance between you. Once a comfort, a chasm, now conquered in a single stride.

The tips of his gloves are cold when they brush over your skin, sliding down the slope of your waist until they meet the hem of your panties. The last piece of modesty you have—

But he doesn't wait.

You're aware that this isn't a non-consensual thriller where the lead looms over the hapless love interest, eyes blazing with passion and need. That each interaction is drenched in a thick, palpable tension tethering the two together. Urges coalescing. Threads pulling taut, magnetic, dragging them closer and closer to the brink until they tumble over.

This is reality. And he doesn't stare into your eyes with an all-consuming desire as he slowly removes that last scrap of fabric keeping him from devouring you. No.

His skin-warmed fingers push under the elastic band with a rough shove, curling into the fabric until it tightens across your pelvis and thighs, and then he huffs, annoyed, and pulls. Pulls—

Until something gives.

The lace yields to the tension in his flexing bicep, and scrapes over your skin as it rips apart in his hand, threads snapping. Popping.

It hurts. Stings. You hiss, but the noise is ignored when he peels the ruined scrap of fabric from your legs, shoving it into his back pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. He looks back to you, eyes rippling like the dark, ink-black surface of a lake during nightfall, and coos, mocking and mean—

“Not s’hard, was it?”

He leans closer to you, a hand skimming up your spine before his fingers curl around your nape, keeping you still for just a breath before he pulls you into him with too much force. Your hands lift, palms slapping against his thick stomach when the movement nearly topples you over and threatens to break your nose on his chest.

“Makin’ me do all the work when y’supposed t’be payin’ me back? Ain't very nice o’you, is it?”

He touches you like he's taking stock of your worth. Grabbing a heavy, rough palmful of your beast in his hand, squeezing. Testing the weight, the softness, how supple you were between his fingers like he might with a piece of fruit. Meat. Prodding into the flesh, feeling the ripeness there. Gauging whether or not it was a piece he wanted to keep.

It's demeaning. Humiliating. He treats you like cattle; presses into the elasticity of your muscle, examines every inch of your skin for blemishes. Scouring for imperfections. There's no softness in the way he grabs handfuls of your body—squeezing your breasts, pushing them together, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger; pinching your belly, your sides, your waist; curling his fingers under your thigh, lifting it until it hitches over his waist, cunt exposed and pressed tight to the bulge trapped in his jeans. Your ass is handled rougher than the rest. Each cheek sitting in a hand, squeezed and punched and spread embarrassingly wide.

He ruts into you as he does it. Pushes the thick, fat length of him into your belly, rolling his hips against you with a heavy, ragged puff of air.

He feels big.

Everywhere, of course—it’s not so much his height, but the absurd width of him that really digs into your hindbrain, crossing all those intricate wires until they're tangled up, knotted together. Seeing his thigh, the same scale as a tree truck, slotting between yours—a mere branch by comparison—makes your belly flop. Turn over itself.

The muddled wires spark. Heat pools between your hips.

He could crush your head between them like a bear pushing its paw down on a watermelon.

It's fear and heat.

The two work in tandem, forming a seamless cohesion, as they flit down your spine, brimming up the urge to sink to your knees, the need to roll over and show your belly. A paradoxical desire to both run and be chased.

You're not sure if he's tendering your meat to eat later or if this is the usual type of foreplay he engages in, but once satisfied you're softened up enough for him, he shoves his fingers between your thighs with an abrasive hum that reverberates through his belly, tickling your palms.

“Tired o’waitin’,” is what he says when your head jerks up, eyes widening in shock. Terror. Horror. “Don't look so surprised,” he huffs, dryly. Voice a rough scrap over your cheek. “What'd y’think was gonna ‘appen?”

“Wait—” but he doesn't.

His fingers twist, pushing through your folds to graze your clit. It isn't gentle. It's sudden, quick. You gasp more from shock than pleasure; the rough slide of leather feels strange on your flesh, and your head is too muddled to separate fear from bliss.

Despite that, your body heats. Reacts to his touch. Your lower lip wobbles. You bite back another sound that crawls up your throat when his knuckle catches on your clit again, the pressure just shy of too much.

The burn, the fever, melts the unease. Shallow gasps spill out. Your cunt clenches, fluttering around nothing—throbbing, growing sticky, slick; achy and empty—when he starts to glide his digit between your folds. Little sawing motions drag each groove and stitch of his gloves over your pebbled clit, each thrust of his hand between your thighs making heat pool between your hips. It's done so clinically, so detached, like his hand rubbing over your leaking pussy was nothing to him. An action to get done, a task to complete.

It's the shame of that, the embarrassment, that makes you want to weep. Your fingers dig into his chest, nails pulling uncomfortably on the pleated bumps of his jacket as you grip the fabric right between your fists, clinging to him like a newborn fawn—all wet-nosed, teary-eyed; knobbly knees threatening to buck.

“S–stop—” you mewl when the monotonous rhythm melts into something harder, more intense. Heart thudding in your chest, heat burning you up as he turns his hand, palm up, between your sticky, shaking thighs. He rubs his hand back and forth, curling his middle finger up when he passes your hole, tip pushing against your leaking rim.

The friction aches. The stretch stings. The leather feels strange, foreign when it pries your folds apart and dips inside of you.

You don't like it. It's too much—

He makes a sound—a tut—when you pull away from him, standing on the tips of your toes until the blunt curve of his finger slides out of you. He sucks his teeth in a mockery of disappointment before digging his fingers, hard, into the sides of your neck. A warning. You whine. Whimper—

It goes unheeded. And when you press your thighs tight together, shivering at the slip-slide of your skin rubbing against each other, he growls. The noise is inhuman. Animalistic.

Your act of deviance comes with a swift, bruising punishment.

His fingers tighten on your neck once again. A warning squeeze as he reaches down with his other hand, grabbing your hip. It keeps you still, immobile, as he bullies his boot between your feet, kicking your legs apart. You're not expecting it. When you stumble, he huffs in amusement. Can't hold yourself up? Want me that bad, huh? Needy fuckin' thing, ain't you?

You don't get a chance to respond. His palm splays wide over your hip, leather creaking as he flexes, stretching his fingers out, tapping some soundless beat out against your skin. Touching you like he's owed the privilege. The right. And in many ways—

Go’ a problem, you an’ I

—he does.

Brute strength, and an unmatched, almost laughable, dearth in your physicality ensures that he has the upper hand—even without the gun he left on the mattress; darker and flat, a full matte compared to what you were expecting.

(They're always so shiny in movies, aren't they?)

The threat of it—dull as it might be—roots you to the spot as he slides his hand down, thumb brushing over your belly button, dipping in; pressing until your stomach starts to ache—

It peels away when the whine wells up, sloping down, down. Teases your mound with the tips of his fingers, gentle swipes along the sensitive seam of your belly and pelvis, the sensation is an odd tickle that pulls at your navel, pulses at the apex of your thighs. You mewl—a slow, soft thing that barely makes it out from between your teeth—and he lets his hand drop. Palm flat against the soft flesh of your mons, fingers reaching, spreading, until they curl over your folds. Index and ring finger tucked tight into the hollow bend of your pelvis and thigh. The tip of his middle rubs gentle strokes over the skin above your clit. It's a whisper of pleasure. The idea of a touch.

Mindless, your hips flit, following his hand—

“Needy.”

It cows you. Douses you in icy shame. There's barely any mockery in his even, observant tone, but you feel it unfurl over your shoulders all the same.

He doesn't give you a moment to think, to let the ripples of humiliation take over, forcing you to pull away, hide. His fingers trail over your hood, the pebble of your clit. The sensation, the cool undertone in the leather of his glove, is unlike anything you'd felt before. The thick stitches in the fabric catch on your flesh, nerve endings flaring in pleasure. Heat blooms in your belly.

It feels good.

You gasp, head tipping back. His hand winds around your waist when your knees buckle, catching you with a rasping huff—

“Feelin’ good, ain't you?” He pulls you tight to his chest, finger rubbing circles around your throbbing clit. Your cunt clenches, empty, and you whine, needing something more. Something to fill the ache inside of you—

His finger slips. Slides easily between your folds, parting your lips around the thick of him until he reaches your drenched hole. The sounds it makes when he taps his finger against your fluttering core makes your toes curl. Has heat blistering over your cheeks, down the slope of your neck.

It makes him groan. The low growl makes you throb, clenching in needy little pulls, pulses, as his finger dips into the slick dripping out of you.

“Suckin’ me in,” he grunts, and pushes his finger inside, thrusting up to the last knuckle. Palm tapping against your folds as his index and ring finger close to give him more room to sink deeper into you. The messy, slick squelch is loud, rolling over the mewling gasps that tumble from your lips.

Heat floods your belly at the belly-deep groans he lets out when you squeeze around him.

“Stranglin’ my fuckin’ finger, birdie—”

He leans down, knocking his forehead against the side of your face. It's more intimate than you were expecting. Jarring. The proximity plays a twisted game inside your head—the urge to run, to roll over coalescing into a paralyzing tailspin. Rooting you to the ground when the warm, damp knit of his mask grazes your cheek.

The intimacy of his head on yours is eclipsed when you can feel the shape of his mouth through the fabric.

It's softer than you expected. A plush, fleshy give when he presses his lips against your skin. And—

A gap.

On the side of his mouth, there's a gouge. A pockmark. You feel the gap, the absence, of his flesh when he rolls it over your cheekbone. You try to read the asymmetry of his face—mapping all of these misshapen parts; his mauled lips, the crooked nose that digs into your skin and leaves behind a tacky smear of condescension when he breathes out through his nostrils in a heavy puff of air—and convince yourself that you're doing it so you can bring these patchwork pieces to the police later.

Survival, you think, your head tilting back as he noses down your neck, tickling along your skin.

(And when your cunt flutters around the rough, thick drag of his finger petting along your walls, you add: a bodily reaction. That's all it is.)

He takes another lungful of your scent before he rocks back on his heels, pulling away from you. Straightening up. Looming above you once more.

“Now—”

He pulls his finger out of you slowly and you try not to whimper at the empty feeling that brims up. The way your hips rock toward him, seeking and eager. Wanting.

Needy, just like he said.

Just a bodily reaction—

He holds his hand up to the dim light flickering over his head, fingers spreading apart as he takes in the glossy shine of his middle finger.

The gleam of it makes your ears feel hot. Shame pools in your belly as he makes another noise—a groan, deep and low, in the back of his throat. Eyes darkening as his pupils bloom, eclipsing his irises in an endless pool of black. They flicker toward you, listing half-mast in a way to leonine, so predatory, that it shudders through your bones. Run, run—

His hand flexes around your waist when you twitch. A warning. A threat. You tremble when he leans in, masked lips brushing over your cheek once more. Breath ghosting through the fabric, tickling the inside of your ear.

He smells of war. Of fire and brimstone. Napalm and nitroglycerine. You want to close your eyes, look away, but you can't. His proximity alone roots you to the spot. Turns you into a prey animal, frozen on instinct alone as he prowls around, creeping closer. Maw stretching wide, drooling dripping off razor-sharp canines—

“Let's see if y’worth all the trouble.”

—and he bites.

Knocks his palm into your sternum, roughly shoving you down on the mattress.

His hands fall to the button of his jeans. “Ready?” He asks, but doesn't seem to care about your answer. Opts, instead, to fall to his knee beside you. It pulls on his zipper, tugs it all the way down with a sharp, metallic sound that cuts through the stagnant air as each ring of teeth is pried apart.

You can't help it. You look. Dragged there by something primal, magnetic—the morbid curiosity to see the monster for yourself as it tries to take a bite.

And almost immediately, you wish you hadn't.

The spread of pale skin, dark curls jutting out from the split of his jeans, makes everything feel more real, and moving fast. Whiplash quick. Happening in a blink:

The shift of fabric as he pulls the mask up over his lips, letting rest on the crooked bridge of his nose. A flash of his mouth, mangled. Mauled. Full of ugly, pale pink scars. A gap where tissue once knit his upper lip together. The bite of crooked teeth as he brings the sticky, wet tip of his glove to his mouth, sinking in. Pulling. Tugging. The roll of skin—a rose, a gun, a skull—all encased in barbed wire; thick rivers of blue-green veins.

Another pull and it's free. Dangling between his teeth for a moment as he reaches up and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. Rolling and thick. Wide. A broad chest. Soft belly. There's an inch of flesh around the expanse of him—biceps, thighs, calves, chest, stomach, shoulders—but it's a buffer for the corded, streamlined muscle beneath. A layer of fatty tissue.

Like a tiger, hiding its dizzying musculature beneath a thick, loose pelt.

When he moves, it flexes. His shoulders roll; muscles bunching together, pulling taut under soft skin. The jacket slides off. Falls to the ground behind the mattress. Forgotten, discarded. The glove is next to go. Dropping from between his teeth, landing just beside your ankle with a muted thud.

He follows after it. Ink spilling over his lashline as his eyes drop, staring at the roll of his skin tucked on the outside of your thigh. Trailing up to your knee. Your hip. The split of your cunt beneath your other leg; knee tucked to your chest.

A flash of something, a flicker, is the only warning you get before the back of his hand is nudging the glove off of your skin, replacing it with the rough, calloused grip of his palm.

You jerk at his touch, flinching back—

He's intimidating above you like this. Leaning back on his haunches but still as tall as you are standing up. The sheer absurdity of his height—his width—is dizzying. Gives you vertigo when you look up.

His throat shifts when you move. A swallow. Coarse stubble grows down the column of his neck, dusting over his lower jaw, chin. The rest is swallowed by the balaclava bunched around his crooked nose.

He's not—

He's not handsome.

A smattering of crisscrossing scars, burns, skin pocked and gouged out in deep pockets along his flesh—the slide of a knife carving away at him, you think; digging down to his marrow—all take away from any sense of modern attractiveness you might feel for him with his broad, jagged nose and full lips.

But there's something rugged about him. Untamed. Wild. Appealing in a dangerous way.

You don't know if you would have let this happen under different circumstances. If this minacious beauty of his would have worked on you enough to want it outside of this awful, almost unfathomable trade.

He's too big. Wouldn't even fit inside of your house—

The graze of his thumb on your angle knocks the thought loose, and you're dragged back to the heat of his hand. Rough and coarse; palms slightly damp from the glove. It tugs on your flesh as he draws it up, a rubbery sort of pain as it catches on the soft, dry skin of your ankle. Your shin.

He follows behind a second later, pulling himself into the mattress with a huff, knees shuffling forward as he crawls over you. The jostling rocks your body. Makes your breasts shake as he lumbers on the bed, hand still sliding up, up, until his fingers curl over the bend of your knee.

The bed dips under his weight. Your body sagging, rolling into the divot beneath his knees. Tucked under him. Loomed over. He stares down at you through the cutout of his mask, eyes liquid in the gloam. Pools of melting, dripping obsidian. Black holes. Event horizon—

You look away before it drags you in. Submissive. Softened under the harsh burn of his flat, wide stare. He chuffs when your nose brushes over the thin skin of his wrist, mouth sliding over the thick, pulsing vein stretching down from his inner arm and curling into the bend of his hand. Your lips purse, and he makes that noise again.

Quietly amused, and—

He shuffles forward until the backs of your thighs are pulled over his, spread out on his lap. Bare. Open to him.

And he looks.

And looks.

Hungry, you think. Quietly amused and hungry—

The notion is wrenched out of your head when he shifts his weight. Watches the folds of your pussy open for him as he pulls your knees wider apart, head dropping between his massive shoulders, gaze drilling into the split of your thighs. Gasping at the sting, the sudden stretch, does little to deter him from shoving your leg down until the outside of your knee touches the bed. Muscles straining. Pinching. It hurts; hipbones twinging in agony.

But the embarrassment burning through you singes all the pain.

You're spread open under him. Bare. Legs tangled around his waist, stretched wide around the width of him. Ankles knocking into the hard plains of his lower back each time he shifts.

“Fuckin’ hell—” he grunts. Snarls. The word ripped up from the back of his throat, forced through the twisting channels of his nose. Nasal and ugly when it scrapes out between his teeth. “Gonna ruin this pretty pussy, birdie.”

It's a threat. A promise. You twist, mouthing your protests into the warm skin of his wrist.

There's something about his voice—that airy, brassy tone—that strikes a chord deep inside you. Makes heat pool between your thighs, leaking out in a syrupy mess—

His hand peels away from your knee, sliding down your sticky, damp inner thigh until his knuckles graze the sensitive slip of skin sitting between your outer lip and hip. That ticklish, belly-fluttering sensation blooms in your groin as he rubs his scarred knuckles over the crease, catching the slick gathered there on his thick, meaty thumb.

“Fuckin’ soaked,” he groans, shifting his fingers until they cover the whole of your cunt, cradling you in his hand. He holds you like that for a beat, eyes locked on the way you're swallowed up by the broad stretch of his palm.

The rough drag of his skin over your folds feels good. An all-encompassing heat spreads over your tender flesh from the curve of your ass to the bump of your mons where his middle finger rests, almost touching the strip of skin between your loins and your belly. Held in his grasp. Cradled in his palm.

Your thighs twitch. A shallow jerk as your knees try to bend over his hand, but you can't. With his thumb and pinkie tucking into each crease between your outer lip and leg, it keeps you from closing your legs. Hinged by the wide, flat cup of his palm.

And it shouldn't bludgeon through you the way it does. All heat. All want. Need. A growing ache you can't think around.

(bodily reaction, you think even as the image of his hand—big with thick fingers, scarred knuckles; streaks of faded, ashy ink etched into milky, veined skin—laying over your pussy, swallowing it whole, sears into your mind—)

“Can feel your little cunt,” he grunts, feeling the pulse, the little throbbing pulls of your muscles as they twitch at the sight. The feeling. Clenching down around nothing. “Greedy little thing, ain't you, birdie?”

Anger paints his words as he rasps them out. A teeth gnashing, jaw clenching frustration that needles into the scorn, the fury, forced out between the tight seam of his crooked teeth.

You don't understand it. Can't, maybe.

But it's tucked away as quickly as it appeared, shifting into an ugly, mocking derision. Dry. Acerbic. His teeth flash, lip pulling upward in a sneer—a snarl—before he hums, sliding his hand down. The drag of his damp, rough fingers over your swollen folds has your knees falling open wider around his thick thighs, baring yourself willingly to him.

Want it bad, don't you? He mocks, and the sound of his voice alone has your pussy clenching tight, belly fluttering around the abrasive scrape of his tone. Brassy and full. Gritty. You whine, hips inching up—

His hand peels off of your slit. The rush of cold air drags another whimper out of you, hips pushing up to chase the heady, molten feeling of his skin on yours. And he's amused by it—a laugh echoes out, crackling in the hollow of his throat at your desperation—but you're too achy, too hot, to feel the simmer of humiliation nipping the apples of your cheeks.

He's not even making a real effort to pleasure you, to make you feel good, and yet—

Your hips twitch toward him in needy, mewling cants; please sits on the tip of your tongue, cradled between your teeth. Slips out on a shaky, breathless gasp when he meets you on the next buck of your hips, palm slapping over your wet slit.

The crack echoes through the room. Rough, dry skin on soaked flesh.

And it shocks you more than it hurts. The sting is there, of course, but it's just an afterthought to astonishment. An eye-widening disbelief masking the way your cunt smarts, throbbing from the slap. Nerves muffled behind the burn in your eyes, the searing heat pooling in your sinuses.

Wrenched open, unblinking as you stare up at him, your eyes begin to sting, to water. You blink, and feel something hot trickle down your cheek. A tear. His eyes snap to it. Pupils narrowing to a pinprick as he watches it slide down your face, little droplets clinging to your jaw.

“Poor baby,” he mocks, tilting his head as he tracks the teardrop. “Better behave.”

Behave. Like he's admonishing a child and not an adult.

It morphs; rots. Becomes yet another thing you shouldn't feel feverish over. The slick, sticky feeling grows between your thighs as your cunt flutters at the humiliation of it all.

And deeper—maybe—the bastardized sense of care—

(Punishment is affection in its own, special (awful) way and you've been aching for something just like it, haven't you—)

It's pushed down. Swallowed. And you know in the back of your head that if you keep eating these feelings, you're going to be sick. But you can't stop. Barely breathe around the idea of them sometimes—

“Tha’s’it,” he coos like he knows. Sees them bright and burning behind your irises. Little flickers of need, a smouldering want that you'll never grasp at yourself.

So he gives it to you.

The rough slide of his hand, all scarred and dry and calloused, scrapes over your slit once more. A full, flat stroke upward until your clit bumps into the ridge of his palm. Then down, down—

His fingers spread. Ring and index prying your folds apart as he pushes up once more, opening your seam to slip his middle finger through the slick, sticky mess that drips out of your burning cunt.

“Gonna be good f’me?”

The slide of his fingers drags the tip up to the bump of your clit. You stare down at it, fixed on the jut of his ink-black knuckles threading through your folds. The crease of his nail as he slips his fingers up higher, pad pushing over your pebbled clit. They're dirty. Grey-black under his nails. Congealed with dirt. Blood, maybe.

Your stomach churns even as your hips lift. Eager, searching. Hating yourself each second of it. It's gross. Disgusting.

You want his dirty, thick fingers inside of you—

“When I ask a question—” the tip circles over your clit. A shallow roll that pools heat between your thighs. “I expect an answer.”

“Y–yes,” you stammer out, hips flexing against his hand. Seeking more of that white-hot bloom of pleasure he brings with each pass of his finger.

“Good girl—” and you hate how it burns you up from the inside out. “Wasn't s’hard, was it?”

The retort is bitten back with the slow swipe of his finger drawing tight, small circles around your clit. His fingers are rough, scarred. Too dry. The abrasive drag over your soft sensitive flesh makes you whine—a drawn-out whimper nestled between clenched teeth.

It's too much.

Too harsh. Too sharp.

He rolls your clit under the pads of his fingers in jerking half-circles. Puts too much pressure on the bundle of nerves than you ever would—your touches are always soft, sickeningly sweet; gentling your flesh until you cum—and the sting, the burn, of it makes your toes curl. Body burn.

It's good.

And that's the problem.

It shouldn't be. His touch shouldn't make you so wet, growing slick and sticky between your spread thighs, bare to his hungry, prying gaze. Shouldn't make you moan. Hips twitching with each stroke of his fingers—

And then he peels away from you, but the time to mourn the loss of his touch, the fear of losing this trembling ember pleasure, is snuffed out when he presses his wet, slick fingers against the inside of your knee. The touch is intentional. Insistent. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat before pushing it down to the mattress. The twinge of pain swallowed up as quickly as it forms when he drops to his elbows between your thighs, forearms curling under your legs, and tugs you sharply into him.

Heat floods your belly when the backs of your thighs press tight to his broad, muscular shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the sight of him on his knees between your legs. It's so obscene you nearly weep—

And then he leans down and licks a long, broad swipe of his tongue over your cunt.

You hadn't expected it, maybe. His mouth on your pussy, his broken, jagged lips sealing over your pebbled clit. Going down on you seemed too intimate for what he was after. His end goal. It does nothing for him at all—

You realise your mistake when he dips his tongue into your hole and his hips jerk forward. Unconscious. Eager. Seeking. The shifting drags his jeans down his hips, and his cock slips free.

Most of the cocks you've seen—in porn, pictures, art—jut out from the person's groin. standing at attention, the nasty comments used to say. Jokes whispered on the playground. But his falls. Droops down between big, folded thighs. Skin marbled in shades of red, peach. Deep gouges dot his upper thighs, some sinking deep enough to reach bone. More scar tissue than flesh.

—than man.

It looks raw. Fresh. Some injuries not too dissimilar to the Wagyu hanging in the front of the storeroom, on display and oh, so out of place in a town where the richest man must be just a hair above the poverty line.

On paper, anyway.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze as he pauses, dark eyes watching you with his mouth pressed against your seam. Unmoving. Still as a predator between your thighs, cock visible between the bow of his torso, jutting sickeningly from mangled legs as you gawk at this hideous thing that makes several, half-hearted attempts to spring up towards you, spitting clear, milky liquid all over with each jerk. Tugged down by its own weight. Too heavy to fight against gravity like the rest of the cocks you've seen have done—

Normal cocks, you amend. Textbook.

His is anything but.

Ugly, you think again, stomach churning. Roiling. Obscene. An odd thing considering what you're looking at but all too fitting with the way it droops, big, flared head drooling pre-cum all over the bed in long, dangling stands that prickle over your jaws—half nauseous, half hungry, too. Saliva pools in your mouth even though the sight of his cock scares you. Fills your belly with dread. Misery.

It looks like a bruise. Skin smeared with purples, reds. Patches of pink. Long, thick veins run up from the fattened, full base to the divot of his frenulum. Thick. It hangs low. Drips.

He raises slightly and shoves his hand down between his thighs, big hand curling over the fat base of his cock. His grip is tight around himself, and he strokes up, from base to tip. It squeezes more precum from the flushed, fat head, and dribbles between your spread thighs in a thick, pearlescent puddle.

It makes your mouth dry. That twinge in your jaws coming back. Festering. You wonder if he'll make you take that thing in your mouth. Choke you on it. Taste his precum—

“Fuck,” he snarls into your cunt, hand jerking over his cock. “Keep lookin’ at my cock like tha’, birdie—”

You gasp at the rough grunt, the way it seems to tremble through your sensitive flesh. More, though, from the way he sounds. His voice brassy, rough. Unkind, but the words bloom a fresh heat behind your navel.

His voice does things to you. Things you're not allowed to like.

Those thoughts are knocked from your head when he bows down again, eyes still fixed on you, and seals his wicked mouth over your cunt. It's hard to compare it to anything else other than being devoured. Eaten in the truest sense of the word.

His tongue splits down your seam, tip digging into your slick hole. A groan bubbles up at your taste—the soft, fluttering clench of your body trying to drag him in deeper. Needing him deeper. A huff of air ghosts over you, dipped in the same derision as earlier but the harsh slap of skin on skin, his hand working furiously over his cock, makes you acutely aware of how much this affects him.

“Taste good, birdie,” he grunts, and then sucks your fold into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and teeth until the skin is tender, swollen. “S’fuckin’ good—”

Your breath catches when the crooked arch of his nose presses taut to your clit. Pleasure twisting in a dizzying pirouette inside your belly, winding tighter and tighter—

His nose jerks up on your clit. Lips moulded to your seam, you hear him rasp eyes on me, birdie. Don't fuckin’ look away—

The rough snarl trembles through your body, sinking its teeth into the coil until it snaps under its jaw. Your knees snap around his head as your release locks your joints tight. His name, Simon, a hoarse cry on your lips. You barely have time to bask in the ripples of pleasure throbbing through your body before he rips away from you with his teeth bared, and his chin wet.

“Fuck—!” he snarls again, shoving your knees apart as he lifts his massive body up from between your thighs. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gotta be inside your tight cunt—”

He towers over you, grinding his cock into the apex of your thighs. The drag of his cock—a little damp from being stuck inside his jeans all day; balmy—against the dry skin of your belly makes you shudder. Shivering beneath him as he huffs through the mask. Head bowing. Dipping to look at the way his cock slaps down on you. Cockhead nudging above your belly button, dribbling a small puddle of pre-cum that gets smeared into your skin when he rocks back on his haunches.

His hand wraps around the thick base of his cock once more, squeezing tight as he grips himself above you. It makes the head swell, engorged with blood. Thickening in his hand as globs of pre-spend leak out onto your belly. That feeling in your jaws comes back—nauseous and wanting.

He leans back with a hum. “Like my cock, eh, birdie?”

The crass words bring a fresh bloom of heat simmering in your veins, creeping up your collar. Like doesn't really cover what you feel when you stare at it—his inked hands running along the long, veined shaft—and the unsettled feeling in the pit of your belly rears when he nudges forward, the weeping head of his cock bumping your mound.

It's humiliating how much want floods through you just looking at it. At him. Disgust, dread, desire.

You don't answer. Not that you really need to—

Your silence is loud enough.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, the rasp thick in his throat. “M’gonna give it to you, pet—”

And he does just that. Slips the head of his cock down the slope of your mound, letting it graze your clit until you're panting, whining softly for more, and pulls it over your slit until his pre-cum is smeared over your drenched folds. You know exactly what this is even without glimpsing the ugly burn of his possessive desire smouldering in the back of his eyes—ownership. Greed. Hunger. It revels in the stain on your skin, from belly to slit; his, all his. Outside and soon—

In.

It shocks a creeping sense of worry into you. “Wait, what about a condom—”

He snorts, ugly and caustic. “What about ‘em?” He taunts, and it's flat. Playful.

“You should—”

He drags his gaze away from the pearlescent smear of his spend on your folds, your clit, and the even, placid look in that stagnant lake tells you everything you already knew.

“I've never—” you start, wincing at the kernel of fear lacing your hoarse words. “Not without a condom—”

It's the wrong thing to say. Near cataclysmic. He drops his head back with a groan that rumbles out of the slope of his throat, sounding like the rip of a chainsaw.

“Firsts for everything,” he purrs, and he nudges your entrance with the bare, weeping tip of his cock.

“But—”

His hand lifts, catching your jaw in the too-wide span of his palm. The force makes your teeth clack together.

“Need me to gag you, birdie?”

You swallow. It's not much of a choice. Gagged and fucked raw, or—

Just fucked raw.

No gag. No condom. You fight back a shiver and wish it was all just from fear.

“No,” you murmur, like you have a choice. “No gag.”

“An’?”

“Um. No–no condom, either—”

It's not enough. "What are you gonna let me do to this pussy, birdie?"

You know what he wants. What he's angling for. But there's a line, you think. A delineation between unwilling participant, coercion, and giving into the need that slinks down your spine, and rots inside your belly.

(Being forced to ask for it isn't permission, but what happens when you want it more than your next breath?)

The shame can come later, you think, and feel yourself give in.

"Cum—cum inside me—"

“Good girl, birdie.”

You hate what that does to you. How eagerly your body reacts to the dark possessive curl in his eyes when you do something he likes.

He nudges your entrance again, this time with purpose. Intent. A heavy pressure pushing on your rim. Too tight, you think, and the sting of the first inch he feeds—forces—into you burns, pulsing behind your navel. His tip isn't even in yet, and it's already too much.

You think about telling him so, offering up your mouth instead, but he leans down on his forearms, and catches your lips in a bruising, biting pantomime of a kiss. A blood-soaked parody with more teeth and tongue—sinking into your lips, nipping hard until the skin splits; catching all that spills with his tongue.

With his weight pressed against you like this, there's nowhere to run when he cups your throat in his hand, winding the other up above your head, forearm tight on your crown to cage you in. And then he shifts. Bears his hips down on yours until the fat head of his cock pops inside of you.

Your squeal is chewed up between his teeth, swallowed down with a rumbling groan.

Caught beneath him, trapped, he works himself into you demanding, heavy thrusts. Each inch burns more than the last. A stinging stretch that brings tears to your eyes. It's already too much and it's not even half. Barely even the tip.

“Can't—” you slur into his wet, demanding mouth. “No more. I–I can't—”

The breath rushes out between his teeth. Your watery eyes drop to the divot above his canine. A permanent snarl. A condescending sneer.

“You can,” he says decisively, words ground out from between crooked teeth. He presses them to your cheek, nipping at the skin under your eye. Possessive and wanting—

(Hungry for something you can't name—)

“And you will.”

—Or maybe you just don't want to. Can't look at the thunderous need draped over his mangled, battered face without thinking of the rumble in your chest that echos back against his thundering call—)

Stupid, foolish thing—

The dark promise of his words isn't a threat until his hand tightens around your neck, nails grazing your skin, and he adds, all of me, birdie as he grinds his hips into yours shallowly. Broad chest expanding with each ragged inhale. Cementing his taunt with a steel edge as you try not to come undone beneath him.

You'll take every fuckin’ inch—

He pulls back until only his glands stretch you open, and you know what's coming when his fingers grip the sides of your neck tight. Holding on. Anchoring you to the bed as he nudges his forearm tighter between your skull and the wall, a protective hold.

Before you can tense up, bracing for it, or even cry out no, please, don't, you can't take it, he huffs, and then slams his hips forward, splitting you open on the fat stretch of his thick, too heavy cock.

Maybe it's hysteria, delirium, but the blunt press of his length against your tender, sore walls balms the ache, the sting. The deeper he pushes, the less it hurts. A paradox that leaves you whimpering under his hand, heels digging into the broad stretch of his waist as you struggle to decide if you want to kick him away or pull him closer.

A war you don't have the power to win when he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt with a growl that shakes the fragile tendons surrounding your heart. Fear, misery. Pleasure, pain. It admixes. Coalescing into a dizzying sense of fullness, unbearable pressure. Catastrophic in its heaviness as your mind reels, struggles to come to terms with the gut-wrenching, heart-aching uncertainty of how you're supposed to go on without having him seated as deep inside of you as he can get. You've never known emptiness before him. Before now. Mere seconds ago.

And now, the thought of it leaves a palpable hollowness itching behind your ribs. Festering. Rotting tissue and bone.

“Simon,” you choke, sobbing his name out under the firm press of his hand. “Simon—”

But he knows.

His arm curls over your head like a crown, and you can easily forget the pinch of each thorn when he holds you tight. Protectively. Possessively. Securing you in his arms before he lifts up, palm sliding over the mattress, touch tender against your cheeks, and then settles it on the indent of your knee. Widening you for him as he spreads his thighs under yours until you're opened up for him.

Those dark eyes are dragged down to the split of your legs where his cock disappears into your slick, swollen cunt. You follow it down, gazing at the impressive width of his stomach bowing over you until they land on the jut of skin pushing out from a messy smatter of damp curls around the base of his cock.

The coarse hair of his groin unfurls as it sticks to your wet lips, and he rolls his head back over his shoulders he heaves through the too tight stretch of your walls over his length. You feel the pulse of him inside of you, thudding like a heartbeat. It blooms molten under the feverish weight of his lidded, dark gaze.

“Fuck, birdie,” he rasps, and it's scorched. Charred. “Look at you—”

As the world is condensed, narrowed down to nothing but the near impossible stretch of his cock seated as deep inside of you as he can get, he leans down, scarred, mangled lips brushing cruelly over your ear, and whispers, see? Told you'd take me.

Every fuckin’ inch.

Your hand jerks to your belly, fingers dancing over your navel as if to feel him there, bulging from under your skin. Nearly hysterical as you try to come to terms with the pulsing, white-hot ache of him inside of you, slowly acclimating to his girth, his length.

He grunts when he sees what you're doing, eyes flaring as your fingers skirt around your navel.

“It's—” you shudder, gasping for air. “It's too much, Simon, I can't take it—”

He rolls his hips with a groan. “m’cock too big for you, birdie?”

His usual cadence is flat, droll, but an unmistakable sense of masculine pride, a deep, egotistic sense of satisfaction, drapes itself over his brassy words. Glueing to the scorching rasp of his voice in a way that makes you unerringly certain that he likes it. Likes that his cock is too big for you. That it hurts.

“Y’can take it,” he prompts, forcing more of himself into you until something snaps. Splits. Makes room. Carves out a space for him to fit.

The brief flash of pain is soothed when he's seated deep. That same paradoxical balm making itself known as he flattens his hips into yours with a noise—half a grunt, or a growl; a lazy, pleasure-soaked snarl. You're not sure what it is, but the sound knocks the air from your lungs, igniting inside of you like a spark inside a tinderbox.

It's only when his balls are flush against you that the same masculine pride brims up again. Primal. Animalistic. The urge to present your soft belly rears up suddenly, and it's only stifled when he grunts again, looking down at you with lidded, black eyes.

“Now, be good and let me fuck your tight cunt.”

He's not looking for assent. Nothing you could say at this moment will sway his mind one way or the other. There's a nasty spool of determination welling up like blood on a pricked finger. Beading up to the surface in a clean, neat droplet as he rolls his broad shoulders, and shuffles into a comfortable position on his haunches between your spread thighs. The motion jostles his cock in a way that makes your breath hitch with each jerk.

It's not painful. Not particularly. But you're overwhelmed by the sensation of utter fullness in a way you've never experienced before. Each grind of his cock against your overly stretched walls deeping that incipient feeling of anxiety brewing in your belly that one wrong move and you'll tear. He's just—

Too big.

And despite his claims—or rather, in spite of them—you don't think you can do it. Don't think you can take him. It's too much. It feels like being turned inside out and then put back into place. An uneasy sense of discomfiture blooms with each too-tight, too-sharp tug of his cock pulling taut on your rim.

Almost deliriously, you think you can feel the pulse of his cock inside your goddamn throat.

“Simon—” you start on a tremulous breath but he cuts you off with a hum.

“Relax.”

You can't. Can't—

“Fuckin’ hell, bird,” he rasps, leaning down suddenly until his face was pushed tight into the curve of your neck, breath shallow on your thudding pulse. “Stop squirmin’ ‘round me like tha’ or I'll cum right fuckin’ now.”

Your heart stutters. Gallops painfully in your chest. His words make you dizzy because for as much as this feeling of him, his cock, inside of you dances on a delicate precipice of being more than you can feasibly handle and somehow the most incredible thing you'd ever experienced before, you hadn't considered how he'd feel.

Inexplicably, it pleases you.

There's something so strange—so extraordinary—about bringing a man like him, like this, to his knees. Pleasuring him by just heaving through the white-hot stretch of his cock inside of you. Making him bury his head in your neck, groaning about how he was gonna fuckin’ bust, pretty thing, fuck—

It was a powerful feeling.

Unwarranted, maybe. But incredible, nevertheless.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and you feel his throat work around a thick swallow. “Gonna fuck you, birdie. Gonna fuck this pretty cunt so fuckin' hard until you beg me stop—”

And he does just that. Rears back from your neck, and settles again between your thighs—quicker this time. With an urgency that makes you whimper when his cock grinds against your walls hard enough to bruise.

When he finally pulls out until only the flared head of his cock remains, you knot a fist into the thin pillow, clinging on, and latch the other onto his hip as if that could somehow stop the vicious promise in his eyes about poundin’ you into the goddamn mattress. There's a flash, a brief flicker of his eyes, and then he thrusts back inside of you with a grunt that makes your belly clench, and your back arch.

True to the promises he gave, it's brutal. Violent.

Any pleasure you feel is leached through osmosis. A tether bound around his own.

His arm is shoved under your back, angling your pelvis up. Thighs dangling over the thick spread of his own, ass seated in his lap. He drives into you, thrusts deep—grinds his hips until your moans break into hoarse screams, whimpers. Makes your eyes roll so far back, all you see is black even when you blink your eyes up at him.

He carves a spot deep inside of you with each delirious piston of his cock, pounding into you with brutal thrusts, and then holding tight when his balls slap against your ass. Digging the head of his cock into the seal of your womb until it aches behind your navel. Each breath feels like glass in your lungs—

“Tha’s it,” he slurs in your ear, mouth damp against your skin. “Take my cock so good, pretty birdie. Little pussy was made for it, weren't you? Tight cunt all mine—”

His gruff words tug on that tether until you're wrapped around him like a bow. Following him down this endless spiral as he slams inside of you over and over again, cooing in your ear about the sounds you made for him, pretty cunt so fuckin’ wet f’me, birdie, hear tha’? all f’me—

“Cum f'me, birdie. Want this pussy cummin’ ‘round my cock—”

“Can't—” you gasp, arching into him, desperate and needy. It rides a line between pain and pleasure; a needlepoint you wobble on. “Need—”

You try to reach down, to touch your clit, but grinds his hips into yours with a snarl. “Cum ‘around my cock, birdie.”

“Touch me—”

“Fuckin’ hell—”

It edges on too much. Pain and pleasure teetering on a knife's edge, split apart by a line the width of a razer. Looping and tangling around each other until you can't differentiate between the two. But it makes sense, you suppose, staring up at him arched above you like a black cloud of smoke. All hunger and fire. Consuming, devouring, everything in its path. A wildfire.

Butcher, you think again when his hand wraps around your throat. A mimicry of what he did in the truck, forcing your eyes on him. Your life tucked neatly against his palm.

These hands take lives. It's what they're made for. All scarred, and thick. Scar tissue and bone. Muscle and cartilage. Meant to render meat of cattle. Slaughterhouse in the shape of a man. Consumption personified.

But where there should be fear, all you feel is an echoing sense of hunger. Leatherbound to each other, maybe—

The look that passes over his eyes as he stares down at you, cupped in his palm, seems to fit perfectly into the fractured gaps inside yourself you try so hard to ignore. And what doesn't—

Well.

He'll make room to fit.

You reach up, curling your fingers around his thick wrist. His eyes flash, but he doesn't slow his thrusts. Doesn't stop. Just watches as you peel his hand away from your neck, bringing it up to your mouth.

On his palm, there's a piece of skin that's unblemished compared to the rest of his worn, burnt hands. A strip just big enough for you to sink your teeth into.

And you do.

“Fuck, Birdie—!” The snarl is ripped from his throat. His thrusts grow harder, sloppier. Each bit of strength in his muscled hips and thighs is used to pound into you until your vision blacks out. It hurts. Aches. Your heels slip down, catching on the broad expanse of his lower back. And you tighten them around his waist, pulling him closer. Deeper. “Fuck, Birdie, fuckin’ cunt was made f'me, wasn’t it? So cum on my cock. Now—”

Whining, you shake your head. “Can't. I can't. I need—”

You don't get to finish. With a huff of anger, he rips his hand off of the mattress, leaning back on his haunches, and shoves his hand between your thighs, scarred fingers stroking over your pebbled clit. It's rough. Sloppy. His anger hums through his body, skewering into you as he glared down, gaze swinging like a pendulum between the split of your thighs where his cock disappears into your swollen cunt, his fingers rubbing over your clit, and back up the hand around your neck, the tears staining your cheeks.

There's an edge to his thrusts. A viciousness in the way he pistons his hips into you. Dark eyes catching every flicker—each wince, gasp, moan, whine all meticulously catalogued and exploited. He finds the spots that make your hips jerk, twitching both toward and away from him. Angling into the ones that have your eyes rolling back into your head, drool dribbling past your slack lips as you gasp his name out into the dank, humid air.

It smells of sweat, sex, and him. Something brutal, bloody, and dark. Rotten leaves. Charred forests after a rain shower. Dangerous. Tinged with a slight acrid, chemical stench—benzene, oxidizing iron. It drips down your throat, and drenches your lungs. Staining you from the inside out.

And he exploits that, too. Leans in, and breathes heavily against your upper lip, your cheek. Drowns you in his scent. His sweat beads along his jaw, droplets raining down over your brow. Soaked in his essence. Unable to see, smell, or touch anything that isn't him.

With his hand over your mouth, teeth sunk into his palm, all you can taste is him, too. Leather. Gun oil. Blood.

The ravenous look in his eye sharpens, turning into deadly points.

“Such a pretty fuckin' bird.” He rasps, the words shattered, mangled in the back of his throat. They carry the scent of blood when you breathe them in, and you wonder if he forced them through glass. Pushed them out with his bloody fists.

You bite down harder in response, keening through the white-hot pain of his cock spearing deeper than before, stretching you past your limits. The taste of blood on your tongue, the rasping snarl pulled from his chest, his fingers toying with your clit, push you over the edge once more. Again and again, and again, and—

His hand peels away from your oversensitive clit, dropping down to the mattress beside your face. He follows quickly after several impossibly deep thrusts that shove you higher up on the mattress, pressing in until his balls sit flush against your ass, cockhead battering against your cervix, and he groans—deep and liquid—when he comes, spilling inside of you. Rooted deep, cock twitching, Simon drops to his elbow beside your head, smothering you under his weight as the tension in his body bleeds out.

Your teeth stick to the divots in his hand, and the sensation of ungluing them from the wounds you gave him makes you shiver. Slowly, you roll your tongue out, chasing the drops of blood, and breathe heavily through your nose as he burrows deeper inside of you, chest shuddering over yours.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, hips jerking into yours with a slap that echoes through the room. “Little tease, ain't you?”

Even with his cock softening inside of you, it's still thick. Fat. Stretching you open as he yawns out above you, bloodied hand dropping down to cup your neck again, forearm resting heavily between your breasts. He raises slightly on his elbow, black eyes glinting in the shallow dark of the room. Piercing as they drill into your sweat-slicked face.

It aches when he moves. When he presses his hips harder into yours, the muscles in your legs throb as his broad waist splits them apart. Your feet dangle, sliding uselessly down his back, over his ass, before coming to rest curled around his thighs. Melting into the mattress, tender and sore and all chewed up—

You feel like a massive contusion instead of a person. A pestle. His.

The thought makes you shiver, and his eyes flash in triumph like he knows.

The feeling of him pulling out of you draws a whimper from your lips. The drag on your sensitive, bruised walls is a strange mix of tender pleasure and pain. He chuckles at your mewl—dark and low; the sound of nightmares, you think. Crackling sap on charred wood.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you shudder, but the way he hums in response dashes the feigned oblivion before it can form. All you can do is heave on the bed, and watch him through narrowed slits as he leans back on his haunches once again, head cocking to the side. His dark eyes fixed on the split of your legs. The ache in your cunt growing sharp under his molten stare.

“Fuck,” he rasps, the shallow groan pulled out from between clenched teeth. You wonder if the mangled curse was unintentional. Ripped from his throat before he could clamp his jaws around it—a crack in the facade. A hairline splinter in the indomitable mask he wears.

Your heart lurches. None of this makes sense, but your head is too muddled, too syrupy, to think much at all. A quandary for later when he throws you from his bed with a harsh slap on your ass and a and don't think about doing this ever again.

But you don't think you can move. “Give me a minute,” you start on a trembling breath. “And I'll—”

His brows move but his eyes stay fixed on your sore cunt. You can feel him leak out of you, spilling on the mattress in thick globs. The sensation makes you shiver.

“You'll what?”

It looks like he has to forcibly tear his eyes away from you, reluctance forming a cold, angry crater between his brows. The brunt of his ire—white, burning—makes you want to supplicate yourself at his feet, roll over on your belly and show the beast you mean no harm.

(Run, and run far—)

He huffs. “You'll what, birdie?”

It takes a minute to find your voice through all the panic clogging your throat. “I'll leave, um—”

He peels away from you with a loud, rough snort, and drops to his his elbow beside you. Hands curling possessively over your waist, fingers tight. Unyielding.

“Not goin’ anywhere, birdie. Told you, didn't I? You're mine.”

“I'm—”

“Go to sleep.”

He pulls you roughly to his chest until your head is pillowed on his shoulder, and then rolls on his back, keeping you cushioned at his side. You try to move, but his arm wedges under your neck, curling over your shoulder. Trapping you to him.

The panic wants to come now. To rage against the shackle of his embrace, to run home and scrub your skin until it bleeds. But the exhaustion collapses over it all until your eyes feel too heavy to hold open. Too painful.

As you drift, aimless and dreamless, his voice cuts through the fog. “Gotta learn ‘ow to cum with nothin’ but my cock inside of you sooner or later, birdie. Or you won't be coming at all—”

It sounds like a threat. A promise. You fall asleep with the words echoing in your head, his arm an anchor around your waist.

He wakes up hungry.

A gnawing in his belly pulls him from the thin doze he fell into after fucking you three more times—with your face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air for him to rut against like a beast; teetering over his hips, the spread of them too wide for your thighs to split over leaving you precariously unbalanced and shifting your weight above him as neither knee sat comfortably on the mattress; and on your belly with him crushing you to the floor under his bulk. The memory of which makes his spent cock stir, twisting limply against his damp, sticky thigh. Matted down with drying cum, sweat, the slick wetness of being buried inside your messy cunt.

Filled now with his cum.

He groans low in his throat as he thinks about it. The sloppy way you let him take you over and over again until you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, passing out before he finished. Letting him fuck his cum inside of you as you whimpered in your sleep—

Perfect little thing, aren't you? So good to him.

Simon can't remember the last time he fucked someone, much less when it was this enjoyable (an understatement, of course; in the back of his head, wheels spin round and round as he tries to come up with a plan to keep his cock buried inside of you at all times while still doing his work—), and the overflow of unquenched lust churns in his belly. A hunger he can now slake on your willing body. In the silence, he purrs—

But the effort, the exertion, dredged up a different need inside him.

Simple hunger. An appetite.

He could eat—

his eyes slant toward the top of your crown in the dark, and he amends it, quickly, to: in more ways than one.

He'll go home in a minute. Make himself a steak from the prime cut he butchered a few days ago, leftovers that no one had any qualms about when he took several pieces home with him.

(and really, why would they argue with the butcher who keeps their wallets fat and their bills paid?)

It was left on the counter earlier before he got the call that your brother was making another move. Now a perfect room temperature as it waits for him to come back. Cook it the way he likes—

Rare.

The perfect grill is a nice char on the outside, but bleeding red on the inside. Basted in duck fat and garlic. A sprig of rosemary in the pan, but not touching the meat. Just enough to give the juice that earthy, sweet flavour. Let it rest for ten minutes under foil with the rest of the fat poured over it from the pan. Served as is with maybe a dash of salt and pepper on the side.

Simple. But incredibly difficult to perfect, he finds.

Everyone tries to make it fancier than what it needs to be, but at the end of the day, meat is meat. And going from picking scraps from the garbage outside of the Italian butcher on the corner to ordering his own pretentious filet mignon still gives him a sense of unease. Whiplash, perhaps. Nothing to something—how about that, Tommy?

Maybe that's why he prefers to raise and butcher his own cattle. A never-ending supply of meat for him to sink his teeth into even if this whole thing goes belly up and he's back to begging for morsels on the corner. Tommy hiding in the shadows with a baseball bat waiting to ambush the richer men who happen to feel altruistic that day.

This practice bled over into his current occupation, too. The basement of that same Italian butcher shop he used to sneak expired sausage from out of the bins is now his home base of sorts. A money laundering front of the 141. Headquarters for them to congregate in secrecy upstairs. And here—

A torture chamber for those who tried to cross them. Strung up on meat hooks like the cattle they eat, the ones he feeds them, until he makes up his mind on what he wants to do to them.

It's where you should have been, he supposes, thumb brushing a spot of dried blood on your shoulder, right below a nasty bite mark on your forearm. The ring nearly black from the clotted blood pooling in the indents. It matches several others on your thighs—top, insides, back—and neck, belly, collarbones, sternum. All chewed up. Marked by the butcher.

In working for the old Italian man who ran the shop when he was eighteen, he learned that most of the butchers preferred to mark their carcasses when they came in. A little x on the fat to signify they'd be the ones carving up the prime meat.

He didn't think you could handle his knife, so he gave you his teeth instead. But the implication is clear.

His.

It's overkill considering his reputation, and the claim he already had on you. Because even before this, back when he saw you through the window of his shop as he was moonlit as a legitimate butcher and businessman instead of the enforcer, the brute, everyone already knew he was, his interest was clear. You were off-limits. His to deal with.

And while Price refers not to get involved in small-time street dealers, the warnings Soap and Gaz impressed onto your brother should have been the end of an irritating situation and not the beginning of a fuckin’ headache. But no. He had to push. And push.

Until Price gave the order to take care of it.

And that he did.

(With the added benefit of killing one bird and keeping the other in a pretty cage.)

Price probably won't like his solution, but Simon racked up enough favours to keep a little pet of his own. Been a good boy for a long, long time now, and he supposes he's owed a bone.

Or a sweet thing tucked tight to his side having passed out some two hours ago after he slaked his dizzying thirst on you over and over again even though it doesn't feel like it's been enough.

It's rare that he has an appetite for people. Even rarer that he lets this meagre hunger consume him like this. But there's something about you that makes his teeth ache in the same way they often do whenever he's hungry for meat.

He wants to devour you. Consume you. Eat you alive and save nothing for anyone else to taste.

(So—

Price will just have to let him keep you, won't he?)

The mattress vibrates under him. His phone buzzing with an incoming text. He reaches over, pulling it close enough to read the notification on his screen. It's from Soap.

All her stuff is on your porch.

He hums, but doesn't reply. Simply opts to drop his phone on his belly, and tug you closer to his broad chest. He'll wake you in an hour, and the stirring in his groin tells him it'll be for another round. Maybe he'll take you in the freezer. Make you cling to the hook hanging down from the ceiling as he fucks you like that. He has a pair of ties for ox, lamb legs, that he can loop around your wrists and heft you up on.

It'll hurt, he's sure. The binds weren't designed with comfort in mind, but he can easily bear your weight as he pounds into you from below, your pretty legs wrapped tight around his waist.

The image, the thought, alone has him thickening against his thigh. He reaches down, gripping the base tight in his hand as he pulls you even closer, burying his nose in your crown.

At the very least, he wouldn't be lying when he told Price he strung you up.

Three rounds—on your back, your hands and knees, perched above him like a pretty goddess he stole away from a temple—and he still isn't satisfied. Fuck. He breathes in your scent and doesn't think he ever will be.

He'll get you out of here, take you home. Make you the steak he likes for a late dinner, rare and simple—the same one he gave your brother weeks ago when he dragged him into the shop, strung him up on a hook, and demanded payment for his disrespect.

Who'd have thought that his payment would be you?

(fitting, though, since he'd had his eye on you for a while now—)

He nudges you when his phone chimes again with another message doubtless from Soap telling him all your things have been tucked away. Matters dealt with.

“C’mon,” he grunts, running his hand down your spine. “We’re leavin’.”

You blink at him slowly. “Leaving?”

He nods. “Get dressed.”

You're quiet as he turns, reaching for his jeans left in a heap beside the mattress, but he hears the hitch in your throat. The click when you swallow. Unbothered by it, he turns, giving you his back as he wedges his feet inside the trousers, pulling them up his legs.

The bed shifts behind him. “I—I can walk back to my brother's—”

The hope in your voice is a delicate thing. Fragile like fine china. A pretty, vulnerable tchotchke meant to be seen, admired, but not touched. Not handled roughly.

Unfortunately for you, he's never had much of a gentle touch.

When he throws a glance over his shoulder, he's not surprised to find your arm folded over your bare breasts as you kneel on the mattress, your palm resting flat between your parted thighs, wrist and forearm covering the slip of heaven between them from his greedy, prying gaze.

It paints a startling picture, he finds. One with you looking thoroughly ravaged. Taken. But presenting it in a soft sort of sensuality meant to make a man feel both hot under the collar and like an unrepentant voyeur.

Pretty bird, he thinks, and feels his cock stir.

He rises swiftly, hiking up his jeans around his thighs as he goes, and then turns to you with a heady desire to crush that gossamer of hope between his greedy hand like a silken cobweb that will stick to his fingers.

“Not goin’ to your brothers,” he says, pushing his tongue against his cheek to stem the ache burning in his muscles.

You shiver, eyes growing wide, frenzied with fear as you stare up at him. The shift of your throat when you swallow makes pre-cum dribble out of his fattened cock. He's never really had much of a taste for it, but he's overcome with the urge to see you cry—

“Where are we going?”

Amid the ache in his loins, the flickering fantasies of your pretty, lachrymal face gazing up at him helpless, hopeless, and needy, he catches the edge of panic when you speak. The razor-sharp tremble of fear.

But buried amongst it, hidden in the bruised look you give him as he towers over you with his cock bulging in his slacks and his eyes burning with want, he finds a keen sense of eagerness amongst the rubble. Agog, almost.

And fuck. If that doesn't do something awful to him.

“What?” He taunts, cocking his head to the side as your breath grows shallow and your eyes wide. “Did you think that was enough to pay your debt, birdie?”

“What? You can't—”

“Don't like it—” he lifts his shoulder up in a cool, indifferent shrug, enjoying the dismayed expression that falls over your brow more than he should. “—go to the police.”

“The ones on your payroll?” You spit, eyes flaring wide like an angry cat. “You—”

Several things might have continued in place of your choked, angry sob, but it's swallowed down as pragmatically as it was the first time he cornered you earlier today. And as beautiful as your ire is, he finds the cornered look on your face to be much more pleasing. Prettier.

“C’mon, bird,” he mocks, holding his hand out toward you with a tick of his lips. “All your stuff is at home. Don't be stupid.”

“Stupid?” You gasp in indignation, but there's a bruised look in your eyes. A wounded thing that makes his breath hitch in his lungs for reasons he can't really ascertain, but just knows that he likes it. Likes it a lot. “This is—insane.”

Again, he shrugs, but the indifference this time isn't the same manufactured callousness meant to inspire fear. The conversation is stale already. Grating on him. He's not used to having his orders ignored or questioned. What he says usually goes—either through association or reputation, or just the fact that no one has ever come close to filling the same measure of space as he does—and questioning him like this makes him feel too much like a boy, and not enough like the living ghost he pretends to be.

“You can't do this. It's not right.”

An appeal to his humanity. Cute. He huffs, reaching down to fasten the button of his jeans. The sound the zipper makes cuts through the room. “You're mine, birdie. Better get used to it.”

Catching your eye as he says it was only meant to reignite the kindling fear you have of him from extinguishing. A scared prey animal was a better pet than an angry one. But the look on your face catches him off-guard.

It reminds him of a flightless little bird shivering in a child's shoebox. Tiny broken thing his mum warned him not to touch or its mother would abandon it to die on its own.

“Until the debt is paid off.”

A statement, not a question. He shrugs, but doesn't respond. Tilts his head toward the door. “Let's go.”

His lack of reassurance doesn't soften the flint in your gaze, but the prospect of recompense seems to spurn you on. Another wishbone of hope to cling to. And despite himself, he lets you keep it. Lets your little finger wrap around the delicate bone for comfort because as much as you might think there's a fifty-fifty chance of getting the bigger piece, he has no intentions of letting something like that get in the way of his appetite even if you do.

(And his hunger has always been particularly voracious, hasn't it?)

“Come, birdie. Gotta get you home, and fed, don't I?”

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #series: dogmeat #for only being 19k this really took a lot out of me #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghostfics

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eraenaa · 1 year ago

Text

Unexpected Affections

Aemond Targaryen x Tyrell Reader Tag List

Synopsis: With just a smile, you had managed to bewitch and enthrall the stoic and cold prince.

Warnings: Sunshine x Grumpy Trope, ¿Softer Aemond?, ¿Simp Aemond?, Jealousy, Mature, 18+, Fingering, P in V Sex, Oral Sex (f receiving), Overstimulation, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 7,287

A/N: Really milking softer Aemond bc I'm pretty sure I'm going to take a break from him once s2 is released.

He’s broken beyond repair. Too far gone to be saved. Aemond knew fully well that is how the others see him. The boy who had his eye taken was never the same. Darkness was his only solace, the walls too far up that no one dared to scale it and reach the true him— simply taking the dark and villainous scrap of his true self that he was willing to give. All seemed to give up on him— simply let him drown in his darkness, except you.

Like all things good, you came unexpectedly. You were a mere visitor from Highgarden, a noble lady who came with your lord father as he tended to business in the capitol. Aemond could never understand how you looked at everything and everyone with rose-colored glasses, but he supposed he should be grateful because if that trusting naivety in you were lost, your light would never come close to his looming darkness.

“Who is that?” Aemond asked his family’s most trusted knight, Ser Criston Cole. Your figure caught his attention; it was as if you were floating along the gardens of his home. A small smile on your face and flowers adorned in your hair. He stood near the balcony, discussing important business with the knight, when his train of thought was lost and captured by your mere presence. “Lady Tyrell, her father has business here with the crown,” the knight said absentmindedly. Aemond nodded and took one last glance at you before walking away.

The thought of you was quickly forgotten by the prince. He saw your presence as just another to add to the list of nobles at court who cowered upon his stature. However, you lingered in the back of his mind as he often saw glimpses of you walking through the halls of his home. Aemond stood in the gardens once more, this time waiting for his sister and her children when he caught your eyes. He waited for fear and apprehension to present themself in your orbs, the same reactions he would elicit from everyone. However, the prince was taken aback as you smiled at him. A small, respectable smile before you stole your eyes and continued to your promenading.

Aemond blinked his eye rapidly, trying to discern if he saw correctly or if it was a cruel trick made by his impaired vision. Aemond pursed his lips as he felt himself walk towards where you had passed. There was this odd pull about you— more than your beauty; if it was just that, a comely face was never one to put the prince in a trance. It was an ethereal element that beguiled Aemond quickly. He had not even spoken to you, yet you had already managed to put such an effect on him.

He watched from a distance as you bent down and assessed a flower, your fingers caressing the velvety petal and bringing it to your nose to discern the fragrance of it. Aemond felt that pull once more, his feet carrying him closer to you. When you stood straight, your brows raised in surprise as you had noticed you were no longer alone. “My prince,” You greeted with a curtsy, his silvery locks the warning sign that you spoke to royalty. Aemond was rendered silent, his mind already spinning at the sound of your voice. What was this? He could not explain what had overcome him. You bit your lip as no greeting left the prince’s lips, him only staring at you with an unreadable expression on his angular face. “Are… are you well, my prince?” You asked, daring to step closer and take hold of his arm to examine if he was truly well.

You watched as his lips parted and closed, no sound leaving it. “Perhaps you should find some shade; the heat may be too unbearable,” You say quietly and never take your hold off his arm, guiding him towards the shade of a willow tree in concern. Aemond was screaming at himself on the inside, hating that he was making a fool of himself, that he couldn’t even speak, simply letting you guide him towards the shade and making him sit on a bench. Your concern for his well-being consumes your face and his being. “Do you wish for refreshment, perhaps w—“ Aemond shook his head as he finally regained his senses.

You chewed on your cheek as the prince stood. “I am fine; I apologize for the— the intrusion, Lady Tyrell,” He said stoically, and you shook your head and smiled at him. “No need for apologies, my prince; no intrusion was made. But are you certain that you are well… you look a bit pale, my prince.” You say and quickly regret it as your mind reminds you that maybe that was just his true complexion. You swallowed thickly as you saw him pursed his lips, fearing that you had offended the prince. Aemond did not know how to take this concern— this kindness that he was never the receiver of. “I am quite well; good day, my lady.” He walked away in haste as he feared that if he stayed longer in your presence, he would make a further fool of himself. You stood there in confusion; your lips parted as the prince almost ran from you.

The thought of you haunted Aemond until the night, his arm still tingling from where you had placed your touch. He replayed the scene in his mind over and over again, trying to convince himself that your concern was fictitious— that it was a ploy to be in the good graces of the prince. But as he recalled the way your eyes bore into his, nothing but sincerity was evident in your orbs. How are you this kind? To a stranger, no less. Aemond was restless as he lay in his bed; his mind kept conjuring your interaction in the gardens, refusing him any other thought than you.

When morning came, Aemond had made great lengths to avoid you, silently embraced as he had made a fool of himself in the gardens. As his training ended, Aemond tried to find reprieve from the loud keep in the library. Aemond believed he was successful in his avoidance of you, but as he stood by the threshold of the silent room, he saw, as you were seated in one of the chairs, a book in your hand as you silently read. His presence was still not noticed. He could easily slip away and be successful in his avoidance of you, yet, just like the other days, his body could not help but be pulled towards you.

When you noticed a presence standing before where you sat, you flickered your gaze upward and locked eyes with the prince once more. “Prince Aemond,” You acknowledge and move to stand to greet him, but he silently raises his hand and hinders your actions. You copied his silence as he took the seat across from you. You traveled your gaze through the library, uncertain what to say or do. “I hope you are feeling better,” You say quietly. Aemond licked his lips as he was subjected to your dazzling presence once more; even though he had willed himself to avoid it, it seemed you were inevitable.

“I am; I was simply tired,” He said, making certain to place coldness in his tone, hoping it would deter you and no longer present him with your kindness he stubbornly took as deception. Aemond felt his breath catch as you gave him another smile. A relieved smile for his well-being that was so genuine that he could not stubbornly convince himself that it was not.

You stayed silent as you felt that that was what the prince preferred. You tried to return to your reading, but his velvety voice sounded through the room. “What business did you have here?” He asked. Aemond was testing you, presenting you with his cold and calloused self to see if it would have any effect on you just like it did the other. He watched calculatingly as your lips parted, and he found trouble to remove his gaze from your plush lips. “If I am being honest, I am not quite certain, my prince.” You said truthfully. You watched him raise his brow at you to explain further. “My father has business he needed to tend to here, but he had not disclosed to me the reason for it or why I needed to join.” Aemond nodded and watched as your eyes were never removed from his gaze, surprised that you could hold onto his intensified stare.

“So you have no purpose here?” He asked harshly. He expected a frown or a look of offense on your face, but he watched as you smiled as if you were amused and shrugged, “I suppose not.” Aemond stayed silent and continued to asses you as you returned to your reading.

“Do you like philosophy, Prince Aemond?” You asked after a stretch of silence, unable to bear the eerie and suffocating quiet. Aemond took a moment before he answered your query that no one had been interested in asking him before. “I do,” Another small smile appeared on your lips as you nodded. “Then have you perhaps read this? I have been mulling over the proposition of the archmaester for days now, but I cannot seem to comprehend it fully,” You say and turn the book you read towards him. Your fingers brushed as the prince took the book from your hands, and you could not hinder the chill that ran down your spine as you felt his cold, calloused fingers against yours.

You listened earnestly as the prince began to speak and explain the proposition you had trouble comprehending, going to great lengths to explain his thoughts on it, assisting and receiving any questions you had. Aemond paused in his explanation, feeling as if his mouth had gone dry by his prolonged speaking. He turned to the window and saw as the once high sun began to set; he returned his gaze to you, your chin resting on your palm as you had listened to his every word, clinging onto every syllable he had uttered. Aemond gulped as he realized his mistake. He had revealed too much of him; too much of his thinking was poured out in his explanation of philosophy. “I must take my leave,” he suddenly said, disregarding that he was in the middle of explaining another philosophical theory that was different from the first you had inquired about.

“Oh,” You said and straightened in your seat. Aemond wanted to frown as he detected disappointment in your tone and eyes. That cannot be, can it? Why would anyone be disappointed in his departure? “Good day, my prince,” You curtsied as you stood, not wanting to take more of his time. Aemond began to walk away, cursing himself for his actions, but he halted by the door as you spoke. “Thank you for your explanations… they were quite enlightening,” You said, and Aemond turned to you; the smile returned to your lips as you looked at him gratefully. Were you truly thankful? Thankful for him? Was that even a possibility? Aemond gave a curt nod and willed himself to walk away from you.

You were in the gardens once again. You were terribly homesick, and the gardens of the Red Keep were the only resemblance of your home that you could cling to. You were walking distractedly, a buzzing bee following you around as the flowers in your hair attracted the insect. You tried to squat it away, afraid to get stung when you accidentally missed a step, losing your balance, and were met with the cobbled floor of the gardens. Your jaw slacked in pain, and you tried to stand, your cheeks burning in embarrassment that someone may have seen your ungraceful fall. There was a stone by your side, and you tried to hoist yourself upon it, hissing as you accidentally placed pressure on your swollen ankle, but you were determined to stand and walk back to the keep to ask for assistance.

Unbeknownst to you, Prince Aemond had been observing you from above the gardens, and the moment he saw the sight of you falling, he made hastened steps to reach you. “My lady,” He called, trying to hide his panting, and approached you as if he had only stumbled upon your presence. You sat before a rock, and he noticed you hiding your injured limb from his view, “My prince,” Aemond watched in slight awe as you still tried to stand and curtsied before him, still holding onto formalities even though you were clearly hurt.

“Are you well?” This time, it was now Aemond to ask the question. You placed a tight smile on your lips, pretending that your injury was not at all bothering you. “I am fine, and you, my prince?” You asked, trying to speak of pleasantries. You shifted your weight on your uninjured leg and, for once, hoped that the prince would leave. “Are… are you certain?” Aemond inquired, wondering why you would pretend. “Y-yes,” You stuttered, and Aemond narrowed his eye.

You sighed and placed your head on the ground. “I… I tripped, and I think my ankle is injured— but I do not wish to bother you, my prince. I can wait for the swelling to subside.” Aemond frowned at your words. How were you so concerned about his well-being but not your own? Aemond shook his head and stepped closer to you, silently scooping you in his arms. “Wh— My prince!” You said in shock as you were stiffly settled into the hold of Prince Aemond. Your arms circled around his neck to stabilize yourself. “You don’t— I could have just waited for a squire or maid to assist me,” You said in a slight panic and could not even bear to look at the prince in embarrassment. “You are clearly in pain,” Was all he said as he carried you back inside the castle walls, the both of you earning strange glances from the members of the court.

Aemond returned you to your assigned chambers, trying to ignore the erratic beating of his still heart and the tingles on his skin from where he felt your touch. He placed you gently onto a settee, inhaling a whiff of your scent, and he felt intoxicated. He placed a respectable distance between you as the both of you waited for the maester he ordered a squire to fetch. Your gaze was still planted on the floor, and Aemond noticed the flush on your cheeks and the harsh bit you had on your lip, embarrassment clearly evident in you.

“I did not wish to bother you, my prince.” You say quietly, your tone heavy with guilt. Aemond could only hum a response, clueless as to why you were apologizing. The maester finally arrived, and Aemond stood by the side as he oversaw the maester, tending your injury. You tried to keep your pained reactions to a minimum as you felt conscious of the prince’s presence, but you could not help but hiss in pain, and your face contorted in discomfort as the Maester tried to move your injury. Aemond swallowed thickly as he himself was overcome with a phantom pain by the mere observation of yours.

“Will it heal, maester?” He asked in concern, stepping forward. “Yes, my prince, it is only a swollen ankle; it shall heal by the morrow,” The old man spoke and stood, placing a cold, damp towel upon your injury, and you reached forward to secure its place. Aemond gave a nod, and his eye followed the maester who exited your chambers, leaving the door open. Aemond returned his gaze to you, your eyes finally meeting his, and he once again felt his breath caught in his throat as you smiled at him.

“Thank you for your assistance and kindness, my prince,” You say gratefully, and Aemond felt his knees weak. No one had ever called him kind before. As always, you were met with his silence, but you dared say you were getting used to it. After a few moments of Aemond trying to comprehend your words, he gave a curt nod. “I shall leave you to rest; good day, my lady.” He said and willed himself to walk away from your presence he did not wish to leave.

Another day had passed, and Aemond had not seen a glimpse of your presence he had been trying to avoid just the day before. He had the urge to knock upon your door and to see how you were faring with your recovery, but he placed great restraint on himself as his mind deemed it inappropriate. So he waited another day. He stood by the gardens, his eye assessing every passerby as he waited for you. He had been stood by the balcony like a statue for the better part of the morning, but your presence had not been noted.

Aemond decided to walk around the castle, passing along every corridor in search of you and ready to act surprised as you two would eventually encounter once more. It was nearing sundown, and he had not seen a glimpse of you. Perhaps she is still resting. His mind told him, but Aemond was not entirely sold by that reasoning.

The prince attended his family’s supper in his mother’s chambers. He sat quietly in his seat and saw the aggravated and tired faces of his mother and grandsire as they came to the table late. “We apologize for our tardiness; the small council has been overburdened by a matter.” The queen explained as she took her seat. “What matter?” Aemond asked, always curious about the dealing made. “The crown cannot afford to pay the dues it owes to House Tyrell… it is too great a sum, and the lord has threatened to withhold back crops for the upcoming winter if we do not pay their price.” The hand spoke, and Aemond pursed his lips, knowing that the debt to your house had been since the time of the conqueror.

“Surely they could be reasoned with— they would not want to offend the rulers of Westeros,” Aemond said quietly and heard his mother sighed deeply. “Perhaps, but no meetings and negotiations can be made at the moment, for they had already left late last night.” Aemond’s hold on his fork tightened as he heard the words. You had gone without even a goodbye.

“I just do not know what we can offer to match their hefty sum,” the lord hand said and downed his wine. Aemond traveled his gaze around the table, his sibling not at all listening to the matter. “Offer me,” Aemond spoke, and he felt all eyes shift toward him. He turned to his mother, the queen’s lips agape in shock at his words. “The crown does not have money to pay our debt— then is it not a custom to offer marriage instead?” He asked rhetorically; the practice was made for centuries, but the price was usually paid with a princess, not a prince.

“Aemond, mere debts are not paid with a prince.” The queen said. “But it is not just a mere debt, now is it, mother? The Tyrells had as well placed a threat to the kingdom’s security over this winter— and the mere debt you speak of has been established since the age of the conqueror,” Aemond turned to his grandsire, who he knew would understand his proposition. The Hand pondered over his grandson’s words. “But you are set to marry the Baratheon girl,” Alicent countered, and Aemond scoffed.

“We owe nothing to the Baratheons, and do you not think that this matter looms greater?” He asked, “Lord Tyrell only has a daughter, does he not? In time, the seat shall pass onto me as well, alike with the arrangements with Lord Borros. And with this, the crown will no longer be indebted to their house,” Aemond said, determined to see you once more. “That is a most favorable solution,” The hand commented, quite content by his grandson’s proposition. The queen sighed and took a moment to think of the proposal. “Very well then,” she sighed, and Aemond hindered the smirk threatening to slip his lips.

“I shall draft the proposal tonight and send a messenger to Highgarden first thing tomorrow,” Otto said in finality. “No need, I shall offer the proposal myself in person,” Aemond said, and he saw apprehension in his mother’s eyes, disbelief by his decision, but none hindered him.

It was afternoon the following day when he had reached High Garden, Aemond riding atop his dragon through the morning, eager to reach his destination, you. “My prince,” Lord Tyrell greeted him by the gates of their castle. “What business is so urgent that the prince of the realm had to fly his dragon all over here to the reach?” They had not even reached inside the castle walls when Lord Tyrell could no longer hinder his curiosity.

“It is the matter of the crown’s debt,” Aemond replied, his eye scanning the halls in search of you. He heard your father reply with an ‘oh,’ clearly anticipating the conclusion of the matter. “Is the crown ready to pay us the price owed?” Aemond hummed as he passed a portrait of you hung on the wall of your home, his eye entranced by the picture. “In a way,” The prince danced upon the matter momentarily. “In lieu of a payment, the crown is prepared to offer a marriage,” Aemond stated and watched concussion flush over your father’s face.

“With respect, my prince, but that is an insulting offer. The crown has owed my house a great sum accumulated since the age of conquest!” Lord Tyrell seethed, and Aemond gritted his jaw. “I believe you are too hasty with your outburst, my lord. The crown is offering a union between me and your daughter— an opportunity for your only child to be a princess… your grandchildren having the Targaryen name.” Lord Tyrell shook his head, “My daughter is already bound to marry another— titles are one thing, my prince, but there is still a debt to be paid.” Aemond felt the fire in his veins awaken at your father’s words. You are to be bound to another; that cannot be. You cannot be anyone else’s when you had consumed his entire being— when you had presented him with such hope and kindness that he was certain he would find in no one else. You could never be not his.

Aemond licked his lips, certain that the words he would utter would be a gamble. “Very well then… a counteroffer, my lord. The crown cannot fully pay your price, so we offer a royal marriage and a fourth of the sum owed to you,” Aemond said, assessing the father's reaction as he mulled over the proposition. “I shall need time to reach a decision,” Lord Tyrell finally spoke after a long pause. “Of course,” Aemond agreed. “For the meantime, you are welcome to the halls of High Garden, Your Highness.”

Aemond waited as your father disappeared from his view before he went on his search for you. He walked through the unfamiliar corridors and found himself being led outside towards the gardens where he wagered you would be. When he saw you seated by a fountain, a smirk curled on his lips. However, it was quick to fade as he had noticed you were not alone. Aemond made furious steps towards you to announce his presence.

You were conversing with another when you felt your skin tingling and the familiarity of a cold gaze upon you. You turned to your side, and your eyes widened as you saw the prince approaching. You blinked slowly, trying to discern if your mind was playing a cruel trick. But when the prince stood an arm’s length away from you, where you could see him clearly, you knew that it was not a trick. “My prince,” You say almost breathlessly, curtsying lowly before the son of the king.

“How… what brings you here, your highness?” You asked, disregarding the earlier presence you were with. “Business for the crown,” He replied, eyeing the man who stood beside you. You turned your eyes toward where the prince placed his gaze intensely. “Oh, my prince, this is Prince Martin Martell,” You introduced, and you felt Martin stepped forward and bowed. “Martell? Are you not a long way from Drone?” Aemond gritted as he let out his hand to shake the prince’s hand. He wanted to smirk as he saw the man’s tanned face twist into a wince before quickly masking it. “Yes, my prince, I come as a suitor for my lady,” He explained, and Aemond pursed his lips at his words.

You licked your lips as you suddenly felt the fresh air become tense, “Would anyone like some tea?” You suddenly interrupted the intense gazes of the two princes, walking in between them as you made your way toward a nearby table that had the afternoon’s refreshments. Aemond tapped his finger on the table, his eye shifting between you and your intended whilst you poured tea into everyone’s cup. “If I may ask, what business warrants your presence here, Prince Aemond?” Prince Martin inquired, and Aemond reluctantly shifted his attention from you, who was licking sugar from your fingers.

“A proposal for House Tyrell,” he said bluntly, swallowing thickly as your lips parted at the mention of your house. “What proposal, if I may ask,” Your turn to inquire. Aemond licked his lips and debated if he should give you the true manner of his visit. “A proposal for you, my lady, to be a princess of Westeros.” You feel dazed by his words, your body freezing in shock, and you seem to forget how to breathe.

Aemond looked at you expectantly, trying to search for any reaction in your eyes other than the pronounced shock. You were saved from his expectation of a reply when you heard your father calling for you. “I— excuse me, my princes,” You say in a haste and hurriedly went to your father’s call.

“What is happening— the prince just informed me of his proposal— in front of Prince Martell!” You panicked, recalling the scene to your father with wide eyes. You watched as your father paused his lips, an aggravated sigh leaving his nose. “Bold of him to inform you of such proposals when I had not even given him my reply.” You shook your head and warily turned to the gardens, where you saw two princes seated by a distance.

“Where did this proposal come from? I… I do not understand,” You whispered, recalling your days in the Red Keep; the moments with the prince that you tried to sell to yourself were meaningless to him. However, you supposed you sold yourself with a lie because those moments were enough for him to ask for your hand. Hope was dangerously blooming in your heart, emotions, and festering feelings you tried hard not to succumb to for the past days, now inevitable.

“The proposal comes because the crown cannot pay the debt due to us… instead, they are offering a marriage between you and the prince and a fourth of the sum owed,” The hope that was dangerously blooming and had rooted itself in your heart quickly wilted, willing yourself not to show disappointment on your face. “Oh,” Was all you could utter. “What is your decision then?” You asked quietly as your father guided you further into the walls of your home.

“Your courtship with Prince Martell has been settled for three years since your sixteenth name day, but no formal betrothals are in place, and we are in no obligation to the Martells,” Your father stated as you two walked along the corridors. “But Sunspear is a long way from here,” Your father added, “And though Kingslanding is closer, and if I were being honest, I would prefer you to be a princess of the whole of the seven kingdoms rather than just Dorne,” You twirled with your hair as you listening into your father’s musing. “But this marriage is just a way out of their hefty debt,” You nodded along and waited for your father to decide.

“So? Which one of them?” You asked as you needed an answer, your nerves growing unbearable. Your father took in a deep breath, “I shall leave that decision to you… it is you who shall marry one of them; the money is not truly that much of a concern— it was simply a bargaining tool for the crown to remember how indebted they were to us,” Your father explained, and your lips parted as you were given a daunting task.

“Can I speak with Prince Aemond for a moment? I… it is— I need to speak with him,” you say, and your father gives the nod, “I shall have him meet you in the drawing room,” You waited nervously for the prince, your mind running as to what to say to him. You stood when the prince entered the room, your lips parting, ready to speak something you were uncertain of, but Prince Aemond spoke first.

“I know this is quite abrupt,” Aemond spoke and dared to step close to you, trying not to grow distracted by your mere ethereal presence. “It is my prince,” You agreed. “Could I just ask why?” Aemond frowned at your words; it was quite a straightforward proposal. “The crown owes your house,” He said matter of factly, “I know, but we ask for coins or land but not a marriage,” Aemond licked his lips, “And I am aware that the marriage is a substitute. However, you would understand that no one would be that inclined to accept a proposal just because the one giving the proposal is in debt.”

“Is this a rejection?” Aemond took another step, closing most of the gap between you. He was aware that he was scowling severely, scarily even, but you did not seem to be frightened, a first for anyone he had encountered. “More of a question,” Aemond’s brows raised at your words. “Well, it’s clear that this proposal is just an obligation for you, and if I am being honest… I prefer someone who would not see a mere business dealing.”

“All marriages are business dealings,” You pursed your lips at the prince’s words. “I supposed they are… but not every marriage is just a business dealing.” Aemond licked his lips, and the both of you were enveloped in silence. “I guess what I’m saying is… I would not feel inclined to choose someone who proposes because it is their obligation,” You say slowly, surprised that you managed to come across your answer. If it were any other situation where the crown was not indebted to your house, you would accept the proposal eagerly, but your heart idealistic heart yearned for someone who wanted you truly and did not see you as a mere opportunity.

“My lady, I think you have gotten the wrong idea here,” You furrowed your brows as all were clear to you. The proposal was just an obligation… isn’t it? “No one forced me into this proposal; the queen could not find a solution. This marriage had not even crossed her mind— I…” Aemond passed as you waited on bated breath for his explanation. “I have offered the marriage not because of duty or a way for the crown to escape their debt but because… I— I want you. I want you to be my wife.”

You looked at him with clear apprehension, and Aemond actually believed that you would flash him your sweet smile— perhaps a blush on your cheeks as he had said words so unlike him. “You want me?” You asked incredulously, and Aemond nodded, boldly taking your hands into his. “But why? We barely know each other?” You asked. Frowning as your eyes go downwards toward your hands clasped with the prince’s cold ones. “Why?” Aemond asked in disbelief you would ask such a question? You nodded.

“Because I just do,” Aemond licked his lips as it would appear that that was the wrong answer, watching as you stole away your hand and your lips turned into an adorable pout he was very much tempted to kiss. “I— Because you are pretty, overly pretty,” Aemond spoke and hoped that would sway your mind, but that seemed even to offend you. “And because you are knowledgeable, I have never met anyone who had the same philosophical interests as me,” Aemond quickly added, and he wanted to smile as that lessened your frown.

“And most of all, because you are kind. You are… you are not one to judge— you came to Kingslanding without any criticism or fear of me. You actually saw me as an actual person and not…” Aemond trailed as he felt a sense of relief as he said the words he thought none could ever compel him to do so. “Not like a weapon?” You almost laughed as you often heard others allude to him as such. Aemond nodded and took your hands into his once more.

“You want me because I was kind and took an interest in you?” You asked, making certain that was his reasoning. Aemond nodded and dared to tuck a stray hair that obstructed his view of your face. “If that is all that it took, what if then another comes along and presents you with such kindness and interest… am I simply to be set to the side?” Aemond sighed and cupped your cheek as he felt his stomach twist at your words and at the look of doubt in your enchanting eyes. “What if—“ You were ready to voice out another doubting scenario, but your lips were kissed shut.

You feel heat bloom into your cheeks, and you are stunned as you feel the prince’s thin and cool lips upon yours. Your eyes were wide at the sudden contact, but they fluttered to a close as you savored the feel and taste of him. “I do not know what more to say to quench the doubts in you… but you must know, I have never felt such a way— I have never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want you.” Aemond whispered against your lips as you breathed heavily, your body feeling afloat and alight.

“The situation is not the most favorable one; believe me, I understand your qualms— but it is the only opportunity I had to make you mine,” You feel liquid fill your stomach, and words cannot find you. The only thing you could do was go to the tip of your toes and kiss the prince’s lips once more, a chaste kiss than the first, but it was a kiss that gave the prince his answer.

Three moons passed before your nuptials were settled. You stood by the door of the great hall, waiting for it to open and lead you to your soon-to-be husband. “Are you certain?” Your father asked as he clasped his arms with yours. You breathed out a laugh and nodded your head eagerly. “I am,” You said with a smile and took a deep breath as you heard the trumpets from the other side of the door.

Aemond sighed longingly as he saw the smile on your lips again. The smile that he had never been the receiver of before. The sweet and kind smile that led to all of this.

You beamed at your groom as he took your hand into yours, unable to remove your gaze from his unique lilac eye throughout the whole of the ceremony. “I am his, and he is mine,” You recited after the Maester, feeling Aemond lightly squeeze your hand as you said the words, a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips. When it was Aemond’s turn, you bit your lip as you felt your smile grow wider, your heart beating loudly in your chest, and delight taking hold of your whole body. “I am hers, and she is mine,” Aemond stated, eye filled with sincerity and promise.

You breathed in a deep breath as your husband stepped forward to seal your marriage with a kiss, your cheeks burning as you heard the cheers of your guests. “My flower,” Aemond whispered against your lips as you parted, his finger brushing away the stubborn lock of your hair once more. You could only smile upon him, your heart in your eyes— just one act of kindness, a simple smile had been the catalyst for you to find your love.

You chewed on your cheek in anticipation as you were being led down the halls by your husband, the bedding ceremony promptly taking place after the feast.

Aemond spared no second before claiming your soft, sweet lips once more. Gently pushing you upon a pillar in his chambers to keep you steady and flush against his body. “Aemond,” You called as you clung to his neck, his lips trailing downwards and his fingers undoing the laces of your gown. “You’re all mine, my flower… forever bound to me, my kind little wife.” Aemond hummed as he tasted your skin, his lips kissing your bare shoulders, the sleeves of your dress draping off. “I’m yours, my prince,” You sighed, but you felt slight dread in your stomach as he clicked his tongue in disapproval and slowly shook his head. “I am your husband… you must learn to call me by my name; no more titles and formalities,” Aemond lowly said, wanting to hear his name be uttered from your lips.

You nodded, “I’m all yours, Aemond,” You said and whimpered as your husband’s eye darkened, and he forcefully slammed your lips. You feel your dress pool to the floor as he successfully removes it; he takes hold of one of your thighs and makes you cling to him, leading you to your shared bed. Aemond gently laid you down and parted your lips to admire the view of you sprawled before him. The thin sheet of your shift reveals all to him.

You gasped in utter shock as you felt him tear away the thin cover you had, fully exposing you to him. A strained moan left your throat as Aemond dipped down and took one of your tits into the hot cavern of his mouth, his tongue teasing the bud. You clung to his silvery locks; just that action alone made your core tighten painfully. Aemond smirked as he moved to pay attention to the neglected mound, your hips grinding upon his as you sought friction.

“Aemond, I…” You called, uncertain of what you wanted, but all you knew was that you needed more. “Yes, wife?” He hummed and placed open-mouth kisses upon your stomach. “I… I—“ You stuttered, not knowing what to ask. Aemond sighed and moved his head to kiss your lips, “Do you want more… do you want to be pleasure, my flower?” He asked, as he could not be so cruel to leave you in such a state for much longer. You eagerly nodded your head.

It did not take long for you to be a moaning mess, your eyes rolled back in your head, and your back arched as Aemond placed his mouth upon your cunny. Licking and teasing your folds, “Aemond! Oh, gods!” You called in utter pleasure as you felt his thin lips enclose your sensitive bud, sucking and licking it. You battled with your mind-numbing pleasure as you propped yourself on your elbows to watch his actions. He looked up at you, grinning as his fingers teased your undefiled whole. You bit your lip and breathed heavily, boldly taking hold of the leather strap of his eye patch. You saw as his eye darkened, and you hesitated, but Aemond gave a nod.

As you removed his eye patch, Aemond pressed his finger into you, your eyes rolling back as you saw his sapphire eye. Aemond returned his lips to your cunt, sucking on the bud as his fingers pumped in and out. He felt your walls clench around the digits and your moans growing louder. Through your closed eyes, you feel him smirk against your skin and curl the digits inside your cunt— a loud moan leaving your lips as you come undone. Your hips violently move against his face, and the pearl of your cunt hitting gains his angular nose.

“Oh gods,” You say breathlessly as you feel Aemond’s weight atop of you. You undid the laces of his vest as he removed his trousers. You looked downwards and saw the whole of your husband, his warm, pulsating length resting upon your thigh. The head of his cock weeping a clear liquid. “W… will it fit?” You say in disbelief, never having thought that something so phallic could be so… large and appealing. “Of course, you were made for me, my flower.” Aemond lowly said and kissed your lips as he aligned himself with your cunt.

You dug your nails onto his shoulders as he slowly tore his way through you. Him hushing your cries of pain and kissing away your tears. “It hurts— Aemond, I… it’s too much,” You cried, your legs wrapping around his waist. Aemond reached downwards and drew circles upon your cunt to aid your pain. You waited for the pain to bleed into pleasure. Aemond tightly shit his eye as he felt the tip of his cock brush against a rough spot in your cunt, him fully sheathed inside you. He made cautious thrusts, watching as you would acclimatize to his length, and when he saw your eyes roll back, that was his sign to fasten his pace.

Aemond’s found your lips once more, muffling your moans and whimpers as his cock was relentlessly hitting the spongy spot in your cunt that made your core come undone over and over again. You were on the verge of your fourth climax, each of them coming quickly after the other, and your thighs started to shiver at the pleasure that had enveloped you fully. “Aemond… It’s too much. I— husband, I cannot,” You cried as you felt a different sensation, an odd pressure in your core unalike the other times you came. Aemond clenched his jaw as his cock twitched inside your cunt, “Just… come for me one more time, my flower,” He gritted as he wanted to coax another peak from you.

Aemond laid his thumb flat against your nubbin and rubbed circles once more, your voice already hoarse from your loud moans. “Oh… Aemond!” You cried as the quivering of your thighs grew, and you felt the pressure in your core come undone; a differing climax from the first three overcame you. Aemond groaned loudly and tilted his head back as he spilled his seed deep in your cunt. You breathed heavily as you tried to comprehend what had happened, wetness pooling between your thighs, and an embarrassed blush spread through your cheeks and neck.

Aemond smirked and shook his head, trying to soothe the mortification in your eyes. “I knew you were capable of it,” He hummed and kissed your lips. He knew it was perhaps too much to test your limits in your first night together, but he could not help himself; he needed to have you in such a way. “My perfect wife,” he hummed against your skin, and your reply came through your tired smile.

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iniquitousyearning · 6 months ago

Text

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 17th. tom riddle — overstim, cockwarming.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: cockwarming as a punishment? clit stim cockwarming as a punishment? tom would think so.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, cockwarming, ft. tom’s mythical clit magic that i force into almost everyone of my fics for him, overstimulation, begging, sharp tongue banter, slight praise, tom is an infuriating bastard like always, dom!tom, slight part 2 from this.

also, thank you to my beautiful @cotttagecorewhore for the idea 🤍

He's a master of multitasking, you've learned in the passing months. Multitasking and complete self-possession, something you can see as he writes, without a break—as you sit perched in his lap, thighs on either side of his.

He's not writing anything of any particular importance—some letter, an order, some instruction for something. All of it is of little consequence to you, so you focus on the act of it instead—the way he holds the quill, the way it moves across the page in neat, angular script. He does it like it's something that requires no effort, not even a moment of thought, and you wonder if writing to him is as easy as breathing.

It's so easy to love you, you think, until your brain goes back to focusing on the feeling of him. His scent. His breath. His length buried inside you. His free hand not letting you move.

Him.

"That's a filthy habit," he murmurs, and you realize you've been biting your lip, watching his hand work across the page. "You’re breaking the skin."

"Can't help it," you grumble, and to make a point, you start biting your lip again. "I chew my lip when I'm impatient. I'm impatient right now."

He makes a sound that's somewhere between a huff and a sigh at that—and you can feel his attention shift from the page to look up at you for a moment—

"Patience, you've never had. Your only flaw, I'd say." He says, languidly taking in the sight of you before shifting his eyes back to his work. “That, and the penchant for damaging your skin."

You roll your eyes. You know he sees it.

"I didn't realize you were an expert in dermatology.”

You can feel the vibrations in his chest as he laughs—a low breathless chuckle, and you can't stop yourself from shuddering.

"It's more because I don't want to taste blood when I kiss you."

When I kiss you.

You’ll never tire of words like that, and it’s the simplicity in which he says them that makes half your brain immediately short circuit.

Because it’s moments like this—and there are many of them—where you have to remind yourself to breathe, and it's almost embarrassing how easily he has that effect on you, how he can still make you dizzy from a single offhanded comment.

"I don't recall you complaining before."

You're trying very hard to make your voice sound nonchalant now, and you think you're doing a fairly good job of it, but you can feel the way your hips try to wiggle against him involuntarily, the way your hands tighten on his shoulders, digging your nails into his sweater.

He can feel it, he can definitely feel it.

"I'm not complaining now," he says, the smirk still in his voice. "Just stating my preference."

"I have a preference for you not writing right now," you toss back, and you sound whinier than you intended. "You're torturing me."

"Torture implies you're not enjoying it at all," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the page. "And I can feel how much you're enjoying it."

You can't stop yourself from shuddering again, as if half of your nerve endings are suddenly connected to him, and you bury your face in his neck.

"You're insufferable," you murmur, feeling the soft wool of his sweater against your face. "Can you feel how much I'm wishing to hex you, too?"

"I can," he replies, before his hips cant up a fraction—just the tiniest shift—pressing his throbbing dick up a little deeper into you, making you bite your lip again, and you're almost certain he's done it just so you'll react. "I far prefer the former, however."

You make an indignant sound at that, but it comes out all breathless and a little high-pitched—and it’s then that you decide to give up your attempts at sounding dignified.

"You and your fucking preferences." You hiss, half muffled against his shoulder.

"I'm nothing if not consistent," he says, and you think he actually sounds more distracted now, as if he's more focused on the wiggling of your hips against him then he is his writing. And then— "if you want something, you know you could just ask for it."

You lift your head from his shoulder at that, just so he can see the glare you're giving him now.

"I won't beg for you." You retort, and you realize halfway through that it's not quite as biting as you intended—it's hard to be biting when you can't seem to stop shuddering—when you feel so fucking full of him. "Not after this."

"I didn't say you had to beg," he whispers, and you realize his quill has stopped moving on the page. "I said you had to ask."

It takes every ounce of willpower you have to keep from rocking your hips against him again—you're not sure how much of this you're willing to take.

"And you'd actually indulge me?" You cock a suspicious eyebrow. "If I just, asked for it?"

Now his eyes have left the page completely—quill dropping from his hand as he brings it to your chin, gripping it gently, tilting your head up so he can look you in the face now. You know you're flushed—you can feel the heat crawling over your skin, your neck, probably to your ears, too.

"When have I ever denied you?" He wets his lips as he says it. "As long as you ask nicely."

"I always ask nicely," you mutter, but the effect is lost somewhat when, in your attempt to regain a semblance of control, his hips shift and his dick twitches inside you again. "Jesus—Tom, just fuck me. I can't—"

There's an instant when you think the corners of his eyes crinkle in satisfaction when you say that, and he knows just how undone you feel because he's the one who's gotten you there, and that's why he likes to take his time, because it gets you like this—

"That wasn't nicely," he tuts, tilting your head up a little further. "That was greedy. Selfish."

And there's a hitch in your breath when he says it, because as much as it rankles you to be called that, you know he's right—

"Please," you whine, slick walls clenching tight around him—craving the friction. "Please please please..."

You hoped you’d catch a hitch in his breath at that, something that shows you’re getting somewhere—but he just smiles—and it's a slow, almost cruel smile as his hand slips down to your throat, thumb running over the skin of your neck.

"Much better," he coos, and god it's so condescending you’re back to mentally hexing him. "For your efforts."

And the second he says that—you feel his magic swirling and massaging over your clit.

"Oh god," you manage, half a gasp and half a moan, your eyes squeezed shut. "Oh my god—"

It feels both instantaneous and instant—the wave of pleasure that washes through you at the exact time that the hand around your throat tightens. Another gasp gets stuck in your throat and you want to rock against him but he's holding you in place, and you have to settle for clinging on to his shoulders, clawing at him—

"Eyes open," he rasps, and you do, with an effort, the look on his face almost sinful when you manage to open them—his eyes darkened, watching you intently. "Just like that. Good. No moving."

That simple word—good—does way more to you then it has any right to, and you watch his face as the realization of how much you liked it shows there too.

"Don't be cruel," you whine again, your nails still biting into his shoulders because it's all you have, the only way to anchor yourself. "Tom—fuck—please—"

You see the way a muscle in his jaw clenches for a second—just a second—as if he's biting back a reaction.

"Relax," his hand slips to the back of your head, pulling you to rest your face against his shoulder as he goes back to writing. "I'm almost done here."

You want to make some biting comeback but you can't even think, let alone speak—the pleasure is already at a fever pitch that's almost too much, to the point where you feel like you're trembling, your muscles taut, your thighs clenching, your nails raking desperately up the wool of his sweater.

"Almost?" You manage between gasps as the sensation heightens and you can practically feel your climax prowling near. "You—you said you'd—give me what I want if I asked—"

"You're right," he's hardly focused, as if he can't be bothered in the slightest by your frantic state on his lap. "But I didn't say I'd give it to you now, did I?"

"You bastard," you gasp, your head lolling against the crook of his neck. "You're a fucking—mmffff—god—"

"Poor thing," he responds, all faux-pity as he runs a hand through your hair. "So helpless she's calling me a god."

You roll your eyes with a groan, while he just keeps writing—you can feel yourself trying to rock against him again as the pleasure is building and building and you can't find a balance—

"Tom," you gasp out, but you're not even sure what you're asking for, all you know is that it's him—it’s him and him and him. "Tom—I'm going to—you're going to make me—"

A shudder goes through him at that, barely perceptible, the smallest jerk that you're not sure anyone else would notice but you're so aware of his body and his responses that you'd never miss it—

"Go on." He urges, quietly. "I won't stop you."

You think it's probably the tone in which he says it—half pitying, half condescending—that does you in, and all you can do is bite down on his shoulder, hard, and then you're cumming, almost violently—as if something inside you snaps all at once and you're shaking with it, clawing at him, gasping for air, trying in vain not to make a sound because his dorm is not warded off yet and you're certain the rest of the school would hear if you screamed—

"Mfffff—"

You're clenching, walls fluttering around him as he lets you bite down on his shoulder as hard as you want—the shudder that goes through him at the feeling of your teeth on his skin doesn't go unnoticed, and you wonder if he likes it, if he wants you to mark him just as bad as you want to leave your claim.

"Alright," he purrs when you go limp against him, half slumped over his lap. "Alright. Relax. Good."

You feel utterly boneless and breathless against him, like you've been completely drained out of everything, still shaking a little—he's done this to you in a matter of a few minutes and you feel humiliated by the ease in which he manages it, the control—

"I hate you," you murmur breathlessly, wincing as you feel him—huge and solid, buried inside you—twitch. "Fuck, I hate you."

There’s a low, breathless hum that those words pull from him—and you feel him tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, before his hand goes back to your throat, tilting your head back up.

"Don't lie," he murmurs, mouthing at your jaw. "You don't."

You're half tempted to argue otherwise, or give him some sort of biting response—but at the feeling of his mouth against your neck, you feel a fresh burst of heat flare up again and you can't seem to fight it—

"No," you breathe out, and you sound almost delirious with it now, too far gone to pretend you have any semblance of control. "I d-don't."

"That's what I thought," he hums, you can feel that smirk on your skin and you hate it and you love it simultaneously, and you wonder how it's possible to feel this many things at once. "You've always been a terrible liar."

Your lips part in response to that, but before you can get words out, he's shifting to resume his writing, and the magic on your clit starts back up again—

"Fuck! Y-you can't be serious," you manage through a mewl, because you're sure you don't have anything left to give—there's no way you can feel it again, much less so soon. "You can't just—"

"I'm not done yet," he replies, simply. "That means you aren't either."

It's almost infuriating, how simple he makes it sound, as if you don't have any say in it, as if he's going to just pull another orgasm out of you the way you'd pull a tissue out of a box—and you want to hate him for it, only you're already going back to being desperate, all your nerve endings on fire again, your fingers clenching uselessly against the dark wool—

"Tommmm" you whine, clenching around him as he twitches inside you, as the stimulation on your clit grows stronger—making your hips jerk, making you lift yourself about an inch up his shaft—just enough to make him groan—

"Fuck."

His fingers immediately fist in your hair, jerking your head back—and you love it, yet hate it, making you hate that you love it—and he makes a low, guttural sound against your neck, almost a growl.

"If you keep that up," you think it might actually be a threat now, because it’s snarled through barred teeth. "I will never finish this."

"That's—that's sort of the point," you gasp out. "I don't care if you don't finish it—I fucking need you—now—"

He makes that guttural sound against your neck again, almost as if he's biting it back—as if he needs the restraint to resist just throwing you onto the desk and having you there—

"Patience," he growls, but you can hear how breathless he is too, now, how affected he is—and that thought makes you feel insane all over again. "You think you deserve to be fucked after what you did? Hm? Slipping me that potion—tying me up—"

"Yes—yes I do—" you don't care that the sound that comes out of your mouth is most definitely a moan, that it's completely pitiful how desperate you are now—you want him, and nothing else matters. "It was just a little potion, it didn't even last that long, you were just mad I made you—"

He shakes his head, telling you without words to shut up.

"Careful," his hand slips from your hair to cover your mouth. "Don't want you to go talking yourself into trouble," his hand tightens a fraction when you try to bite at. "You might end up getting what you don't want."

He shifts under you, making you gasp against his palm, your nails biting into his shoulder as the magic on your clit twirls and swirls with just a little more intensity, enough for you to undeniably feel it—and Tom jerks his hips up into you, just enough for you to feel that, too—

You shake, forcing the words from under his palm. "Tom, please—"

It's not a whine, now—it's a keening, an almost broken sort of plea—but it's as if he doesn't hear it, or maybe he just doesn’t care, because he's continuing to speak in that low, growly rumble against your neck that's just as torturous as everything else.

"You're going to be quiet. You're going to take it," he asserts, and your eyes nearly roll back at the sheer heat of it. "Until I believe you’re deserving of more."

You have no idea if you're nodding or trying to protest, you don't even know which one you want to do because both options sound impossible to you—and you're almost hyperventilating now, the intensity almost too much and not enough all at once—you're desperate, you're aching, you're needy, and then you're falling over the edge—second orgasm shredding through you like lightening—

Oh—fucking hell—

It wrings itself out of you, violent and all consuming, but you can't make a sound—can't do anything except bite down on Tom's hand and clench your eyes shut as you fall apart—your thighs shaking, every muscle taut, your nails clawing desperately at his shoulder.

And he's murmuring things against your neck that you can't make out, holding you against him through it, making you take it in the most exquisite kind of torture—and god, you're certain he must be smiling, you're certain he loves having you like this, a broken mess on his lap, unable to speak, only whimper as he pulls his hand away with a "good girl", and urges your head to rest against his shoulder again as he resumes writing.

For the next solid minute, you still can't speak, just gasp for breath—clinging to him helplessly in the aftershock of it.

"That was two," he says, his hand trailing lazily up and down your spine. "You're in for a long night."

You want to whimper at that, because you're not sure if you can take anything more—

"How many," you manage to breathe out, your voice rasping. "How many more."

"As many as you can take," his voice is so matter-of-fact you know the bastard is smirking. "And possibly a few more after that.”

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korshubudemycoursesblog · 9 months ago

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Accelerate Your Learning: Master Angular 18 and ASP.NET 8.0

In today's fast-paced tech industry, developers need to stay ahead of the curve by mastering cutting-edge technologies. One of the best ways to ensure you’re on top of your game is to focus on Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0. Whether you're looking to enhance your career or build the next generation of web applications, these two powerful tools can help you achieve that goal.

Both Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0 are celebrated for their ability to create responsive, scalable, and efficient web applications. As web development continues to evolve, these platforms have proven to be game-changers, making it essential for developers to get familiar with their features, advantages, and how they can be seamlessly integrated.

Why You Should Master Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0

Angular and ASP NET have become go-to technologies for web developers for a variety of reasons. Angular 18 allows developers to create dynamic, single-page applications that perform well on any device. With a strong focus on TypeScript, dependency injection, and a component-based architecture, Angular provides the structure needed for building modern web apps.

ASP NET 8.0, on the other hand, is the latest version of Microsoft's popular web development framework. Known for its robustness, flexibility, and support for RESTful services, ASP NET 8.0 is a comprehensive tool for building web applications and APIs. With improved performance, new features like minimal APIs, and better integration with cloud-based solutions, this framework is more powerful than ever.

Key Features of Angular 18

As one of the most popular front-end frameworks, Angular 18 offers some standout features that make it a must-learn for developers:

Enhanced Component-Based Architecture: Angular 18 emphasizes reusable components, making your code cleaner and easier to maintain.

Improved Performance: Thanks to features like lazy loading and ahead-of-time (AOT) compilation, Angular 18 helps you build lightning-fast applications.

TypeScript Support: As a statically typed language, TypeScript helps catch errors early, ensuring more reliable and stable codebases.

Reactive Forms and Directives: These are essential for handling complex user inputs and making the UI more interactive and responsive.

New Router Enhancements: With improved routing capabilities, Angular 18 simplifies navigation and ensures that users have a smooth experience.

By mastering Angular 18, you'll not only build beautiful, high-performing applications, but you'll also simplify your development process. Whether you're building e-commerce websites, social media platforms, or corporate portals, Angular 18 ensures that your application runs seamlessly across devices and browsers.

Core Features of ASP NET 8.0

ASP NET 8.0 has introduced several improvements that are crucial for web developers aiming to build high-performance, scalable applications. Some of its top features include:

Minimal APIs: These allow developers to create fast and efficient APIs with minimal configuration, reducing boilerplate code.

Cross-Platform Support: With ASP NET 8.0, you can develop applications that run on Windows, Linux, and macOS, giving you flexibility when it comes to deployment.

Integrated Cloud Support: Seamlessly integrate with cloud platforms like Azure, allowing you to leverage cloud-based services, storage, and scalability.

Blazor Integration: With Blazor, you can build interactive web UIs using C# instead of JavaScript, bridging the gap between client-side and server-side development.

Improved Security Features: ASP NET 8.0 focuses on security, providing built-in protection against cross-site scripting (XSS), cross-site request forgery (CSRF), and SQL injection.

By learning ASP NET 8.0, you position yourself to build reliable, secure, and efficient web applications. Its tight integration with Microsoft Azure also makes it ideal for developers looking to deploy cloud-based applications.

How Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0 Work Together

One of the most exciting aspects of learning Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0 is the potential for integrating these two powerful tools. By combining Angular 18 on the front end with ASP NET 8.0 on the back end, developers can create full-stack applications that are both high-performing and scalable.

For example, Angular 18 can be used to build the client-facing portion of your application, handling everything from data binding to UI rendering. Meanwhile, ASP NET 8.0 can manage the back-end logic, database operations, and API connections. This combination gives you the best of both worlds: a responsive user interface powered by Angular 18 and a robust, secure server powered by ASP NET 8.0.

The ability to integrate these technologies is especially valuable for developers working in enterprise environments, where performance, scalability, and maintainability are key. Mastering both Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0 enables you to build applications that can handle large-scale traffic, complex business logic, and multiple user interactions with ease.

Advantages of Learning Angular 18

If you're on the fence about whether or not to invest time in Angular 18, here are a few key reasons why it should be on your radar:

High Demand: As more companies transition to web applications, there's an increasing demand for Angular developers.

Large Community Support: With an active community of developers, finding resources, tutorials, and help for Angular 18 is easier than ever.

Flexible and Modular: Angular's component-based architecture makes it easy to break down large applications into manageable pieces, improving maintainability.

End-to-End Framework: From routing to forms, Angular 18 offers a comprehensive solution for front-end development, meaning you won't need to juggle multiple libraries or frameworks.

Mobile-First Focus: As the world moves toward mobile-first development, Angular 18 ensures that your applications are optimized for performance across all devices.

Why You Shouldn't Miss Out on ASP NET 8.0

Learning ASP NET 8.0 is an investment in your future as a developer. Here are a few compelling reasons to add this framework to your skillset:

Cross-Platform Capabilities: Develop applications that run on any operating system, expanding your deployment options.

Cloud Integration: With ASP NET 8.0, deploying applications to the cloud is straightforward and efficient, particularly with services like Azure.

Security-First Approach: Built-in security features make it easy to protect your application from common web vulnerabilities.

Highly Scalable: If you’re working on applications that need to scale—either due to traffic or data size—ASP NET 8.0 is designed to handle it without sacrificing performance.

Developer-Friendly Tools: Visual Studio, Azure DevOps, and other Microsoft tools integrate seamlessly with ASP NET 8.0, making development, testing, and deployment easier.

How to Get Started

Whether you're new to web development or an experienced programmer, diving into Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0 is easier than you think. There are numerous online resources, tutorials, and courses designed to help you master these technologies.

For Angular, the best place to start is by exploring TypeScript and understanding the component-based architecture. Once you're comfortable with those, dive into topics like routing, forms, and directives.

For ASP NET, begin by familiarizing yourself with the basics of C# and .NET Core. From there, you can start building simple applications, gradually incorporating advanced features like minimal APIs, Blazor, and cloud integration.

Conclusion

By mastering both Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0, you'll become a full-stack developer capable of building modern, responsive, and scalable web applications. These technologies are in high demand, and by learning them, you're setting yourself up for long-term success in the development world. Whether you're looking to accelerate your learning or future-proof your career, the combination of Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0 will provide you with the tools you need to build powerful, cutting-edge applications.

So, what are you waiting for? It’s time to Accelerate Your Learning: Master Angular 18 and ASP NET 8.0 and take your web development skills to the next level!

#udemycourses #korshub #daily blog #daily topic #angular 18

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agreeewrites · 5 months ago

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Magic Lessons p.3 | B.W.

feat. Bill Weasley x intern!reader

SUMMARY: Bill returns from Cairo, but doubt began to creep into your mind during his absence, dredging up old wounds for the both of you.

CW: MDNI 18+, smut, mischievious twins, pleasuredom!Bill, angst angst angst angst, mentions of Fenrir’s attack and the war, mentions of divorce, some rough oral and piv, slight breeding kink, possessive!Bill, fluffy HEA

AN: this is now a completed series! yay!

part one | part two | masterlist

It was strange sitting in Bill’s office without him, curled up in the armchair he devoured you in, book open in your lap. You'd been trying for an hour to decipher his notes on a particular curse, tracing the small, angular letters with tired eyes, but your mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of its writer to absorb any of it.

Bill had been in Cairo for 12 days, six hours, and nine minutes, every tick of the clock like a barb in your skin, leeching black, poisonous doubt into your blood.

Would he still want you when he returned? Will the time away give him clarity to how insane you both were acting? Would you be reduced to a fling? No longer desirable now that you've been flung?

The time, the space, was making you second guess yourself, second guess him. What you were doing was reckless. Stupid, even. Risking the future you'd imagined for yourself since you were a first year at Hogwarts. You’d be a stain on Bill’s impressive career, and the thought of him eventually coming to resent you, regret you, for possibly ruining a decade of hard work…it made you physically ill.

Could you do that to him? To yourself?

But fuck, you wanted him desperately, the ache for him like a hole in your lungs. You found yourself spending longer and longer hours in his office, craving his presence, his aura, and the sanctuary of his space was the closest you could come to replicating that.

You sighed and set the notes aside for the night, the sun having set some hours before. With unhurried movements, you packed up your belongings and tidied his office on the off chance he returned the following day. You wanted it to be presentable for him, leaving no evidence that you'd been holed up there for nearly two weeks, besides the stack of completed work.

You took the Floo Station to the nearest one by your flat like you always did, ready to wash off your makeup, get into your pajamas, and order some Chinese food. Rain was coming down in sheets, wind buffeting against your coat, but when you rounded the corner towards your flat, the bulk of a man standing in the rain in front of your door stopped you in your tracks.

It took less than a heartbeat for you to realize who it was.

“Bill?” You gasped, and he lifted his head, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, copper hair pulled back in a messy bun.

He took a step towards you. “Sorry, I—”

You launched yourself at him, completely overcome with relief, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “You're home,” you whispered, relaxing fully when his arm looped around your waist, holding you tightly against his chest under the safety of the umbrella.

“I'm home,” he sighed, nuzzling into the top of your head. He smelled of train cars and petrichor, with lingering traces of cologne applied hours earlier, and you wanted to breathe it like air. “Can we go inside?” He asked, settling his hand on your hip with a soft squeeze.

“Yes! Merlin, sorry,” you giggled, a twinge of nerves in your stomach at the thought of having Bill inside your little flat.

You reluctantly pulled away and riffled through your bag for your keys. Bill's arm slid around you from behind, pulling you back against his chest as he nosed into the curve of your shoulder. Butterflies rioted in your stomach, your hands growing so clumsy to nearly dropped your key while you inserted it into the lock.

“Missed you, little bird,” he mumbled, pressing a tender kiss to your pulse.

“I missed you too,” you said, leaning your head against his. You managed to get the door open and Bill released you so you could move inside, and he closed the door behind you both, collapsing the umbrella and setting it by the door. “So, how were things in Egypt?” You asked, hanging your bag on the hook.

Bill slid your rain-soaked jacket off your shoulders, down your arms, his touch feather light, and hung it up as well. “You really want to talk about work? That's where you just came from, isn't it?” He said while shirking his own coat.

You flushed, embarrassed that he saw through you so easily. “It is,” you admitted. “And as long as you're alright, I don't want to talk about work.”

He smirked, reaching out to cradle your face in his hand, the other settling on your hip. “I'm perfect now, love. Although, we’re going to have a discussion about your work-life balance.”

You snorted. “Really? William ‘Never-Takes-A-Day-Off’ Weasley is going to lecture me on working too much?”

“Backtalk, too? Have you forgotten your manners while I was away?” He backed you against your kitchen island, lips a breath away from yours.

“No, sir,” you hummed, barely suppressing a grin as days worth of pent up desire came surging forth, your pulse racing between your legs.

He sighed, breath fanning against your cheek. “Merlin, you sound so pretty.” His hand on your hip moved around your back, pressing your bodies together. “Haven't felt anything soft in days,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

“Take me to bed?” You asked, brushing an escaped strand of hair from his face and tucking it behind his ear.

“Thought you'd never ask,” he chuckled and scooped you up into his arms—

Knock knock!

“Open up! We brought pizza!” The twins serenaded through the door, and Bill swiveled his head to look at you.

“Oh fuck, I completely forgot.” You squirmed and Bill set you back on your feet, though he didn't relinquish his hold. “We planned a movie night.”

“Tell them to bugger off,” he huffed, bending down to kiss your neck.

“Bill, that's rude!”

“Don't care,” he muttered, lapping at your pulse, and your mind began to drift, lost in the feeling of him.

“We’re getting soaked out here!” George called.

“Don't make me break in!” Fred warned, knocking with a little more force. “I'd hate to do it again!”

“Again?” Bill's head snapped towards the door.

“Just—fuck, get in the closet!” You tried to push Bill towards your bedroom, but only managed to move him a few steps.

“Why did he break in before?” He asked, fighting a smile at your helpless attempt to move him.

“I locked myself out! I'll get rid of them, just, please get in there!” You pushed your shoulder into his sternum, peddling your legs like cartoon character.

He sighed, taking a step back and nearly sending your sprawling onto the floor. “Ten minutes.”

“Thank you!”

Bill chuckled and walked the rest of the way into your bedroom at the same moment you heard George cast alohomora.

The twins barged in, wands raised as if you were in peril.

“What took you so bloody long?”

“Why are you just standing there?”

“Whose coat is that?”

“I, actually, um—” you wracked your brain for an excuse.

“Darling, is there a man in this flat?” George asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“Uh—yes!” you whispered back. “I met him at work and we hit it off. I'm sorry, I forgot about our plans.”

George scoffed, a teasing smirk on his face. “So you'd rather have a shag then hang out with us?”

“Y’know, if you needed to blow off a little steam—” Fred started when something crashed in your closet, making the three of you jump.

“Is he…in your closet?” George raised an eyebrow.

“No, no! That's, uh—”

Fred pushed past you, striding into your room.

“Fred!” You snapped, trying to grab him, but he batted your hand away. “Just please, go.”

“You sure you know this bloke well enough to be here alone with him?” Fred asked, moving closer to the closet, the humor having drained from his voice.

“What's his name?” George asked. “Maybe Bill’s mentioned him?”

“It’s, uh—”

“You don't even know his name?” Fred whisper-shouted, glaring at you with a strange mix of pride and concern.

“No, I do! He, uh—”

“Are you okay?” George asked, his brothers concern reflected in his face. He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder. “You're shaking, love.”

“Did this prick scare you?” Fred asked, turning his attention back to the closet door.

“No! Merlin’s sake, please just go! I'm fine!”

“Hey, fuckface, what are you doing in her closet?” Fred banged on the door, and you died a little inside.

Silence echoed around the flat.

“Open the door, mate,” Fred ordered, and George pulled you a little closer to his chest.

More silence. You had no doubt Bill had apparated, and the twins were about to think you were insane.

“Three, two—” Fred yanked open the door, revealing his older brother standing in the middle of your closet, his arms crossed over his chest. “B-Bill?” Fred stammered, taking a step back.

“You two have some fucking nerve,” Bill growled, and the twins scattered as he dashed out of the closet after them.

“We're sorry! We didn't know!” George called, vaulting over your couch.

“What the fuck, y/n?” Fred shouted, diving under your bed.

“Would it kill you two to mind your own fucking business?” Bill dragged Fred out by his ankles, his little brother desperately clawing at the ground.

You'd find it funny if it weren't for your secret being out, the very thing that kept you up every night for the last two weeks.

“You're the one fucking our friend!” George shouted, effectively diverting attention from his twin.

Bill turned on him, throwing one of your pillows at his head. “I'm not fucking her!”

Fred scurried behind your bedroom door. “Then why are you here so late!”

“And hiding in like a ghoul in the closet!”

“Can we just calm down—” You tried.

“I just got back from—come here, you little shit! I just got back from Cairo and needed to check in with her—George!”

“Bullshit!” Fred countered. “You're fucking our girl!”

“Hey!”

Bill froze, turning his head to peer at Fred, pillow aloft.

“Your girl?” Bill challenged, and you groaned.

“See! I knew it! Oh fuck—” Bill chucked the pillow at Fred and he apparated at the same instant, the pillow flying right through where he was standing and landing on your bed.

“Fucker,” Bill bit.

“Congratulations on your boning! Bye!” George chirped, apparating too.

Bill sighed, turning to you.

“Couldn't keep your cool, huh?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“They won't say anything,” he said, smoothing back his hair.

“I know, it's just—” Tendrils of anxiety wrapped around your throat, tightening until you were silenced.

“What, love?” He asked, taking a careful step towards you, sensing your mounting anxiety.

“What are we doing? This is—”

Bill was quiet for a moment. “You said you wanted this,” he murmured, a sharpness around the edges of his words.

“I do!” You cried, frustrated with yourself. “But that doesn't mean we should be doing it. Bill, if it got out that you were screwing your intern, your career would be over. And so would mine, before it even started. I mean, hiding from our coworkers, from your family, it’s just…”

His jaw flexed, shoulders squaring. “So you want to end things here? Go back to before we—” he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Is that what you really want?”

Tears burned your eyes, nausea churning in your stomach. “I don't know—”

“I don't believe you,” he growled. “The way you look at me, the way you were holding me not even ten minutes ago—” his voice cracked. “I don't believe that you want to end this.”

“Maybe it isn't what I want, but it's what we should do. You know that, Bill,” you said through the lump in your throat, voice pinched and small. “We need to stop before this goes too far.”

He looked like you'd slapped him. “What do you mean ‘too far’?”

You turned away from him, tears coming in earnest now. He stalked into your bedroom and caught your elbow, spinning you back around.

“Tell me what you meant,” he pleaded, pulling your hands away from you face, your eyes wet and puffy with tears.

“You know what I meant!” You shouted, yanking your hands out of his grip.

“So even with the potential for…that, you’re still going to end this?” He asked, his voice low. “That isn't worth it to you?”

You couldn't answer him, you arms wrapped around yourself as you trembled, biting back the sob on the tip of your tongue.

“Answer me,” he repeated, softening his voice.

“What if you resent me? What if you—” your voice fractured, brittle with shame and fear. “What if you regret me?”

He leaned down, forcing you to meet his eye. “There's a lot of things I regret on my life,” he said, barely above a whisper. “But I never thought I would get the chance to love someone again, not after Fenrir. Not after the war, not after the divorce—” he drew a shaky inhale.

Guilt dogged at you, and you opened your mouth to speak, but he pressed on.

“There's nothing I wouldn't risk to have that chance again. I would give up everything, my career, my house, all of it. And regardless of what happens between us, I'll never regret you.” He cupped your face again, and this time you allowed him, eyes swimming with unshed tears, your heart mending and breaking all at once.

“Bill, I—”

“Don’t say anything else. I want you to sleep on it,” he said, straightening. “Take the day off tomorrow, too. Then you can tell me what you want to do, and we'll do it.” His voice was firm, but not unkind, a tone of finality that had you nodding in acceptance. “Goodnight, love.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, then released you, apparating away before you could blink.

You were left stunned and alone in your torn apart bedroom, reeling from Bill’s words. Growing weak, your knees folded beneath you and you collapsed onto the floor, a sob bursting from your chest.

Such a coward, you scolded yourself. Of course he's worth the risk.

You wanted or rush over to Shell Cottage and tell him, beg him to forgive you for being so stupid, but he told you to sleep on it. To be sure of whatever answer you gave him. So you shirked your work wear and climbed into bed, squeezing your eyes shut, and prayed for sleep to take you swiftly.

It didn't. You laid awake for hours, until finally, at two o’clock in the morning, you couldn't stand it any longer.

You pulled on your lucky pair of jeans and jumper, washed away your smudged makeup, and apparated to Shell Cottage.

When you landed sprawled in his yard instead of standing on his front porch, it occurred to you that surprising the Curse-breaker in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm was a stupid idea, but it was too late now.

Bill wrenched open the door, hair rumpled and dressed only in sweatpants, his wand aimed at you, green wisps of magic dancing at the end of it. Thunder rolled overhead, a crack of lightning making you jump.

“Bill,” you gasped, stepping into the light of his front porch, and he nearly dropped his wand.

“Y/n? What the fuck are you—”

“I'm sorry about what I said.” You jumped headfirst into your apology, needing to get it out before it drowned you. “I was scared and stupid and I didn't mean it. I want you, no matter the risks. I can't let you—I can't let this go by without trying.” Tears will spilling down your cheeks again, mixing with the rain, your words coming out in hiccuping gasps. “I'd never forgive myself for being too cowardly to try.”

Bill bound down the steps, grabbing you by the throat and silencing you with a savage, bruising kiss. He kissed you the way a drunkard takes to a keg, ravenous and greedy. You could taste whisky on his tongue, smoke on his breath, but it only made you kiss him harder, open yourself wider for him to devour.

“Inside,” he gruffed when you broke the kiss to breathe. “Now.”

You obliged, hurrying up the slick steps with him on your tail. The cottage was cozy and dimly lit, a fireplace roaring in the corner and the moon serving as the only illumination. There were books everywhere, piles of blankets and shelves lined with trinkets, art hung on every wall.

Taking advantage of your distraction, Bill scooped you up bridal-style, one arm notched under your knees, the other around your mid-back. You gasped in surprise, but quickly settled into the warmth of his chest, leaning your head against his bare shoulder to kiss along his rain-damp clavicle.

“I told you to sleep on it,” he murmured, carrying you across the living room and up a set of stairs.

“Couldn't,” you hummed, licking a jagged scar on his shoulder. “Not without fixing things.”

“Neither could I,” he said, nudging open a door with his foot and carrying you across the threshold. It was his bedroom, decorated with even more of his findings and a giant four-poster bed made of solid wood, the quilt a thick woven masterpiece that you only got to admire for a second before he was dropping you onto it and shirking your wet clothes.

He paused, muttering an incendio to light the fire place, and you sat up, head level with his sternum. Hesitantly, you kissed a long his abdomen, tracing the dips and swells of his muscles, his scars with your lips.

He hummed low in his chest, petting a hand over your damp hair. “Whatcha doin’, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice silken.

“Nothin’,” you mumbled, licking along one his scars, growing bolder as he placated you with scalp scratches. “Wanted to touch you.”

He chuckled. “Been wanting you to touch me—” he groaned when you shifted your body to lay down on the bed, kissing along the grooves of his hips, teasing the edge of his waistband with your fingers. “Baby, you don't have to—”

You cut him by licking a stripe over the hard bulge of his cock, feeling it twitch and swell through the fabric. You nearly moaned at the feel of him, thick and long and warm, and your pussy purred, fluttering around nothing.

“You want my cock, darling?” He asked, gently sweeping your hair into a ponytail, the strands held together by his fist.

You nodded, looking up at him through your lashes.

He tsked, smirking. “I suppose I could indulge you for a bit.” With his free hand, he reached into the front his pants, freeing himself. He wrapped his hand around the base, a pearl of precum squeezing from the swollen tip.

You caught the salty morsel with your tongue, kitten licking the underside of him. He tasted fucking divine, velvety smooth and masculine, and your jaw fell open on its own accord, eager to take more of him.

“Such a good girl,” he cooed, feeding the first few inches into your mouth before retreating, patting your tongue with his cockhead when it chased him past your lips. “Fuck, look at you. So eager to please.”

He eased himself back into your mouth, holding still so you could move at your own pace, bobbing your head in slow, sloppy movements, savoring the heavy feel of him on your tongue.

Soft, breathy moans spilled from his lips, his hand tugging a bit harder at your roots. He started moving you up and down his length, his hips rocking forward, thrusting gently into your mouth. You moaned around him, fisting the sheets below you as a flood of arousal made you pussy throb.

“Oh, darling. You want me to be rough, don't you?” He hummed, pulling his hips back until just the tip rested on your tongue.

Your eyes lifted to his and you nodded the best you could. Please, please use me.

“Your safe word is ‘hex’, okay?”

You nodded again, pleading with your eyes.

He thrust back into your mouth, his fist keeping your head in place as he forced his cock as deep as it could go. He set a punishing pace, fucking your face with every ounce of the brutality you knew he kept locked up right in his chest, hidden from the world.

Now, hidden from everyone but you.

You both needed to let go of control, to surrender to the truth in your heart, and with each other, it was starting to seem not only possible, but safe.

“Such a good fucking slut, gagging on my cock—this what you wanted? To be pushed to your limits?” Bill clutched your jaw with his other hand, feeling the strain in your muscles, the force of him stretching your mouth wider, and he groaned, head tipping back on his shoulders. “I'm gonna mold that pretty little throat in the shape of my cock, yeah? You're mine. This throat is mine.”

You could only whimper, taking every savage thrust like it was a gift from god. More than happy to worship at the altar of Bill Weasley.

He withdrew suddenly, leaving you gasping for air, a thread of drool connecting you. He craned your head back, lifting you until your hands left the mattress, back bent like a doll.

“This is it now, you understand? I won't go back.” His voice was rough with intensity, eyes shining with sincerity, vulnerability despite his hold on you.

“This is it,” you repeated, shuffling your knees underneath you and reaching for him. He loosened his hold so you could wrap your arms around his neck, molding your tender mouth against his in an attempt to convey what your were feeling, how much you needed him.

He kissed you back harder as thunder boomed above you, tongue twining with yours, and low groan loosened from his chest. He released you fully, sliding his hands down your back and scooping you up by your thighs, guiding your legs around his waist.

He held you aloft for a few moments, basking in the heat of the kiss, but it wasn't long until you were squirming in his hold, trying to create more friction between your bodies as desire blazed under your skin, raging like the storm outside.

In a quick movement, he broke the kiss and dropped you back onto the bed, sprawled on your back. Before you had time to process what happened, his rough hands forced your thighs apart, revealing the puffy, drippy state of you. One of his hands slid up to part your folds, exposing your sensitive bundle of nerves to the cool air of the room.

Again, you had the echo of the feeling that you were an artifact under his jurisdiction, being examined with the utmost attention, like the code to cracking you open was written on your skin.

Bill saw you down to the soul, and it terrified and exhilarated you in equal measure.

“You're perfect,” he murmured, moving to ease his middle finger inside of you, curling his knuckle to prod that gooey spot inside you and draw a moan from your lips. “The most beautiful curse I've ever had to break.”

“Bill,” you whined, hands grabbing at the sheets, hips trying to rock against his hand, needing more.

He smirked. “Seems I've already broken you, needy little thing. Haven't even gotten started.” He leaned down, laving his tongue over your clit before sucking it between his teeth, and you keened, vision tunneling as bliss washed over you. The relief so palpable it brought tears to your eyes.

He added a second finger, setting a slow but intense pace, stretching and molding you with his fingers, his mouth messily slurping on your clit to keep you loose and moaning beneath him. Pleasure singed every nerve, burning through your muscles like lactic acid, eating into your bones until they were gelatinous, a puddle of simpering goo on Bill’s bed. He was doing just enough to elicit pleasure but not enough to make you cum, and it was starting to make you desperate again, bucking your hips against him in search of more.

“Hush,” he scolded, swatting at your inner thigh when you opened your mouth to beg. “You'll be begging me to stop coming soon enough.”

You couldn't tell if it was a promise or a threat, but either way, you snapped your mouth shut, a fresh wave of arousal making your pussy clench around his fingers.

He took some mercy on you though, and picked up the pace with his fingers fucking you with his hand while he kissed up your stomach, leaving a trail of slick from his chin over your stomach to your tits. He guided a pert nipple into his mouth, lashing it with his tongue before sucking hard, and your back bowed off the bed as you cried out for him.

You tangled your fingers into his hair, urging him closer, and he obliged, bathing your tits with his lips and tongue, using his teeth to elicit sharp gasps of pain before soothing the sting with pleasure. Your orgasm began to build, winding like a gear in your low belly until you were barely able to breathe, every scrap of energy drawn to the apex of your thighs.

“Merlin, your tight, love,” he murmured against the side of your tit, kissing his way back down between your legs. “Ready to come for me?”

“Please, Bill—fuck, please,” you mewled, dragging him by the hair to your needy clit.

“So pretty when you beg,” he purred, swirling his tongue just around your clit, careful to avoid direct contact. “Who does this pussy belong to?”

“You,” you immediately answered, trying to chase his tongue with your pelvis. “I'm yours, Bill.”

He grinned. “That's right. Mine.” With that, he fastened his lips around your clit and sucked hard, curling his fingers against your g-spot at the same moment, and something inside you gave way. You came with a scream, bliss bursting through like a tsunami and dragging you under.

It filled your mind and soul, an endless torrent of bliss drowning you in its bottomless depth. When if finally spit you back out, gasping and overwrought on the shore of Bill's bed, he was still lapping at you, his face and shirt soaked with your release.

“Good fucking girl, well done,” he cooed, withdrawing his fingers to massage the ache from your trembling thighs, his tongue dipping down to drink at the pool of your pleasure. “Twice more, now. That's my girl.”

You shook your head, feeling like a wrung out sponge, but sure enough, Bill has to ratcheted back up in no time, screaming his name, clenching around his fingers as you came a second and third time. It was like magic, the way he coaxed your body into doing what he wanted, even when you thought you couldn't. Playing you like an instrument, drawing whatever song he wanted from your body.

When you came down from the third, twitching and raw, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, he finally relented.

“Did so well, darling,” he cooed, easing his fingers from you and licking them clean. “Are you alright?” He asked, resting his cheek on your thigh as you caught your breath.

You nodded, grasping at his hair again to pull him up your body. He obliged with a chuckle, letting you crash your mouth to his in a desperate, messy kiss, your essence on his tongue making your head spin even more.

“Fuck me, please,” you mumbled into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist and tugging him fully onto the bed.

“Insatiable,” he purred with approval, shifting to slide down his sweatpants fully and kicking them off. He grasped himself, sawing through your drenched slit with a groan. “This was all I could think about in Cairo,” he rasped. “Being balls deep in this fucking pussy, feeling your wrapped around me, squeezing my cock the way you do my fingers.”

“Please, baby. Need you so bad,” you whined, rocking your hips in time with his.

“Need doesn't begin to cover what I'm feeling.” His voice was a strained growl, a primal sort of plea, and it drew another whimper from your chest. “You remember your safe word?” He asked, nearly trembling with effort of not burying himself to the hilt.

You nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He shuddered, a breathy moan fanning against your neck, as his control severed. He slammed his cock into you, sheathing himself completely in your depths, and you both cried out, clinging to one another as he dragged his hips back, then slammed them forward again and again. Rutting into you like a feral beast. Brutalizing every inch of your overworked pussy, your overworked mind, until you were brainless, boneless, his to claim entirely.

“Feels even fucking better—shit, baby. So fucking tight and hot, so wet f’me. My perfect little cunt takin’ me so well.”

You could only moan and nod, eager as a bobblehead. “Yours,” you parroted, digging your nails into his shoulders.

“Mine,” he gruffed, yanking your head back by your hair so he could ravish your neck with his teeth and tongue.

You were so sensitive from before that you could already feel that knot tightening a fourth time, making you flutter and clench around him as he railed you.

“Come for me, love. Give it to me,” he growled, his free hand dipping down to work your clit, his thrusts growing rougher by the second. Tearing you apart on his cock.

Nothing else would ever satisfy you the way he was, he was molding you into the shape of him, ruining you for anyone else. No one could please you the way he did, understand your body so viscerally, so completely, that it bowed to him before it did you.

He owned you mind, body, and soul, and you wouldn't have it any other way, because you knew that you owned him too. Like a lion on a leash.

“Come with me, come with me,” you cried, your trembling body trying to meet him thrust for thrust.

“Fuck yes,” he huffed, breath hot and heavy against your neck. “Gonna paint this cunt white. Make you mine.”

“Yes, yes! Fuck, Bill, I’m—” You came so hard you couldn't even scream, your mouth falling open as pleasure exploded from your center, a bomb detonating in the depths of your soul.

Bill sank in his teeth into your neck, bottoming out while his cock kicked inside of you, fulfilling his promise and painting your insides with his release. You collapsed onto the bed, scattered pieces in the swallow of space, half-there with Bill as he fucked you both through it, kissing at your neck and muttering praise, and half-gone, a disembodied soul floating on a river of bliss.

Slowly, you returned piece by piece until air slammed back into your lungs and you were gasping, shivering, clinging desperately to him.

“Sh, sh I’ve got you. You're alright,” he shushed, shifting on the bed to fold you into his chest, raining kisses over your forehead and temple. “You did so well, my love. I'm so proud of you.”

“That was—” you panted, feeling the race of his heart under his skin, in perfect synchronicity with yours.

“I've never felt anything like that,” he murmured, nosing into your hair and taking a deep breath. “Like you.”

“Me neither.” You wrapped your arms around his middle snuggling closer. “You're a madman,” you chuckled, and you felt him smile.

“Only for you.”

You were quiet for awhile, the room filled with the sounds of your laborers breathing, the onslaught of rain on the roof, the pop and crackle of the fire.

“I'm sorry for leaving like that before,” Bill whispered, breaking the drowsy quiet. “I didn't trust myself to not lash out…” his voice trailed off, his hands tightening a bit around your body, like he was scared you'd pull away from him at the reminder of before.

“Thank you for trying to protect me,” you responded, lightly tracing the scars along his back, and tension in his body melted.

“Nothing’s going to hurt you, especially not me,” he said, lifting his head to look into your eyes, his dark irises so soft and sincere. “You really think you could fall for me?” He asked, bumping your nose with his.

“I think I've already started,” you whispered, bashful, and he beamed, catching your lips in a light, languid kiss.

“I know I was supposed to be the one teaching you…” he murmured against your mouth, kissing along your jaw, down your neck. “But you've opened my eyes so much, helped me learn the lessons I was avoiding—” his voice caught, and he buried his face in your neck, holding your naked body pressed against his, not even air separating you. “I feel like I can be the man I want to be with you,” he confessed, pressing a kiss to the bite mark he'd left along the curve of your throat. “Like I don't have to hide anymore.”

“You're mine too,” you whispered, and he loosed a breathy sound, almost like a whine, and held you even tighter. “And I want you exactly as wild and stubborn and clever and complex as you are.”

Bill shifted upwards, catching your final words with his mouth, moving purposefully, indulgently, against yours. Saying everything he couldn't express with words, and your heart was so full it started leaking from your eyes, tears snaking down your cheeks and getting caught in the kiss.

He moved his lips to catch your tears, shushing you softly. “I'm yours,” he said, pecking your lips again. “And I have those good-for-nothing jackasses to thank for it.”

You burst out laughing, flopping back onto his pillows. “They're going to be so damn smug.”

Bill groaned, burying his face in your tits. “Worth it when I get to show you off and crush their dreams.”

“They'll live,” you giggled, combing your fingers through his hair.

Bill's alarm suddenly blared from the side table. “Silencio,” he barked, and the clock fell silent once again. “We're calling out,” he mumbled.

You nodded, sleep already starting to tug at you, your limbs going heavy on the mattress. “As long as the boss says it's okay.”

He huffed a laugh. “Good thing he's a pretty laid back guy.”

You rolled your eyes behind closed lids, and hummed in agreement. That was a lesson for another day.

Thank you so much for reading and supporting this series! This is the last part of the core series, but I'm considering doing a few extra drabbles that go along with it (let me know if there's anything in particular you want to see!)

taglist: @itisjustwhatitis, @carmenschemtrails, @karina-v20, @acourtofexiles, @meteora-fc, @l1nd3n, @just-some-random-blogger, @astralissas, @novausstuff, @babyearthquakementality, @slytherin-min99, @buendiabebeta, @littlemadamred, @nislame, @mother-homunculus, @dreamyassasin, @lottalove4evelyn, @mmmunson, @th0tformikasa, @katie-tibo, @comicalivy, @polireader

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northopalshore · 9 months ago

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Rising signs in the Groom Persona Chart: Their features

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The rising sign in your GPC tells you about your future spouse's appearance, physical attributes and how they present themselves. Picture it like reading their birth chart lol.

୨୧ Please do not repost without consent ʕ⁠´⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠`⁠ʔฅ🔉

In the signs & degrees:

♰ Aries (1°, 13°, 25°):

Your future spouse could have very angular features, perhaps their eyes could be sharp or very striking. They could have an eager look to them, or they could look like a kid in a way. You could think that they're impatient or they may like to rush things a lot. They could have a great physique or look very hot. They could wear a lot of gym clothes, tight fitting outfits or just athletic wear in general. Either a dork (Maximilian Goof aka Goofy's son lol) or a gym rat.

♰ Taurus (2°, 14°, 26°):

They will dress very comfortably, while still looking extravagant. They could look sophisticated and very, very attractive i.e perfect smile, perfect teeth. They could be taller or heavier than you. They will be very calm, down to earth and put together. They could have a well built physique, and tough body.

♰ Gemini (3°, 15°, 27°):

They could have a slender face, pale skin and a narrow stature. They will look very expressive when they start talking, but have a rather dull resting face lol. They could look rather breezy if that makes sense. Not one to wear anything too fitted. They could have great facial symmetry. Something about their teeth will be very prominent i.e straight or very white.

♰ Cancer (4°, 16°, 28°):

They could have very soft, rounded features. Doe eyes. They could have a slight glow to their face and their eyes. Curvy body, soft lips. They could wear a lot of baggy or vintage looking clothes. They could gain weight quite easily. They will look kind and mellow. They could have a very inviting smile.

♰ Leo (5°, 17°, 29°):

Gorgeous hair, and that face card doesn't decline. They will love dressing in old Hollywood vintage clothing, old money or loud and expensive. They could have very wavy or curly hair that will catch anyone's attention. They also have a slight cocky look to them. They are attractive, and god do they know it.

♰ Virgo (6°, 18°):

They are usually very petite/short and frail looking. They could look compacted but not aggressively so. They will look very clean and polished. There will not be a single speck of dust on them nor will you spot an unironed spot on their clothing. They will love wearing comfortable yet elegant looking clothes. You'll notice they tend to lean on a specific silhouette or colour that they like.

♰ Libra (7°, 19°):

" They have the face of an angel and the body of a greek god" Beautiful. Elegant and gentle. Looking at them will leave you at a daze. They look good and know exactly how to dress for their body. All of their facial features blend in harmoniously, could have a symmetrical face too. Oval faces, bright eyes, pretty smile.

♰ Scorpio (8°, 20):

Usually, they will have very striking eyes. They could have eye bags or just darkened eyes in general. Like virgo, they could love to stare at you lol. Every feature they have will accentuate their eyes. They are very attractive ( s*xually) , everything about them will be sensual and seductive.

♰ Sagittarius (9°, 21°):

There could be a significant size difference between you. They could have very long legs, curly or fluffy hair, and animated facial features. They will look very charming, but goofy in a way. One look at them and you know they're somebody fun to be around. They could laugh a lot and look stoic (contemplating) at times.

♰ Capricorn (10°, 22°):

They could look very cold or uninviting. He could have a very relaxed yet also somewhat stern look on their face even with neutral emotions. They could look very mature, their eyebrows could often be furrowed lol. They could have very prominent bone structures i.e nose, hollow or defined cheek bones. They could look very "boney" in general lol. Very masculine.

♰ Aquarius (11°, 23°):

They could be very tall or slender. Their heads and arms could be quite prominent something about them will catch a lot of stray eyes. They likely have features that are rebellious in nature. They could have odd hairstyles/ colours (especially) or tattoos or piercings. They could dress very.. exotically? Strange? Their fashion style could be quite questionable to say the least but never are they boring to look at.

♰ Pisces (12°, 24°):

They will have very sad, sultry looking eyes that look almost sympathetic 24/7. They will seem like they're not really "there" with you i.e lost in thought or deep contemplation. They will have very rounded features. Their cheeks could look very puffy or rounded when they smile. You could think that they're too good to be true. Their skin could have a greyish undertone, almost like the moon is beneath their skin.

Note: If there are conflicting signs of their appearance for example you have Virgo rising (small, petite) in 2° Taurus (bigger, heavier) then it means your fs is considered large for a virgo i.e.gains weight easily, and are very well built or muscular while still not being overly built (lean).

˚₊‧꒰ა paid readings available ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

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*** entertainment only, reader discretion is advised***

Thank you for reading ♡

@northopalshore

#groom persona chart #astrology observations #astrology notes #astrology blog #astro notes #astro observations #astrology content #astrology #astrology community #astrology ramblings #meeting future spouse astrology #future spouse astrology #love astrology #groom asteroid #rising signs in the groom persona chart

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well-of-divine-if · 2 months ago

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Well of The Divine - a work in progress Interactive Fiction Story

Well of The Divine is a 18+ fantasy text-based game built using ChoiceScript. Rated 18+ for explicit language and optional sexual content.

The Well of The Divine has been compromised. Once the source of the Gods strength, it is now closed off to them leaving them truly vulnerable for the first time in their long existence. They are scared.

What does this have to do with you?

Found as a new-born, abandoned by those that brought you into this world, you never knew your birth parents. Only those who took you in. The problems of the Gods had never involved you until now. Divine blood flows in your veins. An encounter with your Godly parent brings death to your village. Those who hunt the Gods have come for you too.

Now, who are you?

Features:

Play as male, female, non-binary or trans, straight, gay, bisexual or asexual

Customise your character's appearance and personality

Learn who your Godly parent is from one of five options

Gather allies, both divine and mortal to travel with you

Forge relationships with your companions, friendships, rivalries and more

Choose from five romance options to pursue, creating a deep romantic or platonic bond

Improve your skills including your control over your demigod powers

Discover who is hunting you and decide the fate of the Gods

Theresa Colt - She/Her - 25 - The Childhood Friend Only child to the village's herbalist, Theresa grew up alongside MC. When not working with her mother, Theresa was most likely to be found by MCs side getting up to all sorts of adventures. Some might mistake her softness of weakness but it takes a certain kind of courage to be kind in the face of hardship. Appearance: Theresa is a young woman fairly short in height, 5'3, with curly brown hair typically tied up in brightly coloured scarfs. Honey eyes framed with thick lashes on a round face with olive skin. Delicate hands that are surprisingly rough from years of work.

Maddox Rowe - He/Him - 27 - The Demigod Maddox Rowe has always been angry. From a young age he’s been told it’s in his blood, in his nature. He may be a bit of a hothead but anger isn’t all that’s left in him, but when you aren’t given the chance to be anything else you fall back on what you know. Appearance: Golden skin and angry red eyes, Maddow Rowe stands tall at 6'3 casting an intimidating figure to most. Broad shoulders and a powerful form gained from a life of combat only add to it. Dark shaggy hair and a strong jaw complete his look.

Cormac Winters - He/Him - 28 - The Charming Rogue Talking himself in and out of trouble, Cormac flits about from city to city never setting roots. If you set roots you get attached. To some, honeyed words fall from his lips. To others, he’s selling nothing but snake oil. And when trouble finally does catch up to him, like many before he’ll slip away in the night. Appearance: Long wild, wavy red hair is the first thing people notice when they see Cormac. The second is the sly grin that seems to have found a permanent place on his face. Lean in build, 6'0, and forest green eyes, some think him cocky but who can resist a pretty face?

Lucien Corvus - They/Them - 23 - The Hunter Alone from a young age, with no one to protect or care form them, Lucien learned that the only person you can rely on is yourself. Strangers will use and hurt you. Keeping this mantra close to their heart helped them survive. Besides, if you begged to the gods for aid none would answer. Appearance: Piercing ice blue eyes on a cool white angular face that rarely shows anything different to cold indifference. Short blonde hair that rests against their forehead. They stand with shoulders back to a height of 5'10. Is that a dimple when they smile?

Sabine - She/Her - ??? - The ??? Wise beyond her years in the matters of the divine and history of the world. There’s an energy about her the exudes a sense of calm. If you look closer, behind the golden eyes you may catch a glimpse of the power that runs beneath them. Appearance: Eyes of liquid gold, skin a rich deep black, and ebony coils styled into long twists. Holding herself with a sense of regal poise, Sabine stands to a height of 5'9. She keeps a calm countenance even in unfavorable situations.

[DEMO]

[ROs]

[Ko-fi]

This is my first time writing anything in ChoiceScript (first time coding in general) so please bare with me as I learn and thank you for your patience 💛

#interactive fiction #if game #choicescript #chose your own adventure #fantasy if #choices game #romance if #choice script if #well of the divine if

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softweb-solutions · 10 months ago

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Angular 18, released on May 22, introduces several key updates that significantly enhance web development. The latest version features an improved reactivity model, standalone components, and optimized build performance. Notable advancements include advanced template type checking, full ECMAScript Module (ESM) support, and component-level state management. Angular 18 also offers enhanced developer tooling, improved server-side rendering, and better internationalization support. With these updates, Angular 18 aims to boost developer productivity, application performance, and user experience, making it a crucial upgrade for modern web applications.

#Angular 18 features #Angular 18 benefits #Angular 18 development solutions #Angular consulting services #Angular application development services

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carawenfiction · 3 months ago

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One night you are faced with a dream that alters something within you, forcing you to return to your now abandoned childhood home to search for answers.

Little do you know that the house is connected to another realm where darkness reigns and sunlight is nothing but a distant notion; a realm your family appears to be mysteriously involved with.

Upon encountering a group of paranormal beings of unknown nature, you are drawn further into a strange and unsettling existence as you strive to uncover the truth of your past and find your way back home.

Whatever path you choose, remember to look out for your own shadow.

"The Shadow Society" was first published in 2020 and is currently undergoing an extensive rewrite. The new version leans more into mystery elements with added focus on characters, relationships and how they are forged in a world where nothing is certain.

One sequel is planned to release once the rewrite is finished.

The rewrite of “The Shadow Society” is an 18+ game that includes depictions of violence, mental health, mental illness and sexual content.

Demo is temporarily private.

Patreon | Ko-fi

* Play as a male, female or non-binary main character whose personality, actions and appearance are shaped entirely by your choices. * Play as gay, bi, straight, aromantic or asexual. * Discover a hidden world and take the first steps in uncovering its secrets. * Pursue one of five love interests along with two hidden ones, become entangled in a triangle between two siblings or remain single. * Determine who to trust and who to shun, who to befriend and who to antagonize, among a cast of characters with differing secrets and motivations. * Experience a story that explores the meaning of reality and illusion, truth and deceit, in a world of shadows that mirrors our own.

✹ A (Azuridian/Azuridia)

Their eyes, cold and piercing, seem filled with bitter truths that they refuse to share. They protect their knowledge fiercely and disclose only what they believe they need to when the situation calls for it. Some call them arrogant, but to that they would retort that they are the only one who can do what needs to be done. Driven and direct with a dash of sensuous charm, they don't hesitate to pursue what they want.

Appearance (male version): His face is angular and pale, his lashes a fringe of silver-white. His hair is slicked back, the sides of his head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. He wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, he seems to quietly command the very air around him, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

Appearance (female version): Her face is angular and elegant, her lashes a fringe of silver-white. Her hair is gathered into a high ponytail that reaches her lower back, the sides of her head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. A sensual carmine red blooms on her lips, standing in stark opposition to her somewhat achromatic appearance. She wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, she seems to quietly command the very air around her, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

✹ G (Gwyndal/Gwendolyn)

There is something palpably playful about their gaze. When turned your way, it seems to shine with the same kind of interest a child might show a shiny new toy. Though jovial and charming, there's something just beneath the surface of their demeanor that gives the impression that something far less pleasant lurks within. G has certain obsessive tendencies - their tireless interest in anything related to the 'Sunworld', as they are prone to call your home, for one - and seems to prefer the company of humans to the company of their own kind.

Appearance (both versions): They have tawny skin that contrasts with the short, blond hair that frames their rounded face, a slightly upturned nose sitting above charmingly curved lips. Their clothing style is eclectic and flashy, consisting of a torn yellow shirt with red- and black checkered pants. Silver chains hang around their neck and wrists, the metallic sheen matching the piercings that line their pointed ears.

✹ M (Michael/Michaela)

Though they aren't considered particularly bright, their dark eyes hold a reassuring warmth, alight with zest that could lure a smile from even the most jaded of people. But at times, when they think you aren’t looking, that spark seems to dim, the faint creases in their face appearing more prominent.

They are quick with quips and remarks they most likely hope others find witty, and equally quick to lend an ear and protect the things they care about.

Appearance (male version): His hair is dark brown, thick and tousled, often falling into his eyes. As an avid athlete he works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. His clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

Appearance (female version): Her hair is dark brown and thick, often pulled back in a high ponytail. As an avid athlete she works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. Her clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

✹ Q (Quaiel/Quarie)

A great, invisible chasm stretches between them and the people in their vicinity, a silent yet keenly felt tension seeming to follow wherever they go.

Bereft of the ability to speak, they somehow still appear more forthcoming than the people they surround themselves with. Somewhere deep inside they harbor an unyielding loyalty to A that is difficult to comprehend, especially when the latter's morals and actions often clash with what Q would normally agree with.

Though they rarely seek others out willingly, their eyes are kind, and when gazing upon someone they care about, a subtle tenderness seems to shine through.

Appearance (male version): His creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering his lower face. His red hair is curly and unevenly cut, long in the front and short in the back. A tattered, knitted cardigan falls off one shoulder, reaching a little past his knees. Beneath he wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

Appearance (female version): Her creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering her lower face. Her red hair, curly and wild, falls over her shoulders down to her waist. A tattered, knitted cardigan lays half-neglected at her elbows and reaches a little past her knees. Beneath she wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

✹ R (Rheylo/Rheyla)

Their gaze is withdrawn, bordering on hostile, their eyes a pair of flames that seem to want to incinerate whoever they’re aimed at. They hide themselves behind long, black hair and a hood, wielding snark and sharp comments as weapons to fend off deeper probing into their psyche. For all their posturing, they get embarrassed easily and may not be quite as laidback as they hope to appear.

Appearance (male version): His skin is medium-dark, a faint of stubble crawling along his jaw on the half of his face that he deigns to show. Though difficult to spot, a small gap that he'd rather keep hidden rests between his front teeth. His straight, midnight-black hair falls down to his elbows, obscuring the right half of his face.

Three braids adorn his left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across his shoulder. He is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs his torso, while wide trousers skim his calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at his wrists. A heavy belt circles his waist, securing the flowing fabric.

Appearance (female version): Her skin is medium-dark. In her upper row of teeth, between darkly painted lips, rests a small gap she'd rather keep hidden. Her straight, midnight-black hair falls down to her elbows, obscuring the right half of her face.

Three braids adorn her left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across her shoulder. She is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs her torso, while wide trousers skim her calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at her wrists. A heavy belt circles her waist, securing the flowing fabric.

✹ Jaelyn

Your ex-best friend/ex-lover. Though quiet and reserved, they are not without humor; once comfortable with a person, their perceived shyness can turn into good-natured smugness and gentle back-and-forth teasing. They have a certain fondness for books and will take whatever opportunity they get to quote a work they enjoy.

Jaelyn works closely with the Shadowman/Shadowlady and is often the one who carries out their orders, though not always without complaint. Though loyal, they are not a blind follower and possess strong opinions of their own. As for their motives and how they ended up in their current position is anyone’s guess.

Appearance (male version): His eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. He has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. His lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

Appearance (female version): Her eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. She has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. Her lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

✹ The Shadowman/The Shadowlady

It was their voice that drew you in first; the kind that could lure anyone into a sense of security and then cruelly leave you to navigate best you could in its absence. Smooth and mysterious, they grace your life through whispers and echoes of times long gone. When you first meet them face to face, they hide behind masks and shadows alike.

But who are they, really?

Appearance (male version): His turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. He stands taller than most humans, his long hair streaked with black and silver, gathered in a loose ponytail that reaches his lower back. A few wisps that have managed to free themselves almost appear to float around his face, dark clinging to shining grey like black ink stuck to parchment.

His long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above tiny streaks and dots delicately painted to accentuate his eyes. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from his left ear, swaying delicately when he moves.

His skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll, his figure lithe and broad shouldered. He wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath he wears a fitted, sleek black suit, complete with a tie. Strange, dark dust covers his hands and long, claw-like nails.

Appearance (female version): Her turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. She stands taller than most humans, her long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in an elaborate updo. A few wisps have managed to free themselves from the chignon and float gently around her face, dark strands clinging to shining greys like black ink stuck to parchment.

A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from her left ear, swaying delicately when she moves. Her lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver. She wears purple-blue eyeshadow and shimmering purple lipstick.

Her skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll. She wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath she wears a low-cut dress that clings to her voluptuous figure. Strange, dark dust covers her hands and long, claw-like nails.

Appearance (non-binary version): Their eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. They stand taller than most humans, their long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in a loose ponytail that reaches their lower back. Their lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver.

Sometimes their figure appears soft, shaped by feminine curves, other times lithe and slender with broadened shoulders. They wear an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones and slide off their shoulders, baring the intricate piece of golden jewellery tied around their neck.

Their long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above shimmering purple-blue eyeshadow and purple lips. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from their left ear, swaying delicately as they move. Strange, dark dust covers their hands and long, claw-like nails.

Current Progress:

Written/reworked chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Edited chapters: Prologue, chapter 1.

Demo wordcount excluding code: ~35k as of end of April 2025.

Total wordcount excluding code: ~47k as of end of April 2025.

Credits

@filopay for the gorgeous cover art

Canva for the other images used in this post

#the shadow society #tss #interactive fiction #carawenfiction #choice of games #cog #hosted games #if #rewrite #gwyndal #rheylo #quaiel #the shadowman #jaelyn #characters #demo #has a demo

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jazzthatonewriterchick · 4 months ago

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Love Always, Your Best 🥀 (Eren x Black!F!Reader 18+ V-Day One Shot)

“Five years later, and I’m still your best, baby. Let me remind you why.

Pairing: Toxic Ex!Eren Jaeger x Black!Fem!Reader

Synopsis: In which the person you loath most in this world and the best lover you’ve ever had, your very toxic ex-boyfriend Eren, suddenly shows up out of the blue one random night at the same restaurant you happen to be at with your new man on Valentine’s Day. He is newly single and on his bullshit. Unfortunately for you, that means he’ll stop at nothing to remind you of how his bedroom skills make up for his lack of relationship skills….hopefully.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+ (MINORS DNI); Possessive & Obsessive!Eren; Sexual Tension; Alcohol & Marijuana Use; Drunk/High Sex; Dubcon/R*pe; Coercion; Cheating; MDom!Eren x fsub!Reader; Oral (Giving & Receiving); Messy Pussy-Eating; Doggystyle; Mating Press; Eren Got A Big Ol' Dick; Tattoos & Piercings Kink; (a little) Plug!Eren; Dirty Talk; Reader Cums 3x; Daddy Kink; Cum-Drunk!Reader; Eren Dickmatizes You; Dumbification; Cumshot; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

Writer’s Note: MY FIRST EREN FIC!!! EVERYBODY GET UP & CLAP!!! This is some very nasty, manipulative, lowdown, dirty, toxic sh!t as a warning. Something about Eren being a total dick is kinda hot to me lol. Enjoy!! 😘😘 -Jazz

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‘Oh, no,’ you think. The only thought you’ve had since you laid eyes on him seconds before.

Out of all of the places you would think of running into him, you never thought it would be here on this day of all days.

Your ex. Sitting at the bar. And not just any ex: your very toxic ex whom you broke up with five years ago because of his said ‘toxicity’. He is also the man you used to be head over heels for. Like completely head-in-the-clouds, singing-in-the-mirror in love with this man who happens to be the most obsessive, jealous, and emotionally unavailable man you have ever met.

And unfortunately for you, also the man who gave you the best dick you have ever had in your life.

As soon as you see him sitting at the bar nursing a Gin & Tonic, his veiny hand adorned with rings and ink that he always thought looked so much better wrapped around your neck, it is like being smacked dead in the face. Every one of the features that you adored–his shoulder-length black hair; his angular side profile; the piercings glittering in his ears, pink bottom lip, and right eyebrow–is like being shell-shocked over and over again.

“Oh, my God,” you blurt. You cannot stop yourself from saying it as you sit four tables away from him in the expensive restaurant you both occupy. The decor is adorned with red, pink, and white flowers, fine white tablecloths, and hanging lamps that glow a dim, romantic red for Valentine’s Day. You wore your favorite slim, sexy red dress for the occasion, but right now, you feel anything but sexy.

Your date and long-term boyfriend looks up from his menu, his forest-green eyes etched in concern. “What? What’s wrong?”

He, too, wore his Valentine’s Day best–a red sweater paired with an Armani blazer, designer slacks, and red bottom shoes. His hair, black and curly, is slicked back to show off his handsome features fit for a model…or a male nurse. Kaido is well-wanted at his job by almost every woman working in his hospital due to his dashing good looks and body worthy of drooling over, but as far as you’re concerned, he is tied down to you.

“O-Oh, nothing!” you immediately squeak, nervously laughing it off. Quickly, you come up with a lie to avoid explaining to Kaido about your ex whom you never told him about. “Sorry, I just saw a coworker and I can’t believe he’s here. He’s always an asshole to me.” You giggle again, hoping that this will help make things light, easy, and not at all awkward even though your body feels like it’s in fight or flight mode.

But it has the opposite effect. Immediately, Kaido begins looking around for him. “Really? Where is he? Maybe he needs to meet me.” You resist the urge to lurch across the table and cover his eyes. “No, no, Kaido, don’t! He’s an asshole to everyone.”

Kaido tuts, angrily taking a sip of the complimentary champagne you were given prior to sitting down before getting up, causing his chair to skid across the floor. The old couple sitting behind him stares at him in irritation. “Well, nobody treats my girl like that. You both work together, so—“

“Kaido, please stop,” you quietly huff, flushing with embarrassment. “You always do this.” Your boyfriend stares at you, alarmed. “Always do what?”

“Try to prove yourself to me,” you answer, irritation evident in your tone. “You don’t have to go out of your way to do that all the time.” You know it isn’t fair to get upset with him. It isn’t his fault that your ex-boyfriend has left you so shaken.

Kaido, still standing, scowls at you, offended. “So you’re mad because I want to defend you and be a good boyfriend to you?”

“No, that’s not…” Your words die in your throat, your heart pounding furiously in your chest. Now you feel horrible though there aren’t lies in your statement. Since you’ve been dating for over two years, Kaido has always gone out of his way to prove to you and himself that he is a great partner, somehow upping the last thing every single time.

Expensive gifts that you feel obligated to take. Romantic dates that you feel guilty for him taking you on. Constant phone calls and text messages that you often find yourself getting tired of receiving. You feel horrible for all of it because Kaido is such a sweet man. You couldn’t ask for anything more…could you?

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, moving your hand across the table to grab his. “I don’t wanna fight. I just don’t want to ruin tonight with bullshit like….him.” Your eyes flit across the room at Eren who licks the contents of his drink off of his upper lip, his tongue ring glinting in the dim, red light. The venom in your tone is evident.

Kaido’s eyes soften and he interlaces your fingers. “I’m sorry too. I just love you, Y/N, y’know?” He gives you a smile that is so adoring that it pains you. “I really do.”

You feel that familiar lump at the mention of the L-word fill your throat, making it hard to even smile. “I—“

“And here are your drinks!” The waitress has returned with your drinks, acting as an angel who has come to save you in your hour of need. “A Moscow Mule and a glass of our finest wine.” She lowers your Moscato down in front of you, crisp and ready to be consumed. “Are you ready to order?” she asks, taking her notepad out.

“Yes!” you immediately chirp, digging into your menu for appetizers and a main course. It is the perfect distraction from having to lie to Kaido and say “I love you”.

Though you and Kaido have been together for two years, first meeting when you came in for nausea pills after a stomach flu, you haven’t said the L-word to him yet. He said it last year after he took you to your city’s annual Christmas lights festival and confessed under the most beautiful blue and white lights you’ve seen in your life. It was magical. It was romantic. It was the absolute wrong time.

“You don’t have to say it back yet,” he said, noticing your saddened and guilty expression. “Just tell me when you’re ready.” But you haven’t been ready for over two years now. And you’re not sure if you ever will. You care so deeply for Kaido, but you don’t think you’re in love with him. You can’t see him in your life forever the way you should.

Not like a certain someone. After you order your food, Kaido is busy putting in his order when you take a sip of your Moscato. You already had a glass of champagne, so maybe more alcohol isn’t a good idea because your eyes begin trailing. And they trail right over to Eren.

He looks so different yet the same. It is an odd mixture, but regardless, he still gives you the same butterflies that feel so new to you. You don’t think you even got butterflies when you first started dating Kaido. They are the same stupid, annoying, fluttery tingles that you got when you met Eren for the first time.

And then he turns and looks at you. Those intoxicating, enchanting, sinful teal eyes lock onto yours from across the restaurant. And instantly, you are taken back to five years ago when it was just him and you, and nothing else.

You were young and naive as one is during their first year of college. You were overworked and underpaid at your little part-time job to pay for school, so your friend introduced you to her plug. She walked you to Eren’s dorm where he answered his door in nothing but gray sweats with Paramore blasting in the background. He had less tattoos then, but was still everything your parents didn’t like: cool, aloof, didn’t give a single fuck, and sold weed to put himself through college and fund his tattoo business.

“Hey, Eren!” your friend greeted. “This is my friend, Y/N. She’s looking to buy a dime bag.” Her plug took one lazy look at you, his eyes rolling up your body, and you felt supremely exposed in your thin cardigan and hip-hugging jeans. As if noticing he got you, he smiled his award-winning Eren smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, his voice silky. “Lemme get you two a drink.”

After that day, he was in your phone as your personal weed plug. The more you started visiting his dorm and the more he showed up at yours delivering personal baggies of weed, the more you got to know each other. It didn’t take long for the attraction to bloom and soon, you were falling hard for the boy.

He was your first love. The one you wanted to be with forever. You felt so safe in his arms, snuggled up in his dorm during free periods, catching the smoke rings he would make with his mouth between your lips. He gave you your first tattoo–a tiny heart between your breasts. “So I’m there forever,” he whispered, kissing you gently as he laid numbing cream on the fresh tattoo.

Eren was always has good of a dick plug as he was a weed plug and tattoo artist. He gave you the best sex you’ve ever had in your life. There were plenty times you skipped classes to get put into his mattress instead, filling his walls with the sound of your moans and the headboard knocking against the wall. When you broke up, your nights were filled with endless fantasies of his long, fat dick in your mouth and filling up your aching pussy, making you delirious enough to want to call him.

But Eren was also very toxic, jealous, and possessive. All to the point where it drove you crazy. He hated when you wore revealing clothes. He shot shady glances at men that even looked your way. He couldn’t stand any of your male friends and made it clear that you were his by leaving love bites on your neck. He would show up to your job or while you were out with friends, completely unannounced and uninvited.

You often got into fights over this which ended up hot, mindblowing sex that often fizzled out all of your anger…until one night a month before you graduated uni. After dating on and off for four years throughout school, you and Eren came to a standstill as graduation approached and you snagged your dream position in a city two hours away from home.

That was the night you broke up with Eren after a dick appointment. You didn’t tell him the news until after you got your nut. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t a good idea because of course, Eren was pissed. “You didn’t think to tell me this before the sex?” he scoffed, sitting on the edge of your bed in his boxers.

“I didn’t know how, Eren,” you argued, sitting naked under your sheets. “As soon as you got here, you had your dick out!” That’s when the argument started, heated and loud, and that’s when you realized that you had to end your chapter with him right there.

That made Eren even angrier. “You’re actin’ like I can’t come over there to visit you,” he snapped as you hastily got dressed. “Or I can just move there! Do you not want me there?” He gave you that hurt look that often got you feeling guilty, but you couldn’t do it anymore.

“Don’t do that, Eren, please,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I just don’t want for you to have to give up your life here just for something that may not work.”

Realizing your mistake, your stomach lurched. But it was too late: Eren was wounded. “Why wouldn’t it?” he asked, his voice small and distant. You hurt him. You stood there, feeling like you were holding the gun and he was the target. “Because….because….”

Because you’re toxic. Possessive. Jealous. Dangerous for me because of that dick.

“Because I want a fresh start,” you lied. “And I can’t do that if I’m tied to you.”

Your boyfriend’s eyes widened, the anger radiating off of him in waves. “Tied to me?” he parroted, scoffing with a dry laugh. “So what? I’m like some kind of dead weight you need to get rid of?” You looked away, unable to see the hurt in his eyes. “Fine then,” he deadpaned, “but you know you won’t forget me. And I won’t forget you either, Y/N.”

And you never did. When he left that night, he took all of the joy and love with him. Even though he called and texted you for days after, you never answered, instead drowning yourself in finals and arrangements to move. After some time, the contact stopped and you went your separate ways. You never heard from or saw Eren again…until now. Now that you’ve moved back home and met a new man, here he is again.

“Let’s exchange gifts!” Kaido suddenly exclaims. You blink, pulled out of your memories, and look down to see a white box in front of you. Quickly, you fish his gift out of your bag and pass it to him with the brightest smile you can muster. “You can open yours first.”

Kaido grins and opens the tiny red gift bag, fishing the digital Amazon watch out of it. “It’s not quite an Apple Watch, but it’s close! You can download apps on it and it checks your blood pressure.” You wanted to buy the most pricey gift you could afford, hoping to accommodate for all of the expensive gifts he has given you.

Kaido cocks his head to the side like you’re a cute little puppy. “You’re too cute,” he tuts. “Now open mine!” You take a sip of wine before doing so and your smile drops at the sight of the 24k gold chain sitting inside the box. “Kaido,” you gasp. “Is it–”

“Real?” he chuckles, smiling proudly at you. “Yes, baby, it is. Let me put it on you.” He moves from his seat and comes behind you, gingerly taking the chain from the box to fasten it around your neck. As he does, Eren turns in his stool and watches, sipping on his Gin & Tonic. His face is unreadable and that angers you. Why is he even looking? Why is he even here?

And why the hell do you care?

Kaido’s hands brush your neck as he finishes and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Gorgeous,” he whispers. “Just like I knew it’d be. Now, everyone knows that you’re mine.” Eren sips his drink again and the corner of his lips lift in a crooked smile. The same smirk that melted you.

Suddenly, you are overwhelmed. The restaurant has become too hot and too small. You feel like a giant Alice in a too-small room after eating the wrong cookie. Once Kaido sits down, you stand up like your ass is on fire. “U-Um…I’m gonna go pee real quick,” you say. “This wine is goin’ right through me.” You give Kaido a quick reassuring kiss on the lips before you make a beeline to the bathroom…but you don’t go in.

Instead, you find the nearest exit and go out for some much-needed fresh air. The air is bitter cold, tinged with winter, but you let it cool your clammy skin in your red cocktail dress. Standing on the restaurant’s patio, you breathe in and out slowly, calming yourself. In and out…in and out…in–

“Cold out here,” a familiar voice comments. “Where’s your coat?” The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. Of course, Eren follows you the very moment you’re alone. Of course, you’re the only two out here.

You shouldn’t turn around, but you do. Like some kind of dark angel, he stands in the silvery glow of the moonlight, the light washing over his porcelain skin, black sweater, and jeans.

His name is inked on your tongue just like the tattoo he gave you, still implanted between your cleave: “Eren.” You don’t say it happily or with venom. You just say it.

But it’s enough to get Eren to smile. “Hey, you,” he greets you. “It’s been a long time.” You hate that he speaks to you as if you’re old friends. You’re not. “Why are you out here?” you scoff. Eren’s handsome face turns cold. “So that’s how you’re gonna talk to me after five years and actin’ like you ain’t know me in there?”

Here we fucking go. “You shouldn’t have followed me out here,” you say, your tone firm.

He shrugs, placing one inked hand in his pocket. “Just wanted to see if you were okay. You looked…startled, ‘specially when dude gave you that pretty chain.” He digs a Marbolo box out of his pocket. He still smokes after all of this time. When he lights that damn thing and his pink lips form an O around a smoke ring, you realize that you still find it attractive after all of this time as well.

The air is silent yet tense between you with unsaid words. “So you’re back in the city,” he states, his eyes gleaming at you. “When’d you come back? I thought you left for that big girl job.”

“I did, but it didn’t work out, so I came home last year.” You notice that his jaw is tight. “Are you mad I didn’t tell you?” you accusingly ask, squinting at him.

Eren scoffs as if the idea is preposterous. “Why would I be? We haven’t talked in, like, five years. Things changed…clearly.” He takes another drag of his smoke, blowing a steady stream out into the cold air.

“What does that mean?” you ask, unable to stop yourself from becoming agitated. What the hell is he getting at here? He passively shrugs like it should be obvious. “I just meant you’ve got a new man. He seems nice.” You sense bitterness, but you don’t comment on it. You don’t feel like turning this into something heated.

“So what of you?” you question, leaning against the wooden bar of the patio. “You still at the tattoo shop? Are you seein’ anyone new now?”

Eren smirks at you, quirking his pierced brow. “Well, aren’t you interested?” he chuckles. Still a teasing shit. You turn to leave, but he stops you with a hand on your elbow. “Hey, hey, I’m just kidding! I own the shop now and no, nobody new. I was seein’ someone for about two years, but it didn’t work out.”

You stare at him closely, trying to decode if he’s telling the truth or not…but then again, Eren was never a liar. A toxic asshole, yes, but never a liar. “So what happened?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest to hide yourself (and your hard nipples from the frigid air). “Did you do something? Did she?”

Eren shakes his head like you got it wrong and flicks his cig down on the ground. “Nah, it was a joint decision.” Knowing you need more meat than that, he sighs and snubs his cigarette out under his foot. “She thought I wasn’t the relationship type,” he explains with a dry smile on his face.

‘You weren’t,’ you think. ‘You still aren’t. That was why we broke up.’ You wonder briefly if he was as toxic with the mystery ex as he was with you. You wonder if he was as possessive and damn near yandere with her as he was with you the entirety of your relationship.

Eren gives you a strange look, his teal eyes turning into slits as he squints at you. You lean back a bit, alarmed and confused by his sudden interest in your face. “I’m detecting somethin’,” he points out. “You wanna talk about this?” He doesn’t elaborate on what he means by ‘this’, but he doesn’t have to. The last thing you want to talk about is anything about your or his new relationships. “Not really,” you huff. “Sorry, but I need to go.”

You know the more you are out here with him, the worse this situation will get. But as you go to pass him to enter the restaurant again, Eren gently grabs your hand. You whip around, trying to tug yourself away. “What are you doing?” you demand. “Eren, don’t.”

But he doesn’t let go and his firm yet burning expression tells you that he isn’t letting anything go. “You don’t really love that guy,” he says, accusingly so. “I can tell. The minute he put that necklace on you, you looked like you wanted to hide under the table and never come back out.”

You glare daggers at him, angered. “How dare you?” you hiss, ripping your hand from his. “You don’t know me anymore, Eren, and you clearly didn’t know me back then! I was looking for real, genuine love, but you clearly couldn’t give me that ‘cause of your shit. You’ve got issues.”

Eren’s eyes flash with something that you can’t decipher, but you know it ain’t nice. “And you don’t?” he scoffs. “You’re sittin’ there pretendin’ to play ‘love-struck girlfriend’ with a dude you ain’t even in love with. I could see it a mile away.” He moves closer to you until he is practically looming over you, making your heart jump. “You forget I know you, Y/N: I know your body too well.”

He gently traces a finger down your arm, sending goose pimples all over you. “Get off,” you whisper-hiss. You shove him by his chest and he lets you, stepping away to allow you space. “I’m not doing this with you. Ever.” Quickly, you yank open the door and head back into the restaurant, adrenaline pumping through your veins. You know he is still staring at you as you retreat, but you don’t dare look back.

Even when you sit back down with Kaido, your body won’t relax and you still feel on edge. You barely even notice that your food is here. Kaido looks up from his sea bass, worried. “Hey, that was a long trip,” he comments. “You alright?” You grip your wine and take a much-needed sip to calm your nerves. “Y-Yeah,” you stammer. “I just–”

And then suddenly, your ex is there again. You see his tatted hand by your shoulder, holding the arm of your chair, and you nearly jump out of your skin. His arrival is like a damn jumpscare in a horror movie, smile and all. “Don’t mean to interrupt the V-Day date here,” he chuckles, standing among you and Kaido. “Just wanted to say it’s nice to see you again, Y/N, and I’m glad you’re happy.”

His smile is supposed to be kind and warm, but his eyes tell you everything you need to know: he still isn’t over you and he intends to make himself known to your new man. You sit as rigid as a board, unable to breathe properly. Kaido confusedly looks between you and Eren. “Who’s this, babe?” he asks, all innocent and cluseless. But you can’t say it. You can’t even breathe. “I’m Eren,” your ex replies, holding a hand out to Kaido. “An old friend of hers.” The two men firmly shake. “We go waaay back, don’t we, Y/N?”

Eren turns to you, his smile turning into a crooked, teasing smirk that makes you want to toss your Moscato in his face. “Uh…yeah,” you squeak. “It was nice to see you again.” You offer him a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He slowly moves towards you and bends down, making your blood pressure shoot through the roof.

“You too,” he whispers and his lips ghost your cheek in a slight kiss. His hand rests somewhere at his side, undetectable. Though you try to fight it, his lips and the closeness of his body brings your entire body to life and you suddenly feel things that Kaido–your Kaido–has never made you feel before.

Eren then straightens and gives a respectful nod to Kaido. “Enjoy your dinner.” And like a thief in the night, he is gone, walking towards the bar to grab his leather jacket and leaving the restaurant. You watch him, your eyes drawn to him like a moth to a flame, as your body burns…and your pussy aches. “Well, he had some cool ink,” Kaido laughs. “Those gages were gruesome though.”

He goes back to eating his dinner like everything is normal while his girlfriend is sitting across from him, aroused for another man. Roughly swallowing more wine, you take your napkin from the table and unfold it to lay in your lap. As you do, a folded piece of paper tumbles out of your napkin and into your lap.

You already know how it got there. With shaky hands, you unfold it and read the note written there for you, including a phone number:

If you decide you want a real romantic night, call me. I know you deleted my number. – Love Always, Your Best

You nearly throw up the rest of your dinner as you stare at Eren’s handwriting. You barely can swallow your food despite the tiny pieces you cut it up in. Luckily, dinner ends abruptly because Kaido gets irritated by the drunk businessmen sitting at the bar behind him and pays the tab.

By the this time, you’ve drunk more than you chewed, so the wine and champagne are making you feel bubbly, light, and sexy. You hang onto Kaido’s shoulder as he walks you outside, your trench wrapped tightly around you. “Thank you for dinner tonight,” you purr. “I have dessert back at my place…and ice cream.”

Kaido turns to you, his eyes alight from your secret meaning. You smile and lean in for a kiss to coax him back to your apartment, but his ringtone stops you. Irritated, Kaido swears and pulls it out of his pocket, becoming more agitated at the message there. “Shit,” he huffs. “M’sorry, babe, but that’s the office. They want me to come in for a last-minute triage.”

You blink at him, confused. “But I thought you were free tonight. You took off for the day, right?” That is what he told you at the beginning of the week when he made the reservations. Kaido gives you a sheepish look and you realize he “bended” the truth. “Only for a few hours,” he sighs. “I didn’t think they’d need me.”

You can already feel disappointment twisting in your gut. “But it’s Valentine’s Day,” you argue. “Why are you going to work on a day meant for us?”

Kaido sighs, already sounding irritated with you. “Babe, I’m sorry, but don’t get so worked up. You shouldn’t feel too bad…I mean, things are still one-sided between us.”

You detect the switch-up in his tone immediately. “What does that mean?” you scoff. Kaido looks away, refusing to look at you, but that sour expression stays locked on his face. “What?” you push. “Because I haven’t said ‘I love you’ yet?” Kaido doesn’t answer nor does he look at you. Those actions are all the answers you need: he is angry you haven’t uttered those three little words yet.

Suddenly, tonight feels like shit and so do you. “Kaido, I told you before: I care about you so deeply, but it’s too early for me,” you say, exasperated. “I’ll only say it when I’m ready.”

“Then when will that be?” he demands, finally looking at you. The hurt in them is clear. “It’s been a year, Y/N! How long do you need to know that you love someone?” You are stunned into silence and suddenly, you feel like crying. How could he spur this on you now of all nights?

Kaido’s phone rings again and he sighs, running a hand through his curly hair. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything to him, too afraid of breaking out into sobs or cussing him out. Instead, you stay quiet as he drives you home and it is by far the most uncomfortable moment you’ve ever experienced. You’ve never been so happy to be in your crib alone when Kaido leaves after dropping you off.

You kick off your heels, drape your coat over the couch, and slump on the couch. You feel trashy. Unsexy. Lonely. The alcohol only intensifies your shitty feelings until you want to crawl out of yourself and hide. So what do you do instead of taking your ass to bed? You dig Eren’s note out of your pocket, which you kept instead of throwing away, and get your phone…but you stop from dialing his number.

‘Don’t do it,’ a tiny voice in your head says. The voice of reason. Your thumb hovers above your phone screen as you teeter-totter between right and wrong.

In the end, you ignore the voice of reason, the loneliness and wine speaking for you, and dial his number. You put your phone on speaker, not wanting to fuck up your makeup and wait in anticipation for the ringing to stop. After the fourth one, it does. “Hello?” he asks. His silky voice fills your living space.

“It’s me,” you exhale. You can’t even speak properly. After all of these years, he has this effect on you still? “I know,” he replies and you wonder if he’s been anticipating your call. “How you doin’? You okay?” You pause for a moment, your muddled mind not processing the situation properly.

“You wanna come over?” The words fly out of you before you can stop yourself. Eren pauses for a moment and the silence is so damn loud. “Do you want me to come over, Y/N?” he asks. Once again, the very dangerous word flies out of you: “Yes.”

Eren inhales slightly as if he can’t believe you’re agreeing to this. You can’t believe it either. “Tell me the address,” he demands, his tone heady with need. You tell him and you can hear his car keys jingling. “I’ll be there in ten.” And then the call is done. You sit there, wondering what the hell just happened, and what the hell you just did.

You just invited your very toxic ex over to your place. On Valentine’s Day. The reality about how bad you fucked up hits you like a truck. You need to stop this. You need to call him back right now and–

Ding-dong! Your Ring alerts you to someone at your door and your pulse jumps. Ten minutes passed already? Slowly, you get up from the couch and walk over to the door, your feet softly padding across the hardwood. “Who is it?” you ask.

“Who do you think?” Eren replies, a smile in his voice. “I’m here to rob you.” You briefly contemplate leaving the door shut, but you open it anyway. There he stands in his clothes from tonight, holding a bottle of watermelon margarita mix. “I brought some stuff for the occasion.” He slips a Ziploc bag out of his pocket. Inside it are papers, a lighter, and a small baggie of marijuana.

You stare nervously at the smoke contents and then at him. Noticing your reluctance, Eren frowns. “I’m not gon’ do anythin’, Y/N. I’m not here for none of that…just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He patiently stands there, letting you decide for yourself whether to let him in or not. Finally, against your better judgment, you open your door wider and allow him to step inside, his cologne curling into your nostrils.

For the next thirty minutes, you and Eren drink and get high as kites. He places his shoes by the door and makes himself at home on your couch before rolling a blunt on your coffee table. You watch his expert fingers roll, twist, and pinch as you sip on a glass of the sweet, tequila-infused margarita mix, becoming drunker and drunker with every sip and suddenly wanting Eren to lick you the way he licks the blunt closed.

After that, you pass the blunt back and forth between one another, talking about the past and giggling about stupid shit. The tension in the room ebbs as the air becomes thick with the scent of pungent weed and the sound of Daniel Caesar playing from your Amazon Echo sitting in your kitchen. It is as if things never changed between you two. Things are still the same, but better because you’re both adults now.

Eren sits back into the cushions, puffing on the blunt. “So what happened?” he asks. His teal eyes are slitted and slightly red from the smoke fumes. You know you’re not that much hotter. You feel like you’re falling out of your dress. “He went to work tonight, so I got mad, so we had a public fight.” You shrug, sipping your drink while Eren pulls a disgusted face. “He went to work on Valentine’s Day? I’ve never done that to anyone before.” Smoke billows from between his pierced lips as he passes you the blunt. “How’d you even meet him?”

You roll your eyes, but tell him anyway as you take a puff of the blunt. The smoke and the alcohol have begun to make you feel looser. So loose that you could lose the dress if you wanted to. “That’s so clichè,” he laughs. “Super corny…but you always did like that cutesy shit. It’s one of the reasons why I loved you so much.”

You don’t stumble on the L-word like you would’ve if you were sober. “That was a looong time ago,” you chuckle. You go to pass the blunt to him but nearly spill your glass on yourself. “Whoops, careful, baby,” he says, laying a hand on your back to help you. “You nearly spilled that on your couch.”

You make the mistake of looking at him then and suddenly, you realize just how handsome Eren is: a sharp jawline with an angular-shaped face, soft lips, and intoxicating eyes. He’s so close. His gaze falls to your lips as his Adam’s Apple bobs and it snaps you back into reality.

“No,” you gasp, pushing yourself away from him. “This was a bad idea. You should go.” you nearly stumble as you stand, but you manage to save yourself. “What?” he asks, confused. “But I just got here. I thought we were talkin’.”

“We did talk,” you snap, moving to the door. “Now you need to go before…” You stop talking before you say something that will get you in trouble. Instead, you turn the knob to your door, but Eren’s hand stops you. You gasp and turn around, realizing that he somehow transitioned from the couch to you in a few seconds. “Before what?” he pushes. “Before you do somethin’ you know you wanna do?”

He looms over you, his hand on your wrist, completely in your personal space. “Eren, don’t,” you whisper. “Please leave.” You try to twist yourself away from him, but his other hand holds your waist. “I can’t,” he murmurs. “Not until you admit that I’m what you need. You know you don’t love that guy.” Because you’re so short, he bends his knees slightly to reach you, his lips ghosting your cheek. “He can’t make you feel how I can.”

He presses a kiss there that electrifies you. Those electric kisses travel down to your neck, sensitive and personal. “Eren,” you weakly moan. “Don’t do this.” You press your hands to his chest, wanting to push him away, but your body is too weak. Too tired. “Don’t push me away, baby,” he sighs. “Don’t deny yourself.”

And then his lips, soft and slightly cold from lip piercing, are on yours. His kiss is deep. Passionate. Personal. It makes your heart explode and your mind melt into a puddle—not at all how Kaido’s kisses are. They are just as addictive as they were in the past. And so you kiss him back. Your fingers clench his shoulders as his hands caress your ass, squeezing the globes over the fabric.

“I fucking hate you,” you growl. He smirks against your lips, gently sucking on your bottom lip.

“No, you don’t,” he replies. And you don’t. You can’t. And you hate that. Despite all of his bullshit, you still love his kiss. His touch. His sex.

He pulls you close to him, making you feel the bulge pressing against his jeans. You gasp against his lips, a spark of pleasure exploding in your core. “Tell me what you want,” he demands, his lips coating your throat. His teeth graze there, leaving little lovebites that you’ll surely cuss him out for later. “Fuck me,” you beg. “And then leave.”

He pulls away, his eyes ablaze with lust, and slams his mouth against yours again. “Where the fuck is your bedroom?” he mutters against your lips.

Suddenly, your legs are wrapped around his waist and your arms are intertwined around his shoulders as he carries you to your bedroom, his footsteps quick in stride. Your tongues swirl and your lips caress one another as you kiss, indulging in each other’s taste and the moans you give and receive. Finally, Eren makes it to your bedroom and slams the door shut with the back of his foot before placing you on the edge of your bed.

Everything moves in flashes like some kind of movie with scenes missing: your dress comes off; your bra is unclasped and replaced with Eren’s hands massaging and molding your tits; his shirt comes off, exposing his muscles, pierced, tan nipples, and scatterings of tattoos adoring his porcelain skin. His eyes are ablaze with lust as he kneels before you between your thighs, his big hands massaging them. “Lemme see you,” he murmurs.

Slowly, your knees part, and your pussy is exposed to him. A slow smirk stretches across his lips as he gazes up at you. No panties. You were planning this but Kaido, but you guess your ex works too. “God, I’ve missed this,” he sighs. “Look how wet she is fa’ me.”

He takes two fingers and swirls them over your clit before moving down over your slit, gentle yet effective. You gasp at the soft contact, pleasure exploding all over your body. “Eren, c’mon,” you whine. “Please.” His gaze darkens, damn near feral, as he opens your legs wider, pinning them apart. “Don’t move,” he demands and then he’s diving down between your thighs.

One thing about Eren that you always loved is how he eats pussy. He goes crazy with your shit, alternating between long, slow licks and quick lashes against your clit that make your eyes roll back and your toes curl. His magical, wet mouth and soft lips suckle on the needy button of your clit, soaking your pussy in his saliva that he slurps back up with no problem or disgust. When his tongue finally dips back between your slit, you nearly lose it. “F-Fuck!” you gasp. “Eren, yes! Go deeper!”

Your fingers grasp his long, black locks for dear life, pushing him deeper into your pussy. But he manages to look up to give you a cocky smile. “If you’re louder for me, sure.” Smug motherfucker.

He continues to give you long strokes of his tongue, the cold metal of his piercing melting against the hot, wet, spongy walls of your pussy and somehow making everything more sensitive. “Fuck, please!” you sob. “Please, please fuckin’ give it to me!”

Tears soak your lashes, threatening to fall down your cheeks. This feels too good. It’s almost painful. Eren smiles and proceeds to tongue-fuck you, his nose nuzzling against your clit as he dips his tongue in and out of your hole.

Your moans bounce off of the walls, loud and brazen, unable to be contained. Eren pulls away with a moan as he gazes down at your glittering, sobbing wet pussy. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he groans against your clit. “She’s mine, isn’t she? Only mine?”

Smack! “Oh!” you gasp as his hand comes down onto your clit, smacking it hard. “Fuckin’ tell me what I wanna hear,” he growls. “Tell me that this pussy is mine.” Smack! Smack! You buck from the pleasurable sting, nearly cumming from his calloused palm wetly smacking your cunt.

“I-It’s yours!” you gasp. “It’s yours, Daddy, I swear!”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your clit. “Good girl,” he coos. “Now cum for me so I can finally fuck that mouth.” He goes right back to tonguing you down with a mission, swiping his nose against your clit as he eats you out so good that you see stars. He moves his jaw with every intention of making you cum. “Do it, mama,” he begs, his words slightly muffled by your sticky cunt. “Cum for me. Give it all to me.”

And you do. You can’t help it. You are controlled by him like a puppet is by her master and with every string he pulls, he makes you gush around his tongue. He greedily moans and laps at all of the cream you give him, gulping it down like a starved man as you moan and call his name to the ceiling, massaging your tits in the throes of your pleasure as you do.

When you finally calm and your back straightens from its arch, Eren pulls away, his lips shining with your juices. “Missed that shit,” he sighs. “Missed you so much.” He bends down to swoop you up in a deep, messy kiss, forcing you to taste yourself. When he pulls away, he is as feral and demanding as he was before. “Sit up, take off my clothes, and open that pretty mouth up fa’ me.”

Despite your brain still trying to reboot from that orgasm and your limbs feeling like spaghetti, you still do as he says. You sit up on the bed and allow him to kneel in front of you, his crotch right in your face. He watches as you peel off his pants and underwear while he toes off his socks, soon leaving himself completely naked. You admire his toned muscles, your hands gliding down his stomach to his V-line and muscular thighs. Oh, how you’ve missed his body.

And how you’ve really missed his cock. He is so hung. So long. So curved, the tip nearly kissing his lower stomach. With a crooked smile, he wraps a hand around his throbbing cock and gently taps it against your chin. Just how you like it. Your jaw falls open and your tongue rolls out, allowing him to tap his head, sticky with pre, against it.

“You remember how I like it, mama?” he asks. “Or do I need to refresh your memory?”

More or less, you do need a memory jogger. But once he’s got that big, long, beautiful cock in your mouth, you are taken back to your dorm years when you used to bob your head for your life giving him top between free periods. His dick stretches out your mouth just the way you remember as he settles on your tongue, his hips slowly rolling against your chin.

“Fuck yes, that’s it,” he moans. “Fuckin’ fuck, I’ve missed this pretty mouth.” He peers down at you with those teal eyes, one hand in your hair while the other cascades down between your open thighs. “Wanna take me deeper, ma? Think my fingers will help you?”

You feel his long fingers prying your pussy lips open and slipping between them to glide along your slit. You moan around Eren’s cock as your pussy pulses and throbs in pleasure, the act somehow making your jaw stretch wider. His fingers then slip into your slippery, velvety-soft pussy while he sinks his cock deep into your throat. “Mmmm!” you moan, the pathetic sound muffled by his cock.

He grins as he begins to fuck your face, ruining your makeup and causing spit to drip down your chin as he fingers you. “That’s it: moan around my cock, baby. I can hear you just fine.” He smirks, curling his fingers upward and making your toes curl as pleasure shocks you to your core. “I can hear somethin’ else too. You’re so fuckin’ wet…”

You concur, your ears perking at the sound of his fingers squelching inside of your sloppy pussy that just keeps drooling and creaming around his long, inked fingers. His cock is just as drenched in your mouth, making wet sounds every time he plunges into your throat, his balls flush against your chin. Every saccharine moan and grunt that leaves his lips pushes you closer to the edge of another orgasm that ripples on the surface.

Eren slips his cock out of your mouth to stroke it furiously in your face, entranced by your moans as he finger-fucks you. “E-Eren!” you warn. “Eren, baby, fuck, I’m gonna cum again!”

Suddenly, the pleasure ceases as he slips his fingers, slick with your juices, out of you. “Uh-uh,” he growls. “Not yet. Not till I’m inside of you.” He brings his fingers up to your mouth and you obediently suck on them, rolling your tongue around his digits. “I’m not finished with you yet, baby, and I know you’re not finished with me.”

He takes you and tosses you back onto the bed, making you bounce against the mattress. Then he is yanking you close by your ankles and hiking your thighs up over his hips, your pretty toes contrasting with his lighter skin tone. “After all, I’ve gotta remind you who fucks you the best. Five years later, and I’m still your best, baby. Let me remind you why. ”

He gives you a shit-eating smile before he takes his cock and–

“Oh, my God!” you gasp, your eyes blown and your mouth agape. As soon as he is inside of you, stretching you, bottoming out in your pussy, you feel like you’re soaring and flying through the heavens. The ecstasy is monumental, opening up your senses in a way where you feel like you were just bit by a radioactive spider. You can taste the sweat on Eren’s tongue; hear every ragged breath he takes as he pumps himself into you; see every vein pulse in his pecs and neck; feel his body throb as you grip his forearms, pectorales, and shoulders.

He stares deep into your eyes as he drills your cunt into the bed, giving you deep, long strokes that make your toes curl and your body writhe in need for more. “And who fucks you the best?” he breathlessly asks. His hand snatches out to grab your throat, massaging it in time with his strokes. “Say it to me nice an’ clear, baby. Tell Daddy who owns you.”

He squeezes your throat a little harder, applying extra pressure to intensify the pleasure you’re swimming in. “You!” you loudly sob. “You do, Daddy! Fuck, just like that, Eren! Please keep fucking me just like that!” You would gladly tell him anything for him to keep fucking you so good. Fat tears soak your lashes sticky with ruined mascara as moans, whimpers, and gasps pass your lips wiped clean of lipgloss.

Eren gives you that very Eren grin–cocky and prideful. Because he knows he’s killing that shit. He releases your throat and applies both hands beside your head to give himself support before thrusting a little faster, his hips rolling in a way that makes his pelvis brush against your clit. “Just like this?” he teases, his hair and chain tickling your face. “Is that good for you, babe?”

You can’t even answer him. The entire English language has been wiped clean from your brain. All because of his cock. His sex. His everything. The way sounds he makes, the heady scent of his cologne, and the lewd sounds of his skin slapping against yours pull you over the edge into the abyss of ecstasy, making your eyes flutter shut and your jaw grow slack. “Cum for me,” he demands. “C’mon, baby, do it again. Gimme that fuckin’ cum.”

He goes faster, harder, drilling your pussy into the bed as if he is trying to win an award doing so. The award is your orgasm which is explosive and intense. “OH!” you shout as you unravel around Eren’s cock. Your moans are loud and desperate as your pussy squeezes around the cock inside of you, your walls clenching and pulsing, giving Eren a hard time trying to hold himself back from a nut.

But not yet. He can’t leave this here. His face flushed and his hair in his face, he pulls his slick cock out of you as you buck and twitch from your orgasm. “Not done,” he growls. “Not done with you yet.”

Suddenly, as quick as a flash, you are on your stomach and Eren is behind you, forcing you onto your hands and knees. Your arms feel like jelly, so all you can do is press your face into the bed as your ass is hiked up for him. He gives it a couple of harsh smacks–Smack! Smack! Smack!–before his cock is slowly sinking back inside of you. “E-Eren, wait!” you squeak. “I’m t-too sensitive!”

His laugh is breathless and enraging. He loves seeing you in agony. “Don’t worry: I won’t go fast.” He presses kisses to your back as he begins to slowly roll his hips into your ass. “Just relax for me, mama. You’re in good hands.”

And then plap-plap-plap go the sounds in the room as he fucks you from behind. Your ass jiggles and claps against his thighs as he gives you deep thrusts that make your pussy melt around him and your clit excitedly jump from the stimulation. “Eren,” you whimper. “Please, please, please!”

Evidently, you’re louder than you thought you were, causing Eren to tut. “You’re so loud, baby…I’ll have to fix that.” He yanks you up and his hand pushes your face to turn to the side, allowing him to give you a deep kiss that steals all of the air out of your lungs just as his cock does. “That’s it,” he coos. “Just enjoy this for me, baby. Lemme give you what you need.”

Then you’re back onto the bed, your face in the mattress and your moans swallowed by the sheets as the man above you fucks you absolutely dumb. You don’t know which way is up and which is down. The world spins around you, dizzying yet intoxicating, the sex you’re receiving turning you inside out.

“So slutty,” Eren chuckles above you, rolling his hips as he sinks his cock deep inside of your wet, heavenly hole. “Just listen to all the sounds you’re makin’ for me. Bet your man couldn’t make you sound like this.” He leans down to press himself fully against you, his pelvis brushing against your ass. “Y’know, I never forgot about you,” he whispers. “I never stopped lovin’ you, Y/N.”

His soft lips begin to caress your neck and shoulders before he picks both himself and you up, giving himself a chance to prop his leg up. The new position leaves you a moaning, sobbing mess, your pussy suddenly having no choice in the matter of cumming again. You grab the sheets so tight that your knuckles turn white as you feel your third orgasm cresting. “Eren,” you moan. “Oh, fuck, m’gonna…gonna…!”

“Yeah?” he teasingly asks. “You wanna cum all over this dick again, huh?” He wrenches your head back with his hand on your chin. “Then tell me that you love me. Tell me you love it when I fuck you.”

“I-I…” Your mind is moving a million miles a second, the pleasure leaving a thick fog in front of your sense of reality. You know you shouldn’t, but the way Eren fucks you is too good to resist telling him anything he doesn’t wish to hear: “I love you,” you whisper, the forbidden words passing your lips. “I love you so much, Daddy! I love it when you fuck me! You do it so good!”

You feel him smile against your cheek, his other hand gripping your ass as you begin to furiously rub at your clit, your fingers slipping and sliding along the rosebud. “Now tell me that you’re gonna leave that asshat for me.”

The fog clears a bit and it is enough for you to process what he just said. “W-What?” you stammer. “Eren–”

He roughly bends you over, cutting you off, and gives your ass a harsh smack that sends your clit into a frenzy. “Say it,” he orders. “Say it and I’ll let you cum. Tell me you’re gonna break up with him as soon as tonight is over.” Harder. Faster. His thrusts grow more intense than ever, making it a point to make you so insane and so desperate that you fall apart at the seams.

“Say it!” he bellows. “Fuckin’ say it!”

Tears soak the sheets and officially ruin your makeup as your self-control leaves you. You know that you are about to commit the ultimate betrayal just to get your nut. “I’ll leave!” you sob. “I’ll leave him for you, Daddy! I love you so, so much!”

The laugh that leaves Eren’s mouth is evil, damn near entering villain territory. “I love you too, baby,” he laughs. “Now cum for me like a good girl.” All it takes is a few more of those luscious, mind-blowing thrusts until you are cumming uncontrollably around his cock once more, screaming into the bed as the pleasure becomes overwhelming.

Eren moves faster, fucking your cum-soaked pussy with vigor to chase his own high, massaging and palming your ass as he does. He then pulls himself out of you and furiously strokes his dick against your butt, the sounds of his hand stroking his wet cock drifting in the air. “Fuck, fuck!” he grunts before he lets out a series of luscious moans as ropes of cum spurt from his cock and onto your asscheeks.

You tiredly whimper as you feel warm spurts of his spunk hit your skin, signaling the end for the both of you. Your body and pussy throb in tandem from the session, your skin soaked in sweat, the air heedy with the scent of sex. Eren raggedly exhales and collapses next to you onto his stomach. His hand slides across your back, running gently down your spine. “That’s my sexy fuckin’ baby,” he coos.

You can’t say anything back. Exhaustion has taken over and suddenly, so has sleep. You don’t make a fuss as Eren pulls you up the bed and helps you under the covers, the cool sheets settling across your damp skin. You feel his body next to yours, the scent of his sweat and cologne filling your nostrils. Your cheek rests against his chest as his hand tangles in your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp. “Sleep now. I’ll be seein’ you soon.”

You don’t answer because sleep has made her arrival and has swept you away to quiet and serene nothingness.

When you awaken the next morning to the winter sun pouring in through your bedroom window, you are alone. The bed is made and your dress is neatly folded at your feet. It is as if nothing happened last night and you slept alone.

But the delicious ache in your body tells you differently. And the note sitting by your lamp along with a glass of orange juice and an Aspirin definitely tells you differently.

With your head clearing from the sleep and the reality of your horrible situation hitting you (along with a hangover), you pick up the note and read Eren’s messy handwriting:

Thanks for last night. Hit me up again soon. xxxx

-Love Always, Your Best

Putting the note down, you grab your house phone from the nightstand and dial Kaido’s number. It is the one thought you have to do first to start your morning. Not stretching. Not getting a glass of water. Not showering or brushing your teeth or contemplating whether or not to kill yourself because you slept with your toxic ex-boyfriend.

Instead, you face reality head-on like a real bitch as Kaido’s voicemail enters your eardrum: “Hi, this is Kaido Ashida! I’m not here right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!”

Beep. Your mouth opens. “Kaido,” you automatically say. “Hi…it’s me. I think we need to talk after last night.”

And then the guilt sets in as you stare down at Eren’s note, your body teeming for another night with him soon. “I don’t think this is gonna work,” you sigh.

THE END.

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