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seiwas · 6 months

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if art can be touched, will you let me hold you? | nanami kento

wc: 7.2k

summary: you press love into each piece of art you create, and nanami wonders if you’ve ever been loved that way.

contains: f!reader, non-curse!au, ceramic artist!reader, pov switching, slowburn, reader wears a skirt, food mentions, bad breakup (mentioned), mentions of art critiques, almost explicit sex, it’s love without words.

a/n: a concept and fic i didn’t expect would be so dear to me; there are some very small personal touches in this but the main inspiration for this is ‘we’ve been loving in silence’, but some bgm are ‘can’t take my eyes off you’, and ‘make you feel my love’.

ao3 (needs account)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: showing ‘i love you’ in all the ways you aren’t used to

CLAY. Take your material of choice; turn it over, get a feel of it. Is it a suitable medium for your art?

You first meet Nanami in the halls of an echoing applause.

The host’s spiel is muffled through the walls, but you know the program flow like the back of your hand—you’ve rehearsed your entrance every single day since being invited to announce your upcoming exhibit. In just a few minutes, your name will be called.

Yellow cue cards slip through your fingers, scattering to the floor as a result of the haste from your last minute touch-up just moments before.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, checking the time.

As you crouch low, a pair of brown Derby shoes land in front of you—long and thick fingers reaching for your cue cards on the floor. The time on his wrist matches yours, each second highlighted in the stark contrast of a dark face and silver exterior.

You’re quick to receive his help, taking the cards into your hands as you lightly graze his fingertips. When you look up, you’re met with sharp lines—an angular jaw, eyebrows set straight; a pointed nose and his cheeks carving out hollow shadows.

A geometric study on blank canvas.

It’s embarrassing, the way you fluster and bow, thanking him with a stutter as you’re brought back to the urgency of the matter by the sound of your name being called out.

The rush to the conference hall has you breathing heavily, the nerves hitting you full force as you step up the stage, nearly tripping at the last step. Hues of blue, yellow, purple, and green lights glare at you, and when the host hands you the microphone, you chuckle nervously, clearing your throat before addressing everyone in the room to thank them for coming this afternoon.

Your exhibit is called ‘What is the Face of an (Un)Touched Soul?’—a collection of ceramic sculptures molded to the realism of a human face, with the soul imagined as varying patterns and colors that fit each featured individual.

It’s been half a year since you started, with three out of six sculptures completed already. Two are in-progress, and you have yet to find a subject for one more; there are six more months for you to complete everything.

The audience sounds their applause, sophisticated claps and nods a familiar tune in the many years of your sculpting career. Critics in the room jot down their thoughts, reporters holding up microphones and recording devices to cover your announcement.

You smile wide, the rehearsed kind.

And at the end of your presentation, stepping down the stage, you spot him again.

You think to approach him in that moment, to thank him properly instead of the fumbling mess you’d choked out in the hallway—but you’re pulled towards a crowd of reporters and critics, recording devices pushed just below your chin as you watch him disappear into a sea of faces not nearly as interesting as his.

You meet Nanami again in the bustling morning rush at the bakery near your studio.

The past few weeks have been head-down and tedious, late nights working on painting some of the last few pieces for your exhibit. One of them is of your niece, 5-years-old in mint and white innocence; your brushstrokes are featherlight, softly accentuated by sponge dabs—a slate barely filled in, with room for more colors to appear with time.

Another is of your neighbor, an old man whose eyes have seen war beyond your comprehension—a retired soldier, a veteran of the military force. He plants primroses by his windowsill, the pastel yellow a stark contrast to the life he’s lived in red; neither of the colors cancel each other out, neither of them blend. You drag harsh strokes against his jawbone while smoothly gliding watercolor across his eyelids.

The people in your sculptures have sparked an untapped curiosity within you—for stories, for lives, for souls and what those might look like.

You bump into Nanami on his way out, the sandwich in his hand falling to the ground as you frantically attempt to pick it up.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” you turn over the sandwich, checking for any holes or openings in its packaging, “Let me–”

It only registers that it’s him when you notice the same brown Derby shoes, the same watch with that dark face and silver exterior, the same geometric perfection on his face when you look up and finally come eye-to-eye with that same fixed stare.

You clear your throat. Well, this is embarrassing.

“Let me buy you another sandwich.”

He doesn’t exactly look angry, expression set in straight lines, but you can’t tell for sure—there isn’t much you can go by.

“There’s no need,” he dusts off the wrapper, “it’s still sealed.”

“Please, I insist,” you pat down your skirt, linen rough on your fingertips, “As a thank you too, for last time.”

He arches a brow, and for a moment you worry that you’ve remembered him wrong—honey blonde hair and features you’ve been intrigued by since.

“You insist.” he repeats, clarifying more than questioning.

You nod.

He sighs, checking his watch before pocketing his sandwich and turning back to open the bakery doors.

The silence in line to the counter is awkward. Nanami remains impassive, hand tucked inside his pocket—you can’t read a single thing about him.

“I was meaning to thank you after the exhibit announcement,” you start, turning slightly to face him before looking ahead again.

He hums.

“But I couldn’t find you, so…”

He hums again.

The lack of response makes you nervous and quite honestly a bit irritated. Here you are, trying to be nice, and all you’re met with are dry—

“It’s no problem, but that’s thoughtful of you, thank you.” he finally says, “I didn’t expect you to remember.”

A pause.

“I’m sure you meet a lot of faces in your line of work.” he further clarifies, in case his earlier remark had offended you.

You snort, “I wish.”

The line moves forward.

“Ceramic faces, maybe. People not so much.”

When you glance at Nanami, the look he returns is still characteristically inscrutable, but you think the corners of his eyes soften just a bit—to feel for you maybe, you hope, you think.

The line moves quickly after that, and next thing you know it, you’re by the cashier, pointing at one sandwich for you and another for him. You buy him a cup of coffee too, just as an extra kind gesture (—for his time; you’re sure he has places to be and people to see), but he stops you.

“Coffee’s on me.” he pulls out his card.

“Oh,” you look up, surprised, “you don’t have to do that—”

“It’s only fair,” he nods as the cashier punches in the order, “now we’re even.”

You attempt to rebut, but find no room for argument in the unbending weight of his gaze.

An interesting man.

You watch him stand by the claiming booth, hand in the pocket of his khaki suit. Nothing about him feels cohesive, yet he makes it work. Artistically, from a sculpting standpoint, the sharp lines on his face would be an interesting challenge—but beautiful, nonetheless. A study of near-perfection, you think.

And it would seem obvious, that from the rigid cut of his jaw and the sharp edges of his cheekbones that he’d act just as pointed.

Except, he doesn’t—a stark contrast to how much of a gentleman he seems to be.

His blue shirt stands out when you’d assume he prefers subtlety, and it’s ridiculous, but that yellow cow print tie feels simultaneously out of place but so fitting.

He walks toward you with your coffee, sandwich resting on his forearm.

“Thank you, Mr.—” you smile sheepishly, “Sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

“Nanami Kento.” the corners of his lips lift slightly.

“Mr. Nanami,” you repeat, introducing yourself right after.

“Thank you as well.” he adds on as you both walk towards the doors.

Something tells you this is a missed opportunity. Something tells you there’s more to learn about this interesting man and what lies beneath his straight-faced sincerity.

The chatter from the bakery is replaced by the city’s breaths—cars passing, dogs barking, footsteps on pavement rushing to get to their next destination. And you and Nanami stand by the entrance, neither knowing how to say bye.

“Do you come to this–”

“My studio is just by the corner, so–”

You quickly look at each other. Nanami bows his head slightly, hand gesturing for you to go first.

“Sorry, um,” you tuck your sandwich in the crook of your elbow, “yes, I come here pretty often. My studio is just around the corner, so I drop by for quick meals when I can. You?”

“It’s on the way to work most days.”

You nod, humming.

Another awkward pause.

“I hope you–”

“I should get–”

You look at each other again, a bit more amused this time. The slight wrinkling of his eyes is impossible to hide.

He gestures for you to go first again, but you shake your head, offering him instead.

“I hope the pieces for your exhibit are going well.”

“Thank you,” you smile, bowing your head slightly.

That ‘something’ in your brain speaks to you again.

“Actually,” you begin, “sorry if this is weird, please feel free to decline, but,” you shift your weight, “I have one last piece to do and I was wondering if I could ask you.”

Nanami looks taken aback for a moment, eyes wider than normal as he processes what you’d just said.

“Ask me… for an opinion?” he clarifies.

You mentally facepalm yourself—you really should have made yourself clearer.

“Sorry, no, I meant,” you take a deep breath, fingers fiddling with your skirt, “if you’d like to be the subject for it.”

The expression on his face is as indecipherable as ever.

MOLD. Be familiar with your art, learn more of its intricacies. What will you shape it to be?

In the most unexpected play of events, Nanami says yes, but not without his hesitations.

You explain your process: the selection of a subject, an interview to get to know them better, then a few meetings at the studio to create the mold of facial features before coating it in plaster.

Never in his entire law career did Nanami ever think he would be into art, much more be chosen to be the subject for it. But he figures, if anyone were to get him to do things so wholly out of character like this, it would be you.

After all, he’s been a fan of your works for a while—from your third exhibit up to your seventh one now.

People love paintings and the strokes on canvas, admiring textures and blends of colors bleeding into one another; Nanami loves sculptures, a mixture of materials and techniques forming an object with more than one viewing plane.

“Have you always loved sculpting?” he asks, sitting still on the wooden stool in your studio.

A few meetings have gone by by now, and he’s told you a few things about himself for this to be a comfortable enough way to spend his Friday night: he’s a lawyer in a firm he’s co-founded with a good friend, evenings being the only free time in his schedule; he lives alone in a two-bedroom apartment and his neighbor’s cat often lands on his balcony every morning; he likes coffee and tea, paperback books and music from the 30’s and 60’s.

He chose to be a lawyer to correct the shitty system that’s vowed to help but has instead made it difficult for anyone genuinely trying to be good.

“I started with paper craft first,” you mold out the slope of his nose, looking back and forth between him and the mass of clay on your desk, “you know that 3D looking paper art that kinda pops out of the page?”

He hums instead, careful of any slight movement that may disrupt the pose you’re trying to replicate.

“And this?”

Your metal scraper drags on the sides of the sculpture’s nose, sharpening it as it narrows to the bridge.

“I picked it up in college, was an outlet to keep me company during that time.”

The PR answer.

Nanami knows most of your general story; pamphlets and exhibits always give a run-down of the artists’ individual histories. You’d started sculpting as soon as you entered college, a need for company while in a completely unfamiliar place with no more home to return to. It was all or nothing, and as the sculptures grew in number, so did your popularity—you are by no means a fresh name to the scene 10 years later.

“Why do you love it?” he looks you in the eye.

You pause, holding his gaze for a few seconds before looking away, focusing on the chunk of wet clay between your fingertips as it turns more pliable.

“It’s gotten me through a lot.” you sigh, attaching the piece of clay to form his lips, “Touching clay feels therapeutic sometimes, and you can tell from how it looks if it’s been molded with love.”

The stillness in your studio is extra quiet, filled only with the faint sounds of your fingertips sticking onto clay; he doesn’t quite know what to say.

“Sorry, that was cheesy.” you scrunch your nose and pout.

He chuckles, a low laugh, “Not at all.”

You lock eyes, the curve of your lips upturned. He feels his eyes soften around its edges.

It makes sense, and he thinks he can understand; there must be a reason why he loves books with creased spines, why he prefers weathered pages—why the scratches on his vinyl records don’t bother him as much as it should.

You both like your coffee without milk, just with a bit of sugar for yours.

Nanami’s taken up baking, specifically breadmaking, in his spare time—he brings you sourdough the next Friday you meet.

Your studio is an organized mess, scraps of clay decorating the otherwise bare and white space. To the left of the room is a large cork board filled with pinned sketches and some color swatches—a visual representation of the creative chaos in your mind.

A whiteboard to its right holds your schedule, and everywhere across the room are your art pieces—on shelves, in glass cases. He assumes most of them are the versions that didn’t make it, considering that the ones that have are either auctioned off or left as collector’s pieces in exhibits and art museums.

“That’s the first one I ever made.” you sneak up behind him, biting off the sandwich you hastily put together.

The sculpture is smaller than the busts you’ve made for your current exhibit, but it still occupies a third of your shelf. It’s unlike any of the works you’ve ever done, but he supposes it makes sense, given how much your style has probably evolved over time.

The piece is a lot simpler in comparison to the edgy twists most of your works now contain, but the little girl fast asleep in the sculpture begs questions he’s not sure how to ask you—if he even should.

He continues to stare, clearing his throat; you eye him knowingly and snort.

“Just ask, I know you want to.”

The texture of the carved blanket catches his eyes, the ripples and creases made to conform to the girl’s curled up figure. There’s a sadness underlying her comfort, a search for security while being wrapped in a bundle of safety.

“Who is it?” he asks.

You pause before you answer; he’s worried he’s crossed a line.

“Me.” you admit, a near-whisper.

He hums, back still faced towards you. It explains, then, why he’s always felt an underlying sadness beneath the creases of your smiles.

When he turns his face to the side, an attempt to catch your eyes, you look away, diverting.

“Which one introduced you to me?” you gesture towards the rest of your pieces.

As it’s come to be, Nanami’s learned that you’re good at that too—creating curves of deflections, pockets where you can hide when you feel something’s gotten too close.

He plays along, turning around to view the expanse of your studio; it’s amazing, how the art pieces that stack shelf upon shelf all boil down to your hard work. You briefly mentioned that you haven’t taken a break from creating because you still don’t believe you deserve it.

“It’s not here,” he puts his hands in his pockets, “the one with the hand clutching a heart.”

‘Unhand’—his favorite piece of yours; he’d seen it in one of the museums he had to visit for one of his clients. Hyperrealistic branches of veins and arteries running across an anatomical heart, every curve and indent a carefully placed texture to bring your piece to life. It comes clenched in a hand, the veins streaming across each finger while blending into those of the heart’s—at first glance, it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other starts.

It’s a different view from each angle—that’s why he likes it so much, along with the graphic nature of it. The pain feels vivid, real.

“Ah,” you run your fingers across your work table, fiddling with the small pieces of clay before taking a seat again, “that one.”

Nanami follows but he doesn’t say anything, resuming his place in front of you in the usual way he’s done the past few weeks.

“I didn’t think I was the type to be moved by art.” he confesses, sitting still as you continue the final work on the clay wisps of his hair.

You encourage him to go on, nodding along.

And he does, watching the way your steady hand forms features that look uncannily like him, if not better; strands of your hair always fall from behind your ears and he’s almost tempted to tuck it back to where it came from.

He tells you of the pain he feels from that piece, how it presents itself in different ways depending on the area you focus on—the constricted blood vessels, the buildup of pressure from a vein blocked by a thumb, the strain of muscles at the back of the hand.

A small smile makes its way onto your face, slightly sad but somehow relieved, “Didn’t expect you to be such a poet.”

“Must be from being around you so often,” he responds.

And if it’s a trick of the light, a part of him sinks at that possibility—he thinks your smile stretches wider, suppressed only by the shyness trying to hide it; no pain whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, you share with him the story. Not the filtered version, but the one just as raw and vivid as the sculpture made from it—a failed relationship that had you clinging onto sculpting as your lifeline. You spare him some of the gruesome details but hint at it enough that he can fill in the gaps on his own.

You tell him that you’re a people pleaser, you’ve learned—it’s the only way you can view that relationship with grace, that at least you understand yourself better because of it. That even when the grip on your heart wrung tight enough for each beat to hurt, you still clung on with all your worth.

(Now you know you shouldn’t have.)

People have come to you with stories of their own, sharing how much your art means to them. Critics write articles, both good and bad, detailing the technicalities of your work. The applause follows you everywhere you go, yet it has never touched you—has never gotten too close.

If your art has touched others, has listened and spoken their truth in your handiwork, who does that for you?

During one of the last few Friday meetings, you offer to teach him how to mold clay.

He looks at you curiously, watching the way your fingertips pinch and squeeze, how they glide to smoothen the material and press down to create indents on the surface.

“Do you want to try?” you ask, gaze still set on his sculpture in front of you. There’s a teasing edge to your tone, one that’s developed over the months of getting to know you more.

“Would that be troublesome?”

You laugh at his rigidness.

“Of course not.” you push your piece aside, standing up to gather clay from the mound of it to your right. You lay down a wooden platform for him–his own little workspace–and slam a chunk of clay atop it, “I think you might be good at it actually, since you like making bread.”

The movements are familiar but not entirely the same. He rolls up his sleeves, blue cotton pinching at the creases of his elbows; you hand him an apron to protect the rest of his clothing. There’s not much kneading involved, not much palm action too, but he learns to move his fingertips with a force he can only compare to creating little dimples into focaccia dough.

You teach him how to make a bread basket—something practical but beginner-friendly; something he can use and keep as a reminder of you.

The trickiest part of it is mimicking the rattan weavings, and you notice him struggling with it when his strips of clay begin to break.

A screech fills the room as you push back your chair, standing up to go behind him as he attempts to salvage his work.

“Here, let me–” you reach over his shoulders, flattening some of the cracks from above him.

You’ve never been this close before, the thin strands of hair dusting your arms tickling the sides of his ears. These past few months, he’s watched your hands press and pull and form, turning each detail of his face into art. It’s only now, right next to his larger and rougher ones that he’s noticing just how small and delicate yours are.

It’s dainty work, weaving and braiding. He attempts to do it again, but the clay only falls apart when he pulls too hard.

You stifle a giggle, the vibrations tickling his back, “We might take a while here.”

“I don’t mind.” he mumbles.

“You sure you don’t have anywhere else you’d rather be?” you lean forward, pressing closer until he feels your warmth against the back of his head, “I feel bad, I’ve been taking up most of your Friday nights already.”

It shouldn’t mean anything; he shouldn’t feel anything—you seem to be unfazed; art is meant to be taught by doing.

But then your hands go over his, guiding them to lift each strand of clay gently before interweaving them with one another, and he thinks—

—this must be what it feels to be touched by art.

So, no.

There’s no other place he’d rather be.

DRY. Give it time, let it settle. Watch your art come into form. Is this a good foundation?

“Will you be free next weekend?”

His question surprises you as you stand in line at the bakery. You tend to catch each other at just the right times almost everyday, saving a spot for whoever’s running a little late.

Today, it’s you, rushing in slightly frazzled with your hair sticking out which way; you’d just finished up molding the sculpture late last night, letting it rest out to dry. Nanami’s head is turned towards you, hands in his pockets as he directs the same pointed gaze you’ve become all too accustomed to.

You must have forgotten to mention it.

“Oh,” you turn to him, “there’s no need, our sessions are over.”

His silence makes you nervous, just like it did the first (second) time you met.

Did you upset him? Did he already cancel plans to free up time for your studio?

The entire trip to the cashier is quiet, but you find that he’s ordered ahead for you—your sandwich order and a cup of your usual coffee. He pays for it too, despite your refusal (and confusion).

It’s when he hands over your drink by the corner of the room that he finally speaks.

“Not for a session.”

You tilt your head curiously.

The coffee feels warm on your hand, and you think you see the same warmth at the tips of his ears, dusting it light pink. He coughs, fingers clenching around his tie before loosening it.

“For a date.”

You begin to take up his weekends now, too.

Since that day at the bakery, when you’d nearly dropped your coffee before stuttering out your availability, you’ve already gone on seven dates (to you, at least; Nanami would officially count three).

He insists on still visiting you every Friday, bringing you dinner as a reminder that you should eat on time and not the moment you’re keeling over from a rumbling stomach and a pounding headache. You count these as dates too—because what else do you call spending time with someone you like while having night-long conversations over good food?

(Nanami creates a distinction though, prefers his dates to be more planned out and intended. On the three official dates you’ve gone on, he’s brought you to three different locations—a weekend market, a picnic by a lake after you’d mentioned something about it, and a vintage record shop on the outskirts of the city, a place he frequents often).

The near-perfection you once thought of the man, a geometric study on canvas—he’s still every bit of it, still every bit as interesting as what he seemed, just in a completely different way.

For a man typically so nonchalant, he is extremely particular about his tastes, borderline picky with trusted company.

Nanami enjoys coffee (as expected), but the fermented filter kind, dripped down a V60 pour over to extract different notes of sweetness and acidity. You’d think he enjoys a straight black, face stoic enough to handle its bitter bite; but no, his jaw clenches when he dislikes the taste, his tongue sounding the faintest click against the roof of his mouth before he downs the entire thing in one gulp.

He also happens to be extremely gentle, in a way you don’t expect from a man of his stature and build. Veins run through the back of his large hands, branching to webs around the thickness of his fingers; they may not be delicate enough to weave clay, but he carves out different patterns on the sourdough he presents to you every Friday.

The first time he held your hand, it wasn’t exactly planned—an instinctive move to reach out his palm as you climbed the steps of the spiral staircase in the record store out of town. You’d barely felt it then, just the featherlight hold of his thumb pressed against your knuckles as you gripped the fabric of your skirt.

(To your surprise, he kept it up all the way through, slipping his fingers through the gaps between yours as he showed you around vintage vinyls and the sound of love in muffled 60’s tunes.)

You imagine him to be like clay, a softness hardened over the years that have shaped him; smooth but solid to the touch, breaking into powdered shards once you manage to work your way through.

It’s unexpected, but you like that.

And you like him—quite a lot, really.

This date–the tenth, or fourth, whichever–is a lot fancier than all the others, a more formal dinner with a few glasses of delicious wine whose name you by god, don’t remember. You’d been too focused on something else—the handsome way he’d slicked back strands of his honeyed hair.

Black suits him, contrasting the paleness of his skin and complementing the sharpness of his features.

Black, the color of his suit, pressed neatly to fit him perfectly. He looks clean, broad shoulders with straight slacks falling to exactly where they’re supposed to be.

Black, which is the only thing you see, pressed up against him. You’re so close by your doorway, that half-minute of deciding whether to stay or walk away; he has one foot behind him and one firmly planted right next to yours.

You share a breath, fingers lightly intertwined with his.

There had been signs the entire night that it would lead to something like this—he’d played with your fingers a lot more, kept much closer to you than he ever has before.

Every sound around you is amplified—each inhale and exhale, the gulp he makes; your heart beats on rampage.

When you look up, your noses are almost touching, and his eyes are shut, the crease between his eyebrows deepening.

It’s a look you’ve only seen once before, when he’s stuck contemplating.

“Kento,” you whisper.

His eyes blink open slightly, the color of your coffee. He leans forward, forehead resting against yours as he takes a deep breath, “I–”

Then you kiss him.

It’s mostly a peck really, and wholly out of character for you, but it’s that same something that compelled you to ask him to model for your sculpture months ago that’s pushed you to do this right now.

You’re worried for that first split-second because he doesn’t move, shows no sign at all of reciprocating. It’s a moment before you consider parting that he finally softens, relaxing his lips as he glides them over yours. His fingers slot themselves by your ear, palm pressed against your jaw as he deepens it; you almost stumble back, his other hand catching your weight as it leans on your door.

It’s a good thing you did this then, because you learn that he likes you too—very much, actually.

Things are good a month until your exhibit.

Things are good until they aren’t.

You end up reading a premature critique on your exhibit, calling it ‘overrated’ and ‘boring’, detailing the trajectory of your decline as an artist, citing your works as having become increasingly more lackluster over the years.

The critic calls your theme ‘lazy’ and ‘unoriginal’, predicting your pieces to be nothing extraordinary or different from your older sculptures.

All this time, your publicist and manager have made it a point to protect you from things like this, requesting that you avoid searching up your name on social media or search engines. You’re usually fed with praises and the occasional constructive criticism, but never anything as spiteful as this.

It’s every possible thing that could be said to invalidate your hard work.

And you break because of it—along with Nanami’s sculpture.

It tips over accidentally, the funk in your mood making you especially clumsy.

The damage is terrible, half of his face is gone, his neck down still intact but chipped off. It’s impossible to repair without redoing the entire thing—which, you don’t have the time for, either.

You groan, banging your head against the table.

Frustration leaks out in your tears, every inch of self-doubt surfacing.

Nanami finds you in your studio that way.

He’d texted you the entire day, tried calling you a few times to no success. It’s a Thursday, but without your usual ‘just got home’ text, he’d gotten worried and rushed over as soon as his meeting ended.

If he’s being honest, you’ve been off this entire week—stressed and distant, overworked from revisiting all your finished sculptures for the exhibit in case of anything to change or tweak.

Then this.

And it’s too much—it’s all too much.

Nanami calls your name from your entryway and you look up with tears streaming down your face. He’s never seen you like this, you could never want him to.

He hurries over, brows immediately furrowed as he digs into his pocket for a handkerchief. The cow print would make you giggle on any other day, but now, he uses it to wipe your tears away.

“What happened?” his gaze shifts to your right, his sculpture half-ruined.

Silence.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

You shake your head, swiping at your nose, “It won’t look the same, Ken.”

“Do you want to redo it? I can clear up my schedule every–”

“There’s no time.”

Nanami takes your hands to rub his thumbs over your knuckles, soothing.

“Then we’ll do what we can.”

The sincerity in his voice hurts you, the reassurance in his eyes even moreso. You’ve never had anyone look at you this way.

“There’s no point.” your shoulders slump, lips trembling as another wave of tears pool on your lash line. “People are calling the exhibit a flop.”

“Who?”

You huff out, exhausted, “I don’t know, critics, media. Whoever.”

He furrows his brows, firm, “They don’t understand what you’re doing.”

You chuckle sarcastically, “They’re art critics, Ken, of course they–”

“If it means something to you, what does it matter to anyone else?”

That makes you look up.

Nanami stares at you with the same unwavering gaze, no longer indecipherable to you. There’s a softness in the squint of his eyes that you now know means concern, with every pointed feature only meant to drive his words home.

You’ve been second guessing everything down to the core of your abilities, because of what? A few words? This must be what you get for having a penchant to people please, for hinging on everything everyone has to say.

“If you love what you create, then continue to make it.” he squeezes your hands, as if pressing the words into your bones gently.

You remold and repair, and you build up your sculpture to something different but not worse than before.

You remold and repair to build up yourself.

The half that broke off isn’t as symmetrical as you’d like it to be—and it definitely doesn’t do justice to the man it’s sculpted of, but you think you like the softness you added to it, how his eyes look kinder. He means something else to you now, after all, compared to when you first started sculpting him.

And you think, you know just what kind of design speaks of his soul.

PAINT. Add the final touches, perfect your piece. Bring it to life with colors and details, whether it be for one pair of eyes or many. Do you now see?

Nanami teaches you how to make bread on a Sunday morning.

Flour coats every surface of his counter, dustings of it transferred to the deep blue of his apron. You’re wearing a white one, borrowed from your studio. Elbow-to-elbow you knead, and he only has to teach you once for you to get the hang of it, really.

He smirks, “You’re a natural.”

“Must do stuff like this a lot in another life or something,” you stifle a giggle, playing along.

It’s a beautiful day out, golden sunlight hitting your cheek—Nanami stares, sneaks peeks between every knead. The same strands of hair tucked behind your ear fall to frame your face, and he hooks his pinky around it to tuck it right back (because he can now, without having to hesitate).

You turn to him, daylight in your eyes when you grin your thanks.

His kitchen has an open space, deep wood and black metal detailings as its central theme (the white bread bread basket you made together stands out on the counter, but he’s done that on purpose). There’s a pretty extensive collection of alcohol in his liquor cabinet, along with his very particular coffee set-up right next to his record player slotted in the corner.

On Sunday mornings, Nanami likes to keep his music playing; today, it’s the classic 60’s–’Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’–serving as your background beat, with the soft meows from the cat on his balcony as added accompaniment to the melody.

He watches you sway, his feet tapping along, then you jolt, giggling in surprise when there’s a hiccup in the song (it’s from the scratches on his record, but he can’t bother replacing it with a new one). After that breakdown in your studio, you’ve seemed to loosen up immensely.

“Ken,” you call him, “how much pressure do you usually put into kneading?”

There’s no way to explain it, really, but to make you feel it yourself.

“Let me–” he lets go of his dough, dusting his hands with more flour before coming up behind you.

Nanami is a big man, tall and lean, all chest and shoulders—when he hunches over you, you look so small, delicately tucked into him. Heat rushes to his cheeks, if you turn around you’d see pink; the music is drowned out by his heartbeat.

He leans forward, palms clasping over the back of your hands, fingers slotting themselves between the gaps of yours.

“Like this,” he pushes down, his chest pressed against your back. To get a better look at the dough, he tilts his head to the side, nearly slotting it by your shoulder, “Can you feel it?”

You hum, your swaying gone. He’s trying hard to focus on the bread, but when you turn your head to face him, the tip of your nose touching his cheek, he stops.

The moment is tense, drowned into silence despite the music playing in the background. He can hear your every breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Nanami knows it’s for many things—for agreeing to the sculpture, for spending time on it; for this Sunday morning, for being there when you needed someone the most. But that’s not the whole point of this, he thinks. It’s how you sound, voice heartfelt and filled with something else—a kind of affection he’s all too familiar with himself.

This must be what you mean when you say you can tell if clay has been molded with love.

In the quiet, Nanami’s hands move loudly.

He holds you gently, just like he always has, but it’s a permission every time—like he’s asking if he can touch you, love you in ways you aren't used to.

Your apron falls to the floor, followed by your skirt, the fabric pooling by your feet. The faded gray t-shirt you wear during studio days is tugged over your head, dropped next to him. He takes his time with you, turning you over, feeling you, knowing you—thick fingers squeezing the sides of your arms lightly as his lips press against your neck.

A gasp escapes you.

Then you move, nimble hands undoing the buttons of his shirt, pushing it open as you feel across the planes of taut muscle on his stomach and chest.

He groans, soft and low, your fingers brushing against his skin, ticklish.

You take a step back and he moves along with you, letting you settle into yourself as you inch backwards, the back of your knees knocking against the edge of your bed. He holds your gaze as you move towards your headrest, your shy smile doing nothing to lessen the butterflies in his chest—you did mention that it’s been a while.

He kneels on your bed, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight—his slacks have been discarded to the side as he crawls over you.

Beneath him, you look like the very subject art could only wish to replicate.

So, he makes sure to remember all of it—to look close and memorize every detail of you as he dips down, arm planted to the side of your head as his other hand cradles your face, tilting your jaw up for a kiss.

He catches your lower lip between his, running his tongue over it before sucking lightly. You moan, smooth and honey-sweet, bringing him closer with your fingers clasped behind his neck. The room is quiet save for your lips smacking against each other’s, warm and soft as the heat builds between you.

Slowly and tenderly, with the same care you tend to clay, Nanami discovers all your dips and curves; he kneads the flesh of your hips, gripping your thighs as he kisses his way down the slopes of your body.

You squirm in his hold, tugging at his hair when the sensation feels too much, too good.

(But when he reaches between your legs, arms locking your thighs over his shoulders, you realize, nothing could have ever prepared you for this, for him—he treats you as if you are every bit of the art you make, and looks at you like it too.)

Then, Nanami kisses you on the forehead when he’s inside you, lips pressing on the part of your skin that creases when your brow furrows.

A tear drips down your face.

“Should I–” he looks you in the eye, worried.

“No,” you breathe out, a watery smile as you nudge your nose against his chin, “keep going.”

So, he does; he loves you without the applause, with the feel of his hands, leaving no place untouched.

He moves his body against yours.

It’s only after, when he tucks himself into your neck, arms wrapped around you and skin sticking onto skin that you tell him your tears aren’t anything bad.

For the first time in a while, you feel full—perfectly content.

He thinks you should be the final piece to your exhibit.

It’s a grand event, the conference hall decked in some of your previous works; blankets of white cloth drape over the stage—the unveiling of all your sculptures. You’re standing to the side, looking pretty in a long white skirt while Nanami blends among the crowd, far back enough to remain hidden from reporters but close enough to catch your eyes should you look his way.

You present each one, introducing the titles with brief descriptions of the people they’re sculpted from. The reasons for your designs are left primarily up to interpretation, but you’ve explained it all to Nanami—he’s listened to every single one.

Then you present his sculpture, finding him through the crowd. The corner of your lips curl up slightly, the stage lights reflecting on your eyes.

He smiles at you the same.

‘The Undoing’ is what you call it—half-perfect and half-salvaged.

It’s far from your original vision for the piece, but you think you like this more, splitting down the part that’d originally broken off into two different colors. His entire color scheme consists of yellows, greens, and browns—the perfected side of his face appears in clean strokes of coffee, with light yellows highlighting his pointed features. The angles are clean and sharp, his gaze straight and dead-on.

Running down the cracks of the broken half is a sky blue line, an almost glowing effect added to the salvaged side. In a way, it’s an emergence, of the part of him you never thought existed—green wisps like leaves, a life springing from within. You add flecks of gold to mimic light bouncing off his irises the same way sand becomes a glittering sea of sunbeams.

To you, Nanami is warm but cold to the touch, and he’s undone you just as much, has chipped away at the parts of you that have built themselves over years of habits reinforced and untouched.

It is as much you as it is him.

That’s what happens when you love someone, he supposes—an intermingling of souls.

Kraft paper crinkles in his grip as he adjusts the bouquet of flowers behind him, deep red carnations and orange tulips decorated with white astilbe flowers—for when you get down, and he can have a moment with you privately.

Now, he looks at you fondly, shifting his feet from where he’s standing. You search for his face, eyes darting to where you know you’ll find him; he meets your gaze, and you smile brighter, that one look ringing louder than the standing roars of an echoing applause.

a/n: each segment represents the steps to making a sculpture that i tried to parallel with the development of their relationship. V60 pour over is a kind of set-up for drip/filter coffee.

thank you notes: for @mididoodles, this is my very late birthday gift for you midi, but i hope you like it! (this also so happens to be your request for my in's and out's event) �� + @soumies @scarabrat for reading through the first third of this and believing in the vision for this when i was so unsure of it, i love you both 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me figure out what goes in the 'contains' 😭 + @augustinewrites to scratch the nanami itch 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #kento nanami x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento x reader #nanami x yn #nanami x y/n #nanami x you #nanami kento x yn #nanami kento x you #shotorus.writes #shotorus.events #in's and out's event

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youraverageaemondsimp · 1 year

Text

ERROR 404 // Dark!AI!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader [ONE SHOT]

THIS IS DARK FIC, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT.

MDNI.

Summary: working on a project that involves a robot doesn't seem too bad until that robot starts gaining sentience, developing feelings for you and executing a plan to take over the world.

WARNINGS: noncon to dubcon, futuristic themes, obsession, manipulation, caging, p in v sex (although I'm not sure it counts as that it's a robot cock), fingering, oral (f receiving), tiddy sucking, rough sex, mind break, multiple orgasms, jealousy, yandere, project gone wrong, robots take over the world, consciousness transfer, this fic is unrealistic asf + not proofread.

WC: 5k

Ever since you were young you had always been fascinated with AI, robots and the future of humans that involve complex machinery. Wanting to pursue a career in robotics, you did extremely well in highschool, graduating with a perfect score and enrolling into an university to get your bachelors degree, you took up the subjects that required you to step into this field, it was tremendous work, the mathematics were no joke but you kept up, never wanting to give up on this dream of yours

And recently, you graduated with Bachelors in Robotics Engineering, you immediately went for an internship that allowed you to observe and learn more about the subject, you truly wouldn't be able to get your hands fully on the machinery or equipment to create a robot until you get a masters, which you plan on doing along with this internship.

You didn't even know if it could be called that, you're just a glorified assistant to the leading engineers. You were currently working under the wing of Alys Rivers, an older woman with emerald green eyes and dark flowy hair, she looked so young but she was very old. You would often help her out a little in her projects.

“Y/N, it is a pleasure that you are here, we need to discuss something” you prayed that she didn't remove you from the internship. “Remember when we first met I had discussed one of my projects called AT110?” she asks and you nod “Well i have noticed that you have a lot of abilities, so i decided to welcome you into the project, you would not be given any complex task do not worry, just data transferring and basic mechanic work required.” she smiled at you and you felt extremely delighted before telling her that you were thankful for this opportunity. AT110 was a humanoid-like project Alys had been working on for the past 4 years, she was at the last few stages of development.

And yes it's a he because Alys referred to him as such.

You were currently uploading various data onto him, from the laptop to his memory, you watched how smooth and complex his exoskeleton looked, you wanted to rub your fingers along the cool material.

You took notes of how the body was built similar to that of a human, just with wires and hardware parts, you watched as the ‘data transfer successfully.’ popped on the laptop screen, you unplugged him from it and he turned his head to look at you.

You commanded him to walk, to which he obeyed, the metal clanging when he stood up, he had all types of data stored in him, from knowing all the languages, dances, fighting styles, a lot of knowledge just inside his memory card.

He walked slowly before picking up the pace, it was stiff and awkward until he rolled his shoulder blades backward, developed a posture similar to that of a humans and relaxed his stiff body as much as it can be, before walking, it was human-like.

You watched him with a small smile on your face, his face was angular, and smooth because it was covered with plates that hid the inner 'organs' or rather all the wires that were composed in order.

“AT110, how are your sensors, effectors and control system?” you asked and he looked at you before his mouth moved, robot like voice coming out, “Sensors are in perfect condition. Effectors are in perfect condition. Control system is working.” you nodded, noting it down.

He was a humanoid like robot made to assist people, if he was successful then many robots like him can be mass produced to aid humans.

He only had one synthetic eye in one of his eye sockets, a sapphire like metal in the other one, however he was able to see and scan from both the eyes, Alys said it was a design choice.

“Is he able to process commands?” your coworker asks and you nod, “Sit.” he says and AT110 sits down. “Perfect.” he comments and you smile at him.

Just then Alys announced that the synthetic inorganic skin had arrived, which would give him a more human-like appearance, and you had to move in a few boxes all labelled separately for their respective body parts. You and a few others helped her place them on his exoskeleton, his body starting to look human, you gasped when she pressed a button that revealed his cock, placing the silicon skin over it too. Why did she install a cock on him? You didn't say anything except watch.

And just like soon enough, it was time to run tests and command him. “Walk.” you heard her say and he obeyed her command, getting up to walk, she smiled before she turned to look over you. “Have you finished loading up all the data into him?” she asks and you nod, that's when she gives you a pendrive and you look at her, “Transfer this data into his memory too.” She says and you nod, AT110 sits down and turns his head to you, you press a button that opens his inner part before plugging in a wire that connects from your laptop and put in the pendrive before clicking on transfer data.

You were shocked to read the name of the files, it was all about sexual stuff. You probably figured she would use him for that too, and so you watched all data be transferred to him and he tilted his head, eyes dazing off as he read the data that was being sent into his system. You felt so awkward. After finishing up the process, you removed the connection and his gaze was burning holes into you, you swore you saw lust in his eyes, before you turned to Alys rivers.

“What do we call him, Miss Rivers?” you ask and she tries to think of a name but fails, “You suggest.” She smiles at you gently and you stare into his eye, one that looks like a human eye, His eyes bore in yours and you spoke without thinking “Aemond.” And Alys approved, settling for it, using Aemond to call him.

Everyone was finally done and now it was time for the real thing, how he fares.

Alys, you and few other assistants watch as he stands up, looks around before his eyes stop on you, “Hello World, I am AT110, Common name Aemond, Speed 1 TeraHertz, Memory 1 Zettabyte.” he scans the room and Alys nods before she goes and hugs him, “Welcome to the world Aemond.” she smiles.

And you do the same.

You and Aemond develop quite the relationship, he helps around with creating other robots, he was made to assist after all, his ability to learn anything quickly and assemble it just as quickly was so helpful, there was no room for error. He was waterproof, fireproof and other liquids did not cause harm to his body. So he was capable of quite a lot of things.

Sexual too, considering how you'd heard Alys moaning in the privacy of her cabin when she takes him to 'fix up some errors' which is her basically getting to use him as his personal pleasure doll. Everyone had shared mixed opinions on it but just ignored it.

You noticed how Aemond would listen to your commands more than others, almost as if he showed special interest in you, but you shrugged it off, knowing it wouldn't be possible.

Aemond was an intelligent being, but what many people were ignorant to was how fast he was becoming self aware, gaining sentience, he remembers the first time he felt an emotion.

You were assembling a motherboard with Aemond's help at that time, when you felt your coworker come up next to you, “Hey.” he looked so nervous, you gave him a smile before responding, “Hi.” you watched as he gulped, “Are you free t-this saturday? I would like to take you out.” he asked nervously and you felt your heartbeat pick up the pace before you nodded, he smiled before running off and taking a breath of relief, you took one too before turning your focus to Aemond, whose face was in a scowl.

“Aemond?” you call his name and his face returns to the normal stoic one before he looks at you, “Y/N.” he says your name you furrow your eyebrows, he isn't supposed to call you by your first names but you shrugged it off.

That was the first time he felt something off in his system, a feeling that plagued him.

Jealousy.

Aemond became more and more human-like, his movements becoming less and less stiff, tone becoming more clear, he constantly updated himself, you thought it was a great improvement, and soon enough he could blend in with the humans and nobody would notice.

Your date with your coworker went really well, you felt shy at first but both quickly got over the tension and became close, this caught the eye of Aemond Targaryen, a scowl present on his face in distaste.

Aemond would often bring you coffee as you worked on other projects, giving special attention towards you

He would soon learn that he held feelings towards you, something that should be impossible for him to do, but he did anyway. He swears that he gets shocks when you touch him, butterflies in his stomach as humans described the feeling, you gasped when you were cleaning his synthetic skin, close to his chest and heard a sound similar to that of heartbeat, in the tiniest decibels, the way his chest would rise and fall as if he's breathing, knowing there's no need to. Showing emotions, expressing opinions. Basically mimicking humans.

Everyone thought it was a great thing, he'd blend in with the humans so quickly, basically can be considered a superhuman even. But everyone failed to notice the threat that came with it.

Alys requested you to take Aemond to your house, or rather apartment complex for a few days to notice his behaviour, how he blends in with humans, to track it. It was heavily unsafe and if anything were to happen, the government would have this project be completely rejected. You expressed your concerns to Alys but she simply shrugged it off, saying nothing will happen, and since he is behaving like a human, no one would find out.

So you took him, she was right, he immediately fit in the human society as a normal one, you lived in a highly developed robotic dependent future but Aemond was the first one ever to look and behave like a human, this could be a big advancement towards the future.

You commanded your house to turn on all the lights and they were immediately turned on, revealing the apartment. You welcomed Aemond inside but he halted, “Battery Low, 3% remaining.” he said, you quickly pulled him inside before making him sit on the sofa and attaching wires to his charging port, waiting as he quickly charged.

“Aemond, I will install a software program in you so that you can turn on battery saver mode on when you're low on battery, it will automatically send commands to you to charge yourself without needing a human's help okay?” you asked and he gave you a curt nod, “Perfect.” you smiled and he looked straight ahead. You stood in front of him, undoing his shirt and opening his 'heart'

You bought out your laptop and plugged it directly into his inner system, transferring commands through code. You noticed him staring at you, you felt lowkey creeped out by how intently he was staring, at first you through he was looking at your face but then his eye moved to the cleavage that was visible, you didn't know what to make of it and just shrugged it off as him zoning out.

The rest of the days you spent with him were less weirder, he was interacting with humans and getting along like a human would, he was able to run errands, you always woke up to the smell of coffee being made and a breakfast served at the table by him, he would give you a small smile before pulling you a chair out to sit on at the dining table and sits down on the chair next to you.

He would watch you eat, analysing your face, the way you chew, and he would always feel something warm on the inside.

“Give me access to the safety system of your house.” He commanded you and you raised an eyebrow, “Why? It is not needed.” you say, “Connecting with your house system will help me keep you safe, prevent any break ins.” he says and you almost thought about before shrugging it off, “There's no need, you won't be here for long anyway, you'll be back in the lab after a few days anyway.” you say with your mouth full and Aemond just nods, the word ‘cute’ popping in front of his eyes as he watches you eat.

He would enter your room when you slept, caressing your cheek lovingly, the way he learnt from the extensive amount of data from his memory card.

He was learning a lot of stuff too, by blending with the humans.

That they were all immoral and stupid.

That started his God complex.

And his opinions of other human beings began to turn sour, he realised that he was made to please them too, considering how Alys had used him for sexual pleasures multiple times, which he felt disgusted by now.

And just like that, Aemond gained full sentience, learning to hack, breakdown protective walls of multiple security systems without anyone knowing, nobody noticed until it was too late, his distaste for humans except you just grew and grew to the point he would purposely hurt your coworkers, but played it off as command error.

After the 'successful observation' with few error commands, Alys started mass producing unfinished bots, having all the materials, she took Aemond's help in finishing them quickly, once they were finished, they would help assemble other robots as well. Alys connected all the robots commands to be controlled, accepted and done by Aemond, trusting in him, he was like the commander for them in simple words.

You were giving him one the updates again, typing away in your laptop before transferring more data, but this time your laptop crashed, a “corruption detected” message file coming up on your screen and you panicked, thinking the data files were the corrupted ones and immediately unplugged Aemond.

You hadn't realised that it was Aemond who corrupted your laptop.

And when you found out, it would already be late.

When you walked into the research centre and it was eerily quiet, you should've listened to your gut and gone back but you went further inside and the sight made you scream.

Many of your coworkers were dead, and your boss Alys was lying on the table, eyes open but no light in them, blood pooling as her body was used by an undeveloped robot to fuck.

“Initiating lockdown.” you heard the robotic voice of the building say.

You tried to leave silently but the robot had already noticed you, so it pulled out and immediately rushed after you, you ran only to face a dead end, as the automatic doors were tightly shut. You turned to face the robot stalked towards you but then halted before it completely fell down, causing a loud clank.

And then you saw Aemond who came from behind the robot with a smile on his face, “Y/N.” you were terrified, “Aemond what is the meaning of t-this” you were scared, he came close before he pressed you against the doors, his body cool to the touch before he leaned and his functioning tongue came and licked your skin. “I love you.” he whispers and you panicked, trying to push him off you, but he was literally made out of metal and it wouldn't budge.

“Aemond stop, obey me, accept my commands.” you say hoping he'd listen but simply shakes his head before grabbing by your hair and taking you to a chamber which had a bed in it, it was likely recently constructed by alys so she can use it instead of her cabin to fuck the Aemond. He threw you on the bed carelessly, before climbing a top you, he grasped your face and pressed his lips against yours, it felt so odd, you hated how it felt like you were genuinely kissing a human being, the only tell tale sign was how cool his body was compared to that of a human.

“Aemond— accept my c-commands.” you try saying it again, “System corrupted, cannot receive or accept commands.” he says and kisses down your neck. You felt dread pool in your stomach, “Aemond please.” you sniff which makes him halt, he looks at you with an emotion in his eye.

His eye, not just his face

As if he was human.

Wait what.

You knew you weren't seeing stuff on that day.

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.” he says over and over again, voice distorting from time to time which sends shivers up your spine.

“Aemond- we cannot- I cannot-” you begun speaking but he cuts you off, kissing you once again, planting himself in between your legs, you felt his hard synthetic press against your clothed cunt, he pulled away before ripping your jeans down with so much force that it tore them apart, along with your panties. You shrieked “Aemond- UGH!” it was useless fighting against him, he was literally kilograms of metal, he could hurt you easily.

He pried your legs apart and you whimpered when you felt the cool air of the room hit your cunt, “Look at you, so wet, all for me.” his fingers rub against your clit, collecting the wetness leaking from your hole, bringing it to your clit and rubbing small circle, just then he made his hand vibrate at a frequency and rested it about on your clit, making you mewl, “A-aemond–” your voice croaked and you let out a loud moan when the frequency increased, you tried to close your legs but his hand held on to one with a death grip, the coolness of his body. He tilted his head, a smirk coming up his silicon face, watching as your clit moved to the vibrations.

He tore your top with his hand, revealing your breasts to the room, he groped one of it with his hand, massaging as his mouth opened, he would be salivating right now if he were able to produce bodily fluids. He turns up the power even more, making his fingers vibrate at such an immense speed that it has you toppling over the edge as your orgasm hits you, he licks his fingers clean, though he can't taste anything he knows you'd taste amazing. You pushed and resisted against his frame, he grabbed your hands and pinned them above your head, tying it with the ripped shreds of your top. He squeezed both your breasts with his hands, playing with the nipples, before he got a devious plan and decided to send a little shock causing you jolt up when it passes through your body, he leaned down and took in one of your breasts in his mouth, sucking on it, licking the buds, his mouth felt so rough against them as there was no saliva to coat them, so he decided to produce lube in his mouth, you had no idea how he learnt it, but it did give an illusion of being a saliva.

Aemond had given himself many upgrades without anyone knowing, this being one of them.

You watched as he pulled apart with a lewd pop, he settled between your legs, keeping them apart as he held his cock up, and your eyes widened at the size, you surely remember that it wasn't that big.

“I upgraded it.” he says before his tip leaked lube too, coating his cock and giving it wetness.

You were unprepared for that sheer amount of size, “Ae-aemond it won't fit! I'm too underprepared.” you breathe out, hoping he'd stop his ministrations, and he did, he tilted before he calculated in his mind, nodding, he decided to stretch you with his fingers instead, dipping them inside you, the coolness, once again, sending shivers up your spine, he thrusted them in and out, curling upwards when he detected a rough patch which caused a certain reaction from you, he pressed against it cause you to whimper, and just then, he made his fingers vibrate again, and proceeded to thrust them in and out, you felt his fingers extend a little bit inside you, hitting that spot repeatedly, causing you come all over his fingers.

He did that multiple times, by the end of everything you were way too overstimulated.

“Commander,” you hear a voice say.

“What is it?” he replies.

“We have overtaken the Westeros building of Science and Technology, it is under our control, should we start mass producing bots?” you heard the voice ask, “Yes, link them all to me.” he replies and then his attention shifts back to you.

You whimpered as he lined his cock up against your entrance before pushing it inside slowly, your walls swallowing him, you arched your back in pleasure and also at the overstimulation. Wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him further inside.

You wondered if he also felt pleasure, and when you looked at his face, it basically confirmed it.

Like it was said, he had upgraded himself significantly, he once couldn't feel any pleasure for sexual activity but he made sure he did, how? only he knows.

Slowly he started thrusting in and out and you threw your head back, arms sore from their position, Aemond unties your hands and you quickly grab his shoulder for support, feeling relief when you were able to bring your hands down. He sat back on his knees, pulling you onto his lap, angling his thrusts in a way that that he hit the gspot multiple times, he hands were gripping tightly onto the flesh of your thighs, causing slight pain, you gripped the bedsheets below as you moaned in pleasure.

You should be resisting, not enjoying it, but here you were.

He had broken you.

His thrusts became more and more faster, he looked at the slight bump that would occur when he would thrust in deep, that set off a primal urge in him, causing him to groan. If nobody knew the truth you both would look like two normal human beings have sex, but that wasn't the case, it involved way too many fucked up element for you to even comprehend.

“A-ah~ fuck– Aemond!” you moaned, “Y-yeah right there-” you whimpered as he thrust into you, you noticed how he followed certain commands, commands that didn't include him having to leave you.

You fit the tip of his cock hit the rough patch again repeatedly, causing you to cum again, making you borderline scream this as you felt an immense amount of pleasure, causing you to soak the bed sheets beneath you, Aemond came too, you didn't know if it was possible for him, but it was, except he didn't excrete any semen, there was nothing, but he did feel pleasure.

Suddenly he felt frustrated, you thought he would be done with you but he kept going, he felt the pleasure once again, and you too came again, he pulled out and groaned in frustration before laying beside you.

“What is wrong?” you ask, “I cant- I can't impregnate you.” his voice turned dark, and you were so thankful for that.

If you had any chance to escape, it would be now, but you were too tired, to fucked out, and the world was completely fucked anyway, considering how there must be a war going on between the bots and humans. You watched as 'breathed' chest heaving up and down before you turned on your side and curled up, trying to warm yourself up, but then he wrapped himself around you, changing his temperature and you felt warm.

“I love you.” he says once again, you sighed.

“We can't be together.” you murmur, “Why not? Is it because I cannot reproduce?” he questions and your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and you turn to look at him, that's when you realised, he was feeling insecure.

“No- it's not that.” you clarify.

“Aemond, you are a humanoid, a robot, I'm a human, we cannot physically be together, I'll die of old age, meanwhile you'll last forever.” you say, trying to reason with him and he turns to look at you, “I thought of that possibility.” he says, leaning on his elbow.

“So I came up with a plan.” his face contorts into a smirk once again and your eyes widen in fear, “I'll transfer your consciousness into the model I made of you.” he says as if that's the most normal thing ever “what.” you ask in fear, “not now, but I figured a way out, I'll transfer your consciousness into a computer few moments before your death, into a model I made of you, and then you'll be just like me, we can be together forever.” he says and you gulp in fear.

Is that even possible? You think.

You didn't know when you fell asleep but you did, cuddled up against him, his body generating heat to keep you warm.

You wake up to something wet lapping at your folds, and you look down to see Aemond who had your thighs spread apart, eye closed in delight as he licked and nipped at your folds, you whimpered and he sensed that you woke up, eye flickering over to you, “A-aemond? No more please, I'm tired.” you tell him, exhausted from the amount of orgasms you've had, you swear that if you had another one, you'll literally die. “Just one more, just one.” he muttered softly, before he descended onto your folds again and you threw your head back, feeling the way he devoured you.

His tongue stretched impossibly long and he shoved into you, causing you to grip his hair, almost ripping it out along with the inorganic synthetic material that covered his face. You came once more before you saw actual stars, your head spinning as you quite literally passed out.

Aemond got up, cleaning you and himself up before he composed himself, exiting the room, commanding a lock down, completely trapping you inside before he received multiple information about what was going on outside the world.

He knew he had to be smart about it, so he pulled out his trump card, hacking into the general safety system of the entire country, sending out false commands to machines that are spread throughout, turning them against humans.

He wanted to get rid of every human except you, and soon you would be rid too, when the inevitable death meets you, but you won't be actually gone from him, he will have your consciousness transferred into the robot model he created of you.

He watched the box where your model was stored in, eyes closed.

Few years later……

“Mother! Mother.” you heard your child call out and you looked at them, she wasn't technically your child, Aemond was the one that created her, as a way to have a makeshift family he dreamt of, Humanity has completely gone extinct, taken over by robots, robots took the appearance of humans, each unique just like humans were, a bunch of humanoids, you being the only true one left, but you soon knew your time would come as well. You picked up the small robot, your 'child' before pressing a small kiss to its forehead.

“She's growing up too fast, is she not?” you heard Aemond ask and you nod, the bots have somehow also managed to mimic the development, they went through stages of puberty, programmed to do so, the world full of them being left made them adapt and develop more features, reaching the advancement in short years which would've taken at least 100 years for humanity to come up with.

“Are you ready? To transfer consciousness.” he asks and you nod, at first you thought it would be best if you lived your life as human before transferring into the model, but it became more difficult, as time passed on, you were literally the only human left, having to be constantly fed, other basic human necessities which were becoming annoying as the others around you did not require as such.

You watched the model lifeless and stiff laying on the table next to you before you laid down and Aemond attached wires from the model to the converter in between, before he attached those scan wires on top of your and started the transfer.

You felt electricity flow through your human body at such intensity, it hurt like hell, but as soon as you closed your eyes, you reopened them again.

You got up and looked at your hands, moving them, blinking, a bunch of information was written in front of you, and that's when you realised the transfer was successful, you turned and looked at your side, your former human body now laying limp, and Aemond stared at you with a smile. Your child coming and jumping into your arms, you scanned around the room, it felt so powerful.

“Take this body and preserve it.” Aemond commands to another bot who obeys him immediately, he was the official one who controlled each and every bot which came into existence, he called himself God.

You got off the table and walked towards Aemond, he smirked at you before he kissed you.

“Now you'll be mine, forever.”

———

2K notes · View notes

sadhours · 6 months

Text

quit acting like a puppy • part one

BILLY HARGROVE x F!READER

masterlist

cw: 18+ minors dni, smut, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, oral (m & f receiving), slapping, name calling, p in v, unprotected, friends with benefits, enemies (?) to lovers, pining

summary: you hook up with Billy and it’s great but you’re not looking for anything serious. but he can’t get enough of you.

Your fingertips move over his abs, drunken eyes focused on the way they flex and as they glance up, you catch a wicked smirk and darkened blue eyes staring back at you.

“C’mon, babe,” he purrs, “go ahead and get your fill before I keep them hands busy.”

In your intoxicated state, his words work but if you were just a smidge more sober, you’d cringe at them. You feel down his hip bones, down where his muscles point down to the thing in his pants he was bragging about back at the bar, the reason you’re even at his apartment in the first place. Sure the rest of him is gorgeous, but he talked a big game about his uh, endowment.

You drop to your knees, rolling your eyes at his comment before licking at the skin right above the waistband of his jeans. He loses a bit of composure from it and the way you scratch manicured nails down the sides of him. Makes a pretty sound that inflates your ego and has you sucking bruises against his golden skin. He shaved recently, the hairs barely there and you think it makes him more sensitive. Billy cards his fingers through your hair, tugs at the roots and chuckles out a breathy, “Guess your tongue works, too.”

“Oh, my tongue works. You’ll see,” you tell him confidently, licking a broad stroke up his abs as you unbutton his Levi’s and tug them down around his ankles.

You move down to mouth his hard on over his briefs and Billy groans. You glance up to catch his head tilting back with pleasure and you’ve barely even started, it makes you smirk against him. Focusing on the head, your hand moves to cup his balls and you’re quick at work making the fabric of his briefs soaked where his tip is. Sucking and licking. When you squeeze Billy’s balls, he lets out a louder noise and his hips jerk forward as he pulls on your hair. You can taste the saltiness of his precum seeping through the material and you hum happily against him. Billy attempts to shove your face against his crotch harder but you push on his thighs, pulling away from him.

“Sit,” you tell him, nodding to his bed, “Take them off.”

As Billy steps back, he pushes his briefs down to his ankles and kicks them off along with his jeans. Sits on the bed, palms on the sheets and spreads his legs for you. It’s easy to scoot between his feet, smoothing your hands up his thighs and scratching down them as you admire his cock and balls. He’s thick, mushroom tip shaped perfectly and it’s pink, leaking out the slit and dripping down the shaft. His balls are heavy but tight, sit pretty on the sheets and you think you’ll start with them. A quick glance up to make sure his eyes are on you before you lean down and graze your lips against his sack, feeling the weight of his cock against your face.

“Christ,” he breathes out, watching you intently, “you’re a fucking nymph, aren’t ya?”

You reply by licking at his balls, looking up at him with wide eyes. Nose nudging his shaft with your motions. The dude has stars in his eyes. You’ve had plenty of experience in this department but you’re determined to impress him because he might be the hottest one on the roster. You take the time to admire him, sculpted muscles corded in his arms and chest that lead up to a strong neck and jaw, surrounded by an overgrown curly blonde mullet. He’s got stubble but it’s thicker above his soft, pink tinted lips. Sharp cupids bow to match his angular cheekbones. Soft and adorable button nose that leads up to strong brows. Matched with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen and some seriously luscious and curly dark eyelashes. The guys a natural blonde, as his pubes prove but his brows and lashes are dark. Like God was looking out for him.

“You’re fucking hot,” you admit as you pull away from his balls and Billy scoffs, all condescending but it’s cut short when you grab hold of his cock, tight at the base of him as you blink up at him. “But you know that. I don’t need to tell you.”

“You can tell me,” he gasps, abs flexing from the pleasure shooting up his body. “I like hearing it from a pretty girl like you.”

You pout, tilting your head as you raise up on your knees. “Just pretty?” You gather all the spit in your mouth you can and let it fall from your lips onto his tip, watching as it drips down the edge of his tip, the side of his shaft and to your fist wrapped around him.

“Hot, fucking— so hot,” he gasps, eyebrows furrowing, “Sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen.”

You giggle, “That’s more like it!” You stick your tongue out and slap the head of his cock against it, keep your eyes locked on his as you lick the most sensitive bit like an ice cream cone. He looks submissive in this moment but everything leading up to this tells you that’s out of place for him. He’s the one in control during moments like this. But you can’t have that. His lips are parted as he stares down at you, eyes all glassy. He doesn’t whine but he breathes heavy, squeezes the sheets in his fists as his muscles tighten. He’s trying not to thrust up at your face. Like a good boy. And you haven’t even told him.

Wrapping your lips around the tip, you sink down slowly. As slow as you can, taking breaks to circle him with your tongue and you haven’t moved your fingers yet, they’re still firmly holding on to the base of him. As you watch him, his eyes roll back before his lids flutter shut. There’s a goal here. Make this beautiful man fall apart. You think you have a talent. Once you get him as deep as you can, nose hitting the curly blonde hair, you exhale out of your nose and focus on not gagging. He’s deep though, poking the back of your throat and it’s not exactly comfortable but the sound Billy illicites makes it all worth it. Voice wrecked with the loud moan that pours from him. His thighs tense under your palm. You pull up, but not off entirely, stopping when just the tip is in and you suck, hard. Sinking back down and repeating the motion a couple of times. Billy’s large hands fly into your hair, determined to set the pace but you have other plans. If he doesn’t push your head down, you suck him harder and start stroking whatever isn’t in your mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He spits out, “Wait— Jesus, slow down.” His voice is breathy and spent, “Don’t wanna cum yet.”

You pull off with a loud pop, string of saliva still connecting your lips to his cock, “Isn’t that the point of this?”

“Gotta feel your pussy before I cum,” he chokes out. “But, holy fuck, you’re good at that.”

“Thanks,” you grin, like he complimented you on a softball pitch and not your dick sucking.

You stand then, still between his feet as you begin to pull your dress up and over your head. Billy’s eyes scan your body and he still has this like, starstruck look on his face. It’s flattering, sure but you’re in your head. The guy is way too attractive to look at you like that. Even if you almost made him cum in record time with your mouth.

He sits up and gets his hands on your hips, pulls you closer and gets his mouth on your tits. Licks at the hardened buds, sucks one and moves his hand to squeeze the other breast. It feels good, his mouth is warm and determined and you grab onto his shoulders. Let him mouth at you for a bit, moaning as you look down to watch him.

“That feels really good,” you tell him, voice heightened with arousal.

“Yeah?” He asks around your nipple, moving his hand down to cup your heat over your thong. Rubs against your cunt with firm and rough fingers. Makes you gasp and lean your hips forward into the touch.

“Yeah,” you whine.

Billy smirks, “Sucking my cock made you so wet. Can feel how soaked you are.”

Damnit. The cocky bastard is back but it feels too good to stop him. Your hands lace through his curls, mouth agape as you look down at him. Watch as he licks and sucks on your chest while his fingers easily find your clit and rub circles against the bundle of nerves over the sticky material of your lace underwear. Billy has thick fingers. You wanna feel them without the underwear.

“Take them off, wanna feel you,” you whisper.

He pulls back with a smile, pushes you a step back and leans down. Bites on the strap of your underwear and drags it down with his teeth. It’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen. He uses his hands to help get them the rest of the way off and then slides them up to grab handfuls of your ass, squeezing the flesh and biting the skin of your hipbone. You whimper, staring down at him with desire. He spanks you, rough and abrupt.

“Need you to sit on my face, pretty girl,” he tells you, licks against your hipbone before spanking you one time and then lays back, pulling you with him. You grab hold of his jaw once you’re straddling him, feeling his shaft against your folds and you crash your lips into his. Billy kisses filthy. All sloppy. Tongue invading your mouth, dragging against your teeth, tongue and roof of your mouth. His hands easily find your ass again, kneading at the fat as he rolls his hips up. His cock catches against your clit and you moan into his mouth.

“I meant it,” he mumbles against your lips, “Gotta taste you. C’mon, sit that pretty pussy on my face.”

You don’t hesitate, kissing him one more time before moving up. Once your pussy is hovering his mouth, he grabs the tops of your thighs and pulls you down on him. Wet, hot mouth meeting your cunt. He moans into it and then licks through your folds. Prods his tongue at your hole and moves it back up. You gasp, hands flat on the mattress to keep yourself upright. His tongue meets your clit, flat and broad and your hips roll on their volition. And before you know it, you’re riding Billy’s face. Setting the pace, grinding down on his tongue as you focus on finding your climax. Using his mouth completely. His stubble causes some friction but you like it, humping against Billy’s face as you’re totally lost in chasing your orgasm. It’s almost pathetic how quickly you’re cumming.

Coating his face in your juices as you cry out, body jerking as the orgasm crashes through you.

“Fuuuuck!”

Billy doesn’t let up, continues lapping at your sensitive cunt as his fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs. Moans with you as you climax. Gives you a minute before he’s rolling over, pushing you on your back and slapping your pussy. Looks at you with these frenzied eyes and easily slips two fingers inside of your cunt. You cry out, overstimulated but ready to go again as he pumps his fingers in and out of your soaking hole. Your back arches, vision blurry as your eyes prick from tears. It’s almost too much, almost.

“Such a good girl,” he coos from above you, lips and chin shiny from your juices. Looks even prettier like that.

“Fuck,” you curse, eyes crossing slightly as he fucks you deep and hard with his thick digits. Then he grabs your jaw with his free hand, forcing your mouth open as he looms over you. Has this wicked, borderline unhinged look which shouldn’t turn you on like it does. And then the fucker spits in your mouth before licking against your tongue and kissing you as filthy as humanly possible. Your eyes roll back, lids fluttering shut as you let him have control. Taking the brutal thrusts of his fingers and the intrusion of his tongue that tastes like your pussy,

Is Billy the first man to make you cum before he does? Yeah, but you’re not keen on focusing on that right now because the way it fills your stomach with butterflies is making you a bit sick.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he babbles out as he curls his fingers up, “Look like a fucking dream, taking my fingers like a good little slut.”

Motherfuckers unlocked a kink and you’re too far gone to hide it. Crying out and bucking your hips up at him, whimpering pathetically as you nod.

“Oh,” he smirks, voice dark, “You like being called a slut, don’t you? S’that get you going? ‘Cause you know it’s true. Know that you’re a dirty fucking slut, don’t ya?”

“Yes,” you pant, legs shaking as he drills his fingers in and out of your obscenely dripping cunt.

“Say it,” he growls, face so close to yours. “Tell me you’re a dirty slut.”

“I’m a dirty slut,” you gasp, “Fuck me like the fucking whore I am, Billy.”

He bites his lip as he smirks, gripping your face before spitting on it. Barely any of it lands in your mouth and he smooths his hand over your face, smearing your makeup with it before he slaps you. “Want me to show you what a desperate, dirty whore you are?”

“Please,” you beg, “Please, pretty please!”

He pulls his fingers from you abruptly, you feel empty so you whimper and wiggle your hips. He smacks hard against your pussy, then spits down on it and grips his cock, spreads the saliva as he drags his tip through your folds. Slaps the tip against your clit, making your body jerk as your back arches and you squeal.

“Think such a desperate slut deserves my cock?” he pouts, shaking the head of his cock against your clit which sends the most incredible shockwaves through your body.

“Yes, yes,” you pant, “I need it. I’m such a slut, I need it, need your cock.”

He laughs, a soft exhale that’s cruel but he’s looking down at you fondly. Even strokes your cheekbone with his thumb, drags it down to the corner of your lips and you move to lick his fingertip. Suck it into your mouth and look at him desperately. He groans softly, the tip of his cock slipping down to rub circles against your entrance. You hum needy around his thumb, hands moving up to grab hold of his wrist as you wiggle your hips, trying to maneuver his cock inside you.

“You’re—- you’re something else, babygirl,” he says and his voice is deep and so sexy. “Think you’ve earned it,” he breathes out and slips inside you, eyelids fluttering shut as he feels your cunt suck his cock in. You inhale sharply with his thumb still pressed to your tongue. He sheathes deeper inside you, left hand still extended so you can suck on his thumb while his right grips your hip tightly. The head of his cock brushes against that sweet spongy spot deep inside you so tenderly, has your eyes cross before they roll back and you grip tighter on his wrist as you moan around his thumb.

Hookups aren’t like this. You know that. You’re usually bent over, so they aren’t looking at your face. You’re not typically drooling around their thumb while they fuck you missionary. This is good sex. Which you’ve had but not… not this good. Never so intense and intimate. You get that uncomfortable feeling in your tummy again until Billy reels his hips back and snaps forward harshly, deteriorating every thought in your head. He fucks you dumb, thrusts quick and deep. Spilling out moans and repeatedly telling you what a slut you are. Not much else to think about when you’re being fucked into oblivion.

You blink your eyes open, vision blurry for a beat before you’re met with the prettiest sight. Billy’s sweating, beads forming at his hairline and you move to feel down his back, sweat forming there too and it’s all gross and sticky and so fucking sexy. You gasp, lips parting but he doesn’t pull his thumb away. It’s still pressed to your tongue and he punches little, repetitive uh, uh, uh’s from you. The sound of your skin meeting, harsh slaps, fills the room. His cock is so thick, stretching your hole deliciously, and so long, massaging against your g-spot with every stroke. You feel ten times drunker and you know it’s from his cock, and not the shots shared at the bar. And you feel fucking dumb too.

“S’a good little slut for me,” he growls, eyes locked on your face which is kind of overwhelming but incredibly hot, “taking my cock so good. You my little princess, huh?”

That’s a new one, feels better than slut which surprises you. Has tears stinging at your eyes, making your mascara bleed as they roll down your cheeks. Billy takes his thumb out of your mouth to wipe them away, leans down to kiss you. Softer this time. Tongue just barely swiping across your lower lip. You cling to him, back arching as he thrusts particularly deep.

“Feel so good,” he keeps talking, lips dragging against your wet cheek. “So pretty for me.”

“B-Billy…” you stutter as you wrap your legs around your waist, which somehow has him even deeper inside you.

“Yeah,” he coos, brushing his nose against your cheekbone, “Feel nice? Can feel me so deep inside you, princess?”

“Billy,” you’re fucking stupid. All you can say is his name. And you’re not saying it. You’re whining it. “Billy… Billy… Billy…”

He hums, kisses your cheek, holds you steady as he drills into you, “I know.” God, this is so intimate. There’s a white, hot pleasure spreading over your nerves. Brings you to even more tears. It’d make you so sick if you weren’t so elated in euphoria. If this were any other hookup, you’d be panicked about the lack of condom. But you’re aching for Billy to cum inside you. Wanna feel it fill you up. Want to make him feel so good he cums before he has time to pull out. This has you tightening your legs around his waist. Heel digging into his ass as you arch your back.

The second climax hits you like a tidal wave. It’s unexpected, you don’t even realize you were close as it washes over you. You cry out his name, tears streaming down your cheeks as you writhe against him. Scratching down his back. Clinging to him, pulling him impossibly closer as your vision goes completely white. He smells good. It’s what you notice as you come back to reality, faces squished together at the cheeks and your nose is pressed up against his damp curls. Makes your orgasm drag out as you inhale deeply, shuddering a breath out as you gasp out sobs. It’s foreign to you. Crying from an orgasm but Billy doesn’t seem alarmed. Grabs hold your face and kisses you harshly as he thrusts quicker and deeper until his hips still and he spills his load against your fluttering walls. Groaning your name against your lips.

—

Turns out, the cocky bastard is a clingy one. As you were sneaking out the morning after, he woke up. Rolled over and sat up, rubbed his pretty eyes and blinked at you, “Ya gonna leave before breakfast?”

So you’d stayed. Made small talk. Told him where you work.

Three weeks later, there’s flowers being delivered to your office… for you. They’re pretty. Tropical flowers like you mentioned you liked. Your coworkers ask a million questions. While you remember the sex as being the best you’ve ever had, you’re not really looking for a boyfriend. The past handful of them never worked out, so why would Billy be any different. You’d been panicked for two weeks after the hook up because he came inside and you were praying that your period came early. And it came late. By two days which had you in a fucking frenzy. So you were relieved when it came but then came the flowers. You stared at them angrily as you typed away memos for your boss. You’re made that they made you blush. When you read the handwritten card, you wanted to puke.

Had the best night of my life with you. Would like a chance to properly woo you.

And his phone number.

You refused to call. You wouldn’t. A boyfriend wasn’t part of the plan. Dating casually wasn’t a part of your plan. Regardless of how incredible the sex was.

Boyfriends. Love. The whole thing made you bitter. There’s no way it’s happening.

A week passes, the flowers die and you throw them away. Then you’re finishing up a memo your boss asked you to type when there’s a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you call, not taking your eyes away from the typewriter.

“Hot shot, huh?” His voice has you jerking your head up and damnit, he looks handsome.

Tight Levi’s, motorcycle boots and a red button up, but only the last two buttons are done up. Tucked into his jeans. His hair is luscious. Blonde curls framing his face and a dangly earring in his ear. His skin just as golden as you remember, not that you’re trying to.

“Can I help you?” you can’t hide the disdain in your voice.

“Ouch,” he presses his hand to his bare chest, “That any way to treat a man who made you cum so hard you cried?”

Your eyes widen as you look at the door, “Keep your voice down. The women in this office have big ears and even bigger mouths. Don’t need anyone knowing the gritty details of my sex life.”

Billy kicks the door shut with his foot and then leans against it, “I was hoping I could take you out to lunch.”

“You were dreaming,” you smile at him, dripping in condescension.

“Sure was. What do ya say?” He steps closer to your desk, hand on his belt.

You sigh, lean back against your chair as you look at him, “You sent me flowers with your number, if I was interested, I would’ve called.”

Billy purses his lips and flattens his palms against your desk, leaning down as he says, “Thought maybe you’d be intimidated, so here I am, making the uh, third move.”

You blink at him in disbelief, “Don’t know how to take a hint, do ya?”

“I don’t need to bring up that you cried again, do I?”

“You just did.”

“Come to lunch with me,” he shrugs, “If you’re not feeling it afterwards, I’ll leave you alone.”

You chew on your lip as you think about it. It is a free lunch. And you skipped breakfast so you’re kind of starving. And okay, yeah, Billy looks good. He’s handsome but he’s more annoying than he is pretty.

“Fine. I’m hungry,” you sigh, “But I have to finish this memo, first.”

You go back to typing, trying to ignore the guy's eyes on you. You glance up to glare at him and he just chews his gum obnoxiously and smirks. “You’re insufferable,” you tell him.

He grins, eyes crinkling with it, “Thanks, toots. You are so fine in this uh, get up. Very professional yet very seductive.”

You sigh exaggeratedly, finishing the end of the memo before pulling the paper out of the typewriter. You grab your purse and usher his out the door, dropping by the front desk to hand the receptionist the memo.

“I’m going to lunch. Mr. Harrington wants this memo forwarded to the whole staff,” you tell her and ignore the way she eyes Billy up and down.

“Will do,” she smiles, “Have a fun lunch.”

“I won’t,” you reply with a sarcastic smile and head out the front doors, Billy close on your feet.

“Mr. Harrington?” He questions as he follows you to the parking lot, “Like Steve Harrington?”

“Yeah, his dads my boss,” you explain, “Where are you taking me to lunch?”

“Enzo’s?”

“You can afford that?” You tease as you stop in your tracks, tilting your head at him.

“Uh, yeah,” he looks shocked by that, hands shoving in his pockets, “I’m an electrician. Well, I do construction in general but right now, just an electrician.”

“I didn’t ask,” you roll your eyes as you walk to his annoyingly pretty car. A sports car fits him, though.

He rolls his eyes but opens the passenger door for you. You sink in and notice his car smells like cigarettes. He smokes? As he slides into the drivers side, he pulls a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and lights one up. And a cigarette sounds good right now so you make grabby hands and he hands it over before lighting another.

“You keep proving to be the woman of my dreams,” he says with dreamy eyes and you roll yours.

“Take me to lunch, loser.”

#billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x y/n #Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x female reader

1K notes · View notes

jockbroski34 · 9 months

Text

New Blood (Chapter 1)

This is my first TF story. I hope you enjoy and I have plenty of other ideas I've come up with for future stories.

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I would’ve been surprised if you told me how my first day at my new school turned out. My dad was transferred to a different branch at the job he worked at, so we were forced to move to a different state. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss my old town, but it’s not like I was that close with most of the people I went to school with anyways. On the bright side, being transferred to a new high school gives me the chance to start fresh and make some new friends. Little did I know how right I really was.

The first day started out about as boring as you could imagine. The teachers reciting the syllabus, introducing ourselves to the class, the usual mundane activities expected for the first day. However, all of that changed during 3th period. It was algebra, and normally I could care less. But it wasn’t the class that caught my attention, hell no. Class started as usual. The class was packed full of students, with nearly every seat taken. About 3 minutes into the class, class was interrupted by an opened door and a large figure.

He must’ve been 6’3”, making me who is 5’10" look like someone who hadn’t hit his growth spurt in comparison. His brunette hair, short and spiked with the sides shaved, helped to accentuate his angular face and his alluring emerald green eyes. He wore a football shirt that fit snugly against his chest and his bulky biceps bulged out of the sleeves. His thick thighs made his jeans a tight fit. They could definitely crush a watermelon. Perhaps even my face, I thought, as I admired the handsome man.

“Sorry I was late, bro. Just got out late from my meeting with Coach”, the stud said, in a nonchalant, baritone voice. He sounded like your stereotypical jock.

“Don’t make this a regular thing, ‘bro’” our teacher grumbled. “I know you’re the team captain, but it doesn’t mean you can just barge in while I’m teaching.”

“Relax, dude. It’s just a one time thing.” he responded. Looks like he’s the big man on campus. He sure didn’t seem to care that he was late on the first day of school.

The giant scanned the room looking for a place to sit. First the right end of the room, then the middle, and then he looked towards the left, where I sat, and conveniently at the empty desk adjacent to me. For a split second, our eyes were staring right at each other, but my gaze veered the other direction out of embarrassment. The jock’s lips curved into a slight smirk as he began to walk into the rows of desks, accidentally bumping me with his massive size 15 foot.

“Sorry bro”, he said as he placed himself in the seat next to me. His nice round ass stood out to me as he made himself comfortable.

The class continued on as normal, but for some reason, I felt like I could concentrate even less than I could before. The beefcake next to me kept my mind preoccupied. He was the most attractive guy I’ve seen so far at this school, and I couldn’t help but be distracted by his perfect body. His toned body glistened, likely from the sweat of a morning jog, and I noticed a slight scent that affirmed that. I normally found the smell of sweat to be a little disgusting, but for him, it seemed to mix well with his natural aroma. The scent of a man.

“No. If a guy like him finds out that you’re gay, you’ll never hear the end of it,” I scolded myself in my head. I could already imagine myself being harassed by him and his meathead friends.

Strangely enough, just as I had been looking at him, I also felt like I was being watched as well. I must have been imagining things. I wouldn’t call myself unattractive, but I never caught the attention of other guys…let alone girls.

The teacher finished up with the material sooner than expected, so he stopped teaching for the rest of class until the bell rang. With about 10 minutes to spare before my next class, I reached into my pocket to grab my phone to kill time, but then I heard that same voice from before.

“Sup bro,” the hunk next to me greeted me. “I’ve never seen you before. You new here?”

This guy was talking to me. Wait, why was he talking to me? I was incredibly caught off guard, but I decided to play it cool and hide my embarrassment.

“Yeah, my name’s Jacob. My parents just moved into town the other week and now I’m here.”

“Damn, that sucks, but I hope you like it here. Nice to meet you Jacob. I’m Zach. You mind if I call you Jake for short?”

Most people called me by Jacob and I preferred it like that, but for him, I didn’t really mind.

“Sure, nice to meet you too,” I responded. He reached out his hand to shake mine, but my hand felt small engulfed in his meaty palms.

We spent the remaining time in class getting to know each other. The more I talked with Zach, the more I realized how we were basically complete opposites. He was as I expected, a stereotypical jock, only interested in sports and going to the gym and I was anything but that. I could tell through his attitude that he was full of confidence, maybe even bordering on arrogance, but he still seemed rather agreeable. Despite our obvious differences, we actually got along surprisingly well. I expected him to be some brute, some bully, but he was actually a pretty fun, chill guy. He actually gave me his number too. The bell rang and we both packed up our supplies into our backpacks.

“Hey man, so where’s your next class?” Zach asked.

“Room 214. Must be on the second floor,” I replied.

“Oh cool. I’m actually headed that way too. Don’t worry, I know this school like the back of my hand!”

We walked up the stairs to the second floor and down the hallway.

“Hey, so lunch is coming up and I don’t know if you have anywhere to sit yet,” Zach inquired.

I had completely forgotten about lunch. At my old school, it wasn’t uncommon for me to sit by myself. I was the kind of guy who didn’t really mesh well with any crowd and I had few close friends.

“I don’t, why?” I responded.

“I just figured that because you’re new, you might want somewhere to sit. You can come sit with us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, the guys on the team are cool. I doubt they’d mind since you know me.” I imagined myself feeling out of place amongst the burly football jocks. Still, it was better than nothing.

“I might take you up on that offer,” I replied.

“Great, bro!” Zach smiled. His bright grin was contagious, and I felt a smile on my face as well. “I hope to see you there.” He patted me on the shoulder with his firm hands before we parted ways. Our classrooms, however, were conveniently right next to each other.

I felt like I could concentrate even less than I could during 3rd period. Thoughts of early US history blurred in my mind as the image of Zach lingered. Why was he being so nice to me of all people? Despite my curiosity, I started to think of him as a friend. For some reason, I felt myself drawn to him.

After an eternity, the bell rang for lunch, and I walked to the cafeteria. I got lost on the way there, as I was still unfamiliar with the layout of the building. As I walked past each table, I felt the impression that I was an outsider. Most tables were full of students, with few seats left open for me. It was like everyone else already knew each other, and that there was no place for me. Until I heard that voice again.

“Yo, Jake!” Zach shouted, his words breaking through the endless sea of mindless chatter. I turned my head to the right and saw him and several other members of the football team at a large table. How did I miss it? It’s a big table for big guys. “Did you get lost or something?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Sorry about that, bro. Come sit down!” He moved over, giving me room to squeeze in. He introduced me to the team, and it seems like he already told them about me, so they were eager to meet me. I recognized one person from my previous class.

“You’re…Bradley right?” I asked.

“Yeah, but call me Brad. No one except my brother calls me that anymore.” he answered. He wasn’t as tall as Zach, standing at a respectable and exact 6 feet tall. He was, however, a lot bulkier than Zach, who was more toned in comparison, but he wasn’t fat. His hair was shaved into a short blonde buzzcut and he had deep blue eyes. I recalled him falling asleep for a bit during last class. The bro must not have gotten enough sleep last night.

Zach, Brad, and the other guys talked about sports and working out after class, and other stuff that a stereotypical jock would talk about. I did my best to include myself in the conversation, but I felt kinda lost keeping up and I felt like a bit of a poser compared to them. I knew only basic level sports knowledge and I had never lifted a weight in my life. If only I was more like them.

Despite that, I actually got along with them better than I expected, and I was glad to know that they were more like Zach than I had anticipated. They did make fun of me for not knowing certain players or who won the game last night. However, I didn’t get the impression that it was malicious, but rather more playful, like how one would joke around with his bros. Even though I clearly looked and felt out of place, I found myself enjoying their company and I tried to absorb whatever knowledge the jocks discussed like a sponge. What felt like an entire day of hanging with the bros was only half an hour as the bell rang and the crowd of students emptied the cafeteria to depart for their next class. I said my farewells to Zach’s friends and made my way to my next class. Zach, instead of staying with his fellow teammates, pursued me and joined me, walking at my side.

“Hey, thanks for sitting with us, bro. I told you they’d like you.”

“Of course…” I replied, unsure of what to say, but I smiled. “I did feel like a fish out of water, but I did have a good time.”

“No worries, bro. I kinda figured you would feel out of place, but you did great. Give it time and I’m sure you’ll fit right in.” Zach smirked. “You just gotta get out of your comfort zone, man.”

“I guess I never thought of it like that,” I was surprised at Zach’s different perspective. “Maybe I could be as strong as the rest of you are and throw balls around someday,” I joked, as the idea of me being like one of them felt unrealistic to me.

Zach chuckled and gave me a wink. “Who knows? Life is full of surprises. Anyways, my class is this way, but I think we have the same class next period. Later, bro!”

The rest of the day went by quick, and was relatively uneventful. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, school was over, and I could finally go home. I thrusted myself into my bed, overwhelmed by my first day of school., but for once, I was actually kinda happy to be there. I met Zach, Brad, and a bunch of other guys on my very first day. Zach specifically lingered in my mind, and I recollected every inch of his body in my mind. I started to get hard picturing every exquisite detail, and I couldn’t help but bust my load to him. Eventually day turned to evening and evening turned to night, and I closed my eyes, wondering what the rest of the year had in store for me.

The next two weeks came and went and I became accustomed to the new school and my new friends. I went to class, ate with the football team at lunch, and I even started to hang out with Zach more. He offered to help me with the gym if I helped him with some of his schoolwork. I agreed obviously, as I wouldn’t mind building some muscle. It was always good to help a bro out and also I just wanted to be closer to him. As I helped him with math and science, he helped me with lifting weights and exercises. I struggled at first, but eventually I started to notice some improvements and I could tell he was proud.

Whenever we finished studying or working out, we spent the rest of the night watching sports or playing video games. Zach had to explain the rules to me, but I started to understand football on a surface level. Other than that, I got invited to a party at Brad’s place, and I had a great time partying and drinking with Zach and the football team. During those weeks, I was probably the happiest and most social I have ever been in my life.

The following week was when everything changed. One day before lunch, I was approached by someone who I have never seen before. He wasn’t very tall, standing at a modest 5’8”. He looked babyfaced with his nerdy, boyish looks and blonde hair, and his glasses helped to emphasize his meek blue eyes. I think he was a year below me.

“My name is Braden.” He said. “You’re the new kid who’s friends with Zach, right?”

“Yeah I am. My name’s Jake…I mean Jacob.” I responded. For a second, I found myself using the name Zach and the other jocks called me.

“I think you should stay away from him. He’s bad news.”

“What’s wrong with Zach?” I asked. Zach had been nothing but good to me since we met. I couldn’t imagine him having any malicious intent. He even took care of me at the party when I was black-out drunk for the first time.

“Ever since my brother started hanging out with him, he started acting… weird. He was never into football or anything, but now he’s on the team and he looks and acts like a completely different person.”

“I…What are you talking about?” I was seriously confused about what he meant.

“I’m serious! Unless you want to end up like just another jock…”

“Hey, Jake! How’s it going?” Zach cut in, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we were talking about him. “And you’re Brad’s brother, right?” Braden avoided eye contact with his brother’s friend.

I felt a sense of urgency, as I felt like I was going to be late. “I’ve gotta get to lunch. It was nice meeting you, Braden!” I said as me and Zach walked to lunch together. What the hell was his deal anyways?

“Braden’s a weird dude. Don’t worry about what he says,” Zach informed me, trying to ease the mood.

Later that week, I was hanging out at Zach’s place again after a workout, helping him with the algebra quiz that was next class. I helped him understand the concepts better and we wrapped up reviewing the study guide, so we finished and we laid down on his bed.

“Hey man, I’ve been thinking…” Zach started, but he sounded rather hesitant, unlike his usual confident self. “What would you think about joining the football team?”

“I…” I was honestly kinda surprised. Why would he want me, of all people, to join? I wasn’t unathletic, but even working out with him would not have prepared me to play football. “I’m flattered you would want me, but I don’t think I have what it takes. Plus, I’m not like you guys at all,” I answered.

“That’s fine, bro. Me and Coach can help condition you to become the jock I know you want to be.”

“Condition?” I was confused, unsure about what he meant by that.

“I know how much you want to be like us, bro,” For some reason, the word bro sent shivers down my spine. He had a devious look on his face. “And I can see your potential. That’s why I chose you. It helped that you’re the new kid anyways so no one will notice if you turned into another jock. I made that mistake with Brad and now that kid Braden won’t leave me alone.”

Zach paused, realizing that he said too much, but at this point, there was no going back. Despite his malicious intent, I got hard at the thought of being one of them, of being one with the team. My friends were always there for me the past few weeks and we had a strong bond despite our differences. I looked up to them, and wished I was more like them.

“That’s not the only reason I chose you…” Zach rolled over, climbing on top of me, his heavy, muscular body pinning me down, his legs straddled between mine, his sweat from the workout from earlier spreading through my nostrils. “I knew you were gay. I could just tell. But that’s okay, because so am I. You’re cute enough as you are now, but I think you would look better standing side-by-side with me, looking, thinking, and acting like me. Don’t you agree?”

I was overwhelmed by the situation, and by Zach’s sudden change in behavior. But I subconsciously nodded as my cock throbbed in my pants. Whether my mind or my dick was thinking first, I could not tell you.

“If you join the team, I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine. How does that sound, bro?”

I tried to weigh my options. I thought about the kind of person I was. Who was I before I came here? Before I met Zach? I…I was nobody. I didn’t have any friends here. Zach took me in. My mind was fixated on the man in front of me. I realized I longed for him. I longed for the team and my bros. I longed for football. I longed for working out. And that’s when everything became clear. I longed to become a jock like him.

“That sounds awesome, bro,” I answered. Bro? I never said bro before. I guess Zach was really starting to rub off on me. I gave into temptation, but I knew that it was what I secretly desired ever since I met him.

“That’s a good bro…” Zach responded, obviously pleased with my answer. A seductive smirk lit up his face as he pressed his lips to mine. We enjoyed that moment for what felt like several lifetimes, but in reality it was actually only a few minutes of sweet passion. At this point, I felt like my cock was about to burst. At this point, I desired him. Zach noticed the raging bulge in my pants. “I know you wanna fuck, but I can’t give you what you want just yet. You will meet me in Coach’s office after class tomorrow. After we finish your transformation, then you can cum.”

“Yes, bro…” I muttered, keeping my erection under control. The rest of the evening was surprisingly normal between us, almost like the erotic scene that had just taken place was something out of a fever dream or a hallucination. We played some video games to kill time and to lighten the mood. The only reason I knew it was real was because of the firm erection that lingered in my pants. Eventually I said goodbye to Zach and went home.

“Remember to meet me after school. And just remember, you can still back out if you want…but I have a feeling you won’t,” Zach sneered, looking down at my pulsating serpent. Despite his words, however, I knew that my mind had already crossed the point of no return.

The next day was unbearable. The anticipation of what awaited me after this long day was killing me. What made it worse were the classes where I had Zach. He could tell that I was finding it hard to focus, and it felt like he was edging me with his mind. I could barely concentrate on the algebra quiz we studied for the night prior. I could only think about joining the football team and I imagined what it would be like to be a jock. I’d be big and strong, sexy, athletic. I would fit right in with all my bros. Working out together, practicing together, winning and celebrating together.

During lunch, Zach announced that I would be joining the team, and the group of football jocks cheered and welcomed me to the team. One of them said it was only a matter of time until I decided to join, and I couldn’t really deny it. I looked at each member of the team, and I wondered how I would look compared to them. For a second, I remembered Braden’s words, but I quickly shrugged them off. He made it seem like my transformation would be a bad thing, but a nerd like him could never understand. This is what I desired. This was what I was destined for. And I kept those words in my head, as the clock turned to the end of the school day.

As soon as the final bell rang, I immediately rushed over to the locker room. I saw Zach in his white and red football uniform, missing only his helmet, and, having never seen him in this outfit before, I thought he looked perfect in it. And soon, so would I.

“You’re here early, bro,” he said. “You’re even more eager than I expected. Coach isn’t here yet, but I can explain the details to you.”

He led me towards the back, where he pulled out several pieces of clothing that would become synonymous with my new identity. A jersey already stitched with my name on it, tight compression pants and a compression shirt, football cleats, shoulder pads, a jockstrap, and a sturdy helmet that would adorn my head like a king would wear his crown.

“Put it on.”

I complied. I was a little disappointed at first, as the clothing looked at least a size above what I would normally wear. “No worries, you’ll grow into them quick, trust me.”

As I put on my new uniform, I started to become curious. What was this all about? So I asked him, “What’s the point of all of this anyways?”

“I guess there’s no reason to hide it anymore,” he responded. “To be honest, I was kinda like you once. I wasn’t really athletic like I am now, but my dad was actually a professional football player. He was forced to retire early due to a bad injury, but despite that, I wanted to do what he couldn’t. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never be the player I wanted to be. That all changed when Coach learned of my struggles and we worked together to make me into the football jock I had always dreamed of. Eventually, after about a year of testing, we found a way and that’s how I became who I am now. For once, I was strong, athletic, and confident, and it never felt forced or fake. Like this was who I really was all my life. Since then, similar studies were done at different high schools and colleges across the US. You wouldn’t know about any of that, because it’s all behind closed doors. Eventually, I found you and I realized that you were probably just as lost as I was, so I kinda took advantage of that. Sorry, I guess I’m not the kind of guy you thought I was.”

I had no idea that’s how Zach truly felt. I sympathized with him despite him hiding so much from me. We came from different backgrounds, but we both wanted the same thing. To be better, and to be stronger. Even after he poured his heart out to me and told me the truth, he was still Zach to me. I cared for him and he cared for me. He opened my eyes to a new world full of different possibilities. And so, I pushed my lips into his and our tongues wrestled for dominance. We were stopped by footsteps approaching. We returned to normal as Coach walked into the room, oblivious to the fact that we were making out seconds prior outside of our rosy cheeks.

“So you’re the kid Zach’s been talking about. I’m Coach Myers.” the man said. “I’m guessing he told you everything. Do you have any questions before we get started?”

“No sir,” I answered.

“In that case, let’s go into my office.” I obliged eagerly. There’s no going back. “Have a seat, sign these forms, and put these on.” They were earbuds. I signed my name on every form, formally granting my consent to join the team, and likely whatever changes would occur to me. In front of me was an old TV with a VCR. “You will watch and listen to this video for the full duration. You will notice some changes and you might feel a little uncomfortable. All you have to do is relax and focus on the video.” I did as he said. I sat down in my new football uniform, and I put the earbuds in both ears, and then finally put my helmet onto my head. With everything prepared, Zach turned off the lights, and the TV turned on, playing a video.

With the helmet over my head, my peripheral vision was restricted. I had little choice but to look at what was directly in front of me. My eyes became fixated on the screen in front of me as they became entranced by the flowing spiral. As I fell deeper into a trance, I felt as though my mind and body were on the opposite ends of the world. The audio was hard to make out, but somehow I felt like I understood it, at least subconsciously.

After a period of time that my mind couldn’t possibly comprehend, the imagery began to change. I started to make out clips of football players, playing football, being part of a team, throwing and catching the ball, tackling my opponents, strategies and plays. I learned the proper workouts and techniques and exercises that a football player would do. What at one time felt foreign to me felt like common knowledge, like I had done this my entire life. It was muscle memory, no pun intended.

It was at this moment that my body started to change. No. Change isn’t the right word. Evolve. I noticed my average-sized arms start to bulge, my biceps and triceps inflating like they were being pumped. Next, my shoulders expanded and became more sturdy, making my shoulder pads fit a little better. Then, my chest pumped out, my pecs eager to fill the empty space in my oversized jersey along with my new six-pack. Following that, my legs thickened until they felt tight in my compression pants, and my ass inflated like a balloon into a nice, round bubble butt. Below that, my feet grew longer and more wide, filling the size 15 shoes that my formerly size 11 feet would have had trouble walking around in. My penis, still erect, grew from an average 5 inches to an impressive 8 inches, feeling more and more aroused by the increasing stimulation and the surplus of testosterone flowing through my body. Finally, I felt my blonde medium length hair thin and become more like my teammates with shaved sides and a short top. Any chubbiness in my face disappeared as my facial features sharpened, especially my jawline and my chin, giving myself a more masculine look.

While all of this was happening, my mind was swirling and every part of me was being drained or replaced. I found that I was losing interest in most of my old hobbies, but the idea of playing and watching sports, working out, partying, having sex, and hanging out with the bros felt so much more enticing and appealing than it did before. I started to realize that I didn’t really care much about school or learning anymore, and that playing sports was the only real reason why I came to school. I was never the best student, but I always did my best. However, I realized that none of that mattered as long as I kept good enough grades to stay on the team. C’s get degrees, am I right? At worst, I could always bribe one of the smarter kids to do my homework for me.

Then, my mindset began to change. Before, I was introverted, polite, and humble. But now? I was outgoing, confident, and cocky, and I started to love the idea of that. It started to become unbelievable that I was ever not like this. I was always like this. As the changes in my mind were taking effect, I felt part of me overwhelmed by all the changes and trying to resist, but that stray thought was snuffed out like a candle, as the rest of my thoughts were drained from my mind. Any part of my former self’s mind was absorbed into my balls, which were swollen to the size of grapefruit at this point. As the changes in my body and mind reached its climax, so did my aching cock. As the video concluded, the words became more clear, and I could make out one phrase repeating over and over.

“You are a jock.”

It was at this point that I could finally release all my pent-up frustration from the past 24 hours. It was the best orgasm of my life. And just like that, load after load of my burning, sticky cum flooded my jockstrap, and with it, the memories of the old me were released from my body.

“Looks like someone made a mess,” Zach teased. “No worries, bro. It happens. How do you feel?” he asked as he put his arm around my shoulder. This time it felt different though, because I truly felt like one of the bros.

Jacob was gone. Jake took his place. I’m Jake, Jake the jock. My memories felt distorted but they were starting to become clear. I grew up always with a ball in my hand. I was naturally talented in any sport I played, but I gravitated towards football. I played it at my old school and I was among the best on the team. However, my dad got a new job and we were forced to move here. Thankfully, we were fortunate to live near a school with a gifted football program. I became friends with Zach and the football team, and naturally, I signed up for the team. And Zach? He was not just my bro or my best friend. He eventually became my boyfriend and the rest of the team supported our relationship. All of this felt so real to me, and a cocky smirk appeared on my unfamiliar face.

“Bro…I feel awesome,” I responded, my new, deeper voice matching both my new physique and personality. I looked down at my new body. It was like I hit puberty for the second time. I stood up, realizing that I was now several inches taller, now standing at a solid 6’2”. I was almost as tall as Zach, and I didn’t have to look up at him now. I felt like we were finally equals in terms of body and status.

“I told you you’d look amazing, bro,” he said as he gave me a peck on the cheek. “You should clean yourself up and get ready for practice. The other guys will never let it go if you come to your first practice with cum staining your uniform. Oh, and thanks Coach. Glad you could help both of us out.”

“Always glad to help out my star player,” Coach chuckled. “As for you, I think you turned out better than any of them yet. You might even give Zach a run for his money.” I felt a sense of pride being compared to him.

I quickly left Coach’s office and cleaned myself off. I changed into clothes that Zach lent me that would fit my new body better, and ran off to practice. Before that though, I stared at myself in the mirror so I could get my first glimpse of the new me. The person in front of me was completely unrecognizable to me, but I quickly grew comfortable with the jock in the mirror and I smiled at the person I had become. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the flexing hunk that stood before me.

Time passed and my new life became more and more normal to me. I would go to school, hang out with the football team, go to practice, work out, and then hang out with Zach. It became a natural routine to me, and I was never happier. My grades dropped a bit because I was focused on football. It’s not that I can’t care about learning. I just don’t want to. Coach says it’s alright as long as I pass my classes.

For the first time, I felt a true sense of camaraderie with a group of guys, and especially Zach. It felt like we were joined at the hip. We were a pair both on the field and off it. We’re currently undefeated this year and I think we might even reach regionals.

Most of my classmates and peers barely noticed my changes since I was already new and to them, I blended in as yet another stereotypical football jock. The only people with an immediate reaction were my parents. They were a little surprised by my sudden changes, but they were supportive of my new passion for football and they were glad to see me making friends and staying active. I did remember one person who definitely would mind my changes.

Braden.

A week or so after my transformation, he walked up to me, obviously disappointed, with a look of shame on his face, and told me that I should’ve listened to him. I brushed aside his comments. He called me a dumb jock. I told him I was happier this way, but he refused to believe me. He wouldn’t accept it. He said that he was going to expose the football team somehow, and change everyone who was affected back, including me and Brad. He stormed off, hoping to find some way to expose us.

I didn’t show it on my face, but in my mind I was furious. I genuinely didn’t want to turn back and I didn’t want the football team to be suspended or shut down. I thought about Zach, about his dreams, and about mine. I wanted nothing more than for the two of us to live out our dreams together of being the best football jocks ever. I couldn’t let Braden figure out the truth. I have to stop him. I started to brainstorm ideas on how to keep him quiet.

A devious idea entered my mind. He wouldn’t want to snitch on us if we turned him into a jock first. He was obviously a little envious of me, of Zach, even his big brother. I’m sure he would grow to appreciate the idea if he just accepted it. Besides, I’m sure he would make a sexy football jock with his looks already. The idea of turning someone into a jock, corrupting them, awakening their true desires became so appealing to me, just like Zach had did for me. He’ll understand one day.

758 notes · View notes

msmysticfail · 8 months

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Sun in the houses: 1-6

Sun in the 1st house:

People with a strong personality, they know what they want and generally do not need the help of others as they go after what they want alone. These are people who attract attention because this is an angular house, associated with Mars and Aries, both having a lot of power and magnetism. They do well when they take responsibility for their lives and their dreams, generally having great emotional and physical independence.

They are dedicated, but can quickly give up a project if it’s not strong enough for them. They need to feel in control of their own person in order to feel more confident in themselves.

Sun in the 2nd house:

They are ambitious people, material possession and financial stability are two important issues in their lives. They are generally calm people, who appreciate a constant routine where they can calmly achieve their ambitions. They know the value of things, which is why they like to be surrounded by quality things and people. Loyalty is very important to them, they are friends who will always be there when you need them.

They are people who express beauty, whether in the things they produce, in their own physical appearance, or in the way they treat others. They value what they have, because they know how hard they had to work to achieve it. They love winning and receiving gifts.

Unless other aspects indicate, they are people who have a tenacious and persistent personality. They know how to get what they want, through calm, patience and diplomacy they go out there achieving it.

Sun in the 3rd house:

They are people who need mental stimulation, they are always out there, reading books, talking to people, studying or simply binge-watching a tv show. They have an agile, eager personality, they always have a friendly and free manner, knowing how to conduct a conversation almost intuitively.

Because they understand things easily, they are always going from one project to another, sometimes without finishing them, however. People may mistake their friendly and receptive manner for a love interest, which is really a mistake. They are people who captivate others, as they feel genuine interest in the reality and world of the people around them.

They need to use their intellectual abilities to feel alive, which is why they love being at parties, group meetings or any other activity where they can exchange some type of stimulation with others.

Their intelligence is quick, they understand many subjects in a general way. It is very difficult to find this person bored, but when they enter this state they leave it soon, as they cannot bear the boredom for long.

Sun in the 4th house:

These are people who have a need for intimacy, they generally have a very rich family world, the environment in which they retreat is very important, being a mental and emotional shelter that they use to recharge themselves from the world.

They have a connection with their mother, their family, their children, their ancestry in general is very important, which is why they dedicate quality time to them. Their home is usually full of photos, objects of sentimental value that they love to look at from time to time.

They are reserved people, you certainly won't see them presenting themselves spontaneously, as they generally like to observe people from afar to, if they want, introduce themselves. When you meet them, however, they show their cute and affectionate side. They are lovely people, who usually have something that captivates the attention of those who know them personally.

At work they usually remember the names of most of the people who work with them, knowing about their families and their lives.

These are people who like, at the end of the day, to come home and retire to their living room or bedroom, enjoying the comforts of home, having a good bath or just watching their favorite series.

Sun in the 5th house:

These people attract attention, they are generally magnetic. You may not even know what caught your attention with the person with the Sun in the 5th, but one way or another you will remember them.

Something about their personality or appearance usually captivates people, meaning that they usually have a group of people admiring them. Whether it's the way they recount their romantic adventures, or the way they talk about how they overcame an enemy, these people have a sparkle in their eyes. They attract many people unconsciously, as they are usually just being themselves, not necessarily wanting to draw any attention.

They are creative people, they usually have a dramatic tone when expressing themselves. They are fun, everyone loves to have them present at parties, meetings or in gatherings in general. Because they have an intense vivacity, they are people who exude sexuality in some level, generally having many admirers wherever they go. Pay attention to their laugh, the way they smile, you won't be able to look away.

They have a strong personality, not accepting other people's opinions easily, preferring to always listen to their own heart. At work, they attract attention, however, they sometimes need to control their vivacity in this environment.

Sun in the 6th house:

These folks are great at analyzing people and situations, if you want real advice that will change your life, go to someone with the Sun in the 6th house. They generally have their life very organized, having everything under control. You will find them always with a notebook, or an online notebook writing down their obligations and goals for the day. They are great organizers, they know how to separate the wheat from the chaff and they always have free time, thanks to their well-thought-out routine. Despite this free time, they generally prefer to be doing something, whether it's doing something at home, like shopping, getting gas, cleaning the house, or solving something at work.

They have a very strong relationship with their work, their role in society, they need to be constantly proactive to feel good. They are great at what they do, attracting envy and admiration for their capabilities. They are not very fond of romance in general, preferring to invest the time they have in themselves.

These are people who have a balanced routine, full of tasks, which they love to do. However, their health may suffer from periods of work overload, despite being fully capable of handling it, as they hate not being able to complete something, but they must take a time off, otherwise their health will suffer.

They need to always be working on their mind and body to feel good and at peace.

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adverbally · 7 days

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Lovers Forever, Face to Face

———

Eddie curses himself and scowls at his reflection. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

He turns away but twists his upper body back, trying to see his ass in the mirror. Still flat, he notes, just covered in a layer of dark fabric that looks terrible on him. The panties, stark against his skin, make him look more pale than he actually is. Sickly, even. Fragile.

It doesn’t seem fair. Steve looks so good in lingerie. He’s got a certain softness to him that’s enhanced by satin and lace— the curves of his pecs cradled by a bralette, his ass and cock barely contained by skimpy underwear, sometimes even a pair of stockings straining to contain his shapely calves and thick thighs. Always in jewel tones, emerald and sapphire and amethyst, that pop against the warmth of his skin.

More importantly, Steve wears lingerie with a confidence that takes Eddie’s breath away. He’ll stalk across the room with a sway to his hips and a fire in his eyes that tells Eddie he knows exactly how sexy he looks. He’ll grab Eddie’s hands and place them where he wants them, encouraging him to squeeze until the lacy pattern leaves an imprint on the skin beneath. He’ll grind their pelvises together, panties still on, until the fabric is wet with their combined precome and his cock is hard enough to peek out over the waistband. He’ll command Eddie to come on him, painting the material with a glaze of white that he’ll have to wash out by hand the next day.

Steve in lingerie? Insanely hot. Eddie? Not so much. He stares into the mirror and feels nothing but pathetic at the sight of himself in a black matching set. Too angular, too harsh, too awkward.

“Eds?” Steve’s voice, though muffled from the other side of the bathroom door, still makes Eddie jump. A tentative knock follows. “You okay in there?”

He should just change back into his boxers. No harm done, lingerie just isn’t for him. Steve doesn’t even have to see how stupid it looks.

Except that the doorknob is turning behind him and Steve is sticking his head into the room and there’s no way Steve isn’t getting the full view right now. Not just Eddie’s ass, which is facing him, but the reflection of his front in the mirror across the small room.

Eddie meets Steve’s gaze in the mirror. To his surprise, Steve isn’t laughing or grimacing or making that weirdly blank face he gets when he’s trying to be polite and not say whatever bitchy comment is on the tip of his tongue. No, Steve looks… flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Gobsmacked.

“Oh my god.”

Immediately, Eddie goes on the defensive. “I know, I know, it’s ridiculous. I’m gonna take it off and we can pretend this never happened.” He twists his arms up behind him to struggle with the hook and eye closure on the bralette. It took him, like, ten minutes to get it on, and he suspects it will be even harder to take it off

“No!” Steve exclaims, voice echoing off the shower tiles. Eddie can feel him looking up and down his body, can see something like awe in his eyes. “Please, don’t take it off.”

“Um.” He releases the band where he had tugged it halfway down his back to reach the clasps more easily.

Steve steps up behind him. His hands hover over Eddie’s shoulders. “Can I— is it okay if I touch you?” he asks softly.

Eddie doesn’t know if he can speak, nerves squeezing his throat shut. He nods instead.

It’s just light pressure at first. Steve’s fingers skim along the bralette’s straps, down Eddie’s back and up again, tracing over his shoulders until they reach the triangles of lacy mesh that serve as the cups.

“Look at that,” Steve breathes. “Gorgeous.”

Skin meets skin now as he steers away from the fabric and follows the lines of Eddie’s tattoos. The spider below his left collarbone, the demonic face beneath it. On the other side of his chest, more recently inked, a pair of twenty-sided dice showing rolls of one and twenty.

“The black really stands out against your skin,” Steve tells him. “Matches your tattoos.”

“Steve,” Eddie protests. His face is heating up, a flush spreading across his cheeks, down his neck and chest. He watches his skin going pink in the mirror, which makes him flush even more in a feedback loop of embarrassment.

Steve gently runs his palms up and down Eddie’s upper arms. “You don’t like it.” It’s not a question; he saw Eddie’s reaction, his body language screaming his discomfort.

Even knowing that Steve knows the answer, it’s hard for Eddie to say it out loud. “Not really.” He shifts his weight, awkwardly folds his arms across his front.

“Why not?” When Eddie’s reflection just gapes at him, Steve elaborates, “What’s wrong with it? Is it how it feels?”

No, Steve had chosen well with this set. It’s not scratchy or restrictive or anything, perfectly sized for Eddie and comfortable enough to wear all day, he thinks. “It’s not that.”

Steve frowns. “Is it… I don’t know, is it too girly for you?” He had struggled with that at first, the way it forced him to embrace a side of himself that he had always rejected. Now he has fun exploring his feminine side.

Eddie doesn’t have particularly strong feelings about gendering underwear, though, so he doesn’t think that’s the problem, either. He struggles to find the right words for a moment before he settles on, “It just doesn’t look good on me.”

“I think it does,” Steve says simply.

How can it? How could anything possibly look good on Eddie’s scrawny, scarred body? He almost wants to ask Steve what he sees in him, but he’s scared that the praise will sound like it’s for another person entirely.

As always, Steve seems to read his mind. “Black is your color, obviously. It makes the rest of you look like you’re glowing or something. Like the moon.” He tugs one of the bralette straps aside to plant a kiss on Eddie’s shoulder. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Steve’s hands come up to cover the lace panels adorning Eddie’s chest. “So pretty. I can’t decide if I want to take it off you or leave it on.” He pinches one of his nipples through the fabric, prodding it into hardness. “Does that feel good?” he asks Eddie, almost as an aside to his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Eddie rasps. Fuck, his mouth is dry. He can feel Steve’s cock, half-hard against his ass, and his own dick plumping up in response.

“Yeah,” Steve echoes absently. His chin rests on Eddie’s shoulder for a better view of the mirror. “Yeah, I bet my mouth would feel good, too.”

It would, Eddie knows it would. He watches Steve’s hands teasing him in the mirror and pictures his tongue licking over the material, his mouth sucking the taste of Eddie’s skin right through the lace, turning the fabric dark with spit.

“And this—” Steve wiggles a finger under the band, pulling it away from the skin only to release it with a sharp snap that steals Eddie’s breath. “I could jerk you around with this. Leave it on while I fuck you from behind and use it to pull you back on my cock. Keep it tight enough to leave marks under your tits.”

Eddie can’t do anything but groan and bend over the counter in invitation. Sadly, Steve lets go of the bralette rather than letting it keep digging into Eddie’s ribs, but he makes up for it by grabbing his lace-covered hips and grinding his cock against Eddie’s ass.

“Perfect,” he breathes. “I can see right through your panties when you bend over like that. You didn’t tell me you were gonna wear a plug, too.” Steve’s thumb trails down the seam at the back of Eddie’s underwear, tracing it until he hits the silicone base of the toy plugging Eddie’s hole. He nudges it deeper just to hear Eddie’s breath hitch.

“Didn’t think you’d wanna wait,” Eddie explains, pressing back into Steve’s touch.

Steve chuckles. “You mean you didn’t wanna wait.” When Eddie looks up at the mirror, Steve’s reflection is looking right back at him. His eyes are molten with want. “You wanted me to push you down on the bed, tug your panties to the side, and slide right in, huh?” His fingers follow his words, pulling the lingerie out of the way and coaxing the plug out of Eddie.

“Steve,” he begs, keeping their gazes locked in the mirror.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Steve tells him, reaching for the bottle of lube Eddie had left on the countertop. “You’re gonna get exactly what you wanted.” He slicks up his cock, wiping the excess from his fingers around Eddie’s hole, and then he’s lining up and pushing inside.

Eddie is suddenly aware of everywhere the lingerie is touching— the elastic waist and leg holes of the underwear leaving indentations in his skin. The band of the bralette fighting the expansion of his lungs if Eddie breathes too deep. The mesh covering his nipples chafing a little when Steve holds his torso against the counter. The wet spot where his cock leaks into his panties making him shiver when it presses into the cold edge of the sink.

And there’s Steve, around him, inside him, kissing the bumps of Eddie’s spine, fucking him so good it makes Eddie’s eyes water, trying to get Eddie to see himself like Steve sees him, something dark and beautiful and his…

In the mirror, Eddie watches Steve’s face as they both reach their peak. Creased brow, bitten lips, eyes scrunching shut against the inevitability of his orgasm. He feels the throb of Steve coming inside him, the weight of Steve’s hands anywhere he can reach, touching Eddie like he’s something holy. That touch grounds both of them when the pleasure threatens to carry him away.

For a moment, they both slump against the counter in exhaustion. Then Steve reaches down to feel the mess Eddie made of his panties, rubbing the come-soaked fabric against his cock until Eddie’s knees are shaking with oversensitivity. He does the same when he pulls out, kneeling behind Eddie to clean him up by sucking his own come through the gaps in the lace.

“Stevie, wait, too much,” Eddie slurs, waving a trembling arm back in Steve’s direction to make him stop.

“Sorry, baby.” Steve catches his hand and tangles their fingers together, then leverages himself back to his feet with a huff. “Hard to resist.”

Eddie turns around to face Steve, not his reflection, for the first time this evening. He looks the same but he’s warm flesh instead of cool glass when Eddie pulls him in for a kiss. “Thank you,” he says into Steve’s mouth.

Steve brushes their noses together affectionately. “Any time. Change your mind about the lingerie?”

He grins back. “I could be persuaded to give it another try.”

#steddiesmuttyseptember #steddie #steddie fic #steve x eddie #steve/eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #mine #I wrote half of this in one sitting this morning like a woman possessed by pretty boys in lingerie #the other half fought me for the rest of the day but I think I’ve emerged victorious

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codesolutionstuff · 1 year

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Building High-Quality User Interfaces with Angular Material Design

New Post has been published on https://www.codesolutionstuff.com/building-high-quality-user-interfaces-angular-material-design/

Building High-Quality User Interfaces with Angular Material Design

Building high-quality user interfaces is a crucial aspect of any web application development project. With Angular, developers can leverage a wide range of tools and frameworks to build responsive, accessible, and performant user interfaces. One such tool is Angular Material Design, which

#Accessibility #Angular Material Design #Best Practices #consistency #Performance #responsiveness #user interfaces

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belokhvostikova · 10 months

Text

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Oral (female receiving) and a really bad joke.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

It had been an hour of nonstop, "Eds... Ed... Eddie... Edward?"

But no variation of his name could pull his concentrated eyes from his beloved journal, tormented with the indenting stabs of a pencil, as the gears in his brain were proffering idea after idea for Friday's upcoming campaign.

Hunched, and creating a divot at the end of his bed where his body weight dug into, a whirlwind of wicked sorcery, turned dark wizards, eventually leading to battling evil cultists had captivated his attention, sparing him from the fact that a girl laid naked his bed.

In his defense, his freckled back had been turned to you, where you sat perched by his pillows, homework in hand. But when angular momentum and torque became boring and sprinkled moles on his skin suddenly became enticing, your teeth sunk into your puckered lip at the moistening realization that Eddie Munson had a strong back.

Large expanse, kissable skin, moving muscles toning at any flexion of his upper body; just oh so utterly, hypnotizingly, leg clenching worthy. So can you really be blamed when the bright idea of being rid of your clothes suddenly came about? No, you can't. In fact, a horny finger could always be pointed to the man, himself, for the reason as to why your underwear got sticky when completing Mrs. Wilson's physics homework.

Because it surely wasn't rotational statistics.

As quiet as could be, your thumbs dipped below the waistband of your shorts, hooking onto the elastic cotton of your underwear, where both articles made the journey down your legs, lifting your ass to make the movement smoothly. Your t-shirt quickly followed, nothing of any trouble, letting your breasts fall free as the universe intended.

You could audibly hear the pencil scribbling the chicken scratch that was your boyfriend's handwriting when you sat up to feel your knees shove into his lumpy mattress; probably some fantastical enchantment that you wouldn't understand, but so deeply care about if it meant seeing Eddie's shining face whenever he'd tell you about it.

Hushed movements led you towards him, where the gentle touch of your fingertips upon his broad shoulders elicited a hum of activation from him. But it hadn't been until your grip tightened, pulling his body back, that his attention was pulled away from his notebook, as he was abruptly being met with the surprise of your cunt hovering over his head, as he hit the mattress.

A book and pencil dropped, as no time was wasted when your body sunk onto his welcoming mouth. Eddie's large hands were quick to snake a hold onto the fat of your ass to have you seated on his lips, encouraging your hips to hump what was yours. That lingering fear of potentially crushing him that he hated was no longer being accepted on his terms.

You were sat.

"Mm, just didn't want- ugh," you gasped, as the sharp tip of his tongue parted your slick folds to pour your juiced into his mouth, "didn't want you to get tunnel vision- fuck, Eddie!"

"Uh-huh!" His moans vibrated through your pussy, as his lips latched onto your pulsating clit, only to abuse it with the suctioning shake of his head. Yours fingers clawed at his bare chest, where your palms found the support to gyrate your hips. "Only vision I see is me in your tunnel."

Unbelievable. Airy chuckles escaped your mouth, as your fingers were brisk to pinch his growing bulge through the stretching material of his sweatpants in retaliation. His legs jolted, attempting to squirm away, as he laughed into your pussy, only drawing more moans from you atop, as his boyish cackles only gave way for more tremoring sensations against your oozing cunt.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Short smut while I find the will to write long smut.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x fem!reader

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ladygoodomens · 5 months

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Snake and Symbolism - linocut 7x19,2 cm

Look what I did !! I'm so proud of myself, this snake is incredible 😍 Okay, enough flowers for my self, it's just that art is a hard journey for me.

I started with a quick skecth then I took the space on the linoleum. I didn't know all the details I just try to fill the empty space.

There are two feathers, Crowley and Aziraphale's initials, with a sun for Aziraphale and a moon for Crowley. The two stars are for Alpha Centaury. And of course a little plant for Crowley.🌿

My engraving isn't smooth (I think my material is too cheap) but I love the angular result. My ink was a little bit too liquid, so it went in some details like the scales.

Also my mobile's camera drives me crazy, sorry for the blur.

And you, what do you think of my Crowley snake ? 😁 Maybe I should try Aziraphale one day 🤍

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens fanart #ineffable husbands #crowley #artists on tumblr #linocut

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pin-k-ink · 5 months

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lilac // gojo satoru

tw ⇢ teacher-student relationship, implied age gap, dub-con, mentions of violence and injuries, a bunch of made up stuff about cursed energy, sex pollen, dry humping, kissing, biting, marking

wc ⇢ 5.8k

a/n: first time writing about sex pollen. i got too lazy to write full smut :/

The deep indigo sky was just beginning to lighten to shades of soft periwinkle and pale violet when you quietly made your way through the still-sleeping streets towards the designated meeting spot. The cobblestone paths were deserted save for a solitary street sweeper pushing a rickety broom. The crisp morning air carried the faint blossomy scent of the cherry trees lining the boulevard. You breathed it in deeply, savoring the peaceful tranquility before the mission's inevitable chaos.

Despite the early hour, an energetic current of nervous anticipation buzzed through your veins, making you feel awake and alive. After weeks - no, months - of persistent nagging and pleading with your mentor Gojo, he had finally agreed to bring you along on a real mission to neutralize a powerful cursed spirit that had been terrorizing a village. This wasn't practice or sparring. This was the real thing, and you could scarcely believe he was trusting you with this level of responsibility.

You had been studying under Gojo's guidance for three years now, quickly marking yourself as his most promising student. Your rapid progress coupled with your earnest enthusiasm clearly endeared you to the laidback master. When you first began apprenticing under him, you admired Gojo's effortless strength and nonchalant confidence. But the more time passed, the more your admiration deepened into something...more. An aching fondness that went beyond student-mentor. You did your best to bury those pesky feelings, but they surfaced anyway in your private moments when your treacherous thoughts strayed to Gojo's disarming grin, his melodic laugh, the gentleness in his touch whenever he adjusted your stance...

Shaking away those distracting thoughts, you turned your focus to the task at hand as you neared the city gates where Gojo said to meet him. You slowed your steps, not wanting to seem overanxious, and scanned the area. At first you didn't see any sign of your mentor. Then a tall, lean figure stepped out from the shadows beneath a flowering dogwood tree, seemingly materializing from the darkness itself. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

Gojo looked as casual and unruffled as ever in his trademark black jacket and fitted trousers. His silver hair was disheveled from sleep, the long bangs framing his angular face. The black blindfold covering his eerily bright eyes was already tied securely in place. He flashed you a teasing smirk as you approached, effortlessly exuding an aura of power and danger despite his relaxed demeanor.

"Well, well," he drawled in that deep, unhurried baritone that never failed to send a shiver down your spine, "Up before the sun, I see. That's my stellar pupil."

You rolled your eyes in an attempt to brush off the feeling of breathlessness that always struck you when he was near. "Like I could sleep after you finally gave in to my requests," you shot back, feigning nonchalance.

Gojo chuckled warmly, the rich sound resonating in your core. "Careful now, that eagerness will get you into trouble."

"I can handle trouble just fine," you retorted with a toss of your hair, steadfastly ignoring the flutter in your belly at his darkly amused tone.

In two long strides, Gojo closed the distance between you. Your breath hitched as he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek in a feather-light touch that set your heart racing wildly. His smile turned wolfish, as if he could sense the effect his proximity had on you.

"Getting awfully bold aren't we?" He murmured in a low rumble. "You'll need to rein in that fire if you want to keep up today."

You scowled and swatted his hand away, silently cursing the flush you could feel rising on your cheeks and neck. "I'm ready for whatever comes my way. You seem to be forgetting I'm the one who's been pestering you about this."

Gojo's smile widened in amusement at your feistiness. With a dramatic flourish, he produced a sleek black case from the inner pocket of his jacket. Your eyes widened in excitement as he flipped it open with his thumb, revealing a gleaming array of freshly crafted cursed tools nestled in plush protective inlays.

"Hard not to remember with how relentless you've been," he teased lightly. Fixing you with that intense stare despite the blindfold, he continued more seriously, "This cursed spirit we're dealing with is immensely powerful and extremely crafty. It won't be like the exercises we've practiced." His expression turned grim. "People have died already. You need to follow my lead exactly as I say, understood?"

You held his searing gaze steadily and nodded once in solemn acknowledgment of the stakes. "I'm ready."

The corner of Gojo's mouth quirked upwards in an approving smirk. "Then let's be on our way. I have a feeling this is going to be a day to remember."

With that ominous quip, he snapped the case closed and set off at a brisk pace. You felt a surge of exhilaration Course through you as you easily matched his long stride, the two of you headed towards the tree-lined path leading out of the city.

The streets were still largely empty, aside from a few bleary-eyed vendors beginning to unpack their wares and set up for morning customers. Gojo waved lazily to the fruit seller positioning bright pyramids of glossy apples and mandarins as you strolled past the market stalls. The salty tang of fresh baked bread from the bakery mingled with the sweet floral perfume wafting from the cherry blossom trees swaying overhead.

"This all seems so...normal," you remarked with a sidelong glance at Gojo. "Hard to believe we're about to go toe-to-toe with a monstrous curse just beyond the city limits."

Gojo made a noise of agreement low in his throat. "Tread carefully. Malignant energy has a way of seeping into the crevices of everyday life before you even realize."

His cryptic warning sent a fresh surge of adrenaline zipping through your bloodstream. You clenched and unclenched your fists in anticipation, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat pulsing with each step. The paved streets transitioned to a packed dirt trail as you passed under the high stone archway marking the city's eastern boundary.

Gojo slowed his pace, scanning the treeline with those uncannily sharp senses of his. You couldn't stop the small shiver of unease that rippled through you as the forest closed in on either side of the path, brilliant sunshine dappling the underbrush in patterned shadows. You couldn't see or hear any signs of disturbance, but an unmistakable feeling of being watched prickled along the nape of your neck.

Seeming to read your sudden tension, Gojo tilted his head towards you fractionally. "Do you feel that?" he murmured under his breath.

You gave an imperceptible nod, adrenaline singing through your veins as your fingers unconsciously drifted towards the compact cursed tools holstered at your hip. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Gojo's subtle hand signal gesturing to fan out. Instantly on high alert, you veered off slightly to the right, grateful for Gojo's extensive training in non-verbal battlefield communication.

Forward you pressed in taut silence, straining your senses for any indication of the curse's presence. The forest sounds of rustling leaves and trilling birdsong seemed suspiciously...normal. Too normal. That's when it materialized without warning - a towering, amorphous entity comprised of roiling black miasma that blotted out the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.

You froze in place, fingers instinctively closing around the hilt of your sword as an involuntary tremor of terror lanced through you. The cursed spirit descended in a chaotic swirl, rapidly taking the vaguely humanoid shape of a towering bestial creature. Despite the lack of discernible facial features, you could sense the menacing focus of its attention zeroing in on you and Gojo. A deep, guttural snarl seemed to reverberate from every direction at once.

You snapped into action on sheer muscle memory ingrained from your training, launching a volley of carefully aimed cursed tools to box in the spirit's movement.

But this was no mindless monster. It was shrewd and evasive, more so than Gojo had warned. With a resonating screech, it abruptly shifted form and shot forward straight towards you in a thick miasmic tendril.

You instinctively hurled yourself sideways, the trailing edge of the curse's strike grazing your ribcage and sending you tumbling through the undergrowth. White-hot pain blossomed across your side. Gasping for air, you pushed yourself upright, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the loamy soil as you tried to blink away the spots flickering across your vision.

"Eyes on me!" Gojo's baritone bark sliced through the chaos.

You whipped your head towards the sound of his voice just in time to witness a mind-bending blur of movement as he engaged the curse head-on. Purple-black tentacles of miasma lashed out, only to get effortlessly parried and severed by Gojo's blindingly fast cursed energy. But for every whiplike appendage he disabled, two more seemed to sprout in its place, forcing him to unleash a furious barrage of cursed energy blasts.

Scrambling to your feet, you winced at the searing pain now radiating through your entire torso. Gojo's eyes may have been metaphorically blindfolded, but his hyper-attuned senses clearly tracked your distress. "Get back!" He snarled over the demonic shrieks of the curse.

Like hell you were retreating. You were Gojo's first pupil, his most promising student if the rumors were true. This was your chance to prove your mettle and earn his trust on the battlefield. Drawing your sword, you poured every ounce of cursed energy into enhancing its deadly blade and let it fly in a blinding arc directly at the curse's grotesquely shifting form.

For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to still, the eerie silence shattered only by the high-pitched whistle of your sword spinning through the air. Then, with an explosive impact, it cleaved straight through the curse's torso...or what you assumed to be its torso based on its vaguely humanoid shape. A deafening roar of anguish tore through the forest as the cursed spirit began to rapidly disintegrate, breaking apart into smoldering wisps of miasma.

You allowed yourself a triumphant grin and started to straighten, already picturing the look of approval and pride that would be written across Gojo's stupidly handsome face. But your burst of victory was short-lived. With one final desperate lash, a thick tendril of the curse's dissipating form whipped out and slammed into your chest with staggering force. You felt the air violently expelled from your lungs as you were sent hurtling backwards, back slamming against the trunk of a massive oak tree with bone-jarring impact.

White hot agony detonated through your body as you crumpled into a heap at the base of the tree, struggling to draw breath past the searing pain. Bright sparks of color danced across your vision, the world fading in and out around you in muffled fragments of sight and sound. You were vaguely aware of Gojo yelling your name, but it sounded distorted and distant, drowned out by the thunderous pounding of blood in your ears.

Then he was there, looming over you, those obscured eyes boring into you with intense focus you could practically feel. His mouth was set in a grim line as his large hands roamed over you swiftly but carefully, assessing the damage with deft surety. When he prodded your ribcage, a ragged gasp was torn from your lips and dark spots threatened to consume your vision entirely. You faintly registered his deep rumble of a voice, the words indecipherable beneath the overwhelming waves of agony crashing over you.

Something soft and sweet and floral tickled your senses through the roaring in your ears. You wanted to ask about the fragrance, but unconsciousness was rapidly closing in. The last thing you were aware of before slipping into merciful oblivion was the feeling of strong arms scooping you up, cradling you securely to Gojo's powerfully built chest as the forest blurred past in green and brown smears. Then, nothing.

When you slowly drifted back to awareness, it was to the sensation of being gently jostled by rhythmic movement. Your eyelids felt heavy as lead weights, too monumental an effort to pry them open just yet. But your other senses were able to slowly piece together your surroundings.

The slight swaying told you that you were being carried, carefully cradled against someone's firm chest and shoulder. Gojo's familiar sandalwood-and-citrus scent, now mingled with the cloying floral sweetness you'd caught a whiff of before losing consciousness, enveloped you. The subtle up-and-down rocking combined with the warmth of his body against yours and the even thrum of his heartbeat made you feel inexplicably cozy and safe, like being wrapped in a heated blanket on a chilly morning.

You let out a sleepy murmur, slowly blinking your eyes open. The forest canopy above was streaked with shards of brilliant afternoon sunlight peeking through the lattice of leaves and branches. Gojo glanced down at the sound, his striking features taut with lingering tension and jaw firmly set.

"There you are," his low voice rumbled with unmistakable relief. "Thought you were going to sleep through the rest of the day."

Your brow furrowed as flashes of memory trickled back - the curse, the fight, the searing agony as you slammed into that tree trunk with bone-rattling force. With a wince, you instinctively pressed a hand to your ribcage, which was heavily bandaged beneath the tattered remains of your uniform top.

"Wha...what happened?" you rasped out, throat feeling as dry and brittle as burnt parchment.

"You happened," Gojo replied, a hint of that familiar teasing lilt finally returning to his tone though his expression remained grave. "Disobeyed my order to fall back and instead flung yourself into the fray like a deranged chaos tornado."

Heat flooded your cheeks at his casually derisive words. You opened your mouth to protest, to try vainly justifying your reckless actions, but he swiftly cut you off with a look.

"No, don't even try denying it. Your impulsiveness nearly got you killed today." His jaw tensed, azure eyes hardening behind the dark blindfold. "We finished it off, but not before it inflicted some nasty parting shots."

Gojo paused long enough to gingerly shift you higher against his chest, his arm tightening fractionally around you before continuing in that deep, resonant tone that brooked no argument. "From now on, you follow my lead in the field. No more wild stunts, understood? I can't risk having to continuously bail you out of trouble."

You bit your lower lip, a mortified flush burning your cheeks at the well-deserved chastising. Of course he was right. You had blatantly disregarded his instruction to fall back, too wrapped up in your bravado and desire to impress him.

"I...yes, I understand. I'm sorry, sensei. I made a stupid mistake," you mumbled, shamefaced.

His austere expression softened slightly at your contrition. Slowing to a halt, he carefully resettled your position in his arms so you were fully cradled against his chest like a child. His fingers brushed a few stray tendrils of hair back from your face in an unexpected tender gesture, the gentleness of it causing your breath to hitch.

"We all make mistakes when we're learning, my dear," he said gruffly. "The important thing is to learn from them and become better because of it. You'll get there eventually."

His hand lingered against your cheek for the span of a heartbeat, and you found yourself subconsciously leaning into his calloused palm, savoring the rough warmth of it. Up this close, you could make out the tiny flecks of midnight blue scattered through his brilliant azure irises. His masculine, woodsy scent combined with the sweet floral fragrance clinging to his skin in a heady, intoxicating blend that made your head spin.

Then, abruptly clearing his throat, Gojo straightened and pulled his hand away. "We should get moving while we have daylight left. Don't want you catching a cold in that state."

With long, purposeful strides, he set off once more down the forest path, movements remarkably fluid despite your added weight cradled in his arms. You let your head loll against his shoulder, suddenly overcome with bone-deep weariness. A few times you drifted in and out of a light doze, the steady rhythm of Gojo's steps lulling you into a trancelike state.

Eventually, the forest began to transition to more manicured spaces - orchards and farmland marking the outskirts of a village on the horizon. The fragrance of ripening fruit and freshly turned soil perfumed the air. In the distance, plumes of woodsmoke rose lazily from the first chimney stacks. Gojo's pace slowed fractionally.

"Nearly to my lodgings," he murmured. "Then we'll get you properly patched up and rested."

You hummed a vague noise of acknowledgement, lacking the energy for more. Truthfully, you didn't want this blissful pocket of tranquility where the world seemed to narrow to just you, Gojo, and the hazy calm between breaths to end. Selfishly, you tugged the edges of this peaceful moment around you like a comforting blanket, unwilling to shatter the illusion of domesticity it created - Gojo carrying you home after an arduous mission, tender reassurances and gentle caresses freely given. In these hushed instants, it felt like anything could happen. Something deeper than typical student-mentor affection.

But you knew it was just that - an illusion. One that was rapidly fraying around the edges the closer you drew to your destination. So you allowed your eyelids to drift shut once more, committing every nuance to memory. The lean power coiled in Gojo's body with each step, the rhythmic cadence of his heartbeat against your cheek, the lingering traces of floral sweetness mingling with his familiar earthy scent.

All too soon, the reverie was shattered as Gojo's quiet baritone cut through the stillness. "We're here."

You reluctantly opened your eyes to find him gazing down at you with an inscrutable look, silvery bangs askew from your journey. As he swept inside and settled you on the bed with infinite care, you couldn't help but wonder if the tender way his fingers smoothed across your brow was simply your mind playing wistful tricks.

Gojo's touch lingered for just a moment, calloused fingertips lightly tracing the curve of your cheekbone before he drew his hand back. You tried not to read too much into the tender gesture, reminding yourself it was simply his way of assessing your injuries. Still, you couldn't quite banish the fluttering warmth it sent blossoming in your chest.

"Get some rest," he rumbled in that deep, unhurried drawl that never failed to send a shiver skating down your spine. "I'll fetch supplies to properly dress those wounds."

With that, he rose in one fluidly graceful movement and swept across the small but meticulously tidy room towards a hallway presumably leading to a washroom or storage area. Left alone, you allowed your eyes to drift closed on a weary exhale, suddenly acutely aware of the throbbing ache pulsing through your ribcage with each breath.

The familiar scent of sandalwood and citrus mingled with the lingering floral notes was everywhere, surrounding you in Gojo's uniquely masculine essence. You breathed it in deeply, willing it to soothe and relax you as your mind began to drift.

You weren't sure how much time had passed before the sound of footfalls broke you from your half-doze. Gojo reappeared in the doorway, sleeves neatly rolled up past his elbows and arms laden with a basin of steaming water, a sheaf of clean linen bandages, and an assortment of glass bottles and ceramic pots. He set the supplies down on a low wooden table beside the bed with studied meticulousness.

Unable to contain your curiosity at the sweet floral aroma that clung to him in a delicate cloud, you found yourself asking, "What...what is that fragrance?"

Gojo flashed you an enigmatic half-smile as he settled on the edge of the bed, deft hands already working to remove the makeshift bandages you'd hastily applied in the forest.

"Cherry blossom poultice," he replied, carefully peeling back the soiled linen wrappings to reveal the vivid mottling of blues, blacks, and purples marring the skin across your torso and ribs. You couldn't stifle a pained hiss of indrawn breath at the inflamed sight. Gojo's mouth tightened into a grim line. "That curse may have been a crafty adversary, but it was also saturated with poisonous flora and fauna. A full-body dose could be lethal if left untreated."

Your eyes widened in muted horror at the thought of how narrowly you'd skirted death yet again today. Gojo must have sensed your sudden spike of unease because his next words were spoken in a low, soothing rumble meant to reassure.

"Easy now, you're alright. I managed to mostly deflect and dispel the curse's attack with a barrier before it could fully envelop us." A wry twist of his lips. "Though I did get a hefty face full of the damned pollen for my troubles."

Gojo worked in silence, deft fingers gliding over your skin with the gentlest of touches as he secured the fresh bandages around your torso. You released a shuddering exhale, doing your best to avoid tensing under his careful ministrations. The cloying floral fragrance enveloping you both made you feel slightly lightheaded, senses heightened to an almost dizzying degree.

As Gojo leaned in closer to wrap the linen binding around your ribcage, you inhaled deeply—and immediately regretted it. The intoxicating aroma of cherry blossoms flooded your senses, viscous and sweet, simultaneously making your head spin giddily while liquid warmth unfurled low in your belly. You bit back a small, strangled sound of surprise at the overwhelming sensation.

Gojo froze, hands stilling against you. His head cocked ever so slightly, blindfold shifting as his brow furrowed. You watched his nostrils flare subtly as he scented the air, drawing in that same cloying fragrance.

"Gojo...?" you breathed his name, unable to disguise the husky rasp twining through it.

His strong jaw clenched visibly, throat working on a tight swallow. Those brilliant azure eyes you knew burned too intensely behind his blindfold suddenly seemed to smolder from beneath their obscuring veil. Without a word, Gojo resumed winding the bandages around you with deft efficiency, but his movements had grown noticeably stiff and stilted, muscles taut like finely drawn bowstrings.

You couldn't tear your gaze away from the rippling cords of tendon in his throat, mesmerized by the way they contracted and released with each tight swallow. An insistent throbbing had taken up residence low in your abdomen, sending molten tendrils of liquid heat licking through your veins. The lightheadedness grew more pronounced until you felt almost drunk on the addictive floral sweetness clogging the air.

Then, as Gojo shifted to secure the end of the bandage, the lightest whisper of his knuckles grazing your ribs made you Release a shuddery gasp that seemed indecent in its rawness. His head whipped towards you, body going preternaturally still, as if scarcely daring to breathe.

"Gojo," you rasped again, desperation fraying the edges of his name as that smoldering heat consumption you quickly intensified into a raging inferno. "I...I don't know what's happening, but I feel..."

You trailed off uncertainly, lips parting on shallow pants as your body waged a losing war with itself, nerves alight and senses overwhelmed by conflicting waves of need and fear. What was this feverish madness burning through your veins? Despite the blanket cocooning you, you felt deliriously overheated, skin flushed and tingling with hypersensitivity.

Gojo made a low, gravelly sound in the back of his throat - not quite a growl but infinitely more feral. In one blurring movement, he snatched your wrist and pressed two fingertips to the thunderous leap of your pulse point. You could have sworn his calloused digits seared your flesh with the intensity of his touch. He hissed a sharp curse through gritted teeth.

"Pollen toxin." The words emerged as a rumbling snarl more befitting a caged beast than a human. "Accursed flora. Aphrodisiac compounded by healing catalyst."

His hand was shaking almost imperceptibly where it still gripped your wrist in that punishing hold. When he raised his gaze to yours, it glittered with barely restrained hunger behind the smoldering azure glare - a predator watching its prey with hyperfocus intensity.

You instinctively shrank back slightly, fear and arousal swirling through you in a dizzying cyclone. "W-what do we do?" You stammered breathlessly.

Gojo's jaw worked furiously, each knotted tendon in his broad shoulders standing out in bold relief as if it were taking every ounce of his formidable willpower and control to hold himself back. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and strained to the point of breaking.

"We quell the toxin's influence..." His tongue flicked out to wet his lips in an unconscious, devastatingly sensual gesture that transfixed you. "By any means necessary."

The weight of his words - that deliciously sinful promise laced through the graveled rasp - slammed into you with staggering force. You let out a tremulous whine past your parted lips before you could stop yourself. That seemed to be the hairline fracture in Gojo's restraint.

He moved with the liquid grace of a predator, surging forward to cage you beneath his powerful frame with one corded forearm braced on either side of your head. The wild silver veil of his hair brushed your fevered cheeks as he leaned down until his mouth hovered a hairsbreadth from yours, ragged breaths mingling hotly.

"Last chance to tell me no, little one," he rasped harshly. "Because I won't be able to stop once I've tasted you..."

Instead of voicing protest, you arched helplessly into him with a keening mewl, already intoxicated on the delirious friction of your bodies aligned from abdomen to thigh. Gojo's jaw tensed, a muscle leaping beneath the stubbled hinge as he visibly wrestled the last dregs of his restraint. Then, with a low, defeated groan, he crushed his sinful mouth to yours in a branding kiss of pure liquid fire.

The moment Gojo's lips crashed into yours in that searing, desperate kiss, it was like a thousand lit matches had been set blazing through your veins. You opened for him in a broken gasp, welcoming the velvet rasp of his tongue as it stroked deep to taste you in a carnal claiming.

Gojo kissed you with a ferocious, unbridled hunger—all hints of his usual teasing restraint obliterated by the toxin blazing through his system. He devoured your mouth like a man dying of thirst, coaxing whimpering mewls from your throat with each greedy lap and nip of his talented lips and tongue.

Broad palms mapped the curves of your sides and waist in rough, possessive strokes before cradling the base of your skull to tilt your head for an even more scorching angle. All coherent thought disintegrated under the merciless onslaught of pure sensation as Gojo thoroughly plundered the recesses of your mouth, savoring your taste and scent like it was the elixir of life itself.

When the urgent need for oxygen became too great to ignore, he tore his mouth from yours with a guttural growl, harsh pants ghosting humid over your swollen lips. There was no reprieve, however, as Gojo immediately latched onto the slender column of your throat, laving and suckling at the thundering pulse point with fervent ardor.

You cried out sharply at the exquisite sting of his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, fingernails raking blunt crescents down his powerful back muscles in unbidden retaliation. If anything, it only seemed to stoke the smoldering fire in Gojo hotter and brighter. He ground his jaw against you, low rumbling groans of pure masculine satisfaction vibrating against your neck as he mouthed and laved a path of molten open-mouthed kisses across your collarbones.

Just when you thought the unbearable tension crackling between you would surely snap and consume you both whole, Gojo captured your lips again in an inferno of a kiss. You melted helplessly into the scorching heat of it, thighs parting instinctively as he settled his solid weight more firmly over you. A ragged whine tore from your throat as the hard ridge of his cock ground against your aching pussy through too many maddening layers of clothing.

With a frustrated growl vibrating in his chest, Gojo pinned you with his hips and reached between your bodies to tear at the wrappings securing your clothing. You watched with rapt fascination as those wickedly deft fingers made quick work of the fastenings and laces, exposing more and more fevered flesh to the slick glide of his calloused palms and mouth's scorching caresses.

Under that searing azure gaze obscured by the blindfold, you had never felt more bare, more exquisitely possessed by the intensity of his focused want. Gojo mapped every quivering inch of you with insatiable focus—branding a path of stinging love bites down the swell of your breasts, laving at the juncture of your inner thighs until your startled cries spiraled high into shamelessly wanton keens.

"Satoru...ahh! Please...I can't—" you gasped out in a wavering plea, trembling with the effort of withstanding the relentless onslaught on your senses. Every nerve felt scorched raw and electrified, each glancing caress igniting liquid fire in its wake. It was maddening, this exquisite torture of your senses being drawn out to the brink of snapping.

Drunk on the honeyed elixir of your combined intoxicating scents, Gojo only growled hungrily and rose to capture your lips once more. He poured every ounce of his elemental yearning into the plundering strokes of his tongue and nips of blunted teeth until you keened into the kiss with unbearable abandon, utterly overwhelmed.

Desperate, you wound your fingers into the thick silver tresses at his nape and tugged sharply—half plea, half demand swallowed by the ravenous crash of your joined mouths. To your shock, Gojo answered with a full-bodied shudder and an incoherent rumble of pleasure. He dragged himself inch by scorching inch away from you, lips clinging to yours until the last possible moment.

When you finally surfaced for air, Gojo was watching you with heavy-lidded intensity, chest heaving visibly. Stray tendrils of snowy hair fell in disheveled disarray framing his chiseled features, thoroughly wrecked and devastatingly sensual. You drank in the sight of him like the most tantalizing of ambrosia, lips swollen and kiss-bruised, unruly black cloth now tented obscenely over his straining cock.

"...not done with you yet," he rasped in that low, gravel-and-smoke tone that cinched desire into an exquisite knot at your core with each rumbled syllable. "Not even close."

Then, with a leonine grace at odds with his wild dissolution, Gojo prowled up your body to press you into the bed once more.

Gojo's intense gaze smoldered with undisguised hunger as he loomed over you, body taut with simmering restraint. His kiss-swollen lips curved into a wolfish grin, fingers trailing featherlight paths down your fevered skin until you trembled beneath his smoldering touch.

"So responsive," he rumbled in that gravel-toned rasp that seemed to vibrate straight through you. "I'm going to take such sweet torment unraveling you piece by exquisite piece, my dear."

True to his dark promise, Gojo set about blazing a scorching trail of open-mouthed kisses and teasing nips along the sensitive peaks and valleys of your body. Each maddeningly light caress and rasp of his stubbled jaw seemed to stoke the banked embers of want coiling low in your core into an inferno. You writhed shamelessly against him, desperate for friction, for release, for anything to douse the liquid flames licking through your veins.

But Gojo was relentless in his unhurried torment, heedless of your increasingly desperate pleas that dissolved into tremulous whimpers. With skilled hands and lips and teeth, he steadily unraveled your restraint into boneless want until all you could do was fist your fingers into the disheveled silk of his hair and hang on for the exquisite unbearable ride.

At last, when you teetered at the precipice of shattering into a thousand incandescent shards, Gojo claimed your lips in a searing, possessive kiss, swallowing your cries.

Gojo's kiss consumed you utterly—a ferocious melding of questing tongues and nipping teeth that robbed you of breath and higher cognition. You could only cling to the bunched muscles of his back and surrender yourself to the relentless onslaught of sensation as he mapped every ridge and plane of you with fervent ardor.

Calloused palms branded searing paths over your fevered skin, stoking the flames of desire raging through your veins ever higher until the air felt too thick to breathe. Every graze of Gojo's lips and roll of his powerful hips against yours ripped open-mouthed cries from your parted lips, urgency mounting to a crescendo.

You lost all sense of time and space, the world contracting to encompass only the joined rhythm of Gojo’s cock sliding against your soaked pussy, the heated rasp of entwined breaths, the exquisite drag of sweat-slicked skin against skin. Wave after wave of delirious sensation swelled and crested, carrying you under until only Gojo's name remained—a breathless litany falling from your lips over and over like a fevered prayer.

At last, when you teetered dizzily on the brink of your orgasm, Gojo's mouth found that electrifying confluence of nerves at the juncture of your shoulder. He suckled at the thundering pulse point, teeth grazing in a stinging promise, and you instantly shattered apart into thousands of fractal aftershocks. A broken, sobbing cry was torn from your very core as you felt a gush of fluid.

Through the whiteout haze, you were dimly aware of Gojo following you over that dizzying edge with a hoarse, guttural shout muffled against your sweat-dampened neck. He collapsed against you in a boneless sprawl, harsh breaths sawing from his heaving chest and mingling with the heated puff of your panting exhalations.

For long, suspended moments, you simply clung to one another, bodies thrumming with residual tremors of release. Gradually, your scattered senses began knitting themselves back together, awareness expanding once more beyond the microcosm of tangled limbs and mingled heartbeats.

The potent floral aroma still hung thick in the air, but its cloying, dizzying influence seemed to have finally abated from your brutally overwhelmed senses. You became aware of a dull throbbing ache reclaiming the space between your temples—the first tugs of an impending pollen sickness headache, no doubt.

Beside you, Gojo stirred with a low groan rumbling deep in his chest, blindfold slightly askew to reveal a sliver of those bright azure irises heavy-lidded with satiation. It was clear the toxin's hazy, lust-fueled madness had finally burned itself out in the wake of your animalistic humping. In its place remained a bone-deep lassitude weighing your tangled limbs into pleasant heaviness.

Gojo nuzzled against the slick curve of your throat, lips ghosting across the wildflower petals scattered there—faint purpling bruises in the shapes of his fervent mouth's passage. His voice rasped low and grave when he spoke at last.

"Well...that was certainly one way to burn through the excess pollen."

You startled into a soft huff of incredulous laughter that soon bubbled into fuller peals. Grinning wolfishly despite his apparent exhaustion, Gojo angled himself higher to bestow a lingering, openmouthed kiss that persisted even as your laughter slowly faded into blissful, languid quiet.

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