#fic: Foolproof

[aldisobey]

OC Tag/Mood Game

Thanks for taaaags I’m in love with all your Rooks and will expound on it all later!!! @emmg @holdingontojupiter @ollypopwrites @thequeenofthewinter

I don’t have screenshots, enjoy this piece of Worne with his beloved necromancer by @qwiqwiaqwi instead. I’m combining two games and using ‘mood’ gifs because I've got a Foolproof chapter out coming later today that needs a little more work and gotta focus and I'm not gonna worry about it. Meet my rat. He loves Emmrich and also you. I'm answering these for the bodyguard AU Worne

General…

Name: Rook Worne Thorne

Alias: None really. Thorne is what the Kirkwall templars called him. Rook was given by Varric and he considers that his first real name. Worne was given by the Grey Wardens, drabble explanation here.

Gender: Male

Age: 32-34 he isn’t sure of his birthday

Spoken Language: Trade/Common, Dwarvish (He had a lot of Deep Roads duty)

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual - are you a consenting adult? He is keen.

Occupation: He’s been pickpocket, thief, mugger, prisoner and unwilling Grey Warden. He’ll tell you his real occupation is lover and he makes a great bodyguard.

Favorites…

Color: Greens, browns, if Emmrich makes him choose just one at dinner he’s pointing at those eyes.

Entertainment: Reading. Oral story telling, music, board games. Naps. He’d like and be good at offbeat sports like, disc golf, hacky sack, or yo-yo.

Pastime: Gardening. He has a greener thumb than Emmrich. Davrin says it’s because he’s part dirt. Also running. Loves to go on marathon type journeys for the feel of it.

Food: Literally anything. But he has a fondness for beer nuts and crab cakes you’d find at The Hanged Man, no one makes the crab cakes quite the same.

Drink: He’s a water man. Not much of a wine guy makes him sleepy. Enjoys his shitty beer. Polite about tea. Does not need coffee or care of it. And do not give him hard liquors it’s not a fun time for anyone.

Have they…

Passed University: He did not pass kindergarten. Never had a chance for schooling. But he is literate.

Had Sex: Yes. Plenty and more. He loves intimacy, loves pleasure, and he enjoys getting to know people. Enjoys discovering what they might like, slut for anyone that returns such favor.

Had Sex in Public: Weisshaupt is well aware of his ass. Minrathous has seen plenty. And the Necropolis doesn’t know what it’s in for.

Got Tattoos: Yep. He’s got the Kirkwall sigil high mid back between shoulder blades, and a rook chess piece somewhere he’s not telling.

Got Piercings: NO. He would end up hurt, they’re getting torn off somehow and it’s not his fault. A small wip showing why

Got Scarred: Yes. To a ridiculous degree. He’s been through a lot and uses his body as tool when he knows he has a healing mage around. Shivs, arrows, claws, teeth, spears, once a spoon, that was his fault. Those and more of all types have left marks on the scar latticed skin.

Had a Broken Heart: Maybe once. I think the Joining tried crushing it by taking a longtime friend he was warming to. But life has been so fast and violent he never had a chance to experience romance, never had an opportunity to give his heart to be broken. Honestly his heart is probably the strongest muscle in him. But has it been truly vulnerable yet?

Are they…

A Cuddler: One hundred percent yes, he’ll cuddle friends, he’ll sidle up to acquaintances that seem keen. He loves touch. Be it platonic or more sensual. He’d hold a hand forever, would never need encouragement to lean his head on a shoulder or pull someone into a hug.

Scared Easily: Conditional. Majority of the time no. Absolutely not. But he does have a fear of drowning and water. And necromancy. That’s a complicated affair. He kinda likes whatever that ‘fear’ is.

Jealous Easily: Conditional. He’s never had much, and doesn’t desire much. He doesn’t see people as ‘owning’ things how could he be jealous? If he needs it he’ll get it. Before Emmrich he never experienced relationship jealousy. Everything was surface level fwb, one night stand stuff. Once romantically involved with Emmrich he’s realized he’d be veeeeeery jealous if someone tried to take his place. He’s cool with consensual sharing but needs to know he’s foremost or he’s gonna look like a hurt puppy.

Trustworthy: Conditional. Around cheese? No. Sharp objects? Fire? Glass? Also no. But secrets and gossip and having your back? You won’t find better.

Family…

Sibling(s): None. But the Grey Wardens are his siblings. Every warden is considered family to him.

Parents: Dead before he could walk.

Children: Only if we’re counting Manfred. He’s a better uncle than primary parent, way too lenient.

Pets: He wants a griffon. Emmrich has tried explaining why that’s such a bad idea when they live in the Necropolis but the dream lives on and the flock consider him family.

Partner: I ADDED THIS ONE K Emmrich is gonna be family that's his husband right there. Okay they're not married and Emmrich might be accepting a betrothal to some young lady but that's his husband.

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

and all y'all I want to see your Rooks link me to oc tag game and mood boards if you posted already!! @heylittleriotact @caffeinatedmunchkin @lavenderprose @thepalehorsevictoria @smoreofbabylon @xiomara42 @by-ilmater @razildor @draco-illius-noctis if I'm missing you shame me pls I will be contrite and give you pleasant words.

[haveyoureadthisfanfic]

Summary: It was a simple enough idea; screw around with the resident bastard of Class 1-A to let him know that his medieval ways and perverted behaviour weren't going to be tolerated by even the most career-focused of UA's students. To say that things had snowballed was an understatement. Todoroki had no idea how he had ended up sitting on Bakugou's floor at 1 am, holding a dossier of incriminating material that would make the FBI slobber, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know. The long and short of it was, fuck Mineta.

Author: @anubisisms

[blakbonnet]

Fic Recs For Getting Over Writers' Block:

To me, the only way to get over the writing horrors™️ is to read some good fucking prose. Even if the summary of these fics doesn't appeal to you, I'd suggest reading them purely for their tactile prose that somehow gets the brain working again.

General Block Breakers:

Magpie by yellowmustard

Skirts and Barbells by @petrichorca

Malleability by jazzxdaffy

The Nest That Hope Builds by @red-sky-in-mourning

Grounded by @forpiratereasons

So Long Seabird by @adamarks

Find Your Stede Voice:

Adventures of a Leggy Blonde by @palavapeite

Find Your Ed Voice:

You Belong in that Home by and by by @alchemistc

Stealing Romance by skrifores

[tennessoui]

Kitttt!?!? You updated foolproof!?!? And it’s gonna be a series!?! Well that’s my year made!!!! Can’t wait to read it!! Good luck 🤍✨

🥰🙏 thank you thank you !! I hope you like the epilogue for them 🥰 tbh the following series part isn’t going to be them exactly but rather an au of the first chapter, in a universe where they don’t make the bet cause Ahsoka gets more wasted and doesn’t leave early - obi-wan helps get her back to her room and runs into anakin and they sleep together in a more unhealthy way (where both are just as obsessed with each other as they are in the original fic, they’re just not in a position to talk about that)

cause that idea has not left me alone since I thought about it 🙏 what if they can’t stay away from each other and strike up a physical relationship behind ahsoka and Quinlan’s backs without talking about all the things they need to talk about 👀☠️

[miabrown007]

Felonies and Other Love Languages (Heist AU)

art by @art-the-f-up

"You are the plan, Chat Noir!" Adrien forgets to breathe for a second. His hands ball into fists by his side because this is— No, she can't be! And then, he also sees that he jumped to conclusions. The stranger goes down from her tippy toes and this girl is tiny. The freckles dusting her cheeks are alien and the crinkles running together in the corners of her eyes make it seem like her smile must be unworldly, almost manic, under her black dotted crimson mask. Her hair is in a high ponytail, whooshing after her as she turns. She takes her place on a counter with a grace to her steps that violently murders his initial impression that she might be Mari.

I have Shay's permission to post his art. as you do not, you should not.

[asthedeathoflight]

Its so funny seeing people go like "wait there was a siren au?????" and run to go reblog it and gush over it because i did write part one in a single sitting and immediately post it without even proofreading it so there was a little part of me that was like maybe it was just bad and you were all politely ignoring it.

[tortoisesshells]

💍

thank you!

Was any of that real? She held the photograph to the light at a different angle, and wondered if Roger only seemed unhappy because she had always known him to be, and that his look in 1955 was just the sun in his eyes, or some badly-fried clams from lunch. If Burke and Laura looked wrong because they were so – so ordinary, then. Like any young couple she’d ever seen staying too long on a park bench.

(send me an emoji corresponding to a WIP and I will write three sentences, and share with the class!)

[thymehaspassed]

It’s 8:30 and I’m eepy :(

[leatherbookmark]

OTL.

[spilledmilkfkdies]

I was gonna yoink one of these that someone else made, but some of the options confused me so I did the logical thing of making one I'd definitely understand. Like a normal person. It is not good, but it is mine, my ugly baby!!

[aldisobey]

Foolproof

Chapter 4 - Rook

Emmrich x Rook - Canon Divergent AU

Back safe at the Volkarin apartment Emmrich and Rook each see to some separate self care

AO3 Link - wordcount ~ 4k - full chapter below

Rating: Explicit

——————

A boy—no more than five—ran to the docks. Brown eyes wide. Gaunt and quivering. Cheeks hollow. Feet bare and tough. It was surprising how nimbly he leapt over crate and coiled rope when limbs seemed more bone than meat.

Quick on his heels came a larger child. Nearly as fast and better fed. Taller. Older. And with menace flashing in grin and gaze.

The little Thorne never looked back. Breath labored. He could feel his limbs slow, but those eyes locked tight on the goal ahead. Teeth grit as he took one. Large. Stride. Might have watched the bay pass below his feet as he crossed over the break in the boards, but no, only ever ahead.

Startled scream and splash pierced his ears and wet his neck, and finally, thankfully, he skid to a stop. Small hands on smaller knees as he bent and caught his breath. Heard then the thrashing, and churning below, a pitiful gurgled ‘help’. He trembled, quaked as he retched from the run and shock. Felt a need to look. Gut burned to answer help.

He crept to the edge, peered over to see fingers flailing at water’s surface, froth, bubbles, a dark open hole below, a bulging staring back. He lay down on the boards, chest flat, hand twitched to stretch out, but flinched, dug splinters in nail. Something in his core howled.

He’ll take you

And the waving hands slipped below.

Drowning a quiet affair.

His eyes burned as he rolled to back, sun beginning to set as he heard the distant calls of a mother.

Rook watched. The shimmer of Fade left him far and out and above, as it normally did for the scene. Time lingered, the sun set, and still the child below lay shivering, yet still. He reached out a hand, felt a lurch in his stomach as he zipped down from too far above, and then it was too fast, his hands still grasping. Rook’s fingers closed around the collar, touched a hint of skin, and then he was the one staring up into the deep black of night, watched a moment as the stars blinked back. And then felt the tug of a hand at his collar.

Thankfully the boards gave before his throat. A single choked gasp, and he crashed through the shattered walk. What was left of his breath hissed free in the gelid embrace of bay below. The splintered remains cut, he held frozen—sank, submerged—weightless a foot below the surface. Blood seeped from skin to twist signaling smoke-like around him, a dozen fires dotted, varied spread, carried the same message.

From dark around bloated hands answered. Took hold. Pressed in. Widened flames. Rook remained motionless, only eyes flicked, sometimes closed, sometimes wide, but watched as their flesh sloughed at the pressure against his own. Bones dug in, pale accordions in their plunging wake as they bit vice-like and spread the blaze. Frantic hands. Bone white. More scrabbled for purchase—found it in his skin giving way—held tight, squeezed. Looped through clenching muscle that surrounded, penetrated to bone, fists attached to humerus, clenched around ulna, scratched nail along the twisting radius. The hands, the arms, all joined to thrashing torsos, all torsos fell to still legs, such still legs, leaded lines might sway more.

The vibrating clawing limbs vainly tried to rise, to swim, to reach air with Rook held between, in, with the weaving oscillating mass. But the twitch of trunks was never enough to lift dead legs. The shock-still rogue billowed red, and every tremor shivered the mass further down. Colder, slower, deeper until the pain in ear was so great he could hear the ring, feel…

“Rook.” His name. New. But familiar. Different, but favored. New lips spoke it. A fresh throat tried it for the first, found it fit. And the gouging grips ceased, he held in place, the fall paused.

Did one speak? Had it? No. Such warmth entered above. Bubbles rose from his gaping mouth to meet it, turned his sight skyward where it pulled. Yet it sounded close, beside him, perhaps in ear, it hushed the ringing. Eased the pressure.

Then a new touch. He almost gave a start, but it arrived as a breath. Soft, soothing, light, and he instinctively eased in. It fluttered away. Rook twisted towards the retreat, chased in dream, a thrash at the binding hands within. Then opened his eyes. Physical appeared. And Fade's thrash turned into a sighed roll towards touch and voice. Woke blinking and staring at Emmrich’s face hovering inches away.

“Ah. Good. There you are, I do hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

Was that a smirk? Rook fought the blurred vision of sleep as he focused on that corner of a lip, but it straightened as it spoke, “The Necropolis can strengthen dreams in the Fade, your heart rate was climbing—not uncommon for those adjusting—Apologies.” Emmrich stood slow. An easy movement, a practiced grace of unfolding only achieved with purposeful descent, a dancer's balance. “It was necessary I wake you.” He hadn’t touched the couch, only brushed those fingertips on Rook’s shoulder the once for the waking.

The necromancer wandered away, hands folded behind towering back as he straightened full, “Manfred just returned with some fresh clothes for you and placed them…”

“He's where?” Rook cut in, swung his legs off the divan to sit proper. Felt the room swim round as he moved too quick. Steadied. Noted that Emmrich had paused though his back was turned, he only moved closer to his desk once Rook felt the room come still. Spoke as he came even to it, placed a hand to the surface.

“He left moments ago to make some fresh tea.” The hand lingered where a kettle’s tray might sit.

“I assumed you would want to wash?” Emmrich turned then, observed Rook as the waking man yawned and stretched, twisted where he sat. “I left everything you might need by the bath should you desire. I advise it. Stress it. You need to get warm after…” He paused, and Rook noticed a new crease of concern, it furrowed on that dropped brow, came with a lowered tone, soft questioning replaced the prescribing, “…what did happen?”

Rook looked down. Felt at the still soaked shirt. Felt the chill it brought more keenly as he tested with a pinch and pulled it away from skin, tent-like. Let it fall clinging, looked back up to see Emmrich’s gaze on him, but far away, not focused, hazed with thought. Absentminded himself, he dropped his head again and poked at where he could see his belly button, still blinked dream from his eyes as he checked for the holes made by skeletal fingers moments before.

“Umm.” He muttered, stood from the ugly green couch he’d been deposited on. Scratched now at exposed stomach as his jaw went slack from the sight of the grand study. Towering bookcases, a desk fit for the Archon's offices, a fireplace, no flickering green, but burning full and orange, radiated a heat that pulled him to it. And still more cabinets, curios, statues, and everywhere more books. Rook's fingers ceased the scratch, “You mentioned…heart rate?” Toyed at the edge of hem. “I’m fine right?”

Emmrich flicked awake, had been looking down as pondering pulled him in, but his head rose at the question with a ‘hmm’ and lingered its look on Rook as the man stopped playing with and started stripping off his shirt.

The necromancer cleared his throat. “Oh most certainly.”

Pivoted purposefully around his desk and settled in the chair. Lowered his eyes to some missive at hand, “I placed a ward on you commonly used by physicians to keep an eye on their patients. It was necessary earlier, and I had numerous concerns over the state of your lungs and heart, but not to worry it is temporary, though, perhaps, you would allow me to upkeep it?” His brow rose with the lilt, carried his gaze rising with and he watched as Rook muttered some quick consent, sound muffled in fabric as he wrestled with skin tight apparel. Emmrich swallowed. Eyes flicked down and he reached for the next missive.

“It simply monitors your crucial vitals, gives warning should anything stray too far into the upper mean. Thankfully you appear to be in fine form. But…the rise you experienced in that excitable dream state had to be attended. Stopped or assessed, we are not out of the realm of danger regarding you condition. Nothing too troubling, but given the events of the hour, and your state of dress it was best to end the nap and see to anyway. The day has had enough excitement…Some worry lingers for the state of your mind… but it’s imperative you change and I doubt you’re in the mood for questioning?”

Rook muttered something further lost to the weave constricting around his skull and holding his arms tight above head. Struggled some long moments more with the clinging apparel as Emmrich’s explanations keeping cadence fell away.

Until, a break in the descending quiet “There we go!” Rook grinned as a final yank popped the shirt free. A cheerful victory as slick chest heaved a few breaths before the settle. Stood bare waist-up, hands on hips, and stared at the surroundings once more, wide-eyed awe as he turned in place. His skin prickled in the cool air despite the fireplace not far from the divan. Prickled further as he noted the suffocating silence. A gentle scritch of quill, a flutter of paper, Rook turned back looked towards the desk…he’d felt that hazel on him. It turned diligently away.

He let his arms drop, shirt fell free to floor, “You were asking…” and the low timbre didn’t register. The professor appeared consumed by whatever new word had reached him on the papers in hand, “…Emmrich?”

A blink. A single glance, almost a glare, Rook flinched back. Wondered at the shift? But the mage’s tone remained congenial, and his attentions went back to scratching out whatever answer was required for the current clerical matter, “We will need to discuss what happened.” And he sounded eager to see to the issue at hand, what had happened? He needed to think past the dream. The professor spoke on, “But that matter can wait. It’s imperative you listen now and see to yourself.” A sigh there, and the quill settled in its resting place.

Emmrich, forearms on his desk, fingers laced together, lifted his gaze with the inhale and focused on Rook, found the bodyguard confused, but staring keen back, and leaned to listen. “If you could finish undressing alone,” a pointed stare at the laundry wetting the floor, a flicked look to the exit, “the bath is waiting just out the door, through the room, bear left…” He motioned out, hands unfolding to direct in air, “…you should be able to see it as soon as you leave. Please take as long as you need, longer if you desire.”

Rook nodded. Started walking towards Emmrich, seemed to expect more help, “Can you?”

“No.” Stern. And the mage ignored Rook standing at the edge of his desk. Rubbed a hand over his forehead, pressed at a temple, the other returned to motion, retrieved the quill, began to write again, “I must see to finishing this correspondence as soon as possible.”

Emmrich spoke true enough. He toiled on a missive to the Baron of earlier meeting. Knew the man would expect immediate word. Matters might smooth should a response arrive instant with satisfactory explanation. A possible goal at the moment. So he kept to the work without a further glance up. Flicked the quill to the door instead. “Fresh clothes for you should be near the towels. Please.” The voice heightened, lengthened. Rook’s head tilted to discern. Stressed? Desperate? “Feel free to indulge in the soaps.”

“Okay…” Rook scratched at his head, peered at the professor, then stared at the door, chewed at a cheek, and back down…

“Rook.” Emmrich, made a point of meeting the gaze searching for him, felt the ‘hitch’, and heaved in deep, shoulders raised with the intake, and dropped sighing with the out, “If you’re here to work with me—in any capacity—you have to prove capable of simple directions. Once you exit you can’t miss the bath, trust me, the room might still steam.”

Rook finally noted that Emmrich was completely dry, hair in place, smelled fresh, he’d bathed while he slept, “I need to see this missive sent and you…” Emmrich flicked a hand. And Rook looked down to where it directed, chuckled at the sight of his still bare flesh, “…need to get properly dressed.”

He colored a shade pink, but Rook’s grin went wide. ‘Work with’. The grin seemed to travel down his arms into fingers that drummed along the necromancer’s desk. Quick tap-tacking-thunks to dress the mirth lifting corner lip, “Right you are Emmrich.” He tasted that word again, a final beat with a thumb to corner as he walked away, and he turned to give a give a small wave farewell as he slipped out the door, his voice echoing in the room beyond, “I got this.”

—————————————

The office door clicked shut. Emmrich stopped writing. Halted anything that might carry sound as he strained an ear. Footsteps, perhaps more drumming fingers, a low whistle? But then an ‘Aha!’ and the distant but distinct click of another door.

Rook had found the bathroom.

Emmrich let out a long held breath, and fell forward onto his desk. Forehead a soft ‘whumpf’ against the stack of papers it crushed. Let out a mild groan. The twenty were still an option weren’t they? A sabbatical to Minrathous didn’t sound that bad. But there among the nineteen would be one grinning face he knew, one he was sure would accompany them. His hands flexed in and out of fists where they lay by his head.

No. He thought. Almost mumbled it aloud. Chastised through the desk to the problem below. Not now. Reached again for his quill, found it fumbling. The missive, he needed to see it complete. He raised back up. Paper stuck. Ah. He picked it off his face and set it down. Sweaty brow a poor sign for current condition. He dipped the quill. Attempted to decipher the words of earlier work. The writing while Rook stood hovering, felt a twitch below. The ache overwhelming, steady growth since the first flickered exposure.

He crumpled the letter, swept it to bin, and picked up a fresh sheet. He had to find his routine. Could settle in minutes with Rook gone and the correct ritual. Simply start with the work, describe what had…what had happened? His gaze lifted from page to the foreign object balled up on his floor.

Emmrich couldn’t move his gaze from that sopping lump. He should take care of that before it made a mess. Breathed through the nose, he put the quill away and pushed back from the desk. Careful, slow, any movement, he closed his eyes and turned his head up for the count of three breaths. Balanced, opened lids and stood, crossed the room to the filth intruding. Chastised himself for not having Rook take it with him. That…

An edge of off-white. What should have been white, but age and wear and sweat had discolored to a new shade. Emmrich’s face twisted in disgust, but he stood still, and could see the edges of the shirt sliding, gripping again. The filth lifting, always so quick and eager, so smooth and careful now. Soaked and clinging hem slid over defined muscles, caught here, climbed in the smooth pulsing wave like the belly of a snack edging up tree.

A twist, man’s back to him now as he wrestled free. Emmrich recalled the dark lines of tattoo beneath transparent shirt, the defined trapezius writhed in work. Scapula pinched the image between the pulling blades to create deformed sigil. And the man turned. Menace, he knew, pulled too slow, arms over head, crossed, dripping shirt keeping him bound.

Movements stiff, he could hear a hitch in breath, mild pained hiss, and time held, the scars came into focus. How. He thought. How could skin come to this, some points of injury should be mortal. Emmrich wanted to reach out, to study such lattice work, feel… who came the next thought. Who did such work? Both in mar and mend, the gutting and the stitching again and again. An apprentice’s piece worn by the work, one quick set for burning after lack of space to practice further.

But this was living flesh. So twisted it made the pull of shirt over head a trick when… there he could see the catch at the muscle. Almost reached to test the knot, perhaps, but Rook had faced him then. Smiled bare chested and slick as if nothing were wrong, as if none of that hurt.

The shirt was in hand, Emmrich wasn’t sure at what point in the recall he had picked it up, but it was rising to his face, wrung but damp, and he buried his nose. Pulled the air through masked mouth and nostrils, coated the spill of air into lungs with the decrepit sweat, blood, and dirt. Where have you been.

Gagged, an unseemly noise in his throat, and dropped the filth with a horrified flinch.

Retrieved a handkerchief from a pocket and hurriedly wiped the hand clean. Sat back down at his desk, made a grunting noise in throat as he settled in his chair, the brush of fabric, the momentary pressure against the press below-maddening.

Rook. Only two doors away. He could hear the water running. His tongue went lead, the quill was back in hand but it twirled in place, made no move to make a word. In water again. Pads of fingers rolled forward, back, pads that felt him in the frantic wet rescue. Ceased the fidget.

But his grasp flexed, he could feel that firm…spirits. No. Rook had drowned. He could not. Should not, dwell on how amply the rogue’s backside filled his palm, erase the memory of brushing over that bulge in the scramble, he wouldn’t try to picture both filling...a groan left him. Why couldn’t he swim? Anger flared, a bubbling frustration. Misfortune had struck when he grabbed there first, and now he could imagine, just how it might fill, how it might…

The quill creaked. Emmrich looked down to see it clenched in hand. Swallowed. Painful, tight, and noted that his ‘free’ hand…was pressed to groin. And he had to fight…his hips twitched, grit teeth held back the thrust up. But burgeoning ache strengthened, urgent. He couldn’t, not to that. The quill cracked. Pieces dropped from hand.

Just once.

A held breath left him with a full body shiver. The pulse in his ear quickened to a hot rush. His cock throbbed under palm and pants and small clothes. Filled full at the allowance of the thought, at the recalled chest, at flesh’s memory of chancing grope, the choke for air as he...Emmrich rubbed, held firm and down as he let hips rise, whimpered into a long shudder with the languid press.

No, no he had to stop. Fingers quivering he pulled open a drawer and searched blindly for a new quill. Clatter of implements, the hand on himself rubbed, he hummed. He hadn’t stopped. What did it matter? The searching fingers mindlessly grabbed a letter opener, attention instead on the increase of pressure below, a true rhythm finding its way into the work of hips and hand. Flickers of that grin, that voice in mind.

Once. Just the…

The letter opener dropped in a clatter and he slid the drawer shut with a punctuating moan on his lips. His hand kept still. Too still as it traced its path from desk to groin. Any speed, any slammed drawers might portend too much eagerness—a steeper fall—and this must remain simple bodily need. A quick release before the man returned and they had business to attend. Yes this was necessary.

Couldn’t deliberate with the wild eagerness overwhelming at the thought of working himself free. Knew this wouldn’t settle. Emmrich closed his eyes, eased lead on racing mind, and let muscle memory guide through bits and buckles.

This Rook couldn’t sit still in class, couldn’t walk without a trot—kicked at rocks, wobbled on walls, fingered at fences—stumbled. He moved and the eye begged follow. But the rogue never missed a glance. Turned with a smirk or a grin or a query the moment Emmrich’s gaze tilted towards him. Turned with…he didn’t dare name it affection.

His cock twitched. He pressed down, hips rose up, that pull of his shirt, the tight ache, that bare-chested...Emmrich felt his tongue between his teeth, moved it between lips, settled it back with a swallow. That voice, the way it wrapped round—Emmrich—struck deeper. He hissed a breath through the nose. Loosed another lace. Deeper like affection.

“Rook…” he whispered, rolled it up through throat, the last trapping came free.

Emmrich sighed. A settled contentment as leaking head stood to air. Gently took hold of himself and used a circling thumb to spread leaking pre.

He could picture it, almost feel it. A large hand. Thick where his went thin, rough where smooth, his mouth closed with grit teeth and a bit lip. Rook, was that really his name? Oh Rook. Hips jerked, the moan kept behind clenched lips drawn in. Gold ringed fingers wrapped tight, firm until he could feel the ridges along the pull of his full length, groaned into the rough handling. Felt a whimper in his throat, an echo of the one he heard caught in a throat by a pinched ear, a hissed breath at the recall, and Emmrich’s high pitched whine slipped out.

I’m Rook.

Came the thought, and he let his sound carry, eased it into a softer murmuring of ohs and ahs punctuated by the fevered name.

He’d write to the Baron after this.

Couldn’t do a thing until, his jaw slacked, until, grip twisted, squeezed, slowed. He crumpled forward, leaned heavy on his desk as he worked himself below, rode the pace as he pumped into his fist.

He could hear the water running. Rook wouldn’t be along. He savored the next languid tugs, noted the softer rattle of bracelets, furrowed brow as he increased pace, keyed a thought to the jingle of bangles reaching his favored pitch, the known rhythm,

“EMMRICH!!!”

Rook.

Panic. Terror.

Emmrich stuttered mid-stroke. A gurgle left his throat at the lurch. Voice high, heady, weak, but he had to.

“Rook?!” A choked squeak.

“NEED SOME HELP HERE.”

Answered by raw throated fear.

[neon-danger]

Yall if you see ao3 is not updated you gotta yell at me

[cuntyji]

will be writing this as a full-length fic soon…..amen!!

your relationship with nanami kento is the definition of ironic.

the office sees him as the perfect gentleman—level-headed, dependable, the very image of an ideal husband. meanwhile, you? you are the sweet, naive darling of the workplace, someone who gasps at crude jokes and stumbles over words when discussing anything remotely risqué. ‘a match made in heaven,’ they all say.

except, unbeknownst to your dear colleagues, you are a raging nymphomaniac with a one-track mind and a concerning dedication to testing nanami’s limits. 

and unbeknownst to you, nanami is a retired playboy who has seen, done, and invented things that would make your little schemes look like a child's game of seduction.

case #1

it’s after work, and you two are in the break room. you “accidentally” drop your pen, bending down waaaayyyy too slow to pick it up, making sure your skirt rides up just enough to be suggestive. when you glance up at nanami, expecting maybe a sharp inhale, a slight stutter, anything—he just averts his eyes politely and sighs. “you should be more careful,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee.

…excuse me? that was textbook seduction! and all he’s giving you is a life lesson? “right,” you mutter, picking up the pen and standing up. he hums in response, unbothered. internally, you are seething. externally, you giggle and twirl a strand of hair around your finger.

but, on the other side of things—inside nanami’s mind, sirens are blaring. red alert. red alert. his eyes are on the ceiling. his knuckles are white around his coffee cup. he is chanting sutras in his head because he is one wrong move away from pinning you against the fridge. but no. no. he will not be like his past self. he will not ruin your innocence with his past perversions. “next time, hold onto your pen properly,” he adds.

you nearly choke. that sounded so suggestive. was that suggestive? but his face remains neutral. damn it.

case #2

one morning, you decide to test the waters by “accidentally” wearing one of nanami’s dress shirts to breakfast. you stretch a little tooooo much while reaching for the honey, making sure the fabric lifts enough to tease him. “oh no,” you say, “i think i grabbed the wrong shirt! it’s so big on me, kento.” you add a slight pout for effect. nanami doesn’t even blink. “ah, my mistake for folding it with your laundry.”

you stare at him. that’s it? not even a pause before responding? no flustered reaction? what is this man made of?????

meanwhile, nanami is gripping his fork like it’s a stress ball. the sight of you in his shirt is awakening something inside him that he spent years suppressing. memories of past flings, of long nights and tangled sheets, of being far from the gentleman he’s known as today—no. no. he is different now. he is refined. composed. civilized. “you should eat before your food gets cold,” he adds, stuffing a piece of toast into his mouth before he can say something dangerous.

you slump in your chair. you’re starting to think your boyfriend might actually be asexual.

case #3

you opt for the classic “watch a horror movie together” trick. the goal? get scared and cling to nanami, maybe “accidentally” bury your face into his chest. standard. foolproof. except—

“you’re shaking,” nanami notes. you look up at him, eyes wide and watery. yes. yes. take the bait. comfort me, kento.

he reaches for the remote.

“huh?”

he turns the movie off.

“i don’t think this is good for you,” he says. “we should sleep.”

…you are speechless.

meanwhile, nanami is on his last thread of sanity. if you keep clutching his arm like that, he is going to fold. but he will not. he cannot. he must protect your innocence. even if it kills him.

case #4

one rainy evening, you come home completely drenched from forgetting your umbrella. hair dripping, clothes clinging to every curve—you look like the lead actress of a romcom who is about to get thoroughly ravished by the male lead. nanami, who opens the door for you, malfunctions. but on the outside? his face remains blank. “you should change before you catch a cold.”

what. the. fuck.

“c-can you lend me one of your shirts?” you try, shivering. “of course.” and with that, he disappears into the bedroom, returning with sweatpants and a hoodie.

A HOODIE.

where is the white button-up? the gray sweatpants?  you take the clothes in silence. this is your lowest point.

meanwhile, nanami is pouring himself a glass of ice water. his soul is escaping his body.

case #5

you decide to take a break from your antics. maybe you were reading into things too much. maybe nanami truly is just that reserved. maybe…maybe he just isn’t interested in you that way.

that night, nanami is in bed, scrolling through his phone when he stumbles upon a post:

"when a man truly loves you, he will control himself so he doesn't ruin you."

he stares at the post. then at the ceiling. “ah,” he mutters.

so that’s why.

in the darkness of your shared bedroom, you both lay in silence—both believing you’re the one restraining yourself for the sake of the other.

a tragic comedy. a love story with too many misunderstandings.

a match made in heaven.

[tennessoui]

august ko-fi: foolproof, foolhardy coda <3

ok i am a day late, blame that on the covid brain fog, but! here is my august ko-fi which i wanted to finish and publish yesterday on the day that i finished my ao3 fic foolproof, foolhardy a year ago <3 it is my longest standing completed fic to date and i have wanted to write a coda to it for forever. here is the link to my ko-fi, where i've uploaded the link to the coda (all 6.7k of it!) for all monthly supporters to read.

and here is the traditional snippet of the fic!:

“If I were to leave the Order,” Obi-Wan says, slowly, “how would you feel about that?” Because Vos’ negative feelings on the matter wouldn’t be enough to hold Obi-Wan back if this slim wisp of a dream of a future crystalized into a path that Anakin would walk by his side, but it would still matter. To Obi-Wan. Vos’ negative feelings on the matter would probably be nothing but encouragement to Anakin, honestly. Quinlan blinks and then a smile blooms across his face, something small and genuine and lovely. “Course it doesn’t matter to me,” he says. “Obi-Wan, I’m training to be the next great Spymaster of the Jedi Order. There’s nowhere in the galaxy you could land that I would not find you.” He pauses, thinks about it, and nudges Obi-Wan’s shoulder again. “Tell that to Skywalker,” he says. “And make it sound like a threat.” Obi-Wan lets out a surprised bark of laughter, nudges him back. “But not too much like a threat, mind you,” Quinlan adds. “I still remember what Skywalker did to the last guy to threaten you, and I like my head firmly attached to my body.”

as a reminder, my ko-fi fics are standalone fics set in an au of my choosing that i’ve talked about on tumblr in the past. no ko-fi fic will include key information you need to understand for any current wip published on ao3 (im not marvel), but rather they’re just extra stuff and longer fics than i usually post on tumblr. to see these fics, you need to be a monthly supporter on ko-fi - and if you are, you can see this most recent one as well as 13 others!!! cancel anytime - you’ll still have access until your sub runs out, a month after your last supporting payment. and of course i will continue to post things on ao3 and also on tumblr that anyone can see - this is just. extra stuff that i have fun writing!

[jaysbaefie]

your honour | psh

synopsis: in which you push the judge too far, you learn that actions have consequences—and he always delivers the sentence himself.

genre: judge au

pairing: judge!sunghoon x troubled!reader

warnings: meandom!sunghoon, cold!sunghoon, horndog!reader, manhandling, cornering, degrading (holy fuck sm degrading), crazy dirty talk, gagging with fingers, hair pulling, choking, biting, spanking ass + pussy, rough p in v (unprotected), clit rubbing, creampie, bondage, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm denial and no aftercare. think that’s it…

wc: 6.3k

a/n: this is so filthy!!! yall im on a plot burnout i have so many ideas i just can’t bring myself to write a proper full length fic :[ anyways… notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy <3

═══════

your arms are crossed over your chest like armor. it's not foolproof—your wrists are still cuffed, and the bruises from last week's chase are still turning the edges of your skin a dull yellow with splotches of blue. you hold yourself steady anyway, like you've already survived worse.

you have.

the courtroom is too quiet for your taste. sterile walls, tired faces, and that rusted old flag in the corner drooping like it's had one too many years of watching justice be handed out unevenly.

there's a bailiff at your side, fingers twitching near their belt, as if they think you might leap over the railing and bolt. you don't blame them. you've done worse for less serious crimes.

but right now, you're not thinking about running—not even close.

you're staring straight at him.

park sunghoon.

honorable judge. esteemed in the district. untouchable. 'not for long,' you think to yourself, a small smirk gracing your lips as you hold your gaze.

his nameplate gleams under the artificial lighting, but it's not as cold as the look in his eyes when he glances down at you. black rob, pale hands, pristine posture like he's never once had a bad day, or at least never shown it.

he speaks your name like it tastes bitter in his mouth, his plump lips pursing in distaste.

"theft. trespassing. property damage," sunghoon reads, flipping through the paperwork like it's boring him. "and now contempt of court. again."

your smirk is the only weapon you have left, "that one wasn't on purpose."

his gaze doesn't flinch, "you were caught lighting a cigarette in the bathroom during recess."

"wasn't lit," you say coolly, his gaze now piercing into you. "i didn't even get to spark it," you almost whine out.

"because the officer stopped you."

"because the lighter was out of fluid," you shoot back, offended that he'd think that you'd let some officer stop you from lighting a spark.

for a moment, you think you see something twitch in the corner of his mouth—amusement? disbelief? but it's gone before it settles. he leans back in his seat, elbows on the armrests, voice clipped, "you don't seem to take this seriously."

you stare him down, your eyebrows raised, "you don't seem to live in the same world as the rest of us."

sunghoon says nothing at first, just studies you, eyes narrowing the longer the silence drags. he looks at you like you're a puzzle he didn't expect to come across and now he's trying to decide whether to solve you or break you apart and pack you away.

finally, he speaks, "given the repeated offences and your inability to cooperate with court proceedings, you are hereby found guilty."

your chest tightens—not because you're surprised. you knew this was coming, it was always going to come to this.

"you're to pay a fine of $5,000"

you snort, loud and messy which causes sunghoon to look at you with what you could only assume was disgust, "you might as well say 5 million. i don't have shit, your honour." your voice drips with mockery on that last part, but it's not like you can help it. titles mean nothing to people like you. not when the system's always rigged the same way.

sunghoon doesn't react the way you expect. no fury, no raised voice. instead, he rests his chin against his hand and stares down at you, thoughtful, composed—calculating.

"then perhaps we can make alternate arrangements."

you narrow your eyes. "like what? community service? sweeping the courthouse floors?" you had heard it all before, and you'd be damned if you did any of it.

he ignores your sarcasm. "i'm offering you a deal." you don't trust deals, especially not from men like him. but you're listening.

"you're clearly resourceful. difficult, but clever." his eyes scan your face like he's making a mental file, "if you truly cannot pay, then you'll work it off. under my supervision."

you blink up at him, dumbfounded, "what?"

sunghoon doesn't smile, doesn't even shift, "you'll report here. every morning, 6 am sharp. you'll handle clerical tasks, sorting files, transcriptions. menial work, mostly. i'll be watching."

you lean forward, just a little. "and if i say no?"

his voice is ice cold, "then you'll serve time."

you flinch at that, prison isn't unfamiliar—but it's worse this time. you're older now, tired and you know the kind of people they throw you in with.

your jaw clenches, "this some kind of power trip for you?"

his eyes glint, unreadable. "no. but it might be one for you. if you can handle being civil."

you hate him for that. for the way his words crawl under your skin, settle in your ribs like they belong there. you hate him for being calm, for not flinching when you push back. for the way he makes you feel cornered even when you're standing tall.

"fine," you spit. "i'll take your little deal."

sunghoon nods, finally. bangs the gavel once sending shocks through your body.

"court adjourned."

but as you're escorted out, you catch the way he watches you. slow, deliberate. like he's already plotting what to do with a fire like yours.

and you know this is far from over.

═══════

6 am comes fast, you show up at 6:17am.

your boots echo too loud on the marble floors of the courthouse as you stroll in like you own the place. hoodie unzipped, hands in your pockets, chewing gum with all the arrogance of someone who knows they're untouchable—or just wants to see how far they can push before they aren't.

sunghoon is already waiting, of course. seated behind his desk in his chambers, reading over a case file, all rigid posture and starched cuffs. he doesn't look up when you enter, but you feel the chill in the air shift the moment he registers your presence.

you lean against the doorframe, pop your gum, and smile sweetly, "morning, your honour."

he finally looks up, no smile—no greeting. just a flat, "you're late."

you shrug, "public transportation's a bitch. and my ankle monitor doesn't exactly come with wings."

sunghoon closes the file slowly, deliberately, "your sentence began at 6 am sharp. not whenever you decide to roll out of bed."

you wander further into his office, dragging your fingers across the edge of his polished desk. "well, maybe you should've sentenced me to something more exciting. i'd be more motivated to be punctual." you snicker softly, your fingers brushing against some books before landing on a small statue.

he doesn't rise, doesn't react. just watches you with that unreadable stare, like he's already dissecting your every move.

"sit."

you raise an eyebrow before looking around the room, no chair in sight, "where?"

he gestures with his pen to a wooden chair shoved against the back wall. no cushion. no wheels. no dignity.

you scoff, "wow. luxury accommodations."

"sit," he says again, this time lower—sharper.

you do—but not before you tip the chair slightly and drag it across the floor, the screech of wood against tile sounding loud and obnoxious. you plop down and swing your legs up onto the edge of his desk like it's your living room.

"so," you say, folding your arms behind your head. "what soul-crushing task do i get to do first? file your fan mail? shine your gavel?"

sunghoon doesn't flinch. doesn't blink. just reaches over and, without warning, shoves your boots off his desk with one smooth motion. hard enough to jolt the whole chair, causing you to hold onto the desk for support.

you laugh in surprise before masking it quickly with a silly remark, "ooh. touchy."

he leans forward now, voice calm but laced with threat, "i don't care how you've gotten away with things in the past. in this room, under my supervision, you follow."

"or what?" you bite, eyes narrowing. "you gonna slap another fine on me? lock me up again?"

"no," he murmurs, his eyes not leaving yours. "i'll break you without ever lifting a finger."

you go quiet for the first time because for some strange reason, you believe him.

but that doesn't mean you're going to make it easy.

by 10 am, you've misfiled at least four court documents on purpose, accidentally-on-purpose spilled coffee on one, and whistled a highly inappropriate tune every time someone passes the open door.

sunghoon doesn't snap. he doesn't yell, but the tightness in his jaw gets worse. his sleeves are rolled to his elbows now, veins taut, hand gripped around his pen like he's imagining stabbing something with it. you allow your gaze to wander over him, relishing in his cold presence as you eye-fuck him to oblivion. 

you stretch lazily in your seat across the room, flipping through a file upside down just to be difficult.

"you always this fun at parties?" you ask, eyes lazily scanning the document. 

"you always this exhausting when you're sober?"

you grin, "you should've sentenced me to something harder. i get off on discipline."

he finally looks up. eyes dark and voice low.

"is that what this is? acting out so someone will finally put you in your place?"

you blink, not expecting that.

sunghoon stands now, slow and deliberate, and crosses the room to tower over where you're still slouched in your chair. he leans down just enough to make your breath hitch, his minty fresh cologne invading your senses—sending your body into overdrive. 

"you want someone to punish you, is that it?" he says, voice barely above a whisper. "because you're skating dangerously close to contempt again."

you swallow harshly but you hold the smirk, even if it's faltering, "you threatening me, your honour?"

his lips twitch, not a smile—something colder.

"no," he says. "just waiting for you to slip. and when you do—when all that bratty bravado cracks, you'll beg for someone like me to be the one holding the leash."

your throat goes dry.

he straightens and turns away, already done with you for the moment, and you're left there blinking like the ground shifted under your feet.

this was supposed to be fun. a game.

but now? now you think he's playing back.

and he plays dirty.

═══════

you should've gone home.

you were dismissed hours ago. the office lights are off, most of the staff gone, echoing laughter and jangling keys disappearing down the hallway.

but you stayed.

because you wanted to see what would happen if you crossed the line, alone—with him.

sunghoon's still in his chambers with his door cracked, light spilling out in a narrow slice across the floor. you lean in the doorway without knocking, arms folded, teeth sunk into the inside of your cheek just to keep from smiling too wide.

he doesn't look up.

"still working?" you ask, voice low and sugary.

he doesn't respond at first. then, without looking away from his file, "if you're still here, it's because you want something. so say it, and make it fast." you saunter in, drag your nails across his bookshelf, pull a file halfway out and shove it back in crooked just to be annoying, "just wanted to chat. you seem lonely."

his jaw flexes, but he doesn't rise—doesn't yell. instead, he sets his pen down, lifting his eyes to you slowly, deliberately—and lets out a low breath through his nose.

"you're a desperate little thing, aren't you?"

you blink, "excuse me?"

he stands.

you don't move. just watch him stalk forward, quiet, composed, eyes cutting into you like scalpels.

he stops inches from you, doesn't touch. doesn't lean in.

but his voice? razor-edged filth.

"you dress like a brat, talk like a slut, act out like a girl who's been begging for someone to spit in her mouth and call her worthless." your breath catches and your legs almost give out.

"you're not here to talk," he continues, voice lower, crueler. "you're here because no one's ever put you in your place and you're too much of a mess to admit you want it."

you flinch, lips parting, "you don't even know me—"

"i know everything," he cuts in sharply. "i've read your records. i've seen the trail of damage you leave behind just to get someone to notice you. daddy issues, authority issues, zero impulse control. you want men to hate you just so they'll finally touch you."

you gasp, cheeks flushing hot—but not with shame.

with need.

because he's right. because no one's ever talked to you like this.

"look at you," he sneers. "breathing heavy already, shifting your legs like you're not soaking through your little panties right now. you came in here thinking you could bait me with your bratty mouth, hoping i'd snap and pin you against the wall like some filthy fantasy you've cooked up in that head of yours."

you say nothing. you can't.

"but i'm not like the boys you fuck behind bars or in alleyways," he whispers, eyes boring into yours. "i don't play with trash."

you whimper.

his smile is slow and cruel, "oh? that got you wet, didn't it?" your thighs squeeze together instinctively, and he laughs—cold, low, unamused.

"pathetic. dripping just from being spoken to like the little cum-dump you are."

you try to speak, but your mouth won't work. you're breathing too fast, too shallow, clit throbbing through your jeans, nipples hard under your hoodie, and he hasn't even touched you.

he leans in, barely. his cool breath fanned against your ear causing you to shiver, "you'll come back tomorrow, won't you?" he murmurs against your ear. "all sweet and mouthy again, hoping this is the day I finally bend you over my desk and fuck your brains out like the filthy little whore you pretend not to be."

you whine—a soft, needy sound that makes his eyes darken just a little.

then he pulls back, his hands stay folded behind him. he steps past you, calm as ever, voice low and bored. "go home. you're dripping on my floor."

═══════

you start showing up on time.

5:59 am, hair damp from a rushed shower, hoodie half-zipped, eyes sharp with purpose. you slide into the office like you own the place—and every day, you find him already there, perfect as ever. sleeves rolled up, tie tight, reading over a file like he didn't just spend the last twelve hours thinking about the way you moaned for him without him even touching you.

you don't speak much now, you don't have to.

the first time it happens, it's barely a whisper of a moment—you walk past him to grab a stack of paperwork, and your hip brushes his hand resting on the edge of the desk. soft. slow. deliberate. and you don't flinch, don't apologize.

you smile.

his pen halts mid-sentence.

you don't look back.

the second time, you lean in close to hand him a stapled report—closer than you need to, your fingers brushing over his when he takes it from you. you let your thumb drag just barely over his knuckle before pulling away.

he doesn't speak, but his jaw's clenched so tight you hear it pop.

the third time, it's worse. you're leaning over his desk, too far, pretending to scan the page while your hips subtly roll back, brushing against where he's standing behind you. it's slow—not full contact but just enough pressure to feel the line of his thigh brush your ass.

you feel him freeze. you breathe out, soft and sweet, "oops."

he doesn't move. doesn't even blink. you can feel his restraint like a second heat, burning against your skin.

you straighten up with a grin and saunter off and for the rest of the day, you can feel his eyes on your back like a loaded weapon.

═══════

you live for the control—the knowledge that you're the one unraveling him now. no chains, no cuffs, no cell. just you and your filthy little grin in his clean little world.

every time your hand lingers too long on his wrist when passing him a pen. every time your fingers brush his thigh when you "accidentally" drop a file. every time you stretch beside him, moaning faintly when you reach your arms overhead like you're trying to kill him with your spine alone.

he doesn't say a word.

not one curse, not one command. but every breath he takes feels heavier. every time he adjusts his cuffs, it's slower. rougher. the one time he looks at you, really looks, while you're standing by the window with the light catching your smug little smirk and you swear there's murder in his eyes.

or maybe lust, or both.

you bite your lip and wink.

he goes back to reading but his knuckles are white around the edge of the page.

you don't stop, of course you don't. you know he's cracking. you just want to see how far before he breaks.

═══════

you don't knock today.

you walk in like always—mouth full of gum, hair half done, smirk locked and loaded.

but the outfit? oh, this is new.

short skirt, barely mid-thigh. skin-tight, no stockings. no shame. 

your blouse clings to your chest with every breath, just one wrong move from spilling open—and you bend to pick up a file by the door the second you walk in, as if you didn't plan the whole motion.

you make sure your ass is pointed directly at his chair, you hear nothing for a beat. then the sound of a pen snapping in his hand.

you bite your lip to keep from smiling. "good morning, your honour," you say sweetly, rising slow, letting your tits bounce just enough. "got something for you to sign."

he doesn't answer. doesn't look up. he just sets the ruined pen down, stands in silence, and walks to the far cabinet—jaw sharp, back stiff.

he doesn't speak for an hour, but you don't stop.

you lean across the desk to file something, letting your breasts nearly spill out. you sit on the edge of the table too close, too comfortable, skirt hiked up high on your thighs. you cross and uncross your legs too slow. you sigh every time you shift, like the fabric's clinging to places it shouldn't.

and the worst part? you don't even look at him anymore.

you just know. you know he's watching. you feel his silence like a leash. and still, you test it.

again. and again.

until—

"shut the door." 

you freeze, glancing over to see that sunghoon's still behind the desk, hands folded, gaze pinned directly to your face for the first time all day.

there's no emotion in his tone, just something dark.

you step back slowly, click the door shut.

"lock it."

you do, your pulse skips.

he nods once toward the chair in front of his desk, "sit."

you obey—this time, no sass, no roll of the eyes. he watches you for a long, heavy moment. then: "stand up."

you blink, but you rise. he leans back in his chair, eyes raking over you with undisguised disgust. "this what you wear to court? no wonder you can't stay out of handcuffs."

you shiver when his voice drops an octave, "i've let you act out. walk around my office like it's a runway. rub your filthy little body against me like a dog in heat. but today?" his tongue clicks, "today, you came here begging."

you bite your lip and he notices. "don't even deny it," he sneers. "you dressed like a fucking pornstar and shoved your tits in my face three times before lunch."

you blink fast, thighs press together. "you want attention so bad," he whispers, voice cold and cruel. "you'd crawl under this desk and suck cock just to feel useful for once."

you whimper causing his eyes to narrow "pathetic."

you take a shaky step forward, voice too soft. "so do something about it."

"no." the word is a bullet. sharp. final. you flinch, "what?"

"i'm not giving you what you want," he says, standing now—towering over you, eyes blazing. "not until you ask." you swallow, your breath stutters, "...i just did—" "not like that," he leans in close, still not touching, his breath ghosting your cheek. "i want to hear you beg. properly. filthy. on your knees if you have to."

your mouth opens but no sound comes out.

"c'mon," he hisses. "say it. say you're a dirty little whore who wore this skirt just to get her judge to ruin her."

your knees go weak.

"say you've been dripping for me for weeks. say you need to be put in your place. beg me to spit in your mouth and call you mine." you nearly drop right there while he watches you—smug, furious, and impossibly composed.

"but you won't," he whispers. "because you're a coward. just a brat with no bite."

you snap, you sink to your knees with your palms on your thighs. skirt riding high, head tilted up with your tongue caught between your teeth.

"please," you whisper, cheeks hot. "i wore it for you. i wanted you to see what you've been missing. i wanted you to lose control. i wanted to feel owned. like a fucking toy." his nostrils flare and you crawl forward. "i've been dripping for you since the first time you called me worthless," you breathe out shamelessly. "you don't have to fuck me. just—just say i'm yours."

his hand twitches at his side but still he doesn't touch you, he just smiles—slow and dangerous. "you're finally learning," he murmurs. "maybe tomorrow i'll reward you."

and he walks out, leaves you on the floor—aching, wrecked and obedient.

═══════

you show up like nothing happened, tight dress, high heels and no bra. you don't even bring a file, you just lean against the edge of his desk like you're here to ruin him.

sunghoon doesn't look up, not right away. but when he does—it's over.

his eyes flick up to your chest, then back to your mouth, and the moment your lips part to say something smart, he moves.

fast.

the chair scrapes back with a violent screech. you barely have time to gasp before he grabs your wrist and slams you against the desk, stomach flat against the wood, cheek pressed down by the weight of his hand. you yelp, breath knocked out of you—but it's not pain. it's heat, flooding between your legs in a dizzying wave.

"this what you wanted?" sunghoon growls, voice raw at your ear. "me snapping like some animal? you filthy, needy, shameless little—fuck." he yanks your arms behind your back, pins both wrists with one big hand and grinds you into the desk. "look at you squirming and wet. couldn't go one more day without getting manhandled, huh?"

you whine out when his free hand slides up your spine, griping the back of your neck, forcing your head to the side so your cheek stays plastered to the wood. your eyes snap open in shock when he pushes his thick digits into your mouth, forcing your mouth full.

"you've been begging for this," he snarls. "dressing like a whore. moaning when i speak. bending over like you want to get fucked in front of the whole court." you can barely breathe—your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

he laughs—low and cruel, "what's wrong? mouth finally too full of regret?" he spreads your legs with his knee, lets his thigh press up between them while his grip on your wrists tightens.

you're soaked. dripping straight through your panties, probably smearing slick across his desk — and he feels it. his thigh twitches and he groans. "pathetic," he growls. "you're soaking my leg and i haven't even touched your cunt."

you whimper into the desk, legs trembling, thighs trying to grind down on his thigh—but he pulls it back with a smirk. "you think you run this game," he whispers in your ear. "you think a few bratty looks and slutty outfits make you powerful."

he yanks your head back by the hair and forces you to look at him—eyes wild, chest rising, jaw clenched.

"you don't run shit here." his fingers trail down your jaw, not gentle—gripping your face like he wants to crush it, "you're mine."

you blink fast. your lips part as he finally removes his fingers from your mouth.

"say it."

your voice shakes. "i'm—i'm yours."

"again."

"i'm yours."

"louder."

"i'm fucking yours," you scream—thighs shaking, cunt pulsing, wrists still pinned.

he stares down at you—flushed, dripping, ruined against his desk. then he leans in, lips just brushing your ear, "you're not cumming until i say so."

you whimper in response. "and when you do," he breathes, "you're gonna thank me for breaking you."

he steps back and lets you collapse to your knees.

undone.

and he leaves you there, again.

═══════

you should've ran.

the look on his face the second you step into his office—eyes cold, mouth tight, sleeves rolled up like he's about to sentence you to death, should've sent you crawling. 

but you don't run, you smirk—and that's all it takes. he grabs you before the door even clicks shut—slams you against it, one hand fisting in your hair, the other squeezing your throat until your breath stutters.

"tired of you strutting around like you're untouchable," he hisses. "you want to be fucked so bad? fine. i'll fuck you like the filthy little criminal you are."

you whimper when his grip tightens—then he spins you, throws you against his desk. your hips crash into the edge, papers scattering, your hands scrambling for balance. he's behind you again, dragging your skirt up so high it tears, yanking your panties down and tossing them like trash.

you feel his palm ghost over your ass and you can't help but push yourself back against him in excitement. "already soaked," he mutters, disgusted. "fucking slut."

crack.

you yelp—the first spank makes you jolt. second makes you moan. third has your knees buckling. he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back, hissing in your ear, "say thank you."

"th-thank you," you pant.

crack.

"louder."

"thank you!"

he pulls your head back harder, exposing your throat—then his mouth is on you, biting, not kissing, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin until you cry out. sunghoon groans when he feels you twitch violently in his hold, his teeth scraping against your neck as he continues to leave violent splotches on your skin. 

"that's right," he breathes. "cry for me. scream if you need to. no one's coming for you." his hand slips between your legs, finally, and slaps your sopping cunt. you wail in response, your legs giving up on you as you rely on the desk in front of you and sunghoon as support. 

"needy," he sneers. "dripping all over my desk like a goddamn animal."

his fingers slide through the mess—not inside, just over your clit, slow, taunting strokes that make you tremble, "you wanna cum?" 

"yes," you gasp. "yes please—"

he pulls away, completely.

you sob—back arching, thighs clenching, breath broken.

"beg better."

"please, please—sunghoon, i need it, i need you, please—!"

he laughs. cold, "pathetic."

then he grabs your waist, slams you forward until your chest hits the desk with your hands flat, legs spread, back arched—and shoves his thick cock inside you in one brutal, single thrust. in the midst you hadn't even noticed sunghoon slip out his aching cock out of his dress pants, to busy fighting for your release. 

you scream at the intrusion. he doesn't give you a second to adjust, he fucks you like he owns you—hips snapping, cock dragging deep, thick and brutal and perfect. one hand wrapped around your throat, the other gripping your ass so hard you'll bruise. your walls suck him in like a vacuum, refusing to let him go causing him to hiss. 

you try to meet his thrusts — you try to grind back — but he slaps your ass again, harder, and hisses, "don't move unless i tell you to."

you go still, breathless and shaking. his fingers slip down again—circling your clit, slow, taunting and just as your body starts to tighten, just as your orgasm builds—

he pulls away. again.

you sob.

"not yet," he growls. "you think you've earned it? after all that teasing?"

his hand slides up, fingers wrapping around your throat in a punishing grip.  "you're gonna take it," he breathes, "every inch. every slap. every denial. and you're gonna fucking thank me."

"thank you," you cry. "please—please, i'll be good—"

he leans over you, cock still buried, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he continues his pace and fucks you rougher, harder and crueler. you lose count of how many times he brings you to the edge—how many times he lets you feel it just to rip it away.

you're drooling. trembling. begging.

and finally—finally—when you're gasping, soaked, ruined—

"cum."

the word cracks through you like lightning. your body explodes in trembles. 

you convulse around him, sobbing, screaming, cunt clenching tight as he chokes you through it —fingers digging in, cock pulsing deep inside you until he curses and spills inside, hips slamming once, twice more as he fucks it all into you.

then silence, just panting. shaking. his hands still on your hips as his cum dripping down your thighs. 

you lay there lifeless but sunghoon has other plans, his hands grip you tightly as he contorts and pushes your body around—moving you from his desk to his chair. 

 you don't know how you ended up like this, but you're tied up in his chair and you're far to fucked out to care. 

not just restrained—displayed. arms behind your back, wrists cuffed tight to the armrests. legs spread open and bent at the knee, ankles locked in place with thick leather straps he probably had custom made.

you can feel his cum leaking out of you and you can't do a thing about it. sunghoon leans back against his desk like he has all the time in the world—black dress shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, eyes drinking you in.

"look at you," his voice is low and cruel. you swallow hard, your cheeks are burning. your chest is rising and falling too fast.

he pushes off the desk and walks toward you, slow.

his fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight, and you twitch, already sensitive, already leaking.

"legs shaking," he murmurs in admiration. "pussy swollen. thighs sticky."

he crouches in front of you, one hand sliding under your ass, lifting you just enough to tilt your hips.

"still dripping," he sneers. "you're disgusting."

your breath catches as he drags two fingers through your folds—slick and soaked and overstimulated—and lifts them to your lips.

"open." you obey mindlessly. 

he pushes them in slow, watches you suck them clean, jaw twitching with how filthy the taste is. "good girl," he mocks. then his fingers drop back down and he spits on your pussy and watches it drips down between your folds, warm and thick, mixing with his cum and your slick. 

you squirm—but the cuffs hold you down, "don't move." his palm lands on your inner thigh, hard enough to sting. then he slides two fingers inside slow, unforgiving—and curls them just right. 

your whole body jerks. "that's it," he breathes. "let me feel it. let me feel this tight little hole try to suck me in." he fucks you with his fingers like he owns you, thumb rolling over your clit. soaking the leather seat beneath you.

your eyes roll back and your moans turn desperate. "sunghoon," you whimper. "please, i'm—i'm gonna—"

he stops and pulls out completely.

you scream, your thighs tremble and your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing. you're left dripping, throbbing, aching for him—and he just leans in, tongue sliding up the inside of your thigh like he's taunting prey.

then he bites, hard.

you cry out and he slaps your pussy in response, watching you twitch. 

he stands back up, looming over you. his hand curls around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes flutter.

"you don't cum," he growls, "until i say you do." you nod, fast.

his free hand drags down the front of his pants—slow. threatening. you're his now. completely. tied to his chair, soaked with his cum, ruined from the inside out.

"we're not leaving this room," he says, leaning in close, "until you've screamed my name so many times you forget your own."

your arms are still pinned, your thighs are still open and your cunt is still leaking.

and sunghoon? he's sitting across from you like he's watching a show. shirt off now. cock out with one hand lazily stroking himself while the other rubs small firm circles on your clit.

you scream. your whole body jerks against the cuffs, hips snapping up, trying to run from the pressure—but there's nowhere to go. he hums, watching the way your thighs tremble, "this is what happens when you act out," he says calmly. "i could've been kind. could've been soft."

he presses his thumb hard against your sensitive nub. you sob out in response, far to overstimulated. 

"but no," he breathes, eyes locked on your face. "you had to shove your tits in my face and moan my name like a fucking whore." you throw your head back, mouth falling open as he slides right against the bundle of nerves that are already so sore it hurts.

you're soaked, ruined, twitching. your legs keep trying to close, but the cuffs won't let you.

you cum again.

you scream—choking on the breath that never makes it out—your entire body jerking, wrists straining, tears spilling.

sunghoon finally moves, he kicks the chair until it swivels toward him, then straddles it—his knees on either side of yours, thighs wide, cock thick and leaking.

you cry in relief until he grabs his cock and slaps it against your overstimulated clit.

you howl in pain, he leans in close, lips at your ear, "don't pass out on me," he murmurs. "you're not done yet."

and then he pushes inside with no warning, no mercy.

just his cock slamming in deep, so deep—you can't even scream, just choke on the cry as your back arches, arms still trapped, legs locked wide open, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

"tight," he hisses. "fucking tight."

he doesn't ease in, he pounds you. the chair jerks with every thrust—your wrists slam against the armrests and your legs shake violently from the overstimulation, he grabs your throat to keep you still.

"cry for me," he pants. "let them hear you beg." you sob. scream. cum again and he fucks through it, groaning deep in his throat as your cunt squeezes him tight and refuses to let go. 

"i should leave you like this," he growls. "cuffed to my chair. ruined. dripping. fucked open and forgotten."

you can't speak, you can barely breathe.

but then he leans in with his mouth pressed to your ear and growls, "but you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

you nod helpless and broken.

"filthy little thing." his hand slides to your face, gripping it—holding your jaw still as he fucks you rougher, meaner, hips snapping, chair rocking, desk rattling behind you.

you cum one last time your loudest scream yet—and he finally groans, curses, slams in deep and spills inside, so hard you feel it throb against your cervix.

silence, just breathing.

just cum, just slick and heat and soaked leather.

you're limp with his cum leaking out of you again. your wrists raw, thighs bruised and your head luls back.

your whole body is twitching. you're soaked. stretched. dripping down the legs of the chair, his cum leaking out of your throbbing cunt in slow, slick trails. wrists raw. 

and sunghoon?he's already tucking himself back into his slacks.

not a glance spared, not a word spoken. just the quiet click of his belt and the sound of your ragged breathing. you whimper—a soft, broken little sound and try to shift, try to close your legs, but the cuffs keep them open. exposed. leaking.

"pathetic," he mutters, adjusting his cuffs. your lips part and you want to speak. to ask if he's going to untie you, if he's going to help you down—if this means anything at all.

but he cuts you off before you can even form the words, "that," he says, voice flat, "should teach you how to behave."

your stomach drops as he walks to the door. he doesn't touch you, doesn't untie you, doesn't clean you up or kiss your cheek or say anything kind. just unlocks the door, turns to look at you one last time—ruined, bound, soaked with his cum and shaking from everything he just did to you.

his expression is unreadable, cold. "next time you walk into my courtroom acting like a whore," he says, "you'll leave in worse shape than this." he pauses, walking back to you and you have a glimmer of hope that he'd untie you. 

but that all comes crashing down when he reaches you and he leans in, mouth at your ear, voice dark and smug.

"court's adjourned, baby."

then he walks out, leaving you tied there, used, aching.

alone.

and still desperate for more.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[kalegreeneyes]

LOOK I WROTE THIS!! EXCITING!!

2024 JegBigBang - Foolproof (E)

Title: Foolproof

Author: @kalegreeneyes , @/kalegreeneyes on ao3

Beta Reader: @calamitoustide , @/calamitoustide on ao3

Artist: @moonydoodlez , @/moonydoodlez on ao3, @/moonydoodle3 on ig

“That is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Remus laughs as he places a wet plate in the drying rack next to the sink. “No, you just weren’t listening,” James frowns, leaning back in his dining chair, legs crossed under the small breakfast table in Remus and Sirius’s kitchen. “Oh, I was listening. You plan on marrying Regulus to prank Sirius. It wasn’t hard to understand what the idea is; it’s just stupid.”

or; what happens when James and Regulus get fake married as a prank and Sirius retaliates by sending them to Mexico together for two weeks.

Check it out on ao3!