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after-witch · 8 months

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Two in the Hand [Yandere Sukuna x reader]

Title: Two in the Hand [Yandere Sukuna x reader]

Synopsis: Sukuna wants to eat you.

Word count: 1000ish

Notes: yandere, threats of cannibalism, mentions of sexual conquests

Inspired by the interaction prompt: Sukuna says he wants to eat you. Reader replies: "Ah, I'm flattered, but I'm saving myself for marriage!"

The dual reactions on Yuji’s--but not entirely Yuji’s--face play out swiftly. Yuji’s cheeks flush a pinker hue at your words, while the mouth currently planted in the center of one cheek curls downward… and then upward.

It’s almost dizzying, the way you’re trying to pay attention to both of them at once. Yuji, your friend; Sukuna, the curse currently lodged inside him, of which you can only see a mouth that has shifted location three times during Sukuna’s diatribe about consuming you.

He means it literally. You realized this early on. Or rather, he admitted it directly without so much as a metaphor when he discussed the best cuts of human meat, the best ways to consume it to ensure best flavor, and the way that he wonders if modern humans taste better or worse than their predecessors.

“You would let your spouse consume your flesh?” Sukuna asks, and Yuji slaps his hand over the demonic lips on his face to silence them.

”Just--” Yuji begins, but he cringes--

The lips reappear on the top of Yuji’s hand, unbothered.

“Answer me, human. Or I’ll eat you right now.”

You almost want to ask him how he plans to eat you when he’s currently a pair of lips, but if Sukuna can make the lips on Yuji’s body speak, perhaps it’s not far off to assume they might be able to tear at your flesh.

So you start to think, and think quickly. You keep your posture meek and you even give a little bow.

"Of-of course, Sukuna." You pause. Should you call him something more deferential? It might help. You've gained the strongest sense that he sees himself as vastly superior to everyone else in the world, human and curse alike. "I mean, of course, lord Sukuna. I'd be happy to offer an explanation."

If only you could think of a proper one, beyond your initial excuse, stammered out because you didn’t know what else to say to such an awful, violent, disturbing threat aimed at you from a demonic pair of lips.

There's a moment of silence. Two, three or four. And the lips on Yuji's hand--still there, despite Yuji attempting to literally shake them off--begin frown again. They’re starting to twist, perhaps to threaten you again, when you perk up.

“It’s just that…” You lower your head in deference again. Yuji quirks his head, but you can see from the corner of your eye that the lips have ceased to curl downward. “Being devoured is the ultimate act of intimacy. And if I’m going to be one with someone forever, my lord, it’s only proper that it’s my spouse.”

You fiddle with the edge of your shirt. “I certainly couldn’t imagine some stranger consuming me, keeping me with them forever like that. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be proper.”

You swallow against spit and the faintest hint of bile, before daring to glance up. Yuji’s gaze goes between you and his hand, until--

Laughter comes from the lips embedded into his skin, low and mean. You can imagine, if Sukuna were in front of you, that he would throw his head back in mockery.

And then, Sukuna says something. It’s not a word that makes any sense, really. But Yuji throws his head back and suddenly, he’s not Yuji at all.

He’s Sukuna.

With black markings on his face and a look in his eyes that makes you want to run. Only then, a thought comes to mind, something your father told you when you were little, and hiking in the woods:

Never run from a predator. It only makes them chase you.

“You’re most entertaining,” he says, while you stand there, open-mouth, trembling like a cold wind has blown through the air.

“Entertaining?” You parrot. You take a step back, and he matches it forward.

“Most humans are too frightened to do anything but beg for their lives, if they even get that far, when I threaten to eat them.”

You force your hands into fists and will them to stop shaking. They don’t.

“I suppose,” you begin, looking downward, partially out of the fear of not showing respect and partially out of the way you hate to look at him. “That most people are concerned with dying when they hear you say that.”

Sukuna’s smile widens into a grin.

“And you aren’t concerned with dying, little lamb?”

This conversation might as well take place on a butcher’s block, you think.And you’re the cut of meat trying to convince the butcher to put you back in the freezer.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to die.” You stare down at the ground. He’s taken another step forward, and his shoes--no, Yuji’s shoes--are in your line of vision. “But that is where the question of… spousal intimacy comes in, you see. With a stranger…” You shake your head, feigning distaste. “It’s simply not proper. But with my spouse, well, I would become one with them in a manner far beyond simple matrimony.” You manage a smile, feeble, but hopefully not too fake.

There’s silence, for a moment.

And then there’s a finger on your chin and it feels like cold steel as it tilts your chin up, and you’re forced to look at him, though you keep your eyes averted.

“Aren’t you prim and proper?” He says, low, teasing. “You know,” he says, taking your chin between two fingers, “it was always the prim and proper ones who came the most undone in the past. They were raised to be so uptight…”

He leans in closer. There’s something awful that seems to come with his closeness, a darkness and heaviness that threatens to pull you down to the ground.

He’s going to kiss me, you think. He’s going to kiss me and then rip open my mouth and chew the flesh and--

But he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he lets go of your chin and takes a step back.

You look at him with what must be the loudest confusion in the world on your face. He laughs, and tilts his head back.

“If we’re to be spouses, I intend a traditional courtship first. Kissing comes later. Wouldn’t that be proper?”

There’s hardly any relief to be felt when it’s Yuji, not Sukuna, looking at you.

“Huh?”

#yandere sukuna #yandere jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #afterwitch writes

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loveinhawkins · 1 year

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It’s the last period of the day, and in his peripheral vision, Steve can see Eddie Munson fighting sleep, elbow repeatedly slipping off his desk.

They’re not usually in this class together; a good handful of teachers are on a ‘field trip’—which had been sold to the principal as an educational experience, but was really an excuse for both students and staff to while away the last remaining days of the semester.

So most classes have become an assortment of students who haven’t gone on the trip, odds and ends who usually wouldn’t cross paths.

When Steve had entered, he saw that the room was sparse, people dotted about the place with no regard to a seating plan—he’d headed straight for a desk by the window, hadn’t even noticed that Eddie Munson was in the seat right beside him until he’d already sat down.

And then it turned out he couldn’t even reap the benefits of choosing a seat near said window. The room was stuffy, unbearably so, and Eddie had beaten Steve to it, actually raising his hand and asking, perfectly politely, if he could open the window.

But the substitute teacher had just sneered and replied haughtily, “No, Munson, you cannot.”

Condescending ass, Steve had thought, and he was almost looking forward to one of Eddie Munson’s infamous diatribes.

But Eddie just wilted in his seat and didn’t say another word.

That’s when Steve noticed that he kept looking down at his desk. There was a piece of paper on there, an end of year test—Steve recognised Mrs O’Donnell’s handwriting making comments in the margins. The top right hand corner was folded over in such a way that just made the hiding of the grade all the more obvious: it was clearly an abject fail.

As Eddie stared at the paper, he started to blink rapidly, and for a horrible moment it seemed like he was going to cry, so Steve quickly looked away.

By the time he dared to look back, it was a quarter of the way through the period, and the heat of the room must’ve been getting to Eddie, his eyelids fluttering as he tried not to doze.

And now Steve’s stuck with a teacher who’s clearly immune to every pointed look he shoots his way. He gets to the point where he’s glaring daggers at the dude—seriously, where does he get off, keeping the window closed just to prove some bullshit point about authority?

Every so often, Steve finds himself catching a paper airplane—what are they, five?—that had been heading for Eddie’s face, made by some meathead junior. Steve either swats them away or, if he’s feeling particularly pissy, crumples them up with one hand, throws them back at the junior’s head.

Eddie’s repositioned his elbow so it’s no longer in danger of slipping off the desk—eyes totally closed now, like he’s accepted defeat.

Steve is too late to catch the next paper airplane as it hits the side of Eddie’s head, and when Eddie stirs, blinking blearily at him, he says, defensively, “It wasn’t me.”

“Relax, Harrington,” Eddie says, yawning, “I know.” He unfolds the paper airplane with a tut. “No structural integrity to this thing at all. You’d give me quality.”

Steve doesn’t think of a barbed comment to reply with, because Eddie starts refolding the paper and uses it as a fan—and it’s not even for a bit or anything; Steve can tell that he’s just genuinely suffering.

Movement draws his eyes to the front of the room; he watches as the teacher makes his way to the door and leaves.

“Thank God he’s gone,” Steve mutters. He stands and lifts up the window as far as it will go, hears Eddie’s quiet sigh of relief as the fresh air comes in.

Steve glances over at the door; the paper airplane-throwing junior has gathered a little group, and it looks like they’ve locked the teacher out. There’s no footsteps or furious knocking yet, so Steve figures he’s got a bit of time.

He jumps up onto the window sill to better enjoy the breeze, stretching his legs and idly looking outside.

He just catches Eddie scoffing, the little aside he makes: “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Steve turns his head to him. “What?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Just… you,” he says.

And it’s said with a kind of reluctant fondness, almost like they’re friends—which is bizarre, Steve thinks, since this is definitely the longest conversation they’ve ever had.

But maybe the approaching summer break has Eddie all sentimental.

“What about me, Munson?”

Eddie gestures at him, as if to say uh, everything, but it somehow doesn’t come across as an insult.

“Just… the way you do things sometimes. Like you’re in a goddamn movie.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Dude, I’m just sitting. Anyone could do this.”

“Nah, Harrington. It’s all in the execution, y’know?”

Steve snorts. “Bull.”

“And not all of us have the hair for it.”

Steve tilts his head, drawls, “Oh, I dunno.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh like he’s been taken by surprise.

Steve turns back to the window. It’s not all that great a view, really, the sun only highlighting the dried unkempt grass around the track. Still, there’s an undefinable something to it that gives Steve pause.

Maybe it’s because graduation is right around the corner. Even just walking down the school corridors feels like a series of goodbyes.

“Hey, Harrington. You heard of mise-en-scène?”

And Steve finds himself grinning at the French accent Eddie slips into.

“Bless you,” he says, just to be annoying, though he has heard of it, remembers it from when they looked at some plays in English. Then overheard it, really, while the aspiring film students fretted over their college applications in the library, and he listened with a jealousy he didn’t care to analyse. “I’m seeing some movie shot stuff here, is all.”Steve looks over again, in time to see Eddie adopt an over-the top trailer voice. “The fallen King—”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“—looks down at what remains of his Kingdom, setting his sights on pastures new.”

A wistful edge creeps into Eddie’s voice, something separate from the theatrics—confirming Steve’s suspicions that he won’t be graduating this year, after all.

“Not exactly pastures new,” Steve says. “I, um, didn’t get into anywhere so.” He shrugs vaguely. “Gotta hold down a summer job and then… I don’t know. Not thought that far ahead yet.”

Eddie seems to consider him. “Nothing wrong with that, Harrington,” he says quietly.

“I know,” Steve replies. Because it’s true; he knows he’ll be far from the first high school graduate staying in Hawkins, working a minimum wage job all summer.

His parents had said as much. But then…

He doesn’t know how to explain that it’s the tone in which they say things rather than the things themselves that sets him on edge. That sometimes just the way they shut doors around him inexplicably prompts a feeling of nausea.

But they’re out of town for the whole summer—already left this morning, thank God. So he’s hardly going to get into all of that with Eddie Munson, of all people. Barely addresses it within himself, honestly.

“It’s just… not really what I pictured,” he says instead. “You know, like…” And maybe Eddie’s theatricality has made him a little bolder, because he looks out at the view, and slips into a brief understated impression with ease: “I'm shakin’ the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I'm gonna see the world.”

When he turns back, Eddie’s lips twitch again, and this time the smile wins. “Well okay, George Bailey.”

Steve smiles back. Shrugs once more. “It’s for the best, really. Means I can keep an eye on—”

And he stops himself, realises he was about to say the kids.

Eddie’s eyes light up with interest. “Oh? So you’ve found someone worth staying for.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice when he adds, “S’awfully romantic of you, Harrington.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Not like that. But… yeah, you could say so. They’re all worth it.”

“Huh,” Eddie says thoughtfully. “What happened to you, Steve Harrington?”

Steve laughs. Shakes his head. “Life. And, uh, got a thump to the head.”

Eddie whistles lowly. “Damn. Maybe I should try that.” He glances down at his test, frowning.

“Hey, come on. Everyone loves a comeback kid.”

“Hmm. Not everyone.”

Eddie sighs and stuffs the test into his bag. As he does so, there’s a sudden pounding on the door, and Steve hears some of the students break out into whispers that are so loud they might as well be shouting: discussing their plan to pin the blame on Eddie for locking the teacher out.

Perhaps it’s the fact that he’s soon leaving high school behind that has Steve viewing all of this with a clarity he can’t remember having a few years ago. They’re just mean, he thinks, just plain mean for the sake of it. Jesus Christ, you don’t kick a guy while he’s down.

Eddie’s eyes dart over to the group. He’s clearly overheard them too, but he seems resigned to it, like he’s got no more fight left in him.

A girl unlocks the door, and the teacher storms inside, apoplectic with rage.

And before anyone can get a word in, Steve says, “It was me. I locked the door.”

He can feel Eddie staring at him. He leans more into his lounging on the window sill, pretends to check his nails.

The teacher’s eye twitches. “And may I ask, Harrington,” he seethes, “what would even possess you to—”

“Oh,” Steve says, faux brightly, “that’s easy. I don’t like you.”

Eddie’s hand subtly rises up to cover his mouth. Steve bites back a grin; he knows a hastily stifled laugh when he sees one.

“Out you go, Harrington,” the teacher says, pointing at the door.

Steve stands up, unbothered. He’ll just ditch, head home early before the dick’s had any time to step out into the corridor and scream at him. That mall’s almost done being built; he could finish filling in a job application for one of the stores there before the day’s out.

He makes sure the window’s pushed up so far that it’ll be more of a pain to try and close it compared to just letting it be.

Then he swings his bag over one shoulder, says in a little aside, “See you, Munson. You know, Class of ‘86 has a better ring to it anyway.”

“I’ll, uh, take your word for it, man,” Eddie says, and he sounds a little taken aback.

Steve glances over his shoulder just before the door shuts behind him, and he sees Eddie’s hand raised in an uncertain wave, like he can’t believe he’s even doing it.

And if you ask Steve, that’s a movie shot all of its own.

#them briefly crossing paths before Everything has my heart ❤️#pre steddie #steddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson

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occamstfs · 2 months

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Ni Hao!NYC

Morally conflicted journalist puts off questions of ethics until it's just too late. Finally assigned to put his name next inflammatory content Sam finds himself more than appreciating Chinese culture.

Various white to Asian Muscle growth and racial change ahead!

Like many, I saw the final pictures on twitter and had to do something with them haha! Ended up with a piece just a tad different than usual! Hope you all enjoy! -Occam

Samuel Johnston knew he worked for a rag but as long as the checks cashed he could afford to mute his conscience. They made money not from sales so much as some rightwing think tank who wants their views affirmed in any way they can get it. So he lays low and pens little puff pieces, avoiding anything too controversial and introduces himself as an accountant to anyone he cares enough to lie to.

He’s quite adept at staying out of sight and mind when it comes to the doling out of any especially charged or problematic issues. Making sure to bury his own work any chance he gets, even using a pen name in case someone accidentally stumbles on his writing. It’s gone well enough so far he thinks! Sam tells himself that really working for NY:Red isn’t that bad, surely it’s even good that he’s got the job rather than anyone who believes the shit they write. Right?

No job is without its problems, he tells himself. So far he’s done a commendable job keeping his nose down with an almost supernatural ability to duck away from bigwigs or management. That is until now as he’s summoned by name to his boss’ side. His proficiency at staying off the radar of management has kept him from a one on one with the man in charge for some time, but now he is sitting on the top floor outside of Mr. Howard’s office, surely waiting to be assigned some horrible project.

“Come in!” Sam hears the surly man shout before promptly stepping into the gaudy office. He’s immediately taken aback as somehow the editor looks almost younger than he does in the many pictures Sam has seen. Sam hides his shock at the man’s jet black hair as well as he hides the general fear and disdain that begins to send adrenaline pumping towards his mind. Mr. Howard doesn't notice at least, getting straight to business, “I can tell from yer writing that ya like the city Sam, can I call ya Sam?”

Samuel opens his mouth to reply but the chief just continues on, “Anyway I love all yer little toilet paper stories but how do ya wanna write with the big leagues?” This time Samuel stays strong and gets a word in before being steamrolled again, “Actually I-” “I’m puttin’ you on the most important case we have Sam. Surely ya’ve noticed all this, what's da word, influx? Invasion? Bah. All the Asian shit that’s startin’ ta creep in on our city’s culture!” Samuel makes an awkward face as despite knowingly working for the racist, it’s different to hear the words out loud.

He holds his tongue out of shock or fear and his boss continues on his diatribe, “The last couple a schmucks I had on the beat just up’n left me high and dry can ya believe it! Old friends I thought!” He grumbles as he scratches his chin, moving away his hand it seems his beard thinned? He shakes his head in irritation and Sam would swear he saw his jowls tighten and wrinkles smooth over. “Anyway kid. Go out and do some prelim research. Have something on my desk by Friday or yer out just like those galoots!” Samuel stands for a second unsure if he’s allowed to leave before his boss looks up to glare with eyes Sam would’ve sworn were blue when he walked in.

Sam rushes out the door and to the elevator, riding it back to his floor, debating between writing a preemptive resignation or keeping mum and keeping on payroll for one last week. Profiteering from a culture war he may be but he’s not about to regurgitate genuinely racist talking points. He taps his foot impatiently as he thinks about just how cushy this gig is though. “Fuck!” He decides to call the only other confirmed decent human being he knows here, his friend Nick who works in the fashion dept.

The two go to grab coffee at a chain next door, Sam tries not to notice how they’ve started selling Vietnamese iced coffee. “Fuck man I can’t do it! Literally just one conversation alone with Howard was a wake up call.” Nick smiles like he has no problems with working for the dirtiest rag in the city, “Chill out Sam. Huward had my manager on the same beat and he, uh, Hidaka said that is said to just look busy for a bit and we won’t need to worry about all this racist shit anymore.” Sam squints his eyes at his friend, he’s not usually so easy breezy about work. He also racks his brain trying to figure out who Hidaka could possibly be. That can’t be his boss. No way Howard would let someone not white lead a department.

Seeing Sam lost in thought Nick reaches out and grabs his hand in a way Sam couldn’t imagine him doing before this second. In fact as the second drags on he stares down in the hand in shock, feeling the warm hand squeeze his forearm. He looks up to his friend’s face searching for any clue to the cause of this odd behavior. Sam smiles awkwardly and half-jokes “Hah hah, uh- Who are you and what’d you do with Nick… Hah.” Nick bursts out laughing, patting him on the arm jovially and leaving a hand larger than Sam remembers resting on his own. “Hidaka-san just showed me how to worry less about this job un?”

Sam inspects him closely for anything amiss, it looks like he’s picked up a bit of a tan? His hair is messier than usual and definitely a little darker, his skin is alluringly smooth and Sam can feel the heat his body is generating despite sitting across from him. Looking at his clothes Sam finds another surprise, his shirt almost looks strained! As if Nick has been hitting the gym for sometime, maybe it’s just been a while since he’s seen his friend in person?

Assuaged in the slightest, Sam ignores the glowering red flags and follows this lede, “Woah Nick have you been working out?” Nick blushes and Sam at the very least sees his friend is as shy as ever. He goes to scratch the back of his head straining his shirt almost to its ripping point as he responds, “Ah a little haha! どうぞ(please) don’t you worry about me. Since you have no desire to write the article, why don’t you go ahead and check out the little Asian market down the street for fun? It was quite a good time when Hidaka-san brought me earlier this week!”

Sam awkwardly smiles as he wonders why on Earth Sam is suddenly referring to his boss like this, it’s almost like he’s performatively speaking Japanese. Taking a second to pause Sam looks at the haircut as hands unseen style it into something fashionable he puts two and two together. Thinking to himself, ah! Nick must just be a weeb! Tension disappears from his body with a sigh of relief as he wonders how he didn’t notice before now. He gets up to follow his friend’s advice, what better way to stick it to the man than support the people he aims to malign right?

He bucks up and grabs a Vietnamese iced coffee for the road, tossing a “Sayonara,” at Nick with a wink to which he perks up and slightly bows. Man, how did he not notice before Sam thinks yet again. Blissfully unaware, leaving just as kanji symbols appear on Nick’s keyboard and his friend responds to an email in a language he didn’t know this morning. Blue eyes growing coal dark as his tanned, increasingly muscular arms tap away at the keyboard.

Sam spends the bulk of his day at the little Asian street fair and has an absolute blast. Any residual stains on his mind from his unpleasant morning absolutely fade away as he goes from booth to booth sampling cuisine and chatting with diasporic cultures the world over. Time flies as he goes into journalist mode and basically interviews first gen Chinese immigrants about their time in the city. He finds himself beyond immersed in the conversation, continuing to learn from the couple as the tables around them begin to pack up for the day.

He offers to help the older couple pack up and they happily take the aid, striking him bashful as they talk of what a sweet young man he is. “Wa! 哇强 (strong) Too!” The wife chuckles as she jokingly feels his less than impressive arms. He was having a better time at this little fair than he ever could’ve imagined, enough so that he thinks about going to stick it to Huaward then and there. Huaward? Whatever. His mind slightly off put by whatever that was, in an uncharacteristic act of transparency, Sam lets it slip that he works for NY:Red. The expressions on the kind couple’s faces immediately sour and Sam is quite shocked that they even know what the paper is.

There is a glint in the husband’s eyes as he starts to motion Sam away from any further aid, “谢谢 (Thank you) for your help, Sam. There have been a few, hm, bad men wandering around from that paper and I uh-” He looks around his table and grabs some miijiu they hadn’t put away yet. His wife nods, her face somewhere between rueful and hopeful as she watches her husband offer Sam the glass. “Again, 谢谢, er thank you for your help young man, enjoy this for the road 好的? (Yeah?)” The two turn to each other and begin talking to each other in mandarin alone and Sam takes the hint.

Kicking himself that he fumbled the capstone on such a pleasant afternoon, though finding solace in the rice wine he’s walking away with. He is blissfully unaware as the couple watch him drink and head down the street debating if everyone from that paper really is an asshole. Grimacing as they think about the vitriol spewed at them by NY:Red readers they decide they had no other recourse. Pleasant as he seemed Sam was consciously working on the side of hate and that could not be simply overlooked.

Sam quite enjoyed the rice wine the couple left him with, it immediately smooths over any lasting regret or concern about his interaction with the couple. They don’t know anything about him! He’s nothing like his other coworkers. It feels as if he’s had far more to drink than the small container they left him with should allow, but every time he looks down there always seems to be more mijiu to entice him. It would be impolite not to finish their gift he thinks; his confident stride quickly shifting to a stumble as he wanders home.

His phone goes off as he gets an email from his boss, Mr. Huang? Can’t be right. He squints at the email, deciding he must really have overdone it on the mijiu and stuffing his phone back in his pocket. Beyond the obvious difficulties in ambulation being drunk, Sam is unable to notice as his proportions slowly begin to shift. His ever-so lanky body begins to feel dull and heavy as the warmth of the wine fills his chest to capacity and then some as he leans against his apartment door, wiping his feet on an unfamiliar doormat.

He kicks his shoes off by the door on some new instinct and immediately goes to collapse on the couch. His small sofa creaking as he puts more than his usual dead weight on it. His legs that usually hang off the end lengthen even further as his thighs grow meatier. Pecs press into the cushions as he snores. He is swiftly ushered into an unfamiliar dreamscape, the jubilee of the fair and the bewildering amount of wine he drank produce a vivid carnival of culture in his subconscious.

He sees the old couple at their stand and begins to speak with them in their mother tongue, seeing the delight as a load is taken off their shoulders. His dreamself seamlessly conversing with a fluency unearned. Sam stirs in the waking world as his mind existentially changes to match his morphing body. His blond hair grows thin and longer as its tint stains darker. Twitching in REM the green eyes that he prides himself on speckle with brown before they are entirely overtaken, becoming a rich cacao like the thick eyebrows framing them.

The discomfort of a new language forcing itself into this memory begins to wane as he prides himself on how fluent he is in both Chinese and English. His hand goes to scratch his pecs and he smirks in his sleep as they pulse larger, knowing pride is not the only thing surging within him. At the edges of his mind he feels the memory of learning a language, words written on a blackboard in chalk, English and Chinese both. For the life of him he cannot recall which of the two he’s learning second. An alarm set on his phone blares and he jolts awake to get ready for work.

Throwing on a shirt, Sam freezes as he sees his reflection. Hundreds of little questions seize his mind, those aren’t his eyes are they? Did he dye his hair last night? Are those abs? God his arms look good don’t they!? As they race through his mind and grow rampant they fixate on how attractive he suddenly feels. Rubbing his pecs and feeling them bounce he cries out to himself, “该死！Uhhh, Damn I look good!” He poses in the mirror and takes in every new angle of his powerful body. Taking note as his body hair seems thinner, and decidedly darker wherever it remains. He looks close at his pit seeing his once dense bush of curly hair thin out and straighten, before the memory of even having dense body hair is washed from his mind.

His phone goes off again and his work is immediately brought to the forefront of his mind. “Fuck I didn’t read Huang’s message!” He finds email after email from his boss, only the first few mention the wretched assignment they last talked about. Sam’s eyes widen as he continues to skim through the emails as the topic lines quickly show some drastic re-prioritization from his boss. Only then does he realize that he’s been reading his boss’ name as Huang. His boss is white. Rather his boss’ whole identity is based around being white! Huang isn’t, right? Incredibly he clicks the last email, subject line Vacation, and is immediately greeted with a mouth watering picture of a powerful man. Everything comes to a stop as he can’t help but gawk at this man’s body.

Ni Hao Sanuel- take the day off shi de? Still only half dressed Sam balks at just how bizarre this is, rereading the name Sanuel he is thrown for a loop as his mind reconfigures this. Tearing his eyes from the man’s torso he finally looks at the cocky face and sees a thread he recognizes, “天啊! (Holy Shit!) That’s Mr. Huang!” He shuts his mouth before he drools like a dog at his boss’ arms. God, this is unlike him though right? He tries to dig through his memories of the editor in chief as the caustic racist he was yesterday, but with each uncovered the image of Huang changes as this dreamboat playboy overrides more of what was.

Sanuel readies to just stay in for this day of assigned vacation before he gets another notification, this time from his friend, Nobu? An image of Nick flashes through his mind, a handprint burns on his arm, and the taste of Vietnamese coffee dances on his lips. “Meet me on the boardwalk うん？” Sanuel rolls his eyes at his friend tacking on Japanese like that, willing his mind not to think about how his friend’s contact ID now says Nobu. Must be one of those, uh, his own thoughts trail off as he successfully abandons concern to head to meet his friend.

Nearing the meeting spot he looks for his usually cleancut friend, the only body present however is a massive Japanese man awkwardly flexing at himself in a reflective surface. Sanuel shyly speaks up, “Ni Ha-, uh Hey? Have you seen a guy named Nick around here?” The apparent bodybuilder beams and goes to engulf Sanuel in a hug shouting, “Oi! Shan! took ya long enough!” His eye twitches hearing the name, as this man effortlessly lifts him off his feet in a hug far too intimate for colleagues, and certainly from whoever this stranger is!

Shan pushes against the massive man, his body heat broiling him on this already warm day. He strains his eyes looking at the man grabbing him and suddenly it hits him, “Nobu?” The man promptly lets him go and pats him on the back with a laugh he would’ve never expected to come from his sheepish friend in the fashion department. “Wanna go have some ice cream or something Shan?” He feels the need to push back against his friend calling him Shan but as he hears it a second time he can’t recognize the names as anything but his own.

Shan pauses as he sees Nobu stop to chat with some Japanese tourists and something about the picture doesn’t sit right. God it’s that talk with Huang getting him all worked up again that,uh, racist? He clutches his head as contradictions between his past and present collide in his head and he slams his eyes shut as he cannot determine what is true about his current reality. Shan falls to the ground with a deep thud, slightly hyperventilating, his body grows larger as he takes deep breaths from the stress.

Hearing him collapse Nobu runs over to help him up, this time with more effort as his friend’s comatose body continues to put on muscle and grow heavier. Still, having the impressive figure he does, Nobu rather easily gets him on a bench and sits next to him, “クソ野郎？(Fuck dude?) You alright?” Shan slowly nods as his friend throws an arm around him. Looking down at his own arms as they pulse with muscle, he feels his eyes strain as the structure of his face begins to change.

Shan's jawline sharpens and his skin smooths. Stubble that has been a cornerstone of hiding his facial blemishes vacates as his hair stains black and flops longer. He feels clarity grace his mind as he stares at large hands on the ends of pale, hairless, muscular arms and he wonders if he is even himself.

He voices these concerns to Nobu who just laughs them off. “Hah! Of course dude, same Shan I’ve always known!” “那- that’s not my name Nobu.” His friend grins shyly in concern for his friend's mind. “It can't be my name. I’m-” grimacing before he continues as it takes everything in his power to speak against the realities in front of him. Memories of a world quite far away, moving to New York long ago, the youngest in a family of Chinese immigrants, “I’m white aren’t I Nobu?”

Nobu can’t help but laugh again at the beyond bizarre statement. He jokes about Shan hitting his head when he fell. “You’re the most 2nd Gen Chinese わるがき(brat) I know bro! Imma go get us some ice cream while you chill out.” Shan stares at his friend as he abandons him, feeling his eyes tighten as they shift into the monolid eyes that his memories swear he’s always had.

Shan retreats into his mind racing against his changing memories to find a pillar of truth to grasp on. He sees himself at the gym with Nobu, his black mop of hair flicking sweat into the air as he poses with his bro. He sees just yesterday at the Asian fair, helping an elderly couple pack up their table, twitching as he would’ve sworn that went differently. He remembers sitting at the office getting no work done as he plays on his phone, 是的！that’s it! His job. There’s something there, if only he can remember what the problem was there.

He sees Nobu begin walking back with sweet treats, Nobu works at the paper too. Oh 呃/Duh! He smirks as he goes for his wallet to grab a business card. His eyes see the obnoxious red logo he knows before they read text that will send him irrevocably forward, Shun Jiang - Ni Hao!NYC. His body fills with warmth like a machine overworking as his mind races with information about his new reality. Sweat drips from his hair as he can no longer even struggle to recall his claimed existence as a bystander at the vile paper they produced. His brown eyes steep to a dark black as they glaze over.

“Shan-baka! Here’s a popsicle!” Nobu shouts as he returns to his overheated friend who immediately bursts from his stupor. “混蛋!(Asshole!) It’s Shun- thought we were close!” Nobe smirks as he starts to eat his own ice cream. Unable to recall anything too in depth he feels a pause as he wonders what his Japanese friend is doing working for a Chinese newspaper, before he answers it himself. Clearly his subconscious is more at place in whatever new reality he faces. Their paper is for all NYC’s Asian immigrants. Nobu works writing, or more often modeling, for Konnichiwa!NYC! Huang really was a genius for the idea.

Shun smiles, thinking fondly of his boss as he enjoys the short break from the summer heat that Nobu brought him. Back at the headquarters of their paper everything shifts from the rag it was and into a paper connecting the disparate Asian immigrants of the city, printed in any language they can find translators for, Ni Hao, Konnichiwa, Annyeonghaseyo, Namaste!NYC. Each day striving for a better, more inclusive New York City. Shun beams with his new face, no longer burdened with the just concern of his peddling vitriol, instead possessed with a desire to spread his culture far and wide.

———————————————————————————

As I was writing I remembered a similar series by the now gone Dumb-and-Jocked!

If interested do check out Horizon Zero: One, Two, and Three for quite a different take on a journalism themed Racial Change!

#male tf #muscle tf #racial change #race change #mental change #language change #masculinization #male transformation #cultural change #personality change #reality change

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tightjeansjavi · 1 year

Text

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐃𝐨 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐫.𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫?

Joel Miller x f!reader

NSFW🔞

A/N: this is a result of my post gym ✨horny✨ thoughts. I love to think that Joel can be a whimpering mess, every now and then. You’re welcome ♡ ♡ ♡

Summary: You get jealous seeing the women in Jackson throw themselves at Joel. You decide to give him a gentle reminder of who he belongs to.

~word count : 4.3k~

Warnings: smut with no plot, established relationship, sub! joel, feral/dark! joel, soft! joel,needy! joel, possessive joel! is going to tear you apart! joel, dom/brat reader, unprotected p in v (wrap it kids) oral receiving (male) fingering, light choking, knife play, teasing, edging, light bdsm, consent, consent, consent, nicknames, praise kink, cockwarming, cream pie, cum eating, cum play, uhhh yeah a whole lot of filth! Not much else to say! (+18) MINORS DNI SERIOUSLY THIS IS STRAIGHT UP PORN.

Songs used:

“Freak” by Doja Cat (just trust me on this one y’all)

“Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge

“…Ready For It?” By Taylor Swift

“No Good” by KALEO

“Dinner and Diatribes” by Hozier

You never considered yourself to be a naturally jealous person. You had no reason to be. The people of Jackson knew well enough that you were Joel’s lady, and he was your man. You never had to worry about getting hit on at the Jackson bar, or while on patrol, because no one dared to even look at what belonged to Joel. The women of Jackson? They were a little more ballsy than you thought.

You knew your man was handsome. Hell, he was fucking beautiful in your eyes. You’d see some of the single women, and even some of the happily taken women, fawn over your man.

Could you really blame them? He was definitely a sight for sore eyes. You’d watch them touch his arm, laugh at something he’d say and that’s when your jealousy began to bubble deep in your gut.

Didn’t these women know Joel belonged to you? Did he remember who he belonged to? Perhaps you needed to give him a gentle reminder.

Your man had arrived home late one night after being on patrol. You could hear his heavy boots from where you stood in the kitchen, you heard him mutter under his breath about his bad back as he hung his rifle up alongside yours. Joel was currently looking forward to a well deserved, hot shower and a good cuddle with you, his lady. He knew however that something was off because you never would leave the lights off. You kept them on usually on the nights you knew he would be getting home late.

He called out your name.

“Baby? You down here? Where are you, my sweet girl?”

He heard your soft footsteps padding from the kitchen and then your face appeared soon after. He wasted no time to grab you by the waist and pull you flush against his chest. “Hi honey, I was just waiting up for you.” You softly spoke while draping your arms around his neck. “How was it out there?”

“Mmm. Hi Sugar. Why were all the lights off? You usually keep ‘em on for me. S’alright out there. Long fuckin’ shift, and all I could think about was comin’ home to you darlin’.”

You gave him a sweet kiss, gently playing with the ends of his hair through your fingers. “Yeah, baby? I’m sorry it was a long shift. Are you tired? Here, how about you sit down? You’ve been on your feet all day.”

Joel kissed you back immediately while he tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you in as close as he physically could. “S’alright. Feet and back are fuckin’ killin’ me though, sweet girl. Is Ellie home?”

You slowly pulled away from the kiss, sliding your arms down from around his neck and brought your hands down his chest. “C’mon i’ll take care of you, okay? She’s at Dina’s. They’re watching a movie so we’ll have the place to ourselves all night.”

“You had me at we’re gonna have the place to ourselves all night darlin.’” a chuckle vibrated up his chest. “Did ya have somethin’ particular in mind baby?”

You unwrapped his arms from around your waist, grabbing his hands as you brought him into the dining room. “I knew you’d love the sound of that Joel. Go on, take a seat honey.”

He raised an eyebrow in your direction as he tried to gauge just exactly what it was that you were up to. When he took too long for your liking, you placed your hand on his chest and firmly coaxed him down into the chair.

“What’re—”

He was cut off when you had climbed into his lap, straddling his hips while you brought his arms behind the chair, holding his wrists together firmly.

“Shhh. You trust me, right baby? I just wanna take care of you. Treat you real well but first, I think you need a gentle reminder of who you belong to.”

Joel’s eyes had immediately widened when you ever so casually climbed into his lap. His own frustration began to bubble when you brought his arms around the back of the chair, preventing him from touching you. “Course I trust you honey. Whad’ya mean you need to remind me who I belong to? Baby, I belong to you. You and I both know that.”

“Do the Jackson women know that you belong to me? I see the way they fawn over you Joel. You think I don’t notice? They practically fall to their knees when you’re around.”

Joel chuckled, leaning his head back against the chair with a smirk on his lips. “Do I sense a bit of jealousy in ya? I see the way they act around me sugar. I don’t pay ‘em any attention. Don’t need to when I’ve got you. By far the prettiest girl in town. Can confidently say I am one fuckin’ lucky man.”

Joel was too focused on you in his lap to notice that you had pulled a strand of thick rope from your pocket. He barely felt you tie his wrists together behind the chair, till it was too late.

“Yeah, you are one fuckin’ lucky man, Miller and you better remember it.”

He let out a strained noise from his throat when he realized you had successfully tied him to the chair and his eyes narrowed in on you. “Fuckin’ minx. You really just go and tie me to the damn chair?” He let out a low growl.

You were the one smirking now as you leaned in close to his face, your lips nearly touching his. “I did baby, I told you I’m going to take care of you. Just trust me on this okay?” You spoke in a sickly sweet tone.

Your words traveled down his neck, past his thighs and settled beneath his jeans where his cock had twitched slightly. It didn’t take much to get your man going and you were pretty proud of that.

“So you tied me to the damn chair? You gonna punish me, sweet girl? You got it in you to do that to me baby?”

You brought your fingers around his throat, tipping his chin back slightly as you brushed your lips over his, taking his lower lip between your teeth, biting down on the soft flesh as you tugged it out. Your actions elicited a low groan from his chest.

“Oh, I think you and I both know I’ve got it in me baby. You gonna be a good boy for me, or are you gonna be difficult?”

You quite literally stole the air from this man’s lungs. All the blood was draining straight down to his cock. God, you were so filthy and he loved every second of it. “I’ll be a good boy for you darlin’, only if you promise to give me your worst.”

His pupils darkened as he looked up at you, desperately wishing he could fucking touch you as he pulled against his restraints on his wrists.

“I promise you I will, baby.” You cooed and his eyes nearly rolled back into his skull.

You dragged your fingertips along the thin skin of his throat as you leaned down over him, bringing your lips to the shell of his ear, kissing the skin right below. It was the spot that you knew drove him crazy. “You let me know if it’s too much and you wanna stop. Okay honey?”

He felt a shiver run down his spine from your lips along his neck. “I know darlin’. I got you, you got me.”

Your relationship with Joel had been built around trust, and consent. It was important to you both, and no matter what the situation was between you, consent was always at the forefront.

“Good boy.” You whispered against the shell of his ear as you reached into your pocket and pulled out a blindfold.

His jaw went slack as you tied the fabric around his head, covering his eyes from your view.

“You’re about to fuckin’ ruin me, aren’t you baby?” He rasped out, feeling his senses on overdrive now that he could no longer see you.

“Gonna do a lot more than just that, honey. You just sit back and relax. I got you.” You pressed another kiss to the spot below his ear before you slowly dragged your lips down his neck, nipping and biting at the thin skin as he hissed under his breath, turning his head to the side slightly so you would have better access.

You dragged your sinful tongue down the expanse of his throat, you could feel his pulse quicken as your fingers began to expertly undo the buttons on his flannel, exposing his skin to the warm air as you let your fingertips trace down his collarbones, brushing over his nipples as they descended down over his navel.

His stomach went taut under your soft, feather light touches. He had sucked in a harsh breath as his cock twitched in his jeans once more. “Baby, please. Don’t fuckin’ keep me on edge like this honey. Please, I’ll be a good boy, just like I promised.” Your man begged you.

You popped the button off his jeans and tugged the zipper down. Offering him a brief moment of relief as you tugged his jeans down over his broad thighs, listening to the fabric fall down his ankles, and settle above his boots.

His breath hitched in his throat when your fingers lightly brushed over his growing bulge in his boxers. He was so big, so thick, the fabric was straining and could barely hold him.

What you did next? Completely through your man for a loop. You had unsecured your knife from your holster, dragging the edge of the blade down his chest, over his navel. The coolness of the metal against his hot skin was a delicious combination.

He tugged on the restraints hard, the chair scraping on the old hardwood floor when the edge of your knife dragged across his covered bulge. Your man fucking whimpered.

“Darlin’, is that your knife baby? What’re you gonna do with that, huh?”

You kept the edge of your knife lightly pressed against his bulge. You could feel his thighs quiver beneath you, and his cock twitch once more as you leaned in, and whispered against his ear, “Who do you belong to, Mr. Miller?”

He let out a string of curses past his plush lips, stuttering over his words as he was already a whimpering mess beneath you and you had barely touched him. “Yours baby. I’m all fuckin’ yours. All yours.”

“Good boy.” You hummed as you removed the blade from his covered bulge, placing it down on the table before you wasted no time to free him from his constraints. Watching his cock spring up against his stomach. The tip was leaking with precum, all thanks to you and your filthy words. Your mouth was already salivating for a taste of him.

He could no longer feel the weight of your body on his lap. He heard the chair scrape slightly as you got down on your knees in front of him. He wanted to fucking see your pretty face, your irresistible eyes on him, but the fabric on his eyes, blinded him from experiencing that pleasure.

“Gonna have a taste of you now, okay baby? Dying to have one.”

“Fu—fuckin’ hell darlin’ you tryin’ to send me to an early grave talkin’ like that—“

He lost his voice the moment your pretty lips wrapped around his aching tip. You swirled your tongue against the veiny head, collecting his precum with ease.

You dragged your lips and tongue down his thick length, feeling him twitch again as he let his whimpers flow through his lips freely.

“You taste so sweet, honey. What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue baby?”

Joel growled frustratingly as he gave the restraints another good tug but they wouldn’t budge and he was completely at your mercy.

“That’s my fuckin’ line darlin’” he groaned.

“Yeah?” You hummed against his length, letting your fingers grasp his balls, giving them a little squeeze. “Well, now it’s mine. Deal with it.”

“You little—”

You had wrapped your lips back around his tip, slowly sliding your wet, hot mouth down over him, as you slowly began to bob your head at a delicious pace.

“F-f-fuck—darlin’ that pretty little mouth of yours is gonna be the death of me. Not gonna fuckin’ last long like this.” He groaned while bucking his hips up slightly, desperately wanting more.

You brought your free hand, that wasn’t playing with his balls, around his thick thigh. You sank your nails into his skin, dragging them downwards as he let out a hiss, digging the heels of his boots into the floor.

You could feel every ridge, every vein against your tongue as you continued to suck him off, your teeth lightly scraped against his length as his tip hit the back of your throat. You knew how to take him well, but there were still tears pricking in the corner of your eyes. You fucking loved having his cock shoved down your throat like this. You loved the way he whimpered out your name, just from your mouth and tongue wrapped around him.

“Fuck—fuck baby you gotta stop soon, please! Fuck. I’m seein’ stars right now. Takin’ my cock so fuckin’ well in that pretty little mouth. S’pretty, just for me.”

Your throat tightened around him slightly as you held him there for a few moments, nearly gagging around him before you slowly lifted your head up, releasing him from your mouth with a pop. You had saliva dripping down your chin that he would have absolutely loved to see, along with your pretty swollen lips.

He heard your own jeans start to be taken off as he listened to the fabric hit the floor with a soft thud as he anticipated your next move on him.

“Where’d you go, darlin’? Can’t feel ya anymore..you better not be fuckin’ leaving me down here tied up like this—”

You had sank back down into his lap, your covered, aching cunt brushing against his swollen tip as you let out a low hiss from the friction. “Mmm. I’m right here baby. I wouldn’t be that cruel to leave you tied up like this..don’t give me any ideas though, okay? Not finished with you yet.”

He let a whine slip past his throat when he could feel your cunt rub against him, as you rolled your hips into his slowly, eliciting another frustrated groan from him, and an eager moan from you.

You reached your hand up, untying the fabric from his eyes and tossed it to the side, his eyes were immediately locked on yours, his jaw clenched so tightly, he could cut something with how sharp it was.

“You gonna fuckin’ let me touch you baby? Or not yet? Gonna keep me on the edge? Fuckin filthy little whore you are. M’so fuckin lucky.” He whimpered.

You brought your fingers through the back of his hair, gripping it tightly as you yanked his head back, rolling your hips into his once more. “Do you think you deserve to fuck me right now, baby? You think you deserve to fill me up with your cock? C’mon, answer me.” You demanded

Joel’s jaw went slack at your words as he swallowed hard. You were something fucking else entirely and he was at a loss for words.

“I’ve been a good boy, haven’t I baby? C’mon, sweet girl. Let me fill you to the fuckin’ brim. Please. Please. Please. Want to feel your warmth around me so fuckin’ bad. Give into me darlin.’ Take me however you fuckin’ want.” He rasped.

He watched as your hand slid down between your bodies, pulling your panties to the side, revealing your slick pussy to his greedy eyes as you dragged your fingers through your arousal. Swirling your fingers against your clit as you kept your eyes locked on his. “Bet you wish you were touching me right now, huh baby? I’m so fuckin’ wet for you. Don’t you wish you could have a taste? Mmm, your fingers do a much better job than mine.” You purred, wasting no time to slip two of your fingers inside, pumping them slowly on his lap. “I’m so fucking tight, Joel. Don’t you wanna feel me baby? Feel how fucking tight I am for you.”

Joel frankly had enough with your teasing. He nearly had drool dripping down his chin as he watched you with hooded eyes. He watched your fingers, slick with your own arousal, disappear inside your tight cunt. The squelching sounds of your wet pussy had his eyes rolling back as he kicked the side of the table with his boot, frustratingly.

“Goddamn you. Fuckin’ filthy. Look at you fuckin’ yourself on my lap. Fuckin’ should be my fingers filling you up right now. You little minx. Do I have to fuckin’ beg you? Your pretty little pussy is fuckin’ purring for me baby. You gotta let me out of these things, please baby. I’ll do whatever you want. Just please fuckin’ let me touch you.”

“No.” You spoke sweetly, between moans. “Keep fucking watching me Joel. Keep watching me fuck my pretty little pussy.”

“You are so goddamn lucky that you tied a fuckin’ good knot. Gonna fuckin’ ruin you when I get out of these baby. Just you fuckin’ wait.” He growled. He was unable to tear his gaze from your fingers fucking yourself, even if he tried. He was absolutely intoxicated with you.

You slipped your fingers out of your mouth slowly, they were dripping in your arousal as you brought them up to your lips, licking them clean right before his very eyes as he kicked the side of the table once more.

Your man was absolutely feral.

You grabbed the base of his cock then, dragging his tip against your slick folds, his arousal and yours mixing together. When you finally, sank down onto him, he let out the most delicious fucking sound you had ever heard. The mix between a groan, and a whimper as you sank down to the hilt, bringing your arms around his neck. “Filling me up so good already, baby. See what happens when you’re a good boy? You get rewarded.”

His breath hitched in his throat when you rolled your hips into his. He could feel every inch of you slide around his cock, and just as you started to get into a rhythm, rising and falling over his thick length as your walls gripped around him deliciously, the rope around his wrists snapped, falling to the floor.

His hands were on you before you even had the chance to open your mouth. You were positively fucked.

“Now, it’s my fuckin’ turn.” He had immediately grabbed ahold of your hips, roughly pulling your chest flushed against his as he fucked into you, his balls slapping against your ass while his nails dug into your hips harshly. “You fuckin’ like that baby? You naughty fuckin’ girl. Hope you enjoyed your fuckin’ little game while it lasted baby.”

His lips were attacking every inch of your skin, between your neck, collarbones and breasts, he was absolutely ruining you with his mouth. nipping, biting, sucking on your tender flesh as he fucked into you, drinking in your moans around him as you let him finally have control, not that you had much of a choice. You knew it was only a matter of time before the restraints would snap.

He had grabbed you from your ass, lifting you up onto the dining room table, while still buried deep inside of you. He brought your legs over his shoulders as he fucked into you, with your back firmly planted against the table.

When you had reached down to touch yourself, he smacked your hand away, grabbing both of your wrists and slammed them down above your head, holding them down with one hand. “No.” He growled.“You don’t get to fuckin’ do all of that to me and then think that you can touch yourself, baby. You’re mine now. You fuckin’ got that? All. Fucking. Mine”

“Joel—fuck! Please baby, I was only having a little fun! Please, are you going to let me cum?” You whimpered, tugging your lower lip between your teeth as you looked up at him with those eyes that would send any man’s knees buckling.

Joel let out a deep chuckle, using his free hand to close in around your throat, his thumb pressing against your windpipe as he leaned down, bringing his forehead against yours, drinking in your moans as his lips crashed into yours, your teeth and tongues clashing together. It was a rough, heated kiss. One that was absolutely scrambling your brain. “You think you fuckin’ deserve to cum? You think you deserve that?” He mumbled into your lips, holding you completely captive beneath him.

Your breath was caught in your throat as his thumb squeezed along your windpipe slightly, just enough for you to feel it. The pain, mixing with the pleasure, you fucking loved it.

“Please, Joel! Please let me cum, baby! Don’t you want me to coat your cock? You gotta let me cum otherwise I can’t—”

He slammed his hips into yours, knocking your back against the table, stealing the air from your lungs. “What was that? Sorry, sugar. Can’t hear you above the sounds of my cock tearing your pretty little pussy apart.”

You let out a choked sob when his tip had hit the spongy spot inside of you that had you seeing stars. Your body was beginning to tremble beneath him and you nearly cried when you finally felt his thumb working your clit to the very edge.

He had released your wrists just so you could wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, and sink your nails into his skin, he knew how much you loved that.

“So fucking close, Joel! So close! Thank you baby, thank you!” You praised him.

Both of your bodies were slick with sweat as his thrusts began to grow uncoordinated and sloppy but despite this, he was still working his thumb over you, stumbling over his words as he groaned out your name.

“That’s it, my pretty fuckin’ filthy girl. Gonna cum around my cock? Gonna coat me? Wanna see you leaking out on the fuckin table when I’m through with you. Think you can handle that honey? Wanna see my fuckin’ cum drippin’ out of that pretty little pussy.”

It didn’t take long for either of you to hit your impending high. It crashed around you, sending white hot pleasure up from your core and through your whole body, Joel shuddered above you, as your pussy milked him of every last fucking drop. He kissed all over your face, praising you for being such a good girl as he gave one last deep thrust, before collapsing on top of you.

This is how it always ended. Joel buried deep inside of you while he grew soft, yours and his cum leaking out of you, while you would cradle him against your chest, running your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.

The post orgasm calm was your favorite part undeniably. You loved the lazy, sex stained grin your man would give you. God, he always looked so pretty after a proper fuck. He’d kiss you slow, deep, letting his tongue slip into your mouth while your fingers would gently scrape against his beard.

“I wanna see more of that in the future.” He mumbled into your lips, kissing you languidly.

“Yeah? You liked that?”

“Fuckin’ loved havin’ you take control like that baby. Do it whenever you want, kay?”

You let out a soft giggle, pulling away from the kiss to get some air as he let out a small whine, he wasn’t ready to stop kissing you just yet. So instead, he let his lips kiss all over your face, your cheeks, chin, nose, your eyelids. He couldn’t get enough of you.

“I will definitely be taking control more often, baby. I can promise you that.”

“Good.” He hummed, pressing one more kiss to your nose, lightly nibbling on it before he slowly slipped out from your warmth.

“We made quite the mess together honey. Dripping all down the fuckin’ table.” He chuckled, dragging his finger through your cum mixed with his, before he licked his finger clean, shooting you a wink.

You sat up slowly, your heart beat had returned to normal as you watched your man with a small grin as he collapsed back into the chair, kicking his boots off along with his jeans before he gathered the pile of clothes up into his arms to take them to the laundry room.

“I fuckin’ love you, you know that?”

“I know you do, Joel. I love you too.”

He leaned down over you, kissing you sweetly once more. He left to drop the clothes off in the laundry room before he grabbed a towel. He was always big on after care so you laid there, waiting for him.

He gently wiped between your thighs, and then the table before he was scooping you up into his arms. He helped you wrap your legs around his hips as he carried you upstairs, smiling to himself when he could feel your thighs tremble, all thanks to him.

One well deserved hot shower later, and you and your man were curled up in bed together. You were the big spoon tonight because you know how much he loves to be held by you.

You were his lady, his girl. He was your man. Your fellow, your guy.

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multiverse-menagerie · 4 months

Note

Hey! I am not sure if your requests are open, but I would love to see you write following concept.

Astarion, Gale, Halsin (maybe more of six if you feel like it) with reader that falls asleep during their flirting/infodumping/obligatory night interaction because they're just so drained from all the fights and adventures.

Sponsored by all the times I stood on the long rest after 8 hour session only to be assaulted by all the flirting and friendly interactions

Thank you for your marvelous writing 💛

under a cut bc it a bit long 😘

Astarion

You had offered to help Astarion do some research on the Necromancy of Thay, so the two of you were sat side by side in his tent. You’d both been poring over books, offering comments to one another when pertinent. Mostly Astarion was soaking in the contentment that came from being at your side, his shoulder brushing yours.

…until you suddenly sagged against his side. Your fall was enough to wake you, blinking wildly as you tried to remember what you were doing.

“Am I really that boring?” Astarion said, plucking the book from your lap. He sat is and his book to the side.

“No, no, I just-“ You cut yourself off with a huge yawn, quickly throwing a hand up to cover your mouth, as if to hid it from Astarion. He rolled his eyes (playfully) before waving a hand at you.

“Go on, put your nightclothes on and go to bed already.” He shooed you off. He did the same so when you were ready he was already lounging in the bedroll. You pile up beside him, still heavy blinking, and offer him your neck.

Astarion freezes for a moment. This has become somewhat of a routine for y’all, sure, but he’d never seen the exhaustion catch up with you as it had today.

“Are you kidding me? You’re about to keel over as it is, one bite may do you in.” Astarion sneered. (He cares but he’s he’s trying to play it cool. He’s not very good at playing it cool).

“What a way to go.” You respond, words slurring together as you tuck your head against his shoulder.

Gale

Gale hadn’t exactly meant to go on a long winded diatribe about some sort of magic y’all had encountered earlier in the day. The two of you were sitting at a low table in your rooms, books and papers across it. You asked an innocuous question but Gale took off with it.

You were interested, don’t get me wrong. But a full belly and long day, paired with Gale’s voice was just the recipe for you to start dozing off. Gale notices after a few minutes of total silence from you is broken by small snores. He glances at you in surprise.

Your head barely held up by your hand, mouth half open (and definitely not drooling). Gale carefully nudged you awake.

“I will take it as a compliment that I can put you to sleep so easily.” Gale teased. “But you should’ve told me you weren’t up for a conversation.”

“I wanted to try.” You reply, rubbing a hand over your face.

“We can call it a moderate success, I think. You did better than most who listen to me ramble.” Gale helps you to your feet, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

“Mmm, if I get in bed, will you talk me to sleep again? Since you’re so good at it.” You teased him, though clearly just trying to convince him to stay with you.

“Ah, I suppose I can sacrifice my own bed in favor of yours.”

Halsin

When you’d returned to camp, just about dead on your feet, Halsin had insisted you sit while dinner was sorted out. He pressed a small mug of tea into your hands then when to help Gale cook. Scratch and the owlbear cub cuddled up to you immediately, as they always did whenever you sat down in camp.

He kept his focus on cooking, so when he headed towards you, he was a little surprised to see you completely passed out. You were leaning heavily against the owlbear cub and the mostly drunk mug of tea dangled dangerously from your finger tips.

Halsin plucked the mug from your hands, setting it to the side. He nudged you awake, grinning warmly as you blinked blearily at him.

“Dinner’s ready.” He said as he sat down beside you. Rather than hand you your plate though, he picked up a piece of veggie and held it out to you.

“I can feed myself.” You try to argue, but Halsin just raises an eyebrow at you.

“I know.” He replied, but kept the piece of food held out. You sighed and reached to take it from him but he pulled it out of your reach. You sigh more dramatically but open your mouth, letting him plop the piece in there while he seemingly ignored the blush on your face.

“I believe it’s your turn to relax. If you’re good and eat it all, I may even turn into a bear and join in on the cuddling.”

#astarion x reader #gale x reader #halsin x reader #baldurs gate 3 x reader #did i accidentally imply Halsin praise kinking a bit who knooooows #:)

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cradle-quill · 22 days

Text

Surrender, an ABDL Story by CradleQuill (18+)

Disclaimer: All content is fictional, consensual, and intended only for mature audiences. All characters depicted are adults aged 18+ _

Daniel stopped typing and looked up from his manuscript. His eyes wandered to Isabelle, who sat at the other end of their shared table, supposedly chipping away at her latest work project. Her brow was stuck in a permanently furrowed state, and she was massaging her temples as she stared down at her computer screen. She had been at this for hours now. Every so often, a burst of inspiration would hit, and the sound of her acrylic nails tapping away at her mechanical keys would fill the room. Those bursts would not last, though. Before too long, Daniel would notice that the sound of his girlfriend working would disappear, replaced with a suffocating silence that lingered throughout the air, threatening to choke the life from him if he dared say a word.

It had been over thirty minutes since inspiration had last struck, and Daniel knew Isabelle was hitting her wall. He also knew she would be reluctant to admit as much. He looked back to his writing and saw he had hit his word count for the day, so he leaned back and took a deep breath. Daniel eyed Isabelle as he wondered if she was paying attention to his movements.

“You know, honey,” Daniel said with a hitch in his voice. “Maybe it’s about time for you to take a break. Relax for a bit and see if the solution comes to you.”

Isabelle shut her eyes, looking annoyed. She let out a hefty sigh. “I can’t take a break yet. I’m on the clock for another three hours, and I need to finish this by the end of the day.”

Daniel carefully considered his next words. He knew how she got when there were stakes involved, especially when those stakes involved her boss, Jim. He also knew Isabelle had a penchant for building these things up in her head and assuming the worst. “Do you actually need to finish this one today, or is it more so that you’re going to be mad at yourself if you don’t finish it?”

Isabelle shot two twin daggers for eyes at him, and he immediately got the memo. He leaned forward, and in his mind, he debated whether he wanted to continue speaking. In the end, his gut told him to keep going. “You know, honey,” he began, his voice as gentle and soothing as light rain tapping on a window. “It would probably be easier to get a lot more work done if you gave your mind the chance to rest. You don’t want to overwork yourself and fry those thoughts before they come to fruition.”

“And what would you know about that?” Isabelle snapped back. “It’s not like you work an actual job, anyway. I have deadlines, Daniel. People expect me to finish things by certain times, and I’m already behind as is. So please, lay off and let me handle it.”

By the time she reached the end of her little diatribe, she was nearly out of breath, huffing and puffing out of anger. Her cheeks were bright red, but they faded to a lighter shade of pink once she realized that her temper had gotten the better of her. Daniel just sat there, staring at her. There was no judgment in his eyes, not even pain. Isabelle struggled to read him, but as best she could tell, he was unbothered, though also very serious.

She knew she ought to apologize, and part of her even wanted to. It was the mature thing to do. Even if she had a point, she went about expressing that point in the absolute wrong way. At the same time, she could feel that another side of her, a more stubborn, petty side, had latched onto this little spat and decided it was unwilling to move an inch. While she sat there in her purgatory of mind, Daniel stood up from the table. She watched him close his laptop and wander over to where his coat was hung up next to the door.

“Daniel, wait…” She clambered out of her chair and onto her feet.

“Not another word.” Daniel’s tone was stern, but it held the same underlying gentleness as his earlier words. She knew he meant it. He did not want to hear another word escape from her lips, and as hard as that stubborn side of her tried to fight it, she managed to hold it back and keep her mouth shut. She couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. Instead, all she offered was a nod.

“I’ll be back soon. I won’t be long,” Daniel said before pulling on his coat and leaving through their apartment’s front door. On his way out, she heard the pitters and patters of his boots as he trailed down the stairs to the parking lot.

Minutes passed, and Isabelle had still not returned to her work. Her heart was nearly in her throat. She knew she had messed up, but she hoped it would not be as bad as it seemed. Daniel said he would not be long, and Isabelle would just have to trust that. He wouldn’t just leave her there, all alone, over one fight. If you could even call it a fight. It was more like a temper tantrum. She could hardly call herself a stressed out adult who had been snippy. It was more like she was a spiteful adolescent lashing out at a parent. It reminded her of her teenage years, and for that she felt deep shame.

When another few minutes had passed, and Isabelle still could not get her mind off of things, she forced herself to look back at her computer screen. Sitting there doing nothing would not help. At least if she got some work done, it would be a serviceable distraction until Daniel returned from wherever he had gone off to. He probably just went for a walk to clear his head, Isabelle thought. She hoped it was nothing more than that.

After around another thirty minutes, the familiar sound of Daniel’s boots trudging up the stairs to their apartment rang through the building, and Isabelle let out a sigh of relief she had been holding onto since the moment he left. When he returned through the door, Isabelle noticed something under his arm. Whatever it was, it was double-bagged in two white grocery bags, and she could not make out any signifying labels from beneath the coat of white.

“What’s that?” She asked, but Daniel did not answer.

“Come with me,” was all he said before making his way through the halls and into their bedroom. He had that same tone from earlier, the one that refused to be bargained with, so Isabelle did as she was told. She stood up from the table and followed him into their room, where Daniel was making the bed. He had opened their closet door and pulled out a black leather riding crop, which now sat beside him on the nightstand.

“No, absolutely not-” Isabelle said, but Daniel cut her off.

“You will not take that kind of tone with me. You know better than to speak to me that way, and you know better than to insult me.” He finished making the bed, ensuring it was nice and level for her to sprawl out on. “You also know that I was right about you needing a break. You would never have snapped at me like that if you weren’t so stressed. Now, be an obedient girl for me and lay flat on your stomach.”

Isabelle squirmed where she stood, clenching her legs together and trying not to show how obviously wiggly she was. Deep down, she loved when he got like this. She found him so… irresistible when he took charge. “I-I don’t think now is the t-time…” she trailed off, unable to finish her own thought. Her thoughts seemed to get lost somewhere along the way from her mind to her mouth, disappearing before she could bring them to life through her words.

Daniel simply ignored her. He wore that same unphased demeanor from earlier, and somehow, that made him seem even more threatening. With the crop and sheets all prepped and ready, he bent down and opened his mysterious package, revealing a large bag of disposable diapers, the kinds for little kids who still wet their beds.

“Absolutely not!” Isabelle declared. Her voice was forceful and unwavering. Yet when his eyes met hers, hers darted away. She could not hold his gaze.

“I’m not asking. Lay down on the bed, take your spanking, and then I’m going to put you into something more appropriate for the way you’ve been behaving.”

“I’m not… wearing that.” She folded her arms and gave her best pout.

Daniel turned to face her, not speaking for several seconds. Each subsequent second felt longer than the last, and with each one that passed, Isabelle felt her knees getting weaker, ready to give way. After a full minute of silent stillness, Daniel suddenly approached her. He got right up in her face, forcing her to stand at attention just to avoid him running into her.

Their faces were mere inches apart when he said, “I have seen your BDSMTest results. I know what you’re into. I know how you like to be treated.” He paused just long enough to let her mouth fall open, and for a breathless gasp to flee from her open lips. “You have a safe word. Use it. Or don’t use it, and lay down on the bed right this instant.”

Isabelle could not believe what she was hearing. Even less could she believe her legs started inching their way forward without her permission. Daniel was right. She had a safe word, but she did not utter it. Before she knew it, she was crawling onto the bed, sprawling out over it. Daniel came up from behind her and gave her a forceful push, slamming her stomach onto the bed as she let out a reluctant moan that refused to be held back. A familiar wetness dampened her inner thighs.

As she tried to compose herself, to gather her thoughts which seemed to float around aimlessly in the sea of her mind, there was a sharp sting against one of her butt cheeks, and then the other. The sound of the slaps came first, with the pain settling in whole seconds later. By the time she felt the pain from one, Daniel’s crop was already onto the next. She desperately clung to her physical presence, to keep herself grounded within the moment. She was an adult, a grown woman, someone who was self-sufficient and well adjusted. Except, she wasn’t any of those things.

With each strike of the crop, those illusions, those lies that she told herself, they disappeared bit by bit, until they had faded into nothing more than memories just out of reach. All that was left was herself. Her true self, the one she kept locked away where no one could see. In mere moments, Daniel had beaten it out of her. She could hardly even feel the pain anymore. Instead, it was as if she were floating in the middle of the ocean, with no land anywhere to be found. Or perhaps she was soaring through the air, diving between the clouds, with no rules or expectations hoisted upon her shoulders. She was free. In her bondage, in her submission to him, she was free.

When the spanking was finished, Isabelle’s bottom was bright red and sore. The earlier marks were even beginning to turn purple as her skin bruised. She just laid there, her mouth agape, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Daniel grabbed hold of her and pulled her into his embrace. “There, there, little one. It’s all over. I’ve got you now.” The sternness had left his voice. Now, there was just that same old gentleness, like the first autumn breeze of the year.

She sobbed into his shoulder, and all the while, he held her and cooed at her. He rocked her gently, careful not to exacerbate the pain coursing through her bruised bottom. Once she had settled down and centered herself right there in his presence, in his dominance, he laid her down on the bed. She went limp, ready to let him do whatever he pleased with her. However, Daniel did not take her as she thought he would. No, instead, he ripped open the package of Pull-Ups and slid one over her feet and up her legs. Isabelle’s hands shot up to her face to hide her humiliation, but the childish gesture only served to make her seem more helpless and infantile.

With little effort, Daniel hoisted Isabelle up and pulled the glorified diaper snug into place. She had to admit; it wasn’t so bad. The padding was soft against her princess parts, and the way the garment hugged her hips made her feel swaddled and protected. She was safe. Safe in her Pull-Ups and safe under Daniel’s thumb, right where she belonged. She needed it. She yearned for it.

Daniel wrapped her in his arms once more and laid her head on his chest. He rocked her gently, humming a soft little tune to soothe her. Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself relax, finally. For the first time in longer than she cared to remember, she was at peace. All her worries and concerns had drifted away, and despite her sore bottom and weakened pride, she could not help but smile.

“There’s my girl,” Daniel said. He aimed his own soft smile down at her, and as she looked into his eyes, she did not find disdain or malice there. Instead, she found only wordless comfort and reassurance. “I think someone was extra fussy today and needed an attitude adjustment.” She blushed even more furiously at that.

“D-Daniel…” Isabelle’s meek voice chirped out like a baby bird making its first call.

“Yes, my love?”

“I’m s-sorry… for what I said… and the way I said it.”

“I know you are, sweetie. I know you didn’t mean it. You were stressed, and you lashed out. Little girls do that from time to time.”

“N-no but… I’m serious. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Hush, little one. I know you’re sorry, and I know you’re being sincere. I’m telling you it’s alright, that you don’t have to apologize. You don’t have to do or be anything right now. You can just sit here in my arms, and you can just be my little girl, if that’s what you want.” He gave her the kindest smile anyone had ever given her, and in that moment, the last of her reservations gave way. “That is what you want, isn’t it, baby?” All she could do was nod.

That night, she drifted off to sleep in her boyfriend’s arms. Come the next day, she wouldn’t think of him as her boyfriend at all anymore. Instead, she would see him as her Daddy. And by the time she woke the next morning, she would find herself filled with a sense of undeniable bliss, and a new sensation altogether. One of thickness and absorbency between her legs. One that would go on to define the rest of her life to come, and the way her Daddy would look at her as his good little bedwetter.

THE END _

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ddreamywitch · 2 months

Text

Chapter One - Dinner and Diatribes

knight!benjicot blackwood x princess!reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: benji is (hot and) bothered, probably inaccurate depiction of knighting ceremonies

song: Dinner & Diatribes - Hozier

a/n: I only fleetingly proofread this, please excuse any mistakes <3

prologue

It is a swelteringly hot day.

Humid, stale air presses down upon the kingdom, torturing anyone who dared to venture to so much as lift a finger.

Weather like this is not made for exciting endeavours.

In fact it is made for remaining in a shaded area, or within the castle walls or in the cool waters of the sea, but you are not granted any such indulgences today.

Your handmaiden, Marion, winces at your gasp for air. “I am sorry, princess. Would that I could spare you this, but a lady of your status simply cannot leave her chambers without a corset.”

You smile at her reflection in the mirror. “It is not your fault, dear. I shall suffer the confines of a corset, just as the common folk suffer their afflictions. ‘Tis but a small price to pay for a lavish dinner.”

Marion returns your smile but it does not look at all convinced, rather than dread-filled.

She does know her princess well, after spending many years in your service and loyally devoted. She knows when you are happy and she knows you as you are now, which is decidedly unhappy and yet determined to convince your surroundings of the opposite.

Marion does not understand why you always are so insistent upon these matters, she figured you might be a little less ashamed to be honest with your handmaiden, who had seen you bare after all.

But Marion also does not understand how hard it is to be outwardly emotional after being taught over and over, for years and years, that you may do nothing but smile tepidly and sit prettily.

You let her finish the lacing of your corset and briefly you clutch the back of your vanity chair. “God be good, that I might survive in this merciless warmth,” you mutter through a haphazard giggle.

Your handmaiden directs your gaze at your dresses. “I have picked out your simplest gowns, princess, should you think them fit for the occasion?”

A knighting ceremony has never happened in the time she had worked for you.

Or they have, but you were simply not the one to be doing the knighting, so the question of the wardrobe did feel rather overwhelming, with nothing to go off of.

Your head tilts slightly to the side as you take them all in and though you can feel your heart, in your now uncomfortably squashed ribcage, scream out for a thin and modest dress, you know deep down that it would be much better to wear something more precious.

To your knowledge, a fair share of the nobles were to attend this little festivity.

A sigh escapes you and you shake your head. “Might you fetch me the gown with the flowers embroidered? I do believe the king would like me to make a good impression upon our visitors tonight, it would be about due time that he attempted to convince me of marriage once again.”

This time Marion’s smile seems genuine, at the light ridicule of your father. “I shall see to it, princess. In the meantime, I think Ser Rodrick would like to bid you his goodbyes.”

You cannot help the pain this causes you. The notion of having to part ways with your former knight did not sit well with you at all.

Your robe drapes around you and the door creaks open.

Marion is always impossibly quick and quiet. She flits through the castle not much unlike a little mouse and you do not even know in which moment she leaves.

Whereas Ser Rodrick with his ever imposing silhouette was not ever subtle.

Your gaze meets his in your mirror and you think that you could weep right then. He seems to share this idea.

“I wish I were but a few years younger, princess, so that I could remain by your side a little longer.”

There is a thick clot in your throat, so thick that you may choke on it. “You’ve performed your duties beautifully,” you say, fighting tooth and nail against the tears threatening to spill.

Slowly you turn to face your sworn protector.

A man like Ser Rodrick, you found, is hard to come by. His kindness and honour seeks its match and after the many years together, he had long transcended his position and become more of a confidant, dare I say, friend instead.

He had known you from a sticky, wild childhood, through the years of your growth until now.

Long gone is the babe he was sworn to protect, with its clumsy movements and relentless howling, replaced by what you are now; the realm’s delight, a fair young woman, grown into the shape of a dedicated princess.

He bows his head down. “I shall miss you dearly, princess.”

Your laugh is a watery, wet thing. “Oh, you shall not. I will write you many letters. Your retirement shall not be as peaceful as you think, my good Ser.”

The setting sun reflects in the shine of his armour, a chest plate painted hues of gold and orange in this light. It bears the sigil of your father’s house and it heaves now with his heavy breathing.

“Your brother has asked me for guidance on who to pick and I put forward the youngest Lord Mormont. A northerner with a northerner’s honour.”

You nod, fingers fiddling with the belt of your robe, fiddling to find the right words now but they do not come to you and so you remain silent.

There could not be a good replacement for your knight, how could anyone ever understand you again, the way that Ser Rodrick had.

“Child, do not fret. I am away from court, not from the world,” he says. “And I shall reply to your letters with great pleasure.”

“How come you are not to be at the ceremony? Should my old protector not be there to see me off to my new one?”

Rodrick shrugs. “It is the way of tradition. I will be dismissed by your father and leave the court in mere moments.”

It is unfair really, it is almost embarrassing to you, to insult Rodrick and have him retire, like an old horse, as though he is no longer a capable fighter.

It had come as a bit of a surprise to you as well, not much of a warning of any kind had been given to you, before your father informed you not even a week ago of this rather drastic change.

The thought that you were to share every waking moment with a stranger bothered you relentlessly.

You cross the room quickly, manners and protocol thrown to the wind as you throw your arms around your knight’s neck.

It is awkward and tense, his iron and steel exterior boring into your soft flesh, but nonetheless he does not pull away, offering you comfort the best he can.

You are the third born child of the king, and though it was undeniable how popular you were at court and with the smallfolk, your father did not care much.

You were not an heir or a spare, you simply were there and as you bent and broke yourself to garner his attention, it was Ser Rodrick who would look down at the flushed cheeks you so often donned as a child and impose his gentleness on you.

As you grew you found yourself wondering how much the blood in your veins meant, what it mattered that the king had put you into your mother’s womb, when it was somebody else who you found yourself in the care of.

“Oh dearest, your mother would be so overcome with delight at the sight of you today,” he whispers when you finally pull back, one large rough hand on your shoulder. “What a marvellous person you’ve become.”

The hurt and love in your heart intermingle and threaten to burst through its seams. The gripping force in your neck does not fade and so, to the best of your abilities, you inhale a deep breath.

“You must visit soon, Ser Rodrick. Whenever you’ve grown sick of spending your days lazing about,” you attempt at a jest.

He shoves at you a little bit. “And you must remain out of trouble. At least for a few weeks.”

You huff. “I am nothing short of a saint.”

“You are,” he says. “You truly are.”

You dare not let the tears spill from your eyes and you dare not look into his, where you are sure you will find the same sheen as in yours.

“I must go, but rest assured a piece of me remains with you.“

In the most royal demeanour and grace you can muster, you curtsy to him. “I am indebted to you forever, Ser Rodrick.”

He kisses the back of your hand, unmarred and soft against his, not a speck of dirt beneath your well-kempt nails. “Farewell for now.”

You do not wish to say farewell and so you do not. You would see him again after all, at least on your birthday, you would certainly see to it.

Silently you watch him leave you behind and though you know that you are not truly without protection, you do wonder who else at court would ever be so honest and gracious with you again.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You regret not having given into your desires, the moment you put on this wretched ball gown.

Though the sun is almost entirely gone now, its force still lingers in the air and you think you may be strangled by it.

With great urgency you cling to your wine chalice, about the third pour deep in hopes of ridding yourself of your sweaty discomfort.

It was a wonderful gown, a pale green shade, its bodice and hems embroidered with rosy flowers. The king always liked you in these distinctly girlish dresses, the perfect picture of an obedient and compliant daughter.

He sits to your right, drunk and distracted by his latest mistress next to him.

Lady Cathcart, a notorious sinner, as many liked to say.

Marion had once told you that Lady Cathcart was an expert at fellatio. You do not know what that means, but you assume it could only be of immoral nature.

Bile rises at the sight of them, unapologetic and public shame brought to your mother’s memory.

You avert your eyes and redirect them to your brother next to you.

His attire clashes with yours, a dark purple, not at all youthful and much more suitable for the heir to the throne. He looks just as annoyed as you feel, though you’ve gone to great lengths to hide it.

“Tristan?” You tap your chalice against his.

He breaks out of his reverie with wide eyes. “Sister.”

“When is the ceremony to begin?”

With nervous eyes he scans the room. It bustles with gowns and nobles and servants. “Not much longer,” he somehow ascertained through the sight of this. “Why do you ask?”

“I would like to be excused for a few moments,” you explain and your brother does not question why.

He was often a very crass and forward young man, but he did harbour a certain softness to his younger sister. With the wave of a hand he gives you permission and you do not wait any longer, your chair screeching across the floor immediately.

Fingers curled around your skirt layers, you make haste for the gardens, lest you fall unconscious before you get there.

It was too late to change your dress now, so the sweet solace of the royal gardens would have to serve you as an opportunity for a breath of air.

Air that wasn’t stained with the ladies’ expensive perfumes or the intense spices of dinner.

Air that wasn’t tainted with your father’s misbehaviour.

Your breathing had become quite laboured and you cursed the extravagance of your family, especially now, as your gown had become your body’s prison.

Guards open the doors and the moment you are out of prying eyes you drop into the grass beneath you.

It is no longer soft and ticklish, the way it had been a few short weeks ago, in the wakes of spring. The harshness of summer had turned it coarse and mean against your exposed arms.

It is not very suitable to lay around on the ground like this, but the stars above are spinning and you feel you could have died if you spent a moment longer upright.

Lord Mormont, you think to yourself. A very quiet man, your senior by a few years. You had only spoken with him fleetingly and never about anything of great interest, to either of you, you assumed.

It leaves you wondering whether he would become this constant distanced force in her life. Not only a protector but also somebody who would keep her in line.

In your many years with Ser Rodrick, you had worked out a rhythm with him. You had gotten used to one another and therefore, after so many hours spent together, a strong foundation of trust rests beneath your friendship. He had never chastised you for your shortcomings as princess, he had let you venture outside the castle walls with Marion and had not uttered a single word to your family.

You’re not sure that Lord Mormont would be so tolerant. Northerners were notoriously serious about their duties, he does not seem like the type to take lightly to things like this.

With your face turned upward to the moon and your mind racing, you do not hear the approaching footsteps until it is too late.

A face leans above you.

The young man has a crooked sort of look to him, not as princely as the faces you are accustomed to.

A scar graces his lip, accompanied by a bend in the slope of his nose.

Princes and noblemen rarely carried traits like this, he looks rather common.

Right now he also looks at you, rather confused.

“Looking for anything down there,” he teases as heat shoots into your cheeks, more than the high temperatures had already caused.

You sit up, fumbling to straighten your appearance at least a little bit, the rash movement sending you back into your previous state of low-level vertigo.

The man does not think to offer you a hand and you are once again taken aback by his…commonness.

“What is a lady like you doing, tumbling around in the gardens at night?”

His hands land on his hips.

Maybe he was the stable boy of one of the Lords that were visiting.

His clothing reveals no sigils to you, a simple black attire with a red cape.

No, he could not be highborn.

“What, cat got your tongue?”

Your eyes widen at the realisation that you are simply sitting there, not speaking.

“I felt a bit faint,” you explain. “Would you offer me a hand, young man?”

His brow raises a little but he extends one to you anyways.

Like Rodrick's, his hand is witness to hard labour, again a stark contrast to yours.

Unlike Rodrick though, he grips you with more force, all but yanking you upwards. Nausea brews in you.

“I thank you,” you mumble. What a queer young man.

He is more brave than a servant, to address you so haphazardly.

He grunts in lieu of a real answer.

“Tell me, what’s this place like? Seems like a fucking shitshow so far.”

It clicks then. He does not know that you are the princess. He thinks you to be of a lower house. It would make sense, with the position he found you in but your appearance surely does not speak to that of a lower house.

Men are always so indifferent to these details, they do not realise their worth.

You clear your throat. “Well, the royal family is rather kind. And there are many feasts and festivities held here. It can be quite interesting,” you say.

He shakes his head. “´Course you’d say that,” he mutters just beneath his breath.

You cross your arms. “What do you imply?”

“You capital people are all the fucking same. Insufferable flatterers.”

It is not often that people speak so frankly to you. You are not sure whether that might be why his words offend you or because he is simply wrong.

“I am no flatterer.”

His nose scrunches. “Yeah? You’ve never seen the princess and doused her in compliments? Never made eyes at her boring brother?”

“I would have you know that her brother is not boring and the princess is a very humble person. She does not care much for feigned niceties.”

“Sure. Whatever you say, birdy.” He lets the name roll over his tongue like it is a term of endearment, delicious and something to relish in.

Now you take a step back. “Watch who you are speaking to, you fool.”

He does not seem troubled by your reaction, lets one hand run through his wild dark hair. “And who is that?”

“A lady. You would do good in learning the pillars of chivalry.”

He laughs, bitterly and full of sarcasm. “Oh trust me I know chivalry and I know it well.”

The garden feels different now, charged with an energy you could not quite put your fingers on. He seems an iresome lad and you decide that you needn’t handle such treacherous behaviour displayed in front of you.

What a fool he is, to speak so lewdly of your family in the very heart of your father’s kingdom.

“Well then, you should learn to mind your tongue. This is no place for words as yours,” you spit and once more grip the skirts of your dress. “I shall bid you goodnight.”

He does not do the same, you think you even see him roll his eyes before you turn your back to him.

It is the curse of manhood to always think they have a right to something. It is what leads them into violence and wars and their own demise.

Women are not troubled with such foolery, women are taught to keep their mouths shut and they hold the wisdom of listening in high regard. It is why they always know the secrets of the castle before any of the Lords hear of it.

You cannot help but shake off your head at this rude intrusion of your peace, this imbecilic attitude.

He would learn his lesson soon enough, he would not make the same mistake unscathed with any other courtiers.

Before you enter again you reach into your hair, checking to see whether it had fallen apart in your short time on the ground, but Marion is too good at her job. Despite hours of dancing or riding or windy weather, it seems that no hair falls amiss no matter how intricate or complicated the style.

A blind man could have picked you out as the princess, you are sure of it.

Huffing and puffing with anger, you drop back into your seat next to your brother, willing this god-forsaken day to finally come to its end.

Your brother ushers a servant to refill your cup. “Are you quite alright?”

“I think my corset is laced too tight and my closest friend has left the city but other than that, I am splendid,” you reply, a misdirected hit of venom toward your innocent brother.

He nudges you with shoulder. “Are you not excited about meeting your new knight? I’ve heard great tales of him.”

You shake your head no and gulp down the sweet wine in a hurry. “I cannot imagine.”

“What? He’s more a myth than a man.”

Liquid goes down the wrong pipe and you nearly choke. “Mormont? In what world?” You ask, entirely incredulous.

Tristan’s eyes widen. “Father has not told you?”

Your eyes tell him to be honest with himself. When has their father ever given you the graciousness of staying informed? He hadn’t even told you of your mother’s death, leaving it to your oldest sister to do so. It does not come as a surprise that once again you are left in the dark about matters that directly concern you.

“It is not Lord Mormont. Father attempted to create peace in the Riverlands,” Tristan begins to explain.

An odd feeling of dread creeps into your bones. “And?”, you inquire, voice taunt but before your brother manages to get out an answer, your father rises.

He is drunk, he sways softly from side to side and you can see his Lady Cathcart’s fingers curl around his leg in an attempt to keep him steady. The room falls quiet, eager to hear their monarch speak.

Insufferable flatterers, the young man pierces your thoughts again.

Some bit of skin is pinched, right beneath your breast and it sends a sharp pain down your side when you straighten your back once more, harsh enough to leave you distracted.

It is odd, you cannot seem to find clarity today, your thoughts distant and flimsy, like water in your hands.

“A special honour shall be bestowed on one of you young lads. The honour of protecting the sanctity of our kingdom's delight, my beloved daughter,” King Alexander boomed, the slightest hint of slur to his words.

Polite claps follow suit and beneath the table you begin to twist the rings on your fingers.

“Now, our council has given great thought to our choice and we are certain that we have picked the most suitable man in the kingdom, for his reputation exceeds him.”

Whispers flood the room and it takes much of your self-constraint to not take your brother’s hand like a little child.

“Benjicot Blackwood, shall be sworn in, in our midst, tonight.”

Bloody Ben.

Tristan is right. There’s many tales to be told of the heir of Raventree, none of which have anything to do with knighthood and to you, all of them are terrifying. A man like that to watch over you with hawkeyes.

You would have much preferred the stoic Lord Mormont.

You swallow thickly.

“My dearest shall knight him herself.”

Your father has not looked at you yet, perhaps he does know that he will face nothing but contempt. He is a drunkard but he is a king and perhaps even a good one and it does take at least somewhat of a brain to be one.

You blinked, once, twice and then you smiled—a practised smile, not much alike to a real one—and got up.

The lightness in your head leaves your periphery blinded, but you have learned after many years of life under the watchful eyes of the nobility, to not stumble, no matter your state and with graceful steps you walk around the table reserved for the highest ranks.

Well, and Lady Cathcart.

Your knees bend very deeply before your father as his sword slices the air.

Nobody thinks to keep you up to date, but nobody needs to tell you about things like this. The manners and the conduct of behaviour at court are ingrained into your brain.

You do not have to be told when to bow or when to rise.

The sword is heavier than expected, it quivers a bit in your hold when your father passes it across the table to you.

It’s gorgeous, with engravings along its blade, flowery gardens, lush hills, stormy seas, it shines in the candlelit hall.

The grand doors creak upon and you cannot bear it any longer, you whirl around, all dizziness ignored, impatient to see the legendary bloody Ben.

At the end of the path he stands, simple black clothes, dark red cape and crooked nose.

Your jaw drops, only by a little.

From the distance parting you, you can’t be certain but Benjicot Blackwood looks about as surprised as you.

He shouldn’t be surprised, you think, he should be worried.

The sword is still awkward in the gip of both of your hands, but the face you make is practised.

Marion had once compared it to Rodrick’s steel armour.

It takes the man a torturously long time to finally reach you, each step dragged as though something was pulling him the other way.

He looks at you, like he wishes to challenge you, but he kneels, not with poise, moreso dropping before you like a sack of potatoes.

Through strands of hair he peaks up at you and it is a funny little turn, you wonder what you must have looked like looking up at him in the garden

Solemnly you clear your throat.

“ Wilt thou, upon this day, pledge thy fealty to the House Aprikate, and stand as a Knight of the Crown?” Your voice drips with an authority that feels strange on your tongue, an unfamiliar power vested in you.

“Yes, your grace.”

You almost feel bad for him, it does not seem so honourable to be kneeling like this, head firmly directed down, so clearly beneath you for everyone to see.

“Doth thou wish to abandon thy self, and be sword and shield for the sake of the greater good?”

This time he pauses a little longer. “Yes, your grace.”

You lift the sword from where you hold it against your mid, slowly and pray to god and all his saints that the tremble of your hand is not too noticeable.

With much tenderness you touch upon each of his shoulders.

“I do hereby dub thee, Benjicot Blackwood, knight of honour. May your courage and devotion become a shining example throughout all the land.”

And so it is done, your chest constricting and heart writhing within. You cannot say what it is that pushes you over the edge, but you see the way he looks at you, as though you have damned him to hell on earth.

Something jolts down your spine and finally your arduous work of remaining composed unravels, darkness cloaking your sight.

A gasp reverberates, mayhaps yours, but you are unconscious before your body tumbles to the ground.

#benjicot blackwood imagine #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot x reader #davos blackwood #asoiaf #hotd #benjicot blackwood #house of the dragon

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fanfic-obsessed · 9 days

Text

Smitten

I had this idea for a JayTim that I want to share.

Obviously there is no canon here, for the record.

In addition we have a version of Jack and Janet Drake that do love their son, they just have a really bad grasp on age appropriate supervision and activities. They honestly believe that a nine year old can be left alone with only a periodic check from a housekeeper (Also they are aware that Tim leaves the premises almost every night with a camera, they also believe this is a reasonable activity). Like the very embodiment ‘they’re confused, but they got spirit’. Believe me when I say this will be relevant later.

We are also bringing Jason and Tim’s ages just a hair closer together. This starts with Jason being 14 and Tim being 13, at the annual holiday Wanye Gala. This particular time Jack, Janet, and Tim are in attendance.

It starts with some boorish rich asshole, a little too drunk and being stupid about it, making an insulting comment about Janet Drake, heard by Tim. Now Tim loves his mother, and does not appreciate this man who insulted her.

Thirteen year old Tim verbally eviscerates this man, his voice an icy even tone that everyone around recognized from Tim’s mother Janet. Tim’s diatribe of insults and threats leverages this man's secrets, his fears, and insecurities that he didn't even realize he had. Ten minutes in, this man begins to cry. Just the complete, public, destruction of a middle aged rich drunk by a tiny thirteen year old. The Drake family proceeds to exit after Tim winds down, never looking back (it was later in the evening anyway).

Jason, standing off to one side next to Dick, falls immediately and completely in love. Smitten through and through. The first words out of his mouth, after the Drakes leave, is ‘We’re going to get married on that boy’s 18th birthday’. This was heard by just about everyone present. Jason did not even know Tim’s name yet.

By the next morning Jason has used the BatComputer to discover that his future spouse is named Timothy Drake, he lives next door, and that he is 14 months younger than Jason. At breakfast Jason very seriously, though a touch maniacally, tells Bruce that he would be marrying Tim when Tim turned 18, and that before that point they would be telling Tim about their ‘nightlife’ on the grounds that “we should not start our marriage off with secrets”. Jason magnanimously told Bruce that he had until Tim was 17 to get his feelings under control about the reveal (to give a full year before the wedding, in case Tim needed an adjustment period or Jason needed to win him back).

Bruce is already very tired.

Jason finds any occasion to seek out Tim Drake, to get to know his future spouse (the entire time Jason Mantra-having gotten some good advice from Alfred about becoming friends with and maybe dating Tim before anything else-is ‘Don’t start talking about the wedding, don’t start talking about the wedding’). Also every piece of romantic knowledge/flirting knowledge that Jason has comes from the regency era/Victorian era romances he reads.

Tim, for his part, believes that Jason (Tim’s Robin and crush) has figured out that Tim knows Robin’s identity and is trying to subtly figure out how much Tim knows and what he is going to do about it; but for some reason Jason is not asking directly and Tim is enjoying getting closer to the other boy, so he does not admit to what he knows.

This leads to some painfully stilted conversations and weird interactions, but every so often both will forget to be awkward and it becomes clear, whenever they actually act naturally, that they are very well matched.

To the Gotham Elites, this is the best entertainment in years. Between Bruce Wayne’s ‘Brucie’ act and Dick’s feral behavior growing up, Jason’s bookish politeness makes him the ‘best behaved’ Wayne and honestly the most well liked one. Combined that with how sweet he is acting with Tim and that this all started with Tim defending his mother, well this is the love story of the ages, happening right in front of them.

Bruce and the Drakes are already fielding requests for invitations to the wedding. On a slightly more creepy note they are also receiving offers to be a surrogate for the boy’s to ‘continue the bloodline’ when the time comes.

Bruce is honestly wondering if everyone forgot that Jason is adopted. Dick comes to Gotham more often, because he is also finding this immensely entertaining.

A few months in, this leads to Batman, Nightwing, and Robin finding Tim taking pictures on a rooftop in the Bowery. In Tim’s rush to apologize (he is starting to feel a bit guilty about his picture taking pictures of the Bats now that he has an actual relationship-where he believes that they know he knows who they are-instead of a parasocial relationship) it becomes clear that Tim knows their civilian identities and that they did not know that Tim knew their civilian identities.

Tim gives his explanation (a quadruple flip that only a few people in the world can do and connecting the dots from there). Jason immediately blurts out ‘Go on a date with me?’ and is quite proud that he kept the ‘Marry me?’ behind his teeth (The earliest they could get married in New Jersey is 17, and only with parental consent. Jason had 4 years to convince the Drakes to let him marry their son, 5 if they don’t like him). Tim turns bright red and squeaks out a ‘Yes’.

The next gala they enter holding hands. Dick is quickly sought after by the Elite for gossip. Dick confirms that Tim and Jason are now dating, and that Jason insisted on a chaperone for their dates (Jason is still working off the regency/victorian era romantic relationships) so that nothing would ‘besmirch Tim’s honor’. There is an entire crowd of cooing Gothamites around Dick as they discuss how these two got even more adorable, all the while watching Jason and Tim surreptitiously.

At some point Bruce has to have a very surreal conversation with Jack and Janet Drake about when it is appropriate to leave one's children alone and for how long and at what ages. Jack and Janet, upon being convinced that they should not leave their 13 year old alone for weeks or months at a time, rearrange their future plans so that one of them is almost always home (and on the few occasions that they would have to Tim by himself, Tim would stay with the Waynes).

By the way, Jack and Janet love Jason, they can see how much he makes their son happy and are glad to support the relationship.

Now I see this continuing one of two ways.

The first way is that this derails Ethiopia. Jason still fights with Batman, but runs to Janet Drake (who is home) and Tim. He does not discover that Catherine is not his mother until later, but is not missing parental influences and does some digging but does not go to meet Sheila. Tim becomes Oracle’s apprentice.

Alternately, it does not derail Ethiopia. Janet and Jack, on one of the few business trips that required both of them, is woken up by a call from an inconsolable Tim who tells them Jason has been killed by the Joker (both Jack and Janet having been let in on the secret at some point). Janet immediately hires Deathstroke and Talia Al Ghul to kill the Joker (Janet contemplated having them bring the Joker to her, so she could do it and make sure he understood why-he killed her future son in law and made her son cry- but realized that the why would never actually matter to Joker) and paid extra to make it look like natural causes (to lessen the attention on the bastard). Two weeks after Jason Todd’s funeral, the Joker dropped dead of an apparent heart attack, there was not even enough time to get him back in Arkham.

The Gotham Elite treat Tim like a bereaved widow, despite Jason never getting to have the ‘let’s get married when we are old enough’ talk with him. Jack Drake gets to have his own surreal talk with Bruce Wayne about accepting help, and therapy, after Jason’s death. Tim picks up the Robin mantle to feel closer to Jason, and to distract himself from grief.

Jason (Now 17) is brought back and Talia does find him. In this she does have good intentions (She knows that Damian is going to need to be sent to his father eventually, and hopes that helping Jason will endear Talia to Bruce enough that she can still see her son), plus a connection to Janet Drake and the knowledge that Janet had the Joker killed for Jason. So as soon as Jason’s madness ebbs enough to travel she brings him straight to Janet Drake's door. By then enough time has passed that it is three days before Tim’s 17th birthday.

Jante takes one look at Jason and goes ‘Hmm, I was wondering what we were getting Tim for his birthday this year’.

#jaytim #jason todd is a romantic #jason todd #tim drake #Smitten jason Todd #Jason Todd Died #Jason Todd Lived #jack and janet drake #Jack and Janet love Tim #bruce wayne #Bruce Wayne is a good parent #alfred pennyworth #richard grayson #gotham

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 6 months

Text

Alt Assistant Pt 4

There are benefits to Lena not being CEO.

For one, she gets to go home at night. She gets to have a life outside work. She gets to go clubbing.

Which Kara only knows because she's standing at a table during Club Velvet's busiest night of the week, watching her boss bump and grind to the music.

She's not alone either. Kara recognizes Andrea, and for brief moment jealousy sparks low and hot in her belly at the thought they might be together. But when it becomes clear that Andrea is focused on a specific man in particular, Kara accepts that they're just here as friends, just like her and Nia.

Lena, for her part, keeps up a steady rotation of dance partners, men and women alike, all outrageously gorgeous and enviably coordinated. Even from her position off the dance floor, Kara can see the sweat clinging to Lena's neck, and feels the phantom feather touch of Lena's swinging ponytail against her skin.

"Holy SHIT," Nia shouts over the music, still barely audible to Kara, let alone others. "Is that Lena?"

Nia has her memories of the previous reality, and Kara knows she's having difficulty reconciling the cozy Lena she knows with the sultry and enigmatic woman currently leaning back against a stranger's chest as her hips move under his hands.

Kara's mouth goes dry. She wants that. She wants to be that man, wants her hands on Lena's hips, her lips brushing Lena's ear.

"Well??" Nia continues, giving Kara a nudge. "Aren't you going to say hi?"

She thinks about it. She *really* thinks about it. About sliding through the throng to grasp Lena's hand and pull her flush against her front, guiding their hips into a tandem rhythm. About burying her hand in Lena's hair and pulling her in to--

Kara shakes her head. "No."

"What? Why not?"

"She's my boss!"

And if her boss knew that Kara was there, ogling her, there'd be hell to pay. She can hear it now-- don't.

At least Nia drops the issue, seemingly accepting that things are different in this reality, as evidenced by the woman continuing to dance along with the beat of the thumping music. Kara manages to go the entire night without bumping into Lena, even if her gaze returns to the dance floor again and again.

It's only until she goes to close out their tab that Kara knows she's in trouble.

"Your tab's already been paid," the bartender informs her.

The message is clear: Lena knows.

Shit.

Kara stuffs a couple bills into the tip jar and makes her escape, anxiety gnawing at her gut. The next day, Lena makes no mention of having seen her, and seems none the worse for wear after her long night. They work in easy rhythm, as Kara keeps to herself and executes her role perfectly.

Right up until Kara enters Lena's office to let her know she's heading out, and finds Lena gazing out the window. The lights in the office are low, and in the glass reflection Kara sees Lena's eyes shift to her, before languidly turning to face her.

"You liked what you saw," Lena says. Not accusation, but simple fact.

"Yes," Kara returns truthfully. She steps closer, emboldened when Lena doesn't protest.

The corner of Lena's mouth lifts. "I'm surprised you'd admit that, after the little diatribe you levied at me your first month here."

"Like I said," Kara reminds her, moving closer still, "I was an idiot."

The way Lena gazes at her sends a shiver up Kara's spine. Green eyes challenge her silently, as though waiting to see just how far she'll go. A small yet confident smile shapes Kara's lips in spite of herself, calming the butterflies in her belly.

She closes what remains of the distance between them, rewarded with a hitch of Lena's breath as Kara crosses the invisible line into her personal space. They're far too close to be professional now, their locked gazes promising exactly where they're headed.

Finally, Kara places one hand on Lena's waist, and lifts the other to brush the backs of her fingers lightly across Lena's smooth, soft cheek. She lets it come to a rest cupping the side of Lena's face, their noses nearly touching.

"Tell me to leave, and I will," Kara offers, giving Lena an out she prays won't be taken.

Lena's hands are already pulling her closer as her response drifts from her lips.

"Don't."

#supercorp #alt assistant au #its HAPPENING #all crew to stations!#this is not a drill!

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theonceandfuturequeenoftarts · 5 months

Text

It happens by chance, and while Harry wishes it hadn’t, this will at least clear up any lingering uncertainty for him.

There’s a skirmish between Harry and some friends from the Order and Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and a couple stray curses happen to catch him – one slices shallowly into his upper arm, the other sends him rolling across the ground. The upshot of this is that the left shoulder of Harry’s shirt is now in ribbons and hanging down around his waist, leaving his chest – and soul mark – bare to the world. Including Voldemort.

Who looks like he’s having one doozy of an emotion.

And that basically confirms the dark wizard hadn’t known, but right now Harry’s bleeding sluggishly and wants to go home and have a drink and pass out for at least a few hours, so Voldemort can rage on his own time. Everyone else from his side has already buggered off, so he’s not abandoning anyone if he does the same.

Unfortunately, the blood loss – while not severe – is enough to slow his reaction time, which leads to him apparating himself and the Dark Lord latched onto him to his flat. Not ideal.

There are a tense few moments of staring at the snake man, waiting to see if he’ll attack or start destroying Harry’s home, but when he doesn’t take advantage – when he just stares and frowns and stares some more – Harry decides he’s too tired for this shit.

“You are just impossible to ward out, aren’t you?” he sighs. The curse of being so physically and magically intertwined with the other man. (Well. And at the soul level, too, but he tries not to think of that.)

Voldemort yanks him by his uninjured arm towards the kitchen light that comes on automatically and stares at Harry’s chest, and the elegantly written Tom Marvolo Riddle thereupon.

Harry scowls when the staring drags on. “Oi, could you quit perving on me and piss off already?”

“You were never going to tell me?” Voldemort demands, ignoring Harry’s half-arsed attempt at distraction.

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Why the Hel would I? Either you already knew and it didn’t matter to you, or you didn’t – and I wasn’t about to risk baring my soul to someone who has a history of wanting me dead.” He shrugs. “I’m reckless, not suicidal.”

Voldemort opens his mouth with an angrily indignant look, and Harry looks to the ceiling for patience before pulling out of the other man’s grip and opening his emergency bottle of firewhiskey, hidden in the pantry, because this conversation needs alcohol. He pours two glasses (his to the brim) because he tries to be a good host, even to the bane of his existence. And if Voldemort doesn’t want it, well, it’ll save Harry getting the bottle out again.

All throughout this, Voldemort is ranting at him. Harry tunes most of it out – he’s had to hear enough of the man’s monologues to know he doesn’t need to listen to the preamble; the meat of his diatribe won’t come until a couple minutes in, at least.

After he casts a quick episkey on the cut on his arm, Harry leans against the counter, watching Voldemort pace around his modest kitchen. He takes a long, slow drink, welcoming the fire flowing down his throat and warming his belly. And either the other man is taking even longer than usual to get to the point or Harry’s more exhausted and irritable than he’d thought, because he’s suddenly completely out of patience with this situation.

He cuts in boredly, “It’s not like it changes anything. It doesn’t matter.”

Voldemort is immediately before him, looming and enraged. “It matters to me!”

“Why?”

“I’ve waited decades for you,” he says vehemently, leaning closer in an attempt to physically intimidate or pin Harry in place.

Harry barks a harsh laugh. “You waited for a fantasy. You’ve spent my whole life killing and hurting the people most important to me. Some silly mark doesn’t change that – it doesn’t make it better, it won’t make me love you.” He takes a sip and rasps through the burn. “It won’t change who you are.”

“I never received a mark–”

“And that’s unfortunate. Clearly it affected you. But plenty of people don’t get soul marks and they don’t commit mass murder and incite civil wars.” He gives Voldemort a dismissive look, standing up straight and slipping out from between the dark wizard and the counter. He can almost hear the other man grinding his teeth.

“You have no idea what it’s like, not having a mark,” Voldemort hisses caustically, face contorted in a furious snarl. “The contempt, the ridicule I had to endure. I was denied one of Magic's basic gifts and they took it as proof they were better than me, those worthless fools.”

It’s difficult to know how he would’ve reacted to not having a mark. His burden has been to have the mark of the worst possible person, and he thinks he’s handled it far better than anyone could’ve expected of him. Having no mark would’ve confirmed that he’s meant to be alone, that there’s no one out there meant just for him, but having Voldemort’s mark as Harry Potter essentially means the same thing.

“Maybe you mutilated your soul too much to deserve a mark,” Harry says in a fit of cruelty. Behind the wrath crackling in the other man’s eyes, he can see the misery bloom. As good as it feels to score a hit against Voldemort, he regrets it even more. And isn’t that the exact reason why this damn war has dragged on for so long?

(Harry pushes that thought away wearily.)

“You had choices, Voldemort, and you made yours,” he says quietly but firmly. “I’m making mine, and it’s that I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“This is not a unilateral decision,” Voldemort says, the frustration in his tone edging close to desperation. “Do my wants mean nothing?”

"Your wants." Harry slams his almost empty glass down on the table; his voice comes out dangerously even. “Alright then. Can you bring my parents back to life? No? How about Cedric, or Sirius, or any of the dozens of others whose lives you’ve cut short?”

Voldemort’s mouth is pinched shut, a thunderous frown on his face.

“Hel, let’s start small. Stop this war, swear to never harm another person and get your followers to do the same. You want me to care about what you want? Start by addressing all of that.”

“You ask this of me and promise nothing in return?” Voldemort says bitterly.

“That’s the bare minimum it would take for me to see you as anything more than a murderous, blood-supremacist monster. And I honestly don’t think you can do it, but feel free to prove me wrong.”

That puts an unsettling gleam in the other man’s eyes. Harry thinks back on what he might’ve said to cause that reaction and feels his stomach drop. Oh bother. He’d challenged Voldemort. Harry knows exactly how he'd react to someone saying that; apparently Voldemort is equally competitive (and motivated by spite – he should’ve guessed that).

“...If I am able to–”

“You won’t–”

“When I fulfill your requirements,” Voldemort arrogantly says, face intense. “You and I will explore our connection, and you will meet with me frequently to do so.”

And now Harry is in a quandary. If Voldemort does what he’s been asked, Harry will have achieved what he’s been fighting for all six years of his adult life; if Voldemort doesn’t, Harry’s no worse off than he was before. And he knows the dark wizard won’t give up his cause simply because his soulmate asked, but if Voldemort does…

“You do realise that your soulmate is me, yeah?” Harry clarifies, unnerved by the shift in the other man's demeanour. “You don’t like me. At all.”

“Nonsense,” Voldemort says, waving off Harry’s really very logical point. “We simply haven’t had a chance to become properly acquainted.”

“...Because you’re always trying to kill me.”

“Details, details.”

Harry would very much like to strangle the megalomaniac who is still in his apartment. “...Uh-huh. Sure, you become a completely different person and we’ll talk.”

He sometimes forgets that magic occasionally disregards sarcasm. This appears to be one of those times, as the heaviness in the air snaps tight around them, signifying Harry’s flippant “sure” just turned this discussion into a magically binding agreement. Merlin’s pierced nipples. So much for intent over phrasing.

Catching sight of Voldemort’s smug smirk, Harry suddenly feels genuinely homicidal for the first time in his life. Sensing his non-existent welcome is well and truly worn out, Voldemort says, “I look forward to it,” and apparates away. Harry pitches a cushion through the space the dark wizard just occupied. It helps settle his irritation a little.

He drops onto his couch with a deep, bone-tired sigh and tosses back Voldemort’s untouched glass of firewhiskey.

He wonders if he’ll feel disappointed or relieved when Voldemort realises he’d rather keep trying to subjugate Magical Britain than have Harry as his soulmate.

Three days later, the war ends.

#harry potter #voldemort #tomarrymort #soulmate au #soulmate marks #manipulative voldemort #harry is 1000% done #drinking #alcohol

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anonimusunnoaniswriting · 5 months

Text

DEBAUCHÉRIE

⚠️𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐀𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘⚠️

🎀𝐀𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐢𝐨 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝🎀

“I'd suffer Hell if you'd tell me, what you'd do to me tonight”

Pairing: Sub!Nanami Kento x Domme!Reader

Genre: Smut, Porn with plot, Happy ending.

Word Count: 4592

Warnings: PWP, soft domme Reader, plus size reader, female bodied reader, no protection, pussy eating, shibari, good ol' sex.

Summary: It was always a dream of Nanami's to be tied up like a good little boy, one that many partners after hearing would recoil in disgust expecting to be dominated instead... Its been too long since Nanami Kento got laid, so long that out of desperation he agrees to accompany his senpais to a sex club. A sex club where he sees you. But can you make his dream a reality?

A/N: At the end.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you. Lounging on the sofa, directly in his line of view, in the long black dress that hugged every curve of your body, your posture was relaxed, an easy smile on your red lips and a fringe of admirers lapped up your every word. The slit in the side of your dress gave him a perfect view of your leg and the tattoo hugging your calf. Your hands held a glass of red wine that you sipped slowly while your eager devotees tried to stand out to you. Nanami felt like a moth, caught in your fire.

It had been on Geto’s insistence that Nanami Kento agreed to visit the club. Having heard about it from him and Gojo before, he finally swallowed his pride and asked them to introduce him. Debauchérie – an apt name for a sex club, Nanami had mused, remembering the dark red neon sign he had seen when entering.

Gojo had explained to him in detail where they were going; he’d even borrowed an expensive – probably designer – turtleneck shirt of his to wear. It sat snug on Nanami’s frame, the fabric soft and comforting, yet elegant. “You can't wear just anything, Nanamin.” Gojo had warned. “It’s a very exclusive place; it took months before we could become members and bring guests.”

And it was, definitely, no less than thorough. Nanami had had to sign a waiver attesting to his consent and such before even being allowed in. It probably helped that Geto was a “valued” member, given how smooth the process had been.

Seated at the bar, Nanami allowed himself to take in his surroundings. There were small tables and couches all around the room, which, even for a Saturday evening, was not very full. Off to the right, there was a passageway leading to more private rooms, and to the back, there were places for open play that no one had started using yet. However, a lot of patrons had already reached varying stages of undress, and when a very pretty girl wearing nothing but nipple pasties came by and complimented how he looked, asking for his name, the poor man could only choke out a “Ke- Ken”.

The girl giggled and flounced away, but not before throwing him a wink and a flirty, “Nice to meet you, Ke-Ken!” Mouth dry, he resumed scanning the room…and that's when his eyes had fallen on you.

“She’d be a good fit for you,” Geto said in his ear, making him jump. Both he and Gojo had decided not to leave unless he found a partner, and had instead taken seats at the bar with him. “She’s very experienced…and attentive.” Gojo looked over too – his eyes wide.

“Oh, yes.” Gojo backed Geto up. “We had the pleasure of playing with her once. She’s so-o-o-o-o good.”

“You mean…” Nanami looked over at the two men. They nodded slowly and sneakily as he turned back to look at you.

As luck would have it, you chose that exact moment to look toward the bar, your eyes locking with Nanami’s. Realising he’d been staring at you, you gave him a soft smile and signalled a waiter over. Nanami watched as you placed your order; when finished, you looked back at the group around you and said something else, eliciting groans and pouts from most of them. Nanami only understood why when you got up and drifted over to where he sat.

You were even more stunning up close, he admitted to himself. Lips full and plump, painted in a dark red. Eyes framed by long dark lashes and lined in black. You greeted the other men first. “Suguru, Satoru! It’s been a while. Who’s your friend here?” So you were already on a first-name basis with them…

Gojo, almost climbing over Geto, answered, “This is Kento, Mistress. He’s our junior.”

“His first time here,” Geto added, giving up his seat for you to sit by Nanami.

You reached out a hand and ruffled Gojo’s hair. “I’m not your mistress right now, Satoru. You can call me by my name.” The same hand was then presented to Nanami, and you introduced yourself. But all Nanami could think of was that you were already close enough to Gojo and Geto to use their first names, and also how pretty your lips looked with the red lipstick and how much he now wanted to call you Mistress and…

“Nanami? Hello? Earth to Mr. Kento.”

Shit! You’d said something he’d totally missed. Nanami felt his cheeks burn. He pulled himself together, ignoring the throbbing in his ears. “Apologies, I might have spaced out for a moment…seeing your beauty up close caught me off guard.” Behind you, Geto and Gojos eyes widened. They never knew Nanami could be this smooth.

You chuckled – a sound that dripped from your lips like honey – and repeated, “I was wondering if you would like to play tonight. With me.” Nanami’s jaw dropped, but you continued, confidently, “I hope this isn't too forward for you, but we came to a sex club after all so I'll be a bit…forward. I think you’re very attractive, and I’m a Dominatrix who likes playing with pretty boys, so, Kento – I can call you Kento right?”

You cocked an eyebrow and leaned in close. Nanami swallowed and nodded. Your lips widened into a smile. “Would you like to play with me tonight?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Nanami could only nod. But you shook your head. “I need verbal assurance, Pretty Boy.”

“Y-yes. I would like to.”

“Hmmm…” You sat back, smiling sweetly, but crossing your arms in front of you. “Well then, let's go over some basics. You know I’m a domme, so I'm going to take it that you’re subbing for me.” Nanami nodded. “Is this your first time doing something like this?” Nanami nodded again, confirming what you’d thought. “In that case, we can take it soft and slow for your first time, Pretty Boy.”

Nanami blushed.

You led Nanami down a long corridor, entering one of the rooms at the far end. Gojo and Geto had assured him that it was fine and they would not “wait up” for him.

“So…should we continue this in one of the private rooms?”

The room wasn’t too large, but there was enough space for a plush bed covered in black silken sheets, a small black couch and a table with an assortment of toys. It seemed to follow the theme of the club, dark red walls, while most of the furniture was black. The dim lighting made Nanami’s eyes twinkle. This was what you had asked the waiter to prepare for you earlier. Taking a seat on the couch, you patted the space beside you, encouraging Nanami to sit. “We need to establish a few rules and boundaries first,” you began. “When we are playing, you will call me Miss, or Mistress. Is that okay with you?” Nanami nodded, but you shook your head. “From now on, whatever I ask, I need enthusiastic, verbal responses. I will not continue unless I have clear consent from you, Kento.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Your left hand found its place in Nanami’s hair, and you gently raked your fingernails against his scalp.

“Good boy.” Nanami felt his cock twitch. You placed your other hand on his chest. Against him, it looked small, but the command in your fingertips was unmistakable. You ran it along his turtleneck, squeezing at his chest. “Now, is anything off-limits?”

Nanami thought for a moment and said, “Nothing with pee or scat, please. And nothing that will leave any visible marks.”

You nodded. “Alright. I don’t do scat play either and I will not be engaging in rough play with you for your first time, but it is always good to ask and be clear.” Your lips had sneaked closer to his skin during your little explanation, and he could feel the warmth of your breath when you asked him your next question:

“Is there anything you would like to do tonight?”

Nanami blushed. “You don’t have to be shy…” you told him gently. “Tell me, Pretty Boy, how can I make a wild dream come true for you?” You leaned forward and bit your lip.

“I–I—” Nanami could barely hear himself speak as he said the next words. “I want to be tied up and used…would-would you…?”

All the stress of the last few days seemed to catch up with the weary man as his shoulders drooped and he waited for you to be repulsed by his ask, ashamed at how needy he was. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised...you chuckled.

“Is that so, Pretty Boy?” Your tongue darted out licking a strip up your lip.

Nanami's cock twitched again and he let out an involuntary moan. “Oh, do you like it when I call you a pretty boy?” He nodded, then remembered his earlier agreement.

“Yes, Mistress.”

You placed a finger under his chin and lifted his head to make him look at you. His brown eyes were dark, screaming his exhaustion coupled with building need. “Do you have a safe word you’d like to use?”

He shook his head. “I don’t need that, I’m sure I can take whatever you give me.”

You frowned. Your hand still petting his head, you explained, “It is vital that we have one. Regardless of how experienced your partner may be or how hard or soft you play, having a safeword is a basic requirement. If you like, we can use the traffic light system to keep it simple.” Nanami nodded but looked puzzled, so you elaborated. “If you feel like everything is going well and you don’t want to stop or change anything, you can let me know you’re green.” You paused, waiting for him to show you he understood. When he nodded, you went on. “If you like what we’re doing but feel like it's becoming too much or want me to dial it back in any way, you say you’re yellow. I can return to what I was doing previously, or pause and let you have a short break.” He nodded again. You continued. “And if you are very uncomfortable, or hurt, or change your mind and want to stop in any way, you say red.” Nanami couldn’t imagine a scenario where he would have to, but he was grateful for your assurances. He nodded again. “Red means I will stop whatever I’m doing and make sure first and foremost that you are okay. If you’re bound or tied I will release you immediately, if you get hurt you must let me know so I can treat you. I love it when my boy communicates with me.” Saying this, you kissed him at the edge of his mouth, lips barely touching. Nanami blushed pink. You smelled like strawberries and vanilla, and he found himself wanting to bite.

“Red, yellow, and green. I understand, Mistress.” he assured you, itching to start. His cock had begun to harden in his slacks, fed by the ministrations of your hands.

You got up and walked over to the table with the toys. “You’d like to be tied up, wouldn’t you?” you said out loud, then turned to him with a dark blue rope in your hands.

Nanami felt his blush deepen as you strolled over to him. The sound of your black stilettos made a sharp tapping sound on the hard floor as you towered above him. He would do anything for you. “Yes please, Mistress…” His voice was barely a whisper.

You bent down and kissed his head, giving him the perfect view down your neckline. The soft milky mounds of your breasts threatened to spill out of the corset under your dress, mesmerising him. You smirked, hand moving to his crotch. You gave his bulge a gentle squeeze drawing out a deep groan, then ordered, “Get up and strip for me, gorgeous.”

The poor man, caught in the net you cast, immediately followed. His hands fumbled with the belt of his trousers as he half ripped them off his body. He peeled off the turtleneck and folded the garments, laying them on the couch where you sat. He was beautiful. Years of hard training had transformed his body into a wall of muscle. His skin had a light tan and his stomach was tight. You greedily drank in the sight.

He was about to remove his boxers when your voice rang out again, “Stop. That is mine. You can only touch it when I let you. Got that?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy. Now, arms up and legs apart.” Nanami complied, and you rose, circling him slowly. He could feel your eyes taking him in, studying every inch of his body, and he itched to cover himself from your discerning gaze. But even before he could finish his thoughts, your hands were on him, feeling the muscles in his arms, all the way down, body flush with yours. He could feel your breasts pressed against his back., the warmth of your breath on his skin and your nails running down his sides, feeling up his torso. “What colour are we at, Pretty Boy?” you asked raspily.

Nanami responded after a second’s thought, “Green. More! Please, Mistress.” He felt your lips against his back, leaving tiny kisses along some invisible pattern as you complied, feeling every inch of him…except your hand never so much as grazed his crotch, making him pant with anticipation.

You stepped in front of him and picked up the rope off the couch, then unravelled it while making sure he was watching your every movement. The contrast of being so bare – so vulnerable – in front of you was stark. “I'm going to tie you up now, is that alright?”

Nanami nodded, grateful at how gentle and thorough you were. “Please, Mistress.”

You hooked your thumbs on the waistband of his pants and tugged them downwards, allowing his semi-hard cock to spring free. A sharp intake of breath from you made him shy away. Perhaps you would be turned off by his size. But to his astonishment, you kneeled down and gently licked the glans, eyes never leaving his.

“Someone's excited,” you remarked, impressed. Your hands worked deftly – practised movements that hinted at your familiarity with the rope.

Nanami appreciated, when from time to time, you would check in with him, “Is anything uncomfortable?” or “Is it too tight?” and wait for his verbal confirmations

“No, Mistress.” or “It’s just a little painful around the arm, on that last loop.”

You twisted and looped and knotted, and once you were done, you turned him to face the long mirror in the room. Blue vines ran all across Nanami’s chest, crissed and crossed into a five-point star. His arms were bound to his back, but his legs were free. Each line of rope sat snug, not too deep or loose, just enough to make sure that he was unable to move his upper body. The two lines you had artfully drawn against his crotch grazed against his balls every time he made the slightest move. He looked at you, dark pupils blown out in lust. You held his chin, then hooked your fingers onto the rope around his neck and pulled his head to yours, and Nanami’s world exploded. Your lips were hot on his. Your tongue probed for entrance at his teeth, licking his cold cupid's bow.

Reaching down, you trailed a finger up his length. “I want you to kneel for me, Kento.” You had placed a cushion on the floor and Nanami dropped to his knees, looking on in reverence as you stood before him and removed your dress.

The silky fabric fell to the floor in a puddle. You were left in a black laced corset and matching underwear. Taking a seat on the couch, you spread your legs open. Nanami had the most perfect view. “Do you want to see?” you asked him teasingly.

“Please, Mistress.” There was a whine in Nanami’s throat he didn’t even realise he was holding.

“Then take them off.” You gestured at your panties. Nanami fumbled. His hands were tied behind his back, what did you mean…?

“With your mouth, Kento. I want you to use your mouth and take my panties off. And then, maybe – if you do a good job – I'll let you taste me.”

Eager to please you, Nanami crawled over to your cunt and bit the edge of your panties. Desperately, he pulled at the fabric and inched it down with his lips and teeth. He could smell your arousal already, and it made his head heavy. He really wanted to taste you. His cock was now hard, and it bumped your leg. The little friction made him hiss.

“Go on, Pretty Boy, just a little more…” Your encouragement kept him from losing his focus, and he continued to pull the infernal cloth that barely seemed to budge. But with just one more tug, it was around your knees. He stopped and looked at you, pleased with himself.

“Oh that won’t do, Kento. No, you have to take it all the way off.” Nanami’s cheeks burned. All the way off? Down your legs, off your— “Off, come on. And don’t get it stuck on my heels, darling.”

Nanami pulled at the panties again. It was humiliating, being asked to do such a ridiculous task but even more so for the fact that his cock was rock hard and straining. You spread your thighs wide, showing off your glistening cunt. Your skin was smooth. Not that he minded hair but in a moment you would show him why. “Do you want to taste me?”

“Yes please, Mistress.”

“Then turn over and rest your head on the couch. I’m going to sit on your pretty face.” Nanami flipped over and watched as you raised yourself off the couch to straddle his face, your pussy dangling over his mouth like forbidden fruit. A drop of your arousal leaked out, falling onto Nanami’s lips, and he couldn't help sticking his tongue out to lick it. The musky sweet taste of you travelled straight to his cock and he twitched once more.

This must be the nectar of the gods, he thought to himself. His tongue reached out, desperate to taste more of you. “Please, please. Please, Mistress.”

You didn’t torture him further. Sinking your pussy lips onto his mouth, you both let out a sigh of relief. His nose rubbed against your clit, while his tongue lapped at your pink folds. Divine…

A hand in his hair, you pulled him, “Yeah–just like that–good boy...” Your knee was digging into the couch as you pushed your cunt into his face. And Nanami ate your pussy like a parched man. Slurping and lapping up your juices. Sucking on your sensitive bud. He wanted to hold you – to feel the plush of your ass filling his hands; he involuntarily pulled at the ropes that bound him. You stepped back for a moment, allowing him to breathe, then returned to your throne. But Nanami showed no signs of hesitation. His lips found your bud, circling it in his mouth as he started to suck. Loud wet noises filled the rooms along with soft moans from you. “Kento…Such a good boy…Keep going.” You felt his tongue flatten against your cunt, probing at your hole and exploring. His face was messy and wet but he didn’t care. Nothing had ever tasted as delicious as your wet cunt did in his mouth. Nothing had ever felt as good as your thick thighs that squeezed his head between them.

Nanami felt a sharp tug on his hair as you came with a cry, legs quivering. Your head felt heavy and it took you a moment to get off him and look at him adoringly. He knelt at your feet, panting but looking up at you expectantly.

You helped him to his feet and sat him on the couch, placing yourself on his lap. Your hands once again found his soft hair, fingers carding through it. His weeping cock bumped against your dripping core, and you began to move your hips to rub against it. “You’re such a – kiss – good boy. – kiss– following all my orders – kiss – so well – kiss–” Nanami felt a bead of pre-come drip out onto his thigh as you kissed down his neck.

Your pussy lips rubbed against his length as you kissed and licked his mouth. “Let me see you, please…” he rasped, looking down at your corseted breasts. Sounds of his grunts and heavy breathing now filled the room, along with the wet shlick of your skin against his. You undid the front of the corset, letting your breasts spill. A sharp intake of breath from him made you want to kiss him again, but his head dipped down and he took a nipple between his teeth, lightly grazing it before starting to suck at your tit. You pulled his hair back, yanking him off you. “Did I give you permission to suck my tits?”

Nanami’s eyes widened. He hadn’t thought of that. “No, Mistress. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

You continued, “Next time you do something without permission, you will be punished. Understand?”

Nanami swallowed and nodded, burning with desire now; your pussy was right on top of his cock. One thrust and he could have put it in, but he knew that would not be allowed. He begged again, all inhibitions out the window. All he wanted was to feel you on him. “Mistress, please…”

“Please what?” His hips bucked and he forced them down. “Please fuck you?” You cocked a brow, unsmiling. “After what you just did?”

His dick stood now, painful almost, in need. “I’ll do anything,” he begged. “Please, just touch me–” His voice was cut off by a choked sob and to his surprise, a tear ran down his cheek.

“You make the prettiest little sounds, Kento,” you purred in his ear. “Okay, I’ll fuck you like you want.” And you held his cock as you spoke and slowly slid it into your pussy. “You want me to fuck you like this, right? On my tight wet cunt?” He nodded furiously. “Want to feel me squeeze your cock so good?” Another nod. “Okay, but you aren’t allowed to come…”

Nanami let out a strangled cry.

“You heard me. You asked to be fucked. Not to come. Didn’t you, darling?”

You were a succubus, and Namami was a willing victim. Semantics be damned, he was ready to burst, to spill into your warm wet hole, as you squeezed around him. You cradled his head in your arms, holding him close to you as you slid up and down on his cock. Your combined arousal made it easy, even though he was large.

“Fuck, please– Mistress. So good, you make me – haa…” Obscenities fell from his lips along with pleas, over and over. “Mistress, I need –”

You felt him twitch and stilled. Nanami could have cried. He strained against his bonds, desperately trying to hold on to you, but you were already off him. “To the bed,” you whispered and helped him up. It was difficult for Nanami; he had never been denied for this long when release was so imminent. He stumbled to the bed, grateful for your help, but wishing you would just let him come already. The teasing was maddening and he did not feel he had the patience for it much longer. You lay him down, propping him up with two large pillows before sinking onto his cock once again. His hands grasped at nothingness under him as you leveraged yourself on his chest and fucked him now – no holds barred. Your ass hit his thighs with a loud slap each time you came back down, and his cock was reaching deep inside you hitting your gummy walls that held him in a vice-like grip.

“You wanna come for me, Pretty Boy? Wanna come for your Mistress?”

“Please—please—please.” The words fell from his mouth like a prayer. A prayer to you, his Goddess.

“Then come. Come for me, my Pretty Boy.”

And with that, he was lost. Thick ribbons of ejaculate shot into your cunt, painting your insides white. You collapsed onto his large chest and felt his rapid heartbeat slowing, the rise and fall of his chest now gentle…The ropes around his body rubbed against your nipples, hardening them into peaks.

Lifting yourself off him, you helped him sit up before you quickly removed his ties. The skin was raw and red where he’d pulled. You lifted his hand to your mouth and licked at the angry marks, tasting the salt of his sweat. He met your gaze – still hungry. “ I need you. I need more, please,” he pleaded. “Let me eat you out again, Mistress!”

You smiled and dipped your head so that your lips barely brushed his ear, “I have a better idea.” You pushed his chest, laying him down and turned, straddling his face once more; this time, however, your mouth hovered above his cock. Even though he had just come, Nanami was still semi-hard, and only a few licks and he was back at attention. You glided your tongue along his tip, relishing the gentle shiver that ran under you. But the man wasn’t about to stay still.

Taking advantage of the newfound freedom of his arms and hands, he grabbed your ass, spreading the cheeks, pawing at them, pulling you deeper into his mouth. Soft moans escaped you. You were both over-stimulated and needing release. His lips latched onto your clit and sucked and licked, fully lapping up all he could get. Your peak approached, and you felt the telltale twitch of Nanami’s cock as well. He came just after you did, your thighs closing around his head as you gasped and trembled, orgasm hitting you hard. His cock spluttered and he came with a shout, spilling on your face and tits.

You got off him and used a tissue from the table by the bed to clean yourself up, before lying down beside him and opening your arms. Wordlessly, Nanami crawled between them, resting his head on your chest. You left a soft kiss on his head and whispered, “You were such a good boy for me, Kento. I’m so pleased with you. You were such a good boy!”

“Even if I did things without your permission?” he asked tentatively.

You shook your head. “It was your first time; you were learning. I don’t hold that against you. You’re my good boy.”

Something in Nanami’s chest fluttered. It might have been his heart. “Can we…can we do this again?”

You laughed. Nanami didn’t think he had heard a lovelier sound. “Of course, Pretty Boy. Maybe next weekend. I’ll give you my number.”

It had been three months since Nanami had first met you in Debauchérie; two months since he had become yours and you, his; one month since Gojo and Geto had found out and started teasing him about it. The teasing had died down, but his feelings for you had only grown. In your familiar red lipstick and a gorgeous orange sundress, you walked up to him and sat in the chair opposite his, holding out his coffee and sandwich. “Here you go, my Pretty Boy.”

He smiled, “Thank you, Mistress.”

The End

A/N: Dear GOD this was a toughie to write. I kept going back and changing things over and over because I needed this to be some of the best work I've put out. So I changed and changed and cut and reworked and edited. And now here we are. I did it for you Haitch. You beautiful bastard you. I hope you enjoy it. (I agreed to give her whatever she wanted in exchange she would have to turn on boops.) Anyway, thank you so much for reading! A big big thank you to my editor, proofer, beta reader @ominouslywritinginmyhead. Tagging @actuallysaiyan thank you for always supporting me <3

As always hearts and reblogs are much appreciated and comments will earn you a kissie.

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