#simper section

[nurais-thatdoll]

You hear some knock! A mysterious yellow door suddenly appear and a tall man pop out it's head just to see you!

Oh! What a surprise

[nurais-thatdoll]

You're cruel

The Magnus Archives still has me in a chokehold, and now I can push that pain onto you all with the two characters done the WORST. Save me timsasha, save me.

[screampied]

❝ HELL ON HEELS . . ! ❞

ᡴꪫ sum. it's your third day on the job as a flight attendant. you work around a lot of snobby rich elites, but a particular one catches your eye. a particular one who tips you $300 dollars in cash and wants way more than just your uninvited attention.

wc. 6.5k

warnings. fem! reader, sugar daddy!gojo au, this is how gojo and reader meet, mile high club trope, flight attendant reader, age gap (early twenties/early thirties), semi public sēx, praise kink, degradation, dry humping, squırting, spanking, edging.

an. thank u to everyone who voted for this on the poll <3

➤ sd!gojo masterlist

the low-pitched whirring of the plane’s engine was quite loud. white noise could be heard through first class as you walked alongside the aisle. with a heavy sigh, you’d just wish the day would be over. the overall duration of the flight was about a good two hours, not too bad but you were already over it. dealing with haughty a-list celebrities or elites as a whole wasn’t for the weak. a majority of them were rude, snobby, and just stuck up individuals. except for one . .

as thick pieces of rubber stick against your heels and clank against the carbon fibre floor, you sashay through and from the rows before a cheeky voice calls over to you. “excuseee me, miss ‘ttendant,” and you crane your neck to where it was coming from. sat right by the window near the left— draped in nothing but a sable-black tuxedo with a pricey g-shock wrapping around his wrist, he simpers. “do you ahh, mind if you . . ?”

“huh,” you quirk your eyebrows into a brow before he nods his head up toward the cabin compartment above all of the seats. “oh,” you give him a soft smile. he takes a quick glance at your name tag that’s glued on the left side of your blazer. you lean over against him, reaching towards the latch to pull it down. the more you get close to him, the more you smell his cologne. it’s so strong, you were sure it was some kind of expensive designer brand. a small grunt leaves your lips as you stretch before just when you’re about to pry open the cabinet, the plane grumbles with a rude shake. a rude shake in which you fall—right onto the older man’s lap who’s got the smuggest grin.

“we’re experiencing a bit of turbulence up here, sincerest apologizes passengers..”

the pilot mutters through the intercom— it’s blaring through the speakers. he talks for about seven seconds, as well as reminding for everyone to have their seatbelts on at all times before he stops.

as if things couldn’t have been anymore embarrassing, your face lands right into his crotch. “oh my god—i’m so sorry sir,” you try to atone, sitting up and as you’re up so close to him, you take a moment to actually get a good glimpse at the man.

he was pretty, simply no denying it. you knew him from anywhere. gojo satoru, the gojo satoru. the snowy white hair was a dead giveaway.

he was more of a well known business man—a ceo of some hot shot company. he had his own clothing brand, does lots of men photoshoots, and even modeled a bit in his early twenties. although, the more you gawk at him, the more it seems like he barely even aged. gojo looks like he was still in his twenties, he had a bit of a stubble but was quite really well shaved. azul-blue eyes return the stare right back at you as you take in his prepossessing features for just a bit longer.

god, he was handsome.

gojo’s hair was neatly neat, a simple slick back of a sort with a few strands of white hair running down his face. he brings a wrist up to his face to rub his mouth before covertly humming. “. . oh, am i that good lookin’, princess?”

you gulp once he catches you staring, and then it hits you again,

you were still dumbly laid on his lap as he’s gazing into your eyes with the most complacent grin. “i-i’m sorry,” you mumble, cringing at your own stutter. thankfully, it was probably about four am, it was a private jet and only a few other passengers scattered around the sectioned row. sitting up, you rub your neck sheepishly before sighing. “i . . don’t usually fall on passengers during on my shifts.”

“heh well i’d hope not,” he teases. “oh, and don’t worry about getting my luggage by the way,” and his eyes trail you down before he glances at your name tag again. “hm, i think i’d like to request something else though,” and the more you stare into his pretty cerulean eyes, the more you get lost in them.

his eyes were equivalent to a maze, you’re always getting lost in his pretty irises—never finding your way out. “you’re probably all sore from walkin’ around in those heels, how ‘bout you take a little break?”

and he was right. the entire lower parts of your calves were a bit sore, so you do. you take a break . . although,

your 'break' mainly consists of you being hunched over, propped up in front of gojo’s seat with him eating you out from behind like a starved man. your bottom lip feels all numb and puffed from chewing on it for so long. your lips part into an exaggerated ‘o’ as your head’s repeatedly being pressed against the back of the airplane seat in front of you. the softly made material rubs against your face and you moan. some older woman was snoring in the front of it, headphones plugged in both sides of her ears.

thank god, you prayed whatever heavy metal track she was listening to would distract her slumber from hearing your loud, whiny moans.

alas again, by ‘break’, you didn’t expect this but you weren’t exactly complaining either. with gojo’s tongue rummaging against your clit, it had you gasping for desperate various breaths. “s-sirrrr,” you whimper, a lewd smile pursing against your lips. two broad hands of his had your jade-colored business skirt pulled up all the way to the very hem of your torso— just about reaching near your now wrinkled blazer. as you sling an arm over the seat in front of you, you whine once his nose prods against your soddened entrance. “ngh, ‘m gettin’ close again i think. f-fuck, right there.”

“please, call me satoru, baby,” he whispers against your pussy. you shudder from the coldness of his breath aerating against your bare skin—you whine once his palm swats by your right ass cheek, giving it a mean spank. “ooh,” he coos from the recoil of your rear. so pretty, it was quite funny how things even escalated so quickly.

right before he was buried into the depths of your plush thighs, you were just chatting with him. gojo had a charm to him. he was a lot different from the other stuck up elites you occasionally dealt with. he was quite easy to talk to. you make it a habit to talk to each passenger, despite how snobby they might come across anyway.

with him though, he was a pure smooth talker.

gojo showered you with a plethora of compliments. it came natural, it didn’t seem forced—he’d point out your pretty eye color, your hair, just anything. with your job, you were used to getting a few compliments here and there—but he’d go all out, all out in a way where it makes your heart flutter and fly. you’re rutting your ass against his face, loving the way his wet tongue curls into a few alphabetic letters. he’s just filthy. each breath that escapes from your lips as if it was being held captive felt like it was gonna be its last.

“so . . fuckin’ sweet,” he purrs, dragging a thumb down your slit for a moment. gojo takes a second to admire the way you easily soak in his digit, such a breathtaking sight inside. lewd, but breathtaking. “mhm, look at her givin’ me a little show. move your ass against my face a little more, sweetheart. yeah, fuck.”

your heart does jumping jacks at his dialogue. his voice was deep, rich—and seductive.

the silvery band of his watch continues to skim all across your skin as your hips judder. you shiver, feeling yourself about to reach your inevitable orgasmic peak before you moan out loud. you tried to suppress your noises, you did—but it was no use. you’re already biting at your hardened knuckles but oh, his tongue.

every few seconds, he’d break away to spit and slobber on your pussy. his nose consistently smears all against your folds, getting you ten times more wetter than you already were. he’s nasty, making sure you keep that arch for him. your skirt was pulled up and all wrinkled. the teeth-shattering stimulation makes you feel nerves surge all throughout your body like galvanic electricity.

“s- satoruuu.” you’d huff out in tiny pants, feeling your tummy cave in a few times. your sweet moan, its like a tune—a harmony, hell, it was melodic. he’d listen to you whine his name like that all day if he could. a gentle hand of his runs down your twitching leg, giving every part of your body from behind attention.

he was starting to get addicted, you were too sweet . . candied even, it was dangerous. he’s always had a bit of a sweet tooth anyways and perhaps you were his new favorite treat.

the raving pace of his tongue was simply relentless. you’re gripping onto the back of the seat for dear life, barely able to keep up with him.

ethereal ivory lashes of his open and close every millisecond that passes. it’s as if time was going slow for you— of course it was though, considering how you were thousands of feet in the air. you don’t know why, but the thought of someone just walking by and stumbling upon you all bent over for a passenger,

not just a passenger but the gojo satoru . .

you’d be lying a bit if you said it didn’t turn you on a bit. you knew it was against policy to screw on the job, in the air at that, but it was the middle of the night and partly everyone onboard was asleep anyway. having some affluent attractive guy right between your thighs, you were living the dream. you thought this only happened in the movies.

“aw, don’t give up on me just yet, pretty,” he soothes a tune against your cunt. after a while, gojo’s speedy flicking of his tongue transitioning to pure sucks. you’re shaking within the suction of his mouth. it’s almost too much to bare yet you didn’t want him to stop. he knows just the right tempo to make you roll your eyes back too. with prying hands, gojo’s spreading open your ass a bit more to lick a deeper area with his tongue. you zealously whine once he playfully uses a thumb to poke against your puckering hole. “mhm, yeah. thaaaat’s it, but don’t be so loud though, princess. i know we’re in the back row but still, heh.”

and with that— he gifts your ass another smack. he proudly relishes in your lewd, pornographic reactions. you’re an entire mess and he’s slurping your fervor shamelessly.

“s- satoruuuu, fuck f-fuck,” your breathing starts to significantly pick up. with your chest continuing to sink in and out, he briefly sneaks his dampened lips away from your entrance to bite near your thighs. the way you were shaking to him was just so cute. the white noise that continues to sing and reverb throughout the plane’s structure grew louder. or . . that was just the ringing through your ears—regardless, it was between that noise and the sounds of your own obscene pleasure that had a competition. a competition on who could be the most louder. your name-tag that’s still pressed against your blazer remains to rub off against the fabric of the seat in front of you.

your perked nipples snag in the process as you’re arching a bit more before a wail dies out your throat. “i- i’m gonna cu— oh!”

“another few hits of turbulence, folks. please stay in your seatbelts. time of arrival should be around six thirty am..”

you bring a hand over your mouth in a cute attempt to silence yourself as you’re meeting your high—listening to the pilot, you sob out a squeal from the inside of your palm. gojo’s slurping you up again with his tongue, your grinding against his face makes him chuckle. with his jaw tightening a bit, he doesn’t care—you were so sweet, he could eat you out all day. not to mention, he was quite thirsty. instead of having you retrieve one of his bags, he was gonna originally ask for a glass of water. but this quenched his thirst a lot better in his humblest opinion. his warm breath fans against your cunt all the while you feel his stubble tickle near the undersides of your thighs. “mmph.” you moan, peeking in front of you to still see the old lady knocked out cold. with the way you were rocking into the back of her seat— you were surprised she didn’t wake up. you were glad she didn’t though. otherwise, you’d embarrass yourself yet again.

with your orgasm still having its moment, you start to calm down a bit. he’s still slithering his tongue down your folds, savoring your taste as if it’s the last thing on the planet. his chin was coated with all of your slick, and he snickers before dragging a thumb to get another taste. “good girl. give it to me, ride my—ride my tongue, uh huhhh.”

a swarm of butterflies wanders around inside of your tummy from his words—his tone, it was so soft yet the dialogue that spoke out was just downright dirty. you pulse between your thighs and it only makes you crave him more.

as you’re still arched over in front of him, you take a few hard gulps to swallow as you’re finishing your perfect nirvana state. ecstasy, just ecstasy overtakes your entire body as he gives your pussy it’s final sucks and nibbles. once he finishes, he’s still sat in his chair. spinning you around, he gives you a warm smile.

“c’mere, sweetheart..”

out of breath and pants snatching out of your full lungs with ease—you move into him with your eyes half-lidded. “. . . atta girl, taste how sweet you are. gimme a kiss,” and you get on top of him. sliding off your heels, you get onto gojo’s lap. now straddling him, you lean into a steamy, hot kiss. two hefty built arms of his wrap around your waist, pulling you in close. once your lips meet, it’s just utterly sloppy.

throwing your arms around him and tugging on his tucked out collar, you deepen the kiss. he groans at your enthusiasm, allowing his hands to glide against every inch of your body. gojo’s fingertips dance against the pieces of clothing you wore, despite it being so few. your blazer was still on and yet couldn’t help but rock against his lap as your tongue parts inside of his mouth. gojo’s head leans back as you’re enjoying yourself. but all of a sudden, you moan once you feel it. 

his boner, right in the middle part of his pants. gojo satoru was hard—hard for you.

he grunts lowly, a hand of his snaking up your leg as you taste the sweet remnants of your own flavor on his tongue. the closer you are to him, the closer you get a nice everlasting sniff of his cologne. so manly, it’s a rich scent that you could never get enough of. it was so strong—roaming through the air so much that it almost gave you a headache. 

“fuck,” he sibilates. a single hissing word that comes from his mouth makes you throb oh so easily. you’re swaying your hips against him and his adam’s apple bobs back in rapture. every few seconds, he pulls away to leave a wet slope of kisses down your neck. a hand of yours tugs against his tie that was neatly worn on him. “damn girl you’re kinda kinky,” and he finally pulls away, teasingly biting on your bottom lip before finally departing. “i’m startin’ to like you.”

“more,” you murmur, leaning in to nip a wet kiss of your own near the crooked crevices of his mouth. naturally parted lips of his twitch, causing him to wryly smile back at you. “i need more, sir. we have a few more hours left. please.”

“baby, you can call me satoru. cut the formal shit yeah?” and his voice was a pitchy low, an almost rasp hidden underneath. a hand of his gently grabs your chin and you’re met with the most prettiest eyes. if it wasn’t his long lashes, it was his celestially blue eyes. so blue that it was as if you were star gazing at a summer sky. gojo satoru a pretty man, no doubt. he hums to himself in amusement at your cute doe-eyed expression, hungry for more. sitting on his boner was already torture enough, you just wanted him inside. 

sure, you were technically working but you didn’t care about that. “satoruuuu,” he’s being playful, a thumb still pulling down your bottom lip. as you’re both maintaining such intimate eye contact, his voice softens once more. gojo’s hand slides its way between your thighs before he raises a brow in a taunting manner. “what do you want satoru to do to you? tell me, girl.”

“t- touch me.” you almost whine out, it yanks out from your throat so pathetically. the throbbing you were feeling behind your panties only turned into straight convulses. 

playfully, he tilts his head with a smile. “yeah? touch ya where.”

“i gotta spell it out for you?” you pout, and he chuckles at your frustrated attitude. you start to jerk your hips against his lap and he holds your waist in place to bring those movements to a stop. “f-fuck, ‘s hard.”

stroking a thumb against your quivering lips, his minty breath hits against your nose—you smell it and it’s minty fresh. a scent of what seemed to be some kind of tangy beverage and a gum like substance. with a mocking tone, he presses a kiss against your nose before jibing. “i just wanna know where ‘m gonna put my hands on this pretty body. that’s all,” and his voice was so smooth, an almost purr. with a chortle, he moves a few strands of hair out of your view of sight before continuing his words. “now now, i’ll ask again, pretty. where do ya want me to touch you? let’s be descriptive this time.”

“between my t-thighs,” you confess, already soaked from him devouring your pussy just merely seconds ago. the shocking friction between both bodies had you feral, had you dizzy, had you stupid.

gojo gradually brings a hand down before you press a hand against his chest, pouting again. “actually, i want you to fuck me. please, satoru.”

“there we go, good girl. ‘n heh, aw i figured,” he cheeses, licking a single stripe up your neck. “mhm, you’ll have to ride me though. ‘s only so many positions you can do on a plane, heh.”

you barely let him finish your sentence before you start to unbuckle his pants. you’re so quick with it. gojo stares at the way you’re so desperate, taking it off the tiny hooks before yanking his belt all the way off. seconds later, you’re pulling down his pants toward his ankles. “ooh,” his eyes flicker towards your chest as you start to align yourself against his lap. you take a moment to stare at his now exposed cock and it was so pretty. lengthy if anything, a leaky mushroom like tip that was a bit reddened. he was so hard too, just gawking at his heavyset bulge that had you almost drooling. gojo leans back, rubbing against his thigh before flashing you a cheesy smile. “wellllll,” he sings. “don’t be shy girl. get on up here. ride all that stress away from work, pretty thing.”

he was so cocky, yet you were so needy. 

as you’re still aligning him, your damp entrance rubs off against the head of his tip. it’s peeling open a bit, the skin that attaches to the frenulum was just so mesmerizing to look at. it’s got a pinkish color, almost red. shortly following, a mere tannish color flushes on his cock near the base down. you moan once he grabs ahold of his length, helping you adjust. 

“easy . . easy baby, i gotcha,” he sighs, feeling your warmth slowly swallow him whole. those short seconds you spend taking in gojo’s dick feels like long, consecutive hours.

you’re dripping wet. as you straddle his lap, preparing to ride him, he slouches back in such a sexy way. manspread—gojo grunts out a single breath as his chest deflates. shifting his gaze towards your cunt, he spreads open your folds to get a better view. “ughhh, look at how she opens up for me. ‘s fuckin’ nasty,” he groans, staring dead at your cunt. you were indeed coating him with your slick from the base down. “give it to me, upside daisey, yeah.”

you’re taking his inches as the seconds go by before after a while—you plop down, feeling him bottom out already. gojo moans, gifting your ass with another spank. “f-fuck ‘toru,” you hiss, knowing that was a non-verbal sign for you to start up your hips. a cooling air that passes through the plane sets against your skin as you move. you whine, feeling his hands trickle alongside the secretive edges of your thighs. “touch me more, l- like that.”

“i don’t remember saying you could tell me what to do,” he meets your eyes as you start to thrust forward. he’s got the most impish grin stretching against his lips. gojo grips your chin for what was probably the nth time within this hour before he grins. “nuh uh, don’t look away. i wanna see those gorgeous eyes,” and he sneaks another wet kiss against your mouth. “ride it like you own it baby.”

you start off realllll slow, 

sashaying your hips up and down against his lap in the most alluring way. all six eyes were on you and only you..

your arms still wrap around him and he’s keeping eye contact with you the entire time. with your blazer practically ruffled and wrinkled, you continue to move yourself against him. gojo’s cock stretches you out in such a way you didn’t even know was possible. your walls craved him, you craved him.

as he leans further back, a hand’s still glued to your ass before he smacks it . . again.

he pats it afterwards, watching a cute sour expression slowly marinate against your facial features. 

gojo giggles at your cute noises, it doesn’t take long before you bury your face into the crook of his neck, gnawing your teeth against his collared shirt. “f-fuck, satoru,” you’d whine out, feeling his grip tighten against your ass. his cologne’s got your head spinning like a merri-go-round, giving you whiplash in all the right ways. “s-so big, stretchin’ me.”

“takin’ it so good, baby,” he licks against the lobe of your ear.  his breath against your neck was warm—not so cold anymore. two rough hands grasp onto your active hips, encouraging you to go more forward, more faster. “good girl, mhm, fuck me like that. use those hips for me, yeahh.”

his dick curves through every part of your walls as if it’s exploring. you feel him reach deep within every part and it’s driving you toward the first street of crazy.

breathy pants skate out from your lips as you’re swinging yourself back and forth against him. “s-satoru,” you whimper, feeling his hands continue to feel against the bare bottom parts of your ass. you could feel the bands of rings he wore rub off against your skin also, so fridgly cold. “f-fuck, ‘s good. mhm, fuck.”

“you’re so pretty,” he groans, the brief sounds of skin slapping resounding through your ears. it’s loud, almost sonorous.

his hair was getting a bit ruffled and unkempt, adding to his suave, mature features.

as he looks off into the nearly empty dim lit aisle, a silhouette appears—someone’s coming. it’s a familiar sound of heels hitting against the floor and you were too occupied of being horny to turn your head. at first, you barely even notice as you’re still grinding against his lap. “oh shit,” gojo gasps, grabbing the sides of your hips, suddenly bringing you to a stop. with a sly smile, he hums against your ear. “baby, don’t freak but i think your co-worker’s coming.”

“w- what?” you murmur, and he makes you spin around, still having his heavy cock hidden into the swollen depths of your cunt. glancing up, it was one of your co-workers coming. in a weak attempt to fix your nearly messed up blazer that was about to pop, you lean against his chest. “who— where?”

as he’s pressed right up against you, you’re met with a playful deep voice against your ear. “relax. act like you’re totally not cockwarming me, obviously,” and he runs a few fingers down your uniform, feeling you shift your hips a bit at his touch. gojo tries to make it look like you were just sitting on his lap, moving a cover over you and him from the waist down. you feel so full, you were growing more and more needy, a pout comes onto your lips because you didn’t want to stop so abruptly. you just wanted to keep riding him, but of course—you were working. “play it cool, baby.”

“um, is everything okay?” one of your fellow co-worker flight attendants, serena murmurs.

with a furrowing brow, she takes in the sight in front of her. you, happily straddling a passenger's lap whilst you’re heaving as if you’d just finish a 5k race. “we’ve been some getting complaints about noises. also, you need to restock the snacks near back. we’re runnin’ low on peanuts.”

“y-yeah, ‘m fine,” you sheepishly nod, knowing how fishy this entire scene might have looked. gojo’s dick was just idly enshrouded into your cunt, just one move and you’d be fucked. technically, you already were fucked. he’s tracing a finger against your thighs before you exhale. “but uh— can’t you restock?”

“i would but that’s not my job,” she snaps with an eye roll. gojo chortles at your co-worker’s attitude, he presses a single kiss against your neck and you almost moan. her facial expressions twist in disgust before she backs away. “anyways, just go restock,” and as she twists her heels to walk away, she utters under her breath. “weirdos. i don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

gojo lets out a breathy laugh as you finally moan again—it’s taking everything out of you and you start up the jolting of your hips again. “f-fuck, ‘m close, ‘toru,” you whimper, the friction feeling like hot static dragging against your legs. “mhm, ‘s good.”

“you’re even more dirtier than i thought, princess,” he whispers, a hand playfully wrapping around your throat as you’re moving your hips back. “i bet your co-worker put two ‘n two together. you could have been a little more believable.”

you’re moaning, his touch sending you more deadly shivers before you feel a coil within you squeeze shut tight. the beat of your heat grows rapid and your pupils dilate from pure pleasurable lust. you’re getting close again, it’s coming so quick that you barely have any time to breathe.

his aromatic cologne nearly blinds your sinuses before you feel against his neck with your palm. “i . . i don’t care if she knows,” you mumble with a scowl, feeling his base continuously rub against your entrance. you’re coating him with nothing but a pretty viscous sheet of your slick. “fuck, ‘m gonna cum again.”

“yeah? what if i want you to wait?” he purrs, his sloping trail of kisses turning into sucks. you whine, leaning into his touch as he’s stuffing your insides full of thick cock. jello—your legs felt like jello, barely even able to move. the warmth against him had you hungry for more. it was addictive, you didn’t know what it was. you didn’t get like this for any other passenger, yet here you were. your mouth croons open, whining out a single harmony at his pace. he’s still making you grind back against him, the tempo having your head going for a spin every time. “what if i want you to be a good attendant ‘n wait just a bit longer f’me?”

“but—”

“nuh uh,” he snickers, bringing a smack to your ass. “wait for me, pretty. this pussy’s gonna make a mess when i want her to.”

and he creeps a hand down between your jittery legs, rubbing a few circles against your already sopping wet cunt. a gasp wretches from your throat as you’re laid back against his chest. the rugged fabric of his tuxedo top whisks against your skin and you’re babbling out sweet nothings.

“f-fuck, ‘m not gonna last,” you whine, feeling yourself throb at the way his thumb brushes against your throat. he’s feeling the vibrations of your gruttural moans and it’s so cute. by this point, you’d already forgotten you were thirty thousand feet in the air. thirty thousand feet in the air and you were getting your pussy destroyed by one of your passengers. 

not just any passenger though, 

gojo satoru. 

he’s panting right with you as you’re just bouncing on his lap, two soft padded hands gripping against his thighs. as you bite your lip, your ass thrashes back gainst him and he hisses. “just like that, pretty girl. shiiiiit, ‘m gonna cum too.”

with his deep penetrative thrusts, it’s got you going ditzy. as he starts to spank against your puffy cunt, he nibbles against your collarbone. “you wanna cum with me, yeah? ‘s that why you keep dragging y’r nails into my leg?”

“s—sir,” you desperately spat, but he spanks your cunt again so you could switch your words around. “ngh, i mean satoru. wanna cum with you, pleaseplease. ‘s good, want it, finish in me.”

“my, well when ya ask like that,” he hums, and you feel the sharpness of his hips pivot. gojo groans, standing up before he lies you back against the now reclined seat. “lie back, baby. actually, changed my mind. i wanna push those pretty knees up to your chest.” 

panting, you lie back against the now lounged seat. gojo flashes you that same sly grin before he lifts up your leg—bringing a sweet kiss toward your ankle. “you can lose your license over this, you know? dirty girl, lettin’ your pussy think for ya instead of that brain, huh?”

“don’t care,” you moan, watching him quickly align his cock against your slit. gojo grunts, feeling you easily swallow his tip up again. your cunt was clingy, he was very much addicted to your slippery sloppy core. with his pants halfway on and hanging down to his ankles, he starts up a rapid pace again. “uh, uh,” you whimper again and again, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist. you’re keeping him warm from the inside, raw moans pulling out of your esophagus like it was nothing. “right there, ‘m gonna cum, please. s-sir, fuck me.”

“satoru,” he corrects you, a hand gripping your chin. pretty blue eyes leer down at you and he’s so close to you. as he’s jackhammering his cock into your sobbing swollen walls—eyes of your own goggle into gojo’s as he’s fucking you silly. you probably look a mess from this view, the heel of your foot grazing down his strong back muscles. gojo hears the sloshing squelches your own pussy makes and you feel the sudden throb arise from his dick. he twitches inside you and it makes his head throw back. after he gains composure again, he exhales deeply, tapping a thumb against your sealed lips.“you don’t gotta be formal when ‘m inside, princess,” and he squeezes your lips together, licking near the bottom. “open.”

you’re whining, his tempo growing quicker and you’re so close. crimson-carmine lips of his twitch into a feral smile once he sees you being so easy to comply. with your lips parting open, you tilt your head back before he spits into your mouth.

“theeeere’s your tip,” he teases, pursing your lips together with two fingers as you swallow. your cunt still gripping against him as he then pulls you into a deep kiss. with your legs clutching around his waist. “uh, manners baby. where’s my thank you?”

“t- thank you, ‘toru.” you breathe, feeling your cunt throb even quicker.

“oh, you’re welcome,” he smiles and he can’t help but giving you another kiss on the mouth shortly afterwards. the lustful stare he’s giving you could almost be described as lecherous has you more sopping wet by the second. with your legs tightly and securely keeping him from breaking away, he groans. right into your mouth, his tongue collides against yours before he sucks on it. as he brings you into a loving kiss again, gojo’s girth has you feeling a sudden arch in your back arise the moment you sit up. you’re being fucking into the reclined seat, his weight almost crushing against but it feels so good. “mhmmm, ‘m gonna cum. gonna spill so much inside of you, pretty.”

“don’t waste any,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around him. you didn’t even care how unprofessional this was. in the back of your mind, you’re thinking to yourself— if someone walked in again, who cares? not you. “please.”

“well aren’t you a doll,” gojo murmurs in a cooing tone, shoving your knees all the way up near your chest. you’re preparing yourself as you’re about to reach your final pleasurable demise. it feels almost tickling, the fat tip of his cock repeatedly kisses against that same spot within you. you’re whines sound almost melodic, not even caring if your pilot a few seats back heard. “look at me.” he taps your bottom shaking lip, leaning in to plant another kiss on your lips. one turns into two, then three, then four . .

and then— his phone rings.

you’re still a moaning mess, feeling your legs just about give out as he’s pressing such amounts of weight on top of you. gojo’s hands fondle with your neglected breasts that laid underneath your blazer. he groans, reaching for his phone near the counter of the seat. with a grunt, he answers. “tch. satoru gojo.”

still snugly shoved deep inside, he’s multitasking. one hand holds onto the left side of your waist, another holding his phone up against his cheek. he’s drilling into you so mercilessly as if his occupation was a construction worker. you whine, the scratching itch never leaving you. once it comes, it comes. “suguru, ‘m kinda busy. can this wai— oh f…fuck.”

in an abrupt gasp, he ends up finishing first. it’s so much. thick gooey spurts pour into your cunt, filling up the insides of your goopy womb. gojo’s peering down at you and his lip quivers. he finished a bit early. too quick, his hand shakes as he holds up his phone before you squeeze your legs against his torso even tighter. for a moment, he almost whines himself. the strong gripping grip your pussy has against makes him swear underneath his breath.

“huh? yeah, ‘m good,” he sexily whews, slowing his rhythm down a bit.

a hand of his snaps, making you look down between your legs.

he gives you a teasing grin and you spread your folds open. it was so much, so much velvety ropes of hot cum that ooze in and out of your sloppy folds. you’ve never felt more warm from the inside. it was a feeling that had your mouth watering, salivating with your sweet, syrupy saliva. your legs were practically mush, and once you finish, you end up gushing all out at once. it takes you by surprise more than anything. the feeling comes like a crashing, unpredictable wave, a fading fade then departures from your body. minutes eventually pass and gojo’s still yapping away on the phone—yet after a while, he decides to wrap it up and groan. “yeah yeah okay, man. i gotta go now. unless you wanna listen to how i sound post-orgasm, heh.”

“what—?”

with a quick bleep, gojo hangs up. tossing his phone aside, he looks down at you—cutely sprawled out whilst chills run down your body. he can almost see you palpitating from said chills. leaning up close to you, still balls deep, he pants heavily. gojo pressed a kiss against your right temple before teasing. “heyyy, did you just squirt on me?” he asks, and he speaks in a sly soft tone.

you don’t reply and he gives you a priggish smile. “you didddd. so nasty, i should make ya lick it off me.”

you did end up squirting. it was so much. so so much.

you’re still having your legs wrap around his waist before you grab onto his wide, stiff shoulders. “s-satoru,” you moan into his neck, getting yet another balmy whiff of his manly musk. “f-fuuuck, more.”

right before he could reply though— the intercom of the plane comes on and it’s the pilot.

“ladies and gentleman, we’ve made it to our destination. local time and time of arrival is six thirty-three am. for your own safety and others around you, please remain seated and keep the aisles cleared until i announce we’re at the airport gates. thank you.”

“aw, boo,” gojo laments, slowly pulling out of your pussy. a pout unfurls against your glossed lips as you feel suddenly empty. no more thick inches inside. the only thing you felt were the leftover masses of his cum spewing out of you. the seats were a mess, he brings a hand down to strum a few fingers against your entrance and you whine. so soaked, he gifts you with a kiss on your forehead before exhaling. “well, think it’s ‘bout time we part ways, gorgeous.”

gojo helps put back on your skirt and panties and you‘re just laid back with a cute scowl as he assists you off your feet. “i . . can’t walk like this,” and he chuckles at how stiff you were— a few droplets of his cum race down your thighs and you almost moan again. you’re still sensitive, throbbing near every inch of your body before he stands up. he’s so lean and tall. as gojo towers over you, you glance up at him and you’re met with that annoying flirtatious smirk he gave you when his eyes first laid on you. “my panties are practically ripped.”

he turns around to grab his suitcases above him from the cabinet and sighs.

zipping up his exposed fly, gojo leans in to kiss your forehead. “ah, well i can always buy you some more,” and then he pauses. “actually,” he grabs his wallet and your eyes widen once he gives you three hundred dollar bills. “i can buy you more than just panties if ya want, sweet thing,” he slides the bills in between your bra before pressing a kiss against your neck. “you’ve been such a good girl,” and he then hands you his business card. it displays his name and a cheesy saying near the front, all his information in bold blue letters too. before walking away with your bawled up underwear, he leans up to your ear for a final time and whispers, “remember though, it’s satoru gojo, baby. ah, and these panties—i’ll be keeping these as a souvenir.”

[ilium-ilia]

calyptra thalictri

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | "single mom" au | masterlist

slip

tw: stalking, abortion mention, anxiety, implied misogyny

In the beginning, Simon had his doubts about choosing you to be the mother of his child. 

He needed someone soft spoken—a sweet damozel without the connections of a lover, without something to hold her back. When he first laid eyes on you, he could see the prints in your skin. The divots left behind from the feet that have walked all over you, tread marks scarring your epidermis without any guarantee of fading. He watched those prints manifest before his very eyes in the pub he first saw you in as you laughed at your friend’s jokes, too gauche to share how uncomfortable it truly made you. 

Following you home was an easy feat when your friends were too inebriated to care about your well being. To give you a ride, or accompany you to the tenebrous corner. You were timid like a newborn fawn unsteady on their feet—too anxious to look over your shoulder at the large brute who had been tailing you for the last block and a half. There is no self preservation instinct. You let both friends and life alike drag you where they wish. 

Everything else was easy after that. Making a copy of your key, spiking the tea you always drink at night before bed, breeding you like the good bitch you are—but there was still doubt. Could something as pathetic as you ever make it as far as he needs you to? Would you suddenly grow skittish and flee the moment you knew you were with child? Could you ever be cruel enough to purge the foetus before he was finished with you? 

All his qualms vanish the moment he catches you in the grocery market. 

It’s truly by accident. A meeting planned by fate. He rounds the corner into the aisle of packaged bread and he sees you, trolley half full, teeth biting into your knuckles. Freezing, Simon’s eyes widen as he soaks you in—even the prospect of choosing between brands of bread troubles you as you inspect the shelves with narrowed eyes. Lips parted, free hand resting on your growing stomach, his mind reels. 

The sonogram in his wallet begins to burn a hole through his pocket. Its warmth is hardly matched by the blazing fury of the sun itself, but he revels in the sting. He gets to witness without a shred of doubt that he’s made the right choice. Look at you—pathetic, alone, in need of someone to take care of you. Scared. Worried. Struggling to hold back the frustration that boils just beneath your skin. In need of someone. 

In need of him. 

Simon tails you for a little while longer through the store, clandestine as he browses various canned goods and sacks of rice. His act isn’t needed, it seems, as you are utterly oblivious to the savior lurking in your shadow. Like a scientist watches a specimen squirming on an examination board, grotesque limbs pinned by unkind needles, he witnesses with avaricious delight as you stumble upon the baby food section. Small jars of puree carrots, peas, and bananas look up at you from the shelves with curling grins. Even from a distance he can see the way your throat bobs. How you attempt to be brave and reach for a jar only to pull back at the last second, unable to stand the heat. 

If only you knew how soon he would be there to swoop in and kiss the aches. To smother everything that ails you—to save you from this strife. 

These last few weeks have left his skin itching. Scarabs nettle beneath his flesh, scurrying on spindly legs, whispering with gnarly teeth into the shell of his ear telling him to take, take, take. Take you—wrap you up in the blankets you hide yourself in while you sleep and bring you home so that he can finally have the life he’s coveted since he’s seen the way bullets tear through bone. He often finds himself standing at the foot of your bed, watching you. Hands wandering to your stomach to feel, to press, to simper. He’s witnessed you swell—the child grow—his dreams manifest before his very eyes. 

He can’t wait—he can only hold this accismus for so long. 

Your gaze adverts from the baby food and you return your trembling hands to the trolley before continuing down the aisle. More often than not, your heart is like a hummingbird these days. Wings flapping too fast, beak darting, begging for sustenance, begging for anything that might free you from the bars keeping you caged; keeping you isolated. 

You’ve gotten good at pretending as if you meant for this to happen. This wretched state of your body—of this fatigue, of your swollen abdomen, of your dither. Though no one could look at you and realize that you don’t know the father of this creature growing inside of you, the gaze of the clerk has you believing otherwise. His eyes linger on your stomach for far too long as if he ponders how much red he could see if he cut you open, or the taste of ichor when licked off of his own fingers. 

He gives you a courteous smile as you pay for your groceries, then leave. Automatic sliding doors squeak as you push your trolley outside into the dying carotene puff of the setting sun, and you waste no time trudging along to your car. Its fragile, beaten exterior greets you flippantly with a simple beep as you unlock the boot and begin to pile everything inside. Milk, bread, eggs, apples, avocados—all things your doctor told you would be good for the baby’s development. 

Then, something rips. 

One of the bags tears open on the corner of the trolley, sending items tumbling free from their confines and onto the cracked asphalt at your feet. Doxylamine clatters to the ground and stares up at you. It grins. It’s goading you into doing the thing that seems to be increasingly difficult these days—bending. Crouching. Stooping low enough to grab something all while carrying the weight of some sick sin. 

Just as you go to reach for the box, a large hand swoops in and eats it. 

Blinking, you watch as the box slowly rises from the ground before it’s being held out for you to take. Scarred knuckles scream at you as they slice along pale skin, but your eyes follow the lines like words of a book—a story you’re waiting to peel back and uncover. 

“Doxylamine is alright, but I usually go with Diphenhydramine.” 

The voice that speaks to you is thick. Viscous like syrup—like cruor. Your gaze follows the invisible line that traces his arm, paying attention to the niello ink that permeates the skin just around his wrist as it peeks out from beneath the sleeve of his jumper. His palm is fat. Wide enough to smother a football with long digits that are so meaty they could pop it with a single hand. Then, there’s his height. This stranger towers over most, broad shoulders competing against even the most spacious of doorways, and the hood on his head coupled with the work boots on his feet give him an extra inch. 

Then, there’s his eyes. Inky. Pitch dark like the shadows the monsters in your closet used to hide in when you were a child. It’s impossible to see through him—to poke and prod your way into his mind. Something stops you just short of diving into the depths; a wall you can’t quite push through. 

Shaking your head, you knock your thoughts free from your mind. “What?” 

“Diphenhydramine is a better antihistamine. For allergies. Though, it makes you tired,” the man says bluntly. Once more, he shakes the box in his hand, and you bring yourself to look at it. 

“Oh.” You take it into your grasp, fingers not even coming close to brushing against his. “I don’t take it for allergies. It’s for… morning sickness, technically.” 

Your hand spreads over your stomach, almost lovingly. Almost as if this were planned—as if this is what you want. You feel this stranger’s gaze wander, just like everyone else’s always does. You’re a spectacle. Woman contorted into a show for all to witness. 

He hums in response to your unwarranted explanation before turning his attention to your trolley. Wordlessly, he begins to unload the basket. Bags slipping into his arms, you watch as he yanks them free and gently places them in the back of your car, piled neatly next to the few you had managed to load before making a mess of things. 

“Oh—uhm—you don’t- you don’t have to do that,” you stutter. 

“I know.” 

Stoic. Stale. No room for argument. Anxious fingers tap against the box of drugs as you watch him move your groceries for you. He’s not old, but the scars on his face age him. They settle into the lines of his face, deepening them until his skin is permanently creased. There’s a bump on his nose that you don’t think was there when he was born, and a rosy scar to accompany the ridge. His lips are tight. Thin, stony—as if he’s holding back something. 

A secret. A thought. 

“Well, thank you…?” Your tone curls. Your grace turns into a question, and you’re not even sure what you’re asking until he answers. 

“Simon.” 

Strong. Simple. Fitting, for a man like him. 

“Thank you, Simon.” 

He pauses when you speak his name—back turned to you, hands full of bags, he loads the last few into the boot before sneaking a piece of paper out of one of them. You open your mouth to protest until you notice it’s only your receipt. 

“It’s not right, havin’ you out here like this by yourself,” he tells you. 

Disbelief settles deep in your bones as you scoff. “Excuse me?” 

Not looking at you, Simon fishes a pen from his deep pockets and begins scribbling something on your receipt. “A woman in your condition shouldn’t be doing such heavy liftin’ on her own. You need someone to take care of you.” 

“What makes you think I need help?” you ask, brows raised. 

The pen clicks. It’s sharp. A shot ringing throughout the air. Simon’s eyes settle on you, and the weight constricts around your chest. They’re… eerie. Adust, like the lowering countryside right before a storm hits to wipe the earth clean. 

“You walk like you’re guilty. You’ve got some weight dragging you down, and I don’t think it’s the baby in your tummy doin’ that, love. When you look at people, you’re already apologizing. Can read it all over that sweet face of yours. Besides, there’s no ring on that finger. Means the dad isn't all that serious ‘bout you.” He holds the folded receipt out for you to take, but all you can do is stare at it with blank eyes. “Or maybe you don’t even know who the daddy is at all.” 

His impudence is jarring. Shame gnaws through your intestines straight into your womb where it grows. He’s read you to filth. Swallowing, you look at him, throat tightening. 

“Have we met before?” Your question flows from your mouth like blood from a wound—already apologetic for the damage. “You just… seem familiar.” 

All Simon does is stare. 

“I think I’d remember meetin’ someone like you.” 

He’s scribbled your receipt with his number, and before leaving he tells you to call him if you need anything. Stilted as ever, you stiffly thank him before shoving it into your pocket and climbing into your car, silently telling yourself that you’d never reach out to him—that you’d never drag anyone else into this… situation. Least of all someone like him, a stranger who can read you better than you can yourself; better than your own friends can. 

When you arrive home, it takes you much too long to load all your groceries into your flat. The stairs leave you huffing, and by the end of it, your knees clatter together so viciously you fear you may collapse. Instead, you endure. Unpacking items, shoving them into the fridge, the pantry, into cupboards—you think about how soon your space will be invaded. High chairs and puree food, bibs and swaddle blankets, toys to trip on. Another mouth to feed. 

Or not.

As you place the milk in the fridge, you think about how you could put the child up for adoption. Push it out and send it off into the world for you to never lay eyes on it again. You don’t have the stomach to terminate it, but you can stomach this. Sending them off to live with real parents. Someone better. 

Your thoughts freeze the moment your hand wraps around a box of toothpaste. 

Brows furrowing, you look through the contents of your final bag to find items you don’t remember buying. Aftershave. Protein mix. Soap. 

Sighing, you tilt your head back to look at the ceiling as your palms rub at your achy, swollen eyes. Simon’s phone number whispers to you from your back pocket, and you grit your teeth as you slip it free from your jeans. This grocery mix up feels like a seed—carefully planted and watered. 

Now, it’s germinating.

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[hishumanbellestories]

idk if you do requests but if you do could you write a Alastor x reader where Y/ and Alastor were close friends when they were alive when Y/n committed suicide so when they start dating in hell Al is super protective. Sorry if this is too much

♡ ♡ ♡

Hello! Happy to oblige to this very pleasant request, @helluva-simper! I got a little carried away and I don't know if I completely fulfilled your request. If so, let me know if it disgusts you. ☹ The story is very long… it tells of your friendship and what Alastor does to end up in hell.

WARNING: blood mentioned, murder scenes. The ending is a little sweet/fluff! PART II: click here.

You will find sections dedicated to jealousy and moments of sweet protectiveness/concern towards the bottom, there is a note to indicate it if you want to skip the whole narration. Happy reading!

♡ ♡ ♡

1920 – New Orleans.

The streets were alive with music. Jazz spilled from the clubs, mingling with the scent of sizzling street food and the laughter of passing crowds. The city pulsed with energy, a place where anything felt possible.

You were weaving through the bustling French Quarter, the beads of your necklace clicking together with each hurried step. The warm night air hummed with conversation and the distant trill of a trumpet. That’s when you saw him—leaning casually against a lamppost, arms crossed, a grin playing on his lips:

Alastor.

He had the kind of presence that demanded attention without trying. Sharp brown eyes gleamed with mischief beneath the brim of his fedora, and his suit—impeccably pressed but slightly rumpled from the humid air—suggested he had a knack for looking effortlessly put-together.

“Now, there’s a face I don’t recognize!” he called out, voice brimming with exaggerated cheer. “What brings a fine young lady like yourself out into this wild, untamed city?”

You smirked, raising a brow. “You say that like you’re not part of the wild.”

Alastor let out a laugh—bright, unrestrained. “Guilty as charged! But I do like to think I bring a certain flair to the madness.” He tilted his head, studying you with amused curiosity. “You’ve got the look of someone with a story. Care to share?”

You weren’t sure why, but something about him felt instantly familiar—like you had known him before, in another life. Or maybe it was just the way he carried himself, like he belonged to the city as much as the music did. Either way, you felt no hesitation as you grinned back at him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” you countered.

Alastor's eyes lit up, and he extended a hand with an almost theatrical flourish. “Then, my dear, we have ourselves a deal! Let’s find a proper place for storytelling—somewhere with good music and even better company.”

And just like that, the night began.

The first meeting was just the beginning. What started as playful banter on the streets of New Orleans quickly turned into something more—a friendship unlike any other.

Alastor had a way of making the world feel electric, as if life itself were a performance and he was the master of ceremonies. You, on the other hand, had a way of grounding him just enough, pulling him back from his more reckless impulses while still encouraging his mischief. Together, you balanced each other out in a way that neither of you had expected but both of you secretly needed. The two of you became inseparable. Whether it was sneaking into speakeasies, dancing until your feet ached, or sitting by the Mississippi River sharing stories about dreams and the absurdities of life, there was never a dull moment.

“You, my dear, are one of the few people in this world who truly understand me,” Alastor declared one evening, tipping his hat back as he leaned against a balcony railing. “And that is either a wonderful thing… or a truly terrifying one.”

You chuckled, nudging his arm. “Terrifying for who?”

He turned to you, grin wide, eyes gleaming in the gaslight. “Why, the rest of the world, of course!”

And honestly? He wasn’t wrong. You had a way of finishing each other’s sentences, of knowing exactly what the other was thinking with just a glance. Whether it was pulling elaborate pranks on unsuspecting bystanders (all in good fun, of course) or covering for each other when trouble inevitably followed, you were a team.

“I swear, if you ever get yourself locked up, I might consider bailing you out,” you teased one night after Alastor narrowly avoided getting into a scuffle at a particularly rowdy club.

“Might?” he gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “How cruel! After all we’ve been through!”

You smirked. “Oh, I’d bail you out… but not before letting you stew for a few hours first.”

Alastor let out a laugh—loud and full of life. “Now that is why we’re friends. You’re almost as devious as me.”

There were moments—brief and fleeting—where the laughter faded and something deeper settled between you. Those were the nights when the world felt quieter, when Alastor would stop grinning just long enough for you to catch glimpses of something else in his eyes.

“Ever wonder what comes next?” you asked once, lying on the grass in a park long after midnight, staring up at the stars.

Alastor was silent for a moment before answering, “sometimes.” Then, after a pause, “but as long as I have a friend like you, I don't think I'll ever have to worry about being alone in whatever comes next.” You turned your head to look at him, surprised by the rare sincerity in his voice. He met your gaze and, for once, there was no mischief, no mask—just Alastor, your best friend. You smiled, but your smile seemed unconvincing to his eyes, and the gleam in your eyes was no longer the same. Something gripped you from inside. Alastor had become a part of you, but it wasn't enough.

He was a constant need.

Something in your chest was blooming and it was heavy.

It started subtly. Alastor noticed before you even said a word. The way your laughter became softer, less frequent. The way your eyes—once alight with mischief—began to dim. You still showed up, still went along with his antics, but something in you had changed.

At first, he acted as if nothing was different, thinking you’d snap out of it on your own. But then, one night, he found you alone, sitting on the edge of the riverbank, staring into the dark water as if it were calling your name. And that’s when he knew—this wasn’t something he could ignore.

He sat beside you, unusually quiet. The city still buzzed behind you, jazz and laughter filling the streets, but here, it was just the two of you and the sound of water lapping against the shore.

“You’re not well,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

You let out a tired breath, your arms wrapped around your knees. “No, I’m not.”

You really wanted to share the burden, how you felt, the heaviness of the world and not feeling enough… especially that he didn't see you the way you did, but your thoughts were incomprehensible. How could he love someone like you?

Alastor wasn’t the type to fumble for words, but for the first time in a long time, he felt at a loss. He could charm his way out of almost anything, but this—this was different. This was you, his best friend, slipping away from him in a way he didn’t know how to stop.

“Do you ever think… maybe it’d be easier if I just—” , you hesitated, fingers gripping your arms a little tighter.

Alastor’s grin vanished.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice sharper than usual. “Don’t even finish that thought.”

You blinked, startled by the sudden intensity in his tone. He turned to face you fully, his usual playful expression replaced by something raw. Something desperate.

“You cannot leave me,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less fierce. “I refuse to allow it. We have a deal, remember?”

You let out a hollow laugh. “You can’t exactly stop me, Al.”

He leaned forward, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. “Maybe not. But I can remind you why you shouldn’t.”

Before you could react, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, worn-out trinket—a cheap little charm you had won for him at a carnival months ago. You barely remembered it, but he had kept it.

“This ridiculous thing,” he said, rolling it between his fingers, “is completely worthless. And yet, every time I look at it, I remember you. The way you cheated at that ring toss, the way you laughed when I nearly tripped over that poor man’s dog.” He exhaled sharply. “And if this stupid thing can hold that much meaning to me… imagine how much you mean to me.” But not enough… you thought.

Your throat tightened. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear something like that.

Alastor suddenly reached out and grabbed your hands, his grip firm, grounding. “Listen to me. The world is a cruel, wretched place, I won’t deny it. But you?”, he smiled then—small, sincere. “You make it bearable. And if you leave, who will remind me that life isn’t all bad?”

You swallowed hard, looking down at your intertwined hands. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.”

“You don’t have to,” he said simply. “You just have to stay.”

The river still whispered below, the city still pulsed behind you. But in that moment, sitting beside Alastor, his hands holding yours as if he could keep you tethered to the world—something shifted. The weight on your chest didn’t disappear, but it felt just a little lighter.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Alastor knew something was wrong the moment you vanished.

At first, he convinced himself it was temporary. That you just needed time. That you’d come back, and he’d tease you about running off without telling him. He’d call you a terrible friend for worrying him and then demand you make it up to him with a night on the town.

But days passed. Then a week.

And then... he found out.

Your name echoed through the streets like a ghostly whisper, carried by murmurs of sorrow and disbelief. Alastor stood frozen, heart pounding as the words reached him—words he didn’t want to believe.

You were gone.

And you had taken yourself from the world.

For the first time in his life, Alastor felt the breath leave his lungs in a way that had nothing to do with laughter. His mind refused to accept it. His body rejected the reality of it. But the truth remained.

You were gone.

He didn’t remember much of what happened after. Someone tried to console him. Someone tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t hear them. He didn’t hear anything. The world had lost all sound. All color. All joy.

And then came the anger.

It started as a slow, simmering rage—a silent, festering wound deep in his chest. But grief is a twisted thing, and Alastor was not built to handle loss in the way ordinary men did.

He was not an ordinary man.

The first girl died only days after your funeral. She had your hair. Your laugh. He heard it across the street and for a fleeting, impossible second, he thought—You came back.

But it wasn’t you. It would never be you...

And if the world had taken you from him, then he would take from the world.

One by one, the women who bore even the slightest resemblance to you began to disappear. Some were found—lifeless, their bodies discarded like forgotten memories. Others were never seen again.

Alastor was careful at first. He didn’t want to get caught. But as the weeks stretched into months, his grief evolved into something insatiable. He no longer cared about consequences. He wanted them to know. He wanted them to fear him.

Because if he had to live in a world without you, then the world would learn to suffer as he did.

The city spoke of him in hushed voices, afraid to say his name too loudly. The newspapers called him The Butcher of New Orleans, but the radio stations had a different name—The Smiling Devil.

They said he never stopped grinning. That even as he ended their lives, he hummed little tunes, like it was all just a grand performance.

They didn’t know the truth.

That he wasn’t smiling.

That it was just his teeth, bared in grief so deep it had turned into something unrecognizable.

That the songs he hummed were the ones you used to sing.

But none of it mattered anymore. Nothing did. Because the only person who had ever truly seen him—the only person who had made life bearable—was gone.

And so, Alastor continued his symphony of slaughter, letting the city drown in the echoes of his suffering.

Until, one night, as he stared into the mirror, covered in blood and surrounded by the remnants of his latest victim—

He swore he heard your voice.

And for the first time since losing you…

The smile on his face faltered.

Alastor stood motionless, breath hitching as the whisper of your voice curled through the air like cigarette smoke.

It was impossible. He was losing his mind.

And yet…

“… Alastor.”

His blood ran cold. His name, spoken so softly, so familiar, yet carrying the weight of something beyond the grave. He turned sharply, but the dim glow of his apartment revealed nothing. Only the remnants of his latest crime—a body slumped in the corner, eyes wide, lips frozen in a scream. A woman who had your hair, your face, your shape—who had been a pathetic, fragile imitation of you.

His pulse roared in his ears. The radio crackled with static, his own heartbeat distorted into white noise.

“… Why?”

The question wasn’t from the radio. It was from you.

A slow, eerie grin stretched across his face, but it was empty. A reflex. A mask. His voice came out smooth, but there was something desperate beneath it.

“Why what, my dear?”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. He swallowed, suddenly aware of how cold the room had become. His fingers twitched at his sides. He felt it again—your presence, unseen but unmistakable.

“… This isn’t what I wanted.”

Alastor stiffened.

Ah. So that’s what this was. Guilt, slipping in through the cracks. He had thought himself immune to it, but hearing your voice again? It was different.

“Oh, but you see,” he murmured, tilting his head as he addressed the empty room, “what you wanted no longer matters. Because you left me.” His voice darkened, laced with something venomous. “And now I’ve made sure the world remembers you.”

A flicker in the corner of his vision. A shadow? A trick of the dim light? No—you were here.

Alastor clenched his fists, something twisting in his gut. His smile wavered. He should feel triumphant. He had honored you in the only way he knew how—with violence, with chaos, with the ruin of everything that dared to resemble you.

Then why… did he feel like he had failed you?

“Alastor…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a breath against his ear, a sound carried by the wind itself. “I was hurting. And you—”

He stepped forward, reaching out, but there was nothing to grasp. Just air. Just absence.

“I needed you.”

A laugh—high-pitched, jagged—bubbled up from his throat, unsteady and wrong. His fingers curled into his palms, nails biting into his own flesh.

“I tried!” he snapped, voice cracking, his mask slipping. “I told you to stay! I begged you to—”

Silence.

A void where your voice should be.

And for the first time in his life, Alastor felt something unfamiliar clawing at his chest.

Not anger.

Not madness.

Not even grief.

But regret.

The radio hummed. The body on the floor remained lifeless.

And Alastor, for all his power, for all his wit, for all his control—stood there, for once, with nothing.

Just the ghost of you. And the echoes of a laughter he would never hear again.

Alastor was losing himself.

The killings had been satisfying at first. Each act of violence had been a desperate grasp at control, a way to fill the gaping void you had left behind. But now—now, even as blood pooled at his feet, even as screams rang in his ears—there was no satisfaction. No relief.

Only you.

He saw you in every shadow. Heard you in every whisper of wind, every crackle of his beloved radio.

And worst of all? He felt you.

You haunted him in ways he couldn’t escape. Not in the way spirits haunted old homes or restless souls clung to their unfinished business. No—you haunted the very fabric of him.

He had always been a man of control, sharp and calculated, always three steps ahead. But now? He felt unraveled.

The change began slowly. A creeping sensation in his chest, a disturbance in his mind.

At first, it was just the dreams. Nightmares, if he were being honest—though he’d never admit to fearing them. He dreamed of the river, of your reflection staring back at him from the black water. Your eyes empty, accusing. He dreamed of reaching for you, only for your image to ripple and disappear, leaving him gasping for air.

Then came the waking moments of displacement.

He would enter a room and forget why he was there. Hear a voice—your voice—only to turn and find nothing. Food lost its taste. Music lost its charm. Even his own laughter—once so effortless—felt wrong. Forced.

His mind fractured further with each passing day.

The killings became less about vengeance and more about habit. A desperate attempt to feel something. But they no longer served their purpose.

Nothing did.

And that’s when he realized—he was changing.

The transformation was not sudden, nor was it entirely physical.

Oh, he still looked human, at least in the mirror. But inside? Something fundamental was shifting.

His once brilliant mind—sharp as a knife—now teetered on the edge of something far darker. He had always been clever, but now his thoughts felt inhuman. Detached. Cold.

He began to crave things he could not name. His body itched for something beyond flesh, beyond blood. He could feel his soul twisting into something grotesque, stretching toward something otherworldly.

It wasn’t just madness.

It was evolution.

The final breaking point came when he tried to speak to you.

Tried to summon you—truly summon you.

Through old rituals, through whispers in the dark, through desperate, fevered attempts to bring you back.

But nothing worked.

Because you were gone.

And so, Alastor did the only thing left to do.

He laughed.

He laughed until his throat burned, until his ribs ached, until the world around him seemed to distort under the weight of his hysteria.

And in that moment, something inside him snapped.

The man he had once been—the clever, charming, mischievous man who had loved you—died that night.

And in his place, something else was born.

Something with sharper teeth. Something with a hunger that could never be sated. Something that no longer cared for the limits of mortality.

And so, Alastor stepped fully into the madness, embraced the darkness, and let the last shreds of his humanity rot.

For without you—

There was nothing left worth saving.

The swamp was alive with the hum of cicadas, the distant croak of bullfrogs, and the soft rustling of the wind through the trees. The night stretched on, dark and endless, as Alastor dragged yet another lifeless body through the underbrush.

It had become a ritual by now. He worked alone, humming some jazz tune under his breath, the weight of his latest victim barely a bother. He had done this so many times. The city was catching on to the string of missing women, but no one suspected him. No one ever suspected the man with the charming smile and the quick wit.

Until now.

A sudden snap of a twig.

Alastor froze, fingers tightening around the corpse’s wrist. His head tilted slightly, ears picking up the faintest movement in the distance. Someone else was here.

Hunters.

The realization hit just as he spotted the faint glow of a lantern through the trees.

Then—

BANG!

Pain. A sharp, searing pain tore through his chest. His breath hitched as he stumbled backward, his grip on the body loosening.

BANG! BANG!

Another shot—this time, his leg buckled beneath him. He collapsed to the damp earth, gasping as warmth spread through his clothing. Blood.

He could hear them talking, could barely make out their figures through the dense foliage.

"Didja see that?! We got ‘im!"

"Damn thing’s huge—look at those antlers!"

His vision blurred. His body ached, cold creeping into his fingers. But he barely noticed—because something was wrong.

His hands—his fingers—were stretching, warping into something unnatural.

Antlers.

He could feel them growing, twisting out from his skull. His body contorted, reshaping itself, the pain of death giving way to something even stranger.

His last breath came out as a laugh—a wheezing, broken chuckle that sent a chill down the hunters' spines.

And then—

Nothing.

Alastor awoke to a world bathed in red.

The sky above churned with crimson clouds, the ground beneath him cracked and scorched. He pushed himself up, disoriented, his body still tingling from the sensation of becoming.

And then he saw his reflection.

The murky water of a nearby puddle rippled, distorting his face—but there was no mistaking it. His features were still his own, but… changed.

His eyes glowed with an unnatural red light. His ears were long, pointed. And his smile—his signature, ever-present smile—felt sharper.

But the most striking change?

The massive set of deer antlers crowning his head.

Something deep inside him stirred, and as the realization settled in, Alastor did the only thing that felt right.

He threw back his head—

And laughed.

Hell had given him a new form, a fitting form.

And Alastor?

He was going to enjoy this.

Hell was not what you had expected.

It wasn’t fire and brimstone, nor was it eternal torment—at least, not in the way the preachers had warned. It was loud, chaotic, an endless city pulsing with neon lights and strange, inhuman creatures.

And somehow, you were here.

Your memories were hazy, blurred at the edges, but the weight of your death still clung to you. The pain, the loneliness, the finality of it all—it had been too much. And yet, instead of fading into oblivion, you had woken up in this strange, twisted afterlife.

And then, you met him.

At first, you thought he was just another demon. His sharp suit, his unnerving red eyes, the way he grinned like he knew a joke no one else did—it all fit the description.

But there was something familiar about him.

Something in the way he spoke, the way he tilted his head when he looked at you, like he knew you from somewhere.

And then—

"Why, if it isn’t my dear, darling, Y/N!"

His voice was a melody, smooth and rich like a radio host’s, yet laced with something darker.

You froze.

He knew your name.

And suddenly, it hit you. The way he carried himself, that unmistakable laugh, the gleam of amusement in his eyes that never quite reached his soul.

No. It couldn’t be!

"Alastor…?"

His grin widened. "Ah, so you do remember me! My, my, what a reunion! And here I thought I was the only one who got a second chance at—shall we say—infamy?"

You took a step back, heart pounding. This wasn’t the man you had known. He looked like him, sounded like him, but everything about him was… wrong.

The Alastor you had known—your dear friend—had been mischievous, yes, but not like this. Not this predatory, bloodstained thing standing before you.

"What happened to you?" you breathed.

His laughter rang out, bright and sharp. "Oh, sweetheart... YOU, happened! Your little disappearance sent me on quite the downward spiral! And, well… let’s just say I took up a new hobby." His eyes glowed with something unreadable. "Turns out, Hell appreciates a man with a knack for… entertainment."

Your stomach twisted.

You had left him behind in life, and now?

Now, he was something else.

Something monstrous.

And yet—

Even as fear curled in your chest, even as you saw the demon he had become, a part of you still saw him.

Alastor.

Your friend.

And that part of you couldn’t help but wonder—

Was there anything left of the man you had once loved?

The air between you was thick with unspoken words.

Alastor was still grinning, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something unreadable, something unsettling. He had changed, but so had you. And now, standing before him in this twisted afterlife, you knew you couldn’t keep the truth buried any longer.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest.

"Alastor," you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be. "I—I never meant to leave you like that."

His grin didn't waver, but his head tilted slightly, as if he were listening to a song only he could hear.

You took a shaky breath. "I—", your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to say it. "I loved you, Alastor. I always did."

Silence.

His expression didn't change. Not at first. But his fingers twitched ever so slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"Ah," he finally said, voice smooth as ever. "Is that what it was all about?"

You nodded, unable to look away.

Alastor let out a slow chuckle, shaking his head. "And here I thought you were just mysterious."

You frowned, confusion twisting in your gut. "Alastor—"

"Darling, darling," he interrupted, lifting a hand as if to stop your words. "Why so serious? We’re in Hell! Surely, there’s no need for all this brooding when we have eternity to waste!"

You blinked. "What?"

He clapped his hands together. "Tell you what, sweetheart—why don’t we go paint the town red? And no, no—" he wagged a finger playfully, "not that kind of red. I mean, unless you're feeling violent." He chuckled at his own joke.

Your mind reeled. He was deflecting.

After everything you had just said, after everything—was this really all he had to say?

"Alastor," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Do you—did you ever feel the same?"

His eyes glowed.

For a split second, his grin faltered—just a fraction.

Then, as quickly as it had faded, it was back in full force.

"Now, now, dear," he purred, stepping closer. "That’s an awfully dangerous question, don’t you think?"

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his face inches from yours.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away with a theatrical twirl. "Come now, let’s not dwell on silly things like the past! You’ve got a second chance, I’ve got a second chance—why not make the most of it?"

He extended a hand toward you, his grin unwavering. "So, what do you say, dearest? Care to join me for a night on the town?"

Your heart ached.

He was deflecting. Hiding behind jokes, behind that ever-present grin. But beneath it all, you saw something else—something buried deep.

A hesitation.

A fear.

A truth he wasn’t ready to speak.

You glanced at his outstretched hand, then back at his face.

Maybe he wasn’t ready to face the truth just yet.

Maybe he never would be.

But for now?

For now, you could take his hand.

And see where the night would take you.

At first, it was just fun.

You and Alastor—together again, painting Hell with laughter and chaos, just like old times. He took you everywhere, showing you the wonders (and horrors) of the afterlife, always keeping you close, always grinning.

It was as if nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Because now, you both knew the truth.

You had loved him in life. Had lost yourself in sorrow, thinking he never cared. And he—well, Alastor never admitted things outright, but you saw it now.

The way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The way his fingers twitched, as if itching to touch you but not daring to.

The way his voice softened just slightly when he said your name.

And then, one night, he finally broke.

You had been teasing him—nothing new, just playful banter, a joke about his unbreakable grin.

But instead of laughing, he had gone silent.

Then, without warning, he had grabbed your wrist, pulling you close, his grin sharp but his eyes unreadable.

"You left me," he had said, voice unusually quiet. "Do you have any idea what you did to me, my dearest?"

Your breath caught. "Alastor—"

"I don’t lose things." His fingers tightened just a fraction. "I don’t let things go. But you… you were gone. And I—". He cut himself off, his usual humor nowhere to be found.

You reached for his hand. "I’m here now."

He stared at you for a long moment. Then—

He laughed.

But this time, it wasn’t mocking or theatrical. It was relieved.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. "Well, I suppose that means I’ll just have to make sure you don’t go disappearing on me again, hmm?"

And from that moment on—he didn’t let you go.

You were together, always.

The Radio Demon and his darling—Hell’s most inseparable pair.

It had been building for weeks.

Alastor was always by your side—more than before, more than ever. If you moved, he moved. If you laughed, he laughed. If you so much as sighed, he was right there, grinning, tilting his head, asking in that smooth, playful voice, “what’s on your mind, darling?”

But something was different.

The way he looked at you lingered too long. The way he touched your wrist, your shoulder, your waist—light, fleeting, but always there—spoke of something deeper.

And then, one evening, he finally snapped.

You were strolling through the streets of Hell, passing under neon lights and the ever-present hum of the afterlife’s chaos. Alastor had been oddly quiet—for him, anyway. No dramatic narration, no wild bursts of laughter, just… watching you.

You stopped, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

His grin widened—sharp, knowing. "Oh, nothing, my dear! Just admiring something that belongs to me."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Alastor—"

"Tell me something, sweetheart," he interrupted, stepping closer, eyes glowing. "Did you ever consider just saying something back in the mortal world? Or did you enjoy making me suffer?"

You blinked. "Making you suffer?"

He let out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, woe is me! My dearest, darling companion, struck down by despair because she thought I didn’t care—", his voice dropped, silky and smooth. "When in reality…"

A pause.

A grin.

A flash of red eyes beneath the glow of Hell’s eternal lights.

"I simply didn’t realize how much I needed you."

Your breath caught. "Alastor—"

"So!", he clapped his hands together, suddenly bursting with energy. "Since we’ve already done this whole ‘tragic longing’ thing, let’s skip to the fun part, shall we?"

He bowed dramatically, extending a hand toward you, eyes gleaming. "My dear, delightful Y/N—what do you say we make this little arrangement of ours official?"

You stared. "Are you… asking me out?"

He grinned. "Darling, I’m claiming you. But if you prefer something more traditional, well—consider this your official invitation to be courted by the one and only Radio Demon!"

Your lips parted, heart racing.

This was insane.

This was Alastor.

And yet—

You slid your hand into his.

"Took you long enough," you murmured, smirking.

His laughter rang out like music, his fingers curling around yours. "Oh, my dear," he purred. "You have no idea what you’ve just signed up for."

And just like that—

Hell’s most dangerous and inseparable couple was born.

Alastor's jealousy.

From the moment you set foot in the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor never left your side.

Oh, sure, he pretended he wasn’t clinging to you. He acted as if he was simply amused by your presence, as if you were just an interesting little pet to keep entertained.

But you knew better.

His sarcasm never faded. His teasing never stopped.

"Careful, dearest! Wouldn’t want you tripping over your own feet and landing in someone’s clutches! I hear certain demons love picking up strays—oh, but don’t worry!", he leaned in, grinning sharp as a blade. "I’d simply have to rip them apart, now wouldn’t I?"

You rolled your eyes. "Alastor, I can take care of myself."

"Oh, I know, sweetheart!" he chirped, looping an arm around your shoulders. "That’s why I let you think you’re independent! It’s simply adorable—like watching a baby bird flap its little wings before tumbling right back into my talons!"

Despite his words, his grip on you was firm.

And as you got to know the hotel’s residents—Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust, Niffty, Husk—you noticed something strange.

Alastor didn’t like how quickly people warmed up to you.

Charlie adored you from the start. Angel Dust practically draped himself over you, calling you “sweetheart” and “sugar” and throwing playful winks your way. Niffty loved fussing over you, and Husk—well, Husk didn’t hate you, which said a lot.

And Alastor?

He just watched.

Watched them.

Watched you.

And the more he watched, the tighter his grip became.

"My, my," he’d say with a chuckle whenever Angel Dust got too close, "it’s so fascinating how some creatures just flock to the most dangerously naive souls!"

You shot him a look. "Alastor—"

"Oh, don’t mind me!" he sang, swaying beside you. "I’m simply delighted by how easy it is for people to love you! Truly, it’s a miracle you weren’t snatched up by some unsavory characters long before I got my claws into you!"

His grin widened. "Oh, but don’t worry, dear! I’ll make sure that never happens."

And he did.

Subtly. Silently. Without ever admitting it outright.

When Angel Dust got a little too touchy, Alastor’s voice would suddenly cut in—cheerful, mocking, but firm.

"Oh, Angel, darling, let’s not forget whose company she prefers now, hmm?"

When a stranger tried flirting with you at the hotel? Alastor would simply appear beside them, laughing, grinning—his shadow stretching just a little too far, curling just a little too hungrily.

"Oh, how charming!" he’d croon. "But do tell me, dear guest, do you value your existence? No? Ahaha! Excellent!"

And when you got hurt?

Even something small—a scrape, a stumble—he was there before you could react.

"Tsk, tsk!" he’d sigh dramatically, offering his hand. "Must I do everything around here? Honestly, you’d be lost without me!"

You scoffed, taking his hand. "You don’t have to be so dramatic."

"Darling," he said, voice smooth as velvet, "I’m always dramatic. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong."

You squeezed his fingers. "Alastor."

For just a moment, his grin softened.

Just a fraction. Just enough.

Then, just as quickly, it was back.

"Now, then!" he declared, twirling you away from whatever danger had dared approach you. "Shall we continue this delightful little adventure? After all, Hell’s simply full of surprises! And I’d hate for you to face them without me!"

You laughed. "Like you’d ever let that happen."

His eyes gleamed.

"Oh, my dear," he murmured, "you have no idea."

Alastor's protectiviness.

Alastor was not a man easily shaken.

He had danced through massacres with a grin, turned suffering into a symphony, and waltzed through Hell with his usual flair. He had never known fear.

Until you.

At first, he brushed it off. Of course, he liked keeping you close—who wouldn’t? You were delightful, charming, his! But then… he started noticing things.

How sometimes, your laughter faltered.

How sometimes, your eyes drifted, seeing something else.

How sometimes, you would disappear into yourself—not physically, but mentally, trapped in some dark corner of your thoughts.

And that? That terrified him.

Because he knew what happened when people lingered in sorrow too long.

He had lost you once already.

He wasn’t going to let it happen again.

So he never left you alone.

"Darling!" his voice rang out too cheerfully whenever he caught you slipping into thought. "Why the melancholy? Bored of Hell already? I told you, dear, I’d be your eternal entertainment, but really—I thought I had more time before you started questioning your life choices! Ahaha!"

He talked constantly—more than usual, filling every quiet moment with sound, ensuring that your thoughts never got too loud.

If he ever caught you alone, lost in your head?

"Tsk, tsk!" he’d click his tongue, appearing beside you in an instant. "Now, what did I say about wandering into dangerous places?"

"Alastor, I’m just thinking—"

"Oh, I know that look, my dear! And I simply refuse to let you fall into bad habits! Now!" he’d clasp his hands together, grinning just a little too wide. "Shall we dance? Murder? Cause delightful chaos? Or perhaps you’d prefer a story—something to distract that beautiful little mind of yours?"

You sighed. "You don’t have to hover, you know."

His grin never wavered. But his fingers twitched.

"Oh, but I do, darling." His voice dipped—just for a second, too soft. "You’re simply terrible at being left alone."

And that was the real reason.

It wasn’t just protectiveness.

It was fear.

Fear of silence. Fear of losing you again.

So he never let you drift. Never let you isolate. Never let you forget—

That you weren’t alone.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

It was just a knife.

A simple, ordinary knife.

You had gone to the kitchen to cook, humming softly to yourself as you grabbed it from the counter. Just like always. Just like anyone would.

But the moment Alastor saw you holding it—

BANG!

In a flash, the knife was out of your hand, clattering to the floor as Alastor’s cane struck it away.

And then—

A hand gripping your wrist.

Tight. Too tight.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

His voice was light. Too light. That awful, sing-song lilt still dancing in his words—

But his grip?

His grin?

His eyes?

They were wrong.

Red. Wide. Unblinking. Terrified.

"Alastor—"

"Did you think I wouldn’t notice?" he pulled you closer, fingers digging into your skin. "Did you think I’d let you do this again?"

Your heart stopped. "Alastor, I was just—"

"Just what?" His smile twitched. "Just holding a knife? Just standing here all alone? Just thinking—"

His breath hitched.

And suddenly, you weren’t standing anymore.

You were crushed against his chest.

His arms were wrapped around you—vice-like, unyielding, desperate.

"No." His voice cracked, barely a whisper. "No, no, no, I won’t let you."

"Alastor—"

"You left me once," his breath was shaking. "You disappeared, you were gone, and I—"

He buried his face in your hair.

"I lost you."

You felt his entire body shudder.

"I can’t—" his voice broke into static. "I won’t lose you again."

And that’s when you realized—

This wasn’t just protectiveness.

It was obsession.

Fear.

A crippling, suffocating fear that had hollowed him out from the inside, left him raw, left him feral at the mere sight of you with a blade in your hand.

Because to Alastor, that knife wasn’t for cooking.

It was for stealing you away from him.

Again.

Forever.

And he’d burn all of Hell before he let that happen.

1. When You Take Too Long in the Bathroom

It started small.

A simple, human habit—closing the door when you went to freshen up.

But if you took too long, Alastor would knock—once, twice—before phasing straight through the wall, appearing inside with a grin.

"Oh, darling! Are you hiding from me?" his voice was cheerful, mocking, but his fingers twitched against his cane. "Or were you just hoping I’d come check on you?"

"Alastor, I’m fine—"

"Are you?" he tilted his head, eyes piercing. "You are alone in here, after all. Just you and that dangerous little mind of yours. Terribly unsafe, if you ask me!"

You sighed. "I was literally just brushing my hair."

His grin never wavered.

"Ah, but you see, my dear," he leaned closer, caging you in, "you have a terrible habit of thinking when you’re alone. And I simply can’t allow that."

From then on, the bathroom door never stayed closed for long.

2. When You Didn’t Answer Him Immediately

If you ever didn’t answer when he called—

"Sweetheart!"

Silence.

The air shifted.

"Darling?"

Nothing.

Static began to hum.

And before you could even realize what was happening—

He was there.

"Ah, there you are!" his voice was too bright, his smile stretched too wide. "For a moment, I thought you were ignoring me!"

You blinked. "Alastor, I was just—"

"Oh, I know what you were doing!" his laugh was sharp, too sharp. "You were lost in that pretty little head of yours! Drifting!"

His grin twitched.

"I hate when you do that."

From then on, if you didn’t answer immediately, he’d find you. No matter where you were.

3. When You Tried to Walk Away from a Fight

It happened once. Just once.

Some demon had been too bold, said something too cruel—and instead of fighting, you had turned away.

Big mistake.

Because before you could take two steps—

SNAP.

In an instant, Alastor’s hand was on you, pulling you back, his claws digging into your skin.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

His voice was low.

Dangerous.

"I-"

"No."

His grip tightened.

"You don’t walk away when someone disrespects you." His smile was gone. His eyes burned. "You stand beside me and watch as I tear them apart."

From then on, you never walked away from a fight.

Not because you were afraid of them.

But because you knew—

Alastor would always fight for you.

4. When You Said You Needed “Space”

One night, after a long day, you sighed. "Alastor… I think I just need some space tonight."

Silence.

His grin froze.

And then—

A chuckle.

"Ahahaha! Oh, darling! What a funny little joke!"

You frowned. "I wasn’t joking—"

"Oh, but you must be! Because surely—surely—you don’t think I’d leave you alone just because you asked me to! Ahaha!"

He leaned closer, eyes wild.

"You don’t need space from me, sweetheart."

His fingers trailed along your arm, light, possessive.

"You need me."

From then on, “space” was no longer part of your vocabulary.

Not because you didn’t need it.

But because you knew—

Alastor would never give it to you.

The night was quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat on the edge of the terrace, legs dangling over the abyss of Hell’s endless void. The sky stretched above you—red, empty, mocking. The city lights flickered below, distant, meaningless.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt small.

Lost in the nothingness.

You didn’t hear him approach.

Not until—

"Oh, darling…"

His voice was too soft.

The moment you turned your head—

He was there.

Standing a few feet away, frozen, his ever-present grin strained. His eyes—wide, glowing, terrified.

"What a dangerous little spot you’ve found yourself in!" his voice was still playful, still teasing—but his fingers twitched against his cane, his whole body rigid. "And all alone, too! My, my—what would I do if you fell?"

You blinked, pulling yourself from your thoughts. "Alastor, I was just looking at the—"

"The sky?" he let out a sharp, hollow laugh. "Oh, of course you were! Nothing concerning about sitting on the edge of oblivion, alone, quiet, lost in your thoughts..."

His breath hitched.

In an instant, he moved.

A flash of red. A rush of static—

And suddenly, arms were around you.

Yanking you back.

Dragging you away from the ledge.

The world spun, and before you could protest—

You were in his lap.

His grip was iron.

His arms—wrapped tight around you, chest pressed against your back, breath shaking against your ear.

"You terrify me sometimes, you know that?"

His voice was low.

The ever-present laughter in his tone—gone.

You swallowed. "Alastor—"

"Shh." His grip tightened. "Don’t—don’t ever do that again."

A tremor ran through him. His fingers dug into your sides, clutching, desperate.

"You can’t leave me again."

It wasn’t a plea.

It was a command.

An unshakable truth. A law of the universe.

Because Alastor had lost you once.

And if Hell itself thought it could take you from him again—

He would tear it apart.

His grip on you was unrelenting.

His breath—shaky, uneven, desperate.

His heart—if he even still had one—was pounding against your back.

"You can’t leave me again."

The words lingered in the air, heavy, suffocating.

You swallowed hard. "Alastor…"

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Just held you.

And then—

Slowly, shakily—he turned you in his arms.

His hands moved to cup your face, fingers trembling against your skin as if afraid you’d vanish the moment he let go.

His eyes—wide, wild—searched yours, glowing red, burning with something raw, something dangerous.

"I won’t let you slip away from me."

His voice was low, almost a whisper.

His thumb traced your cheek.

"Never again."

And then—

His lips crashed into yours.

Desperate. Starving.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, possessive, terrifying.

Like he was claiming you. Like he was branding you into his very existence, ensuring that no force in Hell—or beyond—could ever take you away from him again.

The static in the air hummed.

His fingers tangled in your hair, pulling, clutching, refusing to let go.

The kiss deepened, his breath faltering against your lips, as if he had needed this—needed you—more than he had ever needed anything in his wretched existence.

When he finally broke away, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged, his grin nowhere to be seen.

"You’re mine now, darling." his voice was hoarse, trembling with something dark, something devotional.

His lips ghosted over yours again, softer this time.

"And I’m never letting you go."

[nurais-thatdoll]

Hm I'll get Helen!Chair for this😍

(Iykyk)

MY WIIIFEEE😍😍❤❤👅👅👅

wdym I'm straight (I think) , 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 😰

ROTTEN FRENCH FRIES, STOP- 🧍‍♂️

[velvetlilacsdaisies]

Stay Still | B. Durran |

Bodhi Durran x fwb!fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: NSFW, SMUT, MDNI, swearing, p in v, (unprotected sex pls pls be safe), cockwarming, not proofread well, switch!Bodhi, possessive!Bodhi, bratty!reader, poorly written smut, smut with little plot

A/n: hehhe this came out of my ass idk what got into me during my reading bonanza last night 🤭. I just felt truly inspired to try to write a full smut. This is my first official smut I’ve wrote so I would love feedback to improve on it if you have it, but I hope you find this as fun as I did!!

You sighed boredly laying on Bodhi’s bed, stomach pressed against the plush mattress, idly looking over a book about runes you tried to occupy your thoughts with. It had been thirty minutes since you arrived at the Section Leader’s door looking for some company in nothing but your black dressing robe and matching tiny nightgown underneath. Anticipating when he opened his door, he’d haughtily pull you into his quarters and ravish you like a man starved…but no. He merely gave you a once over before letting you in, and sat back at his desk doing his research on wards for Xaden.

You wanted to help as much as he did with resurrecting the wardstones for your friends, but now it had impeded on yours and his arrangement. It’s been two weeks since you last found yourself in the embrace of the man you craved, and you were desperate for the attention you lacked. It had become an unspoken routine you two had secretly engaged in since after Threshing last year. Only using each other other than for just distractions from the trials of surviving the Rider’s Quadrant at night, while during the day you were just squad mates.

You could feel another wave of heat go through your core at the thought of the secret that the two of you shared. You had been fighting the wanton desire since the last time you had found each other. Not that you weren’t satisfied by Bodhi, but you never stopped wanting him it had become glaringly obvious for you. You had even resorted to giving into flirty banter with Ridoc in front of him to get the Flame Section Leader’s acknowledgment, left with not even a sarcastic remark or scolding look on his part. Since Violet returned from Samara, there was a dire urgency to find answers on the wardstone.

But today was exemplarily tougher to push that ache down. After a rather intensive Flame Section sparring session after classes, you had been forced to watch Bodhi spar without drooling. His shirt discarded halfway through the session when he was challenged by Sawyer, the sweat glistening off his chiseled muscles. As if he knew the effect he had on you. The relic that swirled over his bulky biceps and veiny forearms and his dragon relic that loitered on the back of his left sharp shoulder blade down to the side of his refined torso. You had to take an extra cold shower once all the girls left the locker room to calm the burning desire that consumed you which proved to be no help.

You got off the bed, and made your way to him feeling impatient as your core throbbed once more. His back was towards you, displaying his relics that you admired and worshiped in the solace of the night. Your arms wrapping around his chest from behind, your nails lightly scratching his broad bare chest.

“Boh,” you whined, nipping at his earlobe. “Are you done yet?” You asked, a simper to your tone. The arousal in between your legs getting too heavy to bare, and clenching your thighs was no longer an option to fight the want for him. You wanted him now. No—you needed him, and you weren’t going to deprive yourself another minute.

“I don’t have much longer until I finish this section.” He murmured. He screwed his eyes shut trying to focus on the text in front of him, tilting his neck out of instinct to the side letting your lips press needy kisses down to his shoulder.

He had known when he saw you at your door in your skimpiest night clothes what you wanted. Finally making a move in the unintentional stalemate between the both of you. It didn’t fall on to blind eyes the way you went out of your way to be bratty throughout the last two weeks, attempting to get a rise out of him. It almost worked, but never being a jealous man, and clever enough to see right through you. The flirty comments to Ridoc, the way he could feel your alluring eyes burn holes into him during any time he was in the vicinity of you. He almost felt guilty leaving you hanging and to resort to blatant facades of making him jealous, a silent plea to just take you already.

He wanted to do nothing, but to fuck you and remind you who you belonged to.

You looked enticing, and every primal thought that flooded his mind he pushed down to the back of his mind when you appeared in front of his door. The churam he smoked an hour ago doing nothing to stop his chest from hammering, and the blood rushing to his manhood, twitching, at the sight of you. He had to use every ounce of his self discipline to keep his composure in check, letting you in without pouncing, devouring you like he wanted. Xaden would arrive back in Basgiath tomorrow expecting intel, and he hadn’t gotten very far in his research besides dead ends.

Your name got stuck in his throat barely sputtering it out as you sucked on the spot that you knew drove him wild, the conjunction of his neck and shoulder.

You weren’t exclusive with Bodhi, but you had learned everything about him that made him tick. From the littlest things like how his eyes lingered when your flight jacket was slightly undone bearing the slightest bit of cleavage in the low cut tank top you wore underneath—to what made him absolutely feral—the feeling of your lips with your teeth marking his sweet spot that would be barely concealed by the collar of his tight black training shirt the next day. Noting how he would wear the mark proudly like the patches on his jacket. Having a boyish grin when a squad mate would bring it up playing coy. No one knew they were left by you.

“I’ll help you after…” you purred, your hands traveling down his torso to the waistband of his night pants. Fingers nimbly tracing the barely grown out hair that led underneath the cotton. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you.” You pouted before peppering more kisses on his cheeks, feeling satisfied at the sharp intake of air he took at the movement.

You would get your way, there would be no other outcome of you showing up at his door tonight than to be ruined by Bodhi Durran.

“I’m expected to have something to report on tomorrow.” He protested weakly, savoring your mouth against jaw, but still keeping his eyes on the parchment.

His dissolve was close to crumbling, feeling the cold fingertips slip underneath his waistband. All he wanted to do was bend you over his desk, imagining your cheek pressed to the ancient texts laid out on the wooden surface as he railed into you from behind. His cock hardened more at the idea of him inside you.

“Xaden won’t-” you were cut off by the scrape of the wooden chair against the stone floor making you stumble backwards slightly. Bodhi abruptly slid his bottoms down, revealing half hardened manhood, sitting back down in the chair.

“C’mere,” he growled. His tone had a dangerous lilt to it, only making the wetness that had pooled in your panties grow more. His usual warm brown eyes blown out filled with something more than lust.

Your throat ran dry, obeying as you stepped in between his legs. He leaned his forehead against your stomach, inhaling steady breaths as if he could smell your arousal. His rough hands gripping your bare outer thighs before slipping under your nightgown, roughly kneading the soft flesh of your ass. Then he hooked his fingers around the fabric of your undergarments dragging them down your legs.

“You want me to fuck you, but have another man’s name leave your lips?” He gritted out through his, barely speaking above a whisper.

Bodhi knew he was overreacting, but when his cousin’s name came out of your mouth, his primal instincts came bubbling to the surface. A feral fire fueling him, no longer to be tamed. How dare you bring up Xaden, when you came here solely looking for relief from him after acting the way you’ve been.

You were taken aback by the words, leaving you stammering. “I-I’m sorry, Boh..”

This was a new side to him, you’ve never seen before. A nervous pang made your heart skip a beat, though excited at the aggressiveness in his actions.

“You think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been doing the last two weeks?” He cupped the back of one of your thighs, bringing a leg over his. “Think you were being sly?” He questioned.

You shook your head furiously, forgetting how to speak momentarily.

He pinched the inside of your thigh, only adding to the fire that blazed in your core, a soft gasp leaving your slacked jaw. “Use your words, babygirl.”

“N-no,” the words airily released from your throat, a pink tint to your cheeks.

He smirked, a dry laugh escaping him. “That's what I thought.” He dragged your other leg over his so you were now straddling him, knees perched on the extra wide seat. “Since you want to be a brat, you can sit on my cock until I’m done here.” He held his member with one hand, pumping slowly. “You got it?”

You gulped, watching how it twitched ever slightly, and his shoulders relaxed as he held himself. Nodding eagerly, biting your lip, still looking between the both of you awaiting for him to be inside you.

His free hand wrapped around your hair, pulling it, forcing you to look in his eyes. “What did I say about your words?” He growled. A soft moan left your lips at the gesture. His darkened brown eyes wavered in hunger and pride at the reaction.

“Y-yes, please…” you begged, feeling him rub the tip against your slick folds.

“Good girl, so wet for me,” he groaned.

He slowly inserted himself at your entrance, his hand finding your hip to help lower yourself on to him until he bottomed out inside you. His thick member stretching you out in a blissful sting that he could make you feel. You both sighed at the feeling, and you rested your head in the crook of his neck holding on to him with a near death grip.

You could feel yourself throb as he went back to working. His hands lightly brushing your sides every time he flipped a page or went to jot a note down in his notebook, causing jolts to go down your body. You tried to grind your hips to provide the teeniest bit of relief, Bodhi would only grip your thighs with a bruising force.

“Stay still,” he hissed, his head rolling back as he felt you clench around him again. A small smirk graced your lips, an idea coming to your mind.

One of your hands slid in between you, and found your clit. You moaned, as your fingers circled the sensitive nub.

“Y/n…” he warned, listening to the sweet noises you made in his ear, gripping the quill in his hand tightly. He had thought he had the upper hand in this, but as you touched yourself, his cock warming your insides, he felt the remaining bit of his dissolve crumble. “You’re such a fucking brat.” He held your hips, halting your movements.

“Do something about it then.” You challenged, pressing a chaste kiss to his full lips.

He thrusted up into you, sounds sweet as sin coming from your throats. A wicked smile twisted on to your face, finally. “I fully intend to.” He mumbled, pulling you into another kiss, this time longer and heated. You nipped at his lower lip, earning a hiss from him as you slipped your tongue into his mouth.

Drilling into you at a slow agonizing pace, your tongues fought for dominance, the kiss becoming broken up between strings of noises leaving the both of you. The slow burn pleasure painstakingly from the pace he had set. You tried to lower yourself up and down to go at a faster pace and to your dismay he slowed his movements more, squeezing your hips in caution.

You pulled away panting, “more.” You were a whimpering mess, frustrated to find your release. “Please, Bodhi.”

“Just because you get what you want doesn’t mean you still can’t be punished.” A lazy smirk etched on to his broad jaw. “I have to remind you who you belong to.”

He slowly thrusted up into you again, making you cry out. His face contorted to a look of pleasure as he provided deep slow strokes into you, the sight of him biting his now bruised lip heavenly.

“I’m yours, please.” You begged, nails biting into his shoulders. “Only yours.” You cried when he thrusted particularly harder when you said that.

“Y’ feel so good around me.” He drawled. “Like your pussy was made for me, sweetheart.” His words caused an effect on your whole body from your pussy clenching harder around him to your heart swelling from the praise.

The atmosphere felt entirely different from the usual casual hook ups from before. His forehead resting against yours, occasionally nuzzling your nose with his whispering lines of worship for you taking his time.

“Feels so good,” you panted, looping your fingers in his curls at the nape of his neck. You could feel yourself go dumb as his fingers found your clit, circling it with the same agonizing pace of his cock. You don’t know how much of this you could take. “Please, please, please let me ride you.”

“Do you deserve to ride me?” He taunted in between thrusts.

You nodded vigorously, “please let me make you feel good, Boh. Please.”

He stopped playing with your clit, bringing his fingers to your swollen lips. You sucked your juices off of them, tasting yourself as he leaned back in the chair.

“Mm, since you’ve been begging so nicely.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

The moans you released as you fucked yourself onto Bodhi’s cock were angelic. Letting you lower yourself up and down, watching as you got lost, getting drunk on his manhood. His hands had a firm grip on your waist, helping guide you down his length.

“That’s it, ride me like the good slut you are.” He watched your cunt sink onto him, swallowing his length whole.

You could start to feel the familiar coil of release start to come undone, and you knew you weren’t gonna last long. The sounds of your slick and his pants encouraging you to go faster.

Bodhi sensed the way you gripped him, you were going to climax, and met your rhythm bucking his hips upward. “You gonna come f’me?” He asked.

You could only mewl in response, the pleasure rendering you speechless as you rode him harder. Your vision blurred with stars, your body going rigid from the surge of tingling pleasure that electrified your body. The coil finally unraveling in your core as you orgasmed. You let out a throaty moan that was muffled by his lips, kissing passionately.

The tawny skinned man didn’t stop his movements, feeling his own release chasing yours. His aching cock twitched in need of relief. He muttered curses, his pace getting sloppier as he whimpered your name.

“Come for me, Boh.” You whispered softly. His arms wrapped tightly around your midsection, clinging to you like his life depended on it as he kept fucking you.

You felt the twitch, and his release shoot into you, a guttural groan following it. Feeling the mix of your arousals seeping out of you, his cock throbbing.

The heavy breathing from the both of you was the only noise in the room, you two staying in the position. You lightly scratched his scalp letting him regain his composure, his arms loosely holding you still. After a minute, he leaned away looking at you silently.

The intense gaze made you self conscious, clearing your throat as indication you were getting up. His arms only tightened around you once more, but he let his cock sink out of you, feeling your releases cover both of your thighs.

“I should get going,” you stated bluntly.

“Stay the night?” He reached over for the t-shirt that was crumpled on the floor beside his desk. Gingerly wiping you off first, being extremely gentle and careful to not be too abrasive with your sensitive parts, before he cleaned himself off.

You blinked in surprise, he never asked that before—let alone so nonchalant. You two never stayed too long in one another’s quarters after, let alone spend the night with one another. This would encroach the boundaries you mentally placed on this arrangement, ultimately entangling what you had already felt for the man in front of you.

“Aren’t you worried someone will see?” You asked warily.

He offered his usual boyish grin. “That’s kind of the point, sweetheart.”

Personally the pacing was weird for me to write, but I hope it gave you guys what you needed! The idea of fwb possessive Bodhi now has me in a chokehold lmao. Like I said, I am always open to improvements and feedback as this was a bit out of my comfort zone 🫶🏻🩷

[bunji-enthusiast]

The only way Rex could stay restrained is if he wanted to be there.

Which is exactly where he wanted to be, with you, your bed. Restrained, not by rope. But just by your warm arms. Even if his body temperature ran hotter due to his abilities, your warmth was a different kind of comfort for him. Cuddling became his favorite pastime thanks to you, he was enjoying it very much.

“Mmh,” you hum, burrowing your head into his chest. And he squirms suddenly, not used to that sudden action.

He chuckles as he relax, bringing his hand down, threading it beneath the fabric of your shirt. You simper at the sudden warmth, “oh your shitty for that.”

“Hey can’t blame me, you feel nice.” He simply responds, and you roll your eyes knowingly. You flatten yourself against his chest once more with a content hum.

Rex continues bringing his hand up against your bare skin, rubbing it up and down in small motions. He mutters, “this okay pretty?”

You offer some semblance of a nod, your eyes lidded with sleep. He smiles inwardly to himself, enjoying the domestic sight. Not often did he let him enjoy something so good, so… peaceful.

Sure, there were moments he’s shared with the other guardians and heroes in general. But nothing like this, nothing so gentle. Rex almost was sure this was a goddamn dream, maybe he really was, and he’d wake up to a sterile cold room. Not as warm, or gentle. He’d perhaps wake up like that, and not in your arms.

The red-head sighs, closing his eyes as he takes in all the sensations. Wanting to burn it into memory just in case—just in case if this really was a dream.

“Hey,” His eyes flit down to your appearance, seeing concern etched into your expressions. Which was the last thing he wanted. But admittedly the thought warmed his trodden heart. “you okay?”

Rex shrugs, slowing down his zephyr-like ministrations. “You’re gonna prod if I’m evasive so…” he pauses. “Shit— I guess, I’m just afraid.”

You lift your head, “why?”

“This? I dunno.” He answers, a self-deprecating laugh escapes him. Rex was usually so sure of himself, of the things he does. By no means does he pretend to have the moral high-ground, but you were someone precious to him. The mere idea of ruining this—you. He didn’t want that at all, but he couldn’t just up and leave you like that. So he just let the thoughts stew in his mind, for far longer then he would admit to.

You smile, something sweet and lovely. A small little piece of this crappy world you two lived in, “Rex, it’s never going to be easy. You and I both know this.” You take his hand, the free one and pull it close to your chest. “We may be bad… but we’re so good at it.” Rex blinks at you for a few moments, then he shakes his head. He chuckles at your words, letting his head sink into the pillow.

“God, now that I think about it.” He says, “that’s… kinda what I’ve always done.” Rex shakes his head as he attempts to hold back his body from being wracked with laughter. “That was so fucking cheesy though.”

You nod in agreement, a proud smile.

“Didn’t scare you before though, did it?” You ask, now curling your arms through his, wrapping them around his mid-section.

Rex grins, languidly tracing your chest. Feeling the compression from your body against his, and it felt so nice. “Nah, you’ve put up with me. So you’re stuck with me.”

You laugh, impossibly nuzzling into him further as you lock your hold on the man. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. “

[lives-between-lines]

With her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean - poly!marauders x slytherin!reader

─

Summary: Preparing for the dreaded OWLs proves to be a difficult task for one tightly-wound Slytherin. How do Remus, James, and Sirius each offer assistance, and how does she handle it?

Notes: No Voldemort, but pureblood elitism is still very much a thing. Story starts at the end of the Marauders and Reader’s fifth year. I don’t know the most about all the Marauders Era headcanons so I kind of did what I wanted, sorry if you don’t like it. 

Tags: Angst, fluff, traumatized Slytherins, pureblood elitism, slightly mean!reader

Words: ~7.8k

p.1 p.2

─

I huffed as I reached for another heavy book on the shelf from one of the dark back corners of the library. I wasn’t in the restricted section just yet, but getting close to it. Between the weight of the other five books stacked in my arm and the height of the shelf I was trying to reach I nearly dropped them all. 

“Careful, there, Princess. Might break something lugging around all those books,” someone said next to me. I nearly jumped as I hadn’t noticed anyone come down this same aisle. 

I shot a glare at him for startling me. It was none other than Remus Lupin, one of those pesky Gryffindors who was constantly fighting me for my space at the top of the class. My glare intensified when I realized who it was.

“Yes, and it would sure be a shame if I managed to drop these on your foot and break something there,” I snarked. 

He looked amused at me. “Whoa, Princess, no need to get feisty with me. I was just going to offer my assistance.”

“And what kind of assistance should I accept from you when you’re just as likely to try and trick me?” Lupin gave me a weary look. Typical of Gryffindors to think everyone is as blindly trusting as them.

“No tricks, Princess, just offering a bit of help,” he said with a shrug.

“Would you stop that? Stop calling me that,” I snapped at him before turning back to the book I needed. Before I could make a second attempt to reach for it, Remus stepped up next to me and I froze. But then he grabbed the book for me and set it on top of my stack then took a step back. 

“Not a fan of your nickname?” He was of course referring to me being known as Slytherin’s Princess. Sometimes I like to pretend the nickname came about because I’m always top of the class, making my house proud, but I know the real reason is because I come from a wealthy, pureblood, Slytherin family and everyone thought me rather spoiled. 

“I am not some simpering girl in need of a man to save her and it’ll do good for the people in this school to remember that.” Despite his significant height, I lifted my chin to Remus Lupin and dared him to say otherwise. 

“Of course, of course,” he agrees, nodding his head and holding up his hands. “But you are Slytherin’s Princess, aren’t you?” His eyes light up in amusement at my frustration. 

My nostrils flare as I hold back my anger. It doesn’t do me any good to blow up at some stupid Gryffindor, not when that is exactly what he wants and I am not in the business of giving Gryffindors what they want.

Instead, I turn to walk away. Take the high-ground as they say. 

“Wait, wait, I’m sorry!” Remus calls after me, quickly catching up to and following me. “Seriously, dove, I’m sorry. I was only joking. Please, let me help you with whatever on earth you could possibly need all these books for.”

I stop abruptly and turn toward him. “And why should I accept help from someone like you?” I nearly growl at him, barely holding back my frustrations.

Remus looks taken aback by my words. “Someone like me? You mean a half-blood?”

It’s my turn to be startled by him. “I mean a Gryffindor,” I bite out. This was exactly why I couldn’t stand this brutish group, they were always so quick to jump to outrageous assumptions, thinking the worst of someone like me just because I’m in Slytherin.

He looks relieved and confused at the same time, but I don’t really care to help him unpack his complex emotions about the exact reasoning behind why I don’t trust him. 

I dump my books down onto the table I had claimed earlier and began to scour the table of contents in the first one. Uninvited, Remus took the chair next to me and began looking over my shoulder at the book. 

“Can I help you, Lupin? Or are you just interested in being a nuisance?” 

“I’m glad to be a nuisance any day, but as I’ve said before I was actually hoping to help you.”

“And as I’ve said before I’m not looking for any help.” 

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Is that this close to our OWLs you’re scouring books for something that you think you’ve missed, but you’ve been at the top of our classes all year, so I highly doubt you’ve managed to miss anything of real importance.” I give him a confused look, trying to discern how he’s figured me out so easily. Except he’s wrong, of course, I did somehow manage to lose the year a specific herb was realized to have certain medicinal properties. “So now I’m trying to answer the question of what does little miss Slytherin Princess think that she desperately needs to know, and will that really be the determining factor in her score on her OWLs?”

I glance around to make sure no one else is listening to me admitting defeat in front of a Gryffindor. “I don’t have the year we began to use hyssop to treat earaches,” I murmur. 

Remus’s face seems to fall at my admission. “That’s what you’re so concerned about? A minor herb’s medicinal use? Not even that, you already know that, but what year that was discovered? That is such a niche detail, there is absolutely no way Sprout asks us that.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously Sprout’s not going to ask us about that, it’s Binns that I’m worried about,” I explain. Although I really shouldn’t be giving my enemy any help in preparing for our upcoming tests. I was just as desperate to best him on these tests as I’m sure he was me. 

“Binns?” He asks, outraged. “Binns would never ask about that in a million years.”

“You don’t know that, no one knows that. We had a lecture on the history of medicinal herbs, hyssop was one of them.”

“And so you really think that from that one lecture he’s going to ask us when hyssop was discovered to help with earaches?”

“I was reviewing my notes and I had written down the year but it got smudged.”

“You’re actually a raving lunatic,” Remus tells me. He looks around the library like he might get up and leave, but then he turns back to me. “I realize these are the most important tests of the year, but I think you have way overestimated the difficulty of the questions that will be on them.”

“And I think you can never be too safe.”

We hold each other’s gaze for several moments. Remus finally blinks and then sighs. “Confound it all, fine. Hand me one.” He holds his hand out expectantly. 

I stare at him, confused. 

“Well? Are we going to look for this blasted year or not?” I blink out of my stupor and hand him one of the books I had grabbed. 

We sit in silence for a long while, pouring over the texts. The only sound in this part of the library is us turning pages. The first book I look through doesn’t contain my answer, and neither must the book Remus has. Although I am tempted to go back later and double check he didn’t find it and not tell me in an effort to trick me. 

After I get through two more books and Remus goes through three, I can’t stop myself from asking the question that had been nagging in the back of my head the entire time. 

“Why exactly are you helping me? Surely you’d much rather be focused on your own studying.”

Remus slowly pulls his attention away from the book in front of him. He blinks at me and then furrows his brows. “Sorry, I know you said something, I just didn’t quite catch what,” he admits. 

I can’t help the small laugh at his honesty. “Why are you helping me? I thought you’d want to be studying for your OWLs.”

“I am studying for my OWLs,” he replies, tauntingly. I roll my eyes at him. 

“Come on, you know what I meant,” I push. 

He shrugs and I think that’s going to be all the answer I get, then after a pause he says, “you’ve intrigued me. I’m curious now to find out when we started using hyssop for earaches.” There’s something about his tone that’s off, but I mark it down to him just teasing me. “Besides, I’m already plenty prepared to get a perfect score and take my spot at the top of the class.”

I laugh at his taunting. “Clearly not prepared enough if you’re not well versed in the history of hyssop,” I tease back. 

He gives me a winning smile and something in my chest stutters at it. I must just be unsettled by his obviously false flattery. 

“Can I ask you something in return?” He asks after a moment. 

I consider him, then reply, “I don’t promise to answer, but you’re welcome to ask.” 

He smiles again and this time it feels like my heart has been squeezed just a bit. “Well I suppose that’s fair. But are you always so…” he trails off and I get nervous at where he’s going with this. “Well, are you always so intense about knowing every little detail?” He finally finishes. 

It must be relief that floods my veins when he doesn’t ask anything backhanded or rude. I actually give him a smile before glancing down at my lap. 

“I have to be, don’t I? There’s one way to stay where I am and it’s by rigorous study,” I admit. 

“Is it really so important to stay at the top that you have to obsess like this, though?” 

I think back to what happened when I would slack off with my studies at home before coming to Hogwarts. I can’t help the way my face falls at the memories. 

“I suppose it might not be so important to a Gryffindor, but success is a high priority in Slytherin,” I finally respond. It seems when I don’t know how to react I lash out, although Remus is lucky to have caught me in a good mood as I let him off rather easily. 

Nonetheless he still looks a bit dejected by my response. I feel a bit bad for shutting him down when we had been starting to get along rather well. 

“We should probably focus on the matter at hand, though, if we ever want to find our answer before curfew,” I say, returning to the book in front of me. 

“Right…” Remus murmurs. Part of me expects him to leave at that point, after all that’s when everyone else does. He surprises me when he stays and doubles down his efforts. 

I open my mouth, to say what I’m not entirely sure. I close my mouth again when I realize that I want to apologize. There’s no way that Remus wants some half baked apology from me. 

Time passes in silence, the both of us occupied with our search, but my mind keeps wandering to the way I had snapped at Remus. I didn’t understand why he had sat down to help me, but I shouldn’t have antagonized him for asking a simple question. It wasn’t his fault that the answer wasn’t so simple. 

I can’t help stealing glances of him every few minutes, which significantly hinders my speed in reading my book, but Remus doesn't seem to notice and I can’t get myself to stop. This means that I notice almost immediately when Remus freezes suddenly. I try not to react, not wanting to have been caught looking.

“Holy shit!” He nearly shouts, someone nearby shushes him loudly, but he’s too busy jumping out of his seat to mind. “Oh, Merlin’s beard I actually found it!” He whispers loudly this time and pumps his fist. Standing at his height above me while I sit next to him I have to strain my neck to look up at his face, but it’s such a beautiful sight with how excited he is.

“You mean you actually found the year?” I ask, matching his excitement.

He nods enthusiastically at me then points to the line of text that contains the answer we’d spent hours searching for. “Yes, yes, look! It’s right there.”

We celebrate as quietly as we can and I quickly jot down the information into my notes. 

“Oh, thank you, Remus! You’ve just saved me probably three hours.” I stand to join him. It’s then that I finally check the time and realize just how close it is to curfew. “Ah, shit,” I murmur. “We should turn in for the night. I don’t fancy having a run-in with Filch tonight.”

“Let me walk you to your dorm?” Remus offers.

“What? It’s nearly curfew, you’ll risk getting in trouble with Filch. No, I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself to my dorms for the night,” I reply firmly. 

“Don’t worry about me, dove, I can handle myself. Let me walk you to your dorm.” This time Remus sounds more like he’s telling me than asking me. Nevertheless I nod in agreement and we make our way to the Slytherin common room in the dungeons. 

On the way down, Remus teases me lightly about how obsessed I must be to dedicate so much effort into finding such a small detail. I tease him back about him being a nerd for helping me look for the answer. It’s lighthearted and easy and part of me thinks I could get used to having Remus as a friend. Another part of me questions what it would look like for me to be friends with a Gryffindor and whether my parents would approve or not. Then the first part kicks the second part for being such a self-obsessed ass. 

Just outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room I wave goodbye to Remus and wish him a good night. I try not to blush when he calls me “dove,” and dart into the safety of the common room. 

─

The next few weeks Remus seems to make it a habit of running into me in the library when I would otherwise be alone. In the past I had tried studying with Narcissa or Andromeda but the pair of them had bad habits of wanting to chat while I wanted to actually study, so my time in the library had previously been spent alone. 

Remus was different, though. He understood my desire to focus on the material in front of me and not whether or not his hair was looking frizzier than normal. 

Before I knew it I had come to rather enjoy his company. It felt almost reassuring that there was someone else who was similarly interested in studying, but wanted to do it with me. Somehow it was like studying at the same table as him made studying that much better, even if nothing of substance had changed. 

─

On a Saturday morning, a couple weeks before we were to begin taking our OWLs, I went out to the Black Lake just before the sun rose. I had slept fitfully, getting more and more nervous for the tests ahead of me. There was so much pressure to do good on these, I didn’t know what I would do if I were anything less than perfect. 

I don’t know why exactly I came out here, I just knew that I needed fresh air. Without much else of a plan, I sat down at the trunk of a tree and pulled out my wand. I practiced a couple small charms and transfigurations on the branches and rocks around me. 

“I’d say that rock doesn’t stand a chance against you, but I’d like to know what it did to deserve such treatment in the first place.”

I dropped the spell I had been using to propel the rock in the air and it fell swiftly. There likely wasn’t anyone in the school who I would not have been shocked to see, but I was especially shocked it was none other than James Potter. He’s a fairly popular boy my age in Gryffindor, mostly known for his outspokenness and disruptive behavior. If my memory serves me right, which it always does, he’s actually friends with Remus Lupin.

“What are you doing out here so early?” I can’t help but ask.

“I could ask the same of you,” he points out. I finally take him in at that moment. He’s wearing loose shorts and an old Gryffindor quidditch t-shirt that he’s cut the bottom half off to show off his athletic build. His curly hair is a mess atop his head, but I get the notion it’s always like that. When I meet his eyes I’m struck by how blue they are that I can notice even with him standing several feet in front of me. I can’t help but think to myself how pretty he is. He gives me a dorky smile, as if used to the attention but still not sure how to respond.

“Couldn’t sleep so well. Thought some fresh air would do me some good,” I finally answer, not acknowledging how I’d just been looking at him.

“Some fresh air and tormenting rocks?” He teases.

“Is that all you think we Slytherins do? Torment everything?” I huff. 

His face twists at my response. “No, no that’s not what I meant at all. It was just a joke, most people laugh at them.”

I sigh and lean back against the trunk of the tree. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit on edge,” I admit, though I’m not sure why I feel the urge to open up to this next to perfect stranger.

James takes a few steps closer and I tense up, but he just takes a seat next to me under the tree. “What’s got you so on edge?” 

“Is that another one of your jokes? The OWLs obviously.”

“Oh, right. I suppose those are coming up soon.” He pauses and tears some grass in front of him. “What’re you stressed over those for?” 

My brows pinch together and I stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “They’re only the most important tests of the entire school year, of our entire schooling career thus far! These will determine our entire futures.”

It’s James’s turn to look at me like I’m crazy. “They’re just another test, though. And I really don’t see how they’ll determine our entire futures,” he says plainly. 

I scoff and roll my eyes. Leave it to a Gryffindor to blow off something so important. 

“Look, I know you’ve got this whole thing about being perfect in every subject and staying ahead of everyone else, so I’ll make you a deal.” I turn to him, my interest piqued. “If you do any less than perfect on each of your OWLs, I’ll turn all the professor’s hair purple,” he offers.

My jaw drops at his suggestion. “What on earth would that accomplish?”

“Well I figure people won’t be talking about what grade you got on your OWLs if they’re too busy talking about Dumbledore with a lilac beard,” he’s laughing even as he says it. I laugh, too, at that image. 

“Make it bright pink and I’ll help you,” I reply through giggles. 

James gives me his award-winning dorky smile and I can’t tear my eyes away. 

“Seriously, though, I’ll bet you’ve already gotten perfect scores on every other test this year, there can’t be anyone else more prepared than you.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, not used to outright compliments that weren’t also an insult. My gaze falls to where James is still fiddling with the grass. “A bit antsy, are you?”

“Sorry,” he sighs, “I’ve been trying to work on that. I actually came out here to go for a run, it helps me burn some of my extra energy before the day so I can focus a bit better.”

I can’t imagine wanting to start the day by burning through energy, I often woke up with barely enough to make it through the day. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to be keeping you. I can go back inside if you want to run by yourself,” I offer and even before I finish talking, I’m pushing to stand up. 

“No, no you’re fine!” He’s quick to reassure me. “Please, stay. Actually if you want you could join me, it might help you clear your mind.”

I consider for a moment before deciding to agree. There couldn’t be much harm in it, it was still at least another hour before most people would get up for the day and I didn’t have anything better to do. 

While we run I can’t help glancing over to James, who’s clearly in his own world.

The sun began to peak over the horizon, slowly illuminating our path. At one point the sun is behind James when I steal another glance at him, and the way the light catches on his features makes him look like a real life angel.

James proves to be right, the run did help me to clear my mind. When we stop back where we had started I’m feeling significantly lighter than before, even if I am breathing significantly heavier. 

“That was… fun,” I am slow to admit. “Thank you, Potter.”

“Anytime, darling.” He gives me another goofy smile. “Feel free to join me whenever you like, I come out at the same time everyday.”

“I just might take you up on that.”

─

I don’t know what makes me do it, but I take James Potter up on his offer every day for a week straight. I quickly come to enjoy the ritual of it, waking up before dawn, sneaking out of my dorm, getting the fresh air and clearing my mind before the day. 

James’s presence was a reassuring one, even if we didn’t always talk much. I had the sense that he would listen to anything I needed to say and offer encouragement. 

As our OWLs loom ever closer I come to rely on our runs to center me in the mornings more and more, but I also question how long James will continue to let me join him. He never says anything to indicate he doesn’t want me to join, though, so I take him at face value and keep meeting him under our tree every morning. 

─

The night before we’re to start our OWLs I find myself unable to sleep for even a minute. Of course this wasn’t a problem for my dorm mates who had fallen asleep at least two hours ago. 

I toss and turn, thinking that maybe if I could just get comfortable I could get to sleep. Of course I have no such luck. Eventually I decide that drastic times call for drastic measures. 

I don’t have to worry about being too quiet as I climb out of my bed, pull on a jumper, and slip on my sneakers. I’ve mastered this routine from sneaking out for my morning runs. 

Two years prior Narcissa was sniffling and sneezing her brains out, but didn’t want to wake Madam Pomfrey for medicine. Andromeda insisted we could take care of her ourselves, she just needed a good, hot cup of tea to clear her system. I never knew where she learned it, but she showed me a way to slip into the kitchens undetected. She then showed me which cabinet to find the herbs in, and also which herbs were the right ones. And then she showed me how to use the kettle. 

It was amazing how much better Narcissa was able to sleep after she finished her cup of tea, and the next day she was right as rain. I quickly became obsessed with the simple magic behind a “good cup of tea” and asked Andromeda to tell me everything she knew about the different recipes and ingredients. When her knowledge proved to be rather limited I went on a rampage in the library until I was satisfied─ a good two weeks later. 

My plan was a simple blend to help me sleep and settle my nerves. Chamomile and cinnamon was sounding particularly tasty, although I was considering whether I might like lavender with rosemary more. Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice at first there was already someone else in the kitchens. Thankfully when I did I only jumped a little. 

Confused, I stared at Sirius Black as he took a kettle off one of the stoves. He gave me an amused look in return. 

“Couldn’t sleep either?” He guessed.

“No, I’m quite afraid not.”

He gave me a sad smile in understanding. “Have a seat, I’ll make you a cup,” he offered. I can’t say why I listened, but I did. Maybe in a moment of weakness before a highly stressful event I didn’t care that I didn’t know him much, I just wanted to let someone take care of me. 

“Any preference on what kind?” He asks.

“Hmm, I was debating between chamomile with cinnamon or lavender with rosemary,” I say. Then, because I can’t help myself, I proceed to list off my many thoughts on the benefits of each ingredient and what might best suit my current situation. 

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t notice that Sirius has made a decision for me and already started steeping the herbs in the water. I’ve somehow veered off onto what might make a good combination if Sirius was having a headache, or if his headache was caused by a cold and he had other symptoms what could help with that. 

To his credit, he never once interrupts or even looks bored. In fact the entire time he seems to regard me with mild amusement, and I begin to get the impression that everything he encounters in life amuses him. 

I don’t even stop rambling about tea when he sets my cup in front of me. After taking a sip, I start to tell him how very fond I am of lemon balm, then pause when I finally realize the cup of tea is already made. 

For the first time since Sirius asked what kind of tea I wanted, he is finally given a chance to say something. “Are you sure you weren’t meant to be in Ravenclaw?”

I scoff at his suggestion. “Don’t be absurd, Slytherins can be just as studious as Ravenclaws, we just typically hold our cards a little closer to our chest.”

“Right.” He nods. “This was you holding your cards close to your chest?” He then questions.

“Well it’s not like there’s any great secret behind tea. And besides, even if I haven’t been able to sleep I am quite tired.” A yawn escapes me just then to prove my point. “Narcissa always complains about my tendency to ramble when I’m tired.”

“Why would she complain? I found it rather entertaining,” he says, lightheartedly. Even though his tone has a hint of joking to it, I feel like he’s being honest. 

I give him a small smile before taking another sip from my cup. It’s still quite hot, but the flavors are still strong. “Mmm, this is quite delicious,” I compliment. “Is it chamomile with… rosemary?” 

Sirius gives me a proud grin. “Ten points to Slytherin,” he jokes. A smile falls on my face. 

“What have you made for yourself?” I ask, glancing at his cup. 

“Vanilla and rose.” 

“That sounds lovely. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that before.”

“James’s mum makes it for us all the time. Do you want to try a sip?” He offers. I nod quickly and he passes over his cup. Sure enough it’s a delightful mixture. I tell him such and he tells me the measurements so that I can make it for myself. 

“So what’s keeping you up on this otherwise peaceful night?” Sirius asks.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I groan. He looks at me dumbly, confused as to what the obvious answer might be. “We start our OWLs tomorrow,” I scoff. 

“Merlin, you can’t really be this stressed about it.” He sounds disbelieving, though I’m not sure why. 

“I can and I am,” I say, matter-of-factly. He rolls his eyes and turns to begin putting away the tea kettle. “Why are you up, if not because of the OWLs?” I then ask.

“Not for any good reason. Have always had trouble sleeping,” he says, but the tightness in his voice, and the way he tugs at a lock of hair behind his ear tells me there’s something else he doesn’t want to share. I can’t fault him for that, though. “Which of your OWLs do you feel most prepared for?” He asks after a moment of tense silence. 

It throws me off for just a second. Most people want to know which test I’m most nervous for, want to know what area I’m weakest in, where the chip in my armor is so that they might strike there. I consider for a moment, not wanting to say something that I end up bombing. Eventually, I decide on my favorite subject. Sirius seems to accept that answer without pushing any further, so I turn it on him. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he answers almost immediately. “I want to be an auror,” he brags. 

I roll my eyes at the proud smirk on his face. “Of course you do.”

“Well? What do you want to be?” Sirius asks as if expecting a lame answer such as archivist. 

“My parents want me to be an alchemist,” I reply in what I would guess is a lame answer.

“That’s great for them, what do you want to be, though?” Looking into his eyes at that moment feels as if he’s staring into my soul. 

“I… I don’t know,” I mumble slowly and my brows furrow. I can’t help but look at my cup of tea, half empty at this point. No one had ever asked me what I wanted before, not when it came to something so major. It was always assumed I would follow the path my parents laid for me. 

When I find the courage to look back up to Sirius he has a sympathetic look on his face. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap.

In return, Sirius’s face pinches in anger. “I wasn’t looking at you any type of way,” he defends.

“Yes, you were, you had this look on your face like you were sad for me,” I accuse. “Don’t be sad for me.”

“I’m not sad for you─”

“Good, because you have no reason to be. My life is great and everything is perfectly fine.” The way I say it even Sirius can tell that I’m trying to convince myself more than him at this point. I let out a frustrated sigh. I want to say something about how I’m a great witch and I’m meant to be an alchemist, but another voice in my head whispers to explain how I really feel.

“Look,” I start, then trail off. 

“It’s complicated,” he finishes for me. “I get it. I’m sure you know about my family, you know I get it.” His voice is so soft as he talks to me, as if I’m a frightened animal. But despite my flaws I am still a Slytherin, and I do not appreciate being treated like a frightened animal. 

“Leave it to a Gryffindor to be so self-absorbed they assume everyone knows their tragic tale of woe. Maybe instead of staying up late to make tea and trying to relate to girls you hardly know you should work on your form for your smokescreen spell.” The words spill out of me before I even consider them. I don’t even take the time to be shocked at my outburst. Instead I storm off. 

“Yeah, you’re one to talk about self-absorbed, Princess!” He shouts at my back. I nearly flinch at the nickname, but keep going out of the kitchens and straight back up to my dorm.

─ 

The morning before the first day of our OWLs testing I follow my same routine. I wake up early to run with James, and he tries to ask if I’m feeling alright, but I brush him off and neither of us acknowledges the way I push myself harder on this run than I ever had before. 

After our run, I go back up to my dorm to shower and get ready for the day. My dorm mates still haven’t caught on yet that I’ve started getting up hours earlier. They do ask if I’m feeling flush and press their hands to my forehead, though. I shove them off with a grumbled, “I’m fine,” and shove my things for the day into my bag. 

In the Great Hall I can hardly stomach a plain slice of toast, but I just manage to get it down with some orange juice. I feel a bit queasy, but today is too important to pay that feeling any mind. 

On my way to the first test of the day, I think back to Remus’s reassuring words from our study session the night before. 

“Look, I know trying to reassure you that you’ll do great won’t get through to you, even if I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” Remus says softly, almost hesitantly. “Instead I hope you know that it will be okay if you aren’t perfect.” My heart hits my stomach and I drop my quill. I start to shut down, prepare to lash out. Why would he say that? He thinks I won’t be perfect? 

“Maybe other people will have different opinions, but I will still be your friend and I know that everything will turn out okay for you.”

Oh. My heart flutters back to life. We’re friends? 

For once in my life, I do not lash out at someone for trying to get closer to me, for saying something honest that I wasn’t ready to hear. 

I give him a sad smile. “Thanks, Remus.” I pause for a long moment. “I’m glad you’re my friend,” I whisper. Then, because I’m not sure how to proceed after that, I stiffly turn back to my notes. Remus, ever the gentleman, goes back to his book and doesn’t push me any further. 

I don’t think anyone had ever told me before that it was okay to be anything less than perfect, but his words become my mantra for the day. 

“It will be okay if I’m not perfect,” I think to myself as I walk into the classroom. 

I take a seat next to Narcissa. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

The professor instructs us to start. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I read over every question three times. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I double check each of my answers. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I finish the last question. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

I walk up to the front of the class and turn in my test. It will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

As I leave the classroom I’ve almost convinced myself that it will be okay if I’m not perfect. 

My stomach begins to churn and I walk straight to the nearest bathroom, into one of the stalls, and promptly begin to lose my breakfast. I hear the door open behind me when I’ve stopped heaving. 

“Think you’ve found yourself in the wrong bathroom, Princess,” someone says mockingly. Footsteps come closer to me. “Oh shit, are you okay?”

I hadn’t bothered to lock the stall door behind me, so I’m able to turn and see Sirius Black. Again. I give him a horrified look. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing in the girls’ room?” I nearly shout at him.

“Actually you’re the one who’s walked into the boys’ room,” he informs me. I give him a disbelieving look until he shifts and my gaze falls on a line of urinals behind him. My face blushes profusely and I stare at Sirius, mortified. He gives me a pitying look. “It’s okay, pretty girl, you’re clearly not feeling well. Stay there for a moment.”

Still in shock, I stay put. I hear the sink running for a moment, then Sirius comes back with a damp towel. He hands it to me to wipe my face. 

“Thanks,” I murmur. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he replies. With a tender hand, he helps me to my feet when I’m ready. “Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey, then.”

“Oh, no, that’s really not necessary. It must’ve just been something I had at breakfast,” I lie. 

Sirius gives me a disbelieving look. “You’ve clearly worried yourself sick and we both know it.”

I don’t reply as I follow him out of the bathroom. My plan was to start going in the direction of the hospital wing, then double back to the library to keep studying. Sirius’s plan was to follow me.

“I’m more than capable of walking myself to the hospital wing,” I say tersely. 

“And I’m more than capable of walking with you. I’m glad we’ve determined our abilities for this excursion.” 

I shoot him a glare that would scare off most other people. Sirius doesn’t even blink at me. My new plan: ignore Sirius as he insists on walking me to see Pomfrey. 

“How did you feel about it?” He asked after a moment. 

I don’t respond. 

“I personally thought some of the questions were a bit repetitive, like I had to explain myself multiple times.” 

I stay strong. 

“But maybe that’s a bad sign that I didn’t do as good as I thought.” 

Just keep staring straight ahead, he has to shut up eventually, I think to myself. 

“On the second question─”

“Would you just shut up already?” I snapped. I was stressed enough over how I did without reliving it with someone I didn’t even like. 

Sirius holds his hands up defensively. “Someone’s cranky,” he says with a laugh.

“I am not cranky, I just don’t particularly care to discuss the test with you.” My eyes roll of their own volition. 

“What should you care to discuss then?” He asks. 

“With you? Not much.” Maybe if I can discourage him enough he’ll grow bored and wander off. 

“It’s a bit of a trek to the hospital wing from here, though, and I’ve found conversation to be a great way to pass time.” Of course, I should know that Gryffindors are not so easily discouraged.

“I’ve found that there’s no reason for you to walk all the way to the hospital wing with me.” 

“Wow, are you like this all the time?” He finally snaps back.

“Like what?” I pretend to be ignorant. 

He scoffs at me. “Rude, Princess. Are you always so rude?”

I flare up at the nickname. The way he says it, it feels like he knows I don’t like it. 

“Nobody asked you to pester me,” I say. 

“Most people would consider this an act of kindness, not pestering.”

“How unfortunate for you that I am not like most people.” 

“It would do you a bit of good to learn something from them, maybe you could start with some manners.”

“I’m perfectly well mannered, thank you very much. You’re the one who didn’t listen when I told you I was fine to walk by myself, and you’re the one working yourself up by staying with me when you could bug off to literally anywhere else.” With that I begin to speed up to leave him behind.

Sirius actually stops for just a moment, as if really considering my words. Then he rushes to catch up to me. “No, I want to know what’s so bloody great about you,” he says. 

I give him a strange look. “I never claimed for anything to be so great about me.”

“Maybe not but you sure act like it, so tell me: what is so bloody great about you? What makes you so special that you think yourself better than everyone else here?”

It’s my turn to stop in my tracks. “Who the hell said I think I’m better than everyone?”

“No one has to say it, Princess.” The way he says Princess feels like venom on his tongue. 

I want to hit him. Punch him in the face and give him a great bloody nose. I want to hex him. Maybe knock him off his feet. I want to scream at him. Scream that I don’t think myself better than everyone, that I’m just an imposter pretending to be perfect all the time. 

It will be okay if I’m not perfect.

Tears start to well in my eyes. I haven’t cried since I was eleven and my family was getting ready to drop me off at Hogwarts for the first time. 

“Do not cry, darling, it’s unbecoming,” my mother says to me. “Soon you will be sorted into Slytherin and prepare to continue your family’s legacy. You must show strength at all times, even if you do not feel it. We can not be perceived as weak.”

A single tear snakes out of the corner of my eye and down the apple of my cheek. I look down and it falls to the ground by my feet. Another tear falls, and before I know it I am fully crying. I start to struggle to breathe. 

When I look back up to Sirius he looks terrified. He must think he’s what’s made me cry. The truth is it’s the last five years that have built up to weigh on me continually. It’s the way my life was gilded and no one had ever cared to look below the surface until a few weeks ago when Remus Lupin offered to help me study. Until James Potter offered to go for a run. Until Sirius Black offered me a cup of tea. 

My quiet tears begin to turn into choked sobbing as I realize how sad my life really was, that these three Gryffindors had shown me a kind of genuine caring that I hadn’t known could exist. 

Hesitantly, Sirius takes my hand to lead me over to a nearby bench so I can sit down and try to collect myself. It takes several minutes for me to control my breathing, and several more for my tears to subside. I finally look down to notice that I’m still holding Sirius’s hand, that I’d actually been holding it quite firmly. 

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice hoarse, as I release his hand from my grasp. “You were right. Everything is so very complicated.”

Sirius gives me that same look he did last night, and I realize. He wasn’t sad for me, he understood me. But how was it fair that he would get to leave, when his brother and I were left behind with our authoritarian families? Selfishly, I think maybe he could show me the way.

I sit there, lost in my thoughts, for a long while. Sirius stays with me. Eventually the bells toll to indicate it was time for lunch. When I glance up at Sirius, he’s already looking at me. 

“Can I make you an offer?” He asks. 

I grow weary at his words. “I would suppose that depends on what the offer is.”

“Well, your eyes are red and swollen and you’ve got mascara tracked down your cheeks,” he starts and I grow horrified as I realize what I must look like. There was no way I could go into the Great Hall looking like the mess I surely am. He lets out a small laugh at my expression. “Why don’t you go clean up, and I’ll grab us some lunch from the Great Hall. We can meet in the south courtyard.”

I was amazed that even after I’d been so mean to him, he would still be so kind to me. 

“That would be quite nice actually. Thank you,” I reply softly. 

Sirius gives me a swift nod, then helps me to stand up. We go our separate ways, me to my dorm to wash my face and apply some fresh mascara and concealer, and Sirius to the Great Hall. 

─

I’ve just sat down in a corner of the courtyard for a couple minutes when Sirius shows up. I try not to look too shocked when James and Remus appear with him. Of course, I knew they were all friends, they went galavanting around the entire school proclaiming themselves marauders, but I’d never interacted with all three of them together. 

It suddenly occurs to me that they likely share a dorm, and very well could have planned this all to be some grand prank on me. But they had all seemed so genuinely kind to me until this point, and I was so tired of constantly second guessing everyone’s intentions. I decided that if this were some prank I would let them have their fun at me, then show them the real wrath of Slytherin. 

The three of them quickly set up a small picnic and begin lighthearted conversation. James compliments the way my hair looks today. Sirius teases James for the way his hair looks everyday, although I would argue it flatters him I don’t say that aloud. Remus gives me a knowing look as the two begin bickering. 

Spending time with the three of them is easy, and feels right. Like it was always meant to be the four of us all together. None of them mentions my earlier breakdown, or even anything to do with our tests. I wonder what Sirius told them before they all came out here. Whatever it was, none of them shows me any judgment so I can guess he must have skipped over my rude behavior. 

I’m sad when the bells ring again to signify the end of lunch. We clean up our area of the courtyard, then head back inside. Over the course of my time with the boys I feel my spirits lifted significantly, feeling much better and ready to face the next two weeks of tests. 

It will be okay if I’m not perfect, I think to myself again, and this time I really do believe it. Because even if I’m only just getting to know Remus, James, and Sirius, I know that they are my friends and they’ll be there for me.

[1800titz]

TDIAG extra | temperature play extra

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His ring-clad digits are wrapped over the handle of her overnight duffel, and as the pair amble into his home, the man sets the bag onto the closest cushion of his sprawling, burgundy sectional. It’s an old sports bag his girlfriend had utilized since childhood, toting it on through the years and refurbishing it through variable purposes it had been called for. An assortment of charms still accessorize it— ones she’d been too lazy to remove: a crystal-beaded keychain, a miniature dog figurine the length of his pointer digit with matted, gray fur, and an empty leather slot for an ID card that’s speckled with aged, partially torn stickers. He thinks it’s cute— it’s an endearing mosaic of pieces of her that existed before he knew her, and her lack of removal of the childish decorations makes his chest feel soft the same way old photographs do.  Anyways, it’s a half-shame he’ll be unraveling its owner into a soppy, pleading mess. 

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Harry blinks flatly from behind his sunglasses, pocketing his cellphone unceremoniously and shifting in the seat before he obnoxiously stretches one of his legs out beneath the table. Instead of toying with the obvious thread she’s been tugging at, he kicks his foot in between her own and huffs, “Alright, budge up, bigfoot.”

The way Isla’s self-satisfied smile melts clean off her face almost draws a bark of laughter from him. Harry, however, has mapped nonchalance down to a science, so it sits on the back of his tongue before he swallows the mirth back like a shot of undiluted glee. 

An offended squawk falls from the girl’s mouth as she sits up straighter, pouting sulkily at him for the mean tease, “I have— perfectly normal-sized feet.”

The moody defense does cause his mouth to quirk, though the curly-haired brunette is quick to school it down before sighing dramatically and sinking lower in his seat (effectively encroaching into more of her territory with his own big foot), “Yeah, that’s why it felt like I had an anvil on my toes. Fucking enormous.” 

“Fuck you.”

“They’re heavy, too!” Harry continues, absent-mindedly picking at the discarded wad of paper she’d planted onto his plate, gesturing out with his hand for emphasis before he lobs the balled wrapper back at her, “How do you get around on those two-ton flippers?”

As the little ball hits her between her clavicles, Isla blanks, unable to even tail the piece with her eyes before it rolls off somewhere onto the ground. Meanwhile, Harry drags his fingertips over his lips. Behind the tinted lenses of his shades, his eyebrows quirk pointedly. The nature of the performance is to emulate her— a little taste of her own petulant medicine. He’s purposefully mimicking the same annoying mannerisms she’s been throwing into his direction, and the realization finally dawns on her when the foot that’d slid between her own starts tapping against her own bare toes. 

“Alright,” Isla deadpans and folds her legs back to tuck her feet under her chair, just out of reach, “I get it.”

As his girlfriend does so, Harry sits up, pursing his mouth in feigned contemplation before he plucks a crispy piece of calamari from the corner of the pile. He picks the breading off as he bobs his head in confusion, popping the chewy middle past his lips and flinging a piece of the breading at her almost absent-mindedly, just as he’d done with the straw wrapper. 

“What do you mean?” Harry chews. A crease works between his brows as he goes for another, doing the same thing once more. Only this time, he breaks the outer layer apart and flings the individual pieces at her between his words, “I have no idea— what you’re talking about, sweetheart.” 

“Alright,” Isla scowls. His self-satisfied simper makes her want to chuck her water at him. She dusts the crusts that’d landed into her lap off onto the ground, the edges of her mouth twisted down in annoyance. 

Unfortunately for her, the momentary distraction grants Harry just enough of a window to pluck up his own discarded straw wrapper, stealthily tear it into two, and toss the first balled half at her. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man pauses, tilting his head condescendingly. His ringlets are mussed from the saltwater, still somewhat speckled in sand, and one of the messy, flattened coils slips over his forehead as he tosses the second, “Is this annoying? Does this irritate you?”

“Yes,” Isla flails emphatically, shielding herself with her arms enough for Harry to pause the onslaught, his forearm visibly twitching as he stops himself (wrapper poised between his fingers, at the ready), and his semi-crescented lips twitching. Isla frowns, picking stray papers off her lap and shooting him a slitted glower, “Alright, I got it, I said.”

For a moment, Isla almost thinks he will relent. Unfortunately for her, her white flag of surrender means very little for a man who has perfected retribution to the same degree he has nonchalance. It’s sort of an infuriating talent. With his inky, chiseled forearm raised— still, for a brief, treasonous beat— he suddenly breaks and flicks the bunched wrapper at her, effectively smacking her square in the forehead with the crumpled wad. He leans over the table, ducking his chin and shaking his head from side to side (an exultantly shit-eating grin threatening to overtake his pink lips all the while).  

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Stop— I’m going to kick you in the nuts.”

Harry wraps his ring-clad fingers over his cup, relishing in the slick coat of condensation that sticks to his skin and chills it with the heat of the summer sun against his shoulder. The edge of his straw gets slotted between his lips, and he takes a long sip. Despite the way his shades cover a large portion of his upper features, his dark eyebrows climb in playful warning to accompany the thinly-veiled advisory, “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Instead of volleying another half-hearted, begrudged quip, as he’d anticipated, Isla straightens out in her seat. She unfurls like something hatching, crossing her arms, and although her sunglasses obscure her gaze, and can practically feel the defiance clouding her irises (imagines the sharp, challenging curve her brow has no doubt carved into) when she bobs her head and quietly prods, “What will you do?”

And that, Harry assesses wryly (the subtle curl of her mouth like a cat baring its milk teeth), is the quiet pivot from pester to provoking. Because the way rebellion stacks on her shoulders may as well say “make me.” He observes her pensively, soaking in individual mannerisms like ingredients for a recipe of disaster: the defiant little nudge of her chin; the way she leans forward in her seat, just slightly, as if goading him with her body language; the soft way her chest swells and falls as his response pends. 

Harry can’t say the development ever comes as a surprise. Her mutinies always start as playfully soft things; harmless in a way that’s almost endearing and insinuates that all of the choreography is unintentional, like she’s doing him a favor by dampening the real theatrics. But they never stay there for long. It’s always a slow crawl towards escalation; a flippant remark here, a withheld kiss there, and then, suddenly, she’s looking him dead in the eye with that insolent little smirk that says she’s just waiting for him to do something about it. In a way, the entire experience is like a form of long, metaphorical edging— she pulls, he lets her, and eventually, he snaps. And what could possibly be more delicious than finally doing something about it?

Admittedly, Harry doesn’t expect her foot to graze his cock under the table. 

Utilizing the distracted window of his deliberation (the moment he finally, finally lets himself outright steep in the tension that’s been hotly welling between them), the girl subtly discards her sandal, unceremoniously stretches her foot forward, and gently presses between his thighs with the ball of her bare foot. The brazen maneuver happens so smoothly and catches Harry so off guard that his tummy instinctively tenses beneath the tee he’d thrown over, and he shoots a stray glance between his split legs as his breath hitches in his throat. Unwittingly, he’d granted just enough room for her foot to slot, and her fuschia-lacquered toes peek up at him as she carefully points them and fattens his prick to a semi almost instantaneously. A white hot streak of pleasure blooms in his underbelly at the filthy attention, wadding taut like a bow, and a dark, little shudder nearly wracks his shoulders as she draws her foot up and boldly caresses his rigidly growing cock with her heel. His chest grows heavy as the air sticks like honey to the nooks of his lungs, and his nostrils flare and finality settles in the pit of his chest as if it’s a back-burnered omen. He covers the tremble to his inhale with a cough and swallows the brokenly gritty moan that’s itching on the back of his tongue. There’s little he can do to hide the way his jaw slightly falls at first, however. 

Anyways, it’s all very unfair, and throws him entirely off kilter. 

“Isla—“

“So I was thinking—“ 

When he blinks back up at his counterpart, she’s picked up another piece of squid between her fingers and is casually peeling off the outer layer, almost attentively. This time, though, she neatly sets it onto the little plate ahead of her before she stuffs the stripped squid past her lips. As his dick thickens up under her ministrations, she switches from a curling press to a dragging tread along the fat shape nestled to his thigh. A harsh crick chisels into his jaw, and Harry suffocates the pathetic sound that threatens his vocal cords when she sensually grazes his tip. 

“That thai place is kind of a drive from the flea market, right? So, maybe we should check the area tonight and see what’s—“ Isla leans forward on her elbows, then motions with one of her hands. Her fingertips are smudged with oil, and she rubs them together before she casually ducks her chin towards the appetizer between them and takes another one, “around there.”

She replicates the motion, picking at the breading before stuffing it in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. The act is so casual, were it not for the way her foot was prodding at his dick and scrambling the tracks to his train of thought, it would appear like an entirely normal exchange. The glasses, of course, safeguard the impish way he’s sure her eyes have narrowed, because despite the way she doesn’t smile with her mouth, he’s sure her cheeky amusement saturates her gaze and crinkles the corners. 

“What do you think?”

That rumbling ball of desire is still sitting in the trench of his tummy, and it permeates as an ache that crawls along the underside of his balls. Every fibril of his being concentrates on maintaining composure, and his tongue prods into the inside of his cheek before Harry leans forward his forearms to mirror her. Momentarily, his teeth lodge into his lower lip, rolling it back before letting it fall back into place. 

The dull nip of pain does little to ground him from the overwhelming sensation between his tensed thighs, but it hardens his exterior just enough for the quietly foreboding comment to land, “You are so cute when you think I won’t put you over my knee in a parking garage.”

The brief flinch to her foot, as her toes curl against him, causes a smug sense of achievement to spool apart in his chest, although the self-satisfaction doesn’t quite reach his lips. He keeps those leveled in a line, and without access to his forest-like gaze, his countenance is infuriatingly indifferent. The filthy insinuation gives Isla pause, and knocks her off her own game for a moment, sending a razor-like zapling of lightning clambering up her spine and punching her lungs still. With as much casualness as she can muster, Isla drums a naked divot into the condensation smearing her glass with the pad of her pointer, and curls her toes in finality. 

“Hm. Yeah.”

“I wonder how loudly—“ Harry murmurs, faux-thoughtfully, before he wraps his palm around her ankle. His fingers are still chilly, and the cold nip of pressure, combined with the subtle strength of his grip— not bruising, just firm enough to stake a quiet claim— causes her own breath to hitch, “You can beg into leather car seats.”

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[ceilidho]

wait but also, this being your first "proper adult job" so you're even less sure whether this is a normal thing to be upset about, or if you're just overreacting.

like, soap gets your phone number and address from the employee database thanks to one of his bros in HR, and shows up at your place one morning, saying something about, "starting a carpool program" even though it's only ever you two in the car???

or one day you're helping a customer and maybe standing a lil too close, so soap comes up behind you, grabs your loose hair and yanks just a bit too hard--your head tilts back until you're making uncomfortable eye contact with him. "Just putting your hair up for ye, luvie," he winks, while the customer suddenly feels like they're intruding on a weirdly intimate moment.

then for the holiday season, your team does a white elephant gift exchange and when it's your turn, you're unwrapping some very expensive perfume bottles--there's no way this didn't go over the $15 suggested limit. soap's sliding up next to you, saying something about he's dreamt of this fragrance on you and oh he sprays his bedsheets with this one so he can jerk off imagining you.

im shaking like a wet dog this is doing unspeakable things to me.

you don't even know this but he paid someone off to get your name in the secret santa gift exchange. like actually paid them fifty dollars just to have the opportunity to get you a gift. and you know the second you unwrap it that it must've been in the three figures. you just got someone a fancy mug. and he stares at you when you unwrap it, beaming when you give him a very controlled "thank you" because the alternative is screaming that this is way too expensive for you to keep.

"ye should put it on," he tells you, breathing just a little heavier. "really want ta smell it on ye."

he heaves you up by the hips whenever you have a hard time reaching something on a shelf instead of just reaching up and grabbing it for you. really digs his fingers into your sides. doesn't let you go right away when he puts you down. and if you make a comment about it being uncomfortable or it hurting you (you're an adult, you're not used to someone just lifting you up), he just coos at you instead, pouts and simpers like he's so sorry that you're not used to it yet.

maybe when you're assigned to the jewellery section, Johnny pops out of nowhere when you're helping a customer that's looking at some rings and he uses your hand to model some of the rings. and it gets. weirdly intense when he slides the ring onto your finger, like he's holding his breath. he even shudders a bit, presses himself right up against you behind the display counter until the customer leaves because it's genuinely off-putting lmao.

and if he comes in as a customer, jesus christ. be prepared for him to pester you the entire time, insisting on you helping him with his purchases. he'll brush off any other employees looking for you under the guise of you helping him shop, but then once they're gone, he'll go back to interrogating you about your childhood and your friends and whether you have a partner or any previous partners you might've had. makes you follow him to the bed section where he tries out all the mattresses and then asks you increasingly inappropriate questions like what mattress you have, what it feels like, how you sleep at night, what you wear to bed :\\\

[nurais-thatdoll]

Bitcjes My Wi-Fi Is Shit Pls Tell Michael Gay To Forking Fix It

.. W H A T .

[dnsbarbie]

Pairings: Charles Leclerc x Nepo!OC

Summary: here !!!

Next Chapter

Notes: It’s here! Hope you like it. Please feel free to share your thoughts in the comment section. Let me know if you want to be added on the tag list!

In the midst of the bustling crowd, the whispers of the cool wind blew past Sofina’s figure. Her honey brown locks cascades down her back, jostling the perfected curls on her head. She produced a well-mannered smile at the cluster of people beginning to narrow down her walkway as they approached her path. Their collective voices sync achingly in her ears as the volume increased in a rapid pace.

She bowed her head, an attempt to conceal the mischievous smirk plastered on her face. Her fingers adjusted the sunglasses shielding her eyes from the blinding flashes of the cameras pointing at her face.

“See, this is why I don’t particularly like arriving with you.”

Behind her shades, she gave a sidelong glance to her company. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. His lips thinned, brows furrowed at the earnest as he scratched the back of his neck.

“I don’t see a problem,” She shrugged, a whimsical tone carried in her voice.

Joris looked at her, a scowl decorating his lips. He gave her a once over, deepening the lines on his forehead as he observed the aching differences of their attire.

Sofina graced the paddock in a white oxford button up, cream-colored wool blend high waisted trousers that was secured by a leather belt and a pair of flats and a watch that certainly cost as much as his house. Her whole ensemble mercilessly trampled on the white tee and light washed jeans he’d probably bought in a thrift store.

“We agreed to dress casual,” Joris sighed, shaking his head but the slight simper on his lips betrayed his expression. “You said you’d follow this time.”

“This is casual!” Sofina argued, smirk growing every passing minute of this conversation. She knew it wasn’t.

On Joris’s part, he should’ve known better. Sofina was the daughter of a prominent business magnate. She was a part of a family far beyond their wildest imagination. Exuding the confidence and prestige she naturally had was an aura no common man could possibly learn.

“I look like your driver.” He droned.

“Nonsense, you look dashing!” She assured, nudging his brooding stature. “And besides, my driver is somewhere over . . . there,” Raising her palm, she pointed to their intended destination.

Sofina smiled victoriously as she noticed his quiet relent, hooking her arm around his and proceeding to drag him through the mix of bodies despite his protests. They ignored the media’s shouts for attention as they weaved their way towards the obnoxiously bright red infrastructure that was otherwise known as the Ferrari motorhome.

Upon their arrival in the motorhome, they were immediately greeted by the roaming staff in the lobby.

The first to come near was the French Team Principal of Ferrari, Frederic Vasseur with his usual jolly smile.

“Sofina! What a pleasant surprise!” He gushed, lengthening his hand for her to shake.

The brunette returned his infectious delight, baring a kind smile of her own and taking his hand. “Surely it’s not that much of a shock that I’m here, Fred,” She jokingly tutted.

To which the Frenchman bellowed out a hearty laugh. “Of course not! I just was not expecting you to be so early. Everybody’s just warming up, you see.”

Sofina hummed, looking around the room. It was indeed a latish time for her to be here. In contract to the countless media outlets fussing about outside, Ferrari’s motorhome maintained a tranquil commodious space.

The clank of her shoes echoed through the air as it hit the marbled ground. Strolling further inside, she has yet to spot the one she was looking for.

“Charles is getting ready in his driver’s room,” Fred supplied as if having read her mind. “He will be out shortly. Feel free to have a seat in the lounge.”

Sofina nodded, flashing Fred a grateful smile before he went on to do his job.

She went ahead and sat down on one of the red polyester armchair while Joris settled in a duplicate just across her.

After a several minutes of endlessly replying to company emails and submitting “between life and death” documents to her father, the faint squeaking of sneakers finally broke the cycle.

Sofina instantly glanced up from her torturous tasks to be greeted by a certain emerald eyed, Monegasque.

“Charlie!” She beamed at him, standing up with her arms already reaching for him.

Charles’s dimples pop out from the corners of his mouth at the greeting. He happily granted the excited girl’s request, elongating his arms around her waist.

He chuckled as her antsy limbs encircled his neck, never-minding the constricting grip she has on them. Bending down, he allowed her an easier access that was suppressed by their differences in height.

She gasped as she pulled away, sending Charles into a frenzy at the sudden reaction. He searched her eyes for answers but was only given a cutting glare.

“Have you been eating well?” She interrogated, voice low but filled with nothing but concern. “You look thinner than when I last saw you . . .”

Charles raised an eyebrow, corner of his lips twitching at her exaggerated statement. “We saw each other last week.”

“And?” She asked, genuinely confused by his utterance.

Charles laid his palms on both sides of her face, blaring out her displeasure with the mission to smooth out the distress on her.

“Ow!” She hissed, swatting away his arm as pain seared in her cheek from his the ministrations of his fingertips.

“I’m fine, bébé,” He assured, bitting his lip to prevent the further growth of his smirk. “You know training in the first week is the most crucial. It’s normal to lose weight.”

“By this much?” She scoffed, motioning to his face. His cheeks were hollower, making his cheekbones more prominent and the thinning of his face were generally noticeable.

Charles tried to ward away her worries, placing a soft peck on her cheek before shifting his attention to Joris.

Sofina watched them engage in pleasantries, Joris mentioning how dressed up Sofina was. She merely stifled a laugh at the scandalize look that resurfaced on his features once more at the topic.

“Oh come on,” Charles quipped, eyes traveling from her feet to the top of her head. “She looks fantastic,” He winked, “You look very beautiful,”

Sofina gave him a thumbs up at his specification, amused by his antics.

“What do you need now? More money? A cheque? A car?” She raised a finger up to silence his mirthful face. “My soul?”

His bubbly exterior exploded into a fit of hysterics at the reference she used. Sofina introduced him the hit reality show Keeping Up With The Kardashians when the pandemic started. It was her insistent persuasion that ultimately led them to binge watching every episode until they’ve had to wait for the newest one.

Joris rolled his eyes at the giggling pair, waiting for them to collect themselves. Sofina caught his eyes and began to explain. “It’s Khloe Kardashian.”

Truthfully, he didn’t gain any knowledge from the vague clarification. Nonetheless, he nodded.

“Do you need anything?” Charles faced Sofina.

“Aside from today’s testing results, not really.” She concluded, tapping at her phone to check her duties. “Sorry I wasn’t here for first and second day. I was drowning in paperwork.”

Charles omitted a sound of sympathy. Now that he was paying attention to her face, the dark circles under her eyes were more visible, matching the exhausted sigh that passed her lips.

“Did something happen?” He queried, gliding his fingers through the disarrayed curls from when she was sitting down.

She shook her head. “No, not exactly. But you know— I can handle it.” A buzz blossomed on her chest as the warmth of Charles’s palm radiated on her cheek.

Charles inhaled deeply, adjusting to the shift of the atmosphere. Instead of adding to the heavy pressure, he decided to change the subject.

“The car’s doing great,” He chided, hand falling onto her shoulder. “Ferrari finished on a high on both days. . .”

Sofina managed a smile, bobbing her head at the news she already knew. The information should have brought her more joy than what she was currently feeling but for some reason, a churning sensation struck her in the pit of her stomach.

“. . . Maybe even faster than Redbull?”

The claim got her to look up at Charles. A sheepish simper on his lips. Sofina couldn’t resist the amused huff hold hostage in her throat.

“With all improvements made, it’s a relief you’re more comfortable in the car than last year,” Her affirmation was met with a consensus from Charles and Joris.

Whenever Sofina was consumed by the sudden reminder of her intense duties, this was a place she often ran to. Ran to hide from the ridiculous demands of her supposedly unproblematic life.

With them, the biting tension of having to continuously prove herself didn’t exist in the here. It was without a doubt, easier to be. Especially in the eyes of whom knew her best.

Sofina met Charles’s eye. His emerald spheres dancing with a molten rays of the Bahrain sunlight. She would never tire of staring at them. The absurd amount of beguiling enchantment his eyes hold should be dubbed as illegal. If one were to stop and take a moment to admire he—

“GOOD MORNING, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”

The sonorous voice from the speakers woke Sofina’s consciousness from her trance. She swiftly blinked away the dolly lopsided smile stuck on her face, tearing her gaze away from Charles. She bore the boundless embarrassment in regards the drawn out time she spent gawking at him.

“You— you get out there and uh—” She cleared her throat, avoiding his teasing eyes. “—Do your best—Charles!” She squirmed, a hand shoving at his shoulder as he got into her face, trying to catch her adorably flaming cheeks.

Charles aired out a laugh at the deathly glare she sent his way, admiring the futile attempt to hide her blushing face from him.

“I’ll see you later?” He declared, soft and gentle.

“Of course.” She wheeled her eyes, struggling to keep her smirk in bay as she saw to giddy look in his face.

With one last peck on the cheek and a wave for Joris, he turned and went on his way to the garage.

The tremulous sigh she released nearly collapsed her lung. Another year of Formula One, and owning most of Ferrari’s sponsorship held a great weight on Sofina’s shoulders. The pillars of her chosen empire were bound to fall with one wrong move. Proving her father right was the last thing she wanted and she’d hate for all of this to be blown in a million pieces because of what her father referred to as her incapability to be a firm leader.

Alas, heavy is the head that wears the crown and so is the heart that weighs it down.

Tag-list: @seairsunset @mindflay3r @tangointhequango @bwormie @eugene-emt-roe @herondalism @comfortzonequeen @weekendlusting @nomie-11 @i-ship-bullshit-2020 @cc13723things @charlesgirl16 @namgification @charizznorizz @missenclod @outerudeth

[levyfiles]

People are starting the hate train on YouTube again and I think the best thing we can do at this point is balance the comment section with positivity. They have an entire team who worked tirelessly to bring us Travel Season? For every brain dead comedian in the comments screaming about the economy, there's 12 comments on Keith Eats Everything video simpering over corporate junk food at Disney World and just how cool it is getting to watch it for free when it actually costs the haters $0 to wait for uploads and jump in the comments.

Let's try to turn the tide at least. Watcher deserves better than this

[blondbrat]

★ — SLUT !! drew starkey x actress reader

summary - your dating the man of your dreams, drew starkey, your fellow cast member and boyfriend.. but like always, people have to hate on you — the only comment people ever for female celebs existing happily in their relationships ‘she’s honestly just a slut’

warnings - use of y/n, slut shaming, overall shitty comments, stressed!reader

a/n - part of a drew starkey!au I wanna start. inspired by taylor swifts song ‘slut !!’ honestly in love with drew I can’t he’s so perfect :) as someone who’s been slut shamed, I definitely wanted to empathize how hard it is, especially as a woman, just simply living your life and getting hate for it x

If they call me a slut you smiled sweetly to yourself. posting the picture with a click of ur finger, a cute outfit for a fun night ! work had been going on long lately — not that you didn’t love every second of it. it was just tiring, and you were glad u could finally take a breath. just a chill night with your cast members and drew.. god, your smile turned into a cheeky grin as a knock sounded on the door.

you sighed softly, letting the weeks weight finally fall of your shoulders as you clicked off your phone — muting your notifications was an unconscious habit of yours

—instagram / 8:34 pm saturday

y/nprimrose : basketball game group date! their really trying to bet on who’s b-ball team will win, as if it won’t be mine! in all respect, it will be 💞 @*drewstarkey @*rudypankow @*madylncline

drewstarkey baby, my love, sweetheart, we both know what team will win, mine ❤️

↳ obxhasmyheart STOP this kind of relationship >>>

↳ user1 the way he uses the nicknames for y/n 🥺

primrosefanpage how does she always have the cutest outfits?? I LOVE HER

↳ drewsactualgf1 cute, the fuck? I guess if she works as a stripper…

user2 does she always have to have her tits out tho? just like her character wow

↳ drewsactualgf1 slut on screen, slut off screen. a slut in general 🥱

↳ user3 the only reason she was able to pull drew!! like cmon over here mr.starkey, I have tits AND a personality

user5 fucking put on some clothes. drew. deserves. better!!

user4 the fucks wrong with this comment section…

you didn’t glance at your phone once — drew peaking in with his usual grin. god, he was handsome as always. before you knew he pulled you into a cuddly embrace “hi baby, saw your post, you really think your teams gonna win huh’?” you beamed ! wrapping your arms around his neck as you gave him a soft peck — that shut him up quickly ! the night was perfect — everyone riding together as you all laugh and talk, simpering even more hysterically and playfully as the ride went on.

you found urself finally about to just relax. hand in drews as you all walked into the packed basketball building. crowed and buzzing with excitement. grinning sweetly at the array of papperazzi that greeted you, you all were used to it by now ! even posing in some as u four found ur seats, taking a few pictures with fans that seemed to be frozen in shock as u all waited for the game to begin.. you loved interacting with your fans, exactly why you requested normal seats — you loved being able to get to know them, helping them calm down once the realization hits in. it was as much as an experience for you as it was for them

“you look beautiful” drew leaned over and whispered in your ear, chuckling at the bloom of blush that crept over your cheeks. he couldn’t help himself, you did!

before you knew it, the game was starting — the turnover resulting in your team making the first basket ! you and rudy cheered, pocking drew in the side laughing as he rolled his eyes playfully. once more baskets were made and sarcastic laughs extanged, he wrapped his arm around your shoulder — leaning his head against yours as he kissed you on the forehead gently. both your friends too busy joking around to notice the sweet scene.. but it made it all the more perfect. this is what u both needed, just a night to be together ♡

drews arm still around you, you chatted with madayln — both agreeing work has been a lot lately while keeping your gazes on the game. your team was winning ! and you simpered, scrunching your face in mocking triumph as u glanced down at your phone — trying to slyly see if their was only a little amount of time in the game left, which would guarantee your favorite teams win ! but your recent notifications caught your attention instead.. and all you could see were specific words instantly ‘slut’ ‘stripper’ ‘a pair of tits and that’s it’ what the hell?? your face immediately fell, and you clicked on the notifications frantically.. expecting to find a porn scene or something with a woman who looked somewhat like you (which had happened before) not your joking post from earlier.. the picture wasn’t even the main reason you posted it. and let alone.. to get all this hate. for wearing a fucking shirt??

your feed was bombarded with hate after hate. slut, slut, slut and so much worse.. your gut twisted, a strange feeling of guilt and embarrassment fogging your head !! your anxiety spiking !! drew and all your friends were destined to see the post soon enough?? drew commented on it, just before all the comments were posted.. it was humiliating. and u couldn’t help but doubt urself —would everyone agree with the comments? did everyone think of u like that, just a pair of tits?? maybe it was a bit revealing? you’d struggled with these kinds of comments before u got famous.. and after the stress of non stop filming, the one day u finally let urself breath — this fucking happened :(( it was just all too much

your head was spinning — you convinced urself you were overreacting, this happened to all female celebrities atleast once.. but fuck, you never realized how humiliating it was !! until then.. u tried to breathe, and Drew noticed ur tenseness immediately, ur pretty eyes seeming to fall in.. shame?

you shook his hand from ur shoulder, standing up instantly “g-gotta go to the bathroom” you murmured — before drew could even grab your hand you paced away, dodging cameras and people as you slammed the door into the single stall bathroom. you just needed to process.. and hiding with the hopes drew hadn’t yet seen the comments. slut. slut. slut.. for wearing a pretty shirt?

tears began to well up in your eyes, satly droplets — and you wish they didn’t !! just like everything else that seemed to be happening, you had no control over it. your breathing was hitched, fast and panicked as u paced around the bathroom. reading every hate comment like you’d atleast find one that said it was a joke.. it wasn’t.

u were staring at yourself in the golden brimmed mirror — clumpy mascara running down ur face, leaving black stains in their fall. slut. slut. slutyou had just recently came to fame.. ‘slut’ met drew, the man of your dreams ‘slut’ and still, these small (not) things effected u— isn’t it fucked up? how its drilled into woman’s brains that it’s their fault.. for simply loving their bodies and being happy?

your thoughts were interrupted by a banging on the door.. it had been there the whole time “baby! y/n open up! let me in will ya? please baby I’m worried!” your heart melted at his concerned voice, eyes softening as you tried to wipe away ur foggy tears — meeting his eyes as u opened the door. ur best friend, and love of your life instantly swooning u in his arms.

“hey, hey baby look at me ok” he whispered softly, cradling u like he never wanted to let go.. he didn’t. “you scared me sweetheart, running out of there like that.. talk to me” his body was so warm, so hard, so perfect.. your home. and before you knew it you were letting urself breath. meeting his sapphire eyes. “drew.. do you ever-ever fuck do you ever look and me and frown because I look like a… s-slut” you stumbled whispering, adverting your eyes from his. “y/n w-what?!” he squeezed you in his arms even tighter, tilting ur head up to his so gently it felt like a butterfly’s touch. “Did someone say that to you?! someone here?!” he glanced around protectively, his face furrowing intimidatly before softening when he again found yours

“n-no.. just something I posted on insta—“

he didn’t let you finish your sentence — his heart breaking at the crack in your voice.

it wasn’t long before you were leaning agaisnt the sink, still snuggly in his arms as you cried in his shoulder. whispering sweet nothings into your ears as you let it all out — the stressful week, the exhaustion.. and then finally, the post.. the comments

you knew you would never forget the moment drew cupped your face with his hands, kissing the bridge of your nose — the touch so gentle it was like a butterfly. you could see the anger in his eyes, not at your of course, never at you. the fact anyone had the nerve to say such things about his girl, but more than anything, he needed to make sure you understood they were utter lies, being spurred in jealous envy “y/n please look at me babe, they are lies.. you are a beautiful, kind, and fucking incredibly talented actress and singer” you giggled at his empasis, tears no longer streaming down your face as u finally found his eyes “and fuck, the love of my life.. I’m drunk in love with you Primrose, and if some out of millions of people can’t handle that.. do what you do best-“ the words were like soft silk against your skin — drew, smiling softly, leaned down as gave you a soft kiss. “give them the bird, baby” he whispered against your lips, his breath fanning your teary face — eliciting a rapsy laugh from your pretty lungs.. god, he truly was your home

You know it might be worth it for once

—instagram / 12:00 pm Thursday

y/nprimrose : NEW SONG OUT NOW : SLUT !! ps. call me one, it’s worth it ❤️

drewstarkey your such a masterpiece baby, so drunk in love with you primrose ❤️ always doing what you do best ;)

you didn’t bother reading the rest of the comments, to occupied with drews kissing to even care (the song becomes a HIT)

Might as well be drunk in love xoxo

[starsfic]

Cheaters

Inspired by some posts made by @mana-is-lost and @cartoon-buffoon.

The show was his.

It had been his show since the day he woke up at the charging station. There had been a worker next to him, checking something. He didn't remember their face, but he did remember how their blood tasted and how sweet their scream had been. There had been a group of suits, watching, divided by a screen. They had all clapped, grinning to each other.

The leader had introduced himself as Stan Ellie, the CEO. He had called him the star.

That sealed it.

Of course, there were others in the cast, but they didn't matter. Henry Hotline was a wreck, and Deputy Duck was just a little bit of hope for the contestants if they even reached his section. The Noobs Noobs were the Noobs Noobs.

And then there was the other him.

Frankie didn't care about him, honestly. He was there "just in case" the game needed an announcer. Frankie could count on one hand the times he heard his voice guiding contestants to the right spot to die. He wasn't required, not when the better Frankie existed, cared for without a question in between seasons. When they were prepping for the 56th season, he heard whispers that the higher-ups decided he was going to be cut after the 57th season as a way to save money.

Frankie didn't care. He just did what he did, enjoying the praise and spotlight as much as he enjoyed the blood and screams.

And then...and then...and then the fucking 57th season happened.

He wasn't sure what happened exactly, but the lucky contestant and the other him decided to yank the reins of the show from his hands and set the script on fire. The higher-ups loved it, the audience loved it, and Frankie hated it.

Who cared about the company being saved from bankruptcy? This was Frankie's fucking game show.

At least the fucking asshole would die with this body-

He woke up in his new body. Except, it felt... strange. Weirdly achy, like nobody had taken care of it in a while. He opened his eyes. The worker tending to his charging port flinched. There was a group behind the screen.

His eyes landed on one.

Without a doubt, he knew who that was.

All the screens lit up with his cartoon form, the only way he could communicate, all voicing one furious "YOU."

The dark-haired human didn't flinch, staring him down with considering blue eyes. The others behind the screen did flinch, all except the robot next to them, who simply settled a hand on the human's shoulder.

"YOU FUCKING BI-"

The screens went dark, cutting off his words. Stan held a tablet and clicked his tongue, features screwed up in annoyance. "So rude," he said, not even talking to him. "Are you sure we need him back for the 65th show?"

"Yes," the fucking cheater said, staring at him. "The chat has been complaining that the show has been getting stale again." They looked away, showing the lack of care. "I'm not eager on driving the show to the verge of bankruptcy again, sir."

Stan hummed, tapping his fingers against the tablet. With a sudden jolt, Frankie realized his life was on the line.

A new star had wrangled the show from him and now his life was in their hands. No fucking way. It was supposed to be the lesser him gone, not him.

"I suppose Henry Hotline can stay down," the CEO finally said. "But I'm worried about his lack of care for the public and orders." He sighed. "Here's what we'll do. We'll test it out for this one season, as a favor for all you've done."

All they've done?!

"Thank you, sir," the contestant simpered, glancing back at him.

They smiled. The other him fucking smirked.

Cheaters.