Mae

————————————————————————————

One. The Catacombs

Metal bit your skin.

Was it metal? Your vision was black and foggy still. But whatever had bound your wrists together was turning your flesh numb. Hello?

Words didn’t come. Your mouth dried. Like you hadn’t had water in days. Then, you tried to remember that. When was the last time I had something to drink?

Hello?

Again, nothing but a soulless dark. Something– liquid, maybe, dripped from the rafters above. Every drop trickled and you imagined opening your tongue to drink the sweetness of it. Cold air settled on your exposed skin.

Help.

Your eyes struggled and you couldn’t tell what was real or if you were lost in a nightmare. That would explain the blackness of it all. A sharp pain throbbed your right arm and you shook. Made suddenly aware of its positioning. Your eyes shot open. Nothing at first. But then, glinted silver. A small thread of light flickering towards that lovely stream of water you so desperately craved. The lamp hazed and your vision tightened, nearly giving out. Where am I?

The next sharp sensation was like fire cauterizing fresh skin. A heavy breath coiling your throat. As your eyes slid, hazy and slow, you shook again. Attempting to tug at your crossed wrists locking you still by the metal link chained to the stone wall. 

You parted your chapped lips again– nothing.

Gone was your voice along with the freedom to stretch your legs like you once did at Pa’s. Oh no… Ma? Pa?

By the third prickling strike of heat, your body grew numb to the pain. Ma always did say you were a fighter.

Your eyes opened wider this time and the fog seemed to clear as the yellowed flame in the corner spurted into sparks. You couldn’t move much, but you were able to shift a bit. In the dying light, the flickering shine of a black engraving curled like a root just above the shackle. 

Your heart froze.

In ugly charcoaled scratches were two dime-sized letters  A M  shredded into your pallid flesh. Bile pinched every muscle in your body. It stirred your throat and suddenly that thick dryness you felt had washed away with acidic saliva. Your body was swift as you retched. Vomit pooled down your chin as your stomach imploded. It left a clear, milky puddle on the icy floor as your exhausted face fell into it. And you wept yourself to sleep with nothing but the fading light and your now, soiled self. 

𖤝𖤝𖤝

When you awoke, the room was brighter. Torches lined the rocky beige room, dimming the prior blackness to life. A faint soury smell of bloody sweat lingered in the dampened air.

You were no longer on the floor. And the room had been cleaned. The pavement where you’d slept in your own vomit was mopped and the wet stains had dried. There was a soft padding against your rear where a mattress dipped under your weight. Your eyes traveled against the back of a large man dressed in a roped Stetson hat and a long black trench coat. The bile threatened your stomach again as your back clung to the barred bed frame. 

“Mm?” he grunted. 

When he turned, his eyes shined above his blood speckled mask. Your legs shivered and every part of your body ached with trembles. The dime novels your Pa used to read told stories about men like him. Back then, your greatest fear was if the hens had laid that day. Or if the cows had grown too ill.

But you weren’t that little girl on the farm anymore. You knew what was coming. Stay away. Please…

He glared as if tethering his mind with yours. The man was gripping the freshly sharpened edge of a knife. Back and forth he played with the blade, sheathing and unsheathing the rusted metal. His heavy jeans jingled and the clinks of his spurs sparked as they dragged against the cement. Urine spilled onto your thighs in rivulets. You swept your face away from him beneath the foul sound of his voice and there was a smirk that glowed in his darker, lascivious eyes. 

“Well ain’t you jus’ a little lamb.”

Your eyes snapped shut, face quaking with fear and revulsion. You wished for it to be dark again. Wished that this demonic man would only disappear. Why couldn’t he have just left you alone to die in your puddled squalor? Much to your surprise, he stood upright again. And the air on your skin chilled.

“Don’t go pissin’ yourself neither. Ain’t good for business.”

“B–Business?” Tears trickled down your cheeks.

He smirked. “The lamb speaks.”

You tried to sit upright and you searched for a window that might’ve given any sign of life outside. A sign for escape.

Nothing of course.

The walls were bare and plastered with grimy tan stone. There was nothing inside except for an elongated oak table and the bare double wide mattress dressed in a thin, white blanket topped with two stained pillows. Rested atop the table was a small, needled syringe. Next to another loose, chained cuff on one of the westside walls sat a large bucket wedged into the corner with a dirty porcelain festooned with mold.

Then, his gruff voice prickled your ear. “Dinner?”

He turned his face, his eyes raking every inch of your body. The air nipped in between the light tufts that lined across your exposed vulva. You were wearing nothing except a stretchy white gown. Clean and of the softest silk. You figured that he must’ve changed you. 

You were entirely naked before. 

The man turned fully and his backside leant up on the table’s surface. His arms crossed and his fingers danced against his biceps awaiting your answer. 

For a moment you hesitated before lifting your face. “You asking me… or tellin’?”

He sniffed and scratched along the side of his cloth mask. Leather boots rattled at the ground and he was crouched at your side once more. 

“Let’s get a thing or two straight right now.” His tone was dark and raspy. You audibly winced as his thick fingers twisted your wrist. “Y’see that right there? Look at it. Don’t look at me. Look here.” The chain clattered and whipped your shoulder. “See them letters?” His patience grew short as you stayed silent and your chest quivered when he squeezed your wrist. “Better squeak for me little lamb or you’ll never use that mouth again. You hear me?”

You nodded as tears stung and blurred your vision.

“Y… Yes…” your voice came out in a broken, fragmented whisper. Lungs desperate for air.

“Ain’t hear you.” He curved your wrist again and his thumb dug into the scarry flesh.

“Yes!” you sobbed.

“That’s right. Them’s my brandin’ you see.” He sniffed. “Ain’t do it myself. S’a bit sloppy. You were given to me. Now you do well to think on that next time you run that pretty lil’ mouth o’ yours.”

“Yes… sir…”

“Good girl.”

Dinner was served on a minted silver platter. The forkware was polished and you could see the gloss of your own reflection. Hair matted and mussed. Eyes blackened with dark circles and stained streaks of old tears smeared your pale face.

The man set the plate near your lap and sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled a piece of tenderized meat apart. Pink juices dripped down his thumb as he pinched its stringiness. 

“Eat,” he demanded.

But the smell. It sickened your churning belly. A foul meaty odour rose into your nostrils as the man’s covered thumb tugged your bottom lip. “Open your mouth.”

You shook your head, tears stinging again. “Please…”

“Yer gonna fuckin’ eat it.” 

He wedged a finger into your mouth, opening it wide and forcing the food in. When his hand held your jaw closed, it rubbed your bobbing throat. You swished around the stringy bit and gagged. It was like nothing you’ve ever had before. It wasn’t gamey like how you remembered elk had been. Nor was it lean like that of frog legs in Ma’s home cooked stew. But it was chewy. Your teeth chewed and chewed on each piece he fed you like it was fatty tendon.

The taste was akin to corroded pennies. It was fleshy and it squished in your cheeks. When you swallowed the final piece, the meat left a bitter, nutty taste on your tongue. Vomit spiraled up your sternum. 

“No more…” you cried.

Silence stretched across the room. The man reached for the plate and tossed it onto the table. It fell with a sharp clang and the remnants stained the wall as the muscles in his back flexed.

“Next meal ain’t ‘til mornin’.”

He hurried out and the door slammed and the latch turned until it was clicked tight.

𖤝𖤝𖤝

Two men stood above the skied complex looking down at the dusted wasteland of St. Denis. A darkened indigo sky loomed over the eerie city now full of abandoned restaurants, shops and fractured saloons. The once crowded streets had turned into a dustbowl, having picked off the breaths of civilization one by one. Black smog flumed from a pair of fat cigars.

“When you think Morgan will have her ready by?”

“Any day now. Tomorrow, even,” came the sure tone of a tall man with a velvety black mustache and an even darker set of eyes to match.

“Should’ve been done with the bitch already– don’t ya think?”

“Patience, Mister Bell… I have faith that Arthur knows what he’s doing.”

“Just sayin’... Dutch,” he hissed. “Might be differen’ this time is all.”

Dutch snickered, tugging on his smoke. “Why, he sells them all. Now why would this time be any different, son?”

Saving the world from pollution was a noble act, it should be commended, but the line was drawn when biological warfare started to poison intentions. Tim had uncovered radiation signals from the mountains in Alaska, further reconnaissance uncovered a small camp where men in white hazmat suits conducted unknown experiments.

Naturally, Bruce wanted you and Dick to destroy said camp immediately.

The mission had been fine, routine, clean-cut, a trudge into unknown waters when the tent revealed mini-greenhouses, glass cages three holes poked into the top, incubating small, pulsating, glowing flowers, sticky pollen floating, clinging to tendril, stem and petal.

Yeah, they were strange, and supposed to be a passing thought after the charges went off, the tents going up in smoke and flames. After you’d dragged all unconscious personnel out of harm’s way.

“That’d been easy,” Dick had remarked. Oh, if only.

Your cells caught fire within the hour, so had his. Sweat dripped down his neck, his suit felt like a fucking greenhouse by itself, the ends of his hair stuck to the back of his neck, his knees fought against surrender. Your throat dried up, muscles ached, waves of saturated need riddled a heat-addled brain.

This was worse than your luteal.

You needed him, like needed him. It was the only thing your stupid brain could focus on, not Bruce’s hurried voice on comms during the flight home, it was secondary. Call his body the primary.

He wasn’t sleazy. Despite his screaming body, he kept as much distance from you as he could. Distanced himself. Shut himself in his room in Wayne Manor to get away from you, advised you to do the same. Your brain just accepted it, the walls of the guest room closing in on you.

Your hand had slipped past your panties a million times. You’d circled your clit in the way Dick used to, hand moving by itself in the rhythm he’d built into your mind. It was what worked best, but it was just surface shit, it did nothing. Honestly, felt like you were touching hot water, with how flushed your skin was and wet your fingers were but never once did it make a difference with how you felt.

Life was out to fucking get you.

Dick had tried everything too. Swallowing to push saliva down a throat rubbed with sandpaper. Taken off his clothes to feel cold air. He’d run his body over with beating cold water from a shower head. He wrapped his hand around himself and rubbed, but it made no difference, his body still burned, burst into fire for you. Water. He needed water.

The breakup had happened for a reason, ok? Your relationship was chasing you, but work was faster. It was all consuming, the stakes, dangers were running high, something else that crashed and burned with a heated argument and ‘we’re over’s thrown like punches.

Bruised knuckles blanched against the counter, other hand clutching a very full glass of water. His shirt stuck to his skin, even his baggy Calvin Klein sweats constricted him. Everything was claustrophobic, chipping at him with a chisel.

He lifted the glass to his lips. Water dripped past his lips, sliding down his chin, landing next to the sweat stains from his chest clinging to his shirt. It did shit all, his mouth was as dry, throat as scratchy, temperature high as Vesuvius.

You at the door, you stared. Watched, observed, droplets of sweat and water sliding across his collarbone your tongue’s calling, jaw begging for your lips, his lips themself soft, parted, pliable. You could lick up his neck. Shove him down onto a bed, position yourself above his face, he’d let you, probably. He did love eating pussy—

Wait, what?

You shouldn’t have gone into the kitchen, looking for a glass of water to soothe your mouth. Spectacular luck, ending up in the same place as the object of your thoughts right now. Your navel tugged, attempting to drag you closer to him. Your navel succeeded easily.

“Hey.” He rasped, the back of his hand dragging across his forehead. He could see his outline in the sweat when he looked at it. “This— fuck, it feels shitty, huh?”

You hung your head, any chance you grasped to look at him was dangerous.

“Tell me about it.” You mumbled. You couldn’t recognise it, it’d been roughed up by the fucking pollen shoved down your throat. Hay fever had permission to shove itself up your ass at this point. You itched the back of your neck, horniness addling your pussy.

You felt it when you walked, every word, every breath, it was desperate to its core, screaming for Dick. And his dick. Both of them. “I— I don’t know how much longer I can go like this, Dick.” You forced, swallowing (ow). The wince was clear as fucking day.

He started. “It hurts that much? Shit, I—” You felt the jolt in your navel again when he stepped closer, hands flying up, stopping short of your cheeks. He couldn’t. He couldn’t touch you, it would make the coil winding in his brain snap. His hands dropped, sighing, head bowed. “I can’t do anything, sweetheart, not ‘till Tim gets back with a cure to this thing.”

A cure to a reanimated thousand year old plant that was used during Ancient Egypt to encourage procreation. Right.

You turned away from him, dissociated from your body as it reached to grip the jug of water, filling the same glass he’d drank from once again. Taking a long sip, water sliding over the burn in your mouth, no relief, no dissipation. “I don’t wanna be a pessimist, but the plant’s centuries old. I doubt Tim can find a cure.”

“Have more faith in the little guy.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s pulled miracles out of his ass before.” Tim probably had more brains than Einstein.

The glare he got in return was venomous. "I'll have faith when my knees aren't Jello." Faith wasn't much of an option when you'd had five failed orgasms. At least when you were with other one nights after Dick, you felt something. Even if it wasn't as satisfying.

"Touche." The silence beat on your ears, his breath in punctured that. "Look, we can hold out a little longer—" You vehemently shook your head.

Your voice came out unintentionally as a snap. "Can't you see? We're stuck like this. For — I don't even fucking know how long — and this hurts and burns and you're telling me that we can hold out a little longer?" Your fist banged the marble counter. All this frustration stemmed from the intense sexual frustration, so he didn't take it to heart. "I call bullshit."

It was unhelpful that he was also sexually frustrated. "Oh, I'm sorry." He hissed sarcastically. "I'm sorry that I'm working to protect your dignity here and keep the bit of autonomy we have left. I don't know if you want this— shit, sweetheart, do you even think about me?"

Of course you did. You thought about him every day cause your brain was obligated to think about him during every resting moment. Hot sweat plagued your midnights, imagining his lips on your neck in your dreams. The pinch in his brow when he hit the spot. Shameless, loud moans that his neighbour gave him a dirty look for the next morning.

"Of course I do." You said stiffy, spine rigid, need crawling up your back. This seemed like the type of argument which used to end in make up sex. "You're my coworker, I have to see you every day—"

Your sentence was cut off with a scoff. "That's not my question." He pressed, straight, perfectly trimmed brows furrowing. "You know that's not my question."

"Do we need to have this discussion when an aphrodisiac is eating us alive?" You hissed, shrinking into yourself. This discussion was always taboo, you both took the breakup like a brick with your lipstick print and his lip balm on it. "This hurts, ok? I don't have the energy to argue."

His eyes melted on hearing it, it hurt your heart more than it already was pained. "We don't." Folding his arms, a breath puffed from his nose, shoulders slumping. Broad shoulders your nails needed to dig in and break skin. "This sucks balls." I hate seeing you hurt, was the ulterior message.

"It really does." You looked at your feet. Maybe you could drop to your knees, undo his drawstring, suck on him for desperate clarity.

Maybe that would work.

You could feel it oozing off him; the half-baked thoughts of what you’d look like over him. You could take the chain around his neck with your finger and tug him towards you. Or his waistband. All while pain struck your abdomen. “Is it hurting— well, yeah, it’s hurting, but is it too much?” He asked softly, his chest, his broad chest connecting to an unfairly slutty waist calling your name. Despite the sweat adorning his temple, his eyes were locked on you. Out of horniness or concern, though? It was impossible to tell.

The corners of his eyes crinkled. It was concern.

You hesitated, then your head bobbed. Loosely, in what you thought was a nod. You wiped sweat off your neck, white noise pumping into your brain. “Yeah.” You rasp, taking in as much oxygen as you could to avoid delirium.

“I can help. If you want.” He was too close. His voice too gentle, hands raised like you were a fucking wild animal, even then, his eyes searched yours for a sign to stop. “I can kiss you, it might— it could take some of the pain for a second.”

This was the pollen talking, not him, you had to remind yourself. You were broken up.

“You sure?” Your breath came out in a whoosh, your body singing the closer he got. He needed to get closer. Closer. So close he was inside you.

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I want, you’re in pain.”

“So are you—”

“Just listen.” He said, your vocal cords forgetting their function. “If I kiss you, you could stop hurting. Even if it’s for a short while, it could work.” But if he did, he didn’t know if he could stop.

You frowned. “Weren’t you the guy preaching about autonomy?”

“Do you want to feel better or not—” Your lips sealing over his answered that question. Pretty fucking well.

Fuck.

He’d have let you pull away, but the coolness dousing his head had his lips chasing after yours when your head reared back, the gap you made between your lips closed again when he kissed you hard. Hand gripping your jaw, one coming to grip the back of your thigh, locking it around his hip. Good grief.

Could you pull away? Did you have the strength to pull away? You only had the strength to yank him closer by his sweat-weighted shirt, pushing your hand in his hair, yanking at the strands. Normally pulling that hard with the danger of ripping out chunks of hair would have a man hissing and running for the hills, he just moaned. Loudly enough for you to wonder if he was faking it.

He wasn’t. Every kiss pressed to your lips by his starving mouth went straight to his dick. His hand on the back of your thigh sent signal after signal to your pussy that switched off your rational thoughts. Talk about a downstairs brain.

The ripping of fabric was followed by his shirt flumping onto the floor, a heap of cotton that was torn by the seams at the side. Hot kisses to the side of your neck paired with him massaging your thigh with strong fingers made your pussy clench— you’d never felt close to coming from a hand on your thigh before.

His tongue flattened. And dragged, all the way up your neck, to take your earlobe in his mouth and suck. Suck enough so your nails dug into his shoulders, breaking skin. Pain translated into pleasure, pleasure translated into euphoria, the sick fucking cycle that had your panties clinging to your legs.

“Shit, gorgeous.” His breath pulsed against your ear, tip of his tongue following the shell of your ear. “You gotta use me. Fuckin’ use me, honey.”

“Dick, maybe we should—” Wait, why were you about to preach autonomy?

Jesus H. Christ. Your hands moved forward on instinct, thigh dropping, shoving him in the direction of his bedroom, laving over his pulse, forcing him to bury his hand in your hair, his eyes rolling back, hips jolting forward to grind on your thigh. His body was on autopilot, hooked on a feeling, on the lack of pain, or fire burning his nerve endings.

His back hit the bed. Head sunk back into the pillows, rosy lips dropping open when your pussy dragged over his dick, through thick sweatpants, of course, didn’t stop the aphrodisiac from making him think it was heaven. His voice cracked as he whimpered, he fucking whimpered, grabbing your ass and grinding you back down, so you obliged again, and again, to the point where you were humping him. To the benefit of both of you.

He was muttering nonsense, brain not connected to his mouth of vocal cords, stammering. “So close— shit, shit, sweetheart, stop,” He stilled you, tugging at both your waistbands, five seconds later those garments, sweats and panties, were chucked across the room. He beckoned you with two fingers, flushed cheeks betraying breathlessness. “C’mere, baby.” He mouthed at your pussy over your sweats, it wasn’t enough. Who was he kidding? It would never be enough.

His tongue swiping over his bottom lip told you everything. “Classic.” You scoffed, but your pussy throbbed. It was typical of him, to put you first. He shouldn’t put you first. “We don’t have time for this—”

“Yes, we do.” He said sharply, taking your wrist and shoving your hand in his hair. “I said use me.” His lips burned down your stomach, holding himself up off the bed without his hands. Curse him and his insane ab strength. “You had no problem with that before.”

You rolled your eyes. Your pussy reminded you to get a move on, prompting you to roll your hips over the muscle of his thigh. Without thinking, he encouraged that. Literally without thinking, his hand moved of its own accord. “You can survive without eating pussy.” It wasn’t like you didn’t want him to eat you out, he did a stellar job. Always to the point where you had to go nonverbal. You were just being a jerk.

He fake-gasped. “Wow. That’s offensive.” He pulled you onto his face without further hesitation, his tongue sliding up the length of your cunt— oh. Your hand in his hair gripped tightly, a curse-string rolling past your tongue. Was it meant to feel like you were ascending into some ninth heaven? Was that him or the aphrodisiac?

Maybe just him.

“Mm, Dickie, fuck—” You gasped, even better was his tongue slipping inside you, his thumb rolling your clit, circling, circling, larger, larger, expanding, legs shaking, eyes rolling back, pussy jolting to grind on his nose and lips.

His tongue pulled out, replacing it with his fingers, two slender digits curling, stretching you out till his knuckle pressed on that spot he always managed to find. How did he always find it? It felt unfair. “That’s it. C’mon, honey, that’s it, make yourself feel good.” He breathed, muffled by your cunt, kitten licking whatever juices didn’t drip onto his fingers.

Maybe it was the failure of every one night stand since you two broke up. Maybe it was the aphrodisiac, but you were barrelling towards a high he was making you addicted to. This shouldn’t even be happening. A part of you whispered that this would send you into an impossible-to-leave rabbit hole of yearning and fucking year-long pining.

You shut that part of you up.

“Dickie,” You moaned, a white-hot coil in your core winding up, ticking down — ten, nine, eight — “baby, m’close.” You called him baby. Against all reason, you called him a pet name. That’s it, you were what everyone called ‘in deep’.

He really needed to hear that. His fingers pumped, curled, tongue rubbed your clit, all he could do to help you get there. “Mhm?” He mumbled, drinking you up. Every fucking drop, aching, sandpaper-esque throat soothed. “Yeah, gorgeous girl, give it to me, ok? I’ve got you, m’here.”

Fuck him and his sweet talking. It had you shaking as you came, he didn’t waste a drop, licking everything up like anything wasted was the loss of a billion dollars.

He was honest to himself. Any drop of you wasted was the loss of ambrosia. Can’t put a price on that.

He withdrew his fingers, placing them in his mouth, licking the digits clean with a moan. As if the image couldn’t get more erotic, you smeared all over his mouth, the tip of his nose and his chin. “You get better every time.” He grinned, but, to ruin the mood, his dick gave him a less than welcome reminder that it existed. Pain lanced through his body, making him wince, blunt nails pressing into your thighs. “Sorry, sorry, I—”

You got it. Like hell you wouldn’t. The last of your high ebbing away caved to let aching settle in your bones once again, screaming for you to actually, you know, have his dick in you. No two ways about it.

“No, I know.” You yanked at his drawstring, helping him out of the unnecessary layers of his sweatpants and his boxers, both of them disappearing into a corner of the room. He sat up, finger lifted, tilting your chin so your lips tenderly met his. Like there wasn’t an aphrodisiac making you both desperate. “Condom?”

“I didn’t anticipate this happening.”

“Even better.” You breathed, kissing him, the taste of you flooding your tongue. He groaned, grabbing your tit, squeezing, swinging your leg so your pussy was nestled at the tip of his cock. A millimetre away from bliss.

His nose bumped yours, fighting off his flush, blown-out eyes darting to your lips then back up. Like you were Aphrodite’s gift to men. “We can stop.” He murmured, lips brushing yours again, his lashes fluttering, lids closing. “Just tell me to, and we’ll stop.”

You laughed. Quietly. “We’re kind of beyond asking.”

“Stop that, stop fucking arguing, just tell me if you want to stop.” He moaned in frustration, mouthing at your pulse. “I won’t let you do anything till I hear it. Tell me, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want to stop.” You murmured so he could hear you, grabbing his chin to kiss him, muffling the moan you both let out in that sloppy exchange as you sank down onto his waiting cock. No resistance, just slip, giving way to euphoria that clouded your brain. “Oh, fuck.” You whimpered, clawing at his back.

His eyes rolled back, if he’d been deeper than his balls in this pollen, he’d already be coming. “O—Oh, baby.” He stammered, squeezing your hip to encourage you to move.

This was what the pollen wanted. You feeling full, snug on him, lifting yourself so only the tip of him was in you before sinking down entirely. His lip caught between his teeth, propping one leg up to roll his hips up, matching each and every lift and fall of those glorious hips. This alone was euphoric, this alone sent you spiralling, nails raking down his abs, through his hair, talking dirty into his ear so you could drag him down with you.

Where did the lines blur? When did the line between aphrodisiac and emotion blur, maybe with the whisper of “Shit, baby, I love you” that he whined into your ear? It was hidden by the cacophony of pornographic moans the two of you were surprising yourselves with.

Never in his life had he sounded like that. He wanted to sound like that more often, it told you how irreplaceable you were.

He was holding out, gripping restraint, his high here and approaching fast, his head bowing down. Taking your tit into his mouth, sucking, other thumb flicking and essentially bullying your clit. Telling you to get a goddamn move on.

A cry tore from your throat, your entire being giving way, clutching his hair, his arm, as you came, the constricting of your pussy around his dick making him follow straight after, his low moan humming against your skin, pleasure rolling, wracking, wrecking, voices cracking, words disintegrating into whimpers and indiscernible sounds. His mouth coaxing more, burning up your chest, your neck, your jaw, your lips, tugging your bottom lip down with his thumb.

“I think we’re gonna need to go a few more.”

Around seven rounds of sex, sucking dick and eating pussy later, burning need faded into a pleasant hum of your weary bones. You were never going to go into an environmental terrorist’s biohazard camp ever again.

The pillows were unusually soft, but maybe your sex-exhausted brain was making you think so. So far, all you’d done is stare at the ceiling, as if this was a Tuesday where you hadn’t, y’know, slept with your ex due to an aphrodisiac.

Dick padded out from the bathroom, sweats slung low like in his jeans in that stupid Polo Ralph Lauren ad. Warm, wet, soft towel in his hand, he gently coaxed your legs apart, running the towel between your legs to clean you up.

You rolled your head to look at him. “What are you doing?” You mumbled.

“Taking care of you.” The answer was, apparently, so simple. He pushed the glass of water on your his beside table towards you. “Drink. You’ve had it rough.”

“What about you?” You took the water, letting it slide down your throat. Finally soothing it. That’s how you knew the pollen was out of your system.

He sat down beside you on the bed, tucking his legs under the covers. “Well, my legs feel like pudding, my dick’s been worked nine ways till Sunday, and my kneecaps feel creaky from the backshots.” He shrugged, lips curving into a lopsided smile. “Exactly how I wanna be.”

“You’re weird.”

“I love you too.” He chuckled, your world regaining its footing when he said that. You leaned towards him, kissing him again, this time without lust or motive or anything, just feeling him. Feeling the way he melted, like he always did.

His eyes blinked open when you pulled away. “Can we give us another shot?” He asked, shy. That was new. “Uh, only if you want to. No pressure.”

You took a breath in. This could fail. Crash and burn again, leaving you to thirst over his modelling gigs and all of him. But it’d never be worse than not trying at all.

“Sure.” You nodded.

tagged : @calzone-d , @bloomfaery , @kundere20000000 , @angzls , @olaflookalike , @starr-jazz , @jaydennicole , @sharkcatthatlikesapples , @yukiismokes , @silverjayz , @lil-riddle-kiddle , @glitterywreckage , @thirstblogforaparchedgirl

satoru knows well enough that he adores your voice when it’s wrapped around his name.

but he’s decided that he loves it best when it’s completely breaking, paired with the gorgeously suffocating feeling of the skin of your thighs pressed into his fingertips and wrapped around his lips.

he loves when his name is exhaled, high-pitched and whiny like sugar, while his tongue paints a stripe across the wetness coating your lips, swirling circles around your pretty clit.

maybe he liked it the most because it’s how he’s always wanted to hear you say his name — it’s just that you’d always been too fucking stubborn, so insistent on hating him that you’d never stop to think how good you’d taste coating his mouth with your slick.

“sa-ah-toru,” you keen as satoru’s tongue dips past the edge of your soaked hole, curling inwards deliciously, moving slow like he’s savoring every fucking drop.

god, he’s hungry — but he’ll die if he goes too quick and can’t taste you ever again.

and if he grips the back of your thighs just a little bit harder when you sing his name like that? he simply can’t help it. he waited too long for this.

sa-to-ru.

you taste just as sweet as you sound.

you’d burst into his office this morning, bemoaning the fact that satoru hadn’t showed up to the previous briefing with principal yaga, of which ended with yaga blaming it on you. you’re bursting with rage, all up in his face, and it’s all a blur from there until your panties are hooked over your ankle, he’s getting on his knees in front of your office chair, wrapping your thighs over his shoulders, and lapping at your pretty cunt.

he hasn't gasped for air; he’s been too enveloped in your scent to care about breathing. he’ll devour you until no one else can. until all that pretty voice of yours knows how to sound out is sa-to-ru.

satoru narrows his tongue, bullying the muscle deep and slow, down to where you couldn’t have thought possible to reach. his eyes are hazy, half-lidded as you tug at his winter locks, shoving him further into your weeping pussy.

“mmph— fuck,” you pant out, eyes screwed shut as he thrusts his tongue in and out of you at a torturous pace. “fuck— gojo, ‘re going too slow—”

“hmm?” he hums into your clit, sending shockwaves straight up from your core. the sorcerer’s gaze meets yours from under the glimpse of your tits beneath your unbuttoned polo.

he loves you composed, he really does — but you look perfect when you’re all messy, just for him.

his lips glisten with your wetness as he grins. “i'll go faster if you say my name properly, beautiful.”

“h—huh?” your words trail off into a candied whine as he pads his finger just against your entrance, smearing the wetness that covers your folds and popping it into his mouth.

you’re so sweet. fuck, why are you so sweet?

“say my name.” he repeats, his voice cheerful yet rough, the tiniest bit of grit around the edge. “remind me how much you love me, gorgeous.”

your eyes still manage to narrow, even as they glitter with needy frustration. “fuck you— mmh!”

satoru simply frowns against the inside of your thigh as he abruptly bullies the first inch of his finger past your entrance, hissing at how tightly your walls were clamping down on him. his mind goes blurry, swirling with thoughts of how delectable you’d look with your thighs around his hips, bullied open and clamping like a vice down on his cock—

he pulls his finger out with a shudder, cooing at the little pout that forms on your lips. “poor baby. if you can’t handle it, you know, we can stop here. if you want.”

“w— what?” you breathe out, eyes wide and glossy like the thought was insulting. “no, please — please, need you, satoru…”

sa-to-ru.

and you’ve drawn out that last syllable like you want him dead.

“again, sorry?”

“satoru!” you squeal impatiently, and he obliged, simply because he’d never say no to you when you sound like that.

the white-haired man groans, biting down on the inside of your thigh and relishing in the way it makes you whine, all high-pitched and finally sweet on him.

his fingers thrust roughly into your aching pussy, stretching you out and moulding you to shape around his skin. you’re dripping down his palm, and satoru’s mesmerized by the sheen of slick that coats his hand as he pounds his fingers in and out of you steadily.

“shit— so pretty here for me, huh?” satoru whispers reverently, as if speaking directly to your pussy and not to you. “just as sweet as that mouth of yours. just as tight too.”

your hands are making a home for themselves in his hair, hips chasing his thick fingers, grinding yourself further into them like he wasn’t deep enough already. your perfect fucking voice isn’t helping the sorcerer’s case either — he swears he loses every semblance of control he has, bit by bit, at each breath of his name leaving your lips, garbled and slurred and destroyed.

“s’toru, satoru,” your mouth drops open, eyes screwing shut as he curls his fingers right into that spongy spot, office chair creaking as your body slumps back into it. “it’s so— fuck, ‘ts so—”

he laughs breathlessly. “yes, gorgeous?”

“it’s so— oh!”

satoru cherishes everything you have to say, he swears he does.

but he also cherishes the way your lips look, all glossed with drool pooling at the corners, when he leans forward and circles his tongue over your clit in mean little motions, lapping at the sensitive skin in tandem with the rhythm of his fingers. you’re a whining, squirming mess — struggling to stay upright, thoroughly desecrated on the office chair you’d chewed him out just weeks ago for stealing.

satoru hisses as your fingertips tug at his locks, so fucking drunk on the taste of your soaked cunt amidst the lewd sound of his fingers slapping against your sex.

“listen to that,” he rasps out, pausing to let the squelch of your pussy speak for itself before laughing dazedly against your clit. “she’s screaming my name too, isn’t she? so fuckin’ good for me, aren’t you?”

your bleary gaze peeks down at him, eyes questioning amidst the pleasure. “s—satoru, you asshole, stop talking to my— mmh!”

before you can protest, his mouth is diving back in. soft lips latch around your clit, and satoru’s painfully hard at the sound of your voice cracking around the syllables of his name, your throat thick with pleasure at the overstimulation. he doesn’t let up; the white-haired man sucks harder at the sensitive bud, all while scissoring his fingers deep inside of you as if mapping you out.

for when his dick goes inside you, of course.

“it’s t—too much,” you complain in a mewl, eyes blurry with forming tears, “satoru, please, please, ‘m so—”

“fuck, take it, gorgeous,” satoru gasps out against your pussy, lips drenched in your taste. “keep talking to me — shit, you’re tight — let it all out for me, okay?”

satoru’s mind had blanked out a long time ago. between the way your lips form his name in one strung out moan, and the way you taste sweeter than any candy he could’ve ever asked for, he’s starting to wonder if he’d died and gone to heaven.

your voice tangles with the filthy squelches that resound through the cramped space of your office, and he swears nothing could ever be better than this.

except for the way you sound saying his name while you cum.

“i’m— i’m—” you gasp, and satoru takes that as a sign to clamp his lips around your clit and suck, curling his fingers up against your g-spot until — “satoru!”

he’s never heard anything so perfect before. his gaze flicks upwards as you orgasm, watching the way your face scrunches up as your cunt tightens unbearably around every inch of his fingers. satoru’s transfixed by your stupid voice, something out of a porno curated by an angel, and if he’s hoping he’s ruined you with his fingers alone, you’ve ruined him with just the sound of your voice breaking.

your breaths are heavy as you come down from the high; soft and warm, sound waves radiating off of you like sunlight. satoru presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, and you finally peer down at him.

“still mad at me?” the sorcerer grins.

your eyes narrow as soon as you’re back to life. “yes. yaga chewed me out for something that wasn’t even my fault, satoru.”

sa-to-ru. the white-haired man pauses against your inner thigh, raising an eyebrow up at you with something hungry in his eyes. because as soon as you say his name, he decides he’s not fucking done with you yet.

“i’m sorry, gorgeous,” satoru mumbles, giving you a faux-apologetic glance before mischievously pressing a kiss to your clit, watching how your eyes widen. “i guess I’ll just keep going until you forgive me.”

“w—wait!”

satoru gojo really likes the way you say his name.

and he’ll keep making you say it until you know it too.

@ ttakdoll, 2026

Riddle had formed an attachment to you by pure accident. He hadn’t even looked your way once when, in the fifth year, the two of you were paired up for prefect patrols. He peripherally registered that you were beautiful, but he didn’t spend much time with thoughts like these generally, just kept them in mind. Beautiful girls could have a lot of influence without realising it, he’d found, so he maintained polite relationships with a few, just in case he should need them for something. It started that way with you, too; he had been polite so that your patrols together could be tolerable, and if he sorely needed a favour from you some day, you may be suggestible to it. Yet, you had surprised him. Initially having dismissed you as nothing but a pretty face, he’d been incredibly surprised to learn you were an excellent healer, talented far beyond your years. The two of you had come across a few second years at the edge of the forbidden forest, one of whom had been badly injured by some vicious magical plant he hadn’t seen in the dark of the night. You had been able to cast some healing charms and use some nearby magical plants to keep the boy stable until Riddle could fetch the matron from the hospital wing to take over. The matron had complimented you profusely, implying that your ability with the spells had saved the boy's life. Riddle’s opinion of you shifted immediately; you were a valuable person to know if he ever found himself in trouble. As the two of you continued your patrol, he subtly questioned you about the display he had just seen. You explained that you were fascinated with all types of healing magic, teaching yourself in your free time and researching ferociously. 

From that day onward, Riddle formed an odd fascination with you. Despite him seeing healing magic as a soft subject, he couldn’t deny that no one in Hogwarts, other than himself, was able to teach themself such high-level magic. You were clearly dedicated, and unfortunately, healing was incredibly necessary in his future plans. As the years passed and his ambitions formed, he increasingly pictured you there by his side, healing him as he explored the darkest magic, perhaps providing your services to his Knights, but primarily for him. After that day, the two of you had begun discussing magic and potions during your patrols, building a camaraderie that Riddle had with no one else. You would even listen to his discoveries regarding dark magic, though he posed it as wondering how you might heal someone from such spells. He didn’t know if you were oblivious or just willing to turn a blind eye, but you were always willing to indulge these discussions, often returning to him with research on the topic you’d done in your own time, fascinated by the challenge of healing people from such obscure dark magic. 

Although he resented the word, the two of you were undoubtedly friends. He had started to realise his attachment to you had grown out of hand, frequently finding himself distracted by the flush of your cheeks or the curve of your lips as the two of you spoke. He was not easily distracted. Graduation was rapidly approaching, meaning his access to you would likely end. He was sure you would write to him, sentimental as you were, but he needed more than that. You were the only person he trusted to heal him if anything were to go wrong with his plans. Yet, he knew he could not simply come out and ask you to come live with him after graduation. The two of you were not that close; he had seen to that himself, hoping the hold you had over him would disappear with a little distance. It had not, in fact, the longer he was apart from you, the more irritable he felt. 

So, slowly, he began spending more time with you. Finding you in the library and sitting down beside you without a word, drawing you away from your friends on Hogsmeade trips with the promise of interesting books to show you, then plying you with coffee and cake to stay with him rather than return to your friends. As exams approach, he invites you to study with him in his dorm for some peace and quiet, as the library is getting busier each passing day. His single dorm, courtesy of his role as Head Boy, gives him a great opportunity to get you accustomed to his presence in close quarters. You spread out to study on his bed, surrounded by his scent as he sits at the desk, smug, because lately you’ve been asking him if you can come here, rather than him inviting you. He would subtly suggest that he’d heard your friends making cruel remarks about you on occasion, thrilled when it worked as planned, and you withdrew from them, coming to spend even more time with him.

The creation of his first Horcrux had been an accident. He had planned to start the process after graduation, intending to seek out his Muggle father and grandparents. But fate had different plans. Every few weeks, he went to check on the Basilisk that resided in the Chamber of Secrets under the school, keeping her fed and loyal until he intended to utilise her sometime after graduation. One evening, upon returning from the Chamber, he noticed that he had himself a witness, Myrtle Warren, who immediately began shrieking. He hadn’t even meant to do it, panicking and speaking parseltongue, unleashing the basilisk onto the girl, who quickly went quiet. He only realised what had happened when he saw a part of his soul split from his body, looking for an object in which to settle. He scrambled; he hadn’t intended for this to happen so early, but he had to make sure he didn’t damage his soul by leaving it without a vessel for too long. He had very little with him, but in his bag, he found a necklace he had been planning to gift to you as a birthday present. He’d been carrying it around since he bought it so that you wouldn’t find it prematurely. Running out of time, he directed the shard of his soul into the necklace. 

Only that night, safely hidden now in his room, did he consider what gifting you this necklace might mean. He found he liked the idea of you carrying around a piece of him a little too much, like he was staking a claim. His soul’s constant presence was likely to make you feel even more connected to him, and him to you. The gift of a necklace from Riddle surprised you, but you were drawn to it, admiring it and quickly putting it on, him moving your hair aside and clasping it around your neck for you. He’d told you it looked beautiful on you and you had blushed deeply.

The necklace had unexpected effects on you, the dark magic radiating from it affecting you, making you irritable with others and causing you to want to withdraw socially, amplifying some of your worst impulses. Riddle didn’t mind so much; it was achieving many of his plans for him. The fear caused by the death at Hogwarts, along with the influence of the Horcrux at your neck, had you gravitating toward Riddle more and more to feel safe and calm, convinced nothing bad could happen to you with him there to protect you. Riddle accepts your presence with open arms, glad to get to keep a close eye on both you and the necklace. He has impressed upon you many times to never take off the necklace and to keep it safe, and you had kept your word so far, but he preferred to keep an eye just in case. He subtly reinforced your feelings, telling you that you would always be safe with him, and that you couldn’t trust anybody else, as no one knew how Myrtle had died. 

Finally, with the perfect storm of his manipulation, the effect of the Horcrux and the fear he had inadvertently awakened throughout the school, he was able to convince you to stay the night with him in his room. He may have had one of his Knight’s frighten you on your walk back from his room last night, but no matter what he’d done to get here, he finally had you where he wanted you, wanting to spend all your time, even your most vulnerable, with him. 

You’d brought a small overnight bag on patrol with you, clinging to Riddle’s arm as the two of you did your rounds, afraid. Riddle almost felt bad for you, but mostly, he just felt a dark satisfaction creeping through him at your reliance on him for a sense of safety. He knew you were in no real danger; he was the threat, and he would never harm you… not physically anyway. He only wanted what was best for you, and by the time his plans came to fruition, the safest place for you would undoubtedly be under his protection. Not to mention how much your presence could benefit his cause and how much he needed to have you close by so he could watch over you and his soul that you took such good care of. He felt a sense of warmth each time you fiddled with the necklace at your neck, as if you were touching his soul. If it had been anyone else, the feeling would have undoubtedly been invasive, repulsive even, but as it was you, he merely felt a little aroused.

As soon as the two of you could feasibly be considered done with your patrol, you dashed off to his Head Boy dorm, making sure not to be caught. Once inside, Riddle wanted to pounce on you, your constant fiddling with the necklace having filled him with need, but he knew he had to wait, taking a calming breath. He couldn’t afford to scare you off, not yet, while you still had places to run and people to seek comfort in. He had to be gentle, romantic even, and you were the only person in the world for whom he was willing to pretend. Besides, he had a plan for tonight that he couldn’t ruin by acting too early. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking down at you.

“The door is locked, darling, no one can get in, we are safe, get yourself ready for bed,” he murmurs in his best attempt at reassurance. His hand trails featherlight to the necklace at your neck, then withdraws. He’d been touchier these last few weeks, getting you gradually used to him, so you don’t flinch despite the intimate touch, merely nodding nervously and heading into the attached toilet. You unpack your small bag, brushing your teeth, washing your face and securing your hair before changing into your nightgown. You blush as you look at yourself in the mirror. You had intentionally packed your shortest nightgown, but now that you were actually here with Riddle, your confidence was faltering. Still, you had nothing else with you, so you crept out into his room and slid into the bed shyly. Riddle’s eyes fix on you curiously, the necklace around your neck running hot as he looks at you. Still trying not to frighten you, he slowly heads into the bathroom, getting himself ready for bed. As he brushes his teeth, he hears distant thunder, smirking to himself. He knew you were quite jumpy, especially lately, so this would give him the perfect opportunity to make you feel safe and secure. 

Once he joins you in the bed once more, you’re already trembling nervously, jumping at each thunder clap, convinced it was someone trying to break down the door, despite knowing better. He laughs at you, softly, the mocking not detectable over your intense nerves, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, pleased when you immediately curl into his chest. 

“I’m scared,” you squeak, balling your hands into the soft material of his night shirt. He tuts gently.

“I see that, darling, you’re shaking like a little leaf,” he says, rubbing your back slightly. “But I won’t let any harm come to you, ever,” he assures, a dark current running through his voice. You whimper as thunder booms once more, hiding your face in his shoulder. Riddle feels his patience thinning slightly. You were a highly intelligent witch, yet you were so afraid of thunder, even when he had sworn to you that you’d be safe. “Do you hear me?” he asks slowly, trying not to let his annoyance show. He grabs your chin, tilting your head so you’re forced to meet his eye. “No harm will come to you so long as you’re with me, I swear to you, you have no reason to fear, do you hear me?” You nod nervously. Riddle huffs. “Words.”

“Yes… I hear you,” you stammer, clinging to him. His hand drops from your chin, fiddling with your necklace. It’s strange that he cannot feel his own touch on it, yet he is still drawn to the object all the time. “But what about–” you begin.

“No, you are safe with me,” he whispers through his teeth. “Now stop trembling, it’s ridiculous,” Riddle spots from the drop in your expression that he wasn’t meant to say that. He takes a deep breath; he isn’t well practised in this compassion thing, but he’s performing it the best he can. “I just mean that I don’t want you to feel frightened, darling,” he says as softly as he can, pressing a kiss to your hair. This seems to placate you a little. He rubs your side gently, feeling the shape of your body beneath his hand. The feeling of arousal from earlier wakes up within him as he touches your body freely for the first time. And you aren’t stopping him, just looking up at him as he touches you, your trembling subsiding and changing shape into excitement. He can sense it too, and he figures it's time for him to act. “Let me relax you, show you there’s nothing to worry about when I’m around,” he husks, pressing his lips to your temple, just needing to feel your bare flesh beneath his lips somehow. His hand sneaks down to your thigh, settling below the hem of your nightgown. “Would you like that?” When you nod, he huffs. “Words,” he repeats, his voice tight. 

“Yes,” you whisper, shy and apologetic, trying to focus on his hand caressing your thigh rather than the sound of thunder. 

“Was that so hard?” he tuts, pushing up the hem of your nightgown, his other arm still wrapped firmly around your waist. His hand seeks out the warmth between your legs, pressing against you through the fabric of your underwear. You jolt, not having expected things to escalate so quickly “Focus on me,” he reminds you harshly as your eyes flick to the window at a flash of lightning, rubbing against you forcefully, making you whimper. Your head spins at how fast this has escalated. Riddle’s hand spreads your thighs forcefully, then returns to rubbing at you over your underwear, his fingers swirling over the spot that makes your whole body twitch. You look up at him, not wanting him to tell you off again. His eyes are dark as he looks down at you, full of something you can’t place. As he removes your underwear, you try to lean up and kiss him, but he pulls away, shaking his head. “Not yet, darling,” he chastises, pushing your underwear down to pool at your ankles and returning his hand between your legs, rubbing at your now bare skin. He can feel the sticky arousal pooling as he rubs at your clit roughly yet pleasurably. You whimper softly at the feeling, embarrassment decorating your cheeks, yet you don’t want him to stop. Your necklace feels hot against your skin, your head spinning as Riddle begins to speak once more. “Doesn’t that feel nice? Your body certainly likes it… Only I can make you feel this way,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, breath washing over the side of your neck.

“It feels nice,” you choke out in response, squirming a little, unable to believe how quickly you allowed him to do this. Sure, you’d been attracted to him a long time, but you had been so scared just earlier, and now your body was begging for him, like you were under the influence of something, something deeply desperate. 

“That’s a good girl,” he hums, immensely pleased with your compliance. He withdraws his hand for a moment, making you whine, looking up at him in confusion. Riddle grabs his wand from the nightstand, mumbling a few quiet words. You only get a split-second to wonder what he’s cast when you feel a soft buzzing against your clit. Your body jolts in surprise, but the feeling simply follows, making you gasp for breath. Riddle pulls down your squirming hips harshly, holding you in place as his other hand returns between your legs, two of his fingers beginning to ease inside of you without much warning. You gasp, your hips trying to thrash but being unable, the vibrating not faltering for a second. “That’s it, doesn’t that feel good?” he coos, watching his fingers disappear within you with a dark satisfaction. You are most certainly his now. You can’t respond with anything but a breathless whine, the onslaught of sensations barely letting you breathe. You feel your brain turning to mush, no longer able to form cohesive thoughts beyond his fingers pumping in and out of you and the ceaseless vibration on your most sensitive spot. Trying to ground yourself, your nails dig into his arm, a drawn-out moan of his name leaving your lips, legs closing around his arm as his fingers begin to pump faster. 

You feel yourself teetering on the precipice, not having the presence of mind to let Riddle know. Your eyes roll back, your toes curling, and your lips parting in a silent shout as the waves of pleasure go through you. You feel dizzy, your hips trying once more to withdraw from the sensations, yet being physically unable. Riddle's lips brush your ear. 

“Shhh, shhh, you’re a strong girl, I know you can handle it,” he comforts mockingly, continuing to work you through the waves of pleasure, yet not stopping even as they subside. Your whole body shakes, unable to handle the sensations, even as a warm, syrupy feeling lingers in the pit of your stomach. His fingers press against a soft spot deep within you, making you jolt. You hadn’t realised the sensations could get even more intense. You want to tell him to slow down, but something keeps you quiet, makes you lean into him instead of away and makes you feel warm when he bites your neck to leave a mark. Your mind is hazy from the vibrations, and he knows it. “You’re safe with me,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rough. “You can’t trust anyone but me. I’m all you need,” he grunts, curling his fingers against that spongy spot once more. “You don’t need anyone else, you belong with me and me alone,” he hisses, biting your neck once more. “Say it, you belong to me,” he urges, growling in annoyance when you only whimper. “Say. It.” he demands harshly, his hand on your hips slipping up into your hair, pulling it so you’re forced to look up at him. 

“I belong to you,” you choke out, squirming, too hazy to register his words properly, but vulnerable enough to digest them, just as he wants you. 

“That you do, good girl,” he growls, rewarding you for your declaration by finally pressing his lips to yours, measuredly gentle amid the onslaught of sensation between your legs. You try to follow him as he pulls away, and he tuts at you. “Only if you say it again,”

“I belong to you,” you moan, desperate for his gentleness, needing him as close as possible. He smirks, pleased that he’s got you. He grants you another gentle kiss, and another and another as you repeat your words over and over. He doesn’t tire of hearing it, especially with that desperation in your voice. His kisses, soft yet burning hot, push you to the edge once more, your hand balling into his pyjama shirt in an attempt to ground yourself again, but it’s no use. The pleasure makes you dizzy all over again, pleading with him against his lips. Your body collapses against the bed heavily; you hadn’t even realised that you’d tensed yourself off of it chasing Riddle’s lips, breathless and oversensitive. Riddle reaches for his wand, ending the vibrating spell, satisfied that you’ve been subjected to his charms enough for the night. You lay there beside him, still clearly out of sorts. He smirks down at you, rubbing your thigh as if to comfort you. 

“Alright, my darling?” he asks, knowing that he had just completely overwhelmed you. That had been his intention, and it seemed to have worked like he’d hoped, as you curl into him once more, seeking safety and comfort. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close and letting you feel protected. He was sure he would only have to do this a few more times until you would be ready to hear about his plans for you in the future. You might even be ready now, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and anyway, next time he was going to fuck you properly, have his way with you like he really wants. For that, you had to be ready. He feels you touch your necklace, and it sends a pleasant jolt through him. “What’s got you fiddling?” he asks gently.

“Just felt compelled to touch it,” you shrug, your voice hoarse and weak. He presses a kiss to your forehead. He feels the gentle, warm caresses deep in his soul.

“Touch it all you like, darling, it’s yours after all.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

It was already past midnight and the only thing you wanted was to get into your warm cosy bed, hide under your fluffy blanket and black out for the rest of the night, getting well-deserved sleep.

You were making your way hurriedly down the dark Hogwarts halls, that looked strangely hostile and unwelcoming in a silver moonlight pouring in through numerous paned windows. You couldn’t help but constantly look behind, not being able to shrug off a feeling of being closely watched, just to find no one around, as expected in such a late hour.

Just a bit. Just a bit more and you’d be in the safety of Ravenclaw common room, welcomed by dying fire and fluorescent stars glued to the ceiling by generations of ravenclaws.

And just as you let your guard down, you felt a pair of strong hands grabbing you by your shoulders, turning you around swiftly so that your back was pressed tightly against a cold stone wall of a castle, your throat constricting in fright, not allowing a single sound to escape your lips.

And there he was, standing in front of you in all of his beauty - hogwarts playboy and your personal nightmare - Sirius Orion Black. He was grinning his usual, perfectly practiced, smile down at your shrinking form, and even despite recognizing the person cornering you your whole body only tensed impossibly more.

- Lovely to see you here, Y/n, - black-haired purred mere inches apart from your face, his dark eyes, glistening in a dim moonlight, were ogling you like a predator getting ready to pounce on an innocent lamb.

- Don’t act as if you weren’t stalking me all this time, you creep, - you spat out, anger mixed with revulsion and fear was bubbling underneath your skin. Black tutted at your bitter words, one hand coming to caress the side of your face with his knuckles, all wounded and rough from constant fights he was picking up. You seemed to regain a little control over your own body, your hands coming to boy’s broad chest in an attempt to push him off, but to no avail - Sirius didn’t budge, but only came closer, caging your smaller body under his towering height.

- Now, now, my dearest. Words can hurt, you know? - black-haired uttered in feigned offence, jutting his lips out like an upset child, but you knew better than all of that. You struggled against him once more, but fruitless - your muscles were too tired and weak after long hours or physical work, and Sirius was simply way bigger and stronger than you.

- What do you want from me, Black? - you inquired exasperatedly, voice seething with poison.

Sirius’ perfect eyebrows furrowed up a bit, an expression of fake hurt dissolving quickly and you could see that your question really did surprise him. The hand that was previously tenderly stroking your cheek stopped in its tracks. You could see anger brooding in his amethyst eyes, mad at you using his last name despite him asking you multiple times to refer to him with his first name instead.

- What do you mean? Y/n, we haven’t seen each other the whole day, all of our classes were separate, and this bloody detention of yours! Of course I’m here to see you, what else does it look like? - Sirius said all of that with such fierce, that you knew this time he was really offended by your question, as if the logic behind all of his actions was dead obvious.

- And I don’t want to see you. Leave. Me. Alone, - you seethed at him, sharply accentuating your last words with long pauses, looking him straight in the eyes.

You watched as Sirius’ jaw clenching tightly. The hand retrieved from your cheek, balling into a heavy fist; a moment later it hit on a stone wall mere centimeters next to your head with a dull thump, strength of the impact making cold stone of the wall behind you vibrate slightly. You jolted harshly at that, inhaling sharply through your nose; you didn’t dare to blink, too afraid to let your eyes off this, this animal - ferocious and insane, driven by his instincts and emotions only, and you were trapped right inside his claws.

A moment of silence stretched uncomfortably, with Sirius glaring down at your shrinking form and you trying your best not to break under the pressure of his heavy gaze.

- It’s her, isn’t it? That bitch Lena. She’s turning you against me, putting all that bullshit in your head? - Sirius’ chest thrummed with dry humorless chuckle, his eyes colder than ice.

You felt as if ground was swept right from beneath your feet, your chest swelling with sticky horror. No, not her. Not your best friend. Sirius was purely insane, deeply delusional in every aspect of you. He’ll simply kill her. Or injure her so badly, her chances to live would be near to zero. And he had more than enough money, influence and wit to make it seem as if he never had to do anything with such a ‘terrible accident’. You already knew that, after that Hufflepuff boy that obviously fancied you went missing one day, Sirius’ knuckles raw with fresh cuts and bruises.

- N-no, Sirius, wait, - you stammered out, hands instinctively flying up to rest on his shoulders, his muscles tense under your touch. Your mind was racing with a speed of sound as you tried to find a way out of this horrible situation, to keep Lena and yourself safe.

Sirius was watching you with his scrutinizing cold eyes, fury etched on his sharp features. You felt your eyes sting with tears of panic as you stammered out squeaky:

- S-She al-lways approved of y-you, Siri. Always, - you saw his stony expression crack slightly after hearing you use the nickname, your body shuddering intensely, panic was making it hard to breathe. It was a straight up lie - Lena saw right through Sirius’ insanity, warning you to stay as far as possible from him. But that didn’t matter, you’d do anything just to keep your best friend safe.

Sirius’ fist unclenched, coming to cradle your nape; expecting expression etched on his face encouraged you to go further.

- I… I was just playing. R-really, how could you eat that, huh? - you sputter out hastily, stumbling over your words and forcing a chuckle out, it came out way too tense to sound natural. But Sirius seemed to follow through everything you’ve said as soon as next words left your trembling lips:

- Of course I’m glad to see you.

His lips stretched in a wide grin, so brilliant it seemed to lighten up a thick darkness of a hall. His thumb came to rub small circles into the skin of your jaw; his other hand that was previously propping Sirius’ heavy body next to a wall came to rest on you waist, drawing you in until your bodies were pressed tightly against each other, you could feel heat radiating off of black-haired even despite numerous layers of clothing.

- You little minx, really got me here, - he murmured softly, eyes fixated upon your face. It took everything in you to force a smile onto your lips, your hands were trembling ferociously, still laying upon boy’s broad shoulders.

Sirius ducked down, rubbing your noses affectionately before sealing his lips with yours, his eyes fluttering closed, lost in euphoria, meanwhile you couldn’t bring yourself to even blink, watching his every move with great caution. His hand resting on the back of your head felt extremely heavy and a strong scent of his undoubtedly expensive cologne made you nauseous - it felt like you could pass out at any moment.

Sirius broke away shortly after, leaving a last small peck on your numb lips. It was the first time he went as far as actually kissing you, and you were terrified to even think of how long it’d take until he tries anything more heated than pressing his lips against yours for a few long seconds. Your stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

- Siri, I’m really tired. Detention was pure hell and I need some sleep, - you uttered quietly, his shoulders slumping slightly in disappointment underneath your palms, but he nodded his head in agreement.

- Yeah, right. Let’s get you to bed then, princess? - Black said with a cheeky grin stretching his soft (now you knew) lips. His hands left your body just to grab one of your hands into his, intertwining your fingers together, leading his way up to the Ravenclaw tower.

Making it up the spiral staircase and uttering a right answer to the metal raven upon heavy door, you looked up at Sirius just to find him already beaming down at you. His free hand came to cup your jaw, bringing your face closer to his - hot lips pressed to your forehead, leaving a chaste kiss on your unnaturally cold skin. He broke away rather reluctantly, winking down at you:

- Sleep tight, sweetness. See you tomorrow, - and with that you departed, slamming a heavy door shut behind you.

Standing in a huge circular room crammed with countless books and parchments, with welcoming fire cracking joyfully and fluorescent stars twinkling down at you - you felt utterly and wholly petrified. Cold sweat was seeping through the soft cotton of your uniform shirt on your back, heart pummeling at the huge surge of adrenaline running through your veins, knees trembling ferociously, struggling to keep your body up.

And it was only now that the realization fully sank in, realization of how deep you got yourself into trouble in your desperate attempt to ensure your best friend’s safety, now seeing absolutely no way out of Sirius’ tight clutches.

Part 2🖤