𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Crowe has been working himself into the ground dealing with the never-ending mountain of student council paperwork, ridiculous club requests, and—worst of all—the ever-demanding student council president.
You've begged him, time and time again, to get an assistant, but of course, he refuses. Something about ‘not trusting anyone’ and ‘preferring to suffer in silence’ like some kind of tragic protagonist. So, naturally, you took matters into your own hands. if Crowe won’t take care of himself? Well, you’ll just have to do it for him.
Even if it means driving him absolutely insane in the process.
𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.
𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: this was a request from anon! so, of course, my dumbass turned it into a full-blown story. MIND YOU, I’VE BEEN STRUGGLING WITH THIS FOR THREE WEEKS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT THE ENDING. And it's not really poof read as I just annoyed looking at it but i haven’t written crowe in a minute, so here we are.
𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: overworked student council vp!crowe x assistant!reader, afab!reader, chaotic & teasing, reader takes no shit, boss/assistant relationship, mutual pining, secret relationship, possessive behavior, possessive crowe, sassy reader, fluff and smut, slow burn (kinda), soft dom!crowe, playful sub!reader, and mutual obsession
Soo……
What’s an assistant? you should already know
Well, an assistant can be a person who helps someone else—or a device, or a product designed to make life easier. Something you’d been telling Jericho Ichabod—sorry, Crowe, Prince Charming himself—that he desperately needed.
The campus was alive with its usual midday bustle. From noon to around two, the student center became a chaotic mess of movement and noise.
The hallways were clogged with students threading through the crowd, half-zipped backpacks slung over shoulders, their conversations weaving together into a dull roar. The on-campus market beeped and whirred as it spat out overpriced snacks, and groups of friends hovered near the food court, laughing, talking, and shoving each other playfully before heading to their next class.
None of it really registered with you.
While the rest of the student body thrived in the high-energy atmosphere, instead, you moved at a different pace—faster and more worried.
Your thoughts were elsewhere as Crowe had been on your mind since the moment Geo had texted you while you were in the middle of your classes. ‘He's stuck with more student council crap,’ as Geo had so eloquently put it.
That wasn’t surprising.
Crowe had a habit of stretching himself too thin, juggling responsibilities like it was some kind of sport. But what bothered you wasn’t just the workload—it was that, for all his charm and effortless control, he never let anyone see when it got to him.
You’d planned to meet him for lunch today, a rare breather in the middle of his overbooked schedule, but now you weren’t even sure if he’d bother to eat.
Annoying.
Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you made your way upstairs toward the student council room. It was tucked away in a quieter part of the building, hidden beside the upper-level seating area where students went to eat lunch away from the main chaos. You’d come straight here after class—your day was already done, but his, knowing him, was far from over.
And if he thought he could brush this off like everything else?
Yeah, no. Not happening.
The second you reached the door, the noise from the hallway seemed to dull, like the chaos of the outside world just couldn’t quite reach this space. The air felt heavier here, still in a way that made you hesitate. Even the fluorescent lights above barely made a sound, their low hum swallowed by the quiet. It was almost eerie—like stepping into a place that existed just slightly out of sync with the rest of reality.
Through the small window on the other door, you spotted him.
Crowe was hunched over his desk, his shoulders drawn tight with the kind of tension that looked like it had settled there hours ago. His head was bent low, nearly buried in a mountain of papers that had practically taken over his entire workspace.
It wasn’t just a mess—it was a battlefield of assignments, reports, and hastily scribbled sticky notes, some half-crumpled, others barely hanging on. His usual easygoing energy was nowhere in sight. Instead, there was only this heavy, rigid focus that clung to him like a weight.
His fingers drummed against the desk in a steady, repetitive rhythm—soft, but insistent. You’d seen him do it before, a nervous habit, a tell he probably wasn’t even aware of. The sight of him like this, so unlike himself, made something sink in your chest.
The usual spark in his eyes—the one filled with humor, mischief, that unmistakable Crowe charm—was nowhere to be found.
Instead, he just looked… drained.
You hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to step inside or leave him be. Before you could decide, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled you from your thoughts.
Turning your head, you spotted Geo strolling down the hall, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. His expression was that signature mix of exasperation and indifference he always seemed to wear, like he was perpetually caught between amusement and suffering.
As he reached you, he let out a deep sigh—whether it was for dramatic effect or genuine exhaustion, it was impossible to tell.
“He’s been at it since, like, forever,” Geo muttered, jerking his chin toward the window without breaking his stride. His boots scuffed lightly against the floor as he came to a stop beside you, one shoulder propped lazily against the doorframe.
The bad lighting light from inside the office cast long shadows across his face, but the slight furrow in his brow was still obvious. “Pretty sure he hasn’t even looked up once. Council’s been dumping a mountain of work on him lately.”
You followed his gaze to the desk across the room. Crowe sat hunched over a chaotic spread of papers, ink stains dotting his fingers as he scribbled something with near-frantic precision.
Again, the lighting itself was casting sharp angles against the exhaustion clinging to him. His normally neat braid was barely form together—stray strands falling into his face, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Your frown deepened. “He hasn’t even taken a break?”
Geo let out a short, exasperated scoff, shaking his head. “Please. When does Jericho ever ask for help? He’s as stubborn as a damn mule when it comes to work—worse, even. Dude acts like taking a breather is some kind of mortal sin.” He tilted his head toward the office, his voice dipping into something dangerously close to concern, though he tried to keep it casual. “I mean, just look at him. He’s running on fumes. Won’t be long before he passes out face-first into those papers.”
Something twisted uncomfortably in your chest as you studied Crowe. He was always the composed one, the one who had everything under control—even when he didn’t.
But right now? Right now, he just looked... weighed down. Buried under the sheer amount of responsibility he refused to share with anyone else.
Geo nudged you lightly with his elbow, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You should probably go snap him out of it before he actually fuses with that desk,” he said, tone dry but not unkind. “Just... don’t expect him to admit he needs it.”
You inhaled quietly before stepping forward, your footsteps barely making a sound on the polished floor. Crowe didn’t react, too absorbed in whatever he was working on. Up close, the signs of his exhaustion were even clearer—dark circles under his deep blue eyes, tension carved into his shoulders, the pencil awkwardly tucked behind his ear like some absentminded afterthought.
You lingered just long enough to take it all in before leaning down and knocking your knuckles lightly against the wooden desk. “Knock, knock,” you said, keeping your tone light. “It’s me—your lunch date-slash-concerned friend, here to drag you out of your impending paper-induced demise.”
For the first time in what felt like hours, Crowe blinked and finally looked up. His eyes, wide and unfocused for a split second, darted around in mild panic before recognition settled in, dulling the shock. He blinked sluggishly, like he was dragging himself out of some deep, paper-induced trance, before exhaling through his nose and shifting his gaze back to the disaster zone that was his desk.
“Oh. Hey,” he mumbled, voice scratchy from what was probably hours of silence. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Yeah, no kidding. You were about five more minutes away from fusing with these papers.” You crossed your arms, tilting your head as you gave him a once-over. His posture was stiff, shoulders hunched in that telltale way that screamed exhaustion, and the dark circles under his eyes looked even worse up close. “Are you even taking a break? Or let me guess—‘I’m fine, I’ll finish soon,’ right?”
He mustered up something that might’ve been a smile in another life, but now it just looked strained, like his face wasn’t quite up to the task. “I’m fine,” he said—right on cue. “I’m just trying to catch up. There’s a lot to do... I’ll finish soon.”
You gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Geo ratted you out,” you informed him, watching as his eye twitched just slightly. “Says you’ve been glued to this desk all morning. So unless you’ve suddenly figured out how to cram ten hours of work into two, I’m calling total BS.”
Crowe opened his mouth, either to deny or argue—probably both—but you were already moving, plopping yourself onto the edge of his desk without waiting for an invitation. Papers crinkled beneath you, but honestly? He had too many to begin with.
“Alright,” you announced, clapping your hands together. “New plan. I’m your assistant now. Consider me officially hired.”
His brows furrowed, somewhere between confused and mildly alarmed. “What?”
“You heard me.” You grinned, reaching for the nearest folder. “If you won’t take a break, I’m gonna help you power through this so you can. Think of me as your unpaid intern—but better-looking and way more fun to be around.”
Crowe thrust out a hand like a human stop sign, his usual smooth-talking charm dimming under the weight of sheer, soul-crushing exhaustion. “I don’t need an assistant,” he grumbled, voice teetering on the edge of a breakdown. “And definitely not one who thinks ‘alphabetical order’ is a conspiracy theory.”
You scoffed, waving him off like an irritating fly. “Oh, come on. Filing is just alphabet soup but with extra steps. Besides, it’s either this, or I start making the most obnoxious noises known to mankind until you surrender and flee this room.”
Crowe stared at you. Hard. You could practically see the internal debate waging behind his tired eyes. He wanted to fight back, to assert some semblance of authority in his own workspace, but let’s be real—he didn’t have the energy for that.
After what felt like an eternity of silent suffering, he let out a long, suffering sigh, the kind that screamed, ‘I have officially given up on life.’ He dragged a hand down his face. “Fine,” he muttered in defeat. “But don’t touch anything important unless I told you.”
“Relax,” you chirped, already rifling through a stack of papers with the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with paperwork. “I’ve got this. What’s the worst that could happen?”
The worst did happen.
Many times in fact.
You just didn’t realize it until it was too late.
By the time two weeks had passed, it was like you had unknowingly signed a blood pact with Crowe—minus the actual blood, but definitely with the same level of inescapable obligation. Somehow, without fully realizing how it happened, you had been roped into the prestigious yet completely unpaid role of Crowe’s unofficial official assistant.
Like clockwork, as soon as your classes wrapped up for the day, there you were—reporting for duty like some poor soul enlisted in a student council boot camp, minus the combat training but with twice the paperwork.
And the workload?
Oh, it was something else.
You couldn't make this up if you tried. The sheer volume of tasks dumped on Crowe was enough to make you question whether the entire campus had collectively mistaken him for their personal secretary.
Student club events? His problem. Fraternity and sorority requests? Yup, tossed onto his ever-growing pile. Small-time guest speakers, whose only real compensation was probably free coffee and a handshake? Also somehow his responsibility.
At one point, you found yourself holding a stack of papers detailing plans for a campus-wide "stress-relief yoga night," and you very nearly asked if Crowe had been secretly elected mayor of the university while you weren’t looking.
And, because you were clearly a genius with absolutely no impulse control, you had, at some point, volunteered to help him with all of it.
Cleaning up his disaster of a desk? You were on it. Sprinting across campus to drop off forms like some kind of academic carrier pigeon? Already flapping your metaphorical wings. Sitting through excruciating planning meetings for student events?
Sure, why not? It’s not like watching Crowe argue with five sorority reps over whether they could hold a ‘glow-in-the-dark karaoke night’ in the ‘library’ was a fever dream you ever expected to have—but here you were, living it.
It didn’t take long for you to figure out that Crowe wasn’t just overburdened—he was the burden. A walking, talking monument to suffering.
“Hey, uh, question,” you said one afternoon, dumping yet another stack of papers onto his already paper-laden desk. You weren’t even sure if there was a desk under there anymore, or if Crowe just sat upon a sacred altar of unfinished paperwork. “How many of these events actually needto go through the student council? Like, for real?”
“All of them,” Crowe said flatly, not even sparing you a glance as he scribbled furiously on some poor soul’s event approval form.
“No, no, I mean…” You leaned in, lowering your voice as if you were about to drop some grand revelation. “How many actually need to go through you?”
Crowe finally paused, pen hovering mid-signature as he slowly—painfully slowly—lifted his gaze to meet yours. His expression was the physical embodiment of ‘I will throw you out of this room myself.’
“All of them,” he repeated, but this time, slower. Like that somehow made it less absurd.
Sometime later, while you were valiantly battling yet another stack of event proposals—seriously, why were there so many bake sales?—you dramatically collapsed into the chair across from him.
“So, uh,” you drawled, tossing a paper into the abyss that was Crowe’s inbox, “is this a student council or a circus? Be honest.”
Crowe didn’t even look up. Didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes.”
What.
Anyway, somehow, even with all the chaos, you managed to find a rhythm in it all. Cleaning Crowe’s desk became second nature—so much so that you started questioning if you had become some kind of sentient maid. You even unearthed what could only be described as a historical artifact: a half-eaten sandwich wedged between two stacks of papers. Given its fossilized state, you figured it was either from last semester or from the founding days of the school itself.
Running errands across campus turned into an unintentional workout program. Who needed a gym membership when you were speed-walking between buildings, dodging rogue club recruiters, and carrying stacks of paperwork heavier than your will to live?
And attending meetings? That became your personal form of entertainment. You even started timing how long it would take before someone made an absolutely insane request—your record was three minutes. The last champion was some guy from the Gardening Club who tried to get funding for a “therapeutic koi pond.” In the middle of the cafeteria.
Today, though, you and Crowe were actually making progress, discussing the upcoming club events without any major disturbances. A miracle, honestly.
Then the door slammed open.
What waltzed was him—the student council president, looking like he had just stepped off a runway and onto your last nerve. He was an upperclassman with the kind of aura that screamed, ‘I was born better than you, and I will remind you every chance I get.’
“Ichabod,” he drawled as if merely saying Crowe’s name was a task beneath him. Then, with all the grace of a medieval tax collector, he dumped another towering stack of paperwork onto Crowe’s desk, causing several precariously balanced forms to slide to the floor. “More approvals. Get them done.”
Crowe had been hunched over, pen in hand, scribbling out what seemed like his last remaining shred of hope. But as soon as the president stormed in, dropping the latest avalanche of paperwork onto the desk, he froze. His hand hovered in the air for a moment—was he about to launch his pen at the door, or was he just letting the despair wash over him?
You couldn’t tell, but you knew Crowe had just about hit his limit. He closed his eyes briefly. Was he praying? Meditating? Or was he visualizing the sweet, sweet release of just escaping this nightmare by launching himself through the window?
It was hard to say.
You, on the other hand, were getting mildly entertained by the absurdity of the situation. "Wow," you said, blinking at the fresh chaos that had just descended upon the desk. "I didn’t know you were accepting job applications for ‘Official Paperwork Mule.’"
The president—who had somehow magically entered the room without making a sound, like some kind of overpriced ninja—turned his icy gaze on you. He looked you up and down with all the disdain of someone who had just stepped in a puddle of something they’d prefer not to identify, his eyes narrowing like you’d just insulted his firstborn. "Oh, you're still here?" His voice dripped with condescension. "How quaint."
You couldn’t help but grin. You had been waiting for this. "Yep. Unlike the funding you approved for that haunted house event last week." You paused for effect, casually flipping through the pile of forms as if you weren’t even phased. "I suggest you get to it quick, though, before I let the officials know about your… interesting decisions."
Crowe made a noise. It was an odd noise—something between a strangled laugh and a desperate cough. He tried to cover it up, but the damage was done.
The president, however, either completely oblivious or choosing not to dignify your retort with a response, turned back to Crowe with the practiced air of someone who thought his very presence should be worshipped. "This needs to be finished today."
“Of course it does,” Crowe muttered under his breath, already sinking into the depths of his inevitable paperwork doom. You could practically hear the weight of his soul dragging itself down further into the abyss.
The president gave a tight, self-satisfied smile, like he’d just handed down some sort of royal decree, and turned on his heel to exit the room. His steps were as calculated and ridiculous as his whole existence. You couldn’t help but notice his outfit—tailored suit, perfectly polished shoes, and the kind of cologne that probably cost more than your tuition.
It was almost as if he thought his appearance alone could somehow make him better than everyone else in the room. It was adorable.
He was halfway out the door when you casually called after him, "Hey, by the way—are you wearing that suit to go rescue puppies or attend a high-society funeral?"
The president paused, looking over his shoulder at you with an expression that could’ve been carved into marble. He said nothing, but his eyes briefly flashed with the kind of ‘I’ll ruin you’ look that only the truly entitled could master.
You, however, weren’t even remotely phased.
"Yeah, I thought so," you added, pushing another pile of forms onto Crowe’s desk. "You’ve got the whole ‘I’m better than everyone’ look down, but next time, maybe try not looking like you belong in a museum."
Crowe groaned as the door slammed shut, leaving the two of you alone with the mountain of paperwork once more. You sighed, nudging a piece of paper that had somehow escaped the clutches of the abyss. "So… koi pond in the cafeteria is looking less ridiculous by the minute, huh?"
Crowe didn’t answer.
He was too busy looking like he might spontaneously combust from exhaustion, or maybe just give up on life entirely. You considered offering him a donut or a bucket of coffee, but really, at this point, nothing was going to save him.
“Crowe? You good?” you asked, leaning in closer. His entire posture screamed ‘I’m about to faceplant into this paperwork and never wake up’. You wondered if he was trying to figure out how to escape into the sweet oblivion of the nearest nap corner or if he was plotting his own demise. At this point, it could go either way.
“I’m... fine,” he muttered, but the way his hand slid across the desk in slow motion, like he was having a mental breakdown in real-time, told you everything you needed to know.
“You sure? You look like you’re one coffee away from crying on a stack of forms."
Crowe groaned, a sound so filled with despair it could’ve been the opening line to a sad indie movie. “I just want to finish one thing today, ‘just one thing,’ without someone handing me more stupid paperwork. Is that too much to ask for?”
“Probably,” you said, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. “But, hey, that’s what you signed up for, right? Like, what was your grand plan here? To turn the student council into your own personal administrative hell?”
Crowe shot you a glance that was somewhere between ‘I could kill you’ and ‘Please, for the love of all that’s holy, be quiet.’ You could practically see the little clock in his head ticking down, counting how much longer he could withstand his own existence before he collapsed in the pile of paperwork like some sort of sad, overworked martyr.
"At least give me a minute to process the chaos." His voice had that exhausted, cracked tone that made you wonder if he’d been functioning on three hours of sleep for the past week.
You took pity on him. "Alright, alright," you said, grabbing the latest stack of event forms and flipping through them. "Let’s at least start brainstorming for these. I’m guessing half of these are doomed from the start.”
Crowe’s response was a wordless nod, his head still resting on his hand as if that would somehow reboot his brain. It looked like he might pass out at any moment, but somehow, he managed to pull himself back together. Barely.
"Alright, what's the first one?" you asked, leaning over to get a better look at the next form.
Crowe’s finger shakily pointed to it. "‘Classical music night... on the roof... with fog machines.’"
You blinked. "I… I don’t even know what to say to that. What, are we trying to summon ghosts now?"
Crowe groaned again. "It’s a real proposal. They want it approved for next week."
"Okay," you said, rubbing your temples. "I think we’re officially past the point of saving this year’s student council. This is just a slow-motion train wreck."
Crowe was too exhausted to even form a proper sentence, his mind clearly whirling through a mental tally of disasters. You could practically see the gears grinding in his head—he was done. It wasn’t clear whether he was about to drop dead or have a full-on emotional meltdown, but either way, the path to recovery was nothing but more paperwork, endless meetings, and a growing sense of doom.
"Here," you said, tossing him a coffee cup with a little too much flair. "You need this more than I do."
Crowe didn’t say a word, just took the cup and stared blankly at his desk. You half expected him to fall asleep standing up, but then he took a long, defeated sip like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. For a moment, you swore you saw him look almost… human again. Though still on the edge of total collapse.
“Only… five more hours of this shit,” he muttered, voice raw and tired. His words hung in the air like a bad omen, but the way he said it was almost like he was trying to will it into something less awful.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.
You leaned against the desk—looking over a few documents that Crowe just signed, watching him as he rubbed his temples like he was trying to massage the chaos out of his brain. Then, he took a deep breath and dragged himself to his feet, his movements slow and heavy as if each step took effort.
You stood there, waiting for him to make the move, knowing he was about to drag you both back into the hell that was his office.
You followed him out to the coffee area just outside Crowe’s office, the place practically empty except for the hum of a few vending machines in the corner. Most people were in class, living their lives while you and Crowe were stuck in this chaotic little bubble of misery together. But honestly, you didn’t mind. Being stuck with Crowe wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
In fact, you might even go so far as to say you kind of liked it—chaos and all. It was weird, but after all the hours spent with him, this was just your rhythm. He was like a broken record, and you were along for the ride.
Crowe leaned against the the desk beside you, staring out at the empty room, looking just about as done as any human could be without literally face-planting. “Let’s just…” He paused, running a hand through his unbraided hair as if he were trying to shake the tiredness out of his bones. “Finish this,” he muttered, but there was no real conviction behind the words.
It was more like he was just going through the motions, a man trying to survive one last round of office hell before he collapsed into a pile of paperwork rubble.
You shrugged, leaning a little closer to him, not caring much about the empty room around you. "Yeah, sure. Let’s just get through this so you can collapse into your desk in peace."
Crowe didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his lips twitch. It was the closest thing to a smile you’d get today, and that was enough for you. He took another sip of coffee, staring at the distant empty chairs like they were mocking him. Honestly, the whole situation was ridiculous, but if you had to be stuck in this hellish paperwork vortex, you couldn’t think of anyone better to be stuck with.
Despite the avalanche of paperwork, the never-ending meetings, and the constant chaos that seemed to follow Crowe everywhere, there were small, quiet moments when his gratitude actually managed to slip through the cracks.
It wasn’t loud or obvious—no heartfelt speeches or dramatic declarations of appreciation. No, it was more like a fleeting shadow, there one moment and gone the next, but it still spoke volumes.
It was one of those afternoons when you were buried under yet another mountain of event proposals, flipping through them with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on a caffeine crash. Your eyes had glazed over, the words on the pages blending together into an unintelligible mess of overly ambitious plans and unreasonable requests.
You were pretty sure you could start a new career as a professional paperweight at this point, considering how often you were parked next to Crowe’s desk. But hey, someonehad to keep the chaos in check, right?
Instead of fighting for your own desk—because, honestly, that would’ve been a lost cause given the sheer size of Crowe’s desk, which could’ve fit a small army and their gear—you'd just claimed a corner of it. You’d made it your own little nook, the edge of his mountain of papers your personal workspace.
Sure, it was a little unconventional, but considering Crowe's desk practically looked like the inside of an office supply store exploded on it, it made sense. Plus, it was way more fun to pretend you were part of the madness instead of standing on the sidelines.
So there you were, half-buried in a fresh pile of event forms that had been hastily shoved into your hands the second you walked into the room, flipping through them with the kind of mindless speed that comes from hours of sheer boredom.
You didn’t even look up, thinking it was just another stray form that had somehow wandered into your orbit. But then you heard it—a soft clink. And when you glanced over, there it was: a steaming cup of tea, perfectly brewed and a small snack, sitting on the edge of his desk as though it had always been meant to be there.
Crowe didn’t say anything. He didn’t even speak to you.
He just silently placed it down, then you felt his hand on top of your head, planting what felt like kiss on top. Afterwards, he gave you a brief, exhausted glance, and went back to his own paperwork like nothing had happened. As if that tiny, thoughtful gesture wasn’t quietly shifting the entire atmosphere of the room. It was his way of saying, ‘I see you’—without actually saying a word.
Then there were the rare occasions when you handed him something that, frankly, could have been labeled as a ‘miracle’—like a perfectly organized event schedule, where the scattered mess of dates and details had somehow been magically turned into something resembling order. His eyes would flicker to it for just a second before he’d mutter a quiet, almost begrudging “thanks.”
The words were always there, but they came out like he was fighting them every step of the way as if the concept of gratitude wasn’t quite his thing. Still, the small nod that followed—something barely noticeable, but unmistakably there—told you everything you needed to know.
Those little moments were a rarity, but when they happened, they felt like an entire month’s worth of appreciation crammed into a second. No fanfare, no grand speeches—just Crowe, the overworked, underappreciated student council lifeline, showing his gratitude in the most subtle ways possible.
It was like he didn’t know how to say it out loud, but his actions spoke louder than any words could.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough to keep you going.
That, and the sheer comedy gold of watching Crowe try—and fail—every time a club proposed something so ridiculous it could’ve been pulled straight from a fever dream. Like the latest masterpiece—a ‘puppies and pizza’ day in the science building. The look on his face when he read that? Priceless.
It was like watching someone go from a hopeful puppy to a full-on terrified deer caught in headlights. Half of him expected to ask if it was some kind of prank. It wasn’t.
But today?
Today’s mark a day of early freedom
One of those rare, blessed afternoons where Crowe managed to finish his work before sunset. That alone was enough to make you believe in higher powers—like the universe had decided to give Crowe a break for once. And honestly, you were enjoying it too.
Crowe seemed... different. Less like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and more like he was just a dude who'd had a good day for once. His hair was actually neat—an anomaly that deserved to be framed and hung in a museum—and his outfit looked like it had been picked out by someone who didn’t live off caffeine and stress. His usual tense, I’m-one-email-away-from-a-breakdown stance was gone, replaced by a more relaxed posture.
And the best part? That trademark smirk of his wasn’t the usual ‘I’m-exhausted-but-I’ll-pretend-I’m-cool’ look. It was... real. Like he actually meant it. You had to blink a couple of times to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.
"You know," he started, hands stuffed in his pockets, walking a little lighter than usual. He glanced over at you, his face not quite as guarded as usual, like he was letting his walls down just a little. "You've been a such lifesaver."
You raised an eyebrow, figuring he was about to make some sarcastic remark. But instead, he hesitated for a second, exhaled, and with a tiny shake of his head and a soft half-smile, he added, "I don't think I would've survived without you."
Okay, that? That was huge.
For Crowe, the guy who acted like he had the entire universe under control at all times, admitting that he needed help was like watching a robot suddenly develop emotions. You could tell he meant it, too, judging by the way he looked at you. There was no sarcasm, no defensive wall—just a genuinely appreciative look. And yeah, maybe it made your heart do a weird little skip.
You coughed to cover up your smile, not wanting to get too sappy about it, but there was no denying the warmth spreading through you.
"I need to wrap up a few things before I can lock up the student council room," he said, voice steady and calm. "After that... we came to meet at my place?”
You couldn’t help it. Your lips twitched into a grin, arms crossed, watching him with an amused glint in your eye. "Wow, Crowe, are you suggesting a private date?"
The reaction was instant.
His eyes widened, and for the first time, you swore you saw the faintest hint of color dusting his cheeks—a slightly deeper shade against his usual warm brown complexion. Just for a second before his usual playful demeanor slid back into place. He let out a half-laugh, half-grumble. "It’s not a date," he muttered, though you could tell he was trying not to smile. "Just... you know. A thing."
"Uh-huh. Sure, a thing," you teased, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I mean, if ‘things’ include pizza and not having to talk about student council for once, I’ll consider it.”
He rolled his eyes, but that little real smirk was back again. "You’re impossible."
"Yeah, but you love it," you shot back with a grin.
Crowe let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself. “You’re such a tease.”
You tilted your head, your smirk widening. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His deadpan stare told you he definitely knew exactly what you were doing. You could practically hear the thoughts running through his mind: I know you’re trying to distract me with that nonsense, but it’s not going to work.
But instead of entertaining your antics, he let out a long exhale, like the weight of the world had just landed on his shoulders, and straightened up. His hands moved quickly to gather the last of his papers, that familiar rhythm of someone who’d been in a constant state of ‘paperwork battle’ for way too long.
"I’ll be done in a bit,” he muttered, glancing at the clock, looking like he was calculating the exact time when he could finally escape the clutches of his responsibilities. “Shouldn’t take long. Just… come to my place, please.”
The way he said it was almost a plea, like he was clinging to the last shred of hope that you would save him from his own self-imposed chaos. There was something in the way his voice dropped, that quiet vulnerability that even Crowe couldn’t hide when he was completely overwhelmed.
He didn’t ask for help. Ever.
But right now, it seemed like he couldn’t bear to be alone with all that paperwork for even another minute.
Without even thinking, you stepped forward, about to throw out some joke or tease him, but before you could, his hand shot out, fingers lightly brushing against yours, like he was desperately reaching for something, anything to ground him.
You froze, blinking at the unexpected contact. Crowe’s hand lingered there for a moment, not quite holding yours, but not pulling away either. His gaze met yours for just a second—there was something there, a flicker of something deeper than just the usual exhausted annoyance.
“I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said, his voice a little quieter, a little more raw than you were used to hearing.
Your heart skipped a beat, and it took everything in you to resist the urge to give him the classic ‘it’s fine, we’re cool’ smile. But you could see it—he was yearning for just a little bit of peace, a little bit of support.
Maybe more than he’d ever admit.
So, you squeezed his hand, just a little, before giving him a half-smirk. "Don't worry, Crowe. You’ll survive. Just don't expect me to help every time you feel like a nervous wreck." You smiled, slowly walking away. “I’ll gonna go change. See you later.”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything else, only shaking his head as he returned to his work. You turned on your heel, heading out of the student center with an extra pep in your step. Whether he meant it as a date or not, he still invited you over.
And that was definitely something to work with.
With that, you made a break for it, finally escaping the chaos of the student council room. You decided to take the scenic route back to your apartment—aka a detour to your place to freshen up a little. Nothing too extravagant, just a little something to feel less like a walking disaster.
You slipped into your long-flare yoga pants, because, let's be honest, they were basically good thin material and nobody could judge you for that. You paired them with a long tank top and layered it with a cropped graphic tee that you’d definitely cut at the shoulder yourself for that ‘I woke up like this’ off-the-shoulder look.
Sure, it looked like you couldn’t be bothered to try, but you weren’t heading to a red carpet event—just to Crowe’s place to eat dinner. Who needed to look cute when you were about to inhale your body weight in food, right?
You kept your hairstyle in check, though—that was the one thing you weren't willing to sacrifice. A little effort to at least pretend you had it together. And the earrings? Oh, the earrings were a must. They hung from your ears like delicate little reminders that you were, in fact, capable of caring about something.
Maybe not your best outfit, but its’s something.
Before heading back out, you made a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a small blueberry cheesecake from your favorite bakery. The one where the guy behind the counter always slid an extra smile your way whenever you came in, like he was secretly rooting for you to get that slice of dessert joy.
You grabbed it like a pro, but this wasn’t just any cheesecake. Oh, no. This was the kind of cheesecake that required ID verification because they had to make sure you were worthy of its glory.
It was rich, creamy, and topped with a glossy layer of blueberry wine reduction that probably had magical properties. Or at least, that’s what you liked to tell yourself. You figured the extra indulgence might help Crowe decompress a little, so, like a good friend, you were willing to go the extra mile.
“Maybe it’ll help Crowe unwind,” you mumbled to yourself, adjusting the strap of your bag before heading out. “Not that he’d admit to it. He probably thinks ‘relaxing’ is a dirty word.”
You snorted at the thought. Crowe would probably rather eat a salad than admit he was anything less than an overworked machine. But hey, everyone deserves a little luxury now and then, right? Even if that luxury was blueberry cheesecake and a very reluctant attempt at unwinding.
The walk to Crowe’s place was mercifully short, tucked just on the edge of campus. The air was crisp, carrying the lingering chill of the evening, and the faint glow of his windows stood out against the dimming sky.
It was a modest place—large, practical, the kind of space that was meant for luxury rather than convenience. But the moment you spotted the faint flicker of movement inside, a shuffle of shadow passing by the window, you knew he was home.
You hesitated for just a second before knocking.
Part of you hoped—no, expected—that when he answered the door, he’d look at least a little more relaxed than he had earlier. Maybe the stiffness in his shoulders would be gone. Maybe he’d be in something softer, a hoodie instead of that ever-present button-up. Maybe—dare you dream—he’d actually be smiling.
But when the door swung open, it was immediately clear that reality had other plans.
Crowe stood in the doorway, his hair once again was an absolute wreck—not the effortless kind of messy that turned heads, but the kind that screamed, ‘I’ve run my hands through it too many times out of frustration.’ A furrow was etched deep between his brows, and his usual sharp posture was stiff like he was physically bracing against the weight of his responsibilities.
And—oh, fantastic—a folder was tucked under his arm, looking as though it had permanently fused to him at this point.
You exhaled through your nose. Of course.
Yet, despite the exhaustion written all over him, something in his expression softened when he registered it was you at the door. The tightness in his shoulders didn’t fully disappear, but there was the faintest tug of a smile at the corners of his lips—tired but real.
“What’s with the face?” you asked dryly, raising an eyebrow as he stepped aside, silently motioning you in.
“I’m fine,” he replied automatically, the words so robotic and rehearsed that you almost laughed.
“Right. And I’m the student council president,” you deadpanned, stepping inside and crossing your arms. “You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Again.”
“Funny thing about the student council president,” Crowe muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he shut the door behind you. “It turns out he can, and will, dump work on me at all hours. Apparently, I’m not allowed to have a life outside any paperwork.”
Crowe allowed you inside, leading you up the sleek, polished staircase to his bedroom. As he pushed open the door, you were immediately struck by how effortlessly luxurious it felt—like stepping into a five-star suite rather than your living space.
The room was spacious, barely lit by the warm glow of a single overhead light and a tall, modern floor lamp near his desk. The walls were painted a deep, muted blue, the color rich yet understated. But it was the bed that truly caught your attention—elaborate and inviting, draped in dark blue satin sheets that gleamed subtly under the soft lighting.
The bedding was pristine and neatly arranged with thick pillows and a comforter that looked like it belonged in a high-end catalog rather than a broke college student apartment.
And yet, despite the undeniable elegance of the space, the desk against the far wall told a completely different story.
Stacked with an obscene number of papers, open binders, and what you were pretty sure was the same coffee cup from this morning, his desk looked like a war zone of responsibilities. A sleek laptop sat open, its screen casting a faint glow over the scattered documents, and a small, gold-rimmed clock ticked quietly beside a stack of folders.
The faint scent of ink and paper lingered in the air, mixing with the rich undertones of expensive cologne and the barely-there scent of cedarwood. The place had the distinct feel of someone who had been trapped inside for far too long—like a space meant for relaxation had been forcibly converted into an office.
And honestly? That pissed you off a little.
You turned back to him with an unimpressed look, arms crossed as he carelessly tossed his folder onto the desk. “You invited me to hang out, and now you’re telling me I’m supposed to just sit here while you work?”
“I’ll multitask,” he said with a faint smirk, already lowering himself into the sleek, leather chair at his desk like that settled the matter.
You let out an exaggerated sigh, setting your bag down on the small couch tucked into the corner of the room. Of course, even his couch was high-end—dark velvet with a few neatly arranged cushions, barely touched, like it was there for decoration rather than actual use.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “What a great person you are. Let me guess, next you’re going to ask me to fetch you coffee?”
Crowe didn’t look up, but you caught the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “If you’re offering.”
You rolled your eyes before reaching into your bag and pulling out the carefully packed cheesecake you had brought. With deliberate flair, you set it on the small wooden table near the couch, ensuring the movement was just noticeable enough to break Crowe’s focus.
And to your satisfaction, it worked.
From his place at the desk, Crowe’s eyes flicked up, momentarily distracted from the mountain of papers in front of him. His gaze landed on the dessert, his brow raising slightly. “Is that… blueberry cheesecake?”
You shot him a smug grin. “It is. And not just any cheesecake—blueberry wine-glazed cheesecake. Only the best.”
Crowe’s lips twitched, almost forming a real smile, but as his gaze flicked back to the cheesecake, hesitation crept into his expression. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Wait… you said wine-glazed?”
You raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was going. “Yeah? It’s just a glaze, Crowe. It’s not like I’m trying to get you drunk off dessert.”
He exhaled, glancing between you and the cheesecake as if debating whether he should risk it. “Still…” His fingers tapped idly against the arm of his chair. “…I don’t know if I should.”
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face before throwing him an exasperated look. “Crowe. It’s cheesecake. Not a bottle of aged whiskey.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but the reluctant amusement in them told you he wasn’t completely opposed. He just wanted to be difficult.
“You’re seriously overthinking this,” you added, crossing your arms. “One bite won’t turn you into a lawless delinquent, I promise. It’s just something to help you relax for once.”
Crowe exhaled slowly, glancing at the dessert once more before shaking his head with a smirk. “Sorry but no, I need to work—because if I suddenly start making reckless decisions, it’s your fault.”
“Oh, please.” With a scoff, you pushed yourself up from the plush velvet couch, smoothing your hands over the soft fabric before stretching lazily. “I’ll be right back.” Crowe barely acknowledged your movement, too focused on whatever tedious task he was drowning in.
Perfect.
You slipped out of his bedroom, padding down the sleek hallway and down the grand staircase that led to the main floor. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint ticking of an ornate grandfather clock positioned near the entrance. Of course, he had something so unnecessarily extravagant in his house. You shook your head, making your way toward the kitchen.
And, unsurprisingly, even his kitchen looked like it belonged in some high-end interior design magazine—black marble countertops, dark mahogany cabinets, and sleek, modern appliances that gleamed under the warm glow of overhead lighting. The air carried the faintest scent of coffee, no doubt from whatever caffeine-fueled disaster had taken place earlier that morning.
You pulled open a drawer, rummaging through its neatly arranged contents until you found the gold forks—because, of course, even his utensils were unnecessarily fancy, polished to a pristine shine. You hesitated for a second, eyeing the wine bottle in your other hand. You could technically be a menace and grab another fork just for him, despite his earlier protests, just to see if he’d cave.
A slow smirk curled at your lips as you picked up another fork and then made your way back upstairs.
By the time you reentered Crowe’s bedroom, he was exactly as you left him—hunched over his desk, a hand buried in his long brown tousled hair, muttering something under his breath as he scribbled furiously onto a page. His laptop cast a faint glow across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, and the way his brows furrowed with quiet frustration.
You shook your head in fond exasperation, setting the forks onto the small wooden table—top of a paper towel near the couch with deliberate flair. The sound of metal forks against wood was just loud enough to pull his attention away from whatever crisis was currently occupying his mind.
His gaze flickered to you, then to the newly placed items, and finally, to the bottle of wine you were already uncorking with far too much enthusiasm. “You don’t take ‘no cake for me’ seriously, do you?” he asked dryly, watching as you handed him a fork, which he took. You raised an eyebrow, swirling the liquid slowly before taking a deliberate sip. “Oh, I heard you,” you mused. “I just chose to ignore it.”
Crowe exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, but there was no real irritation in his expression—if anything, the corners of his lips twitched upward, like he was fighting off a smile.
You handed him a fork, gesturing toward the cheesecake. “Now, be a good boy and eat before I start burning your paperwork.”
That earned you a full, amused huff of laughter. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would,” you said smugly, already reaching for the nearest document with mischief glinting in your eyes.
And just like that, for the first time that evening, Crowe finally relented. With a quiet sigh of defeat, he grabbed his fork, cutting into the cheesecake with a small shake of his head.
“Happy now?” he muttered, bringing a bite to his lips.
You grinned, raising your fork in victory. “Ecstatic.”
Later on, You ended up sitting in Crowe’s bed, which, honestly, wasn’t part of the original plan. You’d offered—very generously, might you add—to just sit on the floor, but Crowe wasn’t having it. And of course, that turned into a whole thing. A full-blown back-and-forth argument that went nowhere because, shocker, Crowe won.
So now here you were, cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through your phone while eating cheesecake like it was just another day.
Meanwhile, Crowe was buried in paperwork, signing off on whatever ridiculous event proposals students had cooked up this time.
Between the scribbling of his pen and the occasional tap of your phone screen, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm of conversation—nothing deep, just the usual random nonsense that somehow never failed to keep things interesting.
You could say literally the most out-of-pocket thing, and Crowe would have an opinion on it.
“You think pigeons ever feel bad about stealing people’s food?”
“No. They’re menaces.”
“What about geese?”
“Demons in feathered form.”
It went on like that for a while, but then, out of nowhere, Crowe, still focused on his paperwork, casually muttered, “If you end up drunk, you can stay here.”
You blinked, glancing up from your phone. “Huh?”
“I have hangover pills for situations like these,” he added as if that was just normal information to throw out there.
You squinted at him, completely lost as last time you checked—he didn’t drink. “Crowe, sir, what the hell do you have those for?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “They’re normally for my mother.”
Oh.
…Well damn. That changed the vibe.
You suddenly found a very interesting spot on the wall to look at, your brain screaming at you to not ask any follow-up questions. Just let it slide, move on, talk about geese again—
“…How come?” Damn it.
Crowe paused mid-signature, his pen hovering over the paper for a second too long. He didn’t immediately answer, which only made the air feel heavier. You shifted a little on his bed, suddenly regretting asking. But at the same time, you had to know.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, setting his pen down and leaning back slightly. “She’s a businesswoman,” he said simply like that explained everything.
It kind of did.
You nodded slowly. “Ah. So… business meetings, long nights, expensive wine, and regrettable choices?”
“Basically,” he said, rubbing his temple. “She doesn’t get wasted often, but when she does, it’s always a mess. It’s better to just have something on hand so she doesn’t call me at two in the morning complaining about a headache and demanding I fix it.”
You raised an eyebrow, resting your chin in your hand. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re the designated babysitter for your mom when she goes too hard on the fancy liquor.”
Crowe gave you a flat look. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
“But I would.” You grinned, taking another bite of your cheesecake. “Imagine that. Big, serious Crowe, the man who runs student council like a military operation, reduced to fetching electrolyte drinks and aspirin for his drunk mom.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly like he was reevaluating all his life choices. “You are so lucky I tolerate you.”
“Tolerate? Please. You’d be bored out of your mind without me.”
Crowe rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way the corner of his lips almost twitched up. Almost. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
You smirked, then gestured toward his desk. “Speaking of you tolerating me, when are you actually gonna stop working? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve been signing papers for the last hour and I’m starting to think you might be stuck in an endless loop.”
“I’ll be done when I’m done,” he muttered, flipping to the next page.
You squinted at him. “Liar. You never finish. The work just keeps coming.”
Crowe didn’t deny it. He just let out a long sigh, rubbing his temple again. You could tell he was exhausted but too damn stubborn to stop.
So, naturally, you had to push a little.
“Y’know,” you started, setting your plate aside and stretching out on his bed dramatically, “I’m not a heavy drinker. I won’t get drunk.”
Crowe quickly said, “That’s what you said last time.”
“Blame Britt, she needed someone to take shots with at that club.” You sighed, “But If I look drunk, there’s a chance I might be pretending.” You mentioned. “Why,” Crowe asked. “…I’ll be able to get the tender loving care of a certain man.”
Crowe somewhat blushed, then added. “And If I’m the one who gets drunk, will you look after me? Or will you let me fend for myself?”
“Ehhh, that depends. What kind of drunk are you?” You gave Crowe a pointed look, lazily kicking your legs back and forth. “’Cause remember when Britt got wasted after we passed our exams and threw up in the car?” You grimaced at the memory. “Still sorry about that, by the way.”
Crowe, who had been signing something, paused and flicked his eyes up at you. “There are different types of drunk?”
You snorted. “Uh, yeah. There are levels to this, Crowe.” You started counting on your fingers. “Tipsy, somewhat affectionate—y’know, the giggly, slightly dumb but still functioning stage. Then there’s a buzz, which is what I usually am. A nice little warm feeling, maybe a little too honest, but still got control.”
Crowe raised an eyebrow. “And then?”
“Oh, it just gets worse from there.” You grinned. “There’s sloshed, where your words start slurring, and you start thinking you can dance when, in reality, you cannot.” You pointed at him. “Britt was sloshed. Then there’s blacked out, which—self-explanatory. Bad decisions are made. Regret is guaranteed.”
Crowe hummed, going back to his papers. “Lovely.”
“Oh, we’re not done,” you continued, thoroughly enjoying this. “Then you got aggressive drunks—you know, the ones who suddenly wanna fight everyone, including their own reflection. Confident drunks, which are honestly my favorite ‘cause they act like they own the place and think they’re hot shit. Sad drunks—kinda self-explanatory. They cry about their ex, their childhood, or how the bartender didn’t smile at them enough.”
Crowe sighed like he already regretted indulging this conversation. “And?”
“The two everyone really looks out for are lightweights and heavyweights.” You leaned forward a little, smirking. “I used to be somewhere in the middle, but, uh… college happened. And Britt happened. So now I’m lowkey more of a heavyweight.”
Crowe set his pen down and gave you that look. The one that was half disappointed professor, half exasperated parent. “Really.”
You shrugged. “What can I say? I build tolerance fast.”
Crowe pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not something to be proud of.”
You waved him off. “Anyway, what about you? Heavyweight or lightweight?” You already knew the answer, but you wanted to hear him say it.
Crowe let out a slow breath, glancing at you like he was debating whether to humor you or just ignore you entirely. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “I have work to do.”
You gasped dramatically. “Avoiding the question? That means you’re a lightweight, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t respond.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, grinning. “Crowe, do you get tipsy off one drink? Is that why you don’t go out? Are you—”
He gave you a look. A very pointed, very shut up before I actually throw you out look.
You just cackled. “Yeah, alright. Go back to work, lightweight.”
Soon after, it didn’t take long for Crowe to start feeling something—not that he’d ever admit it. You had finished your slice—even had another one without issue, enjoying every bite while Crowe had been more hesitant, taking small, slow bites as if waiting for some dramatic effect to kick in. And, to your delight, it did.
He shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the odd sensation creeping up on him. His usually sharp gaze had softened just a bit, and though he kept his expression neutral, you didn’t miss the way his fingers drummed against the desk a little too loosely or the way he exhaled through his nose, slower than usual.
You smirked. “Feeling okay over there?”
Crowe shot you a flat look, but there was something off about it—like his focus wasn’t entirely there. “I’m fine.” You tilted your head, scrutinizing him. His dark brown skin had taken on a noticeable flush, heat blooming over his cheekbones and creeping down his neck.
You knew that look.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, leaning forward with barely contained laughter. “You’re lightweight, aren’t you?” Crowe blinked, frowning slightly before scoffing. “No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated. “It’s just warm in here.”
You bit your lip, trying to stifle your amusement. “Crowe, this is embarrassing. I ate the same cheesecake on my third slice, and I feel fine.” He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening for a second before he muttered, “You have an unfair advantage.”
You grinned. “No wonder you avoid alcohol like the plague. You can’t hold your liquor.” Crowe furrowed his brows at your mocking tone, his face turning into a bit of a pout.
"I can hold my liquor," he grumbled, though the faint tinge in his face betrayed his words. He shifted in his seat slightly, crossing his arms defensively. "I just don't see the appeal of losing my inhibitions and making a fool of myself. Unlike some people."
Your expression turned into a smirk, tone still just as condescending.
"Ah, the classic excuse." Your gaze remained fixed on him with a hint of judgment. "Inhibitions are what make us human, you know. Or perhaps you fear the idea of letting go and having a little fun."
Crowe bristled at your words, a slight frown tugging at his lips.
"I'm not afraid of having fun," he retorted, his voice betraying a hint of defensiveness. "I simply prefer to maintain control over my actions. I see no need for losing myself to something as shallow as alcohol."
He let out a scoff.
"Besides, true fun can be had without the need for impairment."
You let out a short, derisive laugh. "Ah, yes. The need to control everything around you, even your fun. How incredibly dull of you." She leaned closer, her expression a mix of mockery and superiority.
"But tell me, Princess, do you ever truly feel alive, or is your life merely an endless cycle of monotony and self-imposed discipline?"
"Oh, please." Crowe rolled his eyes at your mockery. "Just because I don't partake in mind-numbing substances doesn't mean my life lacks excitement. I simply find joy in more meaningful pursuits." He crossed his arms, his expression hardening. "Unlike some, I don't rely on alcohol or other substances to feel alive. My life is filled with purpose and discipline, and I take pride in that."
You tilted your head, the smirk still dancing on your lips.
"Purpose and discipline…?” she drawled. "I bet you take pride in your ability to follow routines like a well-trained dog, too."
“Excuse me?” Crowe frowned, his voice sharp as he watched you lean closer, sensing the shift in the air.
You didn’t back down. “Jericho,” you said, using his real name with a seriousness that seemed to catch him off guard. “I’ve been your assistant for the past two weeks now, and I’m starting to notice something. You let the student council—and even the president—treat you like a dog, and I see the expression on your face every time. Pure irritation.”
You shifted and hopped onto his desk, sitting beside him, your legs casually swinging back and forth as you watched him try to suppress his usual annoyance.
Crowe’s frown deepened, his hand tightening on the paperwork as he visibly tried to keep his composure. You could almost see the gears grinding behind his eyes, a mix of irritation and something else, something less guarded.
"I’m aware of the circumstances," he said, voice tight but still trying to assert some control, "and I can handle the student council just fine. I… I’m fine with it. Really." He trailed off, and his words faltered. You could tell he was trying to convince himself more than you. The bravado was fading as his frustration bled into something more vulnerable, something he didn’t want to admit out loud.
You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a little closer. “Oh, I don’t doubt that you can handle things, Jericho. But here’s the thing—you’ve been avoiding something for a while. And it’s not just the paperwork.”
He didn’t meet your gaze, his eyes flicking away as he shifted uneasily in his chair. He didn’t like where this conversation was going, that much was obvious.
“Look, I get it. You’re used to doing everything by yourself, keeping things together, and letting everyone walk all over you if it means getting things done. But that doesn’t mean you have to take it. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re okay with it,” you said, leaning forward, voice low but firm. You saw the way he struggled to keep his walls up, the cracks widening.
“I appreciate your concern,” he muttered, barely audible, “but I can handle everything. I really don’t mind being treated like a dog.”
Your smirk faltered just a bit, and a hint of seriousness crept into your tone. “Hm, now I know you’re not the buzzed type…” you murmured, thoughtfully. “You say you don’t mind… but I can sense there’s more to it than just handling things. You’re avoiding my gaze for a reason, after all.”
Crowe didn’t respond right away, his eyes avoiding yours, but the tension in the air was palpable. You could feel his discomfort growing, but there was something else, too—a sense of reluctance mixed with a desire for something else, something you both knew he wasn’t willing to admit yet.
You sighed heavily, making sure to add some extra dramatic flair before stepping closer. His desk, though structured, had a certain worn-in look, the wood slightly dulled from constant use, with scattered notes and open folders sprawled across its surface. The lamp at the corner cast long, soft shadows, adding a golden warmth to the otherwise sterile, paper-filled workspace.
You crouched beside his chair and gestured toward his feet. “Move.”
Crowe blinked down at you, finally breaking his focus. His brows furrowed. “What—?”
You didn’t give him a chance to retreat into his shell. Instead, you were now kneeling down in front of him, slipping under the desk with the kind of confidence that said ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ “I’m going to see if you’ll actually let me help,” you said, your voice light but insistent, “because right now? You think you don’t need anything from anyone. But I’m betting you’ll let me assist you. And I’m going to find out just how much you really don’t mind.”
The air between you shifted, thick with unspoken tension, as Crowe’s jaw tightened. You could almost see the internal battle raging within him—the need to keep control, to not rely on anyone, fighting against the small, desperate part of him that did need help, that did want something different. Something softer, something less exhausting.
“Stop acting like you can do everything by yourself, Jericho," you said gently, yet firmly. “Let me help. Please.”
His eyes flicked down to where you were kneeling in front of him, his throat working as if he were trying to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t move, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to feel the weight of your presence. You were here, offering, and this time, you weren’t going to back off.
“I’m not going to bite, I promise.” You smiled, though it was a soft, knowing grin—one that suggested you could see right through the mask he wore.
For a moment, he said nothing, just staring at you like you’d asked him to do the impossible. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, His deep blue eyes flickered with something unreadable—something between exasperation and tiredness.
Then, finally, his shoulders and arms sagged, just a little, and he let out a quiet, resigned sigh. “Fine. Okay. You win. Help me, then.”
Still kneeling on the floor, you tilted your head slightly, your eyes locked onto his with a mischievous glint that told him you weren’t backing down anytime soon. You let your gaze linger a little longer than necessary, unwavering and unblinking, before slowly shifting closer, inching just enough to make your presence impossible to ignore.
You could feel the tension building between you two, a palpable electricity in the air, and you were loving every second of it.
“Y’know, as your assistant,” you began, your voice dripping with playful sarcasm, “all I’ve done is watch you mistreat me, running errands, picking up the slack... I mean, I barely get a ‘thank you’ for anything.” You leaned in just a little more, making sure he could feel the weight of your words.
It was a total lie, of course. He doesn’t actually mistreat you, but you loved getting under his skin, watching the way he reacted to your teasing. The slight furrow of his brow, the tension that flickered in his jaw—he was trying so hard not to take the bait.
Before he could respond, you lightly placed a hand on his thigh, just above the knee, your fingers barely grazing his skin. You could practically feel the sharp intake of breath he took, his body going rigid under your touch.
“You really should show your assistant some gratitude,” you added, your voice low, almost a whisper. “Or... maybe I’ll start taking advantage of the fact that I know exactly how much you don’t want help.”
His eyes flickered to your hand, then back up to your face, but he didn’t move. His lips pressed into a thin line, clearly debating whether to stay stoic or snap at you. But you could tell that you were getting to him—just a little.
You were testing him. And so far? You were winning.
You felt it instantly—the way his muscles tensed beneath the fabric of his pants, his entire body going rigid for just a fraction of a second. His smirk, always so confident, faltered—just barely. Instead, he regarded you with something sharper now, something closer to curiosity than irritation. “Oh?” he mused, his voice dipping into a lower register, sending a slow ripple of heat down your spine.
"I don't treat you badly," he protested, though his voice had an edge to it—strained, like he was trying very hard not to focus on the placement of your hand. “I always make sure to take care of you, even when I’m busy…”
You chuckled slyly, inching closer so that you were practically hovering over him now. Your fingers traced absentmindedly along his thigh, feather-light but deliberate, as you tilted your head and gave him a teasing, knowing look.
"Oh, Crowe," you crooned, drawing out his name, savoring the way his jaw clenched in response. “That’s not enough. And you don’t reward me ‘nearly’ enough."
His breath hitched for the smallest moment, but he recovered quickly, exhaling sharply through his nose. Almost a laugh—almost. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, something restrained, but the corners of his lips twitched upward in spite of himself.
"Rewards, huh?" he murmured, the words slow, measured. He leaned back slightly in his chair, though his gaze never left yours, locked in a silent battle of wills.
You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his fingers tightened slightly around the papers he had been holding—forgotten now, unimportant.
You had his attention. Completely.
"And what exactly do you think you deserve as a reward, huh?" Crowe asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone deceptively casual, but his body language betraying him. You paused, considering his question, letting the moment between you.
What could you ask for?
What did you want from him?
Your fingers, still resting on his thigh, tapped once—thoughtful, teasing. "Well," you mused, lips curling at the edges as you leaned in just a fraction closer. "That depends. Are you finally done with work?"
Crowe exhaled sharply, the sound unmistakable as he shook his head—a familiar gesture that meant he was about to endure something he definitely wasn’t looking forward to. You could see the frustration in the way his shoulders slumped slightly as if bracing for the inevitable storm that was coming his way. But before he could even open his mouth to express his exasperation—
His phone rang.
Shit maybe you don’t have his attention like you thought
You didn’t need to check the screen to know who was calling. The ringtone had become so ingrained in your memory, it was practically a soundtrack to your time spent in the student council room. You could’ve recognized it in the dead of night, half-asleep and groggy.
But you still raised an eyebrow, curious despite yourself. “Who is it?”
“The student President…” Crowe muttered, barely a glance at the phone before he visibly grimaced.
Without skipping a beat, you leaned over his thigh and nudged him, giving him that determined look that meant ‘this was happening whether he liked it or not.’ “Pick it up.”
He shot you a look of disbelief. “What now?”
“Yes. Pick it up.”
Crowe hesitated for just a second, clearly torn between his usual aversion to the student council President’s calls and the sense of duty that always seemed to take over.
You could practically feel the battle within him: to pick up and face whatever nonsense was about to unfold or to pretend he hadn’t heard it ringing and hoped it went away. But, of course, he didn’t choose the latter.
With an exaggerated sigh, Crowe picked up the phone, his fingers brushing over the screen like it was a ticking bomb.
Above you, Crowe cleared his throat, the sound sharp and professional—the tone he always used when he was in full ‘I-have-to-do-this’ mode. It was crisp and controlled, but there was a thin thread of tension that clung to the edges of his voice, betraying the fact that he was anything but relaxed.
“President,” Crowe greeted, his voice polite but tight, like he was holding back the urge to snap. "Didn’t realize you were gonna call so late."
You could practically feel the irritation dripping off him, but he kept it buried under that forced professional tone. If the student council president had any clue how much Crowe was dreading this call, they sure weren’t showing it. Crowe shifted in his seat, like he was bracing for whatever nonsense the student council president was about to throw his way.
You almost felt bad for him—almost—but let’s be real, he was the one who willingly signed up for this madness.
Still, you had a feeling this call was gonna drag on a lot longer than either of you wanted. Your heart was hammering as you pressed your head flat against Crowe’s lap, barely breathing, just waiting—again for this stupid call to be over.
Every inch of you was aware of how close you were, and it was making it hard to focus on anything else. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but it was way too hard when Crowe’s leg was right there, brushing against you.
On the other end, the student president’s voice—sharp and already full of annoyance—came through loud and clear. "It’s about the upcoming budget meeting. You didn’t submit the finalized report yet."
Crowe let out an exaggerated sigh from above, and you could feel the shift in his chair like it was trying to rattle your very bones. You clenched your jaw, trying not to squirm as you felt the brush of his knee against your shoulder. It definitely felt deliberate, like he was trying to mess with you, making it impossible for you to get comfortable.
You swallowed down the discomfort and forced yourself to stay still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you react.
"It’s almost done," Crowe said, smooth as butter, his voice way too casual for how much of a lie it was. "I was just in the middle of… reviewing it."
Such a liar. You rolled your eyes internally.
"Good," the student president replied, clearly distracted by whatever papers they were rifling through. “I need it by tonight. No excuses.”
Your stomach dropped. You held your breath, teetering on the edge of panic as Crowe leaned forward, his lower body inching closer to yours. He reached for something on his desk, and suddenly, the space between you felt way too small.
Like, way too small. It was suffocating, but you didn’t move.
You couldn’t.
…Right?
“Noted,” Crowe said, his voice only slightly strained. You could hear the tension in it, though, and it made your pulse spike.
The student president sighed on the other end of the phone call, oblivious to the chaos unfolding in Crowe’s office. “I don’t know how you manage all this paperwork, Ichabod. You’d think with your assistant, things would be more efficient.”
You nearly choked. Excuse me?
Crowe let out an amused huff, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Yeah, well. Sometimes, they can be a handful.”
Your eye twitched. Oh, he did not just say that. That smug little—oh, he was so not getting away with this.
From under the desk, you moved quickly, your fingers darting to his pants. You undid the buttons with practiced ease, then unzipped them, pulling them down to his thighs. And then—oh.
Oh~
The first thing you saw was the massive tent in his briefs, and you almost choked on your own saliva. How was he even walking like that?
“Hey—what are you—what are you doing—?” Crowe hissed, his voice low and frantic. You glanced up at him, and the look on his face was priceless. His jaw was tight, his dark blue eyes wide, and there was this desperate, pleading expression that screamed, ‘Don’t you dare.’
But oh, you dared.
You brought a hand to him hesitantly, your fingers brushing over the fabric of his briefs. The second you started palming him, Crowe let out this low, shaky sigh that he barely managed to stifle. How the hell was he already this hard? And why did that make your stomach flip in the best way possible?
You could feel him twitch under your touch, and you bit your lip to keep from grinning. This was payback, plain and simple. He wanted to call you a ‘handful’?
Fine. You’d show him exactly what that meant.
Crowe’s voice was strained as he tried to keep his composure on the phone. “Yes. I’ll—uh—make sure to follow up on that.”
You smirked, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his briefs. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he shot you a look that was equal parts warning and begging. But you weren’t about to stop now. Not when he was squirming like this, not when you had him right where you wanted him.
“Crowe?” the student president’s voice crackled through the phone. “Are you still there?”
“Y-yes,” Crowe stammered, his voice tight. “Just—uh—just dealing with something. Urgently.”
You stifled a laugh, your hand wrapping around him fully now. Crowe’s head tipped back slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He was trying so hard to keep it together, but you could see the cracks forming. His free hand gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and you could feel the way his body tensed under your touch.
Crowe was trying to focus.
Keyword: trying.
But you were making it impossible.
You had one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, your fingers teasing the sensitive skin there, while your other hand cupped his balls, gently massaging them in a way that made his leg twitch under the desk. You kissed the tip of him, soft and teasing, and when you glanced up at him, his jaw was clenched so tight you thought it might crack.
“Yes, President,” Crowe said, his voice strained but impressively steady. “I’ll make sure the budget report is finalized by—” He cut off with a sharp inhale as you dragged your tongue along the length of him, slow and deliberate. His free hand slammed down on the desk, and you could see his fingers trembling.
You smirked, your lips curling around him as you took him deeper, your tongue flicking against the underside of his cock. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to cover the sound. “Apologies,” he said, his voice tight. “Just—uh—just a bit of a cough.”
You almost laughed at that, but you were too busy enjoying the way his thighs tensed under your hands. You pulled back, letting him slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and then—because you were feeling extra mean—you slapped his cock against your cheek a couple of times, the sound muffled but still way too loud in the quiet space.
Crowe’s eyes snapped down to you, wide and panicked, and you gave him your best innocent look before leaning in to lick a slow stripe up his length. His hand shot out, tangling in your hair, but he didn’t push you away. No, he just held on, his grip tightening as you took him into your mouth again, deeper this time.
“Ichabod?” the student president’s voice came through the phone, sharp and impatient. “Are you even listening?”
“Y-yes, sir,” Crowe managed, though his voice was definitely higher-pitched than usual. “Just—uh—just reviewing the numbers.”
You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk involuntarily. He bit down on his lip to stifle a groan, but you could still hear it, low and desperate. You pulled back again, your lips brushing against the tip of his cock as you looked up at him, your eyes wide and innocent.
“You’re doing so good,” you mouthed, your voice silent but your meaning crystal clear. Crowe’s face flushed a deep red, and he quickly looked away, his jaw tightening as he tried—and failed—to focus on the phone call. His free hand, the one not clutching the phone, gripped the edge of his desk so hard you thought the wood might splinter.
You didn’t let up.
Instead, you ducked your head again, taking him deeper this time, your throat relaxing around him as you swallowed him down. Crowe’s hand tangled in your hair, his fingers tightening almost reflexively, and you could feel the way his body tensed, the way he fought to keep his hips still.
He was a losing battle, and you knew it.
You could feel the subtle shift in his muscles, the way his control was slipping with every flick of your tongue, every slow, deliberate movement of your lips.
“President,” Crowe said, his voice strained, “I think we might need to—ah—to reschedule this call.”
You smirked around him, your tongue flicking against that sensitive spot just under the head of his cock. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he let out a shaky exhale that he barely managed to stifle. You could feel the way his thighs trembled under your hands, the way his entire body was teetering on the edge.
“Reschedule?” the president snapped, his tone incredulous. “Ichabod, this is important. We don’t have time for—”
But Crowe wasn’t listening anymore.
His hips bucked forward involuntarily, his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you could feel the way his body shuddered, the way he lost control for just a second.
It was all you needed.
You hummed softly, the vibration making him twitch in your mouth, and you could feel the way his resolve was crumbling. His hand in your hair tightened, pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle, and you could hear the way his breathing grew ragged, uneven.
“I—uh—apologize, sir,” Crowe managed to choke out, his voice tight and unsteady. “Something… urgent has come up.”
You didn’t let him finish.
Instead, you pulled back slightly, just enough to swirl your tongue around the tip of his cock before taking him deep again, your throat working around him. Crowe’s head tipped back, a low groan escaping his lips before he could stop it, and you could feel the way his body was trembling, the way he was barely holding it together.
The student president was still talking, his voice sharp and impatient, but Crowe wasn’t hearing a word of it. His focus was entirely on you, on the way your mouth felt around him, on the way you were driving him absolutely insane. His hips bucked again, this time more deliberately, and you could feel the way his control was slipping, the way he was losing himself in the sensation.
“I’ll—ah—call you back,” Crowe said abruptly, his voice rough and strained. He didn’t even wait for a response before he ended the call, tossing the phone onto his desk with a clatter.
The second the call was over, his hand in your hair tightened, and he pulled you off him just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and blazing with need. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he growled, his voice low and rough.
You just smirked up at him, your lips still wrapped around him, and then you took him deep again, your throat relaxing as you swallowed him down. Crowe’s breath came out in a harsh exhale, and his hips jerked forward, his control completely gone now.
“Fuck,” Crowe muttered, his voice rough and strained, his hand tightening in your hair as he thrust into your mouth. His movements were desperate, almost frantic, like he was losing control and couldn’t stop himself.
You could feel the way his body trembled, the way his thighs tensed under your hands, and you knew he was teetering on the edge.
You kept your pace steady, your lips wrapped tight around him, your tongue working against him in ways that made his breath hitch and his grip on your hair tighten almost painfully.
"Here I—"
Crowe didn’t get to finish his words.
His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing in your mouth as he came with a low, guttural groan. You swallowed half of it, the taste warm and salty, before pulling back just enough to let the rest spill across your lower face. A few streaks of white painted your chin and the corner of your mouth, and you looked up at him, your eyes never leaving his.
“I’m so sorry,” Crowe said, his voice hoarse, his chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hand loosened in your hair, his fingers brushing gently against your scalp as if to soothe the sting. But you just smirked, your tongue darting out to catch the cum at the edge of your face.
“It’s all good,” you said, your voice low and teasing, as you licked the last traces of him away. The way his eyes darkened at the sight, the way his jaw tightened like he was fighting the urge to pull you back in, only made your smirk widen.
When he finally stilled, his body limp and spent, you pulled back slowly, a satisfied smirk on your lips. Crowe slumped back in his chair, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing. He looked completely wrecked—his hair disheveled, his shirt rumpled and half-unbuttoned, his face still flushed with the aftermath of his release. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint tremble in his forearms.
“You’re lucky we didn’t get caught,” Crowe muttered, his voice low and gruff as he leaned back in his chair. He was trying to sound stern, but the way his eyes lingered on you—dark and hungry—gave him away. “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if the student president had figured out what you were doing under my desk?”
You just shrugged, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, a sly grin spreading across your face. “At least I had your back, so he didn’t really hear anything. Besides, he sounded more pissed that you hung up on him than anything else.”
Crowe groaned, running a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe away the memory of the entire ordeal. But you could see the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile. “You’re such a menace,” he said, though there was no real heat behind his words. His voice was soft, almost fond, and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—made your stomach flip.
You stood, leaning against his desk, your grin widening. “You love it,” you shot back, your voice dripping with playful defiance.
Crowe let out a low laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “I really do,” he admitted, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.
You couldn’t help but notice how flushed Crowe’s face was, the deep red hue spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.
Was it from the way you’d just had him unraveling under your touch?
Or maybe it was the spiked cheesecake that you convinced him to indulge in earlier, the alcohol warming his veins and loosening his usual tight control. Honestly, it could’ve been both, and the thought made a smug little smile tug at your lips.
Either way, you wanted him to relax, to let go of whatever tension was still coiled in his body.
“Do you need the hangover pills from your bathroom?” you asked, your voice soft but teasing as you tilted your head, studying him. You were half-turned toward the door, ready to fetch them if he said yes, but Crowe shook his head almost immediately.
“No,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I don’t need pills. I just need you.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and loaded, and before you could respond—before you could even process what he’d said—he reached for you. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firmness that sent a shiver up your spine.
In one swift motion, he was on his feet, pulling you toward him with a force that made you stumble. You let out a surprised laugh, but it was cut short as you collided with his chest, his other arm snaking around your waist to steady you.
And then his lips were on yours, crashing into you with a hunger that left you breathless. The kiss was deep, demanding, almost possessive, and you melted into it without hesitation. His tongue slid against yours, and you could still taste him on your lips—a faint, lingering reminder of what you’d just done to him. It seemed to drive him wilder, his grip on you tightening as if he was afraid you’d pull away.
His hands roamed over your body like he needed to touch every inch of you, to remind himself that you were real, that you were his. One hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he cradled your head, holding you in place like he never wanted to let you go. The other hand stayed firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into your skin through the fabric of your clothes, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.
You could feel the heat of him through his clothes, the way his body thrummed with restless energy like he was still riding the high of what had just happened. His chest rose and fell against yours, his breathing ragged, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart where your hand rested against him.
It was intoxicating, the way he wanted you, the way he needed you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands sliding into his long, soft brown hair. His hair was silky between your fingers, and you tugged gently, earning a low groan from him that vibrated against your lips.
The sound sent a thrill through you, and you deepened the kiss, your tongue sliding against his as you poured every ounce of your own desire into it. Crowe’s grip on you tightened, his body pressing into yours like he was trying to fuse the two of you together, and you could feel the evidence of his want pressing against your hip, hard and insistent.
The kiss was everything—hot, desperate, and full of unspoken promises.
It was a collision of need and longing, a silent conversation that neither of you could put into words. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless, his hands gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.
And when he finally broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath came in short, uneven gasps. You could see it in his eyes—the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, like you were his entire world.
Crowe laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, softer this time but no less hungry. You let yourself get lost in him, your body leaning back until the edge of his desk stopped you from moving any further. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, his body pressing you firmly against the desk.
One hand braced on the surface beside you, trapping you in place, while the other stayed on your waist, holding you like he never wanted to let go.
When he finally released you, you could see the redness of his face, the flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. It was almost enough to make you laugh, and you couldn’t resist tapping your finger lightly on his nose. He blinked, taken aback by the playful gesture, and then a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face.
“It’s time to reward beloved assistant,” he said, his voice low and rough, before kissing you again. This time, it was fiercer, more demanding, and you barely had time to react before he was roughly pushing all the papers off his desk with one sweeping motion.
The sound of them scattering to the floor barely registered as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the now-clear desk. His hands stayed on your thighs, his grip firm as he leaned over you, trapping you once again.
Crowe’s breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling as he hovered over you, his eyes dark with want. He was about to kiss you again, but you stopped him, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back.
“Crowe, you’re still drunk,” you said, your voice soft but firm. You cupped his face in your hands, your fingertips brushing over the soft skin of his cheeks. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were now clouded with a mix of desire and something deeper, something raw and vulnerable. “One slice of spiked cheesecake is all it takes for you to be someone else?” you teased, your fingertips grazing over his soft, parted lips.
As much as you adored Crowe, you didn’t want to take advantage of him in this state. He was always so composed, so in control, and seeing him like this—unraveled and needy—was both intoxicating and a little unsettling.
Crowe’s breath hitched as he leaned into your touch, his lips pressing a kiss to your palm. “I wonder if you fed me that cake on purpose, you to take a break.” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “Did you want to see me like this?”
You almost laughed.
Yeah, maybe you did.
But you wouldn’t tell him that to his face.
“Who could’ve guessed a small amount of alcohol would get you this drunk?” you said instead, looking down as his hands traveled up your thighs, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch was electric, and you had to bite your lip to keep from gasping.
“I never allowed myself touch alcohol,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands stopped at your waist, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin. “But for you, I broke that rule.”
“Crowe…” you mumbled, your arms wrapping around his neck as you tried to steady yourself. His proximity, his touch, the way he looked at you—it was all too much, and yet not enough.
“You said you wanted a reward,” he said, his eyes pleading as he leaned his head down into the crook of your shoulder. “Fuck, you’re so warm. You smell like you, and I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than the stars in the sky.”
Confident, may you add, needy drunk definitely.
You felt your breath catch as his lips brushed against your neck, his kisses soft and lingering. His hands moved back to your thighs, sliding up to your waist, and then under your shirt again, his fingers exploring the plush curve of your hips. Everywhere he touched, it felt like he was leaving a mark, branding you as his.
“You’ve been such a wonderful assistant,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “As your so-called boss, let me reward you, starlight.” His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help the windchime laugh that escaped you, muffled against his chest. It made his heart flip-flop like a fish in the cavern of his ribs.
“Crowe, please…” you whispered, your voice trembling.
“If you want me, you can have me,” he said, his lips brushing against your shoulder. “In whichever way you want.”
In whichever way you want?
That was a dangerous offer, especially from someone like him. And you knew you’d take him up on it, again and again and again. But not like this. Not when he was drunk, his inhibitions lowered, his control slipping.
You sighed, gently pushing against his chest to create some distance. “Jericho, you’re really drunk,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “I’ll get the hangover pills.”
But before you could slide off the desk, Crowe grabbed your arms, pulling you back onto the surface with a force that surprised you. “Are you trying to escape?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “You keep saying I’m drunk. So, must I always stay sober?” He rested his head on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. “Because of you, everything is spiraling out of control. How can you pretend you’re not affected?”
Your eyes flickered away for a moment, your hand resting on his chest as you thought about his words. It was hard to say no to him, especially when he looked at you like that, when his touch set your skin on fire. But you didn’t want to push him into something he might regret later.
“Jericho…” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. You were torn, your resolve wavering under the weight of his need and your own desire.
Fuck it.
You were a little tipsy too.
Just a bit better at hiding it than him.
You kiss him with a softness that he thinks must come naturally to you, a tenderness that makes his chest ache in the best way. Crowe adores it, even as he feels a twinge of guilt for the way he wants to devour it, to take that softness and turn it into something wild and untamed.
But for now, he lets himself sink into it, his lips moving against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly deepens. Lips give way to tongue, and then to teeth, his mouth nipping at your lower lip in a way that makes you gasp softly, your fingers tightening in his hair.
His hands know your skin like they’ve mapped it a thousand times before, and yet every touch feels new, electric. They’re everywhere at once, hot and aching as they slide under your clothes, exploring the curves of your body with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.
One hand slips up to your breast, cupping it gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your top. The sensation is enough to make you arch into him, a gasp escaping your lips that he swallows down with another kiss.
Crowe takes his time with your layered tops—first the crop top, then the tank top—peeling them off you carefully, like he’s unveiling something sacred. His gaze never leaves you, his eyes dark and hungry as he drinks in the sight of you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he’s leaning in, his mouth finding the spot right above your sternum, where he can feel the rapid flutter of your heartbeat beneath his lip as he removes your bra.
“So beautiful,” he mumbles into your skin, his voice low and rough with desire. His hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles.
“The brightest star in my life,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s confessing something he’s held onto for too long. He tilts his head, capturing one nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around it as his hand slides under your back, fingers pressing into the dip of your spine.
You arch into him instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips as he takes his time, lavishing attention on your body despite the way his cock throbs painfully in his boxers—once again a bulge as pants were still unbutton. “Such a pretty star,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “So hot to the touch.”
His hands move to your hips, gripping you firmly as he lifts you by your ass, pulling your flared yoga pants down and off in one smooth motion. His eyes follow every movement, every inch of exposed skin, and you’re grateful for the dim lighting of the standing lamp near his desk.
It casts a warm glow over you, highlighting the curves of your body as you sit on top of his desk, completely at his mercy. His gaze is intense, almost reverent, as he takes you in, his hands sliding up your thighs with a touch that’s both possessive and tender.
“Stay still, dearest,” he murmurs, his voice a low command that sends a shiver down your spine. His hands continue their exploration, fingers lacing through yours as they move over your hips, down to the waistband of your panties. He hooks his fingers into the fabric, pulling them down slowly, leaving you completely bare in front of him. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his breath coming a little faster now.
But of course, you can’t let him have all the fun.
“No,” you say suddenly, your voice firm but playful, pushing Crowe away with your foot on his lower chest, slowly rubbing.
Crowe freezes, his head snapping up to look at you, his cheeks still flushed with desire. “No?” he asks, his voice tinged with surprise and a hint of amusement.
“Isn’t this my reward for being your assistant?” you ask, tilting your head as you give him a sly smile. “Shouldn’t I have a say in how this goes?”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then a smirk plays on his lips, his expression shifting from surprise to ‘of course, whatever you say.’
“My apologies, dearest,” he says, his voice soft but laced with teasing. “How selfish of me. Of course, it’s only fair that you have a say in this.” He steps closer, his hands resting on either side of you on the desk as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. “So, what is it that you desire, my sweet star? You have my full attention. Just tell me what you want.”
There was one or maybe two things.
You were sprawled back on Crowe’s desk, the cool surface pressing into your skin as your legs fell open for him.
The edge of the desk dug into your lower back, but the discomfort was a distant thought—completely overshadowed by the way Crowe was looking at you. His deep blue eyes were dark with hunger, his gaze raking over your body like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. His long brown hair was undone,messy, falling into his face as he leaned over you, and you couldn’t help but reach up to brush a strand away. He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before letting it go, his lips curving into a smirk that made your stomach flip.
His hands slid up your thighs, his grip firm but not rough, like he was savoring the feel of you. He pushed your legs wider, settling himself between them, and you shivered as his fingers traced patterns on your skin, teasing and deliberate. His touch was electric, sending little shocks of pleasure through you, and you bit your lip to keep from begging him to hurry up.
But Crowe wasn’t one to rush. He took his time, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm against your sensitive skin. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair as he kissed his way up, his breath hot and uneven. Each kiss was slow, and deliberate, like he was mapping out every inch of you, and by the time he reached where you needed him most, you were already trembling.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, the words sending a thrill through you. And then his tongue flicked against clit, and you let out a strangled cry, your fingers tightening in his hair. He didn’t hold back, his mouth working you over with a skill that had you seeing stars, your hips lifting off the desk as you tried to get closer, to feel more.
But just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled back, leaving you gasping and desperate. You whined, your hands tugging at his hair, but he only chuckled, the sound dark and full of promise. “Not yet,” he said, his voice dripping with mischief. “You missed the best part.”
You groaned, your head falling back against the desk as you tried to catch your breath. Crowe straightened, you can heard him unbuttoning his shirt, then pulled down his boxers along with his pants.
Soon you felt his hands sliding up to grip your hips, and you could feel the heat of him as he positioned his cock at your entrance—which he slap his cock against your pussy, enough to make you jump little bit as you tried to mentally prepare yourself.
Crowe laugh softly, holding you, "Don’t worry," He started before opening your pussy with two fingers, "Just relax, right?"
That little cheeky asshole
Suddenly, he pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out. He felt so good, stretching you, filling you completely, and when he finally bottomed out, you both let out a shaky breath.
“Fuck,” Crowe muttered, his head dropping forward as he tried to steady himself. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs brushing against your skin in a way that was almost soothing. “You feel so fucking incredible.”
You could only nod, your hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders as he started to move. His pace was slow at first, almost torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. But then he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Just you.”
Crowe groaned, his pace quickening as he gave you exactly what you asked for—a rhythm that had you seeing stars. His hands moved to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he kissed you, deep and hungry.
His hands slid under your thighs, lifting your legs higher as he thrust into you, each movement deep and deliberate. You could feel the tension building in your body, your nails digging into his back—enough to almost leave marks as you tried to hold on.
And then, just as you were about to lose yourself completely, his phone rang.
The sound was jarring, pulling you both out of the moment, and Crowe let out a frustrated groan, stop completely. “Shit,” he muttered, glancing at the phone where it sat on the desk beside your head. He reached for it, his movements jerky and impatient, but when he saw the name on the screen—Student Council President—he hesitated.
“Answer it,” you moaned, your voice breathless and teasing. Your eyes met his, and you could see the conflict in his gaze—the way he wanted to ignore the call but knew he probably shouldn’t. “You know I can’t,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure.
But you didn’t care.
You reached for the phone, your fingers brushing against his as you answered the call and handed it to him. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it’s something important?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful innocence.
Crowe shot you a look that was equal parts ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me’ and ‘I’m so into you it’s ridiculous.’ He sighed, running a hand through his hair before reluctantly bringing the phone to his ear, standing up straight. “What?” he snapped, his voice sharp and impatient, like he was already done with this conversation before it even started.
The student council president’s voice crackled through the phone, loud and unmistakably pissed. “Ichabod! What the hell was that earlier? You can’t just hang up on me like that! Do you have any idea how unprofessional—”
Then, out of nowhere. With a playful annoyed sigh, your body to move, slamming yourself hard against Crowe.
He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning into the phone, however, your warm pussy clenching around cock—deep inside you, so warm, so fucking wet and bare— he wonders if he stretching you out in all of the right places.
You could feel the way his body tensed, the way he was trying to keep his voice steady while you were doing your absolute best to ruin him. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Unprofessional. Got it. Can we move on?”
“Move on?!” the student president screeched, his voice so loud you were pretty sure the neighbors could hear it. “You hung up on me in the middle of a very important discussion! Do you know how much paperwork I have to deal with because of you?!”
You couldn’t help it—you smirked, your fingers digging into Crowe’s arms as you rocked against him. He shot you a glare, but it was half-hearted at best, and you could see the way his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Look,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure, “I’ll… uh… I’ll get you the forms tomorrow, okay? Can we just—ah—drop this for now?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, and you could practically hear the president’s brain short-circuiting. “Are you… are you breathing weirdly? What’s wrong with you?”
Crowe’s eyes widened, and for a split second, he looked genuinely panicked—like a deer caught in headlights. His grip on your hips tightened, his body freezing as the president’s voice blared through the phone, sharp and accusatory.
But then, just as quickly as the panic had set in, it was gone. His expression shifted, an unfamiliar mask of cool composure sliding back into place.
His voice dropped into that low, dangerous tone he used when he was about to shut someone down, the one that sent shivers down your spine even when it wasn’t directed at you.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said, his voice smooth and steady, though you could feel the way his body tensed beneath you. “I’m just… busy. Very busy. So if you’ll excuse me—”
“Busy doing what?!” the president yelled, their voice reaching a pitch that could probably shatter glass. “You’re supposed to be working, not—what are you even doing right now?!”
Crowe’s lips twitched, and you could see the exact moment the mischief sparked in his eyes. He looked down at you, his gaze dark and heated, and then he smirked.
Uh oh.
“Jericho—” you started, your voice a warning, but he cut you off with a deep, hungry kiss. His lips crashed against yours, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your head spin. The kiss was demanding, almost possessive, and you couldn’t help but melt into it, your hands tangling in his hair as he muffled your sounds. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, his breathing ragged, and he gave you a wicked grin that made your stomach flip.
“Trust me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “I need you to be loud for this.”
Before you could respond, he turned his attention back to the phone, his smirk widening as he brought it to his ear. “What am I doing?” he repeated, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “Oh, you know. Just… multitasking.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line, and then the president’s voice came through, louder and more incredulous than before. “Multitasking?! What does that even mean?!”
Crowe’s grin turned downright devilish, and you could feel the way his body vibrated with suppressed laughter. “This,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, and then he thrust deep inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur and your breath catch.
You couldn’t help it—you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure shot through you like a lightning bolt.
“Jericho!” you cried out, your voice breaking on his name, and he smirked, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he turned his attention back to the phone.
“You hear that?” he said, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “I’m busy fucking at the moment. Raw and deep. Something you’ll never get with those ugly-ass clothes of yours.”
Your eyes widened in shock, your mouth falling open as you stared at him.
Did he really just say that?
To the student council president?
Your Crowe??
But before you could say anything, Crowe hung up and tossed the phone onto the desk, the device skidding across the surface before coming to a stop near the edge. “Jericho!” you hissed, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement. “You did not just say that!”
He laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you. “What?” he said, pulling back just enough to grin at you.
“It’s true, plus you wanted this,” Crowe murmured, his voice low and rough, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth. He bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp, before soothing the sting with his tongue, sucking and teasing until you were squirming beneath him.
His deep blue eyes locked onto yours, “There’s something undeniably addictive about stepping out of line,” he admitted, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “Maybe getting drunk was worth it. Especially fucking you at the end.”
You laughed breathlessly, the sound catching in your throat as he thrust into you again, his cock hitting that deep, sensitive spot that made your toes curl. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked you with a relentless intensity that left you breathless.
Every movement was deliberate, every stroke designed to drive you closer to the edge. You could feel the tension building in your body, your legs wrapping around his waist as you pulled him closer, desperate for more. “Crowe,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back as you tried to hold on. “I’m close—”
“Come for me,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, and it was all you needed to tip over the edge. Your body trembled as pleasure washed over you in waves, your walls clenching around his cock as you fell apart. Crowe didn’t let up, continuing ramming his hips into yours as he chased his own release, his breath hot against your neck as he let out a low, guttural groan.
When he finally came, it was with a force that left you both shaking. His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled himself deep, his body collapsing against yours as he rode out the waves of pleasure. His breath was ragged, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the way his heart raced against your chest.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The room was quiet, save for the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing, the sound of your hearts still racing in sync. Crowe’s body was warm and heavy against yours, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. You could feel the way his fingers absently traced patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and lingering like he was memorizing every inch of you.
And then he lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and the look he gave you—God, it made your chest ache. His gaze was dark, full of something raw and unguarded, a mix of affection and possessiveness that made your stomach flip. It was the kind of look that made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered, like you were his entire world.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, his voice rough but tender, and you couldn’t help but smile.
“But what a way to go, right?” you teased, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, feeling the way his muscles shifted under your touch.
Crowe laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, his lips soft and lingering. It wasn’t the hungry, desperate kiss from before—this was something slower, sweeter, like he was savoring the taste of you. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Besides, my assistant wanted attention, and as the boss, I’m happy to provide.”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. “You’re such an idiot,” you said, your voice fond.
“Maybe,” he said, his lips brushing against yours in a way that made your breath hitch. “But I’m your idiot.”
And then he was kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you. His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine as he traced every curve, every dip like he was trying to commit you to memory. “Forever yours,” he murmured against your lips, the words so soft they were almost lost in the space between you.
You laughed as you kissed him back, your hands wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. “So, what are you going to do now that you’ve probably been fired from the student council?” you asked, your tone light and teasing.
Crowe shrugged, a smirk spreading across his face.
“Whatever my new boss tells me to do,” he said, his lips brushing against your palm as he kissed it. His eyes met yours, and the look he gave you was pure mischief. “And right now, you’re telling me to stay right here.” You grinned, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him in for another kiss.
here's the new nightmare event with corrupt sydney! (this embarrassingly took me a min after a few save scumming - which is not working properly for some reason hm)
(1) Reach out to the closer Sydney
(2) Call out for the new Sydney
(1) Interrupt Pure Sydney
(If you choose violence and lowered Syd's health to zero)
(And if you decided to just fuck it and made Syd cum)
(2) Interrupt Corrupt Sydney
(again, you chose violence and syd's health went zero)
(1) Reach out to Sydney
(2) Just watch
(now here's if you made syd cum)
boy was this a ride... im just as shocked as i was earlier when i read this event in the game's code because i couldn't wait to play and just went through the code lmao
this nightmare event isn't added in the scene viewer so im gonna have to redo the whole process just to replay the event to get new variations hahaha fuck
Edit 1: The bug was fixed and now I added the scene if you choose the options after lowering pure!syd's health! The nightmare still isn't in the scene viewer so oh well
Here's the official hierarchy of positions in the temple! really excited to see what kind of trial the priest position would have. hoping it involves the baton or whip cuz i need to see my pc in action!!!
Ever wondered what happens when you break your Chastity Vow trait in DOL? Too nervous to try it yourself? Don't want to sit through 6 back-to-back encounters? Well, do I have the post for you! ^_^
Oh yeah & you're going to pass out from stress after this. I was going to make this post a two-for-one but accidentally closed the tab so this is all you get </3
AIGHT JUST HAD THE TIME TO MAKE THIS POST BUT ANYWAYYYYYY-
from my previous post I talked about how IW is talking about a Third, which a lot speculated as Sydney being the Third - which is understandable due to IW having unique text about Sydney (which is a lot compared to the other LI). If you don't know, here's what IW say in reference to Sydney (taken from the game's code in github)
But in the same code the Third text can only be triggered with an Awareness of 900, along with other texts that have vague mentions of the two entities (Auriga : trail (as one of Auriga's title is blazing chariot that's probably what it meant) & Virgo : six (six arms, six wings, you get the gist))
With that in mind, Sydney is definitely out of the question for being the Third, and the curious presence from the prayer room is in!
You're probably asking who tf is that- well it's something you can encounter in the prayer room once you're a member of the temple! It's a very low chance, but there's a designated necklace for it to gain 10% to meet it - which is still low but still! Here's the scene once you meet it!
Now moving forward, the reason why I truly believe that the curious presence is the Third IW mentions because whenever there's mentions of Auriga and Virgo there would also be a mention of the curious presence! Two examples for this is the prayer room and looking at the sky from the telescope at GH's tower. Here's Auriga and Virgo! (there's a change in text if your soft world corruption is above 50 or more! and i unfortunately have a shit ton)
Unfortunately I don't have a picture for the third scene but i did copy the text in the game's code so here!
You spot a shape you aren't familiar with. It doesn't match any constellations you know, but there's unmistakably a pattern present. It feels as though someone has made a horrible mistake, and something has been moved from its intended position. You feel dizzy, yet warm. When you try to focus again, the pattern is gone.
And all of this scenes can be triggered by wearing the designated necklace which are: holy, dark and stone pendant. The pictures are courtesy to the wiki.
And I'm sure you can already guess which entities the necklaces triggers. It also has some dialogue from Sydney if you're wearing it when talking to them in the library! (nothing to special! dark pendant has Sydney spacing out, holy pendant ofc has syndey saying how safe they feel wearing it, while the stone pendant has sydney who looks interested at the necklace and mentions how they've seen it before <- all of this is from pure/neutral sydney! i have no idea what the difference will be except corrupt syd will say that they still wear their holy pendant despite everything iirc)
Here's also a screenshot from Purityguy which is really solidifying my claim.
Also if you guys didn't connect the dots already, Auriga and Virgo is a real life constellations. And Purityguy said that we can find out what the curious presence's name is from the screenshot above.
Basing on the screenshots and lore in game the third/curious presence is a forgotten being from a really old religion. There isn't any more details we can get except the fact that IW might have some knowledge due to it being old as fuck and the only scenes (that i know of) is in the prayer room and the telescope.
After all this, it really makes sense why IW says the Third remains unfound. The two entities having followers/worshippers while the other one has been forgotten about as time passes.
I still haven't figured out what IW meant by the 'Until the Sands run dry' text but it's probably referring to the third/curious presence atp.
That's all I managed to brainstormed. Honestly, I put too much effort in dissecting the lore then I do in anything.... god
NSFW - Barbatos x MC - Nightbringer AU + monsterfucker + breeding + ovipositor kink
(Barbatos x gn!MC)
(NSFW) (plot heavy) (dom!top!Barbatos / bottom!sub!MC) (monsterfucker; breeding; ovipos/eggs; slight degredation and humiliation; but mostly praise; oral - receiving; penetration - receiving; two dicks; aphrodisiac-like effects; overstimulation; slight dacryphillia/tears; slight dubcon at the beginning; cheating adjacent?; mentions of aftercare) (no body specification for MC, and yes I made it work so he can breed any body) (Barbatos as Nightbringer + AU) (kinda fucked up plot)
Word Count: +5,000 (new longest single character fic. Sorry? Why does this happen when I write monster Barbs)
A bittersweet pang struck your chest when you received an invitation to the Demon Lord’s castle directly from Barbatos. Even the way he had phrased the invite was reminiscent of future Barbatos – the demon who adored you. When you were sent back to the past, your relationship began anew, and you were forced to face him while craving the loving affection you had worked so hard to earn. Deep in the pit of your stomach, a nagging guilt bit at you every time you were around this past Barbatos, wishing for an unbecomingly familiar show of affection. You knew you would return to the future someday, and you were certain you wouldn’t be able to make him fall in love with you before you left. Was it so awful to want him to pull you into a quiet hall and kiss you to breathlessness before returning to his duties? Were you really as monstrous as your guilt believed for wishing this version of Barbatos would need you so desperately that he milked every second he could spare just to sate his desire for you?
All the lust and love that you had quelled came back, overflowing, when your D.D.D. buzzed last night while you were preparing dinner. Solomon had been so kind as to leave the kitchen and allow you to cook in peace. Barbatos’s name, accompanied affectionately – and delusionally – by a green heart, appeared on the screen.
Barbatos: Good evening, MC. I was wondering if you would do me the honor of visiting the castle tomorrow. The Young Master is set to attend an overnight party hosted by the House of Lords. I was not permitted to accompany him this time. He’ll be gone for nearly three days with the travel. It’s been ages since I’ve been apart from him for so long. The thought of it makes me anxious. Your presence seems to put me at ease. As such, I would appreciate your company if you could spare some time for me. I eagerly await your response.
Your heart swelled as you stared down at your phone. He wanted to see you. It almost sounded romantic. Your gushing was interrupted by the hiss of evaporating liquid; your pot boiled over.
“Shit!” You shoved your phone into your pocket and rushed to the stove. Everything was fine, but you sighed at the mess you were going to have to clean – and you couldn’t do that until you changed burners and allowed the dirty one to cool.
It wasn’t until you had finished cooking and went to message Solomon that dinner was ready, unlocking your D.D.D. only to see your chat with Barbatos, that you remembered: you never replied! Solomon could wait the one minute it took for you to respond to Barbatos.
MC: Sorry! I had some kitchen trouble, but it’s fine now. I would love to see you.
Barbatos: Excellent. I will see the Young Master off at 7am. You are welcome to come by any time after that. I look forward to it.
You arrived at the castle that afternoon, anxiously wondering how you would interact with Barbatos. You hadn’t spent much time alone with him, and you weren’t as close as you were in the future. Maybe this version of Barbatos was slightly different than the one you knew, and you wouldn’t mind getting to know him better, but to him, you were practically a stranger. Every intimate detail you had shared was resting in his mind, millennia from now. Still, you wanted to be around him, so you were determined to find some way to enjoy your day. Maybe you could bake together like old – well, future – times.
“Good afternoon. I’m so pleased you could make it,” Barbatos greeted you at the door with a grin, stepping aside to let you in. “I apologize for the late notice. I didn’t interrupt any plans, did I?”
“Not at all. My day was clear – and even if it wasn’t I –” you stopped yourself short. You wanted to tell him that you would have cleared it just for him, but that seemed far too intimate for your current relationship.
“If it wasn’t?” Barbatos urged you to continue.
“I –” you tried again, “It isn’t often that I get invited to the castle. I would have made the time.”
“How kind of you.” Barbatos chuckled, covering his smile in that shy manner you had come to adore. “Would you be so kind as to follow me as I finish up my rounds? I’d like to ensure everything is in order before I can devote my full attention to you.”
His words made your heart race, reviving some long-deceased hope that he would fall for you in this timeline. Perhaps the future had a much stronger impact on the past than you expected it to. Your face felt warm as you nodded.
Barbatos walked along side you at a leisurely pace, only taking a step ahead to guide you in one direction or the other and to open doors for you. He maintained polite chatter, mostly asking about your week. You hadn’t been walking very long before you realized you were heading deeper into the castle – namely towards the labyrinth. Even in the future, you rarely went near it, so as you got closer, the castle looked increasingly unfamiliar. You wondered if the rumors about the torture chamber below the castle had formed already or if those claims would come later. It felt eerie to head towards them now, but you figured it was part of Barbatos’s duty to check them during his rounds.
You continued through dark, stony halls – lit only by the dim candlelight from the sconces lining the walls. It seemed that the flames gradually appeared as you walked ahead. Had you bothered to look back, you would have also seen them fade behind you, leaving the dim corridor in pitch-black darkness. The creepy atmosphere was getting to you, and you inched closer to Barbatos. His smile widened slightly, but he didn’t comment.
“Do you go down here every day?” you asked him nervously.
“No, not usually, but I haven’t checked the labyrinth in a while. It’s necessary to monitor the candle levels and keep an eye out for leaks or potential . . . pests. I figured now was as good of a time as any. It can be a boring walk by myself.”
A large iron door stood at the end of the hall – one which seemed to require magic from Barbatos before it would open. He ushered you into a room, lined with iron-barred cells. As he shut the door behind him, you scanned your surroundings. There were no other visible doors – no clear point of exit. You turned back to look at Barbatos, confused.
“Why did you close the door?”
Before you could get an answer, Barbatos pushed you against the cool stone wall, holding you still from behind. One gloved hand grabbed your wrist while the other snaked up your neck seductively. The sensation reminded you of when Barbatos would get desperate for your body – how his greed would take over until his hands were wandering over you like some horrifying colonial effort, ready to claim you no matter the cost. Had you not loved him, or he not loved you, that greed might have terrified you.
“I know why you’re here,” Barbatos whispered in your ear.
You were confused and suddenly afraid. The realization hit you again: this was not your Barbatos. He might be suspicious of you, and that made him dangerous. Although you had seemingly gotten along well with him so far, especially during the preparations for RAD’s opening, there was a chance that he harbored doubts about your presence in the Devildom. This version of Barbatos could kill you.
“Please,” you whispered, afraid – although you weren’t certain what you were asking of him. He shifted into his demon form, still holding you firm in his hands. His breath burned on your neck. Your fear eased as you felt his tail slither up one of your legs and caress between them, leaving a slick trail over your clothes, but the confusion remained.
Did he want you? If so, he was so much harder to charm in the future. Was this what you had been hoping for? He was rougher than the Barbatos you knew – that much was evident in the tight grip he had around your wrist.
“We’ve met in the future, darling. And from what I’ve deduced, you’re so important to me that you could make me want for more,” Barbatos spoke, letting the words tingle on your skin. You shivered and turned your head slightly to meet his gaze. His hand slid away from your neck, and he bit his glove, tugging it off before discarding it on the cobblestone floor. That warm, bare hand slipped under your shirt, feeling your heart pound in your chest as his tail continued to tease you through your clothes. With a chuckle, Barbatos licked up your neck, flicking your earlobe with his tongue before pulling away. It felt hotter than usual, and your skin burned where his saliva began to dry. You moaned, earning a satisfied hum from Barbatos. “It feels good, doesn’t it? He gave us a century before my decision – how generous. It seems I learned to calm my urges a good deal over the years, but he forgets himself – myself,that is. I’m not the patient man you know. I don’t need a century to decide to claim you.”
“I don’t understand,” you spoke through gritted teeth, trying to hold back your moans. Nothing he said made sense, and it took every bit of restraint to focus on him instead of the pleasure he inflicted upon you.
“About a century from now, I secretly cemented my commitment to Lord Diavolo. I made it so nothing in the world could take my attention from my master. It seems that you, my dear, have convinced me that was a misstep. You see, a century after the brothers fell, I learned a spell that could permanently sterilize anyone – even a being as powerful as myself,” Barbatos explained, still unnecessarily close to your ear. “I wanted my service to Diavolo to guide the rest of my life, but then I met you. The Barbatos you know couldn’t let that stand. He wants to make you his in every way possible.”
“Wh-what are you saying?” Your words gave way to another moan as you tried to unravel the information through a haze of lust. All you could understand was that Barbatos – the one you knew – loved you more than he anticipated, and that was, somehow, related to why this version of him was touching you, rubbing your thighs and between your legs with the perfect pressure.
“Nightbringer offered you ‘the path to happiness . . . a place that will bring you more joy than any other.’” The words sent a chill up your spine. How did he know the exact words Nightbringer had told you? Barbatos slid his hand down to your stomach and pulled you flush against his body until you could feel him, hard and pressing into you. Somehow his touch – which should have distressed you – put you at ease. The familiarity of his body was a comfort in the confounding fear. Barbatos kissed your neck so tenderly that tears welled in your eyes. “Your happiness is his, my dear.”
“Barbatos, please,” you begged sweetly – almost whimpering for him. This time you were certain: you were begging for his touch. As long as he kept touching you like this – the way your Barbatos might, you could handle whatever he was trying to tell you.
“You can call me by my other name: Nightbringer. I – the version of me you know – sent you here to push you towards a blissful life with him, where he has given you every part of himself. In other words, darling,” Barbatos brought his lips up to your ear, “I brought you here to breed you.”
Barbatos licked up your neck again. Every touch filled you with dizzying ecstasy. There was a familiarity in the way his lips and tongue teased you, how his fingertips grazed your skin, and the way his tail toyed with you; but you had never felt this good before. Something like guilt joined your pleasure to push fresh tears to the corners of your eyes. This was Barbatos – in another epoch; he was yours in a way, and somehow still not the demon you had fallen in love with. It seemed wrong that a version of him who had yet to fall for you would make you feel so much better than the one you knew – not that you had ever found sex with Barbatos lacking, but he felt like another demon entirely. You didn’t understand why you felt this way. Could your weeks of unresolved desire have made you this sensitive to his every touch? Your legs were already trembling.
As if he had read your mind, Barbatos added with a chuckle, “And as for why your body reacts so well for me: without the sterilization spell, my pheromones haven’t been slowly dulled over millennia.”
“You mean. . .” you wanted to finish your thought or at least sigh in relief, but all you could do was gasp and moan as his tail squeezed your thigh.
“I mean that my body can bring you more pleasure now than you have ever had. Poor MC, you had the misfortune of meeting me too late. But in this time, something as simple as a bit of my saliva can make you shake and whine like some desperate slut.” Barbatos relished the way you clenched your jaw and shut your eyes. You looked humiliated yet so aroused that the embarrassment almost didn’t matter. He snaked his hand back up your chest and neck. With a single, forceful finger, he tilted your jaw until you faced him and captured your lips in a ravenous kiss. His tongue teased you, leaving you breathless and panting. Your head spun and your mind went blank. When he finally pulled back, you followed his movements with a needy whimper. You wanted more. He smirked. “There. As cute as you look when you’re embarrassed, I’d much rather see that need burning in your eyes. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. He wanted this for you.”
There was a protest somewhere, drowning and gasping for air in your mind. This Barbatos had never seen you unravel at the edge of orgasm. He had never seen you blissed out. Hell. He had never even seen you in your underwear before. It was like having your first time with him all over again. You had every right to be embarrassed – especially when you were already in love with Barbatos. This version hardly knew you. You were at the mercy of a demon whose desire could never match yours; it was mortifying.
“And, my dear, if it’s any consolation,” he added, “my pheromones would have no effect if you were not such an arousing little human. I want this, too.”
Barbatos turned you around, pushing your back to the wall, and kneeled before you. His eyes were dark, and you couldn’t help but notice the pale pink blush on his cheeks as he pulled your clothes down and exposed you. He wrapped his tail around one of your ankles and pulled your leg over his shoulder.
“May I?” he asked with an obscene politeness, as if your chest wasn’t heaving and you weren’t a mess for him.
Your face burned as you nodded, too ashamed to speak the words – and too aroused to hold back your lecherous noises had you opened your mouth. With your permission, he brought his mouth to your entrance, licking you hungrily. His bare hand rubbed you gently – adding to the stimulation one slow stroke at a time – while his other hand dug into the flesh of your outer thigh. With a low growl, Barbatos plunged his tongue inside of you. He sounded so sexy. Everything burned, and all you could think to do was cover your mouth to dam the flood of moans as you came at the mercy of his tongue and hands.
Barbatos gave you a soft lick before pulling back and staring up at you. He was panting and flushed, and his eyes had a familiar amorous glint. “You’re reacting so cutely. I’ll admit, I was drawn to you before, but if you keep showing me those lewd faces, I’ll never want to let you go.”
His words warmed your pounding heart. Perhaps it was wrong, but if you could have found the strength to speak, you would have begged him not to let you go. Of course, you knew, that was your lust-drunk mind speaking, but you would have said it, nonetheless.
Barbatos let your leg go and reached up to take your arm, tugging you down and cushioning your fall as you straddled him. He shifted so that you were sitting in his lap. Your flustered face brought a grin to his lips and sent a wicked shiver up his spine.
“Take my shirt off,” he instructed. You stared at him, further embarrassed by the realization that you were the only one completely exposed. Barbatos waited for your compliance, but with an untrained patience, he sighed. “If you want me to fuck you, do it.”
Your fingers moved quickly to unbutton his collar, trembling and fumbling with the top button. Each button of his shirt and coat got easier. You could feel his heartbeat pounding through his clothes – and even more frustrating, you could feel him throbbing in his pants right between your legs.
“So good,” he praised you sweetly, staring at you with half-lidded eyes, once his clothes fell to the floor. “Pants now, darling.”
You went to unbutton his pants, grazing the bulge with your fingertips. Barbatos growled and rolled his hips up into you, making you whine.
“Careful,” he warned you playfully, tapping his fingers up your thigh to squeeze your ass. You bit your lip and tried to refocus your attention on the task at hand – or rather, under your hand. When you finally got his pants and underwear down, you ogled at a sight you had never seen before. Barbatos chuckled mischievously. “Oh dear, from the look on your face, it seems I forgot to mention something. That’s another side effect of the sterilization spell. His never comes out. Such a shame.”
You were speechless, staring at his two dicks beneath you. You had never seen the second, longer, thicker cock below the other. It was less human, too, and had the same shimmering glean – with the same teal lightning veins running along it – as his tail. Your mouth felt dry. Your lower lip was trembling.
“You seem to like what you see. No wonder I fell so hard for you,” Barbatos teased. He pulled you closer, guiding your body until he had aligned his first cock up with your hole. You felt him rub against you, smearing his precum on you. It sent a jolt of pleasure into you that spread out every which way through your body. Barbatos leaned in, sucking at the base of your neck, and riling you up even more. Your moans filled the room. This was agony – a beautiful, enticing torture. Content with his mark on your neck and your response, he pulled back just enough to whisper in your ear. “Now sit.”
Your legs shook as you lowered yourself on his first cock, feeling the second one rubbing against the curve of your ass. It felt so good that you were eager to take him all the way. Without him even asking, you started bouncing on his cock in slow, deep thrusts, savoring the way he filled you up. If your body had the strength, you would have been quicker. It wasn’t long before the pleasure was too much for you. You clung to his shoulders and tilted your head back in ecstasy.
“Barbatos,” you moaned his name as you came. Your legs gave out beneath you, and you fell flush against his lap, pushing him deep inside of you.
Barbatos clicked his tongue, “I suppose that was cruel of me to expect you to do all the work. Please allow me to help you.”
Wrapping his tail around your waist, Barbatos rolled you onto your back gently so that he was leaning over you. He pushed your legs up towards your chest as he bent down to kiss you. There was a sentimental sweetness to it that clouded your head further. Barbatos began to slowly rock his hips in and out of you. Every thrust had you whining against his lips. Even Barbatos found it difficult to hold in his voice, moaning into your mouth. He picked up his pace.
Suddenly, his tail’s grip around your waist tightened, and Barbatos began to move your body for you like you were his personal toy. You felt too good to be ashamed by it anymore as your moans mixed with the harsh slapping of skin. He twitched inside of you and broke the kiss to stare at you. The sight of your writhing beneath him pushed Barbatos over the edge. He pulled you against his hips with one final slap before he filled you with cum.
It drove you mad; his cum felt like an aphrodisiac pumped directly into you, leaving you trembling and whining. Barbatos gave you a soft, tender smile as he pulled out. His cum began to leak out of you, but Barbatos used his tail to lift your hips higher so he could lick it up, allowing it to pool on his tongue. He pulled you close enough to kiss you and slip his cum-coated tongue into your mouth; it was a shame to waste it, after all. You swallowed, feeling the warmth flush your face and spread through your body. Desperation flooded the pit of your stomach – aching for a break and for more simultaneously.
Barbatos admired the look on your face. He had never seen you lose control like this before. To say he was enamored would have been an understatement. Cool fingertips slid down from the base of your neck to just above your navel – as if he was trying to feel the way your body tensed with the threat of another orgasm. You moaned and begged through ragged panting, “Please, Barbatos. I can’t. I can’t take anymore.”
“Oh?” Barbatos asked, amused. He used his tail to flip you over so that your chest was pressed against the stone floor. His tail loosened its grip around your waist, only to take hold of your hips and raise your ass higher. Barbatos laughed with a darkness that struck you with fear, especially when he bent over to lick behind your ear. He could feel you shiver against his chest, which only excited him further. He cooed, “But we’re not done yet, darling. That was just preparation, I’m afraid. I told you I was going to breed you, didn’t I? Have you forgotten? I’m part serpent; I still need to fill you with my eggs. I need you to be good and take a bit more for me.”
“Eggs?” The word caught your ear. Did everything with him have to be so new?
“Yes, you heard me.” Barbatos curled his tail around your thigh and pulled your legs farther apart. He rubbed you sweetly while he continued to explain, “You see, not only does my sperm fill you with ecstasy, but it also prepares your body so that my eggs can absorb your DNA through their membranes. It’ll take parts from both of us – we’ll make a hybrid.”
Even through your exhausted, cum-drunk fog, you tried to break down his words. You could really have a baby with him? The thought had never seriously crossed your mind – you had always assumed it wasn’t possible. You’d never heard of a hybrid before. Something about the thought of having children with Barbatos frightened and thrilled you all at once.
“You’ve been so good for me, so I’ll do all the work. You just have to lay there and take it, alright, darling?” Barbatos whispered into your ear as he aligned his second cock with your hole.
His first thrust was slow and tender. You squirmed and stretched your arms out in front of you, grasping for something to anchor you. All you could do was claw at cobblestone as pleasure pushed you to tears. He was so big. It might have hurt if your body wasn’t overcome with a euphoria that numbed every other sensation. He could have clawed your thighs apart and made you bleed, and you were certain you wouldn’t have felt so much as a sting. Barbatos picked up his pace, pushing you over the edge again. You tightened around him, causing him to groan.
“You feel so good,” Barbatos panted and moaned in a ubiquitous tone. You were unravelling him. He throbbed inside of you. With another pleased groan and a few more bucks of his hips, you were filled with a new sensation. As Barbatos pulled out, an egg pumped into you. Your pleasure at the feeling almost sickened you. Why did he have to make you feel so good?
“Barbatos –” Your thoughts were interrupted by a wave of pleasure as Barbatos rubbed his second dick against your entrance again.
“Not yet,” he panted. Barbatos leaned in to capture your lips in a feverish kiss. Slowly, you felt him thrust back inside of you, pushing the egg deeper. It pressed against your walls, clouding your head. When Barbatos broke the kiss, he laughed sweetly – almost innocently in your ear. “Wouldn’t twins be cute, my love?”
“I –” you tried to form the words: you were going to cum again. But Barbatos hushed you affectionately.
“They’re soft-shelled eggs, you can clench as much as you want, and I can pound into you as rough as I want, it’ll be fine. Don’t think. Just cum for me.” You couldn’t tell if you hated him or loved him for being able to read your mind. When it was your Barbatos, you had always loved it – even when he flustered you. You let go and let another wave of pleasure overcome you with a loud moan; you were going to drown in this feeling. Barbatos’s adoring voice broke through your afterglow. “You sound so lovely when I make you cum.”
Barbatos drew noise after noise from your lips as he continued to fuck you. One of his hands slipped between your legs to rub you as he filled you with another egg. He didn’t pull out until he felt you clenching down on him, on the cusp of another orgasm.
“Don’t fight it,” he whispered. Barbatos continued to rub you with his hand and slipped the tip of his tail inside of you, swirling the forked ends.
The faint glow of magic – more specifically, a summoning spell – lit up your dim corner of the room. Barbatos produced a plug. He removed his tail before pushing it inside of you. As he rubbed a gentle circle around the surface of the plug, it glowed, lighting up the palm of his hand in a pale teal color.
“Why?” you forced the ill-formed question out weakly.
Barbatos crawled around your shaking body so he could look at your face. Tears streamed down your cheeks from a mix of pleasure and panic. He brushed a stream of tears away with his thumb. “Don’t be afraid. I needed to magically seal you up until my eggs have had a chance to soak up your essence. They should be fertilized within two days. Then, we can take them out. They can mature in any warm environment after that until they’re ready to hatch. I’ll take good care of them, darling, and I’ll take good care of you, too.”
The tears continued to flow. With his help, you got to your knees. Barbatos took advantage of your position to lean in and kiss you. This kiss was more tender than before, as if it had been filled with all the affection of your beloved Barbatos. His fingertips ran up your arms and shoulders, causing you to shiver. Everything felt new and terrifying; every touch consumed you.
“Relax, my love. I’ll take such good care of you,” Barbatos cooed and kissed your cheek before standing up. He began to gather his clothes and redress himself. It didn’t escape your unfocused attention that he was still hard as he pulled his underwear on. While he got dressed, he asked you, “Now, will you be good and let me carry you up to my room? Or do I have to keep you locked up down here until you’re ready to return to the demon who sent you here? And before you answer, just know, I would much rather run you a bath, wash every inch of that precious body, serve you something delicious to eat, and spend the rest of our time alone serving you in other ways.”
You were afraid to be left alone, still hazy, and weak from pleasure. Desperate for comfort from the demon you loved, you nodded and took Barbatos’s extended hand. He pulled you into his arms and embraced your naked body tightly. His touch still burned and excited you. He whispered into the crook of your neck, “Thank you. He – the future me – requested that I thank you for giving us this gift, but I want to thank you on my behalf as well. I’ll be so good to you. I swear it – and you know I do not take promises lightly.”
“I know,” you whispered. Your arms reached up to hold him back. Even if the Barbatos you adored could be wicked and cruel sometimes – even if all you had in this time was a crude likeness that had bred you, the love coursed through your body. This was alright. You could handle this if it was for him. His happiness was yours.
A/N: I tried really hard on this one, so I hope y'all like it. I still don't know how I feel about it. I've never written ovipos before. Also, would you say it warranted an 8 in the depravity ranking after reading it? Anyway, there will be a new poll for February up in less than an hour (Feb. 1 - 12am PST) That will be up for a week. Have fun. And again, hope this did something for y'all.
2557 | CW: First time sex, vaginal sex, creampie, fingering, aphrodisiac, biting, nipple play, gloves
Ao3 Mirror
The moment you entered the kitchen, a sickly sweet scent assaulted your senses.
At first it seemed almost too much, but the moment your eyes found the source you found yourself almost entranced. They were pink cupcakes, similar to the ones Asmo usually liked to get, but different somehow — the icing almost seemed more red, or was that blue? Was it normal for the colour of a cake to change?
Three were already missing, and there seemed to be nothing to guard them — nothing to say they couldn’t be shared. You find yourself licking your lips, the need to greedily devour one seeming to overtake all of your senses.
Just one would be okay, right?
If Asmo was upset you’d just buy him more.
It was just—
You just simply had to have one.
You reach your hand out to the one closest to you and lift it up, watching it as if entranced for the longest time. It was surprisingly pretty for a cake, it seemed almost a shame to eat it in one go. Perhaps it should be savoured? Yet you find yourself also unable to wait, it’s as if the cake itself is tempting you, as if it’s become the most forbidden and yet needed apple… you just simply needed it.
No matter what.
The cupcake melts in your mouth the moment you take a bite of it.
It tastes far too good for it to be good for you, yet all you really seem to be able to think about is how you want more, and more-
“Hm?”
You blink a few times, bending down to pick up a piece of paper on the floor. As your eyes scan the contents, you quickly rush to the sink and spit as much of the sweet treat out as you can, but it’s too late — you’ve already swallowed too much, and-
“Aphrodisiac cupcakes, Asmo, really?!”
He’d left a warning note, but someone had obviously knocked the note down and, well, now—- now you’re in a house full of demons, and you’ve just eaten a cupcake meant to make them all want you. You love them all, truly you do, but not like that and the simple idea that these men who are like family to you—
Nope.
Not going there.
Sighing, you quickly take out your D.D.D., and quickly explain the situation to your actual partner. Perhaps he has some ideas, or some way to counteract the problem, Barbatos is always reliable like that, and you’ve not been intimate with him yet… and he idea of him wanting you-
“No, don’t think like that-” you mutter to yourself, watching as his reply appears on screen.
Perhaps it would be best to spend the day at my side, instead.
That’s his solution?
You swallow thickly. It’s not a bad suggestion, and if that’s the only thing he can think of then perhaps the only thing that can be done is to wait for the effects to wear off. Hearing footsteps in the hallway you quickly put the warning note back on top of the cakes and hurry out of the room, not even stopping to grab a coat before you leave out the front doors. It’s chilly out, but your body is feeling warm… feverish almost. A side effect or is this normal….?
Your phone goes off again and you check the messages, sighing in relief that he’s drawn a little map to show you the best way to get to his side while avoiding as many people as possible. It’s his day off, luckily, and he’s just finished shopping — if you meet him on the way back….
Your walk to meet him starts off brisk, but it’s long enough to make you overthink just a bit too much. He volunteered to be at your side despite it very quickly, he’s reliable for sure, but is he convinced that it’ll be okay for him to be near you? Is… does he perhaps not see you like that? You don’t like that idea, not at all, and you remind yourself that he wouldn’t be with you if he wasn’t even slightly attracted to you, and that he must have some other reason for it. After all, he could have told you to just lock yourself in your room. That he’d bring something over for you….
The feeling of warm fabric slipping over your shoulders breaks you out of your thoughts and your head snaps up to find Barbatos staring at you with a curious smile on his lips, his jacket draped over you. “You almost walked straight past me.”
“I… I’m sorry,” you swallow out, hoping your feelings aren’t obvious. He seems… unaffected. Maybe the cupcake just didn’t work on you? Yet you can’t deny that you feel different, especially now you’re stood in front of him — the heat that had built earlier inside you moves down until you rub your thighs together, hoping he doesn’t notice. “I should have checked first… stupid me huh? Putting random cupcakes in my mouth.”
“It is not your fault, I should have warned you that they’re currently popular,” he responds, taking your hand in his own. It feels warmer than usual even through his gloves, but that could just be you — in fact the contact with him sends a jolt of electricity down into your gut and you have to calm yourself so you don’t trip over as you walk side by side with him.
“Surely that’s causing problems…?”
“Only when their use is irresponsible, like this.” A brief frown flits onto his lip. “It is not your fault. I’ll make us some tea and a late lunch, maybe that will help.”
“If you’re sure,” you murmur, dropping his hand as you watch him quickly vanish into another room. It’s not like him to leave so quickly, to not first attend to your needs — asking if you need anything, making sure you’re comfortable — but this is… nothing. You shake your head, putting his jacket to the side and taking your usual seat at the small table you’ve shared tea with him numerous times before.
This room usually calms you, it reminds you of the fragrance of tea, of the delectable bakes he always brings you whenever he invites you. How he tells you with a smile that he’s saved the best for you, or that he’s trying a new recipe and he wants to adapt it to your tastes. But you find yourself unable to settle, and you fidget in your chair as you try and get rid of the building heat. Gone is the smell of tea, instead all you can focus on is how everything smells like him, and god how much you want him.
Had the cupcakes worked in reverse? Maybe it just made you want him more, maybe that’s why he was avoiding you-
Barbatos’ finger gently pressing between your brows brings you back to reality. “If you frown much more you’ll be stuck like that.”
“I’m… sorry,” you respond, watching as he pulls his hand back quickly and sets the table with his usual grace and charm. Perhaps he’s just being a gentleman, minding his manners, and yet — everything about his countenance seems normal, nothing is off. Maybe it truly is just you? “I always love watching you pour tea,” you blurt out, cheeks lighting up with a soft crimson hue as your eyes focus on his hands. He has such beautiful fingers, have you ever told him that? Would he want you to tell him that?
His response is a small chuckle, and then he takes the seat opposite you.
It’s unusual for so much silence to be between you, usually there is boundless light conversation, but this— this is nothing, and… while it’s not awkward, you still find yourself stumbling for something to say. Yet each time he moves you catch his scent again and the heat building between your legs burns more and more.
You can’t help but think about his fingers on you, his hands on you. Oh how soft they would be, how gentle, and warm… he’d probably know exactly the ways to touch that you’d never forget him. Your eyes drift back to him. He’s frowning, eyes focused on you but they seem distant almost — as if he’s looking through or past you. His lips are parted and — is that sweat on his forehead?
“Barbatos…?” you ask, leaning forward. “Are you sick?”
He sits up stiffly and shakes his head. “I am quite well.”
“Are you sure?” You lean closer, brushing your hair from your face as you do.
A pained expression crosses his face briefly and he closes his eyes, lips parted more than before — his breathing seems heavier. “I’m sorry. I thought I could control myself.”
“Barb….?”
He stands up and comes around the table to stand in front of you. Now his eyes are truly on you, and you swallow thickly when you notice how blown his pupils are, the way his cheeks are slightly red and -
“I want you.”
What?
“I… what?”
“I wanted to control myself…” he whispers, leaning closer to you, his lips barely inches from your own. “It’s what you deserve, but… if you keep looking at me so intently, I am afraid I can’t any longer.”
“Oh.”
All of your thoughts come to a standstill for a long time, before you close the gap and press your lips against his. Words failed you, there was not a single way you could think of to tell him that you wanted him to lose control, and so the only thing you could think to do was this.
He takes the hint, too, quickly picking you up from the chair and carrying you over to a small couch in the room. He’s gently, and yet you can tell he’s impatient — his movements are less specific, clumsy almost as he removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt. Perhaps it’s the effect of the aphrodisiac but you feel far less shy and timid than you would have thought, in fact you feel bolder, reaching your hands out to trace the soft muscles of his torso as his lips reconnect with yours.
This isn’t your usual soft kisses, not the ones he gives you when he says goodnight. This one is ravenous and hungry and you feel as though he’s entirely consuming you. Barbatos moans softly into the kiss as his hands roam your own body, starting with your arms. His touch isn’t the gentle one you’d expected, instead his hands are firm as if he’s trying to engrave your body into his memory. They don’t stay on your arms for long, instead his hands slip up your shirt working their way up.
Then, suddenly, he pulls them back sitting back on his knees. You hadn’t realised he’d climbed on top of you, too consumed in the kiss and his touch, but now he watches you, gaze entirely fixated on you as he raises his gloved hands to his mouth and takes the bottom in between his teeth and pulls one off. You gulp, feeling hotter and hotter as he does the same with the other.
Unable to stand his teasing much more, you grab his unbuttoned shirt and pull him down to kiss him again. This time when his hands explore you, you feel his skin on yours and you let out a sigh of contentment as he breaks from the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw. Each time you feel his fangs brush your skin you breath catches in your throat in anticipation. You writhe beneath him, and taking your hint he lowers a hand to the hem of your skirt, sliding his fingers up the inside of your thigh before rubbing you through your panties.
Not having expected it, you gasp out a moan, your back arching against him and you swear you can feel his lips lift up in a satisfied smirk against your neck as he continues to place kisses everywhere he can reach. You touch him everywhere you can, but it’s nothing to how he’s touching you — within moments you feel dizzy and you find yourself clinging to him. “I-”
He silences your next moan with a kiss, his fingers never stilling even when you feel your body relax — the heat is still too much, and now your thighs and panties are soaked, and - “I’m, Barb-”
“Again,” he whispers, biting your bottom lip. This time he removes your underwear, slipping two fingers inside of you. “Cum again.”
“It’s… so much,” you gasp out, digging your nails into his shoulders. “It feels so good. You feel so go-ah!” Your back arches again as he finds an especially sensitive spot, his thumb on your clit. Barbatos is relentless, ceaseless in his movements, and as you feel yourself about to fall over the edge again, he removes his fingers. “What…?”
“Shh,” he soothes you, grabbing your hand and placing it on his pants. “Feel what you do to me… I need you so much. I need you to need me.”
“Barba… tos…” you gulp out, shakily raising your hand to free him from his confines. You want to look at him, but his gaze keeps you fixed on his. Instead he takes your hand again, placing it on his erection. “I don’t-”
“Go with your instinct. Your hand feels good.”
Your touch on him is hesitant at first, but becomes firmer when his lips move down to your breasts. As he takes a nipple into his mouth you squeeze his cock without realising, pulling a hiss from his throat, and he bites down — it’s all too much, and you find your thoughts fading away, letting the more carnal part of you take over. You brush your thumb over his tip, a soft whisper of his name leaving you as you feel the precum already there. After a few more pumps of your hand he frees himself from you and lines himself up, all the while his mouth still attentive on your nipple.
The moment he enters you, his name spills from your lips like a fervent prayer. Nails digging into his back, legs wrapping around his and your hips coming up to meet his. Each thrust is met with the sound of your bodies joining, with both of your moans melting together, your names joining from each others lips.
Soon his lips are back on yours and his thrusts become deeper and more frantic. Barbatos holds you close to him, grunting as he gives a few more thrusts, perfectly placed to pull another orgasm from you and he falls still as he reaches his peak, too. A strangled cry of his name soon devolves into blurry murmurs of his name as you relax back onto the couch, all of your energy spent and your body feeling weak and like putty. And yet-
“I still… want more.”
A chuckle leaves him as he pulls out. “You should rest.”
“I want you… so badly.”
“I want you to-” he frowns, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb. You hiss in pain not having realised how tender you were at all — “I was rough with you. I apologise, it was unbecoming. I can’t control myself. Allow me to clean you up and run you a warm bath.”
“… will you join me in the bath?”
“Did you not hear what I just said?” he sighs deeply, staring at you with exasperation. “I can’t control myself.”
You shake your head, grabbing him before he can leave and pulling him down for another kiss. “Then… at least make love to me again after.”
“You are insatiable.”
“I guess you demons have had an affect on me, after all.”
Barbatos shakes his head, and places a soft kiss on your forehead as he discards his shirt fully. It’s entirely dishevelled from where you’d pulled at it and clawed at his back, but other than that he looks entirely put together — not a single mark on his body, something you feel you have the urge to change. He’d look nice, you think, his torso marked with red blooms left by you.
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