#Amber Fry

[nadiamarieusa]

Could Scott Peterson be innocent ?

I think a lot of people know who Scott Peterson is. If you have not heard about him, Scott was convicted of the murder of his 8 months pregnant wife, Laci Peterson. Laci was a short, 5 feet tall woman, with short brown hair, brown eyes and a beautiful smile. She had a bubbly personality, very friendly, social, outgoing, loved to laugh, had a lot of friends, she was a pretty young woman. She was…

[skylordhorus]

getting emotional thinkin about how future skylords will still be using finnigan’s metalwork, vimes’ tools, james’ archive etc, like they all still use the stuff on ancient ol’ skyhold 🥺

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

oh my GOD he showed up on her doorstep unannounced, they had sex, and then he immediately starts leaving talking about how the sex was just the two of them getting it out of their systems I'm !!!!!!!!

[silkscream]

CHAPTER 12: LOOKING FOR THE NEW WORLD

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He was like a child despite being a man, one much bigger and stronger than you. Infinitely powerful, yet he could reduce himself into a creature of need so intensely that he’s convinced you that your touch is the only remedy.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: explicit content (18+ mdni) , unprotected sex, dubcon, oral sex, mentions of depression, angst, character death

ੈ✩ wc: 5k

ੈ✩ a/n: who else is sick of these two. i sure am

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

January, 2011

There’s a black cat that likes to hang out around your apartment. It’s small, a bit on the thinner side, with striking amber eyes. It reminds you of someone. 

It nuzzles against your legs now as you sit on the stoop, nursing your third cigarette of the night. Tobacco for dinner and some leftover hot and sour soup from the last time Shoko forced you to get takeout with her.

“You gotta stop with those,” she had muttered when you had finished eating, excusing yourself for a cigarette despite the snow. “You’re gonna fuck up your lungs at this rate.”

“How extremely hypocritical of you.”

“The nicotine makes you more anxious than before,” she laughed. “And I want you alive in this lifetime.”

You’d smiled weakly in response. Allowed yourself one cigarette before bed and another that was shared with her before she left for Tokyo again.

Your stomach rumbles again at the thought of real dinner. The cat sniffing you meows. 

“You’re hungry, too, huh?”

As if it understands you, it mewls. 

You ash your cigarette and scoop it up in your arms as you walk to the konbini for cat food and multiple cups of ramen. Despite the odd looks you get around the store, no one bothers you or reprimands you for having a little fur ball attached to your shoulder. 

The cat takes a liking to your apartment, immediately splaying itself on your carpet. You’d have to vacuum later if you were going to house it. Get a litter box, too. It was probably all against your lease, but it had been a long time since you had taken care of anyone other than yourself, and you were still lacking in that department ever since the previous autumn.

“Sorry about this,” you mutter as you pick up the cat, lifting it to the light. “Ah. A boy.”

The cat meows, as if agreeing. You decide to call him Jiji after the black cat in Kiki’s Delivery Service. A fitting resemblance. There’s an annoying, familiar voice in your head that tells you it’s a bit cliche.

The poor thing walks with a limp you don’t remember him having. There’s a deep cut on one of his back legs, probably left over from a stray dog that bit too hard. The flesh heals quickly with the slight of your hand.

He treats the place like a personal jungle, which is saying something considering how bare it is. You make yourself some subpar ramen, attempting to turn it into stir-fry with the puny vegetables in your fridge. It was something warm, at least. It goes nicely with the Asahi you bought. You’re allowing yourself maybe half of the six-pack tonight. Any more and you’d be inviting yourself to wade in a pool of pity.

You stare at the mini calendar on your fridge. The third of February is circled, taunting you. It wasn’t like you’d ever forget, but you marked it anyway as if to punish yourself. 

You jump when the doorbell rings. It can’t be Shoko. She’d left for Tokyo days before, and there was no reason for her to be back so soon. Utahime wasn’t the type to show up unannounced. 

For fuck’s sake, it couldn’t be. 

You didn’t even tell him where your new place was. The knocks on the door turn to a rhythmic pounding you recognize immediately and it makes you want to start digging your own hole. Begrudgingly, you open the door.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters, the curl of a lip hinting at a teasing smile. There’s barely enough time for you to process a response back because of how quickly he walks in. 

“How did you know where I lived?”

Satoru grins, teeth and all. Annoyingly bright and shark-spiked, hair covered in light snow. 

“I have my ways, baby.”

“You need to leave.”

Jiji cowers curiously by the foot of the couch, blinking at the new stranger. Satoru looks at you quizzically.

“Replaced me already?”

“Yes.” 

He ignores you and plops down the paper bags he was carrying on the kitchen counter, like he’s done it a million times before. A bottle of rose, packaged daifuku. A carton of strawberries. For some reason, nearly everything in the grocery bag is pink.

“Got you your favorites.”

“Satoru, these are your favorites.”

“Ours, then,” he huffs childishly, pouting. “I was in town for a mission. Thought you would want to, uh, do something for his birthday.”

His last sentence is rushed like it’s an afterthought, but it’s the most damning one. You can’t help the rage in your veins when he says it. As if Suguru is dead or missing instead of flourishing on his own path. Rot turned to bloom.

While you glare at him, his expression is neutral, bordering on sheepish.

“You didn’t answer any of my calls or texts, so.”

“Because I didn’t want to talk to you,” you say bluntly.

He sighs. “You can’t ignore me, forever, y’know.”

Something bitter crawls up the cavern of your chest at the same time something heats up. It wasn’t fair, the way he looked at you all pouty. It made you feel like you did when you were merely the maid’s daughter, wanting to appease him in any way you could. You feel slightly nauseous despite your stomach feeling terribly empty. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Have you talked to him?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs.

The two of you stare at each other in silence for a bit before you clear your throat. 

“Thanks for the groceries, but you can take them back to your hotel or whatever. You can’t stay here.”

“I’m not trying to crash at your apartment, anyway.”

“Then what are you trying to do, Satoru?”

“Seduce you, I suppose,” he mutters. “I’m sure the hotel mattress I have would be better for your back. You can—”

“No.”

“Fine. Have dessert with me. A glass of wine. I just want to be with you.”

You curse yourself. Satoru is always tempting just by being himself, but you did really like the brand of wine he brought. Right now, you need a drink more than anything else. 

Watching reality TV with Satoru is not how you expect to spend your night. The silence is uncomfortable, nearly suffocating. It’s not difficult to notice how much he wants to touch you, his fingers twitching on the fabric of your couch. 

“Where’d this fucker come from?” He nods his head towards Jiji, who has jumped onto your left shoulder. You can sense jealousy in his tone, funnily enough.

“Don’t call him that,” you scold, rolling your eyes. “He was a stray. Got bitten by something so I healed him up.”

“How lucky.”

“Uh huh.”

Satoru clears his throat and thumbs around the rim of his wine glass. Fidgety. He leans closer to you, petting Jiji as an excuse. 

“How’s the… independent study? Or whatever.”

“It’s good. I work at the greenhouse every other day.”

He nods slowly and pours you both another glass. It doesn’t take long for you both to finish the bottle. His cheeks are as pink as the daifuku, half-eaten and abandoned on a plate in front of him. You’ve graduated to playful quips despite your mostly guarded demeanor, feet hoisted on his lap as he rubs them absentmindedly. 

“You should probably get back to your hotel.”

“Huh?”

You look at him. Satoru’s gaze flickers in between mischief and reverence. He’s also clearly not paying attention to what you’re saying considering his eyes are fixed on your bare shoulder. 

“It’s late,” you sigh.

“Not that late,” he scoffs. “S’not even ten.”

“I have a lab early tomorrow,” you lie.

“...Alright. Wanna finish this for me, then?” He holds out the last half of the mochi and feeds it to you. He blushes slightly. You still open your mouth for him without having him to ask. 

“It’s good.”

He nods. Leans over to wipe a bit of red bean paste off the corner of your mouth with his thumb. His eyes lower onto your lips as he sighs, right before he kisses you.

You let him. 

He feels the same as he always does. It’s been almost two months since you’d touched him — the last time being inside a karaoke bar bathroom an hour after Shoko had convinced you to come out for Satoru’s birthday. 

You had done so, unwillingingly, still not over the wound of being left and still angry with Satoru. Even so, it was still easy for him to make your knees weak, leading you into a random stall in the men’s bathroom while Shoko and Utahime forced Nanami to sing an 80s ballad. 

It was your first time properly spending time with the underclassman, so it embarrassed you immensely to walk out with your lipstick smudged. You remember overhearing Nanami ask Utahime about you and Satoru, to which she simply laughed in pity.

They’re on and off?

Divorced right now, Shoko had quipped.

Gojo was married to her?!

Fuck no. He wishes.

“Sato—” you mumble into his mouth.

He shuts you up with his tongue against yours, his hand cupping your chin. You knew he would get you a little tipsy and probably make a move, and you knew full well that you would let him. He chased you easily even when he could have anyone he wanted. 

His movements are sloppy and languid. Drunk, perhaps — he was a lightweight through and through. He groans lightly at the taste of you, how sweet you are like always. His other hand moves to your nape, clutching the back of your head to rest on the couch cushion with him hovering over you. Already, he was slotting his knee in between your legs. 

Satoru could already feel his insides stir at the thought of being inside you again. It had been too fucking long. He was sure that his dick would probably melt once you let him in. 

When you feel his hand underneath your sweater, you break the kiss. He sees it as an interruption rather than an end as he chases you, face leaning in again. He was pretty when he was drunk on you, eyes half-lidded like that. It was infuriating. 

It takes you a slight push and a turning of the head for him to realize that you don’t want him. 

“Why are you—”

“We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I– I don’t want to.”

His face falls. You can’t stand it, how he looks like a kicked puppy. You refuse to fall for it.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come back with me?” he tries. “To the hotel?”

You’d slap him if you could. Your hands don’t move an inch. They only tremble.

“I said no. I’m sorry—” Why are you apologizing? “I have to get to bed.”

He blinks at you, dejected. For once, he doesn’t beg. Doesn’t give you a smartass reply. He stands and runs his fingers through his hair. 

“Okay,” he sighs. He wants to reach out and touch you, but he doesn’t. “Sweet dreams, Twigs.”

June, 2010

There’s a funeral before you leave for Kyoto. It’s the first time you deal with the corpse of a classmate.

You’d watched Shoko work in the morgue meticulously, wrapping the body in plastic. You knew she was probably used to the smell of death by now. At that moment, you were both numb to it.

“You don’t have to stay here, Nanami-kun,” you told your junior softly. He’d been sitting next to you in a plastic folding chair with a warm towel over his eyes for nearly half an hour, saying nothing.

“It’s fine. Not like they’d dare to assign me another mission right away.”

You glance at Nanami now, dressed in all black, and his face looks even more tired than it was under the morgue fluorescents. Sallow and pale, his complexion matching Suguru’s. 

You were all much too young to go to so many funerals.

The smell of death still lingers at the ceremony, too. It must be psychosomatic, the way the suffocating temple air makes your gut twist into itself. Yu Haibara’s smiling portrait stares back at you. 

You’d never experienced anything like this before. You knew the cost of being a jujutsu sorcerer, the horror of nearly losing Satoru the subject of your nightmares. It was different for it to be real, to pick up the bones of a boy whose light shone so brightly with chopsticks. 

Suguru looks older than he is. You noticed lately that the circles under his eyes have gotten worse, sometimes like a bruised purple in the shadows of his room. He didn’t leave it often, never opened his blinds despite it being summer. Morose as he is, he still looks beautiful.

You sit in between him and Satoru during the service. You shed no tears. No one does—the grief is all-consuming, wrangling everyone by the throat. You’re sure your fellow classmates are feeling numbness more than anything. 

You crawl into Suguru’s bed that night. He almost doesn’t acknowledge you, save for the movement of his arm over your middle when you nestle into his chest. His hair is still slightly damp from the shower he took. He hadn’t bothered to put his clothes back on.

“You okay?” you whisper. “We missed you at dinner.”

“Migraines,” he mumbles. He’s been getting a lot of them lately. That or nausea. Another thing that was psychosomatic—Suguru could barely eat lately because of the nausea. Even when he eats enough, it’s there, as if the curses he swallows are making a cesspool of his gut. 

He blames it all on heat fatigue, but you know better. Even with his model-like cheekbones, his face is starting to look a little thinner. 

“Did you take anything for it?”

“Yeah,” he lies. He might’ve taken some gas station gummy just so he could pass out and maybe not wake up for twelve hours before you came in. 

You hum softly, threading your fingers through his damp hair. It’s too wet for him to be resting on his pillow. You want to comb it for him, dry him with the towel like a beloved pet. He breathes shallowly as he revels in the feeling of your fingers across his scalp.

“Have you been drinking enough water?”

“Christ. Yes.”

Suguru immediately regrets his sharp tone the minute he sees your eyes flicker with meekness. He sighs, cradling you closer.

“Sorry. I’m just… fucking tired.”

“Yeah, me too.” There’s an awkward silence. 

“God,” you mumble, almost to yourself. “What happened was horrible.”

“Ha. That’s reality. Could be any of us tomorrow, or the next day.”

It’s an awful thing to say, but you know he’s right. He doesn’t say it to be spiteful or insensitive, but his words sting nonetheless. It’s the air of bitterness you can sense from the lilt of his tongue. You know it isn’t directed at you, but it still feels uncomfortable when you’re trying to be affectionate with him. 

He looks at the sadness in your eyes and makes an attempt to change the subject. “Do you wanna… watch a movie or something?”

“I should probably go to bed soon. I have an early mission tomorrow.”

“Seriously? After what just happened?”

“I don’t really have a say in what gets assigned to me,” you say sheepishly. 

“We all keep throwing ourselves back into work. The very work that gets our friends killed,” Suguru scoffs. “And for what? For a bunch of weaklings? Fuck.”

You pinch your brows together. “Suguru–”

“They’re the ones making the curses, anyway,” he mutters. “It’s fucking ironic that we have to protect the weak but we’re the ones who are never protected. Always martyred, instead.”

“The weak?”

“Non-sorcerers. Us sorcerers exist to protect the weak—it’s bullshit, sometimes.”

“You sound like Satoru.”

He lets out a bitter laugh at that. “So I’ve really gone off the deep end, huh?”

“No,” you sigh, caressing his jaw. “We’re all just grieving. I’ve been feeling a little crazy, too.”

He looks at you earnestly, licks his lips. “Kyoto will be nice.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I suppose it will be nice.”

“Don’t you get sick of it all?”

“Of being a sorcerer?”

Everything, he wants to scream.

“I don’t know. It’s the first thing I’ve done for myself. I mean, for others, too—that’s the whole thing—but it means more. Like I’m… worth something.”

“You’re worth a lot more than that. You always have been.”

There’s a hint of desperation in his voice, as if he’s also telling himself the same thing. You’re not exactly sure what he means. You like being useful, you’ve learned to like having to perfect your technique. You know you will never be as strong as Satoru or Suguru. You don’t know that Suguru is metamorphosing into something beyond his control, ever since he saw a bullet go through a girl’s skull.

His words stick with you as you fall asleep in his bed.  

You’re worth more.

September, 2010

You feel like you’re about to vomit. Blood trickles down Satoru’s palm, the sharp pin of the button in his hand still in his unfurling fist. 

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Yaga-Sensei grimaces. “Suguru fled after killing everyone in the village.”

You can’t look anyone in the eye. You only stare at the blood on Satoru’s palm, thinking of his hands, of Suguru’s. Hands that were soft around your neck, rough on your waist and down the planes of your thighs. Hands that killed 112 people in a small village. 

When you couldn’t call him, you took the bullet train to Tokyo immediately. You thought he’d gone missing, ran away, anything but the reality of the situation. Suguru could be sharp-tongued, had rigid edges, but he was always kind. He believed in fairness above all—it was what you admired most about him. Even when he could be cruel, he could be kind.

You didn’t think he could be cruel enough to commit a mass murder in cold blood. You feel the hallway spinning, nausea crawling up your sternum and up to your head. Suguru had killed a village, and he’s left you and Satoru, and he didn’t even say goodbye.

You really need to lay down before you throw up. 

Yaga cancels your missions, so you have nothing to distract you. Nothing to do with your hands except curl your fingers around the cool bed sheet beneath you. For the next day, you stay like this — twisted inside yourself, knees tucked to your chest. Satoru is there, too, and for the first time in his life, he has nothing to say. This is a kind of grief that neither of you knows how to deal with.

“Satoru,” you whisper. “We should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You said you haven’t eaten since this morning,” you frown.

He shrugs. He was fine with laying in bed with you, suspended in the thick tension of unspoken words. Satoru was often explosive when he was angry, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about Suguru��s betrayal. Not unless he could find him on his own, but at this rate, Suguru could be out of the city already. 

He’s slightly watery-eyed. Something is dormant inside of him and you’re waiting for it to snap, show its teeth. You are ready to be the thing in between his canines.

He takes you eventually. Wakes you in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, prompted by nightmares of fire and bloodshed and Suguru’s glare. Satoru claws at you in his sleep until you’re holding his face and shaking him, telling him to breathe slowly. 

His breathing only gets faster. The hole that Suguru leaves inside of him needs to be filled. 

And then, your hair is in between his fists, your flesh in between his teeth. He has to take you apart so you’re like him, but you know that you had fallen apart the moment Suguru’s phone number failed when you tried to call him. 

“Satoru,” you whine. “Slow down.”

“Can’t,” he mutters, his voice rough as he gropes you in the dark. “Fuck, sorry. Need you. Missed you.”

With the way he manhandles you, you might think he’s sleepwalking. His eyes are wide open, midnight blue in the darkness. He whines when you turn away from him. 

“Please,” he chokes out. “Need it.”

You’d seen him like this before. Desperate, begging, frantic—usually because he was upset or angry. He would never tell you the details of what was in his head, only that he absolutely needed you, needed your body to satiate him. Your body was a temple for him to confess and repent in, yet it hollowed you out as if you were the one sinning.

“Shhh,” you coo, nervous. “It’s alright.”

He was like a child despite being a man, one much bigger and stronger than you. Infinitely powerful, yet he could reduce himself into a creature of need so intensely that he’s convinced you that your touch is the only remedy. 

You wrap your arms around him and he intertwines your legs together. You can feel his cock against your stomach. His face is buried in your neck, teeth nipping your collarbone. You always let him take all of you when he’s like this, never minding the feeling of being stretched thin, a taut sinew inside a predator’s mouth. You would be the balm to his chaos, always.

He lets out a heavy breath when he moves your panties to the side and his tip catches on your entrance. It’s a sound of relief, of quenched thirst. You gasp when he fits himself all the way inside you. Your body feels like a geyser ready to erupt.

He’s done this before after nightmares, after tough missions. Sometimes you would be asleep —you told him you didn’t care, and usually, you don’t. To be wanted by Satoru felt like a blessing even when it hurt like a curse.

You were sick on each other. 

His movements are hurried, kissing your neck sloppily as he ruts against you. He pushes inside and begins with quick thrusts. A full nest inside of you, your walls melting. He squeezes you tightly, his arms almost painfully clutching your waist as if he needed you tethered to him, skin sticking to skin. 

You aren’t wet enough for you to cum just yet. It was aching in you a little bit, the deepness of his cock inside you.

“S-Satoru,” you whine. “Hurts.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up — fuck — make it up to you.”

He pulls out of you and throws you against the bed, holding your legs down and parted for his mouth. He eats you like a meal, his mouth sucking on your clit brutally enough for you to become overwhelmed. He sighs as he feels you gush around his fingers. 

“Close,” you gasp. “Fuck me.”

He turns you over and humps in between your legs, slipping in and holding you down. His weight on you is almost comforting. Your head feels like it’s underwater. 

“You can take it,” he hums. He kisses your nape, bites at your shoulder. If he wasn’t so delirious about it, needing you as much as he does, he would take his time. Write his name into your skin with love bruises.

His cock had to be stirring your insides together, your cunt like whipped butter. He groans when you clench around him. He knows how close you are, despite being half-asleep, half-feral. He’s had you memorized. 

It was too hot for him to be on you like this, his body too heavy. You come at the same time, both of your voices blending together into a choked whimper. Your hair sticks to your neck with sweat.

“Y’feel so good,” Satoru mutters. “All the time.”

He gets up to piss eventually, otherwise he probably would’ve fallen asleep inside you. You hadn’t noticed the small tears at the corner of your eyes. You come back to yourself, feeling a flurry of emotions come out of your pores—sweat and tears, Satoru’s warmth spilling out of you like dripping candle wax. 

He holds you again and strokes your hair in silent apology. You fall asleep. You don’t dream.

He’d fucked you into the next afternoon, apparently, because you don’t wake up until 1 pm. The sheets are warm with his presence, but there isn’t a warm body next to you.

When he comes back, his eyes are bloodshot. 

“Satoru?”

“He… he left,” he says. 

“What do you mean he left?” 

“Shoko found him and called me. He thinks he can create a world without non-sorcerers, he’s fucking—“

“Satoru!” you snap. 

He shuts up, looks at you with big eyes, wet and dark. 

“You— you saw him?”

“Yeah, just now—”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you demand.

He blinks at you, at a loss for words. He was half-asleep when Shoko called, scrambled to put on pants before he basically warped to the middle of Shinjuku. Seeing Suguru again was whiplash. 

“I didn’t want to—you look so peaceful when you’re sleeping, y’know,” he stammers, running a hand through his haphazard white locks. Lingering bedhead. “And I didn’t want Suguru to think we were, you know, ganging up on him—”

“I wouldn’t care about being woken up if I got to see him!” you scoff. 

“You’re upset.”

“Of course I’m upset he’s my… he’s my friend, too!”

I loved him, too.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”

You must be red in the face. Your face stings with a wash of irritation, your nose twitching as if you’re about to cry. 

“What did you say to him?”

“He’s turned his back on Jujutsu society. That’s all there is to it. He thinks it’s justice.”

“You didn’t try to stop him? You just let him go?”

“I couldn’t kill him. You know that,” he says, his expression hard. 

Your throat catches on a lump, a ball of malignant rage threatening to choke you. The red string that connects you and Suguru has frayed limp. Between you and Satoru, it only tightens around your neck. 

“I could’ve talked to him,” you start babbling. “I could’ve–”

“Don’t be stupid. You know how stubborn he is. You really think that you would’ve made a difference?”

You narrow your eyes, wiping them before tears start to fall. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“I just… I just know him–”

“And I don’t?” you snap. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“It’s what you’re implying.”

Satoru scoffs. “You don’t get it. He’s set on this idea of his. You wouldn’t have changed his mind, I promise you.”

You shut your eyes, feeling the dagger of his gaze twist itself into your chest. There was that feeling again—knowing that you would never be like either Satoru or Suguru. You knew that perhaps Satoru would have more power over him, and despite that, he still left. 

You weren’t there for the past two months, didn’t see the dead look in his eyes. You would never understand him. You think that maybe no one would. You hate how desperately you wanted to know him, how intensely you would claw your way for love in a way that mattered. Years of being with Satoru proved that—you still felt beneath him. Beneath both of them.

“Hey. Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t shut down. You always do that when you get upset,” Satoru grimaces.

You chew on the skin under your lip nervously. Your hands shake. You hate that Suguru has probably only shown a certain percentage of himself to you. There was no room for you to be entitled to the intricacies of his brain. 

The space between you and Satoru is a chasm. You don’t know what to do with your frustration. The only options in your head right now are to take it out on him or let it fester within yourself until you explode. Neither will do much in terms of closure. 

Satoru stares at you with jealousy stirring underneath his skin. It’s the earnestness in your hurt expression. It’s making the guilt inside him multiply like a virus.

“Are you in love with him?” Satoru asks, his voice hoarse.

You blink at him. “I don’t know,” you whisper.

“Do you love him more than you love me?”

“What? What does that have to do with–”

“Just answer.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you mutter. 

Satoru winces, your words a sharp sting to his face. He hadn’t preferred either of you over the other, but he was protective of you in a way that he didn’t feel for Suguru. It ran deep enough to make him crazy—Suguru knew that. For some reason, it wasn’t anything that Satoru could admit out loud. 

He sighs heavily. “I love both of you. You know that.”

“Why are you asking this, Satoru?”

“Because… fuck. Because it doesn’t matter how much you and I loved him! It doesn’t fucking matter. He’s gone, okay?”

He’s too consumed with the thought of you beside him on that sidewalk, surrounded by a crowd. Tunnel vision set on a beautiful boy with sharp eyes, casually ready to leave the both of you in the dust. Part of him hates how much you love Suguru, how much Suguru seemed to love you back. He hates how much you’re fussing over his best friend when all he’s ever done since he met you was fuss over you. 

He hates how much he loves Suguru. So much so that out of his own selfishness, he wanted to face him alone when Shoko called. He didn’t want you beside him when he confronted Suguru, didn’t want to see the inevitable tears on your face once Suguru walked away. 

Satoru is convinced that you were made from him, and if he’s lost one soulmate, he refuses to lose another. 

And yet, you look at him coldly, like you’re going to leave, and his heart jumps out of his chest.

[static-radio-ao3]

@jegulus-microfic // january 14 // prompt: massage // words: 808

“Long night?” The bartender asks, towel slung over his shoulder as he pours Regulus another glass of whiskey. 

“Long month,” he sighs. He massages his temples for a moment, but it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the headache that’s building up.

“Yeah? Wanna tell me about it?” The bartender busies himself with cleaning the counter. There’s no one else to tend to, after all. He looks up at Regulus over the rim of his glasses.

Regulus snorts out a laugh. Perhaps somewhat unattractively, but he doesn’t care. There’s no one left to impress, after all. “I don’t think you get paid enough for that.”

“I get paid plenty. Come on, I’m all ears.”

Regulus considers for a moment, glass loosely held between his fingertips. He swirls the liquid around. Tilts his head. “Well, at least tell me your name before I unload all my issues.”

The bartender moves so he’s standing right in front of him. He leans down, arms coming to rest on the counter. He has nice arms, Regulus notices. Strong. Corded. Veiny.

“James,” the bartender says. He tips his head as if to say nice to meet you.

“Well, James,” Regulus starts, “I’ve been dating.”

“Ah.”

“And it’s not going well.”

“Ah.”

“See, my first date was with a guy who was definitely in love with his roommate and asked me to drive him home an hour into the date because the roommate called. There was an emergency, apparently. I don’t know what type of emergency requires me to stop for condoms first, but I digress.”

Barty hadn’t even been apologetic about it. Told Regulus point-blank that he needed to pass by the store. Bought ribbed condoms and flavored lube. Directed Regulus to their apartment. For a brief moment, Barty had seemed to consider inviting him up. 

“They’re nice though,” he continues with a shrug. “We hang out sometimes.” James chuckles in amusement, soft and low. “Second date was with a guy whose hair was so greasy, I swear you could deep fry something in that mess. And he kept talking about his childhood best friend, which was giving me stalker vibes, to be honest.”

James watches, rapt, as Regulus brings his glass to his mouth and tips it back, the whiskey burning through his system. It leaves him feeling warm and fuzzy around the edges. He’s not sure if it’s the whiskey, though, or James’ attentive gaze.

“And tonight?” James asks. “Date number three?”

“This was four, actually,” he sighs. “Three was a double date with my brother and his boyfriend and their friend, but the friend stood me up.”

“He did not,” James gasps, appropriately scandalized. 

“Right?” Regulus sniffs. He stares into the bottom of his glass, amber liquid long gone, just to avoid the pity he knows he’ll find in James’ eyes. “Tonight was a miss, too. I don’t know, maybe I’m the problem. The undateable Regulus Black. The least eligible bachelor in all of England.” Regulus can’t help the derisive snort that escapes him.

“What did you just say?” James straightens. The movement is so sudden that Regulus startles with it. 

There is a bitter twist of his mouth as he repeats his words. It feels a bit cruel to be asked for an encore of his self-deprecation, but Regulus has always had a hard time saying no to a pretty face. “The least eligible bachelor in all of England?”

“No, no, before that.”

He rolls his eyes. “The undateable Regulus Black?”

James takes a step back behind the bar, as if to get a better look at Regulus. He’s sure he’s quite the spectacle. Hair mussed, eyes bleary, tie undone because he’s been tugging at the knot all night. 

“Shit, you’re Sirius’ brother. I— I had an unexpected shift last week, Peter got sick.” James cards a hand through his hair, tugging on some strands as he goes. “That’s why I couldn’t make it.”

Regulus jolts in his chair, leaning closer to James, eyes narrowed and lip curled up in a sneer. “Wait, you stood me up?”

“I didn’t know!” Two hands held up in surrender. Regulus thinks they’re nice hands. Skilled, too, because he saw James twirl bottles earlier. He wonders what those hands might feel like on his throat. No. He blinks harshly to clear his head. James is still standing there, hands raised. When Regulus leans back into his chair, he lowers them.

He turns to the shelves where the liquor is stocked, grabs the bottle of whiskey. Regulus forces himself not to think indecent thoughts about the man's back.

“Well then,” James says, pouring himself a drink after topping off Regulus’ glass. He shucks the towel off his shoulder, unbothered when it lands in a heap on the counter behind him. Shoots Regulus a wry grin, glass lifted mid-air as if toasting. “Fifth time’s the charm?” 

[dragon-ascent]

What if, Zhongli finds is hugging cute animal plushie versions of everyone (Xiao, Venti, Yae Miko, etc) except for him? Will he get jealous or just pout?

See, normally it's the Rex plushies he sometimes gets pouty about when you shower them with buckets of affection. Now that you've moved on to other plushies? It's like, over the frying pan and into the fire.

The enemy of an enemy is a friend, so he'd try to win you back with the very plushies he'd once eyed ruefully - so he goes and purchases some fanciful limited-edition Rex Lapis plushies he knows you'll like.

While you're sitting on the couch, Zhongli approaches with a pile of them and places them around you, like you're royalty and the Rex Lapises are your magical assistants procured by your loyal subject Zhongli. Prattling off each plushie's charm points while he's at it. "Look darling, this one's eyes glow amber in the dark..."

When all else fails, it's time for some light-hearted guilt-tripping. "What was that, dear Rex Lapis? Oh, you're lonely and would like hugs? But not from myself? Ah, if only someone were around to help..."

[bronz3st4rdust]

In honour of today’s episode, Futurama characters if they were beanie baby cats. And a puppy

Fry: Amber

Leela: Violetta

Bender: Fluff

Zapp Brannigan: Cabaret

Calculon: Sunny

[cc-tinslebee]

Gojo and Nanami's class years adopting orphaned teens as a canon event (the playlist)

a playlist inspired by Gojo & Megumi, Nanami & Yuji, Geto & Nanako/Mimiko, and my own au of Shoko & Junpei (they are NOT beating the adoption allegations)

listen on spotify!

Mama's Boy - Dominic Fike half of my heart is in your chest, I’m not a mama’s boy

Mama - My Chemical Romance mama, we’re meant for the flies / and right now, they’re building a coffin your size

Taking What's Not Yours - TV Girl you know where to find me / and I know where to look

Reflections - The Neighbourhood I see my reflection in your eyes (I sold my soul for you, I know you see it too)

Devil’s Advocate - The Neighbourhood I’m the devil’s advocate / you don’t know the half of it / good luck tryna manage it / if a god is a dog and a man is a fraud, then I’m a lost cause

I Bet On Losing Dogs - Mitski I know they’re losing and I’ll pay for my place by the ring / where I’ll be looking in their eyes when they’re down

everything i wanted - Billie Eilish as long as I’m here, no one can hurt you / don’t wanna lie here, but you can learn to

This Night Has Opened My Eyes - The Smiths a shoeless child on a swing / reminds you of your own again / she took away your troubles / oh, but then again she left pain

New Person, Same Mistakes - Tame Impala feel like a brand new person (but you’ll make the same old mistakes)

The Archer - Taylor Swift screaming, who could ever leave me, darling? / and who could stay? / you could stay

If We Have Each Other - Alec Benjamin if we have each other, then we’ll both be fine / I will be your mother, and I’ll hold your hand / you should know I’ll be there for you

Beautiful Boy - John Lennon the monster’s gone / he’s on the run and your daddy’s here

1985 - Bo Burnham my dad was happier than I am / if I could be anyone, dead or alive / I would wanna be my dad in 1985

The Future - Bo Burnham is it gonna end? (Yeah) / When? (Never) / It’s just another day of hanging with my daughter / and I’m living in the future

United in Grief - Kendrick Lamar I hope you find some peace of mind in this lifetime (tell them, tell them the truth)

Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood go ahead and cry, little boy / you know that your daddy did too / you know what your mama went through

Cinnamon Girl - Lana Del Ray there’s things I wanna talk about / but better not to give / but if you hold me without hurting me / you’ll be the first who ever did

Euphoria - Kendrick Lamar y’all think all my life is rap? / that’s hoe shit, I got a son to raise, but I can see you don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that

She Knows - J. Cole, Cults, Amber Coffman bad things happen to the people you love / and you find yourself praying up to heaven above / but honestly I’ve never had much sympathy / ‘cause those bad things, I always saw them coming for me

I Hear a Symphony - Cody Fry I used to hear a simple song / that was until you came along / now in its place is something new / I hear it when I look at you

Duvet - bôa I am hurting / I have lost it all

[hotheadedhero]

hey so how do you think 2003 or 2012 Leo would deal with a super sweet yet fiesty s/o? Like he is in their house and he apologises for breaking in, he just needed a safe haven to relax and s/o is like casually “If it was anyone else I’d beat them up, but you can break into my house any time you want. I actually trust you”?

AN: We going with 03! The wheel has spoken :P

Exception

Leonardo x Reader

What a week. As far as cleaning the streets of criminal activity goes, it’s been one of the hardest to date. At every turn, there are muggings, burglary, vandalism, all around chaos. You name it. Pure, unbridled chaos and every time the boys think they’re safe to rest up for five minutes, something else pops up and they’re back at it. By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense. New York isn’t without its delinquency but these rates are bizarre even by their standards. If this is all part of a bigger picture then they’ve got some big fish to fry.

As it would turn out, it was: a large-scale operation by a nameless syndicate, orchestrated in the hopes of tiring out the turtles beyond their threshold. If they’re too overworked to engage in their usual vigilante-ing, thieves and rogue punks alike could swarm the streets without having to worry about capture. It would have worked, too, were it not for one of the crooks and his blabbermouth. They can thank Casey and his questionable scare tactics for that one. Who’s to judge when it gets results?

Regardless, the boys couldn’t wait to settle down back home. Leonardo more so than anyone else. He’s ready to sit down with some candles and mentally scrub himself of this strenuous endeavour. The problem with that, however, is that his siblings have their own unique choices of downtime and they’re not exactly the quietest. Machinery hums on one side of the room, occasionally accompanied by shrieking metal. The other side of the lair vibrates with the heavy boom of hip-hop. Even the gentle click-clack of knitting needles just across from his is grating on the ears. He can typically drown out the sounds of his brothers but he’s worn to the point that even meditation won’t do the trick. There’s only one thing for it: he needs to get some air. Better yet, he needs to see you. It’s been far too long. 

Before dating, you both knew there would be nights and even stretches of such where you would go without seeing one another. Plans can change last minute if trouble is afoot. Dates cancelled for the sake of pedestrian safety. That being said, these last half a dozen days have been the longest length of time you’ve endured without each other. Maybe he could surprise you with his return. You’d think he learned from the times he and his brothers have unexpectedly crashed April’s that, that would be a bad idea. This is you, though. Arguably, you’re a bit more temperamental at times but he knows your soft spot for him could trump that. Probably.

Without thinking of the possible ramifications, he trudges along to your apartment. Albeit, it’s taking a lot longer to get than normal. He’s aware of how drained he is but walking through the sewers shouldn’t be this difficult. He’ll be thankful when he finally reaches you. Perhaps he’ll even be lucky enough to lay dead in your arms if he hasn’t pushed his luck by barging in unprompted. He quietly chuckles at himself, knowing you’d call him out for being such a sap.

Leo finally makes it to the manhole cover and pushes it off with some strain. The weight of it burns his muscles, nearing the point of shaking. Nonetheless, he drives through and lets out a breath when it clangs against the tarmac. Not his most graceful of exits but he supposes he can be excused at least this once. The extra ache is worth it for the sweet wave of serenity that washes over him when he sees your window. It’s a dim light. No doubt it’s from your living room lava lamp - the one with the orange wax that emits this gentle, pink-amber glow. It’s reminiscent of a sun-kissed sky that you can enjoy in the sanctuary of your own home. He likes that one. You always turn it on when the city enters night; when you want the sunset to last just that little while longer.

Without wanting to lose another second, he carefully positions the manhole cover back in place and advances up your fire escape. He peeks through your window on the off chance he might catch you. When you’re nowhere to be found, he slides the glass up and climbs through as quietly as his irritated legs will allow him. He’s about to call your name when something suddenly hits him on the head.

“Ow!” he yells out and rubs on the sore spot. The main lights flick on and there you are, standing in a readied pose with your bat raised high. “Couldn’t you do that in a batting cage or something?”

“Leo?” Your eyes gape wide as your stance falters.

In the dully lit room, all you saw was a figure. A figure sneaking into your home. It could have been anyone or anything. Obviously, your first port of call was to take action. Befriending and even dating one of the city’s self-proclaimed saviours means potential for a target on your head. There’s no telling who or what could come for you should they want to lure the turtles in with live bait. What you hadn’t anticipated was your loving turtle in blue to be the one tiptoeing into your apartment. You prop the bat on your shoulder and lean on the wall with the other.

“Ever heard of a phone?” you ask through a playful murmur.

One corner of his lips turns up into a coy smile and he laughs sheepishly, “Sorry, it’s been a long week.”

You have half a mind to remind him why breaking into someone’s home in a crime-infested New York is a recipe for disaster but he looks beat enough as is. Whilst you haven’t had much of a chance to talk this past week, you’re more than aware of what he’s had to deal with. If he’s here now, that must mean it’s been officially dealt with and taken care of. Good thing, too, because it seems like he could drop at any given moment. Oh. The baseball. Your boyfriend has been working himself to the bone and you’ve just whacked him in the face with a baseball. 

Bashfully, you click your tongue and glance away. There are definitely better ways to greet your significant other. It’s likely he’ll use this against you when he’s feeling particularly cheeky in the future but you won’t worry about that now. You push your body off the wall and point at him with your baton.

"If it was anyone else, they'd be a bloody pulp by now." You prop the bat on the wall and turn away to your kitchen with a shrug. "But, sure, break in any time you want. You're lucky I trust you."

Your words hold a sarcastic nature, almost satirical, but he knows you mean well. The meaning behind them holds a sweetness. An apology wouldn’t have gone amiss but he did technically break in. He’ll hold his hands up and admit fault. Permission has been given at least. Not that he thinks he needed it before but if it saves him another bruise, it’s a win.

You truly love your friends to pieces but, if you’re being honest, they have their individual set of havocs they’d thrust upon your home were it them in place of your boyfriend. Raph the least, ironically enough, but his sai have a nasty habit of poking holes in your couch any time he sits down. Donnie often has a gadget on him you'd be too fearful of setting your furniture on fire. As for Mikey? He’s a food fiend who can and will deplete you of all your snacks. Let's not forget Casey but he’s a walking health and safety hazard if ever you met one. His visiting rights have been revoked after what he did to your Christmas ornaments and it’s the last time you’ve ever and will host for the holidays. You don’t like to talk about it. So, yeah, if there's any one person who can freely invite themself to your home, it's the turtle you love most.

When you’ve finished packing a cloth with ice, you sit Leonardo down and hold it to his head. His face scrunches up before easing and he smiles at you softly. This may not have turned out to be the romantic surprise he thought it would be but he’s glad to be back in your presence - in your home surrounded by personifications of your selfdom. 

“That was a good shot, by the way,” he compliments, sporting that impertinent grin you’d expected.

Your teeth clasp down on your bottom lip, fighting an annoyed smile. “Don’t give me an excuse to use your shell as target practice,” you warn but the following kiss to his bruise reveals your empty threat. “But, thanks. Sorry for hitting you in the first place.”

His brows raise at you. “I’m sure you could make it up to me.”

You hum in response and shove the ice pack in his face. Your choice to tend to his wounds after he impolitely infringed on you is you making it up to him. Ungrateful pinhead. He’s lucky you love him. Very lucky indeed.

[kingofthe-egirls]

THIRSTY: CROCODILE x Y/N

for @leakyweep

(cw: piv sex, food mention, reader is a casino dealer, cigar mention)

(a/n: he’s such a stud)

Songs: “Goody Bag” by Still Woozy

words: 652

****

Someone is playing violin.

Crocodile sits across from you in the small, intimate private dining room at the back of his casino. There’s a soft, velvety curtain hanging over the elaborately carved wooden door; it hides the two of you from the violinist. As well as any prying eyes.

“You’re the casino’s best dealer,” he says, low voice rumbling throughout his broad chest. “Want a raise?”

You arch an eyebrow, chomping on the steak fries you’d ordered.

He smiles, the scar across his face crinkling slightly.

“Seriously?”

Your voice is lined with vitriol, as you’re no stranger to Crocodile’s less-than-kind disposition.

He sucks his teeth, the rings on his fingers glinting in the warm, amber lighting. He looks like some sort of war god. Someone protective.

Someone strong.

“Seriously,” he intones.

You swipe a particularly chunky fry through ketchup. You bite, chew, and swallow. His dark eyes scan your every move. “How much of a raise?” Your eyes dart over his stature: strong and large and lovely.

You wonder what it’s like sitting on his lap. Your cheeks heat. He seems to see your thoughts as they pass through your swirling head.

He’s checking you out.

Sitting back in your seat, you sling an arm over the headrest. Your legs are crossed, the slit of your velvet dress riding up your mid-thigh. The plum fabric hugs your curves that Crocodile seems so interested in staring at.

Your stiletto heel clicks against the polished, wooden chair leg.

Crocodile fidgets with his hand, emeralds and rubies sparkling at his knuckles. The golden hook gleams in the romantic dining lights.

“As much as you want.”

You smirk.

“Bet.”

****

Crocodile leads you to the uppermost floor of his pyramid-casino. You’re standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows holding a champagne glass in your chipped-nail polish fingers.

He’s sorting through papers on his desk, emerald-tipped pen scribbling as he officially raises your salary almost 400%.

You stare down at the sands of Alabasta. You smirk.

“So…,” the warlord drawls, “Satisfied yet, sweetness?” His voice rumbles as he stands up from his desk. His hand is spread flat over the papers. His rings sparkle in the brilliant sunlight. His suit jacket is fitted perfectly along his broad shoulders and strong torso. He chews a cigar between his teeth.

You down the sour champagne.

“Not quite.”

He smiles, slow and sticky, as he watches you stalk forward. He stays behind his desk, his hand still splayed flat. His coat hangs loose around his shoulders.

“What else are you looking for?” He asks with dry humor.

You sit atop his desk, plush hips resting on the gleaming wood.

“Guess.”

He smiles, laughing softly beneath his cigar-smoke breath.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, mock-serious. His slicked-back hair is coffee-brown. His stature is cocksure and power hungry. You’re thirsty.

“Champagne’s not enough,” you say, standing. Your stilettos click against the tiled mosaic flooring.

“Oh?”

You roll in your lips, a slight moment of hesitation, before closing the distance between you and your chosen warlord.

“Not enough at all.”

He slowly, gently, raises his golden hook to tip your chin up. He appraises you like a jeweler studying something rare and pretty.

“What, pray tell, will quench this thirst of yours, hm?”

You swallow.

“Guess.”

****

Crocodile has you sat backward on his lap, your stilettos still on and your dress forgotten on the floor.

His cock is huge.

****

He bullies himself up into you; long, sure strokes kissing your velvet walls. You’re bruised and bitten: hickies all over your shoulders and neck.

****

Crocodile hums into your hair, kissing at the space behind your ears. He sucks on your earlobe, teething at the shell. “Such a pretty thing, hah?”

You whine, bouncing on his cock.

He steers you through a second orgasm. His hands are sunk into the flesh of your hips: slowing your pace as he savors each second of your clenching release.

“That’s my sweetheart…”

****

[goblinpuppy35]

Paw Prints in Fresh Soil

(Previous Chapter) - Part 8 - (Next Chapter)

Professor Remus x Male Reader

Summary: While teaching at Hogwarts Professor Lupin tries his best to conceal his strong crush for the green fingered grounds keeper Y/N but soon a strong friendship blooms into something more.

CW: 18 YEAR OLDS + ONLY: Long chapter with A LOT of smut

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

Remus was unable to hide his flushed cheeks and gleeful smile throughout the rest of the teaching day. His students simply assumed he was in a particularly good mood that day. The Professor religiously checked the time after every class, assessing how long he had to wait before seeing Y/N again. He could still taste the wet fabric of Y/N's pre cum stained boxers on his lips. It made the wolf inside him feral. 

Once teaching concluded for the day Remus eagerly returned to his chambers. Despite lust filling his head Remus was suddenly overwhelmed by the concern of hosting and began to quickly clean scattered books and papers off the floor and table. Then in an attempt to set the mood the Professor brought out a number of candles, placing them around the room and lighting them accordingly. Afterwards Remus lit the fire and then looked around the room satisfied, the low amber glow around him vividly reminded him of taking care of Y/N's cold body during his recovery. 

Remus attempted to preoccupied himself as he waited for Y/N by laying on the sofa half heartedly flicking through one of his books. This distraction only worked temporarily as the thought of what if Y/N would be hungry on arrival entered Remus' mind. Panickily he hurried to his small kitchen. Similar to his poison skills, his cooking abilities were extremely limited and lacking. As Remus frantically tried to figure out why the eggs he was trying to scramble were producing storm clouds of smoke from the pan, he failed to notice the latch of his door quietly opening and Y/N entering the room.

Remus was completely oblivious to Y/N's presents until the groundskeepers fingers slipped passed Remus' to take hold of the frying pan. Remus' surprise was promtly replaced with relief and then embarrassment as he let Y/N save what was left of his scrambled eggs which took on more of the apprentice of scrambled charcoal. Sitting on the candle lit floor by the fire Y/N insisted on eating the least burnt parts of Remus' disastrous meal, insisting it wasn't that bad. Remus laughed and watched Y/N, his long arm stretch across the sofa that their backs were resting against. His hand on Y/N's shoulder Remus rubbed his thumb up and down the fabric of the groundskeepers shirt tentatively. The contact between them felt so natural. 

Although both men knew exactly what they had came here for, as the night progressed the pair stayed in each other's arms talking. Y/N told Remus about his transition and how he struggled connecting to his family because of it, "They never planned to have a Muggle child, let alone a queer son" Y/N said pensively, looking into the fire. He then turned back and smiled warmly at Remus, "It's okay though, I manage" his words were genuine but Remus could still see sadness behind Y/Ns handsome eyes. Remus squeezed Y/N shoulder lovingly and pulled him in closer. 

Midnight came and went as the men talked relentlessly, as Y/N continued to tell Remus about his life the weary Professor found himself equally opening up. He told Y/N about his affliction and the toll it put on his body every month. He talked about how he often felt a great deal of guilt and shame for the way he was. With each personal secret of their lives they shared with one another their emotional bond grew as well as thier physical proximity, by the time the last fire embers extinguished themselves Y/N was curled up in-between Remus' open legs. Their hands weaved around one another like ivy up and old stone wall. Gently Remus kisses Y/Ns ear and whispered "Shall we go to bed?", looking up towards the Professor, Y/N nodded. They walked to the bedroom hand in hand. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the dark as they watched one another start to remove their clothes. Deep conversations about everything and nothing flowed between the pair again once they were laying on their sides facing one another, just in their underwear. Y/N explained which parts of his body were still sensitive after surgery and in general how he preferred being treated in bed to not feel dysphoric. Additionally Remus told Y/N which parts of his own body where most fragile, showing which scars had healed poorly.

Both men were not sure when they'd drifted off to sleep but the comfort of being engulfed in each other's arms was too tranquil to resist. Early morning owl cries woke Y/N up from the deepest sleep he felt he'd had in a life time. The room was still completely dark. Y/N had rolled to his opposite side, with his back against Remus' front, the taller man's arms were cradling Y/N and he could feel Remus' hot exhaling breathes in the crook of his neck. Considering he was a light sleeper Y/N appreciated the fact Remus didn't snore. As Y/N wiggled his body to get my comfort he felt his back press further into Remus, who's peaceful breathing suddenly got lower. Y/N moved a little more and felt the small of his back push against Remus' crotch, he was noticeable hard and the sensation made Y/N blush. Remus' lower breathing grew into a deep growl, his body shifted and then his grip tightened around Y/N.

"I'm sorry.. did I wake you? Sorry" breathed Y/N unsuccessfully hiding how flustered and arose he was becoming, Remus pushed his body closer to his. "Don't be" Remus' voice rumbled through Y/Ns ear and made his body shake. Y/N's limbs suddenly felt limp and stupid as Remus' hand slowly pulled down Y/N's boxers and then his own. Even in the darkness Y/N could feel Remus' impressive length resting against his leg, a small wet patch at the end. Tenderly kissing Y/N's shoulder Remus positioned himself then carefully began to enter Y/N from behind. Hums passed through Y/N's pressed lips which turned to whimpers as he became overwhelmed with the sheer sensational volume his body was feeling. "Hold onto me pup" Remus' low sleep filled voice said softly, "It's alright, I've got you". These sincere words followed by blankets of kisses up his neck helped relax Y/N, his forearms gripping onto the strong arms wrapped around him, as he loosened his tense body he could feel Remus' whole cock fully inside him, it was enough to make Y/N's brain fully switch off. 

"That's my boy" Remus huffed rocking his body and guiding Y/N's to do the same "your doing so well... god You feel amazing". The room was silent except for the steady creaking of the wooden bed frame and both men's heated moans. The air was filled with privacy and intimate passion. "Y/N.. are you okay, dose it feels good for you?" Remus asked between pants feeling himself getting harder inside of the smaller man. Having seemingly lost the ability to talk Y/N took hold of one of Remus' hands and delicately pulled it down his own body, reaching his thighs he pulled apart to folds to reveal his throbbing cock tip to Remus. The Professor's breathing paused momentarily as he felt how large and stimulated Y/N's cock was. A new pleasure swept across Remus' body now he could tell how turned on Y/N was. "I ... I" Y/N was barely able to whisper while he showed Remus' fingers how to rub against his tip "I want you to make me cum AH" before Y/N finished his request Remus took to for filling it. Coating with thumb and forefinger with Y/N's precum he slowly started to rub Y/N's erection, taking note how even the slightest touch down there made Y/N's back arch . "With pleasure my love" Remus cooed before thrusting his hips harder behind Y/N.

Y/N very rarely let himself fully go in any situation, even when he was alone. Yet Remus was sending every fibre of skin he had alight. His throbbing cock ached spectacularly from Remus' meticulous touch, he knew he was going to cum soon. Remus' body was having the same reaction to Y/N and as the groundskeeper widened his leg span, giving Remus more space, his pleasure tipped over the edge. "Fuck Y/N I'm" was all Remus could announce before overflowing feelings of ecstasy escaped his body. Y/N was getting drunk feeling all of Remus' inside him. Extending his high Remus continued to pump Y/N slower but with harder thrusts, his own body starting to buck. These sharp movements were too much for Y/N "Oh Christ Remus .. I'm ..I'm. Fuck. I'm going to scream. Please stop me". Swiftly Remus lifted up his free hand and clasped it fully over Y/N's trembling mouth, pulling his head back slightly. Remus' other hand stayed on Y/N's cock as he synchronized his hip thrusts to his wrist jerk. The hand gag seemed to have the opposite affect on Y/N for each muffled moan came quicker after the others and became more desperate. Even though his own high was fading Remus was loving this display and pure lust and with each moan from Y/N he tighter his grip over his mouth and tilted his head back further. Suddenly Y/N's body stopped squirming, become unbelievably still and tense as he let out a muffled moan which sounded as if he was crying. His body arched and then rubbed against Remus' fingers enthusiastically, at which point Remus felt warm cum over his fingers. He waited until Y/N had finished rocking and then withdraw his fingers to his open mouth, licking around his knuckles he devoured Y/N's taste. "You taste beautiful" Remus whispered causing Y/N to shake and twitch now Remus had pulled out. Y/N shock so hard he made the mattress quiver so Remus sitting up, scoped Y/N in between his legs and pulled the blankets up to wrapped around both their shoulders. Shushing and petting the younger man's Y/H/C hair Remus kissed his warm cheeks "You were perfect Y/N". 

"Some .. Sometimes I get .. I .. very non verbal after.. af" Y/N jittered through his wobbling lip. Caressing Y/Ns hand Remus kissed it gently, "That's okay" He reassured, "as long as you are okay?". Y/N smiled and nodded, snuggling into Remus cosy embrace. After a moment of peaceful recovery Remus asked "Shall we both get cleaned up and then go back to bed?". Y/N nodded again and was about to gingerly make his way off the bed but gasped in surprise as his weight lifted off the sheets. Supported by Remus' arms the Professor carried Y/N to the bathroom, switching the light on with his elbow. Both men couldn't stop bashfully smiling at each other. 

[jolapeno]

the day three words are said

frankie morales x f!reader | resurrected chances

they're simple. those three words. especially when you mean them

wordcount: 2k themes: mention of triple frontier plot, FLUFF, sweetness. love declarations. allusion to frankie doing bad things prior. but no use of y/n.

Frankie knows what love is.

He’s experienced it—in all of the different levels and varying forms. He’s experienced it where his breath has been taken away and others where it has crept up, gently tapped its finger across his shoulders and made him smile.

There’s the kind of love he has with his friends—his buddies. The ones bonded together by battle, blood and loss.

There’s the familial one, the kind he’s always known—always kept close.

Then, there’s the love he felt for his ex. The one who had been there, who he thought he loved with all he had, but later found that wasn’t true at all.

And then, then there was you.

You, who he’s sure he’s been in love with long before today. The signs have always been there. Brimming and growing from as far back as your two’s first date.

Your foot against his calf. Smile spreading, practically grinning as he tells you some story that he can’t even remember now. And then you leant forward, the fabric of your dress slipping from your skin. The starters had not even arrived when your hand slid over his: Frankie, shall we go somewhere else?

That’s how he found himself half an hour later, all dressed up, in a booth at McDonalds. Your finger stealing one of his fries, your grin larger than he’d seen on the night of Benny’s fight.

If Frankie were to look back and ask at what point he thinks he began falling in love with you, he’s sure it would be that moment.

The moment he tried to get the fry back from your finger, you managed to get sauce on your nose—him swiping it off with his finger, your eyes sparkling under the ceiling lights before he married his lips to yours.

Frankie hammers his knuckles against the door and puts his hands in his jacket pockets. All unsettled, awkward. Before he pulls them back out, wrapping, folding his arms over his chest.

He’d been about to adjust again when you pulled open the door.

Frankie isn't sure you even mean to, but you wrap him in goodness, light and warmth. He feels at ease and all of a sudden calm. Easily able to forget how long he's been wandering, all aimless, lost amongst forests and treacherous seas.

There hadn't been a plan. He'd dropped his son off, said the awful goodbye he dreads each time he has to—and then he drove.

And drove.

Finding himself outside of your door. Months of dates. Weeks of it sitting in his chest. Those three words clotting in his throat, growing larger, making it difficult to swallow.

It's why he's not surprised to find a confused expression greeting him, slowly morphing, extending out before it’s halted. Then, it's quickly consumed by a smile, a glimmer in your eye and a look of pure tenderness.

It’s a gaze which fills him with a warmth from the outside in. A chain reaction you enact within him with ease. A thing you’ve been able to do to him since the moment he first met you.

“Frankie—hi? Did… did we have plans?”

Removing his hat, he shakes his head. Fingers, carding through his hair, catching on a knot as he watches your head tilt.

“Do you w-wanna come in?”

Following you in, the aroma of you meets his nose—the scent which is so undefinable, yet so you.

Just like the furnishings, all airy, but snug—a soft glow from the lamp in the corner spraying delicate amber across all it can touch.

His eyes glance over filled photo frames, people he’s met and some he’s heard stories of—his fingerprint still on one from the first time he was here. A question rolling from his tongue and a story from yours.

There are also the ones filled with him, your grin illuminated, his own once foreign to him, but now forever captured. Because you make it easy for him to just breathe, to stop, allow him to just be.

His eyes slide, moving to something new, something colourful and out of place—his heart almost stopping, halting altogether.

Because there, in a frame (he knows must be new), is the art Luca had given you the last time he saw you. The dragon you’d whispered to his son about drawing, all coloured in your favourite shades, with the sun in the corner mirroring a smile he knows you helped draw.

He’s barely listening when you ask him if he wants a drink, all set to leave the room—likely to retrieve him one all the same—when he speaks up.

Clears his throat, and shifts the lump which has been slowly forming on the unannounced drive over.

“Can we talk?”

The words catch and hit the air oddly. Barely a sentence, no more than three words, yet they drape over the room—hanging, thickening like smog around the two of you as you pause in your movements.

Especially because he knows he has said them without confidence—or intent.

It’s instant, the way your face flickers with emotions—some easier to read than others.

Frankie likes that about you, that your face tells every story, whether pain or happiness. Nothing concealed, nothing easily able to be hidden. You’re genuine and authentic; you’re all kind and real.

Nothing too much, or too little.

Just like two nights ago, when he rang—flustered and stressed. You hear him out, calming him. Lightly asking him what he needs, not running for the hills as his to-do list spoiled the air. You just took things from him, removing them from his shoulders, all those miles away from him.

“Frankie, are you... Fuck—is Luca okay?”

Nodding, quickly. Reassuringly.

He gently places his hat onto your sideboard, staring at you. “He’s fine. Promise.”

It does nothing to settle you. He can tell, something he notices almost immediately. Something he can’t form the words to correct because he’s focusing on willing himself not to unspool. Wanting to do this right, not unravel in a mess at your feet.

Mostly, Frankie doesn’t want to just let it all flow from him without care, or spill the truth and paint your ears in all that he feels.

Because he’s more than okay.

If anything, he feels more than he ever thought he could.

He feels so much for you, he’s struggling with how to say it. The words tangling somewhere in the back of his oesophagus, frantic to emerge—to thrive in the space the two of you have made for one another.

You shift on the spot, worry stitching itself into the smile you try to show.

His confession had been burning a hole in his tongue for a while. Having first appeared as an ember weeks ago, growing larger when he opened his fridge and found your note—those scribbled-out instructions and timings, your little 'have fun' and a drawn heart.

You step closer, panic carving deeper into your face. “Whatever it is, it’ll be okay. If t—this is too much, with Luca and work—”

“No! No baby, no. It’s…”

He takes a breath.

Your hands coming across your front, fingers looping together over your waist—a swallow heard, all loud, practically punching a hole in the silence.

Sighing, Frankie rolls his lips. “I think about you without even trying.”

His heart hammers in his chest—bashing itself against his ribs.

The sound reverberates around him, travelling up to his skull. The congestion in his chest eases, and the fluttering that’s been nothing but incessant, slows.

Because he’s setting it free, letting it escape, allowing you to have it.

So he takes another breath. Flexes his hands.

“I’ve… I’ve fucked up a lot, baby. I—I did some things in my life that I’m not entirely proud of.”

He watches as your mouth clamps shut, body stilling. A nervousness quivering in the air, but less so than before. Something which urges him on, gives him the push to continue as you remain dutifully silent—allowing him to speak.

“I especially—I wasn’t in a great headspace after Colombia. Rough doesn’t… it doesn’t even begin to cover the half of it. Fuck. I even went and convinced myself that there wasn’t much left for me—falling down a hole that was nothing but pitch black. Except for Luca.”

You swallow, and it sounds louder in the quiet. More so as he lets his words settle, soak.

Frankie lets his fingers brush over his palm, thumb cupping over them as he takes a breath.

“Guys like me… we don’t do what I did and think we deserve a good ending to their story. I know that. And I’ve done it all before, right? Tried to settle down. Tried to be good. But that kind of stuff, it was never in the cards for me.”

It smooths, the expression on your face.

Slowly fading into something blank, with no edges or easily discernible things, he can begin to unpick.

“I was stuck in a dark place for a while—didn’t have much hope of getting out on my own, or ever—to be honest. So here I am, wandering around for years on autopilot, going through the motions. Reserved in thinking this is it. Everything’s just background noise. Wake up, eat, work, have Luca overnight, sleep and repeat.

“That is until Benny strong-armed me into showing up to his fight. And that day—baby, I’ll never forget it.”

He smiles and lets it sparkle out across his face, watching intently as your eyes widen ever so slightly. Engulfing him in that same sunshine and love all over again.

“Fuck, that first time you smiled at me? Baby, I was doomed. Didn’t even stand a chance. It was like… suddenly, the world’s a little less sad. Like I felt a little less lonely. Things all a little bit brighter. Am I making any sense? Because what I’m trying to say is, I didn’t feel like it was impossible. I felt seen. For the first time in… fuck… ages. It felt like I had a light at the end of the tunnel. And, if it isn’t clear, it was you.”

“Frankie…”

He steps closer, bridging the gap.

Lifting his hand, cupping both your cheeks. He tilts those eyes up, so they embed themselves into his soul—just like he wants them to. Like he needs them, too.

“I am in love with you,” he adds, more in a whisper than before. “Not just because you see me, not because you do things like fetch my son some PJs, grab groceries, and cook me a meal. But because it isn’t hard to love you—I don’t have to force it. I don’t have to remind myself to ask you things, I want to.”

Twinkling and glistening, your eyes blink. Mouth shifting, twitching, before spreading into a smile. He takes the chance to stroke his thumb against the edge of it, feels it, and basks in it as his other hand drops down to your hip, fingers spreading, fanning across.

“You done?”

Pressing his forehead against yours, Frankie feels your fingers on his temple, soft and gentle—playing with his curls, as he nods. His nose brushes against yours, watching your lips curl up into a beam, cheeks rising, as he finds his own begin to mirror it.

Then, he hears it, all soft and shaky. “Good, because I am very much in love with you too, Francisco.”

Closing his eyes, Frankie basks in it.

The feel of it—all of it. The way it sounds to hear you say those words back—the way you let his name fall like a silk ribbon from your tongue.

So much so, that he’s sure he’s being wrapped in it—your words. Being pulled into a pool of love, he wasn’t sure he’d ever have, ever deserve—suddenly diving, swimming in it. But here it is. Your love, merging with his.

And it feels right, fitting.

Then you repeat it again. And again. Whispering it like a chant, those three words, until his lips capture yours, tasting the words—feeling them down his throat as he singes them against your mouth.

Pressing each syllable and letter to yours, then your neck, your collarbone. Until you’re both stumbling, tripping over clothes that are being removed before you're on your back on your sofa, and Frankie is drinking you in.

The person he’s in love with—the one he realises he’s always been looking for.

The one he's been waiting for.

an: fuck i love these two.

thank you so much to G for the help with this, including the gifted elements that made this what it is.

[wifeofsnowbaird]

Charlie...I will never trust you again...

[Charlie Bushnell x chef!reader]

Warnings: none, this is just pure fluff <3

[Idk Charlie personally ofc so considering what i've seen on the internet, this is what i think of him as a bf ❤️]

synopsis: the day he decided to visit was the same day you decided to try out the most dangerous cooking trick at home.

Call the fire department.

Charlie is the most responsible person in your life, and though that's not saying much, it says something.

But right now he was tampering with the one thing he shouldn't touch.

The frying pan.

His panicked eyes glossed over your own before paying attention the the boiling oil. His screams may seem like he burnt down your kitchen but I assure you that he's just overwhelmed.

"Charlie...I told you to just watch the stove while I refill Toby's water..." You murmured, glancing back at your orange tabby cat. Charlie huffed before motioning for you to take over his spot near the heat.

" I know...I just-just freaked out, I guess. " He let out a large breath before giving you a sheepish grin.

Ever since they started dating he had been afraid of fire. You seriously assumed it was some kind of deep trauma before his mom told you that it was because of a horror movie they'd watched when he was ten. To be honest, when she mentioned the movie you agreed with him, but he nearly burned your kitchen down.

All because you tried to make Funnell cakes.

You side-eyed his confused stare before you pretended to break down and sob. " My Funnell cakes! No, my heart is breaking!" You opened an eyelid as you felt his warm hands wrap around your shoulders.

" Baby...I'm so so so so sorry! I swear I didn't mean to! I'll do anything for you to forgive me! I'll go near a fire to make your precious Funnell cakes! Just don't cry!" His worried, dark, amber eyes clouded your vision before you pulled him near for a short kiss.

" Just kidding silly! I forgive and love you! Just don't touch the pan again, okay?"

He grinned cheekily before kissing you again.

" I love you too!"

ok this was actually really sweet, i love it so much

@cafekitsune: she created the dividers! i reblogged her post so go check it out!

[wordsinhaled]

N, your last drabble!!! Dream falling in love with Hob’s domesticity, with the humanity he brings out in him!! Craving these brief moments between them where everything’s soft and mushy and quiet and crispy warm. Dream slowly noticing how lovingly Hob looks up at him. Dream drowning in his presence, drowning in Hob. Falling in love in the tranquility of one another.

I WILL cry…

I KNOW... i am already crying, cocoa, FOR REAL

have some domestic flirting <3333

-

It must be, Morpheus thinks, a particular quality of the light that streams in through Hob’s kitchen window, that it catches in his hair and brings out the little amber flecks in each strand just so. This is something Morpheus has never before had the opportunity to notice. The sources of illumination in the White Horse Tavern were too low to ever lend Hob such radiance, and those in the New Inn too electric. It must be a peculiar quality of Hob Gadling’s, that he is best suited to being lit up by the sun. The way it softens his edges and sets his skin to glowing nearly makes Morpheus envious of how unreservedly it bestows Hob with its favor. Hob is washing up the breakfast dishes in the sink—an activity so mundane and tedious and small that the Morpheus of six centuries ago would have scoffed at the very idea of finding it engrossing. How much time in their fleeting eyeblink of a life, thinks that vestige of Morpheus idly, do people spend simply soaping and rinsing and drying dishes? Yet today he sits at Hob’s little kitchen table and feels abjectly fascinated by every detail of the act. Hob Gadling, he supposes, has more time than most to spare for such follies. Hob does not own a dishwasher. The sleeves of his buttondown are pushed up to his elbows, and his arms are shiny-wet up to mid-forearm, and his hands disappear into a mountain of white suds as he scrubs at the inside of a frying pan with a green wiry sponge. The room smells bright and clean, the lemon zest scent of the dish liquid catching and holding Morpheus’ attention as much as the roll of Hob’s shoulders does when he turns to place the rinsed pan aside to drip dry. Morpheus remembers too late that humankind tends to dislike the sensation of being observed. But Hob only slants a crooked smile at him when he notes that he is watched; only says, “See something you like?” Instantly Hob’s eyes widen the barest fraction, and squeeze shut, and Morpheus spies the shadow that passes in the next moment over his face. It is the same sort of shadow, the same drawing inwards, that he has noted sometimes comes over Lucienne when she thinks she may have said something that will surely be ill-received. Morpheus cannot fathom what has troubled Hob now. He considers Hob’s question with care. What is before him? There is the ease with which Hob grins at him. The glinting sunshine that follows the soft fall of his hair out of the haphazard bun. The dark patches of denim where Hob has just wiped his dripping palms on his thighs. “Yes.” Morpheus answers simply, and knows it to be the truth. “I see... much that pleases me.” “Oh,” Hob says, his smile widening to show a flash of teeth. “Alright, then.” There is surprise in his voice, and pleasure, and... something else Morpheus does not decipher. He has not read the daydreams of Hob Gadling in many hundreds of years. He will not begin now. But a flush blooms across Hob’s cheeks then to accompany his words, the staining red of poppies, and Morpheus finds he enjoys this as well.

[batsclass101-blog]

Dead People Book Club - Part 5

————-

The pit shriveled into silence as Jason glanced at the figure standing in his safe house. He knew the stance and form… but the soot and flaming persona was throwing him off.

“Jason?…” Hero’s voice cracked. Everything was blurry and her knees folded.

“Shakespeare!” Jason caught the trembling girl. No fear of burning touched his mind. Hiding his own tremors he settled his friend onto his couch.

Hero’s eyes rolled back and any flame about her was snuffed out. She was safe, Jason’s place felt like safety. Her mind shuttered off and she drifted into darkness.

“Alive…” Jason fumbled with the useless domino mask he’d been wearing. “And she knew me.” He shook his head, Shakespeare had always been smart.

Gentle hands traced Hero’s limbs and once the antihero was satisfied he checked her pupils. She was concussed but no bones were broken.

A sigh of relief escaped Jason and he ran a hand over his face. She was alive and apparently a new meta. He settled on the edge of the couch to keep watch. If this was a dream he didn’t want it to end. It’d been too long since someone outside his family wanted him. He wanted Hero to need his friendship as much as he needed hers.

‘It can’t be a dream…” His eyes closed and sleep engulfed him.

———-

Hero woke with a start and the sensation of air too cold against her skin. Her eyes snapped open and unfamiliar surroundings glared at her. Bright morning light glared through a window and she froze. Where was she? Had she been kidnapped?

Turning her gaze, the young woman saw the back of a hulking figure. The scent of frying bacon and pancakes eased her anxiety. What kidnapper cooked for their hostage? The true soother of her fear was the familiarity of the figures back. Jason!

Heart in her throat, Hero pushed herself to the edge of the couch and stood. The world shifted for a moment and her sight glazed over with flickering flame and she found herself standing beside Jason!

“What !—“ Jason nearly tossed the pan he’d been holding. “Don’t do that!” He glared and settled the pan back on the burner.

“I… what?” Hero blinked in surprise. A moment ago she’d been standing from the couch, with the simple desire to see Jason.

“Breakfast is almost ready. We’ll talk after.” Jason plated the food slowly as Hero slipped silently to the table.

He’d spent much of his time around metas, but sometimes he still was thrown off balance. He took a steadying breath and joined Hero.

Silence reigned as the meal was consumed, until Jason glanced up. He froze mid-drink as he noted Shakespeare’s gaze. Her eyes were flaming pools of amber and soft red. The flames were alive, glowing and warm. He swallowed hard… most time flaming eyes were unsettling but hers were soft. The feeling of soft acceptance wrapped around him.

“So. You’re a meta?”

“Uh… I guess. It’s news to me.”

“Ok, Sparky.” Jason tried to scoff. “I thought you died.”

“Ditto.” Hero’s eyes narrowed. “I.. mean.”

“You’re right.” Jason’s jaw ticked and he felt the pit rumble.

“I don’t know what happened… I was hanging on a ledge over flames.”

“Gotham’s a health hazard. Especially Crime Alley.”

Hero snorted and sipped her coffee.

“So… am I a hostage? I can’t remember how I got here.”

“…Not a hostage.” Jason looked at her intently. “I pulled you from the flames of a candle…. That sounds ridiculous!”

“It’s Gotham. Anything’s possible.” Rolling her eyes, Hero stood and stretched. “Why is your place so hot?”

“I think it’s you.”

“Are you flirting, Jason?” Hero cut her flaming eyes at him and a grin touched her lips. “Not that I mind.”

“There’s extra clothes under the sink and the shower is open.” He stood in a huff and grabbed the empty plates. “Doors the second on the left”

Sometimes he wondered how he got involved in the situations that he did. He did the dishes up as the bathroom door closed. How was he supposed to process the strange feelings rising in him?

[cookie-crumblr]

Death’s Head

G/N Fast Food Worker Reader x M! Bugkeeper Yan OC

Part 1~

His Info: 🦋✨

Part: 1 2

!!!MINORS DNI!!!

CW: G/N Reader, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, NSFW, Yandere, stalking, ML!masturbation, edging, non-con voyeurism, mentions of cheating, scent kink

“$26.70 is your total…” You meet his amber eyes, “You come here a lot, you like the food that much?”

“N-Not really… But it’s… C-convenient,” He says in a voice so quiet you’re surprised it came out of such a tall guy.

Your brow dips suspiciously. “Huh. Whatever, have a nice morning…” As you’re handing over the brown paper sack your hands touch briefly. He drops the bag and spills his fries all over the counter.

“Fuck, sec!” You rush to grab a new fry for the poor guy. The shit’s so overpriced nowadays anyway.

“I-It’s n-no big d-deal!”

“No, it’s not, which is why i’m getting you new ones! Don’t worry, sir,”

Your back is turned, which he is more than thankful for as he can’t stop a shuddery response to your title for him. “Ahhah, i-if you insist…”

“Of course I do. Now here, take these and go have a good day,” you flash him a sweet smile, melting his poor, weak heart.

He stares into your eyes for just a second too long, and a coworker clears their throat at you both. If you were to admit it, you were more than a little zoned out and didn’t actually notice. But it’s back to the ol’ grind nonetheless!

You pretend to roll up your sleeves as you ring up your next patron. “Enjoy your day!”

Enix lets himself into your partner’s house. It’s barely a brisk walk away. Youre both out right now. Your puppy runs up happily to Enix, recognizing him and his scent from previous visits.

You are so perfect for him.

Sure he lives around forty minutes away, and he’d drive a thousand miles if it meant seeing you for even just a second. But this isn’t about that, it’s about how welcome you’ve made him feel! Keeping every little thing in your life so conveniently close together.

You shop right next door, you work down the street, you stay inside most of the time, it’s perfect.

You reek.

Just like every other weekday. You reek.

Your shitty job makes you stink like fryer grease and low quality burgers. You can never get to the shower fast enough.

You fly through your thought-to-be-empty house. It doesn’t smell much better than you though. Your partner’s cigarettes, and burnt dab rig, stale up the air, but it’s what you’re accustomed to. You loved them, and the smell is part of that package.

Enix watches you through a crack in the door, dangerously close, but frustratingly far. His hand palms himself through his dark jeans. Fuck, if you knew he was pleasuring himself to you right behind you, would you ever accept him? The worry gets him even more worked up.

What if you hate him?

Hand now thrusts into pants, he strokes himself and squeezes his shaft a little too hard, and almost makes an audible noise.

And now he’s realized that he’s just gotten so into it, he forgot to breathe!

*Cough*

“Hmm? Cam? Is that you??” You spin to say, as if you could see perfectly through the sheer curtain, and almost closed door.

You aren’t even sure you heard anything… But you have this… Gut feeling that you can’t explain.

By the time you get out, he’s cursing to himself as he sits fully hidden in the pantry.

Meaning: He can’t see you.

You’re probably putting on a show just for him, trying on your cute clothes, and he isn’t even there for it!

His cock twitches.

It’s already dark, but Enix closes his eyes and breathes in…

He can at least picture you, oh~ the way you tilt this way and that, turning to get all the right angles…

“nuh uh, not this one” he hears you from the other room.

He rubs his thumb over his slit, then slowly spreads pre over his fat tip in a nice wide circle. He sighs out, gods, you’re so hot, and he can’t even see you! Just the idea of you has him edging.

*Thump!* “Ooof!!” You trip and fall while trying to step into a pair of pants, “Fuck!”

At first he was worried and ready to help, until he heard the inflection of your voice. Instead he’s moved to his glands, squeezing and teasing himself. He wasn’t gonna… It feels so wrong… But he pulls out a pair of your dirty panties he stole last time he was here, and brings them to his nose.

“Oh my gods…” He almost comes right then. He has to pull away and focus hard on not finishing.

“Cam?” you call.

Shit!!! Was he too loud?

“hm,” he hears the shrug in your voice, “Whatever,” You sound pouty… His heart hurts for you. Your little cuck boy is out cheating.

He knows he is, he put a tracker on him, he doesn’t have to physically follow them, to know what going directly from clubs, to random peoples houses nightly means. What an imbecile. Squandering such a precious thing as you.

Footsteps, coming closer, his breath hitches, and his heart flips.

He’ll get to see you again!

You throw the remote onto the couch after flicking the switch and putting on a mindless youtube video, throwing your phone down to join it.

You appear through the crack in the door frame, hovering over the plate of sweets he made specially for you.

You take one and peel the wrapper slowly, agonizingly and to him, seductively. Enix swallows. You bring the treat up to your pretty lips and as soon as it touches them, a wet patch forms on his pant front as he stands hunched, and shuddering. He’s biting his own hand as to not make any noise, but gods he’s never came so hard!

Part of him is touching you! An intimate part of him, touching an intimate part of you… He’s mixing with your saliva now, melting over your warm tongue… Being welcomed into your body! Oh goodness. He’s not sure he can, but he might come again! His dick never softened, and he feels the pressure building inside once more.

fuck…

You’re so perfect for him.

“Mmmm!” You sound orgasmic… You love the taste of him… You really do! “No way they made these themself.”

A bit of crème sticks to the side of your cheek, and when he watches your tongue poke out and lick it off, the way your eyes roll back.

“NNNNNNGGGGG” He comes again. thankfully though you don’t hear him over the tv. He breathes out in relief.