#And it looks to the generations that stand behind it

[catchastarorten]

—100 loaves of bread.

Pairing: the salesman/recruiter x bakeryowner!fem!reader

Summary: it started with a few visits from him buying 100 loaves of bread each time from your little bakery, but overtime the two of you started to get familiar, little did you know about his ‘work’ and how he should’ve given the card to you but didn't...

Content: fluff, aggressive stomping on bread, him having a soft spot for you, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care about you (it doesn’t work lol), a bit of reader's backstory, self-conflict and a bit of change of heart from him, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 2.1k

You were wiping down the counter when the familiar chime of the bell above the door jingled. It was late in the afternoon, and the bakery was quiet, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint scent of freshly baked bread and sugar lingering in the air. You glanced up, already knowing who it was. He was here again—the man with the sharp suit and the briefcase who bought bread in quantities that always left you baffled.

“Afternoon,” you said, watching as he walked in with the same calm, measured way as always. He almost looked too friendly for someone who carried himself so formally.

“Afternoon,” he replied, stepping up to the counter and resting his briefcase at his feet. “I’ll need the usual. A hundred loaves.”

A hundred loaves of bread. It was such a ridiculous request, and yet, he never failed to make it.

You’d asked him once, early on, what on earth he did with all that bread. Selling it somewhere else for a profit? Feeding a small army? Storing up for an apocalypse? He had only smiled at you then, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and said, “Something like that.”

It had been weeks since his first visit, and by now, the routine was familiar. You’d load loaf after loaf into paper bags while he stood patiently, sometimes asking about your day, sometimes quietly observing the modest little bakery. Today, though, you felt compelled to ask again.

“Are you sure you want all of it?” you asked, sliding the first bag across the counter. “That’s… a lot of bread.”

He smiled faintly, reaching for the bag and setting it beside him. “You ask me that every time.”

“Well, it’s not everyday someone comes in and buys out half my stock,” you said, tilting your head. “It makes me curious.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed like he might answer—really answer. But then he only shrugged slightly, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Let’s just say it goes to good use.”

You frowned, unsatisfied but unwilling to press further. He always paid in cash, crisp bills that he counted out with precision. You noticed, as you often did, that he never left without dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register. He offered you a warm look as he slipped a few bills into the tip jar again.

“Keep up the good work,” he said. “Your bread’s the best in the city.”

You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or suspicious. He seemed genuine, but there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Still, it wasn’t your place to pry. You handed him the last of the bags, and he left with the same polite nod as always.

The next time he came in, it wasn’t for a hundred loaves of bread.

You were behind the counter again, rearranging a tray of pastries, when you heard the door chime. Glancing up, you saw him standing there, his briefcase nowhere in sight.

“Not the usual today?” you asked, half-teasing.

He smiled slightly, stepping up to the counter. “Not today. I was thinking I’d try something different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He scanned the display case, his eyes lingering on a slice of strawberry shortcake near the center. “That,” he said, pointing.

You wrapped up the slice for him, and when you handed it over, he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he took a seat at one of the small tables by the window—a seat no one ever seemed to take—and unwrapped the cake with a kind of deliberate care. You watched, unable to help yourself, as he took a bite.

“It’s good,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Really good.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face as you watched him eat. He wasn’t as neat as you’d expected—a bit of whipped cream ended up on the corner of his mouth, and he licked it away absentmindedly, his gaze drifting to the shelves of decorative knick-knacks you’d lined the walls with.

“I never really noticed these before,” he said, gesturing toward a small ceramic cat perched on one of the shelves. “Did you make them?”

You shook your head. “No, those were my parents’. They used to run this place before me. They had a thing for collecting stuff like that.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s nice. Feels… homey.”

You didn’t know why, but his words left you oddly self-conscious. The bakery had always been your parents’ dream, not yours, and while you’d taken it over out of necessity, you’d never thought much about how it felt to anyone else. But hearing him say it was homey made you feel a faint sense of pride.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

He stayed longer than usual that day, finishing his cake and ordering a coffee to go with it.

You found yourself talking to him more than you normally would with a customer. He asked about the bakery, about your favorite thing to bake, about whether you’d ever considered expanding. You didn’t ask about him—not directly—but you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man he was.

By the time he left, it was dark outside, and the bakery was empty except for you. As you locked up for the night, you found yourself thinking about his smile, the way it lingered even after he was gone.

One day, as he was paying for a loaf of sourdough, he looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Do you ever think about getting out of here?” he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… this place is great, but don’t you ever wonder what else is out there?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you hadn’t thought about it—leaving, starting fresh somewhere new—but the bakery was all you’d ever known. It was safe, familiar. And after your parents passed, it felt like the only thing that tethered you to them.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But I don’t know. This place… it’s home.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, there was a silence between you. Then he smiled again, that warm, almost disarming smile, and slid an extra bill across the counter. “For the tip jar,” he said.

You watched as he walked out the door, his briefcase in hand, and wondered—for the hundredth time—what kind of life he led.

...

The bell above the bakery door chimed familiarly.

He stepped inside, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket, his polished demeanor there as always. But inside, his stomach churned. He had made a decision today—a decision that, for once, made him feel something like guilt.

He scanned the shop. You were at the counter, hands dusted with flour as you arranged freshly baked rolls on a tray. The soft glow of the afternoon light spilling through the window caught on your hair, and the faintest smile tugged at your lips when you saw him. That smile… It was a problem.

“Afternoon,” you said, just as you always did. Your voice was warm, even though he could see the slight tiredness beneath it. That smile didn’t reach your eyes as much these days, but you still tried, didn’t you?

He nodded, keeping his face neutral. “Afternoon.”

You weren’t supposed to matter to him. That was the rule. He had a job to do, a system to uphold, and people like you—drowning in debt—were just part of the equation. It shouldn't have mattered how good-hearted you were, how hardworking you were.

You weren’t special... at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He first started coming to your bakery for convenience, but as time passed, the lines started to blur. The bread looked good, better than most places in this part of the city, and you didn’t ask too many questions.

The loaves weren’t for eating, of course. They were for a little ‘social experiment’.

“Bread or lottery?” That’s what he’d ask them—the desperate, homeless souls he scouted in the park. It was always the same. He’d hold out a loaf in one hand, a lottery scratcher in the other. The bread could fill their stomachs. But the lottery ticket? That promised a chance. A gamble. A way out.

They always chose the ticket. Every time.

He knew what came next. The moment they realized it wasn’t a winning ticket after all. They’d just stared at him, some cursed out loud, some were just disappointed, their hopes bleeding out onto the pavement.

And the bread? He destroyed it. Stomped it into the ground until it was unrecognizable, crumbs scattering across the concrete.

It was dramatic, yes, but it served its purpose. It showed them the choice that they had made, the food that they had thrown away and destroyed, not him. It was necessary. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But the bread came from you.

That detail had started to bother him more and more. You put your heart into every loaf, every pastry, every crumb that came out of your oven. He saw it in the way you worked, the way you carefully packed the loaves into paper bags for him, the way you smiled when he left a tip. He had started tipping more, as if that would excuse him of the guilt of what he was doing with your work—it didn’t.

He had been keeping tabs on you. He knew about your debts, the ones you and your brother had racked up trying to keep the bakery afloat after your parents passed. He knew how hard you worked to stay above water, how you barely made enough to cover the bills some months.

You were exactly the kind of person he was supposed to recruit.

He told himself that’s why he started coming more often. He needed to assess you, to figure out the right moment to offer you the card. But the truth was, he liked being in the bakery. He liked the smell of fresh bread and sugar, the hum of the old refrigerator, the quiet way you moved behind the counter. He liked your voice when you asked him how his day was going, even though he never answered honestly.

And he hated himself for liking any of it.

The card was in his pocket today. He had been carrying it around for a while now, waiting for the right moment.

Today, he had decided, would be the day. After all, you deserved it, right? The games were brutal, yes, but they were also fair. A chance for people like you to escape the crushing weight of debt.

That’s what he told himself as he walked into the bakery. But when you looked up at him, your flour-dusted hands resting on the counter, and said, “So, what are you getting today?”—he froze.

He could feel the card in his pocket, its edges pressing against his fingers. All he had to do was pull it out, slide it across the counter, and say the words. But he couldn’t do it. Not to you.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “I’ll take another slice of that cake,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

You looked over to the display. “The strawberry one?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his finger gently tapping the display glass that caged all the pastries. “It’s… good.”

You smiled faintly, wrapping up the slice and handing it to him. “Anything else?”

He hesitated, the card burning a hole in his pocket. But then your eyes met his, and something in them—something warm, something real—made his resolve crumble.

“No,” he said softly. “That’s all.”

As he ate the cake at the small table by the window again, he told himself that letting you go was the right thing to do. You didn’t belong in the games. You didn’t belong in his world. And yet, he felt something close to longing as he watched you work behind the counter, your movements quick and precise, your expression focused.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt human.

When he left the bakery that day, he slipped a few extra bills into the tip jar. He told himself it was just another gesture, another way to balance the scales. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to make up for what he did—what he was.

And yet, he didn’t offer you the card. He didn’t bring it the next time he visited, or the time after that. He told himself he’d do it eventually, that it was inevitable. But the truth was, he didn’t have the heart to drag you into the darkness he inhabited every day.

You weren’t like him. And he wanted—no, needed—to keep it that way.

[moody-alcoholic]

Cross My Heart

Part 2 - Trust is a Two Way Street

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic.

CW: Mentions of war, mentions of death, descriptions of wounds, medical stuff, medical inaccuracies.

Previous parts - masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

The barrel is cold on your skin, you’re holding your breath, his finger is on the trigger. 

“Explain yourself.” A deep voice asks. You swallow hard trying to keep as still as possible.

“I’m a smuggler. I work for whoever pays. The people you killed, I was supposed to get them to Al Qatala. Konni pays me to smuggle people or weapons over the border. It’s easy to use ULF safehouses up here as a stop off point.” 

“You Russian?” The man with the mohawk asks. 

“Does it matter?” You almost spit back at him. 

“What about Al Qatala or ULF you done jobs for them too?” 

“If they pay, yeah. You’d be surprised  how desperate people can get.”  

“Gaz, stand down. She’s not a threat.” You see a hand land on his shoulder. You swallow again, looking up at him, his eyes are scrunched together, there’s real anger behind them. The gun moves from your head, you let out a sigh of relief, sitting back on your legs, you lower your hands slowly.

“What do Al Qatala pay you to smuggle?” Ghost asks. 

“I don’t ask. The less I know the less I’m a liability. I’m good at what I do, that's all that matters.” The man with the mohawk scoffs. Gaz moves back to stand with him. 

“You don’t even get a little curious?” Gaz asks, putting his pistol away. You sigh rolling your eyes, almost like it’s an inconvenience.

“POW’s, chemicals. High ranking members of Al Qatala, mostly for meetings with Konni, sometimes with Makarov himself.”

“What about the ULF?” 

“General supplies, the odd civilians, favors for Farah. It’s harder to cross the other borders. Russia is easy.” 

“So you’re not a medic. Can you even help him?” Ghost asks. You turn to look at him, you can’t tell if colour has come back to his face or not. 

“My mother was a nurse, my father was a doctor. I was on track to go to med school too.” You say, you’re not sure what’s going to happen now. You probably know as much as they do, they’ve most likely been trained on such situations. 

“Where are your parents now?” Gaz asks.

“Dead, killed in the conflict. Like almost everyone I know.” There’s sadness in your voice, you try to hide it. 

“You didn’t pick a side?” Ghost asks. 

“I did, in the beginning. Farah’s message was a popular one. It was the ULF who came to our aid when our town was attacked.” You pause looking round at them all. “It was the ULF who carpet bombed the hospital killing my father. A week later my mother was killed by Al Qatala when they raided a ULF base.” 

“I’m sorry, about your parents.” The mohawk man says, Gaz tuts. 

“Why become a smuggler?” 

“It was by chance. I managed to gather enough money to flee, and pay someone to get me over the border. We got talking, he offered me a job instead.” 

“Where is he now?”

“Probably dead.” You say as a matter of fact. You haven’t seen him in over a year. In the beginning he was like your mentor, teaching you the best routs how to use ULF and Al Qatala safehouses. Who to mention to get people to leave you alone. He vouched for you, got you jobs then when you were ready he just left. 

No one is saying anything. You move to stand up. 

“Your friend’s gunshot is not a through and through, that means the bullet is still in there. Pulling it out could kill him, I don’t have the equipment to check where it is or if he has any other injured organs. He needs a hospital.” You say urgently. 

“CASEVAC?” Gaz says.

“Not from here.” Ghost replies. There’s silence again. You squeeze your eyes closed sighing.

“There’s an abandoned vets in the next town, east of here. It will have the equipment I need to check him.” They could think you’re lying. They’re exchanging glances, you can almost see them thinking. It seems like Ghost is the one incharge, he shifts on his feet. 

“Okay.” 

“What about Farah?” Your head snaps over to the mohawk man, you need to get his name at some point, and figure out where his accent is from, he doesn’t sound like the other two.

“Nothing but radio silence.” Ghost replies. 

“How did you end up here?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You’ve been honest with them, maybe they’ll be honest with you.

“That's classified.” Ghost snaps, you nod. You expected that. 

“I heard Farah’s forces are moving north. We’re close to the Russian border. Maybe it’s best you wait?” You say offering up the only info you have on ULF’s movements.

“How do you know that?” Ghost asks. 

“I was warned they were on the move when I picked up this job.” You say. 

“By Konni?” Gaz asks, you nod. You hear Ghost sigh then mutter under his breath. 

“In your opinion, how bad is he?” Ghost asks, taking another step towards you, you hold your ground. 

“I don’t know. Moving him is risky, but there is no way to tell if the bullet is doing any damage internally. I couldn’t say without scans. There’s probably an x-ray at the vets.” You explain. “It’s 50/50 either way.” 

“And you know how to use one?” The mohawk guy asks, raising en eyebrow. 

“I-I could figure it out, I spent one summer shadowing a radiologist.” You explain. It’s a long shot, but right now it's about keeping yourself alive. As long as you’re useful you’re safe.

There are collective sighs around the room, glaces and nods of heads. Ghost lowers his weapon taking another step towards you. He opens his mouth about to speak when a groan from behind you stops him. 

You turn to see the man on the couch trying to sit himself up. Gaz rushes past you and you take a step back giving him room. 

“Price, don’t move. You’re okay.” He says. Price so that's the name of the man on the sofa. His eyes blink open and he looks around, you can feel Ghost behind you, the barrel of his weapon digging into your back. 

A gentle reminder they don’t trust you.

“Where are we?” Price groans, it’s barely words, you almost miss what he says.

“Urzikstan, ULF safehouse just across the border.” Gaz explains. They came from Russia, what were they doing in Russia?

“Shit, what happened?” Gaz is keeping him pressed down, his hand stroking his arm. 

“Convoy was ambushed, we had no choice.” 

“Alex?” Price asks.

“MIA, we lost track of him when you got shot. I made the order to fall back.” Ghost says but you can hear the strain in his voice. 

“Shit.” 

“It’s okay cap, we’ll find him.” So there are more people with them. Someone called Alex, and they’re missing. They had a convoy, most likely for the ULF. 

“Who’s she?” Price asks his gaze landing on you. You smile at him. 

“That’s a long story.” Gaz says.

next Banners by plum98

[impish-baby]

Platonic Yandere! Changling x reader drabble - 🪺🪲 (Trigger warnings: implied/referenced abuse, death, general creepiness)

There's something wrong with your brother.

Yelling has turned into soft murmurs, slamming of cupboards now only being accompanied by a quick apology and a meal soon placed in front of you.

Turned over a new leaf, he says. Hah. It might be nice if it was even slightly believable.

Your mother is overjoyed with the change, she smiles so much more. He does too, but there's something strange about it. Even on the rare occasions he'd smile, it never looked so out of place on his face. The kindness in his eyes wasn't there before, there's no way it's real.

You aren't dumb enough to fall into whatever ploy this is, you aren't that willfully naive.

The other shoe has to drop eventually.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?" Jeremiah lingers in the doorway, completely ignoring the glare thrown his way. "Spring is almost here, the flowers are getting ready to bloom-"

"I said no already, go by yourself."

With the way he flinches you'd think you had struck the older boy, he'd have deserved it at least.

"P- Please? Listen, I know our relationship hasn't been.. the best, but-"

"Hasn't been the best?" The outrage you feel has you sitting up straight, hands clenched into fists. "Fucking bastard, you think you can play nice for a couple days and that makes up for everything you've done-"

The door suddenly clicking shut sends a cold chill down your spine.

You're sure a smack is soon to follow, you end up bracing for nothing as Jeremiah drops to his knees in front of your bed instead.

"Please.." Tears are falling in steady streams down his face. "I- I'm a changed man, alright? I'm better."

He grasps your hands delicately, intertwining your fingers. The man sobs as you flinch at his touch.

"I- I'll prove it, just come with me.." He really does look pathetic, eyes shiny as he pulls you to stand up. "Come on.."

It's silent as you walk besides the occasional quiet sniffle, he keeps ahold of you the entire way.

You're lead into a clearing, the trees serenely swaying in the breeze as Jeremiah suddenly stops.

In the grass, your big brother's empty gaze stares back at you.

"I- I've kept it fresh a little longer than usual, wanted to make sure I got all the features right, you know..?" A nervous chuckle, "i- i did a good job i think."

His arms wrap around you from behind as he buries his face in your shoulder. "It's better, right? I'm better."

[spicyspiders]

Professor Howlett

logan howlett x male reader smut

3.7k words

cw: power imbalance (logan is the reader's professor), age difference, rimming, virginity kink, thigh fucking, size kink, and spit as lube.

“This is utterly disappointing,” Professor Howlett tosses your paper down onto his desk with a thwap. The sound makes you jump, but you quickly steel yourself before he can look up and see how your calm expression is beginning to break.

You have to clear your throat before responding, though it does little to stop the lump you feel forming in your throat, ”I tried my best, professor,” you respond, keeping your eyes locked on the paper littered with red pen marks.

“Did you?” Professor Howlett questions angrily, making you jump once more at the tone, “because this sure as hell doesn’t read like it!”

“Professor, I-” you try to explain, but he cuts you off. 

“The first paper you wrote got the highest grade in the class, and then you go on to write this?” He asks, waving the red pen he used to mark up your paper angrily in the air as he speaks. If you weren’t biting your lip hard enough that at any second you thought it would bleed, you would laugh at the display. 

He looked at you expectantly, and with how angry he looked, you didn’t think any explanation that you could give would be enough. You had to try and do so anyway, knowing the sooner you spoke, the sooner you could leave his office and contemplate dropping his class or dropping out of college in general. 

You suck in a shaky breath before you respond, “I’m sorry, professor,” and when his angry expression doesn’t falter, you continue, “I knew I didn’t give myself enough time and knew I just had to take the hit to my grade and do better on the next paper.”

The man in front of you lets out a bitter laugh, “so you waste my time?”

“That wasn’t my intention, sir,” you respond, slouching down into the chair, trying to make yourself look as small as possible. You look up at the man across from you after a few moments of awkward silence, meeting his eyes as you try to calm your racing heart. 

He lets out a long sigh before he speaks again, “I must have set my expectations for the rest of your assignments too high,” he passes the paper across the desk until it sets in front of you, “I apologize.”

You can feel anger welling up in your body at his words. It was one bad assignment, it’s not like you were now some lost cause. “I can still write a paper just as good as the first one,” you snap before snatching the paper off the desk. “I told you,” you huff, angrily unzipping your book backpack to put the paper inside, “I didn’t give myself enough time, which won’t happen again,” you stand up in a flash, the chair shooting out from behind you fast enough you’re surprised it didn’t tip over, “I apologize, professor.”

“Hey hey hey,” Logan says, racing around the desk to grab your shoulder. He turns you around slowly from where you were about to stop out of his office and slam the door behind you, “I don’t want this to impact your grade.”

”It already is,” you spit, not angry at him, but angry at yourself. You remember getting the notification this morning that your professor had posted the grade, the number immediately turning your mood sour. 

“It’s okay,” Professor Howlett says, running a soothing hand down your shoulder, “I’ll give you a week to rewrite the paper and give you full credit back.”

“I’m not rewriting the paper,” you say with a bitter laugh that sounds a lot like Professor Howlett’s did earlier. 

“I know you can do better than this,” Professor Howlett responds, crossing his arms along his broad chest. 

“As you’ve already said,” you say, rolling your eyes, “I’m not writing an extra paper,” too tired to even think after you stayed up all night bullshitting the paper you had turned into Professor Howlett, you put the decision in his hands: “so what do you want to do, professor?” You ask tiredly.

You stare into Professor Howlett’s eyes, waiting for the man to make his decision. He looks back at you, observing you closely with his dark eyes. You are on the edge of feeling uncomfortable by the time he’s made up his mind, a look that you’re unable to pinpoint settling over his face. 

“Take off your bag and put it in the chair,” he commands, the lone tone of his voice making you shiver. 

“Okay,” you respond shakily, now back in front of him with your bag resting in the chair, “now wh-”

Your back collides with the door, and then a second later, his lips collide with yours. You gasp in surprise against his mouth and feel his tongue enter the opening, the appendage sliding wetly against yours. 

Too caught off guard to respond to the kiss, Logan moans against your unresponsive lips, one of his hands going to your chin to angle your head so his tongue can move deeper. His other hand you can hear beside you fiddling with the lock, and when the knob finally clicks, you can barely hear it over the sound of Professor Howlett’s breathing after he pulls away from the kiss. 

“Professor-” you begin, placing your hands on his broad shoulders, your mind too confused on whether you should push him away or pull him closer. You’ve already crossed the line you never thought you would cross. Sure, you had your fantasies dating back to the first day you walked into class, but you thought those would just stay in your head, only coming out in breaths of the professor’s name when your mind would wonder when you touched yourself.

“Logan.”

“Logan,” you correct yourself, trying to bite back a moan when Professor- Logan pushes his thigh between your legs, “I don’t think-”

He cuts you off with yet another kiss, but this time, you crane your neck to pull away from the kiss, trying your hardest to ignore the weight of your cock chubbing up in your pants. 

The second kiss ending abruptly does nothing to discourage Logan, instead, it gives his lips a new area to map out. “You drive me insane,” Logan moans against the column of your neck, his stubble digging into the sensitive skin. “So smart,” he says kissing down until he reaches the collar of your shirt, “so beautiful,” he whispers, moving to press his forehead to yours, “yet you barely talk in class,” he says, pressing his lips to yours once more, but this one much softer than the last. 

There wasn’t a participation grade outlined in the syllabus for Logan’s class like it was for some of your other professors, meaning you weren’t going to talk if you didn’t have to. Sometimes you did, feeling bad when he would ask a question and no one would respond immediately, hating the awkward silence. And now that you think about it, those were usually the nights your mind would think of him while your fingers were wrapped around your cock. Good job or good answer Logan would say, the praise lighting a coil of pleasure deep in your belly. 

“It’s only for me to see, is it?” Logan asks, his hands moving to hold your hips possessively, “only I get to see how smart you are,” he says in a low, gravelly voice, seemingly answering his own question. His lips go to the racing pulse point on the side of your neck, his teeth sinking into the skin. 

The bite burns, making your mouth fall open with a whimper, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure. Logan’s hot tongue runs over the mark, trying to soothe the pain with warmth. You give way to the feeling, letting your head fall back onto the wooden door, giving Logan more room to work. 

You bury a hand in his dark hair, running your fingers through the dark locks. Logan pulls away at the feel of your fingers in his hair, his eyes now darker than they once were, his pupils dilated in lust. You stare at each other once more before, taking in Logan’s already disheveled appearance with his dark eyes, messy hair, and crooked tie.       

You respond to the next kiss Logan initiates. It’s softer than you expect, at least, it is at the start. It begins to heat up when you tighten the hand in Logan’s hair to change the angle. You both moan when your tongues meet once more, spit mixing together. 

Logan wraps an arm around your lower back so you can stumble your way to the couch that sits against one of the walls of his office. Your lips break for air when you feel the back of your legs meet the cushions, your chest heaving as you suck in lungfuls of air.

Logan pushes you down onto the couch before one of his hands yanks at his tie, pulling it through the neckline of his sweater, and then he throws the garment away as if it has offended him.  Next comes the black sweater, leaving him with dark slacks and a button-up shirt. 

You feel your cock throb in your pants as you watch Logan lower himself onto his knees. He pushes his way between your legs, his hands going to your hips to get your pants down in a pool between your ankles. 

Your breath comes out in a stutter when Logan leans down, his nose coming into contact with the bulge in your underwear. He runs his nose along the length of your cock, then his tongue runs along the same path, paying extra attention to the wet spot on the cloth that rests over the head of your cock.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle your moan when Logan gets your underwear out of the way and swallows your cock. Logan takes it deep enough for you to feel, the hot, wet, constriction of his throat, his hand finding balance on your thighs. 

Logan’s breath puffs wetly against the head of your cock when he pulls away, his spit hardly having the chance to cool and dry as Logan runs his tongue up the length of your cock. He doesn’t take it as deep when he sucks it back inside his mouth, instead, he focuses on the suction. The hot suction of his mouth pulls a glob of precum from the head of your cock onto Logan’s tongue, the older man groaning at the taste.

The vibration through your cock makes your hips jump, sending your cock back deep into Logan’s throat. The movement catches Logan off guard, causing the man to gag around your cock, his throat convulsing wetly around the hard length of your cock. 

You pull the hand over your mouth and put it into Logan’s hair, trying to run your fingers through the strands soothingly. “Sorry,” you gasp, swiping your thumb under Logan’s eyes to wipe away the tears that fell. 

Logan surges up to pull you into a wet, messy kiss. His tongue is immediately in your mouth, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. 

“M’sorry,” you repeat. 

Logan chuckles softly, “it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, pressing soft kisses on your cheeks.

Your stomach tightens at the pet name, affection coursing through your body. You place your hands on Logan’s belt buckle, already knowing how much you’re going to struggle trying to get his pants undone and out of the way. 

It takes you longer than you want to get his belt undone and his pants unbuttoned, and Logan doesn’t make it any easier when he presses, chaste, soft kisses to your mouth. Once open, Logan stands to get his pants down and off, the large bulge of his cock trapped behind his underwear. 

Just the sight of the bulge has you feeling intimidated, while at the same time making your mouth water. Anticipation joins the mix of lust and intimidation in your gut, which all combine into a feeling of pleasure that has your cock throbbing in the air. 

You place your hands on his waistband, Logan’s hands coming to rest atop yours a second later. With Logan’s help, you push his underwear down slowly, watching second by second as his cock is revealed to you.   

Your fantasies did not measure the actual size of his cock in all of its long and thick glory. It hangs heavy in front of your face, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. Past the length of Logan’s cock, his balls hang heavy and full. This up close, you can also smell his musk: heady and all Logan.

A broad palm cupping your cheek draws your attention away, turning it instead to Logan’s face. A wave of heat washes over your body when you realize that in the moments where you were taking in the appearance of Logan’s cock, the man had pulled the rest of his clothes off. The button-up now lays in the pile with the rest of his clothes, giving you a full view of his broad, muscular chest. 

“I’ve never seen you so distracted,” Logan says with a smirk, his thumb running along your cheekbone. 

“What?” You question back, your voice breathy. 

Logan’s smirk broadens into a full smile, “I asked if you wanted to take that off.”

At a loss for words, you can barely think of a response, “oh,” you decide. 

Logan chuckles softly, his other hand running along the slit of his cock. When he pulls it away, a strand of precum follows the pad of his finger. Logan pushes his finger past your lips, still open in the shape of the soft oh you just let out. 

You suck at his finger when it touches your tongue, the salty taste lighting up your tastebuds. You hear Logan groan when you suck harder, wanting to get to the flavor underneath and see what Logan himself tastes like. 

Logan’s finger comes free with a slick pop, “let’s get the rest of this off,” he says. 

You only had your shirt and shoes to get off, and what should have been an easy, less than a minute process, felt like a lifetime. Logan tenderly pulled your shoes and socks off, one and then the other. Your shirt was next, coming off slowly with two broad palms sneaking up your shirt. Logan’s lips followed the path his hands made, all the way up to your lips that he kissed after your shirt was tossed away. 

Logan got back into the familiar position he was just in, but instead of sucking your cock, his mouth went lower. He bit into the meat of your thighs, and though you couldn’t see the one on your neck, you were sure that it matched the new ones he was making. 

“Roll over,” Logan commands, pressing a kiss to the mark he just made on your left thigh. Logan maneuvers your body into the position he wants, leaving your body pressed to the front of the couch, and your feet hanging over the cushions in front of Logan.

You press your forehead into the wall in front of you, feeling the puffs of Logan’s breath along your back, “do you have lube?” He asks in a low voice, his lips running across your skin. 

“No,” you reply, your body tense as you try not to shake in anticipation. 

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his head coming to rest against your shoulder, “that’s okay,” he says, and you feel your body relax, “I can get you wet enough,” With how big his cock was, you doubt it, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. 

Logan’s first step to getting you to be what he says is wet enough is with his tongue. He starts with soft swipes of his tongue, letting you get accustomed to it. It wasn’t like it was hard, especially with the combination of the rough stubble on his face, which only added to the pleasure. 

The next step is spit, which, really you could say goes with the first. You already feel as if there’s enough of it already there from Logan’s tongue, a large extent due to when Logan kept pushing his tongue as far as it could go. It left you clenching down on the wet muscle, clawing your fingers into the couch as it massaged your walls. 

Logan didn’t let up and moved to spit a glob of spit onto your hole when it relaxed after pulling his tongue free. Caught off guard, you jerked forward, your cock coming into contact with the cushion of the couch. The friction had you gritting your teeth trying to stay quiet, hoping that because it was nearly five in the afternoon on Friday, most of the people in the building were already gone. 

Logan was quick to press the spit into your hole with a thick finger, all the way down until you were clenching down on all of it. “There we go,” Logan whispers from behind you, the wet heat of his breath on your shoulder. 

You turn your neck to face him, gasping into the kiss he presses to your lips. Logan swallows the moan that’s punched from your chest when his finger finds your prostate, the older man groaning as you clench down on his finger. 

Logan pulls away from the kiss at the same time his finger is pulled free. You feel the couch shift as Logan moves, the man making his way back down face-to-face with your hole. You’re proud of yourself for not jumping as hard when Logan spits on your hole a second time, the glob going deeper than the first after opening your hole just with one finger.    

“Does it burn, baby?” Logan asks, now that he’s using two fingers to chase after the spit instead of one.

”A little,” you whine around the burn as he scissors them apart. Almost like Logan can read your mind, he brushes his fingers along your prostate when the burn feels like it’s becoming too much. You feel precum leak from your cock, staining the upholstery. 

”That’s normal for your first time,” Logan says, pressing kisses along the shell of your ear. 

”I’ve done this before,” you respond, pushing back into Logan’s fingers. 

”Someone’s fucked you?” Logan asks, his arm coming to wrap around your stomach, right above your hard cock.

”Just my fingers,” you respond quietly. 

“How many?” Logan asks, his fingers coming to a stop. 

“Four,” you grit out, clenching down on his fingers like you’re wordlessly trying to get him to continue. 

Logan lets out a dark chuckle. He lays his hand on top of yours, his big hand bigger than your own. He stretches his fingers out, showing you how they compare in size. “That’s nearly your whole fist,” he says, his fingers starting to move again. 

“Need more,” you whine, clenching down on his fingers. 

“Shh,” Logan coos, “I know,” he lets out a warm breath at the back of your neck, “I can’t fuck you,” he says, pulling his fingers free slowly, “not like this.”

”Please,” you whine, louder than the one before. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he responds, pressing soft kisses to the back of your neck. You feel his weight on the couch shift once more as he spreads your thighs apart. It’s a tight squeeze trying to fit the both of you on the couch, but Logan makes it work. 

He pushes his cock between your thighs, right below your balls, already tight against your cock. He grips your hips tightly before he begins thrusting, only taking a few jerks of his hips before you push your thighs together around his cock. 

The sound of Logan’s groan behind you travels from his chest to your back, letting you feel how good you’re making him feel. ”Does that mean I was the first?” He asks, one of his hands moving to wrap around your cock. 

“What?” You asked, confused, your mind cloudy from the pleasure. 

“Am I the first to touch you like this?” Logan questions, his voice a low growl. His fingers are slick around your cock, gliding along the length. 

You nod quickly, too close to the edge and overtaken with pleasure to even say a single word. You cum to the feel of Logan’s hand around your cock, his teeth biting possessively into the skin of your shoulder, and his cock nudging your balls. Ropes of cum shoot from your cock, staining the couch in his office. You probably won’t be able to look at couches ever the same again. 

Logan’s hand shoots up to your mouth, covering your lips as you moan, overtaken by the pleasure of your orgasm. You rest against his palm, falling forward while at the same time tightening the slick valley of your thighs.

Logan muffles his moan in the crook of your sweaty neck when he cums. It nearly burns, making a bigger mess in your thighs and on the couch. 

In a blur, Logan gets you onto his chest, his back now resting on the couch, “you okay?” He questions, his hand running softly along the sweaty expanse of your back. 

“I don’t think I can move,” you respond, still riding the high of probably one of the best orgasms you’ve had. 

Logan laughs loud enough that your head shakes against his chest. Moments later, when you’re nearly lulled to sleep by the ticking of the clock in his office, Logan speaks, “I’m sorry for getting so frustrated with you,” he says softly. 

“What do you mean?” You question, craning your head to look up at the man.

“I see how smart you are,” he answers, his voice a low rumble, “it made me frustrated to see you not working up to your potential.”

“I said I was sorry,” you immediately respond, not sure if you should pout or roll your eyes.   

“I know, baby,” he says with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “I know,” he leans down to press your lips together softly, “I just wanted to explain myself.”

This time you did roll your eyes, too fucked-out to try and control your expression, “I’ll write a better paper next time,” you grumble, moving to lay your head down once more over his chest.  

[s4nguiine]

mydei headcanons? pretty please?? 🥺

hi nonnie! of course i'll do mydei <3 you didn't specify whether sfw or nsfw, so i decided to do a mixed bag of both, hope that's ok <3

» nsfw ahead!!! minors dni!

—mydei headcanons ✿

mydei's love is absolutely incomprehensible to someone who didn't grow up in castrum kremnos and understands its customs.

why does he keep challenging you to a duel?? why is he constantly on your ass trying to argue with you???

you lowkey think that he hates you. only phainon knows that this is his strange way of showing affection and he's having a field day watching you deny all of mydei's attempts at courting you

you mostly just brush him off. it is only when you finally snap back and chew his ear off that you notice him blushing and it makes you reevaluate all interactions you've had with him prior to that

mydei likes people who are stubborn and not afraid of standing up for themselves. he loves watching you fight for your rights, loves watching you argue, even if it's with him.

that happens a lot, too. sometimes he riles you up on purpose just to see you get mad. he finds it hot, and it's no surprise that the two of you end up fucking after every argument.

despite knowing that you can definitely fend for yourself, he gets quite protective of you at times. say goodbye to any person that dares insult you behind your back. somehow he always finds out before you do.

of course, he has a soft side to him too. he loves it when you play with his hair and quite often he will fall asleep in your lap

he buys you stuff. so much of it, actually. trinkets and clothes that he thinks will look good on you, and most of the time he's right

he lets you apply his red eyeliner

you're the only one he ever willingly shows his gentle side to. you know all of the stuff like him liking pink and grapefruit juice and he knows that you won't make fun of him for it

sometimes you do skincare together.... sometimes.

you're an absolute menace on the battlefield together. at first look you may look like you wouldn't agree on anything, constantly bickering and pushing each other's buttons, but then you cover each other's weaknesses perfectly. mydei trusts you a lot

sex is on battle mode when you're with him. he loves it when you fight for dominance and he's not one to not accept defeat. you're just as beautiful on top of him as you are under him, so he's satisfied either way

you have to teach him aftercare. i'm so sorry, you cannot convince me that this dude wouldn't just get up and leave after you're done. but he likes it when you teach him to stay with you. he doesn't realize it but he's quite starved for affection

favorite positions: prone bone, doggystyle, generally any position where he's behind you, mating press, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl

lets you peg him :) you have to fight for it :(

[save-the-villainous-cat]

hi! idk if you take requests currently. I'm new around here, but I've read. Everything in your whole masterlist. And I love your writing so much. Um. So!

I really love. Flirty villain with the power to mess with people's emotions to like, calm them or seduce them or whatever he really wants X hero who should hate it but secretly is really into it because it's a release of control for him and he's exhausted

“You’re back,” the villain stated. The hero was…an interesting person. Although they had avoided the villain in the beginning, now they were crawling back to them — nearly desperate.

A desperate hero was generally easy to control, the villain was fully aware of that. They didn’t even need their powers to do so. So, the advantage, the position of power the villain found themselves in was anything but unappetising.

However, there was something in their stomach, something that twisted whenever the hero was standing in front of them.

“…I’m sorry to bother you again…I, I don’t know, maybe I can pay you next time?”

“Next time?” The hero started blushing and unfortunately, the villain was very amused by it.

“Oh, sorry, I—”

“Come in and sit down.” The hero stared at them with those horrible puppy eyes, jaw slightly dropping.

Sometimes, the villain’s heart would start beating fast enough to worry them. Mostly, when they looked at the hero for too long. That wasn’t only distracting, it was also incredibly annoying.

“Thank you,” the hero said and they smiled that sweet smile that was usually reserved for scared civilians as reassurance.

Was the villain even worthy of such a smile?

The hero sat down on the villain’s couch and folded their hands in their lap.

“Anxiety?” the villain asked.

“…yeah, it got really bad again.”

“Work?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

The villain stared at their nemesis. Lamentably, they could see how well-built their nemesis was. Them being attractive was becoming an actual problem since the villain was slowly getting the feeling they were the one being seduced.

They took in a deep breath. Their powers demanded physical contact.

Which made it quite intimate.

The villain didn’t know how to feel about that.

“What do you do outside of work?” They walked behind the couch. Last time, they had held hands.

The villain swallowed.

This time, they touched the hero’s neck. They were gentle, but the hero took in a sharp breath.

As usual.

“Voluntary work, mostly.”

“God, you’re disgusting.” As response, the hero laughed quietly. Apparently, they were already relaxing.

“I also work out.”

“Yeah, I figured.” The villain let their hand wander under the hero’s shirt, gliding over their collarbone. “Do those things calm you? Or are you thinking about work the entire time?”

“…it…” The hero took in a deep breath and the villain leaned over, their lips close to the hero’s ear.

“Easy, take your time…” The hero let their head fall back. They let out a somewhat satisfied sigh that sounded a lot like the villain’s name.

The villain’s eyes widened.

“Don’t be inappropriate now,” the villain mumbled. The hero smirked.

“Sorry…nothing calms me like you.”

“You’re being a little careless, don’t you think? Maybe I should keep you to myself, you’re certainly pretty to look at,” the villain said, pushing their voice deliberately deeper. They let their fingers go up: following the hero’s throat up to their chin.

“Gosh, you can be so mean.” Suddenly, the hero grabbed the villain’s wrist and started guiding the villain’s hand.

Too stunned to speak, too surprised to do anything, the villain simply let them do whatever they wanted, only for the hero to stop on their chest. Right under their palm was the hero’s heart, the villain realised.

“I loathed you so much when you did this the first time,” the hero admitted. “I don’t know if you remember, but we were fighting. You were teasing me a lot. You even slapped my ass, I think.”

The hero rolled their eyes, smirking.

“Well, you deserved it,” the villain said. They could feel the hero’s heart beating under their skin.

“Hmm. You remember.”

“Of course.”

“I hated how safe I felt.”

“You’re not really safe with me,” the villain reminded them. They could betray them anytime. Capture them, keep them here, kill them…

“You’ve never taken advantage of me when I’m like this,” the hero said.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something to me,” the hero said. Even though their eyes were sleepy, they looked quite serious. “I love it when you’re soft.”

They raised their hand and touched the villain’s cheek.

The villain’s innards were melting. It was painful. So damningly painful.

“I’m exhausted,” the hero whispered. “Can I stay here a little longer?”

The villain couldn’t really breathe. They swallowed. What on earth was this hero doing to them?

“…yeah.”

It was one word, but their voice cracked several times.

[berfgrimm]

risk pt. 2 | choi su-bong (thanos) x reader

pairing: choi su-bong (thanos) x f!reader

warnings: smut, unprotected sex, oral, semi-public, name calling, pet names, biting, spitting, choking, dirty talking, switchy behavior, jealousy, brief mentions of violence/death, fluff, i think that’s it!

note: the second part to risk has arrived. thanks to everyone who has ready everything thus far, i hope you enjoy this as well! to clear up a little what i’m going to write, I generally tend to stick with smut with the occasional fluffy/angsty scenes. if that helps when anyone is requesting!

———————

You awake to trumpet fanfare filling the whole room. Opening your eyes and blinking a few times to adjust to the brightness, you immediately remember where you are; the idea of playing another ‘game’ makes your stomach turn. As you sit up in your bed, the memories of the night before flood your mind, so you look to Su-bong’s bunk only to find it empty. You frown, an odd feeling of disappointment washing over you.

You’re not sure what you expected. At first, when you beckoned Su-bong over to your bed, all you wanted was release and relaxation to make it through another day. But as your tryst progressed, you developed a new urge, a desire — you were hungry for more of Su-bong. Standing from your bed, your legs are weak; you can’t determine if the feeling was from all of the running during the game or from the multiple orgasms Su-bong pulled from you.

Maybe both, you think.

You move carefully to join the rest of the players, trying to casually scan the crowd for any sight of Su-bong’s purple locks. As soon as you get a glimpse of him, your heart gives a quick flutter, which surprises you. You notice that player 124 is practically glued to Su-bong’s side, and they both speak rapidly to one another. Just from the way they appear to be feeding off of one another’s excited energy, it’s not a conversation you want to join.

Instead, you wander aimlessly in the crowd, unsure of what to do with yourself. You try to think of something calming to help you relax, your body overwhelmed with a variety of emotions and sensation from the previous day. As you begin to zone out, someone bumps into you from behind, hitting you hard enough to make you lose your footing for a moment. Thankfully, someone catches you by your forearm, stopping you from falling.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t paying attention.” You glance over your shoulder to see who still has a hold on your arm to find player 388 looking worried. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” you reply with a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, don’t worry.” You pat your hand on top of his, hoping that he would release his grip on you — a grip that, unfortunately, does nothing to help how wired you feel.

“Okay,” he nods, matching your smile. “I’m not sure where I’m going in such a rush; I’m not exactly looking forward to playing another game.” Your eyes flick to the ‘O’ patch on his shirt, and you let out a dry chuckle. The man follows where your gaze is, as if he forgot what was on his chest. “Oh,” he says, placing his hand over the patch for a moment. “It’s still scary. Not knowing what might be on the other side of the next door.”

“I guess,” you shrug. As the crowd begins to move towards the door, your newfound friend walks with you. Though you keep your gaze forward to move with the crowd, you notice player 388 glancing around a few times before he leans towards you.

“It’s going to be dalgona,” he whispers. “Pick a triangle; it’s the easiest.” Before you can respond, he eases past you to head towards the group he was with before; he sends one more look over his shoulder, giving you a thumbs up and a smile. Confused, you return the smile, albeit more confused, losing sight of him in the crowd.

When your group travels up the stairs of the winding labyrinth, you spot Su-bong every so often, his purple hair not hard to miss. He’s dozens of people away from you, still chattering with the player from before. You sigh, flowing with the rest of the group as you finally enter a new large room.

There are two colorful circles on either side of the room, like a track, with several tables manned by guards at various intervals. It didn’t look like dalgona but maybe it was somehow related; player 388 seemed so confident.

The game is explained to be several smaller games within the track, none of which you are particularly good at. You’re directed to split into teams and you immediately locate Su-bong in the crowd. He has two other people with him, the start of his team, so you decide to casually stroll past him to get an invite to the team. To be fair, he’s your only friend in this place, if you could call him that.

When you breeze past him, you try to ignore the feeling his proximity gives you. In your mind, he was going to stop you and beg you to join his team, but in reality, he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt your feelings, only a little bit; when he made promises of a rendezvous the next day, was he trying to brush you off?

Dejected and annoyed, you find another team to join with other ‘X’ voters, huddling together as you wait for the game to begin. Much to your dismay, Su-bong and his team choose to sit directly in front of you. He still doesn’t look at you, but instead starts flirting with the girl on his team.

Why does this have you in your feelings? You’ve had one-night stands before and never thought twice about them, so why is this one a problem? Is it the proximity? You can’t pinpoint what the cause of your hurt feelings might be, but watching him try to impress this other girl after his head was between your legs last night only makes you madder. When he spares a quick glance over his shoulder to you, a smug smirk on his face, before he looks back to his teammate, it takes all of your might not to yank him by his hair so you can…kiss him? Slap him? You don’t know yet, but you want to get your hands on him either way, which only pisses you off more.

Self-satisfied little shit, you think, rolling your eyes, deciding the best option is to ignore him for now.

Something about your anger causes you to focus harder on the game, helping motivate your team through a successful run at the six-leg race. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but you stayed calm and survived, which is the most important part.

On your way back to the dormitory, you pass the bathroom doors, and it gets an idea brewing in your mind. If you can get Su-bong alone, you can get the rest of whatever the hell this feeling is out of your system, and focus on getting out of this place. But the desire, the need you feel in your body for him is beginning to become unbearable.

Back in the dorm, you don’t immediately realize that you’re stalking around the front of the room, every so often looking towards Su-bong and his teammates. In your mind you beg for him to see you, but he’s too focused on his conversation. You continue to slowly walk back and forth, a hum in your bones that you have to satiate. If he would just fucking look at you.

As though he hears your thoughts, Su-bong raises his head from the conversation he’s in, and glances around the room. When he finds you, walking back and forth like you’re stalking your prey, his gaze softens from the smugness you’ve seen throughout the day, to something more mischievous. You finally cease pacing and pull in a deep breath, eyes locked with Su-bong’s, daring him to do something. He drops his head back against the frame of the bed behind him, making sure that you’re still looking at him. He tugs at the fabric of his pants, pulling them away from his crotch as if to give himself some relief, and fuck, if that doesn’t send a shiver through your body.

You clench your hands into fists and pull in a slow breath. Su-bong laughs quietly, hand covering his mouth to shield his smile. When he looks at you again, you glance towards the exit door then back to him, putting the suggestion in the air. Without waiting for him to indicate one way or another, you move swiftly towards the door, informing the guard you need to use the restroom.

The journey to the bathroom feels longer than you remember, and it is excruciating. Your body is so heated, it almost begins to feel cold, each step towards the bathroom making your body throb with desire. When you reach the bathrooms, you pause, not sure which room to choose so that Su-bong knows where to find you — with what you know of him, you’re sure he’ll expect you to go into the men’s room to accommodate him. Making your way inside, you wash your hands at the sink, nerves coursing through your body as you wait to see if Su-bong joins you.

Briefly, your mind wanders to just why you would be feeling so out of control. You’ve never been in a life or death situation like this before, so maybe your emotions are scattered as an effect. Your body is reacting to trauma and as a defense you’re horny? That can’t be right. Maybe it’s just Su-bong and the way he was desperate to get you off three times the night before, without asking for anything in return. That was a change; most men you would involve yourself with would be selfish, and Su-bong certainly seemed like he might be the same way, but he surprised you.

“Thinking about me?” You hadn’t realized that you were still standing at the sink, washing your hands, zoned out as you got lost in your thoughts. You find Su-bong’s reflection in the mirror behind you, leaning against the edge of the row of stalls with his arms crossed over his chest. “After I saw you flirting with that guy, I’m surprised you want to be alone with me,” he adds, with a small laugh. “I thought you’d have other plans.”

“388?” you smirk, shutting the water off as you turn to face him. “I said maybe three words to him; it was a brief conversation. You must have already been watching me to see that.” Su-bong doesn’t appear even remotely ashamed that he’d been caught, which throws a wrench in your plan to have him as weak as you feel. “After last night,” you start with a shrug. “I thought you’d want to be on a team with me.” You kick yourself for sounding childish, but you notice Su-bong doesn’t look smug, like you’d expect when you’re being so needy; he’s more pensive, really trying to find the right words.

“I didn’t want to share you with them,” he says, after a moment. “Why should they get to know you when I’d rather keep you to myself? I’d be too jealous.”

“Oh, yeah?” you ask. “Didn't take you for the jealous type.” He nods his head, dropping his hands to his sides and walking closer to you; you almost expect him to look shy at the mention of jealousy but instead he looks determined. “So that girl you flirted with right in front of me today,” you begin, as he closes in on you. “What was that for exactly? Payback?”

“Well,” he grins, almost shyly. “I liked how you looked at me when you saw me talking to her. You looked angry and jealous…it was cute. Maybe you want me all to yourself, too.” He grasps your hips, turning your back to him, and pinning you between his body and the sink. You watch him through the mirror as he stares down between your bodies, looking at the way your ass presses against him.

“You had me on my knees last night, but you wanted to wait until today,” you mutter, holding onto the sink for leverage to grind yourself against him. “Why is that? You could have done anything you wanted to me.” He finds your eyes through the mirror, his eyebrows furrowing as he starts to grind with you. “You still can,” you whisper, feeling your heart pound in your chest. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

You can practically see the wheels turning in Su-bong’s head as he envisions the possibilities. The tips of his fingers curl under the waistband of your pants, his eyes still on you through the mirror. You don’t stop grinding against him, only adding a little more pressure when you feel him getting harder.

“Let me make you feel as good as you made me feel last night,” you whisper, softly, the friction igniting that spark that’s been glowing within you all day.

“Mmm,” Su-bong hums, one of his hands shifting around to your back to press his palm against your spine to stop your movements. “Is that what you’ve been thinking about all day?” He slides his hand down towards the waistband of your pants, fingers catching the material along with your panties. He tugs the clothing down your backside until he’s able to slip his hand between your thighs from behind. “What were you thinking of doing to me that made you like this?” he breathes, locking eyes with you again through the mirror as his fingers brush through your damp folds. “Or…were you thinking about someone else?”

“I feel like you’ve been in my bones since last night,” you admit, closing your eyes and rolling against his hand. “And I’ve needed to touch you all fucking day just to calm whatever this is you started in me.”

“I dreamt about this last night,” he says, a cocky grin on his lips. “How pretty you looked, how good you tasted.” He retracts his hand, not breaking eye contact as he sucks the taste of you from his fingertips. “I don’t want to waste any of it,” he adds.

Tired of the teasing and having to wait so long, you gently shove him away from you, pulling your pants back into their correct position. You brush past Su-bong, and duck into a stall. When you look back towards Su-bong, he walks closer, now watching you carefully. The roles have reversed from earlier as he paces a few steps back and forth with his gaze set on you. You remove your jacket from your arms and drape it over the top of the stall.

“Did you just want to watch?” you ask, placing your hand on your breast and squeezing, tempting him to come closer. “I could put on a good show for you, but we’d both have more fun if you joined.”

Su-bong saunters towards you, and you take a step back into the stall to give him room to enter. He pulls the door shut behind him, engaging the lock so you have as much privacy as you can. For a moment, he stares into your eyes, studying them before his gaze travels further down your face to stop at your lips. He lets out a slow, slightly shuddered breath that echoes in the small space of the stall.

“Like I said,” you start, voice low. “Anything you want.”

“I want to kiss you,” he explains. “But last night, you seemed like maybe that wasn’t what you wanted?”

“No, you just caught me off guard, that’s all,” you nod, grasping his hips, pulling him against you. “Kiss me.”

As though something snaps inside of him, Su-bong closes the small gap between you, taking hold of your jaw with one hand and placing his other hand on your hip. He keeps you pressed against the wall as his lips lock with yours, already slipping his tongue into your mouth. He moves like he’s desperate, small hums of want rasping in him as his fingers that are on your jaw drift to your throat.

Your hands, still on his hips, fist his clothing to pull him harder against you, not able to get enough of the warmth from his body. For a fleeting moment, you wonder what it would be like to be in his bed with him, completely naked, able to touch every inch of his body. Just the thought of it drives you crazy, and you let out a moan that you don’t expect. Of course, Su-bong laughs in response, so you bite his lip — he did say he likes a little bit of pain.

Su-bong groans, his hand that was on your hip now slipping under your shirt to grope your breast harder than he had the night before. You can feel him grinding against you, just as desperate for the friction as you. In an effort to help him, and to get what you want as well, you shift your weight on your feet, easing your knee between his thighs enough to press against his crotch.

“Shit,” Su-bong hisses, breaking the kiss and dropping his forehead against the crook of your neck. You’re surprised by the lazy way he moves his hips along your thigh, so slowly you’re not even sure if he’s moving intentionally or if he’s trembling.

Briefly you wonder how long it’s been for him since he’s had any sexual contact. The way he acts makes you feel like it’s been some time, but someone like him, famous, attractive, with the illusion of being rich…one would think he can get any girl he wants, whenever he wants. But you did see him strike out with two different women since you’ve met him.

The sensation of Su-bong’s tongue licking a path from your neck towards your ear pulls you from your thoughts. His teeth connect with your earlobe, tugging on it, you feel like something snaps inside of you. Quickly, you shove him against the opposite wall by his shoulders, taking note of his surprised reaction as you lower to your knees. The stall doesn’t afford you much space, so you’re forced to angle yourself in a way to stick your legs somewhat under the stall door. Hopefully no one comes in.

Su-bong unzips his jacket, tossing it on the wall atop yours, and untucks his shirt, pulling it up to his ribs to make your next actions easier. You hook your fingers in the waist of his pants, catching the elastic of his briefs and tugging both down to his thighs.

You can’t think of anything else except the look of relief on Su-bong’s face as you wrap your fingers around his length. Still, he’s strained, that’s obvious; he’s just as frenzied on the inside as you are.

“This is what I’ve been thinking about all day,” you whisper, leaning towards him and licking the precum from his tip. He groans at the sensation, his hand cupping your jaw to urge you to take him into your mouth. You oblige, not needing much convincing, and you take his head between your lips, swirling your tongue around it.

“Wait,” he says, stopping you. He stoops enough where he can slip his hand down your pants, fingers collecting some of your juices before carefully retracting his hand. When he stands upright, his eyes focused on your face, he uses your slick to stroke over his length. “Tell me how good we taste together,” he breathes, finally releasing his grip on himself to allow you to do what you want.

You stroke your hand over his now slick erection, making sure it’s coated before you take him into your mouth again. You relax your jaw, taking him deeper and deeper while stroking along what you haven’t fit into your mouth. When you finally have him as deep as you can take him, hitting the back of your throat, you stay for a moment, letting him feel the sensation of your throat trying to accommodate him.

We taste really fucking good together, you think.

“Fuck,” he hisses, knocking his head against the wall behind him, and licking the taste of you from his fingers to savor the entire situation. “We don’t have a lot of time; I won’t last long if you do things like that.” It’s a warning that tempts you — a challenge to see how fast you can get him off. But the rational part of your brain would rather take a little more time enjoying it.

You pull off of him, letting out a raspy breath, and stroking your hand over his length. Once you catch your breath, you slip him into your mouth again, bobbing your head along with the strokes of your hand. You set a pace and hollow out your cheeks, taking him deeper with each bob of your head.

“I knew you’d be good at this,” he admits. “I could tell when you were on your knees last night. You looked so pretty, I knew you were used to it.” You feel a flip in your stomach at his words; is he calling you a slut?

You can feel him very lightly begin to rock his hips against your face, and you feel elated at the prospect of what he might be preparing to do. You release your hand from his length and solely use your mouth to work him, picking up the pace as you feel him hit the back of your throat with each bob. Tilting your gaze upward, you see him watching you with his jaw slack, and one hand brace on the stall wall across from him to keep him upright.

“You’d like that?” he rasps, moving his hips with more purpose to meet your movements. “For me to fuck your mouth?” You hum an affirmative response around us length and he groans at the sensation. “Let me see,” he mutters, easing you off of him, to get you how he wants you.

You don’t immediately realize that you do it, but as you peer up at him, your mouth opens and your tongue sticks out, preparing for him again. The glint in Su-bong’s eyes is enough to make you even wetter, watching him lean over to cup your jaw. You realize what he wants to do, you can see the question in his eyes so you give a small nod of approval. He smirks then takes hold of your chin, spitting once into your mouth.

“So dirty,” he grins, pushing your mouth closed.

“I told you: anything you want.”

Su-bong’s smile widens, back to the mischievous grin that you’d seen a few times before. He takes both of your hands, lacing your fingers and pinning your hands on the wall outstretched above your head. He rests against them for support, then juts his hips forward to ease his length back into your mouth.

“Wider,” he instructs, watching you from above. You do as you’re told, opening your mouth as wide as you’re able to, affording him the room to begin thrusting.

His moves are slow at first, testing the waters to see how much you could take. You keep your jaw slack, allowing him to use you for whatever he wants. You haven’t felt so filthy in your life as far as you can recall, and you blame the insanity of the games for your desperation.

“Eyes up,” Su-bong commands, and you once again listen, no questions asked. “You listen so well. It’s sexy.” He thrusts against you with more force, driving his member deeper down your throat.

Your eyes start to water and you can see him hesitate for a moment, as if he’s worried he is hurting you, but you give a small shake of your head to let him know you’re okay. The approval from you seems to drive him on, urging him to thrust more forcefully, bumping your head against the wall. You moan around him — more of a muffled whimper, loving how he makes you feel for pleasuring him. Su-bong groans, tipping his head back to mutter something you can’t decipher.

With another thrust, he keeps himself buried in your throat, and you gag around his length. You know you can handle it, but you can tell Su-bong is watching you like a hawk for any signs that it’s too much. Your throat contracts around him and your eyes water even more as you struggle, but you briefly think you’d rather die like this than face the guns outside.

When you finally need to breathe, you squeeze Su-bong’s hands to signal for him to pull back, which he immediately does. You take in a sharp breath, coughing on some saliva as you try to regulate your breathing.

“If you come home with me, I’ll vote to leave tonight,” he says, breathless himself as he releases your hands. “Was that your plan all along? To seduce me into leaving?”

“Don’t be silly,” you whisper, with a grin, taking his erection into your hand and slipping him into your mouth once again.

To give your throat a bit of a break, you don’t take him all the way to the back of your mouth, but you suck more harshly on him, jerking your hand along with the movements. You can feel how wet you’ve become from the interaction, and how much more on edge you’ve become; you’re desperate for some relief. You slip your free hand into your panties, touching your clit to relieve the pressure that you didn’t realize had built up. You start to moan around his length, needy and desperate moans that you never have dreamt you were capable of making.

“If this is what happens when I ignore you, what do I get when I’m good?” Su-bong asks.

The question sends a sensation straight through your body, stopping between your thighs, and you rub yourself faster, clenching around nothing. The way he sounds when he speaks, that deep voice somehow even lower, but desperate and raspy. You never thought you’d be this turned on from how weak you could get a man. You take your time pulling him from your mouth, giving a sultry pop with your lips, and then keep your hand stroking at the same pace while you peer up at him.

“I bet you don’t realize how sexy that sounds,” you say, quietly, your voice barely escaping your throat. Su-bong cradles your head and you nuzzle against his hand in return, not looking away from his face for fear of missing out on the way he looks while being pleasured.

“If it was you and me in my bed,” he begins, breathless. “I’d never let you leave.”

“How would you make me stay?” You still tease your clit, not trying to get off yet, but still trying to feel less pressure.

“I’d tie you up if I had to,” he mutters, licking his lips at the sight of your hand in your pants. You’ve never given much thought to being tied up before but …if anyone could convince you to try, you imagine it would be him. With your eyes still on his face, you lean back towards him and swirl your tongue around his tip while you still stroke with your hand. When you blow cool air where you just licked, his body visibly tenses. “F-fuck,” he stutters, dropping his hands to your shoulders and pushing you away from him. “Hold on a minute.”

“Did that almost get you off?” you grin up at him, more pleased with yourself than you rightfully should be. He doesn’t respond, his head dropped back against the wall as he takes in slow breaths to calm down. You soothingly rub your hands up his thighs and then grasp him by the hips to help support your weight as you stand up.

Su-bong finally looks at you, his lips parted slightly to let out soft pants and his cheeks flushed with a tinge of pink. It makes your head reel thinking that you’re the one who made him feel and look like this out of control. He runs his hand through his hair as he searches for something to say.

“Are you usually like this?” you ask, tilting your head.

“What am I like?” he breathes, giving you a small kiss on the corner of your mouth.

“Desperate,” you laugh quietly, turning your head just a fraction to kiss him on the lips.

“Not like this,” he admits, smiling. “Never.” He looks at your hands, taking hold of the one that you had been using to touch yourself; he brings it to his lips, sliding your index and middle fingers into his mouth to clean them. “Mmm,” he hums, pulling them out when he is satisfied. “Do you want me to get on my knees now? I can give you whatever you need.“

“No,” you say, though you briefly think that you’ll remember the way he asked you that question for the rest of your life, however long that may be. “I want you to fuck me until I can’t take it anymore.” You can see the way he shifts into his ‘Thanos’ persona, stroking himself as he sizes you up with a smug smirk.

“Take them off,” he nods his head down towards your pants. You oblige, opting to kick your shoes off too so you’re able to remove your pants and underwear entirely.

For a moment, you feel shy, standing half naked in front of what is arguably a total stranger, but Su-bong still strokes his hand over his erection, licking his lips as he plans his next move. All of the formalities and hesitations are disregarded — the worry of being perceived as too needy or audacious in your desire for one another doesn’t matter anymore. It’s just the two of you and he needs it just as bad as you do.

Su-bong grasps your thigh, pulling it up to hold at his waist to give him access to you. At first, he keeps eye contact with you while he drags his erection back and forth through your folds, nor yet entering you. All you can do is let out a small sigh, hoping he stops the teasing but secretly loving every second of the torture.

He kisses you suddenly, and it’s such a tender kiss compared to the way he looks at you that you’re caught off guard. Your hands grasp his face softly, holding him in place to deepen the kiss; you can feel him smiling against your lips, and without warning, he slides himself inside of you all the way to the hilt.

“Oh, god,” you whisper, breaking the kiss, now grasping his shoulders and fisting his shirt.

“You feel like you were made for me,” he grinds out, getting a good stance so he’s able to pull almost all the way out of you, then slowly push back in. “Like you’ve been waiting your whole life…just to feel this.” He pushes his hips hard to thrust the rest of the way inside of you.

“Fuck,” you whine, fingers digging into his shoulders so hard you’re sure you’ll leave bruises. He grins at you, pulling back and thrusting hard again just to hear you moan.

The way he thrusts is as though he's less concerned with your pleasure and more concerned with showing off. You figure it might be the other women that he’s been with that have made him develop that habit, maybe they were too focused on hooking up with a disgraced celebrity that they didn’t pay attention to much else. But you needed Su-bong to get you off, you needed his best performance — at least within the given circumstances.

One of your hands plant onto the back of his head, pulling him closer to bury your face against his neck. You begin to nip along the line of his tattoo that comes down from behind his ear. Su-bong’s breath noticeably hitches from the contact, starting a steady pace of driving himself into you. When your mouth reaches the crook of his neck, you bite down harder, making the man jump, and thrust into you with more force than he intended.

“You love the pain as much as I do,” he points out, as you grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back so you can suck along his throat. “The way you squeeze me…I can tell. Imagine if I had the space to do what I really wanted to do…”

“If I’m comfortable acting like this when anyone could find us,” you begin. “Imagine how nasty I’d get for you in private.” Su-bong lets out a growl like he did the night before, and it gives you the same moan as it did the first time. He slips his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit as he starts to thrust into you harder.

“It’s so easy to make you come,” he mutters, picking up the pace of his thrusts. “Three last night and I wasn’t even trying.” The smug tone would normally set you off into a frenzy to try to bring him down, but he was right; you did get off faster than normal and Su-bong didn’t even break a sweat.

“There you go,” Su-bong groans, as you try your best to keep your moans to a reasonable volume. Your hips rock against his thrusts, getting him deeper and deeper as your climax hits. “Mmm, that’s so pretty,” he whispers, barely slowing his thrusts as you ride the wave of your orgasm. You tremble in his arms, whining at how tender you feel, yet you wouldn’t tell him to stop.

The sudden sound of the door opening and several voices sends a panic through your body. You tense, and Su-bong clamps his hand over your mouth to silence you. His thrusts slow to shallow and gentle, which manages to drive you even crazier than the fast pace. You blink fast, trying to will away the moan that is stuck in your throat but it comes out in a barely there whimper.

“Don’t get us caught,” Su-bong warns quietly. You nod furiously in response but he does not let go of your mouth and you hope that the other occupants of the bathroom don’t hear your heavy breaths against his hand.

You try to contain yourself, listening to the sounds of the men in the bathroom who are talking idly about the games as they use the facilities. Your eyes start to slip closed but Su-bong gives a quick, hard thrust that makes you let out a muffled yelp in surprise, your eyes widening as you peer at him. He gives you a devious grin, each thrust now coming hard enough to jostle you in his grip. You furrow your eyebrows, trying to give him your most desperate, pleading look you can — if he keeps this up, each thrust hitting deep inside of you when you’re already so close…

You press your palm against the door of the stall to brace yourself, hooking your other leg around Su-bong’s waist. His hand covering your mouth drops to grip your thigh, supporting your weight and pressing your back against the wall. At this angle, he’s buried inside of you to the hilt, and as much as it drives you crazy, you can see in his eyes that he starts to lose his composure as well.

“Can’t handle it?” you whisper. Su-bong’s eyebrows raise as if to say ‘excuse me?’, and you smirk in response — daring him.

Su-bong tightens his hold on you and takes a step away from the wall with you in his arms. You gasp, grabbing onto his shoulders to keep yourself steady as he takes the small step back to sit down on the seat of the toilet with you still on his lap. This time, he returns that mischievous and daring look that you gave him moments before, but he tips his head up to whisper in your ear.

“Make it yours.”

When he leans back, peering up at you, he bites his lip and sets his hands lightly on your thighs, as if to avoid hindering whatever you are about to do. You grasp his shoulders for support, beginning to rock yourself in his lap slowly to test the new angle. He feels so good this way, and it drives you to roll yourself harder and with a little more abandon, trying to make sure you feel every inch of him.

Su-bong’s breath comes out in quick, short huffs through his nostrils, his fingers digging into your thighs and you know they’re going to be bruised later. One of your hands cradles the back of his head, urging him to tilt upwards again so you can press a kiss to his lips. This kiss is more urgent, sloppier, and you worry that you’re being too noisy when you hear the other occupants of the bathroom beginning to lower their voices.

You break the kiss, desperate for something else so you let go of Su-bong’s shoulders, reaching behind your back to place your hands on his knees for support instead. You watch the flash of excitement in the man’s eyes as you start to ride him at this new angle. Your back is arched and your head is tilted up towards the ceiling, abandoning that last shred of dignity you were trying to hold.

You start to move faster and faster, feeling yourself already broaching another climax. Su-bong senses it as well, either from your less precise movements or the way you feel around him, so his hands now grasp your hips, helping you move steadily in his lap. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of your orgasm, Su-bong’s grip on you tightens and he slows you until you stop altogether.

You give him a look that you hope conveys ‘are you fucking serious?’, which, judging from the way he smirks, he hears loud and clear. He gestures in a twirling motion with his finger, and it clicks in your head what he wants you to do. Giving him another kiss on the lips, you maneuver from his lap, briefly hating the loss of him filling you up, and you turn around to face the stall door. Su-bong’s hands hold your sides, helping you sit down on his lap again with your back to him.

“Get back over here,” he mutters, and you think it’s mostly for his benefit because he sounds so serious. You reach down between your thighs to guide him back into you, feeling the way that momentary loss of him almost made you forget how good he feels inside of you, stretching you to your limit.

From this angle, everything feels better. You don’t waste time with build up now, knowing you’re beyond desperate to come again. With your legs together and your hands bracing on his spread thighs on either side of you, you begin to bounce in his lap, making minimal effort to remain quiet at this point. You hear over you shoulder and Su-bong lets out a stilted groan, hands on your hips and helping you ride him.

You never expected this from yourself. On the outside, this could look like some cheap porno that always made you laugh more than anything else. Except this doesn’t feel like that. This feels sexier, you feel sexier than you thought you could be, because of the way you have this man acting for you.

You’re brought back to reality by Su-bong’s hands wrapping around your body, not staying still. He cups your breasts over your clothes with both hands for a moment before one releases and glides up to your throat. He sits up higher so he can pull your back against his chest, holding your torso in place against his while you still ride him.

“You’re close, I can feel it,” he rasps in your ear, fingers tightening around your throat. “Are you going to come in my lap while all those other men are out there listening? They know we're here by now. They know you’re in here fucking a stranger like this.” Your head reels with desire and your eyes slip closed, your body feeling as though it’s engulfed with heat.

His hands move again; this time, he grasps your thighs, easing them over his to spread you open wider. This position affords you the space to move, and you take quick advantage, leaning flush against Su-bong so you can really fuck yourself on his lap. You both pant, soft moans echoing in the walls, and you’re sure he’s right that anyone can hear you, but you don’t care. You’re so close.

With one of his arms clenched around your midsection to keep you against him, his other hand ventures between your thighs rubbing your clit quickly. Your body doesn’t feel like it’s under your control anymore, and you assume it’s because it belongs to Su-bong at this point.

Your legs quake as you finally reach your climax, pulling in quick, sharp gasps as you try not to moan out loud. Su-bong whispers something to you, something encouraging, you’re sure of it, but you’re too blissed out to really hear what it is. You drop your head against his shoulder and grasp the back of his head, pulling him into a kiss as you ride him until your legs grow weak.

“Fuck,” you shudder, breaking the kiss.

“You’re such a good girl for me,” he whispers, rubbing his hands over your sides soothingly. “I know you can give me one more.” You whimper, not as confident in your abilities as he is; he laughs, giving you a quick kiss on the mouth. “I believe in you, princess,” he grins.

You playfully shove his face away from you, blushing at the nickname. He wraps his arms around your body, standing you both to your feet again, while he keeps himself pushed inside of you. He pushes you cheek first against the wall, burying himself all the way inside of you and staying still.

You both listen, making sure that the other occupants of the bathroom have now left and you are completely alone again. Once Su-bong is satisfied, he grasps you by your hips, slowly beginning to thrust into you again. You whimper, your body feeling ready to give out at any moment. This time, as he thrusts, you can tell he’s chasing his own orgasm as well as yours — he’s much more urgent and focused.

“Are you gonna come inside of me?” you ask, eyes slipping closed as you feel your legs trembling beneath you. You hear how your voice sounds: cheap.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

“Did you earn it?”

Fuck, you think, feeling your cheeks flush so much your eyes water. Don’t come just from him saying that.

“I felt you clench just now,” he pants, not relenting in his thrusts. “You dirty girl, you really do like being talked to like that.” All you can do is groan in response, your second orgasm in sight. “If you come one more time,” he begins, kissing your neck. “Then I’ll finish inside of you. Okay? Can you do that for me, princess?”

“Mmhmm,” you moan, whimpering as you know it’s so close.

He keeps fucking you hard, relentless as if his life depends on this moment. You moan louder than you intend to when he thrusts in at just the right angle, so he clamps his hand over your mouth to silence you. His free hand maneuvers in front of your body and between your thighs, rubbing your clit suddenly and sending you crashing into an orgasm. You grasp the wrist of his hand that covers your mouth, dragging it down to your throat instead to feel his fingers there one more time as you release.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, reaching behind you with your free hand to grab anything you can. When your fingers come in contact with Su-bong’s side, you pull him hard against you, scraping your nails along his ribs.

“Damn, baby,” he hisses, his hips hitting you with as much force as before but sloppier — he’s close.

With all the energy you can muster, you work yourself against him, trying to meet each of his thrusts as you still dig your nails into his skin. He bites your shoulder over your shirt, stifling a deep groan. His fingers tighten around your throat and his pace becomes erratic, teeth still digging into you.

The moan he releases into your ear is far more breathless and desperate than you expect. His deep tone makes it rattle in his chest so you can feel it through every inch of him that you feel. The sensation of Su-bong, essentially a stranger, coming inside of you is almost enough to give you a fourth orgasm but you try to maintain your composure. He keeps thrusting until he’s finished, dropping his full body weight against you to pin you against the wall.

You both stay silent apart from your ragged breaths that echo through the walls of the stall. It feels like an eternity that you stay melded together like this, neither of you ready to stop just yet. Su-bong makes the first move, kissing the spot on your clothed shoulder that he had bitten; the action makes you giggle softly, so he plants a kiss on your cheek to tease you further.

When you both finally separate, Su-bong turns you around, resting you against the wall. He grabs some tissue and helps you clean up as best as he can, stealing glances at you every now and then with a shy smile, and a quick kiss. Once he’s satisfied that you’re both cleaned up, he pulls his clothes up again and helps you get back into your pants as well. It’s not lost on you that he slips your panties into the pocket of his pants, and as much as you would like to protest, you love the idea of him keeping a piece of you like that.

“You okay?” Su-bong asks, as you both now stand resting against either side of the stall, preparing yourselves for the long walk back to the dorms.

“I hope we vote out tonight,” you say, truthfully. “For a lot of reasons, but I don’t think my body can take much more.”

“I think you underestimate yourself,” he says. “You can handle more than you think.”

“We can test that theory when we get out of here,” you reply.

If we get out of here, you think. Su-bong must read the look on your face, because he takes the small steps towards you and grabs you by your hips, pulling you to him.

“We will,” he says. You’re unsure if he’s responding to what you said out loud or if he read the fleeting look of panic in your face at the thought of going through another game. He places a tender kiss on your lips and you sigh contentedly — this is a feeling you could get used to.

You both grab your jackets from the stall wall and put them back on, Su-bong slowly opening the stall door to peek out before he exited. When he is certain the coast was clear, he allows you to step out of the stall after him. You both quietly exit the bathroom altogether, once again checking that no one is around to see. You make your way towards the dorms, Su-bong stealing a quick pinch of your backside just before you enter the room.

“Sit with me,” Su-bong commands.

“You want to share me with them now?” you joke.

“Now that I know you’re mine,” he laughs, and you follow without another question as he brings you to join his group. He introduces you around to the other members and you notice they look slightly amused as they look at you.

Is there something on me? you wonder. You glance down at yourself, trying to find anything funny and that’s when you notice: you’re wearing Su-bong’s jacket. You feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment, so you glance over to him to see if he’s noticed as well. The grin on his face confirms that he figured it out.

“Uh-oh,” he chuckles, unzipping your jacket that he wears and slipping it from his arms. “I guess we’ve been caught.” You hurriedly remove his jacket as well and trade with him, laughing off the mistake. “You’re not getting your panties back, though,” he adds, patting his pocket.

“Oh, god,” you mutter, pulling your jacket on and noticing that the others in the group are laughing. Su-bong leans towards you, giving you a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re cute when you blush, princess.”

“Stop calling me that,” you chuckle, pressing your hand to his chest to shove him away gently. You stop yourself from getting locked in his gaze, though your fingers lightly clench the cross that’s tucked under his shirt.

With a small smirk, he retorts, “You love it.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You like being called any names by him, and you like how his hands felt on you. You like everything that he does, and you don’t bother to try figuring out why that is. You enjoy it while you can.

As the vote looms, the prospect of staying in this place scares you, but still seeing Su-bong does provide both comfort and excitement. You wonder if he intends to keep the promise of his comment earlier and vote to leave that afternoon, or if it was just something to say in the moment. Stealing a quick glance at him, you feel hopeful.

[yandere-wishes]

Idea, what if Catgirl!Darling/Reader was called Stray at some point or something and was like Selina’s sidekick at some point, so like Damian can tell Bruce he found a stray and oh it’s just another cat- that is a human

I don’t know, I’m on cough syrup cause I’m sick rn and my thoughts are all wonky

≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼≽^•⩊•^≼

Bruce doesn't think much of it at first, after all his son has always had a penchant for taking in lost, stray, things.

He ascribes it, to genetics, to lineal impulses, to the macabre compassion pumping in his blood.

It's all very Wayne to bring home anguished, ferocious, things. To devote slivers of your soul to every hopeless little thing prowling the Gotham streets.

Bruce doesn't think much of it at first.

Damian had said he had brought home a stray

There was nothing unusual to think about.

But then he sees her, really sees her, the mangled girl with hellfire dancing in her sunken eyes. More cat than girl, more feline than human.

He notices the limp in her leg when she lunges for Damian. Notices her shaking hands when she tries to strangle the boy who only kisses her back. Licking at her lips as his nails dig into the back of her thighs. She claws at his chest. Little kitten trying to kill the robin. So Selina in every way.

Bruce didn't think much of it at first,

He's beginning to realize that was a mistake.

Damian kisses your neck, biting into the crux, nestling your sweet flesh between his teeth, he laps at the skin as you mewl in pain, claw-like nails raking at what little skin is exposed at the base of his neck. A dark chuckle escapes Damian's mouth, it sounds like the chirping of an arrogant robin upon first snowfall. It rings bitterly in your ears. He's enjoying this, isn't he? The little assassin boy may play noble hero, but he'll never escape his roots, his love for the pain, the thrill.

You curse silently at the monstrosity born from the unholy union between the dragon's heir and the bat. Curse at the characters from the stories your mentor, your big sister, used to tell you. When did they become so real? When did fairy tales marry epics and birth horror stories? When did the bird catch the cat?

Damian has your arms pinned painfully behind you, shoulders pulled back unnaturally, bones slipping from their sockets. His lips lower to your chest, kissing, biting, marring.

"Damian, when you said 'stray' I had thought you meant a hungry kitten you found in a back ally or a limping pup from the Narrows. Not Stray, as in the cat burglar."

Damian's emerald eyes lightened in confusion "What part was not clear Father?" his inquiry all too innocent for the boy who had been knawing on your sore lips moments prior. There's a moment of silence, as Bruce looks at you, studying you like a case file, like a cold case cracked open. You wonder if he sees her inside you. The traces of your mentor linger along your body like a second skin. Has he done the same for his sons? Left traces of himself amongst their flesh and bones.

You think it funny for a second, the cartoonish vision that blooms within your mind. That of a bat harboring four little chicks under its midnight wings, atop a mighty oak tree. Whilst underneath a black cat licks her kittens, fussing over their matted fur.

"I see the chemistry brewing between you two," Bruce says his voice carrying the stern baritone of a father, yet awkward and uncertain all in the same breath. "This isn't chemistry" you squeal, voice hoarse from all the screaming, all the uncomfortable vocalizations of pain. "This is phosphorous meeting ozone!"

"That's still technically chemistry" Damian corrects, hands clasped behind his back. Perfect little soldier boy, standing in attention. Waiting for a medal from his general.

Bruce sighs, a microscopic smile dancing across his plump lips.

"I'll let Selina know you're here, she must be worried." Your face lights up in joy, she'll be here soon to rescue you. To save you from the bat's nest. But as Damian pushes you to the nearest wall, caging you between his body and the cement, you think it all too impossible to be saved.

Bruce doesn't think much of it at first.

But he sees it all now.

Damian has always had a weakness for stray things.

He gets it from his father.

I feel like I can make this just a tiny bit darker if I really wanted to...

On a lighter note, Fancy you are my bestie so Imma rant to you for a bit (please don't mind this has been on my mind FOREVER and I need an outlet!!) But lately -in between train rides to school- I've been daydreaming SO hard about a "Catwoman Family" (and a "Batwoman family" cause Kate is the love of my life, but that's irrelevant for now!!)

Like we all know Batman has 4 sons and 3 daughters (I count barbara as his first daughter) but what about Catwoman? Doesn't she deserve a family of her own? Catgirl is my running idea for her sidekick BUT when you mentioned Stray!! I was like "Why not give the woman two daughters!!".

I'm really trying to carve out some time this weekend for drawing. And just sketch out my ideas for Catwoman and Batwoman's sidekicks!!

[realpontchartrain]

I saw your last anon and was wondering if you could go more into detail on your prison abolition stance. It means different things to different people so what exactly would you like to see happen?

Of course! This is gonna be long, so brace yourself, but hopefully a worthy read.

Well, my personal perspective is that prison is inherently traumatic. It is literal slavery. Nobody, no matter what the crime or circumstances that led up to it, petty or huge, should have to endure prison conditions in America. Imagine 24/7 having to be subjected to the brightest fluorescent lights possible, the loudest noises, crammed in a concrete block of a room with 100 or so other people (in general population jails) or at best 4 or 6 others for the entirety of your sentence — which is almost always blown out of proportion for the nature of the crime, or vice versa depending upon your privilege in life (the average white american getting probation or a slap on the wrist for a drug offense, the average black american spending a huge chunk of their lives behind bars for the exact same offense, and me getting away with two weeks in jail for trying to kill a bunch people just because i go to Harvard and my mom’s a cop).

The vast majority of crimes are petty. You can’t stop drug trafficking and addiction with mass incarceration. Encourage people to seek treatment when busted, provide them with the resources they need, and let them decide if or when they choose to get help. If caught redistributing drugs, make getting help mandatory, prosecute them to find the actual manufacturer of said drugs (if it isn’t them) and adequately punish them, then once they’ve completed a setlist of conditions (monitoring, rehab, yada yada), release them. If a woman is shoplifting baby food, you help that woman feed her baby, not throw the child into the OTHER trauma of foster care and the mother in prison for years.

When I was in jail, I shared a cell with an old black woman (we called her Rosa Parks LMFAO) who was in there LONGER THAN I WAS… for trespassing. A class C misdemeanor. She went to the bank to get change, but they were closed, and a manager called the cops on her when she was standing outside too long waiting for the next bus. Two weeks for me for attempted mass murder > two weeks or more for that old woman. What sense does this shit make?

Let’s talk major crimes like mine. These are always committed by someone with some kind of deep mental illness (untreated/undiagnosed) or trauma. They need help. Children aren’t shooting up their schools in troves for no reason. Look at their backgrounds: abusive/neglectful families, poverty, trauma, etc. When it’s easy to cop an AR-15 and we are THE most gun-loaded country for no fucking REASON other than mass paranoia and the delusion of freedom, then why wouldn’t a kid who’s already about to commit suicide with mommy and daddy’s AR collection out on display in the living room NOT see anything to lose in taking as many other motherfuckers out with them? Especially anyone else who wronged them and ridiculed them for their trauma or otherwise? They need help.

Even if they DO go on to kill people, they still deserve a second chance to make amends and face the consequences of their actions. Something drove them to that point, and there was already an infinite amount of failures in more systems than one that let it happen (easy gun access, poor mental health, no social services, bullying that’s unchecked, etc.). That’s why i’m choosing to research gun violence prevention — so that I can become a therapist who specifically focuses on homicidal people and youth, because so many of these so called psychiatrists never believed me when I said I was thinking about hurting people because I simply “don’t look like it.” And guess what? The vast majority of medicine used to treat physical and mental health problems in prisons have been discontinued for use in the general American population. When I was in jail, they put me on drugs to help with my “withdrawals” that caused me to lose sensation in half of my face and would leak out of my nose. That shit is inhumane, and they FORCE you to take it in front of them. If you don’t? Well, beaten or thrown into a suicide watch pad it is.

Throwing people like me in prison, or even people with less severe crimes but still pretty serious, without proper mental health (or any kind) of treatment will only make things WORSE. If we DO get out eventually, all of that trauma i described and WORSE will only follow them forever. That makes people more inclined to commit crimes again, usually even worse ones. This is what feeds the recidivism rate, which in turn feeds into the prison system and therefore modern day slavery as well. Anything “made in America” was made by prison slave labor. For pennies on the hour, sometimes pennies a DAY, when a fucking granola bar on the commissary menu is $50.

I think that the Scandinavian countries have it right. Even Anders Breivik was only given a 21 year sentence for the Norway shooting. If he wasn’t a spoiled and narcissistic brat who thinks he’s tough shit and “too good” to accept help, even HE would’ve had the chance to get out after killing 70~ people in only 21 years if he just completed his measly little conditions (be a better person lmfao). Look at their prisons. Better than a studio apartment in downtown LA for $9mil a month in rent. They get access to things that HELP normal people: games, technology, music, instruments, arts, TV, company, THE ABILITY TO FUCK IN YOUR CELL EVERY NOW AND THEN, EVEN. Do that shit in America and they’ll slap a sex offender charge on your ass just for jacking off in your cell and OFFICIALLY ruin your life forever. And yes, even sex offenders deserve a second chance in life! And look at their crime and recidivism rates (NONE of you racist mfs chime in about the immigration issue…).

My belief is that you have to HELP people like me, my ex, and my other deranged ass friends. Look at HOW and WHY we got to that point, and FIX IT so that the chances of it happening again are LESS. Not doing so only FUELS HUMAN SUFFERING MORE. Okay, let’s say they let child killer here out of jail after all of that shit, they didn’t help me for shit afterwards and y’all SAW THAT. Now imagine if I had snapped again and actually blew up a fucking orphanage in Kentucky or some shit. Who is to BLAME for that, other than the people who knew it happened, did nothing about it, and let it happen again? If your child gets molested by the known pedophile across the street who is on the SOR already, who do you blame for letting that guy back out of prison without ACTUALLY addressing why he did what he did? Even pedophiles need support groups, because let’s face it: NOBODY is out here “slaughtering pedophiles” in troves as people like to think. It’s all just about feeling morally superior in any small way, and it doesn’t get any worse in society than hurting a child somehow. So, why not make sure that Chester the Molester gets mandatory TREATMENT and COUNSELING and UNDERSTANDING of pedophilia, which is, yes, a mental disorder listed in the DSM-5 and therefore worthy of adequate understanding and treatment as any other mental condition.

Probation is another thing that needs reform. But i already rambled enough and i gotta actually answer that other anon who sent that ask in the first place, because they want my opinion on two other things lmao. Thanks for asking me about this, I enjoyed explaining it!

[percivaljacksons]

those little town blues (pt 1)

the modern percabeth ghost whisperer au. girl, at this point you have to trust me. first 5k or so as i edit the big mama doc for ao3. sorry not sorry to tease! i'd give this section a t rating

“For someone who just moved here, you really know your way around,” Piper says. “I absolutely thought you were taking us to the wrong platform.” 

Two descending notes play through the speaker above their heads. The Q train’s doors slide closed. The breaks release in a puffy exhale and the car lurches as they begin to move out of the Canal St station. 

Annabeth shrugs. “I like research,” she says. “Figured if I was going to do the whole ‘move to New York as a broke twenty-something,’ I might as well be prepared for it.”

“What a load of baloney,” Percy says from somewhere behind her. “You were walking right for the Downtown platform, too. You could say ‘thank you,’ by the way.”

Piper doesn’t react—of course she doesn’t. She just tells Annabeth with a sheepish smile, “more than I did. God, this is so embarrassing, but I really did Uber everywhere for my first few weeks.”

“Asshole,” Percy cuts in again. “I can’t stand people who do that.”

Annabeth kicks one foot back as subtly as possible. She doesn’t feel it connect with his shin, but he does quiet down.

“You’re getting the hang of it,” Annabeth reassures her. “Silena said you moved here—what, two months before me?”

“Something like that.”

“Plus, I did a lot of exploring in the past few weeks and got turned around a lot of times. You’re seeing a well made facade.”

“Is that how you found that Wo Hop?” Piper asks. “God, I can’t get over that tofu. And it was in some random basement!”

While Piper waxes poetic about their lunch, Annabeth’s eyes slide to the left. It’s not an overly crowded subway car. There’s a couple pouring over the map on the wall, a short man reading a book in the seat parallel to the window, and around a dozen solo commuters buried in phones or listening to music. 

But to Annabeth’s left, leaning against the door, is a man with short cropped hair and an angular jaw. His button up shirt is untucked, wrinkled, and saturated with blood. She has to breathe through her mouth because she can smell it wafting off of him. From the corner of her eye, she can spot the elderly woman trying to read over the shoulder of the man by the window, ranting a rant he can’t hear. And, of course, right behind her is Percy, dripping wet. 

“I really hope you’re not about to take credit for finding Wo Hop on your own,” he says. 

“...in an article, right?” Piper asks, forcing Annabeth to tune back in again.

“Yeah, about the James Beard Foundation Awards,” Annabeth says. “It’s officially an American Classic.”

“Fucking typical,” Percy says. “I’m not telling you where that halal cart is now.”

“So cool,” Piper enthuses. “I didn’t even realize how much food there was out there that I’ve never even tried, you know? This city is crazy.”

“Best city in the world,” Percy and Annabeth say in perfect unison. 

Of course, only Annabeth and Percy know that. 

//

It started on her third day in New York, because Annabeth has, in general, always had completely shit luck. With a week until her new job began and her boxes (almost) unpacked, she woke up to a sliver of perfect blue sky visible between the brick walls outside her window and decided to spend the day exploring. 

While she waited for the shower to heat up, she drank a glass of water—straight from the tap—and looked around her joke of a studio apartment. Despite the near negative space she now called her own for the next twelve months, her singular closet was pitifully half empty. 

Annabeth frowned into her water. Half full? She’d never had many clothes, was the point. The t-shirts and jeans she’d favored in high school had stopped fitting once she started doing track and field more seriously, and her college dorm room hadn’t offered an abundance of space, either. 

She wandered back to the bathroom and stuck a hand under the tap. Only lukewarm. The previous two days' experience told her she had another minute before it would get hot, so she took out her phone and googled thrift stores nyc. 

The results were almost too many to believe. She shook her head. 

“Best city in the world,” she said to herself, and finally stripped down to step into the shower. 

In the end, she chose a thrift store in lower Manhattan, a little to the east so it was on the yellow line and she wouldn’t have to transfer trains. It was close to Washington Square Park, too, so she could check that off her architecture bucket list. Just like that, she had a plan for the day—and Annabeth loved having a plan.

She flew down the four flights of stairs, keeping her eyes on her feet so she wouldn’t get drawn into whatever was going on with the man who always lingered on the second floor landing. He left something in his jacket pocket, but Annabeth had never stuck around long enough to hear what it was or who he needed to tell. She’d get around to it eventually. Probably.

After riding the N train two stops in the wrong direction, she managed to get on a Manhattan and Brooklyn bound W. It was all part of the learning curve. The car was near empty, so close to the origin in Astoria, so she found a seat by the window and watched as the lower buildings of northwest Queens morphed into the skyscrapers of Long Island City before the train finally went underground. She pulled a book out of her tote bag before long and focused her gaze on the paper, even though the letters were swirling around the page so aggressively that she couldn’t read a word. 

Her dyslexia always got worse when she was stressed. She turned a page in her book, a perfect pantomime of reading, so that the three ghosts standing within fifteen feet of her don’t realize that she can both see and hear them. 

Spirits, earthbound souls, whatever. They were all ghosts, really, haunting people or places or things. She thought maybe they were haunting this specific subway car, except a man in a navy suit got off at 59th street and one of them—the woman in bright red lipstick and a mink coat—followed him off. 

Annabeth kept looking at her book, flipping forward a page every minute or so. She had long ago perfected the half-glazed over expression that tricked most ghosts into thinking she was just like everyone else—unable to see them. It was a small part of the reason she’d decided to move to New York: everyone here had that expression on. Everyone here avoided eye contact on the sidewalk and went about their business, so maybe—just maybe—Annabeth wouldn’t acquire her usual ‘rude and standoffish’ reputation. 

One of the ghosts sat down next to her. He was mumbling in a language she didn't recognize. Hungarian, maybe—a relief. She wouldn’t have to try so hard to not react if he said something appalling. 

Annabeth turned to the next page in her book. She didn’t even remember what it was about. The stops got more frequent in Manhattan, crawling at times only five blocks between stations after Times Square, before the W finally pulled into 8th Street-NYU. 

Annabeth put her book back into her tote and stood, edging around the ghost’s legs with a mumbled, “excuse me.”

She realized her mistake two steps later, when the voice got panicked and excited, rapid-fire consonant heavy speech trying to get her attention again. Annabeth kept her head down and walked towards the closest exit like she knew it would take her where she wanted. It worked, either because he thought it was a fluke or he was tied enough to that train car to stay put, and when she walked up into the autumn sunlight she was once again alone. 

Not unhaunted. She was never really unhaunted, but she could be—however briefly—alone. 

Maps told her that the Buffalo Exchange was close, only a few blocks south. She made her way there, realized she was on the wrong side of the street, and blatantly jaywalked to get to her destination. One thing she certainly would not miss about California was driving and cars and mechanics. She hoped Clarisse would love the hunk of bolts Annabeth couldn’t have more joyously parted with.

The thrift store wasn’t too crowded inside, because it was around 11 on a Tuesday, so Annabeth took her time. She started in the back, sifting through women’s cut jeans and giving up quickly, moving to the men’s section in the front where the inseams were longer. She found a few potential successes, all dark wash enough that she could probably dress them up for work, and made her way towards one of the circular clothing racks in the middle of the shop. 

Annabeth hadn’t lived on the east coast since she was twelve, but she remembered the cold bite of the winters. She didn’t have nearly enough sweaters to get her through January and February, only a few short months away. A few hoodies with stains and holes got flipped past, but eventually she came across a maroon crewneck with a faded lettering that said MONTAUK. She threw it on over her shirt and managed to catch her reflection in a nearby mirror—exactly the kind of baggy she’s always preferred. Perfect. 

“That’s mine,” someone said.

Annabeth looked over and gasped. Standing next to her, soaked from head to foot, was a guy about her age. He was a bit taller, with dark hair plastered to his head and green eyes so bright they forced the air out of Annabeth’s lungs. Every inch of him was dripping water in the middle of the perfectly dry Buffalo Exchange.

“You can see me,” he realized, eyes getting wider. “You can actually—holy fuck.” 

She bought the sweater, in the end, because she stopped letting ghosts decide what she was and wasn’t going to do a long time ago. Percy—I’m Percy, by the way, can you still see me?— didn’t seem to mind, even as she ignored him and checked out with her new pants and sweater. 

“I know you can hear me,” Percy said, following her out the door. “You’re not a very good actor, you know.”

Annabeth pulled out her headphones and slipped them on. She fiddled with her phone, miming a call, and finally turned to face the very wet ghost beside her. 

“Percy, you said?” She asked. 

He grinned. “Yes! Yeah, I’m Percy. I can’t believe you can hear me. It’s, like, so great to talk to someone.”

“I’m Annabeth.” She didn’t reach out to shake his hand, because they wouldn’t be able to anyway. “I’m going to the park. Want to come?”

They walked the two blocks to the north side of the park, until Annabeth stood directly under Stanford White’s famous arch. She knew it already, of course—the Tuckahoe marble used to construct it, the fact that it commemorated the centennial of George Washington’s presidential address in 1789—but Annabeth’s favorite thing about architecture isn’t facts or materials. It’s the way she feels looking at it; it’s something about the innate nature of human beings and the way they just can’t help their desire to create.

She could see Percy out of the corner of her eye, watching her. As she stood there, her gaze still fixed upward, someone in a purple t-shirt walked right through him.

“Okay,” she finally said. “What’s your deal? Normally I’ve gotten a whole life story by now.”

“Normally,” he repeated. “This happen to you a lot?”

“Look, do you see a white light?” Annabeth asked, already losing her patience. 

“A what?”

“God, I can really pick ‘em,” Annabeth muttered to herself. “A white light. Bright, blinding even. Maybe a loved one standing there waiting for you? Walk into it.”

“I—what?” 

“Unless there’s something you’ve left unfinished?” Annabeth prompted. It usually went smoother if the ghost came to terms on their own, but this whole conversation was messing with Annabeth’s plan for the day. She wanted it over and done with.

“What are you talking about?” Percy asked, his accent hitting harder than it had before. His ah vowel was like an A and U and W smushed together. “Why are you the only one who can see me?”

Annabeth closed her eyes. “Fuck,” she said. “Seriously? This is just my luck.” She turned back to Percy, kind of vaguely relishing how no one around them seemed to care that she was talking to thin air. “You’re dead.”

Percy blinked at her. A drop of water made its way down the arch of his nose. “What?”

“I can see ghosts. Spirits. People who haven’t yet moved on.” She let that sink in for a moment, then added, “like you.”

“Moved on to what?” He asked, his voice getting louder with pure panic. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said. “I’m not dead. I just have the pleasure of seeing all of you on your journey in between.”

“Fuck. What the fuck?” Percy started to pace, his hands on his head. “I can’t be dead! That’s such bullshit. I’ve never even left the tri-state area! And I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, lady—”

“Annabeth.”

“—Annabeth, because there ain’t no fuckin’ light, alright? There’s just this stupid park and a bunch of asshole NYU students walking right through me, and apparently, the only person who can see me is a goddamn Yankees fan, which is fucking rich. And!” He turned back to her, an almost triumphant expression on his face. “And I bet you you’re not from here, am I right? No shot.”

“I’m from…” Annabeth trailed off. She could’ve said Virginia, or the Bay Area, or something else. In the end, she just confirmed his suspicion. “I’m not from here, you’re right. This is my third day in New York.”

That made him laugh uproariously, too dramatic to be earnest, his hands flung out to the sides. “Of course! A fucking transplant in a Yankees hat. I can hardly believe my luck.”

With him standing facing her once more, Annabeth finally saw the logo made dark by his wet t-shirt. A baseball with dark blue skyline and orange piping, Mets written out across the front. 

“Are you done?” Annabeth asked. “I want to go see the narrowest house in the city next.”

“I’m not a tour guide,” he seethed.

“Which way is Bedford Street?”

He pointed behind him. “Like, six blocks that way.”

And so Annabeth’s first friend in the big city was a chronically damp, kind of asshole ghost named Percy.

//

“Silena said Piper liked you,” Clarisse says. They’re playing Battleship online as they FaceTime, both unwilling to admit that they want to talk for the sake of talking, and certainly unwilling to admit they might miss each other. 

It’s one thing to move across the country to an apartment you’ve never actually seen for the sake of a life you think you might like, and another to do it knowing you’ll leave behind the two best friends you’ve made in your entire twenty-two years on Earth. 

That are still alive, at least.

“She was cool,” Annabeth says. “So different from Silena, though. We got greasy Chinese food.”

Clarisse snorts. “Uh, yeah. Duh. Get sunk, by the way.” Her missile lands in open water. “Seriously? What the hell.”

“Be better,” Annabeth replies, confidently clicking on G3. Sure enough, a tiny explosion graphic goes off on G3. 

“What the—is there someone behind me giving you clues? I know that’s how you kept winning poker night in junior year—”

“I can’t see ghosts through FaceTime, that would be ridiculous,” Annabeth scoffs. 

“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Clarisse scowls. “Sure.” One of her shots finally connects, but Annabeth’s still smiling, two ships in the lead. 

“Did I tell you I’ve got a new one?” Annabeth asks, pulling her fidget cube out from its drawer and flicking one side of it. 

“A Casper? No.”

“His name’s Percy. He’s wet.”

“Is that some kind of horrible New York slang?”

“What?” Annabeth laughs. “No, he’s actually wet. Like, dripping water.”

“That’s new.”

“Plus, he had no idea he was dead. Bizarre.”

Clarisse frowns. Clarisse always looks like she’s frowning, so it’s really hard to tell when she actually is, but at this point Annabeth’s had years of practice. “That’s happened before,” she says.

Annabeth gets a flash of sun-bleached blond hair and that awful scar in her mind’s eye before she manages to shove it back into the box in the corner of her mind. “S’not common, though,” she says. “Usually means the death was traumatic.” 

“Not to play Silena,” Clarisse says slowly, finally managing to figure out which way Annabeth’s submarine is pointing, “but should you be doing this?”

“Talking to you?” Annabeth snarks. Her next shot misses. 

“Getting wrapped up in helping a ghost your first few weeks in New York. Isn’t that why you left California? Oh, get fucked, I knew that was your battleship.” 

Annabeth shuts that right down. “I left because I got a job. I knew New York would have a lot of earthbound spirits; that was kind of a given, it’s huge. And yeah, I did say I was going to try and focus on me a little more, but…I don’t know, there’s something about him.”

Clarisse looks like she doesn’t know what to do with that. “He’s…nice?” She asks.

Annabeth laughs. “Uh, no. I’m not sure I would be if I just found out I was dead, so.” She shrugs. “I won’t be able to help him cross over until he starts to remember more, anyway. Googling ‘Percy NYC’ got me a dollar pizza place in the West Village and some place called Percy’s Tavern that isn’t even open anymore.”

“Silena’s going to be so pissed that all we talked about on our call is your new familiar.”

Annabeth sinks Clarisse’s final ship. “No, she’s not.”

Clarisse raises her eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Annabeth smirks. “Because you get to tell her that the new ghost is, like, seriously hot.”

Clarisse just shakes her head, grinning. “She is going to love that. Damn. Well, good luck. I’ll call whenever my ego can handle a rematch.”

“Okay,” Annabeth says softly. “Bye.”

“Love you. No homo.” 

Before Annabeth can reply, she gets hung up on.

“Typical,” she says to her empty studio apartment. No one, alive or dead, replies.

//

“Alright,” Annabeth says as she steps out of her office building, her headphones on. “Where am I getting lunch?”

“I’m not telling you,” Percy sulks. “You just abuse my knowledge. I spent a lifetime accumulating this stuff, only to give it away to some yuppie. Barf.”

Annabeth picks a direction and starts walking. “I read that Ess-a-Bagel is good,” she says, already knowing what will happen next with only a week and a half of experience.

“Overrated,” Percy says. He can’t seem to help himself. “Like, it’s good, but they only put the seeds n’ shit on one side. Shmear options are okay,” he adds a little begrudgingly.

“Like, cream cheese?”

“Like, cream cheese?” Percy mocks, his voice high-pitched and whiny. “If you ask for them to scoop out your bagel, I’m actually going to start haunting you.”

“As opposed to what this is,” Annabeth murmurs to herself, well aware that he can hear her. 

“Hey! I’m, like, super chill. I haven’t even tried to get your lights to flicker.”

“You’ve never even appeared in my apartment,” Annabeth acquiesces. “Or at work.”

He shrugs, falling into step beside her. “Seems rude.” 

Annabeth almost stops in the middle of the sidewalk, she’s so surprised. “Okay, that’s a first.”

“Are the people you see always rude?”

She wrinkles her nose. “It’s more like…it’s all on their terms. No one’s ever been that concerned about appearing in the middle of my calc final, for example.”

“Yikes.”

“Exactly.” Despite having the light, she looks both ways before joining the crowd in crossing 6th. One of the idling cars honks at her.

Percy flips the car off. It doesn’t make a difference to anyone but her, but she appreciates it. “If you want to spend too much money on a bagel, I’m not going to stop you,” he tells her. 

Annabeth walks into Herald Square; she’d rather go through a tiny park than down the crowded sidewalk. “Where would you go for a bagel?”

“Absolute Bagels. 108 and Broadway.”

She snorts out a laugh. “You knew that answer way too quickly.”

“I’m tired of these bougie, overpriced bagels! Absolute is good enough I drag my ass to the west side—that’s how you know it’s legit.”

“So you’re from the east side,” Annabeth follows, nodding. “Okay, that’s something. Remember anything more specific?”

“Yeah.” Percy grins proudly, pushing his wet bangs out of his face. “El Barrio, baby! Proud of it. Just off 2nd and…” His grin fades. “Shit. Goddamn it.”

“It’s okay,” Annabeth soothes. “That’s something. I’m assuming that’s…a Hispanic neighborhood?”

“Spanish Harlem,” he says. “East side, north of, like, 96.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “These days, north of 110.”

They’re already on the other side of Herald Square; Percy picks up into a jog. Annabeth follows suit, only realizing that he’s trying to catch the light before it changes a few seconds later. They make it to the other side and slow back to a walk. 

“If you want,” Annabeth offers, “I could go there. With you, I mean. We could walk around, maybe spark a memory.”

“You’d do that?” Percy asks, his voice almost severe in its sudden quiet volume. 

Annabeth shrugs. She pauses on the corner, barely a moment of hesitation, but Percy points diagonally to the side of the street she wants to be on. With a wince of thanks, she says, “I want to see more of the city. Might as well check off a good deed while I’m at it.” 

“Well, I can make it worth your while,” he says with a confident nod. “D’you like Italian food?” 

“Am I human?”

“Okay, so we’ll swing by Patsy’s, then. Oh, or Sam’s! And that bakery with the killer conchas—”

“I have no idea what that is, but I’m sold,” Annabeth says. “Why does Spanish Harlem have Italian food?”

He shrugs, sending tiny flicks of water flying. “Dunno. Better Italian food than Little Italy, though.”

“Haven’t seen it yet,” Annabeth says, pushing her way into the surprisingly large bagel shop and immediately struggling to focus. 

“It’s mostly gone, honestly. Hey, you good?”

“Hm?” Annabeth blinks away from the menu behind the counter. “Oh, yeah, it’s just loud in here. You weren’t kidding about the cream cheese.”

Percy doesn’t say much as they wait in line, or as she orders—toasted sesame bagel with olive cream cheese—but he sort of squints his eyes, like he’s sizing her up. 

“What?” She hisses out of the corner of her mouth as the cashier rings up her order. 

Percy shrugs, the movement of his shoulders just barely visible out of the corner of her eye. “Nothing.”

She raises as much of an eyebrow as she dares, smiling quickly at the cashier, tapping her credit card, and hoping to get back outside as quickly as possible.

“It’s clearly not nothing,” Annabeth says once they’re on their way again. The bagel is hot even through the paper bag it’d been stuffed in. 

Percy moves like he wants to grab the door for her, then awkwardly follows her as she jerks it open herself. “I just think you’re a sociopath for getting olive cream cheese.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic. Ever heard of not yucking someone else’s yum?”

“Nope. Where we headed?”

“I thought we’d sit in the park?” 

“The squirrels are going to maul you.”

“Well, you’ve never seen me fight before.” 

Privately, even as Percy laughs, she casts a few suspicious glances at lingering squirrels as they make their way into the park. Most are high in the trees or lingering around the trash cans. She picks a free table that’s far away from both, sits down, and kicks out the empty chair so that Percy can sit down, too.

“I feel like a food critic,” she says, unwrapping her lunch. She opens the bagel using two hands to get the visual, her stomach rumbling at the sight of cream cheese going a little runny from being sandwiched between two warm halves of bagel. “Except kind of like I’m cheating, you know? I haven’t had to look up any new things to try in two weeks.”

“You’re welcome,” Percy says. He rubs at one eye and flicks the water off his hand after. “But I feel like you should know that I’m not telling you everything.”

Annabeth gasps in mock offence. “But you’re so endeared by me.”

“Lie. I’m living vicariously through you.”

“By not telling me everything?” Annabeth asks cheekily, taking her first, relatively heavenly bite.

“You know what?” Percy says, clearly trying to sound pissed off but failing by laughing halfway through his sentence. He flicks some water at her, and Annabeth swears she can feel it land on her arm. 

“What’re these big secrets you’ve been keeping?” She asks. “It’s not like I’ve gotten food poisoning or anything.”

Percy sighs, still kind of smiling. “Well, then they wouldn’t be secrets, would they? Gotta keep some stuff for the locals.”

Annabeth pouts. Percy rolls his eyes.

“Fine, whatever.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing back across the street. “You didn’t have to wait on line in there.”

Annabeth chews slowly, trying to figure out what’s been lost in translation. “I…ordered in person?” She says. “I didn’t use, like, an app or something.” 

Percy looks just as confused. “Yeah, I was there. I’m saying you could’ve skipped the line.”

“No, you said I didn’t need to be online.”

“Yeah,” he repeats a little slower. “You didn’t have to wait on the line. Have you, like, stopped being able to hear me?”

“Who says wait on the line?” Annabeth asks incredulously. “You wait in a line, Percy.”

“Everybody says that! There’s an invisible line on the ground, and we all stand on it.”

Annabeth takes a bite without looking away from him, wondering how she ended up here. “I’ve literally never heard that before in my life,” she says through her mouthful. “Online is the internet. You wait in a line. I live in a city. I ride in a car.”

“You get on a bus. I ride on the subway. And I wait,” Percy says, leaning in, “on line.” 

“Maybe you’re not dead,” Annabeth theorizes. “Maybe you’re a demon raised from hell, come to torment me. Maybe you’re from an alternate universe!”

“This is what I get for revealing the schmear only express line at Ess-a-Bagel.” Percy shakes his head. “I should’a known.”

“What?” Annabeth asks. “I didn’t have to wait in that stupid fucking line?”

Percy throws his hands up. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

“Tell me that before next time. You had to wait in the line, too.”

He shrugs. “Not so bad. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

It sends her into a little bit of a tailspin. Sure, he’s actively dripping water on an otherwise dry and sunny day, but he’s around her age and died relatively recently, if the in-style cut of his jeans is anything to go by. He’s easy to talk to. It’s easy to forget he’s dead.

Annabeth takes another bite of her bagel. It’s a little strange that the sesame seeds are only on one side, but it’s just the right amount of chewy and pretty big for what she paid. The olive cream cheese is more of a disappointment, but she’s not going to tell Percy that.

“This is really good,” she says. “Your place is better? Or are you going to gatekeep that now?”

“Oh, shut up. It’s not like Absolute is a big secret, they’ve got a crazy line all weekend.”

“Good to know.”

“I don’t fuck around when it comes to bagels, Annabeth. Honestly, have any of my food recommendations let you down?”

“No,” she agrees. “Why do you think you remember all of that so well?”

He shrugs, his eyes sliding to the side. Annabeth doesn’t think he’s particularly interested in the squirrel eating a cigarette butt, so he probably just wants to avoid looking at her. It strikes her somewhere beneath her ribs, how sad it is, to wander around your home with only the innocuous pieces left.

Not for the first time, she wonders what will happen when she dies. Will someone see her? Will she even know that she’s dead? Will she be here, or in San Francisco, or on Berkeley’s campus, or back in Richmond? Has she ever known a place her soul would cling to?

“What’s your favorite thing about New York?” Annabeth asks, deciding suddenly to change tactics. “Since you keep insisting us transplants don’t know—”

“—know shit about shit,” Percy finishes. He looks back at her. “Uh, it’s the best city in the world.”

Annabeth rolls her eyes. “I know that. That’s why I moved here. You could argue that means I love it more than you.”

“Shut up,” Percy says, his face screwed up with indignation. “No, it doesn’t!”

“Great comeback,” she drawls. 

“Okay, I love the people,” Percy answers. “I love New Yorkers, and the way we treat each other.”

“Like?” Annabeth prompts him.

“We leave each other alone, but if I’m short a dollar on groceries there’s almost always someone who’ll cover me. And I just…I love walking places, and the subway, and I love it when I hop the turnstyle so smooth you can’t even tell I jumped it. I love the old guys who play chess in the park. The graffiti. I love riding the bus at night and Biggie, and shitting on Jersey and the goddamn Mets. I love not giving a fuck, I guess.” 

“Well, that’s things you love, but what’s your favorite?” Annabeth pushes. “Mine is easy, it’s the—”

“—the architecture, I know,” Percy finishes again. “I like that, too. I…well, maybe it’s the food. The food here is the best.”

Percy has admitted to never going anywhere else, so Annabeth doesn’t really know how he knows it’s the best, but she doesn’t call him on it. 

“But my favorite…” Percy goes a little still, like he’s remembered something. “My favorite thing when I was a kid is gone now,” he says. 

“Yeah?” Annabeth prompts

“Yeah. It was on the west side, if you can believe it. When you got off an uptown 1 at 79th, if you went up the staircase that took you to the northwest corner—there used to be a Circuit City there, next to the DSW.”

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Annabeth mutters.

“Yeah, it closed ages ago, but it was in this little, two story building. And it meant, when you were going up the stairs, if you looked up all you could see was the sky. Like the sky was the ocean and you got to go down the ladder and jump into it.” He goes quiet for a moment. Then, “now there’s an ugly fucking apartment building.”

Annabeth resists the urge to scoff. “You think any new building is ugly.”

“That’s not true! I like the Jenga building downtown.”

“The Jenga…” Annabeth thinks. “You mean 56 Leonard?”

“Is 56 Leonard the building that looks like a wonky Jenga tower?”

“I—” She sighs. “Yes. But it’s a Herzog & de Meuron.”

“You’re a hotdog and demure one.”

“You’re not that funny.”

He shrugs. “I dunno, you’re smiling.”

You’re flirting, Annabeth realizes. You’re flirting with a ghost, and he’s flirting back. 

“I can show you the ugly building some time,” he offers, blinking some water out of his eyelashes. “It’s right by the Natural History Museum. You like museums, right?”

“My second favorite thing about New York,” Annabeth confirms, and just manages to stop herself from saying it’s a date. 

//

Her dad texts her on a Saturday morning, the first time he’s reached out since she moved to the east coast, and his message reads [ Hi, Annabeth. I hope you’re settling in well at your new job. How is New York? Let me know when you might be free to talk.]

She doesn’t respond for three days. What’s there to say? She wishes she could explain to him that you can walk south on the east side of Broadway, from Grand to Howard, and you can look up and see the top of One World Trade peak through the buildings. You can look down so you won’t trip over the subway grate, and when you look back up again 56 Leonard has taken its place. 

She could tell him that if you walk past the entrance to the NQWR to the corner of Canal, you can see all of Herzog & de Meuron’s creativity, bottom to top, and you can decide that from then on out you’ll be calling it the Jenga Tower. She could type it out, or even try and call and inevitably tell him in a voicemail, but he wouldn’t get it. He’d probably say something ridiculous, like ask what Jenga was, or tell her about an exhibit that has something to do with planes that’s soon to arrive in the tri-state area, and Annabeth would remember why she hadn’t reached out either.

Instead, she tells him about work, and doesn’t talk about buildings or bagel shops or the bitter and charming conundrum of a ghost that’s taken to appearing at her shoulder as she makes a city her father hates her home. 

[cambankromyy]

TRUE COLORS (03): the ticket to freedom - (smau & irl au) childhood bsf!rafe cameron x thornton!reader

series masterlist; general masterlist; taglist

PART 2- PART 3 - PART 4

synopsis;

Yn Thornton is Topper's little sister and the Cameron siblings' best friend. Growing up, She, Topper, Sarah, and Rafe were like royalty on Figure 8, but the pressure of being at the top of the kook hierarchy left her feeling trapped. While sarah and yn broke free, embracing life with the Pogues, Rafe stayed behind, burdened by his fathers expectations. As she found freedom outside the kook world, Rafe spiraled, torn between the life he hated and his need to hold on to her- the one person who truly understood him.

chapter overview;

yn wakes up to the sound of seagulls and sunlight streaming through her curtains, her phone buzzing with a message from Sarah inviting her to a bonfire later that evening. After reflecting on the previous night, yn is thrown off by an unexpected encounter with Ruthie at home, prompting her to head to Tannyhill to find Sarah. There, she runs into Rafe, with sarah being on a date with john b, and they quickly fall back into their familiar, nostalgic rhythm. When Sarah returns, she suggests they get ready for the bonfire, and the two girls bond over plans for the night ahead.

you wake to the sound of seagulls and sunlight streaming through your curtains. you smiled as you recalled walking home with rafe from the country club, but was quickly replaced by a pit in your stomach. fuck. sofia and rafe. before more negative thoughts could fill your head, your phone on the nightstand buzzed.

groaning, you reach for it, the screen lighting up with Sarah’s name.

you sigh, tossing your phone across your bed before dragging yourself up. laughter and muffled voices echo from downstairs. odd, since your parents weren’t supposed to be home. It was just you and topper.

shrugging it off, you start your morning routine; teeth brushed, hair done, skincare complete. by the time you head downstairs, you’re ready for breakfast. what you’re not ready for is the scene that greets you.

"ruthie?" you blurt, your voice sharp with disbelief.

there she is, standing in your kitchen, laughing with Topper like belongs there.

she glances over her shoulder, giving you an innocent look that you know is anything but. "oh! good morning yn" she says, her voice syrupy sweet, but that smug little smirk betrays her.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" you demand, your annoyance bubbling to the surface.

topper looks up from where he’s cooking, confused. "What’s your problem? She just stayed over. It’s not a big deal."

Not a big deal? Your jaw tightens as you glare at him, shaking your head. He really didn’t get it.

"no fucking way," you mutter, turning on your heel before your anger spills over. You’re not about to stand there and watch Ruthie act like she owns the place.

"yo!" topper calls after you, his confusion growing. "you not gonna eat breakfast?"

you ignore him, your steps quickening as Ruthie’s laughter follows you. "Oh, c’mon, top. She’s just being a brat," she says, her tone dripping with fake sympathy.

her voice sends a wave of frustration through you, but you don’t stop. you grab your keys, head to the garage, and climb into your car. anywhere was better than here right now.

as you back out of the driveway, you hear topper shout again. "where are you going? dude!"

you hear him, but you don’t respond. instead, you pull out of the garage, heading toward tannyhill. being with sarah had to be better than dealing with that.

you pull into the driveway at tannyhill, turning off the engine and sitting in the silence for a moment. the house looms in front of you, quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

grabbing your keys, you make your way to the door, ringing the doorbell. nothing.

"sar?" you call, starting to knock.

no response.

you sigh, leaning against the doorframe, pulling out your phone to text her.

"fuck" you mutter to yourself, debating whether or not to go home. before you can start walking toward your car, you hear footsteps approaching the door, and before you can do anything, it swings open.

"yn"

answering the door for you was rafe; hair a mess, shirtless, and clearly fresh out of bed. he squints at you, rubbing his eyes as he adjusts to the daylight.

His voice is groggy, and his confusion is obvious. "what are you doing here?"

"I came to see Sarah," you reply, trying not to laugh at how out of it he looks. "didn’t realize she wasn’t home."

Rafe yawns, stepping back to let you in. "she’s out with John B or something," he mumbles, scratching the back of his head. "come in, though."

you hesitate for a second, glancing at your car, but the thought of going home makes you sigh. "fine," you say, stepping past him into the familiar house.

you sat down on the couch next to rafe, the room filled with the familiar, comfortable silence you two always had. he lazily strummed his guitar, and you leaned back, letting the memories flood in. it felt just like middle school again—when you and rafe would always end up together while sarah and tpper were macking each other. late-night talks, sneaking into places you shouldn’t, and walking to the country club to put anything and everything on ward camerons tab. the nostalgia was thick in the air, and you both fell into your usual banter—you forgot how much you loved this.

the sound of a car pulling into the driveway interrupted the easy atmosphere, and before you could even register it, the front door opened, and sarah stepped inside. her eyes landed on you and rafe sitting so comfortably together, and you could see the surprise flash across her face. but, after a brief pause, she just smiled and shook her head.

"well, look who decided to hang out," she said, her tone light and casual. It wasn’t a big deal—just a comment, but you could tell she was a little taken aback by the two of you being together without her or topper.

"yeah, had to escape topper and ruthie," you said rolling your eyes, trying to change the topic from you and rafe.

sarah raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything more. instead, she gave you a knowing grin.

you followed sarah to her room, rafe's gaze following you all the way up the stairs. he missed this too.

sarah let you borrow her "cute but pogue approved" outfit for the bonfire, as she gave you the john b john d debrief from their date. you two did your hair, makeup, and got ready for the bonfire, and before you knew it, it was time to leave.

tags: @marleymarleymarleymarley, @queenvane64, @raeven-marie43 @idiotussupremus @sereneera

[ghouljams]

Hi. I slept around when i was 18-24 years old. I slept with 27 people (mostly one night stands) in total. I deeply regret this. My behavour started due to a sexual assault, which sent me into a spiral of alcoholism, self-hate and depression. I had almost most of my partners in a drunken state, some I don't even remember. Thankfully I have been sober for two and a half years and abstained from sex for three years. I have also reflected upon my actions and turned my life around. My past experiences and behaviour have really damaged how I percieve sex and my body. Since being abstained from sex I have realized how much it means. I want to start dating, to hopefully have a long-term commitment. I am however, terrified that my "encounters" will be a dealbreaker. This idea that men just "have to deal with it" is nice, but I think it is bs in reality. I think for most men it is a deal-breaker, and I have to live with that. But I do not wish to lie about my past to my future partner either, should the topic come up. Any thoughts or tips? Would love some perspective.

Wow. Heavy.

I sat with how, and if, to answer this for a while because I want to approach this with compassion and understanding.

First: I think talking this out with a therapist, if you aren't already, would help you out a lot. There are plenty of therapists who specialize in sexual trauma and I think that's what you should look for if you decide to seek help.

Second I want to say that I think this hard pendulum swing from hyper-sexuality to sexual guilt is too common, but no less harmful to the person experiencing it. I wish I could hold your hand when I say that I think you've moved from one form of self harm to another. Beating yourself up over decisions you made in the wake of a horrible trauma that came from a need to cope is not going to help you in the long run.

The way we perceive ourselves is constantly changing, but that doesn't mean we're always right. I also would caution you against putting "meaning" on sex. Sex is just sex. It's a thing people do for a million different reasons, some mean something and others don't. The idea that sex has some huge weight to it or is a special gift that you only give people you truly care about is incredibly dangerous and will only damage your perception of yourself further. It's also incredibly motivated by the idea that you can shame people into obedience.

Do not fall victim to indoctrination tactics that put you in a position of shame.

Here's the truth of the matter. For some men it will be a deal-breaker, and for others it won't be, but why would you want to chase after the men who dislike you for something you did out of self-preservation? Also in all honesty most men don't give a shit about how many people you've slept with. This idea that all men want a perfect virginal vessel is just absolute horseshit that's been perpetuated by misogynistic media and disseminated to the general population. The only thing a good partner will care about is if you're comfortable and interested in having sex with them.

Men don't care how many people you've had sex with. Men are dogs. Men are lucky to even get sex with everything they've done to you.

I also want to leave you with this: the way you talk about yourself and sex raises many alarm bells. I don't know if you have a deeply christian background or if you've recently gotten involved with a church, but they are not helping you. I would caution you against placing too much weight behind the decisions you made in the past impacting the way your future will go. You are not a sinner who's been permanently marred by your deeds. You are a person who made choices you now regret and that's ok. Your future is dependent on the people you surround yourself with and the way you present yourself. Sex doesn't mean anything unless you want it to, but the people that tell you sex means everything are hurting you.

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

╔══•.·.☆.·.♥︎.·.☆.·.•══╗

buff guy

╚══•.·.☆.·.♥︎.·.☆.·.•══╝

ʚ Part 2 ɞ

❥ CW: chubby fem reader x buff guy, reader has insecurities

❥ A/N: hello everyone!! Thank you for the feedback on this series!!

"I don't know if this is a good idea..."

"Don't think like that!" your friend says from the phone. "This is a one in a lifetime experience! Go out with him and let him fuck you stupid!"

"Stop," you plead, shifting through your closet again, sighing. "I don't know if I have anything nice enough to match the pearls."

"Just wear something sexy. He's not even gonna look at your neck."

"This is so stupid," you huff, grabbing two outfits and taking them out for your friend to see on the phone. "I'm stuck between these two."

She hums, tilting her head this way and that.

"I think the dark green one would look more elegant on you. It's a bodycon dress, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Good. Give him a look at all those curves."

"Stop it," you groan, putting the losing outfit back before heading towards your bathroom. "Give me a minute."

"You're good." You shut the bathroom door, hanging up the dress on your towel rack before undressing. You shimmy into the dress, pulling it down to expose your shoulders, just like it was shown online when you bought it. You huff, opening the door and moving back into the bedroom, standing in front of the camera.

"How's this?" Your friend whistles.

"Girl. You're gonna make him drool."

You smile shyly, picking up your phone and taking it with you to your humble vanity, turning on the lights around it.

"I don't know what to do for makeup."

"Give me a sec," your friend hums, clicking away at her phone screen. "Okay, you could do a brown eyeshadow, one that's just a couple shades darker than your skin, to deepen your eyes. Then do a winged liner. Do you have a red lipstick?"

"Yeah."

"Wear it. Red is sexy."

You sigh, pulling out your supplies and beginning your look. It was simple, yet classy, perfectly seductive. But why did you want to be seductive? You barely knew this guy—hell, you didn't even know his name—so why were you putting in this kind of effort?

Maybe you're just desperate.

You drown your negative thoughts in setting spray, looking in the mirror before gazing at the phone.

"How's this?" Your friend smiles.

"You look good! Were you gonna do your brows?"

"Nah," you start putting your things away, "I don't know him that well." Your friend laughs.

"That's fair. Take the lipstick with you so you can reapply after dinner."

"Yes ma'am."

You take out the small red gift box, removing the lid and then the pearls. You stare at it for a moment, before finding the clasp.

"How does this go on?"

"Lemme see—"

"Wait, I got it." You wrap the pearls around your neck, clasping it behind you. You touch them gingerly, worried that they'll snap off at any second.

"What perfume are you wearing?"

"The one he got me," you reply, grabbing the bottle. Your friend groans.

"Lucky. I wish my boyfriend got me perfume." She sighs. "Maybe I should break up with him."

"Don't be like that," you say as you spray the perfume generously around you. "You guys are practically married."

"He hasn't texted me in, like, three hours." You put the cap back on the perfume bottle.

"He's on a business trip."

"Which is why he should be texting me, since we can't talk face to face." You roll your eyes, smiling at her.

"Thank you for helping me." She smiles back at you.

"Of course boo-boo. Text me when the date is over. I want all the details." You giggle.

"Sure thing. I'll text you later."

"Okie, byeeeee!"

"Bye!"

You hang up the call, sitting in silence. You look back in the mirror, wondering what you were even doing. Why was this stranger even taking you on a date? Didn't he have better things to do?

You shake your head, glancing at your phone. Twenty minutes and he should be there to pick you up.

You sigh, already exhausted.

He arrives precisely at seven p.m., pulling in front of your apartment. You pull back the curtains to glance at him get out of his car. You sigh when you see that he's carrying things.

You open the door as he approaches. He's wearing a suit, black with a light gray shirt. He has a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a small baby blue box in the other.

"Hi," you say, hands clasped together.

"Hi," he replies, reaching the top step and handing out his gifts. "For you."

"I figured," you mumble, taking the flowers and the box. You hesitate, then hand the flowers back to him so you could open the box. You remove the lid, eyes going wide at the bracelet you saw. It had pearls with golden beads in between, diamonds on each bead, with a golden clasp.

"This is really unnecessary," you say, placing the lid on the bottom of the box.

"You don't like it?"

"It's beautiful," you reply, touching the bracelet. "But you really don't need to keep buying me things."

"I want to." He shifts on his feet. "I thought it would look good on you."

You hum quietly, taking the bracelet out of it's container.

"I don't know how to put this on."

"Here," he tucks the flowers under his arm, offering his hands. "Let me."

You pause but hand the bracelet to him, leaving out your arm. He unclasps it, wraps it around your wrist and clasps it together. His hands linger on your arm for a moment, eyes staring intensely before he pulls away, handing the bouquet back to you.

"Thank you," you mumble, taking the flowers. "I'm... gonna go put these in water."

"Sure."

You step inside, closing the door, whispering curses to yourself as you hurry to the kitchen. You find a spare vase, filling it with water and adding the flowers, placing them next to the last bouquet he got you. You glance at the brand name on the blue box before tossing it in the trash, going back outside.

"I'm ready." He nods, turning and walking down the steps. You follow him, heels clicking against the concrete. He opens the passenger door for you, standing to the side.

"Thank you," you mumble, slipping inside his sleek car. He shuts the door behind you, making his way to the driver's side as you look around the car. You don't know car brands, but this one seems expensive, luxurious. You wonder what his occupation is as he gets in the car, starting it and driving away.

The car is silent as he drives to your destination; not even the radio is on. You stir in your seat, pulling your phone from your purse and searching the jewelry brand he bought from. You swallow when you see the prices, scrolling through the 'bracelets' section to look for yours. You choke on your spit, coughing into your arm.

"You okay?" he asks. You heave in a breath, glancing at the price on your phone.

"Fifteen thousand dollars?!" you choke out, glancing at him. "You got me a fifteen thousand dollar bracelet?!"

"Yeah," he draws out. "Is that a problem?"

"That..." You stare at the bracelet on your wrist. "It's too much. I don't even know your name."

"Would you like to know my name?"

"I mean, yes, but... I mean, the only thing I see you as is 'guy'. You're just a guy."

He hums, making a turn.

"Why don't you call me 'Guy'?"

"What? 'Guy'? You want to be called 'Guy'?"

He shrugs, pulling in to a parking lot.

"Only you would call me that, so it's special. It'll be like a nickname."

You think about it, closing your mouth as he parks in front of the restaurant. You unbuckle, putting your hand on the door to open it, but he grabs your wrist, making you turn to look at him.

"Don't," he says, releasing you so he could unbuckle himself. "Let me."

You huff, slumping back in the seat as he gets out and walks to your door. He opens it, reaching out a hand for you to take. You sigh, taking his hand and letting him help you out of the vehicle. He closes the door, tossing his keys to the valet who fumbles with them.

"Don't scratch it," he says, still holding your hand and gently pulling you into the restaurant.

The place was dim, golden light swirling through the restaurant. He gives his last name to the hostess who grabs two menus, guiding you to your table. It's a fairly large table in the back of the restaurant, tucked away from everyone else.

He pulls back a chair for you, watching you as you gingerly sit down in it. He pushes you in before moving to his seat across from you. You take the menus in silence.

Your waiter comes to get your drink orders. He gets a water and a glass of whiskey with ice. You just get a water with lemon.

"You don't want anything to drink?" he asks before the waiter leaves. You smile awkwardly.

"I'm just not in the mood tonight." He hums, waving the waiter off, staring at you. You pretend you don't notice, rereading the limited menu choices so you don't have to make eye contact.

"What will you get to eat?" he asks, hands folded under his chin. You shrug.

"I don't know... I've never been here before." He watches you like a hawk, and you swear you can feel yourself sweating under his gaze.

The waiter returns with your drinks, asking if you're ready to give your food order.

"I'll have the ceasar salad to start," he points at the menu. "Then I want the filet with mashed potatoes and asparagus, and at the end I want the cheesecake." The waiter writes everything down turning to you.

"Oh! Um..." You glance over the menu again. "I'll also start with the salad. Then I'll have the, um... fettucine alfredo with broccoli. And then can I please have the crème brûlée?" The waiter nods, writing down your order before taking your menus and walking away. You sit in silence once again as he stares at you.

"So, um... Guy," you begin, noticing his lips curl. "What exactly do you do?"

"I'm a CEO," he says, brushing something off his shoulder.

"Oh? For where?"

"Just a tech company. Nothing special."

"Oh..." you reply. You grab your water, taking a sip before setting it back down, leaving a lipstick stain on the glass. He stares at it, rubbing his hand before looking back at you.

"You're a barista."

"Yes..."

"How long have you been one?"

"Oh, um, for a couple years now."

"Do you like it?"

"Most of the time." You pause when the waiter returns with your salads, setting them in front of you before leaving. "Some customers are really nice. Others are assholes. But I get along pretty well with most of them."

"That's good." You pick up your forks at the same time. "What can you do about the assholes?"

"Nothing, really," you say, taking a bite and chewing thoroughly. "I just try to be polite and do my job."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" You glance at him. He's still staring intensely, making you swallow.

"Uh... no, not really. You can't really ban them from coming." He hums, taking a bite.

"I'm sure I can talk to your manager, get them banned from your store." You lift your hand, waving it.

"No, no, it's fine. It's just part of the job." He huffs, taking big bites of his salad, eating twice as fast as you are.

"You shouldn't have to deal with that."

"Well, it's my job, so..."

"Do you want a better job?"

"Huh?" you ask, making a face. He's finished his salad, wiping his mouth with his napkin before setting it down in his lap.

"I could find a better job for you."

"What? No, no, I don't need a new job. I like where I am." He nods.

"Understood. If you ever change your mind though, I'm here to help."

"Right..."

You finish your salad as he watches you, trying to chew quickly so he doesn't stare at you for too long. As you finish your salad, your entrées arrive, empty plates exchanged for full ones.

"You look nice, by the way," he tells you as he picks up his fork and knife, cutting into his steak. "I should have told you earlier."

"Oh! Well, thank you," you reply, feeling warmth bloom in your cheeks.

"I feel lucky," he begins as he moves his piece of steak in sauce, "that you dressed like this for me."

You twirl your pasta around your fork, too shy to look at him. You eat in silence for a little bit, hearing him chew, knowing that he was still staring at you.

"What do you do besides work?" he asks after he swallows.

"Um, not much. I stay at home a lot, watch movies, do some crafts."

"What do you make?"

"Oh, well..." You take out your phone, pulling up photos of your crafts, handing it to him so he can see. "Stuff like this, mostly."

He takes your phone gently, staring down at the photo. He smiles softly, handing it back to you.

"It's nice. You're very talented."

"Ah, thank you." You store your phone away. "That's kind of you to say."

"I don't say things I don't mean."

You meet his gaze, blinking. He's very serious as he takes a bite of mashed potatoes.

"I... okay..."

Silence overcomes you again as you eat. He shovels food into his mouth, eating much faster than you, as if he's starving. You grab a piece of broccoli, putting it in your mouth.

"What do you do outside of work?" you ask, trying to keep the conversation going. He shrugs.

"I go to the gym a lot." You scoff.

"No shit. I can tell." He pauses, glancing at you.

"Do you not like it?" You shake your head.

"I don't mind. If you like to do it, then you should keep doing it." He taps his fork against his steak, twisting his mouth.

"Do you... like muscular men?" he asks, a hint of worry in his tone. You pause, looking up at him. You shrug.

"I don't really have a preference. I think muscles are nice, but if my partner didn't have muscles I wouldn't be upset about it."

"I see..."

Silence, again. Why was it so hard to talk about things? Was he naturally untalkative?

"Guy?" He glances at you. "Why did you ask me out on a date?" He swallows, setting down his fork.

"I wanted to take you on a date."

"But why?"

"Because I like you. I thought that was obvious." You curl into yourself a bit.

"Not really..." You pick at your food for a moment before setting your fork down. "I just don't see why you like me..."

"You don't see why?" You shrug and hear him sigh. "Well, to start, you're very beautiful. That's the first thing I noticed about you. You're also sweet, and kind. You treat customers very well. And you make good drinks."

"So you asked me on a date because you like how I make your coffee?"

"No," he says, almost offended as he picks up his fork. "I asked you on a date because I wanted to get to know you, all of you, not just who you are as a barista." You go back to eating, taking another bite.

"I'm worried you'll be disappointed with who I really am."

"I highly doubt that." He wipes his mouth with the napkin, pushing forward his cleaned plate. "I already adore you."

"Wha—"

"Are you finished, ma'am?" the waiter asks, suddenly appearing. You glance at him, taking one last bite before handing him your empty plate. He smiles, taking Guy's plate as well before another waiter places your desserts in front of you.

You quietly break into your crème brûlée, scooping the cream and bringing it to your mouth. You light up when it hits your tongue, moaning quietly.

"Oh, it's so good!"

"You like it?" he asks, grabbing a bite of fresh strawberries and cheesecake. You nod enthusiastically.

"It's so so good! Oh my gosh, that is absolutely delicious." You take another scoop, holding it up. "Would you like a bite?" He waves his hand.

"No, you enjoy it." You nod, taking another bite and moaning happily. He watches you devour your dessert with joy, smiling softly with each bite you took. You both finish your desserts, and the waiter brings the check. He doesn't let you see it: just takes out his credit card and puts it in the small black folder.

"Thank you," you say to him as the waiter takes the check away.

"Of course. I wasn't going to let you pay for anything."

The waiter returns, and Guy takes his card, signing the receipt, leaving a tip. He gets up first, holding his hand out for you. You take it, letting him lead you through the restaurant and out the building. He lets go of your hand, whispers to the valet before returning to you.

"Did you enjoy dinner?"

"Yes. It was lovely, thank you."

"Of course." He keeps his hands in his pockets, staring as the valet brings his car around. He opens the door for you, closing it once you're inside. Once he's in the driver's seat, he pulls away, heading back to your apartment.

The drive back is quiet. After he parks in front of your apartment, he gets out and opens your door. He helps you out, closing the door. The both of you walked to your front door.

"Thank you for dinner," you repeat, and he nods. You stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do now.

"Would you like to do this again some time?" You blink, clutching your purse.

"Ah, sure, if you'd like to."

"I'd be honored to take you out again."

Your face burns at that. You squirm slightly under his gaze.

"Well, um, goodnight," you say, holding your hand out to shake his. He takes your hand, but instead of shaking it, he leans down and kisses your knuckles. You're stock-still, shocked, confused as he pulls away, releasing your hand.

"Goodnight, Y/N." You shiver, pulling out your keys and unlocking your apartment quickly.

"Okaygoodnightbye!"

You bolt inside, slamming the door behind you and locking it. You waited, hearing his footsteps retreat, his car coming to life before speeding off. Only then could you calm down, sliding down to the floor, kicking off your heels.

"This is fucking insane," you hiss to yourself, holding up your wrist to gaze at the bracelet he bought you. You sigh, shaking it and hearing it clink and jingle, thinking.

You pull out your phone, bringing up your texts.

Y/N: Well, at least he wasn't an ax murderer.

[sunshinesmebdy]

Astro-Economics: Using Astrology to Fuel Your Creative Business (A Series)

Astrology can be a powerful tool for understanding how celestial movements influence your creativity, productivity, and ability to innovate. By aligning your strategies with current transits, you can create impactful content that resonates with your audience—and generate meaningful revenue along the way. Let’s dive into today’s cosmic energy and how you can use it to elevate your creative work.

💬 Mercury & Asteroid Banks in Capricorn: Practical Plans, Big Opportunities

Right now, Mercury and asteroid Banks in Capricorn are setting the stage for clear communication and solid financial planning. Mercury in Capricorn sharpens our focus, making it a great time for presenting ideas, pitching projects, or refining your business strategies. Whether it’s crafting a detailed proposal or networking like a pro, Capricorn energy ensures your efforts are polished and goal-oriented.

Asteroid Banks adds an extra layer, emphasizing financial opportunities. Think long-term: secure funding, map out revenue plans, or present the value of your work to potential clients or sponsors. Capricorn rewards professionalism and meticulous planning, so now’s the time to show off your dedication.

✨ Pro Tip: Highlight the financial and long-term benefits of your projects. A well-structured pitch or a polished launch plan can make all the difference.

💞 Cancer Retrogrades: Emotional Reflection

Asteroids Forbes and Wage retrograding in Cancer invite you to revisit your emotional and financial foundations. This energy asks: Do your creative projects align with your values? Retrogrades are all about second chances, so look back at past collaborations, clients, or ideas. Is there something worth revisiting?

Cancer thrives on authenticity and emotional connection, making this a perfect time to share the heart behind your work. Storytelling focused on personal growth or nostalgia can help you engage your audience on a deeper level.

✨ Pro Tip: Consider running a behind-the-scenes campaign to connect emotionally with your audience. Reflect on your relationship with money and success, and let that g uide your next moves.

🍀 Fortuna in Taurus: Build Beauty, Reap Rewards

Starting January 19, Fortuna, the asteroid of luck and prosperity, enters Taurus—a sign that loves beauty, simplicity, and stability. This energy favors creative projects with tangible, aesthetic value. Whether it’s a beautifully designed product, an elegant portfolio, or a stunning visual campaign, Fortuna rewards quality and attention to detail.

Creators in art, design, photography, and lifestyle industries can thrive. Taurus values sensory experiences, so focus on creating content that feels grounded, lush, and visually stunning.

✨ Pro Tip: Upgrade your visuals, whether it’s investing in branding, refreshing your portfolio, or creating a new product that reflects Taurus’ love of craftsmanship.

🌌 North Node in Pisces: Dream Big, Inspire Deeper

The North Node in Pisces encourages us to infuse our work with imagination and emotional resonance. This energy is about tapping into universal themes and creating something that feels meaningful.

For creatives, this means embracing storytelling, spirituality, or even fantasy elements. Think dreamy, meditative, or otherworldly vibes—content that helps your audience escape or reflect deeply.

✨ Pro Tip: Align your projects with a purpose bigger than yourself. Use storytelling and visuals to evoke emotion and connection.

🚀 Uranus Direct in Taurus: Innovate to Stand Out

On January 30, Uranus stations direct in Taurus, igniting a wave of innovation. This is a fantastic time to explore unconventional revenue streams like NFTs, online memberships, or tech-driven projects. Uranus favors forward-thinking, so embrace futuristic tools and platforms to push your creativity to the next level.

Sustainability is also key with Taurus energy. Creatives who incorporate eco-friendly practices or messages into their work will resonate strongly with today’s audiences.

✨ Pro Tip: Experiment with tech-driven content like virtual galleries, interactive digital art, or online courses. Stay open to new ideas—you never know what might take off!

🔥 Mars Retrograde in Cancer: Slow Down, Reflect Deeply

Mars retrograde in Cancer is a reminder to pause, reflect, and channel emotions into meaningful work. While external progress may slow, this transit provides an opportunity for internal growth.

Themes of family, resilience, and emotional vulnerability will resonate strongly during this time. Consider revisiting past projects or refining unfinished ones with a fresh perspective.

✨ Pro Tip: Lean into emotional storytelling and create content that offers comfort or healing to your audience.

💡 Actionable Suggestions for Creators

Capricorn Energy: Launch structured offerings like workshops or professional courses.

Cancer Retrogrades: Monetize nostalgia by reviving old content or highlighting your creative journey.

Fortuna in Taurus: Focus on aesthetics and quality—invest in visuals or branding.

Pisces North Node: Create imaginative, spiritually resonant content.

Uranus Direct in Taurus: Explore cutting-edge platforms like NFTs or interactive digital art.

🌟 Final Thoughts: Align Your Creativity with the Stars

This astrological moment is a blend of grounded practicality, emotional depth, and forward-thinking innovation. By balancing these energies, you can craft content that resonates deeply and supports your financial goals.

How are you planning to align your creativity with the cosmos? Share your goals in the comments or save this guide for inspiration. 🚀✨

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Fic Excerpt:

@heya-there-friends I figured you might be interested since I've mentioned this potential fic to you.

⸻

General Note on Content: My intent is not to be preachy/moralistic/politically-charged but to depict an interesting scene and characterization in the context of a broader, would-be chapter, in which I've tried to match a setting from One True King. So, for the sake of storytelling and the existence of conflict, do not expect everything to be perfectly politically-correct. I'm going to leave a blanket tw: bigotry.

Context: Set during Rafal's desertion of the School in Pifflepaff Hills.

⸻

Rafal waited in line irritably. He had places to be. And he couldn’t stand putting up with this bureaucratic nonsense of Pifflepaff Hill’s. Wasn’t even his ruling. He glared at his boots and the heads behind him.

A whine speared out of the line from in front of him.

“Aw, but Mum! The squer-rills are out today!” A child no doubt.

“Keep in line and be a Good little girl,” a gentlewoman's voice chastised.

“Naah,” the child’s voice rang out, with a stamp of its foot. “I don’ wanna. And I’m not going through that damn pink door!”

The woman tittered and clucked. “You’re not a gnome, dear.”

Rafal felt a sharp tug on his coattails and turned, summoned by the little being.

“Silver-for-your-thoughts, sir?”

Unimpressed, Rafal gazed down at the child. Who in their right mind struck up conversation with the Evil School Master? Then again, he’d hadn’t a chance to visit Putsi yet and could do for a coin, even just one, to tide himself over with. No, that would be foolish. He had sorcery. Why bother with it? “Go away.”

“Please?”

Rafal took the coin up and fished out the novelty matchbox he’d bought as a present for Rhian at the night market. It was a set of Clive-Sons-&-Goblins speciality matchsticks, each coated with a powdered element that when lit produced a different color of the visible spectrum. His brother didn’t deserve it anyway—Rafal dropped it into the child’s now empty hands. “Avaunt.”

The child ran off, matchbook clutched with a death grip for fear of confiscation, and ducked into a small grove of trees nearby.

Rafal looked on, amused. That one would know how to use it. He could see it in the eyes.

“How dare you speak to my child that way!”

“Madam?” Rafal regarded the gentlewoman with derision.

“Prudence! Get back here this instant!” the woman called. She spun to Rafal. “You’re going to make my daughter and I tardy for our counseling appointment.”

“You’re holding up this blasted line.”

The woman gasped, clearly offended. “Sir! That is—”

Her eyes lit up with recognition and widened in fear as she realized she’d been conversing with the Evil School Master. “Oh, dear me, I don’t want you to consort with my daughter ever again!” she harrumphed. “You might fill her head with more raging, Evil thoughts! Like the last one she’s latched onto.”

“And what might that be?”

“Oh, it’s just a phase. Quite an enduring one though. For some reason, she’s got it in her head that she’s a boy—keeps insisting on it.”

“Uh-huh.” Rafal glanced over at the child jumping at a branch, dressed in culottes instead of skirts and a newsboy’s cap over its crudely shorn head.

“I dealt with adolescents daily and you’re wasting my valuable time with not just another child’s insubordination but your own. I don’t care what runs through their undeveloped heads. Just let your offspring pick whichever door without dilly-dallying, and let me through, if you so insist that it’s your turn now. And frankly, I don’t care what children believe about themselves or what they do so long as they’re productive. So, once again, you’re at a crossroads, one that probably seems complex to your simple mind: let me through the damn door if you’re delaying your turn, or move along now.”

“Why I never! It’s all I’d expect from a Never like you—corrupting innocent, young minds.”

“I don’t care if my basic job description as an educator upsets you. I’m not in the business of distributing good cheer and rainbows—” he began, with marked pith.

“You should be more like your brother. The Good one,” the woman suggested as if she’d stumbled upon the discovery of the century.

“Madam.” Rafal smirked to himself, “If I were anything more like my brother, it wouldn’t be such a far leap to assume you’d find reason to hate me more than you already do.”

“Goodness, what’s there to hate about him? Why, Rhian’s a pillar of Goodness and Godliness.”

“That is certainly… one way to define him… ” Rafal sighed. “Listen, your choice in naming wasn’t very prudent. Now, I could give you another problem to worry about, but I won’t because I have things to do. So, let me by," he seethed, towering over her.

She quailed and burbled, “I just need to collect my daughter and—”

“In all fairness, I think your son’s gender is the least you’ve got to worry about. It seems that in all that frenzy of yours, you haven't been paying attention to his morality.”

“Wha—what’s morality got to do with it? You’re the immoral one! You, you Never! I’m a woman of my word!”

“And I’m a man of action.”

Not the insult she seems to think it is, Rafal mused to himself. He himself was an exemplary specimen of a Never.

A squeak pierced the air.

She and Rafal glanced over at the copse of trees.

The boy had completed his squirrel chase and was holding a lit match burning a brilliant blue which smoked pink and white, to the creature’s throat.

“There. You see? Least of your problems. I’ll swing by and collect him in eight years. Should make a fine student if he keeps it up. And with that initiative, he’s certainly on track to become a Leader.”

The henpecked mother looked like she’d swallowed a toad and shouted, disoriented, “WHAT IN THE BLUE BLAZES IS HE DOING! Good God, please tell me I haven't birthed an Evil imp!” She wailed at the cotton-candy sky.

The Neverboy, whatever-his-name-would-be, waved ta-ta as Rafal watched and winked.

Rafal continued on his way through the blue doorway, whistling, having sown an impending uproar.

New problems really did extinguish the old. Worked like a charm. At least Rhian would be pleased when Rafal told him about his Good deed of the decade.

“SIR!”

Rafal turned back.

The boy waved his matchstick, sparks flying, as if he’d had an epiphany. “THE NAME’S CLIVE!”

Clive. Clive of Pifflepaff Hills, the Evil School Master noted. One more name for the ledger.

[hanta-seros-wifey]

something in the orange| fratboy!katsuki bakugo x f!softgirl!reader

summary: childhood competitive friends take a college cooking course together for fun. katsuki bakugo, our amazing frat boy, and y/n, our amazing soft hearted girl. katsuki has a soft spot for her, but because of his ego won't let it show. denki being denki, lets a secret spill out which can ultimately make or break your friendship with katsuki bakugo

chapter 8: katsuki bakugo & the look of love

warnings: suggestive!!

“okay kats just follow me” you said softly standing in front of the mirror and watching him through the reflection. you did basic dance moves, easy enough for a beginner so katsuki can get the hang of it, but he ultimately fails, again.

“okay sweets we all know i dont have the proper balance that you do” he says putting his hands on his hips and sighing out in frustration. “wanna take a break?” you ask him sweetly and he nods.

he walks towards you and places his hands gently on your shoulders. he stares at you and a slight smile creeps onto his face. he pulls you into a hug and you wrap your arms around his neck to hug him back.

“whats this for kats?” you asked closing your eyes and relishing the hug. “cant hug my girlfriend?” he says and you laugh softly. you pull away and look up at him.

he looks down at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen him with. he sighs out softly and reaches to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. he doesnt directly say the words but in this moment, just by the way he’s looking at you, you know what he’s trying to say.

“wanna go get food?” you ask him and he nods his head. you clean up and change, immediately walking out and heading down to the on campus cafe. “hey denks, eiji!” you said waving at them with a big smile on your face.

“y/n!” they said together pulling you into a hug. “and katsuki” katsuki grumbles out and you laugh softly. “we got a booth, sero, shoto, jiro, and mina should be coming in soon” denki says leaving his bag in the booth as a placeholder.

“cool do you want us to stay while you both get food?” you asked them and they nod their heads. “thanks y/n” eijiro said and got in line with denki. you and katsuki sit next to each other waiting for them to come back.

“i didnt agree to this” he mumbled out looking at you. “i wanted my food” he says and you smile at him. “youre funny” you said kissing his cheek.

katsuki pulls out his phone and opens his camera app. “say cheese” he says holding the phone out to take a picture of the both of you. “cheese” you say smiling and katsuki snaps it.

you kiss his cheek and he snaps another picture. he turns to look at you and plants a kiss on your lips, snapping another picture. he puts his phone down without pulling away and you giggle into the kiss.

“woah are we interrupting something” hanta says as he, shoto, and mina join you guys at the table. katsuki pulls away and gives you a look and narrows his eyes at his friends. “nope!” you said cheeks heating up.

“im absolutely dreading finals” sero whines and removes his scarf and coat. “you gotta pass if youre the one designing our future buildings” denki says as he and eijiro come back. denki gives jiro a forehead kiss and eiji gives mina a sweet small kiss.

“you all go get food were here to watch the table” eijiro says to you all. “here babe” he says and gives his ID card to mina. denki hands his over to jiro and she takes it, following after all of you.

you and katsuki order your food, him paying with his meal swipes how generous. you stand with katsuki waiting for your names to be called. your phone vibrates in your pocket and you pull it out to see what it is.

katsukibakugo mentioned you in their story

you looked up at him as he stares ahead, one arm draped around your waist and he’s fighting off a smile. you open it to see and its the photo you both just took. the kissing one.

you look up and see he’s added it to a highlight and added a song. no. 1 party anthem. he wrote something and you almost missed it completely.

my girl for life

you liked it and turned your phone off, looking up at katsuki. “youre adorable” you said smiling up at him. he looks down at you and maintains eye contact. he leans down to plant a small kiss on your lips.

“katsuki!” a worker yells out and you both move to grab both dishes and return back to the booth. “awww bakubro” eijiro says sliding his phone over the table.

he doesnt say anything, his faint smile present. “aww he’s in love” sero teased as he came back with his food sliding into the booth, next to you. everyone comes back to the table and sits happily, chatting.

“we need to find you a girl man” kirishima says pointing his fork at sero. he shakes his head taking a sip of his drink. “as much as that sounds awesome, i cannot take the responsibility of a boyfriend role at the moment” he shakes his head.

“aw look at that being responsible” you teased and he gave you a deadpanned look. “i think its cause he’s probably too stupid to hold a relationship on top of school” jiro smirked and everyone starts laughing.

“you guys are mean” sero says crossing his arms, offended. after eating dinner with your friends, you all went back to the dorms for a movie night.

you skipped along with mina and jiro, giggling about everything.

●~*

you lay in katsuki’s dorm room watching him play video games with kirishima, denki, and sero. you wear katsuki’s big track and field sweatshirt he bought at the beginning of the school year.

you got up and moved to sit in his lap as he continues shooting while sero yells at denki through the headphones. he puts a hand on your waist and you lean your head on his shoulder.

“almost done kats?” you asked him and he doesnt respond. “alright im off” he announces and immediately gets off the game. he turns to you and sighs softly.

he looks at you with tired eyes, but always remains that look he has when he stares at you. the look of love. he leans over and presses a kiss to your lips. you return it back, softly holding onto the back of his head. your nails raked his scalp and he groans.

you pull away and get up, pulling him with you. “wanna see some choreography i have figured out?” you asked him as he takes a seat on his bed. “go crazy sweets” he smiles at you, eyes remained on your figure to let you know he’s watching with intent.

you danced around in his room and his eyes lit up everytime you did something impressive. you stood there huffinf for air as you looked at katsuki. “hey sweets a question” he says with a smirk.

“shoot” you said tilting your head to the side. “youre wearing this big sweatshirt, a nice one at that, with no shorts on?” he says leaning his arms on his knees and tilting his head to the side with the biggest smirk ever.

your face immediately heats up and you cover your face while turning away from him. “no dont get all shy with me” he says grabbing your hands and pulling you closer to him.

you stand in between his legs and he smiles up at you, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “its okay just teasing” he whispers to you and you smile. he positions you to straddle him and you smile down at him.

“im tired” you breathed out and he nodded his head. he grabbed you tightly and positioned the both of you to finally get some rest. you cuddled into his chest and he wrapped his arm around you.

“i love you kats” you whispered out into the quiet dark room. “i love you sweets” he whispered back and placed a loving kiss on your forehead.

●~*

“what is sex like?” you asked as you stormed into the on campus cafe and spotted your girls at a booth. “woah” momo said and turned the other way. toru moved over to make some space for you to sit.

“why you askin’?” mina smirked and you looked at the girls with urgency written on your face. sero and todoroki being in the booth over, listened intently.

“i wanna jump to the next step with kats” you said shyly and all the girls squealed with happiness. “our make out sessions have been getting steamier by the minute and i cant take it anymore” you sighed frustrated.

“yea girl you need some action” jiro says and the girls nod. momo looks flustered as she drinks her tea and looks down at her human anatomy textbook.

“okay miss textbook dont act like you and iida havent done anything” mina points her fork accusingly at momo. momo only looks away as the girls giggle.

“just talk to bakugo about it, im sure he’s been waiting patiently about this too” ochaco says softly and the girls agree.

“okay” you smiled and got up. “wait now?” toru asks and you shook your head no. “im getting coffee. need to hype myself up a bit” you breathed out and got in line for coffee.

●~*

later that day, you were in your room, doing your research. a knock on your door dragged you out of your thoughts as you closed your computer and moved to open the door.

katsuki was on the other side and you immediately let him in. “whatcha doin princess?” he asks you placing a kiss on your lips, letting it linger. “hm? doing homework” you said pointing at your laptop and grabbing it putting it on your desk.

“and what brings you here handsome?” you asked him, hands on your hips. “cant spend time with my pretty girlfriend?” he asks getting closer to you.

he puts his hands on your hips and you smile up at him. “here for a makeout session?” you asked him getting on your tip toes to kiss him. he kisses back and your hands tangle in his hair.

you pull away to look at him and you decide to just go for it. you grab the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head, discarding it on your floor. you stare at his bare chest, breathing heavily and you smile.

“that okay?” you ask him and he gets closer smirking down at you. “is the door locked?” he asks you and you glance over his shoulder. “no” you said and he picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he moves to lock it.

“where were we” he says before locking lips with you again. he tugs on your sweatshirt and you pull away to help him remove it. “we really doing this?” he asks you with reassuring eyes. “fuck yes finally” you giggle out kissing him again as he leads you towards your bed, dropping you softly as he climbs over you.

●~*

you lay in your bed together, pastel yellow sheets covering your naked bodies. youre in katsuki’s arms as he brushed your hair softly away from your face. “how was it?” he asks you quietly as he traced circles on your bare waist.

“it was great” you said looking up at him. he smiles down at you and cups your face gently. “im happy you are my firsts for everything” he says sighing contently. “im happy you are my firsts for everything too kats” you said pressing a kiss to his lips.

“and it has to stay that way got it?” he tells you and you nod your head. “was planning on it silly” you giggle pulling him in. “i love you kats” you said with a huge smile on your face as you pressed a kiss to his neck (where you left a mark).

“i love you more sweets” he said kissing your neck as he pulled you in closer. “having a sex conversation in public is crazy no?” he says in a teasing tone and you whip your head to look at him.

“what?!” you exclaimed sitting up slightly and resting your head against your hand. in this position your right boob pops out from under your comforter, katsuki looks down at it and back up to your eyes.

“sero and todoroki overheard and reported back to me. honestly you could’ve talked to me about it from the beginning, i wanted you to say something or make the first move to know it was okay to do it” he said sincerely rubbing your shoulder comfortably.

“put that away” he mutters tucking your boob into the comforter. you burst out laughing as katsuki does too. he stops laughing and stares at you.

katsuki bakugo and the look of love.

AHH I FINISHED IT YAYY. thank you so much for the love & support this series got. im sorry if it was a shitty ending but ahh i dont care i love how it ended!!

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