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bluecookies02 · 5 years ago

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Teacher!Aizawa x Student!Reader -Feathery mess/NSFW/-

warnings: teacher/student relationship(the student is of legal age).

quirk: angel wings

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You've been squirming in your seat like crazy for the past 30 minutes, your thighs rubbing together as you watched the man lazily write stuff on the board, his sleeves raised up to his shoulders and his hair tied in a messy bun.

You've been eying the man for years, always too afraid to step up or say anything (for obvious reasons), and even now as you're nearing the end of your education, there's this annoying feeling in your tummy that's making you all giddy and impatient.

It's the last class of the day, all of the students tired and just wanting to go back to their dorms while you're here, dreaming about being stuffed by the black-haired man's cock.

Your wings puffed in your seat as you chewed on your pencil.

You didn't exactly care about anything he was saying, the only thought as you looked at his moving mouth was the fantasy of it lapping at your cunt.

Such sinful thoughts shouldn't cloud the mind of someone so seemingly innocent and pure.

Your feathers ruffled up as you placed your head in your arms, alerting some of the students and obviously motivating Bakugou to ~quietly~ shout you out.

You paid no mind, still staring at the man in a haze...He must've felt something...

He was always so gentle and caring, offering to rub and clean your feathers on countless occasions after training, always checking up on you or coming to your table if you needed help with anything.

While he might've done that to everybody, you felt like he had a particular fondness of you. Maybe it was just your imagination...

Your wings fluffed back down, slumping against your back as they curled around your tiny form.

You spent your years in this school pinning for someone you might never have, instead of going out to parties and meeting new people. And the biggest problem was, you weren't only painfully attracted to him, but you also caught yourself falling in love with the man.

Maybe if you were a bit older? What if he already had someone and it was impossible from the start? You didn't want to know...it would crush you completely.

The bell seemed to have rung a few moments ago, all of the students already having their bags packed and on their back, leaving through the door one by one.

You stuffed your notebook in messily, crumbling it as you pulled the zipper. You stared at the floor as you made your way in-between desks, just wanting to take a long warm bath and cry.

"Y/N, everything alright?" your eyes darted to the voice, your mouth suddenly drying up as you just gave a weak nod.

Before stepping anywhere further, the door was pushed closed in front of you, the tall man hovering over you as he looked at you with warm eyes.

"You know you can talk to me, I want to help..." he trailed off, reaching for your hand as you hopelessly gave it to him.

He sat you down on his chair, him leaning against the table.

"I'm sorry Mr. Aizawa...I don't think there's anything you can do to help me in this situation."

Your wings felt heavy on your back, actually, your own bones felt heavy too.

He reached out to pet your head comfortingly, noticing the way your cheeks flushed and your feathers straightened.

"Can you look at me real quick, please" you raised your head a bit, looking at the man with scared eyes.

Your wings betraying you as they gave a small twitch.

"Y/N, please correct me if I'm wrong because I don't want to make you uncomfortable in any way" you nodded, waiting for him to go on.

"Is it a crush problem?" you nodded again, eyes falling down to your lap.

"Is that person in our class?" he questioned, his shoulders stiff.

"Theoretically..." you mumble, your form shaking a bit as you took in a deep breath.

"And theoretically...I personally...am actually capable of helping you out?" you clutched at the chair for a second before trying to will your legs to move and get you out of here.

His fingers hooked your chin up gently, your teary eyes closing and squinting shut.

"So you literally gave yourself a heartache for nothing angel" he mumbled softly, pulling you up in front of his face.

"Can I kiss you sweetheart?" you stared at him in shock, brainstorming through what's about to happen, your heart skipping beats as his breath ghosted over your lips.

"Pleasee" your needy voice filled his ear before he smashed your lips together, his arms snaking around your back and under your wings, pulling your body flush against his, holding you tightly as he deepened the kiss.

Your wings fluffed back, full and strong, flexing as they tried to look pretty and inviting.

He chuckled into the kiss, dragging his dull nails across the junction of your wings, kneading at the soft feathers.

You hummed in his mouth, pressing harder against him as you tangled your hand through his hair.

Once the two of you stopped to breathe, you were pushed onto the desk, your legs spreading to let him come back closer.

"It's my turn to lock all of the doors on this floor, no one will come here" he mumbled, gently kissing at your neck.

"Please...don't make me wait...I'll beg if I have to" you whined, fisting the fabric of his thin shirt.

"No need sweetheart, we'll have time to take things slow some other occasion." his long fingers slipped beneath your skirt, rubbing over your panties as he felt the soaked patch of cotton.

"Dirty little feather...were you thinking about me during class today? Do you even know what the subject was?" he grinned, pushing the fabric aside as he slipped a finger into your heat.

"I...maybe?" you whispered tilting your head back as he pumped the digit carefully, working you open before slipping in another one.

His lips swallowed up your moans, his free hand creeping under your shirt and rubbing at your flush skin. His fingers curled up, pushing snuggly against your spots making you gasp into his mouth.

"I'm gonna make you feel so full angel, is that what you want? For me to take good care of you?"

Your hands reached for his pants, hurriedly unbuckling his belt and undoing his zipper, slipping both his pants and boxers down.

Your wings shook a bit, your mouth watering at the sight of his cock. It looked painfully hard and heavy, twitching each time you clenched around his fingers, his tip oozing out pearly liquid.

You still couldn't fully believe everything, but the fact that he was willing to risk his job for you had to count for something.

"Hey princess, you think you could take it now?"

His forehead pressed against yours, breathing in deeply as he pushed another finger in.

"Fuck...Please, I'll go mad if you don't" you cried out, tugging at his cock as you slicked it up with his precum.

He groaned, his flush tip now rubbing over your clit and your puffy lips, hissing once he began to sink you down on his length.

You gasped at the feeling of being so stretched out, the countless times you had you pussy full with your toys couldn't compare to this.

Both of his hands found purchase on your hips, slowly guiding you against his cock, slipping out and sinking back in, his small groans coming out after each thrust.

You clung to his broad shoulders, keeping yourself steady as his pace picked up, the filthy sound of his dick plowing in and out of your soppy cunt filling the classroom.

"I'm gonna take you to my house after this princess, make you cum again and again, make you all nice and cozy and abuse your little hole...you kept me waiting for so long, kept this dirty little pussy all to yourself." His voice always sent shocks of pleasure through your cunt, the raspy hum his words held always making your thighs clench together.

"Oh baby you're just swallowing it all up, such a greedy little student I have...oh...look at you...you're gonna cum on my cock? I can see you shaking princess" your hand reached for your puffy clit, flicking it with the tips of your fingers in a hurry.

Your wings were violently flapping everywhere, sprawling around before wrapping around Aizawa as you came with a soft cry, clenching down on his length as he continues to push past your spasming walls, pounding you through your high as he struggled not to cum. You were gushing around his shaft, creaming over his cock and ruining his desk.

Once he couldn't hold out any longer, he pulled out, giving a few rough pumps with his fist, warm waves hitting your skin and coating your clit, dripping past your folds and sliding past your hole, your wings holding onto him tightly.

He rubbed his seed in possessively, gliding his cock along your sex before pulling your panties back in place, finally calming himself down.

He holds you by your hips for a while, kissing at your clothed shoulder and whispering praises into your ear, talking about wanting you for so long, dreaming about you, touching himself at the thought of you, praying to everything out there for a chance to hold you like this.

"Hey...didn't you say something about locking doors?" you mumbled tiredly, nuzzling your head against his cheek.

"Yeah maybe in a minute" he muttered out, kissing your forehead gently.

Thank your quirk for making you so obvious. Or maybe it was his devotion to you that made it easy for him to read you so well...

this lil commission was by @sinclairsamess, they r the sweetest little thing to exist 🥺. thank you for pointing out that I don't actual have a filthy chapter for my favourite teacher, shame on me! So as an apology I offer this soft little thingy🦋

Requests:closed

commission:open (1 slot)

Ko-fi link is in my bio💕

#aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa fluff #aizawa x reader lemon #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #eraserhead #eraserhead x reader

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loveislattes · 4 years ago

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Good Morning (Darkiplier/Reader) Fluffy Smut Drabble

Request: As a drabble, waking up sleepy and content next to your choice of either Dark or Infelix. Can just stay fluffy and adorable or they can be a little more, dirty ;)

Important: Reader is gender-neutral but is a vagina owner!

Warnings: Smut (obvi), pet names, light choking, power play, shadow tendril/tentacles, and no use of protection.

A/N: This was written quickly on my phone while at work so please excuse any errors. I was just excited to get something down on paper!

As always, if you would like to support me, I have a Ko-Fi (here) for donations and I usually have a few slots open for commissions (unless life gets in the way)!

Ever so slowly, the awake world began to invade your sleepy space as you rolled onto your side with a throaty groan. The alarm hadn't gone off yet so you knew it wasn't time to wake up, but you weren't brave enough to crack your eyelids and check those blaring red numbers to see just how long you had left.

As you were starting to fall back into a light slumber, your bed partner curled up around you with a deep groan. Goosebumps ran down your arms as the prickles of his short beard dragged across your bare shoulder.

"What time is it?"

Desire shot through your body at the sleepy rasp whispered right into your ear and you couldn't resist wiggling back against him in turn, whimpering as his straining cock pushed against your bare thighs.

"I haven't checked," you admitted softly, "Early though."

"Good."

The burn of his beard slowly gave way to soft lips and easy nibbles that trailed up your shoulder to the lobe of your ear. Sharp teeth pulled a heady gasp from your lips while his fingers drew your top thigh back over his, his dick slotting perfectly against your cunt.

"That means I have time to ravish you before the fools are demanding my attention," Dark purred huskily, "That is, if you're up to it, darling."

Wordlessly, you reached back and sunk your fingers into his shaggy locks, gently directing his mouth to your throat as you stretched your leg back further to offer him room.

"Always, my love," you murmured.

"Hmmm, that's my good pet," he rumbled lowly against your throat.

You were thankful for the late-night romp that left you both nude because it meant there was no barrier to impede his fingers from slipping between your thighs.

"Fuck!"

Every swirl of his fingertips pulled weak tremors from your form, clit still hypersensitive from the blessed tongue lashing he'd treated you to hours ago. When a rather rough convulsion made you yelp, he slowed his motions and brought his hand to your hip instead.

Before you could even question him, he said, "If this is going to be too much-"

"No! It's not that. I'm just really sensitive still. I want this. Maybe just avoid my clit for a while?"

He didn't respond other than a warm hum and immediately you knew he was reconsidering the whole ordeal. He did that a lot, got overprotective over silly things- even over himself. To help sway him back to the dark side, you hastily lifted your hips and wiggled so his head was pushing ever so slightly against your entrance.

His nails dug sharply into your skin as he unleashed a demonic growl.

"I want you, please," you begged softly.

"You're playing with danger, darling, but I suppose I shall humor you this once."

He snapped his hips forward without hesitation and buried his cock as far as possible with that first thrust, and in that same motion, his idle hand came to encircle your throat.

At that moment, it felt like you had shattered into a million delicious pieces. Your mind instantly shifted into that carefully crafted space that was reserved for Dark, and Dark only, as he invaded every inch of your body. Having had him again after many loving, arduous rounds a few hours ago... it was like you'd never stopped in the first place.

"Look at you," he grunted softly, "My perfect little pet, still so wet and ready for me, taking me so perfectly."

"A-Always, Dark, always ready!" You gasped out between breaths.

Your blood pumped heavily in your head as he tightened his fingers and quickened his thrusts. The slap of skin on skin synchronized almost perfectly with every thump of your heart and momentarily you wondered if he could hear your heart race to time it so perfectly.

Aching to touch him, you snagged his wrist tight and ran your thumb back and forth over the top of his hand, mumbling frantic "I love you"s as he hastily pushed you toward the end.

"And I you, my love."

He suddenly withdrew his hold on your throat, fingers dancing down your curves until they came to rest just below your navel.

"May I touch you now?" He purred sweetly.

"Fuck, Dark, yes!"

His nails left a stinging trail down your stomach and over your mound, making you clench hard down on him before gracing you with a sweet burst of pleasure.

"Fu-uh-ck," he hissed sharply.

Before you knew what was happening, you were facedown. Dark manhandled you onto your knees, hips high in the arm and back arched low, giving him the perfect leverage to thrust back in without pause.

As if planned by the universe, there was a knock at the door the moment he started to speak.

"Hey-"

"If you do not disappear within the next two seconds, I will spend the next millennia eviscerating you from the inside out, over and over until I tire of seeing your entrails at my feet. Am I clear?!"

Your cheeks reddened in mortification as your body reacted undeniably to power and rage in his voice, hips pushing back into his, needing more of his touch.

You felt as if bruises would form instantly as his hands took place harshly on your hips, jerking you back again as he thrust in with a snarl.

"You like that, do you?" He sneered darkly, "Is it knowing that I would kill to remain in you for just a second longer, hmm? Or maybe… just maybe, it's the knowledge that if I didn't love you so, I could easily do the same to you?"

An uncontrollable whine escaped as you buried your face in the pillows, but suddenly his hand was around the back of your neck, jerking your head up almost painfully.

"Tell me, darling, am I right?" He asked, voice shaking with the strength of each thrust of his hips.

You found words to be nearly impossible as he fucked you rough and frantic, the taste of your orgasm teasing at the edges of fruition.

"Yes, yes, oh fuck- yesss!"

He released his hold only to shove your face back into the pillows, head aside to allow you just enough room to breathe, with a death grip on the nape of your neck to pin you in place.

"Come for me then. Let me feel what my power does to you."

The sound of the headboard slamming into the wall thundered through the room, rivaled only by the tortured cries and moans pouring from your lips. And then you felt that familiar coil of cool energy between your thighs. If you could look, you knew you'd find one of those dangerous black shadows wrapped around your hip, dipping just below your belly, and the thought alone made you tighten. You knew he would never hurt you, but you'd also seen the pain and horror his powers could amass.

His name became a jumbled prayer on your lips as you shuddered under him. Every thrust of his cock, every brush of that life-stealing tendril, it coalesced into a mighty and fierce wave that stole your breath.

Tears smeared messily between your face and the pillow as your pleasure erupted with finality. You couldn't help but release a sob of utter devastation at the bliss wrecking your nerves, core clenching painfully tight around him as if trying to keep him in and never let him go.

"Oh fuck- that's it, pet," he snarled brokenly, "Like a fucking vice- agh!"

The sensation of his cock throbbing and emptying hot into your cunt sent you over another little wave, tearing a distraught moan from deep in your chest.

It was overwhelming in the best of ways.

As if knowing your turmoil, Dark released all holds on your body and gently brought you both onto your sides- oh so similar to the way you had started.

Despite panting for breath like you'd just run a marathon, you couldn't help the goofy smile that curved up your lips.

"If there weren't so much to be done, I'd cancel it all just to lay here and see that beautiful expression on your face, darling. You are absolute perfection," he murmured, planting a great kiss on your cheek, "But alas, I have some… unfortunates to lead."

#dark/reader #fanfiction #smut #fluff #morning loving #power play #pet names #light choking #no beta we die like the plebs we are

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magic-is-something-we-create · 3 years ago

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Commissions Open! 5 slots available!

Transactions are in United States Dollars, and I require half of the payment upfront. Prices are non-negotiable, if you try for a discount you will be blocked from commissioning until the next opening. DM me your query, transactions will be through Paypal, Venmo, or Kofi tips. Check the reblogs or my description to see how many slots are still open, as editing the post won’t affect already-made reblogs.

If you are unfamiliar with my work, there is a link in my pinned post to all art I have shared, and I will be reblogging later with links so this doesn’t get buried!

Please bring references if you can! Even if it’s just a vague physical description, a 2am doodle, or a hasty picrew, it makes the process much easier for everyone involved!

I reserve the right to refuse any queries for any reason.

Boosts are much appreciated!

#commissions #art commission #art commissions #digital art #character art #digital commissions #artists on tumblr #my art #boost #my.art

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solesurvivorpaigeargot · 4 years ago

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Sketchy Saturday FAQ : Last Revised on March 11th 2021

Hey there, friends, followers, and fans! This here is an FAQ I'll reblog before events to help keep everyone on the same page. I'll add to this FAQ as new things... well, become Frequently Asked Questions! Click through if you wanna know what this whole Sketchy Saturday thing is about... or, if you're already familiar, skim through anyway for giggles. I won't be mad XD

ONWARDS!

?What IS Sketchy Saturday?

Sketchy Saturday is a weekly event I host for the Fallout fandom, wherein I open my inbox for art requests from the community at large on Thursday Nights, and do as many of those requests as I can on Friday and Saturday. There’s no rules for whom can participate. You don’t have to be following me, I don’t have to know who you are. All you need to do to participate is follow the posted guidelines in the weekly prompt post for sending a valid request.

That’s cool! But won’t you get swamped by everyone?

I appreciate your concern! I actually keep a spreadsheet with a record of everyone who has participated in the event, and have a scoring system to dictate the priority of participants. New participants always get first priority, it is NOT first come, first served. In this way, I’m protected from overwhelm by a mathematical system that sorts everyone into an order, weighting my personal friends and returning requesters to the bottom. Also, I have a hard cut-off time on Saturday night to prevent overworking. I promise, I’m not gonna kill myself trying to get to everyone. You don’t need to worry about the artist. I has a system. :3

I wanna see you draw my OC! Is that okay?

100%! All characters are welcome to be requested. Canon, OC-- so long as it’s Fallout, it’s fair game! THAT SAID! If you send in an OC to be drawn, please send reference material as to what they look like to me via THE TUMBLR IM. NOT. THE. ASKBOX. It makes the asks look messy, and I like to keep my blog tidy <3

I’M HYPE! When’s the next Sketchy Saturday??

WOO! You can always check my pinned post to see when the next Sketchy Saturday is. When the request window is open, I’ll also have the prompt linked there for easier navigation :D

Why do you use prompts instead of just letting people request anything?

Prompts let me keep control of the requests. I'm not a content machine, I'm a human being, and I don't take kindly to other people telling me what to do... so I create a space of possibility with the prompt so requests can be made without anyone pissing me off or making me feel used.

Do you do commissions?

NOPE. But I can recommend a number of artist friends who do at any given time, so if you're hunting for artists in the Fallout sphere, feel free to poke me anyway. I can point you in the right direction of whichever friends have open slots <3

Why don't you do commissions?

I have temper tantrums when people tell me what to draw, even if I volunteered for it, and then I procrastinate out of spite cause I'm already upset. I've tried to play the commission game a few times, but it just doesn't... work for me. I hate it. I hate the idea of selling my time and skills directly, I hate the idea of someone else commanding me to create something that I'm still gonna sign my name so. I just... can't. Full props to people who can, but it's something I find psychologically impossible.

Dunno why, and I don't care to change it.

I donated to your Ko-Fi, can you do my request first next week?

NOPE. Sorry sweeties, that's not how I do this. Newcomers always get served first, and after that the priority scores are dictated by participation, not funds. I'm working on good perks to give people who support me, but these perks will NEVER mess with the order of requests. There is no paying for the front of the line, and there never will be. Period.

What's your name?

Loor, spoken like the lore of a story.

What time zone do you live in?

US Pacific time, I live in the state of Washington.

Why do you use all these colors on your posts?

Helps divergent people, or hell just tired people read them. Colors, bolding, changes in font size and otherwise direct the eyes and help the brain understand what's important and worth remembering.

HOLY HECK YOU'RE MARRIED? HOW OLD ARE YOU?

Yeeeep, coming up on 10 years married this October. I turn 30 this August. Yep, I'm an honest to glob adult. Because life doesn't end at 25. :P

#Sketchy Saturday #Sketchy Saturday FAQ #FAQ

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diadoescomics · 4 years ago

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Hey y'all! I'm opening 3 commission slots for patrons atm. My drawing hand has been suffering from tendonitis for 2 months now and it's making it difficult to draw but since i still gotta pay for Life I'm opening all commission types except comics for patrons!

Even if buying a commission isn't for you, please consider signing up for patreon and get early access, behind the scenes, wallpapers and taking part in upcoming request rounds! For commission prices and styles check the pinned post!

#shameless plug

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stronghours · 4 years ago

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SUNSHINE IN THE SKY REPRISE

And it came to pass, a few weeks after she and Jules made a bad decision on his thrifted futon, that they met again during 4th of July merrymaking.

Lux toddled in grey lake water among Ava, Claire, and Archie (Celeste down and out with summer flu). Lux couldn’t swim, a fact disclosed in private to Ava, which Ava hadn’t kept to herself, and the group formed a stooped, anxious ring around her doggy-paddling. She was forced, among the smell of hot dogs in the safe green grass hundreds of yards beyond and the ominous cloud cover above, to make sure only her ass whomped her protectors’ knees when the waves tried to boil her body up and away. She’d made a mistake, and her only wardrobe protection beyond her suit itself and her spandex underthing was a hastily added solid color sarong, which while dry didn’t match, and while wet, just looked lousy and modest. But she couldn’t be parted with it and had made up a past bout of minor skin cancer, a pin-mole insidiously located on her protected inner thigh, the paranoia of which haunted her still. Even Ava dropped her chin for the C-word.

Now she suggested Lux float on her back and allow her perception of the water to form fingers in the magic slot located on her lower back, and soon she’d be floating like crazy among the wacky kids and her hot workmates and her boss and all their invisible pubes. A wave slapped dirty fingers up Lux’s nose.

“It’s kind of like learning a language,” Archie contributed. “Got to learn it when you’re young. Looks like your parents fucking doomed you.”

“My pap pap slam-dunked me in our above-ground when I was five,” said Claire, who floated tummy-down in frog position by exerting no effort Lux could observe. “I bobbed right back up, but like, what if I hadn’t?”

Lux, six feet tall, decided to use it to her advantage and planted her knees in the sandbar. She could just about do it and keep her eyes and forehead in periscope position.

“Reuben and I are thinking of installing an above-ground,” said Ava, and seeing Lux shrink, rose to her feet and splashed water across her dewy collarbone. Lux pushed every single one of them out of her mind and stared between the chops out into the open sea to make-believe Michigan somewhere on the other side. A rhythmic slap approached from the left and the white bow of a lifeguard’s canoe sailed past their collected heads.

“Hey now,” scolded the familiar voice behind the sunglasses, “only three hot bitches are allowed in the water at a time. Think of the community.”

Ava sloshed around at the familiarity, but everybody else had already noticed it was, absurdly, Jules, and sent up a bunch of soggy greetings, all except Lux who rose into a semi-crouch in the drifting seabed out of surprise, and Ava, who let them all perform verbal recognition on her behalf and only spared a nod.

Jules looked very high school, very lanky on the bobbing bench, with the oars braced under his tanned arms and his cute red tank top cinched under his fanny pack. He rode the up-down of the surf the same way he did most things, with enough bored grace to suggest he’d learned quite enough and had more interesting things to do. Lux had recently learned this conceit of his could be bypassed, and she was glad he kept the sunglasses on when he looked her over.

“What’s up Cathy,” he said, with the same Sophomore carelessness, and she plunged her head under an oncoming wave, the pressure preferable to the dawning knowledge that now, he had information he could disclose, and he’d had it for weeks.

She rose again, squinting. She couldn’t tell if he had caught on.

“What?” he asked. “What did I do?”

“You got another job, Jules?” Ava surged forward, displaced Lux. “Roscoe doesn’t give you enough to do, on top of commissions?”

“Give me another commission and you’ll find out.” He drew the left oar’s pole hard under his titty to keep the nose of the canoe from slicing into their crescent. The mechanism bucked like a horse and the wind snatched the ugly white hat off his head and toward an oblivion of preteens due north. Claire yelped and threw herself into the water, rippled away to go fetch it. “You ever been in the cellar underneath Rawhide, Ava? That’s like, thrice-darkness. I was gonna kill myself.”

“I’ve never been in a situation that required me to be in the cellar underneath Rawhide.” Prim Ava glanced pityingly at Lux, who allowed wave after wave to pummel her head in her effort to stay low. “Poor baby. She can’t swim.”

“Throw her off the pier,” Jules suggested.

“It worked for Claire’s pap pap,” Archie said, and braced an annoying hand on the back of Lux’s neck. “Sorry babe, looks like you’re going down.”

Lux threw herself underwater before Archie could push her into the drink. Beneath the top swell she had enough time to touch her palms to the sand and try to dig her hands where she’d braced her knees, but she was blind, and the divots were washed away and the grains were swept off and replaced swept off and replaced, and she panicked when the water tugged the sarong’s knot. She resurfaced from the green and grey, coughing and yanking the weedy fabric around her legs. Ava, shining and petite against the sky, so securely tucked to smoothness, had finished with Jules herself and was high stepping back to shore.

“…I’m just saying, you should definitely try it out –” Archie had spoken in the interim. Jules was nodding. He’d shoved the sunglasses up and over his curly head and while his gaze was trained forward to take in the gamboling bathers, Lux could feel him keeping her in the corner of his eye.

She remembered being in good if overenergetic spirits. She recalled a hot yellow sun. She wore her lavender halter with the powder-blue culottes, her hair freshly hennaed from the night before and trustily bunned. She traveled from a three-hour duo with Ava regarding some mind-numbing bouts of predicament ropework that left her guiltily bored of the client and his ballerina snobbishness, but pleased with her improving knots, and with the fact she could at least trick Ava into thinking she was a viable rope top. She’d exited the bus prematurely and entered the sidewalk throng to burn through her constipated spirits, past a raucous patio partition of a dippy sport’s bar and collided with Jules himself, exiting.

It was like striking a human-size grasshopper. He recoiled, elbows up, and almost upset a busboy’s tray. She reared at his excess, ready to dive into the full indulgence of her insult. In the past year after the Annelise Petro incident she’d only seen him at a distance. Their last words, exchanged in close quarters within Jules’s car more than twelve months ago, had not been civil. He was much tanner than she remembered of him in previous summers. He’d filled out in the chest and shoulders. For a second, she could glimpse he’d gained some weird physical vitality – but as she observed, the color drained from his face. His shoulders slumped. He looked sick as a dog. She’d thought he was drunk.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and steered his head away from her. “Do not,” she ordered, “Do not fucking puke on me.”

He pulled himself straight but didn’t dislodge from her grip. “Don’t say anything,” he hissed, dirt-sober, and before she could make him clarify, a middle-aged couple loomed over his shoulders. The woman, a full six inches shorter than both Lux and Jules (it was just then Lux realized she and Jules were precisely the same height) sparkled nervously, trussed in Cubs blues.

“Oh Jules,” she said, “Who’s this?”

She was blond and ferrety, but in the man, Lux could see a sour and fleshy shadow of Jules’s own face and bearing. He looked at her with the same stern contemplation Jules had leveled on her in the past, and Jules presently, dead in the eyes, curled in on himself like a shrimp.

She’d inexplicably exited her rancorous ditch and stumbled over Jules in the no-man’s land of Blood Relatives. She wanted to, against all rational thought, shove him behind her back and put her arms out.

Instead, she reached a hand to the man (dad? Oh boy, what fun) and chirped, “Hi, I’m Catherine!”

And to the woman (mother? God in heaven), “don’t we just all love Jules!”

The woman shriveled with feeling that hardly looked like relief. The man gravely shook Lux’s hand, and she was pleased with his grip’s condescending pressure. Her body moved far ahead of her brain. She could see herself at distance, popping one toe behind her planted heel, one hip cocked, tits pushed out, but no further than her glowing smile. “And how do you two know each other,” the man said, said, explicitly did not ask. Neither man nor woman introduced themselves.

Jules, white-lipped, opened his mouth but Lux flowed over him. “2007,” she answered, “Leidermeister Playhouse, down in, uh, are you from around here? No? Well, Tinley-ish. Way down there. Spring musical. I was on playbill. And Jules was doing costumes for Pippin.”

For the first time, Jules treated her to the sweet sight of his smug, sick face struck totally dumb.

“Theater!” The woman bubbled. She put her hand on her companion’s meaty forearm, placating.

But the man was not letting her go without a fight. “Theater,” he said. “And what part did you play.”

She treated him to her glowing smile first (cracking, a little). If Jules had learned his own abysmal manners from these creeps, then he’d somehow made improvements on his own time.

“The Mother,” she improvised. “Of course.”

“Stepmother,” Jules piped up, at last.

It was all yadda-yadda to Lux, but the man finally checked the neon dial of his watch, gripped the woman by the elbow, said they would have to start taking pains for a cab if they wanted to catch the game in time. “Sure,” Jules said, though his permission hadn’t been asked, his advice unsought. “You’re not far away.”

“You call her and say you saw us, sir,” the man said. “She’ll expect it.”

Jules was too busy accepting limp patty-pats from the woman, who shot Lux a tragic grin before she scampered up the sidewalk, followed by the broad back of her presumed husband. No proper hug, no I-Love-You, no masculine head smacks or back whacks or take-care-of-yourself-you-hear pronouncements. They just walked away. Her own parents would be appalled.

The life was coming back to Jules’s face, but he was still doubled over, as if from a cramp. “Jiminy Christmas,” he uttered, and she wanted, in a surge, nothing more than to pinch his cheeks and trap his head in her armpit and noogie him to death and bust his fluff. Instead, she assisted him away from the crowd, and before long they strolled down a quiet residential street, arm in arm. She decided to give him five whole minutes to recover from the encounter, but he did it in two.

“Ledermeister,” he said to her, appalled.

“Leider,” she corrected.

“You nutty bitch,” he dared, but there was no gas behind it.

“It’s like you think I’m some kind of pervert or something,” she said, and before she could help it, she started to nag. “What did you think I was going to say? Jules makes rubber sex suits with built-in condoms? I saw him in street clothes in a high-etiquette dungeon fingering my boss’s twenty-one-year-old latex bottom?” She felt him up a little in her haste, accidentally, and he squeaked. “Who actually has something to lose here?” She asked. “Who’s the fucking dominatrix here?”

“You don’t like me,” Jules said, coolly. “I had no idea what you would say.”

He sounded terribly calm. The sidewalk was dappled in shadows of maple leaves and, boxed in by reasonable townhouses on both sides, she was inclined to stay calm as well, and in her calm, she found a strange truth.

“I like you just fine,” she said.

“Oh.”

She liked him just fine. She liked him more than she liked Ava.

They walked.

“God, it’s fucking hot,” she said. It would be more comfortable not to have their arms around the other, but she didn’t unlatch.

“I moved to this neighborhood a couple weeks ago,” he said. “We’re not too far. I’ve got a window unit.”

A window unit meant he’d accumulated an actual window; a net gain from what she remembered of the dismal basement unit she’d ducked inside three times over their three year acquaintance, along with a damp cement strip notating the kitchen and two hoary pipes jutting six inches from the ceiling where tawny water dripped into provided buckets and Jules himself, barefoot, crisscross applesauce on a carpet square stringing the hundredth of ten-thousand waiting bugle beads with one or two local drag queens, staring open mouthed at a small, shit television propped up on a pile of clean laundry encased in a garbage bag, and onscreen a shoulder-padded daytime soap actress made lines like “there’s nothing to worry about Blake – do you really think I’d expose the Nazi treasure to outsiders?”

“Yeah, let’s,” she said.

He’d found a squat, orangey building with collapsed flower beds out front and only the faintest smell of weed in the halls. She noted, vain, that he opened the doors for her and motioned her up the stairs first and it wasn’t until she’d reached the top landing of the third floor, and he was sorting out keys that she felt the pluck of that old sexy situation, which was Going Inside a Boy’s Apartment, something she hadn’t done since college, and even at that time, something that usually happened under the close watch of protective friends. She couldn’t eye him either, to see which way his intentions were shifting – he was already eying her – but then he let her inside and the feeling was wiped out by absurd, maternal relief.

“Oh, thank God,” she blurted out. “This is so much better.”

The place still smelled like paint and floor wax, and she walked about at her leisure, touching the walls, and flapping her arms, knowing she wasn’t going to crash into a spiderweb or trod on mummified centipedes. The only furniture yet was a pulled-out futon (he was a bedmaker, who knew) and the walls had been built out to delineate a kitchen. She lifted the back of her shirt to the air conditioner.

“I thought you were an idiot for accepting that place, before,” she told him, regarding the old basement. “Or you’d picked it to antagonize people on purpose.”

“Give me a break! I was broke. I was nineteen.”

He shed one flip-flop on his way to the kitchen. She watched it prone on the floor while she calculated.

“No, no,” she reminded him. “When we first met, Ava said you were twenty. We were in a bar. She made you duck under the table when the bouncer made rounds. You were illegal.”

“Nuh-uh,” he said, unevenly thwap-thwapping back to her. He handed her a beer. “I was here a whole year before you showed up. I came before you.”

He sat on the edge of the futon, and she considered that perspective as he scratched the back of his shin with his bare foot. He had long, narrow feet, and when he was looking at things that weren’t people looking back at him, his eyes tended to glaze over. He was looking at the blank wall.

“Hold up,” she said. “How old are you now?”

“Old enough for you to sit next to me,” he replied.

It didn’t mean anything, coming from him. She left her beer on the windowsill and sat next to him. He’d have to get a nicer bed at some point, she thought, bouncing up and down a little, and wondered if, all along, his manners and his living situation pissed her off so much not because, as she initially believed, they were representations of his obnoxious personality, but because she had been frightened that he was going to get hurt and clearly no one else around was going to warn him otherwise.

“You must have left your parents pretty quick,” she said.

“That was my aunt and uncle, just now.”

“Were they more fun when you were growing up?”

“My grandma raised me,” he said. “For eight years. Then we swapped.”

She unfastened her sandal straps and tried to dream up a guess about him that could possibly be correct, but she had the feeling if she said raised in a house? He’d go no, in Mr. Toad’s canary-colored caravan, and the woodland squirrels taught me how to sew, and I lost my virginity to Morlocks. She wondered if she was the first girl he’d ever brought up here. She wondered if his aunt and uncle already knew he was gay. She wondered if he was gay. And in her wonderings, she missed, at first, his growing impatience beside her. He touched her hand; she accidentally flipped her right sandal underneath the futon.

“Crap,” she said.

He rolled his eyes and slid to the floor, slipped between her legs, and with one cheek pressed to her thigh he rooted one armed underneath the springs and came out with the sandal, which he deliberately tossed several feet away. He came up on his knees, face lifted to hers, and she had to spread her own knees to accommodate him. His stern little expression was very cute, and she was warm with pleasant condescension, something sorely missing from her and Ava’s ropework that afternoon. She was tired of art, she decided, ignoring Jules’ cold hands creeping up the back her shirt, and she was tired of fantasy and she was sick of endurance feats physical and mental, and she was tired of her own cowardly communication, so much so the tiny bubble of unearned pride she felt for Jules’s ability to maneuver himself into the positions he required ballooned, out of control, into an old familiar cocoon where she couldn’t hurt him and he couldn’t hurt her.

“Nobody knows,” he told her, perhaps feeling it too. “But I can be a good boy.”

Jiminy Christmas, indeed. But he couldn’t have her for cheap, and he clawed her spine too confidently. She put her palm to his left cheek, let her thumbnail scrape over a pale divot where it looked like the nap of a paint scraper had teased out a pill of his flesh, years ago.

“Listen,” she asked, and squeezed his ribs with her knees. “If you had met me while I was with relatives, and I looked scared about it, what would you have done?”

His fixed gaze skittered to the side, over the wall, across the floor, and while he didn’t retreat, he only spoke up when his face reached a zenith of clumsy guilt. “I would have fucked around with you first,” he admitted. “Only a little.”

“I thought so,” she said, and smacked him a nasty one across the face.

With no furniture around, the crack resonated. Jules took it open-eyed. He didn’t whine or argue and only clenched his jaw a couple seconds after, when the real pain hit. He faced her again, glowing and pink, his left eye watering. She couldn’t help it. She grabbed his head and squeezed and clawed and palpated, yanked his lamby hair, perfect for yanking, and beat his butt with her heels. His head thrashed and his hands flapped around behind her back. She seized one and forced it down on the blanket and let the other undo her halter knot while she bridled him with her free thumb. His back molars rose on the edges in sharp ridges, and she whirled her wrist under his chin until she could see him swallow from the inside. The whites of his eyes showed.

“Good boy my ass,” she said, to herself, but he heard and appeared wounded. “Okay, okay,” she conceded. She wiped her thumb on his face, forgave him silently, and even her playful meanness disintegrated. He crawled over her lap and rubbed his red-hot face in her shoulder, gnawed painlessly on her clavicle. His shorts stuck out in front.

She knew a hundred ways of positioning and a hundred more roleplay scenarios he’d probably accept without suspecting she used them not to her pleasure, but to protect her modesty. She was sick of it all, hadn’t fucked or been fucked properly since she’d been his age, and was horny enough to maim. She took him again by the shorthairs along the nape of his toasted neck, and when he sighed down her back, she pressed his hand to her groin.

“Feel,” she ordered.

He felt dopily, paused, and resumed. Squeezed. Offered no comment.

“Tell me what that is,” she said.

He had delicate ways when he had enough patience to reveal them. Without asking permission he slipped a hand down her waistband, far between her legs, far too quickly for her to chase him off, and by the time she felt him properly, he held her so the head nestled in the heel of his hand, wedged against the meat of his thumb. He felt her up against the underside vein of his silky wrist.

“That’s the cock that’s gonna fuck me,” he answered, correctly.

She had condoms in her purse. He had Vaseline in a bric-a-brac moving tub besides the futon. He rolled onto his narrow tummy, and she flipped him onto his back again so fast he nearly rolled off the mattress. She wished, as she watched him raise a knee and finger himself, that she’d brought her toolkit with her from the club where she kept her nitrile gloves and her fancy salves and her more mobile toys. Jules laid himself out on the futon like somebody else would on a beach, languid and comfortable and she pressed one of his nipples with impatience. She suspected he’d be chatty, but he didn’t speak at all during the preliminaries. He had more body hair than she would have expected, but not enough to grab, and a severe bathing suit tan line that reminded her of Ava’s jabs about the minor gossip between him and Roscoe. She wondered if some queen paid him to lay out on a patio somewhere, if that kind of arrangement still happened, and she wondered if he could let go of the sniping and the attitude long enough to show that hypothetical crowd what he was showing her now – that he was, actually, a very good boy.

When he was ready for her, the very good boy reached out with his arms (and made gimme-gimme clutches with his hands). She obligingly sank on top of him, then, quicker than she intended, into him, guided by his hooked shin and a decisive hand on her ass. She clawed his scalp and arched, involuntarily driving herself forward. A telltale sensation like he’d dumped a bucket of his own blood over her head soaked her from head to toe, and for a hot second she thought it was too late – then he jerked one her nipples until she shrieked and came back to him, stunned.

You’ve got more than that in you, she heard him say, through the haze in her brain, and in between two blinks he swapped out the sadist faunlet for, once again, being her very good boy, and he undid her bun with one hand and guided her head so he could kiss her mouth and calm her down. She saw from above his legs lock around the small of her back. She was shocked she could get hard enough to effectively penetrate, a shock that blissfully vaporized as she rocked inside him.

His own cock, which they mutually ignored, was restrained by her soft stomach. Her breasts ached, pressed against his chest, and she had to break free from his clasp to prop herself on her forearms. He followed her, licked her lips until she gave up and sank back down. The tip of his nose was cold against her cheek. She could feel his lashes and the curve of his eyeball roam around in the socket. He was a ferocious and intent kisser, not nearly so languid now, and every goosebump outside his skin and strand of muscle beneath rose to her, encased her in his prickles. His focus made her quite aware of a separation between her hips (melted, as far as she was concerned) and her brain, electric-bright now, entertaining Jules by turns as a barbed, poisonous plant, as a nuzzling, brainless creature, as a mean bottom slut who clawed her bottom and held her hair in a knot in his fist, who maybe needed to be exercised as a handler would a spirited pony, in order to nurture his kindness, improve his manners, and keep his juices fresh – and she giggled involuntarily, a tight muscle in her back relaxed, and she came inside a boy for the first time.

She either made an unacceptable noise, or a had been making noises all along. A downstairs neighbor ratta-tat-tatted their ceiling, Jules’s floor. Practical as a fillet knife, Jules pushed her out of his ass, swung one leg wide, slammed his heel rudely against the floorboards, uttered “fuck off, asshole” then rolled back to her again and rubbed his face between her breasts. She cuddled him a couple tender seconds, which he tolerated, before scuttling backward and regarding her from a lucid distance as she disposed the condom.

“Come back here, she said. He looked like a praying mantis.

First, he stuck his legs off the thin mattress and with one judicious sweep of his torso, seemed to crack every bone in his body. Then he crawled over and allowed himself to be held.

“Oh,” she noticed. “You didn’t come.” His dick was still hard, and when he laid his back flat against her hip, it bobbed due west of his belly button.

“Relax, it doesn’t always happen for me.”

She ignored him and let her ego propel her forward. He reclined on her like she was a chaise and breathed through his nose.

“You know what Ava calls you?” She asked, jerking him onward and upward, hopefully.

“I’m a community opportunist,” he answered smugly. “Plus, Roscoe’s houseboy.”

Two out of two, verbatim. She drew her nails up and down his stomach and he twitched, fought against curling up. “Houseboy,” he repeated, hissed. “The last houseboy passed away in the fucking nineties. They peeled him down with the wallpaper.” She felt, through his spine, how he tried and failed to work up a temper. “Then they tatted his chalk outline above some burlesque artist’s John Willie tramp stamp. Mistress Avalon sure is concerned with faggot business.”

“Your boys don’t make you come?” She asked, a hill over him now, and above arguing. He sparred solely with himself.

“What boys? These guys – big guys –”

She went back for more Vaseline, not great for this kind of thing, but she was getting the idea Jules had a sensible nursery spirit and rarely abused himself. He didn’t appear to know much about his body and froze like a striker frame when she rolled the tip of him in her palm for more than fifteen seconds.

“– They think your asshole is your only sex organ,” he continued. “They hate themselves for loving twinks. And then they give you the reach around and if you aren’t wet like pussy then oh-h-h-h my god, it’s like the fucking sky is falling –”

She sat up, and his feet paddled the blanket to stay in contact. He reached behind her and grabbed her hair again but didn’t pull. He turned his face into her neck, and he shook all over.

“Being a slut is really hard,” he said, woefully, failing to hide, for a millisecond, the ghost of what might have been a sweet kid. Or it was her imagination. Either way, she made him come all over himself. It didn’t seem to register to him until the drops hit his chest. He looked down at his sad, wet dick and then back up at her, so testily she laughed in his face. He was smudged pink all over from her lipstick, and she pinched his springy cheeks.

“I’m a cradle-robber,” she declared.

“Okay, Methuselah,” he said, unimpressed, and darted away into the dirty ivory bathroom before she could slap his ass.

He recovered rapidly. In the sunny room things took a slumber party turn. He fetched her abandoned beer, dug out makeup wipes he inexplicably possessed, and repaired the damage to her makeup. He berated her when she couldn’t stop giggling.

“I was kind of wondering…” he began.

He paused. Sex had made him tactful.

“Go on,” she allowed.

“I was wondering if I’d ever figure out why you bothered being a dominatrix.” He used the point of his little finger to clear wet black scuzz from the corner of her eye. She hardly felt it. “Ava’s got her thing about being top dog. Claire’s a sadist. And somebody needs to get around to neutering Archie before he starts spraying the furniture. You, a mystery.”

“You think about me!” She preened and wiggled.

“You go on.”

“I like,” she confided, “to strap muscle hunks to the pommel horse and tickle them until they scream.”

“Gee whiz.”

“I like straitjackets, but I don’t like rope,” she continued. “And I like floggers, but not single-tail whips. And I like human furniture, but not human ashtrays.”

“The Marquis de Lux over here.”

He’d reached around and started French-braiding her hair. She put her ear to his chest and found his mousey heart.

“My mom and dad were angels,” she continued. “And my sisters were angels and my aunts and uncles and my grandparents. They were angels from the start. So was I. I liked it. Doctors like it too. When a kid is angelic, and very, very, very, very good, and says the right things, and rolls over. They give you what you need.” She thought that over. “They decide to give you what you need,” she clarified. “I was rolling over constantly. I didn’t know how to stop. It freaked me out.”

Jules’s heart answered wug-wug-wug. He sat in her lap and tried to get her braid to stay fixed in a twist. “See, I’m the opposite,” he said. “I’m a huge cunt, but I’m always looking for an excuse to be nice.”

Her hair unwound down her back. He clamped her bobby pins between his teeth, to deliberately make the job harder, then, looking down in their laps, spit them on the floor. And as quickly as she decided she needed to find her clothes and depart, having revealed too much, she stayed the entire night.

On the lifeguard pavilions, the green flags were lowered, and yellow flags were handed up.

“Archie,” said Jules, from the safety of the canoe, “Head on back to dry land. No! no,” he called when Archie took Lux’s elbow. “Cathy and I need to talk really quick.”

“It’s not safe,” Archie said.

“I’m Red Cross certified,” Jules said, arms outspread up the oars as far as they could go. “I’m a beautiful heroine, waiting to happen. Also, I’m in fucking charge.”

“Go away, Archie,” Lux agreed, and Archie slopped to the shore, his broad back damp red in the sun’s undergrowth. Dark clouds approached from the west.

“Actually, that’s my boss.” Jules pointed to the sand straight ahead, where a bronzed ingenue, her thigh muscles sticking out like bread loaves, appeared to be watching the duo intently.

“You’ll get in trouble,” Lux cautioned.

“She wants to ride me hard and put me away wet, I think I can get away with it. I feel like you must have,” he added, pointedly. “She’s nineteen.”

It was hard to glare when wet, and it was hard to talk with Jules high and dry. Lux was clammy and clingy, and she couldn’t understand why he sniped at her. Then he crouched down, chest to knees, under pretext of scraping the oars straight down his gunwales and snapped, with pure, guileless annoyance: “Why are you pissed off? I’m the one who should be mad.”

That was too much to bear. “Jules –”

“I showed you my hole and said call me.” He straightened, the little snot, sincerity evaporated. “And you didn’t call me. Now I feel cheap.”

“Jules,” she said, sticking to her own path. “They don’t know.”

“Of course, they don’t know!” He said, clueless, if technically correct. “I didn’t think you’d spread it around to that crowd.”

“Shut up, Jules,” she tried again, and when his mouth opened automatically, she really blew. “Shut the fuck up!”

He shut the fuck up.

“They don’t know. They don’t know.”

She refused to say anymore. She wasn’t in the mood to roll over. Funny, how fucking a guy in the ass could spackle over a few of the gaping holes in her dignity. Patiently, she watched Jules rock to-and-fro, his face oscillating between his premature certainty and the vanishing tail of what she was trying to explain. Then he exclaimed, “huh!” and raised his face to the heavens.

Whistles sounded north and south, and one of his canoe companions raced twenty yards past, churning the creaming waves to reach the point to disembark. Jules ignored it all.

“Oh.” He started, blank-faced. “There’s bossola.”

He waved to the girl on the beach, who was really putting her back into her whistle. “Jesus, baby,” he said just as abruptly to Lux, who had been forced to retreat a few feet to find higher ground. “Now I’m really starting to worry.”

It was either of their guesses, as to what situation he was talking about. Lux wasn’t sure herself, and doubted he knew. His confusion reminded her less of him now, more of him the morning after, when she’d woken up, found him sitting bolt upright, staring at the walls of his clean, sunny studio. He’d turned to her bleary face, and with no confidence whatsoever, asked, Is it really so much better?

“You want to climb up?” He asked now. “I’ll tell boss you have a cramp.”

“No, I can make it by myself.” She strolled backwards, ass out of the water, and twisted the sarong in front.

“I told Roscoe I fucked a girl for the first time,” he called to her, his eyes cast demurely downward. “You should have seen the sweat roll down his back.”

“I’ll call you,” she promised.

“Yeah, you better,” he advised, and shielded his face against the bursting spray. “Before someone else does. Ladies love the canoe.”

One perky heave-ho, and he displaced bow and stern, fixed his little craft perpendicular to the beach, and cast off toward the pier.

On the beach, Archie and Claire scuttled in the sand, packing their bags, and shaking out their towels. Claire held Jules’s rogue, soaked hat. “I was going to swim back over, but she yanked me out,” she explained, and pointed out Jules’s bossola, who had, watching Lux emerge from the dirty waters, eyed her face, eyed her cleavage, and continued stalking down the shore. She had an ass that needed to be seen to be believed. Lux hoped Jules wouldn’t tease her too much. She might call him sooner, to demand that exclusively. Possibilities, vistas, scenarios, she thought of all these and wrapped her towel around her waist, and she faced the dreary city skyline and she dreamed, and the full force of her imagination asserted itself.

“I’ll give it to him when I see him next.”

Domme Lux took property of the hat.

Ava, ever watchful, caressed their folded umbrella. “I thought you and Jules didn’t get along,” she said. Deliberately did not ask. Lux, in that moment, didn’t care. It wasn’t her job to teach Ava manners.

“I like him just fine,” she said.

#SAFEWORLD #intimacies; ambiguities; a twunk in a boat #beautiful friendships have been sprung for less #isn't particularly relevant but this takes place in 2009

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