#and their stupid crafts that don’t work

[museishere]

I have been convinced to post more of my ISAT takes on here, so I guess I’m doing this. My fond little nickname for this beautiful game is Autism: The Game, and I say this as someone diagnosed at an early age; I see so much of myself in the Family.

In Odile, I see the awkward inability to properly tell what others are feeling without obvious clue paired with the need to logically justify the emotions of myself and others. I see the hyper-fixation and curiosity about the world and how things work, the awkward feelings when trying to navigate social interactions, the need for everything to be Correct and the dysphoria brought about when things are Wrong.

Bonnie is the energy and passion. Where Odile struggles due to logical disconnect, Bonnie struggles due to simply not understanding. But that doesn’t mean they’re stupid; far from it in fact. Much like Odile, Bonnie hold a certain curiosity about the world around them and a love for learning. They understand far more than others give them credit for and it frustrates them to no end, and when they’re upset they lash out because they don’t know how else to express their feelings. They feel and feel until it all explodes.

Mirabelle takes the anxiety and trauma of living in a world that isn’t quite made for you, a world that makes assumptions about who you are without knowing you at all. She’s afraid to correct anyone’s perceptions of her because her mind cannot help but catastrophise. She tries her best to fit into the box society has deemed she fits into, no matter how cramped it may seem.

Isabeau is the one who best masks. He fits into society not because it’s genuine but because he has learned what to do. He takes parts of himself and hides them away because they go against what people would expect of him, a lot like Mirabelle, but unlike her Isa has crafted his image himself. He hides his intelligence behind the mask of a big dumb man with strong muscles and a heart of gold, and he does it with such skill that it has clearly become second nature.

And Siffrin takes all of these traits together to make the whole picture. He is someone that forms few attachments because he doesn’t know how, so he wants to hold on to them so desperately that he begins to self-destruct the moment he makes a single misstep. He falls into unhealthy habits and they can’t understand why others disapprove when what they do Works.

And looking at the other side of the coin, Loop is much the same; They are simply dialed up to 11. Loop has lost Everything, and clings to the one thing that gives them purpose. Once they aren’t needed for that they melt down and react with violence, vitriol towards themself misdirected to target someone due to convenience.

Can you tell this game has me in a chokehold? I’m considering starting yet another play through to gather evidence of why I think all of these characters are at least a little bit autistic if anyone is interested in that? I’m always happy to talk about my theories/interpretations in DMs if anyone wants.

(Please don’t take this post as me saying the characters are definitely autistic, and please don’t use this post to self-diagnose. K thank!)

[rentumblsstuff]

Boy Jerry: And so you glue on the googly eyes, and you have a fun little pinecone friend who’s fun to rattle around if you ever feel the need to get your frustrations out!

Peter: This activity is for five year olds…

Steph: Hey wouldn’t it be funny if we made our pinecones fuck?

Peter: What?!

Steph: I said ‘what if we traded our pinecones for good luck?’

[transmasccofee]

talking about the ending again I love the ending. The more I think about the ending the more I love it. It’s hopeful but it’s not happy. It’s the best conclusion I can think of for Saiki’s character. It gives the audience so much room to headcanon what happens next. It’s so good it’s so sos so sos hkfiejevfemmfrejfmfnfmf.

[gutsby]

Abstaining Game

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: The only thing worse than an anti-sex retreat is an anti-sex retreat with your former fuckbuddy and dad’s best friend. Especially when sharing one cabin.

Warnings: 18+. IF HE AIN’T GRAYIN’ I AIN’T STAYIN’ 🗣️ [Age gap]. Unprotected p-in-v. Forced proximity. Joel making you fuck just his middle finger when he’s mad. Daddy kink. Overstimulation. First-time squirting. Angst.

Translations: ‘Don’t piss down my back & tell me it’s raining’ is a fun Southern phrase for, ‘Cut the bullshit’ or ‘Don’t lie.’

Sequel to Waiting Game & Hating Game (last rhyme I swear)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

October 26, 2024

Dear Joel,

Roses are red,

We’re a couple of sluts,

Abstinence camp is awful,

I miss you rearranging my guts.

You were just about to put your pen back down to paper and add the finishing touch, signing an equally lascivious farewell, when the letter was snatched out of your hands. A tyrant in khaki capris and an artichoke-colored polo eyed over your words with a pointed look and frowned.

“Letters to the boyfriend have to be G-rated,” Marlene said, crumpling the thing in her fist before chucking it.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you returned shortly. Then, “That was actually meant for my dad’s friend.”

You sat tight a moment as the dots came to connect in the woman’s parochial and prudish mind—waiting for the wince of disgust to twitch at the corners of her eyes when she put two and two together. Once it did, you grinned. Even when she plucked the pen out of your hand and told you to sit outside, if you can’t participate in this one simple activity, you smiled bigger and strolled at a comfortable pace out the canteen door.

Anti-sex ‘summer camp’ wasn’t bad at all when you didn’t give a fuck what your counselors told you to do.

It was ridiculous, really. Absurd. Tommy Miller catching you sucking his brother’s dick under the table at your father’s birthday dinner, losing his shit with you both, then threatening to tell your dad everything if you didn’t agree to this stupid retreat and stop seeing each other. You’d barely been trapped in the shithole for twenty-four hours, and you already knew this angle wouldn’t work.

What many of your fellow campers affectionately called the ‘Firefly Fuck-Free Zone’ or the ‘Federal Dickriding Response Agency’ (F.E.D.R.A.) was in fact a secluded enclave south of Austin where khaki-clad monsters forced you to reckon with your sexual urges like one might treat a mutated strain of the Cordyceps fungus. You weren’t meant to keep them for long, and if you did, someone like Marlene would surely shame you for it.

Frankly, Tommy was dumb as shit if he thought this anti-boinking boot camp would have an effect on either one of you—Joel wouldn’t ever bang you again after what happened that night, but it wouldn’t be because of some arts and crafts bullshit he did out on a FEDRA ranch.

He just didn’t want your dad to find out and kill him.

That was a fair concern to have. You didn’t blame him.

Presently, you kicked your feet up on the porch outside the cafeteria, where the rest of the group was finishing up letters to their loved ones—this latest activity was meant to be ‘making amends’ to the people in your life—and you tipped your head back to survey the landscape.

Nothing but sweetgrass and gently rolling hills as far as the eye could see. Somewhere across the plains there was another cluster of cabins, though you couldn’t quite see it, and someplace within that minuscule cluster, you knew there was a middle-aged man. Dark grey eyebrows furrowed in concentration and chest heaving gently. Likely hunched over an old oak desk about five sizes too small for his frame as he gripped a pen and scribbled:

Dear Tommy,

Fuck you, you fucking fuck.

Sincerely,

Joel

You grinned again just thinking about it.

If anyone had a reason to be ticked off and terrified, it was Joel. And you, you guessed. You still hadn’t gotten your period—but that wasn’t due for another few days.

For now, you’d settled on worrying yourself over what would happen after the retreat had ended; what would you and Joel do once you went back to school? What would become of his life back in Austin with a supremely pissed off brother and a best friend who didn’t know his kid had been fooling around with a man twice her age?

Silently, you thanked your lucky stars Joel’s part of the camp was kept separate from yours, because you didn’t think you’d be able to keep a straight face if you saw him.

The whole thing was sickening, if not slightly funny.

You slipped Joel’s old pack of American Spirits out of your boot and fished in your back pocket for a lighter.

Then you crammed both back when you heard a boom:

“LAKESIDE GUIDED MEDITATION STARTS IN FIVE.”

The tinny intercom rang a deafening pitch in your ears. You clamped a palm over the left side of your head and winced, having forgotten this exercise in mindfulness was supposed to be the last event to wrap up your day. You just wanted to slink back up to your cabin and sleep. Or eat. Or slip your fingers between your aching legs and indulge in some much-needed Joel Miller reminiscing.

Then you recalled how masturbation was also off limits to all would-be sexaholic campers—if there was any time to sneak off and get busy by yourself while your counselors were otherwise occupied, now would be it.

Just as you cast a glance over your shoulder to see if a stealthy exit was even possible, a voice trilled overhead.

“On your feet, skank.”

You looked back fast, and damn did Tess look smug.

Your bunkmate crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe, seeming to feel your thoughts before they’d even been fully processed.

“If you skip meditation, I think Marlene’s gonna take you behind the rec and shoot you in the head,” she added.

“How kind.”

“Yeah? Certain death?”

“Better than the dick deprivation,” you grumbled, only half-kidding as you dragged yourself back to your feet.

Theresa Servopoulos was no avid fan of penis herself—she much preferred women when she had her pick of it—but she grinned all the same and clapped a comforting hand over your shoulder before the two of you started walking down the mess hall’s front steps. Then she only laughed a little bit when you almost ate shit treading down the winding rocky trail to the lake and cursed your present lack of intercourse for causing your clumsiness.

“You realize it’s only been, like…a day, right?” she said.

“Might as well be a million,” you muttered, “I feel like I’m never getting laid again.”

“Oh?”

Tess gripped your elbow when a root protruding from the path nearly sent you flying again. She tried not to smile.

“Well…my fake brother’s mad at me for going behind his back and fucking his brother,” you explained, coolly.

Stupidly.

“Wait—you fucked your brother?!”

That stopped Tess in her tracks. The two of you were approaching the cusp of a clearing, just feet away from where the forest gave way to the shoreline of the lake. Folks were already congregating at the water’s edge.

“Any day now, ladies,” Marlene called through cupped hands. Tess was still regarding you with eyes the size of saucers as you traipsed across the way to that voice.

“Not my brother,” you hissed.

“You said your brother’s brother. That makes this guy your brother, too,” Tess whispered—still far too loud.

“Not my actual brother, he’s just— fuck—”

Suddenly, two scraps of red fabric were catapulted in your direction. Tess caught one. You caught the other.

“Tie ‘em over your eyes.” Marlene ordered.

“The fuck?” you mumbled, but ventured nothing more as you were ushered to join the group sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of you. Everyone else was tying bandanas around their eyes like all of this was normal.

“Another trust exercise,” Tess’s voice was low as you dropped your asses one after the other on the sand. Speaking like a seasoned veteran of the anti-sex retreat, she helped you get yours on and shot you one last ‘You-better-not-have-actually-fucked-your-sibling’ look before letting you help her secure her blindfold, too.

Just as Marlene began describing in great detail what this blind, guided meditation in self-love and elemental trust was meant to look like, your friend opted to give voice to her concerns the second the opportunity arose.

Still seated side-by-side, still blind, Tess leaned over.

“Please tell me you’re not here for bangin’ your brother.”

You had to stifle a laugh.

“I am not.”

“Then explain, Cersei!”

Just then, a throat cleared behind you. Evidently another camp counselor at your rear was telling you, wordlessly, to shut the fuck up and listen to the instructions. You and Tess just scooted closer and lowered your voices.

“So this guy, Tommy…he’s been like a big brother to me for years. Worked with my dad and always had my back for the wild shit I did back in high school,” you began.

“Uh-huh.”

“His big brother, Joel, is like…old as shit, but wildly hot.”

“Dangerous combo.”

“And Joel’s my dad’s best friend. Drove me back from college over fall break when he was visiting Boston, we took a little motel detour on the road trip home, and bam—” You snapped your fingers for effect, “We fuck, right?”

“Right.”

“—imagine you’re standing at the edge of a waterfall—”

Marlene couldn’t be serious with this hippy dippy shit. You tuned out the rest of what she said and continued:

“It’s incredible. But the condom busts open at the end—”

“Oh shit.”

“—deep breath in…and release…and again, we—”

“Freak the fuck out, right? I’m poppin’ Plan B like candy.”

“As you should.”

“—hold that breath in right there—”

“A week later, me and Joel hook up at my dad’s birthday party. Only we fuck up, ‘cause Tommy catches us, and—”

This time, the counselor who’d cleared their throat to shut you up took to nudging you both in the back with the toe of their shoe. You straightened up, tilted your head back, and scowled at them through your blindfold.

“Do you mind?” you said, turning in place but unable to see anything behind you. You imagined whoever had just butted in on your conversation was probably frowning. They said nothing in return, just huffed like a child.

“Anyway.” You pivoted back to Tess, “Tommy flips his lid, tells us he’s gonna snitch on us to my dad if we keep fucking around like that, and then he…sends us here.”

You heard your friend fight back a chuckle beside you.

“And abstinence camp is supposed to cure you of this awful disease? Wanting to fuck daddy’s best friend?”

Oddly, you wanted to giggle too. You weren’t sure what was so funny, or why Tess’s tone made you want to say something equally out of pocket and lewd, but then you were leaning over before you could even think twice:

“That old man’s dick is like a fuckin’ drug, dude.”

You wished you could’ve seen her face when you said it. But you didn’t need to catch a single glimpse to know she was grinning big and dumb when she whispered,

“Prehistoric cock must’ve been pretty nice, huh?”

You choked. She snorted. You returned, next, shortly,

“Best senior citizen schlong I’ve had in my life.”

You weren’t sure which one of you burst out laughing first. Maybe Tess. Probably you. Either way, both of your sides were splitting in seconds, as the ridiculous and just marginally offensive descriptors for Joel’s dick trembled at the tips of your tongues. You felt like a teenager again, telling your friend your filthiest desires for the DILF-next-door—except this time, you’d actually fucked him. Small perks to seeking out middle-aged men in your twenties. You had to clamp your hand over your mouth to rein in the peals of laughter as Tess wheezed quietly beside you.

Then you felt hands.

Two palms under your armpits, yanking you up.

You stumbled back, graceless and still staving off half a laugh as your back struck the counselor’s chest.

“Just…take her back up.” You heard a female’s voice to your left, low and not sounding particularly amused.

Take you where? Was this the part where Marlene dragged you behind the rec and shot you in the head?

About damn time.

Whoever had grabbed you grunted in acknowledgment. You swayed in their arms, trying to regain better footing, but the grip tightened up in a second and thrust you sideways. You staggered, cursing your captor.

“Fucker,” you hissed.

Fucker said nothing.

Their hands slipped from your pits to one of your wrists, leading you away from the lake in long strides. You were moving so fast you scarcely had the chance to pull the blindfold back, so you just kept walking. Marching.

“Can you slow the fuck down, please?”

You imagined the face of the person leading you forward might’ve twisted in a scowl. Their lips didn’t stir, though.

In a matter of minutes, your feet were crunching on the flat, gravelly terrain you knew to lay under the cabins. This person was leading you back. Likely to throw you off to your room in the next several moments—but not before ripping you a new one for disrupting the peace back down at the lake. You weren’t stoked to hear it.

“Alright, just—” You tripped as you were led up the rickety steps, cursing again, “—just leave me right here.”

A set of knuckles at your spine thrust you forward.

“No? Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

You shook your head as you entered the cabin and heard footsteps follow you in. It occurred to you then that now was probably a good time to take off the blindfold.

Before you could, though, it was ripped off for you.

“Pack your shit.”

Dude.

You spun on your heels.

“DUDE!”

Your eyes moved up the very khaki shorts you despised, the puke-colored polo, the neatly embroidered camp logo, and a nametag strangely labeled ‘Lucien Flores.’ Everything in the ensemble screamed ‘camp counselor.’ But the face above it—it wasn’t one of their own at all.

It was far too lax. Fresh with an easy, shit-eating grin.

“Sweetheart—”

He started to speak, only to get the wind knocked out of his chest when you threw your arms around him.

The barrage of kisses came without you ever really intending to place them at all. You were just so stunned, practically overcome with joy to see Joel Miller in all his ruggedly handsome glory, then confused. What was he doing here, and why was he dressed head-to-toe as a counselor? And why were you so into that on him?

You doubted you could even ask the questions, and he was barely more able to answer the longer you stayed latched to his neck, kissing him everywhere your mouth could get to. You’d just stood on tip-toes to press your lips to his when you realized he wasn’t reaching back.

His hands hung limply at his sides. Still, he smiled.

“Abstinence camp ain’t taught ya much, has it?”

You parted your lips to drag your teeth along the grey-spattered scruff on his cheek—biting but not quite. Begging him to kiss you back, grab your ass, anything to quell this anguish twisting low in your stomach at the lack of contact. Joel didn’t seem keen on answering to it.

“I’ve learned plenty, Miller,” you panted against his jaw, before moving below it to sink into the skin of his neck, “Lemme show you all the stuff FEDRA told us not to do.”

Yes, you sounded desperate. No, you didn’t really care. You were much too busy fiddling with the front of Joel’s shorts to concern yourself with anything but his cock. It made it all the more gut-wrenchingly horrific and disconcerting when you felt his hands push yours away.

“No,” Joel said, simply. Then, nodding to your luggage at the foot of your bunk, “Pack your stuff, sweets. C’mon.”

He was seriously trying to break you out?

You admired the cojones on the man, but you wanted to fuck real quick to get it out of your system. Needed it.

“Joel, I—” You swallowed thickly, shaking your head.

What your mouth couldn’t finish, your eyes said clear as day: I want you to take me right here. Quick and dirty. But, again, Joel seemed completely impervious to your pleas. Almost callous in the face of such a desperate request made from your eyes to his. He moved over toward your suitcase when you didn’t want to budge.

Luckily for you, you’d never unpacked. All that was left were the clothes on your back and a water bottle on the nightstand. Joel grabbed the latter and turned around to snag the suitcase on his way to the door, when he was met with you. Obstructing his path and frowning a little.

“Joel?” You raised a brow.

“Mm?”

The man in front of you straightened up, rolling a nonexistent kink from his neck before regarding you.

His gaze was alarmingly sedate.

“Y’know, you’ve got quite the knack for makin’ shit difficult—”

“Just a quickie, Miller—”

“I ain’t fuckin’ you here!”

The sudden boom of his voice should’ve startled you. But then a broad, warm palm came to rest on your shoulder, and Joel’s expression dropped immediately. There was still a tightness to it, somewhere deep within, and you couldn’t quite work out why he seemed so…off.

Then you caught sight of something steely in his gaze.

It just might’ve clicked if Joel didn’t reach for your face and elucidate things for you himself, eyes narrowing.

“I know my old man dick is like a fuckin’ drug and all…”

Shit.

Cheeks squished between his two big hands, you had only to stare. And blink. And silently regret being so loud when you were talking to Tess before. It didn’t look good.

“Joel—”

“No, no, my senile brain must be mistaken—it was actually that prehistoric cock that did it for ya.”

Your face heated with shame. You blinked again.

But just as you tried to shake your head between Joel’s hands, he pressed his palms tighter and drew you closer.

“Senior. citizen. schlong?” he intoned, painfully slow.

“Joel, I just—”

“Need to fuck someone your own age, it sounds like.”

The man in front of you released your face just as fast as he’d grabbed it, and when he stepped back, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of desperation. That wasn’t what you’d meant! It sounded so puerile and cruel coming out of his lips like this, but you had to tell him it was a joke.

“It was a joke.”

No time to mince words now.

“Real fuckin’ comedic genius,” Joel snorted.

He rolled his eyes and tried to sidestep you, but you mirrored the movement. When your hands flew to his chest to keep him from moving, please, just listen to me, Joel, he pretended not to hear it, or feel it, against him.

“Alright. Enough,” he muttered, “‘S’time to go home.”

“No!”

“No?”

“No.”

For the first time, you saw Joel’s nostrils flare. You pressed into his sternum again, hoping to hold him in place so you could explain yourself, but it seemed he wasn’t planning on staying stationary. Joel dropped to your bunk—or Tess’s, technically—and situated himself comfortably on the bed before shooting you a look. You barely had had a moment’s time to contemplate your next move when he yanked you onto the cot with him.

Joel didn’t try to kiss you. He didn’t attempt to remove one article of clothing from your body or his. He just sat there, staring, while you straddled his hips staring back.

“If you wanna fuck me so bad, go right ahead,” he said, motioning indistinctly in front of him, “Be my guest.”

When you stilled, he added, “That is all y’want, right?”

With your palms laying flat on his chest and a head full of conflicting thoughts—you did want to bang him, obviously, but not before you’d gotten a chance to set things straight, not when he was looking at you like this—you chewed your bottom lip. Certainly you couldn’t continue while Joel still believed you were embarrassed by his age, his lips downturned and humorless as ever.

“C’mon,” he tried again, a touch more venom laced in his words as he spoke, “Show me how much ya want it.”

You needed time to think.

“Why are you…dressed like this?” you said, stalling.

But Joel wouldn’t be kind enough to give you that time.

“Stole the uniform so I could sneak out and over here and get you out. Are we gonna fuck now or what?”

His hands moved over your own to guide them to his lower half, just above where your clothed core was touching his. Your fingers moved mechanically, almost reluctantly, to undo the button and zip of his shorts.

Was that a flash of hurt you saw in his eyes?

You’d never been good at this communication bullshit. Neither had Joel. The two of you would probably just have sex now to hash out your feelings, as was par for the course for a pair of emotionally stunted individuals. It still pained you to see him look at you like that, though.

“Tess and me were just kidding, baby.”

You palmed the bulge in his boxers and heard him grunt. When you nudged his cock out of the fabric to stroke him, his eyes fluttered shut and he sucked in a breath.

“I would never say those things to hurt you,” you added.

“Didn’t hurt me none,” Joel returned instantly. Then, feeling you flick the pad of your thumb over the head of his cock, he exhaled and held his face firm in place. Like he didn’t want you to see the effect you had on him.

You let go of his cock to take off your socks and shoes. Then your top. Then your shorts. Then you slid down his body a little, unsure if this was the time to be trying something new. Or even doing this kind of stuff at all.

At first, you just sort of lowered yourself to Joel’s groin, his dick resting comfortably between your tits. Then you started to move, and your hands were cupping either side of your breasts to push inward on his member. Before you even fully knew what you were doing, you were squeezing Joel’s dick with the soft, supple flesh and stroking him gently. Gaze glued to him all the while.

His eyes cracked open to catch you watching him. Evidently, Joel couldn’t contain all of his reactions, because he audibly groaned when you got going.

Sliding your tits up and down his shaft, feeling him pulse between them. Sensing a warmth pool in your own lower half but being too focused, and slightly ashamed, to act. You just wanted to make Joel feel good, even if your words weren’t able to do the trick with apologizing.

“Come here,” you beckoned him with just one finger as you slid off the bed, to the floor. Joel sat up, and you kneeled obediently between his legs. The two of you shared a tense, sexless look for a second before you lowered yourself back down and resumed the position.

This time, Joel could—and did—stir his hips to create some friction between your tits. His brow pinched inward with a muted concentration, and you wanted to say it looked handsome on him, that you were sorry for saying those stupid things to Tess and making him doubt your affection for him, but you kept your mouth shut. You had to remind yourself that emotions had no place between two needy, unfeeling people who just wanted to fuck.

Maybe that was how it should’ve been from the start.

But watching Joel’s face twist and contort in pleasure nearly wiped the thought clean out of your brain forever.

You felt many things for him, whether you liked it or not.

You really wished you hadn’t said the things you’d said.

Joel braced his hands at the edge of the bed on either side of him, hips working a steady pace to fuck your tits. He was staring mostly at the spot where the head of his cock was poking up through your cleavage with each thrust, entranced by the sight, and in a second, a full-throated moan was fighting its way out of his chest. He spit in his hand and paused to smear the stuff on his shaft, on your tits. Spit again and rubbed even harder.

Seeing him so cold and detached, you wanted to apologize again. Maybe beg him to say something kind.

Instead, you mumbled, “I love it when you fuck my tits.”

Joel scarcely acknowledged the remark, just letting you work yourself over him, meet his shallow thrusts, look sweet and wait patiently for him to cum all over you. When it seemed he might be ready to do it, though, Joel withdrew from you the next second and moved back on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, straddling again, but this time situated over the side of the bed—him sitting up, you perched on the flat, sturdy expanse of his thighs facing him. In the space between your bodies, Joel slid a quiet and almost careless hand to your heat, flicking the sheer fabric of your panties to the side in one go.

The moment his fingers made contact, you flinched.

It wasn’t that you were opposed to his touch, you just felt unfairly balanced in this situation. Joel appeared so stoic; you, a complete and utter wreck. Fighting fifteen different emotions at once and feeling unusually vulnerable spread open to him now, you almost didn’t register what he was doing—or what his hand might find.

Joel’s groan brought you back, though. When he rubbed his knuckles over the seam of your cunt and practically choked out twice his lung’s capacity, you had to look.

Aloof as he tried to be, the man’s desire was painted all over his expression. And his crotch. And his hand.

Well, actually, that last bit of arousal was yours.

“Fuckin’ soakin’ me, sweetie,” Joel breathed.

You perked up at the term of endearment. Watching one glistening fist of his make its way back and forth against your body, smearing sticky wet pleasure all over your mound and your folds, you found yourself gnawing your lip once more, this time for entirely different reasons.

Joel seemed to soften—even if only for a glaring carnal need, you didn’t care. You sank into this gentler touch.

“Khakis kinda suit you, Miller,” you said, off-handed.

Really, Joel looked almost as comical as he was sexy in that camp counselor getup: tan shorts stretched tight over even tanner legs, polyester top sitting pretty on wide, hulking shoulders, that silly stitched logo for the camp emblazoned over his left pec, and, of course, the nametag that didn’t belong to him but to Lucien. The whole thing was so alien to his lumberjack-chic demeanor that he nearly seemed boyish. Endearing. Some spearmint-scented hottie you might’ve had a crush on at camp years ago. You couldn’t help but smile.

Joel tried not to hold your gaze for too long.

“Don’t go pissin’ down my back and tell me it’s rainin’.”

When he slid one finger to your entrance, you tensed again, but smiled just the same and let out a breath. You felt him prod at the warm, wet skin and thumb at your clit, and something told you that he’d wanted to grin too.

“I’m serious,” you said, “Scout’s hon—ohfuckfuckfuck.”

Joel pushed one finger inside you. In spite of the ease with which he slipped between your walls, that gentle sensation made it wonderfully snug. He gripped your hip and started moving his single digit in and out, and in spite of yourself, you squirmed a bit. Joel never failed to call you out for doing that; today would be no different.

“Easy, sweet pea,” he hummed when you jumped again.

But you couldn’t help it. Your hands quickly anchored themselves to Joel’s shoulders, your legs spread wider, and your hips started stirring—bucking, really—against each teasing touch. It was still just one thick finger of his.

You glanced down and saw that it was his middle finger, in particular. The double meaning wasn’t lost on you.

“Another,” you pleaded.

“Nuh-uh.”

“You’re a mean ol— mean man.” You tried to correct course when you felt a mention of ‘old’ slip back into your vernacular, and inwardly, you cringed at your words.

Joel had already heard it. He cocked one eyebrow.

“Mean ol’ man?” he scoffed, still fingerfucking you softly. When you bucked against it, he nodded as if to say ‘fair enough.’

Then, before you could chime in, he nodded some more.

His expression was hard.

“Fuck my hand,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You weren’t quite sure what he meant for you to do. When he nodded a third time, the gesture was accompanied by a quick dart of his eyes to the place where your cunt was being penetrated by his one finger. He curled the finger inward, and when you twitched at the hot throb of pleasure that followed, he grunted.

Fuck my hand.

Nails still searing tiny half-moons into his shoulders, you acted more out of impulse than by command. The look from Joel sure didn’t hurt, though. The second you started rolling your hips, he nodded again. Holding onto his praises for now and simply showing approbation.

“Like that,” he murmured.

All you were doing was rocking back and forth over his finger, whimpers percolating quietly in your chest, but the act alone made you feel desperate. And Joel smug.

It was like he wanted to see you getting off to this one, comparatively smaller part of him without being filled. Bucking plaintively to find that fullness and coming back empty every time. Your whimpers turned into whines.

“Need more,” you keened.

“Yeah?” Joel replied gently.

“Yeah.”

A beat, then:

“Tough shit.”

But he said it so goddamn sweet you had to do a double take to make sure you’d heard him correctly. When you met Joel’s eyes, you saw a hint of amusement lingering behind them. Then he squeezed your hip again and started helping you move into his hand, up and down.

“Only givin’ more fingers to good girls, y’hear?” he said.

“What about your cock?” You couldn’t help it.

Joel just breathed out through his nose. In a second, he went from camp counselor to disapproving father figure.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?”

That was all he needed to say, but the firm plunge of his middle finger certainly put a finer point on it. He curled the digit again and, upon grazing that spongy surface inside you, saw another desperate plea in your eyes.

And pleasure.

The pleasure ran almost as intense as the desperation.

Your head fell back when Joel got to making those ‘come hither’ motions again and again, thumb circling your clit, eyes trained on your figure with a marked concern. Like the prospect of not drawing an orgasm out of you in the next two minutes might very well ruin the man’s night.

“‘S’alright, honey,” Joel said quietly.

Then, finding your gaze when your head tilted back,

“Be a good girl and let go for me. Let go for daddy, hm?”

Fortunately for him, that one low hum and another flick of his middle finger and thumb were all you needed to find your release. You came on his hand with a sharp, pitiful cry and a ‘Fuckthatfeelssogooddaddyplease,’ hips working feverishly against his hand as you rode out your high. The sight of you bouncing up and down on his open palm and the way your eyes rolled back, begging him to fuck you full of his cock next, felt wildly obscene.

Joel loved obscene. Needed obscene. Hot. Febrile. Raw.

He nodded again.

Before you’d even descended fully from those staggering heights, his finger was moving too—joined by two more. Joel stuffed his index and ring fingers inside your still-pulsing hole and pretended not to hear your soft cry.

After all, you’d asked for more before. Joel was just sating your desire; your overwrought body would be fine.

“Joel,” you hissed, seizing his wrist.

“Too much?” he returned.

You tried to verbalize some answer but were cut short by a punishing stretch—all three fingers plunging in and out of your sensitive, drooling cunt and making it full of him.

“Too soon?” he tried again.

“I—”

“Too fast?”

“N—”

“Too…old?” Joel pressed after a beat.

There was an air of feigned condescension in his tone as he took on a faster pace gliding his thick, calloused fingers between your walls. You might’ve screamed if you hadn’t found your forehead pressed to his and the warmth of his irises boring into yours while he did it all. At this distance, you could discern a trace of hurt again. Something needing to be soothed inside Joel Miller.

You rutted your hips and shook your head, skull still stuck to his as you did so. Whimpers coming low.

“I didn’t…mean it,” you managed at length.

“What? That I’m ‘old as shit but wildly hot’?”

Joel wedged his fingers straight down to the knuckle and nearly tore a shriek out of your body. His eyes were surprisingly soft. Making sure your pleasure was all there.

“Hyperbole,” you choked, voice hoarse.

Then your jaw grew lax when a hand cupped your chin. All you wanted to do was melt into Joel, but you sensed something brewing again behind those honeyed eyes. Blinking was all you could do to keep your composure.

“You’re right, darlin’,” Joel said, “I am too old for you.”

Right after a clench in your tummy, a hurried word leapt up to your tongue, ‘NO!’ and you had to swallow a moan to keep from succumbing to the pleasure Joel was bringing with his fingers. Sandwiched between two orgasms was no time for a serious argument to take place, but there you were, fighting against it anyway.

“N-No,” you stammered. Stupid.

“I am.” His voice came softer somehow, more resigned.

When outright rejection of the claim seemed futile, you tried to pivot. Climax still closing in as fast as ever.

“I don’t care about that,” you hissed, exhaling hard when the first ripples of bliss crept up toward your stomach.

Joel watched you with careful eyes.

“Yeah? And Tess?”

“Joel—”

“Or Tommy.”

“I don’t—”

“Everyone else?”

Almost against your will, those minuscule ripples turned to waves of full-blown euphoria, and then you were clenching again on Joel’s hand and crying out in climax. You willed your gaze not to stray from his, but it was tough. Especially when the eyes beneath your own seemed so fucking morose and removed from you.

Don’t do this to me, Miller. Don’t do it, don’t do it.

In the wake of what should’ve been consummate satisfaction, you found yourself retreating to a place more akin to starvation—suddenly eager to get your mouth over his and start kissing, tonguing, and scraping your teeth like you’d missed out on a full week’s worth of meals. Feeling selfish but also uncertain how else to proceed—was Joel Miller breaking up with you here?

You couldn’t be sure, because he kissed you back. Joel kissed you and cupped your cheeks, then chased your frame all the way down to the coarse, scratchy sheets of the bed, where he was quick to climb on top of you.

Hell, it seemed breathing was too tough to accomplish with your frenzied pace and the continuous stream of open-mouthed kisses placed anywhere and everywhere. A groan from Joel trembled between your lips as you helped him get his shorts and boxers the rest of the way down his legs—all but dragging them with your heels—and he tightened a fist in your hair when they were off.

“I shouldn’t’a come here,” he mumbled.

“But you did,” you panted.

Both of you got lost in another onslaught of kisses, and you tried not to sigh. Joel was still battling something.

Even as he peeled your panties off and lined himself up with your entrance, he seemed resolved to stay quiet. Holding your gaze and not saying what had to be said.

He was a lot like you in that way.

You kept kissing him anyway.

The events that followed seemed to you little more than fleeting, happy scenes from a film you’d always wanted to see—an eager Joel, a caring Joel, an I-don’t-think-I’m-physically-capable-of-holding-you-any-closer Joel. The weight of his cock a welcome friend and the kisses somehow far too intimate to be considered friendly at all. You’d almost forgotten you were at a camp designed to prevent this very thing from happening between two stupid, impulsive people like you, and you didn’t care.

All you knew was a yawning stretch—that aching, empty void filled to perfection by Joel’s member—and the shockwaves of pleasure that vibrated in bands all the way down to the balls of your feet. You felt safe and secure caged between two muscular arms, and you reveled in a warmth that spanned every inch of your body touching his. The weight suffocating and somehow not oppressive; Joel cradled your head to make sure of it.

“Ain’t…hurtin’ ya, am I?” he said when you winced.

You shook your head against his sweaty palms to say that he wasn’t; you were just adjusting. He scanned your face for any trace of insincerity but found nothing.

In this tender position, your brain was ready to burst—whether from guilt, shame, ruthless self-loathing, or a sobering sense of closeness, you weren’t sure. All four seemed to form the impetus for the words that came next, which were soft, repeated apologies against Joel’s mouth. He swallowed each one without a second thought.

“Quit sayin’ it,” he rasped, low.

“I’m sorry, Joel, I’m sorr—”

Soft lips again. ‘S’okay, honey.’

You weren’t sure why, but your face felt extra hot.

Joel pressed his thumbs on either side of it while he kissed you and went deeper. Then he squeezed even more, and your breath hitched quietly in your throat.

Aw, shit, he could probably feel your heart running amok in your chest and thrumming like crazy right now.

“Ain’t nothin’—” Joel paused to send one measured thrust along your cervix, “—to be sorry for. Nothin’.”

Your legs tightened at his sides when his hips started to snap in quick, stuttered motions, desperate for more friction and depth. He got both, and he groaned feeling you tighten around him as he filled your cunt to the brim. The silky warmth of your walls drawing him in was almost too much, and every now and then he’d have to slow to mutter some, ‘’S’fuckin’ chokin’ me, honey, ya feel that?’ or ‘This pussy’s just made to take me, huh?’

Joel asked like he actually needed the reassurance. As if the slick, dripping arousal coating his length and the sounds of your whimpers mixed in with those wet slaps weren’t enough—as if he had to have deeper consolation.

He was splitting you open and looked guilty as he did it.

Still shaking with each thrust, you helped him slide his shirt over his head and bring him bare, chest-to-chest with you. You couldn’t ignore the tension any longer.

“Joel, I fuckin’ love— I need you inside,” you managed.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh.”

His face softened.

“‘S’mine, isn’t it?”

He said it so fast you couldn’t make out if it were really a question or a simple statement of fact. His balls routinely smacking your ass, eyes searching yours, always gentle.

“Say that you’re mine.”

No, Joel—don’t do that, don’t say it like that.

Your visceral reaction was to recoil. You couldn’t because he had you pinned, but damn did you want to—not him, not this, not now, Joel, why would you fucking say that?

The look in his eyes now surpassed the hurt from before. It was open and aching, even as he drilled your body in two at a near-ruthless pace. Asking you so sincerely.

The obstinacy inside you was almost laughable. Damn near sent your head spinning in a fit of hysterics at how much you wanted to say but wouldn’t; how much you sensed lay waiting to fly off Joel’s tongue but couldn’t. If you were any more emotionally pent-up you might’ve ruptured a blood vessel and lost all ability to think.

It didn’t help that you were both about to cum.

Or that Joel’s right hand was fumbling for your clit.

His expression was steady as ever when you jumped, made a whining noise below him, and grabbed his wrist. You looked down to where your bodies were joined and got a dizzying glimpse of that sight: cunt swallowing Joel’s cock repeatedly, pleasure pooling between your two bodies, then a digit at that little bundle of nerves.

He kissed your hairline and hummed.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Whose pussy is this?”

His thrusts sped up, along with his thumb.

“Don’t.” Not an answer but a warning: tread lightly, Joel.

He kissed your forehead again. And again. For a second you thought he might stay that way until you both came, but then his lips were finding yours, mumbling softly,

“Say no one’s gonna fuck you but me.”

“But—”

“None of those pencil-dick douchebag Delta Sigma whatever-the-fuck ya call ‘ems—” Joel continued, unfazed, “—not your lab partner, not your hallmate—”

His cock was gliding in and out of you at a punishing pace now. Wonderfully slick with sounds obscenely piercing to your ears. You could feel Joel digging in the depths of your tight, throbbing cunt, could see his expression contort with much the same pleasure you were experiencing yourself, and could very well smell the faint aroma of American Spirits still staining his breath. Joel Miller was a sick fuck for what he was doing to you, and he knew it. You nipped at his lower lip in between tender kisses and quietly-spoken words, and whimpered.

“—not your TAs, not your professors—” he pressed on.

You opened your mouth to let a lewd moan escape when Joel lifted his hand to shove a thumb inside. Instinctively, you sucked the whole thing straight down to the knuckle.

“Nobody but me, y’hear that?” Afforded better leverage with his finger wedged between your teeth, he shook your head a little as he fucked you. Watched you bob and nod a wordless ‘yes’ in doe-eyed complaisance while his cock drove shockwaves of pleasure straight through you.

He rubbed his thumb back and forth, and you let him.

You drooled all over that man’s finger like it might’ve been supplying oxygen to your lungs, and when Joel leaned in and said, ‘Ya like that, sweet pea?’, you answered in the affirmative. Or at least as close as you could get while Joel was filling up his two favorite holes.

Your orgasm was maybe two strokes away from shattering bones, it seemed. Now was his chance.

Swiftly, Joel retracted his touch just far enough to drag a string of saliva out of your mouth—then deliver a taut but gentle slap to your cheek. The soft thwack, combined with the sounds your bodies were making down below, served only to elevate the pornographic pitch of your moan:

“Joel!”

“That’s right.”

Joel’s mouth hovered an inch over yours, half-smirking, as if waiting to suck the words clean off of your lips. You whined when his thrusts got quicker and the mouth that was grinning got to kissing your own again. Talking dirty, too.

“Show me who this cunt belongs to. Say it,” he grunted.

You clenched, kissed him back, were just barely aware of the words you were trying to form when you stuttered some unintelligible, ‘Y-Y—ohfuckdaddyjustlikethatoh—’

Oh.

Your eyes widened to Joel’s, and before you could even begin to process what was happening to your body, his name just snapped off your tongue like a shot. A shriek. Some blissfully half-strangled moan that Joel captured between his teeth as he fucked you into the mattress and held your body tight to his own. His palm was wet.

Your legs were wet.

The soft, heaving juncture between your bodies was wet.

You were only dimly aware of the sensation as you dug your heels in Joel’s back and let out a series of cries and moans, but then that fluttering feeling inside made you flinch. A pulsing between your thighs and a…warmth.

You were still blinking through a post-euphoric haze when you felt a soft heat simmer and sink within you.

Did Joel just…cum inside you? Again?

“You dumb motherfucker,” you hissed without hesitation.

You’d just managed to shove him away—not far, but away—when you scrambled into a sitting position and slapped a hand over your stomach. Expecting to feel a churning and an awful pinch as you came to make out some vague sensation of Joel’s seed painting your insides, you were surprised when you didn’t get it at all.

In point of fact, Joel had just sprayed a full Jackson Pollock onto your stomach and was blinking, still fisting his cock as you quickly made your way back to your feet.

Where was that wetness coming from?

You stood and stared down at your stomach. Your legs. The translucent, trickling something that had paved a clear path between your thighs and all over Joel’s front. It didn’t make sense, unless—

“You fuckin’ squirted!” Joel cheered.

Your first instinct was to make a face.

That shit only happened in poorly produced pornos and movies based on books by Colleen Hoover, not real-life human beings. What the hell was this man on about?

“Be fucking serious,” you scowled, reaching for a stray shirt on the floor. Before realizing it was even yours, you hastily swiped several big globs of Joel’s cum with it. Your face grew even more enflamed, and yourself, oddly…ashamed. You couldn’t quite make sense of why Joel was grinning so big, or why you felt so embarrassed by what appeared to be a natural bodily function, but you suspected it probably had something to do with the state of sex education in Texas. Those fuckers definitely skipped squirting in favor of abstinence-only rhetoric.

Still weird. Still gross. You wished Joel would stop smiling.

“Lose the look or I’ll slap that fuckin’ grey off your head.”

Admittedly, neither aftercare nor communication was your métier. You started throwing on clothes, annoyed.

Meanwhile, Joel was swiping moisture off his abdomen three thick fingers at a time and wiggling the residue up for you to see—‘All it is is a sign of good lovin’, sweets, ain’t nothin’a be ashamed of!’—and you gave him just one finger in return. You were sliding your shorts up your legs and attempting to scrap the jizz off your FEDRA top when Joel started shrugging on his stolen clothes, too.

Your back was turned to him, eyes scanning the almost too-calm outdoors through the window a minute later, when you felt an arm snake close around your waist.

“Tastes a little like honey,” Joel crooned in your ear, doubtlessly smirking as he swayed you, “Only sweeter.”

You rolled your eyes. No cunt tasted like a honeycomb.

And you tried to say as much when he stroked over the strip of exposed skin between your shorts and the hem of your shirt, squeezing you tighter, but Joel was too good. He spidered a teasing touch over your tummy and yanked you back into his chest when you squealed and tried to break free. Then your sides, your ribcage, your shoulder blades—anyplace Joel could tickle, he tried to—and most spots, you were squeamish as hell. You clamped a hand over your half-open, giggling mouth, and when you felt him flip you around, you didn’t protest.

Suddenly, Joel’s hands were on either side of your face. He wasn’t smiling quite so big anymore but nevertheless maintained a kind glint behind his eyes. They were soft.

“‘M’sorry,” he said.

Then, pausing as if to consider his words, he said,

“You did great.”

He stopped again to press a kiss on the tip of your nose.

“So good.”

When he saw another smile twitch at the corners of your lips, as though asking him for more, he kissed those too.

“If that was your first time with…that…I’m, uh…”

“What?”

Another beat. Another stupid, stubbled grin.

“The luckiest…senior citizen sonovabitch, I guess.”

At the tail end of that, and once Joel had punctuated his sentence with another tender peck, you met his gaze again. Somehow, it had only gotten softer. His thumbs were searing the gentlest of imprints in the apples of your cheeks, his breaths were even and warm, and if you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought the man was contemplating saying something else to you then.

He didn’t.

The bridge to an old Billy Joel song made sure of that.

“And when she’s walkin’, she’s lookin’ so f-i-i-i-ine.”

You heard gravel crunch outside the cabin.

“And when she’s talkin’, she’ll say that she’s m-i-i-i-ine.”

Footsteps bounding up the half-rotted, cedar steps.

“She’ll say I’m not so tough just because I’m in love wi—SHIT.”

Tess’s face went blank the second the door swung open.

Thankfully, both of you were clothed. You and Joel leapt apart like she’d just caught you in doggy, though. And Tess looked like she might’ve seen an asscheek or two with the way she was staring at you both, letting the screen door slam shut, and a wordless ‘what-the-fuck’ caught somewhere in the tepid air between you three.

You stared at Tess, and Tess stared at you. Joel peered over her shoulder for the arrival of any more onlookers or folks just wanting to sing ‘Uptown Girl’ in your general vicinity. Fortunately, no one else appeared behind her.

But Tess looked awestruck enough for fifty people. She blinked and visibly swallowed as her gaze shifted to Joel.

“So FEDRA does dick appointments now?” she hissed.

“No!”

“I’m not—”

“He’s from the other camp.”

“You’re shitting me. Absolutely shitting me right now.”

You brought both hands to your face in a stifling, quiet desperation, unsure what to do. Joel just blinked back.

“I’m—we’re—” he started.

“Fucking!” Tess bit back, “You are so fucking. Raw.”

She wasn’t wrong. Her sixth sense for knowing who was having clandestine sex in her bed was kind of insane.

But, where you expected a look of horror to crawl into those taut, too-smart-for-her-own-good features, you found your bunkmate starting to raise her eyebrows.

Then laugh.

Tess threw her head back and laughed because she thought you were boinking a FEDRA camp counselor.

Joel shared a similar look of surprise but didn’t laugh.

“Yeah, I’m uh…J—” Again, he made as if to speak, to introduce himself, but Tess cut him off. About to wheeze.

“Lucien Flores, you dirty dog!” she cackled.

Joel glanced down at his nametag, started to shake his head, and probably didn’t anticipate Tess smacking him on the shoulder in a semi-congratulatory sort of way. Given a little more muscle to the playful punch, she just might’ve knocked him over. Joel was then trying to pry the pin off his polo just as you stepped closer to her.

“Tess, he’s…” You considered spilling the beans en masse but quickly decided against it. You’d have to stick to the barest of bones if you had any hope of escaping this place. So, resuming, you squeezed her arm and just said:

“Flores is gonna bust us out. Get your shit and we’ll go.”

Theresa Servopoulos didn’t need to be told twice.

And when she scrambled over to her sex-stricken bunk, inquired with a hurried but patently grossed out expression about who the fuck had wet the bed while she was gone, Joel didn’t hesitate—he said it was him.

“FEDRA man with a piss kink. I like you already, Lucien.”

[rebootgrimm]

So Trump Won, Now What?

I get it, we’re all worried. I am too. Above all else on this list, keep yourself safe. Don’t do anything stupid, especially without a plan.

Find Ways to Cope

With the election results, it’s understandable to be afraid. Do whatever you need to (within reasonable amounts. please do not overdose) to comfort yourself.

Take off of school / work if possible to rest. If you don’t have money saved up to be able to take a day off, that’s completely understandable. If you can’t take a day off school for whatever reason (like me. I’m writing this while being driven to school) then that’s okay as well.

Eat comfort foods. You can take a cheat day if you’re on a diet today, you deserve it.

Do things that help you calm down. Some things can include: drawing, crafts, listening to music (punk playlist I helped create here if that might help), knitting, etc. Whatever it is, do it. 

Cry. It’s understandable to want to cry after this. I felt like crying too.

Prepare For the Worst

I hate to say it, but it’s likely that shits going to hit the fan once Trump hits office. Here’s some ideas on what to do.

Preserve any media that MAGA might try and get rid of. For me that’s going to be writing things online down into a notebook and preserving punk songs (likely onto a cassette tape just so I have it tangibly), for Janet next door that might be pirating. Buying any books that might get destroyed is a good idea as well, so that way it still exists, despite censorship.

Stock up on physical items that may end up being destroyed / not being sold anymore. Books are a good idea to have since book censorship has existed as long as dictatorship has. Another idea is over the counter birth control since it likely won’t be allowed to be sold anymore. If anyone has any more ideas, put them in the reblogs / comments.

Stock up on money. I have a secret stash that has about $200 in physical dollars hidden in it, and that’s just counting dollars. 

Build Community

This goes hand-in-hand with prepare for the worst, but I felt like it deserved its own section.

Make a garden. It may be a bit late to do that right now due to it being winter in the U.S., but you can always prepare for one. Food prices will likely go up, so it’s good to have plans for free food.

I’m not sure what to title this bullet point, but with prices for everything likely going to go up, it’s great if there’s people who can provide things like clothes or anything else one might need.

Even without any of the other two things, having community in general is good. Even if that’s just a group of friends who you sit with at the lunch table and talk with, it’s still a community. If you aren’t able to make one in real life for whatever reason, then make one online.

If anyone has anything at all to add on then please put it in the reblogs (preferred) or comments. I’m not usually one to ask for reblogs, but I’d argue that this is really important and needs to be shared. Remember that your existence is resistance and that it’s always okay to punch a Nazi.

@our-trans-punk-experience @liberalsarecool

[itneverendshere]

omg omg i’m completely inlove with bartender reader and rafe!! what if the reader saves up her money to get rafe something special as a just because gift, something to show that shes grateful for him or maybe handmade some gift for him

it hits different 'cause it's you - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) word count: 2.5k

thank you so much for loving them and for you request 🫂

Between the country club, side gigs, and saving every extra penny, you’d finally done it. You had something for Rafe.

You turned the little bracelet over in your hands, the silver chain glinting in the dim light of your bedroom. It felt kind of ridiculous at first—getting him a gift. Rafe could buy whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. But that wasn’t the point. This was your first birthday together, and you wanted to give him something that came from you.

Something that showed him you were grateful for everything he’d done. Because even though you’d heard all the stories about how terrible he could be—and you’d seen flashes of it sometimes—he’d always been different with you. Softer, quieter, like everything around him softened when it was just the two of you. You didn’t need the flashy gifts or the five-star dinners, though he insisted on both.

You needed him. The Rafe you knew when it was just the two of you sitting in his truck by the beach, laughing over nothing.

A handmade bracelet, not flashy but personal. You’d saved up for the silver chain, a simple one but still nice. But the charms? Those were the important part. Tiny reminders of things you’d shared: a little compass for those late-night drives home where you’d just get lost on purpose, a wave for the time he dragged you out surfing (even though you had no idea what you were doing), and a tiny heart because, well, obvious reasons. 

You didn’t care if he thought it was dumb.

You’d spent weeks working on it between shifts, sneaking away to the little craft store on the mainland to find the perfect pieces. It wasn’t expensive, but it had you in it—your time, your memories, your effort. And you hoped that was enough.

You’d been nervous all day, counting down the minutes until you could finally give it to him. Rafe had picked you up after work, his grin lighting up the parking lot, and now the two of you were sitting on the hood of his truck, the ocean breeze cool against your skin. His birthday dinner had been perfect, of course—he'd made sure of that.

He’d insisted on this little restaurant by the beach, his favorite, and the sunset view had been unreal, like something out of a movie. But you’d been quiet.

He nudged you with his shoulder. “What’s up? You’ve been acting weird all night.”

You fumbled with the zipper of your purse, pulling out the small, wrapped box. “I… I got you something.”

Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. “For me?”

“No, for the other guy I’m sitting on a truck with,” you teased, nerves bubbling up. “Yeah, for you.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “You didn’t have to get me anything, you know.”

“I know. But I wanted to.”

Rafe carefully unwrapped the box, pulling out the bracelet. He held it up, the charms catching the light. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and your heart sank, wondering if he thought it was cheap or lame compared to everything he was used to.

But then he looked at you, his blue eyes soft and serious in a way that made your chest tighten. “You made this?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly, twisting your hands in your lap. “It’s nothing crazy. Just, uh, little things that remind me of us.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just turned the bracelet over in his fingers, tracing the charms. Then, without a word, he slipped it onto his wrist, the silver chain looking a little out of place next to his expensive watch. 

“You can wear as a keychain if you want— or, I dunno, maybe keep it somewhere. You don’t have to wear it,” you added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush before you could stop them.

You felt stupid. Of course he wasn’t going to wear it, not with all his designer clothes and luxury watches.

But Rafe didn’t even flinch. He glanced down at his wrist, then back at you, “I want to wear it.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to just because I gave it to you.”

“Course I do.”

Your cheeks felt warm, and you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, not sure what to say next.

Rafe just grinned, like he could read your mind or something.

“What?” he asked, nudging you again with his shoulder. “You think I wouldn’t like it?”

“I mean…You wear designer everything. This is… it’s kinda cheap compared to that.”

He gave a small laugh, shaking his head. “Cheap doesn’t mean it’s not special. You made it, and that’s what I care about.” He paused, then added softly, “It’s from you. That’s what matters.”

Your heart did this little flip in your chest, and you had to bite back the stupid smile spreading across your face. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious. This is us.” He held up his wrist, the bracelet catching the fading light from the sunset. “Every charm means something, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, suddenly feeling shy. “I just… I didn’t want you to feel like I couldn’t give you something better.”

He turned fully toward you, his hands gently cupping your face.

“Better? Baby, no. This is perfect. No one’s ever given me something like this before.” He kissed your forehead, and you felt yourself melt a little bit. “I don’t need ‘better’ or more expensive shit. I’ve got enough of that. I need this.”

You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. It was hard to wrap your head around the fact that someone like Rafe—who could literally have anything—wanted something as simple as a handmade bracelet. But he did. And it made your heart ache in the best way.

“I’m glad you like it,” you whispered, resting your hand on his chest.

“I don’t just like it. I love it,” he said, his voice soft. Then, as if he could feel how much this moment meant to you, he added, “And I love you.”

That did it. 

Your stomach fluttered, and you couldn’t help but smile, that big, stupid, giddy smile you only got when you were with him. “I love you too,” you whispered, like you were saying it for the first time all over again.

Rafe kissed you, slow and sweet, and it felt like time had stopped for a moment—just you, him, and the sound of the ocean in the background.

When he pulled back, he glanced down at the bracelet on his wrist again and smiled. “I’m never takin’ this off, you know.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, let’s not get crazy.”

But he just smirked and kissed the top of your head. “No, I mean it. This? It’s a part of us now.”

“Not even when you shower?”

You could feel his shit-eating grin against your temple, “You thinkin’ about me showering?”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks burned as you tried to keep a straight face. "Shut up," you muttered.

“That’s not what you were sayin’—”

“Okayyyy,” You interrupted pushing his chest away, “We get it.”

You turned your face away, hiding your grin as he laughed, that deep, rumbling sound that always made your heart skip a beat. Being with Rafe was like that—playful and intense all at once, always keeping you on your toes but making you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, shaking your head as you tried to sound exasperated, though the smile on your face gave you away.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arm wrapping around you tighter. For a moment, the two of you just sat there in comfortable silence, the waves crashing softly in the background, the air cool but not cold. Everything felt easy in moments like this. Just you and him.

“I’m serious though,” Rafe said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “No one’s ever done anythin’ like this for me before. You don’t even know how much it means.”

His fingers absentmindedly traced the bracelet again, like he still couldn’t believe it was his.

Your heart swelled a little, knowing that something as simple as a handmade gift could mean so much to someone like him. Rafe had everything—money, cars, houses. But maybe, in some weird way, he needed something that couldn’t be bought. Something that came from you.

“I’m glad,” you whispered, feeling your throat tighten with emotion. “I just… I wanted you to know that I see you, you know? Not just all the surface stuff.”

Rafe was quiet for a moment, his hand finding yours and giving it a squeeze. “You do. You really do.”

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. And in that moment, it hit you how much he’d become a part of your life, how much he’d broken down those walls you didn’t even know you’d put up.

“I’m not taking it off,” he repeated, more serious this time, like he needed you to believe it.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay, Rafe. Whatever you say.”

The bracelet, the moment, this night—it was more than just a gift.

“You’re still givin’ me birthday sex, right?”

You groaned, but you couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out, “Seriously? I pour my heart out, and this is where you go?”

He grinned that mischievous, cocky grin of his—the one that made your stomach flip even when you pretended to be annoyed.

“What? I’m just saying, it is my birthday, after all.” His voice dropped, teasing, playful, the way it always got when he was trying to push your buttons.

You shoved his shoulder, pretending to be all serious, but he just caught your wrist, pulling you closer until your forehead rested against his.

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours, “But you love me anyway.”

You smiled, your heart doing that stupid flutter thing again. “Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” he raised an eyebrow, looking all mock offended, but there was that softness in his eyes again—the one he only ever let you see.

You kissed him before he could say anything else, slow and sweet, letting the teasing fall away for just a second.

And when you pulled back, you whispered, “Of course I love you. Birthday sex or not.”

Rafe chuckled, his hands slipping down to your ass, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You tried to glare, but the way his thumb was tracing circles on your lower back made it hard to keep up the act. “I don’t have to admit anything.” You leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear. “But maybe... if you’re lucky..”

Rafe’s breath hitched just a little, and it sent a thrill down your spine. You loved this—having him wrapped around your finger. He always lost it when you played the game right back.

"Now who's teasing’?" he murmured, his lips grazing your neck, leaving little kisses that made it hard to keep your thoughts straight.

"You started it," you whispered back, your fingers finding the edge of his collar, tugging him closer until there was barely any space left between you.

Your legs ended up draped over his, and you could feel his hands on your thighs, warm and familiar, as you settled deeper into his lap. His lips traced your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every second of this, and your head tilted back instinctively, giving him more room.

God, he knew exactly how to make you melt without even trying.

Rafe’s hands slid down to your hips, his fingers digging into your skin. He always knew how to make you feel like you were the only thing that mattered. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he muttered, his lips brushing yours but not quite kissing you yet. 

You leaned into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest as he finally kissed you. His hand came up to hold the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek in that gentle way that made you flutter. He tilted his head slightly, angling the kiss, like he was savoring every second he had you this close. You kissed him back just as slowly, letting yourself get lost in it. 

The kiss was deliberate, slow, like he wanted to memorize the way your lips moved against his, the taste of you, the quiet sighs you couldn’t hold back. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer, deepening the kiss as his other hand traced gentle circles along your thigh.

“Y’know I’m crazy about you, right?” he murmured against your lips.

You nodded, your heart doing that annoying thing again. “Yeah. Happy birthday, baby.”

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on your leg.

Then, in the same casual tone he used when asking about what to eat for dinner, he said, “You know, you should make the same bracelets for our kids when we have them.”

Your brain screeched to a stop.

Wait, what?

You blinked up at him, your heart skipping a beat for a completely different reason now. “I’m sorry, what?”

He grinned like he didn’t just casually drop the most insane statement ever. “I’m serious. Like, one day when we have kids—you should make them little bracelets like this. It'll be a thing.”

You stared at him, trying to wrap your head around what he just said. “Rafe, we’ve been together, what… less than a year? And you’re already talking about kids?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed by the shock on your face. “Yeah, why not? I can see it, y’know? You, me, little mini-us running around—driving us crazy. It’d be fun.”

You blinked again, your mind still catching up.

Kids? Your kids? Together? You tried to picture it for a second—little versions of Rafe, with his mischievous ways and messy hair, running around. 

“Wait, hold up—you want kids with me?”

 “Yeah.”

“Plural?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “Yeah. A few. Maybe more.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “A few? Oh my God, you’re insane.”

He smirked, looking way too pleased with himself.

“What, you can’t picture it? I bet they’d have your eyes. Or my attitude. Definitely my attitude.”

“Great, that’s exactly what the world needs.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer, “Not, like, tomorrow. But one day. You’d be a great mom, don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Okay, maybe once. Can we just get through your birthday first?”

“Fine, fine. But just so you know, when the time comes, you’re making all of them little bracelets.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “I’ll consider it... if they don’t take after you too much.”

“Oh, they will. And you’re gonna love every second of it.”

[amjustagirl]

Chapter 1

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 4k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

Once a month, Hoshina Soshiro drops by your apartment for tea with you. 

It isn’t often that you both get the same day off. Him, with his vice captain duties that never end because Kaijus don’t deign to give him a break, as he often complains. You, spending hours if not days buried in the blade forgery at Izumo tech so much so your parents remark dryly that they’ve forgotten your face. But every so often, the universe smiles upon you and you get to spend an afternoon sitting on your narrow balcony with your oldest friend. 

It always begins like this.

He drops a plastic bag full of fizzy drinks on the table that only he drinks, whilst you brew a pot of tea. There’s dessert in the fridge that you get to feed his sweet tooth, and he’ll consume both because you’ll claim you have no appetite. After a few perfunctory questions about your wellbeing - the same as always, nothing’s changed, he’ll turn his mind to the sole focus in his life. 

“You gave the latest tech to my brother?!” he yells, outraged. “His main weapon isn’t even a blade.” 

“Orders are orders”, you respond. “Besides, didn’t I just tweak your katanas last month?” 

“About that”, he grins at you, somewhat sheepishly. “I’ve got more ideas -” 

“Not again”, you groan. 

He’ll rattle off a long list of things he wants you to work on next month. Blades made out of some kaiju bone, just to test its mettle. A blade to be worked into his boots - an idea he cheekily admits stems from some stupid shounen manga he reads in his spare time. So many of his ideas belong in the trash bin, but you entertain him anyway, studiously jotting down each of his requests. 

“You’re lucky I put up with you”, you tell him. 

Lazily, he flops onto the floor, rolling to lie his head in your lap. “As if you wouldn’t”, he laughs, poking up at your cheek. 

You don’t get the chance to answer him. His phone goes off, as it always does, and he has to go. 

“Seeya next time”, he waves, without leaving you another glance. The sliver of sky between the buildings surrounding yours is dark when you get up from your seat to clear the cups. 

Your cheek still stings. 

Your family always had close ties to the Hoshina clan. The clan of swordsmiths sworn to the Hoshina clan of swordsmen. A tie that can be traced centuries back to the Edo period to today. Your father crafted his father’s blades in the fires of your family’s forge, yet another in your family’s lineage who were born to serve the generations of Hoshina swordsmen. 

Even though you were born a girl, you never accepted that it should be different for you.

You were only seven when you accompanied your father on a delivery to the Hoshina estate. Your stockinged feet echo in the wooden corridors that stretch out before you, seemingly without end. There are portraits of imposing swordsmen in every other room, blades displayed, their former owners’ eventual fate captioned beneath. You are too ashamed to admit that you’re afraid of one such painting with kaiju-like yellow eyes that seems to glare at you that you bolt when your father leaves you aside to talk business with the Hoshina patriarch.

Foolishly, you forget that the Hoshina estate dwarfs your family home. After the fifth rock garden you come across (which admittedly to your seven year old self, seems to blend into each other), you are well and truly lost, so you sit on the porch of some courtyard and wait to be found for a stern reprimand by your father. 

Clang. 

But you’re drawn by the sound of steel clashing, so you follow your ears, and your eyes thank you as you watch two boys spar with dull blades. 

The older, with silver hair, has a clear edge. He’s taller and stronger, so he bullies his younger opponent into a corner. The younger, with dark hair, doesn’t seem daunted, standing his ground with precise swings and savage slashes that his older opponent only manages to parry with difficulty. 

Though you hide yourself behind a pillar, the older boy spots you anyway, breaking off the fight to grab you by the front of your top. 

“Intruder”, he shouts, waving his blade at you.  

“I’m - I’m sorry!” you squeak. You panic, fearful that he’ll throw you out of the estate, because if you can’t even figure your way out around the compound, there’s no way you’re going to find your way back home across half of Osaka, so you hiccup and cry and beg to be let go - 

“Hey! You’re just looking for an excuse to get out of a losing fight.”

Courage has never been your strong suit. It’s easier for you to hide behind your father or older brother’s legs, so you’re taken aback by how quickly the younger boy jumps into the fray on your behalf, defiant even in the face of a larger opponent.  

Your captor’s nostrils flare. “What did you say?!” he demands, but he lets you go with a sneer. 

“Another round then”, the younger boy says, as he tugs you to your feet, brushing the dust off the pretty kimono your mother took the effort to dress you up in. “Maybe this time you’ll actually be serious -” 

His brother brandishes the blade at him. “I’ll beat you to a pulp, you insolent brat.” 

You spend the afternoon watching them from a safe distance until your father finds you, apologising to Hoshina-sama for his wayward daughter. 

You’re formally introduced then to the brothers - Sochiro the elder, who doesn’t even acknowledge you with a nod, and Soshiro the younger, who smiles like the sun when you tell him that he’s amazing in a fight. 

“I’ll show you more next time!!”, Soshiro says. His eyes remind you of violets blooming in spring. 

Your mother hears of your adventures in the Hoshina estate. 

She comes to brush your hair after your bath. “The Hoshina family sees ours as a vassal clan”, she states baldly, as the comb sticks on a particularly tricky tangle. At your noise of confusion (and pain, because she’s none-too-gentle at getting the snags out of your mane), she explains. “That means our family is bound to them by our usefulness in making katanas, the instruments of their success.”  

She clucks her tongue at your obtuseness, as you stare at her, uncomprehending. “We supply swords, not brides to them. There are no engagements between their sons and our daughters. If you wish to associate with the Hoshina boys, you must be of use to them.” 

Perhaps, in her ungentle way, your mother was trying to do you a kindness. 

But you took her warning as instruction instead. So, though you’ve always been afraid of the loud forge your father and older brother work in, you badgered your father for enough lessons in sword making, hovering over him every minute you have out of school so you can learn everything you can.  

It’s worth it, when Soshiro comments on the shiny scars on your forearms the next time you visit. 

“I’ve been learning how to make katanas”, you explain, suddenly shy. 

“Wow!” you catch another glimpse of violets through wide eyes. “You must’ve worked really hard!”  

You peek at the blooms of bruises on his shins, the angry red scratch across his face. “So have you”, you reply. 

He beams, dragging you off to play.  

More often than not, that devolves into him showing off his latest moves, and you applauding his every action. He revels in the attention, which you find strange because surely everyone with eyes should be able to discern that Hoshina Soshiro is wildly talented, even at the tender age of eight, but then whenever his brother surfaces with taunt regarding Soshiro’s swordsmanship, you can see the chip of his shoulder grow, an invisible burden that drags him into the ground.

As an outsider, it’s not your place to comment on the unfairness of being knocked around by a boy five years his senior, so you try your clumsy best to bandage Soshiro’s wounds and slip in an encouraging word or two. You never want to see the violets in his eyes wither and die. 

“I’ll make you the best blade in the world when we grow up”, you bump your elbow against his. “So you can beat him.” 

“Promise?” 

You loop your little finger around his. Half moons brighten into stars. 

// how abt a blade that can separate into 2 // 

// or or or // 

// maybe three?! // 

// would your ancestors roll in their grave //

You wake up to a text. Or three. 

<Gremlin>. You text back. <Soshiro-kun, go to sleep.> 

// you wound me // 

// seeya later // 

// visiting Izumo tech for my new suit!!! // 

// make sure you lend me your lunch discount at the cafeteria // 

You snort.

<Cheapskate>. The rhythm of your conversation thrums. <are you asking me to have lunch with you> 

// someone needs to keep me safe from my fangirls // 

// don’t leave me in their clutches // 

An eye roll. 

< Die >. You turn your phone facedown, resolutely refusing to respond. 

Despite your complaints, you end up eating lunch with him anyway. 

It’s difficult to concentrate on your meal when your childhood friend turned the most eligible bachelor in the Japan Defense Force sits across from you in a skintight uniform, your giggly co-workers sitting two rows down watching his every move. So you push your tray away and just watch him as he chatters away through a mouth full of food (something he’d never do back home because he’s been raised with manners befitting the second son of the esteemed Hoshina clan, but around you he seems to turn into a demented manchild), but you’ve always found it endearing how he’s his chaotic true self around you - 

“New recruits are coming in next month so I don’t know when we’ll have time to catch up -” 

“There’s nothing to catch up on when you keep text me in the middle of the night with your train of thoughts - “

“That’s all work related”, he says. “I want to know how you are doing.” 

You’re not about to tell him that your parents have informed you that they’re tired of you mooning after a man who’ll never love you back, and have started haranguing you via text to get your ass back to Osaka so you can meet suitable men your age who’d be willing to accept an unladylike wife with burn scars trailing up her forearms.  

“As if you really want to know”, you grumble. “You’re only interested in talking to me when it’s about your weapons and tech.” 

“You wound me”, he dramatically claps his hand to his chest, miming hurt. “You don’t believe that I care about my oldest friend?” 

“Nope.”

“Rude”, he sing-songs. “C’mon.”

“The only reason we’re even lunching is because you wanted more upgrades - plus, now you want a shield against your fan-girls, who, by the way, are going to mob me in the bathroom and make me recount for the thousandth time, why and how I know you, the - I quote - cutest guy in the Japanese Defense Force, though they really should get their eyesight checked out in my opinion -” 

“Oohhhh - people think I’m good-looking?” He runs his fingers through his hair like he’s in some 80’s shampoo commercial, throwing an exaggerated wink over his shoulder to the nearest fangirl. You hear a thump on the floor. You hope she didn’t hit her head too hard (but perhaps it might make her sole brain cell work a little better if she did). 

You tap his knuckles with the back of your chopsticks. “Get that ego on a leash.”

His grin is cheeky. “I can’t help it if people think I’m good-looking.” Your heavy sigh makes him pout. “You don’t think I’m good looking?” 

The lunch bell comes to your rescue. 

“I have to get back to work”, you tell him, all too ready to make your escape. 

“So do I”, he gobbles down the rest of his lunch. “Seeya around.”

“Stay safe”, you add. “Don’t let a Kaiju eat you up.” 

“Eat me up?!” he squawks with mock outrage. “Don’t you know I eat Kaijus for breakfast?” 

As if you don’t. In Tokyo, the third division is exceedingly popular. Captain Mina Ashiro of course, takes up most of the attention with her long, dark hair and prowess as the nation’s foremost sniper, but once in a while, the newspapers and magazines run features of Vice Captain Hoshina Soshiro, and you dutifully keep cuttings in a scrapbook that you hide under your bed. 

In every interview, he talks about how it’s patently untrue that there’s no space in the Japan Defense Force for those who prefer to wield a blade rather than a modern gun. “Captain Ashiro believes in me”, he says, so seriously that it’s hard to recognise your usual jovial friend. “For that, I’ll be thankful for every day.” 

He said the same thing to you the day of his promotion. 

“She believes in me when no one else did”, he tells you in disbelief. 

That’s a lie, you want to shout. You reminded him that there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d fail the entrance exam into the Japan Defense Force, and he’d indeed pass with flying colours. You calculated his unleashed combat potential from your lab in Izumo Tech, saw him exceed and excel so much so that an exception was made for him to carry katanas which you spent sleepless nights crafting for him. He won his first promotion as platoon leader nary a year in after a stunning victory decapitating yonju across Tokyo, and your congratulatory text to him was ‘See, I knew you’d do it.’ 

So no, Mina Ashiro was not the first person who believed in Hoshina Soshiro. You are. 

Unless, in his eyes, you don’t count. 

<okaa-san>

<Yes, I’ll be glad to meet your friend’s son>

< No promises on anything more>

The date your parents arranged for you is a man with a pleasing smile who has as much romantic interest in you as you in him - which is to say, very little at all. “I’m too busy with my job, but my mother insisted”, he confesses.

You like him all the better for his honesty. “So did mine”, you respond with a wry chuckle. 

Yamamoto-san is good company, nonetheless, even if his only interest in life other than his demanding job as a corporate slave is tending to his houseplants, so since you both share an interest in getting your overbearing mothers off your backs, you agree to have lunch once a month just so you can say to your parents without lying that you’re seeing someone. 

A part of you that you tuck deep into your chest hopes that word gets around to Soshiro, who’ll come beat your front door down, demanding that you, instead, turn your eyes to him (as if you’ve ever looked elsewhere for as long as you’ve known him). And when Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, pops into your office for his own tweaks to his tech and rounds upon you with a wicked twinkle in his eye, you’re sure that whatever you share will be conveyed as salaciously as possible to his younger brother. 

“Soooo”, he drags each word out obnoxiously. “Your older brother mentioned that you’re seeing someone now who isn’t my younger brother.” 

You smile blandly. “Soshiro-kun and I have always been just friends.” 

“Just friends my arse”, he retorts. “You’ve had a planet sized crush on him since you were seven. It just can’t be helped that my brother’s got a katana up his arse.” 

You try your best not to wince. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain Hoshina?” you gesture at the door. “As you can see, the mountain of work that’s been piling up ever since you stopped by my office needs to be done, and I really don’t have time to sit around and gossip like old women.” 

“So grumpy”, he hops off your desk. “So, should I tell him that he’s missed the boat?”

“Tell him whatever you want.” You begin to type furiously on your laptop. “As if he’ll care.” 

Five minutes later. 

// u have a bf?! // 

// and i had to find out fr Sochiro?! // 

// AND u said there’s nothing to catch up on? // 

You lock your phone in the drawer beneath your desk. 

// are u ignoring me???? // 

“You ignored my texts!” 

This is a first. Hoshina Soshiro, cranky even when a stack of golden brown pancakes soaked in maple syrup wobbles enticingly in front of him. “I was busy at work”, you say. A flimsy excuse, one that fails to placate him as he continues to pout, childlike at you.

“So?” he demands, slicing right through the pancakes with his butter knife. “Is it true?” 

“Is what true?” 

His eyes narrow as he waves his knife accusingly at you. “You decided to tell Sochiro that you got a boyfriend before me?” 

You take a sip of coffee to steady your nerves. “You know I don’t talk to your brother unless he decides to invade my lab. But I guess he and my brother still text from time to time.” 

“Hrm.” he puffs out his cheeks, blows out a breath heavy enough to flutter his bangs. You restrain the urge to reach over and straighten his hair. “Fine.”

“I’m just seeing a guy that my parents set me up with.” You rehearsed exactly what you wanted to say, but your insides churn, the coffee you drank not doing you any favours. “I guess they’re just worried that no one will ever want me as I grow old and unmarriageable.” 

His chuckle is blithe, uncaring. “Parents are all the same, aren’t they? Just last week, my mother called me to ask if I’m interested in being set up on a date with someone - as if I’d ever be interested, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date, and besides, she probably just called because my older brother’s a master at dodging such calls -” 

You let him ramble on as you gather the remnants of your courage deep within your guts for a final advance. 

“Soshiro.”

“Hm?” he looks up, mid-chew. “Sup.”

“If I really did get a boyfriend, you wouldn’t mind, would you?” 

“Why would I mind?” He laughs, reaching over to prod at your cheek. “I mean, I guess as long as you don’t stop making me awesome katanas, and as long as he doesn’t mind that I text you my brilliant ideas on improvements -” 

Unknowingly, he cuts right through your heart. But in fairness to him, you offered your heart on a silver fucking platter, even handed him the blade to stab it with.

“I was just worried you’d be unhappy”, you mumble, blinking back tears furiously. 

Thankfully, he’s too focused on clearing his plate. “I thought you were going to ask me something serious”, he laughs. “What a silly question.” 

“Yeah”, you manage to croak. “What a silly question.” 

He goes on to fill the rest of the afternoon with chatter about his new recruits. You sit numbly and listen to his tales of a Shinomiya slip of a girl who blows all recorded numbers for a recruit out of the window, an old man who confounds his techs by registering a big fat zilch on their combat scales, but he entertains his candidacy because he’s a great source of entertainment. 

“You okay there?” he frowns, stopping mid-story. “You kinda look down.” 

“Indigestion”, you lie through gritted teeth. “Never you mind.” 

“You shouldn’t take milk in your coffee if you’re lactose intolerant, silly”, he teases, confiscating your iced latte. 

“I’m just an idiot”, you try your best to smile. Fortunately, he accepts a pained grimace. 

Your mother was both right and wrong. You know that Soshiro cares for you as a friend, because he could never be callous enough to reduce you to your usefulness to him, but it’s true that he has no space in his heart for you. 

A year or two ago, you piled yourself in a car with both Hoshina brothers to brave the Obon traffic to get back to Osaka for the holidays. You hadn’t been able to afford the jacked up prices for the shinkansen, and Soshiro only found out yesterday that Captain Ashiro took pity on him for missing consecutive New Year holidays that she gave him Obon off as a consolation price, so their parents nagged Sochiro into ferrying you both home. 

“Shouldn’t you have your own car?” Sochiro groused. 

“Why would I need a car if I’m on base 24/7”, Soshiro replied. “Why do you need a car? Unless the sixth division is slacking off -”

The car screeched to a halt. Sochiro kicked open the door, yanked Soshiro by his collar and shoved him into the driver’s seat. “To keep your smart mouth occupied, you can drive us the rest of the way to Osaka.” 

“Aren’t you scared I’ll crash?” 

“If you do, I’ll skin you alive.” 

Your forehead nearly split open from all the bickering. “Guys, I can drive -” 

“No!” Both brothers yelled at you in unison. It’s the first time they’ve probably agreed on anything in their life.

The bickering finally ended when Sochiro fell asleep in the back, head pillowed against the window glass on one side in a way that he’s bound to wake up with a neckache. Still, you’re forced in close proximity to Soshiro, the puffs of warm air from the overworking air-conditioner blending with the scent of steel and citrus, from the shampoo he probably uses, you mused half dizzy, head heavy - 

“If you puke in the car, Sochiro’ll make you lick it up.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Talk to me so I don’t focus on your terrible driving.” 

By the time Soshiro’s done with his recounting of the last four fights he’s been involved in, the massive disappointment of this year’s recruitment exercise and his admiration for Captain Mina Ashiro (which made you want to scream, kick your foot through the windshield, perhaps), the afternoon sun is low to the ground, streetlights along the expressway flickering on. 

You couldn’t help but ask. “Do you ever think about anything other than your job?” 

“Nah.” he chuckled. “I don’t have time for anything else. I gotta spend time to train y’know, otherwise I’ll really die on the job.” 

“Soshiro!” 

“That’s why I got good life insurance”, he deadpanned. 

“I guess that was a silly question”, you slump back in your seat. 

“It really is”, he teased. “So, what else d’you wanna hear about my all consuming job?” 

The memory stings your eyes. 

You make up an excuse to return to your apartment without haste, waiting until he disappears around the corner before you give in to the tears that you’ve been keeping at bay all afternoon. Strangers on the train ride home give you a wide berth, because they certainly don’t want to catch whatever malady you’re clearly suffering from with your swollen eyes and hiccuped sniffles. You stumble into your shoebox apartment, kick your shoes off at the genkan.  

Tonight you’ll give yourself the grace to mourn the death of a dream.  

You crack open the beers he previously brought, one after another. Drunk, you sit on the balcony, the half-moon reminding you too much of a certain vice captain. You let your mother’s words flood your mind. You are meant to offer him blades, not a bride. In another lifetime, in every lifetime, perhaps, the noble born son of a samurai clan would never open his heart to the lowly daughter of a swordsmith. He would be raised to always put duty before love. 

You don’t know why you hoped for anything different. 

So when you roll off your sofa in the morning, you glare at yourself in the toilet mirror, eyes rimmed red, a hangover in full effect. 

“You are an idiot.” you slap your cheeks so hard it turns pink. 

You will not allow this to continue. Hoshina Soshiro is not yours, has never been yours, and will never be yours. You are pathetic for hoping otherwise, stupid for living in hopes that he’ll look at you some day, an utter idiot for letting every choice you’ve ever made in your life be guided by your infatuation with a boy who doesn’t have space in his heart for you.

You could’ve been like your older brother, been content with sticking to the family business of sword making instead spending every spare minute on your engineering studies so you’re well positioned to be snapped up by Izumo Tech as a weapons specialist. You had the leeway to be based in Osaka near your family, but accepted a position in Tokyo just to be closer to where Soshiro’s based. You could’ve had a social life, perhaps even friends outside of work, if you’ve not dedicated your life to your job, working after hours tirelessly, just so you secure promotion after promotion, cementing yourself as Izumo Tech (and by extension, the Defense Force) go-to for anything blade related, just so you fulfil the promise you made to Soshiro all those years ago. 

You cannot live the rest of your life this way.   

a/n: so...i know i've only ever written for the hq boys but the way hoshina soshiro grabbed my throat in a chokehold in that gym training scene just forced my gremlin brain to start typing and get to work on this story for him.

hope you guys like it <3

[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

“Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[swordsandholly]

Across The Way

Ch. 2: And So It Begins

Retired!Ghoap x fem!plus size!Reader

MDNI

Ao3 | Previous - Next

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: You go to Scotland with high hopes for your future. After all, you have the bakery you always dreamed of and a whole new life to live. Plus, the men who own the butcher’s shop across the street seem nice.

A/N: I got this out a lot faster than I thought I would. Hopefully my work doesn’t get too insane and I can get the next out in a timely manner - it’s going to be a bigger one!

“You were right.” Simon carefully cuts through the loaf with a serrated knife. He’s never lost his skill with them, despite their uses becoming increasingly more domestic over the years. It’s charming, in a way - the juxtaposition of where they started and where they are now.

“Right about whit?” Johnny asks.

“She is a pretty little thing.”

“Donnae tell me I need tae be worried about ye sneakin’ off at work.” He jokes. Simon would never, of course, but it’s fun to see the way his cheeks heat up at the implication. Without his mask he wears every expression with reckless abandon.

Simon settles his large frame into the seat across from Johnny at the dining table. It’s small, they don’t need much. The chairs always creak under Simon’s weight in an almost threatening fashion. He pushes a plate with two pieces of the bread and some eggs over to Johnny. There’s an odd tug in his chest when he picks up the slice - an urge to be gentle as he spreads butter over it. Gentility is not a compulsion he feels often.

“S’good.” Simon mutters around his bite.

Johnny nods along after taking one himself. There’s love in it - he can tell. A piece carefully crafted with only absolute perfection in mind. How strange that food can carry such a feeling.

“Was a wee bit worried we’d be stuck across from the nicest, worst baker in the world.” He mutters.

Simon huffs out a half laugh.

~~~

Your first week goes by in a blur. For a small town they sure do manage to keep you busy. It’s good, you remind yourself. Better than none. If you keep it up at this rate you’ll be able to hire help by the end of the summer quarter.

By Monday, the first day of your “weekend”, you’re overdone. Head dizzy and body exhausted, you spend the day in bed. It’s a gratifying exhaustion, one you hope to build more of a tolerance for. As of now, though, you elect to remain deeply buried under the covers.

When you wake for a second time the sun is already near setting again. The entirety of Monday slunk by with you in bed. You grumble to yourself angrily like an old man. You wanted to unpack today - to at least get your clothes and kitchen items put away.

“Stupid.” You grouse. At least you still have time to shower, you suppose.

As you stand the world blacks out for a moment, your body swaying in place. You allow yourself to fall back on the bed, sitting while your vision slowly comes back into focus. Blinking away black dots and off squiggles that dance across your eyes. On attempt number two you manage it, making your way to the bathroom.

The work is worth it. The pain is worth it.

This is what you always wanted, after all.

You are happy. You can feel it in your bones. They’re lighter than they used to be - your whole body thrums with excited energy even as you have to lower yourself with the upmost care into the shower seat. Even as you have to scrape one of the cheap fold out chairs you managed to get over to the stove while you cook a late night dinner. Thank god for low counters.

When you were arranging your schedule it took a while to get it perfected. To compensate for your body you have to have time to rest and be able to do a lot of baking preparation before the work week starts. Monday and Tuesday are for rest. Wednesdays are for prep. The shop is closed but you’re in the back working your ass off mixing and kneading and shaping doughs. As well as practicing new recipes you want to add to the store’s line up eventually. Your goal is to sell American biscuits, preferably in batches of six, but those take a lot of work and don’t keep as long. They’ll have to wait until you have hired help.

It’s all chance and whatever you can manage to make happen. You learned to be okay with that, though.

You’ve got plenty of spoons, you tell yourself. Just need to use them wisely.

When you finally close the fridge, now fully stocked with dough ready to proof and bake, you check the clock. It’s still the early afternoon. You finished sooner than you assumed you might. The thought makes you giddy - makes you feel accomplished.

It makes you feel normal.

As you exit into the warm spring sun you take a moment. Ever since you arrived you haven’t been able to just stop. To just take everything in - let the foreign air fill your lungs and the aura of the town sink into your bones.

It’s a lovely little main street that you’re located on. The building to your left is a large family owned pharmacy (very convenient for you) and to your right is an empty brick building. It looks like a former post office, but from what you know the current post office is a few blocks down beside the grocers. It’s quaint, the lot of it.

Your eyes settle on the shop across from yours housed in a simple brick building painted white. The upstairs is an apartment much like yours, you think, but from what you know it currently remains empty. The sign above the door reads A Cut Above the Rest. You wonder if that was Simon or Johnny’s doing.

Would it be weird to go in? You suppose not, after all they came to yours. It’s only fair you give them some patronage as well. Plus you need to ask how the bread was. Hopefully they liked it - you realized halfway through the night that you didn’t even ask if they like sourdough before shoving it into their hands.

That thought kept you up later than you’d like to admit.

You look both ways down the street. This particular spot doesn’t have a crosswalk but the road is so dead even when the downtown is busy you figure it’s worth risking. The lack of danger doesn’t stop you from fast-walking across, though.

The shop’s old-fashioned door bell chimes prettily as you push it open. For a butcher it smells extremely clean - almost clinical. It’s small, with an L shaped display counter and a register at the end nearest the door. Packages of sausage links and the like hang on displays across the back wall. Beside the wooden saloon doors that lead behind the counter is a little dog bed with a very well crafted name plate reading Riley hanging right above it.

So cute.

“Afternoon.” Simon appears from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. You jump a little, so lost in taking in your surroundings you forgot what you came here for.

“H-hi!” You smile. You forgot how intimidating Simon is. His gaze levels you - pins you underneath him like a fly under a swatter. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic. “I thought I’d come check your shop out and ask how the bread was?”

“It was good.” He replies bluntly. Totally monotone. The corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. You decide that’s it’s a smile - whether that’s the reality of his expression or not.

“It’s really nice in here.” You look around. There isn’t much for decoration. The walls are too covered in menus and diagrams of cuts to leave room for anything extra. There’s a shelf of odds and ends opposite the main counter full of high end mustards and condiments. Little things to go with whatever you could think to make out of the varieties of meat they offer.

“Thanks.” Simon nods. “One moment.”

You watch with curiosity and a slight frown as he makes his way into the back. He almost has to duck under the doorway. Old buildings with low ceilings and all that. The place definitely wasn’t made with a six foot plus behemoth in mind. You continue to look around, rocking back and forth on your heels. They have a perfect score on their inspectors plaque. You might not know Simon well, but he seems the type to be absolutely precise about everything. The score doesn’t surprise you.

Yours is almost perfect - some rules are different here than in the US. Next time, you swear you’ll get it top notch! You look across the street at your shop. You wonder if you made the wrong choice with The Honey Bun. It’s bit much now that you see it from afar but it still makes you smile. That’s what matters, you guess.

Simon comes back out with a small, nicely wrapped package. “You don’t ‘ave any dietary restrictions d’you?”

You shake your head and he pushes the package toward you. Your eyes widen - it’s a great cut of high end beef. Like, really good beef as far as you know. Something you’d never be able to afford even if your business wasn’t brand new. You stare between Simon and the little pack in your hands. “Th-this is so nice but I-“

“It’s only fair.” He cuts you off. “Neighbors, yeah?”

You can’t help the grin that splits your face, eyes misting up despite yourself. Kindness has not been a constant in your life - more of a rarity. Something you had to claw and fight to earn. Being given it so freely but such a taciturn man has you reeling just a bit.

“Thank you… I’ve got to head back but, uh, thank you. Really.” You press the small package to your chest. “Tell Johnny I said hi?”

“Course.” He nods.

“Thanks again!” You grin, giving a little two finger salute before practically skipping all the way back into your dingy little apartment. Happily, you pack away the meat to use later. It’s too nice to just make any dish out of - best to save it for a special occasion. Your first gift in your new life. Best to savor it.

~~~

“Afternoon, bonnie.” Johnny appears in your doorway while you sweep up from the Saturday rush, bell chiming upon his entrance. “Hope I’m not a bother.”

“Not at all.” You smile, resting the broom on the counter. “Hello to you as well, Miss Riley.”

She huffs out a quiet bark in reply, sitting dutifully at Johnny’s feet. You don’t have much experience with service dogs - other than the well known rule not to pet them while they’re working. They were always too expensive for you to get and your condition wasn’t labeled serious enough to warrant financial aid. (Despite the fact that you can, and have, passed out and hit your head on something hard.)

“Can I get you something?” You ask.

“Och, I’m a’right. Just wanted tae stop by an’ say hello before headin’ home.” He gives you that dashing, bright grin. “Simon always kicks me out of the shop at close.”

“He doesn’t need help?” You ask. Surely cleaning up a butchers shop is a huge task. You have your work cut out for you with all the flower - you can’t imagine cleaning that amount of blood and mess.

Johnny shrugs. “The cleaning chemicals trigger my migraines.”

You hum. “Well, you’re always welcome to stop by. Actually,” you turn on your heel, “I’ve got somethin’ I’d like you to try, if you want.”

“Never one to say no to food. Especially from a pretty girl.” Johnny says as he follows. He tells Riley to stay in front and she listens - the perfect little lady that she is. You nearly trip at his comment, keeping your back turned so that he hopefully doesn’t see the heat spreading from your face and down your neck.

“I-it’s, uh, you ever had American biscuits?” You ask, praying he doesn’t notice the shake in your voice. You have to get on your tip toes to reach the small basket you made the day prior - carefully lowering it and pulling back the gingham cloth you wrapped them in.

An image of home.

“Aye, had them once on a layover at some chain diner.” He nods. “Donnae think they were fresh, though.”

“Well these are proper biscuits.” You carefully cut one in half with ease. “Sometime I’ll have to make you some gravy to go with.”

“Yer gonnae make us fat, hen.” Johnny chuckles.

“There are worse things to be.” The words come out more defensive than you would have liked. An automatic mechanism - a harshness you've honed over the years.

You hate how easily you wield it, sometimes.

Johnny leans forward over the table, a furrow in his brow. “I dinnae mean-“

“Here.” You cut him off and hold out the biscuit on a napkin, smothered with butter in the middle.

Johnny lets your interruption go. Probably happy for an out. He takes the fluffy baked good slowly, cupping it in his large hand with care. You wonder if he always does that, touches things with such gentle love. Is it learned? Is it just natural to him? Does he touch Simon like that? Gentle caresses?

What’s that like?

Johnny takes a massive, enthusiastic bite. Somehow his blue eyes manage to sparkle even more, grinning as he chews. “Sh’gew!”

You laugh at his attempt to talk around the food. “Glad you like it.”

He swallows roughly. A full body gulp. “Why’d ye start bakin’ anyway?”

“My grandparents raised me.” You fold the biscuits back up in their little basket. “My grandma taught me how. She was the best in town - won the pie contest almost every year.”

“Tha’s lovely.” The smile he gives you is so genuine it makes your chest constrict.

“Mean old bat but she could beat anyone in the kitchen.” You laugh. “We swore she had some kinda magic. Like a green thumb but for cooking.”

“My mum’s like tha’. Can make anythin’ out of nothin’.” He nods along.

You fall into an easy back and forth - never breaching anything deeper than the most surface level of content as he eats. It’s manageable. Johnny doesn’t push and neither do you.

Riley barks from the front of the shop.

“Och, tha’s my queue.” Johnny brushes off his hands and checks the front of his shirt for crumbs. “Take care, aye?”

You smile. “You too.”

~~~

Johnny’s words keep ringing in your ears. You don’t know why. It’s nothing special. There’s no reason to attach to them. You raise a hand to wipe off the fog and stare in the small mirror hung above your bathroom sink.

Pretty girl.

You scoff. You’re not a pretty girl. You’ve never been a pretty girl. Fat girl. Stupid girl. Sick girl. Tired girl. Sad girl.

That last one you’ve heard more than anything else. Out of all the descriptors of you it stands out as the most used. By everyone from teachers to your own family. Always just a sad, sad girl.

You got it from your mom, they’d say. It’s not like you would ever know.

You rip your eyes away from the mirror and try to let the thoughts melt away as you sink into the comfort of your blankets. Those thoughts live back on the other side of the Atlantic. They don’t get to follow you here.

[mydearlybeloathed]

── 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a mission to recover your prized research from your greedy ex-employer goes awry when you, the crew's pacifist, decide to join the fight in the name of saving your beloved captain. when you awake from your near-mortal injuries, luffy demands to know why you put yourself in danger, and you're not sure you can answer him.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: luffy x gn!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: title from cariño by the marías, description of injuries, angst and fluff, researcher!reader, requested

𝐚/𝐧: i really liked writing this 🙆 thanks for the request! sorry it took a minute 😃

𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Luffy didn’t know if he should try to hug you or get as far away from you as he could. Did you want him to go? Did you want him to stay? He tired gouging it from your face, but all he found was indifference, your fingers toying with the edges of your latest read. 

“Say what you think,” he finally said. Luffy pulled up your desk chair and sat across from where you sit cross-legged on your bed. 

Your lips pursed, brows meeting. “I think… I think all of this is stupid.”

Luffy had to fight back the instinct to disagree, unsure if that would bode well when your usual easy smile was nowhere in sight. But it wasn’t stupid, not to him. Not when it concerned you. “That guy stole your research.”

A strangled laugh left you. “I can rewrite the journals. I can do more research. I…” You clapped the book shut and set it aside, eyes on the ground. “I can’t get a new Luffy.” Your cheeks burned instantly. “Or—or a new Zoro, Sanji, and Usopp.”

He ducked down to catch your gaze, startling you into looking right into his warm eyes. He tried a tiny grin. “We’ll get your journals back, okay? Years of research can’t be lost like that.”

That’s what he’d been saying since your old employer finally caught up to you—you and your seven years of study. Mister Fike thrived off the work of others, loafing off people who once trusted him and his dream of an enlightened, freely educated society. 

Bullshit. All of it. The moment you realized he only wanted your research for his own gain was the day you started running—and what luck you had to run right into Monkey D. Luffy. 

Perhaps it was foolish to think Mister Fike would allow so much money to just slip away, but then maybe you were foolish. He’d caught you unguarded in the dead of night, docked at an out-of-the-way port, and swept away with all the data and observations you’d spent so long crafting. Your life’s work, gone in the blink of an eye.

Your hand grazed your cheek where a bandage covered the cut Mister Fike had given your face—his only warning before you were frozen into fear and let him walk away. 

Mister Fike would do much worse if Luffy got in his way. You clamped shut your eyes and pleaded, “Don’t. I can start over, Luffy. It’s not worth the risk.”

He stayed a moment in quiet thought and you nearly hoped Luffy was hearing you out, until he opened his mouth. “‘Cause you’re pacific, right? That’s what Robin said.”

You blinked at him before a half-amused smile rose to your lips. “Pacifist, Luffy. I’m a pacifist.”

“I just don’t get it. You’ve fought before.”

You shifted at the unpleasant reminder, memories flashing in your mind of a time your hand had been forced. “Because I had to.”

Luffy sighed and sat in thought, taking in your nervous twitching before he caught sight of your desk, where papers were scattered across the surface from where you’d searched for any notes you had left. Your life’s work, stolen from you. One day your research was going to help people—it was your dream—and by the gods, Luffy was not going to let some asshole take that from you.

“We know where to find him,” Luffy said, standing. He met your widened eyes. “Nami was able to track him down pretty easy.”

You lurched forward and caught his hand, rising quickly. “Please. Don’t do this. I can’t risk it.”

Luffy simply cast your hand a look before he was prying you off him, squeezing your fingers as a less than reassuring smile took his face. “Then I will.”

He turned swiftly and made for the door, already back in his head about how he would go about tearing Mister Fike apart when a loud thump had him swiveling around again. You stomped across the floor, collecting your shoes and the bo-staff you hardly had any use for, spinning it around sharply to test your rusty skills. You settled him with a firm glare with nothing too real behind it. “If we do this, we do it together.”

And just like that he was a kid at Christmas, bouncing on his toes as he hooked his arm through yours and started hurrying down the hall, your staff clanging against the walls. “We never fight together! This is great!”

You failed to share in his optimism, trying with everything in you to keep the looming dread at bay. 

જ⁀➴

Your whole body locked up at the horrifying crack of a skull under your staff, and you swiftly defended your actions to your own self. They attacked me. I had no choice.

You just had to get through this battle without looking too long at the red splotching your weapon. 

Mister Fike’s ship hadn’t changed much from when you’d frequented the place. The halls were a bit dustier, though. No wonder he needed your research so bad. There was no one left to take advantage of.

Past the third deck security, you flew down the hall, muscle memory taking you back to Fike’s office. The plan was simple. Get in, get out. Simple. You had nothing to worry about.

Zoro’s familiar shadow suddenly ran up beside you, dragging a relieved gasp out of you. “Oh, thank God.”

He cast you a grin. “I figured you’d want some help.”

Just as the warmth set into your chest, the whole ship tilted sharply before righting itself. Gritting your teeth, you glared at the ceiling. “Luffy!”

“Keep moving,” said Zoro, ushering you along. He busted down the door to the office and sent it splintering around the room. 

“Right, right…” Mumbling kept you steady as you rushed around the office, rifling through drawers and papers till the tell-tale baby blue of your logbook came into view. You pressed it to your chest in a short embrace, sighing deeply.

As much of a fight you put up, your research meant the world to you. Getting it back meant even more. Luffy knew that. Maybe you could consider forgiving him, later, when you’re off the ship and back to safety. 

You and Zoro made it to the main deck in record time; the southern part of the ship just started to tip beneath the waves. Gravity dragged you down, teetering precariously on your heels when Zoro’s hand grounded your shoulder. You murmured a thanks and bolted across the tilting deck. The crew gathered on a level spot, allowing you to catch your breath—before all of it was stolen when you noticed someone was missing.

“Where’s Luffy?” you demanded needlessly as moments later chaos erupted farther up the ship at the helm. Luffy faced Mister Fike, each man contorted by a terrifying rage. Fike’s strength might’ve been great, but surely he was no match for Luffy. Your blood ran cold as you noticed a flash of silver in Fike’s smile. In his wide maw, three rows of rotating teeth glinted in the sun. A zoan-type fruit, perhaps. “That’s new…”

You stood paralyzed alongside your friends, eyes locked on the fight as Luffy lunged at Fike, the man in turn snapping his jaws and narrowly snagging Luffy’s arm. You jolted forward, the only thing stopping you being Nami’s hand closing round your wrist. “He can handle it,” she snapped, her face betraying her panic. 

A guttural scream struck the air. Luffy’s right arm was trapped in Fike’s teeth while his left tried to pry the shark man’s jaw open. Shock shot through everyone before it hit you, your heart dropping. Nami shouted as you took off at break-neck speed, not a thing on your mind aside from the need to help him. Fike’s henchmen—your old colleagues—struggled to stand from where they’d been beaten to a pulp, their efforts useless as you jumped over their heads and reaching hands. Feet pounding across the steel deck, you swept up to the helm, leaping over the last step to find Fike tossing Luffy aside. The boy rose from the ground slowly, chest heaving, eyes blazing. Luffy would terrify you if he didn’t mean so much to you.

“Fike!” You raised your bo-staff and marched toward him. His slitted eyes took you in like a last meal. 

A laugh rumbled in his chest. “Looks like someone got their sea legs! Last I saw you, you were bent over the side of this very ship emptying your lunch.”

Luffy murmured your name, drawing your attention as he stalked toward Fike. His arm was practically in shreds, flesh torn and bound to scar. “Let me handle this.” He chanced a look at you, eyes softening. “You’re not a fighter.”

“I can be,” you breathed, resolve solidifying. You set your jaw and faced your old employer, taking one step at him just as Luffy’s arms grabbed your middle and flung you behind him. “Luffy!”

“Stay back.” His tone left little room for discussion, and the way his eyes flashed at you had you frozen in place, not able to stand. 

Watching from the ground, your blood boiled at each strike and slash Fike took at your captain—your friend. The future King of the Pirates. Fike’s eyes darted to you every other move, glimmering like he wanted you to watch. Like Fike expected you to sit by and do nothing. 

You’d been a pacifist most of your life. Ever since your home and half your village were burned to the ground due to the actions of quarreling pirates and marines, you made a vow to never be one to perpetuate such violence. You’d done pretty well at keeping that vow, going out to spread knowledge to those who couldn’t access it on their own—and then you met Mister Fike, who tricked you into thinking he wanted the same as you, for everyone to get the chances you never had as a child. But Fike was a liar, the kind of liar you hated the most; the kind who burned down people’s lives with their selfish lying. 

Finding Luffy was both a saving grace and an inevitable end to your vow. He was kind and just and generous, and you loved being on his crew dammit, but he asked things of you you weren’t sure you could give. Things like fighting. You almost heard his cheery laughter and litheful voice now, saying, “Fight for what you believe in, for the people you love, and you won’t have anything to regret!”

A sharp gasp left you breathless as Fike nearly caught Luffy’s head in his jaws. Luffy grabbed at Fike’s razor-sharp teeth, prying them back open even while in the shark-man’s grasp. 

Luffy asked many things of you. Things you wanted to give him. Like fighting for those you care about and care about you in return. You hated violence with a burning passion—but perhaps you loved Luffy more. You rose to your feet and lunged forth, bo-staff catching Fike’s gut. Fike lurched back and snarled, throwing Luffy aside to zero in on you instead. You sent hit after hit at him, driving him back all while he kept that smug grin on his maw. 

Angry huffs of breath puffed from your lips until Fike caught you staff in his fist, cracking it between his jaws. Luffy grunted your name and your eyes found him instinctively, guard dropped as soon as you spotted him in a lump a few feet off. Fike grabbed you instantly and suspended you in the air, his claw-like hands constricting your diaphragm. He leered right in your face, tongue passing over his lips. “Should’ve listened to your friend.”

Letting slip a growl, you snapped your head forward to try his own tactics, biting his oblong nose sharply. A nasty metallic taste filled your mouth causing you to recoil, gagging. Fike’s grip loosened for all of two seconds before you could no longer breathe, his large hand crushing your torso till a horrifying crack rang in your ears, followed quickly by another, and all at once you hit the ground in a lump. Choked whimpers fled your lips as you curled in on yourself, too focused on your breathing to think about Luffy bellowing your name.

You forced every inhale, the action pinching something in your chest. God, you’d never felt pain like this. Panic surged up your body till it hit your brain—Chopper once yelled at Sanji for his broken ribs, needing to check if his lungs were damaged or impaired. Oh god… You sucked in a breath only to whine it back out and tug at your constricting shirt, sweat beading along your skin.

Through foggy vision and fuzzy ears, Luffy’s voice was the only thing louder than the terrible ringing and ache wrought throughout your body. The pain preluded the numbness that blazed through your ribcage, leaving you unable to breathe quite right but without the pinching to blame it on. Two arms scooped under your shoulders and legs, lifting you into a broad chest. The shifting of your body dragged out a strangled cry. “‘M sorry… ‘M sorry…”

You blinked up to find Luffy’s face silhouetted by the sun blazing behind him. You murmured his name and Luffy picked up his pace, ignoring Nami berating him, ordering him to slow down. He couldn't! He had to get you to Chopper. He chanced another look down at your face to see if your brows were any more pinched just to find your eyes shut and expression relaxed. 

“Why’re they sleeping?” he demanded, bounding up the Going Merry’s gangway with Zoro hot on his trail. “Wake up. Gotta wake up so Chopper can ask what’s wrong.”

“They can’t hear ya, Luffy,” Zoro said evenly. He gripped his captain’s shoulder and guided him in a quick pace to where Chopper would be held up in the galley. 

Luffy gritted his teeth, no longer occupied with watching where he’s going, only focused on you. “Then they need to wake up.”

Zoro had both his hands on Luffy’s shoulders, jerking him down the hall and pushing him into the galley. “They will. Give ‘em a minute.”

From the way Zoro said it so softly, Luffy had a feeling it would be longer than a minute.

You woke from a surprisingly restless sleep far later into the day, when the moon peaked up over the horizon and the sun retreated to her home beyond the sea. The very first thing you noticed was that you weren’t dead, which was something. You sure felt like you were dying, but maybe that was due to your lack of experience being mortally injured. The others seemed to be used to it, breaking bones and ribs like it’s an idiotic game. Did this draft you into that game? If so, you had the sense you were losing.

“Good!” Chopper popped through your bedroom door, beaming at you. “You’re awake!”

A gentle smile graced your lips. “Hey, Chop.” A brief glance at the wall clock, and face fell. “You should be in bed.”

The reindeer shuffled toward you, waving his hooves dismissively. “I couldn’t sleep, not till I know you’re all right.”

Warm affection for your friend burst through your chest. You tried to prop yourself up but nearly immediately you settled back down, your torso aching sorely. “Thank you.”

Chopper checked over your chest, feeling here and there for anything still out of place. “You’ve got two broken ribs, but nothing punctured or damaged.”

“Lucky me,” you laughed, fizzling out to a cough. Chopper patted your shoulder, his brows met.

“Don’t overexert yourself,” he stressed. “I’ll get you some water.” He pattered back over to the door, hummed, and peeked back around. “Uhm, Luffy’s awake too.” You blinked widely, unsure what to say. Chopper simply smiled. “I’ll go get him!”

“Wait, Chop—Ah!” One hand on your side, you squeezed shut your eyes and laid back down slowly. “Bad idea. Bad idea…”

You plopped your head back and stared at the ceiling, straining to feel the way the ship rocked on the waves. Left and right, gravity shifted on the rolling waters, calming your suddenly racing heart. Minutes passed, and another figure appeared in the doorway. You lolled your head to the side. Luffy’s eyes stuck to the floor as he entered, his hands fidgety at his sides. 

Too exhausted to break the silence, you waited, beckoning him closer with a flick of your hand. Luffy only took one step, gaze raising to your own. “I got rid of him—Mister Fike.” 

You nodded, trying so very hard to release the tension building in your shoulders. You didn’t care to know what he meant by that at all. Pursing your lips, you steeled yourself to attempt to sit upright one last time. Luffy jumped toward you, hovering his hands over your struggling form, finally taking your arm and helping to prop you up against the headboard. You murmured a thanks, but Luffy only stared at you, eyes flickering over your face, a thousand thoughts behind those eyes. 

Sighing deeply, you took the bait. “Spit it out, Luffy. What’s wrong?”

He narrowed his eyes like it should’ve been obvious, sucking in a breath and shoving the words out. “You shouldn’t have risked yourself for me.”

A small fire lit in your heart, right where Luffy usually occupied it. You raised a brow in challenge. “But you’re allowed to do the same for me?”

Luffy replied a curt, “Yes.”

You rolled your eyes to that. “Ridiculous. You ask me to fight and when I do, you tell me I shouldn’t. Pick a side, Luffy.”

He plopped himself down on the edge of the bed, face hard as he formulated exactly what he wanted to say in a way that made sense. “I asked you to fight, not get hurt.”

“If the roles were switched, you would’ve done the same.” Your hand found his. “You have done the same. You’re my captain and above that my friend. I regret nothing.”

Luffy stared at how you cupped his hand in both of yours, his eyes drifting to the dark bruising around your midsection. “Just don’t do it again.”

You deflated like that, dropping his hand and shifting away despite how it hurt. He didn’t understand, and you weren’t sure how to get him to. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

Luffy didn’t know what that meant, but he knew he didn’t like it. “Fine. You don’t have to talk to me anymore.” He made to stand when your eyes widened, not expecting him to actually walk away, and you reached out to grab his arm. A grunt slipped past your lips, causing him to whip back around.

“Luffy.” He froze, hearing the difference in how you said his name now, like a plea instead of the usual reprimand. “I had to compromise my values today.”

A brief apology flashed across his face. “I—”

“Even if you hadn’t asked me to,” you cut in sharply. “I would have done nothing different. Don’t ask me not to risk myself for you because it's useless. I’d do it a hundred times over.”

He assessed you carefully, skeptically. Desperately? “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?” You chuckled wryly.

“I do.” You gazed into each of his eyes, the words so far out of reach, buried beneath months of excuses.

“You know why.” He had to. Your eyes implored him to see right through you like he always had before, to see how your heartbeat sounded like his name. You knew Luffy was smarter than anyone gave him credit for, so he had to know you loved him. But… Luffy just stood there, confused as ever, breaking down your hope. “Do I have to spell it out?”

He blinked. “That’d be nice, yeah.”

You gave him a long, hard look, trying to gauge if he was serious (of course he was) and promptly set your jaw. “I… care about you. In ways I didn’t think I could care about someone.” You averted your eyes. “I don’t regret breaking my vow of peace, because I did it to help you. I’d do anything for you. And I…”

Eyes shut tightly, you wondered if that was enough spelling out before he finally got the message and put you out of your misery. The sooner he knew, the sooner he could tell you you’re an idiot and you could both move on like it never happened. You didn’t expect Luffy’s warm, warm hands to take your face so gently, eyes baring into you hotly. 

It was unfair of him to have such pretty eyes. Despite their chesnut-y hue, they reminded you of the sea. Wild, reckless, filled with unabandon. You envied him when he looked like this. Luffy loved with every muscle in his body, unable to hold anything back, and you… you weren’t like that. You held your cards flush to your chest, discomfort chilling your skin with every piece of your heart you gave away.

He smiled at you now; not the bright, beaming ones he shot around willy-nilly. Luffy’s soft smile caught you unawares, drawing you in like a moth to a fervent flame till your lips parted and a tiny sigh left you. His lips curled up, almost teasing as he said, “I know.”

“You know?” you asked, brows met.

“Yep,” he replied, popping the p. “You’re not as sneaky as you think.”

“Oh?” You scoffed. “Really. And what exactly do you know, Captain?” 

Your breath hitched at Luffy’s sudden proximity, his forehead meeting yours in a skin-kiss you only ever read about in your silly romance novels. You squeaked rather embarrassingly, “Luffy?”

Your captain’s smile never faltered as he leaned into your ear, whispering, “I know you like me.”

Eyes blown wide, an awkward laugh erupted out of you, your hands pushing him away. “O-kay. Ha! Real funny, Loof.” His hand pressed right over your heart, only worsening the sporadic and slightly concerning rate of your heartbeat. “L-Loof… Luffy, don’t do that.”

One beat, then two. Luffy’s eyes drifted up to meet your own, his hand dropping to his side. His brows rose just so. “So you don’t like me?”

A firm no rose to the tip of your tongue and fell right off, leaving you to choke on nothing. Luffy looked at you so earnestly it was painful. “I…” You couldn’t say it, no matter how his eyes asked you to. Perhaps there was one thing he asked you couldn’t do. “You need sleep.”

“You need to be honest,” he snipped back. “You know I could’ve handled it. Why did you help me?”

Warmth flooded your cheeks under his gaze. “If you know everything then why be so mean to me, huh?” Again you shoved him off, wincing as your chest muscles pinched. “If you know I love you, then why interrogate me? It’s unfair! You know I can’t say it! I’m not like you! I broke a few ribs saving your ass, so what? I’d do it again! Why the fuck are you laughing?!”

Chest heaving, you sniffed and wiped at your damp cheeks, heartbreaking as all Luffy did was throw his head back and laugh. Crestfallen, your waterline dotted with anguish. “Go—Go away, Luffy.” Is this what he wanted? To humiliate you? Fine. You won’t bother next time. You’d let the next shark-man snap his pretty face off. See if you cared. 

The tears spilled over, Luffy’s smile dwindling down to something barely there. “‘M sorry. You’re just… funny.”

An afflicted laugh tumbled off your lips, hardly believing any of this was real. Luffy’s left hand clasped around yours, tightening when you fought out of his grip, and his right reached to wipe away the tears glittering down your cheeks. Your face scrunched up as you swatted at him, falling apart. “Fuck off.”

“I love you too.” The words seized all the breath left in you, which wasn’t a lot, leaving you to gasp it all back in. 

You shook your head slowly. “What?”

His finger poked your forehead. “You said it first.” Blinking perplexedly, you replayed all that you had spat out, mortification shadowing your face… until Luffy’s own words eclipsed your own.

“You… what?”

“I’m sorry for laughing,” he grinned, making work of drying your face before he sat back on the bed, legs crossed. “And for calling you funny.” He glanced away, fiddled with the bed covers, and snapped his eyes back to you. “Can you say it again?”

You heard your heart in your head, feeling every swipe of his fingers against your skin as he took your hands, chasing away all discomfort surrounding those little words. From the way he smiled, you felt he wouldn’t mind if you didn’t, and something in that sparked a need in you. You sucked in a breath, letting it out as a forceful, “I love you.”

Luffy grinned blissfully, letting out another tiny laugh, kissing the backs of your hands. A hesitant smile rose to your face, ready to meet his, and with your bottom lip between your teeth, you risked scooting over, shyly making him room beside you. Luffy wasted no time in slipping in beside you, careful not to hurt you. Not a word passed between you as his skin flushed against yours. Each touch was tentative, new, yet strangely familiar. He sparked up a conversation like nothing had happened at all, asking about what you’d do with your research when it was all complete, telling you about his whale friend Laboon and how you’d get along. 

Right as your eyes grew fluttery, the morning sun peeking in through the window, Luffy lifted his head from the nook he’d made of your neck, prying you away from sleep. “Yeah?”

“If you’re gonna get hurt for me,” he mumbled, “don’t pass out. You scared the shit outta me.”

You carded your hand through his hair, pushing him back to lie down with a laugh. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭:

@100520s

[me-owte]

Wedding dance

Sol knows how to ballroom dance.

"Again." Sol says, hand squeezing your hips as the other one on your shoulder moves ever closer to your neck. With a sigh, he looks down at your feet. “I told you pumpkin, you need to follow my lead for this to work.”

He’s frowning, as if he has the gall to be upset despite the horrible things he’s put you through to get to this point.

Sol moves again, gracefully despite your stubbornness. His hands are gentle, and they carry your weight through the dance he forces you through. You wonder where hands capable of such horrors learned such a beautiful dance.

His upset makes you angry- furious even. How dare he act like he was wronged when he took you from your home. When he murdered your own beloved. When he collared your neck in a desperate attempt to keep you from leaving.

How.

Dare.

He.

The hand on your hip moves to your right, attempting to lace his fingers through your own to continue the dance. Your attempts at dissociation are futile.

How could you ignore his disgusting fingers tapping on your skin. The way his perverted gaze crawls over your form in a sick attempt at imitating love. The way his body clearly reacts pleased with your forced. submission.

How.

Could.

You.

You've attempted to escape several times before.

When he first captured you, your entire first week was spent crafting a meticulous escape plan. To keep him distracted, you'd crush the sleeping pills he drugged you with in the first place into his drink. Then, you would tie him up using the sleeves of his own clothes. After running for his home- you planned on reporting him to the police, blaming Hyugo as an accomplice because there was no way he didn't know where you were.

You never made it past the front door.

“I’m doing this for us, pumpkin,” Sol bends down, ignoring your tears and terrified whimpers. He moves your hair to the side, smiling softly as if you were a beauty laying in the shining sun. “You just have to calm down.”

You fight back through the gag, thrashing against his touch like it burns on your skin. At this, he frowns, muffling his brows as if it’s just a minor inconvenience in his way. Sol sighs, before a sickening smile comes onto his face.

“Pumpkin~ Pumpkin~” He says, and his hand trails down to your neck, putting pressure ever so gently. “I told you.” His fingers trace against your pulse point, pressing slightly with each sing songy word that leaves his mouth.

You still your thrashing, fear crawling up your spine at the touch of his hand. You look into his eyes. Dilated pupils shining with perversion. His smile twitches with delight. The tips of his ears are colored red as his breath heaves at the sight of you. He enjoys your fear.

“Do I need to remind you just who your husband is, pumpkin?”

You never should’ve given him that stupid nickname.

Your annoyance reaches its height. How could you just let him do this to you? You turn away, causing him to fumble his steps. He lets go of you, thankfully. A foot stands between you two, Sol regaining his bearings as you turn to gaze at the door. You hear him stand up.

"Ah, careful pumpkin-" he says as if it was an honest mistake.

Have his delusions reached such a point that he can't point two and two together?

You refuse to speak, refuse to follow properly, refuse to do anything other that’ll give him the satisfaction of you giving in. You can only imagine his hand is outstretched to you, a lovesick smile on his face as he begs you to fall back into the dance.

Silence is what follows, from you, from Sol.

“Pumpkin?” He says. You hear him walk up to you, body heat emanating the closer he comes. His large arms envelope you from behind and you stiffen up. He’s so tall that he has to bend down to reach your neck, and his lips touch you as he does. “You okay?~” Sol whispers by your ear, a smile in his voice.

He knows you have no choice other than to submit.

But you don’t say anything, instead frowning as you feel him move your body to face him. Sol looks down at you and bites at his lip, smiling at your lack of resistance. “You’re perfect.” He says, plain and simple.

His hands slide down your arms, and he brings his body flush against yours. You feel his heart beating against yours, the outline of the key around his neck pressing mockingly against your form. Once again, Sol intertwines your hands, and sways you to move with his whims.

“We’ll do this every day, okay?” He moves backwards and you can’t do anything but follow. Your footsteps don't feel like your own.

“Until it’s time,” Sol takes one of your hands and spins you around, catching you by the waist before you could stray too far. Every part of your body that he touches feels like it's withering away by the instant.

“And we can dance for the first time with me as your husband~” He muses, pulling you close and kissing at your ear. You feel sick.

“The wedding will be perfect.” You can’t do anything but let him believe.

What else can you do, when anything other than pure submission will result in more and more consequences of his overbearing love?

Banner credit

Play TKATB here!

Not entirely proud of this but what can ya do.

[ddawnee]

hobie’s seen some of miles’ graffiti work and took interest in it himself, so one day he asks miles if he could spray paint a spider on one of his plain tees to give it pizazz.

usually, miles isn’t really worried about his graffiti art being perfect; but this time it’s different. hobie’s cool as hell, what if he doesn’t like the finished product? that’d destroy his ego.

so he’s been circling around the t-shirt that laid on the floor, shaking a can of black spray paint for about ten minutes now. it was simple, really; all he needed to do was a circle and then the spider on the inside, but he couldn’t bring himself to start just yet, because what if the circle comes out lopsided, or he doesn’t make the spider big enough to fit four legs on each side?

it didn’t really help that hobie leaned against the wall in front of miles, observing miles circle around like a nervous mess.

“miles.. you good?”

“huh?”

“you’ve been doing..” unsure of what to call it, hobie motions with his hand, “this, for the past ten minutes. do you like.. need some inspo?”

“oh no, it’s not that, it’s just..” he isn’t sure how to cover it up, so he just is honest, “i don’t wanna mess it up, it’s gotta look nice.”

“it’s fine, no big deal if it’s messy.”

“you sure?” miles stops his pacing, looking down at the blue tee. it was modified, the collar and bottom hem messily torn off to fit hobie’s style more, and now miles felt a bit stupid for overthinking his craft; hobie was all about messy!

“yeah, the shirt don’t got any sentimental value for me yet, so i’m not gonna get mad if you absolutely fuck up the spider.” hobie shrugs.

miles raises a brow. “yet?” he’s really curious about what that means, and even finds himself hoping it means what he thinks it does.

he totally isn’t sure why though, of course.

“yeah, right now this shirt is just like, basic.” hobie starts, and miles doesn’t realize it but his voice gets a bit softer. “it doesn’t really have a meaning, but once you give it your touch it gets its value, because it’s your craft that you’re giving to me, y’know?”

there’s a lot more that hobie wanted to say, but he couldn’t get the courage to do it. he realizes he kind of went off on a tangent, and possibly annoyed miles, if it weren’t for the wide eyed look on the boy’s face. “sorry, that was a bit too much.” he grimaces.

“oh, oh no, it’s fine!” miles reassures the other, a smile on his face. “i appreciate your appreciation a lot.”

he shakes the can of spray paint, a hint of determination in his eyes as he looks at the tee once more.

[guess-my-next-obsession]

Halloween, 2004

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader (Elementary-verse)

rating: F (joel’s a flirt, but no actual smut, a good amount of early y2k nostalgia for my fellow ancient gen-z/millennials)

wc: 1k

series masterlist

October 31st, 2004

“Cutest little hobbit in the whole world.”

You couldn’t help gushing over your newborn daughter as she slept in her swing. You’d just finished carefully slipping on her first halloween costume, one that fit in with Joel’s chosen theme for the year—The Lord of the Rings. You’d decided to go as Arwen, the counterpart to Joel’s Aragorn, and had spent a pretty penny crafting the costumes from scratch. You’d always been a DIY kind of kid growing up, and even though it had been tempting to take the easier route and buy one of the cheap costumes from Party City given your newly hectic life as a mother, it felt a bit sacreligious to turn your back on your old ways.

Sarah had politely declined taking part in the family theme this year, choosing to dress up as one of the Cheetah Girls instead, but took enough pity on her pouting father to agree to dress up as Legolas for one singular picture. A picture that was never to be shown to any of her friends, as per her request.

“Oh my god,” she said, covering her mouth as she descended the staircase in her best elven getup, a white, synthetic lace front half-hazardously thrown over her freshly corn-rowed braids. “Dad’s gonna die over this.”

You laughed and nodded your agreement as you pulled out your new digital camera—one you’d splurged on for the upcoming holiday season—to snap a picture of your two girls. “Ten bucks says he cries a little.”

“Fifteen says he cries a lot,” Sarah countered as she tried her best to hide her face from the camera. “I thought we agreed on one picture.”

“One family picture,” you corrected with a smirk. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come trick-or-treating?”

She gave you a deadpan and pretended to gag, earning an eye roll from you. “God no. Besides, Jessie and I are working at the library’s haunted house. But save me some candy.”

“Luckily for you, Iris doesn’t have teeth yet, so it’s all yours,” you said. “But can’t promise she won’t put up a fight in a couple years.”

“Yeah, well I’ll have her trained by then,” she said, flickering some of her straight blonde hair over her shoulder.

Joel’s truck pulled into the driveway shortly after Iris woke up from her nap, you and Sarah cozied up with her on the sofa as you watched Hocus Pocus on Disney Channel—your pick, not Sarah’s. When Joel stepped through the front door, he was met with the sight of two elves and a tiny hobbit sprawled out on the sectional, a bowl of popcorn in his eldest daughter’s lap and a bag of candy in his wife’s. His grin was glorious.

“Have I died and gone to Middle Earth?” Joel said, shaking his head as he walked over to Sarah, kissing the top of her head before doing the same to you and then finally, his newest baby girl. “You’re gonna make my damn heart explode, baby girl. Look at these hairy little feet.”

He rubbed her socked feet between his thumb and index fingers, chuckling at the fuzz you’d glued on.

“And you,” Joel fixed his attention on his first born, his dimple showing with how hard he was grinning. “You make an excellent Legolas, baby girl.”

“I’m taking this thing off as soon as you guys take that stupid picture,” she said, souring her face. “This wig is itchy and cheetah print is calling my name.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joel said, rolling his eyes as he scooped Iris out of your arms. “We get it. You’re a cool teenager now, too hip for family costumes.”

“You guys could’ve been Cheetah Girls, too,” she said. “I would’ve been on board, then.”

“I don’t think your dad could pull off cheetah print, babe,” you said, standing up and setting your bag of candy on the coffee table. You didn’t miss Joel’s eyes appreciatively scanning over your costume, a devious glint in his eyes. “Come on, papa. You have a costume to get into.”

Joel shot you a wink before handing Iris over to Sarah, mumbling a promise that the two of you would be right back. A promise that you doubted he’d keep given the look in his eyes.

You hardly made it to the privacy of your bedroom before Joel hand his hands on you, tugging you close to his body as he placed a few greedy kisses to your lips.

“You’re keepin’ that on tonight,” he said, nipping at your chin.

“Long as you keep yours on, too,” you purred, gently scratching at his scalp as you melted into him. “My king.”

Joel groaned, swatting your ass through your dress. “I’m gonna have you kneelin’ for me later, that’s for damn sure.”

You giggled, swatting at his chest as you pulled away to grab his costume from the closet, setting each piece on the bed—wig, included.

“I ain’t wearin’ that,” he chuckled, but all it took was one pout from you to change his mind. “Fuck me, fine. But the second that thing starts to itch, it’s comin’ off.”

Once he’d gotten his costume on and took a good look at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sighed.

“Yeah, you’re definitely gonna be on your knees tonight for makin’ me wear this fuckin’ wig,” he grumbled, though you were too amused to care. “How do I look? Royal?”

“You look good with longer hair,” you mused, playing with the wavy ends of his wig. “You should grow it out one day.”

He scoffed. “Maybe one day when I’m old and my devilishly handsome looks have gone to shit.”

“I don’t know,” you said, biting your lip as you gave him a once over. “I’m pretty sure you’re gonna be devilishly handsome to the day you die, Miller.”

“Good thing my wife’s a ten, then,” he said, leaning in to brush a kiss against your lips. “Wouldn’t want to outshine, ya.”

You tossed your head back and laughed, earning another kiss to the base of your throat. “God, I love you.”

“Love you a thousand times more, darlin’.”

[perlelune]

Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | iv.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

“Oh, do you mind if we take a little break?” Clemensia asks almost as soon as you’ve begun working on the task she gave you. You blink, a little confused as your gaze roams across the table. There’s still so much to do. You’re not sure if the girls are just that slow but it’s clear that it will take at least a few hours to get all of it done.

But Clemensia is in charge of the ball committee. You don’t picture yourself telling her what to do or how to do it. After all, you are an outsider. A foreign element infiltrating their ecosystem. You have to play by their rules.

If they want to take a break, who are you to argue with that?

You begin to rise.

“Oh, a break, sure…”

Clemensia’s lips pinch as you try to follow them. “It’s just that…we’ve been doing this for so long, all by ourselves. I even broke a nail.” She pouts, showing you her hands. “But it needs to be finished today.” She nibbles her bottom lip and sighs, eyes pleading yours. “If no one stays behind…”

You mull it over. While you’re not thrilled over the idea of working on the decorations by yourself, you did just get here. You suppose you could hold the fort while they stretch their legs…or whatever Clemensia and her friends like to do when they hang out.

“I guess I could stay,” you concede.

Clemensia flashes you a broad grin.

“You’re so sweet,” she chimes. “Thank you. We won’t be long, promise. Ten minutes tops.”

You shrug and return to your chair. Ten minutes. That sounds reasonable. You pick up the scissors and start cutting more of the tree shapes. 

“No problem.”

But one issue arises. 

The promised ten minutes expand into thirty. Then an hour. Then two. At first, you don’t let your mind dissect it too hard. It’s a stupid thing to overthink, isn’t it? A silly thing to chop into pieces until your mind bleeds with doubt and insecurity. You surmise it was more of an approximation. People do that all the time, say something while meaning another. At least you believe they do. Besides, you find ways to keep yourself busy, even getting started on the sparkly globes lying on the side of the room. You figure out how to use most of the tools on your own and get wrapped in your own bubble of quietness. 

Silence is a familiar companion, the one constant that never judged you, never asked for more of you. In your Silence, you get to be you. Nothing more; nothing less. So you let yourself sink in its warm, snug embrace.

Still, somewhere in the back of your mind, thoughts meander passively… What is taking them so long? You steal a glance outside the window. Orange and purple hues are already bleeding into the sky, a sign of the evening nearing its end. 

You retrieve your pocket watch from inside your skirt. A frown wrinkles your brow. At a time like this, you would usually be home, curled up with Walter on your bed as you go over your notes for the week. It often takes you hours just to decipher the course transcripts. 

“Wow, you did such a great job,” Clemensia whistles from behind you. 

You gasp and whirl. All smiles, the girls fill your sight.

They approach the table and examine some of the decorations you put together on your own. Realization sweeps through you as the fog of your thoughts clear. It didn’t hit you before, not until you absorbed the current state of the crafts table, brimming with the results of your solitary labor. You’ve been busy. Spinning crystal balls, pine cones, silvery garlands and a heap of snowflakes meant to hang on the walls and ceiling. Clemensia admires your handiwork, seemingly impressed. 

A little peeved, you point out, “I mean…had you guys even started? Most of the decorations needed to be cut, glued or assembled…”

“I have delicate hands,” Livia sighs, examining her manicured nails. 

“I’m very slow, sorry,” Ivy says apologetically.

Your frown deepens. Was this whole thing a setup? You sacrificed precious time to be here and you shudder to think the entire purpose of your presence is some kind of childish prank. 

Coriolanus’ words echo in your mind. He argued the girls weren’t like that and that they left the immature tricks back at the Academy. You truly want to believe that none of this is designed to embarrass you, that perhaps, again, all of this is in your head. But your aching fingers, sore from doing crafts most of the afternoon, suggestotherwise.

Unleashing a sigh, you gather your satchel and head towards the exit. 

Clemensia obstructs your path, holding up her hands in apology. 

“I know we should have been back earlier. I’m so sorry. We ran into the Dean and it turned into a whole thing.” She seizes your hands, remorse twisting her pretty features. “I feel so horrible. I invited you so we could do it together as friends.”

Your shoulders slump. As you soak in the look of genuine contrition on her face, doubts lurk inside you. Your confidence about being the victim of some prank wavers. Perhaps, you overreacted. Incidents happen. Besides, the chances of you joining Clemmie’s committee are slim, as you’re already swamped with assignments. A promise was made and you kept it. But this likely will be a one time thing. School dances are at the bottom of your priority list right now.

So you discard it all with a wave of your hand and a contrived smile.

“It’s okay. No apology needed. It’s not your fault.” You note how much darker it’s gotten outside. “I should go back home though. It’s already so late-”

Clemensia stops you again, her hand tightening around yours as she offers excitedly, “Wait, you should come to game night at Liv’s.”

“What?” Livia snickers. Clemensia shoots her a withering glare and the blonde clears her throat, correcting herself, “I mean…yeah, you totally should come.”

You fidget and adjust the strap of your satchel. You may have heard whispers of those game nights. Mystique surrounds them as only a few chosen people are invited to attend. You, of course, were never invited. And it isn’t hard to gather how Livia feels about you coming from her reaction. Why force your way into places where you aren’t wanted?

“I’m already behind on my revising for the day. If I don’t go over my Molecular-”

“Boring,” Ivy sings sarcastically.

“Don’t be mean, Ivy,” Clemensia scolds, elbowing her in the rib.

Clemensia tilts her head, her tone turning beseeching.

“Please…I really want to get to know you better.” She huffs out a long breath as she seems to sense your hesitation. The brunette leans closer, hands clutching your forearms. Sympathy twinkles in her onyx orbs. “You know, I used to be a lot like you. Always striving to be the best at everything I do.” A hollow giggle slips through her lips. “It’s how I got in trouble with your mother actually…I wanted to win so badly and she decided to teach me a lesson.” Sadness pinches her delicate features. “But by always striving for greatness, you miss out on life. I learnt that during the Games...”

“...Surviving isn’t living.”

She studies you before saying, “And it’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Surviving.”

Eyes on the ground, you chew on your lip. You never imagined someone like Clemensia Dovecote - the most beautiful, popular girl at the University - could feel this way…let alone relate to you.

“Clemmie…”

She hunkers a little so your eyes meet.

“Come on, I really want to make up for today.” She laughs. “Show you I’m not a bitch.”

“I don’t think you’re a bitch,” you say.

She places her palm on your cheek. “See? You’re so nice. That’s why I want us to be friends.” She bends over your ear, the words she mutters almost too quiet to be heard, “I can barely stand those two on most days, but appearances must be kept.”

Your gaze swings upward, shock pulsing through you.

She beams at you. “It’ll be an intimate gathering of just a select group, close friends. We play cards, chat, and have a few drinks. That’s it.”

Your forehead creases.

“I don’t drink.”

Squeezing your shoulders, she assures you, “Then I’ll make sure not a drop of alcohol passes your lips. Promise.”

“It’s casual, I swear. You can even leave early if you want.” 

This grabs your attention, as you aren’t sure you’ll make it through the night without craving to return to the safe, familiarity of your apartment. The potential for escape makes the offer far more enticing.

Obviously, Clemensia cares about you showing up. While you don’t fully grasp why, you also never had anyone go out of their way to spend time with you. During the Academy days, everyone avoided you like the plague, either finding you odd or fearing you were as terrifying as your mother. The University doesn’t seem much different so far, groups having already formed from previous camaraderie. Bonds that were forged years ago and cemented over time while you endured in the back of the class. The forgotten one. And you always figured it is the most you can aspire for. Being ignored and left alone.

Until now.

“Really?”

Clemensia’s smile widens.

“Yes. You can stay as long as you want and leave.”

“I don’t have anything to wear to a party,” you muse, pursing your lips. Your tiny, limited wardrobe has always prioritized function over fashion. There are your Academy uniforms, a few loose, unflattering clothes you rotate between. A single formal dress more suited for a funeral than a game night. Nothing impressive because you never had anyone to impress.

You also have no sense of fashion, the trends shifting too quickly for you to keep up. So you’ve stopped trying to. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out,” she chimes. “The girls and I always get ready at each other’s house anyway. And you’re one of the girls now.”

You peer down at you and Clemensia’s entwined hands. One of the girls. No one’s ever spoken about you that way. As if your mere presence made something better, uplifting it instead of leading it to its ruin. As if you were solid, more than a wisp of air, a waste of breath. As if you mattered. So, despite the sizzling weight of Livia’s blue eyes on you, you smile back at Clemmie and give a bashful nod.

Your eyes feast on every detail of Clemensia’s living room as you enter her home. Her parents’ apartment is every bit as large and opulent as you imagined. Every exquisite detail screams wealth. The unabashed, showy kind that stoked the embers of bitter unfairness in the Districts, leading the Capitol to where it is today. A city risen from the ashes. Your attention lingers on the expensive artwork exposed in glass cabinets. A lot of it appears to be memorabilia from before the war. You’re willing to bet the combined value of every overpriced trinket in the house could feed an entire District. Paintings of Clemmie’s illustrious ancestors hang over the damask walls, their stern stares seeming to follow you. Almost as if they were ready to leap from the eroded gilded frames and berate you for being an intruder in their family home.

Clemensia tugs you along.

“What are you dawdling for? Come on,” she urges. 

You trail behind her as she takes you to her bedroom. You smile when you see it. The somber, tasteful hues are so very her. The hinges of her wardrobe whine as she opens the large, wooden doors. A vertiginous row of clothes crowd your sight. You gawk, a little amazed but also slightly terrified. Who needs this many clothes? A sour expression scrunches her features.

“I know,” she sighs, placing a hand on her hip. “This is a little embarrassing. Most of these are soo last season.”

You tilt your head at her dizzying collection of shoes, clothes, accessories…the kind a legion of girls would kill for.

“Right,” you blindly agree. Nevermind you can’t even tell the difference. You glance around. “Shouldn’t Livia and Ivy be here too?”

Her brow twitches as she sits on her massive canopy bed. She pats the spot next to her and you awkwardly plop down. The plush silk and soft mattress dip under your weight.

“We decided to meet later,” she reveals. She pauses, a heavy sigh fluttering through her painted red lips before adding, “Besides, I told them to be nicer to you and they got upset and pretended not to know what I was talking about.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

She waves her manicured hand dismissively.

“No, don’t be. This isn’t your fault.” Clemensia licks her lips, her face etched with reflection, as if she were assessing the weight of her words before releasing them. Her hand settles on your arm.

“Look, here’s the thing. Livia’s had a crush on Coriolanus since he returned and they had a sort of fling.” Your mouth drops open. This is news to you. You didn’t catch any hint of lingering longing between the two back at their lunch table. But now that you’re mulling it over, perhaps…Perhaps, Livia’s eyes kept seeking Coriolanus’, while his treaded their own path, never crossing hers. “Things were going pretty well...for a little while. But then, you came along.”

Your brows furrow. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Clemensia’s bell-like laughter resonates in the room.

“God, you’re a sweet thing…just like Snow said.” She beams at you. “Don’t worry. Liv will get over it. She’s all bark and no bite, trust me.”

Her attention travels to the dark fabric peeking from your bag.

“What’s that?” she asks, pulling out the garment.

“The only dress I have.”

She inspects it with a displeased frown.

“Were you planning on wearing this?” She shakes her head as your mouth clamps shut. “Oh, this will not do.”

She takes your hand and drags you to her wardrobe. Brow wrinkled in concentration, she rummages through a numberless heap of garments.

“I have some clothes that my cousin left,” she explains while frantically searching. After a while, victory flares in her orbs. She unhooks a sleek, crimson dress with a tight bodice and flowing sleeves from a hanger. She holds it against your body, chiming, “She’s about your size so they should fit you.” 

“I can’t accept this, Clemmie.”

You attempt to push her hands away but the brunette shoves it in your arms, insisting on you at least trying it on. You press the soft fabric between your fingers. It’s more revealing and form-fitting than you’re used to. You gather it would cling to your body like a second skin…one you aren’t used to wearing. Still, you must admit that it’s a lovely dress. One that could look good even on you. Temptation claws at your resolve, digging deeper and deeper grooves, right into every insecurity you ever had. That thing other girls had that always eluded you. That little secret you were never privy to. The key to that door that never opened. The dress is the key. And you find yourself unable to resist turning the lock to find out what secrets lie beyond that mysterious door.

Beneath Clemmie’s eager stare, you remove your clothes and slip on the dress.

Smug satisfaction hovers on her lips as you peer at your reflection. Words fizzle out on your tongue. You are looking at a complete stranger.

Clemmie rests her chin on your shoulder. “See? I knew it.”

She then has you sit at her vanity to help you do your makeup. Do your makeup…The words sound alien even in the private confines of your thoughts.

As she draws a neat black line over your eyelids, she says, “It hasn’t been long since makeup’s returned to the Capitol again. It used to be near impossible to find.” When she’s done, she turns you towards the vanity mirror. “Those colors will bring out your eye shape and color.”

The air leaves your lungs in a quick rush. You lean closer to the mirror, once again in disbelief that you are truly looking at your own face.

Fingers twisting the delicate fabric of the dress, you pivot to Clemmie.

“Why are you so nice to me?” you blurt out.

Her eyes widen briefly before her expression softens.

“You remind me of me.”

Confusion surges through you. There is an ocean of glaring differences between you and Clemmie, one you couldn’t swim through if you tried. 

“What?”

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t always this confident.”

Your brows knit, Clemmie’s statement making little sense. If confidence wore a face and had a name, it’d be Clemensia Dovecote’s.

Gripping your shoulders, she turns your focus back onto your dolled-up appearance.

“Alright. Look in the mirror, what do you see?”

You blink. You see a girl playing dress-up, pretending, but you don’t utter those words aloud. They sound lame, even in your own head.

“Nothing,” you tritely respond, dipping your head.

She lifts your chin, moving her head to disagree.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Her eyes twinkle. “I see infinite potential. So stop selling yourself short.” Covering her mouth, she laughs. “His jaw is going to drop.”

“Whose jaw?”

She smirks at you. “You know whose jaw.”

Heat sneaks inside your face.

You fidget in the chair. It’s not like what he thinks matters, right? He is no one to you, just that boy with the unsettling blue stare who won’t leave you be for some strange reason. 

So why is there a tiny shiver of excitement coursing through your veins when the thought of him seeing you like that permeates your brain?

A vigorous gust of common sense sweeps away your wayward musings. 

You don’t care what he thinks. Of course you don’t.

“I-It’s not really my style,” you stammer as you get to your feet.

The sparkle in her onyx orbs doesn’t waver.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have a style yet…so how would you even know?”

“Shouldn’t we be at Livia’s already?” you ask, hoping to steer the conversation in another direction.

She considers you as if you were the most endearing thing in the world. She grabs your hands. “Here’s another rule. Never be on time for anything.” A haughty smirk creeps upon her red lips. “Make them wait for you, not the other way around.” She cocks her head. “One of the things about confidence is knowing that you are the sun, and standing in your orbit is a rare privilege.” She scoffs, “People should feel lucky you even bothered showing up.”

 She approaches you and touches up parts of your hair, visibly elated with the result.

“Perfect,” she trills. “Like I said…potential.”

She herself finishes getting ready. As you absently meander about her room, the doorbell chimes. 

Clemmie pauses as she applies powder on her face. She sets aside her makeup tools and escorts you to the lobby, arm threaded with yours.

“Must be our chauffeur,” she states.

Your eyes round. “You have a chauffeur?”

She cloisters herself in cryptic silence, humming as she drags you along.

When the brunette swings the door open, a towering, familiar figure darkening her doorway, time hangs still for a few seconds.

Your mouth opens wide enough to catch flies.

A smug smile unfurls on his lips.

“Angel,” he greets, gaze locking with yours as he completely ignores Clemmie.

Her sharp irritated tone shatters the spell.

“You’re late, Snow.”

Coriolanus snickers. 

“As if you’re ever on time.”

You trail behind Clemmie as she and Coriolanus keep bantering, his presence still swaddling you in sheer shock. When she tries to take the passenger seat, he drapes a placating hand over hers.

She rolls her eyes and begrudgingly heads to the back of the car.

He opens the car door for you. Recalling the fruitlessness of arguing with him, you climb into the seat. Still, saying you feel awkward riding in the front while the brunette is sulking in the backseat would be a massive understatement.

Few words can accurately describe how peculiar all of this is for you.

“You look surprised,” Coriolanus notes as he takes his own seat and slams the door shut. Your heart misses a beat when his hot breath caresses your earshell. “I did say I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

You look down at your lap. Breathing is laborious, the air in the vehicle coated with the lingering smell of his pricey cologne. You are literally choking on Coriolanus Snow with every breath you take.

“Will you just drive, Snow?” Clemmie snaps, crossing her arms.

“Relax. Patience is a virtue,” he says, not sparing her a glance, zeroing in on you instead. The drumming of your heart swells to an uproar in your ears when he reaches across your body. You hold still while he ties your seatbelt for you. Blue eyes rake over your form in brazen appraisal, his deep voice lowering. “And good things come to those who wait.”

[kaisaerinlover]

michael kaiser

married life

tw: toxic relationship, abusive

you and your (not so) beloved michael kaiser finally decided to tie the knot. well, he decided, and you obliged. because what else are you supposed to do? you wouldn’t ever betray him, everything he wants is what you want too. he has you so well trained, doesn’t he? you went along with it because of how docile you are, how you’re basically putty in his hands. but you also had your own selfish reasoning, but you aren’t ready to admit that to yourself yet. no, you hoped that if you became his wife, maybe, just maybe, the tenderness he sometimes showed would be more common, the nosebleeds he bestowed upon you with his cruel fists would subside, the gentle nature he has somewhere inside of him would come out more often.

unfortunately for you, that’s not how michael kaiser works. and i think you know that too, don’t you? so why do you keep up the hope? you’re a true masochist, and he’s a true sadist. a very dangerous pair. dangerous for you, the one who subjects yourself to kaiser’s brutality willingly (it seems that way these days).

don’t get him wrong, kaiser yearns for love, yearns to be loved, yearns for you to keep on loving him ‘till the very end. and he knows you will, because you don’t have any other choice. michael kaiser is truly a master of his craft, a skilled manipulator and a very intelligent man. and now that you’re his wife, things really became a whole lot easier for him. he knows he has it drilled into your pretty little head that the only thing good for you in this world is him. him, him, him, him, him. pleasing him. loving him. being with him. being so sweet to him after he’s so mean to you.

he loves you and you love him. so why does the love he feels for his cute wife manifest in the most atrocious of ways? you know, he’s always making dumb excuses for why he’s this way. he thought if he was loved he would stop, then he thought if he got a girlfriend he would stop, then he thought that if he married you he would be able to stop too. he’s ran out of excuses now. he’s fucked up, all that psychology he’s polished up on throughout his life, all those books on human traumas and emotions, they should have made him realise what he really needs is the drive to change and a therapist a million times better than the average one. but he’s a little ignorant too, in that sense. or he was, he realises it sometimes, but he ignores it.

and besides, he’s not exactly one to complain about the arrangement you guys have. especially after marriage. you became so much more perfect, he didn’t even know it was possible. you’re the perfect, doting little housewife. and you’re all for him too, so cute, so docile. you like it too, but kaiser made you. you’re a little too stupid, a little too trusting and a lot too in love with kaiser to realise it. if you were just a little bit more intelligent than the girl he first met, he’s sure you would have realised something was seriously up by now. but it’s fine, ‘cause wits were never your strong point, nope, your sweet obedient nature was. and kaiser likes that.

you’re a great housewife. and he’s a great husband, you think. you’re in the kitchen, cleaning up, wearing a sweet little outfit kaiser bought for you. he’s so generous, he doesn’t have to spend money on you, yet he does. isn’t he just the best? so expensive too, he spends his hard earned money on you? isn’t your husband seriously just the best? you’re dressed in a cute vintage style dress, hair tied up into a cute ribbon and a cute pair of slippers and socks to go with it. haha, you don’t even realise it, but you’re playing right into kaiser’s weird fantasy. he always had a thing for housewives, everything. so now he has you dressed as one cleaning the kitchen whilst he’s hard at work. maybe he’s so obsessed with this dynamic because he never had it himself, his mother packed up and left as soon as he was born, of course. and his dad was an abusive sack of shit. fucking bitches. pieces of shit. ah, he’s getting worked up. he shakes off that feeling.

today, he tried to release as much of that pent up rage into the match. and he won, as always. he’s the emperor of the world. he wanted to get out all of his anger, because what he wants more than anything today is to be a normal couple with you. but that’s not going to happen, it never does.

he walks in, “where is mein engel, hm?” he stands waiting at the door, waiting for you to come greet him like you always do. after getting married you established this new routine. and you do come, you come so quickly to him and stand on your tip toes to kiss his cheek oh so lightly. “micha, i missed you sooo much” you bat your eyelashes at him. he has you trained so well, it’s impressive. you’re like some cute puppy, you’re actually incredibly well trained. he thinks he should indulge in this idea some time, he just likes any scenario where you’re completely submitting to him. but he shakes that thought off, he won’t get distracted for too long.

he wraps his arm around your waist and walks you to the couch, where he sits down and you stand in front of him, between his legs, looking down at him so innocently. you’re confused, maybe you’re not as well trained as he thought, because you sure don’t know what he wants right now. maybe a glass of wine? you go over to the wine cabinet and pull out a glass and pour in some wine.

kaiser is waiting impatiently, he trained you properly, didn’t he? so why the fuck aren’t you going along with what he wants. god, it’s pissing him off. he sees you walk away, ah, maybe you’re finally going to cook dinner as he wants. he picks up the tv remote and turns it to the bltv channel, today will be perfect, he’s going to simply sit with you, watch some soccer and then eat some nice homemad-

and there you are, standing in front of him looking oh so innocent holding out a glass of wine to him. are you fucking serious? you’re kidding right? you’re definitely doing this on purpose, don’t look so innocent. you’re just trying to piss him off, aren’t you? you fucking bitch. “what is this?” he asks you. he’s angry, but he’s being eerily calm. “wine, i thought you wanted a glass?” are you being dumb on purpose? no, you definitely did this to anger him, didn’t you? ah, he’s so mad now. “and why would i want a glass of wine, after such a long day of playing. wouldn’t i want a meal, hm? dumb girl” he patronises you. and you feel so small. “

but you do something unprecedented, something you haven’t ever done before… you have a… reply? you actually talk back? “y-yeah but how can i know what you want-“ enough. he’s even angrier now. why the fuck are you talking back to him instead of bowing and doing what he told you to do. you retarded whore. what the fuck? all that calmness is gone, he’s gritting his teeth.

poor you, you thought you could reason with him before he got mad, he seemed so calm. stupid, naïve you. you thought he wasn’t mad and now you’ll pay the price.

he knocks the glass out of your hand, the glass shatters everywhere, cutting your hand slightly. the wine pours on you, staining you red. and if that wasn’t bad enough, his fist hits you square in the nose. the pain doesn’t even register until you feel the first drops of blood, and then see them on that cute dress kaiser bought for you just days before. he’s towering above you, staring you down. you messed up, didn’t you? “you don’t talk back to me. ever. i didn’t teach you that. next time, keep your pretty mouth shut. you fucking bitch. did you forget your manners? that’s not how a girl like you should be acting. should i just find a new girl, hm?” he’s holding your throat with his tattooed hand. find a new girl????? no, don’t do that micha!!!! don’t do that to you, you didn’t mean to. but now you’re even doubting that, you definitely meant to. you just didn’t realise it. or something like that… it’s your fault.

he slightly releases the hold on your neck to let you talk, you have a chance to make things up with your words. a very slim chance. because he probably won’t care about what you have to say, whether it’s an apology or not. but he’s letting you talk, so use the opportunity before you get a black eye next too. “i-i’m sorry. i’m really incompetent” you don’t even make any attempt to grab his hands off of your throat, or even wipe up the blood streaming down your pretty lips. “i’ll not mess up again micha, i promise.”

your blood is covering part of his tattoo now too, he notices it and withdraws his hand, and laps up the blood. he always had an affinity for your blood, you taste so sweet. he likes tasting the hurt he’s caused you. it’s fulfilling, this is how he likes living. he loves hurting you, he doesn’t like admitting it often though, ironic for a monster like him. for some reason, that anger subsides. he’s not as mad anymore. maybe he’s going to apologise to you? you’re actually kind of hopeful for that, the small, rational part of you that knows it wasn’t your fault. but that part perishes as quickly as it was lit up. he ruffles your hair with his other hand and wipes the rest of the blood his tongue couldn’t quite clear up onto your rosy cheek. “it’s fine, don’t mess up again, ‘kay? i was nice this time, wasn’t i? you’ve had worse from me before. don’t take my mercy for granted, prinzessin.”

you’re so lucky for getting that mercy, thanks kaiser, isn’t he just so nice? you don’t even know how he managed to forgive you for such a horrible mistake. you’re a shitty wife, thank god your husband is so nice. and, ah, that dress, the one kaiser generously bought for you, it’s all ruined. all stained in the wine and blood. you ruined the dress with your incompetence. you messed everything up, god, why did he even marry you? you’re so stupid, and good for nothing.

he can tell what you’re thinking, he feels a little bad, but he’d rather you beat yourself up over it than him. it’s easier that way anyway. he pats your head again. “poor little thing, all bloodied up because of her own stupidity.” he chastises, and you look down in shame. he’s right, you’re so stupid. “let’s go get you cleaned up, little häschen.” and he does, he leads you to the bathroom sink, sits you on the side, and cleans the blood from you. he almost flinches at the newformed bend in your nose, and the bruise which just seems to be getting darker and changing between shades of nasty blues and purples every second. yikes, he forgets how delicate you are compared to him sometimes.

all you can think about is how generous he is, he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet. that’s how nice he is. and he’s bandaging you up too, a cute bandage to hide that hideous bruise. he wants to hide your mistake for you? that’s even sweeter, he doesn’t want you to look in the mirror and feel bad for it, right? that’s what he’s doing right? your husband really is the best.

and that night, you make up for your mistake. you serve him his favourite bread crust rusk, and a nice glass of water. get him changed into his robe. tie up his hair. give him blue-red glasses so he doesn’t hurt his eyes. you pamper him, ‘cause that’s what he deserves. you pamper him whilst ignoring that banging headache from the brutal assault on your nose. and the bruise on your neck. and arms. and legs. all from past outbursts of his. you tend to him and treat him like a king even though you’re so injured, but you’re too brainwashed by your husband, too eager to be the perfect housewife so he doesn’t leave you, and you end up ignoring all of this.

kaiser knows what you’re thinking, predictable little thing. he thinks you’re real stupid. he’s the one that should be scared of you leaving, he couldn’t ever find anyone better than you, anyone more willing. you’re perfect. but he won’t tell you that. he won’t give you an ego. keep being scared of being left alone, so that every second you spend with him you’re even more grateful. he’s scared too, but he’s confident most of the time you’re going to stay. he feels a little guilty for everything right now, ah, it’s one of those times. the weight of his actions presses heavy on him, but instead of taking it out on you again, he just pulls you next to him, opens his robe and drapes one side over you, feeds you a spoonful of your home cooked rusk and pinches your cheek affectionately.

“good girl, schatzi. so good. i love you. du gehörst für immer mir.” he nibbles at your ear a little.

and you just sit and blush. “i-i love you t-too micha, ‘s much.”

you’re the luckiest wife in the world, thank gosh your husband is so willing to put up with your incompetence and stupidity. being a wife is so great. you lean your head against his shoulder, and whilst you’re being so tender with each other, you can forget about all your physical pains caused by him, and he can forget about all of the things weighing and stabbing at his mind at all times, caused by everyone. you’re truly his safe place. a real angel sent from heaven.

“engelchen.”

[keikikait]

Hi!

I loved Home Movies so I was wondering if you could do another Steve smut. Something where he gets jealous and gets really rough with the reader?

Thanks!

ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴇ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

if you want to read my other steve smut, click here!

pairing: steve harrington x f!reader (au (but still the 80's), but both are early to mid 20's)

word count: 3.3k

summary: you wouldn't actually go out with jason...would you?

warnings: SMUT WARNING 18+!, friends/coworkers to lovers, jason is a shithead, VERY SLIGHT reader x jason, dom!steve, sub!reader, p in v, birth control is not mentioned but is implied (wrap it b4 u tap it gang), use of the word 'slut' once, cunnilingus for a second, nipple play, steve can get kinda rough, SLIGHT orgasm denial, creampie, cum eating mention (?), not proofread

a note: i don't think i slayed with this...

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

It was an abnormally quiet Friday night.

You sit at the counter of Family Video, making paper stars out of a McDonald's straw wrapper, waiting for either a customer or for the clock to strike 10pm so you could finally close. Whichever came first.

Steve walks around the store, sweeping up quite literally nothing, just trying to find a way to kill the last 15 minutes before close. He had already faced the VHS tapes, restocked the candy, and put away the returns. Part of him wishes he just didn’t do it all so quickly.

“Where is everyone?” Steve finally breaks the silence, leaning against the counter, setting the broom against it. “I thought it was Friday night.”

You shrug. “Maybe at the game.”

Steve scoffs, propping himself up on his hands. “Who would pick spending their Friday night watching a basketball game over watching a movie? I mean, A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge just came out last month!”

You sigh, folding over the strip of paper, continuing to craft your star. “Maybe they don’t want to watch a horror movie in December.”

Steve groans, dramatically leaning against the counter again. “Save me from this boredom, please, pretty girl. I just want to go home.”

The door opens and the bell dings.

“Hi, welcome to Family Video.” You both say simultaneously. 

You look over the counter, pushing on your elbows to see around the shelf. Jason Carver lazily walks in, hands shoved in his letterman’s jacket pockets as he glances around. You immediately lose interest, sitting back down on the stool. You start to work on your paper star again.

“Hey man, what's up?” Steve greets Jason casually, leaning back against the counter. All things considered, they were friendly with each other. They were old teammates in high school, after all. He glances at the clock - still ten minutes left until closing time. “What happened to the game?”

Jason shrugs nonchalantly as he approaches the counter. “The game ended early and now everyone's heading to the after party.” He pauses, glancing between you and Steve. “You guys coming?”

Steve frowns slightly, looking over at you, still engrossed in your origami project. “Uh, I'm not sure yet. Might head home, actually.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Really? Passing up free beer and babes for a night alone? That's not like you, Steve.”

“Yeah well…” Steve trails off, shrugging. Jason’s gaze shifts to you. He leans on the counter, tapping his hands on it. 

You sigh, sitting up straighter. You hated these stupid fucking barstools. “I’m not going either, Jason.”

Steve’s eyebrows raise as he leans closer. “Oh yeah? Got plans tonight, then?” His tone was curious, but there was something else there…jealousy perhaps?

No. Of course not.

You shake your head. “Nope, just not feeling up for it. I’m tired.” You look back down at the straw wrapper, continuing to fold it. You were almost done.

Jason scoffs, tapping the table. “Well, that’s shitty. The hottest girl in our entire college is sitting my party out. What’s the world coming to?” Your nose scrunches slightly. You already didn’t like Jason, but the way he was talking about you was leaving a sour, vinegary taste in your mouth.

You sigh, rolling your shoulders. “It’s not my scene, Jason. You know that.”

Jason stares at you for a moment, taking you in. He wasn’t admiring you, he was looking at you hungrily. “Come on, sweetheart. Not even for me?”

“Not even for you,” You say. “Parties just aren’t my thing.”

Steve frowns at Jason's comment, crossing his arms. "Dude, come on. Don't be a creep." He glanced over at you, trying to convey sympathy through his expression.

Jason laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “What? I'm just inviting her. No need to get all defensive.” He turns back to you, smirking. “You know, if you change your mind, you're always welcome at my place.”

“I appreciate the offer,” you reply dryly. “But I think I'm good.” You finish folding the straw wrapper into a tiny star and set it aside, trying to find something else to do. Anything to avoid looking at him.

Jason turns his attention back to Steve momentarily. “You know, Nancy’s gonna be there.”

That causes Steve to tense up slightly, his jaw clenching. “She is?”

“Yeah, man.” Jason says. “Heard she and Byers are taking a break. This is your shot, man.”

Steve clears his throat, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I guess I might swing by for a bit then. Do you think I could convince her to get back with me?”

“Yeah, dude, totally.” Jason says, picking up the star you made. He rolls it between his fingers. “She’ll be all over you before midnight. You know, I heard she still wears underwear with the days of the week on them.”

Steve chuckles, standing up from the counter. “She wasn’t when she was dating me.”

Something in your stomach twists at the idea of Steve getting back with Nancy. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Nancy, you did, you just thought they were over. You thought that you and Steve were starting to feel something for each other, always sending each other flirty glances during your shifts. He even called you ‘pretty girl’. Apparently you were wrong.

You press your lips together. Might as well shoot your shot with Jason, right?

“You know what, Jason?” You suddenly interject, leaning across the counter. “Maybe I do wanna go.”

Steve looks surprised at your sudden change of heart, raising an eyebrow. “You do? I thought you weren't feeling it…”

Jason grins, tossing the star back onto the counter. “Told ya, Steve. My parties are where it's at.” He leans closer to you, your faces almost touching. His breath smells of menthol cigarettes and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop from gagging. “You wanna come with me, baby?”

Gross. “Yeah, I’d love to.” The lie flows off of your tongue quickly. 

Steve watches the exchange between you two, a mix of confusion and disappointment on his face. He places his hands on the counter. “You want to go with Jason? Of all people? You don’t even like Jason.”

“I’m right here, man—”

“Maybe I like him now.” You cut Jason off. “You don’t know me better than I do.”

Steve scowls, clearly unhappy with the situation unfolding before him. “Whatever, suit yourself.” He straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just don't say I didn't warn you.”

Jason reaches out, lightly slapping your cheek. “I’ll let you close up, sweet thing. I’ll be outside.”

He leaves as quickly as he arrived, the bell dinging as the door shuts.

You both close the store in silence. You count the register before putting the money in the safe as Steve shuts the door, puts up the barricade, and turns on the alarm. 

You can feel him staring at you as he approaches the counter. You look over at him. “What?”

Steve huffs, running a hand through his hair. “You're really going to go with him? After everything we've...talked about?” He steps closer, his brown eyes intense. “I thought maybe there was something between us. But I guess I was wrong.”

His gaze drops to your lips briefly before meeting yours again. There's a flicker of hurt and confusion in his expression. “Fine. Go have fun with Jason then. See if I care.” He turns away, dismissing you.

“I’m only going with him because you’re going to get back together with Nancy.” You admit, walking around the counter to stand in front of him. You had no reason to lie. “As if I would actually be caught dead with Jason out of my own volition.”

Steve stops in his tracks, turning around to face you fully. His eyes narrow, a hint of anger flashing in their depths. “Excuse me? You think I'd choose Nancy over you?” He takes a step closer, his voice lowering. “Is that what this is about? Jealousy?”

The air between you crackles with tension as Steve looms over you, his presence overwhelming. You can smell the lingering scent of aftershave, mixed with a faint hint of cologne. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you worry he might lunge at you.

But instead, he reaches out, gripping your chin firmly. His thumb brushes against your lower lip, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “Listen to me. If I wanted Nancy, I wouldn't be wasting my time with you.”

“You say that yet you never do anything, Stevie.” You say. “Jason is at least honest that he wants me.”

Steve's grip on your chin tightens slightly, his brow furrowing. “Honest? Is that what you call it?” He releases you abruptly, stepping back and raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “Jason doesn't give a damn about you beyond using you for his own entertainment.”

He sighs. “And as for me, maybe I am hesitant to make a move because I don't want to ruin what we have. We work well together, pretty girl. Let's not screw that up over some misplaced feelings.” Despite his words, you notice the way his gaze lingers on your lips, the slight flush creeping up his neck. Steve is struggling with his own desires, torn between caution and the undeniable attraction between you.

“My feelings aren’t misplaced.” You say. 

Steve's eyes search yours, a mix of longing and uncertainty in their depths. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, the silence heavy with unspoken emotions.

Finally, Steve exhales slowly, dropping his arms to his sides. “Okay, fine. Maybe they're not.” He takes another step closer, until he's mere inches from you. “But what happens after we admit these feelings? We both know our lives are complicated enough without adding romance to the mix.”

He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch sends shivers down your spine. “Tell me, pretty girl, what do you want from me?”

“All I want is you.” You say softly.

Steve's breath catches at your confession, his hand stilling against your cheek. His eyes darken with desire, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he struggles to maintain control. “You don't know what you're asking for,” he warns, his voice low and rough. But despite his words, he leans in closer, his face mere inches from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the intoxicating scent of his cologne enveloping you. Your heart races, anticipation building in the pit of your stomach.

“Last chance to back out,” Steve murmurs, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Because once I kiss you, there's no going back.”

You lean up and kiss him. 

As soon as your lips meet, the world seems to fade away, leaving only the electric connection between you and Steve. He groans softly into the kiss, his hands coming up to cradle your face as he deepens the embrace.

Tongues dance, tasting and exploring, the passion between you explosive. Steve pulls you flush against his body, his hardness pressing insistently against your belly. You can feel the heat of his arousal, stoking the flames of your own desire.

Breaking the kiss, Steve rests his forehead against yours, panting heavily. “Fuck,” he whispers hoarsely. “I want you so bad it hurts.” His hands slide down to your hips, squeezing possessively. “But we need to talk about boundaries and expectations. This isn't just a one-night thing for me.”

“Fine by me.” You say breathlessly. 

A slow, wicked grin spreads across Steve's face at your agreement. He captures your mouth in another searing kiss, his tongue delving deeper as he pushes you against the counter. 

“You’re so cute, you know that?” Steve whispers against your lips, nipping at them playfully. “I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.” 

With that, he claims your mouth again, kissing you with a fierce intensity that leaves you breathless and aching for more. His hands slip under your shirt, palming your breasts as he teases your nipples into hard peaks through the fabric of your bra. You moan softly, pressing against him as your thighs clench. You reach out to grab his biceps.

Steve grinds his hips against yours, letting you feel how hard he is. ���Feel what you do to me, baby?” he purrs, nibbling on your earlobe. “I'm gonna make you feel so good, you won't ever want anyone else.”

His hands slide down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze as he lifts you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, the heat of his erection pressing against your core. He carries you into the manager’s office, shutting the door behind him. He clears a space with one hand before setting you on the edge.

"I want to taste every inch of you," Steve murmurs huskily, trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck. He tugs at the hem of your shirt impatiently. "Can I take this off? Please?"

You nod eagerly, lifting your arms to allow him to remove your shirt. Your chest heaves with each ragged breath as his hungry gaze roams over you. You bite your lip, watching him with wide, eager eyes.

The sight of your perfect tits encased in lacy lingerie makes Steve's mouth water. “Goddamn, baby,” he breathes reverently, reaching out to trace the swell of your cleavage with a fingertip. “You're fucking gorgeous.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Unable to resist, he dips his head, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the tops of your breasts. His tongue darts out, teasing the sensitive skin above the cups of your bra. “Let me see all of you,” he pleads, looking up at you with smoldering eyes.

His hands find the clasp of your bra behind your back, deftly unfastening it. The garment falls away, revealing your hardened nipples to his appreciative gaze. “Beautiful,” Steve whispers, cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms.

“All yours.” You say breathlessly. 

A low groan rumbles in Steve's chest at your words. Leaning in, he draws one taut nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. His other hand kneads your neglected breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

He lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other, sucking and licking until you're writhing beneath him. Your fingers thread through his hair, holding him to your chest as jolts of pleasure shoot straight to your pussy.

“Stevie…” you whimper, arching into his touch. “Please…”

Releasing your nipple with a wet pop, Steve looks up at you with a devilish smirk. “What do you need, baby? Tell me what you want.” His hand drifts lower, teasing along the waistband of your jeans.

You lift your hips, biting your lip.

Steve chuckles lowly, the sound sending vibrations through your heated skin. He pinches your nipple roughly. “Words, pretty girl.”

“Please eat me out!” You blurt out.

“Mmm, someone's eager,” he purrs, popping the button of your jeans and slowly dragging down the zipper. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of both your jeans and panties, tugging them down your legs in one smooth motion. Tossing them aside, he settles between your parted thighs, his breath ghosting over your slick folds.

“You're so wet already,” Steve marvels, running a finger through your slit. He brings it to his lips, sucking your essence clean with a groan. “Fuck.”

Spreading your thighs wider, he lowers his head, flicking his tongue out to taste you directly from the source. “Oh fuck, yes,” he moans against your pussy.

You let out a sharp gasp, your back arching as his tongue delves into your pussy. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping tightly as you grind against his face.

Steve laps at your dripping pussy like a man starved, his tongue plunging deep to claim every inch of you. He suckles on your throbbing clit, the suction making your vision blur with pleasure.

Your desperate grinding against his face only spurs him on, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place as he devours you. Moans vibrate against your sensitive flesh, adding to the intense sensations overwhelming your senses.

Suddenly, Steve withdraws, leaving you panting and bereft. He rises to his feet, his eyes blazing with lust as he quickly sheds his clothes. His thick cock springs free, already leaking precum. “Hold onto the desk,” he commands gruffly, positioning himself between your thighs. “I'm gonna fill you up so good, baby.”

He spits on his cock and grips your hips, lining up with your entrance.

You grasp the edge of the desk, bracing yourself as he pushes forward, sheathing himself inside you with a single, powerful thrust. A loud cry tears from your throat at the sudden fullness, your inner walls clenching around his cock.

“Fuck, you're tight!” Steve grits out, his hips jerking as he buries himself to the hilt within your slick heat. He pauses for a moment, savoring the exquisite sensation of being fully enclosed by your soft pussy. “I know, I know. You’re being so good, letting me stretch you out.”

After a few seconds, he begins to move. He starts out slow, nearly pulling out completely before pushing in all the way, but the feeling of your cunt is too addicting, and he picks up speed. "Take it, pretty girl," he gasps. "This is what you needed, isn't it? To be stretched wide open on my cock?"

As if in response, your pussy clenches even tighter around him, milking him. Your voice is breathless when you speak, “Yes, yes, fuck, I need it!” 

Steve's fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hips as he pounds into you mercilessly, the force of his thrusts pushing you further up the desk. 

Leaning over you, he changes the angle of penetration slightly, allowing him to drive even deeper. One hand snakes up to pinch your nipples while the other dips between your legs, finding your swollen clit.

“You like that, don't you slut?” he pants harshly in your ear. “Having your little cunt stuffed full of my cock while I play with these perfect tits?” He rolls your nipple between his fingers roughly as they continue their punishing rhythm.

“Oh god, oh fuck, yes!” You moan loudly, your body trembling. Your pussy clenches harder around his cock, your mind going blank except for the urgent need to cum.

Steve's thrusts become erratic as he chases his own release, his balls drawing up tight against his body. "Gonna fill this greedy cunt up," he rasps, his voice strained with impending climax.

With a final, brutal slam of his hips, Steve buries himself to the root inside you. His cock pulses violently as he unleashes a torrent of hot cum deep within your tight cunt. “Fuuck, baby!”

The intensity of his orgasm triggers your own, your pussy rippling around his cock as waves of ecstasy crash over you. You scream his name like a prayer, arching your back and pressing against him. 

As the afterglow sets in, Steve collapses against you, his softening cock still nestled inside you. He nuzzles into your neck, panting heavily. "That was... fucking amazing, baby." You wrap your arms around his neck and hug him, going nonverbal for a second. He rubs your back gently, pushing your hair out of your eyes before kissing your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. “Just need a second.”

He holds you closer, his cock now completely soft inside of you. He kisses your forehead again. “I was serious, you know. When I said I didn’t want this to be a one time thing.”

“So was I.”

Steve hums, cupping the back of your head. “Good.”

You sigh, nuzzling him. “Are we still going to Jason’s party?”

“Oh, fuck no.” Steve says, chuckling. “Come over to mine instead.”

You nod. “Okay.” He pulls out of you and your pussy clenches as his cum starts to dribble out. “Ah, shit.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, kneeling again. “I’ll clean you up, baby.”

You throw your head back as you feel his tongue on your clit again.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

let me know what you think! <3