#but I have to get this out of my system first. give his ass a carrot

[johannestevans]

Strange Liberty

Dark fantasy fiction. A young man convicted of manslaughter is sent to a magical prison. 

Rated M, 27.5k, dark fantasy with some M/M dark romance on the side. 

Salvo Caine, cursed with a magically sapping touch, is convicted of manslaughter and dispatched to an island prison. Once there, he’s offered limited freedom — and affection — by the cold and manipulative prison warden, Guillaume Villiers. 

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Good bit of age gap sexiness, and some medical and care-giving kink as well. Note CWs for the expected violence of the prison system; past chronic illness and child neglect; threats of, discussion of, and attempted sexual violence; traumatic death; power struggles and fucked-up dynamics. 

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He arrives in the middle of the fucking night, and Redford leans up against the open trap, watching as the guards come in. They’re all soaked through from the fucking rain, must have had a bad boat trip over – he looks fucking tiny in between all the guards coming in with him. Half a dozen guards would normally be the standard to transport a whole coach of new meat, but they always put a whole unit alongside this sort of inmate.

When the guards part, Redford gets a good look at him, slim and slight with a thick cloud of hair and very big eyes. His ankles and his wrists are cuffed, chains running between the four points and making him move slow.

He stumbles and collapses to the floor on his knees and elbows, making the chains rattle, and Redford can’t even hear the names the guards call him or the things they snap at him over the roar of everybody else watching him come in.

Already, he’d been able to hear the quieter talk and laughter up and down the rows of cells, prisoners talking about him – now, on the floor with his ass in the air, that’s too much not to react to.

“That arse looks like it’ll bruise nice and easy!” he hears Rand call from the floor below, and he hears other jeers and compliments – about the lad’s ass, about his thighs, how tight his boycunt’ll be, how pretty his lips are, how they’ll be happy to show him what real men get up to behind bars.

It’s always like this, with the cuffed mages.

Half the men in this prison have suffered at the hands of magic-users like them, and even if they hadn’t, the attitudes they come in with are enough to hate them over. Even the big, more muscular ones get this sort of intimidation – they’re usually arrogant sorts, used to relying on their magic instead of any strength or agility, and with their magic dampened, they end up pretty easy to push around, and they deserve it, too.

Haughty, over educated, always acting like they’re too good to be in here with the rest of them.

Redford is the first to get at him in the morning when he comes out of the new arrivals’ cell. He doesn’t look like he’s slept, dark bags under his eyes, his lips chapped and bitten bruised, and he doesn’t meet a single man’s eye as he nervously steps out of his cell.

Red shoves him up against the wall, and he drags in a hitched breath, his big eyes going wide – Red’s belly is flattening him back against the stone, and he can feel him trembling, feel how warm he is. Red leans in and breathes on the side of his neck, blows air over his ear, but he doesn’t say anything.

“How long are you in for, sweetheart?” Redford asks softly. “You even know what deep shit you’re in?”

The new meat’s gaze is fixed on Red’s upper chest instead of his face.

There’s a clicking of a tongue behind him, and Redford steps back from the new inmate, making him drop like a weight. He stands back and straight to attention as he glances back at the warden, who’s standing in the centre of the corridor, leaning on his cane.

“Warden Villiers,” Red says.

“I wish you weren’t so quick to make new acquaintances at times, Mr Redford,” Villiers says mildly, and Red grins at him. “In my office, Mr Caine, if you would.”

Caine cringes, looks anxiously between Redford and Villiers both, and when he looks up to meet Red’s eyes for the first time, there’s something pleading in them. It only lasts a second, and then he’s trailing after Villiers down the corridor.

Redford watches them go, and hums thoughtfully to himself before he heads to eat.

* * *

Salvo shivers as he follows up the stairs to Villiers’ office, feels the chill on the back of his neck, insinuating itself under his skin. Villiers moves slowly, leaning heavily on his cane for the support it can give him as they ascend – he speeds up a little once they’re on even ground. Salvo risks looking up at the older man as they move, looks at how thin he is – even thinner than Salvo is himself, pointy and angular under his black suit, which is narrowly tailored.

He wears boots instead of shoes, although they’re not like the guards’ boots. These barely make any noise at all on the smooth lacquered floors, and they come in tight to the ankle and the foot.

A guard opens the door for Villiers, and Villiers nods his head for Salvo to step into the room ahead of him.

After crossing the threshold, painfully aware of Villiers’ gaze on the back of his neck, he goes to stand in the middle of the room, in front of Villiers’ desk.

It’s warmer in here than in the prison proper, a fire crackling in the hearth, which has a firmly bolted set of guards around it and a very small trap on the front with only just enough space to reach in and move coals and kindling.

“Thank you, Rusk, you’re relieved.”

“… Sir? But he’s, um…”

“I have a firm handle on our new addition, Rusk, I don’t need your assistance.”

Villiers closes the door behind the guard, and Salvo hears his bootsteps recede down the corridor.

Salvo swallows as Villiers slides the lock across and then moves into the room. He sets his cane in a bucket with an umbrella to one side, and Salvo watches the way he favours his good leg as he moves across the room, laying his hands on the side of a bookshelf, then on his desk, to support himself.

“Are you frightened?” Villiers asks.

Salvo doesn’t know what the correct answer is, and says nothing.

Villiers goes on, as if he’d said yes, “I would be too. You heard the baying of those jackals out there as you arrived – fresh meat, they called you. And those men are passionate carnivores.”

Salvo presses his lips together, gripping his fingers against one another in front of his belly, and he risks a glance up at Villiers’ face. It’s a somewhat handsome face, although severely featured – his eyes are a dark blue, his eyebrows thick and dark in colour, his upper lip very thin, his lower lip thicker. He’s got very thin skin, and in places Salvo can see the blue show through of his veins, especially on the side of his neck and where his throat adjoins his head.

His face droops on one side.

“You had a stroke?” Salvo asks. He doesn’t mean to ask the question – it comes out of his mouth unbidden, and when Villiers smirks at him, the smile is lopsided, stronger on the left side of his face than his right.

“That’s right,” he says quietly. “You were a nurse, yes?”

“No,” says Salvo. “I’m just a care assistant.”

“You didn’t want to pursue nursing?”

“Didn’t have the marks for university. I was looking for an apprenticeship, but it’s hard to get a place.” He frowns, and looks down at the rug beneath their feet, an antique thing with a dark green and blue pattern. “Won’t be able to get one now.”

“Why not?”

“DBS check.”

“Magical crimes aren’t always included on mundane criminal records,” Villiers says mildly. “It’s decided on a case-by-case basis upon your release.”

Salvo doesn’t say anything, but he does exhale, feeling at the same time relieved, and also as if a trap is being laid for him.

“Why am I here?” he asks.

“I think you should know that by now,” says Villiers snidely, and Salvo presses his lips together, clenching his jaw to keep from snapping back, because that is a trap.

“Why am I in your office, sir?”

“Well, that’s rather up to you,” Villiers says, his voice softer now. His boots still don’t make any sound as he comes out from behind his desk, and Salvo doesn’t move as he watches the shadow of the other man in his peripheral vision, feels him come closer. The older man’s breath is warm on the back of his neck, making Salvo shiver and have to resist leaning back into him – he smells very faintly of coffee, mostly smells of shaving foam and camphor oil. “Why would you like to be in my office, Mr Caine?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Young man, this is a prison filled to the brim with hardened criminals. Many of them, despite being so inclined, haven’t known the touch of a woman since they were incarcerated – pretty thing as you are, I’m sure you’ll do in a pinch.”

Salvo doesn’t say anything, but he can’t stop himself from letting out a short, abortive sound when Villiers lays his hands on his shoulders, grips them, presses his narrow thumbs into the tension on the back of his neck. He’s so unused to being touched, and it feels painfully good, makes his skin feel like it’s singing – he leans back into it, and he lets out another small noise, this one of loss, as Villiers steps away and releases him.

“Your fellow inmates will make use of you,” Villiers says, “and short of fucking you, I expect they’ll push you about a bit, bruise you, hurt you here and there. You’re an easy prospect to bully, with your magic dampened and that protection stripped from you. Do you want that?”

“To be bullied? No, I don’t think so.”

“And to have them fuck you?”

Salvo thinks of the noise it had made when he’d come in and they’d all been shouting and banging on the walls, laughing, how loud it had been. It had been… overwhelming.

He’s spent a long time avoiding crowds, groups of people, avoiding anyone who might be forward in trying to touch him, speak to him, want to fuck him. His whole body aches with want, but not for that.

“Are the guards meant to let them?” Salvo asks.

“No,” Villiers says. “Any guard I caught abusing an inmate, I’d have punished – any guard permitting it, I’d punish myself. The so-minded inmates tend to hide this sort of thing, of course, and guards rarely advertise it either.”

“That sounds like an excuse.”

“It is – but a true one. I don’t have enough guards to watch each man twenty-four hours a day, though, or even just the pretty ones who might prove a temptation.”

“Am I pretty?”

“In here? You’re a vision.”

“You’re suggesting something. An alternative.”

“Offering something, rather. Protection, if you’d like it.”

“From other inmates?”

“You’ll be with the general population through most of the day – work duties, recreation outdoors. But I can arrange particular bathing and bedding arrangements for you.”

“Bedding,” Salvo repeats.

“Quite,” the warden says. “A bed to lay your head on, no cellmates, no risk.”

“Except from you.”

“From me? Young man, what risk do you think I pose you? Look at me – an infirm old man, no risk to anybody at all.”

Salvo looks up at Villiers’ face again, at the sly expression there, the amusement writ in his glittering eyes and lopsided smile.

“What do you want, if not sex?”

“I’m offering out of the goodness of my heart,” Villiers says with utter insincerity, so transparent about it that Salvo almost marvels at it. “We both know you’re not a criminal like the majority of my other charges.”

“I’m a murderer.”

“A manslaughterer,” Villiers corrects him. His tone is surprisingly kind as he says, “I actually tried to refuse you, insist you go to a more appropriate institution than this one, but the decision was out of my hands.”

Salvo looks down at his own hands, gripping tightly at one another, tighter now. His knuckles hurt, and are going white from the clenching in his hands. “You’re not going to fuck me?”

“No. Have you had sex before?”

Salvo nods.

“Consensually?”

Salvo hesitates, not certain how to answer, but then he nods.

“Hm, well. Nonetheless, no.”

Salvo shifts his hands, and he feels the weight of the two metal bands around each of his wrists. When he’d been brought in last night, a chain had run between them to keep him halfway bound, but they’d taken that away when they’d left him to his cell. Now, the cuffs just sit around each of his wrists and ankles, simple bracelets of silver. He can see the sheen of the magic in them when he looks at them directly, watch the pulse of it through the metal in rhythm with his heartbeat – in rhythm with the magic inside him.

“You didn’t have to come to prison to have those fitted,” Villiers tells him. “You wouldn’t even have had to have them commissioned – any good doctor would have provided them free of charge.”

Salvo opens his mouth, closes it. “There is a gnawing hunger in me,” he whispers after a pause. “These cuffs prevent me from harming anybody, true, but they also prevent latent magic from flowing through me. I eat, but I starve; I drink, but I thirst. Ever since they snapped shut around my limbs my bones began to ache.”

“That hunger is part of your penance, then,” Villiers says, and Salvo closes his eyes, but nods his head. “I read the statement you gave at your trial, that you wish you’d chosen differently.”

“Wouldn’t you have?”

Villiers limps around the table and sinks down into his chair, making it creak, and Salvo automatically sits to keep his downcast eyes from being so close to Villiers’ face, to keep from keeping his stare.

“I thought it would be enough,” Salvo murmurs. “Separating myself from magical life, magical society, living and working with mundies. That I could keep myself intact, and still live.”

“You crossed paths with your victim by happenstance, I take it?”

“He wouldn’t have touched me, only he recognised me,” Salvo says. “Recognised my father’s features in mine. He caught my hand, and it was…”

He thinks of it often. Every day, every night, when he sleeps, when he wakes – it’s impossible not to think about. He thinks of how it was as though his flesh came suddenly alive after being halfway to comatose for so long, as though lightning were alive under his skin, sizzling out of his veins. He recalls craving more of it, the reflexive need to be closer, much closer, to sate the painful hunger in him.

“He didn’t know to— he didn’t think to push me off or away. He didn’t know that… He laughed, was delighted, and he kissed me back when I kissed him. I had effectively been fasting for years, near to a decade. I leeched from him all he had before I knew what I was doing.”

“A horrible way to die, I’m informed,” Villiers says. “To have the magic wrenched from you, sapped from your very cells – like having the blood bled from you all at once.”

“He didn’t have time to scream,” Salvo says. “But yes, it hurt him a great deal.”

“At least it was quick.”

“I fail to see a silver lining.”

“A guard will collect you when it’s time for lights out,” Villiers says. “Off you go.”

Salvo silently nods his head, and as he leaves the room, can’t help feeling he’s made some sort of deal with a devil, going along with the offer as given.

* * *

Redford watches the new mage as he comes back from the stairs, not with the warden this time – Villiers is a freak of some proportions, always likes the strong mages, always likes the trim and pretty ones.

“He used to be an assassin, you know,” he says when Caine finally comes down onto the main floor, and Caine glances his way, but doesn’t let his gaze flicker all the way up to Redford’s face. He stands there with his hands clasped in front of him, silent. “Villiers.”

“How the fuck was he an assassin with a bum leg?” asks Rosen next to him, and Pike grips the back of his neck as Redford laughs.

“He used to be an assassin,” Redford repeats. “Killed people the world over – then he had a stroke, couldn’t hack it anymore.”

“’Cause of his leg.”

“It’s not just the leg and the facial droop,” says Pike. His gaze is on Rosen’s neck as he keeps rubbing his thumb into the base of it. Redford can see the mark higher up on Rosen’s throat where Pike must have bitten him last night.

Caine has drifted closer to them, albeit without saying a word.

“Strokes on different sides of the body damage different parts of the brain,” says Pike. “Difficulties with language, or with writing, mathematics… But that can include differences in personality. He was a wild man before – he’s cold now. Collected, but cold, cautious.”

“You speak as though you know personally,” says Caine, but he doesn’t lift his eyes up. “You don’t look old enough for all that.”

“I’m not so old,” says Pike, and Redford watches the way he looks at Caine, the way his eyes rove over the new meat’s body. He’s not interested in sex, of course – he likes a man for the blood inside him, and with a skinny little thing like Caine, there’s not much blood to spare, even without the taint he’d complained before that the cuffs leave on the stuff when you tap the barrel.

“He was killing into his forties,” Redford says. “He’s fifty-six now, had the stroke years back. Came to be warden here after getting out of rehab.”

“His personality used to be different?” Caine asks.

“Why?” Redford asks mildly. “You like his personality now?”

Caine might not speak much, but he’s got a nice voice. It’s stronger, warmer, than Redford would have thought from the looks of him, so slim with his big brown eyes, the fluff of his dark curls around his head.

Caine doesn’t answer, so Redford reaches out and grips him by the hair, slides his fingers through the curls and tightens his hold experimentally – Caine goes loose and breathless immediately, his lips parting, his eyes widening. A blush darkens his cheeks and his knees look loose. He doesn’t try to drag away, doesn’t seem to be following Redford’s hand out of reflex, either – he’s up on his toes, pushing up into more of the touch.

“Leave the kid alone, Redford!” barks Cornell from the other side of the hall, and Redford lets him go.

“You have a heartbeat like a mouse’s,” Pike says. He’s a freak, and doesn’t make any attempt to hide it – Caine, to his credit, doesn’t let it put him off. “Quiet and fast.”

“What are you in for?” Rosen asks, and Caine’s eyes flicker up to him. Rosen’s smaller than he is, and he looks Rosen in the eyes.

“You first,” he says.

“I killed a guy,” says Rosen, and Caine stares at him, his eyes widening further, his lips parting.

“You did?” he asks, and Rosen laughs before Pike slaps him upside the head.

“Theft,” Rosen says, chuckling. “Cars. A bus. A train, they charged me for, but I didn’t steal that.”

“Only ‘cause you couldn’t drive it off the tracks,” Redford says, and Rosen laughs. “Now you.”

“I killed a man,” says Caine, and Rosen laughs again.

Caine doesn’t. He stands there with his hands still clasped in that way he has, still. He looks like a little statuette of a saint.

“Oh, shit,” says Rosen. “He have it coming?”

Caine’s gaze flickers to Redford’s chest, but not all the way up to his face. “No,” he says. He looks like he’s sad about it, like he regrets it, but then his eyes shift upwards and he meets Redford’s gaze, something in Caine’s face goes hard. “Do you?”

Red grins down at him, and as soon as he shows his teeth, Caine retreats, turning away – one of the guards takes him through his paces, shows him around the place, tells him the schedule.

The evening time, through, he disappears.

He doesn’t stay in the new transplants’ cell and doesn’t get moved in with someone else’s either – Redford wonders if he’s been put in confinement on his own, all the better to keep him “safe”, but when he’s passing Beck Virgo’s cell a little before lights out, Beck tells him.

“Saw him out of the window,” he murmurs as Red passes him a cigarette through the trap. “Trailing behind Villiers like a fucking puppy.”

“Huh,” Redford murmurs, and thinks on that as he continues down the corridor.

* * *

The guest bedroom in Villiers’ lodge, separate from the prison proper, is modest, warm, and comfortable.

It’s nothing like the cell he’d been in, nor the cells that he’d seen in the prison – each has rather narrow bunks, thin mattresses, thin blankets, battered pillows. The sheets are cheap, made of crisp white cloth, and they’re all laundered en masse in the basement, but not with particularly forgiving products. A prison bed is not meant to be a place of comfort or ease, after all, nor the cells themselves.

This guest bedroom is made to serve one man, a lush double bed in the middle of the room, the bedspread red and silken, the fabric smooth under his fingers. There’s a chair and a desk to the side of the room, and Salvo stands with his hands rested on the desk, looking out over the hill.

The window doesn’t open, is just a set of wide panes, but at least there are no bars. Salvo can see the old stone sprawl of the prison over the island, can see the forestry either side; in the distance, he can see the pier, a boat tethered and waiting. The waters are choppy this evening, and although he can’t hear the wind through the thick glazed glass, he can see the trees whipping one way and the other.

“Comfortable enough for you?” asks Villiers, standing in the doorway.

He’s undressed, and Salvo stares at his body – he’s still wearing his suit trousers, but instead of his boots he’s wearing crushed velvet slippers, and belted over his chest he’s wearing a fine silk brocade smoking jacket, green and gold. If he’s wearing a shirt underneath, it has a low collar or none at all – where the smoking jacket is open, Salvo can see the edges of Villiers’ collarbone, the hollows in it; further down, he can see the curls of hair on his chest.

Salvo’s hands twitch at his sides, and his mouth feels dry.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, thank you. Is there some hidden consequence about to be sprung on me?”

“Am I going to clamber into bed with you, you mean?” Villiers asks, arching one eyebrow. “No, young man, I’m going to sleep in my own bed, where I belong. This door will be locked as I depart – you have your own bathroom, where you might pursue your evening ablutions, take a shower, and so forth. Any items you purchase from the commissary, books from the library, items you receive by post once your approval comes through, you might keep all these things here in your bedroom.

“In the event prisoners are confined to their cells during day time, you will be escorted to my office, whereupon you will either rest there with me or be brought here and locked in. Beyond such extenuating circumstances, however, you will not be able to return to your room here in the course of a day – you might want to keep that in mind when you consider what to bring out with you, your books, writing implements, and so on.”

“Yes, sir,” Salvo says. “Do you want me to be raped, sir?”

“What a curious question,” Villiers says, his blue eyes dark, his smile still dangerously sly. “Why ever would you ask it? I’ve made rather unorthodox choices if my desire was to have you victimised, bringing you here, isolated from the other prisoners, or even the guards.”

“I’ve never been at home with unorthodoxy,” Salvo says honestly, looking cautiously at the other man. “It strikes me as unpredictable.”

“I’m predictable enough,” Villiers murmurs. “I’m sure you’ll have the way of it quite soon.”

“They said you used to be very different, the other prisoners. Before you had a stroke.”

“What would they know of it?”

“Only hearsay, I suppose.”

“Hearsay, yes. Hearsay, and rumour.”

“Is it true?”

“Does it matter?”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“If I am different than I was before my stroke, the change is now permanent. What does it matter to you, young man, if I was different before now?”

“Aren’t you interested in how different I was, before I became an inmate here?” Salvo asks.

It’s the right question, and posed right too – Villiers stares at him, his expression retaining exactly the same slightly smug expression it had before, and then he exhales, smiles, adjusts his grip on his cane. He seems satisfied.

“We’ve plenty of time to get to know one another, Mr Caine. And many evenings ahead of us to do so.”

“Is that the purpose of my being here?” Salvo asks, and Villiers chuckles quietly, pulling the door closed and locking it behind him.

Salvo takes to his bed and sleeps well despite it all.

* * *

Salvo Caine is a funny sort.

Red doesn’t see any problem some mages being raped when they come into the nick, the ones that deserve it – there are men in this place who’ve spent all their years chained or controlled by very powerful or just quite sadistic sorcerers, and it’s more than a little catharsis for them to take out all that pain on whoever the fuck comes in chained and manacled. They go all their days able to hurt anybody they like, able to get away with all sorts, and when they finally get done for it, the tables are turned on them, and suddenly the scum under their feet get to turn around and give them the same shit back.

It’s not nice, no, and maybe it’s not really moral, but he couldn’t give a fuck.

Morals and ethics are limited in a place like this – when you live out your nights and half your days in a little grey box with bars on the door, there’s no fucking space for them. Red himself has never gone in much for rape – it doesn’t turn him on like it does some of the others, and he’s got a job concentrating on keeping his cock hard if he’s wrestling with whoever’s underneath him in the process, but it’s not because he cares that it’s fucking wrong, any more than punching a man’s lights out is wrong. If he deserves it, if he’s fucking earned it, who cares?

But in all honesty, he doesn’t much go in for men at all, although there’s as little room here for choice as there is morals and ethics – when he fucks a lad in here, it’s typically the ones like Salvo Caine. Round in the face, with a bit of plumpness to them, enough softness to sink into – his hair is soft too, all fluffy with thick dark curls, and with his big fucking eyes, he looks girlish enough, even without turning him around.

In all honesty, soft as it might fucking make him, it’s not the sex he misses – he wasn’t married, no, but he had a few regular women he’d take up with depending on where he was working, and it was the sharing a bed he missed, the feeling of someone sleeping beside him, smelling her perfume, touching her hair.

Caine is an odd duck, and it’s not like he could be mistaken for a girl to glance at him, at the shape of his shoulders or his body, the way he moves. He’s not a very big lad – he’s plump and has good flesh on him, but there’s a delicacy to him, pear-shaped and short, most of the plushness around his middle and his thighs, less on his chest and about his shoulders. He walks very carefully, like he’s nervous of making any noise at all.

Red’s not surprised when he hears someone talking about it, about what he’s in for – it’s not as if Caine’s going to be the only lad in the nick for something that wasn’t his fucking fault, something that basically amounted to a twist of fate or an accident, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it, has to approve of it.

All his life, he’s made certain trade-offs – as a lad when he was training up for the glass trade, he remembers learning how to fiddle the books from the out, remembers laughing conversations as they bought sand or panes or whatever else, about how much one thing was and how much they’d write down it was. Smuggling had been a pretty natural extension of it all, once he was running his own business, bringing things in from abroad and secreting the illicit alongside the legit.

It had been getting into the latter that had got him fucking pinched, working in with the Pikes out of Lashton and trafficking too much in drugs and highs for it to be ignored or overlooked.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t cared, per se – that’d be fucking stupid, it’s not like he enjoys it here – but he had felt the weight getting bigger and bigger, felt the other shoe getting too heavy not to drop, felt the shadow of it all over his head. When he’d come home to find the coppers going through his house and the pig leaning against the wall with the warrant in his hands, at the same time as the pit had gone out of his stomach and nausea had come clawing up his throat, he’d even felt a bit of relief.

Not out of guilt – who’d feel guilty for stealing from the fucking king? Cunt’s in a fucking coma, he’s not missing any of the tax – but just because he couldn’t bear the anticipation of it, of waiting for when he was going to get caught, and then the anticipation was gone and done and dusted.

And this is punishment enough – the fucking boredom of it, every day the same, no activity to take up your time except chat, books, and working the body in between working shifts. It’s not what people think the punishment will be in prison, but it fucking is.

Caine often filters over to them in the course of his days ahead for all Red threatens him, and he seems decently at home with them, at home with Pike and Rosen and all.

Red’s known this junior Pike a few years – he’d seen him about for years even before he’d taken on the smuggling jobs himself, and more than once on the outside, he and Pike had gone out for pints together, or at the least, Pike would find Red where he was at the bar and insist on paying for his drinks, always flush with cash.

“What do you think of him?” Pike asks now as Caine shuffles obediently off after Cornell to be escorted up to Villiers’ house, laying his chin on his hand and watching thoughtfully as Caine’s shadow disappears after the rest of him. “I bet he’d taste fucking great if it weren’t for them cuffs.”

“You like ‘em with a bit of meat on them, don’t you?” Red asks, and Pike laughs, laying his arm around Rosen’s shoulder.

“Clearly,” he says.

“Mind your tongue, or else you’ll not be drinking from me again,” says Rosen, flicking Pike’s hand, but he’s smiling all the while, and Pike chuckles, nipping at the shell of his ear.

“I’m waiting anyway,” Pike says seductively. “Keeps you from getting anaemic.”

“Prick,” mutters Rosen, but he’s gone from smiling now to grinning, and Red smiles at him.

He likes Rosen well enough – he’d come in a month before Pike had, and Red had stepped in to keep some of the lads on 10 from roughing him up for being a Jew. It’s all very well roughing a lad up for having done something, it’s another for doing it because he’s had his cock clipped and says his prayers on Friday nights instead of Sunday mornings.

“He’s lived a fucked-up life,” Red says. “But you’d be hard-pressed finding a man in here that hadn’t. I don’t think he should be in here, anyway.”

“Why not?” Rosen asks. “He did kill that man.”

“Not on purpose,” Red says, shrugging. “They only take a hard line on it ‘cause they can’t do anything until after someone gets hurts, lads like him, and they wish they could do it from the out. He’s just another sort of vampire, really – he can’t help the way he is.”

“He can live without it,” Pike points out, his hands twitching – he wants a cigarette, Red supposes, but he can’t have one until tomorrow unless he wants to set off one of the fucking smoke detectors. “Then again, technically, so I can I.”

“Can you?” Rosen asks, raising his eyebrows, and Red looks at him in surprise as well, but Pike shrugs his shoulders.

“Wouldn’t be comfortable by any means, but I could probably get by on an iron-rich diet, a lot of raw and rare meat, shit like that. Vampirism is a bit different in a fae body than a human one – we get a bit more sustenance from magic than you sorts do, depending on the families we come from.” Pike exhales the way he might if he had a cigarette to hand, blows out air and obviously doesn’t find it quite satisfactory. “I think Caine did the best thing he could. Lived amongst mundies, worked with them – made sure anyone he might touch wouldn’t be too affected by it in the event he sapped anything from them. That man reached for him, he said, touched him without thinking – some family friend or the like. He should have fucking remembered who he was, what touching the man would do to him.”

“You’d think the guilt would be enough punishment,” Rosen says quietly. “I think it’d kill me, that sort of guilt – to know I’d killed a man, a man I’d known, liked, loved, even. Without even realising it was him, without a cause. Without coming in here as well.”

“You have enough guilt just by living, seems to me,” Red says, and Rosen laughs, then comes over looking a bit more thoughtful, pensive.

“And him,” he says quietly. “Him too.”

* * *

Salvo receives his work duty after a few days in the prison – basic enchantment work. He has to sit an exam to show he knows how to write out the symbols, to show that he knows how to properly draw them or carve them into a piece of material. His cuffs remain in place, of course, and none of the prisoners are permitted to charge their enchantments themselves anyway to keep people from enchanting weapons or explosives – they simply lay out the runes and they’re enchanted later, off the island.

Some of the prisoners are enchanting furniture and larger pieces of mechanism and machinery, but judging by how they talk to one another, how they chat, several of them were tradesmen or wizards on the outside – they’re at home with magical plumbing and complex warding structures, some of them with licenses under their belts and specialist training. Salvo is not given anything so complex or large: he paints the enchantments into little gift items, charming welcome mats to clean off shoes, charming keys and small signs to create small lights, even enchanting a few toys here and there.

Every day is the same: he goes down to the prison for breakfast, eats, attends his work duty, eats lunch, finishes his work, has some free time, which he often spends reading or sitting quietly, listening to others talk. Generally, he gravitates toward Rufus Redford – he prefers “Red” to Rufus, and Salvo doesn’t fault him that – and his friends: Callum Pike and Ira Rosen.

Red is a confident man, tall, square, and thick with muscle – he’s one of the tradesmen that works in enchantment, although he doesn’t use precisely the same skills he had on the outside. He’s a trained magical glazier, apprenticed when he was fourteen and left school early to take up the work – he’s worked for years with huge panes of glass, fitted windows in all kinds of public buildings, even in some of the royal palaces, even in Camelot Castle itself – but here on the prison work detail he mostly enchants craftsman’s tools or complex pieces of magical machinery, scaffolding, and things like that.

According to chatter around the prison, Red is in on tax fraud on a large scale, and a lot of organised theft that he’d done through his work, never doing the stealing himself, but organising for others to do it – Salvo gets the impression that he and Pike were already familiar with one another before meeting in prison.

Pike is in for some violent convictions – not murder, mostly aggravated assault and battery charges – alongside a long history of drug trafficking offences, and has been inside for short stretches twice before; like Red, Rosen is in prison for the first time, although Rosen’s sentence is a good deal shorter.

Rosen’s only going to be inside for another twelve to eighteen months – Red has close to a decade left on his sentence.

“How long you got?” he asks one afternoon at lunch, and Salvo looks up from his plate to meet Red’s brown-eyed gaze. He has a few scars on his face, and on the backs of his hands – one, on his forehead and cutting through his eyebrow, is from an enchantment he messed up when he was scarcely eighteen, the pane of glass exploding outwards and the shard only narrowly missing his eye.

Rosen and Pike aren’t paying attention, engaging in a very flirtatious game that Salvo can’t determine the precise rules of, but seems to involve a lot of trying to finger one another’s wrists while kicking each other under the table.

“Six years,” Salvo answers.

“That’s a long time for an accident,” Red says disapprovingly. “Half my sentence, that, and I did what I did on purpose.”

“No one died from what you did,” Salvo points out, and Red sighs, shaking his head. “The point was that I was irresponsible, I think. That I should have taken better precaution, should have worn cuffs like these.”

“They hurt, don’t they?” Red asks, raising his eyebrows, and when Salvo doesn’t say anything, he says, “I’ve seen a lot of mages wear those – here inside, sure, but in my line of work too, seen cloistered mages have cuffs like that, to keep them from going mad from the amount of magic around them, or to keep them from harming others. One thing to wear them for a quick outing outward, or to opt into wearing them out of some fucked up religious sadomasochism – one man’s torture is another man’s kink and all that – but it’s another to wear them every day just to fucking live, isn’t it?”

Salvo looks back at him, and then asks, “Is this you showing compassion for my perspective, the better to catch me by surprise when you turn on me?”

“And when am I gonna get the opportunity to turn on you, when you’re Villiers’ special little lad?” Red asks dryly, tilting his head and looking back at him with his lips twisted in a grin. He’s got uneven teeth – his jaw’s slightly uneven, Salvo thinks, from when he boxed as a teenager and a young man – and Salvo finds that he likes that. He likes how they look, like how much his teeth show his expression when he smiles. “Follow you back to the old man’s house after dark?”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous of the warden’s special attention,” Salvo says.

“Something tells me I’m not his type,” Red says.

Salvo wonders what Red would say, if Salvo told him. If Salvo told him Villiers hasn’t touched him yet, nor seemed even to want to – if Salvo told him that he sleeps in his own very comfortable bed, in his own room, that Villiers barely even sees him most days, let alone speaks to him, with him.

Most nights, he’s escorted back to Villiers’ house by a guard, doesn’t walk back with Villiers at all, and Villiers has already retired to his office or his own bedroom for the evening. Would Red believe him, if Salvo said that Villiers hasn’t touched him yet, and he’s not sure the old man ever will? Does Salvo even believe the latter part himself?

“Does he frighten you?” Salvo asks.

“Villiers?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a frightening man,” Red says. “Scary sonuvabitch, he is.”

“You’re a good deal bigger than he is,” Salvo points out. “He hasn’t a size advantage on you as he might on me – quite the opposite, in fact. And he’s elderly, and… infirm.”

“That the word he used?” Red asks wryly, insightful in a way that Salvo might like, if he let himself like men much –if he let himself like anyone who wasn’t a mundie, any longer. “Infirm?” When Salvo doesn’t reply, Red says, “He likes that people think of him that way, people that don’t know what he is, don’t have an idea of who he is. He might be crippled by that stroke of his, but that doesn’t make him any less fucking lethal. It’s injured dogs that’ll harm you the worst, when it comes down to it. They’ve got less to lose.”

“Only when you have them cornered,” Salvo replies, setting his fork down on his plate. “An injured dog is only a threat once you start trying to corral it – d’you really think the old man is dangerous to you now, here?”

“He knows who I am, knows my name, has my file, holds the key to my lock-up,” Red says. “To everyone outside of this fucking place, I’m a bastard with a laundry list of things to punish me for, on an island far away from everybody – here, I’m nothing, and he’s God.”

Salvo considers this, considering too the fact that Villiers is more his god than Red’s, has more power over him – has even more privacy to do to Salvo as he pleases than he might Red, where there at least are, if not other prisoners as witnesses, there are other guards. Salvo has nothing, alone in Villiers’ house with him, but his word and Villiers’ own.

“I’m an atheist,” decides Salvo, and that makes Red laugh – he has a good laugh, barking, sort of rough and throaty – before he turns back to the others to talk to them.

On Thursdays, the allotted day of his prisoner number, Salvo goes into the prison library and withdraws three books – the limit – and throughout the week returns them through the slot before waiting impatiently for his opportunity to retrieve new books.

He has no one to call on to transfer money to him for the commissary, and he’s on a long waiting list for a prisoner assistance program on the mainland to get back to his letter to see about transferring some money from his own accounts, so he doesn’t buy anything there – the prisoner wages for their labour are low, though not as low as they are in mundie prisons, he’s fairly certain. A day’s labour can actually buy you something, anyway.

“You have a very fine hand,” Villiers remarks one Thursday evening as they walk back to Villiers’ lodge together. It’s raining, but the rain isn’t especially heavy, just falls in a very fine mist that sticks to his hair and the back of his neck and his hands. He’s carrying his books inside the leather satchel Villiers had handed him for the purpose, to keep them from getting wet. “I examined your handiwork from today. How long has it been since last you pursued enchantment?”

“Not so long,” Salvo murmurs. “I used to whittle when I was a child – it was supposed to hone my concentration, keep me calm. I wasn’t very good at animals – I was a bit better at architecture, at carving lighthouses, cabins, castles, towers. Enchantment was a bit more concentrated still, carving very small figures in place – I’d carve buildings and make them light up, make windmills turn, water flow, similar to the kind of stuff I’m doing now.”

“Those skills will serve you well here,” Villiers says. “Would that schools were upfront about what education will best serve a young person when they’re inevitably incarcerated.”

“Inevitably?” Salvo asks, and Villiers makes a quiet, amused sound.

“Something of an inevitability with you, young man,” he says, and the two of them step into the corridor, Villiers leading Salvo not to the bedroom that serves as his cell but through to a small sitting room, some armchairs beside a fire, a chess table set up and waiting. “Do you play?”

“Not really,” Salvo says. “I whittled some sets, but never liked to use them.”

“I’ve never been much of a man for the game myself,” Villiers says, sinking into one of the armchairs and gesturing with one long-fingered hand for Salvo to take the other seat, which Salvo does. This is only the third time he and Villiers have sat down together once they’re in the house – the first time, when Villiers had first brought him up here, a cold night a week back where Villiers had invited him to read beside the fire where it was warmer than in his room, and now. “It’s the sort of thing expected of a man my age, a penchant for chess games and long hours whiled away with a broadsheet newspaper.”

“You must resent it,” Salvo says as he picks up a pawn and moves it forward. “Getting old – being disabled.”

“Of course I resent it,” Villiers says mildly, moving a knight. “You would resent it too, and will do, as you grow older – you chose to remain intact, after all, no matter the risk it posed others. You only accepted this condition of chronic pain when it was forced upon you. Age forces such things upon us all.”

Salvo says nothing, reaching forward for the next piece. “You were an assassin, before. That’s what they say about you.”

“I was,” Villiers says, his lips twitching. “Although outside of a blunt and straightforward place like this, various polite epithets are applied to the profession instead – attaché, intelligence agent. I served the crown a good many years – from the age of fifteen onwards.”

Salvo frowns, furrowing his brow. It’s one thing for a man to be apprenticed as a glazier as a teenager – as an assassin seems a bit much. “What, you were in the army?”

“I was enrolled in a private school,” Villiers says. “A military school in Scotland, Sons of Cumhaill. I was born in London, not in a particularly affluent area, but I earned a scholarship as a young boy, and boarded from then onwards. Sons of Cumhaill, upon its founding a millennium back, was originally a school for the children of knights and high-ranking battle mages, or for titled youths in need of blooding before they might lead their family lines. The reason for dispatching one’s children there has changed, but much of the syllabus remains the same – training in traditional weapons, battle magic, poisons and venoms, battle tactics, and so on, alongside a rather robust focus in other valuable subjects. History, literature and culture, magical sciences, languages, politics, economics…” He gestures vaguely with his weaker hand – he can’t lift the arm as high as he can his other, and the hand is a little limper on the wrist than seems entirely right, the fingers unable to complete the easy movement the ones on his other hand can. “A feeder school today for the army, for certain areas of the civil service, for the Knights’ Circle.”

“Wow,” Salvo says, and he’s unable to hold back his curiosity as he looks repeatedly between the board and Villiers’ face. Villiers isn’t as old as those he’d worked with in the care facility, many of whom were in the later stages of dementia or struggling with other debilitating and degenerative conditions, but he’d always enjoyed the aspect of the job that concerned making conversation, listening to older, wiser people talk about their lives.

Salvo’s never been an adventurous sort and doubts he ever will be, lacks the natural appetite for such things, but despite not being very interesting himself, he’s always enjoyed showing interest in other people, talking to them.

“Wow?” Villiers repeats, arching his eyebrows, the very word coming out dripping with irony, not fitting his accent and his careful enunciation. “Does it truly seem so lofty?”

“Maybe a bit. Are you, um…” Salvo doesn’t know how to ask the question exactly as he moves his bishop. “How posh are you, exactly? Like, for you to get this scholarship, you’ve got a posh accent, but is that… yours, or did they train it into you?”

Villiers laughs. It’s a reserved laugh, compared to how some men laugh, his head turned to the side, and Salvo is fascinated at the stillness on one side of his face versus the other, the way the paralysed muscles can’t mirror those on the other side. He likes it, actually, sees a strange sort of handsomeness in it like he does in Red’s uneven teeth and jaw – like in some art, where people use asymmetry.

“I’m not as posh as I sound, no, though it’s too ingrained in me now to be an affectation,” Villiers says. “My father was a mundie, a drunk, walked out on my mother. In her youth, she was a dancer, a performer, and then became a teacher. She developed a magical intolerance after an injury, had to carefully measure her direct exposure to active magic and enchantment, so we lived in a non-magical area of town.”

“I knew a girl like that,” Salvo says. “Hers was part of an immune condition, but we went to the same magical therapy centre – for her, it was regular controlled exposure to help her body not go overboard with the allergic stuff, for me, I was meant to be trying to train in my power.”

“She had more success than you did, I hope.”

“I think a bit more,” Salvo murmurs, shrugging. “They tried her with a fleshturner, to see if they could reach in and basically just make her nervous system a bit less sensitive, but that didn’t work, and then they tried different steroids and stuff. When we were really young, you’d see she was sick with it, like she’d have hives and stuff always, and her skin was really bad – for me, going through puberty made my problem much worse, but for her, I think it really helped and made it more manageable.”

“These conditions aren’t as well-understood, and thus aren’t as predictable, as we would often like,” Villiers says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Were you resistant to magical treatment for the stroke? Same genetics?”

Villiers looks mildly surprised, and Salvo likes that look, as well, likes the slight wideness of his eyes, the way he leans in just slightly. “Quite right,” he says softly, and his gaze roves now over Salvo’s body, over his chest, his neck, before back up to his face. Salvo feels warm, and he wishes it was just arousal, wishes it was just him wanting to fuck the old man, but Villiers isn’t exactly his usual type, older, thinner, angular.

The hunger he’s feeling, the intimacy he wants, is… different.

“To return to my anecdote, it was nineteen eighty-three, two days after my birthday. My mother had sent me the new David Bowie on vinyl, and I snuck away from evening rec to listen to it up in the music tower. We weren’t meant to go up unaccompanied, cretins that we were, all of us, liable to damage instruments or try to dangle one another out of the window.”

Salvo blinks, trying to imagine it, Villiers, angular and awkward limbs in the way of a teenager, upside-down with some other boy gripping his ankles. “You got dangled out of a window?”

“More of a dangler of boys than a danglee by them, for my sins,” says Villiers, and Salvo hears himself laugh. When he moves his pawn, Villiers is quick to take it – so quick that their fingers brush against one another.

Villiers’ demeanour might be naturally cold and flat, but his fingers are warm, and Salvo feels the bone-deep ache inside his guts, the craving to get these bracelets off him and soak that warmth and the life that powers it into himself. Ever since poor Brownie died underneath him, ever since he felt the crackle of his magic into his fingertips, he’s hungered for it, wanted it. He’d never tasted it before – the power had been latent until he’d started puberty, and it had been weak at first. He’d sapped a little from people, but not enough to hurt them, just to make them a little tired and drawn. About the same time as he’d had a significant growth spurt, when he’d gotten taller and started to gain more weight and muscle, his absorption rate had changed too.

Augmented – significantly.

Overnight, it had gone from something of a joke, an unfortunate side effect of his company, even a party trick from time to time, to a genuine risk to everybody around him.

“So you listened to the record?” Salvo asks, and Villiers exhales.

“Not that night, no. His majesty, the king regent, was sitting at the music room’s piano when I made it up the stairs.”

Salvo doesn’t know that he’d be able to cope with it if he went out somewhere and came back to Myrddin Wyllt sat in front of him, or any knight, or any kind of famous person, really. He’s never really felt at home with fame and influence. “Would have figured him for the drums.”

Villiers chuckles. They’re each making their moves fairly quickly, black and white pieces lining up on each side of the board.

“And what, he asked you to kill someone?”

“Wanted me to kill the music teacher, in fact.”

“So you did it?”

“Gladly – I’d never liked him much, and he hated David Bowie.”

“Is that why the crown wanted him dead?”

“No, he was a spy, apparently,” Villiers says, although he frowns as he says it, furrowing his brow. “Something like that, anyway – you may well think ill of me, young man, but I didn’t ask many questions. A very attractive and powerful mage was offering me money and his permission – his approval, even – to kill a man in cold blood. I was hungry for the chance, and quite eager for it.”

There’s something chilling in how easily Villiers says it. Salvo couldn’t even call it a confession, he doesn’t think, because there is no implication of regret or shame, no play at secrecy or modesty – he says it openly and with a remembered relish, and his tongue comes out from his mouth to wet his lower lip. Salvo looks down at his knees, trying to make sense, or to somehow organise, the tumultuous emotions tumbling over one another inside him – the craving and the hunger and the desperate, greedy want; the shame and the horror and the disgust at the fact that he wants it; the faint wish that it was a regular lust, a normal person’s lust and desire; the jealousy at the ease Villiers finds, for being the sort of person he is.

“You didn’t…” he starts, and the question goes dry and dusty on his tongue.

“Hm?”

“You don’t sound guilty,” Salvo says. “You don’t sound— you killed him. And you talk about it like it was easy, like you always, like you always wanted it. Didn’t you have, don’t you have a conscience?”

“No,” says Villiers smugly, making his move. “I’ve never been burdened with such a thing. Since I was very young, what I craved, what I wanted, was blood, death, feeling another man’s life in my hands, and having the power and the privilege to snuff it out.”

Salvo feels a mix of sick and desperately, almost painfully hungry. His fingers twitch as he looks out over his pieces, at where Villiers has moved his king to. “Do you think it would be a burden, if you’d had one?”

“It burdens you, doesn’t it?” Villiers asks snidely.

“Check,” Salvo says, moving his queen, and Villiers looks critically down at the board, then sighs with a lopsided smile that genuinely is quite handsome, Salvo thinks.

He considers what it might be like to kiss the old man, wonders what it would feel like, if he’d be able to feel the weakness on one side of his mouth rather than the other – and then all of a sudden he imagines the rest, imagines that it might be like to sap the magic out of him through his mouth, imagines feeling that hot, desperate tingle in his own lips, in his tongue, sinking down his throat and suffusing him. He imagines the electric, overwhelming thrill of it all, imagines that hot, giddy flow of someone else’s power in him, someone else’s life in him.

He hasn’t kissed anybody on the mouth since he was fifteen himself, at the same age Villiers was killing a man, and back then it had been just a warm tingle against his lips, a sort of heady rush around his ears and heating his face – he knows what the real thing feels like, now, knows what it feels like to sap the force from the whole of someone’s body, to be suffused with stolen energy. He knows what it feels to have someone else’s soul subsumed into his, and it’s the best feeling in the universe, and he hates himself for wanting to taste it again.

“You dastardly little thing,” Villiers says, not without pleasure or satisfaction as he takes the head of his king under his fingertip and tips it over. “You set quite the little trap for me, didn’t you?”

Salvo smiles faintly. “You’re bored here,” he says quietly. “With the prisoners, with… this.”

“Often, yes,” Villiers agrees.

Salvo studies him for a few moments, and there’s a distant ache inside him, a faint compassion that pangs against the inside of his rib cage. Is Warden Villiers spared that as well, the same as he is a conscience? “Why work here as a warden, if it’s so boring, if you want for company so badly that you’re taking a prisoner out of the main lot and bringing him here to lose to him at chess?”

“It’s quite simple,” says Villiers in mild tones, and then he moves so quickly that Salvo almost doesn’t see him, that he’s not cognizant of what’s happening until Villiers is on top of him. The older man’s weight is incandescently warm in Salvo’s lap, straddling his thighs and pinning him back in the winged back armchair, and half of his cane has been drawn back from the rest, showing the blade sheathed inside it.

Salvo can’t breathe, can barely even think with the heat of Villiers in his lap, his bony knees digging in against the sides of Salvo’s thighs, and compared to the warmth of the older man’s body, the blade of his secret sword feels very cold against the underside of Salvo’s chin.

He feels dizzy, because he’s terrified, certain that Villiers is about to slit his throat, is about to bleed all the life out of him for real, no metaphor and no magic about it. Villiers’ expression is cold and haughty and he smells of a subtle cologne, one that’s just a little bit sweet, makes Salvo want to lean in for more of it. Red was right. An atheist he may be, but here is Villiers demonstrating how godly he is, how absolute his power is over Salvo here, without witnesses, without an audience, without any protection at all.

Paradoxically, as frightened as he is, there’s arousal too, heat sinking down and tingling between his legs, heat between his thighs.

“I have complete authority over each and every one of you,” Villiers says in a very quiet whisper, and Salvo breathes in very carefully through his nostrils, but when he swallows, an involuntary reaction, he feels the twitch of the blade against the skin, probably cutting off one or two hairs. “I could kill you right here, young man, and little fuss would be made of it – it isn’t morality or fear of surveillance that keeps me from bringing you into my bed, chaining you to it, if I wished to.”

“And when my sentence was up?” Salvo asks faintly, feeling dizzy, and Villiers laughs. “Would they ask where I was, to have me released?”

“Such terrible behaviour,” he says faux-seriously, pouting out his lips and stroking the thumb of his bad hand, mostly limp, against Salvo’s chin. It still feels as warm as the other, even if he can’t move it as well. “We had to add a few years to your sentence.”

“Oh,” says Salvo. He wonders what Villiers would say, if he was to tell him that he and Red used the same words as one another, describing Villiers’ position. He wondered if Red and Villiers had had this conversation before. “You— Why did you have to stop being an assassin, when you can still move like that?”

“You’re very good at flattery, boy, did you know that?” Villiers asks, tilting his head to the side and looking more than a little amused, his lopsided smile almost indulgent now. With his good hand, this time – it only takes the flick of a wrist to put his blade back into its sheath and set the cane aside – he spreads his hand on Salvo’s chest to brace himself, then eases himself up and out of his lap, onto his feet again.

Maybe it’s just because it’s not as fast, but this movement is a little clumsier, and Villiers has to be careful about which side he’s putting his weight on, has to lean his good hand on the chair to steady himself as he stands again, and then gets his cane beneath him again.

“I’m not good at flattery,” Salvo says. “I’m not really good at socialising, to be honest – I was okay when I was working, talking to people, letting them talk, trying to make them feel good, make them feel safe, make them feel human even though they were sick, or disabled, or just really, really tired, and in a lot of pain. But I’ve not been able to go out, basically, since…”

“The core of effective flattery is always the appearance of sincerity,” Villiers says mildly. “Being truly sincere is just another way to go about it, I suppose. You don’t seem very frightened for a man who’s just had a blade held to his throat.”

“My life’s in your hands either way,” Salvo says, adjusting himself subtly in his seat, because his cock is hard and it’s not as well-hidden in his loose prison tracksuit trousers as he’d like. He tries to shift the head of his cock against his waistband to keep it from pressing forward too much, but the way that Villiers’ eyes flicker downwards makes it clear it doesn’t matter how subtle he makes his erection appear.  “The blade was just an example.”

“Quite right, of course,” Villiers says, and then the blade is bared again, and this time the very tip of it is resting on his shoulder, the silver of polished metal catching the light. Salvo stares down at it, at how sharp it looks, and very carefully, very slowly, glancing up at Villiers – for what? Permission? Approval? Just to see the older man’s face not change? – he touches his finger to the side of the blade and immediately draws it back with a quiet hiss.

“Thought it would be blunt, did you?”

“Not really,” Salvo says, and tries to make sense of the multiple wants and lusts inside him, the way they tangle with one another, the way they twist about each other like vines. There’s something almost like a whine, almost like a moue, in his voice – which he doesn’t let out on purpose – as he asks, “You’re really not going to fuck me?”

“Never,” promises Villiers, and he slides the blade in closer, drags the tip over the line of Salvo’s collarbones through his clothes before it comes to rest in the hollow of them. “If I pierced here, through this little hole in the bones, useful little target on a thinner boy like you, I could cut right through your trachea. You’d aspirate on blood, unable to draw oxygen into your lungs, and what leaked out of you would froth and bubble.”

Salvo’s cock gives a desperate twitch between his legs, and he doesn’t make a noise, but it shows in his face, he thinks – Villiers laughs at him, and makes a show of sheathing his blade his time, sliding it back into its place with a quiet shkkt of noise.

“What a curious boy you are,” Villiers says. “Satisfy my curiosity, won’t you – would you rather I kill you, right here, enjoy the powerful eroticism of a cruel and nasty bastard like me threatening you just like this, perhaps with my boot against that precious little cocklet of yours for you to grind against,” (now Salvo does let out a helpless, embarrassing noise, and his trackies feel a little bit wet at the pre that dribbles from the head of his prick), “or would you rather slake your thirst and drink all there is from me? Sate that hunger of yours, gorge yourself on my magic until I’m dry?”

“You’re part of the way intolerant to magic, you said,” Salvo says to avoid the question, although he’s so full of want that his prick throbs – he’d been horny after drinking poor Brownie dry, no matter that the man was never attractive to him, a friend of his dad’s. He’d been stunned on the floor in the street, Brownie laid out and pale and still and going cold beside him on the cobbles, and for all his fear and horror and guilt, at the same time he’d felt blessed and beautiful warmth and satisfaction and satiation… and his cock had been the hardest it had ever fucking been, on the verge of coming even as the mage cop had come to cuff him, even as the magical police had cordoned off the area and taken away his corpse, and begun to take his details down.

The high hadn’t dissipated for hours, until he was alone in his cell, and only then had he felt cold enough to start sobbing over what he’d done.

“You might not even make a good meal,” he adds.

“Perhaps not,” Villiers allows. “But any sustenance at all is nectar to the starving man, isn’t it?”

“I’m going to go to sleep now,” Salvo says, getting to his feet.

“Go to bed, at least,” Villiers says dryly.

The door hasn’t even had time to lock behind him before Salvo has his hand around his cock to pull desperately on it, to get himself off.

* * *

Later that week – a Friday – Salvo is caught as he makes his way to his work detail, grappled and hauled into a cell, and he tries to shout out a protest, call for help, but a palm is already pressed tight over his mouth. He’s terrified of it, obviously, terrified, and yet a part of him sings for how much he’s being touched, how the hands are grabbing at him, at his thighs, around his waist, up at his shoulders, even though the hands touching him are a bit clammy.

“Where have you been going at night, eh, you pretty little muzzled pup?” asks the voice in his ear, and Salvo doesn’t recognise it, tries to raise his frantic eyes to get a glimpse at whoever it is in the cell mirror, but they’ve obviously smashed it and had it taken away. There’s a gap on the wall where the mirror is meant to be, a different colour to the rest, and while there’s newspaper bits pinned up, some animated pin-ups of actresses and models, Salvo can’t glean anything from them.

He tries to squeal out a protest as a shoelace is strung through the gaps in his cuffs and used to hang his wrists over his head, up over one of the top bunk’s posts, but this bloke is obviously old hat at this, keeps his palm pressed fast against Salvo’s lips. He’s dragging down Salvo’s bottoms with his hooking thumb and his hand is a little cold and clammy where it slides down between his arse cheeks, thumbing at his dry rim, and he whimpers, but he can barely hear it, jolting when the same hand squeezes his bollocks and plays over his soft cock.  

He’s at the wrong angle, his arms behind him and hooked above his head, his shoulders wrenching and feeling like they might well be dislocated any moment. His don’t tear up but he can feel the blood rushing through his veins, feel the adrenaline pumping, and he tries to kick, but it’s painful to let his shoulders take any of his weight in this position.

“Think I’m getting the first go, aren’t I?” asks the man behind him. “Haven’t heard anybody else bragging about it, and I know everyone’d be crowing at having had the privilege.”

“Let him go, Mason,” drawls a Brummie accent from behind them, and Salvo looks desperately back at Callum Pike standing there, Rosen hovering behind him like a wide-eyed shadow.

“Fuck off, Pike,” hisses Mason – Daf Mason, he guesses, the ex-miner in for rape who was in the papers, and Salvo watches Pike make a big show of sighing and adjusting his sleeves.

Where Rosen is small and round, plumper than Salvo is, and has sort of anxious, eager movements, often seeming like he’s vibrating from the inside, Pike is often inhumanly still. It’s not do to with being a vampire, Salvo doesn’t think, but maybe more to do with his being part-fae, or maybe just personal to him – when Pike goes still you can’t even see him breathing, barely see him blink, and that’s how he settles whenever he’s not talking or playing a game.

He looks like his dad, people say, some northern mob man who’s famous enough for people to know what he looks like, not that Salvo’s ever heard of him, though people say his dad doesn’t do stillness like Callum Pike does. He’s big and tall, lanky with a runner’s muscle on him, and he does parkour, apparently – people have said that the reason he goes inhumanly, inorganically still like that is because he blends in with the gargoyles when he climbs tall buildings, but Salvo doesn’t know that he believes that.

Pike isn’t still now: he moves as fast as the warden had the other night, is nothing more than a flickering blue before Salvo’s eyes, and then the weight of Mason behind him is gone, and he hears the other man groan.

Rosen has to climb up on the lower bunk to reach and undo Salvo’s bindings – the double knotted lacing is deceptively hard to snap, even without Salvo being hung at a painful angle, but Rosen undoes the messy knot with quick, skilled fingers.

Salvo rubs at his sore shoulders as he stands up straight and turns to look at Mason. Pike has him sat on the floor, leaning back against Pike’s chest, looking like a spider with a fly what with how long his legs and arms are contrasted with Mason’s stouter, more contained form. Mason’s eyes are glassy and his body has gone limp, and Pike is wiping his mouth with the inside of his wrist as he pulls back from the bloodied marks on the juncture of his shoulder, where he’d dragged back the man’s shirt to sink his teeth in.

Releasing his grip on Mason’s shirt collar, the bite is hidden as the fabric snaps back, and Pike drops Mason unceremoniously to the ground with a dull thump as he gets to his feet.

“You alright, Caine?” he asks casually.

“Yeah,” Salvo says. “Prick.” He kicks Mason hard in the ribs, and Mason’s so out of it with Pike’s vampiric venom that he doesn’t even jump, though he does groan quietly after a second’s delay. “Thank you.”

“Thank Ira,” says Pike, nodding to Rosen who – seemingly out of reflex – is rifling through the top drawer of Mason’s side table. “I didn’t hear you, I was sucking off Lee Havers down the hall.”

“Sucking off his neck, or…?”

“His cock,” Pike says helpfully, and Salvo huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Thank you,” he says as Rosen comes away from Mason’s things looking mildly disappointed. “You didn’t really think he might have the keys to some kind of vehicle?”

“I suppose not,” Rosen admits immediately, and Salvo feels his lips twitch into a tired smile as Pike laughs, gripping the back of Rosen’s neck in that effortlessly easy, possessive way he does, squeezing. “A man does live in hope – I just forget, I suppose, where I am.” He sighs, full of soft yearning. “I won’t be able to get my hands on a vehicle until I’m out again.”

“Did they take away your license?”

Rosen lets out a dismissive noise and waves a hand. “Never had one.”

Salvo’s pleased to have read him right, but as he trails after the two of them he looks at Pike’s hand on Rosen’s neck, wonders what it feels like. Vampires’ skin is cold, he’s heard – heard Rosen good-naturedly complain about it, even, but what would it feel like, the energy of him?

Pike splits off from them, loping back down the corridor to finish off Lee Havers, Salvo guesses, and he and Rosen fall into step beside one another.

“You on enchantment detail as well?” he asks.

“No, no,” says Rosen. “Embroidery, me.”

“Embroidery?” Salvo repeats. He’d said when he was going through the list of work options that he sewed at school, and the guard doing his assessment had actually laughed and told him no, that he wouldn’t be able for the sort of needlework they did here. He’s even peered into the room where they’re at it on his way back, and he’s never noticed Rosen in there, but the guy’s usually late for everything – who he has seen at work are very, very old fae, the ones that don’t speak English and won’t make any effort to learn, the ones that simmer with magic he can feel even with the cuffs on, that make his mouth water and his vision swim.

“Yeah, thanks to my granny, it’s seven faeries older than sin and then me. They’re nice enough, even if they try to use Hebrew with me sometimes and end up mixing it up with fucking Aramaic, not to mention that as you can imagine, their idea of Jews is, uh, a little old-fashioned. Fuck, it’s ancient-fashioned. I can’t do enchantment – too dyslexic – and I can’t sit still long enough to do some of the other crafts stuff. You can’t get bored doing this kind of sewing, though, ‘cause you have to work in sync with one another and go fast, layer magically charged threads over one another, the fabrics, all that.”

“You like it?”

“Not really,” Rosen says, “but it’s better than bouncing off the walls, I suppose. Does he fuck you?”

Salvo looks sideways at Rosen, who looks politely interested, but if he thinks he’s asked something rude, he doesn’t seem worried about it.

“Villiers?”

“Yeah,” says Rosen.

“No,” says Salvo, more to see how Rosen reacts than because he thinks he’ll really believe it – he’s only young, really young, about twenty, twenty-one. “Why, would you fuck him?”

“Probably not,” Rosen says, shrugging. “I think his face is creepy, the way his mouth droops on one side, and I don’t like how he talks.”

“His accent?”

“No, the, uh, what is it, a slur? From the stroke.”

“A slur, yeah,” says Salvo. “Though it’s rather mild, I expect it was much worse in the recent aftermath.”

“I don’t really like old guys,” Rosen says. “I’ve fucked them, obviously, to get my hands in their pockets for their keys or their phones, but I wouldn’t fuck them for the sake of it. No offence if you like to fuck old guys, it’s just not my thing.”

“None taken,” says Salvo. “I don’t really have that much experience.”

“What, you’re a virgin?”

“Not quite, but I’m basically celibate,” Salvo says.

“’Cause you’d kill people by fucking them?”

“Not mundies,” says Salvo.

“Why not fuck mundies then?” Rosen asks. They’re lingering in the corridor now, and Salvo knows he might be late for his own work detail, but Rosen obviously doesn’t care – he’s teetering back and forth from his heels to his toes, looking up at him with astonishing, kind of unsettling attentiveness. “Is it like, you can’t be open with them or whatever?”

“I don’t know,” Salvo says. “I worked a lot, and I would be tired, and I tried a few times, um… Apps. Or going to bars. And I just wasn’t good enough at it to make it happen, to actually get a guy to come home with me, or take me home, and it’d be months or years in between me actually trying, because it was just… It was excruciating. I don’t know why. It made me feel horrible.”

“Shame?” Rosen asks. “Do you hate your body?”

“Um,” Salvo says. “I don’t think so. Why, do you hate yours?”

“Sometimes,” Rosen says, with the same incredible frankness with which he asks questions, and Salvo actually feels breathless with it. “Sometimes I only really feel okay ‘cause I’m behind the wheel of something, and then it’s like that’s my body instead of this. All this flesh – not just ‘cause I’m fat, but I guess that’s part of it. All my family used to pinch at me, at my cheeks, my arms, anywhere you could pinch, really. You can’t pinch metal or fibreglass, and even if someone tries, you don’t feel it – and you’re going too fast for them to try anyway.” Rosen laughs, a scattershot sound that matches perfectly with his rapid fire, kind of clumsy way of speaking, but there’s something about the laugh that doesn’t match up with how he talks, a sort of tonal disconnect. “Anyway,” he says, and instead of saying “bye” or “see you later”, he just turns on his heel and walks away.

Salvo rubs the back of his neck, smiling faintly, and goes to work himself.

It was good to talk to Rosen right after – it’s twenty minutes later that he remembers Daf Mason nearly fucking raped him, and then he throws up in the workshop sink.

* * *

Red walks with the lad back to the main block after they’re done working. He’d asked if the lad was ill, but he’d dismissed both the guard looking over him and Red, and then just worked in even more palpable silence than usual. He’s never chatty during his work detail, but at least he’ll sit closer to other people and smile or laugh along with the conversation going on, listen more attentively if someone tries to give him advice, whatever else.

Most of today he’s in his own fucking world, and he’d barely eaten anything at lunch, had mostly just sat there with his tray in front of him, barely touching what was on it before drifting back to work.

“You need to eat something,” Red says behind him when they’re in the queue. “Just get the rice if you can’t stand to taste anything, but get a full portion.”

Reluctantly, Caine takes a bowl of rice, half-heartedly putting some boiled carrots in it at the last minute, and he sits and eats in silence across from Red at the table until Rosen and Pike come to join them.

“You feeling okay?” Rosen asks, and then adds, “Start to sink in, did it?”

“Yeah,” Salvo says hoarsely.

“Mason tried to fuck him this morning,” Pike says when Red doesn’t say anything, but looks across at them askance. “Had him trussed up when Ira got me to come in and rescue him. Speaking of, it seems my consequence for that has arrived.”

“Fuck’s sake, Pike,” growls Cornell as he stalks across the bar, and Pike is stone-still as the guard grabs him by the collar and drags him up from his untouched tray. “You could have fucking killed him.”

“I’ve never killed a man in my life,” Pike says unconvincingly as Cornell hauls him away, and Red watches as Caine half-stands to his feet, looking like he wants to protest.

“Because he helped me?” Caine asks, looking horrified. “What are they going to do to him?”

“Solitary for a few days,” Rosen says. “It’s not like they can take his fangs out.”

“Or cuff them,” says Red.

Caine looks even greener now than he had earlier, but after a little quiet coaxing from Rosen he does sink down onto the bench again, and he reluctantly begins to eat again.

“They’ve put him in solitary before,” Rosen says. “It’s not as though it bothers him any. He wouldn’t have stepped in if he wasn’t willing to make the trade-off, a few days of extra boredom in exchange for stopping Mason raping you. You’ve never been raped before, have you? I don’t recommend it, you’re better off without.”

That makes Caine blink a few times, not seeming to quite make sense of Rosen’s tone. Even before he’d been brought to the nick, he’d known more than a few lads with personalities like his – more than a few lads who’d had blows to the head like Rosen had had as a lad and all, the sort of head injury that douses out a man’s impulse control like a fucking church candle, and makes him talk like bullet fire.

Surely, working with old folks and the demented, he’ll have met people that talk a bit more frankly than others, but unless you knew already, he supposes, you’d never know Rosen had an extra impact on him one way or the other. He’s said to Red that he was always more impulsive than his siblings even before he took a brick to the side of the skull, and that you never know what’s natural and what’s from concussion.

Daf Mason’s a victim of repeated concussion and all, though he’s the more traditional headcase, Red thinks, the one that people might imagine. Angry, and a raper.

“I know I’m better without it,” Caine says slowly. “Just— Just that it’s not right, Pike being punished for stepping in in my defence. I’ll talk to Warden Villiers about it.”

“Oh, do you think maybe if you offer to suck him off or something, he’ll let Pike out early?”

Red can see that initially Caine is just straight up taken aback by it, by the way that Rosen just comes right the fuck out and says it, but then he sees the wires connect and cross in Caine’s head, the way he connects the idea of Villiers shoving his cock into Caine’s throat with wherever Daf was gonna shove his earlier, and Red grabs Rosen’s already-empty bowl from in front of him and slides it in front of Caine to catch the bulk of the vomit.

“Oh,” says Rosen, not without sympathy, and pats his shoulder, which makes Caine, in a flop sweat under his tracksuit, jump and shudder, and then lean into the delicate squeeze of Rosen’s pretty little hand. “Oh, it’s okay. Villiers will probably take it out worse on Mason anyway – what with you being his special case and that.”

Caine retches harder, and Rosen makes a face but awkwardly exchanges his now-full bowl for one another lad passes them from the next table over.

“Oi! Guard!” Red shouts over his shoulder. “One of you screws come be of some fucking use, would ya? Bring a mop and all!”

* * *

“He was only helping me,” Salvo says for the third time, feeling out of sorts and strangely unbalanced, because he’s in his bed and has a blanket over him, a glass of water next to another glass of flat lemonade on the bedside table next to him, a slice of very thinly buttered toast on the plate beside it. It has a few bites taken out of it, but more than half of the slice is still left – Villiers had stood over him and ordered him to take each bite, ordered him to chew, to swallow, to take a sip of water to ease it down, at the same time he confined him to his bed. “Warden Villiers, please, he only—”

“I understand your protest implicitly, Mr Caine, you need not repeat yourself again,” Villiers says coolly. His cane is hooked on the back of Salvo’s desk chair, and the man himself is leaning back against Salvo’s desk, looking down at him in his bed.

He hadn’t fainted, fully, but he’d been so stressed and sweaty and nauseous from throwing up on top of barely eating all day that his knees had gone weak when the guards had gotten him up, and Villiers had ordered him up to the house immediately.

“Mr Pike is under express instruction, as all vampires in this prison are,” Villers says, “not to bite his fellow inmates. A vampire cannot be easily milked of their venom because they typically produce it too quickly, and Mr Pike, like so many of his unfortunate provenance, has rather powerful venom in any case. Were Mr Mason a diabetic, or otherwise under the weight of some condition that makes him particularly vulnerable to such venom, Pike might have killed him as easily and quickly as having snapped his neck. He is given a measure of blood each week to sustain his appetites, and he isn’t to augment that diet.”

“He drinks from other inmates during sex,” Salvo mutters, reaching reluctantly for his lemonade and taking a sip of it. He’d felt fucking wretched, watching Villiers drizzle a little sugar into the glass and make it fizzle, stirring it until all the carbonation was gone, “that it not spur on your nausea any further”.

“He isn’t to do that either,” says Villiers, his arms crossed over his chest. You’d not know one was weak, with him supporting them like this against his breast like this. Salvo doesn’t really understand why it bothers Rosen so much, the slur – it’s so mild, you’d easily think it was just from his posh accent rather than from the stroke. “Although he’s good enough not to render his willing cohorts fit for the infirmary. Intimate contact between inmates is itself prohibited, I might remind you, but regardless of how Pike penetrates his cohorts – or indeed, is penetrated by them – we avoid official evidence of the fact so long as his partners are not hospitalised.”

“And what about Mason?” Salvo asks bitterly, putting the glass down on the coaster before reaching reluctantly for the toast and forcing himself to take a bite of it, to chew it, to swallow it down. It’s cold, and it feels too thick and heavy in his mouth, and he hates it, but he sees Villiers incline his head slightly in visible approval, and he doesn’t hate that.

It’s the only thing today after Mason, except for Rosen babbling at him when he’d forgotten about it, that he hasn’t hated completely.

“Dafydd Mason is recovered from his stupefaction, and will be fine come morning, I’ve no doubt.”

“He tried to rape me,” Salvo says. “He tied me up and he stripped my trackies off me and he was going to rape me. He touched me. He touched my—” He squeezes his eyes shut as he feels his stomach turn over, trying to swallow down the nausea, feeling the toast wanting to come back up on him.

“More lemonade,” Villiers orders, and Salvo’s hand trembles a bit as he drops the plate in his lap and picks up the lemonade, swallowing a bit more down. He thinks the sweetness of it will make him gag, but it overwhelms the nausea, actually, the acidity of it and the sugar at once, and it fucking annoys him, actually, because Villiers is looking at him kind of smugly from his place on the other side of the room. “Why did you not call for a guard?”

“He had his hand over my mouth,” Salvo says. “He grabbed me in the corridor and pulled me in, and as he tied me up and stripped me and— He had his hand over my mouth the whole time. I couldn’t say a thing, I was making noise but no one could hear except Ira, who went and got Pike.”

“Who pulled Mason off you, knocking him out with his bite, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“And then?”

Salvo stares at him. “What do you mean, and then?”

“You didn’t call for a guard then,” Villiers says. “You left Mason on the floor of his cell, a puddle of drool collecting under his gaping jaw, and took the effort to bruise one of his ribs before you left him there.”

“How’d you know it was me did that?” Salvo asks, looking at his plate instead of meeting the older man’s eyes. “Not Pike? Or Ira?”

“Mr Rosen is not violent – to the point of pathology, he avoids violence, in fact, though I must say his vegetarianism makes providing healthy and satisfying kosher meals rather easier whilst avoiding potential interference from other inmates, so I suppose I ought render no judgement on it. And had Mr Pike kicked Mason in the ribs, he would have broken one, not just left a bruise.”

“I don’t like you,” says Salvo, and Villiers laughs richly and quietly, supporting his weak arm with his other as he unfolds them, and then leaning back further against the desk, rolling his shoulders.

“I’m wounded, I’m sure,” he murmurs. “You did not call for a guard, young man. Mason was not discovered until two hours after, and he could easily have died. Mr Pike would be spending more than three days in a solitary cell had he brought that about, I must say.”

“So? He’d just tried to fucking rape me,” mutters Salvo, tearing into the toast with his fingers and finding that it’s strangely cathartic, tearing it in half, so he tears it into quarters, and then eights, and then tries to tear it into sixteenths, but mostly by this point he just has crumbs all over his hands and on the plate and a little bit on the sheets. “Why the fuck should I have called for a guard?”

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Villiers asks, arching an eyebrow. “I know that Mr Rosen likely did as soon as he left the room. He’s forgotten his shoes more than once before whilst wandering the halls – his sewing companions consider him quite the queer little thing.”

“Maybe Pike forgot.”

“Mr Pike is well-familiar with the drill, by this point. He didn’t forget a thing.”

Salvo glares at him, and Villiers smirks his cold, lopsided smirk. “It didn’t occur to me,” he admits, shaking out his crumby hands and putting the plate back on the counter, and Villiers walks forward and takes hold of the top sheet in his good hand, supporting himself on the side table with his weaker elbow and sweeping the sheet back with a surprising speed and strength, letting out a sound like a sail filling with a gust of wind. He shakes out all the crumbs before he passes it back, and Salvo smooths it over himself.

“You were never a nurse,” he says.

“Never,” Villiers agrees. “I’ve always been rather more comfortable ushering someone toward death rather than out of its clutches.”

“You’d be handfeeding me if you could,” Salvo accuses him. “Would have brought in the plate and glasses, would have tucked me into bed. Bet you’ve tampered with an IV – have you ever put one in?”

“No,” Villiers says softly.

He’s standing very close, now, leaning on the end table instead of the desk – he’s so much closer, and it’s more intimate, like this. Salvo has to lie back on his pillows and look up at him, and it’s even more unequal, even more imbalanced, the dynamic between the two of them. Salvo can’t stand the idea of touching himself, not at the moment, but there’s heat between his legs, and his cock is half-hard even before he breathes in the sweet scent of Villiers’ cologne, and he loves it, craves it. He wants to bury his face against Villiers’ belly and feel the touch of his cold, slim fingers in Salvo’s hair, touching his fingertips against his scalp, wants Villiers to hold Salvo’s body to his.

“We’re not meant to put them in, care assistants – we’re not trained for it,” Salvo murmurs. “Not accredited, anyway, and you’re meant to be. Inserting IVs and taking them out, that’s an invasive procedure – I got sent on a training course to take and process blood samples, but I should never have been doing IVs or catheters. Understaffing being what it is, though, if I wasn’t doing it, or one of us doing it, there’d have been a Hell of a wait, sometimes, so they just showed us, and taught us how, and unless we were getting inspected, it was…” Salvo exhales, tapping his fingers against the sheet, against his knees. “It’s delicate work, the tourniquet, the needle, finding the vein. There’s so much power in it. There’s so much, um, vulnerability in it. It’s just this portal right to their insides, to their heart. You can put anything in it – too much medicine, too little. Insulin to really fuck somebody up, but not even that, though. All you really need is a little bubble of air.”

“You needn’t inform me of that,” Villiers says softly. “As I said, I’m more familiar with those latter points than I would be any actual nursing.”

“That’s what I mean, though,” Salvo says. “I always wanted to help people, care for people, yeah. I always craved it, I always… My dad had a pacemaker put in, and two different women on my street were nurses, and one of them minded me after school, and that was even without all the check-ups I had to have, as a child, the extra attention. I liked it. I liked the way nurses talked, and I liked how people paid attention to them and how they gave instructions and orders and help and I liked how physical it was, the, the knowledge. Like they could go into a cupboard and look at all this equipment, all these weird little devices or bits of tubing or whatever else, and just know how to use all of it to help you, to heal you, to fix you. But it was the power of that, really. I’ve always felt a bit bad about it, but it’s not like you’re going to judge me, like you’re going to fucking care. I liked nursing because it was authority – more authority than a doctor, sometimes. You never hear the doctor going, “Actually, nurse,” and correcting what they’ve said, but nurses are always stepping in when the doctor’s fucked up.”

He looks up at Villiers, whose expression is not so obvious in its smirk now, but whose attention is fixed on Salvo’s face, studying him intently.

“You’d like to be feeding me,” Salvo says. “You’d like to be bringing the glass to my mouth instead of trusting me to do it myself – you’d like to force each bite, each mouthful of water or lemonade. You’d massage my throat to make me swallow, even, if you had the chance.”

“Teasing me with such seductive talk will not convince me to release Mr Pike any earlier, young man,” Villiers says, his voice a little bit hoarser, a little more resonance in it. Arousal, that is, arousal, and want. Salvo swallows.

“What will it get me?” Salvo asks, and Villiers laughs quietly, then picks up the plate with his good hand and walks away.

“Go to sleep,” Villiers orders him. “No work detail for you tomorrow – you can take your choice of confinement here, or in my office.”

“How cold is your office?”

“Quite.”

“Here, then.”

“As you will,” Villiers says, and after setting the plate down in the corridor, he pulls the door shut behind him.

* * *

Caine doesn’t come down from the warden’s house at all that day. The screws won’t say anything about what’s up with him, but when Red asks Kim Adder, he says that there was a little dispensation, that he was confined to bedrest in his own quarters, but was noted down on the infirmary log as being unwell.

Not much of a surprise, that.

“Hello, Red,” says Rosen when Red steps out from the workshop, and Red raises his eyebrows at the sight of the lad, reaching out and touching his knuckles to the back of Rosen’s forehead, because he’s pink all over, and sweating.

“Seems like you’re red,” he mutters. “The fuck happened to you, you jog down the corridor?”

“Oh, there was a fight in the embroidery hall,” Rosen says, reaching up and wiping his face with his sleeve. “I had to run – the old faeries can do all sorts to each other, but it’d fuck me up, I’m not two thousand years old and with skin as thick as tree bark. The magic that would give them a little burn would go right through me.”

“Right,” Red says, raising his eyebrows, but he puts his hands in his pockets and walks alongside Rosen down the corridor, toward the canteen. Rosen hadn’t eaten lunch with Red – he’d been chattering away with some recent new transplant who’s in from London for arson, and is apparently an old schoolmate of his. “D’you mind if I ask you something?”

“No,” says Rosen.

“Why’re you in a magical nick, not a mundie one? Was it a magical train you tried driving off?”

“Not that I got caught, but they knew I had done,” Rosen says mildly. “And they decided they couldn’t trust me not to blab away to mundies and not keep secrets – I’m no good at keeping secrets.”

“Fair enough,” Red says. “That what had those old tree fuckers going mad at each other? You blabbing secrets?”

“Didn’t fully follow a lot of the conversation, to be honest, I normally don’t,” Rosen says. “The way those old pricks talk to each other is fucking weird – it’s not just the language they use, I’ve kind of been starting to pick up some of the, um, I think it’s too old to even be Welsh, it’s some kind of Brythonic. But they talk in verse and riddles and stuff with each other, so even if I can make out the words or recognise names and things they’re saying, it’s well beyond me to understand what they actually mean. They were doing some sort of poetry thing today, a bit, um… I don’t know, they were roasting each other. Something about someone’s daughter, maybe? And fucking her? I don’t know. But old Bleiddgwn flipped his fucking lid, and he was properly screaming at Cadllew, and they were already angry at each other, and then Toutorixs said something else, like, commenting, or a joke, and then they were all trying to rip each other to shreds. I had to run out, and then French had to flip that switch, you know the one that locks the room down and chokes all the magic out? They’ll be in there for days until they’re either calm enough to come out or until they fall into hibernation, so either way, I don’t have work detail for a while.”

Red blinks a few times, because it takes him a little while to actually comprehend that Rosen’s stopped talking – how the fuck he makes sense of what those ancient cunts are saying, let alone what the protocol is around them, he has no idea. Most of the inmates keep a wide berth from the prisoners that have been imprisoned at his majesty’s pleasure long before this prison island was even built, and have sentences that last centuries or millennia instead of being decades at the most, for their own fucking safety, not to mention their own sanity.

“Hibernation?” he repeats. “What, like fucking bears?”

“If they’re starved of magic for long enough, yeah,” Rosen says evenly. “But apparently they normally tire themselves out fighting and arguing before they get to that point. Fingers crossed, though! I wouldn’t be able to embroider on my own, so they’d have me doing something else. No Caine today?”

“Apparently he’s ill,” Red says.

“Oh, right, okay,” Rosen says, and furrows his brow. “Yeah.”

“You want to help me with a job after dinner?” Red asks, and Rosen lights up.

He doesn’t ask for any details at all, of course, before he says, “Sure!”

It’s not like Red wants him doing anything particularly risky in any case – Rosen chats up a fucking storm to the trustee mopping the floors in the infirmary, the doctor’s already gone off for the evening, and Red knows that the infirmary nurse, a little prick called Julian with eyebrow piercings, will be off getting high at this time of day.

All he wants is to pay Daf Mason a little social call – and funny enough, he doesn’t find the prick in situ.

“Is there a reason yourself and Mr Rosen are wandering the corridors with no-doubt pilfered sets of keys?” Warden Villiers asks in withering tones, and Red straightens up, his hands behind his back.

Rosen’s eyes widen, his lips parting, and he says anxiously, his gaze flitting back and forth, “Erm, hello, Warden, uh, we’re not, we haven’t been, I’m—”

“Don’t trouble yourself attempting deception, young man, we both know it beyond your capabilities,” Villiers advises, and Rosen blows out air from plump lips, and he looks reluctantly at Villiers’ outstretched good hand, palm up, before he drops the tools from his pocket into the warden’s grasp – a bobby pin and two half-melted embroidery needles. “Mr French said you weren’t injured in this afternoon’s fracas between your fellow needleworkers. He is correct, I hope?”

“Yessir.”

“Why were you loitering about the infirmary, then?”

“Where’s Salvo Caine?” Red asks, and Villiers’ uncanny gaze flits to Red’s face, his thin lips twitching. He’s a scary cunt, and there’s no mistaking that, but it’s not like it’s Red’s first time dealing with scary academic-seeming types, the ones with more power and danger simmering under the surface than you can see in their muscles or feel in their magical fields.

“Ill from yesterday’s escapades, still,” Villiers says.

“And Daf Mason?”

“Mr Mason?” Villiers repeats, and tilts his head to one side, then smiles a coolly satisfied smile. “You really thought Mr Pike would face punishment for stepping in, but Mr Mason would face no consequences for his actions at all?”

“Is he in solitary?” Rosen asks, and Villiers nods for Red to open up the door for them to go downstairs, which Red does, Rosen going ahead of him onto the landing.

“No,” says Villiers, and shuts the door after them.

* * *

“Dress yourself for dinner, if you would,” Villiers had said when he came back from the prison proper, and Salvo thinks about it when he shadows, plays it over and over in his head, turning it over. In Villiers’ posh, stupid accent, made up and learned to make him scarier as an assassin or as a spy or whatever the fuck else, it sounds like it’s a bigger thing than it actually is.

For dinner, like it’s an occasion, like they’re in some period drama, like he’s gonna put on a tail coat and fancy trousers and nice shoes and a bowtie, and like there’s gonna be all lords and ladies sitting down around the dining table and prawns in a dish and a butler pouring drinks.

He puts on his issued trackies, and a t-shirt, and his sweatshirt, and he walks out into the corridor through the unlocked door to his room and down toward the little sitting room where they ordinarily eat together, if they share a meal. It’s never an inmate that serves them, not like how inmates work down in the kitchen – Salvo’s actually never seen whoever it is that serves them in Villiers’ house, and he’s not sure if there’s even a person doing it at all, or if it’s all enchantment.

He knows that the place gets swept and cleaned – he tries to keep his room tidy because he’s just that sort of man, but sometimes if he doesn’t fully make his bed if he’s in a hurry to go in the morning, or if he spills something on the desk or spills shampoo or something on the bathroom floor, it’s always cleaned up by the time he’s back. His sheets get changed once a week, and a lot of the time, he can see that someone’s hoovered or scrubbed the floors or done something like that in the sitting room or in the hall.

Normally when Villiers calls him to come eat dinner, there are plates already on the little table for them, but there aren’t tonight, and the chess board isn’t laid out either.

“Ah, there you are,” says Villiers, and he walks forward, sliding past Salvo and back into the corridor, then gesturing with two fingers for Salvo to follow him down the hallway, which Salvo does. “Feeling better, I hope?”

“Yeah,” Salvo says. “I was a bit bored, to be honest. Finished all my books.”

“Those Lawrence Kidd romances again?”

“Two of them,” Salvo says. “The other one was an Agatha Christie. Where are we going?”

“Oh, through here,” Villiers says in smooth, easy tones, and leads him through the door and into Villiers’ home office. It’s a much warmer affair than the one he has in the prison proper, a fire burning in the hearth, and there’s a fancy brocade wallpaper on the wall. On the other wall is another door, this one slightly ajar, and Salvo peers through it, because that’s Villiers’ bedroom.

He has dark violet bedsheets made of cotton, not silky at all, and Salvo gets a glimpse of the brass bar beside the bed that’s obviously there to help him up and down, and—

Villiers closes the door shut.

“Not what I brought you here for, young man,” Villiers tells him, and limps across to his desk, where he slowly spins his chair around. It’s a big, leather-backed thing, so that until it’s turned around, Salvo can’t see what’s in it – who’s in it.

His mouth goes dry as he looks at Daf Mason, his hands cuffed behind his back, his ankles chained together, a gag like a horse’s bit stuffed in his mouth, forcing his teeth apart. Salvo stares at him, uncomprehending, unable to breathe, his heart beginning to speed in his chest, sweat beginning to gather on his skin, beading on his forehead.

His stomach clenches tightly like a squeezed balloon, and he’s glad they haven’t eaten dinner yet, glad that he was left with a plate of sandwiches for lunch that he ate before it was even one o’clock.

“What the fuck?” Salvo demands, the words coming out in a whisper, as if he’s scared of Daf Mason hearing them. He’s not really frightening, now that Salvo sees him like this – he’s been thinking about him on and off today, trying to remember glimpses of him he’s seen about the prison, thinking of him on the floor. He’s not a big man, by any means – solid and stout, but not really big, not that intimidating. “What the fuck, Warden, you can’t just—”

Villiers has stepped close to him, close enough that Salvo is distracted by the scent of his cologne, so distracted he doesn’t realise that Villiers is reaching for him, touching him with his surprisingly warm fingers – so distracted he doesn’t realise why Villiers is actually touching him until the cuffs fall aside, dropping into Villiers’ hands, the left, then the right.

Salvo actually feels dizzy for a second, magic rushing through him like he’s just been dropped into a river of magical flow, and he feels the hot bleed of it through his veins, under his skin, feels the incredible sing of pure energy in his head, between his ears, on his tongue, in his heart, his belly, in his very core. He whips back and steadies himself on a wall as he adjusts himself to it, his eyes closed tightly, his heart pounding.

It's like the world temporarily ceases to exist, like it’s just him and all the magic around him instead, and it’s surprisingly very intimate, feels good and comforting and warm. It’s like magic itself is cradling him in its embrace, enfolding each of his limbs, cradling his body, stroking through his hair, even.

He’d forgotten.

Salvo had forgotten how good it felt, sometimes, all the magic in the world – he’s been wondering of late how the fuck he used to manage it, how he used to stand it, not being touched, the awful skin hunger, the awful starvation in his muscles and in his flesh for other people touching him, not just for hugs or squeezes, not even for kisses or whatever else, but even just the casual touches of other people. Brushing shoulders with people in a corridor, feeling the weight of others in the crowd around you, wrestling, shaking hands, high-fiving, even.

Not like Mason’s touch, no, not the grip of him, the violence of it, the fucking invasion of it, but everything else, everybody else.

The magic isn’t a substitution, but it’s good. It feels right, natural, satisfying, and he slowly breathes in through his nose, steadying himself and standing up straight as he looks across to Warden Villiers and Daf Mason.

He can feel the magic in the room. He never used to feel it much in the care home or in his own apartment – he could reach out and feel the electrical circuits sometimes, the flow of the wiring around his flat, separate from the concentrated magic in enchanted items of his own, in warded or enchanted furniture.

It had never been like this.

The whole of the island is singing beneath his feet, the soil rich with magical salts and proteins, magical root systems from trees and flowers, the ground rock heavy with magic from whenever this island was constructed a few millennia ago. He can feel every brick around him, taste on the air the order in which they were laid, can even imagine the ghosts of the men who’d laid those bricks – fae labourers, many of them, indentured to the crown for resisting the march of King Arthur’s army.

He can feel the age of Villiers’ huge, mahogany desk, feel the solid wood of it and the magic that gathers and settles in its grooves and secreted knots, in its enchanted brass knobs and handles; he can feel the enchantment on each of the furnishings and devices in the room, everything from the privacy charms on his in- and out-trays to the anti-pest ones stitched into the rug beneath their feet and inscribed on the bottom of his bookshelf.

He can taste them, all these magicks, discrete from one another, feel how scattered and chaotic the older magic feels, how untethered and sprawling it is; he can feel the straight lines and rhythms of the newer charms and enchantments, the magic channelled and controlled by careful inscriptions of symbols and writings; he can feel the life in it all, the energy.

Daf Mason burns brighter than the fire does.

Villiers does have a pulse to him, a font of magic buried in his chest and letting more magic flow through his body, but he’s a lighter, less saturated grey where Mason is a hot burn of white energy, pure and wholly concentrated and radiating outward, and Salvo has never felt so incredibly and unspeakably hungry.

He can barely breathe, staring at Mason, unable to separate the detestable man in his vest and trackies and careful bondage, doused in a flop sweat and struggling helplessly against the leather seat beneath him, from the sweet fucking nectar that flows through him. Salvo can see it, feel it, taste it – magic gathers in the very core of a person, runs up and down their spinal column and out from their heart and their brain, flowing through the bulk of their nervous system and their arteries and capillaries, but Mason has been in magic all his life. Was raised in a magical home, learned enchantment as a child, worked in a magical mine, is now kept inmate in a magical prison, probably even raped magical victims – every ounce of magic in him, Salvo knows as intimately as he knows his own heartbeat.

Magic clings in caps around the tips of his fingers, where he’s been enchanting all his life, and gloves his palms leaving gaps where the enchanted wooden heft of his pickaxe wasn’t in contact with his skin; his hair and fingernails aren’t as doused in magic as his skin is, seeming paler and less saturated than the rest of him; if Salvo stripped him naked and then stripped the top layer of skin off his back, he might even be able to read the old ghosts of the runes inscribed on the inside of his armoured mining vest, where the enchantment has left its ghost within Mason’s body from so many decades of use.

Salvo’s thighs touch Villiers’ desk, and Salvo blinks, laying his hands on the wooden surface, staring down at it before he looks back at Mason. He hadn’t even realised he was walking forward, hadn’t realised he was even approaching him.

Daf Mason looks fucking terrified, tears on his cheeks, snot on his top lip and shining yellow in his stubble.

He looks at Villiers, who is watching him keenly, hungrily.

“You’re letting me,” he says, and his voice sounds strangely hollow in his own ears as he slowly moves around the desk, advancing closer. “You’re— you’re letting me? I can… There’s so much in him, it…” He tries to remember what it felt like to be nauseous, but there’s too much of a roar inside him to remember what the fuck something as awful as that felt like – he can’t remember what it felt like to be nauseated and ashamed and horrible with Brownie’s corpse on his conscience, and he can’t remember either what it felt like to be terrified and scared and on the verge of throwing up at the memory of Mason’s hands on his body, Mason’s bondage holding him in place, the thread of Mason behind him. All he can feel, all he can really concentrate on, is the hunger, the need, and better than that, the knowledge of what the satiation will feel like, what wonder it will be to taste him. “It’ll kill him,” Salvo says weakly. He can barely hear that last part.

He can hear Mason’s useless, pathetic begging, even through the gag in his mouth – he can’t really make out the words, but he can hear his desperate fumbling in English and then in Welsh, which Salvo doesn’t even speak. How many people have begged Mason like Salvo didn’t have a chance to yesterday morning, have begged him not to hurt them, not to rape them, not to tie them up? How many people have plead for mercy and haven’t had it from him, or haven’t had the chance to do so because he gagged them first, like Villiers has gagged him?

“And what are you robbing him of, if you take his life?” Villiers asks in a silken voice that weaves around Salvo’s heart and feels like it’s making itself at home inside his skull, inside his heart, inside his fucking soul, and he likes it. He likes the sound of Villiers’ voice, the taste of it. “The chance to ravish another unwilling party, to emasculate another prisoner? To bash in a fellow’s brains, embarrass himself, be cruel, be ugly, be…?” Villiers trails off, and then gestures to the struggling, sweat-soaked Mason, pushes out his lips in a mocking pout, and Salvo looks at the slight weakness of his lips on one side of his mouth, and wonders what Villiers would do if he kissed him there, on that loose corner. “Look at him, Mr Caine,” Villiers says. “Is it even the moral choice, to spare him?”

Salvo could touch Villiers instead.

He could reach out and grab Villiers instead, grab his wrists or his throat, touch his cheek, even kiss him – he could touch Villiers and sap from him, and show him exactly what he deserves, give him what he’s asking Salvo to do to Mason…

But Mason burns so much brighter, and maybe he doesn’t deserve it more – but Salvo deserves it more. He doesn’t want revenge against Villiers, doesn’t crave to take anything from Villiers, because Villiers has never taken anything from him.

He closes his hands around Mason’s neck, moans aloud at the sudden shock of lightning-fast power crackling up through his palms ad up his arms, and Mason chokes and stiffens up and stops struggling and fidgeting all at once, frothing at the mouth as he chokes on air around the bit.

Oh, but it’s ecstasy.

He can feel the stutter and shudder of Mason’s swallowing throat under his thumbs, but it’s nothing compared to the sensation of the feed, of the way all the magic gathered under Mason’s skin, running through his veins and coiled about his bones, held in his every cell, transfers to Salvo instead. He feels as though he’s flying, as though he’s soaring, feels the rush in his ears, crackling over his skin, a whipcrack of wonder—

It's not like how it happened with Brownie.

With Brownie, he hadn’t even known it was coming, had gone from nothing to everything in one moment and not truly been cognizant of what was happening, had never experienced the like of it before. He’s more in control of himself this time, more attached to himself. He’s aware of the moment that Mason’s body, cold, his eyes dead, falls back in the chair, Salvo’s hands releasing him.

Mason’s cold sweat is clinging to his palms, and Salvo flexes his fingers, feeling the pulse of energy under his skin, and feeling strangely satisfied, strangely… whole. He stares down at his own hands as he clenches and stretches out his fingers, slowly rolling his head on his neck, his shoulders, his elbows, feeling oddly like a glass that’s been filled to the brim, but not poured over.

He looks to Villiers, who is watching him intently, and he sees and feels the energy that runs through Villiers, too, the magic in the core of him and that flows through the conduits he’s made up of, but what he doesn’t feel, he finds, is hunger. Want, yes, desire – want for the older man to touch him, hold him, want him, but not to drink from him.

“I don’t feel cold,” Salvo says. It comes out in a soft and mystified whisper, and Villiers hums a sound of comprehension, or perhaps of understanding, or maybe just acknowledgement. He’s holding out a tray, and Salvo obediently takes the two bracelets back off it, sliding them onto his wrists and clicking them into place.

It’s as if the room goes suddenly dark again where before it had been drenched in light, his connection to the magical flows around him abruptly cut off by the enchantment in the cuffs, but he doesn’t feel like he’s drenched in darkness, doesn’t feel as though he’s been dropped into some dark pit.

He can feel his heart beating, is aware that his breaths are even, that his blood must be flowing through his veins, that his organs are at work.

“A hunger sated, yes,” Villiers says. “I’m not surprised that warms you. Come, I have a bath run for you.”

It almost doesn’t occur to him that he could protest, let alone that he’d want to, as he follows after Villiers not, disappointingly, through to his own bedroom, but into the corridor and then to the master bathroom, which is very warm. A few candles are lit around the darkened room, and Salvo strips off his clothes as indicated, sinking then into the bath.

This is Villiers’ own bathroom, more brass bars around the room to support him standing and moving, and Villiers draws over a brass-legged stool before stripping off his cardigan. He’s wearing a dark brown wooden vest over his shirt underneath, and after hanging the cardigan up on the back of the bathroom door, Salvo watches as he rolls up the sleeve on his bad arm, and before he can start with the other, Salvo reaches out with his still dry hands and rolls it up for him. He neatly folds the shirt cuff up and over, trying to mimic the same angles Villiers had used on his other side, up to the elbow.

There are more scars on Villiers’ forearms, the insides of his wrists and elbows – places where the hair on his skin has been burned or altered, marks where he’d been cut, even a messy, fatter wound that he thinks was maybe from a bullet, or was from something else with a straight path, like a sharp pike or stick.

Villiers keeps his weaker hand in his lap as he reaches for a glass jug and fills it from the water, pouring it over Salvo’s head and wetting down his hair as he obediently tips his head forward. There are no bubbles in the bath, but it’s fragranced with salts and smells faintly of flowers and a fruit, he thinks maybe peaches or apples.

“Your father was ill when you were growing up, you said, a pacemaker. Your mother?”

“She worked,” Salvo mumbles, grateful for the curtain of hair hiding his face from Villiers’ gaze. He doesn’t feel any compunction about being naked in front of the other man – a part of him is frustrated that he’s not looking at Salvo’s body with any particular desire or hunger, but that doesn’t sting so much feeling Villiers’ hands on him, moving over his body.

“Who bathed you, as a child?” Villiers asks.

Salvo is quiet, leaning closer to Villiers’ hands as he pours cool, creamy shampoo through Salvo’s hair and massages it into the curls, squeezing and combing his fingers through to ensure he gets as much coverage as he can with his one working hand, the other remaining rested on his knees.

“Does your sapping effect impact a pacemaker?”

“Not as a matter of course,” Salvo says. “I can, um, be aware of electrical fields and stuff, but I don’t really impact them. But he had other stuff wrong with him, and he was ill a lot, and tired a lot. So he couldn’t touch me much, because it’d take so much more out of him than someone else.”

“And your mother?”

“She was already tired from work.”

“And grandparents? Other family members?”

Salvo doesn’t say anything, leaning his cheek into the gentle scrub of Villiers’ narrow fingers as they rub behind and at the underside of his ears, massaging down the back of his neck. It feels good, sends thrills down his spine, and he likes how strong Villiers’ approach to it is – he likes the authority with which Villiers moves his head one way and then the other, how he tilts Salvo’s head for him to pour water over his scalp before smoothing it out.

“I suppose I can imagine it,” Villiers says mildly. “Relatives sitting back from you, coaxing you and tutoring you through combing your hair, brushing your teeth, how best to wash yourself, not touching you and demonstrating as they ordinarily might for a small child. Were you aware of the casual touches your childhood was robbed of by your condition, hm? Cognizant of the way other parents and relatives reached out and touched children of the same age as you – stroked their hair, patted their cheeks, held their hands or gaze them affectionate squeezes and half-hugs? Did you understand why you were an island, even before you were old enough that your touch was a death sentence, and not a promise of mere discomfort and exhaustion?”

“They touched me at check-ups,” Salvo says, although he doesn’t know why he says it – is it a defence of his family, an excuse? An assurance he’s not as stunted as Villiers must assume he is? An explanation about why he is the way he is about care? “Making sure I wasn’t adversely affected by it, that I was still growing, that I was…”

“Were you a rich boy, of course, or from some more established magical family, your condition would have been treated very differently. You’d have been dispatched to a boarding school with as rich a magical field and history as they might find for you, appropriate sources of sustenance brought to you.”

“Victims,” Salvo says.

Villiers shrugs. “Perhaps. But were you trained from youth to control this need of yours, not to mention regularly fed, perhaps you wouldn’t sap so strongly from those you touch. No boarder was suggested, no alternative school?”

“I didn’t have the grades,” Salvo says, vaguely remembering the way his mothers’ smile had faded as she’d excitedly torn open the envelope with him watching, the way it had slowly dripped from her face and faded into the ether like evaporating steam.

“They wouldn’t have seen you as having anything to offer, I suppose,” Villiers says. “No money or storied blood, no especial academic or magical ability. Only a hungry mouth to feed, and to what benefit?”

Villiers massages conditioner into his hair, and then he has a washcloth in his hand and he’s scrubbing in slow, rhythmic circles over his shoulders, his neck, the top of his chest, his arms, and then his belly, between his thighs. He’s not remotely horny about it, isn’t sexual about it, and Salvo’s own arousal isn’t actually that overwhelming, isn’t as satisfying as the pure intimacy of it, and not just the warmth and comfort of Villiers’ hand on his body, the scrub of the soap and the cloth and his fingers, but the control of it. He feels like he’s just so much more hot water, like he’s part of the bath he’s stewing in, he’s so relaxed, not having to think at all, not having to put any of his thoughts or feelings in order – all wants and needs and anything he might think about dissolve into the water as well, and all there is, all there needs to be, is Villiers’ hand guiding Salvo’s body to where he wants it, and then Villiers’ hand making him clean.

“This is what I was talking about,” Salvo says when Villiers reaches over and pulls out the plug of the bath on the chain. “The power of it, care. Complete authority.”

“Indeed,” Villiers murmurs, standing up and reaching for a towel from the heated rail. Salvo looks at it, the way he holds it out, obviously higher held in one hand than the other, looks at the tight clutch of his weaker hand around the lower corner of the towel, and Salvo stands up and steps onto the bath mat, exhaling as Villiers wraps the towel around him – and at the same time, wraps Salvo in his arms.

Salvo smells his cologne and smells the pomade he uses in his hair, feels the soft wool of his vest, feels the heat of Villiers’ body.

“Do you think I’m pathetic?” Salvo asks.

“Hardly the correct question, young man,” Villiers murmurs. His breath smells faintly of coffee, and looking up into his face, Salvo stares into the terrifying freeze of his icy blue eyes, their noses brushing against one another. “A more suitable question might be – if you are pitiable, as is your concern, is it pity I feel for you… or something else?”

Salvo feels like he’s been drenched in hot water for a second time, searing over his flesh, and this time he is aroused, is keenly aware of the heat between his legs and the fact that his body is tight up against the warden’s, and the warden’s breath is intermingling with his, and is close enough to kiss.

“Take the towel from me, if you would,” Villiers orders him quietly. “Bathing you I might attend to sitting down – drying you off would be a dangerous gamble against my ability to keep my balance.”

“Sorry,” Salvo says, taking the towel, and Villiers laughs.

“What on earth are you sorry for, stupid boy?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, and grips Salvo by the jaw and squeezes. It’s not painful by any means, is a firm grip but a gentle punishment, and fuck, but he’s hornier in this moment than he’s ever been in his fucking life, Villiers laughing at him, holding him like this. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

Salvo’s breath hitches in his throat, and he feels his lip quiver, leans forward. “Yes,” he whispers.

Villiers leans in, gripping the side of the sink to better support himself as he does so, and their noses brush against one another again, and he can feel the heat of Villiers’ breath as much as he can smell his coffee. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for Villiers’ lips to touch his, but they don’t – they glance over the side of his cheek, and then his breath is hot against the shell of Salvo’s ear, and his knees go weak at the thrill it sends down his spine.

“Earn it, then,” Villiers almost growls into his ear, and Salvo is humiliated by the fucking noise that squeaks out of his throat, involuntary and desperately eager. “Get yourself dry and return to your room, young man,” Villiers tells him as he pulls away, throwing his cardigan over his shoulder as he grasps hold of his cane and opens up the door. “Your dinner should be waiting for you.”

“Fuck me,” Salvo mumbles, and Villiers laughs again.

“That, I will not do,” he says, and limps off down the corridor.

* * *

When Caine is allowed back down from his special little holding cell up in Warden Villiers’ house, whatever the fuck that looks like, he comes down with a smile on his face. It’s a dreamy smile, distracted, and Red wonders if the lad’s gonna be distracted from his work detail, but he isn’t at all. He writes like a demon, moving a lot quicker through his little toys and small things than he normally ever does, carving runes into place or painting them onto wood panels with confidence and ease.

He’s pleased to see Callum Pike and all, and when the four of them sit down to lunch together, Pike gives Caine a grin.

“What, you thought they’d fucking lock me away forever?” he asks.

“I just feel bad you were put in solitary on my account, that’s all,” Caine says.

“Where is he, Mason?” Pike asks, casting a look around the hall – it’s a question Red’s interested in hearing the answer to, and he looks at Caine’s face for an answer, but his pretty brown eyes don’t show any sign of guilt or regret. He, like Pike, casts a look around the room, tracing the lines of the long tables looking for Daf Mason’s face. “You seen him about?”

“Went looking for him in the infirmary yesterday, but there was no sign of the prick. What’d you tell him, the warden?” Red asks, and Caine does look a little uncertain now, pressing his lips together and twisting his mouth just a little.

“I told him what happened, what Mason did,” Caine says. “That it wasn’t your fault, that you shouldn’t be in solitary for defending me. But he didn’t say anything about punishing Mason any extra, or putting him in solitary, or…” He looks down at the canteen table, nervously fingering the edge of his fork. His voice is very quiet as he asks, “Do you think he hurt him? Warden Villiers, do you think he hurt Mason in defence of me?”

“I bet it wasn’t just to defend you,” says Rosen pleasantly, patting Caine’s hand in the most comforting way he’s capable of. “I bet he goes looking around for excuses to kill people, sometimes. He probably gets bored that he’s not allowed to any longer.”

Caine stares at him blankly, seeming distantly horrified and not going exactly how the fuck to cope with that, and Pike laughs.

“You should come work with us when you’re out,” he says, reaching across the table and patting Rosen on the side of one plump cheek. “Sort of lads I could refer you to’d be more than happy to have you nicking cars and trucks for them.”

“It’s no wonder recidivism rates are so fucking high with you recruiting, lad,” Red says, and he looks across at Caine, who slowly begins to eat his meal.

“I don’t think my family would be very pleased if I became a drug-runner on top of stealing cars,” Rosen says.

“Why not?” Pike asks. “My da’s just another kind of florist, he and your da are two sides of a penny.”

Rosen sniggers, and Caine looks across to him as he keeps eating from his plate.

“Your family are florists?” he asks.

“My dad and his two brothers, and a few cousins,” Rosen says, nodding his head. “My mother’s sort of the opposite – less of a green thumb, more of a death touch, you know. Liable to make a flower wilt just by touching it.”

“I have something like that myself,” Caine says, and Red stares at him – it takes Rosen and Pike a few moments for them to register that Caine’s actually made a joke, especially given that the lad doesn’t smile or grin or wink or do anything like that. Rosen laughs uproariously, tapping his little feet on the floor as Pike wheezes, slapping the side of the table, and Caine smiles a thin-edged smile, and seems to… Not get bigger, exactly, but fold out from himself a bit, not so small in his place.

“You never killed someone, before you killed that fella?” Pike asks.

“No,” Caine says. “When I was small, it wasn’t enough to harm anybody – make people tired, make them irritable, more than that. They wouldn’t realise what it was, often enough, wouldn’t realise why it was bothering them, if they touched me casually. I had to go to a mundie school – magical schools, even knowing what I was, teachers would touch me, lean on the back of my chair or tap me on the head or… And they’d start snapping, me gruff, annoyed. Like people who are ill, you know, it’s not controllable. A history master nearly slapped me once for scratching a scab before he got hold of himself and remembered who he was, who I was. I never had that once I was in with mundies.”

“I got slapped around at school,” Pike says. “Mind you, it was normal back then.”

“Why, when’d you leave school?” Rosen asks.

“I left early, I was fourteen, I think. ’81.”

“’81?” Rosen repeats, aghast. “So, what, you’re sixty-seven?”

“Sixty-six,” Pike corrects him, apparently offended. “Not sixty-seven ‘til November.”

“There was me thinking you were younger than me,” Red says, laughing and shaking his head. “All the time you’ve said fucking “age before beauty” to me about buying the first round!”

“Well,” Pike says, shrugging his shoulders. “You look it, don’t you?”

Caine laughs at that hard enough to choke on his overcooked potatoes, and Rosen pats him hard on the back as he coughs and swallows down a mouthful of water to try to ease it down.

“I’ll remember you fucking laughing at that, lad,” Red promises him, injecting all the bass he can into his voice. “There may well be consequences.”

Caine’s eyes flash with a bit of energy, and as he wipes away the choking tears from his eyes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, he says, “Alright,” with a note of challenge in his tone. “Consequence away, old man. How old are you, sixty-five?”

“You little prick,” Red growls at him, half-laughing himself, but Caine only beams at him, all easy smiles.

Daf Mason doesn’t turn up, in the next few days, but things get back to normal.

After another two days, the ancient fae that make up the rest of Rosen’s fucking sewing circle tire themselves up, and Rosen reluctantly returns to his work detail instead of dossing about in his cell all day, although at least he stops complaining about being fucking bored when everyone else abandons him.

Caine keeps up the fast pace at work, often finishes up a little earlier than he used to, and one evening as Red finishes up for the day, he finds Caine lingering in the corridor outside of where they’re embroidering. The door is slightly ajar, and Red swallows hard, clutching at his own chest to try to cope with the unholy fucking vibrations that sing through it.

He fucking hates it when the old fae sing together, the noise of it putting the fucking willies up him. They’re all twice the size of most fae you’d see today, those old cunts, as tall as the trees they’ve sprung from with skin like tree bark, so that Rosen looks even smaller than usual when he’s in there with them.

The sound radiates out from the embroidery workshop and into the corridor and right down the halls, bouncing off the tiled floors and the undecorated walls, and it makes Red’s ribs feel like they’re vibrating, and he feels it on the inside of his ribs, the inside of his skull, the inside of all of him.

It’s a waulking song, or something like it, a song to keep them in rhythm with one another as they work, Red guesses, although when he hovers behind Caine and looks into the room over his shoulder, he sees that they’re done working for the day. They’re trying to teach Rosen the song, judging by how they’re all sitting in their chairs and have their faces angled toward him, one of them moving fingers that look like tree roots in rhythm to keep Rosen on beat, and he’s nodding along.

Red can’t make out Rosen’s voice in amongst the noise they’re making, a collective sound louder than a choir of fucking thousands, louder than a church organ if you had your ear right to the pipes, and it should hurt, it’s so fucking loud, but it doesn’t hurt, exactly. What it does is make his bones feel like they’re shivering, makes all his nerves fucking jangle, and he looks to Caine.

His expression is one of soft and quiet awe, his thumb tugging and playing repeatedly over one of the metal cuffs around his wrists, his lips parted, his eyes as big as fucking plates. When the fae stop – oh, God, fuck, it’s like if trees could sing, it’s like if they were singing right from the core of the fucking Earth – it’s an unspeakable relief, and Red leans against the wall, exhaling.

One of the fae stands now, and he says something in his unearthly and ancient voice, the language guttural. Red’s no big Welsh-speaker himself, but he can hear the ghost of the Welsh in it, he thinks, or the roots of it, although it sounds closer to fucking Latin to him.

“Um,” says Rosen. “He said, um… Something like, asking if you’re imagining what he tastes like?”

Caine smiles at the fae – Red can’t even tell them apart, but he thinks this one is Toutorixs, because a crown of bramble thorns, complete with blooming white flowers, is sprouting around the crown of his tree-trunk head – and puts out his hand.

“Oh, erm, Salvo, they don’t, they don’t shake hands,” Rosen starts to say urgently, but Toutorixs reaches out and winds his root-like fingers around Caine’s outstretched fingers, around his palm, around the base of his wrist.

Caine gasps, but instead of pulling away or shouting out loud, he leans in closer, and his eyes shine gold for a moment, the cuffs around his wrists flashing so brightly they look ready to fucking melt, before the screw in charge of the embroidery crew, French, barks, “No contact between inmates, you know that! Stop— doing whatever you’re doing!”

Toutorixs pulls back and lets out a gut-wrenching sound that must be a laugh, because all his friends join in, and Caine and Rosen follow after Red toward the canteen, Rosen soon beginning to chatter on about something or other – horse-racing, Red thinks, although he can’t make himself tune into it properly, still trying to work that awful sound out of his head.

He’s quiet as he eats, as quiet as Caine had been before – and just as quietly, apparently, Caine follows after him to his cell when he goes there instead of playing a game or watching TV or anything else.

“You’re bottom bunk?” he asks softly as Red slides into his bed, which has two blankets on, one that Sandra had sent in for him when he complained about the winter chill his first year in, and another Patience-May had brought in when she’d visited for his birthday earlier that year, sewn together of all different flannel shirts she’d gotten from the scraps bag at work.

“Nah, Churn is more than young enough to jump up there himself without having me do it,” Red says, and he watches as Caine steps slowly around the room, looking at Red’s books and Churn’s, looking at the pictures Churn has up on the wall of his daughters and his wife, and at the painted picture Sandra’s daughter had sent in for Red of the flowers in their garden.

“You have children?” Caine asks.

“No,” Red says. “But the women I take up with, some of their kids like me.”

“Even though you’re in prison?”

“They don’t know the difference between me being in the nick and being away at work.”

“I suppose not,” Caine says, and toes off his shoes.

Red leans back in bed and lifts up the blanket, and the lad apparently needs no more invitation to slide between the blankets and in close, and Red exhales at the feeling of Caine’s body warm and soft against his. He doesn’t know what shampoo the warden’s giving him in his house, but it smells very nice, of nectarines. When he slides his hands underneath the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, he finds that the flesh of the lad’s thighs and arse is just as generous as it looks, and he sinks his fingers into the warm yield of it, squeezes.

Caine sighs luxuriously, leaning in closer and burying his nose against Red’s chest, banding his arms around Red’s middle, and as Red keeps pressing and massaging at his buttocks and thighs, kneading at them like bread dough, he feels Caine’s prick against his thigh, feels the lad grind against him.

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to fuck you,” Red murmurs into his curls, “unless you feel like going door-to-door down the corridor and seeing what you can trade for a tab of sildenafil.”

“Is every man in this prison fucking impotent?” Caine asks in a grumble, although it sounds pretty fucking sleepy to Red, and Red laughs.

“Only the fucking old ones you keep throwing yourself at,” Red tells him dryly, and he waits for the lad to argue with him, for him to debate, for him to keep grumbling, but he doesn’t do any of that. Red keeps squeezing the flesh under his fingers, rubbing back and forth, and with his other hand he reaches up and combs lightly through his hair.

“Feels nice,” Caine says quietly. “No one’s ever touched me as much as since I came here.”

“No touching between inmates, remember,” Red tells him. “And I don’t think the warden’s meant to be touching you either.”

Caine doesn’t answer.

He’s fast asleep, breathing quietly in and out, and Red enjoys the heat of him and the softness of him and the scent, too. Not like a woman, no, but almost like being at home with one, until one of the screws comes along to break them apart. He wouldn’t mind fucking him, by any means – he might well ask one of the other lads about trading him something for his ED if Caine likes the sound of it – but this is nice on its own, just sitting here and soaking in the lad’s heat, the magic of him.

Red closes his eyes and lets himself doze until Cornell comes along to get them out of bed again.

* * *

In the observation room that adjoins Warden Villiers’ office, Salvo stands at the window and looks down over the canteen, where most of the long tables have been folded away for the evening, and a few of the lads are sat around, playing chess or basic boardgames, or reading books, or sitting around and watching TV.

It’s frosted on one side, the glass, and he hadn’t even realised it was an observation window – he doesn’t think he ever realised it was actually a window at all, and wasn’t just a big pane of frosted glass behind the metal balcony with emergency stairs coming down, separate to the wall.

Red is playing cards around a table with Rosen and Pike, and from this angle he looks to be a bigger man than he is, in contrast to Pike’s gangling limbs and Rosen’s round but confined little form, broad as he is. Salvo thinks of how warm he is, when he’s under the blankets and pressed up against Red’s broad, hairy breast, very different indeed to the warden’s spindly but muscular form, all joints and flat, hard edges of muscle.

In the past few weeks, he’s been touched so much.

Touched by the warden, not just when he’d given Salvo a bath a few weeks ago, but in the intervening period as well – reaching out to adjust his clothes or his hair, touching him as he passes him by in the house, brushing his hands as they play chess together. Once, yesterday, leaning over ostensibly to take the salt from the table at dinner, and taking the opportunity to breathe in Salvo’s ear.

Touched by Rufus Redford, petted and touched here and there, touching or chucking his chin or his cheeks or the back of his neck, and where they’ve been able to sneak it without being told off by the guards, Salvo curled up to doze in bed with him, or sit with his head against his lap or his belly while the TV is on and it’s deniable enough that Salvo is sat on the floor in front of the sofa or the bench.

Touched by others, too. Toutorixs, of course, had gripped his hand a few weeks ago and sent magic flooding through him even through the cuffs – they’re no match for the old fae and how much magic flows through them, and the others of the ancient fae have made a game of it, Rosen seems to think, reaching out to touch him when he walks by, zapping him with bits of pure magic that ripple right through him, no matter that the guards bark at them whenever they catch him at it.

Other touches, too. Brushes in the corridor, standing in line, and on Wednesday, when they’d been outdoors for exercise, Pike had taught him some wrestling grapples and holds. His hands are cold, his palms rough, but it had still felt good, had made him feel somehow real, feeling the weight of Pike’s thigh against his chest or his arms around his chest, or feeling the solid weight of Pike’s body under his own as Salvo tried to keep him pinned or still – especially, the whole time, feeling Pike’s laughter and Salvo’s own running through both of their bodies.

“Feeling hungry?” the warden asks as he enters the room, and Salvo turns back to look at him as he approaches, his cane making only the tiniest noise on the ground, his footsteps utterly silent. Salvo can only make out the noise of the cane’s grip against the floor because he’s so used to listening for it by now. “Even with those would-be dryads supplementing your diet.”

“I thought dryads were meant to be pretty young women,” Salvo says.

“I’m sure they’d present themselves as such, if they felt like it,” Villiers says dryly. “But that would rather lead to unwanted attention in a prison like this, as I’m sure, by now, you’re aware.”

The warden is warm behind him as he comes closer, and Salvo quietly exhales and leans half an inch backward, feeling today’s pin-striped waistcoat against his back.

“I’m told you were dozing in Mr Redford’s cell once again yesterday,” the warden murmurs in his ear, and Salvo shivers at the warmth of his breath tickling over the lobe of it. “Has he fucked you yet?”

“He can’t get it up without a pill,” Salvo says. “Same as you.”

“Vasodilators are contraindicated for previous victims of stroke, as I’m sure you know,” Villiers says, his voice quiet but his tone amused, and Salvo can feel his smile against the back of his neck as he reaches past Salvo to rest his cane against the wall. “In any case, it isn’t dysfunction that prevents me from fucking you, young man, but disinclination.”

“Am I meant to believe you don’t actually want to fuck me?” Salvo asks, feeling as though hot water is beginning to flow under his skin as Villiers tugs up Salvo’s shirt with a finger and bands his weaker arm tightly around Salvo’s middle. He opens up his hand, but he can’t grip very well with it or easily manipulate his fingers – it’s mostly with the strength of his elbow and his arm, and the tuck of his chin against Salvo’s shoulder, that keeps him upright. “The way you touch me. The way you look at me.”

“I’ve never found myself vulnerable to the siren’s call of penetrative sex,” Villiers says as, with his good hand, he slides his fingers up under Salvo’s sweatshirt and plucks at one of his nipples with a graceful, artsy movement like he’s playing a string on an instrument, and Salvo whimpers at the sudden sear of sensation it sends through his chest and rocketing down his spine. His cock is hard, and his knees threaten to go weak. “Ah ah,” Villiers starts sternly. “You’re the only thing holding me up, boy – keep those legs strong and solid, unless you want us both clattering to the floor.”

“You’ll clatter, maybe, being all bones,” Salvo mutters, heat rising in his cheeks as he squeezes his eyes shut, feeling Villiers laugh against his neck, his thumb and forefinger teasing and tugging over his nipple. “Or shatter. What do you mean, siren’s call? What, you’re like, asexual?”

“A side, I believe is the modern parlance,” Villiers says, and before Salvo can grumble about that, Villiers drags his teeth down the side of Salvo’s neck, making him whine. His eyes shoot open, terrified for a second that everyone downstairs will be able to hear him through the glass, that even if they can’t see his face, they’ll see the two shadows of him and the warden, and know it’s him, know what the warden’s doing to him, that they’ll be watching. “How does it feel, when those fae touch you? Comparable to your feast on the soul of Dafydd Mason?”

“I don’t believe in souls,” Salvo says breathlessly, then groans softly as Villiers plucks at his other nipple, flicks over the tip of it with his neatly-groomed nail, his other hand sliding slower and gripping at Salvo’s hip. Villiers’ hands are so warm and his fingers are so clever and it feels good. He tilts back his head, turning it to the side and moaning when Villiers shows his approval by licking a stripe up the side of his neck, nips the edge of his jaw, then the lower part of his ear.

It's not the same – it hadn’t been the same. The way the fae touch him tastes different to when he’d touched Mason, for want of a better word – their magic is older, richer, comes more from inside them than it flows through and gathers in them as it does in human beings. Even through the cuffs, even at a glancing touch, it overwhelms his senses and the core of him, but it fills him and leaves him fizzing over with it.

Mason had… sated him. Wholly and entirely, and a little bit more than that, but it had felt natural, though perhaps he shouldn’t think of it that way.

“Do they suspect his demise is down to you?” Villiers asks, sliding a hand up to grip the base of his throat as he bites down harder now on the side of Salvo’s neck, as if he’s some kind of fucking vampire instead of Salvo, and then Villiers shoves him forward, against the glass. He’s able to put more of his weight on Salvo like this, his hand going from Salvo’s neck down between his legs instead, his fingertip tugging at the ring of Salvo’s arse and making him squeak out a sound. “Do they know you to be a killer twice over, and hungry to lay waste to a third victim?”

“No,” Salvo groans, reaching clumsily back for Villiers, one hand reaching back to squeeze his narrow arse, making Villiers let out a short, sharp, breathless laugh. “Why, d’you think I should fucking advertise it?”

“Temper temper,” Villiers says, and uses the waistband of Salvo’s tracksuit bottoms to ease his way onto the floor, and Salvo stands up straight, whipping his head around to stare down at the older man aghast.

“You can’t be on the fucking floor, what about your knees? Sir, you can’t—”

“It’s not as though I’ll be down here long, is it?” Villiers retorts – that’s all the warning Salvo gets before he licks a hot, wet stripe from the back of Salvo’s bollocks up to his hole, and the sensation wrenches through him, right up his hard and aching, dripping cock. All of a sudden, he’s coming, white spattering the frosted glass of the window in front of them, his eyes tearing up, and he tries to stop himself from going wholly limp, bracing himself on the bar.

He’s breathing heavily, unable to catch his breath, somewhere between hotly satisfied and a little embarrassed.

“Told you so,” says Villiers.

“Fuck off,” Salvo says, and Villiers laughs.

“Help me up, would you?” Villiers asks. “I am so very old and very infirm, and my thoughtless young lover has abandoned me to the floor.”

“I could kick you.”

“I invite you to try.” He really does, too – Salvo would never, could never, he doesn’t think, but when he looks down at Villiers on the floor, braced on his better knee more than the weaker one, he sees that the old man is more than braced for it, that he’s hungry for it, wants to scrabble with him, wants Salvo to try to hit him, just so that Villiers can pin him down to the floor instead.

“Not today,” Salvo mutters, a little too flustered to actually sound at all stern, and offers the old man his arm to help him up – as soon as his knees don’t feel so much like fucking jelly.

* * *

It’s Rusk and French that grab him just before lights out and knock him out with something like fucking chloroform. They don’t frog-march him up the fucking hill, and they don’t let him make his own way either. He just wakes up in a leather chair in an even fancier office than Villiers has in the prison proper, his ankles tied together, his wrists cuffed behind his back, a gag in his mouth.

Red sits back in his seat, looking around the room, at the fancy floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather bound and gilt books, at the astronomy equipment next to the window, an astrolabe and an armillary sphere, and more shit he’s seen in plenty of fancy offices like this one, but has never learned the name of. There’s a fancy rug that’s probably centuries old rolled out on the hardwood floors, and all the furniture is good, heavy, antique stuff, and he can feel the enchantment in all of it, feel how old the subtle magic is, even if he can’t feel the age of the wood.

Up on one wall are a bunch of frames: Villiers in a line of other bureaucrats or maybe other assassins, receiving some kind of medal or award from the king regent; a portrait of a young Villiers alongside a severely featured but happy-looking woman he guesses must be his mother; a few calligraphed certificates covered in more bits of gilt and fancy ink for his various degrees, declaring him Guillaume Copernicus Villiers, BSc, MA, MSc, MMSc, PhD.

He's been in a lot of offices like these over the years, talking about how they’re going to fix the windows, what sort of glass or framing would suit best the architecture and mimic the original style, what sort of enchantment they can put in, what carpenters and joiners, what masons, he’s going to be working with.

He’s never felt at home in them, exactly, but Red’s gotten used to them, almost comfortable with them. He’s learned the names of the old-fashioned astronomical equipment, or vintage navigational tools, or basic entomology and demonology, learned to recognise certain bits of taxidermy. He’s learned the basics of these fancy posh cunts’ hobbies and interests, so that he’s more comfortable talking to the bastards, and they’re more comfortable giving him a big fucking tip.

He never thought he’d die in an office like this one. Figures.

“Fuck off,” says Salvo Caine as he crosses over the threshold, staring at Red in his chair, and Red marvels at the expression on his face, at the way he shoots a fierce glare at Villiers and seems very surprised at the fact that it’s Red, but not surprised that it’s fucking somebody.

Lied through his teeth about Daf Mason, and Red never even suspected he was lying.

Caine isn’t wearing his bracelets, Red sees – when he casts about to look for them, he sees them on a tray next to Villiers, and Villiers himself who’s standing up straight and wearing a fucking green and gold housecoat over his clothes, like some fella in a vintage advert, all settled in his pyjamas.

“You aren’t hungry after all?” Villiers asks, gracefully arching an eyebrow.

“Not him,” Caine hisses. “Not h— he has a family.”

“I can assure you, he doesn’t.”

“He has women he goes to see, women who love him – kids who love him.”

“And you?” Villiers asks in mild, dry tones, sounding for all the world like he’s about ready to laugh in the lad’s face. “Do you love him? This trafficker and embezzler, hm?”

“Easier to love him than a fucking, a murderer and a creep!”

“Maybe so,” Villiers says, delicately shrugging his narrow shoulders. Keeping his weight braced on his cane, he holds out the tray with his other hand, Caine’s cuffs rested on them. “By all means, then…”

Red looks up at Caine as he slowly approaches, his pretty hands held awkwardly in front of his belly. It’s been nice, the past few weeks, having Caine in his bed, feeling the softness of him, the warmth of him, smelling the fancy scents the warden apparently bathes him in for his own fucking pleasure, it seems. Strangely, ridiculously, he wonders in the moment how Caine dresses himself when he’s not in the nick, what scents he likes to wrap himself up in.

Caine’s gaze lands on Red’s face, and Red meets it. They’ve not been talking much, really, not about the things that matter, not about the things that catch in the chest or in the mind – if anything, Caine seems pretty content to be petted and played with more like a cat than a young man.

He’s overheard him talking to Pike, though, once or twice, the past few weeks, about the hunger he feels, about the need inside him – he’d been downplaying it, obviously, if he’d fucking killed Daf Mason.

He doesn’t struggle.

He’s not fucking stupid – he knows damn well he won’t be going anywhere, up here in the warden’s office, tied up in his chair, the warden being an assassin with however many titles and qualifications after his name, the lad with a fucking death touch in front of him, not having his bracelets on. There’s no sense in struggling, not now.

The only man with Red’s life in his hands is Caine – and it’s only in his hands because Villiers has put it there.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Caine whispers to Villiers. “Why’d you fucking gag him? He’s not like Mason.”

“If you don’t wish to sate that hunger gnawing in you, boy,” says Villiers in tones as dry as dust, but again, the bastard is still visibly on the verge of fucking laughing, “by all means—”

Caine swallows as he comes closer, his hands up close to his chest as he meets Red’s gaze, biting the inside of his pretty plump lips – Red’s not even fucking kissed them. That’s what he gets for beating around the bush, isn’t it?

“Sorry, Red,” says Caine, and then his hands are whipping out, and Red closes his eyes as tightly as he can so he doesn’t feel it coming.

It doesn’t come.

The tray clatters to the floor, the magic cuffs jangling before they hit the rug and go quiet, and Red opens one eye to see that Caine has one hand gripping at Villiers’ hand and the other wrapped around his throat.

* * *

“Oh,” says Salvo, because Villiers’ skin is beautifully warm under his hands, as warm as it ever is, and he can feel the magical flow beneath the older man’s skin, is cognizant of the glow of the other man compared to the rest of the room.

He’d noticed, before, that Villiers’ magical glow was lessened compared to Mason’s, and it’s lessened compared to Red’s. Some people have thicker skin than others, thicker skin or thinner veins, so that you don’t see their blushes as much when the blood comes to the surface, and this is like that, he thinks. Villiers has magic in him, but it’s deeper under the skin, harder to get at – like Pike or another vampire would be hard to cut or bite your teeth into, because their flesh is harder, denser.

“It might behove you to know,” says Villiers, utterly unaffected by the touch of Salvo’s hands against his skin, even as he turns his hand up to playfully tickle the underside of Salvo’s wrist, “that apart from building up self-defence techniques and immunities to various poisons, I was trained to resist draws like yours as a matter of course.”

“You fucking cunt,” Salvo whispers, and Villiers laughs, his thumb sliding warm against Salvo’s palm, pressing against it. It feels nice. Salvo’s never been able to touch another magical person since he was a kid without killing them – and never without hurting them, without tainting their feelings for him.

He wants to stay angry, wants to stay pissed, but a part of him is sparking to life inside because Villiers is touching him, and it feels nice.

“You can’t win every chess game, dear,” Villiers says, and tugs Salvo’s hand to enclose around Red’s throat instead. “Checkmate.”

Salvo sees Red’s eyes bulge and his expression of relief explode into panic and fear and pain, hears his choking sound of terror, and he can’t focus on compassion right now, because all that matters is the rush of Red’s magic into his hand, into both his hands when he puts the other on Red’s cheek, draws from him entirely.

He should feel terrible, should be beside himself with guilt, but he doesn’t – it feels wonderful. It feels wonderful, feels sublime—

“Good man,” says Villiers, and kisses his fucking cheek. “You’re free to come for dinner whenever it suits you.”

“Free, am I?” Salvo asks, and Villiers chuckles, patting his arse as he limps away.

“As much as you’re good, young man,” he says, and goes out into the corridor.

Red’s body is already going cold, but the room is warm, and as he feels the pulsing spread of stolen magic all throughout his body, rippling under his skin, Salvo feels very warm as well.

FIN.

[buttsmasher]

Brett (Edited & Reposted)

Trigger Warnings/Tags: Face Farting, Farting on Tongue, Willing Victim, Mouth farting, Passing out from Farting, Gay Face Farting

Your hunger, it’s insatiable. This should disgust you but it’s all that you’ve ever wanted. You can smell his musk from here, and you’re literally salivating. You can’t stop yourself. You rip open Brett’s blue boxers and reveal his slightly fuzzy ass.The musk immediately intensifies and you dive in nose first.

You huff on his manly musk as you rub your nose all along his crack. “Someone’s excited.” Brett jokes as you continue huffing. “Don’t worry bud, we have all day. No need to rush.” He lightly scratches your head as you keep sniffing loudly.

PFFFFFFTTT PFFFFTTT

The first fart hits your nose and you sniff hard. All you want is that fucking scent in your body. You can’t get enough of the warm feeling on your face and you end up poking your nose right through his tight hole.

PFFFFBBRFFFTTTTT

The muffled fart shoots right up your nose and you feel your dick straining in your own boxers. You hungrily huff on that musky ass in front of you as your nose hairs burn from the toxic farts.

PFFFFBRBRB PFFFFTTT PFFFFTTTT

“I just don’t understand how you can be enjoying this.” He gyrates his hips and pushes your face around in his dirty crack. “I mean all the other faggots usually beg for mercy at this point. I’m not complaining, but you need some therapy.” Brett laughs lightly as he lifts his right leg up slightly.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFRBRBRBRBFFFFFFFFFTTTTTTT

Your eyes water as you inhale that long 15 second fart up your nose. Your whole body is shaking from the lack of fresh air getting into your system, and your eyes begin to cross. You briefly pull away sucking in a large breath before diving your face back into the disgusting ass in front of you.

You start licking up and down Brett’s crack getting to get a taste of the superior man’s musky ass. It’s disgusting, and you should be pulling away but you can’t stop yourself. It’s so addicting and that taste is overwhelming.

PFFFFFFFFBRBRBRFFFFFTTT PFF PFF

The farts hit your tongue as you start to swipe up your tongue. You didn’t think the taste could get worse, but as the farts burn down your throat you start to cough and gag. You pull away just for another second before pressing your nose right back against the dirty pucker. “Wow, took that like a champ didn’t ya. Open your mouth back up, I want you to taste this one too.” You quickly do as he says, even though you still feel like you’re about to throw up.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF PFFFFFFFFFFF

The farts are airy, not much sound to them, but that doesn’t affect the taste at all. You’re in pure pig bliss as you swallow the farts down. You pull away so you can cough. As you cough you continue to stare at his perfect manly ass.

“Good piggy. Let the fart flow through your body. Let it intoxicate your mind. My ass is your god.”

“Yes sir.” You manage to get out between coughs. “Your ass is perfect sir.”

“Yes it is.” He takes his hand and gently guides your face back to his ass. “Why don’t you praise it with your tongue.”

Your mind is hazy, but you get what he’s telling you to do. You lick lightly at his pucker, as your hand gently squeezes your hard cock. Your right hand squeezes his ass cheek as you make out with your god. “Good piggy. Show your god your devotion.” You take your hand away from your cock so you can pull his cheeks apart giving you better access to his musky hole. “You’ve been such a good little piggy. Lay on your back so I can reward you.” You do as he says without question.

He sits right down onto your face making sure that your nose pops into his hole. He sighs contently as a silent fart gets pushed up your nose. “Good luck tryin’ to get away from my ass now.” Not that you wanted to. “Let’s see how long you can last without passin’ out on me.”

PFBFBBBFFFFFTTT PFFFFRRRRTTTTT

Two more farts blow right up your nose and you swallow them with ease. You instinctively reach for your dick and he slaps your hand away. “No touchin’.” He grinds his ass down onto your face.

PFFT PFFF PFFFFF PRRFFFT PFFF

Short farts start to assault your nose and you feel Brett moving above you. “Fuck piggy, I can smell those up here. Get sniffin’, I don’t want to smell my brew.” You inhale loudly, losing any of the fresh air you had left. Your mind gets hazy as you wallow in his ass stench. “Better, but I can still smell my ass.” He grabs your cock. “Let’s make this more fun.” His hand strokes your hard cock slowly. “If you cum before you pass out, then I’m gonna have to lock your puny cock in the cage for a week.”

PFFFFFFFTTTTTT PFBRBRFFFFTTT

Your face is warm and you’re having a harder time focusing on his words. Mixed with the fact that his hand is skillfully working on your cock. You’re already close to begin, but adding Brett’s hand, it’s dangerous.

PFFFFFFBRBRBFFFF PFFFFFFFFFF

You physically lose the ability to inhale anymore, and you just feel yourself starting to black out. Your mouth falls open as you completely relax your head against the ground.

PFFFFFFFBRBRBRF PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTT

You can hear Brett saying something above you but it doesn’t make sense. Then you feel it, you feel your balls start to constrict and you know you’re shooting your load. Your hips lift off the ground and you can feel cum land on your stomach. As soon as you’re gushing cum, everything fades to black. All you hear is Brett laughing and something about a cage. You probably won’t wake up for a few hours, but by that time Brett’s already shot his load all over your face and locked your cock in the tight cage.

[deadwerewolfgirlfriend]

Season 13 is high on the list for worst seasons of Supernatural but. When posed with the question, how do we make it clear to the audience that this character from 13.20 Unfinished Business is Sleipnir, legendary eight-legged horse of Norse mythology, child of Loki, without making him, you know, a horse?

Easy. Bugs Bunny his ass.

[fushitoru]

infect me with your love

pairing ⸺ spiderman!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you have always existed in gojo satoru’s shadow. he is a physics prodigy, a person that everyone endlessly admires for his intelligence and charisma, and you hate him for taking the spotlight that you deserve to share with him. but it all changes one day at 5:07AM at your starbucks job when gojo barges in, ordering ridiculously sweet drinks and posing existential questions. is there more to gojo that meets the eye, and is it linked to the vigilante swinging around New York City?

warnings ⸺ college au, academic rivals to lovers, SMUT, tooth rotting fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, basically the holy trinity, reader works at Starbucks (BOYCOTT tho), set in NYC, both reader and gojo are physics majors, mentions of SA, attempt at SA on reader but nothing too graphic, some violence, gojo swings reader across NYC so might trigger fear of heights?. SPIDER-MAN KISS SPIDERMAN KISS, injury and mentions of blood, mentions of gun, inappropriate use of webs LOL, fingering, oral, p in v sex, reader has a vagina, fem reader implied

playlist ⸺ quantum rizzics

a/n thank you for @avaults my POOKIE for beta reading this. this has been a journey and my first longfic and i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i did writing it it's my baby:')

if u don’t wanna read the smut just skip the part after they make up, it’s not necessary to the story and is the ending scene. but just to be clear, minors dni.

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

fun fact: starbucks opens at 5am.

of course, that depends on your local hours and where you live, but in the campus starbucks you worked at, your manager fortunately didn’t really care if you showed up to your opening shift a bit late. after all, no professor or undergrad is waking up at the ass crack of dawn to get a fuckin coffee; if they really needed a pick me up, they’d go to get the free alcohol at one of the frats that was still partying. 

matter of fact, your manager didn’t really give a fuck what you did as long as you didn’t get the shop blown up or the matcha spilled (it was expensive). this meant you could leisurely wake up at 4:45am and set up the display muffins and cake pops when you arrived in the shop at 5:20am. really, the manager ought to reduce the hours because all you do is finish your readings for your gen ed history classes on the canvas app on your phone. so, really you get paid for doing your homework on your shifts—not that you’re complaining or anything.

that is, until gojo satoru.

first, let’s get the record straight about who gojo is. gojo is a physics second-year—same as you–who is the bane of your existence. up until a few months ago, you never saw gojo satoru outside of classes (where he was dozing off) unless you happened to show up at a frat party, which was only a few occurrences when you got peer pressured by your friends. clearly, he was a “work hard, party hard” type person because he frequents the frats more than the library while having the grades to make up for it because he’s a prodigy. he’s charismatic and smart as fuck; right out of middle school he was studying manifolds and abstract algebra while the rest of the high school freshmen were learning the quadratic equation and the concept of variables. he probably learned what gravity was at age of two and was doing research in quantum field theory by the time he got into college. 

take the last time you saw him outside of class, at office hours with professor yaga.

the air in professor yaga’s office is thick with the scent of old textbooks, the hum of the overhead lights adding to the familiar quiet. you’ve been waiting all week for this chance, and you’re armed with a question that’s supposed to signal i’ve done my homework. you lean forward, trying to project confidence as you ask, “i read in your last paper that you’re working on optimizing error correction in quantum computing systems. is there a reason you prioritized stabilizer codes over surface codes?”

professor yaga’s brow lifts, impressed, and you can feel the warmth of his approval starting to settle around you. “ah,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised, “you’ve actually read it. that’s... a complicated question.” he leans back, launching into an explanation, and for a second, you think this might actually be it—the moment he notices you for your dedication, your depth of knowledge.

but then, the door creaks open behind you.

you tense, a sinking feeling pooling in your stomach even before you turn around. of course, it’s gojo satoru, strolling in like he owns the place. his bag is slung over one shoulder, and he’s flashing that easy grin that never seems to falter. he spares you the briefest glance before zeroing in on professor yaga.

professor yaga’s face shifts instantly, a mixture of annoyance and resignation flashing in his eyes as he sighs, “gojo. nice of you to join us.”

“hey, i was just passing by,” gojo says casually, though he’s clearly anything but. he doesn’t pass by anywhere without making an entrance. “thought i’d check in on how everyone’s doing.”

the glint in yaga’s eyes sharpens, and he fixes gojo with a look. “when’s that last problem set coming in, satoru? i’ve had enough late assignments from you for one semester.”

at this, another professor at a nearby desk chuckles, casting an amused glance at gojo. “don’t push him too hard, yaga,” he says as if gojo’s delinquency is something charming, a shared inside joke. “kid’s already got the department’s highest scores without trying.”

oh, for god’s fucking sake. you force yourself not to roll your eyes, your grip tightening on the strap of your bag as you sink back in your chair. of course, all it takes is for him to show up and somehow you’re rendered invisible. just minutes ago, professor yaga was engaging with you, treating you as if you might actually belong in this room with your carefully constructed question. now, he’s utterly distracted, entirely absorbed by whatever pseudo-flattering insults he’s throwing at gojo. and, for the record, that stupid, balding professor is wrong. you have the same fucking scores as gojo, so you’re equals.

you’re not even sure gojo realizes he’s doing it—that he has this magnetic, obnoxious effect on everyone in a room. but that’s exactly what grates on you the most. he pulls all eyes to him, like he’s some cosmic force everyone’s compelled to admire. and you? you’re just… there. not that it’s any different than the usual experiences you’ve had as a woman in stem, always feeling like you have to prove yourself five times over. but somehow, gojo makes it worse.

and he does it all effortlessly, like physics is some sort of playground where he can breeze through research and exams, sprinkling charisma wherever he goes. he’s probably off writing his own theories on manifolds while everyone else is struggling to keep up with quantum mechanics. meanwhile, here you are, clawing for every shred of recognition, only to watch it fizzle as soon as he steps into the room.

he flashes a grin at professor yaga. “i’ll get it in,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “i’m just, you know, prioritizing. some of us have… extracurriculars.” he doesn’t wink, but he might as well.

you resist the urge to scoff, sinking deeper into your seat as the frustration bubbles up, sharp and hot. it’s not like you’re jealous. you’d rather endure anything than admit that. but watching gojo waltz in and immediately siphon off any attention you’d managed to earn feels like a slap. if he could just stop showing up, or better yet, stop pretending to be so casually brilliant, maybe—just maybe—you’d have a chance at something other than this routine invisibility.

you let out a huff, pretending to check the time, imagining you had somewhere better to be. you have brilliant, observant blue eyes following you out the door, but you’re too busy trying to keep yourself together until you reach your dorm, where you ugly cry it out.

which, of course, brings you to mornings like this one, where you actually do have to be somewhere. namely, behind the counter at the campus starbucks, opening up shop while most of the world is still asleep. you catch sight of the green mermaid logo ahead, just visible through the dim haze of a 5:07 a.m. chill.

and right beneath it, there’s a familiar head of silver hair.

your eyes have to double take on the man who seems to be looking a bit slouched, tired and leaning against the light pole while tapping his foot. the muscular yet tall stature and white hair are unmistakable; it’s the same ones you’ve dreamed about throttling. but you’re so confused as to why he’s there that you just decide to wordlessly walk towards the store and open up, ignoring his presence until his voice cuts through the morning silence.

“doesn’t this store open up at 5?” his voice sounds tired and groggy, you notice. 

“uh, yea,” you answer tentatively, shrugging. “but, um, no one comes until 7 so i show up late.”

his eyes narrow and somewhat playfully (well, as playful as he can sound at the ass crack of dawn anyways), he asks, “don’t you know time is of the essence? seems pretty irresponsible to me that you’re not showing up on time.”

you just stare at him for a bit because, after all, this is the guy you’ve been having the murderous equivalent of wet dreams about for the past year talking to you in a friendly, joking, familiar way. needless to say, you’re at a loss of words in your slightly flustered state, so all that comes out is a short “sorry” before you’re walking in, getting ready to put on your apron and setting the oven on to heat up the croissants. 

gojo follows in after you, choosing to sit at the table closest to the counter. he sets the backpack he had on his back down, rummaging through and whipping out his laptop and plugging it in. it’s a heavy old thing, and gojo’s biceps strain as he pulls it out and you almost snort when looking at it in its entirety. a gaming laptop.

 but you don’t do that, because laughing at someone who’s a stranger to you would be mean, no matter how much you hate him, so you resort to setting up the counter and getting some powders out. bending over, you get the newly shipped box of cake pops, deigning to put them out on display until you’re interrupted with a cough.

you turn, looking inquisitively at gojo until he points down to the counter, indicating that he wants to order. you mumble, “just a second!” before you continue hauling the box to put it on the top counter where you can easily unpack it and brush your hands, walking up to gojo and getting the system ready to take his order. 

and your fingers are poised on the buttons until you realize that no order is coming out of his mouth. you blink, and he blinks, keeping a stoic face that nevertheless poorly conceals an amused expression.

“…what can i get you?” 

at that, he pouts. “no good morning? no chirpy hello?”

you just stare at him for a good second. what the fuck?

“what?” gojo frowns. “shouldn’t you do that to every customer?” you realize belatedly you’ve said it out loud in your shock, but shake it off nonetheless. 

the silence lingers after gojo’s teasing comment, making you acutely aware of the odd situation: you’re standing there in your work apron, face-to-face with the man you’ve imagined taking down in your head a thousand times, and yet here he is, tired but playfully trying to chat you up. you should hate this—he’s getting under your skin, but for some reason, you just feel unsettled, disturbed that he’s so human.

you don’t trust your voice to not crack while making eye contact with him, so, instead, you focus on your screen. you settle on a simple, flat, “morning,” without a hint of cheerfulness, staring down at the register like it’s your lifeline.

gojo’s eyebrow quirks at your half-hearted greeting, but he says nothing, opting instead to study you with an amused glint. you can feel his gaze, like a weight on your skin, and it almost makes you shiver. he leans forward a little, propping his elbows on the counter, his posture loose but expectant. his playful energy is barely masking something beneath it, something harder.

gojo's grin is wide, almost boyish, and it makes your stomach churn more than it should.

“see? was that so hard?” he says, leaning forward on his elbows like he’s settling in for a chat. his tone is too friendly for someone who’s never exchanged more than a glance with you in class—someone you’ve been actively avoiding whenever possible.

you scowl, moving to the register to finally punch in his order. “what would you like?”

“hmm...” he taps his chin, dragging out the silence. he’s enjoying this, that much is obvious. “surprise me.”

you blink, fingers still poised over the buttons. “surprise you?”

“yeah,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “you work here. you know what’s good.”

you want to throttle him. really, truly throttle him. there’s no way this is real—no way the gojo satoru is sitting in front of you at 5:07 in the morning, asking you to surprise him with a starbucks order like he’s some quirky regular.

and yet, here you are.

“fine,” you mutter, punching in the order for the sweetest, most ridiculous concoction you can think of. caramel drizzle, extra whipped cream, a pump of every syrup in the back room—you’re not going easy on him. “that’ll be eight dollars.”

he doesn’t blink at the ridiculous price. of course, he doesn’t.

pulling out his phone, he taps it against the card reader and flashes you another grin. “thanks, i’m sure it’ll be great.”

you barely resist the urge to roll your eyes. “uh-huh.”

as you move to make the drink, the silence between you stretches uncomfortably. you’ve spent so much time thinking about gojo, despising him, that now that he’s here, right in front of you, you don’t know how to act. and the worst part? he seems perfectly at ease, completely unfazed by the fact that you’ve spent the better part of a year dreaming of his downfall. he’s back to looking at his stupid heavy ahh gaming laptop, and as you move over to put in copious amounts of caramel pumps, you notice that he’s on cool math games playing fireboy and watergirl and almost snort out loud. he’s locked in on his game, his legs moving up and down anxiously, reminiscent of an ipad kid.

after a few minutes of assembling his monstrosity of a drink, you slide it across the counter. “here,” you say, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.

gojo raises an eyebrow at the drink, the sheer volume of whipped cream threatening to spill over the lid. “wow,” he says, sounding genuinely impressed. “you really went all out.”

“you said to surprise you.”

“i did,” he admits, grabbing the cup and taking a slow, deliberate sip. his eyes widen slightly at the overly sweet taste, and for a brief moment, you think you’ve won.

but then he smiles again, that same irritatingly carefree smile, and you know you haven’t. 

“so,” gojo begins, leaning back in his chair like he’s settling in for a long conversation. “what’s a genius like you doing working the early shift at starbucks?”

your hands freeze mid-clean, and you glance at him sharply. genius?

you can’t tell if he’s being sincere or mocking you—probably the latter, considering who he is—but the word still lingers in the air between you, unsettling.

you scoff, trying to brush it off. “gotta pay the bills somehow,” you mutter, going back to wiping down the counter. but gojo’s gaze is heavy on you, and you can tell he’s not letting it go.

you glance up at him. “look, i like having time to think in the mornings. it’s quiet. besides, no one’s lining up for coffee before 7, so it’s not like i’m missing anything.”

gojo chuckles softly, but there’s something off about it. “thinking time, huh?” he repeats your words, but there’s a strange edge to them, like he’s mulling them over. in fact, you think you just realize that he’s been acting oddly this entire morning, restlessness evident in his figure. he taps his fingers on the table, his eyes flickering to the window, watching the gray morning light spill into the shop.

“doesn’t it ever feel like…” he trails off, brow furrowing slightly. “i don’t know… like you should be doing something else? like… something more?”

his question hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken, but you get the feeling he’s not talking about you. there’s something in his voice, something that sounds like he’s grappling with his own thoughts, with his own place in the world.

for a moment, you’re tempted to brush him off. to tell him he’s overthinking things, that he’s gojo satoru and he already has everything laid out for him. but something stops you. maybe it’s the way he looks—his usual confidence slightly cracked at the edges, his playful tone masking something else. something deeper.

you shrug, turning back to the counter. “i mean… it doesn’t have to be ‘more’ all the time. sometimes just showing up is enough.”

there’s a pause, and you can feel the weight of your words sinking in. gojo goes quiet, really quiet, and when you glance back at him, his usual smirk is gone. he’s just… staring at you, eyes narrowed slightly like he’s trying to figure you out.

“just… showing up, huh?” he repeats softly, almost like he’s testing the words. his fingers stop tapping, and he leans back in his chair, his gaze unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely. somewhere in his own head.

you don’t say anything else. you’ve said your piece, and somehow, you know it hit deeper than either of you expected. there’s a strange silence between you now, not uncomfortable, but heavy with understanding.

gojo stands up after a long pause, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. he looks at you, his usual grin slipping back into place, but it’s softer now. less cocky. more real.

“maybe you’re right,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing in his voice. “sometimes it’s enough just to show up.”

and with that, he gives you a small nod, turning and heading out into the cold morning. the door swings shut behind him, and for a second, you just stand there, staring after him.

something’s shifted. you don’t know what it is, but it feels like the start of something. something bigger than just a rivalry.

you shake your head, turning back to the counter. it’s too early for this shit.

…

“you know, i didn’t get your name.”

gojo’s voice cuts through the low hum of the espresso machine as he leans against the counter, that same insufferable grin plastered across his face. he’s here again, of course, only this time it’s during your closing shift. the place is quiet, almost deserted except for the occasional customer who swings by for a quick coffee before heading back out into the cold.

you look up from the equipment you were cleaning, already annoyed. “i’m pretty sure we’ve shared at least one class every semester.”

you weren’t trying to hide the pettiness. gojo, for all his academic genius, clearly couldn’t be bothered to remember you—a recurring face in his orbit. it’s not like you were expecting him to remember you, especially among the sea of faces in lecture halls, but something about the way he strolled in, acting like this was just some cute, quirky meet-cute, got under your skin.

gojo quirks an eyebrow in confusion, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling as if searching the recesses of his mind for your name—only to come up empty. “are you a grad student?”

you flash him an exasperated look. “just for that, i’m not telling you.”

grabbing a towel to wipe your hands, you step out from behind the barista counter, heading towards the trash can just behind him to restock the straws. as you make your way to the supply room, you can feel his eyes following your every move. to your surprise, gojo starts walking toward you, his presence looming as you dump the straws into the container.

it isn’t until you turn around that you realize he’s standing right next to you, bent comically at the waist and squinting at something on your chest. heat creeps up your neck and into your cheeks as you realize his proximity and move to take a step back. 

he wasn’t ogling you (thank god), but instead, squinting at the nametag pinned to your apron.

"ah," he says, straightening up with a triumphant grin. “there it is. y/n, huh?” the way his mouth rolls over your name slowly makes you feel a bit weird, because after all, this is the guy you’ve shit talked about in your diary finally acknowledging you existed, but before you can reflect on the feeling, you bristle again in annoyance. 

“really? you had to get that close just to read my name?”

gojo doesn’t seem fazed by your annoyance, in fact, it only seems to amuse him further. “hey, i was just trying to be thorough. gotta make sure i get it right, you know?” his grin widens, and you swear he’s enjoying this way too much.

“thorough. sure.” you turn away, trying to busy yourself with the straws again, but the heat still lingers on your face. his proximity had been… unexpected. and a little too close for comfort.

when you’re done with the straws, you steel the courage to turn your body so you’re facing him, making an indication with your hands for him to move out of your way. instead of him giving you space to leave the cramped corner, he leans against the counter now like he practically owns the place. in doing so, he effectively pins you against the corner of the coffee shop, leaving you no option but to fiddle with the straws while pointedly avoiding his gaze, but not before you see the pout on his face. “you’re not going to ask me for my name?”

“i know it. it’s gojo.” you immediately curse yourself for letting your lips loose.

fuck. he squints his eyes in what you perceive as suspicion. “how do you know my name?”

“i saw it on your credit card information.” you couldn’t exactly tell him how you’ve stalked him (as well as how inefficient you found a function in his 6th grade robotics code), so that would be a plausible enough reason. 

but gojo, of course, doesn’t let up. “so, y/n,” he starts. “you going to the party next week? you know, for halloweekend?”

ah, halloweekend. the ultimate weekend for getting excuses to dress slutilly, excessively drink, and get laid. at your college, it was an even bigger deal, with people partying for all three days of the week’s end as well as the weekend before and after halloween. you shook your head. “i don’t think so.” that phys 321 assignment was not going to finish itself, nor were parties really your scene.

“what?” he immediately crosses his arms across his chest, frowning and leaning closer to you to squint at you. “why?”

you sigh inwardly, awkward at the prospect of him bugging you further about your life. “i’m bu—”

you’re interrupted by the sound of the door opening and instinctively move to get behind the counter to take the new customer’s order; at first, you thank the heavens that you got a distraction from gojo, that you’re not alone anymore, but seeing who the customer was, the hope extinguishes like a candle face with wind.

you both see a man swagger in, the same guy you’ve noticed hanging around far too often lately. his eyes immediately lock onto you, and a slow, sleazy grin spreads across his face.

“hey, look who’s still here,” the man says, sauntering over to the counter like he owns the place. “my favorite barista.”

you tense, forcing a smile. “what can i get you?”

he doesn’t answer right away, his gaze sliding down your body in a way that makes your skin crawl. “i was thinking…” he drawls, leaning in closer than necessary, “you and i should hang out. you’re always here, and i’m always here, so it’s like fate or something, right?”

your stomach churns, and you take a small step back, maintaining your composure. “i’m good, thanks.”

but he doesn’t let up, leaning further across the counter. “come on, don’t be like that. just one drink. you deserve it after a long day.”

“i really can’t—”

“don’t be shy,” he interrupts, a grin spreading wider. “i’m a nice guy, i promise.”

before you can think of another polite rejection, gojo steps forward, his body language shifting entirely. the playful air around him evaporates, replaced by something colder, more dangerous. he positions himself squarely between you and the guy, effectively cutting off the man’s view of you.

“she said no,” gojo says, his voice firm, low. “so why don’t you fuck off?”

the sleazy guy blinks, clearly not expecting the sudden shift. his smile fades, and he glares at gojo, sizing him up like he’s considering pushing back. but one glance at gojo’s unwavering stare, and the guy decides it’s not worth it. with a muttered curse, he turns and leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. the guy’s been bothering you routinely; part of you thinks that he’s still not going to leave you alone, but the rest of you visibly relaxes, the weight of this guy’s harassment lifting off your shoulders under gojo’s protection.

gojo turns back to you, the usual teasing smirk creeping back onto his face, though his eyes are still sharp. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you manage, though your voice is quieter than you’d like. “thanks for that.”

“don’t mention it.” he shrugs it off like it was nothing, but there’s something different in the way he’s looking at you now—something protective. “i know you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself, but i figured i’d speed things up a bit.”

you roll your eyes, trying to shake off the tension. “you’re such a hero, gojo.”

“always,” he replies with a wink. and just like that, the moment’s lightened again, the balance between you restored, though there’s a subtle shift in the air. something unspoken between the two of you—an understanding, maybe.

you don’t acknowledge it out loud, but as you go back to restocking, you find yourself glancing at him more than before. and for the first time in… well, ever, you don’t completely mind his presence.

…

fast forward a few hours, and after a bit of conversation, gojo finally leaves the fine institution that is your campus starbucks. right now, you’re alone and finishing cleaning up. you lock up, the starbucks finally closed, finishing your last task for the night. it’s quiet—too quiet, actually, with the usual streetlights casting strange shadows across the empty sidewalk. the air feels heavy, like something unseen is lingering just out of reach, watching from the dark. you shake it off, telling yourself you’re just tired and letting your nerves get to you.

as you start your walk back to your dorm, the feeling only grows. the street’s nearly empty, and with each step, the silence presses in closer. it’s fine, you tell yourself, picking up your pace. but then you hear it: the echo of footsteps, faint but unmistakable. heart pounding, you speed up, every instinct telling you to just get back. almost there. you just have to cross the alley—

“hey there,” a voice drawls, and your stomach sinks. a hand moves to grab at your shoulder, making you turn quickly. what meets your vision is the same guy from earlier, his grin widening in a way that makes your skin crawl.

you try to move out of his grip, but he grabs you harder, cutting off any escape. “aw, don’t be like that. i just wanted some company.”

your throat’s dry, but you manage, “i said no.”

he doesn’t even pretend to listen, his gaze trailing over you with that same leering interest. “no need to be so uptight. i could make this fun for you.”

your back hits the wall of the alley. trapped. he leans in, his breath warm and sour against your face, one hand reaching out as he says something sleazy that you can barely hear over the pounding in your ears—

and then a voice cuts in from above, all easy humor. “y’know, i always thought this city’s trash problem was bad, but this is something else.”

your heart leaps in your chest at the small flicker of hope, that someone has the balls to try to rescue you. but as you—and this creep—turn, you find no evidence of another party present, only his mysterious presence. 

“who’s there?” the guy snarls, his grip tightening so much that you wince. “why don’t you get lost if you know what’s good for you—”

“dude, don’t you have any rizz?” the mysterious boy retorts.the stranger has a youthful voice, someone of your age.  “the way you have to resort to sexual harassment is just sad. you guys are always sooo predictable, you’re so gonna tell me to scram or something.”

the man scowls, hand leaving your arm in an effort to search for the stranger in the dark. “why don’t you mind your own business, punk—”

and he’s interrupted, because a shiny, silver something flings out in the darkness and lands on his face, sending his arms in a frenzy to uncover what it is. the man rips the sticky, silver webbing off his face with a growl, looking around wildly, his expression shifting from confusion to anger. his eyes dart through the dark alley, searching for the source of that cocky voice, but there’s nothing—just shadows and the faint flicker of a streetlamp somewhere down the block.

“who the hell are you?” he snaps, twisting his neck as if he could scare whoever’s hiding out there into the open. “show yourself, you bastard!”

a chuckle echoes from the darkness, bouncing off the brick walls. “wow, real tough guy, huh? but you should work on those anger issues. they’re, uh…a bit unbecoming.”

the man spins around, and another burst of webbing flies out from somewhere unseen, sticking to his shoulder this time. he yanks it off with a frustrated grunt, his head whipping from side to side as he tries to locate the stranger.

“you think this is funny?” he spits, voice raised in a mix of fear and fury.

“depends. do you?” the voice is closer now, almost like the stranger is right above you, yet no one’s there. “or is this just a big overreaction? all i did was suggest you rethink your approach. go to therapy or sum’.”

the man snarls, fists clenched, starting to look downright unhinged. “get down here and say that to my face, punk!”

“as you wish.”

with a soft thump, a figure drops from above, landing directly in front of the guy in a low crouch. in the dim light, all you see at first are the blue and black accents on the otherwise white suit, his head tilting up, illuminated just enough that his white, wide eyes glow with a certain playful menace. and then, your eyes widen as you gasp to yourself. 

you’ve seen him before.

okay, pause.

you’re a busy college student, one who stays entrenched in the bubble of upcoming exams, assignments, and problem sets that you don’t check the news often. in the off chance you do turn from your usual consumption of social media during your breaks to the news, you only have time to read the big headlines.

so you did read somewhere that in your university’s city of new york city, there was a masked menan—vigilante that had beat up a few guys near a shawarma joint or prevented some shootings at a nightclub. new york city was full of incompetent cops that were on the lookout for him (a/n acabbbbbb) since this guy was a vigilante, some kind of superhero slinging around on webs. some name—spiderman.

but before you could read more into the article, your soul almost left your body when you got a canvas notification saying your midterm was graded, so that was the end of that.

alright, pause over. back to now.

“hi!” spiderman chirps, giving him a friendly wave before ducking just as the man throws a punch. the swing goes wide, and spiderman straightens up with a disappointed sigh. “see, this is why i’m the one with the web powers. you’d hurt yourself with these moves.”

without warning, the man charges again, swinging in rapid succession, but each one misses as spiderman easily sidesteps, practically dancing around him. “oof, dude, how did you make it this far in life with reflexes like that?” he ducks another blow, slipping behind the guy to give him a light tap on the shoulder as he passes.

the man stumbles, eyes flashing with frustration, and lets out a roar, reaching down to pick up a loose brick from the alley floor. he raises it above his head, face twisted in a snarl.

“oh, so we’re improvising now?” spiderman quips, and before the man can bring the brick down, a strand of webbing shoots out, sticking to the brick and yanking it from his grasp. it flies off somewhere into the alley, landing with a dull clatter.

the guy stumbles forward, off balance, and spiderman takes the opportunity to web his feet to the ground, immobilizing him in place. the man struggles, pulling his legs, but he’s stuck fast.

“ever heard of boundaries?” spiderman asks, tilting his head with mock innocence. “or, like, self-restraint? you should look into it.”

the man glares, seething, still struggling against the webs. “you think you’re some kinda hero?” he sneers.

spiderman shrugs, glancing over at you, catching your gaze in a way that makes you feel both strangely comforted and seen. “nah, hero’s a big word. i’m just your friendly neighborhood guy with slightly above-average reflexes.”

with a frustrated yell, the man finally wrenches one arm free and makes a desperate lunge, his fist connecting with spiderman’s side. spiderman lets out a small grunt but only wobbles slightly before grinning. “okay, buddy, playtime’s over.”

before the man can even react, spiderman sends out another web, this time at his wrist, effectively pinning him to the alley wall. he struggles, face twisted in anger, but spiderman just raises a gloved hand to his lips as if hushing a child. then, in the lull that follows, you remember the thick quantum mechanics textbook in your bag. without thinking, you yank it out and, in a burst of adrenaline, swing it at the man’s head. the book lands with a solid thud, and he slumps, finally, into silence.

spiderman looks at the unconscious man, then at the textbook in your hand. he lets out a low whistle. “you know, i’ve always thought textbooks were a weapon of choice, but that’s next-level dedication.” that’s when you realize just how tall he is compared to you, and you can’t help your excitement when you realize that he’s here in the flesh.

“nice hit, by the wa—”

“it’s you!” you exclaim. 

“what?” he sputters, white eyes widening almost comically. “me? oh,” then he straightens up, “yea, yea. just your friendly neighborhood spiderman. rescuing pretty girls from creeps, kinda my thing. ” he shrugs.

you continue, excitedly, “right, you’re the one on the news—” you move your hand to point at him but quickly wince, the pain of the man’s grip catching up to you. 

he doesn’t miss the movement, eyes squinting at you. “hey, we’ll have to get you home. do you trust me?”

you look at him, clutching your arm in pain, and really take a moment to check him out. he’s saved you, he’s probably six feet tall, and his ass looks fantastic in his suit. at this point, you’re looking at him with heart eyes. but you can’t exactly tell him you want him to propose, so all you utter out is a “y-yeah. my dorm’s randall.”

he doesn't waste any time. with a quick nod, he hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close as he aims a webline up toward the buildings. “hold on tight, randall’s just a swing away,” he murmurs, his voice light but steady. his hand settles on your hip, and you can't stop the way your stomach flips at the contact.

before you can even process what’s happening, he launches the two of you into the air, the city blurring beneath your feet as you cling to him, fingers gripping the fabric of his suit for dear life. his arm stays solid around you, his grip somehow both gentle and strong. he lands lightly on the roof of your dorm, setting you down carefully like you’re something fragile. and he steps back, dusting his hands off in the most nonchalant way possible, like he didn’t just take you on the most exhilarating ride of your life.

“this is your stop,” he says, that signature, almost cocky smile playing in his voice.

“uh… yeah. thanks. for the rescue,” you manage, your voice a little shakier than you’d like. you don’t know if “thank you” is enough—it doesn’t even come close to covering what you feel.

but he just shrugs, taking a step back. “all in a day’s work,” he says. “or night’s work, i guess.” he pauses, giving you a quick once-over. “get some sleep, yeah?”

and just like that, he gives you a small, almost playful salute and vanishes, swinging off into the night as easily as he’d appeared, leaving you standing on the rooftop with your heart still racing.

back in your dorm room, you drop onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling as tonight’s events replay in your head: the alley, his voice cutting through the dark, that cocky smirk, the way he felt holding onto you as you soared over the city lights. a tiny part of you wonders if you imagined the whole thing—if maybe you’re just the victim of some wild, sleep-deprived hallucination.

but no, your arm still aches from where the creep grabbed you, and you can still feel the ghost of his hand on your waist, steady and reassuring. you bite your lip, a smile creeping onto your face despite yourself.

just before sleep finally claims you, you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all. “the city’s vigilante, huh?” you murmur, as if he’s somehow still listening.

the thought is wild, a bit surreal—and strangely comforting.

…

“one caffe americano!” you call out, reading the label on the cup before handing it over with a small nod. the customer takes it with a quick thanks, and you return to the counter, barely holding back a yawn. the events of last night flicker through your mind—a web-slinging hero, an alley, the lingering ache in your arm—and you shake it off. there’s no room for distractions. life as a college student means the grind never stops, especially on a morning shift right before class.

when your coworker finally arrives, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, grab your bag, and step out into the brisk morning air. the chill helps wake you up as you make your way across campus, hoping to catch up with your friends before the lecture starts. just outside the building, you spot utahime, sitting on a bench, waiting with her usual tired smile.

“hey, finally off the clock?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, barely,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “i’m still running on fumes from last night. you guys save me a seat?”

“of course. nanami’s already inside,” she says, gesturing toward the building.

you sigh. “you won’t believe the things that happened last night.”

she gives you a look, in the traditional utahime protective-mother-hen type way. “what happened?”

you give her the rundown of what happened, the guy (who she bristles at, gives you a slap at your hand to tell you that you should’ve told her earlier, kento would’ve been able to beat his ass if she hadn’t gotten to it first) and how spiderman saved you. “i would give him what he’s missing,” you sigh, dreamily. 

utahime looks at you in a judgmental way. “and that’s all you got from this? for fucks sake, he’s a vigilante, you don’t know if he’s started to tail you or not. pooks, he could literally be dangerous. try to convince your boss to let someone else get your night shift.” as soon as you open your mouth to protest, she cuts you off immediately. “and no, i don’t give a fuck about your people pleaser tendenci—”

“we’ll revisit this conversation later.” you give her a sweet smile as you start to speed walk, door of the lecture hall of the 9am section of phys401: intro to quantum algorithms, falling in with the usual stream of students after you hear an irritated “yea, cause i’m gonna kill you otherwise.” the familiar chatter and echo of footsteps make the day feel almost normal, grounding you as you weave through the hall.

inside, you quickly spot kento’s shining, disney prince-like blonde hair, who has saved seats for the three of you near the middle of the hall, away from the ugly, smelly grad students who always crowd the front. he gives you a quick nod as you settle down beside him, flipping open your notebook. the reliable calm on his face helps ease the lingering jitters you hadn’t realized you were carrying.

“long night?” he asks, glancing at the dark circles under your eyes.

“you could say that,” you mumble, not quite ready to get into details. instead, you wave it off. “just work assignments, and getting jumped, the usual.”

nanami breaks into a series of shocked coughs, and you hurry to pat his back as he undeniably burns his tongue on the coffee he was taking a sip of. “what?”

his rather loud exclamation sets off stares from people sitting closer to you both, so you give utahime, who lets out a quiet groan as she’s settling into her seat beside you, a knowing look. “it’s a long story, i’ll tell it to you later.”

he reluctantly settles in after that, not because he has a choice but because yaga is starting to address the class by asking about the weekend and getting his usual blank stares in return until a voice you recognize as suguru geto’s is saying something to undeniably piss him off, but you don’t register quite what it is exactly because the door opens and any attention on geto is directed to the boy with white hair and blue eyes tiredly walking into class. 

he’s about ten minutes late to the lecture, which is already weird because he’s usually about 27 seconds late, not that you keep count. but also, normally gojo is the picture of confidence and cockyness, making some of the female grad students whisper things about him that you don’t think they should be for the five year gap between them and gojo. 

but today, he looks different—messy, unkempt, with shadows under his eyes and a weird angle to his torso, the way he walks, and the way his opposite hand is subconsciously hovering around his side.

your brows knit together as he heads to an empty seat rows behind you next to geto, ignoring the stares of half the room. it’s so out of character for him that you can’t help but wonder what’s going on. you shoot utahime a knowing look, and she stifles a laugh, barely managing to keep a straight face as she watches gojo slink to his seat. nanami’s usually impassive face exchanges a look with you as well before he turns his attention back to professor yaga’s opening remarks. gojo slides into the row behind you without a word, avoiding everyone’s gaze—or so you think, until you feel it.

as you attempt to listen to professor yaga, you can’t shake the sensation of eyes boring into the back of your head. you resist the urge to turn, telling yourself it’s probably nothing… except the feeling lingers, so strong that your pulse ticks up a notch.

“okay, now that we’re all here,” yaga says in a dry tone, barely able to hide his irritation as he glances pointedly in gojo’s direction, “let’s begin with today’s lecture on grover’s.”

professor yaga taps the board, and the projector switches to a set of slides titled quantum speed-up and the grover search algorithm. he launches into his explanation, voice clipped. “grover’s algorithm provides a quadratic speed-up for unstructured search problems, a notable advantage in quantum computing. but can anyone tell me why this isn’t considered an exponential improvement?”

you raise your hand, as does nanami. a subtle shift of movement in your peripheral vision draws your eye to gojo, who’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. yaga’s attention lands on nanami first, and he gives a succinct answer about how grover’s algorithm yields only a quadratic speed-up in terms of computational complexity. as he answers, you swear you catch gojo watching you, again, through the corner of your eye.

determined not to let him get under your skin, you lean over to whisper to nanami. “what’s with him today?”

nanami, still watching yaga, raises a brow. “maybe he finally realized that he can’t get by without skipping class today.”

utahime snickers quietly. “doubtful. more like he thinks it’s funny to waltz in whenever he likes and still ace every test.”

“exactly.” you sigh, drumming your pen against your notebook. gojo’s rare absences don’t even seem to faze most professors. and despite his unpredictable attendance, he’s always managed to stay miles ahead. today, though, something’s… different about him. like he’s made a life changing decision in the past 48 hours.

“moving on,” yaga says, pointing to the board where the next slide materializes. “the heart of grover’s algorithm lies in its use of an amplitude amplification technique, where we iterate a search oracle along with an inversion process. pay attention—this concept of iterative improvement will become key when we start covering variational quantum algorithms.”

as yaga delves deeper into amplitude amplification, you manage to focus, jotting down notes on the necessary steps in grover’s search. yet each time you settle into the lecture, you feel gojo’s gaze pricking at you. the first time you turn around, there’s nothing there—just him slouched, seemingly absorbed in whatever he’s staring at on the ceiling. but then, you sense it again and, on your second glance, you catch his blue eyes meeting yours, and he quickly looks away.

what’s his problem? you give him a questioning look, but he’s adamantly not looking at you, trying to look nonchalant as he’s pulling out his laptop. he might look like a student taking latexing notes of what yaga’s yapping about, but the way he’s using his mouse more than he is his keyboard tells you that he’s probably on papa’s freezeria instead.

you decide that you’re going to waste your time wondering how gojo’s brain functioned, so you instead focus back on the lecture. after all, you didn’t understand any of the lecture notes you took notes on before and what it said about the diffuser in the circuit. 

“now,” yaga’s voice sharpens, pulling you back into the room, “these iterations act as amplitude amplification steps, so pay close attention—especially those of you who have a habit of being late.” his eyes slide back to gojo, who remains oblivious, leaning back with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as the sound of his name brings him back to the lecture.

gojo doesn’t even look phased. instead, he raises a hand casually, like he’s about to ask a simple question. you can feel the anticipation ripple through the room—half the students are waiting to see if he’ll fumble, and the other half already know better.

“professor yaga,” he drawls, “don’t you think amplitude amplification is a bit of an oversimplification? the way it’s typically presented, you’d think grover’s algorithm was just… guessing with style.” he flashes an infuriatingly smug smile, drawing out the pause before continuing. “but we both know it’s more about quantum phase inversion, right? the oracle reflects about the mean state, iterating with a precision that isn’t just luck. or maybe that’s all too technical?” he leans back, feigning innocence.

the smugness in his tone makes something flare up in you, and before you can stop yourself, your hand shoots up.

“actually, gojo,” you interject, your voice louder than you intended, “calling it “guessing with style” is a very gross oversimplification. grover’s algorithm isn’t about intuition or luck. it’s about optimization. it’s not just about spotlighting a target like a rando guess, it’s more like rotating the probability in a controlled manner—with iterations—to amplify the correct solution. not just some quantum trick or guess.” you cross your arms, leaning back in your chair as you stare him down. “it’s not even that bad, compared to what we have classically.”

as soon as you spoke, it seems that the fight and mischievous look in gojo’s eyes fades, replacing it with something that shockingly looks like him being flustered as he averts your gaze, looks to the ceiling, and murmurs something like “yea, that’s basically most of quantum computing, desperately trying to prove we’re not just wasting our time” but yaga interrupts him, clearly a bit annoyed at the two know-it-alls that you and gojo were acting like. 

“now,” yaga says, shifting back to the lecture as if nothing happened (probably because he wasn’t paid enough to deal with this shit), “these iterations act as amplitude amplification steps, so pay close attention—especially those of you who have a habit of missing lectures.”

you’re just left confused as to why the conversation didn’t escalate like the typical academic rivals in movies, because you’ve definitely seen gojo bully some people who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about instead of just blushing like some schoolgirl. regardless, you can’t help but notice the thrill that you felt, having finally argued with him, having been seen as someone worth arguing. you try to temper it as yaga continues onto the rest of the lecture.

…

“i can’t believe you’re making me go.” you tug at the hem of your white corset, paired with a matching skirt, still incredulous at how utahime managed to talk you into attending one of the infamous halloween frat parties. the night air is crisp against your exposed shoulders, and despite your complaints, you shiver more at the thought of wasting the next few hours among sweaty strangers than the actual cold.

utahime, walking beside you in a devil-red version of your outfit—complete with horns perched precariously on her head—looks far too satisfied with herself. she adjusts the horns with one hand, giving you a sidelong glance that practically drips with smugness.

“stop pouting,” she chides. “i’m not going to let you waste another night holed up in your room, buried in manhwa or quantum physics. i’m pretty sure there are cobwebs growing in your—”

“utahime,” you hiss, cutting her off with a mortified glance around.

“pussy,” she finishes, completely unbothered. “i’m going to find you a guy to hook up with. i’m not saying you have to go all the way, but flirting? kissing? maybe something more? very healthy. highly encouraged.”

your mouth falls open in protest, but before you can get a word in, she fixes you with a sharp glare, her dark eyes flashing with all the authority of a disappointed parent. “don’t even think about arguing with me. i swear, if you don’t at least try to enjoy this, i’ll make it my personal mission to find someone for you.”

“i can’t believe this,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “you’re supposed to be my friend, not my pimp.”

“oh, i’m your friend. that’s why i’m doing this. you’ll thank me when you’re sixty and not crying about how boring your college life was.”

“i’m not boring,” you counter. “i’m selective.”

“sure,” utahime drawls, clearly unconvinced. “and whatever weird sexual tension you’ve got going on with gojo doesn’t count.”

you scoff, stopping in your tracks to stare at her. “what tension? we’ve literally talked once this week. and that was the first time we had a conversation.”

she doesn’t respond, already scanning the scene ahead. the street of frat houses looms just ahead, glowing with gaudy orange lights strung up across balconies. the bass from the nearest party reverberates through the pavement underfoot. it’s already crowded, hordes of people shuffling in and out, laughing, shouting, and showcasing their half-baked halloween costumes.

you follow utahime’s gaze to the nearest house, packed with enough people to make the windows fog up. just the thought of squeezing into that humidity makes your stomach churn.

“looks crowded,” you mumble. “maybe we should—”

before you can suggest retreating, utahime grabs your wrist and practically drags you toward the house. “nope. you’re coming in. no backing out now.”

the moment you step inside, the smell hits you. sweat, stale beer, and an undercurrent of what you can only describe as frat-house musk. your nose wrinkles, and you instinctively recoil, pulling your arm free from utahime’s grasp.

“god, it smells like a gym locker in here,” you say, covering your nose.

utahime doesn’t seem fazed. she’s already scanning the room, her eyes landing on a beer pong table set up in the corner, surrounded by cheering students. “this is perfect!” she says, beaming.

“for what? contracting a fungal infection?” you mutter.

but she’s no longer listening, her focus shifting as a tall, broad-shouldered guy in a makeshift cowboy hat approaches her and then stops in front of both of you, his stare fully enthralled by utahime. “hey,” he says, a bit suavely, in the way that makes you inwardly roll your eyes because you know she’s going to eat it up. she likes it when they’re a little ugly, and this guy fits the bill. 

“hey,” and she giggles, making you have to physically fight the urge to puke, “what’s up?”

 they exchange a few words, and before you know it, she’s smiling in that way that tells you she’s found her entertainment for the night.

“go ahead,” you say dryly, waving her off. “i’ll just fend for myself.”

utahime starts to protest, but you’re already beelining for the kitchen, trying to get a drink that’s not too crazy to survive the night. it’s surprisingly less chaotic in the kitchen, though the counters are cluttered with half-empty bottles, red solo cups, and some questionable punch that looks radioactive. you scan the room, your eyes landing on a cupboard that might hold something simple—like water. a series of ding! ding! ding!’s go off in your mind as you find the pack of plastic water bottles. 

standing on your toes, you reach for the handle, but it’s just out of your grasp. you huff in frustration, shifting to get better leverage when a hand way bigger than yours suddenly appears above yours, effortlessly grabbing the item you were reaching for.

“let me get that for you.”

you turn to thank the person, the words dying on your lips when you see who it is.

gojo.

he’s standing impossibly close, his signature smirk firmly in place, but there’s something almost casual in the way he looks at you, as if this is the most normal interaction in the world. you swear you’re so close that you can see like the two open pores on his otherwise flawless skin, as his eyes inevitably drag themselves downwards to scan your outfit for the night—a shitty angel without wings and halo (you couldn’t be paid two shits to put in the effort; both of the top and skirt were utahime’s, anyways.) then, his eyes meet yours again, a bit of playfulness in them. 

“well, well,” he drawls, handing you the water bottle. “never thought i’d see you here.”

you take the bottle, trying to ignore the brush of his fingers against yours. “didn’t have much of a choice. utahime dragged me.”

his grin widens. “classic. let me guess—she’s off trying to find her soulmate at the beer pong table?”

“something like that,” you mumble, not wanting to give him the entire story. twisting the cap off the bottle,  you take a sip, hoping he’ll just leave you alone, but instead, he leans against the counter, looking entirely too comfortable.

“so,” he says, tilting his head, “i heard through the grapevine that you had a run-in with that spider-man guy this week.”

that makes you pause mid-gulp of water, instead coughing a bit as you try to swallow it down without basically drowning in kirkland signature natural spring water. you’ve only told like, three people outside of kento and iori, so you’re confused why he knows this information, but you continue on regardless. the memory of spider-man swinging in to save you flashes through your mind, and you can’t help but smile softly to yourself. “it was amazing. he’s—he’s incredible, honestly. the way he just swooped in and handled everything? so fast, so precise. he’s like a real-life superhero.”

you’re basically gushing to him, and you realize that a bit too late as you look at his face to gauge his reaction. he’s looking at you with a newfound interest, albeit a bit too conflicted to fully tease you about it when he says, “sounds like you’re smitten.”

“maybe i am,” you admit, laughing. “i mean, who wouldn’t be? he’s brave, he’s kind, and he doesn’t even stick around for the credit. it’s like he’s this selfless, untouchable figure.” you also kind of want to give him a sloppy toppy for saving you like that, but you spare gojo the details. 

“untouchable, huh?” gojo echoes, his tone turning a bit wry and…jealous? “sounds like someone’s got a crush.”

you roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted, and you think gojo can tell with the way you’re heating up and bashfully looking at the ground. “don’t be ridiculous.”

“i’m just saying,” he continues, leaning closer, “if that’s your type, you might want to raise your standards. superheroes are overrated.”

you raise an eyebrow. “and what, you’re not?”

he grins, that infuriatingly charming grin that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and laugh. “i’m better. i’m real.” he then puts his hands on the counter behind you, caging you between them until your knees are lightly brushing, and suddenly his face is so close that small little breaths from his nose are fanning across your face. “i can prove that to you.”

and you hate your body for being so…reactive and enthusiastic to his smooth-talking, face flushing. despite that, you try to put on an air of nonchalance. “god, you’re insufferable.”

“really?” he teases. his hand leaves the marble counter to hover at your hip, his hand subconsciously tracing your curves an inch above your skin. the motion, firm but tentative as if he’s waiting for you to give him the green light, makes you shiver as you subconsciously move your hips to finally have the skin-to-skin contact. and your skin sings in happiness as he draws circles into the area right below your skirt, even momentarily dipping just below, to which you realize that he’s treading very close to your panties, since your skirt’s really short.

"yea," you basically sigh, hating yourself for how breathy your voice sounds. 

it seems to have an effect on gojo because his eyes darken as he murmurs, "wastin' your time on that spiderman guy."

maybe it's the fact that it's late (you've been getting sub four hours of sleep this past week) or the lights in this humid frat bring a heady air, but all academic-rivalry-overshadowed-woman-in-stem history between you and gojo disappears in your brain as you rake your eyes up and down his torso and then look at him through your lashes. "who should i spend my time on instead?"

he gives you a little smile as he stares down at you, eyes raking over your face, catching at your lips and then going back up again to meet yours. “i don’t know, someone who’s as smart as you,” he murmurs.

“yea?” you laugh out breathlessly. your faces are so close that in normal circumstances, you would worry about how you both looked so close together, one hand on your thigh and the other splayed on your waist. “and how would you know how smart i am?”

satoru starts, lips coming closer and closer. “because i—”

but he’s interrupted, because you both hear a “satoru” and pull apart, breathing heavily as you both turn to look at the offender standing in the entrance of the kitchen: suguru geto, gojo’s best friend, looking more tired than anything as his eyes catch on you, then going to gojo with a pointed look. it’s not hard to figure out what was going on based on how disheveled you both look, your skirt crooked and his shirt crumbled, and your cheeks heat. before you can say anything, however, suguru sighs and says to gojo, “there’s a burglary happening nearby.” then, he turns but not before giving you a nod. “make sure to stay safe.”

he promptly leaves, leaving you confused standing there. was this such an emergency worth noting that he interrupted his best friend?

you try to seek the answer in gojo’s face, but he has this conflicted, annoyed countenance and you suddenly feel kinda of insecure because he’s raking his hand through his hair, staring painfully at the ceiling then at you. at the same time you utter out a “uh–” he says “i have to go.”

“oh.” you blink. a why brews on top of your tongue, but you temper it, reminding yourself that you’re not close to gojo like that. needless to say, you feel a little embarrassed as you watch him jog out of the kitchen with a little wave to you. you want to overanalyze gojo’s last look to you, the one that looked a bit like disappointment and yearning, but you shake it off, staring at the 16.9 oz plastic water bottle in your hand that you forgot about.

taking a sip, you cringe as you become more aware of your surroundings and the state you’re left in because of gojo. that your panties are a bit more sticky—you reach under your skirt to adjust them so they don’t stick to your crotch so much—and you’re hot all over. 

then reality comes crashing back. what the hell did you and gojo just do right now?

you groan out loud, banging your head against the fridge, but as you reel back, in your peripheral you see  someone there. your head shoots to see the guy who’s now looking at you with a weird expression as he undeniably waits for whatever freaking out you were doing to gain access to the fridge. 

“sorry,” you blurt out, and gather yourself to beeline for the exit. god, you needed to find utahime.

…

the soft hum of a tv in the corner of satoru’s apartment provided the only sound, save for the faint rustle of suguru flipping through a textbook. the remnants of takeout—boxes of half-eaten pad thai and a pile of discarded chopsticks—littered the coffee table between them. satoru leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, staring at the ceiling like it held answers he hadn’t thought to ask yet. he held a small foam ball, tossing it up and catching it over and over. his mind, however, wasn’t focused on the ball but on you.

it was starting to feel like an obsession. he’d always been able to compartmentalize things—his studies, his friends, his other responsibilities. but you? you’d broken through the usual barriers in his head, wedging yourself firmly into every free thought he had.

“do you think she likes me?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

suguru glanced up from his book, his expression unreadable. “who, starbucks girl?”

satoru scoffed. “she’s not starbucks girl. she’s…” he trailed off, tapping his fingers against his knee. your name lingered on his tongue, oddly weighty in a way that felt almost unfamiliar.

suguru smirked. “oh, she’s got a name now? progress.”

“shut up.”

but he couldn’t shut his mind off, not when you kept taking up space in it. it wasn’t just that he’d noticed you now—really noticed you, for the first time. it was more than that.

satoru had always known who you were. you weren’t exactly easy to miss. in a program full of ugly guys who didn’t shower and loud personalities, you had carved out your niche by being the cold, unreachable one. the one who didn’t bother with group projects unless she had to, who barely engaged in conversations beyond what was strictly necessary. other guys in the program talked about you, of course. they always did.

“frigid,” they called you. “too serious. probably thinks she’s better than us.”

they weren’t entirely wrong. you were better than most of them, but not for the reasons they assumed. satoru had read your work—papers that brimmed with insights that most of their half-baked theories could only dream of. he could tell you put in the effort in your classes and research, while all the guys left shit-talking had to rely on their grad student mentors to be able to write a legible paper. for fucks sake, he doesn’t even thing anyone could code in qiskit or cirq like you could; he had skimmed your notes once, left them behind after a lecture, and found them meticulous and sharp before he turned them into the professor to return to you.

and yet, despite the brilliance you carried with you, you had never given him a second glance.

that day at starbucks, though.

satoru rolled his head to the side, gaze drifting toward the window. he hadn’t expected to see anyone at five in the morning, let alone you. he’d been desperate for answers then—he had spent his night staring at his hands, which had seemed to keep ejecting spider-like webs after he’d been horribly sick. he knew he shouldn’t have gone fooling around in new york’s subway tunnels at 3am with suguru and shoko, but after a seemingly-harmless spider had bit him, he had been reeling from the discovery of his newfound powers and grappling with the weight of what they meant ever since. 

and there you were, unlocking the starbucks, bleary-eyed but no less composed.

you’d handed him his coffee, not interested in him the entire time, and he remembered blurting something out—something ridiculous about fate or responsibility, his usual bravado faltering in the quiet of the moment. he had been spiraling, unsure of who he was anymore, and you’d said something.

what was it again?

“it doesn’t have to be ‘more’ all the time. sometimes just showing up is enough.”

the words had stayed with him, carved deep into the corners of his mind. you didn’t know it, but they had pulled him back from the edge that day. since then, he’d started noticing you in ways he hadn’t before.

the way you brushed your hair behind your ear when you were deep in thought. the furrow of your brow when you argued as respectfully as you could with a professor (gojo knew you were holding back, though, and the thought always made him smile to himself because if he wasn’t an idgafer he would be incensed like you at the idiotic teacher). the smile—rare, fleeting, but utterly disarming—that occasionally lit up your face when you talked to utahime or that guy you were too friendly around, nanami.

“you’re doing that thing again,” suguru said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“what thing?” satoru asked, sitting up straighter.

“brooding. you’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

“no.”

suguru arched an eyebrow. “you’re a terrible liar.”

satoru sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “fine. maybe i am. but it’s complicated.”

“how is it complicated?”

“she doesn’t like me,” satoru said, shrugging. “at least, not as me. she likes spider-man.”

suguru blinked, clearly unimpressed. “you’re being stupid bro.”

“i’m not being stupid,” satoru argued. “she thinks spider-man’s this amazing, selfless hero. she doesn’t know i’m just some guy who can’t even figure out how to flirt with her without making an ass of himself.”

suguru leaned back in his chair, regarding satoru with an almost pitying look. “so let me get this straight. you’re worried that she only likes spider-man, even though spider-man is you. like it’s some kind of split personality thing?”

“well, when you put it like that—”

“it sounds dumb,” suguru finished. “because it is dumb.”

satoru glared at him, but suguru only shrugged.  but how could he not think about you? even now, the memory of your voice—calm, steady, and unexpectedly warm—echoed in his head. you had this way of looking at him, like you were peeling back layers he didn’t even know he had. and that smile... he groaned inwardly. he wasn’t supposed to be so drawn to you, wasn’t supposed to imagine what it’d feel like to have you smile at him like that all the time.

“look,” suguru continued, “if you like her, shoot your shot. you’re already overthinking this, and you haven’t even done anything yet. what’s the worst that could happen? she says no?”

“or she laughs in my face,” satoru muttered.

“which would be deserved, honestly,” suguru said, smirking. “but seriously, you’ve got nothing to lose. and everything to gain.”

satoru didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the takeout boxes on the table. he wanted to believe suguru was right, but there was a small, stubborn part of him that wasn’t so sure.

because it wasn’t just about rejection, or even whether you liked him as satoru or spider-man. it was about what came after. if he let you in and something happened to you—if his double life brought danger to your doorstep—he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself.

but then there was suguru’s voice in his head, steady and persistent: you’ve got nothing to lose. and everything to gain.

…

amidst a week of endless projects upon projects and other miscellaneous assignments from your research group partners (since the grad students loved to pile their work on top of you, the helpless undergrad), you find yourself nursing a hot chocolate while on top of your dormitory building’s roof. 

you find sanctuary, coming on here for time to yourself whenever you find yourself stuck in a busy week. quiet, solitary, with a view of the city lights flickering like scattered fireflies. you hugged your cardigan tighter around your shoulders as you stepped onto the roof, your laptop tucked under one arm, a mug of tea precariously balanced in the other hand. the air was crisp, biting just enough to sting your cheeks.

setting your mug down on the ledge, you perched beside it, pulling up your knees and balancing the laptop precariously as you typed. the words on the screen blurred after a while, blending into the chaos in your mind. frustrated, you closed it with a snap and leaned your head back to gaze at the stars.

“rough night?”

you startled, spinning your head around so fast your tea nearly toppled. but you can’t find anyone, just the sound of soft footsteps landing somewhere not visible to you. 

“you scared the hell out of me,” you sighed, clutching your chest.

“sorry,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound all that apologetic. “didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“then maybe don’t sneak up on people like that,” you muttered, still trying to calm your racing heart.

he chuckled, and the sound was warmer than you’d expected. “noted. so, what’s got you out here at three in the morning? don’t tell me you’re pulling an all-nighter.”

you sighed, the initial shock fading into a dull thrum of shyness. “it’s not an all-nighter if the night isn’t over yet.” then, you squint at a random spot, pretending it’s him. “besides, why are you here? shouldn’t you be out stopping robberies or saving cats from trees?”

“done and done,” he said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the ledge. “now i’m just enjoying the view.”

you turned your gaze back to the skyline, hoping the darkness hid the faint heat creeping up your neck. “so, what’s a guy like you doing on a random rooftop at three in the morning?”

“could ask you the same thing,” he countered.

you hesitated. for some reason, admitting the truth to him felt easier than admitting it to anyone else. “just…needed a break.”

“from?”

“everything,” you said, exhaling slowly. “classes. expectations. people.” you paused, then added with a faint smile, “not you, though. you’re an exception.”

“oh?” his voice lightened, carrying a hint of playful intrigue. “should i feel honored?”

“maybe,” you said. “it’s not every day you get to meet a real hero.” then, “okay, but why do you always hide in the dark?”

his voice is smug, meant to be playful. “it adds to the mystique?”

you pout. “what if i call the police?”

“it’s not like the cops can catch me anyways, baby. their shitty coffee and donut filled asses aren’t enough to keep up with me.”

you really try not to flush when he calls you that pet name. “is success getting to you?”

“what success? most i hear is everyone debating whether or not i should be experimented on.”

“really?” you teased. “that’s not what i saw on my for you page last time. there are girls out there who want you to sign their tits after you rescued that baby.”

then, you hear the soft thud of nimble feet dropping onto the ceiling and turn your head to see him in all his glory. he has a muscular figure highlighted in his white suit, blue and black lines traveling their way across his body. casually, he stretches and then drops down to the floor, sitting cross legged from across from you as if joining you in a regular gossip sesh. he puts his elbow on his knee and rests his head on his hand. “are you one of those girls?”

you laugh sheepishly, turning away as heat creeps up your face again and your heart hammers, because you can’t exactly tell him that, yes you’re absolutely enamored with him after he saved you that day and yes, you do indeed want him to sign your tits.

“you should do that more,” he said.

“what?” you look back at him, wide eyed in confusion. 

“laugh.”

the way he said it, low and almost reverent, made your cheeks heat. you busy yourself with toying with your cardigan, scooting yourself away from the edge and closer to him. “and you should stop being such a flirt,” you said, though there was no bite in your voice.

“can’t help it,” he said, leaning closer. “it’s kind of my thing.”

“is that right?”

“mm-hmm.” he paused, then added, “you know, there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“what?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

“take my mask off.”

the words hit you like a gut punch, dissolving the playfulness that had filled the air seconds ago. you blinked up at him, searching his face—or at least what you could see of it—for any sign that this was some elaborate joke. but there was no hint of humor, no smirk tugging at his lips. he meant it.

your fingers hovered at your sides, hesitant. “are you sure?” the question came out soft, barely audible, but it felt like it echoed in the quiet night.

“never been more sure of anything,” he murmured, voice low and steady.

you swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest. slowly, almost against your better judgment, you reached up, fingertips brushing the edge of his mask. the fabric felt smooth, warm under your touch, but your nerves were anything but.

with a deep breath, you peeled it back. bit by bit, his face came into view—a shock of white hair, impossibly sharp features, and finally, those eyes. those unmistakable, infuriatingly familiar blue eyes. your breath caught, and for a moment, the world tilted sideways.

“gojo?”

the name fell from your lips before you could stop it, unsteady and disbelieving. your mind raced, trying to piece together the impossible puzzle that had just landed in front of you.

he grinned—that grin, the one that always made you want to slap it off his face and yet somehow managed to disarm you every single time. “hey.”

“hey?” your voice cracked as you took a step back. “that’s all you have to say? hey?”

“would you prefer, ‘surprise’?” he quipped, his grin widening as though this was the most normal thing in the world.

you laughed, the sound a little hysterical but real, like you couldn’t contain the storm of emotions rushing through you. “surprised? you’ve been… you’ve been spider-man this whole time?” the words felt foreign on your tongue, like they didn’t belong in the same sentence as gojo satoru—the one you’d argued with in class, the one who had no problem making you want to tear your hair out. and yet here he was, standing in front of you, the last person you ever would have suspected to be the city’s most infamous masked hero.

gojo gave you that crooked grin, the same one he wore when he thought he had won—when he thought he had it all figured out. “i know. it’s a lot to take in.”

you stared at him, trying to make sense of it, but no amount of logic could bridge the gap between the gojo you knew—the guy who drove you up the wall in class and always had a cocky comeback—and the masked hero who had saved you and the one you had a crush on.

you didn’t know whether to scream, laugh, or cry. 

you take a shaky breath in, still trying to process everything. “you... you saved me, gojo. you’ve been right there, all these times, and i had no idea it was you.”

“guess i’m just that good at keeping secrets,” he said, his tone playful, but there was something more there, something softer, that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. his eyes held a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability, maybe uncertainty.

the weight of the moment hung thick in the air between you, and for a long second, you didn’t know what to say. this revelation was like the ground beneath you had cracked wide open, and you were left staring into an abyss that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

finally, you shook your head, letting out a short breath. “this is insane.”

he didn’t seem bothered by your reaction, though his eyes darkened just slightly, the smirk still there, but with something a little more honest creeping into his expression. “yeah. but you’re handling it better than i thought. kinda thought you would faint, or something.”

the world had shifted, but somehow, with gojo now sitting in front of you like this, with the mask off and the man behind the myth revealed, it felt like the pieces were finally starting to fall into place. even if they didn’t make perfect sense yet.

and yet, something about his presence—his undeniable realness—felt oddly grounding. he wasn’t the invincible spider-man anymore. he was just gojo. the gojo who had somehow become more than just your academic rival, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit more than that.

something in gojo’s facial expression shifted to something a bit more hesitant, a little nervous as he stands and extend his arm out to you. softly, he asks, “do you trust me?”

“yes.” you took his hand, standing up as he flashes you a charming, yet mischievous grin, one so shit eating that you regret saying that. “why?”

“i’m taking you for a ride. consider it an apology for freaking you out earlier.”

you hesitated, looking between his outstretched hand and the city skyline just beyond your college campus. “i don’t think this is a good idea—”

“you trust me, don’t you?”

and somehow, against all logic, you realized that you did.

“fine,” you said, stepping closer to him to cling onto him. 

he pulls you closer, and as he does so, he cranes his neck down to meet your eyes, smiling giddy. “anywhere you wanna go?”

you think for a moment, but know immediately the place where you’d like to visit that’s open at this ungodly hour. “do you know that one shawarma joint—-”

before you can even finish, the wind whips around you as gojo slips his mask back on, pulls you closer to him, and uses his free hand—that is, the one that’s not clinging onto your firmly—to shoot a glistening web, one that you saw when he used it on the man who harassed you in the ally. it clings onto a nearby building, and then you’re off the ground, soaring through the air.

you let out a scream of terror against gojo’s chest, tightening your arms around him. you can feel a laugh rumble in his chest, a boyish chuckle as he peers down at you and shouts, “are you having fun?” 

“gojo,” you whine, burying your head into his chest further. despite your initial fear, exhilaration creeps its way into you as you the city blur, skyline jumping and dipping as gojo effortlessly swung you both around. 

when he finally stopped, landing gracefully on a secluded rooftop, you were breathless—not just from the ride but from the way he was looking at you.

“you good?” he laughed, panting from the exertion and tenderly using his hand to rake his hand through your  hair, which, you note out of embarrassment, must’ve been messed up from the wind passing through it.

“i hate that you made me dizzy, but yea, i’m good,” you mumble, pulling out your phone to open your camera, fixing your hair.

when you’re done, gojo looks at you with the manic buzz you can only have at 3am. “ready to get some shawarma?”

…

the streets were eerily quiet, the kind of silence only a city at 3am could have. just the two of you, your footsteps echoing against the pavement, the occasional glow of a streetlamp painting your path.

“okay, that shawarma was like, mid at best,” gojo walks alongside you. he’s thrown on a sweatshirt and gray sweatpants over his suit, walking alongside you on the street. your stomachs are full, and you suggested a walk to be able to digest the bigass bowl you both ate.

“nothing tastes better than something you’re eating when you’re supposed to be studying, instead,” you shot back, hiding your little smile as you cross your arms while strolling. the shift between you and gojo was so jarring that you’re still reeling at it, but what is 3am if not for big life changes?

“yea, that’s fair,” he sighs, crossing his hands behind his head as he continues strolling beside you.  “so,” he continues, “now that i’ve officially blown your mind with my secret identity and fed you some incredibly mid shawarma, what’s next? should i fly you to paris, or is that too cliché?”

you roll your eyes, but deep inside, you’re really biting back a grin. “relax, bugboy. maybe first let me recover from being swung like a human pendulum.”

gojo stopped walking, turning to face you with a playful glint in his eye. “you’re still thinking about that, huh? admit it—you loved it.”

you raised an eyebrow. “i screamed into your chest for a solid ten seconds. does that sound like love to you?”

he tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “i dunno. there’s a fine line between terror and thrill. and judging by how tightly you were holding onto me…”

“you’re insufferable,” you muttered, but your voice lacked bite.

“and yet, you’re still here.”

his words hung in the air, the playful edge softening into something quieter, more sincere. your steps faltered, and you looked up at him, the absurdity of the night fading into the background as your gaze held his.

“guess i’m curious,” you admitted.

“curious, huh?” he said, taking a step closer. “careful. curiosity killed the cat.”

without thinking, you blurted, “at least i’ve got a fifty-fifty shot, right?” the words barely left your mouth before the regret hit, your inner voice screaming at you for making a lame quantum mechanics joke at a time like this. schrödinger would be proud, you thought bitterly.

but then gojo laughed—not the teasing, obnoxious kind of laugh or the weird look you’d expect, but a genuine, boyish chuckle that reached his eyes. he smiled at you, soft and unguarded, and suddenly, the space between you seemed to shrink.

the flickering streetlamp cast a warm, uneven glow over the two of you. in that moment, the sprawling city felt impossibly small, narrowed down to just him and the pounding of your heart in your ears.

gojo reached up, fingers brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face. “you know,” he murmured, his voice low, “i’ve been wanting to do this for a while now.”

your breath hitched, heart thundering in your chest. “do what?”

“this.”

before you could respond, he closed the space between you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was somehow both soft, yet electrifying. for a moment, time seemed to stop, the city around you fading into nothing as the warmth of his touch anchored you in the moment.

when he finally pulled back, his grin was back in full force. “so, was that better or worse than shawarma?”

you blinked at him, still trying to find your footing in the aftermath of what just happened. an immediate feeling of bashfulness crept over you because not only did you just kiss spiderman, you just kissed gojo. there are girls who would kill to be in your position, and that makes you flustered as you turn your head away from him so you don’t have to make eye contact. “i hate you,” you mumble half heartedly, cheeks burning.

gojo doesn’t let you off so easily. his thumb brushes gently along your chin, coaxing your face back toward his. his touch is warm, deliberate, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“oh my god,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “are you embarrassed? you’re so cute.”

when the warmth of his hand leaves your chin, you open your eyes, shocked as you find out that he’s nowhere to be seen. you call out a tentative, “gojo?” 

somewhere behind you, to the left, comes out a muffled shout. “i’m here!” you whip around, your brows furrowing as you follow the direction of his voice. it’s coming from an alley just off the street, dark and bathed in shadows.

“seriously?” you mutter under your breath, your annoyance half-hearted, making your way toward the sound. you find yourself at the mouth of the alley, the dim glow of a distant lamp barely illuminating his silhouette.

gojo’s perched on the side of the wall like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one leg propped up, his mask pulled halfway up to reveal that damn smirk. “you’re slow,” he teases, his tone light and infuriatingly smug.

“what are you doing?” you ask, crossing your arms.

he gestures toward himself. “you came looking for me, didn’t you?”

you roll your eyes, stepping closer despite yourself. “what, did you think i’d just leave you lurking in some alley like a creepy insect?”

“well,” he says, shooting a web to stick on the bottom of some stairs of one of the buildings to hang upside down, “you could’ve left, but i had a feeling you wouldn’t.”

before you could retort, he shoots his web closer to something on top of you, now dangling upside down yet again but his proximity even closer, stealing the air from your lungs. his fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering just long enough to make your knees feel unsteady.

“so,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “are we doing this again, or are you gonna keep pretending you hate me?”

your heart stutters, but before you can overthink it, you pull his mask down even further to uncover more of his lips, and you join them together—this time, softer, slower, as if savoring the moment. you grab at his chin to pull him closer to you, you both sighing into the kiss, and then smiling giddily each time you pull back, only to come back in.

and just like that, you start to fall into…something with not only the vigilante that’s swinging around new york, but also gojo satoru, your long-time rival.

…

when satoru swings by your dorm next, he doesn’t expect his heart to lurch so much at the view of you so cozy.

it’s undeniable; you and satoru have been dancing around each other. you’re not exactly a hook-up to each other—you two haven’t had sex—but you’re not exactly girlfriend and boyfriend. and it’s not something casual, either. he doesn’t reveal that he’s spiderman just to get into girls’ pants. 

you’ve both developed a sort of rapport, he supposes. it’s been stolen glances during phys401 and late nights spent talking or, occasionally, making out. you’ve even started to nurse his wounds, if he ever shows up with bruises and blood matting his suit. one of the perks of you having a single. 

he’s even fallen asleep overnight, especially on friday nights when he doesn’t have lecture in the morning. some of his things, like some spare equipment and suits, have even found their way into your closet. 

you’re both on a dangerous roller coaster, and satoru is closing his eyes on the fall down. 

but right now, he’s perched outside your window like a creep. you’re sitting on your bed, cross-legged and squinting at something on your laptop, and satoru smiles to himself as he sees your tank top and shorts and just how homey you look. you probably know satoru is coming, but you’re so comfortable around him that it makes his heart ache. he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t stop.

satoru lightly taps on your window, his knuckle brushing against the glass softly, not wanting to startle you. you glance up, catching sight of him, and there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips.

you get up, and satoru follows the movement of your bare legs with his eyes as you slide the window open. “you know, most people knock on doors like normal humans,” you say.

“i like to keep things interesting,” he shoots back, climbing in effortlessly. the faint chill from the night clings to him, and his hair is slightly disheveled from the wind.

he glances around your room, catching sight of your scattered notes and the distinct look of frustration etched across your face. “what’s got you looking so miserable?”

“phys401,” you reply with a resigned sigh, flopping back onto your bed. “this problem set is impossible.”

satoru smirks, peeling off his gloves and mask and plopping down beside you. “let me see.”

acquiescing, you hand over your notebook, watching as he scans your work with intent, eyebrows scrunching as he tries to understand the statement to prove. he makes a few thoughtful noises, before grabbing a pen and scribbling something down. “here,” he says after a moment, “you’re overcomplicating this step. instead of doing the tensor product you did, you could just make this zero by taking an inner product, since they’re orthogonal states. the rest will fall into place.”

you squint at his messy, rushed handwriting, and sure enough, the proof seems to come together. “how are you so good at this?” 

“physics prodigy, remember?” he teases, leaning back on his hands as he lays down on your bed.

“thanks for the help,” you say softly, your eyes lingering on him a beat too long. he’s kind of dreamy, you think. the moonlight filters across your window, giving his platinum hair a sheen as his cerulean eyes look into yours with kindness. 

his smirk fades, replaced by something softer, something unspoken. “anytime.” he then makes a show of stretching out his limbs, purposely bumping into you with one eye open smugly to observe your reaction, to which you glare at him. he spots your notebook, picks it up, and flips through it. “you know, for someone who complains so much about phys401, you’re not half bad at it,” he teases, scribbling something in the margin of your notes by grabbing a stray pen next to him.  

you roll your eyes, shifting so you’re cross-legged on the bed, facing him. “not all of us are physics prodigies, satoru. some of us actually have to work hard.”  

he chuckles, handing the notebook back to you. “hard work is overrated when you can just charm your way through everything.”  

you snort and joke, “if charm was all it took, i’d have aced the midterm.”  

there’s a beat of silence as you glance down at his notes. he’s corrected a mistake you hadn’t even noticed, and his scrawled proof flows so effortlessly it makes you a little envious. “how do you do that?” you ask, more to yourself than him.  

“do what?”  

“make it look so… easy,” you say, frowning slightly. “everything. physics, life, swinging through the city.”  

satoru leans back on his palms, his smirk softening. “trust me, it’s not as easy as it looks.”  

you glance up at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone. “what do you mean?”  

he shrugs, but there’s something vulnerable in the way his gaze flickers away from yours. “i mean, everyone sees the guy with the jokes and the perfect test scores, but no one sees the late nights or the bruises.” he gestures vaguely to his chest, where you know the bruises from his spider-man escapades hide. “guess i’m just good at pretending.”  

you sit with his words, the weight of them settling between you. “you don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” you say softly.  

his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the mask—the real one—drops. “i know,” he says, just as softly.  

the air between you feels heavier, like the world has shrunk to just the two of you. you’re hyper-aware of how close he is, the faint smell of the night clinging to him, the way his knee brushes against yours.  

“thanks,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “for letting me be here. for…” he trails off, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up.  

your breath catches. “satoru…”  

“yeah?” he says, leaning in slightly, his voice lower now.  

“i…” you trail off, not even sure what you were going to say.  

he leans closer, and it feels like everything around you stills. his hand finds its way to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “can i?” he asks, his voice barely audible.  

you nod, and then his lips are on yours.  

the kiss starts tentative, almost shy, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. it deepens, his hand sliding to your waist as you pull him closer. the tension that had been building for weeks—months, maybe—finally snaps, leaving nothing but heat and want in its wake.  

his weight presses you back into the bed, and you can feel his heart racing against yours as he pins you to the bed, now on top of you. his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and as his thumb traces shapes into your circle and closer to more sensitive areas, a sigh escapes you.  

that’s when he freezes.  

he pulls back, his breathing uneven, his eyes wide and filled with something like fear. “we can’t,” he says, his voice hoarse.  

your heart drops into your chest.

“why not?” you ask, trying to catch your breath.  

“because,” he says, sitting up and running a hand through his hair and he’s heaving. “because i’m spider-man, and you—” he breaks off, looking anywhere but at you. “you deserve better than this. better than me.”  

you sit up, pulling your shirt back into place and looking at him, hurt. “that’s not your call to make, satoru.”  

“i’m trying to protect you!” he says, his voice rising in agitation. he sits back onto his heels, raking a hand through his hair as he looks at the ceiling, as if in pain.

you can’t believe him. his self-righteousness irritates you to no end, especially after you’ve bared your soul, and now your body to him, something you considered intimate. you feel conflicted—whatever you had, it didn’t have a label. but that didn’t mean that you didn’t want that to be true. badly.

“and who asked you to?” you snap back. “i’m not some damsel in distress who needs saving.”  

“i know that,” he says, his tone softening. “but if something happened to you because of me…” he shakes his head. “i couldn’t live with that.”  

the anger bubbling in your chest boils over, and you snap. “so what? you’re just going to walk away? after everything?”  

he stands, his expression pained. “i’m sorry,” he says, heading for the window.  

“don’t you dare apologize,” you say, your voice trembling as you stand by the foot of your bed, hating how your eyes brim with tears. “if you leave, don’t bother coming back.”  

he pauses, his hand on the window frame, before glancing back at you. “i’m sorry,” he says again, softer this time, before slipping out into the night.  

the window clicks shut behind him, and you’re left alone in the silence, the ache in your chest threatening to swallow you whole. 

…

the whir of the espresso machine and the gentle hum of background music fill the mostly empty starbucks, the occasional customer wandering in like clockwork. it’s a quiet shift, the kind you’d usually relish—except today, the quiet only makes the knot in your chest tighten.

you’re stationed behind the counter, staring blankly at the milk steamer as it hisses, lost in your thoughts. that is, until utahime’s voice breaks through.

“alright, spill,” she says, leaning her elbows on the counter beside you.

you glance at her, eyebrows raised. “spill what?”

utahime rolls her eyes, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “oh, please. you look like someone stole your favorite pen and broke it in half. what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you lie, turning back to the steamer. “i’m fine.”

utahime’s skeptical gaze bores into you. “you’re a terrible liar. nanami, back me up.”

from his spot at a nearby table, nanami looks up from his book, his sharp eyes narrowing as they lock onto you. “it’s boy trouble,” he says flatly, like he’s solving an equation.

your head snaps toward him, a glare already forming. “excuse me?”

“it’s obvious,” he says, setting his book down and regarding you with his usual piercing gaze. “you’re distracted, you look upset—it’s boy trouble.”

utahime perks up, leaning closer. “wait, is he right? is this about a guy?”

you let out a groan, leaning your elbows on the counter. “can you two not gang up on me right now?”

“so it is a guy,” utahime says, her tone turning smug.

“i didn’t say that,” you retort, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

nanami raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with your deflection. “you might as well just tell us. it’s not like we’re going to let it go.”

you sigh, running a hand through your hair. “fine. it’s… someone i liked. someone i thought liked me too. but he freaked out and said it was too…dangerous to keep going.”

utahime frowns, her curiosity replaced by concern while kento snorts. “dangerous? what does that even mean?”

“that’s what i’d like to know,” you say bitterly, the frustration bubbling up as you speak. “he acts like he cares, but the second things get serious, he bolts. like i’m some fragile thing that can’t handle it.”

nanami leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “he might not be scared of you. he could be scared of what it means for him. of responsibility and commitment. some people run when they feel too much.”

utahime nods, her hand resting gently on your arm. “whatever his problem is, it’s not fair to you. if he can’t get it together, that’s on him, not you.”

you glance between them, the weight of their words settling in your chest. “i know that,” you say quietly. “it just… sucks.”

“of course it does,” utahime says, her voice soft but firm. “but you’re not the problem here. don’t let him make you think you are.”

nanami picks up his book again but pauses before opening it. “and don’t let him live rent-free in your head. if he can’t see what he’s giving up, that’s his loss.”

their support feels grounding, like a steady hand in the middle of a storm. you manage a small smile, nodding. “thanks, guys.”

“anytime,” utahime says, flashing you a reassuring grin. nanami simply nods, returning to his book but keeping an eye on you like always. for the first time all week since gojo left your room, the heaviness in your chest feels a little lighter.

…

the knock at your window is faint, almost timid, but it jolts you out of your daze. you sit up in bed, your heart pounding as your eyes dart toward the window. it’s late—so late it’s early—and for a moment, you think you imagined it. you hate to admit it, but because of your boy troubles you haven’t been able to sleep all week. you’re also no stranger to imagining ants crawling up your body or phantom noises, so you adjust in your bed, trying to go back to sleep.

then it comes again, a little louder this time.

you throw off the blanket and pad over, the chill of the floor biting at your bare feet. when you pull the curtain aside, your breath catches.

satoru.

he’s crouched outside, his suit torn in places and soaked with blood. his head lolls slightly, like he’s barely holding himself up, and when he lifts his gaze to meet yours, it’s tired and pleading.

you don’t think—there’s no time for that. you unlatch the window and shove it open, reaching out to help him inside. “satoru, oh my god,” you breathe, your voice shaking.

“hey,” he mutters, his grin weak but still so unmistakably him. “sorry for the mess.”

“shut up,” you snap, guiding him onto your bed and setting him down with gentle hands, ones that contrast your tone with him. “what the hell happened?”

“nothing i couldn’t handle,” he says, wincing as he tries to sit up straighter and flashes you a sheepish smile. “you should see the other guy.”

“you’re bleeding everywhere, satoru. you clearly didn’t handle it.” you grab your first aid kit from under the bed and yank it open, your hands trembling.

“i’ve had worse,” he murmurs, but his bravado is thin, cracking at the edges.

“stop talking,” you say, your voice trembling and cracking. “just—just stop.”

for once, you thank the gods that he listens.

you work quickly, cutting away the shredded fabric of his suit and cleaning the worst of the wounds. it’s not pretty—his torso is littered with bruises and gashes, the kind that make your stomach turn—but you keep your focus.

when you press a disinfectant-soaked pad to a particularly deep cut, he hisses, his hand flying to grab your wrist.

“sorry,” you whisper, glancing up at him with a tender look in your eyes. his expression matches yours, and your faces are so close to each other that you can’t bear it anymore, going back to your work.

his fingers loosen but don’t let go, his grip warm and grounding. “you’re good at this,” he says softly, his voice rough.

“yeah, well,” you mutter, ducking your head to avoid his gaze. “you’ve given me plenty of practice.”

the silence stretches as you finish bandaging him up. when you’re done, you sit back, your hands still trembling as you place them in your lap. “you’re an idiot,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

he laughs, soft and hoarse. “yeah. i get that a lot from this girl i know.”

you look up at him, and the weight of everything—his injuries, his secret, the distance he tried to put between you—crashes over you. “you can’t keep doing this, satoru. you can’t keep pushing me away just to show up like this.”

his smile fades, replaced by something raw and unguarded. “i know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “i know, but…”

“but what?” you demand, your voice cracking. “you’re spider-man? you think that’s an excuse to keep shutting me out?”

“it’s not an excuse,” he says, running a hand through his messy hair, matted with even more blood. his or someone else’s, you’re not sure. “it’s a reason. i don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

“you think i’m not already hurting?” you snap, the anger bubbling to the surface yet again. “you think it doesn’t kill me to see you like this and know i can’t do anything to stop it?”

his eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks like a little boy, lost and unsure. it is then that it hits you that he’s just twenty. a college student, not someone who’s wanted by the cia or someone who’s battled terrorists. for fucks sake, he can’t even legally drink. 

and your heart can’t help but melt as he says, “i just… i don’t want to lose you.”

“then stop trying to,” you say, your voice softer now. “stop pretending like you’re protecting me by keeping me at arm’s length. let me in, satoru.”

he stares at you, his breath hitching like he’s holding back a thousand words. then, in a rush, he closes the distance between you, his hands cradling your face as he presses his forehead to yours.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “i’m so sorry.”

you exhale shakily, your hands finding their way to his wrists. “just stop being an idiot, okay? stop trying to do this alone.”

he nods, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “i promise,” he says, and for the first time, you believe him.

…

a cramp gripping satoru’s entire leg is what wakes him up. 

he winces in memory of the injury; one of those stupid terrorists had too good of an aim, grazing his leg while he was mid-air. it hurts like a bitch now, and he moves to lay on his back, until something stops him. roses.

he looks, bleary eyed, to you. the floral scent coming from you, making him dizzy. his body cocooning yours. 

you both unconsciously moved in your sleep so that you were spooning, your fragrant hair, soft from shampooing, tickling his throat with your ass in his crotch.

nestled right against his morning wood.

good fucking lord, he groans to himself, then starts to panic because if you wake up and realize he had a raging hard-on while you were sleeping, you would definitely think he was a creep. he’s already on thin fucking ice. so naturally, he starts to recite the star spangled banner while trying to will his boner away.

oh, say can you see—

to no avail, because you huff softly in your sleep, soft and warm body unconsciously leaning back to grind your ass against his lap, turning his dick to steel.

“oh, fuck,” he curses out loud, using his hand to cover the lower half of his face and clench his eyes shut. you feel so sweet, innocently adjusting while he can’t even control his lust for you.

but once the grind seems to continue for a bit too long, more than what can be chalked up as adjusting in your sleep, he peers down at you. you’re awake. 

and because satoru’s selfish, his hands creep up your tank top, settling on your bare stomach, where he knew you were ticklish. as a result, you wiggle, and he uses this opportunity to pull you even closer to him, right up against him. 

“baby,” he says, making his voice all deep and sighs on purpose, just to be unfair to you. “is this okay?”

you whine, and he settles his face in your hair, the strands of it tickling his skin as he inhales in the scent of you. “i thought it was a dream.”

he smiles into your hair. you make him feel like sunshine incarnate, and the rush he’s getting right now is akin to the one he gets jumping off the empire state building. “no, this is very real.”

“hm,” and you continue to drag your ass into him, murmuring in a soft voice that makes him want to take you right there and then, “it still feels like a dream. like you’re not real, right now.”

oh, what he would do to make you say his name in that same voice; he wants to whisper all the things he wants to do to you right now. “i know, baby. you feel like a dream.” his hands continue to slide up and up your torso, groaning at your sharp intake as he gently fondles the softness of your breasts. 

you overwhelm his senses, teasing him, and when you let out a whine of his name, satoru snaps.

“i’m going to make you feel good right now. tell me if it’s a fucking dream,” he grits out, ignoring whatever cramps that were screaming at him to get on top of you. 

you gasp out a “satoru,” wriggling in his grasp, and he can’t take it anymore. he brings up one of his hands. shoots a web that lands right on your left hand. then your right hand.

satoru just tied you up using his webs.

you look at him in whatever version of shock you can muster in your tired state. “satoru, what the—” but you’re muffled, because he’s kissing you, hard, roving his hands up and down your body and grabbing whatever he can as if he’s devouring you while making out with you.

“do you know,” and his eyes flash dangerously while looking down at yours, “how you’ve teased me with these shorts?” his hands trails down to the waistband of the offending piece of clothing, pulling it to make it snap against your skin. you jump, looking at satoru desperately, who’s left you bare at his mercy, subject to his super human strength as he grabs your shorts with both his hands again. “every fucking time i’ve sneaked up in to your room, it’s been so hard to not fuck you senseless in these flimsy things. it’s only fair you pay the price, right baby?”

it’s not like you have anything to answer him with, having lost all brain cells being fucked out like this. he pulls them down, and if he had laser vision, he would have stared through your panties long ago, eyes fixated on the crotch that was nearly translucent with the amount of slick going through it. burying his face right in between your thighs, he noses at your cunt before groaning. then, he uses his teeth to grab onto the middle and pull. until your pussy is bare to him.

“oh, fuck you’re so pretty,” he curses, lapping at your sweetness. his tongue roves up and down your folds, and if your hands could, they would be pulling at his hair solely because you were so sensitive. but you were trapped, thighs gripped in his strong hands and your arms trapped by his ultra-strong webs. “my good girl.”

then, you feel pressure at your opening. “sato—” you squeal but are immediately interrupted by your own moan as he curls his long, thick fingers, eyes observing your every movement as you squirm, electric shocks running up and down your body as he hits your spot dead-on.

and he notices, because the motherfucker chuckles. “oh, so that’s the spot, huh?” he purrs, visibly pleased as he memorizes it and abuses it, hitting it with every stroke. you barely notice him add one finger, add two fingers as he starts to suck on your clit. overwhelmed with pleasure, you’re only brought back to reality when he rips all contact away from you.

“what—” you mumble mindlessly, until you see what he’s doing. he pulls his sweatpants down. and he’s not wearing boxers, so you drool when his cock springs out, leaking copiously and hard. without taking his eyes off you, he pumps it to its fullest length, and you’re just staring in awe at its sheer length.

“what’re you looking at, baby?” he teases, using his hand to wiggle his cock in front of your face to mock you. “want it so bad, isn’t that right?”

you glare at him half-heartedly, but whine regardless. “just put it in, gojo.”

“oh,” and he flashes you a smile that makes a big danger sign in red flash across your mind. “it’s gojo, now is it?”

 “satoru,” there are tears brimming in the corner of your eyes, the ones that make satoru even more aroused at your want, “please. i need it.”

a boyish grin and a forehead kiss that has you reeling at his duality. “anything for my woman in stem.” with that, he pushes in, both of your eyes rolling back as his cock is engulfed by your gummy walls. soon after, he starts thrusting, desperation fueling both of you as you cross your legs behind gojo’s back, the deeper angle making his thighs shake while fucking into you. 

he grabs your face, gives you a tender kiss. “fuck, i love this pussy. so sweet for me.” 

you give him a wanton moan in return as he continues to thrust deep, tender strokes into you. “satoru, ‘m not gonna last long.” with the amount of foreplay he’s done alongside how sensitive you are, you’re steadily reaching your orgasm already, and with the way satoru’s now tightly gripping the sheets beside you while thrusting inside you, he is too.

wet squelching noises echoes across the room, and you know the neighbors can hear the obscene plap! plap! plap! coming from skin meeting skin, your hips against his. he buries his face into your neck, panting at your ear until he uses his hand to wrench your face towards his.

“i love you,” he groans, forcing your eyes to meet his. “i love you forever and will do so. so you can’t break my heart,” and he’s desperately thrusting again, “and you can’t leave me. please.”

at his confession, you break, back arching as you also squeal out a iloveyou while gasping loudly, hips rolling to rise against his as he fucks you through your orgasm. quickly, his thrusts veer into overstimulation and you whine. “toru.” he takes one look at your state—face impossibly flushed, hands tied, and pussy absolutely engulfing his cock, and his orgasm hits him like a truck, making him gasp and bend and break as he goes to heaven and back with the aftershocks of your orgasm making your pussy clench around him so beautifully. his cum enters you in hot spurts, making you exhale sharply at the feeling as he comes down from his orgasm, collapsing next to you.

for a few minutes, heavy breathing fills the room, both of you catching your breaths. until satoru breaks the silence. “so, what’s it like to fuck a superhero?”

you take one look at him—all smug and propped up on his elbow—and spidey sense be damned as you try grab a pillow. key word is try because you’re then wrenched back with a reminder that you’re still bound. “satoru,” and you give him a sickly sweet smile, the one that he knows means he’s in trouble, “when are these going to dissolve?”

and satoru pretends to be deep in thought, but you can see him trying to inch off the bed slowly, as if to escape your wrath after his answer. “uhm…maybe five hours?”

if it weren’t for the damn spidey sense that he had, he wouldn’t have been able to escape the swing of your legs as you looked at him murderously. “satoru gojo you will unhand me from these webs this instant—-“

“i don’t know,” he shrugs, shit eating grin in his face. “you look kinda sexy in bed like this. mad at me.” but when your eyes flash with anger, he hiccups nervously, telltale of the fact he won’t mess with you.

“i hate you,” you groan out, pouting like a petulant child while you glare at the ceiling.

 satoru comes close to you to bend at his waist and give you a forehead kiss. “no, you don’t.” 

you give him a pointed glare, telling him not to be testy. “clean me up. now.”

at your expression, his eyes widen in fear and he salutes. “anything for you, ma’am.”

at his retreating form, you giggle and sigh to yourself. you never would’ve known that spider-man would be the one fetching a clean up rag for you after fucking the shit out of you, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

when satoru comes back, he cleans you up, tenderly, as if he is afraid that you will break. you’re a little drowsy when he returns to you, but he doesn’t dare try to wake you up when he hears little breaths from your nose indicating you’ve fallen asleep. after he finishes his job, he admires your features.

satoru lingers for a moment, his gaze softening as he watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest. the weight of his responsibilities presses on him, as it always does, but tonight, it feels heavier—like a tether pulling him between the life he’s chosen and the life he craves.

you, so peaceful in sleep, represent something fragile, something precious. and that terrifies him. because what if he fails? what if the cost of being spider-man is losing the one thing that feels real?

still, he knows he can’t walk away—not from this city, not from you. with a deep breath, he leans down and presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead, a silent promise lingering in his chest.

“i’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs, barely audible. “no matter what.”

instead of leaving, satoru settles down beside you, careful not to disturb your rest. the city can wait, just for a little while. for now, he wraps an arm around you, grounding himself in the warmth of your presence. as your breathing evens out against him, he lets his own eyes drift shut, the weight of his responsibilities momentarily lifting. today, he chooses to stay.

kinktober masterlist | general masterlist

a/n ok if you're ever curious what being fucked in the ass with a wooden dildo no lube is like, just try to write this fic or any longfic. it's 4am, this a/n is short and unintelligble just like most of this fic but it's been a journey, im very sentimental because of this fic and i hope you guys like it. ok im going to pass out so pls ignore all typos xoxo but please flood my inbox im excited to see yalls reactions when i wake up

plspls pls comment and reblog!!!

TAGLIST

@sugoroo @ryutotsukai0824 @sharkubi @lisvanrouge @mxlktae

@samisfunky @achbbys000 @xd3pr3ss3dx @jottositto @cheescakebroom

@r0ckst4rjk @callmeagardengnome @rottmntrulesall @blankwashed @sindulgent666

@honeynanamin @obsessgurlll @starrnai @herefor-tojis-tits @ramonathinks

@creamflix

[satoruan]

CONJUGAL VISIT w/jujutsu Kiasen

Description: in which an inmate of a prison or jail is permitted to spend several hours or days in private with a visitors

More: Fem!Reader, explicit content, unprotected sex, some d/s dynamics with Toji, American prison system? (idk if other countries allow this lol?) 

☾ Ryomen Sukuna 

He's been in solitary for so long that you start to think you'll never see him again. He finally fixes his attitude enough to come in contact with others and eventually gets some visitation rights. Get used to having sex with him here because the guards inform you he isn't leaving for a long time.

 “s’too much Kuna!” You whine into the flat pillow but your boyfriend Sukuna could care less and keeps pounding into you from behind.

“Think I care slut? Been away from this pussy for months now, shut up and take what I give you.” He grits out, pushing deeper into your back with one hand, fisting your hair with the other. He’d be damned if you tell him what to do after all this time away. Do you know how spineless he had to act in order to get this visit, on his ‘best behavior’, desperate to finally be able to sink in some cunt after being surrounded by irrelevant men and guards with their heads up their asses?

“Feels s’good,” you moan when Sukuna hits your special spot. “I’m gonna cum!”

“That fast slut, it hasn't even been ten minutes” He chuckles, leaning down to bite your shoulder.

“Missed you, ‘Kuna, c-cant cum ‘out you.”

“Can’t do shit without me, bet you can’t even function out there without me,” He groans in your hair, you don't understand half of what he’s saying you just nod mindlessly and slam your hips back on his cock.

“Then cum on my cock, whore.”

☾ Gojo Satoru 

He's on a mission that requires him to go to jail. The prison warden is in on it, but that doesn't mean your boyfriend doesn't want to experience the "real deal." He convinces the warden to allow him weekly fuck sessions because he says he can't complete the mission without them.

“i-Im gonna cum ‘Toru!” you whine aloud, to far gone to be embarrassed that your boyfriend is fucking you on scratchy sheets in a bed that probably hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in years or the fact that multiple other girls have probably been in the same position you’re in with other inmates, on the same bed.

“So tight love, haven't you been using your dildos in my absence?’ he questions as he thrusts into your glistening cunt. Watching as you throw your head back, tears running down your cheeks.

“They’re too small ‘Toru!” You wrap your legs around his hard ass trying to get him as deep as he can.

“Aww, they can't make you cum as hard as I can, can they love?” he pouts against your swollen lips. You shake your head furiously, listening to the sounds your squelching cunt makes when he thrust back in, his balls slapping hard against your ass.

“Think i'll ask if I can get out early on good behavior. I can't leave my girl unsatisfied now.” He chuckles before diving his tongue into your mouth.  

☾ Toji Fushiguro 

Your mans got locked up again! This isn't the first time, nor will it be the last. You don’t know how he convinces the guards to allow you to visit time and time again, but you won't complain. You always miss him when he's gone every few months. The guard just sighs when he sees you’re here for visitation again

“You miss me, little girl?” he grins, sticking thick fingers in your already sopping cunt. “You know I always miss you when you’re gone, daddy.” You gasp, your back hitting the cold concrete wall behind you when Toji curls into your g-spot. 

“So so bad.” you whine, grinding your aching clit on his hard stomach, legs tightening around his slim waist when you find the perfect spot.

“You wanna cum little girl?” he asks while marking up your neck. He needs others to know you’re taken and if he can't be around you at the moment he’ll make it known another way.

“Yes Toji!” You scream.

“Yes what?” He stops his fingers.

“Yes daddy,” you whisper, moving your hips desperate to not lose the orgasm you were chasing. “Please make me come daddy, please!” 

“That's what I thought little girl” He says before continuing his movements and biting down on your heavy bottom lip.

☾ Choso Kamo

Too ashamed that he ended up in prison to allow you to visit him for a while. After much reassurance from you that you don’t look at him differently he finally comes out of his shell and makes friends. Get’s out early on good behavior.

“You think someones watching?” You mumble, looking back at the camera in the corner of the dark lit room.

“F-fuck baby, don’t fuckin’ stop,” Choso whines, gripping your waist, trying to make you bounce on his stiff cock. ‘Who cares if they are, baby? They won’t touch.”

You turn back around and grin down at your boyfriend “mmm, isn't that how you got in here in the first place Choso, beating up a man for touching me?” You start grinding on his cock again.

“Do anything for you, baby.” He moans gripping your waist when your tight walls start squeezing down on him, trying hard not to bust a nut so quickly.

“Yeah,” you moan out, feeling his cock twitch in you. “Now you’re stuck in here for months away from me.” You pout and claw at his chest when Choso starts to bounce you on his cock. God, if only he didn’t beat that man up you’d have this every night.

“Worth it.” He looks up at the camera, imagining the security guard looking down at your ass recoil when he slams you down on his cock

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 7: Firsts

Kyle bought you lunch before your set time. To make sure you ate, he said. He still asked about five times if you felt like you ate enough or needed water even after sitting across from you while you downed a to-go container of pad se ew and your fourth ounce bottle.

You just laugh and point to a piece on your knee. “Babes I got this with nothing but a trenta iced coffee and two hours of sleep in my system. I’m fine, I promise.”

John made a baffled noise at that. Kyle looked like he was going to throw up. That look remained as he went through the process of setting up in John’s studio room. Kyle is meticulous about it. Each step done with care. You feel a bit silly sitting around and twiddling your thumbs.

“Just breathe. It’s fine.” John murmurs in a low rumble that somehow has you relaxing more than the indented party.

“It’s almost more scary doing someone I know.” Kyle huffs.

You laugh. “Can’t be worse than the blown out piece of shit on my left arm. C’mon, I’ve seen what you can do. You’ve got this.”

John nods, sitting on the other side of you.

“Besides, even if it sucks I’ll still be honored to be your first real apprentice tattoo.” You pipe up.

Kyle chuckles, low and unsure. Part of you wants to give him an out, to say he doesn’t have to, but you can see the set of his jaw even as his eyes flick between his supplies and the stencil in his hand nervously. He’s determined as much as he is scared. There’s no getting him out of that headspace until he’s done.

You chose something easy. One of Kyle’s more dainty, simple flash designs for the back of your thigh, just below the curve of your ass. A little bow with minimal shading. Something he’s practiced a thousand times and an easy enough starting point. Plus, you already mentioned having him do a matching one on the other side when he’s ready for it. Easy practice.

“C’mon, at least get the stencil on before you have a panic attack.” You try to keep your voice light, turning your back to him.

Kyle sighs. You hear his stool roll forward as he scoots in close to place it. John shuffles around to stand over him. A nasty part of your brain complains about exposing your cellulite to these two fit men but you push that deep down into nothing. A second, more embarrassing part wonders if you should have chose a more appropriate spot… that maybe you shouldn’t be standing in front of your boss and coworker in teeny-tiny biker shorts that barely cover you. You shove that down right next to the other mean thoughts.

You pointedly ignore the heat that shoots up your spine as Kyle’s hands feel out the shape of your thigh to get it centered - keeping your eyes forward as he slowly presses the paper against you. You could swear a thumb traces the curve of your cheek as he smoothes it but that’s probably just wishful thinking.

“Good job, kid.” John claps a hand on Kyle’s shoulder as soon as the paper is pulled away. You turn around in the mirror to check it, expecting to probably have to move it, but from what you can tell it really is perfect.

“Damn, dude, on your first try!” You grin, clapping happily.

Kyle nods stiffly, but you see the way the corner of his mouth quirks up. You unceremoniously clamber onto the table, moving around so your back doesn’t hurt from laying flat for the next few hours with your arms folded under your head.

“Hey.” You whisper while John steps away to grab something. “Get through this without freaking out and I’ll give you a reward.”

“A reward?” He tilts his head, smile turning from an nervous curl of his lip to a boyish grin.

You jokingly bat your lashes. “I’ll give you a kiss.”

Kyle chuckles. “With tongue?”

You gawk, face hot. “Mr. Garrick! Where’d my knight in shining armor go?”

“Just tryin’ t’ figure out exactly what I’m workin’ toward.”

You hum, pretending to mull it over. “We’ll see. Depends on how well you do.”

Kyle levels a look at you, something heated as his lip catches between his teeth. It’s only there for a moment, gone as soon as he turns to his tools. Replaced by a laser focus.

“Alright.” John settles back into his seat on your other side. “Let’s do one line and then see how we all feel.”

Kyle nods. You shuffle a little to make you’re you’re as comfortable as possible for the next however long. You know it’s going to be a while even if it isn’t a simple design. He’s new and precise with means slow.

The familiar whirr of the gun starts up. You shut your eyes, waiting, hoping that you aren’t projecting any more tension into the room than Kyle is. The needle stings when it finally touches you, but not as badly as you braced for. His touch is light.

He pulls the gun away and let’s put a giant sigh. “How y’feel, luv?”

“Hm? Oh, I’m all good. You?” You tilt your chin a bit to meet his eye.

“Better now that it’s started.”

“Good.” John nods, chest bumping your leg as he leans forward to look. “Looks good. Keep on.”

The room is nearly silent as he works. You turned down the music before coming back so he wouldn’t get overwhelmed - at least that was your reasoning. You’d get overwhelmed. Kyle is more levelheaded than you are, though.

“Thassit.” John smiles - or at least that’s how it sounds in his voice. “Her skin takes ink so well, yeah?”

Fuck, that totally should not do it for you. Gravelly voiced British bastard. You keep your eyes locked onto the flash on the far wall as you attempt to cool down.

Kyle just hums, seemingly unable to talk as he concentrates. He probably is with how dialed in he looks. You take a break before he gets to shading, stretching and getting some water. It takes a while, but not as long as you assumed. You start to get that ache in your skin partway through the shading - that feeling when your nerves are so tired from firing off pain receptors they just all sort of start burning dully.

However long later Kyle pulls away. “I… think it’s done?”

“You think?” John challenges.

Kyle sighs before speaking with more finality. “It’s done.”

There’s a few beats where John assess and you hold your breath. He points to a couple spots where Kyle’s hand slipped a bit or he applied too much pressure, but when you check it out in the mirror yourself you don’t see that all. Perfectionists.

You can’t help but squeal and jump, clapping happily and barely standing still while Kyle puts the saniderm on. You’re just to happy! Not only did Kyle get his first tattoo done but now you have brand new (free) cute ink to show off. Kyle looks tired, though, so you try not over overwhelm him while he cleans up. Concentrating like that with anxiety must have really taken it out of him.

You sort of forget about your promise of a reward for the next week. Too busy focusing on taking care of your new tattoo. The only downside to the placement is sitting in your office chair itches - especially once you take the saniderm off. You’ve mostly taken to standing while working and wearing shorts and skirts to let it breathe. It’s worth it, though. You’ll have to ask Kyle how soon he wants to do the other one. Without being pushy, of course.

You quietly hum to yourself as you get the cash drawers ready to lock away in the backroom safe. Triple checking the bags and making sure tips are divided correctly, etc.

“Hey, lovie.” Kyle saddles up behind you suddenly, hands on your hips.

You jump. “Holy shit, you scared the hell out of me!”

“Sorry.” He chuckles. A hand slips down your hip, palm tracing the hem of your tennis skirt to lightly rest over the little bow. “How’s she healin’?”

“It’s, uh, it-“ You stutter, eyes wide and skin hot. If it were Johnny, you’d laugh and swat him away - maybe let his hand wander to your ass first - but Kyle doesn’t do this. Not that you don’t like it - the problem lies in that you’re liking it too much. If the patter of your heart is anything to go by. “It’s good. Not itching yet or anything.”

Kyle hums. “Good.”

“Th-that all?”

“Think you forgot somethin’.” He turns you around, hands firmly planted on the softness of your waist. When you just give him a bewildered look he continues. “I was promised a reward, I think.”

“O-oh?” Your face burns, eyes wide. Is he serious? Part of you wants to say no - to push him away. You’re coworkers, after all. Until your eyes meet his, so big and warm and his lips forming a perfect pout. “John….?”

Kyle chuckles ans crosses his chest. “John won’t care. Cross my heart.”

He gives you a moment to mull it over. You don’t think he’s making fun of or bating you - Kyle wouldn’t do that. There’s no way he’s interested either. That’s one delusion you can firmly plant in the ’purely imaginary’ category.

Whatever. What do you have to lose from a little back room make out?

Your lips meets his. Fuck, they’re soft. He steals your breath - greedy and gentile. It’s been so long since you’ve been kissed, much less kissed well. One of the hands on your waist moves to your low back as Kyle leans into you. Your hands grapple onto his shoulders to steady you. He takes advantage of your gasp at being tilted back to swipe is tongue between your lips.

You mould together, breaths heavy and tongues dancing. A needy, pathetic little part of you wishes the hand that drifted from your waist to your hip would hook under your thigh. That Kyle would tilt you all the way back onto the desk and throw your leg over his shoulder, eagerly pushing up your skirt-

An ‘I love you’ dances on the tip of your tongue and you reel back harshly, hand flat on his chest to separate you.

“Alright?” He murmurs, eyes half lidded and dark.

You swallow roughly and nod, breathing hard. “I, uh, I need to finish the safe.”

Something passes across his face briefly as your eyes flick between his. Whatever it was, it’s replaced by his usual easy smile as he returns to standing at his full height, the hands on your waist steady you before disappearing. Your stomach drops as they go.

“See you tomorrow.” Kyle murmurs, pressing one last little peck on your cheek before striding away, leaving you alone in the back room with a hot face and whirlwind thoughts.

Fuck.

A/N: brought to you by the time a tattoo artist told me my skin takes ink well in the most haunting bedroom voice I’ve ever heard😵‍💫 killed me right then and there

[dollfacefantasy]

billy butcher x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, fingering i am so down bad i had to get this out of my system

Everywhere he went, you followed Billy around like a puppy. Always watching him with adoring eyes, lingering by his side to see what he was up to. At first he pinned it on you looking for reassurance as the newbie in the group, but after a few weeks, it was obvious that your attachment ran deeper. You obviously had quite the crush. 

You spoke to him with more nerves in your voice. Followed his orders down to the letter and damn near saluted him when you received them. He could scowl at you or scold you, and you might scurry away with your tail between your legs for the hour. But give it some time, and you'd be back.

He didn’t know what to make of it. Sure it was... flattering, and technically, you were still doing your job well, performing on missions as you should. But at the same time, it was distracting having a sweet young thing like you prancing around him at all times, seeking his approval with each breath you took. He was supposed to be focusing on revenge, justice, saving the world and all that. But fuck, one look at you and that's all a distant memory.

At the end of the day, he's just a man. He needs to have a taste. One night when the two of you are out scouting, he gets you alone in the van. It only takes a tender look and a few words in a lilted tone of his voice to have you cumming on his fingers and your panties in the pocket of his coat. A few days later, you blow him in a public bathroom while you wait for a target to show up. After that, he eats you out at your desk in the office.

Tonight he gets you back to his place. He's sat on the sagging couch, thighs spread wide enough to accommodate you between them. He holds you there. You're bent in half with your legs up in the air. One of his arms is hooked around them for support while his other is curved around your bottom to get at your dripping pussy.

His thick fingers pump in and out. He works at a moderate pace for now, not enough to break you just yet, but the perfect rhythm to make you squirm your ass against his solid bulge. You have your bottom lip between your teeth, looking up at him with droopy, glazed eyes. All he can do is smirk in return.

"Feel good? You like gettin' that little cunt stuffed full?" he teases.

His voice comes out hushed despite the fact that it's just the two of you. The words rumble up from his chest against your back. You just nod in response. Any words that would have been suitable have turned to mush in the pit of your belly.

The wordless gesture doesn't stop him at all. It only spurs him forward. His entire hand is coated in slick by now, your arousal seeps out with each pump and slips over the expanse of his palm. Wet, erotic noises emanate from your center while soft whimpers pour from your lips. He squeezes your legs up tighter, smooshing your breasts down.

"I know you do, pup. Such a needy thing," he says, "Following me around like I got you collared and leashed."

You moan at the image of that filling your mind. If he wanted you to, you would. You'd kneel at his feet, bound and pretty, displaying your devotion to him around your neck. You'd rest your empty little head on his knee and zone out while he pet you and called you his good girl.

"Oh, she likes that," he chuckles as your walls clamp around him.

You nod eagerly before arching your back and yelping as his thumb starts swiping across your puffy clit.

"Atta girl. Panting like a bitch in heat for me," he murmurs and nuzzles your temple.

You whine like one too, trembling in his arms as the coils of pleasure tighten in your tummy. Your eyes flutter, lashes dusting your cheeks as you look up at him. He watches on with his own lust blazing in his eyes.

He fucks his fingers into your tight heat faster, curling them a bit to stroke that sweet spot inside you. Some drool slips from between your lips at the onslaught of stimulation. His fingers were just so fucking thick. Only two of 'em were in right now. He hadn't let you take his cock yet, but you could only imagine how snug of a fit it would be if this was any indicator.

"There you go, love. You're getting there," he praises as he continues sliding his fingers in and out while massaging your bundle of nerves.

"F-fuck," you whimper, "Gonna cum soon."

"I can tell," he rasps, "Go head and do it. Wanna see you come apart for me."

Soft noises of ecstasy bubble from your lips. You were nothing if not dedicated to pleasing this man, so you give him what he wants. It only takes a few more flicks and thrusts of his digits to get you to crash into bliss. 

Your head tilts back as you cum. Your legs kick lightly in the air, but he keeps you in place. You squirm against his broad, warm chest. Your cunt locks tightens around his fingers, wishing so fucking badly that it was his cock.

He kisses you as you start to come down. His lips land on yours and capture every delicious sound you make. Your breathing calms and returns to a normal pace along with your heart rate slowing down. Your legs bend over his forearm before he lets them down gently and allows you to just sink back into his body.

You're soaked between your legs, inner thighs slippery with release. As he withdraws his fingers, your pussy is already aching for another part of him to fill it up again. You turn and slide your grabby hands beneath his shirt, but he simply boosts you up to sit fully on his lap.

"You're insatiable, sweetheart," he teases before pecking your lips.

"Cause you keep teasing me," you mumble.

"Yeah? Think so? I think I'm just taking my time with you."

"Takin' too long," you huff in response between kisses.

"Maybe you're just greedy and spoiled," he says.

You're about to reply with another bratty comment, but he flips you over and spreads you out on the couch. You hear the zipper on his pants slide down, and you're almost certain it's the most thrilling noise you've heard in your life. One look up at his eyes tells you you're not gonna be complaining in a couple more minutes.

[cheyisagirlkisser]

can you write a pit fighter vi smut fic where the reader works at a restaurant in zaun and vi comes in drunk and starts flirting with her pretty please 😼

Thank you sm for the request:3 hope you enjoy!

Content: 1.5k words, dub-con (Vi is drunk), casual sex, use of strap-ons (r! recieving), oral sex (r! receiving), slight overstimulation, this is rlly filthy blame anonymous for giving me the ammo to write this

Your hands are busy with several plates and your feet are sore in your shoes. Customers in Zaun have no decorum, either!

Being a waitress is not fun, especially not in a dingy restaurant like "The Sludge Pit." It's where most people are coming back from watching fights next door and want a cheap meal. To say that you hate you job is an understatement. But...money is tight, so choices are limited. It could be worse. You could be a prostitute at Babette's.

You've heard rumors that the fight tonight is going to be huge. There's a recently been a new fighter people have been placing bets on - a girl named Vi. You've heard the name before, of course. Jinx's sister, someone who was involved with a Piltie girl. You hated to get involved with all of the drama in Piltover, though; it was all meaningless. It was all just pointless drama that ended in another person in Zaun getting the short end of the stick or dead without a proper burial. Whatever happened was so hard to care about when it felt like an everyday thing.

However, something about the girl you've been hearing rumors about intrigued you. It is apparently often that this Vi chick is bulldozing men in the ring, getting drunk off her ass, and fucking Babette's whores. She got her heart broken, now she's all bitter, and you can't help but wonder what this girl is even like. What could she possibly be like when she's this well-known in the under-city?

It's around midnight. The fight is over because a huge crowd is occupying The Sludge Pit. You've got your poor hands full, tasked with scribbling down rude men's orders and serving them. Some are fucking creepy, too. You wonder if the Vi girl will be coming in tonight, but your curiosity is suddenly dashed when you hear the restaurant BOOMING with cheers from the main area.

When you walk out of kitchen, the first thing you see is the back left table seated with a black-haired girl. She's got no shirt on, just bandages that hug her body and a leather jacket. Her jeans are tightly fitted, sculpted onto her meaty things. The black pigment on her face is all messy. Next to her is a burly brunette man, facial hair covering most of his face. You've seen him before - "Loris."

When you approach Vi's table, she looks up at you and lets out a slight laugh. You look devourable, your hair back in two braids, fly-aways from the day's work. Your eyes are wide, and you look pretty terrified. Poor waitress. She's already decided that you're gonna be her next slut.

"Hi! I'll be your waitress today, what can I get for you-" Your voice is so shaky, oh fuck.

Usually, Vi wouldn't be so forward, but she just got back from the bar. There's too much liquid courage in her system, so now she's gonna get what she wants.

"Don't worry 'bout me, baby. Get my friend Loris here a burger."

You almost choke on your own spit.

Her voice isn't at all what you expected, not raspy or deep, but actually soft and persuasive. She's slurring her words slightly, but you're too focused on her eyes, the soft blue sparkle in them and the half-lidded, carefree look that is complimentary.

"Uhhh, okay! One burger coming right up!"

You soon come back with a shaky hand, plate in your palm. You set the burger down and look up down, adjusting your waitress skirt.

"One burger!"

Vi gives you a wide, lazy smile. Loris is just laughing, he's probably as drunk as her.

"Thanks, baby. How much will that be?"

"Ohhh....well, it's on the house. Since you won tonight, and all.." All rationale seems to leave you when Vi's calling you baby. Your boss is gonna chew you out for this, but the drunken giggle that leaves her mouth is so worth it.

"On the house? No, baby..c'mon, lemme pay."

You laugh and blow a stray strand of hair out out of your face. Her voice makes you imagine her throwing you around on your bed. "No, really, it's fine.."

"Hm..well, if you're not gonna let me use my money, why don't I pay you back in some other way?"

You stare at her for a second.

"What...?"

She chuckles at the cute but shocked look on your face. "Seriously. I wanna pay you back for the burger, since you're such a cute little waitress.."

She's got you in her twin-sized bed as she pounds into you at a pace you're surprised doesn't break the bed. You look utterly cock-drunk underneath her as her hips slam into yours: eyes practically rolled back into your noggin, whining on each and every thrust she gives your sopping pussy. Fuck, she's already obsessed with you.

Her hands are holding the back of your knees to keep you in position, and she pulls the cock halfway out of your pussy and slams back in, earning herself a wounded squeal from you.

"That's it, baby. Take all of my cock like a good girl," she coos, her eyes moving down to watch the hot-pink silicone disappear in your pretty pussy, and she's almost drooling at the sight.

"P-Please!! Please fuck me, oh my god!" You're screaming for her (soon you'll be creaming), and all Vi can think is how she wants to lick the cum out of your pussy when she's done plowing into you.

She laughs and spreads you legs back so she can hitch them around her own waist, still throwing sloppy thrusts into you. Your legs automatically wrap around her sides and she collapses onto your body, mouth wet and lazy on your throat. She's hardly thrusting now, just grinding up into your cunt like a dog in heat.

"Ohhh, fuckkk...this is the best pussy I've had in so fucking long, did you know that?" She's whimpering like she's not the one slinging strap..

You can't even answer with a proper response, only offering up a broken moan because in this position, the cockhead of the toy is bullying your sweet, spongey spot and making you see stars. By grinding into you, the base of the harness is catching on Vi's clit perfectly, making her her pace grow less and less composed She's fucking you like a touch deprived cave-man, for fuck's sake.

You hear feel her body tense up, and now she's pounding into you, each time your skin connects her body is pressing further into your, grinding her pussy against the harness, making you whine her name.

"You want me to cum inside you, huh? I bet you'd just love that. Wish I actually could cum inside this sweet little pussy." Her words grow more and more deranged the longer she's fucking you, and they send you right over the edge with a gasp and a cry out. For mercy, or for bliss, she isn't able to tell.

You poor legs are shaking around her waist and your voice is chanting her name like a prayer along with cute little cries of "I'm cumming for you, Violet!!" You indeed did cum, your face all flushed and your hips bucking up into hers, making her own cunt clench with need as she hits her own peak. She kisses you to swallow your sweet whines, tongue sliding against yours so you can taste the Vodka on it. She's just rutting into your pussy, and she swears she can feel your walls milking her cock like it's real. The alcohol in her system really does make her delusional.

When she's done, she pulls out of you and throws the strap-on somewhere in the floor, immediately moving down your body to suck the cum out of your tender hole.

You whine and protest, "V-Vi!! Too sensitive!"

She moves her lips to give your clit a firm suck and holds you legs open, "shh, just need to clean you up first.."

Her tongue moves to fuck your pussy as deeply as it can, filling you with the hot, wet muscle, and grazing your overstimulated g-spot until you're begging for mercy and she relented to go swirl around your previously neglected clit.

Her hands are groping your tits, your own tugging at her shitty dye-job as you buck your hips up in the air for more. She doesn't stop, giving you exactly what you want, sucking at your engorged clit and flicking it shamelessly with her tongue.

"Fuckk, V-Vi!! I'm gonna cum again!!"

Your juices paint her face so perfectly, mixing in with her black make-up and making an even bigger mess of your sopping cunt. She pulls back to see your face all red, soft little pants leaving your lips, and your chest heaving like you just ran a marathon. You look perfectly ruined, your hole still wrecked from the cock she fucked you with and your braids messed up into oblivion, but you look satisfied. She really paid you back for that burger, didn't she?

Safe to say, The Sludge Pit is her favorite place to find a meal at.

[multiwreckedmess]

Kinktober Day 17

Prompt: Threesome/Moresome Pairing: OT8 SKZ x fem!reader WC: 4.4k Summary: Maybe after this the term “comeback” takes on a new meaning.

This is a work of fiction, it does not represent any Stray Kids member. On top of this it is an 18+ work. For my comfort and boundaries please if you are under age do not interact with this.

I feel the need especially with “rougher” prompts like this to put the disclaimer - fanfic should NOT ever be used as a guide to relationships or sex. ESPECIALLY SEX. Again, it’s fiction. Stuff gets glossed over for the sake of a good story. Please PLEASE please again, not fact, not a guide, just a fantasy.

Additional TW/CW below the cut.

TW/CW: Gangbang, lots of cum, light bondage, reader goes nonverbal, all consenting, traffic light system and boundaries discussed, anal, piv, oral (male receiving), titfucking, multiple partners, dirty talk, multiple pet names, cumming prematurely(?), some aftercare/during care. 

 Eight pairs of hands. Eight types of touch to match their eight personalities. Sudden squeezes, languid strokes, hesitant brushes, deep pushes, light tugs, gentle pats, intermittent shy caresses, persistent strong grasps. It was Chan’s idea that you’d heartily agreed to.  “The boys have been seeming sort of down lately,” you’d mentioned over the thundering rush of dishwater. “Should I make a cake or something?”  Nose pressed to the side of your head Chan inhales deeply, squeezing the fronts your thighs. The scent of your scalp and the squish of your quads soothing his anxious mind. “We’ve been working hard. I think it’ll turn out well.”  “So…cake? Can you all eat it? I could make a carrot cake or modify-”  Chan grabs a handful of ass, not one to miss the opportunity for a bad pun. “Wouldn’t mind sharing some of this cake. I’m sure we could all enjoy it.”  “You think?”  “Baby, the reason the boys are always excited to see you…”  “It’s not the novelty of Betty Crocker Funfetti?” Chan giggles, grabbing a handful of bum as he grinds against you, an obvious lump forming in his sweatpants. “We could make you into Funfetti.”  “How do the boys feel about pie,” you ask coyly, pushing your hips back to greet him.

 That was how this whole idea started. And now you were tied to a bench, trussed up like a pretty present, holes exposed and ready. Blindfolded.

 It’s easy to sink into the sensation of each of their hands, unique in their own right. You can only really for sure name Chan’s, calloused and firm.  “...and we can do anything?” Jeongin’s voice twangs, tense at the thought. “She really will let us do anything?”  You’re only half listening, indulging in the peace of mind numbing stimulation. Moaning and nodding as your chin wrests on the bench you’re strapped over.  “She knows how to say no. Color system, if she’s unable to speak, two pinches is slow, three is stop everything.”  A chorus of tenor and baritone voices murmur in agreement. Your stomach tingles, chills passing the inches of exposed skin. You’re so ready. You’re beyond ready.

 There’s almost a ghost of a touch, floating down your side as the room shifts.  “We’re going to pass you around like the cheap whore you were born to be.” A deep bassy voice purrs in your ear, Felix. Your back arches exposing more of your holes like a cat in heat. “You like that? You like the sound of my voice, pretty? Does that turn you on? We’re all watching you.”  “Mhm,” you bite your lips and you wiggle against your confinements.  “Want me to tell you everything we’re gonna do to you? Dirty slut. First we’re all gonna give this cute little cunt a try,” you feel him slide his fingers along your slit, staying shallow enough to tease your entrance before catching the rim of your jeweled plug weighing heavily in your hole. “Chris did say we can use you however we want.” Felix muses as he pushes the end closer to your rim, jostling it just enough to earn a whine.  “Hurry the fuck up,” another voice chimes in, two fingers roughly ramming into your wet hole. Seungmin. Impatiently pressing his tip against the cleft of your ass as he fingers you open. “She’s ready, I’m ready. Keep doing your perv asmr thing but I’m fucking her.”

 With that Seungmin pushes into you, sighing with relief. Your spine curls as much as you can, spread over the bench as you are, fingers scrambling in the air.  “Oh fuck!” Seungmins hands wander over the small of your back, pushing weight down on you as his hips rock back and forth. “You have to try this pussy, god damn. Now i see why the old man is so fucking whipped.” He groans again as he pulls all the way out until only the very tip of his shaft is still sheathed. Glistening with your arousal he uses his thumbs to spread your slit wide, watching your walls stretch to accommodate him.  “Minnie’s right, you’re taking him so well. In fact, you’re going to take all eight of us aren’t you?” Felix purrs. “Now, be a doll and open your mouth for me.”  You drop your jaw, tongue lolling out, blindly accepting whatever Felix was going to give you.  Before Seungmin can build any speed and before Felix has his way with your mouth you hear a commotion at your rear. Then Seunmgin being pulled from you, leaving you jaw agape and whining from the loss of fullness.

 “Asshole, before you fuck her up we all gotta try.” Sharp words with crisp plosives cut through the confusion. Suddenly a thicker intrusion bullies its way between your walls. “Tremendous ass princess,” a hearty smack of a rough hand comes down on your ass cheek. You’re barely breathing with the thick length shoved snugly inside of you, the force of the spank has every muscle flexing to hold you together.  You moan.  Two hands grab each lobe, molding them like putty in his strong grip. Changbin. “Can’t wait to run you through.”  You’d always wondered about the rapper, most closely your type following your own boyfriend. How did his dual persona fit into his bedroom manner, how alike would he be to Chan, was it true what they said about rappers and their tongues? As suddenly as he’d entered you feel the protested drag of your walls, eager to keep him as he exits.  A thinly voiced dragged out “no” escapes your lips.  “Bok-ah, you want next?” Changbin offers, patting your ass.  You’d almost forgot Felix was there.  “I’m okay with just these pretty lips up here,” he says as he thumbs over your lower lip. Dropping your jaw again you remember he’d wanted this to begin with, before the other boys had started tag teaming your cunt.  “I’m okay too,” IN chimes in, “I can wait my turn.” He lowers his voice almost imperceptibly, just enough to sound like a cool mature guy. You could just imagine him standing a bit farther back, eyes transfixed on your glistening lips as they stretched for each of his members.  “Yeah you’re the only impatient one, meathead.” Minho. Of course Minho. His hips roll easily against you, just a taste of what’s to come. His hand runs over your ass, over the other entrance. “Got any toys for her?” He addresses the room, talking as though you couldn’t reply.

 Felix, you assume, finally taps the tip of his length against your tongue. Much to your delight he’s slightly sweeter than you’d assume as you lick against him. Chan’s reply to Minho is inaudible as Felix purrs. “You like that? Been drinking nothing but pineapple juice for you. Chris told me you’d like that.”

 Taking him fully in your mouth you bob enthusiastically focusing fully on him as two more strange new cocks slide into you all too briefly before Seungmin settles back over you, fucking you with a steady and uncomplicated rhythm. Felix is veiny, fun to explore as you run the length of him. He easily guides you the full way down, your nose pressing into his pubic bone as spit runs down your face. “Hey Chris, can we take off the blindfold?”  “Sure man, whatever you want.”  The blindfold flips up to your forehead. Luckily the lights are low enough so your eyes don’t have to adjust much. “Focus on my face sweetheart. Just want to see your pretty teary fucked out face while we ruin you.” Felix smiles as he feeds you his cock all the way to the base once more, watching you splutter and fight back your gag reflex. The tight ring of your throat squeezing him as he grinds into the wet warmth. You battle valiantly to keep your eyes looking up at him as they threaten to flutter shut, tears streaking your cheeks.  Not a second too soon he eases up, beaming down at you, thumbs wiping at your stained face. “Such a good girl for us. Chris is gonna be so proud of you.”  You smile for a second, spit burbling from your lips, before you feel Seungmins hands at your mid back, pushing you into a deeper arch. From one strong stroke you can tell he’s found it, face opening into a groan. “Do that shit again ‘Lix. I wanna see her struggle.”  “You heard the man, you ready?” He watches as you gulp and take a deep breath which is almost immediately punched out of you by Seungmin slamming his hips against you. Your fingers grip the legs of the bench as you are pressed between their bodies as deep as they can go on either end. Groaning around Felix and clasping down on Seungmin the noise in your brain crescendos and violently mutes into a peaceful fuzzy static.  Seungmin laughs as you twitch and spasm.  “Holy fuck, I can’t-” Felix struggles to keep his hips steady, eyes rolling back in ecstasy.  “I’m gonna too-” You can hear the gritting of Seungmins teeth as he speaks.  “Be good and take it all okay, take all I’ve got-” Felix mutters, spilling down the back of your throat. You gag, tears and spit and snot running everywhere as he pulls back from you, still weakly spurting on his thighs.  Barely able to breathe as Seungmin chases his high you mumble his nickname over and over. “Minnie, oh-fucking- ah-” Felix’s hand keeps your head from scraping against the bench as you become boneless, eyelids fluttering shut. Seungmin pulls from you just as you reach your high, whining and writhing in the agony of denial. Hot cum splashes across your ass slowly dripping down your thighs.

 “How’s our girl doing,” a soft melodic voice asks. “What your color darling?”  “Green,” you pant, vision still swimming. “Green green green green.”  He laughs. Hyunjin’s giggle. Good.  Slim and strong, there is always something languid about his movements. His finger tip traces your spine gently. “A beautiful sculpture should be appreciated,” he says slowly. It sends shivers running after his hands. Descending to the curve of your ass he spreads you wider, licking into your puffy oversensitive parts. Tongue lapping at you as you squeal the wet lewd sounds fill the air.  “Fuck, Hyunnie!” You practically rock the bench as you writhe. His tongue ventures to your other hole, teasing the tight bundle until you cry out. All of your fingers and toes curl and twitch as your walls clench around nothing. “Fuck me please,” you beg, voice wrecked with sobs. You’re surprised at your quick rebound but the promise of the lithe dancer is almost too much to bear.  Hyunjin’s lips graze your shoulder blade as he bottoms out in you with a shudder of effort, nearly knocking the bench forward in his attempt to get as much of himself inside of you as possible. Churning in your stomach you feel full again, fuller even. You nearly cum again, world whiting out in front of your eyes.  “That’s right pretty, all for you.” You wish you could see, could watch the man fuck into you more than anything in the world. He feels larger than you’d have ever expected from his slight frame.  Draped over you, the squelching of your two sweaty bodies pervades your mind as he humps quickly and shallowly. Chasing his high more than anything, each thrust punches you in the gut. The sounds that come from your mouth are unladylike wheezes that catch in your throat and turn into grunts. Two long fingers fill your mouth, sticky and salty from the mix of bodily fluids. Hyunjin cums mercifully quickly, spilling inside of you.  “I wanna see the other guys fuck it deeper,” he whispers, sweat dripping from his nose to your cheek. The thought gives you goosebumps.  Strong arms wrap around your back, caging over you as he undoes your buckled down arms to lift you from your post. Your toes barely sweep the floor before he has you on the nearby mattress. Changbin, stronger than your Channie, surprises you with his gentleness. For all the hurrying and jeering he’d done to the other guys, he’s suddenly soft with you.  “Hey,” he smiles all too familiarly, in a way that makes your gut stir. “Tired yet, princess? Told ya we’d run you through.”  You make grabby hands up at him, whining as you try to pull him closer.  “She usually non-verbal?” Changbin actually sounds a little concerned as he turns his head to ask your boyfriend. “Or should we- are you still good? Still green princess?”  You nod.  “If she says go, go.”  Changbin doesn’t waste another second, pushing into you aided by Hyunjin’s cum. The stretch despite the other members best efforts still forces a guttural groan from your lungs. He’s not as long as the others but the change of angle and thickness makes up for it in the best way. You can feel him bullying the plug on the other side of your walls in a way no one else has managed to do. He nuzzles into your neck as he starts fucking into you, only grunts coming from his normally busy mouth. Zoned into the singular thought of filling you.  With your hands finally free you’re able to explore his back as you scramble to hold yourself together. Your fingernails leave little crescents in the otherwise steel frame. Sturdy and unshakable as you tremor below him.  “Bin- I’m- ah-” you start to warn him of your swiftly approaching climax but he’s two steps ahead as your cunt clenches down. Arms wrapping beneath your thighs he pushes your hips just a little bit higher up. You see stars. It’s like he’s fully in your guts as he maintains his pace, fucking right into that spongy spot of yours. Mouth agape you can feel yourself wanting to make noise but your head is so full you can’t tell if its actually happening or not. All of your muscles contract at once as you climax.  “Holy shit did she-” the next thing you hear is a murmur from Jeongin. Release drips down Changbin’s pelvis as you both pant.  “Oh yeah, that’s our princess,” Changbin smiles like a champion as he slides from you, spent. Both of you are soaked in your cum, his cum, and Hyunjins cum. Grabbing the box of baby wipes he starts to clean himself off before he sees Chan start to clean your thighs. You barely notice he’s waddled off and back until you are being propped up between his thighs, a straw passing between your lips. “Drink for a good job.”

 The click of a cap is like fingers snapping, awakening you from your fucked foggy state. You look up and back to see Minho’s upsidedown bemused smirk as he watches the meatheads treat you like the sentient communal fuck doll that needs a tune up. Slowly he strokes himself, appraising you.

 “Jiji, care to join? I think this one has room for two.”  “Huh? Y-yeah,” you hear the taut voice of Han on the opposite side of the room.  “Hey, big boy, move.” Minho is less gentle with him, sliding behind you to take his place behind you, holding you between his thighs as Changbin had. His hands spread you wide open to the room, fingers grazing over the plug still nestled between your cheeks. The nearly icy drip of lube tickles your other hole, sliding around the stem of the plug. A deep breath in helps relax and allow the applier to slowly fuck the metal in and out..  Minho chuckles and smacks your thigh, your hole clenching down suddenly. “Are you tired? Huh? Too many cocks? Be thankful there’s only eight of us.” Thumb positioned on the end of the jeweled plug he slowly teases, swirling in languid circles as you writhe. Each nudge has your stomach tensing, desire growing within you.  Han Jisung is standing in front of you as you look dazed up at him. Blood rushes to his cock so fast he swears he might pass out from the loss to his brain. He watches as Minho finally fully tugs the plug from your fluttering hole and lifts you, slowly spearing you on his cock. Your chest heaves as you slide, mouth open and panting. Minho’s fingers fill your cunt, the sloppy sound of several fluids mixing reverberates in his skull.  “You going to stand there or fuck her?” Minho casually nods down to his fingers. “There’s room. Right, doll?”  You nod mutely, wriggling your ass on him.  Han dives head first into your cunt, eagerly pushing his tongue deep inside of you, lapping at Minho’s soaked fingers. Your legs threaten to snap shut on his head as your oversensitive pussy sends waves of bliss through your body. Minho keeps you locked open as he rocks himself slowly against your ass just barely moving his cock inside of you. It isn’t like he has to do much with Han’s tongue flicking so desperately at your slit.  Groaning, you’re unsure of whose name to call out. Minho or Han?  “Going to cum again? Thought you might be too worn out.”  “H-ha,” you half laugh and moan. You want to boast and brag but the hubris is fucked far from you. Back arching, your hole clenches down on him. You’re so very very close. His hands migrate to your tits, grabbing them, letting the space between his fingers lightly pinch your soft skin. They’d been so neglected and needy that the sudden attention pushes you over the edge, cumming hard on Han’s tongue. He continues to lap at you through it, not stopping until Minho tugs at his hair.  “Jiji, where do you wanna cum, I’m close.” Minho grunts. Sweat travels down his brow.  Han makes a quick appraisal of you, “wannafuckhertits.”  You’re tossed like a ragdoll to the mattress again, Minho easily positioning you on your back with your legs slung around his hips. Han straddles your chest, thighs are warm on your ribcage. His cock is practically drooling precum as he slides it between your mounds, quickly slicking up with your sweat. Squishing the sides together his eyes lock where the head of his cock pops out and disappears. Your tits are so hot around him as his precum slicks the valley between.  “Open,” he commands breathily, waiting for your lips to part. The second they do he drags the pad of his thumb over the wet inner side, pulling them open more. Your tongue naturally hangs out loosely, eyes glazed over. You’ve long given up any pretense of modesty. Of pretending this wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for. His hand goes to the back of your skull to support your head as you crane forward to attempt to kiss his member. Grunting and straining you’re both working so hard for it as Minho pounds away and jostles you just enough to increase the difficulty.  You feel Minho climax, warmth spreading inside of you. He barely misses a beat as his leg clenches, sinking deeply into you, holding your legs aloft. Your eyelids flutter and toes curl. It feels good to be this full. Feels good to be this filthy. You stretch your tongue just the bit longer and feel contact, hot and salty. Ropes of hot cum jet across your chest and chin and lips as Han’s breath hitches. He freezes and gasps, staring as his cock continues to dribble onto your clavicle.  “Shit I-”  “Ssfine -s’good.”  He stares at his handy work.  “Clean it.” Minho says from behind his back. “Clean your mess.”  Han moves quickly without questioning him, licking across all the streams that he’d shot only looking up, ostensibly to Chan to check if he could clean your lips. The only one to dare to do so, tentatively licking your bottom lip before fully taking it between his lips. Not fully locking into a kiss, not quite.  Your stomach churns as you return to emptiness, only your boyfriend and the youngest left. The others preoccupying themselves with clean up and their own after care.  “How do you want ‘er?” Chan lifts your torso up off the bed and into his arms again, plying you with water. A quick kiss to the cheek asuages any fear that he wasn’t also enjoying himself. “C’mon maknae. Top? Side? Back? She’s got just enough left in her. Don’t you, my sweet thing?”  You nod, “how do you want me?”  It’s only a moment of consideration longer as his eyes linger on your pussy, red and raw. Jeongin’s sweet smile looks all the more sinful as he nears. He slides you into his arms with a surprising ease. A look of shock flashes across your face as he lifts you on to his cock, still standing. Chan had fucked you standing occasionally, but you hadn’t expected this of Innie. Your sweet Innie. Squealing as you let gravity bounce you off his hips, driving him deeper and deeper, clit aching as the blunt pressure hits each time. You’re practically grappled to him, arms locked over his shoulders and ankles crossed behind his back.  Curses spill from your mouth like a prayer. Everything burns bright as you hurtle towards your climax. The thrumbing of your pulse rings in your head and your breath catches. But Jeongin falters slightly, his own breath catching suddenly as well, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. His cock slips between your bodies as he fumbles a few thrusts. A sudden spurt of warmth hits your thigh and stomach. Jeongin is swearing.  “You didn’t- I’m sorry I-”  You blink at him bemused.  He sighs into your shoulder, “I came already.”  “Oh? Oh don’t worry about it I-”  “I wanted to make you cum.”

 The puff of air from your short giggle tickles his throat. Your lips are warm where they kiss his cheek. “You’re so cute.”  As your arms start to burn you’re ripped from Jeongin’s arms and tossed unceremoniously to the bed again. A strong grip wraps around your ankle and tugs your ass to the edge of the mattress. This was how you’d assumed Changbin would be. Instead you see Chan’s wide grin looking over you.  “You look so fucking hot babe.” He praises you as he pushes his cock into your ass, watching your eyes roll back into your skull. “Love it when you’re fucked out like this. When all you can do is take cock.”  You shudder. Tired and overwhelmed and needy under him. Sticky. He feels…good. Its the only word your tired mind can center on. You feel good.  “Innie- you wanna make her cum right?” Chan asks over his shoulder. “Grab that er…big white thing with the blue buttons and c’mere.” Momentarily he leans forward to kiss you, letting his hips gently rock into you. You whimper. He nuzzles you. “Doing alright, sweet thing?”  You nod into his shoulder. “Tired.”  “Don’t worry, princess, I’ll do everything,” Chan pushes the sticky strands of hair back from your face and turns to his group mate. Jeongin barely weighs the bed down as he crawls to your side. “She’ll cum quick so make sure that fucker is set low okay? She’s had a long night already.” Jeongin nods. The toy whirrs to life and he starts to lower it. “Check it on yourself first, bro.” Chan knocks the toy back. “Inside of your wrist.”  You hear a few clicks. Chan locks eyes with you, he looks like a god between your legs. He carefully stretches one to kiss your calf. His cock stirs your insides, thick bastard. You moan and close your eyes. You trust him.  Jeongin carefully places the toy over your mound, your back arching away from the bed. Chan instructed him well.  “Talk her through it.”  “Huh?”  “She likes it when you talk to her, she won’t talk back but she’ll sound really pretty.”  You gasp and whine. He’s right.  Jeongin’s voice is smooth above the buzz of the toy, talking just under his breath enough for only the three of you to hear. “Our prettiest girl did so well for us. Making all your boyfriend’s friends cum. You really are made for taking cock, no wonder Channie hyung keeps you all locked up. Just imagine the trouble we’d get in if he let you into the practice room.”  Another gasp. You can see it, you’re there with him and with Chan at the same time.  “Couch broken. Mirror streaked with sweat and cum. We’d ruin it. But you’d like that. Show everyone who’s girl you are. Right? You’re our princess.”  Your legs are shaking as you nod. Chest tightening again your gut coils in anticipation.  “Can our princess cum again? Please?”  Your legs tremble in answer, hand reaching out to wrap around Jeongin’s bicep. He can see the tension in your neck as your muscles clench all the way to the top of your skull. You’re so so so painfully nearly there.  “Tight lil’ hole ‘s likea vice-” Chan manages to slur. “Ah, fuck, baby-” his voice crackles as he sucks in air through his clenched teeth,”-cum with me darling. Be a good girl.”  Everything happens in a flash, your breath hitching, head thrown back. A magnificent groan spills from your gaping mouth, almost loud enough to rattle the vibrator back. Chan slows as your hips stutter and kick, his warmth spreading inside you as your walls milk him. Jeongin stares wide eyed, vibrator dropping off to your side, as he watches you flood his friend’s pelvis and thighs. His own stomach caves as weak spurts of ejaculate dribble down to the bed.  Chan pulls from you and bundles you into a little ball on your side. Kissing your arms and legs as he instructs the rest of the boys in their clean up duties. You’d done enough, you didn’t need to worry about this, you never needed to worry about this part of the night. Chan made sure of that. Your tired limbs are lifted to a warm tub, eyes too weary to open. Many trusted hands hold you as they carefully wash the filth from you. Their touches are less distinct now as you lean into them. All warm, all sure, all caring. One or many, you couldn’t tell. Your boys, all of them.

ngl i blacked out and wrote this. i have not re-read. i’m sorry if its not coherent.

[on-the-clear-blue]

Dead Man's Diner pt5

Danny groggily propped himself up as he heard the loud bang of his door being thrown open

"DANIEL VLADIMIR FENTON!"

Blinking a few times to get the sleep out of his eyes, Danny glared at Tucker, "Middle name? Really?" He hated it, so very much, hated that he thought it was cool when he was a kid, and hated it so much more after the portal incident, it wasn't enough for his parents to have Vlad be his godfather, Danny's middle name had to be that fruitloops as well.

Damn his parents for being such caring friends.

Tucker met Danny's glare as he crossed his arms in the doorway into Danny's room

He would cut an intimidating figure if Danny didn't know him, suit and tie perfectly pressed with a PDA held in one hand.

"I know you said that you got the Bats at the diner place thingy you are working at now last night, but did you have to call them out? Red Robin and Oracle have been trying to track you for the last 5 hours, I have had to summon Technus in the WE employee bathrooms! Thank God Mr Wayne included baby changing stations in each stall or I would have had to carve a sigil into the fucking wall! And I think *he* bricked the Batcomputor!" Tucker screeched as he paced the clear area of Danny's messy room

Scrubbing at his eyes, Danny sat up fully, more awake than he was a minute ago, "S-sorry? Didn't really think about them being sore bitches about it, I tagged them like once and set it online, they probably get hundreds of tags an hour. How was is supposed to know that they would read it?"

Tucker snarled, holding out his PDA for Danny to see "Not just Nightwing and Red Robin, half the God damn Young Justice team, The Titans are all over Nightwing, and all the rest of the bats are laughing their asses off! Look!"

<@Superboy_(the_hot_one)

[@not-that-red-robin.real wow Rob, if I knew u were broke I would have have asked Lexie to give u some cash]

<@Beep-Beep!_(official-Impluse)

[ @not-that-red-robin.real that's not very lit fam Gucci of u RR not very rizztastic and definitely isn't skibidi

@living-legend(Yes_that_wondergirl)

<@not-that-red-robin.real for fucking shame Red Themyscira has laws for bitches like you comere I am gonna cut off your thumbs.

Letting out a laugh, Danny was grinning as he scrolled through to Nightwings part.

<@theonetrueblueborg

[@.realwing: it's giving "my daddys rich and will take the bill" wing]

<@veggiemonster

[@.realwing: bro

:BRO

:Broooooooooooo]

<@Goth (Taylor's version)

[@.realwing: shame.]

Danny was full on laughing now, ad from what he could see through tears, so was Tucker, standing up with a weaze, "O-oh my Ancients....ugh t-that is just great"

Letting out a few more chuckles, Danny handded the PDA over to his friend, "I am sorry about getting the Bats aware of me, but I am not sorry for calling them toxic thinks."

Tucker sighed, running his forehead but still had a smile on his face, "You do know #NightwingsAssIsCancelled is trending right now?"

Danny couldn't hold back the cackle that shot through him at that.

---

Tim held his head in his hands, above him was his laptop, cycling through rebooting and then crashing, it had been five minutes so far, and if the last cycle had told him anything it would be up to that for another five minutes.

Groaning, Tim dragged himself up, he hadn't slept much last night, spending most of it trying (and failing) to get any information on the employee of Big C's, Danny nolastname he could find.

That was part of the problem, anytime he got even a smidgen close, it was like someone bitchsmacked him away. Even Babs was having trouble, she got a single thing before getting locked out of her own systems with baby shark playing on loop through her speakers.

He didn't know what to feel, humiliated that he was being actively cock blocked for information or excited since this is the first time in a while something was so difficult! The bear fact that he was being blocked so hard meant that there was something to block with this kid!

Stumbling down to the dining room, Tim didnt spare the table of his family a glance until he had gotten the pre-made cup of coffee from Alfred, letting the bitter drink wake him fully.

Finally turning to the family at large, he saw Bruce doing his best impression of a stone statue (Normal Damian was openingly glaring at him (slightly less normal), Dick was face down in a bowl of cereal (vaugly normal) and Cass was giggling while putting clips and sparkling things into Dicks hair (okay back to normal again)

Sitting in his spot across from Damian, Tim sighed, which seemed to be enough for Damian to go off on him.

"Are we paupers Drake? Has the CEO position at WE pay so little? And what of your own company? I was unaware that Drake Industries has fallen on such hard times!" Damians words rolled out like a lazy river, smooth and uncaringly cold.

"Oh my God, I am already planning on going back tonight and settling the fucking tab Dami, lay off it." Getting the expected "language" statement from both Bruce and Alfred, Tim drained his coffee cup, not so slamming it down but close to it before Damian could respond.

Eyes shooting to Bruce he huffed, "Meeting. Vlad Masters. One ish hours away."

Bruce's eyes shot to Alfred who only raised a brow at the two and Bruce stiffened "We can speak later in my Study Tim, eat something other than coffee and we can go do that." Getting a nod from Alfred, Bruce seemed to deflate with a sigh.

Grumbling, Tim picked at the plate of food Alfred placed in front of him, before forcing himself to eat, he would need energy more than coffee.

After managing to finish half his plate, Tim stood, "Come on, I need yo clue you in to somethings I was researching last night B..."

---

Bruce stayed silent as he sat down in his office, a tablet on his lap as he went through the test results once again.

"...are you saying me and Dick had Lazarus water laden food last night?" Tim said with frigid calmness

Biting back the urge to clam up and try and keep his son from worrying, Bruce nodded, "Trace amounts yes, I am unsure of its origins, the samples I was able to pull were much more pure than we are used to. How are you feeling?"

He watched as Tim held his face in his hands, massaging his temples before speaking, "Fine really? A little tired, appetite isn't there but that's normal...been feeling a strange sensation in my side but that is just likely phantom pain."

Noting everything down, Bruce nodded slowly, "Dick mentioned that he was still full feeling after a night's sleep and that some old wounds were feeling strange, I can only assume you are feeling your splenectomy scar?"

Sighing at Tim's agreement, Bruce noted a few more things down, making holding the last line to ask Damian if he had any knowledge on eating food effected by the pits, and another one not to tell Jason about this all in case it triggers something in him

"Putting that aside, B, what about Masters? Vladco makes medical stuff right? Shady business practices?" Bruce gave a grunt, switching the tabs on his pad to show him thr information on Vladimir Masters.

"Age 48, male, standing 6'1, weighs about 180, doctorate in theoretical quantum mechanics, had a lab incident preparing for a theise that left him hospitalized for some time, after he recovered and graduated is when his suspected criminal activities began, since then he has had several business owners simply sign their lively hoods to him...I suspect he is Meta with some sort of mind control abilities, the lab accident would make sense in awakening his Mets gene."

Bruce spoke as he handed the tablet over to Tim, "He sponsors several scientists with various types of study, two that stick out are Doctors Fenton and CADMUS."

Tim pulled a face as he followed along through the tabs of research "CADMUS? Really? So we are looking at some Midwestern millionaire that is totally not a supervillian in the making...what's up with the Fentons?" Handing the tablet back Tim flopped down into the chair opposite to Bruce.

"I am trying to figure that out, so far I know they went to school with Masters, and were there with him during the lab accident, the continual funding Masters is giving them makes me suspect they are just as involved in what ever Masters is to to..." Bruce was going to continue when there was a knock on the study door, and Alfred poked his head in.

"If you wish to be on time to your meeting, I would suggest Master Timothy get dressed now so you both might be in the car while I drive it to Wanye Towers."

Bruce frowned, but nodded, giving time a small smirk as the teen begins to realize he is just in a winkled t shirt that Bruce was 95% sure was Conners, and a pair of shorts that Bruce was very sure were Barts.

[daydreams-after-dark]

All Stops to Cumville Station?

Fem!reader x skz (mainly Minho, Seungmin and Chan)

fem!reader has 8 cocks to milk / ride

A/n: Inspired by a porn video on twt where a woman was riding reverse with cum all over asscheeks, and leaking out of her. Her high waisted briefs were soaking and pulled to the side. I knew I had to write something, because I love it when reader is a cum dump.

CW: unprotected p in v sex / creampies / spanking / dirty talk / degradation and name calling “slut” etc / brief anal play / videoing sex / pain kink (chan likes reader to be sore) /

🤡🤡🤡

You were covered in the cum of five men - so far. It was running down your legs, smeared all over your ass cheeks, soaking your short stretchy booty shorts that were currently being pulled to the side while you were bouncing up and down reverse cowgirl on your sixth cock of the night.

The squelching sounds were obscene as Minho fucked the cum of previous men back up into your cunt.

You’d already fucked Felix, Ji, Binnie, Hyunjin and Jeongin. There was a system to it. The first guy would lay on the bed and you’d fuck him until he came. He’d get to choose whether he came in you or on you, then you’d pop off onto all fours, letting him admire his work.

Then he’d slide off the bed and be immediately replaced with the next in line, and you’d sink down into his cock.

Rinse and repeat.

Oh and they were videoing you with their phones to be added to your group chat later.

“Fuck. It’s oozing out everywhere. You can’t get enough of it can you, kitten.” Minho grunted as he met your thrusts. “Fucking cockslut.” He slapped your slippery ass, then squeezed it harshly. “That’s our little whore. Fuckin’ grind on it… just like that. Don’t stop. Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop.”

You worked his cock hard with your pussy as he continued to hold your shorts to the side so he could watch his cock being swallowed up by your greedy hole.

“I’m ‘bout to come so deep in your cunt, kitten. You want it? You wanna be filled to the brim with it?”

“Ngh…yes…give me your cum… fucking give it me.” You cried, and felt him empty himself deep inside you.

“Mmm… perfect little pussy you’ve got. Up.” He tapped you on the ass. “You’ve still got two more cocks to milk.”

He slid out from the bed, not even taking a moment to admire his cum seeping from your hole, and Seungmin took his place. He started by spreading your cheeks to watch the cum dribble out of you.

"You're a filthy slut." he stated as he smeared the cum around the outside of your pussy then wiped his hand on your shorts.

“Get on my cock.” He pulled on your hips, forcing you to impale yourself on his long length.

As he held your shorts to the side, his thumb pressed on your asshole, making you moan and writhe faster. You loved it when he’d push a finger into you while you fucked him.

Seungmin wasn’t the type to thrust. He liked to make you do all the work. You were exhausted, you’d already had four orgasms, and milking cocks is hard work. But you always want to give these men every ounce of enthusiasm and energy that you have, and so you did your very best to fuck Seungmin’s brains out.

He doesn’t stretch you out as much as the others, but he’s long, and it’s hard to avoid him hitting your cervix on every bounce. The pleasure-pain had you hurtling towards another orgasm.

The slippery slapping sounds of skin on skin that was covered in cum was loud and obscene. It was filthy, dirty, raw fucking, and you loved being used like a cum dump.

“You gonna cum for me, slut?” He pushed his thumb inside you, making you clamp down around him.

“F-fuck…Ngh…coming.” You rocked your hips frantically as you came hard.

“Fuck…so tight…shit…” he shoved you off his cock and pumped himself, shooting ropes of cum onto your asshole.

“Fuck, yeah. Let’s put some of that into your slutty hole.” He murmured scooping up the cum and pushing into your ass. Then he pulled your shorts back into place. They were practically see through they were so sopping wet from cum.

Your last cock of the night was Chan’s. He always went last. He’d always takes his time admiring all his boy’s handiwork.

“Let’s peel these off you. I want nothing in the way, babygirl.” He slid your ruined shorts off and threw them to the side.

“Time for a hole inspection. On all fours. Quick.” He said urgently. “Fuck.” He hummed as he spread you open. “So swollen. So much cum. Fuckin’ everywhere.”

He massaged your ass cheeks and dragged his thumbs along your slit, causing you to wince. “Sensitive? Sore?” He he inquired.

“Mmm…yes. S-sore.” You whimpered.

“Good.” He whispered. “Means you’re ready for me.” He loved it when your pussy was tender. You always came so much harder around his cock. That’s why he always went last. He also liked being the last cock on your mind when you went home too. He wanted you to feel him for days.

“That’s it. Ride my cock, babygirl.”

Chan was the biggest of the bunch, thick, long, obscenely veiny, delicious for both your mouth and cunt.

“You love being fucked by all of us, yeah? Love squeezing every last drop out of us, huh?”

“Y-yes. Fuck… feels so big… Channie… so good…shit.” You babbled incoherently as you used every last drop of energy to ride him as hard as you could.”

“Look at what my boys did to you. Made a mess all over you pretty ass.”

He spanked you hard on one of your cheeks.

“Make a deal with you, babygirl. Make me cum in less than three minutes and I’ll get Ji and Jinnie to clean this mess up with their mouths….fail… and you go home in your cum filled shorts like a little slut.”

You had never been more determined to win a bet in your life.

Permanent tag list open

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itsseohannbin @weareapackofstrays @kangnina @3rachasdomesticbanana @palindrome969 @xxkissesforchanniexx @chuuchuu1224 @fun-fanfics @wolfennracha @rhonnie23 @jisunglyricist @strayywayy

[richeeduvie]

Birdhouse in Your Soul / DRABBLE

Oswald can’t believe a girl like you would like him. Unprovoked - especially after he thought you were finding him funny when there's nothing to laugh at. He don’t deserve it, but he’s not gonna deny himself.

IM SORRY DOG N BONE AND MADMAN GIRLIES I JUST NEEDED TO GET IT OUT OF MY SYSTEM 😭😭🧍🏻‍♂️ik I'm gonna get bullied down to my ass for this

WARNINGS: Jealousy, insecurities, self-hatred. All from Oz, I love lonely men, Oz is a lgbtq ally but he thinks some stereotypical things concerning fashion. Annoyance against the reader (only for a bit)

-- OVER 1.5K --

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.

The first time he sees you is in shit lighting. The diner Oz’s chosen got swinging lamps over him, dim as fuck. But he doesn’t choose a place to eat for the ambience. So, he chews on a burger - enjoys his meal alone. He doesn’t prefer to eat alone, but he usually does, don’t mean nothing but everyone’s busy at different times.

Then, he sees you. Or…really, he catches you seeing him. Oz doesn’t blink when he does, but his brows come down when you turn your head quickly.

The fuck you staring at?

Oz swallows his bite before he takes another, his eyes still on the woman in the booth across from him. He saw you when you came in, he tried to forget you were there at all.

He ain’t no got no business staring at a beautiful woman he can’t pay for.

That’s a simple fact. He means…his eyes took to you - his heart went up in his fucking ears at a two, three second glance. He’s not gonna fucking give you that, not now - with all your staring problems. It don’t matter if your looks, not just beautiful, but is also something to grip him by the neck as he forced himself to turn away.

Then, he almost forgot you were there when he was enjoying his burger, too much tomato, though.

But now, he catches you staring at him again.

The fuck is wrong with you? There ain’t such a thing as manners for pretty girls? He’s seen it before, that there’s some people in life that can get by without learning how to survive, how latch onto any sense of the word decency because of what they were gonna grow up to be. In your case…he didn’t think extreme beauty can be such a negative on a person, but it's getting at him. He wishes it didn't, but it's really getting at him.

Oz looks away from you with another bite and swallow, he sighs out - it's heavy on the breath. Trying to breathe away the parts of himself that are close to getting pissed off.

You're a fidgety broad, something about him scare you?

He tries not to look again in the seconds of facing the front of his booth, but he fails. Maybe it's your unfortunate beauty a man's not gonna keep himself from even though he should, maybe it's him wanting to know if you're gawking at him again, despite the fact that he knows it ain't gonna feel good. Ignorance is bliss works in how he turns people in his favor in his line of work, and ignorance is bliss works in how he wouldn't feel his heart drop and arms burn like a little fucking pussy boy if he didn't look to see if you were staring at him.

But Oswald does. And you are. His eyes meet yours before you try turning like he didn't just fucking catch you again. Fine, he's not a pretty guy, catch a glance or two at him - but he's not gonna tolerate wordless bullying when he's trying to enjoy a meal alone. Not when he doesn't have to.

Not when he can't stop himself from saying anything about it, Oz hasn't ever been able to, really.

He drops his burger on his plate, it clunks as he straightens his back out.

"You-"

You turn at the word just when a glob of sauce falls from Oz's mouth to his suit.

You gotta be fucking kidding me.

"Fuck."

Oz's chin presses into his neck when he looks down to try and wipe the stain off of his suit's breast.

And everything burning at the sight of a most beautiful lady trying to go ahead and stifle a laugh when he looks back up.

Always something to ogle at, always something to laugh at - they don't know what he can do, he can't hide his anger. He shouldn't, nobody should be laughing at him anymore. Why do people laugh at him? After all this time, everything he's done.

You're not even apart of his work, you're not laughing cause you find him a weak gimp at his own job, you're just laughing at the outside - because all of his body and face is just fucking hilarious.

Why does he gotta think you're so pretty?

Oz leans forward, throwing his crumpled napkin on the table.

"What's so interesting about what you're looking at that you can't go two goddamn seconds without staring at me while you're eating your food? Huh? Look what you made me do."

He's sorry for a second, talking to a woman like this - especially when your face drops, but somebody's gotta teach you manners, before you mess with an even uglier guy with a worse disposition, yeah?

Oz watches your throat bob.

"I'-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...gawk. I know, I shouldn't stare. I just..." Your mouth parts, but no words come for three or so seconds. "I really..."

And in the silence, there it is - that face. Oswald wears that face something, or whatever's on yours. Of course, you wear it better. But it's how he looks when he's trying to figure out what to say, how to turn a situation in his favor. Head slightly tilted down, mouth slightly parted. He's sure that if his eyes weren't waiting on you, that you'd be staring at him.

Trying to lie your way out of this. Fine, he understands. Whateva.

"I really like your suit. Sorry I ruined it."

Oz's muscles around his nose scrunch with his brows. He doesn't like how the compliment hits his veins like it's drops to a drophead's eyes.

He doesn't like how he almost falters.

"...You trying to buy one for yourself?"

A lesbian, maybe. What a damn shame for the better-looking fellas of Gotham. But alright, good on the ladies. Oz takes in a breath.

"Oh, no."

"...Watching the model to see if you'll like it on your boyfriend?"

"No. No, I just - I just like it on you."

Oz doesn't blink, not when you turn away from him, not when your eyes come back to him with a smile. Something warm, gorgeous. Fucking confusing.

What in the absolute hell?

You're still in on the joke in your own head, this is material for whatever you'll laugh at, because that's too close to a woman who looks like you calling him handsome. You wouldn't ever naturally do that.

"Listen, sorry I came at you like that - but you don't have to make up a..." Oz turns his hand over and over, rolls his wrist. "A story to get away from the heat."

You shake your head and scoot closer to the outside of your booth. You're wearing a cheap outfit, but it fits you well.

Jesus, be a gentlemen, Oz - even if this broad is making fun of you. Either that or she's crazy. Or maybe she's legally blind and don't got her glasses on.

"No, I just like the way you wear it. Really. It wouldn't take much like a man like you to make a suit look good."

Oz is still. Fucking stiff. You laugh at yourself, you sound like you're embarrassed at what you're saying.

"I know it's wrong to stare, if I was a man and you were...not a man and you caught me staring at you, I'd be a creep. I guess the fact that I have a vagina doesn't make my gawking any less creepy. Sorry, would excuse my creepiness if I told you you were too handsome to look away?"

Oz blinks. He looks to the sugar packet on his table. He remembers reading somewhere in a magazine, years ago - when he was driving for Sofia and waiting for her in the car, there was something about if how you're in a dream, you can tell you're in one if you look at something that has words on it, but you can't read them. That's what he tries to look for, because what do you fucking mean?

What the hell is going on?

Oz decides he can laugh too. He smiles with it.

"Really, sweetheart...you don't gotta-"

"I know, it doesn't change the fact my eyes were looming, I'm sorry-"

"You want a refill on the coffee, sweetheart?"

Oz doesn't end up picking diners cause of their lighting, but he takes the service into consideration. What kind of waiter just breaks into a conversation like this?

It's a guy asking you if you want more coffee, not old enough to be the fatherly type calling every younger patron "sweetheart" or "buddy". He's a pretty boy.

Oz's hand comes into a fist, he knocks on the wood of the table for the sake of stimulation. He breathes through his mouth before pulling his lips from side to side.

"I'm good, Will. Thank you, though."

"Going for afternoon desert?"

"I don't think for today."

His eyes flicker up from his fist to where pretty boy smiles at you. You smile back.

Yeah, you're just saying things. Saying things don't mean anything. Oz should know. But he bets it's easier for you to get people to listen to you - believe you with a face and body like that. With a smile that rolls through the...entirety of him. He scratches his brow.

"Alright...I'll just-"

"Guy behind you don't get a refill?"

Pretty boy turns to him. Yeah, buddy - do your job.

"...Oh. Sorry, sir-"

Oz puts his hand up, his head nods once before he lifts his chin up slightly.

"I'm, uh...I'm just keeping you alert, Buddy. I don't need anything."

"Oh...okay."

The boy doesn't laugh. People don't laugh when they should sometimes. He turns to leave after you ask him for the check.

"What you doing not telling him he's a handsome fella? Don't call him humorous, though."

It's a real question. You're just saying things to the guy, for a minute - he thought you could've been real in your compliments. God forbid, he almost called it flirting. Like a doll like you, someone he's taken with so quickly, flirts with Oswald Cobb for free.

Now, he's not completely avoidant in giving credit where credit is due. He can be a good guy for a lady, lady of the night - lady in the club. Hell, Oz is sure that if he really tried, a broad on the street could take a liking to him without knowing the life he's making for himself. He's said it...he's an acquired taste. He dresses well, sometime he can look good. He tries to keep clean. But Oz ain't blind. You look like that, a beauty even in this diner. That's not him just being loose, you are beautiful. Oz is...he's real about it.

What lady like you would want him so damn openly?

You blink fast, eyes flicking before smiling thin at him.

"I've got my own tastes."

Oz's charm drops from his fucking face. What you're hinting smacks the word stunned across it.

You look down at your watch, also cheap. The fact you probably don't got a man in your life to buy you better things strikes him too. The thought comes in.

He could take care of you.

It comes too fast, Oz thinks. It's been six or so fucking minutes of what he thought was a bullying he couldn't handle like a pussy-fuck to thinking you was crazy, and the second you've convince him with that..."I've got my own tastes", Something like belief comes beating at his heart. The thought this can go somewhere, all from a woman he hasn't know for more than stares and excuses to want to believe, against every bone in his damn body.

But he'd be too stupid to believe you based on words alone, he knows how to spin words - pull them apart from his hand and watch people eat out of it while he plays it like he's eating out of theirs. But maybe it's your face that makes it hard.

But maybe you're telling the truth, and if so, it feels too fucking good.

"Shit, I gotta go."

You throw money on the table before standing up.

Lucky you, gotta go before you have to make something out of your sweettalk, but it still feels good. Feels fucking good to be like, but it doesn't feel real.

But he has it in the palm of his hands.

"That's the last I get of your flattery? That's a shame, doll."

Oz is good at making it sound like a tease instead of a real question of offense. Yeah.

"If you enjoyed that burger enough to come back, maybe you'll catch me around here. I'm a regular. Nice to meet you...and your suit."

"...Yeah, nice to meet you too."

Oz watches you leave out the door with its bell ringing.

What a woman with words he don't deserve. He'll keep himself humble here. He don't deserve your flattery and smiles to be a truth, as much as it rumbles all over his body - he thinks he'd be fucking blushing if he let himself be more of a pussy-fuck than he can be. Not now, though.

Now, the ideas roll in. You like him. You think he's handsome. You smiled, and you're not taking a car to wherever you're going. He can see you walking down the street from his window booth.

He ain't no fucking stalker, not when he has to be. He'd never do that to a lady who don't like him, even if she was as pretty as you are.

Oz takes one last bite of his burger, yeah. Sure. It's good enough. He leaves his cash on the table before taking himself out the door.

But you do like him. And unlike him, you shouldn't ever have a reason to lie.

[citysuk]

guilt and shame | remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

summary: you confessed your love for remus, but he rejects you because he doesn't think he's good enough. james has to talk him out of it.

words: 2,5k

notes: omfg !!! this is my first fic ever and I'm super excited to share it, english isn't my first language so please bare with me. if you like this history you can support sharing it. i hope you enjoy it !!

warnings: angst !!!!!!! so much angsty, insecure and overthinker boy remus, james being a little noisy and trying to get some sense on him but being a little ass. no use y/n but no oc neither. no proofread.

part 2 | innocence of love

Remus sits down at the table. He's almost alone, being so early that all the students are still in bed, he barely pays any attention to the few people around him as he pours himself a cup of strong black coffee. He takes a big gulp, relishing in the bitter taste, hoping it will jolt his system awake. As he sipped his coffee, Remus can't help but scan the Great Hall, searching for a familiar face. But you are nowhere to be seen, and the sight makes his chest ache. He forces himself to look away, trying to focus on his breakfast, but his mind keeps drifting back to you.

James joins him, looking as chipper as ever. He plops down next to Remus, immediately noticing his friend's exhausted state. "Morning, mate," he greets cheerfully. "Rough night, Remus? You look like a Lethifold sucked out your soul."

Remus barely suppresses an irritated sigh at James's overly cheerful greeting. He turns to look at him, his expression flat. "Yeah, something like that," he mutters, before taking another gulp of coffee. "Didn't sleep, if you must know."

James's smile falters a little at the sight of Remus's grumpy demeanor. He eyes the dark bags under his eyes and the lines of fatigue on his face. He leans in a bit, his voice low. "Mate, what's up? For real. You look awful."

Remus resists the urge to roll his eyes at James's prodding. He sighs wearily, setting down his coffee cup. "I couldn't sleep, alright?" he admits grudgingly. "I was...I was thinking about something. Someone."

James arches an eyebrow, intrigued. "Someone, huh? Care to give the name? Or are you going to leave me in suspense?"

Remus hesitates, torn between sharing his thoughts and keeping them to himself. He lets out a sigh, his resolve crumbling under James's persistent gaze. He says your name quietly, it leaving a bitter-sweet taste in his mouth.

James's eyes widen at the mention of your name, surprise mixed with curiosity on his face. Then a sly smile forms on his lips. "So...what kind of thoughts were you having about her that kept you up all night?"

Remus averts his gaze, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks. He picks at his food, not really eating. "It's... complicated," he mutters, avoiding eye contact. "We... We talked a few days ago. There were some things... some things confessed that have left me feeling... conflicted. Confused."

James nods, sobering instantly at the seriousness of Remus's tone. He frowns, concern etching his features. "Confesses, eh?" he echoes, a hint of confusion in his voice. "Wait, what do you mean? What did she confess?"

Remus's fingers dig into the table, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He looks up at his friends, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and vulnerability. "It's..." he starts, then swallows hard. "She... she told me that she likes me. More than as a friend."

James's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and for a moment, it looks like he's at a loss for words. He glances at Sirius, who has a similar look of surprise on his face. "She.... she told you she likes you? Like... romantically?"

Remus nods, the action almost a wince. He looks miserable, the guilt of his internal struggle clearly visible on his face. "Yes," he says quietly. "Romantically. And... And I didn't respond well."

James's surprise melts into confusion, and then annoyance. "How do you mean, you 'didn't respond well'?" he asks, his tone taking on a hint of accusation. "What, did you reject her or something?"

Remus flinches at James's sharp tone, feeling the weight of the situation even more acutely. He takes another deep breath, his eyes avoiding anyone's gaze. "I… I did reject her, in a way," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I told her it's not a good idea. That we're better off as friends."

James stares at him in disbelief, shaking his head incredulously. "What in the name of Merlin's beard, Remus?" he exclaims, his voice raising in volume. "Are you mental? She likes you. You like her. So why the hell would you reject her?"

Remus glares back at James, his own frustration and guilt bubbling to the surface. He grips the edge of the table. "Because it's not that easy, James!" he retorts, trying to keep his voice down. "There is...there are so many factors at play here that I can't just... just act on my feelings without considering them!"

James throws his hands up, his patience clearly wearing thin. "What bloody factors, Remus? I don't understand what your issue is here. She likes you, you like her, end of story. What else is there to consider?"

Remus lets out a frustrated huff, his hands clenching into fists. The anger in his voice is evident, but he's trying to be quiet since they're in a public space. "You don't get it, James! It's... It's not that simple! There's... there's my condition. I'm a bloody werewolf! Do you know what that means for her!? There are things you and Peter and Sirius could never understand!"

James scoffs, his eyes narrow. His jaw set. "So what, you think she's just going to run screaming if she knew the truth?" he shoots back. "You think she'd be incapable of handling the fact that you're a werewolf? You think she'd think less of you, just because you turn furry every month?"

Remus is shaking now, his frustration and pain obvious in his every word. "Yes, James! Yes, that's exactly what I think! How could anyone, especially someone like her, accept that? Accept all the danger and the... and the stigma that comes with it? I can't put her through that! I won't!"

James is clearly struggling to maintain his cool, his usually cheerful face twisted in anger and disbelief. "You really think so little of her, don't you?" he accuses. "You think she's so shallow, so narrow-minded, that she'd just walk away, the moment she finds out the truth? Or maybe, just maybe, do you actually have so little confidence in yourself that you think no one could possibly love and accept you in spite of your condition?"

Remus flinches at James's sharp words, the accusations hitting a little too close to home. He looks away, shame and anger battling for dominance on his face. "It's not about me, James!" he retorts, his voice cracking. "It's about her! I can't... I can't put her in danger. I can't risk hurting her. It's not worth the risk!"

James huffs out a scoff, slamming his palms against the table, his eyes ablaze. "You're making excuses, Remus. You're terrified. You're letting your fear control you, your guilt consume you, and it's making you blind to the fact that maybe, just maybe, she's strong enough, kind enough, brave enough, to accept you, flaws and all!"

Remus stands abruptly, his own anger and frustration are barely contained now, his eyes burning with a mixture of shame and defiance. "You don't get to lecture me on this, James!" he nearly bellows, attracting the attention of some nearby students. "You have no idea what it's like to live my life, to face the dangers I face! To bear the guilt, the shame, the pain! You can't possibly understand!"

James doesn't back down, his own emotions running just as high. He points a finger at Remus, his voice as firm as his stance. "Maybe I don't understand the specifics of your situation," he says, his gaze never faltering. "But I understand fear, Remus. I understand guilt. I understand pain. Those are universal. You don't get a bloody monopoly on them just because you're a werewolf."

Remus lets out a derisive snort, his jaw clenched. He's trying to push down the wave of emotions threatening to burst forth. "Oh really? You understand guilt, yeah? You understand guilt like mine? The guilt of knowing that you could hurt, could kill, someone you care about? The guilt of knowing that you're a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode and destroy everything around you? That kind of guilt?"

James doesn't have a ready answer for that. He looks like Remus's words have struck a chord. "Maybe I don't," he admits, his voice slightly hoarse. "But I do know what it's like to push people away because I think they're better off without me. I do know what it is to self-sabotage because I don't think I deserve love and happiness. And you're doing the same damn thing."

Remus falters for a moment, the raw honesty in James's words taking the edge off his own anger. He knows what his friend is saying hits a little too close to home. But he shakes it off, determination hardening his features. "I... I'm doing it to protect her, James! Can't you see that? It's for her own good!"

James shakes his head, his eyes hard yet filled with a pleading look. "You're protecting her from what, Remus? From a relationship? From happiness? You're making that decision for her, depriving her of a choice. Don't you think that's a bit hypocritical, considering how much you value your own autonomy?"

Remus feels a pang of guilt at James's words. The truth in them is undeniable, and he struggles to find a comeback, a defense against his friend's well-aimed arguments. "I... I'm just trying to do what's right..." he mutters weakly, his voice lacking conviction.

James huffs out a sigh, his anger now tempered by a hint of resignation. He steps towards Remus, his voice going softer. "You know what's right, Remus? What's right is that you stop making decisions for her and let her decide what she wants for herself. She confessed to you. She clearly wants a relationship. Stop pushing her away because you think you know what's best for her. That's not your call to make."

Remus is silent, the weight of James's words slowly sinking in. He knows his friend is right. He's not being fair to her, no matter how just he thinks his reasons are. But the fear, the guilt, the shame, they all hold him back. "I... I don't know if I can, James," he finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know if I can let her in that close. I'm scared, okay? I'm terrified of what could happen."

*James's face softens further, a hint of understanding in his eyes.*

"I get it, mate," he says, his voice gentle. "I really do. But you've got to let go of that fear. She's not a fragile little thing, in case you haven't noticed. She's strong, she's kind, and she clearly cares about you. Give her a chance, Remus. Let her decide if she's okay with the risk. Let her decide if she wants the challenge."

Remus takes a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He struggles with the internal war within him, the fears and hopes battling it out. "It's not just her," he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "It's me, too. I... I don't know if I can trust myself. If I can trust the wolf. I'm terrified of what could happen when the full moon comes."

James reaches out, resting a hand on Remus's shoulder, his touch an anchor in the chaos. "But you can trust yourself," he insists, his voice filled with conviction. "You've managed this for years, Remus. You've controlled the wolf. Yes, it's a beast, but you have a leash on it, you can control it. And you won't be alone. We'll all be there for you, just like we always have been."

Remus stares at James, the words striking a chord in him. He looks at his friends, at Sirius and Peter who silently watched the two of them. He realizes that they are all willing to stand by his side, regardless of his condition. The realization brings a lump to his throat. "You... You'd still be willing to stand by me? Even if it puts you at risk? Even if it puts her at risk?"

James smiles, a reassuring, confident smile. He squeezes Remus's shoulder. "Of course, we would, mate. We're Marauders, remember? We're brothers. We stick together, through thick and thin. And if that means dealing with a furry little problem once a month, then we'll figure it out. We always do."

Remus can't help but let out a wry, humorless chuckle, the weight of his fears and doubts lifting a little, but still present. "Furry little problem, eh? You make it sound like we're dealing with a misbehaving Kneazle rather than a bloodthirsty monster."

James grins, his usual mischief twinkling in his eyes. "Mate, have I ever failed to turn a problem into a joke? Besides, I doubt that wolf of yours could top our prank-making abilities. We could write a manual: 'Wolf Handling for Dummies' - by the Marauders."

Remus lets out a snort, despite himself, the image of a guidebook with that title making him crack a small smile. "Yeah, right. I'm sure it'd be a bestseller. I can picture it now: 'Five Tips to Keep the Wolf from Your Door.' I'm sure Pomfrey would purchase a dozen copies."

James chuckles, a sly grin on his face. "Nah, Pomfrey already has a signed copy. She keeps it under her pillow for light reading before bed." Sirius and even Peter can't help but laugh at James's quip, the tension in the air slowly easing off.

Remus even manages a dry chuckle. Despite himself, he feels some of the weight of his worries lifting a little. Looking at his friends, standing there, teasing him with lighthearted jibes and encouraging grins, he realizes how lucky he is to have them by his side, no matter what.

"You lot will be the death of me," he mutters with a shake of his head, the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

James grins wider, giving Remus a playful punch on the arm. "Death by mischief, mate. There are worse ways to go, I reckon."

Sirius walks over, a mischievous smirk on his face. "Yeah, and we'll make sure your tombstone says something suitably epic. 'Here lies Moony. Died of a severe case of hilarity.'"

Remus rolls his eyes, the last of his resistance crumbling away in the face of his friends' unfaltering loyalty and humor. "Great, just what I always wanted. A tombstone that turns my death into a punchline. You lot are a nightmare, you know that?"

Peter grins, finally joining in the banter. "Oh, come on, Moony. You know you love the attention." James throws an arm around Remus, pulling him into a half-hug, half-headlock. "Face it, mate. We're the best thing to happen to your dreary life."

Remus tries (and fails) to look annoyed, a small smile betraying him. He half-heartedly attempts to shake James off, but the effort is half-hearted at best.

"You lot are a bunch of lunatics, that's what you are. And for some reason, I wouldn't have it any other way."

[littlexdeaths]

maybe taking steve’s closing shift wasn’t such a bad idea after all…

older brother’s best friend eddie x fem reader

warnings: smut 18+ ONLY! robin is a ride or die bff baby, dom!eddie, little bit of brat!reader, semi-public sex, dirty talk, praise kink, pussy slapping, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, cum eating

it’s a recipe for disaster masterlist.

a/n: thank you all so much for the love on this series so far!! seeing all your comments has made me so excited to keep going. and shoutout to both @take-everything-you-can and @inourtownofhawkins for letting bounce some silly name ideas off you. 💕

eddie’s promise of later didn’t come.

and you can blame the entirety of that on your brother.

while eddie had managed to sneak in your room later that night, he very quickly had to bolt before he got more than his lips on you. the male had barely managed to crawl out your bedroom window when sid barged in looking for him.

thankfully he bought eddie’s excuse of being out for a late night cigarette, but how many more excuses until he stopped believing them?

you both knew you had to be a lot more careful if you were going to keep this up. which also meant less time with your boyfriend if your brother was around.

so to say you were frustrated was the understatement of the century.

and when you had to sit across the kitchen table from them both that next morning, acting natural was harder than you cared to admit. your brother picked up on your foul mood almost immediately, which mirrored eddie’s.

“you two woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” he laughed, stuffing his face with some eggo’s.

but sid doesn’t realize the subtle truth behind his own words, which further fuels your irritation. instead of saying what you really want, you just roll your eyes before quickly finishing your own breakfast.

“well if you hadn’t barged into my room at the ass crack of dawn, maybe i would’ve slept better.”

you don’t let him get the last word before you stomp off to your bedroom.

it was saturday, which was the first of three evening shifts you’d have to cover for steve. part of you was extremely annoyed for agreeing to it in the first place, but there was no taking it back now.

saturday’s were the one day that you could spent with eddie without the presence of your overbearing brother, so that was partially why you woke up in such a terrible mood. but your attitude only persisted throughout your shift, despite robin’s best attempts to cheer you up.

“not even the charismatic powers of johnny depp in leather and denim can cheer you up, color me shocked.” she deadpans, glancing up at the tv screen and then you.

throughout your shift she’d put on all the johnny depp movies family video had to offer. but as much as you loved cry-baby walker— even he had his limitations.

“sorry robs, just didn’t sleep very well last night.”

but you both know it’s more than just that.

while robin doesn’t push you to talk about it, she definitely had some idea of what’s going on. perks of being best friends with both you and steve. so when you took your last break of the night, she took it upon herself to look up eddie’s number in the system and give him a call.

so you’re a little confused when you come back to a nearly empty store, the sorry we’re closed sign up in the window and your boyfriend leaning casually against the counter.

“uh… hi.”

it almost sounds like a question.

“don’t look so happy to see me, sweetheart.” he chuckles, pushing off the counter and closing the few feet separating you.

“no— of course i am! i just… what are you doing here?”

“well, a little birdie told me you had a bit of an attitude today. thought maybe i could be of some assistance.” he teases, before taking your face in between his palms.

and you practically melt under his touch.

as angry as you want to be at robin for prying into your personal business, you really can’t be. not when she essentially just hand delivered your boyfriend to you.

“now miss, there’s a certain… film i’ve been dying to rent. think you could help a poor guy out?”

that is how you ended up behind the emerald curtain of the adult section of the store, your back pressed against his chest as he railed into you from behind.

“is this what you needed to fix that little attitude, sweetness? just needed me to come take care of you, huh?”

you nod, whimpering pathetically as you grip harder onto the shelf in front of you. accidentally knocking numerous copies of dirty films to the floor with each hard thrust of his hips.

one of his large hands grips onto your hip, rings digging into the flesh there as the other rubs harsh circles over your swollen clit. your shorts and panties are scattered amongst the porn flicks, with his pants and boxers just barely shoved down below his knees.

you can feel him everywhere, fully stretching you out on the base of his cock. it’s all consuming and overwhelming, but everything you needed at the same time.

but your lack of response has him gradually slowing the pace of his hips, and the fingers that are rubbing your clit disappear.

“need you to answer me, sweetheart.” his lips graze over your ear, which pulls another whine from your throat.

that response has his hand coming back down, slapping against your throbbing clit with a wet smack.

“come on now— use your words, pretty girl.”

you gasp at the feeling, which earns you another slap.

“— yes yes yes! i need you, eds.”

you all but sob and his answering chuckle has you squirming his grasp, “see? now was that so hard?”

you find yourself moaning in relief when he starts thrusting into you again, barely able to stutter out a soft response to his question. but it’s better than nothing, because his calloused fingers are back to rubbing your clit.

“there’s my good girl, knew she was in there somewhere.”

you practically preen at his praise, and the wet schlick of his cock sliding into you is suddenly much louder in the small space.

“god, you’re fucking dripping, baby.” he grunts.

your grip on the shelf tightens, the wood creaking beneath your fingertips.

“— c-cause of you.”

he hums, snapping his hips even faster into yours. but the way your walls continually flutter around his cock, signals your quick finish.

“shit, shit, shit… hold it for me, okay? need to look at you, sweet girl.”

you want to cry when he slips out of you completely, but you have no time to complain before he spins you around to face him. his large hands cup under the back of your thighs, your own gripping onto his shoulders as he lifts you. using the shelf behind you for leverage, he slides back into you with ease.

his pupils are blown wide, practically swallowing the brown of his irises as he takes you in. and you’re not fairing much better, the glassy look in your eyes reflects in his own. he quickly builds up to the same pace as before, but his thrusts are almost deeper now. each stroke hitting a spot inside you that has you loudly keening in his embrace.

“that’s it— good fucking girl, let it all out, baby.”

your fingers slide up from his taut shoulders to tangle themselves in his wild hair, tugging until his lips are on yours. he groans into your mouth, hips stuttering as he nears his end.

“shit, come with me. come with me,” he all but growls.

you let one of your hands fall between your bodies, circling over your sensitive bud with a newfound urgency. but the feeling of his cock twitching inside you is what finally sends you over the edge, crying desperately into his mouth when he spills inside you.

eddie’s pleasured groans almost completely encompass your own, the male continuing to work you along his shaft until his thighs start to shake from the excursion. while his hips still, he keeps himself buried to the hilt inside you and playfully nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

you both stay like that for a while, basking in your post sex haze. he only untangles himself from you when your breath has returned to a normal pace and you can feel his warmth beginning to drip down your thighs.

eddie gently sets you back on your feet, a look of utter fondness crossing over his features as he gazes down at you.

“you should’ve brought your bandana or something,” you laugh softly, gesturing down toward your legs. “i’m all sticky now.”

he just grins, his curls bouncing when he shakes his head, “no need for that, sweetness.”

and then eddie drops to his knees, pushing your hips back against the shelf as he tongue darts out. the plastic cases creak in protest beneath his weight as he licks and sucks the mess he made from your overheated skin.

by the time he’s done your thighs are trembling from overstimulation, and your chest heaves as he helps you back into your clothes. the male presses a few more tender kisses to the tops of your thighs before he returns to his feet, now clutching one of the discarded tapes in his hand.

you can’t help but raise a brow when he looks down at the tape, then back up at you with a boyish grin.

“so, can i still rent this copy of throbbin’ hood?”

series taglist: @nailbatanddungeon @angel-eyes-and-devil-hearts @mugloversonly @eddiemunsonfuxks @munsonhoneybaby @alagalaska @creative1writings @missmarch-99 @stolen-in-moonlight

let me know if you want to join the taglist!

[hana-no-seiiki]

WHAT’S UP DANGER?

— [ CH 01 ] WITH GREAT ABILITY COMES GREAT ACCOUNTABILITY

pairings: yandere! various (batfam, spiderverse) x miles morales! reader

tw/cw: no yandere themes for this chapter, characters get aged up later on but are teens to young adults now, reader is gender neutral but characters refer to them with masculine terms (hijo, man, dude), spoilers for spiderverse movies. but ofc since this is a crossover it won’t be completely the same.

status: unedited

[masterlist] [next]

REPLY TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST

“Mama, stop you’re covering me with your saliva—!” You groaned as you made a half-assed attempt at pushing your mother away.

It was the first day of your attendance at Gotham Visions and you weren’t the least bit nervous. Not at all. Totally. It wasn’t as if you were just thrusted into this situation with no choice whatsoever in addition to the pressure of your family’s wholeass livelihood on your shoulder. No. You were completely cool with this situation. In fact, you were so cool that you’re almost late to your first day of classes.

“But you look so adorable, mi hijo!” Your mother rubbed her face all over yours, messing up whatever you decided to put on.

“Papa what are you doing? Arrest this woman at once, for gross misconduct or whatever—“

“You do look adorable, and if I do I’d have to be fair and arrest you for vandalism.”

You freeze at your father’s not so subtle call out, before swiftly slithering away from your mother’s bear-like grip.

“Augh! I’m going to be late! Hasta luego!”

It was August. The start of a new school year for you. A new life away from your family and friends.

Gotham Visions University. A campus filled with elitists; fancy rich people. The cream of the crop. Your future school. Being a scholar there would have been fine, amazing even! If it wasn’t something you won through a lottery. You felt like a thief, an imposter. Going to a school for prodigies and rich kids as an average old joe is one thing, going to a school for prodigies and rich kid as a poor lottery student is another.

“[Y/N]! How you doing man? Lookin fancy. The uniform so fits ya.” A kid hangs his arm around you. If you were being completely honest you weren’t sure about his name, but you hung out often for basketball and other activities around the neighborhood. With the amount of people that knew you around the community, it was difficult keeping all those faces in your head so you often covered it up with nicknames.

“Psh. See ya next friday for shawarma?” You winked, cringing a little inside for your actions.

But to your utter surprise, the kid in turn blushes before giving you a massive grin. “You bet. My treat!”

And just a few seconds afterwards, he hits you at the back of the head before leaving, “Hey! Ow.”

“[Y/N]! Good luck on school dude! We’ll miss ya! Don’t be a stranger okay? We’re still friends even if he isn’t here.” He waves you goodbye before returning to your mutual posse of friends.

You wave back at them, your expression slowly turning into a solemn one. “I’ll miss ya guys too.”

Grabbing your trusty wireless headphones, you make your way down the block. Sticking random name-tags you drew this morning to distract yourself from the overflowing anxiety in your system.

Unfortunately, it never is a good idea to be so distracted when walking by yourself.

“Contra!” You hissed as your body hit the pavement. No doubt ruining your uniform that your mother painstakingly agonized over getting perfect and neat for your first day.

Then, the sound of a police siren entered your ears.

Can your day get any worse?

“What did I tell you about not looking both sides twice before crossing the streets?”

Your father’s sermon began.

This . . . was going to be a long ride.

“That I shouldn’t do it.” You replied, completely uninterested in the conversation and looking out from the window.

“You’re lucky it was me y’know! What if some deranged man decided to run you over?”

Your faced smooshed on your hand as your elbow rested on the window sill. “I’d send my cop of a father after them then.”

“Don’t act cute with me [Y/N].”

“But it works oh, so, well.”

Your father sighed, “It does.”

“But with great ability comes great accountability!

“Yeah yeah, that isn’t how the saying goes! . . . It was my bad it won’t happen ag…” Right as you were about to tune out of the interaction with your father once more you notice a bunch of people looking towards your direction.

People you knew.

And now they were taking pictures.

“Wow, aren’t you the popular kid?”

“Mier — Can’t you run the red light or shout at them or something? My poor privacy is being invaded!” You desperately tried to hide yourself with your hands but to no avail. The sounds of clicking only grow louder, and your father’s pace on the car slower.

“Yeah yeah~ not this cop.”

“Papa!”

Suddenly, the attention is ripped off of you as a loud crashing noise resounds from above. “Woah.”

Your dad flicked his tongue in annoyance as he checked the damages. “Those vigilantes! Red Hood is one thing, but that Spider-man partner of his. I swear. He just swings by without a care in the world. I just got this repaired last week!”

“I think he saved you from having to get yourself fixed as well. You know, in a hospital. The place with all the bills that just tears holes into your wallet.” You checked the situation outside, confirming the lack of interest in your situation as people crowded spider-man’s fight. “And myself from a mob too. That man’s a whole multitasker and a half.”

“If you ever get a sibling, remind me not to teach them cheek.”

“That if depends on you, yknow.” You gave your dad the smuggest grin you can muster.

Hey, if he’s going to make you face hell for the next few years you might as well give him a portion of it while you had the time.

The car halts, signaling your arrival at the aforementioned hell. “Study well. Our future depends on you, [Y/N]. Love ya.”

“I know.” You groaned, struggling a little to pull your baggage outside of the vehicle and leaving as soon as you got it secured within your grasp.

You are only able to take a few steps when your dad interrupts with the police car’s loudspeaker.

“Where’s my ‘I love you too, papa’ huh?”

“Papa! Seriously?” You screeched, unimaginably embarrassed beyond belief.

“I love you.”

“Right in front of my future peers?”

“I loovveee youuu.”

“On the first day of class?!”

“Mwah mwah—“

“I LOVE YOU TOO!” You relented. Making a sharp turn from facing the originator of your future bully’s material, towards the entrance of Gotham Visions.

Once you get in you make an attempt to greet the people there, but is cut off by their mocking voices referring and imitating the situation earlier.

The embarrassment fills you up once more and you fail to notice your path intersecting with another.

Directly bumping into people seriously knocks the wind out of a dude. That’s probably why those people in those ‘mangas’ he always made you read fell in love at first sight. They were just so light-headed that they couldn’t think clearly.

“P-pretty girl—“

“It’s nice to meet you too.” said pretty girl as she steadied your form. Noticeably less affected by the impact “You’re quite the looker yourself.”

“Ack, sorry! I just get nervous around- yeah.”

She giggled. Oh lord, even her laugh was pretty. “Lovely papa you got there.”

“Augh, you don’t have to remind me.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, slowly regaining your balance.

The bell rings. The real hell has officially begun.

Once pretty girl made sure you were alright, she began running off.

Wow, even the way she ran was pretty.

“W-w-wait, what’s your name?”

“Gwen!”

You sighed as left you behind in the crowd of students.

This wasn’t so bad, you thought. You made one acquaintance at the very least. Maybe your new life at this school would be better.

Your new life at Gotham Visions was, in fact, not getting better.

You were fumbling through the motions like a newborn thrown to the wolves. If you hadn’t built a relatively tight knit friendship with Gwen you were sure you would have ran away by now.

Everyone always ignored you when you greeted them. Your dormmate didn’t even see you as someone worthy to interact with and would often stay awake at ungodly hours doing whatever the hell he was doing on his laptop while you suffered from his ‘background music.’ Your parents only ever talked to you about academics when it was the last thing you wanted on your mind at weekends. You were always, always late to class.

You were practically falling apart at the seams.

You just . . . wanted everything to end. But you couldn’t bring yourself to defy your parents and so you brought it up to your studies. Purposely failing exams so you’d be kicked out soon enough.

“A zero. How terrible. A few more of those and you’ll have to kick me out huh?” You looked at your Physics teacher with a loosely smug look on your face. You hated Physics, the sciences and mathematics the most out of all subjects. Everything second you spent learning about it could have been spent drawing or doing something you actually adored.

You shrugged, “Maybe I’m just not right for this school.”

“If a person wearing a blindfold picked the answers on a multiple choice exam at random do you know what score they would get?”

“. . . Around 25%?”

“That’s right!” She flicked her pen towards you face before pressing the butt end of it to your paper.

“The only way they would get all the answers wrong . . . “ She then twirls around, marking your grade from 0 to 100 by placing the respective numbers to each side. “Is to know which answers are right.

“You’re trying to quit, and I’m not going to let you.” The smug look only your face slowly dissipates and transfers to her own visage. “Now I know you’ll probably try to worm yourself out of this which is why I’m calling in back-up.”

“Wayne.” The woman moved her gaze to your classmate. A strained smile on her lips as she stared him down.

You didn’t know the billionaire’s son that well, or any of your peers but Gwen for that matter. Just that he was as stuck up as his gelled up hair. Always sneering at you whenever you had to sit beside him with those uncannily pretty green eyes of his. You thought that it may have been your smell or something. Maybe he could tell how poor you are in comparison by your scent. But judging by the fact that he was just as much of a loner as you were if not more, you’re beginning to think otherwise.

“I’m assigning you two an essay, not on physics but on yourselves. What kind of person you want to be. I know you two are quite different in terms of personality and backgrounds, but I have a feeling it’ll all work out.” She walked behind the two of you, roughly placing her hands on both of your shoulders before squeezing you closer together. “And no, Damian. I’ll know if you decide to finish it all yourself. Don’t test me.”

“You two are dismissed!”

Damian takes one look at you and you can tell he’s listed a thousand things he disliked about you already. He re-secured his backpack prior to giving you one, heftily stern warning. “Listen, we’re going to meet at my house this weekend. 6pm. Don’t be late.”

“Sure! Where’s your . . .” and before you could even complete your question, he was gone. Just like that. “. . .house. . .”

You grabbed your own belongings with a moan; betting that the trust fund kid’s own probably costed a hundred if not a thousand more times than yours.

You swiftly go to your room. Mind completely empty and disassociated before an idea crosses your head.

You dial in the numbers on your phone before you could even think properly.

“Hey, Unc. Mind if I come over?”

No matter where you went. The route to your Uncle Aaron’s house was always in the back of your head. He was your true home. The only man who understood you — who made the effort to understand you.

You spot him on his couch, looking as cool and swag as ever with his legs spread a little bit apart. He laughed as you smooshed your face to his window before opening it and letting you tumble into his abode.

You lazily dropped the bag you brought filled with spray paint.

He patted your head and massaged your scalp, the stress you felt already noticed and acknowledged. “Sup little dude. You lookin’ down. Is this about . . .”

“What? No. I’ve already moved on—“You shook your head. In all honesty, the only good part about Gotham Visions was that it kept you distracted from grief. But before you could continue you spot a familiar image settled in a frame. Emotions started crashing down upon you like a tidal wave. “You . . . kept the picture.”

Aaron rubbed his thumb across your cheek as your eyes began watering, “You know I can bring you over to visit him. It’s pretty close by y’know.”

“I- I think I’m good. I came here to just chill out, y’know?”

“Let’s go, I know a spot we can let some of that pent up art juice out.”

A smile. A real one. Not one you forced on yourself whenever you met with your classmates, Gwen or your parents started to make a reprise on your face. You almost don’t remember the last time you did it because of your emotions and not due of the façade of being okay.

“See ya.”

You take one last look at the photo before rushing out with your uncle.

“Mig.”

PLEASE MAKE SURE THAT YOU CAN BE TAGGED BEFORE REQUESTING TO BE ADDED.

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[respectthepetty]

Dunk and Joong could have offered me anything in 2024, and I would have taken it, gladly, no questions because my ass is a Jaidee fan first and a human second. But to hand me The Heart Killers? Oh! Let me list all the reasons y'all gonna hate me when this comes out.

Joong plays Khao's older brother

Khaotung is older than Joong, but in BL Land that doesn't matter because Khao is playing the hopeless romantic little brother while Joong is playing his stern older brother. Someone already wrote it was 10 Things I Hate About You/The Taming of the Shrew, and Shakespeare would be thrilled to know one of his masterpieces is getting the queer treatment and it's not Twelfth Night.

Dunk is playing the crazy seducer

Boy wants a car and is willing to go to great lengths to do it, including distracting some dude, so his buddy can play house with that dude's little brother. But the whole point is they had to find a guy who was crazy enough to accept the offer in the first place >insert Dunk's character< so the guy isn't just wanting the car. He is doing this for the thrill of getting tied up, stripped down, and threatened.

And I respect that.

Jojo is apparently directing

I wanna have beef with Jojo after Only Friends, then I look at his resume and remember this is the man who gave me puppy play in The Warp Effect, poly in 3 Will Be Free, and a chaotic stripper named Judo in Dirty Laundry PLUS the YinWar trailer for their Partner in Crime concert which has now lead to YinWar doing Jack & Joker, so as a vegetarian, I'm gonna be like Elsa and let that go.

Which means Rath is probably the cinematographer

I don't give men compliments easily, so when I state that Cinematographer Rath has never disappointed me, I mean it. The man knows what he is doing, and if he is in on this series, I know if anything, it will be visually stunning.

First and Khao being the Beyonce of GMMTV

I'm in Jaidee's corner always, but I have eyes and First and Khao could really do whatever they want and I'd eat it up. I have believed them with whomever they have been partnered with in the past, and if they want to play high schoolers in an oppressed school system or a banker willing to see his ex and his ex's new man just to flirt with the boy from the market, I'm buying the tickets, I'm sitting in the front row, and I'm holding up homemade posters. Basically, I'm shutting the fuck up and experiencing whatever they want me to experience.

First and Khao tears

This is its own category because when they cry, they are in a league of their own. They claimed this series was going to be lighter than their previous work, but what is a First or Khao series without tears? I hope they are drinking water right now because someone is crying in this series, and JD's faces are already wet for other reasons.

DUNK'S BODY!

Not to objectify the man's body, but . . . it's a banger, and he has been done dirty by wardrobe for two solid years. His face card never declines. His arms are solid. His waist is snatched. His hair is perfect. Even Tay, New, and Jan were talking about him in the BTS for Peaceful Property because they were saying how New's character was based off of Dunk - pretty, fashionable, and COCKY! But wouldn't we all be that cocky if we were walking around looking like this?! Like shut up fives. A ten is speaking!

It's high time that man got to stunt like Force always does just taking off his shirt for no reason. Good for him. And good for us.

Oh, yeah, and the plot

Sorry, I mean the plot.

SHIT, THE PLOT!

You know what? Nah. I honestly do not give a fuck about the plot. Joong and Khao are hired killers. First is out to get them. Dunk gets involved (although, I think he knows a lot more than he leads on), and . . .

All will end well.

Because if anything, Jojo ain't never been allergic to a happy ending *wink*

So just know this show hit its target audience

ME!

¡Salud!