#but of course it just continues to get worse and worse

[sonarspace]

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆STUDY BREAK (FT. GOJO)

꒰ synopsis. being in the same class as gojo satoru was bad enough; having him as the professor’s insufferably smug assistant made it worse. content. college au. nsfw. (teasing. slight praise kınk. fıngering. oräl. p in v. multiple ōrgasms.) wc. 5.3k. an. to clear up any confusion 😭.. satoru’s a senior student + the professor’s assistant in the course you’re both taking. (fic is kinda all over the place so idk if this works but let’s pretend like it does).

there’s something about gojo satoru that drives you insane. not in the fun, heart-fluttering way that comes with a secret crush or the thrill of banter. no—this is the kind of insane where you want to hurl something, preferably at his stupidly smug face.

“class,” he drawls, leaning lazily against the desk at the front of the room, his shirt slightly rumpled like he doesn’t give a damn—and he doesn’t. “these papers? a mixed bag. some of you really impressed me. others… well.” his lips curve into a smirk. “let’s just say the recycling bin was hungry.”

you groan inwardly, already sensing where this is going. he’s done this before, holding your work hostage like it’s part of his routine entertainment.

“and here,” he continues, brandishing a paper like a prop. your paper. “is a prime example of someone… almost getting there. strong ideas, decent execution, but the conclusion? oof. fell harder than my GPA sophomore year.”

a few students laugh. your jaw tightens, the heat in your chest bubbling up into something sharp and biting. he doesn’t have to name you; everyone knows exactly whose paper he’s waving around.

“anyway,” he finishes with a shrug, tossing the paper onto the desk like it’s disposable. “there’s potential. keep at it.”

you don’t even wait for class to end before your resolve solidifies: you’re going to kill him. maybe not literally, but metaphorically? absolutely.

you don’t plan on storming to his dorm room. it just… happens. one moment, you’re replaying his smug grin and the way his eyes gleamed when he mocked your paper, and the next, you’re standing outside his door, your fist raised to knock.

he answers quickly, and the sight of him makes you falter. his hair is damp, sticking out in soft tufts like he just got out of the shower, and his plain white t-shirt clings to him in a way that’s almost—no. you shake the thought away.

“well, this is unexpected,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that’s all teeth. “if you wanted private tutoring, you could’ve just asked.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, brushing past him into the room without waiting for an invitation.

he whistles low under his breath. “feisty tonight. to what do I owe the pleasure?”

you spin to face him, your hands clenched at your sides. “what is your problem with me?”

he blinks, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second before returning full force. “problem? sweetheart, i don’t have a problem with you.”

“you humiliate me in class,” you say, your voice rising. “you make these comments, you single me out—what, are you that bored with your life?”

“humiliate?” he echoes, feigning a wounded look. “i think you mean ‘motivate.’ you’re one of the smartest people in that class. if i don’t push you, who will?”

“that’s bullshit,” you fire back, stepping closer. “you don’t ‘push’ anyone else.”

“because no one else is as fun,” he replies easily, his grin tilting into something sharper. “the way you react, the fire in your eyes—it’s addictive.”

your breath catches, the heat in your chest spreading to your cheeks. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, here you are,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between you feel heavier. “in my room. alone.”

“because you drive me crazy,” you snap, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

his eyebrows lift slightly, as if he’s genuinely intrigued by your outburst. “good crazy or bad crazy?”

he takes a step closer, too close. the kind of close that makes your pulse stutter and your instincts scream at you to step back—but you don’t. instead, you stand your ground, your jaw clenched as he waits for your answer, his gaze steady and almost daring.

“what does it matter?” you mutter, your voice quieter now, the heat of your earlier anger ebbing into something more uncertain.

“it matters,” he says, his voice low as his eyes flicker to your lips. “because I need to know if I can do this.”

before you can ask what he means, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. but you don’t. his hand finds your waist, tugging you closer as the kiss deepens, his mouth hot and insistent against yours.

it’s like a dam breaking. weeks—months—of tension and unspoken words all come crashing down in a rush of heat and urgency. his other hand slides into your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, and the sound you make in response is embarrassing and needy, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

you should stop this. you should push him away, tell him he’s crossed a line. but the way his thumb brushes against your waist, the way he tilts his head just right, the way he kisses like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have—it’s addictive. you can’t stop. you don’t want to.

but then reality slams into you like a cold gust of wind. what are you doing? your chest tightens as the weight of it crashes down all at once, the heat between you dissolving into something sharper, more terrifying.

you pull back abruptly, your breathing uneven. “i can’t.”

he blinks, his expression softening from one of heat to confusion. “what?”

“this—this is a mistake,” you stammer, backing away. your hands feel clumsy as they fumble behind you for the door. “i shouldn’t have come here.”

“wait.” his hand reaches out, almost instinctively, but you’re already opening the door, your chest tight and your mind racing as you step out into the hall. you don’t look back, even as the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin.

────

you avoid him after that. in class, you sit as far from him as possible, claiming a seat in the back corner, close to the door. the usual tension he brought to the room—his teasing remarks, his piercing gaze when he caught you rolling your eyes—feels conspicuously absent. he doesn’t call on you, doesn’t glance your way, doesn’t even acknowledge you.

it’s been weeks since that night in his dorm, and as the semester nears its end, the distance feels heavier with every passing class. his silence, once the thing you desperately wanted, now presses on your chest like a weight. you wonder if he regrets it, if he’s just as caught in the what-ifs as you are—or if he’s already forgotten.

the final project looms, deadlines creeping closer, but the distraction isn’t enough to stop the quiet ache that’s settled in your chest. you remind yourself it’s for the best. boundaries were crossed, a line you know you shouldn’t have stepped over. it doesn’t matter how he made you feel, how his kisses left you breathless and yearning. none of it matters.

and yet, every time you leave class, you rush, head down, praying he won’t stop you. and every time he doesn’t, the ache grows.

when class ends today, the air feels heavier than usual. your peers chatter around you, their voices blending into background noise as you pack your things quickly, eyes fixed on the door. if you can just slip out unnoticed, avoid another day of walking the tightrope you’ve been balancing on since that night—

but then a hand wraps gently around your wrist, warm and familiar.

“you’re avoiding me,” he says, his voice low and steady. there’s no edge to it, no teasing grin or smug undertone. just quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact.

you freeze, your heart thudding in your chest. it’s been so long since he’s said anything to you that the sound of his voice directed at you feels foreign.

“i’m late,” you mumble, tugging your wrist weakly in an attempt to free yourself. “let me go.”

“you don’t have any classes after this,” he says, his grip loosening but not letting go. his eyes meet yours, calm but resolute. “i checked your schedule.”

your jaw tightens, irritation flashing through you. “you shouldn’t have access to my schedule.”

“probably not,” he admits with a shrug, a hint of the old satoru creeping into his voice, “but i’m me.”

you open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him to back off, but he cuts you off first. “come have coffee with me.”

you blink, caught off guard by the casual offer. “what?”

“coffee,” he repeats, his tone light, as if this is perfectly normal. “you like coffee, don’t you?”

“that’s not the point,” you snap, yanking your wrist free from his grasp. “what is this, some weird apology?”

“it’s not weird,” he says, his smirk faltering slightly now, his expression open and strangely earnest. “it’s just coffee. with me.”

you stare at him, struggling to find the right words. “gojo,” you begin, your voice heavy, “you and i are not friends.”

his face falls, the shift so quick and unexpected that it makes your stomach twist. you see the way his shoulders tense, the way his gaze drops for just a moment, but you force yourself to look away. without giving him a chance to reply, you turn and push past him, your steps quick and unsteady as you leave the classroom.

the ache in your chest grows with every step, and even as you round the corner, out of sight, the image of his expression lingers. there’s no relief this time. only guilt.

────

you don’t know why you’re here. no, that’s a lie—you know exactly why you’re here. the memory of his expression, the slight drop of his shoulders at your retort, has been looping in your mind, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

your feet carry you down the familiar path to his dorm, the ache in your chest twisting tighter with every step. before you can talk yourself out of it, your fist is already knocking on the door.

it opens almost immediately, and the sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. his white hair is a mess, sticking up in chaotic directions, and his glasses are perched crookedly on his nose. there’s a faint crease on his cheek, like he’d been leaning against a book, and his shirt hangs loosely off one shoulder, rumpled from sleep or hours spent working. he looks… soft. disarming. almost painfully cute.

“coffee,” you say, holding up the cups like a white flag. “can i come in?”

his lips twitch, a hint of a smile breaking through the haze of surprise as he steps aside. “bribery, huh? didn’t think you had it in you.”

his dorm is as cluttered as you remember—papers and notebooks sprawled across his desk, a blinking laptop shoved precariously to one side. you set the coffee down on the edge of the desk, your gaze catching on the scrawled notes and dense blocks of text.

“grading?” you ask.

“research,” he replies, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. his hand rakes through his already-messy hair, making it stick up even more. “finals prep. you know, glamorous TA things.”

you hand him a cup, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. the simple contact sends a jolt up your arm that you stubbornly ignore. “thought you could use it.”

he hums as he takes a sip, his lashes fluttering briefly before he lets out a quiet sound of approval. the noise is so low, so soft, it makes your stomach twist. you glance away quickly, your grip tightening on your own cup.

“about the other day,” you start, the words quiet and tentative.

he glances up, the coffee still in his hands. his expression is unreadable, but his fingers still against the cup, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “you don’t have to explain,” he says, setting his cup down on the desk. “if you don’t want this—if i got it wrong—just say so.”

“it’s not that,” you blurt, the words tumbling out too fast, too raw. warmth floods your cheeks, creeping down to your chest. “i just… i don’t know what this is.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t fall into his usual teasing deflection. instead, he stands, crossing the small space between you with deliberate steps. his gaze holds yours, steady and unguarded, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t control.

“let me show you,” he says softly, his voice low, uncharacteristically serious.

he’s so close now, his hand brushing against yours, his touch light, almost hesitant. and then his lips are on yours, and everything else fades away.

this kiss is nothing like the first. there’s no uncertainty, no restraint. his hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moves against yours, hot and insistent. your grip on the coffee slips, the cup hitting the floor with a dull thud as your hands find his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

when his hands slide under your shirt, the roughness of his palms against your bare skin makes you shudder. he guides you backward, his body pressing into yours until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. you sink down, the weight of him grounding you as he follows, his lips trailing fire along your jaw and down your neck.

his hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, brushing the underside of your ribs, exploring like he’s memorizing every inch of you. when he pulls back to look at you, his lips are curved in a wicked, breath-stealing grin.

“you’re infuriating,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as his eyes rake over you, drinking in every detail.

“you’re worse,” you manage, though your voice is barely more than a whisper.

his grin widens, and his laugh is warm against your skin as he dips his head, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “you’re already so worked up. it’s cute.”

“shut up,” you snap, though the way your hips arch into his touch betrays you.

“make me,” he challenges, his lips brushing against yours before descending lower, kissing down your collarbone and tugging your shirt higher with every inch. his hands roam greedily, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

his mouth is back on you immediately, nipping and kissing along the swell of your breasts as his hands work the clasp of your bra. when it comes free, his lips part in a satisfied hum, his hands kneading your soft skin like he’s savoring every second of this.

“so fucking perfect,” he mutters, his voice husky as he leans back slightly to take in the sight of you. his gaze is heavy, filled with something dark and hungry that makes your stomach twist in the best way.

“stop staring,” you grumble, though the heat in your cheeks betrays the sharpness of your words.

“can’t help it,” he says, his grin tilting into something softer, more genuine. “you’re gorgeous.”

before you can respond, his mouth is back on you, his tongue flicking over your nipple as his other hand trails down your stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of your pants. your breath hitches as he pauses, his gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“can i?” he asks, his voice quieter now, his expression serious.

you nod, and he wastes no time. his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. the cool air against your bare skin makes you shiver, but the warmth of his hands is there immediately, coaxing you to relax under his touch.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick as his hands part your thighs, his gaze drinking in every inch of you. “so fucking pretty.”

your cheeks flush, and you try to turn your head away, but his hand cups your chin, gently coaxing you to meet his eyes. “don’t hide from me,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “not tonight.”

his other hand slides between your thighs, his touch featherlight at first, teasing. when his thumb brushes over your clit, a jolt of heat shoots through you, and your hips buck involuntarily.

“sensitive,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a wicked grin. “i barely touched you, and you’re already squirming.”

“shut up,” you snap, your voice shaky as your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you. but the way your body reacts—arching into his touch, chasing the pressure—makes it clear that his teasing isn’t far from the truth.

“you don’t really want me to, do you?” his voice is low, almost a growl, and the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. “i think you like when i talk to you like this. when i tell you how good you’re doing, how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

your chest heaves as his fingers dip lower, sliding through your slick folds with infuriating slowness. every movement feels deliberate, calculated, like he’s savoring every second. when his fingers finally slip inside you, the stretch makes your head fall back, a gasp tumbling from your lips.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate at first. “you feel so fucking good, baby. so perfect.”

your hands fly to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he curls his fingers, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “oh my god—gojo—”

he tuts sharply, his fingers pausing inside you, his thumb stalling its maddening rhythm. your head snaps up, breathless and confused, to find him staring down at you with a dark look, his lips curving into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“no,” he says firmly, his voice low and commanding as he tilts his head. “say satoru.”

“w-what?” you stammer, your heart racing as his fingers remain perfectly still, the tension building with every passing second.

“not ‘gojo,’” he says again, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, his grin sharpening. “say satoru.”

you hesitate, your breath hitching as your body trembles beneath him. he presses his fingers deeper, curling them just enough to make your toes curl, and your resolve shatters.

“satoru,” you gasp, your voice breaking on the syllables.

his smirk widens, something dark and triumphant flickering in his eyes. “good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb resuming its slow, torturous circles on your clit as his fingers pick up their rhythm again, harder this time, deeper.

your head falls back against the mattress, your body arching into his touch as the pleasure builds again, higher and hotter than before. his name tumbles from your lips like a mantra, breathless and needy as he drives you closer to the edge.

“that’s it,” he coaxes, his voice dripping with praise as his free hand slides down your body, his touch possessive. “just like that, baby. let go for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens to the breaking point, and when he curls his fingers just right, pressing against the perfect spot, it snaps. your orgasm crashes over you, white-hot and overwhelming, and his name spills from your lips in a broken moan.

“satoru—fuck—”

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval as he works you through the waves of pleasure, his movements slowing but never stopping until your body goes slack beneath him, trembling and spent.

he pulls his hand away slowly, his gaze fixed on you as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a deliberate, satisfied hum. “even better than i imagined,” he says, his voice dripping with arrogance, his eyes gleaming as they roam over your flushed, trembling body.

you blink, your breath still uneven as his words settle over you. “wait—” you say, your voice catching slightly. “you’ve thought about this?”

his grin widens, slow and deliberate, and he leans down, bracing himself on his forearms so his face is just inches from yours. “oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “you really think i haven’t?”

your cheeks flush even hotter, your pulse racing as his words sink in. “you’re—” you stammer, at a rare loss for words. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculous?” he repeats, feigning offense, though the wicked glint in his eyes never falters. “i’d say i’m a man of focus. you’ve been in my head for weeks, driving me insane with that sharp mouth and the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice.”

“i don’t—” you begin, but his lips curve into a knowing smirk, cutting you off.

“you do,” he insists, his tone softening just slightly. “and every time you glared at me, every time you rolled your eyes or bit back some little retort, all i could think about was how much i wanted to shut you up. like this.”

his lips capture yours again, and this kiss is slower, heavier, laced with an intensity that makes your toes curl. his hands roam, sliding over your bare skin with a reverence that feels almost out of place against his words.

when he finally pulls back, his gaze is still on you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “and now that i’ve got you,” he says, his voice dipping into something darker, “i don’t think i’ll ever get enough.”

the weight of his confession leaves you breathless, and before you can respond, his lips are trailing down your body again, his hands parting your thighs as he settles between them.

“what are you—” you start, but his eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look in them steals the rest of your words.

“relax,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a soft, almost mischievous smile. “i’m not done tasting you yet.”

his hands slide to grip your thighs, pulling you apart with ease as his lips descend, brushing over your inner thighs, teasingly slow. his tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, and when his mouth finally finds you again, you feel your body arch instinctively, your breath leaving in a sharp, unrestrained gasp.

he’s relentless. his tongue drags up your folds in a languid stroke before circling your clit with maddening precision. his mouth is hot, the slick, wet sounds mingling with your soft moans, and his breath—warm and uneven—fans against your skin with every movement.

his hair brushes against your thighs, soft and messy, and your fingers thread through it again, tugging sharply enough to make him groan against you. the vibration of it sends a jolt of pleasure straight through your core, and your hips buck against his mouth.

“satoru,” you gasp, but it’s barely coherent, your voice breaking as he latches onto your clit, sucking just enough to make your toes curl. “oh my—”

the cold press of something against your inner thigh pulls you out of the haze, just barely. it’s sharp, unfamiliar, and you glance down—his glasses. they’re still perched on his nose, slightly crooked, the metal frame fogging faintly from the heat of his breath. he’s so lost in the moment, so focused on the way his tongue works against you, that he hasn’t even noticed.

your hand drifts down, brushing against the cool frame, and you slip them off without a word. the absurdity of it—the way he’s been eating you out with his glasses still on—makes you want to laugh. the corners of your mouth twitch, and a soft sound bubbles up in your throat, but then his tongue presses flat against your folds, dragging up in one slow, deliberate motion, and the laugh dissolves into a sharp moan.

your head falls back against the pillow, your hand tangling back in his hair as you toss the glasses onto the bed with the other. the noise they make as they hit the mattress is faint, drowned out by the obscene wet sounds of his mouth, the low hums of satisfaction he lets out as he devours you.

“fuck,” you whimper, your thighs trembling as his tongue flicks against your clit again, faster now, more insistent. your body arches instinctively, chasing the pressure, and his hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you even closer to his mouth.

he growls against you, the sound low and rough, vibrating through you in a way that makes your toes curl. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance before sliding back up, and the sharp scrape of his teeth against your swollen clit has you seeing stars.

“so fucking sweet,” he mutters, his voice muffled against your slick skin. “can’t get enough of you, baby.”

you can’t respond, can’t think. the only thing you can focus on is the way his tongue works against you, precise and relentless, building the heat in your stomach until it’s unbearable. your fingers twist in his hair, pulling harder, and the groan he lets out in response sends you spiraling.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, breathless and broken. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his mouth dragging you closer and closer to the edge until you can’t hold on any longer.

your orgasm hits you hard, ripping through you in waves that leave your entire body trembling. your hips jerk against his hold, your moans loud and unrestrained as you ride it out. his tongue slows, working you through every aftershock until you’re left panting, boneless against the bed.

when he finally pulls back, his chest is heaving, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. his hair is a mess, strands sticking up where your fingers had tugged, and his eyes—those impossibly bright blues—flick up to meet yours, gleaming with satisfaction.

“twice,” he says, his voice low and teasing as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

he sits back on his knees, his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs as he takes in the sight of you—flushed, panting, your chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. his grin is lazy, self-satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s done to you.

“you’re staring,” you mutter weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“hard not to,” he replies, his tone low and full of amusement. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch soft, teasing. “you look so fucking good when you come.”

your cheeks burn, and you want to glare at him, to tell him to shut up, but the words catch in your throat as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. in one fluid motion, he pulls it over his head and tosses it to the side, the movement effortless and maddeningly confident.

your eyes follow the shift of his muscles, the way they ripple under his skin, lean and defined. a faint sheen of sweat glistens across his chest, catching the dim light, highlighting every sharp line and curve. your gaze drifts lower, down to the sharp ridges of his abdomen. the faint trail of white hair starting just below his navel draws your attention, leading your eyes further, until his hands move to the waistband of his boxers.

he doesn’t rush. he hooks his thumbs under the fabric, dragging it down slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach. as the fabric falls away, your breath hitches.

he’s fully bare now, and your mouth goes dry.

his cock is… breathtaking. thick and flushed a deep pink at the tip, already leaking beads of precum that catch the light as they drip down the length. it’s long, the kind of length that makes your thighs press together instinctively, wondering how he’ll fit, but the heat pooling low in your stomach burns hotter, overriding any hesitation.

his hand wraps around it, and he strokes himself slowly, his thumb swiping over the head to collect the wetness there. the motion is deliberate, almost lazy, and the soft groan he lets out sends a shiver down your spine.

you’re staring—you know you are—and he notices, his lips curving into a wicked grin as his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans forward, the head of his cock brushing against your folds, slick and hot. “i’ll make it fit.”

his words send a shiver through you, his voice low and dripping with confidence. the weight of his cock against your folds, hot and heavy, is enough to make your hips twitch instinctively, chasing the friction. but he doesn’t push in right away—of course he doesn’t. instead, he drags the head up and down your slick, letting it catch on your clit with every pass, teasing you until you’re squirming beneath him.

“satoru,” you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. you’re not above begging at this point. “please.”

his grin widens, his head dipping to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “what’s the rush, baby? we’ve got all night.”

“satoru,” you repeat, more insistently this time, and he groans at the sound of his name on your lips, his cock twitching against you.

“fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight now, losing some of that smug edge. “you sound so pretty when you beg.”

he lines himself up, his hand still wrapped around the base as he presses the head against your entrance. the stretch is immediate, a sharp, overwhelming mix of pleasure and pressure as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch.

“holy shit,” he breathes, his voice rough as his head falls forward, his hair brushing against your cheek. “you’re so fucking tight.”

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your breath catching as he sinks deeper, the fullness stealing every coherent thought from your mind. he pauses halfway, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“you okay?” he asks, and there’s something softer in his voice now, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

you nod, your voice shaky as you answer. “yeah. just—keep going.”

his jaw tightens, and he exhales slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he starts to move again. every inch feels impossibly deep, your walls stretching around him, and when he finally bottoms out, you both pause, your breaths mingling as you try to adjust.

“fuck,” he groans again, his voice strained as his hips twitch against yours. “you feel so good. better than i ever—” he cuts himself off with a shaky laugh, shaking his head. “shit, you’re perfect.”

you can barely respond, the stretch and fullness leaving you trembling. but then he starts to move, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. the drag of his cock against your walls is enough to have you moaning, your head falling back against the pillow.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough and approving as he sets a steady rhythm. “good girl. taking me so well.”

your hands trail down his back, your nails scraping lightly against his skin, and the groan he lets out sends a fresh wave of heat through you. his movements quicken, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, and every thrust has him hitting that perfect spot deep inside you, making you cry out.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips again, and he leans down, his teeth grazing your neck as he thrusts harder, deeper.

“you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you in place as he drives into you. “you feel so good—so fucking perfect for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens with every roll of his hips, the pressure building higher and higher until it’s unbearable. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles that make your vision blur, and your moans grow louder, more desperate.

“come for me,” he demands, his voice rough and low in your ear. “let me feel you.”

the command sends you over the edge. your orgasm rips through you, your body arching into his as you cry out, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. your walls clench around him, and the sensation makes him groan, his thrusts growing erratic as he chases his own release.

“fuck—” he gasps, burying himself as deep as he can go as he comes, the heat of him spilling into you, thick and warm. his head falls to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your skin as he rides out the last waves of pleasure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of your heavy breathing, the air thick and charged as he finally pulls back, his weight pressing into you as he collapses onto the bed beside you. his arm slides around your waist, pulling you against his chest as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your temple.

“told you i’d make it fit,” he murmurs, his voice still rough, but there’s a hint of smugness there, his lips curving into a small grin.

you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, your body still trembling against his. “you’re such an asshole.”

“yeah,” he agrees, his tone light, teasing, as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “but you like it.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat to it, your lips curving into a faint smile as you bury your face against his chest. “shut up, satoru.”

“never,” he replies, and the warmth of his laughter vibrates through you, grounding you as your breaths slowly even out.

an. gojo with glasses... *hnnggghh*

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS!

[sisyphean-tragedian]

A Walk in the Forest

[got bored over thanksgiving. so instead of hanging out with my family i wrote fanfiction. Living la Vida Loca] [thanks to my Best Friend @jangles28 for being there while i wrote. Mwah.] [tw: smoking, non-consensual kiss, mentioned dead family member]

--

The detective had gone back to his mother-in-law’s house for the holidays. Only for about a week, just to make sure Junior wasn’t completely bereft of any company save the detective’s (and visits from Waldo? Maybe? God, they’d have to up the security again). 

It was hard, though. Even after years had passed, there were still the looks of sorrow and pity, and there was an extra chair left dusty in the closet. Junior seemed to be meshing well with the relations. It would be good for them to hear stories about their mother, stories still too painful for the detective to tell.

Having settled Junior down in front of their grandmother for a few of said stories, the detective flashed her a pained smile and announced that they’d be slipping out for a quick walk.

“Alright, hon, just be careful, would you? And don’t forget to bundle up, it’s getting cold.”

The detective’s mother-in-law chimed in with her ever-helpful advice, and Junior looked up at them with a smile and a wave. The detective smiled back, less pained this time, and told Junior to be good while they were gone.

They walked toward the coat closet, and pulled out their trench coat and other appropriate cold-weather gear. Properly “bundled up”, as their mother-in-law had put it, they exited the house with one final wave. 

Their mother-in-law’s residence was smack in the middle of a forest, so it was perfect to wander around and think in. Not that they had much to think about, at the moment. It was more an excuse to get away from the crush of pitying family members and reminiscences about their unfortunately late wife. The sentiment was nice and all, but it just made the detective feel worse after a while.

They started down a relatively little-traveled path in the woods. It really was beautiful, with oak and aspen and pine all around, and snow beginning to fall in large white flakes. They knew that the precipitation would drive then back inside sooner rather than later, but all they needed was a few minutes to clear their head.

Reaching into the pocket of their trench coat, they pulled out their packet of cigarettes and their lighter. After a bit of fumbling, they managed to get a cigarette lit and in their mouth. They took a drag, and exhaled a long draught of smoke. It warmed them nicely.

After a few minutes of simply smoking and wandering through the woods, the detective declared themselves sufficiently not-morose enough to go back and engage more with their relations. They turned around and began to head back to the house.

Only… 

They couldn’t find the path.

They tried to retrace their steps, follow the sun, a trail of ashes, notable strange-looking trees, anything that might help them find their way back to the house, but they had no luck.

Keeping a cool head, they continued to scour the landscape for any hints of the path back to their mother-in-law’s abode. Nada.

Then, off in the distance, against the autumnal backdrop of oranges, browns, and swirls of white, they spotted him.

He was leaning against a tree, smiling his insufferable smile, in his stupid striped sweater.

Still a little off-balance due to the constant reminders of their dead wife, the detective charged. Against their better judgement, of course, seeing as they had no weapons except their cigarette lighter, and no real means of subduing Waldo in case they did manage to get him down.

Just as they had reached tackling distance, Waldo stuck out his cane, and the detective ran bodily into it. Winded, they fell back against a nearby tree, and clutched at their chest while trying to regain their breath.

Waldo looked down at them, still with that ever-present smile.

“You look a little lost, dear detective. I saw you walking earlier, and I simply couldn’t resist taking the chance to say hello to an old friend.”

The detective, still slightly winded, snarled at Waldo. Much to their chagrin, this only made Waldo’s smile widen.

“I can help you back to your beloved family, detective, but it’ll come at a price to you. What do you say to a walk with me?”

Having recovered from both their earlier fit of rage and running into Waldo’s cane full-force, the detective took a look at him, weighed their options, then promptly turned around and walked away. From previous experience, they knew that they could unfortunately not out-grapple Waldo (who knew something that looked like mere skin and bones could be that strong?), and they didn’t think they could put up with the needling that he was sure to put them through.

So, they walked away. Picking their battles and all. They continued through the forest, searching for the path. They could hear Waldo behind them, in the crunching leaves and the soft giggles that came every now and again.

Eventually, they stopped walking. The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the forest floor. They had yet to find the path, and the relentless giggling was getting on their nerves. Suddenly, they felt someone much closer behind them than previously anticipated.

“Are you sure you don’t want my assistance, detective? It won’t cost you much, I promise. And I’m sure your baby is worried for you…”

Jumping away from Waldo, the detective turned to face him once again. At the reminder of their child, they caved a little. They had been searching for at least forty five minutes, and they had yet to find the trail that should have taken them ten minutes at the most. Briefly, they debated the merits of getting into a scuffle with Waldo. Based on empirical evidence, that would leave them bruised, frustrated, and Waldo-less, and they really did need to get back to Junior.

“Fine. No funny business, though. I don’t want to deal with any of your tricks,” acquiesced the detective with a sigh.

“Me? Tricks? I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, detective. Tricks are beneath me. Now, come along!” While speaking, Waldo looped an arm over the detective’s shoulder, much to their chagrin, and started walking in what seemed like no particular direction.

Waldo whistled as he walked, the detective noted. It was all too cheery a tune for a murderer, but they weren’t about to tell him to switch it up. They had to practically take two steps to every one of Waldo’s and they suspected that he might’ve been enjoying that, if the new lilt to his smile was any indication.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they came within sight of the house. The walk was stunningly hijinks-free, but the detective knew that out of sight didn’t mean out of mind for Waldo. They tried to duck out of his grip, but all of a sudden, his hand turned to steel on their shoulder.

“Not so fast, dear detective. I said there’d be a price, and I’m a man of my word,” Waldo said.

As the detective inhaled to ask what Waldo wanted from them, they were abruptly lifted, and pressed against a nearby tree. Indignantly, they tried to flail out of Waldo’s grasp, but he kept them firmly in the air.

When they tried to start protesting this treatment; however, there came something that they didn’t expect. 

Waldo leaned in, and pressed a kiss to their lips. The detective, jarred, jerked back, but unfortunately hit their head against the tree. Waldo chuckled, then dropped them unceremoniously to the ground. 

���Do remember your spacial awareness, detective. Anyhow, I’m sure your child misses you sorely. It has been fun, mouse, we should do this more often. Happy holidays!” 

And with that, he was gone. The detective, indignant, picked themself up off the ground, and brushed all the leaf debris off. Maybe they had time for one more smoke before they went in, just to steady their nerves? 

They reached in their pocket, and found a signature red envelope in place of their cigarettes. When had Waldo even found the time to do that? Inside, they found a rather condescending note regarding their smoking habit. With a frustrated growl, they stormed the rest of the way back to their mother-in-law’s house, and hugged a teary-eyed Junior upon their arrival.

The detective reassured everyone that they were alright, they had just lost track of time in the woods, no need to worry, but their words rang hollow even to themself. That night, once again, they sat beside an empty spot at the dinner table, and stared out towards the patch of woods where they had last seen Waldo. The snow that had since fallen covered any trace that might have remained from the afternoon’s happenings.

[octuscle]

Can you do a sequel/follow up to Fun at the Not so Fair Ground where a paid of rude and obnoxious preppy university guys get on the bad side of the travelling fun fair workers, particularly Daz, and they get the same treatment Darren did? That was such a hot story

This is a sequel to this story:

Robert and Melvyn had been given $200 each by their parents to have fun at the fair. Of course, they both knew that this was the price the two friendly couples were willing to pay for a relaxing evening without their annoying and spoiled brats. And they also knew that $400 was painfully enough to pay for an entire evening of fun. Even at a carnival, which would certainly not be too expensive as entertainment for the lower classes. But the two of them were more than flush with cash themselves. Robert had a well-stocked trust fund from his grandparents, which yielded a more than generous return. And Melwyn had inherited a block of flats from an uncle, the rental income from which could easily finance his life of luxury. The 400 dollars hardly mattered.

So now the two of them were at the fair. Kids' stuff… They had already celebrated their 12th birthday at Disney World. What else could impress them?

As feared, the whole fair was a pretty boring affair. They even had no fun attacking small children in the bumper cars. Nevertheless, they behaved as if they owned everything here. They let every member of staff know what they thought of the underprivileged people here: NOTHING! And they didn't let people they didn't think much of say anything to them either. They didn't care about rules. And if someone reprimanded them for it, they didn't care either. They were both Upper Eastside. And the others there were Staten Island.

“Hey guys!” they heard a voice from behind them. “A number of colleagues and guests have complained about you. Behave yourselves, or I'll have to expel you from the fair!” Robert and Melvyn turned around. Who dared to speak to them like that? The guy who had dared to do that was obviously Staten Island or worse. A lowlife who spent too much time in the gym or working hard. Maybe only five or six years older than them. But from a different world. He smelled like an ordinary cologne, was dressed the way you might expect someone who worked the carnival to be dressed. His heavy chain screamed “fake”. But his eyes! Piercing blue. Almost hynotizing!

“Listen, you asshole, we're guests and we're not going to let someone like you tell us anything anyway!” said Melvyn. Robert laughed, held out 50 dollars to the guy and said, “That's enough for you to stop bothering us?" The guy smiled. Well, his mouth was smiling. His piercing blue eyes didn't. Robert and Melvyn had messed with the wrong guy. Kyle was Daz's right-hand man. Kyle knew his way around the fair almost as well as Daz, who was the undisputed ruler here. And Daz had given Kyle a free hand in how to deal with the two troublemakers. They had a special way of solving such problems here.

“Guys, maybe we just got off to a bad start. Let's forget what happened.” Kyle continued to smile his ice-cold smile. “I'm the boss of the ghost train here. There's a special ride for special guests only. It would be a pleasure to invite you. He held out two plastic chips with “VIP” written on them. Ghost train...! What a pathetic amusement. But it was cool to see how quickly this bastard caved in to them. He was scum. And Robert and Melvyn were the bosses! So they graciously took the chips and followed Kyle to the ghost train.

It was a terribly boring ride. Only small children would be scared of something like that. Robert and Melvyn were glad when the ride was over and the barrier of their little gondola opened again. They headed for the exit. Suddenly a door slammed shut in front of them. And a hidden wallpaper door creaked open. This had to be the part with the special tour. But here too: Boring effects. Some of them were obviously broken. And the dust and cobwebs seemed to be real. Robert and Melvyn stood in front of a picture with the caption “Your greatest horror”. Well, yes. Greatest horror. It showed two young men with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Robert and Melvyn weren't afraid of people like that. They ignored people like that. Next to the picture was a mirror. It was labeled “Your future”. Robert and Melvyn saw two young men with cheap clothes, a cheap haircut and obviously no future. Damn! Robert grabbed his face and his reflection did the same.

Robert and Melvyn looked at each other and turned pale. They looked like scum working at the fair. Cheap faux-leather clothes, chavish haircuts. But fit, athletic bodies. “Dude, what do you look like?” Robert wanted to ask. But instead he said “Yo, what do you look like, huh?”. And he spoke in a heavy New Jersey accent. “Yo, we gotta bounce, like, right now! We gotta skedaddle outta here!” Melvyn replied. And his accent was just as heavy!

In a panic, they both looked for the exit. They found themselves behind the ghost train. Above the exit was a sign that read “Employees only”. Darren tried to open the door. Melvyn rattled the handle. A man opened it for him. Behind the door was a small staff lounge. The man asked him if they wanted to apply for the job of young man traveling with the fair. The two ran off in a panic.

“Yo, buddy, you got any smokes or what?” asked Robert Melvyn. Neither of them had ever smoked in their lives. But their nicotine-yellow fingers now spoke a different language. Melvyn looked in the breast pocket of his leatherette vest. There were exactly two cigarettes left in the crumpled pack of filterless Marlboros. Robert took his Zippo out of his trouser pocket. Damn, that felt good!

“Oi, you muppets! How long are you gonna lounge about? Mel, get your butt to the dodgy car ticket stand! And Rob, shift that rubbish from the beer tent, yeah?!” Shit, if Kyle was in a bad mood, he'd just fuck them both hard again. Sure, it wouldn't be that bad. But there was no money in getting fucked. Mel and Rob finished their fags and trudged off to their chores. While Rob dragged the garbage bags to the bins, he wondered for a moment why he was doing this. Wasn't he actually here to have fun? He heard Mel's hoarse voice shouting through the loudspeaker “Oi, lads and lasses, next shindig's 'round the corner! Come and have a right laugh like ya ain't never had before. Let's hit it, yeah? WILD TIMES AHEAD!” It was clear that Mel had got the better job again. He had probably blown Daz or Kyle earlier. Shit, he could do with another fag already.

Rob and Mel were not the smartest employees at the fair. But they could get stuck in and work hard. They had lived in a caravan with Rob's stepbrother Kyle since they were kids. The fact that they were only stepbrothers had the advantage that they could fuck without any problems. And Mel, as a distant cousin or something, who had lost his parents at an early age and moved in with his godfather Daz, was free as a bird anyway. Shit, he'd already had every showman's cock in his face at the funfair. But preferably Daz's. And that gave him a certain special position.

Unlike Kyle and Daz, Rob and Mel weren't lead wolves even after years. But at least visually they could pass for alphas. They loved life at the fair. They wouldn't trade places with the snobs running around at the annual Newport Beach funfair for the world. Mel imagined Rob with silky hair and a polo shirt when he saw a youngster like that running past him. The youngster looked disdainful. Mel snorted. No, his best buddy was more of the bald-and-naked-upper-body type. Thank God!

[marauder-misprint]

Charms

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Sirius Black x Fem!Slytherin!reader

1.5k words

cw: fluff

After lunch, you had a free period. You had gotten comfortable in a bay window with a book and it didn’t take long for one of Hogwarts’ strays to find you. You had started with just absentmindedly petting it, but then it curled up in your lap and fell asleep. You both loved and hated how content it looked snoozing away. You groaned when the bells chimed to signal the end of the period. You couldn’t move, not with a sleeping cat in your lap. How could you disturb its rest? 

You sigh. At least it’s only Charms. You accept your position and continue to read. You’re certain that Pandora or Dorcas will take notes when they notice you’re not there. If worse comes to worst, you could see if Evan or anyone else has notes. Or you could have Dorcas ask Marlene for Lily’s notes. Staying with the cat seemed more acceptable with each person you added to the list of possibly having notes. For all you know, Professor Flitwick could be reviewing a spell you’ve already mastered and you’d be bored out of your mind anyways. Yes, staying here and letting the small creature remain unbothered was okay. 

Sirius, who had gotten better at sneaking glances at you during the classes you shared, notices right away when you aren’t in your seat next to Pandora when Charms starts. As much as he wants to point it out to his friends and get their opinions on where you might be, he doesn’t. If he did, he’d endure more teasing about “still being intrigued” by you. He was. He just doesn’t want to deal with his friends right now. 

Despite knowing you aren’t there, Sirius continues to glance toward Pandora throughout the class. He also looks at the door. He’s hoping you’ll walk in with some excuse for being late, but you never do. Sirius has never found it so difficult to pay attention in class. He really hopes that his friends don’t notice him scanning the room and ask him what he’s looking for. Still intrigued. He wasn’t sure if this intrigue was developing into something more. Interest. More than interest. He felt a need to get to know you better. To get you to like him. You were a dog person after all. You should like him. 

After class, rather than heading straight to his next lesson, he looks around the corridors a bit. He’s looking for you, but if anyone dared to ask, he would claim to be looking for a dropped quill or something. Is a quill a believable thing to be searching for? If he dropped an ink pot, that would break. Maybe a misplaced textbook? He’s still thinking of possible excuses for what he was looking for when he spots the real thing: you. Your hair seems to glow in the sunlight from the window where you’re sitting, book in hand and cat in lap. Of course you had an animal with you.

“Ah, there you are!” Sirius exclaims, strolling toward you. “You missed Charms!”

You tilt your head, looking up at the voice. 

“Have you come to give me your notes?”

“Do I look like I take notes?”

“No, but looks can be deceiving.”

A crooked smile appears on his face. 

“And how do I look, darling?” He strikes a pose, earning an eye roll from you.

“Like a pompous arse who doesn’t have notes to offer me?”

“Hmm, not the answer I was going for.”

You snort a laugh, which slightly disturbs the cat still sleeping in your lap but it adjusts and falls right back asleep.

“What do you want to hear? Oh, Sirius, you’re so dreamy and fit and charming and dashing,” you say in your falsetto.

Sirius laughs and leans against the wall near your feet. 

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Then go find your fan club. They’ll tell you that.”

You turn back to your book, hoping he’ll leave. He doesn’t.

“Are you not in my fan club?” he asks, tapping your shoe with his finger. 

“No. Never have been,” you say. Your eyes are glued to the pages of your book. 

“It’s always accepting new members.”

You look up at Sirius with an annoyed look, which softens quickly when you see Regulus approaching from behind him. 

“Reggie!” you call with a wave.

Sirius spins around, coming face to face with his brother.

“Sirius,” Regulus greets his brother coldly. His tone warms when he looks back to you. “I have bad news for you.”

You groan. “It’s formal?”

He nods and Sirius looks confused.

“What’s formal?”

“You’re still coming, right?” Regulus asks you, his eyes pleading you to say yes. “Please?”

“Yes, I’m still coming,” you say and his face lights up. “But! You’re coming dress shopping with me.”

His face falls. “Why?”

“Because I’m not taking Dorcas or Pandora.”

“What do you need a dress for?” Sirius asks. 

His interest in whatever his brother has invited you to is growing. What event was Regulus taking you to that you needed to wear a dress? He was amused that you would be dragging his brother shopping for said event. That unnerving feeling that he had in his stomach a few days ago outside returned as he thought of you twirling in a dress in front of Regulus for his opinion. 

Regulus shot Sirius an annoyed look, as if saying it wasn’t any of his business. 

“Just a Slug Club thing,” you say, waving your hand dismissively at Sirius. “So, Reg, we’ll go to Hogsmeade this weekend, yeah?”

Sirius didn’t wait for Regulus’ answer. He left you two with his mind spinning on how he could be invited to this Slub Club thing. Who did he know that was in Slug Club and would likely not already have a date picked out? 

“Yeah, this weekend works,” Regulus says. He pauses as he turns to see how far away Sirius had gone. “Why was he here?”

You shrug. “Don’t know. Thought he was maybe going to offer me notes for Charms, but no.”

“You were here all period, weren’t you?” he asks, eying the sleeping cat.

“Little thing is just so comfortable. You can’t blame me!”

“You’re unbelievable sometimes, you know that, right?”

“It was just Charms!” you exclaim. 

“And you skipped it.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What do you have next?”

“Transfiguration…”

Regulus gives you a small smile before he scoops up the cat. It chirps with wide eyes at the sudden movement. He gently places it on the ground and it runs away. 

“Come on,” he says, grabbing your hands. “Let’s get you to Transfiguration.”

“But!”

“No buts! As your friend, I can’t let you skip classes all day because a cat was sleeping.”

“Regulus,” you whine.

“I won’t hear it,” he says definitively. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Doubtful,” you grumble but now that you’re standing, you let Regulus lead you to your next class. 

---

It hits Sirius after dinner when he’s in the Gryffindor Common Room. Lily is in Slug Club. Despite all of James’ attempts, she is very single and likely needs a date to the party. She could be his way in. He was fairly certain he hadn’t seen her buddying up to any guy recently. He approaches the table where she’s sitting with Mary and Marlene. He puts a genuine smile, hoping it helps his cause.  

“Evans! You know how we’re best friends, yeah?” 

“Words never used to describe us, but go on,” Lily laughs as she looks up from her homework. 

“I’ve decided that I’ll be your date to Slughorn’s party.”

She looks at him with a confused expression.

“You’ve decided?”

“Yes.” 

“And you want to go to that?”

“Yes.” 

“Do I want to know why? Usually people not in Slug Club are more than glad not to go,” she says.

He presses his hands on the table and leans forward. “I just need to be there.”

“Need to, huh? Would you behave?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t believe you, Black.”

“What would I even do?”

“I don’t know. Prank Severus or something stupid.”

“I thought you didn’t like him anymore,” Sirius says, his brows scrunching together in confusion.

“I don’t,” Lily says pointedly. “But that doesn’t mean I want my guest at Slughorn’s party to be causing a scene. It’s my image on the line.”

“I promise I’ll be on my very best behavior.” SIrius looks around the common room. “I swear it on Remus’ books, James’ broom, Peter’s wizards’ chess and my hair.”

“You almost have to say yes now,” Mary says with a giggle. “He swore on his hair and I want to see what happens when he fucks it up.”

“I won’t!” he asserts. 

“I suppose it saves me from actually asking someone… Alright, Black. You can come.” She pauses and looks Sirius up and down. “You know you have to dress up, right?”

He nods and smiles at her. “That’s part of why I need to go.”

Lily exchanges glances with Marlene and Mary as Sirius returns to where his friends are gathered near the fire. 

“You’ll have to give us a play-by-play. Black needing to go to Sluggy’s party?” Marlene tells Lily. 

“Do you have any idea what that’s about?” Mary asks.

Lily shakes her head with a sigh. “No… I just hope I don’t regret it.”

tags: @2dloveshp, @yearninglustfully, @made-for-oliverwood, @ilovejamespottersomuch, @hisparentsgallerryy, @itsseaberri, @corawithfanfiction, @devilslittlehelper, @jllyunn, @barnes70stark

[inkyarcturus]

I think there’s two ways that Harry could react to this continued mistreatment, implosion or explosion. While I love a good implosion, I think that’s a lil too much angst for the night, so explosion it is >:D (I gave u some fluff at the end)

Harry’s jealousy starts getting the better of him. He starts screaming a lil louder, mouthing off more often, disobeying Severus more.

It starts slow with Harry muttering more insults under his breath, it becomes automatic whenever he sees Severus treating one of the other kiddos.

Then, he starts rolling his eyes, sighing, huffing, nearly stomping like a child whenever Severus does something. He recognizes how infantile it all is but he just can’t seem to stop himself.

Then he starts insulting him in his face, purposefully putting the wrong ingredient in while brewing, turning in poor work, coming in late to class more often than not.

At some point he stops thinking of this as retribution for the pain hes caused/missing Harry’s abuse, or as a way of protecting his friends, and instead starts seeing it as more a desperate cry for help.

A desperate “HEY LOOK AT ME!!! IM BEING A PROBLEM, WILL YOU HELP ME NOW?”

Throughout the entire time, Hermione is watching this unfold with keen eyes. She tries warning Snape, he does not listen.

It gets so bad he starts trying to get Ron and Nev to stop going to the lil check up meetings the Snape has for them throughout the year. He notices how much he’s changed and all it does is make the feelings feel bigger and worse. He is tearing everyone else apart and himself in the process.

Everything comes to a head when Snape catches one of his comments while helping Nev. Snape asked Nev to stay after class to check up on him. They had just got done with a potions class where the two of them partnered up together and their potion exploded, causing them to get harsh burns on their arms. Harry quickly hides that he was affected by the explosion.

Snape only asks Nev to stay after, not Harry. Harry stays anyways, stalling to watch as Snape grabs some burn ointment to help Nev.

“It doesn’t hurt THAT bad, it’s just some burns you don’t have to heal him.”

Fuck.

Snapes head snaps up at him and he glares.

Double fuck.

Harry winces at his own words, still pulling down his sleeves so the burns don’t show. He regrets it as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Cuz he has the same burns as Nev and he knows they hurt like hell, he knows his jealousy is what’s speaking.

Snape looks back at Nev, done applying the burn ointment and sends him off, voice soft. He forces Harry to stay back.

The argument is catastrophic. It includes Harry’s accidental magic going haywire, it includes screaming, crying, attempts at running and too many realizations to count on Snapes side.

While Harry tries to run out of the classroom, Snape grasps at his injured arm, causing him to yelp in pain. It’s the catalyst for Severus’s noticing. He pulls Harry back and pulls his sleeve back, revealing the burn. It’s quiet, it’s still as Severus is forced to confront his own negligence.

Then he moves, quickly as he can accioing a bottle of the burn ointment (a stronger dosage, of course potter was injured worse than Longbottom) he tries his best to calm the wriggling Harry in his grasp, softly shushing him as he puts on the ointment.

Harrys sobbing trying to deny it, screaming his frustrations over why Snape just couldn’t fucking see it dammit, it’s written in his mind, in his body, in his soul.

All the while Severus just continues to softly apologize for it all in hushed tones, continuing to apply the potions, not letting him run and hide from him this time. Because while Harry is right, in a way it was obvious the entire time, his body kept the score, but his brain just couldn’t seem to let anyone see the score board.

And in the end, It is not the best, but it is better. It is a start.

(Something something, Harry ending up on snapes lap sobbing his eyes out and Snape just letting him until he falls asleep, tension gone from his body as he finally feels safe and seen)

Tw: Child abuse

While I don’t envision Harry to be a particularly jealous person in the books, I can’t help but think about certain situations with Severitus where that emotion might come out.

I especially think about it when fanfics depict Severus as a protector for abused children in slytherin or Hogwarts as a whole. I think Harry seeing how Snape treats other children compared to him would enrage him.

Just seeing everything that he could have if things were just a little bit different, if he was sorted into slytherin, or if he just had a different father, or some other insignificant thing, he could have had the love, care and protection he always wanted. He could have had someone on his side who actually fought for him, was willing to do the hard stuff for him.

But he doesn’t just get jealous of how Snape treats other children, he gets jealous of the fact that Snape FINDS OUT about the other children’s abuse. He sees how easily Severus seems to pick up on other kids flinching, hiding injuries, or peculiar behavior, taking them aside after class within the first year, first month of school. Yet, after years of knowing him, Snape seems to have no clue. He sees that and can’t help but think why not him as well, he gets so so angry.

The anger and jealousy doesn’t stick however as he just ends up thinking maybe the way the dursleys treat him isn’t so bad, after all, if the number one person in the school for detecting abuse can’t see it, maybe it’s not actually abuse. And anyways, he should be grateful the other kids have someone to go to.

And somewhere deep down he thinks it’s his fault, because he has gotten rather good at covering up their tracks over the years. How can he blame the Professor when he purposefully hides the evidence?

Anyways hope yall enjoyed this rant :D

[sahisan]

damn you for your chuuya being a literal heated blanket hcs because all I can think about now is how lovely of a cuddle partner he's gonna be and just the idea of melting into that comfort every time you go to bed aghh. Of completely suffocating him as you wrap yourself flush up against his body at every opportunity you get just because you can and no, he is not getting away, sorry babe

ma'am i am not okay, thanks for this

a heated blanket/heater chuuya ceo here !! hehe we all here loooove heated-blanket-slash-walking-heater chuuya because why not make a fiery redhead a literal walking fire as a cheery on top?

about the every opportunity you get— oh i bet he's already expecting what he's gonna have to endure once you start teasing him about his warmness and cling to him every possible moment—he's absolutely fine with the latter though.

he very quickly learns you like the mix of the heat and the cuddles when you start walking into his office at home when he's still working late at night and drowning himself in some reports he has to get reviewed rather urgently and just wrap yourself over him like a literal koala (he absolutely starts calling you his little koala every chance he gets to tease you back), making yourself careful on his lap with your face buried thoroughly in the crook of his neck with your arms around it in a circle from which he has no way out—and from the entire hug as well. not that he ever wanted an out, of course. he just makes sure to move your hair out of his face to be able to read the documents clearly and promises himself—and a sleepy you in his lap—to finish quicker so that you two could continue the cuddling already in bed. and this one particular position of a koala around him gives him the best opportunity to sense when you've loosened your hold around him and all in all relaxed, signalling that you've dozed off to sleep—it's like a mental clock to him to wrap the work up and carry you to bed so you two could continue cuddling there.

it's better when it's winter. you don't need extra layers anymore when you start living with chuuya—and it's absolutely not because of his floor heating. you can just absorb his heat by literally walking beside him—it's like an aura that radiates off of him. you're there, curled into him when you two watch the tv, cuddled on the couch—you don't even need blankets anymore, because right beside you is the best heater that ever existed.

it's worse when it's summer. summer in yokohama is humid and unbelievably hot, with sweat already rolling down your face and body and infecting your lightest clothes in the view of wet patches on your back and armpits, and during that time you actually try to somehow stop the cuddling for a while, as unfortunate as it may seem, because if during that heat you were going to hug an equally hot redhead living with you, it would actually be the end; like betelgeuse exploding and going supernova.

the withholding doesn't last long though. you're back at hugging chuuya by the time the temperature is down by a few degrees—it's not an exactly sensitive change in weather, but you can bear with it as long as you have some iced water by your side.

you genuinely don't understand how chuuya doesn't sweat in all these clothes he always wears. for as long as you remember him, he's always had layers and layers of clothes—an undershirt, a shirt, a harness, a vest, a cropped jacket, a coat and gloves on top of all that. in all honesty, you do not understand the man. you're pretty sure he could be walking outside in only briefs when it's -20C° and not be bothered a single damn moment.

well, at least it's convenient, not only for him but for you too.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Sick and Full of Pride

Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, fluff, mutual pining, smut, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: You, Dean, and a sleeping Sam drive back to the bunker. Usual Warnings, plus light smut.

Author's Note: Dean driving does Things to me have a whole chapter with it.

Title from Drive by Halsey

Word Count: 5k

Read on A03!

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

You’ve been in the car for almost eleven hours. The drive home was supposed to be eight, Dean is by no means going slow, and—as he’s told you many, many times—he doesn’t get lost, so you’re starting to suspect that you won’t be home any time soon.

As such, you’re now trying to find a reason to very casually and inconspicuously bring up that, if you’re looking at another three hours in the Impala, you’d appreciate it if you and Dean could make the team effort to kick Sam into the back so you can move to shotgun. You rarely get the opportunity—it arises exclusively when Sam wants to sprawl across the larger bench, you made Dean pie to get on his good side, or Dean and Sam are fighting, so Sam loses shotgun privileges—so you plan to take full advantage of this one.

Dean beats you to it. He’s been drumming on the wheel for about an hour in a beat you can’t find any real pattern to, he keeps shifting in his seat, and when he meets your eyes in the rearview mirror, there’s something that’s not quite stress—but close to it—on his face.

“Do you, uh, you wanna come up here?”

You blink, leaning forward between the seats to whisper in his ear. Don’t want to wake up Sam, and, really, any excuse to whisper with Dean is one you’ll take. “Yeah, but,” you glance at the sleeping lump of Sam. “What about Goliath?”

Dean shrugs. “He can sleep in the back. He’s lanky,” Dean says your name, shooting you a small grin, and you almost fall forward. “And I want you up here.”

“Oh.” You flush, but force yourself not to read into it. Sam’s asleep. Asleep people are worse company than awake people. “Okay.”

“You’ll talk to me, right? Up here?”

He sounds a little nervous, and your words fall out in a rush of reassurance. “Of course I’ll talk to you. I lo-” You catch yourself, and focus your attention on a dial on the dashboard as you continue. “I like talking to you. I’ll always talk to you.”

“So yeah?” Dean’s voice is casual, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s staring at the road—which he probably should’ve been doing the whole time—and his grip has become white-knuckled and tight on the wheel. “You’ll come up here?”

“If you can get Sam out, sure-“

Dean pulls off the side of the road, pushing his door open, and stomping around the hood of Baby. You’re a little dumbstruck, not entirely sure what’s happening, and a small rap of Dean’s knuckles on the window pull you back to your senses.

You push your door open, frowning up at him. “What-“

“Let’s go.” Dean’s hand moves to your arm, but he flinches back almost immediately, like you’ve burned him. Even in just the streetlights, you could swear he’s blushing. “C’mon, Sweetheart, need some backup.”

Once you’re out of the car, rubbing your arms and watching Dean and Sam exchange low words—Dean’s sounding urgent and Sam’s just sounding a little irritated—you try to look up and down the street for some clue of where you are. It’s mostly bushes, yellowing grass, and telephone poles—so literally anywhere in the Midwest—and this old dirt road isn’t really that different from any other dirt road, but it still feels familiar. Like you’ve been on it before. And the track marks on the upcoming path look suspiciously similar to the track marks behind Baby-

Sam stands up and shuffles to the backseat with a few grumbling sounds, and Dean holds the door open for you.

“M’lady.” He makes a wide, sweeping gesture to the seat, and you give him an amused, dry look as you walk up to his side, trying not to get high on how incredibly real his boyish, proud smile looks.

“You’re very cheesy sometimes, you know.”

“Yep.” He doesn’t seem bothered, and his eyes never leave yours as you climb into the seat. “Part of my charm.”

There isn’t a good answer for you to offer him that isn’t God, it really is, so you just make a half-hearted shrug and sink into yourself, letting Dean close the door and return to the wheel.

The first few minutes are silent, and the longer you look at the passing fields, the more you feel like you’ve seen them before.

“Hey, Dean?”

He hums, and you turn your head to see his gaze flicking between you and the road.

“Do you know how much longer we have left? Before we’re home?”

“Few hours.” He shrugs, and it’s a loose movement, which is a good sign. “Traffic’s a bitch.”

You glance out the windshield to the completely empty, dark street. “Traffic.”

“Yep.”

It’s not worth pushing him on. You’re fine here—you’re fine anywhere if you’re next to Dean—and Sam looks a little more comfortable, so if the drive ends up going until morning, you won’t care that much. You might become a little more worried about Dean, but you’ve gotten used to being worried about Dean. You’d rather the worry be about he might be losing his sense of direction, or developing short-term memory loss, because we’ve definitely taken this right before instead of he’s shattering glass and doesn’t seem to do anything but look sad and it’s going to make you cry.

“So, um,” you keep your eyes on the dial from before, because looking at Dean while you talk to him is never a good idea. “You’re still feeling okay?”

“I’m feeling great. Whatever hocus pocus shit Rowena did worked wonders, Sweetheart, I’m feeling amazing.”

You smile, and something that’s been tight around your heart for months loosens. “That’s really good, Dean. I know you didn’t want to try this, but-“

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” You see another loose shrug in your periphery, and your smile grows. “I gotta listen to you and Sam more, sometimes your ideas can actually be good.”

That makes you look up at him—primarily to glare—and it’s immediately a mistake. The shadows and ripples from the streetlight, cutting over his lips and jaw and cheekbones in the night, are making him look somehow more attractive, and you think it’s because of the joy. Dean’s grinning between you and the road, and there are no burdens pushing his shoulders down or weighted over his handsome features, and his whole face looks happy.

“Um,” you swallow, unable to tear your gaze away from Dean. “What’s the betterlust feel like? What does it want?”

Dean pauses, and he clears his throat in a deep, rough sound that is incredibly unproductive for actually focusing on his words.

“Feels like the bloodlust, I guess. I don’t, uh, it’s like a hunger.” Dean runs one hand carefully over the wheel, glancing at you with darkened eyes you can’t read, but want to watch you forever. “But for really specific things. And if it doesn’t get those things, I get…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly. “I feel like shit.”

“Like a craving?”

“Exactly like a craving.” Dean shoots you a grin that’s all pleased teeth, and you couldn’t look away from him if you tried. “Kinda like when we’re on a stakeout and suddenly you want a burrito, and if we don’t get you a burrito you start to get all mean and whiny.”

“I do not get mean or whiny-“

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “You get very mean and whiny. I ain’t gonna forget when you threatened to castrate Sam because he brought you a salad.”

“And I won’t forget that you backed me up, Winchester. You offered to get my knife.”

“Because you were being mean and whiny, and I’m not looking to ever get castrated.” He gives a fake, overdramatic shutter. “The loss of Dean Jr. would hit many people very hard.”

You flush, whacking his arm. “Asshole, I was not going to castrate you-“

“You would.” He shoots you a wink. “But don’t worry about it. I appeased the monster, and everything’s intact and functional down there.”

It takes effort to roll your eyes, because you know he’s not even taunting you on purpose. Dean has no way to know that you’d never castrate him—you probably weren’t going to castrate Sam either, the point was more to put the fear of God in him for thinking salad was an acceptable alternative to burrito—because the monster he was teasing you about lived in your abdomen and only roared for him. It reared it’s head at the deep, rolling sound of Dean’s voice, grew warm and sensitive at every brush of a big, rough hand on your skin, and was fed by any sliver or scrap of attention he threw you. The only way to truly appease the monster was to let it out of where you’d trapped and desperately ignored it, and the only way to let it out was for Dean to look at you, and not stop.

But you’d learned to deal with that. As long as the monster was tended to, kept in line and from falling out of your mouth with a shout of Dean! I love you! Please look at me, because I really, really love you! You’d be fine.

“Fine.” You sigh. “I’ll give you mean, but I have never been whiny in my life-“

He gives you a flat look of amusement. “You’re a little whiny right now, Sweetheart.”

There’s no way for you to win this argument, Dean’s backed you into a corner you’re more than happy to be in—it means he’s smirking at you, unbelievably pleased with himself, and he’s drumming on the wheel again—so you just roll your eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Uh huh.”

You flip him off, he lets out a loud laugh, causing Sam to stir in the back seat.

“Dean,” you hiss, your hand shooting up to cover his mouth. “Quiet-“

He scoffs, pulling your hand down. “Sam’ll be fine, he’s slept through more than me laughing. Don’t know where the hell his hunter instincts go when he knocks out, but nothing short of a hurricane is gonna wake him up now.”

“I know that, I’m just,” you glance at your hand, back in your laps as still buzzing where your palm had covered Dean��s lips. “He’s been really tired.”

Dean’s grin drops slightly, eyes flicking between you and the road. “What about you.”

“What about me?”

“Are you tired?”

You pause, trying to get a read on your own body. Your eyelids do feel heavy, and your body does have that strained feeling of exhaustion between your muscles and bones, but you’ve been more tired. And moments like this—just you and Dean, talking without any worries or sadness or pain—are so rare, you don’t want to miss any of it.

“I guess. But-“

“Get some sleep,” Dean says your name in a stern voice, his attention fixed back onto the road. “We’ll be home soon.”

You blink at him, and realize he’s taking the first left turn in almost three hours. “I’m fine, Dean-“

“You and Sam have been working overtime for me,” he grunts, shooting you a firm look that’s not angry, but firm. “You both deserve some rest. I’ll get you up when we’re back.”

You’re going to argue—to push back and try to explain that you can sleep later, you’re not really that tired and you’d choose talking to Dean over almost anything—but he turns up the music and that’s it. You’re not moving him on this, and if he thinks you need rest, he won’t talk to you until he deems you’ve rested.

It’s insufferable, and annoying, and so fucking impossible to fight with how he won’t stop looking at you with concern, until you sigh, curl into your seat, and pretend to close your eyes.

You’ve gotten good at faking sleep around Dean. At keeping your eyes just open enough to watch him like, admittedly, a creep, and savoring the moments where he’s just himself. He’s not trying to perform the big hero and protector and fighter role for you and Sam that he’s so good at—despite what he seems to think—because you and Sam are both, allegedly, asleep.

Well, Sam’s definitely asleep. But you’re drifting, toeing the careful line between the hazy fantasies that run through your head on loop and the reality of Dean, right next to you and so damn pretty.

He’s always so pretty, and right now he’s alive. He’s purely Dean—entirely himself, which is and always has been more than enough—and it makes his every movement electric. Every dart of his tongue over his lips—pink and full and probably soft and well fit on your own—makes you salivate, and that makes you wish he’d run a broad, thick finger over your mouth, wiping away the slight drool.

He’s drumming on the wheel again, and it turns into some sort of rhythmic lullaby, moving you higher and higher until everything is Dean.

It’s his strong, firm arms wrapping around you and flexing as he moves the wheel, and pinning your hands above your head with big, calloused hands you could swear keep brushing over your cheeks. It’s those lips that drive you insane pressing small, soft kisses all over your body before moving to your lips and turning desperate and rough. Dean’s tongue down your throat and his nose suddenly bumping against your clit.

He’s moved, down, down, down your body—you can feel marks that never really formed but are still sensitive and blissful from Dean’s presence—and suddenly you’re so needy you might die from it. You can still see Dean—the actual Dean, his eyes locked on the road in reality but focusing only on you in your head—and you can’t focus on anything else. His hands gripping the wheel are suddenly holding and kneading at your hips, but still deep inside you, pumping in and out in the same rhythm of the song.

It’s mostly fantasy now. You can smell the leather and whiskey and amber of Dean, your Dean—not your Dean, not your anything unless it’s here, in your half-dreams—and hear his humming, feel the heat radiating off his body. And it’s all feeding into each other, and now you’ll never come down. It will just keep being Dean’s hands on you—tossing you around like a ragdoll but touching your skin in a way that’s painfully careful—and body caging yours in. His full lips sucking and nipping at your neck and breasts and inner thighs, his tongue flicking at your nipples and clit and running over your teeth. Dean hold you down, up, under him or above him or against him, touching you however he wants because God, you’re not needy and desperate by any means but it would feel so good for him to use you. To be the cause of his post-sex swagger walk—as you and Sam have deemed it—or receive one of those cocky winks over breakfast. To hear him praise you, or praise him, or do anything he asks because he always does most anything for you.

Except this. This one thing—playing with you until you’re screaming his name and seeing stars—is the only thing Dean hasn’t done for you. Won’t do for you. You’ll never ask of it, you won’t be able to handle it when he says no aloud in a deep, gruff apology, and so you’ll just live here. In fantasy, where Dean’s attention is fixed on you and never strays. Because in this fake world, it’s only you and Dean, and you could like that forever.

And, right before sleep pulls you under, you could swear that Dean’s eyes on your are deep and blown-out with hunger, and realer than anything else in the world.

——————

Dean was starting to get the hang of this. It was surprisingly easy to do most of what the betterlust demanded, because they were things Dean already did all the damn time. Driving was an obvious one that he’d latched onto almost immediately—something in Dean’s brain had always felt a little easier to live with when he drove, and his hands never felt dirty when he was holding Baby’s wheel—and was easy to feed. Dean had to drive, because that’s how they got around. She and Sam knew him well enough to not try and ask and drive themselves, and it was part of Dean’s job to drive them between cases and the bunker, so satisfying the betterlust had pretty much been handed to him as a quick, easy fix.

But the trick seemed to be not feeding it too much. Taking just enough to satiate the betterlust into something that didn’t make him feel sick and hot, but keeping it from going overboard, because it was really fucking easy to go overboard. To get in the car and know that the drive could be short, but Sam had knocked himself out and She probably wouldn’t be far behind, so if Dean missed two or three turns or drove in an overly complex circle for two hours, nobody would stop him. They were only an hour from the bunker, nobody seemed to be upset by the additional time in Baby, and driving sent Dean’s head into some sort of humming, blissful joy he’d never felt in his damn life. It was like the quiet ease of driving had been duplicated, amplified, then shot right into his blood.

And two or three turns turned into nine or ten, and two hours became four. And She didn’t fall asleep, and the betterlust started to get hungry again. He couldn’t stop glancing in the rearview mirror at Her drop-dead gorgeous face that couldn’t be his, and wanting her. Wanting Her to say one word to him, or smile at him, or sit just a little closer so he could offer the betterlust something. Anything that wasn’t this starving, tortuous, ugly need for Her. Closer closer closer, never close enough and She needs to be closer so Dean doesn’t rip off his own skin from how it’s boiling or pull out his tongue because it’s starting to cave in with words he’s not allowed to say.

Dean didn’t trust himself to talk to Her, but the longer she was awake, within his reach, and invading his head with Her everything, the closer he felt going batshit insane. He had to keep himself in fucking check, and figure out what he could be allowed to do with this.

He could not be allowed to touch Her. Touching Her was dangerous. Touching Her made this high feel like he’d died in the best way possible. Touching Her was like all the simple easy of driving and the sweet taste of pie and humming strength of a good drum line in a song that pounded in Dean’s chest were rolled into one thing that was soft and warm and just real good. The betterlust fall entirely silent just when his hand brushed against Her’s, then became loud and feral when the contact was taken away. Touching Her was so good that it made everything else became pointless. Touching Her was the best, so Dean could not be allowed to touch Her because then he’d never stop.

And this wasn’t dangerous. It was just driving, and everyone knew Dean loved driving, and Dean felt like he could walk away from this. That, when they parked and She and Sam shuffled back inside, Dean was strong enough to ignore the hungry voice in his head and itch in his hands to just start driving again. Just like how he’d eat a cheeseburger, but he didn’t always need to eat a cheeseburger. He’d eat pie, and then walk away. Dean could control this. The betterlust was easy to feed, and better to feed—She’d really nailed it on the head with that—and nobody got hurt.

As long as Dean kept himself under control, nobody got hurt.

So Dean could talk to Her. Be near Her with the knowledge that, if he let his gaze linger on Her peaceful, sleeping face for too long, he’d be more of a goner than he already was and never be able to look away. It was safe to do in the car, where he could pull his attention away because of safety and immediately offer the betterlust some more driving the fill the loss of Her. Dean could keep driving, and look at Her in moderation, and nobody would have to freak out about certain people being in love with certain other people, or an annoying, third person who was a massive lump in Baby’s back seat getting a smug I told you so face.

Sam was wrong, though. There wouldn’t be anything to be smug about with Her and Dean, because Sam was wrong. As they neared the bunker—for real this time—it was just Dean, the rumble of the engine, and the music, Dean fell further into his head. Usually the music could drown his thoughts out, but the betterlust was so determined to have Her that he needed to grab it and shout that having Her wasn’t a fucking option. Dean could offer the betterlust whatever it wanted, except Her. He tried to reason with it—She’s too good, Dean isn’t close to good enough, and She doesn’t want him so he can’t lose her over something dumb like feelings—but it didn’t seem interested in Dean’s flawless, rational logic. The betterlust just wanted Her in every way possible, and Dean couldn’t get Her, and this might be worse than the bloodlust. This was unfixable, and Dean wanted it just as much as the betterlust, and his chest was going to cave in on itself and take his heart down into his stomach, pressing it to tiny pieces and pushing it out so everyone could see how little control Dean had over his own goddamn body.

He’d have to get through this. They were only ten minutes from the bunker, and he’d work out how to see Her in moderation, and She wouldn’t get uncomfortable from how much of a sick, twisted, perverted son of a bitch he was, and he’d have Her as he was allowed to and never lose Her. He’d do every other thing that fed the betterlust, and nobody had to get hurt. The whole point of this was to stop the hurt, so Dean would get a fucking grip and live with what She and Sam had worked so hard to get him.

Then She started moaning. Dean thought it was just a noise of discomfort at first—he even slowed down so he didn’t disturb Her—but then she did it again, and it was breathless and needy and he was going to die. He could feel his face turn red, feel how his jeans were suddenly painful to wear and all the blood in his body was focused and throbbing where Dean needed Her, and all his plans of keep Her close but still at a manageable distance went out the window. Her lips were parted as Her breathing became heavy, She was squirming slightly in the seat under the touch of whatever the hell was doing that to her in her dreams, and Dean might have be forced to jump out of the car if he wasn’t already pulling into the bunker.

There was a long moment—right after he turned off the engine—where the only sounds were Sam’s snoring and Her moaning, and Dean wondered if this was hell. If Rowena had actually just killed him in that kiddie pool, and he was being tortured with Her looking and sounding and being like something he wanted to eat but was just out of his reach, all while his little brother slept in the back seat.

Dean adjusted himself in his seat—hiding his boner from Her view and blocking Her from Sam’s—and cleared his throat as loud as he possibly could.

Her eyes blinked open—hazy and blown out from either sleep or Her dream—and even Her adorable, sleepy yawn made Dean twitch in his pants.

“Hey,” She rolled a little onto her side, pushing herself upright, and Her voice sounded airy and soft and Dean could not look Her in the eyes. “Are we home?”

Dean grunted, nodding, and he had to get out of here. If he didn’t, he’d either kiss Her or explode. “Just parked,” he muttered, clenching his fists on Baby’s wheel in a slow pattern that usually calmed him down, but right now was doing jack shit. “Gonna go get some food.”

She hummed, leaning forward into Dean’s periphery with an expression he recognized as Her Dean, please be okay one. She was trying to kill him.

“Are you-“

“I’m fine. Hungry.” That wasn’t a lie. Dean was starving, just for something that wasn’t exactly food. It was right at his side, and probably wet and bitter in a way that would be so fucking good, and moan and whimper like a song, would shiver at his touch and grind on his hands and face and cock and-

He had to get out of here.

“Got pie in the freezer,” Dean said, pushing Baby’s door open in the way that he always yelled at Sam about. Too rough and reckless, practically punching her open, and he didn’t have the time to chastise himself or apologize to his car, because he had to go. “Wake up Sam for me.”

“Dean-“

“I said I’m good.”

“I know, but can you, can you please just look at me-“

Dean’s head turned of its own will, and it was the biggest mistake of his life. Her face was still slightly flushed, and she looked so nervous and worried, and her eyes were scanning over his face the same way they did in his dreams. Where he’d be covered in blood, and She’d look him over with care that never seemed to waver with doubt, and guide him into the shower. Strip them both, pull Dean under clear, steaming water and kiss him as all the blood was washed away. He’d be allowed to roll Her nipples between his fingers, and shove his knee between her thighs, and kiss Her until she said his name-

“Dean-“

He had to shake his head, force the spell of Her out of his vision and head and blood, and grab the betterlust by the throat to stop it from grabbing Her face and pulling it to his. She wouldn’t want that, and She shouldn’t do things she didn’t want to do, and Dean couldn’t be near Her like this. He still couldn’t control himself, and all of this had been a mistake because he could hurt something bad and sit in the guilt and hatred but still have Her, but now he couldn’t have Her at all.

He wasn’t even sure what his excuse was, but within the next ten seconds he was half running out of the garage, into the bunker, and locking himself in his room like some sort of feral animal. A beast that had to lock itself away from the people he loved, because they didn’t deserve him and he couldn’t force them to do more for him, and couldn’t stand to ask for what he wanted and be denied.

But he could get control back. He could find the smaller things that the betterlust wanted and keep feeding them. Drive and eat and maybe watching some fucking TV. Listen to music until he went deaf and work on Baby and stay the hell away from Her. She was dangerous to him. Not Her herself—She was awesome and cool and hot and Dean wanted Her on his face or lap or under his body, which was the problem—but the way the betterlust seemed to tunnel vision onto Her. The way Dean would just look at Her and his whole body would start to ache and boil and twist until he was talking to Her. And the more he spoke to Her the more he needed to touch her, and a little more control would slip, and eventually he’d just be unable to leave her side.

The distance was going to hurt Dean more than Her anyway. He’d figure out how to control this and immediately seek Her out when he did—She probably wouldn’t even notice he was avoiding Her—but until then he had to stay away. He’d agreed to this for things to be easier, not for himself, but for Her and Sam.

Staying away from Her would be easier for everyone. No complicated, emotional, chick flick conversations. No rejection. No showing Her that he wasn’t the strong, immovable man she was friends with and being tossed out onto the curb. Dean didn’t ever want to lose Her, this would make Her walk away—She wouldn’t want him, because she’d seen every single part of him and nobody would want them all—so Dean had to keep himself under control.

And it would be fine. Dean had control now, and he could feed the betterlust with so many other things, so this would be easy.

End Note: Answer to the last note - I am incapable of writing a short and sweet chapter, I had to make the whole mini-series an extra chapter, send help.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224 @underground-secret

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @spacecowgirl126 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @lovewolfspirit

[umathurwin]

i’m the girl you’d die for

kiara carrera x rafe cameron; nsfw 18+

summary: Kiara and Rafe are locked in a Barbados villa together. Tensions are high. They share a bed. We know where this is going.

tags, warnings, and more on ao3!

Rafe, bored out of his mind, made multiple attempts to start a conversation with no success. Kiara remained committed to keeping her mouth shut, but she nervously stared at him like prey. He considered mocking her for this, but given everything he’s done to her friend group, he instead chose to let her continue ogling him and only smirked when their eyes met. Which was often.

Still, he was generous. Undressed slowly, flexing when his torso was exposed until her cheeks were red.

When the moon casted beams across the room, it was glaringly obvious to both that they needed sleeping arrangements that would invite the least amount of discomfort. “I’m a feminist. I can take the floor,” Kiara offered, breaking her silence while enviously staring at the luxurious king-size occupying the majority of the room.

He scoffed. “No, you can have the bed,” Rafe said and tossed a pillow on the ground. Kiara twisted her face up in confusion. “Are you surprised? If I banished you to the ground, my mother would turn in her grave.”

“No one’s ‘banishing’ anyone anywhere, I just think sharing would be— kind of weird, no? I’ll take it tomorrow night,” she suggested, then winced at the idea that they’d be here another day. Rafe had a similar physical reaction but said nothing, instead creating a pallet with the spare blankets and pillows.

Nothing else was said for the rest of the evening.

***

Kiara sat up, a scream still fresh on her lips. She kicked and clawed around the empty sheets, fighting off an attacker that lingered only in her dreams.

Rafe jolted awake and looked at the door, ensuring it was still shut and locked. “Kie, are you okay?” he asked, using the bedpost to bring himself to standing.

She hadn’t caught her breath yet, but still tried to explain herself. “The plane— Jimmy, he’s— fuckin’ hell,” Kiara pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to scrub the imagery out of her brain.

He was by her side in an instant, dipping into the bed on his knees. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe. It was just a nightmare.” His hand reached out to console her but he jerked back in fear of overstepping a boundary while she was still vulnerable.

“No shit, Rafe,” she bit, then looked up with wet eyes. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine. I’ve gotten worse. Are you alright?”

“Please stay with me.”

Now that he didn’t expect. Guess the weirdness be damned. “I— uh, of course. Just… try to get some rest, yeah?”

He slipped between the silk sheets, letting the plush duvet settle over his figure. Kiara remained tense until he finally placed a soft hand on her shoulder. Rafe felt her physically deflate, and his eyes widened when she rolled over and rested her head on his bare chest.

Unsure of what to do, he lay rigid as her breaths evened out into soft snores. He brought a hand to the back of her head, lightly stroking her hair as they both drifted off to sleep again.

***

She woke for the second time that night, this time without the forceful tug out of slumber. No, this time it was something much different that pulled her from her now-peaceful dreams.

His dick.

No fucking joke, she could feel him pressed up against her ass. They seemed to have shifted in the middle of the night to a spooning position, and his semi-hard cock was perfectly caught between their bodies. Her cheeks flushed at the thought of him having a pleasant enough dream to get like this, and the devil on her shoulder won.

Ever-so-carefully, she shifted backwards in an attempt to increase their contact. Once their bodies were entirely flush, she grinded back. One of his arms was tossed over her waist, and she slotted her hand over his to hold him in place.

His cock twitched, she could feel it. She knew this was really wrong, messing with him in his sleep, but she couldn’t stop. Eventually she dared to reach back and stroke over his boxers, which only made him harder.

She wasn’t sure what the endgame would be. In fact, she wasn’t really thinking at all, given that her brain had entirely shut off the moment she felt him pressing into her. Kiara figured she could keep going until she was tired enough to fall back asleep, and was perfectly content with this choice.

That is, until the man behind her started to push back against her hand. She froze like a spooked rabbit, breath catching in her throat. Kiara tried to pull her arm away, but he pinned it to her side with a grip around her waist.

Rafe snickered, pulling her snug against him. “Couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

Fuck. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Think I’d wake up? S’pretty stupid, doll,” he hummed, sleep still rasping his voice.

Her body flamed with embarrassment, thinking she would never hear the end of this. That is, until she realized he was tugging his boxers even lower to fully free himself. This is just another dream , she thought to herself. Surely Rafe isn’t about to fuck me.

Then he lined himself up with ease, simply pushing her panties to the side and gliding the tip along her wet folds. “Hope you know that if you wanted this, all you had to do was ask. Didn’t have to go violating me in my sleep.” He groaned as he guided himself inside her until the tip of his cock had disappeared within her walls. “But I won’t complain about this.”

A pathetic whine ripped from her. She pushed back to get him even deeper, and he matched her movements until his balls pressed against her clit. She clenched around him and suddenly it was him groaning, digging his fingers into her sheer nightgown.

The angle was perfect, and with every thrust he was directly hitting a spot that made her cry out. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around her body reached around her head to clamp over her mouth. “Shh, pretty girl. Don’t want the guards running in on this, do you?”

Kiara shook her head desperately.

He laughed at her whimpers, thoroughly enjoying the way she trembled in his grip. “You act like you hate me,” he chided, completely stilling his hips to her dismay. “Ignoring me. Giving me forced glares. You think I don’t see the way you look at me? Can’t believe it took you this long to do something about it, you little slut.”

She was overwhelmed to the point of tears spilling down her cheeks, and he smirked when he felt the droplets hit his hand. “Not sure why you’re crying, baby, you’re the one who wanted this.”

Kiara reached up to pull his hand from her face, just enough to choke out the words, “Rafe, please, move.”

“Now she has manners,” he teased but obeyed anyways.

He fucked her until she came, legs shaking and back arching. Rafe had to cover her mouth again to keep the noise down. He didn’t stop, even when she tried to cry out from overstimulation. The hand tucked around her waist trailed down until it was just above her mound, and he pressed in firmly.

“Feel that, doll? S’all me, making you feel so good. That’s it,” he purred, still thrusting and enjoying the feeling of her clenching and shivering in his arms.

He finished inside her, not that Kie expected any less. His hips stuttered and he dropped his head to her shoulder, trying to cover his own moans by digging his teeth into the flesh there.

They returned to silence, this time without the thick tension between them. The room seemed much cooler, despite the sweat beading on their bodies.

And with that out of their systems, the duo fell back asleep, more comfortable than either could’ve imagined.

[hoosurdaddy]

A kiss is the price to pay.

Dark!eddie munson x f!reader.

Trigger warnings: power imbalance, objectification, non consensual tension, emotional manipulation. I warned you. Your own fault if you continue.

Note: I’m not taking requests. I am just bored and haven’t been on here since forever. Idk. However this was a request I got back in like 2022-2023 or something? So credit to you

The evening at the Hawkins Fall Fair was in full swing, the air buzzing with the usual sights and sounds: the dizzying flashes of carnival lights, the deep rumble of the Ferris wheel turning, and the mingling scent of popcorn and fried dough. You had been stationed at the cheerleader's kissing booth for hours now, tasked with giving out quick pecks to random guys in exchange for five bucks, all in the name of raising money for new uniforms.

It seemed harmless enough at first—just a bit of fun, right? But by now, your face hurt from plastering on a fake smile, and your patience was running thin with every guy who lingered a little too long, or tried to sneak an extra kiss when your back was turned.

You wished you were anywhere else. Anywhere but here, stuck behind this booth, giving out kisses like they were nothing. And then, as if to make things worse, he showed up.

Eddie Munson.

You saw him lurking near the back of the line, leaning against a game booth with that signature cocky grin on his face. The one that made everyone else keep their distance, like he was some sort of rabid animal. The "freak" of Hawkins High. You didn’t have to look at the other guys to know they noticed him too. There were a few snickers, a few murmurs, and a few boys visibly shifting uncomfortably in their spots.

Eddie wasn’t the kind of guy anyone in this crowd would expect to see standing in line for a kiss from the cheerleader. Hell, even you didn’t expect him to do it.

But of course, he did.

He sauntered up to the booth with his hands in his pockets, his wild hair falling over his eyes. The smile on his face was way too confident for someone who was supposed to be the school outcast.

“Five bucks, right?” Eddie said, his voice dripping with something between amusement and challenge. He pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from his wallet and tossed it onto the table in front of you.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah, five bucks for a quick kiss."

Behind you, the line of guys waiting to get their turn shifted, their patience clearly wearing thin. They muttered under their breath, clearly annoyed that Eddie had cut to the front.

"You're really gonna kiss him?" one of them scoffed. "Why don’t you just go make out with the school mascot while you’re at it?”

You could feel their glares burning into your back. It wasn’t like you cared what they thought—you weren’t the one who’d thrown down money to kiss Eddie Munson. But you could tell it irritated them. And that made you uncomfortable.

Eddie leaned over the table, his grin widening as he met your eyes. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Too good to kiss me?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it—something deeper beneath the surface.

You tried to shake it off. “If you’re not here for a kiss, Munson, you can just leave. I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

Eddie’s smirk didn’t fade, and he didn’t move away. Instead, he slid into the chair in front of you, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, I’m definitely here for that kiss, babe,” he said, voice low and almost too intimate. “But I think you’re gonna give me a little more than what you’ve been giving the others.”

You narrowed your eyes, but Eddie’s gaze was already hard on you. "What do you mean, 'more'?" you asked, barely holding back your irritation.

He leaned closer, his breath warm on your cheek. “A kiss for a buck is too easy,” Eddie murmured. “I saved up all my money just for this moment. You’re gonna make it worth my while.” His eyes flickered to the guys behind you, and you could see the flicker of amusement on his face. “Or maybe you’re not into making it worth anything. If that’s the case, I guess I’ll just walk away.”

The sudden idea of letting him leave, of not having to deal with the awkwardness or his incessant teasing, made your heart race. You didn’t want to kiss him, not really. Not Eddie Munson. Not like this. But the idea of making the guys waiting behind you even more uncomfortable? That… didn’t sit well with you either.

Fighting back a sigh, you leaned forward and tried to make it quick—a peck, a kiss that would make him get his money's worth and move on. But as soon as your lips brushed his, Eddie’s hand shot out and caught the back of your neck, holding you there.

You tensed, trying to pull away, but he didn’t let you. The kiss deepened, slow, deliberate, like he was savoring it. His lips were soft, but his grip was firm, his other hand resting on the table as if to steady himself—or keep you in place.

You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but you couldn’t do anything but brace yourself against the table, feeling his tongue slip into your mouth. A part of you wanted to scream and slap him away, but another part—the part you hated—felt a strange pull, a dangerous excitement in the way Eddie kissed you like he was trying to own you. His fingers moved to your jaw, tilting your head, forcing you to take more of him. You could feel the annoyance from the guys in line building behind you, the tension thick in the air, but Eddie didn’t care. He was lost in it, dragging the kiss out, his lips moving with a rawness that made your heart race in a way you hated.

Finally, Eddie pulled back, breathing hard, his grin wide and unapologetic. “There we go,” he said, voice smug. “That’s the kiss I paid for. Definitely worth the five bucks.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you quickly wiped your lips, disgusted with yourself for the way you’d allowed it to happen.

“Get lost, Munson,” you spat, the anger bubbling up now, but Eddie just laughed.

“Nah, I think you like it,” he said, voice dropping low again. “You enjoyed it more than you’ll admit. But it’s okay, sweetheart, I won’t tell anyone.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, Eddie turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, heart still thudding in your chest, hands trembling.

You didn’t know what to feel. Part of you was furious, disgusted by the whole thing. The other part of you—the part you barely recognized—was shaken, hungry for something more than just a kiss. You wanted to yell, to scream at him, but instead, you felt yourself quietly watching him leave, feeling like there was more to come. You didn’t know what Eddie Munson wanted from you, but you knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

A few hours later, as the fair started winding down, you began packing up the booth, ready to escape the night and get out of your own head.

But before you could even finish, you felt a cold hand on your wrist, pulling you back. Your heart lurched in your chest as you whipped around to see Eddie standing there again, a knowing smile on his lips.

"Did you think I was done?" he asked, his voice low, almost playful. “Not even close.”

Your pulse quickened, and for a moment, you froze. Something in his eyes had changed—darker, more dangerous.

“Eddie—what do you want now?” you snapped, pulling your wrist out of his grip, but he just stepped closer.

“I told you,” he said, voice barely a whisper, “you’re not getting away that easy. I don’t think you realize just how much you owe me now.” He let out a soft laugh, something unsettling in his eyes. "And trust me, sweetheart, I’ll make sure you pay up."

Your stomach twisted. You were no longer sure if you were angry or afraid. Maybe it was both. But one thing was certain: you hadn’t heard the last of Eddie Munson.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

[ann-atar]

Thinking about the subtle presence of the powers that be and/or the Valar in Rings of Power, and having thoughts about what part they might play in the adaptation, specifically what we’ve seen so far, and going over how those powers that be might view Sauron and his actions, and every time I think about him in that context I feel somewhat sympathetic .

However, not too sympathetic, given his repeated offenses, to qualify him for redemption or some kind of blanket amnesty, at least not before many, many ages of serious contrition, and given that Sauron is Sauron, well. Is that likely?

There are a few different threads I’ve seen that try to make a case for TROP being all about ultimate forgiveness for Sauron, while condemning the choices and actions of Galadriel, Adar, Celebrimbor, Mirdania, or anyone who gets in his way because those individuals were short-sighted or needy, or were motivated by ego or weakness, and that the Valar were handwaving Sauron’s actions or even using Sauron as some kind of tool for divine justice(!).

Do we really think the Valar are indifferent to the suffering of elves and dwarves and men, to the point that they would condemn them to be tortured to death based on a bad choice, or a personal weakness, or a common character flaw? I don't think they are quite that severe in their judgement, but I do think, being something akin to gods, their seeming lack of presence could be interpreted as indifference, and more than that I think their actions happen on a much different time scale, so any action they take might take most of an age to show any results. And of course there would be a lot of unfortunate collateral damage in the meanwhile.

But do we seriously think this means that they would allow all of the violence and destruction we’ve seen so far just to give Sauron a second (third, fourth, fifth) chance to choose a better path before he’s subdued, just because he's a Maia and that somehow makes him their special boy?

No, and I think the show has shown us that this is not the case.

I think Sauron blew it when we were shown what happened in the season two flashback, when we saw his first days as “Halbrand”. Because it feels like that was his chance, and everything he's done and will continue to do in upcoming seasons will show him going deeper into whatever passes for insanity in demi-gods, with little or no understanding of the fact that his vision of order for Middle-earth is just as much an abomination as Melkor's path of destruction.

And that’s the compelling tragedy of Sauron.

Sadly that will mean more and worse consequences for the peoples of Middle-earth in the short term. But the Valar are not indifferent to this, and based on what we've seen they know Sauron needs to be dealt with. But what proof is there of that?

Well, they sent the Stranger/Gandalf, an Istari, and he has been explicitly put on a path to confront Sauron.

Think about the timing of him falling to earth: Sauron was on the raft with Galadriel, not long after Diarmid(!) was trying to get through to Sauron in the hold of that ship (and its subsequent destruction with Sauron on board was anything but a coincidence).

Of course Gandalf has free will too, and might make some mistakes. But he is a powerful force, who also has a different perspective and can play by different rules if he chooses, but he isn’t indifferent to the suffering of the Harfoots, and won't be indifferent to any pain Sauron causes the other peoples of Middle-earth.

So we're watching the consequences of Sauron blowing his latest chance play out, and ultimately I think we know we’ll see the realization of the Valar's condemnation of Sauron's choices and actions via Gandalf, the emissary they sent to counter him and muster forces to help subdue him. And I think the rings, all of them, will come into play during that struggle.

There’s a lot of underlying stuff about free will and the fact that power corrupts running through TROP and Tolkien in general. Celebrimbor made the Three with good intentions despite the fact that wanting to make them was also about ego and his legacy, but we can’t deny that the Three did the job he made them for, and we’ve seen them used to do good things. But Celebrimbor and Galdariel and Gil-galad and anyone else who comes in contact with the Three still have free will, and any attendant flaws that come with free will, and ultimately any powerful tool can be used for good or ill, and will inspire different things in characters according to their individual strengths and weaknesses.

But I do think the Three are more benevolent tools than any of the other Rings, with the One that Sauron will forge out of desperation being the ultimate corrupted tool that could influence the others. So Elrond or Galadriel or even Gandalf might have a better chance of using one of the Three for good, for protection and preservation for some length of time, whereas contact with someone like Sauron would change them based on his intentions, and his intentions are about gaining enough power to subjugate, well, everyone. In his hands, for instance, Nenya’s tendency toward protection would quickly decay into more overt stagnation, and just like men were drawn into the shadow realm by the Nine and the One, someone like Sauron with ill intent or a long history of general malevolence would gradually feed that into any one of the Three and reap the consequences.

In other words it’s not all about the sword, but who wields it.

I do wonder if we’ll see the Three become somewhat tied to the One in TROP, and if so how that will play out. Going back to the books, eventually the Three do lose their powers but there’s no indication that they were corrupted to the degree that the potential of any of the rings of power could corrupt or be corrupted.

The Three are powerful, and they are sought after, but they are not the Silmarils.

But would one of the Three heal or help Sauron? No, and getting back to the first part of this post, there are no shortcuts on the path to healing and redemption, and Sauron can't see that path at this point, and more than that he doesn't even know he's lost in the woods.

Quick aside because I just got a rude anon ask on the subject: Yes, I’ve read Silm and the other books and a bunch of other stuff, but I don’t treat the Legendarium as if I’m a supplicant who only accepts a literal interpretation of something Tolkien said in a lecture or a letter as something akin to religious doctrine, and I think he would laugh himself into a fit to see fans trying to contradict each other that way, especially given how he felt about the so-called dominion of the author. And given that TROP is going at Silm etc. buffet-style I don’t think we can talk about the show and expect it to adhere too strictly to every line the poor man ever wrote. This doesn't mean I didn't understand Silm, but I am coming at the adaptation mostly as it's own "thing." I hope that makes sense.

[llxferim]

Choose Part 2

a/n: FINALLY a part 2 for yall anddd sorry I wasn't in the mood for smuttt. Also, Should I write a Natasha endgame version?

here's part 1 if you haven't read it!

Pairings: Wanda x Fem!Reader

Summary: After that night, all you could think about was Wanda and Natasha. You took a few days off and holed up in your room to think but then, you got a call.

Warnings: Bad language, fem!reader, no y/n used, fluff, drunk reader, alcohol (tell me if i missed anything)

Word count: 2k

After last night, you stayed holed up in your room, the weight of everything pressing heavily on your chest. You had taken a few days off, hoping the time would help you sort through your tangled thoughts. Going on a date with both Wanda and Natasha was supposed to help you choose between them, Instead, it had only deepened the confusion, leaving you trapped,

You didn’t want to hurt either of them—But avoiding the situation wasn’t helping. Silence would only make things worse, and you knew it.

Lying on your bed, the soft hum of a TV show filled the background, though you weren’t paying attention. Your phone buzzed, the vibrations traveling through the mattress before finally reaching you. You picked it up, heart pounding, hoping—no, expecting—it to be Wanda or Natasha. But the screen read, Kate.

Disappointment flickered for a moment, but you answered anyway.

“We’re going out,” Kate declared, her voice brisk and unapologetic. “Get dressed. I can’t stand you moping around like this anymore.”

You blinked, startled by her abruptness. Before you could get a word in, she added, “You have an hour. Bye,” and hung up without waiting for a response.

For a moment, you just stared at your phone, the call already disconnected. Kate’s words rang in your ears, and you couldn’t ignore the sting of truth in them. Had this whole Wanda-Natasha situation really gotten to you that much?

You sighed, letting the phone drop onto the bed beside you. Maybe Kate was right. Maybe you did need to get out, even if just to clear your head.

***

You were in a bar, one of the more popular spots in town, but on a Wednesday night, it was surprisingly quiet. Most of the regulars seemed to be staying in, leaving you to wallow in your own chaos. You were on your fourth shot of whiskey, the fiery liquid blurring the edges of your thoughts. You were pretty sure the entire bar now knew about your messy situation, thanks to your drunken rambling.

Kate wasn’t much help—she’d long since ditched you to dance with some girl she’d just met. You were left at the counter, propping your head on your hand as you unloaded your woes on the bartender—who seemed so uninterested in anything you had to say, but you were too drunk to care.

“Don’t get me wrong,” you slurred, the whiskey loosening your tongue, “Natasha, she’s… she’s amazing. So strong, so beautiful—” You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “But Wanda, god…” You trailed off, covering your face entirely with your palms and sighing deeply. “Ugh. Never mind.”

A familiar voice cut through the fog of your thoughts. "No, please, continue," Wanda’s voice was soft, but it had that unmistakable edge that made your pulse spike.

Your heart stuttered as you turned to face her, blinking in disbelief. Wanda. Sitting right next to you, a smirk playing on her lips.

"What—" hic "What are you doing here?" You stammered, your breath catching in your chest.

Her eyes softened, though there was still a playfulness in her gaze. "How much have you had to drink, darling?" she asked, her voice low and teasing as she casually slid your glass from your hand and set it aside, taking money out of her pocket.

“You don’t have to- i have money” You protest, not wanting her to waste hers, but of-course she refuses.

She raised an eyebrow, studying you for a moment. "You good to stand up?"

You blinked, disoriented. "Yeah, sure. Where are we going?"

You tried to stand, but the room swayed beneath you. Just as your knees threatened to buckle, Wanda’s arms slid around your waist, steadying you, her touch firm and warm.

You look up at her as a red blush creeps onto your face. you clear your throat, “thank you”

“You’re really cute when you’re shy, did you know that?” She helps you to your feet, before using her arms around your waist to guide you outside.

“wait- Kate-“ You start to turn around right at the door but Wanda stops you, “i already Called Yelena, she’ll be here any minute, it’s okay” she reassures you.

“oh- okay” You mumble as you follow her lead, outside the door. The cold reaches you immediately, your first instinct being to lean into her warmth, resting your head on her shoulder.

You finally reach Wanda’s car, your head still spinning, but a but better than before.

She helped you into the passenger seat, her hands brushing yours as she fastened your seatbelt. For a moment, the world felt like it was slowing down—the soft scent of her perfume, the way she seemed to be in perfect control, her gaze flicking over you with something unreadable. The closeness of her body, the soft brush of her fingers against your skin...

As she straightened, your eyes locked for just a second, and in that moment, the rest of the world fell away. You couldn't help it. You leaned in, your lips almost brushing hers.

But then she pulled away, her breath warm against your cheek. You blinked, frustrated, and mumbled something incoherent.

"You’re not sober, love," Wanda’s voice was gentle.

She sits down next to you. “C’mon, drink up” she says, giving you a cold bottle of water, which you down in seconds. You lean back into the seat as she starts driving.

You leaned your head back against the seat, trying to will the drunken fog away, but your thoughts kept circling back to her—her touch, the look in her eyes, the way she made you feel like you were the only person in the room. you let your eyes rest for a second, savoring the feeling of being with her.

Next thing you knew, Wanda was helping you out of the car, “Do you feel better, Love?” She asks softly. “Yeah, thank you” You mumble out, embarrassed, The embarrassment of your earlier behavior clawed at you. “I’m sorry i ruined your night,” You apologized, opening the door, and called the Elevator. “What do you mean?” She asks with a confused tone, leaning against the elevator Frame.

“You probably went there to unwind or- have fun-” you start rumbling, the drunken feeling still slightly there. before you could continue you were interrupted with a chuckle coming from Wanda, “What- What’s so funny!” You ask with a pout, frustrated. “You don’t remember texting me?” She asks as your face warms up, “i- what?” you felt dumbfounded, did you text her something weird? Something embarrassi— “You texted me to come and get you because you missed me” She snaps you out of your thoughts with a soft giggle, before heading into the Elevator, dragging you with her, her hand still protectively around your waist, just in case.

“Fuck” You sigh, covering your face with your hands, leaning back on the elevator door. you feel her footsteps getting closer to you, her rough hands grabbing on to yours, pulling them away, revealing your flushed face.

“I’m sorry” You apologize, finally looking her in the eyes. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Darling.”

After a moment of silence, the elevator dinged, announcing your arrival at your floor. Wanda's hand slid down to intertwine with yours, her touch both grounding and electrifying. "Come on," she murmured, leading you toward your apartment.

You followed her, the world around you fading into the background. All that mattered was the warmth of her hand in yours and the way her presence seemed to anchor you in ways you didn’t fully understand yet.

Once inside, you kicked off your shoes, swaying slightly. Wanda’s hands were immediately on your shoulders, steadying you again. "Alright, sit," she instructed, guiding you to the couch. Her tone left no room for argument, but there was a tenderness in her voice that made you comply without hesitation.

She comes back with a cup of water and aspirin “Take these” she said softly, crouching in front of you and placing the items on the coffee table. Her green eyes met yours. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

“Of course i do” she says.

You hadn't even realized how much you craved this—her attention, her care, the way she made everything feel right. You could feel the tension in your chest loosening with each breath.

Wanda sat beside you, her eyes focused on you as you slowly took the water and aspirin she had handed you. The cool liquid slid down your throat, soothing the remnants of the whiskey’s burn. You felt her gaze on you, not judgmental, but understanding. She wasn't in a rush. She wasn't going anywhere.

You shifted on the couch, your hands feeling oddly restless, unsure whether you wanted to speak or just keep your thoughts to yourself. But the silence hung between you like an unspoken question, a question you knew you couldn't avoid forever.

“Wanda...” You started, your voice quieter than you intended. “I’ve been… I’ve been thinking a lot. About all of this.

Her eyes softened, and she shifted closer, the warmth of her body radiating against yours. She didn’t interrupt you, didn’t push you to speak faster.

“I—” You stopped, unsure how to voice the storm of emotions swirling in your chest. You knew what you were about to say, what you needed to say, but the words didn’t come easily. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “You make me feel... alive, Wanda. In a way that I never expected. And I—I don’t know how to say it, but…”

You trailed off, letting the silence hang between you as you gathered your courage. The weight of the decision was pressing down on you, and at that moment, it felt like your heart was demanding you make a choice.

Her hand found yours again, her thumb gently brushing across your knuckles, grounding you. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now, love,” she murmured, her voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “But I’m here, no matter what.”

The words felt like a lifeline, and it was like the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. You didn’t need to explain everything, to find the perfect words. What mattered now was the quiet truth that had been sitting in your heart all along.

Wanda was the one you wanted. She was the one who made you feel safe, and seen, in ways that Natasha couldn’t. It wasn’t that Natasha wasn’t incredible—she was—but it was Wanda’s presence that soothed you, that made everything else feel right.

You squeezed her hand, your heart racing now, the decision clearer than it had been before. “I think... I think I’ve known for a while now,” you said softly, looking directly into her eyes. “I just needed to admit it.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly, studying you with those knowing green eyes. You could see the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, but she said nothing, waiting.

“I choose you, Wanda. I’ve been scared to admit it,” you whispered, your voice trembling a little. “But I choose you.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything, just watched you with an intensity that felt like she could see every thought and feeling you were hiding. Then, her lips parted in a soft smile, the kind of smile that felt like home.

“I’m glad,” she said quietly, her voice full of warmth. And just like that, the tension that had been gnawing at you for days melted away. Wanda leaned in then, her forehead gently resting against yours, her breath warm and comforting. “You don’t need to be afraid with me,” she murmured.

You closed your eyes for a moment, basking in the simplicity of the moment—the clarity, the relief, the way it felt like everything was finally falling into place.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips before her hands were cupping your face, drawing you closer, her lips brushing against your forehead.

“Don’t thank me,” she whispered back. “Just... trust me, love.”

And in that moment, you realized you didn’t need to say anything else. You trusted her. You trusted her with everything.

And that was enough.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️⛅️

⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️⚡️

🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲🌲

🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️🧜‍♂️

Oh hell yeah! 42 for ⛅️

---

Except, wait… What if they’re stuck here? Eddie is straight. He might want to not remain married to Buck. He might… Maybe he would want a divorce. Oh god. That would be terrible. Absolutely terrible. Tommy dumping him and then Eddie divorcing him? How can he already have a worse track record with men than with women! Women had a significant head start! 

“Right?” He asks Eddie. “We’re not, right?”

“No!” Eddie answers, outraged like the question is ridiculous. “I would never divorce you!”

Okay, Mr. I’m Straight How Would We Even Have Sex. It wasn’t a silly question! 

“Okay, well something is going on!” Chris insists. “You both cried when you saw me. You’ve hardly touched each other all night. You’re usually disgusting. You forgot Nico’s allergies, like you’re too distracted or something. What is going on?” 

Buck and Eddie exchange an uncomfortable glance. 

“Uh… I’m just… Not feeling well?” Buck tries. 

“You’re sick?” Chris asks. “Oh my god, are you dying? Buck…”

“No!” Buck exclaims. “I’m not dying, Chris.”

“Then what?” Chris demands. 

“We’re really okay,” Eddie promises. “You don’t need to worry about it, bud.”

---

42 for ⚡️

---

“You’re gonna need it.”

Buck sighs. He knows Bobby is right. He should probably be trying to bank sleep instead of stress. 

“It all just feels out of my control, you know?” Buck says. “Like if something goes wrong at this point, what can I do?”

“Nothing,” Bobby says. “There’s nothing.”

“See? That sucks!”

Bobby smiles. “That’s parenthood, though. That’s just… How a lot of it is.”

Buck nods. He knows that. Conceptually, he knows that. He just doesn’t like feeling it. He likes being able to do something. Manage potential problems. Be the solution. And as much as he knows that a baby a day overdue is not actually a problem, it just feels like the beginning of that anxious feeling he can’t do anything to solve. 

“Things are going to happen that you have no control over,” Bobby says. “Lots of them. And things will happen that you do have control over that you get wrong. But what’s important is how you respond to that.”

Buck nods. “Who’s to say I won’t panic about that, too?”

“You will,” Bobby chuckles. “But it’s okay. Because, at the end of the day, I think you’ll always do right by her.”

Buck takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Of course,” Bobby replies. “You know… When Brooke was five - right after she started school - there was a school bus accident. One of the buses headed towards hers and Bobby Jr.’s school. While I was on shift.”

“Were they on it?” Buck asks. 

“No,” Bobby shakes his head. 

---

42 for 🌲

---

“So, then, like… Genetics makes sense, right? Unless there’s another comic-esque origin,” Buck says. 

Eddie wrinkles his nose.

“Do you think I could have secret magic genes?” Buck continues. “My parents have English ancestry. What could that be?”

Eddie frowns. “Careful. A rabbit tempting enough runs by you and you might turn into a whippet.”

Buck smirks. “Aw, but you’d take care of me right? Put me in one of those little turtlenecks?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but finds that he’s smiling, too. How can Buck make him smile, even now?

“You know… A whippet’s life might be nice. Running really fast. Not a lot of problems. Soft turtlenecks. Presumably better-than-human hearing.”

Eddie tilts his head a little, taking Buck in. There’s a hint of sadness there. Well… Of course there is. This whole time they’ve been focused entirely on Eddie. But Buck’s been going through a lot, too. 

“Hey, uh,” Eddie says. “How are you holding in? With everything that’s happened…”

Buck blinks. “Uh… Fine, Eddie. I’m fine.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. That just confirmed the opposite.

“Buck.” 

“Really!” Buck insists.

“Oh, come on,” Eddie chides. “Between the fitting and Tommy, you’ve gotta be stressed.” 

---

42 for 🧜‍♂️

---

 He can’t be honest. He’s landed on, it’s just Chris and I or he doesn’t have a mother in his life. This usually shuts down the conversation for anyone with the social skills to realize he doesn’t want to talk about it. Which, fortunately, is most people. But there’s always the odd one. Did she leave you? Is she dead? It’s awkward and uncomfortable and Eddie hates it.

So when he makes the decision to tell Buck about Chris, on the day of the earthquake, it’s maybe sort of a test. Which is unfair of him, he knows. But, underneath his layers of anxiety in trying to contact his son, there’s a need to know. How will Buck react? Will he see Eddie the way Eddie has seen him? Will he ask the wrong questions? The right, discrete ones? Eddie isn’t sure. And maybe the way Buck reacts will… Give Eddie a hint? As to whether or not his suspicions are accurate? 

Buck’s response is great, but unhelpful. He beams, says he loves kids, and calls the photo of Christopher adorable. Well, yes! Christopher is adorable. Cutest kid ever, thank you very much. Said with no bias. He also doesn’t ask any questions about Christopher’s mother. So kind of a great response on all fronts. But not a conclusive one. 

Eddie feels stupid. What was Buck going to do? Start discussing trans parenthood in the back of the fire engine? No. Obviously fucking not. If he was out, he’d be out. And if he’s trans and suspects Eddie, he wouldn’t out Eddie either. Damn it. 

But the whole experience does teach Eddie something about Buck. When he decides he’s friends with you, he’s a damn good friend. Like, thoughtful and strikingly sincere. He spends the whole day supplying Eddie with earthquake facts. Reassuring him about Christopher’s safety. Keeping an eye on the cell service to see if Eddie can call Christopher’s school. 

[kira-aminu]

As much as she knew Emil knew her, sometimes better than she knew herself, she also knew him better than she knew the back of her own hand. Having been friends since they were teens and going through so much by each other's sides, there wasn't one look on his face she couldn't decipher at this point. "Gotcha." Smirking a little, Kira could only raise her eyebrows a little. "She's a special circumstance and I don't even know her name? Damn honey, is someone down bad?" Smirking again as he suddenly became very busy making their dinner, she was so tempted to dial Gen into the conversation.

Her face softened as he continued and she could hear it in his voice. "Okay fine, I will drop this for now because I love you, but if you keep going on with this whole, the reality is that she doesn't like you thing, I am going to go buy a fish and smack you around the head with it." Leaning up, she pressed a kiss against the side of his head before moving over to the other side of his kitchen to grab a bowl for the salad. "She's a damn lucky girl to even have you think about this and I won't hear any different."

Rolling her eyes a little as she started chopping some lettuce, Kira didn't divulge all the other things she'd rather in the name of revenge for her best friend. "On the contrary, I could do a lot worse and it be justified, so egging her house could be seen as nice in that instance." Smirking a little, Kira shrugged as she tossed the lettuce into a bowl before ripping off a few more leaves. "It's happening, don't fight it. She's banned."

Nodding, it was an emotion Kira understood far too well. Seeing the person who left you was never easy, but she hated that this was another thing Emil now had to deal with, when he had enough on his plate. "I mean, of course, you had no real closure to that relationship and I imagine you've got a ton of questions." Popping one tiny piece of lettuce into her mouth, Kira tossed the rest into the bowl before setting the pack to the side. "Do you think she'd answer the questions you have? Do you even want to ask them?" Reaching for another ingredient on the counter, Kira looked over at Emil. "It gets easier, we both know that. I just don't like that it's stirred everything up for you again, you know? Do you think you need closure from her or is it something else?"

"That..." his brows knitted close together, "We don't..." Kira had got him good and he knew it. Fumbling over a few stammered helpless words. "That... might not... be true..." Emil tried to argue, but defeat settled in quickly. "Fine! I would be telling you that, but you don't..." his nose crinkled. Flustered a bit of heart crawled up his neck. "She's a special circumstance ok." He huffed and turned away from her, busying himself about the kitchen to try and dodge just how rattled he was. Despite his own rocky love life. His ex-wife, being ghosted by one of his former friends and girlfriend, and plenty of other mishaps of dating along the way Emil was not usually particularly timid with women. Yet Kira, standing there and asking him about the worst-case scenario, was really messing with him. "I... fine, okay. Yes it's early, and everything would be fine if things don't work out but... it's been a while since I've had a crush like this. We're not talkin' meeting a cute girl at the bar and asking her out. That I can do. This? The whole dumb... I'd just kinda like to give myself a little longer in the 'what if' before a healthy dose of reality settles in." He was in trouble. Emil listened to Kira as he washed and prepped the cherry tomatoes. "Egging her house isn't nice, I think you know that." Emil snorted. Though, humor faded to a pit in his stomach pretty swiftly. Swallowing hard at the mental picture of Alara. "I'm..." speechless, again, but for an entirely different reason. A raspy bemused laugh snuck through at Kira's threat of banning the woman from the ice cream parlor. "Kira!" He laughed, affectionately rolling his eyes. A sigh followed, and Emil rolled his shoulders to relieve some tension from his frame. "It sucked." Seeing Alara well and truly amplified his trepidation with Lia. A cold hard reminder that even one of his closest friends had let him down. If she could leave him the way she did, like he was nothing... surely that was a reflection on him in some way. Two of his only real relationships had been with women he'd known for years and they both decided to leave him. "Seeing her and still... I don't know, feeling something... that's the hard part." Emil had long since gotten past that stage with his ex-wife. He barely recognized her anymore as the young woman with flowing locks who kissed him before his games. But Alara? As much as he wanted to be bitter, he couldn't really muster it.

[cruelplatonic]

my personal headcanon is the vees were unremarkable nobodies when they were alive. i just love it as a thematic throughline for them. they love to let the public of hell speculate on them being famed and acclaimed since before death, but the the truth is they were a d-list failed influencer that got by on cheap controversey and scamming, a broke junkie who burned every shaky bridge he ever had, and a worn-out broadcast production assistant with more rejected auditions and tossed out script pitches than he could count. nobody missed them when they were gone, nobody cared who they were until they were dead.

[sysig]

Experimentation (Patreon)

[qoldenskies]

What really gets me about Kitsune is that she did all that to a FOURTEEN YEAR OLD. Like, someone whose emotional regulation center isn’t even fully developed yet. God forbid a literal KID be messy and make mistakes and do his level best to try and fix them with the only knowledge he has at his disposal, right?

it's unfortunate a lot of real life people see teenagers that way; that if they're old enough to make the mistake, they're old enough to pay for it. hell, the US carceral system will arrest (usually impoverished and groomed into crime) teenagers for mistakes that they'll kill them for decades later. they consider that justice.

and as a god, kitsune sees donnie that way. he doesn't look like a little kid anymore, and he caused quite a bit of damage, both to their traditions and to their town; she wasn't the one to actively make the decision to go after him, but she believed the punishment was worth it compared to the crime. and like she says, even if he is a kid, she thinks this is one way of learning that life isn't fair. and when donnie dies for it, his brothers will know. she knows they're hamato, mind you. dont exactly think she's a big fan of their clan

it's cruel. it's utterly heartless. it rings true to the way that people will actually treat literal children. trust me, i would know personally-- i've been punished like an adult for making bad choices as a 14 year old before.

and it's especially cruel seeing how he acts during and AFTER the curse, how it's SO fucking clear that he's just a kid. a babie. three whole apples tall.

like oh my god! look at him! baby! baby boy!!!! how could you gleefully hurt him!!!!!! he's just a boy!!!!!!!!