#doesn't feel like it but it was a decade ago

[madamechrissy]

♔ Silent Serenades ♔

♔ An arranged Marriage with Duke Gojo ♔

♔ Pairings: Duke Satoru Gojo x Duchess Reader

♔ Content/Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dirty talk, breeding kink, spitting, Satoru calls reader 'slut during sex, some nipple biting, cum play, mostly cute and fluffy (believe it or NOT) Oral (f recieving) mentions of jealousy and past angst

♔ Word count: this chap: 11.2k

♔ Summary: you are the diamond of the season, he is the charming Duke, it’s the marriage of the decade. Prominent families joining, and it so happens that Duke Gojo is gorgeous. But, he doesn't want you at all, leaving you a crying mess on your wedding night, alone. Now you're trapped in a loveless arranged marriage that destroys you from within. Royal AU, Cruel Duke Gojo x reader. OOC Set in 1800s England. Gojo is awful in this. You'll hate Satoru, warning you now. HEAVY angst Basically- Gojo is a royal dick and doesn't wanna marry you

A/N- I go into Gojo's pov but don't divide them! I hope the style if that is okay. <3 Comments and Reblogs vert=y appreciated if you enjoy

Part Thirteen ♔ Masterlist ♔ Playlist

Part Fourteen - The King's Ball

“Fuck this.” Satoru grumbles, you’re arm in arm with him as you both are descending the grand steps down into the opulent ballroom. You giggle a bit behind your white silk glove, he smirks at you.

“Fuck this indeed.” You agree softly, he leans down then, lips just a breath from yours.

“I love that dirty mouth of yours.”

“Mmm, do you now?” Your eyes meet.

“Should I show you how much?” He whispers, and for a moment it’s as if everything in the grand room fades but him.

It’s just you and your Duke, cussing about the party ahead of you, his gaze and words making you flush under the glimmering chandeliers above, highlighting the silver glint of your dress, and the bright white suit Satoru wears tonight. He takes one of your gloved hands, pressing a kiss to the back of it, you exhale when his lips are hovering just above yours.

“You’d kiss me on the lips, in front of all these people?” You tease, he chuckles then, cupping your face.

“I’d do a lot more than that, bury my face under your skirts. Ah, look at you, thoughts driving you to blush?” You take a breath and look around, seeing hundreds of eyes on both of you.

“They’re talking about us, Toru.” He peeks and waves a hand dismissively, setting to walk with you again.

“Saying how beautiful you are.”

“How handsome you are.”

“We’ve gotten sappy, haven’t we?” You grin.

“Positively smushy.” Now Satoru grins.

“Smushy!? Is that a word?”

“It is indeed! Oh Satoru I just want to keep this happiness, not…” You trail off as you both start to greet people now, and you see her, Adelia.

Many people look back and forth from you to her, and now you know a lot more, more than you ever wished to. Satoru feels you tense next to him, a calming hand on the small of your back, fingers brushing up and down. He’s disgusted seeing her, how one person can look like you but be fucking horrible is still unknown to him, but now you have figured it out.

Adelia is your cousin, thank god she’s not a sister, Satoru had a panic attack when you had done some digging. She is your mother’s little sister’s child, one that they had sent off to Scotland, and no one heard of again essentially. Adelia making her own way here is through her own feats, it seemed she did not even come to England until she was an adult.

So you are… related.

You had a feeling of course, it was too uncanny not to, but hearing it from your staff, a staff that basically raised you, cinched it all in. Of course they had been sworn to secrecy, but they had no problem telling you once you explained your situation. It is better than what you thought, what if she was a sister, you felt sick just thinking of that, this was quite tangled enough.

“I still can’t believe it all.” Satoru says, shaking his head. “Oh if I just met you first, you know it would have saved many, many problems.”

“I was rather young then, hmm? How long ago was it?”

“It was a good six years ago when I met her. I suppose you are a little younger than me, am I an old lecher to you!?” He teases, acting affronted.

“Shut it, you're twenty seven, you’re not much older. You still look like a college boy in leading strings.”

“Take that back, insolent little brat.”

“Make me.” You stick your tongue out at him, making his blue eyes glitter, when he looks over your shoulder now and pauses, scowling, his entire mood shifts then as you feel a gaze burning your back. “On no, what is it?”

You look behind you then, to see the King headed straight towards you, him and Adelia challenging the fresh new bliss Satoru and you have is brutal to handle. Every time you think that Satoru and you are so happy finally, there is Nanami in the street seeing you both, there’s one of Satoru’s exes, but now it’s a King, who oddly has his sights on you.

And your…. cousin… ugh.

“Look at you.” King Sukuna’s husky voice says your name softly over the music floating around you all, a cacophony of whispers, giggles, music and heels on the floor. And not only that, but he says your first name, making Satoru positively seethe behind you.

“Your Majesty.” You greet cooly.

“Aren’t you the prettiest thing here.” He murmurs, eyes raking and taking far too many liberties. He then takes your gloved hand and kisses it.

“Certainly not, your Majesty. But thank you.” You politely curtsey, people onlook with little smiles, at the diamond of the season and the King with his attentions on her, you hear their whispers and feel their gazes.

Even married women could not necessarily turn a King down, it was notoriously known, many Kings could have whomever they wanted, and the men had to handle it, even a powerful man such as Duke Gojo. However, you still cannot fathom why he wants to go so far, he is certainly attractive, and a King.

What is he playing at?

“May I have the honor of a dance, Duchess?” He murmurs, eyes glinting a crimson as he smirks on his tanned face, wearing an opulent velvet brocade tonight, he certainly was swooned over.

You look at Satoru, there’s nothing you both can do outwardly, he gives you a little nod, hands clenched into fists at his sides, as he watches the King of England take his wife onto the dance floor. He snatches up two glasses of champagne from a butler walking, downing them in two gulps, looking at his surprised face, his mouth dropped open to Satoru’s amusement.

“Fuck something stronger, please. I know the King has to have some good whiskey” Satoru then hands him several notes, and the butler nods eagerly.

“Right away, your Grace!” He runs off, and soon Satoru is given a glass of whiskey, he sighs, sipping it and watching you over the crystal glass.

“Keep em coming.” The butler bobs his head eagerly.

Satoru is watching you twirl in King Sukuna’s arms, Sukuna’s big hand taking over your little back, pressing you far too close, his other hand encapsulating yours, he’s grinning lewdly down at you, you’re maintaining a smile for appearances. Satoru can tell, it’s not a true smile, something he sees so much more these days, something that captures his heart and soul.

Seeing you smile so sleepy at him in the morning, when you’re in his arms. It’s the sweetest thing in the world, your little giggles when he kisses on your neck, your sassy grin when you find some new ticklish spot of his, and torture him then with your discovery. You are so very beautiful when you truly smile, how it brightens the entire room.

This is that ‘perfect Duchess smile’ of yours.

Satoru falls deeper every fucking day for you, so deep it aches, gnawing at his stomach at the thought of ever losing you, he feels he does not even deserve you, and that at any point you’ll come to your senses. He has just started to get comfortable with the thought that you chose him, when the King and Adelia have come to fuck with both of you.

“Speak of the witch.” He grumbles, when she steps up to him, hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it off.

“Care for a dance, your Grace?” She rolls the words off her tongue, shifting her hips from side to side and batting her lashes.

Satoru scoffs. “Oh, fuck no.”

She glares up at him, it’s nothing like your glare, that feisty little way you set your chin, purse your lips, how your pretty eyes narrow and you decimate him the way only you can. No, this is just her… being Adelia, being the woman who destroyed him, made him so afraid to be vulnerable with you, so sure you’d rip his heart out, especially once he started feeling so much.

He knew it that night of the masquerade, seeing you with your baker… or as his still sore ribs remind him… boxer boyfriend you had. Seeing him touch you, it had awakened something insane in him that night, when he’d been with you in the hallway, when he’d pressed against you, held you and fucking cried, and you had cried right with him, hadn’t you?

You both knew then, that there was something there with you both, something he was destroying completely before it could even begin, and pushing you to help him destroy it. When he’d begged to taste you again, fuck he was pathetic for you, but you’d let him. Though when he’d truly drunk you up in that carriage, after that night at your parents?

You ended him.

He’s so enamored with you dancing, with aching to punch a damn King in the face, he can blissfully ignore this pest of a woman next to him. Satoru sees him dip you over his arm, watches the hair you have coiled in those pretty little ringlets fall over his arm, he swoops you low and then picks you back up in his arms, spinning you slowly to the awws of the room.

Satoru wants to rip his fucking hands off.

“You’re still here?” Satoru finally acknowledges the annoying pest next to him, she pouts up at him, batting long lashes.

“You do know he can have her if he wants?”

“What do you care? And she doesn’t want to.”

“You’ve always been foolish, Satoru. But you know, sometimes I think to myself, I should have only been with you.” Satoru glares down at her now, raising a thing white brow, looking at the spitting image of you trying to fuck with him.

“Shouldn’t have fucked my dad, or all the other men?” She has enough grace to look down for a moment, before stepping closer.

“I’ll explain more if we were to have a moment alone, about your father, about everything.”

“I have no desire to be near you. Go find some dick to hop on, you were quite good at that I suppose. She is much better though.”

“You’re petty and lying, as if her prissy ass is some wild thing in the bedroom, can she even handle how freaky you are?”

Satoru snorts. “I’m exceedingly pleased with her. You’re mad you did not get any of that wealth from your mother, a noble, aren’t you?” She gasps, and he chuckles. “Yes we know, you’re her cousin.”

“How on-”

“Will you go?” Satoru watches as the dance ends, and the King is leading you away from the crowd, his eyes narrow as you look back over your shoulders at them both.

“Oh look, a private moment with the King. And… well Satoru, he is quite skilled in the bed, not as eager as you though, something to be said for that.” Satoru grips her wrist now, as she has a hand on his arm, she gasps just a bit.

“I assure you I’m no virgin any longer, as you enjoyed bragging to my wife, as if she cares.”

“Odd one cousin took your virginity, and you took hers.” Satoru tenses then, and Adelia laughs, a nasty little laugh. “Oh you didn’t! Oh poor Satoru, you’re just not her first pick are you?”

“You have no idea of what you fucking speak of.” Satoru lets her wrist go, wondering where you are, he starts walking through the crowds of people, wishing he could shove everyone out of his way and not have to make stupid polite fucking conversation.

He trusts you, he does, but he doesn’t trust that King, you’re still young and sweet, and he does not want him manipulating you, pressuring you. Adelia trails behind him, he contemplates knocking her out, he’s not above it truly, but he holds himself in, walking by the crowned jewel room, seeing Sukuna behind you, his hands on your waist.

Adelia yanks him into the next room, shutting the door, and he finally snaps, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “What the fuck is your end game here? How do you get a King to go along with it?”

“I love this rough side of you, Satoru.” She cooes, fingers trailing down his chest, he smacks them off, backing away, fury rising in his chest.

“I swear to god if you touch me once more, I am not yours to touch, or to manipulate anymore.” She shakes her head at him, sighing and slipping down her sleeves, then more, he stops her. “I have no interest in you.”

“None at all? Seems like you needed my copy to be satisfied.”

“She is everything you could never be.”

“And what is she doing in that room, Satoru, is he touching her?” She whispers, taking his hand as she slips her bodice so low her breasts are revealed, her nipples taut, he looks away at the ceiling, rage making him sick. “What would you do, if he fucked her, hmm?”

“I’d be fucking sick and furious, but I sure won’t be doing a goddamn thing with you, nor any woman.” He yanks his hand back, turning away. “Cover yourself up, stop embarrassing yourself, dear god.”

“Would you let her have her way with anyone?”

“She will not.”

“So explain the virginity?”

“As if it’s your business. Dear god you make a man want to slap you across a room, I hope you know I’m no gentleman.” He turns back, thankfully she’s covered up, her arms crossed. “Give it, what is your game?”

“Ever think I want you back, Satoru? Ever think that I regret everything?” She blinks back tears, he rolls his eyes, they’re unmoving and unbelievable.

“What do you suddenly wish to be my wife? You can never be, fuck you had your stupid chance then, I would have moved mountains for you.” The pain sets in, the torture she put him through. He’s just finally starting to feel like him again, like Satoru Gojo, after years and goddamn years of being a whore, a cruel man.

“Perhaps a mistress, anything to have you back Satoru.” He shoves her off him again, as she steps closer, putting her hands on his chest, looking at him with eyes that he thought he loved, but he feels nothing but contempt. “I miss you, truly miss you, miss everything you did to me, how I felt.”

She’s brushing her fingers across his cheek, making his skin crawl. “I’ll never have a mistress, and I’ll never leave her.”

“For what, what is so special about her? I expected you to jump on this, do you know how in love with me you were? I’ve never felt it since, and I never will again.” She’s crying now, and he cares not, he just wants to get you before Sukuna has hands on you, he does not know his motivations still.

“You will not feel love because you’re a horrible person. And guess what, Adelia?”

“Wh-what?”

“You made me just like you.” He whispers, hands in his pockets, bending down so that they are just an inch apart. “I was a horrible man, I was fucking women right in front of her, I was shit to her. Fuck I was perhaps worse than you, took all my anger out from being with you on her. She shouldn’t even talk to me, yet she chose me, and you nor anyone will ever make me fuck up again.”

She blinks a bit, taking a breath, looking away then. “Satoru I am sorry for what I did, your father promised me a place in society, it was something even you could not offer truly.”

Satoru laughs without humor. “Expect me to feel sorry for you?”

She gasps. “I was from no wealth like you, like your Duchess, despite being from nobility. I had nothing, I earned my place.”

“By sleeping with men? You did not earn a goddamn thing. She earns her place when she is by my side, helping villages, when she listens to me, when she was honest with me, when she gave me a chance I did not deserve. You have not earned anything you have, including whatever you’re doing with the King. You’re nothing Adelia, worse than nothing actually.”

She smacks him hard across the cheek then, the sound echoes in the room, Satoru does not flinch. “You’ve become so cruel, where is the sweet Satoru that I once knew!?”

Meanwhile

“This is the crown and scepter, go on, touch it.” Sukuna says, hard body behind yours, taking one of your hands and putting it on the shimmering gold crown, you hesitate, hating the nearness, hating that sad look you saw on Satoru’s face, making you worry for him and what Adelia would say.

Would she get to him again? Would he be able to stand firm and ignore the lies she spins? Those are your true worries, not if Satoru would stray, in your heart you know he would not, in your heart you know you are his, and he is yours. But you do know the effect and change she had on him in such a short time, and worry her poison will seep into his brain.

“These look heavy, your Majesty.” You manage to say, some small talk to perhaps ease the tension.

“Sukuna.” His voice is deep, his hands slipping against you.

“Your Majesty.” You turn and look up at him, he’s grinning looking wicked, fingers brushing up and down your bare arm. “You are too bold, even for a King.”

“I simply do not mince words, write stupid fucking poems, I say what I want, and I get everything I want.”

“Not me.”

“No?” You shake your head.

“I mean no disrespect, but my heart is spoken for.” He hums quietly, hands trailing up to your shoulders, the backs of his fingers against your collarbone, watching goosebumps rise at the contact.

“Your body is spoken for as well?” He asks huskily, eyeing your decolletage hungrily, your fists clench, breasts rising and falling as you struggle to maintain your composure.

“My body is indeed spoken for, your Majesty.” He smirks just a bit, another hand pressing against your waist, pulling you gently to him.

“Have a night with me, let me show you things your pretty boy Duke could never, I see it in you, the desire to be filled everywhere, hmm? Desire to have your pretty neck choked, have these bitten and bruised.” He dares to brush his fingers against your breasts. “Oh if you were mine you’d have so many marks you wouldn’t wear this, so sore you wouldn’t walk.”

He leans so close, his lips a breath from yours, you pull your head back, jaw setting. “Your Majesty, I’m afraid I have marks all over, just not where you can see. And the ones you could? I cover up.” You say with a pretty smile, he chuckles, tilting your chin up to look into his eyes.

“I see I read you well then, that fire in your eyes, bet you’re fucking insatiable.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes, his thumb brushes over your lower lip, making you want to recoil.

“I am indeed with my husband. Sukuna, can I be frank with you?”

“Ah, you say my name?”

“Listen, I get it, you’re handsome, you get what you want, you’re a King… hard to resist.”

He grins. “You think I’m handsome, huh?” He has a self satisfied smirk you try to not roll your eyes at.

“Oh god. Yes, of course you are, thus, you can have anyone you wish, including my cousin.”

“Ah, figured that out?”

“I did. And I know this is some game between you both, what has she done to make you try this hard at me? What agreement do you have?” You cross your arms, stepping back, and Sukuna laughs then, throwing his head back, booming laughter reigning in the empty room.

“She simply expressed wanting to try with your Duke again, I figured fuck it, some amusement because god the life of a King is so boring now. Oh to be a king in the war of the roses, or something better than this. Stupid balls and operas, and idle fucking gossip. I found the idea entertaining, so I brought her.”

You blink in confusion, it’s all for fun!? “So why me? Am I just some distraction so she can get Satoru?”

“No, actually. This is where you’re confused, Duchess.” He grabs you by your waist now, pulling you against him. “I am not trying to have you for some game with her, I saw you and just fucking wanted you. Badly, too.”

“Not for a game? I do not believe you.”

He shakes his head, gaze dropping you your lips, your hands go to his chest, pressing for him to back away, but he does not budge. “Do you really not know the effect you have? Did he do that much damage?”

You blink back tears then, looking away, Sukuna takes the opportunity to kiss down the side of your neck, hot messy kisses, you’re pushing at him but the man is made of brick it seems, casually holding you too close. His lips go up to your ear, hot breath tickling it, making you shiver.

“I heard the rumors, I must wonder how or why he wouldn’t want you, even if you look like her. Did he make you think so little of yourself?” You hate it, the memories he is stirring, the feelings he’s making you feel, when he takes your face so possessive in his big hand, while the other presses into your lower back.

“It is none of your business, Sukuna. None. What me and my husband went through is our business.” You hear your voice breaking, feeling such anger at how he can so easily bring those memories back.

Sukuna clicks his tongue, thumb brushing over your fluttering pulse, you can feel your chest tightening under the stress of it, of being against him, when all you want is Satoru, all you need is Satoru. You do not want to think of how cruel he was at the beginning, because those memories take you to a dark, dark place, one you never wish to visit again.

“I could make you feel so good, like you deserve. It’s not just your gorgeous little body or pretty face…” His hands trail lewdly down your curves, thumb brushing over your nipple, your hands clenched into fists, breath coming quicker. “It’s your fire, burning so hot, fuck I’d love to feel it.”

“Watch that you do not get burned by it.” You whisper in response, he smirks, so cocky and arrogant, you itch to smack him.

“I’d get burned if it meant a moment with you, and no I do not do this, and I do not do it as a game. Do you not wish to feel like a Queen?” He murmurs, you shake your head. “Oh no? Well, do you think he’ll resist her charms, stay so loyal?”

“If he does not I… I cannot think of that.” He’s playing you, making you think of things you want to shove down, you refuse to do so, shaking your head more firmly now. “I will not think of it.”

“Ah, so let me show you what you’re missing, then Duchess, so you know what you turn down.” He slams his lips against yours, you shove at him again, but he drags you against him, mouth hot and open, tongue trying to get past your sealed lips, pressing deeper until he’s reached his goal, moaning.

Sukuna’s kiss is brutal, passionate and fervent, his hands gripping your ass, dragging you against him. You take a breath, turning your head, for him to turn it back, eyes glinting in the dark, brows raised, his lips parted. You try to step back, but he’s kissing you again, hands sliding up your skirts, up your thighs, and you bite his lower lip then, shoving him.

He chuckles, looking at how hard you bit, lip bleeding just a drop, which he licks. “You are fiery, fuck do you not know what I’d do with you?” He cups your face again, you glare up at him, fucking furious.

“You won’t ever have me. Guess what, even a King does not get whatever he wants, hmm?” You say now, shoving at the brick wall of a man again, he shakes his head with a smirk.

“I can tell you’re excited, I can feel it, see it written all over you.”

“I am furious, is what I am. You will not touch me again.”

“Oh?” He brushes your hair back, and you do it then, you haul off and smack the king of fucking england right in his arrogant face.

Shit.

Meanwhile.

“You changed me with your games.” Satoru retorts to Adelia, just moments before. “Now go fuck off to France, or anywhere, as long as I don’t have to see you again.” Satoru hears a smack echo in the next room, smirking and wondering if his wife just hit the King of England. “That’s my girl.”

“Your girl!?”

Satoru strides past her, as you stride out on the King that you just slapped, and both of you see each other then, in the hall. His cheek reddened from Adelia, your hand stinging from smacking Sukuna, and you damn near burst into tears as you both look at each other. He’s breathing heavily, you’re breathing in short little pants, striding to each other then.

Satoru picks you up in his arms, hugging you so tightly, putting you down and cupping your face, studying you carefully, you feel so good in his arms. “Are you all right, baby?”

You nod quickly. “I may have smacked the King.”

He grins, melting you, but you see it too, the glimmer in his baby blues. “I heard, fuck that turned me on.”

You giggle, insanely, as King Sukuna and bitch A0delia watch you both. “You’re fucking insane, you know that?”

“You fucking love how insane I am, hmm?” You nod, and he’s looking at Sukuna now behind you, before seeing your lips, slightly swollen and reddened, then you see Adelia, her bodice slightly askew, sleeve completely down.

“Did she try to…”

“Did he kiss you!?”

You both nod at your simultaneous questions, then Satoru glares at King Sukuna, and you glare at Adelia, then you both look back at each other in a silent agreement, before you step over to Adelia, who surprisingly has dried tears on her cheeks as she looks at you. You cross your arms, shaking your head as you near her, and as Satoru nears the King.

“Leave him out of your games, he doesn't want you anymore.” Your words just anger her, she steps up to you, shoving at you, you laugh then, back-handing her right in the face as if on instinct.

“You bitch!”

Sukuna and Satoru grin at you, before Satoru scowls at him, and Adelia cups her face in shock. “Do not touch my husband again, is it clear, cousin?”

“You two psychos deserve each other.” She grumbles then, as Satoru shoves the King against a wall, hands on either side of him, Sukuna just smirks.

“Going to hit a King, pretty boy?”

“Pretty boy here would love to break every one of your fingers, one by one for touching her. You do not come near her again, I don’t care who you are. She is my wife. Mine.” Sukuna sighs, patting Satoru on the shoulder then, surprising all three of you in the empty hall.

“A hell of a wife you have. Don’t fuck that one up, because I think she kind of likes me.” You snort, shaking your head as Satoru steps back, glaring.

“I gave you no such impression.” He walks to you then, tilting up your chin and sighing.

“What a shame. These lips… ah well.” He saunters off, with Adelia shouting at him, waving her arms around.

“Her lips are better than mine!? Excuse me!” You and Satoru snort and shake your heads, he comes to hold you from behind, pressing you against him, kissing your cheek. You lean back against him.

“You think they are done?” You ask softly, he exhales, pulling you even closer, before turning you to him, walking forward until you’re pressed against the wall, hands pressing against your waist, hands you crave, hands you love.

“They better be. I’ll kiss every fucking memory of him out of your head.” You whine out softly, and Satoru kisses you boldly, right against that wall, cupping your face, kissing you over and over and over.

You get dizzy from it, from his nipping at your lips, from his tongue delving in your mouth, drinking your soft cries, your body reacts quickly, you feel that heat pool in your tummy, spreading between your thighs. Your own hands slide up to wrap around his neck, fingers interlocking as you tiptoe.

“I love you so much.” He whispers, desperately, you gulp, nodding quickly, uncaring if anyone saw you both.

You’re married, let them see.

“I love you, Satoru. Are you all right? Was she…”

“She means nothing. No one means fucking anything but you.” You’re melting now, as he’s shaking while he holds you, hand enwrapping in the back of your hair at the nape of your neck.

You drown in him, as your breaths mingle, as his forehead rests on yours, your eyes shut as you feel him, as the love hums through you, your entire being. “Satoru, I need you.” You whisper.

“I need you.” He hums softly. “I need out of this damned palace.”

“Let us leave.” Satoru and you rush through the ball, you’re both breathless by the time you await outside for your carriage, in the dark, chilly night you shiver just a bit, Satoru pulls you against him, warming you. “I’ll never let someone touch you.”

“I don’t want anyone to. I totally smacked him hard.”

“And you backhanded her.” You both laugh, you’re certainly both insane, aren’t you? But none of that matters, not when you have this, when you know you both can get through it all.

“My hand hurts.” He takes off your gloves then, kissing the back of your hands gently, smirking as he runs a thumb over the back of your knuckles.

“I bet it does. Tell me this wasn’t learned from the baker.”

“No! Self taught.” He snorts, and soon you’re both nestled against the carriage, and you’re pulled onto his lap, moaning as your lips meet again and again, he pulls back for a breath, as do you. “I’m so glad she did not get to you.”

“She tried her best. And you?” He asks, fingertips brushing up the line of your jaw delicately.

“He tried his best as well. Apparently, he was not part of her scheme truly? He just desired me and also wanted amusement.”

“Of course he desires you. Who doesn’t? Have to fight off a King, my best friend and a goddamn baker.” You giggle, shaking your head at him, smacking kisses along his flushed cheeks.

“Not your friend truly!”

“Mmm, debatable. Everyone wants you, but I have you.”

“Everyone wants you, Satoru. And yet I have you.”

He cups your face. “All I even fucking see is you.”

“Satoru…” You’re kissing him again, desperately, he kisses you senseless, you feel it, the desire spreading even more, wanting to be claimed by him, as he desires to mark you his.

“You’re all mine, Princess, hmm?” Satoru murmurs, slipping up your skirts, fingers darting across your garters delicately, you cry out softly, head falling back, hair falling as he starts pressing his lips against your throat.

“All yours- mmm!” Your hands enwrap in his silky hair as the carriage gently rocks you both, you feel his hard length pressing against your heat. His tongue trailing a line up a vein he sees on your throat, all the way up to your ear, his breath tickling you as you roll your hips.

His hands press into your hips, thumbs against your pelvis, pulling you even harder on him, you feel your cunt soaking his trousers, bare under your skirts, he feels himself stiffening painfully, straining against them. His tongue darts to trace your earlobe, he makes that little whimper sound as you roll on him, feeling your cunt soaking through.

“No one can ever have you, no one can take you from me.” Duke Gojo’s words are husky, desperate, one finger finding your clit and rolling in circles, your eyelashes flutter as your hips arch, his other hand cups your face. “No one.”

You’re looking at his glittering blue eyes in the dark carriage, hands slipping across his broad shoulders over his tail coat, staring into eyes you love, you adore. “No one can ever have me. It’s only you, Satoru.”

He moans now, slamming his lips on yours, the kiss is desperate and messy, much like the two of you together. You’re not perfect, far from it, you’re both a mess, you’re both as insane as this desire that pulls you, that irrevocably ties you together, as insane as the hungry kiss is. Your tongues are dripping saliva, your lips are bruising, your hands are everywhere.

You can never get enough of him.

He can never get enough of you.

“That’s it, Princess, cum for me.” He orders softly, in that husky fucking voice, and he drinks your cries when you start gushing where he’s flicking your clit faster and faster, shaking your head. He scowls. “You disobey me, hmm brat?”

“Wanna cum with you in me.” You murmur, he groans then, hastily pulling back, you eagerly help him undo his belt, unbutton his trousers, his cock springing free, you press your thumb against the slit that’s oozing pretty pearls of precum. “You’re so pretty Satoru.”

“You’re pretty, Duchess. Especially riding my cock.” He slides his tip against you while you brace yourself on his shoulders, he watches your brows go together, your mouth open in a little O, watches your eyes dilate. “Fuck you’re so pretty when you’re cock thirsty.”

“Cock thirsty!? You… know… I… please!” He smirks now, the little shithead you’re more used to, but there is something so different now.

You both are so in love you cannot see or think of anything but being together, and fuck if tonight hadn’t made you both crave it more. You, craving him to fill you up, and him, craving to pump himself in you, to leave you so full of him there’s nothing but him. But there is nothing but Satoru to you, his eyes hungrily watching you, while he’s pecking kisses on your breasts.

You’re sinking down on him, the stretch burning so delicious, the carriage jostles you just a bit, and you sink further than you intended, earning your gasp and his groan, he bites at your breasts, hands sinking you fully now. You don’t ever take this much so quickly, your velvety walls are spasming around his cock as you try to loosen up, he can’t take how tight you are.

“Can’t hold back, Princess, you feel too good.” He murmurs, apologetically, you just roll your hips, eating up those snowy lashes fluttering.

“Then don’t hold back, Duke.” He moans at that, lifting your hips and pounding up into your cunt now, you’re crying out so loud in the dark night, while you all head home slowly over cobblestone streets, and he’s pumping you so full. “Toru!”

“Pussy is fuckin made for me, hmm?” He’s mumbling, nonsensical, fucking up into you so hard, you’re trembling as you take him, feeling his tip bruise your cervix, and you’re close, so close.

You just nod weakly as he watches you, his eyes dark and hungry, as he guides your hips to move in time with his thrusts. The slap of skin on skin echoes in the enclosed space, mixed with your soft cries and his deep moans. One of Satoru’s hands moves to your neck, his thumb resting gently on your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat as he squeezes gently.

“Look at me when you cum for me, Duchess. I want to see those beautiful eyes roll back in pleasure, just for me.” His voice is a low growl, a quiet demand, you struggle to focus, feeling the pressure coil in your tummy.

You lock eyes with him, feeling the connection between you grow stronger with each passing second, the passion and the love that abounds and grows every day, somehow even the dirtiest words that spill from his mouth are sweet. Pretty little slut is sweet to your ears, the squishing of your wetness on his cock is beautiful especially when your husband looks at you like this.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave then, spreading all over your body, your cries echoing loudly while one of his hands squeezes your throat, watching you fall apart all over him. Your walls are convulsing around his cock, you’re barely able to hold yourself up anymore.

“Mine, mine, mine.” He grunts with every thrust, releasing your throat now, you nod quickly, gasping for a greedy breath.

“Y-yours.” You whisper, he needs it, and you need this, after everything to know who you belong to, and who he belongs to.

The grip on your hips tightening, his beautiful eyes never leaving yours, when you feel him thickening, hear the catch in his breath, the crease between his brows, you know he’s close. You press his back against the velvet carriage seat, taking a breath and rocking up and down his length again, he lets you take control, watching you hungrily.

“God, fucking look at you.” You feel your cheeks heat up at his praise, as his hands press against your stays, the fabric marking your skin, as he watches you with a lidded gaze.

“W-want you to cum for me, Toru. Please.” Your plea earns his lips slamming on yours, and he pins you down fully on his entire length, groaning into your mouth as he finds his release.

His hot spurts of cum fill you, and his throbbing cock edges you again, you’re falling with him, hopelessly into him in the little carriage, arms wrapping around your waist as he keeps pumping his cum deeper. You feel tears falling on your cheeks, legs shaking as you ride him slower and slower, as he fucks you both through the aftershocks and you’re both trembling messes.

“How are you so sexy? What you do to me?” He murmurs now, you giggle a bit, breathless, he eases out of your sore cunt, your cum and his dripping out of your little hole and onto him.

“What you do to me. Having me act so wanton and scandalous.” You tease, he chuckles a bit, sighing and cupping your face with two hands.

“Do you know what I wish, Duchess?”

“What is it, Satoru?” You both adjust yourselves somewhat, he turns you so you are sideways in his lap, pressing kisses all over your face.

“That we could redo our wedding. That I could… fix it.” You hear the emotions in his throat, you sigh, nodding then. “That you didn’t hate that night, that you weren’t crying on the fucking floor.”

“Satoru we are so far past it-”

“It does not matter, I will hate myself for it forever.”

You take his hand, pressing a kiss on the back of his knuckles, feeling emotions capture your heart. “We need not think on it, I do not hold any resentment any longer in my heart.”

“I want to do it over. I want a true wedding, I want a honeymoon… I want so much more for you than I gave.” You feel his heart racing under your palm as it rests on his chest over his dress shirt. You watch the man you adore have to handle what he has done, and all you can do is try to reassure him you do not hold anything against him, but he has to live with it.

“Do not endlessly punish yourself, I want us to be happy.” He exhales, shaking his head, hand stroking your back gently.

“This will help me, please agree to it.”

“Agree to what exactly, Satoru? What do you need?”

“I want to marry you because we want to, not because we were forced to, even though lord knows I couldn’t be happier I am with you. I want it for us, and us only. I want to carry you over that threshold, in my fucking arms. I want to make love to you on our wedding night, and have you fall asleep in my bed, and wake you up licking and kissing every inch.” His voice gets more hoarse with every word, and your heart is racing, your chest rising and falling with each breath.

“Satoru…”

“No, Princess, I need this. I need you to feel desired and loved like you were supposed to, like I should have.” He swipes tears that fall down your cheeks, you feel like you’re spinning, like you’re dizzy, like you’re in a dream.

“We have it now, I feel your love now. I feel it burning for me, as I burn for you, I feel you everywhere.” He gulps, adam’s apple bobbing.

“I know you do, but I need to show you what I should have given you, fuck what you deserve. You deserved to be happy that night, looking so beautiful, so hopeful just for me to crush you.” You’re sobbing now, as the pain sinks in, it’s almost as if you cannot imagine Satoru did it.

“I want to pretend it did not happen.” He shakes his head.

“It did happen, I did those things. I need to right them, to do it all over, to take you far the fuck away from here, somewhere beautiful, fuck you on every surface and feed you and pamper you. Like the Princess you are to me.” His words make you dizzy, images flitting your mind.

“You already make me feel that way, I swear you do.” You murmur, he takes your hand then, thumbing the pearls of the ring on your delicate finger.

“I want to marry you again, it can be just us two. But I want it, and I need it, to take you away and give you everything, to make it special for you. You deserve that and more. Let me show you my love, please, marry me because you want to, because I want you to. Because I love you so deeply it kills me, because I cannot imagine a life without you.”

“Oh, Satoru!” You are a sobbing mess now, kissing him over and over, nodding and sniffling as he holds you to him, so tightly you cannot breathe, you’re nodding weakly, and he’s smiling against your lips then.

“Will you marry me, Duchess? Truly marry me this time?” He whispers, you feel it, the love and devotion humming through every inch of your body.

“I will marry you, Duke Gojo.” He kisses you deeply, and soon the carriage comes to a halt, but you all stay there, laughing through your tears, he’s brushing your hair back, sighing and shaking his head.

“I do not deserve you.” You shake your head.

“You do deserve me, you deserve love, you deserve it all. You are not who you were, and you know I loved you even then.” You say, his full lips turn up at the corners as he gazes at you lovingly.

“I was an ass.” You giggle a bit, breathless.

“You still are a bit.”

“Excuse me?” He raises a brow, you keep giggle. “I’ll have to punish you for that. Oh, you’re far too excited.”

You bite your lip, hugging him and burying your face against his neck. “When is this wedding, hmm?”

“I will set to plan something very soon, I also will have us go to my estate in Scotland.”

“I’ve never been!”

“No? It’s beautiful. I’ll make everything right this time, I swear it.” You lean back, looking into his glistening eyes, feeling his breaths against your lips.

“We do not have to do this, but I also would love to. I have wondered, how would a true wedding night have been? If you were… my first. I wish so badly that things did not happen as they did, but then… were they meant to?”

“I was never meant to be so cruel.” He says, and you feel his anguish.

“I say let us not look upon the past, perhaps a new wedding would be a way for a fresh start. I daresay I’m rather excited.”

“God I love you.” You’re soon in his arms, he’s carrying you inside, kissing you over and over, the staff including Nan is smiling at you all as he carries you up the winding stairs. “I could hold you forever.”

“I could stay in your arms forever.” Satoru soon has you in a bath, he’s gently washing your hair, fingers pressing against your scalp, earning your sigh of happiness as he does. “Satoru…”

“Hmm?”

“I never want this to end. Us, together, so happy. Promise me, promise me nothing will tear us apart again.” You whisper, emotions making you choke up, he frowns then, cupping your face, seeing the tears glimmering as the hot water gently runs over your skin.

“Why are you saying this? Are you… do you doubt me because…” You hear the worry in his voice.

“No, no. I do not doubt you but I fear things. I fear it will all be over, and I love you so much I’ll be left with nothing.” His sweet touches and kisses melt you, you feel the anxiety lessen bit by bit.

“Breathe, please.” He orders softly, you take a breath, nodding carefully. “I will never leave you, I will never make such foolish mistakes again, I will be with you until I take my last breath, do you understand?”

You sob softly as you both kiss, as you turn and straddle him, and the water is sloshing around you both, your hands dripping down as you cup his face, as you slide your fingers through his wet, silky locks. Staring into a face that you adore, his intense gaze and tight grip reassuring you as his words sink in.

Until your last breath.

“I will be with you until then, I will be with you after, there is no me without you anymore.” He places his hand on your beating heart, feeling it flutter just for him, looking at your perfect breasts rising and falling, glistening from the water, making him so hungry again for you.

When isn’t he?

Your words of love melt him, but he’s also a man, and a man that is helpless and hopelessly turned on by his pretty wife. “Keep looking at me like that and I’m putting more cum in you.” You gasp, earning his chuckle. “You like that idea, hmm?”

“I’m sore, you fiend.”

“Your stamina…”

“Oh fuck you!” He sighs, tilting his head back as you study his perfect features, so happy for once everything else is just a whisper. “I love you.”

“And I, you.”

One Week Later

The rays of sunlight flit in, you feel it, Satoru’s firm lips on your neck, his hand splaying your tummy, you whine out and arch your back, earning his groan. He presses you on your back then, kissing across your chest, down to your breasts, shifting your thin silk chemise down to lap at one of your sensitive nipples. You cry out at it, hands entwining in his hair.

“Oh, Satoru… mmm! They hurt.” He chuckles, nipping one, it hurts so much it feels good, then he’s turned his attention to the other, and you wince in slight pain again, they’re aching. “Ah!”

“Do they really hurt that badly? You’re not due for monthlies are you.” He keeps kissing down your body, slipping the chemise to reveal every little inch of you, as you gasp and arch your back.

“No, not for a week or so. It’s so strange… oh that feels so good, though, please…” You’re whining as he plays with them more, you could almost orgasm from just his touch on your nipples, cunt dripping wet. The silk moves gently across your skin, a whisper in the quiet morning.

The lights play on the planes of his face, the way his hair falls just so, the way his eyes lock on yours as he laps at your nipple again, in slow circles, one hand bracing himself as the other squishes a breast in his grip. It hurts again, you’re jerking just a bit at it, nipples pronounced and ready for him.

“Well I like this, you all sensitive.” He teases, grinning so sexy, you feel your cheeks heat up at it.

“You like to hurt me a bit, hmm?” You challenge, whispering, Satoru leans back down, sucking a peak into his mouth, harder, his cheeks hollowing as he does, you scream out at the sensation now, when his teeth press against your areola, and the sensations spread everywhere. “F-fuck, it h-hurts…”

“Good or bad, slutty Duchess?” He asks, going to your other peak, repeating the bite of his sharp teeth, making your tummy clench, you grind on his thigh eagerly. “Fuck feel how wet you are.”

You can’t speak, the pain and pleasure so blinding, he removes his mouth from where he’s sucked your nipple until it’s all puffy and glistening from his saliva, pressing his bare thigh up against you more. You’re dripping down his leg, clit so sensitive it rivals your nipples, he starts kissing lower now, your tummy, soft kisses at first then he’s biting you.

Across your ribs, the underside of your breasts, sucking and biting and lapping you up everywhere, making you a pathetic writhing mess for him. You’re so beautiful in the soft light of the morning, in his bed, covered in his marks, your eyes dilated in pleasure, lashes casting shadows on your precious face, a face he sees every time he shuts his eyes.

God he can’t wait to marry you, truly marry you.

He’s picturing doing this in Scotland now, perhaps on some rolling green hill, your legs spread and hair splayed on some plaid, fuck he’s so ready for it, he’s mostly got it planned out, he only hopes you’ll enjoy it, he hopes it’s something beautiful, like you deserve. He’s looking up at you as he glides your chemise down your body completely, leaving you bare for his eyes to feast on.

He drinks in every line and curve of your perfect body, your smooth skin that he presses his lips against, feeling every muscle tense as he kisses even lower, as his hands press into your hips. He inhales your sweet scent, teeth nibbling your inner thighs, enjoying the glittery bite marks he’s leaving like a trail.

Satoru gets down to your dripping wet lips of your pretty pussy, he teases his finger tip at your entrance, earning your little hole drooling all down his hand, he exhales at it. “I’ve barely touched her and she’s this wet?”

“Sensitive too.” You breathe out, every little breath of his makes you jerk, even his smirk against your thighs have you pouring out, honeyed arousal making your cunt glisten. “S-Satoru…”

“Need something, Princess?” He teases, smirking up at you, his blue eyes darkening when he presses a kiss against your clit, your body jerks as desire floods through you.

“Need you.” He moans, swiping his tongue up your slit, string of saliva and your slick dripping from his tongue, your hands enwrap in his silken white hair, crying out at the sensation. “Toru, need you in me.”

“In a minute, you taste so good. Fuck you’re dripping.” He huffs in wonder, looking at his fingers coated in you, rolling them together and then slipping two fingers in your soppy little cunt, the stretch and pressure so much you’re screaming now, as his fingers press on your spot. “That’s it, fucking feel you, s’wet for me, f-fuck.”

You hear it, his fingers playing you, you’re stupid wet it’s ridiculous, his free hand slips up to grip one of your breasts again, you’re arching up off the bed, whining out at how good it feels, his tongue swirling right along with his fingers pumping. It’s too much, you fall apart so easily for him, completely unraveling, as he drinks you up, slipping his fingers out.

You pulse around nothing when he sucks you off his fingers, white lashes fluttering, then he’s kissing you, you’re lapping your sweetness off him. In the quiet morning it’s you whining into his lips, when he flips you over, laying you on your tummy, prone over you now. You’re trembling as he wraps one hand around your throat, your eyes rolling back in your skull.

“S’good, T-Toru, ah!” Your head falls back, exposing more of your throat when his leaky tip is running his precum up and down your clit, you’re trembling as he holds you, his long fingers wrap around your throat fully.

“You love it, don’t you? Me choking your pretty neck.” He murmurs, you weakly nod, ass arching up enough to allow his tip to enter your cunt, bit by bit, sinking into your eager hole.

“I love it.” You whisper, he squeezes your throat tighter, breathy moan in your ear, fucking you so deep you feel him everywhere. “Ngh!”

You’re crying out as he begins fucking into you, one hand brutally squeezing your hip, the other, squeezing your throat, you’re fading so dizzy and weak for him, velvety walls fluttering around his length. Satoru feels you squeezing him like a fucking vise, you feel him so deep, in your tummy, everywhere. Satoru’s tip hits your cervix then, he rolls his hips, and you fall apart under him.

“Fucking feel you, god you’re so tight Princess.” Your answer is a whimper, cumming all over his length, dripping down on the sheets below. “So wet feel that cunt gripping me, f-fuck.”

Satoru’s voice is desperate, his hand squeezing even harder, your vision blackening and glitter sparkling your vision when he lets you go, turning your chin to him, lips slamming on yours. Your moans are drunk by him, he wraps an arm around your waist, dragging your hips back on his length again.

“Satoru!” You’re crying out his name, voice hoarse, he rolls his hips again, the ridge of his tip brushing on your spot, sending you fucking reeling again. Your cunt is so loud with how wet she is, skin smacking in the quiet of the morning.

“That’s it, lemme feel you, gonna fuck you s’good baby.” Satoru’s nipping on your ear, then your neck, bending over you, taking over your every sense. You gasp and cry out, while he picks up your hips, finger finding your clit and rolling. “There you go, slutty cunt pouring all over the bed, huh?”

“F-fuck you, Toru.” He chuckles before crying out, as you tighten your cunt up around him, laughing breathless when he whimpers. “Too tight?”

“Slutty brat.” He huffs, the words just urging you, when he’s flipped you to your back again, cock lining up with your entrance, shoving deep inside you again, you feel your body tingling fucking everywhere when you clamp down on him again, and he scowls at you. “Loosen up, fuck.”

“Hmm? Wh-what do you mean- ah!” Satoru sinks fully in, stuffing you so full, stretching you out while he squishes your breasts in his hand again, smiling fucking devious at you. “Ah! Fucking hurts!”

“Aw poor baby can’t take it?” He huffs, challenging you, your hips lift, and he uses the movement to pull almost all the way out.

“N-no!”

He grins, then thrusts inside to the hilt, your eyes roll back, and he’s grinning now, so smug. “So much for your talk, huh?”

You just whine, biting down on your lip, your body so sensitive now, the pleasure so intense you’re shaking, your nails digging into his shoulders, he snaps those slender hips forward, slapping his pelvis against yours, you feel it in your stomach, he’s fucking you so deep, feel him everywhere, inside you, around you. He moans and cups your face, bracing himself on his elbows.

“Gonna fuck your mind up, Duchess.” He huffs, eyes bright as his grin is psychotic, but it just makes you wetter, weaker for him. “All mine, every fucking bit of you, isn’t it?” You nod weakly, pussy aching already, but he’s clearly not done, not even close, fucking you into another orgasm that has you a mess.

“Y-yes, Toru. S’all yours.” Your words are slurred, when he’s easing back, tilting your mouth open, his saliva dripping in it. Your eyes cross as your tongue hangs out, opening for his spit, his drool, and you gasp when he slams his cock so deep, big hands pressing your thighs so far apart they ache.

Satoru wants to own you, every bit of you, looking down at the fucked out mess you are under him.

His perfect Duchess, his little princess has his spit in her open mouth, her dilated eyes keep crossing and rolling. He feels those walls clutching his cock, trying to milk him for everything he’s god, he has to pull back, gasping, he doesn’t want it to end yet, he needs his Princess a fucking mess.

Satoru pulls back, up on his knees, lifting your ass up to sink deep, your head pressing back into the pillows as you swallow his spit. “Can your pretty tits handle anything right now?”

“Th-they’re so s-sensitive- ah! B-but…. yes please.” He’s bent over you, his back arching up, tongue back on them, sucking them rough. Your hands sink into his skin on his back, nails pressing in, leaving marks while he slowly pumps into your cunt again and again.

“Perfect tits, fuckin perfect body.” You melt, blinking back tears, usually in the mornings it’s some lazy sex, him cuddling you, this is insane, this is after a fight sex, it’s after a night at the ball sex, that consuming mind fucking he’s doing, along with praising every bit of you. “Those eyes, fuck.”

“You’re t-too much.” You manage, he chuckles, breathless, stroking a tear from your cheek, easing his pace finally.

“Sore, baby?” He’s smirking, teasing you.

“It’s so much. So big.” He moans at that. “Too deep, so full.”

“Yeah so full of me?” You nod weakly, his hand presses on the bulge he’s making in your tummy, fucking slower and slower, it’s so intimate and feels so good, you feel your skin slick with sweat now, feel yourself falling off the edge of the earth, clinging to the man that makes you descend into madness.

“Full, so full. You’re everywhere Toru.” Your eyes both lock then, you stare into those blue swirling storms, his pupils blown out, as he hovers over you, your leg over his arm now, leaky tip prodding your cervix. Your sensitive breasts are heaving with every breath you take, small and shaky.

“You’re everywhere, every time I close my eyes, or open them, I want to fucking see your pretty face, pretty body.” You do cry then, it’s too much. You feel so emotional lately, especially when the man you love is working you, is cupping your face, at one moment rough and brutal, at another so slow and sweet.

“Cum in me, please, Toru.” You beg, your voice a breathy cry.

His brows furrow together, his snowy lashes lowering, he moans then, capturing your lips in another breathtaking kiss. “Only if you cum first, want your slutty cunt to milk me dry.”

You whine out, when he slips his hand down, your foot is pressed against his shoulder, his strong muscles rolling when he fucks you hard now, and just like that, you’re coming again, your cunt tightening around his cock, your body writhing underneath him as you let out strangled cries. You feel the tears pouring from pleasure and the overwhelming person that is Satoru Gojo.

“There she is, fuck. Good little Princess.” He cooes, but you hear it, his hitch in his breath, the catch in his voice, he pumps quickly then, chasing his release, and then practically cries out in his own whimper when he starts cumming, kissing your neck then biting you as he rolls his hips.

“Toru- f-fuck!” You whine out, in between sobs, when his cum is pumping up into your pussy, filling you so fucking full.

“Gonna put so many babies in you, huh?” You weakly nod, tears sticky and hot on your cheeks, when he cups your face, his cock throbbing. “You’ll look so fucking beautiful full with me.”

“Toru you’re fucking my head up and it’s the morning.” You whisper, he chuckles then, swiping tears from your cheeks. “Psychotic Duke.”

“Slutty Duchess. Mmm.” You’re pulsing around him, you’re both so sensitive, when he eases out you tremble at it, your cunt dripping his cum out, so deliciously fucking sore. He shoves two fingers in your sloppy cunt then, and watches you writhe and your eyes flutter shut.

“Sadistic ass Duke.” You whine out, he laughs softly, kissing your forehead sweetly like he’s not fingering his cum back inside you.

“No, I just want you to be full of cum for tonight. Think I’ll need to put a few more in before this dance we’re going to.” You exhale, shaking your head, when he pumps again, the squishy mess of your cunt utterly lewd.

“A few more!?” You demand, narrowing your eyes, he grins.

“There she is, my mean little Duchess. Fucking love that look.”

“The ‘I’ll kill you’ look?”

“Oh yes. Mmm, don’t you want a baby anyway? How will you have one if you waste all my seed like this? Tsk tsk.” Satoru shoves his fingers so deep, you’re pulsing around his fingers again, feeling him harden against your inner thigh, cock sticky and hot.

“S’not how it works, you just love torturing me. Ngh!” He smiles against your lips, kissing you over and over.

“I do love to abuse your pretty cunt, watch that gorgeous face as I drive you fucking crazy.”

“Sadistic.”

“You’re masochistic.”

“To be with you? Yes.”

He glares now, and you’re giggling. “You little fucking brat.”

“What- ah!” Satoru’s smacked your pussy now, your thighs tremble.

“And you like it, don’t you?”

“Fuck you. Yes.” He snorts once more, kissing you as he hits your spot again, when suddenly your tummy tenses too much, and you wince a bit at it. “Satoru… it really is too much.”

“Are you too weak?” He taunts, but your tummy really hurts suddenly, you shake your head and he pulls back. “Too much, Princess?”

“N-no. Something… I feel…” You exhale, trying to breathe.

“Is it your asthma? I’ll fetch a doctor.” He says softly, the concern clear in his voice and on his features.

“No, Toru not at all. It’s… my tummy.” You wince again, turning away from him and exhaling. “It’s so tense and I feel almost sick.”

“Did I do too much?” You shake your head again, he kisses your bare shoulders, hands gently running along your back. “I don’t want you sick for the wedding.”

“I won’t be, promise. We have a week. Um, could you tell Nan to make me something to eat maybe? I feel hungry and sick?” He frowns, then nods, pecking a kiss on your forehead.

“I’ll go have her make something for you.” You smile gratefully, you both clean up, then you sit up in the bed, as the wave of nausea passes, you shake your hands and try to exhale, to focus.

Soon Nan is in your room, with your coffee and some delectable muffins, they look mouth watering then. She looks at you with a small smile. “Is everything alright Duchess?”

“I believe so. I got a little queasy, oh these look so delectable!” You inhale the muffin and smell the sugar and blueberry.

“Your favorite, Duchess. Now, take a bite.” You are starving, and nauseous, it’s an odd combination, but the food is helping somehow, coating your tummy as you nibble more and more.

“Nan, could I ask you something personal?” You murmur, as you practically devour the muffin and reach for another.

“Of course, my love. You have quite an appetite, it’s so nice to see.” You flush a bit.

“I do seem to be ravenous, hmm?” You lick sugar off a finger, sipping on the coffee now.

“It’s part of being a newlywed. Which… you will be again I see.”

Marrying Satoru.

Truly marrying him.

Yes, you all are together, but this? You cannot wait.

“Indeed, I agree. But Nan… it’s personal.” You whisper, leaning close, Nan bobs her head, leaning in. “My nipples hurt so bad, my breasts ache. I am a little worried because I’m not due for monthlies. Have you ever felt this?”

She pauses then, smiling, shaking her head. “I should have guessed.”

“Guessed what, Nan?” You tilt your head curiously, and she shocks you then, touching your tummy over your blue silk wrapper you’re wearing.

“You’re glowing, you have an appetite, your… ahem…” She eyes your bosoms, fuller than usual you notice. “They hurt. That’s all signs of being with child.”

You falter then, gasping, putting your hand on hers over your tummy. “W-with child? I… are you sure?”

Satoru walks in then, grinning at you both, before he sees her hand on your tummy, his eyes dart back and forth, where Nan is touching you. He gulps then, shaking his head, lips opening then closing, just to repeat the action, lashes blinking rapidly, as if he’s putting it all together.

You turn to him, taking his hand now. “Satoru, it's just a guess, we do not surely know yet… but…”

His mouth opens and closes once more, his eyelids lowered as they stare at where your tummy is, reaching out and touching it now, placing a hand over you. “Are you…”

You nod just a bit, feeling the swelling of happiness, along with some apprehension for how Satoru would feel. Was it just talk? Would this be too much for him? You all are just starting to have this uninterrupted bliss, this perfect morning, and though you want this so badly, you want him ready.

“Are you…” He keeps trailing off, stepping closer now, Nan watches you both with a little smile. “Pregnant?”

A/N- This is very smushy and happy, yes I know this was angst but I write Happy Ever After stories only. I am working on Nanami's side story if you wish to be tagged in that plz lmk! Tysm for those who still read this, I know it's going LONG and it's a lot. I love you all bc this has become my favorite project I've written so far!

TagList: @kalopsia-flaneur @bunheadusa @7thsthings @disilluzions  @antisocialinlw @Sukunassfinger @lelsforlino @heeknow @muvasuperior @prince-wyiilder @lavender-hvze @ssetsuka  @labelt-san  @sadmonke @philiatothephobia @ambiguouslady42 @stromynight @dreamygirli3 @jjknanamin @jazlenekasi @victoriaaaa00 @wuvnada @nanasukii28 @sw3etnena @dark-agate @tamaki-simp @yuuuumii @givluv2tyy @airandyeah @sw3etnena @webshooterrr9 @miizuzu @thikcems @erensblackwife @murayamayoshiki-lovergurl @blue-musingss @huuuhwhaat @valleydoli @makingtimemine @saccharinesatoru @sunnyviewsblog @nanananananaiknow

[gyubakeries]

❆ 𝐠𝐲𝐮𝐛𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 : 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐬! ❆ | 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐮 - 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 <𝟑

❆ 𝑑𝑎𝑦 12: late-night walks | c.hs

a/n: welcome to day 12!! merry christmas eve 💗 second last fic of this series! i chose a very simple activity for vernon because i feel like spending quality time with him would be just like this-simple and quiet, yet wholesome. hope you enjoy!

word count: 1.1k contents: vernon x gn!reader , established relationship , implied childhood friends to lovers , snow , late night walks , fluff , a lot of big feelings crammed into loving eyes (you cant tell me it doesnt scream vernon)

"wanna go out for a walk?" hansol asks as you finish drying the last plate. you put the plate away in the cupboard and turn to face him, already bundled up in a thick jacket, scarf, beanie, and gloves.

"did i really have a choice?" you tease, wiping your hands on your shirt. "give me a sec, let me grab my jacket."

in a couple of minutes, hansol and you are stepping outside the house, the both of you wrapped in so many layers that you look like penguins waddling down the street.

it's snowing, and the moon is out, bathing the street in its pale light. despite all the layers, you still feel the cold breeze of the night seep in, so you huddle closer to your boyfriend. with the experience of many winters spent together, he lifts his arm instinctively to wrap it around your shoulder and pull you in closer to his chest.

"it's colder this time around, isn't it?" you ask hansol, and he hums, the sound deep and warm.

"it doesn't matter if it keeps getting colder, i'll have you to keep me warm," he replies, a small smile playing on his lips, and your cheeks turn pink.

you could blame it on the cold if hansol points it out, but he doesn't.

your walk down the street lands you both in the public park. the benches, slides and swings are covered in a thick blanket of snow, and the dim light of some streetlights cover the entire area in a warm glow.

"sollie, remember that little hike we used to make as kids?" you turn to ask him. "can we go now? the view will be even prettier with all the snow!"

"of course, we just need to check if the trail isn't blocked off," he nods, not finding any cell in his body to refuse your request.

the perks of living in the same neighbourhood you grew up in was the countless memories you've made with hansol in every corner of the town.

you see the red, plastic slide where you had met him when the both of you were six.

he sees the swings by which he had given you a rose while asking you out for high school prom because your crush had ditched you when the both of you were sixteen.

you remember the grocery store you had rushed to when hansol was sick, the summer before college started when the both of you were eighteen.

he remembers the old diner you both have been going to for years, which is where he finally confessed his feelings for you, just five years ago, when the both of you were twenty-one.

you both are twenty-six now, but everything still feels the same, just like twenty years ago.

you take his hand and pull him over to the clearing in the bushes on the perimeter of the park. most children were discouraged from wandering off there, but hansol and you had managed to sneak away from your parents' watchful eyes, at the age of seven, and discover your secret hide-out.

"it's still open!" you exclaim cheerfully. "hansol, we have to go."

he doesn't argue; he follows you as you climb through the hedges, albeit with some difficulty, since your bodies have grown significantly in the last decade.

when you're both past the bushes, the long trail up the hill appears in front of you.

with a twinkle in your eye, you face hansol. "race you to the top?"

"loser washes dishes for two weeks," he fires back, without skipping a beat.

just as the words leave his mouth, the two of you set off, sprinting up the trail. the challenge proves to be difficult with all the layers of jackets you were wearing, but neither of you give up.

soon enough, the flat-top of the hill swam into your sight. just as you were about to win the race, hansol zooms past you, flopping down on one of the old, forgotten wooden benches at the summit.

"ha! i won," he wheezes, trying to catch his breath. you grumble and stomp over to where he's sitting, taking a seat on the opposite bench.

"it's so hot, oh my god," you pant, about to open the zipper of your jacket when hansol stops you.

"you're gonna freeze to death if you open your jacket now," he warns you.

"but i'm sweaty from all the running!" you argue, and he rolls his eyes. "you were the one who suggested sprinting!" he points out, and you don't argue back.

"it was really fun though," hansol says after a while, when the both of you have cooled down a bit. "i can't believe you're still slower than me after all these years."

"shut up, you probably cheated," you mumble, crossing your arms and frowning, much like you would do when you were a child.

hansol is suddenly taken back to the last memory the two of you had created on this hill. you both were eighteen, and drunk off cheap beer.

(you were sitting on these very benches, gazing up at the stars in the summer sky. your body was swaying of it's own accord, because of how drunk you were.

"hansol?"

"hm?"

"i know we're going off to college, but you won't forget me, right?" you had asked him that night.

hansol had gazed at you. you, whose eyes were still focused on the sky. you, who were oblivious to all the love he had held for you since you were sixteen and crying in your prom dress.

"i'll have to think about it," he had joked, and you had immediately brought your head down to frown at him, crossing your arms like a child.

"you're so mean!" you had scowled, and hansol could only hope that you weren't looking into his eyes as attentively as you were looking at the stars.)

"maybe i cheated," he replies with a faint smirk, and you shove his arm playfully. a sudden gust of cold wind makes you shiver, and hansol is quick to get up from his bench to sit next to you and wrap you up in his arms.

"it's been so long since we've been here," you sigh softly, looking at the town in front of you. all the lights were off, and the stars were your only company. "we should come back here more often."

"alright, we will," hansol replies easily, and it really is that easy for him. even when he was six, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, or twenty-six, saying yes to you is as natural as breathing.

(your eyes are still looking up at the winter sky this time, eight years later, and hansol still looks at you with love in his eyes.

this time around, you're aware of his love, and he knows it from the squeeze of your hand around his.)

- fin.

divider made by @bernardsbendystraws !

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[curly-my-beloved]

Krampus Jimmy NSFW headcanons

CW: non-con. monsterfucking. somnophilia. technically cannibalism (mentioned). jimmy mouthwashing starterpack.

In a world where Curly might be Santa, Anya might be Mrs. Clause, Daisuke might be an elf and Swansea might be Rudolph... Jimmy Zare is the Krampus himself.

And while the whole scaring and maybe even kidnapping naughty children is fun (he loved scaring the vulnerable ones), there was another part of his role that he loved. One that not many people knew about.

One could consider it... payment. For his hard work. A reward, even.

Sometimes, he doesn't catch all the naughty children. It happens. He doesn't think much of it.

The kids usually end up behaving, anyway. Just seeing him is scary enough and leaves most of the little escapees traumatized for years.

And trauma is a funny little thing. Because some people cope with it by... turning it into a kink, basically. Like your good self.

Jimmy doesn't even remember you. He never bothers remembering the snivelling little faces, little fists or feet that try to fight against him. He just moves on.

But what is the reward I mentioned? Well, every once in a while, if he's done with his work early, he can use the free time to... check up on the ones who escaped. Of course, that only happens every few decades, but still.

And while he doesn't remember most of the little shits that escape him, every few years there's always one juvenile he remembers and hates with a passion.

He doesn't really think about them until one of those years he gets some free time. And you happened to be one of them, pulling shit that even Kevin from Home Alone would be proud of.

But now, two decades later, he gets to have his revenge.

You've grown, changed. He'll give you that. But deep down, he could feel that you were still the little shit you were all those years ago.

And even if not, you certainly had some fascinating interests. Your trauma made you obsessed with him, in a rather... sexual manner.

Did you think he wouldn't find out about your little Tumblr blog? And all the cryptid porn you wrote on it? Especially the Krampus porn? You're adorable.

Of course he would visit you!

Not only does he get his payback, but you also get your dream to come true! You get to fuck The Krampus!

Or rather, he gets to fuck you.

Breaking into your apartment is very easy. So is finding your bedroom. Your bed. You.

He doesn't bother waiting or even waking you up. If the clicking of hooves or the ringing bells on his horns didn't wake you, that's on you.

Hell, you didn't even wake up when he ripped your shirt and underwear off. It almost made him... curious...

He hummed, moving his almost goat-like face to your neck, sniffling carefully before his long, split tongue took a long, wet lick of your neck.

He reveled in the way you flinched, your breath shaking. He grinned, exposing all the sharp teeth in his mouth, his eyes glowing in the dark with all his sinister ideas and plans letting loose in his head.

He lets his sharp claws explore your body, fangs just barely scraping the sensitive skin that protected your fragile throat. A small bite wouldn't hurt, right?

He chuckles, slowly sinking his teeth into your sensitive flesh. And the moment he heard you gasp as you awoke, he gripped your thighs, your skin breaking from the sharp claws as he forced himself inside you in one firm thrust.

He ignored your pained and shocked scream, glancing down at the unnatural looking bulge that was now on your stomach.

He leaned in close, far too close, to your face, exposing his now bloody teeth in what could be either a grin or a snarl.

"Remember me?"

[aziraphales-library]

Thank you so much for all the work you do💗

I was wondering if you have any long human au fics with lots of angst and a happy ending? Again thank you!!

You're welcome! We have #long fic, #human au, and #angst tags where there will be plenty of overlap, so do dip into those. Here are more for you...

Lessons in the Humanities by Greenathena (M)

Aziraphale Fell teaches English at Eden Midtown Academy. His new co-worker, Anthony Crowley, is a bit of a wild card, who doesn't mind ruffling a few feathers. Over the course of the school year, their friendship seems to be growing into something more. That is until Aziraphale is offered a high-stakes job, overseeing state testing for the whole of the Massachusetts Department of Education. They're in love, your honor. Possibly. Probably. It's ineffable complicated.

What is forgiveness but the silence after a scream? by Moonstone_Lingo (M)

After being forced to return to the town he once ran away from decades ago when he hears of his mother's death, Aziraphale is confronted with a past he wants to forget, but one that is hauntingly insistent on being relived. When a chance encounter with a stranger reveals that Crowley is not far away at all, Aziraphale must consider which he cares about more: his belief in God or his love for Crowley, and not wanting to choose, he quickly discovers he cannot have both. Unsure whether it is already too late, Aziraphale learns that he has to fight for what he wants before it slips out of his grasp. or "God loves you, Crowley." "not enough to stop hurting me." "I love you, Crowley." "not enough to save me."

As Yet Untitled by badwolfgirlicouldkissyou (E)

Aziraphale Fell is a number one best-selling author, despite his lack of self confidence and desire to hide from the public eye. Whilst fighting off his anxiety disorder at the premiere of his first novel's feature film adaptation, he meets an enigmatic, mysterious photographer who seems to only have eyes for him. Can they navigate their newfound bond? Or will past trauma and current obstacles get in their way?

Adaptive Innovations for a Changing World by amelia_airheart (E)

When Anthony Crowley meets Aziraphale Fell at Aziraphale's library, little do they know that they will turn each other's worlds upside down. After a magical week spent falling in love, they face a hard reality. Will they be able to make the choices they need to make to build a real life together?

And the fire will consume us by Merlarme (M)

Crowley works as a firefighter. One day he rescues Aziraphale, a paramedic, who is trapped in a burning building. Grateful Aziraphale decides to find his rescuer and, after getting to know him a little better, realises that they have a lot in common and are both so lonely that the accident that brought them together turned out to be a true grace.

Sinking Ships by AppleSeeds (E)

The world is practically on fire and it feels like nobody's doing anything about it, but Crowley's outlook brightens considerably when a new member arrives at his local climate action committee. Crowley is immediately smitten, and is thrilled when he and Aziraphale become fast friends, although he can't help but hope they might one day become something more. When all of his wishes come true, Crowley starts to feel like life couldn't possibly get any better. He can picture exactly what his future is going to look like, until something happens that feels like a powerful bolt of lightning has struck and split Crowley's life right down the middle, with everything before that moment on one side, and everything that is to come - scorched, lifeless and devastated - on the other. With the help of a counsellor, Crowley begins the difficult journey of picking up the pieces and working through what's happened. When Aziraphale unexpectedly comes back into his life, Crowley finally has the chance to get some answers, revealing that the truth is very different from what he was led to believe. Now he just needs to figure out whether that changes anything.

- Mod D

[monstrousorchids]

what the fuck kinda ending was that???

a filler season with no true plots that tie everything together. barely see nadja and laszlo being kinky spouses. no colin subplots between the main plots of each episode. nandor and guillermo are "just friends" and nandor supposedly has a crush on the guide. we barely see the guide and she never really gets the validation and acceptance she's been craving from the group for so long. we don't see guillermo and nadja interact apart from that weird finance bro side quest. laszlo's dad appears in one episode but does nothing. we don't see the baron, the sire and the rest of their little family. there's that nowhere subplot of another vampire that existed among them decades ago but only appears in this season and has nothing to do besides forget that he and colin were friends, be a sort of rival to nandor in the affection of the guide, and try to take over the world, then die? laszlo makes his own frankenstein monster and despite being there in the house he almost has nothing to do besides two episodes. there was that weird episode where a cop tv show was filming in their street.

we don't see them run around town in their usual locations getting into hijinks with humans. no night market, no clubs, no vampire council. we don't see much of sean and charmaine. nandor and guillermo didn't admit their feelings for one another and have gay sex in nandor's coffin. like what is going on? none of these characters felt like themselves and their dynamics were so off, especially with the additional characters. no laszlo and nadja moments, laszlo and colin moments, colin and guillermo moments, nandor and nadja moments, nadja and the guide moments, the guide and colin moments. we don't see nadja's doll self at all except in the background, and she doesn't interact with guillermo, colin or the guide.

i'm so sad. i hardly laughed once this season and this was supposed to be the finale. and instead it just feels like a half-baked filler season between 3 and 4. none of these beloved characters get a proper send-off nor are their arcs concluded in any meaningful way. i don't understand how the show was able to end on its own terms and yet drop the ball with the stories it had been building for years.

i understand if they wrote the season that way because they didn't want it to feel like the end, keeping in line with the documentary aspect and how their lives will continue off-camera. but it felt so forced and rushed. it felt like a cop out. all of that build-up into the relationships of the characters and their growth as individuals and the questions of what they'll do next just thrown out the window. granted, season 4 and 5 weren't the best and showed signs of decline in focus on what the show was about, but they were still funny and they still focused on the characters and tried new things to explore the lore of the vampires.

now i know how game of thrones fans felt.

[letters-to-gene-roe]

Long Night

HBOWarDaily Secret Santa gift for @kindsummer

Word Count: 1.7k

Heffron's as hot as the sun that's not shining on them right now, and as cold as it is, he's sweating profusely, melting away at an alarming rate. The best Eugene can do right now is watch him, and that's no certain thing when he's hearing MEDIC! what feels like every five minutes, and even if Eugene had the supplies, there was no helping him, because he was… changing.

Heffron's as hot as the sun that's not shining on them right now, and as cold as it is, he's sweating profusely, melting away at an alarming rate. The best Eugene can do right now is watch him, and that's no certain thing when he's hearing MEDIC! what feels like every five minutes, and even if Eugene had the supplies, there was no helping him, because he was… changing.

Eugene had gone through this himself, all those years ago, in the mud and rain of the trenches that so defined the last war. If he thinks real hard, he can conjure up the last night of his life - not with the shadowy haze most of his old life had, but with devastating color and clarity. Eugene doesn't like to think about it much, not so much because it's a bad memory (although it is), but because it was so easy to get stuck in. When you remember every second, it's so easy to pick out where things could've gone differently, could've gone better. If only I'd stayed at the field hospital. If only I'd been asleep. If only I'd fucked off at the nearest opportunity. If only, if only.

He hopes it's not like that for Heffron, hopes today stays nothing but a vague collage of sensations: cold, hard, wet, hungry. The remembering is a kind of torment, a stagnation the newly immortal don't need. The forgetting is hard enough, anyways. Eugene ain't even that old a creature, but he's caught himself losing more of the past than a young man ought to. Heffron's making small, animal noises now, so quiet Eugene knows no human ears are hearing them. That's what the change does, burn out the man in you and leave something else behind, though what that something is exactly is beyond him. His kind (their kind, now) are few, or at least, Eugene hasn't met more than a couple in the nearly three decades since that awful autumn night in 1917.

The younger man's brow is damp with sweat, and his short hair is plastered to his skin. His human scent lingers on his clothes, and if Eugene holds him close enough for long enough, he can pretend Heffron's just asleep. He listens for his pulse, which is still there but only just, with longer and longer between each beat. One second, two, then five, half a minute, a minute, more. Just a little longer now, just a little longer. Eugene resists the urge to wrap the blankets around Heffron tighter and settles for wiping the rapidly freezing sweat off his face as his last breath leaves him in one long, sighing exhale.

He hates this, because there's nothing he can do, because he ain't got any blood to give Edward when he rises, because Edward's dead and that means he's failed at his one purpose, and because Edward, the most alive of them all, was dead, about to become one of the living damned right in this foxhole. It could be minutes until he wakes, or hours, or there's a chance he might never wake at all, so Gene closes his eyes and prays. Let him live, let him live, let him live. Let him die, and live again.

If someone had asked him before this very moment if he'd wish his… condition on somebody else, he'd say no. It's only half a life, stretching out into eternity, but by God Eugene wants to see those eyes open again. He may not have turned Heffron, but now, with his still, silent body leaning against his, he feels more responsible for him than ever. Eugene's tried his best to stay detached from the men of Easy Company, it's just better that way. He knows them, respects them, trusts them - but only cares for them in the few moments they're under his hands. But Heffron - open, honest, sharp, and warm - has done his best to bring him into the fold, regardless.

When he wakes, he'll be starving. Eugene hopes that his own blood and a little chocolate will suffice. Of course, if he lets Heffron drink from him, it'll mean Eugene will need to feed sooner rather than later, like he'd hoped, but that's something he's willing to bear if it meant keeping Edward (no, Heffron damn it) from falling upon his nearest living comrade to drain the life out of him. Ain't got nothing to do with how he wants to feed him, of course not - how he wants to pull him close and not let go, how he's caught himself dreaming of a night far from tonight, where the war's over, and while the two of them are slightly less than alive, they're together. Absolutely not.

There's a twitch next to him and that's all the warning he has before Edward's eyes (Heffron's!) snap open and Eugene has to pin him down, all but shoving his wrist in Heffron's face. He can see the exact second Edward catches his scent, eyes locked in on the small gash Eugene opened up with his own fangs. Heffron rushes forward, laving at the cut with his tongue before suckling at it, new, sharp teeth pricking him without biting. He's making a mess of Eugene's uniform sleeve, so Eugene brings his other hand around to push at Edward's jaw until his fangs sink in deep. Every pull from him was a throbbing wave of pain, passion, love, want need hunger pain mine mine mineminemine.

Mine, Eugene thought blankly as Heffron slowed his feeding. What a crock ‘a shit. I've got no room to say he's mine.

Edward's breathing out of reflex, huffing and puffing like he just ran ten miles. He doesn't need to breathe anymore and Eugene knows once they've both calmed down, he'll stop. As Eugene pulls his arm away, he whines quietly and leans forward, trying to get more.

“Greedy boy,” Eugene tells him, though it's only an absent chastisement. Pushing a piece of Renée’s chocolate in his mouth, he murmurs, “You're alright, you're okay, just a little thirsty.” Edward just grunts, slowly chewing the chocolate. “There we go, see? ‘s not so bad now.”

Eyes coming back into focus, Heffron swallows and exclaims, “Holy shit, Doc!” before Eugene can shush him. “I- I mean, what happened? What's with the- with the, you know, the…” The wind changes, and now Eugene's scent, all dark and bloody, blows Heffron's way. His eyes take on a hungry sheen before he snaps himself out of it. “Give it to me straight - why the hell do you smell so good? And why…,” he wipes at his bloody, sticky chin, “why am I covered in blood?”

-

It is a long, dragging night, like most nights in Bastogne, made longer by the explanation he has to give to Edward - yes, you're a vampire now, yes, I'm a vampire too, no, it wasn't me who turned you, no, I don't know who did, and yes, I'm sure about that - laying out all the things Eugene had to learn piecemeal over many years.

“What about stakes? You know, like in those old Lugosi flicks?”

“I think a stake to the heart might kill anything, Edward.” He (when did he become just Edward to me?) shot Eugene a look that just screamed ‘only the goddamn nuns call me Edward!’, but moved on anyway.

“And the sun?”

“You've seen me outside, here and in Holland, and I was just fine. Stings though, and it's harder to stay focused. Night's a lot easier, ‘specially since we don't need to sleep.”

“No shit, really? Not at all?”

“Not much, anyways. It’d be better to sleep like usual, for now, since it'll keep the worst o’ the hunger away.”

“How have you been dealing with that, by the way? The hunger, I mean. How have you been keeping yourself fed these last few months? It can't have been easy.”

Stateside and in England, it had been rather simple. “You'd be surprised how much a drunk man's willing to overlook, and I've learned how to take only as much as I need.”

“What about now, though? It's not like they're handing you out a bag a’ blood when everyone else is getting their shitty beans. I suppose you could get your fill from a dead guy-”

“No!” Eugene cried as loud as he dared. “Never, I mean never, drink from a dead man, you hear?” Edward nods, startled by his vehemence. “A dead man's blood is poison, and even if it wasn't, I wouldn't let you. Gotta keep something between us an’ animals. Am I understood?” He held the other man's gaze, trying to look directly into him. He needs to get this. He needs to get a lot of things, but especially this.

“Yeah, yeah, Gene, understood.” Edward sighed, and Eugene realized he was still breathing, like he still needed the oxygen to live. Trust him to be so alive, he breathes when he's dead. “Doesn't answer my question, though. How are you staying fed out here?”

The truth was that he'd been filling his belly with blood from the wounded men at the hospital in town. Like a thief, or possibly like a demon, he'd scout out someone suitable - someone not quite at death's door, but still hurt badly enough that he could easily slip his fangs into the already open wound and drink without causing a scene.

But he can't tell Edward that. He may be a paratrooper with a whole campaign under his belt, but it is one thing to kill a man in war, shoot him, stab him, shell him, and another thing entirely to slowly drain away the very essence of his life, to hear his breath shake in agony and feel the hot spurts of blood coat your belly in return. Selfishly, and rather foolishly, Eugene wants to keep him away from that, wants Edward to feed from him and him alone. You done fucked up, Roe. You let him get his teeth in you, now what? He's not yours, not before, not now, not ever. You shoulda’ let him die in that foxhole and come back alone, but that was never gonna happen, was it?

After a beat, Eugene answers. “Like I said before, by takin’ only so much as I need.” He's saved from more questioning by artillery fire, and Eugene has never been so thankful of German aggression.

[vampirefilmlover]

Oh wow. There is just SO many parts in this writing to call out, that I don’t even believe I can. This was amazing!!

The way the reader looks back at Paul in the record shop and then Paul ends up just scaring us, the awkward beginning of a conversation, it all seemed so natural. And the way we acknowledge his lines are corny but his charm is what sells it is such a point!

The way that he’s the first person to let us know that Santa Carla is the murder capital and that there’s a rumored serial killer.. just for the reader to go through a horrifying process of realizing he drew blood from our neck. The connection is just mwah, chefs kiss.

“He licks up the base of your throat, sucking at the edge of your jaw before he speaks against your skin like he doesn't want to pull away. Can I eat you out?" WOOOOOOOO!!!! THE BUTTERFLIES ARE REAL Y’ALL.

Him smacking our leg, relentless teasing, hair pulling.. just overall all his actions showing he enjoys rough intimacy was just… 🫣🤭

The way that the reader gets jealous realizing this was a popular couples spot.. just shows how charismatic the boys are as vampires and attractive men. And plus his dedication to pleasuring us is another reason for jealousy😅… VALID.

“You think it's too late. You really are going to be one of those women staring up at the ceiling, fantasizing about that one perfect night from a decade ago.” This. This is the perfect example of how any of us would feel interacting with them. Makes me wonder how many women throughout their lifespan (since the 2nd movie script if I remember correctly showed them turning in 1911) had an intimate night with the boys and how many did they not feed on and left fantasizing about that one summer fling?

𝔚𝔞𝔱𝔠𝔥 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔗𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥

Summary: Tired of being trapped in the suffocation and monotony of your life, you make the hair triggered decision to abandon it all and escape to an eccentric town in California.

You never expected to get spirited away by a charming man one night on the boardwalk. But you should have known from the look in his eyes that he was nothing but bad luck.

Warnings: Fem bodied reader, fem pronouns. 18+ MDI. Oral (F!Receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, sex outdoors, mild gore (blood drinking). Reader is dodging red flags like it's a profession. Not proofread.

Notes: 14k words. I rewatched The Lost Boys a few nights ago and couldn't resist writing for one of my favorites.

Santa Carla is almost jarring to witness. Even in the day, when the mid sun is bright and blunt on the shifting scape of graffiti and grimy corners and sidewalks marred with old gum, it's unabashed in its abnormality. It's entirely unlike the hushed, quaint little streets of your hometown, with its lush lawns and the little elderly ladies in their Sunday best, speaking amongst each other in gossip that's quiet and passive aggressive. A complete one-eighty of the punks that skulk down these avenues with black smeared around their eyes and worn cigarettes dangling between their pierced lips while they lug old boom boxes over their shoulders, spitting out metal and rock and roll. 

Just the sight of them would have been enough to send the old committee in your town into a conniption, banding together to drive the demonic filth from the city limits. But here, no one bats an eye to this sort of thing. It isn't shocking to the locals to see a man who's old enough to be your grandfather gliding down the pavement in hot pink booty shorts that are tight enough to show what he's packing. 

Your own mother had nearly been sent into a spiral when she had heard about you wearing a crop top - she hadn't even seen you herself. Someone had snitched to her apparently. Your best bet is Audrey. She's always bored on her shifts at the market, sitting at her register with a glazed overlook in her eyes until she manages to find something worth blabbering about. You're sure she had all but flown over to the phone on her lunchbreak to snitch and warn your mother that she had spied you perusing over the ice cream freezers with your stomach shamelessly bared for the entire world to see. 

It's pretty embarrassing to have your mother barrel her way into your kitchenette at the middle of 10 p.m. to scold you for "acting like a harlot." 

But here it's normal. People are dressed in so many different styles. Sporting hair dyed from fried bleach blonde to bright neon green; decked out in leather, ripped jeans; women and men alike strolling around in tight swimwear that leaves little to the imagination with diamond bellybutton jewelry that glints in the sun. Tattoos on tanned skin and manicured nails with leopard print. 

Your mind still hasn't caught up with it all yet. It's like you've stepped into a music video, or another world entirely. It's like the air is permanently charged. Electric and humming, pulsing like something alive. Fluttering in your stomach like a flock of nervous butterflies. But that's probably just the anxiety. You've dangled between pure excitement and tension for the past few days that you've been here. Forcefully fixed there by the stubborn ball of apprehension that's tucked itself behind your sternum like a heavy rock. It's almost makes you nauseous. So caught up in your nerves to truly let go and enjoy the moment. To revel in the reality that you've finally escaped. That you've finally managed to wrangle yourself free of shitty little town in the middle of nowhere and have run off to a place where no one will notice you. Where you can blend into the masses and disappear without the worry of judgement. 

It's just not that easy though. It never is. There's guilt behind your panic. The dread that you've just abandoned her. Left her without little more than a letter tapped to her front door before you shoved most of your belongings into a couple of suitcases, took up all of the money you've saved up over the past three summers and vanished in the early morning without a trace. 

It was dumb maybe. But you prefer desperate. You had to get out. You had to do it while you still had a chance, while you're still young and hopeful. Before Gallatan could eat you up of all your worth and turn you into one of those judgmental ladies perched out in front of one of its buildings with a mean scowl on your face. You had to do something before you lost sight of yourself or became the woman your mother wanted you to be. All barefoot and pregnant with another baby on your hip while your husband - probably Oliver Palmer if she could have a say so - was busy at work. 

The idea to run had snuck into your head, all forbidden and frenzied. You had shunned it for as long as you could, ignoring it while you droned away at your job, pouring the same grouchy bastards' hot coffees and running the same sunny side up eggs and suspiciously damp pancakes in trade for measly tips. And then one day, for no particular reason at all, it had all just become too much. Too stagnant. Too gray. You had to go before you'd suffocate, and that's how you found yourself cruising down the highway with the window rolled down to let the crisp air in, still damp and fresh with morning dew. 

You couldn't look back now. You wouldn't. Still, that wouldn't keep the guilt from biting at you. From nipping at your heart, a little bit at a time. It stung. It twisted in your chest like a knife, your selfishness. But you'd been selfless your entire life. Dating the man she had wanted you to date, taking the ballet classes that she had wanted you to take, wearing your hair up the way she wanted. For once you were going to put yourself first, even if it was a tad foolish. 

Your newfound liberation didn't banish the anxiety away completely though. The first night here once the high had finally worn off, you had been forced to face reality. And the unfamiliar walls of the dingy hotel didn't help, with its shabby wallpaper and linens that smelt faintly of generic detergent and cigarette smoke. It was alien. Unnatural almost, the chirp of crickets traded in for the rhythmic thumping of music pouring out from the bar across the street. You had stayed inside, hidden away by the locked door, trying desperately to tune out the noise of your own scattered thoughts with the audio of the TV. Using the soft, watery light that spilled out from the screen as a nightlight to try and ward off the confusion and unease in the pit of your gut. 

Your sleep had been difficult. Spent tossing and turning on the mattress, its springs creaking lightly with each shift as you tried in vain to ignore your own guilt. Helplessly fighting off the images of your mother pacing about her living room, wearing a pathway into the blush-colored carpet, nipping at the edges of her polished nails with tears in her eyes. The urge to reach over for the landline on the nightstand had nudged at you so insistently that you had to unplug it to keep from dialing her number. You knew that if she answered, if you heard the sound of her voice drifting out in that worried, angry stream that you'd be unable to keep yourself from packing yourself into your car and driving all those miles back to Gallatan. 

The morning after you had been unable to resist the allure of the call from outside. Like a slave to your impulses, you had allowed yourself to get caught up in the magnetism of it all. It's as though the scent of the sea had coiled around your throat, salt and wind taking ahold of you to usher you into the wonder of it all. You had spent the entire day exploring all of the shops that Santa Carla had to offer. Everything from quaint little outlets full of sage sticks and minerals that claimed feats such as granting fortune or banishing negativity, to music shops, and boutiques with lingerie and toys that you'd only ever seen in Playgirl magazines and cheesy sex tapes hidden in the back of your town's video store. 

It was a wonder in every corner. Everything in the imagination placed to draw your attention. To lure you in. And it had succeeded, stringing you along. Like a moth drawn to dazzling lights you had let it take you. Santa Carla is always a spectacle, but at night is when it truly comes alive, and the boardwalk is the pentacle. It's as though the entire town is lit up in a thousand individual pyres, burning and flickering, a kaleidoscope of neon and thrills. 

It sounds dramatic, but your first night on the boardwalk had nearly left you breathless. It was a place that's likeness you've witnessed in movies, or maybe the pathetic little county fair Gallatan throws each year. But the tiny kiosk of buttered corn-on-the-cobs and the pony rides are nothing in comparison. 

You had felt like a kid in a candy store despite your initial apprehension. Once you had seen it in all of its glory, wooden pathways swarming with chaotic masses, and carnival games and seedy stores adorned along the streets; sugar and salt and the musk of weed tainting the air in a distinct brand all cultivate to create a unique kind of charm, you had been unable resist.  

Like thousands before you, you had fallen for Santa Carla, like a mouse falling into a vat of honey. 

And it doesn't take you long for you to give in a splurge a little, ignoring your limited funds in favor of spoiling yourself. It's only something small, like finally trading out the pair of corduroy pants that you'd worn for years in favor of a couple skirts. Your favorite is lightyears away from anything you would have been able to wear before. Tight, dark, buttery leather that molds smoothly to your hips. Just low enough that you don't feel exposed but still skimming up past your knees. It's beyond any of the clothes that you had allowed yourself to purchase, but it feels nice to wear. Even though you still find yourself subconsciously tugging the hem down every once in a while, there's something undeniable freeing about wearing it. Like some kind of middle finger to all of the people who had kept you stunted and trapped. And as a final fuck you, you had immediately tossed your old pants in one of the trashcans settled outside the shop. 

You've been out here every night since, basking in the energy and the buzz that prickles over the boardwalk. A sort of treat for yourself after spending all of the hours in the day job searching, walking into all of the vintage themed diners and hole-in-the-wall thrift shops to turn in your applications. You don't have a long-term plan as of now. If you're planning on staying here. If that's even a possibility for you. But it'd be nice to have some extra cash while you try and figure that out. Something to keep you afloat while you try to course your future. 

Tonight is just as charged as last night. Shifting and alive with the bodies of tourists and locals alike, all looking for entertainment. You wander aimlessly, people-watching as you go, admiring the different kinds of groups as they all meander around in search of excitement. Children clutching onto the stuffies that their parents have won at carnival games; a gaggle of girls laughing happily as they cling onto each other as they navigate through the crowd; a couple walked by you in a rush earlier, the boyfriend spilling out what sounded like desperate apologies that were going completely unheard. 

Despite the speed of everything else around you, you're content to take your time, strolling around while you idlily drink your soda from the cherry-colored straw. You aren't in any particular rush to get anywhere. The dusk is still visible, occasionally peeking past the buildings and the horizon above the sea, all thin and dusty in a rich blue. You have all the time in the world to enjoy yourself, at least for now. You have no desire to go and hold yourself up in your dingy hotel room, clicking through basic cable to try and find something worth watching while you hopelessly chew through another cheap delivery pizza. 

The excitement is contagious out here, and you're in the mood to indulge. You let your feet carry into a record shop, a quick glance at the magenta neon sign above declaring it as one of the many music shops displayed along the boardwalk. The cashier posted behind the front desk shoots you a lazy nod before quickly returning to the porn mag boldly held in his hands. You grimace when you see it, but it doesn't keep you from drifting further into the dimly lit depths of the store, glancing over the many aisles of records as you go. 

You've burnt yourself through most of your music, playing them ceaselessly in favor to listening to spotty radio stations that turned to static whenever you drove through mountains. If you hear another song off of Like a Virgin you might actually lose your mind. 

It takes you a moment of searching the place before you find the cassette tapes, most of them organized in the back of the shop in shelves secured to the walls. The variety is a little overwhelming and the flimsy laminated signs taped above the racks did little to help. Either people have just been shoving tapes back wherever they fit, or the employees have been doing a lousy job of organizing the shelves, because despite claiming to be arranged by genre, you've found Metallica mixed in with Duran Duran, and Def Leopard and Anthrax placed with Prince. 

It doesn't bother you much though, and you keep searching over the massive collection of music, stepping around other customers and squinting through the dim golden lighting to read the album names properly. You barely notice it at first. A light brush along the back of your neck. A pressure that prickles and skips down your spine. It's so soft that you almost mistaken it for the press of your shirt nudging at your back, but it feels different. 

Like the weight of a stare. Warm and insistent. It has buried animal instincts welling up to the surface. It's kneejerk when you sweep a searching glance over the few people dotted around the shop, skipping over faces that don't meet your stare. They're all caught up in their own personal bubbles to notice your discomfort. 

Somehow, it only makes you feel more on edge. Viewed by a potential danger that you can't see. You don't know why it makes your breath snag, but it does. Someone is watching you. But no matter where you look, you can't find them. It has your mouth running dry, even while you assure yourself that it's nothing, nervously tapping at the straw in your soda to distract yourself. Something electric is trembling down your spine, magnetic and alien. It grips ahold of your neck, looping around your throat like static fingers, catching you on a string to tug you around on your feet. Your focus shifts somewhat frantically, with the hope to reassure yourself that no one might be sneaking glances at you, and then, your stare is suddenly moving all on its own. When you notice him and you have to wonder how you missed him in the first place. 

He's standing off on the other side of the store, separated by rows of music. You notice his fingers calmly flipping through vinyl's, the silver rings banding his fingers winking softly in the red neon spilling out from behind him. Your eyes seem to have a mind of their own as they continue in their sweep up to admire more of him. He looks like a rockstar. Like he had leapt out from an album cover, with fluffy long blond hair. It's messy, spilled out like a lion's mane, wild tips glinting in shades of gold and the cherry red that's projected from the neon. 

The first thought you have is dumbstruck and a little captivated: He's gorgeous. He looks like the type of guy that would be spotted making out with models at some exclusive Hollywood club, not here in some dingy shop with a blow-up doll and random movie posters taped to the ceiling. 

His eyes shift up then, sudden and unwavering as they land directly on you. It's shocking as they pin you down, prompting a tight gasp from your lungs. His stare is firm but playful, shooting through your body like an electric current. You turn back around like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't, latching you attention back onto the cassette tapes like they're some sort of lifeline all while your cheeks burn with embarrassment. 

You didn't miss the amused smirk that had nudged at his lips before you looked away. Almost as though he was expecting you to have been admiring him, all cocky. Self-assured. The hazy air seems too thick now, the ting of cigarette smoke stinging at your lungs is all acrid and heavy. You could choke on it, but you're determined to remain in place. You keep still, secure in your spot as you search the disorganized tapes. Seeing but not really noticing them anymore, the letters and titles all melting into nonsense as you tap at the sweating paper cup clutched in your palm with your fingertips. 

You don't know why you feel so nervous. You haven't been like this since your first crush on Christian Bakely. It's bashful. Almost timid like a juvenile, fickle attraction that you have when you're young. It makes you want to scold yourself for developing some sort of superficial, puppy love for the first hot guy you've seen since you've left home.

You will yourself to move down the aisle a little more, going slowly to at least try to appear unbothered while you've become horrendously aware of yourself. A part of you entertains the idea of leaving. There are a million other stores just like this posted along the edges of the boardwalk, but you're quick to squash down your unease. You aren't going to run out over something so stupid. He's probably already forgotten your blatant staring anyway, traded in his amusement in favor of flipping through records and forgot that you even exist. 

You try to do the same. 

Your attention perks up when you notice a tape that gets your focus and you're quick to pluck it free from its place wedged between the rest. You listen to the song pumping softly from the overhead speakers, falling back into the gentle lull of it all. The delicate hum of the crowd shifting just outside, the chill of the hard plastic casing in your palm, the sweet syrup of the soda on your tongue as you take another sip. It's gentle. Calm in a way that isn't curated. 

"Nice choice."

The voice drifts from over your shoulder, but before you fully register it, you're already jumping. You think your heart skips when you do, fluttering briefly as you jolt on your feet. 

"Jesus Christ," you hiss through your teeth. You can't hide the glare on your face when you turn to look at the figure standing beside you, but your mind just about falls silent when you realize that it's the pretty blonde that you had been gawking at. 

"Shit. Sorry, that was my fault." He holds one of his hands up in a placating gesture, like you're some cornered animal that might startle otherwise. Except he doesn't look all the apologetic. He's smirking, almost like he's pleased. Eyes all bright with mirth like you've done something funny. "Didn't mean to make you jump." 

You don't believe him. 

"It's fine." You offer a weak smile, torn from your nerves which are frayed between adrenaline and the warm flutter in your chest. Somehow, he's even prettier up close. His features are sharp with a strong, a straight nose that connects to high, pronounced cheekbones like you've seen on old statues. His lips are plump. Rosy and pink. But it's his eyes that really get you, glittering faintly under the light in a blue that's too soft for the mischief lurking around the edges. It takes you a moment to remember what he had initially said, and you have to all but wrangle the delicate thank you out from your throat. All while you know that there's no way in hell that someone like him is listening to Cindi Lauper in his free time. 

He doesn't look like any of the men from your hometown. Most of them were just as clean cut and blue-collar as the rest, with worn steel toed boots and baseball caps smeared with grime and sweat. They were handsome in the well-mannered, country kind of way. Hats off at the dinner table sort of guys, even though more than half of them have wound up drunk and lost in someone else's field more than once. But this guy was the type that you've been a victim to fantasizing about more than once. Helpless daydreams about unobtainable rockers. 

You can smell his cologne with how close he's placed himself next you, rich and masculine and heavy with something that smells earthy. Damp like dark soil. It has your mouth going dry. It you want to lean in towards him to draw more of it into your lungs, but thankfully you snap out of it before you could actually act on the urge. It makes you horrendously aware of the face that you're staring at him again. 

You snap out of your daze, casting your attention back over the shelves to keep yourself from shamelessly ogling him any more than you already have. God, you're like some lovestruck middle schooler all of a sudden. 

"You're not from around here, are you?" He remains at your side, nearly brushing his arm with yours while he briefly pulls a tape from its shelf before poking it back in. Something tells you that he's pretending to inspect them just as much as you are now. 

"What gave it away?" You dare to shoot him a glance. The tension that had turned your muscles taught finally beginning to thaw. 

"Nothing," he shrugs. Then he's shooting you another lopsided grin. " I'd just figure that I'd remember seeing a babe like you walking around." 

It's undeniably corny, but there's something in the way that he delivers it, the way that he carries himself that sells its charm. You find a weak laugh bubbling from your chest, still nervous but also reluctantly content. You shift down the aisle a few feet and like a brand-new shadow he follows. 

"I bet you say that to all the tourists that come through here." You draw another sip from your drink, and you're a little disgruntled to find that it's almost empty. 

"I may have used it once or twice," he admits. There's no hesitation when he says it, still displaying as much ease and bravado as he has been. 

"And has it ever actually worked for you?"

"I'd like to say that I'll be successful for a second time, but I guess we'll see how tonight goes." 

The look you give him is playfully unimpressed, openly toying with him in a way that seems oddly natural. All of that pervious uncertainty shifting and melting down into something new but fluid. His eyebrows perk up in mock disbelief, an arm raising to flatten a palm to his chest as though he's shocked by your answer. 

"Damn, shot down already." 

"Afraid so." You mirror his shrug from earlier before slipping around the corner made by the edge of a rack, continuing in your search. It feels a little like a chase as he trails after you, all lazy in his pace but no less motivated to keep you in his sight. 

"So what brought you to Santa Carla?" he asks from behind. 

"Kind of just passing through, I guess. Needed a break, you know." 

He like he might understand. "Well you lucked out coming here. There's always something going on; parties, drugs." He pauses for a minute. When his voice dips out its right up against your ear, coiling low and dark to tremble down your spine. "Murder."  

You spin around to face him then, a gasp snagging in your throat. But when you see him, he isn't close behind you at all but a few feet off. He almost seems delighted to have your focus back on him. Confusion nestles in the back of your mind. You could have sworn that he was directly behind you. That you had felt the subtle weight of his chest on your back, the brush of his breath on the nape of your neck, but he would have had to have leapt back to be standing as far away from you as he is now. 

Odd. 

You clear your throat, trying to collect yourself as you latch back onto the memory of his voice. "Wai- Murder?" 

"Oh yeah, people die here all the time." It's almost bored how he says it, like his discussing some monotonous fact and not tragedies. "It's like a nightly thing." 

You wait for some kind of a punchline. Or some reassurances that he's only joking but it doesn't come. He must pick up that you're expecting some kind of explanation, but he must find it funny because that smile is back, just hinting at the corners of his mouth.  

"Murder capital." His eyes get a little big when he speaks, somehow entirely serious and teasing all at once. "There's been talk for years about anything from a reclusive serial killer hiding away in the hills to a black market, or maybe devil worshippers." 

Figures that in an attempt to escape from your old life that you'd manage to flee to a place where killings are apparently "a nightly thing." An extreme exaggeration you hope. You can practically imagine your mother laughing at you, all snark as she revels in your less than stellar luck. Like some kind of joke from the universe. But now that you think of it, this town would be a prime place for a black market or a cult or whatever. With the massive influx of visitors that rush through here in the summer, it must be easy to snatch people up off the streets without too many noticing. 

He laughs at your troubled expression. The silver-plated belt that he fashioned to the shoulder of his coat chimes softly as he shifts himself into your space with a grin, flashing teeth that look sharp. "Don't worry, I'll keep you safe." 

You still haven't entirely adjusted to his blatant flirting. Sure, you've encountered your fair share of horn dogs at your past job. Men who would leave their phone numbers on their checks or shamelessly stare at your tits and ass while ordering. Still, you never had someone approach you out in the open like this, apart from maybe at the bar when egos are high and liquored up.  

But he's clearly confident. Dripping with a roguish charm that's magnetic. You could almost call it intoxicating, the energy around him is palpable. The way he moves is rushed and light, like a puppy that's too hyper. 

"I think I'll manage on my own." But there's no snark in it. It's friendly. A warmth that he shares as you both exchange smiles. You pluck another cassette from its shelving, one you'd been eyeing during the conversation, but you can't manage to pry your attention entirely from him. "I mean, I don't even know your name. You could be a murderer or some cultist creeping around for his next sacrifice." 

"You found me out," he teases. Eyes shimmering and blue, all mischief. "There go my plans for the night." 

"Sorry about your luck." 

He shakes his head. "Nah, it's good. Besides, I think you might be too cute to cut up." 

"Oh, well thank you so much," you gush in a mimic of appreciation. 

"Of course," he jokes easily. He's holding a hand out then, his voice just a little bit more authentic as he waits for you to take it. "The name's Paul." 

You have to tuck your empty cup in the crook of your other arm to accept it. When you do it nearly shocks you how chilled his skin is. His fingers are cold, palm smooth and almost icy against the warmth of your own, but you don't pay it too much mind. Instead you give him your name, speaking it softly through a light smile. He repeats it under his breath, and you try to ignore the pleasant ripple of heat that runs through your body at the sound of it. How he cradles it on the tip of his tongue like he's testing it out and found that it tastes sweet. 

"So, are you still looking for some excitement?" 

You fall silent, eyeing him a little suspiciously. "It depends. What did you have in mind?" 

The grin that spreads across his face is much more puckish. Much more so than the ones before it. There's almost something dangerous there. A darker edge to his stare like you've lit a fire in him somehow. He nods down to the tapes clutched in your hand, and before you can realize it, he's taking them in his own. 

"These are the only ones you want?" he asks, backing away from you. It leaves you confused, watching him with your words lost in your throat. 

"Uh, yeah?" 

He hops back on his feet like an excited kid, jerking his chin like he wants you to follow him as he continues to walk backwards in the direction of the register. He doesn't pause for you to catch up, suddenly twisting on the heels of his boots. He acknowledges the cashier as he draws closer to the direction of the counter, but his lips have drawn up tight like he's repressing a laugh. Like he's in on a joke that you aren't. 

You feel like you're being guided by an invisible string as you urge yourself into a hesitant walk, squinting at him through a bewildered stare as you quicken your pace to keep up. But he doesn't switch gears to approach the register at all, instead he's making straight for the front door of the shop. The employee must come to the same conclusion as you do, because suddenly he's dropping his magazine to stand up from his chair with a jerk. A loud shout already raising up high to demand Paul to stop. 

Paul only tosses you a look over his shoulder, glancing back at you like he's confirming that you're still trailing after him, and when he sees you, he flashes an impish thousand-watt smile.

"C'mon! We gotta make a run for it."

And then he's bolting. Lurching towards the door with quickness of a high-strung dog let off its chain. A part of your brain stalls, and for a moment your body follows suit, freezing still for less than a split second but it feels like an hour as your mind splits down the middle between two decisions. The clerk is screaming, clammy skin flushed red with anger as he attempts to climb over the front counter like he means to body slam Paul in a tackle. But he's already shoving the glass door open, the bell above sounding his quick leave in a metallic cry. 

You should stay back. Keep far away from the random stranger that picked you out in the middle of a random store and is attempting to shop lift your cassette tapes, but before you can properly decide, your body is already in motion. You can hear your feet thumping across the carpet as you rush over to the door that's beginning to slip closed. 

"Oh, you fuckers!" The clerk yells so loudly that you're sure he's probably spitting. There's a violent clatter as the tray of lighters that were beside the register make contact with the ground in a messy thump. It has all the impact of a gunshot, and it's all it takes for your system to flood with a burst of adrenaline. You slip through the door before it can close in on you, escaping out into the chaos of the night like a bullet. 

Paul grips your arm once you're out, using it as leverage to guide and pull you through the oblivious crowd. He's cackling and howling into the air like a madman, practically skipping as he tugs you forward. You think that you might be laughing too, but it's hard to tell through the blur of it all. The world around you is a rush of colors, lights and sounds. Someone thumps against your shoulder as Paul ushers you through the sea of bodies, but his grip is firm, fixed tightly around your wrist like a cuff. 

The voice of reason chants in your head for you to jerk yourself from his hold. To vanish into the cover of the crowd and pretend that tonight never happened. But you don't do that. Against all common sense you allow yourself to be spirited away by some giggling maniac with a pretty face. 

His eyes are wild as he looks back over at you, the reflection from the lights of the nearby amusement park rides glinting bright in them. Everything about him might be a red flag, but like a fool you find yourself chasing after him. Running towards the rush; the excitement sparking under your skin and turning your blood white hot. He lifts the cassette's up, still secure in his hand as he waves them in the air like trophies. 

You aren't sure how long you two keep running for, but eventually you both slow to walk. The even pace allowing you to catch your breath as he guides you to a set of motorcycles that have been parked along the edge of the boardwalk, the back wheels nearly pressed up against the wooden railing. He releases your arm only so he's able to circle around the one at the end of the line with red rims.  

He holds your stare as he swings a leg over to mount the seat, making himself comfortable on the bike. Only then does he hand you the cassette tapes back, and you take them with shaky fingers. A product of the adrenaline that still thrums through your limbs like an electric current. You make sure to tuck the tapes safely in your jacket pocket. It seems dangerous to accept them. It feels good too. 

"You know, if you were trying to impress me, you didn't have to all that." 

"No?" his eyebrows perk up. "I wish you would have told me sooner then, babe." 

"Oh, so it's my fault then." 

"Nah. I steal shit all the time." 

You can't help but to scoff. Still, there's a bit of a genuine laugh in there too. He hums lowly, leaning forward to hang his wrists over the support of the bike's handlebars, spreading his thighs to get comfortable. You almost hate how pretty he is. It isn't normal. There are bonfires burning on the beach down below. The pyres reaching high enough that the light casted by the fire spills over his hair like sunlight, gold and amber and red. He almost seems otherworldly. Like a spirit that's been raised to tempt you. To lead you astray. God, you think you could let him. 

"The question still stands." He tilts his head, watching you expectantly. "Still lookin' for a thrill?" 

Time pauses again, churning down into a placid stream. This is another moment when you should say no. And it's right there, held just at the base of your throat. A small puff of air and the word slip out, materialize out on the warm summer air with a punch of finality. That's all it would take to cut this night short. To put a cap on all of it, bottling it all up so you could let it collect dust and become a distant memory. 

The voice of reason, bearing a striking resemblance to the sound of your mother's, echos in your head. Chanting from the sidelines for you to back away from him before he drags you down into a pit of trouble that you can't crawl out of. But when has doing anything she's wanted you to do gotten you anywhere? 

"Yeah, I think I am." That's your answer. 

"What are you waiting for?" 

He scoots himself forward, straightening his posture a little and slipping his hands around the handlebars. It's a clear enough invite, and you don't let the air around you both stagnate. You grimace a little when you drop your empty soda cup on the ground, leaving it to drop while you move to lift an arm up to grip onto his shoulder. Using it for stability as you swing your leg over the seat of the motorcycle. He doesn't waste any time starting it, kickstarting it before you've even sat down on the seat. 

You try to be mindful of your skirt as you lower yourself down onto the leather cushion. Tugging it down as low as it'll sit while scrunched up around your spread thighs. 

The bike is loud. It's engine purring in a great roar, metallic and sharp in your ears. It thrums under your legs, almost like a living, breathing thing. Pulsing as the engine hums and spits. You're quick to slip your arms around his waist, ignoring the stubborn layer of hesitation lurking underneath the exhilaration of it all. You cling on to him, shamelessly tucking your chin over his shoulder as you drape yourself over his back. He doesn't seem to mind, passing you a joyful glance, turning his head just enough that his nose almost brushes over yours. 

"Don't be shy now. Better hold on tight." 

That's the warning you get before he revs the engine, sending the bike into a jarring lurch. You yelp when the bike blazes off like a rocket, squeezing your hold around his middle tighter to keep yourself from blowing off the seat as he swerves it down another strip of the boardwalk. 

He's laughing again. Sounding like a madman as he suddenly directs the motorcycle to the left, smoothly jerking the front wheel to dip it into a turn. Your heart falls down to your ass when a descending staircase drops down in front of the bike. It seems as sudden and daunting as a cliff, but you don't have time to shout. Your cry stays lodged in your lungs, and you only have enough time to tuck your head into the crook of his neck, hiding your face in his hair just as the bike speeds down the steps in a quick glide. The bumps are just barely felt by the speed that he's gunned the motorcycle into, but it doesn't stop your stomach from flipping. 

He might be laughing, but it's difficult to tell if the vibrations rattling his ribcage are from the engine or not. But based off of what little you know of him; you wouldn't put it past him in finding your panic funny. 

The tires meet the loose sand with a brief drag, spinning for a fleeting second as the bike darts off like a bat out of hell. Once you can feel the solid ground rushing beneath you, you're able to get yourself to lift your head up from the safety of his neck, peeling your eyes open to sweep a cursory glance around your surroundings. 

You see the bonfires first. Burning and twisting in the night like glowing spires, flickering in molten amber towers that reach at the sky. People are scattered around them, some holding beer bottles while they dance. You can't hear it over the howl of the wind in your ears but you're sure that they're all laughing. All barely holding in their mirth as they cavort around the fires. And you can smell the smoke in the air, spicy and pungent, melding with the salt of the beach. 

It all passes by in a blur, the ocean little more than a pale, twisting smear. Foam tumbling over sand. But the rest of the water - what lies beyond the waves, is a vast black. Stretching out farther than your eyes can perceive. You only get hints of it in the traces of moonlight crossing over the water like silver lace. 

The nervousness coiling in your gut finally begins to unwind, and the tight grip of your arms around his ribs follows, slackening just enough for you to slip your hands up to his chest instead, letting you sit up just a little straighter. It makes you extremely aware of how scant the tight fishnet shirt he's wearing truly is. You can feel his skin from between the mesh netting, trepid and soft on your palms. Your fingers flex, the urge to remove your hands bolting up as though you've touched something hot, but somehow you find yourself hesitating. You don't remove them. And he doesn't seem bothered by it in the slightest. Weaving the bike through the bonfires scattered around the beach and coasting it just a little too close to the people walking and dancing around on the sand. 

He just narrowly misses running over a few of them. Calling out an unworried, "Get out of the way!" when he nearly clips a guy in the shoulder and sends him diving on the ground to avoid being struck. The man's angry shouting trails after you both, a dim, warbling sound that's quick to die over the wind and heavy rumble of the motorcycle. But Paul's laughter almost sounds louder than all of it. Pitching high over the balmy night air like the cackle of a coyote out on a hunt. 

You feel a little guilty, but you can't keep yourself from answering with a similar laugh, all light and airy. Welling up from your chest with an ease that makes you feel alive. It's like you've shed a skin, almost. It's easy to pretend that you're flying. It feels like you are, with the wind pulling at your clothes, nudging at the shape of your face like the sweep of prodding fingers. You can't really remember a time when you've felt so far above the world, miles from your worries and insecurities, soaring past the anxieties that keep you awake at night.  

You twist back a little to look over your shoulder, emboldened by the rush in your veins to watch as the man clumsily scrambles up from the ground, kicking up a spray of dirt as he lifts an arm in the air to flip you both off. 

"Sorry!" you yell after him, but it doesn't keep you from smiling. 

Eventually Paul veers off of the beach, cutting through a parking lot that he uses to merge onto a vacant street. The boardwalk grows smaller and smaller behind you, the lights of the rollercoaster and rotating Ferris wheel growing dim until it's hardly more than a few faint dots in the distance, just barely peeking out over the roofs of buildings. He shoots through downtown, blowing past a redlight without any care. He doesn't slow a single time, ignoring the speed limit like it's merely a suggestion. The way he drives is insane, and it makes you wonder if he has a license at all. Probably not. 

Uncertainty unfurls when the houses making up the edges of town grow sparse, thinning out until you only pass a few odd little homes bordering the edges of the backroad he's taken you on. You ignore it when he turns his bike, veering off the worn asphalt and onto a dirt path. It looks well-traveled enough, thankfully. The headlight on his motorcycle spilling over the beaten dirt, highlighting the prints left by a vehicle's tread that seems fairly recent. 

Apprehension prickles at the nape of your neck, that old instinctual feeling again. It weighs a little in your gut like a physical thing. Your brush it off, telling yourself that you're only being paranoid. But a pair of animal eyes peek out from the field growing on the side of the road, glimmering in the passing headlight like a couple of coins; it seems like a bad omen. 

You keep your voice trapped in your mouth, letting your concerns fall silent as he guides the bike up an incline, driving it up a path where tree branches stretch out like reaching fingers. It's like you've been holding your breath, keeping yourself suffocated as the motorcycle eats up the ground, powering up the hill until it levels out into something flat. You see immediately why he brought you here. 

From this high up, you can see it all. The entirety of Santa Carla is laid like stars glimmering in the night. Streetlamps, porchlights, and the entire boardwalk flickering in the distance in shimmers of gold and silver. It looks so small from this perspective. Like the little model towns that your grandfather used to make in his basement. Like you could walk right up to it and place a building in your palm. It's a stunning view. One that makes you wish you were able to take a picture of for safe keeping. 

You've hardly noticed that he's parked the bike, stopped it close to the edge of the hill and killed the engine. But once you realize the silence it becomes heavy. But not necessarily in a way that's uncomfortable. It's a blanket draped over your shoulders, soft and inviting. You have to remind yourself to move, unmounting the bike to stand up on legs that have become weak from the heavy thrumming of the engine. 

Paul's quick to follow, shifting up with an ease that you're a little jealous of. Your muscles feel like Jello. It makes you quick to walk over to the picnic table positioned out in the center of the barren lot, settling yourself up on the weathered wood to shake some feeling back into your legs. Paul is fast to follow, practically skipping over, jewelry jangling as he jumps himself up on the tabletop. He begins absentmindedly picking at the chipping old paint, tearing it from the notches that have been carved into the wood, defaced to immortalize the initials of lovers.  

"What did you bring me all the way out here for?" you ask. 

"This is one of the nicer spots in Santa Carla. Figured I'd show you." 

"Oh, yeah?" you tilt your head, rotating a little in your perch on the bench. "What's the best?" 

A smile pushes at the corners of his mouth. It's another one of those amused, secretive little looks. Like he's in on something. "Maybe I'll show ya some time." 

"I'd like that," you agree. There's a small bout of silence then. You've gained the feeling back in your legs and it inspires you to sit up from the table, stretching out your limbs as you approach the rounded edge of the hill. A delicate breeze rolls up the slop, shuffling the leaves with a delicate hiss, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the hint of the ocean. It such a simple thing but it abates some that paranoia, loosening its talons, even if just a little bit. 

The weight of the cassette tapes in your pocket press against your stomach. Nudging there like a reminder. It has you glancing back over your shoulder, and you see that he's already watching you. The way he holds himself is relaxed, but there's something intense reflecting in his gaze, burning and hot. It makes your heart skip a beat, body flushing with warmth. It could be the shadows, but you think his smile grows. 

There's a flash of his teeth. "You'd have to stick around for that." 

He doesn't wait for your response as he shoves off of the table, bounding from it with a jump that rattles the silver on his chest. It's like you're both magnetized to each other, unable to stray far now that you've crossed paths. A part of it is almost frightening. You've had crushes of course. A couple random fling before, and a relationship - as complicated and fleeting as it had been, but you can honestly say that you've never been so swept away by a guy. Never enough to that'd be willing to become an accomplice in theft; never enough that you'd get on the bike of stranger and let them carry you off to spot in the middle of nowhere. It's as though all of your common sense has been picked up and dumped out on the ocean tide. Even worse is that you really don't care. 

Maybe you're just caught in the whirlwind of it all. Spun up by the excitement of finally being able to do things on your own terms without the worry of hundreds of people watching. Or maybe you're just addicted to the discovery; when you look at him, all of those concerns seem to melt away. Thinning and evaporating like snow in the summer sun. It's terrifying. It's thrilling. 

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't." 

It's almost as though he takes it as a challenge, stepping into your space like it's where he belongs. His cologne sweeps back over you again, bold and muddled with the spice of tobacco. Combined with his proximity it makes you a little dizzy, fingertips prickling with warmth as he fixes you with a stare that seems the seize you, burrowing down like he's cradling some delicate, wild piece of your soul. 

You just barely notice when his hand slips into your coat pocket to grasp the tapes tucked inside, like he's confirming that you still have them. He seems pleased when his fingertips slide over the hard plastic covers, as though it means something to him. His face hovers just a little above yours, noses nearly brushing. With the glow of the moon emitting from above, it makes it easy to see how his gaze flickers down to your lips. Like he's considering if he should try kissing you or not. You don't think you'd mind if he did. 

"At least you'll have something to me remember me by," he muses softy. 

"I haven't known you for very long but believe me when I say that there's a very slim chance of me forgetting you." 

Emboldened by your response, he cocks his head, daring to lean forward just enough that you can feel the faint press of his lips on yours. Not kissing, but just enough to tease the possibility. It's a little pathetic how something so simple has heat licking through your veins. The line you're treading on feels dangerous. Like you're dangling on the edge of some unknown territory. And you are. But what makes it so particularly daunting is the uncertainty of where this might go. 

Something about Paul is already addictive. Like a shot of liquor after a long week. You've always been the type to keep yourself from getting too attached, but he's like an adrenaline rush. It'd be so easy to get hung up on a guy like him, and the last thing you want to be is one of those women lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling while they fantasize about the one that could have been. Spending the remainder of their years living back in the memory of that one night in the past. 

He's a temptation that you've never had to face before. Bursting into your life with all the subtly of a firecracker, abrupt, explosive and invigorating. You want to hold onto that. Grip it tight with greedy fingers and enjoy this - whatever this is - for all it's worth. 

He speaks then, his voice has dipped into something low and hushed. Almost like a secret being exchanged, a promise being made. "I'm happy to hear it, but I like to be thorough." 

You think he's the one who kisses you first, but you really can't be sure. It a little daunting, how it completely sweeps you up. There isn't any of that dramatic stuff, like explosions, or fireworks, but something about it just feels right. It already makes you breathless. Time stretching out and yawning, heat draping over your body like you've been dipped in warm honey. 

The way he kisses you is starved. Passionate and fast like he's trying to have all of you at once. His teeth nip at your lips, a sting that he soothes with the tip of his tongue when you gasp. There's hardly any build up. He approaches it like he seemingly does everything else; just pure intensity as he reaches for you with eager hands that seem to be everywhere all at once. Squeezing at your hips, pressing down at the base of your spine to mold you close to him, and then he's cradling your jaw with chilled fingers. 

You can't help moaning into his mouth, a quiet noise that's still definitely heard if the way he smiles into the kiss is any indication. You aren't bothered by his smugness though, only encouraged by it. You slip a hand over his stomach, feeling the lithe muscle under cool skin. It's cute when his abdomen twitches under your palm. He reprimands you by biting at your lip again, only enough for a slight sting, but you really think that it was only an excuse for him to dip his tongue into your mouth, letting you fully taste each other. 

There's the subtle sugar of something sweet on his lips. Probably some kind of treat from back on the boardwalk. It mixes with the distinct rich pepper of tobacco, all warmth and cream on his tongue, but there's the edge of something almost metallic lurking beneath it all, almost as though he's been sucking on pennies. It isn't enough to be distracting, and you can't be bothered to pay it any mind as he turns you around without breaking the kiss to blindly back you up until your lower back nudges into the rough lip of the picnic table. 

He practically mauls you once he has you pinned, consuming you with a hunger that's infectious. It has you tugging at his hair, clawing your nails through the thick of his soft waves, dragging them along his scalp and it rewards you with a throaty groan that has sparks shooting up your spine. He must enjoy it because he's breaking his mouth away from your and immediately latches it onto your throat. The scratch of his stubble as you arching into his body, your head lolling back to bare more of your throat which he quickly takes advantage of. His tongue laps out at your skin like he's drinking up the subtle salt there, sucking softly like he wants to brand you with the shape of his mouth. 

The gasp that leaves you is wrangled when he wedges a thigh between your legs, bending his knee to press it flush against your cunt. Your grip on his hair squeezes tight. Holding on like it might help keep you grounded. Like it might keep you from float up to the heavens. The weight of his leg on you makes you cruelly aware of the wet patch that's dampened the center of your underwear. It's a little embarrassing, already being this worked up by a little making out, but he lights you on fire with a frustrating ease. It's unfair how he's already taking you apart piece by molten piece. 

He licks up the base of your throat, sucking at the edge of your jaw before he speaks against your skin like he doesn't want to pull away. "Can I eat you out?" 

You swear the question could have knocked you out. He says it casually, but his words are slurred. Almost like he's drunk. It's all moving so fast. Your head is spinning, and your heart is racing, chugging blood through the same artery that he traces with his tongue. It's hard to remember how you've gotten here, curled up in a stranger's arms while he grinds his thigh between your legs. This night has gone completely off the rails. Hurtled far past a simple night out to a haze of chaos and heat. It doesn't really make any sense to be here right now. 

But when Paul manages to tear himself away from your neck to meet your stare something seems to fall into place. You don't think you'd want this night to have gone any other way. 

There's a desperation glimmering in the blue of his eyes, bright and hungry. It has you contained in place. Swallowed up by the fervor in his expression, the gluttony in how he holds onto you. 

At this point you don't think it needs to be said, but you find yourself nodding anyway. "Yeah - yes. Fuck, please." 

He flashes you a grin before he's dropping down onto his knees without any fanfare. You decide to help him out a little, planting your hands onto the tabletop to heave yourself up on the surface, spreading your legs open to make room for him. It's brazen, the short length of your skirt scrunching and riding up high on your thighs, flashing the pale fabric of your underwear. His attention zeros in there immediately, stuck between your legs with an intensity that's almost concerning. He's looking at you like you're a piece of meat. All splayed out. It's a compromising that almost has embarrassment creeping beneath it all, but there's a perverted brand of delight on his face, and it's mixed with a strange kind of sincerity that has that shame fizzling out. 

He slips a hand up to cup the back of your knee, lifting it up to hook it over his shoulder so he can trail kisses up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It's much slower than the starved bites and licks that he had given you earlier, the ones that you can still feel on your neck, aching dully from where he had sucked. It's like he's teasing you now. Too caught up in his own desire to indulge you yet and it feels like torture. Just the weight of his head parting your legs open, the brush of his wild hair against your skin has you flushing with heat. 

Your hips rock on their own, rolling in an effort to seek out friction that isn't there. The press of your underwear on your cunt is like a taunt, applying a barely there pressure that has your lungs skipping with a silent gasp. 

You don't expect the smack that he cracks down on the outside of your leg. It's more surprising than painful, but you jerk anyway, subconsciously trying to escape the smarting that fizzles across your nerves. The look that you shoot him is one of shock, but he doesn't look the least bit apologetic. Expression all smug as he presses his lips down on the crook where your leg joins your pelvis. Slipping his tongue out to lick at the tender skin there, running it along the seam of your underwear. 

"Feelin' greedy?" he smirks up at you, looking so smug that it nearly irritates you. "There's no need to flip out babe, I'll give you what you want." He kisses you over your underwear, gripping both of your knees to spread you open wider, giving him the room to nose at your cunt from over the damp fabric. There's something so vulgar about the way that he mouths at you while you're still wearing panties, circling your clit with the point of his tongue before flattening it to suck through your underwear. 

It makes your spine bow, fire and smoke blazing up your back and smoldering beneath your skin. There's a plea right there, just at the base of your throat but thankfully you don't have to voice it. He slips both of his hands under your underwear and tugs it down roughly, giving away his own impatience as he moves back just enough to be able to rip them down past the heels of your shoes. 

You're pretty sure that he pockets them, bunching them up and stuffing them inside his coat. But you don't get a chance to scold him - not that you would if you were able - because he's dropping his mouth open to lick a stripe up your bare cunt, splitting you open on his tongue. It has your fingers flexing, dragging your nails over the edge of the wood in a wild claw to have something to keep you anchored. It doesn't do much though. Not the chipped, textured paint under your palms, not the faint chill of Paul's hands clamping down on your skin, it fades out into a meaningless blur. Distorted to the sidelines as your brain blocks everything out, banishing it all into a muted background noise as the sensation of his mouth commands all of your focus. 

It's mindless how your body chases after its pleasure, your hips attempting to thrust under the unforgiving hold of Paul's hands to build the pressure coiling hotly in the base your abdomen. His grip is practically steel bands, vices around your skin to hold you open and immobilized while he torments you with the ceaseless drag and curl of his tongue. 

"Paul, come on, please," you beg. Panting out into the sultry summer air. It's stupid how easily he's pulling noises from you. Tense, breathless moans that drift over the hilltop in a shameless stream. It almost makes you a little thankful that he drove you both out here in the private little lookout, far away from potential witnesses. Based on the joined initials etched and written into the wood, presumably with pocketknives and permanent markers, you'd wager that this is a popular date spot. A cute little place for couples to admire the town lights and take advantage of the privacy while they hookup. You definitely aren't the first person to be splayed out here on this table. A part of you wonders if you aren't the first person that he's brought out here. 

You try to ignore the flickering of something stinging and unwelcome that lashes its way through your chest. It's obscure and startling, blinking in and out like a ghost, and you're quick to snuff it out. To turn it over and ignore it entirely. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that it felt suspiciously close to jealousy, but that's a route that you aren't going to dare to go down - a load of baggage that you have no desire to unpack. Not for a stranger, no less. 

Your hand pries itself from the edge of the table to grip onto his hair, fingers slipping down through his roots to thread through in the way you think he likes. You're almost instantly gifted with a pleased groan and his tongue dips inside of you, lapping up your taste like he's starved for it. 

You nearly sob when he pulls himself back from you, parting his lips from your cunt just enough to mumble out something; his voice slurs, thrumming against your clit as he speaks. "Don't worry about being rough, pull harder if you want." And then he's smothering himself back between your thighs. You do as he says, mostly out of reflex as he traces over you in tight circles that has your nerves running hot, your muscles burning as though you've been submerged in steaming water. 

A finger prods at your cunt, running up just along his mouth to get it slick enough and then he's thrusting it inside without little warning, filling you up with a smooth stroke. You moan out raggedly when he suckles at your clit just as he crooks his finger, brushing it in deft swipes. Your grip locks on tight in his hair, digging in through long, golden strands while he practically turns you inside out. Your grasp has to be painful, but he doesn't seem affected by it in the slightest. His effort actually seems to double each time your fingers tug and claw, like he might like the sting. 

You don't know why you enjoy the thought of that, but you do. Your hips jerk sharply at the idea of it. Of how he might react from your nails slashing down his back, leaving red cuts behind. Reminders of you on his body. How he'd sound while you bite bruises on his neck and shoulders; the bursts of red and plum placed where they would peek out from the worn collar of his shirt.  

"Oh, my god - Paul." 

You can already feel your orgasm rising up, winding up your body in an almost violent twist. It's eating at you rapidly. Climbing up at a rate that you can hardly track. You can feel yourself tensing; each individual muscle drawing up. Your lungs squeeze in your ribcage, rendering you breathless. You turn into a broken record, a stream of words and his name spilling out of your like a chant. It hits you like a freight train. Searing and rippling up your body in a splashing of stars that leaves you keening into the open air. 

He doesn't part from you, coasting you through the remnants of your orgasm with the stroke of his fingers and tongue, sucking steadily at your clit until your thighs shake. You have to tug him away by the grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to give yourself relief before the pleasure could become too much. He yields to you reluctantly, nipping pointed bites up the tender flesh of your legs as you drag him to stand. 

You feel almost outside of yourself as you grip onto his shoulders, clutching onto his coat while he crawls himself over you, notching his hips against your own like he belongs there. You're still floaty from your orgasm, pleasure thrumming and hopping along your nerves in a pleasant buzz but somehow you still want more. It burns and burrows deep in the pit of your stomach, lighting a fire in your veins that you haven't felt in a long time. Not like this, at least. 

His lips crash against yours in a meeting of teeth and tongue. It's almost animalistic, how you both reach for each other. His hands are all over you again, grabbing at everything he can like he's trying to commit the shape of your body to memory, like he wants to brand the warmth of your skin on his palms. And you're just as desperate. Your own slip down as a pair, reaching with trembling, frantic fingers for the buckle of his belt. You struggle blindly with it for a minute, fingertips slipping uselessly over the smooth metal from the way they tremble. You'd swear if your mouth wasn't occupied.

You can taste yourself on him, just subtly sweet and smearing on your own lips. It's dirty. Filthy, but it only makes it hotter; the very idea of breaking the kiss seems like torture, so when he huffs a laugh in your mouth and tries to pull away to help you with his belt, your other hand moves on its own to cradle the back of his skull. Keeping him pressed to your lips with an annoyed groan. 

"Don't." You demand into the kiss, nipping lightly at his pout to draw him back in. He complies easily, but that doesn't stop him from laughing a little. 

Finally, you manage to slip the leather free from buckle, tugging it loose from over the prong to pull it open. And then you're fumbling with the zipper, tracing over the metal teeth to find it, tugging it down like it's molten on your fingertips once you do. You're almost delirious with a single goal, slipping your hand down inside to feel him, and you don't hesitate to take him within your palm. He hisses lowly when you grip him, thrusting up in an uneven grind to chase after his own pleasure. 

He pants into your mouth when you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, smearing a drop of precum to aid in your glide and it makes the clutch of his fingers around your hips squeeze. Bordering close to almost painful, but the ache of it ebbs into an afterthought. He's thick in your hand, so hard that it has to be uncomfortable. You take pity on him, unable to string either of you out any longer than you already have and take him out of his pants. 

He moves like a man possessed now, slipping of his hands down lower to hitch your thighs high around the trim length of his waist, and then he's reaching down between the thin gap of your bodies to bat you hand out of the way, taking ahold of himself. Gripping the base of his cock to slide it between your legs, grinding the head against your clit in teasing strokes. It makes you whine, the sensitivity from your orgasm lights over you like small bolts of electricity and yet you find yourself raising your hips to chase after the feeling. 

"Gonna let me fuck you?" He scatters kisses along the corner of your mouth and the edge of your jaw, much too tender and saccharine for what this is. Cradling you like a lover would despite the ardor and desire saturating the air like the perfume of whisky. It makes a pathetic little piece of you melt, turning syrupy and pliant like a strip of wax held over an open flame. 

You find yourself nodding, swallowing thickly as you try to find your worn voice again. "Yes - just stop teasing." You lock your legs tighter around him, drawing him in closer, aiding his cock in grinding over your pussy like it'd help urge him along, and luckily for you it seems to snap through the rest of his restraint. There's no warning as he guides himself down to your entrance and drives himself inside in a single stroke. 

He punches the air free from your lungs as he buries himself to the hilt, the both of you groaning in relief through the stretch. He's so deep, holding you open around his girth, and you know that you're going to feel him for a few days after this. You hope that you do. You want this night to be vivid in your memory for as long as possible. You want it tattooed into your skin, stained behind your eyes like watercolors, sunk bone deep. 

You can't remember the last time you've been able to exist beyond the pressures and judgement of the world. A thousand miles above prying eyes, confiscated within the hushed intimacy of your own bubble - except for the first time in what might be forever, you aren't alone in it. It's a shard space, gone from quiet and lonely to fiery and scorching. Howling in the dark. You think it's too late. You really are going to be one of those women staring up at the ceiling, fantasizing about that one perfect night from a decade ago. But right now, you really don't give a damn about that. 

All of the thoughts rattling around in your brain are turning into mush, liquifying like hot sugar on stove. It's like you've been engulfed. Ate up by the wet bite of his mouth on your throat, the persistent weight of his hands clumsily tugging up at your shirt and bra to ruck it them over your breasts. He doesn't take his lips off of your neck once; it's like he's been captivated by the smooth stretch of skin, lapping the flat of his tongue over the column of it like he wants to stain the taste of you on his mouth. But it doesn't keep his hands from taking greedy handfuls of your breasts. 

You gasp when his chilled fingertips squeeze around the shape of them, the frigid rings around his fingers force you to gasp and arch into his palms. He plucks at your nipples, circling around them in tight circles that has your voice pitching as he drives his cock into you. The way he fucks you is unrestrained but no less practiced, burying himself into you with calculated strokes that have you tearing at the seams. 

You don't know if you've ever felt so full, so spread out in your entire life. Granted you aren't the most experienced person. A lot of your practice coming from an ex that frequently left you high and dry and a couple of flings you met from the bar. One of which wasn't the most satisfying affair considering that his roommate had burst in before things could really get good. But Paul has to be the first guy that's ever really taken your pleasure into any real regard. All the others were quick to get you off with a sense of obligation, as though your pleasure was transactional so they wouldn't feel too much guilt for using you to get themselves off afterwards. 

He fucks you like he wants to. Like he's hellbent on making you cum as quickly as possible. Like he needs your pleasure to satisfy his own. 

"You're so hot," he groans. His teeth clamp down on the muscle in your neck like he might tear flesh, inspiring a muted ache up your neck but he lets go before it becomes too violent. His voice is all gutted, likes he's growing drunk on the bliss cutting though his body. "Fucking squeezing me." 

He sounds just as wrecked, and it you can't help how your cunt clenches down tight around his cock, strangling another rough groan from the base of his chest. The small silver plates of the ornamental belt he has fixed to his coat dig into your exposed skin, pinching at your abdomen from how closely he pins your bodies together. It's like he's trying to join the two of you together, pressing into you until you live in the same body. 

You tear uselessly at his shoulders, digging your nails into the thick material of his jacket so wildly that you think you'd probably be able to rip it. You pant into his hair as he laps at your jugular, breathing in the fresh, chemical fragrance of the hairspray that styles the soft gold in selfish gulps. All of it cumulates, tiny little elements stacking on top of the other until the ecstasy starts to raise again. Maybe it's just riding off the afterglow of the first orgasm, but somehow, this feels like it's going to be stronger. More devastating than the one that still hums under your skin. 

You almost mourn that you're so close already, and a part of you tries to shun off the thick rapture building between your thighs entirely. You don't want this night to end yet. You aren't prepared for the awkward silence that will inevitably come next. You don't want to live through the silent ride back into town, where he'll drop you off at your ramshackle hotel room and presumably drive out of your life forever, leaving you to stand outside on the balcony outside your door while you listen to engine of his bike fade out and grow silent like a dying pulse. 

But he seems bound and determined to have you reach your high. One of his hands strays down from your chest, sweeping low until his knuckles are dragging over your clit in firm figure eights. A moan shudders through you, your ribcage wracking from what almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't let up though, driving you directly towards a yawning precipice that promises to swallow you up whole, and you can't do much else but cling onto him like he's a buoy in a storm. 

"Paul - I - " 

"Let me feel it. You're so close, baby, just let go." He bites at the shape of your ear; voice low and rich as he fucks himself into you like he wants to watch you black out. "I want to feel you cum all over me. You can take it." 

Like a slave to his voice your body draws up tight, muscles bunching up to strip you down of all you're worth. You kind of hate him for hurtling you towards the edge already, but you can't keep yourself from chasing after it. It's dirty, the cum between your thighs squelching lewdly each time he plunges into you, his skin meeting yours in damp smacks. And yet he cradles your cheek like you're something delicate, running the print of his thumb over the swell of your cheekbone in a gentle brush. It's all a juxtaposition of the other, and it has you crumbling. 

"You'll taste so good, just let go for me." The fires burn a little higher, white-hot and lashing, turned into an inferno that uses your bones as kindling. His teeth drag over your skin, sharp points gliding over flesh. You don't remember them feeling so lethal, like they could rip you open with a single touch, but it's hard to focus through the haze of it all. He bites deep and you swear that skin gives under the pressure, nerves lighting up light they've been doused in fire, parting like butter under a serrated knife, and the world erupts in a flurry of embers.  

This must be what it's like to be struck by lightning, static curling your toes and fingers, cosmos bursting in your eyes. You think you might scream. A chorus of his name that sounds like a prayer and a plea for help all at once as rapture's injected directly into your veins. It's almost brutal as pleasure rolls its way through you, seizing you up and stripping you to piece like a burst of dynamite. Just like before he fucks you all the way through it, pumping himself deep inside until he shudders, cock twitching inside of your cunt as he spills over into his own orgasm. 

It's almost abrupt how he drops you both back down onto the support of the table, leaning his body over yours like he's gone boneless. Crowding you in with his weight while he continues to grind himself against you without pulling out, drawing his pelvis on your overstimulated clit. You moan at the static searing through you, writhing under his body as he guides out your pleasure until it stings. 

But you can't find the strength to stop him, staring past his shoulder and up at the sky while your thoughts spin and flatline. You feel like you're floating, admiring the way the stars above twinkle and shift in an iridescent sheen with a drunken kind of fascination. You've felt good after sex before, but you've never been reduced to a state like this. It's like you're no longer in your body, tethered to it only by a thin, pulsing string, almost giddy from the pleasure. 

It's like you've been cocooned in warmth, something alcoholic tingling at your fingertips as he sucks and laps at your throat. Groaning softly while he cradles your skull, just barely thrusting himself into you like he doesn't want to stop. And despite how sensitive you've become; you don't think you want him too either. You're sense of time has gone all fuzzy, turned sluggish and pleasantly warm as you drift on your high, all loose limbed and heavy. 

It could be seconds or hours before he finally parts his mouth from you, a hollow sting digging into your neck as canines slip free. It's strange. Far from the bites that he had scattered over your throat before. It feels deep. Like he'd broken skin and pierced deep. He still hasn't pulled his face from the crook of your neck, licking up your throat like it's layered in sugar. Your skin is warm. A starling sensation against the weird chill of his tongue. Damp and hot. For a moment you think that it might be his spit, but it's not cold enough for that, trickling lazily down your throat like a slow leak. 

You're face pinches in confusion and will yourself to remove your arm from around his shoulder. An almost herculean task considering that your limbs have turned to lead from the dopey effects of your orgasm, but you force yourself to move. Years have passed by the time your fingers curl around your neck, dragging over your damp flesh to collect the liquid that's smearing over it. 

You blink slushily when you raise your hand up over your face, trying to focus past the blur that smudges around the edges of your vision. For a moment you think that you're hallucinating it. That the dark liquid staining your fingertips, glittering in the dark, tinged red and running hot from your body heat isn't real. You're trapped as you stare at it dumbly, horribly transfixed by the thick of it dripping down the crook of a finger in a single rivulet. 

You think your heart stops, a wild panic setting in as you scramble beneath him to try and slip free. But suddenly the comforting weight of him is now as unyielding as a snare. A cry locks in your throat, snagged behind the catch of your quivering lungs. 

A hand catches your wrist as you struggle, silver jewelry winking in the dark like a warning, horrible talons sprouting from its fingertips. It paralyzes you in place, the ice pumping through your frantic heart, turning your lethargic limbs into heavy stone. 

It's then that he chooses to lift his head from the vulnerable stretch of the throat that you had offered so foolishly, placing a kiss to the ache that you now know is bitten flesh. Your thoughts run into scattered cries, a litany of voices rattling around in your skull like taunts and yells. Shrieks that chant, told you so, over and over again in a bitter, acidic stream. And then you hear the echo of his voice. 

It's like a nightly thing. 

God, he had been toying with you this entire time. 

You can't escape. Too weak to move. Too overcome with fear - drained and so wrung dry that the adrenaline singing throughout your system falls useless. Your bones tremble with a broken cry, tears tainting your waterline, but even that isn't enough to keep you from seeing him as he is now. The logical part of your brain scrambles to find reason, but there is none as flashes of burning amber pin you down - the eyes of an animal's, peering from a face that's gone bestial. Inhuman. A demon's face stretched over a human skull; jaw smeared with a rich red like a feral dog that's been feeding on a fresh corpse. The smile that you had once loved is now tainted. Ruined by the blood that soaks his mouth; lips peeled back into a grin. But that charm is ruined, stretching into something sadistic and sharp, violent teeth baring in the dark. 

It's cruel when he guides the hand that he has caught within his own up to his mouth, easily bending your limb, overpowering you as though you aren't resisting him; made instead out of weakened clay and not muscle and bone. He snickers when you try to jerk your arm from his hold, like you're a mean kitten that he's picked up by the scruff. 

"Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart." 

You don't believe him. And suddenly the conversation you had back in the record store seems like a twisted joke. You think back on all the smiles he had passed you then. Like he was in on a joke that you weren't. But now you are and it's like the universe is laughing at you too for being so dumb, digging the knife in deeper for being so naive. The cassette tapes in your pocket are now as weighted and crushing as stones. 

His tongue slips out past his mouth, lips parting as he takes your fingers into his mouth, licking up the blood there like it's something precious. A drug in short supply. Despite the amusement glinting in his eyes, there's an unmistakable fringe of something intense and determined peeking through it all, as though you've made a bargain that you didn't know you were signing. Etched out your name in blood and written over your soul for the taking. 

"I think you're too sweet to part with, babe. " He places nauseatingly tender kiss to the palm of your hand - a mockery, and dead in the center, where you'd maybe slice your hand for a blood pact, and you know now that you aren't going to escape. At least not with your life intact. His eyes gleam like gold. Like two roaring fire pits. Hellmouths opening wide to consume you, bones, blood and all. 

"I think I might keep you."  

[fuckyeahelenapaparizou]

Helena Paparizou in Melodifestivalen 2014

Heat 1 [x]

Andra Chansen - Round 1 [x]

Andra Chansen - Duels [x]

Final [x]

[tinystepsforward]

ngl it makes me want to die a little bit that it's so often trans people who feel that sex is mutable but oppression is always-forever based on asab in ways that allow them to demand that information from other trans people. like it feels fucking bad. it feels bad when it's people holding up someone who posts a lot of selfies as transition goals to a degree they have to clarify what they have or haven't done or what "direction" they're going in, it feels worse when people are out there like "caster semenya is not tma" or whatever the fuck. i am, as always, not a trans woman, but here's a sentiment echoed by many of the trans women around me who log the fuck off, quoted directly from one: "people who draw a clear line where they say that semenya or khelif are tme and then call me tma are just calling me male at this point".

like i get it. i really do. we seek community and shared experiences, and we feel betrayed when people have less in common with us than we thought they did. [*more on this later.] but that's not those people's faults and my god in the case i'm seeing play out on twitter rn this poor person did absolutely nothing to intentionally mislead people, just posted pictures of their actual kid self. who looks a lot like i did, because shockingly enough "we can always tell" doesn't fucking work for trans people either!

on the one hand i move in intersex circles which are unapologetically welcoming in cis "dyadic" people with pcos, because it serves nobody to draw a clear line where mutilation or genetics or some ineffable childhood suffering are what make somebody intersex, especially when most of us (esp in places like nz) have never been karyotyped and are being treated for symptoms without a pinned-down cause anyway. the more of us there are the stronger we are, the more pressure we can exert on a medical profession which doesn't like to consider how common outliers are, how uneasy sex is at all. and then on the other hand there's dyadic trans people on the internet who've yelled me out of spaces because a couple of traumatised incarcerated trans women i worked with as a prison abolitionist assumed i was also a trans woman and i didn't immediately tell them my entire csa-involved history of being sexed in varying ways as an infant and child and/or exactly how big my phallus was at birth or where in my junk config my urethra lives so they could decide i was tme or whatever.

returning to the * for a related but not identical thought: i think presuming shared experiences leads to some fucked shit in general! "oh we all had a radfem phase" or "oh we all were channers" no we fucking weren't and it's particularly obnoxious when me & mine are trying to build trans community locally to organise and resist the growing wave of far-right backlash against our existence, and there's just white people in there on a spectrum from "straight up being antisemitic and trying to get the n-word pass" through "handwringing about how they need to make space for people who aren't politically correct" to "handwringing about how brown people are right to be mad at them but doing shit fuckall". and then the other fucking brown people in the space are on some identity politics shit where they're like "trans joy inherently excludes those of us who could get deported" or "big city white queers are killing us by being visible instead of going stealth bc it stirs up the discourse" or whatever the fuck i've heard pulled out this year. there's a bunch of reasons i primarily organise outside of trans spaces and that's one of them. i've never felt more alone in spaces where people claim we're all the same than being left as the brownest moderator or organiser in a space full of people to whom "this is a safe trans space" apparently means they get to abdicate all other responsibilities not to lapse into presumed shared patterns that are fucking racist or otherwise alienating. i've never felt more alone than surrounded by exclusively trans people who sort people into boxes and assume everyone in those boxes has the transition goals they have. like i was on cypro until it disagreed with me to the point of endocrine crisis and now i'm on t and at both those points people were so fucking presumptive or entitled to my reasons or journey or personal relationship w my body

literally just submitted on (and was invited to consult on) the nz law commission's review of the human rights act and like. it's straight up fucked how many nz trans people fully do not comprehend that any "sex assigned at birth" type definitions fundamentally exclude migrants who have no way of proving it and many intersex people who happen to have been reassigned later or many times or never assigned at all as a baby. we can't make law with this shit and that's why we have to have symmetrical protections for all genders/sexes/expressions/presentations, bc naming and defining a protected class here often leaves the people who already are left out from those shared experiences of marginalisation out in the cold when they face violence

[sydney-carton-of-sour-milk]

For this week's post, I have a very special announcement:

As of the minute of my posting this,

this blog

is officially

A DECADE OLD!

To mark the occasion, I've gone back to my old sketchbook and (at long last!) made a scan of the first drawing I ever posted here...

...which I've used as reference for a redraw🥹

I've been through a lot in the last decade (as you can imagine), and, consequently, the nature of my love for and appreciation of the novel has changed so much through those years; with each subsequent time I've read it, A Tale of Two Cities has meant a different thing to me and held a unique place in my soul, tailored to its shape at that point in time.

That's part of why it has been such an immense, immeasurable joy to have this blog as a constant, a place for me to capture those shapes (and their changing over the years) by providing the good people of Tumblr's A Tale of Two Cities fandom with posts of all varieties. What a wonderful and rewarding place it has been for finding community in which we can all share our collective appreciation for this incredible novel. So if you're reading this, thank you! And I hope this blog has been able to provide for you anything like what it has for me!

Now this post is done, why don't we call a health, dear reader; why don’t we give our toast?

Many more posts - and years - to come, then!

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

I am?

These two words, this simple little question, very nearly came out of Susannah's mouth before she stopped herself, reminding herself of Philippe's sincere nature. This was a man who would never lie to her, least of all about her appearance, and so she allowed herself to be flattered in that moment, cheeks turning a soft pink as she replied, "Th-Thank you, Philippe. You..y-you look v-very handsome!"

Not about to let him linger out on her front porch all night, she was quick to sweep him inside and into her little kitchen, where she had everything laid out, ready and waiting for them. She was also pleasantly surprised by the strawberry-creme bonbons he'd procured for them; they would make a wonderful dessert to cap off tonight's dinner.

"I-I...I have something for you too!"

Before they sat down to their meal (she would've liked to have just dug in, but perhaps giving him this gift would mitigate some of the butterflies in her stomach and let her actually enjoy dinner), Susannah hustled out of the room, only to then return with a small box-not ornately wrapped or even particularly eye-catching...unlike what was inside.

It was a hand-knitted sweater, made in a beautiful sky-blue yarn, laced with delicate honeycomb and blackberry patterns, very similar to the one Wilhelmina Pace knitted for her future husband many years ago (the only difference being was that the one she made was a soft buttercup yellow; Susannah had it tucked away in the cedar chest upstairs, along with many other heirlooms). It would be plenty warm to wear, once the cold snap eventually settled in.

"I-It's an Aran sweater," she explained shyly, her heart pounding in her chest as she watched him open it, on pins and needles, waiting for his reaction, wondering nervously all the while: Will he like it?

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

the higher-ups (and Yaga) immediately trying to leverage Gojo & Ieri's absence to put Yuuta on the roster??? God that's such a stark moment. Thank god Nanami and Gojo saw through that one immediately, because Yuuta wants to justify his own survival so badly he would've fallen straight into it.

That whole scene, with Yuuta immediately jumping on the opportunity to help people even though something is Extremely Wrong with him and he's on the brink of physical collapse--this boy is selfless to the point of self destruction and I am chewing the drywall about it. I love him so much.

If only he was able to summon his newly found homicidal rage in defense of himself, the higher-ups would no longer be a problem. Alas, this boy is Extremely Unwell.

(Sea Glass Gardens is absolutely incredible and i am obsessed with it in a way that is totally and 100% normal. I'm so normal about it, trust me <3 )

The thing about Yuuta is that he really is prime to be taken advantage of right now and the higher ups know it. They had him try to kill himself for them--they know that there's a window of opportunity that they can use to get him under their thumb and avoid The Problem of Gojo, which is, namely, having a human weapon who you cannot fully control. Gojo nailed it from the beginning: they want a magic gatling gun with no personality or free will. They learned their lesson with Gojo and are trying to rob Yuuta of his agency before he learns how to protect himself.

And Yaga's part in that scene really was meant to kind of emphasize how, even with the best intention's, he just doesn't work to protect the kids. Like. everything he said was technically true, and he meant it with the best of intentions. He's the guy who has to think of everyone's needs. he has to manage this crisis. he's got a lot of people hurt badly who just came out of a war, and a lot of people going into fights with some very aggravated curses spawning without sufficient manpower to address the danger and no healer to save them if they cut it a little too close. He didn't have the intention of manipulating or sacrificing Yuuta, but he was aware that it would come to his detriment and risk.

The issue is the higher ups. They don't give a shit about the people in their workforce. They should be the ones doing whatever it takes to solve this crisis and save their people--and if that means giving up on their machinations? They should have already done it. It's their responsibility.

They just don't care. They want Okkotsu Yuuta under their thumb, and their society hemorrhaging is treated like an opportunity, not a dire problem to be solved. They don't care if half a dozen of their own people need to die to do it. Hell, it's better if they do die--they can put it straight on Okkotsu for not being willing to sacrifice himself, when they should have been making whatever promises they had to in order to make this work.

Gojo's done this before, is the thing. He was Yuuta, a long time ago. Nanami was right there watching it happen. They both know what the higher ups do: They let society get to a crisis level and put all the responsibility on you to save it. they let you maneuver yourself into a vulnerable position as a result, and then they use it as leverage to put their goddamn boot on your neck.

The thing is that Gojo adopting megumi all those years ago really did put them into a crisis state. the zenin pitched the mother of all bitch fits trying to secure his unconditional return, and they were a huge percentage of jujutsu society's labor force and resource pools. instead of the higher ups managing the problem at all, they took advantage of the situation and shoved more and more of its weight and responsibility onto gojo, until he was dropping off his own kid at his abusers' compound thinking it was the only compromise that could resolve things. megumi paid the price for gojo not calling bullshit, and right now, with him in a hospital bed? gojo's less willing to repeat mistakes than ever.

he knows that they're going to use the safety and suffering of everyone else as the leverage against him, and he knows that as terrible as it is, he cannot blink first. He's played this game before, and he knows that the only way to get the higher ups to back off on something like this is to dig in your heels.

I think what happened to Megumi all those years ago and how bad it got before they put a stop to it is something that haunts all three of them. When they first started raising him, they were very young, and they were very broken, and they loved him very, very much. He was their little boy, and he was never the same after the Zenin. They were supposed to protect him, and they didn't, and not a single one of them has forgiven themselves for that.

Megumi was sort of sacrificed for the greater good when he was a kid. None of them thought that that was what they were doing when it happened, but that's what happened. His happiness, safety, and wellbeing were sacrificed to pacify the Zenin and make it easier on everyone else.

Megumi and Tsumiki had to become their non-negotiables after. They had to become the things they refused to compromise on. The Zenin would take miles and miles if you gave them a millimeter, let alone an inch.

Gojo didn't think he was compromising them when he left them on their own to deal with Geto's war. They were disgustingly self-sufficient kids. They had been alone for longer stretches of time when they were practically toddlers--they should have been fine on their own for a couple of weeks.

But they were still his kids, and he still left them alone for everyone else's sake, and now his kid is blind and half dead in a hospital bed. It's like being punched in the face by old mistakes.

So they're off the roster completely, all of them. And they're not compromising an inch on what their focus is, and they're not letting anything happen to any of the other kids in their care.

It's terrible that their coworkers are suffering, but it wouldn't be happening if the Zenin hadn't fucked with Gojo Satoru's kid, of all the goddamn people. It wouldn't be happening if the higher ups would actually do their job and start managing shit.

And if they use Yuuta as an anxiety riddled bandaid on the bullet hole in their society? Then they'd be sacrificing him the way they sacrificed Megumi all those years ago. And they have never been less willing to do that.

I'm so so glad you like the story! Thank you for talking with me!

[creaturefeaster]

yo maybe im just having a bad morning but im a hair's width away from leaving this site man it's getting so fucking annoying & bloated with features i could not give less of a fuck about

[solradguy]

Whenever I see someone being transphobic on twt in a bridget thread i reply with three pictures of my mains: ky kiske from ac+r, ky kiske from rev 2, and ky kiske from strive.

it self selects for people who actually play the game. it’s canon that he’ll fight off transphobes with the blade. and if they actually played guilty gear they’d get the underlining messages

While it can be really funny to bully these guys back, please keep in mind that nothing you can say or do to these people will hurt them or waste as much of their time as what they say will stick with you or waste your time. It might be funny to send them a bunch of Ky pictures, but what they're doing is laughing that the only response the people they hate can give them is sending a bunch of pictures of anime boys.

The only thing that works is blocking them. They've turned being an asshole into a recreational sport and getting any sort of response in return is a victory for them.

[boymounter]

clothes shopping as a fat person is such a hostile environ. i need to go in there with a machete

[lumienn]

Me when I did 10 things to make my day better but came across 1 (one) thing that ruined it