#i have a few others printed that i haven’t touched yet

[smoshidiot]

2006 !

[wlntrsldler]

MDNI!!!!!!!!! (thoughts about luke castellan)

im listening to practice by drake and i can’t stop thinking about fwb! luke 😀

thinking about how the minute you’re back at camp (from visiting family for the holidays or something stupid like that) luke pulls you away from everyone before you even get to say hi to anyone.

you’re smirking because you already know what’s next. he always got like this when you guys were apart for longer than a few days. ever since you guys started fucking, luke was insatiable.

you weren’t complaining tho because for a guy who didn’t really get much play, he was the only one you’d been with who can actually make you cum.

the second you two were away from everyone, his lips are on your neck and he’s rolling his hips onto yours. you haven’t even touched him yet and he was already hard. he was breathing heavy while he nipped at your skin, his calloused hands gripping your ass, no doubt leaving hand prints on the flesh.

“fuck, i missed this,” luke groaned into your lips, a string of saliva connected your lips. “my fuckin hand isn’t the same.”

you were breathless, “i was gone for like a week, castellan.”

“too long,” he mumbled, his lips connecting with yours again.

you tugged on his curls, making him whine into your mouth. your back was pressed against a tree and you can feel the bark scratching the sliver of skin that was exposed by your top but you didn’t care. luke’s dick was pressed against your thigh and you can feel his pre-cum seeping through his cargo pants.

you hooked one leg on his hip and thrusted up. luke didn’t expect the change in position and he moaned when he felt your warmth brush over the tip of his dick. he pulled away from you, eyes blown wide, and lips puffy from his attack on your lips.

“let me fuck you.” he whispered, “please.”

he wasn’t above begging anymore. he just needed to fucking feel you.

you shook your head. luke ran a hand through his hair, his sexual frustration causing a knot to twist in his stomach. you looked up at him, batting your lashes, “let me take care of you, luke.”

his eyebrows shot up in surprise. luke licked his lips, the tip of his tongue stopping at the corner of his mouth. a cocky smirk grazed his face and he nodded his head slightly to give you the go ahead.

you sank to your knees, undoing his cargo pants on your way down. you pulled put his cock from his boxers, biting your bottom lip in anticipation.

“you gonna make me feel good, baby?”

“not your baby,” you said, but your voice said something different. “been practicing.”

luke scoffed in a teasing way at your implications. you always made those comments whenever you came back to camp, like you had other guys to do this with besides him.

luke didn’t feel threatened by the idea. in fact, it only spurred him on because if you were out there fucking other guys, he knew none of them could have you the way he gets to. you were his and he was yours. whatever fucking label you had on this situation was bullshit as far as he’s concerned.

luke placed a hand on the side of your cheek, guiding you toward his dick, “you can talk all the shit you want but it’s my dick that’s gonna be down your throat and it’s my cum you’re about to swallow.”

that shut you up.

part 2 kinda (cinderella by mac miller)

[1-800-kami]

margaret - lana del rey | nanami kento

.. just when you thought nanami left behind nothing, you discover a letter on the top of his closet... addressed to you.

content: 0.9k words, anime spoilers, fem!reader, small banana fish allusion at the end because i hate my life

author's note: i'm not okay.

it’s october 31st, 2019, and you think you’ve finally gained enough courage to clean out kento’s closet.

one year. that’s exactly how long it’s been since his death. ever since you found out that your fiance was a part of the thousands who fell victim to the shibuya incident, the days have blurred into one another. each day seems monotonous and devoid of life without the man who promised to spend the rest of his life with you.

each day, you just dream of the day that you’ll be able to see him again.

still, no one was using the clothes from his closet. you knew your fiance would’ve preferred it if you donated his clothes to someone who could actually use them. you’ve been putting it off, since you knew that the smell of his clothes would just fill your heart with yet another round of painful memories. despite that, you knew you had to do it one day.

you haven’t touched his closet since the day he died. his clothes still smell like his perfume, and everything is neatly folded. you take one of his shirts with a shaky breath and revel in his scent, eyes watering knowing that even though his scent is still there, he isn’t.

and that makes you feel alone. fuck, you feel so awfully alone. 

your eyes scan through the entire closet, wondering where you’re gonna start with the cleaning. then, something sticking out of the top of your closet catches your eye. it seems so deliberately placed- wait, is that an envelope?

standing on your tiptoes and taking the envelope, you gasp–realizing that it's a letter addressed to you. from kento.

as far as you knew, your fiance didn’t leave anything behind for you other than a few broken promises. your engagement ring still rests on your ring finger, and it breaks your heart knowing that your wedding day will never come. he promised to marry you, that your honeymoon would be in kuantan, malaysia; and eventually–you’d buy a small house there just for the two of you, where sorcerers and curses are finally alien words and the rest of your days are spent out on the beach.

of course, none of that would ever happen now. you live knowing that your engagement ring will never be replaced with a wedding ring.

still, you thought that you’d live the rest of your life knowing that nanami never left anything behind for you... but this letter was new. you open it up, finding words scrawled in the handwriting that you knew all too well.

“to y/n—my love,

if you’re reading this, then it means that i’m dead, and i’m sorry.

i’m writing this letter because i know that as a jujutsu sorcerer, coming back home is never guaranteed. and yet, if i ever die, i don’t want you to be left behind with nothing. so one day, you’re going to have to clean out my closet, and you’re eventually going to find this letter.

i’m writing this hoping that you’re never going to have to read this, and i’ll throw this letter away eventually because i lived to come back home to you. 

but we both know that there’s a chance i might not come home.

living to see the next day isn’t guaranteed for any of us. not for me, and not even for people like gojo. so if it ever comes to this, i want you to live for the both of us, love. it’s difficult but i truly don’t want to hold you back from being happy just because i’m gone. fall in love again and live your life. then, when i see you again, you can tell me everything, and i’ll be excited to hear all about it.

i can hear you outside right now humming while making dinner. i want the rest of our life to be domestic like that—but sometimes, life isn’t always fair.

i remember getting photos of us printed out, because whenever i would be out on a mission, i found myself missing you all the time… so i always kept photos of you and me in my phone case. i want you to have these photos because they kept me going whenever i wasn’t able to be with you. i hope you can eventually learn to do the same, love.

just know that i love you. i love you so, so much, dear. you’re my reason to live. you’re the reason why i love coming home every day—you’re the reason i work as hard as i can so you’ll never have to read this letter. and i really do hope that you’ll never, ever read this.

i love you and i’ll repeat it until the entire world knows it. i’m sorry that i never got to marry you. i’m sorry that we never got to go to kuantan together. i’m sorry that i never got to do the things that i promised i would. 

even though i’m sorry for everything, you might’ve noticed that i haven’t said goodbye. that’s because i won’t say goodbye, because eventually, there’ll come a time when the stars align and we’ll meet again, no matter how far apart we are. and i can’t wait to see you again…

…because then, i’ll make everything up to you.

love, 

kento.”

[lemonnsss]

Moral of the Story: Chapter 8

Warnings: Mild tangent based off of an actual conversation I had (I'm actually from D.C. so this was fun), one singular bad pun- it deserves its own warning, and probably strained warning.

Feedback is always appreciated

MotS Masterlist

Taglist: @vicmc624 , @mostlymarvelgirl , @yvonneeeee, @beetlejuicesupremacy , @moonlightreader649 , @whattheduckisupkyle , @chrisevans-realwife, @nekoannie-chan , @mrsbarnes32557038 , @imyourbratzdoll , @weallhaveadestiny

Word Count: 1.8k

“Apologies but until you had agreed and were here it was still considered confidential.”

“O-okay, um, where- or how should I start?”

The director stood across the bed from me, eyebrows furrowed, the room filled with silence apart from the constant, steady beeps of the machinery.

“How the hell should I know? You’re the one with the super-abilities.”

“Right, sorry, that was dumb. Do you know if any of his internal organs were damaged when he went under? Or have you had the chance to run any tests yet?”

“I’m sorry, what crash are we talking about?” Tony said, still standing in the doorway.

Fury pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance before responding, “When the Captain here decided to take a trip twenty thousand leagues under the sea he was in a, shall we say, pseudo-nazi aircraft with a fixed route on its way to the states. His options were to let the ship take its course and let millions die or take a nosedive, he took the latter, rather obviously. Speaking of,” the attention turned to me, “how did you know that?”

“Sir, I’m a licensed teacher from pre-k to high school- I’m not by any means immune to misinformation; although, I do have a bit more knowledge on the topic than most people- not to mention my…” my mind trailed off for a moment before coming back, “former colleague taught history, rather fitting as he lived through it, too.”

His one eye began to look me up and down, “Remind me, where did you work last? Aside from with the X-Men that is.”

There was an uncertainty in his voice that made the agents who went down the elevator with us glance at each other nervously. What I had seen twice in my less-than-a-day stint of knowing this man seemed uncommon or unsettling for those who had known him longer.

“I don’t believe I said. Besides, doesn’t your file on me say?” We were both fishing for information, a push and pull I’d grown adjusted to on the flight over.

He remained silent, motioning one of the residents to come over.

“S-so we ran s-some tests-,” he took a moment to breathe and calm himself down, he spoke with a light stutter, likely to have been more prevalent in his earlier years. It sounded like he had gotten speech therapy, and was likely better, nervous, but better, “a lot of the scans were, well are, useless. His blood, everything about him really, was frozen, barely mobile. So the extent of the internal injuries he potentially sustained upon impact is uncertain. I sent for some new prints of the scans we took last week, but they haven’t come in yet; they’ll probably arrive today but it’s pretty touch and go sometimes.” He finished talking with a meek smile, likely proud of how he handled the situation.

“You did the scans last week and they’re only coming in today?” I could feel the look of confusion that overtook my face, he chuckled lightly and rubbed his neck.

“Yeah, we don’t have the equipment to produce the scans here so we send them over to the hospital over in Takoma Park to print- they have the most up-to-date machinery, and they were the only ones willing to work with us privately- so it takes a bit of time.”

“Perks of D.C., eh? Either have the most outrageous tax or go out of district.”

“Exactly! Say, did you grow up ‘round here?”

“No, up in Salem. I used to teach. I planned enough ‘government trips’ to last a few lifetimes.”

I could’ve sworn I heard him mutter a few “cool” s under his breath before he spoke up again, “It was nice getting to talk with you, but I kinda have some other patients I gotta check up on.” he moved by Fury, a “sir” slipping out as he passed and a little wave to me as he left.

The four who accompanied me in the elevator looked at each other, all but Tony practically questioning if this was normal for me.

The director cleared his throat, calling my attention back over to him, "When can you start?"

"Oh! Any time. I was only wondering how badly he was hurt so I can give you my best estimation for how long it'll take me to finish this."

“Will this not be a one-time excursion?”

“...No? Not likely.”

I was done with conversing, done with this nonsense. Placing my hand on the captain’s chest the area where we touched began to glow with a golden hue- I’d always been told my eyes did the same. It was unlike healing Tony a year ago- I didn’t have to rush, it wasn’t life or death- I could take my time and triage.

His biggest issue was hypothermia, unsurprisingly. I felt the cold move through his body to mine. A deep chill settled in my bones.

I pulled away, “Do you know if there’s a heating pad somewhere? Or something like it?” I hadn’t looked at them, afraid of how they would react. A few seconds of silence passed before I turned to them- Tony looked confused, maybe he didn’t see what my powers looked like, and he probably had some blood loss going on at the time; Fury stood unwavering with the smallest tent in his brow, but then again who could read him; the male agent who’d gone with us was standing, mouth slightly agape; and the female agent was gone slipped out without a sound- weird.

She looked like she’d be the ‘hard-ass’ type despite her being, what, 5’3”-5’4”. She was maybe Tony’s age, though it was difficult to tell, her seemingly ageless golden skin a potential factor, Tony’s substance abuse didn’t exactly help his cause though.

She walked back in, a wired heating pad in hand, she lifted it in the air inquisitively before tossing it to me.

“Thank you, Agent-”

“It’s no problem.” She cut me off gruffly.

I set the heating pad up in a chair and sat down, placing my hand back on the captain, and, over a few hours, I healed him as much as I could before returning to the hotel for the night. A comfortable cycle that lasted for a few months.

I walked into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s office for what would likely be the last time, at least soon.

I walked up to the agents who had escorted me on my first day- Agents May and Coulson I’d learned.

“Ready for your last day?” Coulson asked a melancholic tone laced his voice.

“Are you excited to be done with babysitting me?” I teased.

I’d gotten more comfortable around Coulson, though it wasn’t exactly difficult with his rather ‘easy-going’ nature, and comfortable enough around Agent May to talk to her. We walked along the rather familiar path to Captain Rogers’ room. I made quick work of healing what remained of his injuries.

He still wasn’t awake. For whatever reason I thought Cap would wake up when I had finished healing him.

Coulson and I talked for a while before heading to the entrance once I’d gotten word back from Tony that his chauffeur was there to pick me up.

“I’m gonna miss you, kid.” he whispered, pulling me into a side hug.

“I’ll miss you too, Phil.” I replied, “ It was nice getting to know you, Agent-”

“May, call me May.” She cut me off, “And, unless you quit within the next year we’ll probably see you soon. Stark has an odd habit of getting in trouble with almost anyone and everyone.” 

“I’ll miss you too.”

A car horn was blaring outside for a minute and I knew it was Tony, “Guess that’s my cue, goodbye.” I sent them a soft smile and a wave before I got in the car.

A few months passed by with ease with the Stark Expo taking up more time and paperwork than I could’ve imagined. I walked in one day to see Coulson in Tony’s office.

“Phil? Oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you! What’s got you across the country?”

“It’s good to see you too, kid. I’m here because S.H.I.E.L.D. is requesting Mr. Stark’s presence.” He spoke rather cooly about Tony, a stark contrast to his normal.

“TONY! Did you break the Geneva Convention?!” Tony looked at me speechless, feigning hurt I would even think of it, Coulson stood beside me struggling and barely holding back a chuckle.

“No, unfortunately not. ‘We’ need to borrow him, more specifically the ‘Iron Man’ suit. As I was saying before, we have a helicarrier waiting for your arrival.”

“Okay, Tony. Please, stop being a bitch and get your shit. You’re lucky they step in enough to keep you out of prison for some likely war criminal activity. Suck it up and grab your bags.” I walked to Tony’s desk and put down his coffee before walking into my office and grabbing the duffel I had stuffed in the corner of the room.

I walked back out, “Where’d you say the plane was?”

Coulson showed me to the plane where we waited for about twenty minutes before Tony walked over with his bags. We piled in and got up to the helicarrier, a giant airbase I was told was legal.

May was waiting for us on deck and showed me to my room before leaving me to unpack.

I had to have been walking through those damn near identical hallways for half an hour before giving up.

After yelling into my hands I spoke, to no one but myself, “How do people even get around these things? It’s a whole death trap, I swear.”

“Exactly!” A voice called out from behind me. I turned around to find a familiar face, Captain America, “I guess you don’t work here either?”

“Oh, um, no. You couldn’t pay me to stay on this thing.”

He laughed revealing a warm smile that fit his beautiful, angel-like face perfectly.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Steve Rogers.”

“Kyrie Eirsson- I’m Mr. Stark’s personal assistant.”

I saw his eyes widen in recognition at the second half, “Oh! You’re the person I’m supposed to find.”

“What? Oh, fuck, that’s embarrassing.” I held my face in my hands, my face flushing furiously, I moved my fingers to see the Captain’s face. He stood across from me, face turned away, fist in front of his mouth in a failing attempt to hide his wide grin.

“In any case, Stark’s having a fit without you on the bridge. Shall we?” He held out his arm for me to take.

“I disappear for what, forty-fifty minutes and he goes nuts without me, shocker.” I took his arm gleefully, laughing at how ridiculous the situation was.

[abbatoirablaze]

Deal With The Devil, Chapter 9

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: male masturbation, oral (F receiving) consensual cheating, manipulation, coercion, dubcon relationship/intimacy.

“Just the tip, Inny, that-“

“Your results didn’t come back yet,” she growled, pushing past her fiancé as she stalked towards the bathroom, “and like I said, you’re not getting anywhere near-“

“It doesn’t count if it’s just the tip, bunny!” he said quickly, cutting her off, “come on.  It’s been two days, and I haven’t done anything.  With anyone!  Just let me have a little taste of that sweet honeypot!  I’m begging you, bunny!  He’s so lonely without a warm place to be in.”

“Then put some pants on, Steve!”

“But he wants to say hi, baby…come on.  Just lay back in bed.  I’ll do all the work!”

“NO!” she growled, before slamming the bathroom door in his face. 

She smiled to herself as she heard a soft thud, knowing that he had put his head against the door.  She turned towards the shower and turned it on, dropping the towel.  And just like a puppy nipping at its owner’s heels, the door opened. 

She rushed to cover herself, but Steve had seen all of her. He was grinning as he leaned against the frame, “come on Inny-“

“Don’t call me that!”

“You shouldn’t hide that beautiful little body from me.  I don’t hide mine from you,” he growled huskily as he reached down to touch himself. 

“God, I wish you would, Rogers…I don’t need to see your dick every second of every day that someone isn’t here with us!”

She looked away, but she could still hear the smile in his voice, “come on…don’t hide your body from me, bunny…I already helped out by making sure I backed Tony…move your hands…give daddy the view that he wants.”

“Don’t call yourself that.”

“Why not?” he asked.  She looked over and her eyes widened.  His girthy cock was at full attention and he was still stroking it.  A blush rose to her cheeks as she stared at his body, “I think he likes you, bunny…fuck, I know he likes you.  You got me hard as a rock when you’re around.”

“Steve…”

“Come on…show me what I want, bunny!”

She looked away and turned back towards the shower.  Opening the door, she slipped behind the glass.  Steve remained where he was, still stroking himself. 

“Go away Steve.”

“You’re so gorgeous,” he moaned wantonly as he leaned against the his and hers sinks, “god I can’t wait to take that sweet little cherry of yours and give you something else.”

“NO SEX!”

“Create a sweet little legacy,” he purred, taking a few steps more steps into the bathroom while she tried to ignore him.  It wasn’t long before he was touching the glass.  She could see him stroking himself with one hand, while the other created a print in the steam that was already filling the room, “the culmination of Rogers and Stark taking hold in your belly.  God, I’ll never stop putting them in you, honey.  We’ll fill this whole mansion and then another one.”

“Steve-“

“I never thought I wanted kids, you know,” he admitted, “but there’s just something about how you are, bunny…you make me damn near feral. You’re fucking bat shit crazy…hitting me with the butt of that gun when you got all jealous…and those sweet little thighs wrapped around my waist…I wanted to be mad, but all I’ve been able to think about since then was how good you’re gonna feel wrapped around my cock.”

He watched as she turned away from him and faced the shower head.  He groaned, looking at her heart-shaped ass.  

“Bend over.”

“Steve, I’m showering,” she hissed, “go away.”

“I kind of like it when you’re mean to me!” he smirked, “makes me even harder.  Fuck, I could burst right here, and you haven’t even touched me yet, bunny.”

“Well guess what,” she growled, “I’m not going to touch you.”

“That’s what you think…”

“No, that’s what I know,” she spat, “you cheated on me already, Steve.  Even if you come back clean, who’s to say that I’ll do anything to help you.  Who’s to say that I won’t just lay there and make you do all the work?”

“Oh, honey…I just need the permission,” he smirked, “I’ve got no problem doing the work.”

“Go away, Steve.”

“Why are you like this, bunny?” he asked softly, his hand falling away from his cock, “why are you so hot and cold with me?”

“I’m not,” she muttered, “I’m cold as ice, Steve.”

“You’re not!” he refuted, “you’re nice sometimes…caring even…but ever since-“

“Since what?” she asked, turning to him.  He noticed how her jaw was clenched, “since you cheated?”

“Bunny-“

“This may be an arranged marriage, Steve, but it still hurts knowing that you’re not someone’s first choice.  That-“

“You are…”

“You brought five strippers home, Steve,” she scoffed, “I’m not even in your top five choices.  You had the option to come home without them.  But you fucked them in what’s supposed to be our marital bed.  In-“

“Bunny, I-“

“I don’t want to hear it, Steve…” she said, cutting him off once more.  Steve frowned when he realized that some of the water on her face wasn’t from the shower.

No. 

The wavering of her voice.

The tears.

She was crying.

“I’ll make it better, bunny…I-I’ll find a way for you to forgive me.”

Inez yawned and attempted to stretch after waking from her nap. 

But she was stopped by something wrapped around her wrists and ankles. 

Worry coated her nerves as she opened her eyes, only for it to still be dark.

“S-Steve?”

“I’m here, bunny!”

“S-Steve, what’s going on?”

“I promised that I’d make it better.”

She jumped when she felt warm air blowing over her cunt. 

A shiver ran down her spine as the air moved, and a set of lips kissed her thighs. 

Fingers gripped her hips before sliding down her legs, massaging the flesh.

“S-Steve…wh-what are you doing?”

“Making it better, bunny,” he promised, “Just relax.”

She went to move her arms once again, but was kept in place by the restraints, “Ste-Steve.  Let me go.  I-I don’t want this.  I-I the results haven’t come back.  I-“

“I got the results while you were taking your nap, bunny.  I’m clean.”

“I-I’m not ready to have sex,” she said quickly, shaking her head, “I-I’m not ready, Steve.  P-please.  I-I don’t want to do this!”

“Don’t worry, bunny…I know you don’t trust me,” he sighed.  She felt the breath over her thighs as the pair of lips worked their way closer to her core.  She gasped as one of the hands wrapped around her waist, and the other gripped her hip.  His breath fanned over her core, and she instinctively lifted her hips.  She could hear his chuckle echoing in her ears, “you look like you want this, Inny.  Your body is practically begging for it.”

“D-don’t call me-Steve!”

She moaned his name when his lips kissed her mound. 

He chuckled again.

But his lips were so close to her core that she could practically feel the vibrations running through her. 

“You’ve never been touched by a man before, sweet girl,” he purred, “but have you ever touched yourself?”

“N-no,” she shivered.  His hand traveled from her hip and down over her mound.  He spread her lips delicately and she gasped when he kissed her exposed bud, “S-St-Steve!”

“That’s right, bunny,” he smiled, “keep moaning my name.”

Her lips parted in a silent moan when his tongue flicked out to lick up her already flowing juices.  He moaned against her core and another shiver ran down her spine.  Her stomach tightened when his tongue danced around her virginal hole.

“Oh no, sweetie…you don’t get to cum yet.”

“Please….p-please…”

“I told you once that I would make you beg for it.”

Her hips bucked when his tongue slid back up to her clit and he sucked it into his mouth. Her hands gripped the restraints, and her legs fought to close, but she was secured in place.  Her nipples pebbled and Steve groaned as the hand that was tucked around her waist slid to her chest and massaged her breast, before rolling the nipple between his fingers. 

Already she was falling apart on the man’s mouth, who she’d claimed she’d never be able to trust. And while part of her hated herself for it, the other part of her, the part that had been shielded from things like this all her life, wanted to explore it all.  Her hips rolled while he delved deeper into her core, his tongue probing her hole.

“St-Steve.  Steve!”

She all but squealed as the hand that had parted her lips slid down to her hole.  A finger slid in easily, and stroked her inner walls as he sucked up her juices. 

“I-I’m-oh god.  Steve.  Steve!  STEVE!”

She was blinded by the light in the room as well as her own orgasm as it crashed over her, and her blindfold was removed.

She pulled at the restraints tightly as the coil in her belly snapped.  But as her eyes snapped open it wasn’t the blonde she was betrothed to who was hungrily devouring her. 

No.

The man between her thighs, coaxing her orgasm to come crashing down on her like a freight train was the man who she’d instantly fallen for at the book store. 

He was feral as he pulled her from one orgasm to the next, a second finger sliding in as his eyes met hers. 

“J-James.  James!”

And that’s when she caught sight of the man sitting at the end of the bed. 

He was perched in a chair, watching his fiancé being devoured by one of his men.  With the biggest grin imaginable on his face.  While Steve was never one to share, there was something deep within him getting turned on at the sight of her coming undone on another man’s tongue.

“S-Steve!”

“I told you I’d fix it,” he replied smugly as he watched Bucky and her being intimate, “now we’ve both cheated, bunny…”

Chapter 10

Tag List:  @teambarnes72, @prokey16, @lohnes16, @shellybellysstuff, @cynic-spirit

[cinemastyles-blog]

Highly requested on Wattpad

You can find part 1 here ➪ Staying Focused

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, heavy teasing, oral, hair pulling, praise kink, name calling, creampie, F I L T H

Master

∘₊✧── 𝑒𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 ──✧₊∘

“Get out here.” Harry spoke immediately once the call ended. You swallowed and slowly crawled out from under the table.

He right away brings you to your feet and steps closer to you, your legs pushing against the table, “Did you like that?” He asks lowly as a hand pushes hair off your neck.

“Did you like sucking my cock as I was on the phone with important people, hmm?” His eyes scan over your face and you stare at him, giving him a slight nod.

He smirks and chuckles, “I liked it too, but.. you know what I’m going to have to do, don’t you?”

You bite your lip as you hands grip the table, “Yes.”

“You can’t cum, until I say you can.” He plays with your shirt before slowly pulling it off your body. He unhooks your bra and slides it off your arms, watching as it hits the ground.

He brings his head up slowly as he slides his fingers in the band of your leggings, tugging them down as he kneels on the floor, “Such a dirty girl.” He looks up at you and your eyes meet his, “You’re so wet already, huh?”

You nod and step out of your pants, “Yes.”

He chuckles and slides his hands up your legs. His hand slides between your thighs and his thumb presses against your still clothed clit, “Soaked.” He whispers, “You’re soaked, baby.”

You stand there, watching as he looks you up and down. He rises to his feet, “Take them off and bend over the table.”

You do as he says and lean down, pressing your cheek and hands against the cool wood. His hands gently cup your ass cheeks before he lifts one and drops it back down with a hard, and loud, smack.

You whimper and jolt forward.

“Did that feel good?” Harry asks rubbing the spot he smacked, “Do you want another one?”

You nod your head, “Y-yes please.”

“Such a polite little slut.” He chuckles and smacks your other cheek, giving it a matching hand print.

You let out a strangled moan and press your finger tips against the table, “Harry.”

Harry grabs your hips and rubs his thumbs against them, “What baby?” He asks sweetly.

“Can you please touch me?” You practically beg, “Please.”

Harry lets out a laugh and shakes his head, “I will baby. Right now, I’m having fun with you.. you know, just like you were with me a little bit ago.”

You bite down on the inside of your lip and whimper as he pushes his cock against your pussy, “Is this what you want?”

“Yes. Yes.” You say quickly. You try to push your hips back, but Harry still has them pinned down to the table.

“You’re such a slut for my cock, aren’t you?”

“I-I love it.” You gasp as harry slips his tip into your soaked cunt. He sits there for a few seconds before he withdrawals himself, “I love that sweet little pussy of yours.”

You hear him drop down to his knees and feel his hands spread your ass, “I’d love to get in that one day, would you like that?”

You never really turned anything down with Harry before, and you can’t lie, the thought of anal with Harry, well, is definitely a turn on.

“Fuck yes.” You moan as his thumb circles your tight hole. He leans in and licks between the folds of your pussy, causing you to gasp and moan out louder.

“You taste delicious.” Harry mumbles as he goes back in, squeezing your ass as his tongue darts in and out. He slowly curls his tongue, teasing you.

“H-Harry.” You beg, “Please.”

He ignores you and continues to slowly slide his tongue up and down. He slides a hand down and around your thigh, pressing his fingers firmly on to your clit.

You clench your thighs together and he leans back, delivering a smack to your ass, “I said you can’t cum until I say so, and I believe..” He stands up and drags a finger down your spine, “I haven’t said so yet.”

You whimper, “Sorry.”

“What was that?” He walks around and leans down onto the table, “What did you say?”

You bite your lip and smirk slightly, “Sorry daddy.”

He smirks and taps the table, “Mm, it’s okay baby.” He walks back around, “Now be my good little slut, and take my cock.”

With that being said, he pushes his cock into you and gets you to let out a slight scream, “Harry!”

He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust before he pulls just about all the way out and thrusts back in. His hips meeting yours, causing your body to slam into the table.

It hurts, but you like it.

“That feel good? You like having my cock in that slutty little pussy of yours?”

Harry’s words draw you closer to the edge you’re not supposed to be at. He knows him calling you his slut and talking dirty to you gets you so fucking wound up.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Fuck, yes daddy.”

So you do it right back.

“Please let me cum.” You gasp out and clench around his cock, “please.”

Harry halts his thrusts abruptly, “No.” he pulls out and slides back in slowly, “I don’t think you learned your lesson yet.”

You let out a groan, “B-bu-“

“Uh huh. Don’t beg me baby. It won’t work.” He rubs your ass and clicks his tongue, “You know what I want to do baby?”

“What?”

He pulls out and spins you around, setting you up on table and slips his cock back in, “I want to fill that little cunt with my cum.”

His words send fireworks through your body and you nod quickly, “Please.”

“You want my cum sitting in you?” Harry pulls out and thrusts back in, “Filling you up.. so full.” He places a hand on your clit and rubs small and slow circles as he watches his cock slide in and out.

“Yes daddy.” You wrap an arm around his neck and pull him in to you, kissing his lips like you’re starving for them.

He wraps and arm around your waist and holds his weight with his other hand on the table, “Fuck, you feel amazing.” He groans, “Makes me want to cum.”

“Let me cum first please.” You whimper as you feel yourself getting drawn to the edge, a lot quicker.

He chuckles, “Go ahead baby.”

You clench around him and tilt your head back as his cock brings you to your orgasm, “H-Harry.” You gasp and pant rapidly. Your nails dig into his shoulder and he groans as he watches you come undone under him.

His thrusts get harder, “Fuck.” He grips your thighs and spreads them further.

You look up at him and bite your lip as you moan. He kisses you again and pushes his cock deep into you. He holds you close to him as you feel his cock pump his cum inside of you.

You’re instantly turned on again.

“That’s so fucking sexy.” You whisper against his lips.

“What? Me not pulling out?”

You nod with a smirk and he chuckles, “Yeah, tell me about it. Now I’m going to want to do it all the time.” He slowly pulls out and looks down. His lip pulls between his lip as he watches his cum drop out of you and onto the floor.

“That’s so fucking..” he groans and lifts you off the table, “Well get that later, I’m not done with you yet.”

——

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[thewriterxj]

WIP Wednesday

Decided to do a companion piece for my EGF fic, Redline, where Baz goes through Simon's stash of "to be returned" items and decides to break his boyfriend's brain a bit.

Simon

“I’m surprised you wanted to come here,” I say as the server sets down two pints. And I am surprised. Usually Baz doesn’t like pubs, or drinking (he says it's boring)(I think he was just trying to be snooty when he said that, as if it were beneath him). I’ve been here a few times, to watch a game or two. Baz would rather watch them from the flat.

Baz just smiles. “I can enjoy more pedestrian fare when I want.”

“Uh huh.” I look him over. He’s wearing a button-down under a jumper, and even though he is wearing jeans, they are probably the most expensive pair of jeans worn by anyone in this place. He’s not even wearing real trainers. They’re the slip-on kind. I hadn’t seen, but I’m sure they’re over flower printed socks (the only kind of socks he seems to own).

It's always funny to see what he considers pedestrian.

I look around. I am at ease here, especially since Baz has long since spelled everyone (from all appearances...I’m sure he actually hasn’t gotten around to everyone) in this town with a Nevermind. Everyone can see my wings, and unlike a Nothing to See Here, people can actually interact with me. They just think nothing of the wings. My wings are as normal as an arm or leg.

“I mean, for your birthday.” 

“Well, we already had Italian last night.”

I scoff. “Barely.” We had eaten the food, but most of it is chilling in the fridge, now. We still haven’t cut into the cake. Baz had assured me that it will keep for the day. I’ve ordered fish and chips tonight. Baz? Steak and chips. As rare as possible.

Baz just shrugs with one shoulder and takes up his drink. Watching him drink anything but wine is always rare, so I watch. He raises a brow at me, rolls his eyes, and continues. I chuckle and take up my own drink, but place my hand over his other one as it rests on the table. It feels weird to be sitting across from him. Usually, when we’re together, one part of me is always touching him. Baz lets me, and even turns his hand so I can hold it.

“So, why here?” I ask when he sets his glass down.

“I don’t know. It was just a whim.”

“They don’t even let you smoke in here.”

“I could Nevermind them about the cigarettes.”

“No, that’s rude. Someone might have allergies or something.”

He grins a mischievous grin, but he doesn’t take out his wand to spell anything. He just smirks and drinks some more. He catches me looking at him and sets down the glass. “We can go somewhere else, if you like.”

“No. I just think that you’re—”

“Plotting something?”

“I hate to sound cliche, but, yeah.”

“Who says I’m not?”

I think about what he could possibly do. Everyone here seems to be the normal sort of crowd: all Normals. There are screens set around the room, which usually show footie matches but today just show random things. One is playing a commercial for denture paste. It’s the least romantic place I can think of. And the least naughty. It’s not even a gay pub (which we've yet to go to, even though I have suggested it a few times...I don't think Baz is shy, but I also think that bars and such are just not his thing). 

“It’s fun watching you try to figure it out,” he says. He chuckles to himself, but quiets when the server brings our food. 

“Well, unless you suddenly took on the illegal act of compulsion spells or paid for someone to do something embarrassing, I have no clue.”

“Good.” He eats a chip. I shrug and tuck into my own meal while he cuts into his steak. His eyebrows peak a bit at the first bite. “Not bad.”

“Better than American steak?”

“No. You need several more coats of salt and a thicker cut for that.” I think the Cheesecake Factory is one of the few things about America that Baz did like (I actually think he’d like America more if we planned a better trip…and kept him out of the sun. He’d admitted to me, sometime later, how much torture the trip was for his skin. I had asked him why he didn’t say anything at the time, and he had admitted that I was having so much fun that he didn’t want to bother me with it. We had then agreed that next time, he will speak up, so he can have fun too.).

I laugh, either way. The food is good. Not the best, but good. I have to abandon Baz’s hand at one point so that I can actually eat, but my tail is free, so I let it wrap about one of his ankles. He’s so used to me doing this that he doesn’t even blink when it happens. 

I finish my meal before Baz does, which is usual. At some point Baz shoves the rest of his chips towards me, so I eat those, too. He sits back and stretches his shoulders back, then folds the ankle I am holding over the other. The movement causes his jeans to ride just a bit. My tail slides down to touch his leg more…and I notice that the texture I am touching isn’t right for socks.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“What’s what?”

I shift my tail again, sliding it downward and uncoiling enough to feel the texture. “That.”

Baz looks down, as if he could see what I am doing under the table, then shrugs. “Fishnet.”

“Fishnet?”

“Obviously.”

I nearly yank his ankle towards me. He slides down a bit in his seat, but lets me take a peek. I can see a little bit, but the room is dim, and it’s under the table. But I can make out that yes, he is wearing fishnet under his jeans and shoes.

Black fishnet. A closer weave, but it is fishnet.

I raise my head and meet his gaze. He only smirks, shrugs, and reaches for another chip. I ease up with my tail so he can sit up again. “Baz.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you wearing fishnet?”

“Because, Simon,” he says, stabbing his last bite of steak with his fork. He examines it. It’s so rare it looks gummy. He shifts his eyes to me. “It’s my birthday, and tonight I am playing pillow prince, and you,” he points the bit of meat at me. “Are going to do everything I say.”

I swallow. Hard. I have no words. All I can do is watch him as he takes in the last bite of food, then as he washes it down with the last of his pint. He meets my gaze and raises his brows as if to say, is that alright with you? It's not a challenge. It's asking for permission. Because I know he’d never make me do anything I don’t want to do.

But this I want to do.

“Alright,” I say.

“Good,” he replies. He turns to the server when they come back, and orders another pint for us both.

[the-duckless-pond]

Oh god I am having such bad intrusive thoughts about moving my PC. It is a proper gaming one that cost like $3k and I have to go down one flight of stairs to my car and then up two flights of stairs to the new place. I bought a special padded moving case for it and anti static bags so that I can take out the components for transit but I keep having awful images of slipping down the stairs while carrying the bag and it breaking. It’s awful and incessant. And I’m out of my as needed anxiety med until the 18th of next month.

I texted my mom to ask if she would be the one to carry it and she said yes but now it’s like what if SHE trips and falls and not only the computer is broken but she hurts herself?? And I can’t discover anything to soothe the worry. It is so consuming that I am afraid to touch it so I had to take a break from playing ME3 until it passes (and I was about to start the final mission!)

Gah. This has been happening with so many things ever since I got triggered two weeks ago. I had to take my cat to the vet and I had thoughts about her escaping, and then the carrier breaking as I carried her and her getting lost, and then getting into a car crash where she dies. And then I found out the new place has a gas stove, and now I’m worried about gas leaks and explosions. So I had to buy gas meters and child locks. Not sure if those will help me yet. It’s all pretty miserable.

I’ve never officially been on medicine for my OCD, but maybe it’s time to ask for it? It’s been pretty well managed these past two or three years and I don’t talk about it a lot, but my support is minimal right now and I can’t go to therapy until after I get internet in the new place, and I’m kind of spiraling. I guess I’ll just try and tough it out and survive the move. The big worries are moving my PC and moving the cats, so once those are done it should get better. I’ll probably have some trouble leaving the apartment for a few days out of fear that the cats will escape and I don’t have a solution for that just yet. I drew a sign for my front door but I haven’t gotten it printed yet. Maybe I should order that now. I bet that would make me feel better. I can print off a little copy in the meantime and tape it up.

I am also really worried about my first grocery order there?? Like what if they leave it in the lobby and it gets stolen!!! Ugh. So many things to think about.

AND on top of it all I’m trying to quit smoking, and I have never wanted a cigarette more in my life than I have these past two weeks. I actually caved and bought a pack the other night, smoked three and then tossed it and put a patch on. I had a rough day that day. It was probably my last cigarette and it wasn’t even my lucky. Oh well. I was focused on throwing them out.

I guess all that to say that moving when you have a fuck ton of legally disabling mental illnesses is really tough? I don’t know where I’m going with this and my phone is about to die. I think the move will be good for me. I just have to get through the next few days.

[skyfireflight-writes]

Letters from the Forest

IV

Dear Anna,

It’s now the night of the 11th day of our sojourn into these woods. We’ve discovered and recorded a few new incredible plant species: one whose leaves rose from its stem to spiral around each other, taller than Adiel and me stacked atop each other. Adiel wanted to stand on my shoulders to see how tall it truly was and whether or not the top was sharp. I had to disagree to that; I am not a strong man, and my clothes are dirty enough without having muddy boot prints on my shoulders, thank you very much. Not to mention that if we had to run from a predator of some sort, having to get him down off my shoulders would just delay our escape.

Speaking of which, yesterday evening, Adiel and I heard a scream in the distance. It sounded nearly like a human child. Startled us out of our skin. My first instinct was to go find the source of the sound, but Adiel disagreed. He thinks it’s likely just an animal that got caught by some predator. He’s probably right. And who knows are far away it was; sound travels quite a distance here.

I’ll end with a more positive note, about another interesting plant we discovered. It looked similar to the medicinal plant that I mentioned in my previous letter, except with its leaves curved downward at the sides. We were cautious in touching it, with Adiel being the first brave one, because we didn’t know if it was a carnivorous one masquerading as a familiar harmless plant and would close around our fingers. But it didn’t. In all other aspects, it appeared to be the same.

We haven’t personally encountered any plants that have shown themselves to be dangerous to us or large prey. As of yet, anyway. Hopefully this won’t lull us into a false sense of security, especially as we go deeper into this forest.

If you reply, please let me know how the shop is doing, and perhaps some current gossip – I know that changes from week to week. Something to ease my mind off this worry.

Sorry about not ending on a more positive note, regardless of the attempt.

Signed -----

[First] [Prev] [Next]

[theretirementstory]

Bonjour tout le monde. We had rain yesterday, what a blessing for the garden. I caught this “moody” sky last night.

I haven’t been keeping up with the Tour de France as much as I would have liked, but I really don’t want to have “square” eyes or even “rectangular” as that’s the shape of my TV screen. However, I do like to see where the Yates twins are in the standings after Adam had the yellow jersey for four days. I will be watching next Saturday as the stage starts in Belfort and I am sure you remember me telling you how much I enjoyed my stay there.

Cycling is taking place in town this coming Friday, with the “Cyclisme Nocturne”. Usually I would be there with my camera but as bedtime is early now, I will miss it this year.

It has been a busy week for visitors, Monique came to see me on Tuesday. I had taken the car to the garage for its MOT, unfortunately due to the holiday period, the MOT’s are being done alternate morning and afternoons so I left the car at the garage for the MOT on Wednesday.

Wednesday, I had British friends Sarah and Jonathan visit. Jonathan was preparing a print for hanging and I had made lunch for us all. It was great to just sit and talk (in English) and I am so pleased with the print it really does look amazing.

Friday was “National Day” and so a public holiday. Maud said she would come to visit and I was busy preparing food etc in the morning. We had been talking for around an hour when the doorbell sounded, it was Anie bearing gifts, a jar of currant and raspberry jelly. She came in and sat talking for an hour or so and then left. Maud left around 6:45pm which didn’t leave me long for my meal and then to get ready for bed. I have noticed lately with Anie, that she speaks to me only in French, maybe because other people are present and she doesn’t think her English is up to the mark. Sometimes I find it difficult to understand all she says. I have decided that I need to really study my French far more and understand my tenses. However, when I mentioned this to Maud yesterday she said my French was really good, I have a good vocabulary and even with my accent I can make myself understood. I felt quite pleased with myself.

I found this poem entitled “Foreign Language” by Maria Sudibyo.

“Foreign language

Is a road that goes parallel

With our mother language

Every time we learn a new word and it’s meaning

We make a bridge between them

And when we have known most of all

We can walk together in wider road.”

I have had a video call with “The Daddy” and my two gorgeous grandchildren. I have sung Baa Baa Black Sheep and Humpty Dumpty to my grandson. Listened while my granddaughter told me about her school visit to the Sealife Centre. My grandson has his birthday this coming Tuesday and his Daddy celebrates his birthday on Thursday.

“The Trainee Solicitor” hasn’t been in touch yet this morning. He was telling me his plans for the next few months and was bemoaning the fact that he has lost a number of plants in his garden. It happens and it’s sad, I have never managed to keep an alstroemeria plant from one year to the next and the beautiful Calla Lily I bought last year hasn’t surfaced this year either. I would like to buy some Black-Eyed Susan plants but I haven’t seen any and the only places I have spotted the plants in town are in the municipal beds 😳.

The association where I go for the knitting group, went on their trip to the Cite du Vitrail in Troyes. They looked to have a great time, with lunch included. The photos were sent to me and I was sorry to have missed it all, never mind there is always next year.

I have almost finished the items to be displayed at the Marche Nocturne, which takes place in town on the 28 July. I am also trying to knit another little hat for a child to add to the collection. If anyone is interested in buying them they will be on sale too, so maybe a little bit of money will change hands 😉.

I am toying with the idea of going to the supermarket this morning, not that I need very much, but I know they were selling calla lilies and as I have just mentioned them thought I may buy another or maybe not!

Until the next time 👋.

[kendsleyauthor]

All Dolled Up

Print / Trinket Universe

~3000 words

Warnings: ⛔Minors DNI⛔, CNC, dehumanization, fearplay, mouthplay

Summary: After rescuing you from an auction, Lee has no choice but to bring you along to a dangerous dinner appointment. He promises to keep you safe, but are you prepared to play along?

The plot of this story came from an anonymous reader, and it inspired me to try 2nd person POV for the first time! Please mind the warnings and do not proceed if you are uncomfortable with such themes!

@marydublinauthor​ 🌸

“I only had this room for one night,” Lee explains over the meal. 

You sit at the edge of his room-service platter and lick sauce from your fingers. You haven’t had enough time to master the art of eating as a trinket—not neatly, anyway. The fact that you’re eating next to a giant without fear is a miracle. Manners are the least of your worries.

“What does that mean?” you ask.

He twists his fork in his hand absently. The prongs are longer than your arm. The meal is more for you than him. He is about to attend a dinner shortly.

“It means I have to take you with me to the meeting. There aren’t any other agents in the area to collect you. And, well… This is an important recon mission. If I cancel, it’s not likely I’ll get another invite.”

The worry on his face is clear. It’s hard to misinterpret facial expressions at your three-inch height. You purse your lips uncertainly. “What do you need me to do?”

Lee explains as he clears away the plates and piles them on one side of the table. You listen as best you can; it’s hard to focus while watching someone move room-sized dishes over your head so effortlessly. He leaves you briefly to rummage through his overnight bag. He plucks up tiny clothes between his fingers, glancing over at you as he considers the present options. Finally, he settles on a pretty red dress—the kind you might have worn while bar-hopping in your past life.

He looks away politely as you change into it on the table, and when you ask for help tying it off in the back, his fingers are gentle and precise. You hold still as he tugs the silken straps into a little knot.

“I’ll keep you in my pocket the whole time if I can,” he says. His voice is a rumble behind you, his breath warm as he leans in close to make sure the knot is perfect. “But, here’s the thing… If I do have to take you out, you need to act scared. Or these people will be suspicious. Do you understand?”

When his fingers release you, you turn around and meet the overwhelmingly blue gaze before you. “Okay, Lee,” you say softly.

“And you can’t call me that. It’s too casual, and I’m not going by my real name, anyway. Just call me ‘sir’ like your life depends on it.”

Your face flushes, and you nod, speechless.

His expression softens, and he gingerly takes your hand between his finger and thumb. “Best case scenario, you stay hidden the whole night. But if that can’t happen, please remember that I won’t hurt you, no matter what. I won’t let anyone touch you, either. They’ll know you’re mine.”

Once you have agreed to the rules, he seems to relax somewhat and goes to pack his bag. When he returns to the table, he gingerly picks you up and slides you into his front pocket. You are still getting used to being handled, yet you are certain you will never find hands gentler than his.

You sway in the darkness of Lee’s pocket as he makes his way downstairs, through the lobby, and out the door to hail a self-driving cab. He doesn’t acknowledge you as he rides; after all, these vehicles have cameras inside of them. As far as either of you are concerned, you cannot exist—not in this world where your existence on his person would get him arrested for unlawful possession of government property.

Yesterday, however, you very much existed. You were the center of attention. It is incredible how your life has been flipped on its head several times in the span of a few days. You were destined for the black market before your consciousness transfer was even complete—sold by a lab tech to be auctioned off as a rare “untouched” trinket, fresh from the Facility. 

Lee won you easily, and the moment he had you alone, he quickly proved himself to be kind and sweet. Last night was pleasant and calm. But now, his tension has transformed him into an entirely different person.

The car slows to a stop, and once again, you experience the sway of his pocket. He told you the meeting point was a fancy restaurant. It was owned by an underground trinket seller and was an exclusive spot for prospective buyers to meet. Lee needs to get in good with these people to uncover the extent of their operation. It’s a careful job that requires the utmost professionalism. 

You’re tempted to peek out when you hear voices, but you don’t move a muscle, just like Lee whispered to you on the way in. Amazing that you can be entirely present without being noticed at all. 

There are three voices—the seller, whose name is Edwin, and two other prospective buyers. Lee is going by the name of Pierce. The conversation seems to go well at the get-go. The men introduce themselves, and they order their dinner. There is a clear shift in the air when Edwin offers to order complimentary drinks with trinkets in them.

Maybe it is reflexive, but Lee casually turns down the offer.

“What the matter, Pierce?” Edwin says, his voice taking on a note of suspicion. “Not interested in sampling my merchandise?”

Lee draws in a sharp breath that only you are aware of, being so small and near him. To the others, maybe it can be excused as a mischievous chuckle. You can feel his hesitation and his heartbeat, and then there is a rustle of fabric as his fingers slide into his pocket over your head. You stay perfectly still as his hand wraps around you and pulls you out.

“I’m just saying, I brought my own entertainment,” Lee says smoothly. “It’ll take a lot of convincing to get me to try yours. I’ll take that drink, though.”

You remember what Lee said about how you should behave. You draw in a shuddering breath, bordering on a whimper, and you squirm uncomfortably in his grasp. He hushes you and strokes your hair, his touch lingering like he is savoring the sensation. You peek out at the rest of the table. The other men eye you with delight, and you remind yourself to Lee promised that they will not touch you.

But that means you have to play your part.

You tremble and close your eyes, ducking your head.

That seems to do the trick, as far as suspicions are concerned.

As the men discuss their business dealings over your head, Lee’s hand ceaselessly plays with you on the white tablecloth. He strokes your side, takes your arm or leg between his fingers, forces you closer or further away as he pleases.

When his wine arrives, he plucks you up by your sides and holds you over it. You give a cry and kick your legs in protest, but he just smirks at you and raises his eyebrows matter-of-factly. 

“Don’t fuss,” he says. “Why do you think I had you wear red? Now, settle down.” His fingers give you the slightest squeeze.

“Y-yes, sir,” you whimper.

He lowers you into his wine. You brace your hands against the glass, eyes stinging from the alcohol. The wine is up to your chin, but it threatens to cover your mouth and nose as Lee lifts the glass to sample his drink. Wine rushes past you and drags you along. Just before you’re about to touch his upper lip, he straightens the glass and leaves you shivering in a smaller pool. His tongue briefly swipes his lips, savoring the wine—and you.

You endure this until dinner arrives. As Lee downs the last of his wine, he leaves the glass sideways at his mouth, and his lips brush against you. His teeth graze your shoulder, as though his contemplating pulling you into his mouth completely. 

But he straightens the glass, making you slide back down to the bottom of your prison. Your moment of reprieve lasts for only a few minutes before his attention turns to you again. After a few bites of food, he decides that he wants you closer. He reaches into the glass and plucks you out, dripping with wine. Setting you at the edge of his plate, you can’t help but think about your peaceful meal just an hour prior. 

Now, you have three other men leering at you. You are surrounded in all directions, and they are not shy about making their desires known.

While Lee fondles you through your wet dress, one of the buyers says, “When am I getting a turn?” It sounds like he’s only half-joking.

Lee’s smile is cutting. “I don’t share,” he says simply. No one questions him again, but it doesn’t stop them from giving suggestions.

The other buyer looks at you hungrily. “Don’t you think she’ll get sick if she stays in that wet dress all night?”

That is all the warning you get before Lee hoists you up again. He drops you into his open palm and turns you around rather than asking you to do it yourself. His fingertips tug at the knot he had made earlier. His efforts jolt you back and forth harshly. The moment the knot comes loose, he turns you over again and paws at your neckline.

You squirm and gasp, trying to shove his fingers away, but he overpowers you with mere twitches of his fingers. The neckline comes down, putting your bare breasts in full view. One of the men wolf-whistles. Lee drags down the rest of the dress, wiggling it past your hips and along your legs until you are left wearing nothing but a pair of black panties.

Dessert arrives just in time. He fondles you on his plate, pausing only to put you to work. He orders you to grab a strawberry slice from the elegant cheesecake. You try to do as you’re told, but you can’t reach the slice without getting messy. You inadvertently smear yourself with whipped cream when he tells you to hurry up. The moment you grab the fruit, he plucks you up and holds you near his mouth. Catching on, you feed him the slice, shivering as his tongue drags over your arms as he takes it. He licks up the excess whipped cream on your skin after he chews and swallows.

Finally, dinner is over. Lee has played his part well. Edwin insists on taking them all to a bar down the street, and Lee doesn’t dare say no. He pockets you and follows along.

They get a private booth in the back, and once there are no bartenders or waitresses around to see, Lee pulls you back out of his pocket.

The men drink and drink. You are soaked in different alcohols until you’re certain that the scent will forever be part of you. For a time, Lee is content enough to just hold you close on the table. You give his finger a squeeze when the other men look like they might get bold enough to reach for you. 

But when Lee becomes handsy, you tremble and try to maneuver away, only to have him drag you back in place. The others chortle at every one of your failed attempts to get away.

Edwin eyes you, and you worry for a moment that he’s going to suggest that he buy from Lee instead of sell. Instead, he swirls the drink in his hand and leans closer with a drunken smile.

“I’m not usually one for drinking games,” Edwin slurs. “But I do have a favorite. You know that cherry stem knot game? Well…” He smiles down at you as if you are in on the fun, and then he looks back up at Lee. “How fast do you think you can get the little one’s panties off?”

You don’t hear the rest of the rumbling exchange of the bet overhead. You stagger back on shaking legs and turn to run, but you don’t make it very far before Lee walls you off with his hand. You think he’s about to close that hand and trap you, but instead, he leans in closer and closer until you are cornered between his hand and mouth. 

“No, don’t!” you weep, trying to duck away while the other men cheer. “P-please, don’t!”

Hot darkness consumes your world as his mouth closes around you. Your stomach flips as he straightens back up. For a moment, he simply seems to savor your taste, rolling you from side to side on his tongue like a piece of candy. Then he remembers his goal. Despite your efforts to squirm to the front of his mouth, he is able to maneuver you with just his tongue and teeth.

You cry out as his teeth lock around your torso—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you firmly in place. His tongue probes between your legs, slick and burning as it searches for the edge of your panties. He repositions you once his tongue has some semblance of grasp on the fabric, shifting it over to his teeth to grab a firm hold. Then his tongue forces you to the other side, your panties dragging down your legs.

The moment your kicking legs are free of your only bit of clothing, he spits you out onto his palm. You look up dizzily as he sticks his tongue out with your panties on the tip.

Judging by the guffaws and crows of the others, Lee has won a permanent piece of respect.

After that, the night is finally over. 

Lee stuffs you back into his pocket and calls another cab. Just as you’re wondering where you’re going, he calls the hotel and says that he’ll need another room for the night. His trip is extending longer than expected.

Once again, he does not acknowledge you during the ride.

When he arrives in his new room, he lets you out of his pocket immediately. He doesn’t quite look at you as he draws a bath in a warm cup and lets you change into a set of clean clothes in privacy. Once you’re finished, you call for him, and he’s at your side in an instant. 

He scoops you up into a gentle grasp and runs his thumb clumsily down your wet hair. Then to your surprise, his eyes well up with tears.

“Fuck,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry. I went too far. Please forgive me, I—” He hisses and shakes his head. “Fuck that... You don’t have to forgive me. Once I get you to the base, you don’t even have to look at me again, I swear.”

Despite his disgust with himself, he can’t seem to put you down. He looks you over carefully, making sure you’re alright. His gaze is unfocused. He’s utterly drunk from the night, and his tears are falling faster the longer he looks at you.

“Lee!” you say, finally finding your voice. You hug his finger tightly. “I’m fine! I promise I’m fine—please, don’t cry.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes at the sound of your tiny voice. You tap his finger insistently. “It’s been a long night. Have a glass of water and go to bed.”

He looks at you like he can’t comprehend what you’re saying. “But…”

“Now, Lee,” you insist. “Water and bed. Please.”

He pouts like a child, like he might argue with you. But he’s too out of it to do anything but obey those simple directions. He sets you up like he did last night, folding up one of his clean shirts for you to nestle yourself into. The folds are untidy this time around, but the gesture is sweet all the same. He sets your makeshift bed on the spare pillow, and he is out like a light on the other side.

The next morning, he wakes before you. When you open your eyes, he is staring at you with sorrow and guilt, his head still resting on the pillow across from yours. He starts to apologize again, but you sit up and hold your hand up to stop him.

Although he is no longer drunk, he follows your silent command.

“Lee,” you tell him. “It’s okay. It really is. I know you didn’t mean all those things last night. I could feel your fingers shaking every time you touched me.”

“But… still. That was too much. Too far. I’m so sorry.” He looks like he might cry again. “I can’t even imagine how terrified you must’ve been.”

You swallow hard and feel heat creep to your cheeks. You weren’t planning on telling him this, but the poor thing looks so upset with himself. “I was never really scared,” you admit. “Well… okay, yes, I was scared. Terrified. But in a good way.”

His eyebrows pull together, puzzled. “I know I told you to play a part,” he says. “But… it looks so real. Like you were really, really scared. Like you were ready to fall apart.”

“But I knew I was safe.” You hold your hand out, beckoning him to give you his hand. He hesitantly brings his hand close. You stroke the knuckles of his index finger soothingly, blushing harder. Now you’re the one who can hardly look at him. “I, um… I kind of liked it?” You bite your lip and peek up.

As you predicted, he looks utterly bewildered.

“I’ve always been a bit of an exhibitionist,” you say quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

“Oh, my god.” He shuts his eyes for a second, processing. When he opens them again, they are alight with humor and relief. “You little shit! I thought I was traumatizing you.”

You shrug sheepishly. “I’d be happy to do it again if you need me to. If you ever need someone to help keep your cover, that is. As long as you promise to keep me safe.”

His hand shifts suddenly, his finger leaving your grasp. You find yourself in his gentle hold instead. He kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering as a warm chuckle spills over you. “I think we can work something out,” he purrs.

(Author’s note: Would you trust Lee to keep you safe? 👀 I know I would. 🥰)

[wroteclassicaly]

May I Taste Your Sin

(Michael Langdon x Female Reader)

Pairings : Michael Langdon x Female Reader

Warnings : Language, smut, blood, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, blood play, & period sex.

A/N : This fic has been a loooong time coming! I’m sorry it’s taken me this long, but now that I have inspo I wanted get this out for y’all! The warnings are obviously self-explanatory, so skip this if you don’t like the contents it’s gonna contain! Michael Langdon eats human hearts, and he’s a demon, before anyone starts to fuss over this, lol. I’m sure menstrual cycles with his partner would be a dessert to him!

Enjoy! This one is pretty intense, so I’m nervous about it! I also have more installments with different characters coming in the next few days! :)

Check out where I first posted the teaser for this fic, and check out these period sex headcanons I wrote for Michael!

~*~

He keeps staring at you. You try to move about, do your tasks, even attempt conversation with people you’d tried so hard to avoid these past several years. Your abilities to function like the human being that you are, seemingly vanish whenever the tall honey blond is within your exhausted proximities. You aren’t sure if you’d like to let out the loudest echoing scream and see where it ends up in this place, or let your wildest carnal urges guide your hormones into a literal sticky situation. Or, at the very least, let yourself fantasize about seducing him in your own self-created version of reality.

You’ll have to settle on the latter, unfortunately. Pocketing the cream colored dish rag, you place the last row of finely printed novels on the book shelve. Your fingertips linger, attempting to find a portal through their leather cover tops. Your tongue slicks your parched lips, neck stretching to crack out the tension. You aren’t trying to do anything but stealing some relaxation, when a largely hot hand is pressing a knot-out in a knead on your shoulder - clasping, settling a risky purchase.

You don’t have to make an educated guess to know whose hand that belongs to. He practically spews out his control and ownership of this place every chance that he gets. Biting down a venomous sigh, you coerce yourself into a turn around - gathering an eyeful of Langdon’s fancy black vest. That’s not good enough for the King, apparently, as he fits his pointer finger underneath your chin in a tuck, thumb pressing against your jaw to tilt your gaze to his own.

“Did you forget your manners, Miss Y/L/N?”

The way his shining eyes are sizing your attention, captivating your unwillingness to comply to how Langdon makes you feel - it can’t be humanly possible, can it? There’s that possessive ache that begs you to launch ownership over him and his entire body. Why is everything so widely dramatic whenever he’s around? Is he just full of himself or is it something way more than you’re aware? A crackling parch winds its pathway around your throat, sealing your breath in.

Nothing comes from between your lips. You’re frozen solid, legs a weightless press. Each touch this... man brings upon your body is like a bass thump - pumping you towards his secretive rhythm. All you can do is sway with the beat. Langdon smirks coyly, his other hand resting behind his back in an idle grace.

Neither of you dare utter a word. However, Langdon is seemingly content in making you squirm and you try to focus on everything but his perfectly crafted jawline, and how eagerly you’d suck on it if asked. You swear you can hear your heartbeat galloping off, so strong that it can tear your heart right out of your chest along with it. His colorful eyes glance over you in a brief stamping sweep, lingering at your sore breasts and your waistline.

What is he even doing...?

“Excuse me, but Ms. Venable did not authorize any private conferences with the help.” A cold and steel - grasped voice chills your bones down, dusting your cheeks with a reddening humiliation.

You haven’t even so much as spoken to Langdon, yet it feels like you two have been clawing and scratching at each other all over this fucking outpost, riding one another until you can’t fathom walking upright. You still can’t speak, but Langdon takes care of that for you.

“Interesting, and did Ms. Venable give you permission to waltz in here when you weren’t requested or required, just to give a meaningless order?” Langdon is mildly amused in his question, his hand still paused on your chin, thumb now swiping in a tickling drop with his fingertip - along your jaw.

Ms. Mead looks comical in her brief attempt at forming a snappy comeback, only to go silent in defeat. You take this tension as your escape line - quickly edging from the sacred confines Langdon has built for you two, and you all but run out the door. You’re clutching your shirt collar, punching a two pounce path up the staircase and to the help’s quarters.

Chores now, panic later.

~*~

Five minutes. Five fucking minutes in this place that you’ve served without question, complaint, for nearly two years - is all you want. But as the heavy handed rasps of Mead’s knuckle bones beat on your bathroom door, you know that is a simple pipe dream. Her low voice is harsh with you, making your headache unfold into a full blown migraine. You shift uncomfortably, knees knocking together, thighs sore against the cool porcelain seat below you.

Langdon must’ve massively pissed her off... Good.

Your palms collect purchase to your cradle your face, your eyes glistening with tears, throat burning with frustration. It hurts too much to stand upright this time. Normally women would lose this in stressful situations. Add the apocalypse and barely eating, you’d peg it normal to receive nothing. However, your predicament is much worse, fucking you over once more.

Your body welcomes Mother Nature each month. Unpredictable, yet there. Heavy, excruciating. You could list on and on reasons that don’t amount to much. You’re stuck with a part of you that won’t ever come to fruition.

Not in your former life, especially not in this one. Another reminder that carries an award winning irony. Sighing, you peer down at the red dish rag you were given. Literally on the rag, what a joyous harmony. The elites of course, are given the tampons and pads.

You have to use scraps of fabric you’re forced to wash in the bathtub if you move too fast or sneeze. And on your heavy days when you haven’t the time to stop your duties to wash and air out the towels, things are much harder. At least before the apocalypse you had chocolate, feminine products, a warm shower to take your time in, movies to curl up with, and a place of your own to cry where no one could hear you. You sniffle, hormones locking down your heart.

Most recently the outpost had welcomed the cooperative leader Langdon. He had interviewed everyone but you, uninterested, only flustering you a few times. Him being here just makes your period a more unwelcome storm. This morning as you were passing him on the landing of the staircase, delivering the bath towels to elite rooms, he stared at you. Right into you, nostrils flaring, tongue rolling out to slick his plump lips, blue eyes darkening.

Then there was this afternoon. How could I forget...?

The encounters were over quicker than they took place. Still, his acknowledgment of you didn’t bring your interview, nor did it promise your application for the sanctuary he preaches about. Forcing your tears to bank, you stand with your dress skirt and apron held up, staring at the stained rag in your panties. You turn and flush the toilet, eating back around to the shock of your fucking life. There, just feet in the from the doorway, is Langdon in all his glory.

It makes you swallow harshly, stomach drawing off the butterflies that have grown claws. You feel winded. His ring covered fingers bring an object to your sights. A thinly wrapped stick. You don’t answer, you don’t move, you don’t protest him approaching until he’s directly in front of you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You try, a mere whisper betraying your bravery.

“Helping you,” He answers simply, a heated slide crossing his mouth. You can practically taste him, damn near swaying forward.

You start to snap back into your senses, ready to cover your remembered modesty back up. He grasps your wrist, a hungry look soft in his features. “Will you let me?”

You’re shaking, body on fire at him touching you, you try to keep your legs from clenching, that want. You know what will occur if you let yourself. He is gentle with you, admiration clear. Why? You don’t understand this.

“You’re bleeding, I know.”

Jaw unhinged, you stand upright, his fingers still ghosting your skin. An unlucky movement on your part, the warmth spills from you and you look down between your thighs in horror at the red lines running down your legs, pattering against the floor. Langdon is breathing heavily, practically panting, stunning you once more. His other hand grips your cheek, thumb swiping your lip, eyes not breaking contact from yours.

“Do you know how good your cunt smells? Every pathetic person in this outpost is starving and you have the best meal between your fucking legs.”

When your silence stretches on, Michael nudges forward, careful with you. “May I feast?”

It’s all too much to handle. Having him talk to you, you speaking to him. And now this? How? You begin to grow dizzy, hands trembling as you try to pull your clothing back up. Langdon’s hands grip your wrists.

“Please don’t do that.”

You want to stun him incredulously, backhand him. None of that is happening, not even the urge. Instead, your want for him is magnifying beyond any feigned ignorance. Your tongue slides out across your lips, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a brisk chew. Langdon hooks his middle finger between your teeth, releasing your lip and combing the blood across in a coppery gloss.

Your chest is startled, rising and falling in quivering quakes, ears hearing a static rush. Everything inside of you is alive and crying out in need to be sated. Langdon grips you around the waist, lowering his forehead to rest atop your own, his middle finger - still doused in your blood - slithers past his own lips, which close in a sticky suckle. A vibrating moan pummels his throat, causing a constricting swallow that showcases his Adam’s apple.

If I could only just lick that...

Langdon is sly and devilishly cunning to a fault - fast in his next movements. He presses a designer boot down over your skirts, successfully preventing them from being made up. “Leave them here for someone else.”

“I... I can’t. This is too much, Langdon —“ He chuckles at the formality.

“Since I can see your womanhood running from between your legs, I suppose it’s only fair that we skip some formalities, don’t you agree, Y/N?” Your eyes are probably wider than necessary - a cartoon like sight. He’s used your full name in an authoritative command, leaving no room for question. “And you may call me Michael.”

It’s all a little more frantic from this point. He gives the slightest of information, and you see your skirts and panties gliding across the floor in a winded push. Michael brings that wrapped item back into your eye-line. “We won’t be needing this for a while.”

“I didn’t say yes.” You try, swallowing a weak, whimpering stifle.

“But you didn’t say no, did you?” That shit eating grin. He has you and he is all too aware - elated to the brimming brimstone of hellfire you’re about to bestow upon yourself.

Your insides melt into the trenches of red hot, raw ravishment. Michael drops his left arm down, hand palming his hardening cock through black slacks, eyes encouraging you in a chained bind. “Let’s go and make a mess in my room.”

Now or never. No more of this, back to reality, maybe some place better. You’re spinning in a foiling encasement, precipice wide and open - hungry to pull you under. And you dive in, you let it all go. Michael looks satisfied, sharing something with himself that you don’t know... yet.

Taking Michael Langdon’s hand, you’re led into the unknown.

~*~

Langdon leads you down his own separate corridor, your free hand scolded for trying to hold yourself over your uniform.

“I want you to make a mess.” Michael says.

You hope that you’re not the one who will be paying the cost for your own said mess, or cleaning it up. If it’s up to Venable - you’ll be licking it, all the way to her high heeled boots.

Once inside the confines of Michael Langdon’s bedroom, you take the time to look around, enjoying the perks this situation is bringing. The room isn’t any different than what the purple elites get here, it is bordering on a more... lived in feel, which is ironic when you consider that Langdon hasn’t been here like everyone else has for the past three years.

Guess he’s just more comfortable? He does look like an English vampire half the time..

On that note, a particularly harsh cramp antagonizes your uterus, causing you to clench your abdomen, choking out a acidic slice. “Fucking demonic cramps.”

Michael - now clad in his all black ensemble, minus the overcoat - chortles, knotting his fingers together behind his back and strolls forward, wetting his lips as the firelight crackles a sparking soundtrack. “It’s ironic how you refer to it as “demonic”, when Satan really has nothing to do with this. I mean, it’s not on him that humanity failed their pitiful guidelines for sobering temptation. Wasn’t it your lord and savior that bestowed this curse upon you?” He finishes, giving a head tilt to your unhinged stun.

“Are you religious?” Is all you can come up with.

Michael sneers, looking slightly offended. It fades seconds later. “Depends on your definition of religious, and then there is what one believes in. But I guess you can say that I’m devoted to... a certain cause.”

“Were you this mysterious before the apocalypse, or is that why the cooperative gave you the job?” You try, a discomfort crackling at your inner thighs.

They’re probably smeared... And not just with blood.

“I bet you’re uncomfortable.” Michael teases, snapping his fingers at the fireplace. Did your eyes betray you, or did the flames flicker?

You want to give a snappy comeback, but it feels unwise. You nod like the sap that you are, nails biting your palms. Your heartbeat has begun to accelerate, a visible sight beneath your apron. Langdon guides himself to step in front of you, leather shoes drumming across the floor beneath. Every sound in this forsaken room is flowing through your eardrums - Michael’s scent on the tip of your tongue.

You need him. More than your body has to have the air that filters underneath this mausoleum. You’re so unsteady, eyes brimming with the smoking arousal, blocking common sense. Michael catches you as you collide with his chest, wrapping your fists into his vest. His blue irises are disappearing to a canyon of night sky - lavish black so sinful that it steals the breath from your lungs.

Drizzling off your tongue is a hesitation. “Won’t we get into trouble...? Venable -“ Those rough fingertips hold a softness that hushes your lips, denting.

“Can watch me with my face buried into your cunt. The humiliation will arouse her.” Michael answers in his own finish.

You aren’t sure why, but that grates your mouth into a sneaky grin, shared with Michael’s, sensing that slapping throb at his phrases. He pinches your chin, nuzzling your head to the side, his lips sloping a map across your neck. His towering physique backs you by knocking his knees into your thighs, delivering you to the edge of his bed. You drop like wild weights, looking towards the ceiling, trying to take a deep inhalation. Langdon crouches, pants rustling as they tighten around his temptingly thick thighs.

He tuts in a scold, chiding you furthermore. “You will watch what I’m getting ready to do to you! Is that clear, Y/N?”

You don’t answer fast enough, Michael’s hand wrapping around your throat, eyes burning hellfire through you - dusting your bones to ash. Your throat is wet with the clingy, unshed tears. Fuck, you have to be filled up until you’re hollowed out. Michael is languid in grace, hand toppling into your lap, joining his other.

“Take down your hair, Y/N.”

Like a puppet, you obey your new owner. Unwrapping the pointed bun, you shake your locks free, sighing in an eased tickle.

“What a good and obedient girl that you are. Those who obey, shall reap the riches.”

“Why are you doing this?” An ignorant question on your part.

“Because,” As if it’s the most simple answer in this broken world, Michael let’s his hands start to unbutton his vest, carelessly sending it, his attention not wavering off you in the slightest. “I’m hungry.”

A literal moan comes from you, making Langdon hiss through his through his milky white teeth. He resumes his former position, hovering.

“Spread.” Michael says, a quaint wonder adorning him, his palms sliding up and down your legs to feel you part them. The blood is mixing some fucked out potion with your creamy arousal for him, and he knows it, has it right into your tremble from the exposure.

Your skin is steaming in scrapes, responding so vulgarly to Michael, that he is hooking his wrists under your knees, bouncing the flesh into his awaiting hands, and claiming. He hoists your legs over his shoulders to arch you to his idea of perfection. You should be protesting, in a shambled shyness. That is gone, no place here. Michael let’s his nose rest in the crease of your thigh, crudely sniffing like some beast.

His sopping tongue finds a striking stroke along your ruby red, damp thigh.

Closer... He’s getting closer...

When you can’t feel that warm and snide air he possesses, you lock to load a question. Michael is shedding himself of his remaining clothing in a cocky crawl. His hair curtains his face as he sees you seek out his cock - thick and heavy, weighted and wet with pre-cum.

“Finish taking off your clothing.” You’ve never done something so fast in your years alive.

You have to admit, being so vulnerable like this - naked and bleeding, it has you buzzing.

Michael outstretches a veined forearm, the back of his rings swirling in desiring dances across your breasts. “Do these hurt?”

Your lashes are slicked in perspiring tears, the tired soreness harassing your chest. He has his truth. His trim form bows to you once more, placing your legs back where they belong. He knuckles a pressing push into your abdomen. “Bear down.”

It isn’t an accident this time, it’s not a discreet secrecy. Michael wants you this way. All of you. Finding a confidence, you give yourself a high and sink your fingers into his hair, toes tickling his shoulder blades in a forwarding nudge, doubling down on your muscles. That warmth spills out of you and Langdon takes you, tongue parting your swollen folds. He regulates his tongue in wet paints, licking and sucking everything you give him.

“Please—“ You’re already begging. It’s so fucking intense and intimate that you can’t formulate your own damned name.

“Are you really going to ask, or would you just like to feel good?” Michael vibrates, his mouth visible and shining crimson as he seeks you out between your slippery thighs.

It’s outright feral. His irises are coal black, blue lost in some combing canyon that’s crumbled around sin. His digits prod at your sensitive opening, being accepted moments later. His lips close over your clit, tongue slithering back and forth to assist his beckoning fingers. He gathers more from you - his purpose.

That quenched fold starts to seize you early on, your pattering breaths signaling the orgasm that is about to tear the screams from your fucking diaphragm. Michael’s hand smacks and rolls your swollen breast - permission granted. That’s all it takes and you’re falling back onto the mattress, back arching in a lined drag, pussy flattening against his mouth. He jerks you impossibly closer, your vision whiting out into dark spots. You tangle your fingers further into his luscious strands, holding, pulling.

In the midst of close recovery, Michael is plowing you with a short lived let down, his mouth leaving your pussy. You can’t complain, no time available, as his hips slot in a frazzled fit between your legs. His pelvis is tense, sheathed in sweat. His chest smashes your breasts, his hand reaching down to guide his cock inside you. You can’t speak, but cling tightly to his back. He growls a sound that you’ll never forget, the fire bursting behind him, flames licking the rocked cove that houses them.

His mouth is covered in your essence, your cunt bathing his dick with each violent thrust. It’s pouring in drenches, salty perspiration, pooling blood - both of you losing yourselves in the mess. Michael props himself up, digging into a dipping slam, meeting your mouth in an ending kiss. His hair tickles your shoulders, nose nudges your now blood caked mouth, and he gives the warning.

“Spill your fucking curse all over me!” And you come undone, glued to him in puzzled entrapment.

Your thighs are wrecked, his bedsheets useless, and then there’s Michael, who forces you to look at him and really see him. There’s only black in his eyes. You sputter a disbelief, bracing. His mouth parts, tongue flicks across to gather more, leveling off into his jagged movements. He swells inside your cunt, dousing your walls in his warm cum.

He doesn’t leave you, not even when it’s over. He simply takes you with him. You aren’t sure where you get the courage to speak - body shaking and shivering.

“What... Michael, who are you?”

He cups a hand over your cunt, rolling onto his side, keeping you held to him. He lightly blows away a pesky lock of your hair, then maneuvers another behind your ear.

“I’m the man who’s going to save your wretched existence.”

Tag list : @littledemondani @dark-mei-rose @fckinsupreme @angelicmichael @icylangdon @ritualmichael @sojournmichael @celestialrequiem @instinctsxbaby @infernwetrust @ferndolan @9layerdevilfoodcake @bloodcoatedeclipse @wormycircumstance @antichristsxbox @xavierplympton @xavierplymptons @ramona-thorns @lovelylangdonx @langdxn @codyarchives @dailylangdon @codyfernuk @langdonsjoyy @7-wonders @blakescoven @holylangdon @bitchchatter @suspiriva @taskmastter @kitty4860 @ladynuwanda @langdonsexual @sammythankyou

[prettyboykatsuki]

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shoujo manga | k. bakugo 

➳ tags ;; fluff, angst/injury, very midly nsfw towards the end, kisses (?), pro-hero!bakugo 

➳ wc ;; 1.5k

➳ plot ;; how bakugo kisses you differently. 

➳ a/n ;; might do this for other characters? idk.. katsuki brainrot haunts me everyday of my life.. 

»» — { ♡ } —— { ♡ } —— { ♡ } — ««

Bakugou speaks more than one language. 

Japanese, English, Spanish, and a little bit of Arabic and French. He’s fluent in the first three and conversational in the last - but the words still feel slick on his tongue. He’s the type of person that knows things well, when he can. He can curl around the syllables easily with enough patience - practice and time. A language is tool - or a love letter or a hopeless romantic. 

It’s something we never tire of listening too. 

For Bakugo Katsuki, the language he speaks to you in is kisses. It’s the one he feels best at, rolls of the tongue and mouth easiest. He’s well-versed in the foreign tongue of affection. It used to be.. choppy to say the least. But these days, Bakugo can tell you anything with nothing more than a few pressed lips and tongue-tied exchanges. 

It starts with a morning kiss. For it to be perfect, the sun has to hang just barely beneath the clouds. It can be any color out, blue, or orange, or grey - the sky just has to have light in it. He wakes up with a grunt, always before you - vermillion eyes peering open at your unconscious state. The verbs in his sentence are his hands, large palms that smooth down your hair. He nudges his nose against your jaw before his lips pucker against your cheek - travel down to your mouth until your eyes flutter open. 

“Wake up, brat,” with another kiss, this time on the corners of your lips. He waits for a while, sometimes letting you sleep for another ten minutes before his heart decides he’s running on empty time. Then he kisses you again, along your jaw like he’s tracing the lines of your art-work. 

“Oh? G’morning, Kat,” 

And he presses his cheek against your shoulder, kisses the edge with another grunt. These kisses always mean good morning, I’m happy we woke up together. In his language of love they mean, I like being here with you. 

Some kisses come after work - especially on those days where he’s working and you’re not. Bakugo dreads leaving you alone during the day, has to force himself out of bed and into his work clothes. It’s easier to be gone but always so hard to leave. When he comes home from work, he finds you in the living room with your legs propped up on the ottoman. Your laptop is on your lap and your head rests 

You can feel his presence before you see him. A warm hand, calloused and a hot, wraps around your throat and pulls you back to look upwards at him. He looks down at you with something unreadable in his expression - his thumb running against the column of your throat. He can feel your pulse under his fingers when he looks down on you - bows his head to kiss like an act of respect. This kiss is slow but deep - like a large wave crashing against the sand. His gravelly voice leaves you with a hum before he pulls away. 

This kiss means he’s missed you much more than you know. That’s why he stares at you for so long right after - why his fingers linger against your neck. 

“Whaddya want for dinner, huh?, is the only words he’ll say in the whole exchange but he looks like he’s gonna kiss you again. He wants to kiss you so many more times but he knows you’ve forgotten to eat so he just asks you what you want. He’ll make it for you. 

Other times, he kisses you in public. They’re not the kinds of kisses you can predict, you have to admit to yourself. It’s thee Dynamight afterall, and he rarely takes you anywhere the paparazzi can see. But you have to do normal things together sometimes - like grocery shopping. Even so, he always keeps his mask on up under his eyes, his sunglasses and army green hat and baggy clothes all covering him up.

But you mention it to him off-hand while you’re looking at salad dressing that you miss looking at his face when you’re out. A wistful, cheeky smiling on your lips as you tell him that you don’t mind if the world knows who you’re with. He scoffs, like always, and tells you to pick the spicy one for him. 

When he takes you outside, the sun falls over your skin like a halo. He’s sure there’s someone trailing him and watching from afar - some obsessed photographer examining his every move. Yet you look like gold, look like magic in the middle of this parking lot - packing groceries into the trunk of your car. 

He pulls his mask down just below his face, and takes his glasses off and pulls you toward him when the last of it’s over. Your hip bumps the shopping cart clumsily as his hands finds themselves under your jacket. His mouth melts against yours - this kind of kiss is searing against your lips Your hands are gripping the front of his shirt at first, but then they lay flat against his chest. It’s the kind of kiss where you let it happen, let it overwhelm your senses till your stomach turns. 

You leave it in a dazed and return to see him smirk, grin cocked like a pistol. He kisses you again, much softer as confusion dances along your face. 

“What? I thought you missed my face?” 

This kind of kiss is a reminder that your his and he’s yours. Nothing in the whole world could come between that, not even some shitty gossip column. When you laugh against him breathlessly, his expression melts into the most tender smile. You miss it - too busy laughing, but it might be better that way.  

Then, there are kisses that are desperate. Not sinful but somber. When you’re rushing to a hospital in the middle of September with a prayer clamped desperately between your tongue and teeth. You don’t really feel like you know yourself anymore, hands clasped around the steering wheel like religion. Your feet are the weight of crucifixion on the gas and it seems like you cannot go fast enough. 

You rush and rush and rush until the air in your lungs feels like it’s stomping at your chest. You wind up in a sterile white room, and he’s there. He’s alive and you know you should be grateful for that. Yet there’s a gash on his cheek and eyebrow, a wound in his side that makes everything in your knees feel weak. You don’t walk towards him, but stumble to where he’s sitting. 

“I fuckin’ hate hospital food,” 

He pushes the peas around the tray and you’re crying - shaking like a leaf in the wind as you cling to him. He lifts his arm and let’s you in. You sniffle against his shoulder and cry like a baby. You weep for the love you haven’t lost. You hear the plastic clink on the plate as he lifts his hand, brushes any stray hairs from your face. He tugs on your ear and makes him look at you, and kisses you. 

This kind of kiss is placating for certain. A warm mouth, not a hot one. His lips are so gentle, touch effervescent. When you hiccup a sob in his mouth, he nudges his forehead against yours and mumbles something incomprehensible.

You can hear his kiss before he speaks it.  

“I’m fine, dumbass,” but there’s no bite, no malice - just a hand wrapped in yours “I’m gonna be fine,” 

There are also times where he kisses you hotly. It’s the kind of kiss you wouldn’t want your children to see. When he comes home from a long day of training but the energy is still burning in his head. He’s sweaty, skin glistening and glazed. His teeth seem so sharp when he enters the threshold of the door. You can feel him pressed against your spine, the thick print in his basketball shorts. When his hands come up underneath your t-shirt and dance along your stomach. These times - he kisses you twice. Salacious and unrelenting. 

Once just like that in the kitchen. It’s all too much tongue and teeth that way - but god it feels so right. Makes you squirm, makes you hold the counter top to keep steady. You tremble before he even touches you. 

The second time is right in the middle of the fire, when he’s inside. Slow, sensual and needy - his tongue finding it’s way in your mouth like you’re a fountain. 

Both kisses speak the same words, the same desperation. It’s always the same with him, the inevitable scorching that bruises your lips and turns them red and swollen. 

“I want you. I want you. Give it to me, Give all of yourself to me” 

His kisses so harshly you can’t breathe, like even the breath in your lungs has to be his or he won’t stay still. These kinds of kisses always happen when you two touch. He can’t help but keep you all to himself. 

After all, in this language that only you two can speak, who else would he tell his secrets to?

»» — { ♡ } —— { ♡ } —— { ♡ } — ««

[frostedfaves]

Lipstick on a Mirror

The Honey Collection

Pairing: dark!CEO!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Monica leaves her assistant in the hands of a touch starved Natasha.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, dark!fic, suggestive moment, implied strap-on, Natasha abusing her authoritative power, grinding (let me know if I forgot anything!)

A/N: so I’m trying a different way of writing/posting my series that feels less stressful for me. these installments will be shorter and posted out of order, but you can check the masterlist linked above for the chronological timeline. also I haven’t forgotten about Naive series! I just need a break from it.

-

“Romanoff!”

Natasha raises her gaze from her laptop screen to the only person in the office that would dare to open her door without a proper (yet reluctant) invitation to do so, the faintest smile appearing as she gives her guest her full attention.

“What do you need, Rambeau?”

“Why do you always assume I need something?” Monica teases as she steps fully into Natasha’s private office. “Can’t I be stopping by for a friendly chat?”

“A friendly chat on your way to the airport?” Natasha nods toward the suitcase dropped in the doorway. “Are you headed off to your convention soon?”

“Yeah, I am...You still don’t mind taking my assistant off my hands for the time being, right?”

“It’s totally fine, M,” Natasha assures her with a casual wave of her hand. “She might be able to help me with a few things as well.”

“Oh, she can do it all.”

Natasha comes around to the other side of her desk and leans against it while Monica calls her assistant into the room, watching the woman as you enter. You have the confidence of someone that’s good at their job while also being careful not to look the redhead directly in the eye, as many others had warned you not to do. Although you feel like she may like you the slightest bit, you didn’t want to ruin that by unintentionally challenging her.

“Welcome to your new office, honey,” Natasha greets you after Monica bids you both farewell, closing the door behind her. “You can work over there.”

You carry your laptop and work bag over to the smaller desk across the room starting to arrange your things as she returns to her own laptop and begins typing again. The room is ungodly quiet aside from her taps on the keyboard, and you get the feeling that her attention is on you, despite her eyes being glued to the screen.

The ironically deafening silence continues until another employee dares to interrupt, but Natasha is quick and efficient, managing to send the employee back on their way in less than a minute. You don’t notice her lock the office door behind them, but you do notice her gaze locked on you when she sits back down.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Only when I need to,” you answer immediately, quickly adding “I didn’t want to disturb you either, especially since I’m just a visitor.”

“I don’t mind an occasional distraction.” Her eye contact is unwavering as she leans forward on her hand, pulling back just as quickly. “Actually would you mind helping me with something? Do you have a minute?”

“Of course.”

You close your laptop as she stands behind her desk, following her to the door of her private bathroom. She steps back to let you in and closes the door behind you immediately, and you become a bit unnerved when you hear a lock clicking.

“What are you--?”

“Try this on.”

You look down to see a tube of lipstick in her hand, but you set it on the counter after taking it from her.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I told you already,” Natasha reminds you in an alluring tone, rapidly growing impatient. “I thought you could follow simple directions, love.”

“But this literally doesn’t make any sense when I’m already wearing--”

In a split second, her hand is gripping the back of your head and forcing you closer to the mirror in front of you.

“Put. It. On.”

You watch her reflection for a moment while you consider your options. Assuming Natasha has an average amount of physical strength, you might be able to get out of this position using one of the few self defense moves you can actually remember. But then you think of your career. Losing your job here is one thing, but you can easily be blacklisted by the top CEO in the city, knowing she can cover up this moment faster than you can accuse her of it.

“Smart girl,” Natasha praises once you finally apply the dark shade to your lips, and she grabs your hip with her free hand. “I’m glad you realized that now isn’t the time to be stubborn.”

You gasp when she bucks her hips against you and you feel something solid between her legs. Her low chuckle fills your ears as she starts grinding into you slowly, watching your reflection as your eyes flutter closed and your own hips follow her gentle movements. 

“You have the potential to be something amazing, honey.”

A yelp escapes you when her grip on you tightens, and she suddenly uses her body weight to push your face into the mirror.

“Don’t waste it trying to be a brat.”

She unlocks the door and delivers a slap to your ass so precisely that the sound echos in the smaller room before she returns to her desk. You take a moment to catch your breath in her absence, lifting your gaze to the dark lip print slightly covering a bit of your reflection, and you wonder if you’re the first to leave one.

[hiraya-sa-dilim]

Ang Pagiging ay Pag-alam ay Pag-Ibig Chapter 2. Jeneora Rock Diner is not named after its town…

In which dinner plans are ruined. [2719 words] Read here or on ao3

_____

Jeneora Rock Diner is not named after its town. Instead, the town is named after the saloon the current owner’s great-grand-something-or-other opened at a time trees were still scarce but not gone. Says so on the yellowing laminated print-out tacked right next to the screen display of wanted posters by the door. When Wolfwood pointed it out on his first visit, asked for permission to touch it after showing Rosa his washed, dry hands, she laughed, talked about the trouble her grandmother went through to make it decades back, and gave him its dimensions to 3D print and a glass of tapuy for listening. His copy doesn’t quite capture the flopsiness of real paper within plastic, but it’s one of his few possessions he thinks he would loathe to part with.

Wolfwood stops running his fingers over the edge of the original now, slouches to the bar.

“Evening, Nick. The usual?”

“Make it a double, please. Shit day at work.”

“Poor you, getting out with your life.”

“At what cost, though. Drives me to tears everyday, good madam.”

Rosa gives him a chuckle, disappears into the back. She doesn’t know what he does, only that some days were easy so he was down for small talk, and some days were long and boring so he ordered more booze to go into her son’s savings account. Outside the agency, people who knew the name Nicholas D. Wolfwood learned about his work very shortly after or never did. Rosa is a good person. She stays in the latter category.

(Wolfwood tenses, feels for the white hum of the recording device in his ear. Nothing. He had turned it off leaving the office, and his shades are snug in their charging case along with his phone in his… yes, tightly sealed briefcase. Nothing to enable whatever surveillance feature on him he didn’t already know about.)

“Here you go. While it’s warm, now.”

“To your health, Rosa. And your blueberry’s.”

The alcohol warms Wolfwood as the rain picks up outside. He’s not sure if it clips the din of Jeneaora Rock or adds to it, not sure if he should be grateful for it. Places like these are too loud for his taste. It’s a far cry from even the quaintest bars of July, but not exactly some small-town diner, either. Young people came in when their mothers and siblings wouldn’t past afternoon, their fathers ignored them from around the pool table after a day of drinking, and Wolfwood ate at the bar where everybody else drank as snot-nosed high school kids forced to sit in the booths glared holes into his jacket for taking up a prime spot where everyone could be seeing them drinking instead. The little pride he has left would never let him be caught dead in a place like this, he thinks. But it is one of the few haunts he has left his colleagues are yet to know about, and Rosa’s girls cook all right.

“I just don’t understand why we have to do it here of all places,” Wolfwood notices a voice next to his stool by the wall. It’s young, whiny, and new to the bar. “How are you supposed to think in these… conditions?”

“If you’re out to capture life, newbie,” a smoker’s drone rasps from her other side, “you go where it is every step of the way. You brainstorm your next scoop in a cafe, you end up with the latest on some sorority girl’s room mate’s twentyseventh shag’s brand new spanking underwear mods. Haven’t you had enough of college gossip columns already?”

“My name is Meryl Stryfe. Please refer to me by my name. So, so what are we supposed to get out here? Organic… nah, I can’t even say it. Hay, they should have sent me out to the trenches for real news. Someday, I’ll be on the news desk, then I swear I’ll-”

Wolfwood shifts focus at once. He didn’t realize he’s in a smog of stale cologne surrounded by a gaggle of high school kids. He recognizes a handful, but most are a new batch from the previous nights he’s been here. Oh, well, he thinks. If they posed any kind of danger to him, he would have noticed before they’ve gotten this close. Still, he keeps a hand on his right lap, close to his gun holster.

“Hiiii,” a girl titters too close for comfort. “We heard a certain stray’s crashed and stranded on the Rock a couple weeks now. Care to enlighten us?”

“Haven’t your friends already?” Wolfwood attempts a smile. “What did they tell you?”

“That you told them, ‘Sorry, kids. I know you don’t believe this, but you deserve better than me.’ What’s the matter? Can’t afford a round?”

“Not into real girls?” someone else pipes up. Louder giggles, and lots of batting eyelashes.

Wolfwood smirks at that comeback. Pretty little things they are, he has to admit, all cheap implant wirings, and cheap makeup, and cheap fashions. Small-town kids looking for big-time trouble. Moments like these, he imagines a chorus of voices calling him their big brother, imagines the voices grown to sound like the children standing in front of him in the moment. It has never once failed to sober him up.

“Maybe. Except I think you’re all too young to remember the Luka variant. You guys would be into, aa… that Gura character these days. No?”

Laughter again, this time pitched with hesitation. Wolfwood finishes the last of his tapuy. “What I meant when I said that is that I’m no good for anyone. I don’t look it, obviously,” (more tittering again, sweet, flirty, nothings) “but I promise, I’m utterly useless in relationships. You’re better off with someone who loves you. Really. Trust this old man.”

Less chatter now. Some mortified looks. “Wait. Um. Are you for real?”

“We’re just fucking around,” a boy supplies. “You can’t be serious.”

“And you aren’t?” Wolfwood asks. He was raised in part by some old girls at the orphanage as he’d learned to call them as a boy. He knows how their hearts work. Never adopted, only married to the first suitor they got who they forced themselves to believe was the love of their lives. Never been children, only women too young, and soon, mothers who have never been shown how to be one. He likes to think, for better or worse, that all old girls’ hearts still work the same wherever they’re from.

“I’ll have Rosa send you over some drinks,” Wolfwood says as gently as he could. “Whatever it is you want, whatever it is you’ve planned, my answer is no. Do not ask me again.”

Wolfwood turns back to the bar and, just to have something to do, lights a cigarette. He listens to them leave, some grumbling, most silent. One stays behind, waits quietly until he turns to take in their highlighted hair and dangling wing clip. He feels his mouth go dry.

They whisper wetly in his ear. “The one in the oversized sweater.”

“Do it yourself,” Wolfwood hisses back. “I’m off already. Bug-eyed brat.”

“Sorry, partner. Some of us go on dates Friday night, you know.” They skip off, cackling.

Wolfwood snarls. He’s fucking tired. He was supposed to just drink, eat, go home, shit, have a long soak, and sleep. And he really didn’t want to start staying away from this place, too…

He turns. Oversized sweater is a bespectacled kid back at his booth with his gloomy-looking friends. A light seems to come over his face. He says something Wolfwood cannot hear over the rain, and just like that, everybody laughs and unslumps their shoulders. They talk, and laugh, talk, and laugh some more—they’ve completely forgotten about Wolfwood, unless maybe they were making fun of him. The thought makes the tiniest hollow in his chest and he almost smirks.

Wolfwood glances at the bar. Had his seat mates noticed or cared? The girl next to him, Mary Stripes or something similar, in a cap that makes her look small is scribbling furiously into a notepad, and her bedraggled older partner is sighing long and hard into his whiskey glass. Everyone else would have been too far off to have heard or seen his exchange with the apparent teenager. And Rosa… Rosa stops in the middle of chatting with a customer to scold her son waltzing up behind the bar with a cage full of worms. Wolfwood has never been earlier than dinner and only ever heard of him. Tonis, wasn’t it? He saw children so rarely these days that the boy looks like a memory.

He’s too focused, too deep in a daze to hear what they’re saying. But the child begins signing lightning fast with a flesh hand and a prosthetic, Nanay, I caught these for you and you can cook ‘em and sell ‘em and you don’t have to worry about my arm any more and I can stop getting sick and we can get your medicine and the baby’s too and-

Wolfwood screws his eyes shut, double taps the spot behind his right ear. “Zazie,” he grits out a murmur.

Halfway out of the room, the child—at least, the cyborg looks youthful and is quite short in stature—with the winged clip turns back to look at him. “Yeah?” they speak into his ear piece.

Wolfwood twists so he locks eyes with the Undertaker. “Don’t come back to this place. You won’t find me here again.”

Child watches man unblinking. They turn their gaze slowly, pointedly at the mother and son behind him. They blink back at him. And grin.

“Order up! Tonight’s special, piping hot. Enjoy!”

Wolfwood takes a split-second of surprise to learn that tonight’s special is mock stingray in artificial coconut cream on rice and chickendog delivered by one of the cooks. But Zazie is already gone when he looks back. He long presses the mic and recorder behind his ear, grinds on his cigarette.

“Wartime child prostitution,” the voice next to Wolfwood confidently declares. “That’s it! I’ve got it, senpai! That’s what we’re writing up! How it’s become an epidemic in this sick nation, its socioeconomic and cultural implications, and-”

“Child prosti, ha? What? Newbie, did you seriously think dressing like that automatically makes you a sex worker? Man, you rich kids have no idea…”

“Hoy, Nick.”

Wolfwood turns in time to watch Rosa pour another shot into his cup. Tonis is nowhere to be seen.

“On the house. I really appreciate you keeping off those kids. I can’t stop them from coming here, but it’s better I keep an eye on them while they’re still working things out rather than they wander off elsewhere, you know. And with you around, it’s good they can practice having a crush on someone and not get hurt for it, too. Oh, the staff fires at anyone who messes with them, by the way, so don’t you even try it.”

Wolfwood blinks at his full glass. “Not planning on it. I like my skin on and everybody else off me, thanks. Still, kids these days, ha? Think anything shiny’s good for them. Funny, I used to be one myself.”

Rosa laughs, rich and heavy. “Haaay. I was kidding, Nick. About you messing with them, anyway. You’re a good person so you won’t. I can tell. Kids will be kids, that’s their nature, been since the beginning of time. All we adults can do is protect them from themselves when we can. And while I could imagine you as a teenager, I don’t think I want to, for some reason.“

Wolfwood lets out a snicker he doesn’t feel.

"Now, Master Wolfwood. You look like you got something to ask me.”

“Right. Aa. Ehem.” He allows himself three seconds to think… and comes up blank so he rubs his cigarette on the ash tray. “Aa, that your boy back there? The one you were telling me about?”

“Yes, blueberry’s strawberry blonde big brother,” Rosa pats her swollen belly. She chuckles. “Been telling him to stop bringing worms into the diner. Urgent, he tells me. Says he caught them fresh so I should sell them for a pretty price. Made a list of what the money’s for. Responsible young man. Too responsible, I would say.”

“Well, I see where he gets it from. Blueberry’s gonna be one lucky little sibling.”

“Right? Except I wish at least one of them knows how to keep away from here at night. Not like I’ll never stop reminding them gently.”

Rosa stops scrubbing a glass to watch Wolfwood. He shovels the food into his mouth to look away, and does not touch his cup.

“Say,” she ventures after a pause. “did I ever tell you why we call them blueberry?”

“Ha? Aa, not yet. Is it cause they’re titchy?”

“That’s part of it. When I explained to my Tonis I was pregnant, I told him, ‘Love, you’re getting yourself a baby sibling. They’re in Mama’s tummy right now, and,’ and because we were at breakfast, you know, I thought I’d pluck out a blueberry, imitation one, you know that one cheap brand? From my oatmeal. And I said, ‘this is how small your sibling is right now, in Mama’s tummy. But soon when they’re big enough, they’ll come out and we’ll see them together.’ And that night as I was tucking my boy into bed, I saw he had three blueberries laid out neat next to his pillow. I asked him what he’s soiling his own sheets for and he said ‘Mama, we only have two beds. I’m practising for my sister, my other sister, and my brother.’ He says he wants three of them, aysus!”

“That is the cutest fucking thing I’ve heard all week,” says Wolfwood, “I mean it.” It’s true. He grins and actually feels like it. He swallows down the last of his discomfort with a spoonful of rice and feels light and loose. He remembers why he does what he does. For innocents like Tonis. For Blueberry. “Thanks, Rosa. I… feel better.”

She gives him a smile and pats his hand. He doesn’t remeber the last time he let anyone do that. “You can talk to me, Nick. I’m right here if you need me.” And she tends to the other customers to give him some space. He thinks her children are very lucky to have a person like Rosa.

Right. Wolfwood drinks his tapuy, downs the rest of his meal, follows the thing hiding in an oversized sweater to the toilets. He lies with a grin. Says some smiling, shining things about how it had caught his eye, and how he’d hate to be interrupted by its friends, and how they should go somewhere a bit more private…

Wait five minutes after I leave the diner. Come alone. I’ll wait for you.

Wolfwood pays his tab, asks Rosa to buy Tonis an ice cream with the tip. He passes the Replicant’s table and winks at it, watches it bloom petunia pink on its synthetic cheeks. It makes him want to be sick. But he’ll nip the feeling in the bud soon enough.

Punisher’s in his locker but Wolfwood’s got his everyman’s pistol at his side and half his life of combat experience. Zazie should still be somewhere in the area and could be summoned quickly if worse comes to worst. But in any case, combat Replicants usually aren’t built to look young, so he highly doubts he’ll need backup tonight.

Wolfwood lights his cigarette now to keep his zippo from jamming in the rain. He runs his fingers along the edge of the laminated poster, looks away to blow out the smoke. Out of habit, his eyes are drawn to the much brighter screen next to it, flashing video footage of loose Replicants and other manners of crooks. Right now, there are some underwhelming explosions abroad on the screen, and Wolfwood starts to push at the door when it flashes gracelessly into a familiar image.

A portrait of a man in mid-laughter, face red as his jacket. Older than he looks. Dark hair under a crown of golden spikes, eyes closed and crinkled under two identical spheres of yellow sandstorms.

Wolfwood’s breath catches.

WANTED VASH THE STAMPEDE (REPLICANT) ALIVE $$6,000,000.00

_____

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Ang Pagiging ay Pag-alam ay Pag-Ibig Chapter 1. In the early 22nd century...

Early in the 22nd Century, AI corporations advanced Human and Robot evolution into the TRIGUN technological era, heralding free market bio-cybernetic modifications, and Androids—beings now virtually identical to Humans—known as Replicants.

The TRIGUN Replicants were superior in strength and agility, and at least equal in intelligence, to the genetic engineers who created them.

Replicants mass-produced by the SEEDS Project were used abroad in warfare, in the hazardous subjugation and colonization of other Lands.

After a series of bloody mutinies by a SEEDS Project platoon during several campaigns abroad, all Replicants regardless of manufacturer were declared illegal on Noman’s Land—under penalty of death.

Special police squads—Undertaker Units—had orders to shoot to kill, upon detection, any trespassing Replicant.

This was not called execution.

It was called retirement.

Wolfwood is an Undertaker. Vash, once proven to be a Replicant, is his next target. Blade Runner AU. Multichap. Rating for violence and explicit content.

[1703 words] Read here or on ao3.

_____

The Replicant’s eyes are shielded by a pair of glasses, two matching circular voids over otherwise unconcerning features. Wolfwood’s subconscious automatically supplies prescription, tinted, and armor in that order, and he files it away for theories to test throughout the interview.

“Please have a seat. I appreciate you taking the time today, aa,” Wolfwood pretends to glance at the file display on the table’s screen to see what the thing across him would do, “‘Vash Saverem.’ I hope I’m saying that right?”

“Yup!” (Nothing. Wolfwood took his eyes off it and it did nothing.) “And it’s no problem. Good to do a practice interview before the real thing. This is part of that new legislation, right?”

“Due to recent events, yes. And best of luck on your applications.” Wolfwood leans back on his seat, presses a couple of buttons on the PKD machine. They blink colour under the harsh white light over their heads, but are too weak to affect his visuals on the Robot before him in any way. Boredly, he runs over his shopping list in his head. Cigs. Nachos. Batteries. Bullets. “If I may direct your attention to my equipment, I have turned on audio-visual recording. You are aware of this?”

“Ay! Aa, yes.”

“Then for the sake of this recording, my name is Nicholas D. Wolfwood and I’ll be facilitating Mr. Vash Saverem... 32. Uh, cy-”

“Last July.”

“Sorry?”

“Turned 32 last July. They say I look younger than my age, hehe.”

“A. Aa, ehem, 32, cyborg, single, citizen of Noman’s Land, his mandatory Voight-Kampff Examination today, April 10, 2119, for the purpose of employment. I will be asking you 20 to 100 reaction time-sensitive questions meant to illicit emotional response. Number of questions depend on your answers, so examination may take as briefly as five minutes to over an hour. Length of time does not necessarily mean negative or positive results. We are not looking for any set of answers in particular, but try not to think too hard and answer as simply and honestly as you can. We are also required to track,” Wolfwood pats the PKD as part of his spiel, “optical activity and changes in your vital signs during the test as part of evaluation. This process is unobtrusive and won’t require any conscious effort on your part to display results. Evaluation will be completed and revealed to the participant within five minutes of test completion. If the personal information I’ve read from your file is correct, and if you understand the procedures for the test and consent to taking it,” Wolfwood takes a long, tired drag from his cigarette, and does a final check on the monitoring machine (no detected weapons). “please state your National Identifying Number.”

“Yes. 60-012-536-474, thank you. Do I, aa, sign anywhere?”

“Your recorded verbal consent is enough. If you could please remove your glasses so we can begin.”

“Nicholas, ha... that’s a good name. In an old pagan religion, he was the protector deity of children-”

Wolfwood pointedly adjusts Punisher’s position behind him, an upright cross in wrappings looming over his seat at the table. If he could reposition the lights so that the gun would overshadow every Human, Replicant and idiot who ever had to sit across him to shut them up, he would. They should recognize a grave site when they see one. “Your glasses, please, Mr. Saverem. This is not a visual test, you will not be needing them.”

“Of... course.”

Wolfwood turns back, pleased the smile on the Robot’s face has gone down a few notches. “Let us begin. You are walking in a desert. You look down to see-” (The monitor must be fooling him... No. The morning sky from his distant childhood before the sprawl of hologramic billboards engulfed even his little valley. Blinking at him. No screen, nothing to protect him, nothing to divide them both .) “ehem, aa, shit. Aa, to see a tortoise on its back. What do you do?”

“Do I have food?”

“What?”

“Do I have food with me, and water? In the desert? Of course, I’d turn her over the right side up first, but-”

“Thank you,” Wolfwood snaps. He keeps his eyes on the dancing numbers on his device. “It's your birthday. Someone gives you a calfskin wallet.”

The Replicant—Saverem—scowls in the screen. “I suppose the right answer would be to reject it and report them to the police,” he says slowly.

“‘The right answer?’ We’re not looking for the right answer, Mr. Saverem. Just your answer.”

“Then... then if it’s all they have, and they give it to me for something as pointless as my birthday, I’d take it gratefully and repay them in kind. Otherwise, I’ll refuse and have a talk with them about it.”

“Talk?”

“About getting a different job other than tanning. Or being a thief. Ay, actually, it’s likelier she would be a grave-robber if-”

“A different job. Such as?”

“Something sustainable for a start. Hopefully, legal and kind, too. Like teaching.” Vash smiles expectantly at something Wolfwood doesn’t get. It’s almost sincere if it doesn’t look so practised...

Wolfwood tuts. He’s not supposed to ask follow-up questions, but fortunately, the Replicant doesn’t know that. He flips a page in the questionnaire.

“Let's try avoiding conditional answers, Mr. Saverem. Now. You've got a little boy. He shows you his butterfly collection, plus the killing jar.”

“I’ll talk him out of it. Get advice if that doesn’t work.”

“Let’s keep our answers brief, please, with no regards to future situations. Single sentences if that helps you.” Wolfwood had been so sure it’s a Replicant before it opened its mouth to talk. Whatever. They have a hundred odd questions to go. The faster he proves his hunch, though, the sooner he gets his next pay check. “You're watching television. Suddenly, you realize there's a wasp crawling on your arm.”

“I’ll wave it off, get it outside saf- get it outside safely.”

“You're reading a magazine. You come across a full-page nude photo of a girl. You show it to your spouse. They like it so much, they hang it on your bedroom wall.”

“A. That’s. Aa...”

The Replicant is red in the monitor, almost as much as his jacket. Wolfwood taps his cigarette over the ash tray, idly fiddles with the loose strap of his weapon on his lap. “Mr. Saverem. Remember we are monitoring your reaction time.”

Saverem stifles the last of his giggles. “Get her stilettos in my size, I guess,” he shrugs. Eyes like a clean, clean sky.

Wolfwood returns quickly to the PKD. He’d been keeping his eyes away long enough anyway, he reasons, clearing his throat. “Next question,” he grinds on his cigarette.

...

Wolfwood hates this part of the job.

He heard that in the old days when it was easier to tell just from appearance, Undertakers called suspects in or paid home visits and had it over with in five minutes 90 percent of the time. Now he’s in an office, only three miserable blokes in and dozens more to go before lunch god damn it, doing his nth review of the vitals fluctuations this Replicant... Human... has displayed in the past hour. Finding nothing again, he tightens his grip on the Punisher’s strap under the table, winds a leg back to kick his usually flawless intuition in the shins...

“One last question. You're watching a stage play. A banquet is in progress. The guests are enjoying an appetizer of raw oysters. The entrée consists of boiled dog.”

“I’ll leave.”

Wolfwood kicks his intuition’s shins. Both of them.

...fuck.

He’d wasted a whole hour waiting for the question that reveals the crack in Saverem’s facade, the gaping hole on his Humanity’s puzzle. But the Human’s stats are the typical cyborg’s for each emotional response, and his empathy and logic above average. Enough so even Wolfwood would be forced to call him a sensible person, maybe even a good person if you held a gun to his head. But not too much that it rang any alarms.

“That concludes our examination,” Wolfwood mumbles, cracks his neck. His throat hurts from talking so long. He only ever had to ask up to 30 questions for even the most complex Replicant, and otherwise the necessary minimum of 20 for Humans. He couldn’t tell why he hadn’t been able to let this one go as the latter sooner. “You’ve passed with flying colors, Mr. Saverem. Congratulations.”

“Really? That’s new. Hehe.”

“Your papers will be updated of your status. Expect the change to be recorded in an hour. When asked for proof of your Humanity,” (Wolfwood was right. They were prescription glasses, and tinted. Saverem had stopped squinting since putting them back on, a desert’s haze, a sandstorm.) “a. Aa, for all intents and purposes, simply present your National ID .”

Wolfwood taps and drags the man’s file to the appropriate folder, reaches behind him to check on the Punisher for the next loser... still imposing, still heavy-looking. It’s always too early to take a break when you need it. “Please tell the next person to come in. Have a good day, Mr. Saverem.”

“You too, Nicholas. Aa, Mr. Wolfwood. Thanks for everything today.”

Wolfwood picks up Saverem’s untouched cup, chucks the contents in the sink to avoid the handshake he is offered. He busies himself at the water dispenser until he’s sure Saverem is at the door.

“So... I am not a Replicant?”

A strange question. Wolfwood actually looks. “It appears so, Mr. Saverem. You are Human Cyborg according to your records.” He watches the tension on Saverem’s lips and scoffs at the back of his throat. “A. Any questions before you go? Forgive me for not asking sooner.”

“You believe... A. None now, it’s okay. I, I hope I haven’t wasted your time today. And I hope you have something good for lunch.”

“A, sure. You too. I... guess.”

Saverem chuckles. “Thank you. Really.”

It’s dark by the doorway, away from the unfeeling fluorescents over the interrogation table. But the light is in Wolfwood’s eyes, and he couldn’t tell if the sandstorm has yielded to a night sky.

The closing door is silent in the windowless, soundproof room.

_____

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[literaticat]

you're the best. can i ask you why are responses to queries sooo slow? im and MG author and it seems forever to get a response...I would think that coming out of a pandemic editors would be hungry for new material.

I'm going to be as calm as I possibly can be because I know this is probably a sincerely meant question, and you may be new, and you haven't seen the year+ worth of discourse about agents and editors and what is happening in the pandemic within the book industry (and that despite lots of people "coming out of a pandemic", for us, these things are still very much ongoing!). A brief Pandemic Publishing history, from my perspective:

March 2020. We realize that the "pandemic" is officially happening. The Bologna Book Fair is cancelled, travel is cancelled, everyone has to work from home, it's confusing, schools are closed, nobody has child-care. We expect this to last a couple of weeks.

April 2020. It does NOT last "a couple of weeks." Now just for background -- publishing is already an extremely slow process with a lot of lead time - like, we are currently selling/acquiring books for 2023/24 publication. So that means that when all this hit, there were lots of projects in the pipeline already, things that were in various stages of progress and were delayed in Spring/early Summer 2020. They were delayed at that time bc of the combined factors of: the pandemic shutting down everyone's office, not to mention schools, libraries and bookstores, which meant no place to SELL books -- PLUS there are layoffs -- PLUS there are printing/shipping/supply chain issues meaning problematic to make or ship books -- NOT TO MENTION, people getting sick and dying all over NYC, which is where most of US publishing is headquartered.

Early Summer 2020. Shaken, but rallying, all editors and the entirety of publishing are now getting used to working from home. There is a huge learning curve here -- publishing is very much a "face-to-face meetings" and "paper trail" kind of industry and *nothing* about the office life was really set up for remote work. (Most publishers didn't even used to allow DocuSign for contracts, we had to send multiple hard copies all over the country before the pandemic!) -- People learned how to work zoom, and did meetings virtually. They quickly realized that electronic contracts and payments are a blessing.

Now, there are still problems -- like, editors having to work from tiny flats with their children crawling all over them, and designers having to be at the kitchen table instead of, like, a whole studio with the proper lighting and every kind of material available, and contracts people having no files at their fingertips -- but hey, everyone is muddling through.

Of course - bookstores and the like are still closed, and there are still big supply chain issues - and that's a HUGE problem for the actual publication part. But on the agent/editor side, we are all working on future books, so that work simply has to continue, or there won't be any books two years from now!

Summer/Fall 2020. Everyone is absolutely scrambling like mad to do all the work that didn't get done in Spring. There is now a backlog of projects in the pipeline, but OK. Everyone is feeling quite literally traumatized by the things that have gone on, but OK. Some people are still recovering from having gotten sick themselves, or are mourning family lost to the disease. But OK.

This time is as busy as I have ever seen it, for everyone - pretty much a non-stop whirlwind of work. (Both because of the things that didn't get done before AND the fact that nobody can travel or do anything else!) -- There is also, to be honest, a lot of crying. We all desperately need a vacation, and it shows.

Winter 2020/2021. Now mind you -- Aside from that very very rough few months at the beginning, which was just a very confusing time -- books WERE coming out, and WE WERE ALL WORKING, selling, acquiring, creating new books. All of our authors were ALSO working and creating new books. MORE, in fact, because a lot of them were at home for the first time in a long time! But remember -- there's already a backlog, right? So, ALL of these new projects have been slowed/delayed both because of the pandemic, and the backlog of already existing projects, creating a larger backlog of existing projects. At this point we are running on fumes.

Spring/Summer 2021. We are slowly coming out of pandemic pandemonium in personal lives. People are getting vaccinated. It's great. Some people might actually get to go on vacation! Amazing! But it's not actually "normal" yet in publishing-world, because again, there's still that backlog, and everyone is STILL working from home, which is ok, but honestly, still makes things slower for a number of reasons, and look, everyone is just exhausted, okay? It's been a lot.

So anyway that's, in a ginormous nutshell, why you might find that editors and agents are not quite as "hungry" as you might want us to be coming out of a pandemic. IDK. We are just people, my friend.

ETA: I realized that this explainer was JUST pertaining to burnout because of what was happening IN-OFFICE. Combine ALL of this with what was happening in the real world -- like, for example, the horrific brutality against George Floyd and others, and the subsequent intense social justice rallying in Summer 2020 and beyond -- climate disasters, like California being ON FIRE -- a lot of *spicy drama* in the book world -- and A GINORMOUS FLIPPING PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION... yeah omg. I think there could literally be a book about this, but I can't write it or read it tbh.

ETA x 2: (AND I didn't even touch on the fact that a huge problem for everyone I know was A LACK OF ABILITY TO READ during the worst of this! Which as you can imagine is a huge problem for somebody whose job involves READING BOOKS. I mean seriously there were MONTHS where I could not get through a single book, and I know for a fact I'm not alone. I'm JUST getting the ability back and I'm still scared.)