#i want to be squashed between both of them at the same time

[prettyboykatsuki]

lightning strike | h. iwaizumi

✮ tags ; afab + gn!reader, recently established relationship, mutual pining, pwp, dry humping + making out, nipple play, implied raw sex, super love-dovey, deliberate name change from iwaizumi to hajime 18+

✮ wc ; 4k (???????)

✮ a/n ; something deeply frightening happened to me in writing this but whatever. made it with ten minutes to spare happy bday mr iwaizumi

pls be nice if characterization is everywhere its been a while

He’s nervous.  

So nervous. 

You laugh at him over a can of beer, even harder when he visibly flinches at the sound. The room is too quiet since all of your company has left for the evening. Iwaizumi is tipsy but not drunk - though you think if he has another can he’ll get there just fine.  

“Your face is gonna get stuck if you keep frowning.”  

He shoots you a glare that makes your lips quirk up. “Shut up. You sound like my Ma.”  

“How is she by the way? Still good?”  

Iwaizumi snorts and takes a long sip of his beer. He tilts his head back against the couch, arm stretched along the seats. His muscles pull taut underneath the skintight material of his turtleneck. You find yourself sitting on your hands to calm down, but you’re too unfocused for it too work.  

“She’s good. She likes the countryside. Been growing squash and tomatoes and everything. Gonna try and stay with her a bit during off-season,” His voice is wistful and affectionate. An only son, filial and polite - you smile at him lovingly. “You should come visit with me.”  

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Guess it’s the same since we’ve already met but since we’re going steady I though you might be too nervous.”  

The realization settles in too late. Just when you thought he’d swallow the nerves down, they make an appearance once again. He sits up straight, clearing his throat, diverting his gaze to the coffee table separating you both. A blush spreads up, all through his body. His ears turn especially turn some shade of cherry red. Dusts all along his nose. He tsks at you, tongue clicking with a familiar petulance. You bite back a laugh.  

“Going steady? Seriously?”  

“Well,” Your face twists in mischief as you look up at him, your eyes locking briefly. “You’d get all hissy if I called us lovers.”  

His eyes go wide - in equal parts shock and mild disgust. You can’t hold the laugh back that time time no matter how hard you try. It bubbles up out of you, euphoric and hysterical. Your laughter is too loud to savor his displeasure, so caught up in it that it takes you a few minutes to calm down again,  

“I hate you,” Iwaizumi mumbles. A grin splits your face. 

“No, you don’t.”  

He frowns and his blush darkens just a touch  

The room goes quiet save for the sound of your heartbeat. You try and collect yourself. The house feels too quiet, all prior company absen. Not that Mattsun and Maki dragged out Oikawa to be considerate of your newfound love or anything. You’re sure you’ve already gotten a long text detailing your extortion related to the favor. Still, you’re glad to be alone with him.  

It’s easy to split your time between all of them separately when you’re all in the same place - but complicated to be all together. And alone time with Iwaizumi has always been hard to come by.  

You’ve been pining for him since highschool - the frequency you wish to see him tuned tuned by the passing years of your relationship and feelings. You’ve gone through the whole spectrum of desires. From wanting to see him everyday constantly, to hoping you’d never have to see him again. It took you well over a decade to make any progress, and the entire process (while surely heartfelt) has been unmistakably clumsy and so, so long.  

Spending alone time with Iwaizumi has thus always been complicated except for this one time. You got together, officially, just last week. The day he came home, where you incidentally found yourselves alone together. Something that’d been rare years prior due to said pining and trying to get over him. You don’t even really know how it happened. It felt like the most significant moment in your life thus far and incomparably anticlimatic at once. He was just sending you home since you’d got completely shitfaced, and before you left you grabbed him by the collar and announced it. Just like that.  

(You threw up half-way through the car ride back. Your Uber was nice enough to pull over so you didn’t do it in his car.) 

You went home after and didn’t speak for days. It took a few more days for either of you to work up the courage to sort things out forreal, but you made it work with the help of even more alcohol.  

Things get busy though, when Oikawa returns home and Hajime is off-season. It’s rare things line up, and when they do - it’s only natural you spend all your time together. You did today too, celebrating Iwaizumi’s birthday among the four of you with take-out and Godzilla movies on your nice flatscreen.  

But you haven’t been alone with each other since your chat establishing your relationship as not a pipe-dream, which was notably through text.  

He’s nervous, so incredibly nervous but so are you. Just a little.  

You look up after being lost in thought - to see Iwaizumi stare at you. The air shifts slow and steady, thick tension stirring in your gut. You bite the inside of your cheek, rubbing your feet together as you fold over yourself, chin resting on your knee. 

You wonder if you should be the one to break the distance. Iwaizumi beats you to the punch this time. You suppose you’re even.  

“Come ‘ere.”  

He pushes the coffee table farther away from him with ease, careful not to knock anything over. Your tipsy self swoons over his competence, but you’re sure you’d do the same sober.  

The look he gives you as you crawl over to him makes you feel bashful. You go over until you’re sitting side by side - stretching your legs out. Your thighs barely touches. Iwaizumi jolts, swiping a hand over his face in exasperation.  

“Sorry,”  

You shake your head. “It’s okay.” Because it is, then just to make sure. “Are we okay?”  

“More than okay,” He admits, a breath of relief following the words. “It was a good birthday, by the way. Thank you.”  

“They’ll get upset that you only thanked me,”  

He bristles immediately making you giggle. “I’ll thank those knuckleheads later.” 

You smile at him, wide and bright. He looks at you before quickly looking away, laughing a little humorlessly to himself. You wonder what he’s thinking about but decide against asking, comfortable letting him go at whatever speed.  

“Can I uh—“ He clears his throat. “Wanna kiss you. Just uhh… shit.”  

You’d love to tease him, but you feel like your heart might explode out of your body so there’s not really much room. Nodding, you sit up on your knees and turn a little to face him. His features soften with remarkable fondness. You flush at the sudden attention. He sits up straighter, turning his head to face you. His forehead knocks against yours softly, noses brushes. His eyes are so sharp. You have to close your own when you feel him leaning in to kiss you.  

Iwaizumi is warm. His lips are softer than you thought they’d be. His hands feel big as one snakes up to cup your neck. He gives you one deep kiss, followed by two pecks before pulling away to make you chase him. He rewards you by kissing you agai. The sudden pressure makes your head spin.  

You pull away dazed. “You’re… super good at kissing.”  

“Yeah?”  

You press your thighs together at his reply. So sexy it’s unfair. “Uh-huh.”  

He gives you a weighted hum. 

His reaction spurs you on then. You pull away from him momentarily. Iwaizumi stares at you in reply, worry making his brow furrow. Before he can get the words out, you seat yourself on his lap. He’s taken aback as he realizes your intent, your arms around his neck. It’s not even really the alcohol, as much as it’s everything else. Cramped in your living room together, pressed up against your couch. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, and shiver in his arms smelling his cologne. Spicy with a hint of pine. He hesitates, hands settling so carefully on your hips.  

He lets you stay like that undisturbed until you’re ready to pull away. Like he senses you needed that. He’s always been so good at knowing what exactly you need. Suddenly restless you decide you need to look at him again - make sure he’s real. That this is real.  

“Hey,” He mutters. His pitch is low, sends your heart hammering.  

You giggle, fluttering nervously. “Hi,” And then, “You like me,”  

“Pfft,” His voice is so tender, so soft, so comforting. “More than that.”  

Suddenly overwhelmed by your own giddiness, you squeak. You want to bury yourself in his shoulder again, but he’s quick to hold your wrist and stop you. He pins you under his gaze. It’s so intense you can’t help but feel like a deer caught in headlights. Your head is empty and all he’s doing is looking at you.  

But maybe that’s the whole problem. He’s looking at you, and you’ve wanted that for more than a decade. Now having it is too much, too suddenly - and you’re almost afraid of having it. It’s just a gaze, but it’s yours. He’s telling he’s yours in a way that’s just like him.  

“You…” He starts on something before letting you go. “For a long time,”  

He doesn’t need to explain. You already know.  

“Me too,” 

He calms down when you get it..  

“Really?” He follows up. He doesn’t look at you as he goes on. “How long?”  

You think on it.  

“Since we were fifteen?”  

“Same as me, then.” He’s clumsy with the follow-up. “That’s…”  

“Dumb? Ridiculous? Too long?” You say, filling in the words for him. “I know.”  

The extent of your own longing comes to you in waves. Love, like the sea trapped behind ice - so easily shattered. You’re drowning, your lungs aching trying to get adjusted to what is finally yours. The shock of it comes and goes, but you’re surrounded by it all the same. Iwaizumi stares at you and you stare back and nothing in the world exists except this desire you’ve kept to yourself for years.  

His name comes out like a whimper on your lips. “Iwaizumi,”  

“Hajime,” He corrects, so tender. So sweet to you. “Please,”  

“Hajime,” You test the name out on your tongue. It’s sweet.  

He doesn’t say anything after that.  

Your breath hitches as Hajime crowds into your space again. His hands are firm on your hips as he kisses you again. It’s different from before, lingers longer - his tongue pressing along the seam of your lips until you open them and allow him in deeper.The taste of alcohol is clearer on your tongue, bitter remnants of malt making you drool at the corners of your mouth. You kiss hungrily, your hands carding through the short, black hair with a longing sigh. Hajime groans a little when you tug at the root and the only thing you can think to do is try to sink into him further. .  

The hear raises without warning. Your skin under your clothes feels like it’s on fire. It feels different too suddenly for you to adjust and keep completely calm. Lust that borders cosmic engraves into your bones. Crumbling under the weight of it, you kiss Hajime like your life would end without it. In the moment, it feels like it would. Exchanged breaths are the only source of air for that space and time. You feel frantic, hazy - and Hajime who you know to be so steady, proves to be in the same place as you. 

His hands are so big. You can feel how tight he grabs you, his thumb pressing into your hipbones - itching to go lower. You don’t want to pull away but you want more. In the second you take a breath you tell him as much. Your own delirium might bring you shame if you were in any place to really feel it. “You can touch me. However you want.”  

“Fuck. Don’t say that.”  

“Hajime, please.”  

You mutter something but you don’t catch what it really. Your head is swimming with unrepentant ardor and your tongue feels too heavy for your mouth. Hajime kisses you again and takes the lead. The pleasure echoes in how you sigh, your hips rutting against his lap as his hands squeeze your ass. His hands are so fucking big - strong and kind and hold you with no uncertainty. The groping goes straight to your cunt, stomach starting to twist with familiar arousal. You push your hips against him again.  

You’re hardly thinking about it. Hardly thinking at all - no coherency or sense thrumming through your brain except his name. Hajime, Hajime, Hajime. An incantation of destiny. A love song.  

You feel his fingers inch up to go underneath your shirt - all of a sudden feeling burdened by all the layers between you. You can’t calm down. 

He pulls away from you first in that instance. Before you can ask, he nudges himself close to your neck, kissing along your jaw. You feel the fabric of your shirt tug. “Can I take this off?”  

You nod rapidly, then mimic him wanting him to do the same. His laugh is raspy in the follow through - your shirt and bra discarded somewhere on the floor. He stops suddenly, flicking his gaze up to you like he’s asking permission again. You just nod, not knowing how else to convey your desires.  

Your nipples pebble in response to the arousal and cool air. Hajime’s tongue flicks from his lips.  

His gaze makes you feel ticklish. He runs his palms over your tits with an appreciative noise. His eyes linger long enough to make your skin go hot all over, your spine prickling with heat.  

“Staring,”  

He looks up at your face, amused by your pout then kisses you as he feels you up, calloused palms brushing against your nipples, tits fitting perfectly in his hands. He smiles a little against your mouth. “Guess I am.”  

“Take yours off,” You plea. 

He obliges you, peeling the tight shirt away from his body and leaving his bare torso in full view. The proximity makes your lungs tighten like they can’t get enough air - heat radiating from his skin. His physique is toned, layers of muscle soft and comfortable He’s structured and gorgeous like a statue. You’re greeted by his broad chest and the corded muscles of his biceps. All sinew and strength, down his core. Strong and stable and big everywhere you could possibly look. You feel awestruck, mouth-watering at the sight - clit throbbing. Objectively attractive, you’re sure anyone in your place would feel the same. But this is your Hajime and the body he’s worked so hard on, full grown and yours. The trail of hairs down his stomach, getting coarse. The v-line of his waist makes you clench. 

 Too much.  

 The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, like water spilling from a broken dam. “I want you to fuck me so bad,”  

His brows raise. You can feel something twitch hard against your clothed pussy. At full mast underneath the confines of his pants. \Your eyes go wet when you realize what it is. Mind sticky, you draw your lips into a pout and silent protest. Despite your desperation, you almost want to say it again, pleasure thrumming through your body at his reaction. It feels like electricity sparking up from the base of your spine all the way to the top of your head. 

 Hajime presses his face to your neck all over again - hot, open mouth kisses trailing from jaw to chest. You gasp when his mouth closes around your tits, tongue laving over the tender skin and making your back arch.  

“Wanna fuck you so bad,” He mirrors. His voice is scratchy and his grip is tight. “Been wanting to fuck you so bad for so long, you have no idea.”  

There’s something true and well pathetic about the yearning that wells up inside of your gut and settles itself in your sternum. It spreads and grows and tangles in your ribs, curls around the vessels of your heartbeat. The kind of yearning that makes your whole being tremble, makes you want to preen and sing like a canary. It’d be good if time stood still so he could fuck you infintely - never being able to go where you can’t reach.  

You rock against him and Hajime holds you steady like always. His voice drops down to murmur - speaking with alarming clarity. You’re teary from the sound of his voice.  

“Let’s cum together,” He offers as reprieve, so sweet despite the harsh grip on your hips as he draws your weight down closer to him. You’re suddenly conscious of your choice in clothes - how thin the fabric of your shorts really as as the rough outline of his cock presses against the seam. You’re glad you didn’t wear underwear “And then I’ll make you cum again. I’ll take care of you,”  

“You always take care of me,” You say with no awareness of your surroundings. He laughs breathlessly. ‘ 

“Yeah..since it’s you, it’s easy.”  

You go wide-eyed but don’t get a minute to dissect. Not bothering to unbutton his jeans, you gape at the hard outline of his cock confined in black boxers. his  He picks you up with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist as your spine touches the carpet of your living room floor. You make a surprised noise as you’re let down gently. He doesn’t unfurl you from him. You spark back to life as his lips meet yours again chastely. The complaint you had dies on your lips when he trails down your jaw again. His voice is next to your ear, sinfully rough - warm breath tickling your skin. His teeth tug on your ear lobe and you shiver.  

“Tell me if it’s too much,”  

You don’t get a chance to ask about it.  

The sudden motion of his hard cock rutting and humping against your sticky, wet cunt punches the air of out of your lungs.  

There’s only a single layer of wet fabric keeping him from fucking you.  The very idea makes your pussy throb unhelpfully. You understand all of a sudden that this was what he meant about wanting to make you cum. But it’s Hajime, your Hajime - so making you do any work wouldn’t cut it. Humping you in missionary of all things like he’s already inside you.  

The thought overwhelms and you gasp.  

You don’t recognize the sound of your own voice, so high and pitchy with need. Pure pornography. But there’s no camera for you perform for, nothing but Hajime above with with a heavy gaze. Your spine arches at the sensation once it hits its stride, the angle of friction just right. The indirect touches makes your core throb. Your clit has been achingly sensitive for so long, and the release of tension in a single thrust is enough to make you shudder each time. It feels like you’ve been holding the feeling in your entire life. You wheeze his name out brokenly as he does it again - a sharp thrust, precise enough to be perfect like he already knows you that well.  

Your lower body feels week as the arousal starts to climb to a steady chorus. You pant for him like a bitch in heat.  

He’s not inside you but the smack of his hips against yours makes you feel like you’re getting fucked anyways. You imagine how it’ll feel when he really fucks you and can’t see straight after the fact. Each little movement spreads precum along your shorts, already wet with your own arousal. The friction of the damp fabric makes you cry out from pleasure,  animalistic with need. Your nails dig into his biceps as he kisses you all over, wherever he can possible reach. Along your neck, shoulders, collarbones chest. Any place he has accsess.  

You want him so fucking deep it’s frustrating, want him up to your throat - but the lack of direct touch makes you want him more desperately. And it makes it feel so, so good. The kind of pleasure that’s dull and throbbing but makes something in your spine go alight, like shoving your thumb into a bruise. You want Hajime to press himself into you hard enough to make the healed dull yellows vibrant purple and red all over again.  

You gasp helplessly each time he rocks his hips into you. He’s whispering such filth against your ear, into your mouth each time you kiss and you can’t reply with anything but his name. He praises you each time anyway, goads you into saying it again. Again and again and again until you can’t find your own voice.  

“Say it again,” Hoarse, punctuated by another thrust that nearly drives you over the edge and makes your eyes go wide. “Say my name again, baby”  

“Hajime.” So you say it- can’t think of any substitute since you’re not sure god would suffice. Locked between you in the warm sticky air is just Hajime, all yours.  

Every muscle in your body starts to lock up as you hit the final stride to your orgasm. You want to cum so badly for him and only him. All over his cock in any way he’ll light you. The thought pushes you over the edge. Over and over and over until you hang over the precipice of your own orgasm. When it hits, it hits like a crash of thunder on open plain. Like suddenly everything in you that’s every been grounded in Earth is scattered with sparks, skating and careening across your body. You feel him in the fiber of your being. Your toes curl at the sudden release, not able to voice a warning that isn’t just a soft gargle in the back of your throat. He doesn’t stop or stutter in his motion, instead gripping your hips tight as he can while lets you run through your high - nothing but praise and affection.  

You can feel him more than you can see him cum along with you. Sticky, hot seed flowing in spurts as his dick twitches for you - his ragged breathing covering your skin in goosebumps. You moan at the warm sensation drenching your poor, covered pussy and find the load to be wasted though you feel contented anyway. 

 You’re barely sane enough to catch your breath, but he eventually lets you down - though you can’t keep from hugging him. You pull back to look at each other.  

You brush the sweat matted hair away from his forehead with a lovesick sigh and giggle. He looks down at you with a grin, pressing his forehead to yours with.  

“Can’t believe I came in my pants like a teenager,” He says through a laugh.  

“It’s like making up for lost time,” You say warmly, all floaty. “Plus, the way you were fucking me but not fucking me…definitely a man. It was really hot, you know?”  

He groans. “I’ll get riled up again.”  

You smile at him. “Let’s fuck lots for your birthday, Hajime.”  

“Is that the present you mentioned earlier?”  

You pretend to think on it. “Mm..no. Not just the sex, anyway.” 

He looks at you confused as you lean in closer to him. “It’s safe so there’s no condoms anywhere in this apartment, unless you wanna go stop to get some.”  

He gives you a blown out look of lust with a soft breath, voice bordering a growl. “As if I’d make it through the door now.”  

You laugh helplessly happy and kiss him. “Happy birthday.” And then a little quieter. “I love you.”  

He softens visibly but doesn’t say anything else. You don’t need to hear him to know.  

You think the spare copy of your keys might make him cry. So you decide you’ll give it to him later. 

 The clock hasn’t hit midnight yet, anyhow. You have plenty of time.  

Now and always.  

[acid-ixx]

IM ALMOST DONE

THIS IS GONNA BE GUT-WRENCHING

Taken from the prequel:

you can't deny the bitterness and the clenching of your teeth whenever you stumble upon a room and see your father and your younger brother watching a movie together.

— masterlist !

help ??!? u rlly are feeding the community with ur fanart 🩷 bruce and damian bonding together despite it only being months since he was introduced into the family literally ruins any sliver of hope and only furthers the longing (name) would have, and the fact that they're mere silhouettes in the art is so <33 erm ignore my suddenly disappearance for a day or two, i was feeling unwell 💔

otherwise, here's something for u because i appreciate everything you send me ! ft. post-kidnapped reader with yan! bruce and damian.

bruce and damian after kidnapping you would not take lightly the diary entries you have written, expressing jealousy and contempt towards your biological father and half-brother, about how it was alfred who had to take the time of his busy day to watch a movie with you instead. when you write about how you wished alfred was your father instead, bruce would not only feel his heart clenching but he'd also need the feel to prove himself better than the past, that he can and will be the only father you would ever need.

add damian to the mix, who had his own bouts of jealousy towards you, who wanted to bond with you in ways closer than you ever will with your other siblings, who felt that deep pit of guilt that he knows he could never crawl out of, with his addled tantrums...

— and you get yourself an overtly clingy dynamic with those two in the same room as you. now, instead of both of them dismissing your presence, the two would be fixated upon your every movement, your expressions, your actions. anything and everything would be documented and if you ate less or talked less, damian would always be the first to comment upon it, and your dad (as you should be calling bruce) would take damian's observations seriously. there's no escaping their grips.

no, you can't say no just now! damian wants to watch animal documentaries with you and that's the only thing keeping him from slicing someone's head off their body! what do you mean you don't want to spend time with them? bruce just needs to have his baby by his side and— no, just because you're over 18 doesn't mean your family would lessen their affection towards you! you're still so young and who knows what path of self-destruction you'd bring on yourself if you're left to your own whims.

the family is dysfunctional enough, so any concept of personal space is nonexistent. it makes everything worse if you'd have to deal with more than two people in the same room... and two very strong, capable, and deadly vigilantes who invites you to watch movies with them isn't very soothing to your veins but those hands that can crush your throats are your family and they make it obvious that you're the favorite, that despite the... rough past they inflicted on you, they'll always love you; so what's the point in denying them?

you'll be squashed between your father and your youngest brother on the couch, with fluffy blankets and your favorite show playing in the background. you express any ounce of discomfort and bruce would immediately ask you what's wrong, what do you need, are you hungry, perhaps? is the popcorn stale? or do you want another snack? he'll pause the movie and ask you with practiced precision, the furrow on his brows and analytical eyes are an immediate signal that all your answers are taken seriously. yet despite his intimidating tactics, despite the lack of light in the room casting a shadow on his face, he questions you with your head laid on his chest and a scarred hand trying to soothingly run through your hair.

meanwhile, damian wouldn't even hesitate resting his head on your shoulders, finding it useless to silently express his need for your physical affection. so he takes it in himself to wrap his entire body around your torso, hands locking you in a grip that provides scorching heat under the countless of blankets you're already wrapped in. sometimes, he doesn't even know that he occasionally nuzzles against your neck, and you have no way to push yourself away from him because the position you're in makes you sandwiched between your father's chest and damian's body. and you can't do anything about it but puff, asking your youngest if he could be so kind to at least leave you air to breath.

he'll merely comply, but then it's your legs that would be tangled against each other next, and it'd be soon you'll discover that it's meaningless trying to attempt to escape their affection.

because really, you have no way out of this, not when everyone suddenly insists that bonding time with any siblings or with bruce requires your presence above everybody else's.

[poppy-metal]

after the whole patrick lending you to art for forgiveness ordeal…… you are so unbelievably embarrassed. it’s bad enough patrick knows what you’re like, what you really want from a man, but now art knows? art, who you’ve spoken to maybe 5 times, knows the lows, knows how far you would degrade yourself to make the man you love happy. art, a mere stranger, knows that when you’re used your pussy gets soaking wet. when you’re disrespected you squeeze like you’re afraid he’ll leave. and being the kind warm person he is, he smiles at you, he waves at you like you’re friends. like you know anything about the other except for what they feel like on the inside. and god, he hadn’t even used protection. he came inside you in front of your boyfriend, and now he was free to roam the halls and smile and wave and come up to patrick and hang out and you got so quiet and so flushed it was like you were the third wheel. what really got you was how much you liked it. you liked being used. you wanted art to fuck you as hard as he needed to forgive patrick, you wanted him to hurt you. but something about it left a craving, a lingering desire. he didn’t like you like you liked him. you wanted him, him, but the only reason he did it that night was to get back at patrick, to set things right. you understood why he was so mean, but the docile and nagging part of yourself wanted to be so good he had to be nice. nice, kind, warm art. the art patrick got. you wanted that.

patrick, ever observant, knows exactly how you feel. knows you want more, but don’t know how to ask. knows art wants more, because once they’re reconciled, best friends talk. started off as a joke over beer, asking would it be so bad if it happened again? decided it wouldn’t be bad. it would be really really good. and maybe it would be even better if it happened again and again and again.

so they pull you into arts bedroom, saying they wanna “talk”, but they mainly talk to each other about you. you sit between them, cheeks burning, as patrick palms the squashed fat of your ass, as he’s allowed to do, while art gently pushes your hair away from your neck and breathes there, as you didn’t know he was allowed to do.

“patrick told me you’re embarrassed about what we did. is that true, baby?”

baby. you shudder and look to patrick, panicked, but he only smiles. he raised his eye brows and on command you answer.

“yes.”

“i’m really sorry about that. aren’t i, pat?”

“mhm. he wants to make it up to you. you don’t have to be embarrassed you know.”

their hands and mouths moved like magnets closer to your skin, patrick pawing at your thigh and ass as arts nose brushes your throat as he kisses your collarbone.

“ok,” you say, barely over a whisper.

“ok? ok what?”

“ok. make it up to me.”

such a brave command in such a weak voice. they both laugh, and the air tickles your neck.

they are going to take good care of you. their good little girl

im gonna bite you like im really gonna do it im gonna bite you im gonna sink my teeth in you

brain short circuiting actually head empty just patrick holding your thighs to your chest so art can eat slowly at your cunt like the slut he is - flashing those blue eyes at you. like hes cataloging your expressions, finding what places he has to tongue at to make your thighs twitch, your toes curl.

patricks not a bystander either. he bands one thick arm beneath your knees to keep you in place, his other hand reaching up to cup your jaw - turn your head to his so he can see you too. "you like my friends tongue on your pussy?" when your chest heaves and your eyes dart away he grins and leans in, "you dont have to lie. i think it's fucking hot."

then his tongue is in your mouth and you're opening for him, splitting your lips to let him inside at the same time arts tongue parts your lower lips to lap across your entrance. you cant help how your cunt squeezes, trying to drag him inside. he pulls back.

"can i eat her ass?"

you gasp when patrick lets you go. chin wet with spit from his thorough tongue fuck of your mouth. it isn't lost on you how art didn't bother to ask you, he asks patrick. that makes you squirm. arch back into patricks hard body which rumbles with a low laugh.

"you're gonna make her fall in love with you if you do that. she loves having her ass played with. think she'd be happy if i just fucked that hole and didn't touch her pussy at all."

art is gripping his cock through his boxers. squeezing the head. "fuck." his eyes finally meet yours and he licks his lips. "you want me to?"

as much as you do love it, its still embarrassing to admit. its such an intimate place. even now you can feel your rim clenching like its shy. shy but eager for the attention.

"o-okay." you tell him. and patrick reaches down, thick hands spreading your cheeks till all of you is exposed. wet cunt still open from the work art put in with his mouth, the seam between your asscheeks spread to reveal your little twitching hole. it winks repeatedly at arts stare. "please," you whine, the humiliation making you run hot, burning burning burning between them. you cover your face with your hands when art starts to lean in, pink lips parted, face flushed, blonde locks wild around his head like a halo.

his cherubic beauty is what makes the act so fucking lewd. and when the touch of his tongue flutters against your tight hole you cry out, high and whiney.

"aw," patrick says in faux sympathy. you know he doesn't actually feel bad. you can feel the hard length of his dick at your back. he loves when you're embarrassed. thinks its cute. "you're gonna make her cry, art."

you hear art moan, feel the vibration of it between your cheeks that patrick is keeping spread wide - his tongue is lapping at your rim steadily, soft coaxing licks that has the furled muscle relaxing for him. hes evil, theres nothing cherubic about him at all, you decide. hes the devil.

"little babies gonna cry cause her ass is getting tonguefucked -" lips press against the side of your head. gentle. "all your secrets are out now, baby. we both know what a fucking pervert you are. open your eyes and watch art lick your hole, c'mon."

and like the puppet on strings you are, you listen.

[vivwritesfics]

Hi vivi it's me👹

(Aka lando's wife ofc)

first of all, CONGRATULATIONS ON 6K !! gosh it feels like somedays ago you had 5k 😭

Anywaysss

Can i please request a lando fic where the reader is going feral with his wins, achievements, posts and what not and it's just slow burn to a point where they both (and us, the ones reading) can't take it anymore?

(It can be smut, fluff, angsty, humorous idm! All upto youu)

Congratulations on 6k once againnn !!!!

HELLO MY DARLING! I'm so sorry this has been in my inbox for so long but I've decided to combine these requests bc... it felt like a good idea I suppose

The first win was Miami. She was there. Of course she was there; Lando took her everywhere.

Her nails had been between her teeth since lap one. And then the safety car came out. An engineer had to hold her to keep her calm.

And then max was just behind him. But that gap kept building. And building. Every time it changed her heart was in her mouth and she wanted to throw up.

She hadn't meant to drop to her knees when Lando crossed the finish line on the last lap. But hearing the words "LANDO NORRIS WINS THE MIAMI GRAND PRIX" had simply been too much for her.

She was squashed against the barrier with the rest of the McLaren team, watching lando on the top step of the podium for the first fucking time.

She wanted to kiss him. When he jumped out of the car, when he pulled off the helmet, just before he jumped into the arms of his team. She would have kissed him then.

His next win was Silverstone, his home Grand Prix. It was a different story on track, a closer fight between him and Max, but Lando ultimately finished first.

It was the same story for her. Being crushed against the barriers by the team as he celebrated. This time Lando ran to her, pulled her into his arms quickly over the barrier. But he didn't kiss her.

She was so fucking happy as she watched him spray the champagne over Max and Catlos, don't get me wrong. But there was a little bit of disappointment settling in her heart.

Fuck, she wanted to kiss him. What an asshole (but, of course, she meant it affectionately).

His final win of the season came in Vegas. The race he'd crashed out of last year. It was rather cathartic, winning a race he'd never even finished before.

She was going to kiss him. Fuck everything else.

Lando climbed out of the car and did his usual celebration to the cheering crowd. And then he made his way over to the team, all of them celebrating together.

And then he made his way to her.

Fuck everything else.

As lando pulled her close, she grabbed his sweaty curls. He didn't have much of a choice as she kissed him. But Lando didn't let his surprise shock him into stillness. No, seconds later, he was kissing her back.

Letting go of his curls, she pulled away. "I've always wanted to do that," she said, just loud enough for him to hear.

"Do it again."

She did it again.

[whetstonefires]

Thinking about the parallels set up between Wei Wuxian and Mo Xuanyu, and how actually most of them are oddly specious.

The sketch of the backstory lines up, but on close examination they're mirror images.

Wei Wuxian wasn't kicked out of his sect, he left it. Wei Wuxian didn't hate the house he grew up in, he loved it, and getting the people there killed was the absolute last purpose for which his dark powers were ever intended.

Jiang Cheng was no Mo Ziyuan--his jealousy was a complicated thing all twisted up with love, and while he would lash out at Wei Wuxian both as a casual means of shit communication and more damagingly in moments of high tension, he had neither the desire nor the ability to bully him, and in general respected his boundaries almost too well.

When Wei Wuxian destroyed himself about Jiang Cheng, it was to give him cultivation, and protect his life and happiness. He would never have killed him.

Madam Yu was a domineering aunt-like figure, who hated Wei Wuxian for reasons of reputation, and because she had resented his dead mother, but she crucially did not have the power to actually disrupt his lifestyle to any significant extent.

Mo Xuanyu was shut up in a small room to rot; Wei Wuxian didn't even attend classes unless he wanted to. Mo Xuanyu was weak and disliked; Wei Wuxian was brilliant and popular.

Mo Xuanyu's uncle is a cipher of a figure, without character or agency, a nonentity who is resented to death apparently mostly for what he didn't do; in theory he is the master of the house, but he certainly never protected his wife and son's punching bag from them.

And this is what got me thinking along this track: because people keep interpreting Jiang Fengmian as this, as exactly like Mo Xuanyu's nameless uncle, a nonentity who lets his wife make all the decisions, and is contemptible therefore.

He shows up in fic characterized this way all the time, handled narratively as a gap rather than a person, an absence where there should have been a parent, and it's...totally inaccurate? The man only has a few scenes but the things that are most firmly established about him are:

he regularly goes out of his way to protect Wei Wuxian

he's extremely fond of Wei Wuxian

he cares a lot about ethical behavior

he's conflict-avoidant and gentle

he can and will overrule Yu Ziyuan when he's made up his mind, and there's nothing she can do about it

his communication skills are mediocre at best

he doesn't understand jiang cheng

he has a dumb sense of humor

Now almost none of this made it into cql besides point 4 and maybe 6, 5 is technically there but buried by the cinematic framing, so I totally get why the fandom on the whole struggles to characterize him well, and it's easier to write him off.

But it keeps bugging me to see him and Yu Ziyuan squashed into the mold of the Mo, because not only is that boring and reductive and kind-of-missing-the-point, it's like. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng's characterization suffers a lot when you alter the environment and take away the influence exerted by their shared father figure.

Jiang Fengmian was Wei Wuxian's primary adult role model and it shows.

Jiang Cheng's relationship to his own sense of ethics is fraught because 'teaching him good ethics' was his dad's number one parenting goal, but they misunderstood each other so badly (partly because Yu Ziyuan kept loudly misinterpreting them to each other, which is so realistic I can't get over it, that's exactly how it works good lord) that Jiang Cheng has a direct association between the concept of 'doing the right thing even when it's hard' and a feeling of personal inadequacy.

The fact that Wei Wuxian got their dad-person's approval for being exactly himself and Jiang Cheng not only couldn't do that, he couldn't even get that same level of approval when he really pushed himself to rise to expectations, because Jiang Fengmian did not intend that warmth as a 'reward,' and so never realized he was withholding it, and therefore misunderstood Jiang Cheng's visible jealousy as a dangerous sense of personal entitlement that had to be carefully restrained, which reinforced his distrust of Jiang-Cheng-the-person and fed into a shitty loop where they were less and less able to relate to one another--that's fantastic. That's so human! I love it so much.

Both their failures are their own but at the same time it would never have gotten so bad if Yu Ziyuan hadn't been interjecting herself in there, in the middle of their relationship, fucking it up. That's family, baby.

I would ofc like if there was more fic engaging with the subtleties of all this because it's so good, mxtx did such elegant work here and it is not sufficiently appreciated. But it's the kind of thing that's hard to write good fic about; I am struggling with it myself.

So mostly I wish there was just more fic that didn't impose Mo Xuanyu's cliche angst backstory on Wei Wuxian, who has a whole different thing going on.

[plush-rabbit]

Foggy Minds

Word Count: 4.7K A/N: I dont know his body!! So I tried to leave it ambiguous and yeah!! i also wrote this just for the ending bit

-

It’s a fucking joke. A cruel one. Angels- or at least Exterminators- are known for their cruelty. Raining down from above, a storm cloud that leaves red behind. Even after the destruction and death, the guts and gore that leave a lasting stench, the cruelty isn’t done. The angel Adam still has to bring torment down to Hell.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing is what he is. He can pretend he’s higher than the sinners down below, but he’s just as crude, if not more so than the worst of them here. It’s a tradition at this point for both you and him. He brings hell on hell, and a week later, he flies down once more, calling the club that you work at, demanding for you to be sent to the Heaven Embassy. However, as the next Extermination Day comes close, he’s called for your services once again. You wish you could say no, but he pays quite a lot for you, and you could always use the money.. 

You hate the walk there more than anything. It’s like everyone knows you’re off to go fuck the Exorcist. You look both ways before disappearing through the doors of the Embassy. Maybe they think you’re getting a meeting with- someone. 

The Embassy is empty, and every step you take echoes out in the room. You’re terrified. You always are. It never stops feeling like a trap. Even in the elevator on the way to the suite, you can only stare at the golden doors in front of you, your reflection distorted and twisted. 

If you’re going to be honest- you aren’t sure why it’s you who has to come up. It’s Adam- he’s bragged enough about how he can have anyone, and yet, he pays for a sinner’s cunt. You make sure to not feel special, to squash any pride down. Perhaps it’s too tedious to pay for another sinner or hellborn, and it’s best to just get what he knows will be a good fuck. You sigh and look away from your reflection and the glowing numbers. Still, you show up and do your job. You've taken better and worse clients. The angel is just someone in between. 

The doors open and you pass a few doors until you reach his suite. You don’t know why the Embassy has so many rooms, and when you tried to ask Adam, he made a comment about how you could have a fuck-a-thon, doing it in each room, and you sneered at the idea. 

Your suite- or rather his suite- is unlocked like always. You waste no time, stepping into the shimmering room. It’s livable. A kitchenette on one side, a bathroom with a wonderful shower tucked in the room, and a massive bed pushed to the end of the room. The room is bright, golds and blues, a deep dark wood carved into ornate decorations, and you feel out of place. It’s nice- far too nice for you to show up and defile it with what you’re going to do. The room never ceases to amaze you. There aren’t many places in Hell where the colors are bright and soft at the same time, where things look so pristine and untouched. When you once mentioned to Adam how nice the room was, he laughed and told you that there were far better rooms in Heaven. A part of you still wishes that he would have offered to show you- something, pictures, descriptions, anything. 

“Took you long enough!” The angel says, leaning back on the bed. “I pay for your entire time, ya know? From the walk from your whore house to the embassy, the least ya could do is hurry it up. I’m a very important angel, ya know?”

“You ordered me like last-”

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “I don’t want excuses.” His hand waves in the air, and he sits on the bed. “Come on, let’s get to it.” You roll your eyes at him as you walk closer. “Oi! Don’t roll your eyes at me,” his voice is laced with disgust, and you remember that he looks down on you- in more ways than you would care to admit. “Come on, strip.” Your hands go to unzip your skirt. “And make it good!”

You bite your tongue. Your shirt is the first to go. The action is slow, tantalizing as your fingers skim over your bare skin, and your skirt follows suit, pooling on the floor. You step out the fabric, and your heels click on the floor. Adam watches you, his hands scratching the bed covers. You spread your legs over his right, and grab his hands, letting them touch your ribs and then moving towards your back. 

You can feel the tips of his claws scratch at the clip of your bra. You press your cunt over his robe covered thigh, and grind over it softly. “Please, Adam,” you beg. “Take it off for me?” Your hands rest over his chest, and he watches as you grind yourself over him, your hands fisting over his robe, and you wonder for a moment if maybe you did a bad thing- if this was the wrong move. But then your bra straps fall down your shoulders, and it’s discarded somewhere in the room.

You hiss when his mouth suckles on a breast, the other breast being pinched and pulled at. He sucks so softly, letting his tongue roll over the swelling bud, teething at it so you hiss and arch yourself further into him. You can feel a wet spot grow, and you can’t help but rock yourself over your thigh. The other breast is manhandled, twisted and pinched that has you gasping and fisting holy fabric in your sinner hands. 

You're pushed off and his hands claw over your hip. You get the memo, and peel off your underwear, the wetness of it noticeable, and the only mention of it is when Adam pockets your underwear. You wish you bought another pair with you. The heels are tossed aside, and strong hands push you down from your shoulders. You fall onto your knees with a hiss, and you know what you have to do.

-

“And- And- Oh fuck, that’s it, baby-” He hisses, his head tilted back. The hand fisted into your hair tightens, sharp stinging encouraging you to swallow more so he could let go. “I’m just saying that why would you settle for anything less than-” A moan interrupts his monologue and you look at him through glossy eyes. “Oh fuck. It’s like a fucking gift to suck me off.”

A string of spit and pre-ejaculate connects to your lips as you pull away. It’s thick and white, and you’re gasping for hair, a hand wrapped around the base of his cock and you push yourself to swallow his package, fitting the pair into your mouth as your hand pumps his length. He’s breathing heavily, and you know he's upset at the loss of contact with your mouth with the way that his hand tangles itself into your hair, but his mask is twisted, and you pop them out of your mouth. Your mouth feels dry despite the excess spit- you suppose it’s the salty taste that lingers. 

You take him back in your mouth, eager, and begging for him to just spill his seed already. Your cheeks hollow, and he’s heavy on your tongue. Your tongue swirls over a vein, and you can feel him twitching.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he hisses, his hands cradling your head. You hum, and brace yourself, your hands holding at his thighs, bracing yourself for him to thrust forward. His hands tighten, and he thrusts into your mouth. You gag around him, your throat constricting around him. It’s a horrid sound, loud and hollow, and acid threatens to bubble over. As he continues to pump himself into you, spit dribbles from the corner of your lips and you’re grateful that you were ordered to remove your clothes. 

“That’s right, take it. Oh fuck, fuck-” a string of curses fills the room, and he’s unrelenting, pushing deeper into your throat. A hand slips to grab at your breast, eyes squinting when you can feel the spit coat over your chest. Your other hand tightens around Adam’s thigh, your nails pinching into him.

Your fingers pinch over your nipple, rolling it over, desperate to take your mind off of the assault of your mouth. His thrusts get deeper and harsher, and he’s still in the back of your throat, holding you down. Curses mutter in the air, sharp and slurring together, and he keeps his eyes on you. The eye contact is far too much, the piercing eyes boring into your entire being, and it must be some type of power play for him. You choose to focus on the base of his cock. With your nose pressed into his pubic bone, you cough around him, and finally he pulls away, his seed laying thick on your tongue. Tears wet your face and mix with your spit and the drops of his seed. 

He grabs your chin and you open your mouth, showing the mess that he’s made. Letting go, you stay still, as he taps his cock on your face. It’s tacky with your spit and leaves you feeling much filthier than you would like to admit. You hold the seed in your mouth and he gives a nod, and you make a show of swallowing, and open your mouth to show him. “Did you want me to do a blessing before you swallow?”  He teases. “With my holy cum, I grant you the opportunity to fuck me.” He chuckles at his joke.

“Thank you, Adam,” you murmur, hoping that the soreness on your jaw will go away.

“You know, you could learn how to relax your throat. You’d think after doing this for a living, your gag reflex wouldn't be a thing.” You send him a dirty look, and his grin widens. “So fucking sensitive. What did you want me to tell you? That you were good?”

You aren’t sure what mood he’s in at the moment. Sometimes you can tell when he wants to fight with you- where he wants to punish you and call you a sinner as he ravages you, but then there are moments when he wants you to beg for him, to tell him how good he is, how you want his cock more than anything. But at the moment with your skull pounding and jaw sore, you spit out a simple, “Fuck you.” His grin widens, and he hoists you up onto the bed. The stickiness on your face ruins the soft comforter, and you feel too dirty to even touch something so nice.

“I was going to be nice and just fuck you, but shit, you had to talk back.” 

A hand grips at your rear, and a finger teases at your hole. You hiss at the contact, and you're glad you’re face down or else you’d never hear the end of it of how flustered you must look. As if reading your mind, he flips you over, your face exposed and your hands immediately cover the lower half. 

“Adam-” you squeal, instinctively trying to close your legs only to have them pried apart. 

“Don’t worry,” he says casually. “I just wanna look at how wet you got just from sucking on me.” A finger traces against your slick and you watch as he tastes the finger. “Damn, I should have let you keep your panties on if I knew you were going to get this wet.” A finger enters and you squirm, suckling the intrusion further into your softness. “You’re soaked. And all you had to do was suck me off. You know, if I could keep you, I would.” He enters another finger, pushing the two inside until he’s at the knuckles. “I’d give you a nice collar, a nice bed, and all you would have to do is be my little cocksleeve.” He pulls out, and thick strings of slick connect his fingers back to your cunt. He returns his fingers to your cunt, now with the addition of a third. It’s a wide stretch, a sharp pain being overridden with pleasure. “I bet you’d like that. You’d live a pampered life, and all you have to do is keep your pussy spread open for me.” 

With a yank, you’re pulled further into the bed. The comforters make a soft noise, but the bed itself doesn’t creak. You watch with half-lidded eyes, focused as he rests on his knees beside you, his cock growing, the scent of it enough to make you go dizzy. You brush your cheek against it, licking at the side of it when he thrusts his fingers into you.

You sit on the bed, his cock pressed against your face, and with a mind too delirious to think of anything else, you pull him into your mind, lazily bobbing his head, as his fingers scissor inside of you. 

You breathe heavily, your mind growing fuzzy with the stimulation. He’s slow and lazy, massaging the inside of your gummy walls as he looks down at you taking his cock once more. A hand brushes your hair away from your face, and you pull away, pecking at his cockhead, nuzzling the glistening head against your lips. It isn’t enough for you, and you swallow him once more, humping into his hand when he gives a smart smack to your cunt. 

“Turn around,” he orders, and you scamper to do so. You don’t get a moment to prepare yourself, until he’s bullying himself inside of you. Your hands claw at the comforter, and with watery eyes, you see the fabric tear apart underneath your claws. “You’re clamping down hard around me,” he breathes out, and you buck your hips, trying to feel him deeper into you.

Above you, he's heavy, and selfish, pumping into you relentlessly. The sound of skin slapping against skin is harmonized by your moans. He grunts above you, whispering strings of obscenities and few words of praise linger in the air.

“Oh fuck,” he grunts out, “so fucking good.” His breath is hot against you, fanning out into feathered tickles that touch at your body. He’s never been one for intimacy before reaching his peak, always preferring to be lustful, so you never expect him to actually kiss you, but in moments where he rights just at the right spot, you’d wish he do a little more to make it feel something other that whatever this all is.

His body is pressed against your back, hands squirming underneath to grab at your breasts. His hands are rough and unforgiving, pulling and pinching his nails into your soft skin, You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, puffing and huffing, murmurs about how you feel wrapped around him, and you bury your face into the comforter. Your mouth is slacked open, spit pooling down, as your moan helplessly around him, body taut and nerves feeling as if they’re on fire. 

“No fucking wonder you’re a sinner,” he seethes out, his thrusts harsh and deep, enough to have you see stars and think about how as selfish as he can, he feels so good. “With a pussy this good, I bet you had everyone lined up for just a taste.” You let out a low whine. “Yeah, I bet you did. No wonder you were hired at that sex joint. Did you have to fuck the owner to get in? Ha?” His tone is wicked, and you’re unsure if it’s his words or the fact that you’re so close as to what is making you tear up. His weight above you shifts, and by your hair, you’re yanked back. You yelp and tighten around him, tears slipping down. “I asked you a question.”

“I didn’t-” you yelp as he continues to bully himself inside of you- “I didn’t hear it, ’m sorry,” you mumble, your scalp stinging with pain. 

“Too fucked up on my dick to even think,” he hisses, pushing you down onto the bed. He pulls himself out, and you whimper, shaking your head and pushing yourself closer to him, your cunt weeping for more of him. “A cock hungry slut is all you are, huh?” His cock is pulled out, and he watches you whine, your cunt gaping and leaking slick that makes your thighs glisten. 

“Adam, please,” you moan, turning your head to look over your shoulder. You can feel the drool stick to the side of your lips. 

“Please what?” he spits out, his eyes flickering to yours, before returning to your ruined sex.

You let a whimper, high-pitched and desperate. You fall back to the bed, your eyes looking forward, and your hand slips underneath you, fingers peeking towards your cunt, feeling the warmth drip onto your fingertips. “I want more,” you tell him, your words muffled by the comforter. “I want you,” you tell him, hoping that he’d take pity on you for a moment.

The tip of his cock brushes itself against your opening, and you clench around it, your body aching for more. “Nah, you have to do better than that.” Your cries are shushed, brows furrowed and you’re turned over onto your back, “Come on, I’ve heard you beg before.” Two of his fingers enter you, thrusting in painfully slow. “You know what to say already.” Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your fingers twisting the bed sheets into spirals. You shake your head, humping pathetically into his hand. “I promise to make ya feel real good.” 

“Adam,” you croak. He pulls his fingers out, and tears gluten over your lashes. “Please, I wanna be fucked.” Your legs tense when you feel the tip of his cock nestle itself inside of you. “I’m just a filthy sinner who needs-” you yelp when he thrusts himself inside of you, the entire lengths filling you nicely- “needs to be fucked by your holy dick.” His hands curve over your hips, scratching softy over your skin. 

“A little more, honey, and I’ll ruin that demon pussy for you.” His hands curve over your hips, scratching softly over your skin, his voice low and sweet for you.

“Adam,” you plead, your hands curving over your breasts, “I need you,” you whisper in a haze. “I need your cock in me, I wanna cum real bad. I need you. I need you to fuck my sinner pussy.”

He gives you a lazy smile, and gives a nonchalant shrug. “Good enough.” He pushes himself inside of you. Your stomach coils into a heat, and you suck in a harsh breath when his fingers slip to rub at the bundle of nerves between your legs. “You have a fucking grip on my dick. What is it? Are you close?” You let out a broken moan. Your legs kick up, and wrap around him. “If I cum in you, you’re dealing with it.” His grin is sharp and predatory, and it only makes you drag your hands down his arms.

Your hands reach up, and you hold the sides of his neck, your hands curving behind, and you just feel tufts of hair peek from underneath the mask. A hand reaches to grab your wrist, holding it tightly, and you’re sure you’re going to have a bruise afterward. “You fuckin’ slut,” he spits out. “You think just because you got my mask off last time, I’ll let you look at me again?”

“Adam,” you whimper out, scratching at the back of his neck with your free hand, “please. I just wanna look,” you slur out. You know you’ll regret saying those things when you’ve sobered from him, but sex always did make you softer, needier. You think that must be why he decided to continue to hire you- to see you pant for him and stroke his ego. “You’re so pretty, I wanna see,” you lament. “I wanna- I just- I wanna look at you when I cum,” you stumble over your words, your fingertips tapping against the bottom of the mask. The golden eyes narrow at you, and you can only look for so long until you turn your attention elsewhere.

His mask is tossed to the side, and his irises glow. The hand that holds your wrist loosens, and you cup over his cheek, the stubble on his chin scratching at your palm. “Fuck- Oh fuck,” you hiss out, your heart beating against your chest rapidly. “I’m gonna- Oh my- Adam! Fuck,” you hiss, the knot in your stomach tightening, a pressure building more and more until you’re sure that you’ll burst. 

Even as your body shakes, he doesn’t stop. He continues moving his hips, pushing all of himself inside of you, his breath coming out in pants above you, his smile sharp and face flushed. A hand wraps around your neck, and you arch yourself into it, whining and mumbling at how your cunt is still too sensitive, how he has to slow down, but he coos at you, and he tells you how good you’re benign for him, and you hold onto his wrist with your hands. 

Adam places his face close to yours, his lips and breath fanning above yours, and you’re stuck staring at his eyes, unable to look away from the gold in front of you. You lick your lips, and you brush against his. He stares at you, and your face burns. 

He gives shallow thrusts, and is still inside of you, and you can feel him. You can feel the heat, and the stickiness leaks out of you. He keeps himself there, and hides himself into the crook of your neck. After a moment, he slips out, and you can feel the heaviness of his seed weep out of you in slow and heavy drools. 

You lay in the afterglow, chest heaving and sweat and more sticking to your skin. Your body is on pins and needles, and laying on top of the soft bedding, you could fall asleep right then and there. Nestled into a pile of feathers and gold, you could die- again- and be happy with it. 

But then the man- the first man- groans and you remember that this isn't the time to play house. You have a job. Or rather, you had one, and now you have to return. You lift yourself up into a sitting position, and you stare at the bathroom. A part of you wants to take a shower, but you fear that if you even just tasted what luxury is, you’d have to be pried out of the embassy. 

With a sigh, you lift yourself off of the body and gather your clothes. The lack of underwear is something that you frown upon, but when you look back to the angel, with the demand for its return, you can’t bring yourself to ask for it. You’ve walked around without it before when customers got handsy, this is nothing. Your skirt is tight, and long enough that only a pervert would tell. 

“So,” he trails off, lying on his back, “do you wanna cuddle or something?”

Your eyes widen, and as you flatten your skirt, you thin your lips. “Uh, no. No thanks, Adam. I’m uh- I’m good.” You straighten your top, and tap your heels against the floor, the sharp click echoes in the chambers. 

“Whatever,” he huffs, “I was just gonna psych you out anyways.” He waves his hand, and cool air rushes around you. 

You let out a sigh, looking at the mirror where you stared at yourself just a bit ago. Your hands play with your hair, making sure that when you leave, it won’t look like you just slept with someone. You hum, and tilt your head from side to side, trying to find some sort of mark that would have to be hidden. However, the cool air- his own magic or blessing- has fixed any evidence of indecency on you.

“The extermination is next month,” Adam sighs. Your eyes flick up, and you catch him staring at you- golden eyes piercing into your own, unblinking and unbothered. 

“I’m aware,” you tell him, returning to look at yourself in the mirror. You stand straight and let out a sharp sigh. “I think some of the residents are already panicking.”

“Are you?”

Your stomach knots itself, and you remember when you were first bought by Adam- the nervousness, the disgust, the bile burning your throat. It’s all too familiar at this moment. You shrug. “I don’t think it’s set in yet,” you mumble. 

“I’ll come by the night before.” You look at the white tiles- the grout filled with shimmering gold, and the tiles patterned with silver and gold lines. “I’ll leave the back door unlocked like last time.” He doesn’t say the words nicely, it’s more like an afterthought, as if telling you this is a bother, but still, he tells you this, and one thing you've learned about Adam is that he hasn't lied to you yet. You fist the hem of your skirt in your hands, and nod. It’s silent, and then he starts again, annoyance laced into his words. “What do we say?”

“Thank you, Adam,” you tell him in a beat. 

“Yeah, well, I can't have my favorite whore die.” His wings unfurl and stretch across the bed. The tips of the feathers reach just beyond the mattress, and you shrug. The words hang heavy in the air, and you feel small compared to him. In the mirror, you can see his reflection, his  mouth thinning, and his eyes narrowing. “I- uh- I still have you for ten more minutes.” You make eye contact with him in the mirror. “Get back here. I wanna suck on your tits.”

You stick your tongue out, and your hips sway as you walk towards him, your heels falling carelessly to the floor as you rest beside him. His hands are cold as they peel off your shirt and without a care, he tosses it to the foot of the grand bed. A hand cups at your breast, and you can feel his breath fan over your chest, and you wait to feel his teeth bite at you, but you never do. The wetness of his lips trace over the swell of your breast, a peck pressed against the bud, but never swallowing it. Your chest is heavy with his weight on top of you, and the hand on your breast unfurls and curves over your ribs. His wings expand, and they partially cover you, the softness of them akin to the finest blanket in what only money can buy. 

Realization as what he’s doing has your body heating, and you worry that he can tell with the way that he’s laid bare on your chest, and yet, he makes no snide comments. This is far more intimate than anything you’ve ever done before. With a harsh swallow, your arm wraps around him, your hand reaching upwards to scratch at the back of his head. Your hands knot into his hair, your nails dully scratching along his scalp. He lets out a low hum in response, nuzzling his cheek over your bare skin in approval. 

With a shaky breath, you break the silence. “You know, I was thinking, that maybe I’d uh, give that Hazbin Hotel a shot.” You feel his hands scratch over your ribs, straight, and piercing, and they cling to you as his breath hitches. “I’m not sure I believe in the whole redemption thing, but free housing is nice.” You feel him nod slowly, and you twirl a piece of his hair around your finger. He gives you a short answer, one that is mumbled into your skin and doesn't make its way to you, and his wings inch further up covering more of your body as he brushes his lips against the swell of your breast. You don’t look at the time even when you feel that he’s grown heavier on your body.

[beenbaanbuun]

late w/ poly seongsang

“finally decided to show up, then?” you hear immediately as you throw the door to the apartment open. you should’ve known the two of them would be waiting up for you, seemingly unable to do anything within you by their side. its funny really; despite the anger that simmers through the living space like a pot waiting to overflow, they still want you there.

“i was busy running errands,” you start to say at the same time seonghwa mumbles a soft ‘yeo,’ and you can’t help but pause. seonghwa had arguably been the more hurt out of the two, and yet his gentle disposition always leads him to forgiveness first. you clear your throat as you gesture for seonghwa to continue. whatever he has to say is probably more productive than the sarcasm you were about to drop.

“yeosang,” he repeats, ever so slightly tilting his head to face the other man. you slide the door shut as quietly as possible, although you’re not sure why. perhaps you don’t want to cause any more disruptions to the peace, not that there’s much of that left, “i thought we agreed to be nice.”

yeosang scoffs before slamming the bills that he was counting down onto the chest beside him. you flinch at the loud noise as it echos around the van “no, hwa-hyung,” he spits, “you agreed to be nice. i said i was going to teach our girl a lesson.”

the smirk on his lips causes your breath to hitch. it’s a look you’re familiar with and you can’t help but shy away from it. the last time he looked at you that way was when you’d hit on yeosang’s opponent as a way to distract him. it had worked, obviously, but that wasn’t the point. it had hurt seonghwa’s pride to know that half of the reason he won the race was because of your distractions, and it had hurt yeosang that you hadn’t discussed the plan with him before you executed it. it had hurt them both to see them hanging off another man’s arm, cooing at his every word. it’s safe to say yeosang had made sure it wouldn’t be a recurring issue.

“i don’t think she meant to be late to the race, sangie” the taller of the two coos, trying his hardest to squash the issue before yeosang could take it any further, “we had her up late last night. poor thing must be tired!”

“yeah?” yeosang cocks a brow as he answers his elder, although his gaze never leaves your own, “well, the ‘poor thing’ in question didn’t seem to be complaining when we had her bent over the hood of your car until god knows what hour, did she?”

you flush at the memories of last night, but soon shake them loose when you realise that it won’t be of any help to your current situation.

“besides, you know just as well as i do that the little slut loves it when i’m a little mean,” he pats one of his deliciously spread thighs, and you, being as well trained as you are, begin to shuffle closer. you reach him, probably not as quickly as he would’ve liked, and kneel down between his spread legs. your gaze hits the floor immediately, “perhaps if you weren’t so soft, hwa-hyung, she’d listen to you when you ask her to be on time.”

seonghwa sighs from behind you, but doesn’t say a word to argue. he knows as well as you do that you can get away with murder with him.

maybe you did intentionally forgot to set an alarm this morning, and maybe you had ‘slept through’ their attempts to wake you up before heading to the track, but it was only because you knew seonghwa wouldn’t do anything. perhaps if you were thinking a little harder this morning you would’ve known that where hwa wouldn’t punish you, yeosang would.

as they saying goes, hindsight is a wonderful thing.

“well, do what you need to do,” seonghwa sighs as he grabs his abandoned book from the floor and moves until his back is flat against the arm of the sofa, “just try not to be too loud; this book is finally getting good.”

before you can let your jaw drop at how easily seonghwa is to pass you over to yeosang and leave you at the mercy of his evil schemes, theres a hand clamping it closed. it wraps firmly around your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks to make your lips jut out in a pout. you know there’s no use resisting as he tilts your head until you’re looking him dead in the eyes. there’s a twinkle behind them telling you you he’s going to thoroughly enjoy taking you down a few pegs.

“you know,” he starts, “if it was just the case of being late this morning, this wouldn’t be happening. if you’d just apologised to our beloved seonghwa and accepted that you’d upset him, i would’ve let you off the hook.”

he shifts one of the fingers that rests on your jaw, bringing it to your lips and slipping it between them with a warning of, ‘no biting,’ as he pushes down on your tongue. spit pools around the digit but you’re not able to swallow it down. you have no choice but to stare at him with wide eyes as he plays with your mouth like a toy.

“but then you had to argue and storm out of here like a little brat,” he curls his finger, hooking it over your lower teeth and tugs you closer by your jaw until your nose is almost touching his crotch, “do you even know how worried we were? even with all that anger?” he scoffs as he pushes your face back with force. the fingers around your jaw loosen, and the one on your tongue slips free. you think you’re in the clear, until you feel them curl around your neck. you go to take in a breath, but as you do, his fingers squeeze the sides. your breath stutters, “were you even thinking about us when you were off doing fuck knows what? did you even stop and think for a second that maybe walking around alone in the dark would just make us worry?”

and you have to admit, the answer is no. you were too angry to think about them for longer than a few seconds. now, as you’re surrounded by your two lovers, you realise that your anger wasn’t even placed at them. in fact the only feeling you felt so strongly towards them was guilt; the anger was mostly towards yourself. you didn’t even need to wonder why; the list from today alone was too long to count.

“i just needed some fresh air,” you whimper as you squirm against the hand on your neck, “needed to think straight. i’m sorry now, i am!”

the grip he has on your neck loosens a little as watches you beg for his forgiveness. if he feels a little pang of adoration shoot through his heart as he watches your eyes gloss over with unshed tears, that’s for him to know. it’s so easy for him to see why seonghwa is so gentle with you all the time when you look so fragile, but someone has to put you in your place when you’re bad. if it’s not going to be seonghwa, then it has to be him.

he quickly mends the small cracks of sympathy in his heart before diving back in, tightening his hand once more around your neck. you whine, but this time yeosang holds his feelings back with a cruel smirk.

“oh, you’re sorry are you?” he condescends with a fake pout, “should’ve thought about that earlier, little one. now you’d better get to work. you know forgiveness comes hand in hand with repentance…”

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Down at the river

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Request: Hello, I love your stories and have an idea for werewolf Daryl. In wolf form, Daryl finds a reader who is swimming in the river and falls in love with her. In human form, he brings her to the group (no matter what time) but he is afraid to tell her about himself without knowing how much the reader has fallen in love with him. Preferably with smut at the end ;) Thanks♡

Down at the river, where the stream split was where people used to find Daryl during the days before and after the full moon. He'd be bathing in his changed form, or fishing to bring back a haul for his community.

But nowadays he spent his time around the area in hiding. Covered by the thick greenery he'd watch the new woman bathe in the river and catch his fish. She had skills he admired, and she was beautiful as well. Her hair down to be washed or up in a bun when just rinsing her body, she was beautiful.

Daryl traveled along with a supply cart between the communities. He was asked to be security because of the increase in walkers lately, but also because multiple carts had been robbed lately.

Daryl kept his eyes and ears open for any noises and caught something getting closer to the cart. It was too subtle for a human to hear, and too calculated to be a walker. He took his crossbow and watched for any movement but whatever it was stayed hidden.

Only when Daryl went to explain what he heard and let his guard down momentarily there was an opening to rush in, slash the tarp and grab whatever was underneath with both hands and running off.

Daryl was quick to grab his crossbow and follow the figure, easily catching up and hauling them up against a tree and watching all the produce fall to the ground.

"Where's yer camp?" Daryl snarled, inches away from your face. His gaze flickering around the area for any sign of backup.

"I swear it's just me. I found a cabin but fish isn't enough to live on.. Please I just want to eat." You raised your hands as much as possible, palms open and empty for the man to see you were harmless. He caught no sense of you lying to him, so he set you back down and handed you a small portion of what you had stolen. "Ya know we got communities. If ya wanna live nicer, try Alexandria." With the leftover produce in his hands and crossbow over his shoulder he turned around to walk away. "I know ya know where it is."

On his way back he couldn't help but flash back to when he saw you in the river. You knew your way around the woods and were a skilled survivor, but he couldn't let all of that make the heat rise in his cheeks.

"Was a lone woman. Left 'er with a warning." Daryl placed the produce back in the cart, clearly less than what was taken. "Some got squashed when she ran 'n dropped it. M'sorry."

Daryl went to find the cabin, locating it with ease and watching from afar. It was a nice place, and surrounded by walker traps. He remembered your complaints about eating just fish, so while you did know how to fish, hunting and animal trapping wasn't something you were familiar with.

Which is why he hunted down some small game and prepped it to leave at your door, boxed in a stupid tupperware box he took from Carol's kitchen.

He waited til the next full moon for you to knock on the community gate, but you never did.

Back in the woods, Daryl went to his usual spot. A giant pile of leaves becoming his base for those nights. A nice bed and a great hiding spot for his stuff. With the nights becoming colder again he didn't want to fish, opting for hunting instead. He ate his fill and trodged back to the place he'd call his bed for the night, quickly dozing off covered in yellow leaves.

That same night, at the cabin not far off you rested, unable to fall asleep with the lack of thick blankets. Tossing and turning and groaning in frustration you sat up, remembering the giant pile of fallen leaves a short walk away. You thought of stuffing the ratty duvet cover and making a thicker blanket that way and set off to where you had seen it.

Upon arrival you found.. something else as well. At the base of the pile laid a creature, covered partially under a golden blanket. 'Looks like we had the same idea.' The thought came and went as you stared at the large bear.

No, not a bear. Its shapes weren't bearlike.

You scanned the animal's features and got hit by a realisation like a truck. The creature in front of you bared a scar over its eye. Just like that man who let you have that food after you stole from his people. The greying fur indicated his older age too. It matched up perfectly. The long shaggy fur now looked entirely black in the small bits of moonlight passing through the trees, but you bet it was that same dark brown from your memories.

You ditched the plan of taking the leaves, as to not wake up the sleeping beast and turned back home to your cabin.

Despite the night's cold temperature you eventually passed out and slept til late in the morning.

By the time you went to head out, pushing open the cabin door you felt it hit something, shoving it along.

A quick look around the door showed a small wild boar, its throat cut and seemingly drained. But it looked clean aside from the rope burns around its leg. You took the boar inside and stashed it away, giving a quick glance at the plastic tub that held the other animals last time with a fond smile. Your mind wandered to the man who so kindly let you keep the food even after you stole from his people. You were convinced he was bringing you the animals and it warmed your heart.

Were you catching feelings for him?

Shrugging it off you went to set out into the woods to do your daily gatherings, sneaking along the area where you saw him sleep last night, but not finding anything that indicated he had been there besides the leaf pile being a mess. Your trip was ended quickly now that you didn't need to hunt or fish, so you decided to make the extra trip back to the leaf pile with your blanket cover after all.

The amount of walkers in the area increased quickly. It was like they were swarming in from all sides. Daryl had noticed it too. It wasn't safe for him anymore to sleep in the woods during full moons. His mind kept wandering to you, and went by the cabin a few times but never caught you there. He couldn't afford to camp around your home with his community needing food stockpiled if it got too bad outside the walls. He had to keep up the supply and needed to hunt.

It was late at night after two weeks of daily trap checking and hauling back food for his people when he was being summoned to the gate.

"This woman claims to know you, but not by name." Deanna's voice was stern, not trusting the stranger at her side.

Daryl gave you a once over and nodded, "yeah. Seen 'er out there. Traded food once or twice." It was cler you were hurt, and seeing the way you carried your bedsheets stuffed with items he made out you had to leave in a hurry. "Ya should rest. I'll take someone ta check yer old place in the mornin'."

The offer took you off guard but you welcomed it, thanking him for being so kind.

"Alright." Deanna stated quickly. " you may accompany mister Dixon for the night, since you two have a history together. Tomorrow morning mister Dixon can show you my home where we can continue this talk. Goodnight for now." With a kind smile she headed back home.

Daryl bid the guards a good night aa well before showing you the way to his shared home. "Ain't got a room fer ya yet, so yer gonna havta live with the couch tonight."

Daryl led you inside where you were met with Carol who was woken up by people coming to get Daryl earlier. You watched her as she got up and with a kind smile to greet you and introduced herself. When you responded with an introduction of yourself, Daryl made a mental note of your name. "Would you like some tea?"

She had practically readied everything already before you answered, so instead you just nodded and thanked her as she offered you a cup.

"I'm going back to bed. Find me when you need something, okay?" A small wave punctuated her leave as she disappeared up the stairs.

You stood with the tea in your hands, looking around the house and taking it all in. It had been years since you'd seen a house in this near perfect state, untouched by the dead, or the living that took everything they desired.

"Yer gon' be alrigh?" Daryl's voice was soft, like he was trying his best not to overwhelm you. He got to digging out blanket from the basket beside hus lounge chair and handed it to you along with an extra pillow.

"Thankyou. I'll be fine for the night." With tour bedsheet bag set to the side you sat down to undo your boots, remembering you had set your tea down and taking a sip before it got cold.

Daryl kind of just watched your scatterbrained self do five things at once until you were finally ready to lay down. Only then did he wish you a good night, and upon walking away he stopped for a second, turning towards you. "Name's Daryl, by the way."

It had been a while since you slept through the night and woke up with the smell of fresh breakfast being prepared. The groan you let out as you stretched earned you a call of good morning from the kitchen. Carol peeked her head past the corner and walked up with a new cup of tea.

While you waited for breakfast as Carol had instructed you went to unpack the stuff you brought. Trying to make a list for Daryl to help him on his trip to your cabin later today.

You stacked your clothes on the armrest beside you, clearly missing a couple of items that weren't on the closest pile when you ran. You dug out a canteen of water, some weapons and a solar powered lantern that was at the end of its life. The last thing all the way at the bottom was--

"Hey, where'd you get that?" Carol's curious tone had you jump up, pulled away from the focus on your task.

"Ya took it with ya? Empty?" You hadn't even noticed Daryl coming into the room, all dressed and ready to leave already.

Your gaze switched from Carol over to Daryl, and back to Carol again who was staring at her friend with a confused look on her face. "Daryl?"

Again your head moved to look at Daryl, who was chewing on the skin of his thumb. A clear sign of his nerves. "Took it ta bring 'er som meat. She weren't showin' at the gate so I took some to 'er home."

Carol raised her brows at that, but decided to stay quiet, going back to preparing the plate of breakfast for you and shooing Daryl out the door, who made a vocal protest of having to take you to Deanna. "I'll take her later. You go do your thing, she'll be here when you come home."

You smiled around a mouthful of food, loving the playful banter between the two.

With Daryl out the door, Carol went to take her own breakfast and sit down with you.

"So, how'd you two meet? Usually Daryl shares tales of his hunts, but I never heard anything about a woman."

You had to start improvising now. If you shared the truth there was a chance of being straight out the gate again. "He almost shot me." It was the first thing that came to mind, it was close enough to your first encounter where he would have shot you if you had beem further off. "He told me to find this place, but I got scared. I mentioned being tired of fish and he figured out where I lived." You shared a simple version of the whole truth that seemed to work well enough for Carol to move on.

After breakfast you washed up and Carol took you to see Deanna, where you went through some sort of interview initiation process. She talked about the inner workings of the community and finding a job for you based on your chat.

You found it strange, but you guessed it was a necessity.

Deanna gave you a quick tour of the community after deeming you not dangerous, showing you all the important places like the pantry, the infirmary and the vegetable gardens.

You got to search through the community clothing reserves and pick out some stuff to take home and take a much needed shower.

You had no idea how long you spent in the bathroom. All you knew was Daryl had come home by the time you were done.

It then hit you you never gave him a list of missing items.

"Hey." Daryl's eyes caught yours and for a second all he could see was you, with your soaked hair in the river. He shook the thought off and awkwardly pointed out the door. "Stripped the place. Come see what ya wanna keep?"

In your clean clothes and damp hair you followed Daryl outside, padding along down the porch steps and to the back of the truck parked in front of the house.

Together you sifted through the truck bed, taking out the items you wished to keep for yourself and sorting rhe rest into useful community items and stuff to take apart for material.

Spending the whole day going around the community with Daryl was the best time you had since the dead came back to life.

Just one day of donating your gathered items and clearing out your now bedroom was all it took to have those butterflies from back in your cabin flutter so much more intense than before.

But you kept it quiet, showed none of it. There was no way it would be okay to share something like that only a single day into it.

Where you went to bed content, Daryl ended up downstairs with a less positive mindset.

He was angry. Not at you, or anyone in general. He was angry with himself. He was angry for falling for you since day one and not having had the courage to show himself to you during the full moons.

Weeks passed where the two of you danced around each other in and out of the community, all the way up to the week of the full moon.

Daryl had to leave again in three days and his mind was plagueing him. He hated the idea of having to lie to you about his leave. He hated that he'd have to use your cabin and reinforce it in record time so he had a safe space to sleep.

But if yoy knew your cabin was walker-proof, you could want to move back and Daryl didn't want that. He wanted you to stay..

Around the community it was clear something was bugging Daryl, but most of them wouldn't even bother to find out what that something was. To Carol it was clear as day, and she made it her personal job to make sure Daryl talked to you before leaving.

"Pookie.." Carol sat down beside her friend who had been chainsmoking on the porch, leg bouncing and thumb almost bleeding from how much he bit it. "She's gonna be okay with it. The cabin, you. Everything."

Daryl only grumbled something in response. Something that sounded like you being afraid, which only made her laugh niw that she knew how the two of you had officially met.

Of course Darul had shared the whole truth with her, it's how Carol figured out her friend had been in love with the girl way before she had shown up at the community. Before he had caught her stealing, even.

"Daryl, look. It has been obvious that she's comfortable around you. You attacked her for stealing and lied about it to get her to stay." A soft reassuring smile ended her last sentence. "She's lived in the woods. She'll love your animal half."

Daryl spent the remainder of his cigarette mulling over Carol's words. She made so much sense it had to be true.

It took the rest of the day to mentally prepare him to go find you at home, and to his luck you were helping Carol in the kitchen.

He thanked the moon for Carol being there as well, he was going to need someone to back him up.

"Hey, Daryl." Carol happily greeted him from where she was showing you how to create her cookie dough, kneading it side by side with you.

The soft hum of the oven sounded through the kitchen as Daryl came over and leaned against the counter behind you.

"Man, I wish we had chocolate chips.. I miss those." You reminised to the old world and its delicious snacks that had your mouth water.

"I have some, we can set some dough aside for a small batch." Carol moved to separate a small portion of her dough for later. "Just keep those away from the regular ones. Daryl's allergic to chocolate and we don't want him getting sick."

Your brows furrowed in confusion, while Daryl glanced over at Carol's conversation starter.

"You're allergic to chocolate? That must suck.." You peeked away from your work to give Daryl and apologetic look.

He only shrugged it off, too busy with his confession to make a snarky comment. The kitchen fell silent again and he felt the panic gnaw at his skull again. He had to get it over with.

"S'watcha get when ya ain't fully human. Can't eat all kindsa food."

Carol smiled to herself when your hands stilled. In the reflection of the window you could see Daryl's worry clean on his face. You had to choose your words carefully.

"What else can't you have? You know, for if I'm ever in charge of dinner."

The response was one Daryl didn't see coming. It was clear in his little stutter as he found the words to reply. "Can't have grapes. So no wine either, not tha' I can get drunk anyways."

You were hoping he'd straight up say what he was thinking and not dance around the subject, but you saw he needed time. Back to questioning you went.

"So, what exactly is making you have those allergies? What non-human part, I mean." You kept peeking his way over your shoulder as you followed Carol's moves in cutting and placing the cookies.

"Yer gonna think 'm crazy. Feels gross sayn' it out loud." He couldn't even look up from the floor with how badly he wanted to disappear right now. His hands in his pockets plucking at any loose threads so he wouldn't chew his fingers down to the bone.

"You could always show her." Carol shrugged with the plate of raw cookies in her hands, placing it in the oven while you operated the door for her.

"Nah. S'too scary ta show jus' like tha'." He was getting restless, he had said what he wanted in a way, so why was he still so anxious about this whole thing?

"Scary? I swear I mistook you for a bear undernthat pile of leaves last month. You're pretty cute when you sleep." Your eyes squinted with the wide smile on your face, remembering that night in the woods.

Only when you saw Daryl's face become one of utter shock you couldn't hold back your laughter.

It took a moment for the situation to die down again, you catching your breath and Daryl still not knowing what to do.

But Carol did. "I told you so." With a shrug she kept moving around and continuing the baking process while Daryl's mind rattled and you reassured him once more.

"I came here after I saw you and realised who I found. If I saw you before I came here I would have been just as happy to have seen you, because I like you for who you are, not what you are."

Daryl's hands had by now found their way out of his pockets. One tucked underneath his armpit and the other being anxiohsly chewed on, the skin angry and red.

You abandoned your baking, trusting Carol to pick up, and took two steps towards him. Your hands found his, tugging them down to hold them in yours. "Daryl.."

You watched a million thought cross Daryl's eyes, his hands trembled in yours as he looked anywhere but at you.

With your hands intertwined you could feel the anxiety seep into you. The words you had ready all jumbled up and were unreachable in your head. The only difference was, you did find words when you looked Daryl in the eyes and he looked right back. The trembling of Daryl's hands in yours turned into full body jitters, lifting you on your tiptoes to press the quickest peck to his lips, quietly mumbling an 'I love you' against his chest.

For a moment the kitchen was quiet. No mure humming of the oven or rummaging on the counters. Carol had soundlessly slipped away too.

After a while of not getting a single response, Daryl's hands slipped from yours and for a second your heart broke. You were ready to step back and head out, ready to disappear when his hands settled on your lower back, fingers brushing over the fabric of your shirt ever so lightly. He was testing the waters and you let him. Daryl needed time to let everything sink in and give it a place.

Your hands hung limp at your side, unsure what to do with them but tensed as Daryl nuzzled against your hair, softly pressing and nudging you to look at him.

With you facing him again he lowered his head and press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

Your arms snaked around him, pressing further into him. "I love you, Daryl."

After the kiss Daryl kept nuzzling your cheek, a soft humm rumbling deep down in his chest.

He may have not said it back, but it was clear in his actions he felt the same way for you.

A/N: This request was fun! I'm sorry it took so long, I really hope it's what you wanted ♡♡

[thesherrinfordfacility]

took me a while to sound out why the final fifteen felt so isolated from all the other arguments that they've had before, but "they aren't talking" might have led me to arrive at why that is. because whilst we have the "so did i" and bandstand arguments to compare it to, the closest that the final fifteen mirrors, for me, is their very first one that we see on screen; the holy water incident (and I'm 100% sure others have observed this but im slow)

the incident where crowley has experienced something that he's playing down to aziraphale, asks aziraphale for something to help him that only aziraphale can give to him, it turns out to be too much to ask of aziraphale, so he refuses, and they split apart. turn all of this around on its head, and you have the final fifteen. (and im going to put the caveat here: no, i do not think aziraphale has been threatened by the metatron and is communicating this in code to crowley, but yes i do think he feels threatened by the metatron; i think he's genuinely eager to take this opportunity, but equally he's not stupid).

so then they go through 79 years of silence, of not talking, and come to 1941, where aziraphale lands himself in a spot of bother, and crowley breaks their silence by coming to the rescue. they get through the church fiasco, and aziraphale enlists crowley's help in the bullet catch ("trust me"), without ever discussing the holy water - all the while, their affection and love for each other is broiling just beneath the surface. perhaps it stands to reason that the same will happen in s3; that crowley will find himself in a Situation, aziraphale turns up to get him out of it - using it as an Excuse - and they end up on the subject of the second coming etc., and crowley reluctantly agrees to help resolve it, but only with the unspoken provision that they, absolutely, do not discuss what happened in the bookshop.

but what about the missing scene of 1941? well, there have been hundreds of different speculations of what could have happened; they actually do discuss the holy water, or there's otherwise a bit of a vulnerable heart-to-heart, there's a kiss, there's an almost-kiss, there's a fight involving the zombies, the derringer comes out to play, crowley gets yanked back to hell again, or gets discorporated... but whatever happens evidently informs on the atmosphere attributable in 1967 - because it's not until 1967 that aziraphale considers his hand forced, cares so much for crowley that he'll do the very thing that he's previously refused to do - gives crowley the holy water - but then puts distance between them again. perhaps the same kinda of thing happens somewhere around ep3/4 of s3; that they finally get to a point where what happened - the kiss, the offer, the mutual rejection - can't be ignored any longer, and a full-bore-full-roar argument erupts at perhaps the most inopportune time, to the point it's just comical, leading them to the point where they finally both understand where they stand with each other, what the other meant, and wanted.

so look, im not saying that crowley is suddenly going to change his mind about going to heaven, in order to track with aziraphale's 180° on the holy water; that doesn't make much sense. and it similarly doesn't make much sense for them to create distance between them like they seem to have done in 1967. if anything, this time it's the impetus they need to get everything out and laid bare, nothing bitten back, nothing squashed down and restrained. "you go too fast for me" suddenly becomes "we're finally on the same page."

[noosayog]

[parking ticket] ft. sawamura daichi 

wc: 1k

contents/warnings: fem! reader, reader is referred to as ma’am, timeskip characters. for the sake of story, let’s pretend the Miyagi prefecture parking rules go by the same ones in the States but Daichi is not an American cop because acab till I die!! 

A flash of light catches your attention when you look up from your phone from inside your car. By meter for the spot you’re currently parked in, is a cop who is tapping away at his little device, looking between his device, your car, and the meter that is currently flashing red. 

“Wait!” you say frantically, exiting your car. 

The cop looks up. When you meet his eyes previously hidden by his cap, they linger a bit on you before he levels you with an unimpressed look. 

“I just got here! I was planning on paying.” 

“Ma’am, I saw you pull into this spot before I circled around the block. And now, it’s still not paid.” 

You cringe. When you had pulled into the spot, 10 minutes early for your scheduled manicure appointment, you figured you could just kill time in the car. You were scrolling through your instagram feed, looking for nail inspo when you noticed the cop. 

“I was in an important call!” you fib. 

The cop puts his device down, and props his hands on his hips. You inappropriately take note of his broad shoulders and square jawline. His unimpressed gaze remains as he tightens his jaw. 

“You could have just paid the meter then went on with your call.” 

“It really was important! So important that I needed to get on the call the second I parked.” 

He picks up his device and continues tapping, eyes now darting down to your license plate. 

“Please, please! I swear, I plan on paying! It was just a couple of minutes,” you beg. 

Tap, tap. The device spits out a little piece of paper and he rips it from the jagged teeth of the mini printer. 

“Fine!” you say, storming over to where he’s standing. You quickly insert some coins into the meter, jabbing them in with your thumb for good measure. “I was on a call with the hospital because I just found out my grandma has stage four metastatic breast cancer, so if that warrants a ticket, then leave it on my dash, asshole!” 

With that, you walk swiftly away, both frustrated and impressed with your own quick thinking. 

You’re pleased to find that after your manicure, there is no ticket on your dash. 

You squash down the slight guilt you feel when you instead see a little note with a simple “sorry about your Grandmother” scribbled on. 

– 

It’s a couple weeks later when you revisit the nail salon for some regular upkeep. You pull into a spot and quickly exit your vehicle to feed the meter. You didn’t want to take your chances in this same area, knowing there’s potential for a certain cop to be patrolling. You’re waiting at an intersection when a tap on your shoulder gets your attention. 

Turning around, you find yourself not surprised to come face to face with the same handsome cop as the other day. 

“Hey, nice to see you again,” he says. 

“Oh, hi. Yes,” you nod pleasantly. 

He takes off his police cap and tucks it neatly between his arms and torso. Even with his face half covered, you knew he would be nice to look at, but with his cap off, you get a full view of his gentle brown eyes and cropped black hair. 

“How’s your grandma? I’m sorry I was being such a hardass that day.” He rubs sheepishly at the back of his neck with his free hand. 

“Oh,” you smile a bit. “She’s fine. I lied so you wouldn’t give me a ticket,” you say breezily. 

The light at the intersection turns green. 

“See ya around!” you wave and start walking. 

You get a couple of feet before the officer falls into step with you. 

“Hold on a sec. Are you saying your grandmother doesn’t actually have cancer?”

“Nope.” 

“First of all, you shouldn’t go around lying about stuff like that, what if you speak it into existence?” 

You shrug, “both my grandmothers are already dead, so…” 

“Oh…” he says awkwardly. “Sorry to hear that.” 

You laugh again at his shifty eyes. 

“What’s the second thing?” you ask. 

“Hm?”

The two of you continue your leisurely stroll, side-by-side. You’ve already passed your salon, but you figure another lap wouldn’t hurt. 

“You said ‘first of all.’ What’s second?” 

“Ah,” he nods, sticking his hands in his pocket, relaxing his gait. “Second of all, why would you tell me you lied? I still have your license plate.” 

“Well,” you pretend to ponder, a mischievous smile growing. “Are you going to give me a ticket, officer?” 

He smiles too. “Depends. You might have to pay me back in some other ways.” 

“That sounds oddly inappropriate given your position in law enforcement,” you joke. 

“How about a date?” 

You startle a bit, not expecting a straight shot from someone who seems very, well, reserved. 

“You don’t even know my name,” you qualify. 

“I do. I looked up your registration.” 

You stop to face him, mentally noting the number on his badge. There, if he was creepy or weird, you could report him or something. 

“I'm free tomorrow night?” 

“Perfect, pick you up at 7?”

“You don’t even-” 

“I know where you live. Registration, remember?” 

“This feels like a misuse of government resources.” 

He leans in a bit, close enough for you to feel his minty breath on your cheeks. “May I?” he whispers.

Dazzled, you nod. 

He gives you the lightest kiss on your cheek, before taking one large, respectable step away. “My name is Sawamura Daichi. I promise I won’t do anything weird with your information unless you deserve another parking ticket in the future.” 

“Hey!” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” he says, fixing his cap back on his head and giving you a cute little salute before walking back the direction he came from.

[babygirl-riley]

The Riley’s

You surprise a new Riley in the family.

“He’s a four legged tracking machine.”

simon x reader guide

simon x reader family edition

Warnings: swearing and fluff

You couldn’t resist, you were alone for two months now. Which is pretty normal for how Simon’s job is. So you went to a couple of shelters, animal shelters. Originally it was to check out what type of dogs were out there. Simon and you talked about it before, that if there was a dog present that it would not be some small yappy one.

Simon hated the small dogs, thought they were to tiny and he could squash them by accident when walking around. Which was fair, he was a large man in stature. So just looking for ideas wasn’t suppose to have the end goal you got.

It was a loud shelter many dogs barking and howling. It broke your heart to see them, some were cowering in the corner others up against the fence. You would look at the names Sparky, Jack, Velma, Cupcake. Really odd names. However there was one that made you stop in your tracks.

Riley. You looked into the cage to find a German Shepard, at first he was cautious on when you stopped. Glaring and still. “He used to be a military dog actually,” The woman said behind you. “We might have to put him down soon cause he is getting aggressive.”

You smiled and turned to her. “Can I walk him?”

She stared at you for a minute and shook her head. “I don’t know he isn’t for sale.”

You chuckled. “No worries just one walk and if he snaps then don’t worry about it.”

The lady shrugged and walked to grab a leash. You turned back to the dog who still hasn’t moved. Just staring, you kneeled down and looked at him. Tried to read his eyes. Curious was behind them yet cautious at the same time. “Hey bud,” You whispered. “It’s alright, I’m here to take you home.”

The dog stared unsure before sitting down waiting until the door opened. You watched as the lady cautiously took the dog and handed the leash to you. You grabbed it and he walked with you, he was next to you the whole time. When you looked at him he would look away but when you didn’t he sniffed you.

It reminded you of Simon, cautious and curious. When you both started to date Simon was standoffish yet caring at the same time. You knew nothing of him until damn near 2 years of the relationship. Didn’t know his family was killed until marriage. You could tell how similar the personality between Simon and Riley really was. You guess that’s what the military can do to you. Give you horrible things to twist your mind into think no one is trusted.

Not once for the hour you were with him he was aggressive. You pulled the lady aside and talked about taking him home. She explained that he doesn’t like children or other pets. Luckily for him neither of those were there, she explained that the personality would come out and she expected for him to be back.

You negotiated and bought him, he followed you to the car, hopping in normally. The drive home was nice, he sat and watched the world go by. “Ya know your new dad is military,” You spoke looking over for Riley to be laying down. “You two will get along just fine.”

Riley was to himself a lot of the time, you would feed him and taking him for walks. He wasn’t loving at first until 2 weeks later. He would play with you and cuddle up to you when it was time for bed. Would growl if he felt someone was too close to you when walking. Eventually you tested to see how trained he was. Learned he knew the basic things but also knew how to do protection tricks.

Simon didn’t expect when he pulled home to hear a deep growl at the door when putting his keys in. He wanted to surprise you if being home early, Simon even checked if it was the right house. The growl was deep, a warning. It was dark out, late very very late. So maybe he was hearing things, it wasn’t until he heard you tell something to sit.

“Simon!” You yelled swinging in for a hug. He hugged you back but all he could see is that dog. The dog that was glaring at him for a moment.

“What’s that?”

You turned smiling before biting down on his lower lip. “So I got lonely,” You stated walking over to Riley petting his head. “I wasn’t going to buy a dog but something ironic happened.”

Simon watched as the dog scooted closer to you. Still cautious of him, Simon was just a big man, he rarely wore his mask at home. Takes it off in his truck unless he was extremely tired. “What is it?” He said again.

“His name is Riley.”

Simon was shocked, you were joking, there is no way his name was that. That would be very strange and interesting. “Really?”

You nodded and grabbed his dog tag and his name was engraved. He was a beautiful dog. He walked up to the dog, at first the dog froze then sniffed his hand. Simon let it do whatever as he growled lowly before walking away. You sucked in your lips. “He will get used to you.”

Simon hoped it would be awful to have a pet that tolerated him. For the couple of weeks he was there, Riley slowly got closer to him. Riley followed him everywhere, bathroom, back hard when mowing, on the side of his bed. All of it. Hell Riley would watch football with Simon.

Riley and Simon started to do more training. Taught him how to search, would hide little things of yours, eventually you as Riley searched. Slowly Riley would leave with Simon to the base, slowly would not be at home.

You rolled your eyes humorously. “He hated you.”

Simon scoffed. “He was shy.”

You laughed placing the noodles on each plate. You frowned. “You promise you both come back safe? Intact?”

Simon frowned as well. He knew how you felt when you both talked about what would Riley do, stay at home. That was your only thing, he didn’t need to go out and fight anymore. He did it when he was younger. However Riley has been anxious been doing things that Simon noticed that the other canines would do. Especially when they retired.

Price watched Simon and Riley together on the base. Riley was a good tracking dog and really good at attacking as well. So Price pulled Simon aside and asked how he felt about Riley joining 141. Simon said he would love to but he would have to ask the Misses.

At first you walked away from him, angry of course. Simon knew not to follow you, that he got you that upset to retreat to the bedroom. So he waited. Until you came out and asked what Riley would do. He explained that he would only go on missions that needed the enemy to be found. Capture or kill.

You would listen sit and made tea for both of you as you both negotiated on what would happen. You sighed again. “It would only be for those missions. Some I will know ahead some I won’t. Just like normally.” Simon explained holding her hands. “Ya seen him. He walks around the house like he needs something. He just got into the planets last week.” Simon explained.

You looked outside remembering him bringing in a whole bush of flowers. Dirt and a fucked up backyard. Riley would start destroying things after one paw of his stepped into the base. He wanted more. Needed more. More energy. You frowned looking down at Riley. Riley wagged his tail looking up at you.

“Dogs don’t need to fight the wars Si.” You whispered petting Riley.

Simon nodded his head. “I agree lovie, unfortunately he has already been trained it wouldn’t be his firs’. He would be a good asset.”

You watched as Riley licked your hand. Like he was reassuring you, like he was telling you it was fine. “Alright, only for those missions. But I next time Simon I am getting a yippy and you can’t do shit.”

Simon shook his head chuckling lowly. “No I don’t think so sweethear’”

Simon thought you were kidding but three months later, you brought home a tiniest dog. Yorkie of all dogs. Simon now knows not to take the dogs with him to base. Well Riley fell in love with the little bugger. Eventually Simon did as well having both dogs near him.

You came home from grocery shopping and while walking in you saw the dogs and him sleeping. Riley laid at the end of his feet while Hallie laid on his chest. You scoffed, pulling out your phone, clicking the picture. You smiled as you sent it to Price stating you will have a drug locator too.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The first thing she does is stride across the stage. She is moving quickly, for a reason. At events like these, there is typically someone with a clipboard and a headset holding you backstage behind a curtain. They tell you the exact moment when you can walk out. Both candidates will be let loose at the same time. For her to achieve her first objective, she has to walk faster than him, so that she is in his space when, remarkably, for the first time, the two meet.

He seems to avoid her. He has barely made it to his own podium by this point, but she has already crossed her podium and the space between them and now stands behind his podium, on his turf. “Kamala Harris,” she says, in case he needs a refresher. I cannot recall a presidential candidate saying their own name to their adversary like that. It strikes me that that was how she would have introduced herself in courtrooms.

This first move is Aggression Meets Manners. She is trying to own him, with courtesy. She returns to her podium. And the first thing she does now, because she knows she has to, given how it is for women in her situation, is smile. A big, generous, probably rehearsed smile, because you really have to.

There were miles to go from there. But already in that double instant, you had it all. The full range of who she had to be, and who she would be: dominant, alpha, power-conscious, on one hand; joyous, easygoing, a little above it, having a blast, on the other.

Last night Vice President Kamala Harris faced the impossible, contradictory demands women face in politics and in all of public life, and she said, “Yes-and-and-and-and.”

She had to thread the smallest of needles, starting with that mix of aggressive and mannered, then being joyful and tough, gracious and angry, and contemptuous and hopeful, and incredulous and credible, pugnacious and nurturing, pitying and alarmed.

In one sense, there are very few women in the world who will have had the precise experience the vice president did last night. But I doubt there are many women who have not felt themselves forced to thread that needle and win by being all the things.

Last night Kamala Harris was all the things.

What came back to me as I watched was Gloria’s monologue in the “Barbie” movie, delivered for the ages by America Ferrera.

It is literally impossible to be a woman… You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas… It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.

These incentives and pressures are not fair, but they exist. Last night, as much as any political leader in memory, Harris thrived at being all the things at once — all the things a single person should not have to be.

When she did aggression, she did aggression. “Donald Trump was fired by 81 million people,” she said. (And you have to give him credit: he knows TV, and he knows a good line, and that one he gave a grudging nod of admiration. I see what you did there.) She said to him that dictators “would eat you for lunch.” She told him his crowds were walking out out of exhaustion and boredom, the form of impotence he cares about the most. She told him that she had to clean up his mess.

Ordinarily, this kind of emasculation should only be done in a licensed clinical setting.

What I’ve learned reporting on politics is that voters may say they care about this issue or that issue most, but what they’re often looking for is a gut check on whether the candidate in question has the fight in them to thwart the obstacles that face their family. They know how immovable the obstacles are, because they just spent their day failing to defeat them. Can a candidate do for them what they can’t do for themselves?

The strength, force, alphaness Harris showed last night will satisfy many on that score. But look at what she mixed it with.

Her facial expressions worked harder than Charlie Chaplin’s back when there was no sound. The mics may have been muted, but they forgot to press the button to silence her face. Eyebrows up, eyebrows down. Hand on chin, hand down. Eyes enlarged, eyes narrowed. Skepticism, sadness, eagerness to butt in, exasperation, wonder — she might cycle through all of this during one of Donald Trump’s answers. Can one’s side-eye be nominated for an Emmy? Though Harris often looked right at him when she spoke, when Harris spoke, he looked straight ahead, with his resting fascism face.

Sometimes she listened, letting him wild. Sometimes she seemed like a predator on the savannah, ready to pounce as he meandered. Sometimes, many times, she planted bait for him, with the exterminator’s faith that the pest will eventually come for his nibble. He gobbled instead. Every one of her traps he found, true to biology, and gobbled. The thing about bait is you don’t know it’s bait. Otherwise, you wouldn’t fill up on it. Bait ruins dinner, because by dinner you’re dead.

What a small needle! In addition to all this, Harris sought to show, not tell but show, that the multiracial democracy America is becoming will be fun. One shouldn’t have to convince people that freedom is better than tyranny and the thriving of all better than the thriving of some, but here we are. You have to show people that what they are being manipulated to fear isn’t scary. And Harris carried herself, amid everything else she needed to be doing, with a joy that embodies the kind of future she promises.

The most important new thing I saw her do was prebunking. Pre-, not de-. Debunking is waiting for someone to lie and then hitting back with the truth. It doesn’t work in politics as much you would hope it would in an age saturated by lies. But prebunking works better. Prebunking is explaining to people how they are being (or, better yet, will be) manipulated, what the motive is, how the con works, how the lie will be crafted and how it will function, and, for extra credit, who benefits from it and how. In the age of Trump, too many of his opponents have been all debunk, no prebunk.

But in last night’s debate, again and again, Harris rose to the meta level and explained Trump’s ways in advance so as to inoculate against their infectiousness. “I’m going to tell you all, in this debate tonight, you’re going to hear from the same old, tired playbook, a bunch of lies, grievances and name-calling,” she said in the first minutes. In another moment, she prebunked any professions Trump might make to be admired by foreign autocrats for his strength: “It is absolutely well known that these dictators and autocrats are rooting for you to be president again because they’re so clear, they can manipulate you with flattery and favors.”

Trump is a challenge for anyone, because he is a weird mix of super dangerous and a joke. With the “Barbie” monologue in mind, think of how much harder this challenge grows for a woman running against him. Play up his danger, and you risk being seen as shrill, or weak, or scared, or hysterical. Belittle him, and you risk coming off as a bitch, a ballbreaker, a nag, a witch. It was remarkable, then, to see Harris’s comfort last night in treating Trump as both of these things at once, a danger and a clown.

She loves her a Venn diagram, and in the debate she seemed to find the lens-shaped intersection of what supremely dangerous wannabe autocrats and semi-retired, narcissistic, imploding clowns have in common: They are not thinking about you.

It became her message: He is not thinking about you. He is not capable of doing so. You may believe that is because he wants to be a dictator, and dictators, by definition, don’t worry much about what people need or want or say. You may believe it’s because he is a decent conservative like yourself with some pretty good ideas but just runs his mouth too much. No matter. She is trying to assemble an Ocasio-Cortez-to-Cheney coalition of people who believe that, whatever he may be thinking about, it’s not you.

At the end, she tried to speak to the breadth of a big country that feels today like it’s made of factions and rumps and tribes and slices and segments but that still is a country, a country full of wonder and promise, still, and she promised to be president even of the people who do not wish her well.

“As a prosecutor,” Harris said, “I never asked a victim or a witness, ‘Are you a Republican or a Democrat?’ The only thing I ever asked them: ‘Are you OK?’ And that’s the kind of president we need right now.”

It was a simple line, but strangely healing after these years. Years in which we have not been OK, because everything we have is at risk and all we could have is, too.

“Are you OK?” A little better this morning.

[linkspooky]

You're boring. You don't thrill me at all.

I received a few asks about Sukuna's comments on Yuji and decided to make a post about it. To begin with one thing I have noticed about Sukuna is that despite being the embodiment of arrogance and selfishness he's sometimes gracious and even praises the opponents he's fighting.

The complexity of Sukuna is that he can rip the NanaMimiko twins into pieces for daring to ask too big a favor of him for only one finger, but he can also a few chapters later take time to praise Jogo before he dies. He can praise Gojo with touching words even when Gojo in his afterlife segment believes he failed tor each Sukuna. He can also slaughter thousand of people just to get Yuji's goat. He's capable of being somewhat honorable if you earn his respect, and yet there's nobody he respects less than Yuji.

In fact, the way he treats Jogo is a contrast to Gojo, Gojo just mocks him openly in his defeat. Sukuna gives Jogo advice that he should have fought for himself instead of teaming up with others, and then praises his efforts.

He slaughters both Hajime and Higuruma, but in their dying moments he also seems to grant them what they wanted. Hajime wanted an answer on whether or not it was possible for the strong to love other people, and Higuruma wanted to die fighting. Gojo was lonely at the top as the strongest and he lost all identity, Sukuna cuts him down and he dies as a human being and Sukuna praises him saying he'll remember his name forever.

Sukuna sees all humans as insects, but he seems to divide them into the ones that are tasty enough to eat, and the ones he wants to squash. If you're worthy in his eyes, he'll even entertain you and play with you for a little bit. That's not saying much, but Sukuna is known as the worst curse in existence. There are small moments though where he seems to have a sense of honor, at least to opponents who earn his respect or catch his interest.

All of this makes the way he treats Yuji stand out even more.

Sukuna says that basically all of humanity is his toy box and he can have endless fun playing with them until he dies, and yet Yuji is the one toy that Sukuna doesn't want to play with.

It's not because Yuji is weak, because Yuji has been shown to steadily grow in strength over the series. Yuji doesn't have the mental handicaps cutting off his true potential like Megumi does either, Gojo says right away that Yuji's crazy, that he swings for the fences, that he's obsessed with getting stronger. Yuji may not be on someone like Yuta's level, but he fights side by side with Maki perfectly in sync.

Yuji is even someone who will walk face first into Sukuna's cleave and then keep walking.

It's not because he's weak, it's not because he lacks potential or handicaps himself like Megumi, so why is Yuji the one opponent that Sukuna just cannot stand?

Much like Mahito who also sought to destroy Yuji, and felt like he couldn't be reborn or become himself until Yuji was out of the way it's most likely because they are ideological opposites. Down to the roles they play in their world, Yuji is someone who has completely repressed his own identity in order to become a true sorcerer, a cog in the machine, one among many fighting for a supposed greater good. Whereas, Sukuna alongside Mahito were what Yuji identified as "true curses". Mahito said as much in his monologue where he attempted to break Yuji, that he is a curse, and Yuji is a sorcerer. The point of curses is to kill humans, the point of sorcerers is to kill curses they don't need any deeper reason to fight and it's not a fight between heroes and villains it a cycle. Exorcise, consume. Exorcise consume. Curses are born, Sorcerers kill curses it goes on and on.

Looking at it that way, Mahito is Yuji and Yuji is Mahito. They're both cogs in the same endless cycle of curses vs humans. Yuji doesn't keep track of how many curses he's killed, and Mahito doesn't keep track of how many people he's killed.

Yuji is suppressing himself to become a sorcerer. Sorcerers are cogs and cogs have a function. He wants to carry the torch that Nanami gave him, because Nanami is basically the most ethical and model version of a sorcerer, and Yuji's only imagined role in things is to keep fighting until he dies and then ideally passes the torch to someone else. Sukuna was a strong sorcerer from 1,000 years ago who died and became a curse to linger on in this world. Yuji was a normal kid (or a science experiment from Kenjaku) who decided to eat Sukuna's finger and then become a sorcerer and die for a reason greater than himself.

Sukuna represents the ideology of curses, while Yuji represents the total collective ideology of sorcerers from the modern age.

Sukuna will ask his opponents their ideology, he'll even sometimes give advice and share his point of view. He questioned Jogo's beliefs on whether curses were the true humans. he shared with Hajime his thoughts on love to give him an answer to his question. However, he doesn't want even want to engage with Yuji, he just wants Yuji out of his sight.

He wants to invalidate and disprove Yuji's beliefs because they represent the opposite of him and everything he stands for, but he also knows he can't.

Sukuna does explain in this chapter that part of the reason he hates Yuji is that he's been forced to share a body with him for so long and was forced to endure his thoughts long enough to know that Yuji actually means what he says his selflessness is the real thing.

You could also argue that Yuji is a literal cage that Kenjaku constructed to contain Sukuna. Sukuna's entire character is built around the fact that he has so much strength he has the absolute freedom to do whatever he wants, and in a thousand years the only thing that's hindered his freedom is Yuji.

I think it goes a step beyond that though, one is selfishness incarnate, who is obsessed with freedom to Eren Jaeger extents and the other is selflessness incarnate, who deliberately chains himself to roles. Yuji is willing to give up his free will to be a cog in the machine, because cogs have a function, they have a role and meaning.

That's the extreme of selflessness though, you give up your very sense of self. Yuji builds his sense of self over the roles that others assign him, not anything he does himself. His function, his purpose, is given to him by others he doesn't define it for himself. Sukuna even mocks him for it in the latest chapter.

Yuji needs other people to give him meaning. Sukuna on the other hands rejects the notion of love because he's never needed and will never need anyone.

Sukuna is all about his overwhelming sense of self, whereas Yuji lacks a sense of self entirely. By Sukuna's logic where strength comes from asserting yourself and burning everything around you, Yuji is weak, Yuji should have been crushed like a bug by now, but Sukuna hasn't crushed him yet.

Sukuna is the ultimate ideal of strength in the story. The only way to be strong is to get rid of your attachments and become a human calamity like him. Yuji's selflessness on the other hand is something that he's continually punished for. Yuji even thinks of himself as weak he says as much to Higuruma, people died, Yuji was unable to stop Sukuna because he was weak.

Yet Sukuna cannot get rid of Yuji, which challenges Sukuna's black and white ideals that all that matters is strength and weakness and the strong always triumph over the weak and devour them.

To change the subject for a moment let's talk about Gege's inspirations. Can you guess who Gege's favorite Fate Character is? I bet you can't guess.

While Gilgamesh is the unequivocally strongest hero in the Fate franchise, there is one character who is the natural enemy and the perfect counter to Gilgamesh. That is Shirou Emiya, who actually defeats Gilgamesh in combat in one of the three routes, something both gilgamesh stans and Gilgamesh himself hates Shirou for.

Gee, I wonder what the inspiration is.

However, there's a particular reason why Shirou and Gilgamesh are opposites besides the fact that they have relatively the same ability, Shirou can copy swords and Gilgamesh has every weapon in existence in his armory.

Gilgamesh is the first and greatest of heroes who defined what it is to be a hero and the heroic legend. Shirou Emiya is a fake hero. That's even how Gilgamesh refers to him, "Faker." Shirou has completely destroyed his own sense of self in order to be of use to others, because he thinks he is not allowed to exist unless he is saving others in some way. This is a pretty brief summary of Shirou's character, but because of survivor's guilt Shirou forgot his past, and identity and thinks it's unfair he got saved while others didn't. At the same time, Shirou saw the happiness on the face of the man who admired him and then became obsessed with the idea of saving others. Shirou can only experience happiness when he saves someone, and feels pretty much nothing otherwise. Not only does he save people for entirely selfish reasons, because of his survivor's guilt and to give him a reason to exist, but it's also not his own dream of being a hero. He stole someone else's dream, that of his father Kiritsugu who wanted to be a hero and who saved him and looked happy saving him.

I read in an analysis a long time ago, too long for me to remember who's it was that Gilgamesh will respect those that have a dream. When he fights Iskander in Fate Zero, while he completely slaughters him he also gives him his props in his last moments and honors him by killing Iskander with his full strength, because he respected Alexander the Great's dream of conquering Europe from ocean to ocean.

Which is why he cannot tolerate someone like Shirou, who has no dream of his own, no reason for fighting, only saving others for the sake of saving them and asking nothing in return.

Shirou wants to repress himself entirely and become an ideal, the same way Yuji does, it's just Shirou wants to become the ideal superhero and Yuji wants to become the ideal sorcerer.

There's another video I want to reference to illustrate how little sense of self Yuji has, and how conversely reliant on others he is for that sense of self. The video is [here] I reccomend the whole thing but this quote summarizes it pretty perfectly.

Yuji is the main character of the story, but the series own villain, and even a vast majority of the fandom constantly insists that he is not the main character, because he is so lacking in a sense of self. That's not a knock against Yuji, that's the point of his character. Shirou Emiya is one of my favorite characters of all time, they're similiar it's just Shirou goes to greater lengths to show how hollowed out he is as a person, how deeply unhappy and even mentally ill he is to live for the sake of others the way that he does.

Yuji wants to crush his own sense of identiy and become an ideal like Shirou, that ideal being the ideal sorcerer. Whereas Sukuna is defined by his overwhelming sense of self and his lack of ideals.

It only makes sense that they'd be at odds with one another, but Sukuna takes things a step farther he cannot abide by Yuji's existence because he's against the idea of ideals themselves.

Sukuna wants to believe that he is right to reject idealism and love, that he is not missing out on anything as long as he has himself and is strong. So far in life he's been able to poke holes in the ideals of anyone who challenges him, but he's spent so long in Yuji's brain he knows that Yuji's ideals are not false.

Sukuna doesn't just want to crush Yuji's hopes he wants to prove himself right. This is probably the first time in a thousand years he's even paused to question himself or think over his own beliefs because he's been so unchallenged and right.

Yet, Sukuna can't be right, by the very nature of the manga.

Jujutsu Kaisen isn't about one person being right, it's about balance. The worst person you know in Jujutsu Kaisen can have a point. Kenjaku does everything for his own amusement, but both he and Tsukumo Yuki agree that things in the modern Jujutsu World can't stay the way they are. Geto is a genocidal maniac but he's right that it's unfair for Sorcerers, especially children to sacrifice themselves pointlessly over and over again and if Geto hadn't been a close friend of Gojo's and went off the deep end Gojo likely would have never seen the flaws present in his own society.

Jujutsu Kaisen isn't a story about binary opposites, but one of yin and yang, of complementary ideals. Even a character like Sukuna can't last forever with his binary thinking, and Yuji existing and disagreeing with him is clearly having an effect on him. Sukuna's been so thoroughly challenged by his inability to crush Yuji outright that he's changed his goals. A thousand years ago Sukuna laid waste to sorcerers yes, but he was fine just being worshipped and bribed and getting into fights in the country side. He didn't destroy the world or anything.

His frustration with Yuji has gotten him to the point that he's willing to go full omnicidal maniac in order to challenge Yuji's ideals. That is how out of balance Sukuna is currently.

The manga won't land on the side of Sukuna being right, it will land on the side of balance, which is exactly why Yuji needs to challenge Sukuna as his antithesis.

The true answer however, will probably not lie in Sukuna's utter selfishness, or Yuji's selflessness, but rather somewhere in between.

[the-merry-otter]

How To Make Medieval Fabric Buttons

You will need:

• fabric (I’m using a medium weight wool)

• a sewing needle

• cotton or silk thread (it MUST be strong)

• a thimble

• dressmakers pins

Using this style of button as a fastening technique was very prevalent in 14th century Europe, on both men’s and women’s clothing. It was used for anything from sleeves and openings on the front of garments, to the iconic liripipe hoods (which is what these are gonna be for!).

They were usually made out of leftover fabric from the same material that was used for the garment they were intended for. As well as using every scrap of material possible, they also save you from having to buy metal buttons, which… aren’t cheap (both now and then).

The trade off is of course having to make them, which can be a painful process (literally - try not to get stabbed by the hedgehog ball at step 4!!). I thoroughly recommend a thimble to push the needle through as you form the ball - this is hard enough without having to pull it through.

Making buttons in my experience is 10% knowledge, 60% spite, and 30% hatred. It is a contest of wills between you (who wants a button) and the fabric (who doesn’t want to be a button). I wish you luck soldier.

To start with, cut a circle out of your fabric. How big will depend on what fabric you use - if it’s linen, you’d cut a larger circle than you would for wool. Mine is about 30mm.

Using a long long thread, bind on and then sew running stitches around the outside, about 5mm from the edge (may vary with fabric).

Pull this thread tight like a pouch, and turn the raw edges inwards in one direction. Try and tuck them inside the “bag” section. It will likely be more of a squashed oval at this point than a sphere.

Now, get your dressmakers pins and go absolutely ham. Continue to squish it “inward” (towards where the opening was) as you pin. The button should now resemble a very unfriendly little creature now (good luck with not getting stabbed, it can be a bit of a prick).

Next, basically use your needle to try and get it to stay in that shape. I usually do a bunch of stitches around the edge of the “back” end, and then spend some time criss-crossing the back. Try and put your needle in close to where it came out, so that you don’t get long pieces of visible thread.

Once you are confident that it will hold A Shape ™ (but also isn’t so stabbed that you can’t refine it further!), remove the pins. Your button will most likely resemble a little tiny messy wool brain at this point, but that’s ok!

The next step is to use your needle and thread to continue tucking the ball inwards to the centre of where the opening was. Above illustrates how I’ll flip the open part of a fold inward, by coming up through the fold and then levering it downwards so it gets tucked away. You can also just use the thread to pull errant folds inwards. Use the hand holding the button to squash it into form, and then sew it into place.

Once the button is actually a ball shape, crisscross the back of it a bit so that everything is firmly held in place. It should now (all things going well!!) actually be a sphere.

Once you’re happy with the shape and firmness, take your thread to stem out of the centre back. Bind off, and then slide the needle off the thread, leaving the long end. This can then be used to sew the button onto the garment.

The back will still be somewhat messy, but the front should be smooth, and the whole shape roughly spherical. When the button is sewn on using the remainder of the thread, you won’t be able to see the back!

I wrap the remainder of the thread around the finished button so it won’t get tangled, and then pop it in a jar with the rest while it waits to be sewn onto the garment.

Good luck with your crafting! Feel free to ask any questions in the notes, or straight into my inbox :)

[sparklingmineraltequila]

American Wasteland

Note: Sorry this took so long. I moved city and pretty much have a new life. Still obsessed with Rust, though, so some shit sticks

Warnings: 18+, talk of war, alcohol, drugs, sex work, talks of past domestic violence, smut, just genuine misery between the two of them

America venerates suffering, that's what Travis had always told Rust. Sacrifice isn't pure if it isn't coated in a blood so red and so hot that your family can smear over their words, for centuries to come, excusing their comfort, their indulgence, their ignorance. They are afforded that comfort off of slaughter beyond their imagining. At least, that's what had happened after 'nam. A hero for his fucking country was the propaganda they had fed Travis; squash the bug of communism and, along with it, massacre millions of innocents, because what is America without its sons who are willing to fight for it.? Yeah, a fucking hero for a father, who's night terrors kept both of them up at night and who kept his engraved lighter saying High Speed Low Drag in his hunting jacket, always. That same lighter that Rust had used to light his first cigarette: rolled up flimsily in newspaper with the leftover tobacco and tufts of filter that he'd scraped from Travis' cigarette butts. The same lighter that Cassandra is now using to light her Marlboro Gold, hands shaking,

'Rust. That's all I get, huh? Not even a fucking surname?!' she spits, through a shaky exhale.

'I ain't gonna give you my surname. The less you know about me, the better,' Rust says back, his stoic demeanour attempting to mask that churning in his stomach. One that he has realised isn't for him but for Cassandra.

'Is Rust even your actual name?'

'You want a fuckin' social security number, too?' Rust drawls dryly.

'Don't you-Don't,' Cassandra's head shoots up from where it's been in her hands, her shaking tone now gaining a momentum of uncontrollable anger, 'Jesus-fuck. You men are all the fucking same. I-I ain't staying in this fucking place, anymore. Fuck it, fuck you, fuck every goddamn person in this wasteland of a place!'

Rust regards her with an even look,

'You ain't going anywhere. Not tonight. You ain't in the right state.'

'You ain't my daddy, motherfucker.'

'Goddamn right, I ain't but I'm also the only person you have who doesn't want to take advantage of you. So, hedge your bets tomorrow, baby, but tonight you're stayin' here,' Rust's voice is lapidary, stopping Cassandra in her tracks as she starts to shove clothes and books into her duffel bag.

'I said: you ain't my daddy and you sure as hell ain't keeping me in a place where I don't want to be,' Cassandra says in a tone equally as gelid, throwing her duffel bag over her shoulder. That elegant, fine-boned shoulder tinged with its bronzed hue; some of the love bites that Rust had left a few nights ago decorating Cassandra's collarbone. Rust fears that the sentiment festering under his skin is nostalgia. A nostalgia that scares him and, then, makes him cruel,

'No, Cassandra. I ain't your daddy cause all he did for you was get heavy handed with you and cut you up with his empty liquor bottles when he really wanted to teach you about mouthin' off at him.'

The colour drains from Cassandra's face,

'How the fuck do you know about that?' a sudden spark of spite reaches her as she sneers, 'Pull my file in your spare time, huh?'

Rust grabs her arm and yanks up her tank top, ignoring her yelp. He nods to the fine, white line along her ribcage,

'I ain't a fuckin' idiot, Cassandra. Skateboardin' fall, my ass,' Rust snarls, holding her ribcage with a calloused hand. Cassandra viciously claws at his hand, tears threatening to spill from her eyes,

'Get off! Get the fuck off!' and Rusts lets her go cause in that moment, the smooth, sultry cadence made slightly husky from after-sex cigarettes reverts back to the pleading of a little girl. Cassandra's words are devoid of any real bite, Rust notes. All that rage has been stripped away and all that she is left with is the panic of a little girl's voice turning into burning sobs in her throat; the stale cookies in her stomach turning sour from terror. There's that wide eyed looked, too. He can see it as Cassandra hastily covers herself back up and rearranges the duffel bag back onto her shoulder.

'Fuck you, Rust,' she says his name like it's a poison that she needs to spit from her mouth before it corrodes the flesh into a pulpy mess. Corrosion. Rust. That's what he is, it's what he does because sometimes corrosion is needed to get to the bone of things; to see what everyone else in too caught up in their delusions or affectations about fucking Natural Law to truly comprehend.

'Don't you fu-Cassandra!' Rust's voice boils up from his chest in a rough bark, watching Cassandra explode out of the trailer door, almost stumble down the rusted metal steps and collapse into the red dirt. He thinks he can't get any angrier until he realises that she's pocketed the keys to his Harley, on her way out, and sees her bolt over to where it's parked, behind the trailer. A cloud of dust rises up as the bike rumbles out of neutral and Cassandra desperately revs on the accelerator; her legs hardly off of the ground before the Harley tears away. In other circumstances, the dramatics of the exit would have made Rust scoff and chalk it up to youth's thirst for impact: the flurry of a scene. Not now. Not when this kid is tearing down a highway in a bike that doesn't have enough gas to make it to Liberty, let alone wherever the fuck Cassandra thinks she's headed. A kid, Rust thinks, A fuckin' kid that I've pulled into the abyss with me. Rust calls her a kid now but knows that when he finds her, he'll treat her like she's grown. A sentiment that propels him into his truck, cursing to himself as the engine splutters.

It doesn't take long to track Cassandra down; there's only one road from the trailer park that lead to the freeway. No doubt, where Cassandra is headed to. Ride fast and hard, and get the fuck out when the heat starts to sting: the classic cocktail of self-preservation cooked up by kids who've already been burned. There are too many of them down here, below that Mason-Dixie line. Rust would know. Fuck, if he hasn't spent his entire career on the force witnessing the aftermath. Drugs, abuses, assaults, homicides: you name it. The abuser becomes the abused; Nietzsche's infinite return has those poor kids falling flat on their faces into the nice shit storm of generational maladjustments that their parents left for them. Shattered dreams, skin sucked dry from mosquitos, teeth black and rotting from sweet tea, underneath that sticky southern sun. Rust wants to believe that it's an innate sense of duty towards these kids is why he's currently violating every Highway Code there is. And for part of him, it is. The other part, however, won't allow himself the comfort of what he knows is a lie. What started as pure sex appeal has started to morph into something deeper, messier.

The bike has even less gas than he thought as, the first Texaco that he sees, has Cassandra next to the pumps trying to wrench open the bike's gas lock. She wants to be caught, Rust knows, Wants me to chase after her, show her I give a shit. If she didn't, she would've gotten a hell of a lot more reckless. He watches her, almost with pity, as her pulls into the gas station and slows the truck to a halt, the breaks groaning with their lack of galvanisation. Rust shoves the car door open, his leather boots landing heavily on tepid asphalt,

'Get your ass over here,' his voice rough, as he strides over to Cassandra.

'I told you to get the fuck away from me,' she whips around, her fury making her abandon her previous task.

'Get in the fuckin' truck, Cassandra. I ain't doing the whole scorned boyfriend act for these nosey fuckers,' Rust deadpans, his ice blue gaze conveying to her just how fucking pissed he is.

'Did you hear me, motherfucker? I said to go back to your junkie biker brothers, find some hooker so that you can fuck out your half-baked emotional needs and leave me the hell alone,' Cassandra says with such venom dripping from her mouth that she almost fully means it; warm milk out of hand, she resorts to spite. Not fully, though: Rust can see the tears glazing her eyes and that's enough for him. A firm hand comes to grasp Cassandra's arm and put her in what is practically a headlock as Rust drags her to the truck. Cassandra's duffel bag slips off of her shoulder as Rust holds her firmly against his chest, bicep right up against the column of her throat. Some old man up from his pump, spit collecting at the corners of his mouth as he calls over,

'Everything alright over there?' Not from the area, Rust notes. Not solely due to the licence plate and milky arms but the slight wariness of his expression. A man unacquainted with the imperatives that the arrid terrain commands. The violence. Cassandra takes it upon herself to drop the unwanted attention as she chokes out,

'They don't teach you to mind your own fucking business in Iowa?!' the rage in her voice stemming from a deep humiliation in how she must look, Rust's arm tight against her neck. Rust takes in the man's mortification and grits into her ear,

'Shut the fuck up.'

He opens the truck door and shoves her in, slamming the door and heading over to the driver's side to catch her as she climbs out. Rust concedes her a heavy slap to the face before getting in, essentially crowding her back to the passenger's side. As he starts the ignition and pulls out of the gas station, Cassandra is eerily quiet, tears leaving hot tracks of salt and mascara on her cheeks. Rust debates on whether it's shame at getting caught or just pure desolation at, once again, finding herself completely fucked over, until he feels his jeans' waistband go slack. He feels the air hit that sweaty patch of back where the barrel of his .38 S&W was pressed and licks the inside of his cheek in an almost smirk. There she is, Rust thinks, knowing full well Cassandra's loathing of acquiescence as she points the gun at his temple, sweat curling his caramel hairs.

'Pull over or, I swear to God, I'll put your brains all over your goddamn car windows,' Cassandra's voice is firm but Rust sees her fingers trembling. Red. Her nails are lacquered the same colour as a Shirley Temple, poised on cool gun metal of the safety.

'You don't want to shoot me, Cass,' Rust says, his tone flat.

'Oh, I don't?' Cassandra scoffs.

'Nah, you wanna make a fuckin' scene so that I'll burst into tears and beg for your fuckin' forgiveness or some shit. That ain't gonna work on me, baby. I'm around too many pussies who ain't man enough to pull a fuckin' trigger, as it is. I can tell when someone's bluffin'. And you, Cass, I can sure as hell tell when you're bluffin'.'

'How are you so sure?'

Rust looks at a small trail leading off of the main road before sparing a sideways glance,

'That gun ain't even cocked.'

Cassandra narrows her eyes and pulls the hammer back,

'Happy?'

Rust steers the truck off of the road, onto the rocky country road, before stopping and turning to her,

'You wanna go? Go.'

Cassandra's gaze falters before she contrives it into that practiced indifference,

'You're kicking me out?' she says, her voice so fragile that Rust almost feels bad for putting her in this situation but tough shit: wisdom comes hard.

'Nah, just callin' your bluff. You got 30 seconds to go, if you want to,' Rust says, not even facing her but staring straight out ahead.

Cassandra stares at him, lowering the gun, and looks around helplessly. The tears come back, not when she looks at Rust's stony expression or the destitute surroundings, but when she looks at her duffel bag. All her life fitting into some beat up gym bag and, now, she's about to throw away the one thing that can protect her. A gun isn't shit compared to his hand on her ass and his fingerprints bruising her thighs; not to these fucking animals. Rust gives her the mercy of two minutes of silence before speaking,

'You ain't movin',' he says more as a statement than a question.

'Don't mock me,' Cassandra murmurs out.

'I ain't mockin' you.'

'You know that I ain't gonna go. I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to.'

'You can and you will, eventually.'

'I ain't sure, Cra-Rust. You ain't either.'

'Use Crash. I don't need you gettin' confused and fuckin' this up,' Rust says, gruffly.

'You sure that's it?'

'Am I sure 'what's' it?' irritation starting to creep into his tone.

'That the reason you don't want me using your real name is cause I'll jeopardise your cover.'

'I thought you were smarter than that, Cass.'

'What the fuck's that supposed to mean?' Cassandra suddenly straightens, her voice hard but still slightly tremulous.

'I thought you were smarter than to get your emotions mixed up with what is gonna keep your ass outta the crossfire.'

It's a low blow but it hits home. Cassandra looks down at her scraped knees, gravel and raw skin, before looking up again; her voice now a whisper,

'Do you feel sorry for me?'

Rust clenches his jaw, the simple juvenility of the question making him feel sick. He knows neither of them will be able to bear whatever tidal wave of sentiment is about to breach their carefully instated distance. The partial revelation of his true identity has already been more of an unmasking than he can stomach; especially to someone he cares so deeply for as Cassandra. Her knowledge of 'Rust' throws whatever the fuck they are doing with each other into something that goes beyond sex and protection, and Rust can begin to feel everything veering off track. He won't allow her to expose herself to him like this, not when he's already emotionally fucked her over so much, today. So, Rust finally turns to her and says,

'Take off your top.'

Cassandra falters, her voice still that hoarse whisper as she ask,

'What?'

Rust wills himself to turn his pity into scorn,

'Did I fuckin' stutter? Take off your top. Those shorts, too,' he says, his tone unnervingly even and made rough from his Camels. Cassandra stares at him for a moment before indulging him: shirt discarded first before she lifts her hips and awkwardly shimmies out of them. Rust notices her holding her side, her hand cradling the scar; something she's never really done until now. Not until Rust had forced her shame into the searing white light of recognition. He knows what Cassandra must be thinking, grouping him into that homogenous, male blob of ill-intent: her next job, her next dance, her next humiliation. He tries to pretend that it doesn't slightly tear him the fuck up when she looks at him with those eyes, now cold.

'What now?' Cassandra asks, sitting up with her spine long and upright, shoulders terse.

Rust pats his lap,

'Come here.'

'Rust, I-'

'I ain't ever remember sayin' you could call me Rust, Cass,' he says harshly, completely disregarding whatever appeal Cassandra's about to make over how to treat her. Pretty words that don't mean shit to Rust nor to this godforsaken part of the country. A place where women bring guns in their purses to hookups and there are wards for the babies born hooked onto opioids, has no use for floral, storybook sex. Here, it's fast and it's hard and it's painful and it's often paid for. Cassandra knows this type of sex, or rather its corruption. So, she shuts up and sits in Rust's lap; swallowing the bitter pill of docility.

'Move 'em to the side,' Rust taps the waistband of her panties with his knuckles. For a moment, a light tinge comes across Cassandra's collarbones at the crassness of the act. She hooks her fingers into the waistband, moving to pull them down, before Rust grabs her wrist,

'I say to take 'em off, Cass?'

'No,' Cassandra murmurs, trying to asses if Rust is pissed beyond belief or on some pretty loopy downers.

'So, you can hear me. I was thinkin' otherwise, given some of the shit you've managed to pull,' that dangerous mix of anger and worry begins to seep into Rust's tone. He can feel her wet heat through the lace of her panties; almost disappointed that she can get turned on by this shit. Old habits die hard, Rust thinks, lighting a cigarette and leaning back into his seat,

'Undo my belt.'

Cassandra stares at him, holding unflinching eye contact as she unbuckles him and unzips his fly. It's like a game of fucking chicken: which of them is willing to degrade the other more, for the sake of self-preservation. Rust exhales a slow stream of smoke watching Cassandra's thighs tremble from the exertion of holding her position. He quirks an eyebrow,

'You gonna tap out on me, baby?'

'No.'

'You wanted this shit that bad, didn't you, Cass?' Rust says, the forcefulness in his tone coming out of the pit in his stomach when he thinks what he's done to her.

'I did. I wanted this shit. Don't paint me out to be some dumbass little girl who opened her legs to the first man who reminded her of her daddy. That ain't what this is. I'm tougher than that, you know I am,' her voice starting to tremble again. Her hands absentmindedly wrapped around her midsection., as if to protect herself from the next laceration.

'You want it? Then move those fuckin' panties to the side.'

Cassandra stares at Rust with that fucking stupid bravado of rapacity, before gripping the crotch of them to the side; the tepid truck air mixing with the heady scent of her arousal and Rust's cigarette smoke,

'Go on. Fuck me like a man.'

Rust looks up at her while he pulls down his boxers, before grabbing her bruised hips and slamming her onto him. Not giving a fuck about the sharp, shuddering inhale. The lamb must learn to run with the wolves and Cassandra is far from a lamb. Especially as she is now, gulping down her whimpers of pain, desperately rocking her hips against his coarse hair to stimulate her little nub. She buries her head into the crook of his neck, nose rubbing against his jugular as Rust lands a firm slap on her ass,

'Don't get sentimental on me now, Cass,' he manages to grit out, feeling her arousal literally drip down him, 'Fuck am I gonna do with a weak lil' thing, huh?'

Cassandra tries to nod, her eyes squeezed shut and her groans muffled into the leather of Rust's jacket. Rust wraps his arms around her, holding her in a vice grip for the third time today, all of which have been some form of degradation or excavation of the dirty, nasty shit that Cassandra keeps hidden under sultry, bedroom eyes and that cutthroat tongue. At least this time, the aggression of the act is more tangible; neither of them are allowed any delusions. Not with how Cassandra's spit smears against Rust's stubble when he fucks into her especially hard or the cutting of taught lace on her hipbone or Rust's still lit cigarette burning dangerously close to Cassandra's dark waves. Apt symbolism, Rust thinks, as she angles her head to inhale from the tip; eyes starting to roll slightly at the mixture of in adverted friction of her bundle of nerves, and Rust's angry, frantic pace. She turns to look him right, as she leans her head in him, exhaling the smoke right into his mouth. Rust catches some powdery grey wisps, shoving Cassandra down once more onto him. As she groans, her hands never loosening, Rust leans in to mutter into her ear,

'You never fuckin' learn. Do you, baby?'

[avastrasposts]

Big Sky Country - ch. 4

Hello! I hope you're enjoying poor, trouble Frankie lost in the big city. He got some in the last chapter but maybe not in the best or most honest way...

Chapter 4 and our Cowboy!Frankie faces the aftermath of his decisions as he leaves Aisling's bed and decided on his next steps.

Series Master List

He didn’t know what time it was, his phone was in his pants somewhere on the floor, when he rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling in Aisling’s small studio apartment. 

The place really was claustrophobic. He hadn’t noticed when she first pulled him in, he’d been focused solely on her, her lips, her skin, her hair in the dim, golden light from the lamp in the corner. Now the lamp had been switched off and the small room was dark apart from the street light spilling in through the two rectangular windows on one of the walls. His head, which had been so blissfully silent when she was awake, was now running at full tilt again, the insistent thoughts rolling through. And the guilt had returned, squashed down while he lost himself in her. Now it sat in the pit of his belly, made him feel queasy even. 

Aisling slept peacefully next to him, he could feel the warmth of her body against his skin, the smell of sex between them and the body wash they’d both used. Carefully he rolled over onto his side and looked at her, soft features, long, tangled curls spilling over her shoulders, her lips parted as she slept curled in on herself. It was a cliche, but she really looked younger in sleep, vulnerable in a way Frankie hadn’t seen her before. She was always the confident, assertive Brooklyn bartender, the New Yorker with a hard edge who was unfazed by the city, comfortable with it in a way that Frankie would never be. But now he saw her relaxed features, comfortably curled up on the bed, sleeping soundly next to him, and Frankie put his hand out, hovering over her cheek, wanting to touch her again but not wanting to wake her. Leaving would be so much harder if she woke up. 

It would be so easy to just stay, to wrap an arm around her and shift himself closer. Stay until morning and then…. And then what? 

Frankie sighed and carefully rolled onto his back again. 

And then what, Morales? Get your stuff from Eva’s and move in with Aisling like some creepy freeloader? ‘Hi, I’m your new boyfriend and I live here now even though we’ve only just met because I’ve cheated on my girlfriend and now I have nowhere to live in the city.’ 

No, better to just leave, pick up his stuff and find that bus heading west and leave her out of his shit. This was a mistake. 

With another low sigh he pushed himself off the bed and carefully fished his boxers and jeans off the floor. He dressed silently, taking his boots in hand before he glanced back at the bed. Aisling hadn’t moved, still sleeping with her arm as a pillow, a sheet over her lower half, turned towards the spot where he’d been. 

It would be so easy. 

He leaned on the bed with one knee, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. 

“I’ve got to go,” he mumbled as she hummed something in her sleep, “I’m sorry.” 

The street was almost quiet when he left her building, turning back towards Eva’s apartment, but the whirl of thoughts in his head made sure the noise was the same as always. He made his way home, dodging late night drunks and joined the small crowd of those whose shifts began extra early.

No, not home, that place is not home. It’s just her apartment, home is back west, back in Montana. Just get the stuff, and leave. She doesn’t need an explanation, she knows it’s over. 

He quietly unlocked the front door of the apartment and stepped inside. As soon as he saw the light on in the living room, he knew she was awake and he silently took a deep breath, bracing for her reaction to his reappearance. 

“Frankie?” 

The couch creaked as she pushed off from it and he heard her move across the room. He pulled his boots off and looked up as her shadow fell over the small hallway. Her face was tear streaked and swollen, and as she took two unsteady steps towards him, he saw fresh tears start to fall down her cheeks again. 

“I’m s-so-rry,” she sobbed and he caught her in his arms as she stumbled against him, her face pressed into his chest, “I thought you’d l-left, and I couldn’t get h-hold of you and th-en…” 

Frankie felt her shoulders shake under his hands as she struggled to catch her breath between the tears before she managed to continue. 

“I-I was so horrible to you, but I was so sc-scared. I should’ve told you, I sh-should’ve let you come t-to the cl-clinic,” she pressed out between gulps of air and Frankie rubbed his palms up and down her back, trying to calm her. The guilt in his belly bubbled and churned, Eva’s desperate tears clawed at his heart and he felt his resolve to just grab his shit and go, weaken. 

She heaved another sob, her fingers digging into his neck as she clung to him, desperation in her teary breaths. He could hardly leave her like this. Not in the middle of the night, it would be better to wait just a little. Maybe they had to work this through. He heaved a sigh. 

“Carño, we need to talk,” he said, gently guiding her towards the bedroom, “but tomorrow, you need to calm down first.” 

“Don’t leave me, Frankie,” Eva sniffed, more tears falling down her face, fingers gripping his arms as she looked up at him. Her eyes were red rimmed and pleading and Frankie shook his head. 

“I’m not leaving, I’m here now. Let’s just get into bed and get some sleep.” 

She let him lead her, almost like a child, to the bed and stood by him while he pulled back the covers. 

“C’mon, get in and get comfortable, I’m just going to take a shower and then I’ll be right there.” 

She nodded, rubbing her hands over her face as she wiped the tears. 

“I’m such a fucking mess, Frankie,” she said, her voice cracked as he helped her pull the covers up over her. “I need you, but I’m such a fucking idiot, I don’t know why I did it, I should’ve told you and now it’s o-over-” 

Fresh tears slipped from her eyes as she heaved another sob, falling back into the bed, hiccuping as she tried to catch her breath. 

“Cariño, calm down, breathe,” Frankie said, pulling the covers up as she sobbed again, “Yeah, I was pissed off, you really fucking hurt me because you didn’t tell me, you just cut me out. But we can talk about it tomorrow, I’m here now.” 

She grabbed his hand as he tried to stand up and pulled him down again, reaching for his lips and he let her kiss him, keeping his mouth closed and praying she didn’t taste Aisling on him even though he’d showered at her place a few hours ago. 

“I’ll be right back, just let me shower. It’s been a long fucking day, ok?” He pulled back and stood up, but she still held his hand. 

“Where were you, Frankie?” 

“Just walking around, sat down by the river for hours, then some bar,” he half lied, pulling his hand from hers, “Just let me shower.” 

He left her and retreated into the bathroom, closing the door behind himself and leaned on the vanity, dropping his head between his shoulders rather than look at himself. He knew he’d see the guilt in his eyes. The conflict between wanting to ease his guilt and stay with Eva, and the pull in his chest to go back to Aisling. He knew it should end with him just leaving them both and going back home. 

What do you want, Morales? What do you really want? 

I have no fucking clue. 

Yeah you do. Flip a three sided coin, what do you want it to land on? Eva, Aisling or Montana? 

There are no fucking three sided coins. 

It’s a metaphor, pendejo. Force yourself to make a choice. 

I don’t know. I can’t pick Aisling. I barely know her, she doesn’t know me. Maybe in a different life, if we’d met at a different time, then something could’ve happened. 

Something already did happen, you had your dick inside her just a few hours ago. But I get it, you don’t want to drag her into all your shit. That’s commendable. Leave her out of it. 

Yeah…I’ll leave her out of it. 

Frankie lifted his head and met his own gaze in the mirror, dark, tired eyes, and he dropped his head again. 

But if fucking hurts, she’s special. And I feel like a shit for just walking out on her. 

You want to pick her. 

Yeah, I do. I really fucking do. 

He heaved a sigh and pulled his t-shirt over his head, dropping it in the basket along with his jeans. The shower took a while to heat up but he stepped inside anyway, the cold spray jolting his mind. 

Eva…maybe this was a wake-up call for her. Maybe we can start again, go back to Montana and make those changes we talked about. Maybe she realized that what we had was good, back when it was still working.

Do you even believe that, Morales? 

I don’t know, maybe? She was really upset just now, when she thought I’d left. Maybe she wants to try again. 

Yeah, but do you? 

Frankie scrubbed his hands over his face, the water turning warm as he rolled the thought around his head. 

Did he want to try again with Eva? He did when there was a baby on the way, had that changed just because of the abortion? At first, yes, it was such a fucking betrayal to not even let him be there. He clenched his fists hard just thinking about it, the anger from earlier rising inside him again. But he tried to be rational, break it down. If Eva really regretted doing it without him, who was he to not give her a second chance? He’d been given endless second chances, many of them by her when he was still using. She’d been there, held him together, even moved away from her friends and family in Florida because he needed to be in Montana. 

Yeah, I owe it to her, to try it with her again, I owe her that much. 

He squashed down the small voice in his head that told him that wasn’t enough, not by far enough to build a relationship on. He knew the voice was right, but the guilt that still gnawed inside didn’t let him listen to it. 

With a sigh he turned off the water and grabbed his towel. The guilt churned in his stomach and he couldn’t shift the image of Aisling from his head. And it wasn’t an image of her while they’d had sex, although he could easily conjure up those in his mind too. Instead it was her sleeping form in the bed, curled around herself, turned to him, looking soft and vulnerable in the dark room. When he carefully crept into Eva’s bed, trying to not wake her, and closed his eyes, that was the image that stayed in his head and he sighed again. 

I really wanted to pick you, Aisling. But I owe it to Eva to try and fix this. I owe her that much at least. 

“You know, that tip jar is going to be empty by the end of the night if you keep snapping at customers like that, Ash.” 

Aisling scowled at Jenny and grabbed another pint glass. 

“I’m just saying…we’re going to be poor at the end of the shift because you’ve got a face like you’re about to bite every guy’s head off,” Jenny said as she shook her head and shifted a tray of clean glasses from the dishwasher. “Just be a bit nicer to them, I promise I won’t say a thing if he comes into the bar, just don’t chase away all the other customers, please?” 

“I’ll try, I just can’t fucking believe he just took off, not even a note. If I see him, I'll punch him.” 

Aisling scowled, feeling the tension in her jaw creep into her neck. She hadn’t been surprised when she woke up the next morning and Frankie wasn’t there, he hadn’t said he was staying and maybe he needed to be somewhere. But he hadn’t even left a message, no note, and he hadn’t come by the bar in the three days since it happened. She’d thought they’d had something, at least something more than just a one night stand and then being ghosted. 

Now it was Saturday night and Aisling’s disappointment had turned to anger. In a fit of rage yesterday, she’d thrown away the note with his name and number from the first time they’d met. No fucking way was she going to recommend him to anyone. Or cave and call him first. 

“Just put him down as another guy who can’t commit, he’s not the first and he won’t be the last,” Jenny continued, grabbing a stack of glasses and pushing open the door back into the bar. “Come with me to Smorgasbord tomorrow and we’ll get some of that cheesecake, maybe eat our body weight in empanadas, trash talk every man we’ve ever met. Forget about the cowboy.” 

She winked at Aisling as the door slipped closed again. 

Aisling grabbed another stack of glasses and followed her. 

“You just want to flirt with that guy who sells the hot sauces,” she said, placing the glasses behind the bar, “but yeah, empanadas and cheesecake sounds like a plan.” 

“I need to find my own man who can give me incredible orgasms and then disappear,” Jenny quipped, “because, at least he did that before he ghosted you, be grateful for that.” 

“Fuck off,” Aisling scowled, but Jenny just laughed and turned to one of the patrons at the bar. 

Empanadas and cheesecake didn’t help, Aisling decided the next day, but at least the weather was nice and the food good. The not very helpful thoughts of Frankie still chased around her head whenever she was left on her own, but Jenny’s chatter had kept them at bay for a few hours. Now she’d gone to dispose of their empty paper plates while Aisling kept their seats, and the thoughts were back. She leaned back against the threstle table, her face turned towards the sun with her eyes closed, trying, and failing, to not think about Francisco fucking Morales. 

The bench next to her dipped as someone plonked down on it, making the table shake. Aisling opened her eyes and glanced over, expecting to see Jenny with lemonade in her hands, but instead it was a man she didn’t know, grinning at her from behind a hideous set of wrap-around sunglasses. 

“Hey, honey,” he smirked, “you look kinda lonely on this sunny day.” 

“Not interested,” Aisling said, turning her face to the sun again and closing her eyes. 

“Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that,” the man replied, she could hear the smarmy grin in his voice, “it’s a beautiful day, you’re a beautiful woman, let’s have some fun.” 

“Jeez, dude,” Aisling sighed, “just fuck off. And you’re in my friend’s spot.” 

“Is your friend as pretty as you? ‘Cause maybe we can invite her too, you know? I’m sure we can think of a way to involve her too.” 

Aisling shuddered and made a face of disgust as she turned to the man, “Fuck off, not interested, what part of that are you not getting?” 

“You don’t know what you’re missing, I’m real-” 

“She told you to fuck off, so fuck off,” a man’s voice interrupted the creepy guy as a large shadow blocked the sun in front of Aisling. Her heart leapt into her throat, she knew that voice. 

“Hey, man, we’re talking here, she’s with me,” the guy next to her said and to her utter disgust, she suddenly felt his arm around her shoulders as he pulled her into his side. 

Frankie reacted instantly, grabbed the man’s other arm and yanked him off the bench, twisting his arm up behind his back. 

“Touch her again and I’m breaking your arm, now fuck off,” he snarled, shoving the man away from the bench and placing himself between the guy and Aisling. She couldn’t see Frankie’s face, but the low pitch of his voice and the fearful expression of the other guy let her know that he was probably an intimidating sight. 

“What happened?” 

Jenny rushed over, almost dropping the lemonade cups on the table as she grabbed Aisling, who was getting to her feet, eyes locked on Frankie. He was still staring down the other man. The creepy guy was holding his hands up in a placating gesture and backing away through the crowd. 

“Jeez, I’m leaving. Chill, dude.” 

“You ok, Ash?” Jenny asked Aisling, her hand on her arm now, a worried look on her face. 

“Yeah, I’m fine, just some creep who tried hitting on me,” Aisling said to her as Frankie turned around. She opened her mouth to say thank you, then she saw a woman step up next to him and slip her hand around his waist. 

“What’s going on, baby? You know her?” The woman’s voice was curious but not suspicious, and she had a friendly smile as she looked up at Frankie, hugging his arm. Frankie didn’t respond, he was looking at Aisling with almost pleading eyes as it all clicked into place for her. 

“You have a girlfriend?!” she snarled, taking a step towards him, her eyes flitting between Frankie and the woman. The other woman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as she looked at Aisling. 

“You have a fucking girlfriend, Frankie?!” Aisling almost yelled, anger flaring up inside her, and she shoved him backwards with both her palms on his chest. He didn’t say anything, just accepted her attack as his face fell, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. 

“That’s Frankie?” Jenny exclaimed behind Aisling, catching on as she looked between the man and the woman hanging on to his arm. “You fucking pig!” she spat and took two steps forward, protectively putting her arm around Aisling who felt her jaw ache at how hard she was biting back the angry tears that suddenly threatened to well up. 

Frankie looked pained, the hand of the arm that his girlfriend wasn’t hanging on to, clenched and unclenched as he tried to find something to say that wouldn’t make it worse. 

Aisling suddenly felt nauseous, staring at the man who just four days ago she’d let get so close. Now he was standing in front of her, looking like a fish gasping for air, clinging to fucking straws. 

“You are a fucking pig, Frankie,” she said, her voice low and laced with hatred, “Just so you know,” she added, looking over at his confused looking girlfriend, “We met a week ago and had sex on Thursday, he didn’t say a word about you.” She looked back at Frankie, shaking her head as she eyed him up and down, “You’re fucking pathetic.” 

Aisling turned and stalked away, grabbing Jenny by the hand and pulling her with her. The hot, angry tears were burning in her eyes, and as Jenny wrapped her arm around her waist, they started falling. 

Frankie felt Eva let go of his arm and he briefly closed his eyes. His world had come crashing down, and he felt an almost crippling fatigue wrap around his body. Eva moved to stand in front of him and when he looked down at her, her eyes were black with rage, she was ready to kill him. He couldn’t blame her. 

He’d really fucked up this time. 

Chapter 5

A/N: Well, there we go. The cat's out of the bag and Frankie's got himself into even more trouble... Would you forgive him?

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