#ive yawned more times than i think is professional

[newtness532]

how is it only 1?

[defectiveporcelaindoll]

Chapter IV: The Prophecy

“Hand on the throttle. Thought I caught lightning in a bottle, oh– But it's gone again.”

series masterlist previous chapter

pairing: post-prison/ cm: evolution Spencer Reid x BAU AFAB!Reader (I like to think this is where Spencer is during the current seasons.) series synopsis: an unsub with a taste for couples and power imbalances leads Doctor Spencer Reid not only back into the classroom but down the hypothetical aisle with the BAU's newest Probie for an undercover assignment that may change his life. cw: age gap (Spencer is 42, reader is 24 in chapter 1), Use of y/n's (I'm sorry, I know I'm sick of it too.), fake marriage, romance romancing, kisses, and touches but no smut (yet…maybe); Reader is feisty and flirty; Spencer is anxious and has an aggressive outburst; female reader she/her pronouns, and mentions of typical CM violence. wc: 2.5k of conversation and world-building

The drive back to the university was nearly silent, with only the hum of the engine and the rhythmic tap of the rain breaking the tension that still hung in the air from Spencer’s outburst. When they finally arrived home, an unmarked car with government plates was waiting for them.

With a sigh, Y/N moved to open her door, only stopping when Spencer reached out, taking her hand in his. “Wait—” His voice was soft and timid, melting a part of her soul. Her gaze shifted from the waiting officer to Spencer. He cleared his throat, his grip on her hand tightening. “I’m really sorry that I snapped at you. We were having a great night, and I hate that I might’ve made you feel unsafe in my company…”

Y/N’s brows knit together as she shook her head, turning to better face Spencer. Her free hand cupped his cheek as she leaned in, her nose brushing gently against his before their lips connected. “Hey…I could never feel unsafe with you, okay? I understand it’s the job, it’s tough, and it can get to you…but we’ll figure it out. We’re in this together…till death do us part or whatever.” She teased, desperately trying to lighten Spencer’s somber mood.

He chuckled, nodding his head gently against hers. “Yeah…okay.” He kissed her quickly before letting her hand fall away, getting out of the car, and rushing to grab her door for her.

The pair looked a sight—clothes still dampened from their frolicking in the rain, wild curls, and kiss-bruised lips. They looked more like a pair of high schoolers than professionals.

“Looks like you two had a good night,” the agent called, slamming his car door. He looked annoyed, or maybe that was just his face, Y/N thought, observing the new file box securely under one of his arms. “The press finally caught wind of this one; it’ll be all over the 11 o’clock news if you two are too busy…socializing.”

The agent smirked, his eyes raking over Y/N’s body, catching the way her dress clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

“I’m going to need you to apologize—” Spencer started, taking a protective step in front of Y/N. She had to admit, the role of husband looked good on him. Her hand gently gripped his bicep, trying desperately to ground him. “Spence—” Her warning tone begged him to stop.

“Come on, bro, be serious. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I mean, good for you, honestly, bagging a newer model?” The agent threw Spencer a wink.

“Newer model—?” Spencer’s brows shot up in disbelief as Y/N snapped, her brows knitting together. Her feet carried her towards the agent, and her fist connected hard with his jaw before she even had time to register what she was doing. She snatched the box and stormed into the house.

“And I look unstable—

Gathered with a coven round a sorceress table.”

“Em, sorry, I punched him. If you get a call saying that one of your agents punched Agent Asshat or whatever his name was, I take full responsibility. Go ahead and write me up.”

Y/N all but yelled into the phone sitting in the middle of the table, a very tired Emily Prentiss on the other end.

There was a muffled yawn from the other end. “Did he deserve it?”

Y/N sighed, “Well—”

“Yes,” Spencer cut her off, returning from the kitchen with a makeshift bag of ice for her hand. “We may have looked less than professional, but that doesn’t excuse his blatant misogyny, nor the way he was practically eye-fucking Y/N on our front lawn.” He huffed, sinking onto the sofa.

“Sounds like he deserved it…” Much to Y/N’s surprise, Emily didn’t sound upset. If anything, their unit chief sounded amused.

“Should’ve seen it, Emily. She would’ve made Morgan proud. I think she might’ve broken his nose,” Spencer chuckled, glancing over at his literal blushing bride with a cheeky grin.

Prentiss laughed. “I don’t condone violence…but good on you, kid. I’ll let you know if I receive that call, but if he’s the jack-off you’ve made him out to be, I doubt he’ll admit to his superiors that a woman broke his nose. Regardless, I won't be writing you up for this.” There was a brief pause, the sound of shuffling papers and drawers closing on Emily’s end. The time difference between Seattle and the District meant it was past midnight.

“You should go home, get some rest, Em. We’ll look over the newest crime scene photos and see if anything stands out. If it does, we’ll let you know. The agent made the comment that the press had the story…so we’ll keep an eye on that as well…”

Emily, ever the workhorse, sighed. “Fine…I’m going to head out of the office now, but as always, call me if you need me or if there are any urgent developments.”

“Have a good night, Em…” Spencer sighed, his head lulling back against the cushion as the line went dead. “How’s your hand?” he muttered quietly as he started unpacking the newest box of evidence onto their coffee table.

“It hurts…” she shrugged, flexing her fingers under the ice pack, “but I hope his face hurts more.”

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he gazed at Y/N with pure admiration and pride. “Angel, I genuinely think you might’ve broken that idiot’s nose. I can almost—actually, no, statistically, I can guarantee his face will be hurting for a while, especially right now.”

“Pad around when I get home— I guess a lesser person would’ve lost hope.”

The night slipped by, the story was run, and the case stayed the same— unsolved. Nothing particularly groundbreaking was found at the crime scenes, and the MO and victimology were painfully consistent, which left little for Spencer or Y/N to analyze. It was driving Spencer crazy, how after nearly twenty years with the BAU, he found himself genuinely stumped.

In the coming days, everything suddenly became real. After their date, their kiss—it wasn’t just a cover story anymore. Spencer and Y/N no longer felt like characters in a tragic play. They were a couple, who kissed and held hands, who slept in the same bed and talked about their days.

Days turned to weeks, and before they knew it, August had slipped away like a bottle of wine. As the leaves began to change, the lines between reality and their cover began to blur. 

For the first time in a long time, Spencer was happy, and content in a life he had always imagined for himself—a wife, a home, a steady schedule. None of it was real, but if only for a moment, it was real to him. His classes ran smoothly, with students who weren’t just there because he had a pretty face—they cared, and it was groundbreaking. The university had even given him a TA to hopefully lighten his workload. She was sweet, not much older than Y/N, but working on a doctoral thesis in his field of expertise. All the pieces of this illusion had fallen perfectly into place.

"Still, I dream of her…"

Spencer woke with a start. He hadn’t had that particular nightmare in years, not since his brain had nearly bled out all those years ago, not since he saw Maeve that one last time. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, his hands blindly searching for Y/N in the bed beside him… and then there she was, groggily furrowing her brows.

She wasn’t lying next to a psychopath in a pool of blood, cold and lifeless at his feet. She was in his bed, in his arms even, tangled in the sheets.

Memories and flashes of that night with Maeve, with Diane—the way she’d touched him, the way Maeve had looked. The cases were different, yes, but something felt very familiar to him. Reluctantly, he pulled himself out of bed, padding into the living room where the coffee table had been overrun by evidence from the newest murder. The body count was up to eight now, four couples, and the press was having a field day with this; they’d named the unsub The Albatross.

“Cautions issued, he stood shooting the messenger. They tried to warn him about her.”

The words danced across his mind, echoing in his ears as Spencer sat on the sofa, his eyes searching the crime scene photos desperately. The MO had shifted with the latest couple; the once precisely slit throats were no more, instead replaced by a single shot through the heart. The couple themselves were the same—an older man and a younger woman. However, with this couple, there had been an incident—a fatal shooting years back involving a stalker. Spencer shuddered at that information, his stomach twisting as he read the original case report.

“Shooting the messenger…” he scoffed, tossing the note back into the pile of evidence. He sat back, his head lolling tiredly against the back of the sofa as his mind worked overtime, assessing the words on the page as well as the previous notes left behind, trying to find any connection, any story or reason to the cryptic poem.

“What’re you doing up…?” Y/N’s sleepy voice caught him off guard. He turned to glance behind him at the half-asleep woman leaning against the hallway wall. “Rolled over and you weren’t there…” Y/N mumbled, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep…” he shrugged, trying to hide the fact that he’d been sleeping just fine—except for the haunting nightmare. He opened his arms for the younger woman, beckoning her to come and sit beside him on the couch. He needed to hold her, to know that she was real, but he wasn’t quite ready to get back in their bed just yet.

After a brief moment of contemplation, Y/N shuffled over, flopping down beside Spencer on the couch, her blurry eyes scanning the photos from the crime scene. She’d seen them earlier before they had inevitably decided to call it a night, but now, something she hadn’t noticed before caught her eye.

Without hesitation, she leaned forward, snatching up the evidence bag that held the latest note, her brow furrowing as she examined the reddish-brown splotches near the edge of the page. 

“Is that blood?” she asked, glancing back at Spencer as she handed it to him.

He stared blankly at the mess for a moment before reaching out for an evidence bag that held yet another cryptic poem—though this one was different—if only because he was fairly certain the unsub’s blood had dripped onto it, considering that when the lab had run it, there was no match to any victim. 

"Poisoned blood from the wound of the pricked hand."

“Oh—” Y/N shook her head, looking over the victim's hands…not a drop of blood.

“If it’s not from the victim, it’s sloppy…why not start over, why leave a trace behind?” she said softly, fighting a yawn as Spencer nodded slowly. 

“It’s almost like she's giving us a clue—”

“She?” Spencer asked, raising a brow. Dr. Spencer Reid was the king of picking out a female unsub, usually long before anyone else on their team. What had she seen that he’d missed? “How do you know it’s a woman? What stands out to you?” Spencer asked, leaning forward on the couch, observing the mess of case photos.

“Well, up until this last set…the husbands' throats are slit, and these notes are placed in their left palms. It’s brutal, but there’s an art to it.” She hummed, sinking back into the plush cushions of the sofa. “The wives, on the other hand, are laid out peacefully in bed with an albatross feather in their hands. It shows remorse—after the fact, the unsub is giving the women the respect that’s deserved…it's a different kind of death for the women."

“Okay, and what do you think the notes signify?” Spencer encouraged, slipping into teacher mode as his own mind raced a million miles a minute, putting together all of the points she’d made against the profile he’d been building in his mind.

“Well, they’ve always been in the left hand…ancient beliefs said the left hand was feminine, while the right was masculine. Other ancient stories point to your left hand being bad luck…which clearly…” she motioned to the gruesome photos before them with a sigh. “In some literary works, the left side symbolizes decay…death.”

Spencer nodded along. He’d already reached his conclusion, put the puzzle together, and built his profile. Now he was left to guide her, wait, and see if the younger agent would find her way to the same conclusion.

“Why slit their throats?” he asked softly, his eyes trained on the younger woman’s features, carefully analyzing every micro-expression he could find.

“Obviously, our unsub believes the husbands took something significant from their wives. The way our unsub is slitting their throats leads me to believe that she thinks it’s their voices or possibly their autonomy…I mean, we’re dealing with older men… I mean, it’s the history of man, right? To use women? Take something so simple but vital,” she said thoughtfully. “But it’s the albatross feather in the woman’s hand…such a heavy symbol, and you said before that the bird is associated with burden and guilt. It feels like the unsub is trying to release the wives from any guilt she believes they’re enduring…she’s just setting them free.”

Spencer nodded. “And this tells you what about our unsub?”

Y/N paused for a moment, thinking over the details before offering Spencer a small shrug and a heavy sigh, “Well, I would say that our unsub is a woman, and these men are surrogates…but she identifies with the wives and feels a need to avenge them.” She glanced up to meet Spencer’s eyes, desperate for the approval of the older agent, which he gave with a small nod, so she continued, “The careful way she arranges their bodies shows she has a sense of empathy… she sees herself in these women.”

“Exactly,” Spencer said with a warm smile. “Why do you think she targets older husbands?”

“She probably has a history with an older man—someone who dominated her or took away her voice. This is her way of reclaiming her power and avenging the other women she sees as victims.” Her voice trailed off, her eyes fluttering between Spencer’s eyes and his lips, as he leaned in to gently press a kiss to her forehead.

“Right…you are one hundred percent correct,” he sighed softly, his eyes raking over her delicate albeit exhausted frame with a frown. “And fortunately for us, this case will still be here when we wake up. Come on, let's get you back to bed…”

With a soft yawn, Y/N nodded, slowly rising to her feet, her hand outstretched for Spencer.

“Come on.”

"But I look to the sky and say

please…"

taglist : @olives-and-sunshine @iniyalovesall @suzysface @guiltyyassin @spencereidbasis @tatilolz @cherrycemeterry @hiireadstuff @r-3dlips @sweetpeterparker @catertotshitposts @purple-flower9 @wonderstruck4llthew4yhome @torturedpoetspsychward @skewedcherries @jackchampiongf13 @bouquetolegoflowers @pleasantwitchgarden @conrad4life13 @jdjwjdjjd @lilyn1909 @liquormoneysex @lynlin379 @imgublergirl

I hope i got everyone! if you’d like to be added to the taglist don’t hesitate to lemme know and as always i’d love to know the thoughts and feelings! So sorry this took so damn long

xo

[lucyandthepen]

a lesson on style - i . [ ljn | njm ]

pt. i, pt. ii, pt. iii, pt. iv.,  pt. v, pt. vi

you’ve always been content with being associated with one word and one word only: average. average in looks, academics and social skills, you’re just looking to graduate high school without causing disasters you’ll have to live with until you kick the bucket. when you’re paired with school king lee jeno for the semester-long physics thesis, you can’t help but think the entire situation has pretty much set itself up for failure. that is, until you strike a deal with your partner.  alternatively: an au tale involving lessons in popularity, eleven consecutive B­ minuses, a secretly sensitive, chess­-loving jock, and an amateur sex tape.

pairing: jeno x fem!reader, jaemin x fem!reader verse: high school au { jocks!nomin ft. a super cute whiny ap physics genius renjun } rating: M chapter warnings: none word count: 6.1k

author’s note: this is actually an old exo cast fic of mine from my old blog that i had to put on hiatus (alongside myself, actually), for many, many terrible moons (see : 3 years, for a master’s diploma that is simply collecting dust), but upon re-reading it, i thought that it would be a pretty good fit for a dreamie cast instead!! i’ve been thinking about branching out and writing for different groups for a while now, and as a slow return to writing, i’ll be posting the edited already written chapters up slowly so i can also write ahead! for anyone who might have found this blog and recognizes this fic, welcome back! i hope you still enjoy it! for people who’ve encountered it for the first time, i also hope you enjoy it! :) this is unbeta’d (even after all this time pls), so please do point out any errors i might have missed while editing!

                                                        *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

There are three things you had intended for your very average, simple, girl-next-door life:

1. Graduate high school with an average GPA, a diploma and a sigh of relief, without any type of valedictorian honors or the requirement to make a teary/educational/sentimental/hopeful speech about the past/present/future.

2. Get a desk job as the vice-vice-vice senior-vice president of an average paying company, pushing papers and typing numbers you don’t fully understand into a pirated version of Microsoft Excel 2000 to be able to pay your not very steep rent and eat take-out every other night.

3. Get married to an average-looking guy either named Jaehwan or Minhyuk, and have children that, like you, will have no particular special talents and will also live their lives as the average people that basically exist to make glamorous people appear more fabulous.

The back up plan is to stay single and have a very lazy, fat cat that eats more than you do.

There were three things you did not intend for your very average, simple, girl-next-door life, though:

1. Break your leg trying to do a somersault you can’t, even at gunpoint, imagine why you would agree to doing in the middle of the last pep rally of the season as – get this – a cheerleader.

2. Be asked to the homecoming dance by not one, but two very popular, very good-looking jocks who both, for some odd reason, manage to actually talk to you without either yawning or simply walking away while shaking their head.

3. Be asked to professionally join a teen-to-adult entertainment agency, after a 24-minute long supposedly private amateur sex tape starring you is leaked onto the internet and goes viral around the entire cyberspace.

In other words, your younger brothers have seen you naked. Online.

                                                        *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“_____________, I just don’t understand why you like him so much.”

Some people might think you’re an optimist. Others might brand you an idealist. The least kind label would be absolutely deluded.

It doesn’t matter to you, though — you, knowing exactly what Lee Jeno looks like. Wasn’t that knowledge already a good enough reason in itself for you to spend a very creepy, alarming amount of time wishing, just wishing, he would walk over and say hey?

And it’s not just that he’s so chiseled and his face is perfect and his lips are so kissable. It’s not that he’s got an amazing body, and is tall and muscular but lean at the same time.

It’s his eyes.

They’re like, god. Great pools of molten chocolate with just the slightest hint of swirled creamer and – ugh. Behind those eyes, you’re sure there’s a sweet, sensitive man who’s looking for the right kind of girl. His soulmate, if you’re feeling a little more like a hopeless romantic today. You sincerely, genuinely, desperately hope you’re that girl.

Yeah, it’s weird. You’re in high school. Your hormones are probably kind of raging.

“Like, he’s just some dumb, boneheaded jock,” comes the continuation from beside you. You roll your eyes in response, but say nothing to contribute out of a desire to simply not. “And that’s all he’ll ever be. He’s failing nearly everything, except physical education. Why can’t you have a semi-obsessive crush on someone who might actually have a future?”

“For your information, Huang Renjun,” You snap, turning to your best friend. You’re seated in the cafeteria, supposedly enjoying a simple lunch meal. That was, of course, until you had realized you were three tables behind where Lee Jeno and his best friend, Na Jaemin were seated, also enjoying their lunches in some very cool, very manly sort of silence. So you’d looked, and let out a long sigh.

It was just a sigh, for the love of God. It’s not like you had run over and fallen to your knees in front of him. And yet Renjun had just put down his triangle gimbap, shook his head, and asked you why you had chosen, out of the thousands of perfectly acceptable (in his opinion) people in the student body, Lee Jeno to give you unreciprocated affections to.

And your response had been, and will always be: just look at him and tell me –- why the hell not?

“Jeno isn’t what you so assume as a boneheaded jock. He’s a classy, athletic student who just… happens to care more about sports than the mundane task of having to read a textbook for hours on end,” you shrug. That had come out more articulately than you’d imagined, which shocks Renjun as much as it actually surprises you — something that you notice with a twinge of belligerence after his eyes widen. “He’s probably going to get himself a top notch varsity scholarship.”

“Yeah, if he can even graduate,” Renjun shoots back contemptuously. “And even then, what’s a varsity scholarship going to get him? Do you know the amount of people who actually get into professional athleticism? He’s probably just going to end up a janitor or something.”

“Don’t you dare,” you growl.

“Come on, __________, the guy is a douche! Why do you have to pick him of all people?”

“He’s not a douche! And for your information, Jeno isn’t failing. He’s gotten a good number of D’s.”

“Yeah, I bet his teachers have gotten a load of D’s too,” Renjun replies snidely.

“Hey, not everyone can be a star student, Huang Renjun-nim with all the straight-A’s to brag about,” you sniff. “And Jeno’s not like that. He’s a gentleman.”

“Uh huh,” he said, sounding supremely unconvinced.

“Why do you hate him so much? He’s not really a bully. And he’s not done anything to you.”

“I don’t hate him him, I hate that you like him.” 

You shake your head. As if that had made it clearer. “What’s not to like? He’s funny, athletic, sweet —”

“I’m sure you know all that because you spend so much time with him.” Renjun sighs. “Why can’t you just like someone else? Why can’t you moon over, I don’t know – Mark Lee, the very smart, also very athletic and very active student body president? Or  Donghyuck, the physics lab assistant who, though not particularly into sports, has one of the highest GPAs around here? Or – I don’t know, someone like me?”

“Like what?” you say, distracted – Jeno had just stood up along with Jaemin, and had begun to clear their table, piling their trash onto their trays.

“Like – you know — you know – just —“

“He’s coming this way,” you hiss, effectively cutting Renjun off. Even though he doesn’t like it, he’s forced to turn away with you, even though he hadn’t really gotten a good look and wasn’t exactly trying to hide his presence from Jeno to begin with.

“So what?” He whispers before suddenly realizing he doesn’t know why he’s even keeping his voice down. “Are you going to offer to throw his stuff for him now? Is this what we’ve come to?”

“No, I want to leave.”

“What?” Renjun looks at you, then at his unfinished triangle gimbap, then at you again. “Why?”

“Because — I don’t want him to see me like this —“ you also whisper, starting to get up. Renjun, however, holds your arm, visibly confused and no small amounts annoyed.

“See you like what? So he’s coming, and now we have to leave?”

“I just – I don’t want – I just – can we please just go?” you beg weakly, watching them approach from the corner of your eye.

“No, there’s absolutely no reason as to why you have to leave just because he’s coming here,” he says stubbornly.

“Let go of my arm, please-“

“Just sit down, ____________.”

“No, I can’t, I don’t want to make eye contact with him — I don’t even want him to really see me right now—"

“Who said you have to make eye contact with him, anyway? Just eat your food.”

“Let’s just go —” You yank your arm back violently — just in time too, as Jeno and Jaemin pass by your table, trays in hand.

It happens all at once:  your chair falls over as you shoot upward from the force of pull, and you reel back as Renjun lets out a surprised yelp. You don’t go far — just enough to make an impact on the person behind you with your forearm and elbow.

That person being, of course, Lee Jeno’s best friend, whose can of soda was just by the edge of his tray – an edge it fell off of the moment you collide with his arm.

You hear three things after that, all close to being simultaneous with one another:

One, a very loud Oh, shit! from the guy behind you, who you had just bumped.

Two, a chair scraping as your best friend stands up from his seat, eyes wide in horror.

And, three, a bloodcurdling shriek from your own mouth as Na Jaemin’s half-full diet Coke splashes down the back of your shirt.

There’s a brief hush that falls over the room. The words that come after seem a thousand times louder.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry…”

The fizz of the soda pops and crackles against your skin, causing the now-translucent fabric to stick to your back like overly carbonated flypaper. Your mouth hangs half-open in shock, trying to find the appropriate words for the situation. Renjun looks up at you, his eyes mirroring a fraction of your horror from witnessing the situation.He mouths something that vaguely looks like “let’s go,” but you don’t want to dwell on what it could have actually been, otherwise you might strangle him. 

A warm hand gently rests on your back, pushing the sticky, soaked cloth even further closer to me. You wince at first, mildly disgusted by the feeling.

But a warm thought strikes you in that instance – what if, maybe, it’s Jeno trying to comfort you, about to say something sweet and caring that would ultimately show Renjun up, and perhaps lead to the beginning of a wonderful romance that would blossom between the both of you?

Well, you like being idealistic about your future – especially when the thought of it involves Jeno.

The idea of Lee Jeno pressing his palm against your back, his hand only obscured by a thin layer of fabric, suddenly sends unnatural tingles down your spine. Color rushes to your cheeks, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling at the strangely embarrassing but not altogether revolting thought. Renjun catches it and throws you a slightly quizzical look that suddenly changes to mild exasperation.

“Are you okay?”

It’s the same question you’d expected, but it was not asked in the sexy, careful, and husky drawl you’d often heard Jeno speak in. You deflate noticeably, turning slowly to the best friend of the man of your dreams.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say quietly.

“God, I’m so sorry, I really am —” Na Jaemin bites his lip, trying (see: failing) not to gawk at your blue and brown-all-the- way-down-the-back shirt. “I swear — it was an accident, I really didn’t mean to —-”

You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I should have watched where I was going. My… bad eyesight, you know.” Your eyesight is fine. You don’t even know why you’d said that. The situation in itself was already sufficiently uncomfortable without a lame medical lie. 

Physically, of course, sure, what with your back still kind of popping and fizzing from the coke stain. But more socially, considering you now have two attractive boys right in front of you, unsure of what to do about said stain, while whoever is still present in the dwindling population of the cafeteria stares, very pityingly, at the still-spreading new pattern of Coca Cola on your shirt.

But what really knots up your insides is the fact that this coke stain, the obvious focal point of the situation, is probably the one striking reminder of the day Lee Jeno actually had his attention fully on you, for the first time in your life.

Which, considering what everything was, really isn’t the best way to make your mark on someone.

There’s a long, awkward pause. Suddenly, Jeno pipes in for the first time since the scene had gone awry, speaking in the slow, bass tone he had claimed as signature. “Do you need a jacket?”

Oh god. He’s talking to you. Not around you, not near you, not over you, not out of a conversation you’d eavesdropped – no, sorry, overhead. To you. In that, sweet, nonchalant cloud of sound that fills your ears like some one-man angelic chorus. You let out an involuntary, dreamy sigh.

Renjun, obviously hearing your response (or lack thereof), clears his throat, trying to prompt you to reply to him. Well, shit. What did he say?

“Uh — sorry —- what?” you breath out, still dazed.

“Do you,” Jeno repeats patiently. “Need a jacket?”

Oh, god. He’s going to offer you his jacket. Offer you. His jacket. The one that says Lee in that super cool varsity font that makes his name look even yummier. And that’s literally the closest you’ll ever be to him.

“Hey,” Renjun hisses to you in a low, annoyed voice. “Say something.”

You snap out of a mental monologue again, flushing a funny shade of red for at least the third time today.

You open your mouth, but no words come out -– at best, a very pitiful sort of squeak lodges itself in your throat and dies there. Your lips simply part and shut like a fish trying to process oxygen. You can practically hear the sound of Renjun rolling his eyes, probably going so far back he can see all the creases in his big brain.

“Yeah, she’d appreciate it, probably.”

Yes. Yes, definitely.

There’s the sound of rustling cloth, and hands, gentle on your shoulders, carefully place the jacket on your back. You catch a whiff of the freshly laundered cloth, peppered with the subtly faded scent of cologne that’s been religiously sprayed onto the fabric many times before. It’s heavenly. With a wide grin on your face, you turn to the two of them, more or less ready to lay down your life at Jeno’s feet.

But his jacket, pristine and crisp, is still on him, devilishly unbuttoned and lightly clinging to his sides. He raised a questioning eyebrow as you stare, a little too long, at the jacket that you’d thought had been wrapped around you moments ago. Maybe he has two jackets. Maybe you’re in the matrix. 

You turn your head, trying to read the lettering on the back. You only had to see one “N” in order to realize that the embroidery read “Na”, and not “Lee”.

It’s somehow embarrassingly difficult to hide your disappointment, but you thank Jaemin nonetheless. He seems genuinely troubled, making sure your arms are well into the sleeves of his letter jacket before backing away, hands up like you’re robbing him on the bus.

“I’m really, really sorry,” he repeats. You don’t know how much more apologetic he could manage to look.

“It’s fine,” you mumble. “Sorry about your coke.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter — what I’m worried about is -–”

“No, it’s no big deal — nothing some laundry time won’t get rid off,” you wave another round of apologies away. “Thanks for the jacket.” A bit of sadness makes its way into your voice; thankfully, it goes virtually unnoticed by all but Renjun, who makes an unpleasant face everyone who does notice it (see: you) decides to ignore.

“It’s the least I can do. Sure it’s okay?”

“Yeah, thank you.”

The first bell’s ring, signaling five minutes before the next period, punctuates the short and uncomfortable exchange. Most seniors have a free period or two for “studying” – except, only Renjun actually takes that seriously. You usually spend it with him, which is, truthfully, a big bore, so you generally end up falling asleep on the desk until he wakes you up for the next actual class.

“Hey, Jaemin, hurry,” Jeno says suddenly, checking his watch. “I want to catch that new action movie – next showing’s at half past one.”

Or, sometimes, if you had a car, guts and a whole lot of charm, you could sneak out of school for the three-hour downtime and go to the nearest mall, grab a bite or watch a movie if you could afford it. Fortunately for him, a car, guts and charm were pretty much Lee Jeno’s strongest selling points.

“Oh, yeah,” Jaemin said halfheartedly, his eyes flickering to you. “You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah,” you reply. “I’ll have your jacket with you, fresh and clean, tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head, smiling. It looks genuine, but for some reason, you feel like that can’t be too right.

“Na Jaemin,” Jeno repeats. Jaemin backs away, offering you a last small, apologetic look before nodding back at Jeno.

“Later,” he raises a hand in farewell. Jeno begins to walk ahead, not even glancing back at you. It seems he had more important things on his mind. Maybe he’d been trying to figure out what was going to go down in the new Mission Impossible movie. That seems like a valid train of thought for him to be so unconcerned about anything else. 

When they’re clear out of earshot, Renjun gives a very audible, very heavy sigh. You wheel around to him, frowning.

“What’s so —” you imitate his sigh.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come on, Renjun, I may not be grade A but I’m not that dumb.”

“You were like a one eyed pony crippled by a shiny unicorn,” he shakes his head. “And by unicorn, I did indeed mean Lee Jeno, which is actually a significant downgrade.”

“Don’t say his name so loud, people might hear.”

“Everyone in this part of town knows you like him, _________. It’s really not a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle,” he chuckles, though a bit sardonically.

“Liar,” you mutter under your breath.

“Fine, let’s agree to disagree, then.” He rolls his eyes. You note he’s been doing a lot of that today. “You could have at least handled the situation better. Most people would have actually managed to say something other than uhhhhh…”

“I did say something!” you defend yourself, rather affronted. “I said thank you, and it was fine —”

“Yeah, to Na Jaemin. In case you didn’t notice, that stuff doesn’t really funnel down to Jeno —”

“It as good as does.”

“All I’m saying is that if you wanted to make some progress, you could have at least looked him in the eye and not choked on your own saliva.” He’s amused. You can tell. Except you’re not in the mood to laugh at all, so you settle with sniffing — very angrily — pursing your lips, and saying nothing. “What? It’s true!”

“Just shut up, Renjun,” you say tiredly. “Maybe I didn’t want to make progress then, have you thought about that?”

“Not likely,” he snorted.

“Oh – really? Really? You thought it would have been a fantastic time for me to strike up a hi hello, how do you do, would you care to have a cup of coffee with me some time? while I was drenched in coke from the waist down?”

“I’m just saying, if you’re trying to be an opportunist, you can’t really be picky about when you make your move.”

“I don’t understand you,” You throw your hands up in the air. “First you tell me to stay away from him, and now you’re telling me to think back upon the fact that I didn’t make a move when I should have?”

“It’s called reverse psychology,” he said, after a moment’s pause of consideration. “Like, I’m telling you now yeah, go for it, but then in your mind, another voice is going maybe it’s not such a good idea, especially if the only time we ever get to talk is when I’ve been splashed by coke and I can’t even form coherent sentences.”

“Oh, well, shit,” You mutter sarcastically. “Why didn’t I figure that out?”

“Given time, you might have. I have so much faith in your intelligence, even though you refuse to use it.”

“I doubt it.” You mumble under your breath. He falls quiet, and you sniff again, not because you really feel the need to but because you want to express how miffed you are at the very, very sudden and bad turn of events.

“___________,” Renjun begins in a slower, considerably kinder tone after moment of actual silence. “Are you all right?”

“Fantastic,” you sigh. “Got coke dumped on my back, in front of forty percent of the student population, I smell like a soda parlor and I choked on my own saliva in front of Lee flipping Jeno.”

“That’s a good estimation — forty percent,” Renjun approves.

“Wow, thank you.”

“Hey, it’s not all bad. For the rest of the day, your last name is Na,” he says, trying to cheer you up. You sniff for the third time in a row, nose now raw with the habit.

“I’d much rather it were Lee.”

                                                         *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You part ways in last period, Renjun heading off to what he calls AP Physics and what you like to call AP Torture. You, however, had managed to stay very happily in the physics lesson for normal people, despite Renjun’s constant badgering for you to just work harder so that you both could be AP Torture lab partners together. You’ve declined, quite politely, on more than one occasion. Average is your specialty.

Never mind the fact that Lee Jeno was in your Physics class, only three stations away from you. It’s not the reason you’re staying, but you’d be a liar if you ever said it hadn’t served as one of the many excellent justifications.

He’s already there when you walk into class, yawning and twirling his pen in between his fingers. Your breathing hitches a little as you take the glorious sight of him in, but you scold yourself for a hot minute, reminding yourself that cool people don’t ever show when they’re feeling any other emotion than the one called cool. You do a pretty good job (well, it feels like a good job) of making yourself seem calm and aloof, remaining seemingly unaware of his presence as you walk past him over to your station to sit down on your stool.

You should have been able to skate by with the whole act, too, except you stupidly take the time to sneak a glance at him, causing you to miss the surface of your station and drop your books so loudly you feel like the people in the next classroom hear it too.

Face burning to about the average temperature of a summer’s day in the Sahara Desert, you scoop up all your books and shove them onto the untrustworthy station table. Luckily, when you cast a furtive look at Jeno, he makes no indication that he had noticed the racket you’d made. His head is still turned to the front, finger performing a mini-exhibition of pen twirling.

“Hey,___________, have a good term break?”

“Hey, Donghyuck,” you greet, sliding into your seat. “Pretty good, how was yours?”

Lee Donghyuck, another physics genius with a strangely buddy-buddy relationship with the head of the Natural Sciences Department at school. He and the chair, Choi Jiwoo (who Donghyuck fondly refers to as “Jiwoo-nim”, for some inexplicable reason), are pretty tight, which is probably why Donghyuck landed himself a position as ‘teaching assistant’ in the basic Physics class, where he can tell you what you’re doing wrong and grade your quizzes instead of having to attend whatever boring lecture they had going in AP Physics, which he probably would have aced anyway. You’re not sure if he gets paid, or whatever, but you know it sure beats the hell out of staring at a Powerpoint all day.

You’re also pretty sure they put you in a station close to the teaching assistant’s desk because of that weird chemistry incident last year when Park Gaeun got her eyebrows burned off.  You know they think it had been your fault because you were the one who had screamed and filled a beaker of water to splash onto her face when she was screaming (too) and going around in small circles like a blind chicken.

Except it wasn’t your fault – you don’t even know how it had happened. You had sworn it couldn’t have been you, because…

Well, because you’d had your back turned to Park Gaeun. Because you had been busy staring at Jeno, who was filling his graduated cylinder with hydrogen peroxide, his brow all scrunched up from concentrating. Which, by the way, makes the top 10 cutest things of the year every year.

But it still doesn’t change the fact that Park Gaeun lost her eyebrows and now has to draw them on with a pencil until they grow back, and it doesn’t sway your theory that you had been put in the station next to Lee Donghyuck’s teaching assistant’s desk so that he could keep an eye on you, in case you decided to like, accidentally electrocute someone.

“It was good,” he replies, smiling. “Do anything interesting?”

Well, you had tried to add Lee Jeno on Facebook, if that counts. Not that he’s rejected you; he just hasn’t accepted it.

Maybe today, he will. If not, there’s always tomorrow.

“No, not really. Mostly stayed home and slept,” You shrug, deciding to keep that Facebook thing to yourself. You and Donghyuck aren’t that close to begin with. “You?”

“Graded stuff,” he taps a stack of papers piled neatly upon his desk, and you raise a quizzical eyebrow.

“They let you grade the final exams?”

“Yeah.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Wanna know what you got?”

“No,” You pause, reconsidering. “Yeah. Nah – it’s low, isn’t it?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you either way,” he chuckles. “I’ll leave it as a fantastic surprise.”

“Fantastic,” you echo hollowly, knowing that must mean you had gotten a zero.

“It’s not as low as you might think. Besides, you can more than make up for it this term.”

Before you can ask what was happening this term, the door slams shut, and you spin towards the front of the classroom. Hwang Taehyung, the non-AP Physics teacher, stalks in, looking moodier than ever.

There are three things everyone knows about Hwang Taehyung:

One, he’s bitter because he’s consistently turned down for the AP Physics slot, which is also consistently handed over to newer and seemingly more qualified instructors. The latest AP Physics teacher is a young new graduate, Jung Yoorin, who is an average babe: pretty, fair-skinned, a slightly above-average bust size, with a surprisingly very, very above average IQ. You think the fact that she’s smoking hot kind of makes Hwang Taehyung a lot sulkier.

Two, he has one thing and one thing only in his wardrobe: a grey suit. Day in, day out, grey suit. Going to class? Grey suit. Going to a meeting? Grey suit. Catch him in the mall? Grey suit. Going to a wedding? Probably the grey suit. Maybe with a flower on the lapel, or something, to spice things up a little.

And the third, most important thing about him: He’s always, always in the process of getting a divorce with his wife.

And it’s not like he’s a ladykiller and is trying to get all these hot bitches off his back to protect whatever assets he may have accumulated with his teacher’s salary over the years. No, it’s the same wife, who is as old as he is and about sixty times bitchier, from the way you hear it. Except, you don’t know why he can’t just get rid of her. Or why the divorces never push through. Some people think it’s the really disturbing notion of make-up-break-up with a lot of old people sex involved. You prefer to stick to the theory of there not being an actual wife, and he just files with an imaginary spouse so that he can get continual pay raises for “divorce bills” that don’t exist. It’s not like the school does a really extensive background check, anyway. If you can teach and don’t presently do hashish, you’re pretty much hired.

“Donghyuck, give out the papers, please,” Hwang instructs, tossing down a clipboard onto the desk. Donghyuck jumps up and begins handing back your final exams from last term. “And are you sure you got this list right?”

“Absolutely, sir,” he says, sliding a paper over to you.

Ugh, a B minus. Not your worst, but definitely not your best. Meanwhile, Renjun is probably celebrating another well deserved A-plus in his AP Physics finals from last term.

“Fine, since I’m too lazy to look it over the class list,” Hwang swivels to the board, scrawling some unreadable shit that looked weirdly like Penis Tum Roadjet.

“Your Physics Term Project,” you stifle a laugh that Donghyuck shoots you a look for. “Will require you to work in pairs on a four-month-long investigatory research and experiment that involves any physics concept or breakthrough. And – yes, what is it?”

Park Gaeun, eyebrows half grown in, had raised her hand. “Sir, do we get to pick our partners?” You notice she’s pointedly looking at you, and you turn away, trying to look innocent. Judgy bitch. Maybe you should have roasted her eyebrows off.

“No, Lee Donghyuck over here has already laid out a masterlist.” The statement is met with a disapproving noise. “Now, as I was saying – what is it now?”

Another student, Moon Jonghyun raises his hand as well. “Sir, any physics concept? Say – if it involves the trajectory of a car falling off a cliff as it drives two hundred miles an hour –”

“If you can find a way to simulate that and prove what kind of significance it has to today’s society, I won’t stop you,” Hwang Taehyung says dryly, though his tone suggests that if anyone did manage to simulate a speeding car falling off a cliff again and again for this project, they might as well give themselves an F and be done with it. Moon Jonghyun sobers down, looking sulky. Clearly, he’d cottoned on as well.

“Now, when I read your name off the masterlist, find your partner – I’m assuming you’re all familiar with each other? You should be. You can spend the rest of the period discussing what you want to do. Turn in your short proposals by the end of the week.”

Everyone sits up a bit straighter, listening very hard for their names attached to their partners.

“Jeong Jisoo and Kim Minhyuk. Park Gaeun, Oh Taekyung. Min Taehee, Moon Jonghyun. Lee Jeno, ____________.”

As though in slow motion, you watch his head turn, his eyes searching briefly before they land on you. You feel your mouth go dry, and you see him, as though from a dream, stand up and walk towards your station.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. What are you going to do? Shit, shit, he’s still looking at you. Okay, be cool. Oh God, You’re going to have a heart attack.

As he takes the last few steps towards you, you run a hand through your hair. You think, maybe you should smile. But would that creep him out? But would it make you seem too cold if you didn’t smile? The end result of that debate is a painful, lopsided thing that looked more like a grimace than a grin.

“Hey,” he greets, setting his book down atop the station. He blinks once, very briefly, and it looks like all the lights in his head have gone out before something clicks in his mind. “You’re that girl right? The one in the cafeteria?”

He remembers you, though. You nod, speechless — actually, not trusting yourself to speak.

“How’s your shirt?”

You lick your lips, trying to get them to move again. “Fi-fi-fine?” You say breathlessly.

“Cool,” he blinks once again. “So — uh, I’m Jeno, by the way.”

And then he sticks out his open palm and holds it in midair. You have to hold your wrist to stop your fingers from trembling against his. You briefly grasp his hand, and he holds it for a brief moment before letting it go.

“I’m – I’m __________.”

“___________,” he repeats. “Okay, __________. Know anything about this physics stuff?”

“Well – I – uh,” You push your books back with your elbow, covering your embarrassing B-minus in case he wants to see what you’d gotten. “I’m… I’m cool with it.” Only because Renjun forces you to study with him and sometimes has to shove the new lesson down your throat when you'd rather be on Facebook trying to beat your Everwing high score.

“Oh, well, cool. Because, you know, I gotta be honest with you,” he shrugs. “Physics blows for me. We don’t get along. You know what I mean?”

“Mmm,” you reply, more or less entranced by the very confused, very beautiful look on his face.

“So, uh, will you be okay with taking the reins on this one? Get us a cool grade, and all?”

“Mhmmm,” you answer dreamily, watching the corners of his mouth turn up. He’s so cute.

“Fantastic. You’re a cool kid, ___________. Not sure why I haven’t spoken that much to you before,” he stands up, and you instinctively straighten up to look at him, eyes still following his every movement. He gives you a light pat on the shoulder, and all you can think of is how he’s touched you twice today. “So -– is that it? Are we good here?” He asks. You don’t know where your voice is again, so you just nod in response. “Cool. See you tomorrow.”

He glances at the now-empty teacher’s table — Hwang had left the class alone to plan — and then over at Donghyuck, who’s looking through an unclaimed exam paper of an absentee and probably laughing at all the stuff they got wrong.

“Hey, Lee Donghyuck, I’m going ahead.” Without waiting for a response from the teacher’s assistant, he eases out of the station and exits the room. No one seems to find this the least bit unusual.

“You’re with Jeno; that’s tough,” Donghyuck frowns, putting down the exam paper. You notice that there’s a really large, proud D on it that he must have really taken the time to write out. “He’s not doing well in this class. It looks like he’s going to need at least a B-plus to get him to graduate.”

“We’ll get whatever grade he needs,” you reply, your eyes still on the door as if you’re expecting he’d come back through and take you with him.

“Yeah – so you got a plan, already? You guys planned quickly. Everyone else just sat down.”

“Yeah, we have a plan.”

“So? What are you doing?”

“It’s – well, it’s a secret; I can’t give it all away, can I?” You snap out of your daze long enough to give an answer that isn’t just parroting back whatever you can hear above the noise in the room.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “Keep your secrets then. But it better be good. You know I’m grading fifty percent, right?”

“Well, you better give me that fifty percent, then,” You raise your eyebrows.

“We’ll see,” he laughs, standing up from his spot. He pats you once lightly on the shoulder before leaving to walk around to see what kind of progress everyone else is making. You note that it feels nothing like how Jeno had done it. 

It’s only now that you realize you’ve hit a big snag by making that brash promise to Jeno. You don’t know anything about physics.You chew on your bottom lip, watching everyone draw up ideas left and right for the term project. Some people already have five ideas written down. You have zero. Plus, your partner’s already gone.

You knead your brow in frustration, slightly hating the moony-eyed part of yourself and wondering why you always let it take the reins during important situations. You can’t let Jeno down, but there’s no one you can ask for help here either; this class is a competition now, not collaboration. You think about asking Donghyuck for some tips before remembering that you had already told him you and Jeno had a plan. Besides, whatever question you’d come up with, he’d probably just laugh at hysterically inside; nothing could match his AP Phy–

AP Physics.

And if there were a moment you would choose to thank a God you don’t fully believe in for making Huang Renjun your best friend, it would pretty much be right now.

[apocalypticgargoyle]

Ok you amazing person. Demon Sapnap, but the reader is really sick or maybe is in an accident and ends up in hospital. Sapnap and Dream both visit and get jealous of eachother. Eventually Dream leaves and Sapnap is just there like 👁👄👁 And then after a day or two the reader is finally home and Sapnap is like really pent up because he has been jealous Horny and reader has been in hospital and he just rails them, but softly because reader is still weak. Basically jealous soft-dom Demon Sapnap.

This is just an idea- by no means do you have to write it :)

I'm begrudgingly writing Dre as Mr. Steal Your Girl for obvious reasons (/ j), but also I couldn't pass down this idea for incubus 3 ;) I'm also going to include a few other requests I had about Sap's backstory and some smut. enjoy!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐒 & 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒. ⛧ 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐮𝐛𝐮𝐬!𝐬𝐚𝐩𝐧𝐚𝐩 (𝟏𝟖+)

warnings: smut (18+), spanking, degradation, thigh riding, domination, literally quoting the b!ble

here's a playlist for those of you that were asking for it. i would love to see what the rest of you are listening to :)

previous part

You opened your eyes slowly, the ache in your body fully coming to your attention as you noticed the metronome of beeps coming from the machines connected to the tubes in your arm. You turned your head, squinting as your eyes struggled to focus on the figure beside you. After a few minutes, your brain pieced together his features and your heart eased when you realized it was Sapnap. For some, obviously ungodly reason, his presence brought you a sense of calm.

His feet were kicked up on the edge of your bed, his eyes scanning over a magazine as he chewed on his bottom lip absent-mindedly. He was dressed more casually than he usually was, probably an attempt at blending into the general public. You reached out a hand, fingers brushing against the soft material of his dark crewneck to get his attention. His gaze moved to look at you, a smirk painting across his pink lips.

You cleared your throat, tongue feeling like sandpaper. “What happened?” You grumbled, reaching beside him for the remote to elevate your head.

He watched your movements carefully. “You got a fever and then passed out cold,” he reminded you softly, making you groan. “Dehydration.” You couldn’t remember what he was talking about, only feeling nauseous in the middle of the night.

“How long have I been here?” You asked, rolling your head on your shoulders as your neck cracked, your limbs popping as you moved slightly. The IV pinched your arm as you moved, making you hiss quietly, making his eyes focus on where it was attached.

He hummed in thought. “A few hours. They wanna keep you until tomorrow, just in case you die or something,” he shrugged, tossing the magazine on the couch in the corner of the room.

You rubbed one of your eyes, a yawn rippling through you. “And why are you here?”

He chuckled. “Obvious reasons,” he stated, nodding towards the bite on your shoulder. “Also, Saint Dream was the first on your emergency contact list, so…” You pulled your knees to your chest as you looked at him.

“Even if it’s just because you have a quota to meet, I’m glad you’re here,” you muttered and something flickered behind his eyes, a smug expression tugging at his lips.

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, feet planted on the ground. “You’re not part of my quota, baby.” Your cheeks flushed at his words but before you could respond, he tensed up, eyes clouding with a darkened gold. They always shifted when something was intruding. You furrowed your brows at him. “Lupus in fabula venit enim ad me,” he mumbled darkly, the venom of sarcasm dripping from his voice as a knock came at your door.

Clay stuck his head through the threshold, eyes softening at you. Sapnap watched him silently as he stepped inside, rambling off how worried he was about you. Clay seemed to ignore Sapnap’s presence as he settled a batch of roses on your nightstand. Sapnap rolled his eyes and once Clay finally acknowledged him, he made a face like he was smelling something rotten. Sapnap looked like he was ready to snap Clay in half if he approached you closer, yet his dark demeanor didn’t dissuade Clay. In fact, it seemed like Clay was hell-bent on ruffling his feathers more, pulling up a chair on the other side of you.

“I didn’t think he would be here,” Clay commented, voice dipping slightly as his sights shifted toward Sapnap, irises flashing brighter. You perked an eyebrow at him.

Sapnap scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “I’m here because she wants me here,” he commented, nearly with a boasting tone. “So, it seems like I’m in the right role to ask what the fuck you think you’re doing.” You kept silent as the two played their game of wits and egos.

Clay smirked at him as if he was in possession of some esoteric knowledge. It dawned on you that you weren’t sure how old either of them actually was. You had dated Clay for god knows how many years, yet you learned more about his past from Sapnap than you had in any of the years you were together. “It’s still in her best interest that she be given options that don’t involve your kind,” he gritted.

Sapnap laughed shortly, a cockiness settling into his appearance. “Oh yeah? In her best interest or in yours, you selfish prick.”

Clay’s jaw tensed, a sigh flooding from his nose. “We can do this more maturely, you know? Like fucking professionals.”

Sapnap shook his head. “I’m not up for negotiating,” the stated bluntly. “Go near her again and I’ll report you,” he assured, his deadpanned stare making your heartbeat quicken.

Clay swallowed, eyes glued to Sapnap’s as the pair of them flexed their dominant personalities. Clay’s eyebrow twitched as if he had thought of something, almost mockingly. “Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit,” he began, making Sapnap roll his eyes again before cutting into Clay’s quote.

“-enemy of man’s salvation. Give place to Christ in Whom you have found none of your works,” he mocked. “Try and exorcise me all you want, feather boy.”

Clay’s hand moved to curl around your wrist and Sapnap leaned against the bed, as if asking Clay to make his next move. “Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour-“

“Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings,” Sapnap cantered without a thought. “It’s not even the right verse for this, stupid bitch,” he grumbled.

You cleared your throat, pulling your arm away from Clay and trying not to look as if you were slinking towards Sapnap. “You should leave,” you stated, Clay’s lips pursing at your words. “I need to rest.” Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Sapnap’s sly expression cutting into Clay.

After spending another night in the hospital, you were finally unlocking your apartment door and letting Sapnap help you out of your coat. You mumbled something about getting yourself a drink and he brushed you off, already doing it himself. Your mind was racing with questions after what you had witnessed between Clay and Sapnap. You hadn’t doubted the authenticity of Sapnap, but your mind still ran with what had happened to him. He handed you a water, sitting down on your couch as you paced slightly.

He broke into your thoughts. “Go on, tell me what you’re thinking,” he stated, unbuttoning his shirt slightly. You wanted to hex him about the fact that he probably already knew what was pounding against your temples to be asked.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, rolling over your questions to censor some of them. “The bible’s been translated and reprinted so many times, how are you still…” you gestured with your hands, unable to explain where you were going with your statement.

He chuckled, brushing a hand against his chin. “It really doesn’t matter if it’s actually God’s word or not. It’s a guide, like an outline. Rules, I guess. Think about it like the Constitution.”

“I thought demons like… burned up when someone quoted the bible at them…”

His face fell a bit at this. “No, we just can’t read it,” his tone was almost regretful, sending guilt to pulse through your body because you had asked. “It’s like it’s in a completely different language, and each time I look at it, it shifts around the page. When you get dragged into hell, something happens with your eyes.” He huffed slightly, wetting his lips. “It's kind of like an isolation thing. He wants you to be completely aside from him.”

Your mind clicked, eyeing your heirloom display case. “Can I try something?” You asked, popping open one of the doors after he hummed in response. You fished out your grandmother’s rosary, the cross feeling almost heavy in your hands. You turned on your heel, bringing it closer to him before dangling it in front of him. His eyes drifted away from it, his gaze turning up to you. “Does this bug you?” You probed, making him snort. He took it in his hand, thumb caressing over the design.

He shook his head, chewing on his lip. “It’s a shameful thing really. I feel guilty whenever I look at this kind of stuff,” he muttered; you sat on the arm of his chair and looked over his shoulder. He turned, looping it around your neck. “Does it bug you?”

You held it away from your chest. “For different reasons, I guess.” You stood again, putting it back in its spot beside a photo of your grandfather. “Why’d you get kicked out?” You queried softly, peering over your shoulder.

He was watching you. “Maybe another time.”

“What about your childhood?” You asked. “Did you have one?”

“I know more about your childhood than I do my own. Why all the questions?” He countered with a soft laugh.

You shrugged. “I want to get to know you…” You mumbled, your hand drifting up to rest on your shoulder, feeling heat coming off of his scaring bite mark. “How do you know when to show up?”

He sighed, leaning his back against the chair and stretching his legs. “I can feel when you get anxious. Angels have some kind of block though, that’s why it took me so long to realize you needed me when that bastard was over here.” He shook his head almost like a new fire about Dream had been lit. His eyes flickered up to you. “Unless you weren’t scared.” You shook your head quickly at his joke. He chuckled. “How does it make you feel that I’m in your head sometimes?”

You approached him again. “Narcissistic,” you answered plainly, sinking to your knees before him. You ran your hands up his thighs, a smirk growing on his features as he sat up to be closer to you. “What happens after I die? Eternal damnation?” You questioned, as his hand went to brush against your arms.

He pressed his lips to your neck before digging his fingers into your hair as if he’d been waiting to touch you for days. You hummed as he kissed you, the slight scruff of his unshaven face feeling soft against your cheek. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that. I think I’ll make you immortal or something. Being with me should be enough damnation,” he jeered, making you laugh. “Most of my colleagues take the souls of their targets and leave, but I enjoy your company,” he teased.

“But you already have my soul, right?” The line felt strange coming from your mouth.

His lips brushed against yours. “There’s still an innocent piece of you that I haven’t tapped into. Everyone has it; I like it in you.”

Your eyebrows perked at this, fingers digging into his thighs to make him groan. “What do you mean?”

He kissed you briefly, actions getting needier the longer you were between his legs. “It’s completely pure. Untampered by sin or desire. When a demon gets it, they go feral,” he mumbled, nose pressing into the crook of your neck, teeth dragging across your skin.

You tilted your head to the side, fingers tracing over his zipper. “Take it from me,” you breathed, leaning into his touch.

“No,” he answered blatantly.

You moaned as his tongue slipped against your collarbones. “I want you to have it,” you continued, voice uneven. His fingers tugged at your hair.

His breath was warm against your shoulders. “I’ll take it after a few years. I don’t want it now.”

You pushed him away from you, his eyes already blown with lust as you looked into them. “You just said demons want it so badly. Take mine.”

He chuckled, hands dropping to your jaw. “No,” he repeated, voice light.

You sat back on your heels, looking up at him with a tilted expression. “Is mine not good enough for you?”

He wheezed. “No, it’s perfect. I just… After I take it, it’s like you’re dead. You’re not the same. Your humanity is gone.” He pulled you back up towards him. “I’ll take it when I’m ready to escort you to hell.”

You quipped an eyebrow. “Oh, so you just don’t want me to see your place?” You joked, making him roll his eyes. “Maybe Clay was right. What’s the verse about confession?”

His eyes darkened playfully. “For with the heart one believes and is justified, and with the mouth one confesses and is saved.” It was mind boggling how he could probably quote the whole Bible and was as… sinful… as he was. “Bring up Dream again, and I’ll make sure you can’t walk for a week.”

Your eyelashes fluttered. “You bargain for a fun game," you quipped.

He chuckled darkly. "It was more a light-hearted threat, dove," he muttered.

You sat forward and pressed your lips against his hungrily, letting him pull you into his lap as his fingers curled into the loose ends of your hair. Your fingers ripped at the buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest to you as he tugged at your own clothing. Your teeth dragged against his lips as his hips ground up against you, needy for friction.

You pushed your tongue into his mouth, moaning as his hands moved to your thighs, his blunt nails raking against your jeans. You rolled your hips against his lap, feeling him harden beneath you. He spread his legs further, coaxing you to grind against him as his hands pushed you down to rut against his leg.

You were breathless as you pulled away from him, one of his hands fisting in your t-shirt to bring you close to him, lips and tongue pressing against your neck. "I didn't tell you to stop riding my thigh," he commented darkly, bouncing his knee to make you moan.

Your hand wrapped around the wrist of his hand holding you in place, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as heat spread across your body. He pulled your shirt over your head, your bare chest at his mercy. Your mind blurred at the sensation and the feeling of him sucking his mark into your skin, making it clear who you belonged to.

You moaned, digging your face into his neck as he rolled his hips against your leg. "Please, Sapnap. I need you," you whimpered, voice a soft whisper in his ear. He chuckled darkly, ripping your pants down your legs as you fumbled to unzip his slacks.

He pulled you onto him without warning, a groan leaving your lips as he suddenly filled you up. "Bold of you to beg for me after associating with that bastard," he bit, thrusting up into you. "I should tie you up and let you suffer for that."

You moaned at his dark tone, grinding your hips against him. Your lips ghosted against his as your cheeks began to feel warm from the stimulation. "I might like that," you jested, your sentence breaking with your voice as he harshly grabbed your hips, driving himself into you harder.

"You're lucky you're still weak," he nipped, voice swirling with lust and power. "I'd throw you over my knee for that comment." His fingers dug into your hips, grinding against you as you bounced on top of him. You moaned at his words. His hand snaked up to wrap around your throat, threatening to apply pressure as he continued to direct your movements, thrusting into you at a deep and reserved pace. "Dirty girl. You want me to punish you, don't you?"

When all you could do was mutter a small beg, he pulled you closer to him, lips meeting yours in a mess of hair, teeth, and tongue. He moaned into your mouth, the taste of his breath was addictive and bliss-inducing.

He pulled you off of him and onto the couch beside him, slipping his shirt the rest of the way off. "I'll fuck the angel lover out of you," he joshed, a hand coming down sharply across your ass; the pain making you moan his name, hands gripping the couch as he pressed your shoulders into the cushion.

He dragged your hips into the air, pushing into you again, rocking his hips against yours with a small grunt. His teeth were sharp against your skin as he pounded into you and an animalistic pace, your mind numbing at the feeling. He pushed your knees further apart to pump himself deeper into you.

You moaned as his weight settled on the hand pinning you to the couch, your hair sticking to your sweaty face as he spanked you again, hand gripping your irritated skin. "Good girl. Take it," he nearly growled, making your skin crawl with an added layer of pleasure. While his pace and mannerisms were ruthless, he was definitely holding back, knowingly going easy on you because of your already weak body. That didn't mean he wasn't reminding you of your sour attitude as he pulled your arm behind your back, his hips snapping against your own to firmly instill his name in your mind.

You reached for the arm rest, a grounding element for you as his motions drove you over the edge in a teeth gritting orgasm, boy flushing with goosebumps under his command. You rocked your hips back against him as he pulled out, jerking himself off instead of giving you the satisfaction of finishing him off.

You groaned as you turned to look at him. "Feeling okay?" He asked, pressing his lips to your shoulder blade. You shook your head quickly and his eyebrow quipped ever so slightly. "Good," he stated, pulling you up and onto the ground in front of him again. He grabbed your cheeks. "I still don't think you've learned," he muttered, leaning back into his previous position. "Blow me," he directed, tucking an arm behind his head. "And with the mouth, one confesses and is saved, remember," he taunted.

Your eyes flashed up to his devious expression as he leered at you from his commanding spot.

It was going to be a long night.

And you were ready for it.

Taglist: (to join, follow this link :))

@karlkitten @pluto-dizzz @twist3dtinkerbell @more-like-reyna @deepestofwaters @glowstick-cafe @unstableye @tinyegg @darphobic @shroomieissmall @clubfairy @aroyaldarknessblr @camerondiaz48104 @madsbbg

[badfvith]

get the camera | fred weasley

Request: can i request a fred x lupin!reader where fred goes to meet remus and sirius to see that he’s a good boyfriend towards the reader and maybe remus and sirius catch fred and the reader taking a nap and cuddling? x

A/N: i am in love with a good daughter of the marauders reader so this was so fun to write 🥺also i made this take place during their 6th year but i kind of ignored the whole “sirius is dead” and “wizarding war” thing for the plot bc like ive said before, im a sucker for some fluff. anyways i hope you like it!!! 💓

warnings: none! this is teeth rotting cotton candy sunshine & rainbows style fluff

word count: 1206

“Are you nervous Freddie?” 

“I think I’m the one who should be asking you that love.” He smiled as the two of you made your way up to the door of 12 Grimmauld Place. “You’ve been talking about this night for weeks.” 

You sighed. “I know I know...I’m obviously not worried about you it’s..them. They can be quite..childish together sometimes.” 

Fred stopped walking and hopped in front of you, catching you off guard. He grabbed your gloved hands in his. “Darling you do remember who you’re dating right? I believe childish is my middle name.” He said, causing you to let out a small smile. 

“Look at me.” He continued. Your gaze shifted from the snowy ground beneath your feet to your beautiful boyfriend. His ginger hair was tucked messily underneath a hat you were sure Molly had knitted him, and his cheeks were rosy from the cold. “I’m not gonna run off when they start displaying your horrendously embarrassing baby photos.” He joked. You lightly punched him in the stomach at the comment, causing him to laugh even harder. “I’m all in with you. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” 

You gave him an emotional smile back. “Kiss me.” 

“Gladly.” He smirked as he leaned down to press a sweet but firm kiss to your lips. 

You pulled away when it actually registered that the two of you were in the middle of the sidewalk during a snowfall making out. “Alright. Let’s go.” You laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him up the staircase.

The door was unlocked when you turned the handle, your dad and his best friend obviously awaiting your arrival. 

The long hallway was empty when you entered and the two of you began to take off your coats and many other winter layers you were sporting. “Dad?” You called out, signaling your arrival. 

A few seconds later two familiar faces popped out of the kitchen and suddenly the house was full of life. 

“There’s my girl!” Lupin smiled, pulling you in for a hug. As the two of you embraced, Fred hung up your coats. “And Mr. Weasley. Long time no see.” He continued. 

“Good to see you again Professor.” Fred smiled, referencing the fact that your dad was indeed both of your defense against the dark arts professor a few years prior, before the two of you started dating. 

“Ah come now Fred there’s no need for that. Call me Remus.” He chuckled. 

“I don’t suppose you’re going to call me Professor too?” Sirius piped up, causing you to burst out laughing. 

“Sirius the only thing you’re professional at is not cleaning up after yourself. Every time I come over I end up having to do your dishes.” Remus replied. 

“All the more reason to keep inviting him over huh?” Sirius said and all of you laughed. He finally looked over at you with open arms. “(y/n). Come here sweetheart.” You went over to hug him while Fred and Remus began making their way to the kitchen. 

“So he’s treating you right then?” Sirius asked after a moment. 

“Better than I could possibly put into words.” You beamed. 

“Good.” 

The two of you then joined your dad and boyfriend in the kitchen, where Remus was fixing dinner. You all fell into easy conversation, and of course it took the turn you were absolutely dreading when Remus pulled out a worn out album you knew you to be filled with photos of you from your childhood. 

“Oh Merlin...” You groaned and banged your head dramatically against the cabinet you were standing in front of. Fred was getting far too much enjoyment from this and you wished you had Harry’s invisibility cloak right about then. 

“Now this. This might just be the greatest photo in existence love.” Fred stated a few minutes later. Your eyes shot open when you saw him holding up a photo of you flopped over on the ground crying and looking miserable. 

“IS IT DINNER TIME YET?” You yelled over the three others in the kitchen laughing hysterically at your tantrum that was so wonderfully captured in the form of a moving image.

“Almost.” Your dad said when he finally caught his breath. “Sirius can I trust you and maybe Fred to get the dishes? I want to talk to (y/n) for a minute.” 

“Go ahead. We won’t burn the house down right Weasley?” Sirius asked. 

“Definitely not. We’re very trustworthy.” Fred laughed. You smiled at his playfulness before you followed your dad into the living room. 

“What’s up?” You asked and sat down on the couch. 

“You remember how nervous I was when you told me you both were together?”

“Of course. Though I knew you’d be nervous about anyone I ever started dating.” You laughed. 

Remus smiled and reached out to grab your hand. “Well I just want you to know that I’m not nervous anymore. He’s great.” 

A smile made its way across your entire face at his words. “Thank you.” You whispered. “I always told you he’s the best.” 

“You did.” He nodded. “Just be careful of losing him to that one though...” He nodded in the direction of the kitchen so you knew he was talking about Sirius. “Them two have the same ridiculous sense of humor.” 

You laughed at his statement. “Yeah I’ll watch out for that.” 

The two of you wrapped up your conversation and made your way to the dining room. The utensils were definitely not in the correct spots and none of the dishes matched, but no one seemed to mind at all because luckily the house was still standing. 

After dinner was over, you and Fred made your way to the couch while your dad and Sirius were cleaning up. 

He sat down on the corner cushion and you curled up next to him, summoning the blanket draped on the chair next to you onto your lap using “accio.” Your head was on Fred’s chest as he gently stroked your hair. 

“They love you.” You said quietly after a few minutes. 

“Well that’s good isn’t it? Because they also love you and given the choice I have a feeling they'd choose you over me.” 

You laughed. “Stop it! I really think Sirius might like you more than me.” 

Fred laughed this time and leaned down to kiss the top of your head. You yawned and felt your eyes begin to close the longer you stayed in this position. You’ve never felt more content than in this moment, in the arms of the best boyfriend in the world, under the roof of the best almost-dad and real dad in the world. 

~

You didn’t know what time it was when you woke up slightly after hearing some shuffling around you, but it must have been late because it was completely dark outside now. The only light came from a lamp on the other side of the room. You felt the steady rise and fall of Fred’s chest underneath your head, signifying that he was sleeping as well. 

You were in and out of sleepy consciousness for the next few minutes but you were awake enough to process a few sentences. 

“Sirius! Get the camera. This one’s going in the album.” 

tags:

@tinylumpiaa​ @kashishwrites @lateautumn @asksiriusblacvk​ 

[wizkiddx]

I would for sure read a continuation of the birth photographer fic if you feel comfortable writing it/have time! Xx

a/n sorry I kinda combined these two together, I hope this is okay!! sorry ive taken so long too!! my requests are still open, just going a bit slowly :)

summary: literally just birth + harry

dad!tom x reader

warnings: childbirth, mentions of fainting, squint for suggestiveness too

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

“Your doing so good darling, just keep breathin’ like that for me, in-out-in-out”

That had pretty much been the soundtrack to your last 3 hours. And yes it was MORE annoying than it sounds. Of course, that’s also ignoring the insane amount of pain your uterus was putting you through - as it spasmed while the little bug in there was wriggling away. Giving birth was not easy but giving birth with a husband-turned-midwife wittering away in your ear? Un-fucking-bearable. 

“Tom…. I love you but..” Everything had really been starting to ramp up in the last half an hour, you were a panting sweaty mess now. “Please… SHUT THE FUCK UP” Tom would’ve recoiled completely away from the bed because of your tone, if it wasn’t for the absolute death grip you had his right hand in. Instead,  Tom settled for straightening straight up and staring helplessly and dejectedly across the room at his brother - who of course was trying to hold back laughter, knowing it would be very easy for you to switch your target to him. 

Clearly it wasn’t a social call to the hospital, Harry was here under the premise of taking photos when the baby arrives for Tom;  but really to stop his brother from having his own breakdown - as commissioned by you. Lets just say, however scared and mortified Harry was of this ‘event’ he was taking a lot of enjoyment from how his brother was acting currently. 

“It’s okay sir, if you were pushing a watermelon out of hole that normally was the size of a whiteboard marker, I’m sure you’d be a bit tetchy too.” That lady was your favourite midwife and in a lull between the sets of contractions, you actually managed a laugh. Wide-eyed, Tom just nodded jerkily, murmuring some sort of agreement. It was at this point a flash of light reverberated around the whole room, causing you to breathlessly laugh, Harry’s face informing you the picture he just got of Tom was priceless. 

The laughter didn’t last long though, the next contraction had you bearing down on the bed, face contorted in pain as you sucked desperately on the gas and air tube. 

“Okay Y/n I think we might be getting there, let me call the senior midwifes in okay?” The midwife had your legs hiked apart, a blanket attempting to cover your modesty - but at this point she was basically sticking her face in your noon. Modesty was out the window. 

“Already?” Tom was shocked to say the least, from all his reading and research he’d learnt that the average labour time was more like 5 hours. Lets just say, Tom never exceled in school, never much enjoyed reading - which made the hours of highlighting baby books and pregnancy leaflets all the more extraordinary. 

“Babies don’t stick to the script sir.” You could tell she was proud of the pun there, because you know, Tom’s a moviestar. “Professional improvisers, the lot of them.” 

The cream walls of the hospital room very quickly filled with more and more people - Harry staying like a fly on the wall, now nervously biting his nails as he watched an obscene amount of medical people all take their turn oggling his sister-in-law’s bits. This was a weird ass situation. 

Almost immediately it was at the point the midwifes were telling you to push, which after 9 months of holding a baby in (as well as your ill functioning bladder) sounded like an absolute dream. But it was also absolutely terrifying and exciting and horrifying all wrapped in one. Naturally then, after nodding hesitantly at the midwife between your legs, you’d craned your neck across to tom .You might’ve just told him off, for trying to encourage you, but now? You needed his encouragement. 

What met you though, was his face completely drained of colour, mouth hanging slightly open as he hadn’t moved - still staring intently at the midwife. She followed your gaze, only taking half a second to survey the situation before knowingly smiling. 

“Can we get a bit of help for dad please?” Immediately one of the more junior looking midwives was directing (pushing) Tom into the chair next to the floor. Suddenly actually concerned, you looked with wide eyes to the lady between your legs, who you felt bad for not remembering her name. With a comforting squeeze of your ankle she reassured you he’d be right as rain after a few moments of having his head between his knees. Also sensing you needed your support, she arched up, beckoning over to Harry who had an equally bemused look on his face. 

“No - I-um I’m not.” His squeaking protests were interrupted by a large scream on your part, as another contraction tore through your body. Helplessly Harry glanced between Tom, who was still hunched over on a chair with a nurse squatted infront of him; and you, writhing around on the mechanical bed. He didn’t hesitate then, in jumping right to your side, allowing you to start crushing all the bones in his hand too. 

And then it was all happening, a blur of activity and screams. It didnt take long for Tom to pull himself together and then you were flanked on both sides by Holland boys - both giving cheesy encouraging words (which you would’ve again told them to shut the fuck up for, if you’d been able to), Tom also stroking the top of your head. He found it pretty impossible, watching the woman that he loved go through such immense pain - especially when he was technically half the cause. Well… actually more that that, it had been him who had been… well shall we say *needy* those nine months ago. 

“Okay Y/n the heads crowning, I know you’re tired but we need a few more big pushes, can you do that for me?” 

Merely 5 minutes later and the most beautiful sound in the world echoed through the 4 creams walls. You were absolutely spent, eyes closed as you panted, knowing tears were flooding down your face too. Immediately though, familiar hands cupped both sides of your face, a forehead resting on yours. 

“You did it Y/n/n.” His eyes were glassy, watering and red and the way he scoffed a smile in disbelief had you mirroring him exactly.

“We did it.” Your voice was hoarse and scratchy from all the yells of pain but it didnt matter. The midwife calling you by the name ‘mum and dad’ got both of your attention, a title you’d no doubt start getting used to. 

“Meet your beautiful baby girl.” Another choked sob escaped your throat, as  this little roughly wrapped up pink alien looking thing was placed onto your chest. Both you and Tom just gazed at her, completely transfixed at the way she wriggled her head slightly, nuzzling into your chest. Tom gently hovered his palm against her little head, while you pressed down the blanket gently, just so you could see all her features. 

Then a flash echoed around the otherwise silent room, making you all look up to Harry who was gritting his teeth in apology. “Do mum and dad want to smile for the camera?” The question was posed so hesitantly and quietly, really it wasn’t funny either. That didn’t stop you and Tom both pulling out the biggest grins and chuckling away, allowing Harry to capture the perfect moment. Being referred to as mum and dad - it was bloody comical. 

“You gonna tell me her name now?”  You looked from Harry to Tom, nodding in approval for him to spill the beans. 

“Amber. She’s Amber.”

You’d squabbled for months before ending on Amber. It had been a long relentless process, Tom claiming that your baby might just have ended up as ‘as yet untitled’ which you and your hormonal state had stormed out at. It hadn’t taken much to forgive it though, Tom had long since worked out that Ben and Jerrys was the way to your heart. 

The nurses took Amber back to do some tests, properly cleaning both you and her up and after that everything was weirdly calm. Harry had left to give the twothree of you a moment alone and Tom was about to do his turn of skin to skin. 

“This really is it isn’t it?” He murmured, whilst carefully scooping Amber from your arms. 

“Mhmmm… your stuck with two girls who’ll go psycho on you without a moments notice.” He seemed to accept it though, just nodding in response. 

“And I still can’t bloody wait.” His eyes penetrating deep into you, had you blushing like a nervous teenage girl. “ ‘m still so proud of you, you grew this little human.”

“Your not allowed to call her little because you didnt have the ‘little’ thing rip your insides apart.”

“Hey! I’m upset about it too! Was like I had to watch my favourite pub being burnt down.” Of course, trust Tom to make a dirty joke at a time like this.

“Don’t kid yourself, you weren’t watching, too busy fainting.”

“I didn’t actually faint!” This time he protested a bit too loudly, causing Amber to mewl a little and bury her head into the crook of her Dads arm. “I think Ambers just told you to shut it too.”

“You annoy the hell out of…” Your grumbling was interrupted by an impressive, ear-splitting yawn. “ You annoy the hell out of me.”

“But you love me?” He sing-songed, now back to a hushed tone. 

“I hope so, otherwise we’re in a bit of trouble.” He scoffed, but nodded his head, taking the hand that wasn’t cradling Amber to tuck some sweaty, knotted strands of hair behind your ear. 

“I do owe Harry though, he was at least able to stay on his feet.”

“He was a better birthing partner than you too, much much less condescending and annoying.” You sniggered, making Tom pout once again, only wiping the look off his face when you yawned again, rubbing an your eye like a toddler would. 

“If your done insulting me… get some rest love, I got you.” All you did was nod, with a small groan (because below your waist still hurt like a bitch) rolled over so you could fall asleep to sight of the two of them. 

“Got you both, my two beautiful girls.”

hope you enjoyed, would love to hear any thoughts <3

taglist: @hollandfanficlove @hallecarey1

[pettyprocrastination]

can we get any sort of hc for frankie & baby bat, i love the headcanons that you have for them🥵🥵🥵

YES YES YOU CAN MY LOVE

HEHEHEHE ive been thinking about babybat and frankie literally all day i was hoping somebody would say something and you HEARD ME I LOVE YOU

It’s 12:30 am so if these are messy and bad i apologize i just got way too excited akskks. 

Some tags: @captainsamwlsn @goldafterglow @thesadvampire @cinewhore @thirstworldproblemss @justanotherblonde23 @lilkermit14 @buckysalefty @qveenbvtch @clydesducktape @themarcusmoreno if i missed anybody else who wanted to be tagged in bb content please let me know! It’s late so my brain and working as hard as she should 

Content warning: foul language, talk of insomnia and PTSD, allusions to sex, camwork, light angst(?) 

Frankie makes sure to give you honest good compliments. 

Of course he’s not gonna pretend he doesn't say the usual porn dude stuff of “I want to cum on your tits” but he’ll also make comments of how lovely your smile is and how pretty you look in the fluffy robe wrapped around your figure at the beginning of each show. 

Sometimes he’ll ask how your day was. 

These little comments feel insanely more intimate than the mountains of crude ones you get. 

The first time you do a private show for him??? Oh my god he’s so nervous

Why is he so nervous??? He shouldn't be so jittery

Little does he know you feel the same way

You haven’t been nervous for private shows since you've started doing cam work, but something about this guy made you feel giddy. It wasn't until his camera switched on that you froze in realization that oh no he’s cute. 

When it comes to actually talking? He needs to be coaxed out of his shell. Sure he can make comments in the chat of a stream saying he wants to see your perfect pussy but saying it out loud?? To your face?? Ohhh boy.  He’s a little awkward at first, as most customers are so it takes some gentle conversation before he’s able to ask you to take your shirt off. 

“Why don’t we start with names?” You untie the robe and slowly let it fall from your shoulders. “I have to call you something, sweetheart.”

In hindsight he could've given you a nickname, or a fake name. Giving a fake name definitely would've been smarter but he was just to busy staring at you and your waiting smile and he just blurted out “Francisco” without even thinking about it. 

“Francisco?” You hummed and let your eyes shut, as if imagining all the separate situations you could say his name. “I like that. Handsome name for a handsome man.”

He knows it’s a line. That you're most likely lying, just feeding him rehearsed words you give to every other man who pays for your shows. But he doesn't care. 

He wants to hear you say his name again and again and again. Moan it, scream it, say it while you give him praise and beg him to fuck you until your voice is gone. 

“Francisco?”

He’s shaken away from his mind when he looks at the camera, youre staring at him expectantly. Oh god he spaced out. How long was he like that? Did he say any of it out loud?

You seemed to notice his panic and laughed. “I know this can be a little awkward the first time. So we can take it slow.”

Your fingers curl over the hem of your shirt and slowly pull it up just enough to show him the bare skin of your chest peeking out underneath. 

“Tell me what you want Francisco.”

In your regular day to day, you work at a small bookstore. Your apartment is decked out in halloween/spooky decor year round and you have two hairless kitties, poptart and biscuit that will throw fits if you aren’t giving them attention. 

Frankie accidentally met the two rascals during a private show when you thought you had shut the door all the way. But turns out you didn't because poptart zooms across the floor and into your lap, yowling for love meanwhile biscuit goes straight for the camera, batting at it with a curious paw because?? Hello???who is this???strange man taking mother’s attention

You are mortified, topless, and holding two cats while apologizing to him because “oh my god im so so sorry they were in the other room and-” 

He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s okay, they're really cute actually.”

You smirk. “Was that directed towards my cats or my tits, Francisco?”

“Both actually, both are very very cute.”

You begin to share anecdotes and stories about your days over these shows and streams, until late one night you get a payment with a message from him. 

‘You don’t have to do anything, I just don’t want to be alone right now.’

Its 2 am, you don’t bother doing makeup or switching your pajamas for lingerie before turning on your camera and accepting the link, to be shown a black screen and his voice. 

“Hey, I hope i didn’t wake you. I’m sorry it’s just been a bad night and i cant sleep, i didn’t-fuck. This was a bad idea. I’m sorry-”

“It’s okay Francisco.” Your soft voice stops him as his finger hovers over the leave chat button. “I’m happy to be here with you. Is there anything I can do?”

“Talk.” He rasps, a switch is heard and light fills his camera to show you his exhausted form. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, his hair is sticking up in separate directions and his eyes, looking anywhere but you, are red and puffy. 

“About?” You knew this was dangerous territory. You never messaged customers out of chats or private shows. This was not professional, this was personal, intimate. He could have reached out to anybody else, friends, family, but he chose you. Did he not have anybody else?

The notion shouldn't have made your heart swell as much as it did. Fuck this was bad.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything.”

So you did. You talked about books and movies and dumb stories from college, frankie learned you worked at a small bookstore and had your own personal reading nook in your house. 

You learned that frankie was a pilot who loves to cook and in his words, “makes a bitchin’ chicken alfredo.”

“Yeah well-” a yawn broke through your sentence and he smiled. Somewhere through the night you had wrapped yourself up in blankets as you spoke to him. “-you’ll have to make some for me sometime frankie.”

Frankie. A name he’s been called for years now but for some reason hearing it from you was like hearing it for the first time. 

He wanted to hear you say his name again. In bed, the morning after as he made our breakfast, the day after when he took you out to dinner and walked you home and-

Oh. 

Oh no. 

This is very bad. 

Unbeknownst to him, you're having the exact same revelation.

“Goodnight frankie.”

“Goodnight Baby.”

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

The Weapons: The Crash

This is a series I have been thinking about with some OCs. The basic idea is that a corrupt mental institution takes in these villains and turns them into weapons for a cause unknown.

The warnings for the whole series are: mental institution, dehumanization, needles, creepy illegal mental institution practices, villain whumpees, both lady whump and male whump, referring to people as "its" and "subjects", and lots of (illegal) steroids/power enhancers

I will do individual warnings for each chapter.

--

Warnings: dehumanization, referring to people as "its" and "subjects", steroids (mention), IV, sensory deprivation, fake power enhancers (mention), car crash, choking (brief)

The room was white. White with the faintest trace of mud towards the floor. White that was stained with the slightest pink as if blood had been splattered and wouldn't clean. 

It was silent too, dead silent. The lack of sound was alarming and unnatural, yet it fit the aesthetic perfectly. The only thing that broke the image was an eerie shadow that made people take a second glance.

The shadow led to a human, hanging by their wrists and ankle from the ceiling. They wore a thin hospital gown that hardly gave any warmth from the AC that was constantly pumped into the room. They were blindfolded with black goggles that completely obscured their vision. Their ears were covered by headphones that looked way too big for their small head. 

All the subject heard, over and over, was "Hot Blooded" by Foreigner. The constant 90s rock song was loud, rattling their eardrums with every slam of a drum or every time the guitar hit a chord. 

It destroyed any brink of sleep they managed to catch. The incessant sound caused a headache that could not be alleviated. They were going crazy; crazy like everyone else in that building. 

They were being stripped of their identity. They hardly remembered their life before Hot Blooded blasted through their eardrums. They had no name, no gender, no past or present other than hanging there in the white room that they couldn't even see. 

Isolation may be the easiest way to drive one crazy. That and the music turned up to max volume. Crazy and ready to be molded into whatever the doctors deemed appropriate. 

The door to the white room opened with a creak then a slam. But the subject did not hear it. They were locked in their world, fuzzy and cool without a care for reality. 

"Subject 143," the doctor with a clear clipboard read. Female. Nearly white blonde hair that offset her darker skin. 

"Date of admission: 17 May at 12:03 P.M.," she read with clarity and devoid of any emotion. "Weight at admission: 134 pounds. Female; 5 foot, 4 inches. Age: 19." She stuck the clipboard between her armpit and eyed the hanging subject with curiosity, "Let it down." 

The word "it" rang throughout the room like fire. It spit venom at the few cracks in the plaster, making them seem like they expanded in agony. 

The doctor's assistants released the subject slowly. They were professional, not unnecessarily cruel other than protocol. 

The subject, female, stiffened at the sudden drop in altitude. Even though it was only a foot, it was all she knew. The slight change in pressure screamed at her nerves, but at the same time it was slightly relieving. It was the first feeling she felt in what seemed forever. 

"Subject has been under sensory deprivation for a month," the doctor continued reading her notes. "Let's begin a physical evaluation." 

The subject's knees hit the floor, sending a shock through her body. Her bottom lip trembled, yet it wasn't joy. It wasn't joy that she felt when her body touched the hard tiles. It was fear. Fear of this new world in a way that made one's heart race. 

"Turn off the headphones." The subject felt pressure that made the small hairs on her arms raise in anticipation. She raised her top lip in a snarl, ready to fight. 

A click and all was silent.

The subject collapsed forward, her hands immediately trying to reach her ears. The headache was worse now, much worse. It radiated through her ears with heat bouncing out of every pore. The dizziness made her want her music, at least it kept out this strange buzzing.

Strong arms gripped the skinny biceps, pulling the subject back onto her knees.

"She's been getting nutrients and liquids for a month now by IV."

The subject flexed her muscles. She forgot about the IV that fed her all the nutrients she needed. She never was fed food. She forgot the taste of it and the thought of actually ingesting something was exciting yet nauseating at the same time. 

"Good to know. She is looking quite slender, but no worries." Hands touched the subject's core, pressing down on each rib until she flinched back, squirming in the hands that held her. Hands stuck into her mouth, forcing it open and inspecting every tooth. Gloved fingers ran over her gums, jabbing at all of the inflamed sores. 

"Put dental work on that list you got there Nurse Baton," the doctor ordered. "And I want it on Anadrol-50 and power enhancers. It needs muscles fast and I do not have the time to work to devise a strict workout schedule. Rather save that for the more dangerous subjects."

"Yes ma'am." 

"Start her on a diet of mashed oats with avocado and protein supplements. May sound fancy, but we need these muscles back in shape." The doctor squeezed the once-taut muscles in disgust. 

"Yes ma'am."

"Other than that, weigh her and do some blood work. I expect her to be ready by the end of the week."

"Yes ma'am."

The doctor grabbed the subject's chin, tipping it upwards and took in the pale, hollowed features. Once pretty, the subject was now like a ghostly corpse from a horror movie. The doctor lifted the goggles off, watching in slight amusement as the subject blinked her bloodshot eyes rapidly. 

"Well," the doctor made a few small circles on the subject's cheek. "You are quite fiery."

The subject only snarled and tried to lunge at the doctor.

--

"Attention all heros north of Redbrook," came the same droning voice of dispatch. Trisha groaned and leaned forward to click in. 

"Trisha Jakes here, what'dya got," the half-asleep hero grumbled. She yawned, leaning her forehead against the steering wheel thinking about the pleasant dream she was just experiencing.

"The Redbrook Mental Asylum had an escape. Male, twenty years of age. About five foot nine and 189 pounds. Dark brown hair and blue eyes," the dispatch sounded bored like they did this on the daily, which is more than likely. But then their voice turned oddly foreboding, "Labeled as highly-dangerous. Use any means to capture: tranq gun, taser, anything."

"I am five miles from the asylum," Trisha already was pulling out of the parking lot she was napping in. "I can look around."

"Copy that," and the dispatch repeated their message. Not wanting to hear the description of the individual, Trisha clicked out. 

This was not the first time that she had dealt with mentally sick people, but it was the first time that she dealt with one her age at the same time as being "Highly Dangerous" as dispatch put it. 

Trisha leaned forward and clicked the button on her steering wheel that allowed her to call people. 

"Call Colton Myers on cell," Trisha stressed every syllable. She didn't have the time to repeat herself. 

"Calling Colton Myers on cell…" Trisha sighed in relief when the speaker lady's voice repeated back to her, followed almost directly by a ringtone. 

"Hey Trisha, what's up?"

Trisha didn't even bother to say "hey" back. "Colton," she gasped, growing in nervous excitement. "Get out here now. There is this guy on the loose from that asylum."

"Isn't that your job," Colton chuckled on the other end. Trisha could just imagine the twinkle of laughter in his deep green eyes that reminded her of emeralds. 

"Yes," Trisha replied in a flirty tone. "But isn't it your job to design websites, yet I do half of your work?" She smiled to herself. Even though it could get frustrating because Colton was practically incapable of doing anything but complaining, she loved graphic design. 

"You got me. But now we are even."

"Shut up," Trisha hoped the smile was prominent in her voice, "I have to go."

"Bye-bye idiot."

"Charming," Trisha teased and hung up, quite content with her friendship status.

Trisha drove on in silence, observing every shadow as she tried to put her mind into a disabled guy's mindset. What would he deem safe? Definitely not a building, if he thought that the asylum was dangerous. Trisha shuddered, that asylum gave her the creeps. Professional, yes, but the attitudes of the nurses were disturbing. 

Yet they helped keep villains locked up… Trisha shook her head. The place was in alliance with the Hero Agency. Good, safe, and most of all necessary. 

She knew that the people who were admitted into the facility were villains. Some may even call Redbrook a reformation center. Trisha cocked her head, deep in thought as she half-heartedly watched the traffic. 

If he was a villain, wouldn't he be searching for something villainy? Assuming that he had some form of anger issues or another mental problem -or maybe just truma?- he would likely be headed to a Villain Agency, or his home. 

Yet, what good would that be? There was only one villain agency in Redbrook, assuming he lived in Redbrook. But that agency was too tiny for a "highly-dangerous" patient. 

And Trisha had no idea if he even had a home to begin with. 

She sighed and started to tap the steering wheel in a rhythmic beat. Periodically, she would glance down to her bow and gun to make sure they were still there. 

Very suddenly, a flash of white boltes in front of the windshield. Without thinking, Trisha spun around, making other cars honk and scream at her. But she didn't care, for her eyes were locked on the thin hospital gown. 

The sight baffled her for a moment. The gown was so thin that she could see his shoulder bones from fifty feet away. She pressed the gas until her speedometer read eighty-five. She was nearing, very close… almost there…

BAM!

Trisha let out a scream as her car lost control. Her seat belt started to unceremoniously pressed against her chest, restricting any breathing. She gasped for air as adrenaline and fear coursed through her veins. The seatbelt was moving up towards her trachea. 

Then it snapped and Trisha fell forward hitting- but not breaking- the reinforced windshield. Her back lit up in pain as the car continued to go out of control until it hit a concrete wall. 

And the world was engulfed by one big, black wave.

--

"Move your hand for me."

Trisha gulped and lifted up her wrist. She slowly was regaining strength over the course of a fews days. The Hero Agency and its medics had access to an array of fast-paced healing techniques. 

Luckily, Trisha didn't break anything important. Just a few ribs and her jaw, but glass got into her organs. The doctors surgically removed the pieces and with the speedy recovery, she was beginning to get better. 

"Good. You should be discharged by the end of the week, but keep it easy. Okay?"

"'Kay," Trisha replied and started fiddling with her thumbs. There was no way that she would be able to take it easy when a murderer just got her into an accident. 

What if he knew who she was? What if he finished the job? Already, she made sure that someone was in the hospital room with her. Her boss wouldn't spare anymore heros, but Colton was already there. 

Trisha looked over at the chair that Colton was slumped in. His mouth was parted open as he silently snored and murmured in his sleep. His ruffled light brown hair looked even more greasy than a McDonald's cheeseburger. 

Yet even though he held an unpleasant appearance, Trisha was more than thankful for his sacrifice. So, even though the poor hero was loaded with questions, she let her best friend sleep. 

[heavymetalover]

Call Me Daddy (Michael Langdon x fem reader)

Part II

Summary: Michael is about to become your step dad and the two of you have an unusual relationship…

Warnings: daddy kink (duh), nsfw, dirty talk, female masturbation, mean!michael, cockwarming, vaginal sex, rough sex.

WC: 4k

A/N: long awaited, but ive licherally had the worst few months mentally lmao so i hope you can understand. anywaysz heres pt 2 in all of its fucked up glory…

~~~~

 “Sex on the Beach,” your mom says.

“What?” you gasp, slapping down the menu you were hiding behind.

“And for you?” the waiter asks. A hint of confusion is spread on his face, but is conclusively overridden with professionalism.

“Oh,” you sigh, there’s a slight raspiness to your voice from all the screaming you did last night. “Just a water,” you fold up the menu and hand it to the waiter with a faux smile. You’ve been zoning in and out of consciousness today, ultimately trying to talk yourself out of believing what you did with Michael. You don’t even know how you brought yourself to talk to your mom, let alone sit face to face with her and share a drink. You’re going to be sick.

Your mom sighs, looking at you up and down. “What am I going to do with you?” she asks, shaking her head. “You’re just like me when I was your age. I mean, look at the circles under your eyes,” she reaches over the table to point on your face, “did you even get a wink of sleep?”

Now that she pointed it out, you feel the sudden urge to yawn. “I was cramming,” you yawn. Your mom raises a brow inquisitively. “Cramming for a test, studying,” you quickly explain, “I was studying all night.”

“Yeah, I bet,” she rolls her eyes. “I’m not stupid, y/n.”

You swallow hard, staring daggers at your mom. “What do you mean?” you ask. The waiter drops off your orders, but he might as well be invisible.

Your mom sighs and takes a sip of her drink. “You don’t have to lie to me,” she says, “I know you were at a party last night. I was your age once, too.”

You let out a shaky breath, “Yeah, you’re right.” Every word that comes out of her mouth now sounds threatening. How are you going to live under the same roof as the two of them? Last night was a mistake to say the least. You don’t know how you’ll live with yourself, especially since you haven’t seen Michael since…

Your mom waves someone down and you glance over your shoulder, making eye contact with his light blue eyes only for a moment. His eyes glue to your moms until he reaches the table and kisses her on the cheek, squeezing into the seat next to her. He’s completely ignoring your presence, rolling up the sleeves of his formfitting black turtleneck and talking to your mom.

Michael flips through the menu and you stare at him, waiting for acknowledgment, and being met with disappointment. “Their cocktails are great,” your mom enthuses, rubbing his slim bicep. “I’ve had this before,” she points at the menu, “it’s really good.”

You don’t even hide your stares, being as obvious as you can be about it. You know he knows you’re looking at him and waiting for the satisfaction of his eyes to meet yours. “Michael likes sex on the beach,” you exclaim. Both of them look up at you, Michael’s face is pale and his lips are pressed into a straight line. “Doesn’t he?” you turn to your mom.

There’s an aggressive silence between all of you, but the tension is most apparently shared between you and Michael. “Oh, I don’t think he likes the sweeter drinks,” your mom finally answers for him. Michael hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. He stares at you with, the only way you can describe it, sheer hatred.

The waiter comes back again, hands behind his back. He stands patiently and asks Michael if he’s decided on anything from the menu. After a few more moments, he breaks his stare and looks down at his menu. “I think a bourbon would be great,” he smiles, “that’s it.” He turns back to look at you, eyes wide. You can practically hear his voice, soft yet demanding, in your ear. Behave kitten, his voice purrs in your skull. Behave or I’ll have to punish you. You’re gushing just at the thought.

Your mom dismisses herself from the table to go to the bathroom and gives Michael one more quick kiss before leaving. He watches her walk away with a faint smile, then turns to you. “So, you’re just going to hold this over my head now?” he whispers over the table, eyes darting around in case your mom pops back.

You sit back in your seat and cross your arms over your chest. It’s like you’re programmed to always be defiant with Michael. “No,” you reply nonchalantly with a shrug.

He scoffs and shakes his head. “If you’re going to act this childish, then whatever happened last night should be left on that beach.”

“Fine,” you spout.

“Fine,” he replies casually.

You feel your face twisting in anger. Michael takes everything from you; your mom, your house, your life. You can’t bare letting him have the last word. “Good,” you answer, subtly trying to shift in your seat from the soreness he’s caused you.

His eyes trail down your body, watching you struggle from his damage, and he smiles slightly. “Good.”

Fucking asshole.

----

The cute guy from the party last week shoves his tongue down your throat. His name is Derek… or Dylan. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter to you. You and Michael have successfully ignored each other this past week. He started doing his work in his room, spending all his free time with your mom, and fucking her louder than he ever has before just to piss you off. It’s working.

You sit on the kitchen counter while Derek craned his head up, caressing your legs with a gentle touch. Despite not knowing his exact name, you like him. You like running your fingers through his curly brown hair and tasting the remnants of peppermint gum in his mouth.

“Maybe we should take this upstairs,” he breathes into your lips.

Your heart skips a beat, now facing the only reason you brought him here in the first place. You want Michael to walk in on the two of you. Even though it’s difficult for you to admit that to yourself, it’s true. The only place you two ever cross paths anymore is in the kitchen, but Michael’s been out of the house all day. You’re willing to kiss this boy for hours if it means Michael will see the two of you for a second.

You wrap your legs around him, pulling him smack against the counter. “I like it here,” you lie. Your ass is getting numb from sitting on the counter, but you don’t dare show it.

Derek continues kissing you; his hands drift up your dress and round your hips to cup your ass. He hostilely shifts you closer to him and you gasp into his kiss. His fingers inch closer to your pussy and you feel your heart beating in your throat, you’ve been craving a possessive touch.

He presses one finger against your clit and you let out a shaky breath. He pulls the fabric of your panties to the side and starts rubbing your clit up and down, not quite as skillful as you were hoping. You put your hand over his and pilot his fingers to move in small, slow circles like Michael does.

You shut your eyes tight; finally feeling somebody else’s touch is so liberating. “M’yeah,” you moan into his mouth, “just like that, daddy.”

“Daddy?” he says with a slight chuckle. You stop kissing him for a moment and his half-lidded green eyes stare up at you. “That’s so hot.”

He reaches up to give sloppy kisses, forcing his tongue into your mouth again. His fingers lag when he focuses on kissing you, but you don’t mind. You like his lips; you could taste his minty kiss for hours. He speeds up his pace on your clit and you throw your head back in pleasure. He moves his lips to your neck and starts sucking to leave love bites, until the two of you are interrupted.

“Off,” Michael’s frigid voice cuts the sexual tension like a knife. “Off the counter, now,” he orders you.

Michael grabs Derek’s arm and pulls his hand away from you. “Is this your dad?” he laughs as Michael pushes him out of the kitchen.

“Yeah, I am,” Michael answers for you.

You slide off of the kitchen counter and follow them, grabbing Michael’s shoulder and pulling him away from your date. “No, he’s not,” you spit, directing it more at Michael than Derek. “He’s my step dad.” You’re looking at Michael while you speak, his nostrils flare in anger. “And he has no fucking authority over me.”

He pauses for a moment to shoot you a dirty glance. “Yeah?” he asks you with a slight nod. You shrug your shoulders, as you always do when you want to piss him off. Derek looks at the two of you, completely oblivious to the underlying tension. Michael shoves Derek closer to the door and you follow him, trying to stop them. Michael holds a hand up to you. “Stay in the kitchen, y/n, or so help me God.”

You sigh and reluctantly walk back into the kitchen, watching your date being kicked out of the house. Your mom is unloading bags of groceries by the front step as Derek stumbles out of the house, she tries to hold in her laughter and your lips curl into a smile. Your mom walks back to the car when Michael sets his sights on you, your smile fading when you see his outrage. Shit.

“Michael, I can explain,” you start.

He pushes you against the refrigerator door, your back slams into the glacial stainless steel. ��No authority?” he fumes. His warm hands reach between your thighs to find your sex, dripping through your lace panties. He starts rubbing your clit in circles, somehow his hands know you better than you know yourself. His talented fingers circle your deprived clit. You grab onto his toned arm and brace yourself against the fridge, feeling your whole body tense up under his touch. It’s everything you’ve been missing and you hate yourself for it. “Are you stupid enough to think he’d touch you like I do? He’d fuck you like I do?” he asks through gritted teeth; his temper seems genuine. You moan at his touch in response and he smacks your cheek, taking your face in his hand. “Answer me.”

“No, daddy,” you respond warmly.

“That’s right,” he coos. You quickly feel yourself coming undone under him. You hear your mom drop off another bag of groceries at the front door step and fight the urge to groan from Michael’s touch, instead trying to breathe through the elation. “Look at the authority I have over you,” he mocks, “you can barely speak.”

Your mouth trembles, searching for a quick and witty response, but he’s right. You’ve got nothing. All you can focus on is your hot, beating core being pillaged by Michael. His hand moves faster and you take in a deeper breath, unable to hide your loud moans any longer. Michael slaps a hand over your mouth and smiles. “You like the way your dad touches you, hm?” he presses, moving even faster over your sensitive clit. You purse your lips together under his hand and nod your head, trying to be as quiet as you can and failing. “Such a good little girl for daddy,” he whispers.

He takes his hand off of your mouth and leans in for a kiss. “Michael!” your mom calls from the front door. Michael doesn’t respond, he keeps his lips locked to yours, his hand rubbing your cunt harder and faster. “I’m thinking we should do a movie night with y/n tonight!” she yells.

“If you’re good tonight, maybe I’ll let you finish,” he mumbles into your lips. Your mom’s footsteps approach the kitchen and Michael pulls away from you, leaving you an unfinished, disheveled mess against the refrigerator. “Yeah, that sounds great,” he says back to her and leaves to help with the groceries.

She walks into the kitchen and her eyebrows furrow when she looks at you. “You okay?” she asks. You breathe in response, still collecting yourself from Michael’s wicked spell. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Go clean yourself up. You look… dirty.”

And you sure felt it, too.

----

You pull your bag of popcorn out of the microwave, sighing when opening it and finding nearly half of the kernels unpopped. Whatever. This night is going to be a travesty anyways, might as well add unpopped popcorn to the list of things that could go wrong.

You saunter into the living room and plop onto the chair opposite of the couch. Your mom and Michael sit on the couch together, practically sitting on top of each other with how close they are. It makes you want to gag. You take a handful of the not-so-popcorn popcorn and stuff it in your mouth as the movie starts up.

Your mom picked the movie. It’s some rom-com type flick that’s not really your style. You scroll through your phone instead of watching the movie and things don’t seem too bad at first. If you had your earbuds, it would be just like any regular night. Until it isn’t.

Your mom and Michael start locking lips on the couch. At some point you swear you saw Michael shoot you a glance while his lips were on your mom’s. You stuff your face with the shitty popcorn, opting to hear your chewing instead of their kisses, but it still doesn’t drown out the sound. You look over at them with disgust, but for some ungodly reason you feel a pang of jealousy in your chest. “Ew, oh my god, can you guys not fuck for like five seconds?” you accidentally blurt out.

Your mom pulls away and stares at you with a dumbfounded look on her face. “Y/n, watch your language,” she scolds.

“Sorry. I meant, can you stop sucking face and being gross while I’m in the room,” you respond sarcastically. Michael presses his lips together, clearly suppressing a smile. He must love seeing you jealous after what happened earlier today.

“If you hate it so much then why don’t you sit here,” your mom says, moving away from Michael and patting the spot in between the two of them.

You sigh, rolling your eyes and standing up. You trudge towards them, reminding yourself that this movie must only have another hour to it and then you can go back to peaceful, Michael-less solitude. You’re about to drop into the seat between them when Michael takes your arm and pulls you towards him. “Come and sit on daddy’s lap,” he says jokingly.

You look at him with wide eyes, then at your mom who found it amusing. You let out an obvious fake laugh, but Michael pulls you so hard that you fall onto his lap. You awkwardly twist around in his lap, trying to look at the television screen. “Aw, see, I knew you two would eventually get along,” your mom teases.

“We get along plenty. Right, y/n?” he asks, bouncing you on his leg.

You feel reduced to an infant. “Mhm,” you respond through your anger. How can Michael do this to you in front of your mom? Half of the time you don’t know what kind of diabolical thoughts run through his head.

He puts his hand on your thigh and you tense under his touch. “Damn, you’re so cold,” he says. You touch your leg, it feels normal to you, but he insists on throwing a blanket over you. You keep the blanket on the lower half of your body and shift around on his lap. Although this gag is amusing to him and your mom, his legs are not as comfortable as a couch cushion would be.

As you’re adjusting yourself, your ass brushes against Michael’s hard, naked cock. When you realize what he’s doing, you subtly look over your shoulder and look down at him. Communicating an are-you-fucking-serious look on your face without saying a word. He grabs onto your hips as if telling you to lift them slightly. You don’t know why, but you follow his orders. You lift yourself up slightly and feel his hands quickly shove your panties to the side and line his head up to your hole. He takes your hips again, guiding you to sit down on his cock.

You sit down on his dick, feeling him slowly stretch your tight walls; even though they’re still raw from your last rendezvous. You mask your gasp with a laugh, pretending that the mediocre joke in the movie was hilarious to you. “Don’t move,” Michael whispers in your ear.

He’s filled your pussy to the hilt, his cock is so big and thick that it almost hurts how delicious he feels inside of you. You shut your eyes, trying to focus on keeping your face neutral and listening to the actors on screen, but your pussy has a mind of its own. You feel your cunt quivering, throbbing, spilling all over of Michael’s dick. You open your eyes again, trying to pay attention to the movie and look down at Michael, who looks as if nothings happening. As if he isn’t balls deep inside of his step daughter.

You keep still. Every muscle in your body is on high alert and stays completely tense. You dig your nails into your thighs, wanting nothing more than fuck this whole situation and bounce on his writhing cock, but instead you follow his instructions and keep still.

A moment washes over you where you feel fine, but it’s immediately consumed by pleasure in an instant, causing you to lean back on Michael. His dick shifts inside of you and you let out a breathy moan. “Mmaaaah-oh, it’s so strange how they keep running into each other, hm?” you try to cover yourself.

Your mom, too enveloped in the movie, just gives you a tired “mhm” in response.

You grab onto Michael’s arm that isn’t visible to your mom and dig your nails into his skin. He looks up at you and you look down at him. He must feel how pent up your pussy’s getting. He must feel your cunt twitch and your walls tightening around his cock. He must feel how sweltering hot and unavailingly wet you’re getting. You’re sure if you were to stand up now, his pants would be soaking in your sinful juices.

He budges under you, his cock moving slightly inside you and a tear runs down your cheek. This nearly sends you over the edge, you open your mouth to scream, but thankfully your sobs get choked at the back of your throat. He grabs onto your arm too, squeezing it lightly for reassurance.

You’re close to coming; if he were to pound himself into you now, only once or twice would do the trick. You let out a breathy sigh, another tear falls down your cheek, but your mom doesn’t notice. She’s too busy munching on your not-so-popcorn popcorn and keeping her eyes glued to the tv screen, watching as the two love interests sit down at a shabby New York restaurant.

“Y/n, you’ll love this part,” she says, not even batting an eye your way.

You’re all startled at the doorbell ringing. Your mom jumps from her seat and pauses the movie. You quickly wipe away any evidence of tears from your face. “Ooh, that must be the pizza! Let me run upstairs and get my purse,” she announces. You and Michael intently watch her skitter out the room.

Michael immediately slams you onto the couch cushions and pounds his throbbing cock into you. “You were driving me fucking crazy,” he sighs. He digs his cock into your tight twat and shoves his fingers in your mouth, to stop your moaning. You suck on his salty fingers, sucking off one of the rings off of his fingers and spitting it onto the floor.

You let out a loud groan and grind your hips against him, entering the most excruciating, yet euphoric, orgasm you’ve ever felt. Michael throws his head back, rolling his eyes in pleasure. “You’re such a dirty fucking slut,” he jeers, “fucking daddy right in front of mommy. You’re so goddamn nasty.”

“I’m your dirty little girl, daddy,” you say in your highest, syrupy voice.

Michael laughs out a wavy breath, “Yeah you are, baby.” He positions himself over you better and climbs on top of you, hammering his hefty cock into your taut slit, nearly splintering you. “Now come for me,” he whispers into your lips, “come for daddy.”

A few small moans leave your lips. You dig your nails into the fabric of his shirt, undoubtedly leaving claw marks along his back. You grind on him harder and he pushes into you deeper. “Come on, baby girl,” he encourages, leaving a weak kiss on your lips. Both of you pant into each other’s mouths, reaching for each other’s lips every few seconds to give a pathetic kiss.

You shut your eyes, another tear falling down your face, but this time it’s from release. “Holy fucking shit!” you scream, Michael slaps his hand over your mouth. You come all over his cock, hard. Harder than you’ve ever come before. Your pussy gushes all over him, all over the couch, all over the blankets. Your walls squeeze him so tight that even he comes from your orgasm, emptying his sticky seed inside of your hot cunt.

Normally you would take a second to absorb what just happened, but you hear the door slam shut and sit up. Michael puts himself away and you sit up on the couch next to him, shutting your legs together to aid the soreness that’s already overtaking your tender pussy.

You’re scrambling to find your phone when Michael take’s your head in his hands and kisses you on the lips. His kiss is deep and passionate, almost like a warm, romantic kiss you’d receive from a lover. It makes your heart skip a beat. He pulls away and your mouth hangs open. You must have a dumb look on your face because Michael smiles at you. “You’re so fucking pretty, baby.”

He slumps back in his seat and your face turns hot. Your mom walks into the living room and sets the pizza down on the table. “It took me forever to find my purse upstairs, I must’ve forgot where I left it,” she sighs. You glance at Michael, suspecting it was his doing and it was his plan all along to fuck you tonight. That bastard.

Your mom sinks into the seat next to you and looks at the two of you. Her attention shifting between you and Michael. “Aw man,” she finally sighs, “I thought you two were gonna sit together the whole time.” She does an exaggerated pouty face and Michael forces a laugh. You just take out your phone and start scrolling through social media, trying to take your mind off of what just happened. “Anyways,” she says and hits a button on the remote, “back to the movie.”

[jj-lynn21]

Cozy Cove: Nursing the patient

@sunshineandskarsgards @loomiz @super-pink-palouza @nerdicesbro @anastasiaskarsgard @grandpa-sweaters @loomiz @bskarsgardlove92​

Previous in Cozy Cove: Saved by an Angel ,   A side of tits with your pancakes,   Fires Burn Hot , Spending the Nights, Learning and Loving,   The end id not always the end,  Axel Grease ,  Big Decisions, Sex and Jet Skis, Late night fun , Old Wounds , Storms pass Dangerous Waters, Nursing the patient , Making it Work

Warnings: flirtation, a dash of angst

When Axel woke, Susie’s head was laying on the edge of the bed. Her left hand over his right as she rested. He slid his hand from under hers. The pulse oximetry on his index finger almost came off but he put it in place with his other hand. An IV still hung from his left arm. Axel palmed the top of her head scrunching her messy hair.

Susie looked up to him in a daze, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be fine.” He looked at his bandaged-up leg. “I guess that shark fucked up my calf pretty bad.”

“Yeah,” Susie sat up to yawn and stretch, “You scared the shit out of me. You were bleeding so much.” Her eyes started to tear up.  

“I’m fine Babygirl.” Axel was in a little bit of pain, but he didn’t want to tell Susie that. She looked like she had barely slept. “You should go get some rest.”

“Flood waters are down but not enough to go back to the beach house.” Susie took his hand and put it on her heart. The loose-fitting dress hanging low on her chest. “Besides, I don’t want to leave you. Other than maybe some coffee so your brothers can visit. They only let two of us in at a time.”

Axel chuckled, “yeah, I could use some coffee myself. First come up here with me.” He patted the bed and reached to raise it, so he sat up more.  

Susie smirked, “I don’t think these beds were made for two.”

“Come on, it will be fine.” Axel patted the bed again. “You need to rest better.”

Susie sat alongside Axel leaning on his shoulder. His arm around her comfortably. She dozed for what seemed like seconds when the clunk of footsteps on the linoleum floor made her and Axel look up startled.  

The nurse smiled as she wrote her name on the white board in red, “I’m Cathy. I will be taking care of you this shift Mr. Cluney. How is your pain?”

“It isn’t that bad.” Axel said as the nurse walked closer to assess him.

“Miss there is coffee in the family waiting area.” The nurse offered. “You can use the shower in the break room if you want also. I need to finish assessing Mr. Cluney, change his bandages and give him a sponge bath.” A grin tugged at her lip.

Susie doesn’t notice the look on the nurse’s face as she gets up and kisses Axel on the forehead. “I’ll be back shortly. Your brothers probably want to visit. While I freshen up.”

Axel grabs Susie’s hand as the nurse pumps up the blood pressure cuff. “You going to give me my sponge bath instead of the nurse babe?” He grins.

“Sure, as long as that is allowed.” They both look to the nurse.

“Cathy, my girl is going to help me clean up when she gets back.” Axel stated instead of asked. “Just get us a washcloth, soap and a bin for water and I’m sure we can manage.”  

“That will be fine Mr. Cluney,” Nurse Cathy said deflated. She had known Axel in school but never really talked to him since he was three grades ahead of her. She had a crush, but she was doing her best to be professional and respectful to him and his girlfriend.

Susie giggled, “Okay Axel I will be back shortly to clean you up. Be a good patient for Nurse Cathy.”

He nodded with a thermometer in his mouth. The nurse took it out when it beeped, “Your perfect.” She smiled “You sure you don’t need anything for pain?”

“I didn’t want to worry, Susie.” Axel looked to make sure Susie was long gone. “The dull ache in my calf is getting a bit intense.”

“On a scale from one to ten, ten being the worse pain, how bad is it?” Nurse Cathy picked up his chart at the end of the bed to make note of his discomfort.

“I would say a hard seven.” Axel winced a little as he pulled himself up more in the bed. “Almost the frowny face on the little pain board on the wall, I guess.”

She nodded, “Let’s not get you to that frowny face level.” She made some notes on the chart. Then she put it back and pulled a syringe with medication from her pocket. “I can put this right in the I.V.” She wiped the port down with alcohol, made sure there were no bubbles in the syringe by squirting a few drops before attaching it to the port. She slowly pressed the plunger as she watched the IV area. “No burning or pain as I do this?”

“Not at all, thanks.” Axel laid his head back on the pillow watching her. He thought she looked a little familiar especially the beauty mark on her left cheek. “Have you brought your car in my garage or something? I feel I might have seen your face before or are you a part time model?”

Her cheeks burned that he would even suggest she could be a model when he never seemed to notice her in school. “I’m just a nurse Mr. Cluney. I haven’t been to your garage but long ago in another world called high school we had a class together. I think you were a senior when I was a freshman, so you never noticed me.” She finished putting the medication in and tossed the emptied syringe in the hazardous waste bin.  

“Oh, I bet I did notice to remember your face, Cathy.” Axel chuckled. “I was just too busy with my asshole friends and that crazy bitch I was dating at the time. She would have killed you if she thought I took a second glance and you glanced back. I didn’t talk to you for your own safety.”  

“That was nice of you,” She smirked. “Just press the call button if you need me. Unless your current girlfriend might hurt me for looking at you?”

“No, she knows I love her.” He Ccoses his eyes feeling a little tired. “She has nothing to be jealous of and she knows it.” He mumbled before drifting off.

Cathy didn’t really know if that was a dig on her. It was like Axel told her she was cute in school, but he couldn’t tell her and now she couldn’t have him because she was nothing for another girl to be jealous of. It hurt a bit.  

As soon as Susie stepped into the waiting area a very groggy Eric sat up. He had been laying across a couch that was much to small all night. His head was on a throw pillow placed on the table beside the couch arm. His feet still dangled off. Josh was curled up in an oversized chair. His head resting on his knees. He looked up at Susie with bloodshot eyes.

“How’s Axel,” they both mumbled in unison.  

“He told me he wasn’t in much pain, but his eyes betrayed him.” Susie yawned. “Coffee?”

Eric pointed to the stand at the end of the room with a full coffee pot, hot water, powdered creamer and some tea bags. She poured herself coffee in the small Styrofoam cup and topped it off with cream. She made a face after a small sip.  It was very bitter.

“The nurse said I could shower in the employee break room,” Susie added some sugar to the coffee to try to make it more tolerable.  “Why don’t you two go visit with your brother awhile.”

Josh unfurls himself standing with a big stretch and yawn. “Yeah, that’s a good plan. Then I am going to head back to Jen’s parents’ house to shower and rest. I’m sure they would be cool with you both hanging out there since the flood waters haven’t receded yet. Both the girls are probably still sleeping in Jen’s twin bed.” He grins at the thought.

Eric shakes his head at his brother’s obvious thought. Normally he would say something but out of respect for the other women in the room he keeps his tongue tied. “Yeah, I’ll go with you Josh after spending some time with our brother.”

“I’m going to stay here with Axel but thanks for the offer, Josh.” Susie yawned again.  

Eric got up stretching showing off his navel and trail of hair down to the edge of his tight jeans that hung low on his hips. “I’ll bring you some food later and better coffee.”

“I would appreciate that, thanks.” She walked off toward the break room.

Eric and Josh ambled into Axel’s room. Axel was grubbing on some rubbery eggs and dry toast.  

“Hey, guys.” Axel looked at them eyes glossy as the world around him seemed to be moving slower from the pain medication.

“How you doing shark bate?” Josh chuckled as he plopped into a visitor's chair.

Axel smirked, “I’m fine. It wasn’t that bad. You should try it.”

“Yeah, I’ll just go for a swim down main street to introduce myself to your baby shark friend.”

Eric starts humming the baby shark song.  

“Now look what you did,” Axel rolls his eyes.

All three of them are laughing as Nurse Cathy walks in with the wash bin full of supplies. “How’s it going in here?”

“Is it sponge bath time already,” Josh looks at the white board for her name. “Cathy? How can I sign up for one of those?”

“You could go for that swim you were talking about.” Axel chuckled.  

“I don’t advise that,” Cathy said blushing. “There are far less painful ways to get a sponge bath.’  

“Oh, yeah,” Josh grinned.

“Now his girlfriend, Jen, might take you out for flirting.” Axel advised.

“She’s not that bad.” Josh defended her. “You’re just jealous she doesn’t want you anymore.”

“Yeah, that’s it for sure,” Axel rolled his eyes.

“Just buzz me if you need anything Mr. Cluney,” She turned to walk out.

“Will do Cathy, thanks,” Axel stared at his brothers blankly a moment before continuing.“You guys don’t need to stay here another night. I’m good. I just need to heal. If it wasn’t for the flood, they would probably let me leave tomorrow after the Doctor checks in on me.”

“We are going to hold up at Jen’s parents’ house until the flood waters go down,” Eric thought for a minute. “What her last name? It feels rude to just go into their home and be all ‘hey Jen’s parents, thanks for letting me stay.”

Josh Chuckled, “Carl and Michell Lynns. Michell will feed us to.”

“Is it okay if I try to convince Susie to go get some rest later tonight?” Axel asked.

“I don’t see why not.” Josh grabbed Axel’s lime Jell-O. “But I get this as payment.”

“It's yours, bro,” Axel was saying as Susie knocked for at least one of them to walk out so she could go in.”

“Take it easy,” both brothers said as they headed out.

“I’ll be back a little later,” Eric said as he passed Susie.  

Susie nodded at Eric. She now had some clean scrubs on the hospital let her have. She sauntered over to Axel’s bedside. He pushed his bedside table away that had his breakfast on it.  

“I’m ready for my bath now nurse Susie,” He grinned.

“Of course, Mr. Cluney.” Susie held in a giggle.  

The Orderly came to get the tray, “Just fill out your menu for tomorrow when you get a minute Mr. Cluney. We will pick it up with your lunch or dinner tray.”

“Thanks,” Axel said politely.  

When the Orderly left Susie closed the door and pulled the privacy curtain around the bed. She half-filled the pink plastic basin with warm water. Then she put it on the table. The washcloth and soap setting beside it.  

“Shall I help you take your gown off, Mr. Cluney?” She wet the cloth and added some soap. Susie began to wash his face lightly.

“I think I will need all the help you can give me,” Axel looked up closing his eyes as she washed his face.  

“Yes, Mr. Cluney,” She rinse the cloth and Axel’s face before untying his gown. Her eyes were wide as if surprised to see he was naked under the gown. “Oh, my you do have a lot you need help with.”

Alex smirked, “You know it.”

[jd07201990]

(First Pic by @texanstrong) Trevor might not have been the humblest dancer at the school, but he was the most talented. The dance academy he was attending was mostly for the rich, but he’d managed to get in on skill and talent, having been seen practicing at a park in town. However, because he was middle class, while the rest of the boys were quite well off, he tried too hard to stand out. Being cocky, arrogant, putting the other boys down when they’d make a minor mistake. One of the boys he targeted most was his rival, Kyle. Kyle was of equal talent, but came from the most powerful family in the city. Rich, spoiled, he was used to getting everything he wanted, and when Trevor would one up him, or steal the attention with some flashy show of skill or prowess, he would fume, sometimes even exploding into a signature rich boy tantrum. He vowed he’d get rid of Trevor, one way or another. His chance came one day while Trevor was practicing alone in the open studio. Twirling, jumping, going into hip crushing splits with ease, he wasn’t paying attention, the music too lout for him to hear the door open, and footsteps coming closer. Trevor Started to whirl around on his toes, lifting his leg up at a 90-degree angle to gain speed, when his foot collided with something solid and he went crashing down to the floor. He found Kyle, sputtering next to him, blood gushing from his face. His nose looked crooked, with a harsh bump in the bridge. Obviously Broken, Kyle was screaming, hurling threats, when the security guard on duty came running in. Kyle immediately found his opportunity! His demeaner changed instantly, from rage to painful, desperate plea. The guard asked what happened, and before Trevor had a chance to explain he accident, Kyle said that Trevor had roundhouse kicked him in the face, after he’d tried to help him with his balance. He told the guard Trevor flew into a rage, and broke his nose, telling him he was a pretty boy and needed to be taken down a notch. Of course the Guard, being employed by Kyles parents, believe the story. He called the police, restraining Trevor until they came to arrest him. He spent days in the county jail waiting for his court date, not being able to afford bail. His public defender was useless, and so, with all the money and power backing Kyle and his family, Trevor was sentenced to, “1 year – 175lbs” Neither His parents or Trevor knew what this meant. Only finding out when He’d been bussed out of town to a remote facility that looked like an old Military base, hauled inside, and met with the people who’d be running his life for a year.

He’d been shocked at first to see that all the other inmates were massive. The entire building reeked of stale locker room funk. They ranged in age from 18-25, but looked to be the size of a professional, and sometimes offseason lifetime bodybuilder. Some where shy, some more aggressive. Some seemed to change, their personality being warped by whatever was happening to them. Trevor would find out exactly what that something was. Given his uniform, He went through the orientation, they explained that, by the time he left, he’d be 300lbs. The weight the judge had sentenced him to finally made sense. He’d be turned into one of these massive muscle freaks! Losing his cool, he fought, screaming about his future dance career, how this was illegal and so on, until they sedated him, put him into his cell, and started the Hormone infusion. A cocktail of drugs designed to speed up growth, send his body into a second puberty of sorts, and coupled with his new routine, He’d grow into the hulking brute this facility specialized in. He had moments where he’d lose it, crying, or screaming at his instructors, he learned quickly not to, as the punishments were brutal, often life altering and permeant. His first, was a dose of something they called B-O 120. It was a set of shots given under the arms, and just above his cock. For days he had no idea what it’d do, but after a week, he realized its effect. He woke up one morning in a cold sweat, shivering, but noticed immediately the funk that filled his cell. He thought maybe one of the other boys had come in, they always seemed to stink. But realized with horror, it was him. He was sweating like a pig, and the musky scent was coming from his underarms, which, even more to his horror, were filled with a dense wiry bush of matted hair.

Another punishment had been less physical. A few months in, after he’d gained a considerable amount of bulk, he threatened the laundry attendant, because his clothes always came back with the deep pit stains he’d grown accustomed to. This got him a week of “classes” which was really him, sitting in a cold metal chair, staring at some stupid movie about behavior. However, he never really knew what the movie was about, always waking up yawning when the instructor slammed a ruler on his desk. The effects were slow, but soon he realized what they were doing.

The movie was changing his natural behavior. He was starting to walk differently, swaggering, swinging his arms heftily, and worse, scratching at himself unconsciously. A grope at his shorts, or a quick pit scratch, even a long scratch or pulling at his shirts where they’d crawl up his newly beefed up muscle butt. Worse, He vocabulary seemed to include more than his typical level of cursing. Nearly every sentence riddled with swearing, like the dumb meatheads he hated from school. Finally, the words Dude, Bro, Bruh, and so on became common, he knew it, heard it, and hated it, but he couldn’t stop. One final infraction, against another inmate, had sent him to the facility barber, who sat him in the chair, strapped him in, and lowered what looked to be a hair drier helmet down over his head. The barber himself never touched his head, but with a few buttons, the machine went to work. His head felt on fire, heat spread over his scalp, while tingling sharp pains shot over his skin like 1000 mosquito bites. The barber had to gag at one point as his yelps and shrieks of fear were getting too loud. An hour later, the helmet released, lifting off his head, to reveal a brutal new haircut, and his hair was a totally different color. No more classic dark wavy locks. Now, he had his hair in a brutish fauxhawk style, longer and floppy, and brightened into an orangey brown color. To his horror, he was told this was permeant. He’d be able to grow it out, but the color was his forever.

The year went on. He’d outgrown his uniforms like clockwork. Week after week, having to be issued new, larger sizes. The jockstraps and boxers they forced him to wear seemed to be the fastest to be replaced. He wouldn’t admit it, but he knew his cock and balls were growing. He’d been average, not small, but now he had a salami and two large chicken eggs dangling between his thickly beefed thighs. He blushed every time he sat down, having to immediately go onto a lewd, “man spread” legs held wide to not crush his goods.

He smelled worse than some of the boys, obviously the result of his first punishment, and he was only allowed to shower at the end of each day. Having to go through classes, morning workout, the hard labor in the yard, more classes, another workout, and dinner before having 5 minutes to shower under the cold water and go to bed.

Finally, his year was nearly up. He’d gained all the weight he’d been sentenced to. The instructors had even followed the side notes in the court order to focus attention on his legs. He was massive. Bulky, his thighs as thick as a mid-sized tree trunk. His calved were like footballs. His torso was not spared though. HE was built bigger than most NFL players. Arms like ham hocks, hands calloused from all the lifting. His tshirt sleeves seem to always bunch up under his arms, soaked in reeking sweat. He was forced to lumber around, almost waddling from the sheer bulk of his body. He was eating like a starved man, easily consuming enough to easily feed a family of four. He was a brute. A big, smelly, brute. Although he hadn’t lost any of his intelligence, his personality and mind were his own, you’d never know it from the swearing, crude Bro-talk he’d been programmed with, and his ever-present lewd gestures of scratching at his mass. Groping his massive cock, adjusting his lemon sized balls. He was, on the outside, the epitome of what he hated most. A big, Dumb, Meathead.

A week before his release, he was brought to a room with an obvious one-way mirror. Told to stand still and left alone for 20 minutes. On the other side of the glass, Kyle, his accuser, was cackling at what had been done to his rival. There was no way he could dance, that talent scout was going to pick him now that the best dancer in the school had been bloated up into a monster. He was delighted, but his cruelty was ever growing. He gave Trevor a once over, head to toe, then smiled up at the Facility manager, handing him an envelope with cash, and a letter promising more funding from his family if his demands were met. “I think Trevor needs one more thing, just to make sure he can’t manage to learn to dance with that bulky body. Is it possible to make his feet, more, disproportionate? Bigger?” Kyle asked with malice. “Of course. We’ve got compounds and treatments that can do just about anything. This,” The manager waved the stack of cash, “should cover it.” Kyle shook the man’s hand and left, while Trevor was collected from the room and brought to the Facility treatment center. He was told to relax, as they strapped him onto a table, locking his legs in stirrups. He struggled just a little but was too afraid to misbehave. He asked questions, what was happening, why, but no one talked to him as a few of the treatment staff put an IV into his arm, and then started to strip his sneakers, socks, then started to rub and massage his already large size 17’s with a warm grey looking goop.

It took no time at all for him to feel the dull, aching pain he’d come accustomed to, as “growing pains” from his year of forced growth. His toes splayed, and he grunted, as the IV pumped the activator through his veins. The goop was soaking into his feet, his muscle, his bones, and was starting the near instant process. He felt his bones pop, then crack, screamed at the sudden sharp pains, but watched horrified as his feet grew, and grew. 18, 19, 20, 21, stopping, minutes later, at a whopping size 22 wide. The second side effect took only a few seconds to manifest. A sudden, musty, strong stink filled the room, as the goop soaked in and forced his feet to sweat profusely. He’d soon find that he’d be going through several pairs of socks per day, drenching them, and filling his sneakers with foot stench, no matter how clean he kept them. He cried, his deep voice bellowing dumbly as he wiggled his thick sausage toes now and knew for certain he’d never dance again.

It took the rest of the week for him to readjust to his massive new feet. They made him clumsy, oafish, and he knew if he ever tried to balance and spin on his toes, they’d snap under his immense bulk. They released him back to his parents, who cried and threatened to sue for what they’d done to their baby, but it was no sue. Trevor was shortly picked up by the local college, and had no choice to bot give up dancing, take the scholarship they offered, and play football as the big, bulky brute he is.

[littlemonstersau-blog]

The Feels Awaken, Interlude 2: One Rogue Thought

Written by @jkl-fff

PART I - PART II [Interlude] - PART III - PART IV [Interlude] (you are here) - PART V [FINAL]

——————————————————————————————–

Bill, putting DVD back in case: Well, now you’ve seen ‘em all (until they finish the new ones, of which only Renegade 6 will be stupendous, and that largely thanks to everyone dying—much pathos by meatbag standards, much comedy by mine). So … Whaddya think, Fordsy?

Ford, taking in a deep breath: I think … I think I’m personally going to make a working lasercutlass (with SCIENCE!), drive to wherever the hell George Dufas lives—

Bill, helpfully: That would be Skyjogger Ranch, not too far north of San Francisco. I know, because I know lots of things.

Ford: Alright then, I’m going to drive to Skyjogger Ranch, and then I’M GONNA SHOVE MY HOMEMADE LASERCUTLASS RIGHT UP HIS SCRIPT-SPEWING ASS AND ACTIVATE IT!

Stan, startling awake in easy chair: Wha?! Huh?!

Ford: THAT WAS THE BIGGEST WRECK OF TRAINS THAT WERE LOADED WITH ASS-SHIT THAT I’VE EVER SEEN! [rises to his feet, stamps around, gestures emphatically] AND I’VE BEEN TO SEVERAL DIMENSIONS WITH EXTREMELY SHODDY RAILWAY INFRASTRUCTURES AND BOOMING, FERTILIZER-BASED ECONOMIES! MEANING SEVERAL DIMENSIONS WITH FREQUENT AND NOTABLE WRECKS OF ASS-SHIT-LOADED TRAINS!

Stan, rubbing eyes: Yeah, we picked up on your meanin’ there. [yawns, scratches self] What time’s it, anyway?

Bill, grinning at this development: What’d you think of the acting?

Ford: WOODEN! FLAT! LIFELESS! LIKE THIS FLOOR!

Bill: All George Dufas’s fault. Those were all highly acclaimed, highly trained actors, and highly gifted actors. He insisted as Director they act like they didn’t know how to. Like I said before.

Ford: WHAT?! WHY?! RRRAAARRRGHGHGH!

Stan, yawning: Moses, it’s past midnight already …

Bill, egging it on: Heh. And the depiction of non-human meatbags?

Ford: MOSTLY INFURIATINGLY RACIST CARICATURES OF HUMAN MEATBAG CULTURES—er, “human cultures”, I meant just “human cultures”—AND BLANDLY UNIMAGINATIVE OR INSUFFERABLY ANNOYING (LIKE JERKJERK)!

Stan, heaving himself upright: Hey, Sixer?

Bill: Hehehe! George Dufas’s influence again. And the use of the Force? The lasercutlass duels?

Ford: THE FIRST WAS SO UNDERUTILIZED AS TO BE FUCKING POINTLESS, THE OTHER SO OVERDONE AS TO BE SHITTING BORING! THEY MADE SWORDFIGHTING WITH LASERS BECOME BORING! HOW?! WHY?!

Stan: Sixer?

Bill: Hahaha! Still George Dufas! And the script?

Ford: THE SCRIPT?! WHAT SCRIPT?! THAT WAS USED, BARGAIN-PRICED TOILET PAPER! RRRAAARRRGHGHGH!

Stan: Sixer!

Ford: WHAT?! … Er, sorry. What?

Stan: It’s past midnight. Meanin’ it’s bedtime. You comin’ or what?

Ford: Gah! I couldn’t possibly sleep now! I’m too enraged!

Stan, shrugging: Well, I am. So … keep the nerd-ragin’ at, y’know, an “indoor voice” level of volume. ‘kay? [kisses him goodnight, shuffles out]

Ford, momentarily taken aback: Um … Where was I?

Bill, helpfully: The script. Which was also George Dufas’s fault. Basically, the whole prequel trilogy is a case study of what happens if you give a man who had one or two good ideas in the past— when there was an entire team of more talented people to shoot down his one or two thousand bad ideas and sculpt the few good ones— complete creative control of a project.

Ford, remembering how disgusted he is: No, it’s a case study of what happens if a tornado picks up a barn full of diarrhetic animals— A LITERAL SHITSTORM—hits a warehouse of blank paper, then some fuckwattle decides to gather up the pages and use it as a script! It made exactly 0.0 sense as a story! According to SCIENCE! itself there wasn’t even a measurable amount of sense made in this story! And, believe me, I understand that writing isn’t easy, but they had … How long exactly to work on the scripts?

Bill, promptly: Almost exactly16 years to work on the first one, then almost exactly 3 years for the second one, and another 3 for the third.

Ford, trembling with self-control: S-sssixteen years for one script? And that mmmakes … t-t-twenty-two years total to come up with … with that p-pile of hot, fffffuck-juggling shhhhhhhhhhhit … [loses it, explodes] OH MY VARIOUS ENTITIES OF COSMIC POWER FOR WHOM THE TERM “GODS” COULD REASONABLY BE USED AS A SHORTHAND, EVEN IF IT IS SOMEWHAT MISLEADING!

Stan, from the other room: Indoor voice!

Ford, stomping around: WE COULD COME UP WITH A BETTER PLOTLINE FOR A PREQUEL TRILOGY IN ONE NIGHT THAN THAT MOVING BAG OF NEGATIVE FUCKGUZZLE DID IN TWENTY-FUCKING-TWO FUCKING YEARS! AND Y’KNOW WHAT?! [takes Bill by the shoulders] WE WILL, GODSDAMNIT!

Bill, disbelieving: Really? You wanna do something with me?

Ford: AND IT’LL HAVE COMPELLING CHARACTER ARCS, AND SUBTLY DEEP WORLDBUILDING FOR THE GALAXY, AND THE FORCE’LL BE SHOWN—

Stan, from other room: IF YOU DON’T KEEP IT DOWN, STANFORD PINES, I’LL COME OUT THERE AND SHOW YOU MY FORCE RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR FOOL HEAD!

Bill, excited: Mabel left a bunch of … of arts and crafts stuff upstairs. We can use those for this! I’ll just … just run and get them! Hang on! [scampers up the stairs]

Ford, suddenly alone: … wait a minute … [stops short, looks around deserted room) What the freeze-dried hell am I doing?

Stan, grouching back in: What you’re doin’ is bein’ a pain in my ass—a loud pain in my ass!

Ford, almost panicking: No, I’m … about to write better plots for the prequels? With Cipher? I think?

Stan: And? What’s the problem?

Ford: And I don’t … I can’t trust him! That is the problem!

Stan: You can’t trust him to help write what is essentially gonna be a Cosmos Conflicts fanfic? [rolls eyes] C’mon, Sixer, it’s not like he could write anything worse than what we just watched. You were just goin’ on about that.

Ford, faltering: No, I mean, he’s still planning to takeover! No one can trust him, so what am I—

Stan: Just be the scribe yourself; that way, you maintain creative control of the fanfic and he can’t take it over.

Ford: I mean the planet! Er, the galaxy! Gah, no, the dimen—

Stan, deadpan: Oh, yeah, that’s a real dilemma right there. Can’t have Farth Bill takin’ over that nerdlinger galaxy, or we’ll hafta write a whole ‘nother generation of whiney Skyjoggers masterin’ the Force to confront him.

Ford, irritated: Damn it, Stanly, you know what I’m talking about!

Stan, rubbing eyes: Look, I’m gonna share some Old Wisdom™ I learned as a professional conman with you. And which, in fact, you yourself told me rather recently. [lays hands on brother’s shoulders, looks him in the eyes] You don’t hafta trust someone to work with ‘em, ya dumbass. And don’t hafta trust ‘em to be nice to ‘em, neither, ya dumbass. Or even to like ‘em, ya dumbass. You can do all that, while still not trustin’ ‘em … ya dumbass.

Ford, blinking owlishly: … What? I told you that? But—

Stan, slowly: Listen, I didn’t trust Bill at the start of the summer, but I still talked to him. Still interacted with him and was nice … ish and such. And only a week after? I had him workin’ for me. [gestures dismissively] Yeah, he caused some trouble at the start, but I didn’t lock him up ‘cause of it. I was patient with him, I showed him I’d work with him, and I showed the l’il bastard he can’t beat me at my own game— I always got an eye on him, so he can’t get anything major past me. And now? He’s just like any other employee I’ve ever had (except for Soos) … Slacks off and shoplifts about the same amount, too.

Ford: … And you’re bragging about that?

Stan, smugly: Heh. Yep. Think about it, Sixer. For him, that’s huge progress.

Ford, reluctantly: I guess, but—

Stan: Listen, you don’t hafta trust Bill. Okay? You know already he’s up to something (or so you’re convinced, anyway), so he can’t trick you. You’ll be suspicious of absolutely everything, so he won’t be able to get something past you in the middle of, say, writin’ your stupid, nerd fanfic. Or talkin’ ‘bout an anomaly. Or just havin’ a civil conversation every now and then. Okay? This gettin’ through that metal plate in your skull? I mean, it should be able to since—not to put too fine a point on it—you suggested it to me not too long ago.

Ford: I don’t … need … to trust Cipher … to be nice to him …

Stan: Exactly. And—Moses on a moped!—his name is Bill. [turns, goes to leave, pauses in doorway] And for fffffuck’s sake, keep it down while you two do whatever. Some of us are tryin’ to actually sleep.

Ford, standing lost in thought: … can’t believe it … so simple … really have been a silly, old fool not to see it all along …

Bill, returning: Sorry that took so long. I got buried in an avalanche of Mabel’s spare sweaters while digging this stuff out. [unloads an armload onto the table, pulls up paper and pencil] Where do we start, Fordsy?

Ford, a little overwhelmed: Um … honestly, I’m not sure …

Bill: Hmm … Well, what’re the big problems that gotta be fixed? Let’s start with that. What made you mad in the movie?

Ford, after only a split second of thought: Midi-chlorians firstly. Those go, because the Force is a mystical power-energy thing— damn it all!—and not some sorta bacterial infection!

Bill, making a note: Good. Good. How about that Rule of Two? Speaking as a megalomaniac, I can say it’s stupid to only have one agent working for you. You’d get nothing done!

Ford: Um …

Bill: What? Oh, Yog-Sothoth’s sixth soleus, that was a joke.

Ford, deciding to believe that: R-right. Um … None of that immaculate conception or prophecy crap, either. That’s gone. Came out of nowhere, served no purpose, we don’t need it.

Bill, making a note: What, you don’t like the idea of Space Jesus? How about rewriting the romance so that it doesn’t just … happen, y’know? So that there actually is a romance, and not just two straight characters who bone ‘cause they’re the opposite genders?

Ford, getting excited: Moses, yes! And rewriting Otherkin so he isn’t some whiney kid who just … just does stuff because the plot needs some action! We could do that for all of them! We could make it all as great as it deserves to be!

[hours and hours of excited fanboy collaboration transpire …]

[e1ana]

leisure writing :)

recently by brain has been all AHHHHHHDHHBSGDVJHS BCHJNNH and its really negatively impacted my writing, especially for my fics :( 

i’ve decided to go on a short hiatus for them for a bit to let my brain catch up. i’ve just been writing random stuff and letting it go in a n y direction to give my brain  break and i think??? this might??? be the best?????? decision ive ever made????? my brain just feels so un-fried. its awesome. 

so far it seems to be taking the shape of a YoI fic? idk. I just finished the show for the second time and i absolutely love it! I guess by brain’s been wired on Yuri!!! for a bit now so i’m not surprised at the direction its headed.

i’m still letting it go in any direction though, and i’m not sure if im going to put it up in a03 (i might if i decide i like it, but im not working on it with the intent of uploading it.)

so yeah. here’s the first bit of that. i though i’d upload it on here just bc i can and idk what else to do with it. hope you enjoy :) rating is teen bc of some cursing but thats it

(korkad means stupid in swedish)

Rain.

It wasn’t a loud sound - just the gentle pitter-patter of it against a window can paint a room in a quiet, soothing blanket of white noise. Viktor Nikiforov buries himself further in his comforter. Mid April drizzles really were something else. 

Begrudgingly, VIktor pulls himself from his bed. He looks out of his beside window to find a sunset that perfectly matched with the serene morning rain. 

He yawns and stretches, a soft grumble coming from his lips. He stands up and walks to his kitchen. Every morning is practically the same - wake up, debate going back to sleep, brush teeth/expensive and extensive skincare, eat, and go straight to the rink. Getting up at 7 am might sound overkill, but the lax speed of Viktor’s early morning routine needs extra breathing room.

He drags a hand full of some kind of sweet smelling lotion down his face, massaging it in with the melting pot of other creams and serums. The concoction is thick on his face, though not totally unpleasant. Viktor feels a bit more invigorated now, the cold water startling him up. Nevertheless, he starts the coffee machine. He swings his legs as he sits atop the counter and scrolls through his instagram. A sharp pinch on the cheek startled him from his trance.

“I told you to stop sitting on the counter, korkad. Nobody wants to cook on your ass juice.”

Ah, the overlooked step to the routine - cope with an insufferable roomate at ‘too early’ am.

“Good morning, Chris. I hope you slept well.”

Maybe insufferable wasn’t the right word for Chris normally, but his unrivalled snark and Viktor’s early morning sluggishness were not a fantastic mix. Chris grabs him by the sweatshirt and nearly yanks him off of the marble tabletop. He makes a show of wiping the area where Viktors butt once was. Finally, the sweet sound of gurgling and spluttering signifies the end of the coffee maker’s cycle. 

Viktor pours in a fairly reasonable amount of sweetened cream, the dark brown going caramel colored and scented. He takes a long gulp, downing half the mug in one go. He looks up at Chris, who is now leaning against counter one on arm and glaring. He offers a smile at the glowering man.

“Okay, now you can be a sassy bitch.”

Chris rolls up the towel and flicks it at Viktor’s butt, drawing an undignified squeak from the slightly shorter man. He snorts a laugh, but thankfully gives Viktor his space for the rest of the morning. 

He finishes the rest of his coffee quickly, the caffeine already buzzing through his brain. He checks his watch - nearly time to leave. He packs a few protein bars and water bottles along with his sweets and shirt. He calls out to Chris before grabbing his keys and locking the door. 

He pulls his sweatshirt hood a little tighter around his face, slipping into his freezing cold car. He clicked on the heat, despising how long it took for the damn thing to heat up. 

The drive to the rink was slow today. He wasn’t in any rush, and the slow rain hitting the metal roof of his car made for a nice serenade. He watched the outside pass by slowly, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel absentmindedly. 

When he pulled up to the rink, he noticed two things. One, it was bustling with activity. Usually, the place looked practically deserted at nine in the morning. The swarms of people and clicking cameras were an odd sight. 

Two, a man stands outside of the rink, wringing his wrists. He bites his lips and looks impossibly nervous. He blinks a couple of times before waving his hands frantically at one of the reporters. Viktor can’t help but laugh out loud in the solitude of his car. He pulls into the driveway, eyeing the dark haired man the whole time.

He’s vaguely familiar - Viktor’s sure he’s seen those blue framed glasses sitting on some side bench at some competition somewhere. He isn’t unattractive either. His black hair and brown eyes contrast with the pale skin of his babyish face. It gives him a look of purity. It’s a nice look. Admittedly, it’s aided by the ample blush on his cheeks and the way he rocks from foot to foot nervously. It’s a very cute habit, Viktor’s always thought.

Victor steps out of his car. Maybe he slams his car door a little louder than normal to make some of the reporters turn their heads, maybe he doesn’t. Regardless, they’re hounding on him in seconds, asking about this jump and that score. He answers all of their questions with a blinding smile, hoping that his glance towards the man goes unnoticed. Well, rather, where the man was. The glass door swings violently and Viktor catches his bag disappearing around a corner.

It takes longer than Viktor would've liked to get rid of the reporters and slip into the rink. His tight routine is now skewed fifteen minutes late. He stretches quickly and laces up his skates as quickly as possible to increase his time on the ice. 

He approaches the entrance gate, one foot already on the ice when something whirrs by him. His gaze is captured by none other than the man who was stood outside. 

Immediately, Viktor becomes enraptured with him. All he's doing is skating around the perimeter of the rink. Somehow, though, the swinging strides of his legs and the way his arms lift ever so slightly from the elbows when he glides paint him in the picture of grace. Viktor can’t help but stare as he completes another circle. Finally, when the man passes him a third time, he turns to look at Viktor. The grey haired man’s cheeks heat up under his unsettled gaze.

“Do you need some-”

Red creeps up the neck of the other man, his eyes widening when he realized who he’s talking to. He spins back around and pushes off even faster than before. 

Viktor steps onto the ice, heart pounding. Fuck. Fuuuck. He internally moans at the increasing awkwardness in the air. Damn his annoying fame and prestige! Here he was, embarrassing himself in front of someone he vaguely remembered who could potentially be important and was definitely attractive. Embarrassing himself just by existing. 

Whatever. He flicks his ankle out, starting a slow circle around the rink. If an onlooker glaneed over, it might look like the other man was chasing him. Though it was practically the other way around, Viktor considered. 

Eventually, Viktor felt warm enough to do some actual exercises. A few combination spins, a few brackets. Nothing obscene. He starts his program once he feels his joints ease into the jumps. 

The feeling isn't the same as the first time he did the program. Victory - it was the theme of his piece. Clearly, it’d gotten him where he wanted the first few times. The thrill of first place was incredible. It inspired him so much, the feeling of winning pushing forth his every movement. It had felt so overwhelmingly good. Now, after his fifth medal, the program didn’t mean much. His publicist had pushed him to do the same program every year, if not with a few major improvements each time.

Regardless of how many new spins or complicated jumps he added, the piece was tired. He was bored of this. There was simply no other way to put it. Even as he landed the perfectly executed triple axle that had been worked into his program, Viktor felt his heart sag.

He ran through the program a few more times, each with decreasing vigor. He didn’t even notice the man skate by him (albeit with a wide berth) and exit the rink. Drenched in sweat and disappointment, Viktor literally laid down on the ice. Maybe it wasn’t the most professional move in the book, but the freezing cold felt good on his hot skin. He hummed and got back to his feet, skating one last cool down lap before exiting and sliding on his blade covers.

He took a cold shower. Unusual, but the weight of the day didn't seem like it could just be melted away. He closed his eyes, letting the freezing water run down his body. It soothes is aching muscles and bones. Technically, the hot alternative would be better at melting away the lactic acid in his muscles. He could have a long soak in the tub when he got home, though - the temporary relief of cold water was more than satisfactory for now. 

He stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his hips. The cool air inside of the building almost felt warm in contrast to Viktor’s cold skin. He pulled on a new shirt and pants.

Viktor was surprised to see the other man slinging his bag over his shoulder. He didn’t appear to see the higher ranking skater, ad he sidled to the door without a second glance. Before he stepped out, though, he turned and froze. 

“I… uh…” he paused and looked up, searching for the right words. “I wanted to thank you for earlier. You know. With the reporters. So, uh. Thanks.”

Before Viktor could pipe back with a cheery ‘no problem’ or ‘the pleasure's all mine, tell me your name and let me take you for a drink in my very expensive sports car,’ the man was gone. Viktor followed suit as fast as he could, but there was no catching the man now. Gone, forever.

[chocoholicannanymous]

Glee 305 scrap, pt IV

Follows pt I, pt II and pt III.

And I’m beginning to think I might need a title for this.

The rest of the week passes in lightning speed, almost all his free time spent in rehearsals and learning his role. What remains is for homework and eating and sleeping. Kurt doesn't even have the energy to think about his campaign for class president. The posters are up – that will just have to do until after West Side Story. They're running three shows, Friday through Sunday, and Kurt wants, no, needs to do well. He's talked Lauren Zizes into recording the Saturday performance for him (talked, bribed, same thing, right?) and there's a possibility that the Lima Post will send a reporter.

It's going to be his first big performance – and it will either be his break, or his breaking.

At least rehearsals are going well. Rachel's still upset about Blaine leaving, and not exactly subtle about thinking it has to be Kurt's fault, but she leaves it offstage. It should be a relief, and yet... For some reason Kurt finds it annoying.

It's Thursday before he figures it out. By leaving her grievances behind her when she walks on stage Rachel's showing true professionalism – the kind Kurt was counting on when asking her to help him re-audition. She wasn't able to pull it out when he needed it to win the part, but now that he's got it she can. And that just...urgh, it burns. Because the next thought is that maybe she could, but chose not to. Maybe Rachel always wanted Blaine to be her Tony.

Kurt pushes that thought away ruthlessly, because he can't afford not to. He has three shows to get through. Three shows, hopefully without drama, and then he can examine his feelings about this whole mess.

No drama I said. Was that really too much to ask for? Kurt grouches as he spots an unfortunately familiar face in the audience. Apparently it was as Sebastian Smythe, in all his smarmy glory, is sitting front and center. Why is beyond Kurt, but he's sure there's nothing good to come off it. Still, the show's not over yet, so the meerkat's presence along with his possible scheming ends up pushed deep down, joining Rachel and Blaine in their box.

Of course he won't stay there. When Kurt walks out, still debating whether to join the others for their cast party or just go home to sleep, Smythe's waiting for him, leaning against the Nav. Kurt sighs, and steels himself. The only reason he can think of for the other boy to confront him is Blaine, and Kurt's really not got the energy for a round of “I won”.

That said, he's not going to let Smythe gloat either, and so he goes on the offense.

“Smythe. Please remove your probably decease-ridden behind from my car. And while you're at it, why don't you keep going and remove it from my presence completely.”

“That's how you treat someone who came all this way to see you perform? And here I thought there was a code of courtesy between Warblers.

“Then again, when I accepted the ticket it was to see Blaine.”

Kurt's eyes narrows, and his spine straightens even more. That's it. Damn being even the least bit polite.

“Then why did you come? Was it to gloat? What, you thought coming here and suffer through some public school kids perform West Side Story was worth it to needle me? ��Couldn't wait until my next visit to the Lima Bean? Or did you think you'd get more material this way? I–”

“Woah! Hey, calm down, okay? Look, I'm sure whatever you're saying makes some kind of sense to you, but I'm not following. Why should I be here to gloat? And why should I not have come? And where is short and handsome?”

That last question makes Kurt hit the breaks, metaphorically speaking. He wants nothing more than to take out all his anger, all his frustration, everything he's felt over the past days – hell, weeks – on the meerkat. He's a convenient target, and some of what Kurt's feeling is even about him. But.

Something's off about all of this, and Kurt wants to know the truth more than he wants to unload. (Which he can always do later, if he still feels like it.)

“When's the last time you talked to Blaine? Yes, it matters. When?”

“Saturday, at Scandals. Haven't seen or heard from him since you dragged him out the door. Which is unusual, but if he's sick that should explain it.”

And that leaves Kurt with a chill running down his spine. It's not just him.

“We need to talk. Just, not here. We could, wait, no, they close soon.”

Half past ten on a Friday evening, and there's not a single place in Lima they can go to talk. Everything is either closed, closing or not safe. Staying where they are definitely isn't.

“Did you drive here? Great. Get your car, and follow me.”

Smythe doesn't complain, which is a boon. Maybe he's figured out that something's not right too.

Kurt drives as if on autopilot through town, and parks in a familiar spot. When he gets out Smythe rolls down the window and gives him an unimpressed stare.

“Here? You say you want to talk, and this is where you bring me? A garage.”

“Yes. Besides this the safest place we could find to sit down and talk is probably Scandals. Which, no thanks. Since I'm not exactly keen on bringing you home, even if I wasn't being sexiled,” and hadn't that been a fun text to get?, “we're down to two options. Here, or parking along the road. And since I'd rather not take the risk of either getting arrested or gaybashed, here it is. Come on.”

One advantage of taking this to the garage is that no one he knows has reason to come here and wonder why the Nav's parked outside. Another is the fact that the office has got a coffeemaker and decent coffee, something Kurt suspects he'll need to get through this. Alcohol might be better, but he doesn't drink.

Once they've both got a mug in front of them Kurt asks the question that's been burning since they left the parking lot.

“Have you heard anything about Blaine transferring back to Dalton?”

Smythe chokes on his coffee. A part of Kurt finds that satisfying, but mostly he just thinks it's delaying what he wants to know.

“Blaine, back to Dalton? Are you serious? No, I haven't heard anything about it, and I think I would have known if any of the others had. Why, is he thinking about it? Is that why you were onstage tonight and not him?”

Well. That explains a few things. Unfortunately it leaves even more questions behind.

“I don't know. I showed up in school Tuesday only to find out that Tony was mine because Blaine had transferred schools. I thought he'd gone back to Dalton – we all thought so – but if you don't know anything...” Then what the hell happened?

“What the hell happened?”

Kurt has to take a second to check that it wasn't him thinking out loud, but no, it's Smythe.

“I don't know. We...argued after Scandals, he stormed away and fell off the planet. He's not answering calls, or texts, or facebook messages. It's not just me either, Rachel – the girl playing Maria – hasn't heard from him either.

“At first I thought he was still angry. Then I thought maybe he was sick. And then when we found out about him transferring, I figured maybe his parents were angry about him being drunk and decided that he needed to go back to Dalton. But if he's not there, and he's not talking to you either...”

He looks Smythe in the eyes and sees an echo of his own worry there. They sit still with their half-forgotten coffee for a few minutes, trying to understand this shift in reality. Well, Kurt does. And he kind of thinks Smythe does too.

“So Blaine's gone missing. That's...well, I don't want to say 'ominous', but it kind of is. Like I said, I haven't heard a thing. It's possible he's pissed at me, especially if he got in trouble for drinking, but I still think I would have heard if any of the Warblers had heard something. There's no way they'd be able to keep quiet, not with how they wanted him visiting to be him returning.

“But I'll snoop around. Because if he's transferring, but not to Dalton, and stonewalling both of us... That doesn't sound good.”

No, it really doesn't.

They talk a little longer, sketching a plan for finding out what's going on, before a yawning Kurt decides he's allowed himself to be sexiled long enough. If Rachel and Finn are still at it, tough luck. He's got heavy-duty earplugs.

After trading phone numbers, Kurt tells Smythe how to get back on the way to Westerville before unlocking the Nav. He's almost closed the door when the other boy calls out his name.

“Kurt!” Once Kurt's attention is on him the meerkat smirks and throws a curveball.

“From now on, call me Sebastian.”

[asking-jude]

Hello. I was just wondering if you have any tips for a first time job interview? Thank you!

Hello! Thank you for reaching out to Asking Jude! There are a few things I learned through my job interview process that I wish I was told before the interview.  Here is my top 10 list: 

I.        Read the confirmation e-mail to make sure you are following guidelines from the company. In the e-mail, they probably described where it is okay to park, whether you need to print out a parking permit, what attire is appropriate for the occasion, what documentation you should bring and the time and location of the interview. You can print it out and highlight the part you need to remember or just save it on your phone in your files or screenshot it in case you can’t open up your e-mail for some reason.  

II.        If you have any questions about anything you are confused about, it is perfectly okay to call them to confirm. I didn’t know it was okay to call them but it is. Fret not, they are there to help.

III.        Make sure you give you give your references a call or e-mail saying you are going to an interview and that they may call afterwards to follow up on references. Don’t forget to tell them who to expect a call from. It’s always nice to keep people in the loop so things aren’t weird and awkward. This way, they will know they might receive a call from whatever place you are applying for so they know to pick up. 

IV.        Get enough sleep and wake up early enough to make sure you look great and professional for the interview. You don’t want to be yawning during an interview or accidently fall asleep. 

V.        Print out your resume. Most of the conversation comes from questions they are going to ask you and they will reference your resume. By having it in front of you, you can follow along or remember to mention certain things you believe apply. 

VI.        Make sure you have done your research on the company. They will probably ask you why you want to work there so you want to be prepared for that. What do you like about the company? Why that company? What do you know about company values? Why do you think you will make a good fit in the company? 

VII.        Be prepared for interview questions. My last interview was very fun and they had fun questions to know about my personality. They asked what superpower I would have and what my favorite kind of ice cream was and why. They also asked me to tell them about a challenge I had had and how I overcame it. The questions vary and you want to be prepared for them. 

VIII.        Leave your home earlier than you would for the interview. Sometimes there are things that happen that delay your route and you want to make sure being stuck in traffic isn’t going to make you late. Life is a tough cookie and you should always be prepared for crumbs it leaves behind. It’s good to leave early to avoid traffic and give yourself time to find parking and the interview area. 

IX.        Be yourself and have fun! 

X.        Follow-Up after the interview. Giving them a thank you note for their time demonstrates your communication skills and how much you care about working there. 

Feel free to check out our YouTube page for more information: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCy4mB7luO09mz1ZFo5sBA-Q

Good Luck!

Lizeth 

Asking Jude needs YOUR help! Donate pocket change here and save our safe space.

[khadij-al-kubra]

Useless

Fandom: Thomas Sanders/Sanders Sides

Pairing: Belial/Emile (can be seen as romantic or platonic) 

Characters: Belial, Emile, Virgil, Thomas.

Author’s Note: This fanfic oneshot is based off of the wonderful “Illumination AU” created by @altruistic-skittles. The story itself is my own original idea, but the concept of soulmarks, the characters, and world writhing are her territory. So kindly go read her work as well. Seriously, it’s awesome. Hope you enjoy my story and as always feel free to leave a comment in the messages or reply if you have any notes or constructive critiques. I’m always open to writing advice.

              *    *    *

Belial stifled a yawn as he walked over the the Heart & Soul Cafe. You’d think he’d be used to these 8am Tuesday therapy sessions by now, but it had been a late night performing his tricks and he didn’t sleep so great in general. At least the money he’d made was pretty good. He was really starting to get some popularity for his magic tricks.

No doubt Emile, his therapist and apparent soulmate (another thing he still wasn’t used to), would be chipper as ever. Sometimes he wondered if the man wasn’t actually a cartoon character come to life. Still, Belial supposed he shouldn’t complain. Dr. Emile Picani was good at his job, He could even handle a hopeless case like him. Now Belial had progressed to only sometimes lying compulsively. ‘What a real improvement’ he thought as he walked through the doors of the cafe.

“Oh great,” groaned the familiar voice of his ex from behind the coffee counter.

“Always a pleasure seeing you too Virgil,” he said, venomous sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “Are those new bags under your eyes?”

Virgil responded with a growl and a glare combo. He only eased up when Thomas placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy Virge, he’s not worth it,” said Thomas.

Belial smirked and headed to the corner office at the back. ‘Not worth it.’ Of course he wasn’t . Belial was never worth it to anyone. But he hated to admit how much it stung to see Virgil, someone he once loved, relying on someone other than him. Not to mention Virgil now had three soulmates . Three! Well, at least Belial could say he (by some miracle) had a soulmate of his own, platonic or otherwise. The jury was still out (not that he cared). A fact he still couldn’t wrap his head around. Emile was the complete opposite of him. Good and honest in all the ways he wasn’t. And sure, it was clear from their sessions how the doctor would be someone Belial was destined to rely on or need to some degree...on a professional level of course. Yet he couldn’t fathom how he himself would possibly be someone for Emile to lean on when times got hard. What use was he to someone so put together?

He was at the door to the office now, but to his surprise it was already ajar. No knocking needed. What was even more odd is that there was none of the usual ambient music playing. And Belial could’ve sworn he heard a muffled sob from the other side. Before he could think better of it Belial went inside. He was not prepared for the chaos he was. Couch pillows were torn and knocked to the floor, stuffing spewing from the fabric wounds. The tiny waterfall lay cracked on its side. Papers, pencils and pens were scattered everywhere, and even one of Emile’s favorite cartoon posters was torn half hanging off the pastel blue wall. Worst of all though was the sight of the normally Happy Doc (damn, Emile’s humor was rubbing off on him) sitting on the couch, bent over with a hand covering his face as silent sobs shook his shoulders. Even his hair was messy like it had been tugged at and his signature pink tie askew.

Belial’s own facial soulmark ached at the sight. He didn’t know what to do. So he just awkwardly cleared his throat. Emile jerked up, putting his glasses back on. The soulmark around his eyes glowed green, matching the therapist’s emerald eyes perfectly. But they were so sad. That sadness didn’t belong there.

“Oh, Belial. I didn’t here you come in,” he said with a smile. Belial knew a fake smile when he saw one. 

“Yeah, I’m here for my session.”

“Of course! Right...Now’s not a good uh...I’m sorry. Let me just tidy up a bit, then we can...get started.”

Emile started to pick up papers around him and set them on the table. He moved painfully slow, not even getting up from his seat. Belial signed and sat across form the therapist. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sooo what happened in here?” he asked.

Emile sighed. “I happened. I guess you could say i sort of went Tasmanian Devil on the place.”

Didn’t see that coming. Frankly, Belial didn’t think the man had a rage filled vein in his body. Well, he supposed even therapists were entitled to a bad day once in a while. Of course it had to be on his session day.

“You? If anything you’re usually more of a Tweety Bird.” Shit. Another one. Worst of all, his slip of the tongue reference didn’t even get a chuckle out of the cartoon enthusiast.  Not a good sign.

“Yes, well, i uh...got some bad new this morning and well,” Emile waved at the mess around him.

“Are you okay?” he asked on instinct. Hopefully Emile didn’t catch the tone of sincere concern in his voice.

“Oh i’m alright. Its...” he taked a long breath, “It was a patient of mine. She’d been coming to see me for some time now. Early this morning I got a call from her father that she...passed away a few days ago.”

Oh shit. “I’m...sorry. How...how did it happen?”

“...She happened.”

“Oh...” Really? Oh? That’s the best he could think to say in this situation? It’s not like he couldn’t sympathize. Belial remembered form his time with Virgil how hard someone could struggle with fighting mental demons like that. Hell, there had been times when he’d even entertained the idea. Those were his darker times when he’d felt the most worthless...Things got better after he could afford to move out of his mother’s house. To actually go through with it though, even with a therapist like Emile trying to help you... A hollow laugh bright Belial back from his thoughts.

“And I thought we were really making progress. I-I thought she was getting better. How did I not see? It’s my job to see! I should’ve--” He took off his glasses again as fresh tears fell from his eyes. “I could’ve done more!”

Belial would never admit how much it killed him inside to watch Emile hunch over wracked with sobs, In the past few months of therapy with him, of time spent in and out of the Heart & Soul Cafe, Belial had begun to feel more than he had in a long time. And his didn’t know what to do with it all.

What could he do now? He didn’t have Logan’s tact of Patton’s sensitivity. All he had up his sleeve was-- 

“Wanna see a trick Emile?” he asked, grabbing a blank scrap of paper and a pencil from the floor.

“I really don’t feel in the mood,” said Emile, pausing in his hiccuped cries for a few seconds.

“Trust me, it’s a good one,” he said as he drew a rough picture of a spoon on the paper.

Actually this was one of the more difficult tricks in his arsenal of illusions. He’s only been able to pull it off twice before among numerous tries. But if it worked now, it was sure to amaze Emile and maybe even cheer him up a little. It would be worth it.

“If you must blink, do it now,” The Kubo reference coax a small smile out of Emile. “Watch closely.”

He swiped a hand over the picture, holding the paper by a corner. Then he began to gradually pinch the handle of the spoon picture. Belial watched the grown man’s face change from sorrow to awe as he saw the spoon bend while the paper itself remained smooth. Seriously, he could almost glimpse what Emile looked like as a child.

“wha-what the heck-that’s so cool! How’d you do that?”

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Yep. the thrill of amazing people with his magic never got old. “And for my grand finale...”

He crumpled the paper in his hands and then held them both up, fingers spread open to reveal that the paper had disappeared. Lastly he reached behind Emile’s ear and pulled out a soft yellow hankerchief. He felt a sense of pride at hearing Emile laugh and clap.

“Now blow,” he said, offering the hankie.”

Emile thanked him as he took the small cloth, giving it a loud elephant like blow. He wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands and put the glasses back on.

“Look, said Belial, “I get why you took the news so hard. I’m sure you did as much as you could for her, but it’s not your fault that she...ran out of strength to keep fighting. You can’t save everyone, and it’s not your responsibility to.”

Emile looked into his eyes with those emerald ones. “Then what use am I?”

Hearing that broken tone in his voice, that kind of question, coming from such a kind, patient, and selfless person like Emile felt like a punch in Belial’s heart. (Well, if he had a heart) He understood better than anyone what it felt like to be worthless...useless.

He was, but Emile definitely was not!

“I could easily lie and say that you’re the best therapist in the world and can save someone the next time. But I wont, because I don’t know that for sure.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “But you are the best I know, and from what Ive seen a lot of others think the same. I mean come on, if you haven’t given up on a broken mess like me yet-don’t talk, just listen-then you probably won’t give up on anyone else either. You put your all into what you do and actually give a damn about people. Make them feel like they’re worth something. That gives them a reason to...hope...and that can mean more than anything. So you Emile Picani are not useless.”

Phew that was a lot! Maya wasn’t nearly this much work. He tried to be as honest as possible (not an easy feat).  Was that the right thing to say? No clue. Could he have phrased it all better? Probably. Emile half shrugged in response for crying out loud. .At the very least he wasn’t calling himself useless anymore, but he was still clearly upset.What else could he do? He thought back to how he’d try to comfort Virgil during anxiety attacks. Belial took a deep breath and placed a hand on Emile’s shoulder, giving it a gently squeeze.

Belial did not expect the man to lean forward. He didn’t expect him to bury his teary face into his shoulder. And he definitely didn't expect his chest to skip a beat the way it did. He caught the glow of his own yellow soulmakr reflected in the doctor’s glasses. Belial was terrified of making a wrong move, but he let instinct take over and hesitantly wrapped his arms over Emile’s back. He made soothing stroked as his soulmate got out the last of his silent sobs.

After who knows how many minutes, Emile Stopped shaking and with a shuddered breath he finally sat back up. Belial was sorry or the loss of contact.

“Thanks Belial.” The smile on his face was finally devoid of melancholy.

“Don’t mention it. I’m so glad to have used up my therapy session time this way,” he said. Emile just laughed.

“I am sorry about that. I’ll be sure to make up for the missed time next session.” Emile looked around at the state of his office with a sigh. Seriously. It was a mess. “I really should clean up in here before my next appointment. It’s not till noon, but still. Elliot is rather punctual.”

Typical Emile. Thinking of others even after having an emotional meltdown. It was far too pitiful for Belial to allow.

“Better Idea: You leave the cleaning for later and I take you to get some ice cream now,” he said.

“You really don’t have to,” said Emile.

“Of course I do. Didn’t you know? Ice cream is the cornerstone of any healthy breakfast.” He was unable to hide the smirk that ghosted his face at hearing Emile’s full laughter for the first time all day.

“I’d like that,” Emile said, holding open the door for both of them.

“But it’s only fair that you buy, given that I lost therapy time.”

“Nice try Mr. Banks. I’m the one who needs chim-chim-chima-cheering up. We can go halvsies.”

“Oh fine.” Belial put his hat back on and followed him out.

As they exited the cafe and walked down the block, he caught the low hum of a Disney song (Mary Poppins maybe?) coming from the therapist. Well what do you know? He’d actually been able to be there for his soulmate in some small way. This time, Belial allowed himself to indulge in a genuine smile.

Maybe neither of them was useless after all.