#let me drool over my mon ami

[moonartemisia]

AS PROMISED!!

Okay.... idk why I'm always drawing blue lock men hot (I mean, they're totally indeed hot, or maybe it's just because of my artstyle—)

[cobwebbedcat]

Saccharine

MINORS DNI

Warnings: top sub amab masc reader, dom bottom trans man Rook Hunt, stuffing, emetophilia, undernegotiated kink/scene, sir kink and mommy kink (reader calls Rook both interchangeably), reader goes into subspace, minor dacryphilia, it gets messy 

Terms used for Rook: cunt, breasts 

THANK YOU TO @pomefiore-visitor FOR THE COMMISSION!!!!! KISSES KISSES KISSES!!! it was so fun to write this <3 though i worry this fic may be like the ring, because you'll never guess who's not feeling well tonight 😔....can a fic be contagious?

“Mon cher!” Rook’s voice cries through your phone. You can’t help but smile at the sound of his voice, even if he can’t see you, “I’ve been exploring the beauty that can be made in the kitchen, I want you to try what I’ve made!”  

You hesitate for only a moment, desperately wanting to see him, but no one else. You look to the clock on your wall; it’s late evening, past the time that anyone would be in the kitchen besides him. Then again, most students give Rook his space, whatever he may be up to. Humming softly, you agree to meet him, telling him you love him before slipping out of your dorm to Pomefiore.  

The Pomefiore dorm has a small, cozy kitchen. It’s meant to be for hobbyists, storing potion ingredients, and light meals. You’re shocked by the amount of food Rook’s prepared for the two of you. It looks like a 4-course meal.  

“Wow,” you breathe, watching Rook put the finishing touches on a batch of eclairs. He’s in his dorm uniform save for his robe and hat, wearing an apron over his clothes, his hair tied up, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You try not to drool at the sight of him. 

“Bonsoir mon ami!,” he coos, dropping the piping bag he was holding to meet you in the doorway. He pulls you into a kiss, cupping your face in his hands. “Whoops,” he giggles softly, brushing crumbs off your cheek.  

“I hope you’ve got a big appetite,” he muses, letting his hands drift from your face to your stomach, patting your belly gently.  

“I do,” you look over his shoulder at the spread, “looks delicious.” Rook smiles at your praise, guiding you to a chair at the end of the table.  

“I’m glad you think so, mon cher,” he moves a plate of fruit towards you, “I know this isn’t the most impressive use of my skills, as it’s just fruit I’ve arranged,” he points out each fruit then continues, “I think it’s a perfect beginning to the meal. I put a lot of thought into how these would taste together,” Rook explains.  

It’s a marvelous display, there’s no doubt about that, and you eagerly dig in. Rook stands next to you, watching you with a gaze that is just the right mix of loving and overly attentive, occasionally running his fingers through your hair.  

“Did,” you begin, first swallowing the food still in your mouth, “did you want some?” Your eyes flirt to the plate, where a few pieces of fruit remain. Rook shakes his head. 

“Oh no, I’m full. This is all for you,” you reflexively swallow at his words, despite finishing your bite moments earlier, looking back at the spread of food before you once again. “I put a lot of work into this for you,” he continues, giving you a gentle smile, “I would hope you would try to eat it all.” You look at him, his voice sending a pleasant shiver of arousal through your body from head to toe.  

Rook watches you carefully, through lidded eyes. As you continue to press fruit after fruit into your mouth, chewing and swallowing slowly, you remember what Rook told you once, that mid-meal is when creatures are the second-most vulnerable, right after sleeping. 

“You’re still hungry, oui?” Rook asks as you finish the last piece on the plate. You nod your head as you swallow, 

“Yeah, I wanna keep eating.” You know Rook is more than capable at reading between the lines and catching your drift. He beams at your enthusiasm, 

“Sweet boy,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your forehead, “you make me so happy.” You can’t help but feel flustered at his words, watching as he pushes a plate of gnocchi towards you.  

“’s good” you mumble as you chew through your first bite. You go through a similar routine as you eat your way through the plate, with Rook petting and watching you shovel fork after forkful of food into your mouth.  

The food you’ve eaten has started to settle within you, and you feel comfortably full. Though you probably should stop now, you can—and certainly will—continue to eat more, especially if Rook keeps looking at you the way he does.  

Licking your lips after your last bite, Rook immediately goes to push another plate forward, this one with a Flatbread pizza on it.  

You go to reach for it, but Rook stops you by placing his hand on yours, “hands in your lap,” he leaves no room for discussion, “s'il vous plaît.” 

Doing as you’re told, you watch as Rook pulls a chair directly next to you, bringing the plate to rest on his lap. He takes a slice into his own hands and lifts it to your mouth.  

“Say ahh, mon chéri,” he coos, his eyes twinkling as he awaits your predictable obedience. You open your mouth, letting him hand feed you a slice of the pizza. It’s amazing, if not a bit doughy. Your mouth salivates, your appetite still strong, despite the shrinking capacity of your stomach.  

Rook feeds you slowly, making sure you savor it. At some point his fingers get a bit of sauce on them.  

“Clean me up,” he breathes, pressing his fingers against your mouth and watching as you take the tip into your mouth, sucking the remnants of food off and leaving him clean. “Good boy,” he purrs, and god you’re glad you’re sitting, because hearing that would normally make your knees go weak. 

By the time you swallow the last bite of the pizza you feel like you’ve overeaten. Your stomach hurts and aches, pressing against your pants uncomfortably. It’s now that you notice you’re half hard. With the way that Rook’s been reacting to you eating, and just how good the food tastes, you’re not surprised by your arousal. 

“Rook,” you groan softly as he sets the empty plate down and moves to grab dessert. He pauses, sparing you a glance. “My stomach hurts,” you complain softly.  

He raises a brow, turning his attention away from the food, so he can place a hand upon your full belly. He’s gentle, looking at you like he’s trying to gauge just how much you can take.  

“Poor bébé, does this feel any better?” he asks, bunching your shirt up to reveal your belly, then unbuckling your belt and both unbuttoning and unzipping your pants. Your cock twitches, hopeful that he’ll tug your pants down and free your cock as well. Instead, he leaves you straining against your underwear, hardly paying any mind to your hardness.  

“Yes,” you breathe, answering his question. You’re still incredibly full, but at the very least some pressure has been relieved. “Thank you, sir.” 

Rook kisses your cheek, and grabs the final dish he’d prepared for you. You expect him to sit back in the chair he’d pulled up next to you, but instead he swings a leg over yours and settles himself down in your lap.  

“Oh,” you gasp, bringing your hands to his waist to steady him. His groin presses flush against your cock. You don’t dare try to grind up into him, even if every part of you wants that. 

“You can finish this for me, oui?” you swallow at Rook’s words, feeling more than a little intimidated. You nod and Rook clicks his tongue against his teeth disapprovingly, “use your words bébé.” 

“Yes, I can sir,” a smile settles onto Rook’s face at your words, and he goes to take one of the eclairs into his hand. 

You open your mouth for him, moaning at the first bite you take from the eclair. Rook hums, clearly pleased by your reaction. “Good,” you mumble through your chewing, and it is good, but swallowing is getting a bit difficult. It takes you a while to get through the first eclair, but Rook doesn’t seem to mind.  

A bit of dread settles into your stomach, along with the more than generous amount of food, as you look to see that you’ve got four more eclairs to get through.  

“I know you can do it for me, bien-aimé, you’re doing so well,” Rook praises, as if reading your mind and sensing your anxiety. You groan softly, and let him feed you the next one, slow and steady.  

This one goes down harder, and you gag trying to swallow the last bite.  

“Can I take a break?” you ask softly; the pastry saccharinely, sickeningly sweet against your teeth. Rook coos, setting down the plate down on the table behind him.  

“Of course,” he helps you drink some water before rubbing your belly, and very gently grinding himself against your clothed cock. Despite your discomfort, you’re leaking pre into your underwear, and Rook’s belly rubs—a soft, teasing stimulation— are only adding to your building pleasure.  

As you sit and digest Rook goes to undo his apron, untying the back and tossing it to the side. You whine, wanting so badly for him to continue undressing. Rook grins at you, his eyes twinkling. 

“Ohh does mon petit ami want more?” you nod your head, and Rook continues, “Want mommy to fuck you? Want to be inside me?” he teases, grinding down on your dick at the end of each question. You whine, pawing at Rook’s hips. “You’ll have to finish your meal if you want any more of me, cherie,” he hums.  

“More, I can take more,” Rook gives you a suspicious look, knowing that you’re rushing and pushing yourself. You lick your lips, your stomach is still very over stuffed, but you’re semi confident you can finish three little eclairs now. 

“If you say so,” he says as he turns around to get the plate back. He takes one into his hand, and the smell wafting off the pastry makes you woozy.  

Along with building nausea, your head feels murky and dizzy with lust, so lost in pleasure and submission that the next two eclairs go down without a problem. It’s the last one that you have trouble with.  

Rook brings the last eclair up to your mouth and you whimper, then gag once again.  

“Do you need another minute?” Rook asks softly. You shake your head, disliking the idea of stopping but knowing you have a little more left. Opening your mouth, you let him press it slowly against your tongue. Every cell in your body wants two things: to stop eating, and to please Rook. Unfortunately, you cannot have one without the other.  

“You’re doing so good, you’re almost there,” Rook reassures you, looking at you through lidded eyes. The clear arousal he’s getting from watching you is the one thing powering your jaw to tear and grind apart the eclairs.  

“Done,” Rook breathes as you swallow the last bite, “good boy, mon chou, mon bonheur, ma raison d'être,” he heaps the praise on heavy, peppering your face with kisses. He ends his sentence by pressing his lips onto yours.  

Your tongue shoots out between your lips, perhaps on instinct, licking against Rook’s lips. He lets you in immediately, moaning when you explore his mouth.  

As he kisses you, Rook returns to rubbing your belly gently as he grinds down, rewarding you by teasing your cock. It’s good, but not enough. 

You pull away, just enough so you can whisper, “please,” against his lips.  

“Of course,” Rook’s hands go from you belly to your pants. He moves further down your legs, holding your waistband, “lift your hips love.” As you lift yourself up a bit, Rook pulls your pants down. The relief of not having them digging into your belly is immediate.  

“Thank you,” you groan, then repeat yourself when Rook pulls your sticky underwear down just enough to take your cock in his hand.  

“Guh,” you moan helplessly, jerking your hips and twitching in his hold. Rook’s other hand goes to cup your cheek. 

“Oh, my darling you did so well for me. Looked so beautiful eating, I can’t believe you let me watch you eat it all,” he hums, rubbing circles into your skin with his thumb. “Can I fuck you my love? Will you let mommy ride you?” he asks softly.  

“Please, please,” you beg, squeezing his hips, giving him the biggest puppy dog eyes you can manage.  

“Don’t touch,” he hums softly, then removes himself from your lap to peel off his pants and underwear. He keeps his shirt on, but pulls his sleeves back up to his elbows from where they’d shimmied down. Your cock is hard, leaking, and twitching; it takes everything to not reach down and jerk yourself off at the sight of him.  

Rook reaches into a pocket on his apron, and pulls out a small vial of lube, and then he’s back in your lap. You return your hands to his now bare hips, and though your appetite is long gone, you feel yourself salivate at the sight of him. 

“Here we go,” he says softly as he slicks up your cock properly. You watch as he uses that same hand to then swiftly press two slicked fingers into his cunt. “I don’t need much sweetheart,” he confesses, looking at you as he opens himself up, “watching you got me so wet.”  

So much praise from him gets you flustered and soft all over, so much so you nearly forget how upset your stomach feels.  

“Ready?” Rook asks. 

“Yes mommy,” you breathe softly, watching as Rook lifts his hips, removes his fingers, and brings them to your mouth.  

“Can you clean me off?” he’s giving you an out, but you open your mouth for him. He presses his sticky, cum and lube covered fingers into your mouth as he lowers himself onto your cock. You feel your tip press into his hole as you close your eyes and suck around his fingers.  

“Good boy,” he hums, sliding down your cock slowly. He removes his fingers once you’ve cleaned them, and brings both hands to your belly. 

As he begins to lift himself up and down on your cock, setting a slow and steady pace, he rubs your skin lovingly, massaging circles into your stomach. “Such a good boy,” he moans, feeling hot, sticky, and wet around your length.  

“Ah, feels good,” you groan, squeezing his hips. You lean in to kiss him, moaning and whimpering against his mouth, getting drool on his lips and chin as he picks up the pace.  

Rook fucks himself on your cock, and you feel good, but the fact that you overate doesn’t dissipate.  

It happens suddenly: Rook presses on the wrong spot, or his tongue reaches too far into your mouth, or maybe it was just a matter of time before the food came back up again.  

“Wait,” you choke, saliva pooling into your mouth, your eyes going wide, and then you’re puking on his shirt. It’s just a bit, a warning, giving you enough time to gather your wits and jerk your head to the side, vomiting again on the floor next to you.  

“Oh,” Rook gasps, his hands and hips going still. He twitches and clenches around you as you hurl up the last of what he’d fed you, emptying the contents of your stomach. “Oh bébé,” he coos softly, rubbing your belly as drool pools from out of your mouth and onto the floor. You cough, getting it all out before turning back to look at him.  

Tears are welling in your eyes, partly due to the pain that comes with your stomach cramping and straining to puke, partly due to the relief, and partly due to shame. 

“Are you okay, my love?” Rook asks softly, kissing your sweaty forehead, cupping your face lovingly. You nod, glad that you’re no longer nauseous. “Good you got it all up,” he hums, pulling back to yank off his messy shirt.  

“I’m sorry,” you groan, some tears seeping out of your eyes and rolling down your cheeks.  

“Non, non, you’ve no need to be sorry,” he assures you, smiling gently, “I’m so sorry I pushed you, darling.”  

“You didn’t,” you tell him, knowing full well that you could’ve stopped him at any point and you wanted to keep going.  

“Good,” he kisses your cheek, “may I?” he asks, rolling his hips gently. You nod, because while you did feel ashamed for puking all over him, you stayed erect the entire time, your body loving the relief and pleasure from emptying your overstuffed stomach.  

“Thank you,” Rook groans, placing his hands on your shoulders and immediately returning to a quick pace, his breasts bouncing as he rides you, “fuck, watching you like that— oh—magnifique, merveilleux, très beau,” he gasps. 

Another wave of relief hits you as it becomes clear that Rook wasn’t disgusted by watching you vomit. You sink into the pleasure, head going foggy and muddled with lust, no longer ashamed nor afraid. You moan and gasp at the relentless pace that Rook rides you with.  

“Gonna cum—mommy—please,” you whine, looking up at him with pleading eyes, tears once again welling up, this time for another reason entirely. Rook groans, twitching around your cock, 

“Cum for me bébé, ah, cum for me, you can cum,” he gasps, bouncing on your cock and working himself closer to orgasm.  

“Rook,” you moan, holding his hips tight and fucking up into him as you reach your climax. Rook follows quick after you, babbling something in French, groaning your name as your cum fills him. He clenches tight around you, humping himself on your cock, working himself through his orgasm.  

“Thank you, thank you,” you chant, the words coming out as whispers. Rook hugs you close to his body, 

“Of course, love, you did so well, made me feel so good, such a good boy,” he praises quietly, warming your softening cock as you come down from the scene.  

“I’m exhausted,” you finally groan, once your head clears and you return to yourself, pulling away a bit so you can look at him. You’re greeted with a smiling, slightly disheveled Rook, giving you the most tender and loving look.  

“Then let’s get cleaned up, oui? I need you to brush your teeth as soon as possible so I can kiss you again,” he muses softly, bringing two lips to his mouth, kissing them, then pressing them against your lips as a makeshift kiss. And maybe it’s just instinct that your tongue peaks out to lick him, or maybe you’re already hungry once again. 

[vespidphoenix]

Entirely at your service

Chapter 2: get to know me close

Sanji and Amy are excited, to say the least, to find their sexual attraction is mutual; but for Amy, there's more at stake than hedonistic pleasure. Lucky for her, Sanji takes his nickname 'the Love Cook' very seriously.

Notes: NSFW, minors begone, porn with even more feelings, chubby fem OC, more angst, more fluff, more smut, gratuitous use of French because ya girl studied that shit (affectionate) for eight years and will be damned if she lets it go to waste, oral (f receiving, m receiving mentioned), dirty talk, masturbation (m and f), praise kink, etc.; word count 5.9k

AN: I think the only recurring French Celestial word that's new in this chapter is 'dieux', which is 'gods'. 'Calisse' is only used once, but I feel like the author's notes is a more appropriate place than the main body to explain that it is a profanity in Québécois French.

AN 2: I should have mentioned this in the first chapter's ANs. While this fic is set before Whole Cake Island, Amy has partial knowledge of Sanji's backstory for reasons that will be explained eventually

Chapter 1 | Next chapter: coming soon | Masterlist | Read this chapter on ao3

(Banner courtesy of @cafekitsune)

Tag list: @turtletaubwrites @fanaticsnail

When Amy’s awareness slowly extends beyond her pulsing cunt, Sanji is there, fingering her gently as she comes down from her high and cradling her neck with his other hand. His eyes are soft and his smile broad.

“Did you…did you just cum for me?” he asks, incredulous.

Amy turns away, grumbling, “I told you I needed you now.”

“Hey, hey, hey, none o’ that, none o’ that,” he coos, and turns her head back to face him. “Nothin’ to be embarrassed about, sweetheart. You were so lovely.”

The lovers say nothing for several deep breaths while Amy recovers her ability to think. Sanji removes his hand from between her legs and cleans his fingers on the smaller towel.

“What…what do we do now?” Amy finally manages to say.

“What do you want to happen now? We can get you cleaned up, we can keep going, whatever you’d like. I am still at your service.” He winks.

Mère bleue, his winking, his eyes never fail to set Amy’s insides aflutter. She frowns, though.

“But you haven’t finished yet.” She nods to Sanji’s painfully-obvious erection. “Don’t wanna leave you hanging.”

“Well, I don’t want to pressure you into doin’ anything you don’t want…”

Amy stretches her arms and back with a groan. Sanji is torn between concern about back pain from her leaning against the bench and drooling over the view of her breasts; Amy notices his internal conflict and giggles. She leans forward and kisses him slowly.

“Let’s move this to someplace a little more comfortable, shall we?”

———

“Sanji, no, surely you’re not going to fuck me in the galley?” Amy pants a few minutes later with her back pressed against the wall of Sunny’s kitchen. “This is a food prep and storage area. Chef Zeff would—ungh, that’s the spot—Zeff would feed your cock to the sharks.”

Sanji kisses her, deeply and hungrily, grinding his hips against her. “You don’t know how my old man runs his kitchen, and besides, he’s not here.”

“I just don’t want us to get cum in tonight’s supper or something.”

“Is eating you out still on the table?” the chef asks, before sucking a mark in the valley between Amy’s breasts.

She rakes her fingernails through his hair and down his neck. “It can be, mon amour, but the couch is much more comfortable…”

She shrieks with laughter when Sanji lifts her over his shoulder and carries her around the counter to the long, green couch. “I hope you didn’t leave my top over there!” she says when he sets her down and kneels before her, and holds the towel out to her.

“Which one?” Sanji replies, his voice theatrically sultry. “Your top is right in front of you.”

“The one you all but tore—”

The punchline finally clicks, and Amy groans as she seats herself on the towel.

“My sense of humor has been a bad influence on you,” she sighs, leaning against the couch.

“Good thing I’m hot enough to pull it off, right?” Sanji grins and presents the discarded garment with a flourish.

Another fond eye-roll from Amy. “Come here and finish what you started,” she orders him, draping her arms over his shoulders, “before I change my mind and make you put it back on.”

Sanji pouts—“You would never do that to me, would you?”—but nevertheless he leans in for another deep, slow kiss. He slides his hands down to the waist of her skirt and again pauses as he dips his fingers between fabric and skin; she encircles his own hips with her legs and pulls him close.

“You’re right,” she murmurs as she nibbles his earlobe. “I wouldn’t do that to you, because you’re going to be pretty busy taking off my skirt and showing me what you can do with your tongue.”

Not for the first time this afternoon does Sanji think it a miracle when he doesn’t erupt right then and there. 

“Je fais ce que la mademoiselle me commande,” he moans into Amy’s neck. [I do as the miss commands me]

Broad, strong hands plunge boldly under Amy’s sarong, under the cotton of her panties, to give her buttocks a firm squeeze. He kneads her flesh like so much dough as he works the layers of fabric down her body; like salt on focaccia he sprinkles kisses and little bites over her stomach. Forceful, yet also measured; gentle, but oh, so very thorough—such are Sanji’s touches, and Amy feels herself melting under him once again, until—

“Sanji, I—I just remembered…I haven’t shaved or anyth—” she begins to say, but he holds up a hand to stop her. His eyes remain closed, and he does not move his face away from the juncture of her thighs.

“Amy, if the notion of my being exposed to your body hair makes you truly uncomfortable, of course I will stop at once. But if you think I will be repulsed by something perfectly harmless and natural…”

Sanji sits up and presses his forehead to hers, and his clothed hardness to her sex. He’s every bit as aroused as he was when they were making out in the crow’s nest.

“Tu sens, t’as senti l’évidence de mon désir. C’est toi de qui j’ai tant besoin.” [You feel, you have felt the evidence of my desire. It's you of whom I have such need]

Amy looks up, and Sanji’s ocean eyes are troubled, darkened with lust but also disquiet; the thought occurs to her that this isn’t the first time he’s worn that look today—

Whatever…this is…

—and something in that fact feels inexplicably like the sensation of missing a step while walking down a flight of stairs, like she’s about to—

“Baise-moi, Sanji, j’ai aussi tant besoin de tes caresses,” she pleads in the hope that if her mind is overflowing with pleasure, she’ll never have to finish that thought. [Fuck me, Sanji, I need your touch just as much]

Sanji doesn’t need observation haki to tell that Amy is holding something back, something that is causing her distress. She has to know by now that he wants this, that he wants her—that his attraction to her is not in spite of her body but because of it—that he will stop at nothing to accomplish her satisfaction. He would do anything to make her feel as beautiful and desirable as she is; she deserves it, and he is the ‘love cook’. It’s what he does. But to keep going while she is upset feels wrong somehow, like he’s using her or being insensitive…on the other hand, though, she did just make her desires known in the most direct terms.

He’s overthinking this. He promised Amy she would cum on his tongue, and he will not let her down.

“I’ve got you, chérie,” he murmurs, kissing her. “I’ll make you feel good.”

His thumbs trace circles on Amy’s hips as he ever-so-slowly kisses a trail down her body, pausing only at the hickey he’d made earlier to suck at it again before soothing it with his tongue. She shudders and sighs, and lifts her hands to cup her breasts—and gives her lover an idea.

“That’s my darling girl,” Sanji rumbles. “Show me, show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone. Teach me your body, so I know best how to make you cum.”

Amy moans, and Sanji doesn’t think he’s ever heard so heavenly a sound as her desperate need for him.

“Fuck, Sanji, you don’t know how many times I’ve fantasized about you saying those words to me. It’s even hotter in reality than in my imagination.” While one hand continues to palm her nipples in turn, Amy’s left hand goes straight to her cunt—which Sanji realizes with wonderment is already dripping her slick onto the towel. He looks down to his own groin to find his shorts dampened with precum; very carefully, he slides his shorts and boxers down until his cock is freed. He takes himself in hand, moving slowly at first.

Amy’s fingers gather slick from around her entrance and move to swirl it around her clit. “I couldn’t get you out of my head after our first conversation on Mirror Ball Island,” she continues. “I had never met any man as beautiful as this tall, fair stranger who was so interested in hearing me talk about different accents of the North Blue…the prettiest blue eyes, the sharpest jawline, the smoothest voice…spirits, if I’d had the boldness, I would have dragged him outside and told him to fuck me right then and there. I just knew he would be an incredible lay.”

Sanji remembers that night well. How quickly the sting of rejection had turned to rapture when the lovely blonde med student at the bar declined his offer of a drink, only to insist that he was definitely her roommate’s type, that he might like to buy that drink for her instead—how right she had been! How charmed he had been by Amy’s sincerity and the intensity of her doe-eyed gaze! He’d have followed her anywhere, and he’d have satisfied her lust, had he been able then to read her aura.

Well, no time like the present to make up for lost time.

“Tell me, darling girl, what was I doing to your body when you couldn’t get me out of your head?” Sanji asks as he sits down, as his finger collects the sticky liquid leaking from his tip to spread along his shaft. “How did you imagine me touching you, fucking my name out of you?”

Gods, where to begin? Amy wonders. The enticing phase, the seduction, the foreplay? Does she begin with her longings, or with their blooming into sexual desire?

She’s overthinking this. He wants to know how she masturbates, so that he can get an idea of what feels good to her.

“Well, a lot of the time I’d imagine you reaching from behind me—easier to pretend that way, y’know?—perhaps I’d be wearing a halter top or that sleeveless jumpsuit, and you would just…slide your hands under the straps to cover my chest like this, yeah?” 

Amy opens her eyes, and—her jaw drops. Sanji is entirely bare to her now, and his thick fingers are massaging what is indeed a respectably-sized penis. He’s breathing deeply, trying to concentrate, but his cheeks are flushed and his hairline is beaded with sweat. Is he…might he be close to finishing?

“Please, Amy…” he breathes, “please, continue de parler, je ne peux pas durer longtemps…” [keep talking, I can't endure for long]

She shakes her head. There will be time to wrap her mind around the questions of how or why her later. She resumes her rubbing and squeezing.

“You’d feel me like this for a bit, feel my heartbeat and my breathing quicken, and after a while maybe one of your hands might just…slide the straps of whatever I’m wearing off my shoulders so you could kiss me there.” Amy traces a line down her upper arm and tilts her head back, letting her eyes flutter shut for a few moments. She hears Sanji whimper an “oh dieux” that makes her cunt pulse with fresh wetness. At this rate, neither of them are going to last very long…

“…and meanwhile your other hand might be drifting over my stomach, down, under my swimsuit bottom or my panties, right down here where I need you.” 

Her own hand reaches its destination, and she draws a sharp breath when she realizes there’s almost no friction at all. She gives herself one slow stroke, spreading her thighs, saying:

“This, Sanji, this is what you did to my body.” Amy draws a shuddering breath. “All for you, mon amour…”

And she finds to her amazement that the choked whimper, the quiet whine of her name, the bucking of Sanji’s slender hips, the spurts of semen from his cock are all for her.

It’s all too much, in perhaps the most pleasant of ways in which something can be too much.

It always takes him by surprise, somehow, to find himself the object of someone’s desire. Call it the ghost of his upbringing: as far as Vinsmoke Judge was concerned, other people were glorified props, with no desires to speak of until he deemed them relevant; and even when he did, it was a preposterous notion that anyone should want anything from the failure Sanji that they could not be persuaded to find elsewhere.

(More than ten years have passed since Sanji escaped from his sire, as Amy so aptly termed him; but from time to time, he can still hear German voices seeping poison into his ear. “If you lay down with dogs, you’ll get up with fleas,” his sire was fond of snarling at him—not realizing that he, Judge, was himself the dog of which he spoke.)

The surprising and preposterous is happening anyway, and Vinsmoke Judge is far from his third son’s mind. Amy Lajoie, in all her voluptuous glory, is right in front of Sanji, calling herself his lover, detailing the ways in which she wanted him of all people to feel her. It is all too much—and yet, as his mind goes blank with orgasm, he needs more.

All for you, mon amour.

He’s giving his cock a few more strokes when he hears noise from somewhere above him. Opening his eyes to find a still-naked Amy pushing herself off the couch, he protests weakly (“Darling, shouldn’t I—why don’t you let me get water—”), only for her to kneel beside him and brush the hair away from his forehead.

“It’s okay, sweet boy,” she whispers, earning a soft moan from Sanji. “You looked so gorgeous fucking your fist under me, and coming for me. If you want, you can clean yourself a bit with the towel while I get some water, maybe a fresh towel or two? We did get this one pretty wet between the two of us.”

Sanji makes a grunting noise like he’s about to protest again, and makes to sit up, but Amy is already moving toward the kitchen.

“Besides which,” she calls over her shoulder as she searches for the cups, “you did say you were going to do some eating down here, and most meals come with a drink, don’t they?”

Well, that certainly gets the man’s attention. 

“I am feeling a little thirsty, now that you mention it,” he replies with a grin. “If you give me a moment, I’ll show you where I keep the coconut oil as well.”

Amy feels the presence of a warm body pressing her gently against the stove. “The cups are right here, chérie,” Sanji’s smooth voice murmurs just behind her ear as he slides his hands from her shoulder blades to her breasts.

She snickers and hangs her head. “It’s a good thing you’re hot, because that was terrible.”

“Don’t lie, sweet thing, it still made you laugh.” He smiles into the back of her head and gives her a gentle squeeze. “The cups you’re looking for are on the drying mat behind us.”

“Let’s go and get those, then, because mine won’t hold any water.” She turns to face Sanji, still in his arms.

“They could hold milk, at least in theory.”

“Only if they have a reason to do so, and ah…I’d as soon they not have one, if you catch my drift.”

Sanji looks thoughtful for a moment, before moving away from Amy to reach for the water glasses. Amy herself looks for the kitchen towels, and finds them under the sink.

“That reminds me,” Sanji says, “what did you mean earlier when you said, ‘that’s gonna have to wait a few days per Chopper’s advice’?”

Amy straightens her back and laughs. “Hah! You had said ‘fuck me raw’ upon making your entrance to the crow’s nest, yes?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Where are you going with this?”

“Well, as is often the case,” says Amy, “I was cracking a joke, but my statement was also true in a literal sense.”

“Go on…”

“I finally went to a gyno clinic before we set sail and got me one of those birth control implants. That was five days ago, and Chopper says the kind I got is fully effective after a week, lasts for a few years.”

Sanji’s eyes go impossibly wide as he connects the dots. “So what you’re telling me is—”

“—is that in just a couple more days, I’ll be able to take your pretty cock into my drooling cunt and let it fill me with your hot, thick cum without thinking about anything except for how good it feels inside me.”

Sanji is speechless, utterly speechless.

Maybe it’s the calm confidence with which she said something so intensely erotic, or perhaps it’s the way her sparkling eyes never once wavered from his that takes his breath away. He knows Amy, for all her beauty and—well—amiability, is deeply uncomfortable performing to strangers, and even among her crew she is still very much the retiring sort.

You don’t know how many times I’ve fantasized about you saying those words to me.

I couldn’t get you out of my head.

All for you, mon amour.

His mind is reeling, but he’s present enough to fill two glasses with water. 

“…so hopefully Nami will be able to reallocate that part of the budget to the kitchen staff.” Amy winks at him as she sips.

“Hm? Yes, yes, that would be great.” Sanji blinks and smiles as if it were an everyday occurrence for him to be chatting so casually in the kitchen with his…crush? Girlfriend? Friend-with-benefits? Both of them completely naked, no less. Calisse, he’s overthinking again, and Amy’s stepping toward him—

She sets her cup on the counter and puts her other hand on his waist, lightly at first, waiting for him to object.

“Now who’s not listening while their lover is talking?”

Ah, yes. Lover. So he hadn’t been imagining that part after all.

“Sorry, love, I was just…taken aback, that’s all.” He smiles sheepishly.

Amy grins and pulls him closer. Resting her chin on Sanji’s chest, she says, “I was just saying that with the berry we save on tampons and prevention pills and whatnot, Nami might be persuaded to expand our kitchen budget…and, coincidentally, I will also be able to satisfy your request that I fuck you raw.”

Sanji groans and tilts his head back, and this time Amy does not hesitate to kiss his exposed neck, though she pulls back and frowns.

“Chérie, why did you stop?” Sanji whines. 

“I should have asked you before whether you liked me doing that. You deserve all the same consideration a-and caring you’ve shown me.”

(There will be time later, between waking up in Sanji’s arms and the snail call from Nami alerting her to the crew’s impending return, for Amy to dwell on her reluctance to say the word ‘love’ in front of Sanji—as if the word had only one meaning, as if she and Sanji hadn’t taken to calling each other ‘lover’ like fish to water, as if merely speaking the word aloud would turn to solid ground the ocean beneath her sea legs.)

Sanji pulls her closer so that their foreheads touch. In a way, the gesture feels more intimate even than his fingering her, and Amy can feel her heart pounding harder; but there’s a soothing sort of protectiveness in it as well.

“You deserve all of that and more, sweetheart, I hope you know that,” he says, “and if you do something I don’t like, I’ll tell you to stop, o-or we can pick a safe word—and of course you’ll do the same for me, right?”

“Like you said before, I want this to be enjoyable for both of us.” Amy’s right hand begins to scratch Sanji’s back gently, while her left stays just above his firm, toned ass.

He hums and replies: “And like you said, what would be really enjoyable right now is getting back to the part where we kiss each other senseless.” He presses her between the counter and his stirring cock, and Amy feels her knees threaten to give way beneath her.

“Don’t forget”—she gives a breathy moan, and feels a fresh wetness between her legs—“about your meal, darling…”

Sanji groans, grabs a handful of towels, and downs the rest of his water in a few gulps. With his glass in the sink, he lifts Amy by her thighs and walks her back over to the couch.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to be inside you,” he moans, kissing her again with fresh hunger, “mais ça suffira comme apéritif.” [but this will suffice for an aperitif]

If Sanji’s mouthing at her breasts reminded Amy of a boy with ice cream, she thinks to herself while she still has the presence of mind, he might be said to give head as though he were savoring a popsicle. He licks long stripes up and down each side, spreading the wetness about; he laps around her glistening clit and sucks; he makes shorter licks along her folds to catch the drips that threaten to escape—only to end up with his face a mess anyway. His tongue is a warm, wet tickling thing punctuated by the blunt little tips of his piercing, leaving a swell as of the inexorable tide in its wake. He looks up, and Amy’s breath hitches in her chest: his eyes are the wine-dark sea of antiquity’s poets, and she could drown herself in them, just as he looks fit to drown himself in her.

“So fucking delicious,” he growls. “Goûte-la toi-même.” [Taste it yourself]

The faintly spicy tang which Sanji had smelled on Amy earlier dances now on his taste buds, laced with the delicate saltiness of her sex. He can’t help wanting to share—was it not Amy herself who told him that ‘a happiness shared is a happiness doubled’? And few things give him happiness quite like a woman’s pleasure.

For Amy’s part, the taste of her in Sanji’s mouth is peculiar, but not unpleasant—an acquired taste, she supposes, like alcohol or coffee. Vastly more delicious is the look on his face as he reaches for her, as he pulls back to gauge her reaction, as he dives back in to tangle his tongue with hers: equal parts bliss and longing, satisfaction and need, all for her.

So fucking delicious.

“There’s so much more where that came from, beautiful boy,” Amy whispers into the hair’s-breadth of space between them, “so don’t hold yourself back.”

“Tu me fais fondre, m’appelant comme ça, ouais?” Sanji moans, leaning into her upper body even as his hands find her thighs once more. “Dis-moi encore.” [You make me melt, calling me that, yeah? Tell me again]

Amy’s eyes flutter shut, and her fingers scrape lightly along his scalp. “My beautiful boy, my sweet boy, eating me like a good boy and sharing your food,” she croons. “So generous, my darling boy is.”

Sanji’s heart soars on the updraft of Amy’s praise, so freely given, without hesitation, that he could almost believe himself worthy of it; and to be called hers only sends him flying even higher. He nestles his head into the juncture of her legs and breathes deeply, her scent serving to ground him against going dizzy with longing. Jasmine, sweat, spice, salt. Arousal, so much arousal.

He grabs her by the waist, pulls her to the edge of the couch cushion, and dives right in. He kisses her mound, kisses the inside of her thighs, sucks marks into her skin and soothes it with swipes of his tongue; and the sight fills him with an unaccustomed warmth.

Our hidden treasure.

She’s so fucking wet for him, Sanji realizes, that he might have to swap out the towel before he and Amy are done—her slickness is dripping between her buttocks and along her thighs, and it covers surely half of his face.

“Keep talking to me, darling girl,” he rasps, “and don’t you dare be quiet. I wanna be able to hear you talkin’ me through how to make you cum.” He licks a stripe along the middle of Amy’s glistening cunt, teasing her nub until she whimpers. “I want to hear you coming undone for me.”

Amy smiles through her moan. “Ho-how’m I gonna be able to talk if you’re making me fall apart with your tongue?”

“An excellent point,” Sanji chuckles, his breath sending frissons of delight rushing over her skin. She moves her hands to massage her breasts, but is interrupted by a sudden grip on her arm.

“Hold on, chérie,” he says when Amy gives him a quizzical look. “I have an idea: you hook your legs over my shoulders”—he shifts each leg into position, pressing a kiss to each thigh as he goes—“and we hold each other’s arms”—he holds her elbows in a gentle grip—“so that you just sit back and enjoy while I do all the hard work.”

“Are you sure you don’t just like having me at your mercy?” she says with a smirk.

Sanji’s sultry grin mirrors hers. “Well, if it’s gonna be hard for you to pay attention to talking and what I’m doing to you and touching yourself, I just…want to take a bit of the load off you.”

“So considerate of you.” Amy rolls her eyes, but she is smiling, and she leans back nevertheless.

“Like I said: I’m at your service.”

“Well then, high time you get to servicing me—shit, baby, that feels good…”

Sanji has already resumed his meal. He seems to be savoring it, tasting her juices with a reverence Amy might expect him to reserve for a glass of Micqueot; and the swelling sensation that followed his tongue earlier is coming on faster, spurred by the vibration of his own moaning. 

Amy starts to writhe in Sanji’s hold, whimpering when the bucking motion and the jiggling of her breasts, rather than relieving her in the slightest, only turn her on more.

“Sanji, baby, please, please,” she begs her lover, digging her heels into his back, desperate to somehow pull him even closer. “Need you more, need you deeper, please, I’m getting close—”

Something roars with triumph in Sanji’s chest when he looks up and sees the desperation in Amy’s face. Ecstatic, pleading, vulnerable yet awash with bliss, and by the clenching of her walls he can tell she’s on the edge. 

“Fucking gorgeous,” he growls, his breath ghosting over her entrance. He lets go of Amy’s arms and reaches for her breasts, and at the same time licks one long stripe along her pussy-lips, pushing his face and his tongue in as far as he can.

A swipe of his thumbs across sensitive nipples and a swirl of his tongue around her clit is enough to send waves of release washing over her entire body, cries of “Sanji, Sanji, Sanji” gushing from her mouth like the cum spilling from her pussy. She tugs at Sanji’s blond hair, grinding her cunt on his face, wishing her bliss would last forever.

Sanji’s tongue and jaw are just starting to ache when the spasms in Amy’s sex and her legs subside. It’s a small price to pay, he thinks when he straightens his back and takes in the display before him: glistening beads of sweat dot the woman’s flushed face, itself sporting a faintly dopey smile; her ample bosom heaves with each breath; her limbs are spread wide and her head is flopped against the back of the couch, framed by her sweat-dampened locks; and of course, there’s the absolute mess of slick and saliva between her thighs. 

“Ah, que tu es belle, comme une oeuvre d’art,” Sanji sighs, smiling affectionately. If he could paint with half of Usopp’s skill, he’d be minded to preserve this moment on canvas; but alas, the medium of his own art needs cleared away lest it go stale. He picks up a clean towel from the small stack beside him. “Are you able to stand?” [You are so beautiful, like a work of art]

“I’m still catching my breath,” Amy huffs, “after you took it away and all. Give a girl a minute.” She smiles, and Sanji chuckles. 

“And here I thought your sense of humor was rubbing off on me—turns out it goes both ways.”

She hums. “Speaking of ‘rubbing off’, when—when do I get to have my turn with that cock of yours? He looks like he could use a kiss.”

Sanji pauses his massage of his jaw joints. “Say that again?”

Amy lets her eyes drift downward to rest shamelessly on his hardness. “I won’t need to use my legs if you let me give your cock the attention it’s due from here.” 

Oh. He imagines her leaning forward and placing one kiss after another on the sensitive tip, down his shaft and back up its length, before licking her lips and taking him in her mouth—oh yes, he could very much use some of those kisses, and he feels his cock twitch in agreement.

“Can I swap this towel for a fresh one first, chérie?” Sanji asks. “I-I don’t know how long I can last before we’ll both need cleanin’ up.”

“I guess I can stand long enough for you to do that,” Amy pretend-mutters. “Help me stand, would you?”

He stands, takes her by the hand, and tugs.

Amy and Sanji have been naked in front of each other for several minutes now, they’ve masturbated together, they’ve put their hands and their mouths in some very intimate places—and yet, when she finds herself once again face-to-face with Sanji and skin-to-skin with the man of her lewdest dreams, part of Amy is oddly pleased to find that she is still capable of blushing.

“Can I see that for a sec?” she asks, and takes the towel from Sanji’s other hand. “You’ve got something on your face, lover boy.”

With both of his hands now unoccupied, Sanji wraps his arms around Amy. She dabs gently at his face, enough to wipe the greater part of her slick away, but leaving enough for her to inhale deeply and smell herself on his parted lips. 

“Puis-je t’embrasser?” she whispers, closing her eyes. [May I kiss you]

“You, ma chérie, are always welcome to kiss me.” He leans in, closing the gap as if sensing her sudden shyness, and cradles her head in his palms. “Sois généreuse avec tes bisous. Tu devras m’en donner beaucoup plus avant que j’en aurai eu trop.” [Be generous with your kisses. You will have to give me a lot more before I will have had too many.]

Amy smiles as their lips brush. “Sounds like a challenge to me…”

The thought occurs to her that perhaps she is being recklessly unguarded, as she all but pours herself into Sanji’s eager mouth. She shoves that anxious voice out of her mind, though, and allows the voice of the man embracing her to drown it out with his appreciative moans. There’s something about kissing Sanji that feels as natural as breathing, like the realization that she can breathe normally again after recovering from a cold—a cold she’s had for more than two years, come to think of it…

Amy’s thoughts are interrupted when Sanji pulls away from her without warning. She whines wordlessly.

“Darling girl,” he murmurs almost lovingly, “if we’re to explore each other here on this couch, wouldn’t you rather do so on clean bedding?”

Amy sighs. “I suppose you have a point…but on the other hand…”

Sanji tosses the soiled towel next to his shorts and looks up. “What’s that?”

“You wouldn’t need to worry about the towels if you were coming down my throat.”

Sanji flops, dazed, onto the couch, and Amy is just standing there, her expression neutral but her eyes twinkling. She’d said it so casually, as if she were talking about groceries rather than about sucking his cock that aches to feel her around it. And ache it does, all the harder now that he’s tasted her heat and felt the hunger in her lips; but now she’s climbing into his lap, straddling him much as she had not even an hour prior—

“Would you like that? Can I—may I taste you as you’ve tasted me?”

He throws his head back, and this time Amy neither hesitates to kiss every inch of his neck she can reach nor pulls away to apologize.

“Oh dieux, Amy, fuck—you’re—you’re not makin’ it easy to be romantic here…”

You’re not makin’ it easy to be romantic here…

to be romantic

romantic

Amy doesn’t even realize she’s frozen still until Sanji shifts in her embrace so that he’s looking into her eyes.

“Is everything alright, darling? Talk to me.” 

She blinks and scrambles to think of something to say. He’s making that face again, she realizes, the face at once doting and troubled.

“Why…do you keep looking at me like that?” she finally manages to whisper. “Like the sight of me makes you happy and breaks your heart at the same time? You made that face just before you started going down on me, and you made it when I told you I wanted to keep the fact of our, well, tryst to ourselves…”

Sanji pulls her down to sit across his lap and takes her right hand in his left.

“Truly, has no one ever tried to romance you or woo you in any way? Surely I’m not the only person in the world who isn’t blind to your many charms?”

Amy tucks her left arm around Sanji’s waist and her cheek into his shoulder. “I guess…a few have tried, but they never lasted very long. More often I would…develop an affection, let’s say, for someone in my circle of friends, and he might move away in search of greener pastures—or deeper waters, you might say—before anything had a chance to actually happen between us.” She pauses to take a deep, shuddering breath—why the hell is she still tearing up over this?—and adds: “That’s if I was lucky.”

There’s a long silence after Sanji’s hum of acknowledgment, during which he only rests his head on top of hers, and runs his right hand up and down her arm.

“I let them go,” Amy says darkly. “I’d rather live without them than have someone change their mind and be with me out of pity or guilt.”

Sanji nods thoughtfully and is quiet for several breaths longer. Just as Amy is about to beg him to say something, he speaks.

“I think you underestimate your own courage sometimes. Your integrity. The value of those qualities. Easy to do so when you’re not the first person to downplay those parts of you, yeah? Doesn’t make it right or true, though.”

He brings the back of her hand to his lips and holds it there for a long moment. He twines his fingers with hers, and Amy stares at their clasped hands, transfixed.

“I meant what I said, Amy, when I told you that you deserve an eager lover,” Sanji murmurs. “I dunno what face I was makin’ in those moments you were talkin’ about, but I think that’s why I was makin’ it. You deserve someone who treats you like the treasure you are.” 

Another silence, which Amy breaks this time—

“I thought you said I wasn’t making it easy to be romantic.” 

“It’s not quite so hard when I don’t have a beautiful, naked woman kissing my neck”—Sanji grins and lightly pokes her nose—“not that I’m complaining.”

Sanji’s not complaining, no, but he does feel a pang of something when Amy steers the conversation back into the familiar territory of flirtatious banter. She’d gone from amorous to vulnerable at the mention of romance, evidently with good reason; and though he’d done his best to reassure and comfort her as befits a good lover—well, it seems Amy’s sexual needs aren’t the only things his predecessors neglected.

It looks like the Love Cook has his work cut out for him.

PS: this angst has been brought to you by the influx of posts about Bridgerton season three on my dash. Picture Nicola Coughlan as a brown-eyed brunette, and for purposes of OC art you basically have Amy.

Likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated, especially if somehow I fucked up post formatting or my French grammar. Let me know in the replies if you want to be on my tag list!

[shadowphoenixrider]

Skin Deep (1/2)

(Oops fell down Gambit rabbit hole and maybe self-inserted myself to ship with him. No ship in this one; consider this an intro fic for my insert, as well as some flexing for my other areas of knowledge. Not gory but you're gonna get some specific descriptions of injuries, do take care.)

Thick, metallic blood spilled over his tongue, swilling around his teeth and staining them crimson.

Gambit spat it out, wiping the drool from his lips. His body ached, fatigue and wounds draining strength from him like a cloud of mosquitos. He felt something sharp and searing in his chest whenever he breathed in, not pulling as much air as he wanted. Not for the first time he envied Wolverine's regeneration. His kinetic energy manipulation was at least keeping him on his feet, and that was the main thing right now.

Gambit had been following up on a lead that one of the Friends of Humanity had gotten it into their head to attempt to wire a Sentinel blaster into themselves. Said guy had decided to do some tests on the first unlucky mutant he came across, and Gambit had to intervene.

Turned out half-Sentinel, half bigot was a really, really bad combination, and although the Cajun had prevailed, he would heartily prefer not to repeat the experience. He winced as he lifted his hand to his mouth, trying not to acknowledge the deep gash into his palm oozing dark blood and that uncurling his fingers was not only difficult, but extremely painful.

"Gambit to team," he spoke wearily into his comm, "dealt wit de problem, if someone could send for clean-up, be much appreciated."

"You don't sound too good Remy, are you alright?" Jean replied. He shrugged off the attempt to connect with his mind.

"Gambit felt better, but he be fine." He looked down the alleyway. "Gotta check on the mutant, see if they're ok."

Gambit didn't wait for a response, carefully making his way with a little help from his bo staff in his good hand. As the adrenaline died away from him, the pain increased, and he almost regretted not letting Jean into his head. Almost.

"It be safe now, mon ami." He called as loud as his chest would let him. "That guy won't be botherin' you again."

There was movement by a dumpster, and a small woman emerged. She was fair-skinned, no taller than Wolverine, if that; with thick brown curly hair tumbling down her neck and blue eyes. Her black hoodie and dark blue jeans were dirty and slightly scorched from the initial confrontation, but she seemed no worse for wear. Gambit breathed a sigh of relief, trying to mask his pain behind a charming smile.

"Thank you," she said, "if you hadn't been here, I-" She stopped suddenly, tilting her head as if she heard something Gambit could not. He wondered for a second if she was telepathic, and immediately shielded himself behind a wall of reassuring thoughts. "You're hurt."

"Got roughed up pretty good, but Gambit gonna be fine, petite." He replied in what he hoped was a laisse-faire tone. "No need to worry 'bout him."

She frowned, completely unconvinced.

"You're hurt pretty badly Gambit," she said, stepping forward. Her eyes hadn't moved from him for a second. "I can help you, if you want me to."

His eyes flicked over her. She didn't look like a medic, but Gambit had long since learned that looks can be deceiving. Sometimes literally.

"Dat your power?" He asked uncertainly. "Healin'?"

"Yes, mostly." Another step closer. "Please Gambit, it's my fault you're like this, let me at least repay the favour."

"Not your fault you be in the wrong place at da wrong time, petite." He replied, wincing as his chest burned on another inhale. "If not you, woulda been someone else. Gambit woulda done this for anyone."

"Okay, but regardless, please let me help fix this. It's the least I could do for you."

As wary as the Cajun felt towards this unknown mutant, discomforted by her noncommittal answer, he found himself too weary to argue the point.

"Alright. Jus' go easy, ok? That fight was rougher on Gambit than he expected."

"Sure." She nodded. "Let's sit down, it'll be easier for the both of us."

They sat against the wall of a red brick building, the relief of the weight off his feet quickly swallowed by the pain of all of Gambit's other injuries.

"Got a name, petite?" He asked as the young woman knelt beside him, tucking her feet underneath herself.

"Uh, Shadow."

Gambit arched an eyebrow.

"'Shadow'?"

She shot him a nonplussed look, raising her own dark eyebrow at him.

"I'm sorry, I'm not exactly in the habit of sharing my true name with strangers." An apologetic half-smile softened her expression. "Even other mutants. Besides, 'Gambit' isn't your true name either, is it?"

He chuckled, despite his pain. Oh, she's got some fire.

"True enough, petite. True enough."

Shadow reached out to him, before hesitating.

"Um. Would it be alright if you rolled up your sleeve?" She asked, the top of her cheeks flushing pink. "Sorry, I just find this easier skin-to-skin."

Gambit smirked, unable to resist.

"You know, there be easier ways to get Gambit's shirt off, petite." He was delighted to see Shadow's blush deepen, even more when she began to stutter. "Jus' razzin' ya, mon amie." He chuckled. "Here." Gambit pushed up his coat and armour sleeve, exposing pale skin.

Shadow scooted a little closer, and gingerly wrapped her hands around his muscled arm. A glow shone out under her skin, flowing down the veins into her hand and fingers. Gambit's gaze lifted curiously to her face, watching her closely. Her own gaze unfocused, eyes glazing over as she seemingly sank into a trance.

Suddenly black filled her eyes, coating her sclera the colour of midnight, whilst her irises turned the bright crimson of blood. For a brief moment, Gambit saw his eyes in another's face, before they rolled back and under her closing eyelids.

---

Shadow hadn't really known what to expect from her rescuer, except maybe he was friend, and could go toe-to-toe with the bastard that had decided her life was forfeit. But certainly not the tall, black and red eyed man that now sat next to her.

Gambit, as he referred to himself as, had taken quite the beating in her stead - his pink breastplate had a large impact crack over his chest, black leathers and trenchcoat torn and scorched, and his right hand curled up into an awkward claw, blood dripping through his gloves.

Despite his attempt at good humour and to fluster her, Shadow knew he was badly hurt. She'd heard it, the now familiar trilling noise that lived just on the edge of her hearing - like it came from under her ear, itching at her bones. It was loud, underscoring every word they'd exchanged, and seemed to peak with every breath he took.

She took a breath, centring herself as she wrapped her hands around Gambit's muscled arm, feeling his warmth. The warmth mingled with hers, and she let the trilling get louder, louder, filling her ears until it was all she could hear. The world blurred as she felt her power rise within her, focusing on the skin under her hands, the pulse under her fingertips.

The sound crescendoed into a ringing song, heat flooding up her body, punctuated by her heartbeat pounding in her ears, her body becoming alive and on end, as if she could feel the molecules in the air around her, every piece of clothing on her body-

And then she was him.

Gambit's deeper heartbeat boomed through her, the rush of his breath, the pressure of the protective armour against his skin, and what had to be the warm hum of his powers, permeating everything about him.

It was always disorientating, moving into another's body, suddenly being aware of every cell and their 'voices', all speaking at once. Especially someone whose nerves were screaming with pain, so immediately Shadow hushed them quiet. She needed to think, to triage.

Her attention was caught by a raspy inhale, the now duller yet urgent throb from his lungs. She moved her awareness up, feeling - a pneumothorax of his left lung, the air trapped inside grating against him with each movement. Thankfully it wasn't too large - the cuirass had done its job - and Shadow focused. The cells responded, drawing the air out into themselves, his lung expanding to its full capacity. Shadow felt the relief flood through him, and she 'smiled'. One down.

Her patient now much more comfortable, Shadow spread her awareness into the neural network, seeking the next trouble point.

His right hand came next, and she followed fibres down towards the site. It wasn't pretty. A gaping laceration had been torn in his palm, deep enough it had nicked a vein, and the tendons had almost been cut in half - thus why Gambit was holding his hand so. Luckily the other structures were fine, so Shadow moved first to the vein, smoothing the walls closed. She heaved the excess blood up and out of the wound, clearing her working area and lowering the pressure in the fairly tight quarters. To the tendons now - the hanging fibres she took and gently wound them together again, melding the joins into one.

She tested her work, tugging the muscle fibres gently to make them uncurl - Gambit resisted her at first, but then he moved them himself, the tendons sliding smoothly and easily. Shadow was already moving on though, pulling the edges of the wound together; flesh grew and reached towards itself, knitting back together, layer by layer until nothing remained of what had been.

Shadow continued this for what felt to her like hours - letting Gambit's nerves call her from site to site, soothing contusions, closing superficial grazes, sealing up the gash in his mouth (having to hold his tongue still to stop it interfering with its curiosity), quietening the aches and pains as she went. All the time she felt his power humming against her, oddly warm and strangely comforting. She wondered what it was.

When she received no more pain signals, Shadow concluded her job was done. She began to focus again, pulling away from the symphony of sounds and the mutant warmth, away, away...and out.

Shadow opened her eyes with a start, pulling in a gasp, grounded once more in her own body. After a second to get her bearings (alleyway, floor, handsome man, the fight! holding his arm), she released her grip on Gambit, looking up at his face.

---

Gambit would deny it to his dying day, but he was staring. Being an X-Man meant you encountered a lot of very strange things, ranging from aliens to time travellers to telepaths; it was very easy to become inured to it.

And yet this mutant's powers were something new, something strange. He'd not really known entirely what to expect from the young woman's healing power, but he certainly wouldn't have expected this.

After Shadow had entered her trance, Gambit had felt weird. Like there was someone else under his skin with him, a sensation just on the edge of discomfort.

The pain had eased though, and then the magic had started happening. After the burning in his chest had stopped, Gambit had watched his injured hand disgorge blood like vomit, before it started to knit itself back together in front of his very eyes. The Cajun had been discomforted when his fingers started to uncurl without his control, before he realized that they'd been fixed, the movement as smooth as if it'd never been injured.

And so it'd gone, Gambit feeling like he was being refreshed from the inside out, the discomfort of a second consciousness inside him now feeling like inner guardian, even though it still made him feel like his skin didn't fit him anymore.

When the last of the pain had ebbed away, so had the feeling - then the woman (Shadow, Gambit reminded himself) had startled back awake.

She blinked hard, then looked up him - with his eyes.

Gambit was very rarely at a loss for words, yet here he was, completely tongue-tied. Although his tongue had become frozen in his mouth briefly when the gash on his inner cheek had been closing, he was pretty sure she'd given him control back. Pretty sure, anyway.

"Gambit?" She asked, dark brown brows furrowing. "Are you alright?"

"Vous yeux..." He murmured, gesturing with his finger.

She blinked, confused, and that's when the black and red started bleeding out of her eyes, returning them back to what Gambit assumed was their natural blue and white.

"Eyes, petite." He repeated. "Dey looked like mine."

"Oh. Yeah, that tends to happen when I connect to someone." Shadow folded her arms, looking away. "Dunno why. I think it's just a side-effect."

Sounds from the entrance of the alleyway had Gambit glance away, a smirk pulling at his lips.

"Looks like the rest of my team finally showed up." He looked back to a now tensed up Shadow, and he reached to place his healed hand on her arm. "Dey all mutants like us. You safe wit dem."

"Gambit, what happened here?" Cyclops's voice sounded out behind him, the Cajun glancing at him from the corner of his eyes. He didn't bother to stand up. "And who's this?"

"Couyon back there try'n become a mini-Sentinel, decided to test his toys out on this one." Gambit explained, nodding towards Shadow. "Gambit made sure she safe, though it got a bit messy."

"A bit?" Wolverine's voice now. "Cajun, I've seen bar brawls less bloody than this."

You could never exactly know where Cyclops was looking most of the time, but Gambit could definitely figure that he was looking between him and Shadow, and the blood staining his armour and floor around them.

"And yet you don't look like you have a scratch on you..." He said thoughtfully.

"Hah! Got some healing factor you were holding out on us, Gumbo?"

"No." Gambit looked to Shadow, who had gone nervously silent. "Gambit had some help."

"I-It's my power." She stuttered, tightening her grip on her arms. "I-I can heal people with it."

Cyclops and Wolverine glanced at each other. It was at that moment Gambit felt Jean's telepathy gently press against his mind. He bristled slightly at her intrusion, yet let her speak.

"The Professor would like to talk to the mutant you found back at the mansion."

"Her name is Shadow." Gambit responded, despite himself. There was an almost amused pause, before Jean said;

"Then the Professor would like to speak to Shadow, if she wants to."

Gambit didn't have to look at the other men to know that they'd also heard the request.

"I know this is very sudden," Cyclops began, "but there is a place we come from that can help mutants like yourself master their powers and feel safe. The professor there would like to see you."

Shadow understandably frowned, and Gambit squeezed her arm.

"He tellin' the truth, petite," he said. "You be safe dere." His gaze shifted to where Wolverine was hauling away the still unconscious cyborg. "Dose 'Friends of Humanity' not gonna be best pleased when dey find out one of their friends missin' and you be involved."

"Yes." Cyclops agreed. "Even if it was Gambit who took him down, they will target the weakest out of you two."

"Which is me..." Shadow sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Fuck."

"It don't need to be a permanent thing." Gambit reassured her. "Just long enough dat dey forget dat dis happened."

"And how long is that gonna be?" Was her bitter response.

"We...don't know." Cyclops admitted. "But what we can do is keep you safe from them during that time. Maybe help you learn more about your abilities too - you helped Gambit with them, perhaps there's more you can do?"

She chewed her lip, considering. Gambit wouldn't admit it to anyone else, but he was also curious about her powers. She'd not been lying about it being 'mostly' healing - simple healing wouldn't have worked the way hers did. At least...he assumed so.

"How about I go, talk to this professor of yours, and make a decision then?" Shadow said, glancing between the two men.

"That's reasonable." Cyclops nodded. "Come on. The Blackbird isn't far from here."

"Blackbird?" Shadow asked as she and Gambit climbed to their feet. He flashed her a smile.

"Dat's our ride, petite. Hope ya not scared of flyin'."

(Next part)

[mightysteelix]

The Sin Of Gluttony

Because this, after all, is still a fic blog. Here's my newest story - and my longest so far. And it did not take as much time as I expected, being finished in two-three weeks. Written to fix the lack of Shirou/Dantes fics and the lack of male "Fate/" kink fics.

Rating: Mature Category: M/M Fandoms: Fate/Grand Order Relationship: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler/Edmond Dantès | Avenger Characters: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler and Edmond Dantès | Avenger Summary: Shirou Amakusa had been sneaking in Chaldea's kitchen to indulge his gluttony. Thus, Archer enlists one Avenger to help him.Weight-gain kink fic. Don't like, don't read.

WARNING FOR KINK CONTENTS UNDER THE CUT

Additional Tags: Weight Gain; Belly Kink; Rapid weight gain; Magically assisted weight gain; Main character is 18+; Force-Feeding; Teasing; Erections; Mildly Dubious Consent; Feeder Edmond Dantès; Feedee Amakusa Shirou

LAST WARNING FOR KINK

Amakusa Shirou sneaked into Chaldea’s kitchen. Coast - clear. 

The last master of humanity was snoring in their bed, lulled by Nursery Rhyme’s tales. The Servants had taken the opportunity to sleep - expect the most obsessed, who tried to barge in Ritsuka’s room. Even EMIYA, usually restless about his domain, had holed with the rest of his not-exactly family.

As expected. Amakusa planned every heist months in advance, manipulating Servants for the perfect night. As a saint - even if apocryphal - he should reject the pleasures of the flesh: forget the buttery cookies, the fluffy desserts, the sweets that melted in the mouth... Snapping from the trance, he caught himself drooling. His eyes sparkled with desire. He had to fight the sin that would lead him astray.

Yet he crossed the large dining area in a single leap and entered the kitchen. The enthralling taste of gluttony, as captivating as EMIYA’s food, lingered. His own desires were controlling him. For a third night, he would indulge his longing in secret, fill his craving stomach with the most masterful food the world could offer. He would stuff his stomach past the norms of sense, lose himself in the pleasure of food. Perhaps the Fiendish Bodhisattva had cursed him with the unquenchable hunger.

Amakusa licked his lips, imaging the feast tonight. “Or my sins crushed me and I am their slave.” He should have rejected it. Yet those greedy desires took over the priest, stealing any control. Against the craving, he had no power. Gulping down his dry throat, he opened the fridge slowly, as if performing a holy rite. Sweet, sweet aroma tickled his nose. His fingers shivered. The light blinded his eyes, used to the dim darkness. As he adjusted, the outlines of the dishes took a concrete form. A large tray of cookies sprinkled white with powdered sugar; a few batches of thick, sweet, and fluffy ice cream.

Above them stood the crown jewel of EMIYA’s cooking - a five-layered cake, patiently decorated. Sugar flowers colored the frosting, each one with crafted petals. Fine glaze ribbons circled each tier. The Archer must have put an entire day in his masterpiece.

And Amakusa would destroy it in sheer, unbridled gluttony - a grave, unforgivable sin. Once he was stuffed, unable to stomach another morsel and pinned in one place by the pain and the weight of the food, he would polish down the cake in the most wasteful, decadent show of greed. His heart beat faster in his chest.

“The feast has started,” Amakusa whispered and took the chosen dishes. The light thinned, before disappearing as he pushed the door closed. Alone in the dark, hidden from everyone’s stare, he snatched a cookie and pressed it between his teeth. They tore the sweet dough. The sugar melted over his tongue.

“EMIYA,” he moaned, “you have outdone yourself again.” After gulping the cookie, he took another. The sweetness excited his tongue. His greedy fingers reached for the next one and it disappeared as quickly. The risk of capture at any moment, red-handed at the crime scene; the off chance his plan could fail drove him to gulp faster. If he did not finish before the others woke up, he had lost.

The ritual ended as the last cookie traveled down in Amakusa’s belly. A whole tray and he was barely stuffed. He had laughed at the tales of Saber’s hunger yet now was outeating her. His fingers rubbed the small curve of his stomach, hidden under his baggy clothes. A solid beginning, yet so far from the gluttony he desired.

“What should I pick now?” he asked himself. The cookies - however heavenly - had dried his mouth further. Some ice cream would serve as a relief. Amakusa opened one tub, a fresh, chocolate wave of coldness pinching his cheeks. “It’s decided.” 

Standing like a hero against their sworn enemy, Amakusa held his sword - a spoon - and broke the dark brown, almost black, layer of syrup.

“Huh?” Shadows hissed out of the ice cream and twirled around his arm. The curse chilled his skin, leaving a deep chain mark. Amakusa tensed. He tried to free his hand, yet the darkness pulled him closer, even more chains shooting at him. One bound his free arm, another warped his legs painfully tight.

They held him above the ground, unable to move a single finger. Only his mouth remained free. Should he scream for help? No, his captor desired that - to break his pride by forcing an admission out of him. He would never allow himself to be caught.

“Do not hope you will escape!” Thundering, evil laugh boomed. Pale sparks flared around the core of the curse. The shadows grew like smoke. Two legs formed under the cloud, covered by a long, dark coat to the ankles. “For your sin has already claimed your very soul!” The Avenger - the Count of Monte Cristo - cackled. His eyes flared brightly like the flames of hell. “No salvation awaits you!”

“This noise for me? Ah, you flatter me, Avenger.” Amakusa smiled, far more sweetly than any pastry. “I doubt you will release me if I ask.” He closed his eyes and lowered his voice to a sly whisper. “Would at least tell me why you took your time to curse me?”

“Politeness will lead you nowhere! The Archer yearned for vengeance.” Edmond walked closer to Amakusa, leaving a trail of shadows behind himself. “His thirst summoned me. The perpetrator must suffer and regret his crimes.”

“Have you stolen Holmes’ job? He will hate it. Very well, you caught me. You can turn me to the Master.” The pleasant way out. The preferable one.

Edmond shook head, his long hair swaying. “No, mon ami. Our Master will forgive you. That would be justice - their justice, yet the Archer does not care about it. He wants retribution, he wants punishment.” The fire in his eyes died as he held Amakusa’s cheek. “You will bear the weight of your sins.”

Amakusa gulped - an exaggerated jest of fake fear. “Does he plan to hang me until my limbs become numb? He must have a strange taste.”

The Count’s manic laughter filled the kitchen, making the utensils on the wall shake. “No, he gave me full right over your punishment. If the greatest Avenger accepts it, it will satisfy his dark desire. No one is observing us, nor anyone will wake in the following hours. Until our time runs out, I will plunge you in my curse.” He took the spoonful of ice cream from Amakusa’s hand. “Enjoy your greed, sinner! Rejoice as you become the embodiment of your sin!”

The spoon aimed for Amakusa’s mouth. He shut his mouth and bent his head backward. Whatever the Count had prepared, he would not comply. Although empty curiosity (or greater hunger) gnawed on his thoughts, eating him alive, he resisted. One word and the Count would stab with the spoon.

“Too late!” The magical sparks lit the kitchen with their pale colours. “You should have fought your sin before eating the bait!” Another shadow - thin like a piece of cloth - forced Amakusa’s mouth ajar.

He struggled to close it. His jaws shivered, pulled back by the bindings.

"Now," the Count continued, “you can repent only through punishment!” As soon as Amakusa’s lips opened, he lunged the loaded spoon in his mouth.

The ice cream had already molten a little. Thick and syrupy, it chilled Amakusa’s tongue. Sweet chocolate excited his taste buds, before emptying in his throat and leaving him craving more. He licked his teeth - some of the treat had stuck there. “Do you plan to feed me the entire night?”

“The punishment must fit the sin! Tell me, priest, how else should I discipline you?” Edmond scooped more ice cream, before pushing it in Amakusa’s mouth. “Three nights I prepared the perfect curse for you.” The shadow loosened its hold. “A curse to please Archer’s and my lust!”

Amakusa had to stop. The Avenger’s plans could only end badly for him. If he clenched teeth again, he could fight the spoons: sweet, sticky, pleasuring… The lingering chocolate taste flared up in the pit of his stomach. He wanted - no; he needed the creamy, thick confection down his throat.

A priest should reject any temptation.

And yet once the ice cream touched Amakusa’s tongue, he gulped down desperately.

“That’s it!” More frantic than a Berserker, Edmond forced a spoonful after a spoonful in Amakusa’s mouth. “Fall in your sin! Embrace your desires and suffer!”

The priest obeyed like a trained pet. He could not reject the tingling pleasure of the sugar. Each gulp moistened his throat, making him shiver with delight before a stronger, fresher taste replaced it. Closing his eyes, he waited for the powerful, familiar fullness. Once hunger had left him, he would eat because he wanted to blow in size: bloated, overfed, huge, indulging. Most thoughts were pushed away, only one lingering. The Avenger must have realized Amakusa enjoyed his punishment.

“You are shaping up perfectly!” The chocolate taste died without a new hit to replace it. “Now everybody in Chaldea will realize your gluttony!” Edmond pressed hands over Amakusa’s belly. “Did you believe I will only feed you?” The black shadows let him on the kitchen counter. “No! You will suffer the results of your sin: your lustful, decadent greed!” Where Amakusa used to have solid abs, now there was a chubby, small belly.

Intriguing. Out of all possible torments: the hellish tower; the soul-sucking nightmares - the Count chose to feed him in person and curse him with fatness. Amakusa smiled like the sun. "You do not lose points for originality. But what are you going to do now?" He took a spoon and fed himself a large scoop of the cursed ice cream. His body tingled as the sweet taste washed over his tongue and he felt himself pluming the slightеst bit.

Edmond snorted. "I have already broken you? Pity. I expected you would rebel for longer. If you had tried to run, I would have had you tied and stuffed for the whole night."

"Not at all." Amakusa's warm eyes locked on the Count. "You have not broken me. I would have eaten the ice cream anyway." He cupped his chin - a little thicker than normal. "Cannot let my careful planning waste. Thank you for speeding the process and feeding me."

Sparks flew around the Count, making the kitchen glow. "Don't talk!" he ordered, tying Amakusa with the shadows once again. "I will fatten you up until you need to be rolled around Chaldea! How could you still eat despite the curse?"

So cute. The big bad Avenger was flustered and his it behind anger.

Amakusa scratched the flab lightly. Small ripples formed around, disappearing at the limits of his newly gained fat. It was a real, permanent part of him; a definite proof of his gluttony. "Be fast, please." He wanted to grow soft, enormous, fattened by his inevitable obsession. And he would make the Avenger admit he enjoyed the night as much. "Perhaps I should have tried to run. I'd rather not waste time on small talk when there is still food."

"I shall make you eat your words along with everything else!" Edmond flared as if burning alive. The shadows boiled and squirmed behind him. One coiled around Amakusa's legs and pinned them to the base of the counter. "Even if you enjoy it now, the night is still young. I have endless time to make it a worthy punishment!"

"Would you drop the pretences already?" Amakusa leaned forward and his shirt rode a little, showing a silver of tan skin. He held Edmond's palm in his hands. "If you admit we both seek pleasure, the night will be more enjoyable."

"What pretences?" The Count pulled his hand free. "I work in the name of vengeance! My only pleasure is the pain of my victims!" He draped over his prisoner and fed him so fast that Amakusa could not talk.

The overfilled spoon left his lips and came again, even more full, forcing him to gulp or drown in the ice cream. With each course, his belly expanded - even more extra weight piling on it, stretching his black shirt tighter and making it ride up higher. The speck of revealed skin grew as his little bit of flab engorged in a proper gut - and Amakusa would not stop.

Not that Edmond would let him. Frantic sparks shot around, giving short bursts of light - Amakusa bigger at every one. Laughing madly fast, he scooped through the tub and ensured that all of its contents ended in the priest's mouth. Any moment he expected to break Amakusa's bliss and make him beg for mercy.

But it did not happen. As Amakusa’s body widened, so did his grin. A decadent desire possessed him; he sucked the ice cream from the spoon before Edmond had finished putting it in his mouth. He poked his hands sideways in his stomach and shook it up and down, the vibrations jolting through his flab. The weight over his hands increased, and he put more force to jiggle his forming rolls. The next dose could not come fast enough. 

And even though the Avenger controlled Amakusa, he was fighting on the defensive, unable to find an excuse. Tied and speechless, the priest still rebelled against him. Not only rebelling, but he also held swath over Edmond’s actions. His joy would not end soon; the Count’s anger was burning up. And how could it stay, when Amakusa ate every fattening spoon and took the full bunt of the curse?

The Count dragged the spoon out of Amakusa’s mouth but did not fill it again with ice cream.

“What happened?” Amakusa asked, his nimble tongue licking the ice cream on his lips. “Has it run out? Too bad,” he laughed, his chubbier cheeks jiggling along. “I was just starting to enjoy it. Can we move to the cake now? A bit earlier than I expected, but if there’s no more ice cream left…”

“How?” Edmond broke the spoon in two as if it was a mere twig. “An Avenger - a Servant born of hatred - to bring pleasure? Impossible!” With a flick of his hands, he cleared his pale sparks, drowning the kitchen in total darkness. “I hoped to keep this as my finishing move, but your joy has continued for too long!”

He took the second tub - the first truly empty - and imbued it with his dark power. It glowed a sick green color as the ice cream boiled, bubbles forming and exploding with a strong ‘Pop!’. It melted, leaving a thick liquid full of sugary calories. As soon as the light died, he pressed the tub to Amakusa’s lips.

The viscous liquid slogged down the priest’s throat, and the empowered curse fattened him faster. Even in the darkness, he felt himself expanding, stretching the black shirt to sizes Amakusa never imagined it would reach. Each gigantic gulp sent shocks through his gut. It flopped, pulling the shirt higher. Now it covered only the topmost part of his belly - and soon would free it as the mass of lard did not stop growing.

His pants proved somewhat more resistant, digging deep in his gut. The waistband stretched to its limit, a mound of flesh falling over it. Amakusa tried to reach under it and unbutton his pants, but his chubby fingers could not budge the button. He would have to pop it with his growing gut. An even heavier gulp made his abdomen sag lower, resting on his tights.

Of course, the fattening had not spared them either. His legs filled the dark pants, pushing the material beyond its limit. He felt the brush of air on his bare skin, small holes having formed around the seams. The fabric pressed deep, but with each second the thread unraveled further.

His arms also expanded, losing any muscular definition. Even with the powers of a Servant, he moved them with more difficulty than before. The arm flab quivered with his movements, doubling the pleasure of exploring his flabby body.

And the cushion of his ass softened, taking more and more place over the counter. Amakusa sneaked his hand down his back, squeezing the thick globe of pure fat. His nails dug in the flesh and the ripples traveled to his knees, the flab a perfect conductor for them. Moving up, he groped his large love handles - they have united with the bulk of his gut, forming a flabby ring around him. 

How huge was he? He could see nothing, only feeling his belly bulge and his shirt rise and his pants tighten…  Once the lights came back, Amakusa expected incredible joy and disappointment. He would find how enormous he had become, yet it would never reach his imagination. If his lardy ass covered the counter, the floor would be the next challenge, then the rest of Chaldea…

After each gulp, he leaned back more and more, the sudden weight of his gut proving too much for a Servant’s body - or another effect of the curse? The more his belly surged out, the closer he came to lying down, pinned under the always growing weight of his own fat. Could he even stand up on his own once done? Or he would rely on the Count’s whims: seemingly unpredictable, but completely under Amakusa’s control and in an endless game of cat and mouse?

As Amakusa lay on his back, the warm fat insulating the cold counter, the last spurt of the ice cream fell in his throat and pushed out his flabby sphere of a gut.

“Perfect!” The Count dissolved the shadows and jabbed his fingers in Amakusa’s stomach, above his belly button. The vibrations shook his mass, reaching to his now-ample moobs. “With all this fat pressing you down, you must feel -“

“Perfect.” Amakusa cut in Edmond. He huffed as he sat up, mashing his bulbous gut and forcing more pressure on his soft ass. “Did you believe that you can make me regret it? Abandon my gluttony?” He laughed, feeling his chubby cheeks wobble. “Avenger, this time your plans failed.”

The Count clenched fists. A storm of sparks flared around him, throwing blinding light over the kitchen. Amakusa bowed head, avoiding the sudden brightness. He saw his rolls: wide and flabby, daring almost to touch the counter.

“I failed!” The Count stomped away, causing the kitchen to shake - Amakusa’s fat body included. “I had only to force you to regret your sin, make you detest your desires - to punish you in Archer’s name! And now the night has fallen to ruin.” His body vacuumed all the sparks but the palest light.

“It does not have to be,” Amakusa said. “We have not touched the cake. Your last chance to make me detest the curse. Will you take up to the challenge?”

“Yes,” Edmond muttered. “Yes!” he roared, clenching fists in a triumphant pose. “You, mon ami, will curse my name by the end of the night!” He burnt bright with sparks. The closer he walked to Amakusa, the more air around him heated. “I swear it! As the sun rises, you will curse the Count of Monte Cristo!”

“And I swear,” Amakusa replied in turn, “to make you admit that you have enjoyed the night.” It was a deal with a handsome devil; a bet he would win. He extended his pudgy hand to Edmond’s slender one.

Edmond fell in the trap; once their fingers pressed, Amakusa pulled him closer, making him fall in the mountain of his gut. The sudden movement made Amakusa’s whole body jiggle like a ball of squishy jelly. Trying to push himself up from the soft pile, Edmond only sent greater tremors through it. He spoke horrible curses, his fiery tongue licking Amakusa’s skin. The priest wanted only to keep him there forever, worshiping and feeding him.

Alas, the momentary happiness had to end. Using his shadows, the Count pulled himself free. “I have never thought a priest as you would fall to such nasty tricks.” He draped over Amakusa. His hands groped his flabby moobs for support. “You could have asked.”

“You would have refused,” Amakusa smiled without a trace of regret. “Or I have won?”

“Not even close. I am merely -“ he leaned even closer, above the priest’s lips, “- casting a bigger net.” Edmond massaged Amakusa’s moobs, his fingers squeezing the two sacks of flab. His knees gently kneaded the gigantic mass of his gut.

Amakusa’s pants tightened even more. His erect dick pressed in the flab of his tights, and each ripple of his belly sent a stronger joust of pleasure through it. “And how it helps you to give me more pleasure?”

Edmond’s heated breath touched the priest’s face. “I could chain you with the shadows and leave you here.” One of his hands slipped lower and stroke Amakusa’s dick slowly. “Begging on the verge of a release that is not coming.”

“Is this your rumored cruelty, Avenger?” Amakusa smiled and pulled Edmond in a tight hug. “Then I will reply in kind.” He dragged his flabby hands over the Count’s back, holding them over his tight, tiny ass. Edmond’s dick poked into Amakusa’s stomach. “Now we are even.”

“Do not overstep your bounds, Ruler.” Pressing hands on the counter, Edmond pushed himself up above Amakusa’s face, close, but out of reach.  “I might just decide to leave you packed in shadows as a present for the Archer.”

“Perhaps it is your fault. If someone was… I don’t know - feeding me too fast - I would have no time to play with you.” Amakusa trailed a finger over his fat, empty gut. “Bear the responsibility and keep engorging me. Ensure I grow constantly.”

“Your tendency for shameful moves should have made you a Caster. A warning to the people, who don’t expect sneaky priests.” Edmond jumped off the counter and turned his back to Amakusa. “No.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I knew your nature and still chose to fight against you.” The flame in his eyes glowed. “Enfer Château d’If!” His body tensed and in the next second, he had Amakusa gagged again, while he leaned over his mouth with a chunk of the cake. 

One shadow had coiled around Amakusa’s calves, squishing the fat on them, and slammed them to the base of the counter. A second bound his hands, forcing him to lie down on the table. 

Amakusa smirked and opened his lips. “I won,” he muttered before the Count pushed the pastry down his throat. He gulped the light, extra buttery dough, letting the curse do its job. His tights fattened around his hard dick, embracing it in hot flab. Almost cuming, Amakusa ground them together. The movement shook his stomach, its bottom roll falling onto the tip of his cock and pressing deeper.

The Count moved at a fiendish speed; before Amakusa could gulp, a new portion of the cake had filled his mouth. Using both hands, he tore from Archer’s masterpiece, all in the important goal of feeding his priest. Amakusa twitched, his erection throbbing. 

His moobs - two balls of fat that could rival Raikou’s - strained the black shirt which fought in vain to cover them. His sleeves fared even worse; bits of exposed skin oozed out of the large tears. The tight pants endured the longest, yet as Amakusa’s gut pushed out heavier, fatter, more decadent, the waistband groaned. After an especially heavy chunk, the layer of fat forced it stretch more. The fabric could not take it and with a loud sound tore all the way down to his crotch.

Amakusa moaned as he felt himself cum, soaking his tight underpants. The Count paid no notice, only using the opportunity to force even more food into his wide-opened mouth. The priest’s body heated even more as a haze of incredible pleasure clouded his thoughts. He ate on autopilot, not caring how big he would end - it would not be enough. Thus, they would repeat the night’s session later, when…

The sweet flow of the cake ended. “What happened?” he asked, licking his lips. “Have I eaten the entire cake?” Already? Even with Edmond’s Noble Phantasm increasing his speed, the doughy tower should have lasted longer. Amakusa wanted to check, but his fattened neck and the tight shadows restricted his movement.

“Not yet.” The Count gritted his teeth, turning his head away from Amakusa. The long shade of his collar hid his face. “But I lost my only advantage. You have won. I do not have to feed you further,” he said in a weak tone. Melting away, the shadows released their prisoner.

‘You have won.’ The hollow words did nothing to fill the void in Amakusa’s stomach. He lay unmoving, staring at the dark ceiling of the room while Edmond walked away. “Wait,” he said, just as the Count stood in the door, ready to leave him. “As long as there’s some cake left, you have chances. You can fatten me so much that I would regret it. So fat that I would depend on you for everything.”

Edmond leaned on the door. “And yet you would still like it. Tell me, priest, one reason not to leave.”

“You will never know. I might just realize I dislike my size once the cake is over. Would you risk missing the chance to taunt me over it and mock me? Would the Avenger miss his vengeance? Besides,” Amakusa whispered an octave lower, “I am sure you are as aroused as I was.”

“Even the goddess of pleasure cannot compete with you.” The Count turned, his coat fluttering behind him in an arc. “Very well, priest. You will entertain me for some more time.”

Tomorrow, Amakusa would deal with the questions, the stares, and the consequences. The Great Order, the King of Mages, even simply moving became a distant goal. Tonight he had a cake to finish and a Count to tease.

[ohthatsviolet]

Violet’s Writing Recap 2020

My personal favourite fics I’ve done from each month of 2020. 

Thank you to everyone who has supported my writing this year through your comments, shares and messages. I really appreciate it. 

If you have any favourite fics of mine, I’d love to know. 

January: Miroctane Moments Ch 19

Fav moment: When Octavio comes home and is trying to hide Elliott’s engagement ring. Simply because at the time, no-one knew Elliott also had a ring at this point and had literally just hidden it before Octavio got him. So I was living my best life writing this, knowing there was a secret ring in the house.

Fav quote: "You look thirsty, mon ami," Natalie mused, as she approached him, offering him a glass of lemonade. "That’s one word for it," the speedster replied, begrudgingly taking the glass. It felt cold on his fingers.

February: From Bro to Te Amo

Fav moment: Octavio and Ajay’s exchange in the hospital, where she’s pointing out that he has a crush on Elliott and he gets all defensive about it.

Fav quote: "Oh, you m-mean the cult. Of course! I love cults! Just...uh...love me some...culting."

March: Miroctane Moments Ch 20

Fav moment: Elliott deciding to try therapy again.

Fav quote: Elliott chuckled quietly, promptly placing his hands firmly on his partner’s shoulders, turning him around. "Unfortunately for you, I’m not dirty anymore." "I beg to differ, mi amor."

April: Regular or Long?

Fav moment: Octavio using the teddy bear to apologise to Ajay.

Fav quote: “How do I know if she’s got a regular or long...you know? I’ve never measured it.”

May: All Talk.

Fav moment: Just the whole thing. I’m super proud of that fic.

Fav quote: “Oh, you don’t have to do th-that...Oh, gosh. You’re doing it. O-Okay.”

June: Miroctane Moments Ch 24

Fav moment: THEIR ENGAGEMENT. Y’ALL HAVE NO IDEA HOW LONG I WAS WANTING TO WRITE THAT.

Fav quote: "Look, honey. Your Papá's home." He timidly perched himself on the arm of the chair, though as soon as the trickster rested his hand lovingly on his thigh and leaned against him, all that apprehension seemed to fade away; leaving him feeling like he belonged here.

July: Liar, Liar.

Fav moment: Tae Joon’s inner conflict about wanting to tell Octavio all these personal things about himself but knowing he can’t.

Fav quote: "Do you like puzzles?" he asked, listening to the quiet clicking of the plastic as the runner rotated it in his hands, failing to get the coloured squares into a desirable pattern. The younger legend sighed somewhat dramatically, and tossed the cube over his shoulder, hitting it against the wall with a dull thud. "No. I fucking hate them."

August: Everywhere & Anywhere

Fav moment: Elliott sleeping on Octavio’s chest because it’s something I crave on a daily basis.

Fav quote: He runs over to me and says, "Guess what friend? I found your favourite thing!". And he hands me a Wingman. I was a bit weirded out that he remembered but...we won that game. And it wasn't too long after that, they started calling me a Legend."

September: I’m Better. You're Better.

Fav moment: Octavio being like "Ew he's old," and Mirage being like "Right?? [drools]."

Fav quote: "Been all over the Outlands while I was away, but they don't make 'em like you anywhere else. A pretty face, with an arse to match."

October: The Drowning of Elliott Witt

Fav moment: Ramya coming to Elliott's rescue OR Elliott realising Octavio still tucked him in even though he was mad.

Fav quote: “It was so damn hot. And then you whipped out that R-99? Ugh, swoon.”

November: Solid Wingman

Fav moment: Octavio sounding disappointed after asking Elliott if he was interested, only to realise he was talking about Natalie.

Fav quote: The runner shot him a defiant smile before resting his hands against the wooden surface of the door. "Make me."

December: A Night of New Experiences

Fav moment: Loba and Octavio drinking at the same time.

Fav quote: "We would love to have you, Elliott. If you'd let us." He swallowed and bit down on his lip, his stomach fluttering at her question. "You mean, like..." "Yes, I do. Is that alright?" He nodded and she offered him an appreciative smile before closing the distance between them. "Excellent."

[escapismkidnappedme]

All The Couples Try To Stop (But We Were Pushed)

This was my Secret Sanders gift for @char-of-the-stars I hope you like it! Pairings : Romantic Remile, Romantic Moxiety, and brotherly Logince Warnings : None that I can think of, but please ask me to tag something if you find anything!  You’d expect two brothers, one focused on theatre, courage and romance, and the other dedicating his life to the pursuit of knowledge to be a lot more different and a lot of their paths to diverge in life, however “The Logince Bros” as Roman King called them, tended to keep their paths very close, almost winding together as if one didn’t know a fact, the other would fill them in, or if Logan King didn’t understand a certain aspect of what was going on in plays, Roman was more than excited to explain to his brother what was happening, or as Logan often questioned, why something was happening. “Awe, C’mon Patton, he’s perfect, completely toned and obviously works out, i mean with muscles like that,” You’d almost think Roman was drooling the way he described the man. “Well then why don’t you go out with him? See he’d make a perfect match with you, then you would be happy.” “Patton, this isn’t about me honey, this is about finding you a guy for the dance!” Roman argued “And whom, may I ask, are you going with?” “Oh, no one of course, my plan is to meet my prince charming, not meet up with my prince charming and drive,” “But, sorry if this sounds bad, but I don’t want someone like that, I want someone more, well more normal if that makes sense,” Patton explained, already putting the man out of his mind. “Normal?” Logan overheard over the paper-thin walls, as he was audibly rushing to assert himself into the conversation, “That, is just a dryer setting, however, someone more like you, that is completely reasonable,” He reasoned out, “Actually, would you mind terribly if I asked my friend Virgil Knight to join you, or meet up as my guest? You could be Roman’s guest.” He planned. “Uh, what’s he like?” Patton asked. “This isn’t the same Virgil from high school is it?” Roman asked as Logan nodded, “Virgil, as in Virgil Night? The same guy everyone played pranks on, Virgil Knight?” “I believe he is a bit of a nervous wreck these days,” Logan explained, “however, if I can convince him, would you meet with him?” he asked, “Of course, but I’m fine with staying single and adopting, then raising those kids by myself,” Patton hummed, turning off his phone. “Patton Foster, you know very well that if that occurs Roman and I will be there for support, and the occasional day off if required or prefered, right Roman?” Logan nudged his brother, “Of course, but you have to take Fridays and Saturdays, those are the days we’re going out to find Patton-cake here a sutor.” “Very well then” Logan agreed, completely confident that his plan would work, and with great reason, his plans rarely ever, if at all, failed. Time Skip, Brought To You By : Holiday Rush, The Best Drink To Have Whilst Shopping For Loved Ones, Either Buying Them Gifts Or Actually Buying A Loved One, The Author Will Not Judge For Either. The night of the dance arrived, Virgil wore his very best suit, which was covered in purple and black plaid patches, it had been quite some time since he wore it and the moths had gotten to it, but he tried to make due with what he had. “Welcome to the danse mon ami,” Roman slipped into French, he felt it was needed, as he opened the door for Patton, “I believe this is the house of Remy Dormir, which interestingly enough-” “-Dormir is French for sleep,” Logan interjected, leaving his car. “Ah, brother, I thought you were a while behind me,” “No, we took a shortcut because Virgil feared we would be late, i have not told him about your attendance, so there should be some initial shock, as you were the one to initiate the practical jokes,” Logan added, “Oh, right,” Roman frowned, Logan opened the car and Virgil got out, seeing Roman and hissing, was he hissing? Why was he hissing? “Did he just hiss at me? Why did he just, hiss at me?” “You know why, but whatever, who is this supposed Patton Foster,” Virgil growled. “Oh, that would be me,” Patton raised his hand, already  smiling wildly, Virgil was so, wild, free, definitely not the type Patton would go for, but he seemed good-intentioned. “Hello, and I want to say, you are a ton different than I imagined, however, it’s not terrible,” He tried to compliment, “Ah well, should we enter, we have been standing around for quite a while,” Logan noted, “Yes” Roman handed both his and Logan’s keys to the valet, The four entered the room, Logan with Virgil remaining close by, smiled, “here we are.” Roman spun Patton around, “I shall retrieve some drinks for you two, but please, converse amongst yourselves.” He encouraged. “Oh, no, I would much rather if I got them,” Virgil answered, finally speaking up. “How chivalrous,” Roman hummed, “very well then.” “”Roman, I believe I have caught a glance of the newlyweds, you know, the reason we are here.” Logan reminded his brother, “Shall we greet them?” “It would be much preferable,” Logan answered, leaving Patton and Virgil alone. “Thanks for the uh, drinks and all, but really I can get my own,” “Eh, if you want to,” Virgil answered, “In truth I was just trying to avoid another one of the famous Roman King pranks, I know it’s been forever, but he really is mean when he wants to.” “He really hurt you huh?” Patton asked, taking a sip, “I didn’t know him in high school, but if he’s anything like you fear then this is the first time I’m hearing about it, but then again, I tend to keep him in line.” Patton laughed, Virgil managed a short smile, he hoped this Patton Foster was telling the truth, “In all honesty, it would be great to get back at him, sorry that must make me a bad person, uh, you should probably go spend your night with someone else, someone better.” “Virgil, nothing’s wrong with a little prank, provided no one gets hurt, in fact, it might be fun!” Patton smiled. “You’d think it’d be fun? What kind of adult would find that fun.” Virgil questioned “Virge, I can call you that right?” “Yeah, sounds nice actually.” “Well the adult who does is me, Virge.”

With that Virgil smiled, “okay” “Ugh, look at them, they’re not bonding at all,” Roman frowned, “Remy do you have anything romantic? Like, anything that would work?” Remy smiled, “Well, it’s christmas honey,” “And that means,” Emile smiled, pulling mistletoe out of his waistcoat, putting it above his husband’s short head. “Mistletoe!” Remy smiled, “There’s actually quite a ton, but we can play ‘Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree’ and that’s the real magic!” “Of course!” Logan smiled. The mistletoe was set, the song was playing, Roman and Logan both counted down as they pushed the two together and the song stopped. “Roman!” Patton shouted. “Logan you promised, no pranks,” Virgil hissed, faking a cry. “It’s just to get you two together,” Logan explained as Roman began to fear he reverted into his old self. “Together with him! Look at him, he’s a mess of a man, a goofball, why would I ever like him?” Virgil shouted as Patton dashed out of the room. “Patton I didn’t mean..” Roman called out, bolting after his friend. “Virgil, you didn’t have to say that,” Logan scolded. “Oh, but I did,” Virgil hummed as Patton appeared beside him, dressed in Emile’s clothing as the fake Patton smiled with a defeated looking Roman. “They pranked us!” Roman shouted. “I mean, you did want us to get well acquainted with each other,” Virgil smiled, “But on our terms,” he added. “Virge you know you’re still standing under the mistletoe right?” Patton asked. “You still want to go out Friday right?” Virgil hummed, putting his arms around Patton’s side. “Completely,” he hummed, letting Virgil feel his heartbeat from the height difference. “Well, I do believe that on the holidays, especially in Christmas tradition, their date is supposed to kiss them under mistletoe,” Patton paused, and looked up. “U-unless you don’t want to, I mean we could stop and just leave each other alone-” Patton hijacked Virgil’s thought pattern, kissing him, “We could, but then how would we love each other, if we went in different directions, I love you, Virgil Knight, I totally, completely, and fully love you,” “Patton Foster, I, I love you too.” Virgil answered, now fully blushing. “Guess this dance was an alright idea after all,” “I guess it was.”

@secretsanders

[stanbangttan]

WANNA BET? 18+ (M)

😊

Jungkook x Reader(A®my Lee) (M)

Oneshot

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

Warning: Smut, mature, daddy kink, CHARACTER

Summary:Amy is single after 3 years of tough relationship. Her best friend and roommate Monica decided to cheer her up and took her out clubbing, where she met Jungkook. Rude but good looking guy, who made a bet with her and preformed the bet perfectly.

A/N: This is my first ever fanfic, smut or an oneshot. My first everyhing.  English is not my native language and I really tried. I hope you like it and if I have some mistakes please comment down below. I would love to thank one girl from Twt that did a “tiny revision” and helped me a lot @Miniefaithful Thank you.

REQUEST ARE OPEN 

Game / Giveaway (sort of)

THIS ONESHOT HAS A HIDDEN SONG THAT ONLY ARMY WILL RECOGNIZE, TRY TO FIND IT AND COMMENT DOWN BELOW. FIRST ONE TO DO IT WILL GET HIS IDEA FOR FF WRITTEN ASAP 

“Monica, It’s been three years since I have been single, chill a little”, I sighed and she throws another dress at me. The jerk of my ex was kind enough to notify me trough text that we’re over. Like I didn’t deserve more than a fucking text after 3 years of struggle, which he was to be honest. I have been so involved in that relationship that my friends slowly distanced themselves from me and I didn’t even noticed.

“I’m just saying you need to be extra hot tonight! You’re single, and ready to mingle! Maybe some guy will be your rebound.” Monica yelled from the bathroom. “I’m not going clubbing with a sole purpose of finding some guy to fuck. I just want to get drunk and have fun tonight.” I cried out. “You were with that asshole for fucking three years, Amy. You don’t even know what hotties are out there. Don’t try to fool me, I know you’re dying for a rebound fuck with some hot guy right now.” She said smiling.

Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. I missed sex, not with him in particular. I just missed sex. And I wanted to loosen up with some drinks tonight. Dance a little and get rid of the stress I have been having lately . “Where is that new highlighter you got, Mon?” I said finishing my make-up. “Top left drawer, and put some on me.”

“What are you gonna wear? I thought of borrowing your black lacy dress, just so you know.” I grabbed it and started putting it on. “I thought of red for you and black for me but we can switch.” “So you like to switch, Mon? Hm?” I teased her. “You know it!” She winked at me.

We got in the taxi and said the address. I didn’t want to think about driving myself, especially because I plan on drinking. Well, more like getting wasted. Two single girls night out is all I need, hopefully. “I’m going to order vodka shots, what do you want?”

“Make it double.” Mon said.

The bartender got our order fast and we drank it even faster. It burned like a bitch. Our table is now empty for anyone to sit because Mon wanted to dance right away.. Seconds later, I was too on the dance floor, grinding to God knows who, laughing and feeling the song. I don’t know when I became this good of a dancer but I’m feeling myself. I can feel my stress lowering and my mind getting clearer.

Some guy started to dance with Monica and she signalized me he’s a good catch by doing thumbs up behind her back and that was my queue to leave her with him and dance with someone else on the dance floor. I turned around and wish I paid attention to whom I was grinding because the guy stared at me with hungrily and horny. Oh hell to the no.

I’m trying to get to my table, just now it’s not ours, or at least it’s not empty. I told you Monica, i said you so. The guy leaning on it, eyes searching trough the crowd, probably waiting for someone. His broad back is facing me, and his leather jacket is hugging his shoulders. I tapped him on the shoulder, ”Umm, hiiiiii. So this is my table, did you get lost?” “Your table? Do you see it written somewhere?” He says instantly.

I point to the paper on the table with my last name and he grabs it, “This? How can I know if you’re Ms. Lee? Can I get an ID? Are you even a Miss? Well, maybe because I don’t see ring on your fingers..” he uttered.

Suddenly he throws it away

“What the fuck are you doing?” I’m shocked at his behavior.

He turns around, eyes glistening and reflecting on club lights, his mouth making a smirk, eyes going all over me. Right then I’m realizing that he’s checking me out. Not saying that it’s rude but also it’s disrespectful. “Are you done?” I point at my body, show him I notice. “What do you mean done, I haven’t started anything yet?” he dared to smirk again. 

I am so sick of fuckboys, I can’t and won’t deal with him. I ignored him and ask the waiter for a drink. Surprisingly, he orders too. Glass of whiskey. Classic douchbag. “So what’s your real name, babe?” He continues. Pffft, real name. I ignored him. Finally he got the memo, “Okay, beautiful, we got of the wrong foot here. Let me put the ball down and introduce myself, I am Jungkook.”

I should just ignore him this time as well. Even though I could hear his sincerity this time he spoke, I’m just that stubborn to let go. But damn, he’s is hot. Monica was right, I didn’t know how many hotties walked in this town because I’m not a type that looks around while in a relationship.

His eyes are piercing through your soul when he looks at you, licking lips and biting them the same way as he did when he checked me out earlier. He is in all black, like he knew my weakness for it. Jeans are so tight you can see his thighs muscles twitch, not that I looked. Broad shoulders and a small waist created that triangle proportion. Like he can read my mind, he removed the jacket and I gulped. The veins on his arms. I drooling all over him, not even realizing until the same ripped arms were now picking his jacket up and that pinkish mouth saying something to me while I was waking up from my daydream, “Well, I see I am not welcomed here, then I’ll just go.” Really Amy, do you wanna pass this opportunity? He seems like he’s good at rebound sex, right? I can’t belive I am thinking about this, damn you Monica.

“Hi douchebag, I’m Amy Lee, and don’t call me babe.” “So I can call you beautiful, but not babe? And you can call me douchebag?” His bunny smile appeared. “Well, why would I complain, when we both are telling the truth? ” I said with confidence which I can tell he likes.

I had Monica in my sight, coming closer to our table with the same guy hanging around her neck and I see Jungkook’s confused face, “Jiminshi, where are you all this time? I was waiting for you like crazy.”   They started arguing or laughing, I couldn’t really tell or hear, while Monica and I looked at each other and I could tell she is going home with that Jimin guy, which means that our apartment will be occupied. She rocked her hips with his hand on them and she waved at me. She is such a slut sometimes, but I truly love that hoe. “So, that leaves you and me, beautiful?” Jungkook spoke suddenly, moving his hand behind me.

“Well, I guess, douchbag.” I spoke immediately. “Do you want to dance? Can you even dance?” he underestimated me. “Of course I can, probably even better than you.” “Are you sure about that, wanna bet?”

“Bet? What are you, thirteen?” I mocked him. “No, I’m twenty-two but if you win I will do any dare you give me. And If I win you’ll do any dare I give you.” He smirked at me “Seems fair. Any, any dare?”, it was high risk, but I loved to dance. I mean how good can this fuckboy be? “Yes.”

“Okay then.”, we agreed, walking towards the crowd.

As we stepped on the dance floor, his aura changed to possessive. If now you’re looking at completely different man. His hand grabbed me around my waist, pulling closer to him, my leg between is his legs, our cheeks touching. Hips rocking in the beat, we’re going lower and my heart starts knocking, asking for the way out. His other hand finds its way to my mid back and going up behind my hair to my neck. Which gave me goosebumps. He notices it and smirks with devilish face.

Me messing up his hair is somehow making him more hot. I lost my balance and grabbed his shoulder to have gain it back, I realized that now he’s holding me tight so I moved my hands to his chest. He knew I had too much to drink, so he held me nice and snug. I can feel his heart beating fast just like mine right now. It just felt like we are alone, but now I am being randomly turned one-eighty, feeling his hands on my sides, moving my hips, holding me tight along his cock. I can see other people dancing, in a daze. I didn’t know If was that tipsy or that was his effect on me. I let my head fall back on his shoulder and roll my hips in the sound of the fast song that is blasting through the sound system. Raising my hands behind me to play with his damp hair. I can feel his bulge getting harder and I wanted to tease him so I bended s little, his hands working fast placed me in front of his features. His masculine scent filled my nostrils. Is that cologne or sweat? His chest breathless, gasping for air, our faces across each other, almost touching, I can feel his wheeze on my lips and how insanely close is he is to me. Hands holding, intertwining fingers and we started to slowly kiss in the center of the dance floor. Now I was sure, the only ones standing in this room were him and me. Letting go, he cups my cheeks with both hands, while kissing me passionately, full of lust. I took a grip of his wet shirt in my hand and squeeze at his hips. Intensity and pressure changed like the melody in the background.

He deepened the kiss, our breaths coming fast and shallow. Kiss has been broken, his eyes dark, he grabbed my hand and raced back to the table. Our jackets were in our hands, Mine other hand in his, which was tugging me along. We are finally outside, cold and out of breath.

“So who won?” I asked teasingly.

“Who cares.” He said, he says half running across parking lot, pulling me into a kiss, then grabbing a helmet from a motorcycle. “The important thing is that our dares aligned to be the same thing, or am I wrong?”

Well he wasn’t. How can I argue with that? He know that I want it too. I ignored the question and he smirked, putting black helmet on me and planting one more kiss on my lips once again after putting the protective glass down. 

I sat on the far back, my hands hugging him, resting on his rock hard abs. When the ride started I didn’t want it to end. There was something about this freedom and security I feel with him. We stopped on the parking lot of the new building in my street. I guess I really didn’t know what is on ‘display’ are out there. 

He unlocked the apartment, throwing the keys, lifting me up, while supporting me by a cold wall that in combination my back, sent shivers down my spine. He’s snuggled his nose in the crook of my neck leaving smooches all over my shoulders, returning to sensitive spot behind the ear. My hands were up his hair, tugging as moans escaped one by one. His hand moves to my butt, steadying me in his arms and picking me up fully while I held my hands behind his neck pecking his lips and neck. He let out a whimper and I could feel the vibration of his voice while placing the kiss. This led him to expose more neck space for me to swirl my tongue on. He opens the door to what I assume is the bedroom. He put me lightly on the bed, starts undressing me and mouthing “shit” when my dress is gone. I hold the hem of his shirt pulling it above his head and the ‘shit’ is mutual, just I actually don’t say it or mouth it. His chest and abs are defined as much as my eyebrows are in the beginning of this night. Kisses continued to be scattered all over my body. My body moved, humping him. Our lips glazed over each other’s, ears pounding when his warm pant brushed over neck skin wanting more and hickeys forming all over my shoulders. He started to go lower, kissing and sucking on my nipples. I was already wet, humping his thigh in swift motions.

“You are that impatient, aren’t you kitten? Slow down, just relax and enjoy..” His lips tripped over my stomach in zig zag pattern kissing every mark.

My soaked panties slid down and just after one of his licks over my folds, my head tipped all the way back. His mouth did wonders, licking, sucking, making me moan louder that I was allowed. “Shit, Jungkook, shit, shit.” Like he felt it, he started to finger me hard and hit the sweet spot while my legs trembled, lungs fighting for air just so I could say it to him “I am going to – “ and that is all I could tell before I was in full bliss. He didn’t stop, he was going for seconds. More vigorously, my back already hurt how arched it was and hands in his hair trying to move his head which was steady and not going anywhere at all. Suddenly he got up to grab the condom, slid his jeans and put it on his already hard dick. I was turned around on my shaking knees in a matter of seconds and positioned for him to enter me. “Daddy is going to reward his little girl with his cock only if she’s begging.” He was aggressive but still started slow, pulling out all the way and go back in a few times before his veiny hands was grabbing my hair, one holding the hair and other one on my hip. The grip on my hair tightened, his nails dug into my hip and dick filling me up all the way. “Harder, Daddy please. Faster!” I begged.

He gave in on my request and it got hasty, vigorous and loud. He pulled me by my hair more, started to move his ass in a circle, roll his hips, and bend so he can kiss my neck by the ear, “Do you like being tugged by your hair, princess?” His moans intertwined with mine, smell of sex filled the room almost as good as he filled me.

He suddenly stopped, and I realized he waited for a  response. His dominance in bed and on the dance floor is undeniable. “Yes, daddy, now can you please fuck me?”

“You are not the one who commands.” He slapped my ass as he pulled out, “Now ride me.” On the top, while riding him, I was enjoying the godlike sight. I caressed his abs with my nails and prompted my hands on his chest. His lips parted, moaning my name. I started jumping on his dick while holding on his muscular thighs, up and down, he held my boobs, moaning, “FUCK! Continue kitten, faster!”

I started doing circles and rolls with my hips, moaning loud of how good it feels. Daddy wanted more, so he started to move, prompt his legs on the bed, so he can enter me deeper. I was near his face now, biting my lip to tease him, his hand holding me in place while we both simultaneously moved in sync, making each other lose our mind.  

“Oh gooooood, Jungkook. Shit.” I said as I started kissing him, now I bit his lower lip and started sucking on it after, which made him whine out of pain. My punishment for teasing was moving me up and down from his dick and stopping the friction on my clit. Now my breasts were hanging above his head, reaching, his hands full, he started sucking them. That turned me on, making me to do my movements faster and messier because I was near the high. This pose stimulated my g-spot and clitoris so I knew I’m going to orgasm hard. And I was so close. He started breathing out loud, mouth letting out unrecognizable  moans, whimpers and words. His movements got sloppier but more rapid. “I’m coming, daddy! Fuck!” I let the loudest moan in my life.

“Please, don’t stop, kitten. I am gonna cum too!” In few final thrusts he was coming undone in front of me, kissing me like crazy. While I laid on his rising chest.

“Well that was something..” he exclaimed.

“I like our dares.” I teased, smiling.

“I need to thank your friend leaving you alone, tho.”

“I think I need to thank her, too.”

“Do you wanna take a shower or do you want me to give you a warm cloth?”

“I want to shower, with you!” I boped him on the nose. He smiled.

I got up, not knowing where the bathroom is.

“That’s my baby girl”, he said while picking me up over his shoulder, he slapped my ass, started marching “This way!”

Here’s Jikook slap on the ass as a reference and a gift.

______________________________________________ 

Thank you all for reading guys. If you liked it please reblog, and send me lots of requests. 😊

LITTLE HELP FOR THOSE WHO READ ALL OF THIS 

*cough* title of a song *cough*

Keep eyes open. Good luck 🤞 🍀 REQUESTS ARE OPEN 🔓

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 040 [Code Names]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 2,666

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“Take a step back when we roll up ’cause I know what. We been loyal, we been fam, we the ones you trust in. Won’t hesitate to go straight to your head like a concussion.” Lil Wayne, Wiz Khalifa, Imagine Dragons, Logic & Ty Dolla $ign, “Sucker for Pain”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

“The name you give yourself is important,” Aizawa told us. “It helps reinforce your image and it shows what kind of hero you want to be in the future. A codename tells people exactly what you represent. Take All Might, for example.”

Momo turned in her seat to hand me one of the whiteboards that Aizawa had passed out to the first kid in each row, along with a marker. I hummed thoughtfully, tapping the end of the marker on the board as I propped my cheek up with my left hand. Hero names, huh? Haven’t really thought anything about it.

Aizawa leaned back against the wall and slid down, asleep before his body even touched the ground. That left Midnight in complete charge. “Now students, who among you is ready to share?”

While the rest of the class didn’t seem too happy about presenting their names, Aoyama wasted no time in stepping up to the podium. “Hold your breath,” he proudly displayed the board. “The Shining Hero: I cannot stop twinkling! Mon ami, you can’t deny my sparkle.”

My forehead slammed onto the desk, making Momo jump in surprise. She asked if I was okay, but I could only mutter under my breath. That fucking name… I’m getting war flashbacks from being forced to watch Twilight a few years back. Fucking sparkling vampires, get the fuck out.

“It’ll be better this way,” Midnight took the board from him and started to write. “Take out the ‘I’ and shorten the ‘cannot’ to ‘can’t’.”

“It’s stunning, mademoiselle.”

“She likes it?!” The class chorused in disbelief.

There is no way… in the nine circles of hell… that a fucking pro is gonna call him that. Can you fucking imagine this fucking pro hero decides to be nice and host an internship for U.A. first-years, right, and Aoyama walks in and introduces himself as ‘Can’t stop twinkling’ and the fucking pro just starts to question his entire life choices. Bro, I would fucking retire right then and there.

“You’re not really French, are you? That’s just an act.” Sumo questioned, but Aoyama ignored him and returned to his desk.

“Okie dokie, let me go next!” Ashido stepped up. “My code name? Alien Queen!”

“Hold on!” Midnight’s body started to shake, a look of terror on her face. Just what is she imagining? “Like that horrible monster with the acidic blood?? I don’t think so.”

Ashido pouted, returning to her seat.

“Ribbit,” Tsu raised her hand. “I think I’ve got one. Okay if I go next?”

“Come on up!”

She stepped up to the podium. “I’ve had this name in mind since grade school. Rainy Season Hero: Froppy.”

Since grade school? Damn, girl. I think Tsu is the only fucking one taking this seriously, to be completely honest. Not like I have much room to talk.

“That’s delightful!” Midnight cooed. “It makes you sound approachable. What a great example of a name everyone will love.”

A little devil perched on my shoulder, whispering a brilliant idea into my ear. I smirked, messily scrawling the code name onto the board before standing up and heading to the front of the room. Midnight raised a brow when she saw me, “This should be good.”

“Heh~ You have no idea, bruh,” I smirked, locking eyes with Katsuki as I flipped the board around. “LordXplosionMurder.”

“You bitch!” Katsuki slammed his hands on the desk, anger seeping off his shaking body.

“Hey, isn’t that your gaming handle, Bakugo?” Kirishima asked, tilting his head.

“Shut up!”

“Denied!” Midnight smacked the back of my head. “Sit down.”

I clicked my tongue and returned my seat.

“I’ve got mine, too!” Kirishima hopped up. “The Sturdy Hero: my name is Red Riot!”

“Red Riot? Interesting. You’re paying homage to the chivalrous hero, Crimson Riot, yes?”

“That’s right,” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “He may be kind of old school, but someday I want to be just like he was. Crimson is my idol!”

“Hmm, if you’re bearing the name of someone you admire, you have that much more to live up to.” She commented.

“I accept the challenge!”

Paying homage, huh? I erased the board with my fingers, staining them with the ink.

Kyouka stepped up after him. “The Hearing Hero: I’m Earphone Jack.”

“Now that’s a good one!”

Next was Shouji. “Tentacle Hero: Tentacole.”

Why not just go with Hentai Hero?

“Oh, I like what you’re doing with that. A nice portmanteau!”

Then Sero. “The Taping Hero: Cellophane!”

Ain’t that the really thin clear plastic that sticks to literally everything but the food you’re trying to cover?

“That’s on the nose. Good work!”

Ojirou. “Martial Arts Hero: Tailman.”

Sounds like a villain from that TV show that Shin-chan is obsessed with.

“No surprise with that one, I guess!”

Sumo – god, what is his name? “I’m the Sweets Hero: Sugarman!”

That really sounds like someone parents should keep their kids away from… If only his hero costume had a trench coat.

“Perfect!”

Ashido tried again. “Pinky!!”

“Make those looks work for you, girl!”

Are you… are you serious? Her hero name is Pinky? The only fucking way that is cool is if you’re referencing Pinky and the Brain, bro.

Kaminari. “Stungun Hero: I am Chargebolt! Electric, doncha think?”

Damn, that one’s actually kinda cool. Way cooler than he actually is.

“Ooh~ Makes me all tingly!”

Stop being creepy, please. I’m gonna have PTSD.

Floating clot – er, I mean, Toru. “The Stealth Hero: Invisible Girl!”

“That really suits you!” She clapped her hands, addressing the rest of the class. “Now come on, who’s gonna step up next?”

I approached the front again with a smirk. “Don’t gimme that look, Midnight. I got the perfect one this time. The Tsundere Dad Hero: Dadzawa Soft Hour – shit!” I scowled down at Aizawa, who had kicked me in the back of the ankle. How the fuck did he even do that in the fucking sleeping bag? “Fucking rude, I’m trying to present here.”

“Can you take anything seriously?” He cracked open an eye to give me a lazy glare.

“Don’t be like that,” I grinned. “Why – so – serious~?”

Midnight smacked me again. “Denied!”

“Che,” I returned to my seat, Momo patting my shoulder as we passed each other.

She stepped up to the podium, looking equal parts nervous and determined. “I hope I can live up to this name. The Everything Hero: I’m Creati.”

“Crea-tive!”

No, stop. You’re not a dad, Midnight.

Next was Todoroki, his face devoid of emotion. “Shouto.”

I sweatdropped. That damn edgelord didn’t even try, bro. Sheesh.

“Just your name?” Midnight asked, raising a brow. “Is that it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Like a wet sponge, that one.

Fumi went next. “Jet-Black Hero: Tsukuyomi!”

I stood up, clapping loudly. When the others turned to look at me, I just said, “That’s my son up there! I’m so proud!”

Fumi’s cheeks went pink but he smiled and nodded his head.

“Ah~” Midnight moaned. “God of the night!”

My eye twitched and I smacked my hands on the desk. “Stop trying to seduce my child, he’s way out of your league!”

“And just what is that supposed to mean, hmm?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Anyone would be overjoyed to have all of this!”

I scoffed, crossing my arms. “Yeah, totally, because raisins are so attractive, ya know.”

“You little -!” She pulled me into a headlock, my face buried between her two melons. Jesus fuck, I’d hate to see the doctor bill for her back pain…

I waved my hands frantically, unable to see or breathe, until my hand connected with her face. I gave it a hard shove, taking in a gulp of air. “I need to fucking breathe to live, you know! This is sexual harassment!”

“Oh, please harass me, mommy.”

“Shut the fuck up, grape, no one asked you!”

She smirked. “According to your match results against Honenuki, you can hold your breath for fifty-five seconds.”

“That is irrelevant information! I don’t want my tombstone to read, ‘Death by tits‘!”

“That would be so amazing,” Mineta’s drool plopped onto the desk as he blatantly stared at Midnight’s boobs.

My lip curled back in disgust. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, your tombstone is gonna read, ‘Burnt so bad there was no fucking body‘!”

He humphed before hopping down and heading to the podium which he was too fucking small to see over. “I’m the Fresh-Picked Hero: Grape Juice!!”

“Very catch,” Midnight nodded her head.

Mountain was next – I also need to learn his name, but he doesn’t speak, does he? He nervously held up his board and it read, ‘Petting Hero: Anima‘.

“Yup! All about it!”

Katsuki finally stood up, his aura still seething as his vermillion eyes locked with mine. “King Explosion Murder!”

“I’m gonna say that one’s a little too violent.”

“Hah?! What do you mean?!”

“You could be ‘Explosion Boy’!” Kirishima suggested.

“Or ‘TacoQueen’,” I smirked.

“Both of you, shut up!” He snapped. “Why don’t we go outside and I’ll show you exactly why ‘Murder’ should be in my name!!” He grumbled under his breath, sitting back in his seat and angrily erasing the name.

Ochaco went next. “This is the name I thought of – Uravity!”

“I just love that,” Midnight smiled warmly, pressing her hands together against her cheek.

“Good job, Ocha!” I grinned, sending her a thumbs up as she returned to her desk. She smiled back.

“To be honest, choosing names is going faster than I thought it would.” Midnight commented, stretching her arms above her head. “All we have left is young Bakugo and Winchester, who need to rethink theirs, and~ Iida. Oh yes, and Midoriya, too.”

I grunted, leaning back in my chair and holding up the board.

Her eye twitched. “‘Taco’ has nothing to do with your quirk, Winchester.”

“It’s part of who I am. It’s my soul.”

“Denied!”

“Goddamn it,” I scowled, furiously wiping the ink away from the board.

Iida stood up and approached the front. Like Todoroki, he only wrote down his first name, but that isn’t what made me take pause. No, it was the look on his face and the aura filled with sadness and anger that hovered around him so thickly. Maybe I should attempt talking to him? I doubt he’d open up to me, though, he hates me.

“You’re using your real name, too?” Midnight asked with disappointment lacing her tone.

He didn’t reply.

She shrugged as he returned to his seat. “Well Midoriya, are you ready?”

“Oh, yes.” Zuku shot up, approaching the front. I wonder what he chose. I bet five bucks he chose some kind of homage to Toshi. I swear if he wrote All Might Jr… He showed the board, surprising everyone with what he had written. Fuck, I just lost five bucks… to myself. Score.

“Really, Midoriya?” Mineta questioned, not sounding impressed. Like, bitch, your name is Grape Juice.

“You sure about that?” Kaminari asked.

Kirishima added with concern, “Yeah, remember that could be your name forever.”

“Right…” Zuku lowered his head in thought. “I used to hate it, but then something changed. I guess… someone taught me that it could have a different meaning… and that had a huge impact on how I felt. So now I really like it! Deku… that has to be my code name.”

“Umm, Winchester, your eyes are leaking…” Todoroki commented.

“My baby cinnabon is growing up, guys.” I sobbed, clutching onto the back of Momo’s shirt. She chuckled, creating a handkerchief from her hand and giving it to me. “Thank you, Momo.”

“Of course.”

“You’re so weird,” Todoroki mumbled, turning his head away.

Katsuki huffed as he stomped to the front again. “Lord Explosion Murder!”

“Winchester already tried that,” Midnight sighed. “And it’s basically the same thing as your last one.”

“No, she didn’t have an ‘E’ in ‘Explosion’! It’s totally different!” He protested.

“I mean, the boy got a point,” I added, grinning when she shot me a look.

She smacked her forehead. “The two of you are completely hopeless. Just use your real names!”

I shrugged and Katsuki grumbled under his breath, sitting back down.

Aizawa heaved a tired sigh as he pulled himself to his feet. “Now that everyone’s decided on their hero names, we can go back to talking about your internships. They last for one week. As for who you’ll be working with, those of you who are on the board will choose from among your offers. Everyone else will have a different list.” He held up a stack of papers, but the words were too small for me to see from the back of the feckin’ room. “You have a lot to think about. There are around forty agencies across the country who have agreed to take on interns from your class. Each agency has a different specialty that its heroes focus on. Keep that in mind.”

Forty agencies?? And those are only the ones willing to put up with us… Holy salsa dancing Satan, how many agencies are there in this damn country? Forty seems a bit excessive.

“Imagine that you were thirteen.” Midnight held her finger up. “You would want to choose a place that focuses on rescuing people, not fighting villains. Understand?”

“Think carefully before you decide,” Aizawa concluded.

“Yes, sir!”

“Turn in your choices before the weekend.”

“We’ve only got two days?!” Kirishima cried out in surprise.

“Yeah, so you should start now.” Aizawa and Midnight headed out the door. “You’re dismissed.”

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I frowned at the list of offers that had been placed on my desk, scratching my cheek. That’s great and all, but the problem is that I don’t know a single thing about any of these fucks because I ain’t from this world. Oh wait, there’s Endeavor. Like hell I’mma choose flame fuck. I guess I could ask Zuku. He’s a walking talking encyclopedia of hero knowledge. Hmm, yeah, I’ll just make him choose someone for me. Problem solved!

“So guys~ Have you decided what pro agency you wanna go for?” Ashido asked.

“Mt. Lady’s my top choice!” Mineta answered immediately.

“Mineta, are you thinking something perverted?” Tsu inquired.

“Possibly!”

I scoffed, leaning back in my chair. Jokes on him, that bitch is gonna eat him alive and then spit him back up as a glorified slave. Though, knowing that freak, he’d probably enjoy it.

“You made it pretty far in the tournament,” Ojiro commented toward Ashido. “It’s weird you didn’t get any offers.”

“I know~!” she cried, throwing her body over the desk.

“Hey, Deku, who’s on your list?” Ochaco approached the greenette and sweatdropped at the mumbling mess that is Zuku the cinnabon. “There he goes again…”

He snapped out of his trance at her words. “Huh? Oh, sorry, what’d you guys say?”

“You’re really thinking hard about this, aren’t you?” Tsu asked.

“It’ll all work out.” Ochaco smiled. “I’ve already settled on my pick!”

“Already?”

“What agency?”

“The one that the Battle Hero: Gunhead runs!”

“Huh? Gunhead’s a big brawler, though.” Zuku commented in surprise. “Are you sure that’s where you want to intern, Uraraka?”

“Yep! He sent me an offer!”

“Woah, really? But I thought you were trying to be a hero kinda like Thirteen, more into rescuing than fighting.”

“Ultimately, that’s the plan, but I’ve been thinking ever since the festival… well, at least ever since I faced off against Bakugo. The stronger I am, the more possibilities I’ll have! Plus, learning from a battle hero will give me a different perspective, right?”

I clicked my tongue and shook my head. Too fucking precious man. I sighed, letting my head fall onto the desk for the umpteenth time today.

“Are you okay, Winchester?” Momo turned in her chair, voice full of concern.

“I need food,” I groaned. “And my brain may be slightly melted, I’m not sure.”

She chuckled and stood up. “Let’s go to the cafeteria, then.”

“Sure~” I pulled myself up, following the black-haired girl from the room.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

▸ Forward

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[nightmareonfilmstreet]

Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part II - Episodes 3 & 4)

New Post has been published on https://nofspodcast.com/review-black-mirror-season-4-part-ii-episodes-3-4/

Review: BLACK MIRROR Season 4 (Part II - Episodes 3 & 4)

SPOILER-FREE REVIEW

While “Crocodile” felt a bit like a filler episode, lacking the nuance and depth of the best of Black Mirror, the issue it examines (surveillance and the sanctity of thought) is interesting. Some moments shine.

“Hang the DJ” is Brooker back to True, at his best. Delicately structured, wonderfully shot, incredible concept…another bit of spec-fiction brilliance.

EPISODE 3: CROCODILE

If you read my first review, you’re probably still wiping off the drool from all my slavering praise. The season’s first two episodes are incredibly strong. “Arkangel” could very well show up in this year’s Emmy roster. “USS Callister” might be one of the single best episodes of anything I’ve ever seen.

“Crocodile” struck me a little bit differently. The episode starts with a hit-and-run accident (think I Know What You Did Last Summer, but more bleak, less Sarah Michelle Gellar). Mia (played by Andrea Riseborough) wants to go to the cops, but Rob (Andrew Gower) was driving drunk. He convinces her to dump the body and keep the secret.

There’s a thin line between “subtle” and “slow.” For me, “Crocodile” fell firmly in the mire of the latter. After the masterful structuring, nuance, and depth of the first two episodes, this episode is a bit of a slump. The stakes are part of the problem. Or, rather, the lack thereof. From the beginning, I didn’t care much about Mia: when Rob runs over the cyclist, she lets herself be steamrolled into keeping it quiet. When he gets sober and tries to make amends for what they’ve done, she kills him to protect the shiny, new, successful life she’s built. Wife. Mother. Architect with daring hair.

Except…we hardly see any of that life. Her husband is onscreen for maybe three total minutes, and we’re given no reason to empathize with him. Same with her son: he’s just a male human child, more the outline of a character than anything.

There’s a strange sterility in many of the characters, actually. Nobody seems to really mean anything to anyone. It’s like they’re all actors on a stage together, and they vanish from the world the moment the camera looks away. They are without weight or life. What characterization there is feels a bit like Bella’s clumsiness in Twilight. Lacking any real inner life or depth, Bella is “clumsy.” Some of us are clumsy. Thus, we can relate to her.

In “Crocodile,” Shazia (Kiran Sonia Sawar) pops peppermint candies and likes pop songs. What are her dreams? Who does she admire? We find out in the end that she has a child with her husband, Anan, but I only know for sure that they’re married because the characters have the same last name on IMDB. He buys her a hamster, they talk about what time she’s going to be home. That’s sort of it. There’s no sense of history, or sexuality, or chemistry.

They both get murdered. That’s pretty much all they have in common, as far as I can tell. We almost get a peek into Anan’s inner workings (he’s watching a movie when Mia comes for him), but…nope. All we get is the credits. Even our ostensible protagonist, Mia, is flat and gray as the landscape she lives in. (The scenery in this episode is the highlight. Shot in Iceland, there’s a rocky, desolate beauty that is almost a story in and of itself. The wide tracking shots of cars slipping along barren landscapes and empty roads like black clots into the heart of the wild are breathtaking.)

  When Mia was young, she liked to party and dance all night. Some of the younger viewers probably like to party and dance all night. What do women drink? (White wine.) What do women do when they murder people? (Almost lose it, but keep it together. Drink white wine.) You see what I’m getting at.

With nothing to invest me, watching Mia murder people wasn’t so much shocking and horrifying as perplexing. And a little frustrating: I was interested to learn more about this newly-sober Rob. Maybe see something of their relationship. Oh. Mia killed him. This investigator might be on to what Mia has done. Oops. Dead. The investigator’s husband knew where she was going, so…nope. Also dead.

Even the baby at the end felt more like a cheap attempt to get me to feel something, like Killing the Dog. I assume Brooker was going for dark irony when the Detective reveals that the baby was blind all along. (So Mia killed him for no reason! Gasp!) But it ends up feeling so shoehorned-in and clunky that it falls flat.

There are definite high points and powerful moments in the episode. By high points, I mean one of the darkest, most disturbing things I’ve ever seen on a screen. This in a series that showed us a man having sex with a pig for nearly an hour.

Watching Mia examine Shazia’s memories without permission was excruciatingly like watching a rape scene. I think Brooker’s larger point about the theme of the episode is colored in, here, and in an episode I was fairly uninvested in, this scene stands out as masterful. Sawar’s acting, the sense of despair and rage and violation, is superlative. Riseborough stays on note, but the flatness of her deliveries works well in contrast to the work Sawar is doing. I nearly cried when Shazia started praying through the gag in her mouth.

Though similar ground was covered in earlier episode of Black Mirror (namely, Season 1, Episode 3: “The Entire History of You”) the thesis of the episode is interesting: what happens when the final privacy is removed? What happens when not even the contents of your mind are safe anymore?

Perhaps it’s reflective of the current political climate that two episodes in a row are addressing Orwellian concepts. Surveillance is a word that raises hackles. “Crocodile” raises questions. As Shazia points out to Mia when she comes to watch her memories, Mia is now required by law to talk about an incident if she’s seen it. The cameras Shazia might have used were vandalized, but what does she care? When you have legal leverage to look at people’s memories, everyone is a camera for the government. We are the surveillance. Big Brother is Us.

  EPISODE 4: HANG THE DJ

The Mobius Story is a tried-and-true staple of the Sci-Fi/Fantasy genre. It’s also quite the tricky mistress. But this is Charlie Brooker (sole writing credit) we’re talking about here. With Timothy “Boardwalk Empire” Van Patten in the director’s chair.

Let’s just say they pull it off.

If you haven’t seen it, and you’re still reading this: don’t. Don’t ruin this one for yourself. “Hang the DJ” is too clever, the payoff and final implications too mind-blowing to wreck reading a summation and analysis. So. Go on. Watch it.

“Hang the DJ” is, on the surface, a story about the inevitable future of dating apps and online dating. Frank and Amy are two participants in a new dating program. The computer dictates not only who you are in a relationship with, but predetermines how long that relationship will last. It is infallible. The data it collects from the relationships (experiments?) it puts you through supposedly allows it to predict with 99.8% accuracy who your perfect lifemate will be. It’s never wrong. Nobody ever questions the authority of the program.

The episode asks the simplest, most powerful question science fiction can ask:

But what if…?

There’s innumerable little bits we could dig into, but the two titanic elements that stand out and most need applause (roaring, standing, bleeding-palms applause) are: the Structure and the Irony. The way the end of the episode feeds back into the beginning feeds back into the end and on into infinity is very much in the spirit of the Mobius Strip. Up until the end, “Hang the DJ” is a good episode. The last five minutes are what make it a great episode.

It would be easy to write the O. Henry twist off as “Oh, really? ‘It was all a dream?’ Great.” But it’s so much more than that. So much more. The recursive genius of that twist was stunning: a dating app measuring compatibility by how many times a couple rebels against that dating app. I’ve said before that Brooker understands capital-I Irony in a way that very few people do.

Well, here: exhibit A. Think about the nuance and implications of that: the episode postulates a computer program that manages to simulate the irrationality and fire of the human heart, and then factors it in to its program in order to mitigate that factor in the real world. Is the final meeting between Frank and Amy hopeful? A happy ending mirroring the arc of their Romeo/Juliet computer analogs? Or is it showing us the real-world beginning of the very program that the app postulates in its calculations?

Not one to twist a knife just once, Brooker’s twist cuts a layer deeper, upon reflection. The app is so elegant and effective that, almost inevitably, its success in the real world will ultimately lead to the world it bases its simulations in. Excusez mon francais, mais… That is fucking brilliant.

Black Mirror explored similar territory in Season 1, but there’s so much more elegance here, such grace. Do we really want to know? All of it? Really? I don’t want to, and, neither, I think, does Charlie Brooker. There’s comfort in the fog. Perhaps the spark of life is really the little thrill of fear we feel in the face of the unknown.

  IN SUMMATION

“Crocodile” might be your cup of tea. Maybe you need some shock-for-shock’s-sake TV. Maybe you like peppermint candy and pop music. It wasn’t really for me.

“Hang the DJ” has the sort of Forged of a Piece flawlessness that fans of the show came for and stayed for through the first two seasons. One of the great ones.

There’s less cohesion between these two than there was between “USS Callister” and “Arkangel,” but an overarcing 1984-esqu thread is emerging. Control. Privacy. Freedom. These are the concerns this time around.

Timely concerns for all of us, indeed.

[sophisticated-angel]

Family Ties - Part Six

Character: Dean Winchester

Warning: Hella feels, probably.

Word Count: 2,369

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five

The Parent Trap

Summary: When Ramona doesn’t come back as expected, her parents are stirred into a panic, and Mercy’s true nature comes to light.

Story

  When Dean drifts off, his mind is filled with thoughts of the implications of his ex’s return and his brother’s intention to marry Addison. He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he opens his eyes and finds that the living room is completely dark. Against his side is his wife, out cold. Carefully, he stretches and slides away to stand. The house is silent; Mitchell’s game has been shut off for the night, and Elodie must still be asleep in her crib.

  Stifling a yawn, Dean shuffles down the hall and peers into Mitchell’s room. His stepson is drooling onto his pillow and dreaming happily. Then he checks his daughters’ room. In her crib, Ellie is sleeping with her tiny hands balled into tiny fists on her tiny chest. Dean smiles at the baby and reaches down to lightly stroke her cheek. Lastly, he moves over to Ramona’s bed, intending to give her a goodnight kiss, but her bed is cold, her blankets folded over the way she left them this morning.

  Dean looks over at the digital clock on the windowsill next to the bed. The glowing blue numbers read 10:47. She should be home by now. He searches the room – under the bed, beside and under the crib, on the beanbag chair – but his daughter isn’t in her room. His heart rate picks up, and a prickly, tingling shudder ripples down his spine.

  “Mon Ami?” he calls quietly, stepping into the hallway.

  He searches his room, the bathroom, the den, and accidentally wakes Mitchell when he looks in the boy’s room. The twelve-year-old groans and rolls back over, but Dean asks if he’s seen Ramona. He hasn’t. In the living room, (y/n) stirs, roused by the activity, and turns on the light.

  “What’s going on, babe?” she asks.

  “Ramona’s not here. She was supposed to be home three hours ago.”

  This news makes her perk right up. “She’s not in her room?”

  “She’s not in the house.”

  “Did you check out here? The dining room?”

  “Why would she be in the dining room?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she read until she fell asleep?”

  “Why are you guys so loud?” Mitchell, sleepy-eyed, shuffles into view.

  Dean is on him in an instant. “Did you see or hear your sister come home?”

  “I said no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What’s going on, Dad?” The boy’s voice takes on a tinge of worry.

  “Mitchell, are you sure?”

  (y/n) reaches out and rests her hand on his arm, bringing him down. Her touch sets his mind right, organizes the panic rising in his chest. He turns to meet her eyes and finds his worry reflected in them. Ramona isn’t home, God knows, where she is, but Dean’s heart floods with love for his wife. She’s as scared as him, as scared for Ramona as she would be were they related by blood. No other woman could ever take her place.

  It’s in the midst of this moment that Dean’s cell buzzes in his pocket. Upon answering the unfamiliar number, a young girl’s frantic voice pierces his ear.

  “Ramona? Sweetheart, what’s going on? Where are you?”

  “It’s loud here, Daddy,” she whimpers over the din on the other end of the line. “I think it’s a bar. I don’t like it here. I wanna go home.”

  “Where’s Mercy?”

  A shaky exhale. “She left.”

  Love and relief are washed away by blinding anger. Not again. This time he’s going to kill that bitch. Never again will she see Ramona. She won’t live long enough. Voice flat, a thin membrane keeping fury in check, Dean comforts his daughter, promises he’ll be there in no time and instructs her to watch out the window for him.

  “It’s by the movie theater. She said we were gonna go to the movies, but we didn’t . . .” She’s using a payphone, and her call is timing out, so Dean leaves her by reminding her that he loves her. She’s his sunshine.

  His hand trembles as he tucks his phone away. “Mitchell, your mom and I are going out.” The tremble migrates to his voice. “Stay here and take care of Ellie, okay?”

  Mitchell nods. “Is Ramona okay?”

  “She’s fine,” he lies.

*    *    *    *    *

  When you were a teenager and traveling for hunting voluntarily or not, you played a game: memorize the highway speed traps and have some fun in a car that wasn’t yours. You pushed the car to its limits, slammed on the gas pedal and spun around curves and corners, until it could give nothing more. With Dean in the driver’s seat, this ride in the Impala is just as wild but lacks the fun, carefree, daredevil quality. He keeps quiet and stares straight ahead as if he can get there faster under the power of his own glare.

  The Impala careens into the parking lot of the bar at breakneck speeds. It isn’t directed to a parking spot and halts violently by the curb. Dean bursts out the door like an overdue volcano, and you’re right behind him, ready to turn this establishment inside out to find Ramona, but she followed Dean’s instructions. The twelve-year-old pushes through the doors, blue graduation gown billowing in the cool breeze, cap missing, hair damp from the drizzling rain, and throws herself at her father. In a chain reaction, she bursts into tears and clutches his jacket tightly.

  “She told me to wait outside,” Ramona sobs, “so I did, and it was raining, and she was gone for hours, and she came back with a funny smell, and she didn’t listen when I said I wanted to go home, and then she drove away.”

  Dean holds her in his arms; his hands are claws on the back of her gown. She couldn’t escape him even if she wanted to. Feeling helpless, you run your hand through her hair.

  “She left me again . . .”

  Silently, Dean half walks, half carries his daughter towards the car. When a new vehicle peals in and squeals to a halt, he tenses. Mercedes gets out, and Dean relinquishes his hold and gives Ramona to you.

  “What the hell did you do?!” he fumes.

  “Oh relax. She’s fine, isn’t she? And I came back.”

  “You left her, you bitch!”

  “I forgot she was here! I got a little drunk, okay? Cut me a break!”

  In the split second that follows, some gate drops, and your heart clenches up and sends a vicious chill up your spine to your brain. You manage to focus on the wet, cold, terrified girl whose shoulders are beneath your palms. Dean’s gate is bigger, heavier, and represses a denser ocean of emotions. It slams to the ground so hard and stirs dead leaves, giving you a glimpse of your husband the hunter – fierce, terrifying, and not entirely human.

  “Cut you a break?” he spits. “What do you think these past weeks have been? I let you into my life, into my family’s life, and you ditch my daughter at a damn dive bar!”

  “Our daughter!”

  “She is not your daughter!”

  You try to tell him to walk away, but he’s long since stormed out that gate riding on a black horse.

  “She is not yours! You don’t deserve her, you bitch! You screwed up, and I will never let you near her again!”

  “Oh, I screwed up?” Mercedes jabs a finger into her chest, victimizes herself with one gesture. “How much did you tell your wife before you married her?” Jaw taut, the finger is turned on you. “Did he tell you about the time he abandoned Ramona?”

  “Mercedes,” you try, “please just go. Go now.”

  “Hell no! Make him tell you about the time he left Ramona! You think I’m bad? That baby could have died after what he did! Is this who you want to be with? You wanna spend the rest of your life with a man who abandons his children?!”

  “Mercedes, stop this!”

  “Better get that baby outta there, (y/n)! Get her far away before he kills her!”

  There’s a brief, highly intense snap in your brain, a moment when you want to rip her lungs out. A familiar ‘click’ resounds, and that’s what cuts the urge short. Dean now has a gun, a small revolver he must have hidden in his jacket, aimed directly between Mercedes’ eyes.

  “Get out,” he growls.

  “You’re gonna shoot me in front of Ramona?”

  “Dean, put that away and let’s go home.”

  “Do it, Dean. Shoot me.”

  “Get out!”

  Mercedes scoffs and lifts her hands as she backs towards her car. “You all are a waste of my time. Mark my words, Dean. I’ll come back, and when I do, I will get what I want, and I’ll make your life hell while I’m at it.”

  Numb, you watch the woman climb back into her car and shift gears. The farther away she gets, the lower Dean’s arms go until the revolver disappears into his pocket. Finally, you take a breath and usher Ramona, cold and damp, into the back seat of the Impala. Your husband passes the keys to you and spends the ride home staring out the window. Sam is there when you walk through the front door, forehead creased with worry.

  “Mitchell called. He asked me to come over, said you guys rushed out of here pretty quick. Everything all right?”

  One look around the room should give him his answer: his niece sullenly stripping out of her ruined graduation outfit, his brother sitting at the kitchen counter with his head in his hands, you quietly shaking your head. Though he wants to make things better, he’s intuitive enough to know that he can’t do anything at the moment, and so he tells you Mitchell and Elodie are asleep and slips away. After shutting the door behind your brother-in-law, you come back to find Ramona at Dean’s side and Dean staring into space.

  “Daddy?” ventures the twelve-year-old.

  “Hm,” is the response.

  “What happened when I was a baby?”

  “Sweetheart, you should go to bed.”

  “How were you worse than-”

  “Ramona, go to bed,” he snaps. “I don’t want to talk about it. Leave it alone, understand?”

  “Dean,” you scold, but it’s too late. Tears prick in Ramona’s eyes as she hurries down the hall and closes her bedroom door behind her.

  Casting a disapproving look at Dean, you follow the girl. If there’s one thing you know about children, it’s that they don’t want to be by themselves when they’re hurt and upset, and if they do, they’re lying. She needs someone. You find her curled up on her beanbag chair, sniffling and wiping her nose on her shirt collar. Her hair has begun to dry, and wisps stick up in places.

  When you sit beside the beanbag and rest a hand on the back of her neck, you pick up on tiny, nearly imperceptible tremors; she can’t hold back her sobs entirely. Poor girl. Twice she’s been left by her mother, once she’s seen her with a gun to her head. Pushed much farther, Dean may have shot the woman, maybe not to kill, but his instinct to protect his daughter was too out of control to be useful. Shame is on his face when he enters the room, and his apology is in the kiss he gives Ramona. Holding one of her hands, he sits silently beside her, eyes still but focused on nothing.

  “When you were born,” he starts, “I had a long way to go before I was fit to be a father. I drank too much, for one thing. One night, you were about six months old, I was home alone with you, and I got drunk in the kitchen. I forgot I was the only one there, so I went out to get more beer. I remember being in the checkout lane when I realized you were by yourself, and I went right home. You needed a hug and a diaper change, but you were fine, Mon Ami. You weren’t gonna die, I wasn’t leaving forever, and I have never done it again.”

  Dean licks his lips and pulls the twelve-year-old into an embrace. Quietly, he picks her up and carries her to her bed. He tucks her in, bundles the blanket around her shoulders, and runs a hand across her drying hair.

  “Believe me when I say I love you, baby girl.”

*    *    *    *    *

  It takes Dean much too long to come back to bed. Once he’s done pushing off the inevitable and joins you in the bedroom, it’s almost three in the morning, and he slips in beside you, lays his head on the pillow, and wraps his arms around you.

  “We’ve got an anniversary coming up,” he sighs. “Anything special you wanna do?”

  “I know you don’t want to talk about that. You scared me tonight, babe, and why did you never tell me about what happened with Ramona?”

  “I was going to, I promise. It was my last big secret. I was gonna tell you, but then you said you were pregnant, and . . . I got nervous. I thought maybe you wouldn’t trust me around Elodie, so I didn’t say anything.”

  You turn over to face him. “Dean, one of the reasons I love you is because I trust you with Mitchell. I married you because I trusted you with him and with any future children we might have. What you did twelve years ago doesn’t change how much I trust you.”

  Dean smiles briefly and cards his fingers through your hair. “I’m scared, (y/n).”

  “I know.”

  “Mercedes is a bitch, but she’s – she’s smart. If she wanted to, she could convince a judge to let her take Ramona away, get them to say I’m unfit to be a parent. I don’t want . . .” He exhales – a shuddering sound. “I don’t want to lose my kids.”

  Until he falls asleep, Dean buries his face in your shoulder and lets himself cry just a little bit. He only moves when, a half hour later, his oldest daughter comes in and slides in between her parents.

READ PART SEVEN HERE

@holahellohialoha @pureawesomeness001@27bmm @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @super-not-naturall @gabriel-themightysugaraddict @mogaruke @mrswhozeewhatsis ​@hexparker @kdfrqqg @little-castiel13 @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @mizzzpink

[ascensionstories-blog]

Menace #36: Magic

Nate and Courtney sat together inside the Cube, a treehouse that had naturally grown in the midst of the Wharton State Forest. The cube itself gave off an ancient, oaken scent, giving the impression that it had existed long before the two children were born, and would be there long after their deaths. Small openings in the limbs of the structure allowed for light to pour in, slightly illuminating the faces of the witch and her apprentice. Nate recognized that his butt was falling asleep as he sat motionless on the wooden floor; Courtney was falling asleep, resting her back against the short wooden walls of the cube. She sighed softly as a warm Spring breeze permeated through the branches of the cube. Her eyelids drooped slowly over her eyes. There was peace.

Nate noticed that she had fallen asleep and released his concentration for a moment, resting back on the palms of his hands. He looked at the young girl, in her white hoodie and skirt, and smiled as he watched her chest rise and fall with her breath. Her countenance was never quite this calm when she was awake. He smiled. It had been over a month since he had had his foray into the other world, since he had found Eloise for just a moment before he was sent back. She was alive and — as far as he could tell — in no immediate danger. For the first time in a long time, he looked through the thick branches that formed the cube and smiled at the sunlight pouring in. It was a beautiful day. He thought of waking Courtney and getting out of the cube for a bit, but he decided against it. It was calm and quiet in the cube, and, as far as Nate was concerned, that was enough.

“You know,” Nate said to the sleeping girl, “I really love you.” He paused, questioning whether or not he’d like to say more. Peace was a hard thing to come by, especially for the young witch, and she needed all the rest she could get. She had stayed the night at the Cube the past four nights, meaning things had gotten bad at home again. She didn’t offer and he didn’t ask, but he knew. He reached over and put his hand on her head. Her closed eyes crunched together and then opened. “Morning,” Nate offered.

“I didn’t fall asleep,” she argued, “I was just,” she paused for a yawn, “resting my eyes a bit.” Nate grinned.

“So it must’ve been someone else snoring in here, then,” Nate teased.

“Piss off, I don’t snore. I am a sophisticated woman,” she informed him as she wiped some drool that had fallen to her chin as she slept. Another soft wind blew through the cube, and the sunlight got brighter, shining directly on Nate’s face. She smiled looking at him. “Are you ready to try some actual magic?”

“Sure thing, kid, let’s do it,” Nate replied, and they quickly descended down the wooden ladder from the cube. They wandered out a short bit into the forest, to a clearing nearby, where an entirely black lake (“The Black Marsh,” Nate called it) rested.

“Alright,” Courtney decided, “fire it up.” Nate took a deep breath, extending his hands from his body. Here we go, he thought, just like in the other realm. Your breathing is right, you’re focused. Just breathe. He waited, with his arms extended, for his hands to begin to heat up, to burn. He waited for a ring of fire to materialize around him as he stood. He waited for the smell of singed grass to rise to his nose. He waited for a long time, without so much as a spark. A warm breeze wafted through the trees. “Well, that’s okay, Nate,” Courtney assured him, “we’ll get it next time.”

“Thanks, kid.”

“I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong,” Nate explained to Jenny, over a slice of pizza. “Why this whole magic thing just isn’t working. I’m doing everything she says — which is basically just to breathe — and I’m still getting nowhere.” Nate took a bite. “It’s infuriating.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it is,” Jenny said, sipping from her drink. “No offense to Courtney, but maybe she wasn’t the best person to teach you magic. She is just a kid, after all,” Jenny told him. “And I get I wasn’t here and all when you started, but you absolutely should’ve come to me.” Nate’s eyes widened as he looked at her.

“You?”

“Well, yes, Nate, you thought my powers were science based? Are you a moron?”

“Well, I mean the Mutation, he’s the product of a science experiment gone wrong. And the Engine. And basically everyone else we know. Even I’m starting to think my powers came from some botched science experiment.”

“Nate, don’t be stupid.”

“Sorry,” he took another bite of pizza. “So tell me, oh wise magical one, what am I doing wrong?”

“I dunno.”

“I hate you.”

“Well, so, here’s the thing, Nate. It’s not like anyone can just do magic. If they could, they all would. There are people who are more, er, sensitive to the art than others. Some could practice their whole life and never conjure anything more than a cool breeze,” she saw the look on Nate’s face, “not that I think you’re one of them. I’m sure you have some affinity, it just might be, well, less than Courtney or myself. So there’s that. Umm, magic is also kind of personal. What I mean is, each person does it in their own way. Courtney, I think, sees magic as a separate entity, something to be tamed or controlled. And there’s no problem with that, it works well for her, mistress of the winds and all. I think it’s more something to be danced with, you know? Played around with, I guess. Then also there’s the whole motivation aspect of the craft.”

“Motivation?”

“You know how, like, in Harry Potter, he needed a happy memory to form a patronus to ward of Dementors?”

“Sure.”

“It’s kind of like that, except it doesn’t have to be happy or a memory.”

“So, Jen, help me out here, you’re telling me that to do magic I need a happy memory that is neither happy nor a memory?”

“What I’m saying is that magic comes from a very personal place. For example, when I started using my magic, before I got used to it, I had to sit in front of a mirror for hours, meditating on my appearance. I know Courtney must have told you that, to do magic, nothing is more important than truth. Well, for me, that truth was my body. I had to accept what it was before it could change,” she explained. “So, what’s magic to you?” Nate thought over his conversations with Courtney, the fire on her letter, the fire in the other world protecting Eloise. He likened it to the warm breezes in the cube, or when the blood rushes to your face when you blush.

“You’re gonna think it’s cheesy,” Nate said, blushing as he moved to cover his face with his hand. She waited for him to speak, poking at his arm when refused, until he finally relented. “I think it’s love.” Jenny stifled a laugh. “Oh, fuck you,” Nate laughed as he threw a slice of pizza at her.

“No, no, that’s good,” Jenny instructed him, “love is a very strong source of magic, I’m sure.” She put her hand to her cheek then, thinking with a pouty look about her. She sipped sullenly from her straw, which made a slurping sound as she was out of water. .”Okay, I’ve got an idea!” She nearly shouted in the restaurant, provoking some awkward looks. “Come with me,” she grabbed his hand as she pulled him from the establishment, “remember to breathe right.”

“Right,” Nate said, as the girl dragged him from the restaurant, squeezing his hand with just enough force to make his heart feel weird. He felt his face getting warm, as it normally did in these kinds of situations. He noticed how silky her hair looked, the moonlight shining against it, making the bronze glow with a silver twinge. Every so often, she’d turn back to look at him, and he’d see her big, brown eyes and melt. She squeezed his hand again, staring at him and biting her lips. She paused, then, looked down at her hand, and then at him, and then giggled a bit under her breath as she looked back at him. She squeezed his hand, then pulled it close to her as her fingers danced around his. He imagined his face quite red as she pulled him inside a building off the corner of Main Street. She flicked on the lights and he saw that it was a residence. She let go of his hand.

“Welcome, mon amie,” Jenny said, walking over to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of water. “Would you like something?”

“Who’s house is this?” Nate asked, awkwardly standing by the door.

“Mine,” she smiled, “you idiot.”

“Oh,” Nate said, then, realizing he’d never been in her house before, said again, “oh.” He tugged at his collar, he thought he must be sweating profusely as his face felt uncomfortably warm. “Why did you bring me here? What, uhh, what are you gonna do?” Nate asked, wiping his forehead. He felt like he had a fever, almost like he was about to collapse. She slowly walked over to him.

“Well,” she began, about six inches from his face, “part of doing magic is just relaxing every once-in-awhile, you know?” She reached and grabbed his hand. “Plus, we’ve been friends for… quite awhile, I thought it was about time you saw my place,” she said slowly, close enough that he could smell her breath. He could almost swear his body color was naturally red at this point. He stayed awkwardly silent, with his back pressed against the door. She looked into his eyes, and he hers, and noticed that she was slightly changing their color as they stared, from brown to gray to a soft blue and then back. Jenny was beautiful. She slowly leaned in and kissed him against the door, softly at first, but getting more and more intense as it went on, until she suddenly pulled back, yanking her hand from his. “Fuck, Nate, you’re hot!” She yelled.

“Well, I mean, I think you’re probably the more physically attractive one of the both of us,” Nate admitted, feeling a strange mix of awkward daze and perfect bliss.

“No, you moron,” she picked up her bottle of water, unscrewed the lid, and poured some on his hand; the water began to sizzle into steam as it rested on his skin. “Nate, we did it — that’s magic!”

“Courtney!” Nate yelled as he rushed back to the Cube. “I did it! I made magic,” Nate said, waking her from sleep. Her hair had fallen unattractively across her face and into her mouth, causing her to almost gag as she sprung awake. “Wha?” She offered, rubbing her eyes and brushing away her hair.

“I did magic!” Nate explained.”

“Oh, shit,” Courtney replied, quickly standing in her grey pajamas. “What did you do?”

“Well, I made my hands really hot, like burning hot,” he explained.

“Wow, that’s incredible, how did you do it?”

“So, I was hanging out with Jenny and-”

“Oh.” Courtney said, then sat back down. Her smile had faded and she leaned back against the back wall. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; when she opened them, there were tears in her eyes. “I thought this was an us thing,” she softly explained. Her voice cracked on “us.”

“No — well — it is, it really is, she and I were just out for pizza.”

“And you just did magic? Without even bringing it up to her? It just happened?” Nate looked at her, with his mouth slightly open as though he’d gone to speak but hadn’t quite been able to form words. “Yeah, I thought so,” she took a deep breathe in, “I’m proud of you for doing magic, congratulations, you’re almost there to getting to Eloise. You did it. Great job. Nate, you can go, now.” She covered her eyes with her arm.

“Court, listen…,” Nate began.

“I said: Go!” She yelled, and a gust of wind flew through the limbs of the Cube, pressing Nate against the back wall. It was a clear night, but Nate could’ve sworn he’d gotten pelted with some rain as well. He started shivering while she cried into her arm, visibly shaking back and forth as she gasped for air. “Please go, Nate,” she managed through her tears, “you’ve made it clear that I’m not enough.” The wind in the cube became almost frigid as Nate continued to shudder from the cold and the wet. “I get it though,” she continued through sobs, “she has really great magic, and she uses it incredibly well, and I just blow really hard. I know, Nate, I know. It’s okay. She’s strong and confident and beautiful and awesome and I’m just me. But when we work together we’re an us, Nate. And that’s something, I thought. I thought you came to me because we work well together, because we have fun, because you wanted to, not because I was the only magic girl in town.” She paused to gasp for air. “But I get it. I wasn’t enough. I know, I know, I’ve always known Nate. From my parents to Ultraman to you. No,” she gasped and let out a bleat that sounded almost like a laugh, “ha! No, I’m never enough.” There was a miniature storm, bellowing around the cube, harsh winds were forcing themselves throughout the small space, cutting at Nate, and forming a bubble around her. “Please, go Nate, it’s okay.”

“I’m not going,” Nate explained, shouting over the roaring wind. The winds sped faster, physically ripping the skin on Nate’s arm as he reached for her. He entered into the first gear of his powers, feeling his muscles tighten and blood rush about, gaining his patented super strength and senses. The wind still stung incredibly hard. “Courtney!” He yelled. “Courtney!” Th wind continued to hurry about, now beginning to tear apart some limbs of the treehouse. “Courtney Rose Aethea!” He yelled, trying to get her attention, and her magic stopped entirely. She turned to look at him, her eyes almost entirely red, and her tears and hair scattered about her face.

“Well, great!” She yelled back at him. “You figured it out! It’s cursed! My mom cursed it! You say it in it’s entirety and I lose my magic for a fucking hour! Congratulations, fucker! Go away!” She shouted again, and this time, with no magic or power, the girl terrified Nate. He exited from his powers.

“Courtney-”

“I said get the fuck away, Nate!” “Courtney-”

“I told you to-”

“Courtney!” “Why did you do it Nate, why?”

“I didn’t mean to! It was kind of an accident! I didn't even know she was magic until today, okay?”

“Oh, that’s bullshit Nate, what, did you think she could scientifically completely alter her body chemistry?

“Yes! Why is that so crazy for everyone to believe?”

“Nate, you’re a bad liar,” she yelled again, her eyes looked painfully dry. He looked her directly in the eyes, and smiled. They sat there for a long while. Courtney was still fuming, he knew, and he didn’t know what to do about it. So, they continued to sit. They continued to sit until Nate’s butt fell asleep once again and Courtney kept almost dosing where she sat. He wanted to assure her that it meant nothing and that it would never happen again, but he decided against it. Instead, after sitting on the floor of the cube for more than ten minutes, he moved to say what he knew to be the truth, and the only one that mattered to him.

“You know, I really love you,” he said to her.

“Piss off,” she replied.

“Oh, c’mon kid, you don’t have anything else to say?” He inched closer to where she sat. “Can’t think of some emotive words you’d like to share?”

“Nate, I swear I’m gonna brain you,” she threatened.

“Now, now,” Nate responded, poking her, “are you sure there’s not something else you’d like to tell me.” He poked her again, in the cheek. Despite herself, she reluctantly began to smile. He poked her again and she smacked his hand. “Not a thought in your head you’d like to share?”

“That you’re a bitch?” She asked, trying to hide her widening smile at his teasing.

“Well, definitely that,” he laughed, “but something a little more meaningful?”

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” Courtney asked, turning to him with a large grin that had found its way onto her face.

“Yes,” Nate responded, putting his arms around the younger girl and pulling her into a hug.

“Ugh, fine,” she conceded. “I love you too.” His hands erupted into flames.