#lets hope my poor boy never has to experience that

[eustasskidagenda]

anon asked: Hi! Jumping into your ask box to continue the 'afraid of having sex' series. Still with a female reader and the exact same prompt. But this time, with Usopp & Sabo because they are underrated. And also with Ace, Shanks and Mihawk. We need the whole cast with this headcanon! Ty and anon <3

Oh damn, let's go for a round 3 with some soft/dilf/underated boys! I'm so happy to receive a request with Sabo ♡ And sure, a round 4 with more underrated characters would be funny, especially with Killer & Marco. Anyway, for the moment, let's go for Usopp, Sabo, Ace, Shanks & Mihawk :D Thank you for requesting, I hope the outcome will match your expectations!

☆ Usopp, Sabo, Ace, Shanks & Mihawk with a s/o afraid of having sex

CW (generals): MDNI, smut, v!sex, f!reader, more are listed under each character 

WC : 3K

⇢ You can read the part one here and the part two here 

Usopp 

CW : virgin!Usopp, fingering (reader receiving),  oral sex (reader/Usopp receiving), slight pet name (babe), slight dirty talk, protected sex 

(Aw, poor Usopp is probably really stressed too)

Let's assume it's your first time ending up in the same bed. Due to his lie about his experience, he would feel extremely anxious. He claimed to have had sex many times, but it was a total lie. He's a virgin. When you confess that you're afraid because it's been a while since your last sex, he's relieved. At least you're nervous together, isn't that nice? Nevertheless, he is also ashamed and embarrassed by his deceit. He wants to be honest like you have been with him! But he's so nervous about your reaction.

"Y/N… I lied… I mean… I may exaggerate a bit my experience…" he would babble, avoiding your gaze. "It's possible that… this actually is my first time..." while fidgeting nervously and sweating wildly.

He's confused when you burst into laughter. "It was quite obvious to me. You're a bad liar." 

Poor Usopp is even more flustered. "Still, you have to make it for your lie." 

Even if you're not mad at him, he's still ashamed and jittery. Maybe as much as you, or even more. His lips would gently touch yours, and his shaky hands would roam all over your body. 

Please, guide this poor boy. Tell him how to pleasure you. 

His hands would be a bit butterfingered while circling your clit or fondling your breasts. Luckily, he cares about your needs and has a creative mind, so he would be pretty good at figuring out how your body works. 

Eager boy. He would stare intently at your pussy, astonished by its increasing wetness. He would never be satisfied. The way you squirm, moan and clench around his fingers is mesmerizing. 

"Babe, you're so wet down there. Love how you clench around me. Please do the same for my cock." 

And if you decide to go down on him… damn, Usopp would just turn into a whimpering, whiny mess. Would probably cum because he can't handle how good your mouth feels around his member.

Poor boy would be so embarrassed to cum that fast.

He would make an effort to repay the favor. But finding the right angle with his long nose is quite a challenge. "Ouch, my nose" all the two seconds. 

Again, eager boy. He would remain between your legs throughout the entire day and still crave more. Your pussy tastes and feels so good for his sanity. Please keep moaning his name, it's music to his ears. And if you pull on his hair, burying his head against your folds, he's in heaven. 

He's a conscientious boy, so he would wear a condom, use lube, and make sure you're relaxed enough. 

He would try to be as close to you as possible while slowly burying himself within you. Your walls stretching around his thick girth would be so captivating for him. 

"You're alright? Can I keep going?" 

A lot of shudders, shaky hands on your hips while he slowly starts to thrust into your tightness. "Babe, you feel so good clenching around me…" 

He would absolutely love to watch his cock covered with your wetness sliding in and out of you.

Wouldn't last that long because it's so overwhelming for him. But damn, he's so eager to make you squirm and moan all night (and all the next day...) He's already addicted to your body.

Sabo

CW : Dirty talk, fingering and oral sex (reader receiving), mention of choking, mention of spanking, slight teasing, protected sex, slight praises, slight pet name (sweetie)

Sabo is probably a very kinky boy. Pretty sure he would enjoy wrapping his claws around your neck and choking you. Or to make you wear his hat while you ride him. Or use his gloves to spank you, or... yeah, the list is endless. However, his soul is also kind and compassionate. He's a revolutionary, a big brother, and a protective person who craves freedom and justice. So if you're afraid because it's been a long time or nervous about getting hurt, he would be really nice to you.

"Sure sweetie, we'll take it slow." with a big, reassuring smile. 

Again, revolutionary boy. He would ensure that you are comfortable with each action and constantly verify your consent. "You're alright?" , "Can I touch you there?", "Can I keep going?"

"You're so beautiful" while looking at your naked body, covering it with a lot of sweet kisses along your collarbone, neck, breasts and lower stomach. He would be delighted to stroke your breasts for hours, as they feel so warm and soft in his hands. 

"Can I take them off?" While reaching for your panties.

Upon your nod, he would pull your panties down your legs with his teeth. Just to tease you. He would look at you, leaving a kiss on your inner thighs. He's good  (and a god) when it comes to anticipation. 

"You look so pretty for me. Want me to go down on you?" 

He would gently massage your legs with his thumbs, circling your inner thighs as you nod. The more you shiver and squirm in need, the more he feels satisfied with himself. "Need me so bad, Y/N?" 

Once more, kinky boy. He would love to spread your legs wide open to get a better look at your pussy clenching around nothing. Before finally going down on you. And damn, Sabo is a god when it comes to eating you out. He's really attentive to your needs and always cares about your reactions. He will follow your leads if you guide him or tell him what you like. Please, bury his head against your wet folds. He likes that. The way your body arching, the way you moan, beg, shudder, cry out while he circles your clit. It's music to his ear. If you cum against his lips, then, Sabo would be in pure heaven.

"Look at how wet you are. Can't wait to fill you up." While pushing two fingers inside you, curling them to find your sweet spot. And as he pulls them off, oh, sure, he would show you how wet you are because he's a tease. Before licking his fingers covered in your wetness. "You taste so good. I bet you pussy will be amazing around my cock."

If you tell him you're ready for more, Sabo, being a smart and responsible boy, would use a condom and lube.

"Shit… you're so tight. You're okay? Want me to stop?" While slowly burying his length inside you.  "That's my brave girl, taking all of my cock so well."

Sabo would make an effort to stay soft and sweet just for you. But you feel too good around him, how you clench and spasm around his girth, your tightness, and wetness... it’s too much for him.

"You look so beautiful with my cock buried inside you."

He would let out a shaky breath, gently steadying you while thrusting into you. Really beautiful moans close to your ears. 

And really clingy during the aftercare. 

(In his mind, he's already thinking about your next round and how his claws would look awesome on your throat.)

Ace

CW : creative use of DF (in a soft/sweet way), slight praises, fingering, face sitting, protected sex, slight dirty talk

If you explain to Ace that you're always nervous and stressed during sex, his first reaction is to panic. And to ask for help from Marco, because Ace is kind and afraid of hurting you. Or not being good enough for you. So he needs some advice, and well, Marco is a doctor. 

Once he's more informed, the next time you're having a passionate making-out session, Ace would try his best to reassure you and be extra sweet for you.

In fact, he doesn't have a lot of experience. He always thinks he's not worthy. So it's not easy for him to be intimate, and random hookups are not something he's comfortable with. 

He would sit you on his laps and cherish every inch of your body. Your curves are a sight to behold. He feels lucky to touch you. His hands are probably shaking a bit because he's both nervous and excited. He would slowly reach for your bottom and cup your ass cheeks with his hands. "I need you so bad, Y/N" 

He would always make certain that you are okay with every action. Like, asking you before touching your breasts, taking off your clothes etc. Such a sweet boy. 

He would just push your panties to the side, feeling the heat between your thighs. "Can I?" His voice thick with need and adoration. Your tightness and warmth around Ace's fingers would make him mesmerized. He would hold you tight while fingering you until you beg and beg for more.

Even if his cock is throbbing with need, but he would be focused on you, and only you. "You're so pretty. Feel how hard I am for you?" 

"You taste so good. I want more" while licking his fingers. 

He would ask you to sit on his face. Because he's so eager. He loves your body, how you feel, how you taste, and the warmth of your thighs pressed against his face. He would love to feel you squirm as he circles your cheek with his fingers and push the tip of his tongue inside you. 

Would playfully slap your ass or grip it to press your pussy more firmly against his lips.

When you tell him you're ready for more, Ace would feel a bit nervous again. So he would let you straddle him. At least you can control the depth. Plus, your body is beautiful, so cowgirl is an awesome position to watch all of your curves again and again.

"Fuck, you're amazing"

Another responsible boy, he would use a condom. Ace is too frightened to have a child by accident. 

He would hold your hips tightly and the moment his cockhead starts to stretch your walls, Ace would turn into a moaning mess because it feels too good for his poor soul. 

"Y/N, you feel so damn good." The more you impale yourself on his length, the more Ace would moan. The sensation is too overwhelming for him, he can't handle it. 

"You're taking me so well. You're alright? You feel me right there?" While gently rubbing his palms along your lower stomach. And if it hurts a bit, he would use his DF to gently massage your lower stomach, soothing you with the nice warmth. 

Ace will lay you on your back and nuzzle his head on your neck once you feel comfortable and relaxed. Although his thrusts are gentle, you can still feel the force behind them. He’s probably holding back a bit. He would be fond of the way you squirm when the cold pearls of his collar touch your skin. 

Beautiful, really beautiful moans. 

And would randomly fall asleep on you after he cum. With his cock still inside you.

Shanks 

CW : face sitting, slight praises, dirty talk, fingering (reader receiving), oral sex (reader receiving), unprotected sex, pet name (pretty girl), slight size kink, teasing

Shanks may be kinky as Sabo, but if you're already nervous due to stress, he won't bend you over the table to fuck you senseless. 

"Aw, my pretty girl is stressed? Why? Because I'm too big?" with a playful smile on his lips. He's such a tease.

He would be a little goofy, with some silly dad jokes that would make you laugh. Shanks is not always goofy. I mean, if you want him to fuck you rough, he can. But if you're nervous, then he won't mind making things extra fun. The more you laugh, the less nervous you are after all, and that's all he wants. He likes when sex is enjoyable and natural. 

"Maybe I'm armless, but at least, I'm pretty good with my last hand. Wanna try?" with a playful grin.

And damn, he's right. He is talented, even if he has only one hand. The easiest position for Shanks is to sit on his face. First, you're pretty and he loves feeling your juice drip on his chin. Secondly, he's sure he won't lose his balance and just fall on you randomly. Keyword: goofy.

Your pussy's taste would be so intoxicating. Perhaps even better than alcohol. With his hand, he would circle your clit with his thumb and push two thick fingers inside you. You can't help but cum as he stimulates you with his hand and tongue. 

"Mh, that's my pretty girl, all wet and open for me. Look at how my fingers are sliding with ease. I bet you're ready for my cock?" 

He would love how you feel flushed and flustered by his words. Such a tease. 

As you look at his thick and long cock twitching in need, he would just laugh playfully. "Aw pretty girl, don't be afraid, it doesn't bite. I'll stretch you out juuuust nice." 

Shanks is probably a bit lazy sometimes and also loves to look at his girl, so his favorite position is always when you're on top of him. He enjoys observing your curves and how you use him for your own pleasure. 

"Ride me, don't be lazy." 

(So sassy.)

"That's it, take me all the way in." As you gradually impale yourself onto his thick length. Despite your nervousness, he did a fantastic job of soothing you. He will try to alleviate your pain with more silly jokes if it's still painful. "Atta girl" as he's finally balls deep inside of you. 

He would love to watch you bounce up and down as you ride him. His gaze would be fixed on your breasts or his throbbing cock, sliding in and out, all covered by your wetness. "Fuck, you're really swallowing me. You like how nice I'm stretching you?" 

"You're riding me so well. You love riding your captain, huh?" He would squeeze your breasts or ass playfully while you're doing all the work. And, because he's a tease, he would circle your clit with his thumb. He would laugh as you squirm and coat his cock with your juice. "What's wrong, pretty girl?" 

Really chatty and playful throughout the whole time. If you tease him about his missing arm, he would laugh first. If you continue, be ready for him to fuck you senseless, pull on your hair, spank you, and even bite you. "Say that again?" 

(Sure, he would know you're unable to answer because of his relentless pounding. That’s too bad, right?)

Mihawk 

CW : slight size kink, fingering (reader receiving), oral sex (reader receiving), mention of knife play, slight praises, slight dirty talk, protected sex 

Mihawk is a gentleman. While he may have some kinks, sex with him is always about consent and respect. Even when he's extra rough.

So if you tell him you're really stressed because it's been a while since the last time you had sex and because of his size… he would be extra careful. 

Mihawk is really classy, so first thing first, he would run you a hot bath for the both of you. And tell you a couple of times how beautiful your bare body is. Gently, he would kiss all of your wet skin, easing your fears, and fondling your breasts. It's probably a bit scary to be so intimate with Mihawk, because his piercing eyes are really impressive. But he's a god when it comes to observing your reactions and learning from them. 

If you lean against his torso, his cock will be pressed against your back. All throbbing with need. But he won't ask you anything: he wants to satisfy you and only you. 

He would love the feeling of your breasts against his palms and sucking on your nipples. "I'm sure you're already all wet for me." Yes, even with the water, he would still know. Again, piercing eyes. "Wanna bet? Let's find out" 

And then, he would carry you to the bedrooms. Extra luxurious and precious bedsheets. The texture is heavenly on your skin. Mihawk would kiss every inch of your body, then spread your thighs. "Look like I was right" with a slight grin, before burying his head between your legs. 

Again, he's all about anticipation and elegance. He won't lick your folds as if he were a savage without manners. His first step would be to kiss your inner thighs. Keyword: teasing. He wants to see you squirm and loves to watch how wet you are already, just for a bit of teasing and anticipation. Perhaps he has a fantasy about running his sword (the small one around his neck) along your inner legs. In a soft way, sure. But he won't do it because you're already anxious.

And when he finally starts to eat you out, damn, it's pure bliss. He would constantly look at you with his hawk eyes to gauge your reactions. Figuring out how your body is working won't take him a long time. Be prepared to cum at least once against his lips. "Stay still." If you squirm too much because it feels too good.

After you cum, he would reach for your face and lips and kiss you. "You like how you taste? Because I do." With a playful grin. 

Another smart man, so he would both use a condom and lube. To reassure you, he would allow you to ride him. As you slowly sink yourself down his length, Mihawk would fall into an exquisite loss of control. 

While holding onto your hips or bedsheets, he would exhale a shaky breath. "You're so tight, I love how you clench around me." While circling your clit with his thumb to ease your potential pain. 

"You're riding me so well. That's my girl." Before giving you his hat. So now, you're a real cowgirl. Seeing his girl riding him with his hat would make his cock throb with need. His hands would tightly hold your hips to help you move up and down his length. The sloshing noises, your moans, shudders, how you clench around him, how your juice is dripping down his cock, how your breasts are bouncing with each thrust… it's too much to handle for his sake. 

"You're so pretty for me." 

He would end up really needy to feel your skin against his. Get ready to stay still on your back as he fucks you with a strong yet gentle pace. A lot of eye contact and intertwining fingers. 

And his deep sighs, maybe even low grunts. A pure delight.

[devilmademewriteit]

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

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[locketsvault]

「 CUDDLING WITH BSD MEN PT 1/4 」

pairings: dazai x reader ፥ kunikida x reader ፥ atsushi x reader ፥ ranpo x reader

tags: gender neutral reader, no agab mentioned, first person, fluff, cuddling/phyiscal affection

warnings: none!

other parts: ada ᨒ port mafia ᨒ doa + the guild ᨒ the hunting dogs

a/n: this should be a complete series, let’s hope I actually manage it lol. no gender or sex mentioned, no pronouns either!

// dazai osamu ⌇˚.༄

⮑ It scares me to say he’s actually a really good cuddler?

⮑ I don’t really see Dazai initiating it at first, and if he did it would mostly be to mess around with you. I think the first time you both cuddle each other is when one of you is not in a good place mentally. Whether that be you, he knows immediately and pulls you into his arms, cradling your head with the back of his hand while holding you close. Or it’s him, tucking his head into your chest or neck, his arm wrapped around your waist afraid to let go.

⮑ Once he gets used to being vulnerable and physically affectionate with his partner I believe he’s very physically affectionate. If he can cuddle with you, he will. In public? Not so much, he’ll stick to holding your hand or letting you rest your head on his shoulder. At home? He’s your personal leech. He blackmails you into cuddles lol. While rereading this I believe he’d be affectionate in public to drive kunikida insane.

⮑ Back to my first point, he’s a very good cuddler. It might not seem like it, especially when you look at his past. Whether or not he’s had experience with physical affection/knows exactly what to do, it doesn’t matter. Look at his personality as a whole, this boy knows how to work people out, and how to please them. His hold feelings secure, sometimes almost too much.

⮑ 9/10 cuddles are very comfortable most of the time, but sometimes you are not allowed to move and damn it you need to pee.

// kunikida doppo ⌇˚.༄

⮑ To be honest I don’t really see him as a cuddler, but he’ll do it for you.

⮑ The thing about Kunikida is that, as we all know, if he’s in a relationship with you he’s serious. And he’ll do anything to please you. So if your main form of affection is physical and you love cuddles, then he will cuddle you. He rarely initiates cuddle time, and usually when he does it’s because he can tell you need cuddles.

⮑ At first cuddles with kunikida are a bit stiff, but after some reassurance it becomes easier. He picks up on your favorite positions, what soothes you, and what irritates you. He writes all of this down ofc. He will never be little spoon during cuddle sessions, nope. Closest you get is him laying his head on your chest, but to him that requires letting someone else take the reins in the relationship which scares him. There are times though when he comes back from a case and is mentally distraught, and holding him is one of the only ways to soothe him.

⮑ Movie nights consist of you laying your body back against his chest, cuddles in bed can be anything in regards of holding you. He won’t admit it but sometimes when a day has gotten to him knowing you’re safe in his arms help. Never in public though, that’s a no no. Especially in front of his colleagues like Dazai. Cuddles are a private matter.

⮑ 7/10, after time he’s cuddles are comforting, but sometimes he misses the mark.

// atsushi nakajima ⌇˚.༄

⮑ He purrs. On accident. That’s the headcanon.

⮑ The first time he purrs you’re both cuddling and he for the first time completely lets his defenses down around you. That plus the fact that his tiger is very found of you, he ends up purring. Poor baby is so flustered and he won’t stop apologizing. It’s cute.

⮑ In my mind he’s 50/50 with his cuddles in the beginning, but it doesn’t take long for him to learn! He’s an orphan and he grew up with no affection, especially not physical. So it’s all new to him. But I definitely see him as a super cuddly person. I think after his first time cuddling you he’d become addicted.

⮑ The first time you two cuddled it was slightly awkward, he didn’t know what was comfortable for him and was afraid of hurting you. How? I don’t know, but he’s Atsushi so anything was possible in his mind. Once he finds the right positions for him and gets used to it he loves physical affection and cuddling. It doesn’t matter who’s holding who. In fact, he loves when they switch it up and his partner holds him sometimes instead.

⮑ Play with his hair and he will always purr. He hated it at first, he felt embarrassed. But after reassurance and realizing it was comforting to you he got used to it. Sometimes when you’re not doing well and you’re cuddling, he’ll purr on purpose to comfort you. This should be a more serious headcanon I’m pffft. In all seriousness he loves cuddling you and his temperature runs high so he’s very warm.

⮑ 10/10 cuddles in my opinion. Warm, comfortable, soft, like cozing up next to a furnace on a nice winter day.

// ranpo edogawa ⌇˚.༄

⮑ Can he even sit still long enough for cuddles?

⮑ Cuddling with Ranpo is like being in a relationship with him, you never know what’ll happen or when it’ll happen. It’s chaotic at best. Whether he has a hard time staying still, focusing on cuddles, or if he’ll ask or initiate them. Even more so, sometimes he likes to mess with you if you ask him to cuddle with you.

⮑ No really he will tease you, in public or private. Which brings me to my second point, he loves pda. He could care less that it makes people uncomfortable. At work? Someone is sitting in someone’s lap, it’s a must. I don’t make the rules. On the train? He’s resting his head against your shoulder either sucking on a lollipop or rambling to you.

⮑ It’s easy to say that the first time you both cuddled it was actually before you two were even in a relationship. Personally I do not see Ranpo dating someone he does not know, so you guys were friends first. And at first, he didn’t really care for being touched or touching anyone. But after a rough case you offered him a hug and he all but melted into your arms. Which can I just say, having him in your arms feels like heaven. He’s so squishy and cute. Holding him while he’s pouting? You’re done for.

⮑ I think it’s safe to say that after long days or tough cases being in your arms and being told he did great today is exactly all he needs. Even sweets can’t compare to that. I now headcanon he calls you sweets, it’ suits him.

⮑ 8/10, he’s very cute and soft, laying against him and taking a nap while he work is a dream. He just can’t sit still for long.

main hub ✦ masterlist ✦ to do list

[ashwhowrites]

Hi beautiful! I just wanted you to know I absolutely love your work! You are a phenomenal writer! I’m so excited that your request are back open! I was a curious cat wondering if I could request a best friend eddie Munson x shy reader, where she loves Star Trek next generation and has tickets to a con but none of the group will dress up with her and Eddie surprises her and does, maybe a kiss or sneaky smut! Hehe! I’m sorry if this is awkward turtle! 🐢

I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it. Thank you for requesting 🫶🏻

⚠️ disclaimer - I've never seen Star Trek NG so I goggled characters and I'm sorry if this is not accurate at all

Tickets to Con

Y/N had nerdy friends, she just tended to me a little more nerdy. Her friends enjoyed things but didn't like to dress up or do cosplay, but Y/N loved it. She found so much joy in putting together a costume and attending cons to show off and meet people just like her. The only thing she disliked was always going alone.

She hoped this year would be different. She got tickets to a Star Trek con and tickets only came in pairs. She did not want to waste her money and have no one join her. So she asked all her friends, even her best friend Eddie. And they all said no.

She was devastated but refused to let that ruin her experience. She enjoyed doing her thing, even if it was alone. She worked on her cosplay for days, creating the perfect Troi outfit. She had everything pinned down to perfection, her hair, makeup, and outfit.

~

Y/N felt excitement fill her once she walked into the building. She took in everyone's costumes, everyone seemed to be with someone and she felt a little sad none of her friends came with her. She walked around, running to her favorite tables for signed autographs and pictures.

She was having so much fun that she barely noticed an hour passed. From all the running around, she felt like she was sweating through her costume, so she stepped outside for fresh air.

"Sir, I've already told you, you cannot go in without a ticket!" The sound of security was the first thing she heard when she stepped out. She didn't want to be caught up in the mess so she turned her back.

"Well, SIR, I already told you my friend has it and she's inside!"

That voice sounded really familiar. She scrunched her eyebrows as she turned around. She swore she felt her jaw smack the concrete.

Her best friend was standing there fighting with security in a perfect Riker cosplay matching her.

"Eddie?" she called out in shock

He looked to see where her voice came from and smiled when she came into view.

"SEE THAT'S HER!" he yelled

The guy turned around, "Is he with you?" the poor guard looked over it

"Yes," Y/N laughed, handing the guy the ticket. Eddie stuck out his tongue at him as he made it into the building.

"What are you doing here?" Y/N asked, excitedly throwing the boy into a bone-crushing hug.

"I couldn't let my favorite girl be here all alone," he said, accepting her hug.

She pulled away and Eddie swore he had never seen her smile so big. She shrugged off the way his words made her face burn. She always had a crush on Eddie but figured she was way too geeky for his taste.

"Well you are the best Riker I've seen here," Y/N said

"Yeah well, I am the best looking," Eddie shrugged with a teasing smirk

Y/N tried not to melt into the floor

"I did some research and apparently our two characters are sorta into each other, do we play as our characters or just dress as them? Because I am ready to fully commit to the romance," Eddie joked. Y/N hoped he couldn't hear how hard her heart was beating.

"PLAY!" she shouted, embarrassed as he laughed, "We definitely have to be into each other," she lied.

She felt like squeaking when his arm wrapped around her shoulder.

"Let's do this, baby"

~

The event went amazing with Eddie by her side. They even won Best Couple cosplay and got a small trophy then their picture was taken. Y/N happily carried the trophy to her car, placing it gently in the backseat.

"I can't believe I'm going to say this, but damn that was fun!" Eddie said, chuckling as he leaned against her car. She laughed as she shut the backdoor and moved to her driver's door.

"Can I count on you for next time?" she asked, Eddie couldn't help but smile as she smiled.

"Yes," he said with no hesitation

"Thank you for coming. I know it's not your thing but it means a lot," she said, giving him another hug. But this one was more soft and close.

Eddie didn't say anything but hugged her back. He slowly pulled away but kept his arms wrapped around. She felt nervous under his stare and shivered at how close they were.

She watched as he leaned in, his eyes flicking from her eyes to her lips. She held her breath as his lips drew closer to hers, and then his lips landed on hers.

She gladly kissed him back, trying not to show how eager she was that this was finally happening. She imagined this almost every night and it was never as good as this. His lips were soft and warm, and the way he had control over her made her stomach flutter.

She stared as he pulled away, he gave one last small kiss to her lips before he removed his arms from her.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said with a smile

"Goodnight," she breathed out in awe, watching as he walked away

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @thegemaqua @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxt@ineedmentalhelp123

[froggibus]

Hey can I request headcanons for overwatch characters and if their gf was drunk and asked them "would you still love me if I was a worm" with the overwatch men please (you don't have to do all of them but PLEASE include McCree and Reaper)

“Would You Still Love Me If I Was A Worm?” - Overwatch Boys

Includes: Cassidy, Reaper, Genji, Zenyatta, Ramattra, Hanzo, Lucio + Baptiste (w gn! reader)

Genre: fluff/kinda crack?

CW: general crack, kinda dumb tbh, suggestive in Genji and Baps, Ram is Ram (lmk if I missed anything)

been in a little bit of a writing slump but this was too good to pass up lol. I want to get a bit more writing done this week so who knows how that will go. anyway, enjoy <3 hope you like it anon!

————

Cassidy:

“what kinda question is that??”

looks at you in flabbergastation 

you pout and bat your eyes at him and of course, he breaks 

“you’re really not gonna let this go, huh? alright—of course I’d still love you, darlin’. I’d keep you in a lil jar and you could accompany me on my missions”

a jar????

now you’re the flabbergasted one 

jars don’t have air—he’s gonna let you suffocate?? 

what are you?? rainbow dash (sorry)??

somehow leads to him going out into the yard despite it being the middle of the night to try and find a worm

somehow finds one?? 

keeps it in a jar as a pet just to prove he would love you as a worm

even names it after you and pets it’s head and calls it “my wriggly little y/n”

weirdly wholesome experience would try again

Reaper

“of all the stupid shit you could have asked me…”

he says that but he’s already considering it after the question leaves your mouth 

would he love you as a worm? 

“what kind of worm”

what do you mean what kind of worm?? does it matter?? 

obviously the pink wriggly kind 

he has to ponder this 

sits in his chair stroking his chin trying to think of how you would be as a worm

“would you still be able to talk and think or would you be an actual worm”

????

“it would be me if I was a worm, Gabe”

more pondering 

“I’d love you platonically but you would probably have a short life span. I’d throw you a worm funeral.”

better than any response you could have expected but would not try again

Genji

“would we still have sex”

please hit this man

he’s joking of course—he’s not that weird 

“why would you be a worm tho”

just answer the question, Genji

green cyborg ninja dude has no idea what to answer 

will you be mad if he loves your worm self more than your current self?? would you be weird if he said he would love a wormy version of you??

“I would get myself turned into a worm too and then we could have a wormy life together and a wormy wedding and little wormy kids”

“you just want to have wormy sex” >~>

“that too”

at least he’s honest?

exactly as you expected, would not try again

Zenyatta

“a worm? like the insect?”

“yes? what other worms are there”

considers this

“is everything okay?”

poor omnic boy is so confused. are you planning on turning into a worm??? 

please reassure him it’s just a hypothetical and you’re not turning into a worm

goes on a ten minute tangent about how we are all the same in the Iris, and that he will love you no matter what form you take

honestly so wholesome + cute 

“i will care for you in this life, and the next, and all of the ones after that. even the ones where you are a worm.”

good enough would try again

Ramattra 

“No”

way to sugarcoat it, babe

it’s only when you get upset that he sighs and pulls you into his lap

“why would you ever become a worm? is someone trying to harm you? you know I would never let anyone bring harm to you.”

you try to explain that it’s just a hypothetical but he’s already going on a tangent on what he would do if you got turned into a worm

talks for five minutes alone on how he would defeat your enemies and defend your honour 

says he would “put you out of your misery”????

“you would KILL ME?!”

“as an act of honour”

babe….

0/10 would not try again

Hanzo

“why”

idk bro just answer the question 

lots of sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose

“would I also be a worm or am i still human” 

only gets more confused when you say he’d be a human and you’d be a worm

probably looks up worm life expectancy and if worms are capable of love 

“would you even know who I am if you were a worm”

has to ask a million questions before he can give his final verdict 

lets out a long sigh before looking you dead in the eyes 

“…yes”

cute in the end but would not try again 

Lucio:

“would you still love me if I turned into a frog?”

that’s not the question 

somehow it turns into a discussion on if he would eat your worm self if he was his frog self? 

he insists he wouldn’t and would let you ride on his back but you insist his frog instincts would be too strong 

“babe I’ve once seen you almost eat your own finger while eating chips”

“ok and??”

says you guys could live in a swamp together and he would protect you from evil

“I could be like your own frog superhero. I could even sing you little froggy songs”

makes up this entire life of you guys living together as a frog and a worm and him serenading you by croaking songs at night 

honestly it’s the best reaction you could have gotten, would try again

Baptiste:

“i would find you a cure and turn you back into a human”

honestly he’s very amused by this whole situation 

“but what if I want to be a worm”

“if I cure you and you want to turn back into a worm, that’s on you”

fair enough

insists he needs to ‘examine’ you so he knows you’re not turning into a worm 

makes a lot of jokes at your expense too

finally sighs and admits he would keep you in a little terrarium with all the food and nutrients you need 

“ha, so you would love me if I was a worm”

“love is a strong word”

good enough, would not try again

[luvrodite]

JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

synopsis. the room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. you smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. a pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other. the only problem, you realise when bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant. 

content warning. fem!reader, inspired by The Boy (2016), dark content, horror, extreme dubcon, non consensual voyeurism, violence, death, blood, masturbation, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie please let me know if you feel i've missed any tags

additional note. idk i’m trying my hand at something new but also this isn’t for everyone and that is OK! please don’t read if you’re not interested in the above tags and remember that you curate your own internet experience. peace and love.

minors and blank blogs do not interact, you will be blocked. please have your age in your profile

read on ao3

You see the notice when you need it the most. Seeking Household Manager/Nanny for Child, written in small bold letters on the corner of your friend’s open newspaper. You’re glad then, for their insistence on subscribing to the papers of surrounding cities, the Gotham Gazette something akin to a beacon of hope when you nearly topple over yourself to reach for the issue and scan the ad. When they’ve saved the glass of wine you nearly knocked over, their eyebrows furrow into a disdainful frown. 

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

You look up from the black and white print, breathless. Immediate start. 9 to 6 weekdays. Boarding and meals provided.  “It isn’t like I’ve got that many other options.”

They grimace, leaning over to skim the print. “It’s in Gotham. You’re just asking to get robbed, at the very least. Have you ever even looked after a kid?”

The double digits in your bank account weigh on you, the suitcases that have been pushed into their storage closet. The couch that’s served as a bed for the past month has begun to mold itself to the shape of your body – and isn’t that a humiliating thought, for how much had been spent on it, it deserves more than for its primary purpose to be housing a poor girl. Your friend sits beside you, clad in thousands of dollars worth of clothing and sneers at what’s beginning to look like the only option you have.

You push down the urge to bite back, eyeing them pointedly instead. “I can’t afford to be picky. Besides, I’ve babysat my cousins before. It’ll be fine.”

.

.

.

The semester is well underway when you get the email, midterms that you haven’t so much as glanced at closely approaching and about a dozen other things to do that threaten to break you into hives when you linger on it for too long. A Mr Bruce Wayne confirms that you’re fit for the job, and he looks forward to meeting you. You stare at the cracked screen of your phone until the letters begin to blur into one another, feeling the rising lump in your throat. A dinner party goes on around you, all friends of friends who you’ve never exchanged more than a few words with. They don’t miss you when you slink away to the bathroom to cry, relief pulling the stopper of your emotions free.

Not wasting any time, the car comes for you early in the next morning and your friend sees you off, massively hungover and raising a hand as you pile the meagre collection of your belongings into the trunk. You are grateful to be rid of the townhouse, and in truth you think they are glad to be rid of you – a month and then some of their poor, Poor, border taking up space on their couch. It’s an unkind thought, fueled by the bitter humiliation of your failure – they’d not complained once, unthinkingly, unhesitatingly opening their door to you when the job you’d been relying on to (barely) make ends meet had let you go and your roommate had quit on you not a week later. 

The stress of it all lulls you into sleep as the car pulls away from the city, cement grey turning to green and rolling farmland. You’re too drowsy to appreciate any of it, and you’re out before you even leave the state. 

You wake from your dreamless sleep, startling at the sound of screeching metal. A wrought iron gate pulls open slowly, disused hinges whining loudly. It feels as though an eternity passes before the car is able to pass through, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end when you cross the threshold, eyes drinking in the secluded land around you. Gravel crunches under the tires as you drive down a private road, lined on both sides by looming oak trees. Through the gaps, you catch a glimpse of the wide stretch of land that makes up the Wayne estate.

The chill of the morning has travelled with you, it seems. A thin cloak of mist hangs in the air, painting all it touches in wide strokes of silvery grey. Through bleary eyes, you take it all in. The car turns a corner and you duck your head to peer through the windshield, a large manse coming into view suddenly, only growing bigger the closer you get. 

It looms over you when you come to a stop, blotting out the already pale autumn sunlight. Here, everything is tinged in a light blue film, forever suspended in twilight despite the early afternoon hour – the sun isn’t due to set for another few hours but you half expect the moon to be hanging in the sky when you step out of the car.

Sleep softened and weary from the journey, you stretch your limbs, trying to regain some of the feeling after sitting for so long. Your legs feel static-y and you’re conscious as the front door opens and the face of your employer comes into view, of the wrinkles in your clothing. Discreetly, you smooth a hand over the hem of your shirt, but it only folds back after your palm passes over it.

“Mr Wayne,” you greet when the man comes to a stop in front of you. 

It’s difficult to mask your surprise. For all that you’d spent the better part of the last few weeks emailing him, you hadn’t expected someone so...old. He looks a great deal older than a man nearing his fifties, raven hair streaked with thick locks of silver and exhaustion lining an aged face. You feel a pang of sympathy.

“Hello. I hope the journey up wasn’t too bad?” He turns his attention to the driver, who has begun to lift your things out of the car, eyes creasing kindly at the corners and an awkward smile lifting his mouth. “You can just take those on inside, thank you.”

“I can’t complain,” you tell him easily. I wasn’t awake enough to. “You’ve got a beautiful home.”

“Ah, thank you,” he mutters, glancing back over his shoulder at the house. Upstairs, a window is open, and the curtain flutters through, white fabric rippling in the air. “Come on inside, we’ve got a lot to get through before I have to leave.”

You pause at the doorway. “You’re leaving tonight?”

He hums. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive me.” He offers no further explanation and you’re too tired to press.

He runs you through the basics – emergency contacts, the local police department’s number – as he takes you through a number of rooms on the lower floor. In the living room, as he’s telling you about the fair distance to the town, your attention snags on the portrait hanging over the mantle.

It’s a large thing, set in a gilded frame with a small plaque below it. It dates to a little over a decade ago, and you look up to the subjects of the painting. Of the two faces, you recognise only one and it takes a few seconds to register. Bruce, much, much younger, stands for the portrait with an easy smile curving his mouth. The only wrinkles to be found are those that frame his eyes. He’s handsome, you think, stunned, with an old movie-star kind of charm, blue-black hair and pearly grin. It’s a stark difference from the man that stands next to you now, lacking all the heaviness that clouds over him now.

There’s a little boy in the painting, too. You draw closer, curious. Bright blue eyes, almost blazing, stare back at you, a soft, sweet face that offers a toothy smile.

You’re ushered into the next room before you can get a closer look, but the date lingers with you. What could have happened in such a short amount of time, you think, to cause such a change? Ten years had passed, yes, but the age in your employer’s face spoke of a greater, age old haunting.

You are finally led, after a labyrinthine tour through the manor and its various rooms, to the bedroom of your charge. 

Something, you aren’t quite sure what, tips you off before you even open the door. It might be the sudden tense set to Bruce’s shoulders, hiking up nearly imperceptibly as he reaches for the doorknob, or the tremble in his voice he disguises with a cough. 

“Jason,” he murmurs, “is eager to meet you.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him, too,” you say slowly, and he steps through the threshold.

The room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. You smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. A pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other.

The only problem, you realise when Bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant. 

He turns and you freeze when you take in the mass in his arms.

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

Pale, porcelain and unmoving, a doll stares back at you from its perch in your employer’s arms. Its likeness is a mimicry of the boy in the painting, a manufactured blush painting its cheeks in soft rose, dull blue eyes lacking the vibrancy of the portrait. It unnerves you, staring at it, and you look back and forth between Bruce and the thing but the former remains steady, expectant.

You raise a trembling hand, fingers clasping one small hand in greeting – it’s barely bigger than a pre-schooler, and even smaller in your arms when he deposits in your arms. 

(It takes every ounce of your strength not to flinch at the press of cool ceramic against your skin.)

Whether this is a sick joke or some awful scheme, your situation takes time to reveal itself. Bruce addresses the thing as though it were flesh and blood and you follow, uncertain and stilted. Rising unease makes it difficult to look at the thing properly, and you trail after Bruce back downstairs cradling it stiffly. 

It begins to piece itself together easily enough when on your way out of Jason’s bedroom, you catch sight of various photographs littering the surface of the walls and end tables, Bruce and a very real boy with bright blue eyes. It’s easy then, to understand what has happened, and what is being asked of you. Your discomfort softens, if only slightly, making way for sympathy. 

You know loss. Death is no stranger to you. The grief of losing a child – it feels cruel to fault your employer for how he’d chosen to cope. Soft-hearted, your chest aches when you catch the lingering of his gaze on the photographs as you pass them in the hall. So dearly loved, it’s no wonder the death of his son had driven him to...this. 

Still, you wonder whether this is right, to take money from him like this. It feels as though you’ve taken advantage of this man, accepting to live in his house and eat his food in return for services that wouldn’t come to be.

But the emptiness of your wallet stings like a phantom lash, the desperation of your situation weighs on you and you close your mouth. 

Bruce takes your leave almost immediately after your tour concludes. You stand on the front steps with the doll in your arms, a puppet held like a toddler on your hip, and watch him pile into a sleek black car.

“If you need anything,” he says, “they’ll take care of you in town.”

Something in your consciousness snags on the tightness in his voice, something that’s just out of reach, a note you can’t quite make out. His eyes flicker down to the mass in your arms and you follow his gaze. There is nothing you find, the black of the doll’s sweater unruffled, the manufactured flush of his rosy cheeks still cool to the touch – still porcelain. It has not suddenly gained the weight and warmth of a real child.

“Jason’s a good boy. He won’t give you too much trouble,” Bruce murmurs. 

When you look up, you catch the comet tail of a funny look, winking out of existence before you can see it properly. It triggers a crawling sensation on the back of your neck that you try to tamp down. Grief is all it is. You chalk it up to grief.

He takes your leave, then, piling into his car with a brief goodbye to the doll. A cloud of dust kicks up behind him and by the time it settles, the car has vanished.

The doll remains tucked in its bed in the hours that follows your employer’s departure, and once or twice you’ll peer into the room, tugged by an invisible string towards the empty bedroom to make sure you haven’t dreamt it all. But every time you open the door, there it lies, porcelain and so very still. 

You take the rest of the evening to explore the house – properly this time, lingering in the various rooms of this huge home. Part of you wonders how you’ll manage to keep the place tidy. You’re no neat freak, but it seems a herculean task for one person to manage the entire household. Dust amasses easily, and you eye the high ceilings of each floor critically – how on earth are you meant to get up there?

You file it away as a worry for later, drifting in and out of rooms. An office, untouched, down the hall from your room with a sturdy, mahogany desk and large window which offers you a view of the estate. Guest rooms on guest rooms, white tarp covered furniture and slightly stale air. You find the library after a few turns, drawing closer to a table stacked with books. 

They’re well loved, each with a child’s scrawling handwriting in the front cover. Property of Jason Peter Todd. 

It sends a pang through you and you pick up the books, flipping through them absentmindedly. It’s fairly advanced for a younger child, you think. One of them piques your interest and when you leave the room a little while later, it’s with the hardcover in your hands.

Your first night in the manse is restless. The house is old. Every so often, the bones of the place snap and crack, shuddering under a great weight. You curl further into the heavy blankets of your bed, willing your burning eyes to close but the nap on the way up has left you unable to sleep. You let out a frustrated sigh, a hand smacking against the sheets before you push yourself up to sit against the headboard and switch on the bedside lamp. From where you sit, the mirror in the corner of the room shines your reflection back at you, a soft orange diffusing through the room. 

Down the hall, another snap of the foundations. You shiver, and reach for the book, opening the cover to the name scribbled inside. The clock on your phone reads a bright 2:43 and you flip the page.

To Mrs. Saville, England. St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking...

Dawn comes in slow breaths, the world swallowed in a cool, blue mist as the sky begins to lighten. You have long since succumbed to your fatigue, the pages of your borrowed book splayed open against your sheets and eyes closed to the world. The shadows lengthen on the floor, the house echoes, groans, and sunlight slips in through the gaps in your curtains. 

Still, you sleep.

.

.

.

The schedule that Bruce leaves you with is left on the table in Jason’s room, a sheaf of papers detailing his day at length – when he is to take his breakfast, lunch and dinner, when you are to sit down with him for his lessons. 

There are more pressing things that hold your attention – namely, the matter of your coursework. 

When you wake the following day, it is a little after noon and you curse when you realise you’ve slept half the day away. The list of things to do hasn’t grown any shorter in your search for a job. In fact, when you sit down at the desk in the office with your laptop and connect to the internet – poor, laggy – it only seems to have grown exponentially. 

You spend most of the day holed up there, staring at the screen of your laptop as you try to catch up, typing out notes upon notes until your eyes burn and the emptiness of your stomach is too hard to ignore. In the kitchen, you assemble a plate of what you can find. Cold cuts of meat, cheese in the fridge that seems edible, bread slathered in butter, a few slices of fruit.

It isn’t a proper meal, but it tides you over until dinner, when you wander out of the study to root through the butler’s pantry and put together a simple bowl of pasta. 

You eat alone in the kitchen, sitting at the island and staring at the grooves in the counter-top. The silence presses in on all sides of you and not even scrolling through social media, of which a limited number of posts actually deign to load, distracts you from the stillness of it all. For some reason the tinny sound of your music, filtering through your wired headphones, isn’t enough either. 

Dinner is a short affair, before you return to your work. 

It’s a gradual thing, the building anxiety in your gut. The loneliness and late hour are no friends of yours and the tottering pile of coursework threatens to topple over, crushing you beneath a mountain of assigned readings and lectures. The world had not waited for you to get your shit together, and midterms had crept up on you before you could blink.

It isn’t the time for panic. You stave it off when the anxiety simmering in your cells threatens to boil over, willing your tears away. The third cup of coffee at your desk side has grown cold, and the espresso tastes bitter when you bring the mug to your mouth, clinging to your tongue like film. 

You get back to bed well into the evening, too exhausted to shower the day off. It’s all you can do to let out a few bitter tears before unconsciousness claims you, a distant throbbing in your head that you ignore in favour of sleep.

how is it out there? haven’t heard from you since you left, just checking in you get there okay? let me know

The texts on your phone are responded to in a perfunctory manner – yes, everything’s fine. talk 2 u soon. very busy !! – before you shove it into a drawer and return to your work.

You think the isolation must be getting to you when things begin to go missing.

It’s easy to grow lonely out here, you realise on the third day when you pick up your phone to message a friend and the connection is so bad your texts barely go through. A rare break from your work, you curl up in the window seat of your bedroom and thumb through the photos on your camera roll. Faces you haven’t seen, fond memories of nights out and shared experiences – your old life seems farther away from you than ever, and part of you is a little bitter that it’s only the case for you. 

out for G’s bday!!! we miss u text u when im home?

Accompanying those texts are photos – they take an age to load, of course, but when they finally do, your eyes burn with jealousy at the wide, drunken grins, carefree and happy. 

It seems especially cruel to you that fate would deal you such a poor hand in comparison to those around you. The girls you love – whose circle you’d once been part of, young, privileged enough to be reckless – get to reel through their lives without a care. Here you were, miles away from anyone else, a grand total of fifty dollars to your name and with only a fucking doll for company. 

Envious, self loathing and miserable, you don’t reply to the messages.

You try to reason that you’ll get to it later, that you have work to do, that the house only seems to grow wider and lonelier around you. 

Work. 

You fling your phone to the side, pressing your hands to your face and letting out a heavy breath. It clatters against the floor with a dull thud and you can already imagine the newest addition to your screen’s collection of hairline fractures. 

You file it away – just another thing you don’t have time for.

Back in the study, you sit down at the desk, only to stop short. Where your pen and notebook had been, outlining your midterm paper, the ballpoint is nowhere to be seen. You peer over the edge of the desk, ducking your head underneath, but there’s no sight of it. You’re certain you’d left it just there, atop the paper. 

It’s innocuous enough that you forget about it, coming up with a replacement when you rifle through the drawer of the desk. The thought leaves your mind when you return to your work, new, blue ink crossing out black to scribble notes in the margins. It’s not a loss you mourn – or notice – much. 

Your bracelet, however, preceded by the vanishing of your clothes, is. 

A pair of jeans, your underwear and a shirt had been folded on the counter only twenty minutes ago when you’d entered the bathroom to take a shower. Now, clad in only your towel, you stare at an empty spot and feel something like fear prickle over your skin. 

Blood rushes in your ears the longer you remain in place – for what, you have no idea. Perhaps willing your things to return in between blinks, assure you that it had only been a trick of the light, or that the caffeine and stress had gotten to you.

No such luck. Your belongings do not reappear and the longer you remain in the bathroom, the more you feel like a sitting duck, like soft-bellied prey waiting to be caught. 

You venture out of the bathroom timidly, clutching the front of your towel. The floor is cold under your bare feet and you suck in a breath, trying to remain quiet. The house is quieter than usual, it feels like, when you peer carefully out into the hall. There is no sign of any disturbance, no sound from the lower levels or any of the surrounding rooms. 

The closed door of your bedroom is much more ominous than it ought to be. You stare at it for a long time, heart in your throat, before you reach for the doorknob with shaky hands.

A soft, scared noise leaves your throat before you can reel it in. Your room has been nothing short of ransacked, clothes and other belongings strewn about your bed and the floor. There isn’t an inch of it that hasn’t been left unturned, drawers pulled out, trunk at the foot of your bed sprung open, the fucking covers pulled back. You step further into the room, horror only growing as you spin slowly, taking it in. 

Somewhere down the hall, something clatters and your blood turns to ice in your veins. You whirl back to the open door and lunge forward to slam it shut, breath rattling in your chest as you fumble with the locks on it, palms sweaty and fingers trembling so badly you fear it’ll sweep open on you before you can latch it. Water drips into the carpet at your feet when you finally lock the door and back away, trembling lips pulling downwards. 

Fear blurs your vision in saltwater, slipping down your cheeks when the sound of laughter filters through the walls, a soft, child-like, playful sound that only drives you further backwards, a scream spilling from your lips when you bump into the post of your bed, the wood pressing against your back unexpectedly and startling you. 

“Please...” You don’t know what you’re pleading for, or who to. Tears stream down your damp face, and your breath hitches, stuttering over a sob when the shadows in the hall shift, the gap underneath the door showing movement right outside your door. 

And then – so sweetly, so softly you wonder if you’ve heard it wrong – your name.

You begin to cry in earnest then, taking in big, shuddering breaths that wrack through your body. Crouching, you press your hands to your face, sobbing louder when the voice continues – 

“Please come out, I promise I’ll be good.”

Your scream catches in your throat, turning into a spluttering cough when the door knob rattles slightly before stilling. You watch through teary eyes, snivelling, as the shadows move once more and then, as if it had never happened, the house falls into silence once more.

It takes a while for you to move from your spot on the floor, to relax your frozen muscles and pull yourself up, clinging to the banister of your bed to steady yourself. Snot and salt smeared across your face, you keep your eyes on the thin gap beneath the door, the small, solid mass in the centre of it.

You must be going crazy. The isolation must be getting to you. It’s the only reasonable explanation you can procure when you open the door and find your clothes in a clumsily folded pile, the metal of your bracelet glinting amongst the folds of fabric. Holding a hand to your head, you slump against the door frame, feeling the energy leave your body. 

“Fuck.”

It takes you a long time to clean up your room, pulling on your clothes with an eye kept on the door and returning your things to their places. Nothing is broken, but you don’t know whether you should be thankful for it. The house continues to breathe as it had before, the structure settling back into place after letting whatever had been outside your door loose. You don’t leave your room for the rest of the night.

Daylight returns some of your courage to you. You venture outside, clutching the end of a pair of scissors as a safeguard. You don’t know how much damage they’re actually capable of, meant for cutting through first aid dressings and fabric, the blade barely an inch long – but it feels comforting that you aren’t empty handed.

In his bedroom, where you had last left the Doll, you do not find it. Even the sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains isn’t enough to fully shield you from your unease. You look all over the room, pushing aside the curtains, peering under the bed, but it isn’t there. 

The afternoon you had planned to spend studying is wasted away on a hunt for the thing. You check each of the surrounding rooms, first, before moving to the upper floors. In each, all that greets you is a thick layer of dust, white tarp and the smell of long undisturbed air. It grips you, the intense need to locate the doll. You cannot place anything beyond this feeling, only that you must find it.

In a downstairs office – what you assume serves as Mr Wayne’s study – you find, curiously, a few papers scattered over the edge of his desk. At first you are too preoccupied to pay it any mind, instinctively crouching to pick them up and arrange it. Your mind remains fixated on the task at hand. 

Chance, or perhaps the machinations of fate, pulls your sight to the bright, bold print on the paper in your hand and you process the text belatedly, stilling on the floor.

GOTHAM GAZETTE Wayne Heir Found: Body Recovered From Tragic Blast  Alexander Knox The body of Jason Todd, aged 10, was discovered yesterday after a blast in central Gotham that killed at least 200. The Gotham City Police Department is currently reporting this as a “tragic accident.”  Jason Todd is survived by his father, Bruce Wayne, who currently holds the position of CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and older brother Richard Grayson. He is remembered by his classmates and teachers as a “bright soul, with boundless potential, who was taken too soon.” The GCPD are working together with the Gotham City Fire Department in responding to this incident. As of this morning, Rescue and Recovery teams have made progress through 75% of the fallout zone and are continuing to do so.  Civilians are reminded to keep clear of the area until recovery efforts have been finalised. In remembrance of Jason’s life, the family asks that any charitable donations be made to the Catherine Todd Recovery Centre.

The photos of the fallout that accompany the article make your throat tighten, staring at the grey of a destroyed city block, smoking rubble and dark stains seeping from beneath cracked cement. The faded edges of the paper, the deep creases where it had been folded and unfolded – your heart twists painfully in your chest at the thought that Bruce had kept this reminder in here, all these years. 

It lingers with you long after you exit the room, searching for the doll with a slightly muddled mind. You’d known, of course, that his son had died – but you think of the violence of it all, how abruptly he’d been ripped from him. It settles in your chest uncomfortably, making a home for itself in the space beneath your sternum and pressing down on your oesophagus as you move through the house.

When you finally chance upon the doll – sat upright in plain sight in the downstairs sitting room – you pause a few feet away. The fear of last night’s incident clings to you, but with that is something else, the makings of a theory you haven’t quite gotten to, another, foreign feeling that outweighs your fear, tempers it into something malleable. You scrutinise the porcelain face, drawing closer slowly until you come to a stop in front of the armchair you’d been lounging in only yesterday.

Crouching, you stare into dull glass eyes. They remain lifeless, forever affixed on nothingness, unmoving. You pass a hand over it.

“Was it..” you hesitate, feeling acutely aware that you’re talking to an inanimate object, and half expecting an answer. You whisper, “Was it you, last night?”

There is no answer. Of course there isn’t. Still, you stare a moment longer, before your gaze slides over to the leaf of paper that’s tucked beneath it’s leg – the schedule of rules you’re meant to abide by in Bruce’s absence.

You look back up to the doll. 

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.

.

You’ve bowed to the pressure of your isolation and gone mad, you think absently as you sink a knife into the flesh of an apple. Clumsily cut, you arrange the slices onto a plate in the kitchen and slide it onto the small table where you’ve sat the doll. You lean forward until you’re level with it, and narrow your eyes.

“Is it you?” you ask again. Silence hangs in the air of the kitchen and you begin to feel a little hopeless, clinging to this half-formed idea. 

You stand and turn, taking a few steps forward into the butler’s pantry but the sound of footsteps makes you whirl around, heart in your throat. The doll remains in place, but – the plate is empty. You draw in a shaky breath, moving closer. 

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” Your hands tremble as you peer around the kitchen, eyeing the closed door. It’s implausible that anyone might have moved in such a short space of time without your noticing – you’re the only one in the room. 

You try once more, this time without turning around, keeping your gaze fixed on the doll as you slide a plate of toast in front of him. It’s covered in a thin smear of hazelnut spread, the chocolate melting over the warm bread.

The doll does not move. 

Your brows draw together, confused. A few beats. The toast is cooling, and a silly, superficial part of you worries that it won’t taste any good if this goes on any longer.

“Are you shy...?” you wonder out loud. The doll does not answer you but you turn away slowly anyway, fixing your eyes on the back door.

A second passes, and then another. You wait. 

You feel it then, a few moments later, rather than hear it. It’s difficult to place, the manner in which the very atmosphere in the kitchen shifts, to let you know you are no longer the only one in here. There is the rustle of something moving, the bread, you think, and then it recedes entirely without a sound. 

You wait a few beats before you turn, and your breath punches out of you in a rush when you note the once again empty plate. Disbelieving, you laugh.

“Holy shit.” Rounding the table, you pick up the doll, handling its weight much more carefully as you hold it out in front of you. “It was you, then, last night. You know, if you wanted my attention, you’ve got a funny way of showing it, kid. I think I lost ten years of my life with that little stunt.”

The threat seems to abate, after that, when you consider it. The spirit of a lonely child tugs at your poor heartstrings, and when you open your bedroom door after your evening shower to find a clumsily arranged sandwich, it only softens you further. You go to check on the doll – on Jason – and find him sat in bed, his schedule next to him once again. 

“So this is what you want, hm?” you mutter under your breath, scanning the paper. Your lips tug downwards into a pout, and you reach out to fix his hair. “Poor thing. You must be bored out here, with no one else to play with.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you find you already know the answer.

Rules 1. No Guests 2. Never Leave Jason Alone 3. Save Meals in Freezer 4. Never Cover Jason’s Face 5. Read a Bedtime Story 6. Play Music Loud 7. Clean the Traps 8. Jason is Never to Leave 9. Kiss Goodnight

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that. 

There’s a shift in your mind after your discovery, a distinction that shifts the doll into Jason. You’re able to rest a little easier now, knowing what had been behind the disturbances, and that it wasn’t something you had to fear. He sits comfortably in a chair next to you in the study, keeping you company as you return to your studies, worries that you’d been dealing with something more nefarious comfortably assuaged. 

You learn to communicate with him, in your own shared way. The music you play as you study is no longer isolated to your headphones, but filters through the speakers of your laptop as you work. When you begin making your own offhand remarks to him, you don’t know, but as the hours pass it feels less like you’re unaccompanied and more like you’re studying with a friend. Every so often, there is a sign – a tap, or the roll of something on the floor outside the study – that signals you to take a break, pushing away from the desk to take a turn about the room with Jason in your arms. 

Once, during a longer break, you bring him along on a walk outside. He doesn’t seem to like it very much – hiding your notebook until you figure it out. And you suppose spirits don’t require much exercise, so you let it be, content to take quick trips to the kitchen for snacks. You keep it for after the day is over, right before the sun sets, stretching your legs as you walk around the gardens before dinner.

Before you’ve realised, you’ve built a camaraderie with Jason. It’s easy for you to confide in him, slumping back in your desk chair with your hands pressed to your face. Tonight, the amount of coursework seems, not for the first time, never-ending. Tears streak through your fingers as you quietly sob.

“I’m so tired,” you cry, and a little hiccup stutters out of you. “It’s so...it’s just unfair. None of this would’ve happened if I’d – if I wasn’t so busy trying to look for a place.”

You work yourself up, tears smearing against the deep hollows beneath your eyes – despite how comfortable your bed is, lately you’ve still been working late into the night, long after you put Jason to sleep with a kiss to his brow. Though the night is young enough that you won’t have to tuck Jason in for a while, it still presses on you. There is too much to do, and not nearly enough time. 

“It’s not fair,” you mumble again, weakly. You slide a look over to Jason through swollen eyes, pressing your cheek against your knees. “Everyone else gets to – they get to not care about money and they get to enjoy their lives. It’s just...not fair.”

You close your eyes, hiding your face in the fabric of your leggings. Your head feels congested, after crying so much, heavy, and stuffed with wool. A few minutes later, as you’re working up the will to return to your work, you hear a thud. 

When you look up you find an apple on the corner of the desk, bright red and freshly washed, if the few drops of water that cling to it are anything to go by. The sight makes you burst into fresh tears again, a kindness that feels too tender for your poor, bruised heart. You reach for the fruit, feeling the juice run down your wrist when you sink your teeth into its flesh. Mumbling a thank you, you feel, for the first time since your arrival, your hopelessness begins to flicker out.

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.

.

A crash wakes you in the middle of the night, startling you from your sleep with a jolt. At first, you think it might be Jason. You groan quietly, rolling over into the pillow with a grumble of his name before you sit up and shove the covers off. It’s particularly freezing tonight and you reach for a robe as you shuffle over to your bedroom door only to stop short when, through the walls, floating up from the lower floors, you hear voices.

Your blood turns to ice in your veins and you register the shattering of something downstairs. In the moments that follow, you barely think, flying down the hall to where Jason’s bedroom is and clutching him close to your chest. All the while, the racket downstairs grows louder, raucous bickering and jeering laughter nipping at your heels as you push into a spare room and slip into the depths of a wardrobe. 

You kick yourself when you realise you haven’t brought your phone, the landline in Jason’s room being too far out of reach now to dial the local police. You can only press yourself further into the wardrobe, cradling Jason with a hand on the back of his head like you might your own child – like he shouldn’t have to bear witness to the violence enacted on his home. Tears – how many have you spent since your arrival, it must be enough to fill an ocean – slip onto your collar and you hide in a case that smells of mothballs, the fur of old coats brushing against your arms and face. 

“It’s going to be okay,” you whisper, feeling half crazed as you comfort Jason. “We’re going to be okay.”

It’s the longest night of your life, waiting for them to leave. Even without you leaving a crack in the wardrobe door, the noise from downstairs would have reached you. It’s jumbled in your fear-addled mind, but you hear the shatter of glass and yelling – they break out into arguments amongst themselves. You can’t make out the words, but it carries the threat of further violence – the kind that goes beyond stolen valuables and broken glassware. 

And then, abruptly, you think you hear a whisper of something, before it all falls still.

The darkness in the wardrobe is stifling but you remain there, clutching Jason with your head bowed until you hear a shout announcing the presence of the police. 

It’s only when the Commissioner announces himself, climbing to the second floor of the manor and stepping into the room, that you crawl out from the wardrobe. You’re shaking when he steps forward to meet you, arms coming around you to help you stand.

You’re coaxed into a blanket and ushered into a chair as they question you – the tiles of the kitchen floor are freezing under your bare feet and you wince when you catch the looks his deputies share amongst themselves. You must look like a mess, tear tracks drying on your face and cradling a doll in your arms. 

There’s a look in the Commissioner’s eyes, as he questions you, that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise – you forget about it quickly enough when he presses further, but later you’ll recall it. There’s a lack of surprise in his gaze, as though he hadn’t expected any less. You figure he’s hardened by his profession. Still, it lingers in the recesses of your mind.

They clean it up quick enough, and they leave right as the sun begins to creep over the horizon. You see them off, standing on the front steps with a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders and Jason in your arms. When the last of the car headlights fade out of sight, you turn back inside.

You venture into the living room, staring at where the sunlight catches on a stray shard of glass, scuffs on the floor where heavy boots had tracked mud in on the hardwood. The lingering smell of peroxide – all that it suggests had happened here – makes you let out a shaky breath, clutching Jason closer.

You know it then, what – who had kept you safe. And if there were any lingering doubts about him, they dissolve under your tongue. The solid weight of the mass in your arms is an anchor, grounding you, reminding you. Safe. You’re unharmed, you’re okay. The intrusion is gone, it’s just the both of you now. You turn your head, pressing your mouth to his hairline. It’s cold beneath your lips as you whisper, a tear carving a path down your cheek. 

“Thank you, Jason.” 

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.

.

After the intrusion things, mercifully, begin to settle. You’re glad for it, sure you’ve fulfilled your share of excitement for the next decade. You return to your and Jason’s routine, rebuilding your shattered safe space with every album you introduce him to and each portion of coursework you complete. Brick by brick, you patch the rift. 

The evening you finally feel as though you’ve begun to make headway, you turn to him, overjoyed, patting his hand excitedly.

“I think we deserve a bit of celebration, don’t we, Jason?”

You make dinner for the both of you, a simple but favourite pasta dish of yours that you’re grateful to have made extra of when Jason clears his plate in the time it takes you to carry your own plate into the dining room where you’d set him down. You pout at him sympathetically, running a hand over his head.

“If you’re still hungry,” you murmur, taking a seat and spearing a pasta shell on your fork, “there’s more in the pan, sweetheart.”

In the next room, a clatter almost immediately and it draws a smile on your face. You treat yourself to a glass of something sweet, giggling when the bubbles flit up your nose and pop. The taste lingers on your tongue when, after dinner, you scoop him up into your arms and travel into the living room. A record is placed onto the old gramophone and you spin on your feet, socked feet sinking into the plush carpet as you dance around the room. You spin, and spin, and spin until you land on the couch, laughing breathlessly. On the couch, Jason watches until you pick him up once more and dance with him in your arms. You’re careful with him, conscious of tripping in your state and dropping him. You think he might enjoy it, when you hear the whisper of laughter alongside your own.

When you tuck him into bed that night, it’s with a giddy smile as you kiss his forehead. You go to bed feeling floaty, lighter than you’ve felt in an age. There’s a buzz in your veins that isn’t entirely the drink. You’re happy. It isn’t the same as the life you’d wanted back so fervently, but you’re hopeful. It feels, for the first time, like things might work out. You cling to this victory with a vice grip, unwilling to be parted from it.

Your head hits the pillow and you sleep easily, but wake in the middle of the night, slipping out of hazy dreams into consciousness like slipping upstream. You’re distinctly aware of the wetness pooling between your legs, and the lingering warmth of the drinks.

It’s been a long time. The stress of everything – moving, money, adjusting to the manor – has left you unable to focus on anything else. Tonight, though, a reprieve from it all, a break in the clouds offers you a spike in your energy, a longing that heats the blood in your veins and makes your stomach twist. For the first time in a long time, you indulge, fingers creeping beneath the waistband of your pants.

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.

He watches you touch yourself, the night spent tending to what is a seemingly insatiable appetite. Hardening in his trousers, he stands behind the panelling and a large hand curls into a fist by his side, nails digging into the meat of his palm so hard he draws blood. You work yourself up, differently from the way you had when he’d revealed himself. It’s gentler, fingers skimming over your skin beneath the fabric of your shirt. In the dark his gaze sharpens on the soft plane of your stomach, your body shifting under every touch, pliant and responsive. 

You come, and it isn’t enough. He tastes copper, sees stars when you kick the covers off and his keen eyes make out the folds of your cunt, sodden and wanting. Your body is covered in a sheen of sweat when you finally, finally, drift off to sleep. Hungry little thing, his girl. You’ll want for nothing, he thinks, remembering the debauched way you’d put your fingers to your mouth. He recalls the slick sounds, the little whines, drawn out and practically demanding he come forth to please you. With no one around for miles to hear you, unknowingly, you feed him with your gasps. 

He longs for it, imagines putting his mouth to you. How you’d keen, how you’d thrash under his hold like you had tonight, legs kicking out under the full force of your pleasure. But he’d hold you down, he thinks, breathing hard, draw even more wretched sounds from that mouth – pretty, soft mouth that always curled around his name so sweetly – than the ones you’d spilled out tonight. Prettier, than the sobs of the last few weeks, that’d had him gritting his teeth. He likes you drunk and dizzy on pleasure like this, likes the breathless, open mouthed smile that pushes the apples of your cheeks upwards. This, he thinks, is all you should know, tears born of desire. Not jittery hands, or envy.

Frail, pretty thing. You need to be taken care of. You wouldn’t know worry ever again, he would take care of you, would take care of everything. You’ll want for nothing.

His chest heaves at the thought, muscles tensing as if readying to crash through the wood at a moment’s notice. 

No, he thinks, taking a shuddering breath. He can almost taste you from here but – not yet. 

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You wake up sticky, despite the chill in the air. Late autumn carries with it hints of the oncoming winter – you think it’s going to be a bad one, if your fingertips are numb already. It takes a bit of maneuvering to untangle yourself from the web of sheets and when you finally stand, there’s a distant ache in your head, a dryness in your throat that makes you grimace. 

You drag yourself into the shower, scrubbing off the filth of last night’s activities and letting the warm water run over your muscles. The steam fills the air of the bathroom, thick enough to trap the warmth when you step out and reach for your towel. 

It confuses you, though, once you’ve dried off and moisturised, that when you turn to reach for your clothes, they aren’t there. A sense of déjà vu settles over you. Significantly more awake, you wrap the towel around you once more and make the trek back to your room, a little peeved.

“Jason,” you call out as you pad down the hall, trying to keep the bite in your tone from being too harsh. “This isn’t funny, it’s cold. I’m not very impressed right now.”

Not even a laugh, but you’re too huffy to notice, picking up your clothes from where he’d relocated them to the top of your dresser and shutting your door firmly. 

When you go to pick him up before breakfast – closer to lunch, now, really – you frown at him. 

“Not cool, kid,” you tell him. “What if I got sick? Who’d make you lunch, then, hm? You can’t survive on peanut butter sandwiches alone.”

It feels a little as though you’ve regressed over the next week. More and more things go missing, only to turn up in the oddest places. You think he might be a little more playful, finally comfortable around you, but it’s hard to find gratification in that when your underwear joins the catalogue of missing things, turning up when you take your laundry out to hang even though you know you hadn’t put them in the washing. So maybe there’s a bit of wilful ignorance there. You don’t know how to address this, the pressing feeling of eyes on you at every moment now, an obvious presence that lingers around you more insistently, it feels, than before.

And you can’t place what’s brought this on, don’t know what’s to blame for this turn in his mood, toeing the line of malevolent, no longer innocently playful but shifting into something more intent, dull blue eyes seeming darker these days, more watchful. 

“What’s going on, huh?” you ask, when you put him to bed, brushing a hand over his hair. “How come you don’t wanna be good anymore? Is something up? I don’t know, kid, I’m not a mind reader.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. Leaning forward, you brush your lips against his forehead. “Let’s have a better day tomorrow, okay? Goodnight, Jason.”

Midnight comes to you in slow winks that night, the pages of Jason’s book marked with a ribbon and placed carefully to the side with the half-formed, tired thought that you would talk to him about it tomorrow. Perhaps it would soften whatever had him agitated as of late. The lamp switches off, and you breathe out into the darkness, one last sigh before sleep claims you. 

You wake up to a pressing blackness. Not even the moonlight breaks through the clouds to offer you reprieve tonight, the very air sucked out of the room. Groggy, sleep still clinging to you like silken threads of a spider’s web around your eyes, you blink rapidly. The darkness settles around you and your vision adjusts.

The first thing you notice is the hulking silhouette at the foot of your bed and you freeze under the covers, breath punching out of your chest. 

Your first thought is to scream. Before your lips can even part, a rough palm is pressing over your mouth and tears prick your eyes. 

(What’s the point? Who is there to hear you scream so far out here?)

In the dim, your tearful eyes adjust further and your heart seizes in your chest when you make out the glint of white – a porcelain mask, a face that’s been your only companion these last few weeks. The cupid’s bow, rosy cheeks greyed in the dark. Down to the very last detail, it’s him.

The cause of all the haunting, the thief of your belongings, sentry of this manor. Not a spirit, but real, solid flesh and blood. He looms over you. There’s a solid weight that settles into the cradle of your hips, arms that cage you in, the smell of sawdust and something. Unbidden, your mind tugs back to you the missing lace, satin stolen by unseen hands – the very hands that press on your mouth and side, now, calloused, roughened. 

The whisper of your name hangs in the air between you, your resounding whimper muffled.

It’s faster than it ought to be, your compliance, going limp in his hold and ceasing your thrashing. You stare tearfully, heart in your throat, up at him. He lingers like this a moment longer before withdrawing, seemingly satisfied you won’t bolt. Slowly, you push up onto your elbows. The movement brings your face closer to his, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to flinch at the proximity. He seems pleased enough, however, head tilting, rather like a cat, tracking your movements carefully. 

It isn’t as though you’re going anywhere, his weight yet to lift from your legs. You reach out to the side, a shaking hand scrabbling for the flip of a switch. The sudden flood of orange light into the room, soft though it is, makes you flinch.

It’s the eyes that you’re drawn to first. Through the holes of the mask, you meet ultramarine eyes, leagues beyond that of the painting downstairs, which couldn’t hold a candle to the vibrant irises that stare back at you now. Your breath catches when he leans in a hair’s breadth closer and he pauses. 

Your voice fails you, when you part your lips to speak, frightened tears wetting your face. You clear your throat, and try once more.

“Jason?”

Dark lashes flutter, something pleased passing through his gaze, something like an unspoken affirmation. It floors you, the blood rushing from your head and leaving you dizzy all of a sudden. He swallows your field of vision, so impossibly big, broad and nothing about him carrying any of the delicateness your doll had. Dark curls fall over the edges of the mask, dark hair peeking beneath it, trailing down the sides of his jaw. 

You reach out, carefully, and he lets you press a hand to his chest – clad in a thin, dirtied henley. He gives under the slightest pressure, drawing back until he’s sitting on his haunches, your legs free. You let go, pushing yourself further up against the headboard of the bed and bringing your knees to your chest. He watches, silent, unmoving except for the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. Real, solid, flesh and blood.

“You’ve been alive this whole time?” The dust clings to your sticky cheeks and you swipe at them again. Your breaths are shaky as you come down from your fright. He nods, and you wince, the porcelain mask shining as it reflects the light of your lamp.

“Can you – will you take that off? Please?” He stills and you, foolish, softened by fear or trust, scoot forward a little, legs folding under you. Now it’s his turn to widen the distance between you. You let out a soft warble, lips trembling. “It’s scaring me.”

“...Scary?” His voice is hoarse from disuse, and your eyes drop to his sides, watching his fingers curl into fists. “Under...you won’t like it..”

Your breath catches on a sob and you shake your head. You’re still shaking, still scared. He draws a little closer, hands raising as if to reach for you, and you flinch. “Please, Jason.”

Time stretches so long you fear you’ll remain here forever, trembling, suffocating, before big hands reach up to his face. He’s shaking, too, you notice absently. His head bows when the mask is discarded to the side, lying atop your sheets face down. The shadows obscure him slightly, cloaking his face from you, only the dark thatches of hair that cover his jaw visible to you. 

You whisper his name.

His eyes flash when he lifts his head, blue flickering into a green glow so suddenly it feels like a trick of the light – gone in an instant. Scarred flesh, waxy, pink patches of skin and pale, jagged remnants of lacerations; he bares himself to you and your breath catches in your throat. 

There are remnants of a classical beauty in his face, beneath the scarring. It’s the kind that would’ve made you stop short on the street, that would’ve brought warmth to your face if you’d met his eyes across a subway car during rush hour. The violence wrought renders him no less handsome but lends a brutality to him, the oppressive aura that cloaks him impossible to ignore, laid bare across his face. Still, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that your attention snags on, a child-like wariness that reminds you of the headline you’d found in Bruce’s office that day.

Silly, soft-hearted girl. It makes your heart ache, and once the tears start, they refuse to stop. Your hand draws closer to cradle his face, hovering a hair’s breadth from his cheek before he makes the leap for you, leaning against your touch. His own comes up, fingers pressing beneath your eye.

“Crying..”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, sniffling, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Crying for me?” His voice sounds odd, a tone you can’t quite read through your tears. You try to look away but he refuses to let you, clumsy fingers swiping beneath your eyes.

“You didn’t deserve that. That must’ve been so scary,” you sniffle, and look up at him. “Why were you...why’d you hide? Did – did your father know?” 

His eyes flash at the mention of Bruce, and you still at the anger that lines his face. 

“Bastard,” he mutters, a decade’s worth of pain packed into one word. It hints to a history you aren’t privy to, raw, jagged wounds still bleeding from an age old hurt. He stiffens and you slide your hand to his shoulder.

“Okay, don’t – we don’t have to talk about him,” you defer hastily, wary of the way his muscles ripple, the thrum of lightning barely contained beneath his skin. It reminds you of something else. “Was...It was you...that night, when they -”

Your breath stutters on the memory of the invasion, and his eyes darken. He crowds into your space more, ducking his head to meet your eyes. More green than blue now, he wills you to understand the severity of his promise.

“Keep you safe,” he says, and you barely notice the hand that curls possessively around your hip, your heart thrumming anxiously in its cavity at the threat of violence his words carry. And yet, you can’t deny it to yourself that it quiets a part of you, too, stills a restlessness that had lingered in your skin after that night. 

You don’t consider that night, why he had chosen to reveal himself to you – properly, in all his glory, stripped of parlour tricks and the facade – you’re too relieved that he doesn’t intend to hurt you to linger on it. He lets you guide him back to his room and draw the covers over him, the mask carefully carried in your hands and placed on the bedside table. He catches your hand when you go to leave and for a moment you fear he’ll demand something of you, blue eyes flashing cat’s eye green for the briefest of moments. He lets you go after a moment’s scrutiny, and you eke out a timid goodnight, returning to your bedroom in a daze. 

Perhaps you ought to have, though. Perhaps it might have suited you better to linger on the why, to consider what this meant, that there was something in motion, had been since your arrival. Exhaustion renders you pliant, however, and you slip into dreamless sleep the moment your head hits the pillow, the lingering smell of sawdust beneath your nose.

.

.

.

Jason makes it easy on you. It’s a little eerie in a way, re-learning him and yet finding all the hints of your spirit companion in him. He doesn’t stray far from you, content to continue to sit at your side when you sit down for your classes. In the morning, when you go to check on him, he is already awake, and you usher him into the bathroom, unsure at all whether you even should follow the schedule but moving mechanically if only for something to do, to avoid floundering. He waits by the door as you brush your teeth, eyes fixed on you. 

You find yourself returning the stare, brows furrowing as you take in every inch of him. Dust and dirt clings to his skin. You wonder when the last time he’d bathed was. You tell him as much, receiving only a blank stare. Uncommunicative, even now. 

“You should take a bath,” you murmur, worrying the skin of your lip with your teeth. “I don’t want you to get sick, or something.”

He’s compliant enough, letting you steer him into the bathroom and turning the knobs of the tub. Water comes spraying out, and you startle a little when the pipes whine, but ultimately settle. Dipping a hand in, you test the temperature before looking over your shoulder. He stands by your side, and you tilt your head to the water.

“Will you check if this is okay?” He obeys, dropping his chin in a short nod after brushing his fingers in. You offer him a short smile, and move to stand.

“I’ll try to find some clothes, this is...” you hesitate, looking at the hem of his shirt. “You can’t wear this.”

But his arm blocks your path when you go to step around him, curling around your midsection to keep you in place. You look up, startled. You try to move but he doesn’t budge, looking down at you intently. 

“You’ll stay.” It isn’t a request, nor a command, but he delivers it firmly, a matter of fact statement – that you will remain here, with him. You balk, blood rushing to your face.

“I can’t!” you protest, stepping back if only to escape the barricade of his arm, your hands coming up to rest on your hips. “That’s not – Jason, it’s not-”

“You’ll stay,” he repeats, simply, rock-salt voice echoing slightly in the bathroom. Water drips into the steaming bath, and you’re at an impasse, abject indignation warming your veins.

In the end, you give in. You think there was no possible outcome where you did not acquiesce to his whims – you recall the destruction he’d wreaked on his father’s office the night you had foregone a kiss goodnight, frightening you back into his room to press your lips to his temple. You sit by the side of the tub, handing him a cloth and keeping your eyes trained firmly ahead of you as he scrubs himself down. Somehow, you end up washing his hair for him, soapy water providing a suitable enough cover that you breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the gentlest you’ve ever seen him, pleased and bath soft, skin flushed and curls wet against his forehead as you pour water over his crown. 

He only lets you go once the water begins to grow cool and you insist on finding clean clothes for him. It’s easier than you think, rifling through the drawers in the master bedroom and finding a pair of soft trousers and t-shirt that you figure will fit him. You keep your back turned when he emerges from the bath, waiting until he’s dressed to face him with warmth in your cheeks. The glimpse you’d caught as he’d risen from the water had made you squeak, hard lines and dark hair, wet skin glistening – all Man, real, breathing, human man. It’s a jarring contrast from the sexless porcelain of his counterpart. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his broad chest and you promptly whirl around, guilt swarming in your stomach at your momentary lapse in senses.

(In his mind he thinks, don’t you know you’re all his, as he is yours? There is no inch of him that isn’t for your eyes.)

When you sit down for your classes later, you’re more conscious of his presence than ever, a warm arm diffusing soft heat at your elbow. He only shakes his head when you ask if he would rather do something else and you get the feeling later, when you take a bathroom break, that he would follow after you, had you not closed it between you. 

He sits close when you have lunch, knee knocking into yours beneath the table in the kitchen. You watch him eat, ravenous, and your wariness melts a little at the familiarity. This, you knew. This, you could handle. When he finishes his plate you push your own towards him in lieu of pointing to the pan but he surprises you – shaking his head and watching you carefully until he’s satisfied you’re fed. 

It’s sort of like losing a friend to gain a guard dog. He lingers by your side, catalogues your every movement and bosses you around where he sees fit. You don’t know how to feel about it, and don’t witness the full extent of it until, midway through your lunch, there’s a knock at the back door.

Reactive, he’s a wraith at your back, chair clattering and pressing you away. No guests. You recall the first rule in his schedule as you wrangle him, a hand tight on his chest to set him at ease. You figure it’s fear, in his own, muddled way. There had been a break in, after all, he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone else on the property – you were the only one meant to be here.

“It’s only the groceries,” you whisper, fingers circling around his wrist and pressing down against his pulse to draw his attention. Green eyes strike you down, near unseeing in his wrath and you startle. The seconds pass and you figure the longer this goes unhandled, the likelier Jason is to react for the worse. You take a deep breath, wrangling your own unease to step in front of him, blocking off his path to the door and squeezing his wrist once more.

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay,” you murmur, stroking the back of his hand comfortingly. “Just wait here for me, okay? It’s okay.”

He lingers in the room, though it seems only you’re aware of it as the delivery boy brings the bags in. You’re thankful he doesn’t loiter, unwilling to test Jason’s thin patience. The very shadows in the room seem to stretch the longer it takes and by the time the final bag is carried in and the receipt is left on the counter, you fear the kitchen floor will start to crack beneath your feet.

He’s on you the moment the door shuts, wrapping himself around you to run big hands over your sides, assessing you like he hadn’t kept you in his line of sight the entire exchange. You sigh, letting him tilt your chin, inspecting your face. The green in his eyes has completely swallowed the shades of blue, pupils dilated as he closes in on you.

“I’m fine,” you assure. He seems ill-convinced, but finally lets go. “Come on. You’re probably still hungry. Maybe that’s why you’re acting like this.”

He lets out a puff of breath in response and you let out a small laugh. 

You make the mistake that night, when you see him off to bed, of unthinkingly voicing out loud as you look around the room,

“Isn’t it -” you hesitate, feeling your words catch on something. You ought to listen to it, but he tilts his head inquisitively, and it coaxes it out of you. “Doesn’t it feel weird sleeping in here? It’s a kid’s room. I don’t think you even fit in that bed.”

His eyes gleam, and you don’t understand what for until he pushes up from the covers and stands. Your brows draw together, confused, but you have no time to question it, weight on your shoulders pushing you forward until you’re steered down the hall to – 

Your room.

You stare, wide eyed, as he pushes you; he’s clumsy, but gentle, fingers coaxing you under your covers before rounding the bed to slip under them on your other side. Your heart catches in your throat, alarmed.

“Jason – no, this isn’t what I meant, you-” He turns on his side and you fall silent. 

“Kiss goodnight,” he murmurs, a hand reaching out beneath the soft weight of your covers to tug you closer, warmth searing through your pants where it rests on your hip. You resist, pressing against his chest to create a modicum of distance between you, but it’s impossible against his strength. Again, your mind supplies you unhelpfully with attention to the heat that rolls off him, the proximity or lack thereof between you. 

“Are you – did the delivery upset you? Is this why-” You’re grasping for straws, searching for something to cling to, a reason that softens the weight of his gaze and all that lies behind it. You blind yourself to it, convince yourself the flash of his eyes is affirmation, let yourself believe it, breathing out a shaky, “Okay.”

“Kiss.” He repeats the word, and your chest presses against his. He’s a furnace, warmth trapped beneath the covers threatening to burn you alive. Your mouth is dry as you lean up, smoothing a hand against his curls to flatten them backwards, bare his temple to you. 

“Goodnight,” you whisper, into his hairline, lips brushing against the raised outline of a pale scar. 

Slowly, the sands in your hourglass begin to trickle to an end.

.

.

.

The kisses brush closer and closer these days. No longer do your lips meet the spot at his hairline, or his temple. The first time Jason brings a hand to your cheek and guides you lower, you’re too surprised to do anything, kissing the higher point of his cheekbone and pulling away hastily, face warm. It feels so incredibly inappropriate, letting him continue to blur the boundaries between you. He makes a noise of discontent the next night, when you return to his forehead, only settling back into your sheets when your mouth finds his cheek. The hand on the back of your neck is heavy, fingers brushing against the small hairs in feather light touches and sending shocks of something down your spine. 

He sleeps on his side, always, facing you. You can feel his eyes on your back as you feign sleep. Is it unwise, to turn your back to him, you wonder. The idea of sleeping on your other side makes your stomach curdle, his breath fanning over your cheek, nose brushing against yours – much too close, too intimate for the way he’s been acting lately. You fear if you give him an inch you’ll never come back from it.

(Silly little thing. You were his the moment you stepped over the threshold.)

Tonight, Jason is heavier handed with you than usual. Something simmers in your gut as he presses on the back of your neck, green eyes near luminescent under the swathes of soft orange light from your lamp. You waver, but it’s all you can do to give in, your arms threatening to buckle under you if you don’t follow. Hovering over his side, you bend your head.

Lower still, Jason pulls you to him – you only barely manage to avoid meeting his lips with your own, skating the corner of his mouth and planting a clumsy peck there. When you chance a look up at him, he’s already watching you, a crease where his eyebrows meet.

“Kiss goodnight,” he says, expectantly, voice rough with an undercurrent of something eerily like want. It makes your breath hitch.

“I...I did,” you stammer, one last attempt at resistance. He doesn’t buy it, blinking slowly at you. 

“Kiss.”

Saliva pools in your mouth the longer he stares at you, time stretching between you as he waits and when you swallow, his gaze flicks down to track the movement of your throat, pupils dilating. Now, only a thin ring of green surrounds the vastness of black, observing your every action. 

Finally, seemingly sick of your inaction, Jason shifts upwards on the bed and you squeak in surprise, reeling backwards only to meet the solid wall of his hand. Your heart races in your chest, sounds spilling out of your mouth that are muffled when he closes the distance and slants his lips against yours.

It’s a wet, messy thing, clumsy and hungry. Jason’s tongue slides against your bottom lip hungrily and you, foolishly, part your lips to protest. He only uses it to push further, tongue tracing the contours of your mouth, a deep groan wracking through him, a deep-seated tremor that you think he must have been holding back for a long time. His hand fists the material of your pants, the other bearing down on your neck as if to press you even closer. Your own are helpless against his chest, unbalanced and tottering forward onto his lap, trying to push away –

“Mmh, no, J-” you’re cut off, unable to get out a single word. “’S wrong.”

He ignores you, swallowing the pitiful whimper you let out to lick into your mouth. You’re dizzy, head spinning from the lack of air, mouth swollen and spit slicked. Against his chest, your fists push weakly, your strength pale in comparison to his. Absently, a part of you wonders if that’s really the reason you aren’t trying harder – a distinct pressure growing between your legs that you try to tamp down. 

Your spine arches ever so slightly under his fingers, legs bracketing his hips to accommodate his size. The throb you feel between your legs is not only his.

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

Uncaring of your internal conflict, the world around you tips in a matter of seconds and you blink up at Jason, vision swimming as he comes into sight. Your positions are now reversed, with him hovering over your body, pressed flat against the wrinkled sheets. Your clothing is rumpled, top riding up the expanse of your stomach and baring your flesh to hungry eyes.

He remains between your legs, an arm descending beside you to hold himself up as he closes in. You shake your head, twisting to avoid the wet press of his mouth against yours again, your hand coming to press against his shoulder.

“No– ‘s wrong,” you murmur, desperately, trying to push him away. Undeterred, his mouth trails over the line of your jaw and you stumble over a gasp when his teeth graze over your skin, taking it between his lips and nipping, tongue flicking out almost immediately after to soothe the sting, something like a keen in his throat when you squirm beneath him. You draw blood trying to stifle the sound you nearly make as a result of it, legs going to press together but only tightening around his waist.

“Not,” he pants, hand on your leg squeezing, trailing higher until it skims the space above your waistband, fingers ghosting over your bare belly. His touch leaves a trail of wildfire behind it, burning licks over your skin that make you gasp. “Not wrong.”

You whimper, a haze of desire settling like a cloud cover over your guilt when he flattens his hand over your stomach and presses down, eyes flashing possessively as he delivers his next blow. “Not wrong,” he repeats in a reverent whisper, leaning down until you’re nose to nose. The smell of cedarwood fills your nose, a history he’s unable to scrub no matter how much of your soap he uses, the milk and honey scented liquid bubbling over his skin. You hold your breath, eyes widening, the flex of his bicep in your periphery as he supports his weight with one arm. “You’re mine.”

The tears leak out of your eyes, and you shake your head. “I’m – not.”

Nose caressing yours – “You are,” he confirms steadily, voice low. 

You understand then, the curtains pulling back to reveal the future that has been hanging in the wings this whole time for you, the fate you’d sealed for yourself. The long absence of his father, the shiftiness in Bruce’s demeanour when you’d met him and the eagerness in which he took his leave. Your very purpose, here – all of it, every strand, threaded, curling around you. 

It all leads to Jason.

He swallows your sob with an open mouthed kiss, then, and the sands of time run out.

It’s horrifying, the gentleness he treats you with, divesting you of your clothing like you might wilt under his fingers if he isn’t careful, delicate flower that he thinks you to be. There’s adoration in every touch, worship in his eyes. Layer by layer, they come off until you’re bare beneath him, swathes of orange light swimming over your belly and lighting a fire in his eyes. They’re green again, now, near neon in hue, teeming with barely restrained hunger. His fingers shake, hovering over your sides, pressing you down when you try to raise your arms. One broad hand swallows your wrists, held against the soft flesh of your stomach as the other begins to tug his shirt off. 

Your breath catches in your throat, whimpered pleas clogging your airway when his fingers drift to the waistband of his pants. Scars, so many scars line the expanse of his torso. His body is a map of puckered lines and flat, pale marks, a lifetime of brutality carved into his skin. Dark whorls of hair dust his chest and stomach, a pattern that continues lower as he tugs his trousers off, muscles flexing as he twists. In another lifetime, under an entirely different set of circumstances, you might’ve salivated at the sight of a man like this, might’ve reached out to splay a hand against his barrel chest, reveled in how miniscule you were in comparison. In another lifetime, there wouldn’t be that ever pressing guilt, that shame that colours your vision and tightens around your neck – you might’ve admitted to wanting it.

In another lifetime, you might’ve even begged for it.

Your mind eddies at the sight of him, blood rushing so startlingly through your veins you have to slump back into the sheets, dizzy and daunted. You’re stunned into silence, throat too dry to string together any sounds beyond a strangled whimper.

He’s thick, head an angry, dark colour that you can’t make out in the low light, weeping. As if caught in a dream, you watch a bead of pre-cum slip down his length, the light gleaming over the trail it leaves on his skin. When you raise your eyes, fearful, he’s already watching you, eyes sharp.

The bright green of his irises shocks you back into your body, and you begin to shake your head anew, struggling to push yourself away, back hitting the headboard. 

“No, Jason, no.” You begin to weep, hands coming to pound weakly at his chest when he hovers over you once more and he dips his head, nosing along your cheek. Your tears do little to stop him. If anything, it only spurs him on, pupils dilated at the sight of you like this and breathing growing ragged. A rough hand skims along your ankle and pulls, until you’re flat on your back beneath him. “It’s wrong.”

“Don’t cry,” he rumbles, plaintive, lips brushing against yours clumsily, an attempt at comfort. He settles between your legs, one slung over his hip and you mewl when he tilts forward, the weight of his length sliding against your traitorously wet folds. You draw blood trying to stifle a whimper when his head nudges against your clit, a dizzying spiral of unwanted pleasure curling down your spine. His lips curve into a pout against yours, a hair’s breadth between them as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I’ll be good,” he promises quietly, voice pitching into a plea as he ruts against you. You squeeze your eyes tightly, trying to turn your head but a hand comes up to cup your jaw, keeping you face to face with him. “I’ll be good. I’ll–‘ll take care of you. Make you feel good.”

Clumsy, painful, intrusive. You’re wet, but it’s not enough – Jason breaches your entrance and your gasp teeters on a scream, fingernails digging into the meat of his forearm as you struggle to accommodate for his size, not nearly prepared enough for the stretch. His voice joins yours, a different kind of pain in his groans as he pushes slowly in. You curse him, drawing blood where your nails sink into his skin and gasping for breath. 

It’s sweltering in the room, despite the chill of winter, Jason’s body a canopy over yours. Every inch of him that presses against you is searing, burning to the touch and threatening to flay you alive. You sob when he finally bottoms out, his teeth gritted and forehead scrunched, the last strands of his control steadily fraying. 

Big fingers swipe at your under eyes, smearing your tears instead of wiping them, and then he begins to move. The first thrust winds you, pushing all the air out of your lungs and eliciting a choked sound out of your throat, one he echoes, dropping his head into the hollow of your neck and thrusting again. 

Shame and guilt war within you, fear pebbling your skin as his hips cant forwards, setting a sloppy pace meant only to seek a quick release. Every second that ticks past, he draws closer and closer to the edge and shamefully – so do you. There’s a burning in your gut, the sound of your wetness loud in the room over his desperate groans, your cunt squeezing around his thick length. It’s a horrifying truth, one you don’t want to accept – it feels good. The drag of his cock against you, the slippery movements of his fingers, the overwhelming weight of his body against yours. It lights every nerve in your body alight, repulsion and longing amassing as one, a torturous cover that threads through your veins against your will.

Your sobs subside as it comes to you, pleasure pooling slowly in your gut like a leaky faucet, a puddle growing until your cries turn into whimpers, gasped breaths when he manages to find that one spot that empties your head of all thought. 

No, no, no turns into muffled whines, your tears carving their own scarred paths down your face. Each thrust, every slide of his length and whisper of his fingers carves a bit of your resistance away, until all that’s left between your desire and his is the ruins of your sensibilities. The last of your defences gone, your nerves feel like spun sugar, dizzying, electrifying – wanting, needing more. 

He’s highly attuned to your reactions, and you watch through blurry eyes as his gleam when he makes this realisation, thrusting forward unforgivably and pulling more screams from you. Your head tips back into the pillow, ultraviolet green burned into the back of your eyelids. 

“Be good for – for you,” he gasps out, a low whine building in his throat and you weep, arms reaching up to wind around his shoulders. It’s a twisted thing, that the one inflicting this on you should bring you comfort, but you cling to him still. He tucks himself closer to you, eager to provide this cover, allowing you to hide your face in his neck – hide from yourself, as he fucks you. His hands wander, brushing, coaxing, petting your body. No longer are you the caretaker, but now the doll, almost. A pretty thing for him to cradle, to have, to do with as he pleases. And he does, driving into you hungrily, as though he’s been starved of it, unable to hold himself back any longer. He sates his appetite on you tonight, teeth, tongue, cock. All of you, his for the taking. Under his hand you are taken apart and remade, molded by rough hands and lovingly pieced together until you’re born anew, settling into your role like drifting into dreams.

Your orgasm washes over you, abrupt and unrelenting, so far gone a scream tears from your throat to bleed into his, your teeth sinking into the junction of his neck and shoulder as your leg kicks out and you fall apart on his length. Sloppy thrusts pick up the pace and he presses you further down into the sheets, grasp on your hips and waist bruising. It’s animal, the way he bucks into you, mouth open in a snarl to bare sharp canines, tongue laving against your pulse. 

Too much – it’s too much. You’re still riding out the high of your orgasm, but he continues to fuck into you, head bumping against one particular spot that has your toes curling painfully, body twisting in his grasp and trying to pull away. A vain effort. Even your squealed protests fall on deaf ears, dizzying pleasure bubbling up once more in your gut, overwhelming and feverish.

Your eyes squeeze shut tight as you come again, colour exploding in your vision in vivid hues of red and orange, mouth dropping open to swallow lungfuls of air. Jason, in your ear, lets out a guttural moan that lances straight through his chest to spear yours. Warmth trickles down your body, spend and slick smeared where the two of you are connected. 

You swim in and out of focus, eyelids heavy and attention spotty. Like an old radio, or as if underwater, his voice breaches your consciousness in snippets. Soft cooing and fingers stroking along your spine, you’re vaguely aware of being shifted, hefted onto a warm chest as easily as lifting a feather. Downy hairs tickle your cheek, the smell of musk and cedarwood burning beneath your nose.

Mine...so good...take care of...

There’s an ache between your hips, a fullness that has yet to retract – but when you blink drowsily up at your captor, you begin to realise in the last dregs of your consciousness: in this, and all that follows after, he has no intention of parting from you.

Cobalt blue now, half lidded eyes regard you with reverence, kiss bitten lips cooing unintelligibly, praises you barely register. Jason cranes his head to press his mouth against your temple – a mockery of your rituals to you, perhaps an homage, in his twisted mind. 

.

.

.

The mark on his neck smarts, the beast in his chest purring in satisfaction. He looks down at you, the drying tears on your face, lashes fluttering in your sleep. He strokes a finger over the crease between your brows, dragging down to where your lips part ever so slightly. He barely manages to hold back a satisfied rumble when, at the touch of his finger, you accept him in. Precious, sweet girl. Even in sleep, you know him. He shifts on his back, careful not to jostle you too much, and once more the bite stings. In the morning, you’ll insist on tending to it, he knows. Your eyes will pool, diamantine, lips trembling tearfully at the wound you’ve left on him. You’ve claimed him as he would you, in time, but he knows it’ll take a little longer for you to see it as he does, that in the morning you’ll begin to piece back the ruins of your defences and he’ll have to work again to keep them down. 

That’s okay. He’s got all the time in the world. You’ll see, soon. Out here, with only each other for company, you’ll quickly learn. He’ll take care of you.

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

um. there's a lot i wanted to include in this fic, mostly that there's something off about jason's death and his being alive - i didn't really get to explore that beyond the eyes so if you caught that i hope u know i meant for it to convey that he's a Freak.

Brahms in The Boy is entirely human but i think there's an air of supernaturalism to jason in this (and even arguably in the original source material) with how such a large man manages to move through the walls quietly and quickly, he feels a bit wraith like to me. also again with the eyes - there's something wrong with him but there's literally like 294728 other things to worry about that you don't notice until it's staring at you in the face and by then it's too late.

anyway this came to me during finals and it was driving me SO damn insane during finals, i think i've been working on this for about a month? i'm not sure - the writing program i've been using lately doesn't have a date of creation so i don't really know but finals were in early june so maybe just shy of two months? i would say a month and a half.

this is the first time i've properly dipped my toe into content of a darker nature like this and i hope i did it justice! idk i wanted to try my hand at something new, i think there's a lot that's interesting about the psychological aspect of fics like this, like the buildup and feelings leading up to and during the climax. anyway this was a bit of an experiment and i hope you enjoyed it.

[fanaticsnail]

Thinking about a reader who's too polite for their own good. They aren't a total pushover, of course, but still don't speak up a lot of the times even when they probably should.

It's been a problem their whole life, but it really comes to a head when they join the strawhats. There's the usual problems; Luffy being obnoxiously loud, Chopper and Usop and their hyjinks. But none of these things compare tho their problems with Sanji.

The chef has one rule: no wasting food. It's how he was raised, and his experiences have lead to him understanding the importance of a meal. The 'no food waste' rule is known ship wide.

So when something is made that the reader doesn't like, they have no choice but to choke it back with a smile.

Sanji thinks he's done something wrong; underseasoned the food, maybe? This leads to a vicious cycle of him trying to perfect the food (because damn if he isn't going to get this right for his pretty crewmate) and the reader choking it back reluctantly (because damn if they're going to break Sanji's one rule and potentially ruin their chances).

All of this comes to one glorious, horrendous conclusion where one of Sanji's attempts uses an ingredient that the reader is allergic to and well....let's just say the aftermath was something to behold.

-♡♡

POOR BABYYYYYYYY. I love it. Let's torture him a bit.

Food Preferences

Masterlist Here

Little drabble.

Synopsis: Sanji caters to suit your personal food preferences, and it hurts him to learn of how truly picky you were with your food. He lives to serve, but his background as a great cook leaves him with a bruised ego to dull down his extravagant meals.

Themes: Sanji x gn!reader, underlying feelings, Sanji is a service king, reader is a picky eater.

Warning: potential eating disorder mentioned. Sanji serves large portions and it hurts to finish your plate.

Notes: Oh my gosh, Sanji would feel so guilty about it too. He'd cry before giving Luffy your portion, but would absolutely cater to suit your needs.

His portion control is due to the fact that he's feeding Luffy constantly, and expecting everyone to get a taste of everything he makes before Luffy takes it all for himself. It's the same with Zoro's drinking habit. He wants everyone to have a sample of something nice, and is used to having the collective gratitude and praise from everyone as soon as they eat their food.

Sometimes all you want is simplicity. No extravagant flavours. No richness in your desserts, no complex flavours in your meals. A military ration wafer block or two with a hot cup of boiled water is sometimes enough, you're not for all the complexity. Tea and a biscuit. Black coffee and a shortbread cookie. Simple flavours.

When Sanji nearly killed you with your allergy in a bid to win you over, you finally softly explain to him your preferences, and he listens. He may not understand it, but he listens. Simple, clean, basic, boring.

Immediately purchasing new crockery and knives specifically catering to your allergy preferences, he ordered in ingredients specifically for you that would never even glance at the same cabinet the allergins would be homed in. He's not about to send someone into anaphylaxis because he wanted to please someone, especially someone he served with on his crew.

He can't help but almost mourn when he makes your food now. He lives to serve, and that service includes providing foods that suit your preferences. Preferences that hurt his ego as a chef, but suited his purpose as someone who lives to serve.

Each time he brings you a dish now, he attempts to hide his sorrow at such a dish. He can't stand it, it kills him inside. It's worse than Chef Zeff wanting to drown everything in oregano. It's bland, it's boring, it's little...

...and it makes you smile.

And boy, oh boy, is he a sucker for that smile.

The way his heart flutters, his smile brightens, his eyes twinkle all in the hopes that you'd bless him with that soft smile he'd come to cherish. He didn't know when, but his heart sang to you. Maybe he could coax you in to expanding your preferences through something small, something new mixed in with the familiar. If he was willing to cut back for you, perhaps you could find it in your heart to expand for him.

If not, he'd love you for who you are anyway.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady

[animasola86]

Lessons in Love-Making

Notes: So I received an amazing request recently and this is what I made of it! I hope you enjoy! (If you like to give me smut requests as well, please feel free to do so! My inbox is open!)

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Genre: Fluff/Smut

Warnings: NSFW! MDNI! Explicit sexual content! Assisted masturbation. Voice kink. Fingering. Sex. (Infidelity?)

Word count: 9.8k

Synopsis: To say you and your boyfriend have a poor sex life would be an understatement. One day after a particularly horrible experience, you find yourself crying in the hallway. And then Sebastian finds you, always eager to lend a hand.

Warning: It's smut time again! Yay! I mean, beware, there's some spice below the cut! Don't get it in your eyes!

-- can be read on AO3 too --

Lessons in Love-making

You are tense. So tense, your entire body is shaking. Gritting your teeth and clenching your hands into fists as you walk through the empty hallway, you are not surprised when the first tears roll down your cheeks. Because you are not just tense, you are frustrated. And you've been frustrated for quite a while now.

It always comes to you when you walk back to your common room, in that post-haze clarity, not that there had been any haze, there was fog, sure, perhaps a few lightning bolts and one clap of thunder, and the rain that should be soothing was just a little drizzle, if it came at all.

And if you had time to think of silly metaphors for your poor sex life, then it really wasn't that good apparently.

You let out a shuddering sigh and stop walking, too wound up to wipe at your wet cheeks. Too wound up to do anything and so you sink to the ground and just sit there, trying to ease your breathing and your drumming heart, trying to clear your head and not think of what has happened and what has been happening over the last months.

Soon you are so focused on creating your own personal pro and con list, that you shriek loudly when you suddenly feel a hand on your shoulder. You jump and hit your head against the wall behind you, looking up with wide eyes and your mouth open.

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.”

And just like that your mind is empty. His voice makes sure of that. And that smile. Yet all you do is stare, while the tears still stream down your face.

“Are you alright?” Sebastian asks as he settles down next to you on the floor.

You let out a sob and raise a hand to wipe at your tears, before you give him a shrug and half-hearted grunt of confirmation. He raises an eyebrow and watches you closely.

“What happened?” he inquires with that low voice that causes your tense body to shudder deeply.

You swallow and look away, unable to answer him right away. Even though he's been your friend for quite some time now and you've shared a lot of low and high points together and you know you can tell him anything, you feel embarrassed to address your frustration.

You feel him scooting closer and then his hand is on your knee. “Did he do something?” he asks and just the implication that your boyfriend could have done something bad to you makes you turn your head.

“No!” you say quickly, before you pause and let out a dry laugh. “That's the thing, really... he never does... anything...”

Sebastian tilts his head, frowning slightly as his dark eyes wander over your face. “He doesn't satisfy you, eh?” he then states and the brutal straight-forwardness of his words makes you wince.

You don't answer right away and that is probably answer enough. Sighing deeply, you look down at his hand on your knee, feeling his warm touch and how it affects you. And you shouldn't feel like this. Because you have a boyfriend and it is not Sebastian Sallow. You would add sadly, but in truth you are quite content with the boy that asked you to be his girlfriend almost six months ago.

You love talking to him, you feel safe in his presence, he makes you laugh and happy. But when it came to sex, he was really... bad. And for months you've just dealt with it, not complaining, just trying to be happy for him because apparently it was quite enough for his liking. And the sad truth is that you've accepted feeling unattended whenever he would find his release – and then fall asleep right after. You didn't even mind the pain any more, because quite frankly, it was the only thing you could count on whenever you would end up in bed with him.

Tonight has been especially bad, causing your ever-growing frustration to burst through the seams of your patience. And the tears that won't stop flowing are proof of that.

“Please don't mention this to anyone,” you whisper and wipe at your cheeks again. “It... it really is not that big a deal...”

“Are you sure about that?” Sebastian asks and gently grabs your chin to make you look at him. “This does look like a big deal to me...”

You shake your head and his hand away, sobbing quietly. “I'm just frustrated and it's okay, it'll pass, like always. It's silly, really, crying over something like that...”

“It's not, you have needs too. Everyone has. And you shouldn't just be his plaything...” he tells you quietly, his voice vibrating through your very core.

“I'm not! You know he's not like that...” you start defending your boyfriend once more.

The boy next to you watches you closely. “Perhaps you want to be his plaything, but he just doesn't comply.”

“Stop saying plaything, it's vulgar!” you hiss.

He laughs, the sound ringing in your ears. “I can be more blunt, don't worry,” he says and nudges your knee before he leans away and crosses his arms behind his head. “So why don't you take care of your frustration yourself?” he then whispers, his eyes on you.

You stare at him, a little puzzled, before it dawns on you what he means. Averting your eyes, you blush deeply. “I... uh, tried, but it wasn't for me...” you admit eventually under your breath. “It doesn't feel right...”

“Then you may have done it wrong,” he says and leans closer again.

Swallowing hard, you raise your gaze and meet his. “I think I know my body and what it... wants...”

“Do you though?” he asks with a sly smirk.

“Well, of course, it's my body!”

“But then why are you crying in the hallway because your sorry excuse for a boyfriend can't satisfy you the way you like it, hm?”

His words hang in the air, luckily only reaching your ears, and you look at him long and hard. The longer you stare into those dark eyes that practically sparkle in mischief, the hotter you feel, your cheeks positively aflame as they burn your tears right off your skin.

“I can help you,” he then says quietly, and the implication alone makes you lean back from him.

“What? No! I... I have --”

“Yes, I know what you have,” he sighs and tilts his head. “And I'm not saying you should cheat on him with me, okay? I just want to... show you something. Help you out. Fight that frustration with you. Make you feel better.”

His promises sink into your mind and leave you wanting exactly that. You know how good he is at manipulating you, not that you would call it that, he was just very convincing. Persuasive even. And this was for your own good, wasn't it? Like he said, you have needs too. And as you wipe at your burning eyes, you find yourself inhaling deeply, before you nod shortly.

When you look at him, you see his face lighting up, the faint shadow of dimples gracing his freckled cheeks. “Of course this will be purely educational,” he tells you with a wink as he gets to his feet and holds his hand out for you to grab.

When you do and he pulls you into a standing position as well, you bite your lip and square your shoulders. “Of course,” you agree.

*

“So tell me what you usually do with him,” Sebastian asks as you sit down on that old couch in the far back of the dimly lit Undercroft.

You feel embarrassed, but then you sigh. “Well, we sit on his bed and then we... kiss and that's quite nice,” you start, already defending your boyfriend again, almost unconsciously. “And he would touch me...”

“Where?” the boy next to you inquires.

You look at your hands in your lap. “He usually gropes my breasts, sometimes my hips,” you whisper, before you look at him and he nods to make you continue. “Then he'd lie on top of me --”

“Are you naked when he does that?” You wince slightly at the bluntness of his question and look away again.

“No,” you admit, your ears burning. “He... doesn't like being naked...”

Sebastian laughs loudly at that, before clearing his throat. “I'm sorry, I...” he says a little breathlessly, before he shakes his head. “So you just grope each other through your clothes? But you do have sex, right?”

You blush deeply once more and fidget with your fingers. “Well, yes, he would push my underwear off and... stick it in...”

You hear him stifle another noise of surprise or whatever you want to call that gurgle that escapes his throat and you start feeling a little more frustrated, but for a different reason. “And then what?” you hear him ask once he catches himself again.

“He'd...” You let out a groan. “Tell me again why it is necessary to share these things with you?” you ask and stare at him.

“Well I have to know what you already do know in order to teach you more,” he tells you with a smile. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ridicule your boyfriend, I'm sure he has other redeeming qualities...”

“He has!” you confirm with narrowed eyes. “That's why I put up with that, okay?”

He raises his eyebrows, then nods. “I see. So, please, continue, tell me what exactly he does that leaves you so frustrated.”

You sigh and inhale deeply. “Well, he... comes very quickly. He's barely in there before he... grunts, pulls out and comes all over my stomach...”

“He doesn't even finish inside?” Sebastian exclaims in surprise.

“Because he shouldn't!” you reply a little more agitated than you've expected.

“Why not? You do take those contraceptive potions, don't you?” He tilts his head, looking genuinely concerned now.

“Yes, I do, all the girls do, we are basically forced to. Nurse Blainey makes sure of that...” you whisper.

“But then why doesn't he come inside you?” he asks as if you were talking about what to eat for breakfast and he was really appalled by your choice of cereal.

You take a sharp breath and look away. “I don't know, he probably doesn't like it...”

“I bet he never even tried...” you hear him whisper. “Trust me, it's the best feeling...”

You swallow and look at him. His smile is both boyishly charming and devilishly sultry. “So you know your stuff, eh?” you whisper under your breath.

He laughs. “I do, love,” he says with a wink. “And I'm going to teach you a thing or two. If you let me,” he adds quietly.

You are intrigued, certainly. And you've already shared all those embarrassing things with him. Talking about more couldn't possibly hurt, right?

But you haven't taken into account that Sebastian Sallow was more for learning by doing than anything, so you suddenly find yourself sitting sideways on the couch, your legs lying on his lap as he gently pushes your skirt up to reveal your underwear. Biting your lip, you watch him.

“So how would you normally touch yourself?” he asks as he looks into your eyes, making it sound so easy and simple as if he wanted to know your favourite colour.

You blush and look down, moving your hand between your legs slowly. “I'd... rub right here...” you whisper and put your middle finger against the thick fabric of your bloomers, lightly teasing your heated skin.

“No skin contact?” You shake your head and he huffs quietly. “Love, you have to give your body room to breathe, let the air caress your skin, put your fingers right in there, properly feel yourself. May I?” he then asks and you look up in surprise when he gently grabs your hand.

You nod hesitantly and watch how he moves your hand against your centre, repeating the motion you just made, guided by his slender fingers pressing against yours. “Remember this feeling, okay?” He then grabs the waistband of your underwear with his free hand and without hesitation pushes your hand beneath the fabric until you feel your fingers gliding over your hot, wet skin.

You gasp and almost jerk your hand away if he wouldn't hold it. You can feel not only your fingers, but his as well, as he presses your hand firmer against your skin. “How does that feel?” he whispers and his voice alone makes you issue a tiny whimper.

Taking a shuddering breath, you feel him letting go of your hand, before he puts his fingers around the waistband of your underwear and in a swift and unexpected motion pushes it down your hips and off your rear and legs, and you barely even noticed him raising your body for that. Too shocked about his brash action to fully react to it, you instead focus on your hand resting on your exposed mound, your fingers teasing at your folds. Your first instinct is to cover yourself with your other hand, but you hear him shushing you softly.

His hand is lying on your thigh now, his touch warm and somewhat comforting. You bite your lip and look at him. With a smile he tells you: “Come on, don't be shy, touch yourself.”

Oddly enough you don't feel shy at all in his presence, a little taken aback maybe, but not shy. And so you start moving your finger over your skin, exploratively, literally testing the waters as you let it slide over your lower lips and then between them. After just a few rubs, you feel your breath accelerating.

“You might want to move your finger a little higher,” he whispers, his voice not only helping you calm down under the unusual task he's given you, but also helping you in other ways that are quite the opposite of relaxing.

You follow his advise and move your fingertip higher until you feel the little nub that causes your stomach to tense slightly when you touch it. You breathe loudly through your nose as you push your finger against it and start rubbing slow circles around it. Closing your eyes you focus on the sensation, until you feel a warm breath near your ear.

“That's it, keep doing that,” Sebastian whispers right into your ear after he has leaned closer to you, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your thigh. You open your mouth slightly and take a shuddering breath. “Feels good, right?” he continues, his voice causing goosebumps to ripple over your skin like waves. That or the steady movement of your finger. You feel your hips stuttering slightly, your thighs twitching with every push against that agitated bundle of nerves.

“Oh yes...” you moan softly and lean your head back, chewing on your lips as you work your finger against yourself. You feel a familiar tension, yet somehow it feels different, more intense, and you move harder and faster against that nub. As your body starts shaking badly, almost spasming, you feel his hand pressing on your thigh as if to calm you, or hold you in place, and in your desire to finally finish this you grab it with your free hand and close your fingers around his.

He holds onto your hand tightly and even scoots closer to you, lifting and parting your legs slightly as he does so, and then wraps his arm around your shoulders. “Almost there, love,” he whispers and you whimper under the sound of his voice, your eyes squeezed shut as you lean against him, furiously rubbing yourself. “You're doing so well,” he adds and his praise is what pushes you right over the edge.

You buck your hips and cling to his hand as you feel the coil that had been sitting in your stomach for so long, unattended and so tightly twisted it was almost painful, suddenly explode into a blindingly bright light. You gasp and cry out, your legs twitching as your toes curl up and you feel the blood rushing through your head while you hold your breath under the unknown feeling of your release.

As you slowly come down from your high, your fingers shaking against your heated skin, you feel him stroking your arm and squeezing your hand. “Well done,” he whispers and you feel his lips brushing against your hair. You are breathing heavily and when you open your eyes, you see him smiling at you. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips parted and trembling. You feel as if you've just run up several staircases.

“Was that your first orgasm?” he then asks and you just look at him, taking in his face, until the cold reality of the situation comes back to you. Blinking slowly, you squirm against him, but he holds you tightly, not letting you go.

“I... I shouldn't have --” you mutter under your breath, quickly looking away again, biting your lip.

“Oh you definitely should have, that was long overdue apparently,” he says quietly, shifting beneath you until he pulls you right onto his lap. You lean your shoulder against his chest and slowly look at him, fighting the embarrassment. “Don't be ashamed,” he whispers as he tilts his head, his dark eyes on you. “That was beautiful to witness.”

His words do the exact opposite of what he has intended, they don't reassure you, they make it worse. You look away with a hoarse groan, chewing nervously on your lips as you clamp your hands to your core and clench your thighs around them, too shaken still to think about just covering yourself with your skirt.

“Do you feel a little better at least?”

“A little,” you confess quietly.

“I'm sure there's more where that came from,” he then whispers, his lips right against your ear and you flinch and turn your head towards him with wide eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask innocently, truly innocently because you just don't know any better.

He smirks at you. “You know, love, unlike men, who need a little time to gather themselves, women are capable of experiencing multiple orgasms in quick succession,” he explains almost matter-of-factly and you listen with blushed cheeks but growing interest. “Do you want to test that theory?”

You stare at him and lick your lips, still feeling the distant shudders of your last release, but you know he's right. You've been tense for so long, never able to let it all out, so why stop now? The harm is already done, you tell yourself and try not to think of the details of experiencing this whole thing with another boy while your boyfriend is probably fast asleep and happy about what you'd done earlier.

“Yes,” you tell Sebastian quietly and watch him smile wider at you. Without any warning, he then grabs your shoulders and turns you around until your back is pressed against his chest and you sit with your legs wide open astride on his lap, facing the vast space of the Undercroft.

“You can put your feet on the couch if you want, but keep those legs open, okay?” he whispers, his breath hitting your ear as he leans his head around slightly. You shift on top of him and gasp softly when he snakes his arms under yours and around your torso, grabbing the fabric of your skirt to ball it up more and push it out of the way.

“I can... take it off...” you mumble under your breath.

“If you want to,” he says and lets go of it.

You stand up then and suddenly feel your legs shaking beneath you. He quickly grabs your waist to support you and you inhale deeply to gather yourself. With shaking fingers you unclasp your skirt and push it off your hips until it drops to your feet. Stepping out of it, you then settle back on his lap and put your feet up like he told you to. You can feel the soft fabric of his trousers and slightly more as you shift your rear against him to find a comfortable position.

His hands now roam freely all the way to your legs, his thumbs teasing at your inner thighs. “I can assume you've never had a finger inside you?” he whispers against you and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

“Isn't it enough to have a --” Weirdly enough you can't say it, can't name it. You feel your cheeks blush even more.

“The word is cock, darling,” he tells you in that sultry voice that masks the vulgarity of his words so well. “Or dick or whatever you want to call it,” he adds with a chuckle. “Don't be afraid to name it. It won't bite. It's there for your pleasure, you know?” You squirm and make a low noise of embarrassment. He only chuckles again. “And you know, no, it's not enough to have a cock in your pussy. It is certainly the main goal, but there are so many other things you can use to pleasure yourself. Like your fingers,” he concludes and you feel your ears burning when you listen to him. He talks about these things so easily, it's almost impressive if it wouldn't be so lewd.

As you still chew on his words, he suddenly grabs your hand and guides it between your legs, his fingers on yours as he presses them against your folds that feel warm and wet under your touch. You inhale sharply and bite your lip. Feeling him rest his chin on your shoulder, his cheek rubbing against yours, you look down and watch him move your hand up and down your mound, teasing at your clit, pressing into your slit until you feel your fingertip pushing against your entrance.

“Give it a try,” he tells you quietly and just the sound of his voice makes you close your eyes and take a deep breath, before you tease your fingertip into your hole.

It feels so tight and you suddenly know why it hurts every time your overeager boyfriend presses his thing (still can't even think about it) into you without warning or preparation. You feel Sebastian moving his fingers back to close around your wrist as he guides your hand further, pushing your finger deeper. You shudder at the sensation.

“How does it feel?” he asks and you feel the vibrations of his voice more than you hear his words.

“Weird,” you reply quietly as your finger scrapes over your soft wet flesh. “So... squishy...”

He chuckles. “That makes it so desirable, love,” he whispers and you feel him turn his head and brush his lips against your jaw. “It can be soft and welcoming, but then it can clench and tighten and really squeeze...” He inhales deeply, almost longingly, when all you can do is focus on his voice and the sensation that causes inside you.

And you knew then that it wasn't your finger inside you that made your stomach tense, it was the timbre of his voice, those low vibrations, the way he pronounced certain words, those low and high notes of his speech, and that combined with his lewd words was just irresistible to you. A soft moan escapes you as you shift slightly against him, pressing your back into his chest.

“Keep talking,” you whisper as you move your finger a little faster against your flesh. “Please...”

He seems to pause at your request, then you feel a warm exhale against your cheek as he breathes a throaty laugh. “You like my voice, huh?” he concludes and all you can do is nod. “That's new. Have you always --” He pauses again. “Are you honestly jerking off to my voice right now?” he asks and you blush and bite your lip, but you don't stop moving your finger against yourself.

He laughs softly and tightens his grip on your wrist as he helps you with that motion. “Try adding another finger,” he tells you, his lips brushing against your ear and you shiver deeply. You comply and slip your index finger in with your middle finger, slightly stretching your entrance as you do so. Another moan escapes you. “Push as deep as you can,” he continues in a low whisper that resonates through your entire body. You do what he says and you don't even flinch at the wet squelching sound you create with your movements. “In and out, that's right,” he comments on what you're doing. “Go a little faster, really move those digits. The more friction the better, love.”

You feel your heart pounding inside your chest as you work your hand against your folds, your fingers slipping in and out fast and hard and you can feel your walls clenching around them, certainly reacting to your touch. Your breaths become shallow and you feel your wrist hurting from him holding it and you moving your hand so much, but you keep going.

“Now put your thumb on your clit,” he whispers, seemingly watching you follow his every word. “Pump those fingers and press against your clit and I bet it'll feel even better...” And it does and you almost flinch off his lap if he wouldn't hold you as you feel your thighs twitching when you start rubbing the sensitive nub with every rapid pump motion of your fingers.

You lean your head back against him, breathing louder and harder, your whole body shuddering under the sensation. “You're so good at this,” he tells you and you feel even better. “And I wonder why you never did this before, you're a natural.”

“You... you're... helping...” you whimper breathlessly. You hear him chuckle and then his lips press against your ear.

“Am I?” he whispers with his voice so deep and low that you can only moan more. “And I could tell you anything? And you would still find it... sexy? Hmm,” he hums and you almost lose it right there and then. “Hmm, okay, so, did you know --”

But you never heard whatever he wanted to tell you as your entire body shuddered all over again. You arch your back against him as you buck your hips off his lap and really push your feet into the cushions of the couch when you feel that awful knot tensing up painfully once more before it breaks free with such a force that you let out a cry of pleasure that echoes loudly through the Undercroft. While your hips stutter, you feel something warm and wet coating your hand as you finally still your movements and even press your thighs together before you curl up on his lap, shaking uncontrollably under your release.

He holds you in his arms as you shake and whimper, gently cooing in your ear, and you feel completely spent and very, very happy as you lean against him, smiling tiredly as your eyelids flutter open.

“That was powerful...” he whispers as he meets your eyes with a smirk. “Well done. You even squirted, I'm impressed,” he tells you and you frown at his words, before you loosen your legs and open them once more, only to see a large wet stain on his green trousers.

Despite the sensation still rushing through your body, you basically jump off his lap and hide your face in nothing but pure humiliation as you stand awkwardly in front of the couch, your release still dripping down your legs as you shift on them shakily. “No! Oh no, I'm... I'm so sorry... I didn't --”

He is with you immediately, pulling you into a tight hug and holding you against him. “Shh, it's alright! Don't worry about it! It's completely natural,” he whispers, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “And I can clean that up, no problem. Don't be ashamed! Be proud!”

You issue a strangled noise and bury your burning face in his shirt, your hands clawing at the back of it. It takes you a moment to recover and you feel even sillier over how you've reacted to your mess. “Sorry,” you mumble once more and he shushes you once more.

He even grabs your shoulders and leans you back, looking at you with a serious expression that stuns you for a moment. “Don't apologize,” he whispers and tilts his head. “I wanted you to feel good about yourself, and didn't you feel good just now?”

You swallow and nod almost a little timidly, chewing on your lip.

Sebastian smiles at you. “Then focus on that,” he says and you feel his hands moving down your arms until they hold your waist and pull you closer to him. “And I'm sure you want to feel good again, don't you?”

You take a shuddering breath, unsure if you do. But then he leads you back to the couch, sits down and pulls you onto his soiled lap. You shift a little uncomfortably as he pulls his arms around you and presses your shoulder into his chest. You look at him a little conflicted.

“Hey, cheer up!” he says with a smirk and kisses the top of your head. “And tell me... what do you think about toys?” You frown when he goes back to the topic right away as if nothing has happened. He mistakes your facial expression for confusion and adds: “You know, those phallic things that imitate the real deal? Or other toys you can stuff your pussy with?”

His lewd words make you shiver in slight discomfort and yet they also cause the heat to pool back between your legs immediately. “Haven't thought about those before,” you reply shyly, even though you hold his dark gaze.

“Want to test them out?”

“Do you have stuff like that?” you ask in earnest and surprise, before he chuckles and makes you frown again.

“I'm a wizard, love, I can conjure you anything you desire,” he says with a wink and you blush deeply.

“Perhaps... another time,” you reply eventually. “I... I think I'm good for tonight.”

He watches you closely. “Are you sure? Are you completely frustration-free?”

You consider his question, your eyes wandering over his freckled face. While he waits for your answer, you go back in time and think about your friendship with him. This was still a friendship, right? You have shared so many things, the good and the bad, the worst even, and you were always there for each other. But you have never been this intimate. You've hugged and he's kissed your head a couple of times, tonight included, and he didn't shy away from holding your hand or touching you (appropriately), but you never did the things lovers would do.

And somehow you still didn't consider what has happened tonight to be something like that. He had just helped you, assisted you in relieving the tension that's been troubling you for so long. He's never touched you (inappropriately) himself and you know he wouldn't do that without your permission. And even if the thought of pleasuring yourself right in front of him was still a little daunting to you, you haven't felt too awkward about it because he has made you feel so at ease.

Sitting comfortably on his lap, leaning against his chest, looking into his dark eyes, you suddenly wonder about something else and despite not really wanting to go down that road right now, you just can't shake the thought. So you voice it. “Sebastian?”

“Yes?” he replies, watching you patiently, a gentle smile playing around his lips.

“Why... aren't you my boyfriend?” you ask quietly and for the first time tonight you see him blush. He quickly clears his throat and laughs it off, shaking his head.

“Yes, love, why am I not your boyfriend?” he teases and nudges your shoulder playfully. “Take a guess.”

“Because I chose him or because he was faster in asking me?” you whisper.

You see him clenching his jaw, before he gives you one of his carefree smirks – that you know he uses to hide his deeper thoughts behind. “Both? Honestly, I am happy when you are happy and if you're happy with him --” He pauses then, watching you closely with the smirk slowly fading. “Are you happy with him? If I learned one thing about your beloved boyfriend tonight, it's that he seems to neglect you pretty horribly.”

You inhale sharply. “No, he doesn't! He's really sweet, he just doesn't know any better...” you quickly fall back into defending him.

“And apparently he's unwilling to learn either. Or do you guys just not talk about these things?” he says quietly, his tone a tad too serious for your liking. When you avert your gaze and bite your lip, he exhales loudly. “Of course you don't talk about it! Darling, you have to talk to him if you want to have a better experience! The times are changing, you don't have to take them like they come, you can fight against them, make them better!”

“It's really not that important...” you start quietly, even though you want to agree with him. But some things are always easier said than done.

“Really? It was important enough for you to get so frustrated that you ended up crying in the hallway! I bet he wouldn't like to see you crying either. Talk to him!” he insists, his arms tightening slightly around you. “Or shall I talk to him?”

“No!” you exclaim immediately, staring at him with wide eyes. “Please don't! I --” When you see his smirk, you groan and hit his chest playfully. “Don't even joke about it, okay? He can never find out what... happened here tonight...”

“You know your secrets are safe with me, stop worrying so much!” he says gently and raises a hand to push a strand of your hair out of your forehead. “What we have is special, isn't it? I wouldn't want to jeopardise that.”

“Me neither,” you agree, your eyes boring into his. “Sebastian, I... I want to thank you...” you then start, shifting nervously on his lap.

“No need, love, it's quite alright. I'm always here for you,” he replies, but you shake your head.

“I mean it, let me thank you,” you whisper urgently and he raises an eyebrow.

“What were you thinking of?” he asks then, sounding quite interested in how you want to thank him.

You lick your lips and lean closer until your lips are brushing against his ear for a change. “I...” You blush deeply and inhale sharply, before you lean back and look at him once more. “Listen, don't take this the wrong way. I mean, we've already crossed some lines today, right? So...” Taking another deep breath, you return to whisper into his ear: “I want you to come inside me.”

He grabs your shoulders and stares at you, his lips parted and his eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

You fight the heat overtaking your face and hold your breath when you look at him. “You heard me,” you say and chew on your lips.

“I'm not so sure, to be honest...” he replies quietly, frowning deeply. “Sounded to me as if you --”

“Listen!” You inhale deeply, before you pummel him with your words. “You said it's the best feeling, right? And quite frankly, I want to experience that too for once. So this might also be a selfish request, but also a way of saying thank you for your help tonight...” Staring at him breathlessly, you blink slowly. “What do you say?”

He raises his eyebrows and watches you for a moment, unusually quiet. “Are you sure about this? That would be a major line to cross...” he whispers eventually.

“See it as a service between friends,” you explain with a shy smile.

You see him working his jaw as he looks away slowly, his eyes moving over your exposed legs. His hand moves down to your lower back, teasing under the hem of your shirt, before he lowers it to gently caress the curves of your bare rear. “And we'll still be friends afterwards? Promise?”

You tilt your head. “Of course! Why wouldn't we?”

“What if... that changes things?” he asks quietly, still not looking at you.

“Look at me,” you tell him and reluctantly, he does. “No, really, look at me! I just came all over your blasted trousers! That should have changed things, but it didn't! Not for me. We've been through so much, Sebastian. I think our friendship, or whatever you want to call this, can handle anything!”

He watches you closely, your words slowly bringing the smirk back onto his lips. But you're not done yet.

“And you know? It's only fair that I see you come undone as well, don't you think?” you whisper and smile at him, and despite your confident words and eager attempts to convince him to do that with you, you feel your cheeks burning and your stomach tensing up in anticipation. You might also be dripping onto his trousers some more, but you really don't care any more.

“I suppose,” he replies quietly and you see the tip of his tongue moving over his bottom lip. He smirks wider when he notices where your eyes have wandered. “And you wouldn't consider that cheating? You'd be sleeping with another guy...”

“There will be absolutely no sleeping, okay? Don't you dare fall asleep on me as well! I wouldn't be able to handle it,” you tell him with a hearty laugh.

He chuckles, but you can see a dark shadow crossing his eyes. “No falling asleep, I promise.”

Your eyes move over his face. “You want to do this with me, right? I wouldn't want to... force you or anything.”

His laugh is genuine this time. “You find me a teenage guy who wouldn't want to be forced to have sex!” he says, then clears his throat. “I mean, ugh, you know what I mean!” You see him rolling his eyes as he blushes deeply and you chuckle softly while you raise a hand to rub at his red cheek.

“I want you to feel good too,” you whisper.

“I appreciate that,” he replies, before he tilts his head. “You know, we never even properly kissed and now you expect me to put my cock inside your pussy? That's quite the step we'd be making...”

You almost choke on your own spit when you hear his blunt words before you try to laugh off your shock. “Well... we can also do the steps in between, if it makes you feel better...”

“Well, if I have to,” he mocks your tone and smirks at you, while he extends a hand to cup your face, his long fingers moving into your hair as his thumb caresses your cheek. “Do you want me to kiss you?” he then asks quietly, leaning a little closer.

You look at him, inhaling deeply. “Yes,” you reply without hesitation.

For a moment you just look at each other, each of you weighing the consequences of what is about to happen. But all that flies out the window, or at least your head, when he leans in and presses his lips to yours, gently, softly, testing the waters, and when you kiss him back, he tightens the grip on your face and pulls you towards him, his lips closing around yours eagerly.

You've often imagined kissing Sebastian, or at least for a long while, and you've seen him kissing other girls, but feeling his warm mouth on yours now, with his lips moving confidently against your own and his tongue cheekily slipping into your mouth feels like nothing you could have ever imagined. You are so absorbed in the sensation that you barely notice shifting on his lap until you straddle him, your chest pressed to his as you lean against him, your arms wrapped around his neck as you deepen the kiss almost hungrily.

His hands move down to your hips and even further, and when he starts kneading the soft flesh of your rear, you moan softly into his mouth. He leans back then, watching you out of dark eyes, and you draw a much needed breath. “You really want this?” he whispers equally breathless. You nod and already lean in once more, your lips brushing over his, but he leans back again. “You really want --” You see him clenching his jaw. “You really want me to come inside you?” he says barely audible and you smile at his sudden shyness, or whatever you want to call this kind of hesitation you've certainly never seen from him before.

“Yes,” you breathe against him, your hands finding his face as you hold it firmly. “I want it all. I want you!”

His gaze becomes harder for a moment. “What if I want you too?” he then asks darkly.

You tilt your head and frown, licking your swollen lips. “What do you mean? You have me, right here.”

“What if I... wanted more?” His voice is low, but in a way that causes cold shivers instead of pleasant ones to rush down your spine.

“What are you saying?”

He inhales deeply and then shakes his head, giving you one of his smirks. “Never mind. Forget I said anything,” he then brushes it off and leans in once more to kiss you quickly.

Your turn to lean away. “Sebastian...”

He sighs loudly. “Sorry, I shouldn't have --” You see him closing his eyes for a moment and working his jaw. “This is a service between friends. We are friends, nothing more. You have a boyfriend and I'm just here to help you out when he is too incompetent to treat you right!” He exhales then, leaning his head back against the couch, and rolls his eyes. “Sorry, I mean... I just...” He issues a groan and stays silent.

You grab his face and look at him. He avoids your gaze. “Do you want me to break up with him?” you then ask as straight forward as possible.

His eyes find yours. “I would never ask that of you,” he tells you and even though he sounds sincere, you know better.

“That's not my question,” you whisper.

“Why do you press this so much? Let's just fuck and get it over with!” he grimaces darkly and sits up straighter again, grabbing your waist. “Or not, if you don't want any more because I ruined the mood or something...”

You sigh and roll your shoulders, your thumbs grazing over his cheeks. “Tell me to break up with him,” you say quietly and watch his eyes go wider.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You don't mean it,” he says quietly, eyeing you closely.

“What if I do? We could do this all the time, without having to hide anything...” you whisper, licking your lips.

“I thought you love him...”

“I love talking to him, spending time with him. The sex, if you want to call it that, was just a... necessity...” you tell him and scoff.

He watches you with dark eyes, his face hard. “What if he doesn't want to talk to you any more... afterwards?”

“His loss,” you say surprisingly indifferently. “I enjoy his presence, but I enjoy yours more,” you tell him with a warm smile.

You see him opening his mouth, ready to say something, make it better or worse, but instead he pushes his lips against yours as he grabs the back of your head and pulls you towards him. You gasp, but quickly lean into the kiss that is much more passionate than before. His words still echo inside your head despite the static trying to push them away and you wonder what if...

He never actually said it, you realize, if he wanted you to break up with your boyfriend, and even though you've seen the signs, you can't be sure. And quite frankly, you are a little apprehensive about making rash decisions while you're still battling your frustrations and basking in the sensations another boy has invoked in you and it wouldn't be fair to -- When you feel Sebastian's tongue pressing against yours demandingly, you focus back on the kiss and for a moment you truly forget about everything.

Your fingers dig into his hair, another thing you've always wanted to do, and you even start grinding your pelvis against him as you kiss him breathlessly. He groans quietly against you, the sound so low and deep it immediately causes a reaction deep within your gut. You grip his hair and wrestle his tongue hungrily, your heart pounding inside your chest. His hands are on your hips, just holding you, but his grip is tight and almost possessive, definitely bruising your skin.

With the last of your willpower (or the urge to breathe) you lean back then and watch him out of half-lidded eyes. “Do you... still want to stick your cock into me?” you ask, blushing from your own whispered words, but also no longer caring about etiquette. He's certainly had a bad influence on you.

Yet he seems just as surprised as you are and issues a short laugh. “Yes,” he eventually says back, breathlessly and with his eyes sparkling mischievously. You smile at him and scoot back on his lap a little as he pushes a hand between your bodies and fumbles with the buttons of his trousers. Watching him eagerly as he finally frees his arousal, you can't help but stare at it for a moment. “You can touch it if you want,” you hear him whisper with a chuckle.

When you look up into his face, you lick your lips and smirk. “I have a better idea,” you whisper back and shift on his lap once more, grabbing his shoulders to pull yourself as close to him as possible before you start moving your pelvis against him, feeling your wet folds sliding over his length as you grind against him slowly.

He immediately gives you the desired reaction and moans deeply, watching you with his eyebrows raised and his lips parted. “Good... idea...” he mutters breathlessly and grabs your waist to assist you in your movements. Together you move in a slow rhythm and you quickly feel your legs shaking and your core burning in pleasure.

Throwing your head back, you gasp and moan softly, before you close your eyes and lean into the sensation. You feel him gripping you tighter, his noises vibrating through you deliciously, before he suddenly grabs the back of your head and pulls your head towards him. Your mouths collide with a smack and after a desperate kiss, he rests his forehead against yours and breathes heavily against your lips. “You wanted me... to come inside you, right?” he whispers deeply.

You open your eyes and look at him, your vision blurry. “Yes...”

“Then please, take me inside already,” he says with a low chuckle. You watch him closely and realize that you are on top and he even confirms your suspicions. “This is your night, love, move at your own pace. Use me as your plaything,” he adds with a smirk.

You lick your lips and try to ignore his word choice for now. Inhaling deeply, you sit back on your knees and look down at his eagerly waiting cock. It's glistening from your slick and those veins bulge quite aesthetically and when you close your hand carefully around his shaft, you give them a light squeeze that causes another moan to fall from his lips.

With another reassuring look into his dark eyes, you lift yourself up and position his precum coated tip against your entrance. Watching you with heavy breaths, he gently massages your waist. Suddenly you feel a little nervous, not about doing it with him or because you think he might not fit, but because you've never been on top, you've never been in charge like this. He seems to sense your worries and reaches one of his hands up and grabs your face, gently caressing your cheek.

“You can do this,” he whispers and it's the sound of his voice that makes you start moving. “Yes, just lower yourself... slowly...” he comments and you bite your lip as you listen to him, your body doing the rest for you. He groans deeply when you feel his tip slipping past your entrance. “You're so tight...” he mutters, inhaling sharply.

You let out a moan and hold onto his shoulders with both hands after you let go of his cock as it slowly disappears inside you. You feel him moving further and further, deeper and deeper, filling you more and more, and the feeling is so new and foreign to you that you feel a deep shudder rushing through your entire body. A little whimper escapes you when you finally bury all of him inside you, and you are both impressed and terrified at the thought.

Breathing heavier, you settle on top of him, your fingers clawing at his shoulders as you try to adjust to his invasion and the sheer length and girth of him. You find him watching you equally breathlessly, his lips trembling slightly and his cheeks redder than you've ever seen them before. You lean in then and try to kiss him, but the motion causes you to move against him and you let out a wince when you feel him pushing so deep he's certainly poking something he probably shouldn't.

He doesn't seem to mind and finishes what you started as he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you closer, kissing you deeply as you let out another gasp. “Does it hurt?” he whispers into your mouth, but you shake your head.

“No, it's just... so new...” you confess and he grimaces darkly before he kisses you again. “But it feels so good...” you add and kiss the corner of his mouth as he gives you another smirk. “Having you all the way in there...” You inhale deeply and bite your lip. “Feels perfect...”

He moves his fingers into your hair and chuckles. “You just wait till we move together,” he whispers and pulls your mouth closer once more. You kiss him hungrily and wait for him to do what he just said, but he doesn't. When you lean back to look at him, he smiles. “I'm your plaything, use me however you like,” he says again, his voice low and sultry.

You chew on your tingling lips, before you grab his shoulders tighter and start leaning up on your knees, slowly raising your rear, feeling your walls clench around his length as if they don't want to part from it. He leans deeper into the couch and watches you, his hands letting go of you to rest on the back of the lumpy furniture piece. He truly lets you do all the work.

And you give your best as you keep moving up, before you move back down with a smack, coaxing a cry and a gasp out of your own throat and a deep moan out of him when he plunges back into you all the way. “Careful,” you hear him whisper with a smirk. “Ease into it,” he tells you and you nod, repeating the motion but a little more deliberate as you move back down on him.

Slowly you find your rhythm and he even starts assisting you as he puts his hands on your waist after all and guides you up and down. Your breaths are shallow and you feel your legs shaking under the exertion, but you keep going, your eyes on his face the entire time. His gaze is just as dark as yours. “Tell me... how it feels,” you whisper in between issuing moan after moan.

He exhales loudly through his nose as he smiles darkly at you. “Amazing,” he groans quietly. “You're so warm and tight... and how deep you can take me feels incredible...” His voice helps you in moving slightly faster now as you feel your insides tightening around him greedily. “Oh yes, you move those hips, love,” he breathes. “Just like that... you really are a natural...”

You bite your lip and move your hand to grab the back of his neck as you place your other hand on his chest, riding him faster and harder with every rapid heartbeat. The slapping of skin against skin and the squeaking of the old couch echo in your ears and fuel your desire to do anything to get that extra bit of friction, that extra scratch you need so badly as you grind your hips, feeling him stretching your walls and moving against those sweet spots. You moan louder and for once you don't care who can hear you.

All you care about is your pleasure and it feels so good and refreshing to have someone allow you to chase it. Even though he seems to really struggle beneath you, his fingers digging into your skin almost painfully as he grunts and groans while you moan and whimper. “Are... are you... close?” you ask, your voice strained and shaking from your continuous motions as you move your entire body against him.

He lets out a deeper grunt and you see him squeeze his eyes shut. “You... first...” is all he utters. You lean closer then, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press your chest against his. Your lips brush over his as you start moving your rear up and down as fast as you can, really leaning into it, and you hear him groan louder and faster as he too wraps his arms around you and holds you close.

You almost lose it right there and then when he starts pushing his hips upwards against you, mirroring your movements and doubling the sensation. Moaning right into his ear as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, you feel your walls clenching more and more despite the rapid movement of his cock sliding in and out of you as he fucks you open relentlessly. Your whimpers grow louder and you cling onto him as if your life depended on it.

“Please,” you hear him whisper hoarsely. “Come for me...”

You move faster, the heat almost unbearable now, and as you hold onto him and he holds onto you, you feel your muscles contracting, your insides convulsing, that sweet tension building and building, and when it finally burst into an explosion of tiny little lights, you cry out loudly, arching your back and sinking your fingernails into his shirt, gasping for air, before you collapse against him, breathlessly and spent, your limbs twitching and your heart ready to jump out of your chest.

Yet he keeps moving his hips against you even faster, the sound of your bodies connecting an obscenely wet one, the couch creaks beneath you, and his groans become louder and louder, until he shudders against you, his arms tightening around you to the point where you can barely breathe, and when he pushes your body hard onto his lap, burying his entire length as deeply as possible, he grunts and stills his movements, and you feel him twitching inside you, before something warm and wet fills you up as he mindlessly pumps his load into you.

You whimper softly as you lean against him, completely exhausted and yet so satisfied like you have never felt before. For a moment, none of you move, it's only the last tremors of your orgasms causing your limbs to twitch occasionally, before you hear him breathing heavily into your neck as he pushes his lips against your damp skin and kisses it lazily. “You're amazing...” he hums and you shudder deeply at the sound and sensation. “That was... amazing...”

You move your shaking fingers into his hair and gently caress his scalp, your breaths still shallow but not as frantic any more. “You... too...” you whisper quietly. “Thank you...”

He chuckles softly at that, his voice hoarse and strained as he speaks. “No, thank you. It really is the best feeling, you know?” He shifts beneath you and you gasp softly as he pushes his hips upwards once more. “Can you feel it? How warm and cosy it feels?” You nod your head, hoping he'll notice it. “I almost want to stay like that forever,” he continues quietly, his breath ghosting your ear, causing goosebumps to ripple over your heated skin. “You're the perfect fit...”

You breathe against him, fighting the thoughts pushing through your cloudy mind. Before you can help it, you feel a tear dropping from your lashes and a sob falling from your lips.

“Are you alright?” he asks immediately, loosening his grip on your body, but you keep clinging onto him, not wanting to face him right now. “Does it hurt? Shall I pull out?”

“No,” you say firmly. “I'm okay, don't move...” You feel him rubbing your back soothingly, his touch warm and comforting, and yet it causes more tears to roll down your cheeks. “I wish we --”

Suddenly he presses his lips against your ear, his breath hot on your skin and his voice vibrating through your head so intensely, it stops any ongoing thoughts instantly. “Please break up with him,” he whispers.

It's these words and his low voice and the need behind it that makes you lean back eventually. Ignoring the slight jab of pain as you shift on top of him, you look at him and his face is as flushed as yours feels. His eyes are dark, yet pleading, his lips parted and trembling. You reach out a hand to caress his cheek and push a wild strand of his messy hair out of his forehead, before you lean in and gently press your lips to his.

You'd be a fool if you'd ignore his request now. It wasn't just the amazing sex and all those moments before, it was the promise behind his words to treat you like this for as long as you'd let him. And how could you ever say no to those puppy-dog eyes? You chuckle at the thought and lean back, meeting his puzzled gaze. “I will,” you then tell him, as simple as that, and his reaction couldn't warm your heart more.

The smile spreads over his entire face, making those dimples pop and his eyes sparkle, and then he wraps his arms tighter around you, pulls you against him once more and kisses the side of your face with a happy chuckle. You laugh against him, relishing the warmth that courses through your entire body. And you know from that moment forwards that you need him to come inside you every blasted time.

Because it truly is the best feeling.

End notes: Breeding kink activated! He's converted another one!

And speaking of kink: that voice kink, right? Confession time: I cannot stop listening to Sebastian saying "forgotten", the way he pronounces that word is just *chef's kiss* to me! (I have it bookmarked, see link above... And even though it's the scene where he's angry with us, I cannot help but melt away at the sound of it XD)

On another note: With Kinktober over, what are we calling November? Because uh, no, I will not participate in No-Nut-November, excuse me? Our boy can't handle that! So Smutvember? Lovember?

While I wrote this I was imagining who that useless but sweet boyfriend would be - and while I have some ideas, I'd like to hear yours! Who do you think would be a great guy to talk to, but would be utterly useless in bed?

MASTERLIST - KINKTOBER - AO3

[samd1o1]

The Disability Coding Of Aphelios

Hey everyone! Today I thought I'd write a little post about my comfort character Aphelios; The Weapon Of The Faithful from League Of Legends!

Specifically I wanted to talk about the disability coding of Aphelios. For those who don't know; coding means the character is written to be an allegory for a life experience. It's about the closest you can get to canon without being necessarily canon. Many stories in magical fantasy universes use this technique. The most common reasons are for hiding from censorship and backlash, and creativity. I personally find coding way more interesting because of all the ways people can think to use magic as an allegory. But I also understand the importance of canon representation. Luckily, Aphelios does both!

So let's start with base main universe Runeterra Aphelios. To be able to talk to his sister and access her weapons he has to drink a special moon flower poison. This poison causes him immense constant pain. It also renders him mute. Obviously he isn't technically disabled. He can choose to not drink the flower (though that would be a dumb decision). But the fact he *must* drink it to save his people and it leaves him to chronic pain and muteness to the point of becoming numb to the world. That screams chronic illness's that cause pain.

Now many League lore nerds are always quick to do an "uhm actually" when you call Aphelios mute. But they're not thinking of the coding of it. Like I said earlier; fantasy stories using coding is very common for many types of minorities, not just disabled people.

My favorite example of disability coding is Hunter from The Owl House. Hunter lives in a world full of witches but he has no magic. He struggles at times but is able to find a way to navigate the world. He uses his palisman as a disability aid and makes do.

Now I'd understand some people not seeing this or just denying it. But what they did with HEARTSTEEL Aphelios basically confirms to me the disability coding was intentional (or at the very least something they're sticking with).

HEARTSTEEL is a boy band in the League musicverse. If there was ever a time to make Aphelios speak, it would be a boy band that sings. But no they didn't do that. In fact they understood the music verse is a more grounded universe (hinted to be our own even) so they made him CANONICALLY disabled.

When Aphelios was younger he had nodes in his vocal cords and they had to be surgically removed. Aphelios never fully recovered and lost his singing voice and the majority of his normal voice. He can't really speak above a whisper. In interviews he whispers to his sister Alune and she answers for him. (Someone teach this poor man sign language).

Another thing I find cool about HEARTSTEEL Aphelios is how he copes. Aphelios is the lyricist of the band. Kayn and Sett's verses are very in character for themselves but K'sante's fits Aphelios as a character way better.

"They wanna kiss me long good night with a rose

Hoping that the Eiffel falls, of course

You don't understand the life we chose

(On life support, life goes)

I need my silence, my privacy so I can heal

And even rockstars got feelings that they feel

In reality, this just repeats like a drill

Always"

This verse shows Aphelios struggle with being disabled. He didn't choose this life, but life goes on. The best part of this verse is that his friends are his voice. The fact K'sante sung his lyrics is very powerful. Shown in the music video, his friends metaphorically (and literally) saved him from drowning.

I can speak from experience that friends are very important. They really can help you through the toughest times and save you from drowning.

(I also feel it is important to mention; that while it's beautiful that someone sung Apehlios thoughts for him. It is suspicious they chose the ONE black champion in the band. The other two who sang solo verses got to have screen time all to themselves for their verses. K'sante isn't present at all for his verse and it is instead Aphelios and Yone.)

Anyway that was a little infodump about Aphelios and why I love his disability coding. I really appreciate that Riot are keeping him mute in all universes so far. (My worst fear is a legendary skin where he speaks.) Riot has stated that while champions are different people with different life experiences in the alternate universes that the champions will keep their core identities. They were mainly referring to LGBTQ champs in this statement, but disability is also a major part of identity. I'm sure it applies here too. Sona has also stayed mute in all universes as far as I know (she just uses aids like telepathy and text to speech).

Anyway see you all later on the rift where I will OTP HEARTSTEEL Aphelios and maybe some Sett support because I'm gay.

[shelby-fangirl00]

Hunting You-part one

•A successful assassin from London named Penny is hired to travel to Small Heath and kill Thomas Shelby. (Don’t want to give too much away tehe)

•WARNINGS(18+, minors DNI): Enemies to lovers, Dual POV, Smut (in future chapters), Lots of angst, Strong language, Lots of violence

•Authors note: hey y’all! This story has been brewing in my mind for some time.This part is kind of an introduction to my story. Reblog if you enjoy:) Next part will be in Tommy’s POV.

Penny

I checked my watch every few minutes for what seemed like an eternity. Plopping my elbows on the wooden table top, I huffed loudly. According to the dick who hired me, Shelby should’ve been here hours ago. Honestly, I didn’t mind waiting, since I was paid in advance, but my fingers still twitched in anticipation, eager to finally get my hands dirty again.

This was an ordinary night for me, except for the part where I had to travel into this piss poor town. Under any other circumstance, I would have told the man who hired me to fuck off. But how could I refuse such a hefty wage? Anyways, doing this out of town work only makes my job easier. At least that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Nobody here seems sober enough to remember gossip about a hitman. Let alone talk of a random woman in a pub.

Killing Thomas Shelby will definitely make waves Small Heath, but thats not my problem. I’d be gone before sun rise. Talks of a female assassin surely hadn’t traveled to this poor drunken town anyways. It’ll be as if I was never here.

I nurse my glass of whiskey. Just as the rim of the glass touches my lips, I pull out the very dated photograph of Mr.Shelby I was given. I imagine he was just a boy in the photo. He appears to be in uniform and my chest tightens at the thought. I can only imagine the horrors he’s seen since this was taken. It wouldn’t surprise me if the man today doesn’t resemble this photograph at all.

The doors open for the first time in an hour and I hear the booming laughter before I see the lot of them. A large group of nicely dressed men in caps waltz in and I assume this to be the notorious Peaky Blinders. Of course I did some research before coming here. They were feared throughout this place. Known to be unforgiving and ruthless. This Shelby man I’m sure is a sick and twisted bastard. All the best men I know are. I myself am a bit sick and twisted.

Hiring a female hitman, like myself, had different perks. It’s far easier for a woman to get close to a man they don’t know. They don’t see us in the same light. We come off as less of a threat. In my experience, no man is immune to the powers a beautiful woman can possess over a man, in the right circumstances. Thomas Shelby couldn’t be any different from the rest of them.

I straightened my back and fell into the role I’d been assigned. My long black dress hugs my waist and my thigh is bare under the slit of my gown.

My eyes search for someone loosely similar to the photograph, maybe with a beard and some extra weight, but there’s so many men now crowding my view. Eventually, I hear a loud voice yell for a “Tommy.”

Gotcha.

The men seem to part perfectly and I have a clear view of him. I see the not-so-young-boy who grew into this apparently fearsome man.

My blood runs cold and I curse under my breath. To put it plainly, the man is fucking gorgeous. His stature radiates confidence while his presence demands respect.

He’s aged nicely, his cheekbones even more pronounced now. Even from my small booth in the corner, I notice his dazzling blue eyes. Out of all the men here, why did it have to be this one? Most of the men I’m hired to kill are assholes who don’t deserve to see the sun again. I hope he’s the same.

I beeline to a nearby group of drunk and smelly men. I pretend to walk past them and “trip,” over one of the chairs, spilling my whiskey out onto an old man’s shoulder.

“Stupid bitch!” The man attempts to stand up and almost falls on his ass. I try to muffle my laughter. I wish I could kill this one too, it would be too easy.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” I plead with him and he finally steps closer to me, trapping my body against another table. His stench is repulsive and it takes every bit of willpower inside of me not to put a bullet through this fuckers head. I momentarily get lost in the thought, his greasy face would downturn and the life would drain from his angry expression before he dropped dead.

My hands press down into the table as he spits at me. He grabs my wrist tightly before speaking again.

“You’ll fuckin pay for that, girl. Why don’t you join me and-

A hand covers the man’s shoulder, squeezing harshly before speaking. As if the man has eyes in the back of his head, he freezes and turns slowly, like he knows exactly who the hand on his shoulder belongs to.

“Alright, Tim?” A low but smooth voice asks. My breath hitches in my throat and I don’t really need to pretend how scared I am anymore.

“Of course, Mr.Shelby. Just teaching this one a lesson in manners.” The big oaf states confidently.

For the first time, Mr.Shelby’s eyes lock with mine and I suddenly forgot how to breath or blink or function at all. He’s even more stunning this closeup. He examines me for an uncomfortable amount of time before speaking again.

“I don’t think that’ll be nessacary Timmy. Why don’t you go back to your table and let me handle it?” This Tim man peaks at Tommy from behind his shoulder and I can tell this is an order. Tim finally releases my wrist and grunts, giving me one last look that makes me feel dirty, and stumbles off.

I exhale loudly, pretending to finally relax.

“Thank you, sir. I was worried I wouldn’t get out of that one.” I stated, chuckling lightly under my breath.

“No trouble, Tim’s an angry drunk. He won’t remember ya tomorrow.” His words sit in the air between us awkwardly before I decide to speak again.

“I’m Nora.” I lie.

I stick my hand out and smile stupidly. This takes him back but he recovers quickly, smirking and pressing his hand in mine firmly.

“Tommy. You aren’t from here…don’t tell me you actually moved to Small Heath on your own free will.” He chuckles darkly, placing his half empty glass between his lips and searching my eyes for an answer. He looks similar to the picture, more dead in the eyes now. No less mesmerizing.

I laugh. “Thankfully, no. I’m just here visiting an old friend. How’d you know?” I place my own glass to my lips now, scanning the room behind him.

He smirks, finally letting his eyes drop for a split second to my chest.

Shrugging his shoulders plainly, he states, “It’s a small town and I’ve lived here me whole life. I would’ve known if someone like you lived here.”

My eyebrows arch in question. “Someone like me, yeh?”

He smiles slowly, but it’s dark, almost like a warning. I don’t understand why I’m suddenly so clammy?

I need to get this over with. My body is betraying me, because all I can think about are his lips and how they would feel on mine and what his chest looks like underneath all those damn layers.

Giving in only slightly to my body’s demands, I take one big step into him, putting my chest inches from his own. I look up at him with a dazzling smile, and he just smirks. Does he always have that smug fucking look on?

“Well thank you for saving me, Tommy.” His eyebrows shoot up in what I’m assuming is surprise?

“Another whiskey?” He asks, stepping past me towards the bar and nodding to the barman.

I take in his stature beside me, leaning his forearms against the long bar. As much as I would love to entertain this handsome stranger, I had a job to do.

I squeeze his shoulder, leaning into him so my lips barely touch his ear.

“Excuse my forwardness, but I’d rather take you back to my flat, Tommy.” I squeeze his shoulder one last time before stepping back.

He cranes his neck to look behind him at I don’t know what before returning back to me.

“I like forward. Lead the way, love.” Finally, this can end.

“Of course…” I say sheepishly and he doesn’t hesitate to follow closely behind, his hand resting on my lower back. The sensation sends a shiver up my spine.

As we trot outside, he moves his hand from my back to behind his own and i do the same. I silently acknowledge the few daggers I have hidden in my stockings along with the gun in my purse….aaaaaand maybe a few razor blades underneath my pinned updo. It’s just a precaution, really. I can never be too safe. Plus, it’s fun to switch it up every once and a while.

“Where ya staying?” He asks smoothly as we round the dark corner.

“Just across the p- the air is quickly swept from my lungs as Thomas grabs me from behind and slams my body against a brick wall. I gasp as both of his hands wrap around my throat and he never stops squeezing.

Fuck. He knows.

Panic sets in and I’m clawing at his arms desperately. I try to maneuver my legs in order to knee him, but his body is flush against my own.

“thought it be that easy to kill me? You’re at the back of a long line, love.”

I muster up enough rage in my throat to spit out a “fuck you.”

My hands could only reach his side, so I wail on him. As soon as my punch lands, I feel another pair of hands on me, pinning my arms over my head. Thomas bends for only a few seconds before spitting and regaining hold over me.

I look over to see the other man pinning me against the wall. He’s younger than Thomas, but sporting a similar smirk.

If I don’t finish this job, Tommy will kill me. And if he doesn’t, the man who hired me would. Especially after being paid in advance.

I felt myself slipping from the lack of oxygen. But just as I closed my eyes, Tommy released me but the other man stays put to my side, his hands tighten around my wrists and his chest is pressing into my arm.

Tommy turns back around, adjusting his coat and lighting a cigarette before examining my flesh, the way my dress had fallen open at my chest during our scuffle.

“Who hired you?” He asked plainly.

My chest was heaving and I swear his eyes followed the movement for a split second.

“How should I fucking know? A man overpays me in advance for a hit and I don’t ask questions.”

The man holding my body hostage against the brick wall, bellows out an annoying laugh but Tommy doesn’t so much as smirk.

He sighs before reaching inside of his coat and pointing the barrel of his gun at me.

I giggle, cocking my head and studying him now. “You ever killed a woman, Mr.Shelby?”

“Enough. Tell me his name or I’ll put a bullet between those pretty eyes.” He says, almost softly, like he’s seducing me instead of trying to kill me. I hate how my thighs clench together and my nipples harden under my dress. All this foreplay tonight between the gun, the two angry men holding me against a wall and a touch of breath play.

“Promise?” I don’t know how, but I knew he wouldn’t shoot.

He sticks his gun back into his holster from underneath his coat before speaking again.

“John, put her to sleep and tie her up.” And before I could even protest, the man’s hands move from my wrists to around my skull, slamming it into the brick wall. Everything goes black. I never stood a chance.

Part two coming soon in Tommy’s POV!

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[xflippinfrogx]

No title because I’m lazy

A/N~ Heyy sorry I’ve been so inactive the last while I’ve had severe writers block but I’ll try my best to get a few things done in the next week or so.. well hopefully lmao!! Yes it is another marauders post but it’s been in my drafts for over a year and plus I rarely see any new ones so why not put some out there myself?? Anyways enjoy the fic and I’ll hopefully write again soon💕

🛑WARNING: THIS IS A TICKLE FIC IF YOU DON’T LIKE, DON’T READ🛑

Lee(s): Mainly James but also Sirius, Remus and Peter

Ler(s): James, Sirius kinda Remus and Peter

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

James Potter was what people would call a very tactile person. He showed his love and affection through touch.

He was never seen without an arm around Peter or his hands tangled in Remus’ hair. Sirius never thought about his actions until today when he was visited by a familiar friend of his..

The tickle monster.

“Jahaahahamehes stAHAP IHIHIT” He writhed beneath his attacker. James let up noticing the alarming colour of red that had engulfed Sirius’ face.

“Maybe next time don’t provoke me then okay?” He smirked.

Sirius was left alone sat on his bed when he began to think. James was always tickling him and the others, it was just another way he showed affection. But then it suddenly hit him that it was always James doing the tickling..

He couldn’t remember the last time James had been properly reduced to a pile of giggles and tears. He could name hundreds of times James was doing the “reducing”.

He decided to watch carefully for the next while to see if he could figure out if maybe James was actually doing this in hope of receiving the same affection back..

•~•~•~•~•

That evening, Peter spilled ink over an essay James had spent ages working on and they all knew exactly what was about to happen to poor Pete. He apologised hundreds of times but James had already set his target.

Immediately the room was filled with please and squeals as James got his well deserved revenge. It only lasted a minute or two but Peter was a mess by the end. He helped James clean up the mess and re write his essay and everything went back to how it was.

Sirius however hadn’t missed the slightest blush grazing his best friends face and a look of what he thought was disappointment?

Was James hoping it would escalate further into him being the victim? Definitely. In all honesty Sirius could just put James out of his misery and tickle him then and there but he was enjoying watching his friend become embarrassed and flustered by the situation.

Anyways, he needed to be 100% sure that James was really looking to be tickled before he struck. You know, incase he didn’t actually like it and Sirius was misreading the whole thing..

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The next morning as always, James was the first to wake. The only difference is that Sirius woke up early too, he was too giddy about his experiment to sleep any longer.

Peter got up as well hearing the other two pottering about the dorm. Only Remus remained in his bed. As Sirius had predicted, James wasn’t having it.

When James is up everyone has to be up.

He had already called Remus to wake up multiple times. The others knew Remus hated mornings but James wouldn’t take no for an answer, even if it was a Saturday. James quietly tip toed towards the unsuspecting boy and crawled carefully onto his bed. With one leg either side of his friends torso he began to lightly walk his fingers up and down his sides.

Remus was laying on his stomach, hands above his head, leaving his entire back and sides completely vulnerable. He shuddered feeling the light pressure from James’ hands.

Too tired to know what was happening, Remus just lay there for a moment. Half asleep, he began to squirm and James’ actions had drawn a few sleepy giggles from the boy.

“Moony don’t make me do this, wake up mate!!” James insisted. All he got in return from Remus was a grunt.

“You leave me no choice..” He rapidly spidered his hands all over his ribs and sides. Remus jerked and burst into fits of giggles.

Once again it didn’t last long, just enough time for Remus to get in a few pokes himself, nothing major. James however fell off the bed in suprise!!

“James, don’t ever do that again or I swear to Merlin I’ll murder you!!,”Remus said helping James up off the floor.

This time, James’ face had very obviously reddened but Remus had the decency not to mention it.

Sirius did not.

“Mate you are as red as Lily’s hair, you alright?” He remarked with a grin

“Just fine thanks Pads.”

James rushed off and the others didn’t see much of him that day. Sirius suspected he must have been rather embarrassed and needed some alone time.

•~•~•~•~•

That evening James returned to the dorm back to his usual bubbly self.

Sirius decided he had waited long enough and now was his time to strike.

James sat by Peter and Remus, they were currently in the middle of a very intense game of exploding snap. Sirius moved quietly from his bed to the floor behind James.

It was James’ turn and Sirius decided it was now or never. James went to place his card when he felt two hands kneading his sides. He elicited a loud shriek and his card fell from his hands causing a minor explosion.

“Haha James you lose!!” Peter laughed dusting off the ash from his face.

“C’mon Pete let’s get cleaned up, we’ll be back for round two in a bit James!” Remus explained. The real reason he was dragging Peter out of there was because he totally knew what was going on and he wanted to, well, help Sirius on his investigation.

“Sorry James, that was a pretty illegal move there. I know you hate when I do that, I won’t anymore, promise.” Sirius was really trying to rile him up now.

“I uhm, I don’t mind it.” James mumbled so quietly that if sirius had been any further from him he wouldn’t have noticed he’d even spoke.

“You what?” He asked with an underlying tone of mischief. Finally, James turned to face him and blurted out “I saidthatIdontmindit-”

“Don’t mind what prongs?” Sirius enquired with a smirk on his face. “When you.. you know.” He gestured his hand at Sirius trying to explain what he meant. Sirius acted as though he had no idea what James was on about. “God Sirius I don’t mind when you tickle me ok!? You’re awful at taking hints,” he huffed while simultaneously covering his red hot face.

“No need for the attitude Potter,” he rolled his eyes in false annoyance and swiftly brought his hands down to his friend’s sides again preparing for attack. “You’re in no position to be rude right now.”

James burst into laughter as he was tickled to pieces on the dormitory floor. Even if you hadn’t done all the research Sirius had on him it was clear that James was really enjoying himself. He had one of those smiles plastered across his face where it was so wide he felt that if it got any wider that his cheeks would split. Sirius mirrored this because seeing his best friend so happy was everything he could want.

James didn’t even try to flee at this point because a mutual understanding was formed between them that this wasn’t embarrassing and he could just enjoy himself.

He spent the majority of that evening giggling away as Sirius poked, squeezed and scribbled over every spot he could find and it sent James into hysterics. Once Sirius reached his ribs though, he lost it.

“OHOKAHAHAY OKAHAY THAHATS ENOUGH!! PLEHEHEASE”

“Hmmm I don’t know Jamesie are you sure you’ve received all the attention you so clearly wanted?”

“YEHES”

“You 100% certain?” He was really teasing now.

“SIRIUHUS IHIM GONNA KILL YOHOUU”

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

The curly headed boy flopped over as he regained his breath, hands attempting to rub away the phantom tickles he felt lingering.

“James you know if you really wanted me to do that you could’ve just asked?” Sirius was actually being sincere this time around, he wanted James to know he wasn’t judging at all.

“It was just embarrassing I guess, not really the normal thing to like eh?” He was still terribly red but he kept his wide smile.

“Doesn’t mean it’s embarrassing, sure I’m going to tease the hell out of you about this for the rest of your life but really, it’s not something to hide,” he grinned that Sirius black grin as his friend shoved at his shoulder.

“Thanks mate, I appreciate” sarcasm dripped from his voice but he smiled getting up from the floor.

They spent the rest of the evening playing exploding snap and yes Sirius did use that illegal move many more times but they all knew James didn’t mind. Let’s just say the next time he set off the cards he seemed to find his punishment very amusing and the gryfindor boys dorm was filled with laughter once again.

[ovobawrites]

𝐵𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽: 𝐸𝓅𝒾𝓈𝑜𝒹𝑒 𝒪𝓃𝑒 ♡ 𝐹𝒷𝑜𝓎𝓈 𝒜𝓃𝑜𝓃𝓎𝓂𝑜𝓊𝓈

disclaimer: this has already been posted on ao3 and quotev, i'm just reposting this beach episode special as a promo for the fic. after this is all my previous author notes.

this is a fem!reader and also a half chinese!reader insert.

next

When Crowley invited you to the beach trip he had planned for the 1st and 2nd years, you were... reluctant to go. Your reticent nature did not mean that you were unaware of the fact that Crowley... wasn't the most caring person for his students. Crewel being the sole supervisor on the trip was the only reason you decided to attend. 

You had been informed that only the Housewardens, their vices and a person of their choosing would be present on the trip. Likely due to Crowley's inherent need to save as much thaumarks[1] as possible. Point is, you were going on a beach trip. The problem was that it would be just you and at least 14 boys plus Crewel at the beach. You were going to die.

And the worst part? Due to Crowley wanting you all to have an 'experience', the group would be taking a bus from the magic mirror to get to a specific, magically protected resort in the Sunshine Lands[2]. This resort was small enough that you would be living in each other's space for a good few days. But you shrugged, packed your bags and resolved to never tell your brother about this. All you could hope for was a peaceful trip, nice weather and no murders. And if you made sure to stuff your qiánkūn dài with fúlù for self-protection? That was just for your some peace of mind and nothing more.

The walk to the mirror hall would have been quite lovely and peaceful for you if it wasn't 5 o'clock in the morning! Getting up that early was the worst experience you had ever faced in your life... not to mention the fact that it was so dark outside you almost tripped over the steps by the door! And yet... you still woke up 30 minutes earlier than you needed to for your skincare routine, makeup, and routine anxious bag check. At least you had gotten more than 2 hours of sleep?

Crowley had informed you that the others had to wear either their PE or dorm uniforms for the trip, but since he was oh-so generous, he let you choose your outfit. Dressing for the heat was something you were used to, deciding on packing a wide-brimmed hat and heart-shaped sunglasses in your draping cardigan with customised sleeve space. Underneath that, you decided on wearing a slightly short, pleated skirt in (f/c) and a cropped t-shirt to have some modesty. Even if your swimsuits were a lot more risqué, your outfits were definitely less so for the sake of your dignity.

To get to the mirror hall, you had to trudge past the overgrown plants you were 'working' on taming, and then had to drag your feet to the long (and still slightly confusing) walk to the dark mirror. Walking in the room, you could immediately see how the different dorms prepared for this trip. Riddle and Trey were helping Cater bring his bags closer to the portal, the poor man looking dead on his feet and still half asleep, nearly squashing Riddle under his weight by leaning on him. Meanwhile, Leona, actually asleep, was being dragged by poor Ruggie, the hyena having strapped the man to one of their wheeled suitcases. 

Ruggie's quite strong actually! I wonder how he deals with both the heavy bag on his back and the weight from Leona?

Vil and Rook were by far, the most prepared of the group, the two of them having their makeup done absolutely perfectly, chatting as if it was an afternoon meeting and not the most asinine hour you could imagine being awake at. Jamil struggled with a sleepy Kalim, though he too had shadows under his eyes denoting a clear lack of sleep, not that you could judge. Meanwhile, Azul, Jade and Floyd seemed perfectly fine with this torturous wake-up time, though they all gave off movements showing them to be slightly groggy. Idia was completely awake and huddling in a corner while Ortho tried to comfort him. And finally, Malleus and Lilia chatted with a healthy air, with Lilia having Silver hefted over his shoulder like some sort of comically large sack of potatoes. 

I am going to die on this trip, if not from fatigue, then from the amount of chaos that is going to be caused by this group.

The boys turned to look at you as your heeled boots clacked against the hard floor, with numerous comedic reactions to your rather... light luggage. That is, if they were even awake enough to notice you.

"Are you going to be wearing that outfit for the entire trip?" Vil raised an eyebrow at you, arms crossed judgmentally.

You smiled like a knife. Let them worry or think you're stupid, you do not have the emotional capacity to deal with this right now without making a mess of things. 

But before Vil edged closer to the line that would result in death from a demolished ego, Crewel walked into the room. The professor carried the pouch you gifted him, along with his signature whip. The man had shed his normal fur coat for a black and white striped button up, yet his style was as impeccable as always. The teacher grinned at you, a kind look in his eyes as he took in your clearly exhausted demeanour.

"I see we brought matching pouches, dear puppy. I thank you once again for making it so much easier for me to pack for this trip. Plus," He winked conspiratorially, "You've enabled me to bring as many outfits and shoes as I want."

AHHHHH HE'S BEING SO KIND TO ME!!!! WHAT TO SAY WHAT TO SAY!!!

"It was truly no problem, Professor." You returned his kind look with one of admiration and respect. "I'm simply glad that you like it!" 

Unfortunately, the two of you could not start a compliment-off due to the urgings of one angry, red dorm leader. 

"Professor Crewel, we really should be on our way now. If I recall correctly, the Headmage said that we must be on time to catch the bus, and as according to Queen of Heart's rule #375, 'You must not ever be late for a very important date'."

...That one's just common sense no?

Crewel looked slightly ticked off for a moment, but went back to looking like a calm and collected teacher so quickly you almost thought it was an illusion.

With a clap of his hands, he ordered, "Line up pups! Make sure you are with your dorm members and pass through the mirror." He cracked his whip menacingly. "And if any of you wander off in the time it takes me to mark you all present, you will be dealing with a punishment suiting such beastly behaviour!"

Azul and Jade snapped their heads up at that and quickly grabbed onto Floyd, knowing the mischief he would get up to. Thankfully for the other dorms, their troublemakers were either fast asleep or too tired to cause even a speck of mischief. Trey went up to the mirror and stepped in with their bags in hand, while Riddle struggled to get himself and Cater through without falling over. Next up was Ruggie, who unceremoniously dumped Leona through the portal, who woke up with a yowl, then snickered and stepped through. The Octavinelle kids walked in the portal, Jade and Floyd carrying the bags while Azul took wrote something down in a small black book.

...Is he studying? Or is he analysing his fellow Housewardens... either way it's kinda creepy...

Jamil woke Kalim up and got his charge through the mirror, then picked up their numerous bags with a sigh and struggled to get past the portal. Rook and Vil, as put together as always, walked through with no problem despite their heavy-looking bags. Ortho had to drag Idia through the portal, his older brother carrying their bulky bags while seemingly quite concerned by the amount of people in the room. Finally, Malleus and Lilia went through the portal, luggage floating behind them while Lilia kept Silver slung over his shoulder. Crewel ticked through names on a clipboard with a sigh, shaking his head in disappointment. He looked at you with a small smile then gestured for you to walk through. The cold sensation of the portal embraced you as you felt yourself transported through the dark mirror.

The first thing you felt when you arrived in the Sunshine Lands was a stifling heat against your skin. The second was your eardrums dying from a loud, shrill noise. A bus screeched past you, blowing your hair into your face, before making a sharp u-turn to stop right in front of your group, blowing plumes of dust in its wake. If that noise wasn't enough to wake you all up, the slam of the doors opening definitely did. Crewel appeared through the portal just then, and walked up to the bus with no care for the groups shocked demeanour.

Both Leona and Ruggie gripped their ears in pain, Azul had hidden behind his bags and the twins, meanwhile Lilia seemed to be delighted and was shaking Silver like some sort of stuffed toy. You could catch a glimpse of their conversation:

"-could make such loud noises for the light music club! I do want to show off my heavy metal skills!"

"-right, Fa-Lilia"

Was he about to say father? Or something more offensive? I wonder... Lilia has often acted too old for his age...

You decided to walk past the boys to get a comfortable seat at the front of the bus, fearing getting sick during the long ride. Your calm demeanour and Crewel's glare from inside the bus made the boys scramble to put their bags in the trunk and race up the steps to prepare for a long trip.

As the bus's ghost driver started revving the engine, Leona settled in the back of the bus, lying down like a corpse, head on Ruggie's lap. The poor boy was being used as a pillow again, but didn't seem to mind to much as he scrolled through his phone. Riddle, Trey and Cater sat right at the front of the bus, a row behind Crewel who looked too tired to put up with questions from Riddle. Cater had settled down next to you while Riddle and Trey sat down on the other side of the bus, when he asked:

"Can-" He yawned, "Can I use your shoulder as a pillow?"

Riddle, hearing this, glared warningly at Cater, who didn't notice. You gently smiled and nodded, too tired to consider the impropriety of his actions. It was too bad that you were typically the type who was unable to go to sleep after waking up for the day. So you just closed your eyes, leaned your head against the back of your seat and listened to the hushed conversations of an early morning.

Trey and Riddle talked quietly about their plans for the week, while Floyd, Jade and Azul seemed to be intrigued by this method of transportation. You could hear Floyd cheering at each bump the bus went over, escalating in volume until Azul and Jade shushed him. There was a tiredly registered thought passing through your mind: a hope that they wouldn't throw up from motion sickness. Cater's head on your shoulder was a warm spot in the cool, air-conditioned bus that helped ground you, the slight sounds of breathing creating a rhythm for you to listen to.

You faintly heard the sounds of shuffling movements, likely from Jamil, who had Kalim's head on his shoulder while the shorter boy insisted that Jamil should lean his head on top of the other's. A sigh and some faint whispering before the two seemingly fell asleep. Malleus talked to Lilia in hushed, excited tones, the scratching of nails against a scalp as Lilia combed his fingers through Silver's hair while the first year napped. Vil and Rook seemed to have prepared for this trip, the sounds of pillows being taken out of bags and Vil asking Rook to make sure his sleeping mask is perfectly positioned. An obliging sound from the other and then the hushed noises of two more people falling asleep.

Crewel seemed to be working on something, judging by the tired sighs and the noise of pen against paper. From what you remembered, the poor professor was overwhelmed by third years requesting apprenticeships in the alchemical field, he was probably filling out those request forms, judging by the frustrated whispers coming from the front of the bus. Ortho was buzzing in anticipation, talking quietly to Idia, with notes of some video game's soundtrack floating over from their side of the bus. 

The bus was nearly silent, the only noises being from the Diasomina, Trey and Riddle, and the Ignihyde group. The bus's engine was silent, the small bumps it went over feeling less and less jarring as time went on. It felt like being rocked in a cradle like a child, a comforting movement that calmed you even further. Before you knew it, you had succumbed to your exhaustion and fallen into a restless sleep.

You slowly woke up from your impromptu nap, hearing louder conversations from behind you. The weight on your shoulder was gone. As you blinked your eyes and stretched slightly, you glanced over to where Cater was before. 

"Oh, you're up!" Cater smiled at you from next to Trey, and then was quickly shushed. 

You stood up, curious, and walked across the aisle to where they were, balance as impeccable as always. You cooed as you leaned over Cater's shoulder, seeing a sleeping Riddle curled up slightly on Trey's lap. The man in question looked slightly tired as well, but smiled at you anyways. 

"Worried about him waking up?" You leaned on Cater even more, trying to examine the sleeping dorm leader's features. "I thought he was gonna stay up for the whole trip." 

Riddle was so adorable while asleep! The Housewarden's doll-like features were enhanced by his calmer face. Looking at him, you were suddenly struck by how young he seemed. For all Riddle acted mature, it was clear that he was still childish. And now, curled up against Trey's lap, he reminded you once more of your juniors back home. It made you want to coddle him even more.

"Riddle's used to sleeping and waking up at very strict times." Trey told you in a hushed voice, "His body is probably adjusting to the decrease in hours, so he's practically dead to the world."

Cater jumped in. "Oh, but he's a total monster in the early mornings! One time, he collared three dorm members for not providing the right sugar for his tea!"  

"That's..." You were a bit concerned by how natural Cater seemed to mention this. 

But before you could continue this hushed conversation with Trey and Cater, a loud voice suddenly yelled from the back.

"Oi~ miss koi fish[3]! You're awake now?! Over here!" Floyd waved at you before being hurriedly shushed by Jade.

You sighed, and decided to walk over to the Octavinelle kids, giving Trey and Cater an apologetic glance. Knowing Floyd, he'd probably yell for your attention until Riddle woke up. It probably isn't the best choice to ignore him, especially if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.

When you stood up from your position on Cater's shoulder, the bus sped over a large road bump, causing many to knock their heads against their seats or the ceiling. Trey cradled Riddle from the blow, knocking against the seat in front of him while Cater hit his head against the roof. You, a master of balance and too short to have your head brush the ceiling, simply went over to Floyd with no problem, the poor eel having a wounded look on his face from being brained by the bus.

"Ouch... Koi fishie, my head hurts..." 

"Oh no!" You smiled comfortingly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Floyd flashed a pair of disconcertingly cute puppy eyes. "I want a kiss!" he yelled.

The bus went silent, Riddle turned slightly in Trey's lap but went back to sleep. He sighed, relieved. Idia was now huddled against a seat in terror while Lilia and Malleus suddenly looked very interested in your conversation. Leona's ear twitched but he continued to nap, still on Ruggie's lap. The hyena had jolted at the loud noise, but went back to sleep just as quickly, curled over Leona in a position that was definitely not good for his back. Jade sighed, smiling at you sheepishly. Azul just looked exhausted by Floyd's behaviour.

Kalim glanced over, momentarily interested, but went back to showing Jamil something on his phone, which his retainer obligingly payed attention to. Cater was giving you a knowing grin while Vil and Rook seemed to be ignoring this conversation. Crewel, thankfully, was napping, headphones on so that he couldn't hear any of your conversations. Floyd continued to look at you beseechingly. You had blanched at first, shocked by his audacity, but decided complying to Floyd's request wouldn't hurt. 

You leaned in and pecked him on the forehead. "Better?"

Floyd looked disappointed, cheeks slightly flushed. "...I want a real kiss."

Jade suddenly spoke up in warning tone, "Floyd." He smiled threateningly. "You don't want to harass our senior, do you?"

His brother responded quietly, turning over to his twin. The two started whispering furiously, making you give up on even trying to talk to them. You decided to sit next to Azul, who had found sanctuary by sitting in the aisle opposite the twins. The Housewarden smiled politely at you, quickly closing the book he was scribbling in with a snap. 

You momentarily glanced at the suspicious book, and Azul's nervous behaviour didn't do him any favours. The octopus was sweating slightly, so pityingly, you decided to spare him an interrogation. 

"Azul, do you happen to know the time?"

The man sighed in relief, and replied with a glance to a pocket-watch he pulled out from his dorm uniform. "It's currently 7:30."

You thanked him and then realised, with an impeding sense of doom, that you would have to spend another 45 minutes on the bus with this group of... informal men. It really was a good thing that you decided to never tell your brother about this trip. Bored out of your mind, with Jade and Floyd still whisper-fighting, you remembered something very important.

"Azul." The boy perked his head up from his phone, giving you his full attention. "If I recall, you happen to be a part of the board game club, yes? Maybe we could play a card game or two while waiting to arrive at our destination!"

Azul blinked, but then a wide, menacing grin took over his face. "Yes, let's! I do happen to have a deck of cards here with me." He rummaged through a small bag, then glanced towards Idia, who squeaked. "Idia! Would you like to play a game of poker with (Y/N) and I?"

Ortho answered for him, flying over with stars in his eyes. "Big brother would love to! Can I play as well?"

You smiled at your adorable junior. "Of course!"

Lilia floated over, Silver now slumped over his bag while Malleus made sure he was strapped in with a seatbelt to not fall off. "May Malleus and I play too? Your human games are quite... intruiging." He flashed his teeth at Azul and Idia, who had been dragged over by Ortho, causing the two to pale in fear. 

You answered for them, "Sure! That makes... 6 players." You were very excited to play such a fun game with your friends, and started buzzing in excitement. Luckily for you, you had learnt to pack your belongings very tightly in your sleeves so they wouldn't fall out from you shaking in joy.

Azul cleared his throat. "Alright then, would anyone else like to play?"

Kalim jumped up, raising his hand like a kid in class. "Ooh! Are you playing a card game? I'd love to play, what about you Jamil?"

His retainer sighed slightly, then shrugged. "Sure, why not."

Jade and Floyd had stopped their argument by now, and glanced over, slightly intrigued. 

"I'd like to play but..." Floyd pouted. "Azul and Jade always cheat! I can never win..."

Jade chuckled, "Now, why would you say that Floyd? We would never cheat with such distinguished people. We are perfectly trustworthy!"

Idia muttered something under his breath and Jade turned to him, movements uncanny. "Is there something you'd like to say, dear Idia?" 

The Housewarden of Ignihyde froze. "No-not at all!" He looked like he was about to hide under the chairs in fear, so you reached over to pat him on the back for comfort.

Rook and Vil shook their heads when Azul prompted them for an answer, and Trey and Cater couldn't play due to the volatile bomb on Trey's lap. Leona opened one of his eyes and glared in warning, Ruggie still sleeping over him.

"Then that makes 8 players. Does everyone know the rules or should I explain them?" Azul asked. "Oh, and by the way, I will take on the responsibility of being the dealer first."

Malleus looked at Azul. "If you'd please, fellow dorm leader, I would be very grateful for an explanation of the conditions for this game."

A line of sweat dripped down the side of Azul's face. "Of course, now, pay attention since I will only explain this once!"

The poker game was an... experience to say the least. Azul had won the first game, though not without a valiant fight from Jamil, Idia and Jade. Lilia, Malleus and Ortho were learning the ropes and wrapping their heads around the rule. Meanwhile, Floyd and Kamil were too busy trying to master card tricks, where you move cards via sleight of hand that you tried to teach them how to do. Of course, this was all part of your master plan. You categorised each player's reactions to the 'better' and 'worse' hands they were dealt, and very quickly, you could accurately guess what they had in their hand. Counting cards was a trick you were taught a long time ago by your grandmother, who was a master at diplomacy. She had chosen to either beat or lose to an opponent in a game to achieve the outcome she wanted, and taught you and your mother how to do the same.

This resulted in you testing out your strategy for the second game, in which Jamil and Jade insisted that Kalim and Floyd pay attention. Idia won this round, though Lilia had quickly mastered the game and gave his poor, shy classmate a run for his money. Malleus was still struggling, and seemed to have horrible luck in these games, though his poker face was just as good as you'd expect from a Crown Prince. Jamil, Jade, Idia and Azul were also very good at hiding their feelings, though with the amount of practice you had from trying to guess your grandmother's expressions, they were no match for you.

And so, you put your plan into action for the third game. And the fourth.... and the fifth, before Azul had thrown the cards off of your makeshift table in a fit of rage. But before the boys could interrogate you on your, very suspicious, wins, the bus came to a halt. You took that opportunity to stick yourself to Crewel like glue, recounting the tales of your victory to the teacher who listened indulgently, a slight smile on his face.

Crewel congratulated you on showing those boys a bit of modesty, saying: "It's good that you took those pups down a peg, our students have always been quite proud... but the Housewardens are even more so. Perhaps I should have all of you play another game tonight..."

You smiled in reply. Seems like this trip was going to be more fun than you thought.

[1] Thaumarks is the official english translation of madol! Just an FYI for those who don't know [2] Sunshine Lands is a canon location that I got from this video, apparently, it's a map from the new chapter? It sounds and looks like a beach location so... [3] Miss koi fish/koi fishie is reader's nickname since they're very popular in China, and are bred to be very pretty! Koi may look similar to goldfish, but they are not of the same species so... I'm copping it for our dear reader.

Mini Theatre (Y/N), doing her best not to insult her friends: They're just quite... excitable, and they're risk takers so... that's a good quality. Plus they're not afraid to stand up for themselves... they're quite honourable! Her brother, reading these text messages: So you mean to say they're completely reckless trash who keep on getting into fights. (Y/N): Well... they also are very friendly, and are very different from the people back home! Her brother: Dearest sister, please start speedrunning the stages of grief you are in, I cannot deal with this constant denial.

so that was the first part of the beach ep! i'll be posting these every day until we reach the end of this mini arc. if you enjoyed the writing or are interested in the fic, you can read it on ao3 here, and on quotev here

[holylulusworld]

The assistant (7) - A lost Captain

Summary: You are invisible most of the time.

Pairing: Former!Boss!Steve Rogers x Former!Assistant(plussized)!Reader

Possible pairing: Jake Jensen x Reader, Lloyd Hansen x Reader, Curtis Everett x Reader, Ari Levinson x Reader, Andy Barber x Reader, Mike Weiss x Reader

A/N: Okay, I went a little crazy with all the CEvans charaters in this one.

Warnings: angst, flirty CEvans characters, language, plussized/chubby reader, protective brothers, Lloyd being Lloyd, fluff, domestic brothers, mentions of anal fixation, remorse

The assistant masterlist

Part 6

“Whoa, Capsicle. What crawled up your ass?” Tony snickers.

He only wanted to check on Steve, because he didn’t hear from him for the better of two days. Now he’s watching Steve despair.

His office is a mess. There are papers splattered all over the floor and his desk. His phone won’t stop ringing, and the printer makes an odd noise as it tries to print some pages.

“Uh-I like how you decorated your office. Chaos and despair look good on you.”

“Tony, not now,” Steve jerks his head toward the cocky billionaire. “Since you fired my assistant…” He shakes his head. “No, since Y/N is gone, this office is a mess.”

“Well shit, Capsicle. You wanted her gone. Who would’ve thought, that she takes harassment and the way you treated her personally?” Tony sneers. “It was you and Sandy making the best assistant and friendliest person I ever met leave. Shame on you.”

“I was-“ Steve wrinkles his forehead. “I don’t know, Tony. Maybe it was the way Sandy treated me. She showered me with attention, and deep down inside, the young boy was all too happy to give in to her advances.”

Tony makes a retching sound. “Steve, too much information. I don’t want to know about your sex life. Keep little Steve out of our conversations. Please.”

“I didn’t…I mean…I would’ve but…you know,” Steve sighs. “I didn’t have sex with her. Sandy got mad as you fired her, and I refused to help her get her job back. It took me a while to realize that I made a grave mistake.”

“Good for you,” Tony smirks. He looks around the room one last time. “Don’t worry. Rumors say Y/N found a new job in no time.”

He hates to admit it, but guilt is eating Steve up. “Good for her. I hope they treat her better than I did. I even forgot to buy her lunch.”

“Yeah…I mean…she will get free cookies and cupcakes every day. Not to forget to mention they will shower her with attention.”

“Who?” Steve quirks a brow. “What are you talking about? Y/N is not that kind of girl! She’s a good girl.”

 “Poor sheltered Steve,” Tony grins. “She moved in with six brothers, Capsicle. Do you think they let her move in to play cards all night?"

Steve looks at his shield, swallowing thickly. What has he done?

Steven Grant Rogers. The golden boy. Captain America himself pushed you into the arms of six men.

He doesn’t want to think about all the things they will do to you.

“How’s that?” Jake smiles wildly when you take a large bite of the cookie he made only for you. He loves to experiment in the kitchen, and even more to share the experience with you.

“Perfect,” you chew audibly. “Is that cinnamon and blueberry?” You moan. “The taste is…I can’t describe it.”

“I’ll put it on the card.”

You love how excited Jake gets when he bakes. He grins and does a little dance before adjusting his classes.

“Aw, I love this so much more than sitting at my office all day,” you glance at the cookies, licking your lips. “I shouldn’t eat more, but…”

“Free cookies for my girl,” Jake shoves another cookie in your mouth. “You’re perfect the way you are, Sweetie. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Jake watches you munch another cookie. He just loves watching you relaxed and happy. “You are going to make me burp if you stuff me with more cookies!”

“I got cupcakes too,” he purrs and points at the cupcakes he baked this morning. “Which one do you want to taste first?”

“You’re a menace,” you sigh. “I can’t eat more, Jake. I love your food but, I’m full.”

“Alright. Jake and Y/N are not around. Now we can get to the plan,” Lloyd points out. “We need to strike hard and fast. I want a hand grenade in Captain Asshole’s ass within the next few days.”

“Lloyd, we talked about your anal fixation, didn’t we?” Andy rolls his eyes as his brother won’t stop making stupid plans. “Did you forget he’s living at the Avengers tower, surrounded by the Avengers? They have a Hulk; we only got you…and your mustache.”

“Ah, we got a little more than my mustache to beat the shit out of Captain America.” Lloyd unlocks his phone to show Andy the tank he got not months ago.

“You’ve got a fucking tank? Lloyd, did you lose your mind? You can’t buy a tank!” Andy throws his hands up as his brother is rather unimpressed. “I mean it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Andy,” Lloyd tuts. “I didn’t buy it. It was a gift from one of our business partners. They are very generous.”

“Yeah, because you fucked her,” Ari sneers. “I wouldn’t have poked that bitch with a stick.” He shudders.

“My dick made sure that we got a tank and a rocket launcher for free.” Lloyd proudly puffs his chest. “What?” He glares at Curtis. “Don’t act like you are better. You fucked every bimbo coming to your path.”

“Hmm…if you are busy fucking other girls, I can try to make a move on Y/N,” Mike says more to himself than his brothers. He nods, and already thinks about your first date. “I’ll ask her out.”

“Hey, we saw her first,” Ari and Curtis say in unison. “If anyone asks her out, it’s me.”

“Can you stop with the sync shit?” Lloyd wrinkles his nose. “I hate when you do this! And I’m the one who saw her first.”

“Jake saw her first,” Andy corrects. “But I don’t care. I think Pookie is the right girl for me. She’s smart, cute, and sweet. I like it.”

“You like to corrupt the sweet ones,” Curtis snaps at his brother. “You’ll keep your hands off her!”

“Guys! We made…” you burst into the room, grinning wildly. “You need to try the cupcakes Jakie made!” You frown as the brothers look like they were about to attack each other. “What’s wrong?”

“We tried to decide on what we want to order for dinner,” Lloyd lies. He doesn’t want you to know they were fighting over you. “How was your day, Cupcake?”

“It was great! I checked on the numbers for a few hours, and then Jake let me taste his cookies!”

Lloyd’s features darken. “He let you taste his cookies?” He cocks his head to size Jake up.

“Yeah. He made some with cinnamon and blueberries,” you excitedly tell the brothers about the cookies and cupcakes. “How about pasta for dinner?”

“If you want noodles, you’ll get them.” Lloyd purrs. “How about a real thick—” Andy slaps the back of his brother’s head to stop him from saying something stupid. “Let’s order takeout.”

“Let’s order food and have a…MOVIE NIGHT!” You clap your hands. “What do we want to watch?”

The brothers watch you with amusement as you walk around the room, telling them every detail about the movie you want to watch with them.

“You heard the lady,” Mike says. “We need to order food!”

Part 8

[artscloudy]

How do you think maki from &team would be as a boyfriend?

Oh my gooood I was kicking my feet while writing this nshdhhsbd. Thank you so much for asking, hope you enjoy (and sorry for being late) <3

&Team Maki as a Boyfriend

He's super duper cute

As soon as he sees you, his eyes lighten up and he cannot help but smile so much

Whenever he says anything, he would look for your eyes to be sure you support him. And you always do, of course

But when he feels your eyes on him oh my god, he becomes so red and starts stumbling on his own words

The "he fell first but you fell harder" trope

Because yes, he's the first one to confess and yes, he's always looked at you with the greatest admiration and love written in his eyes

But you keep falling for him every day a bit more

He's the type to spoil you with gifts, mostly plushies and funny tshirts or cool hoodies

"Y/n, I got this for you"

"Maki, love, that's the third whale plushie you got me this month"

"Yes, but this one's pink"

Something like that

Does he cook for you? Absolutely no, he's a menace. So it would be you cooking for the two of you

Or you'd order take away which is always the easiest option

He'd love to "carry" the relationship sometimes, but usually he lets you do most of the work, while still actively participating in the things you want to do

For example, even if he wants to go to the arcade and you want to go to the movies, he's the type to avoid talking about his preference and just go with the flow

But some other times, he's the type to just softly ask you to organize the day for the two of you

And your dates would almost always be shopping dates where he gives you an insane amount of outfits arranged by himself to try on and then asks you to come out to comment on them

"Please not another one..."

"But this has a cute bear on the front pocket"

"Yes, but no"

"Come on, Y/n, try this on"

"... ok"

He's the type to invent cute names for you related to the experiences you had together and use them playfully

But probably, he's the type to stick to "baby" the most

You never feel alone with him: not mentally, not emotionally and definitely not physically

His love language (other than getting whales for you lol) is quality time

He'd love to have you around at all times, even if, of course, it's not possible

He'd ask you to watch animes with him and to accompany him to the dance studio and if you have to study, you study there while he dances

So that he can come and stamp a kiss on your cheeks any time he feels like it

Do your grades get lower? Definitely, but yolo

The type to hold your hand whenever you go out together

And also the type to side-eye anyone barely looking at your direction

Sassy boy not only with people he's jealous of

But also with you, giving you the most disrespectful answers to your jokes (but you two end up laughing at all times)

He'd want you to meet his family

And when you do, he'd keep an hand on your waist at all times both to soothe you and to show his parents how much you mean for him

When you two cuddle, he always has one hand on your waist and one playing with your hair

Cuddle sessions would last for HOURS with you softly caressing his arms and neck and him caressing your cheeks and hair

And if another member barges in, he'd give him a side-eye and keep hugging you and pampering you with kisses while the poor guy backs up

And you two probably fall asleep like that

The next morning, when you wake up, you wake up to him still caressing your hair while holding you in his arms

And a good morning kiss is the first thing he asks you for

And who are you to say no?

To sum it up, Maki is an enormous green flag

[mah-t-wordblog]

It looks like Giyuu has experience if he got Muichiro to laugh the loudest, the other hashira must have been so surprised that someone quiet like giyuu could do that! And I love how you made Sanemi pat him on the shoulder too, the poor guy must have been thinking "shinazugawa is actually laughing with me here, wow I hope we can start being friends... I need to get him some ohagi" 🤣

But now I'm curious as to how Giyuu has this experince with tickling Mui, he was scared of him the most! 👀 I hope you can make a fic about that ☺️

I'm sorry for making another request so soon after my first one 🫣 but please take your time and of course feel free to decline 🫧 Take care! 🫧

I am back!!!!! I missed my plane but I managed to come back from the USA 😅 I hope you like it

How Gyuu discovered

Lee: Muichiro Tokito

Ler: Gyuu Tomioka

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

Ships: NONE

Warnings: This is a tickle fic, if you don’t like it, just scroll down

This fanfic is originally in Portuguese, my English is translated using an automatic translator, if there are any big errors you can tell me so I can fix them

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

After the last Hashira meeting, everyone discovered how mean Gyuu could be when it comes to tickling.

And why was Muichiro so afraid of him? We will see

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gyuu has never been very affectionate, but with some people he likes to be more affectionate.

For example, Tanjiro, he adores Tanjiro and always wants the best for the boy.

But there are some people they don't have as much intimacy with.

He was alone in a room at the Butterfly Mansion with Muichiro Tokito.

The awkward silence was too great

“Tomioka-san, why don’t you ever smile?”

This question from the boy was very random

“I smile, but only when I have a good reason to do so” Gyuu shrugged

“But you’re not smiling right now.”

“Of course, I have no reason to smile now.”

Muichiro sighed

“You’re not smiling either, child.”

“But it’s because I don’t even remember what to do to smile”

Gyuu was confused “don’t you remember?”

"No"

“There are so many: spending time with people you love, receiving gifts, you can smile even if someone tickles you”

Muichiro turned a little red “yeah… I know that very well”

Gyuu looked at him, the man was already thinking of something cool

"You know?"

“I know, people love tickling me.”

“Oh, is it true?” Gyuu wasn’t smiling but he was finding it funny “are you that ticklish?”

Muichiro stopped and thought, Gyuu had never tickled him, he turned red

“I-I can’t say”

“But you csn show me” the adult approached

"No!"

“Yes~”

“Get out of mehehehehe” Muichiro tried to look serious but his anxiety made him laugh

"Why? It looks like it won’t be that bad for you.”

Gyuu finally attacked, squeezing Muichiro's sides

“Hehehehehehey!”

“No… it’s not the worst point… let’s see” he moved his hands higher “what now?”

Muichiro shook his head, his laughs were loud but they didn't change much

“Not yet… what about here?”

The boy choked, Gyuu pressed him in the belly

“HeheheHEHEHEY”

“Oops!”

“SIHIHIHIHIHIHIR”

“I guess I found a weakness~” Gyuu knew how to tease Muichiro, but what if he had never tickled him?

“You still haven’t told me to stop.”

Muichiro's eyes widened but he couldn't say anything, he just started squealing like a pig in the middle of his laughter.

“Do you like this, Tokito?”

“AHAHAHAHA SIHIHIHIHIHIHIR”

“Answer me and I’ll stop”

The boy tried to slap the man

"No! Oh, Tokito, I think someone needs to be punished for this.”

Gyuu filled his lungs with air and blew a raspberry into Muichiro's belly.

“AHAHAHA IHIM GOHOHOHIHING TOHOHO DIHIHIHIEHEHEHE”

The man stopped, he laughed a little

“So you like it?”

Muichiro said yes with his head

“It’s okay, whenever you need me I’m here to do this favor for you.”

The teenager smiled “thank you sir”

"Your welcome"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wouldn't be easy for Gyuu to forget Muichiro's weaknesses, he would definitely use it against the boy sometimes.

❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜❤️🧡

Thanks for reading 💛💛

[savagewildnerness]

I’ve been thinking on Gabrielle elsewhere & I thought we could discuss her here? I’m curious regarding everyone’s thoughts on her & feelings towards her!

I find her desire to be in nature & shun humans very relatable & also, likely, the true secret to surviving immortality. Also, I’m sure 100% of us born female can in some way relate to Gabrielle’s experience. And imagine how much worse her experience of being born female must have been in the 1700’s. What a claustrophobic thought! I don’t know how I: someone who has never dated or loved could have survived back then!?

But her coldness, I find so difficult: to Lestat, who she says she loves & who she does sometimes show love to… in a way I find her way more damaging to Lestat than his Father & brothers, who simply hate him. At least Lestat knows where he is with them. Gabrielle intermittently offers Lestat love & hope… but only ever on her terms…. And then she pulls away to the TRUE opposite of love. Which is not hate. It is indifference. It feels to me like at least 90% of the time, Gabrielle is indifferent to Lestat. What could be more loveless than that? Yet he loves her, like a little donkey, reaching for the carrot of her love. And she kind of keeps him dependent on only that love too. Lestat has nowhere else to feel love from… at least until his Mastiffs.

Gabrielle disconcerts me even when she listens to Lestat in crisis. Again, sometimes she shows love. But often she treats Lestat like an interesting work of art… he is interesting to her for as long as she gets some interesting artistic fulfilment from what he says. But she as often responds with her own experience or merely leaves him be & withdraws again as that she offers comfort, I feel.

Then, when she is turned a vampire, I suppose it’s unsurprising, given who she is that Gabrielle feels zero empathy towards any human anymore. But it’s truly terrifying to me.

And in the end, I just can’t forgive Gabrielle for not teaching child-Lestat to read, as a voracious reader herself. It would have taken so little time & she would have gifted him worlds. But no: she could only ever offer Lestat a thing money could buy, for him to work out entirely alone. Rarely ever love.

I know Lestat loves Gabrielle, but I don’t think what Gabrielle feels towards Lestat is love. I wonder if maybe she even envies him in part, because he is a boy & that could influence some of the ways in which she denies him? Of course, she also admits she keeps Lestat trapped at home as surely as his Father & brothers, so perhaps Gabrielle never teaching Lestat to read isn’t her ignoring or not noticing his needs & desires, but rather acquiescing to her own: Gabrielle doesn’t want her son to be literate as it could be a means for him to escape his home & then she would be entirely alone?

There are such complex dynamics. And I’ve not even touched on how Gabrielle shares her sexual fantasies with her teenaged son yet…

Of course, it’s clear in part Gabrielle has postnatal depression, in how she feels nothing towards any of her children (& we must remember that Lestat’s surviving brothers were certainly loved even less by Gabrielle.) And poor Gabrielle was trapped from a young age in a loveless marriage, without hope in a way that is so different to 2024, yet was so common 250 years ago (almost Universal?) that we can imagine… but it is only imagining…

But still, I have such complicated thoughts towards Gabrielle. On the one hand, I find her so relatable & I find her withdrawal from humanity relatable too… but that’s from my perspective as someone with few humans in my life. I deeply do care about the few humans that aren my life! But her coldness & lack of empathy - honestly, it makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering over an infinite void! I find it terrifying, unsettling, deeply disturbing.

I want to do a poll, but I’m unsure the question… let’s see… (also note, I haven’t fully discussed gender… I refer to her as “her” here, as she is in the books, but I think she is likelier to not be “her” in the show, at least in modern day, which I’m really looking forward to how she is written & portrayed.)

I am fascinated to experience her TV self, but I have such complicated feelings towards Gabrielle.