#might just learn to make my own poses

[simsreaper]

doing everything but playing my saves(granted I do have a back log of things to post and edit but that's too much work 😩) I'm this close to reviving an old story save and doing a love island save 😭(would yall make sims for me if I asked? 👀👀)

[toastsnaffler]

woke up feeling ruffff but took my meds and went back to bed for a while n I feel a bit better

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

...ready for it? - j.l. howlett

a/n: hi! here's a full version of a blurb i wrote a few days ago that got so much love so quick that i wanted to give yall a full version! the beginning is literally just the blurb but after that it's all new! like many of you wolverine brainrot has hit me hard, so here's graphic smut about him. leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed :) warnings: SMUT!!!!! some dumbification, use of pet names, reader is fem, reader is a mutant and able to control plants, lots of cursing, lots of grotesque fliritng/fantasies, some soft moments, some sort of primal sex, oral (fem receiving), some of the setting is probs inaccurate but whatever. let me know if i missed any big ones!! word count: 4.9 k summary: well, you had to find some way of entertaining yourself at charles xavier's school for gifted youngsters. and you have always liked an emotionally unavailable, absolutely hung, challenge. pairing: logan howlett x mutant!reader now playing: ...ready for it? - taylor swift "in the middle of the night, in my dreams/you should see the things we do, baby/in the middle of the night in my dreams/i know i'm gonna be with you, so i take my time"

You are absolutely enthralled with him. It’s actually sort of pathetic how your fingers twitch at the sight of him, at how the mention of his name or god forbid the sound of his voice makes your head snap up, attention deficit disorders be damned!

Funnily enough, you had no damn interest in Xavier’s stupid mutant school, because to you, you’re not an outsider because of your mutant abilities (that don’t have much of a physical apparition, at least one that you can’t hide) but because there’s never been much of a place for you to fit in.

But, you were behind on rent and of course, you fucking hate your job, so why not? You’d be able to be slightly less of a freak, and you’d get free room and board in the process! (Where Charles gets all of his money, you do not know.)

And because you’re a little older, Charles doesn’t force you to sit in a class room to learn about basic arithmetic and grammar lessons, so you really only do some training around three times a day, you have your own room (with a dusty box under the other bed, you also suspect your room used to be the ‘sex’ room) and you have the weekends off.

So for a twenty something year old with few ambitions, the social skills of a Martian with autism, and a huge crush on every older emotionally unavailable man you meet, it’s a pretty good set-up.

You’re waiting for time to pass in the garden, just reading a rather interesting book that Charles had recommended after he noticed you needed something to pass time before you started making bad decisions.

You hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel before you see him. Your heart beats faster, but you will yourself, do everything in your power not to glance up at him. And you let out a breath as you succeed, keeping your head down.

“In your natural habitat, are you, spitfire?” Your head darts up to him—There’s no way he isn’t talking to you, you know you’re the only one in this garden. And you can see his lips twitch up and you want to crawl out of your skin!

“My-My natural habitat?” You laugh, closing the book you’re reading because your attention is locked to him now.

“Yeah, seems like it.” He saunters on up to you and sits on the bench next to you.

And let’s make something very clear—

Logan Howlett does not sit.

This man poses, as if there’s always some invisible camera capturing every frame of movement, from the way his legs spread out, to the way his chest lifts when he inhales.

Fuck, you think you might die if you can’t suck him off right now.

“And what exactly is my uh.. habitat?” You question.

He takes out his lighter and a cigar, placing the cigar in his mouth as he gestures to the space around the two of you, lighter in hand.

“A garden.” He says, matter of facility, as his voice is muffled only the slightest bit by the cigar.

And you just sort of look at him before asking,

“Oh, you enjoy being boiled down to your mutations, Claws?” You question, and as he goes to light the cigar, he smirks.

“Alright, you gotta admit though, it is cliché!”

You are absolutely in agreement, there is zero doubt you are as much of a walking, breathing, real life living, stereotype.

“It is not!” And the pair of you give each other this look, like you’re both shocked at how whiney that statement is!

“Uh-huh, sure, Spitfire.” It sounds almost like he’s purring at you.

When he lights his cigar, he’s sort of eying you for your reaction, whatever you might say.

“You know, smoking is not only bad for you, it’s awful for the environment.”

“You’re probably the most cliché little freak around here.” Which.. honestly..? Shouldn’t possibly turn you on as much as it does.

You just stare at him for a minute, and he smirks.

“Cat got your tongue?’

And maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s immature but your hand just comes over to fiddle with the pointed part of his hair.

“We’ll you certainly look the part.” He just looks at you, and honestly? The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s proud of you for teasing him.

“Aw, there’s my little spitfire,” He teases, just to see how red you get. And red you are— it’s embarrassing. And here’s the kicker—You are young. Exceptionally young, and what’s insane about that? How horny it makes both you and Logan.

The idea of fucking your innocent cunt, tight and all his, drives him genuinely mad. And you are, quite literally, a whore for the idea of riding this older man’s dick. You know he’s big—sometimes you see the outerline of it when he walks away from you all huffy and puffy.

“You’re a tease, Claws.” You respond, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Says you,” he raises and eyebrow, leaning closer to you now, “You’re the one laying around in the sun, looking like that.”

“Looking like this?” You scoff. You’re wearing a muscle tee and a pair of ripped jeans, but the gaps are huge and he can see your thighs. He wants to devour you, and you would let him if he only asked.

And let’s be clear—he is fucking you with his eyes. There’s no way to go around it.

“I think you’re just.. horny.” You tease, and he just growls. Seriously, this man who is undressing you with his eyes, growls, because he does want you and he is horny!

“I think you’re onto something.” He purrs, and you want to just.. god. You don’t know how to express the pit of desire that grows in you. “I would fuck you until you couldn’t think, right here among your pretty flowers. Would you like that, baby?” he asks, his hand finding your thigh.

But you just cough on the smoke from his cigar, before frowning.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.”

“Aw, I’ll make it up to you.” He smirked. “Promise, spitfire.”

He’s very close to you now, so you take a second to just breath and you know that he knows that he’s got you—hook, line, and sweet, sweet sinker.

And then you realize what exactly it is that you’ve gotten yourself into. And what a nightmare it is—Or maybe a dream if you listen to the pathetic part of your brain, but you are into this an in a way that is concerning for your own mental wellbeing and desperately want to avoid him having all the power in this situation.

“Oh, I am sure you will.” You assure. You lean forward, plucking the cigar from his lips, and placing it on the ground, squashing it beneath your heel. With a flick of your wrist, vines and grass grow over the cigar, composting it. And from the vines, grows a small little buttercup flower.

You lean down and pluck the flower from the grass, before tucking it behind Logan’s ear.

“You should take care of that hard-on you have, Claws.” You hum, before standing up, and walking away. And for a minute, he just watches you go—partly to because you have an amazing ass, but partly because you have absolutely flabbergasted him.

And have made him want you even more.

• • •

The next time you see him is the next night, in the woods near the mansion. Because the literal sixteen year olds you go to ‘school’ with do not know how to do anything on the weekend except drink, fuck, and smoke.

Honestly, you kind of fit in great.

So here you are, nursing a mason jar of.. some fucked up concoction, and you’re not too sure what’s in it, but you have drunk two of them and are on your third. You think you might live forever, until you glance up and see Logan, in these fuck me jeans and this burnt orange flannel and a wife beater.

Instantly, you know that you’ll die tonight if you don’t have him.

He approaches you with this cocky smirk as if he hasn’t realized your intoxicated state yet.

“Now what’s a little spitfire like you doing all alone on a Friday night?” he questions, tilting his head. His smirk is deadly. And you roll your eyes.

“Here comes the big bad Wolverine, all bark and no bite.” You scoff, and his eyes flash with surprise. Only for a second, but even drunk, you notice the way his eyes shoot up in surprise.

“All bark and no bite? That’s quite the accusation.” He hums.

“Well, we’ve been.. eye fucking each other for a few weeks now, and you haven’t even kissed me yet. I get being into foreplay and edging, but holy shit, Claws, throw a girl a bone once in a while.” You scoff, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

“Are you.. drunk?”

“Do you think I’m drunk?”

“Yeah, you’re drunk.” He sighs. You respond by taking another sip of your drink, but before the bitter liquor hits your tongue, he snatches the bottle from you.

“Let me take you home.” You’re sure your eyes look like hearts, so, dreamily and a little love struck, you respond,

“’Kay.”

And he chuckles a little bit at that.

“We’re not gonna do anything, I’m just gonna walk you home, spitfire.” He starts, and your face falls a little bit, but in an effort to hide it, you respond,

“..’kay.” And he sees right through you. You’re pretty much an open book. And the alcohol doesn’t help. His pointer finger and thumb comes to your chin, and he gently rubs his thumb against your lip.

“Don’t be like that, pup. It’ll happen soon. Just not tonight, okay?” He assures.

“’Kay.” You answer softly, and you think he smiles at you but your vision is sort of blurry. Then, you blink, as a gust of wind moves through the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. He sighs, and wordlessly takes off his flannel, before wrapping it around you. Your arms slip into the sleeves, and you almost cry because it’s like, the best hug in the entire world. “Won’t.. you be cold, then?” you question, and he just shakes his head.

“Let’s get you home, spitfire.” He holds a handout to you, and without a second thought, you take his hand. He wraps his arm around you, and you lean against him like it’s something the two of you do often. If you were sober, you might short circuit. But, you’re not, so it feels right.

The walk home is quiet, but Logan’s thumb gently rubs against your shoulder. He wants to do more, but he knows he shouldn’t, since you are in fact plastered.

You ignore the giggles and whispers from teenagers making their way past you to the party or to their rooms, and you even ignore the way their giggles stop when they meet Logan’s gaze.

When you get back to your room, you take a second to lean against the door, and he takes a second to admire the way you look in his clothes.

“Ready for bed?” he asks gently, and you just smile at him.

“You’re really pretty.” He just does the half scoff-half chuckle that you’re obsessed with. Then, he wraps his arm around you again, opening the door to your room, and guiding you inside. He gets you to your bed and sits you down, before kneeling in front of you to untie your boots. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look on your knees?” you ask.

He just gives you this smirk.

“One or two pretty girls back in the day.” He says, “None as pretty as you though, spitfire.” He says, and you groan, leaning back and laying on the bed, as he pulls off your boots.

“You’re awful.” And you need him.

“Yes, I know, baby.” His voice is almost condescending, and it turns you on. But then he stands up, grabbing the folded blanket from the edge of your bed, and laying it over you. He finds his place kneeling next to you again as you stare at him, cozy in bed. His hands gently brush hair from your face. “Do you need anything else?”

“You.”

“Soon. But not yet, pup. You’re too drunk.” He says softly.

“Thanks for walking me home, Claws.”

“You’re very welcome, Spitfire.” He purrs, leaning forward and kissing your forehead gently. “I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Logan.” You mumble as you drift off to sleep. He sits there for a few minutes, just looking at you for a long time before he gets up and creeps out of your room.

• • •

The next morning, you sit in the cafeteria, drinking a large coffee, and nursing the worst hangover, possibly of your life. Made even worse by the fractions of memories about what happened last night.

You rub your eyes, flinching when you hear the clatter of a plate on the table, and someone sitting across from you. You peek through the gaps of your fingers to see Logan sitting across from you, a smirk on his face.

He opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it.

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he laughs. But he sees how much pain you’re in, and slides two pieces of sourdough toast to you. “Truce?”

“Truce.” You agree, taking a slice and biting into it. You feel better.

And after a moment of silence, he asks,

“I’m never getting my flannel back, am I?”

Truthfully, the flannel has been folded neatly and tucked into your drawer, for the next time you need some comfort.

You tilt your head, looking right into his eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

• • •

Weeks go by like this.

You spend your days either going to class or hanging out—okay, it’s more like flirting with a side of hanging out, with Logan. The pair of you become quite close, and maybe that’s why you haven’t fucked yet.

Oh, the two of you want to, and it’s obvious to everyone (Charles has called you out for being distracted more times than you can count, and you remind him not to probe your mind, and he tells you he does not need his mutant abilities to see that your thoughts linger elsewhere.) but you’re.. afraid, at this point.

Which is odd, because you’re no virgin, you know he wants you, but.. what if everything changes after that? Maybe he’ll start to avoid you. Maybe you’ll start to avoid him. And you’ve really become good friends, and don’t want to lose it.

And then, there’s the fact that half the time, he’s away on dangerous missions, and even if he can regenerate, you worry about him. But he hasn’t been on any lately, so it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You’re sitting in the garden when it happens.

He finds you, and this time, you do not even try to hide the way your head picks up and gazes at him.

“Hi, Spitfire.” He grins, and you smile a bit at him.

“Claws, what can I do for you?” And he sits next to you, and for some reason, maybe because he doesn’t say anything at first, you know that there is something wrong. And you know what it is.

After a few minutes, you glance to him.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Your voice is quiet, as if you’re scared that if it gets any louder, everything will fall apart.

“Yeah. Charles has me going on another mission.” He doesn’t say it, but you both know this isn’t an involuntary thing.

“Cool.” You cringe at your reaction.

“I guess.” He laughs weakly, as if he knows he’s twisting a knife buried within you.

Silence fills the air. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it isn’t the relaxed silence you’re used to with him. Confessions dance on the tips of your tongues, and you’re so close to saying it, that when you turn to each other suddenly, you just need to look at each other for a second.

“Be safe.” You say quietly. “And hurry back.” You request, and you try not to sound like you’re begging.

“Of course.” He says, like it perplexes him that you even have to request. “I can’t leave you here yearning for me forever, can I?” He teases, and for a moment, you have this flash of an alternate universe where he does die on this mission and you are trapped in this garden forever, waiting for him. Like a lost puppy, or worse, a lost lover. The mere thought of it fucks with your head.

“No. You can’t. I won’t allow it.” You explain, “If anything, I’m the one that should be haunting you.” He just smiles. A real, not at all awkward smile.

“I’m sure you will, spitfire.” He says, and his head comes forward so that his forehead is resting against yours.

“When do you leave?” You ask gently, and he sighs. His breath smells of mint and cigar smoke, maybe even a hint of lemon.

“An hour. I have to pack quick and then debrief.” He answers you.

And just as love struck as you were the night of the party, you answer,

“’Kay.” You smile weakly at him. And he just.. looks at you for a few minutes before sighing again. He pulls away and leans up to kiss your forehead again, before standing up. He turns a few steps away from you just to tease you.

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?” he requests softly. Before you can stop yourself, you stand up, and wrap your arms around him. He only pauses for a half a second before he returns your embrace, and it becomes apparent that you both needed this moment. You stay like this for a few minutes before you pull away.

“Bring me back a souvenir.” You try, a soft smile on your face.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll bring you something great from the great city of Tulsa, Ohklahoma.” He grins.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

• • •

For the next week, you feel like this must be what it was like for housewives when their husbands went to war. You knew all too well that that statement was extremely dramatic, but you simply cannot help yourself.

You think you might die by day three.

It’s like you’re going through withdrawals and it’s making you go genuinely insane.

You have worn this man’s flannel for almost the entire week, because at first you’re a little self-conscious of other people noticing your repeating outfits, but only at first. By day four, you have decided you don’t give a single fuck.

Day eight you’re just laying in bed, quietly making a list of all the positions you want him to take you in. It’s a long list. You’re brought back to reality by a knock on your door. You’re about to snap, knowing that you’ll tell whatever child has been sent to bother you to scram, but when you open the door, you grin widely.

Logan stands there, looking tired, but he’s smiling and holding up a shot glass that reads ‘Tusla’, and has skyline on it.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d get you a souvenir?” He asks, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, pulling him in. He hugs you back, making sure to squeeze you just a bit—your feet barely come off the ground.

He pulls away, and you grin up to him.

“You came back.” You say it as if you can barely believe it, and just for a moment, he feels an emotion he can’t quite place, but he ignores it.

“Of course I came back, spitfire. All in one piece too, as requested.” He grins, and you’re just.. amazed at the look of him. “What’s that look for?” He asks gently, tilting his head.

“I just..” you start.

And then you break.

You lean up and kiss him gently, those stupidly delicious sideburns making your stomach flip. He doesn’t waste time, kissing you back, his arms around your waist. After a minute, you pull away.

“Sorry. I’m kind of done playing that game of waiting for you to kiss me. I just got the first hit of you I’ve had all week, and I feel fucking amazing.” You confess, and sure, it’s not a big grand love confession with tears and poetry, but your words make him kiss you so intensely that you start backing into your room, his hands exploring your body as you tug off his leather jacket, a new flannel for you to steal coming off soon after.

He keeps kissing you as his hands come down to your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them, before gently pushing you to sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, and begins to tug off your boots again, then, on your jeans.

You grin.

“You know, I’m getting the oddest sense of déjà vu. Something about you looking great on your knees.” You tease, and he just tugs off your jeans in one strong swoop, before leaning in to bite your thigh. You gasp, your hands coming up to tug his hair.

Then, he begins to tug at your panties, and you tilt his head up, glancing at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, before I was interrupted, I was about to eat you out.”

“Wait, really?”

He blinks, confused.

“Yeah. Is that a, uh.. problem..?” He hasn’t gotten any complaints yet.

“I just.. I didn’t think guys actually did that, I thought it was just.. a porno thing.” And at this, the man who is about to burry his face between your thighs, laughs. And not just a chuckle, this man hollars. “What’s so funny, claws?” You ask, a little suspicious.

“Nothing,” he promises, “I am just going to take such good care of you, pup.”

“I’m holding you to that, claws.” And then, he leans in and begins to kiss your thighs, gently biting down here and there. Then, he licks a stripe along your cunt, and you let out this loud moan, and your hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, but he reaches up to grab your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

He pulls away to lecture you. Lecture you. On his knees. Head between your thighs.

“Nuh-uh, I wanna hear all the pretty noises you can make for me.” Then, softer, he adds, “Never been eaten out before, fuckin’ travesty.” He mumbles, before leaning in to lick your cunt again, beginning to lap his tongue over your throbbing heat.

His nose rubs against your clit, and it’s enough to drive you genuinely crazy. You’re unsure how you’ve gotten to this point in your life without having your pussy worshipped like this, but with him around, you’re pretty sure you’ll never go another day without it.

His tongue continues to work magic on your cunt, as his nose presses against your clit, stimulating you to the point of making you see stars.

Your hands tug at his hair, and the moan that it elicits from him is enough to send vibrations through your cunt through your stomach. Your head leans back as you moan, and for a moment, you hope there is no mutant in this mansion with super hearing.

His free hand grips your thigh as he bends your leg back to get better access, as he continues to eat you out. The mere taste of you is enough to drive him crazy—He almost wants to start thrusting into the side of your bed, he’s so hard, but he ignores that urge to continue to eat you out.

“Mm—Lo, I—I’m gonna—”

He just hums into your cunt, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze of approval, before his tongue moves even faster (if that’s even possible, though, he is an amazingly surprising man), and suddenly—

You feel a release you have been waiting for weeks, and it is fucking phenomenal. And the Wolverine just licks up all your cum, even if it makes your thighs shake, but honestly, he doesn’t care and neither do you. For a moment, you just listen to the sound of your own pants.

After a minute, you are able to look at him, and he just looks up to you with the same smirk that has been torturing you for all of those weeks. And you just have to pull him up to kiss you, like it’s the only way you’ll be able to live.

As you kiss him, you pull off his wifebeater and then your hands rest on the sides of his face as he pulls off your shirt as well, before his hands begin to make quick work of his belt, wanting to skip all of the pleasantries and just fuck you.

But when he finally gets his jeans off, you pull away, and he stares at you like you’re crazy.

“What the fuck could possibly be more important than me fucking you stupid?”

“Will you just.. let me look at you?” You scoff, your eyes flickering over him to just memorize every square inch of his body. He humors you for a few minutes, standing there with his hands on hips before he leans in and cages you in with his arms.

“Show’s over, spitfire.” He purrs, leaning in to kiss you, slowly making his way closer to you so that you’re laying back on your bed. At some point during the kiss, his boxers come off, and when you feel his cock against your cunt, you moan into the kiss, and you can feel his smirk against your lips.

Oh, you could kill him. But, you suspect maybe he’ll get to you first.

After he kisses you for a few minutes, he pulls away to tell—not ask, tell you, “I’m going to fuck you now.” And you know your line.

“’Kay.” He grins at this and kisses you again, before lining himself up and starting slowly. He just has the tip inside of you, and you begin to moan, your grip on his shoulders tightening. You already feel entirely too full, and he slowly agonizingly slowly pushes into you, and he sees how his size makes your face twitch,

“Shh, shh, I know, pup. Deep breathes for me, bub,” he says softly, such a stark contract to his rough movements, as he bottoms out and has his entire cock inside of you. And he gives you a second, watching as your face relaces, adjusting to the size of him. “Okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“’Kay,” You assure, and he kisses your forehead.

“’Kay.” He responds, and before you can tease him for it, he begins to thrust into you, slowly as first, but he continues to quicken his pace. Your nails begin to scratch on his back, and he lets out this angelic moan—You must’ve died and went to heaven.

As his thrusts quicken, the lines quickly blur between quick ruts and an animalistic need, manifesting itself in the way he fucks you. You know you won’t last long, especially when his fingers find your clit and begin to rub it again.

“Fuck! Oh my god—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, his free hand coming to your thigh to lift your leg up, only for better access to your throbbing cunt, “God, I love the feeling of you around me.. Worth the wait, I promise.” He grumbles, as he thrusts into you, his only goal to make you cum.

You want to respond to that—To tease him, to make him feel as shy as you do, but he has completed his goal of fucking you stupid.

All you can do is respond, “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby, go ahead, cum for me,” he requests softly, leaning in to press a rather jarringly sweet kiss to your lips.

As you cum around his cock, he shudders, the look of you, laying there fucked dumb, is almost too much for him to bear.

“I’m gonna fill you up, pup,” he tells you, and all you can do is moan in response, which makes him come that much closer to the edge. After a few more thrusts, with a euphoric moan that will haunt you forever, his hot cum fills you up, leaving the pair of you clawing at each other, wanting more.

When you’re both finally finished riding out your high, Logan lays next to you, keeping you close. His grip on you is tight—possessive. When you finally find your voice, you ask,

“You’re not gonna turn me into a booty call, are you, claws?”

And he laughs.

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss to your head. “You’re gonna be my best girl, Spitfire.”

“Does this mean I get to steal another of your flannels?”

“I’ll give you my whole fucking wardrobe to see how many times I can make you cum.”

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Nursle.

Pairing: Yandere!Gojo Satoru x Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 3.4k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Mentions of Pregnancy, Implied Stalking, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Lactation, Slight Breeding Kinks, Daddy Kinks, Mentions of Abusive Relationships, and Age Gaps (Gojo is 20, Reader is 35+).

[Part Two] [Part Three]

A few days into the new school year, you decided that Gojo Satoru could not be Fushiguro Megumi’s primary guardian, despite what the paperwork filed by the former claimed. Honestly, the fact that Megumi’s name had been misspelled in every conceivable way across the aforementioned paperwork should’ve been enough to make that clear, but after a decade of teaching, you’d learned to pick up on the smaller signs; a certain discomfort that passed through Megumi's expression whenever you asked about his homelife, the lapse before a half-hearted answer whenever you posed a question to Satoru as to Megumi's preferences. It didn’t necessarily mean anything bad was going on, just that something was going on - something you couldn’t ignore, not completely.

Four weeks into the new school year, you decided that Fushiguro Megumi did not like Gojo Satoru. All your students were at the age where they were suddenly eager to distance themselves from any adult they could call an authority, but Megumi was the only one still in your classroom hours after the school day ended, the only one who stayed for as long as you could afford to let him. Sometimes, Satoru would make an appearance, loiter outside of your classroom or pass time with the best attempts at small talk someone nearly two decades your junior could make, but Megumi made a habit of ignoring him and try as you might, you'd never had the heart to be very strict with your students. The only days he didn’t stay to help you (as much as a nine year old could help anyone do anything) were the days when his sister was free to pick him up and, much to your relief, Satoru was nowhere to be found.

Two months into the new school year, you found yourself on the doorstep of Gojo Satoru’s listed address which, notably, was not the dingy flat you’d dropped off Megumi in front of whenever he stayed too late to justify letting him walk home alone. Instead, you gaped openly at the skyscraper in front of you, as tall as the eye could see and pouring out the kind of people you couldn’t help but want to get away from. You’d called ahead, let Satoru know you’d be making a home visit to discuss some of your concerns about Megumi, but for as long as he’d kept you on the phone, he’d never bothered to explain why he would ask you to meet him in a place like—

“You’re early, Miss (L/n).”

You stiffened, glanced over your shoulder to find Gojo Satoru – dressed in his usual plain, black uniform and unaccompanied by the student you’d come to discuss. He greeted you with a wide grin, a lazy nod, and you returned it with a purse-lipped smile and a tightened hold on the strap of your messenger bag. “Well, I’d hate to waste your time.” You toyed with the idea of meeting his eyes, but your gaze skirted over the pitch-black lenses of his sunglasses and settled firmly on the collar of his button-up. “And you don’t have to call me that. It makes you sound like one of my students and—” A slight pause, a nervous laugh. “I think you might be a little too old to blend in.”

Satoru’s grin only widened. With only your own paranoia as warning, he strung an arm through the crook of yours, dragging you towards the entrance of his looming tower. “I think it’s got a nice ring to it, Miss.”

Something sharp pricked at the back of your throat.

In hindsight, it might’ve been easier to do this with the nine year old.

You kept your teeth grit and your smile plastered on as he led you through the lobby – all shining crystal chandeliers and glistening marble floors – and hauled you into a gold-gilded elevator, the kind that would’ve let you know you were somewhere you didn’t belong under normal circumstances. You watched in stomach-knotting, heart-stopping terror as the numbers ticked up, up, up, until the mirrored doors were sliding open and you were stepping into the living room that could’ve swallowed your shoebox of an apartment whole. Your heels (blocked, low, practical – the only pair you’d found the strength to wear since coming back from your leave) clicked against the bare tile floor as you stumbled into the remarkably open space, his furniture sparse and largely utilitarian. You spotted one of Megumi’s drawings on a low coffee table, a pile of Tsumiki’s hairbands forgotten on an otherwise empty bookshelf, but any other signs of life were either nonexistent or exceptionally well-hidden. Any hope you had that Megumi and Satoru’s situation might’ve just been that of a young, overburdened guardian and his slow-to-warm ward evaporated immediately. Those of limited means tended not to live in penthouses that cost triple your annual salary in rent.

If Satoru noticed your growing anxiety, he didn’t seem to pay it any mind. With an exaggerated yawn, he strode past you and collapsed onto a leather couch – too pristine to have been recently visited by two hyperactive children. When you stalled near the entryway, he let his head lull to the side, his tinted glasses falling low on the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to be shy. There’s plenty of room – not that I mind the view, if you really wanna stand.”

You took a deep breath and let it out in a long, labored exhale. He’s practically a kid, you reminded yourself. You could only be thankful you hadn’t gotten him a couple of years ago – otherwise, you’d be dealing with an actual child.

Reluctantly, you squared your shoulders and perched yourself on the far edge of the sofa. Satoru immediately closed the distance, draping his lanky arms over the back of the couch, his fingertips just barely brushing against your shoulder. You pulled your messenger bag into your lap, opening your mouth as you looked for Megumi’s file, but Satoru cut in before you could start your well-practiced monologue. “This is your first year at his school, right? I’d remember if I saw a teacher as pretty as you around campus.”

“It’s my first year back,” you corrected. “I’ve noticed Megumi very introverted for a boy his—”

“Let me guess – maternity leave?”

Your lips quirked into a tight frown. Fighting the urge to cross your arms over your stomach self-consciously, you sent him a withering look out of the corner of your eye. “I’d rather not talk about my personal life, if it’s all the same to you. Like I said, I’m not here to waste your time.”

Your tone was clipped, your voice strict, but Satoru’s only response was an airy chuckle, a careless grin. “I’m not in a rush,” he said. “But you’re probably eager to get back home to your baby girl. I know you try to spend time with her on weekends.”

This time, you didn’t try to breathe. Letting your bag fall back to your side, you moved to stand, but Satoru was quick to catch you by the wrist, to pull you back down with a single, playful jerk. Your bag fell off of your shoulder, hitting the floor and spilling open at your feet, but you didn’t reach for it. He was stronger than he looked, and you already knew everything you had to about strong young men with more power than they knew what to do with. “I’d really rather not talk about myself when Megumi is—”

“Can’t be easy, leaving her all alone like that. Did you ask your neighbor to babysit again, or was it that brat of a teenager you call up on weekends?” His hand fell to your thigh, and you immediately regretted wearing a dress, let alone one that ended well before the knee. You’d wanted this to seem causal, unintrusive, but as his fingertips bit into the plush of your thigh, you regretted not going straight to the police as soon as you noticed something strange. “Can’t be easy, not having a husband to dote on you and the little princess anymore.”

You keep your eyes on your feet, on one of the manilla folders spilling out of your bag. Megumi's name was scrawled messily across the upper right corner in red pen, because red was his favorite color and you knew he would see it every time he helped you organize paperwork for your other students. “I appreciate your concern, but we’ve managed to take care of ourselves.”

“I know.” He was close, too close. You could feel his breath, hot and humid, against the shell of your ear. “It’s just that I think I might just be able to take care of you a little better.”

“I think I should leave.” You spoke slowly, your tone flat, factual. Like you were talking to a child, or a dog, or worst of all – a man in monks' clothing, ready to worship at his own alter. “Before either of us does anything we might regret.”

Satoru let his lead lull forward, his fanged smile biting into the corner of your jaw.

You tried to bolt, but it was already too late.

It happened too quickly for you to process. One second, you were writhing in your own skin, your favorite student’s neglectful guardian pressed into your side and the next, you were on your back, splayed over the length of his couch, Satoru’s knee between your open legs and his hands on either side of your head. Your body reacted before your mind, trying to run, to resist, to get away from him, but Satoru’s hand was on your chest before you could so much as sit up, keeping you trapped underneath him without a trace of effort. “You can stop working so hard, momma.” His glasses had fallen away completely, revealing eyes as blinding as the cloudless sky and as unfeeling as raw ice. It was hard to remember why you’d ever thought a man like this could ever have anything to do with a boy as sweet as Megumi. “Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you.”

You shouldn’t have been so worried about the dress. It didn’t matter how long your skirt was, not when the cheap material fell apart so easily under his eager touch – your bra and panties discarded with just as little thought. You panicked, started to kick and shove and thrash, but his hands were already locked over your hips, keeping you pinned to the couch as he bent down and buried his face between your thighs. However young you’d thought he was, he must’ve been younger; his inexperience shining through in the overzealous way he nipped at the inside of your thighs, how hastily he laved the flat of his tongue over your slit. His pace was rough, his technique nonexistent, but you couldn’t remember the last time you had time to touch yourself, and you hadn’t slept with someone else since…

This time, when your mind went blank, you were the one willing away fractured thoughts and bitter memories. You didn’t want to acknowledge the twisted pleasure Satoru was forcing onto your body either, but it would’ve been impossible to ignore the way his teeth grazed over your clit as he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud, to not hear the slick sound you just couldn’t seem to believe a part of you would make as he forced two fingers into your tight pussy. You threw your head back, clenched your eyes shut, but no amount of aversion could seem to block out his throaty laugh, to make the reverberations his deep voice sent pulsing through your cunt anything short of unbearable. “Needy little thing,” he muttered, pulling away just far enough to press a lingering kiss into the apex of your hip. “Bet he was neglecting you even before you ran off. Is that why you had to leave him? He didn’t know how to treat a pretty thing like you?”

You would’ve given anything to make him stop talking, but you didn’t have a chance to try and bargain. While his fingers pumped mercilessly into your pussy, his mouth pushed slow, wet kisses into the rounded curves of your stomach, your midriff, your chest. He noticed it before you did; saw the thin trail of thin, near-transparent fluid running down the curve of your chest before you felt the telltale soreness in your breasts, managed to draw a connection between that and the shallow, airy moan Satoru let out as he ran his tongue over your leaking nipple. He took long, agonizing seconds to lick up the spilled milk before his lips found the closest nipple and finally, he latched onto you properly.

He was worse than your newborn. It was an awful thing to think, it was a terrible thing to have to think, but it was true. He was rough, and clumsy, and noisy – groaning as he lapped and sucked, eager to swallow down anything you had to give. Drool seeped out of the corner of his mouth, whatever pain he might’ve alleviated immediately replaced as the fingertips of his free hand kneaded into your swollen tit. By the time he pulled away, he was panting, scissoring open your pussy with enough force to leave your toes curling, your thighs twitching, little involuntary whimpers slipping past your lips despite your best efforts to choke them back.

He didn’t so much earn your climax as drag it out of you, piece by fractured piece, broken moan by stuttering convulsion. Your hands shot to his head, fingers soon knotted through messy white hair, but he didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to mind, his attention devoted entirely to spreading open your cunt and milking your chest dry even as the last of the aftershocks faded and the first pangs of overstimulation began to set in. When he did pull away from you, it was with an exaggerated smack of his lips, a teasing nudge of the heel of his palm against your clit, a cocky smirk that reminded you of the expression Megumi would sometimes draw onto his doodled stick figures as they were hit with simplistic, two-dimensional cars or torn apart by black and white wolves. That was something you’d meant to bring up during your conversation with Satoru – Megumi’s tendency towards more violent forms of creativity, how it could be an early sign of emotional unrest in children too young to properly express themselves. Now, you could only wonder why he didn’t draw Satoru more often.

You were barely conscious by the time he drew back working one arm under your back and another under the bend of your knees. You let your eyes fall shut and, by the time you found the strength to open them again, you were on your back, dark satin sheets underneath you and Satoru above, snowy hair providing a much-appreciated barrier between you and those terrible eyes. This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from meeting his prying gaze, and he welcomed your bleary stare, drinking you in for one second, then another, before dipping that much lower and slotting his lips against yours. The kiss was surprisingly gentle – all slow tenderness and delicate warmth. Your mind flitted back to dark eyes and pitch-black hair, pointed teeth and deceiving smiles and you willed yourself not to think at all.

You heard fabric shift, felt his hands curl around your thighs. With an aching sort of slowness, he pushed your knees into your chest, leaving you spread open and vulnerable below him. You felt the head of his cock press against your slick entrance, heard a raspy groan trickle past his lips as he thrust into you – bottoming out in the same stroke.

He didn’t wait for you to adjust to his size. With his face buried in the crook of your neck, he rutted into you with short, brutal thrusts; never pulling out of you entirely, never happy unless his cock was abusing the deepest pocket of your wet heat. Immediately, it was overwhelming – too much stimulation being forced onto you too quickly with too little preparation. Your hands fell to his back, your nails biting into his skin as he fucked into you with a jagged kind of desperation. His cock scraped against something soft and spongy inside of you and you cried out, arching against him. “I can’t— It hurts, Gojo, slow—”

“C’mon, baby, you can do better than that.” His voice was low, airy. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss into the corner of your jaw, rolled his hips and pressed himself that much deeper into you. “What’s my name? Who’s takin' care of you from now on?”

It was more an act of desperation than anything; a broken plea that you could barely recognize as your own voice. “Daddy,” you sobbed, shrinking against him. “Please, don’t cum insi—”

You were cut off by an unabashed moan, the feeling of his cock twitching inside of you. His hips pressed into yours, his thrusts growing shorter, more violent as he pumped something warm and awful into your pussy. At the same time, his thumb found your clit, pushing harsh circles into the vulnerable bundle of nerves and bringing your exhausted body to its second climax. Your vision burnt white as your cunt clenched around him, as his thrusts turned labored and languid, as collapsed against you – limp and boneless. Idly, almost lovingly, he nuzzled into the side of your neck, letting several seconds pass in silence before sighing, the pinnacle of satisfaction. Eventually, he picked himself up, resting his weight on his elbows as he cupped your face. “Pretty girl. I think the brat’s got a crush on you, too – always going on about his favorite teacher, telling me to keep my dirty hands away from you.” He laughed, shook his head. “Think he’ll be excited to have a younger sister?”

You didn’t answer, but Satoru didn’t need you to. He was already picking himself up, already pressing a kiss into the crook of your neck as he straightened his back, staring down at you with eyes that must’ve gone lifeless years ago. Eyes that, despite your best efforts to ignore their similarities, you couldn’t help but feel that you’d seen before.

“Speaking of, I think it’s about time we checked on our baby girl.”

~

Less than an hour later, you found yourself in your makeshift nursery; the corner of your bedroom occupied by a crib and a few shelves of miscellaneous supplies. You sat on the foot of your bed as Satoru held your daughter in his arms, rocking her as she sniffled and threatened to cry. You’d taken a taxi back to your apartment – called up and paid for by Satoru, of course. He’d given the driver your address before you so could so much as process where he was taking you, something you were currently choosing to ignore.

“She looks just like him.” His tone was light, his smile soft. He gestured to your daughter’s curly tufts of dark hair, her brown eyes – both only a shade away from black. “It’ll get worse as she grows up. He was always like that – couldn’t stand to let anyone else be the center of attention.”

You felt sick. Black spots still danced in the corners of your vision, and it took all your strength just to choke something coherent out. “He’ll never meet her. I’d die before I ever let him put his hands on my daughter.”

“I know, baby, I know.” He flashed you a grin, then turned back to your daughter. “I’m gonna keep both of you safe, be such a good daddy to both my pretty girls.” He pulled her that much closer to him, pressing a ginger kiss into her forehead. “You know, you really gotta open up more. I tried as hard as I could, but I don’t think I ever managed to catch her name.”

That made sense. You tended not to use it, when you could help it, when you were strong enough not to think about the man who’d given it to her – the man who’d tried to take yours, before you’d gotten away from him and and his monsters. You weren’t feeling very strong right now, though.

“Himari,” you mumbled, the sound of it alone still enough to steal the air out of your lungs, to leave the taste of blood heavy on your tongue.

“Geto Himari.”

[rafeandonlyrafe]

the beginning

words: 1.4k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, pretty fluffy and cute tho, male masturbation, kinda creeping on reader by masturbating to pics of her?, p in v sex, brief male receiving handjob, unprotected sex, a bunch of different scenes with time gaps this isnt one continuous fic if that makes sense?

“your bikini is so cute.” you tell your friend, looking at your own swimsuit in the mirror.

“i have another one in a different color, you wanna borrow it?” julie offers.

“girl, yes!” you squeal as she digs through her closet before tossing the small material to you. you were invited on rafe camerons boat, and while you chose your best swimsuit, you just moved to the outer banks from new york city and don’t have a ton of options.

you put the swimsuit on before standing next to your friend. “we look good.” you nod.

“damn girl, the boys are gonna be all over you.” “hopefully including rafe.” you say, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. it didn’t take you long to learn that rafe was the it boy of the outer banks, the kook prince, and that all the girls wanted him. you didn’t get the hype until you met him at a party and instantly became attracted.

“there’s no way he’s gonna be able to keep his eye of you.” julie encourages you, before glancing at her phone. “we better get going.”

you nod, looking one last time in the mirror before putting your coverup on and following julie out of her room.

--

“hey rafe.” you smile at him, letting him sling his arm around your shoulder. you’ve been flirting a lot, its how you got invited onto his boat along with a few other friends, but you haven’t progressed past just talking.

“hey.” rafe tugs you into him, making you press against his shirtless torso, in just his swim shorts. “wanna come up and drive with me?”

“yeah.” you nod, briefly looking to julie to make sure she was good, but she's already twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes at kelce.

you follow rafe up to the stairs to the second story of the yacht where the captains helm is. you sit next to him on the bench as he steers the boat out of the marina. 

“this is a really nice boat.” you comment. “maybe you should give some advice to my parents on what to buy, my dad is looking but has no clue what is good.” you say without thinking, before cringing at your words, worrying rafe might mistake your small talk as wanting him to meet your parents.

“ah yeah, didn’t have much opportunities to own a yacht in new york, huh?” rafes says as his arms move the wheel, making your attention shift to his muscles.

“nope.” you shake your head. “but i’m glad we moved, i love the city but its really nice to be somewhere… calmer.”

“i’m glad you moved too.” rafe says with a smile, making you blush as you nod at him. you manage to make the small talk not overly awkward as he drives the boat out towards the ocean before finding a place to drop anchor and hang out for a bit.

“wanna swim?” rafe asks as you both head down the stairs, rejoining the group.

“yeah.” you nod, pulling your coverup off over your head. you toss it onto a soft before turning to rafe, who is staring down at your body, blatantly checking you out as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth.

he doesn’t snap out of it until topper claps him on the shoulder. “i got the ladder in for us, man.”

“yeah, yeah thanks.” rafe nods, eyes finally flicking up to meet yours.

“y/n! jump in with me!” julie calls.

“lets go?” you tilt your head, looking to rafe.

“wait before you jump in i want to get a picture of everyone.” rafe shouts out, pulling his phone out of his pocket and handing it to topper. “you'll take it?”

“yeah, sure.” topper says, looking at his friend a little strangely.

you all group together on the front deck, rafe moving so you’re in the center, his arm around your waist as you smile at the camera. you change your pose a couple times as topper continues to snap pictures, including turning towards rafe and placing your hand on his abs, still grinning as you pose.

rafe eyes up topper as he leans and picks you up, topper getting the message to record as you let out a shriek, wrapping your arms around rafes shoulder as he hurdles towards the water before jumping off the back deck, sending a spray of water as you let go of him and swim towards the surface.

you push the hair out of your face before sending a splash in rafes direction, scrunching your brows to show your anger at getting tossed in, but you can’t help the smile that stretches over your cheeks.

--

rafe gives you a tight hug, not caring that your hair is still wet and smelling of salt water. “i had fun today.”

“i did too.” you nod, getting on your tip toes to press your lips to his cheek. 

“what are you doing tomorrow?” rafe questions.

“why, wanna take me on a date?” you ask, biting your lip as your eyes glance between his eyes and his lips.

“and what if i do?” rafe smirks.

“then i’m definitely free.” 

“pick you up at 6:30 then.” rafe says, pulling you against him again before letting you go, watching you get into julies car.

--

“fuck.” rafe groans, hips thrusting forward as he fucks his fist, phone pulled open to the pictures he had topper took. he doesn’t give a shit about anyone else, he cropped everyone out but you, in your tiny lilac bikini.

rafe groans, wanting to squeeze his eyes shut as he squeezes the head of his dick, imagining it was you instead, either your mouth on him or you spread out below him, moaning as he fucks into your cunt.

rafe thinks about texting you, about begging you to come over, but he remembers your date tomorrow, knows what is going to happen after if things go well. he doesn’t want to seem too desperate, but you’re too pretty, too enticing as he swipes to the next photo, the photo of you turned to the side, hand on his bare abdomen.

he looks at the curve of your ass, the way the bikini hugs your hips. rafe strokes faster, imagining his hand making impact with your bum, watching the skin ripple.

“y/n.” rafe groans out your name as he cums, releasing over his stomach as he squeezes himself until he’s satisfied, smiling as he swipes again, this time to the video of him picking you up and running into the water.

--

“this is easily the best first date i’ve ever had.” you say as rafe drives you home. it was surprisingly simple, a picnic on the beach all set up by rafe, and then some live music on the pier.

“mine too.” rafe says, placing a cautious hand on your thigh, relieved when you smile at him.

“you know…” you begin as rafe pulls up to your door. “my parents are back in new york this weekend.”

“really?” rafe hums, bringing the car up the driveway.

“if you’d like to come in for some… tea.” 

“tea, sure.” rafe nods, turning his truck off.

you move quickly inside. while you made up the tea excuse to get him in, you both know what the intentions are as rafe presses you against the wall of the entrance as soon as the door swings shut behind you, his lips meeting yours.

--

“good morning.” you mumble, turning over in rafes arms, both still naked from the night before.

“morning.” rafe says, his voice gruff from just waking. he moves a hand to your hair, brushing it out of your face. “you look beautiful.”

“not too bad yourself.” you smile, pressing your lips against rafes.

the kiss instantly wakes him up as his hand moves to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss as he turns so he’s over top of your body, your hair flared out on the pillow.

you smirk into the kiss when you can feel rafe growing against your stomach. you reach down with one hand, grasping his shoulder to keep him close and kissing you with the other while you stroke his cock, getting it to full hardness quickly.

“when are your parents home?” rafe asks suddenly when he pulls away.

“um-” your brain briefly doesn’t work at the randomness of the question. “monday evening.” “i say-” rafe says, reaching down and grasping his cock, pushing your hand out of the way as he rubs the head of his cock through your pussy. “we spent the entire weekend in bed then.”

you gasp as rafe thrusts into you, filling your cunt in one swoop. “sounds good to me.” you say, before pulling him back into a kiss.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @rafecamerongirl @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary

[microclown]

I was rewatching s1e3 and something finally clicked for me..

Please forgive me if this seems obvious to you. It helps me to type out my thoughts, but I'm sure I'm just an idiot and no one else needs this explained to them, lol. That said - I was always slightly confused by the emotional weight of the holy water arc during the flashback sequence. Particularly I was confused by how angry Crowley got when Aziraphale referred to their relationship as fraternizing in the 1862 fight. I mean, "to associate or form a friendship with someone, especially when one is not supposed to" is exactly what they are doing, right? So why the 80 year breakup?

Crowley says he wants the holy water for if "it" all goes pear shaped. The phrasing is necessarily vague, and could mean lots of things. Since I know what he eventually uses it for, I was thinking about it in the context of Armageddon, or maybe more generally and vaguely about Crowley not always choosing to go along with Hell, and associating with Aziraphale. But there was not much reason for Crowley to already be thinking about Armageddon back then.

As we know from the full diary entry Neil posted, the timeline of the Edinburgh entry, and the cut bookshop opening scene, it seems like Crowley and Aziraphale were spending A LOT of time together by the 1800's. When Crowley is pulled back down to Hell in 1827, he learns that Hell is paying more attention to him than he'd previously thought. Crowley realizes at this point that spending so much time with Aziraphale is actively putting him in real danger. He recognizes that, and instead of breaking things off, or seeing Aziraphale less, he doubles down. If this relationship is dangerous, then he wants the tools to fight for it.

That's what I think I didn't get about the holy water request. It's not just general insurance, it's specifically insurance for if Hell finds out about him and Aziraphale. It's also a super vulnerable request because in making it, Crowley is openly acknowledging how important their relationship is to him. Aziraphale casually brings up the arrangement at the beginning of the conversation, and that's part of it, right? Because the whole basis of their relationship is the arrangement. It continues to be the pretense under which they meet, despite the relationship clearly having developed beyond that. And the arrangement, as Crowley proposed it in 537, is born out of convenience, and the assumption that Heaven and Hell would never notice anyway.

Crowley's request for insurance breaks that facade. He's acknowledging that it's not convenient, or safe, but he wants to do it anyway, despite the risk.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is not ready for the screen to be taken away so abruptly. To make it worse, he assumes Crowley wants the holy water as an escape, rather than a weapon. Suddenly he is confronted with both the danger their association poses, and the idea that Crowley might choose to take his own life. He can't imagine the guilt of being directly responsible for the latter.

I also think the strength of his own emotional response to the thought of losing Crowley catches Aziraphale off guard. He hasn't admitted to himself how much he actually cares, and it scares him. Worrying about Heaven is more comfortable and familiar, so he falls back on that and switches to "If they knew I'd been... fraternizing!"

But bringing up the threat of Heaven reads to Crowley as Aziraphale saying "You may be willing to put yourself at risk for the sake of our relationship, but I am not." The word choice of "fraternizing" comes off as a dismissive and demeaning way to describe a relationship that Crowley just admitted he would risk his life for.

It's an unintentionally deep cut when Crowley is already at his most vulnerable, and so he lashes out. As far as we've seen, this is possibly the first time Crowley has truly lashed out at Aziraphale. So yeah, 80 year breakup makes sense!

And what makes this so much worse is what happens next. Crowley reaches out again in 1941 with a dramatic gesture (rescuing Aziraphale from the Nazis, saving his books). It's clear they've missed each other. They don't discuss the fight, but it's there subtextually. Aziraphale, tentatively and thrillingly, refers to them as friends, for the first time ever. He tells Crowley that he trusts him.

And then, that very same night their worst fears are confirmed. Just when they've finally reconciled a fight over the dangers of their relationship, and just when Aziraphale has finally admitted that it is not a relationship of convenience, but genuine friendship, they are exposed. Crowley is going to face punishment from Hell, explicitly for being Aziraphale's "trusted confident", and he doesn't have insurance. If Aziraphale's trick hadn't succeeded, Crowley would have had no way to protect himself.

idk it just makes me feel things ok

[pucksandpower]

Lessons in Anatomy

Charles Leclerc x medical student!Reader

Summary: studying can be hard … good thing your boyfriend is more than happy to let you get some hands-on experience

You let out a heavy sigh as you flip through the anatomy textbook in front of you. As a first year medical student, you’ve been spending most late nights recently trying to memorize every muscle, nerve, and blood vessel in the human body.

Lately you’ve been completely absorbed in learning about the upper limbs — the shoulders, arms, hands and fingers — and it’s all starting to blend together.

Closing the textbook, you stand up and stretch your arms above your head, feeling the pull in your deltoids and biceps. You’ve read so much about the muscles, it might help to actually palpate and feel where they are on your own body.

You lift your right arm out to the side until it’s parallel with the floor, palm facing down. Gently, you place your left hand on your right deltoid and feel the round contour of the muscle. You trace your fingertips along the borders, visualizing how the muscle attaches on the humerus bone.

“What are you doing?”

You jump at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice behind you. Lost in thought, you didn’t hear him come home.

“Oh, I’m just, uh, palpating my deltoid muscle,” you say sheepishly as you drop your arm back to your side. “Trying to get a feel for where the muscles actually are.”

Charles grins, his bright green eyes twinkling with amusement at finding you in such an odd pose. “My talented girlfriend, always studying so hard,” he says.

You can’t help but smile back at him. The two of you met in school years ago, long before Charles became an F1 driver and your life became a whirlwind of travel, media attention, and hardly getting to see each other when coupled with your own studies. Moments like this — relaxed, easy, normal — have become few and far between.

Charles walks over to you and surprises you by taking your hand and placing it onto his upper arm.

“Here, feel mine instead so you don’t have to contort yourself,” he offers. “I’ll be your anatomy model.”

You laugh lightly and begin palpating the hard, defined muscles of his arm through his thin t-shirt. You locate the boundaries of his deltoid, impressed by the athletic development.

“Very nice delts,” you say teasingly.

“Why thank you, I work out sometimes,” Charles replies with a cheeky wink.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide your smile. His playful arrogance is one of the things you love most about him.

Slowly, you map out the contours of his shoulder, mentally labeling the muscles — supraspinatus, infraspinatus, teres minor. Charles watches your focused expression with affection.

“How’s it going so far?” He asks. “Am I a good model?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmur absently, engrossed in your exploration.

You move down his arm, wrapping your hands gently around his biceps. You note the two distinct heads of the muscle.

“Can you flex for me?” You ask professionally.

Charles obliges, flexing his bicep and causing it to bulge up under your hands.

“Excellent, thank you,” you say, impressed by the muscle definition. Your fingers drift down his arm to his forearm, tracing the brachioradialis.

You are hyperaware of Charles’ eyes following your every movement. There’s an intimacy to having your hands on him like this that makes your heart beat faster. You try to remain focused, but with him standing so close, his warmth radiating onto you, it’s difficult to think clinically.

When you take his hand in yours, turning it palm up to examine the tendons along his wrist and fingers, you’re struck by its elegant beauty.

His hands may spend most days encased in racing gloves, but they still hold such graceful strength and capability. You find yourself tenderly tracing along the lines of his palm, the indentation at the base of each finger.

You look up to see Charles watching you, his expression soft and affectionate. Impulsively, you lift his hand to your lips and place a kiss along his knuckles. His eyes widen slightly in surprise before he smiles.

“I don’t think that’s part of the medical curriculum,” he says, his voice low.

You grin. “Just conducting some independent research.”

Charles lifts his other hand to lightly trace his fingertips along your jawline, leaving a trail of tingles along your skin.

“Well in that case, I think you need to continue your in-depth examination,” he murmurs.

Your pulse quickens as his fingers trail down your neck and along your collarbone. Gently, he turns you around so your back is to him and sweeps your hair over one shoulder. You shiver pleasantly at the feeling of his hands gliding along the slopes of your shoulders.

“It’s important to know the trapezius muscle,” he says close to your ear. His fingers skim down from the base of your neck, tracing the borders of the trapezius down toward your shoulder blades. You close your eyes, focusing on the sensation.

“Mmm yes, very important,” you breathe.

His hands span across your upper back, gently kneading into the muscle. You let out an appreciative sigh, the tension you’ve been carrying in your back dissolving under his touch.

Charles places a kiss to the curve of your neck as his hands work their way down your spine, counting each vertebrae.

“The vertebral column is quite elegant, don’t you think?” He murmurs against your skin. You hum in agreement, eyes still closed.

When his hands come to rest just above your waist, your breath catches in anticipation. His touch is driving you crazy but you don’t want him to stop.

Slowly, he slides his hands around your waist to your stomach, splaying his fingers possessively across your abdomen. He pulls your back against his chest until no space remains between you.

“How am I doing as your study partner?” He asks, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

“Mmm, top of the class,” you reply a little breathlessly.

He grins against your skin. “Maybe we should move this study session somewhere more comfortable.”

You turn around to face him, draping your arms lazily around his neck. “I’ll have to clear my schedule. My boyfriend’s this really busy, important Formula 1 driver, you know.”

Charles smiles, leaning in close until his nose brushes yours. “I think he can make time for you.”

He closes the remaining distance, bringing his mouth to yours in a kiss that curls your toes. You melt into him, all thoughts of anatomy and studying dissolving from your mind.

In this moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped up in each other. The chaos of life fades away and you’re reminded why you endure the challenges of his demanding career.

Because at the end of the day, you have this — your love, steadfast and true. The rest of the world falls away and you’re home.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Do you think it's weird that I was fine with Roxas finding out he was Sora's Nobody in Kingdom Hearts, but Adrien not being what we thought he was triggered my ick factor a lot? Do you think it's because we learned that about Roxas before we had a lot of time to get attached to him?

I was initially going to say that I can't answer this because I've only played Kingdom Hearts 1, so my knowledge of the later games is pretty limited. Then I remembered that my little brother is both obsessed with those games and the Mycroft to my Sherlock*, so I gave him a call and got the expert opinion (and a reminder that I need to play the Kingdom Hearts games so that my brother can talk about them with someone who understands story telling because those games apparently make a lot of... interesting choices.)

Here is the sum of my brother's analysis:

The two properties handled the concept of personhood and artificial beings in such wildly different ways that it would never even occur to him to compare them (though it was an interesting question once posed). A good portion of the later Kingdom Hearts games revolve around asking what a person even is. Should they try to make the Nobodies into people? Do the Nobodies even need to change to be people or are they people already? What makes Roxas different from other Nobodies? These questions start being asked very early on and, for all the story's flaws, you can tell that the writers are aware that they're dealing with a serious topic and that they're trying to do it justice.

Meanwhile, Miraculous introduces artificial beings who don't have true free will and then... completely ignores all of the ethical implications of that plot point. Emilie and Gabriel are good parents. The fact that the heroes have been killing off sentimonsters isn't concerning. Gabriel's commands are just a minor inconvenience to Adrienette and not anything that needs to be explored in a deeper way. He's still totally redeemable and it's fine that Adrien never learned the truth while his father was alive so that he could decide what that meant for their relationship on his own terms.

Given all of that, it's really not shocking that Kingdom Hearts makes you feel invested while Miraculous repulses you because the Miraculous introduced human sentimonsters for cheap shock value to the point where I firmly believe that it was a retcon. Meanwhile Kingdom Hearts planned major elements of the plot around the concept and set it up right from the start of the second game. If Miraculous had done the same kind of thing, then I doubt that most salters would be deeply upset by the concept. They still might dislike it, but it would be seen more as a matter of taste than as a true flaw.

*For those who don't know, Mycroft Holmes is Sherlock Holmes' older brother. Sherlock openly admits that Mycroft is the smarter and more observant of the two siblings. The same can be said of my sibling when it comes to story telling. Everything I can do, he can do just as well or even better. He's never seen miraculous, but knows the major plot beats from a mix of cultural osmosis and reading the occasional fanfic when an author he likes crosses fandoms. He is highly amused that no one he follows does anything save for fix-it type stuff and says it tells him everything he needs to know about canon's writing quality, an assessment I fully agree with.

[bigfan-fanfic]

My Blooming Rose (Enchantress' Child!Reader x Ben Florian)

@iliumheightnights Hi friend! May I please request a little story? I'd love to read a story about Ben Florian dating a son of the enchantress reader. Reader still is learning magic and Ben helps him when he can and encourages him? All the fluff please?

In some respects, no one would necessarily blame your boyfriend's father for wanting to imprison your mother on the Isle of the Lost.

She did, after all, enchant a young, albeit spoiled, prince and condemn him (an eleven-year-old, mind you) to ten years of suffering and self-loathing in a body not his own.

But no. King Adam and his Queen would never have met if not for the Enchantress.

Besides, they learned well from the example of Queen Leah and King Stefan - don't piss off the magical entity in close proximity.

And so the Enchantress lived within Auradon, and you, her child, were born.

You're not sure you quite approve of the whole Isle of the Lost thing - your mother's punishments tended to get to people before they became irredeemable, so the idea of endless incarceration seems harsh, even by her standards.

But all the same, you are invited to Auradon Prep, mainly to study with the Fairy Godmother to hone your talents in magic. And since you aren't expected to enter a royal line, you don't even have to do some of the more inane Auradon courses.

But who would have thought that without any magic at all, you'd have ensorcelled the heart of Prince Ben.

Ben is just a spot of sunshine in your world, he's so affectionate and lovely.

And supportive!

He's figured out the loophole in the rule that he can't spend all his free time with you by organizing "study dates" in addition to normal dates.

But since magical homework and study is pretty involved, that just means he hangs around in your dorm with you more often than not.

Not that either of you mind.

Except this can sometimes lead to minor mishaps.

You're practicing a spell in the mirror, meant to help disguise someone by changing their appearance.

Focusing on your hair, trying to lengthen it just a little. Just a small test.

But then Ben leaps up to kiss you on the cheek and you wave the training wand just a little haphazardly-

And Ben gets a face-full of your magic.

"Oh my gosh, Ben! Are you okay?"

"Yup!" Ben groans from the floor. "Nothing broken. I think."

He hops back up to his feet, and you gasp.

Your boyfriend's smooth jaw has sprouted patchy growths of hair that are still thickening until they make a rather nice beard and mustache. "Ben... I..."

Ben sees himself in the mirror and grins. "Oh, this is nice!"

"It was an accident."

"If even your accidents are this great, you're gonna be a better wizard than Merlin!" Ben pats your shoulder before stroking his new beard. "It's not even scratchy!"

You blush. "You look really good with a beard."

"Do I look kingly?" Ben asks eagerly, striking a pose.

"You do, but let's try and find a counterspell quickly. Accidental magic tends to corrupt pretty fast. You might end up with the hair changing colors like a chameleon or something."

"That actually sounds kinda-"

"And then I wouldn't be able to see where to kiss you."

Ben instantly gets serious. "Let's hit the books."

"But uh... when you do reverse the spell... Maybe try it on purpose? I wanna see what kissing with a beard is like."

You grin. "Oh really? Why?"

"Cause when you're my Royal Consort, I'll probably grow out a beard and kiss you all the time, so... I wanna see what I'm working toward."

You laugh and then squeeze his hand. "In that case, let's get this thing reversed as soon as we can."

"Love you. My blooming rose."

"Love you. My noble king."

[merakiui]

angel/angler.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, stalking, non-con, non-consensual photography, chikan/groping (train molestation), obsession, kidnapping/captivity, drugging, violence, blood, death (or is it??), azul's insecurities and low self-esteem, azul’s not-so-subtle breeding kink, implied disordered eating, reader's height isn't described, but it's written that azul is taller note - to obsess is to hunger like an angler from the deep sea. living his entire life in pitch-black solitude, entranced by an angel's halo; his only purpose is to find the body that will become his lifeline and, one day, his cemetery.

entry 1: 18 April, 20XX.

For anonymity’s sake, I’ve chosen to write using a vague pronoun. Additionally, this diary will be a record of my thoughts so that I can keep my mind and senses intact. In my youth, I was prone to terrible fits of self-destructive rage, and as a result they suggested I write my feelings down to prevent any outbursts. I’m not very physical towards others. Rather, it was the harm I posed to myself that fostered concern.

But this space isn’t for my own views on myself. It’s about someone else. 

I have a confession: I’ve fallen in love with you from the train, and I’ve been in love with you for the four months I’ve come to know you.

You wear perfectly pressed suits, heels of a modest height, tights, and pencil skirts that cut just at your knees. I want to touch you, but if I do you might stop wearing skirts altogether and then I’ll never see your legs again. I suppose trousers aren’t so unattractive. They’re appealing in their own right. Everything looks good on you, though. (Nothing would look even better.)

You work in an office building. I’m not sure which floor, but I’ll know soon enough. I wanted to follow you inside, but there’s a security guard in the lobby. He always greets you, and you always smile and chat with him. You’re a kind person, so I let this pass without incident. But I can’t lie to these pages and say it’s not troublesome when I watch his gaze linger longer than it needs to. 

I’d kill him, but then they’d employ a new guard and you’d make friends with him because you’re so kind. I don’t admire kind people. Rather, I find kindness to be a double-edged blade (Is that the correct phrasing? It’s different in my hometown. We say kindness is like pufferfish—harmless until it’s provoked and then it becomes poisonous). It’s not that I look down on kind people. I just think you shouldn’t be so quick to befriend the world in its entirety.

After plenty of observation, I’ve learned that you often leave your building to get lunch by yourself. This is what you’ve eaten in the week:

Monday - A salad at a popular café. Iced tea because it was a sunny day. A tiny cheesecake for dessert. It was blueberry.

Tuesday - A wrap of some kind. Chicken? Or was it vegetarian? Sweet potato fries. Water.

Wednesday - You didn’t leave your building. Were you at work today? 

Thursday - Another salad. Water. Same café. No tiny cheesecake.

Friday - You went to lunch with that guard. I only remember my irritation and so I’m afraid I can’t make note of your meal for today. He looks at you like an obsessed puppy waiting for its owner to give it attention. I want to pluck his eyes from his sockets so he’ll never look at you in that way again.

You lead a healthy lifestyle, but I can’t help wondering if you’re eating well. Did someone say something about your figure? I’ll eviscerate them for you and then they can see how much it hurts when unnecessary scrutiny is thrown around.

It’s quite late. I want to sleep, but thinking about you has my body wide-awake. I wonder if your mouth tastes like the moonlight shining in through my window. I wonder if your body is soft like mine… Of course it is. A silly, irrational thought. You’re much warmer than me. This is just a theory. I’ve yet to feel and confirm for myself. I will in the foreseeable future.

Before we part ways, I want you to know that I’m not very good at cooking. I’ve picked up a few books and hope to learn. I’m going to practice so that I can feed you better meals one day. Salads are the worst. Fried chicken is the true meal of heaven. I’m certain you would share this sentiment.

If I were to be condemned to a last meal like those serial killers on death row, I’d ask for fried chicken. Knowing you, you’re too good to kill anyone. In this hypothetical, supposing you’re a heinous criminal, your last meal would be something healthy. Do you even like those salads, or are you forcing yourself because you must? I understand calorie-counting well enough, but if there’s one thing to enjoy in life it should be food.

I suppose that makes me a hypocrite. I ought to take my own advice.

Oh. I’m starting to grip my pen with more force and the lines have become shaky. I usually break my writing utensils if my focus strays. I’ll stop here for today. Ink is a pain to clean.

AA.

The morning rush is your greatest enemy.

Jack Howl, the lobby’s security, has suggested giving you a ride on numerous occasions. “It’s part of the reason I got my license,” he explained once, “so that I can protect those who work in this building from the rush. Not like you have to accept my offer. It’s just…convenient for both of us. Again, I don’t care what you do.”

(He does. You see through his gruff surface.)

According to him, the morning and night rushes bring out the worst kinds of characters.

But isn’t that everywhere? you think as you peer out the window, watching the city come into clarity.

Like every morning, the train car is more crowded than a sardine tin. You’re used to being pressed up against other commuters, pinned to the window or between people. You’re flattered to know someone’s concerned, but nothing has happened yet. And why would it? It’s bright outside. No one would dare do something during the day. At least, not in a crowded area where anyone could see and hear.

I wonder what I should have for dinner. I still need to go shopping. My fridge is way too empty, you think, sighing. And I need to follow up with that one author. They’ve yet to get back to me about my edits. Perhaps we should meet in the office instead of through video call… And I also need to finalize that other style sheet after the last round of editing. And then another conference… There was something else. Was I scheduled to have lunch with an author? Or was that next week? I should check before—

The train shudders as it slides into the station. Someone brushes against you from behind. Their hand is pressed against the window just near your head. They steady themselves, their body so close to yours you can hear their staggered breathing.

“Ah. S-Sorry…”

It’s next week, right? I really should check once I get to my stop. This is going to eat me alive all day.

“Mhm,” you hum, waving dismissively.

The stranger standing behind you peels his hand away from the window. A sweaty palm print is left in its wake.

“We will be approaching the next stop shortly.”

Just one more and you’ll be getting off.

A pair of bright eyes blinks back at you in the reflection, watching the city just as you are.

entry 5: 22 April, 20XX.

I’m not a social person by any means. If I can avoid crowds, I usually do. An introvert’s paradise is best spent in the comfort of their own room, after all. But if you prefer outdoor dates I can become extroverted for your sake. There are lots of things I’m willing to do for your sake.

Which is why I’ve forced myself to tolerate the train. I loathe it. It’s cramped and uncomfortable. Most days I’m not even near you, and so all I can do is stare longingly from afar. I content myself with imaginary scenarios like in the books you edit. I’ve mentioned it sparsely in this diary, but you’re a brilliant editor. Most of the novels you work on aren’t exactly my taste, but there’s something to appreciate about them. Reading through them knowing your very eyes pored over these pages dozens of times before publication… I admire your work. Immense time and effort goes into all professions, especially ones that involve meticulous touches. 

With this discussion of careers, you might wonder what I do for a living. I manage my own restaurant chain off-site. It must be shocking news for you to realize: your secret admirer is actually quite successful.

If I’m not able to provide an adequate life—no, more than that. If I cannot drown you in all of life’s luxuries, I should sooner throw myself on the beach and let this soft, wriggling body of mine dry out than settle for the barest of minimums. You deserve only the finest.

In fact, I have a room in my home dedicated to you. A private office in which you can write and edit in peace. It’s furnished with everything you’d ever need. I hope to gift it to you one day.

Remote work is very relaxing. (You’ll know this once you try it here.) When you’re boss, you work your own schedule. That’s why I’m able to fit our secret meetings into my weekly itinerary.

Today’s meeting was quite fortuitous. I felt like I’d won the lottery. Mostly because I was finally given the opportunity to be close to you. So close, in fact, that you didn’t even notice when I slid my phone under your skirt to take a few photos. Your undergarments are unexpectedly plain. Truthfully, I’m somewhat disappointed. I was hoping to learn your lingerie preferences. At the very least, I know your tights are sheer enough to show me the color of your panties.

I consider myself a connoisseur of many things, and I’ve done enough interior decorating in my time to become well-accustomed to color palettes. A fool would say your panties are red, but they’re actually maroon.

That same fool wouldn’t take another breath after glimpsing such a private side of you.

If you must know, my dear, I am excessively avaricious when it comes to the things I like. I have always been this way. I am a collector. A hoarder of secrets. I refuse to let others touch or take the things that belong to me, especially when they are wholly undeserving…

I’ve broken another pen. Thankfully, the mess wasn’t so extreme. Not-so-thankfully, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Ah. Right. Trains.

Today I rode the train, and I was standing right behind you. You were looking out the window, lost in your thoughts, and so you didn’t notice me. You must have seen my reflection, but I wear a mask and a hooded sweatshirt when I go outside. Perhaps it’s a touch embarrassing to admit, but I am very self-conscious of the way I look. Firstly, my eyes are too tired. I’ve read that many people are not fond of eyes with dark circles under them. Secondly, my face is average—unworthy of your love by my lofty standards. My hair never cooperates. My smiles never fit properly. My skin is too pale. My eyes are too blue and my pupils are abnormal. My weight is just a few kilograms above the average. I will work hard to bring it back down for your sake and for my own so that it won’t show. I prefer a slim waist, so I must stomach all manner of healthy foods for the weekend. What a pity… Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could eat whatever you wanted without having to worry about caloric intake and numbers on a scale?

That aside, there are times in which my glasses sit crooked on my face and it’s a horrifying thought to imagine I walk around looking like that! As if I’ve rolled right out of bed with no regard for my appearance whatsoever!

Perhaps the both of us share one similarity. We are vain creatures who care too much about how we present ourselves to others.

Thus, I conceal myself so that you won’t judge me harshly should you look upon me. Not like you’d do that. You were so immersed in your head that you hardly paid any attention to your surroundings. You should be more careful. What if something were to happen and I wasn’t there to protect you?

The train stuttered to a halt at the first stop, and some fool bumped into me. I should thank them because I got to brush against you. You gasped softly. I watched your breath fog the window. I placed my hand just above your head and apologized softly, and you weren’t bothered in the slightest. Oh, how I envy your carefree nature.

As a result of that stranger’s mishap, I’ve learned something new. You wear perfume. Even with my mask, I could smell it. Strong and flowery, overwhelmingly sweet. Maybe you prefer these scents? I’m more partial to mature scents, but I admit there’s a certain charm to the scents you wear. I wish I knew the exact brand. There are dozens of perfumes with the same notes as the ones I picked up, but none can compare to the one you use. I want to be able to hold the bottle knowing it’s your favorite.

I’ve prattled enough. With the length of my entries, you’d assume I was this chatty beyond the page. I’m not. I only say as much as I think is necessary.

Once again, I’m having trouble falling asleep. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m looking through the photos I snapped and the outline of your lips against your panties is lovely. I’m sure you’re just as soft and sweet inside as you are on the outside. If only I could experience it right now. My hand can’t replicate the softness or the wetness or the way you’ll probably clamp down when we finally make love.

I can only fantasize for now. What a pain. 

AA.

“It’s going to rain today,” Jack tells you the minute you step through the lift doors into the lobby. He stands straight like a soldier, his shoulders squared and features set into something serious.

“Looks like it, huh?” You glance at the darkening sky outside, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Hopefully it rains after I get home. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“I’ll drive you.” He falls into step beside you. “It’s dark out and the station is—”

“It’s only five minutes away. I’ll be fine. I take this way all the time.”

Jack’s lip twitches into a grim frown. The beginnings of a sharp, pearly-white canine flashes at you as his mouth curls. “Fine,” he concedes with a huff. Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck and looks elsewhere. “Do what you want. I’m not forcing you or anything.”

You smile at him. “You’re very considerate, Jack. I appreciate the concern.”

He’s like a puppy. It’s really sweet.

“W-Wha—who said anything about concern?” His face is growing warmer by the second, thawing his external ice.

“I’ll be okay. It’s not even that dark out either.”

“Still…” He sighs and cards his hand through his hair. “You haven’t noticed anything weird lately, have you?”

“Anything weird?” You furrow your brows, suddenly confused.

“On your way home. Nothing out of the ordinary? It’s the same every day?”

“Mostly, yeah. Why? Did something happen?”

“No. Just wondering…” Jack looks past you then, searching for something you can’t seem to see. “You sure you don’t want a ride? I can walk you to the station. Protect you if anything or anyone—”

You force yourself to laugh. “Come on. You’re trying to scare me on purpose. This is because I told you I’m editing a horror novel, isn’t it?”

Jack doesn’t share in your humor. Instead, his frown tightens on his face.

“While I’m grateful you want to help, I really don’t want to put that on you. It’s not your job to chauffeur me around. I’d feel bad if I made you do that. So thank you, but I’ll have to decline.”

You turn swiftly on your heel before he can protest, striding out the door into the gloomy night.

When is it going to be summer? It’s way too chilly.

You burrow into your jacket as you beeline for the station. A brisk breeze blows through busy city streets. Even though there are still people out and about, it feels strangely desolate.

Jack’s heart was in the right place, but did he really have to phrase it like that? 

You wrap your arms around yourself and hurry along. Your steps are in time with your pounding heart. A cold sweat beads along your forehead. 

Relax. It’s nothing to get worked up over. I’m fine.

Crunch.

You whirl around, clutching your bag between your arms. There’s no one in sight. The city seems eerily quiet tonight.

Stop scaring yourself. Nothing’s there.

No, it’s not something that could make that sound—a noise akin to a footstep. That belongs to someone.

Is someone following you?

You aren’t going to wait around and find out. Now you’re jogging the rest of the way, your heels clicking against the pavement. Your breath comes in shaky heaves, and by the time you finally step into the station’s blinding fluorescents, adrenaline still vibrating through your veins, you notice the time.

My train—it’s already here! Thank you. Oh, thank you so much!

You rush through the station in a flurry, and the relief is tangible once you’re safe and sound inside the train car. You squirm through the throng of late-night commuters towards the window.

“Sorry. Excuse me. Pardon me,” you murmur as you navigate the crowded space.

You make it to the window just as the doors slide shut. Moments later, the train squeaks into motion.

I worked up such a sweat. I can’t believe I got so frazzled over something as small as a snapped twig…or whatever that was. It wasn’t a footstep. And if it was, it was probably my own.

You shake your head at your reflection.

Look at me, losing my mind all because I let someone’s words get to my head. 

The stranger standing behind you sighs alongside you. You’re about to turn around, but it’s their hands on your waist that stop you. Your blood freezes. Your spine goes rigid.

“Excuse me? Um… C-Can I help you?”

You gasp, horrified, as the hands creep higher until they’re wrapped around your chest. The stranger squeezes almost curiously. Their breath catches on an eager hitch. You peer helplessly at the window. Two blue eyes blink back.

“Wait… Hold on—”

“It’s okay.” A man’s voice. Sweet and silky-smooth. A reassuring whisper. Only you can hear it with this invasively close proximity. It might as well be a drop in the ocean that is the rickety din of the train on the rails. You reach to grab his arms, hoping to pry him off. “I’m not going to hurt you. As long as you’re quiet…”

“No, you can’t. Please, sir. S-Stop… Don’t touch there.” Your fingers curl around his wrists. You squirm against him, your brain blanking.

This can’t be happening… There’s just no way…

Something stiff prods at your ass from behind. You yelp softly when he rubs himself against you. You try to catch sight of his features when you crane your neck, but all you get is a faceful of a dark hoodie. He’s tall enough to block you from the other passengers, his body caging yours against the window. One hand slides away from your chest to slip under your skirt. He gropes at your inner thigh; his fingers draw dangerously close to private territory.

“Sir—”

He inhales a dreamy breath. “Perfect,” he babbles, his words muffled by his mask. “So perfect. Warm… And soft. Just as I thought.”

There’s nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to hide. You’re trapped here with this fiend until you get off at your stop.

“We will be approaching the stop shortly,” the woman on the intercom says, but it doesn’t give you the relief you’re after.

Three more stops and then you’ll be at yours. Three more. Three. Your stop might as well be years away.

Two fingers trace the outline of your pussy through your panties. You’re grateful you’re wearing tights.

His breathing is heavy. He’s mumbling filth in your ear. You hardly register it over the static in your brain.

Gross. So gross. Stop it. Please stop. I don’t want this.

A whine bubbles low in your throat when he presses down against your clit. He caresses you through the fabric of your panties. You slump against the window with your palms on the glass. Your heart is in your throat. You feel sick and dizzy. It’s too hot in here. Everything is spinning. Your heart is picking up its pace. Your hands are starting to shake. 

And there’s nowhere to go. No amount of begging will stop him. He’s all over you, pressed impossibly close—so close you think he’s trying to fuse his body to yours, becoming one mutual unit.

You want to scream, but you can’t find your voice. You can’t do anything. You can’t even think.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmurs, twining his fingers around your trembling ones. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Mmh, no… No—stop. P-Please, sir, please stop.” You shudder against him, and a choked, broken sob rattles through your ribs. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand. His other circles your tender, sensitive clit, and the contact elicits a whimper from you. “Even though you’re making the cutest sounds? Aah, I wanna be inside you so badly… I’m sure it’s even softer there.”

You bite down on your bottom lip so hard that your teeth pierce the skin. A thin ribbon of blood dribbles down your chin. You refuse to give him that satisfaction. Even though your attempt to snuff your voice is successful, your body doesn’t seem to agree. It shakes in fear and arousal. When he presses against your panties next, he feels the growing damp spot. 

That’s just a natural reaction, right? I’m not actually aroused by this. There’s no way!

Just when you think he might pursue further, he pulls back. His hips are still flush to your ass. You can feel his cock straining against the fabric. It’s gross and demoralizing. You’re nothing but a doll for him to get off to. Less than a person.

The train glides to a halt and the doors open. People exit and enter in a busy fashion. You stare out the window at your blurred surroundings.

When the train eases back into motion, you realize tears are welling in your eyes. They don’t fall. Not yet.

It isn’t until you get off at your stop, sprint the rest of the way home, hurry up into your apartment, and lock the door that the horror of it all finally catches up to you. You collapse to your knees and wail like you’ve just lost something precious—something you’ll never be able to get back.

You’ve never felt more dirty before.

entry 36: 4 May, 20XX.

I did it. I finally did it.

My hand is shaking; I’m so happy. No, I’m more than happy. I’m absolutely overjoyed!

You don’t know this about me yet, but I’m terribly envious. I suppose that’s why I could muster the confidence to touch you and hold you… Your body is so soft against mine. Every inch of you is beautiful. I wish I could have felt beneath your shirt, lifted your bra to see your bare breasts in the window’s reflection. This is quite the shameless admission. Even I, despite admiring you for so long, am loath to admit it.

You mesmerize me. I’m already flustered just thinking about the way your hand fit in mine when I held it… And you were aroused! I was so close to such a precious area, and you were wet for me and only me. I feel so overwhelmed. It’s a dream come true. You’re such an angel. My angel.

My dear, darling angel, I’m sorry for startling you. That was the only way, you see, and certain circumstances led me to that point. You must understand.

To be unfiltered about it, it was annoying seeing that security guard pester you. I had the strongest urge to kill him, but that’s not something you can do on a whim. Murder is like running a business, in a way. One misstep, a bad investment or a sliver of evidence left behind, and it might spell the end.

That’s besides the point. It’s hardly worth the time. 

Regrettably, while on the train into the city, I noticed you were wearing trousers today. I was right. Last night was a once-in-a-lifetime event. A pity. Your legs in those sheer tights is a vision to behold. Luckily, I have enough pictures to satisfy the craving to see you in them. When you live with me, I’ll buy plenty of tights for you to wear around the house. That way you won’t have to worry if I rip them.

That aside, you’ve started looking over your shoulder more. You talked to that security guard longer than you normally do. It’s irritating. Quite frankly, it pisses me off.

I don’t want to be childish. I understand you’re stressed and nervous. Anyone would be. That’s normal. But I’m not going to hurt you. I even told you those exact words! I’m certain you would have calmed down if you could see my face. Unfortunately, I’m not very blessed in that department. I assure you my personality is far prettier…despite the ugly truths I’ve penned here.

But then those don’t matter when it comes to love. Even in love, couples are supposed to recognize and accept each other’s flaws. So it’s fine if I’m an ugly person. It’s fine if I’m a devil or something grotesque from the deepest trench in the sea. At least, in spite of such darkness, your halo will continue to light the way and I will always be lured in by your luminosity.

I can’t do much of anything right now and that has led me to feel increasingly itchy. I want to feel you again. Smell you. Touch you. I’d like to taste you next time. Part your legs or tear your skirt off and indulge in the space you keep hidden from me. I want to sink into your depths and know the shape of you just as you twist yourself to take the shape of me. 

It’s just not enough. I desire more of you. 

AA.

entry 40: 8 May, 20XX.

It’s been a few days. You haven’t taken the train since. Now you’re driven to and from work by that pest. I was overcome with such frustration yesterday that I slammed my hands down upon my desk and fractured my wrist. For the time being, until my wrist heals, I must wear this unsightly stabilizer-brace-thing and write carefully with my non-dominant hand. I like to consider myself ambidextrous, if only because it’s a talent I’m sure will impress you, as you seem to surround yourself with successful, talented people, but I must admit my lettering is rather…subpar.

It’s not as neat as I hoped it would be. Something to practice while my wrist heals, I suppose.

There’s only so much strain I can take, my angel. Are you really so afraid of me that you’ve chosen to rely on someone else to protect you? If it was funny, I’d laugh. But it’s not. It’s annoying. Must I chain you up by the throat so that you won’t run away? Must I cuff our wrists together so that neither of us can part ways? What must I do to ensure you’ll never leave me?

Every day I spend in solitude, you grow closer to everyone but me. It’s infuriating.

However, there are always silvers of hope to be found and exploited in misfortune. As a businessman, I know this well enough.

I can plan around this. I’ve taken a few photos of your house at every angle. It’s important to think ahead when making a calculated risk.

When you go to kidnap the love of your life, you must dress appropriately, no? Now should I wear a formal suit or something casual?

I have some time and plenty to look forward to.

AA.

Like always, early as usual, Jack is waiting for you below your apartment. You see his car from the window and light up at once.

It’s been two months since the incident on the train. Jack insisted you go to the police when you confided in him a week after the fact. But what could they do? A story isn’t evidence. Evidence is evidence. So to combat that, you’ve avoided public transport altogether. Jack drives you to and from work and anywhere else you need to go. You never knew him very well before this mess, and you regret not starting a friendship sooner. He’s everything you need right now: a friend, a listener, and someone you can trust and rely on.

Like always, he unlocks the door so you can put your things in the back. “It’s my turn to treat for lunch today, so let’s go somewhere you like.”

You shut the door and open the passenger side, sliding in seamlessly.

“There’s no need for that.”

Your heart skips. Your breath stumbles in your lungs. Your body tenses.

You finally look at the driver.

He’s wearing what appears to be an expensive collared shirt with a tie, but the top half is covered by the soft hoodie he’s thrown on over it. He has a mask like before, but there’s no denying his eyes. Bright and blue, deep and deceptive like the ocean, they blink back at you.

The door locks with a click.

You throw yourself at it in a useless effort to escape. The masked stranger seizes your wrist. You scream.

“There’s no need to be afraid. I-It’s only me! I won’t hurt you.” He tugs his mask down to his chin so that you can see the wobbly smile on his face. “Please don’t be scared…”

“Let go of me, you pervert!” You rip your arm free and reach for the door once more. “What the hell are you doing here?! W-Where’s Jack? Why are you—”

You choke around the rest of your words when he wraps his arms around you and yanks you over the seat towards him. You kick out like a deranged animal, breathing heavy and frantic, your eyes darting to and fro. The stranger manages to manhandle you into a chokehold despite the struggle. With his arm wrapped around your neck, he grabs a plastic water bottle with his free hand. Clumsily, he unscrews the cap and presses the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

“I’m sorry for being so rough, but I need you to drink this. Can you do that for me? Drink all of it.” As he says this, he tips the bottle and the strange liquid fills your mouth. You fight against his hold, doing everything you can to resist. He tightens his grip on you, dragging your body closer to his. “Swallow it, or I’ll slit your throat.”

Against your will, very shakily, you gulp down the solution. It tastes bitter and vile like medicine. A little salty.

“I didn’t want to frighten you, my angel, but this is the only way you’ll listen.” He swipes the tear threatening to spill from your eye. “You don��t have to cry. I’ll take you home and keep you safe. Just drink the rest of this and take a nap until we get there. That’s it. You’re almost done. I know it’s disgusting, but you have to drink it all, my love.”

“Why…” you sputter, coughing. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why?” He blinks at you as if the answer is obvious. “Because I love you.”

You can’t understand the logic there. You don’t want to.

Slumping against the seat, boneless and disturbed, you tremble when he leans over to buckle you in. And you continue to do so until you’re pulled into sleep. 

Two blue eyes follow you in your dreams, sticking to your body like old gum under a school desk. In sleep, you feel his hands on you—clinging and cloying like tentacles and the stench of brine, all-enveloping.

entry 179: 24 September, 20XX.

Summer is winding to a close. The last few vestiges of warmth are slipping away. Today’s weather was crisp. Autumn is approaching. 

It’s been a difficult few months. I’ve catalogued my process in the time you’ve spent with me, locked away in our bedroom. I must keep you chained to the bed for the time being. It’s long enough to lead into the bathroom. Until I can trust you, this is the arrangement at present.

They’re still searching for you, albeit not as frantically and frequently. I hope they assume you’ve met some grisly end so that I can finally shelve that anxiety and move on with my life. While I’m relieved it wasn’t as messy as I thought it’d be, I’m just a touch disheartened. I would have loved to watch the light fade from that guard’s eyes.

But that just wasn’t feasible or smart. Besides, what else am I to use my current fortune for, if not the props needed for that day? You call it kidnapping, and while that term is technically true I prefer something sweeter. A reunion of sorts. 

There’s nothing of note to discuss. You haven’t accepted your new home or me yet, so I will continue to wait. I can be patient. I must be if this relationship is going to work (and it will). 

I don’t particularly believe in soulmates. Rather, I find the concept to be foolish. Fate does not dictate an entire life. It is the decisions you make along the way that shape your paths. Just like in my favorite board game. I’d like to play it with you. Although I must admit I already know how our life goes. I have a few routes in mind.

You look at me with such scalding contempt when I imply we ought to start a family, and even though I’ve been victim to that look so many times it doesn’t burn any less. You just can’t see how good this is for you yet.

What else are we to do with our time if not use it to fill quiet halls with the pitter-patter of tiny feet? I have a few names in mind, but for now we’ll take it one day at a time. I’m a patient man despite my temper.

AA.

entry 257: 11 December, 20XX.

Exciting news! Though it may seem small, we’ve reached an understanding. Or so I suspect. You’re not so averse to me anymore. In fact, we take baths together, eat meals together, watch TV together, play board games together… There are so many things we do together as a couple and so, despite the encroaching winter frost, my days have become warmer! Just last night you allowed me to sleep beside you on our bed, and I held you close and you kissed me and I felt like the luckiest man alive.

Finally! Genuine progress!

I won’t delude myself and say that you may finally love me in the way I love you, but a start is a start. I admit I couldn’t help myself. I returned your kiss tenfold, all over your face, down the column of your throat to your collarbone. I was gentle and careful. I didn’t rush.

I like to play experienced in all fields, but even I can’t act perfectly. How should I describe our first time without all of the shameless vulgarity? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Sex is sex no matter how you try to embellish it. Filthy and imperfect, sweaty and sticky, more effort and exercise than I realized.

You pulled me in close, pursued my mouth with the same want in mine, and it was more cathartic than anything I’ve ever known. Oh, to be kissed by the love of your life! I wasn’t aware such joy existed.

You palmed me through my pajamas and told me you wanted a family—that the idea of raising a little one was perfectly charming. I admit it’s an alluring thought I’ve had long before you lived with me. I’ve always thought you would look very enchanting while pregnant. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself. Even though it isn’t official yet, it doesn’t hurt to call myself your husband. In my mind and heart, we’re married. It may not seem so to you yet, but it will be.

Back to the matter at hand. Hearing that you wanted a child with me made me happy. I can’t remember if I cried. I must have because you pulled me in close and you, lying beneath me, wiped at my face and told me you wanted me to give you a child. And who am I if not the most doting, most benevolent husband? I’d do anything for you.

This must be what a predator feels when they tear into prey: a rapture so absolute and all-consuming that it covers their brain like a cotton shroud and renders every other action a hazy instinct.

It was a blur even though I was sure I moved slowly. Clothes weren’t exactly shucked. They were in the way and we had a singular goal, far too focused to remove them completely. Thus, they were pulled up, down, to the side, in whichever way provided easiest access. I closed my hands around your breasts and they feel so much softer without the obstruction of clothes.

Perhaps, rather than humans, we’re just anglerfish. Hungry for each other, using the other, a voracious relationship full of mutual benefits. If I could, I’d love to live inside you. I want nothing more than to press myself close enough to feel your heart beat alongside mine. To feel rushing blood. To turn myself inside-out just to satisfy you. Give you every little thing I can offer—brain and body—and we’d cleave through sunless waters as one, together forever.

The word ‘love’ is not large enough to truly encapsulate all that I feel for you.

My forehead pressed to yours. You kissed me once. I felt sloppy. I was sloppy. Inexperienced. We both are. Your hand wrapped around me. I told you it was okay, to do it at your own pace, to tell me if it hurts. But you kissed my every anxiety away, and in just a few strokes we were connected. Perhaps I died then and I’m still dead now.

Maybe I’m writing this from the moon or the deep, dark sea. Maybe all of this is just a long dream and I’m not even human. Maybe I’m the anglerfish stuck to your side, latched on with my sharp teeth, our lives forever intertwined. You taste of fruit and blood and every beautifully painful thing in this world.

For the first time in the many months we’ve lived together, you called me by my name. You gasped it as you curled your legs around my waist and clung to my chest, your arms draped over my neck, nails in my back. You chanted it like a song. I must have done the same with yours.

However, no amount of carnal euphoria can change the fact that I still have my reservations about unchaining you.

A deliberation for another day. It’s time to cook dinner. I’ve improved lots in the time we’ve known each other. You help around the kitchen as well. Harmless things like stirring batter or mixing a salad. I can’t trust you with actual food prep for reasons I’m sure are obvious and understandable. I try to create balanced meal plans. Now that I’m no longer eating alone and surviving off of misery, I want to show you that I’m both a great chef and a conscientious eater.

AA.

You watch the seasons shift outside the bedroom window and there’s nothing you can do.

You live life chained like a prisoner and there’s nothing you can do.

You eat off paper plates with the same utensils made for toddlers and there’s nothing you can do.

You let the same man whose touch was once so covetous pet you all over with his hands and mouth and there’s nothing you can do.

You’re stuck here forever and there’s nothing you can do.

There are highs higher than the clouds and then there are lows lower than the sea. You oscillate between these temperaments, a body thrown around on rocky waves. How you’ve yet to sink and drown for good, you’re not sure.

Today’s low has brought Azul to his knees. You stand over him, gripping the knife in a shaky hold. Chopped vegetables scatter in a rainbow on the floor. He had been chopping them so methodically, so wrapped up in pleasant conversation with you, that he hadn’t been expecting the retaliation. The blade is freshly sharpened. The perfect weapon. The perfect opportunity. Freedom just after this final hurdle.

Freedom that comes with its burdens—with a child and the law and the media and… And then what? A life of loneliness. A life spent working through mountains of trauma. A life in which you can never look at the train again.

Two blue eyes blink up at you. For the first time, Azul looks scared and weak—a small, pitiful thing. For the first time, you have him trapped beneath your thumb.

You want to bring the knife down and put an end to these cyclical days. You want to crush his spirits in the same way he crushed yours. You want him to know pain so brutal it rots him from the inside.

But you can’t. You want to and in an ideal scenario devoid of fear you would. But you can’t.

You dig your heel palms into your eyes and sob. “I can’t! I’m sorry. I… I can’t do it!”

Azul deflates with a deep sigh. “Oh… Oh, my angel, it’s all right. I forgive you. You’re just a little confused. A little emotional—I get it. We all have emotional moments. I’m not upset.”

“But I—I almost… I was going to—”

“You didn’t. You didn’t, my love, and that’s what matters.” 

He beckons you to his height; you lower to your knees. The knife is still clutched in your hands. He looks between it and you, as if weighing which is more dangerous. Volatile emotions or a blade. Maybe both.

Azul wraps his arms around you and rubs your back consolingly. “It’s okay. I’m not angry.”

You sniffle, but the tears won’t stop flowing. “Still… I almost did such a horrible thing to you. I could’ve hurt you—k-killed you!”

“My dear, it’s okay.” He kisses the top of your head, tucking you beneath his chin. “I forgive you.”

Your fingers tighten around the handle. “You do?”

“I do. I always will.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Angel—”

You turn the sharpened point inwards and slam it into his side, just below his rib. It pierces through soft flesh. You pull away just in time to see hurt and betrayal flash across his face, hot like the tears you’re now drying.

Shakily, his movements unsteady, he reaches for the handle. His fingers dance across it, assessing the reality of the situation. You stabbed him. You did it.

He hisses through his teeth when he tears it out. Blood spatters the kitchen floor in a brilliant, vermillion arc. Azul, knife in hand, staggers to his feet and lunges.

You stumble away in a blind panic. 

“How dare you…” He clutches his side with one hand while the other slashes through the air. You narrowly dodge before the knife can slice your arm. Blood seeps through Azul’s shirt, staining his palm red. His expression is twisted in a dark concoction of agony and anger. “I’ve shown you nothing but love and care… I’ve been nothing but patient. I’ve done everything! You were beginning to warm up to me—to this life—our life! I was wrong to trust you. Get back here—”

“You’re crazy! You assaulted me, kidnapped me, threatened me! Do you really think I’d love you after all of that?!” You yelp when his slick, blood-stained fingers wrap around your wrist to drag you down. “Stop! Let go of me!”

You elbow him in the ribs, which causes a shockwave of pain to travel through him, and it gives you enough time to wriggle free. Ripping your arm from his hold, you try to get away when he, aiming to subdue you, grabs hold of your ankle next. You feel the blade sink into your calf before you see it. A terrible cry frays your throat, torn from the depths of your chest like a flower pried from the soil.

“If I’m going to die…” He flops to his knees, wheezing. “If I’m going to die, you’ll die with me.”

“Like hell I will!” you hiss through your teeth, thrashing wildly.

Stupidly, you pull the knife from where it’s wedged in. Blood spurts from the wound, trickling down your leg in a thick, steady stream. You wince and limp towards the door. Closer… You’re almost there.

Azul reaches out with a bloodied hand, his expression utterly shattered. “Wait… Don’t go any further. Please… I need you. We need each other. My angel, my love, please don’t go!”

You tear your eyes away. He’s a monster. You’ll never sympathize with him.

Just before you can get to the front door, Azul picks himself up and wraps his arms around your waist. He pulls you down and your head hits the floor with a harsh smack. You see stars. The ceiling spins above you. You try to get up, crawl away, escape—whatever it takes to lose him—but he clings to your side, holding tight. His blood is warm and wet against your shirt. The pain in your calf is sparking up your leg, joining the ache at the back of your head in duet.

Pressed so closely, the flow of blood slows. Your shirt soaks up what the rest of his already drenched shirt can’t hold.

You watch the ceiling. The light looks like a halo; it shines brightly. Azul blinks up at you, hopelessly, sickly enthralled. The tip of the knife prods at your stomach. If it pierces, you don’t feel it. You’re sore all over. Bruises are already beginning to bloom.

At the bottom of the sea, clothed in frigid darkness, there is no sense of direction.

That’s the sweetest relief while you wade into unconsciousness with a parasitic angler.

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two / Part Three (You Are Here)

Complete Thing on A03

Sure enough, Jason Carver had brought a priest. 

The idiot himself stood next to the guy, smugly grinning like a hunter posing with his prized buck, a small crowd already gathering. 

Opposing them was Michael Wheeler, hands planted on Hellfire’s table and back up like a pissed off cat’s, mouth moving faster than Eddie thought possible.

He couldn’t hear what Wheeler was saying. 

Frankly did not want to know what Wheeler was saying, and could only do his damndest to intervene before Mike tanked the situation entirely. 

Gareth and Jeff flanked him, both tense as hell. Neither had backed down though, standing tall and holding ground even as Jason pulled more and more people into his little spectacle. 

Lucas and Grant on the other hand, were standing off to the side.

They weren’t cowering exactly, but both were definitely wincing as Gareth opened his mouth to add his own two cents. 

Given the scowl on the priest, it was probably something nasty, 

‘Fuck.’ Eddie thought, teeth clenched, as Jason drew out his arms, making an even bigger production for his little audience. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ 

The worst thing of all? 

Dustin managed to reach the group before anyone else did. 

Wheeler and Emerson might have low charisma, but Dustin had a particular combination of snark and a know-it-all attitude that really pissed off authority figures. 

(And Eddie would know, given he was the reigning champion of pissing off authority figures.) 

He did, however, slide in right in time to hear the priest respond. 

“I don’t care for your tone, young man. Jason here has some concerns over your club and I have to agree, what I see is quite,” The guy paused, jowls jiggling as he looked over their table, clearly eyeing Hellfire’s logo. “alarming.” 

 At least wasn’t an actual sermon.

Not yet, anyway. 

Eddie came up right inbetween Mike and Dustin, intending to make himself out to be the new target for all to aim at.  

There was an art to making yourself the sole owner of everything evil in this world, and Eddie had learned it all, trial by fire style.  

“Carver is full of--” Mike snarled, and thankfully was cut off—not by Eddie, or the hand he’d just clamped onto Mike’s shoulder—but by Harrington. 

Who sauntered right up as if he was joining everyone for dinner, and not walking into a circus act.

“Hello Father.” Harrington said, voice warm and welcoming.  “Would you like some of our cookies? We have a sample platter.” 

“Oh--Steve!” The priest blinked, actually blinked, that he was startled to see Hawkins’ golden boy appear next to him. “I’m sorry but no. I’m ah, here for other reasons.”

He paused so long it was nearly comedic before tentatively asking; “ Are you with this table?”

Like the guy couldn’t see the same Hellfire logo plastered across Steve’s ridiculous jock chest. 

Eddie opened his mouth to give a resounding no, Hellfire shirt or not--when Mike of all people put an elbow into his side. 

As if Eddie was the one who needed to be silenced.  

“I am.” Steve put an arm down on Dustin’s shoulder, squeezing it in a way that looked like fond encouragement (but what Eddie was pretty sure was actually a warning in the same way the hand on Mike’s shoulder was.) “I came to help out my friends and fundraise.”

Then he beamed, face lighting up with the full Harrington charm, giga watt smile and all. 

Now the priest just looked awkward. 

“You’ve apparently been fundraising for what I have been told is a…Satanist Club?” 

It was hilariously delicate, how the priest said it. Like now that a respectable member of Hawkins was here, he had to be more careful about what words he used. 

Eddie would have interrupted then.  Retake the reins and do what he did best in terms of making everyone forget about everything but him--except Carver was rounding on Harrington, and well.

He was always a fan of the rich eating each other. 

“You cannot seriously be with these--these,” Jason’s eyes darted to between him and the priest, before physically reigning himself in. “hooligans, Harrington!” 

“I’m sorry.” Harrington said, and whatever Jason had been expecting to get hit with, it wasn’t “good ol’ boy” southern charm. 

He blinked, taking on the air of a kicked puppy who couldn’t understand why someone would be so mean as he glanced around the crowd.  “I think I'm a little lost here.” 

Jason clearly wasn’t prepared for that either. 

“What?” 

“This table is for a storytelling and math game.” Steve spoke slowly, in the same way one explained things to a toddler. “You have to roll dice and add the numbers up to do anything."

“It’s not a game, Steve.” Jason spat back. “It’s an evil trick made to tempt the susceptible minds of children to the dark arts!” 

Personally, Eddie was amazed Carver even knew the word susceptible let alone be able to properly use it in a sentence. 

(He tried to open his mouth to say so, and once again got elbowed, this time by Gareth. 

The look he gave his younger friend could have melted steel beams.)

“That’s what this is about?” Harrington slid his arm off Dustin's shoulders, leaning back to look at the priest and the people around them in a show of blatant disbelief. “You think the nerd club is related to satanism?” 

It was Eddie's own tactic--arguing that D&D was “using academic skills” and “making math fun!" not that Hellfire had ever been successful using it.

Of course, they weren’t Hawkins golden boy either. 

Jason sputtered. 

“It has monsters and--demons in it! It makes children do spells and sign over their souls!” He flung a hand out, for the first time acknowledging Eddie by pointing at his shirt. “Just look at that! It’s awful!”  

"Hey." Eddie said, hand going over his very well drawn dragon.

“I once had to stop an argument about how much weight a wooden bridge could hold.” Steve countered, hands moving to his hips. “I only got them to stop by agreeing to take the kids to a library so they could look it up.” 

He squinted, in Carver's direction, deadpanning; "I take it you think the library is evil now too?"

“The name of the club is called Hellfire!” Jason shrieked, sounding more like an angry teakettle than anything dangerous. 

“Look I get that it sounds scary,” Steve said, the tiniest hint of pity entering his voice, “but they’re trying to make math problems and English essays sound cool. It’s the same reason Father John here calls our annual haunted house Hell House, isn’t it? So people go in it to begin with?” 

Harrington turned to look expectantly at the priest, and Eddie had to admit it was an excellent way to both pander to the guy and sound like Jason was making a big deal out of nothing. 

Perhaps, he’d stay quiet after all. 

(Even if it went against Eddie’s entire being to do so.)

“Well, yes, but--” Father John had clearly picked up on the fact he was losing this particular argument, but plowed forward regardless. “Those activities are supervised by the church…” 

“This is evil Harrington, and you should know better to promote it.” Carver tacked on, like this was a two bit comedy sketch. 

“When I played it we just saved some poor town from a bad guy who set it on fire.” Steve rolled his eyes. 

Then he leaned in, converting his voice into a stage whisper that somehow projected it, giving the impression that everyone around them was listening in on a secret. 

“The doctor said it was a really good way for Dustin and Erica to process the mall fire. He’s a specialist--my mother managed to convince him to fly down to help all the kids who got hurt.” 

Eddie was 100% sure that was total bullshit, but the mere mention of Harrington's mother had seemed to have an effect on the people around them.

 Like Steve had invoked the name of an old but beloved God, not always benevolent but definitely memorable. 

“She’s always been a champion of helping when you can.” Steve spoke to the priest, like they were having a conversation between just the two of them. “Encouraging people to volunteer and helping fundraise.”

“She has been." Father John said, in the kind of instant way one does when they don’t want to offend a very large donor.  "Tell your mom I look forward to her coming back from her--ah, trip.”

 With an awkward glance to the table, he added; “...I suppose I don’t see how math comes into play?” 

“Oh it’s right from the start. Hey Jeff, come here, show Father John how you have to do a bunch of calculations and stuff to make a character.” 

“Ah--right.” Jeff sprung to life, moving around the table to Steve.

“We uh, we start with this character sheet…” 

“Eddie Munson runs the club.” Jason interrupted, before Steve could get Jeff to going.

“He’s right there! Does he look like this whole thing is just an innocent board game?” 

This was a last ditch effort, and it was clear by the chattering that had started circling amongst their audience that everyone knew it. 

Unfortunately, it was a good one.

This was the downside to making yourself a target. Once a bad guy, always a bad guy--particularly in the eyes of the PTA. 

“Munson?” Harrington dismissed with a scoff. “He’s harmless.” 

Which was news to most of their audience given the amount of attention Eddie suddenly had on him, but it was fine. 

He was used to the disapproving stares and glares, and gave his best award winning smile in response. 

Jason looked at Harrington like he’d lost his mind. 

“He has skulls on his fingers for fucks sake!” 

“Jason.” Steve admonished, in a perfect mimic of an upset southern mother. “Language.” 

Carver's jaw dropped, face purpling in rage.

Steve ignored him, turning back to the Priest. “I don’t know what's gotten into him but I’m sorry Jason’s wasted your time, Father.” 

“Munson is a drug dealer!” And ah, here came the Hail Mary move, Carver's one and only trump card.

“We all know he’s a drug dealer, and he’s using this--this game, to give drugs to kids!”

“Really?” Steve turned. “Lucas, what happens if I ever catch you smoking weed?” 

Lucas answered instantly. “You’re going to make us run laps at five in the morning.” 

“For a month.” Dustin added, with an exaggerated shudder. 

It would have been too much--except his disgusted face sold it. 

“Eddie’s just loud and wants to be a rockstar.” Harrington said, like this he was harmless.

No one on Steve's side of things had ever thought of Eddie as harmless.

 “I’ve babysat these kids for years and Eddie was a huge help in making sure no one in high school messed with them.” He continued, like they were some sort of team or friends even.

(Like Eddie hadn't been at Harrington's throat all day, pissy and defensive.)

“We have a real bullying problem right now. Funny enough,” Steve’s nailed Jason with a look, “I keep hearing that it’s coming from the basketball team.” 

“What are you implying?” Jason asked darkly. 

“Just that it’s funny how nobody got caught fighting when I was team captain.” Steve returned. 

God the man was such a bitch. Eddie kind of wanted to kiss him a little. 

Okay, more than a little.

“I get you have some kind of beef with Munson, but let’s not drag a bunch of people into it. Especially not Father John.” Harrington was playing up to the mothers around him now, dismissing Carver entirely as he did so. “He’s a busy guy.”

“Very.” Said Father nodded solemnly. “I do not appreciate being pulled into a high school squabble.” 

Jason’s mouth swam through shapes, words stuttering out of it. “This isn’t, thats not--”

“We can talk about this after church on Sunday.” Father John interrupted, the finishing blow to Carver's little show.

“You came all this way, at least have a cookie on us.” Steve said with an appeasing tone, reaching an arm back behind him.

Quick on the uptake, a cookie appeared in his hands. 

He offered it out to the priest, who took it happily.

"Okay, who wants cake!?” He called, in a clear and obvious dismissal of Jason. 

Who stood there, like he couldn’t believe what just happened. 

His eyes slid to Eddie's, fists clenched tightly at his side, hatred pouring off him so strongly one could almost taste it.

Eddie winked at him.

(Unknown to him at the time, Jason had also looked at Steve--and Steve would wink too.)

xXx

Steve Harrington, who Eddie had been an absolute ass all day too, had looked Jason Carver, a Priest and half of Hawkins in the eye and announced that he, Eddie Munson, was a good person at heart.

It made Eddie want to vomit a little when he thought about it too hard.

“I know this is horrible timing,” Robin said, sidling up as the crowd finally dispersed, “but I really, really need to talk to you.” 

Eddie turned, head full of far too many thoughts and ready to tell her such, when he caught sight of Buckley's face. 

Was reminded, by the sheer nervous, ‘horse about to bolt’ vibe, that he owed it to Robin as a fellow queer not to be a dick about her accidental outing.

Even if all he wanted was to preen in the wake of Carver’s defeat. 

‘See Mothers of Hawkins? Your own golden boy just gave me his stamp of approval!’ 

A mental image that immediately changed to Steve Harrington’s name stamped on his ass and dammit he had to get ahold of his thoughts before he fell down rabbit holes like this--!

“Back there, at the stairs,” Robin started, voice dropping low, and Eddie didn’t miss the way her eyes kept seeking out Steve, like he was some kind of safety net--which he probably was. “What um--what did you hear?” 

It took a lot of guts to come talk to him, knowing what he'd overheard--particularly given they'd just fended off the church.

He'd never exactly underestimated Robin Buckley, but then, he'd never expected this level of badassery from her either.

“Eddie?” Robin prodded again, chewing hard on her bottom lip.

“Sorry, distracted.” Eddie waved a hand behind himself. “Not everyday the King decides to defend your honor to a priest.” 

With a little bow, he offered his elbow out to her, a clear signal to take it and let him escort them away from unwanted ears.

In a show of bravery, Robin took his elbow and let him lead, even as she frowned up at him, looking like she was about to say something.

Likely it was in defense of Harrington, but Eddie had been interrupted enough for one day. 

“You and His Highness over there really should be more aware of your surroundings." He started, voice low. "Lucky for you, you’re among friends. You and Dorothy both.” 

He reached a foot out, tapping Robin’s own. 

Right on top of a doodled pair of tits. 

Robin let go of his elbow and glanced down, before flinging her head right back up, panicked.

"I--"

“If you’d like I can pretend I never heard a thing.” Eddie interrupted, dropping his voice into the gentler tone he reserved for delicate conversations.

People were always surprised by the lengths he went to make sure someone was comfortable--but then, people also forgot how often Eddie heard things he shouldn’t. 

People didn't take drugs just for fun, after all.

“Or I can offer a friend of a friend discount on my wares,” He put a finger to his lips, miming smoking with one hand while he opened his vest with the other to flash the little pink triangle pin that sat inside, announcing his own sexualities status.

“and we can, say, discuss the differences between radical and social feminism while admiring the fine forms of Susan Sarandon and Peter Hinwood?”

The smile he gets is two parts relief, one part genuine delight and Eddie grinned right back at her, flicking his vest closed.

“I did not take you for a Peter Hinwood type.” Robin said it hesitantly, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Thought you’d find Tim Curry’s…acting skills, more to your taste.”

“In the case of Rocky Horror? I am Tim Curry.” He announced, loud and proud (well for this kind of conversation at least.) 

He was rewarded by the tension finally melting out of Robin’s shoulders. 

(This, Eddie reflected, is what he should have been doing this entire time, instead of getting tied up in knots over Harrington and turning into some kind of non-conformist tyrant.) 

“Do you actually know the differences between social and radical feminism?” Robin challenged, braver now, and Eddie knew then and there he’d been successful in assuring her her secret was safe.

That she was safe, with him.

“Guess you’ll have to find out.” Eddie said, giving a playful nudge to her shoulder. 

Baths in the laugh he gets for it, and for the first time today feels like he’s finally on firmer ground.

They chatted for a moment longer, making a loop on the very outskirts of the gym, voices hushed when it came to things that small town ears shouldn’t overhear--but of course, Robin couldn’t just leave things at that.

“Hey Eddie?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Can you do me one more favor?”

“Anything for you, my favorite feminist.” 

For the first time since this conversation started, Robin managed to sound firm. 

“Stop referring to Steve as a King.” 

She rushed ahead, anticipating being cut off, and thus Eddie is hit with a wave of words, none of which he’d ever thought he’d hear in relation to thee Steven Harrington. 

“He’s working really hard to get away from it, the whole King thing and how he used to be. I don’t know what all he did to like--you guys,” She flapped her hand in the general direction of Hellfire, “and I know he wasn’t an innocent bystander, but I kinda realized over the summer that I blamed him for a lot of things that were in my own head, and that he wasn’t--he was never as bad as I thought he was and he's still trying to make it up to me anyway.”

Robin trailed off, seeming to try and piece out what she wanted to say next without giving away the whole farm. “It’s not some act, Eddie. Steve’s really trying to change.” 

Which yeah.

Eddie could see that, now. 

Maybe not before but…

“Okay.” He said, after a long, long moment. “No more King Steve. Got it.”

The smile he got for that also felt like a victory, even if it was wrenched out of him.

xXx

Two hours and a dispersed crowd later, Eddie found himself once again stuck in his own head. 

The facts were thus:

Steve Harrington was a good dude. 

He used his good dude-ness to save Hellfire from a literal priest, right smack in front of God and Principal Hairy Ass both

All of Hellfire actually liked him 

According to Robin Buckley, Steve was entirely fine with “all us triangles” quote/unquote 

And;

Eddie was jealous.

He was self aware enough to admit it, alongside the fact that Jason Carver aside, maybe Eddie had been the villain today instead of Steve. 

Which meant he not only owed Harrington an apology, but he owed it to both of them to work out his own stupid shit before it blew up in his face and cost him all his friends.

(He’d have called this move “pulling a Harrington” before today but now that feels mean, which Eddie supposes signals he’s grown as a person or some shit.) 

So now he sits on Steve’s beemer, knowing the move will likely antagonize the ex-jock but equally knowing he’s planning on jumping off the car the second the guy comes near, and that the move itself will get Harrington to listen to him the second he’s done supervising whatever Hellfire’s youngest is doing.

(Eating leftover cookies like the older members are as they finish packing up, Eddie assumes.) 

Ducking out like he did had allowed him some much needed time to think things though. Figure out what he was going to say--without an audience present.

He’d apologize publicly if he had to. But being vulnerable is hard, and given the way his friends had been acting, Steve isn’t the only person he owes an apology to. 

For now, he’ll begin here, without an audience. 

Eddie doesn’t get to plan for long--only gets to rehearse a few lines of his little spiel when a pointed cough jerks him back to reality. 

There stands Steve Harrington, a fat wad of cash in one hand and a box in the other.

Like a man sent to the gallows, Eddie leapt off the beemer, squaring his shoulders. 

He could do this.

 Apologize-- and mean it. 

Not that Steve gave him the chance to. 

“The guys told me to give this to you.” He said, holding out the cash. Then he took a breath, like he was preparing to go to war, and added; 

“I know you weren’t happy with me being here, and you probably don’t want this, but Dustin said you really liked cinnamon brownies so I made you some.” 

The box was now held out alongside the cash, proof that Steve had tried to start this whole thing off on the right foot. 

Eddie stared at it, then at Steve. 

Felt the guilt chew on his gut just that much harder.

“I have been shitty to you all day. Why are you giving me this?” 

Steve shrugged. 

“To be fair I didn’t exactly make it easy on you either. You said jump and I said ‘watch this’.” Steve laughed, a small, almost self depicting sound. “Dustin’s been on my ass all day about it.” 

Of course he had. 

“Mine too.” Eddie admitted. “It's his tone, I swear."

“Yes!” 

Carefully, Eddie reached out, accepted the box and the cash. 

“Thanks by the way. For the stuff you said about me earlier.” 

Steve grimaced, cheeks tinting a (lickable) red. “Yeah sorry, I--”

“No not--not that stuff.’ Eddie said, mentally hauling his thoughts back in line, fiddling with the cash. “The stuff about being a good person. No one’s uh. Said that. About me.”

Not except for Wayne, but Harrington wouldn’t know nor care about Eddie’s uncle. 

Steve shrugged. “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” 

He’d argue that, except something was off. 

It took Eddie a moment to place it--that the wad Steve handed over was way too big for the little bake sale they’d just attended. 

He tucked the box under his arm, quickly counting the stack with a smoothness only drug dealers and bank tellers could manage.

“It’s all there, I promise.” Steve told him simply, but without judgment. He sounded like he expected this and that didn’t sit right with Eddie either. 

Not that he could do anything about it because he’d just counted up didn’t make any sense. 

Not trusting himself, Eddie stacked it back together, before counting it all again. He was faster this time, trying to figure out among all the ones, fives and tens how the hell they had managed to sell that many cookies. 

Particularly considering the most expensive thing was one of the cakes and he’d watched Steve sell it for fifteen dollars. 

So why were there three twenties sitting in the stack? 

“Either you up charged the absolute shit out of someone’s mom, in which case I congratulate you, you sneaky devil,” Eddie said slowly, “Or you put extra cash in here.” 

Steve blushed properly this time. 

Eddie zeroed in on his face, watching as Steve rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, trying to pull his charming mask into place.

He didn't quite manage it.

Hadn’t even been wearing it before now, Eddie realized suddenly.

This entire conversation Steve had a realness to him that Eddie had never really seen. 

Had maybe not wanted to see, from someone like Harrington. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Steve protested, like a kid who’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “That’s what we charged.” 

“You are a terrible liar.” Eddie accused, hand trembling. “We can’t take this, man. This is a almost two hundred dollars.” 

Way more than what they’d need for Gen Con. It was enough to get them two fuckin’ hotel rooms! 

“If It helps any, I didn’t do it for you.” Steve’s blush slid into something more genuine, as he nodded his head to where Hellfire was spilling out of the gym doors, laughing and shoving one another. 

“They deserve to have a good trip.” He added, eyes fond as he watched Dustin and Mike squabble over how to fold Hellfire's banner.

It made his whole face soften, the harsh features of his jaw turning into something that was so adorable Eddie wanted to bite through it. 

“Do you want to come?” Someone said, and it took both Steve’s startled look and a second long pause for Eddie to realize that someone was him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid-! 

“To the convention?” Steve asked, looking doubtful. 

Pity that Eddie was already nodding, like his brain and his body were at a total disconnect.

Maybe aliens had finally taken him over. Or a demon. 

(Demonic possession could frankly explain a lot about today, Carver’s weird little power play aside.)

“Dude you don’t even like me.” Steve said. “Why would you want me to come along?” 

“I dunno Harrington. All of Hellfire seemed to like you, and not just my freshman.” Eddie countered easily, gliding right over the fact that he himself did like Steve.

Way more than he should, and that right there was half of Eddie’s problem. 

“They have pretty good taste in things.” He waived a hand, as if this wasn’t a complete 180 from how he’d acted all day. “I could understand if you didn’t want to slum it with us nerds though.”

Steve rolled his eyes. 

“I’ve been slumming it all day with you nerds, if you haven’t noticed.” 

“Yeah? What’s your verdict on us?” 

“Not as bad as you could be.” 

Eddie tilted his head back and laughed. “High praise from the King!”

He felt bad immediately after, and made himself promise to be more mindful about Robin’s ask--but  thankfully Harrington didn’t take it hard. 

(Habits, Eddie knew, were hard to change.

Took a lot of careful attention to change. 

He had a long road ahead of him, and he hoped this little olive branch put him a few miles down it.) 

Steve awarded him a small smile. “I haven’t been the King for a long while, man. But if you guys have an opening, I think I wouldn’t mind being a knight or whatever.” 

“Ste-eeeve Harrington, defender of the realm.” Eddie nodded once, decisively. “I can see it.”

He tucked away the cash, and thus missed how Steve looked weirdly contemplative at that. 

Raised his head and stuck out a hand. 

Tentatively, Steve took it. 

“Welcome to the club, Harrington. We meet on Fridays. Bring snacks.” 

“Cookies okay?”

“Going by Gareth’s judgment, they’re more than okay.”

Eddie smiled and Steve smiled back, and God how he hated how fucking cute Harrington’s face was. 

Particularly since he now got to think of the guy as “Steve” without feeling weird about it. 

As in his possible, potential, friend Steve.

What a fucking trip that was. 

“Oh, and Steve?” He called, the thought hitting him as Steve turned to welcome the group making their way to the beemer.

Steve had let his hand fall, turning to open the front door of the Beemer with a cocked eyebrow.

Eddie flicked a finger out, lightly tapping the Hellfire logo. “Tell Lucas I’ll get him another shirt. That one’s all yours, big boy.” 

If there was a pink hue to Harrington’s cheeks, he was blaming sunburn. 

(Two months, six days, and one meddlesome asshole named Henderson later, and Eddie would find out that Steve had in fact, been blushing.

He’d be furious at Dustin’s involvement, if it hadn’t directly led to Eddie finding out Steve’s blush did in fact go down his chest.

And his happy trail.

And his--

Well.

Men do not kiss and tell. 

Not to fucking freshmen, anyway.) 

THERE IS A GEN CON, "THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED BECAUSE DUSTIN IS A MEDDLESOME SHIT" BONUS BUT it's on A03 cause it was long enough to be its own post and I wasn't gonna add it to this one. You can read it here LINK

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

logan howlett blurb 18+

hi hi im sorry guys this isnt awesome but i love my wolverine and maybe ill make a part two or perhaps something cool like that if ya like it! also just general warning for smut and some kinky age gap stuff! also. reader is fem and a mutant! word count: 1030 edit: you can now read a full version of this blurb here!

You are absolutely enthralled with him. It’s actually sort of pathetic how your fingers twitch at the sight of him, at how the mention of his name or god forbid the sound of his voice makes your head snap up, attention deficit disorders be damned!

Funnily enough, you had no damn interest in Xavier’s stupid mutant school, because to you, you’re not an outsider because of your mutant abilities (that don’t have much of a physical apparition, at least one that you can’t hide) but because there’s never been much of a place for you to fit in.

But, you were behind on rent and of course, you fucking hate your job, so why not? You’d be able to be slightly less of a freak, and you’d get free room and board in the process! (Where Charles gets all of his money, you do not know.)

And because you’re a little older, Charles doesn’t force you to sit in a class room to learn about basic arithmetic and grammar lessons, so you really only do some training around three times a day, you have your own room (with a dusty box under the other bed, you also suspect your room used to be the ‘sex’ room) and you have the weekends off.

So for a twenty something year old with few ambitions, the social skills of a Martian with autism, and a huge crush on every older emotionally unavailable man you meet, it’s a pretty good set-up.

You’re waiting for time to pass in the garden, just reading a rather interesting book that Charles had recommended after he noticed you needed something to pass time before you started making bad decisions.

You hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel before you see him. Your heart beats faster, but you will yourself, do everything in your power not to glance up at him. And you let out a breath as you succeed, keeping your head down.

“In your natural habitat, are you, spitfire?” Your head darts up to him—There’s no way he isn’t talking to you, you know you’re the only one in this garden. And you can see his lips twitch up and you want to crawl out of your skin!

“My-My natural habitat?” You laugh, closing the book you’re reading because your attention is locked to him now.

“Yeah, seems like it.” He saunters on up to you and sits on the bench next to you.

And let’s make something very clear—

Logan Howlett does not sit.

This man poses, as if there’s always some invisible camera capturing every frame of movement, from the way his legs spread out, to the way his chest lifts when he inhales.

Fuck, you think you might die if you can’t suck him off right now.

“And what exactly is my uh.. habitat?” You question.

He takes out his lighter and a cigar, placing the cigar in his mouth as he gestures to the space around the two of you, lighter in hand.

“A garden.” He says, matter of facility, as his voice is muffled only the slightest bit by the cigar.

And you just sort of look at him before asking,

“Oh, you enjoy being boiled down to your mutations, Claws?” You question, and as he goes to light the cigar, he smirks.

“Alright, you gotta admit though, it is cliché!”

You are absolutely in agreement, there is zero doubt you are as much of a walking, breathing, real life living, stereotype.

“It is not!” And the pair of you give each other this look, like you’re both shocked at how whiney that statement is!

“Uh-huh, sure, Spitfire.” It sounds almost like he’s purring at you.

When he lights his cigar, he’s sort of eying you for your reaction, whatever you might say.

“You know, smoking is not only bad for you, it’s awful for the environment.”

“You’re probably the most cliché little freak around here.” Which.. honestly..? Shouldn’t possibly turn you on as much as it does.

You just stare at him for a minute, and he smirks.

“Cat got your tongue?’

And maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s immature but your hand just comes over to fiddle with the pointed part of his hair.

“We’ll you certainly look the part.” He just looks at you, and honestly? The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s proud of you for teasing him.

“Aw, there’s my little spitfire,” He teases, just to see how red you get. And red you are— it’s embarrassing. And here’s the kicker—You are young. Exceptionally young, and what’s insane about that? How horny it makes both you and Logan.

The idea of fucking your innocent cunt, tight and all his, drives him genuinely mad. And you are, quite literally, a whore for the idea of riding this older man’s dick. You know he’s big—sometimes you see the outerline of it when he walks away from you all huffy and puffy.

“You’re a tease, Claws.” You respond, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Says you,” he raises and eyebrow, leaning closer to you now, “You’re the one laying around in the sun, looking like that.”

“Looking like this?” You scoff. You’re wearing a muscle tee and a pair of ripped jeans, but the gaps are huge and he can see your thighs. He wants to devour you, and you would let him if he only asked.

And let’s be clear—he is fucking you with his eyes. There’s no way to go around it.

“I think you’re just.. horny.” You tease, and he just growls. Seriously, this man who is undressing you with his eyes, growls, because he does want you and he is horny!

“I think you’re onto something.” He purrs, and you want to just.. god. You don’t know how to express the pit of desire that grows in you. “I would fuck you until you couldn’t think, right here among your pretty flowers. Would you like that, baby?” he asks, his hand finding your thigh.

But you just cough on the smoke from his cigar, before frowning.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.”

"Aw, I'll make it up to you," he smirks, "Promise, spitfire."

[hubbypossession]

Being a ghost haunting a beach could be worse. I've been having some decent fun just flying around and playing pranks on unsuspecting visitors - you know, the typical ghost stuff - making stuff levitate, scaring people in the bathroom mirror, pulling down swim shorts. However, nothing quite beats hopping into a body myself and parading around as said fleshie.

I saw this beefcake lounging around at the beach in a skimpy tight speedo and knew it would be fun to squeeze into his body. I watched him for a bit, hoping to pick up on some of his personality traits and mannerisms. I learned quickly that his name was Luke and he had a boyfriend nearby. Seemed like they were on a beach date of some sort.

I followed him into the bathroom as he locked the door behind him. As he stood at the toilet and began urinating, I devised my plan. I hid myself in the mirror and decided it might be fun to possess him as he admired his reflection before heading out.

As Luke finished at the toilet, he walked up to the mirror and made a few silly grins before washing his hands. As he did, I disguised myself as his reflection, taking on his handsome form perfectly in the image, even down to his chest hair and black speedo. I knocked on the other side of the glass with a devious grin as he looked very startled making eye contact with his fake self.

"What the fuck?!" He yelped before jumping back. "I must be drunk or something."

I continued leering at him as I pulled down my speedo and revealed my throbbing cock in his reflection. I started pleasuring myself, very much anticipating when I could do that myself once I acquired his body. Luke interestingly enough looked down at himself to make sure he wasn't actually doing that himself. He seemed a bit turned on as he walked back up to the mirror.

"How the fuck am I doing that? I need to drink some fluids... that's too fucking weird man." He leaned in to study himself in the image when I suddenly made my attack.

I grabbed his face and pulled him up to the mirror as I made out with him. "Oh yeah, you really believed that huh? I'm gonna enjoy wearing your skin Luke." I said in my own ghostly voice.

My ectoplasmic Luke-form suddenly started to distort and compress and I squeezed myself into his mouth. The scene must look ghastly from the outside - good thing we were alone.

As the last of me invaded my new fleshie, I changed again and spread out, filling out each of his limbs and appendages, reveling in my time squeezing into his balls and cock. As I finished assimilating, Luke's distressed body finally relaxed and I took control, opening my eyes for the first time.

"Oohohhh fuck! Hell yeah! That was fun sexy!" I bolstered in my own ethereal voice as I danced a little bit and shook out my legs and arms. "Give me a moment... Ahem... AHEM."

Suddenly my voice pitch changed and I sounded just like the real Luke. I looked down grinning at my hairy built body as I pulled open my speedo and admired my own balls. I shoved my hand in and started feeling my new manhood before peeling it down and off my legs.

"God I miss having a real body. Being you is going to be so fun Luke! Better yet, no one's going to know anything's wrong. Not even your precious boyfriend. Imagine his surprise when I explode all over him with a mixture of your cum and my ectoplasm. Yeah, we're going to have some fun!"

"Hey, uh babe? You okay in there? It's been awhile! I just wanted to make sure you're okay." His boyfriend yelled as he knocked on the wooden door.

"Fuck." I murmured under my breath as I grabbed the Speedo and took a whiff of it before pulling it back up my hairy legs and accidentally farting. "Yeah, just a second baby. Had to take a real good dump!"

I made another sexy pose in the mirror as I spanked my new ass. I noticed my eyes glowed a faint green - hopefully that would pass soon.

"What's up handsome? Miss me?" I said in Luke's voice as I opened the door and posed in the doorway, playing it cool. Damn this was going to be a fun day.

[sunkeji]

Scenarios of Ace and Deuce being your bffs who both have a crush on you

a/n: forgot to post,my bad!

tags: mentions of reader wearing a skirt in the 3rd section; lmk if I missed anything.

synopsis: Daily scenarios of Ace and Deuce being your bffs and them both having a crush on you

when you, Ace, Deuce and Grim get punished and tasked to clean the animal enclosure; specifically the hedgehogs, the first 15 minutes are spent actually doing your jobs and then you all collectively get distracted by each other.

Deuce has the brilliant idea to make bets on the hedgehogs and you all immediately agree except the hedgehogs scatter in different directions. In the end, a ridiculous debate ensues on whose hedgehog would have potentially, won the race

***

If you guys have a considerably long break between lessons, the four of you would head back to Ramshackle to play whatever card or board games are available with the ghosts.

quite a handful of times you guys lose track of time and have to fly back to the mirror (literally), through the halls (and hoping you don't get caught) and into the classroom.

Your positions on the broom are predetermined as follows: Deuce Infront, you in the middle with Grim on your lap and Ace behind you. Deuce gets to drive(?) because he has more experience in driving recklessly but safely...

Deuce was initially a bit shy because you're holding onto him but after a few more occurrences of the same thing, he got used to it. The giddy feeling he gets whenever you wrap your hands around his waist and the warmth emanating from your body never goes away though.

Grim is just happy because some type of chaos is going on and he gets to keep warm being sandwiched between you and Deuce. If you ever lean your body forward onto Deuce's, he might start feeling faint and lose his concentration on flying.

Ace is absolutely having the time of his life behind you because he gets to HOLD YOU. And if Deuce isn't driving steady enough, he has more of an excuse to hold you tighter. He would also try his luck each time and see how far he can go. Would you allow him to lean on you completely? Rest his head on your shoulder? The possibilities are endless.

***

Whenever the Aduece duo are hanging out in your room and are left unsupervised for too long, they'd either enable each other into doing stupid shit or start bickering. In this case, it's the former scenario.

You left them to their own devices while you went back to the classroom to get one of the books you needed to complete a homework assignment.

Usually they'd want to follow you because hey, you get to spend more time with the person you like, What more could you want?

But since the person they like doesn't originate from the same region, better yet same dimension; what better way to learn more about your crush then to snoop around their room?

So they do snoop around and after looking through your personal belongings on the shelves and drawers, they move on to your wardrobe.

Out of sheer curiosity, Ace opens your wardrobe and finds your clothes. His eyes straight away land on the skirts that are hanged neatly and immediately has a brilliant idea.

By the time you get back to Ramshackle and open the door, you're rendered speechless by what you're seeing. Both Ace and Deuce are wearing your skirts and are taking mirror selfies all while posing in cute positions.

The image you see before you is truly baffling that you still hadn't moved; seeing this, Ace flips his phone to you and takes a picture of your shocked expression. Definitely posts everything on magicam (idk how to spell it)

[qqueenofhades]

I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to argue with people about the worthlessness of voting third party. They just keep insisting that the influence is worth it, and that I was a coward for daring to suggest that we don't HAVE any other options than Democratic. I even cited how voting third party likely played a part in Al Gore losing ffs.

There's no "likely" about it, Ralph Nader DID directly cost Gore the election. He ran explicitly on the same "both parties are the same, so leftists/liberals should vote for me instead" rhetoric that we are still seeing among the Online Left, and it was successful: he got, for example, over 97,000 votes in Florida. Bush won Florida (and thus the presidency) by a miniscule 537 votes, after the fuckery of Bush v. Gore and SCOTUS ordering the recount stopped in Bush's favor. If the tiniest percentage of those Nader voters had gone for Gore, we would have had a president who was arguing in favor of tackling climate change in the year 2000. We would have been incredibly ahead of the curve. We would, in all likelihood, have a president who took the CIA's warnings of an impending al-Qaeda attack in the US seriously. We would not have had the disastrous Afghanistan and Iraq invasions and the "War on Terror," the rampant Islamophobia, "No Child Left Behind," the 2008 economic crash, and everything else that Dubya and his band of bloodthirsty neocons inflicted on us in the early aughties. Look, I try not to look back too much, but having Gore instead of Bush as president would have reshaped the entire timeline we're living in to such an unfathomably better degree that every moron thinking of voting third party For The Protest should be sat down and forced to learn this history intimately. Of course, they already saw it happen in real time in 2016, but they didn't care about that either.

The good news is: there are plenty of persuadable voters out there, and you can do work to reach them and convince them to vote for Democrats! They're just not online, because all the Online Leftists are terminally brain-poisoned against voting anyway and trying to argue with them is generally a waste of time. Instead, what you should do is take a gander at the following links:

This is the one-stop shop page for volunteering to get Democrats elected. You can do in-person and remote work, there are tons of different ways to get involved (i.e. you don't have to go directly out and knock doors if that's not something you're comfortable with), and your local Democratic party will welcome the volunteer help. There is also a page for finding your state party website:

I went there, clicked on my state, opened the webpage, and there was a "Volunteer" link right in the header, with an easy and quick form to fill out to register your interest and explain the kinds of work you would be interested in doing. You can canvass directly, you can manage data on the back end, you can phone bank, you can send texts and postcards to voters who may need an extra nudge, you can otherwise work with your state party in lots of ways, and it will be so much more productive and make you feel so much better than arguing with online idiots who will never, ever change their minds. What you can do is reach out to voters in your own community, in your own state, and have conversations with people who actually ARE willing to listen, but might need a little more educating on the facts, what's at stake, the truth about this election, and the danger that Trump poses. All of this will convert into critically important Democratic votes, and you can actually put your desire to make a difference into action. So yeah. I would 100% suggest you do it this way instead. Good luck.

[tropes-and-tales]

Lieutenant Steal-Your-Girl

Day 8: Cuckolding (Bob Floyd x F!Reader; Jake Seresin x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!) 

CW:  Light angst (relationship woes); open relationships; cuckolding, but not really, I think I did this one wrong but got too deep to turn back; Jake is a bad boyfriend; smut (Oral, F!receiving; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count:  5536

AN:  This was requested for Kinktober by an anon!

AN2: This might not be for everyone. People feel A Certain Way about open relationships, and this is very much a Reddit revenge version of that. Cuckolding? Maybe if you squint. I dunno. It got away from me and my original intention for this. Also, if you're a Jake fan, this won't be for you. Read at your own peril.

The sentence makes Bob Floyd short-circuit.  A question, in English, uttered by Jake with his smarmy grin, but it’s so incongruous, Bob’s mind cannot grasp it.

“You wanna fuck my girl, Baby on Board?”

Bob sputters at the question.  He feels his cheeks heat up as blood floods his face in a furious blush.  He wonders if it’s a joke, a put-on by the other pilots.  He glances around—to the piano where Rooster is perched, to the bar where Nat and Javi wait patiently for a fresh pitcher—and finds himself without backup.  It’s just him and Bagman by the pool tables. 

Bob can’t help but glance out the windows of the Hard Deck to see where you’re sitting.

Where you’re waiting patiently for Jake to rejoin you.  Where you often sit alone while Jake flirts with the local girls.  Where the other members of the Dagger Squad often sit with you, an apology of sorts, a paltry way of making up for your boyfriend’s inattention.  Where Bob, more than any other Dagger, often sits with you, distracts you from your wayward boyfriend, makes you laugh with his corny jokes. 

You explain to him one night how you and Jake are trying an open thing, an open relationship, a way of spicing up your long-term thing—but Bob hears the misery in your voice, and he sees the hurt look in your eyes when you see your boyfriend openly flirting with his next conquest—

Jake snapping his fingers brings Bob back to focus.  He opens his mouth, manages to answer Jake (“of course not, she’s your girl, Bagman”), but it’s the flimsiest of lies.  Bob knows it.  Jake knows it. 

Bob has wanted you from the moment he clapped his eyes on you.

-----

Another night, another moment where Bob finds himself alone with Jake.

The same question posed to him.  “You wanna fuck my girl, Bob?”

This time, Jake doesn’t let Bob sputter out a lie.  The man shakes his head, offers a rueful grin, then claps Bob on the back hard enough to nearly jolt him off his stool. 

“It isn’t an accusation,” Jake clarifies.  “It’s a question.  An offer.  You interested?”

Another lie when he stammers out, “no, I wouldn’t…I mean, I don’t think—”

Jake cuts him off with another hard clap on the back.  “Let’s take a walk, huh?  Me and you.  We’ll talk.”

-----

That’s the night Bob learns that his understanding of kinks is incomplete.  He always thought of kinks as things like role-playing or handcuffs or outrageous lingerie.  He never knew of cuckolding beyond, perhaps, a vague memory of reading the word in high school when they read Shakespeare in English class.

That’s the night Bob learns that beyond opening up your relationship, Jake has a thing for cuckolding.  It’s only theoretical; you haven’t slept with anyone but Jake, but Jake has taken full advantage of the open relationship and has had many lovers beyond you. 

And Jake finds the idea of you with another man intoxicating.  However, when he’s broached the subject with you, urged you to go out and find yourself a one-night stand, you’ve balked.

Hence, the need for Bob.

“She is comfortable with you,” Jake explains, and it sounds so commonplace, so everyday that he’s offering his girlfriend up as a potential one-night stand for his fellow Dagger.  “And I know you like her.”

Bob ends up declining.  Of course he likes you.  He’s wanted you for as long as he’s known you.  He lies awake at night, plagued by insomnia that has its origin in you. Evenings cheering you up at the Hard Deck haunt him—your sad eyes that always track Jake around the bar, but the way you laugh at Bob’s jokes, the way you chat with him earnestly about books and movies, about hiking trails you want to conquer, places you want to travel to.  You’re Bob’s dream girl but you’re taken, whether your relationship is open or not. 

Bob declines Jake’s offer.  Besides, it feels too close to a business deal, edging too close to something akin to sex work, albeit without money changing hands.  Jake and his smarmy grin feels too close to being a pimp.  Just two men making a deal about a woman without her input.

So Bob declines, but when you make a similar offer weeks later, that’s something else entirely.

-----

It happens at the Hard Deck.  You’re outside nursing a drink, separating yourself from where Jake chats up a local woman.  Bob sits beside you, and he tells you a story from when he was stationed in Pensacola, but you’re not really listening.

You cut him off halfway through his story, turn to face him.  Your eyes, usually so sad, have a fire in them he’s never seen before, and it pulls his up short, strikes him mute.

“Do you want to go out with me sometime?” you ask, and if Bob stammered his way through Jake’s offer, he doesn’t hesitate a single second when you ask.

“Yes,” he replies.  “Absolutely.”

-----

Bob has no idea what the rules are.  Jake made it sound like a tawdry hook-up, a late-night meeting with sex and nothing else.

You?  You ask him if he wants to go out with you, and Bob interprets that as a date night.  He gets your number, texts you throughout the week, and makes plans.

A proper date night.  Bob can’t tell if Jake knows or not.  He’s unclear if there’s a don’t-ask, don’t-tell policy in place, despite how open Jake seems to be with his own dalliances.  Bob keeps it hush-hush, and late Saturday afternoon, Bob finds himself at your apartment.

-----

Years later, Bob will be able to admit to himself:  this isn’t just a date for him. 

It’s an audition.  It’s a job interview.  It’s Lieutenant Robert Floyd doing his damnedest to show you that he’s a better bet than Jake. 

Bob sees how unhappy you are with Jake, how miserable you are to be in an open relationship you didn’t want.  It’s Bob trying to show you that Jake isn’t the only man in the world; that there are other proverbial fish in the proverbial sea, and that maybe another man (Bob, specifically) would cherish you, would love you, would never offer you up to other men.  Cuckolding isn’t Bob’s kink at all, so he misinterprets Jake’s insistence as guilt.  Jake must feel guilty, Bob reasons, and offering you up feels like a twisted version of atonement—a chance for you to explore other men.

It occurs to Bob that Jake chose him because he doesn’t feel threatened.  Bob Floyd—quiet Bob with his terrible, Navy-issued glasses, with his quiet voice and lack of braggadocio—is no threat to the handsome, cocky pilot.

Years later, it will only demonstrate:  Jake Seresin doesn’t know Bob Floyd at all, but more to the point—Jake Seresin doesn’t really know you.

*****

As far as first dates go, Bob knocks it out of the park.

Not that you have a lot of experience.  You’ve only ever had one first date—all the way back in sophomore year of high school—when Jake took you out to Sonic and then felt you up in the cab of his truck.

You try not to compare Adult Bob against Adolescent Jake.  It wouldn’t be fair.

It doesn’t stop you from comparing Adult Bob to Adult Jake, and the differences are stunning.

Bob greets you at your door with a bouquet of flowers, cheerful daises that nod their fat little heads as you invite him in to put them in water.  Bob does his usual Bob-stammer, a faint pink tinge to his cheeks as he tells you how beautiful you look.

When was the last time Jake got you flowers?  When was the last time Jake complimented your looks?

You often feel invisible with your boyfriend, and it’s always been that way.  Star running back Jake, hometown hero, dating the perfectly average, perfectly middle-of-the-road girl.  Jake with his good looks, his perfect smile, his perfect tan, his perfect muscles…and you. 

Jake’s idea of a date night is typically the Hard Deck, and since the two of you have opened up your relationship, date night has ceded to hunting for new prospects.  You dread it every time; you sit outside and listen to the ceaseless roll of the waves, and you wait with a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach to see if you’ll go home alone or if your boyfriend will turn up at last call, disappointed to have struck out, disappointed to go home to boring old you.

You are desperately unhappy.  Your emotions veer wildly.  You swing between extremes:  manic periods where you work out, get your hair styled, where you scrub and polish and pluck yourself as near to perfect as you can get.  Depressive periods where you can barely summon the strength to shower, ground down by the thought of your boyfriend fucking other women.

You know you should end it.  When Jake sat you down all those months ago, your stomach had fluttered with butterflies.  This is it, you thought.  He’s going to ask me to marry him.  You’d waited so long, patient and unswerving in your devotion.  Through college and flight school, bouncing around in his wake as his assignments and deployments dictated.

Instead, Jake told you he was bored.  That he read up on it, and he thought opening the relationship would be good for him.  For you, too.

“As long as we always come home to each other, I don’t see it as a bad thing,” he had told you, and you—always invisible, always trailing behind him like a lost puppy—had hated yourself when you nodded in agreement.

-----

Bob takes you first to an independent bookstore, a tucked-away little gem, and you realize immediately that he isn’t playing fair.  When you tell him so, shaking your forefinger with a mock-frown, he only gives you his soft Bob Floyd smile.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he claims, and he holds his palms up in surrender.  “We just have a little time to kill before our reservations.”

Bad enough he’s brought you here.  The two of you talk books all the time, and it’s a thoughtful date idea.  But what makes it worse is when he sidles up to you as you read the book jacket of a new release and says, low near your ear, “get whatever you want.  My treat.”

It’s the moment the bottom falls out for you.  It’s like you’ve been wading around in the shallow end of the pool, and Bob’s sweet date paired with Bob’s surprisingly low, grumbling voice near your ear is your foot slipping into the deep end.  You find yourself treading water.  You find yourself fighting off the panicky urge to flail.

-----

Dinner is at a restaurant overlooking the ocean, and you wonder if Bob timed it so that you’d be there during sunset.

You suspect he did.  You’re starting to suspect that this isn’t just some prelude to fucking, the crude reality of this open relationship you and Jake are doing, the cuckolding fetish that Jake seems to have.  Bob could have just invited you over to his place, but he’s planned such a lovely first date.

You are out of your depth, but when the panic starts to grip you, you only look across the table to see Bob:  his bright blue eyes, his gentle smile, the tips of his ears pink underneath the soft wave of his hair.  You look at him and it feels natural, and the panic ebbs away but it’s replaced by something else.

Doubt.  This date with Bob is a crack in the foundation of your relationship with Jake.  A tiny little trickle of doubt slips through.

Why does this feel so easy, you think as you pick at your meal.  Why does this feel so easy but everything with Jake feels so fraught?

It feels easy because Bob talks to you, not at you.  He’s endlessly curious about you:  your history, your likes, your dislikes.  What your job is like, what your childhood was like.  Where you see yourself in five years, in ten, in twenty?  Do you like the country or the city?  The ocean or the mountains?  Do you like dogs or cats or both?  What’s your favorite book, what’s the last movie you saw? 

Jakes doesn’t ask you those questions, and you half-convince yourself that it’s because you’ve been together for so long.  Jake knows everything there is to know about you.

But you know that’s not true.  Bob pays for dinner, then takes your hand in his.  He walks you to a nearby gelato place for dessert, and it’s nearly perfect.  This second first date with Bob Floyd while your boyfriend is out doing god know what (or who). 

It’s nearly perfect but not entirely because you admit to yourself that Jake doesn’t know everything about you at all.  He’s never asked what you’re reading, who your favorite author is, and it hits you suddenly that Bob—who you’ve known for a handful of months, if that—might know parts of you better than your boyfriend.

At Bob’s truck, he puts the key in the ignition but doesn’t turn it yet.  He turns to face you, and his face is a furious red.  He’s blushing, you realize.  Something is making him blush.

“Take you home?” he asks, and his voice has a strange tension in it that you’ve never heard before.  You think of this date, all the effort he put into it to make it perfect.  You think of all the times he’s kept you company at the Hard Deck, how sometimes he sits in front of you, makes his body block your line of sight so you can’t see Jake leaning in on some girl who is prettier than you, more adventuresome than you—

“No.”  You shake your head, then smile at Bob.  You don’t care about Jake and his stupid cuckolding kink; you’ve been on a low-simmer of growing desire ever since the bookshop when Bob leaned in and growled in your ear.  You want Bob for Bob’s own sake.

 “Take me to your place,” you say.

*****

It’s a dangerous thing, how Jake never once crosses Bob’s mind once he gets you to his apartment.  Bob forgets the reality of this situation:  that you’re taken, that this is a one-time thing, that it’s actually feeding into Jake’s kink, not yours or Bob’s.

Bob forgets all of that.  He’s only focused on you:  lovely, perfect you.  The best date he’s ever been on, and Bob feels like a million bucks at how surprised you’d been with each part of it.  The way your face lit up at the flowers, at his compliments.  The squeal of surprise at the book store, the shy way you only chose one book for him to buy you—he would have bought you the whole store if you’d asked.  The content sigh each time you looked at the sun setting over the ocean, and how natural it felt to hold your hand as he walked you back to his truck.

Bob doesn’t think of Jake until afterwards, and it’s dangerous because Bob instead thinks about second dates, third dates.  He forgets that you’re spoken for, and instead he spins out an entire future where he meets your family and you meet his, where he cleans off a shelf in his bathroom for you, where the two of you move in together…

Who could blame him, though?  Once he gets you inside his apartment, he turns to ask if you want a drink, but you’re right there, standing so close to him that he can see the little amber flecks in your eyes and the question is only halfway out of his mouth when you kiss him.

Of course Bob doesn’t think of Jake.  He’s wanted you since he first saw you, and here you finally are:  your hands on him, holding him steady as you press your lips to his, as you bump against his glasses and knock them askew, then break the kiss to gently reach up and set them right again.

“Sorry,” you mumble, and Bob doesn’t link your sudden reticence—you avoid his eyeline—to Jake.  He doesn’t make the connection between your bashful expression and how you’ve only ever kissed Jake, slept with Jake, and how monumental this all must feel.

“Don’t apologize.”  Bob cups his hands on your bare shoulders, pulls you in for a hug.  “Nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“I’m not very good at this.”  It comes out muffled, your face pressed against his shoulder.

Bob has always guessed that your rocky relationship with Jake has shaken your confidence, but he doesn’t think of that now.  He only feels you sigh against him, embarrassed, so he pushes you away gently, touches his forehead to yours.

“You’re fine,” he assures you.  “You’re perfect.”  Then he leans in, kisses you this time, and when his glasses get knocked off-kilter again, he just takes them off, folds them into his pocket, then leads you into his bedroom.

*****

You’ve spent a lot of time on the internet researching cuckolding as a kink, and you had settled on the belief that Jake was into it because he was turned on by the idea of another man using you.

Or maybe he just feels guilty that he’s the only one taking advantage of the open relationship.

Who can say?  When you try to talk about it, Jake brushes you off, tells you not to worry about it too much, so you never are quite clear on what motivates the man you thought you’d marry one day.

But as far as being used goes, nothing about your dalliance with Bob says used:  the man worships you.  He kneels in front of your body like a penitent, and his hands are so gentle, his voice so soft as he asks permission every step of the way.

“Can I kiss you here?”

“Can I touch you here?”

Is this okay?  Does this feel good?  Tell me what you like.  Tell me what you need.  I’ll do anything.  Let me make you feel good.

Is this what Jake wanted—a change from the usual?  Because being with Bob feels like a revelation:  you’ve never been loved like this.  He kisses his way down your naked body, then reverses course until he’s between your legs, his broad shoulders holding your thighs open.  His mouth on you, the shy little swipes of his tongue until he gets a taste of you—then he devours you like a starved man, completely unabashed at the groans leaving him, at the way he grinds into the bedding at how turned on he is to feast on you.

You open your mouth to tell him not to bother, that you’ve never come from oral alone, but then you feel how your body is responding, the answering arousal to Bob’s skilled tongue, and when he slides a finger inside you, you’re reminded of that too-deep feeling from earlier.

But instead of feeling panicky, you feel a sharp throb of arousal.  You aren’t afraid of being in too deep now.  You aren’t straining to return to shore. 

You want to be swept out to sea, and you want Bob to be the one to do it.  When your orgasm approaches, you reach down and tangle your fingers in Bob’s hair—it’s as soft as it looks, just as silky—and Bob looses a groan that vibrates up from your pussy to the very top of your head.  He reaches up and holds your hand against his head, mumbles against you to use him, to grind against him, so you do.  You lift your hips and press against his mouth, feel the bump of his nose against your clit, and you realize that you’re about to come from oral for the first time in your life and that it’s not your boyfriend who’s done it.

When you come against Bob’s mouth, every single thought of Jake is erased from your head, and you won’t think of him again afterwards.

*****

Bob takes a long beat to get control of himself.  He was dangerously close to coming as he ate you out, and he waits for his own orgasm to fade into the background before he continues.

Instead, he props himself on one elbow and just watches you.  If you looked beautiful before, you look even more so now:  all of the tension is gone from your face, and blink up at him sleepily, dreamily.  Your smile is lazy, and when you sigh, it’s nothing but content.

“Good?” he asks, grinning down at you.

You nod, just as lazy as your smile.  “The best.”  You purse your lips, pout up at him.  “Kiss me?”

How can he resist?  He leans down to kiss you, and you wrap your arm around his shoulders, pull him closer to you.  Eating you out has relaxed you, banished whatever doubts you had from earlier, and you kiss him now with a passion he’s never experienced before:  you part your lips, you slide your tongue into his mouth, you lick against him.  You must taste yourself on him because you make the cutest damned whimper, and it goes straight to his dick, hearing how undone you are.

Then you do this cute little wriggling move underneath him, and Bob’s body moves independently of his brain:  he slots himself between your thighs, slick from his earlier attention, and his erection bumps against your hip, your belly before you reach down and guide him to where you want him most.

Bob breaks the kiss long enough to mumble his question about protection, and it won’t occur to him until much later—what it means when you say you’re on birth control but also that you’re clean, that there’s no risk.

It won’t occur to Bob until later, what it means for you to say you’re clean.  It won’t occur to him that you’re in a committed relationship, that your boyfriend has regular hookups but you remain STD-free since your last checkup.

It’ll hit Bob in the middle of his workday at Miramar, what you are telling him now:  that your bedroom with Jake is dead and has been for a while, and that this moment with Bob is the first time you’ve had sex in months.

He’ll realize that later.  Now, there’s only the feeling of your pussy—warm, wet, perfect—as he pushes into you.  There’s only the sound of your sharp inhale, your whine as you tell him to go slow, to be gentle, but you don’t need to tell him that.  He’d never hurt you, and he can feel how tight you are, so he goes slow.  He works himself into you carefully, watches your face for any sign of pain. 

He sees none.  He goes so slowly that he only sees your expression go from worried to stunned:  the lines in your brow smooth out and your lips part as you gaze up at him, a perfect oh of surprise. 

When he’s fully seated in you, buried in the silky depths of your pussy, Bob stills—and he realizes that you are trembling underneath him.

“Honey,” he breathes out, the sweet nickname falling from his mouth without thought.  “You okay?  You want me to—”

“No.”  You cut him off, gift him with a shaky smile.  “Stay with me, okay?  Just stay with me a minute.”

“’Course.”  He leans down, bumps his nose against yours until your smile firms up, seems steadier.  “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Bob only moves enough to settle more of his weight on you, and then he takes the time to kiss you:  he trails featherlight kisses across your face, your forehead, your flushed cheeks.  He kisses the tip of your nose—it pulls a giggle from you, and the sound makes him smile.  He kisses along your jaw.  He dips his head near your ear, whispers how gorgeous you are, how good you feel, how he’d happily stay like this forever.  He doesn’t miss the little shudder you give at his praise.

Bob doesn’t realize that he’s shifted your worldview entirely.  Just this simple liaison—not even complete, and nothing extreme—has rearranged everything you thought you knew.  You aren’t actively thinking of Jake at all—he’s been banished until afterwards—but you’re considering the balance of your entire erotic history against this single moment with Bob.

You’re realizing that sex can be so much more than just an act…and with Bob, a man you haven’t known that long.

You eventually stop trembling.  Bob feels it when you relax; the tight clench of your cunt slackens a bit.  He feels your hands on him, shy at first and then bolder as you run your warm palms over the planes of his back, along his shoulders and arms.  As you thread your fingers through his hair, comb out the tangles there.  As you rest your palm along the back of his head and lead his face back to yours.

“Thank you.”  You whisper it, and your eyes are wide.  Earnest.  Bob isn’t sure what you’re thanking him for, so he just kisses you again.

“I’m ready,” you mumble against his searching lips.

“You sure?”

A nod, a purposeful roll of your hips that makes Bob see stars, makes the edges of his vision turn hazy with desire. 

“Take me, Bob,” you tell him, and he’s never heard you so assured.  “I’m yours.”

So he does.  He takes you in small movements, focused on your pleasure.  He is used to sitting in the backseat of a billion dollar plane, all those systems to keep track of, so focusing on you is an easy, wondrous thing:  the expression on your face, the moans he manages to pull from you.  The way your eyes flutter shut or roll back or fix on him like he’s responsible for setting the sun in the sky.  The way your hands touch him or hold him, sometimes soft and stroking, sometimes clinging to him like he’s your life preserver.  The way your cunt feels, slick and warm and gripping him, obscenely wet as he fucks into you harder, the sound of skin on skin, the heady scent of sex filling his room, and he hopes it lingers for days afterwards, he wants the moment to never end.

He focuses on your pleasure as it rises, crests around you:  the way you tighten up, bear down harder on him until he loses some of his rhythm.  He reaches a shaky hand down to touch you there, the slick, swollen place where he disappears into the confines of your body, and he rubs a tight circle against you.  He begs you to come for him; he’s so close, he feels his balls tightening against his body, and he needs you to come for him first, needs to feel you before—

When you come, you say his name.  You breathe it out, a hot pant against his ear, and Bob is grateful for it because it pushes him over the edge.  He groans out your name too, chokes out a curse, and you come together—your pussy pulsing around him as he buries himself in you, comes inside you.

Marks you as his.

-----

Afterwards, Bob remembers Jake and feels a sting of conscience—but not enough to send you home.  That had been integral to the cuckolding thing, Bob sending you home thoroughly fucked, to sleep beside Jake, for Jake to know you’d been with another man and to be turned on by it.

A mean little part of Bob wants to.  He wants to send you home satisfied, his cum dripping out of you.  Part of him sees the allure of it from his side; Jake doesn’t consider Bob a threat, so it’d hit the smug bastard hard to see you satisfied, happy from your dalliance with the back-seater.

But Bob doesn’t give a shit about Jake.  Not when you’re sitting in his bed with the sheets wrapped around you, uncertain all of a sudden, and Bob kisses you on the forehead and tells you to stay.

“Just stay the night,” he says.  “Please.  I’d love for you to stay.”

He sees the doubt on your face.  He knows you’re thinking of Jake, and Bob feels a flare of something—anger, protectiveness, whatever.  It gives him the courage to speak up.  He takes your hand in his, settles on the bed beside you.

“Honey, is this even what you wanted?  I had a fun time with you, but would you have asked me out if Jake hadn’t wanted it?”

Your expression turns from uncertain to surprise in an instant.  “No!  I mean, I asked you out because I like you.  And because I’m in an open thing.  I thought…”  You trail off, stare at him as you try to assemble your words.  “Did you only agree to take me about because of Jake?”

Bob shakes his head.  “No.  I took you out because I wanted to.  I brought you here because I want you.”

Your surprise turns to a shy smile.  “Really?”

He squeezes your hand.  “Really.”

Your smile fades away by degrees, and your eyes shine with unshed tears.  “I never wanted any of this, you know.  I…I wanted to get married, have kids, all that, but he…”  You sigh, drop your head.  “I don’t like the open relationship.  It makes me feel like I’m not enough, you know?”

“Honey—”

“Like if I were better somehow, he wouldn’t have to go out and find other women—”

“Hey, no, don’t—”

“Like, what is wrong with me?  Why aren’t I enough? Why—”

“Stop.”  Bob places a finger over your mouth to silence you.  He hates all this doubt, hates how little you think of yourself, so he stills your words.  “You’re enough,” he tells you.  “Hell, honey, you’re everything.”

You blink at him, surprised.  The shimmering tears shake loose, start to course down your cheeks, and Bob pulls you to him, holds you as you cry.  He wraps you in his arms as you sob against him, gasp out that you don’t know what to do, that you’ve felt lost for months now—

“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” he murmurs against your head.  “You just need a good night’s rest.  That’s all you need to do tonight.”

Your tears taper off.  You push away from him gently and swipe at where your tears have made his bare chest wet.

“Stop being so wise, Lieutenant,” you grumble, but there’s a teasing quality there that makes Bob smile.  You sniffle and glance up at him, and he’s struck how beautiful you are even with swollen, teary eyes.

Maybe you’ve rearranged his world too.

No, there’s no maybe to it.  You’ve definitely rearranged his world.

“Stay with me tonight,” he says, and he keeps his voice low and even, tries to keep the excitement out of it.  He can sense that a sea-change is coming, and he doesn’t want to jinx it.

“Stay tonight,” he repeats.  “Things are always clearer in the morning, I find.”

So you do.  You nod at him, and you wave off his offers to get you clothes to sleep in.  The two of you fall asleep in record time—the cure for Bob’s you-induced insomnia is you, both the cause and the cure, your warm, naked body curled up alongside him as he fades into sleep. 

And you were right:  Bob is wise.  You’ll wake in the morning to an empty bed, a room full of sunlight, the lingering scent of sex.  You’ll pad out into Bob’s kitchen and find the man putting the finishing touches on breakfast, and you’ll let him feed you before you let him fuck you again—this time on his kitchen counter, the room full of light so you can see the blatant love in his expression as he claims you again.  And then a third time, together in the shower, a slow moment so full of feeling that you’ll cry when you come, and Bob will hold you, will choke back words as he comes too, and you’ll wonder later why those bitten-back words sound so much like I love you.

And then you’ll let Bob drive you home where Jake will be waiting for you.  His smug smile will fall as you breeze past him, his cuckolding fantasy falling apart in front of him because he was the only one turned on by it, the only one turned on by opening your relationship.  Jake will realize too late that he only opened the door for someone else to come and steal you away, and that the thief will be Robert Floyd, who taught you that love should never be such a fraught, painful thing, and that you may not be enough for Jake, but for the right man, you are everything.