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incognit0slut · 2 months ago

Text

On camera

PART 4 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Roommate!Spencer x Camgirl!Reader Spencer requests to take on a more involved role in one of your live streams.

content: (18+) 4k, exhibitionism/voyeur, reader wears lingerie, unprotected penetrative sex, creampie, overstimulation (surprisingly it’s him for once), and a hint of cockwarming at the end a/n: this is the second part to a special show although you don't necessarily have to read it to understand what’s happening. this took a while because… there was a little pressure? i didn’t expect people to wait on this i hope it lives up to the expectations, let me know what you think my cuties<3

You nudged your foot against his. “We don’t have to do this, you know. I don’t mind.”

“I’m fine."

"Are you sure? You've been quiet ever since you sat down."

He felt the words knot up in his throat. The quiet wasn’t hesitation, it was disbelief. The kind that lingered in the gap between what he imagined and what was happening. The lack of conviction that defied logic, even when he was the one who initiated to exist beyond just a pair of hands at the edges of the frame.

"Spence?”

He glanced at you. Deep pools of brown drowning in lust swept over the piece of lingerie you decided to put on tonight. Even without much fashion sense, Spencer could appreciate the soft frills of purple lace clinging to your figure. The garter belt wrapped snugly around your waist, leading down to thin straps that framed your smooth thighs, and every logical thought he tried to root out slipped away the longer he looked at you.

Wait. Purple?

Purple.

Although Spencer was sure it probably had a fancier, specific name that bordered on… lilac? Lavender? Or something else elusive he couldn’t quite pin down. To him it was just purple. He might not have the vocabulary to describe the exact shade, but he knew the way it looked on you was nothing short of captivating.

“You’re wearing purple.”

The frown creased between your brows as you tried to make sense of his sudden observation.

“I am.” Your lips formed a slight pout. “And you still haven’t answered my question.“

And he still couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“I thought you were supposed to be Princess Pink?”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. It was true. Pink was your color. The soft, playful blush had always been part of your alter ego. You shifted on your feet, glancing down at the purple lace hugging your hips before meeting his eyes again. A small, hesitant smile tugged at the corners of your lips, and for a moment, you looked almost… shy.

“Well, yeah,” you admitted, your voice so soft it dipped into a tone he wasn’t used to hearing from you. Your fingers traced the edge of the fabric absently, and you glanced away again as if finding the floor more interesting.

“I thought maybe… it might help, you know? Calm your nerves or something.” The nervous laugh creeping out of you sounded strained. “I know you like purple… so I figured…”

The corner of his lips curled upwards. His smile reminded you of the times he caught you off guard with a look that was equally amused and deeply affectionate as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

“You wore it for me?”

You felt warmth rise to your neck but decided there was no point in hiding it. “I thought it might make this less scary for you.”

His smile faltered. “I’m not scared.”

“Spencer, you’re about to get naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked before.”

You couldn’t help but let out an amused laugh. He stated it so plainly with no hint of self-consciousness or hesitation. And technically, he was right. You had seen him completely, wholly bare more times than you could count by now ever since that first night you stripped away his innocence.

You still remembered how you had pulled him across the line from a curious roommate to someone who wanted to know every inch of your body. And that night turned into another, and then another, until what you were doing stopped being about one-off hookups and started blurring the boundaries you’d drawn between friendship and something more. Something you couldn't quite put your finger on that felt heavier than lust but not quite defined as love.

Spencer was a roommate, a friend, a lover, and eventually, an active participant in your live streams.

His hands were, at least.

You took a step forward, slipping between his legs where he sat comfortably at the edge of your bed. “I have seen you naked,” you agreed, “but they haven’t.”

His hands hovered at your waist, fingers twitching over your lace as if he wasn’t sure where to put them. He glanced up at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips before he finally admitted, “Okay… maybe I am a little nervous.”

“I know, but you don’t need to be. Think of it this way, the people who are going to see us will only be jealous of you.”

“Why would they be jealous of me?”

“Because you’re the one who gets to be with me.” You reached up to brush his hair back from his face, tucking those long, unruly strands behind his ear. “They’re in their rooms jerking off to a screen while you get to kiss me.”

A kiss fell on his lips.

“Touch me.”

Another peck.

“And fuck me.”

He chased your lips this time, his mouth puckering before he closed the gap. His words were muffled against you, “I am pretty lucky.”

“The luckiest,” you mumbled back. A soft smack of a kiss lingered in the air when you pulled away. “And you don’t have to worry, once we get started, you’ll be too distracted to remember what you were even nervous about.”

He hummed, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest as his grip on your waist tightened. “I think you might be right.”

“Good.” You moved to the side of the bed. “Now let me set up the camera.”

The tripod attached to the top of your computer screen wobbled slightly as you fiddled with it, adjusting the device until the lens angled down. You observed the setup, making sure it captured your body and the way Spencer’s hand rested on your waist without revealing either of your faces.

Perfect.

“You ready?”

Surprisingly, he was.

With a slight nod from him, you turned on the live stream.

Princess_Pink is online.

Spencer’s eyes widened as the chat erupted in a flurry of notifications, messages pouring in so rapidly they blurred into an endless stream of words.

“That’s a lot of people," he muttered under his breath.

“That’s the usual amount of people.”

“No, it’s not,” he countered. “I can’t even keep up with the chat.” Which was saying a lot. For someone who could read entire pages of text in mere seconds, this was overwhelming in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Don’t let them intimidate you.” You turned around and slipped between his legs again, feeling the way his knees instinctively parted to make space. “Just focus on me.”

Spencer barely managed to nod before your lips met his again, and with that, everything else seemed to dissolve. He could never quite get used to how effortlessly you could unravel him with just a kiss. His hands slid up the back of your thigh, the rough pads of his fingers brushing over your skin as they trembled slightly, grazing the delicate strap of your garter before settling firmly on your ass.

A surprised giggle bubbled out of you.

“Easy there,” you murmured, catching his bottom lip gently between your teeth before letting it go with a playful tug. “I have to greet them first.”

He reluctantly loosened his grip, letting his fingers linger on you for a final moment before slipping away to rest at his sides. His eyes remained fixed on you as you turned away, shifting your focus back to the screen and reaching over to the mic.

A faint hum filled the room as it came to life. Spencer could feel his breaths gradually falling into sync before your sweet voice cut through the silence like honey.

“Hi, boys,” you purred, letting the greeting roll off your tongue. “Did you miss me?"

Princess.no1.fan: Princess!!! JadenCums: we missed those tits Adam_4432: fucking hot as always Adam_4432: purple looks good on you Crazydick: who's the skinny loser at the back

You rolled your eyes as the comment popped up in the chat.

“This is getting old,” you said with a sigh, fingers hovering over the mouse. “You’re all obsessed with him.”

With a quick flick of your wrist, you blocked the troll and watched with satisfaction as his name disappeared from the list. Spencer tried to peek over your shoulder. “What did they say?”

“Nothing important,” you replied lightly, brushing it off as you turned back to the mic. "Didn’t I tell you guys to play nice?”

Princess.no1.fan: i always play nice with you JadenCums: they’re just jealous of your boy toy Adam_4432: ignore the haters, babe BigBoss88: let him stay in the background ThickNick: you're gorgeous princess

“Remember, if you can’t behave, you don’t get to stay. And I don’t think any of you want to miss out on what we've prepared."

That was his cue, right? He forced down the tightness in his throat, the sensation catching and shifting like a dry click as his pulse quickened. With a quiet exhale, he slipped off the edge of the bed and made his way behind you.

There was a moment of hesitation. But his doubt faded into the background as he focused on the curve of your waist beneath his fingers. He let his hands move slowly, tracing upward with a touch that lingered at the dip of your spine until his fingers brushed the delicate lace of your bra.

Wide hands covered the soft swell of your breasts.

Princess.no1.fan sent a $50 gift.

“See?” you breathed, pressing your back against him. “You play nice, you get to enjoy the show.”

He couldn’t help but squeeze your flesh, fingers sinking in and then pulling back, the skin dimpling under the pressure before slowly springing back. His veins looked prominent, winding up his forearm like delicate, raised lines that caught the light on camera every time he moved over the fabric of your bra.

And the lace offered the thinnest barrier. He could feel the way your nipple firmed underneath his touch, straining subtly as if it, too, was reaching out for more. He traced small, lazy circles around it, and when you arched into him, he had to bite back a smile. He pressed a kiss on your shoulder instead.

“You’re so good at this,” you muttered, letting your hand drift up to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair.

He let out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his fingers hooking under the edge of your bra’s cup before pulling it down. Your breasts bounced slightly, settling naturally in his palm as the lace slipped away.

“I’ve had a lot of practice.”

A soft moan escaped you as he began to explore, and Spencer couldn’t help the surge of satisfaction that followed. He was rougher than he intended to be at times, testing the line between what made you shiver and what made you push back for more. It was the way he rolled both of your nipples between his fingers, alternating between gentle pinches and firmer twists, that finally drew the most telling reaction—a subtle, instinctive rub of your ass against him.

He took it as a sign to touch you further, one hand drifting lower while the other stayed firmly in place. Goosebumps prickled over your skin as he slid down your stomach until he reached the edge of your panties. His fingers skimmed along the waistband, and you could feel his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as he brushed his knuckles underneath the delicate material, hesitating.

Adam_4432 sent you a $100 gift.

That was enough to break through his hesitation. Without a word, he slipped his fingers beneath the lace.

The heat between your thighs greeted him, and there was no mistaking what that meant. You were wet, so wet that his fingers glided over your folds like silk. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of smugness as each subtle shift seemed to draw a new sound from your lips.

He let his fingers slide lower, searching, and when he finally found your clit, brushing his fingertips lightly over it, you jerked in his arms. The tiny, sensitive nub was swollen and begging for attention as it pulsed under his touch like a racing heartbeat. He gave gentle rubs. Slow circles. Steady pressure. The more he explored, the more your arousal smeared against his fingertips.

“Oh—you’re gonna make me cum so fast,” you gasped. You threw your head back against his shoulder, letting out a whine you knew would drive your viewers wild. “What do you think, boys? Should he make me cum now?”

The chat lit up instantly, flooded with messages begging you to let go, but between the rapid scroll of usernames and flashing emojis, one message caught your eye.

Looking4Sluts: no Looking4Sluts: cum on his cock Looking4Sluts sent you a $200 gift.

The notification flashed across the screen, and you felt a surge of adrenaline, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “Do you see that, baby?”

He nodded against your neck.

“They want more of you,” you purred, letting your hips roll back against him, pressing yourself closer to his obvious erection. “They want to see just how good you make me feel.”

Your words went straight to his cock. His touch suddenly changed as he began to move faster against your clit, and a choked gasp spilled from your lips. But just as the pressure started to build rapidly, you quickly grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand from your panties.

“No, not yet,” you stopped him, turning your head to catch his ear, your lips brushing against the shell. “Wanna cum on your cock.”

He watched as you reached down and slowly hooked your fingers into the sides of your panties, sliding them down your legs. A thin string of your arousal followed as you lowered the fabric, clinging to the lace before it finally broke and left a glistening trail against your thigh.

His balls tightened painfully.

Princess.no1.fan: Holy shit, that’s so fucking hot JadenCums: fisting my cock so hard Fatcock_777: wreck that damn pussy PussyLover69: i bet she’s fucking tight Looking4Sluts: jesus christ, she’s dripping

Spencer’s mind emptied the moment you leaned forward, planting your palms firmly on the desk for balance. The way your body arched made his pulse stutter, a surge of heat rushing through him so quickly it almost left him lightheaded.

“Like… this? Standing?”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “Exactly like this.”

He could barely think straight. His hands moved on their own, one sliding over your hips, gripping you firmly, while the other fumbled with his waistband, desperately tugging his pants down. The fabric slid down over his thighs, and he bit back a groan as his cock sprang free, hard and aching, pressing against the bare skin of your ass.

He could feel the heat of you against him, and it took every ounce of self-control to keep himself from sinking into you all at once. He pressed in closer, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse echoing in the ache between you both as the tip of his cock settled right where your folds parted. He rocked his hips in shallow motions.

“Baby…” You tilted your hips just enough to align with him, “no teasing."

But hearing those words only made him want to draw it out even more. He let his bulging head nudge at your hole, barely dipping in before pulling back, feeling the way you instinctively pressed against him.

"Spe—" you faltered, then groaned. "Stop it."

He couldn’t help but smile as his fingers found the straps of your garter belt. He tugged on one gently, watching the elastic snap back against your skin. "But you look so pretty."

"I'll look prettier with your cock inside me."

That did it. With one last shaky exhale, Spencer gripped your hips firmly and began to sink himself into you, feeling the tight, warm stretch of your cunt.

“Oh my god,” you gasped. He felt a slight resistance as your body adjusted to him. He carefully gave a few gentle thrusts, easing in and out just enough for you to relax.

Looking4Sluts: fuck yes JadenCums: she's so fucking tight PeachyKeen420: look at him stretching her PussyFiend69: just watching this is gonna make me cum HotForTits: Fuck her harder dude she wants it

His eyes flickered to that last comment, and something inside him shifted, like a switch flipping. Without another thought, without any lingering trace of hesitation, he tightened his grip on your hips and pushed in all at once.

Your moan tore through the air. So. Fucking. Loud.

HotForTits sent you a $300 gift

The notification flashed across the screen, but Spencer barely registered it, his control was slipping further away as his hips moved on their own. He started to grind into you, eyes traveling to your connected bodies. You were practically swallowing his cock, clenching so tightly around him that he felt like you were pulling him deeper, refusing to let him go.

In a way, you did beg for it. Each time you met his thrusts with an eager roll of your hips, the sound of skin slapping together echoed around you. He would have thought he’d be shy doing this in front of so many watchful eyes, but the way you moved against him made it impossible to care.

It only made him bolder. He let his hand slide up your back, fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp of your bra before he unhooked it. The straps slipped down your shoulders, sliding down your arms, and then you were completely, utterly naked, except for the garter hugging your thighs.

You were so pretty like this, so incredibly beautiful it made his pulse stutter in his veins. You were so pretty that it was almost disorienting, as if looking at you too long might make him forget where he was. And in his mind, all the lofty notions of beauty and art seemed to fall flat compared to seeing you like this. He needed to see all of you.

A startled whimper left your lips when he suddenly pulled out.

“Can you angle the camera down?"

There was a knowing look in your eyes. Your fingers moved to adjust the tripod, and he wasted no time stripping himself. By the time you were done angling the camera, he was already sitting on the edge of your bed, his cock throbbing against his stomach.

He looked painfully hard. Hard enough that every heartbeat seemed to pulse visibly along his length. You crawled onto his lap.

“Hi.”

His palm found the curve of your hip. "Hi."

“Are you okay?”

He nodded, his fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he urged you to lift your hips. “I think I’m starting to understand why you do this.”

“Yeah?”

"Mhm.” He nudged his tip between your folds. “It’s kind of exciting.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, fingers curling into his shoulder for balance as you began to lower yourself. “See? Nothing to be nervous about.”

A deep groan escaped his lips the moment your walls tightened around him. “You make this seem easy.”

“Maybe you’re just a natural.”

He gave a low chuckle, but it caught in his throat when he felt the full length of his cock buried inside you. “I… ah… I think you’re the one making me look good.”

“Shut up,” you replied with a grin, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t need any help looking good right now, trust me.”

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure what to think about that. He’d never seen himself like this, not in the way you did. But when he glanced over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of the screen and the way your hips rolled over him, he started to believe it.

He looked like… well, like the porn he’d watched late at night in his room before you came along. But better. The kind that didn’t seem real, the kind that made him question if anyone actually had sex like that. He knew the vast majority of what’s portrayed in porn is exaggerated with only a small percentage even close to reality. Except this was real. It was really him, and you made it look like he knew what he was doing.

And sure, maybe he did in some way, albeit you being his only real experience. But that was the thing—he knew what made you tick. He could read the way your body reacted, knew the subtle cues that signaled when a whisper of his fingers could coax out a whimper or when the right shift of his hips would leave you trembling. And more than anything else, he knew how much you liked being watched.

He knew just how much it turned you on.

With that thought in mind, Spencer grabbed the firm swell of your ass and spread you open.

JadenCums: fuck yes FatCock69: she’s so wet BigdickXX: damn, I wish I could feel that pussy ILovePinkPrincess: spread her wider TommyGoode sent you a $200 giftDaddyDom92 sent you a $300 gift.

Your body squirmed beneath his hands.

“Babe… what are you doing?”

He ran his tongue over his lips. “Giving them what they want.”

Then he spread your flesh even further, fingers digging into your supple skin as he held you open. The sight was undeniably lewd, and yet he couldn’t deny the surge of pride swelling in his chest as he held you like this, putting you on full display. But more than that, it was what you wanted. The tension coiled in his muscles as he thrust his hips up, watching the movement play out in the reflection over his shoulder.

He could see everything. The slow drag of his cock, the way it stretched you open with each push, leaving no inch of you untouched. Every time he thrust up into you, his length came back slick and shining, catching the light for a split second before disappearing inside you again.

There was something hypnotic in the rhythm, in the way your body seemed to swallow him whole. And somewhere in that steady push and pull, you visibly clenched around him, a vice-like grip that sent a shudder through his body and pulled a deep, harsh groan from his throat.

His hands tightened their grip on you, and before he could think twice, his hips began moving faster. You squealed, an actual high-pitched sound that he hadn’t expected. It was almost cute in a way—if cute was even the right word for what was happening. But there was nothing cute about the way his body reacted to that sound.

His hips bucked upward, again and again by an instinct he couldn’t control. He was so lost in the sensation of your warm, slick pussy that he barely registered the rising tension in his own body. It wasn’t until his muscles locked up, his hips jerking with one final, forceful snap, that it all crashed over him.

Oh shit.

A sudden rush of heat coursed through him as he spilled inside you, the realization hitting him a second too late. His breath came in shallow gasps, a deep groan escaping his throat as pleasure overwhelmed him, leaving him stunned and gasping for air.

You paused, feeling the unmistakable warmth of his release slowly seep inside you. “Baby?”

His eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, sliding his hands up your waist. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—that was—”

Fast didn’t even come close to describing what happened.

You cut him off with a soft laugh, shaking your head as your fingers gently cupped his jaw. “Oh, honey,” you cooed. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

His eyes flickered to the camera behind you. “I ruined everything, didn’t I?”

You followed his gaze, then turned back to him with a smile. “Of course not,” you said softly, threading your fingers through his hair. “You kind of made everything better, actually.”

His brows knitted together. “I did?”

You nodded and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

“Do you know…”

You started to roll your hips again.

“How hot it is…”

A soft squelch filled the air.

“To fuck with your cum inside me?”

He could barely comprehend the words that had just left your mouth, let alone the feeling of you moving against him. His eyelids struggled to stay open, the question catching in his throat before it spilled out in a breathy whisper. “Hot?”

“Insanely hot.”

Spencer couldn’t describe what happened after that. Obscene didn’t even begin to cover it. Surreal, maybe? But even that word felt lacking. It was all too real. You were rocking your hips on his lap, and the wet, sticky sounds filling the room were undeniably his own doing.

He held your hips tighter, half in an effort to steady himself, half because he didn’t know what else to do. The words were gone. Logic was gone. The only thing that existed was you, grinding against him with the same intensity that had already undone him once.

And he knew he was going to lose it again.

You leaned forward, your forehead pressing gently against his. “Spence, baby,” you whispered, making sure your voice was soft, just loud enough that only he could hear. “Can you fuck me again?”

He couldn’t say no even if he tried. His hands slipped beneath your thighs, fingers curling with just enough force to lift you, tilting your hips for better leverage. The shift pulled a startled gasp from you and you clung to him for balance, but he didn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. His hips met yours in a swift, demanding snap.

The sound of your body meeting was unmistakable, a rhythmic slap that would’ve made him blush if he were in any state to think clearly. But right now, all he could focus on was the mess he’d made of you, the way his cum seeped out, sliding down his cock in slow drips. Whenever he thrust into you, there seemed to be more spilling out, leaving thick, creamy streaks painted across your inner thighs.

Spencer had messy sex before (all with you, of course) but this was on a whole different level. It was chaotic—unapologetically filthy. The wetness between you spread everywhere. He could feel it pooling against his thighs, trickling down your legs, and the damp sheets beneath you were clinging uncomfortably to his knees while the heady scent of sex hit his nostrils.

And your voice wasn’t helping his self-control. It was high-pitched with a tremor, somewhere between a moan and a desperate whine tumbling out in a jumble of words that barely made any sense. Your voice grew higher each minute, more frantic, until finally, he could make out a few clear words through the haze.

“Gonna c-cum,” you moaned, “I’m gonna cu—ah fuck yesyesyes—”

A final, helpless cry pushed him over the edge.

He came for the second time tonight. He tried to hold back, but the way you were clenching around him, your body pulsing through your sudden orgasm tore down what little control he had left. He groaned, burying his face in your neck as his release overtook him again, shocked that he still had anything left to give as he emptied inside you.

The intensity bordered on painful. He could feel his body pushing to its limits and every pulse of pleasure felt like it was wringing him dry. And it was no less intense for you. You jerked against him, body twitching, sweat beading on your skin. Your muscles tightened and relaxed with the rhythm of his racing heartbeat as the last spark of pleasure finally washed over you.

Neither of you moved for a while after that. The only sound in the room was your labored breathing, the heavy rise and fall of your chests pressed together.

You were the first to break the silence.

“Baby,” you hummed, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips, “I think that might’ve been the hottest stream we’ve ever done.”

It took a second for your words to sink in, and when they did, his eyes widened slightly. The camera was still on. The audience was still there. His nose pressed harder against your neck as he tried to hide in embarrassment.

“Really? You’re getting shy now?“

His soft groan vibrated against your skin. “I wasn’t exactly thinking about the camera,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your neck. “It left my mind the moment I… you know.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Oh, I know. I could tell.”

You started to peel yourself off of him, only for his arms to tighten around your waist. You gave a playful tap on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding you.”

“Why?”

“My brain needs a moment to process this.”

Your hand danced aimlessly across his back. “Still embarrassed?”

“Mortified,” he confirmed.

A giggle slipped out of you, and you wiggled your hips. “We still need to clean up. I don’t think you want to stay like this forever.”

He let out a sound of protest but didn’t loosen his grip. “Just a few more minutes.”

Smiling at his stubbornness, you slid your fingers into his hair, letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. "Spencer," you said gently, making sure the mic didn't pick up your voice. “I need to turn off the cam.”

"They wouldn't mind watching us a little longer."

You sighed, feeling the undeniable stickiness between your thighs. It wasn’t the most comfortable feeling, and the warmth was quickly turning into a mess that would need attention sooner rather than later. But there was something so sweet about the way he wanted to hold you that it made it impossible to resist.

"Fine," you relented with a quiet laugh, "five more minutes."

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pressplay-if · 5 months ago

Text

demo (prologue + ch.1 & 2, 118k words)

please mind the content warnings! asks are open, but please note that I am currently not accepting/answering RO scenario requests and questions concerning RO details, i.e. ROs' favorite color, height, etc. All relevant info regarding ROs can be taken from this post or the game itself.

cog forum post

You are one of the most famous yet mysterious characters of the 21st century rock scene.

It all started when you discovered your love for singing during an extended stay at a psychiatric hospital as a teen. Music became your motivator, and from then on, you knew the stage was where you belonged. You and your friends formed a band, and after years of practice in a garage and cheap gigs at dingy bars, your journey to the top begins abruptly when you team up with a skilled manager.

It’s a meteoric rise— until it isn’t.

And now, a decade after your band has disappeared from the public eye, you’ve accepted an interview by the acclaimed Groove Magazine. You and your former band members have agreed to give them the truth, the whole truth; as ugly as that might be.

Follow the story of your band’s rise to fame (and eventual fall from grace)

Play as a pop-rock vocalist

Name your band and customize your music, lyrics and image

Handle the media, interactions with pushy fans and your own repressed thoughts and fears

Romance your coolgirl-bassist, the childhood friend you cut out of your life, your absolutely insane guitarist, or your biggest fan/possibly stalker

Give one hell of an interview

Inspiration: Daisy Jones and The Six, Fleetwood Mac… and all sorts of music-related drama.

TW: themes of mental illness, unhealthy relationships, substance abuse, death, mentions of suicide, suicidal ideation, self-harm, SA-related trauma

ROs:

Stevie McLaughlin, bassist (f) — “I suppose I was the sanest one in that bunch.”

She’s one of your oldest friends, and if you follow the clanking chain of cause and effect all the way back to the beginning, it is her you have to thank for your entire career. The band was her idea, after all. She’s level-headed, composed, and always there to talk you down when you need her. Sometimes, she acts more as your retainer than anything else…

Stevie is tall and skinny with light brown skin and extremely long, curly black hair which she always wears in a wet look. She has big, dark brown eyes and a soft face.

Paul/Paulette Zima, lead singer & saxophonist (f/m selectable, trans) — “Trying to figure out where you know me from?”

Your band’s brand-new, second lead singer. Your manager says they’re going to give your music the kick it needs, that they’re the one missing ingredient to your success. You’re not entirely sure if you agree. Worse yet, you happen to know this person, and your time together didn’t end on a favorable note. They’re part of a past you would much rather forget.

Paul is very tall, broad-backed and thickly muscled with light skin, shoulder-length slicked back brown hair and bottle green eyes.

Paulette is of average height with an hourglass/slim thick figure. She has dark brown hair with parted bangs and light blonde strands dyed into it. Her eyes are bottle green.

Angel Monsanto, guitarist (m) — “I was always going to make it big, with or without those guys. Only, I… I really wanted it to be with them.”

Your crazy but good-hearted guitarist. His passion for music borders on obsession, and he will stop at nothing to make a name for your band. Sadly, he’s very much of the conviction that all publicity is good publicity, which has encouraged him to pull some very questionable stunts in the past.

Angel is of average height and build with a warm beige complexion and long black hair. He has a square jaw with an occasional five o’clock shadow and brown eyes.

Lincoln Saunders, groupie?? (f/m selectable) — “What can I say, I loved them.”

Calling Lincoln a fan would be an understatement. Fanatic is more like it. You remember seeing them at your very first show, and you’ve continued to spot them at every venue you’ve played at since. You don’t know anything about them, and perhaps changing that would be a very bad idea. But maybe you still want to.

Lincoln (m) is short and lean, with an angular face and wavy blond hair. His eyes are cobalt blue.

Lincoln (f) is petite and tan, with a youthful, round face and chin-length blond beach waves. Her eyes are cobalt blue.

Others:

Maddox Wells (m), drummer

Another one of your oldest friends. You don’t much like to talk about what happened with him.

Fatima Shah (f), drummer — “I’m pretty sure they used to try to make me disappear with their fog machine.”

After things didn’t work out with your original drummer, Fatima saved the day. She’s a sweetheart to you, but from what you’ve heard, she can be kind of a terrible person. Maybe it’s best to stay a little wary of her.

Kalena Graham (f), manager — “The first time I saw them… well, they kind of sucked. But I knew, I just knew, that they had what it takes to suck on an international level.”

Your band’s manager. You can’t believe how lucky you were to have caught her attention. She’s experienced, driven, well-regarded in the industry and… kind of mean, to be honest.

Simon Young (m), reporter — “Start at the beginning. And then, don’t stop.”

The guy conducting the interview for Groove Magazine. He’s nice enough, if a little starstruck. It seems he has been waiting a long time for this.

Addendum: NSFW alphabet masterlist

Zima pt. 1 and pt. 2

Stevie

Lincoln

Angel

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto

Please consider reblogging <3

#interactive fiction #choicescript #hosted games #romance options #if wip #choose your own adventure #if: wip #music inspired #demo update #demo available #dashingdon

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bamsara · 5 months ago

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Hello! I was wondering what company you use for your sticker sheets? I bough one from your Ko-Fi shop and really like the quality, and the pricing you were able to sell at is waaaaaay more reasonable compared to any of the companies I've seen and used myself. Is it a POD company, or a mass purchase of them to sell on your own?

Thank you for your time if you're able to respond!

I'm really glad you like the quality, because I actually make them by hand at home! (Please forgive the lighting, my bedroom is my office lmao.)

I don't use a company (and Idk what a POD company is sorry!) but making them at home gives a lot more freedom of stock, just be wary it can be very time consuming depending on how many you need to make.

I've had other people ask before, so here's a rundown of how I make my stickers at home: At most you'll need:

Printer

Sticker paper (this is the type that I use)

Laminator and lamination paper (the lamination paper that I use.) You can also use adhesive non-heat lamination paper if you don't have a laminator, gives you the same result, just be careful of bubbles. You will get double your worth out of a pack because we are splitting the pouches to cover two sticker sheets.

Your choice of a sticker cutting machine or just using scissors.

First, I use Cricut's software to print out the sticker sheet with the guidelines around the corners so the machine can read it. If you do NOT have a Cricut machine, open up your art program, make a canvas of 2550x3300 and fill it up with your sticker design with some cutting space between them. This the 8.5x11 size for the sticker page.

I usually have bleed selected so the cut comes out cleaner. Tip for non-Cricut users below: Increase the border around your sticker design to fake the 'bleed' effect for a cleaner cut.

These are the print settings I use for my printer. I use the 'use system dialogue' to make sure I can adjust the settings otherwise it prints out low quality by default. Make sure if you're using the above paper that you have 'matte' selected, and 'best quality' selected, these aren't usually selected by default.

So you have your sticker sheet printed! Next is the lamination part. I use a hot laminator that was gifted to me, but there is no-heat types of lamination you can peel and stick on yourself if that's not an option.

(This is for protection and makes the colors pop, but if you prefer your stickers matte, you can skip to the cutting process.)

Important for Cricut users or those planning to get a Cricut: You're going to cut the lamination page to cover the stickers while also not covering the guidelines in the corners. First, take your lamination page and lay it over the sheet, take marker/pen and mark were the edges of your stickers are, and cut off the excess:

(I save the scrap to use for smaller stickers or bonuses later on)

After you've cut out your lamination rectangle, separate the two layers and lay one down on your sticker sheet over your stickers with matte side down, shiny side up. (Save the other sheet for another sticker page)

The gloss of the lamination will prevent the machine from reading the guidelines, so be careful not to lay it over them. It also helps to cut the corners afterwards to prevent accidentally interfering with the guidelines.

Now put that bad boy in the laminator! (Or self seal if you are using non-heat adhesive lamination)

Congrats! You now have a laminated page full of stickers.

For non-cricut/folks cutting them out by hand: this is the part where you start going ham on the page with scisscors. Have fun~

Cutting machine: I put the page on a cutting mat and keep it aligned in the corner, and feed it into the machine. For laminated pages I go between 'cardstock' and 'poster board' so that it cuts all the way through without any issues, but for non-laminated pages or thinner pages, I stick for 'vinyl' and 'light card stock'. Kinda test around.

Now I smash that go button:

You have a sticker now!

The pros of making stickers at home is that you save some cost, and you have more control of your stock and how soon you can make new designs. (I can't really afford to factory produce my stickers anyway)

However, this can be a very time consuming, tedious process especially if you have to make a lot of them. There is also a LOT chance for some errors (misprints, miscuts, lamination bubbles, ect) that will leave you with B-grade or otherwise not-so-perfect or damaged stickers. (Little note, if you have page mess up in printing and can't be fed into the cricut machine, you can still laminate it and cut it out by hand too.)

I have to do a lot of sticker cutting by hand, so if you don't have a cricut don't stress too much about it. I have an entire drawer filled to the top of miscuts/misprints. I keep them because I don't want to be wasteful, so maybe one day they'll find another home. Sucks for my hand though.

But yeah! This is how I make my stickers at home! Hope this is helpful to anyone curious

#sticker making #stickers #sticker tutorial #sorry for the long post

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quarterlifekitty · 1 month ago

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König and Domestic Silk Moth Hybrid!Reader

Due to popular demand (about 4 people)

Context: in this one, I’m having König stay human and having hybrids in a pet role. As an insect hybrid, I’m making her small AF (like 2-3 ft tall). I did consider making her Barbie sized tho 👀. So this is gonna have size kink bordering on micro/macro just so you know!

König is stuck on medical leave, and pretty damned miserable. He sustained a break that’s put him out of commission for a while. He’s never spent so long in his empty home, and it’s driving him insane. He’s spent basically his entire adult life married to his work, so he’s woefully unprepared to keep himself entertained.

And despite being something of a loner most times, he misses the noise. He misses the bodies and conversation. He and Horangi have a phone call every so often, and text as frequently as the work allows, but that only takes up so much time in the day.

And it’s Horangi that suggests a hybrid.

That’s something that he could throw himself into to keep occupied, as well as giving company. And unlike a pet, a hybrid would be able to be mostly self sufficient whenever he returned to work.

(Horangi doesn’t want to say if he returns. But König is not a young man, and has sustained a serious injury. There’s a chance that even if he heals, he won’t be the same as before. Combined with his rank, it won’t be huge surprise if he’s pressured or forced into retirement if his utility is limited.)

König is apprehensive— so he doesn’t want something quite as needy as a cat or dog hybrid, where he’d have to deal with heats and noise. And Horangi happens to have an old friend, retired, who raises domestic silk moth hybrids with his newfound free time. You’re picked to be offered up, freshly cut from your thick silk cocoon.

And for König, it’s love at first sight.

You’re very pretty. Fluffy white fur, big, dark, eyes. And so small. You barely come up to his hip, and raise your arms, asking to be lifted. It’s only then that he learns domesticated silk moths are flightless, their wings are pretty but unable to fly. It makes him feel a little bit of kinship with you. Restricted movement, denied purpose.

And basically his life revolves around you from that point. König doesn’t have many involved or expensive hobbies, so he has a lot of time and resources to devote to your care. You’re something of a niche pet, so it’s a little difficult to find things made for you. He resorts to commissions. Don’t fucking look at his Etsy purchase history.

You live your life perched on his shoulders or in his arms (you’re much too small to keep up with him). He’s a little afraid of letting you in his bed at night, he doesn’t want to roll over and crush you by accident, but you keep crawling under his covers anyways. You can’t help having cocooning behavior.

He’s constantly sitting you on ledges. On the sink while he shaves, on the counter when he cooks, on his desk when he works. You’ve always gotta be within arms reach for petting purposes.

And the petting, the kissing… he’s so addicted to the contact. He’s been alone for so long, and you’re so soft.

And that just leads to him getting more and more curious about your body. You don’t mind— you love him! And he loves his little Seidenmotte.

He’s beyond delicate with you. You’re so small— he has to work you up quite a bit before he can even fit a finger into your cute little pussy.

God it makes him hard how he can pin you down by the stomach with just one hand. And you make these little pips and squeaks when he fingers you— it’s just too cute for words. He totally shares some pictures with Horangi as thanks. (Which might lead to a couple of other colorful character asking to see pictures of you).

Usually he fucks your soft, fuzzy thighs to get off. He’s so warm and heavy against your clit, his cockhead practically reaching your chest. He paints your tits with white, pearly ribbons that glisten against the fuzz of your chest.

If you’re on top, he likes watching your useless wings beat while you slide your wet little cunt over him, the ridge of his head making you shiver when it bumps against your clit. You usually end up making yourself cum once or twice, and when you’re too tired and sensitive to move yourself he’ll grab your waist and grind you against him, using you like a toy to get himself off.

You don’t spread your wings often, but when you do, it leaves a little bit of moth dust behind from the tiny scales you shed. König thinks it’s so cute to see it against his bedsheets— it’s like glittery fresh snow, proof of how excited he made you.

#once again I say #who said that #writing #cod fanfic #könig x you #König #könig x reader #könig cod #könig call of duty #hybrid au #hybrids #moth!reader #size difference

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coryosbaby · 11 months ago

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SENSITIVE . Luke Castellan x fem! Reader

Content warning . Broken bones and submissive Luke <3

Whenever someone uses a word to describe Luke Castellan, it’s always this: strong.

He’s the greatest swordsman in camp, after all. He puffs out his chest and slathers his aura in pride, outdoing every opponent.

Except for when it comes to you.

He’s— well, Luke is a sensitive boy. No one knows that, of course, except for you.

He shows his true self, now, on a rainy night in your cabin. Many campers have gone to dinner, and Luke had decided to stay back with you, curled up in your bed.

“(Y/N),” he whines, as you finish your night routine with a drastic slowness. “It hurts.”

You almost roll your eyes at your boyfriend’s antics as you lather on a bit of moisturizer. After a long trip and fall down a flight of stairs—ironic, really, considering his stealthiness— the boy had broken his hand. A small cast is wrapped around it, little phrases that you and other peers had written into it rainbow in color.

“You’re being dramatic.”

His lips form into a pout.

“‘M not,” he replies. His unbroken hand pats the empty spot beside him. “Come here, baby. I miss you.”

You can’t help the tug in your chest at his sweet tone. You do the last steps of your routine, sighing as you move out of your vanity chair and slide onto your silky pink sheets.

“C’mere, you big baby.”

He grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you bring him into your embrace, letting him wrap his big arms around you.

“You smell nice,” he compliments, humming. “Like a pretty flower.”

You giggle. His fingers move up to play with your hair.

“And your hair is so pretty. I love it. And your eyes…”

“Are you saying this because you feel sentimental, or because you want me to make out with you?”

“Both.”

You scoff, pulling him in for a kiss. He reciprocates eagerly, and before you know it his tongue slides warm and wet into your mouth. His hand moves up to your tits, softly groping.

And when you look down, you realize why he’s so clingy. A small smirk spreads across your lips.

“I think you need a little bit of help, sweet boy.”

His cheeks, a dusty pink, turn even darker now. You take in the sight of the large bulge straining against his zipper. He lets out a nervous chuckle, though it doesn’t do much to stifle his nerves. His broken hand still stays trembling underneath your own.

“You don’t have to,” he replies, averting his gaze from you. “I’m not.. I mean.. I can’t—”

“I know.”

You don’t need to say anything else. Your palm splays out over his hardened cock, and he whines, a tiny breathless thing in the back of his throat that makes your panties soak with wetness.

“Mommy,” he utters. “I need your hands,” And then, bordering on a choked sob, “Please? I’ll be good, I swear…”

Oh, it’s so easy to get him worked up. So, so incredibly easy.

You hum, flicking the zipper of his jeans up and down playfully. His brunette locks are turned up and disheveled, and it’s the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen.

“Poor baby. It’s been a long time since you’ve touched yourself, hasn’t it ? Four, maybe five days?”

That was the last time he had fucked you, the day he had broken his hand. Your schedules were both so busy that neither of you had time to do anything since. Luke’s eyebrows press together, and a pout forms on his lips as he nods in confirmation. You press a kiss to his jaw, then another. He’s wearing the cologne you like, and a shirt you had once said looked particularly good on him. He had made his way into your room asking for this, you’re sure. He was asking to get all worked up and get you to handle it.

He just wants mommy’s attention, doesn’t he?

You pull his fly down, much to his excitement, a “thank you” falling sweetly off of his soft lips. Pushing his underwear down, his hardened cock slaps up to its fullest attention against his stomach. His balls are drawn up tight above the fabric of his briefs, full and ready to be emptied.

Oh, how worked up the poor thing is. Wet like a girl, cock dripping pre cum and the tip flushed an almost deep scarlett. He’s well endowed, much to your pleasure.

Giving his tip a teasing flick with two of your fingers, you watch as his eyes shut tight and he moans. It sounds precious, a choir full of angels singing. You wish you could hear it over and over again.

He isn’t looking at you, now, and that makes you annoyed. Your hand slaps his length and he lets out a pained yelp.

“Eyes on me. Do you understand?”

His bottom lip wobbles. A sensitive boy he is, despite his usually hard and cold demeanor, and his mommy’s disapproval makes him want to cry. He nods, his teary eyes staring deep into your own as you spit into your palm and take him into your hand.

You start by thumbing over his tip, rubbing softly into his slit. Watching his breathing increase and the way his head tilts back is absolutely enticing.

“Is that good, baby?” You ask softly. He nods eagerly, his hand shaking in his lap. He tries not to clench his broken fist together but that proves difficult, and he lets out a pained cry when he presses down on it. You coo to him, almost mocking, as you snake your arm behind his back and take the cast into your free hand.

“Don’t hurt yourself, okay? Just hold on to me,” your voice is a purr in the shell of his ear. “Need my boy big and strong again.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his voice high pitched and whiny. “Yeah, mommy, yeah…”

Your hand wraps around the fullness of his length, twisting with a flick of your wrist. His forehead bumps against yours as his open mouth tries to land on your lips. You think he’s trying to kiss you, and it’s absolutely endearing. He can’t help but desperately shove his tongue into the warm confines of your mouth. You giggle at that, pulling him in for a sloppy, wet kiss.

When your lips leave his, it’s so you can bite and suckle pretty marks onto his neck. You lave over the reddish bites, humming as you cover his throat in them.

Other women at camp, be damned. He’s yours.

It isn’t long, with a gasping mouth and fluttering lashes, that he’s close.

“I’m gonna cum,” Luke murmurs, sugary sweet. “I’m g-gonna… momma, momma..”

He buries his face in your neck, salty tears pressing into your skin, and his cock spurts rope after rope of warm, sticky spend all over your hand. You watch with a smile, pressing a kiss into his hair as he fucks his hips up and mewls against you. Your heart flutters at the sound, your body on fire just from watching him come undone.

He sighs when you milk the last few remnants of cum from his spent cock. His curls stick to his forehead, sweat dripping down his brow. What a sight.

You find Luke’s shirt somewhere on the floor and wipe your hand on it. His nose crinkles up.

“That’s gross.”

Rolling your eyes and trying not to smile, you sit down beside him again.

“It’s your mess, Luke.”

He shrugs, his hand going up to push your hair out of your face. He gives you a pretty, lopsided smile. You kiss the scar underneath his eye, and his eyes cloud over again.

Always so sensitive.

He lays down on the bed, signaling you over. His lips find yours again, chaste but still nice, and when he’s using free hand to make you straddle his face, a gasp emits from you.

“Luke. It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

“Want to,” he murmurs, sliding your panties to the side. “You took care of me, momma. Let me take care of you.”

:: @mysticpenguincreation @nightmare-niko @iheartinkonpaper @claireyberryy @becauseseaotters @emmalandry @princesstiti14 @aerangi

#bunny writes ͟͟͞☆#why is this the most tame shit I’ve wrote in weeks #Luke Castellan #Luke Castellan x reader #Luke Castellan x fem! reader #Luke Castellan smut #Luke Castellan fanfic #Luke Castellan blurb #Luke Castellan Drabble #sub! Luke Castellan #dom! reader #Luke pjo #pjo #Percy Jackson #Percy Jackson fanfic #Percy Jackson series #Percy Jackson show #percy jackson and the olympians #percy jackson and the lightning thief

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webby-after-dark · 3 months ago

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AMfucker flag

[pt: AMfucker flag /end pt]

Fucker pride flag for people who identify as "AM fuckers", or folks who want to fuck Allied Mastercomputer from IHNMAIMS.

Extremely self indulgent as I'm dating an AM fictive. Keep kissing his flat fucking screen

[flag 1 id: a rectangular pride flag with 6 equal horizontal stripes and a brown screen border around the outside. there are blue shines around the edges. the colors top down are: yellow, blue, dark blue, red, reddish black and black, and in the center is an outline of a love heart with a heartbeat in the center. it is dark blue with a blue outline outline. /end id]

[flag 2 id: same as the previous without the symbol in the center /end id]

[flag 3 id: same as the previous flag without the screen frame on the outside /end id]

[flag 4 id: same as the previous flag with the same symbol in the center as the first /end id]

[banner id: a black banner with a white outline on a transparent background with black text with white outlines. large text on top reads "THIS BLOG IS NSFW" and underneath in smaller text it reads "MINORS CAUGHT INTERACTING WILL BE BLOCKED". to the left is an imagine of Magia Baiser from Gushing over Magical Girls /end id]

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livinghostly · 1 year ago

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miss me if you want to — megumi fushiguro x reader

a/n: happy late birthday pookie wc: 3.6k megumi ends up at his old middle school for a mission, and reminisces on his time there, with you. fluff/humor, happy ending, gojo being his dad self

megumi kept his hands in his pockets as he scoped the halls of urami east middle school, desperately trying to ignore the entourage of sorcerers behind him and their barrage of questions. unfortunately for megumi, nobara just discovered a commonality. (“fushiguro, let’s go beat up that guy! for old time’s sake, you know!” “kugisaki, you can’t just point to every man and ask to beat them up. we don’t know anybody here! and you can’t say old times sake if you didn't even go here, right?”)

it took all his willpower not to turn around and curse them both back to jujutsu tech, their voices burning through his ears and building an irritation in his gut. any of his old classmates who recognized him seemed to gape, just before ducking their heads and scurrying down the hall. it didn’t give him much to work with regarding the assignment. his friends giggled, poorly hiding it behind their hands.

it was hard for the nostalgia of his middle school and the presence of old peers to settle in with the constant whispering behind him, even if part of himself wasn’t sure that he wanted to reflect on his time there. he remembered the cream-colored walls and tan uniform jackets being less harsh on his eyes, every memory he could recall was hazed over with a dark grime.

the smell of freshly waxed floors and chalk dust washed over him like waves, passing his old classroom’s doors that were propped open. he could hear the muffled lessons, and wondered the last time he really used any academics from–

“fushiguro, why don’t you have anything in the trophy case?” nobara pondered, dragging her finger along the glass border.

“they’ve gotta have one for the best stink-face, right?” yuji howled with laughter. “you’d totally win!”

“can you guys get it together? we’re not going to get anywhere if you keep messing around,” megumi said, not bothering to spare them a glance. he refused to prove itadori right with his stink-face. “go walk the south corridor, there’s a few offices for the staff, they might know something.”

“fushiguro,” yuji whined.

“go.”

reluctantly, his friends shuffled away. “yeah, i think we kind of pushed our luck that time,” nobara mumbled.

finally, he reveled in the silence. there was a bud of anxiety in his stomach, a nagging feeling that just around the corner would be a teacher to chastise him for his history of delinquency. on the other hand, the possibility of seeing one of the many faces he had beaten and bruised.

megumi rounded the corner that led to the library and various study rooms, keeping his gaze on the windows. he remembered the landscape being different, more sullen, but still captivating him as much. he remembered his frequent trips to the library when he wasn’t spending his time rounding together the bullies and failures that infested the school.

the library wasn’t special, but he could always–

“megumi?”

megumi’s eyes widened as he whipped his head forward. the voice, though unexpected, was unmistakable in his mind. his bud of anxiety bloomed when he saw you, your head tilted in the same bewilderment. out of all places, he didn’t expect to see you at the place you graduated, just over a year ago.

the fog that coated all his memories seemed to dissipate, recollection of you clouded with a glow that couldn’t compare to the way you looked now. your school uniform was haphazard, white button up untucked and rolled to your elbows and your dark jacket was discarded on the library cart you leaned on. your confusion washed away and your face was taken up by a bright smile, and with that megumi blushed furiously.

“y/n? i didn’t expect to see you here.” he cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his composure, and closed the gap between you so all that was left in the way was the cart. you craned your neck to meet his gaze, he’d grown a bit. “don’t tell me they made you repeat.”

shaking your head, you laughed. he missed that. “you’re telling me, you’re supposed to be all the way at jujutsu tech. what are you doing here?”

“i asked you first.”

you rolled your eyes playfully. always so combative.

“i use my free period to help out here, it’s only like a five minute walk from the high school.”

megumi hummed. so you decided to stay close. it was always a toss up.

“so, how’s jujutsu tech so far? everything you wanted and more?”

megumi smiled, recalling the day he told you that’s where he would be attending, and you found it completely ridiculous. hilarious, even. a religious school, for him? if you hadn’t met gojo before you would have thought he was sentencing megumi there as some sort of punishment for his delinquency at school. unfortunately, you had met gojo, and the idea of him teaching at a religious school and dragging megumi with him only drove you to further hysterics.

the humor you found in all of it almost made up for the lies he was feeding you. a part of him longed for you to have some cursed energy to see all that he did, so you could understand the life he lives. maybe if you did, you would go to jujutsu tech with him, and he could share more of his life with you.

but megumi knew you were much better off without it, and without him. here, in your home environment, you were glowing. you were living a good and safe life, and he would keep it that way.

so, he fed you more white lies. kept it all vague and lighthearted so you could sleep easy. the school staff was capable, his studies were improving, and his classmates were… tolerable, at best. or so he claimed. the lighthearted jokes at their expense were always followed by a compliment on their character, you knew he was fond of them.

before he knew it, the two of you were strolling around the campus together with your shoulders glued to each other like you were back in routine. everything about being with you again was timeless. you still exaggerated with your hands and paused at the ends of your sentences to enunciate with your facial expressions, and always stayed on his left side so he didn’t have to face down the beating sun when he was looking at you. and he was always looking at you.

every once in a while, your hand brushed up against his and his movements would stutter. he would wait for some sort of reaction, though he wasn’t sure why. confirmation, that it was okay? or to see how much he could get away with. you acted as if it was nothing, and he wondered if you’d stay like that if he closed the distance and finally grasped your hand with his.

megumi had your school blazer draped over his other arm. he wasn’t much of a talker, even with you. but it seemed once you were able to get his shoulders to relax and his guard slipped a bit more, he rambled on about the more trivial things in his life. his friends– “i wouldn’t call them that” – and their endless enthusiasm. it’s like they were born yesterday, and every day in tokyo they lived like a fish out of water. they dragged him into a lot of things, but also held him back. megumi rolled his eyes when you said it was probably a good thing, since you weren’t around to do that anymore. you also weren’t very good at it.

megumi couldn’t look at you when you smiled like that, like an all-knowing entity that can see through the cracks in his image. like you knew him better than he knew himself, because in some ways you did. he looked at the ground, his shoes, and the trees, anything that couldn’t perceive the blush that ran up his neck.

“fushiguro?!”

he didn’t realize the lax in his composure until he tensed up again at the screech of his name not too far behind him. his smile dropped and he was brought back to the reality of his situation, being on a mission, scrounging for any murmurs about this curse he was meant to be hunting while dragging around two idiots with him.

nobara and yuji were pale from shock, stiff as boards at the sight of their fushiguro cozy with some stranger. nitta was next to them, jaw agape as she stared and slithered her phone out of her pocket.

megumi’s eye twitched.

“fushiguro, is this why you sent us off to the teacher's lounge? to flirt?! with a girl?!” yuji cried, pointing an accusatory finger as he fell to his knees. the pavement cracked beneath him as he slammed his fist into the concrete in despair.

“fushiguro, don’t tell me you’ve gone soft for some pretty girl? we’re here for business!” nobara claimed, crossing her arms.

“they’re your friends you were talking about, ‘gumi?” you hummed, looking at him. you batted your eyelashes with an amused expression.

god, no. he couldn’t spit out the words when he was barely holding on to his composure at the nickname. these people, in the matching uniforms? never met ‘em.

a gust of wind weaved itself through your hair and yuji was at your feet, his incredible speed surprising you enough that you sidestepped right into megumi’s chest. his breath hitched, somewhere between a gasp at the sudden contact and a sigh of disappointment towards yuji’s behavior. nobara was quick behind him, her anger had dissolved into a teasing nature.

humiliation swelled in his chest and lumped in the back of his throat, in the back of his mind he was routing all the ways he could get back at yuji later for the way he was acting.

“you told her about us?!” yuji said, his excitement warming the air around him.

“‘course he did,” nobara smirked. “we are your best friends, aren’t we, ‘gumi?”

megumi sighed. he wouldn’t live that down. “y/n, this is itadori and kugisaki, they’re the other first years at jujutsu tech. this is y/n, we went to middle school together.”

you smiled and offered a finger wave.

“middle school, huh? and you’re still here?” nobara’s eyes sparkled. you wouldn’t admit out loud that the intensity in her grin made your stomach turn. she placed a hand on her chest dramatically, “you get in too much trouble? got held back? i understand the life–“

“you must have the funniest stories about fushiguro!” the pink-haired boy interrupted with his laughter. “did he ever–“

“i need to walk y/n back to her class before she’s late,” megumi cut him off sharply. “head back to the car and i’ll meet you there, after i get back we should get going anyway.”

without a second thought, he grabbed your arm gently and tugged you with him to turn around. you were able to call out a quick, it was nice to meet you! before you were pulled around the corner.

his steps were quicker than yours so his hand made its way to the small of your back as he ushered you to meet his pace and put the distance between you and the gawking seagulls behind him.

your heart stuttered at the contact but you didn’t stop him, and instead leaned closer to his side. that seemed to jolt some sense into him, his fingers tensing and relaxing again on the soft fabric of your uniform and ultimately deciding to stay put. that didn’t make him any less hyper-aware of it, though. he flickered gaze from you to the sidewalk, back to you, and the sidewalk again.

“i’m sorry about them. they’re idiots sometimes,” he mumbled. “most of the time, actually.”

the path to the highschool felt oddly familiar. the trees waved gently in the wind and beckoned him back to his memories of walking you home from school, the warmth of the sunshine on his skin much the same as the warmth that sprouted in his stomach when he was around you.

he always stood straighter when he was beside you, squeezing your hand tightly when crossing the street and tucked you under his arm when passing by anyone he deemed suspicious. which, to a young megumi who saw the world in black and white, was much of the population. in those times where his adrenaline was pumping, he never thought twice about protecting you. even against what you couldn’t see, like curses, strolling through the streets unchecked.

“don’t apologize, ‘gumi. they seem like fun.” you chuckled, rubbing your knuckles gently. you couldn’t blame them for their reactions, nor could you blame your friend for not ever telling them about you. he was always a bit reserved. “i think they’re just excited to learn something about you.”

you had classes with him, and there were often times he would come in late with bloody knuckles and his hair tousled. most days he would tell you why, how they were smoking on school grounds or picking on someone in the cafeteria. other days he wouldn’t, he refused to even give you an idea of the things they said or did, and though it drove you crazy for a few hours you would eventually drop it.

and he got to keep it to himself, the way other boys would talk about you. despite not knowing you, they made their assumptions and boasted about untrue speculations. rumors and comments were short-lived when he was around, and he wondered if it stayed that way after he left.

megumi carried the secret of the jujutsu world on his shoulders, all the unruly death he’d witnessed, his sister’s curse. despite the way he’d grown in the jujutsu world and how desensitized he’d become to some things, they still haunted him. he’d would’ve liked to keep something good a secret too, just for a little while longer.

“yeah, well, i think i’d rather keep you to myself.”

“don’t tell me you’re embarrassed of me.” your teasing tone was in one ear and out the other for megumi. his tongue swelled in his throat as he tripped over his own words. you laughed, and he seemed to relax.

his hand had slipped from your back and rested between you. you found the confidence to grasp the sleeve of his uniform and keep a hold of it comfortably, watching his expression melt into a smile he couldn’t hide behind bitten cheeks.

you weren’t one to ever think you could change megumi fushiguro, though there were many times you were the one repeating in his ear to just let it go so you could go eat lunch together. (on the flip side, there were also times you were chanting his name off the sidelines watching it all unfold on your lunch period like an MMA fight). you never sought to make him a softer, more well-rounded student, nor did you ask him to ever open himself up to you.

but he did, and despite the time passed be still preened his vulnerability to you like an open wound seeking care.

“i missed you, y/n,” megumi said suddenly.

“those jujutsu tech kids can’t replace me, huh?”

he smiled, shaking his head. “it’s not even close.”

the roof of the highschool peaked over the trees ahead.

“i missed you too, ‘gumi.” a question laid on the tip of your tongue, and you quickly swallowed it before it could tumble out. “do you think… that you’ll come by again? when it's not for some school project?”

“i’m sure i could find a reason to.”

you looked up to him, meeting his amorous gaze. it was your turn to blush, scrunching up to hide the bashful smile that threatened to take over. “you have my number, you know. it hasn’t changed.”

megumi nodded. “yeah, things have been… busy, for a while now. it’s hard to get away.”

the two of you closed in on the school’s entrance, still tiptoeing the line of hand-holding. megumi faced you fully now, silent, and blocking the sun’s rays as he stared down at you with his eyes full of adoration. he looked at you like he did on graduation day– a heavy cloud of fear hanging above him, pouring down the terrifying thought he would never see you again.

“call me and tell me all about it, yeah?”

he smirked. “i will.”

he always clung to darker clothes and aesthetics, but you thought he looked best in the sunlight. his dark hair was coated with a navy luster, similar to that of his eyes. you could see his reddening cheeks better, when there wasn’t any shade to hide them.

“thanks for walking me back,” you said, your gaze flickering around his face, soaking in his appearance while still in front of you. he had already changed so much since the last time you saw him.

“it’s not a problem, i’m happy to spend time with you.” megumi paused, reaching for the door handle with a pit in his stomach growing. “i hope i didn’t make you late.”

you smiled. “i think i’ll be okay.”

a beat of silence passed, and your face twisted into one of concentration as you stared him down. a small sigh left your lips, one of surrender as you settled on your decision. he registered the shift in your demeanor and he narrowed his eyebrows as he observed.

you grabbed the lapel of his uniform suddenly and tugged him downward to connect his lips with yours. the initial impact softened when he registered his surroundings and relaxed, molding against your grasp and sliding his hands over the curve of your waist. relief washed over you and you ran your fingers over the nape of his neck. he paused briefly, to catch your reaction as you regained your breathing, and then nudged his nose against your cheek before kissing you again.

megumi’s breathing was quick, excitement drumming through his body as he focused on you, and only you. he never had the luxury of anticipating this, expecting such affection from you was reckless and selfish despite all the times he’d thought of it. here you were, before him, unknowingly giving in to his delicate fantasies.

you pulled away, breathless as you met his eyes. his smile was gentle, expression refrained while his admiration poured into his steel grip on you, keeping you close.

“call me, okay?” you let out a winded laugh, brushing your thumb against his flushed cheek.

megumi nodded, swallowing the desperation that clawed his throat. you stepped away, and he ached for your warmth on his skin again. he was still reeling from the interaction, helplessly watching with an emptiness in his hands as you slipped out of his grasp and opened the door for yourself.

you disappeared, and he was left alone with the resounding click of the door.

bonus

“y/n! oh, they grow up so fast.” gojo cradled nitta’s phone in his hand with a wobbly lip, wiping a theatrical tear from his cheek. a fuming fushiguro was pictured with all his focus aimed towards his friends, with you awkwardly smiling at his side, completely ignorant to nitta’s rapid clicking. gojo swiped through the photos quickly, watching megumi’s mouth snap open and closed over and over. he sighed longingly, “the one who got away.”

nobara leaned forward on her crossed legs, tensely gripping the loungeroom couch. “i knew they had history, fushiguro was totally defensive over her.”

beside her, yuji was perched on the armrest with his eyes blown wide– bearing resemblance to a gargoyle. “yeah, he got all clammy and weird. i’ve never seen him like that before.”

“well,” gojo set the phone down on the coffee table, for all to see. “megumi can be a little rough around the edges, but he’s got his moments.”

“so, what’s she really like? was she shoving people in lockers like fushiguro? i bet they were some sort of sick power couple, she seems like she’s got a dark side.”

their teacher smirked, leaning back in the armchair as he listened to their conspiracies. ‘sick power couple’ was a quite generous interpretation of your and megumi’s younger days– gojo recalled the awkward preteens you were, bumping into each other and melting into a flushed state during study nights (strictly stated by megumi not to be referred to as dates). gojo never, ever helped such situations, often making them worse with a shove or teasing comment at the boy’s expense.

“ha! i doubt it, she was way too nice to us.”

you were moreso a bystander to megumi’s antics, sometimes a cheerleader. but it was still like you to snap, or slap, him back to his senses whenever he got all ‘high and mighty’ like some ‘reactionary douchebag’ –stated in your own eloquence. gojo remembered the times you’d unlock the front door and throw it open with one hand, dragging a frustrated megumi whose physical bruises mirrored the ones on his ego. you’d throw him to the nearest chair and welcome yourself to the apartment’s amenities while he wallowed in silence, both of you waiting for the air to settle and ignoring the presence of his guardian and his amused expression.

“man, fushiguro must be pretty bummed right now.”

the loungeroom door swung open abruptly, the door handle cementing itself in the drywall. megumi presented himself in his rage, his cursed energy fiercely blazing around him and crackling at his fingertips. his expression was dark, eyes immediately drawn to the center coffee table with nitta’s own slideshow presentation of yet another humiliating moment for him.

nobara and yuji were struck with fear, paling in solidarity with the wallpaper. nitta quivered behind them, crouching.

gojo let out a low whistle. “someone’s going through it. don’t tell me she left you on read.”

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thewulf · 9 months ago

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Lost and Found || Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Summary: Request - I was wondering if I could request a Jake x Reader. I was thinking a good friends situation where they were both interested in the other but didn’t want to mess up their friend group dynamic and so they never said anything. And of course they were each oblivious to the fact they were into each other,.. Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh sorry anon, this took forever to write as I was feeling uninspired. Turns out I just needed to watch TGM and whew! I forgot how much I love Jake Seresin and the TGM crew :) Hope you guys enjoy!

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.2k +

T/W : Angsty in the beginning

The air in Virginia was thick with the scent of saltwater and fresh possibility when you first noticed the cocky Lieutenant who was making a beeline towards you. It was a humid afternoon on the naval base, and you, a newly hired trauma surgeon, were immersed in your work, lost in the world of medical charts and patient files. And just as you were about to get up, he walked in with a cocky grin and an air of self-assurance that demanded attention. You knew the type, he had to be a pilot. They just had the air about them.

"Hey there, beautiful," he greeted you with a wink, his voice carrying across the room with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Yeah, he was a pilot. Only they had the reassurance to be so fearless on a first interaction.

You raised an eyebrow at his boldness, unimpressed but intrigued by his approach. "Can I help you with something?" you replied, your tone cool and collected. You knew how to deal with his type. Be dismissive. Ignore them and eventually they’ll get bored enough to leave you alone.

The blonde-haired man slid into the seat opposite you, his grin never faltering as he leaned in closer. "Just couldn't resist the chance to introduce myself to the most captivating woman on base," he said smoothly, his words dripping with charm.

A chuckle escaped your lips, though you tried to suppress it. That was a new one for sure. "Flattery will get you nowhere Lieutenant," you responded, a hint of amusement in your voice.

He grinned in response, undeterred by your playful resistance. His eyes flashed down to your chest which displayed your rank and last name. "Ah, but I'm not just trying to flatter you Lieutenant Commander. I genuinely want to know the name of the woman who's been keeping me up at night," he admitted, his tone sincere but laced with playful arrogance.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his persistence. "Well, in that case, I suppose you'll have to earn it," you teased, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. For whatever reason you were having fun with this interaction. It wasn’t often you would give these Navy boys much time but there was something about him. Something that had you setting down your charts to get a good look at him.

Jake leaned back in his chair, his expression turning thoughtful. "Fair enough," he conceded, his gaze locking with yours. "I'm Jake, by the way. And you are?"

You maintained a playful smile, keeping him guessing as you decided to reveal just a fragment of yourself. "I'm a trauma surgeon," you replied cryptically, letting the mystery linger in the air. It was then that you noticed how handsome he was. Blonde, clean-cut hair and deep green eyes… who wouldn’t swoon for that?

Jake's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise, his cocky demeanor momentarily faltering. "A trauma surgeon? Now, that's impressive," he remarked, a newfound respect coloring his tone. "Here I am, just a pilot, and you're out there saving lives and I take them."

You chuckled softly at his dark humor, appreciating the humility that so rarely came from the pilots you had known in the past. "It's not a competition," You assured him, feeling a sense of something beginning to form between the two of you. No wonder he was so cocky. He was striking and a pilot to boot? It should’ve been over then and there, but he drew you in further than you had ever intended.

Jake nodded, his gaze lingering on you with a newfound sense of admiration. "I know, but still...what you do is pretty incredible. Badass even.” he said earnestly, a genuine warmth in his voice.

As the conversation continued to flow between you, a comfortable exchange began to form, fueled by mutual respect and a shared sense of adventure. And though you kept him guessing with your playful evasions, there was a part of you that couldn't help but feel drawn to Jake – to his confidence, his charm, and the undeniable spark that crackled between you. And so, as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the mess hall and the sounds of laughter filled the air, you found yourself fascinated by Jake, captivated by his irresistible charm and magnetic personality. Little did you know, this chance encounter would be the beginning of a friendship – and perhaps something more – that would change the course of your lives forever.

Over time, you found yourself drawn to him in ways you couldn't quite explain. Despite the demands of your respective roles on the base, you made time to see each other whenever you could – stolen moments between shifts, late-night conversations beneath the stars, stolen glances in the dimly lit corridors of the barracks. Everyone knew of the two of you. Clearly in love but too stupid to do anything about it.

But beneath the surface, there was an unspoken tension between you, a lingering sense of longing that neither of you dared to acknowledge. You were both fiercely independent individuals, committed to your careers and reluctant to jeopardize the fragile balance of your friendship with something as unpredictable as love. So, you buried your feelings beneath layers of professionalism, convincing yourself that it was better this way – safer, more practical, less likely to end in utter heartbreak. But no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, the spark between you refused to be extinguished, flickering to life with each passing glance, each fleeting touch.

Then, on a random Tuesday afternoon, Jake dropped a bombshell that shattered the delicate equilibrium you had worked so hard to maintain. "I'm being reassigned after this deployment," he confessed, his voice tinged with regret. "To Miramar."

As Jake's words sank in, a heavy silence enveloped the room, suffocating you with the weight of what his departure truly meant. You had been through so much together over the past three years. The highs and the lows, the laughter, and the tears. And now, faced with the prospect of his absence, you couldn't help but feel as though a piece of your heart was being torn away.

"Miramar? To Top Gun?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper, betraying the ache in your heart. You knew it was everything he had been working towards. And you knew how damn good of a pilot he was. It just surprised you how soon he was getting sent there. He must’ve been the best of the best.

Jake nodded. His expression somber. "Yeah. It's everything I’ve been working towards, but..." His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken, hanging in the air like a heavy cloud of regret.

But all you could feel was a sense of loss. For the friendship you had built, for the moments you had shared, for the possibility of something more that now seemed out of reach. "I'm so happy for you, Jake. You deserve it. You deserve the whole world." You forced the words out, though they felt like shards of glass tearing at your soul. A single tear escaped your eye, tracing a silent path down your cheek.

Jake reached out, gently wiping away the tear with a look of utter despair in his eyes, as if he couldn't bear to see you cry. "I wish you could come with me," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, filled with a longing you knew mirrored your own. He grabbed for your hand joining his fingers in with yours.

Tears welled up in your eyes once more, threatening to spill over at any moment. "I know," you replied, your voice thick with unshed tears. "But I'm still in the middle of my fellowship. I can't just drop everything and leave. No matter how badly I want to." Another tear escaped as you realized what this meant. Your little bubble of happiness was going to vanish in an instant.

Jake nodded in understanding, his grip on your hand tightening as if trying to hold onto the moment for just a little while longer. "I know," he murmured, his gaze filled with a mixture of sadness and longing, mirroring the storm of emotions raging within your own heart.

Then, as if trying to lighten the mood, he flashed a small smile. "You know, I used to dream of being a Top Gun pilot when I was a kid," he confessed, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "Never thought I'd actually get the chance to fly jets like that."

You couldn't help but smile through your tears, touched by his vulnerability. "You've come a long way from your childhood dreams Jake. I knew you’d be able to do it. If anybody could, it’s you," you remarked softly, a sense of pride swelling within you despite the ache in your heart. Because he did deserve it. He may have come off as an arrogant asshole at first, but he was anything but that. He was your best friend. The man who looked out for you over himself time and time again. You loved him but you held it close to your chest. Because you did love him you had to let him go. Let him go live his dreams.

And as the reality of his departure settled over you like a dark cloud. You couldn't help but wonder how you would ever find the strength to say goodbye to him. As you sat there together, holding hands beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the barracks, you realized that no matter where life took you, no matter how far apart you may be, the bond you shared with Jake would endure – a constant reminder of the love and friendship that had blossomed in the unlikeliest of places.

After Jake's departure, life on the base took on a different rhythm. The days stretched into weeks, and the weeks into months, each passing moment marked by the absence of his laughter, his warmth, his unwavering presence by your side. Despite the distance, you and Jake still found solace in occasional phone calls and sporadic messages, though never as often as you wished.

On an ordinary day, your world was turned upside down once again. Your commanding officer called you into his office, his expression serious as he delivered the news. "Doctor Y/L/N. I have some important news for you," he began, his tone solemn. "Due to some unforeseen circumstances, we've had to make some adjustments to our staffing plan. You're being reassigned."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a sense of unease settling over you. "Reassigned? But I thought I was heading to Austin for my next rotation. Replacing Doctor Warmack." you replied, trying to mask the anxiety in your voice. You had plans. You were moving to Texas. You had a house picked out. A life you were planning to start. But then again, you were in the military. You should’ve expected this.

Your CO shook his head, his expression unreadable. "Plans have changed. Chula Vista is in urgent need of a trauma surgeon of your caliber," he explained, his words sending a jolt of shock through your system.

Upon hearing the news of your reassignment to Chula Vista, a whirlwind of questions surged within you. "Sir, may I ask where Chula Vista is located?" you inquired tentatively, your voice betraying a mix of curiosity and apprehension. You hadn’t heard of that base. And you could’ve sworn you knew all the potential bases you could’ve been assigned to.

Your commanding officer, a seasoned veteran with a weathered expression, glanced up from his desk, his gaze thoughtful. "Chula Vista is a city just south of here, part of the San Diego metropolitan area," he explained as he pointed to the map of the states, his tone carrying a sense of gravitas. "It's home to several military installations, including Naval Air Station North Island and Naval Base Coronado. It's also in close proximity to Marine Corps Air Station Miramar.”

The mention of North Island and Miramar sent a jolt of emotion through you, memories of Jake flooding your mind with a bittersweet intensity. "Chula Vista also supports Top Gun operations, among many other military endeavors," the CO continued, his voice steady as he provided further context.

You were heading to exactly where Jake was. A shiver of anxiety ripped through you as you processed his words. “Thank you, sir," you replied, a mixture of gratitude and anticipation swelling within you.

As you turned to leave, the weight of the news settled over you, mingling with a newfound sense of purpose. Chula Vista, a city steeped in military history, a place where your path will intersect with Jake's once more. And though uncertainty loomed on the horizon, there was a glimmer of hope shining through. The possibility of reconnecting with Jake and the chance to explore what the future held in store.

As the days passed and your departure drew nearer, you found yourself grappling with a dilemma: should you reach out to Jake before making the move to Chula Vista, or should you let fate take its course and surprise him? The months of silence between you weighed heavily on your mind, leaving you uncertain of where you stood with him. Would he be glad to hear from you, or would your sudden reappearance only complicate things further?

Part of you longed to reach out, to bridge the gap that had formed between you and reconnect before the distance between you grew even wider. But another part of you feared rejection, feared that your efforts would be met with indifference or worse… that Jake had moved on without you.

In the end, you couldn't shake the feeling that fate was leading you back to Jake, guiding you toward a reunion that was long overdue. And so, with a leap of faith, you made the decision to keep your plans a secret, to let the element of surprise be your ally. With each passing day, your anticipation grew, your excitement mingling with a touch of nervousness as you prepared for your move to Chula Vista. And as you boarded the plane bound for your new home, you couldn't help but wonder what the future held in store for you, for Jake, and for the bond that had endured despite the trials and tribulations that had threatened to tear you apart.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the Hard Deck. You found yourself seated at the bar, engaged in conversation with Penny, the owner of the establishment. The ambience was relaxed, with the murmur of chatter and the clinking of glasses providing a soothing backdrop to your discussion.

Penny, a vibrant and charismatic woman with a penchant for storytelling, leaned in with genuine interest as she got to know you. "So, what brings you to the Hard Deck? I haven’t seen you around here before," she asked, a playful twinkle in her eye.

You offered her a warm smile, appreciating her genuine curiosity. "Just got here a week ago. I've heard so much about this place from my coworkers," you explained, gesturing to the bustling bar around you. "They all recommended it as the must-visit bar in Miramar."

Penny's eyes lit up at your mention of coworkers. "Ah, you must be part of the base personnel then," she observed, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.

You nodded, a sense of camaraderie forming between you. "I am! I'm a trauma surgeon over at the hospital in Chula Vista," you confirmed.

At the mention of your role, Penny's expression shifted, her eyes widening with recognition. "Wait a minute... are you Y/N? Doctor Y/L/N?" she asked, her voice tinged with excitement.

Surprised by her sudden enthusiasm and knowing of your name, you nodded cautiously. "Yes, that's me. But how did you...?" you trailed off, curious about Penny's sudden change in demeanor. Her excitement was palpable, you could feel it in the air.

Penny beamed at you. "Oh, Jake talks about you all the time! You're one of his favorites," she revealed, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes.

A warmth spread through your chest at her words, touched by Jake's apparent fondness for you. "He does?" you asked, unable to conceal the smile that tugged at your lips.

Penny nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely! He's always mentioning how talented and dedicated you are. He won’t admit it… or he doesn’t recognize it, but that man is head over heels for you, Doctor," she added with a playful wink.

You couldn't help but chuckle at Penny's teasing, feeling a flutter of anticipation as thoughts of Jake filled your mind. Little did you know, your reunion with him was just moments away, and the excitement of seeing him again filled you with a sense of joyful anticipation. Penny's mischievous grin widened as she caught sight of your reaction. "Oh, don't try to hide it, Y/N. I can see that spark in your eye," she teased, nudging you playfully.

You couldn't help but laugh, feeling a rush of nervous energy coursing through you. "Alright, you caught me," you admitted with a grin. "I'm looking forward to catching up with an old friend."

As you sat at the bar, lost in your thoughts, you didn't notice the door swinging open, admitting a group of pilots. It wasn't until Penny nudged you once more and whispered excitedly that you looked up, your heart skipping a beat as you caught sight of Jake among them.

Before you could react, Jake's eyes locked onto yours, a look of sheer astonishment crossing his face. In a flash, he broke into a wide grin and dashed toward you, weaving through the crowd with purpose. You barely had time to register what was happening before Jake was upon you, pulling you into a massive bear hug that lifted you off your feet. Laughter bubbled up from deep within you as he spun you around in a whirlwind of joy and excitement, the world around you fading away as you surrendered to the moment.

"Y/N!" Jake exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine delight as he held you close, his grip on you tight and unyielding. You couldn't help but laugh along with him, feeling the warmth of his embrace enveloping you like a familiar cocoon. In that moment, it didn't matter who was watching or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was the sheer exhilaration of being reunited with Jake, of feeling his arms around you once again.

"What the hell are you doing here without telling me, Doc?" Jake exclaimed, his voice filled with mock indignation as he held you close, refusing to let you go.

You laughed, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you at the familiarity of his embrace. "Surprise?" you replied, unable to keep the grin from your face as you met his gaze.

Jake shook his head, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, consider me surprised," he admitted, his tone playful as he finally set you back down on solid ground. “I have to say, this is the best surprise I've had in a long time." As you stood there together, wrapped up in each other's arms, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over you. Despite the years that had passed since you last saw each other, it felt as though no time had passed at all. As though you had simply picked up right where you left off.

As the warmth of your embrace lingered, Jake's eyes remained fixed on yours, a softness settling over his features as he took in the sight of you. His hand remained firmly on your shoulder, his touch comforting and reassuring.

"I've missed you, Y/N," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke. "More than you'll ever know." You felt a swell of emotion rise within you at his words, the sincerity in his voice stirring something deep within your heart. Despite the distance and the time that had passed, the connection between you felt as strong as ever – a testament to the bond you shared.

Before you could respond, Jake's gaze softened even further, a flicker of determination shining in his eyes as he made a decision. Without hesitation, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours in a silent gesture of solidarity. "Let's catch up," he suggested, his voice filled with a quiet determination. "There's so much I want to tell you, so much I want to share."

You nodded, a smile spreading across your face at his eagerness to spend time together. "I'd love that," you replied, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect of reconnecting with Jake.

As you stepped outside into the cool night air, the sound of laughter and music fading into the background, Jake turned to you, his expression earnest. "Y/N, there's something I need to say," he began, his voice tinged with nervousness.

You looked at him, curiosity piqued by his serious tone. "What is it, Jake?" you asked, concern flickering in your eyes.

Jake took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "I've thought about this moment for so long, wondering if I'd ever get the chance to tell you how I feel," he confessed, his gaze unwavering as he met your eyes.

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, anticipation building within you as you waited for him to speak. "How you feel?" you prompted, unable to contain the hope in your voice.

Jake's lips curved into a tender smile, his eyes shining with sincerity. "Y/N, I've been wanting to tell you for so long, but I've been too afraid," he admitted, his voice filled with vulnerability. Before you could respond, he took a step closer, his hand reaching up to cup your cheek gently. "I want to be with you, Y/N," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "I want to make up for lost time and see where this goes."

Your heart fluttered at his words, and as you gazed into his eyes, you found yourself lost in the depths of his sincerity. His vulnerability touched you in a way you hadn't expected, and you felt a surge of affection for him that was impossible to ignore. But before you could respond, Jake took a deep breath, his gaze never leaving yours. "May I kiss you?" he asked, his voice soft but filled with determination.

Your breath caught in your throat at his question, surprised by his respect and thoughtfulness. You nodded eagerly, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Please, Jake," you replied with certainty, your voice barely above a whisper. "Of course."

As Jake's lips met yours, a surge of warmth flooded through your entire body. It was as if every nerve in you ignited with a newfound energy, responding to the tender, loving touch of his kiss. Your senses were overwhelmed by the sensation of his lips against yours, soft and yielding yet filled with an undeniable passion. Time seemed to stand still as you lost yourself in the sweetness of his embrace. His lips moved against yours with a gentle rhythm, each kiss sending sparks of electricity coursing through your veins. It was one of those kisses filled with longing and desire, a silent confession of the feelings that had been building between you for so long.

Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you as the intensity of the moment washed over you, but Jake's strong arms wrapped around you, holding you close and steady. His touch was both comforting and electrifying, grounding you in the present moment even as you felt yourself swept away by the sheer emotion of it all. His hands roamed over your back, pulling you closer to him as if he could never bear to let you go again. They were warm and reassuring, tracing the curves of your spine with a tenderness that left you breathless. For the first time in your life, you felt utterly and completely cherished, as if you were the most important person in the world to him. Because you were and he was determined to show you that.

As the kiss deepened, the world around you faded into nothingness, leaving only the two of you in your own private cocoon of love and desire. It was a moment you would treasure forever, a testament to the depth of the connection you shared with Jake.

When you finally pulled away, your lips still tingling from the sweetness of his, you found yourself lost in his eyes once again. As you gazed into Jake's, feeling the weight of his gaze and the depth of his love, a sense of peace washed over you. It was as if all the pieces of the puzzle had finally fallen into place, and you knew, deep in your heart, that this was where you were meant to be.

With a gentle smile, Jake pressed his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered softly, "I am never letting you go again." His words filled you with a sense of warmth and belonging, reassuring you that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. While you gazed into the depths of his soul, you knew that this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your story together.

Jake Seresin/Top Gun: Permanent Taglist (If you'd like to be added to any or all works please fill out the form here: Taglist Sign Up) @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @mamachasesmayhem @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @illisea @jessicab1991 @guacam011y @dempy @mrsevans90 @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff @missxmav @kajjaka

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zorosangell · 16 days ago

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I love your stories!! Maybe a Zoro x princess!reader would be interesting? She ran away and became a pirate of the crew, but she is still very formal and polite while Zoro is... Zoro 😂😂

⛥ﾟ・。 knight

synopsis: as a princess, you constantly have a bounty on your head, which means you are almost always under attack whenever the crew docks on an island. so, after zoro saves you from being kidnapped again, you both have a heart to heart... which ends in a little confession.

cw: fluffy fluff, comfort, reader talks very proper, reader's a little dense, zoro's a little emotionally constipated

"Get the princess!" the leader of the thugs shouted, swords drawn as the huge gang chased after you.

Hastily, Zoro attempted to cut a nearby corner, teetering to the side a little bit before he stabilized and continued to sprint down the street.

"What the hell were you thinking, huh?!" he panted, brows furrowed at he glanced at you, who was thrown over his shoulder. "I leave you alone for two seconds! And somehow you find a way to grab the attention of every damn criminal in town!"

"I was thirsty!" you exclaimed, defensively. "I thought I was going into a bar!"

"It was obviously a bounty hunter's nest!" he fired back.

"How was I supposed to know that?!"

"It was called the Killshot! And had a sign hanging outside with a picture of a gun!"

"I thought it was just a colorful theme!"

Zoro groaned, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head as he cursed whatever god that allowed this to happen yet again.

One of these days, he was gonna pretend he didn't see anything.

You were a princess, plain and simple, heir to the throne of some far off kingdom in the New World.

Ever since you were a little girl, you'd longed for adventure, not wanting your world to be confined to the walls of your castle, or the borders of your kingdom.

So, you promised yourself that the moment you turned eighteen, you'd run away.

And that's exactly what you did.

Though, in hindsight, it was probably not the best decision, as you had absolutely no idea how the outside world worked.

Still, somehow by fate or by fortune, your clueless self had managed to make it all the way to Loguetown, where the crew saved you from a few assassins.

Thus, you became the Strawhat's resident princess and diplomat.

And Zoro's resident pain in the ass.

Whenever the crew docked on a new island, you always insisted on exploring it yourself, excited to see the new sights and sounds.

And, like clockwork, you always found some way to call unwanted attention to yourself, the swordsman always finding himself in close proximity.

He had half the mind to think you did it on purpose.

Brows furrowed, his feet picked up speed, muttering intelligible things to himself.

'Princess be damned... no woman's worth this much trouble...'

Out the corner of his eye, Zoro peeped an alley not too far away, quickly running to duck inside it.

Dropping you to your feet, his strong hands grabbed your shoulders, yanking you into the shadows and covering your mouth as you let out a tiny yelp, eyes widening.

'Brute!'

You'd never been handled with such lack of care...

Back home, you were referred to as the Crowned Jewel of the Kingdom, known far and wide for your beauty and kindness.

Many often sang your praises, sending you buckets upon buckets of fan mail and writing songs about the prosperity your family had brought to the kingdom.

And the few that actually got to touch you did so with the utmost care, often reverently.

Meanwhile... this man talked to you as if you were an incompetent child, and tossed you around as if you were some sort of rag-doll.

Safe to say, it was quite the culture shock.

As the large group of men passed, Zoro tightened his grip on you, watching closely they examined the shops and stalls outside—some of them having split up to search quicker.

"Coulda sworn they were right here..." one of them grumbled under his breath, brows furrowed.

The dark-haired man paused, giving the space one more once over before turning to the others, sheathing his sword with an annoyed sigh.

"Looks like we lost 'em. Let's circle back to where we found 'em and see if that redhead knows anything."

Your eyes widened, knowing exactly who he was talking about.

"Nami!" you whimpered, forcing Zoro's calloused hand to press harder into your face to muffle the noise.

"Quiet," his deep, rough voice ordered, tone leaving no room for argument.

Suspicious, the man glanced in your direction, narrowing his eyes at the darkness as he looked directly at you—though he didn't know it.

Your heart stopped, your entire body freezing up as both you and Zoro stayed as still as statues, pressing firmer against the wall of the alley to avoid being revealed as he left.

And once he was completely one, you both let out a sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping as the tension finally oozed out your back.

"Are you stupid or something?" Zoro spat, curtly, brows furrowed. "You could've gotten us both caught!"

"I already expressed my apologies! It was not on purpose!" you countered, throwing your hands up in the air. "I simply wanted something to drink, but then those thugs just grabbed me! And did so without asking!"

Zoro let out another sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he hung his head.

You couldn't be serious...

"They're bounty hunters, (y/n)... they're not gonna ask permission to kidnap you."

"I'm afraid I just learned that firsthand," you huffed, a small pout gracing your lips and you leaned against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. "And after I was so generous... I even offered to negotiate the terms over lunch."

With a raised brow, Zoro leaned against the wall with you, confused.

"Terms?"

"A closed contract between me and all affiliates of the Killshot gang that would have guaranteed my continued residency with the Strawhat crew in exchange for a sum total of five-hundred million berries, paid monthly or in advance, depending on their preference."

The swordsman nearly choked on the air he was taking in, floored by the number you said so casually.

"Five-hundred million?!"

You nodded, plainly, confused by his surprise.

"Money is no object for my family. Especially pertaining to my safety," you shrugged. "I extend that offer to my friends, as well. Back at the auction house on Sabaody, I would have happily bought Camie to save her... but Sir Raleigh had already beat me to the punch."

Slowly, a small smile crept onto the swordsman's face, the rigidness in his stance slowly morphing into one more relaxed.

'Well, I'll be damned...'

It was moments like these that he enjoyed, as he was actually offered a glimpse at your true self.

The woman that an entire kingdom absolutely adored.

Princess (y/n).

Sure, you were hard-headed at times, and completely clueless when it came to social interactions outside of high society.

But you had heart, and generosity that quite literally knew no bounds.

Just... maybe some self defense lessons were needed.

"I gotta teach you some hand to hand if you're gonna keep goin' on these little expeditions," he sighed, clearing his throat as he glanced down at the ground.

"Combat?" you scrunched your nose. "What is the point of that when I have you?"

The gears in his head came to a screeching halt, his head snapping over to you so fast, you'd think he'd have whiplash.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"You are a swordsman, are you not?" you raised a brow.

"Yes..."

"And you follow me around, yes?"

"I don't follow you around!"

The man flushed, face burning at your plainness.

"You are always there when I am in trouble."

"Yeah... well... that's 'cause I have shit luck..."

"But you care about me, right?"

Zoro froze, throat clamming up.

He had never been presented with questions like these before, and they were forcing him to think.

To read into why exactly he was always there whenever you called for help.

You were always within arms reach of him, the two of you seeming to just naturally float around each other, even as you did your daily routines.

And although you were far from his responsibility, Zoro couldn't understand why he felt the need to worry so much.

He knew million times over that the crew was capable of protecting you, and that if anything were to happen, Luffy or Sanji could more than adequately swoop in to your rescue.

But for some reason, reminding himself of that fact didn't subdue the concern that spiked in his chest when you left his line of sight, or the faint pang of panic in his breath.

'Dammit...'

Too many questions.

"I... yes," he answered, awkwardly.

Instantly, a warm smile broke out on your face, melting the swordsman's heart into a puddle on the floor.

"Then, that makes you my sworn sword!" you beamed, cheekily.

"Your sworn... what?"

"My sworn sword. My knight. My champion," you elaborated. "You stand by my side throughout my travels and keep me under your protection."

"I do WHAT?!"

"Is your hearing all right? You seem to be having a hard time processing what I am saying..."

"No, no... it's... it's not that..."

An uncomfortable silence suddenly settled over you both, the swordsman practically praying that the gang would come back so he could run you both back to the ship and escape the atmosphere.

You, on the other hand, had been feeling quite the opposite, wanting things to be settled right here and now.

Zoro had been your "crush"—lovingly dubbed by Nami—for over two years, and was the only person in the world that was consistently there for you, always rushing to your rescue without fail.

Despite his prickly exterior, and his sharp words, you could tell he was a kind, loyal, and compassionate man.

He just needed a little push.

Just then, the sound of running footsteps began to draw nearer to the mouth of the alley, your eyes shooting wide at the sound.

"Someone is coming!" you whispered, quickly turning to him .

Eyes doe wide, and breath quickened, you settled on something you'd read in a book once, hoping it would conceal your faces.

What possessed you to do it, you had no idea.

Pulling the man in by his robe, you smashed your lips into his, his eye shooting as wide as a saucer.

Everything had gone from zero to a hundred so fast.

Left was up.

Down was right.

But, in that moment, everything felt oddly right.

So, for the first time in his life, he caved, allowing his eye to flutter shut and his body to ease into the kiss.

Sliding your hands up, one of them cupped his face, while the other threw your arm around his neck, keeping him in place as he snaked his arms tightly around your waist, pulling you closer.

The kiss was electric, and, while very uncoordinated and eager, felt like liquid fire was coursing through your veins, pushing you forward.

Smoothly, the two of you shifted, Zoro pushing you up against the wall and tilting his head in order to get a better angle, deepening the kiss even further.

His hands gripped you even tighter, suddenly fearful he would float away if you didn't keep him grounded.

With your touch burning his skin and your scent flooding his nostrils, he felt like he was higher than the clouds, like this was heaven on earth.

Your lips were so damn soft...

Hell, you were so damn soft...

You washed over him like a wave of calm, the rhythm of the kiss lulling his worry-filled mind until the only thing he could think about was why the hell he didn't do this sooner.

"Aw, jeez! This is what you guys were doing all this time?!" Luffy exclaimed from the mouth of the alley, completely ruining the moment.

'Thats why...'

The two of you quickly threw yourselves off each other, faces burning with embarrassment as you looked in opposite directions.

"At least do that inside. You're gonna catch somethin' out here..." he shrugged, turning to walk away.

Your eyes shot wide, and you snapped your head over to the boy.

"Wait, Luffy, what did you think we were—?" "Don't wanna talk about it!"

"You idiot, we weren't—!" "M'not listening!"

You turned to the swordsman, brow raised in confusion.

"What is he talking about?"

Zoro's eye widened, and it finally donned on him that you hadn't been taught about... the birds and the bees.

'Christ...'

"I'll tell you another time," he sighed, talking your hand and leading you toward the exit of the alley. "Let's go back to the ship."

"Yes, of course!" you playfully bellowed. "Lead the way, knight!"

"I'm not your knight!"

"Whatever you say... knight..."

#zorosangell #one piece #one piece x reader #roronoa #roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro #zoro x reader #op

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itsabouttimex2 · 1 month ago

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Eclipse Kings

Part Three: Wild Dawn

(Part One: Mountain Monkeys) (Part Two: Barbed Dusk) (Part Three: You Are Here)

(Extra One)

For almost all his life, Sun Wukong had never really known “want”, not for more than the few moments it took to decide he was going to pursue some fleeting and new desire.

The land itself seemed to conspire to his favor- he was borne to a thriving mountain of surplus and luxury, sparkling stream racing down each hill, bountiful orchards with boughs so heavy they dipper near to the earth. Even the horizon was generous, spanning sunrises to color his every lavish breakfast and hosting a banner of glittering stars to lull him to sleep.

He wanted for nothing, because when the world would not bend to his whims, he simply bent it himself- to the end result of power, luxury, and adoration.

His life was fraught with the inevitable turning of blades, stuffed full of motion, conflict, and inevitable triumph. His troop grew by the year, Flower Fruit Mountain knew nothing of suffering, and his treasury was brimming with relics.

A demon crowned eternal king of a flourishing mountain, untouchable and immovable.

What more could a monkey want?

Company, as it turned out. The varied little simians scattered all through the trees and bushes of his mountain were wonderful, of course- he cherished them all like his own children, and doted on each and every one of the little menaces.

But he still wanted more.

—-——————————————————————

“That, little mortal, is when I joined my Sworn Brotherhood!”

The Great Sage Equal to Heaven smiles warmly at his recited memories, claws lightly sifting through a large collection of traditional clothing.

“We were going to lead a siege on that stuck-up realm of Celestials, but my darling moonbeam had an even better idea- why not start our own kingdoms? Instead of teaching those stuffy old fools how to respect us, we could just show them up and take all their little worshipping mortals away!”

You don’t say a word in turn, still bundled up in a fluffy towel, sitting on the nearest chair, idly watching through blank eyes. Since you hadn’t been willing to walk or respond, Wukong had scooped you up with a sigh and hurried off to his and Macaque’s shared changing room, given permission to pick out some old clothes of theirs to give you.

“Of course, all of the stuff that was supposed to be boring was, uh… a total mess. Y’know, like deciding on territories, drawing borders, figuring out taxes—ugh. Mortals do not like taxes. Sure like ‘em better than being eaten by demons, though.” He chuckles at his own words, shaking his head as if to dismiss the unpleasant memories of bureaucracy. Wukong pulls out a black ceremonial robe embroidered with purple thread and holds it up against you, squinting as if he’s considering how it might look.

“…no. My sweet moon wouldn’t like you wearing this.”

“…s’it “too nice” for me?”

“…you mortals really aren’t the best with self-esteem, are you? No, little villager- it’s because he wore something like this when we were married. After that, he started commissioning seamstresses to make him more clothes like that robe… the actual thing is framed in a glass box over our bed. I don’t understand why Mac wanted that, but I can’t ever say no to him…”

Wukong’s voice trails off, tone softening as his gaze drifted to the ceiling. A smile plays on his lips, barely restrained, as he’s replaying his dearest memory of Macaque on repeat. You shift uncomfortably, unsure how to respond, the weight of his affection for his moonlit partner pressing against the silence.

He breaks it himself, but only after walking across the room and popping open lacquered wood chest, breaking the preserving sigil printed across it .

“You know,” says the king, his claws tapping the gleaming pauldron of gold within, “I wore this when we got married.”

He turns to the side, catches the fact that you’ve perked up even a little, and continues.

“It was the nicest thing I owned at the time- most of my outfits were skinned animals and stolen rags. This is something my brothers had given me, so it was the nicest thing I had that wasn’t my staff.”

Wukong’s fingers linger on the golden armor, tone rich with an ancient nostalgia. “I wasn’t one for fancy clothes back then- still coming around to it now- but I was even worse with it back then. I wanted to go in my tiger skirt and my old boots! But my brothers? Oh, they insisted: “You’re getting married- you can’t just show up looking like a bandit on your wedding day!” So they gave me this, and a nice red robe with a ton of silly characters embroidered into it- it’s framed right next to my mate’s robe, now.”

Say something. You need to say something. You can’t just mumble and mutter if you want to stay in a king’s good graces, can you?

“…do you… remember your vows?”

He perks with a smile, intrigued by the random question, entirely missing how dangerously close you are to cracking.

“Well, if that’s want you want to know, how about I tell you about the whole ceremony? Here, I’ll lay out how it went…”

——————————————————————

Macaque shuffles in place for a moment, old meekness returning to him- his hands twitch, and the notes smoothly inked onto the sleeve of his silk robe catch in the light, drawing his aureate eyes downwards. The crowd all around is nervous mortals and drunk demons, dressed in red or black or gold, held at peace mostly by his eager “brothers”. On Azure’s lap and shoulders are several children, more interested in his blade and snout than the ceremony. He’s smiling, more at ease than any other here.

The others for the most part are doing alright. Peng is preoccupied with their drink, casually allowing themselves to be marveled at by a blacksmith and a jeweler- though neither are allowed to touch, both mortals are fervently etching the gilded designs into their paper scrolls. The avian flaps those glimmering wings on occasion, causing streaks of light to flash over the modest venue, catching across the polished tiles.

Yellowtusk sits on a carved stone chair, marking the attendants in a neat ledger, made oversized to fit his hands. Several troops of Long-Tailed and Crab-Eating Macaques play on his trunk and tusks, their little fingers deftly taking hold in the cracks of his thick skin to ascend it. They don’t ever distract him for more than a few seconds, even when the youngest cubs forget their manners and start chirping in his ears.

The largest of their Brotherhood stands at attention in the doorway, toying with the straps of his battle axe. His face is painted with a rarely seen apprehension, looking back and forth over the room on occasion. Sometimes his gaze stills on a veil-shrouded woman with painted lips, and then he smiles for a moment.

The Demon Bull King is not nearly as subtle of a man as he thinks.

Not that it matters- when, for all that (which is very much) his Sworn Brothers know he’s courting a Celestial Maiden, they’ve chosen to keep an oath of silence on the matter.

(“He’s our big guy,” as Wukong had put it during one meeting months ago. “And we want that goofball to be happy.”)

(All of them- even Peng- had toasted to that notion, in the general direction of the bull’s empty chair.)

The mortals are safe. His brothers are content. He can do this.

Once more the dried notes on his sleeve catch Macaque’s attention, snapping him from the venue and to his golden love.

One last time he goes over them, dedicating those practiced words to memory.

He takes a breath, and turns to the audience.

“My mate-to-be is… molten gold, kissed by the rising sun. Beautiful is a shallow word to describe him- he is a masterpiece, a divine work of art carved by the heavens themselves. His eyes hold the all the world’s fire within them, blazing with the brilliance of a thousand sunsets. His laughter is a hymn to freedom itself, a melody I pray to hear every day for the rest of my life. When I look at him, I don’t just see a king, but the very heart of my existence, the axis upon which my world turns. He is my sun, my storm, my sanctuary, my everything.”

Several of the softer mortals are touched by his speech, lifting their cotton sleeves to the very corners of their eyes. Others only lightly clap, still uncomfortable at being called to the union.

Macaque does not have time to look away from before Wukong’s ginger-furred paws clasp onto his shoulders, holding tight.

There are no notes, no hours of reciting, no time spent with helpful Sworn Brothers to listen and offer advice, no matter how snarky- Sun Wukong simply turns from the crowd and offers himself.

“Macaque… I love you. I want you to be my mate forever. Until the sun goes dark.” Wukong's tail flicks behind him, expression softening with a rare blush. "Because... you're part of my story, bud. You’ve always been a part of it. And I'm tired of pretending like I can write the rest of it without you. Be mine forever and let’s be mates.”

The world is blurry, at least to Macaque. Nine and a half seconds prior he had thought there’d be some disappointment to push through, delivered an insincere joke or a vow written by another’s hand.

But there was only been Sun Wukong, love of his life, smiling at him.

“I will be your mate,” he chokes out, “forever. Until the sun goes dark.”

——————————————————————

“We’ve never been apart since then,” he purrs, dragging one claw over a hanfu the color of a sky on a gentle morning, toying with the white sash to untie it. “Not even for a day.”

Before you have a chance to respond, he plucks up the garment and holds it out to you. The size difference between him and the outfit is comical, and you wonder why these two demon kings have it in the first place.

“This should fit you, bud! Here, let’s get that towel off-“

You scream.

It’s not particularly loud or long, or even desperate- but it’s a scream all the same.

Worse still for yourself, you take this hysteric moment to lay on some shaky remand.

“NO! No more! Just stop touching me! I don’t- I d-don’t like it! You’re- you’re twice my size and you keep- you and him are always getting in my face and- a-and putting your hands on me, and I- I’m am so, so sick of it! I am not an o-object! I am a person! I am a person! I-“

“Quiet. Now.”

Wukong’s golden eyes narrow as he stands there, the weight of his presence pressing down on the room like a thundercloud ready to burst. His tail flicks sharply, but his voice remains measured.

…there are tears rolling down your eyes now, lost in the fluffy expanse of the towel around your body, sopping uselessly away as the king takes two footsteps to your form, frowning.

Not that it does anything to settle the rapid beat of your heart, crushed by the newly oppressive atmosphere.

“…you’re scared. I understand that. And maybe my moonbeam and I, we’ve been a little too hands on. That’s on us. But this my pagoda, and I did not build it by hand so that a little guest could yell at me. You know that you’re not a prisoner here. The doors aren’t locked, and there aren’t guards stationed outside them… now. I’ll let you get dressed- alone- and then you can eat. And…

“And no more touching without your permission. Okay?”

“…m’sorry. F-for yelling.”

“…I’m not mad,” he lies, one hand shifting to condescendingly pat you on the head. “I forget- my brothers, and my mate, too- we yaoguai just aren’t the same as mortals. You little things are scared too easily, and break so quickly.”

Something about hearing that is humiliating, but you don’t dare argue with him. Instead, you hunch your shoulders and cling to the towel, sniveling down at the floor.

Wukong’s frown softens the longer he watches you cry, all the sharpest edges of his irritation melting away into something closer to pity.

“I’ll leave it here. Call if you get lost looking for the kitchen.”

His words are painfully curt, and then the king is gone, golden beads and silk robes swishing behind him with each step.

You were never close, and only ever tangentially in the “good graces” of these kings. It’s not like you’ve shattered some precious bond.

But you still feel bad.

You wouldn’t, not usually. But as you unwrap the towel and begin to dress yourself in the lovely hanfu left draped over the chair nearest to you, the aches and pains of yesterday’s chase down the mountain weigh on you, just as MK’s new identity and newer happiness strike a deep point of insecurity- that you simply weren’t good enough to take care of him.

You weren’t good enough to provide for him anymore.

You wanted to believe you were more than them- strong enough to survive on your own, to fight your way through the world with MK in tow. But the truth was harder to face: Sun Wukong and the Six-Eared Macaque were meteoric gods, and you were just a mortal caught in the tides of their myth.

And where MK was thriving in this ecliptic chaos, you instead were already cracking under pressure after only a day spent before the kings.

…there’s a lovely silk pouch, dyed the color of new lavender blooms, hanging from the hanfu- you only notice it after tying the sash into a decent bow. The soft texture grounds your tumultuous thoughts, and a powerful aroma steadily drifts from within.

You fiddle with the tie and open the sash, revealing a dried bundle of orange blossoms tightly tied together, each stem marked with a glittering mystic sigil- 提高.

Whatever scent they would’ve had already was amplified by the marking, causing a heavy flow of fresh floral scent to ooze from the little purse.

You lift it and take a deep breath from the bag, allowing the veil of citrus aroma to utterly cloud your mind, providing it a much needed fog to rest under.

The soothing haze is slow to fade, even after you’ve pulled away and sealed the bag, but eventually you are left with only your steadied thoughts in the ornate chamber, amongst fine silks and polished wood, treasures of centuries past hung casually about It’s beautiful—almost too much so.

A reminder that this world of theirs is not the same of yours.

But you would not stop trying to survive in it.

You couldn’t.

#Platonic Yandere #Yandere Lego Monkie Kid #Yandere LMK #Yandere Sun Wukong #Yandere Macaque #Yandere Father #MK #Azure Lion #Peng #Yellowtusk #Demon Bull King #Shadowpeach #Eclipse Kings #Not The Beloved #2K

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themareverine · 1 month ago

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Designated Driver | oldman!Logan x namelessfem!OC

SYNOPSIS: “Hey driver!” Tits, yeah—counts two of 'em. What Logan can't quite shake isn't the drunk-off-her ass's $20,000 tit job, or even the way his passengers embarrass themselves with shameless come-ons, stupid amounts of money. something else, entirely—a pretty little thing all done up in makeup and curls, wishing she were anywhere but third-wheeling a drunk hen party. "Sorry about my friend, she's—" "Didn't even notice her, honey."

warnings: this is so offensively long, I'm SORRY. flirting, drunkenness, flashing, maybe some oldman!logan inappropriate thoughts, maybe a kiss, general shyness/awkardness of that girl, language, not proofread, mentions of oral sex, OC has blue eyes.

a/n: and finally, after many weeks, it's here. not entirely sure how i feel about this, it's very self indulgent. let me know what you think, and maybe there needs to be a part two?

There’s a lot of things about this fucking limo that Logan hates.

For one, you couldn’t ask for a shittier lease agreement, and if such a hellish thing dared to exist, Satan holds the pink slip. Two years ago it had seemed like a good fucking idea, leasing some long black experimental piece of Chrysler shit that was heavy off the line and a low fatass—hot as fuck though, with chrome plated lugs. Midnight metal flake showed every piece of God’s earth, the color of sin. Washed the fucker every other day. Couldn’t make green with a dirty rig, and he was an anal retentive sonuvabitch like that to begin with. And the interior, fuck that, it would tell secrets it showed every damn piece of filth that fell into it. Paid or otherwise.

This shitpiece had a tendency to run hot and burn crude, but, she got the groceries—brought home bacon, if that was even still a thing in this century. Toss up between this and the Navigator the color of bad ideas, he’d flipped for the Chrysler. Industry standard, turned heads, attracted the upper echelon. No intention of hauling around fucktards into the suburbs—black paint looked good under Vegas neon on the strip.

But the biggest fucking thing he hated about this rig— fucking privacy partition. Busted worse than a fat lip and had been since the jump. Any serious driver, that would’ve been the first thing to check. Separate him from the sin—hot piece of ass that slid into the backseat looking at him like he’s dinner, a couple too deep in on the red to think straight, the fucker on business hiding his wedding ring in his dick pocket as he picks up an STD.

The first God-awful time he’d went to use it, the damn thing had all but stood up and shrieked in his ear. Grinding gears, the knock of a seized electric motor—scared the shit out of the handsy blonde who’d been trying to get his dick wet since the moment she’d dropped into the back of the Chrysler, tits all but popping from what looked like at least a size too small black—thing. Hadn’t been a dress, he’d seen plenty of them slide in and out—she’d made a spectacle of showing off the little lace number squirreled away for the right price. And it wasn’t that he’d been preening for a look, wasn’t his style—but when it’s right there. Plain as the nose on anyone’s face, and he’s been chaste as a priest for fucking years. It taking up all the glass of his rearview, looking like a felony—the devil had all but welded his attention between her legs.

”Looks like you’re stuck with me, hm?”

Fucking partition. A business-only kiss landed two hundred green ones between his abs and the elastic of his Calvins. A handful of hours of rack and many shotglasses later had put him on the scent to hell, the damn dealership. Four hours from the border, four hours from any kind of work—he’d all but flown the thing into the service bay. Demanded a new partition. And, Logan had been laughed out of a lot of places the last two centuries he’d been sucking air—laughed, jeered, driven out with pitchforks. Circumstances aside, it all ended the same. Vamoose, pissed off his rocker.

An astronomical estimate later, with the fucked-in-the-rear-end isn’t covered by warranty—his fist had collided with the service writer’s nose faster than his patience had evaporated for the blonde. All but jammed the prick’s deviated septum up into his brainspace—Logan had felt it between his knuckles. Only thing keeping his patience held together, keeping the claws in, the man’s crunching cartilage had given him a high not much removed from amphetamine—it had felt good. Feel some asshat’s blood on his hands, staining his skin. See it hit the floor in fat, thick drops. Feel the warmth of it fade as he brushed it away, coppery scent an idea beneath his nose so familiar it may as well pay rent.

Didn’t get his partition, though. Just a bad taste of customer service and the satisfaction of seeing a grown man cry.

Logan isn’t a man to complain—never did change the cards dealt you at the gametable of living. Better to shut up and play, make due with what you’ve got than wish away opportunities. Sure, an almost-lemon of a leased Chrysler with a busted partition wasn’t great, but, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d have given his right nut for the chance to work, much less actual green. Put up and shut up had been the mantra since he’d all but popped out of his mother, and it had, for all intents and purposes, kept him this side of the dirt. Sucking air and feeling, if nothing more—and what was surviving, if not sucking air and feeling?

Doesn’t know. Doesn’t care.

Music that’s been muffled most of the ride tonight suddenly isn’t, the back door of the rig flinging open, a wide arch, revealing the world beyond. Neon bleeds across the black leather of his interior. A smack of humidity rushes in, almost immediately fogs the passenger windows— he keeps it ass-in-winter cold, A/C all but screaming full bore. Likes it that way, keeps him awake. Keeps them awake, he isn’t hauling anyone’s ass anywhere because they fell asleep in his seats.

And while he isn’t startled—there isn’t fucking anything that could scare him, he doesn’t think—Logan’s spine pulls into a straight line against his seat at the sliver of night outside the door. Alarm bells sound off in the back of his head, eyes narrowed on the rearview—hand all but lava, hovering over the gearshift. He’s been here before, on the jump. Ready to rock and roll, ready to kill—should killing need be. He’s lived two centuries on this edge, this cliff. Walking the line between reflex and ready. It’s almost carved into his skin, alarm—comes as naturally as the crest and fall of his chest.

Logan relaxes a little when a peek of skin slips hurriedly into the back seat, familiar stiletto heels. Air in the limo immediately snaps to an all-soldier attention, flustering—like a disturbed hen rustling her chicks. Something isn’t right, isn’t stable—nuclear, almost. Dangerous. The car shifts a little with incoming weight as one of the night’s passengers whisks into the back. Curl and makeup and the familiar whiff of peaches escorts her in as she pulls the door closed, all too quickly for this to be a normal, unbothered arrival.

Her. Muscle in his jaw ticks off, it takes willpower not to wriggle in the front seat, shift his weight a little. Usually it helped shake off the hot weight of sex rolling around the base of his gut, desire. Carnal things he’d learned to live without, suppress. Animalistic and snapping at his spine like frothing wolves. Most times, it was easy to not notice—girls, women, came and went in their short dresses and makeup. Pretty to see, but venomous little things. Maneaters, trouble on stilts. None of them were pretty–pretty in the way that mattered, pretty souls. Ugliness shot behind their eyes like bullets, low and cold. Dimes and dozens, nameless and unnoteworthy as they slipped him tips, batted their lashes, kissed him like he was their plaything because who’s he to fight a pair of tits? Forgettable is understating it.

But her? He hasn’t been able to unglue her piercing eyes from his brain matter. And, he’s tried—like it or not, he’s tried bailing water out of this canoe, a canoe that’s been hallowed and empty for God knew how long. But it’s like emptying water back into the ocean—it only comes back, heavier and heavier.

No dice. Close, but no cigar–unlucky bastard.

She’d slipped into the limo before the night had even been an idea, one of three who’d decided to split fare for a sober ride. Pharmacy, first, for little more than IVs of electrolytes and fluids—never had seen girls guzzle so fast, but, whatever. Mile-a-minute chatter he hadn’t even bothered to pace had kept them busy most of the ride into the metroplex, and Logan should’ve prayed they’d ignored him. Kept his fat trap shut and just let them guide him, but God, no. He’d asked—asked for directions. Where they were going.

Had asked, and fuck him, that had sent things off with a bang. As if they hadn’t realized he’d been there, all three of them had locked eyes with him in the rearview, surprised thrown over the air like a stifling blanket. Heartbeats later, awkward and thick, one of them had leaned forward. Arms over the seat, showing off everything God had given her as she’d all but pumped her bedazzled phone in his face as if it were a shotgun.

He’d clocked her noticing he wasn’t wearing a ring. Was jacked as fuck under an two-undone button shirt and jacket that fit him like sin. Deliberate choice, but–she’d all but started drooling right there on his lap, hungry like a starving man at banquet.

Asking God for some shred of mercy had done little—the look on her face. He’d never forget it, had seen enemies look at him with more mirth and pity. Shit. Hungry, in the eyes. Desperate, like a dying woman choking on her own libidol. After rattling off the address, it would've been faster if he’d just hit the brakes and sent her flying forward through the window. Skulking back into her seat as if it were an X-rated shot, she’d eye fucked him hard until she’d been dragged back into hushed, schoolgirl conversation. Gross.

And that was it, the beginning of the end. Eyes glued to the back of his head like some kind of anchor—Logan could’ve tasted them from here. Was hell trying not to make eye contact in the rearview, feeling their gaze hunting him like wild banshees. Spiking adrenaline, heady plumes of pheromones. Arousal, unlike anything he’d ever wanted to scent—stunk up the air like God knew. Half-starved vixens, all low and bedroom eyes, begging for trouble in all the right little ways that leave men slobbering fools. Had they been parked and out of the Chrysler, the two of them would’ve been on their knees, if not on his cock.

He’d blasted the air again, because the air in the damn car was so thick he would’ve cut it in halves.

Low lashes, smoky eyes. Lips the color of cherries. Tight black dresses and heels higher than heaven, they’d been dressed to kill—maybe a little less. Lobotomize, maybe. Cut out hearts, certainly—blue ball, absolutely.

Pity the bastard who gets the taste of these tarts, pity, and probably mercy.

Bachelorettes, he’d guessed off the gun. Correctly, too—not two blocks from CVS and out came cheap accessories. FUCK ME may as well have been written in lipstick on Stuck-In-the-Middle’s forehead, he assumed she was the future betrothed. By the look of her, much less the smell, she’d been aching for tonight. Primed and desperate, like an oil-starved pistol. Clawing for it, walking the heat of the desert for change. Something else, something new, something dangerous—cock. Dick. Be it Tom, Harry, or some other poor fool—Logan could clock it from anywhere. She’d been sitting on this for a hot minute. Maybe since she’d been born.

And Logan’s uncertain who to pity more—her or the mediocre cock she’s about prowling for—the lopsided tiara, tacky dimestore BRIDE sash out of a CVS bag were just warning signs. Red flags, if you were smart about it. Darkness in her eyes would make any man second guess the two carats on her finger, if men weren’t animals. And they were, every one of them—and she’s far too drop-dead to not demand attention, to not homewreck and ruin some poor, unsuspecting fool’s evening.

Watching her slip those two carats into her handbag, he’d just shook his head.

Silence to stir the dead had followed after they’d eye fucked him into celibacy. Blissful, sweet as the Nile quiet. A creak of movement, the slip of skin on leather—her. Short brunette curls with highlights, icy blues. Defined collarbones in a hardly-strapped dress, big earrings. Sparkles, everywhere, blended into makeup that’s been on awhile but still looks good. And she, she isn’t like the rest—not by a mile. How she moves, the way her lashes flutter. Doe-eyed and sweet. Doesn’t smell like sin, the kiss of color on her cheeks isn’t blush, either.

Peaches, this one smells like fucking peaches. Something floral.

She’s sweet. Saccharine, sugary. Like everything Logan’s forgotten. Pretty, in that girl-next-door kinda way—the way he’s always noticed, the way nobody else ever does. And what a pretty thing like her is doing in the back of his sinwagon, riding with Jezebels, hunting for trouble—he’ll never know.

Hours before this, she’d leaned forward, pretty hands on the back of his seat. Done up nails that looked fake, but not cheap. This close, he could see her contact lenses replacing nine-to-five frames, the permanent little indentations on her nose were unmissable. Ocean eyes smiled at him through the glass of his rearview, as if it were a game. Good at it, she won—he blinked first.

Offered him a little half smile, that dust of color on her nose darkening to an almost strawberry. When his eyes hit hers again from the road, icy blues ramped up like pulsing neon, unlike any he’d ever seen in two fucking centuries. Difficult to think, he’d had to realize he was holding his breath in the pocket of his cheek, hot against his molars. She’d reached across the back of the seat to gently nudge him with her elbow—hey. It should’ve sounded like something you gave to horses, but it was—considerate.

Nearly fucking polite.

You got the address okay, sir? If his tongue hadn’t swollen to the size of his balls he’d have dared to laugh at her. Sir. If he thinks hard, Logan can’t remember the last time he’d been seriously called sir, from a place of consideration, behind the ribs. He’s been alive for hundreds of years, seen a lot of shit and blood, but has been called a professional and crisp sir all but five times in his existence on God’s planet.

Shaking himself out of it, he tells himself she isn’t the first pretty skirt to grace the leathers of his Chrysler. To look pretty and smell good, to stir up his cold blood. Wouldn’t be the last, by far. Part of his marketing was that he was safe. Stuck around, even when the witching hour faded into bleeding colors of morning. Fair & There, as if he were a fucking marketing guru.

She’d slipped out of the limo with her friends even though he’d wanted her to stay. Wanted to smell her and look at her all night, mull over all the things in his life he’d abandoned. Think about how, maybe, in some other world, bend of time, something that sweet could belong to him. But, she’d thanked him. Obviously the designated sober of the night, she’d arranged to text fifteen minutes before they wanted to leave in case he wanted to get a drink or took another gig.

I’ll be here all night, and that wasn’t a lie. The flask burning a hole against his heart had enough whiskey to last him until morning, another bottle tucked under the seat for safekeeping. He was safe, he was there, and too damn tired to even try to think about driving around the city on a time schedule.

It’d been two hours, parked under the neon at the curb. Not even midnight. Normal clients would just be breaking stride, setting paces. At the gate, snorting like stallions in heat. Rutting like animals, working the game. Nothing he didn’t know all too well, he’d lived his wild years a lifetime ago—he knew what sex and booze, a good time smelled like. Could clock it every time, wasn’t daft. Had witnessed his fair share of back-alley fucks, the straightening of a hemline. Crooked buttons and tented-out slacks.

Tonight wouldn’t be different, he assumed—well. Had assumed. Which, as the saying went, made him an ass.

Her heartbeat from the frontseat is almost tangible, hard and fast. Jackrabbit—as if she’d dropped it in his hands, bleeding and raw all over his fingers. Logan’s eyes fall away from the rearview for a beat, ticks back to her when she slides across the seat. Straightening the end of her dress, which hits below the knee–or would, if she were upright, but now pulls at her thighs. And the way she fiddles with it suggests it’s shorter than it was earlier in the evening, when sin was exciting and didn’t slap like a bitch.

Tucked in against the opposite door, looking out tinted glass like it’s a skyline worth seeing, not just a lot of nothing. And something’s off, he can feel it in the little pulses of electricity of the air, the heat in her blood. Anger. The tick tick tick of frustrated fingernails on the edge of the window. Upset. It buzzes in her blood, which he can feel thumping against her bones from here. Slick scent of sweat between her thighs, swirls of alcohol and pyrotechnic smoke mixed with fairy dusting drugs. It’s enough to make him shift, crack the window.

Long gone are the peaches and florals, now she just bleeds with heat and virility enough to stir the gods. Fucking perfect.

How long’s it been, old boy? Dull pangs in his cock make him shift up in his seat, stir some blood into his feet. Eyerolls, gaze hitting the pavement out his window, sick fuck. Just a girl, just like the rest. Reaches inside his breast pocket for a cigar and a light.

And as much as he wishes it isn’t true, Logan can’t quite shake that she ain’t just a girl—not by a shot, long or short. He’s seen a thousand of them, sure—seen and tasted and fucked senseless. Yeah. But—none like this. None that make him burn at the drop of a hat and a smile. None that twist his guts like a corkscrew, rip him open like he’s a fresh kill. He didn’t even know her name, anything about her. He swore to God he wasn’t this type of man, couldn’t be bought with some pretty eyes and cherry lipstick. Happened to wet-behind-the-ears boys only ever hoping their balls dropped into manhood, not guys like him. Not men that had seen a thing or two, not men who had sampled the female sex from every fucking era the last two hundred years had presented.

Not men with demons, not men with metal bones and rust spinning through his cells like Satan’s blood. Not him.

But it doesn’t seem to matter, because her presence in the limo upsets his sensibilities like an earthquake. Seemed to fillet him like a fat bass, pull his ribs back to watch his heart beat. Everything he didn’t know, everything she could be—choked the life out of him, those wicked blues heavy as steel. If he weren’t careful, she’d see through him, like—like memories. And she, like everyone else, wouldn’t like what she saw lurking in his bones, in the organ behind his ribs.

All his life hiding who he is, years hiding from everything the world wanted to label him, only to—

Fuck. Yeah. Something’s off—is his leg bouncing? The fuck is that about? Fuck, fuck. His fingers card through his hair, cough aching in his bronchial tubes. Shit.

Another glance in the glass reveals she isn’t even looking at him, thoughts out the window in the shifting low lights of the limo’s interior. Maybe a million miles from here, but nonetheless—she’s everywhere, every damn where in the space of the Chrysler, this sinwagon that’s messing with his head. Everything about her. Her scent, her pheromones playing him like a fucking game, the heat along her spine. Blood in her veins, ripping through her heart, the pull and push of arteries and cardiovascular muscle. Mesh of her lungs, rising and falling. He’s tuned into it like it’s the fucking evening news.

And everything about this is wrong, his guts swim with it.

Fingering the cigar between two swollen knuckles, Logan ignores pain that zings. Rips through the adamantium in his arm like it’s starving, hunting for air. And Logan is maybe considering that he’s lost his mind, that it’s somehow taken up residence in his dick, when—-a sniffle.

Good fuck. Is she crying? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It’s magic, the little breathy thing girls do when they’ve been crying, but don’t want you to flag it. Witchraft, maybe. Men will never understand how they do it, cry without tears, but—it’s a thing. Definitely, confirmed by science somewhere, some egghead in a lab taking notes on female specimens and how they manage such emotion while still looking like she does. Vaguely his memories spin with all the girls he’s known throughout his life, and how every single one of them have this ability hardwired into their core being, mutations aside.

Biting the cigar between his teeth in the corner of his mouth, he flicks the lighter between his thumb and index finger, holding it up in line of sight. His head angles to look up at the rearview, a rough cough rattling the mesh of his lungs enough to trigger her attention. And sure enough, she has been crying—her knuckle gently brushes at the trails of tears all but neon on her face beneath the limo’s lights, eyes flicking to the rearview to meet his.

Coughing, he eases his back against the seat. Hot muscle burns a little as tension bleeds away, “You care if I smoke?”

And why he asks, Logan isn’t sure—he’s never asked before. Then again, he’s never had to ask, because it’s a standing policy to not smoke on a gig. Tonight, though, he needs something to do with his hands, to calm the magma rushing through his blood, the cold sweat bubbling up on the back of his neck. Staining his white fucking shirt. Even a blush from the grave and exhausted, slowly dying away from whatever is inside of him, he isn’t an idle man. If he doesn’t do something, he won’t be able to help himself—he can barely fight back the urge to not lose whatever sanity’s buried alive and get himself off, right here and now.

Anything to masquerade the scent of whatever’s slick between her legs. You are a sick, perverted fuck, Logan. True, probably. But it’s been years, a lot of years. And he hasn’t wanted a lot of women, hasn’t clocked many that he’d actually enjoy rousting up a fantasy over. And she smells like a good time, something he may not actually regret. That would be a first.

Tucking a little tighter against the door, her eyes close as she gently shakes her head. Curls flick around her features as she does, and she cracks her window before reaching forward to slip off both shoes. Logan had noticed them—yellow, bright highlighter yellow so jovial they may as well have smacked him upside his head. So out of place, but they were sexy as hell—he’d always appreciated a well dressed woman, and as impractical as they were, high heels did add a punch of something that made him a little hard in the dick.

“I do, but go ahead,” it’s a little sigh, one he’s all but five-star VIP familiar. “One of us should enjoy ourselves, anyway.”

In zero to none he flicks the lighter to life, burns the edge of the cigar until it’s hot. Thick, it rides his throat perfectly—chases that gut-twisting urge that’s coiled around the base of his spine like a viper. Through his blood it goes, ramping up the rust and poison and years that kill, and he heaves a sigh—falls back a little rougher against the seat. That ache in his cock twitches, but she retreats.

His eyes fall closed, heart settling down behind his bones. “You wouldn’t happen to sell those little bottles of booze in this rig, would you?” Makes him start a little, and Logan blinks. A little surprised, he angles to look over his shoulder at her, arm lifting to drape over the bench seat. Brow raised, she elaborates, obviously reading his expression. “You know, the luxury part of ‘luxury accomodations’?”

“Not a part of the deal, honey.”

“Ah, you don’t like money, then,” the corner of her mouth ticks up with a smirk when he shifts a little more in his seat to study her. He catches what she lays down, without thinking. “And I ain’t anyone’s ‘honey’, so don’t be an ass and assume. Please.” Blinking, Logan can’t remember the last time he felt his stomach actually lift with amusement—the little way she says her ‘o’s’ is dangerous, suggests the north–either Canada. Minnesota, Wisconsin. North Dakota maybe? Anywhere but this far on the border, the edge of the world. Interesting.

Fucking Calliban. Knew he’d regret the hard copy that albino had suggested, but, it was too little too late. Surprised, he manages a little growl of complaint before he leans forward, hand fumbling against the floorboard carpet of the passenger’s side. Knuckles nudge the bottle of Jack Daniels, and he grabs the neck of it before allowing it to dangle between his fingers. Amber liquid dances like a tornado through the bottle, sloshing against the glass like a dream.

Unstopping it, he pulls back a sharp drink of it. “Have at it,” it’s rough, raw. Irritation peeks through the teeth of it, but it’s more resigned than anything.

Leaning forward, her eyes hold his and she hesitates to snatch the bottle away, hand hanging in the air. She’s got lithe fingers, bigger hands—hands that look strong. His attention cocks slightly when he notices the callouses, the scars on her knuckles. They aren’t polished, nine-to-five office hands like ninety percent of the girls who pass through his service. Briefly he wonders what her fake nails would feel like curled against skin, but dismisses it when she plucks the bottle from between his fingers.

“Thanks,” her chuckle comes from her gut, almost a growl of relief that says finally! as she puts the cool class to her lips. Guzzles back a full shot. Rights, her cherry lips part into a small smile as she hands the bottle back, passing her thumb over left behind lipstick. “Good God that burns,” managing a little cough, Logan replaces the stop and pops it between his thighs. “But it’s good. Takes the edge off.”

I bet it does. He manages a growling mhm, settling back into his seat. Thinking that’s the last of it. Content to look out the window and smoke his cigar, not think about the heat ricocheting off the adamantium in his pelvis. How it stirs up his blood, how her voice is that perfect lilt of low and just high enough.

Head swimming with the mental picture of her beneath him, breathless and hot, he bristles to attention when her arms drape over the front seat. Very suddenly all Logan can smell is the heady smell of woman and sweat rolling off of her like a locomotive.

She mutters under her breath something Logan can’t quite track, bit the way she picks at a nail with her teeth, gaze anywhere but inside the low limo’s lighting, would imply negatives. And she could’ve started reciting the phone book, he wouldn’t have noticed—far too busy noticing cleavage and the valley of her collarbones to be able to think straight.

But his stare gets heavy, she notices the thick air that’s smothering the limo like a wet dream–her eyes find his, a little smile at the corner of her mouth when his flick away. Oh, good fuck. Her eyes bore into him through the rearview. Uncapping the Jack, he takes another sharp pull of it. It chases the warmth in the back of his throat, blooming in his chest like he didn’t know what.

More pregnant silence. She shifts against the leather, hot skin sticky against it. Reaching to put the car in accessory, Logan fiddles with the A/C. He clocks her swiping her heels from the floor, wrangling them back on her feet—hadn’t she just taken the damn things off?

“I should go get them before either of them do something they’ll regret,” her eyes cast to the clock on the dash, which isn’t terribly far from his ID information, which is offensively just there. “It’s late.” It isn’t, not really. Logan thinks this has to be the most conservative hen party in the history of such things, but his jaw clamps shut.

If he can bail them out of his car early, he may be able to catch a few hours of sleep before the early-hour rush. That hour when last call sends boozers into the streets, looking for rides. That’s where the money was, after all—and God knew he could use the dough.

Her hand floating over the handle of the door, as if she’s waiting for his consent. “Paid by the hour, darlin’,” and Logan does not miss the way darlin’ hits her—sharp eyes flick down to his mouth for a fraction of a heartbeat, a little plume of color lifting to the apples of her cheeks that definitely isn’t rouge. Blush, they called it now. She has plenty of it on her face, but it darkens something pretty in a way that, usually, would amuse him.

Instead, now, he just lifts a hand to slot through the openings on the Chrsyler’s steering wheel, ignoring the ache between his knuckles.

He can’t have arthritis, can he? Popping the latch, he twists out of the limo. Crosses around the front through the headlights to her side. A flick of his fingers and he pulls open the door, highlighter yellow heels spilling out to the pavement in that Hollywood way.

He doesn’t do this— he makes a habit not to touch customers. Usually his hand finds his pocket, as a rule. But for some reason, her eyes skating through the dark, panning around the street and the front of the club, lights the mesh of his lungs on fire. Offering her his hand, its appearance before her drops a rod through her spine—she straightens, blinking at it once before her fluttery lashes look up at him.

He wonders if the little flick of muscle in her jaw actually takes muscle memory. Looking at him with a look that’s uncertain, that’s you sure? heartbeats pass and make the moment uncomfortable. Shuffling his weight on his feet, his hand falls from the door and to his pocket, palming the lighter against his thigh. Phlegm and whatever else God created in the human body rattles around the poison in his chest, a low cough echoing off his bones.

It takes her a second to collect, looking between him and his hand. “By the hour. Right,” her eyes skate down his chest, over all of him, as if she’s making sure. Her hand slips into his too lightly to matter, as if she’s making an effort to limit contact—and that’s a good thing, because Logan is fairly sure the world had stopped spinning, the electrical pulses of his body kicking to overdrive at just how alive her skin feels. Senses heightened to infinity. He could count stars, maybe, with the way her nails deliciously press into his palm, rough and hard. Warm, the scent of peaches all but punches his lights out—he can’t even taste his cigar, body enamored with the way she smells, how her hand all but boils in his.

The fuck, Logan.

Stepping out, sharp eyes navigate the front of the club, and a blackhole of the universe suddenly opens between them when her hand falls away. Heels tick against the concrete as she turns to face him batting the door closed. Hands in pockets, he kicks back against the Chrysler. Waiting.

“Thanks,” her smile is small, eyes casting down to the filth of midnight on the concrete, “It shouldn’t be long.”

He shrugs, “‘S your money, honey,” is followed by a grunt as she nods, turns on her heel. Sashays back into the front of the club before flashing a wristband to the bouncer. Between the help eyeballing her in that dress and Logan unable to stop ogling just how it clings, highlights every curve of her, it’s a miracle either of them are still standing.

Reappearing fifteen minutes later with girlfriends in tow, Logan folds them into the limo politely, without incident. Giggling, traces of the night have painted both of her companions—long gone is the bride sash and dimestore plastic tiara. Replaced by smudged-and-attempted-to-be-fixed makeup. Teased hair, ruffled clothes. Nobody could miss that hickey for anything, it would take stock-market shattering amounts of base to cover it up—Mars would have a better time trying to see needles in haystacks. No amount of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes, sweat hanging out as an idea under his nose could cut through that unmistakably sweet musk of sex, sweat.

Before Logan can ask where to point the Chrysler, the other girl pops off an address from her phone to what is most definitely not their hotel, or anywhere remotely in the neighborhood of partylife. Brow raised, Logan peeks the rearview to see his companion whirl so quickly in her seat, he wonders how her head is still attached. Look on her face says everything words don’t, but she asks anyway—”Where the hell is that?”

Trying not to overhear, but it’s impossible, he fiddles with the temperature controls again when the one lifts the hair from the back of her neck. “It’s a hotel,” no shit, it’s the most expensive district in the area. Highbrows stay here—he’d picked them up on the opposite side of the metro, in the middle class accommodations. Sour bile splashes up the back of his throat, jaw setting–he knows what’s about to happen.

“No, really? And here I thought it was the frickin’ monastery,” lunging over her friend stuck in the middle, she plucks the phone from her friend’s hand—laughing hysterically, face flushed with alcohol and tipsy giggles, her jaw opens fully on its hinge. Rapt attention almost has his heart exploding, he nearly misses the stop sign—pops the brake a little hard.

She studies herself against the door, eyes flicking to him for half a second. Phone flipping screen first to her friend, she nods to it. “Who the hell is Mike?” Lowering the phone to her lap, her eyes skate between the two friends, hard. Heavy. Fast. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me—”

“It’s just a fling,” her name rolls off her friend’s tongue sourly, like cold venom. If Logan weren’t so invested in the outcome of this conversation he’d think it was almost melodic, a unique name. Fine and perfect for the sweet little thing currently erupting in his backseat. Too busy pacing traffic, his tongue skates along over his back molars, “don’t get your panties in a twist, honey. It’ll just for a few hours, to have some fun.”

“A few hours?” The actual squeak in her tone was laughable, “You’re joking—you’re actually kidding me. You can’t just go fuck some random guy you met in a bar, you’re getting married.” Offensive hangs in the words like a hot iron, branding itself into the atmosphere with weighty judgment enough to make her chest rise and fall with rapid, uneven breaths. “I won’t let you—”

Eyeroll extreme, Logan could’ve flinched with how much it snaps like a whip. “Oh my god, would you just chill out?” Looking to the other friend, who’s phone is still held captive on her lap, Logan bites the inside of his cheek. Like black cobras their chests fan out, both of them turning to cast frigid judgment to their third, who is pressed against the door to create distance from the very idea of the two of them. For fuck’s sake, “It’s just oral, honey—”

He snorted. All their eyes trip to him, but Logan is nothing if not suave—covering with a cough, he bites back a smile into his lower lip, looking down to his lap. Holy shit, they were actually having this conversation. In the back of his limo. If he weren’t so amused, it could be hot. Smokin’.

But the look on his companion’s face is too horrified, too innocent for him to take any enjoyment out of the topic of conversation flitting beneath the lights of the limo. It’s scandalousm, really. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but, it just—it didn’t fit. Without knowing anything about much, he knows this isn’t her. Neon Heels, brunette curls. Lipstick barely upset, smelling like peaches of sweat. He could feel it in the very adamantium slowly flogging life out of his body.

Color drains out of her face, milkwhite like a ghost. He’s fairly certain she’d rather cut out her tongue and serve it to him on a silver platter than actually go through with such things. Logan knows a thing or two about life, he’s studied humanity for a lot of fucking years—he knew the good ones when he saw them. Pure, untouched.

Or, at the very least, good.

“Just oral?”

“Would you just stop, ok? Nobody is asking you to come up. Don’t need to be all, all pissy just because nobody noticed you at the bar,” and it’s hot, like acid. Cutting to bone. Logan watches the words cut like knives through the mesh of her chest, and if his collar wasn’t absolutely on fire, he’d have the audacity to smack some decency into whatever the fuck this chick’s problem was. “It’s not your thing. That’s fine. It’ll be just fine,” leaning forward, the bride informs him that once he’d dropped them at the hotel, he can take her back to their hotel. We’ll just Uber back in the morning.

“Fine by me.”

And it makes more sense, the longer he thinks about it. Explained the tears, the fluster in the atmosphere. Pushing the Chrysler through traffic, the tension in the atmosphere snaps like a rubber band—she doesn’t even flinch. In fact, her jaw clenches. Muscles ticks off bone, and she hands back her friend’s phone before falling back into the seat, eyes cast out the window like they’ve been welded to the darkness. Wind out of her sails, her elbow props on the windows ledge, subconsciously her hand covers half of her face. Quiet as death, unmoving as a sarcophagus.

Logan had never seen someone’s soul die while they were still alive, but he figures this was close.

Silence enough to make the dead uncomfortable follows for a few seconds. He focuses his attention on driving the limo rather than looking in the rearview, because noticing the look on her face, actually caring, is so far out of his pay grade that it’s laughable. To her credit, he doesn’t think she’s actually crying—hell would sooner freeze over, he reckons—but her brow is set in such a hard line, that he can almost read the regret on her face in red letter clarity.

Ensuing conversation about how the bride’s tits look in her hardly-there dress has him almost disinterested. Guiding the Chrysler up to the curb of the hotel, he almost misses "Hey driver!" that's more giggle than it is anything else. Eyes tracking to the rearview, Logan isn’t nearly as surprised as he thought he would be when she rips down the front of what was once, probably, an investment dress—tits, yeah. Nice ones, too—bought and paid for by the looks of it. Tits that size don’t just sit up at attention without a calculated surgeon’s hand.

“Like what you see?”

Puffing out a little nervous chuckle, his brow trips up. He shakes his head, amused. Erupting into a fit of snickers and snorts, their cheeks darken with heat. Falling against themselves, the two of them think they’re fucking hilarious as they begin to discuss the course of their adventure. May as well be full fledged pornography in the back of his rig, the things that fly—it sparks up his blood, empties his mouth of any moisture Jack Daniels may have rousted.

God couldn’t have brought up the hotel’s curb any faster, he thinks. Dropping the Chrysler into park, he angles to pop the latch on his door. Misses completely the moan of leather, the little rock of moving bodies shifting around the backseat.

Logan all but jumps when two hands come around him from behind. “Maybe you should come upstairs, driver—bet you could show a young bride a thing or two, huh?” Fuck, fuck fuck—hands that palm down his chest, snake under the buttons of his white shirt are hot. Hot, practiced. Soft and deliberate, one of their nails flick against his nipple, beneath his undershirt—he grunts back a sharp breath, head all but braced against the Chrysler’s hard headrest.

Adamantium kisses the flesh of his knuckles, and it takes effort not to let loose—more brainpower than he wants to admit, fighting back the reflex. Hand shaking on his knee, he inhales an uneasy breath and presses the heel of either hands onto his knees, biting the corner of his chapped lip. Hand drifting lower, almost to his abs, he snatches her wrist with a speed he doesn’t remember. Couldn’t, hadn’t, for as long as he can think back.

“Somethin’ tells me you know plen’y, honey,” his eyes narrow in the rearview. “Plus, I don’t do free fucks.”

She chuckles, pleased. “Who said anything about free?” Lifting her hand away from inside his shirt, he throws her off—cackling like the little witch she is, she folds out of the limo with her friend, “Very professional of you, driver,” he couldn’t miss the darkness in her tone if he’d tried as she winks at him from his window, “drive safe. Precious cargo, back there.”

Could’ve fooled him.

A wiggle of her fingers goodbye to her friend in the backseat, the hotel’s thick doors swallow both of them whole. Vanishing in a twirl of hair and makeup, Logan turns in his seat to consider his last passenger. She hasn’t moved, merely has kicked off her heels—but she has allowed herself to cry. Fresh tears fall down the length of her cheeks, but she doesn’t sniffle. They’re silent, powerful. Say everything words don’t need to—it’s a deep knife, one that bleeds. Logan can see the film reel running through her brain, on repeat. As if it has subtitles. A black and white horror show of just exactly what had happened, how she’d ended up here.

Curling a leg up under herself, Logan watches her shrink into as small of herself as she can, forehead resting against the cool glass of the limo’s window. And it’s tragic, really—someone who looks like that, reduced to a teary, smoldering shell of a person by mere words. Logan knew people were cruel, he’d seen the worst of humanity up close and personal. His own life was hell trapped in bones and flesh, his own history more horrific than anything Hollywood could dream up.

He drives. That’s what he does, that’s who Logan is now. A driver.

It’s another 20 minutes across town. And the ride is ominous, a mummified tomb that’s suffocating no matter how much air whisks into the limo from open windows. Trapped between wanting to say something and unsure of how to react, he relaxes a little when she finally slips earphones in—mindlessly scrolling a cell phone. Swiping at tears that ruin makeup she no longer cares about. Alone in her own little world of music and heartache, he watches the night fall away from her—her hair goes back into clips, away from her face. Earrings come off. Out come the contacts, replaced instead with glasses from the purse she’d left on the floorboards. Gum, more scrolling on her phone. Heels set on the seat beside her–finally her eyes close as she rests against the cool glass.

Gently rolling the Chrysler to a stop at the curb, she sits up. Breathlessly, she stretches a little, lashes fluttering behind frames that accentuate the shape of her face. And Logan doesn’t remember thinking anyone has ever looked good in glasses, but she topples such ideology when she beats him to the punch—she pops the latch on the door and steps out, barefoot. Heels tucked under her arm, purse hanging off her shoulder, she meets him at his door when he slips out of the front seat.

Handling cash had never felt so cold, bitter. She doesn’t look at him as she counts it into his hand, more than they’d agreed. Slipping the remainder of it back into her bag, she steps back, smiling at him softly. Resigned. Apologetic. Light from the overhang of the hotel sets off whatever shine is on her face, tear stains all but left behind—replaced instead with pink cheeks and sad, swollen eyes.

“Should be square,” she nods to the cash in his hand, “you can count it again if you want, I won’t be offended.” Briefly Logan thinks to care if her friends had managed their parts of the fare, but he dismisses it when she bites the inside of her cheek, tongue skating over her bottom lips as she shifts awkwardly on her feet. “Thank you so much for tonight—you have a beautiful limousine. The whiskey was great, thank you.”

Nodding once, he shrugs a shoulder. She’s buying time in that awkward little way people do when they’re not sure what to say, but think they have to say something. She doesn’t, wouldn’t ever—but he wants her to, strangely. Logan could stand here and listen to her come up with things to say the rest of the night, if he knew it wouldn’t deepen the color on her face, drive a little deeper the knife that’s still gutting her in the ribs.

Sucking in a sharp breath, her eyes track up to his from her feet standing on the warm concrete. “Listen, Logan—” she remembered his name, “I’m sorry about my friend. She’s really wasted, and it totally wasn’t alright for her to proposition you like that. It was actually gross—but that’s not who she is, not really. I’m sorry. She’s just—”

“—didn’t even notice her, honey.” He lies. What else is there to do but lie to this pretty little thing, bloodletting her own pride out at his feet? For a long set of years, Logan has believed there’s very little good left in the human species—very few people who are worth giving two fucks about. But she’s so galiant, defending some slut’s non-existent honor, drowning in her own humiliation and everything he can only imagine happened during a hen party gone sideways.

“Oh, uh, well—” oh. How she says it, the little curve of her mouth. That accented “o”. It’s enough to make him insane, honestly. He’s been with her two hours and can hardly think past the twitch of his cock, the little ache that niggles in the back of his head. Behind his eyes. It gets a little hard to fight, the snapping air between the two of them—for a man who knows what it feels like, it’s difficult. She couldn’t be more nonplussed. Which says more than it needs too, makes it all the more sweet. “Sorry, oh my gosh. I’m just a little—I don’t do things like this.”

And that is honorable, even if there’s very little honor left among the thieves of humanity. She is honorable. So saccharine and pretty it physically hurts him, drying out the back of his throat and knocking at his ribs like a damn jackhammer. Her eyes holding his, searching for anything else, are so deep and alive, bright in the way only Polaris could ever challenge—he suddenly forgets where he is, what century it is. How he got here, what he’s doing, reaching for the thin strap of her dress.

The back of his knuckle gently skips over her skin, the strap of the dress. And before Logan can even manage a breath, his hand moves under her chin, tips it up a little. Unmoving, her eyes widen like two bright moons, light catching them and opening them up like oceans fully unpassable to the known universe. From here he can feel her pulse flying through her blood, and couldn't miss the butterflies in her stomach if he’d been on a different planet. And maybe she’s never been appreciated like this—maybe she’s never felt seen.

Fuck, the things he could do to her. “Quit apologizin’ for bein’ sweet,” he manages a low rasp, the corner of his mouth ticking up with a little grin, “very few pretty things left in the world that’re sweet,” tipping her chin up a little further, his lips hover over hers. “And I bet you taste as good as you look, honey.” Tucking some hair behind her ear, he rubs one of her curls between the calluses on his fingers.

He gets back in his car, and Logan drives. Because that's what he does—he drives.

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00 @th3mrskory @blossoming-hotch

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