#sho's route

[m0e-ru]

rise did not fucking deserve what happened to her in arena btw I refuse to think that she was kidnapped and silenced and terrified as a hostage, her image used by a malicious entity keeping her trapped there and watching her before she attempts to desperately contact her friends or literally anyone that could help her. this happened in every timeline which is every route and it pains my heart to remember it. I will save you girl. let's get out of here!!!!!

[wolame-o-exl]

My favourites from the recent gifs I posted

Meoww

FUCK HIM UP!!!

Tetsuya flip

Keiji hanging w the crowd (everyone in Japan should file a restraining order against him)

Keiji throwing water at the crowd (everyone in Japan should file a restraining order against him)

Dead Tetsuya

Dead Akira

Fucking monkey Shokichi 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Harassment

Noise disturbance + destruction of property

Nes isn't here because he's an angel.

[no1ryomafan]

So I watched shin vs neo again with my irls for my bday given how short it is and I didn’t have a actual movie for the occasion-bc let’s face it SvN is probably the closest thing will ever get to a getter movie lol-and while I enjoyed it as per usual one of my irls who had it be their first getter exposure was like “I have no idea what’s happening” and while I kept joking “lol if you saw arma you’d be even more lost” it dawned on me why new is probably the better first getter experience overall and it ain’t even because there’s less characters + is the starring cast-well besides Musashibo-to really grasp stuff, it kinda ties back to another issue getter has: The Go team have not gotten a proper accurate adaptation and probably the getter team who’s done the dirtiest despite getting more appearances than arc, because arc team at least got a manga accurate anime.

I’ve realized this for awhile but now I understand the want for a getter go anime even if I’m doubting it’s happening god.

[gothamcityneedsme]

forgot to include the strikers characters but theyre all super great. Obviously idk tactica yet. That is now the only persona game i havent played

[sillyfudgemonkeys]

apparently rumors are surfacing that answer is dlc

Yeah...yup.......that's what I was referring to.

Happy to have Metis back but....................................................................................... the DLC still pisses me off. Like I'm torn.

Do I buy it because that's what Atlus WANTS me to do? And it's what will get me maybe FeMC or other stuff?

Or do I boycott it, but Atlus will be like "oh they don't want the item" and I'll continue to not have said item.

I'm fucking screwed either way.

[dabisbratz]

𝒮𝒲𝐸𝐸𝒯 𝒯𝒪𝒪𝒯𝐻 — shouta aizawa x male reader

w.c: 12.4k

warning: dbf!shouta, age gap, (sho in his early 40s, reader is 23), bottom!reader, daddy kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, feminization, mentions of gettin ‘knocked up’ regardless of anatomy, sneaking around, creampie, unprotected sex ( wear condoms ! ), praise/degradation, brat!reader, jealousy, mutual teasing, reader has an oral fixation, improper use of lollipops, mentions of exhibitionism, blowjobs, cumming untouched/hands free orgasm, ‘ taboo ’

sonny says..: not proof read, msorry !! did lotsa jumpin around while writin this. . . n five months later !! she’s all done !! ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝T ˘ T⸝⸝꒱ྀི১ ♡ m’a lil rusty, forgive me !!

You’re back home for the summer.

Well— not entirely. You’re back at your family’s summer house for the season. Gifted from your grandparents, it teeters at the beginning of a beach, crystal sands and clear, blue waters that stretch out into the horizon. You’ve been looking forward to it since you’d graduated, even if it did come with a set of overbearing parents and a sinful amount of sunscreen.

The air is hot and thick, sticking uncomfortably to your skin through the windshield as you watch an everlasting stretch of greenery and trees pass you by. The road has stretched on for miles, every upcoming exit and street sign blending into one as each hour passes by. You’ve got the company of staticky radio stations and news outlets, spewing something nonsensical about sports, politics, car insurance. . . But it’s the trip you enjoy more than the destination. Traffic and all, you prefer it over the muggy air and parental scolding. Though, the beach is nice. . .

“You’re sure you’re taking the right route?” It’s your mother speaking, her voice crackling through the speakers of your car. You’re sure she’d smack you upside the head for the aggressive roll of your eyes in her. . . general direction, but she’s not exactly within eye-contact distance. Not for another five minutes, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” You have— it’s true. Though you’re only twenty-two, you’d driven this distance since you’d left for college. There’s a sound akin to the sucking of teeth through the radio, and you have half the mind to turn around and restart your road-trip all over again.

“Why’s there so much attitude in your voice?” Her cheerful, smiley voice suddenly sounds much more shrill, to your chagrin. You thrum your fingers along the leather of the steering wheel, biting back a long, drawn out groan.

“There isn’t any,” Gravel crackles under the weight of your rubber-tire car, snapping and popping into the air as it makes a smooth halt into the driveway. Shifting gears to park, the radio switches off with the twist of your keys. And, perhaps with more force than necessary, you’re slamming the door to your car and face to face with your mother. Her phone is still in hand, eyebrows pinched at the thought of her very own son hanging up on her. “. . . attitude, Ma.”

She hugs you with a squeal, ushering you up the stairs to your childhood ‘home.’ It’s almost exactly like you’d left it— save for a few recent porch decorations and repainted walls. You hope the years have been kind to it, with the irregular weather and constant pipe problems. Floorboards creak under your weight, welcoming you home after a few long years of studies. There’s an everlasting stream of bubbly speech behind you, your mom speaking, but there’s already so much to take in.

The air is fresh and salty, hints of beachy winds flowing upstream through the doorway. It smells like home, and looks like it too, as you situate your small duffel bag by the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Your room. You hadn’t packed much— there was still a dresser overflowing with old clothes in your bedroom, after all. And now that you think about it, you should probably change into something more fitting for the weather.

“I know you just got here,” The sound of ice swirling against glass catches your attention, and you turn to face your mother. “But could you bring these out to your father?” She’s holding a tray of decorative glasses— or at least, you’d always thought they were— full of oblong ice and freshly squeezed lemonade. The glasses are stocky enough to adorn lollipops— one each, which are probably sickeningly sour. Topped with tiny, colorful umbrellas and intricate swirling straws. It’s almost like she’s trying to impress someone, with the way she’s put so much effort into the drink’s presentation.

Your lips curl to form a playful ‘no’, a boyish smile pulling at your cheeks when she huffs— as if she already knows what you’re about to do. So you shake your head instead, stealing the tray with one hand, “Let me change first.”

In hindsight, wearing clothes about. . four years too small wasn’t a great idea. The shorts that once fit you perfectly— before your growth spurt— are now much too short, like they’ve been tossed around in the laundry one too many times. You feel almost naked, moving the pink hem down with the shake of your legs.

Your mother insists they look just fine, a dramatic downturn to her lips as she rambles on and on about how fast her boy has grown up. Still, as you walk through the sliding glass doors parallel to the open patio, the sunlight bathing your legs does nothing but make you feel stuck under a rapidly growing spotlight.

It all clicks as you walk outside— the detailed drinks, the smell of barbecue and fresh coal. There is someone she’s trying to impress, someone other than your father. Maybe both of them. On a good day.

Wiping the bead of sweat from your brow, your eyes squint at the man in front of you. Around your dad’s age— maybe slightly younger, he stands at a whopping six foot something. There’s age in his face, and worry between his brows as if he’d spent most of his youth grimacing. His hair is long and black like charcoal, save for a few streaks of gray and a salt and pepper ensemble of stubble littering his chin and jaw. Two scars— forming a cross of sorts, one beneath his right eye, horizontal and thin. But the other is much longer, starting below his brow and ending at his cheekbone. It draws your eyes to a milky gray iris— heavily contrasting against the natural black-brown of his left one. It’s pretty, cloudy and almost pearlescent.

His silhouette— tall and thick, with broad shoulders that travel on and on as he crosses thick biceps over his thick chest. He’s standing in the way of the sun, and yet, it peeks through his long hair in small, short leaks. And, surprisingly, his waist is small in his black tank top. If you feel hot he must be scorching, draped in black— down to the beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. His hands— they’re big, maybe enough to cover the entirety of your face, curled into loose fists at his biceps.

And— right, you’re here to help, not gawk. But you can’t help it, shifting your weight from one leg to another as his intimidating gaze slowly sweeps you over. He’s like sex on legs, and if you can squint enough to get the sun out your eyes, you swear you can see the imprint of his cock through his black shorts.

“Uh,” You blink dumbly after introducing yourself, and suddenly the tray you’re holding is weightless. “Ma made these. I’m supposed to help. . . or something. . .”

“Or something.” The man echoes, but it’s quiet and you barely catch it. His voice is deep, way deeper than your own, rumbling in your ears and smooth like butter. Almost husky, with a dark edge to it as flames roar in his face. But it makes your father laugh, hearty and jubilant as he bounces over to where you stand. He gives you a small pat on the back as a greeting, ushering out a small, “son.”

The heat emitting off the grill is enough to make a grown man cry, but neither of you wince when you walk by it. Cold glasses of lemonade are handed out, fingers imprinted on cold condensation painting the surfaces of each glass as they’re passed around— one for you, one for your dad, another for him. You watch rivulets of water drip from his fingertips, down his wrist, past the collection of veins adorning his forearm.

“Mr. Aizawa,” There’s a beat of silence, but it’s quickly filled once you’ve been introduced. “World’s cruelest teacher.”

“Shouta Aizawa.” Is all he says, a correction of sorts, voice grumbly as his fingertips brush against your knuckles. Your eyes flicker down to where he’d touched you, his skin warm and inviting despite the roughness of his palms. You see now, that he’s accompanying your father, occasionally taking over when he walks back into the house every. . . five minutes or so.

“An old friend of mine, we go way back.” Your parents have an odd habit of rambling, it seems, because you and the handsome stranger make exasperated eye contact as your dad begins to reminisce on old memories. “You met him a few times— remember? He’ll be staying with us, so be respectful, you hear me?” His gaze seems to dip for a moment, down your lips and straight to the extra exposed skin of your thighs, then settle back to the ocean before you can comment.

But those five minutes must start now, because after a firm squeeze to your shoulder your father heads inside, leaving you alone with his. . . friend. He’s awfully quiet, busying himself as the patio door slides shut— occasionally sighing as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s obvious you’re staring, maybe a bit too hard, but he’s the best scene around, really. Even with the beach right behind him.

And maybe it’s wrong to think this way— but he’s hot. Old enough to be your dad and then some, sure, but it doesn’t make him any less attractive. He almost makes you nervous, the slow blink of his eyes as he pays you no mind.

“So you’re staying with us, huh?” You eye the juicy meat he’s been flipping for the last five minutes, golden brown and sizzling in the heat. It’s rather thick, soon to be lazily flattened by the tongs he's holding and— you can’t help but wonder. . . Is he good with his hands?

“Don’t make a habit of asking strange old men questions like that.” It’s not entirely clear if he’s serious or not, but he’s certainly assertive. Like a firm, guiding hand placed at the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but before you can ask what he means, it clicks. You’d said it out loud, let it float into the air like an everyday, casual question. But Aizawa doesn’t seem exactly bothered, more passive (if anything), as he takes a swig of the fruity, sour concoction.

“You’re not strange.” Is what you conclude, slamming the tray down hard enough to rattle its contents, and the man notes your lack of regard. Even with a slight spill you don’t bother to clean, you’re already turning to walk off the patio and dig your toes into the hot sand before it can be mentioned— but not without plucking a lemon coated lollipop free from its icy enclosure of glass. There’s an arrangement of seashells hidden beneath the coarse mounds of the glimmering seaside. Different sizes and colors, different textures and shapes. Where some would scrape the soles of your feet, others would glide across them. But as a kid you’d liked the search for tiny crabs much more than the search for shells. Though you’re much older now, you’re not afraid to say you miss it.

“But I’m old?” Aizawa says, not too far behind you from where he stands. There’s a light glint of dry humor in his voice that sends butterflies down your throat and straight into your stomach.

“Yeah. Old enough.” Your small laughter is sweet, dancing in the air in a way that has Shouta nearly pressing his palm flat into the skillet— just to check if his heart is still beating. What do you mean by that, anyway?

There’s a divot where the tightness of your shorts dip into your skin, pressing against the plush skin of your ass whenever you bend over. Even as you’re upright, Shouta can’t stand to look for too long— you’re a real, proper, honest and genuine distraction. Yet here he is, watching you move around on your hands and knees, ass taut and round— shorts tight enough to show off the cute bulge of your balls from behind. And now that he’s really looking, it’s obvious you’re not wearing anything underneath.

He shakes his head, grunting to himself as he peels processed cheese free from its plastic packaging. You just met, that’s not right, you’re simply just minding your own.

“Ugh!” You share a groan, and for completely different reasons. Aizawa can’t help but watch you scramble in the sand, presumably after whatever sea-creature that had the pleasure to pinch you right on the finger. But you seem happy once it’s retrieved, stuck in the seclusion of its tiny shell as you hold it in your palm. From what he can see, you’re not much of a brat at all. Maybe your parents are just too hard on you. He’s always known them to be dramatics.

Still, he has half the mind to drag you over by your ankle, or maybe to press your handsome face into the sand while he fucks you from behind. Ever since you’d brought out that damned lemonade— tugging on the hem of the fabric as if you’d suddenly grown conscious of just how short they were— he’d been hard. And now he has to listen to you grunt and groan over the smallest of injuries. . . His best friend’s son, his presumed pride and joy.

He’s fucked.

From where he stands, slightly elevated, he can see the bulge of the sweet protruding from your cheeks, stuck afore your teeth. Cute, as it swishes from side to side, stuck in your mouth as your occupied fingers caress the diaphanous shell in the palm of your hand. Your lips move, puckered, around the sucker, curled and glossy with molten sugar— it’s hard to make out exactly what words your mouth forms, yet Shouta doesn’t think he’d be able to listen anyway.

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

Shouta learns this at dinner, the day’s hard work shared on plastic platters and glass

bottles in the middle of the beach. There’s a roaring flame between the four of you, it casts golden embers along your skin every so often, crackling into the air. Cicadas chirp with the night’s welcome, loud and joyful in retaliation to the silent, serene fireflies and settling ocean.

You’re all sipping on beers, some more than others, but it’s enough to loosen everyone up. Even Shouta, whose eyes look lidded with sleep the more he drinks. He’s not incoherent, he never is. If anything he’s observant. For one, you have an awful habit of holding onto this evening’s lollipop, it seems, as you have it situated between your fingers like a cigarette. Sometimes your grip around it tightens, like when your mother wraps her hand around his bicep, squeezing the flesh in small, sporadic rounds. And though neither of you want to say it, let alone think it— you’re jealous. That’s the second thing.

Even with Shouta’s knee brushing against your own, you can’t help it. He’s so warm, muscly legs pressed against your own in a manner that’s almost electrifying. You want it all to yourself, to suffocate in his heat and capable hands.

You zone out of the conversation, blinking at the fire with reserved eyes until a thick screwer pokes at the flesh of your shoulder, leaving behind a tiny dimple. Jet black hair invades your vision for a moment, smelling of faint seasalt and warm cologne, until you turn, “What?”

“You want chocolate on your marshmallow, right?” Your mother asks for him, squeezing a transparent bag of thick, soft marshmallows. It’s tossed to you in a flash, to which you catch, but not before stealing a glance at the man beside you. His jaw sets, poking out from the mass of stubble. Like she’d stolen a precious moment away.

“Right,” You mumble, stabbing the skewer through the excessive amount of sugar. The stick hovers above the fire, the sweet melting to a crisp, flaky brown. Sticky and gooey, it slowly begins to lose its form. Through all the conversation you can’t help but glance at the older man to your left, taking in the glow of yellow and orange caressing his tan skin. His silhouette is bold and broad, legs spread wide as he sits on a thick log. What was once brown turns a deep, dark charcoal. “Oh, shit! Fuck. I meant shoot, sorry.”

You’re not supposed to swear in front of your parents— Aizawa’s paternal intuition picks that up. But shoving the marshmallow into your mouth, even as it has yet to cool down, he doesn’t quite get. Either way, your expression. . . it’s sickeningly cute. It’s cute to watch you fumble. With lips pursed into a tight line, cheeks bitten and eyebrows pinched with apology despite how obviously uncomfortable you are with the piping, burnt sugar spreading along your tongue.

His heart could almost burst.

“You’re fine, kid.” Shouta’s voice is a gentle whisper, airy like the waves brushing against the shore. With his eyes caught on the sticky white lingering on your cheek, he's desperately aware you’re not a kid. The way you move and speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you suck on lollipops like they’re something else. He’s never been one for dirty jokes or subtle innuendos but. . . yeah, this is doing something to him. His fingers twitch with want, the desire to wipe it away and rub his thumb along your lips. He should really get it together.

And maybe the fact that he’s more worried about your parents being in the way than the fact that they’re your parents proves that.

But they’re pretty preoccupied, lost in conversation neither of you are exactly interested in. Whirling his own marshmallow, chocolate melts down its fluffy outside. It’s steaming, hot and fluffy after twirling around the fire. Looking at it now, it looks comically small in his large hands, much bigger than your own. His lips part, cool air leaving the ‘o’ shaped mold of his mouth as he blows on it with a low, “Here.”

There they go again, mouth open as your pink tongue covers your row of bottom teeth, Shouta doesn’t let go of the skewer despite the light squeezes you press along his knuckles. Instead he holds on tighter, lifting and reaching until the desert melts in your mouth and sticks to your lips. Messy on purpose, your heart plummets into your tummy when dark eyes watch marshmallow fluff pull away from between your teeth. Hungry, starving.

“I can do it myself.” You mumble, wondering if the heat prickling your skin is from the brush of his fingers against your own or the wilting fire.

“Can you?” His expression is tired and flat, but his voice tilts with blooming amusement. It’s odd, the way you’re so quick to shut him down. You almost respond more openly when you hear sneaky comments or listen to gossip— ‘that boy just doesn’t know what to stop,’ ‘why’s he such a smartass?’ — spoken about you directly by you.

“Yeah,” There’s a shine in your eye that isn’t just a product of the glowing fire. Mischievous, almost. “I don’t break that easily.”

Shouta could definitely take your dad in a fight. It’s the first thing that pops into mind as the two of you stand in the dark, dimly lit kitchen. Your parents had gone off to bed almost an hour ago, and with the clock approaching half past midnight, it leaves you two alone. So, yes, he’s considering who would win in a brawl because he can’t stop staring at his best friend’s son and his pretty, kissable lips.

They’re sheen with spit, your pink tongue licking them over as you scrub away yesterday’s dirt from the kitchen counter. It’s a noncommittal motion, your arms wiping suds and heavy contents of water along the granite surface. Yet you seem absolutely dead-set on getting that one stain. The stain that has your ass brushing against his side, bare skin rippling the harder, lazier, you scrub. Not that there’s even a stain to clean.

Yep. He’s fucked.

You suppose he should be focusing on the dishes— not that there’s much of those either— but his attention strays.

It carries him through the motion of leaning over, his body practically draping your own as you bend at the waist. Black hair again, wisps of it, lightly pressed against your back as he leans down, lips by the shell of your ear and an arm trapping you in. His cock is pressed right against the swell of your ass, and he may have to consider slipping it between his waistband.

“I think you got it.”

“Oh, really?” Your hips are moving again, side to side as you scrub shapes into nothing. “Double check for me?”

A low groan sounds behind you, big hands at your thighs that squeeze enough to have the plush skin bruised and tender in the morning. His hand travels, snaking up your thighs to meet the silky skin of your ass. Spread nicely with the way you’re bent over, warmth radiating off each globe as his thick pointer finger loops around the thin layer of pink cotton pressing against your balls.

It’d be so easy, perfect access to slip his thick cock into the warm, tight walls of your hole and pound you against the counter. You could sit on his dick for the whole day, drooling and dumb the more the head kisses your prostate again and again and again. Your Daddy could fuck you on your dad’s favorite sofa, make it squeal and whine under the weight of him filling your fucked-out and used cunt over and over.

Dark pupils blow wide as he pulls the fabric away, watching your hole flutter around nothing. He coos, sweet and deep. Just give him a minute, he’ll give you everything you need. Everything and more, until you’re a braindead fucktoy with glassy eyes and sticky, dripping holes. Until—

You’ve slipped past his arm, twisting as your growling stomach makes itself known. You inhale a quivering breath through your nose, eyes wide and expecting and waiting. His best friend’s son, wriggling and writhing under his palms, handsome face twisting as pearly teeth bite at your stout bottom lip.

He’s almost frustrated with himself, voice flat and distant when you puff out your cheeks. Forget a distraction— you’re a real, honest brat. “You’re still hungry.”

“I’m a growing man, Sho.” It’s almost consequential how your voice cracks, breathy and teetering the edge of a whine as he releases his grip on your body. Light from the fridge illuminates your silhouette in a yellow, halo-adjacent glow, and once again Shouta is staring a little too hard at his best friend’s son as he bends forward at the waist.

Aizawa weighs the juxtaposition between the middle of that sentence for a moment before his breath catches in your throat. Sho. You’d called him by a nickname, ten times sweeter than the candied fruit (grapes, are they?) you’re now sinking your teeth into. You’ve grown alright, and the proof stands hard, throbbing, and pressing against your shorts once you’ve returned to face him. It’s obvious your ploy with the fruit was just something to keep your mind off cumming in your cute, soft shorts— but he’d honestly have preferred to see that.

“I can see that.”

Rough palms press into your jaw— firm, but not aggressive, until fingers close and clasp at your cheeks. A dissolving layer of baby fat at your cheeks spills between his stern fingers, and you blink as the older man turns your face from left to right, then reverse. Seems he’s got a nasty habit of looking you over, breaking you down— bare bones. You still have enough room to chew, teeth grinding on the crystallized sugar with a hard and resounding crunch.

There’s always something in your mouth.

Dark eyes flicker to the lump appearing and disappearing in your throat as you swallow, sweet sugar dotting your lips, “You’re hard.”

“Yeah,” It earns a dark chuckle, though there’s not much light humor in it, “So are you.” His lips curl as he releases his grip, slow and lingering.

“Usually,” your gaze drops to his lips. “When two men,” Then up to his deep, dark eyes as you press against him, chest to chest. His cock twitches against the heat of your body, you can imagine it now— thick and pretty, curved upward with a sticky head and throbbing, heavy veins. “Make eachother. . . hard, they—”

A door slams upstairs, the air going still as your breath catches in your throat. As if that single disturbance has stolen all the oxygen in the world, your body goes rigid and stiff, and the sound of tired steps make their way descending down wooden stairs. The candied grapes are swapped for thick fingers, with light peppers of hair at the knuckles, and you can’t help but suck the seasalt right off.

“Behave.” He takes a single step back, dripping with indubitable authority that makes you feel light and airy. Ready to bend at his will with lazy eyelids and hazy eyes. It’s not a question, not a suggestion— it’s a demand.

“You’re still up,” Your father, shameless as he walks by the two of you with barely any coverings, makes a sleepy gesture in your general direction as he opens the fridge. “Both of you, huh?” He sounds faintly out of breath, and his skin sheen. The mental implications make you cringe, taking a step toward the characteristically nonchalant man who’d just stepped away from you.

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t tell me I’m being replaced!” He’s always been a loud man, your father, but it seems tonight his one-too-many beers have finally caught up to him. It’s just a joke, the both of you know it, but you can’t help the prickle of heat poking at your throat. You’re pulled in by the back of your head, your father’s hand pressed against your hair as he holds you in a firm side-hug, “Rather Mr. Aizawa be your old man?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Your smile is wide and tantalizing, heavy and dripping with something that has yet to be named. “Are you a good Daddy, Mr. Aizawa?”

Then, his eye twitches, “When I want to be.”

Your laugh is instantaneous and loud, an awkward thing that stretches into deep silence. There’s a lot of things you’d like Mr. Aizawa to be— rough, gentle, sweet, and mean. But your dad? It’s laughable, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. And sure, maybe the title you'd like to use on him sounds similar, but they’re most definitely not the same. If only he knew.

“I’m sure you’re the best,” He watches you smile, opposite ends of your mouth pulling at your cheeks in a motion that doesn’t quite meet your eyes— but it’s convincing enough. “Better than your other friends, right Dad?”

Shouta is avoiding you.

You know it, you can tell! He’s always gone nowadays— a couple weeks into your vacation and you can only count a mere handful of the times you remember seeing him. You’ve barely talked, barely stole a few glances here and there— he may as well have disappeared. He’s out somewhere, somewhere that involves your father, and the ocean, and his generously sized deck-boat. You don’t want to say it, but you know you’re the reason why. You’ve gone a bit overboard, perhaps, with the flirting. Ever since that night— even before then, it’d become a natural habit of yours to call the man Daddy.

And, now, he’s grown even closer to your parents because of it. Whenever you come down for breakfast they’ve already finished, leaving your plate in the microwave— as if you’d want cold, limp eggs and soggy, get charred bacon. You want to scream, really. There’s your mother, who leaves lingering touches and bats her eyelashes like some sort of schoolgirl. You feel almost evil for the rage that sears your blood— even more so when your first thought is she’s pushing fifty.

Then there’s your father. Who is and always will be, not if you can help it, closer to Shouta than you ever will be. They drink together a lot, the guest more in moderation, but it still hurts to see them laugh about old times— over, and over, and over again. Even when you’re the topic of conversation, despite your presence being completely ignored, it hurts. You’re right here.

So you mope, lounging around in your swim trunks. Your skin sticks to every surface, humid and thick as your mother complains to you about getting some sun, stepping out the house, then something about how you need to fix the look on your face. She says the warm rays on your skin will do you some good, the salty water of the sea against your body will toughen up your bones and loosen your muscles. But there’s really only one thing on your mind.

It trickles into about an hour and a half when Mr. Aizawa finally comes back. Your father too, you suppose, with flushed cheeks that only sake can replicate. It’s once you’ve been pulled outside and forced to stand in wet, thick sand that washes away from your feet with every sweep of the shore— that they return. Once the sun has begun to set, yet still bright enough to have your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, they return.

“There’s my boy!” No one’s boy, actually. Your father shouts with an intoxicated wave, and the grimace on Shouta’s face is hidden behind his whipping hair as he slows the boat to a stop.

Or at least, you think so. It’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes, yellow and orange flakes of the gold star percolating your vision.

It dances along the surface of the ocean, pretty and shimmering the closer you step, the further you go, until you’re submerged in water from your knees—down. There’s a shout, something akin to a ‘catch!’, and you have barely any time to react to the ball that’s flying to you with an oddly precise amount of speed and velocity. You gasp, whipping your head back to catch the ball between two sea-soaked hands.

“What the hell?!” Your hands sting, pretty eyes blinking back at the two silhouettes in your vicinity. Mainly at Aizawa, who hasn’t even acknowledged you, let alone looked away from the resplendent horizon. And what’s so good about that? Of all things to look at— you’re right here! You don’t leave with the setting sun, nor do you only ever arrive with the rising one. You’re a constant, and you know you don’t hurt to look at.

So you throw the ball back, all your force behind it with a smug look on your face until it smacks Shouta in the leg— right in the center of his calf with a horrifying thump of a sound.

“Fuck,” You shout in horror, despite it all. Despite the desire to maul him the last few weeks, rushing forward into the water with the cutest tremor to your brows. “Fuck, okay, shit, my bad!”

And it seems you can’t move fast enough to wade through the rippling waves, where schools of tiny, nipping fish and textured shells had twirled and danced about through the currents of pellucid water. But Shouta seems just fine, almost as if he’d forgotten how to react to the feeling of getting punted with a ball at full force. He picks it up, waves it in his large palm, and throws it back. You can hear it tear through the air, just as it smacks you in the shoulder with so much force you don’t register it at first.

Numbness spreads along your arm, eyes blinking up at the older man who laughs. It’s quiet yet hearty, and not at all a pretty sound. It’s more contagious if anything, a wheeze of sorts, but your lips still curl into a petty frown regardless. You can make out a huff of “Your face!” broken up with laughter, biting back on his tongue.

“I’m not laughing.” You grumble, rubbing at your shoulder with faux diligence.

There’s an eerie smile on his face, enough to send shivers down your spine as water drapes your face and drips down your body— boat engine revving with ferocity as the men float off into the boarding dock— Aizawa’s presence arrives just as fast as it leaves.

You’re left to your devices, gawking as you process the last few minutes— his smile, your brattiness and stupidity, the way you’d only just noticed his prosthetic leg— at the mention you can feel miscellaneous fish brush against your own, scales shining through the transparent waters. You can’t help but smile too, wiping it away with the back of your water-draped forearm. Fuck.

It’s only been a month and you’re smitten. He’d left you in favor of your father again, and all you can do is giggle about it.

There’s not much you know about the man— now that you think about it. There’s been a brief drunken mention of him having kids of his own, a little girl, you think. Maybe a son? Despite his affliction for quiet, Aizawa looks as though there’s more he wants to say. To share, to tell. Your father must know it all, seeing as they grew up together, and part of you can’t help but feel a bit jealous.

Hmph.

“What’re you sulking for?” His voice has broken you out of a daydream, turning your body to look him in the eyes. The man of the hour— Shouta. You almost hate how quick you are to melt under his gaze, squaring your shoulders with the stability of poorly glued popsicle sticks.“That ball bounce off your head, too?”

“I’m not sulking.” You watch him walk around the perimeter of the shore, slow and calculating, with his hands balled up in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He pulls it overhead, tummy contracting and biceps rippling— it still manages to catch you by surprise, how much muscle he’s hiding under his baggy clothes. Your brain sets off a symphony of ooh’s and ahh’s, unable to tear your gaze from the light rise and fall of his chest.

Your eyes trail back up, past the bend of his collarbones, up the display of stubble on his throat— he’s staring right at you.

“Uh — I wasn’t. . anyway. . What’re you looking at?”

His lips twitch, briefly pressed together before relaxing as he steps into the cold water. He’s slow, hair rippling just as smooth as the ocean, the further he moves forward. And, despite that, he slowly curls a finger to and fro, as if he’s talking to a small kitten. “C’mere.”

You’re frowning when you trudge forward, hesitance in your step. “Mr. Aizawa,” you grumble, still something of a cute little sound, using the prefix your father introduced him with. Something about it makes Shouta’s frame stiffen— the title, or maybe the pettiness behind it. It’s not like you call him that when you’re in a particularly good mood. “You didn’t seem to want me around earlier.”

“Quiet,” He tuts, clicking his tongue as if he knows the game you’re playing. But despite the curt, clean-cut execution of his tone, his thumb finds your cheek with the same gentleness as a spring breeze. “Your parents were always around earlier.”

Oh.

You play off your surprise well enough, swatting his hand away with a deep grunt. Sure, it feels good. His hands on your skin— such rough palms that cover your body — but you’re not desperate. Not entirely, not even when he fixes the twist of your face with a quick look to your furrowed brows. You settle for a sigh, grumbling, “They don’t have shit to do with me.”

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

“Twenty three.” You interject, almost proud you can correct him. Rivulets of water trail down your arms, and his gaze seems to follow its motion.

“Twenty three,” He echoes with something of a breathless sigh tilting his voice. For a moment you think it’s the interruption— he’ll work on it later. Maybe he’s been struck by just how much younger you really are. “They have everything to do with you. You’re still their kid, I doubt they’d be enthusiastic about leaving you alone with an older man. A stranger, at that.”

“But they did,” You look around, as if to prove your point. Shouta’s never been one for dramatics, let alone those fueled by snappy attitudes and rolling eyes, but it looks cute on you. Maybe even cuter if it were accompanied by tears. “They left us alone. . . Half naked. . . At a beach. . . Alone..”

“I get it. We’re alone,” Shouta’s voice has always been so deep, rumbly and tired and smooth in your ears but even more so when he’s irritated. “Drop the attitude.” It’s different in a way. Leaves no room for argument, though you still feel the overwhelming need to stomp your foot and keep on pressing. You can’t help the shudder, nor the goosebumps crawling up your thighs. It’s just so fun to push his buttons, to watch his passive face twist for a split second as he processes your words.

It’s not exactly hard when he allows it. Shouta lets you push until your heart’s content, only reprimanding you with a glance or cleared throat— and it’s almost eerie. You can’t help but feel

like you should be anticipating something, even as you stand flush against his thick body in lukewarm ocean water and he looks at you with contentment.

Then it occurs to you. . . He’s letting it build up.

“And you’re not a stranger, Mr. Aizawa.” Obviously you’re softening the blows, so he watches you step forward, arms crossed over his thick, plush chest. You’re just so cute, brushing past his overwhelming seriousness with a smile— albeit sly. He can’t stay mad forever. It’s not fair, how cute you are, with lips stretched out and teeth on display, with the apples of your cheeks rising, and the cutest little twinkle in your eye. He wants to kiss you. . . He wants to kiss you so bad it’s starting to hurt.

Especially when you lean forward, sunlight bouncing off the ocean surface and across your body— painting you in pretty, golden slivers of glow. Across your face, your chest, your stomach, your thighs. It’s been a while since he’s felt his skin against your own. Since he’s run his large, calloused hands along your body.

“What happened to ‘Daddy’?” He asks, absentmindedly.

“What?” You break his trance, looking down at yourself with a hint of something Shouta can’t quite place. Uncertainty, perhaps? Vulnerability, maybe. It’s odd, you usually prance around so confidently. You wear the tiniest— tightest— clothes known to man, have the smartest mouth, egg him on day in and day out.

That’s not it. You look smug. You’re playing him for a damn fool.

“Nothing.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s wrong— it’s cliché, maybe even taboo. He wants to wipe that look off your face. He wants to kiss his best friend’s son stupid. The man he’d just shared parenting advice to, the man he’d spent years upon years of highschool, college, divorces, with. It’d been so innocent when he’d visit— maybe he should’ve never stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to see you in full bloom, so handsome and lithe and sweet.

“ ‘Nothing,’ ” You echo, snarky as you mimic the flat, detached tone of Shouta’s voice. If you weren’t sulking before you definitely are now, readying yourself to push past him like some spoiled brat who was just denied their favorite candy after being caught trying to steal it nonetheless. So He holds onto your bicep, squeezing the flesh as it flexes with your feeble attempt at struggling.

“Are you done yet? Or do you need a minute to calm down?” He shifts his weight, voice calm and level as he holds you still despite the straining. Not a single hair on him is out of place, his tranquility almost alarming.

“Let go, old man!” He has to ignore the rush of adrenaline the back and forth gives him— the way he has an incessant urge to squeeze your jaw just a bit tighter.

“Hey,” You watch his lips curl to coo, a tone somewhat akin to a parent shushing a fussy child. Your face is turned to face him directly, “How many times do I have to talk to you?” Then impossibly close as his warm breath pans over the expanse of your face, “What’d I say about the attitude?”

“I don’t care what you say about it.” Your face is squished against his palm as you go to squirm your way out of his hold, but with the way his head angles down toward your face— you can barely get the words to sound convincing. There’s a giggle in your voice, like you think his frustration is amusing.“You like it, don’t you? Forget strange, you’re dirty!”

He’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes narrowed and lidded, “Stop fuckin’ playing with me, little boy.”

“Dad never lets me drive the boat,” Though the man can sense your whining from miles away, it still manages to catch him off guard. Shouta quirks a brow in questioning, hand hovering a polite foot away from your calf as you stand to walk along the wading boat floor. “Destroyed his last one when I was a kid,” (He doesn’t have to know you were actually nineteen when you did.) You speak in a tone that makes him think just maybe you consider it more your father’s fault than your own. “This one’s nicer anyway.”

“That’s wasteful.” Aizawa bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed into a familiar line. Had one of his kids done that it’d be a completely different story. Surely one they wouldn’t be proud of telling either. Through the corner of his eye he watches you dig into the cooler, scrabbling past the beer bottles and iced hennessy, to pull out an ice cream.

“To you,” You spare him a glance before finally plopping down in the passenger’s seat with much more force than necessary— especially when sitting on a boat. “I did him a favor.”

The cooler did a poor job— your ice cream is already melted and soft once it’s unwrapped. Thick, velvety cream that you lap up with your tongue dribbles down your knuckles. He should find it gross, but your pretty eyes flickering upward to meet his own as you take one long, slow lick up each bend of your fingers has done the complete opposite. Fuck. It’s hot— your sticky fingers and messy lips, your pinched brows and tiny, pleased whines.

If only it were his cock.

Shouta’s thick. Much thicker than your ice cream, he’s sure you’d feel a good stretch to your lips if you wrapped them around the head of his cock. You’d probably whine about how hard you have to try, how heavy it is on your tongue— how much it’s stuffing you full when it hasn’t even slid down your throat yet. You’d cry too, maybe, with drool slicking your chin and coating his dick in a pretty, shiny layer of thick saliva.

“Want some?” You lean uncomfortably forward, though your legs are over the arms of your seat and draped across Shouta’s lap. Already close, Shouta can smell the oreo on your tongue and vanilla cream by the corner of your lips. “You’re staring pretty hard.”

“Sit up,” The deflection is an answer in itself, yet the dark-haired man can’t find a reason to look away. “Before you hurt yourself.”

Instead, you take his wrist, thick and decorated with a long vein, to fiddle with his fingers. They’re long— healthy, strong, clipped haphazardly— big. He watches you split his fingers apart, lacing your free hand with his own— and though he remains with all five fingers up, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the urge to close them around your much smaller ones. Shouta clears his throat while you hum, lapping at your ice cream before pressing your lips against his knuckles, “Want you to hurt me instead.”

“Hush,” There’s a sharp intake of breath, dark lashes fluttering as multicolored eyes glance past your shoulder. It’s evident he wants to say more— in the way he shifts his weight to lean outward. “You hardly know me.”

Your foot nudges his upper thigh, pressing into the firm skin as the boat moves further toward the horizon. It feels more secluded that way.. Private, even. As if there’s only the two of you left on the dreamy island. Your face looks a bit exasperated, like you’ve never had to work so hard in your life, and he has to admit it— it’s cute.

“I know you grew up with my dad,” He ignores the venom behind your tongue as you mention your father, letting out a low hum of confirmation. “I know you have two kids— adopted, right?”

“Hitoshi and Eri.” He interjects, voice soft and fond. You’d never noticed it before, but now you’re acutely aware of the gentle presence of breeze and rippling waters. Shouta’s relaxed face is much sweeter, still creased with age but not quite as deep. The cute, pinched dips between his brows are gone, but you know how to bring it back.

“Lucky. Wish you were my Daddy instead,” Aizawa isn’t sure which word he’s more hung up on, nor how it's so easy for you to completely twist his words— but as much as it rushes to his cock, gets him twitching in his pants and throbbing all the way down his heavy shaft— he doesn’t like it. You talk entirely too much. With lips much too sweet and sheen with cream. With a tongue that flicks and presses against your teeth when you smile. With a pretty voice he could listen to, all day. Something that’d sound better through choking and gagging—ragged and crackly and used. Your lashes flutter, soft and gentle against your cheek. “How old is Hitoshi? My age? If he takes after you, then. . .You’re just—“

“Listen to me,” Perhaps it’s not very characteristic of him, but he just can’t stop. Shouta moves without thinking, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your lips are puckered. “For as long as I���m here,” he offers a squeeze. “For as long as your father is here,” then another, “Turn. It. Off.”

Your face melts into something floaty and distant, the smirk melting right off your face into something much more preferable. His thumb is so close, so close to your pretty lips. You blink once— twice, even— before regressing back into a grin, lips pressing against his long fingers. Fucking brat.

“I’ll just have to hit up Hitoshi sometime, then.”

The persistent comment nearly knocks him over, straight off the boat and plummeting into the cerulean depths of the sea. Instead, Shouta finds it better to step on the gas. . . To ignore the prickling heat in his blood, to ignore the easy taptaptap-ing of your fingers against the screen of your phone. It’s so easy for you to say anything around him— like a deliberate disregard for his reaction. His fingers thrum against the tiller, then wrap around its leather exterior to squeeze, and he doesn’t miss (not even for a second) the glance you give him through the corner of your eye.

The silence is almost painful. The motor speaks for you, loud and rushed and heavy. Aizawa’s jaw sets, clenched at each chiseled edge. His eyebrows furrow deep, angry, and his lips remain tightly shut. You can’t help but stare, watching his hair whip in the wind, dreamy and mellifluous. Not a moment of eye contact is shared, and you feel yourself slinking back into the white leather of your chair for the first time this evening.

Come the wooden dock just adjacent to the shoreline, Shouta’s throwing away wrappers (they’re all yours) and unbuckling his seatbelt. Your arms cross, a pout heavy in your lips as your eyes flutter closed. . Almost as if you being unable to see him makes him unable to see you.

“C’mon, baby.” You both miss the nickname, and despite the tension, it feels so natural dripping from his tongue.

Still, you whine. Mind occupied by your nearly offset tantrum prior to getting back at the dock. “I’m staying outside.”

“You’ll get heatstroke.” Shouta sighs, stepping back to lift you into his arms not even a moment later. You consider it ironic, for a moment, he always wears black despite the scorching heat. Bent at the waist as he leans over the open inside of the boat to unbuckle your seatbelt, his face remains stoic as your arms flail and fly to push him away. Your pretty face morphs into a nasty scowl, grumbles and mumbles toppling from your lips— you’re embarrassed.

He sets you down on the creaking wood, hands placed steady at your waist and shoulder to keep you upright— in your feeble attempt at escapism, your last result was simply going limp.

You just won’t budge, standing planted at the end of the dock despite the tugs to your biceps, forearm— hands, wrists. Your last attempt at pushing him away ends up in stumbles, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stomp down the polished dock, eyes hardening with the contact of deep, dark pools in Aizawa’s irises.

You were holding hands.

It’s been days. You haven’t left your room in days. At first, Shouta doesn’t worry. He doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t question why you don’t come downstairs. When he asks your parents about it it’s always the same thing— ‘That’s just how he is when he doesn’t get his way,’ or ‘He’ll come around.’ The more he asks, the mode suspicion, More questions, mostly wondering why he’s so enamored by their son— even if he had been closer to you when you were younger. But that was long ago, and you hardly remember.

And that isn’t even it.

He starts to worry, to feel bad, on day six. Not a single sound that even points to your presence. No creaking floorboards, no music playing from your old, antique and overpriced record player, no sounds of muffled laughter. It makes him feel out of his skin, like a bystander watching the inhabitants of this very beach house go about their day like nothing is wrong. But this wrong, so very wrong—

He wants you. His boy, his brat, his best friend’s son. It’s wrong and it’s taboo, but so help him, he yearns.

His feet had carried himself upstairs before his mind could, following after you a good half-hour later. You heard him on his way in, the shuffle of his slipper-clad feet from the outside of your door. Still, you’d made no effort to move, no effort to free yourself from the cocoon of your childhood blankets, no effort to open the door despite his gentle knocking.

“You ready to talk yet?” He was willing to brush it all aside. The pushing, the persistent flirting, the slight disregard for his feelings, the mentions of his son. Really, he was jealous. Maybe it’s unsavory for him to admit, maybe he shouldn’t think of his son as competition. And he knows, of course, there’s nothing there— he’s only ever competing with himself. He just can’t help it.

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

“I don’t like being ignored.” Your voice was small, but he could still hear it through the door. He heard it all, every implication. His sweet boy, his spoiled brat. You froze, just briefly, before he let himself in. The door creaked slowly with its open and close, a gentle click of the lock as the air grew thick.

Your old bed is small and creaky. Almost as much as the underused floorboards, your old bedroom screams with just as much personality as it does neglect. There’s tiny figurines, posters, awards, memorabilia— but it’s all too clean. Even if it has collected dust, not a thing is out of place. Pristine. There’s a few scattered photos— awkward haircuts, familial pets, the works. . Unapologetically you, maybe when you were just a tad bit more naive— but you nonetheless. It even smells like you, just with a hint of sea salt and warm, summer-y vanilla. Shouta wants to bury his nose in it.

“None of my fancy college boyfriends liked it here, Maybe ‘Toshi would.” You shift your weight as Shouta sits at the edge of your bed, the springy mattress creaking ever so slightly. There’s something left unsaid between the small string of words— and it’s sour. Twists on Shouta’s tongue, like he’s bitten into old bread, and it’s not just the mention of past boyfriends. Sure, that’s not exactly what he’d call this. . . relationship, but it’s not like it’d feel wrong. And he’d certainly feel bitter if his son were in his shoes. “Guess my sheets weren’t silky enough. Can tell you what was, th—”

“I like it.” It’s simple. The admission— simple and sweet, like it’s obvious. Shouta watches your lips part for a moment, just to close again, like a fish out of water. You look so small when you’re caught off guard, glancing to the side and shifting your weight onto your palms as you sit in the comfy middle of your bed. He knows what you’re doing— redirecting the conversation by flirting (it does get his heart beating, he’ll admit it)— and it makes you seem softer, almost.

He watches you sniffle for a moment, a quiet sound as you shift your knees with exuberating coyness. Your eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffed into a pout because, “That's it? You just ‘ like ’ it?”

He’ll give it to you, you never give up. He’d been warned, he was skeptical, and he’s been proven wrong. And, in the brunette’s head, you’d tallied over three strikes. Perhaps he was being too lenient. And now, Shouta, the weak man that he is, simply wants to indulge.

“What else would I say?”

“That it’s nice,” You cock your head to the side. “That you’ve never seen a room so nice. Which m’sure is true, anyway. . Are you low income, Sho? I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single father of two— or one, since Hitoshi moved out forever ago.”

The older man takes a breath through his nose, and out through his mouth. Pretty irises flicker down to meet the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, like the tidal wave of emotion has washed away back into shore, his voice is level as he speaks, “You spoke to him.”

“You ignored me,” You say it as if it’s obvious, simple, that if you can’t have Shouta you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. And though it’s not entirely true, you only really stalked his social media to learn more about his father, you don’t think your heart can stomach seeing pride swell in Aizawa’s chest. “Wanted your attention, Daddy.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, cold air rattling the bones as he watches you stare up at him. Your eyes look softer, boyish, wider at this angle. His pink tongue darts over his equally pink lips, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Show me.”

“Shh, sh, sh,” Shouta’s cock slips down your throat with a low grunt, the slippery walls clench around the fat head of his cock. Just as he imagined it, cutting off pretty whines and gasps, head bobbing back and forth— like you can’t tell whether it’s too much or too little. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his thick, sticky cock nestled against your throat— but it feels good, heavy and throbbing in a way that makes your brain shut off so quickly you drool. It sticks to his shaft and slides down his balls, painting your chin in a syrupy-sweet layer of saliva, but you’re too far gone to wipe it away. Such a good boy.

He must’ve said it aloud, because there you are nodding, lazily bobbing your head as he grinds in and out of your mouth. There’s a loud, sticky sound coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, obscene in a way that makes you whimper around your heavy mouthful of cock. He’s quick to correct himself— you only ever seem to behave when you’re stuffed with his dick, and he can’t have you thinking your behavior is acceptable. With a grunt, deep and velvety, Aizawa pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag— tight throat convulsing and quivering around his shaft.

You slurp loudly, choking and gasping as you struggle to pull back. His balls hit your chin, heavy and sticky and so fucking good as tears stream down your face. You’re starting to get into it now, making a mess of yourself as you stick out your tongue to lick along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, eyes focused on the rings of saliva holding you together. Shouta pulls out to let you breathe, his cock quickly liding upupup your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit as you chase after what you’ve been wanting for the past month.

“Stop fuckin’ moving. Let Daddy use your throat, wanna hear you cry on it,” The bulge of his fat cock shows in your throat, in and out, in and out, in and out.

You want to whine, to beat your fists against his thighs, and kick your feet— it’s all so much. He has you by the hair, big hand pulling and tugging, lifting you on and off his cock like a warm, tight fleshlight. You fail to bite back a growl, though it emits more as a cute, pathetic sound, glassy eyes focused on his cock being shoved down your hot, wet throat. It’s so easy to press your lips against the darkness of his pubes, to smear pre along your pouty lips and cheeks. His cock jumps in your mouth, thick and long and curved, leaking at the tip.

It’s hard to adjust to the stretch, sputtering and gagging with such cute, greedy sounds. You’re getting ahead of yourself, eager, tongue lapping at the achy underside of his dick, pressed against his balls. And, with a gasp, Shouta pulls out, huffs and unintelligible groans filling the air. The blushing head of his cock taps against your cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “C’mere.”

And yet, despite all that bark, your eyes barely make contact with the ones above you. Instead they trace the pulse of his shaft, how heavy his cock hangs between his legs, how it makes his long fingers almost smaller in comparison. The way pre dribbles from the tip, sticky and warm and oh, so inviting. It’s as if he can read your mind, knows how badly you miss the weight of his thick cock stretching your throat, “You can do better than that," and you almost can't believe it.

Better? Your eyes flicker to the saliva dripping from your chin, suddenly aware of the slick pre smeared across your pretty cheeks and the heavy pants leaving your lips. What gets better than this? You let him use your throat like a new fleshlight, cried on his cock and muffled the sounds in his pubes. Ignored the aching of your own cock just to focus on his own, absentmindedly bucking your hips into nothing, even if it made you look like a pathetic puppy. Fine— you can show him better. You can break him first.

You blink rapidly, tears clumped in your pretty eyelashes, lips parting to, indubitably, sass the older man. “What, need help gettin’ it up? Fuck you, can do it m—”

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

“— I wasn’t asking.” You really fucked up now, eyes wide as you’re lifted up by your throat and manhandled into Shouta’s strong arms. He smells good, and just as strong, as your face is pressed into his chest and your tiny, tiny shorts are pushed past your thighs. The air is cold, it spreads goosebumps along your skin, and you’re sure Shouta can feel them along his palm as he grabs handfuls of your ass. He ignores your off guard ‘Hey! I wasn’t done!’, ignores the squirm of your waist, ignores your poor, weeping cock.

Being the smooth, calculated man that he is, you’d expect Aizawa to put a rhythm and pace to his spankings. But no, there’s nothing for you to latch onto but the bundles of his hair as he hands out sporadic, random, and hard smacks along each globe of your ass. There is no back and forth, no favoring one over the other— it’s just where he wants, when he wants. If he wants to watch your thighs convulse and jiggle beneath his heavy palm he will, and if he wants to smack your hands away from his wrists as you tug and tug— he will.

Shouta groans when you let out a particularly pathetic cry, biting your lip and whimpering into his warm skin. You can feel his big hands part your cheeks, squeezing the skin until it spills over each finger and your ass has turned tender and sensitive. He coos, feeling you squirm and wriggle against his hold, “S’it too much? Daddy’s poor baby.”

It shouldn’t sound so sweet coming from his lips, even when it’s condescending and rough, even when he’s cracking his palm down again and again despite your kicks and squeals.

But it does.

“Da—ddy. . !” your voice quivers, hips rocking to an uncoordinated tune. So little contact and yet it feels like so much, his hot palms against your warm skin. . . The tears rolling down your darling face. . . The way your cock throbs against your tummy, your mouth aches with emptiness, your hole twitches beneath the weight of his fingers. The thought makes you want to whine all over again, body squirming and trembling as he holds and kneads the flesh of your ass.

“Quiet. I should shove my fingers down your throat to shut you up,” Shouta murmurs, so unnecessarily mean, kissing the dampness of your forehead before his hand cracks down against your plush ass three, four, five more times. You try to keep up your resolve, pretty legs trembling and knuckles clenching— but it’s just so hard. Being a brat is easy— it’s fun— you’ll give up a few tears, cry and pout, get your way. Easy. So you won’t break and give him what he wants. He’ll have to work for it, get a taste of his own mean, mean medicine.

Delayed gratification.

Wet llips open to speak, something smug and almost smart, but it’s reduced to a wet moan. You feel it—fingers spreading apart the globes of your ass, and more cracking down between them, on your empty, pretty little hole. For a moment your brain slips out of your body, thoughts static and turned to mush, fuzzy and convulsing where you lay. You process the sound of hushing, the feeling of wetness, the sound of slick spit against your skin. . . Thick, merciless fingers rubbing and tapping and sliding against you.

“Oh, god,” You sob, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows pinching the second more pressure builds and— oh, a finger slips inside. “Fingers— that’s, oh god..” Inching in slowly, rubbing against your velvety walls and so fucking slick you’re beginning to see stars. Whatever you had your mind set on earlier flies straight out the window, your brain short circuits as your sopping hole flutters around his fingers, sucking them in.

“Fuck, baby, look at you clench on Daddy’s fingers. Want Daddy to finger-fuck this cute little cunt silly?” If you could see his face you’re sure he’d be smiling— an eerie thing, eyes trained on his fingers getting sucked back into you. Such a needy boy. “C’mon, say it. Tell Daddy you want his big fingers in your sweet, greedy little pussy.”

You can’t help it, hole throbbing rhythmically along his long fingers, squelching and gushing with stickiness. The swell of your ass ripples as you wiggle your hips, rising and falling to grindgrindgrind. “Fuck me already, c’mon, old man.”

“That what your little ‘boyfriends’ do?” Your lip quivers— he hadn't even flinched at the sass— and instead used your own words against you. “Oh, baby. They didn’t give that little boycunt the attention he needed, hm? That why you throw so many tantrums?”

Your hand finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around thick and strong limp just enough to get his hand moving, trying to guide him deeper, faster, harder. He should reward bratty behavior, but the words spill from his mouth almost immediately, “That’s it, just needed something to fill you up, nice and full.”

It’s ironic— he says it just before pulling out his soaked fingers. And, at your nightstand, opens the drawer to retrieve lube. You watch him pause, eyes scanning the contents of the drawer until his lips quirk downward. Lollipop wrappers. An ungodly amount— you really went on a hunger strike because he ignored you? For six whole days?

“What am I gonna do with you.” He sighs, but grabs a sucker regardless, tearing open its pretty, pastel blue packaging to reveal its red, shiny hard candy. He pops the treat into his mouth, holds it on the right side with his teeth, and squirts a generous amount of lube over the globes of your ass. His hands slip and slide as he guides it around, watches it dribble down your thighs and relishes in the way your hole opens up for him, soaked and sticky.

Your eyebrows pinch, hips wiggling as he pulls the lollipop free from his mouth and directs it against your own, “Suck,” He murmurs, but it’s forced past your lips before you can process the demand. Here come more tears, burning your nose as you hiccup out a tiny, overwhelmed, “Daddy?”

“It’s okay, I’m here,” He coos, circling the pad of his thumb along the rim of your hole. Even as your feet instinctively kick, there’s no reaction from him, just a pleased hum. “Keep sucking, atta boy.”

His thumb feels like a lot, makes you squeal and shiver as he presses it inside, and something hot and wet accompanies it. That's good, the heat of his tongue licking and sucking at your throbbing rim, bubbly spit dribbling down his chin and caught in his stubble. One hand is focused on fucking your boyhole raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re incoherent. His palm presses into the small of your ass, tongue working hard until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to snatch the lollipop back, keeps his tongue pressed against your walls until—

He trails the glossy sphere of the candy down to your sloppy little hole, nudging and prodding until he slowly works the lollipop inside. “You can take it,” He growls, eyes trained on your fucked-out face. He can feel it, the tightening of your balls, the way your hole aches and pulses with the treat inside you. “That’s it, sweet thing. Wanna make this pussy cum, give it t’me. Let Daddy have it..”

He murmurs, and suddenly, instead of the treat that he’s popping back into his mouth, there’s the head of his perfectly thick, so big, cock pressing against your slick, thoroughly fucked-out hole and—

Oh.

“Sweet.”

You sob into nothing, back arching and spongy walls clinging down on Shouta’s cock as it’s worked inch by inch into you and— you can’t fucking believe it. You fought for so long, put on a bratty attitude and stomped your feet. Why would you ever push Shouta and his cock away for so long? Your breaths are short. Tiny little gasps as his large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs open to get a better view of the thick dick pumping you full. Your pretty little hole, sheen with spit and lube, exposed and on display for him and his cock. And, yeah, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. . . You want him to break you.

“You’re— fuck, you’re so gross, Daddy,” Shouta grits his teeth, “Ohh, havin’ your best friend’s son on your fat cock, fuckin’ my pussy so full. . !” You’re straight up babbling, cross-eyed as each thrust knocks coherent thoughts out your brain. A real, proper slut, desperately humping upupup to fuck yourself on his dick. With this position— knees to your ears and holes on display, you barely have the control to move— but it’s cute to watch you try anyway.

“Shut up and take it,” He rasps, voice deep and scratchy in a harsh whisper as his hips snap back and forth. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to hear their son calling someone else daddy, do you?”

“Daddy— Daddy, my pussy—“ You’re babbling, it’s all you can do since Shouta is all force with his thrusts; takes what he needs, feeds you his cock good and so, so deep. Over and over, you let out broken whines, desperate for it, looking down as best you can to watch your own cock bob and jump against your tummy, thighs sticky with spit and lube. You can hear the sound of your slutty, pathetic moans, the wet plaplaplap of skin, lube trailing and frothing between your bodies as Shouta fucks into you. You can’t stop twitching— your legs, your hole, your cock.

“This is Daddy’s pussy,” He corrects, angling his hips just right, the heat of his cock pressing against every special spot you’ve got. Every bundle of nerves, every silky, spongy wall you’ve got wrapped around him. “Just like that,” You’re gagging for it, pouty lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he continues to watch your hole tighten around his thick, veiny cock. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into you, your body jerking back as he pounds, and pounds, and pounds. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. . .” Your breath is caught in your throat, and if you could, you’d scream, your body tensing as your cock throbs and bounces, cum spraying across your bare chest — stickiness shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body set ablaze. Shouta shows no signs of stopping, instead keeping his cock inside you as he flips you around, eyes narrowed. He fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, leaky hole milking him for all he’s got.

“Dumb sluts love cock, baby. S’that what you are?” His voice is a low purr, pressing your face into the mattress, watching your ass fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you.

“Yeah, mhmm,” You drool into your pillow, absentmindedly fucking yourself back onto him. You’re desperate to chase after it, the searing spiral of pressure growing in your stomach, tight hole bearing down on his cock. “Daddy’s slut, s’me!” For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you ride out his hard thrusts, offering tiny movements of your own, up and down to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, to feel his balls slap against your thighs.

“Good sluts take Daddy’s cum,” Your eyes, so glassy and empty, is what gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. “Take it, boy. Let Daddy knock you up.” It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. Shouta’s cum starts to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move.

He ignores your needy, overstimulated whines when he pulls out completely, his spent cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Even when you’re limp and boneless, body trembling violently, you want more.

“Da— Da—ddy,” You sob, eyes squeezed shut as strong arms pull you up and into even stronger thighs. Sitting on his lap now, Shouta coos hums, basks in the sight of his pretty boy’s afterglow.

“Daddy’s here. I’m here, I got you.” He whispers into your shoulder, and that’s all you need to hear. The thought of his best friend melts away— you’re more than that. You’re not just his best friend’s son. . .

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

There’s a seasonal chill in the air and it’s getting dark in the early afternoon. The beach has switched its course, currents changing direction and fish disappearing from the shoreline. The weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up, and the clouds have yet to dissipate into the sky. . Shouta helps you pack, grumbles when you press chaste kisses against his skin the whole time— shuts down the stomps of your feet while you whine, “I don’t wanna leave.”

“Spring break,” Is all Shouta says, his mismatched eyes downcast in a way that highlights his long, pretty eyelashes. Then, voice barely audible, he whispers, “I don’t want you to, either.”

Your body visibly straightens, giddiness painting your boyish face as you smile wide and big. The older man almost regrets saying it, huffing with you lean impossible close to hug him tight. “Will you call me?”

“Whenever you want,” He says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. You watch as he throws your large bag of lollipops into your carry-on backpack, but not before plucking a treat free from the others. “You know I will.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

[shirokoi]

Just finished Day 14 and someone finally jiggled the protag's brain cells

I'm doing a reaction thread as I'm reading through Tennis Ace and I'm being super normal about it

[chirpy-poppy]

Our Pin

When Darkwick allows you to choose one of the houses to join, how will they convince you?

Inspired by this ask/post.

Frostheim “Wait,” Jin grunts at you as you approach the door, done with his errands for the day. He tosses something at you which you barely manage to catch. When you do, you recognize the deep blue pin. “You’d be set for life with the connections you make here. Choose wisely.” Jin is a man of few words, but you’d hear most of Frostheim’s pitch from Kaito who basically begs you to join them. Lucas would come with a few logical points about why you should choose Frostheim, and Tohma would keep you so busy with tasks, you wouldn’t be able to visit other houses during your decision period.

Vagastrom “It’ll be pretty cool if we lived a little closer together, Senpai. I’ll cook for you every day.” Sho is the only one who’d want you at Vagastrom. Alan gives you a stern warning not to do something so dangerous. Leo’s existence alone convinces you to stay far away.

JabberwockThey use their fluffy animals to their full advantage. Haru takes you on a Cappybus tour to see all the cutest animals while Towa engulfs you in the most fragrant flowers. Ren might actually beg you to join them too since you are actually willing to do the chores. Towa gives you such a puppy look while Haru discreetly pins the orange brooch onto your lapel. Peekaboo lets out the saddest “Booo” when you leave for the day. How can you ever refuse them? 

SinostraRomeo had given Taiga a lecture on their objective just before you were scheduled to meet them, so the captain actually remembers who you are when you walk in. “Hello, Kitten,” he purrs as you come in with some documents. He somehow gets you strapped into his torture chair and is about to stab the brooch into your jacket when Romeo bursts in. “You’re supposed to convince her, not force her!” “Why? It’s so much easier this way.” Taiga spins his revolver before placing it on your temple. Ritsu steps in at this moment to quote some law that no one is really paying attention to. Taiga and Romeo get into such an argument that no one notices you slipping away and running for your life.

Hotarubi The three invite you over for tea. At the end of it, Subaru presents you with the amethyst brooch in an intricately carved wooden box. “We would love it if you would join Hotarubi, PC. Of course, we want you to make the decision you believe is best for you, but you should know you are always welcomed and appreciated here.” As Haku walks you home, he purposefully takes a scenic route through Hotarubi. He’d gently pitch his own house but reminds you they are here for you no matter what decision you make. 

ObscuaryWas unfortunately not one of the options available to you. Rui is quite relieved though. He isn’t sure how he can live constantly worried about touching something as weak as a human. He also knows he could never live with himself if something happened to you, and the risk of it increases so much more if you stayed in his dorm. Lyca is completely bummed though. He thought he had a chance to finally have a friend at the dorm. He does not understand why you can’t stay at Obscuary since he’s here and he’s human too. Ed thinks it’s a shame, but he is sure you’d visit often still.

Mortkranken“Humph! You should feel honored to even be considered joining Mortkranken,” Yuri gloats, dangling the brooch in front of you. “He desperately wants you to join,” Jiro deadpans. “Jiro! Can you shut it! I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you did since you are a very interesting subject.” Yuri’s blush isn’t fooling anyone as he shoves the teal accessory into your hands. Despite his shyness, he still keeps you around for another three hours helping him pipette. As you get ready to leave, he calls your name. “Consider it. You… You aren’t repulsive, at least.”

A/N: Thank you to those who sent in prompts. I'm sorry if I don't get to yours, but I will only be writing those that spark an idea. I don't want to write something bleh just to fulfill an ask. Thank you for your submission though!

[pixiesfz]

safe and sound j.r x reader

part seven of ends with us series

plot: you and Jill find eachother

warnings: mentions of abuse

your hands were shaking as they laid on the steering wheel, Olivia next to you as she assembled the checked the album you had both shown the police.

The meeting with them was almost the scariest moments of your life.

What if they didn’t believe you.

What if they didn’t care.

But the women police officer did. She took care of you, collected your information and evidence.

What happens next you didn’t know.

“Are you sure you want to go there?” Olivia asked, putting her phone down “I have no idea where she lives” you responded with a sigh.

“Can’t send her a message?”

“It will go through as a dm we don’t follow eachother”

“But you stalk eachother” Olivia snorted and you smiled, cheeks blushing “that’s not the point”

“Sure”.

You pressed your foot against the gas as you drove off towards the dog park, Olivia’s dog in the back, barking in excitement when he recognised the route.

When you arrived you let Stanley off his leash and hoped.

Hoped she would drop by.

“Kerstin let’s go” Jill ordered her friend who had taken her time to say goodbye to her girlfriend “I’m coming!” She yelled, getting into her car.

“Jill we’ve been here three days in a row and she hasn’t been there” Kerstin said before turning quiet “what if she’s-“

“No” Jill cut her off “she’ll be there…she needs to be”

“What are you going to say if she is?”

“I don’t know”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know”

“What are you-“

“I don’t know!”

The car drove in silence, not even the radio was on until Jill parked at the dog park.

You were there, groaning at the fact that you had lost the rock paper scissors game and now had to throw away Stanley’s poo.

“Gross Stan” you muttered but the dog just wagged his tail with a smile as you picked it up with a bag and walked away, out of eyesite as Jill and Kerstin walked up.

“I don’t see her” Jill huffed, looking around she expected for Kerstin to agree and suggest to go back home but she didn’t.

“I know her” Kerstin muttered, pointing to a girl in front of them.

Olivia.

“Who?” Jill asked and Kerstin furrowed her brows “she’s the one I talked to at y/n’s work”

Jill shot up her brows up as she saw the dog sitting next to her. “Stanley?”

“How did you know the dogs-“ Kerstin asked but stopped mid sentence

gorgeous hair flew in the wind as you came into view, a smile on your face as the dog ran up to you, wagging his tail.

“Well” Kerstin started “she’s here”

Jill felt like she was back in ninth grade, blushing cheeks at the sight of you and her nerves taking over her.

Kerstin was about to yell over herself until someone else did.

The dog ran over to Jill with a loud bark and you and Olivia followed the sight.

“Oh my god” you muttered at the sight as Olivia gasped “she’s actually here”

You smiled, the feeling of relation coming over you as you did.

“Well… go over!”

And you did.

Jill walked over similarly until you met in the middle of the”hey” you smiled up to the Dutch girl and she laughed nervously “fancy seeing you here”

You smiled brightly, hurting yourself slightly from the still healing bruise under your eye.

Jill remembered why she was so set on finding you from seeing your face “can we talk somewhere more private?”

Your face faltered but nodded.

Making your way to a bench you sat down closely next to eachother.

“Are you safe?” Jill asked and you shot your head quickly towards her

You paused, looking down before answering “I wasn’t but now I am” Jill took a sharp breath in “that’s good to hear” she smiled but you could tell there was sadness behind her eyes.

You reached your hand out and grabbed hers “Jill I’m fine now”

“But you weren’t and I didn’t figure it out quick enough”

“I didn’t expect you to”

Jill squeezed your hand “I went to your house to try and find you and Ellie was there, she’s staying there”

You widened your eyes “she didn’t hurt you?”

“No” Jill shook her head “but I may have threatened her in Dutch”

You laughed “she never bothered to learn the language so you’re fine” you laughed “I know she looked at me like I had two heads” Jill joined you.

“thankyou for trying to find me” you smiled, looking up to Jill as she raised her hand and laid it softly against your cheek.

“I’d do anything for you Liefde”

And for the first time in a long time you felt completely safe.

[zomboivex]

Have some unprocessed thoughts about Leo.

Aha here I am with a fucking MICROSCOPE going to dissect this man and his entire being (aha I used to do character analysis for funsies on other platforms). And man-

Can I just say he has all the signs of a character who’s fucking Tragic™ tbf all the ghouls are

But dude is literally on a fucking self-destructive path and I’m here for watching this shit show unfold.

I mean he literally was called out by Alan to take better care of himself, to stop taking the easy way out, and that he’ll be the one to suffer in the end.

Not to mention bro was UNPHASED when Alan threw him against a wall. He was more thrilled to have gotten under his skin, if even for a moment.

Then there’s his opening line about getting revenge or whatever (I’m running on 4 hours of sleep so sorry if I misremembered it).

And then when you pick up Sho’s affinity lines about him, you sort of start to paint a picture of someone who’s reckless and does shit that gives him a thrill in the moment (ie. fights in the club and whatever the fuck he’s doing with fireworks that has Sho hard pass on it ever again).

I’m sure there’s other instances too.

But!

I come here to say this-

Whatever the fuck happened to this dude to make him this way- man.

Here are some of my predictions with no facts just feels

- Sho will eventually have enough of his shit and cut him out of his life if he doesn’t change (they’ll rekindle the friendship probably because Sho does care about him otherwise why put up with his bullshit? He’s just worried about his buddy who’s literally self-destructing)

- He’s going to lose his followers and the little bit of validation he gets

- He’s going to have Vice-Captain stripped from him

- He’s gonna get humbled

But- ALSO yeah I’m not done here

Here is a wild theory for you.

I think that because he was on a self-destructive path BEFORE Darkwick (aha fights in the club etc) he was def miserable af and

Someone ‘slipped’ to him about making demon pacts (that someone I have a feeling was Hyde).

He did it and survived his shit and tells Sho what Hyde told him (and drags Sho into it maybe?? Idk man I’m tired LMFAO)

And this is why Sho is icy af towards Hyde because he just made his friend exponentially WORSE

Anyways ANYWAYS

And- and listen-

Leo is such an interesting character who definitely has a lot of flaws. Idc if you don’t like him because he’s an ass and tried to have MC killed so did Taiga

I’m just excited to see how his character unfolds. Because so far, he’s presenting himself as a character who is very complex but on the surface level is a fucking ass.

He’s self-destructive and I really hope we can see that play out.

But hey- maybe I’ll eat my words in a year or so.

Guess it depends on how ever the game decides to take it which I’m cool with whatever route they go because I have 0 expectations anyways and that’s what RP and FanFics are for

[grandlinedreams]

Hiii, long time lurker first time requester here!! (on anon bcos tumblr is my safe place, I hope that’s okay :3) I was wondering if I could submit a request before you close them? 💕

I love how you write lighthearted scenes with Law, it’s always the perfect balance of comedy while staying true to his character! So, may I propose: the fake relationship trope with Law x reader?? Yknow the iconic scenario when two characters who are definitely not dating find themselves in a sticky situation so the reader pulls the ‘oh this is my boyfriend/girlfriend’ card completely out of the blue and the other person just has to kinda go along with it so as not to blow their cover?

Idek how that would even come about in a scenario involving Law but I just know he would be so exasperated but still committed to going along with it hehe

Anon your mind is 😙👌🏼 chefs kiss I love that trope and I hope that I made it work well bc i wanted to go the humor route but decided that the Kaz/Inej coding of reader and Law needed some more food so ㅡ

[heads up!: spy!reader, reader is not specifically gendered but they do wear a dress, angst, Law's a lil dumb okay]

The party is beautiful. 

Soft orchestral music plays over the soft din of conversation, the sway of couples in lavish clothing and practiced weaving of staff through the clusters of socialites, trays of food held aloft and offered at various intervals.

Flute of champagne in hand, you watch from your place near a pillar, half-studying the people around you, half watching the fizz of tiny bubbles in your glass. 

"Not much of a dancer?" The speaker's tone is light and conversational, and when you look over, you half-recognize the man now standing next to you. He's the grandson of the man hosting this entire soiree ㅡ and you turn towards him.

"Unfortunately no," you answer with a demure smile, then dip your head to look through your eyelashes, tapping the rim of your glass against your lip. "I'm waiting on someone." 

You know his type, playing right into the invisible appeal as his gaze flickers, then brightens as he offers you his arm. "Perhaps I can at least offer a dance in the meantime?" 

Your smile widens just a little, the careful bat of your eyes. "Perhaps you can."

Your flute is set down in favor of tucking your arm into his and allowing him to sweep you out further onto the floor with the whisper of your dress against your legs. It's heavy and far from what you're accustomed to, but worth the extra beri for the way you fit right in amongst the others.

The press of his other hand is warm against your back, just shy of touching exposed skin ㅡ and you welcome the touch of dizziness from the champagne to keep from balking at the idea of him touching you. 

"This person you're waiting for," your partner says as he leads you through a graceful arc past another couple, "shame on them for keeping such a lovely creature such as yourself waiting for so long."

Your skin crawls, even as you laugh softly. "I assure you, they'reㅡ"

"There you are." A familiar voice makes you turn, finding sharp gold eyes focused on you, then your partner. Trafalgar Law looks less than thrilled about much at any given moment but right now, he looks livid, jaw taut as he watches you and your partner scramble for something to say.

"My apologies," your dance partner says, his expression shifting to mask his discomfort at Law's sudden appearance. "I take it that this is your…"

"My boyfriend," you answer smoothly, sheepish and apologetic as you disengage your arm from his and step towards Law. "It was lovely to dance with you. But if you'll excuse us for a moment?"

You don't give him or Law a chance to answer, grabbing the latter's hand to pull him with you as you hurry away as quickly as your dress and situational awareness will allow you. You're still working, after all, even if Law showing up has potentially jammed a wrench into the cogs. 

What is he even doing here? You want to demand answers, furious that he'd decided to show up unannounced ㅡ like he doesn't trust you. That alone both stokes your fury and douses it in cold water, an odd juxtaposition that ultimately just makes you feel sick.

Law lets you drag him down the hallway, the hard click of your shoes against the marble floor, studying the bounce of your carefully styled hair, the way the jeweled end of your hairpin sways with your movement. 

You'd been lucky enough to weave your web of deception strong enough to secure yourself a place to stay close to your target, and you let go of Law's hand in favor of fussing with the door before yanking him inside.

Law watches your shoulders sag with visible relief as you shut the door, then turn towards him. "What were you thinking? I had this under control." 

He knows. He knows you're more than capable of handling things like this, have proven yourself time and time again ㅡ he doesn't need to check in on you. But he doesn't want to admit the real reason, that he'd been jealous of someone else's hands on you, touching you the way he should be. 

Of course he'd never admit that, he'd rather take it to the grave with him than offer the open wound of vulnerability when he isn't sure you'd return his feelings. 

"You know what?" You say when he's quiet for too long, tone sharp with hurt wrapped in exhausted disbelief at his actions, "I don't want to hear it." 

He should apologize. Tell you that he hadn't meant to almost blow your cover, that he hadn't been thinking ㅡ but instead he watches you cross the room with the rustle of your dress, trying to clean up the clutter of just hours before.

"I just wish you'd trust me," you say, and Law can tell that it's more than just tonight that's bothering you. 

"I do trust you."

You scoff, silence broken by the hard click of plastic cased cosmetics that you toss roughly back into your bag and then reach to tug the pin out of your hair. "Could have fooled me."

Your tone is scathing, all raised hackles and sharp teeth ㅡ remnants of the wild thing you'd once been and in some ways still are. You, for all your sharp edges and uncomfortable truths, still find a way to nestle in his chest, tuck yourself in his heart in ways that terrify him. 

Your huff of frustration breaks Law out of his thoughts to find you struggling with the zipper at the top of your back, and he crosses the room without thinking.

The silent bat of his hand against yours makes you stiffen, hands moving to the bodice of your dress as he pinches the key of the zipper between his fingers.

"I do trust you," he repeats softly. He struggles, the drag of the zipper teeth agonizingly slow. "I apologize if I haven't made that clear." 

You stare at the mess of your bed. "I don't understand what the issue is, then." Your words are a knife you know how to wield and do it well, tight grip on the hilt and sharp tip at proverbial underbelly. "You do your job, I do mine. It's simple."

And yet it isn't. As much as Law wishes that it were, it's far from it. Because he cares about you, cares for you in ways he's trying so hard not to. 

The slow gap of your skin exposed, soft and unguarded that entices him, makes him want in ways he knows he shouldn't. You should pull away, demand he leave, that you'll see him later when you return to the Polar Tang. 

You don't. Instead, you let him pull the zipper down further. And maybe, if he were a different man, that would be enough. 

It isn't. 

The ghost of his fingers against your back makes you stiffen, but you don't discourage him. They slide along the slope of your shoulders, make an invisible path he entertains the brief fantasy of following with his mouth.

And maybe he could, maybe you'd let him ㅡ after all, you'd told those party goers he was your boyfriend. It'd been hasty, quick thinking on your part, but brilliant ㅡ as always. You never miss a beat, always thinking ahead. What he admires about you is the same thing that drives him crazy ㅡ you're always ahead of him, even in this. He knows, and is aware all he has to do is meet you in the middle.

He pulls away. 

"Do you regret allowing me to join your crew, Law?" Your voice, ever that blade, slices through the uncomfortable silence to twist deeper into the ache of his chest. "If you do, this is the perfect time to tell me to leave. I'm sure you can come up with something to tell the others."

You're offering him an out. A way to escape this complicated tangle, let him deflect and deny until you're nothing but a distant memory and a handful of reminders left around the Polar Tang. He should let you leave. 

"I want you," he says instead, and he means to follow that up with something, but it falls flat in the now stilted gap between you. 

You exhale. "You want me." 

You turn towards him, moonlight against the slope of your neck, the dip of your collarbone. Your eyes gleam, flashing with emotion. "And how would you have me, Law? Fully clothed, head turned so our lips can never meet?" 

That knife slips between his ribs and up, punctures his heart, lets him silently bleed out between every breath. He's reminded that you don't wear the boiler suit, your clothes unadorned with his jolly roger ㅡ a reminder that he does not own you (nor does he want to. He just wants you to stay.), and you are not his. But you could be, you tell him silently. You need him to meet you in the middle. That's all.

Something in your face shifts, breaking in his silence. "I will have you without armor, Trafalgar Law, or I will not have you at all." 

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

chapter xv - gust & flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.

Word Count: 4,300+

Warnings: violence, suggestions of sexual assault

masterlist

Feyre watched her boys from across their breakfast nook. Nyx was babbling happily in his father’s arms. His wings were now strong enough to reflect his emotions. They flapped lightly when he was happy – like now. They sagged when he was sad or tired. And they folded tight against his back when he was angry. 

Rhys was feeding him patiently as he tried to also read reports that Azriel had dropped off late last night. 

She should’ve known something was going to ruin their peaceful morning. 

The front door being thrown open was so loud that they didn’t even need their fae hearing to catch it. 

Cassian, Feyre and Rhysand both said into each other’s minds, while also sharing a look. Only the giant Illyrian would be so noticeably loud with his entrance. 

They heard every one of his steps as he marched his way towards them. 

To their surprise, Cassian opened the door to show that Azriel had been right on his heels.

“What is it?” Rhys asked seriously, knowing from their expressions alone that something was very wrong. 

“Y/N is gone,” Cassian answered hurriedly. 

“Gone?” Feyre repeated. She and Rhys both stood from their seats. 

Nyx eyes sensed his parent’s tension and whined in his father’s arms, eyes filling with crocodile tears.

“Her room was empty when I went to escort her to her shop this morning,” Cassian explained. “Drawers were left open and her belongings were strewn about. She packed lightly, left almost everything behind.” 

“Her shop hadn’t been opened for the day. Her scent was nowhere to be found there,” Azriel chimed in. 

“We’ve searched all of Velaris,” Cassian added.

Rhys turned his attention to his Spymaster. “Azriel, I thought you had your shadows following her…” 

Azriel bowed his head with shame. “It’s as though she…vanished. She must have cast some sort of cloaking spell.” 

“Brother, can you hear her?” Cassian asked Rhys and then looked to Feyre for help on the matter as well. 

But Rhys shook his head before the question was even finished. “Once she understood our daemati abilities, I believe she created an amulet to block us.” He shrugged, “Evidently, it made her uncomfortable.” 

Cassian cleared his throat and took a step forward. “There’s something else you should know. But you must promise to control yourself.” 

Feyre took their son from her mate. 

Rhysand’s gaze darkened. “What happened?” 

But Cassian stood his ground. “Promise me.” 

“Fine,” Rhys cooly. “I promise.”

“Last night, Nesta told Y/N the truth about Eris.”

Feyre closed her eyes and let out a long, frustrated sigh. 

Nyx let out another whine, earning him a gentle kiss from his mother. 

“Did she tell her about the deal?” Rhys asked. 

Cassian shook his head. 

“But we should assume she still knows – with her ability to find out information the way that she does,” Azriel commented darkly. 

“Does my sister not understand the risk she took?” Feyre asked exasperated. “If something happens to Y/N while she is still within the border of Night Court, the blood oath could finally claim what its owed!” 

But to everyone’s surprise, Rhysand comforted his mate. “Y/N deserved to know the truth, Feyre darling.” 

“She most likely left last night,” Azriel added. “Which means she’s probably halfway to Day Court as we speak.” 

“She wouldn’t try the mountains,” Cassian thought aloud. “Probably stuck to the coast this entire time. Y/N would know that’s the safest route.” 

“Both of you, search the eastern shores,” Rhysand ordered. 

Suddenly, Nesta burst into the room, breathing heavily. “She bought two horses. A stableboy in the city told me she was there late last night and paid him in fine jewelry.” 

The males all shared a look. “If she’s on horseback, she is already in Day Court,” Cassian explained. 

Feyre let out a breath of relief. Fae bonds were specific and rigid things. Rhys had promised Y/N’s safety to Eris as long as she resided in Night Court.

But that didn’t mean Feyre was done worrying about Y/N.

“How do we know she’s heading south?” Nesta challenged. 

“The Mortal Lands are the only home she knows. That is where she will go,” Azriel explained quietly. 

Nesta’s gaze narrowed. “But what if she is going to Eris?” 

Feyre was the one who answered. “I don’t think she is, Nesta.” 

Nesta exhaled, knowing her sister was most likely right. To mortals, the mating bonds of fae felt…overwhelming and somewhat terrifying. All Y/N knew was that Eris felt something toward her, something that she was completely oblivious to. It could all be so confusing.  

“But what do we tell him?” Nesta asked. “What do we tell Eris?”

“We tell him nothing,” Rhysand answered curtly. “At least, not yet. We must search for her first. Otherwise, Eris could possibly lose all reason, and his father will surely be suspicious then.” 

“I’m going with Azriel and Cassian,” Feyre announced. 

“Elain and I will stay with Nyx,” Nesta announced. 

“I will send word to Helion,” Rhysand nodded. “He be wary that we are asking about a mortal. And he will annoy me with far too many questions. But we must risk it.” 

Everyone started to take their leave. 

Feyre slowly handed her son to Nesta. “For what it’s worth, I believe you did the right thing telling her. I just wish you would have come to us first.”

Nesta scoffed. “All of you would have only tried to stop me.” 

And perhaps she was right. 

“Now, go and help them find her.” Nesta nodded towards the front door that her mate and Azriel had just left through. 

But once she was alone with her nephew, Nesta began to wonder: what would they do once they found Y/N? Drag her back to Night Court? Clearly, Y/N had no desire to be here any longer. So, would they force her back? Truly make her a prisoner? 

Cauldron, what must Y/N think of all of them now?

–🍁–🍁–🍁–

One Week Later…

Eris had felt a weight in his stomach that had been making him nauseous for nearly a week now. 

Something wasn’t right. His heart told him it was Y/N. 

Eris noticed his mother’s concerned looks during the few times he’d been in the same room as her.

But his father had been keeping him so busy with last-minute commands that there was no way for Eris to sneak off to the Night Court to check on Y/N or even speak to his mother. 

Now he found himself in a rare moment alone in his chambers. And he couldn’t even find the patience to sit.

Instead, he paced back and forth beside the giant fireplace. 

It was storming outside, a common occurrence in Autumn Court. But as the night went on, the lightning and thunder became more frequent, more aggressive. What was it leading to? 

Eris tried to think of way to sneak off without Beron or his spies noticing. Dare he even risk such a thing when his father seemed hidebound on keeping him close. 

There was a tension beneath his skin, scrapping against bone and muscle. It left him restless. It left him aching. 

Something was coming – whether it was coming for him, Eris did not know. 

But he was pulled form him inner turmoil when a letter appeared out of nowhere and floated down, right before his very eyes. 

Eris swore his heart stopped. 

Surely whatever Rhysand had to say would answer this gnawing feeling Eris could not get rid of. Had Y/N been attacked again? Was she hurt? Had that bastard shadowsinger made her cry again?

Eris held his breath as he opened the letter from the High Lord. 

She knows. She knows who you really are to her. And she ran when she found out. We have been looking for her for a week. She must be cloaking herself. We expect that she is heading for the Mortal Realm. Eris, we need your help. She needs your help. 

Eris swore he saw red. 

Y/N knew. She knew and she ran. Why would she do such a foolish thing? She was safe in the Night Court. 

“Fools,” Eris hissed to himself as he scrunched up the paper in his fist and then lit it aflame, not releasing his grip until it was only ash. 

All of them were fools. 

What had they said o make her flee? She’d built a life for herself in Night Court. And she had abandoned it so swiftly. Was the thought of being his mate so horrific? Did Y/N think all of them would eventually force her to be with him? 

Eris’ mind raced with hundreds of questions. 

He had to join the search – immediately. 

Suddenly, someone knocked on his door. 

“Leave me be!” Eris growled. 

But they knocked again, even harder this time. 

Eris marched to the door, preparing to harm whoever dared disturb him. 

When he threw open the door, one of Beron’s most loyal advisors stood before him.

“What?” Eris hissed. 

“The High Lord requests your presence in the throne room, my lord.” 

“I must decline,” Eris forced the words out. 

To ignore his father’s request was to play a most dangerous game. 

“The High Lord will not except a declination.”

It was a warning. Eris understood that. 

What he was trying to figure out was how much he cared at this moment, when Y/N was treading through the most dangerous territory in the Fae Realms - alone! 

Eris snarled before physically shoving past the advisor so harshly that he almost knocked the male off his feet. 

Eris didn’t wait for his escort as he stomped to the throne room. 

Whatever his father wanted, hopefully it wouldn’t take long. Then Eris could flee and find Y/n. 

——

“Why do you act as if you are scared?” Amren asked Rhysand. 

The letter was sent. 

Soon Eris would know what became of his mate. 

And the Court of Dreams stood in the foyer of the River House, wracked with guilt and worry. 

“I do not fear Eris,” Rhysand corrected. “But you do not understand what this will do to him: to lose one’s mate. I only fear what this will do to him.”

“She isn’t dead,” Nesta corrected him harshly, her arms crossed. 

“We cannot be sure,” Feyre sighed shakily. 

“Y/N is not some weakly!” Nesta defended. “She survived on her own out there years before we ever met her. She’s a Valkyrie.” 

Feyre was wise enough to look guilty. She should’ve never doubted Y/N’s survival. 

“Will he come here? Eris?” Cassian asked. “Or will he go on his own hunt for her?” 

But before anyone could answer, all windows were thrown open. 

And a tornado flew in from outside. 

Rhysand went to stand beside Feyre. Cassian rushed to Nesta, blocking her from any attack. Amren and Azriel unsheathed hidden weapons. 

But no one stood before them. Only wind that roared so loudly, they were all forced to cover their ears.

It screeched so harshly, that all of them fell to their knees in pain. 

“Y/N NEEDS YOUR HELP! SHE IS IN GRAVE DANGER! GO! NOW! TO THE AUTUMN COURT! TO THE FOREST HOUSE!”

–––

Eris hid his surprise when he found that the throne room was filled with courtiers. It was far too late in the night for them to be in attendance. 

Then he caught sight of his three brothers. They all sneered at him, proving that they knew something he did not.

Now Eris understood his father planned to make a spectacle of him if his brothers had dropped their duties just to witness whatever this was. 

Everyone else refused to look him in the eyes as he arrived. They feared him nearly as much as they feared their High Lord. 

The High Lord who sat upon his throne with a wicked smile. 

Eris stepped forward, only stopping until he reached the bottom of the stairs that led to his father. He kneeled, and kneeled deeply. He had been whipped for less. 

It wasn’t until Eris peaked and saw his mother’s expression that he knew something terrible had happened. 

She knew how to school her features in front of Beron. She played her role well, and left nothing for others to be able to decipher. 

Eris rose from his bow. “You wished to see me, High Lord.”

Beron tilted his head to the side as he looked down at his eldest son. “You are in charge of guarding this court’s borders, are you not?”

Eris nodded, “I am, High Lord.” 

“Then why was it I who found a witch wandering through our woods?”

Eris swore his fire blood turned to ice. 

There were other witches in Prythian. It could be someone else. Please, let it be someone – anyone – other than her. 

“Witches are cunning creatures,” Eris began cooly. “It is not surprising that one could pass through Autumn Court undetected.”

Beron seemed amused by his son’s response. 

The High Lord snapped his fingers. 

As if on cue, lightning and thunder struck just a second after. 

And a door behind the throne opened. 

Eris had to stop himself from becoming feral when he saw her. 

Y/N was dripping wet, being dragged by two men as both her hands and feet were secured with iron chains that scrapped across the wooden floors. 

There were bloodied scrapes and cuts across her skin, right alongside dozens of bruises. And Eris could see all of them due to the fact that Y/N was only wearing a sheer, white slip. And it was just as drenched as the rest of her, making it completely transparent and practically exposing her nudity to the entire hall. 

If Eris unclenched the fists at his side, everyone would see that he was trembling with rage. 

The males dragged Y/N until she was also at the bottom of the stairs of Beron’s throne. And half a dozen surrounded her with their weapons drawn, showing that they all saw her as a threat. Then one kicked at the back of Y/N’s legs, forcing her to fall onto her knees and face all of Autumn Court. 

Y/N was now mere feet away from Eris. 

When she finally found the strength to raise her head, she locked eyes with her mate. She schooled her features well, not even slightly looking at Eris with any recognition. But he wondered if it was because she was in so much pain. 

Both nostrils of her nose were still bleeding. The right side of her lip was swollen and split. Her left eye was almost black and bruised. And there was a cut on the right side of her forehead that drew a line of bright red blood down the side of her face. 

Y/N had put up a fight, that much was clear. 

“Do you know what makes a witch powerless?” Beron asked casually. “Iron. Many have forgotten this weakness. But witches are powerless, unable to cast – so long as they are shackled with iron.”  

Eris’ jaw was clenched tightly to stop himself from saying anything at all. 

“Yes, it is been quite some time since I have fallen upon a witch,” Beron continued as he stood from his throne and stepped down. He didn’t stop until he was directly behind Y/N. 

Eris wanted to lunge forward when Beron took Y/N’s wet hair and pulled it behind her, exposing her shoulders and neck. 

Beron hand ghosted over Y/N’s neck and then he roughly gripped her chin from behind her. Y/N winced and closed her eyes. 

Eris could clearly see that she was shaking.

“Our ancestors once kept witches as their slaves. High Lords would use them for coitus rituals, on display for all the court to see. I have heard the power these High Lords felt from it was…euphoric.” 

Beron walked around so that he was in front of Y/N, blocking Eris’ view of her. 

“But this one…has already put up quite the fight. She took out ten of my company before they were able to finally seize her.” 

Beron was bating Eris. That was obvious. Which meant he had to know who Y/N was to him, what she meant. But Eris was still figuring out how. Surely his scent wasn’t on her. He hadn’t see in her weeks. 

Eris didn’t move a muscle and composed his face to remain neutral. But on the inside, a war was raging. His instincts were screaming at him to attack, to protect his mate and rip her far, far away from his treacherous father. 

But that was clearly what Beron wanted. 

And Eris refused to give it to him. Not like this. 

Beron walked around Y/N again until he was behind her. Gripping her right arm, he jerked Y/N to her feet, exposing her entire body that showed through her wet and thin underdress. 

“But she is rather stunning, is she not?” Beron asked as his hand gripped her bottom harshly. 

Y/N hissed and tried to lurch away, but Beron’s other hand choked her neck. 

Eris watched as Y/N’s eyes filled with tears. 

“Perhaps we should renew our ancestors practices,” Beron whispered into Y/N’s ear. 

“Beron, that is enough!”

Everyone’s eyes whipped to their Lady of Autumn. The woman who had become more and more broken the longer she stayed in this court. The woman who submitted to her husband and never spoke out of turn. 

Eris tried to give his mother a warning look, but she wasn’t looking at him. No, she was glaring at her husband. 

But Y/N saw this as a moment of distraction.

She brought Beron’s hand that rested around her neck to her mouth and bit – hard. Until she tasted blood. 

Beron howled in with fury and pain. 

Y/N whipped around and lifted her knee to his groin – despite her ankles being chained. Her strike had the High Lord keeled over. But only for a moment. 

“You stupid bitch!” And Beron backhanded her so hard that Y/N flew to the ground. 

But it got her away from him, and Eris had his window. 

Moving his hands, he gathered a ball of flame and threw it, knocking Beron yards back. When he landed, his head slammed back against the floor. 

But when Beron rose to his feet, he was laughing. “You were always pathetic.” The High Lord immersed his entire body in flames. “Do you really believe you stand a chance against me, boy?” 

Eris said nothing as he drew the sword at his side and it too ignited in flames. 

With the wave of his arm, Beron unleashed a monster from his flames – a dragon, made entirely of fire. It lunged for Eris with its jaw open. 

Now the courtiers wailed in fear, knowing their High Lord cared not for their lives and was more than willing to risk them as collateral damage. 

Eris sliced the fire dragon’s neck with his sword. 

But then a whip of fire wrapped around Eris’ throat, scorching the delicate skin. Out of instinct, he tried to rip it from his throat, which only resulted in burning his hands. 

Beron pulled the whip toward himself, forcing Eris onto his knees. 

“Do you wish to know how I realized that she meant something to you?” Beron spit as he leaned towards his son. 

One of his guards dropped a bundle on the floor to the right of Eris. It was the bow and knife Eris had gifted Y/N. But the thing that surprised Eris was his cloak, the one he had thrown over her shoulders that night he’d found her crying. She had been traveling with it? 

Beron leaned even closer. “Did you truly believe I would not recognize the work of our royal blacksmith?”

Eris roared as he unleashed a wave of his own power, breaking the fire whip his father controlled. It knocked Beron back far enough for Eris to regain his footing. 

Beron cackled as he brushed off the attack. “Tell me, boy. Is she your lover? Or did you plan on using the witch to usurp me?” 

Eris only glared, refusing to feed this taunting with any response. 

Beron stood straighter and opened his arms. “Go on. Try your best.” 

But before Eris could do so, the throne room was thrown into shadow. 

The courtiers wailed in fear:

“I can’t see!” 

“What is happening?” 

A second later the shadows dispersed to reveal that all of Beron’s guards who were guarding the exit had been slaughtered. 

And the High Lord’s evil smirk was finally wiped from his face. 

Eris turned to find Azriel, Cassian, Nesta, Vassa, Jurian, and his youngest brother, Lucien. 

With the understanding that he was no longer alone, Eris had a newfound strength. Even if he fell, they would get Y/N out of here. His life no longer mattered. Eris would either take out his father or distract him long enough to save his mate. 

Eris roared as he sent a wall of flames at Beron. 

Azriel shot for Y/N, taking out any guard that stood between them. When he reached her, his shadows made work of her shackles and broke her free. 

“Can you stand?” He rushed. 

“I can do more than stand,” Y/N growled, and she rushed for the weapons that had been stolen from her. 

She started firing arrow after arrow, killing all the males that had attacked her and dragged her here. 

Then she took in her chaotic surroundings to find Lucien, Vassa, and Jurian holding back the three other Vanserra brothers. Cassian and Nesta were back to back, taking out any soldiers loyal to Beron. Azriel was close to Y/N, covering her back as she had fired off her arrows. 

But then Y/N caught another head of red hair. A beautiful, female High Fae who was throwing flames at anyone that tried to help Beron take on Eris.

His mother. It must have been Eris’ mother. 

All of her allies allowed Y/N to turn her full attention to Eris who was fighting his father with his all power. But he still wasn’t strong enough. Beron was a High Lord and had all the ancient magic of Autumn Court behind him. 

With swipe of both Beron’s hands, a wall of fire smacked into Eris, who didn’t have time to block it. And he was knocked onto his back. 

The sight infuriated Y/N. 

And something deep within her, that she didn’t recognize, rose up to the surface. 

Before she even knew what she was doing, Y/N had sprinted forward and put herself between Eris and Beron. 

“No! Run! Get out of here!” Eris yelled out – no, he begged her – as he struggled to get back to his feet. 

But Y/N ignored him. Because something was taking her over. 

Y/N’s hands reached out to the side. 

She started chanting words that no mortal or fae would ever understand. 

Beron stood and watched, about to laugh at whatever sad attempt this witch had at taking him down. 

But Y/N’s words grew louder, stronger. 

And that’s when the wind rushed into throne room. 

It shattered the every single window with it’s arrival. It caused more screams from the courtiers who failed to flee.

Y/N’s eyes were no longer her own, but covered in white and glowing as if there were two moons.

Her arms raised higher. 

The wind carried the shattered glass from the windows and pelted Beron like tiny they were tiny knives. 

The High Lord underestimated her so much that he hadn’t been prepared to block such an attack.

He hissed in pain as the glass cut across his entire torso. 

But Y/N wasn’t finished. Her chanting turned into a bellow. The words and rhythm had changed into something else. 

In response, the wind now circled around Beron, capturing him in a tornado. But it wasn’t just keeping him in place, it was sucking the air from his lungs as if he was caught in a vacuum. 

Beron gasped for breath, clutching at his neck as if it would help. As he failed, he fell to his knees. 

And while Y/N attacked the High Lord, Eris, Lucien, and their mother had formed a wall behind her, waiting for the moment when Y/N would need backup. 

“NOW!” Eris bellowed. 

Together, the three of them stepped in front of Y/N and heaved fire onto Beron. It all entered the tornado of wind, keeping it contained and concentrated.  

Beron’s cries filled the hall, loud enough to be heard over the wind and tornado. Despite being a wielder of flame himself, it burned him. 

Yet Y/N was growing weaker, she had never tapped into this much power and it was starting to take a toll on her body. 

The other three didn’t see as Y/N’s arms dropped and her eyes rolled back. She collapsed. 

Azriel rushed forward, catching Y/N’s body only a moment before her head could slam to the ground. 

Eris roared as he threw even more fire at his father, stepping even closer to Beron than Lucien and his mother. 

Beron’s skin was scorched to black, half his clothes burnt right from his body. 

Lucien and their mother paused their attack, as Eris marched to his weakened father as he unsheathed a hidden knife. 

Not underestimating Beron or his power, Eris immediately grabbed his father by the neck and pulled him up. 

Eris put his mouth close to his ear and whispered, “Her name is Y/N, and she is my mate.” 

And he drove the knife into his father’s heart. 

Eris then ripped it from Beron’s chest. And with one fluid swing, sliced off Beron’s head completely.

Only mere seconds after the decapitated head hit the floor, raw power filled the throne room. So potent that all fighting ceased. No one could ignore its feeling. 

Beron’s loyal soldiers finally realized their High Lord had been killed. 

And all that power moved to the heir of Autumn. 

The impact of it brought Eris to his knees. He groaned as he felt it take over him entirely and then fell to his hands. 

No one so much as breathed as they saw their new High Lord take over the throne. 

When the power finally stopped transferring, Eris slowly lifted his head. 

His eyes widened. “Y/N!”

And he whipped around to see his mate unconscious and beaten, in the arms of the shadowsinger. 

-----

I have had a really terrible last couple of weeks at work. And then I got really sick, which is how I had time to write this. But most importantly, I worked extremely hard on this chapter. So please, please, please write a comment. Or, as I always say, write me a book report. 🙏

Chapter XVI

[cometchasr]

speaking about tennis ace again, i'm gonna have to play haruki's route just to see kiga because holy shit kiga is fucking hot (and he's such a goober i love him like he's the type of guy i would be so silly with)

i must research karaoke places in japan to see if they have mandopop

[howlingday]

Nora's Emergency

Jaune: Hey, Nora! I'm here!

Nora: Jaune! Thank the Brothers you're here! I need your help!

Jaune: It's pretty late. Everything okay?

Jaune: ...Is that blood on your shirt?

Nora: Jaune, focus! We have bigger issues! I've lost my keys and Ren isn't here to help me look for them.

Jaune: Wait, wait, wait. You called me all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, at one in the morning... to help you find your keys?

Nora: Yes~!

Jaune: ...I feel like this is a gross abuse of our friendship.

Nora: But you're a real one for coming out here! Slap me some skin~!

Jaune: ...I'd rather not.

Nora: Come on~!

Jaune: ...So where's Ren?

Nora: I dunno. Something about a job interview.

---------------------------------------------------

Ren: (Towering over small, blocky ninjas) Hm... I'm starting to understand what 4x4 really meant in requirements.

Lloyd: Hm... You don't look like a snake person...

Ren: Excuse me? I can't hear you from down there.

---------------------------------------------------

Jaune: Nothing here, either, Nora. Hey, why do you need to lock your door, anyways? You're literally in a house in the middle of nowhere.

Nora: Safety first, Jaune!

Jaune: Safety- You're isolated from any civilization! How is that safe?!

Nora: Do me a favor; check over by the skeletons.

Jaune: Skeletons? (Looks over to skeletons, One has legs broken) Haha... Callback... Decorating for Halloween already?

Nora: Nope.

Jaune: ...

Jaune: (Looks to skeletons)

Nora: Found them~! They were in the key drawer all along!

Jaune: Great! (Yawns) If you don't mind, I'd like to crash here for the night.

Nora: Not at all~!

Jaune: ...Wait. (Sniffs) Is something in the oven?

Nora: Oh, yeah! I'm baking cookies~!

Jaune: At one in the morning?

Nora: Y'know, for a guy going the Marco Diaz route, you have no right to judge me.

Jaune: Mm... Yeah, that's fair. I'm sorry. Bake them cookies, Queen.

Nora: Thank you! Would you li- (Closet falls, Reveals two skeletons) ...Chocolate chip?

Jaune: Oh, fuck yeah! (Atakes, Bites) Mm! Sho, uh... What happened to them?

Nora: Poor bastards... They had the first batch of cookies.

Jaune: (Stops, Looks, Resumes eating)

[spookykoolkat]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝 - 𝐣.𝐦. 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"𝚜𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗."

pairing: post outbreak!joel miller x plus sized!younger!reader

warnings: age gap, joel is 56 y.o, reader is 25 y.o, slow burn, death, violence, su*cide attempt, mentions of depression, anxiety, self harm, su*cidal tendencies, poor mental health, depictions of violence, torture, sho*ting, st*bbing, self defense, mentions of sexual assault, assault, being held hostage, anger issues, etc. descriptions of living in an apocalyptic world with the infected.

more warnings: drinking, smoking, sex, hunting, fighting (physical and verbal), sexual experiences, descriptions of sex acts (porn with a plot), swearing, MINORS NOT WELCOMED.

summary: joel finds his way back to jackson with ellie after the incidents with the fireflies, and made it his home over the next year. the winter was harsh this year round, hitting jackson a bit harder than they figured. you were a hardheaded girl in her mid twenties, fighting to survive when you found yourself giving up in the middle of nowhere. that middle of nowhere just so happened to be right in the middle of an alarm system outside of the commune. so what happens when the people that find you happens to be none other than the miller brothers?

notable mentions: this is a dark fic! apocalyptic au! set after joel's hospital massacre. ellie is now 15. no use of y/n.

this is an 18+ fic. mdni.

chapter one - stiff and cold

- joel and tommy find your blood soaked body under a thin sheet of snow near the commune, and take you back where you wake up a week later.

chapter two - hell above

- your first week in jackson went just as expected. the world you lived in was hell, but this seemed like paradise to you. except the fact that it seemed like living under joel's roof made him a bit uncomfortable, weary even, and it showed.

chapter three - protection

- it's been three weeks since you made jackson your new home, taking classes in order to patrol, working, and joel is doing his best to try to get used to having you around while you are figuring out your feelings towards him.

chapter four - no good

- one month in jackson and you're still having a bit of trouble fitting in like ellie and joel (sort of) did, until you finally get your patrol route and partner. after he hears that your new partner has invited you for drinks, joel isn't to happy to watch you get ready to see another man.

chapter five - forfeit

- it was your first day of patrolling after earning the right to, but it was flipped upside down when tommy decided he needed to use you and joel for his own little mission. things go awry and soon there's nothing but heated tension that causes little spats to and from the destination.

chapter six - a good man in a bad time

- the next morning after coming back from your unexpected mission with joel was very eventful, and unbeknownst to you, joel felt the need to invade your privacy. it was your birthday, turning twenty six and you were feigning for a little pleasure. at the end of the night, you got it.

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

this is an prolonged series! out now! updates will continue during the last week of october!

[ in the mean time, check out my kinktober masterlist for some upcoming joel miller oneshots! ]

[my-owl-sub]

☆Not me but her☆

☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇

Chapter Three; Overthinking

Song by Overthining IT by Willow

M.list

☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇

☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇

Cameras flash at you, none stop. You made your way into the entrance of the gymnasium.

You bump into someone "sorry" you said instantly.

Looking up seeing a upset black haired man, he is tall. He looked younger than you maybe Shoya age.

"It's fine," he said blankly before walking off to who knows where.

You continued your way to the area where your friends are going to be playing.

Coming late was something you felt bad for, but it was accused since you had a surprise for them.

"Y/N OVER HERE!" Hearing your brother called you out, you look his way seeing he saved you spot next to him and Iwaizumi.

You saw Akaashi in the back with a girl holding his arm close to her. You ignored them and sat down next to your older brother.

"Why are you so late?" Kuroo said, pulling your ear, Iwaizumi didn't interfere, only smiled at the moment.

"Hey! I'm actually sorry I came late, but I was getting their gifts ready, " you sneer, smacking Tetsurou hand away.

Kuroo hummed, going back to watch the live game.

"So who's winning?" You ask Hajime, he looked at you before looking back at the game.

"Our team is winning by 4 points ahead, Oikawa really wanted you here too," he commented.

You rolled your eyes. Knowing Oikawa, he would only do it to make someone jealous, which is Atsumu.

You felt a tap on your shoulder, turning to see the girl next to Akaashi. She had strawberry blonde hair. It was light.

You could tell she was a natural blonde by seeing her routes show. And the faded pink dye.

"I'm a huge fan of yours," she commented, smiling, sticking her hand out for a handshake.

Kuroo smiled at the interaction. "Oh, hey, it's always a pleasure to meet a fan of mines" you smiled, taking her hand.

"My name is Palma Juno." she smiled. It was a bright one. Something like Shoya smiles.

"Nice to meet you," you smiled back. She chatted about your work and how you are amazing at your job.

You didn't mind it, honestly she seems sweet, nice enough to be friends with her.

Akaashi listened to the conversation. He was surprised knowing his girlfriend liked your music but never once listened to it.

Once the game ended, you met up with the boys in the court. "You guys did amazing!!!" You yelled, Atsumu ran up to you but got pushed by Shoya and Oikawa in the process of it.

"Y/N, YOU REALLY CAME!" Oikawa said, hugging you as he spin around. You giggle in his childish ways.

Atsumu got upset and kepts yelling out "whore" to Oikawa.

"I saw you spike the ball Hinata, shit was cool!" You smiled, complementing the orange hair, man.

The blonde hair male looked at you waiting for compliments to come, you notice.

"You did wonderful, I saw you serve the ball pretty fucking good" you smiled, he blushed. Giving you a hug for being supportive like he is towards you.

But you couldn't give off this weary feelings, eyes burning through your skull. It was Akaashi girlfriend looking at you. She felt jealous, but why?

She knew you didn't want Akaashi Keiji. You never once interacted with him today. She saw you laughing at Miya Atsumu jokes.

You ignored her energy and continued on having a smile on your face. She'll get over it right?

Maybe you're overthinking it.

☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇

☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇☆☆◇◇

𝕰𝖝𝖙𝖗𝖆;

Y/n deals with rumors being spread every day, she use to it. And sometimes let them be.

She got tick off knowing that Akaashi has a girlfriend, would paint her as a 'whore' and 'slut' and she didn't want that.

Oikawa likes Y/n since he first met her (like Atsumu) he knows she only sees him as a friend so he can't do nothing about it.

Kuroo doesn't really wants to know his sister love life (he dose since he can keep tabs/stalk dirt on the person)

Nishinoya, he overhears every conversation with Y/n and Iwaizumi. (He listened through the door whenever their alone in a room together)

Shoya knows about it since Nishinoya tells him and Kenma.

𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊;

If you notice the description of the person (ykykyk) also sorry it took long. (I have a life and work is killing me so I might have to schedule posting who knows)

Take care

-V