#the shot of him chained up in the clouds

[mo-ok]

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 12/x (probably 18)

ᰔ words. 11.3k

a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i don’t see you

11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?

11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where i’m gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyo’s side of the field

11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then I’ll look for you before the game starts

11:10am you: no pls don’t. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i don’t want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(

11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha you’re silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there

11:14am you: or be square?

11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie

It’s a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. You’re stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and it’s the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.

Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your car’s still at the shop, but you’re happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.

It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldn’t be at this game, and sure enough, it’s all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were cc’d in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you weren’t opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).

It’s because it’s the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Men’s Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasn’t much of an option for them anymore. 

And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadium’s capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the school’s striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside. 

You’ve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.

Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then she’s darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. She’s understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kai’s little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets. 

A glance at your phone tells you it’s close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyo’s players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCU’s players practice shots off to the left. You can’t spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to. 

When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. He’s leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and he’s stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like he’s mapping out plays in his head. 

When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly there’s nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.

“Hey, you,” he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner that’s tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.

“Are you ready to win today?” you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, “clearly there’s no pressure.”

He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. “We’ve got no choice but to win.”

“Is that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?” you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. “Also, apparently you take years off of his life.” Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.

Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. “Yeah, it’s something he says to us often.” 

“So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

It’s hard to assume that he didn’t have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesn’t think about these kinds of things as much as you do. “I see.”

His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why don’t we—…why don’t we just give it a go already? I don’t see how we can move forward if you won’t at least let me take you out on a date.”

Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. You’re sure he’s all you’ll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life. 

You know when you want something so bad you don’t know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true? 

“I just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,” you confess, “it’s just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. I don’t know if this is odd to say, and maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind of…forgot who you were for a little bit.” This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything. 

His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced? 

“I just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.” You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasn’t giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, to be honest.”

You can tell he’s at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because it’s exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that they’re within arms reach but never truly. And they’re slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that it’s a fault of your own. You’re not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, “what’s a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.” But he takes a deep breath, like he’s already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.

There’s a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as he’s suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field. 

“Can we continue this conversation after the game?” he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, “sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like you’re taking up his time. 

He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again. 

“Um. Just a sec,” you say, “I have something to give you before your game.”

“Oh?” he looks at you with interest, “I fucking love things.” 

“You have to close your eyes though.”

“…what is the thing…” He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.

“Just close your eyes!” you snap at him.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. “You’re scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.”

You roll your eyes, useless because he doesn’t see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. It’s short and sweet with the sound of a peck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. “Alright, c’mere you,” he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.

“No no no, only on the cheek for now,” you say with a small laugh.

He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. “You can’t do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.”

“If you win, then, maybe I’ll let you kiss me for real.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He’s close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. “Alright. I like those odds.” 

You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyo’s alma mater. 

You’re stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyo’s side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minato’s filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athlete’s station and then he comes back around to find you.

“Are you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,” he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.

You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. “Yesss, all set. I’ll try to keep up.” 

He nods at you in approval.

The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course they’re high, because if they lose today then they’re out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but can’t quite discern. 

Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and they’re all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realize— it’s their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that haven’t qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable. 

The chief referee’s whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCU’s players choose to attack the left side goal.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. There’s a rhythm that you’ve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. You’ve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps you’ve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyo’s colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and it’s a desire you share with the crowd. 

Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and you’re lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the ref’s whistle. 

And then the kickoff starts. 

The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyo’s players, placing pressure on YCU’s defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyo’s #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowd’s horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCU’s forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.

Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each other’s defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyo’s overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyo’s defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyo’s best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCU’s striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before it’s sent flying into the net. 

The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit. 

With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU. 

Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta you’ve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyo’s defense winded from play. 

You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead. 

The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts. 

YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyo’s offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but it’s passed between UTokyo’s players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.

The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows there’s not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him. 

He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and it’s sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you. 

1-1, even match.

UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojo’s back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.

They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyo’s defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.

Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCU’s attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet. 

The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCU’s defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net. 

2-1, UTokyo.

It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. You’re shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. It’s a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga who’s standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what he’s seeing.

You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and you’re insanely glad you’re not one of YCU’s defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines. 

Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

The “athletic zone”... You’ve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and they’re completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.

Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state. 

YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff. 

There’s fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojo’s signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and there’s an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCU’s center forward loses the ball over the goal line. 

Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyo’s best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCU’s defense. And with complete trust in his team, that’s exactly where he kicks the ball. 

Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that they’ll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post. 

You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where you’re dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. There’s no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You can’t even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.

It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalie’s head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him. 

3-1, UTokyo.

The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers you’ve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.

There’s a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if they’re just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you can’t tear your gaze away from Gojo.

It’s one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with. 

And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt so…close? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what you’ve been wanting resurfacing powerfully. 

“This is insane,” you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.

You twiddle with your camera straps. “I know…almost done with the first half and we’re up 3-1…I thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But what’s even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.” He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. “By Gojo Satoru.”

Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.

“You know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?” Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in. 

You shake your head and wait for his response.

He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. “Four. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osaka’s center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no one’s managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.”

You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.

“I think he’s trying to beat the record.”

You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the referee’s whistle draws everyone’s attention back to the field. 

The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyo’s very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this year’s season so far, and is now on the road to beat the league’s long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!” And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.

YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the referee’s whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime. 

All of UTokyo’s players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all don’t know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing. 

You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as you’ve learned to at least, and you can tell he’s not satisfied. He’s thinking it’s not enough. There’s still more to be done, and it’s not time to celebrate yet. 

His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you. 

Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet. 

Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while they’re at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and she’s showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side. 

UTokyo’s players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound. 

You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.

“There’s my freaky little photographer,” he says, and he’s standing up straight and—wait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.

Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments he’s been cocky, he’s been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, he’s been transformed into the final boss of cocky.

His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight you’ve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.

“You’re sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,” you reprimand him, “this is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.” 

“Hey, you’re the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?” one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.

“Oh yeahhh, ‘cause Satoru wasn’t paying attention,” another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field. 

You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojo’s got an irritated look on his face and he’s shrugging his teammate’s elbow off of his shoulder.

“I really hope you’re getting my good angles,” his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together. 

The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. “At least it didn’t leave a scar on your cute face—”

Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he grumbles, “she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?” he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, “when I—”

“Oh god, you know what’s soooooooooo super sexy to me?” you interrupt him. “When guys are humble.”

“Oh c’monnn,” he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. “Tell me you aren’t at least impressed by me.”

You pout, because you are, and you’d really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. “Satoru,” you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, “I’m working right now. Cut it out.”

He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize you’re being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. “What? Are you embarrassed?”

“Of what?” Your face twists with confusion.

“Of me. Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks.

“No. Why would I be embarrassed of you?” you ask with sharpness.

“I don’t know, just, sometimes I feel like you’re always annoyed by me,” he says with a sigh. “It’s like, you’re really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and it’s sort of messing with my head.”

You pout. “You were messing with my head for weeks.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, “but you don’t have to act like you’re all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.” He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. “You don’t have to act embarrassed around me either.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. “In fact, I’m the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.”

He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. “Can you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.” 

“You kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,” you grit as you cross your arms. “That’s the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.”

“Oh, okay, so there’s nothing else I’ve done that shows you that I’m serious about you?” he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

No. That’s not true, not true at all. But he’s pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not embarassed of me, and if you’re really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.” You’re speaking out of spite, and you fear you’ve just set him off too.

“Fine,” he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporter’s hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle he’s now holding with confusion. “I will.”

“W-Wait—” you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.

The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.

“Uhhh,” you hear Choso from beside you, who’s strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, “Why the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.”

“It can’t be for any publicly decent reason,” Geto muses.

All you can do is watch.

“Hi, uh,” Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, “sorry. I’m Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me from—uh, the game you’ve been watching?”

Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldn’t know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long. 

Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. “Oh, yeah, uh, number 10,” he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, “division player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.”

“SAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!” you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.

“Anywho,” Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him he’s got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. “Just here to say that there’s this girl I really like.”

The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope he’s gonna name call one of them.

Gojo’s voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. “She’s standing over there,” he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, “with the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. She’s super cute and I really like talking to her.”

“Uh-oh,” Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you can’t.

Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like he’s working the crowd. “But get this—she thinks I’m not fuckin’ serious about her!!!”

The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, he’s playing them like a violin.

“Huh?” Gojo’s voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that he’s being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, “oh, what’s that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. I’m not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Er— shit, okay. Wait—shoot, okay.”

Choso’s smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.

“LIKE I SAID,” Gojo continues into the mic, “the girl I like thinks I’m just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that I’m serious about her, I’m gonna…” He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he says—“I’m gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.”

H–

Huh?!?!?

You don’t even have time to be horrified or scared, you’re just bewildered beyond belief that that’s what he came up with.

What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?

The crowd goes wild, it’s no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and you’re going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.

The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

“Ayo why’s Satoru Magic Mike’ing the field right now?” one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, “What the fuck did I miss?”

The cameraman does God’s work in a hella zoom-in of Gojo’s sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you can’t help but stare even among all your horror. It’s like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but he’s making a fool out of himself for you. 

He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas he’s a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and there’s anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security. 

Except he’s an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?

The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that you’re pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadium’s got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers don’t know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.

And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and he’s down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojo’s—forgive me, I need to be crass—huge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.

He’s outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowd’s cheers and riots and roars and you feel like you’re the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe you’re just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.

He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesn’t. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.

His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. “Baby.” The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. “Will you do me the honor,” he’s huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, “of being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?” And then he holds the mic to your lips.

“W-Wha—” you stutter, and there’s chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize they’ve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! “Oh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!”

The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and you’re gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yaga’s vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga can’t kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.

You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasn’t even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you don’t know Gojo as well as you think you do.

And then the halftime timer is up.

You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.

“Did that prove to you that I’m not embarrassed of you?” he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space. 

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,” you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. “I’ll have to move to a different country.”

His grin is relaxed. “Yeah well you asked for it.”

“Maybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.”

“You’re my girlfriend now, you’ve gotta get used to it.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Satoru–”

“Tomorrow,” he cuts you off, “Hinode pier. I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.” And then he’s attentive to the chirp of the referee’s whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while you’re left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.

The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you haven’t taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.

Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that it’s shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCU’s player’s foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it was—that look again of pure focus. 

3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.

It’s immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyo’s defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Geto’s feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyo’s defense, and one of YCU’s strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.

3-2.

The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.

One of YCU’s offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCU’s offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Choso’s attempt to lunge for it in mid air.

Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the players’ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the league’s number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isn’t good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other team’s defense.

Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and he’s huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but there’s a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCU’s defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius. 

The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyo’s string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCU’s goalkeeper, up towards the corner, except–

It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who can’t even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and that’s exactly what it does. 

The stadium erupts with the momentum.

4-3, UTokyo. 

It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times they’ll ever get to play together on a team. 

Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that he’s tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo players’ faces in the wake of YCU’s relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk. 

YCU’s center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyo’s players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasn’t the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play. 

The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.

YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyo’s midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCU’s offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.

Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCU’s star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipation–

And the ball lands in the net. 

4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock. 

There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum. 

To your surprise, Gojo isn’t the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field. 

The referee chirps his whistle. 

Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyo’s midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCU’s defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowd’s roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyo’s defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion. 

It was a moment you don’t think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.

With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCU’s offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yards–

In a moment you couldn’t believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalie’s hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.

With three-two-one seconds, the match was over. 

5-4, UTokyo’s win.

The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their school’s team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.

You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You can’t see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.

His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath. 

“IT’S OFFICIAL!! IT’S OFFICIAL!! UTOKYO’S VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITY’S RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!” 

The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed. 

You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.

He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your school’s team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But he’s made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.

“I believe you owe me a kiss,” he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesn’t stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.

You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.

You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, you’re pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.

It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, you’re not the one behind the camera taking the photo. You’re the one that’s in it.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of kickoff ch12]

a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior 😂😂 i’ll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!

OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didn’t really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n i’m not sure if i’ll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojo’s pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant. 

the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0 

➸ you're all caught up!

additional notes. please do not pressure me for updates or ask when i will next update (read rules); taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you'd like! :0)

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[toxicanonymity]

The Stitch

PAIR: THOMAS HEWITT X READER

WORD COUNT: 3.6k | THE SPREAD UNIVERSE one shot

SUMMARY: A stranger tries to get into the shed. You help Tommy when he's hurt and... hungry, then sit in his lap.

WARNINGS: 18+ Smut*, stockholm syndrome, violence off screen, blood, giving stitches, hand kink, light angst & dark fluff. *oral, squirting, captivity dubcon, unsafe cockwarming-adjacent piv, creampie. Feral/soft Tommy, leather muzzle.

SIZE KINK: Tommy is a strong, hefty 6'5", reader much smaller.

Ty for your enthusiasm for this fic! Ty @dark-scape for title help and @gasolinerainbowpuddles for the ⛓️ divider. 🖤

It was dusk when you spotted a man prowling around, then you ducked away from the shed’s clouded window and pretended not to see. Time crawled by–-you didn’t know how much–-as you sat frozen, afraid of making any noise at all. The wind howled, and twigs snapped in the woods behind the shed. You would’ve felt safer with Tommy nearby, but he must have been dead asleep after his family worked him hard all day.

You finally let yourself relax enough to fall asleep, only for chains to rattle on the outside of the shed. 

“C’mon,” the stranger pleaded to himself, then whisper-shouted into the distance, “hurry up, Ronnie!” followed by a startled “oh shit.”

You recognized Tommy's footsteps as he lumbered across the yard.

Huddled in the corner of the shed, you held your breath and listened to the ruckus just outside. You were pulling for your captor. He had committed violent acts, but he didn't seem like a violent man at heart. You felt sure he wouldn’t hurt you… even though he already had. 

Arms wrapped around your knees, you pulled your hands into your oversized sleeves and gripped the fabric with your fists.

“Get outta here, freak!” the man yelled. 

Tommy grunted. 

“Ronnie!” the man pleaded to his friend who was nowhere in sight. Then he warned Tommy, “Don’t do it man. My buddy’s got a gun.” 

Tommy’s grunt sounded almost like a laugh. 

“There’s more of us too,” the trespasser claimed, then muttered, “shit.” 

Shoes scraped against dirt. The shed door shook with an impact, and chains rattled. The man coughed and tried to vocalize. His shoes thumped and slid against the wood, with his feet unable to reach the ground. Tommy held him by the neck with just one hand. The struggle continued. 

The man went quiet, and Tommy grumbled indistinctly. 

Dead weight hit the ground. 

There was shuffling, dragging, and a few seconds later, the wet thwack of sharp metal through bone.  

-

Tommy caught his breath, then came around toward your window. His massive shadow was just visible enough in the dark to make his presence known. He tapped the glass with one knuckle, then you approached and lifted the curtain. 

He had an ax slung over his shoulder.

He braced his other hand on the shed, to the side of the window. Then, he stopped down to rest his forehead gently against the glass. Below his half-muzzle, his breath fogged the window and his chest heaved. The glass was cloudy, but you still felt his eye contact. You looked at each other, then he pulled back, leaving a smear high on the glass where his forehead had been. He gave you a nod that felt like a promise—he’d come back.

When you peeked out the window again, Tommy was walking toward the main house with the man’s body slung over his shoulder. The head and arms hung limply over Tommy’s back. The guy’s head was dripping into the dirt. In Tommy’s other hand, he held his ax, letting it hang by his side in a loose grip. He was unbothered by the prospect of another man to fight. 

You sat in the corner, wrapped in a blanket, trying to calm yourself enough to get to sleep. Eventually, you heard Tommy on his way back. 

After unlocking the shed and ducking inside, he lit a lantern. The warm light flickered on, just bright enough to see dark splatter on his shirt and neck. His hair was matted dark. A thick path of blood oozed down the side of his face. He looked you over and took a seat against the adjacent wall.

For a minute, he simply breathed and watched you. 

You watched him, too. “Are you okay?” 

He nodded. The trickle down his face hadn’t stopped. It must have been his own blood. 

“You’re bleeding,” you observed.

You started to move toward him, but he lunged forward before you could get up. Even on his knees, he was a looming presence.

“Can I see?” You asked, and brought a hand out of the blanket, squinting to find the source of the blood. 

Before you could touch him, he scooped you up in his arms for a swift exit, shaking the shed with each step. After ducking through the door, you expected him to put you in the wheelbarrow. Instead, he stood up and adjusted your weight so you were held flush against him, hugging his apron. He made sure you were covered by the blanket. You couldn't wrap your legs around him–he was too big, but you trusted him not to drop you. The soft padding of his torso was warm and comforting as he took long strides toward the house.

Tommy’s footsteps clopped under you in the garage. He slowed down, then stopped in front of a piece of furniture and leaned forward. He took a hand off your back. You tightened your limbs around him as best you could while he pushed some things out of the way, clearing a space for you. Then he sat you down on a smooth wood surface and uncovered your head. He reached up toward the ceiling and pulled a chain. A dim light buzzed on. You were seated on a desk, with all sorts of scraps and junk scattered around. 

Tommy took off his apron and he sat down in a chair, facing you. He reached across the desk and slid a tin box toward himself.  When he opened the tin, it looked like sewing supplies. His fingers were so enormous, you couldn't imagine how he sewed anything, but he handled the box with care and familiarity. 

It was his. This was his place. His craft. 

He turned the tin toward you so you could get what you needed. Meanwhile, he reached for an old glass bottle with an inch of clear liquid in it, and he used every drop to wet a rag. He held the cloth to his head. 

Okay, not his first time. 

You held up a needle. “It’s dirty.”

Tommy shook his head no. Okay, it didn’t look dirty, but it sure wasn’t sterile, and for some reason, you wanted him to be okay. 

“It could get infected.” 

His eyes shifted around in thought, then he looked back to you for the answer. 

“Do you have any matches? Fire?”

He placed his thick, wide hands on your thighs as he stood up. He squeezed them lightly and checked your face for whether you might run. Then he went over to a workbench that was against the wall. 

As he rummaged around, your eyes wandered. The space was cluttered and stuck in another era. There were doll parts strewn around. A softball-sized, hollow head with no hair and  a painted-on face chipping off.  There were tools. So many tools. Cleavers and saws hanging from the ceiling by chains. Too high for anyone but Tommy to reach them. 

He returned with a rusted zippo lighter and flicked it open as he sat down. You held the needle to the flame and he held the lighter steady for you, with the casual intimacy of a stranger lighting your cigarette. In the glow of the flame, he watched your face. 

When the needle was ready, you looked at the thread. You unwound the spool long enough to reach some unexposed thread.

Tommy watched patiently, never making you feel rushed or scrutinized. 

With the needle threaded, you announced, “okay. It’ll hurt, but not too bad.” 

He gave a short nod with a squint that bore the hint of a smile. 

-

"Little closer," you whispered, never speaking at full volume with him. 

He spread your knees, making your heart skip a beat. He settled in between them, leaned forward, and his elbows bracketed your thighs.

His face was close. His eyes were blue with lines of gray darting out from the pupils. His eyelashes were dark and thick.  Your heart skipped a beat as his face moved closer, thinking for a split second that he might kiss you, but he dipped his head to offer you his injury. 

"Good," you encouraged him.   

His sweat wafted into your nostrils, and just as you felt heat rising to your face, his hands curved around your bottom. Arousal buzzed in your gut, so loud you had to pause and compose yourself. “Ready?”

He nodded his head forward. 

You needed to adjust the angle of his head so you could comfortably work on it, and when your fingers grazed the side of his muzzle he flinched. 

Your hand pulled back, but then he held it. As he placed your hand back on his cheek, the sight of his giant paw holding yours made a butterfly float through your chest. 

You wet your lips, then bit your lip and saw him glance toward your mouth.  

Bracing one palm to the side of the wound, you held the skin shut. You rested the needle point against his skin, then pushed and dragged the thread through it. He didn’t react. He watched your face in silence as you patched him up, thread by thread. Not a single puncture made him move his head.

You could feel his appreciation in the way his hands gently cradled you. He looked at you with a soft fascination.

Was this the first time someone helped him like this? It was easy to imagine why, but somewhere in this monster, there was a little boy. Did anyone ever take care of that boy? Tuck him in? Walk him to the bus stop for school? No, surely not. He hadn’t ever said a word to you, but he told you so much. His eyes told you. The way he moved. The way he never spoke, and hung his head as the others barked orders at him.

—

When you were about halfway done stitching him up, he began to sniff the air, and it made you realize how turned on you were. With your legs spread and no panties under the shirt-dress, you had to be leaking onto the desk. 

Tommy sniffed and growled, and maybe his primal sounds shouldn't have hit the way they always did, but your core tingled. You felt exposed with your legs spread around him. He sniffed again, and your face was hot with why. 

–

You tied off the threas and whispered, “Good, Tommy." You blotted the area with the wet rag.

Tommy reached for his face to touch the stitches, and your hand stopped his: “no."

Your hand lingered, with your fingers wrapped around the heel of his palm. You wanted to hug him, have your body against his again, which made your mind jump back to the way he carried you there. In that moment, something clicked, and your throat tightened. No one but him had ever handled you in that particular way—big arms wrapped around you like you were too precious to lose. He did his best to make you comfortable. So what if you were his possession? It felt like you were his world. Maybe no one ever cared as much as Tommy Hewitt cared about keeping you. 

Your vision got cloudy, and Tommy’s eyes narrowed. Once you blinked, a fat tear pushed through your lashes. Before it could run down your cheek, his thumb was there to collect it. Then he put your tear just below his eye. It slid down to his muzzle in a tiny trickle that left a clean path through the grime. 

You smiled and whispered, “It’s okay.” 

His gaze fell down your body, and his eyes darkened. The corners of his mouth glistened in the shadow of his muzzle. He took your chin in his hand and took a deep breath. 

-

Tommy reached behind you and urgently cleared the whole desk. Then he put his hand on your chest and pushed you down flat on your back.  Your feet dangled off the edge, but not for long. He bent forward, lifted your knees, and soon had your legs over his shoulders with your ass in the air, held up by his massive hands. With your sex exposed so close to his face, Tommy growled. Your upper back remained flat on the surface. 

With his elbows braced on the desk, he held you with your cunt at his mouth. His breath was warm. With his mouth ever closer, he began to drool. His breath was heavy and full of desire.  

You let out a little moan, and with that, he attacked you like his first meal in ages. Holding you like a juicy burger, he fed himself your cunt. There was no ceremony in the first touch, he simply dug in, licking right up the center, then sucking at the apex. He ate you with a hunger that was felt in every push of his lips and heard in every breath through his nose. He used his face to spread your lower lips apart, wedging his mouth into your heat like it belonged there. 

He ate with abandon, licking and planting his lips and sucking. Collecting every drop he could from each secret little ruffle of your body, scavenging each surface for more to consume. The firmness of his lips, the rhythmic suction, and the strong lap of his tongue had pleasure building in your gut.  His hands continued to hold up your hips, thumbs digging into your asscheeks. His grip kept you firmly at his mouth with your thighs hugging his cheeks. With his mouth latched fully onto you, it was a vision you could never forget. God, it felt good. 

He couldn’t have known it, but he’d found the perfect angle, bridging your hips for you, with his elbows planted on the desk. He feasted selfishly, and his ravenous work had your body churning out more and more arousal for him to slurp up. 

He refused to come up for air, his nose instead taking ragged breaths. He paused only to adjust the muzzle, nudging it against you thigh. Then, the smooth leather nudged your slick clit as his tongue plunged into you. His eyes closed as he licked upward, massaging your front wall with his hunger. Your eyes fluttered closed. His tongue was so strong and thick, he really fucked you with it, filled your wet little hole with it.

Each slide of his tongue against your spongy spot made you lose a little more control. Soon, it felt like you were going to pee. 

“Tommy,” you warned him. 

He only fucked you harder with his tongue. 

“Tommy,” you whined, “I’m gonna—please—I—Ohhh” 

Tommy’s response was to growl and pull you closer, harder against his mouth.

At least there were no bedsheets, no decorum, and no expectations from him. He nudged that spot again, you let go. Your release began, pulsing through you, and he moaned as it filled his mouth. His mouth was so large, and he was so thirsty, there was barely any overflow. You rode that high and he drank every drop. You sighed when you were finished. His pace slowed, and his eyelids drooped. 

-

Satisfied with his meal, he let your ass back down on the table and ducked out from under your legs. He turned his head to fix his muzzle in case his feeding frenzy had exposed the center of his face. When he turned toward you again, you sat up on your elbows. 

Tommy's eyes panned over you as he palmed himself under the desk. His muzzle was shiny with you, and so were his lips. His pupils were dilated. He caught you watching the motion of his arm, and his face blotched pinker.

"It's normal," you reassured him. "It's normal to get hard from doing that." 

What were you saying?

What were you asking for?

A swell of shame washed through your chest, but it didn’t change what you wanted. 

Tommy looked at you, unsure. 

You nodded. “It’s okay, don’t be embarrassed.”

–

He grabbed you by your (his) shirt and pulled you upright. Then he ripped the shirt open, sending two buttons flying. 

When you looked down, your chest expanded with desire at the sight of the massive log straining his pants. He squeezed the outline and you nodded reassuringly. A wet spot was growing.

Your mouth hung slightly open as you looked at the gift in his pants. Your thighs were still spread wide. Tommy looked between your legs, then down at himself. Then in a flurry he unbuttoned and shoved his pants down, reaching into his underwear at the same time to help free his massive cock. Your knees twitched with the urge to sit on it. 

And sure enough, he grabbed your ass, pulling you off the edge of the desk and into his lap in one swift motion, which made his stiff cock slap heavily against your pussy. He quickly jostled it into place at your entrance and moaned when your wet heat covered the tip of his cock. Between his precum, your slick, and his slobber all over your cunt, the stiff log prodding at your hole was well-lubed. 

Tommy wrapped his arms around you and pulled you down, making his girth divide your soft, warm walls. His cock claimed every inch of your cunt and then more, as your body relaxed and opened with arousal. He was impossibly stiff. It must have been painfully hard in his pants. Slowed by his girth and stopped by his length, you came to a rest as far down his shaft as you could, far enough to meet the cushion of his bush.  His swollen shaft throbbed, and he let out a contented sigh.

He held your waist, and you were prepared to be used as a fucksleeve, but he hesitated. Instead of jerking himself off with you, his hands loosened and slid under your open dress shirt. His two palms rested warmly on your back, together covering a significant portion of your skin. You closed your eyes and bent forward, curving your torso snugly against the swell of his midsection. As you laid your head on his chest, your hips shifted and his throat rumbled with a twitch of his dick.  His heart thumped against your cheek. 

You moved your hips again, and his chest expanded with a deep breath. Another twitch of his cock made your walls spasm, and you let out a little moan. He pulled you closer and inhaled the scent of your hair, then lifted you ever so slightly against him before  sinking fully into your tight, wet cunt again. 

He shifted you in small motions, letting out lazy grunts and shuddering when you squeezed him in just the right way. This was perfect for how tired he was. 

You rolled your hips cautiously, curious how long he could wait before ravishing you.  He seemed to enjoy this new way of experiencing you. And God did you love it, too — stuffed full of his cock, with your tits and tummy pressed against him. 

“This is nice,” you whispered.

His lap lifted, and you sighed, “God, Tommy.” 

His breathing stuttered. His fingers twitched, pressing against your back. His dick throbbed and seemed to occupy even more of you.

His breathing sped up. You just barely rocked yourself, and observed his quiet loss of control until he groaned and throbbed so powerfully it made your whole body tighten. He held his breath as his balls spasmed, then he sighed with his hot load throbbing into you. With his seed pumping into you, he used a hand on your ass to pull you even tighter against him.

The pressure of his heft against your front sent you to the stars. You turned your head with your mouth against his chest and whined into his shirt as you came on his cock, making him shudder. While you came, he held your head to his chest. His stomach heaved under you, as you both finished your release.  

–-

You stayed impaled on him, and after a minute, you felt him tense. You lifted your head to look at him, and could see he was self-conscious. 

With his hands on your waist, he lifted you off his dick. Your pussy tried to hang on, but the last of his dick slid out, leaving you empty as he put you down on the desk, leaking his cum onto the wood. 

He stood up and turned away for a moment to put his dick back in his pants. 

He looked you over, and held both sides of your unbuttoned shirt-dress. He ran a thumb over the threads where he had ripped the buttons, and he grumbled quietly in dissatisfaction. He retrieved the sewing tin, scooting it closer again, then he pushed the shirt off your shoulders. He wrapped you in the blanket, then sat back down. 

He pulled you into his lap, having you sit on his thigh to make space on the desk. You sat in his lap while he went to work. He got out a needle and thread, and began to select a button, then paused. He looked at you, then back at the buttons, and slid the tin toward you with a nod. You picked out two different shades of blue. 

He reached his arms around you to work on the shirt, and you watched his hands as he sewed them on. It was amazing to see how nimble his fat fingers could be. How studious he was with his work, and how well he sewed them on. 

When he was finished, he scooted the chair back and you stood up off his lap. He gently took the blanket off you and dressed you in the shirt again. He admired the way you looked in his shirt, then picked you up to carry you back to the shed. Before he covered you with the blanket, you looked at his wound. 

“You have to keep that clean, okay?” 

He nodded once. 

“Do you have a shower? Bath?” you asked.

He grunted with a nod. You thought you’d smelled soap on him before and wondered what he'd look like fresh and clean.

-

Back in the shed, he tucked you in and sat next to you as you grew sleepier. It was easier to fall asleep with him by your side. 

-

-

-

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

Thank you for reading, and I really appreciate all your comments and reblogs on the first two. 🖤 Your enthusiasm goes a long way.

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[vivwritesfics]

Family

Her family doesn't like Tyler and, as a result, haven't been in her life for quite some time. But with a baby on the way, she gives them one last chance.

Warnings: angst and toxic parents

Even after all these years, Tyler Owens still loved watching the weather. He stood on the porch as he watched dark clouds move in. Just some rain, not enough for a storm.

"Ty," came his wife's voice. Hand on her swollen stomach, she locked the front door and walked towards him, slipping the house keys into his pocket.

Immediately, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him. His lips met the top of her head. "Ready to go?" He asked, his raspy voice a reminder of just how early in the morning it is.

She nodded as she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning against him. It was one of their pre-chasing rituals. Both of them would have given anything to be chasing right now.

Taking her hand, Tyler led her own to the truck. He'd spent the last six months looking for a more practical car, but he wasn't giving up his truck for the world.

He helped her into the passenger seat. Any day now, she was going to pop, he thought as he looked at her stomach. And then he'd have that precious baby boy, the thing that tied him to her forever, in his arms.

Chase Owens. The name was easy to pick once they found out they were having a boy. Kate laughed, but Boone was one hundred percent on board.

Tyler pulled out of the driveway. "How're we feeling, mama?" He asked as his hand settled in her thigh.

She squeezed her legs around him, holding him there. "Terrified," she and and swallowed thickly.

It was a terrifying situation. Her parents had put up with her relationship with the young, hotshot bull rider until he disappeared, ran off to college. They thought that would be the end of it.

But six years had passed. Six years since Tyler came back from college, six years since they started chasing together, six years since she last spoke to her parents.

And here she was, driving to make amends before the baby was born, to give her little boy a shot at knowing his grandparents.

Tyler freed his hand from the death like grip her thighs had on him. He took one of her hands off of her stomach and brought it up to his lips, kissing the back of it. "Everything's gonna be fine," he tried to reassure her, but it was doing very little to actually reassure her.

She knew what he was trying to say. That she had him and Chase. And, if her parents didn't want to know, then it was their loss. They would be the ones not meeting their grandson, they would be the ones not having a relationship with him.

With her head against the headrest, she turned to look at get husband. "I love you," she whispered.

That was the other thing: Her parents didn't know they were married. There wasn't much family at their wedding, Tyler's parents and his sister, an aunt and a grandparent. Nobody from her side, nobody even knew she was getting married.

For today, the rings were hidden on chains beneath their clothing. On, but not visible. Her parents wouldn't have been able to handle two bombshells in one day.

It wasn't a long drive, but that just made the feeling worse. They weren't very far, but they hadn't seen each other in four years. There was always a chance they moved and never told her.

Seeing her fathers car still in the driveway, she furiously wiped at her eyes. If she was going to do this, she was going to be strong about it.

Tyler killed the engine and looked at the house. It was just the same as the last time he was there. After college, in his old truck. When he picked her up and they never looked back.

He let out a low whistle. "I wonder if your dad is gonna pull the shotgun on me," he said, adding a quiet 'again' as an after thought.

"I'm not gonna let him," she replied. Sucking in a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped out. No waiting for her husband, like she usually did not that she was eight months along.

Tyler was quick to follow. He took her hand, fingers brushing her stomach. Baby Chase gave an almighty kick, almost like he knew it was his father out there.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," he whispered, his forehead touching hers.

She looked towards the house. Slight movement in the window indicated that it might have been too late to turn back. "We've got this," she said and kissed him quickly.

Tyler kept his arm around her as she walked up the drive. It was a protective thing, something he did more and more since the positive tests six months ago.

She was the one that knocked.

There was a moment, someone waiting by the front door until a minute had passed, desperate not to seem to eager. But they'd forgotten that she could see through the stained glass panels on the front door just as good as they could.

Her mother pulled open the door. "Darling!" She cried and opened her arms. "Oh, I've missed you!"

She didn't acknowledge the bump as she looked past her daughter, looked at Tyler. Her facial expression grew tight, as it always used to when he was the topic of conversation. "Tyler," she said stiffly.

"Hello, ma'am," Tyler said, smile polite as he pulled his hat from his head.

The tension was already in the air, but there seemed to be little hope for recovery.

Her mother turned back to her, expression once again cheery. "Come in, darling," she said and took her hand, pulling her into the house. Ignoring Tyler completely.

If she could have been unwilling to go into the house, she would have. Tyler followed her in, closing the door behind him. Funny, he didn't think he'd ever entered the house through the front door before. The upstairs window, though, he was very well acquainted with.

Things were tense in the kitchen. Her father had greeted her by the time Tyler walked in, his glare fixed on him.

"Mom, dad," she began and sucked in a breath. "We came here today because we've got some pretty big news." They already knew. They had to, how could they miss her bump?

"I'm sorry, darling," her mother began, feigning sympathy. "But it might be too late to get it fixed. You're gonna have to live with the choices you've made."

What in the actual fuck? She stumbled back as if she had been slapped, Tyler easily steadying her. "That's not why we're here," he said, hand settling on her bump.

"Well, you're not seeing any money from us!" Her father barked. "Not a cent! Not for you or that bastard child you knocked my poor daughter up with!"

They should have expected this, shouldn't they? This level of hostility from her parents. It still hurt, but it stung less than it would have six years ago.

She took in a steadying breath. "Actually, we came here because we wanted you to be in out baby's life, but you can forget it," she said and turned on her heel.

Tyler followed her out of the house. Her parents didn't try to follow. That bridge had been destroyed and there was no chance of rebuilding.

She didn't cry on the drive back to the home they shared. No, she was just angry. Angry at her parents, angry at the universe for making things this way.

Tyler pulled into a gas station. Food and gas, that was what they needed. But, before he climbed out of the truck, he paused. "You know, at our wedding Chad and Jake offered to take on the role of grandparents if it was ever needed," he said trying to lighten the mood.

A small smile graced her features. "Chad and Jake? Your thirty year old cousins want to be Chase's grandparents?" She asked through a laugh.

There she was, his girl. Tyler dropped a kiss to her lips. "I'll be right back," he said and set about getting the gas and snacks.

Everything would be okay. Even if her parents had made it pretty clear that they didn't want her. She had Tyler, and soon she'd have baby Chase, too. That was all the family she needed (grandma Chad abd grandma Jake were just a bonus).

[piggycyberwarrior]

Summary: After Task Force 141 got a hint that you gave important information to their enemy- the boys do not hesitate to chain you up and give you a taste of hell. You on the other hand are innocent but they do not believe you

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Platonic Task Force 141! x Fem!Reader (Simon Ghost Riley x Fem!Reader)

a/n: part 3‘s probably gonna take a while- oop.. enjoyyyyy

Warnings: uhm this whole fic is basically a warning. Torture; Blood; Mental Health; Angst angst angst not proof read CURSING!!! (Like always ngl). Being extremely drunk in a funny way(?) idk never been drunk before

genre: ANGST

+ 1,7k words

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6

Base. Last Year. Warm summer night.

A memory so stupid yet so sweet you often thought back to it. Still fresh, lingering in your brain like a welcomed cloud. Nothing special- still, like a upbeat song- making you happy- feeling fuzzy.

Just a night spent with your people. People that understood you. People that were aware of your fears just like you were aware of theirs.

Time slowed down when you dived back into the memory. Happiness flooding your senses every time.

Crickets chirping late at night- warm air coming through the opened window of the community area- making you feel fuzzy and warm.

Johnny was drunk as hell back than- just like you have been. Ghost- was clearly amused- having a softer look on his face- as you and Soap emotionally sung 'let it go'- feeling every second. Soaps loud voice combined with the scottish accent made you laugh uncontrollably- finding it hard to breath.

Everything was just so much funnier that night.

Making up lyrics at some point- too drunk to remember every line- and even Ghost had to admit the next day that the freestyle parts weren't even that bad.

Price was in a good mood as well- leaning back and watching two of his three Sergeants almost crying while singing a stupid song and dancing to it.

And Gaz? That man was deep gone in his slumber- beer still in hand whilst he snored the whole time- drool dribbling down his chin and pooling onto the table where his head crashed onto half an hour ago.

'Kids'- Price just thought- chuckling while shaking his head slightly in disbelief. His Fingers shortly ran over moustache- giving Simon a knowing look as his liuetenant switched your drink with cold water- not wanting you to throw up your organs the next day. Even if Ghost didn‘t admit it- Price knew how fond the liuetenant was of you. He saw it in the way he let you near- how he carried you when you dodged that bullet for him.

Price never mentioned it but he saw the tears that brimmed in Simons eyes back then- frantically carrying you bridal style to the medics- never leaving your side for days. Just waiting and praying for you to recover

You took a sip of the water- now too busy to paint Kyle's nails with a hot pink Nail polish named 'Babygirl kiss' or something of the sort- not even noticing the switch of your drink- too drunk to care.

Soap was also busy distracting Price before the man finally saw what you did to Kyle. "Y/n- no" John only tutted like a parent- as he saw Gaz' now pink nails. "Whaaaa'? shi' loogs good" you slurred with a loopsided grin- hiccuping after your words and earning a gentle pat on your shoulder

"Maybe a little punishment for passing out.. its not even permanent" Ghost shrugged- same unreadable expression on his face even tho you finally abandoned your artsy task and were sprawled over his lap on the couch- fiddling with his mask like a child- feeling tired out of the sudden.

Soap just nodded his head furiously at Ghosts words- just like you- liking the polish on your friends fingers. „Ya dinnae fink tha‘ thad lass hs a broblem wih‘ tha, did a?“ the man with the mohawk slurred while stumbling slightly to take another shot.

Price sighed with a nod- taking a big gulp of his Whiskey befor he closed his eyes- feeling the burning sensation trailing down his esaphagus. Still suprised that Ghost even let you so close to him. Touching him so often.

"Uhhg" Soap moaned in pain as he laid on the cheap carpet floor- holding his belly.. "May'be- goo mally jelly jots" he bitched- curling up to a ball to immediately pass out- earning a chuckle from his Captain.

It was a silly memory- just funny when remembered- thats what you liked. Something that feels normal- comfortable.

.

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.

Now it wasn't anymore.

Far from it actually.

You dreamed often times down here- memories that normally made you laugh- now making you cry. Wishing to just forget everything you ever witnessed with them. Even if it made your day back then.

You had to admit that you sometimes wished to travel back in time. Make everything right- but what did you even do? Right.

Nothing.

You could feel yourself getting weaker. Little to no food, the wetness and cold temperatures of the room crawled up your bones- making you shiver almost all the time- legs and arms turning painfully cold- almost like dead meat.

It was quiet most of the time. Too quiet. Too dark. The cell was made to torture- to confuse- to limit your senses. And it did.

You shook your legs in the darkness of the room. Feeling them getting weaker again. You didn't sit down for almost 2 weeks. Trying to move your fingers- hissing softly as the cuffs scratched uncomfortably at your already raw rubbed wrists. You couldn't feel your arms- just hoped that your fingers really did move.

„Fuck“ you hissed- vision getting blurry with tears of frustration- and pain- and all the fucked up stuff that clouded your brain down in this shithole.

Slamming your bare foot behind you against the wall- definitely scratching it up during the process. „Fuck- I am going to kill everyone of you dirty fuckers!“ you yelled in agony- pulling at your chains- they did not budge a millimeter- just clinking under your movements.

Everything hurt. You had to admit that. Your eye was almost swollen shut, you could feel that. Broken nose, maybe also a black eye on the other side. Cuts adorning your Belly as well as your back-

You could swear that your toes and fingers were turning blue due to the coldness

You sighed into the silence. If it were any other occasion you would have probably thought about killing yourself? But now? Hah.

You will fucking live. Fucking spit in their faces Make them fucking bleed their hearts out and Scream.

Simon.

oh you were going to make him weep like a baby when all of this is done- destroying his tough shell with hateful words. Something that hurts him the most. Being Abandoned.

You were fucking Angry.

angry wasn‘t even fitting- you were furious, boiling with hate, wanting to see them destroyed.

Yeah. Your mother probably would say something like "Anger and revenge is no way out- its an unhealthy coping mechanism". You loved your Mother- didn't even know if she got informed what was going on here- probably not- you thought.

Still you wanted to throw a middlefinger at that statement. Yes. revenge isn't always a good answer. But here? Right now?

It seemed like a fucking good plan.

.

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.

"Just tell us, sugar" Gaz spat at you with a venom laced voice. Looking at your quiet and beat up frame. Painfully squeezing your chin inbetween his fingers to make you look at him.

"What? Cat gotcha tounge?" he asked with a bloodthirsthy smile. "Didn't think we would find out, eh?" he asked staring at you with a clenched jaw- he was seething.

No need to be a pro to see that.

Your feelings matched his expression perfectly - you didn't show him though. Staring into his eyes with a dead look- not bothering talking to him. "Maybe I should cut your tounge off, huh? Liking that idea, sweetie?" holding up his knife and cocking his head towards it to prove his point.

You rolled your eyes at that gesture, earning a quick stab into your shoulder, grunting at the sudden attack- not expecting it. Breathing getting heavier as you comprehended the pain that passed through your veins like a wildfire. Spreading its painful heat into every tissue of your body.

"fucker" you chocked out- getting kicked into your stomach for your words- your whole body cramping at the forcefull impact.

Body crumpling together as much as you could- still chained to the bar at the ceiling. "Just tell us the truth!" Gaz sneered angered- fist tightening as he pulled the sharp dagger out of your shoulder- an ugly squelching sound emitting during the process- making you shudder, even though you heard it pretty often during your career.

You huffed angrily- cold sweat forming on your body. Mixing with the dirt and dried up blood- sticking to your skin in an uncomfortable way.

"I. Didn't. Do. SHIT!" you yelled at him- a fire errupting in Gaz eyes, his mouth clenching shut- jabbing you into your throat with his hand out of nowhere-

And everything turned black.

.

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.

Gaz sighed at your unconscious self. Fist clenching and unclenching around the hilt of the bloody dagger- other hand coming up to wipe away the sweat that formed on his face.

"Fuck, just please.. tell us the truth" he whispered before turning around.

he quickly left- Room turning dark again. The singular lightbulb getting dimmer and dimmer till the light completely vanished.

.

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.

Your shoulder stung like a bitch after you gained consciousness. Groaning in pain- the warm liquid still slowly trickling down your shoulder, over your chest- trailing further down.

„Fucking bitch“ you moaned in pain- curses- all directed at Kyle flooded your mouth

„Motherfucker!“ you whimpered- shoulders trembling- making you wince even more. Feeling the tightness in the back of your throat- accompanied by the bitter taste and burning sensation in your eyes- frustrating you even more. tears falling free- creating small streaks on their way down- contrasting with the dried up blood on your beat up face.

A sob was the first thing that broke the silence for a long time. Then another- and another. All drenched in pain. Hurt. Betrayal.

Sobs wrecked your body- coughing after some minutes of crying your soul out. Too much Saliva or mucus in your nasal area. You pleaded into the cold air. Missing your family. Missing your happiness. Missing the old times.

old times..

Hours passed. Exhausted look on your face. Eyes shallow. Trying to drift off into sleep again.

You didn‘t care that you were probably ignoring the advice from your Mother that she taught you since you were little.

Fucking making them die on the inside it is.

Die on the Inside.

Fuckers.

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!please do reblog!

TAGLIST ⬇️

join the Taglist here (Taglist post)

@sincerleysinister | @krispynachofan | @generalfanfictionaddict | @ksharkthemommy

[angelfoxx]

I just know Keegan looks so god damn hot in his casual clothing, going to bed in loose grey boxers and an old band shirt that rides up his stomach when he lies down, AND GOOD GOD his happy traillll😫I feel like he’s one of those guys with really bushy happy trails, doesn’t even know how sexy you find it. He’s lying in bed, one of his big arms around your shoulders while reading an old book. Raises an eyebrow when your hand starts wandering up his thigh, fingertips dipping under the waistband of his boxers..

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° ❝ NEED SOMETHING? ❞

…in which keegan entertains your perversions.

FEATURING: keegan p russ.

WARNINGS: keegan being a sexy motherfucker. also me giving him a tatted sleeve because it’s sexy and who the hell is gonna tell me no. also me drooling over his happy trail bc HAPPY TRAILS HAPPY TRAILS LOOOOOOOORD

NOTE/S: oh my god

It’s not your fault, really. Feeling like this. It’s not your fault.

It’s his.

He’s not ignoring you. His arm, slung up on your shoulders, is just a heavy, toned reminder that he’s with you. His attention is just elsewhere.

You aren’t totally sure what book he’s reading. Probably something of Stephen King’s. Last week, it had been Christine. The week prior, It. You hadn’t bothered checking; if it was a low-stress week, he’d tell you all about it once he finished it, true book-critic style. In any case, he’s got the thing casually in his lap, spread open by a splayed hand. He’s got a simple silver band on his middle finger, gnarled and twisted like barbed wire — every now and then, he taps it, just an occasional beat of sound as if to remind you that he’s right there.

You’re ogling his hand, now. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Your eyes travel upward. He’s got a pretty sleeve of black-and-white tattoos; churning ocean waves, storm-battered whitecaps, tossing ships. He’d explained it the first time you’d seen it; something about how he found peace in the chaos of an ocean storm. Just standing in a place where there was no resistance that he could give. Surrendering to the fury of nature. Something like that. It’s…um, attractive. Yeah. You swallow and resist the sudden urge to squeeze your legs together.

The top of that sleeve — thick, billowing clouds — vanishes under the edge of his tee. Charcoal-gray, emblazoned with the title of an old rock band that you’d never really heard of prior to meeting him. He’s still wearing his dog-tag, hanging on a silver chain around his neck and rising on his chest every time he breathes.

Christ, you should stop staring.

His shirt’s ridden up on his stomach, and god, you really shouldn’t look because then you won’t be able to look away. But you do look, because what are you if not a swooning idiot for the sniper sitting beside you?

Every time he breathes, his stomach sinks in and you can see the outline of his abs. God. Fucking Christ. You can see the outline of his abs but not really the middle, because along the middle he’s proudly sporting a long line of short black curls.

You’re basically salivating.

He’s just got some loose gray boxers on, sitting dangerously low on his hips. He’s left the v-line of his hips exposed; your senses are on high alert, eyes catching on every little mole spotting his waist, every little white scar, the edge of the paw-print tattoos he has just below his stomach (it’s where Riley’s front feet go when the dog stands up on his hind legs, tail wagging and tongue lolling), and it’s such a cute little tattoo but your thoughts are anything but and—

“Don’t forget to blink.”

You flinch like you’ve been shot. Your mind goes blank, and your gaze shoots upward.

Tiny smirk caught in the corner of his mouth, Keegan looks down at you with lidded, quietly humored eyes. They seem brilliantly blue, moreso than usual — though maybe that’s just the lighting in here. His hair’s a mess; short and still damp from his earlier shower, undercut scrubbing against your arm as he turns his head, just a little, one eyebrow raised. There’s a little scar through his left one; the hair splits unevenly there. You’ve told him several times that you find it sexy.

He agrees.

“What?” Your mouth feels like it’s filled with a fat wad of cotton. You feel like your thoughts are visible in your eyes.

“Don’t play stupid.” His response is honey-smooth. “I’m not dumb.”

“I didn’t say y…you were.” You swallow. “I’m just sitting here.”

“Mm.” Keegan narrows his eyes. “Mhm.”

And then he goes back to that book.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how hard you stare at his hand holding that book open. It’s almost pathetic, actually. You’re sure he’d say the same if he knew exactly what thoughts were running through your head right now. Pinkie finger on one page, index on the other, middle and ring both resting so lightly along the inseam of the spine.

Christ.

Trying to shake yourself out of your own head, you turn yourself inwards. Keegan needs no words; his arm tightens around you, hand sliding down to your hip and tugging it over so that you’re fully facing his side, head resting against his chest and body slung down along his leg. It’s comfortable like this; it goes without saying that he’s built like a motherfucker and so his pec is a comfortable resting-place for your head. He’s warm, too, deliciously so; his body heat seeps up through his tee, prickling against your skin. He’s comfy, so comfy; on other nights, you’d fallen asleep like this, cuddled up to his side with one of his arms wrapped around you. Those nights were sweet; when time started to slow and all of your senses started to bleed together, you always heard him call your name, so quiet you wouldn’t catch it if you were awake. When you didn’t answer, he’d laugh — and then you’d hear the rustle of sheets as he stooped over and pressed a little kiss to the top of your head.

You weren’t totally sure if he knew that you knew he did that.

Tonight, though, you can’t do that. You can’t fathom it, because your hand is just itching to move. It’s just casually resting against his thigh — god, his fucking thighs, hard and thick and oh, you have to stop ogling him. You have to stop thinking about how that muscle feels, flexing so slightly under your hand as it moves up.

Moves up?

Oh.

Oops.

Keegan doesn’t say anything when your hand cups the warm spot between his legs. He lets out a short breath — it almost sounds like a laugh. There’s a curve taking shape on his lips, and his eyes glint with humor as he shifts, purposefully pushing his pelvis so slightly up into your palm.

The weight of his dick pushes between your fingers and your legs instinctively snap together. Above you, Keegan’s breath cracks into a nearly-silent laugh.

He’s onto you.

You bite your lip, risking a glance up at him as you do. He isn’t looking at you; he’s still reading, hawkish blue eyes scanning from left to right, over and over again. The hand on your hip lightly squeezes a handful of your thigh.

His hips roll so slightly up again. He’s daring you to continue.

Cocky sonofabitch. You swallow as you move your hand up, up, over the slight angular swell of his abdomen and up past the elastic of his boxers. For a moment, you rake your fingers up his abs and you shudder in response to the way his stomach flexes and his breathing oh-so-slightly breaks.

No words. Just the sound of him turning the page.

Bitch. You bite your tongue as you shift your head around. You can hear his heart thumping beneath your ear, and — god fucking dammit — it’s not beating quicker at all. It’s like you can’t disturb him. Get under his skin like he gets under yours.

You pick at the elastic of his waistband. On one hand? You’re rubbing your legs together, biting your tongue, and there’s a million and one dirty images in your head. You can practically hear Keegan’s growl in your ear: too needy to sit still, princess?

But on the other hand, he’s being mean. He’s ignoring you and all of your signs. And you kind of want to just roll over and go to sleep and maybe, just maybe, he’d been hoping for you to go further.

But you won’t. So he’ll get frustrated, and then it’ll be him slowly reaching his hand under the elastic of your waistband, fingers curving over the shape of your body and feeling for wet warmth. He’ll breathe in your ear with that stupid rasp of his and he’ll ask, voice raw, if you were really planning on hanging me out to dry like that? and you’ll say maybe I was.

Or he’ll get frustrated, but he’ll reach into his own pants. He’ll leave you alone, but you’ll wake up to the quiet sound of his muted groans and his hand stroking back and forth under the thin material of his boxers and then maybe he’ll do that thing where he tips his head back, swallows, and his eyes flutter shut and he cursed, quiet and hoarse.

Or maybe—

“Cold feet?” There he is again, short phrases and little questions. He’s not looking at you; he’s looking at his book, tilting his head as he turns the page. He raises an eyebrow to you, tongue clasped between his teeth.

“What?”

No response this time. Keegan’s eyes shift over to you; he cocks his head in your direction, and under that messy black mop of hair and those thick black lashes that you’ve always been envious of, Keegan silently asks if you’re really going to play this fucking dumb.

You’ve arrived at a stalemate. You don’t move. He doesn’t speak. You two just stare at each other, blinking back-and-forth like a tennis volley until Keegan finally sighs and looks away. His eyes return to the book.

You’re about to snap, ready to rip the godforsaken thing out of his lap, when the hand on your hip shifts. His arm lifts off of your back; it pulls around your shoulders instead, crushing you into his armpit.

His fingers clasp around your wrist, and you catch the undeniable edge of a smirk on his face before he takes your hand and pulls it into his pants.

get fucking cliffhanger’d bitches

[igot-the-juice]

Blood of A Rose - Part 2 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - Following the events of their night together, (y/n) and Art explore their dynamics together to form a perfect duet of blood and beauty.

Notes - Was requested to expand on the relationship between Art and the reader and will happily oblige! It’s honestly so fun to write Art’s character, I hate how little there is out there for him. My man needs attention.

P.S - Might branch this into a series of one shots showing their relationship more and whatnot either from my own ideas or requests from you guys for what you’d like to see with them. Hell, might even make a whole blog based on them. Thoughts?

Word Count - 4,091

Warning(s) - Blood, gore, violence, morally ambiguous reader

Song Inspiration -

Cody Frost - Process

Screams were heard all around them, piercing and agonizing. Everything was set ablaze, yet she felt no heat. She felt no pain. Even as the smoke clouded, she could breathe without struggle. (Y/n) craned her neck to look up at the clown before her, eyes wide with wonder, with trust. Her life was in the hands of a murderer and yet she felt safe. She felt protected.

His usual grin did not show, yet he didn’t frown. His face remained neutral while his eyes said it all, filled with an untamed obsession, possessiveness and dare she say adoration. His gloved hands rose to her jaw, cupping it delicately as he guided her to train her eyes on him, to ignore all that happened around them. As she stared up at him, her hands came to rest over his own, and with a look of his eyes she was told -

He would be her past, present and future. 

(Y/n)’s eyes fluttered open, greeted by the soft light of the moon that peaked through the boards of the window. The colder air bit at her skin through her sweater and she shivered. 

She sat up and looked around curiously, seeing that she was now in the makeshift bedroom from before. She then looked down and saw that she was on the mattress, however a tattered blanket now lay on top of it beneath her, shielding her from whatever mold and rot had been on it. 

Her legs closed when she felt a light breeze brush against the tear in her pantyhose, heightening the chill. (Y/n) stretched her arms out and stood, then heard what sounded like someone hammering from a different room. Her mind raced with the events of what she assumed was still the same night. Her face burned, stomach fluttering as the ghost of Art’s caress tickled her skin. 

She took a deep breath and left the room, quietly making her way to where the sound came from. Mindful of the debris on the floor as she grew near, she entered the room with the workbench, Art hunched over it on the stool as he hammered away at something. 

When (y/n) stepped closer he paused. Her breath stilled as his head slowly turned to the side, yet not over his shoulder to look at her, letting her know that he knew she was there. 

Once he returned to work she released the breath she held and made her way over to him, seeing as he hammered a screw-eye hook of sorts into the end of a chair leg. 

His face was focused, not smiling or putting on his usual dramatics as he worked. It felt strange to her, seeing him this way. It reminded her that even if he was a murderer he wasn’t excused from putting in the work to make it happen, whether it was a hobby of his or not. It reminded her that he still had interests and needs just as everyone else. It was oddly humanizing and she couldn’t help but feel privileged to see him in such a state. 

He motioned to a nearby corner and (y/n) turned to see another stool placed there, then moved to bring it over and sat on top of it to continue to watch him. He then motioned to her - conversing as he worked - then symbolized sleep as if to ask how she slept, then proceeded to pick up an average sized chain. 

“It was actually quite nice. Best sleep I’ve had in a while.” 

With chain in hand, he clapped excitedly, happy with her response. He hooked it to the screw, bending and twisting the metal to make sure it was secure as (y/n) watched casually, as if it was just another day. 

“Is it… Is it still the same night?” 

He shook his head and her eyes widened. Art turned to see it and began to laugh to himself. 

“How long has it been?” 

He held up a finger after his laughing fit died down, going back to his work. 

“One day…? But how?” 

He nodded and glanced over at her, watching as she looked down, growing more and more confused. He patted her shoulder and she looked up at him, seeing him point to himself, then her. 

“Because of you?” Her brow furrowed, then her expression changed as she chuckled. “Are you saying I slept for so long because of what we did?” 

Art shrugged and made a cheeky expression, but she became confused again when he then shook his head. He motioned to himself again, then pointed to her head. 

“You… forced me to stay asleep?” He eagerly nodded, smiling and pointing at her to say she got it. “But how? Did you knock me out?” His head shook. “Did you drug me?” 

His head shook again and he rolled his eyes, arms falling to his sides in exasperation. He then motioned to his entire body, pointed to his head with both fingers, then to her head again. 

“You were in my head…?” He nodded and clapped. “How is that even possible?” 

Art shrugged dramatically with a mischievous smile. (Y/n) paused and slowly met his eyes. 

“The dream…?” She asked, and in the back of her head she already knew the answer. 

The clown only solidified it with a raise of his eyebrows, mouth forming an ‘o’ and shrugging as an ‘oops’. (Y/n) could only laugh, not knowing how exactly to react to someone with such supposed supernatural abilities. 

She wasn’t sure if she had finally grown to become insane or if it was all a hallucination, all in her head. But as she thought to the night before she found that it all felt too real, too vivid to be fake. 

(Y/n) suddenly felt exposed and crossed one leg over the other, tugging down the skirt of her dress as her face grew warm. Art looked over at her, face twisting into mischief as his eyes squinted with his smile. He wiggled his eyebrows when she looked at him and she turned her face away bashfully. 

He reached over to grasp her chin, coaxing her to look back at him. He nudged his head in her direction, grinning to encourage her to do the same. Once her smile returned and she giggled, he playfully booped her nose and turned back to his workbench, his smile now remaining on his dramatized face as he worked. 

The minutes seemed to drag on as he worked, but not once was she bored. She watched eagerly, fixated as his hands toyed and shaped the weapon he was creating. His actions were all well thought out and deliberate, masculine yet graceful as his fingers caressed the wood and metal. 

Deeming the weapon satisfactory, he raised it by the handle - the chair leg - and examined it carefully. Three chains hung from the screw-eye, knife tips, nails and spikes decorating the length of them. 

“Is that a flail?” (Y/n) gasped. 

Art’s head whipped over to look at her and patted her thigh, the hand holding the weapon shaking excitedly as he nodded. He watched as she eyed his new creation, then an idea formed in his head. His gaze shifted to look over at her, now smiling sadistically. She caught the change in his expression and she began to smile, catching on to what he was thinking. 

“I’ll get the camera!” She hopped off of the stool.

-

After some convincing from her end, they stopped by her house for her to quickly change into something more comfortable. It wasn’t until she began to beg sweetly that he finally agreed, unable to say no to her more innocent nature, regardless of her interests.

Not a person was in sight as they were shielded by the dark of the night, hardly any street lamps in the area they currently wandered. 

“Does the bag ever get heavy for you?” (Y/n) asked as they walked through the ghosted roads. 

Art shook his head, using his other arm to exaggerate flexing his muscles and she laughed. 

“I bet that bag is the reason you’re so strong, lugging it around everywhere and all.” He waved her off at the compliment and tickled her ear with his finger. “I’m serious! You make it look like it weighs nothing.” 

As they walked, they began to see the edge of the town ahead of them. Or rather, Art saw it. (Y/n) was too focused on the clown beside her, taking in all of his features under the starry night, the moon perfectly accentuating every curvature and jagged edge, every - 

She was suddenly yanked to the side of the sidewalk he walked on and she gasped, looking over to see a pole that she nearly walked straight into. She looked back over at Art who had a hand on his hip with a frown. He pointed at her, his eyes, then the direction they were walking in. 

“Sorry…” She giggled as she blushed, nervously fiddling with the camera hanging around her neck. 

He pulled back his arm and reached for her, pulling her to stand on the opposite side where he was previously walking to prevent it from happening again. He motioned for her to continue walking, rolling his eyes from behind her before he set his pace next to her again. 

As they reached the town, Art began to look around carefully, more alert in the brighter area while (y/n) had a mind of her own. While he kept an eye out for his next victim, she focused on finding her next inspiration. She supposed they went hand in hand, but she was never one to strive for the bare minimum. 

He then paused, holding his arm out for her to do the same, knowing she very well would’ve kept on walking. Hearing the voices of what seemed to be a couple arguing, he listened carefully to find where they came from. 

Then he spotted them. 

A man and woman arguing next to a car. The man was halfway in the driver’s seat while the woman stood next to it, flailing her arms. 

Art then heard a shutter sound from beside him, slowly looking over to see (y/n) holding her camera up, taking photos of the argument before them. She looked over at him and shrugged innocently.

She put down the camera and the two of them watched the pursuing argument, equally invested in the exchange. The man then slammed the car door shut. 

“They just broke up for sure.” (Y/n) whispered to Art and he looked down at her with a widespread grin, wiggling his eyebrows then nodding towards the woman who was now making her way into what seemed to be her villa. 

Art crossed the street, making his way over with (y/n) in tow and walking up the small set of stairs leading to the front door. He looked down at her, then turned to the door in front of them and tested the door knob, unsurprisingly finding it locked. 

He gave (y/n) a ‘wait’ signal and set down his bag, cracking his neck and stretching his arms out in front of him with linked fingers. Art then gave her a side smile, then suddenly kicked the door open. She froze with wide eyes, yet her stomach betrayed her as it flipped at his show of masked strength. 

He picked up his bag again and grabbed her wrist to pull her inside with him, closing the door behind them. Footsteps quickly descended the staircase in front of them and they looked up to see the same woman from before, chest heaving in fear at the sight before her. 

While (y/n) quickly snapped a photo of her expression, Art dropped his bag again and wiggled his fingers at her in a wave with a menacing smile. He then held up a finger to her and began to look through his bag as the woman remained frozen like a deer in the headlights, watching as he pulled out a scalpel and the new flail. He turned to (y/n) and raised his eyebrows, then bolted upstairs after the woman who fled. 

As they thumped around upstairs, she began to explore the villa, looking for things to use in her next piece. The woman’s screams and shrieks were muffled behind the door of the room they were in and were drowned out, inevitably useless. 

(Y/n) eyed a smaller box TV that sat on an entertainment stand in the living room, an idea popping into her head. She walked over to it and unplugged it in preparation, resuming her wandering when the noise above her suddenly stopped. 

She heard a door open upstairs followed by footsteps descending the staircase. (Y/n) looked towards it, seeing a now bloodied Art giving her the ‘ok’ to go upstairs when she was ready. 

“Could you do me a huge favor?” She asked as he made his way over to her, shaking off the blood on his hands and nodding. “Could you help take the TV upstairs for me? I want to use it as the head.” 

Art made a surprised expression, clapping his hands giddily at the idea. He then paused with a finger up, making a sawing motion and asked for her to wait a moment, disappearing upstairs. Not long after, he returned with his saw and put it back in his bag, happily walking over to the TV and tipping his hat at (y/n) when he walked by. He then picked it up as if it was nothing but a feather and made his way back upstairs, (y/n) following closely behind as she giggled. 

They entered the woman’s bedroom, her body splayed out on the bed with small to large chunks of her skin and fat missing, head nowhere to be found. 

As he placed the TV where the woman’s head used to be, (y/n) admired the slashes left from the flail. Some were rather deep, others shallow. Their marks tore at the dress that the woman wore, some simulating claw marks while other areas were simply shredded. 

“Could you move the arms to look like this?” (Y/n) posed her own arms to grab the sides of her head. Art carefully took note of the angle and position, then moved the victim’s arms to reflect it. “Perfect.” (Y/n) smiled, looking up at the ceiling to see LED lights lined along the edge. 

Art watched as she wandered to find the remote, smiling to herself once she found it and changed the color to red and turned off the main light. She looked around the floor, watching for anything she could trip on before lifting a foot onto the bed. 

Art’s face twisted into panic and his hands shook, stepping next to her and helping her up onto the bed. 

“Thank you.” She responded softly, one of his hands still holding her waist to help steady her as she readied her camera. He followed her as she captured different angles, some standing while others she crouched. 

(Y/n) took his hand to help herself down, smiling up at him as he grinned at her excitedly. Just as the night before, she flipped through the pictures she took, and just the same, she felt his closeness. 

The only difference was rather than nerves, she felt relaxed. She felt calm and comfortable despite the mess around them that he caused. His hand that rested on her far shoulder radiated heat through her layers of clothing and she subconsciously leaned into him, head pressed against his chest while he pointed at the photos he favored. 

His silent presence, twisted grin plastered on his painted face, drew her in like a moth to flame. (Y/n) found herself unable to refuse, an invisible pull guiding her to him. 

At first, their following encounters were just a few hours in the night together. Art would appear when (y/n) least expected, showing up at odd hours, his silent insistence drawing her out into the dark. However, she began to notice her sleeping pattern slowly change. She grew more tired sooner, falling asleep earlier and earlier, waking up in a strange nocturnal rhythm. 

At night, she would wake to find him waiting, patient but always silent, eager to lead her deeper into his world. (Y/n), feeling a strange sense of peace in his presence, began to follow him without question. And after only a few weeks of their odd relationship, she began to grow used to it. Comfortable with it. Comfortable with him.

“Hey, Art.” (Y/n) greeted him as she yawned, fresh out of bed to find him rummaging through her kitchen. 

He looked up at her and waved, a widespread grin bringing out her own smile in her vulnerable, post-dream state. He gushed at the sight, elbows resting on the countertop with his chin in his hands, blinking dreamily at her as she walked over to him with her arms out. 

Art popped up, engulfing her in his arms as she sighed happily at the feeling. He rocked the two of them slowly, the rhythm almost putting her back to sleep. 

Slowly, (Y/n)’s life became consumed by Art. The gruesome art pieces she crafted from his handiwork grew bolder, more disturbing, as if the dark side of her creativity was being unleashed by his influence. 

In her dreams, she would see him. His painted face looming over her, silent but omnipresent. At first, the dreams were disorienting. But over time, they became comforting. She would wake, feeling a strange longing for him, for the connection they shared in the darkest corners of her mind, weaving its way to the forefront. 

As the days bled into nights, (y/n) found herself thinking of Art constantly. He was always there, even when he wasn’t physically present; a haunting figure in her thoughts. His silence, once goofy, became a form of comfort. She began to crave his presence, yearning for their time together. 

And so (y/n) found herself growing dependent on him. Whether it was for her art or simply her attachment to him, how safe she felt with him. He understood her in a way no other person could, and she reciprocated. 

The way he was so brutal and aggressive with others, yet gentle and thoughtful with herself only drew her closer to him. He treated others as nuisances, problems to deal with and get rid of while he treated her as delicately as the rose that brought them together. The contrast was endearing to her, and she couldn’t help but be entranced. 

Though such treatment came with an undisclosed amount of protection and possessiveness, to which she learned rather quickly. 

“It just came out wrong, I’m sorry!” (Y/n) giggled. Art mocked her, rolling his eyes as his mouth and hand mocked her talking. The culprit of such a fit? 

She called his nose cute.

“Your nose is attractive, is what I meant. Believe me, you’re still as frightening as ever.” 

He threw her a side eye, then dramatically sighed and waved it all off. 

“Hey!” She stopped them in the middle of the sidewalk, a lit street lamp looming over them as they faced each other. “I’m sorry.” She gave him her best doe eyes, then stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. 

His grin slowly returned, hand coming over the top of where she kissed him and she giggled. He then took her hand in his own, continuing their nightly walk.

Later on, they heard slurred conversation ahead of them, seemingly male in nature. (Y/n) tried to slow their walk, but Art looked back at her and encouraged her to keep up with him. As they grew closer, they passed an alleyway that held a small group of drunks, hearing a whistle of a cat call. 

The clown immediately stilled, and (y/n) quickly grew worried. 

“Hey, where ya goin’ babes?” One of the men called, stepping out of the alleyway with a bottle in hand. “Not with the mime, I hope.” 

Art and (y/n) slowly turned to face the man, their hands still interlocked as she gripped his tighter and stepped closer to him, practically hiding behind him like a scared child. 

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you actually wanna be with the guy!”

“Ey, c’mon man, stop messin’ with them, she’s not worth it.” Another man stepped out, followed by a third to watch the scene play out. Art’s eyebrows furrowed in anger, twisted grin remaining as he set down his bag and quickly reached into it. 

“Obviously not if -“ Two shots suddenly pierced through the night air, the second and third men collapsing to the ground while Art aimed a handgun at the first who initiated. 

(Y/n)’s hold on his hand moved to his arm, clutching onto it as the bodies began to puddle with blood beneath them. She looked up at Art, his grin replaced with a frown and it sent a chill down her spine. She had only seen him genuinely angry maybe once or twice, and whatever followed was far from pleasant, to say the least. 

“H-hey, I was just jokin’ man, I was just jokin’!” The drunk held up his hands in surrender, but the clown wasn’t buying it. 

As he continued to ramble and apologize, begging for his life, Art kept the gun pointed at his head. He watched as the man slowly broke in front of him, growing increasingly desperate. Art’s grin then slowly reappeared, giving the man a glimmer of hope.

Then Art suddenly aimed at the man’s thigh and fired, doing the same to his other until he fell to his knees. Art tossed the gun into his bag and rummaged through it further, his face twisting into a sadistic expression when he pulled out a box cutter flashing it to the man as a tease before stalking over to him.

(Y/n) turned around, facing away from the chaos and gore as she plugged her ears to drown out the noise. Even still, the sound seeped through as the man struggled and cried out helplessly. His fight was futile compared to Art’s strength, and the latter simply ragdolled him as if the man was just a child. 

When the noise stopped, she unplugged her ears and felt a hand pat her waist, turning to see Art wipe off his now bloodied hands. She turned to see his mess, and his face suddenly grew concerned when she pouted. 

“I don’t have my camera.” (Y/n) nearly whined, and Art mimicked her frown. 

At first, (y/n) resisted the growing dependency, confused by her attachment. But he began to seep into her thoughts with concerning frequency. The dreams became more vivid, more intimate, filled with his silent adoration as he twisted her perception of reality until he became the center of her world, the only constant in her life, planting seeds of affection until it became impossible to imagine her life without him.

His obsession with her only grew. He would stand over her while she slept during the day, watching her with an almost childlike fascination. When she woke, his silent attention made her feel adored, special. The way he looked at her, possessive yet affectionate. His presence was her comfort, his protection her shield.

Eventually, (y/n) could no longer distinguish where her own desires ended and his began. The thought of being apart from him was unbearable. She began to seek him out during the day when she should have been resting, desperate to be near him. 

When they were together, it was a twisted dance of blood and beauty. A duet that no one else could understand. She would create art from his chaos, and he would watch her with silent adoration, the two of them locked in a world where only they existed.

They grew to share a dark, intimate bond. (Y/n), once a quiet and reserved artist, had become consumed by Art - both his work and his presence. He had molded her. And she, willingly or not, had come to love him for it. 

As their connection deepened, (y/n) knew that she could never return to the life she had before. The darkness was too intoxicating, the bond too strong. 

She belonged to him now, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

[crappymixtape]

because of you • part one

PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V • EPILOGUE // REQ -> @sattlersquarry ❝ an enemies to lovers fic with Steve? 💙 maybe they have to put aside their differences to fight upside down stuff and realize they actually have a lot in common 👀 • 18+  | ( 2.1k – little bit of king!steve, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, enemies to idiots in love, steve x reader )

B E C A U S E O F Y O U • P A R T O N E 🎶 good girls ( john carpenter remix ), chvrches

“Why is she even here?”

“Steve!”

A loud smack cut the air in two as Robin slapped a hand against Steve’s shoulder, rendering the rest of group there in Max’s trailer silent.

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, cheeks burning under his gaze, lips twisted into a scowl and trying hard to hold back the daggers you wanted so badly to throw at him.

“She doesn’t know what the hell we’re up against! How’s she supposed to–“

“Steve, none of us knew either, cut her a break.”

“Cut her a break and then what? We all get eaten by a fucking melted people monster?”

“That’s not fair–“

“It’s fine! It’s fine, Nancy,” you cut the girl off, standing quickly from your spot on the couch.

They’d been talking like this since you showed up. Like you weren’t right there in the room with them and honestly you kind of wished you weren’t anymore.

“I need some air,” you grumbled before giving Steve a pointed glare and shouldering open the front door.

The air outside was crisp as you sat down on the front stoop. Not a cloud in the sky and sunlight washing everything in soft golden light, but it all still felt so dark. Like it was harboring thick shadows. Long, spindly, and pitch black. Waiting to wrap their twisted fingers around you.

Waiting to dig into you and squeeze tight.

Waiting to lift you twenty feet into the air and snap your bones like twigs.

Waiting to leave you for dead.

And here was Steve fucking Harrington asking what right you had to be there. Asking what purpose were you gonna serve amongst this “holier than thou” joke of an army. Steve, Robin, Nancy and Eddie had already gotten their asses handed to them by what they’d called demobats, Steve arguably needing serious medical attention, and they wanted to go back? It took everything you had to not leave right there on the spot.

Hell, maybe you should, you thought for a minute. You didn’t owe them anything, especially Steve, but you did owe it to your best friend. The one who basically had a hit out on him. The one who wouldn’t hurt a goddamn fly, but all of Hawkins had already decided he was guilty and you weren't about to leave him.

Eddie.

❝ SO SAVE YOUR BREATH, GIVE A LITTLE OF WHAT YOU HAVE LEFT – DO THEY KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T? ❞

You met him two years ago under the bleachers at the Homecoming football game. It seemed like the perfect place to smoke the joint you’d messily rolled in the car right before you’d come into the stadium and apparently you’d been right, but someone else had already laid claim to it...

“Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but this is kind of my spot.”

He’d been all black leather and denim. Dark curls and clove. Silver rings and chains and heavy boots and maybe you should’ve been more intimidated, but the smile lines at the corners of his mouth gave him away.

“Don’t see a sign anywhere,” you’d shot back, no hesitation. Looked over at him all skeptics and attitude and took a long drag from your joint. Blew the smoke off in his direction and it made him grin like an idiot.

“Been sellin’ weed down here for like…the last three years so–actually, yeah. What the fuck, man. Someone owes me a sign.”

...And that was it, you were a goner. Laughing mid-toke and coughing so hard you cried and it made him feel so bad he gave you a baggy for free. Eddie "the freak" Munson and you – best friends.

Skipped all the stupid dances and football games with you. Paraded around the lunch room like an idiot with you. Threw fries back at the jocks for you when they called you a loser and sat on the floor in the bathroom with you when you cried.

So fuck “King Steve” Harrington.

You had every right to be there, probably even more than he did and you were gonna tell him to his face, but—

“Can I sit?”

The sudden sound of someone else made you jump.

“Jesus, Eddie.”

“Sorry,” he chuckled and sat down next to you. Gave you a sidelong glance and a small lopsided smile. “He’s really not so bad–”

“You’re joking. Right? Tell me you’re joking.”

The boy hummed, dropped his gaze down to the rings wrapped around his fingers and twisted the one on his thumb.

“He doesn’t want me here. None of them do,” you grumbled, frustration fed further by his non-answer and it pulled his eyes back up to you.

“Hey now, that’s not true–”

“Yes it is! Even Nancy looks at me like a kicked puppy.”

That pulled a laugh from him. Made him scoot closer to you and bump his shoulder into yours. “Listen, sweetheart,” the nickname made you soften, but you tried to keep your scowl in place, “We’re all in over our fuckin’ heads, hm? And Stevie boy…he’s seen some shit. He’s just trying to–”

“Just trying to what? Be a complete dickhead about it? Mission accomplished.”

Eddie sighed and roughed a hand over his face. Rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. He knew what you felt because he’d felt it too. Knew what it was like to get laughed at and mocked in the lunch room. Knew how it was supposed to be between him and the other boy. Hell, he nearly cut Harrington’s face off with a broken bottle a few days ago, but one thing was clear.

Change was possible and Steve Harrington was proof, he just wasn’t great at showing it.

“Alright. He could be less of a dick,” he conceded, propping his chin in his hand and looking at you with his big brown eyes. How could you be mad at that?

You mumbled under your breath about that not being the only thing, but fine, okay, only for you, Eds.

Reaching over he flicked at your fingers and looked at you from under his curls with a stern pinch between his brows. “He’s helping me, sweetheart. They all are. Shit, without them I’d probably be in jail already. Or in Carver’s trunk,” he tried a laugh, but it fell short at the end with the weight of his words and it made you grab at his hand and squeeze it.

“Shut up,” you chided softly, no heat behind it. The anger that had been swelling in your chest all but extinguished.

Silence settled between the two of you then, heavy and tinged at the edges with worry. With everything that was at risk and it started to gnaw at the pit of your stomach. What if you couldn’t fix it? And even if you could, this Vecna asshole was about to end the world anyway so what the hell did it matter?

How were a bunch of kids going to do anything about it?

“Ahem,” the door knocked into your back and jolted you back to earth. Pulled a gasp from you and when you looked up over your shoulder you felt your anger return ten fold. “We’re leaving, geniuses,” Steve announced, pushing at you with the door.

“Least you know you’re an idiot,” you mumbled under your breath, standing up from your spot to glare at him at eye level.

“Real cute,” Steve shouldered past you on the stoop, took the last two steps in one go and turned to face you both as he landed on the grass. “For you, Munson,” he said, throwing a mask at Eddie, “Courtesy of Mayfield.”

“What’s that for?” you couldn’t help asking as Max appeared at your side and pointed so casually – too casually – at the mask.

“Gonna steal a Winnebago. Get that on, dingus. Let’s go.”

“Nice,” Eddie grinned up at the red-headed girl and yanked the mask on over his head, “Thanks, Red.”

“Let’s go,” Steve urged, waving his hands at everyone to get out of the house and you felt your heart racing.

“Steal a Winnebago? Eddie. Fuck that–”

“Honey, I’m already a wanted man–” Eddie cut you off and readjusted the ridiculous looking mask a bit. “–c’mon,” he said, tugging at your belt loop to get with it.

“I–that doesn’t mean you can just steal–”

“We’re way past that,” Dustin chimed in, shoving past you just like everyone else, “Besides, if the world’s gonna end anyway, what’s it matter?”

Shit. The kid had a point. It was probably fine. It was just a trailer. Maybe you could give it back afterward? You needed it more than they did. Right?

“Dammit,” you grumbled under your breath, now the only one still standing around. “Wait for me!”

❝ THEY TELL ME I’M HELL-BENT ON REVENGE, I CUT MY TEETH ON WEAKER MEN, I WON’T APOLOGIZE AGAIN ❞

The first time you ran into Steve Harrington was sophomore year. In the hallway before Click’s class. You were cramming everything into your bag, but struggling with your history book when you heard it coming.

Tommy Hagan’s stupid laugh.

Your stomach sank, eyes glued on your things and trying to ignore it. He was in your science class the year before along with his ditzy girlfriend Carol and they always made sure to get a spot in the back just to make out.

“Need some help?”

When you finally looked up at him he’d stopped right in front of you, the grin on his lips sharklike as Carol smirked out from under his arm. Another boy you didn’t know was standing just behind them wearing a stupid member’s only jacket, half unzipped, and had hair that sat perfectly in place. Too perfect.

“That looks heavy, hm?” Tommy said grabbing your book, voice all saccharine sweet and sharp around the edges. Flipping through the pages he pulled a face, clicked his tongue and weighed it in his hand, then made a show of dumping it on the floor. “Whoops. Sorry!” he half-laughed and your cheeks burned.

“Bite me, Hagan,” you snapped back, bending down to grab your book, and it only made his grin grow wider.

“Ooo. She’s fiesty today, Stevie. I like it.”

And then he chimed in. Stevie. The had-to-be-douchebag that everyone called 'King Steve.'

“Probably on her period,” he said scoffing a laugh, all confidence and bravado and the look on his face was so smug. Thought he was so clever and funny and when you finally turned around it was to take the two steps up to him in one.

“Really? My period? So original.”

It made him swallow hard. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he blinked back the flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes. He took a quick glance at Tommy like he didn’t want to disappoint him and then hardened his expression. Crowded down over you and nodded.

“Explains you being such a bitch.”

And it took the air from your lungs. Stuck in your sides sharp like a knife and you felt your throat tighten as Tommy and Carol snickered, but you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction. Not here.

“Yeah. Bet you wish you had an excuse for being such an asshole,” you cut at him and it pulled an Oh shit! out of Tommy as he doubled over laughing, Steve’s mouth dropped open in shock.

Your feet couldn’t carry you away fast enough as you shoved your book in your bag and turned to leave, but you refused to run. Refused to let them see weakness, and as Tommy yelled down the hallway after you about tampons you raised a middle finger high in the air to punctuate just how much you hated them all.

Eddie met you in the bathroom after that, the one nobody used on the other side of school, and you told him everything. He let you have the joint he had tucked behind his ear for emergencies, listened to you and told you they weren’t worth it. Especially not Steve. Because even though Tommy started it, Steve was the one who dug in. Could have left it alone but didn’t and that was what really got you.

How obvious it was he knew how shitty they were being, but went along with it anyway because he had to maintain his status. Had to uphold how ‘cool’ he was and keep the line in the sand drawn between him and ‘the freaks’ like you.

So he wouldn’t get a second chance.

And he wasn’t worth your time.

Not then and sure as hell not now.

[ NOTE: THIS IS PART ONE OF A THREE PART SERIES, PART TWO AND THREE TO COME SOON ]

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[beansprean]

time for exposition? no, time to look at him in his cute new outfit!

My Familiar’s Ghost Part 66

Masterpost

See new pages on Patreon!

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Wide shot of vampire Guillermo sitting on a couch for a talking head. He is wearing black chinos, a red v-neck knit sweater with gold threading around the cuffs and neck, a gray and white button up with a heart pattern, black bat-shaped collar clips with gold trim and a gold chain, and new round glasses with gold arms and nose bridge. The lower third reads "Guillermo de la Cruz" with 'de la Cruz' crossed out followed by "The Great, New Vampire." Guillermo grins widely at the camera, fangs on full display, and holds his hands out in a ta-da pose. He says, "Sooo... I'm a vampire! For real!! I can fly, I can turn into a bat, and I even got to move into a real bedroom! Guillermo the Great is excited to get started on eternity!" 1b. Repeat, smaller panel. Guillermo sits with a giddy little smile, fists clenched excitedly over his lap, as he listens to the director offscreen who asks "So you don't have any memories of what your body was doing while you were separated?" 1c. Repeat. Guillermo drops his hands to his thighs and looks upward, smile turning a bit self-depreciating. He answers, "Um. No... I assume it was a lot of slaughtering, so. No loss, right?" 1d. Large panel, Guillermo waist-up in the bottom corner as his gaze goes far away, smile still in place but a little bit sad. Slightly embarrassed. He says, "I remember doing the ritual with Nadja and... reaching out... and then I don't know. I think I was dreaming. I woke up in the fancy room and... I was back! And a vampire!" Behind him are faded flashes of previous events: Nadja and Dolly sitting at the table while they explain the ritual; Guillermo and his soul reaching hands out to each other; Guillermo and his soul, who has taken the form of Nandor, pressing their palms together; the traffic light smashing to the ground and turning red; Guillermo pulling Nandor up into a kiss.

2a. Zoom out, Guillermo sitting on the couch. Offscreen, the director asks, "You don't think you're a ghost possessing a vampire?" Guillermo quickly straightens, head popping up and fingers lacing together over his lap. He replies, "I considered that! But possession feels different. When I was possessing objects in the house, it was like putting on a coat. I was me inside something else." 2b. Close up on Guillermo, the background turning into a softer version of his ghostly blue. He presses both hands to his chest and closes his eyes with a contented smile, continuing, "Now, I feel...complete." 2c. Zoom out again, angle slightly further left. Guillermo furrows his brow with a slight frown, one hand dropping to his lap and the other gesturing vaguely in the air as he explains, "I didn't realize how much not having a soul empties you out. But I've reconnected to it now, somehow, and to...um. Well." 2d. Close up on Guillermo as the director offscreen finishes his sentence: "Nandor?" Guillermo glowers darkly in response, shadows taking over his face as the background turns into rolling black clouds with angry strikes of lightning. /end ID

[magicdustsworld]

Redemption

Levi Ackerman x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: For you, freedom comes in the form of college life. However, soon you come to realize that tethering liberating steps for way too long will get you to situations you don't want to be in.

Tropes: Professor/Student, explicit smut

Warnings: profanity, age gap (Reader is in early 20s, Levi is in his early to mid 30s), drug abuse, smoking, alcoholism, implied nudity and blackmail, body shot, toxic college life, toxic friendship dynamics, college/modern AU, no mentions if y/n.

Word count: 3.6k

Event: submission for levievent under the prompt of day 10 - age differences.

A/N: after a lot of contemplation, I have decided to let it be a two-shot series. The next part will contain filthy smut, hopefully updated by tomorrow and pls excuse any mistakes on this part, my laptop broke down so I had to type it on my phone. Hope you enjoy!

Divider credits - @cafekitsune

|NEXT|

This isn't supposed to be happening.

You aren't supposed to be bend over your professor's desk, skirt raised up and have your cunt pulsating over his cock like a damn virgin.

He clicks his tongue, "Filthy brat," tightening his hold over your binded wrists as his pelvis smacks against yours in a uniform rhythm. "Don’t tell me you're cumming so soon. We haven't even started yet."

Your cheek rests on the hard mahogany desk, polished and clean as your eyes roll back from the way his cock just hits your g-spot with every thrust. The drool runs down your lips, too lust drunk to care and too traversed beyond reality to give him a verbal answer as he continues to assault your puffy folds with his shaft. Slick runs down your thighs, dripping on the floor as the room reeks with the combined juices of your arousal. He reaches down, pressing his thumb on your swollen bud and you're sent over the edge.

Shit!

How did this happen?

.

You have been caged your whole life.

Therefore, when freedom came knocking at your door, you didn't have any second thoughts from breaking free of the chains that binded you to a gilded cage. For you, freedom came in the form of college life.

If anyone from your highschool years saw you now, they wouldn't be able to recognize you with the 180 degree turn in personality, makeover and peer choices. A complete change. The most significant change could be your schedule. While you were living under the stern gaze of your parents, you had a timetable to maintain which prescribed when and how you should be present at particular places. That timetable was taken, crumbled up and thrown in the trashcan as soon as you got the gist of dormitory life. Besides, with your peers indulging in situations they shouldn't be, why should you hold back? (Like c'mon, you need to live your life as well)

Previously, you'd spend Friday nights in the confines of your bedroom while blasting your favourite playlist in your earphones and doing your homework. Now, the same music would boom but you are swaying your hips to it, bopping yourself and getting lost in the game of dance under the neon lights of the frat house. Red cups and beer pongs would escalate, which you readily partook in with the addition of forgettable one night stands. You told yourself that you liked the air of random hook ups while you were high, for it left you guessing that which brother of the fraternity you had fucked or not. While vodka and a night of reprieve was one thing, you looked forward to the coke. The very coke which once inhaled, made the euphoria burst in your system while ecstasy took over and you'd find yourself falling under the spell of intoxication.

Mind blank as a canvas and too high on serotonin levels, the fog of inebriation would cloud your eyes and you'd get lost in another midnight rhapsody. Can you blame yourself? College is meant for trying out all the pleasures of life, right? A hub for fuck boys and girls seeking validation from each other by fucking their daylights out. The minority who inclined themselves to academics were clearly missing out on all the joys life had to offer.

However, you didn't know that your favourite coke would be the reason of your downfall.

Maybe, you should have known better.

No– of course, you should have known better.

What were you thinking?

You should have stayed inside that night instead of going out to the same frat house, when you had an important physical chemistry exam the next day.

As far as you can remember, you were paired with a jock of the football team for flip cup. Although, hazed memories you noted the strawberry blond hair styled back and amber eyes. Maybe his name was John? Or Jean? Whatever, you only remember winning the game and getting your hands on the coke. Sooner than anyone had the time to comprehend, you were lining the powder on your finger edge and inhaling it generously.

Did it not raise a series of ooh's and aah's from the onlookers?

Like all the previous nights, your eyes were open wide with the crimson tint staining your sclera as you got lost in the ebullient maelstrom. Combined with the alcohol already running in your system, it didn't take long for the waves to crash ove. In this reverie you didn't realize when you were situated on the table, with grains of salt being sprinkled over your navel by your partner. He dipped his head down– mouth filled with tequila– swirling and lapping the warm muscle over your skin, feasting on the granules and you didn't even care with all your senses falling numb.

Anyone can guess what would be the outcome of attending an exam when the after effects of the powder fails to cease. With a pounding headache and being unaware of most of the answers, you can't say you were surprised to see your grade.

The capital F beside your name stares back at you from the mark list.

.

"Can't be that bad."

"It is."

"Not so," Your friend giggles, raking her fingers through her ash-blond hair. "It's only one exam, cheer up."

You bit your inner cheek, heaving a deep sigh. "This exam marks forty percect of my overall grade, Hitch. And with the way, my marks have gone down the drain, I don't think I'll even be able to pass this year."

That's an honest concern on your part because the final report would be sent to your parents as well and if they ever saw you failing one class, you don't know what hell they'll raise. Besides, the excuses of sickness and tougher lessons can only be used so far. (Plus, your heart thumped in your chest with the thought if they ever find out about this new lifestyle of yours... let's not think about it).

"You know," Hitch muses, leaning back on her Chair as she blows a strawberry bubblegum in her mouth. " You can ask for extra credit."

"Yeah sure," You don't bother to hide sarcastic tone, rolling your eyes and choosing to rest your chin on top of your palm. "There's no chance."

She raises an eyebrow, "Why not?"

"It's professor Ackerman," That almost comes out as a whine. "He is ruthless as he is, always with the poker look on his face and I can swear he won't even smile at a clown." 

A sheepish smile curls up her lips but before she can speak, you start again.

"Plus, I am already on his bad books. Do you think he'll be all unicorns and rainbows when I ask for credits?" You fold your hand over your chest, gritting your teeth as if the cause of your predicament is the man in question; he isn't but you need something to get off your vexation. "That's straight up walking in a lion's den and I am sure he will come for my head."

"Oh, girl..." She sighs, interlocking her fingers together and perching them over the tabletop. "But why would he even do that when you will give him a show?"

That catches your interest, "a show?"

"A show," She nods, the upper pair of her teeth is revealed as she smiles, waving her finger in a circular motion in the air. "Just follow my advice."

.

You have never heard an advice as bad as that.

Correction:

You have never found yourself following an advice as bad as that.

Still, you find yourself here. Outside your professor's office, gazing at the ivory sign engraved with the obsidian lettering – Levi Ackerman, while you contemplate on how much this plan can go wrong. (In your opinion, 100%).

However, you are desperate and your desperation has brought you here. So why not...?

You knock on the door. Once. Twice. Stating your name as you suck in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders.

Please don't let it be long.

A deep voice reverberates from inside, "State your business."

"I would... like to discuss about my grades. May I come in, sir?"

"Yes."

You breath in, the knob turns and you set a foot inside.

"Remember," Hitch says, crossing one of her leg over the another. "You gotta look desperate." The tilt of your head and parting of your lips, garners her to explain more. "The first two," She snaps her fingers to the collar of your shirt, "Unbuttoned."

"What?!" On instinct, you fold your hand over your chest, twisting your torso in the opposite direction. "Are you out of your mind?"

"You want to increase your grades or not?"

"I do but–"

"No buts," The girl shushes you with a finger over your lips. "You want to get your way through college, you follow me. Got that?"

Left with no choice, you find yourself nodding.

The clicks of your heel seems to echo in the vast expanse of his office. It's almost afternoon and the orange glow of the setting sun pours into the space marring it with the similar hues. Late classes are adjourned for the day as the marks were announced. On top of that, its Friday. Therefore, regular classes would be starting after the weekend. The campus is almosy empty except a few staff and students lurking around the corners; a perfect opportunity to follow the plan.

Your find your professor to be seated across his desk, engrossed in reading a file while a pen is nestled between his thumb and pointer. As soon as he is aware of your presence, he looks up at you.

Instead of halting, a good distance away from his desk, you are walking up to it. Letting yourself stop within a meter of his proximity.

"What do you need to discuss?"

Prompt and straight to the point—as expected.

Lips breaking into a grin, you spin a strand of your open hair around your fingers. Leaning forward–it's apparent, what you're aiming at–you speak, "I was wondering... if I could get some extra credit in your class, sir?"

"He is your professor, that's your minus," She states with a lilt of her mouth. "But you're his student, that's his minus."

Levi raises an eyebrow, "Extra credit, you say?"

"He is a man, after all. And all men are perverts, give them a show of your assets and they'll be dancing on your drums."

He continues with a twitch of his lip, "And why would I do that?" 

"Give him all the performance he needs," Her eyes darts south, she tugs on the fabric of your skirt."The shorter this is, the higher your grades will be."

"You seem to know all about their psyches." You comment, pinching your lips and smoothening the material over your knees.

That evokes a laugh,"Babe, how do you think I keep my grades up?"

By following the same advice she has given you.

In accordance to her, a face full of makeup with tits on show and the skirt raised enough to give a generous view of legs—one can make the professor's their very own puppets. So, once the same advice and opportunity is presented to you, why should you back down?

"Well," You start, plopping yourself on the chair across him, crossing your legs one over the other–hiking up your (already)shortened skirt. "I am sure we can work something out like..." arching your elbow on the table, you let your manicured fingers drum against your cheek; a seductive approach. This should work. "You don't want one of your students to be held back now, do you, sir?"

He stares at you for a solid minute. A blink of his eyes follow.

You shift in your position—offering him a rather salacious view of your cleavage. Come on. Your visage holds innocence akin to a child learning the first steps of the world.

One thing about Professor Ackerman that enthralls you is just how attarctive he could be despite his age. Probably a decade older than you but he certainly carries the enigma of a young man charmed with the maturity of someone his age. Gray eyes, dark bangs in an undercut and he just dresses so much better than all of the male peers you have encountered. And a lot better than all of your filthy hookups.

Even then, he is a man. Just look at it. The silence is stretching for a minute too long and dare you say, its almost suffocating.

While Levi's eyes are on you—something which you do want—he rather seems to be scrutinizing your behaviour than satisfy his inner perverse attitude.

Maybe he keeps this face even while jerking off.

That thought alone raises a cinch of chuckle to escape your mouth. His eyebrows furrow. At last, he speaks. "How long have you been in my class?"

Seriously? Is he so keen on continuing this game of back and forth. Shouldn't he be asking you how much grades you require by now?

"Patince is the key."

Hitch's words ring in your mind and you follow her again. "Since the start to second year?"

He crosses his arm over his chest, muscles flexing under his dress shirt as he leans back on his chair. You mark how there's a gleam in his eyes before he continues, "And how many exams have you taken until now?"

"Three? Why are you... asking that?"

"You'll know soon enough," he pauses, letting a string of tension to seep in through his body language. And as much as you don't want it to bother you, it is bothering you. "In which of those exams have you got a grade over sixty percent?"

"Um, uh sir–" You fumble over your words, raking your brain for any suitable response and while your grades is actually being discussed—a pang of exposure swirls in with the way you are dressed. "I don't remember..."

"Never."

"O-oh," Unease ripples through you, crumbling the calm veneer you are trying to maintain.

His gaze hardens, a tick of jaw and the creases on his forehead just shows he isn't in the mood for your performance. "Why?"

Only a low chuckle is released, attempting to depress the palpable tension."My bad... ah– you see, I don't have a good memory and that's why my grades are... well, you know."

"When have you ever cosulted me with the problem regarding your memory?" He cocks his head to the side, inverting the hourglass on his table. Shifting his attention back to you, he asks, "Besides, have you ever truly followed through my lesson in class? Ever tried to do your assignments by yourself?"

"Of course, I did," a clear cut lie but he doesn't have to know that. "But they are too difficult. You can't blame me, college is tough on its own and I have so many subjects to study–"

You wish to continue with your rant but the terse call of your name stops you on your tracks. His lips are curled down and he looks at you with utter disdain as if you were a bug. "If you have even paid a bit of attention in my class then you should know that I mark half of your grades by your attentiveness and student conduct. Something–" You swallow a lump in your throat, slumping your shoulders and hiding your chest from his gaze. "–you clearly lack and with the absolute shit you write on your answer sheets, you should know better than to expose your body in the name of discussion."

Blank.

You are completely blanked out.

What is there to say even?"

You chew on your lower lip, eyes flickering to anywhere but him. Clutching the mesh of your skirt in your hold. This meeting isn't unfolding like anything Hitch said about. You manage to exhale a breath, trying to hide your with your hairs, "Sir... I guess, I should take– I should leave now."

Only slightly you raise yourself from the chair, Levi speaks again, "So soon?" You sheepishly nod, giving way that this encounter wouldn't be to your favour. "We were just getting started. Besides, there's something more I need to discuss with you."

You look at him from beneath your lashes. It's funny how timid you are now. "Like what?"

"I've heard rumors of students getting their hands on question sheets by– let's say, means," He opens his drawer, pulling out a folder. "So... I played a little game with y'all. Changing the question paper, last minute was tedious- but doable." He twists his lips, picking out a A5 sized paper with contents hidden from you. He keeps his eyes on it while speaking again, "Humorously, you seem to answer only those questions perfectly which were leaked–"

"Excuse me?" You intervene, quickly. "I have no connection with this paper leak mess."

"Then how do you explain your tardiness with the paper, this time?" Steel eyes have shifted to you, "As much of a bratty student you can be, you aren't the type to completely fail unless–"

"You're just accusing me or something, I haven't done. When I say I have no connections with paper leak, I mean it."

"Then how do you explain your–"

"I don't fucking know. Just a coincidence or– whatever!"

"Coincidence? You really expect me to believe that?"

"It's not on me if you believe me or not. I have gave you my statement and you should know better than to accuse me of something just because you hate me."

"Very well, then" He tilts his head, shrugging his shoulders. "I will just have the dean rusticate you–"

"You can't do that. I didn't even know about all this."

"You want to tell me that you weren't cursing out loud while writing the paper? Don't try to lie, Zacharius told me about your indency in exam hall."

"That was because I was high on coke not— no, I–" Your eyes widen as soon as you realize your fumbling. Lips parted, you are more apprehended as the blood drains from your cheeks. "No, I- uh... I didn’t mean that, j-just a slip of tongue."

As for Levi, he merely stares back at you and... is that a smirk on his lips? It sure is. A triumphant ghost of a smirk directed at you while you began to drown in the whirlpool of despair. "At least, you remember that."

He flips both the paper to you and if your heart wasn't beating with a 10x speed before, it sure is now. Your jaw hangs open, shoulders becoming rigid and the air knocked off your lungs like you've been punches to the gut.

Pictures.

They are pictures, yes and it would have been fine of it was just that but it isn't. In the very pictures, you find yourself. One with a cigarette between your lips and from the background it is starkly evident that it's the college campus. The second is more precarious for you're clicked with some of your pals but it's shot in a way that only your face is visible while the group blows on a pot of Marijuana.

You wrestled with a deep-sated fear, eyes thoroughly scrutinizing each speck and corner of the photos—something, anything to prove that it isn't you. That it's framed, that all of it is a big misunderstanding. The dread of facing your professor overshadows all the protests stringing on your mouth; they won't even be let out if you try.

"It's a shame really," His voice echoes, the screeching of the chair is heard before he is sauntering over to the other end of the room. "I had better expectations from you."

You don't register the mocking call of your name, physically unable to. The adrenaline surges through your veins, goosebumps arising on your body with each passing second.

You need to leave. Run. Soon. Now.

You find yourself frozen in your place.

"I wonder what your parents would have to say–"

"No, sir." Instantly you crane your neck over to him, nails digging on the armrests of your chair. Your shoulders rise and fall as the hypertension settles in you. Your heart is thumping in your ears, fingers are trembling with anticipation and to add insult to the injury, darkness has started to commence. "Not my parents, please sir. Th-they– I don't know what they'll do to me. Plesse sir, j-just not that."

He leans against the door of his office, gazing at you with mere casualty, "You think you are in the position to make requests?" His irises flicks to the corner of the room. "You've made your bed. Now lie on it."

"Sir, please–" You are on the verge where you wouldn't have a second thought before begging on your knees. Something's pooling in your eyes and it stings as bad as your nails on the wooden armrests. "Anything but that. I will complete all of your assignments and I'll personally improve my grades without anyone's help. Sir, just one chance, please."

He huffs, twisting his lips as if a mirthful play is being presented to him. "Why should I believe you? Have you ever given me a reason to know you're reliable?"

"Sir, I have to try." Instantly, you stand up, marching over to him. "And– and I know I've been indecent–"

"Irresponsible and obnoxious, as well."

"Yes," It's painful but you have no other choice. "I know and I am sorry. Really sorry, just give me another chance."

He tips his head towards you, narrowing his eyes, "You think, you're redeemable?"

"Yes, sir. Of course, I am ready to do anything to prove it to you."

His eyes sparkles with something you can't decipher, "very well," He straightens up, taking a singular step towards you—only now, you're aware of how limited proximity but before you can contemplate, he speaks, "Let's start your first lesson on redemption."

[joshsindigostreak]

The Weight of Dreams

Demon!Josh x F!Reader

Authors Note: Happy Spooky Season everyone!! Lately I’ve been calling Josh a demon as a joke but something in my brain went, “write that down!” and thus this One Shot was born! Hope you enjoy him!

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings: SMUT, MINORS DNI, 18+, PURE filth, there is a plot but you know what I mean, fingering, penetrative sex F!receiving, unprotected sex (but he’s a demon so?), oral sex F!Receiving, horn play (drew gooden voice, ‘I sure hope it does!’)

Incubi aren’t supposed to have regulars. They’re not supposed to have patterns. They’re supposed to skip around the ether and drop into human dreams like funnel clouds in the sky. Incubi and their Succubi counterparts all have their own agendas, feeding their primal urges since the first time a human fell asleep. If only humans knew the kind of catnip and candy that wafted into the universe from their subconscious. 

In the hierarchy of Hell, Incubi aren’t that far up the food chain. High enough to be a nuisance but low enough that they could essentially do what they wanted. The Dukes, Princes and Kings had more important things to worry about than horny, slumbering humans. 

One demon in particular was more chaotic than most. He was on the younger end for an Incubi, which often led to him shirking the “rules” of his kind in favor of whatever he wanted. He was a fucking Demon, another cog in the infernal machine that lurked beneath the earth. Who cares if he had an urban legend or two attached to his presence? If his equally demonic twin could be referred to as The Hat Man, then why couldn’t he continue on his nightly Hellish crusades and have fun while doing it? 

What’s the worst that could happen?

On this ordinary Wednesday night, he was flitting about town to town, sniffing out any saucy dreams that intrigued him. Not all dreams were created equal, and there were enough humans on the planet that he could afford to be picky. 

He was skating through the sky, invisible to the human eye. The only clue to his presence would be the occasional zap of a poDwer line or flickering streetlight. Power surges often happened if there were too many of his kind around, often confused with their Poltergeist cousins. 

The Demon was about to give up on this and of town and move onto the next major city when he was nearly hit in the face with the force of a dream that made him skid to a halt. Like a bloodhound, he followed the trail to a nearby apartment, easily fitting through a cracked window and into the kitchen. The only sound that could be heard was the low chatter from a television in another room. The lustful energy beckoned him down the short hallway like bait on a hook. 

Oh, this was going to be fun, he thought, a smirk forming on his face.

The only door on this end of the apartment was open, and the light of the television illuminated and flickered into the hall. With silent footsteps, he crept inside to see the source of the arousal that was practically vibrating the walls. 

If only humans were aware of what their energy could do.

The bedroom was tiny and it took seconds to find the source of the intoxicating energy. To Incubi, energy had a taste and a smell that was a touch beyond human comprehension, like trying to see infrared light with the naked eye. It made the demon's eyes threaten to roll back the closer he got to the bed. 

The human, a woman, rolled over in her bed, oblivious to the creature observing her. Her hair covered most of her face, and that’s when she made the most exquisite sound he had heard all night. 

A tight, low, barely audible moan. 

His entire being snapped to attention. He flexed his shoulders and silently walked towards the bed, satisfied he had found just the right dream to drop into. He gazed down at your slumbering form, noting your furrowed brow and pursed lips. He perched on the side of the bed, tentatively waiting for the right moment to drop in. It was more of an artform than even other Demons thought. 

Your television was still on, and the light that projected onto the wall in front of him perfectly silhouetted his small horns that curled backwards on either side of his head. All Demons had horns, and they were as individual as a fingerprint. The more experienced the Demon, the larger and stronger they looked. As an Incubus, his weren’t much to write home about, but he hoped that one day they’d eventually curl around the back of his head like a ram, and maybe if he was bad enough, he’d earn his leathery, bat-like wings similar to the other higher up Demons he knew. 

Slowly, his hand curled around your soft wrist, his head rolling back along with his dark eyes as your dream materialized in front of him. 

A university library? Groundbreaking. 

But there you were, reaching up towards a high shelf for a specific book and looking back over your shoulder, hoping the object of your fantasy would notice. Unfortunately for you, a Demon was in your dream now, and he was in the driverseat.

 

In this dream, your Demon was fully human in appearance. His horns were no longer visible, instead the main focus was his curly hair perfectly styled on top of his hair, and his eyes weren’t their usual black voids, but a dark brown that could see right through you. He slowly walked up behind you, allowing his footsteps to be heard on the hardwood floors. You looked back at him and there was a brief flash of confusion, but it quickly turned into a smirk as you raised your hand above you for whatever book you were trying to reach. 

In dreams, Earth-bound laws and physics didn’t matter, so you were nonplussed when he was suddenly at your back, hands curling around your hips and lips lightly brushing the shell of your ear. One of his hands swept up your side and up your extended arm, his long fingers lacing yours and securing it against the bookshelf. The action had you shuddering against him, your ass perfectly wiggling against his front. 

“Need some help?” He whispered, dragging his lips along your ear as he spoke. 

Another shiver ran through you. 

You turned your face towards him, feeling his breath on your cheek. 

“Maybe a little…,” you purred back at him. 

“Good thing I’m here then,” he said with a clear double meaning. The sheer arousal that was emanating off of you felt like a breath, no, a rush, of air into his lungs. The kind you take in after holding your breath for a long time. A low growl formed in his chest as he used the hand that was still wrapped around your hip to turn you around to face him. 

Even though his natural state was glamoured to look human, his own personal style of thick black kohl rimming his eyes remained, and the way you were looking at him suggested you approved of said choice. Your shoulders melted against the stacks, but your pelvis pushed forwards towards his own. He gladly indulged you and rolled his hips right back, smirking at the way your breath caught in your throat. 

You suddenly found both of your arms held above your head with one of his hands, while the other toyed with the hem of your skirt. 

Because of course you were wearing a skirt in this dream. 

The demon wedged his foot between yours, spreading your legs apart with an inhuman-like grace that had your lower lip sinking beneath your teeth  and staring at him through your eyelashes. 

The scenario was terribly cliched, but there was something about you that made the Incubi intrigued by it. He wanted to see how this played out. 

The hand on your skirt disappeared under the fabric, lightly touching the flesh of your thigh. Another tremble shook your leg. You were so fucking sensitive, it was driving him insane. 

You needed his touch. 

His touch. 

His fingertips drew patterns on your skin as he made his way up to where you needed him most. However, even though he was technically a Demon, he still had a shred of ethics about him, and he paused his hand. 

“Tell me what you want,” he requested in a rough voice. 

Your eyebrows twitched a little at the question, but you answered quickly, “you.”

That wasn’t good enough for him, though. 

“Are you sure?”

Your breathing got even heavier, “yes.” 

With that, he surged forward and crashed his lips onto yours, realizing he himself was dying for a taste too. His hand flattened against your thigh, kneading your flesh before continuing upwards. His fingertips were met with soft lace, and before he could fully toy with it, it vanished. 

He hadn’t been the one to do that. 

You did, taking back control of the dream. 

Oh…

The Incubi smiled against your lips, and relinquished his control over your dreamland. He was officially the passenger now, and he wanted to see what you could come up with. 

With your lace panties freshly vanished, you spread your legs even farther and tilted your hips forward, practically offering your drenched pussy to him. 

The heat he could feel coming off of you had his fingers shaking, and he wasted no time to slide his fingers through your slit. Your arousal coated his digits as he familiarized himself with every crease and fold you had, mentally mapping it out and trying to memorize you. Your flesh was so soft to him, a whimper threatened to escape his throat as he parted your mouth and slipped his tongue inside. 

He teased your entrance briefly, before sliding upwards to your clit. He rolled the swollen bud between his fingers, and he pulled back from your face just far enough to ear you cry out. 

That beautiful sound, he thought. He needed to hear it again. 

It sent a jolt through his body not only in the dream but back in your bedroom as he sat next to you. His hand gripped your wrist a little tighter, not wanting to risk losing the connection. 

His thumb was planted on your clit, sloppily circling it and giving it just the right amount of pressure, letting your mewling sounds and jolts of energy guide him. His middle fingers teased your entrance one more time before slowly slipping inside, enjoying the stretch almost more than you did. You were dripping down his hand at this point, and he wished for a second that he could feel it in person as opposed to in a dream like this, but he brushed the thought away as you threw your head back and gasped as the tip of his fingers curled upwards and grazed your g-spot. 

The cheeky side of him wanted to tease you more, make you desperate and whiney, but you had other plans. Even in your heightened state, you still had enough wherewithal to wait until his fingers curled just right to clench around them and hold them where you wanted them as you grinded back down onto his hand. 

The Incubus’s eyes flew open and he watched you wrench one of your hands from his grip above you and send it down to cup his own arousal through the jeans he had decided on for this dream. He bucked into your hand and bit down on your lower lip, a hint of frustration evident in the strangled sound coming from his throat. He released your other hand to grip what little of the bookshelf he could, while your newly free hand immediately went for the curls at the nape of his neck and tangled them around your fingers. This sent a fresh whine from the Incubus, and his resolve was threatening to give way. Part of him wanted to take back control, let you know who was steering this dream, but the other part of him was so intrigued by your assertiveness that he was this close to completely surrendering to you and drowning in your energy and rendering him pathetic in the eyes of other demons. 

The thumb on your clit increased its speed and your own movements against his hand began to get sloppy. You felt your high bubbling up inside you, and there wasn’t a single cell in your body that was going to get in the way of it. Your walls clenched even harder onto his fingers, to the point where they could barely move but neither of you cared. 

“Come on…give it to me…,” was roughly whispered against your mouth as his thumb harshly pressed down on your clit, and with a cry your vision went white and you shattered around his hand. For what seemed like minutes you convulsed and shook for him, shouting expletives to the ceiling as you didn’t even know his name. 

Now this was when any other Incubus with a modicum of common sense and decorum would swiftly exit the dream and jet off to the next human of the night, but he wasn’t ready to leave. The longer an Incubus occupied  a human's dream, the bigger the risk of them becoming a memory. The standard practice was to give and feed off a singular orgasm from whatever human, and then never see the same one again. That way humans wrote off their naughty dreams as hormonal build ups and mundane desire, nothing more. They’re meant to be mischievous phantoms, not figures haunting your dreams. There were other Demons for that. 

Instead, he continued to breathe raggedly against your cheek as he worked you through your orgasm. As you came down, he reluctantly withdrew his fingers from your core, and popped them in his mouth, wanting to savor your release for himself. 

Your eyes met, and you both seemed to be silently asking the same question of, “who are you?”

He couldn’t leave. He wanted to truly have you. What’s the point in being a Demon if you didn���t break the rules? Who put those rules in place in the first place? They could go fuck themselves. Even if he could only feel you wrapped up around him in a dream and never in the real world, he needed it. 

His still-damp fingers gripped your shirt and nearly ripped it off your head before doing the same with his own shirt. 

His enthusiasm surprised you and you held back a giggle as you took turns getting your clothes off as fast as possible. The Incubus’s lips locked back onto yours, and the faint taste of you still lingered in his tongue. He reached down and gripped the back of your thighs, lifting you easily against the stack. The shelves and books dug into your back but you welcomed it as he lined himself up with your entrance. 

The feeling of his thick head gliding through your folds was brief before he sheathed himself inside you. The force and sensation had you biting down on his bottom lip harder than you should have but you were too focused on the sudden fullness you felt to care. Your eyes were rolled back into your head as you adjusted to him. 

The Incubus inside you was gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d float away if he let go. He thought he had been prepared for this but the softness of your walls, the way you squeezed him, and the force of you biting down onto his lip had him uncharacteristically dizzy. He leaned his forehead against yours, letting his lip rest between your teeth as he remained still inside you. 

You released his lip and whispered, “I need you to move…” 

His eyes darted up to you and bore into yours as he reared back and slammed back in, causing you to arch your back away from the shelves. The Incubus dipped his head and took one of your nipples into his mouth, humming around it as he picked up his pace. 

The both of you pawed at each other as you moved together, nails digging into skin and teeth nipping and biting wherever they could reach. This wasn’t the time or place to go slow, and you both knew it. This dream was driven by need.

It wasn’t long before your second high crept up on you. At some point a hand made its way  in between you and was working your clit feverishly, By now you were a mess of bleary eyes and sweaty limbs. You couldn’t form words as he pounded into you, clinging onto him after giving up the idea you could meet his thrusts. 

“You gonna let me have it again?” He spoke into your ear before leaving an open mouth kiss on the space just under it. “Let me feel it this way?”

Oh, it was inevitable, you could feel the coil inside you tightening up like a spring, and any moment now it was going to snap. 

“I wish you knew how good you f-feel,” a growl rumbled in his chest, interrupting him, “squeezing…me…” 

You tried to respond, but all that came out of your mouth was a reedy sigh. 

“Look at you, dumb for it,” he teased as he tilted his hips, causing his cock to hit an even more delicious spot deep within you. 

It was too much. You were too overwhelmed. Between the tight grip on your ass, the kisses along your neck, the thumb working your clit, and the angle and force behind his moments, you were a goner. 

He felt you tighten up even more first, and your walls started fluttering around him as your legs shook on either side of his hips. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, but you forced your eyes to stay open the whole time. With one last look into your watery eyes, he slammed himself into you one final time before he emptied himself. 

His eyes snapped open, and he remembered where he actually was: in your bedroom. He slowly let go of your wrist, severing the connection completely. 

It was over. 

The Incubus  stood up, backing away from your bed and watching you roll over onto your stomach. He needed to leave. He had been there for far too long. The energy from your dream was still roaring through his body, and your television was starting to flicker because of it. He couldn’t risk being seen. No, that was a rule he could not break. 

“Goodnight, Sweet Dreamer,” he whispered before exiting your apartment the way he came and into the night. 

~!~

That was eight months ago, and the Incubus lasted two weeks before he came crawling back to your Dreamland. That dream was a little more creative, the both of you ending up making out at some nondescript house party, kicking red solo cups out of the way as you backed him up against a wall. 

A week later, you were in some corn maze, and like most dreams it was confusing at first at who was trying to find who, but you ended up jumping on him in the center of the maze surrounded by bunnies and a pumpkin patch. 

A notable one was where the Demon was a rock star, and he had you bent over a couch in some random green room of a stadium. That one was fun. 

He tried, he really tried to keep his visits random and not too close together, but he failed miserably. At this point, he was a reaccuring dream to you, and he was starting to feel bad because you still didn’t know what he was. 

He tried keeping himself distracted by hanging around in a pocket dimension in Hell that his brothers were fond of. It was one they often found themselves at because of the quiet atmosphere compared to the rest of Hell. It wasn’t anything fancy, but a seemingly endless bar where a Demon could sit down, order any little treat they wanted, and relax after a long day. 

The four Demons were sitting at their usual table, catching up and sipping their respective beverages. 

“Are you actually going to drink that, Josh?” His twin teased as the Incubus had been sat at the table with the low ball glass held against the side of his forehead white he leaned on his elbow. The chilled beverage was refreshing resting where his ebony horn protruded from his forehead. 

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled before bringing the glass to his lips and taking a gulp. 

His twin, Jake, snickered across the table, “what’s gotten into you lately anyway?”

Josh gave him a hard look, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Please. You haven’t been out in forever and whenever you are with us you look like a kicked puppy.” 

“Have you considered that you might be the reason for that?”

Jake’s mouth twisted into a frown, he knew better. 

“Anyway,” Josh announced, trying to change the subject, “we’re here to celebrate Daniel’s promotion!” He turned to his left and gestured at the tall curly haired demon. His newly-grown leathery wings flexed at the attention. He still wasn’t used to having them yet. 

In Hell, certain physical attributes were only obtained from being “promoted.” Otherwise known as making the right deals with the right Demons and having connections. Out of the four of them, he was the first one to achieve wing-status. The rest of them just had their horns that they were born with. 

Josh hoped to have wings one day but it was rare for Incubi to get the opportunity. 

“How do they feel?” The other brother, Sam, asked on Josh’s right. Sam was the youngest out of the four but he had a prowess and drive that made it obvious that his wings weren’t far behind Danny’s. It made the obvious competition between the two oldest twins even more tense at times. 

“They feel great, honestly but they’re awkward as fuck at times.” He looked down as the farthest point of his wings kept brushing the floor from where he sat. 

They settled back down into idle chatter, but Jake was not satisfied with Josh’s earlier answer. He wasn’t going to pry with everyone there, so he waited until Sam and Danny took off for whatever mischief and turmoil they had up their sleeves. 

Jake was flat out concerned with his twin, “tell me what’s really going on,” he pressed in a soft voice once they were alone. 

Josh sighed. Keeping the last eight months a secret from everyone, even Jake, was one of the hardest things he had done. Keeping something like this from his brother was making the situation even worse. 

“I did something…well, I’ve been doing something…” he muttered while staring at the ice cubes of his drink. 

Jake nearly snorted, “of course you have, you’re fucking a Demon for Lucifer’s sake.” 

Josh shook his head, “no…it's not something like that.” He took a deep breath and continued, “there’s this girl, well, human girl, and-”

His twin sighed heavily, “not a human, Josh…” 

Josh gave him a warning look, “are you going to let me talk, Jake?” 

“Fine. Explain.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be anything, I promise,” the Incubus went on to tell Jake a summary of the last few months, keeping most of the salacious details to himself. But the way his dark eyes lit up as he described you, dropping details he had learned from your dreams, listing parts of your personality that you didn’t show to anyone else due to your subconscious, gave his emotions away.

“She’s just a random human, you’ll get over it and find something else to obsess over,” Jake concluded, not wanting to encourage this. 

“Is that really all that you took from that? I don’t want to get over her.” 

“Are you in love with this human, Josh?” 

The silence from across the table gave the Demon his answer. 

“Does she know what you are, then?”

Another beat of silence, this time Josh swallowed the rest of his drink and sat the glass on the table in a clank. 

“This is not going to end well, man.” 

Josh gave Jake another withering look, “don’t you think I know that?” 

Jake’s eyes softened, as did his voice, “you should’ve told me sooner.” 

“...and get lectured by you? No thank you.” 

“I wouldn’t-,” he sighed, “I wouldn’t have lectured you. I just know how you’ll be if she ends up getting hurt from this. You’re not fun to be around when you’re guilt-ridden. I don’t like seeing you that way.” 

What Josh hadn’t told him, was that you had seen parts of Josh he kept hidden from others too. After the first month or two, your dreams weren’t always overtly sexual. The two of you did talk sometimes, but not a lot. You learned each other’s names finally, and you hadn’t batted an eye at his name since it was so common. The banter you shared was easy; he even made you laugh more often than not. Falling in love with you wasn’t part of the plan, but it crept up on him, and he didn’t have the willpower to fight it. He didn’t want to.

“You’re seeing her tonight, aren’t you?” 

This time he avoided Jake’s gaze, but he answered, “I wanted to, yeah.” 

“Just be careful? Ok?” 

Josh looked up and nodded at his brother, before disappearing from his seat and reappearing outside your house. It was nearly three AM in your time zone, and he knew you were fast asleep. He stared up at the window he had come to know was your bedroom, The television light flickered and flashed. You always needed background noise to sleep, he had learned. 

In a blink he was in your room, staring down at your sleeping form. The slight pout on your lips made him smile. He sat down and took your hand and started to drop into your Dreamland. He had been so focused on you that he had missed the book, “Lucid Dreaming: Easier than you Think!” resting on your nightstand.

The scene before him was charming. Josh found himself standing in a forest, surrounded by green trees and the ambient sounds of nature. The path he was on led to a quaint A-frame cabin in the middle of a clearing. The lights were on inside, and he knew you were in there. 

As he opened the door to the cabin, he found you sitting on a couch with a book in your lap. You looked up at him and smiled warmly. 

“Hey you.” 

He smiled back and made his way to the couch and sat down. You threw your book to the side and moved to straddle his lap, smile growing even wider at being with him again. His hands reached up to cradle your face as you melted into his kiss. It felt so normal to see you again, so familiar, Josh didn’t even sense the change in your demeanor. 

The two of you made out for a good while, before you pulled back to look at him. 

“Took you long enough to get here, you’re a little late tonight.” 

That was an oddly pointed question, but he tried to play it off, “I am?” 

You sat back on his thighs and draped your arms on his shoulders, “Yeah. Normally you’re here earlier.” 

Josh shifted awkwardly beneath you. This was different. You were still you of course, but something was off. He wanted to keep playing along, but he didn’t want to make it worse. 

“You don’t feel real sometimes,” you started before kissing him again. His hands gripped your hips in the way he knew you loved, and he started to relax against you, but you pulled back and asked, “are you real, Josh?” 

He froze, his eyes stared into yours, unsure how to answer. 

“I-”

“They say that every face you see in your dreams isn’t new, that it’s always someone you’ve seen before even for just a second, and I can tell you with confidence that I had never seen you before that night.” 

Oh, shit. You had always taken the reins in your dreams, but not like this. This was more direct. This was…lucid.

He whispered your name, before confessing, “..yes…I’m real…”

You pulled back a little further to get a better look at him, “then what are you?”

This was it. This was when he had to come clean. You had purposefully set a trap for him, knowing he couldn’t resist you. He wasn’t even going to fight it, because it was completely his fault. 

He reached up and touched the side of your face, his thumb finding its home on your cheek, “my sweet dreamer…I-”

“Don’t call me that right now. Tell me the truth.” Your whole body was tense and rigid, as if you were bracing yourself for his answer. A good call on your part. 

He took a few deep breaths, “I’m…I’m an Incubus, love.” 

You stared at him, unmoving.

“Which is a kind of-”

“Demon?” you finished. When he nodded, you scrambled off of his lap and backed away from him, standing in front of the cabin's fireplace. Several different emotions swept through you, “you don’t work for the Devil, do you?” 

Josh straightened up in his seat, “no of course not, He’s very picky about who he works with and there’s no way he’d entertain even looking at someone of my rank.” 

“So Hell is real?” 

“Yes.” 

You looked at your feet, “does that…does that make you evil, Josh?”

His face started to heat up but he explained, “the concept of “good” or “evil” is a very human one, my love. It’s not that simple. Demons…we’re not ‘evil’ in the way humans make us out to be, just like Angels,” he made a face at the mention of such creatures, “aren’t inherently ‘good’ either.” 

“Angels are bad?” 

“I wouldn’t say bad…but they’re annoying to run into. They’re more vengeful than people think.” 

You stood there silently, taking it all in. 

The Demon before you continued, “you can’t think of Heaven and Hell being opposites of each other. They’re more like…different neighborhoods on either side of the same town, so to speak.”

“Well…you wouldn’t be the first Demon named Josh that I’ve met…,” your poor attempt at a joke to break the tension didn’t land very well, but your face softened towards him. 

Now it was his turn to look down at the floor, “if you never want to see me again, I understand and I’ll respect th-”

“Can we only meet here, in dreams?”

He stared at you, “no…I exist in all realms, not just the Dreamlands.”

You sniffed and squared your shoulders, “good. Now let me wake up.” 

The panic set in, you didn’t know that he looked a little…different in the waking world, “No, no you don’t have to-”

But it was too late. The Incubus was catapulted from your Dreamland and sent back to the earthly plane with a force that nearly sent him to the floor of your room. The connection was severed, and you were starting to stir in your sleep and sit up. The room was pitch black except for the glow coming from the television. It cast Josh in a perfect silhouette, but the inevitable was coming. 

You reached for your lamp, still a little bleary eyed from sleep when his voice stopped you.

“Wait, love,” He sounded exactly the same as he did in your dreams, and being able to hear him with your actual ears made your chest tighten and warm. 

“What?” you asked, confused. 

“I just…I look a little different than how you’ve seen me…,” his voice was so soft, almost defeated. “I just don’t want to scare you any more than I already have.” 

“I’m a big girl, Josh.” 

“I know, I know love, I just-” 

You didn’t let him finish before you clicked on your lamp, illuminating the small room. Before you looked up you turned off the tv, blindly pointing the remote at the screen. The only sound you could hear was your own breathing, and his. 

Slowly, your eyes lifted up to look at the Demon sitting at the foot of your bed. He wasn’t so different from your dreams, his kohl rimmed eyes were still their warm brown, his hair was still curly and unruly, the shaved sides accompanied by two black horns-

Horns?

They were black, a little shiny under the light, and curved backwards into his curls. It was certainly different, but they looked perfect with his sweet face. 

“You were worried about your horns?” 

HIs face reddened and he finally looked up at you, “M-my eyes also look different…but I didn’t want to throw too much at you all at once….” 

“Josh, show me.” 

He took a breath, and allowed his true eyes to appear. They were fully black, exaggerated by the kohl that lined them. The combination of his eyes and the horns certainly completed the demonic look, but it didn’t scare you. 

In fact, you felt a little emboldened, and threw your covers off your lap and got onto your knees.  Slowly, you crawled down your bed to him before straightening back up, making him look up at you. The black voids were lined with worry, as if he was waiting for you to scream, run, or both. Instead, you gently placed your hands on his cheeks. He relaxed slightly in your hands. 

“They’re beautiful, Josh,” your comforting  words were referring to both his horns and his eyes. 

This made his shoulders relax and he melted his cheek into your hand, “they’re not too much, love?”

You smiled, “honestly I was preparing myself for hooves and a tail.” 

The Incubus made a disgusted face, “I might be a Demon but I am not a Satyr.”

His tone made you laugh, “ok then. Can I touch them?” Your hand raised towards one of his horns. 

You wanted to touch them? He nodded and cast his eyes down. 

Tentatively your fingertips grazed the hard, ebony surface. The touch alone made him shiver, as his horns were sensitive. It had been awhile since someone had truly touched them like this. 

“Do you like that?” 

He looked back up at you, “yes…” 

Your fingers fully ran up the horn to the tip and back, truly feeling it. You noticed the action had him breathing a little heavier, and you softly wrapped your whole hand around it. The Demon made a sound low in his chest, almost like a purr. 

“They’re really sensitive, huh?” 

“You have no idea…” He paused, “Like I said earlier, if you want me to leave I’ll respect that.” 

You smiled and straddled his lap, facing him straight on now. 

“Kiss me, Josh.” 

He couldn’t believe what was happening. You weren't running, you weren’t scared, you still wanted him. Josh nearly crashed his lips onto yours, relief flooding his system. 

You melted into him like you always did, and being able to feel each other in the corporal world was even better than the Dreamlands. He felt so solid against you, his curls were even softer as you tangled your fingers in them. 

Soon, you felt yourself get pushed back onto your bed, your Demon climbing on top of you. It felt so natural to do so, as you technically had done this with him dozens of times, but this time it was real. You could take your time with each other and actually mean it, as time moved differently in dreams. Now you could feel him minute by minute, and the thought had your heart racing. 

His lips found yours again, and you were both focused on truly feeling each other for the first time in the physical realm. There was no rush, no deadline, no anxiety of the dream shifting or changing, it was just the two of you, in your bedroom. His weight on top of you felt so comforting and familiar. He left a trail of kisses down your jaw to your neck, landing on your pulsepoint and sucking the skin into his mouth harshly. You arched your back and grinded up into him. You felt his lips smile against your skin as he grinded down on you, and his arousal certainly felt the same as it did in your dreams. He hadn’t been exaggerating. 

His hands reached under the raggedy t-shirt you had slept in, before looking back up at you for permission. You nodded and he nearly ripped the shirt off your body, sending it into the corner of your room. 

“Do I look the same?” The question left your lips before you could stop it. 

His eyes swept your form, seeing your hair fanned out underneath you, no makeup on as you often did in your dreams, his breath caught in his chest. He looked over your body, counting each freckle and mole, making sure each and every one was still there. Over the last few months he had memorized them all, wanting the image of you permanently fixed on the back of his eyelids. 

“Even better, my love,” he said sincerely before capturing your lips once again, pouring his built up emotions into the kiss. He then started kissing his way down your body, giving attention to both breasts before kissing down to the edge of your panties. His fingers hooked onto the sides and pulled them down. You lifted your hips to get them off all the way, and they were thrown behind him blindly. 

His dark gaze landed on your pussy, the hunger in his eyes evident as he spread your legs apart. He couldn’t hold back anymore and quickly descended upon your core. His tongue flattened out and spread your folds apart, and the taste that flooded his mouth had him groaning into your body and grinding his hips onto your bed. 

Your breath caught at the sudden sensation, but you bucked into his mouth as his tongue found your clit, needing more friction from him. As he devoured you, the sight of his horns on top of his head sent another wave of pleasure through your body. Curiosity drove your hands to lightly wrap around each of them, pulling downwards slightly to steer his face further into your pussy. Your folds practically fluttered from the force of the moan that left his mouth. 

So you did it again. 

And again.

And again. 

Until you were crying out his name as your orgasm took over. 

Josh barely gave you a chance to recover as he crawled back up your body, using his own magic to vanish the clothes he had on on the way up. His lips greedily crashed into yours, while his hand hooked your leg around his hip. His other hand reached down for his cock, running it through your folds.

The new, yet familiar feeling of is cock at your entrance sent a shiver through you, and you grabbed his face in your hands, “please, Josh,” 

He couldn”t help but be cheeky, “you want it, love?” 

Your eyes narrowed, “show me what kind of Demon you really are.” 

As if it was possible, his eyes got even darker at your request and he slammed himself inside you, nearly pushing you farther up the bed. It was his turn to cry out at the feel of you. His pace was brutal, but it was what you wanted. You locked your legs around him at the small of his back and clung to him while your lips peppered kisses up and down his neck, along his jaw, nipping at the skin here or there with your teeth. 

Your Demon knew you better than the back of his hand, and he was going to prove it before the night was over. He continued to slam into you, angling his hips in the way he knew you loved, grinding his pelvic bone perfectly onto your clit. Your nails dug into his back in response and that spurred him on even more, loving that he could turn you into such a mess this way. 

You were so close, teetering on the brink of your orgasm. One final grind on your clit with his pelvis had your back arching even harder, and you shattered beneath him. Your legs shook and your walls clenched around him. He continued slamming into you, chasing his own high and working you through yours. 

You were starting to come down when your gaze landed on his horns, and a thought ran through your mind. Your hands grasped his face and pulled it down as if you were going to kiss his lips, but instead you bypassed them and flattened your tongue on the front side of his left horn. Josh shuddered violently against you and he twitched inside of you. His hips thrusted one final time before he emptied himself as deep as he could. 

Not wanting to miss your chance, you blew some air onto the wet spot your tongue left behind on his horn, causing him to shudder again as he came down. He chuckled against your chest as he laid his head down, trying to catch his breath. 

For several minutes, the two of you stayed tangled up in each other, not wanting to leave the little bubble you had created. This time, Josh wasn’t forced away from you because of your dream. He could lay there as long as you wanted him to. 

You were too exhausted to even attempt to move, so you relished his weight on you. Cleaning up wasn’t something you ever had to worry about in your dreams, but here in the real world it was an issue, and you felt his release start to leak out of you. 

“Josh…” you whispered. 

He got the hint immediately and slowly withdrew from you, looking down at your combined releases for a second before disappearing into your hallway for your bathroom. Your apartment was small enough that it was the only other door available and he quickly returned with a warm washcloth to clean you both up.

Minutes later you were both back under your covers, your head laying on his chest as your fingers drew tiny patterns onto his skin. He could tell you were trying to stay awake.

“You need your sleep, my sweet dreamer,” he whispered into your hair before dropping a kiss onto your head. 

“Would you be there to greet me?”

He smiled into the dark, “I could…but I like being out here with you better.” 

You let out a yawn and relaxed further into his chest. You reached for his hand and held it to your lips, brushing them against his knuckles before holding it on his chest. You didn’t know what any of this meant for you, but what the Demon in your bed didn’t know was that in the last eight months, you hadn’t had a single nightmare or bad nights sleep, and your intuition was sure it was because of him. 

“Will you stay?” 

“For as long as you want me to, my love.” 

His lips brushed against your forehead one last time before the both of you drifted off to sleep, not knowing what the future held for you both but knowing it was going to be better with each other in it. 

Epilogue: 

One human year later…

“Close your eyes, my love,” Josh said behind you. 

“What are you surprising me with this time?” You laughed as you did as you were told. 

“You’ll see. It's something I’ve been working on for quite some time.” The excitement and pride in his voice was evident. His footsteps came around in front of you, and your brows furrowed wondering what on earth it could be. He took a deep breath, “ok, open them.” 

Your eyes fluttered open and then immediately grew wide at the sight in front of you. There, in your living room, was your boyfriend, your Demon boyfriend, standing proudly with a new pair of bat-like wings protruding from his back. 

“How did you-”

“I knew a guy who knew a guy that was friends with another guy who needed a few favors and I volunteered. I didn’t realize he was a fucking Prince of Hell and he was so impressed by our little mission that he uhh…gave me a promotion.” 

Your mouth fell open, you knew he had been away a lot in the last couple months due to “Demon business” but he had kept parts of it vague. It was probably the one part of him you were still getting used to, but you trusted him enough by now that you weren’t too worried when he was gone for a couple weeks at a time. 

“So what does that mean for you…?”

He took another breath and stepped towards you, slipping his hand into yours, “I’m no longer an Incubus, love.” 

Your brows furrowed in confusion, “well then what are you?”

“Essentially, I collect souls now and not dreams.” 

“Pardon?” 

“When a person makes a deal with a Demon more often than not they sell their souls to them. Basically, when their time is up I get to take them to whomever they made their deal with and they get dealt with accordingly.”

You were still a little skeptical, “that sounds awfully busy…” 

He shook his head, “no this is a good thing, I get more ‘surface time’ with you now! I won’t be away as much.” He was full on grinning now and his dimple sank deeply into his cheek. 

Your eyes traveled from his sweet face to his new wings, the sunlight showing through the thin skin. He flexed them slightly under your gaze, happy you weren’t grossed out by them. Much like a year prior with his horns, you reached forward and grazed your fingertips on the surface of one. It twitched slightly under your touch and you looked back at your Demon. From the outside looking in, it was odd to be proud of your boyfriend's Demonic accomplishments, but you couldn’t help it. You leapt into his arms and kissed him, smiling against his lips as he held your hips and wrapped your legs around his waist.

Who would’ve thought that a Demon would make your dreams literally come true?

Fin

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[podiumackles]

the moments that stay (they turn out all wrong)

In which the man she could never forget suddenly turns up at her cell, but he has no remembrance of the woman in front of him. And the moments that stayed with her for decades, turn out to be her memories only.

CHAPTER 1

A/N: New fic? New fic! This man has me in a chokehold, I'm not even going to lie. I will try to actually finish this one. promise. English isn't my first language!! apologies in advance.

Outlines: After being his sidekick in Payback for years, you-better known as your supename Fury-ended up on the same end of Soldier Boy's violence as every other person. What you didn't realise, however, was that your old team had set you both up for betrayal, right when you thought you were helping them in getting him. After decades of being stuck in Vought's testing lab, you heard Soldier Boy got out. But the man who appeared in front of your cell wasn't the man you knew.

Warnings: not much in this chapter. hostage holding, mentions of being a lab rat, violence, swearing, soldier boy (yes, this man should be considered a warning). possibly wrong storytelling in lines of the canon events. I'm not that good at remembering, guys. and the boys was just kinda complicated. forgive me.

Solitude. Besides the regular visits from the scientists, you hadn’t seen a single person in over thirty years. Or was it forty? In all honesty, you had lost count after the first ten.

The bright light flickered as you leaned against the cold, metal wall of your cell, memories swirling like ghosts in your mind. Once, you had been a soldier. A person with a voice. But all that was ripped away when Vought was done. When they handed you to the Russians. When they completely stripped you of your identity and ripped you from your life as a hero.

Your train of thought was interrupted by a loud clamp, the creaking of a metal door, followed by heavy footsteps. There was no access to time in your cell, but it wasn't hard to recognize patterns and count the hours you were up for the next experiment.

And now was not that time.

As the door creaked open, a shadow fell across your cell. You squinted against the harsh light to focus on the figure standing there, face illuminated by the LED lights above him. Your heart rate picked up slightly, and you unwillingly tugged against the restraints keeping you chained to the floor.

Memories flooded back — laughter shared in the trenches, the camaraderie of battle, the promise of loyalty. But that was before Vought twisted everything into a nightmare. Before he got rid of all that was between you.

As Soldier Boy stepped closer, you realized it was only a shell of the man you once knew. His eyes, once filled with the tiniest bit of kindness towards you, were now clouded with confusion.

With force, you tried to speak up, but quickly realised you hadn't truly uttered anything except screams in a while.

“Well, if it isn't the man who got away.”

Ben looked around before he approached your cell, the glass door the only separation between you. You took the opportunity to look at him properly. This certainly was the man you had once fought alongside, but even if he had been held captive for decades, his features hadn't changed much. His auburn hair was now slightly longer, and a neatly trimmed beard covered the lower half of his face.

“Who the hell are you?” His words stung like a knife, and for a second, you felt like he might as well have hit you with his heavy shield.

“Right. They made you forget,” you murmured as you tore your gaze away from him, head leaning back against the cold wall. “Typical Vought.”

“I’m asking you one more time, lady,” he shot you a daring glance, as if trying to project his dominance despite the fact you were literally locked up. “Who the hell are you? Are you Vought’s newest lab rat?”

“Don’t call me a damn lab rat.” You spat shortly, pointing at nobody in particular.

Ben furrowed his brow, his confusion deepening as he studied you, the spark of recognition failing to ignite in his eyes. The man you had once known—had once fought beside—was buried beneath decades of manipulation, both of your bodies now broken artefacts in Vought's collection.

“They told me you got out, you know,” you started as you realised he wasn't going to speak up first. “Hell, they let me feel that you escaped the labs.”

Ben's face twisted, the sharp edge of suspicion cutting through his once-confident demeanour. He narrowed his eyes as if searching your face for something he should remember but couldn't grasp.

“I don’t care who they told,” he took another step forward, his boots echoing in the empty hallway. The only view you’ve had for decades. “Especially not if they told some rogue kid.”

“Read my fucking sign, Ben. My date of birth is literally there.” You spat, emphasising on his name. Of course, he wasn’t aware you knew of that. Nobody did. Except for his team. Except for you.

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

Before you could even answer, another set of heavy boots entered the room.

“Oi.”

Ben's eyes darted to the newcomer, who emerged from the shadows at the doorway. The figure was stocky and imposing, his gruff voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

The bearded man couldn't resist looking at the sign, whereas Ben chose to ignore it. “Fury,” he stated matter-of-factly as he took his place next to Soldier Boy. “They told everyone you died, you know? But then again, Vought is very good at convincing.”

The name felt foreign to you now, like a relic from another life. Fury—back when you had a purpose. When you weren’t just an experiment trapped in this cold prison of time. But the name still held power. It connected you to a past they had tried to erase, a past Ben was now seemingly detached from.

You studied the newcomer. His presence exuded dominance in a way that Soldier Boy’s arrogance couldn’t touch. Where Ben was brash and impulsive, this man seemed calculating, like he could snap you in half with a flick of his wrist but would choose not to—for now.

"Who are you?" you rasped, your voice a broken shadow of what it once was. You didn't recognize him, but there was something about him that made you wary.

"Name's Butcher," he replied, his gaze not leaving you. “And we’re here to retrieve you.

Butcher’s cold stare seemed to cut right through you, his posture rigid and alert as if he expected you to lash out at any moment. The way he carried himself was different from anyone else you had seen in these halls. He wasn’t afraid of Vought—or of you.

After the words had left Butcher’s lips, Soldier Boy seemed to snap, and he was not afraid to show it. The way he grabbed the collar of the man next to him made you flinch. It wasn't like you've never seen Ben lash out before, but it never failed to make you tense just the tiniest bit. Being brought back to the time when you were on the receiving end.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Butcher?”

Butcher didn’t flinch as Soldier Boy grabbed him, his face betraying nothing but a cold, calculating smirk. He met Ben’s glare head-on, the tension between the two men growing thicker with each passing second.

“Easy there, mate,” Butcher said, his voice as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “You’re all pent up, I get it. But this ain’t the time for a bloody tantrum.”

Ben’s grip tightened, his nostrils flaring as he leaned in closer, his breath hot with barely restrained rage. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Butcher, but I’m not here for your shit. What the hell do you mean ‘retrieve her’? We were here to retrieve information on how to take down Vought.”

Butcher’s eyes flickered toward you, and he spoke as if you weren’t still bound in chains, trapped behind glass. “Vought’s been keeping her under wraps for a long time. You want to take down Vought? There’s your information. And now we’re here to pull her out. Simple as that.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your restraints, your wrists raw from years of confinement. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice low but steady, trying to hold onto whatever strength you had left.

Butcher’s lip curled slightly, his eyes narrowing as soldier boy set a couple of steps back reluctantly.

"What do I want?" he echoed as if amused by the question. "I want the same thing you do. To watch Vought burn to the ground.”

“What’s in it for you?” you only dared to ask. Butcher chuckled darkly, his gaze sharpening as he locked eyes with you.

"What's in it for me? Oh, love, let's just say I've got a personal stake in seeing Vought crumble into dust. But I ain't here for a heart-to-heart. I'm here because you and him, Fury, might be the key to blowing this whole bloody operation wide open."

His words hung in the cold air of the cell, heavy with promise and menace. He wasn’t just some random mercenary or someone acting out of charity—this was personal for him. Soldier Boy, still tense and bristling beside him, seemed less convinced.

“You’re saying she’s got intel on Vought? Enough to take them down?” Soldier Boy’s voice had a sceptical edge to it as if he didn’t quite believe this was worth the trouble.

Butcher shot him a sidelong glance. "More than intel. You and her are living proof of what Vought’s done in secret for decades. And Fury here—she's one of their finest projects."

The way he said “projects” made your skin crawl, reminding you of the years spent under Vought’s control, your abilities twisted, and exploited. But you pushed the feeling down, focusing instead on the conversation.

Butcher leaned in closer to the glass, his voice dropping low. "Vought’s been running a program, a little something they like to keep off the books. Soldiers, supers, experiments—the whole works. They’ve been breeding killers, Fury. And you—you’ve been in the belly of the beast long enough to know exactly what they’ve been up to."

You clenched your jaw, old anger bubbling to the surface. “They don't tell me anything.” you admitted, your voice rough. You didn't want this. You didn't want to be back with him.

But most of all, you just wanted out. You didn't care who you had to betray to make that work.

“But I picked up enough.” It was a simple lie you had told. Of course, you knew what Vought had been up to. You and Ben had been living proof of it. But you knew better than to turn against the people who experimented on you in the first place. You just wanted revenge on the reason you were here.

Butcher’s smile turned vicious. “That’s all I need to hear. You tell us what you know, and we’ll make sure Vought pays for every bloody thing they’ve done to you. To all of us.”

Soldier Boy crossed his arms, clearly still on edge. “And what makes you think she’s gonna play along? She’s been locked up here for god knows how long. Might be more Vought’s weapon than you think.”

“So were you, mate.”

You locked eyes with Ben, a flood of bitter memories surging up as you spoke. "You really don't remember, do you?" The weight of your words hung heavy between you.

Butcher interrupted, his voice cold and calculating. "Whether you like it or not, we could use ‘er. You might not remember, but I reckon she’s got more to offer than just bein’ another lab rat."

"Shut the fuck up," Ben snapped, his voice wavering with frustration. "If I don’t know her, I don’t care. End of story."

But it wasn't the end for you.

It would never be the end for you.

You took a deep breath. "Let me out," you demanded, the last ounce of your strength fueling your voice. "And we take down Vought, together."

Ben shot you a look, his expression hardening. "Why should I trust you?"

You met his gaze, unflinching. "Because, like it or not, I’m the only one who remembers who we really are."

A tense silence filled the room as the weight of your words settled in. Butcher crossed his arms, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. "Well, then. What’s it gonna be, Soldier Boy?"

“I don’t fucking care. Figure it out.”

His words were sharp. Short. And not a single ounce of caring outlined the roughness of them.

With that, he straightened his back, tightened his grip on his shield, and left the room.

“So,” Butcher said, his voice cutting through the lingering tension. “How about we get you out of those bloody chains, and you tell us what Vought’s been hiding all this time?”

You didn't dare to have hope. But you dared to feel the slightest bit of fury.

A/N: i know she's short. and i know this might probably not make a whole lot of sense?? but i try. it's been so long that i've written that it still feels kinda foreign, so feedback is greatly appreciated!

thanks for reading <3

[mattsenthusiast]

𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖞 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖔𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝖔𝖓 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖆~ Matt Sturniolo

Word count: 5330

Summary: The reader gets hired as a photographer for her favourite band. Matt can’t help but be extremely interested in the girl, which leads to him making a bold move on stage.

Warnings: smut smut SMUT, smut with plot though, BDSM; slapping, hair pulling, tying up, blindfold, pain kink, exhibition kink and breath play if you squint, sub!Matt and dom!Reader, mommy kink, nicknames, use of vibrator, oral (m and f receiving), degrading, praising, finger sucking, cum feeding, face sitting, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up guys), p in v, the bands name being ,,The Fingerers” is hilarious

————————

The feeling that was flowing through my veins probably could not be described with words. One of my favorite bands ,,The Fingerers” was having a show in my city, so how could I pass such an occasion? But just being there would not give me the satisfaction I needed, since I was a professional photographer, why not send my portfolio to the venue with proposition to be a scene cameraman?

I didn’t expect much but it was always worth a shot. So when I actually got an email back saying that they would gladly hire me for the time of the concert, I was on cloud nine.

The thought of being so close to them was overtaking my mind. The show was still a week ahead, but it didn’t stop me from planning stuff the whole time. I made sure that everything was perfect- from my equipment to my appearance. Come on I couldn’t pass a chance to look my best in front of the Sturniolos. They were insanely attractive so I obviously had to reach their level if I’m going to stand next to them. Also I can’t hide the fact that I have a thing for the guitarist Matt.

And here I am now, standing in the backstage and about to meet all three of the band members. I anxiously swayed from one leg to another and began fidgeting with the hem of my skirt that reached to my mid thigh.

I was very pleased with my outfit. It was an all black, considering that it was a rock concert and I didn’t want to be too out of place with some light colored clothes. I had a corset top that was paired with the skirt. I wore a big leather jacket over it to add this outfit a little bit more personality. The base was paired with fishnets and high, massive boots that made me taller than I already was and I also added some chains to top it all.

I felt super good with the way I looked today and it was definitely a big confidence boost.

Suddenly I was pulled from my thoughts when I heard the door opening and saw three familiar faces in the frame. Nick was the first one to enter the room, when he noticed me there he immediately started talking to me.

,,Hey! You must be the photographer for the show, am I right? I’m Nick and these two behind me are Matt and Chris” he said while pointing to the guys. I looked at them and Chris gave me a wave and smile while Matt just stared at me with his arms crossed on his chest.

Holy fuck and did he look hot as hell. His black, sleeveless shirt was exposing his toned, tattooed arms and collarbones that were begging for me to just bite into them. He also had a leather jacket draped over his right shoulder and a necklace dangling from his neck. I scanned down and my eyes landed on his hands, his fucking long fingered and ringed hands. I was sure that one touch from them could kill me and make me never want to have anything or anyone else touch me. He looked like an absolute daydream. My gaze landed on his face and my breathing stopped for a good second, he was wearing a fucking eyeliner that perfectly compliment his features. My heart could surely be heard from across the room.

I cleared my throat to get back to reality and looked back at Nick ,,yes I’m y/n I’m a big fan of your music guys, I can’t wait to take some damn good pictures for you” I laughed slightly to seem less awkward and he smiled back at me.

Chris walked up to Nick ,,Okay so we need to set up and we’re ready to go in a few. See you there” he gave me a quick hug and walked past me. It wasn’t long until the two other guys followed his lead, but I couldn’t help but notice Matt’s eyes piercing into me as he walked by. My mind was sabotaging me with all of the thoughts that were wildly running through it.

When I turned around and I couldn’t see them anymore I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Fuck this is going to be a long night.

Since I still had a bit of time before the show starts I decided to check if my camera was working. Just as I was about to snap a test picture I saw Matt appearing from the back of the curtains. He was humming a song, not looking into my direction at first, but when he picked up one of the last speakers and turned around to leave, his stare landed on me. He stopped right in front of my camera while I hit the button and the familiar snapping sound was heard. Without any word he just walked away with a smirk placed on his lips.

I looked at the photo I had just taken and fuck the camera was working well. Maybe a little bit too good even, I couldn’t pull my eyes from the sight on the screen. His damn arms are going to be the death of me tonight. I took a deep breath and looked at my phone to check the time. There was about 5 minutes left until we have to start so I took my camera, extra lenses and batteries just in case, and made my way onto the stage.

The venue was prepared fabulously, the lights matched perfectly with the vibe of the band and a screen behind the instruments was showing a big writing that said ,,The Fingerers” in a sharp font.

The boys were already in their places, waiting for the material to be lifted in less than three minutes. Chris was adjusting the microphone in front of him, Nick was hitting invisible drums with his sticks and Matt was tuning his guitar.

I gave them one last smile before making my way to the side where I was supposed to start filming.

The curtains were being lifted as the guys started playing their first song of the night. A huge wave of screaming fans could be heard along with the music. I was glad that I had some headphones on my head because otherwise a headache that would appear later would kill me.

I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t looking at Matt the whole time, the way his fingers swiftly ran across the strings of the guitar was filling my mind with so many unholy thoughts. I could feel myself becoming wet and had to press my legs together for a bit of friction.

I didn’t even notice when the first song ended and they smoothly transitioned to another one. I needed to take some individual shots of them all so I made my way towards the middle, starting with Nick and his drums. I made sure to catch a good shot of him head banging to the beat and spinning his drumstick in his right hand.

I started walking backwards and turned the camera towards Chris. At that exact moment his eyes were closed as he was gripping the base of the microphone, but when he opened them he turned his head towards me and smiled. After a second his whole body was turned into my direction and he took a step closer. I couldn’t say that it didn’t make me internally screaming because it definitely did.

Then suddenly I felt someone’s back being pressed to mine. I tilted my head slightly to the side only to see Matt’s face being inches apart from mine. I bit my lips and pulled the camera’s attention from Chris to him.

His hair was sticking to his forehead from the heat of the room and his eyeliner was slightly smudged as well. It was time for his guitar solo, but then he did something that I would’ve never expected. He looked right into my eyes and winked at me as he slowly made his way onto his knees, without breaking the eye contact. He flawlessly played the song while throwing his head back with his lips slightly parted.

If I wasn’t weak before then I definitely was now. I was practically fucking him with my eyes. The lust on my face was so visible and the wetness in my underwear was begging to be taken care of. The solo was coming to an end and right when he played the last cords he slightly lifted his body while still being on his knees and threw his head and arms to the back.

Not even five seconds passed when he looked back into my eyes while panting heavily and smirking sinfully. His hands made their way to the back of my thighs, right under my skirt to help himself stand up. Our bodies were so close I could feel him pressing against me. I let out a quiet gasp as he laughed and walked away, getting back to playing.

Matt was such a heavy distraction for me during the show. The glances and smiles he was sending me could easily put me into coma, but I had to stay on the ground for the sake of getting the money from my job. I was so focused on him to the point where I didn’t even realize that they played three other songs and it was time for a break. As the curtains were getting closed I started to make my way to the backstage, just to be stopped by someone. Of course it was Matt, how could it not be.

,,hey guys I’m gonna go to the van really quick because I need to get something. You don’t mind going with me, do you?” he said while looking into my eyes. The eye contact was so intense, I couldn’t even bring myself to let any words fall from my mouth so I just nodded my head. Just after I made that gesture he took my hand into his and led me somewhere to an unknown for me direction.

,,uhhhh sorry but I think the parking lot is on the other si-“ I got cut off by being pressed to a door and feeling Matt’s lips on mine. The piece of wood behind me was soon opened and he dragged me inside of the room, that later turned out to be a bathroom.

His lips were moving against mine smoothly yet so roughly. I could feel his teeth biting my bottom lip and our noses bumping together. If kissing Matt wasn’t a drug then it absolutely should be counted as one. I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. One of his hands was on my neck and the other one was grazing the skin under my shirt. We were panting heavily as my hands made their way from his neck to his hair. In the heat of the moment I pulled on it and I was cut off guard from the noise that has fallen from his mouth.

He just fucking moaned

This situation made me separate from him, as a smirk appeared on my face. ,,Looks like someone has a thing for having his hair pulled. I wonder if there’s more things that I can get out of you” I moved closer to his ear, so I can whisper to it. ,,Maybe if I slapped your pretty face then you’d enjoy it too, or if I tied you up and put a blindfold over your eyes so you’d have no control of what’s happening, would you like that? I bet you’d take it so well, like a good boy that you are. You’ve got such a innocent look in your eyes but deep down, you’re just a fucking slut, that would do anything just to have his face buried into something.” The words full of praise yet so degrading were flowing out of my mouth so effortlessly. It was easy to talk like this to a man that just looks like he could be destroyed.

His lips were open now and he was quite literally speechless. I couldn’t help but chuckled at his state and took an advantage of it and turned us around, so now his back was pressed to the door. I took one hand from his hair and brought it to his black pants. It was clear that he was already hard. As i was palming his clothed dick, my lips made its way to his neck as I started to leave wet and warm trail of kisses on his neck. And oh boy when I tell you that he was vocal. His moans and whimpers were music to my ears.

,,please, pleasee- fuck” he struggled to speak ,,If you don’t stop soon I’ll cum into my pants ma, please” he was begging so beautifully and it only encouraged me to keep giving him pleasure.

,,hmmm but you’d like that baby. Getting all dirty in your underwear and then having to get everything done for the night with that mess. You’d feel and remember what I did to you and then at the end of the day you’d beg me to take care of that for you.”

,,I get all wet just by imagining you like this. Fuck I wish I could just ruin you right here and now, you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this. Every time I’ve watched your shows I would touch myself to the image of you and your dick poking out. Do you get turned on by performing? Do you come just from the sensation of being watched and praised?”

,,mfm fuck, yes” he whimpered painfully and he broke the eye contact.

,,yes what? You need to address me properly slut” I added and harshly grabbed his face, so he was looking up at me.

,,yes ma’am, yes I do find pleasure in being watched, please fuck I can’t take it”

I only smirked at this and went even faster. All I could hear from him were broken noises, that he couldn’t even try to keep in his throat. I stopped touching him for a moment, just to unbuckle his pants, but just as I was about to do it, we heard a knock on the door.

,,hey guys I heard a noise from there and just wanted to check if everything is alright? We’re about to get back on stage” a familiar voice asked. It was one of Matt’s brothers- Chris. I looked at the man in front of me and smiled mischievously. I started to palm him again and mouthed to him to be a good boy and answer his brother.

,,yeah- mmmm, yes we’re about to get out just, fuck, just give us a minute” he sounded so pathetic, barely being able to keep those louder noises in. All we heard was unsure hum of agreement and then a fading sound of footsteps.

,,you did so good, now we have to go back. But first let me just” I took a step back for a moment and reached under my skirt. When I found two strings on my hips that I was looking for, I pulled them down, making my panties go down my legs. Matt’s eyes widened as I stepped out of them and put them in the air to give him a better view ,,now you’re going to take care of them since I was so good for you.” I demanded as I put the piece of fabric into his pocket. A visible blush was place on his face and the bulge in his pants looked even more painful now.

,,Come on sweetheart, you have a concert to finish” I pet his shoulder, giggled slightly and started to make my way out of the room. He took a deep breath and followed right behind me like a lost puppy.

***

It was time for them to play their last song of the show. The lights were flickering, only adding the sensuality to this already arousing situation. The heat of the crowd make sweet drip down my neck and the dirty lyrics that were sang by Matt now were going straight to my core.

The fact that I didn’t have my underwear on was not helping at all. Besides the fact that I had a strong urge to just touch myself in front of all of those people, I found my gaze wandering to the place where I put the lace fabric. If you looked close enough, you could easily spot them in Matt’s left pocket, peaking just a little bit.

Oh I’m going to fuck this man so well after this ends

The minutes that felt like hours were passing by, when the finally awaited moment came. Nick played the last beats of the song on his drums and right after he finished, the fans went crazy. They were screaming and cheering for their lives, and I’m not going to lie that if I was there I would be doing the same. The boys lined up to bow and Matt straightened his arm to show me to go and stand with them. When I reached my destination I was met with his hand landing on my waist, putting a horny grip on it.

,,please go to the room 244. I’ll come to you right after I help the guys carry the equipment and tell them that I’m tired” he whispered to my ear and licked right below it. Just as the curtains were closing, he turned me around and tucked the card to the hotel room into my bra.

,,will do baby” I winked at him and ,accidentally’ brushed my hand against his hard on. Before he could even show me his reaction I moved past him ,,it was really nice working with you guys, you’re all amazing and I hope to meet you again in the future, you know hit me up if you need to take some pics” I sent a smile into their direction and went to the backstage to grab my bag.

After taking all of my belongings I started to make my way into the room. My head full of filthy scenarios that I would love to put Matt in and just make him cry and beg for mercy. I didn’t even realize when the door of the elevator opened and I got out of it.

I admired the beautiful design of the corridor. And holy shit, it must be expensive to rent a hotel here. The floor was decorated with beautiful, red carpet and the walls had multiple paintings on them. The frames were shiny and gold, just like the knobs on the doors. It took me a few seconds before I finally saw the number I was looking for. Gorgeous 244 was visible on the dark wood and I pressed the card that Matt gave me to the small screen. As it let out a quiet beep noise I opened the door and was met with darkness and a strong scent of expensive perfume and mint.

I turned the lights on and the inside had the same vibe as the corridor, golden elements and red, silky sheets. It was extremely spacious and had a big window that led to the balcony. There still was enough privacy though, because I was on the sixth floor. The king sized bed was facing a huge mirror with a shelf right next to it.

I kept admiring the space for a few more moments before I heard the door open. I was met with the sight of Matt, his make up smudged from the sweat and his hair a complete mess. He leaned on the doorframe with his arm crossed as a made a ,come here’ motion with two of my fingers.

He immediately obeyed, his eyes never leaving mine. As he was right in front of me, I grabbed his face and put my lips on him. The kiss even hotter and more desperate than before. He was grinding against me for some friction and lord I could already feel how huge he is.

I didn’t want him to get too confident though so I led him to the bed and pushed him, so he was laying on his back. His pink lips swollen from the previous make out and all I can say is that he looked like a wet dream.

,,I can finally have you all to myself sweetheart, spread out just for me and fuck you look so good on red” I couldn’t even hide my neediness, I was hungry for him and I knew that he felt the same way.

,,don’t think that it would be that easy though Matt. I’m so glad that I prepared myself and took more of my equipment, not just the camera” I took my bag that I put on the floor next to the bed and started to pull out ropes, blindfold, lube and a vibrator ,,it’s not much but once you come to my house with me I’ll make sure I treat you even better.”

With that being said I made my way on top of him, his lips immediately chasing to mine but I stopped him.

,,no touching baby, unless you want me to add more to your punishment, because of the shit that you pulled on the stage. You teased me with no permission and expected me to do nothing? Now be good and take your shirt off for me” I warned and I could see his eyes growing even darker with lust. He lifted the material from his chest and threw it somewhere across the room. I could see his whole body tensing from under me, flexing his slightly toned arms.

After admiring him for a moment, I took the long roped and put his hands to the bed frame. He gladly let me do it, not protesting once. A beautiful knot was being made on his wrists as I finished my work with a little bow.

,,is this okay love?” I made sure and kissed his neck.

,,yes it’s incredible, it feels incredible. Please make me feel good mommy please I need it. Need it so bad”

My eyes widened at the new nickname that fell from him but I wasn’t complaining. It got me a new wave of confidence to pleasure my boy.

,,poor baby, all worked up and I didn’t even touch you. The way you’re so sensitive is so pathetic yet so hot you have no idea. You were made to be used by me.” With that being said I slapped the side of his face. He was clearly caught of guard but the noise that me let out showed that he really enjoyed it.

,,now I’m going to put that blindfold over your eyes. You’re not going to be able to control anything and you’ll just lay here and let me have you however I want. Is this okay with you?”

,,yes you can do whatever you want. My body is all for you fuck” he whined out.

Nothing else had to be said and I tied the fabric around his head, making sure it’s not too tight but also puts some pressure.

,,if it gets too much just say ,red’ and I’ll stop. Otherwise I’ll just keep going so remember it baby” I kissed him one last time before staring to unbuckle his belt.

I was doing it slowly on purpose to keep him worked up. I then moved to his zipper and pulled it down with a harsh motion, so it rubbed right against his dick. He moaned loudly at the contact and lifted his hips up for some more.

I had to push it down in order for him to follow my rules ,,If I remember correctly then I asked you not to move, you’re such a slut that can’t even control himself” the degradation was getting straight to his bulge, making it aching even more.

Finally, I pulled his pants down in a swift motion, right along with his underwear. And when I tell you that he really was big.

He was about 8 inches long and really girthy. There was a vein that sat on the right side of it. The tip was red and leaking with pre-come. The sight of his was incredibly beautiful to a point where I just wanted to suck him off forever if that meant that I could be near him.

My eyes wander a bit up to his v line and I was met with a black ink decorating his pale skin. I couldn’t help myself and started licking and sucking along it. I could sense that his sweet spot was on it by the whimper that was ripped out of his throat. I decided to mark this place with a purple hickey.

Licking my way down to his thighs I was getting so close to where he needed me yet so far. He was tugging on the rope from impatience and neediness and I found it extremely amusing. I finally lick the side of his cock right to the tip.

,,fuck ma your tongue’s so warm, keep going please”

I chuckled and started to suck on his tip. He was enjoying it just as much as I was. I took him about half way in when I decided to reach for the vibrator right next to me. My eyes were literally glowing from the idea and I turned it up to a medium setting, putting it to the base of his dick.

His breathing sped up from this unexpected feeling and it was only going faster and faster as I put the toy to his tip.

,,please too much mmm, I’m going to cum if you don’t stop” his whole body was shaking and I just put the vibrator on a higher setting.

The screams that i was getting out of him were followed by a white liquid shooting out onto his stomach. He panted heavily as the first orgasm of the night washed over him. Matt was expecting me to pull the toy away but I didn’t. I just kept it at his still rosy tip as my other hand stroked the rest of his dick.

I knew he was already extremely sensitive from one orgasm so it would be easy to over simulate him.

,,im going to make you cum so well until you spent and dry. And then I’ll still lick you up to make you clean, do you understand?”

,,yes- yes mommy I understand please I’ll take everything you are willing to give me”

As he finished the sentence another string of cum was splashed onto his abdomen. I finally turned the vibrator off and threw it onto the bed.

Two of my fingers made its way into the pool of come and I dipped them into it. Then I brought it to his lips and slightly tapped them ,,open up for me”.

And that’s what he did. I put my digits into his warm mouth and he closed them and sucked onto my fingers, tasting himself from them.

It was definitely a sight for sore eyes. I pulled my fingers out and bent down to lick the rest of his cum from his stomach.

,,since you’ve already tasted yourself, now you have to also taste me” I made my way up to straddle his face. The fact that I already didn’t have my underwear was extremely helpful in this situation ,,put that pretty mouth of yours into good use now” those were my last words before I sat on his face. The sensation of his nose on my clit immediately made me throw my head back with a long whine. He stuck his tongue right into my core and started tracing circles over it.

He definitely knew what he was doing. I swear I could see stars from how good it felt. I started to grind onto his face, practically cutting his access to the air, which only hade him groan into me.

,,holy shit Matt you’re doing so good sweetheart, just a bit more, I’m almost done- yes yes right there” I made sure to leave little words of encouragement to let him know that he’s doing a wonderful job.

I put my hands into his fluffy curls to steady myself and he moaned. This brought me to the edge and I came all over his face.

,,mmmm baby you did amazing I’m so proud of you, made me feel so good” small whispers were leaving me as I took my time to steady my breathing. Finally, I lifted myself up to see the mess that I left on him, but to my surprise not only did his face was white but also his stomach, yes again.

,,awww did you just come from giving me head I can’t believe it. You’re even bigger whore than I thought” even tho I couldn’t see his eyes I knew he had tears in them from the humiliation. His face all red and he tilted his head to the side to hide it into his shoulder, since his hands were stuck above him.

,,ah ah no hiding there” I took his chin into my hand and turned it my way. After letting go of it I reached behind his head to untie the blindfold and take it off. ,,now listen carefully, I’m going to ride you and you’re not going to pull your eyes away from me. I need your dick buried deep into me more than anything”

With that being said I took off my shirt and bra to give Matt a show. His gaze immediately landing on my boobs and I could see his hands and mouth trying to reach for them.

I took the lube that I put on the bed earlier and squeezed some onto my hand and stroked him a few times before taking his dick and sinking right onto it.

We both moaned in unison and his face twisted in pleasure. It was already tears stained and with black make up running down his cheeks. After adjusting to his size for a moment I started moving up and down on him. The air was filled with the sound of our moans and skin slapping together. Sweat was dripping down my forehead as I went faster.

,,fuck you’re so tight around me ma I can feel you squeezing my dick” he whined out. I knew he was not going to last long because of his previous orgasms.

My hands were rubbing up and down his stomach and my nails were leaving red trails of marks on there. Those will stay on there for a long time and remind Matt who he belongs to.

With a few more moves of my hips I say his eyes roll into the back of his skull and his head being thrown back. The feeling of him shooting his cum deep inside me brought me to edge as well and I came right after him. I rode out our highs for a minute and lifted up from him.

,,wow that was intense” Matt chuckled breathlessly and smile was crippling onto his face.

,,I know baby, but you did so good. Such a good boy for me” I kept telling him sweet nothings while untying his hands and leaving soft kisses along his bruised wrists ,,now let me take care of you, I’ll run you a bath and you just rest here”

,,thank you so much angel. You’re incredible for me holy shit how did I even get so lucky tonight”

With those words being said I passionately kissed him on the lips and made my way to run the bath.

————————

I hope you enjoyed and that the grammar is not that bad😜 not proofread

[gunsandspaceships]

Tony Stark - Prometheus

This is the final part of the series, which unites all the separate, thematic parts (links are highlighted in blue) with evidence of the conclusion that you will find at the end of this post.

Introduction

Prophet

God of Forethought: the name Prometheus means "forethinker", "foreseer", "prophet".

Creator of intelligent life

In Greek myths, Prometheus is the creator of an artificial form of life - the humankind. "He created them looking up to the sky like gods."

"Here I will sit, forming men after my own image. It will be a race like me, to suffer, to weep, to enjoy and to rejoice" (Goethe)

Earth's Best Defender

Prometheus takes on the protection of mortals from tyrant gods who want to enslave or destroy them.

"Cover your heavens, Zeus, with gauzy clouds, and practice, like a boy who beheads thistles, on the oaks and peaks of mountains; but you must allow my world to stand, and my hut, which you did not build, and my hearth, whose glow you envy me." (Goethe)

"Beautiful is the tradition Of that flight through heavenly portals" (Longfellow)

God of Fire

He stole the fire from gods to give it to humans to protect them, keep them warm and give them light in the form of science and technology.

"All the soul in rapt suspension, All the quivering, palpitating Chords of life in utmost tension, With the fervor of invention, With the rapture of creating" (Longfellow)

The Mountains

For that, Zeus ordered Prometheus to be chained to a rock in a cave and sentenced him to eternal suffering.

"First the deed of noble daring, Born of heavenward aspiration, Then the fire with mortals sharing, Then the vulture,--the despairing Cry of pain on crags Caucasian." (Longfellow)

Heart

Every day an eagle flew to Prometheus and pecked at the center of his life.

"Who helped me against the pride of the titans? Who rescued me from death - from slavery? Did you not accomplish it all yourself, my sacred, glowing heart?" (Goethe)

The Torture

For the sake of humans, Prometheus voluntarily accepted eternal pain and chose to suffer in silence.

"A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe, Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless." (Lord Byron)

Chiron

Ancient Greeks had another myth - about the father of surgery, centaur Chiron, who once saved a hero betrayed and ambushed in the mountains.

Chiron was also the one who took on Prometheus' suffering and died in his place. He was shot by an arrow and to end his own pain exchanged his life for life and freedom of Prometheus.

The Sun

For humankind, Prometheus became the image of a noble fighter against oppression, and a symbol of human progress and creative freedom.

"When I was a child I did not know in from out; I turned my confused eyes to the sun, as if above it there were an ear to hear my laments - a heart like mine that would pity the oppressed." (Goethe)

Conclusion:

Taking all of this into account, I believe that Tony was not only inspired by the myth, but he himself is Marvel's Prometheus, at least in the MCU.

Excerpts from poems used: - "Prometheus, or the Poet's Forethought" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; - "Prometheus" by Lord Byron; - "Prometheus" by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Bonus:

Kaos

"Prometheus brings Fire to the Cavemen"

Familiar names

Marvel and their love for Greek mythology

Prometheus, Goethe, Schubert, and RDJ

Thanatos

Life and Death

Comics

[magnolia-among-the-stars]

the last bit of us (prologue)

Plot: Tyler Owens hasn’t been home in a year. He’s survived all the storm chasing and motel living with his new partners as they try to save lives. But with all the damage they’ve taken from driving high beams first into monster storms, it’s time to pay the piper and bring the truck in for repairs. And the only person who can fix them is the best mechanical engineer he’s ever met. Eleanor Harding, his estranged wife.

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Estranged Wife OC (Harding Daughter)

A/N: Ya'll, I wrote a book, graduated from my MFA, became an English Professor and haven't written anything in two months...thank you to glen powell for pulling me from my rut. I can always count on you.

prologue / one / two / three

______________________________________________________________

He knew he would have to go back eventually. The getup that had been built onto his Ram could only withstand so much. Kate’s death march straight into an EF5 had nearly stripped the hydraulic drills and their continued research to suffocate tornadoes had brought the welded exoskeleton frame to the brink of crumbled chicken wire. His truck looked worse for wear and the Wranglers had been bugging him for weeks about taking it in for repairs.

“Listen man,” Boone said on bright day at the beginning of June. He seemed to appear out of nowhere and clapped Tyler on the back. It made the man jump, nearly cracked his skull on the underside of the hood. “I know you don’t want to take a trip to get ole Betty fixed up.”

“Not Betty,” Tyler replies with a grunt, turning back to fill the wiper fluid.

“It’s time to go home man,” Boone continues on, “With all the chasin’ we’re doin’, we need new equipment anyways. The truck isn’t supped enough to deal with the constant damage…you know that. And with everything happening with--” Boone makes a face toward Kate with a heavy wink. Tyler’s tempted to knock some sense into the man.

She’s only a few yards away, looking to the skies for any signs of shifting clouds. She looks incredible, sunglasses sitting atop her head. Her hair is so golden under the hot Oklahoma sun, not even sticking to her neck as she stares up absentmindedly at the horizon.

“That’s what I’m sayin’. You ain’t even listening to me, are ya?” Boone’s voice cuts through the air.

He’s loud enough that Kate peers over her shoulder to see the commotion. She smiles at him, scrunching her nose. Incredible.

Boone’s hands collide with Tyler’s shoulder, knocking him forward a little in the tall grass. Tyler grunts as he tries to keep his footing.

“Knock that shit out, you’re gettin’ on my last nerve today,” Tyler says. He pushes him back firmly. A warning shot.

“You need to get that sorted,” Boone says. He starts walking backwards, away from Tyler and toward the RV where the rest of the Wranglers are. Tyler doesn’t miss the word considered leave Boone’s mouth as he turns away. Boone’s not a frowning man, not normally the one who gets heated over this and that so the tension in his words squeeze at Tyler’s chest in a way he isn’t prepared to deal with.

The chain of his necklace tucked safe and discreet under his white shirt starts to burn against his skin. He scratches away at it when Kate appears behind him. Why is everyone sneaking up on him today?

“He alright?”

A grin appears on Tyler’s face. Her voice is playful and it’s soothing to his ears. “Is he ever?” Tyler jokes, turning to the pretty woman he’s been working beside for the last few months.

She laughs and brushes some hair out of her face. He wants to do it for her. He wants to hold her face, kiss her. He never seems to find the right opportunity, find the right moment between all the motel rooms and 100-mile winds blowing through towns. He’s intimated by her wit, her drive to do more for the community. It reminds him of someone else. And that thought normally makes him a little nauseous. He thought that would go away by now.

“He seemed annoyed,” Kate says, crossing her arms to look up at him.

“He was,” Tyler says. He pulls the dirty rag from the back pocket of his Levi’s and wipes the dirt from his palms. “He thinks I should take the truck into the shop.” “Well, Betty does need a tune up.”

Tyler groans. “Why is everyone calling it that?”

“Cause only a woman could go into storms as mighty and come out with ease,” Kate smirks. Tyler scoffs, staring at her with admiration.

“Cute,” he says and turns back to the truck to look over any other repairs he could make himself. Kate leans over the side of the car, staring down at the engine caked in dust and debris. She tilts her head with curiosity, blinking up at him.

“Seriously though, why not take it in? We can take a week off, maybe get some solid sleep and a good shower for once. There’s a shop only a few miles away from the motel,” Kate says, pointing in the direction.

The man shakes his head, not even looking at her. “That wouldn’t work.”

Kate raises a brow. “How come?”

“It’s a custom truck,” Tyler says. “There’s only one shop that can do the repairs.”

“…Okay, so let’s take it to the shop then,” she tries again.

He swallows his words the second he hears Dexter calling out for them, the promise of another storm halting anymore conversation about the truck and it’s repairs. But that’s only until they load up the new barrels and peel toward a growing storm. Tyler’s harness buckle jams as he revs at full speed toward the sucker and then Boone calls out that one of the rockets doesn’t deploy. When they push through the wall of wind and debris to anchor down into the dirt, drills start to grind against what he can only imagine is a hard rock. The sound of shredding steel makes his jaw clench. The one thing that goes right is the barrels deploying into the sky and drying out the tornado, the sky painting itself blue as the funnel evaporates.

“Are you guys alright? Come in,” Javi’s voice crackles over the radio.

Thank you for reading! Want to be tagged? Click here :)

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.