#they fucked up the ritual in two ways

[emacrow]

Clockwork was in the middle of mentoring Danny about his Duty as High King leading him by his shoulders before he felt a awful core wrenching pain before he quite literally pulled through the afterlife and back into the living. Pt 1

Now Clockwork haven't been alive for an awful Long Long time since he was beaten and killed by his Children during his madness phase, so suddenly awakening in a sacrificial alter, the feeling of gravity weighing him down, eyes blurring, ears ringing with a loud noise that kept going badump ba dump as he was experiencing what possible the worst tremendous sensitivity overload of being brought back from the very dead and into brand new mortal flesh.

The Justice League and dark Justice were in the middle of stopping the forbidden ritual from some crazed Cultists who somehow found the skull, some of wonder women's blood, ancient artifacts of time belonging Kronos could only stood frozen in shock to see in horror and a bit of mesmerized fascination.

As the skull began to glow a ominous greenish blue glow of Magic form by blood then bones, muscle then flesh with very very long blonde hair that kept going down while the rest began quickly making a neck, a chest, arms, and the rest of the remaining of the naked body.

What the cultists didn't expect at all was Kronos's new body was a women due to the misread of a certain someone who thought the blood of the main head descendants of Greek meant wonder women and not a male descendants. Along with a much more different oopsy was the gasping little naked toddler that was looking wide eyed gasping heavily at the suddenly drag along as he being held tightly by the now Female Kronos's arms.

>> part 2

[bakudekublogblog]

kacchan there is actually a way you and izuku can be together forever i have this crazy inventive solution for you it's called a marriage license

[baphometsss]

if i see one more post about how solas/mythal/elgar'nan had a weird love triangle thing going on i'm gonna scream

[carbonateddelusion]

I have. Thoughts. I am going to explode with cartoonish sound effects that accompany my demise. play the juggalo step song at my funeral and make my old-ass relatives dance to it

[eponymiad]

#that episode was just so much #he makes up intricate rituals just to touch another man #was that their wedding? #Nandor did say vows and then “I do” #currently eating drywall via @veryintricaterituals

Can we talk about the parallel between Guillermo's turning and un-turning.

His turning went so wrong, it wasn't what he wanted at all. We know our crazy, dramatic baby. He wanted a ceremony, he wanted it to be romantic and soft, he wanted vows and sacred words. He wanted to slowly expose his neck, he wanted whispered words, he wanted to feel safe and cherished. He wanted to be asked and be held and be seen and be accepted.

What he got instead was a badly lit horrifying ordeal. He had to take charge. Derek had no idea what he was doing. It happened in a backroom of a store, they kept getting interrupted by Derek's boss asking him to clean out toilets. Derek fucked up his bite. He almost died. "Have you done this before". Derek fainting. Blood everywhere. Anticlimactic, disappointing, not at all the culmination of his life long dream, of decades of service and love.

His un-turning on the other hand.

Oh Nandor knows him. He made up a ritual for him with a suitably dramatic name: "The Ceremony of Vampiric Transmogrification". He dressed him in robes which he put on him so softly and spoke to him so kindly beforehand. He got all the other vampires ready for him. He hung banners and lit candles. He wrote and spoke vows and sacred words to him. He gave him a choice and asked him a question. And when he got his answer he took charge and made sure everything went exactly as it should. He made Guillermo feel seen and loved and accepted, even if it broke his heart.

[werecreature-addicted]

….mating press w a werewolf while he mumbles “get pregnant” over and over🥲🥲🥲🥲

anon you can't say these things to meeeeeeeeee



fucking- alright. Imagine being a cute little human with no fucking clue about the volatile breeding kink your werewolf boyfriend has. anything domestic you do has him hard as a rock. you're just trying to do dishes and all he can think about is making you his cute little house spouse, full of his puppies.

He's obsessed with wolf-courting rituals. his home is always cozy but maybe just a bit too big for two people, hint hint. he spoils you with expensive gifts and tons and tons of food. As much as he loves seeing you do domestic things he also loves showing off how good he can be around the house. He would be such a good husband! He would be such a good father! So hurry up and ditch the birth control already-

God help you if you mention anything about wanting to get married or have kids he will take that as an open invitation to knock you up. he can smell when you're ovulating and he basically doesn't let you leave the bed, he's so busy pounding you full of his cum. he calls you his "bitch in heat" while he does it too.

Really though I like to imagine his breeding kink really only comes out in the middle of sex. you think you're just having a romantic night but then he's got your ankles over his shoulders and he's moaning about how he's going to knock you up.

" 'm gonna cum in this sweet pussy and make you a mommy. you'll take it, right? Be a good bitch and take it all for me-"

and of course, as he fucks himself deeper into you he can't help but moan "get pregnant" over and over again. you can't really tell if he's talking to himself or commanding you to get pregnant already, and with the way he's bullying his thick cock into you, you don't have the mental energy to do anything but moan- let alone ask for clarification.

He knots you. Of course. As if it's even a question. He loves watching your stomach bloat with his cum and there's just so much of it, some of it can't help but slip out around the base of his knot. all the more reason to fuck it back into you.

If for whatever reason he couldn't knot you, he'd make you wear a plug, to keep his seed inside of you when you go to work or are out of the house. he likes that it makes you smell like him. he likes knowing that you're full of him even when you two are apart.

[bruhstories]

sweet like honey ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

summary: logan ended up spending his evenings in the bar across the street from your bakery, watching you do your job. he never approached you, never talked to you, but he always kept an eye on you, until he has a bad feeling. pairing: logan x fem!reader warning & content: swearing, violence, reader almost gets assaulted (but logan saves the day), she/her pronouns for reader, wade being wade, unprotected p in v, fluff, angst, lots of baking and mentions of food, slightly ooc logan (if you squint), slow burn, sex in a bakery wc: 6k

a/n: i don't always write, but when i do, it's a fucking thesis. unedited.

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵

Logan was never a fan of sweets. He hated chocolate, cheesecake, gummy bears — literally anything sweet. The only thing he could barely stomach was tiramisu, and only because it had coffee in it. Other than that, he steered away from sweets like they were the fucking plague.

Yet despite all that, he found himself enjoying the smell of freshly baked croissants, custard donuts, brownies, and whatever goods you baked in your little bakery, conveniently situated across the street from his go-to bar.

Cleverly named Flour Power, it was all pastel both inside and out, with little pots of hyacinths hanging from its window and a big sign above the entrance. Not that Logan ever went there, but he always walked past it when he went for a drink. Flour Power stood out from all the shops with its baby blue windowsills and bubblegum pink door. As much as he disliked vibrant colours, his eyes were always drawn to the bakery. But not because of how it looked or the way it smelled.

No, Logan strategically sat down by the window in the bar to see you. Every evening, he watched you sell everything you had on display, from wedding cakes to éclairs, greetings customers with a warm smile on your face. He watched you turn the sign from open to closed, lock the door, clean the display shelves, the counters, the only two tables and four chairs inside, and sweep and mop the floors. Then you disappeared in the back for a while, perhaps doing the dishes or preparing dough and frosting, before you walked out, locked the door again, pulled down the blinds over the big window on the right side of the door, and left.

It became a ritual for Logan to watch you. In a way, it brought him some peace, despite him never speaking to you. To him, you were innocence personified, the type of girl who made others feel better simply by being there, and he didn't want to disturb that peace.

Tonight was an ordinary night for the 200 year old mutant. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, drank it all, then went to the bar to ask for another round, killing time until you closed the bakery, then he could finally go back to the apartment. You closed at 7 for clients and left at 8:30 every evening except for Sundays, when you didn't work. Logan knew your schedule a little to well, even knew you opened for clients at 8 in the morning, but you were there much earlier, because he could smell the pastries at around half 6. This time, however, you seemed to have a bit more work. It was past 9, it was dark, and you still hadn't left, and Logan was slightly concerned.

He watched you like a hawk, how you tucked rebellious strands of hair behind your ear when you mopped the floor, how you wiped your hands on your cute little apron after you finished scrubbing the countertops. Logan thought you had extra orders from customers, perhaps a wedding cake. He scrunched his nose at the thought of having to try so many flavours only to pick a damn cake that he probably wouldn't enjoy anyway.

But finally, you were done.

It was almost 10 when you locked the door to the bakery, double checking to make sure it wouldn't budge. Then the blinds and off you went. Logan was satisfied to see you go, but the hairs on his back suddenly stood up, his nostrils filled with the scent of danger. Bitter, sour, it went straight to his brain, and so he finished his drink and left the bar, following you down the street but keeping a safe distance.

You walked past a group of drunk men, gripping your tote bag with your left hand and your keys with your right one. You've learned to place the keys between your fingers, like claws, in case someone attacked you. Going home at that time wasn't something you enjoyed, and you always tried to avoid working late, but sometimes that was inevitable. When you heard footsteps approaching you, you picked up the pace, but paranoia kicked in, and you didn't want whoever was following you to find out where you lived, and so you took a detour.

Logan was like your shadow, going everywhere you went, until he heard something drop in a dimly lit alleyway and he sped up, finding you round a corner, pinned to a wall by a man while another guy had his hand up your dress. It was too dark to see, but Logan didn't need eyes to know that was you. He could smell the vanilla extract and icing sugar and fear.

"Take my wallet!" You told the men, but they weren't there for the money. They wanted something else from you.

"Nah, doll, I'll take something else from you. Somethin' more precious than money." One of the men said, his breath reeking of alcohol, the cheap kind.

"Hurry up and fuck her, bro, I need my turn-"

Something flashed, then a shadow lunged at the second guy who couldn't even finish his sentence before he was struck down.

"Mike?" The man who pinned you against the wall asked, his hands trembling on your body. "Stop fucking around."

But Mike was seeing stars somewhere on the alleyway. It happened so quickly you couldn't understand what was going on. When your eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, you saw him, rough, handsome and very, very angry.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man asked, but all he got in response was a guttural growl. "Hey, man, I don't want any trouble. My girlfriend and I were just talking. Stay out of it." He grabbed you by the neck, dragging you away from Logan.

You seized the opportunity and wrestled out of his grasp by biting your assaulter's hand, dashing behind a bin.

"Ow! Fucking bitch!" He lunged at you, but Logan was quicker, piercing his claws through his shoulder and holding him in place.

"That's no way to talk to a lady." The mutant snarled, and you watched how his claws retracted before he punched the man in the face, effectively knocking him down.

He was the Wolverine. You had seen it all over the news, how he saved your universe, how he came from a different world. You couldn't believe he was the one helping you when you thought no one would save you in that moment.

"You alright, kid?" His raspy voice startled you and you barely nodded, still too shocked to move or speak. "You sure?"

You shook your head and tears rolled down your cheeks as you finally started to process what just happened. Logan scrunched his nose — comforting someone wasn't his strongest skill — and instead he picked up your bag and keys from the pavement.

"Shit, um, don't cry." He handed you your belongings, and you looked up at him with a frown.

How could you not cry when you saw your entire life flashing before your eyes? Logan swallowed a lump in his throat and offered his hand to help you stand up. You looked at his hand, reluctant to grab it. The only thing he could compare you with was a cat — cautious, yet curious.

"No claws." He said when he understood the meaning behind your eyes. "Come, I'll- um, I'll walk you home."

The invitation had you perk up and gain courage, and you quietly took the bag from his hand. He walked with you in complete silence, until you stopped in front of a building. You lingered, unwilling to go in. Logan asked if that was your place, and after you nodded, he offered to take you all the way to your apartment, which made you feel relieved. He could see it on your face when you sighed. You guided him up the stairs, constantly looking behind you to make sure he was there.

You stopped in front of a tall wooden door, keys in hand.

"Go on. I'll wait until you lock the door." Logan encouraged you.

"Can you stay?" You finally spoke, and your voice was sweet like honey, fitting for a baker.

"I don't know, kid-"

"Please." You looked at him with glossy eyes, pupils blown from the fear that hadn't left your body yet. The fear he could still smell.

"Yeah. Okay, I'll stay."

"Thank you."

Logan followed you in, and you flipped the light switch on before locking the door behind him. He looked around and, just as he expected, the apartment was a direct reflection of your bakery — clean, colourful and calm. There were recipes stuck to the walls with pink pins, and between them little paintings of sunsets, skies, flowers, cats. All things cute. They weren't framed, and so Logan figured they were hand-made, his assumptions confirmed by the easel in the corner of your living room.

Of course your sofa had to be colourful, too — mustard yellow with sage green cushions and blankets. Even your curtains were sage green. Despite the explosion of colours, Logan found himself enjoying being there. Not everything had to be brown, black and grey, he thought. Probably the only vibrant thing in his life was his suit, since the only people that brought colour were his friends, and they were gone.

"Drink?" You cracked the walls he put up around his heart with that sweet voice.

You shook a bottle of gin to get his attention and he nodded. Logan wasn't a fan of gin, but he didn't expect you to have any hard liquors. He watched you pull out two blue glasses from the kitchen cabinet, and of course they had to be funky, with white flowers on them.

"Where'd you get these?" He asked, swirling the drink in his hand.

"I made them. Kind of." You said. "Bought them from a charity store and painted the flowers. Do you want some tonic water?"

"Fuck no." Logan choked on his gin when you asked him that question. Simply being in a place so... colourful was enough. He didn't need a girly drink.

"I'm Y/N, by the way."

"I'm-"

"The Wolverine!" You cut him off a little too eager.

"-Logan. Call me Logan." He cringed when the beverage tickled his taste buds. It wasn't bitter enough for him.

"Logan. Thanks for tonight. Is there any way I can repay you?"

The question was riddled with innocence, but he couldn't stop the degenerate thoughts that popped in his mind when you asked him that. You were just so pure that he wanted to both protect you and ruin you.

"Don't mention it. I couldn't just walk past without doing anything." Logan lied, because, really, he wasn't just walking by, was he? No, it was downright stalking.

"I could bake something for you." You offered and he shook his head.

"I don't like sweets, kid."

"What?" You were baffled. "Everybody likes something sweet."

"Not me." He shrugged. "All I like is tiramisu and only if those biscuits are doused in coffee."

"Ladyfingers." You corrected him with a chuckle. "They're called ladyfingers."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious! Here!" You rushed to your pantry and pulled out a whole box of them, showing Logan the name.

"That's just stupid." He shook his head. "Who calls them ladyfingers?"

"Uh, everyone?" You laughed at his surprise, and the thoughts of your bad evening slowly dissipated, like a bad dream.

Logan truly was clueless about baking, but spent hours listening to you talk about types of sugar, extracts and their uses, and the difference between baking soda and baking powder in cooking. You rambled on and on and not once did he get bored. He could listen to you talk for hours with your voice soothing. Logan thought about it, and he genuinely never met someone like you before. The women in his life were all so different, but you took the cake. You were special in ways he couldn't understand. And he was just so drawn to you.

"I'm sorry, I haven't stopped talking once!" You apologised, realising how safe you felt with him there. You would never let a stranger inside your house, let alone talk about baking while having gin. But Logan wasn't a stranger. Not after he saved you.

"'s alright. It's not every day I learn about baking." He chuckled, finishing his drink. "Listen, I should get going."

"Right." You sighed, eyes darting at the floor. "No, of course. I've kept you too long."

Logan got up and you walked with him to the hallway. He was slow to put his leather jacket on, as if he was waiting for you to say something, anything, but when you didn't, he unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hey, Logan?" You tugged at his sleeve, whispering so you wouldn't wake your neighbours. "Are you sure I can't bake you something? Not now, I mean. I really want you to try something besides tiramisu. And that way I can repay you."

"Hell, why not?" He shrugged.

"Great!" You beamed at him like a child on Christmas day. "Stop by my bakery tomorrow at twelve. It's on Granville Street."

"I thought you didn't work on Sundays."

"Oh, how'd you know?" You quirked a brow at him.

Caught red-handed.

"Educated guess."

"Fair enough." His answer satisfied you. "Be there or be square!"

Sleep was for the weak. All night, Logan tossed and turned and abused his poor pillow with with punches. The mere thought of seeing you, no, interacting with you, had him wriggle like a worm on the mattress. It didn't help that Wade instantly noticed something was up.

"Oh, my, did you shower, peanut?"

"Not today, Satan." Logan poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Mmm, and what do I smell?" Wade sniffed the air. "Wait, is that my perfume?"

"Forgot to pack mine when I swapped universes." The Wolverine barked back.

"Hah!" Blind Al chimed in from the living room. "I think tall, dark and handsome here has a date!"

Logan rolled his eyes while Wade pouted, plopping on the sofa next to Al.

"You never called me that."

"That's cause you’re a degenerate." The woman snorted.

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it- ow! Stop hitting me with your cane, I know where you hide your nose candy!" Wade fought back.

"Touch it and I'll bust a cap in your ass!" Al scoffed.

"And I'll regenerate."

Logan used the opportunity to slip into the hallway, but his roommate was quicker, and blocked the door.

"You're not going anywhere until we have the talk."

"The talk?" The Wolverine snorted.

"Ah, they grow up so fast." Wade told Al. "Now, son, when a man and a woman love each other-"

"I'll give you three seconds to fuck off."

"Oh, but I need to know everything! Who is he?"

"She." Logan rolled his eyes.

"Oh my god, is this you coming out to us? Al, he's straight! I promise we love you anyway." Wade went for a hug and all Logan could do was accept it. He learned to live with Wade, even though he dislocated his jaw a few times after he moved in.

"Alright, that's enough."

"Nooo, we're just getting started. Name? Age? Occupation? We could do a double date with Vanessa-"

"Absolutely fucking not." Logan pushed Wade off of him.

"Okay, okay. Just make sure you wrap your willy, and if you need any advice, daddy's here." Wade opened the door for his roommate.

"Actually." Logan lingered in the hallway. "What kind of flowers do girls like?"

The blinds to the bakery were closed but you were inside, pastries in the oven and dessert in the fridge. You couldn't help yourself and prepared something savoury as well, in case he didn't like the lemon cake. A knock on the door startled you, and you rushed to check who it was.

Logan stood there, a bouquet of peonies in his hand. You welcomed him in with a smile, but he could tell it was different than the one you flashed your customers. It seemed more genuine. And it felt like a date.

"These are for you." Logan handed you the flowers, taking in the scent of pork pies. "I thought you were gonna bake something sweet." He flared his nostrils.

"I did, I just thought I should have a plan B in case you didn't like my cake." You placed the bouquet in a vase on one of your tables. "How did you know I liked peonies?"

Logan couldn't believe Wade was right about those damn flowers. And there he was, thinking roses would be better. Maybe the Merc with a Mouth wasn't so bad after all.

"I had a hunch." He shrugged. 

"Well, Logan, I love them! Now sit, sit!" You ushered him to his seat. "I hope you're hungry, because there's a lot for you to try."

"A lot? I thought you'll make me a cupcake or somethin', bub."

"A cupcake?? Don't be silly." Just as you said that, the oven made a loud ding sound, and you turned on your heels, heading in the back.

Logan waited patiently, observing every little detail from the front of your bakery, from the spotless display shelves to the neatly organised paper bags, to the fairy lights around the window. It was obvious to him that you had put your mind, body and soul into this bakery, and his expectations were quite high after all the fuss you made. But he decided to be nice not matter how the food tasted. He couldn't bear seeing you upset if he didn't like what you made.

You reappeared with a tray in your hand, and on it two plates, one with a small pork pie, one with a croissant, and a cup of coffee. Hell, even the cutlery was cute, with swirls engraved on the handles of the fork, knife and teaspoon.

"I decided to leave the cake for last." You said, placing the tray in front of him. "This is a simple pork pie, start with that." You urged him. "Careful, it's hot."

The Wolverine struggled with the cutlery, too small for his large hands, and the brief thought of slashing the pie with his claws crossed his mind, but he decided to be civil. You watched him butcher the food, eager to see his reaction, but he was taking his time.

"I'll let it cool off a bit."

"Ooh, that's probably a good idea." You nodded.

"Aren't you having some?" Logan asked.

"Noo, no. I like to bake for others, not for myself."

"So what do you eat, then?" He sipped on the coffee.

"Instant noodles usually. I'm too tired to cook when I get home. I do occasionally have leftovers, but whatever isn't sold I take it to the local shelter." You explained.

Christ, you couldn't be any kinder. Logan was stunned by your beauty and your soul, which was why he decided that after today, he will stop any interaction with you. He couldn't ruin you, not with his lifestyle, not with the danger that followed him everywhere.

The only problem was that the conversation flowed naturally, and he felt safe with you, just as you did with him. Like you were the missing piece to his puzzle. Logan pushed away those thoughts and decided to try the food. He took a large mouthful of the pie, chewed and swallowed, and you waited expectantly.

"Shit."

"What? Is it bad?" You jumped from your seat.

"Fuck, this is the best pork pie I've ever had." Logan wiped his mouth with a tissue you provided. "I'm serious, kid. Did you put drugs in it?"

You laughed, shaking your head as he finished the rest of the pie. He truly seemed to enjoy it, and you felt so satisfied. But the real test came after.

"Pistachio croissant." You said. "I thought about making almond ones, but I figured pistachio wasn't that sweet."

"Right, let's see." Logan took a healthy bite out of the pastry, and lo and behold, he closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. If heaven had a taste, it would be that damned croissant.

"Is it good?"

"Good? Jesus, this is the best one yet." He finished the rest of it, the pistachio cream tickling his taste buds in all the right ways. "Who taught you to bake like this?"

"My grandma. She was the best cook I knew." You smiled.

Logan noticed your use of past tense, and he didn't want to bring up any bad memories. He wasn't the nosy type, but something possessed him to ask you about your life, your family, your favourite colours. He needed to know more about you, and you answered all his questions, opening up to him like a flower in bloom. But when it came to him talking about himself, Logan was reluctant.

Talking to Wade was easier, because Wade didn't take anything seriously, nor did he ask personal questions. Well, he did, but in his own stupid way that provided Logan some distraction, as well as a reason to punch him. But with you it was different. He felt like he owed you serious answers that he wasn't yet ready to tell a stranger who made a mean pistachio croissant.

"The cake!" You spun on the chair, changing the subject when you saw Logan dodging your questions like bullets.

Although he didn't say it, he was grateful that you didn't put any pressure on him to talk. He wasn't a talker. That was definitely Wade. You came back with the whole cake, and it looked so good that Logan didn't want you to cut it. Perfectly round, a layer of cream in the middle and white frosting on top. You even went so far as to decorate it with all kinds of yellow flower petals and what seemed to be mint leaves.

"Alright, hit me. What's this one called?"

"I call it the Mojito Cake. The sponge cake has lemon zest, the cream is made of lime, mint and rum syrup, and the frosting is buttercream with a dash of actual rum." You explained.

"Shit, I can't tell if that sounds disgusting or incredible."

"Only one way to find out." You cut him a thick slice, and Logan wasted no time trying it.

"I think you found yourself a new customer."

"You're too nice."

"I'm anything but nice, kid." He took three more spoonfuls. "But I ain't a liar. This is delicious." Logan spoke with his mouth full and it made you chuckle.

"Oh, there's a bit of frosting on your face."

"Hm?" He used the tissue to wipe his chin. "Did I get it?"

"No, it's still- here, I'll get it." You leaned forward and delicately ghosted your thumb over the corner of his mouth, eyes locked with his.

Without thinking about it, you dragged your tongue over the frosting, and Logan couldn't look away from you even if he wanted to. A gesture so innocent, but it destroyed any form of restraint. He pressed his lips onto yours, tasting the rum and the cream, but before you could kiss him back, he pulled away.

"Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn't have-"

You gave him no time to finish his sentence when you placed your hands on his shoulders and kissed him with fire on your tongue. God, he hated being touched, but when you did it, he melted in your hands. Lust battled reason and prevailed, and you found yourself straddling Logan's lap, arms around his neck and chest pressed against his.

His large hands found their way under your dress, fingers digging in the plush of your thighs until a moan escaped past your lips. Logan could've sworn you were pure in all ways — a virgin — so, naturally, he was surprised to see you eager to jump his adamantium bones.

With the last shred of reason left in you, you glanced at the door and window to make sure they were covered, and pushed Logan's jacket off his shoulders, peppering his neck with soft kisses. He wasn't the gentle type, no matter how hard he tried, and he didn't need to be when he felt your hips grind in his lap. It was more than obvious that you wanted him then and there.

Logan lifted you up as if you weighed nothing and slammed you down the empty table. His roughness sent a chill down your spine, because you really wanted him to manhandle you from the moment he stepped foot in your bakery. He kissed you again, pressing his whole against yours until your back hit the table. You felt like a cornered animal with nowhere to go, and the thrill of it turned you on.

"Are you sure you want this?" Logan asked despite you unbuckling his belt.

"I don't want this, I want you. I need you to fuck me so hard I can't walk." You unzipped his jeans, and although he was taken aback by your sudden use of filthy words, he couldn't deny he enjoyed seeing that side of you.

"Greedy little girl." Logan's hand slithered between your legs, fingers rubbing circles over your clothed clit. "Shit, you're soakin' wet. Can feel it through your fuckin' panties already." He flared his nostrils, taking in the scent of your arousal.

With his jeans loose around his waist, you palmed his cock through his boxers, and it didn't shock you for a second that he was rock hard. What did shock you, however, was the size of it. It was probably the biggest you've ever taken, and you didn't want any other man anymore.

You tugged at the waistband of his boxers, making it clear that you didn't want to waste any more time. Not that you didn't want to suck his dick or explore every inch of his body and worship it the way a man like him deserved it, but you were impatient.

Logan got the hint when you whined and scoffed, and he tore the pink panties off of you, tossing them on the floor. At least he had the decency not to put them on the table, which you were going to disinfect anyway. He pushed his boxers down, and you propped yourself on your elbows to look at him, and it was a sight for sore eyes indeed. He had perfectly sculpted abs, you could see them under the half-lifted t-shirt, but it was his cock that made your mouth water.

"Like what you see?" Logan was smug, confident in his good looks.

"I need to permanently imprint this image on my retina." You told him, and he couldn't help the chuckle.

"Likewise. Now spread 'em."

"Yessir!" You very quickly obeyed, parting your legs for him, and Logan couldn't deny that he enjoyed being in control.

He wasn't one to take orders, nor give them, but watching you comply scratched an itch he couldn't get rid of. Logan pressed the tip of his cock against your slick folds, earning another whine from you. You bucked your hips, craving more, and he scoffed.

"That desperate, hm?"

"You have no idea." You dug your manicured fingernails into his shoulders, bracing for temporary pain, because you knew damn well it would hurt.

"I don't know, I didn't hear you say please." Logan frowned, and you understood what game he was playing. A game you yearned to be part of.

"Oh, please, please, please fuck me, Logan! I'll be so good for you! I'll do anything you want." You clung to his shoulders, bringing yourself closer to him. "I'll even take it in any hole you want." You whispered, dragging your tongue over his lips.

"Shit." Logan was weak in the knees from your words, and the worst part was that he believed everything you said. But there was a time and place for everything.

You were the perfect mix of sweet and spicy, and you begged so nicely that the Wolverine just couldn't say no. You felt the leaking tip of his cock push past your folds and you audibly gasped at the size of it, drawing blood from his skin with your fingernails.

"It won't fit-" You whined with lust in your voice.

"I'll make it fit." Logan promised, painstakingly slowly thrusting into you.

He gave you time to adjust to his girth, constantly checking if you were alright, if you wanted him to carry on or stop, and while you loved that he was so caring, you needed him hurry up and fuck you.

To assure him that you would survive his monstrous cock, you planted a soft kiss on his nose, and there it was again, the change in your personality, from sultry to innocent. It was as though you embodied everything he ever wanted, and his desire to never contact you again went down the drain. How could Logan ever leave someone like you?

"I'm ready." You nodded, and he pressed his forehead onto yours, slowly rolling his hips.

You weren't ready, because it hurt like a bitch when he stretched out your velvety walls. But the pain was soon replaced by pleasure, and Logan picked up the pace when your whimpers turned to moans, and the slight frown on your face disappeared.

"So tight." He hummed, forehead resting against yours.

Were you tight, or was he just so incredibly big? Either way, you were a panting mess already, clinging to him for dear life, and Logan forgot his worries, even if it was just for that one moment. You were too good to be true, with your parted lips and glossy eyes — a beautiful sight for his sore eyes.

"Fuck, I- fuck!" You wrapped your legs around his waist, the table screeching under you. Not a single coherent sentence could come out of your mouth. "Logan, shit, I-"

"What's the matter? Need something?" He cooed, fingers bruising into your hips. "Use your big girl words."

"Need it ha-harder!" You cried out but he slowed down, confusion written all over your face.

"Where are your manners?"

"Please, daddy, please give it to me harder!"

The term of endearment had Logan quirk a brow at you, but he wasn't surprised in the slightest that you had a daddy kink. And he basked in being called that.

"Are you sure you can take it?"

"Yes!" There was no hesitation in your response. "Fuck, yes!"

Logan growled when he felt your pussy clench around his cock, and he delivered, thrusting deeper, harder and faster into you, until the sound of skin on skin echoed in the bakery, and your breathing became heavier.

"Fuuuuck, I can feel it in my gut!" You threw your head back when the tip of his cock brushed against your cervix.

"Filthy. Little. Slut." Each word came with a thrust and a groan, and he filled you up so good, you became addicted to him.

Your toes curled up, and your legs began to twitch when you felt your orgasm build up. Each push and pull made your vision blurry, and Logan's grip on you tightened as his hips stuttered. He was feral, and he was close, you could feel it in your bones.

"Fuck, Logan, do- oh- don't stop!" Words spilled from your mouth incoherently, and after a few more thrusts, pure bliss rushed through your body.

"That's it, let go." Logan buried his face in the crook of your neck, slamming hard into you until all you could do was chant his name like a prayer.

You felt him fill you up, pussy hot and sticky and sore, and he slowly pulled out, eyes darting at the tissues on the table. He grabbed them, gently cleaning you up, and you couldn’t stop the grin on your face. There was just something about a man like him be so gentle. And you were absolutely delighted to have him take care of you.

"You know," Logan said licking his lips, "I'm beginning to think you didn't want me to just taste your pastries."

"True." You told him smugly. "But you liked them."

"I like you more." He blurted out without thinking.

You felt your cheeks burn at his sudden honesty, and after sliding up your underwear and fixing your dress, you planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

"I like you too, honey badger."

"Don't ever call me that again." Logan chuckled.

"Not happening. Now, could you pleaaaase help me clean up this place? The last thing I need is a surprise hygiene inspection tomorrow."

He couldn't even imagine what the inspectors would do if they found out you had sex in a bakery, and with a nod, Logan zipped up his jeans and began disinfecting the tables and chairs while you swept the floor.

In less than half an hour you were done, and the shop was squeaky clean. You were satisfied with the end result, and told Logan that you wanted him to have the rest of the cake, pies and croissants. He thought Wade and Al could eat something, and decided to accept your offer.

"Can I come with you? There's quite a few boxes of food." You told him, a sheepish grin on your lips.

"Is that your way of finding out where I live?"

"Maybe. I'll go home if you don't want me with you."

"No, you're good." Logan assured you. "Besides, I'm sure my roommate's gonna devour everything. He'll probably lock you up in our apartment and force you to bake for him."

"I don't know if that's a threat or a promise." You laughed.

"Both. It's both."

You walked with Logan down the street, boxes in your arms, and you were surprised to see him open up to you more. He answered almost every question you had, and you felt him more relaxed. And he was. Logan forgot how much he needed that kind of connection with someone. You were so easy to talk to, you didn't judge him, and most importantly, you listened.

He guided you up the stairs to his apartment and knocked on the door, because he couldn't reach his keys with so many boxes in his arms. You baked for a damn army.

Wade opened the door, and you were taken aback by his appearance, but it didn't scare you. Instead, you introduced yourself as Logan's personal baker, earning a chuckle from him.

"Come on in, Martha Stewart." Wade opened the door enough for you to walk through it with the boxes and not drop them.

"Wade." Logan came back from the kitchen with a croissant. "Eat. Seriously, eat."

You watched Wade wolf down the pastry without hesitation and his eyes lit up. He chewed and swallowed, then moaned, eyes rolling back. The look of disgust on Logan's face was priceless.

"Holy fucking shit, Y/N, what the fuck did you put in this?" Wade grabbed your shoulders, giving them a good shake. "It's so flaky and creamy and buttery, like a bunch of unicorns came in my mouth."

"I'm glad you like it." You giggled. "Try the cake."

"There's cake?!" He ran to the kitchen, leaving you and Logan in the hallway before coming back, a slice of half-eaten cake in his hand. "I am officially impressed. Can you make Rocky Road?"

"Yes."

"Dulce de leche?"

"Yep."

"Baklava?"

"Uh-huh."

"Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte?"

"Yes, Wade!" You rolled your eyes, then turned to Logan. "Sugar rush?"

"Oh, you have no idea. And this is him on a good day."

"Listen, sweet cheeks, if old man fuckface here won’t marry you, I will. Just don’t tell Vanessa." Wade whispered.

"Don’t even think about it, you degenerate limp dick."

"Ugh, fine. And here I was hoping all four of us could be a happy dysfunctional family. Five if you count Al. Six with Colossus. Wait, actually, eight with-"

"Wade, have you tried the pork pies?" You asked, effectively shutting him up.

Yeah, Logan could definitely get used to being around you from now on to sweeten up his life.

[rumplereids]

kiss, kiss, fall in love.

tags: spencer reid x reader. making out. clothed grinding. what glasses!spencer deserved. a/n: i love whenever the camera angle shows just how FUCKED mgg’s eyesight is lmfao there are some scenes of glasses!spencer where you can see how thick the lenses are… i love him requested?: yep ! thank u so much for the request <3 masterlist. requests are open !

Working as a Technical Analyst for the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit had its pros and cons. Having your own office was definitely a huge perk. He was only supposed to drop off your daily bagel and coffee. It was an act of service that your beloved boyfriend liked to indulge in. He was only here to make sure you’d eaten breakfast.

Like a ritual, he leans over your shoulder, your cheek turned toward him like second nature, as he gives you a soft, shy kiss.

“Thank you, darling.”

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs against your cheek, nose digging against your temple he breathes in the scent of you.

Without removing your eyes from your screen, you reach a hand up to give his cheek and jaw a loving caress. Curious fingers brush against plastic frames. You turn your attention to him in awe, “You’re wearing your glasses today!”

“Mhm,” he brings a finger up to fix his frames, almost bashful. “Ran out of contact solution.”

You take his face into your hands, forcing him to look into your eyes. “I love your glasses. You look so handsome, so beautiful.” You grin at the way his cheeks redden.

“Gimme a kiss?”

He eagerly dives in for one. A hand moves to cup the back of your head, tender in his affections. He lavishes attention on your top lip, moans, and then moves his focus to your lower lip. His tongue shy in the heat of your mouth. Spencer lets out another little moan, the sound of his near whimper making you stand.

From cheek to shoulder, you rub your thumb on his skin. You push him down onto the chair, his legs parting on instinct to make place for you. Knees digging against his thigh and hips, you make yourself comfortable on your throne.

“You’re so pretty,” he says up to you. Spencer’s lips are swollen and red, glistening with spit. His eyes are watery and hazy, his glasses fogged from the breath shared between you. His big hands grip your hips so tight you’re sure he’d wrinkle the blouse you picked for the day.

You bend down for another kiss, pressing your hips down at Spencer’s plea. He guides your hips down against his lap, you feel the zipper of his slacks press against the heat of your core. You’re wet, the room is hot, and Spencer’s mouth and tongue move to nip and kiss and lick along your chin and jaw.

As you grind down against his growing bulge, Spencer’s hands move to untuck your blouse from your pants. Gentle hands and curious fingers move beneath the fabric to feel your heated skin against his palm.

A commotion outside your office makes you stop the grind of your hips.

Spencer turns his head to the left, parting his lips from yours, a string of spit keeping you connected. With your foreheads pressed against each other, you put an ear out to listen on the other side of the door. You think you hear the familiar clicks and clacks of Penelope’s heels.

“I think I need to go,” Spencer sounds disappointed. You press a kiss on the corner of his lips.

Running your hands through his hair, you sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

He smiles up at you, eyes heavy-lidded in ecstasy, hands still caressing the skin of your hips.

He loves the feel of your hand in his hair. He loves the soft kiss you give the tip of his nose. He loves the way you fix his glasses, crooked and fogged up from the heat of your kisses. He loves you, and you love him. He feels it now as you smooth down the front of his button-up shirt.

You slowly stand from your place on his lap, fixing your pants that had ridden up and bunched at your thighs from your little session. You notice Spencer doing the same to his own.

He sniffs, standing, two fingers pushing his glasses more firmly up the bridge of his nose.

“One last kiss?”

You smile at his request, finger and thumb reaching forward to pinch his nose.

“You’re so cute.”

He taps his cheek twice in response.

[ylangelegy]

blindsided ꩜ wonwoo x reader.

── .✦ 💌 includes: fem!reader, office worker!wonwoo, alternate universe: office, pining, in denial!wonwoo, lewd thoughts, alcohol, making out, hand job, loss of virginity, praise kink, aftercare.

── .✦ 📟 inspired by THE business proposal scene. we all know which one, but gif attached anyway ♡︎ wc: 2,700

── .✦ 🚏 MDNI. 18+ CONTENT.

(Or: The three times Wonwoo keeps his glasses on, and the one time he doesn't.)

Wonwoo knows he's done for the moment that you walk in for your first day.

Despite his bad eyesight, he's not blind. He can tell when somebody is hot, and you fit that bill. Sue him.

Still, he tries to rationalize. There's not a lot of good-looking people in the company's IT department. That's probably it, he thinks to himself, as you smile warmly and introduce yourself to everyone.

Wonwoo has just been deprived of good views. That's it. That's all.

As you go to do rounds, he tries to focus on troubleshooting the network issue that some higher-up has been complaining about. But then you get to him, expecting his name, and Wonwoo suddenly can't bring himself to care about the DNS check he's supposed to be running.

"Jeon Wonwoo," he says in a perfectly level voice. "Welcome to the company."

Your face lights up. "Oh! I think you're the one who's supposed to be training me on the new systems."

Right. His boss had mentioned this. Something about onboarding the newbies. And Wonwoo had said yes, because that was just the type of person he was.

Fan-fucking-tastic, Wonwoo thinks as he gives you a quick once-over.

He manages to look bored as he does it. Almost scrutinizing. Truthfully, Wonwoo is not-so discreetly checking you out. The crisp white blouse, the tight pencil skirt, the black stockings.

So help him, God.

"Hope you can keep up," Wonwoo says for the lack of better thing to say.

The easy smile on your face remains, like you're unperturbed by Wonwoo's infamously cool demeanor. Somehow, that makes things infinitely worse.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as you leave to meet other people. He tries very, very hard not to watch the way your hips move as you walk away.

You're good, he'll give you that.

Wonwoo, once again, tries to make excuses. One had to be good in this field of work, in this company. You're not an exception; you're supposed to be the norm.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it's not entirely true.

There's one too many nepotism babies and pushovers who barely survive performance evaluations. But you're good. Eager to learn. Sharp in all the right places.

Wonwoo is a little bit jealous.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, in between training you on the company's cloud service models and hammering out the new machine learning workflows.

And so he keeps his head down, and he points out the bugs in your codes, and he chalks up his initial attraction as a moment of weakness.

That is, until the two of you are last to leave the office on an unassuming Tuesday evening.

The two of you had gotten in to some long-winded debate about the future of AI. Wonwoo is only made acutely aware about how much time has passed when the janitor shuts off the lights, assuming everyone has gone home. You giggle; Wonwoo cracks the smallest of smiles.

As you both emerge from the company building, Wonwoo's glasses fog up.

It's a normal enough occurrence that he shouldn't be annoyed but it's also a little bit embarrassing. He's used to going home late, to being alone when he does this little ritual of his.

He's just about to take off his glasses when you do it for him.

There's nothing much he can do or say as you gently tug the glasses off his face, as you use a corner of your blouse to swipe off the condensation on the lenses. You're saying something— something about this being the most annoying thing about wearing glasses, about knowing the struggle— but Wonwoo can't hear it.

His gaze is fixed on your lithe fingers and the careful way they hold his specs. Something sparks in the back of his head. A thought, unbidden. How those fingers would look so much better wrapped around his—

Jesus. Wonwoo swallows hard as you hold out his glasses back to him.

The look on his face must be odd, because you're suddenly apologetic. "I must have overstepped," you say sheepishly.

Overstepped?

Wonwoo is pretty sure he's the one overstepping. He's the one imagining you bent over his desk, after all, where he'd be more than happy to keep two fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet.

Instead, Wonwoo mumbles "you're good" as he puts his glasses back on just a little too forcefully. The nose pad presses in to his skin and leaves the smallest of marks, but he figures he deserves it with how he's being.

Wonwoo decides that maybe he's just repressed.

He's always been too busy to sleep around, to sleep with anyone, so this is just some twisted form of karmic justice. To have someone so desirable within sight but not within reach.

He asks for Mingyu to start setting him up on dates. His best friend is a little too glad to comply.

Wonwoo goes on about four before giving up.

Because it doesn't matter if he ends the night with a heated kiss or a mouth around his cock. Every single time, with each girl, he can only picture his company's drab cubicles, fingers flying across a keyboard, clicks of heels on a floor. (You, you, you.)

Things only go from bad to worse when the company celebrates its annual Christmas party at some swanky speakeasy. The alcohol is free-flowing, and God knows that Wonwoo needs it— because you're certainly not doing him any favors.

Your dress is a touch too short, and your smile is pretty, and Wonwoo really needs to get his head out of the goddamn gutter. He cannot, should not be fantasizing about what it would be like to drag you in to the alleyway outside, to hitch up your leg around his waist, to finally feel his aching hardness slide in to your—

"Wonwoo?"

He starts. It's a good thing he downed his drink earlier. Otherwise, he might've spilled his cuba libre all over the front of your purple dress.

You're squinting at him, a playful sort of grin on your face. For a moment, he terrified you've read his mind, but then you're slurring out, "Your glass is empty."

"That it is," Wonwoo says dryly. He lets you lead him over to the bar.

As the two of you wait for his drink to be made, you pull the rug out from underneath Wonwoo once again.

It happens so fast. One moment, you're discussing go-to karaoke songs; the next, you're grabbing his spectacles and trying them on for yourself.

They're ill-fitting on you and the frames don't match your face shape. Wonwoo nearly winces when you awkwardly try to adjust them by the temples.

"Your eyesight is a lot worse than I thought," you whine— a whine, my God. Wonwoo wants to die then and there.

When his whiskey sour is served, Wonwoo shoots it back and promptly orders another one.

"How do I look?" you prompt, tilting your head to one side.

For a moment, Wonwoo contemplates telling the truth.

You look like sin, he could say. You look like you'd make the prettiest sounds if your back was up against the door of the bar bathroom, if his hands were feeling you up over your dress, if his mouth was leaving open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

Wonwoo shakes his head. He's definitely not drunk enough to be saying all that.

"Fine," he grumbles. "You look fine."

Once you've had your fun, once his glasses are back on his face and you're off to charm whoever the hell else, he'll wish he could have been a little more truthful.

Here's the thing: For all of Wonwoo's intelligence as the company's go-to IT guy, he's still pretty oblivious where it matters.

He doesn't realize that you don't really give two shits about AI, that you're only staying so late at work for him. He doesn't pick up that your party dress had been purple because he had offhandedly mentioned once that it was his favorite color.

All of those little things only hit him when he finds you standing outside his apartment, looking mildly miffed. "How much longer do I have to flirt with you, Jeon Wonwoo?" you demand.

Oh. Oh.

"Not another day more," Wonwoo promises as he wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls you in to his flat. He thanks all the higher powers in the universe that Mingyu has decided to buzz off for the night.

Wonwoo's mouth is on yours the moment the door shuts behind you. It's messy, all clashing teeth and warring tongues. The sudden force of it has you reeling back a step.

His fingers find purchase at your hips, right over the very skirt of his wildest fantasies. You tilt your head like you're trying to deepen the kiss— only to have your forehead bump against his glasses.

You make a sound of protest against his mouth and he swears he sees stars.

Without missing a beat, Wonwoo lifts one of his hands just long enough to pull his glasses off. He casts them aside unceremoniously. He'll buy a new pair if he has to.

He's back to kissing you before you can even open your eyes.

By some miracle, the two of you make it to his bedroom.

It's only then that Wonwoo manages to tear himself away from your mouth, looking slightly panicked.

You're pinned underneath him, the top buttons of your blouse already undone. And you're a vision— your hair splayed out underneath you, your chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. Wonwoo has to resist the physical urge to keep making out with you.

"I—" he chokes out. "I haven't—"

Thank God you're smarter than him, because you immediately get what he's trying to say. You prop yourself up by your elbows to look at him. "We don't have to," you say carefully, your fingers curling around his bicep.

"That's the thing." He doesn't even bother to hide how desperate he sounds. "I kind of really fucking want to."

The smile you give him then makes his heart stutter. He resolves to unpack that later.

Right now, he focuses on the way you pull off his slacks, the way you spit in to your palm, the way you dip your hand past his boxers and—

"Holy shit," he exhales, because this is definitely leagues better than his imagination.

You're watching his every reaction as you slide the curve of your palm against him, as your fingers close and squeeze and tug, and it takes absolutely everything in Wonwoo not to flip your positions.

He prays for patience; he prays for grace. He prays that he doesn't finish just from a goddamn handjob.

Once you've deemed him sufficiently hard, the two of you do switch positions. Wonwoo reaches in to his bedside drawer for the condom that's been sitting there for months. (Mingyu, the cheeky bastard, had left it there as a gift. Wonwoo has never been more grateful for his best friend.)

Wonwoo snaps it on with a lot less finesse than he would've wanted. Soon enough, he's hovering over you, his fingers curled in to a white-knuckled grip around his sheets.

"I should probably stretch you out a bit," he whispers, his voice strained with the effort it's taking to keep himself together

But you shake your head, your hands catching in his dark locks as you practically drag him down. "Wonwoo, I swear," you whine. "If you don't fuck me this instant—"

It's not the hands in his hair that does it. Not the bluntness of your words.

It's that stupid, stupid whine.

Wonwoo thrusts in to you without preamble, and the scream catches in your throat as he fills you up.

"Fucking take it, then," he hisses.

Wonwoo was a bit worried that his inexperience would get in the way, but there's one thing he seems to have in common with you: He can be a pretty quick learner, too.

His thrusts are a bit clumsy and erratic, but he figures out what you like based on the sounds that you make, the way that you move.

You arch your hips up whenever he bottoms out. You whimper whenever his balls slap in to the cleft of your ass. And when his fingers finally find your bundles of nerves, you say his name so beautifully.

"Just like that, Wonu," you gasp, rendered incapable of saying his full name. He likes the way it sounds, so he rewards you with another sharp thrust. You babble on, "Fuck, yeah. That's good. You're so fucking good."

Something inside him burns, then. Enough to have him picking up the pace, to have him pressing the calloused pads of his fingers in to every inch of bare skin that he can reach.

You seem to notice his renewed vigor, and the minx that you are— despite the fact you're being fucked stupid— you give him more.

You moan that he's perfect and doing so well and so fucking hot, and his cock only bullies in to you harder with every pretty word.

"I'm not going to last—" Wonwoo warns through gritted teeth, his grip bruising on your hip. "I'm not going to last much longer if you keep talking to me like that."

His fingers are already fumbling; his pace, stuttering. He's not sure how much more praise he can take, but then you have to go and whimper about how badly you've wanted him, just like this—

Wonwoo manages to bottom out just one more time before coming undone.

The feeling of him twitching inside you, of him panting against the side of your neck, has you following not long after. It's absolutely torturous, the way you clamp down on him like you're squeezing him dry.

Wonwoo gathers his bearings enough to pull out. He heaves out a sigh and falls back on to his bed beside you, his own thighs still shaking a bit from all the effort he's exerted.

A beat. Neither of you speak; you're both too busy catching your breath, coming down from your respective highs.

But then you're sitting up, moving, and Wonwoo physically feels his heart drop.

"Where are you going?" he stammers. He can't even bring himself to sound cool about the prospect of this just being a one-time thing.

You put him out of his misery rather swiftly. At the foot of his bed, you pause, take one look at his face, and then soften significantly. Your gentle pat to his ankle is a welcome reprieve.

"We should clean up," you tell him, somehow managing to reassure his unspoken fears. "Where's your bathroom?"

"Ah— first door down the hall."

You don't pull on any of your clothes as you go, so Wonwoo doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you leave.

Once you're out his bedroom door, Wonwoo suddenly feels boneless. He sinks further in to his bed and contemplates how the hell he's going to go about this— whatever this is.

Wonwoo's overthinking is cut short when you bound back in to his room, your hands behind your back. He barely has any time to speak before your lips are on his.

It's a sweet kiss, one that catches him off-guard. He's frozen for only a millisecond before his eyes flutter close and he melts right in to you, his hand resting at the side of your face.

It's not quite the answer that he's looking for, but it's a close thing.

When you peel away, his head rises from his pillow, desperately chasing your mouth. You let out a tinkling sort of laugh before pulling your hands out from behind you— and placing his glasses on for him.

Wonwoo blinks confusedly underneath his lenses.

"Just need to make sure that you can see what you're getting in to," you tease as you push his hair out of his forehead.

He just looks at you for a second. And oh, is he done for.

"Yeah," he breathes. "I see you."

[blackberry-sage-tea]

"The Dalish gifted an Eluvian to the Grey Wardens so we can get in Weisshaupt" is just so emblematic of my problems with the game, because you can tell--it feels to me--that the thought process was "We need to have an Eluvian in Weisshaupt, Eluvians are an Elven(TM) thing, the Dalish are the Elven(TM) faction, so let's just say they were the ones who gave one to the Grey Wardens".

The Dalish have been established over all three games as a people who have spent the last thousands of years desperately scrounging for whatever scraps of their culture they can find, a struggle that has cost them dearly as typified by Merrill's plight trying to restore a single Eluvian which had previously Blighted two of her clan mates (an Eluvian that she can't open or use, and doesn't actually know what it's for by the end of her quest line). Multiple Dalish in Inquisition are killed trying to regain their history ("The Knight's Tomb") or trying to prove themselves by regaining even a talisman related to their culture ("Someone to Lose"). They are an insular and guarded people because outsider interactions frequently invoke a heavy toll in Dalish lives, up to and including entire clans. And yet, we are supposed to believe in a single throwaway piece of dialogue that in the 10 years between Inquisition and Veilguard, the Dalish have (offscreen) gained enough access to Eluvians as a piece of technology that they can afford to just "gift" one to the Grey Wardens without explanation.

There are constant revelations of this kind where pre-established parts of the lore are just thrown out the window. Things that had great emotional weight or impact in previous installments of the series are used for cheap thrills or plot-hole fills without explanation, justification, or even gravitas from the game. You have a moment in one of Emmrich's quests where you stumble through a portal directly into the Fade that Hezenkoss opened in Blackthorne manor, and you're tasked with closing it again. All of this is done entirely without the Anchor or even an implied blood sacrificial ritual, and it is never commented as anything particularly groundbreaking (when going into the Fade physically through tearing a hole in it was a Big Fucking Deal in Inquisition). You encounter a Compassion spirit in a side quest investigating the deaths of citizens in Tevinter who were murdered by a demon of Despair, and it is strong enough to not only retain itself through sensing the (unanswered!) suffering that these people experienced, but it also resolves to protect others to keep them from the same fate (when Cole was so traumatized by a single person's death that he completely reshaped his entire being around them). So on and so forth. Don't even get me started on Bellara's comment that the ancient elves "made most of their buildings in the Fade".

I'm not asking for someone to hold my hand and spoonfeed me information. I frankly don't care if an obscure codex entry, a reddit AMA question, bluesky tweet, or headcanon exists somewhere to patch in or bandaid over all of the jarring details like this, because it doesn't change the fact that the game itself should be doing this. The game itself should be taking the time to explain this in a way that is not missable, the game itself should be taking these things seriously, it should recognize when it is doing contradictory things and rush to justify itself accordingly, because these are things the emotional beats of previous stories hinged on. Like, when the game has Taash say a line like "The Qun isn't a prison, you can leave if you want", it's the responsibility of the writers to show that this is Taash being misinformed, not because I'm too stupid to headcanon that this is the case, but because this line is a symptom of how the entire game's writing seems to have forgotten about the Ben-Hassrath as a thing that exists in this setting.

Previous Dragon Age games are no stranger to "We quietly removed Solas' network of agents and spies offscreen"-style writing, but it usually didn't feel like a constant deluge periodically uprooting my emotional investment and immersion. There's only so much I can take in good faith before I realize that this game was just not written with any care towards ensuring that the worldbuilding made sense and felt right to the player, leading to awkward backpedaling in reddit threads like "no the Crows haven't changed as an organization, these are just the unique Good Crows and we forgot to mention it".

I just can't look past this shit anymore.

[rowarn]

PLEASE, LOVE ME. PT 1

simon riley / reader

FIND PART TWO || read the full thing on ao3

tags: childhood friends, friends2lovers, virgin!reader, soft!simon, protective!simon, afab!reader, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, MDNI

cw: reader is over 20, pining, masturbation (reader), loss of virginity, explicit workplace sexual harassment/assault, so much crying, one-sided love, not-really-unrequited love, vomiting, panic attacks, depression, crying, sex related shame, PTSD (reader), codependency but cute, self-deprecating thoughts, slut shaming, wet dream, dry humping, simon fucks up tho, reference to suicide & suicidal ideation, really nasty argument, reader hits simon sorry, apologizes tho!!!, reader struggles to orgasm, drinking, fooling around while drunk (no sex), breast play, fingering, orgasm denial, simon's a tease, p-in-v, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, creampie, mating press, missionary, simon's dirty mouth, dirty talk, wet&messy, big cock, uncut simon bc i said so, reassurance & encouragement, some pain upon penetration, clit spanking, post-coital crying!!!!!!, aftercare, briefly edited so apologies for any lingering mistakes

note: any triggering acts such as harassment/sa are done by a third party, not simon!!! also the sa is not vague or implied, there is a written out scene so please be mindful when you read! thank u to @allsaiint for reading over this and helping!

you've loved him since you were children. after a confession when you were 14 went rejected, you vowed to never let your feelings be known again. but after an incident that left you hurt and fragile, you find it hard to keep that promise.

part 1: 17.8k total: 35.8k

Your muscles were stiff, thighs twitching and trembling as you laid in bed, staring at your water stained ceiling. Your chest rose and fell in time with rapid breathing. You had worn yourself out, caused a wet spot on your bed, yet you remained completely unsatisfied. Your fingers were cramped up and you let out a groan of frustration, rolling over to crawl out of bed. 

It had become a daily ritual at this point, you with your hand between your thighs, rubbing and touching, only to get into the shower completely unsatisfied and embarrassed at your own inability to get yourself off. 

People your age didn’t struggle like this, you convinced yourself.  Your cheeks burned as you stepped under the warm spray from your showerhead, the creaking pipes just background noise to you now. You were broken, that was the only explanation you could think of. 

By the time you got out of the shower and changed your sheets, throwing the dirty ones into the washer, it was evening and a familiar knocking rang through your apartment.

You didn’t even have to answer it before the lock was clicking and the large form of your best friend Simon ducked in. 

“Hey, Simon!” you called cheerfully, excitedly bounding into the room and wrapping your arms around him in greeting. 

He grunted, harshly patting your back in the familiar way he always does before kicking his boots off. When he straightened up, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at you. 

“What's with you?” he asked, a thick, dark brow raised suspiciously. 

“Um,” you stepped back, shrugging as you tried to look nonchalant, “What do you mean?”

“You look…” his eyes raked down your body, clearly assessing you, “You look tense.”

Immediately, your cheeks erupted into flames. Your face felt so hot that you had to bring your hands up to cool them before laughing nervously, “That’s no different than usual.”

He was silent for several, long, grueling seconds before grunting and breezing past you to the kitchen, clearly letting it drop. You took a moment to catch your breath before following him, finding him hunched over looking into your barren refrigerator. 

“Where’s all your fuckin’ food?” he snapped, straightening back up with a huff when he heard you come in behind him.

“Didn’t get a chance to shop this week, Si,” you replied stiffly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Why?” he demanded, slamming the appliance closed before heading to your cabinets to do inventory there too.

“Paycheck was short again this week,” you answered, speaking quietly in hopes he wouldn’t look into it anymore than that. 

He angrily slammed a cabinet closed and leaned on his palms against the counter, head hung between his shoulders, “Your boss fuckin’ stiff you again?”

“I-It’s not a big deal, Simon–” you attempted to quell him.

“Not a big deal?” he snapped, slamming his hands down on the counter, making you flinch at the noise. You knew Simon would never, ever hurt you but his anger was something to behold nonetheless, “It is a big deal when you can’t even afford to fuckin’ eat!”

“Simon…” you whisper, anxiously picking at a string on your cotton shorts, “I wasn’t going hungry, I have like…ramen and stuff…”

He says your name through gritted teeth, letting out a frustrated sigh, “Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t afford proper groceries?”

“I didn’t want to bother you with it, Si,” you mutter, “I-It’s my problem, not yours.”

He gives you a long, unblinking stare. His usual soft, puppy dog brown eyes now felt intimidating. One thing about Simon was that he never hid it when he was clearly upset with you. And knowing he was right now made you hang your head pitifully.

He moves suddenly, tugging his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out a small stack of clean bills, slapping them on your countertop.

“Simon, no–” you attempt to reach out for them, willing him to take the money back.

He grabs your hand immediately, shoving the appendage away from the money, “You’ll take this and you’ll go to the store tomorrow and get some damn food or I’m going to go to the bar and wrap my fuckin’ hands around your boss’s throat until he coughs up your money.”

“You don’t have to do this, Simon!” you argue, exasperated, “Y-You don’t have to take care of me like this.”

“Yes, I fuckin’ do!” he counters, “You’re my responsibility and I’m not going to let you exist on fuckin’ cup noodles until that shithead pays you properly, not when I can take care of you. Now stop arguing and put this in your wallet now.”

He used that damn Lieutenant voice, leaving no room for argument. You bit your lip and slowly picked up the bills from the counter.

“Thank you, Simon…” you whisper, clutching the money close to your chest as you offer him a wobbly smile.

“Shut up and go,” he huffs, though his voice is much softer and affectionate now. 

You turn on your heel and go to the table by the door, slowly taking the time to place the money safely inside. You felt tears pricking at your eyes. You were so, so lucky to have someone in your life that did everything in his power to take care of you, to look after you and make sure you had food on the table. No one had ever cared about your well-being the way Simon did, and your heart felt incredibly full because of it. 

You could hear him still stalking around the kitchen, grumbling to himself in annoyance. He comes out of the kitchen, phone in hand, before he’s taking a seat on your old, creaky couch. His knee is bouncing up and down in that way it always does. It’s like he’s always a live wire, ready and waiting for something to happen.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, still standing by the table.

He grunts, shaking his head, “Orderin' dinner.”

“Oh,” you mumble, “What’re you getting?”

“Gettin’ from that breakfast diner you like,” he responds quickly, not looking up from his phone. 

“You don’t even like that place,” you giggle, “In the mood for a breakfast sandwich?”

“Not for me,” was his clipped response.

“What?” you whine, “Simon, don’t order me food!”

“Did you eat today?” he asks quickly, placing his phone on the table, clearly done with the order.

“I had cup noodles!” you point an accusing finger at him, “So yes!”

“That’s not real food,” he leans against the back of the couch, closing his eyes with his arms crossed over his chest. End of conversation. 

You sigh, shaking your head. You debate continuing to pester him about it but you hear your washing machine begin to ring the jingle signaling the cycle is finished. You cast one last, unseen glare to the man on your couch before heading to the washer, methodically taking the now clean sheets out. 

You finish placing it in the dryer and turning the machine on, stepping back into the living room when there’s a knock on the door. Simon is on his feet in seconds and at the door before you can even react. When he slams the door shut, he holds the bag of food up for you to see, dropping it on the coffee table before taking a seat again. He resumes the same position, arms cross over his chest and eyes closed. 

“Are you tired?” you ask softly, taking the empty seat beside him. He hums in response, “You want to spend the night?”

“Guess so,” he responds after a few seconds, “You work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night,” you mumble, reaching for the bag of food, untying the knot so you can get inside, “I hate working Friday nights.”

“I can stop by tomorrow if you want,” he offers, finally opening his eyes.

You think it over for a minute. It wouldn’t be the first time he sat in the bar on a busy Friday night, nursing a half-drunk bourbon, as he waited for you to get off, “I think it’ll be okay. Last week was fine.”

He simply stares at you in silence before sighing through his nose. But he doesn’t argue and you’re thankful for that. 

Simon’s been looking after you like this since you turned 18 and moved out on your own. There have been many, many days and nights that you’ve taken up his time and energy and as you grew older, you tried to do it less. He had an incredibly busy job and life and the last thing you wanted was to add weight onto his already heavy shoulders. 

The evening turned to night and before you knew it you had a full belly and leftovers to store in the fridge for breakfast. You folded your dried sheet and placed it in the hallway closet, acutely aware of the sound of Simon showering in your bathroom. 

It wasn’t a very big shower and you sometimes wondered what it looked like for him in there. Surely he had to hunch down to properly wash his hair and shoulders. But those thoughts always turned into something less than innocent. 

You imagined what he looked like, all wet. How big he surely looked in there, no doubt he would dwarf you. He would be able to easily crowd you in the corner, make it so you couldn't escape as he blocked the exit – not that you would want to escape. 

You slapped a hand against your forehead, shaking your head violently to rid yourself of those thoughts. You tugged a spare blanket out of the closet and slammed it closed, rushing to your bedroom to place it on your bed. 

Your cheeks burned with shame over having such unsavory thoughts about your best friend. As much as you liked to pretend that the crush you had on him when you were children had faded like typical puppy love, you knew your feelings were alive and well deep inside where you had pushed them when he rejected you when you were 14. 

It was just because you were so pent up, you convinced yourself, you would have those thoughts about any man that was inside your shower!

You crawled onto your side of the bed, flopping back into your pillow as you waited for him to come in. You completely ignored the throbbing between your thighs, a feeling you were more than used to by now. But your fingers itched to reach down, slip beneath the band of your shorts and touch your clit, the little bud throbbed so desperately that when you clenched your thighs together, a shiver would go down your spine. 

Just as you started to reach down, just to try and relieve the ache that settled there, the bathroom door opened. You yanked your hand back up and tried to look casual as you heard his heavy footsteps move towards the bedroom door.

He pushed the door open wider so he could come in, having to duck his head down to avoid hitting his head. He placed his towel in the laundry basket and slowly crawled into bed beside you, placing his pillow flat so he could comfortably lay down.

Some people may find it strange sleeping with him like this, but your couch was much too small for him and he would rather cut his own fingers off than make you sleep on the damned thing. It was old and so uncomfortable that it caused you to be sore if you sat on it for too long. Plus, you never felt uncomfortable having him in the bed with you like this. He was warm and safe and he always smelled like your grapefruit body wash after he showered. 

It made your heart thump in your chest, knowing he walked around the next day smelling like you. 

“Goodnight, Simon,” you mumbled, reaching over to turn your bedside lamp off.

He grunted quietly, rolling over so his back was facing you. You smiled in the dark and snuggled down into your own blanket, closing your eyes as well. 

The next morning, you woke up and the bed was empty. As usual. 

Even when he was home, Simon functioned off of the strict military schedule he’d been accustomed to for his many years in the military. You sat up and stretched your arms above your head, tossing your blanket off of you. The floor was chilly against your bare feet, making you shiver. 

After going pee, you ventured out into the living room. Simon was lounging, quietly watching TV – the morning news, it seemed.

“Good morning,” you called. 

“Eat,” was all he replied, not even breaking his gaze off of the TV.

You purse your lips but do as you’re told – not because he said so, but because your stomach was painfully growling and the breakfast sandwich in the fridge sounded delicious. 

As you heated it up in the microwave, you hummed to yourself.

“I’m going to go to the store after I eat,” you called, “Do you want to come?”

“Nah,” he grunted, “Gotta go soon.”

“Oh,” you tried to hide your disappointment, “Will you be back tonight?”

“Probably not,” he responded, your disappointment only growing at that. 

The microwave beeped and you pulled your plate of food out, bringing it back to the living room to eat it beside him. He took up an absurd amount of space given how large he was and how small your couch was – but you didn’t mind being pressed up against him. You didn’t think he minded either because he never bothered to move away. 

You quietly ate your breakfast, finishing up just as the news segment ended. Simon stood, knees popping as he did, patting his pockets to make sure he had his keys and wallet before pausing, looking around. 

“You leaving?” you ask, placing your plate on the table as you followed his lead, standing.

“Got to,” he mumbled, still glancing around, “Where’s my phone?”

“You leave it in the bedroom?” you offer.

He sighs and disappears down the hall for a split minute before returning, tucking the device into his pocket. He grabs his coat off the table by the door, slipping it on and zipping it up. You approach him by the door, watching him slip his boots on and tie them. 

“See you later, Si,” you say, trying your best to hide your disappointment at him leaving. 

You never wanted him to leave, always feeling painfully lonely without his presence in your home. Since he was gone for long periods so often, you liked to enjoy his company as much as you can when he’s home. But you would never be the type to ask him to stay when he couldn’t because you knew he would run himself ragged to keep you company even when he was exhausted and had other things to do on top of it. You never wanted to be a burden to him.

He straightens up, stomping his feet a couple times to make sure his boots were on fine. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you against his chest. You wrap both arms around his middle and hug him tight.

“I’ll come by when I can,” he mutters, pulling back to press a kiss to your forehead.

Then he’s gone, the door slamming closed and leaving you by yourself in the doorway, already feeling an emptiness that would remain until he returned. 

Just as you promised, you went out and bought groceries, courtesy of the money Simon had so kindly given you. You made sure you had some meat, fruit, and veggies, along with some canned goods. You made sure you didn’t buy cup noodles because he certainly wouldn’t be thrilled to know you bought that since he was so vehemently against them being in your diet. 

When you got home, you put all the groceries away and quickly realized that you had some time to spare before you had to get ready for your shift at the bar. 

As you sit on the couch, mindlessly watching some random show you’ve seen a hundred times before, you suddenly realize you’re squeezing your thighs together. 

And your panties are feeling awfully sticky. 

Your body heats up as you find yourself cupping your breasts through your shirt and bra. But you quickly realize that’s doing nothing for you and you strip your shirt off, pulling the sports bra over your breasts to cup them without the fabric restriction. You sigh and relax into the couch as you pull and pinch your nipple, tugging them and rolling them beneath your fingers. Your thighs clench and rub together as you tease yourself. 

But you tire of that quickly, knowing you could do something that felt so much better. 

Your fingers tremble as you tug the button of your jeans open and kick them off, letting your panties go down with them. You take note of the fact the center is completely sticky and wet. God, how long had you been dripping into your panties like that?

You lean back on the couch, placing your feet on the cushions, letting your legs open nice and wide. Your folds flower open, embarrassingly wet and shiny. Your clit is hard and swollen between them and you can practically see the bud twitching. 

With two, shaky fingers, you reach down and swipe over the bud. Your entire body twitches at the contact and you sigh as you slowly circle it, using your own slick as lubrication. 

You bring a finger to your entrance, prodding at the stickiness there. It’s embarrassing how wet you are. Your pussy makes loud noises as you touch but it doesn’t really provide you much pleasure so you bring your finger back to your clit. 

You circle it, pinch it, and roll your fingers over it. You’re quietly moaning, lidded eyes hazy as you watch your fingers play between your thighs. It feels good, a warm feeling settling in your gut the more you touch yourself. 

But then the inevitable happens – it’s like you hit a wall. 

You whine in frustration, speeding up your movements to hopefully reach the edge that you know is right over the wall. But you don’t get any further, if anything you feel that warmth vanishing at an alarming rate. 

Tears sting your eyes, “No, no, no…” you beg no one.

You grit your teeth in frustration, yanking your hand away to watch your pussy clench and throb over nothing, drooling and dripping slick onto the couch. But you’re too frustrated to try anymore. 

You close your thighs and flop down onto the couch, letting a few tears escape.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” you quietly complain, slapping the couch out of frustration.

Your lamenting is interrupted by your phone going off. You look at it on the table and see it's the alarm you set to let you know to start getting ready. 

Great, you spent 45 minutes playing with yourself and still didn’t get any further than you had for the last 20-something years of your life. 

You were starting to think you should schedule an appointment with a doctor and find out if you were well and truly broken, but quickly decided against it. That would be fucking humiliating.

What would you say, “Hi, I can’t make myself orgasm and never have, please doctor, tell me if my vagina is broken?” Absolutely not. 

You collect your clothes from the living room floor and toss them in your laundry basket in your room before you take a very fast shower just to clean your own mess up. Then, you get dressed and ready for the shift you know is going to suck at the bar. 

At the door, you make sure you have your belongings. You turn out all your lights and lock the door behind you before setting off to the bar. 

It’s not a long walk, about 15 minutes away. But just the idea of stepping foot inside the bar fills you with dread. 

It was a little hole in the wall place, shady and seedy were the best ways to describe it. You got pretty good tips from the patrons most nights but your boss was the biggest piece of shit you’d ever had the misfortune of being in close proximity with. 

He had a very bad habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong and cutting his employee’s pay for no reason – or reasons he completely made up. Your last paycheck was short because he claims that you ‘got enough in tips to make up the loss’ – you didn’t. And when you argued, he threatened to fire you. 

You were already living in the cheapest flat you could afford; it was run-down and poorly maintained. But it was better than not having a roof over your head. And it was a fight to even get hired at the shitty bar you worked at now, you weren’t willing to go back to looking for work. 

So you simply bit your tongue and took what money you could get. It wasn’t the first time he did it and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last. 

You got to work as soon as you clocked in, greeting your coworkers with a tense smile that they returned. Everyone was in the same boat as you, after all. No one would choose to work here unless they were down on their luck like you.

The night started slow, slower than usual for a Friday night. Despite the place looking like it was going to fall down around you and the occasional rat that scampered across the floor, the bar was actually kind of a hotspot. The alcohol was cheap and your boss never cut anyone off so patrons were free to get as sloshed as they wanted. 

That also meant the customers tended to get rather unruly. 

Which is exactly what happened when the night inevitably picked up. More people came in, more drinks were ordered, and you were running around the place like mad to get drinks where they needed to be. 

You cast a glance to the clock behind the bar, sighing in relief when you realized you had 10 minutes left of this hell. 

You were sure you were a sight, clearly run ragged and ready to get the hell out of there and go home. Your feet were sore from the old, worn shoes you wore. They looked fine on the outside, cute, but the soles were worn down and provided absolutely no cushion. It was hell. 

“This goes to the corner table,” the bartender called over the loud voices of the bar. He was a nice guy, couldn’t be older than 20, but you honestly couldn’t even recall his name. 

You took the tray of shitty beer from the counter and quickly made your way to the corner table in the back, careful not to spill a drop. You placed the tray down and gave the guys at the table a charming smile.

“Here’s your drinks,” you said, placing a glass in front of all 4 of them. 

“Thanks, beautiful,” one of them slurred, given a drunken wink.

“Um, is there anything else you need?” you asked, ignoring his flirting, as you picked up the tray. 

“Maybe,” another one chuckled, leaning back in his seat, raking his eyes down your body. You wished you could crawl into a hole at the feeling of his gaze on you. Despite being fully clothed, it made you feel incredibly naked – like he could see through your clothes. 

It certainly wasn’t the first time a customer or two flirted with you. It was sort of a rampant problem in this bar, if you were honest.

“What is it you need?” you asked, wishing so badly you could just be free from the conversation. 

One of them pulled out a stack of money, waving it in front of your face, “I’ll tip you this if you show us your tits.”

Your cheeks burned hot in humiliation as the other three laughed and jeered. You shifted on your feet, tapping your fingers anxiously against the metal tray in your hands, envisioning yourself slamming it over their heads. 

“N-No thank you…I-I don’t think that would be appropriate,” you hope that they can’t hear the way your voice trembles over all the noise in the bar.

“Come on, sexy,” the one with the money grinned, licking over his teeth as his eyes narrowed on your chest, “Bet they’re real nice. C’mon, you need the money right? Why else would you be working at a place like this? Go on, just lift your shirt up and let us see them tits!”

“M-My shift is over, I really need to go,” you shakily smile and take a step back, “I-I hope you enjoy your night, boys.”

Your attempt to diffuse the situation and get out of it proved futile because when you attempted to flee, one of them clapped a firm hand around your wrist and tugged you forward. You stumbled on your feet, dropping the metal tray with a gasp, finding yourself nose to nose with one of them. The smell of alcohol was potent on his breath and it made your lip curl in disgust. You tried to tug yourself free of his grasp but his grip was too strong. 

The guy sitting on the other side of the one who had a hold on you reached over his buddy to yank the neckline of your shirt down, the cheap, worn material stretching with ease until it tore at the weakest point. You let out a horrified cry when your bra became visible to the group, all of them cheering and shouting degrading things right in your face. 

The one across the table reached down, you felt his hand against your breast through your bra and a lightning bolt of pure terror ripped through you. It was like everything happened in slow motion.

You could feel his thumb hook under your bra and start to tug, tears flooded your eyes and dripped down your cheeks. You raised a hand and as hard as you could, slapped the one still holding you clean across the face. 

The entire table went still but his grasp loosened enough for you to turn on your heel and bolt as fast as you could into the staff room, covering your exposed bra with your arms as best you could. You passed one of your coworkers, her eyes wide in concern when she saw your state. 

She followed you into the staff room, closing the door quietly behind her. You stood in front of your locker, ripping it open as you attempted to collect your things but your mind was running too fast for you to actually make any meaningful movements.

Your coworker called your name and you paused.

“Hey, take a breath,” she whispered softly, placing a hand on your back. You realized you were hyperventilating. You attempted to level out your breathing, wiping the tears off of your cheeks only for more to replace them. 

“What happened?” she asked softly, “Do you want me to call someone? The police?”

You shake your head, opening your mouth to respond but only a little sob comes out. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed. She looks nothing but sympathetic, softly patting your back and encouraging you to breathe deeply. 

The staff room door suddenly slams open, making both of you jump. Your boss storms in, completely red in the face and furious. 

“Get out,” he snaps at your coworker. 

She casts an apologetic look to you, squeezing your hand before she ducks her head and leaves the staff room. He slams the door behind her, locking it for good measure – leaving both of you alone. 

He advances on you faster than you can react, he wraps a hand around your throat and slams you against the lockers. It hurts but you can’t get a noise past the grip around your neck. You blink back the tears that are still coming, trying to see him more clearly.

“Are you broke in the fuckin’ head?!” he screams, a volume that makes your ears ring. You wonder if the patrons can hear it outside, “You put your hands on a customer?!”

“Th-They put their hands on me first!” you defended yourself, hoarse and choked under his grip, “They touched me!”

He only looks more furious, eyes falling to your ripped shirt and exposed bra. He grabs one side of the already torn shirt and yanks, ripping it the rest of the way. Your eyes go wide and your first instinct is to kick him but you’re panicked and uncoordinated so it misses its mark.

“I don’t give a shit if they forced you over the table and fucked you!” he howls, spitting all over your face in his rage, “You better think fast and hard about how you’re going to rectify this. Do you understand me?”

His grip tightens a bit more around your throat and you hastily nod, blubbering mindless apologies to try and appease him. He doesn’t look any less angry but lets you go nonetheless. Your knees are too shaky to hold you up so you slide down the lockers until you’re sitting on the dirty floor.

“You go out there and you apologize to them,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “Or I’m going to fire you and you’re gonna be out on the fuckin’ streets, got it?”

You nod your head, holding back your sobs but can’t control the tears that fall down your cheeks. He sends you one last glare before turning back to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open. 

You’re left there, trembling on the floor and quietly crying to yourself. Your heart is racing and you’ve never felt more terrified and humiliated in your life.

The door opens again and you look up in horror at the idea of your boss coming back. But it’s your coworker again. 

She quietly crouches next to you and gives you a once over, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“I-I have to apologize t-to them,” you manage to choke out. 

Her eyes widened, “No way! You didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I can’t lose this job,” you sob, pressing the heel of your hands to your eyes as you cry, “I need this job. He says he’ll fire me if I don’t apologize!”

“Okay,” she whispers, “I’ll go with you, okay? You can apologize and then you can go, that’s it.”

You nod your head and stand up, using the lockers as a crutch. Your coworker helps you steady yourself before she sees your shirt is ripped even more than when she left.

She whispers your name, “Are you sure he didn’t…”

“He only ripped it,” you assure her, sniffling softly, “But I can’t go out there like this.”

It dawns on you that you forgot a jacket. It was a little warmer today than it had been in days and you had simply neglected to bring one. 

“You can borrow my hoodie,” she assures, opening her locker to tug it out, handing it to you, “Go on, you can return it to me another day.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clumsily sliding it over your head. You feel much better now that you’re covered up, you feel less vulnerable. You quickly collect all your belongings so you can leave as soon as you get this over with.

You let her lead you out of the staff room. The second you’re out, the blaring noise immediately proves to be too much. You wipe your eyes, using the sleeve of the hoodie. You make a note to wash it properly when you return it. 

You feel the eyes of strangers on you and it just makes you feel worse with every passing second. You want to go home. You want to shower. You want to crawl into bed. You want Simon. 

You let her lead you to the table, all the men are still there laughing and drinking their beers. They fall silent when you approach, four pairs of eyes falling on you, making you feel humiliated and small. They look expectant, the one who ripped your shirt tapping his fingers against the table. 

“There you are!” the one who had held your wrist grinned. It was a predatory smile that made your heart race anxiously, “Thought you were gonna run away without apologizing for bein’ a raging bitch.”

You flinch at the insult and your coworker squeezes your hand in support, “I-I’m sorry for slapping you.”

“That’s fuckin’ right!” another one jeered, “Practically ruined our night. How are you going to make it up to us?”

“I’ve got a few ideas!” a different once laughed. The other three joined in eagerly.

“How about you stay back late and really make it up to us, huh?” you squeezed your coworkers hand in yours, already feeling the tears returning with a vengeance.

“How about I bring you a round on me, huh?” she quickly intervenes, “I’ll buy.”

That seems to do it for the 4 men and they rambunctiously cheer and slam their hands on the table obnoxiously. You think you hear her promise to be back with their drinks as she pulls you away from the table. You both hide away in the staff room again and she holds both your hands in hers.

“Go on home,” she says softly.

“I-I’ll pay you back for the drinks–” she shushes you quickly when you start.

“Don’t even worry about it,” she coos, “Go home.”

With a gentle nudge to the back entrance, she casts you one last kind smile before slipping out of the staff door. 

You don’t even remember the walk home, your mind completely fuzzy. But you’re sobbing again by the time you stumble into the door. You collapse onto the floor in front of your couch, wailing into the cushions as the weight of the night fully and entirely collapses on you. You can barely breathe through your tears, hiccups and coughs breaking up the endless crying only to resume when you catch your breath. 

You have no idea how long you sit there, crying louder and harder than you have in a very, very long time. 

You hear your front door creak open before the living room light flips on. You go completely stiff, your crying finally going silent as you hear the familiar heavy footsteps step into the living room before they fall still when he sees you.

He calls your name, soft and gentle in a way that is completely unlike him. Simon isn’t soft, he talks to you in a cold, apathetic and teasing tone. He’s always clipped and blunt. Sure, he’s kind but never gentle.

Just the sweet tone makes your lips wobble and suddenly you’re sobbing again. His boots hit the floor fast, taking quick, big strides so he can reach you as fast as he possibly can. Two strong hands hook under your arms and turn you towards him. He takes a seat beside you on the floor and tugs you into lap.

You melt into his chest, secured by his embrace as he holds you. One hand cups the back of your head and the other wraps around your back. 

“You didn’t answer your phone when I called,” he explained his arrival, lips pressed to the crown of your head, “Got worried so I rushed over.”

You grip his hoodie in your hands, anchoring yourself to him as you cry and cry. He remains silent, content to hold you and let you cry out everything you’re feeling. 

Just having him there, holding you and comforting you, is enough to ease your tears until you’re just a hiccuping, sniffling mess. You’re taking those quick, stuttering gasping breaths that signify the end of your meltdown and Simon slowly eases his hold on you. 

He cups your cheek in one hand, raising your head up so he can really look at you. He rubs a thumb under your eye, wiping away your tears. He looks so concerned, brows furrowed and a frown on his lips. 

The sight of his face makes your lips wobble again, “Si…” you finally manage to choke out.

His gaze softens immediately, his other hand coming up to cup your face as well. He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he finally asks, letting go of your face to hold your waist, keeping you curled up in his lap. 

You think about it. You want to tell him all about it, to get it off of your chest and figure out how the hell you’re supposed to move past it. But you know that if you tell him, he’s going to march his ass to your job the second he gets a chance and put your boss’s head through the wall and find those assholes from the table. 

You really can’t afford to lose your job. Your bills are tight enough as it is, you’re scraping by by the skin of your teeth. If you’re jobless for even a week, it’s going to fuck everything up. You’ll never make rent and you can’t end up on the street. 

“Just a…bad shift…” you supply lamely.

Simon stares at you, jaw set and tense, “I don’t know what’s worse. The fact you’re lying in the first place or the fact you don’t think you can tell me what really happened.”

“Simon…” you whine, pushing yourself off of his lap, “Just let it go, please.”

He follows your lead when you stand up. He still hasn’t taken his boots off, still too concerned about you to care. Every step he takes is a loud sound of his weight in those boots. 

You pace back and forth, arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not letting it go,” he responds, “I think you know me better than that.”

“Simon, please!” you feel the tears returning again and you suddenly realize how tired you are from crying. Your eyes are sore and you just want to sleep. 

“I want to know what happened,” he argues, clearly growing exasperated. 

You know he’s not going to let it go. He knows you too well to believe any lies. You press your hands to your face and let out a noise of frustration and despair. You can feel his eyes on you, unwavering and firm. You feel hot, like you’re overheating and suffocated. With trembling hands, you haphazardly tug at the hoodie – you need it off or you’re going to go mad. 

Simon reaches forward to help you, watching your rising panic but you slap his hands away. He looks stupefied at your reaction but retracts his hands. 

But you can’t get the damned thing off, you’re uncoordinated and clumsy, unable to pull your arms through the sleeves so you can get it off. Why won’t it come off? 

“G-Get it off,” you finally cry, completely unaware of the pure horror in your voice.

Simon’s hands are back, “I’ve got you. I’ll get it off ya.” 

True to his word, he tugs it up and it slips over your head with ease. You feel like you can take a deep breath finally, feeling the cool air of your living room against your skin again. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you attempt to calm yourself. 

He says your name softly but you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You jump when you feel the ghost of his fingers against your stomach – the skin is bare and it makes your eyes fly open. You look down and remember that your shirt was completely torn open, the hoodie had been hiding it, and now Simon is seeing. You can see the realization in his face.

He’s not an idiot. If anything, he’s more intelligent than anyone you’ve ever known. 

Suddenly your stomach turns and you place a hand over your mouth. You’re running down the hallway, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet as you heave. 

You don’t hear any movement from Simon. He doesn’t follow you to the bathroom. You’re briefly thankful for the escape as the nausea disappears before you suddenly crave to have him near you again.

“Simon!” you cry, his footfalls an immediate response. 

He crouches beside you, placing a hand on your back, “You finished?”

You nod, spitting one last time into the toilet, “I-I want to shower.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he stands, stepping past you to turn on the shower for you. He places a consoling hand on the top of your head in passing before he goes to leave you alone. You reach out and grab his hand before he can get too far.

He pauses and looks at you, easily understanding. He brushes his thumb over your hand, “Not goin’ anywhere, love.”

He takes a step outside of the bathroom and stands there, hands held in front of him as if he were on guard, like a security guard. You flush the toilet and shakily strip your clothes off before stepping into the shower, letting the warm spray ease your sore body and clear your sinuses. You’re terribly stuffy from crying so you can’t even smell your grapefruit body wash this time.

You finish your shower, making sure you scrub your body as best you can before you step out and wrap a towel around your body.

“Are you hungry?” Simon suddenly asks.

“No…” your tone is flatter than you had intended and you realize that you’re completely emotionally drained. 

“Alright,” is all he says in reply.

You approach the door, where he’s still standing. You place your hand against his back and he quickly steps aside to let you by. You hear his boots behind you as he follows you to your bedroom. 

You sit on the bed, completely exhausted. Simon makes himself busy with going through your dresser, pulling out some clothes for you to wear before he places them on the bed beside you. You don’t make any movements. 

He sighs, softly saying your name before crouching in front of you, taking your hands in his. 

“Was it your boss?” he asks softly. 

“Him and some assholes I was serving drinks to,” you tiredly answer. You don’t have it in you to fight in anymore. 

“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” he pries, squeezing your hands.

“Because I know you, Si,” you sniffle, “You’re going to go down there and put them all in the hospital when you find them.”

“And?” he scoffs, “They fuckin’ deserve it. No one gets to put their hands on you like that and get away with it.”

“Because I can’t lose my job, Si!” you finally cry, “I barely make ends meet as it is! I-If I lose my job, what am I supposed to do? I won’t be able to afford rent. I’ll be on the streets!”

“I would never let that happen,” he says firmly, “You will never be on the streets, love. I will always take care of you, you know that.”

“I can’t do that to you, Simon,” you mutter, sniffling again, “Y-You already have so much on your plate I don’t want to be another problem you have to deal with.”

“Is that what you think?” he scoffs, standing up, “That I deal with you? You’re important to me, I take care of you because I never want anything to happen to you. I’m not going to let you work at that shithole for a minute longer.”

You hang your head, unable to supply any arguments to him anymore.

“I’m going to make you something small to eat. You’re going to eat and drink some water and then you’re going to get some rest, understood?” he gives a satisfied hum when you nod your head in compliance. 

Once you’re alone, you go over his words again. You’re important to him, that’s what he said. It was the most clear he had ever been with his feelings towards you since you confessed your feelings when you were young. 

As you methodically got dressed in the clothes he picked out for you, you reminisced. Memories of him were always something that made you inexplicably happy – except for one memory.

You were 14 and he was 17 at the time. You’d known each other for your entire childhood after his mother had brought him over for a playdate despite the age difference and the fact you were closer in age to his brother. 

He had always looked after you and taken care of you, walking you home after school and simply looking after you when your parents were busy. It was inevitable that you would grow feelings for him. You remember the way your heart would race every time you looked at him. You remember telling your friends that he was your boyfriend, hoping he wouldn’t find out.

You had told him one evening when he was hanging out, having dinner with your family, that you liked him – like liked. 

You remember how you cried into your pillow night after night when he rejected you. Told you flat out that you were an idiot and to drop it and never, ever bring it up again. That he didn’t feel the same. And that was that. 

You never brought it up again. 

But the crush never once waned. You decided that his friendship was more important than your feelings for him so you would never let him know. And that’s how it had been ever since. 

Simon’s voice calling your name ripped you from your reminiscing. You tied the drawstrings of the sweats he had picked out and quickly made your way to the kitchen. 

Simon was washing a pan by the time you arrived but he nodded to a plate he set on the counter for you. It was just a small omelet he made, complete with a light drizzle of ketchup. 

He knew you well, you couldn’t deny. You picked up the fork he’d placed on the plate for you and slowly began to eat. 

After being sick, your stomach was painfully empty so you were happy to have something on it once again. Simon quietly finished washing the dishes he had dirtied before he placed them on the dish rack and dried his hands. 

“Um, Simon?” you called softly, receiving a grunt in reply, “Didn’t you have something going on tonight?”

“Was gonna be out the lads,” he responded, “Doesn’t matter, can hang out with those idiots anytime.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your friends like that,” you said, shaking your head as you took a final bite of your omelet.

“Aint my friends,” he reached down and took your plate from you, tossing it into the sink.

“Simon Riley doesn’t have friends?” you asked, eyes following him as he locked up your apartment and started to turn out the lights.

“Got you,” he said as you followed him down the hall, “All I need.”

A fond smile made its way across your face as he yanked his shirt above his head. You began to make yourself comfortable in bed, trying to keep your eyes off of him as he got dressed for bed. Despite the way you wanted to take the chance to look at him.

Friends. That’s what you were, you reminded yourself. 

Finally, he climbed into bed beside you, making himself comfortable before you turned out the light. 

Yet, despite your exhaustion from the night, you felt like you couldn’t close your eyes. You felt like you couldn’t relax. The tension in your body was so much that you were sore. Like you had gone to the gym instead of went to work. 

“Simon..?” you whispered into the dark. He was silent for a second before he hummed in response, “Can I…tell you what happened tonight?”

He was quiet again but you felt him move, a hand blindly reaching over to you to find your hands. You took it in both of yours, nervously fidgeting with his fingers. 

“This stupid group of guys were sloshed beyond belief,” you began to tell him, aware of his gaze on you through the dark, “They were just chattin’ shit, saying they’d tip me if I showed them my tits,” he scoffed beside you, clearly displeased, “I said no and tried to leave and they wouldn’t let me. One of them ripped my shirt and tried to pull my bra up so I slapped him.”

“Fuckin’ bastard deserved to get his teeth knocked down his throat,” Simon growled from beside you.

“I got away and went to the staff room but my boss came in and he was so fucking angry, Si,” your voice shook as you remembered the way his face had been so red and a look of pure hate had been in his eyes, “He grabbed my throat and pinned against the lockers. He was angry that I had struck a customer.”

“Of course that’s all that bastard would be angry about,” Simon spit, not bothering to hide his distaste.

“I tried to tell him that I was defending myself but he said–” your voice broke and you struggled to blink back the tears. Simon sat up a bit, pulling you into his chest, letting you curl against him, the rapid hum of his heart loud in your ear, easing you immediately, “He said that he didn’t care if they put me over the table and fucked me, he would fire me if I didn’t apologize to them.”

Simon’s arms tightened around you immediately, cursing under his breath, “He made you apologize to them?” 

You nod your head, “It was so humiliating, Si. B-But I just didn’t want to lose my job. They just laughed at me and made a joke of it.”

“Pieces of shit,” he hisses, pressing a kiss against your temple, “They better hope I don’t find them.”

You’d really love to see them blubbering on their knees, crying and terrified like you had been. They wouldn’t be so awful in the face of a guy bigger and stronger than them – someone like Simon. 

“I should have gone to the bar tonight,” he sighed, “Even though you told me not to, I wanted to.”

“It’s okay, Si,” you sniffle, “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

You wrap your leg around his waist and snuggle deeper into his chest, finally feeling content to sleep so long as you got to be in his arms. 

You wake up late, well into the afternoon. You’re groggy and struggle to pull yourself out of bed. Simon isn’t in bed, so you force yourself up in search of him. 

As you left, you noticed that the clothes you were wearing last night were gone and weren’t in the laundry basket. You knew for a fact that you left them on the floor. 

He’s relaxing on the couch as usual. His hair is wet and you can smell your body wash wafting off of him when you crawl onto the couch beside him. He reaches a hand out and pets your head gently as a greeting.

“Sleep well?” he asks. You nod your head, “Hungry?” You nod again.

He huffs through his nose and stands up, pressing a fleeting kiss to the top of your head to go prepare something for you to eat. The sound of Simon bustling about the kitchen filled the apartment and you found yourself relaxing into the couch. 

“Simon?” you called, getting to your feet to make your way to the kitchen. 

He had his back to you as he fried up something in the pan but he hummed in response nonetheless.

“Where did my clothes from last night go?” you ask softly.

He pauses his stirring of the food, “Threw them out. Figured you wouldn’t want to see them when you woke up.”

“Oh,” you respond. 

Your heart feels full at his show of care. It was quiet actions like that that just made you feel so…in love, you think before correcting yourself. Fluttery. Cared for. Loved. 

No, he doesn’t love you.

You shake your head and move to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water, going to sit on the couch to wait for Simon to finish cooking. 

The day was spent like that, just you and Simon in your flat. Him just keeping you company and keeping your mind off of things. 

You were curled up against him, listening to the beating of his heart and watching the movie he had decided to play. It was peaceful. He smelled nice, like you. And he was so comfortable beneath you, firm and big. 

His thighs were spread wide, one of your legs thrown over one of his, only serving to make you more aware of how big and firm he was. Solid. Well-built. 

Handsome.

You cast a glance at his face. His brown eyes were half-lidded as he mindlessly nibbled at his bottom lip. They looked soft and shiny. You wondered what he tasted like, how he kissed.

Was he rough? Soft? Did he like to use tongue. 

You’d never kissed anyone before. You wondered if he would be okay with that. You knew some guys liked experienced partners and some liked them inexperienced. You wonder what he preferred. 

Just the idea of kissing him had your heart hammering in your chest and your face burning. You quickly looked at the TV, snuggling closer to him. He squeezed you closer, hand mindlessly rubbing up and down your back. 

Kissing Simon…you pictured him over you, cupping your cheeks in the way he always does. You imagine him pressing his pretty lips against yours, moving them softly against yours. You imagine what it would feel like for him to pin you down, sliding his tongue into your mouth as you moaned and whimpered beneath him, unable to move anywhere because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you. In charge. 

Your pussy clenches around nothing, already starting to drip into your panties. Suddenly you sit up, eyes wide and cheeks flush. Simon looks perturbed, an eyebrow raised at your sudden movement.

“I’ve got to take a shower,” you shakily supply before fleeing to the safety of the bathroom.

You look at yourself in the mirror, hand over your mouth to quiet your heavy breathing. 

What the hell was wrong with you? How the hell could you be thinking about sex and getting turned on after yesterday? How could you be thinking about Simon like that when he was right there? What the fuck was your problem?

You hastily reached over and turned the shower on, the pipes clanking loudly as the water flowed through them. 

Shouldn’t you be the opposite of horny after what happened yesterday? Maybe you really were broken. 

You strip and quickly step into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would possibly go. You needed it to hurt so you would stop acting like such a freak. Like a slut. 

You fight back tears as you begin to wash up. 

By the time your shower is done, you’re exhausted again. You dry off and wrap the towel around yourself, opening the door to find Simon standing on the other side. You jump and gasp, placing a hand over your heart to calm the beating.

“You scared me!” you whine, slipping past him to the bedroom.

“Wanted to check on you,” he says, following slowly behind you, watching as you pick out clothes.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, “I just got really tired and I’d like to turn in early, that’s all.”

“Alright,” he replies, standing there for a second before making his way back to the door, “Just call if you need anything.”

“I will!” you offer him a smile, watching as he leaves, closing the door behind him. 

You quickly dress and climb into bed, turning the lights out before squeezing your eyes shut to will yourself to sleep. Surprisingly, it came quickly and easily – maybe you were more tired than you thought. 

Little did you know that Simon took the opportunity of you sleeping early to slip away and take a little 15 minute walk. 

When you start to dream, you’re acutely aware that it’s a dream. You’re not sure how but, you just know that you’re sleeping and none of this is real.

But god it feels real and you want it to be real so you go along with it. 

Simon is there, you’re both in your bed. He’s got his shirt off and he’s on top of you, kissing your neck softly. Sweetly. 

He doesn’t smell like your body wash anymore, he smells like his – a crisp, musky scent that you love so dearly. And he’s so warm against you. 

You realize that you’re only wearing a pair of panties when his lips suddenly attach to your breast, mouthing at your nipple. His tongue swirls over the bud and it feels so good you can’t help but moan. 

“Si…” you sigh, reaching down to run your fingers through his hair. He rewards you by surging up and pressing his lips against yours. He tastes vaguely like mint and it’s intoxicating. So simple, nothing special or poetic. Just mint. Simon. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and eagerly kiss him back. Kissing is easy, you hazily think. You just move your lips in time with his and it falls into place. 

Simon’s hips move against yours and you cry out when you feel the hard swell of his cock press against you through his sweatpants and your panties. He’s so hard and it's so hot even through the layers of clothes. 

“Si…” you whimper again.

“I’m here, love,” he coos, “I’ve got you.”

He rocks his hips against yours and fuck, it feels good. You eagerly spread your legs and find yourself wishing that the panties weren’t in the way. You’d love to hear the sticky sound of your pussy against his cock through his sweats. You’d love to see the stain of your slick against them, knowing that you marked him as yours like that. 

You feel hot, that tense warmth growing in your tummy. The promise of pleasure that you’ve never been able to experience. Maybe Simon could supply it. You’re sure he could, actually, you convince yourself.

If he just keeps going, keeps rutting his hips like that, you could cum all messy in your panties. Just for him. Only for him. 

Just as you swear it’s going to wash over you, your eyes fly open and you gasp. Your entire body feels hot and sweaty and you realize you’ve thrown your blanket off of your body. The sun is shining through the window and Simon is nowhere to be seen in bed. 

You swallow, your throat feeling painfully dry. 

Suddenly, the bedroom door creaks open and Simon comes in with a laundry basket. He casts a glance at you and seems to relax when he realizes you’re awake.

“Was doin’ some laundry,” he explains, turning to open your drawers to begin putting the clean clothes away.

“Oh,” you whisper, sounding hoarse, “Thank you, Si.”

As you watch him, you realize he seems tenser than usual. You sit up and bed and watch him put the clothes away until he’s finished. He stands there for a moment before looking over his shoulder at you.

“I uh,” he clears his throat, “I’ve gotta go tonight.”

“Go?” you ask, eyes going wide. You don’t want him to leave, “Go where?”

“I’ve got some work to take care of,” he replies, “Paperwork I’ve been puttin’ off. Gonna pull a late one to get it done.”

“I-I don’t want you to go,” you confess softly, trying to blink back the tears that sting your eyes. You feel so pathetic, crying because he needs to leave. But you haven’t been without him since it happened and you’re scared to be alone with just your thoughts.

“I know,” he hums, taking a seat at the foot of the bed, cupping your cheek, “I’ll just be a call away, you know. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

“Promise?” you ask. He nods, teasingly pinching your cheek before you smile and bat his hand away. When he pulls it back you notice his knuckles – bruised and split open. They weren’t like that last night you were sure of it, “Simon…”

He catches you looking and gives you a tense smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

He stands up and kisses your forehead before turning and leaving the room, leaving you to get ready for the day. 

Thankfully, Simon remains around for the day. You notice he’s on his phone a lot more, typing away. It’s unlike him, he’s more the type to do phone calls rather than text. When you ask him about it he just waves you off with an explanation about Soap being on his ass. 

You have a feeling he’s lying but you don’t pry. 

Before he leaves, he makes you dinner. You walk him to the door, unable to stop the pout on your face when he puts his boots on. You can’t help but wish that he’d change his mind at the last second and stay with you after all. 

But he doesn’t. He pulls his balaclava over his face and slips his hood up before turning back to you. 

“Don’t cry, love,” he coos, wiping a stray tear away, “I promise I’ll get all my work done and I’ll be all yours for a good long while.”

“Okay…” you sound so miserable but you can’t bring yourself to care, “I’ll miss you.”

He brings you in for a hug, making sure to squeeze you nice and tight before he pulls back. He can’t give you his normal kiss because of the mask and that only makes you sadder. 

You don’t want him to go. You don’t want him to go. You want him to stay. You want to keep him close. He makes you feel safe. He makes you feel complete. You love him so much. 

You hold onto his hoodie for as long as you can until he has to shake you off and close the door behind him. And you stand there for a long time. Like a puppy who's been left home alone for the first time, just waiting for its owners to come back because it’s scared it’s going to be alone forever. 

By the time you bring yourself to leave the door, the food Simon made you is cold. That only seems to make you feel worse. 

Then you sit on the couch and watch TV, feeling hopelessly alone. You wished you had Simon to curl into and snuggle with. The tiny couch has never felt bigger. 

You shower and brush your teeth, pouting at the sight of his toothbrush, another reminder that he isn’t there. 

Before that night at the bar, you never would have felt so isolated without him; lonely, sure. But now that you’re experiencing this gut-wrenching emptiness, you feel close to tears every time you think about him. He was truly your rock, the only thing that brought you comfort. You loved him.

You flop against the bed and let the tears fall down your temples. You love him. You do.

You’re so fucking in love with him that it hurts. Your heart aches in your chest. You want him there to hold you. 

You know he doesn’t feel the same, you know it will never become anything. But you’re willing to take whatever you can get. Just his company. You can be content so long as he’s with you, as long as he’s in your life. 

But you can think about him, imagine yourself telling him how you feel. Imagine that when he holds you close that he feels the same too. That he loves you. You want him to love you so desperately. 

You wish that he loved you. 

You curled into his pillow, sniffling pathetically as you closed your eyes. You cry yourself to sleep. 

Your eyes fly open and the gasp you let out changes to a sob. All you can hear is your heart pounding in your ears. All you see is flashes of their faces in your head. All you can feel are their hands on you. 

A nightmare, your brain supplies but it does nothing to quell your anxiety and fear.

You reach for Simon, instinctive and desperate. But you only touch the cold mattress and you’re reminded that he isn’t home tonight. 

You fumble through the sheets to find your phone.

I’ll just be a call away, you know. If you need me, I’ll be there. 

He promised.

You can barely see the screen as you look for his contact. You call him, hands trembling as you hold it to your ear. It rings and rings and rings. Then beeps and goes to voicemail.

You hang up and try again. And again. And again.

He doesn’t answer. Why won’t he answer? He promised.

You call him again but it goes straight to voicemail. You can practically feel your heart shatter in your chest. He was ignoring your calls. He ignored you. 

But he had promised he would come when you needed him. And you needed him. 

Your phone becomes completely blurry through your tears as you begin to cry in earnest. You feel hurt, betrayed, disappointed, and angry. You’re fucking angry. 

You suddenly need to let it out. So you take your phone in your hand and throw it, listening to it slam against the wall. It’s loud and the light on your screen goes out. But you don’t feel better. You’re still a mess of volatile emotions. It feels like it’s all bottled up inside you and it hurts. 

You take his pillow and grip it in your fists. You want to rip it to shreds, want to tear it open and release all your anger on it. Instead, you just slam your fists against it. 

Then you do it again. And again. And again. 

You punch the damned thing as you cry and cry. You’re sure you must be a sight. You must be making so much noise as you sob and shriek. 

You were angry at what happened to you, you were angry you had apologize to them for hurting you, you were angry because you couldn’t even sleep peacefully without being plagued by a nightmare the first night you were without Simon, and you were angry he broke his fucking promise. 

Before long, all you were doing was sobbing into his pillow – wailing and crying your broken heart out. You tire yourself out, completely exhausted of all emotions. You lay there, quietly hiccuping and sniffling, just staring into the inky darkness. 

You’re there for hours, unable to fall back asleep. The sun slowly creeps over the horizon and begins to cast an orange glow around the room. 

You can’t even find beauty in it. You’re so exhausted. Your heart aches. It’s agonizing. 

It’s early morning by the time you hear your front door open. You don’t feel excited to see him. You’re not happy he’s back. You don’t feel anything, actually. All you can do is slowly blink, gaze focused outside the window where you can faintly hear birds chirping. 

You wish you were a bird so you could fly away wherever you want. You would fly away from here right now if you could. You wanted to leave. 

You didn’t want to see Simon. You were so angry at him. You’ve never felt like this about him before. You don’t know what to do. All you can think right now is how much you hate him. 

God, you hate him. 

He’s surprisingly quiet as he walks through your apartment. You hear him push the door open, your back to him. But you can feel his eyes on you, can feel how he hovers in the doorway. 

He wanders further into the room before pausing. 

He rounds to your side of the bed and sees that you’re awake, simply staring out the window. He holds your phone up, screen clearly shattered before he places it on the table beside you. 

“You called,” he says softly, shifting anxiously on his feet. Simon’s never anxious. But he is right now, “I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was just…busy. Had some unruly recruits, you know how it is.”

Your eyes finally move from the window, landing on him. He’s wearing the same thing he was last night. Just some jeans and white t-shirt. It’s a nice one, it fits him well and it looks comfy. 

Simon stands there under your gaze, growing increasingly uncomfortable. He’s not used to feeling scrutinized. And that’s exactly what your gaze feels like. 

Your eyes wander to a strange discoloration on his shirt. It’s tan, just a light stain. There’s a tiny smear of black as well. Then you spot the red on his collar, ruby red. 

He looks guilty. He would look like a kicked puppy if you didn’t know any better. This isn’t guilt because he missed your call. He’s guilty because he was too busy getting his dick wet to answer you. 

That’s why he ignored you? To fuck someone?

You’re no longer numb. You’re angry again. That overwhelming feeling that you have no idea how to let out. It’s like it just boils up inside you, like a pot boiling over. It has no place to go but out. 

You’re moving before you even have a chance to register it. You just need to show him how angry you are. Fucking furious. 

You grab the empty glass on your nightstand and wail it in his direction harder than you thought possible. Simon barely dodges, slamming himself against the wall as it shatters behind him. 

Now he looks angry. Good. Maybe he’ll feel a fraction of what you feel right now. 

“Are you out of your fucking head?” he snarls, animosity dripping off of every syllable. 

You don’t even answer, grabbing a book that you have stacked there before throwing that too. Then the second book. Then the third book. Then you throw your phone at him. Then you take the lamp, rip the plug right from the wall and throw that too. 

When you’re out of things to throw on the table you throw your pillow. It’s when you’re about to throw his pillow that he finally has enough. He rips it from your grasp and tosses it across the room. 

He’s standing there, fists balled at his sides and his shoulders heaving up and down as he tries to calm himself. 

“I hate you,” you finally spit, standing on your knees. You don’t have anything to throw so you slam your hands against his chest. You hit him, crying and sobbing as you wail over and over about how you hate him. You hate him so fucking much. 

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” you scream. You’re so loud you’re sure the neighbors can hear but you don’t care. It feels good to let your anger out on him, to punch and slap and claw at his shoulders, chest, and arms. He doesn’t do anything but stand there and let you. He’d never lay a hand on you, even when you’re doing it to him, “I needed you and you were too busy fucking some stupid whore?!”

He doesn’t say anything but he’s trembling now. You’re not sure if he’s just that angry or if he’s holding himself back from wringing your neck. 

You pause to look up at him. His jaw is set hard but he’s staring at you, his usual lazy, lidded look nowhere to be found. He looks enraged. 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” you spit, raising your hand as if you’re going to slap him across the face but you stop. You don’t want to do that. 

“Say what?” he finally responds, voice so cold you swear it drops the room’s temperature, “I have a life that doesn’t revolve around you. That’s the difference between us. You need me but I don’t need you.”

You sit back on your heels at that, the hurt clear on your face. Simon doesn’t seem to care in the slightest now, as tears trickle down your face. You must look a sight, pathetically gazing up at him as he glares down at you like you’re dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.

“You hate me?” he scoffs, “That’s just fine. We’ll see how long you last without me before you’re hanging from a bloody rope.”

He turns on his heel at that and storms out of your room, slamming your bedroom door behind him. It practically rattles the walls. Then you hear the same thing from the front door. 

And you’re all alone. And you can’t do anything but cry about it. 

You find it impossible to get out of bed after that. You lay there for the rest of the day. Then all night. You fitfully sleep when you can’t bear to be awake anymore and then wake when the nightmares hit. 

Then you watch the sun come up and decide that it’s a good day to spend in bed. So you do. You sleep on and off, only waking to cry when you’re plagued with nightmares. 

You occasionally think about Simon. More than occasionally, actually. He’s always on your mind.

You think everything over and come to the conclusion that this was all your fault. From the beginning, really. You’d been keen on staying in his life since you were children, attached yourself to his side and weaseled your way into his life. Really, you gave him no choice but to put up with you. 

He was everything to you. He was right, you needed him. You didn’t have anyone else. No friends, no family, not even a pet. Just him. Always just him. 

What choice did he have other than to put up with you day after day? He didn’t need you like you needed him, after all. He’d surely been spending his days in dread of you – of your texts, your calls. 

This was probably what he was waiting for; an escape. He probably wanted to leave a long, long time ago. You were in love with him and he wanted nothing to do with you. 

What were you thinking? Actually believing that he would want to spend his days with you, taking care of you. Who were you kidding, you were just an idiot for letting yourself believe otherwise. 

You wake up one day and realize you’re not angry anymore. Just sad. You almost prefer the anger and emptiness compared to the unending waves of sadness. 

You cry all the time. Day and night. 

You try to use your phone, you want to call him but it’s broken. The screen won’t even turn on. You’re completely alone, can’t even contact somebody – not that you have anyone but him. 

God, that was embarrassing now that you thought about it. There he was going out and getting laid and you’ve been holding out for him since you were a kid. 

You’re suddenly aware of the fact you haven’t showered in days. You’ve barely eaten, only getting up once or twice to find something to nibble on in the kitchen – a slice of bread is what you usually settle on. 

You pry yourself up from your mattress and stumble to the bathroom. The clanging of pipes is louder than it’s ever been but the hot water is completely welcome. 

When you stand there, under the burning heat that makes your skin raw, you slowly sink to the shower floor. You haven’t cleaned it in a while but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

You let yourself cry again, since it’s all you can do. By the time you’re done, the water is running cold and you stand up to quickly wash yourself with soap so you can at least be clean for the next few days until you can bring yourself to shower again. 

It’s when you’re crawling into bed that it suddenly dawns on you that you don’t have a job. You hadn’t shown up to your shift in days. And you don’t have Simon anymore. 

Panic takes shape and you realize you can’t relax. If you don’t find a job soon you’re going to be on your ass and homeless by next month. 

You haul yourself out of bed and begin rooting through your drawers for something to wear. 

Maybe you can go back to the bar and beg for your job back. You’ll do anything if you have to. 

You’re going to prove to yourself and to Simon that you’ll make it without him – and you won’t end up hanging from a fucking rope. 

The sunlight practically burns your skin from not feeling it in a while. Winter is coming in and it’s already damn cold out and you can see your breath. But you ignore it, wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself as you book it for the bar. 

You’re filled with utter dread as soon as you open the door. There’s a couple patrons already drinking and you wonder what day it is. 

You look around, searching for your old boss. He’s nowhere on the floor so you make your way to the staff room and ultimately his office in the very back. 

You only realize you’re trembling when you raise your hand to knock on the door. But you bite back your fear when you’re reminded that you need the job. You need it. 

“Enter,” you hear his chilling voice call. You take a breath and push the door open. He freezes the second he lays eyes on you, he sports a black eye and a busted lip, “You.” 

“M-Mr. Dawson,” you shakily whisper, “I-I know I haven’t showed up in a few days and I’m really sorry but–”

“You want your job back,” he finishes, tossing his head back to laugh, “You want your fucking job back? After you sent that fucking lunatic here?”

“Sent who…?” you ask softly, willing your knees to stop quaking. 

“That asshole in the skull mask. Beat the shit out of me and my blasted customers. You think I’m going to let you back in after that?” he laughs again, “You’re out of your fucking mind, you dumb bitch.”

You wince at the insult, “I-I didn’t send him. H-He was a friend of mine and he did it on his own but–”

“You can have your job back,” he says suddenly, making you freeze, “If you come over here and bend over my desk for me.”

“What..?” you ask softly, watching him sit back and lick his lips as his eyes raked down your body.

“You heard me,” he snickers, “Bend over my desk and let me fuck you and I’ll let you have your job back.”

Granted, for a second, you think about it. You really do. To just let him do it. But you can’t. You know you can't, you would never do that to yourself. 

“N-No,” you find yourself whispering, “I won’t do that…”

His smile fades quickly when you say that and his lip curls in disgust and anger, “Should have let those blokes take you out back and leave you bloody in the alleyway like you deserve.”

You leave with your head hanging low and find yourself standing on the street, fighting tears. You only feel worse than before you went in. 

When you get home, you stand there and cry. That’s all you’ve been doing lately, crying. At this rate, Simon’s prophecy is going to come true and you’re going to be hanging from a damn rope. It sounds nice right about now, actually. Anything to stop the horrific pain that you feel. 

You crawl back into bed and don’t get back up that night. Or the next day. 

The only thing that gets you up the day after that is a painful twang in your stomach. You stumble your way to the kitchen and pull out the loaf of bread you’ve been nibbling at but frown when you see some pieces have begun to mold. 

You take a look in the fridge, finding it painfully empty. The vegetables and fruits that were in there have gone bad now. The meat you had bought was all used up from when Simon cooked. You didn’t even have any cup ramens because you opted to not buy any last time. 

So you resort yourself to tearing the moldy parts off the bread and eating what's left. 

As you stand there, you realize you feel so tired. Like your legs can’t hold you up, so you allow yourself to sink to the floor, back leaning against the cabinet. 

You almost want to laugh at yourself over what you’ve become. Eating moldy bread on the kitchen floor and crying to yourself. 

You place the bread in the refrigerator in hopes that that will stop its rotting process but you don’t have much hope. 

Then, you’re back in bed. And you’re so exhausted. It’s impossible to keep your eyes open any longer. So you sleep. 

But then you have another nightmare. You can’t even remember what it was about, you’re too exhausted to even jolt awake like you usually do. 

Instead, your eyes open and they’re already filled with tears before you even get the chance to register the fact you’re awake. 

So you lay like that. For a long time. Just staring at nothing. The tears stop on their own and you’re left exhausted as usual. It’s become your default state and you begin to wonder if you’re going to feel this broken and hurt forever. 

You zone out, letting your mind go hazy and erase all thoughts from it. 

You don’t even hear your front door open. Don’t hear the boots on the floor. Don’t hear your bedroom door open. 

You hear a call of your name and that gets your attention. But you don’t hear anything else. 

Your imagination? You don’t have a lamp anymore to turn on. You’d thrown it at Simon and it broke.

Suddenly, light floods your bedroom and you bolt up in bed. A large, familiar figure blocks your doorway, a silhouette against the now illuminated hallway. 

He calls your name again and your heart skips a beat. 

“Si?” you whisper, choking on a sob when he steps further into the room. 

He’s got you gathered up in his arms faster than you can think. He’s so warm and it feels so good to have him in your arms again. You wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him – hold him so fiercely that you’re worried you may actually break him. 

“Shh,” he coos into your ear, “It’s alright, everything’s alright.”

“S-Simon…” you can’t help but wail, clawing at the back of his hoodie as if you can feel him any closer than he already was. 

“I’m here,” he sighs, kissing the top of your head, “I’m here. It’s okay. Shit, just let it out. I fucked up, sweetheart, I did. Just breathe and we’ll make everything better, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself apologizing through tears, “I-I don’t hate you, Si. I don’t, I promise. I-I was just mad. I’m sorry I was mean.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he consoles you, cupping the back of your head as you sob, “I’m the one who fucked everything up. It was a fuckin’ mistake.”

You can’t even formulate a response, too choked up with your cries that you let out into the soft cotton of his hoodie. You feel nothing but relief at having him in your arms again, you’re almost scared that he’s going to disappear if you let go. 

But he stays there, shushing you and occasionally kissing the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth on the bed. 

Before long, your cries finally quiet and you’re left curled up against him, quietly sniffling to yourself. His grip on you remains firm, unwilling to let you go. 

After several, long minutes, he finally speaks, “Why don’t you go wash up, hm? Nice, hot, shower. I’ll fix you up some food, sound good?”

You sniffle and blearily look up at him, your lashes sticking together from your dried tears, “I don’t have anything.”

“I’ll make you some ramen cups,” he responds. 

He doesn’t like them being part of your diet but it seems he was willing to overlook it just this once so could get something on your stomach. 

“Don’t have any,” you sound completely congested as you talk, sitting up a little to wipe your cheeks.

“None?” he asks, keeping his hands on your body even as you move off of his lap. 

You shake your head, “I didn’t buy any last time I went shopping.”

“What the hell have you been eating then?” he mumbles, slowly standing up from the bed. 

You wince when you hear his knees and back pop from the movement, “I haven’t had much of an appetite but I’ve got some bread…”

Simon is silent after that, nonsensically looking around the room, seemingly taking stock of what's around him. Then he sighs, running a hand through his cropped hair before patting you on the head.

“I’ll order then,” he assures you, “Go ahead and shower, yeah?”

You do as you’re told, eager to wash the drying tears off of your face and hopefully wash away the lingering sadness. You know that you and Simon have a lot to talk about, but you figure it can wait until you’re both mentally prepared for it. 

You feel more refreshed than you have in days when you step out of the shower. You feel a surge of anxiety in your chest when you think maybe he had left while you were showering but when you pause to really listen, you can hear him shuffling about the flat. 

When you slip into your bedroom, you’re shocked to see that your bed has been completely stripped. He also swept up the broken remnants of the glass and lamp you had thrown at him and picked up the books. He had picked up some scattered pieces of clothes and put them in the laundry basket where they belonged. 

You get yourself dressed and place your dirty clothes in the basket so you don’t undo the work that Simon had done. 

You hear a knock on your door and it makes you jump but Simon quickly answers it. He calls your name to let you know the food has arrived and you quickly make your way to the kitchen. 

He’s methodically separating the food he had ordered into two separate groups, clearly having ordered for himself as well. 

It smells positively delicious and you find your mouth watering as your stomach growls. 

You turn to the fridge, opening it to grab a bottle of water out of it. You notice that the loaf of bread you had in there is gone, most likely thrown out by Simon when he realized it was moldy.

You feel your cheeks burn in shame when you imagine him knowing that you had been eating moldy bread because you couldn’t afford to buy groceries – although, even if you had all the money in the world, you were sure you wouldn’t have felt like going out to get any. You wouldn’t have been able to order since you’d broken your phone. 

You open the styrofoam tray and immediately start devouring the chicken tenders he had ordered for you. It was simple, easy, and tasty. He clearly didn’t want to order you anything too hefty given the fact you’ve been existing on bread. 

He had a burger, taking slow bites of it and occasionally nibbling at his fries. You took the opportunity to look him over. 

He honestly looked the same as ever. He didn’t have dark circles or bags under his eyes like you did. He didn’t have red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes from crying for days. For some reason that made a pang of resentment surge through you. He seemed completely unbothered by everything that had happened. Unbothered, even. 

His words ring out through your head like a bell. 

“We’ll see how long you last without me before you’re hanging from a bloody rope.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes again but you bite them back, choosing to take a bite of your french fries. You realize now that you can hear the washing machine going. Clearly, he had put your bedding in there to wash. 

Maybe he was right, you couldn’t survive without him. Couldn’t even wash your own damn laundry. 

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” he interrupts your self-deprecating thoughts. 

“Oh, um,” you scramble to think of what to say. Something not depressing or something that could upset him, “I was just wondering what you’ve been up to these few days!”

You try your hardest to sound chipper and interested. You’re positive he doesn’t buy the act in the slightest from the soft, pained look he gives you. But he thankfully plays along. You’re grateful because you don’t want to cry again.

“I was uh,” he cleared his throat and took a sip of water, “I was on base, actually. Nothin’ interesting, really. What, uh, what about you?”

You feel your smile falter and you look down at your food, “Nothing interesting. Tried to get my job back but that was a bust,” you chuckled, playing it off like a goofy anecdote, “Turns out your ex-boss doesn’t like when he gets beat to shit because of you!”

Simon drops his burger into his tray and his nonchalant expression turns sour in half a second, “You tried to go back to work at that shithole? Why the fuck would you do that? You know it’s not good for you!”

All over again, you feel your body flush with anger, and you’re shouting at him before you know it, “What the fuck was I supposed to do, Simon?! You left and I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to do without you. I assumed you were gone forever,” you voice pathetically broke but you ignored it, tearfully glaring at him, “All you said was that I was gonna end up killing myself and I was doing everything in my power to prove you wrong.”

“You should have known me better than that!” he shouted, slamming his hands on the countertop, “I never would have left you–”

“That’s exactly what you did!” you shriek, pointing an accusing finger at him, “You left me! You ignored me when I needed you to go get laid and then left like I was nothing to you! Look at you for fuck’s sake, I’m a fucking wreck and you look like you couldn’t have fared better! I almost let that scumbag fuck me just to get my fucking job back, Simon! All because you left me.”

For once in his life, Simon seems utterly lost for words. The only sound in the small kitchen was the steady dripping of your leaky sink and you’re stuttering, sharp breaths as you force yourself to not break down all over again. 

“I should have known you better?” you whisper, resting your hands on the countertop, hanging your head so you can catch your breath, “Apparently I should have. Maybe then I would have known better to depend on you like that.”

Simon stands there, across the counter from you but feeling like he was miles away. You could hear his breathing stutter every few seconds, like he was gearing up to say something but he seemingly changed his mind every time. 

The washing machine jingle rang through the apartment and he immediately stepped away. 

Typical. Simon was never the type to truly let himself be emotionally vulnerable so there was no reason for you to expect it now. 

With him out of the room, you took the chance to wind yourself down, taking a few more bites of your tenders. You could hear Simon moving the laundry to the dryer, slamming it closed before turning it on. 

But he doesn’t reappear, evidently hiding out in the tiny room off the kitchen where your washer and dryer were. He was probably collecting himself just like you. But he appears a second later, lingering out of the corner of your eye. You can see him looking at you but you can’t bear to look back at him.

“I didn’t…” he pauses, taking a breath, “I wasn’t…” he lets out a sound of frustration before he tries again, “I wasn’t okay while I was gone.” 

He doesn’t say anything more. It was evident that that was all he was willing to give up in the moment. But you want more from him, you need more. 

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to get past this, Simon,” you whisper, “Everything’s so fucked up. I’m fucked up.”

“I am too,” he says softly, drumming his fingers against the counter, “We’ll fix it.”

His assurance marks the end of the conversation and you both resume eating the dinner he had ordered. But it’s silent and neither of you make an attempt to fill it. 

Once the food is eaten, you take a seat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest as Simon takes your laundry basket from your bedroom and puts the clothes in the washer. 

Your eyelids feel heavy and you wish so desperately that you could crawl into bed and sleep. You suddenly realize that you have no idea what time it is. 

“Simon?” you call out when you catch him passing by. He stops at your calling, raising an inquisitive brow, “What time is it?”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, unlocking it so he can see, “9:20.”

“Oh…” you respond, tucking your head back into your knees. 

Simon walks away at that and you briefly wonder what he’s doing now. But your eyelids are so heavy and you’re finding it so hard to think clearly. 

You’re pulled from your sleep a soft hand petting over your head. Your eyes slowly drift open and you’re met with Simon’s sweet, brown eyes. 

“Made your bed,” he says so softly, thumbing over your cheek, “Go ahead and get some proper sleep.”

You nod your head and sit up, briefly wondering how you managed to flop over on your side without waking up. Simon takes your hands and helps you to your feet.

You stumble down the hallway and immediately toss yourself onto your bed. You don’t even bother to crawl under the blanket, simply drop your head onto the pillow and let sleep overcome you. 

When you wake up next, it’s from a nightmare. You gasp into consciousness, eyes wide open in the inky blackness of your bedroom. Your heart pounds in your ears and you find yourself panting, trying to stabilize yourself. 

A heavy weight tosses itself over your middle and you almost panic before you smell Simon’s cologne. Immediately, you relax and sink back into the bed. 

“You’re okay,” he whispers, voice thick with sleep, “I’ve got you.”

“I want it to stop,” you find yourself whispering, feeling so utterly exhausted, “The nightmares.”

Simon tugs you over to him, tucking you securely against his chest, his arm like a heavy weight draped across your abdomen, “We’ll get you fixed up.”

As you close your eyes and sink into his embrace, all you can think is that you should have never been broken in the first place. 

You finally sleep through the night but you wake up feeling far from refreshed. What’s most shocking is that you’re still wrapped up in Simon’s arms – and he’s still asleep. The sun is well risen now, he should have been up and about a while ago. He never strays from his schedule.

You find yourself staring at him. It wasn’t often that you got the chance to see him so peaceful. His lashes were so long, brushing his cheeks. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart and the deep sound of his breathing. Your eyes slowly drift closed again and you let yourself drift off to sleep once more. 

When you wake up next, it’s because Simon is trying to carefully move you off of his chest so he can get up. You whine and find yourself clinging to him again.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he mutters, settling back against the headboard. He wraps his arms around you and lets you melt against him again, your head resting against his chest.

“You slept late,” you find yourself commenting.

“Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat and softly rubs your back, “I haven’t had the chance to sleep much. Base is pretty loud.”

You want to mention that it’s never been a problem for him before but you bite it back. Instead, you hum in response. 

As you’re left in the still quietness of the late morning with him, you realize that you still have no idea how you feel about him. You don’t know how you feel about him being back. On one hand, you’ve missed him so, so dearly and you feel so complete with him by your side. You feel safer and more whole, like you could actually start healing again. 

But on the other hand, there feels like there’s a wall separating you two. The fight you two had is a heavy weight that seems to continuously pull you under the water despite how hard you fight to resurface for air. 

You love him, you really do. 

But you’re still so angry at him. 

And it feels like neither of you are going to actually talk about it properly. 

The two of you eventually make it out of bed and get moving around. You still don’t have any groceries but Simon simply orders something for breakfast again.

“Somethin’ I need to ask you,” he says, suddenly terrifyingly serious as the two of you stand in the kitchen eating.

Anxiety flares through you but you try to appear calm and cool, “About?”

“You said that,” he takes a second to collect himself, seemingly searching for the right words, “You almost slept with that guy for your job back.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, “Yeah…what about it?” 

Simon paused when he heard the defensiveness in your voice, “You really almost did that?”

You frown, “So what? I can do what I want, Simon.”

He sighs softly, holding his hands up, “I’m not tryin’ to fight, love.”

“I don’t know why it’s your business,” you mumble, using annoyance to hide the shame you feel, “I just needed a job is all.”

He nods, “You don’t need to worry about that, alright. I’ve got you.”

You take a bite of your sandwich, intent on trying to take the attention off of you, “There’s something I wanted to ask you too.”

“Go ahead,” he says softly, sipping on the drink he ordered – some kind of soda if you had to guess.

“That night…” you start, pausing when you notice the way he stiffens immediately. He plays it off by going back to his food, “You, um, you left to hook up with someone, right?”

He places his sandwich down and sighs, “Yeah.”

“...Why?” you finally ask, “I mean…”

You trail off and Simon remains silent. The tension is so thick you could practically see it between the two of you. Your heart hammers in your chest, anxiety steadily festering the longer he’s quiet. You think he isn’t going to respond at all and start to give up, hanging your head. 

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he finally says, “It was a…last minute choice and it shouldn’t have happened.”

He says it but you don’t feel any relief. That concrete weight on your chest isn’t eased in the slightest. It’s an excuse, something he’s saying to get you off his back. And that doesn’t feel good.

“I um…” you clear your throat to get rid of the way it sounds thick, “I’m sorry for that time, by the way. When I was throwing things and I-I hit you. I shouldn’t have done that, it was wrong of me. So, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says softly, shrugging his shoulders dismissively, “You were upset.”

“Simon…” you mumble, food completely forgotten in front of you, “I want to talk. About everything,” Simon seems annoyed immediately but he tries to hide it. You know him too well for that, though, “I-It was a lot and I think we should talk about it – really talk about it.”

He says your name exasperatedly, turning to open the fridge so he can put his leftover food inside before he slams the door. “I don’t want to talk about anything.”

“But I do,” you say, following him as he storms out of the kitchen, “You said some really mean shit, Si. I want to talk about it!”

He storms into the bedroom, slamming it open as he busies himself with picking up inside. You can tell he’s uncomfortable and simply trying to take his mind off of it. But you’re not going to let him avoid it.

“I don’t,” he snaps, final and harsh.

“I do!” you argue again, “I-I want to know why you said that to me. I want to know how you could–”

“Fuck sake!” he hisses through clenched teeth, ripping his hoodie off of a chair he had tossed it onto. 

He pushes past you, tugging it over his head. You follow him out of the room, watching with wide eyes as he picks up his mask from the coffee table. He tugs it on, painfully silent as he fits it into place. 

“What are you doing?” you finally ask when he gets to the door, slipping his boots on with a grunt, “Where are you going?”

“Out.” he growls, jerking the door open so hard it rattles on its hinges.

“Don’t run from me, Simon!” you cry, grabbing hold of his sleeve to keep him from stepping out, “Are you ever going to tell me you're sorry? Are you ever going to look in my eyes and tell me that you're sorry for what you said to me? For leaving me? Or are you just going to do it again?” 

You can’t fight the tears as you cry out, trying to tug him back into the apartment. But he gives you one final look before he rips his arm from your grasp and slams the door in your face. You’re left alone again, frustrated,  sad and utterly confused. 

You wished he would stop leaving. 

You decide to stay up a little later than you had lately, waiting for him to come home. The oven clock read a little past midnight when you finally called it and crawled into bed. Tugging his pillow to your side, you wrapped yourself around it and tried to imagine that it was him in your arms again. Closing your eyes, you will yourself to fall asleep, no matter how much you want to stay up and wait. 

You’re jostled awake by the weight shifting on the bed. Your eyes flutter open as it creaked under the additional weight. You know it’s Simon, even though your back is to him. He remains silent, clearly trying not to wake you and unaware that he already has. 

The heat radiates off of him in waves, comforting and nice. But despite that, you feel tears welling up until they finally trickle down your cheeks. You can hear Simon’s soft breathing and you can feel him shift every once in a while as he tries to sleep. 

“I can’t do this, Simon,” you find yourself whispering. It’s quiet but you know he hears it, “I want to feel better again. I want to stop being so fucking angry at you but you won’t let me. You just leave me again and I want you to stop. I want…” you suck in a breath and find yourself struggling to continue, simply dissolving into cries. You quiet them as best you can into your pillow.

Simon is painfully silent and still. You’re positive he’s not going to say anything. He’s going to pretend to sleep so he can avoid talking about it because that’s what he does best – avoid. When things get too hard or emotional, he avoids it like the plague. 

You suppose it’s from the way he grew up. A mama’s boy who was punished by his father for showing any kind of emotional vulnerability. It led to him being terrified of it as an adult – he refuses to let himself show that kind of weakness, even to someone who means something to him. And you know that you do – mean something to him, that is. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers, just an echo in the darkness of the room. But it draws you to silence, “I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice thick with emotion, “For what I said to you and for the way I acted that night. I fucked up, I know. It never should have happened. What I said should have never–” he lets out a heavy breath, “I never should have said it.”

You roll over, blinking the tears out of your eyes, which tumble down your cheeks. With a sniffle, you scoot closer to him, his warmth welcome and comforting. He opens his arms for you, letting you situate yourself against him. You rest your head against his shoulder, letting your hand rest against his chest. His own hand comes up to take it in his, bringing it up to press a kiss to your knuckles. 

“You mean…” he trails off again but you remain patient, knowing it’s difficult for him to fight through his desire to flee, “You mean a lot to me. I never want to lose you. You’re…important.”

You nuzzle your head against him, a silent acceptance of his apology. He kisses the top of your head and pulls you more firmly against him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again for good measure.

He didn't look you in the eyes and tell you he was sorry but he did the best he could. In the inky blackness of your bedroom, as you shared a bed, and he held you so sweetly, he finally said what you needed to hear. And that's truly all you could ask for.

PART TWO.

do not modify, translate, or repost.

[hairmetal666]

No one knows who writes the Hawkins High Tattler. It comes out every week, without fail, has for almost two decades. Everyone reads it, even teachers, even parents. It's caused more the one suspension, grounding, and even--famously--a shipping off to boarding school.

Steve's never let the Tattler get to him much. He's in it, of course, practically a new story every week. But it's just silly gossip.

Of course, Steve is also, currently, the titular Tattler, so. It's not like he's surprised when his name shows up.

It's his third year, his last year, and he knows everything that ever goes on at Hawkins High. It's pretty easy, honestly. Everyone thinks he's ditzy and vapid; nothing more than hairspray and polos. People will say anything around him, assuming he's not listening or not interested, and then bam. It's in next week's Tattler. No one even suspects him.

The confessions locker probably helps. Down by the theater, busted and unusable, the perfect place for people to leave tips, to tattle on their friends (or enemies, as the case may be).

That's what he's doing right now, checking the confessions locker. After 9:30 on a Friday night, the place silent as the tomb, perfect time for it. Pretty standard fare this week. The only thing of interest is that Eddie Munson was the person who broke all Ms. Click's pencils and left the stubs on her desk. This one, he laughs at, can't wait to publish it; can't wait to talk to Munson about it.

He gets a lot of stuff about Eddie. Most of it he doesn't publish because it's bullshit about satanic rituals--the nerdy kids he babysits play dnd, and there's no way Karen Wheeler is letting anything satanic happen in her basement--or about his sexuality, and one thing Steve doesn't do is out people.

Gathering up this week's submissions, he closes the locker with a soft clink, and he swears, swears he hears the squeak of a tennis shoe on the polished tile of the floor. He freezes, heart in his throat. Nobody has been here this late before.

Seconds pass but there's only silence. Confident he's only hearing things, he heads out, the parking lot just as empty as when he arrived.

---

He sees Eddie a few days later, when he's picking up the kids from the arcade. They typically exchange casual greetings, but as Steve waits, Eddie stands with him, offers him a cigarette.

"Read that was you who messed with Click's pencils. Good one."

Eddie shrugs, gives a little bow and a smile. "Happy to be of service."

"It was my class, when she found them. Never seen her so mad."

"No way," Eddie laughs. "Not even when Hagan drew dicks on all the textbooks?"

"Not even then, man. She was throwing pencil stubs everywhere."

"Fuck, sad I missed it." Eddie takes a drag, Steve's eyes following the movement, lingering on his mouth. Something warm and tingling builds at the base of his spine and he forces his gaze away.

"How long you in detention for?"

"I'm not. Swore it wasn't me, and Click doesn't want to admit she reads the Tattler, so. Not much they could do. "

"I've seen it sitting on her desk!"

"I know! She reads it when she has detention duty!"

They lean against Steve's car, laughing, and Steve feels good. This is good. He likes Eddie. He's funny and dramatic and smart and kind. He's not deserving of any of the mean things that get submitted to the Tattler.

The kids come streaming into the parking lot then, and Eddie stubs out his cigarette, says "see you around, Harrington," and Steve finds himself flushing for reasons he can't quite explain.

---

He starts seeing Eddie around way more. He's in school most days, smoking in the parking lot after the last bell, chatting with Steve in the hallways.

It shows up in the Tattler; big news that the King and the Freak are hanging out. Most of the submissions are about it, increasingly elaborate rumors about their supposedly deep, close friendship.

He wishes he could tell Eddie.

Eventually, Eddie invites him to smoke at the quarry. He doesn't hesitate to say yes, doesn't even bother to try ignoring the swoop in his stomach, the speed of his heart.

They sprawl out in the back of the van, Eddie's loud, raucous music pounding around them, sharing a joint back and forth.

Steve gets hazy, boneless, can't stop watching Eddie, the way his lips purse around the joint, his long hair glinting gold in the weak light of the camping lanterns, the pleased shine of his eyes every time he makes Steve laughs.

He likes Eddie so much. Everything about him, honestly. Butterflies ping in his stomach, happy and slow, and he thinks how nice Eddie's lips are, wonders how soft they must be. And he thinks--he's read the submissions, right--he knows the things they say about Eddie, and he wishes it was true, he wants--he wants--

He wants

---

Steve's running late to check the locker. Lost track of time at the diner with Eddie, and it's making him panic.

He stuffs the submissions haphazardly into the pocket of his hoodie, dancing with nerves, willing himself to grab them all and get out.

Locker emptied, he sprints towards the exit. He has a second to process someone barreling towards him in the dark, but he's going too fast to stop, can only brace himself as they collide.

It sends him sliding across the floor, Tattler submissions spilling out of his pocket like snow. He hits the ground, scrabbling for the papers, praying that whoever is here with him can't see them in the low light.

Hands grips his biceps. "Stevie, Steve, we have to get out of here" and there's a second where he's comforted by the familiar rasp of Eddie's voice before terror spikes again.

He pulls himself from Eddie's grasp, searching for any dropped submissions in easy reach. "Wha--why--what's--"

"I ran into Jason Carver and his band of idiots at the gas station. They're on their way to here to try to catch the Tattler in action."

Steve freezes. "I don't--that's not--I--"

In the deep silence of the empty school, they both hear the slamming of a door, a bitten off giggle. Eddie grabs his wrist and they run. Into the theater room, through a door Steve didn't know existed, to the backstage area of the auditorium.

"You should be safe here," Eddie says.

Panic spirals through him. "I can explain. I was just--I forgot a--I needed--"

"Harrington! I know, okay? I already know."

Steve can only blink at him, swallows rough in his throat. "What--Eddie, I--"

"I saw you. Weeks ago. Forgot my notebook in the theater room after Hellfire and had to run back for it. You were there, at the locker."

"You can't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to."

"No, Munson, you really can't. Nobody can know. Nobody--"

"Swe--Stevie, I promise. The secret's safe with me." He rocks back on his heels, chewing on his lip for a second before he continues. " I--I couldn't figure you out, you know? I saw you around with those kids and it didn't make any sense. King Steve, babysitting tiny nerds? But I saw you at the locker and..."

"You're giving me too much credit, man."

"I don't think so. You're never--fuck, Harrington--you're never mean. At least, not in the last couple years. You spread gossip, but you don't punch down, and you're funny as hell. Mean as shit too, but only to the people who deserve it."

His ears burn and he looks down. "Just because I have fucking--fucking editorial standards doesn't mean that I'm anything special."

Eddie scoffs. "Remember, Stevie, I was reading it a year before you were here. Cruel, vapid garbage. Always the most vile, pointless stories about people who couldn't defend themselves. And how many submissions have you gotten about me, for instance, that you've never used?"

Steve clenches his fists. "I would never--"

"I know. Sweetheart, I know. That's why I li--You're so fucking good, Stevie."

He laughs, ears burning. "I'm really not, Eddie. I try to write about fun gossip that can't hurt anyone too much, and nobody's found me out because they think I'm too dumb--"

Eddie reaches out then, fingers connecting softly with the edge of Steve's jaw. He can't help but lean into the touch, eyes flickering closed.

"You don't want to hurt people because you're fucking kind. You know how I know for sure? You must get submissions every week about me, and you've never once printed that I'm--" Eddie stops then, swallowing hard.

Steve's throat goes tight. He rests his hand over Eddie's, still holding his face. "Me too," he whispers. "Kind of. I like--it's both. For me."

"Oh," Eddie breathes, mouth lifting in a bright, beautiful smile that Steve can't help but return.

He's watching, sees when Eddie's gaze drifts his lips, making his breath hitch. He doesn't really think about closing the distance between them, slotting their mouths together in a tentative, gentle kiss.

"You're just full of surprises aren't you, Steve Harrington? Eddie asks when they part.

Steve blushes. "That's sort of the last of them."

"Sure. Next you'll be telling me you've played dnd."

"I have a character."

"What???"

"Human paladin. Dustin worked on it with me. Ready to get out of here?"

"Human paladin," Eddie gapes. "You know--you said--what's happening?"

Steve twines their fingers together, leading Eddie towards the auditorium exit. "Well, first we're going to walk out to my car and then we're going to my house, and we're going to look through Tattler submissions. Maybe makeout a little bit."

Eddie giggles. "What the fuck? Like. What the fuck, sweetheart?"

He turns to face Eddie, smile big and pure and bright with happiness. "If you're really nice to me, I'll let you help write this week's issue."

"Oh, oh. You're going to wreck me." Eddie mumbles, almost to himself.

"If you're lucky." Steve beams.

[ponderingmoonlight]

JJK men pretending to date you to get rid of unwanted attention

Pairings: Geto x fem!reader; Megumi x fem!reader; Choso x fem!reader; Gojo x fem!reader

Word Count; 3,9k (Gojo's part is loooong)

Warnings: got carried away by Gojo again lol, no real warnings except creepy guys and fluff over fluff, forgive me Noritoshi lovers, I know I did our man dirty in Megumi's part

Geto Suguru

It’s a quiet afternoon in the city. You and Geto have been meeting at this cozy café once a week for months, a little ritual that started after one too many of countless exhausting missions. The place is familiar and comfortable, usually a perfect escape from the noise of jujutsu sorcery. But today, things are a little off.

You notice it immediately when you enter, the way the barista’s eyes follow you. He’s new, someone you’ve never seen here before, and while it’s normal for people to glance over at new faces, this guy’s gaze lingers. It’s unsettling, but you ignore it, not wanting to overthink things. Maybe it’s just the way your hair falls today or the fact that you’re still wearing your uniform since you’ve just returned from another mission.

You sit down across from Geto, who’s already sipping his tea and scrolling through his phone while lounging with his manspread on point.

As you allow yourself a sip of your favorite drink too, you try to relax. This has to be your imagination running wild, you aren’t even that pretty, right?

But every time you look up, the barista is staring at you, his eyes heavy with intent. Eventually, he makes his way over, holding a plate of complimentary cookies. Fuck, what are you supposed to do?

“These are for you,” he purrs, offering you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“On the house.”

You blink, taken aback. The stinging smell of way too much masculine perfume almost makes your guts turn and forces you to hold your breathe. You can tell by one look in his eyes what his intentions are – and they definitely aren’t sincerely.

“Oh, um, thanks,” you murmur, unsure of how to refuse without making things awkward.

The guy lingers, his attention focused solely on you. When he takes another step towards you, the alarm in your head starts going wild. What the hell does this creep want?

“You come here often, don’t you? I’ve noticed you a few times.”

Geto looks up from his phone, his eyes narrowing slightly as he notices the barista’s attention. He says nothing at first, but there’s a subtle tension in the air that wasn’t there before. There’s no doubt in the fact that you’re feeling uncomfortable.

“Yeah, we come here a lot,” Geto interferes smoothly, his tone polite but firm.

“Together.”

The barista’s eyes flick to Geto for the first time, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. He clearly hadn’t noticed him before.

“Oh,” the guy mutters, his smile faltering.

“Are you two…?”

Geto leans forward in his chair, casually placing his warm hand on your thigh while giving you that smile that almost makes you choke. The move is subtle but possessive, his body language making it clear what he’s implying. And your body? Oh, you’re all over the place, your face already hot from the minimal touch of his palm.

“Yeah, we are” he replies simply, giving the barista a look that’s both confident and warning.

The guy frowns, obviously not pleased with the answer, but he doesn’t push it – much to your relief.

“Well, enjoy your cookies,” he gabbles before turning on his heel and heading back behind the counter.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your body finally relaxing as the barista moves away.

“That was weird,” you comment, glancing at Geto with a small, grateful smile.

Geto shrugs, his usual calm smile returning.

“Some people don’t know how to take a hint.”

You chuckle, feeling the warmth of his hand still resting against your thigh.

“Thanks for stepping in. I didn’t know how to handle that without being rude.”

“It’s no problem,” Geto replies, his fingers brushing lightly against your covered skin while he leans in slightly.

“Besides, pretending to be your boyfriend has its perks.”

Your cheeks flush even deeper at his words, but you laugh it off, knowing he’s just teasing…

Does he?

There’s something about the way his eyes linger on you for a moment longer than usual, the faint smirk on his lips that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Come on,” Geto finally declares, standing up and offering you his hand.

 “Let’s get out of here before that guy decides to bring us another free snack.”

You take his hand with a smile, letting him lead you out of the café, the tension from before completely forgotten.

Are you actually going insane or was there a…spark?

Megumi Fushiguro

It’s a typical day at the jujutsu high training grounds. You and Megumi have been sparring for a while, your breaths coming in short gasps as you try to keep up with him. He’s quick, precise, and annoyingly good at reading your movements, but you’re giving it your all.

During a quick break, you head to the sidelines to grab some water. As you wipe the sweat from your brow, you notice one of the students from Kyoto High approaching. You’ve seen him around before, but you’ve never spoken much beyond the occasional greeting. After all, you’ll wring each other’s next in a few hours, there’s no need for any formalities. Was his name Noritoshi Kamo?  Before you’re even able to finish your sentence, he stands right in front of you…

And talks?  

“Hey, that was some impressive stuff out there,” he begins, leaning against the fence next to you.

His smile is strangely friendly enough, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes you uneasy.

“Sorry, are you talking to me?” you reply, keeping your tone neutral as you take another sip of water.

The guy doesn’t take the hint.

“You know, if you ever want some private training, I’d be happy to help,” he offers, stepping a little closer.

“I could teach you a few tricks.”

You stiffen slightly, your eyes flicking to where Megumi is standing a few meters away, watching the interaction with narrowed eyes. Before you can respond, the guy takes another step toward you, his hand reaching out as if he’s about to touch your arm.

But before he can, Megumi steps forward, his expression hard.

“She’s not interested,” he says flatly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

The guy blinks, taken aback by the sudden interruption. “Oh, I didn’t realize you two were-”

“We are,” Megumi interrupts firmly, moving to stand between you and the guy.

His presence is protective but not overbearing, a silent wall that the other student quickly decides not to challenge. All you can do is to stare back and forth between the two. That guy, who never said anything to you and now suddenly tries to flirt and Megumi, who stands in front of you like a wall in order to protect you from unwanted attention? You have to be dreaming.

“Right… well, I’ll see you around, I guess,” the guy mutters awkwardly before turning and walking away.

Once he’s gone, you let out a small sigh of relief, glancing up at Megumi with a grateful smile, even though you can’t shake off those violent butterflies roaming around your stomach.

“Thanks for that. He was pretty straight forward and I was too bamboozled to act.”

Megumi shrugs, his usual stoic expression back in place.

 “He was bothering you.”

You smile, appreciating the way he always looks out for you, even if he tries to downplay it.

“Still, you didn’t have to step in like that.”

Megumi glances at you, his cheeks flushing just slightly before he looks away.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he mumbles.

“Besides, I didn’t want him to distract you from training.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head at his stubbornness. While this is the first time Megumi stood up for you in this strange way, you can’t help but fall over and over for that boy who hides his feelings like a treasure. Is there a chance that he might like you as well?

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a faint smile on his lips as he turns back to the training ground, ready to spar again. And though he doesn’t say it, you can feel the warmth in his actions - the way he stands a little closer, the way his eyes flick to you more often than usual.

“Maybe”, you mutter to yourself before returning to the training field by his side.

Choso Kamo

You never imagined that a simple grocery store run would turn into a whole situation. You’re wandering down the aisles, trying to decide between two different brands of pasta when you notice a guy lingering nearby. At first, you think nothing of it, people shop all the time, after all.

But then he approaches.

“Hey, need any help with that?” he asks, giving you a smile that’s a little too friendly for comfort.

You offer a polite smile back, shaking your head. Oh, you know men like him good enough, the ones who are only interested to drag you into bed. You’ve seen them countless times before, but in the grocery store? People are really desperate nowadays.

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

He doesn’t leave, though. Instead, he steps closer, his eyes roaming over you in a way that makes your skin crawl.

“You sure? I’ve got some great recipes I could share with you. Maybe over dinner sometime?”

You glance around, feeling trapped in the narrow aisle with no way out and no one nearby. Fuck, this isn’t good. Even if he won’t do anything in the grocery store, you still have to get back home – alone. And with that dark lust glittering in his eyes, he definitely won’t give up.

Just as you’re about to make up an excuse to leave and steady yourself for ramming your knee into his groin, you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“She’s already got dinner plans,” Choso announces, his tone calm but firm as he steps up beside you.

Choso.

Your heart skips a beat when you seem him, his eyes resting comforting on yours. Choso’s here? He didn’t even mention that he’ll go shopping when you last saw him at jujutsu high.

He places a gentle hand on your lower back, guiding you away from the guy with a quiet confidence that leaves no room for argument.

The guy raises an eyebrow, clearly irritated by the interruption.

“Oh yeah? And who are you?”

Choso’s expression doesn’t change, his dark eyes locked on the man with a quiet intensity.

“I’m her boyfriend.”

The guy snorts, clearly not believing it at first, but when he sees the way Choso stands protectively at your side, he seems to reconsider.

“Right… well, my bad,” he mutters before turning and walking away.

You let out a shaky breath, your body relaxing as soon as the guy is out of sight.

“Thank you. I thought this creep will follow me until I’m home” you murmur, looking up at Choso with a relieved smile.

“You could have just killed him.”

“You know I couldn’t do that…”, you reply with a scolding undertone.

These past weeks, you’ve spent a lot time with Choso and taught him simple human interaction. Was this why he stood up for you like that?

Choso glances down at you, his hand still resting lightly on your back.

“Are you okay?”

You nod, more than grateful for his presence. Even though his hand still resting against your back sends shivers down your spine.

In a strangely good way.

“Yeah, I’m fine now. I just… didn’t know how to get rid of him.”

Choso frowns slightly, his gaze softening as he watches you.

“You don’t have to deal with that alone. I’m always here if you need me. From now own, we will go to the grocery store together” he replies quietly.

Your heart swells at his words, and you smile up at him, feeling a warmth in your chest that goes beyond simple gratitude.

“I know. And I’m really lucky to have you.”

Choso’s cheeks flush slightly at your words, but he gives you a small nod, his usual calm demeanor returning.

“Let’s finish shopping,” he says, gently guiding you toward the next aisle.

“I’ll stick close, just in case.”

Gojo Satoru

The bass thumps through your body, the vibrations of the music almost tangible as they pulse through the packed nightclub. Neon lights flash over your head, casting everything in a rainbow of colors, and the crowd moves like a living, breathing body. It's a typical night out with Gojo, who insisted you both hit the club after a long week of missions.

You spot him easily in the chaos, standing at the bar with his signature sunglasses on even in the dim, flashing light. His presence is impossible to miss. After all, Gojo is always the center of attention wherever he goes. His tall frame, casual stance, and self-assured grin naturally draw people in. And tonight is no exception.

You watch from the other side of the club as a woman approaches him, her gaze locked on Gojo like a predator targeting her prey. She’s tall, confident, and clearly intent on making her move. At first, you don’t think much of it - this kind of thing happens all the time when you’re out with him. Gojo is Gojo, after all. But the way she leans into him, brushing her hand against his arm, makes something sharp twist in your gut.

You try to shake it off. You’re not the jealous type, and Gojo has always been playful when it comes to flirting. He simply enjoys the attention, but you know it’s harmless. Still, there’s something about the way this woman is looking at him that makes you feel uneasy.

Even though your not even his fucking girlfriend.

As you make your way through the crowd, heading toward the bar, you see the woman press herself closer to Gojo, her lips moving near his ear as she says something you can’t hear over the pounding music. Gojo’s grin only widens, and he says something back, causing the woman to laugh, her hand lingering on his chest.

Your pace quickens, a mix of frustration and something else bubbling up inside you. You’ve been with Gojo long enough to know how he works, but tonight, for some reason, the sight of him entertaining someone else makes your chest tighten.

Finally, you reach the bar just as the woman leans in even closer, her hand now resting on his shoulder.

“Hey,” you say, louder than necessary to cut through the music.

“I see you’ve made a friend.”

Gojo turns his head at the sound of your voice, his trademark grin plastered on his face.

“Oh, hey, babe!” he calls over the music, completely unfazed.

“I was just chatting with—uh, sorry, what was your name again?”

Wait, did he just call you babe?

The woman looks visibly annoyed as Gojo fumbles for her name, her gaze flicking to you with thinly veiled irritation.

“I was just about to get us drinks,” she purrs, trying to brush off your presence, clearly not deterred by the fact that Gojo is here with you.

You raise an eyebrow at her audacity, but before you can respond, Gojo’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close to him with a casual but unmistakably possessive gesture. His hand rests securely on your hip, and he leans down so his mouth is close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin.

You feel like fainting. Or maybe dying? Oh, your heart will definitely beat out of your chest if that dream continues.

“She’s not really my type,” he murmurs, his voice low but playful.

“I’m more into, well… you.”

Despite the loud music, the tension in the air shifts instantly. The woman stares at you, clearly catching Gojo’s not-so-subtle dismissal, her expression darkening. And you? If it wasn’t for Gojo’s hand that keeps you in place, you’d land straight on your wobbly knees.

“Really?” she huffs, glaring at you like you’ve somehow intruded on her territory.

“Yeah. Besides, I’m already taken” Gojo replies easily, his grin never wavering.

You feel a small surge of satisfaction at his words even though you know he’s lying to annoy the hell out of her, but the woman isn’t ready to give up just yet. She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You sure you’re not missing out?” she challenges, giving you a once-over that makes your skin crawl.

Gojo’s grip tightens on your waist, and this time, his playful smile fades just a fraction.

“Nope, I’m sure. I don’t think we need any drinks after all. They won’t help with your disgusting attitude anyway” he comments, his tone firmer.

With that, he smoothly turns his back on her, guiding you away from the bar and into the crowd. You glance back just in time to see the woman’s face fall, a mixture of disbelief and irritation crossing her features before she disappears into the crowd of people.

Once you’re safely away from the bar, Gojo turns to you, his grin back in place as if nothing happened.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice light and teasing, but there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you mutter, feeling your face heat up slightly.

“But you…Did you just call me your girlfriend?”

Gojo’s smile softens, and he reaches up to gently cup your chin, tilting your face up so you’re looking at him.

“What if I did? Would that be okay for you?”

Your heart skips a beat, your body reacting to his words in an instant. Is he making fun of you, testing you? No, you can feel that he means it by the way he holds you by your waist, his fingers resting there like he’s afraid to let go. The world around you feels muffled, the music and the crowd fading into the background. It’s just you and Gojo now, his bright blue eyes shining under the neon lights.

You swallow, trying to find your voice.

“I-I… I don’t know,” you stammer, suddenly feeling like the confident façade you normally carry around him has vanished. The way he’s looking at you so seriously, intently, is doing things to your heart that you can’t quite control.

“I mean, you don’t-”

Gojo interrupts you with a soft laugh, his hand sliding up from your waist to gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You don’t have to answer right now, you know,” he mutters, his voice a little softer than before.

“But I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I guess tonight just gave me the perfect excuse.”

You blink at him, too stunned to speak. Gojo Satoru, who flirts with everyone, who acts like nothing ever truly gets to him, has been thinking about you as more than just a friend? You’ve always had a bit of a thing for him, of course. It’s hard not to when he’s charming, gorgeous, and undeniably protective when it comes to you. But you never thought he felt the same way.

“I thought you were just messing with me,” you admit, your voice a little quieter now, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.

He grins, though this time it’s softer, not the usual cocky smirk.

“I mess with everyone. But with you? It’s different. I don’t just want your attention, I want you.”

His words sink in, and suddenly the air between you feels charged. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something huge. You’ve seen Gojo in action. So fearless, confident, always in control, but the way he’s looking at you right now is different. He’s giving you the choice.

A swell of warmth floods through you as you meet his gaze. Maybe it’s the alcohol you drank earlier, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s just so close, but you can’t hold back anymore.

“You’re not playing around, are you?” you ask, searching his face for any sign of his usual teasing.

His smile softens further as he shakes his head.

“Not this time.”

Something inside you snaps, and before you can stop yourself, you close the gap between you.

You wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his in a kiss that’s been building for far too long. Gojo freezes for a moment, clearly surprised, but it only takes a second before he’s kissing you back with an intensity that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer, and the world around you disappears completely.

The kiss is electric, everything you imagined it would be and more. You can feel the pent-up tension between you finally break as his lips move against yours, and when he deepens the kiss, your mind goes blank. All you can think about is the way he tastes, the way he feels, and the way your body seems to mold perfectly against his.

When you finally pull back, breathless and a little dizzy, Gojo is grinning down at you like you’ve just handed him the world.

“Well,” he comments, his voice slightly rougher than usual,

“I guess that answers my question.”

You laugh, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

“I guess it does.”

He doesn’t let go of you, his arms still wrapped securely around your waist.

“You know, I don’t usually do this. Y’know, getting serious with anyone” he starts, his tone light but sincere.

“I know,” you reply, your smile softening.

“But I think we’re both a little different when it comes to each other, aren’t we?”

Gojo’s eyes flicker with something deeper as he nods.

“Yeah, we are” he murmurs, brushing his thumb gently along your cheek.

The club around you is still loud and chaotic, but in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you. Gojo, for once, isn’t playing his usual games. His smile is genuine, and there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your heart race.

“So, does this mean I get to call you my girlfriend for real?” he questions, his grin slowly returning.

You laugh, feeling lightheaded and happy as you look up at him.

“Only if I get to call you my boyfriend.”

He raises an eyebrow, that familiar playful smirk creeping back onto his face.

“Oh, I think that can be arranged.”

Before you can say anything else, Gojo leans down and kisses you again, slow and deep, like he’s making sure this is real. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels right.

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[corkinavoid]

DPxDC When You Are Suddenly Dating a Princess

This prompt is a variation of good!GIW AU (read here), but that's an excuse because I just wanted badass Jasmine Fenton and her good boy Jason Todd.

"Jason?"

The voice catches him off-guard. Not because he doesn't know it, no, quite on the opposite - he knows that voice very well, he's just heard it this morning when his beautiful girlfriend kissed him on the cheek and left for work.

It's just that he didn't expect to hear it at a closed auction full of magic artifacts, two states away from Gotham, and in a room full of rich-ass people from all around the world.

He turns around.

Jazz is looking at him with an expression of pleasant surprise, black off-shoulder silk dress with teal accents draping her figure all the way down to the floor - it's kind of reminiscent of Greek togas, with high waist and lots of folds on the skirt. It also makes his girlfriend look even taller than she is, which, Jason is fairly certain, was intentional.

She is also wearing a necklace on her neck, and just by one look at it, Jason knows that it costs at least five times more than the apartment they live in.

"Jazz?" He breathes out, astonished, but then catches himself and puts on a smile, "You look stunning." This is not the time to argue or ask questions; he is on a mission. And it's a time sensitive one, so no matter how curious he is, it can wait till later. They do live together, after all.

"Thank you," the girl smiles, and then briefly turns her head to a tall man in a very expensive dark blue suit standing beside her, "If you excuse me," she nods with an apologetic smile in the corner of her lips, and the man smiles back and takes a step away. Meanwhile, Jazz approaches Jason and casually places a hand on his elbow.

"Mind telling me what are you doing here?" She questions, and, wait, that was supposed to be his line! Jason blinks and shakes his head, snapping out of his stupor.

He can't exactly say, 'Constantine asked Batman for a favor because he knows the man is rich as fuck, so now Jason has to either buy or steal an ancient dagger for some bullshit magic ritual because he was the only one free tonight and John really needs that dagger and that ritual and Bruce owes him a favor, unfortunately'. Jazz doesn't know he is a vigilante/crime lord in redemption. She might suspect he is - that girl is perceptive on par with mind readers - but Jason never straightforwardly told her, and she never brought it up herself.

So, instead, he goes, "Sightseeing."

Jazz raises one eyebrow and pointedly looks around the dimly lit room full of magic users, rich collectors, socialites, and other shady individuals. Jason keeps smiling. Eventually, the redhead sighs and looks away, taking a step forward and guiding him through the auction at a leisurely pace.

"Looking for anything in particular?" She tries again, and Jason debates if he should answer her. On one hand, his head is buzzing with thousands of questions, starting with 'how did you even make it here when your shift at Arkham ended two hours ago' and finishing with 'to which group of shady individuals do you belong'. On the other hand, she clearly does belong here if her confident posture and outfit are taken into account.

And she is his girlfriend. Has been one for two years now. Maybe it's time to share some secrets.

"An obsidian knife with an owl on the handle," he finally says, and Jazz hums.

"A Tecpatl?" She clarifies, and Jason doesn't even feel that surprised by her sudden knowledge of Aztec culture. He nods. Jazz gives him a thoughtful glance, "And how important is it for you to have it?"

"To the point where I'm prepared to steal it if I have to," he laughs, but judging by the look on Jazz's face, she gets that he is only half-joking. She narrows her eyes at him:

"Is it for you, or for your, um, friends on the orbit?" She asks, briefly glancing up to the ceiling, and Jason feels very confused for a second there.

But then it hits him: she is talking about the Watchtower. She is implying the League.

Jason doesn't hold back a quiet curse, "Damn it, I should have hidden the guns better, shouldn't I?"

Jazz laughs softly, but it's a warm, affectionate laugh, "Well, yes, but you also shouldn't leave bloody bandages in the bathroom. And your helmet on the kitchen counter," she tells him, amusement lacing her voice, and Jason rubs his face with his free hand.

"Fuck," he mutters. And then, "Sorry."

Jazz waves her hand it the air, brushing his apology off, "Don't worry. I'm not in a place to blame you for having secrets, am I?" She muses, and, okay, fair. But before Jason can try to make her elaborate on the topic, she returns to her previous question, "So is it for a friend?"

The knife, right. Jason makes an annoyed face, scrunching his nose.

"Yeah. Bruce owes someone a favor, but he couldn't make it. Other stuff came up," he huffs. 'Other stuff' in question includes some off-world mission, so he really couldn't make it, but that doesn't make Jason any less mad about it.

"Let me guess, that 'someone' smells of cigarettes and liquor, has a British accent, and wears a trench coat," Jazz deadpans, and Jason stares at her with wide eyes.

"How- Are you sure you're not secretly a mind reader?" He asks. He knows for sure that Jazz doesn't have a meta-gene, but maybe she is a magic user? That would explain why and how she is even at the auction. Yet, the redhead laughs.

"No, sorry. Just met him a few times," she winces like she can smell the phantom smell of tobacco even when the mage is not here, "Can't say I like him, but asking someone to fetch him a Tecpatl seems like his style."

That only makes Jason even more inclined to believe his girlfriend is actually a magic user. But he doesn't get to ask because Jazz suddenly looks him in the face.

"Consider yourself in luck, by the way," she grins, "You won't have to steal it."

[part 2 ->]

[prael]

STEPS

Newjeans Hanni smut (M reader) - the title is a hint to the TW.

6.6k words

Masterlist donations/commissions

It didn't happen through a cliché.

Well, maybe it did, but not one of those where she's stuck head-first into some kitchen appliance or something of that ilk, though you would say this really did happen by accident.

What? She tripped, fell, landed on your dick?

Not quite like that, but the point still stands. You didn't begin that day, or even that evening, intending to fuck your step-sister, but, well…

"My apartment. My TV. My choice," you told her, as you have so many times before.

"But this film is supposed to be the best. It's got great reviews. Dani loved it..." Hanni was talking far too fast to even really pay attention. She soon started reeling off a cast list and everyone involved, and how this review called it a revelation to the genre, but you had long since started ignoring her. You know how she gets. Excitable beyond the point that someone normally would be. It's an endearing trait, if not also annoying. The rundown of her reasons was cut short as she threw her body at you in attack.

"Hanni! What are you—"

"Just gimme the controller already!" She shouted right into your ear as she threw her arms over your shoulders. You held it out in front of you, keeping her behind your back so her arms couldn't reach; not that it stopped her from trying. "Just one time. Please? Pretty pretty please?"

You climbed up from the sofa. Hanni clung to your back like a young panda, with her legs locked tight around your waist and her arms still fumbling around. You grabbed her by the ankle, trying to pry it away so you could drop her, or something, anything other than letting her continue. "Alright fine. Just let go, you idiot. You’re going to tear my arm off."

She loosened her hold, just enough for you to swing her around; one arm and leg slipping free so you could throw her onto the couch. In your flailing she managed to take the TV remote with her, but the moment of peace, of silence, of satisfaction in hearing your idiot sister bounce against the cushions before breaking into a laugh and asking, "what the hell was that for?"

"What did I ever do to deserve the step-sister from hell?" You said as you flopped down at the opposite end of the couch.

"Have a mother hot enough that my dad wanted to fu—"

"You're sick." You cut her off before she finished. She smirked, lifting her sock-clad feet onto the sofa and settling in for movie night. She brought her knees up below her chin and started flicking through the options on the screen to find the one she wanted. Her eyes were wide in her stare, her lower lip bitten. It was pretty much the last time you ever looked at her in this innocent way again.

It was another one of those shitty horror flicks. The kind that didn't even slightly live up to the billing she gave it before. This, however, was Hanni's thing—whenever she convinced you, or otherwise, to finally give up control of your TV, she would put on one of these cheap horror movies and spend the whole night tucked behind a cushion.

As much as you tried for it not to be, it's become something of a ritual, pretty much any night that she was at home, and not unbelievably tired from being overworked and didn't have to be up at the break of dawn.

It's your acceptance of things like that which really showed how much the two of you had grown. You remember fighting for your life against your mother and stepfather to not have to take her in. Convinced that if she wanted to move into the city so badly, she could get her own place, or go to one of those company dorms. Ultimately, you were made to see reason. Your apartment is close to her company, and you had a spare room, after all.

Not that she ever stopped annoying you beyond belief.

The movie, if you could call it that, had you fall into a slumber, and when you woke up Hanni had crawled across the length of the couch and was laid against you, her arms wrapping one of your own. She didn't even realise you had woken up, staring as the credits rolled with a slight, peaceful smile on her face.

She had tied her hair up by now into a ponytail, pulling the hair away from her mostly bare shoulder, where the thin strap of her cropped pyjama top rested. As you peeked down at her, your eyes accidentally fell on the space down her top. It wasn't your fault; they were just right there.

"Shit..." you muttered, catching Hanni's attention.

"Still alive there?" She chuckled a little as she gently patted her palm against your cheek. You feigned a yawn and shut your eyes, settling your head against the pillow once more.

"Hanni, put something else on. This movie is dumb."

"You fell asleep after like ten minutes."

"Yeah, and it seems it didn't take long for you to use me as a body pillow."

Hanni pursed her lips. A red flush ran through her cheeks, and then she quickly sat up. You were watching her the whole time through half-open eyes, chuckling under your breath at her reaction.

"You're an idiot," she says. "Always have been."

You shrugged in reply, "And you're easy to tease, always will be."

"Asshole." She kicked at you.

She tried to kick again, and you caught her foot. You held her bare leg in the air and then lightly kicked her back, hitting her thigh.

"Let go! I'll kick you again. Asshole!" She shouted at you, again and again, struggling to break her foot free from your hand. When you finally let her go, all her struggles made her stumble off the couch. As she went, you kicked out again, this time catching her right on the ass. "Ah! Fuck be careful you hit my plu—" She brought her hands right to her mouth when she realised what she was saying.

"Your what?" You asked.

Hanni cleared her throat, blushing to the point of matching the colour of her red short shorts. "Nothing."

She turned away from you. Just standing there. There's a part of you that wishes that you could go back to this moment. You would have left it there and gone to bed—never kicking her a third time.

But you did it.

Your foot flicked gently against her ass a final time and you felt it. Something hard tucked between the softness of her cheeks. She yelped again. You pinpoint this moment as the catalyst for everything that followed. It’s the part where her innocent image crumbled before your eyes and that’s what allowed you to do what you did. Though really, can you ever be sure that if it didn’t happen now, it wouldn’t have just happened the next day, or next week, or a few months down the line? You tell yourself it was inevitable.

"Is that what I think it is?"

She spun around, facing you once more, trying to muster something. She stumbled over and stuttered her words. "No! I... it's not mine. Minji loaned me one for... just to try... it's not." She held the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. "This is... oh, god. This is so embarrassing."

Hanni slumped back onto the sofa and pressed a cushion tight against her face. "Why'd you loan it?" You ask her, only to see her tighten her grip.

"Because."

"Because what?" You sat up by her side and said something that at the time you thought would make it better, but looking back, probably came off rather creepy. "I clean your room, Hanni. I have seen worse things."

Hanni slowly dropped the cushion into her lap and looked at you with a glare. "The fuck?"

"And if you're going to use my laptop, try deleting the history." At this point, you were just piling on the embarrassment.

"Fuck! Oh my God, what did you see?" She threw the cushion into your face.

You picked it out of the air. "Nothing." You lied.

"Bullshit!" Hanni swore. "Did you see everything?"

"Nothing at all..." you said sarcastically while standing up. "I definitely didn't see all the step-brother porn you were binging last week."

She screamed and jumped up. You threw the pillow to stop her and stepped out of reach. "I hate you! You freak!" she shouted, cheeks burning red as the fury rose within her.

"Says the chick wearing a buttplug." You taunted her again as you darted across the room away from her.

"What happened to boundaries!?" She lunged at you again, and you quickly sidestepped her. 

She tried jumping at you once more and missed, only to strike her knee against the corner of the coffee table. She hopped back on one leg with the pain.

"You're an asshole, you know that!?" she shouted, holding onto her knee. You stepped closer, thinking she was really hurt. Until she used the chance to lunge at you and grab you. "What's wrong with a girl enjoying some fantasy? Not like I want to actually fuck you."

You realise now that the proper thing to do would have been to match her disgust. Tell her something along the lines of how the thought repulses you. Continued to tease her about how fucked it is that she would even look at that sort of stuff. The whole thing could have dissolved, but it's when she had hold of you, hammering her fist into your arm, that you said, "don't you?"

Then the long silence ensued. The one that said a hundred unspoken words. As her punches turned into light taps and then to her just holding onto your upper arm. She looked up at you with her pretty eyes open wide. Her lips parted slightly and the tip of her tongue rested on the bottom one as if she had something to say, but the words wouldn't come.

That's the first time you kissed her. Your own step-sister, a girl who should be off-limits in every conceivable way. Yet she opened her mouth and accepted you in that moment. The taste was so sickly sweet.

It was brief, but it told you everything you needed to know, and everything seemed to spiral from there.

First, there was the confusion. The immediate aftermath where you both let go of each other to turn away. Your backs turned on one another as the awkwardness reached its peak. Neither of you was willing to confess the enjoyment of that little exchange.

Then came the passing of the blame. First, it was Hanni who turned to you with a "What the fuck are you doing?"

And you replied with "Me!? You're the one who kissed me!"

She scoffed and shouted a response, "That was all you! Stop being such a perv, freak!" Hanni stomped past you towards her room, face half-full of anger and topped off with shame.

"I'm the perv? You're the one who I hear moan through the walls while, apparently, watching step-brother porn! I think that makes you the messed up one!” you called after her.

A pause. The hesitation. The possibility of confession. She reached her door, and it flew open. In she walked before slamming it closed with a, "you're sick!"

You stared at the door and vainly said under your breath, "you're the sick one." In your head you had realised the real truth to that; how maybe you're both sick because, as the dust settled, you can only think about a handful of things.

The kiss. Her ass. Her cute little tits.

You didn't see her again for the rest of the evening. She reserved herself to her room, while you resigned to the couch with nothing but the television keeping you company.

It had been a long time since you had a shouting match like that with Hanni. See, it used to happen all the time when she first moved in. The problem with a girl like her whose whole world revolves around singing, dancing, media training and beauty is that she lacks any sense of what it's like to be an independent adult. It seemed like the fights would never end, on account of her being seemingly incapable of washing a dish, her clothes or even cooking the most simple of things without burning it or setting something on fire.

But this? This is uncharted territory.

The night wound down, and you were headed to bed, but you found yourself outside her door. Your hand raised, ready to knock. Your breath held. Right when you finally built enough courage is when you heard it. Heard her. Moans muffled through the wood of her door. Your stomach knotted. Your groin twitches.

You lingered, unable to tear yourself away. Even as your logical side began arguing with you that you were in the wrong. That you're probably the worst sort of pervert imaginable and you should feel nothing but guilt.

The other voice, the more confident one; the devil on your shoulder told you that it's Hanni's fault. You had just warned her, and this is what she did in response, like it’s all some sort of game. You refused to admit to yourself that hearing her groaning, whimpering, and moaning through the wall influenced you—tempted you.

Louder and louder. Her voice raised higher, getting to the point where you knew she was practically screaming in the throes of pleasure. Harder and harder you grew. The rational side of you was saying that you should ignore it. Just go to sleep. Forget about it.

"Fuck!" she moaned, and you remained, listening through the door—lost in imagination.

Then you heard footsteps. Bare feet patting on wooden flooring coming closer and closer towards the door. A rush to retreat and you slipped toward your bedroom door. You barely reach the handle before the door across the hall opens.

There was a moment. The two of you locked eyes. Every fibre in your being fought against looking down.

"What?" she asked with a stone-cold expression.

"Nothing." You said, and your willpower broke. You glanced down. Completely naked, she stands at the door, her nipples peaked to fine little tips. And your gaze drifted down her soft curves and slender figure, her wide hips and full thighs.

"Nothing," she mocks.

Her eyes glanced down for a second, then back to your face, and her gaze narrowed. You panicked, dipped into your room and slammed the door just like she did earlier. You press your back to it, the cool wood against your burning body. Your mind raced.

Her feet slapped again against the wooden floor and headed toward the bathroom. That should have been that. You slipped into your bed, frustrated and confused. The sound of the shower running quickly drifted through the walls, but her cries from earlier replayed in your mind until you fell asleep.

That should have been that.

You woke to the darkness of the room—not the morning sunshine—sometime later. Half in a haze, not quite conscious yet, but something had roused you from your slumber: a movement under the sheets and a strange sensation. Warm and damp. Your eyes flicked open, adjusting to the darkness. Your hands jerked reflexively toward your groin and then your senses sharpened.

Someone between your legs. A warm and wet something sliding up and down the shaft of your hardness. Tongue? Yeah, a tongue. Your fingers reached and buried themself into hair. Stomach muscles spasmed as your hips thrust up on their own. Your lips parted as you moaned, "Fuck."

You glanced down.

Hanni.

Naked.

The tip of your cock at her mouth, lips pursed around it. Her smiling eyes sparkled and her skin glimmered, bathed in moonlight coming through the open curtains. Hanni giggled when your eyes met. Your hand dropped to her shoulder.

"Hanni..." Your throat choked dry, and you pushed at her shoulder.

"Shhh." The word whispered against your sensitive tip.

"What the hell are you..." You tried to ask, but Hanni shook her head before sucking in a breath. Then she drew the length of your cock into her warm, wet mouth and the question escaped you. "Holy shit," you gasped.

"This can be our dirty little secret," she said when she lifted her head, fingers stroking you. "We can pretend it didn’t happen in the morning, but for the rest of the night," her finger tickled down the underside of your cock as she spoke, "it can be as real as you want it to be."

You remember being convinced that it was a dream. Maybe one that you would wake up from with a mess in your shorts and, honestly, that probably would have been bad enough—having a wet dream about your step-sister. Reality intruded and threatened to drag you back from your delusion. Hanni took you into her mouth again and it was so very real.

There was no doubting the pleasure, and it was too good to make her stop. You took your hand away from her shoulder, allowing her to do as she pleased. Maybe if it was just a dream, you could allow yourself to indulge in the madness just one time…

"Fucking hell, Hanni." The words slipped from you, and with it, her warm mouth left your throbbing cock.

You peered down at her. She wiped the drool from the sides of her lips and smiled at you. Her eyes were wide as she lowered her head and slipped your dick into her warm mouth once more. Your body jolted as she put her tongue to work. She swirled the tip along the contours and ridges, then licked down the underside of the shaft and then right back up the top, leaving a thin film of saliva on your hardness.

She clasped her hand around you and it all felt far too real. Mixed emotions. There was a cold sense of terror in your heart, even with the heat of arousal radiating all over. The things she did with her lips and her tongue made you doubt your sanity.

"Does that feel good?" She said as she took a quick pause, stroking her hand along the full length. She had just caught her breath in the one moment where she stopped sucking, the first chance where her mouth wasn't busy trying to draw the soul out of you through the tip of your cock.

"You were right." She spoke almost as quickly as your mind spun. "About... the step-brother thing. It feels sick, and gross, and... wrong. It makes me feel dirty." Hanni pauses for a second, seemingly running her eyes over your body and then asks, "how depraved does it make me that it gets me really, really horny?"

Hanni had no clue that the same thoughts filled the back of your mind. Only that you weren't able to string it into words like she did. She was right. It felt really wrong, and yet there was a rush to do something that should never be done. This was where the next step began. The breaking of the boundaries. The perverse excitement in the face of the taboo.

Her hand reached out behind her and pulled back the sheets that covered her body. She was crouched between your spread legs, head still by your cock, her soft ass in the air. The cool light from the moon kissed her skin as she slowly slipped her fingers between her plump cheeks. "And this only made it worse. I've been so horny ever since I started wearing it."

Her hand moved slightly, just out of view behind her, and she let out a breathy moan.

"Hanni. What're you—

You're interrupted. "It hurt a little at first. Just a bit but you get used to it, and if it's in a good spot, if you hit it right..." She kept touching herself in front of you, and another breathy gasp escaped her lips and then she looked up at you still lying there. "What are you waiting for? Isn't this what you want?"

That's when you stirred. Reciprocated. You sat up and she rose to meet you. In seconds, you were embracing. Frenzied. Wild. All teeth and tongues and roaming hands. Shorter than you. So much smaller. She let out a yelp when you grabbed her, though she instantly silenced it by shoving her tongue back in your mouth and kissing you deeply.

Pressed against your bare chest, her breasts felt small but supple, perfect little handfuls. Her waist is slender beneath your grasp. The thick flesh of her thighs was so full and shapely. When she opened her eyes, they had such want. Lust—pure and undeniable.

So close, and the faint whimpers at her throat are a seduction. You felt it was an invitation, and your lips kissed her chin, trailing kisses down her neck. "Yes. Yes. Yes..." she encouraged you lower. Your tongue tasted the saltiness of her skin, teeth grazing and then pinching softly. Her arms were tight around your head, nails biting into the base of your neck.

She trembled at your every caress, shook each time you teased a pert nipple. Gasped louder each time you nibbled her collarbone. You turned, lifting her, and then she fell back and presented herself to you. Her legs splayed open and her bare, wet cunt dripping, begging you to take it, but...

"No," you told yourself, "it's too fast," and you began a line of kisses down her stomach, beginning at her cleavage and trailing straight down her stomach. The muscles beneath her pale skin twitched and clenched in response and her breath had gone erratic. You reached her belly button and she hooked her legs over your shoulder, and when you dipped further she clenched her thighs and squeezed as you toyed with her.

You remember savouring the moment. Savouring the pleasure, savouring the veniality.

"Lower, please," she begged in the most needy voice. "Please, I... fuck, oh, fuck please..."

It's hard to describe it all.

Somehow, in the night, you both reached a state of understanding. A state of consensual debauchery that came with a sense of agreement; a pact signed with tongue on skin in this moment of depravity.

You kissed her, playfully moving between her legs. Thigh to thigh, to dangerously close to her wet core, and there you lingered. The air grew humid. Hanni's sweet scent filled your nose. You ran your hands up her legs and felt the warmth in your palms. She gripped onto the hair at the top of your head; her fists tightened.

"Why're you teasing me, asshole?"

Hanni's moans grew louder and more needy when you used your tongue against her. Her legs wrapped tight, hooking behind your back. There was something satisfying about her reactions to your actions, something exciting about seeing her squirm.

The tip of your tongue ran up the lips of her cunt, dipping between the fleshy folds and coming to suck upon her swollen clit. Her eyes widened at the touch, and her jaw slacked to the point her words went incoherent. Her whole body spasmed as she arched and moaned out something filthy.

One moment you had hold of her thigh, feeling her clench up and quiver, the next you found that your fingers had moved downward and pressed against her slick opening. At the slight touch of your fingertips to the tenderness there, a short cry slipped out of her again. She tightened and clenched around them as you pushed in deeper.

"Who's teasing?" you asked before you buried yourself to the knuckles in her.

A smirk formed, and Hanni was about to speak, but no words came. You pumped her at a steady pace, curling your digits within her while lapping at her clit. The taste of sin never tasted so sweet. 

The combination drove her insane, and it didn’t take long until you were on the verge of making your step-sister cum.

You wrapped your lips around that swollen nub of hers and flicked it with the tip of your tongue, faster and harder, until her many moans became one, long, drawn-out and passionate, as a climax rocked through her.

Her ass lifted off the bed and her legs quivered, shaking uncontrollably while her fingers tugged painfully at the hairs on the back of your head. She jerked and gasped with a look of ecstasy on her face as she moaned your name over and over, almost reaching a scream. Your name on her lips again, and again, and you were drunk on this euphoria.

She released your head, and you postured over her, still slipping a pair of fingers into her, but slower. She drew a deep, trembling sigh and forced a smile, watching you. "I hate you," she managed.

"Do you?" you asked as you drew your cum-soaked fingers out of her. Her legs rested on your hips and the underside of your stiff cock was against her pussy. You reached around her hip, to her ass, to the plug still sat between her cheeks. Hanni hissed at your touch, biting her lip at the sensation.

"Yes. I hate you," Hanni whimpered, giving the softest moans as you tugged on the metal. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Why?" you asked.

"I just do," Hanni weakly gasped, struggling to stay strong in the moment. "You make me feel things. Things I shouldn't feel. It shouldn't be this easy."

"In that case. I hate you too, sis'."

There was this moment after you said that, where you shared a stare. Maybe the most confusing stare of your life. Calling her sis', in this position, should have been horrifying. And it was, but only at a peripheral level. Otherwise, it felt surprisingly... hot.

You dipped into her for another kiss, and this one seemed ever more ravenous than the last. You kissed with hunger and her hand ran around the back of your head. Kissed as lovers would. She was just as aroused as you and eager for more.

Slow and soft, you rocked yourself against her wetness. Your length dragged between her lips, up over her clit, and down again to poke at her entrance. You moved over and over, enjoying the tease.

The slow, sticky friction between the two of you. Her breath was sharp, as you slipped yourself over her and kissed at her neck. Every rock of your hips, she ground back against you.

"I think..." She hesitated. "Fuck. I think I'm ready. Just... go slow?"

The guilt of what's happened was a distant thing, a buzzing fly on a summer afternoon. The kind of thing that when you're so enthralled by something else, it becomes invisible. Then, with a nod and a shivering sigh, she reached down and gripped your cock. You bent back from kissing her so she could guide you.

Her tiny cunt. Her beautiful wetness. Her forbidden, decadent treasure.

Her breath was shaky. Her next words came out amid a tremble, "I've never... No one else."

You brushed stray strands of hair out of her face and ran your hand over her cheek. You gave her the reassurance she needed.

She told you, a few weeks later, how grateful she was that it was you. See, for all the filth that ran through her mind on an almost daily basis, she never imagined what it would be like. It being you—who you are and everything you meant to her—made it easy. Natural. Wonderful.

That first time, you took it all so slow. With her legs raised over yours. Watching the subtle changes in expression as you gradually moved more and more of your cock into her. Sinking deep between her pink, delicate walls. Your step-sister, panting and squirming beneath you.

"You okay?" you asked her.

"Ah... yes. This is... I love it," she responded between whining breaths.

It was just enough, the reassurance, so you could push into her the rest of the way. Her hand found its way to your shoulder; bracing as you eased in, her delicate frame tensing as you buried fully.

You watched her reaction and tried to be still as you felt her slick cunt pulse around you, wanting you. She swallowed and gripped you with the muscles within her. The second of respite didn't last long though; you weren't sure if it was a request or accident when her feet tapped against the curve of your ass, but it prompted you to fuck her.

"Feels... fuck." You sucked your breath between your teeth and braced yourself up on a shaky arm. You drew out slowly, and you noticed her nails digging into the arm you supported yourself upon. 

You groaned in relief more than anything else as your hips pumped the shallow strokes that sent electricity through your body. She started pushing herself onto you as she clutched your back, drawing her heels over the small of your spine. You looked down to see her eyelids were flickering, and the sight only served to inflame you more. Her moans were so erotic and encouraging.

That first time, it was special. You took your time together to explore each other's bodies, the curves of hips, the muscles, the valleys and ridges. You caressed your stepsister's gorgeous body and then tried your best to put her through another climax, as if your efforts to reach your own were less important.

"Fuck you're so tight," you told her, during those final thrusts, buried to the hilt in her tiny, soft pussy.

She spoke, her voice weak and shuddering, "You're big... inside me..."

The fact that she held you tighter in her embrace and how it seemed that she refused to let you out of her even as she came apart was telling.

She came that night, again, this time all over your cock. The first of many times to come. A string of incomprehensible cries erupted from her in the throes of that first proper fuck. Hanni's thighs flexed around your hips. She clung desperately to your body as she cried into your mouth as she climaxed.

Not long after is when you felt it too, that impending release. A coil of pressure. Unfamiliar and intense. The mere thought of emptying inside her drove you mad. Your fingers dug into her hips as you fucked your step-sister with complete abandon.

"Don't. Not inside. Please, not inside," she murmured in an incoherent mantra of guilt and pleasure, right next to your ear.

You didn't, of course. You drove yourself right to the edge and pulled out. Her juices coated your length, slick and wet as your cock twitched in anticipation of the final moments. Hanni wanted your release as badly as you did. She took you into her hand for the finish, gripping tightly and jerking that first hot shot of cum onto her soft tummy. You thrust through her hand to let the pleasure course through you. Each thrust sent a long rope splattering onto her naked skin as she grinned up at you, flushed and sweaty, covered in your lust.

That was the first night, but definitely not the last.

The next morning arrived with Hanni in your arms—the little spoon. The little naked spoon pressed against your body. Skin to skin. She woke you with the slow rocking motion of her body, grinding her plump cheeks against you.

"I could get used to this," she whispered under her breath, smiling against the crook of your arm. "Good morning," she said to you over her shoulder. "Sleep well? You had some pretty naughty dreams last night, didn't you?"

You responded with your erection growing against the warm crevice of her butt and a gentle hum as her ass rocked over it. That was no dream. "I did," you said groggily. "As naughty as yours."

"Mmmm," is all she had as a response, lost in the pleasant distraction, grinding herself back into you even more. As she did so, you grew harder, until your stiffness pressed against the plug still wedged into her ass. Hanni had left it there overnight. "The thing about dreams is that they're easy to forget. Want to remind me of mine?"

You ran your hand down her thigh, and that's how the second time started. You caressed her flesh for a while, feeling the softness of her thighs while she silently lay there, patiently allowing you to enjoy her.

Then, you grabbed her by the knee, opening her legs and then she spoke, "Are you going to make your step-sister cum again?"

So quickly did she become so utterly shameless. You grunted in reply and then you held her leg up by hooking under the knee, and shuffled down slightly, letting your hard cock slip from between her cheeks and go between her legs.

You closed your eyes and leaned into her. Lips at her shoulders, the kisses soon trailed to her neck. She hummed as you ground your cock between her folds. Not even putting in the effort to try to actually enter her just yet, just teasing your stepsister for the moment.

Her voice filled with the sweet sound of passion.

Your heart began pounding and a flush rose to your cheeks. You could have written that first night off as a mistake. One you would regret, forget and never make again. Not after this. This is a definitive choice. One of sound mind and body, not under the tension of an argument or anything else that happened before.

This is different.

Hanni reached her hand down between her legs, pulling your cock so it would slip into her when you shift your hips. "Fuck me," she begged.

You did. You slipped inside her and heard her moan in such sweet ecstasy. She gripped the pillow she slept on the night before, burying her face in it, and moaning into it in such sweet rapture. "Fuck, yes, harder," Hanni moaned.

When she pushed her hips back onto you, her ass brushed against your belly. The rhythm began. Slow. Lazy thrusts. Enjoying every sensation in the post-sleep haze, savouring the fact that you knew how good she felt on the inside. How incredible her wet, silky, tight depths felt when you slid in and out of them.

"Is this what you wanted?" Your voice is low, near a growl. Your arms around your step-sister. It shouldn't, by all accounts, feel natural to have her like that, but it did.

"Yes, it feels incredible. Please don't stop." Your cock bottomed out within her. As deep as you could go. You groaned, and stayed there for a while, feeling your stepsister clenching down, her inner walls trying to pull you in further.

Hanni's hands gripped at the bedsheets, clutching tightly to them. The position pressed the metal of the plug between her asscheeks, and as your thrusting continued, the sensation sent a tingle through her body. It was a filthy combination. One that allowed every stroke you drove into her cunt to simultaneously send an equally blissful shock straight into her ass.

It was madness for her to indulge in the ecstasy—for both of you to lose yourselves.

You grew faster, and she unwound completely. She grew limp as she reached her climax. She couldn't even grip the bedsheets, or the pillow, her body simply submitting to the pleasure. She merely lay there as your hips battered against her soft ass, fucking her right through it.

Then she asked you, right after it subsided, "Ever fantasised about cumming on my ass before?"

The way she asked that made the question feel almost normal. "That the sort of thing they do in the porn you watch?" You slowed for a bit to deliver the tease.

Hanni couldn't keep the shy smile from creeping across her lips. "There was this one video where a guy put it all over his sister's butt. Seemed like he really liked it."

The fact she talked to you about the dirty things she likes helped it all along. It was the extent of her experience, the videos, but it helped. What it told you about what she really likes, what she enjoys... It became the basis for all your dirty experiments.

"That sounds hot. You have a cute ass."

She giggled to herself, rolling her hips, getting up onto her hands and knees and facing away from you.

You seated yourself onto your calves, giving her space and watching as she turned, giving you the view you craved. "I do?" She said as she glanced back over her shoulder, showing her innocence and naïvete in all its splendour. Her eyes sparkled and then a smile spread over her lips to match that look in her eye.

"The cutest," you told her as you kneeled behind her. One hand caressed the outside of her thigh while the other gripped the base of your cock. Eyes firmly set on that beautiful plump ass. That was the second time in just a few hours that you covered Hanni in your cum.

She watched every second as you did, barely managing a blink. Arousal and delight danced over her features in equal measure, and your name left her tongue in the form of a delightful, drawn-out groan. The effect was very apparent. With every streak and ribbon of white landing, she gasped and moaned while staring at the mess.

From that moment on, you entered regularity. It seemed like for months, every chance the two of you got to fuck, you fucked. Her room. Your room. The shower. The sofa. The kitchen. Against that window that overlooks the city's skyline. A public bathroom. A hand job in the car while you're stuck in traffic. Riding your face in a park, hidden among trees, grass, and bushes. Fucking, kissing, and biting until the both of you are exhausted and sore and dripping with sweat. It never ceased. Two insatiable appetites. Your mutual loss of control continued. The affair felt so exhilarating. An explosion of forbidden sin in an otherwise normal existence.

It all came with its fair share of close calls. That Saturday morning surprise visit from your parents where you answered their knock at the door and they invited themselves in, all while Hanni lies naked in your bedroom. How you sneakily warned her before she emerged and spun the story to them both about how she slept on your floor out of fear after watching another one of her horror movies. They bought it, of course, because they couldn't imagine there being any other explanation.

Then there was Hanni's near miss with her group. She told you all about how Minji had picked up on how something had changed with her; about how convinced Minji was that Hanni had found herself a boyfriend. About the look Minji gave her as Hanni protested, and finally how she got away with a half-truth.

She told the girls it was because of you and how you would work out together on weekends to make her feel better.

Everything was going so well, which made this week even more confusing.

It's been days since you last saw her. The longest you have gone in some time. Long hours and staying over with her members are one thing. Going days with no word or anything at all is another. She ignored your texts, never returned your calls, and stopped showing up at home like you'd come to expect.

No warning.

Nothing.

[evilminji]

You think the Zone has its version of Comic Con?

Like? Think about it. You have literally all of time to work on it, your Magnum Opus, your life's work. That DREAM comic. All the supplies you could ever wish for. Endless paper. Endless ink. You can practice and practice for CENTURIES until it's JUST right.

Wouldn't you want to share it?

There are definitely Ghosts who have Obsessions that make them collect.

And two people meeting would lead to a group. Lead to a bigger group. Lead to a large group. A gathering. A crowd even. Eventually you need a Lair to meet IN. It becomes An Event.

People hear about it.

Want to bring other art mediums. Food stalls. Report on it. It grows. Shoot offs start happening. Niche meet ups.

But like?

Unlike comic con? It's all FREE. Sure, you might have fork over the ecto to make your copy. And yeah, weaker ghosts can only do that so many times. Will have to prioritize. But? They can come back after leaving for a nap. Ask a buddy to come with. There ARE work arounds.

Just? Imagine the unbelievable HIPE? Danny would feel? But be unable to TELL anyone about? Zone Con happens several times a year! Cause so many people wanna come. The Zone being infinite, after all.

Problem 1? They're using THEIR standard of a "year". Which is actual 5 earth years. So it's only happens every year and a half for him. And Problem 2? He can't even TALK about how excited he is about Z Con with anyone (outside his friends and family) because they haven't heard of it and might Ask Questions.

It's ALSO held in a part of the Zone that's like? Three days of flying away from the portal. And no amount of begging is gonna get any of his loved ones to camp in the Speeder for around six-ish days just to go to a Con.

So you can imagine his DELIGHT. His utter JOY and *Target Spotted* "!!!" Noise, when? In the crowd? He spots A HUMAN! Hi fellow human!!! Omg, wanna be Con Besties? *doesn't even wait for an answer*

So now? This sad, blonde, deeply lost and kinda alarmed, trench coat dude? Is Danny's new Z Con Going Bestie! You got a map yet, bestie? No? That's cool, he has one. By the way, he has human food in the Speeder if you nee-

YES!

Cause, see, here's the THING. John? Lost to the Realms Infinte. Or Infinte Realms. Translation was iffy... and on fire... like the rest of the building. It was him or the kids those psychos had kidnapped, for what fucked "ritual" the voices in their heads, that THEY thought were demons but frankly he's pretty sure was just feedback from-

Look, doesn't matter, he had to choose. He always knew someday he'd have too. That even twisting Luck and talking fast wouldn't quite be enough. And he had to decide, in that moment, which outcome mattered more to him. They get out safe, or he does.

Wasn't much of a question, was it?

So, there he is. Staring down oblivion and all those debts unpaid. 'Bout to see who's gonna come for him this time, and take what left of wretched soul. When? He bleeds on the FUCKIN two-bit crap circle they squiggled in God only knows what. Remembers that "oh YEAH, set dressings!" Sometimes when you focus too hard on insuring a Good Outcome?

You weird weird as shit byproducts happening on the side to balance it all out.

Or BAD ones.

He wakes up someone fucking green and crowded. For the life of him can't tell you which one it is. And THAT was of course, bout two days ago.

Biggest and most immediate problem? He... does NOT recognize what flavor of magical fuckery this is. Doesn't seem Fae. And doesn't smell like Hell. There are... there are honest to God BOOTH BABES hanging around. Hunks too. The view is LOVELY.

And nerdy.

Very, very nerdy.

But he isn't THAT out of touch. So he should recognize SOMETHING. Or at least the languages. But nope! It's like aliens and magic had a nerd baby and dipped it in GREEN. And the worst thing? Is there is food everywhere, but it all glows and John's not stupid enough to eat it.

Then? Sweet merciful fuck. Salvation! Some teeny bopper Barely No Longer Teen fresh faced INFANT of a Hero kid. With a SHIP. Who has FOOD and a clear idea of where they are. Hello~ John's new BEST FRIEND. Yes. Absolutely. Con Buddies, whatever.

Just feed me, kid.

Only? Once he inhales like 5 "Fenton rations"? He only gets half way through introducing himself before getting interrupted. Kid hears "magic" and "occult Detective" and just? Goes "oh! So you wanna check out the magic Ally with me? Sam wanted me to pick up some witchy stuff!"

..............how magic?

(In Which? Constantine becomes Danny's interdimensional Con buddy)

@the-witchhunter @hypewinter @hdgnj @mutable-manifestation @lolottes @nerdpoe