#Been down all fucking day so I have been languishing

[locallyloathed]

Pretty sure “I have a thing for unstable irredeemable pretty boys” is not the message I was supposed to catch watching the new Hunger Games movie, but alas.

[critterbitter]

I'm wheezing over Ingo and Litwick's dynamic jgjbjjxjsjwkfiisiq and TYNAMO FITTING INTO EMMET'S SCARF IS SOOO CUTE!! Love how you draw the little sbubby bois, their conductor themed outfits are soo freaking cute!!!

I have so many thoughts when it comes to them it’s insane. Glad you like the characterizations!

Here’s a quick one shot under the cut, as a treat for making it this far.

Emmet finds Tynamo three months before Ingo meets Litwick. Ingo has some thoughts.

Ingo and Emmet are part of a pair.

If Emmet is the fuck around and find out, then Ingo’s been relegated amused damage control. This has always been the case, right up until Emmet found tynamo. Then suddenly, it’s “wow emmet, you’re so responsible!” “Golly gee Emmet, what do you mean you don’t want to go exploring the cave systems after dark?” “Gee whizz, what do you mean curfew for your eel puppy?” “Why in Reshiram do you get to have a whole pokemon three months before we agreed to get starters, and i don’t?”

Ingo doesn’t say the last part. He’s a bitter world-weary twelve year old languishing about the unfairness of the pokestray distribution system, but he also loves his brother. Emmet found an injured tynamo in chargestone cave and decided to help— tynamo decided to stay. It’s every child’s film plot. Ingo being a grouchy gengar makes him objectively a terrible friend.

Oh dragons, is Ingo a bad brother?

“Ingo!”

Speak of the cold, and he shall enter. Ingo swings his whole body around to better brace for the flying tackle.

“Emmet!”

“I am emmet! You are sulking.”

Ingo clicks his mouth closed and tries not to sulk harder. He fails.

“You are not being verrrry convincing, brother dearest.”

“I do not have any idea what you are going on about,” Ingo’s traitorous mouth blurts. “Be convinced I love you and am not planning dastardly plots.”

Do not think about getting a ground typed starter. Do not think about getting a ground typed starter.

Emmet shoots him a judgemental look from under the brim of his hat. Ingo glowers back, and slowly starts leaning forward, smooshing Emmet under his weight.

“Ttttell me why you look like a crushed joltik.”

“Keep this up and you are going to be the crushed joltik.”

Anyways, Emmet is becoming more bold by the day and even actively discussing electric types with the new girl in elementary prep, Elesa. Ingo thinks she’s cool, but she flinched when he blurted a once again too loud greeting so he’s… letting that cool off. They definitely don’t have anything to talk about beyond pokemon, and Emmet and her already have pokemon. Ingo feels a bit left out.

Caught in the ennui of not having a blitzle or tynamo, Ingo slips as Emmet rolls out from under him. The two go down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs.

“Tell. Me. What’s. Wrong.” Emmet gently slaps Ingo’s face like a ripe oran berry. “You want to tell me sooo badly. Ooh.”

“Emmet- aurgh. Gerroff’”

“I don’t speak denial.”

Ingo gives up. His entire body deflates. Emmet, not expecting the sudden loss of spinal infrastructure, slides sideways and knees Ingo’s lungs.

Ingo wheezes. “I’m sulking because you were crushing my spine.”

“Tell me the truth.”

Uh oh. Ingo studies Emmet’s face. It’s the same one he looks into the mirror with, but marred with concern and self consciousness. Ingo made Emmet worry. He’s not just a bad twin. He’s the worst.

“You are Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“You have Tynamo.”

“Tynamo’s charging at home.”

Smart ass! Emmet knows what Ingo means. And by Emmet’s smug grin, Emmet knows too.

Ingo struggles to explain that Emmet has Tynamo, and Elesa, and… that’s only two other individuals. He is truly the worst twin in all the land. Emmet gets two new friends and Ingo’s being an infant about it.

One day, Ingo will have his own pokemon partner and team— but right now, Ingo only gets to have Emmet.

Ingo feels this is an unfair trade equivalent, but he does not want to say it in a way that sounds rude, so he stalls.

Emmet has no such prefunctures. He squints at Ingo, who avoids eye contact and squirms. “You are… jealous?” He tilts his head in visible confusion. “What?”

Ingo covers his face with his hands, defeated.

“You arrrre jealous!” Emmet cries, bewildered. “Why??”

Ingo lets out an unintelligible wheeze. Emmet remembers he still has a knee on Ingo’s chest, and hastily sits back.

“I don’t want to be jealous,” Ingo finally bursts. “I am very happy for you Emmet! You and Tynamo are a winning combination!” His voice cracks embarrassingly. Emmet doesn’t flinch at the volume, even muffled under Ingo’s palms. “I don’t want to be a bad brother being jealous.”

“You aren’t a bad brother, Ingo.”

“I am. I am angry that you found your starter and I haven’t. I’m sad I interrupted your schedule with my inane demands. I have made you feel like you did something wrong. I apologize.”

Peeking between Ingo’s fingers, Emmet’s face falls. Ingo wants to be struck by a giga impact rather than face this. He would rather be a dusty imprint. Where is Uncle Drayden’s Haxorous when you need her?

“Ingo, Ingo listen to me.” Emmet’s hands dart forward to settle Ingo’s shoulders. The pressure is grounding. Real. This is where Emmet tells Ingo he’s being stupid.

He hears Emmet exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. “Pardon?”

“I wanted to train Tynamo as my conductor, and I left our two-car train unmaintained.”

“Pardon??”

Emmet looks uncomfortable and sad. It makes Ingo uncomfortable and sad. “Yesterday night. When you wanted to go to the caves. For our weekly charting. I said I’d rather help Tynamo.”

Oh. Yeah, Ingo remembers that. It had stung. “You are not obligated to say yes,” he protests. “In fact, you should say no more. You always say yes.”

“Yes.”

“What did I just say.”

“No. You’re my brother. I left you out.”

Ingo slowly puts down his hands. His face still feels warm, but he feels less scared. Now he just feels embarrassed. He can’t help but let out a meek plea slip. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, Emmet. Please.”

“I would never! We are going on our pokemon journey together, yep yep. You, me, tynamo, and whoever your starter will be!”

The two sit there on the side of the dirt road. Emmet’s declaration sounds like a dangerous promise. Ingo realizes at that moment he would do anything for his brother, who’s his best friend and confidant and world, starter or no starter. He opens his mouth to tell Emmet that.

“Wwwwwait. You are trying to go back to the caves. Ingo! Are you trying to find a starter by yourself!?”

Never mind. Emmet’s gone for his soft underbelly, and Ingo’s in pain. “Emphasis on trying,” he mutters instead. The joltik are not interested in him. The local tynamo swarm fled. A curious drilbur had sniffed him once, turned up its nose, and then trundled into the wall.

“…ah.”

Nothing had felt right for Ingo— too scared, too judgemental, or too uninterested. He’s starting to accept that maybe none of the pokemon in this town area match his truth or ideals.

Emmet was quiet for a long time. He had his thinking face on, so Ingo did not interrupt. He took the time instead to look up at the sky, watching the giant puff of clouds drift by. A plume of swabloo lazily inches their way across the horizon.

A shadow falls over Ingo. Emmet dusts himself off, and helps drag his twin to his feet. The two sway, clasping hands.

“We’ll ask Uncle Drayden,” Emmet decides, and Ingo is enthralled by the sheer truth of that statement. “He’ll let us use the subway! And you can look elsewhere, for a starter who is ideal for you. Wwwwith me and Tynamo, instead of by yourself.”

“Truly?” Uncle Drayden is a scary man.

Emmet nods. It’s easy to talk to Emmet— he just says words that Ingo would spend hours ruminating on. “I am verrrry persuasive.”

“You mean staring at him from the corner until he cracks?”

“Brother, you know me so well!”

Ingo cant help but laugh. He still feels guilty and bad for feeling envious, but a world with emmet by his side is significantly less hostile. Emmet’s hand is warm in his.“Thank you!” He cheers, startling himself with his volume. “Bravo,” he tried in a quieter tone.

“Bravo!!” Emmet replies, pointedly louder. Ingo squawks as Emmet pulls him off balance. “You are my brother! We’re going to find you a starter!”

Ingo tugs back just as fiercely. “Bravo!! We are going to harass Uncle Drayden into letting us board the train!”

Emmet leans with his whole body, dragging Ingo into the fulcrum of his centrifuge. “BRAVO! YOU ARE GOING TO HELP ME WITH TYNAMO’S TRAINING!”

Ingo digs his heels in, and then stumbles. “BRAVO, I, what?”

Emmet looked distinctly patrat-esque. “We’re in this together, Ingo. No backing out now.”

Ingo thought about it long and hard. He gets to see his brother get electrocuted. But he will, also, most likely, get electrocuted.

(Tynamo is Emmet’s starter. But maybe, it can also be Ingo’s friend.)

But brother say brother do, and Ingo’s probably obligated to run damage control if Emmet decides to, say, shove a fork into an outlet for Tynamo to snack on.

(Emmet fucks around. Ingo finds out. Even two steps apart with new people between, this is the way of their world.)

“Alright,” he crumbles. When they step this time, they step in sync. “We do this. Together.” (Enjoy this? Here's the link to the rest of my rat crimes.)

[bluelinen]

My Camboy

Pairing: Cam boy!Choso x AFAB!Reader Content/Warnings: smut, masturbation, no penetration, female anatomy, no use of y/n, porn no plot, well.. very little plot at the end

MDNI

Ting~*

You've always had this guilty pleasure for as long as you could remember. Since your very first time stumbling across that incredibly risqué audio.

You loved noises. Loved hearing the hoarse animalistic groans of pleasure as one grasped desperately for a release, strings of uncouth words and phrases dripping from a yearning mouth.

The carnal coarseness of such a voice, uncontrolled, unrestrained. It's what's led you down a path such as this, where that ting that notifies you of when his stream begins is the one thing you look forward to almost every week.

You don't see his face on stream, if you did you wouldn’t know what you’d do. It’d probably scare you shitless.

Not that he’s an ugly guy or anything. Quite the opposite really, you found the view of his face quite pleasant to look at every morning you saw him in your shared apartment.

See that was the thing. He’s your roommate.

Which meant that if you were brave enough or, you suppose, just plain crazy you could open the door from across your own and fully witness the complete uncensored revelry of Choso’s bare chest as his fingers brush across the button which makes your screen as well as your eyes light up.

A flurry of messages roll through the side bar proclaiming their greetings. A bunch of ‘hey's’, ‘hi’s’, ‘omg you’re so fine’s’. Even a few small gifts.

Yours was the largest of them, you made sure of that.

The bottom half of his face quirks up in a small smile as he whispers into the camera, his voice deep and airy. “It’s so nice to see all of you here..”

He reaches a hand up into his hair, out of sight from the camera, and a set of snaps from elastic releases his raven locks from the signature spiky style they usually were in, strands languishing comfortably along his shoulders. “I really hope that all of you have had a nice day today..”

He starts trailing a hand from his neck slowly down his broad chest. “Cause it’s been such a long.. long day for me y’know.”

“My muscles feel so tense..” His voice is a hypnotizing lull. “Tired too. I've been needing to find a way, a good way, to sooth this dulling ache.”

You yourself smile knowingly towards your screen.

He smiles back. “I’m sure you could help me with that though, couldn’t you?”

“Tell me you’ve had such a long tiring day too.. “ His sultry voice murmurs as his fingers inch down further towards his waist, his touch achingly slow, seamless as silk.

A spry fleet of comments surge in answer.

“The day is so hard isn’t it? So demanding..” He palms a growing bulge covered by the thin fabric of the shorts he’s wearing.

“We deserve a good release, don’t we?”

He fingers the edge of his waistband.

The chime of several gifts being given causes him to smile.

“Mm.. that’s what i like to hear.”

A low hum leaves his throat as he continues his faithful touch along his crotch and you watch with anticipation, waiting for the very moment he's decided, as you have already, that enough is enough.

It only takes a few minutes before he reaches his waning limit, a soft moan and quick snap of the waistband reveals the honest erection. Large and familiar it stands from it’s restraints proudly, clear substance already glistening from the sore crimson tip.

Choso smears the clear liquid along the head of his cock like a lubricant and you wonder how there's already so much, a small somewhat delusional part of you desperately wants to think that it's from the thought of you.

He begins moving his long fingers along his length, gentle smooth strokes coaxing a light train of moans to leave his lips. Each lithe sound causing an increasing tension to form between your legs.

“Ah.. i really wish you were here to help me with this..” He says to the camera, his voice light as he steadily increases his pace. “Fuck.”

He slides his fist from base to tip to base— and back again, low strained little whimpers following every stroke of his hardened cock sending a burning feeling of arousal to your core, little sparks of lightning dancing along the surface of your sodden clit. It’s only a matter of seconds before your hand reaches down to sooth your own aches, the onslaught of sounds desperately attracting one to the other like some burning magnet.

Sliding the pad of your finger along the soaking slit, building up your pace slowly, softly as you try to match the increasing intensity of his touch with your fingers upon your own wet cunt.

“Can you.. Mm.. Can you see how hard I am for you?” He groans as he suddenly stops to display the veiny painfully hard erection. He sits back lounging in his desk chair and it throbs and jerks impressively, engorged at the tip, almost pleading for release. Each involuntary jerk sends a flutter through your core and with a finger on your clit you pause, desperately wishing for him to continue so that you could also.

“I need.. ugh.. I need you- fuck.” He whimpers gingerly, smiling into the camera.

A dastardly scheme of course, but one you fall for every time. A click of the button with your free hand sends the swift notification across the screen notifying him of your donation as well as the donations of many many others, giving up your hard earned coins just for the man to continue stroking his hardon. It’s an awful cycle. But it's one you seemingly can’t stop. Audios, videos, they just didn’t cut it anymore, not in the same way.

Maybe it was the interactiveness, the control.

It was something magical about the way his cock twitches and how his veiny painted hands do something sinful about it while he whines and moans into the mic. You felt like you’d honestly sell your very soul just to see to it that the red rosy tip on your screen chases its unrelenting release every single time.

It allowed for you to do the same. And it felt so good, so damn good every single time.

Barely a minute and the flow of gifts had his fingers find firm fit around his shaft again, continuing the erotic train of degenerate touch. “Aah you always come through..” A chain of hitched sighs. “I Mm.. always know I can count on you.”

His pace only becomes faster and so does yours, his lovely voice, groans and ruts pulling you closer and closer to your peak as he chases his.

“Fuck i’m close.." He moans. "so so close.”

You can tell. The way his sweet lips part and quiver, wisping breath letting out those saccharine sounds.

The sticky head of his twitching cock ready to spill rich fluid.

It made your tongue swipe across your bottom lip in anticipation.

“Mm yeah.. I know you love this, you love.. ah.. you love watching this.” He releases a sequence of pitiful little haggard breaths. “You close? You about to c-cum? fuck.”

You sync every last stroke along your clit with his on his dick. Sharing every lewd moan and sigh, it’s just you and him in this dark little room.

A string of ineligible words fall from his sweet lips as he continues.

“Let’s cum together, ‘k-kay?”

You were getting there, a sheen of sweat forming across your damp forehead. You wanted to release, to come undone but not without him. You wanted.. no needed to hear him before you finished, it made the end all the more divine.

“Come on..” Your lips mutter softly under your breath. “Come on..”

“Oh God- oh fuck-”

He exclaims with a jerk of his hips before he comes undone with a final forceful tug, a delicious cry, thick milky spurts of cum wastefully flowing from the tip and pooling onto his thigh.

A dear part of you wishes you were actually there to put it to some good use.

Your brows pinch, nose scrunching as you let out a final moan. The good shivers running through you in great waves through your orgasm. You smile towards your screen, rush of honey swelling in your chest.

As you look down at your own mess, clear pearly liquid languishly dripping from the tips of your fingers you think.

Oh..

'this is becoming a bit of a problem, isn't it?’

*-*-*

Your teeth clink against cool glass as you promptly gulp down cold liquid, the crisp clear swill of the water that slips down your throat revitalises your body, clearing your mind.

A clear mind, god you needed that.

The glass is soon emptied and you rush to the sink for another one, you’re twisting the tap open when you hear the familiar footsteps of your roommate walk into the kitchen with a mumble.

You turn your head to find the man approaching you and you blank, panicking a little. It wasn't usually you found yourself face to face with the man you had just fucked yourself to a few minutes ago. It wasn't exactly the best scenario to find yourself in.

Fuck.

It was only a moment ago that Choso sent his goodbyes to the chat and it looks it with the light pink hue roaming the warm skin of his cheeks, the relaxed haze over his lazily lidded eyes. He looks so dazed.

Despite your dismay at his sudden appearance you can't help but appreciate the expression so honest on his face. The one thing about his streams was that you'd never witness the aftermath of those escapades, truly it was a shame.

He looks so fine after being fucked out.

Choso strolls into the kitchen with the cover of his usual cool look of indifference but you were very well aware of the many other expressions he was capable of making. From the nose down anyway. The sounds he was capable of making. It makes you have to stop from audibly swallowing as you hurriedly look away. You were going crazy.

Your breath catches when he comes ever closer, leaning towards you, dishevelled black mane of hair brushing forward as he does. You swallow. Do you look suspicious? Does he suspect anything?

You feel a rush of water overflowing from the forgotten glass, drip dropping along your fingers and into the kitchen sink, almost jumping as his arm reaches out— and passes you to reach the empty glass on the countertop behind you.

He narrows his eyes slightly at your flinching. “Something wrong?”

"No!" You exclaim immediately before realising you've overreacted a little.

You gave a false little cough before repeating the word. "No. I'm good." A little suave this time.

"Good?" He raises a brow.

"Yeah-yeah." You insist as you hurriedly turn off the tap. Taking your glass and swigging a sequence of urgent gulps. "Just a little jumpy today."

"Right.." Choso looks a little unsure but chooses not to press further as you cleared way for him to get to the sink.

As the water pours into his glass he suddenly remembers something and is about to say whatever that something is to you before you make like a magic trick and disappear into thin air, retreating immediately to your room before you can make a further fool of yourself.

Curling up into a ball upon your many blankets and hugging your favourite pillow underneath your chin you thrash around in your shame for a while before sighing and burying your head into the pillow.

God one day.

One day you really were gonna get caught.

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

A/N: First post here rawr👹 genuinely think i'm tweaking, hope y'all enjoyed it though ^^

Art drawn by @//Umbra3terna on tumblr & edited by me :33

[mechaknight-98]

Home Run (NSFW) Ft. Sohee

The winner of poll for Wednesday’s fic. Hope y'all enjoy.

Sohee had always loved baseball for the entirety of your relationship. It was so all-consuming that you often wondered if she loved the "sport" more than you. You couldn't stand the sport however mostly because of its glacial pace, and lack of stacks in moment-to-moment play. Rugby was more your speed, but you learned the tells and watched 4 full seasons of Eagles games. at this point, you knew the sport almost inside and out begrudgingly, but you loved Sohee and she did make it worth your while. when watching the last game of the season you partially zoned out as a new game on the switch came out. so you were enjoying that Muted so Sohee could get the full experience of watching her team. As the game winded down you looked towards the stat sheet to catch up on what was going on.

"Ugh well, there goes our chance at playoffs." Sohee groaned indicating that both the game and her team's season were over.

Absent you say, "Their playoff hopes were dashed ages ago and until they do something about their offensive play then they will continue to fall behind the pack."

Sohee turns to you surprised, "How do you know this she challenged

"Well, defensively they are great 12 strikeouts to 8 is insane, they also had a similar number of at-bats, hits, and batting averages. the disparity comes in runs batted in and bases on ball which contributed to an early lead for the Giants that was just too much to overcome. You explained without looking up from your switch.

"but other games have been closer!" Sohee asserted confidently.

at this point, you look up from your switch to smile at your lovely girlfriend and say, "Baby I love you but your team finished 9 out of 10 in the rankings this year. I know you say it's not a "numbers" game and there is more to it than stats but in this specific case the numbers don't lie." To soften the sting you kiss her cheek.

Sohee smiles and says, "Since when did you become an expert on my team."

"Babe," you groan, "We have watched this entire season. Now I know they are not the same team as last year but at least for this season, they had offensive issues. That much is apparent with how many games ended in one-sided games of 7-2 or 8-0, or..." Sohee seeing your point kisses you before you start running more numbers off. Quiet as it's kept she would always get so turned on when you talked baseball. She was dripping wet when she straddled you as the kiss languished into a full make-out.

"Someone's feeling frisky." you tease.

"I just can't help it. When my boyfriend knows his stuff it makes me all excited." Sohee replies demurely, she would never admit it to you but whenever you started getting super into the stats and numbers her head would begin to spin with arousal and she always had to resist the urge to just drain you then and there. Today though you were both off for the next couple of days so she could fuck you as long as she wanted. She began the horizontal tango by pushing down on the couch as she began to kiss you more fervently.

"Um, babe I hate to kill the mood but can I ask that you give me one second to let go of the switch." You asked as she broke the kiss to breathe.

"hm," Sohee huffed.

"Hey I can't massage your ass the way you like if I don't have both my hands." you tease. Sohee smiled gleefully and let you go. you run to the dock to place your switch before going back to her, and she wastes no time returning to her attack on your body, but you are not merely prey. you counterattack her kisses of your neck and collarbone by massaging her bountiful rump. She mewls in pleasure eager to egg you on. As the two of you kiss her tongue is the first to explore your mouth. She draws you in and refuses to relinquish control as she has her tongue dance along the whole of your mouth. when she breaks the kiss to breathe a trail of saliva links the two of you together still Sohee licks her lips and purrs before unfastening your belt. You groan in pleasure as she fishes out your cock and begins to suck on it. you try not to push her down as her cheeks hollow and she takes you further than ever, but the comfort and warmth of her throat cause you to buck your hips which leads to a further loss of control as you begin to relentlessly fuck her throat. You watch as your girlfriend's eyes roll back as you continue to use her throat to pleasure you. the sounds of gags break the silence of your shared apartment, as she submits to you wholly and completely. You continue to use her throat with reckless abandon

You don't stop until you feel your release and cum down her throat. As you sense, you see Sohee stare at you with a look she has never displayed before. She gets up and smiles at you lustfully. "You like using me like a little fuckdoll?" she says with angered lust.

"You like just using my throat like it's your toy?" she pressures. She begins to corner you and of course, this leads to the bedroom. she pushes you down and begins to suck your cock again. you groan as she takes you down her throat, but this time it's different as she begins to manipulate her throat muscles in a way that's foreign but insane to you.

"Oh God," you scream as Sohee works over your cock. Sohee smiles and eggs you on

"You gonna cum for mommy. Come on cum down Mommy's throat like the good boy you are and I just might let you fuck my pussy." You can't hold out much longer as Sohee continues to relentlessly suck and gorge herself on your rod before you cum again, but she's not done with you yet. she begins to rub your cock to get it hard again

Your overwhelmed body barely can stop the moan of pleasure and discomfort as Sohee takes you inside. She smiles at Sickly while watching you squirm under her.

“Babe please stop,” you beg but Sohee begins to ride you oblivious to your discomfort she chases her high.

“Oh I just love how you fill me up,” she says as she begins her deadly body roll her tight tummy hypnotizes you as she continues grinding on your cock. She continues to chase her release despite your protests. You groan and wince as she pushes you further and further past your

limits, while she loses herself more and more to pleasure. Eventually, you pass out.

When you wake up your head is pounding as you feel something wet and tight on your crotch it's Sohee. She's passed out while you're still inside her. You chuckle and adjust so the two of you can cuddle together. When you get into a comfortable position Sohee nestles closer.

“I may not know baseball but you are my favorite home run,” you say as you fall asleep again

[pseudowho]

Daddy

Dating apps are a hazard for men like Higuruma Hiromi...

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Higuruma Hiromi has a dating app on his phone.

It's not that he wanted it-- he really didnt. Two silly-drunk colleagues on a night out pushed him incessantly. The cool night air on the balcony made Hiromi shiver and seek out red wine for its warmth; it stripped Hiromi clean...or, it would have done, if not for his Junior Associates and their dirty talk.

"What do you mean you don't have a girlfriend, Higuruma?" The girl chirped, looking so appallingly young to Hiromi, with her mascara and lipstick all drunk-smudged.

"It's because he's working all the time, look at him, probably hasn't had a good fuck in years--" The boy bullied, really barely a man, sharing a cackle with his tipsy, sloppy friend.

"Alright, alright, that's enough!" Hiromi groaned, both hands sliding down his face as he leant back in his chair, "I'm after more than just 'a good fuck' as you so eloquently put it--" his colleagues laughed a dirty laugh, "--and I can get by without one, just because you two saplings have to wank furiously twice a day or you'd spontaneously combust--"

Hiromi was being ignored now, his two juniors chattering between themselves, deciding on a plan.

"Give us your phone, Higuruma," the girl wheedled, two hands clasped to Hiromi's forearm, "just for a minute."

Hiromi groaned again, running a hand through his hair, just wanting some peace and quiet; "sod off, I'm not giving you my phone--" and instantly the two voices were on him, rabbling, cajoling, bullying, until Hiromi waved his splayed long fingers at them.

Hiromi unlocked his phone, flipping it carelessly into the lap of the girl who clapped and squealed in excitement. Instantly, the two young drunks put their heads together, working on their dubious little project.

"Okay, all done, Mr.Higurumaaaa!" The girl sang, presenting his phone to him with a flourish, looking proud of herself. The boy sat, smug, looking at Hiromi like he'd done him a favour. Hiromi felt nervous already.

"What did you--" Hiromi looked down, and groaned for a third time to see a dating profile in his name. But, even he couldn't deny that the candid photo of him in the city skyline bar, loose-tied with a hand running through his black hair, wine-drunk and sultry, was good.

"I certainly won't be using that, thank you," Hiromi berated, to two raucous laughs. Hiromi snorted into his wine, shaking his head fondly at his juniors, and promptly forgot all about his new dating profile.

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Some weeks later, in a fit of loneliness, Hiromi remembered it. Legs up on his sofa in the dark, really just wanting someone to talk to, and if they managed to talk him into bed, well, then that was just a bonus--

Hiromi felt a thrilled little leap in his belly-- his inbox was bursting. It didn't take long for the thrill to be replaced promptly by a little rancid coil of disgust.

"Why is she-- why is she calling me Daddy, she doesn't even know-- jesus wept..." Hiromi sifted through 24 year olds, 21 year olds, and even 18 year olds, in his inbox, with an immediately dismissive shudder, feeling like a lecherous old man even just for having been approached by them.

Even the tiny handful of 25-29s made him uncertain, wondering what they wanted from a man with a not inconsiderable amount of grey in his hair.

Feeling dirty and disappointed, Hiromi dropped the phone on his coffee table.

"I shall die a nun, I think," he said aloud to nobody in particular, resigned, lonely.

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"Darling-- darling-- put on some music for me will you? My hands, uh..." Hiromi waggled his hands, stood at the kitchen counter, chopping raw chicken.

You hummed in affirmation, wandering over to Hiromi, unlocking his phone for him. Hunting through his phone for his music, your other hand teasing his aproned waist, your jaw dropped to find an app languishing, overflowing with notifications.

"Hiromi! You've got a dating app?!" Hiromi spun, his mouth gaping, eyes wide with panic.

"Not-- no no no, it's not what you think--I just completely forgot I had it--"

"Oh shush, I don't think that, silly, I know you'd never do that--" you laughed, opening the app, raising your eyebrows with an appreciative whistle at the artistically languid photograph of Hiromi sprawled in a roof garden chair, long fingers curled around his red wine, looking to all the world as though he were the devil made flesh.

"I'll be having that, thank you," you pipped, saving the photo and sending it to yourself, "and what have we here?" You began to scroll through Hiromi's messages, interested, beginning to laugh.

"Wow, you uh...really attract the daddy-issues ones, huh?" Hiromi hung his head in shame, as you laughed at him, and begun to read some of the messages.

"Daddy looks like that lap needs a baby on it," your voice coy and 'innocent' in a way that made Hiromi audibly "UGH" at you, rushing to wash his hands, grabbing a dish cloth to whip you with as he chased you around the kitchen, laughing.

"Fine AF," you chirped, dodging Hiromi, falling back onto the sofa, still reading aloud in a nasal whine, "Daddyyyyyy."

"Enough of that, you sick little demon," Hiromi snapped, snatching his phone away, pressing you to the sofa, his hips pressed between your legs, nose and lips working with punishing insistence against your throat. You giggled again.

"Dadd--" Hiromi bit into your neck, his water-cooled fingers pinching your pebbling nipple through your top without warning, and you shivered in delight.

"You want a grown woman instead of a girl, these days, and you're the freak--" Hiromi complained, huffing, blushing and smirking down at you. You coiled your hair around a finger, looking up at him, biting your lip in a way that made Hiromi's cock twitch.

"You're saying I'm too old for all that?" You teased, sighing in faux-despair. You gasped as you felt Hiromi hum against your belly, kissing and nipping his way downwards.

"Shut up," Hiromi dismissed, "and let me taste you."

[lovebugism]

chest and shivering with Stevie?🥹 for the blurb sleepover

18+ (ish)

“Missed you,” Steve pants desperately against your mouth. He tries to kiss you through each of his murmured sweet nothings, but it’s hardly more than a feverish clashing of lips and tongue and teeth. 

You touch each other with all the desperation of two kept-apart lovers — a couple of languishing sweethearts who can only meet in the backseat of his car when the moon is out.

“It’s only been a day,” you’d smiled against his mouth when you first crawled into the back of his Beemer. You’d said it like twenty-four hours wasn’t a death sentence when it’s spent away from you.

“Tell me about it,” he’d muttered back, kissing you while you told him about your dad.

Steve wants to swallow you whole and tell you he loves you at the same time. He grieves the fact that he can’t do both.

His lips smack when they part from your neck. The wet sound is much louder in the quiet of his car, filled with nothing but heavy breaths and longing sighs. When he tugs at the bottom of your shirt, you abide him without thinking twice.

You barely have time to pull the fabric up and over your head when you feel more wet kisses press along your warmed skin. 

The plush of Steve’s lips dot themselves across the supple skin of your chest, leaving small traces of spit that cools and leaves goosebumps that make you shiver. 

“I missed these, too,” he mumbles against your left breast, just before scraping his teeth along the top of it. His hand rises from your hips to clutch at the right one. His fingers grasp your sensitive skin over the lace bralette you wear.

You laugh. “Sometimes, I think you only miss my boobs.”

Steve Harrington, at his core, was a boob guy. 

It didn’t take you very long to realize it, either. 

He gravitated toward your chest in ways that were both sinful and innocent — digging his teeth into your nipple while he fucked you raw and lying his head against your right breast to match his heartbeat with your own right after.

“You know that’s not true,” he retorts when his lips part from you again. His chin tilts as he leans his head back against the seat. Your absentminded hands cradle his soft stubbled jaw. His own squeeze your hips, pushing your lap further into his own. 

A lopsided smile pulls at his mouth. “You know I love all of you…”

You did.

Because, yes, Steve was a boob guy, but when it came to you? He was an everything guy.

He loved your ass, especially how it paired so nicely with the plush of your thighs and how much you liked when he held and hit you there. He loved your chest too, of course — and your hips and your stomach — so beautiful and so sensitive to his fleeting touches.

He loved your neck, kissing it mostly because he liked to feel your heartbeat against his lips.

He loved your mouth, too, the way it smiled for him when he made you feel good and the way it made him feel good in return. 

He loved your eyes also because he’d be an idiot not to with the way you looked at him. They twinkle and squint at the edges when you laugh. They glaze over and get heavy when you come.

Steve couldn’t pick a favorite part of you if he tried. 

It’d be a disservice to all the rest of you that he loved so much.

“You’re such a sap,” you tease, shaking your head and leaning closer to him so that he might pour some more of that sweetness into your mouth.

Already drunk and kissbitten, his lips part obediently for you. You swipe your tongue between them, then kiss and tug at his bottom one. He exhales a heavy sigh against you.

“Not my fault you’re so damn pretty,” he practically slurs.

You grin all giddy like a schoolgirl. “Steve Harrington thinks I’m pretty,” you repeat, mostly joking, but feeling like you’re still sort of dreaming. Girls like you don’t get guys like him. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, still smiling as you bite softly down on it, pinching yourself to check if you’re dreaming or not.

“He thinks you’re perfect, actually,” the boy corrects. He leans slightly forward to latch his spit-slick lips to your neck, sucking and nipping at the skin there before traveling down down down. 

Steve smears sloppy kisses along your chest and sternum. His wide palms splay along your bare ribs, coercing you to lean further backward so he can continue his journey down your body.

One hand entwines in his cinnamon-speckled locks while the other reaches behind you and rests on his knee — keeping you from tumbling into the floor of his backseat. You giggle breathlessly as the boy presses desperate kisses to your torso. He barely makes it past your ribcage before the position prevents him from going any further.

He sighs and leans his forehead against your chest. “God, I gotta fuck you in a bed, babe,” he murmurs so softly against you that you barely hear it.

You smile, to yourself mostly because he’s not looking at you to see it. You press your lips to the crown of his head — kissing him, then idling there. “My dad would kill me. You know that.”

“Yeah. I do,” he huffs. 

You’re immediately cold when he parts from you. His honey eyes look much sadder than they’d before. They glimmer with adoration and moonlight as he peers up at you. 

“My parents picked a hell of a week to come back home, huh? Right when you finally get a break from school to visit…”

“I think they could sense I was coming to make their son happy,” you joke, halfway serious. “They couldn’t let that happen, huh?

Steve scoffs in the place of a real laugh. “Of course not.”

Your smile is a sad, soft, reminiscent one as your fingers brush back the wild strands of hair on the side of his head. You were the one who’d mussed at them, so it was only right you fixed them, too.

“We’ll always have Lover’s Lake, won’t we?” You say it with a teasing lilt like this boy and his kisses and this view of moonlight on the water hasn’t killed you and brought you back to life again.

“I’ll give you more soon,” Steve assures with a crooked grin and gleaming chocolate eyes. “I promise.”

It’s impossible to ignore the fire that starts in your chest at his words, but you try to anyway.

“Anyone ever told you how sweet you are, Stevie?” you tease, mostly genuine, as your thumb swipes softly over his swollen bottom lip.

“Only all the time,” he jokes back. He squeezes sincerely at your waist again. “You’re sweeter, though.”

You arch a brow at him. “You think so?”

“Oh, I know so, sweetheart…”

“Mm,” you hum in contentment when he pushes you further against him. With your skirt bunched up at your hips, the cotton of your panties brushes his denim-clothed cock. The friction couldn’t be more sinful, more sweet. 

“I could eat you right up, honey,” he murmurs lowly, lips itching for another taste of you — of your mouth and elsewhere.

You inch toward him without realizing it. Your smile is wider now — drunk on moonlight and love and Steve The Hair Harrington. “Promise?”

His hips buck softly upward to press his stiff cock further against the warmth between your thighs.

“Just watch me.”

[whokilledjared]

the sluttiest thing a man can do is be himself. (& takes on social media)

Hi.

I'm lonely.

The moment I got "two weeks off school" in sophomore year, life went to 4x speed & I can't turn it off no matter how hard I try.

Maybe COVID-19 adolescence did numbers on me. Somewhere between the iPhone 5c and ChatGPT, 14-hour screen times have live-streamed to me a steady, homogenous death of culture.

Nothing is cool anymore. Nothing is sacred. Every movement is a trend, and every cult classic a sequel.

The value we place on things being beautiful, on being "cool," and our gatekept appreciation of how hard these things were to find: it's been co-opted, or perhaps stolen. It's been stolen by the new merchant class. "Disruptors" and "innovators" turning our lives into a burgeoning black mirror prequel. Soon, we'll graduate too, and we'll wring every morsel of value in each others' lives dry for cash.

Plain and simple, I think we're being manipulated.

Your dates are an algorithm. Your music is a social signal. And Zuck knows when you sleep.*

God. What the fuck are we doing???

“Individuation is becoming the thing which is not the ego, and that is very strange.” — Carl Jung

Recently, I deleted Instagram. My first impulse was to post a story or something, announcing my departure. But then, I thought that would be lame.

I got rid of my account, too. Kinda. Over 1 year, over 800 followers removed, and what remains of me is a little grey icon, and "JM_0000000010" where my name and face used to be.

yay.

There were many people I wish I could have been friends with, but I wonder, too, why I find myself so drawn to the validation of others. Does social media affect me worse, or do we all just choose to ignore it, languishing in private?

At any rate, this last year has almost felt like re-learning how to be a human being.

Personally, I think one of the biggest markers for maturity is when you become willing to disappoint the people you know in favor of what feels right to you, when you start to unravel the stories you’ve told yourself (or been told) about who you are and what you should be. In short, the sluttiest thing a man can do is be himself.

And sometimes, I think about every college student that has ever lived. My grandmother, my dad, and so on. Just consider for a moment all kids who graduated before 2010:

What was it like for the ones in 1940? To walk around, before a campus had computers? In 2006: To meet someone pretty, but forget their number? In 1999: To cram into dorms, and watch Seinfeld live on-air?

Would I, like my dad in 1988, have braved cold night, brisk wind, & landline phone-call just to knock and see if my friends were too busy to hang?

What stories could I tell if there was even the slightest chance of getting lost on the way home from a party?

Humans are social creatures. We crave our friends like water. To me, the clearest difference between Dasani and Instagram is that one of them comes in a bottle.

Yet despite these distractions and comforts we have in 2024, somehow, we still have engineering students. People who carve out time in their day to sit down, look at paper, and solve differential equations. But then, that's not so hard, is it? It just takes time. Precious, fucking, time.

At Meta, leagues and leagues of these engineers power behavioral scientists, who are competing for the highest salary. Their benchmarks? Your FOMO. Guilt. Anxiety. Obsession. The worse you feel, the more you engage with their content. The more you engage with their content, well, you're starting to get the point.

Try something for me: Open up Instagram, but don't tap anything. What happens? How many little animations? How many tiny nudges prompting you to get lost? Our home-pages are billion-dollar diving boards, hoisting us over engineered catacombs of subconscious quicksand.

My homepage is my FOMO, my envy, and my crushes. The pain and struggle of trying to be someone who I am not. My little existential crises, bundled-up, packaged, and shipped with a like button.

To abandon your social networks entirely, however, requires a safety net of close friends. After all, your friends are online, and you'd be miserable without them.

This is the problem with our monkey brains. Millennia of sociological natural-selection have made us quite great at feeling terrible. We're damn good at making tribal status games to play with, too.

Seeking refuge in quirked up septum piercings and boygenius listeners, my time in counter-cultural, alternative "scenes" between St. Louis and Tampa has shown me that even the weirdest of folks and the most removed can accidentally find themselves reduced to nothing more than high-school popularity contests. Even if I love them. Even if they're amazing people. We're human.

We can't "quit social media" as much as we can't "quit bottled water" Sure, we can, but it's inconvenient. And even without a bottle, we're still drinking water.

So I lost touch with my friends. I got no new updates on their lives. I forced myself into the inconvenience of not having a phone to reach for in fleeting moments of boredom. Suddenly, I was out of the loop. Suddenly, I was bored. And suddenly, nobody missed me. My only friends were the ones I had the time to text. Everyone else ... does not exist.

Weekends have become more valuable than ever. Without the empty social calories of seeing my friends' pictures, I find myself planning hangouts as often as my schedule allows. I have more lunches, more study sessions, and more is done in the company of less.

And I have the time to breathe.

And in this calm, I think I found my answer: it's my misplaced ambition. These fears of anxiety and people I thought I would miss, they seem represent something I want to see more of within myself. Something I want to develop, lean into more deeply, as an individual. And I think that's quite normal; to look out into the world and feel attracted to things we want to see more of. This is, I think, how everyone develops their own definition of beauty — and of coolness. It's largely the intersection of what we find most interesting, and what we want to see more of in the world. Because beauty and coolness, by definition, are rare and hard to find. If they were everywhere, nothing be beautiful, nor would anything be cool.

When we all turn into wrinkles and cataracts, bad backs and heart attacks, for a brief, glorious moment, our lives are going to flash before our eyes. In this moment, you'll see your story. The ultimate progression of you.

How much of that will be skibidi toilet and reaction clips? How much of that will be arguing on the internet? Can you tell me, just how much of your life will you have skipped over to pacify your intentionally-lowered attention span?

That girl whose number you couldn't find Those passing questions over coffee that you couldn't search on Google The boredom of a subway ride

Those are not inconveniences, they're what the older generations refer to as "life."

* (oh, but if you can't sleep, consider this aside: Google knows the angle you walk at, how fast you're walking, and they've got crowdsourced pictures of everywhere around you at all times of the day. fun bedtime thoughts <3)

[pursuitseternal]

“Collaring:” nothing but a sweaty smut update for “Our Blood is Thicker:”

(Ascended) Astarion x Cordehlia | E | 2.8K

📷 by @mouldering-casket 🎨 by @marimosalad, co-creator, 📖 by @nyx-knox

Summary: No ordinary bauble or toy this time, Astarion and Cordehlia bring out that old collar from their adventuring days… but it takes a little more than that to make the Ascendant her pet this time around.

CW: Orgasm denial/control, DommyMommy Cordehlia, collaring, Cock Ring for that whiney Ascendant, retaliation DomDaddy…

Previous Ch | ao3 link | Masterlist

Chapter 23: Collaring…

🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️

It’s a high-pitched whine, hissed between fangs. “Please…” Astarion whimpers, sweat running down his brow to make his pale skin glisten in the roaring firelight.

Cordehlia only smirked, lips parted to show off her right fang as she leaned forward. Adorable… she thought, those wider red eyes that crinkled up at her with need and pain and pleasure. It only made her spread thighs clench harder as she rode on top of him. Everything was wet and sweaty and drenched, but that was to be expected. And it was deserved, calling her ‘pet’ one too many times, a little dare that Astarion just couldn’t pass up regarding his stamina, and now an hour of hard fucking in front of their grand fireplace…. Too many orgasms for her to even keep track of anymore.

While for him… she grinned as he languished still. That grin made him whine out another pitiful ‘please’, his hands clawed into the white fur rug beneath them. Her strong fingers hooked beneath the collar around his neck. “No,” she simply replied, and then stilled her hips to let his cock just sit inside her. “For someone who enjoys making me beg so… very… much, you are pathetic at it.”

He grunted as she yanked him a bit higher to let him go suddenly. “Please, my love,” he whined again louder, trying to swallow over his parched and cracked throat.

“Please… who?” She practically crowed from above him, the skin beneath their thighs so slick with sweat and her arousal. “After an hour of this, I would think the mighty Vampire Ascendant would have learned by now what to call me,” her voice was velvet and ice all at once. Sharp and tempting.

“My Lady Corvus,” he ground out, bucking his hips into her drenched folds as subtly as he could. “Please release me,” his humility dripped like honey, or like the sweat that gathered over every inch of his chest.

Cordehlia leered softly down at him. “Oh… and from what shall I release you? From this little thing?” She reached between them, gripping the base of his cock, finding the ring that wrapped snugly around his thick and throbbing shaft. “A little toy of a ring reduces you to a whiny little brat…”

“Excuse me?” his voice sounded pressed, irritated… until she pulled on that collar again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t listen to insolent pets,” she tutted her tongue, mimicking the way he had all too often teased her over the months they had been reunited. “Now… don’t be fussy, and I might just finally let you come,” her smirk widened wickedly, her hips canting slowly, her hand slipping through her own slick to tease her own clit, making his crimson eyes fix on the sight of their coupling. He licked his lips, eyes fluttering between open and shut, mouth working between clenching and panting. “You could help me, instead of me pampering you, little lordling. Put those amazing hands of yours to use,” she simpered down at him, her free hand reaching for his from the fur rug below them to claw around her swaying breast.

“You’ve grown rather demanding, you know… bound in blood to that powerful Vampire Lord of yours,” Astarion panted beneath her, playing his strong, smoothe fingers over that fullness and plucking at her rosy nipple. “So needy and selfish…” he hissed as she rode him harder, her hand working furiously at her clit the more he taunted her. “Someone might need to check you on your own indulging tendencies. That Lord you belong to seems a bad influence…”

“The worst of influences,” she nodded and groaned, looking down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “But you’re mistaken, pet… he belongs to me…” she sighed at the wicked smirk that turned his open mouth.

“Cordehlia,” he growled her name, just a hint of warning in that tone, one he knew all too well would go unheeded.

She just tossed her fiery red hair over her shoulder, letting it glow and catch the light from the merry fire in the grate. “You know it’s only fair, given the number of times you’ve had me kneel for you… sometimes in public.”

He could swear he felt her wetness seep more at the memories, at the debauched thrill it was to flaunt their power and notoriety, when mostly appropriate. His Raven… his pet… his Right Hand. Cordehlia shivered as she savored what his right hand was doing now, that slow rolling, worshipful touch of her breast that didn’t fit his massive palm.

Breath whistled in her mouth, her head thrown back to make the perfect picture of indulgent pleasure for him to revel in. Her fingers were soaked in her cum yet again, her body hitching as she bucked out her release on his throbbing cock. And Astarion pulled her down to cover his damp body with her own, filling her panting, gaping mouth with his tongue. Kissing him, she felt his hand wind into her hair, subtly guiding her lower down his body. “If you don’t stop pushing me with that hand on my head, I swear I’ll bite it, Astarion,” she growled a bit mischievously.

And it only made him laugh, quietly and exhaustedly. “Now, now… which one of us is the feral, untamed pet, hmm?”

Lowering her mouth, the damp of her tongue licked up that groove of his abdomen, the salt of his skin filling her taste buds. His belly quivered under her mouth, making her smile as she felt him brace those taught muscles before she nipped. A sharp admonishment, he hissed her name in pain and pleasure. She sucked and licked as she drank from him slowly, languorously. Scarlet, bloody lips twisted in a sultry smile, she slid over his damp body to kiss him, to share that coppery taste of his powerful blood. Little rumbles of his own pleasure tickled her tongue as he lapped the rest of his essence from the nooks of her mouth. Laughing, she slid quickly before he could wrap his arms around her.

A sigh from her lungs, she settled herself at his groin.

The smallest tip of her tongue tickled just around that hot and blushing head of his cock. Another exasperated groan from above her, another grip of his hand in her hair. She laughed again, deep in her chest, that arrogant, teasing kind she knew her found enticing. Slowly, she sucked, and even more slowly, she eased that ring up off the base of his shaft.

“Good girl,” he groaned loudly, thumb caressing the edge of cheek and tapping on the little tip of her nose. He felt her lips part in a smile around his length, that ancient familiar shiver of pleasure coursing down his spine to the base of his cock. Centuries old, the worship of her mouth around him, it filled him with more pleasure than anything… almost anything. Only one thing was tighter and warmer and slicker. He grinned, reaching to ease that ring off more, even as she licked and drooled around it.

Those lean, elegant fingers of hers caught his reach, clasping it tightly. A silent command not to interfere. Astarion only laughed quietly, huskily to himself, bucking his hips deeper into those smirking, rosy lips.

Instantly, she slipped away from his cock, hand still gripping his, as she kissed her way lower. Bringing her mouth to suckle around one of his balls, she sighed dramatically. That loose, silky skin was sticky slick from all her riding, and eagerly she lapped around it. Soft little suckles reduced him back to deep throated whimpers, his hand struggling to break from her grip to touch himself.

One last swipe of her tongue up that tender crease between his balls, and she smiled at him, his body propped up on one elbow for a better view. “Say pretty please one more time, and I’ll let you free, my love.”

He gave a disgruntled, petulant snarl. “Pretty… pretty…” his voice shifted even more guttural as he leaned higher on his arm, “please,” he finally added as he gripped harshly into her hand.

“You sound positively feral and unkempt, my love,” Cordehlia chided with a musical laugh, lapping up the underside of his shaft again and twisting the ring in place. Granting him no relief. “Not to mention, you’re rather rude. Did you forget, little lordling, whom you are addressing?”

“Lady Corvus…” he growled that name deep in his chest, more seductive and ravenous than ever she had heard it spoken before. It made her shiver, and not with the thrill of bloodshed. It was the thrill of desire and dominance and the battle for an edge of power between them, that merry dance between playfulness and destruction. “Release me,” he ordered, that tantalizing tone of danger in his command before he softened it with another, “please…”

Cordehlia held her breath; she knew that shine in his eyes as he looked down his body at her— fierce, hungry, and most of all, unsatisfied. One last lick up his manhood, from the base of his tightening balls to the weeping slit of its head, and Cordehlia slipped that ring off more and more from his shaft. He growled in release, his length throbbing more under her touch with every little bit she slid it. Wrapping her mouth around that ring, she sucked it off at the very end. She made a show of it, pulling it free from her teeth to set on the fur rug beside them.

Astarion’s mouth hung slack, his grin turning with confidence and a surge of dominance as he reached for it. Holding the stretching ring, his glistening chest rose and fell with a loud and rasping breath. “Well, now that that is settled… fair is fair…” And then, he tossed that blasted ring to clink and roll across the floorboards somewhere in the distance.

Smoother than feline, more silent than breath, he swept his legs from under her, crawling on all fours. Cordehlia’s undead heart stopped, she swore. That glistening, predacious body coiled tight like a spring. With a laugh on her lips, Cordehlia scrabbled away, fingers dug into the white fur rug…

…only to have her ankle arrested in his vice-like grip and have her body yanked onto its back in the same place his sweat-streaked frame had been. “Tut… tut…” his fang-toothed smirk glinted in the flickering light, that collar around his neck jangling mutedly as he unclasped it with his other hand. “Such a naughty little brat…” his smirk widened as he licked the corner of his mouth. “You’ve had your fun, now let’s see… how you like some of your own treatment, darling.”

Caging her, he slank his body to cover her own supple, sweating frame. That hand around her ankle ghosted with featherlight touch up the side of her slick skin. Catching one hand, he placed it pinned overhead, a single eyebrow raising as silent order to have her other join its partner—an order she obeyed with a thump of her heart against her ribs.

That leather collar was warm and smooth against her skin as he dragged it up her belly and between her breasts ever so slowly. Dexterous as always, he secured it quickly around her neck, the leather damp from his own wearing. It made her shiver and forced a swallow to press against where it choked her just slightly. “There now,” he crooned in those sweet, rolling tones, “back where you belong.” Brow canting, he teased her, taunting her. “Tch,” his smirk curled as he aucked his teeth, “naughty girl…” Smirking lips captured hers, his kiss was all fangs and tongue, hungry and salivating with unmet need.

“A spoiled bully,” she groaned as his fingers slid inside her overstimulated and swollen fold, “that’s what you are, Astarion.”

“Mmm, I prefer to think I’m more of your irksome, demanding lover,” he rasped, his fingers picking up the pace as he stroked inside her channel and teased her clit, just hard enough to make her hips buck against his touch. “The mate you’ll never be rid of, sorry darling…” he chuckled deep in his throat as he caught her nerves under his nail, making her cry with bliss.

Those long, muscled legs of hers wrapped around his waist, a silent affirmation that she would never wish to be rid of him. She needn’t say a word, her mind filled with the joy of him, of all he was and always had been to her… The feelings flooded his mind, a wave of her love sent careening down their mental bond.

And it made him slam his cock home, deep inside her, where he loved to belong.

Neck arching, spine tingling, blood pumping… Cordehlia groaned as he filled her again. Her voice hoarse against the pressure of that collar, she gasped and panted as he chuckled, slamming his hips over and over with all the pent up need for release she had long denied him. Sweat dripped from his flushed skin, his breath was hot on her neck and heavy in her ear as he fucked her, hard and fast. Snarling, his grip tightened around her wrists pinned overhead, and still she laughed. Breathless and blushing herself. Astarion pushed her harder, legs forcing her to widen all the more, his cock reaching and slamming the end of her cunt in rapid succession. Searing, burning, that wave of bliss crept closer and closer until it shattered her from the inside out the moment his fangs bit into the canting crook of her neck.

His name echoed in the room, only masked slightly by Astarion’s own grunting laughter. “Aren’t I generous?” He panted, his hips snapping with more force through the clutching waves of her orgasm. “I allowed you your release, my little raven, like a consummate… attentive lover should.”

“Fuck you,” Cordehlia grinned widely, catching her breath even as her voice rasped those two all-too-familiar words at her love.

“Are you just being observant, or are you just insisting on being ever the foul-mouthed elfling you have been….”

She shook her head, biting her lip and grinning like a fool as her fiery hair grew tangled in the furs beneath her.

“Well… say please and I’ll fill you, my love,” he whispered right into her ear, tingles racing down her spine. His thrusts grew tantalizingly slow, that sleek body of his undulating with precision into her.

Teasing. Toying. Enjoying himself.

And it made her heart nearly burst. “Please,” she sighed behind grit teeth.

Fang points, still crimson with her blood, glinted in the firelight as he gave that smirk of victory. That prideful, arrogant, insufferable, open-mouthed half-smile that instantly made her walls clench around his cock as he fucked her hard and fast. Head hanging lower, his thrusts grew erratic and sloppy, until at last that aching, burning pressure burst. A groan from his parted lips, his body surged in pleasure, stifling his breath and making his legs twitch, that warm slick of his seed erupting after such a long time of teasing and denial. Arms shook; he stared into her own matching crimson eyes, their haze of lust glimmering back as she matched his final thrusts.

For a moment, they froze, blistering hot and dripping sweat as they caught their breaths. Astarion’s lips pressed against hers first, the rest of his sleek body lowering bit by bit until he wrapped Cordehlia in his arms and rolled them both on their sides. Fingers deftly removed that collar, setting it carefully on the furs beside them. “Of all the baubles and loot and trinkets from our journey,” he laughed, winded and parched, “this one has by far proved its invaluable worth.”

Cordehlia’s musical laugh made his own smirk broaden, his thumb tracing over those rosy lips. “I still like the trinkets you spoil me with now,” she wiped, voice husky in her throat.

“Well, it wouldn’t do to have the Ascendant’s Right Hand go unarmed, or for his Consort to leave the palace without positively dripping with jewels…” A single finger traced over the angry red lines from the collar, that taunting smirk twisting all the more rakish. “But this souvenir from our adventures is perfect for my beloved pet…”

Cordehlia rolled her eyes and sighed. “Don’t make me put it back on you, the ring too…”

“I think that has conveniently disappeared not to be seen for a long while…” he shook his head, the look of perfectly feigned innocence making her overused folds clench again.

“I suppose I should just be thankful for… my Lord’s generosity,” she sighed, purest sarcastic venom dripping in her voice.

“That… and his stamina,” he fired back, a squeeze of her breast in his palm, a laugh tickling his tongue as he kissed his love beside the fire.

[writefightandflightclub]

Sugar

Grad student!Nathan Bateman x older!fem!reader

Author’s note: I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS CONCEPT TBH BUT DON’T WANT TO GIVE SPOILERS SO WARNINGS ARE NON-EXHAUSTIVE. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK I GUESS? (As ever, minors DNI, thank you!) And I blame Oscar at MEFCC in the black polo and @nowritingonthewall’s hc of young!Nathan sneaking into tech conferences for this one. (I’m imagining him as getting towards his mid twenties here.)

Word count: just a short one!

Warnings: power / wealth imbalance, and slight warning for dub-con due to this. Sexual touching (slightly public). Infidelity. Alcohol consumption (reader). As mentioned above, warnings are non-exhaustive this time to avoid spoilers. If you do need further info, however, you are welcome to DM or send an ask.

“Not touching the oysters?” Nathan asks in as suave a tone as he can muster. The only oyster he’s personally sampled, so far, is the oyster sauce at his favourite downtown take-out.

Your plate of extravagant buffet food is discarded next to you, however, as you pore over a stack of documents at the hotel bar, a martini in a tall, flared glass languishing in your free hand.

You whip your head towards Nathan and look him up and down; as though deciding whether he’s worth the time of day, or whether you should immediately summon security to remove him from your field of vision. You seem to find him relatively inoffensive, at least, and grant him permission to remain in your orbit; for now. You hum contemplatively. “Decided I’ve had my fill of vile sensations for today,” you announce in a cool, assured tone. “I had to fuck my husband this morning. Twice.”

Nathan emits a low whistle. As much as he tries to take it in his stride - to act like he’s accustomed to affluent, worldly, cut-throat women like you - he isn’t. Honestly, he’s barely accustomed to anyone at all lately, since he’s immersed himself entirely in getting his start-up off the ground.

You’re older. Older than him, at least. Older than any woman he’s been with so far, he can’t help but think. That, along with your candidness, is refreshing. You’re not all giggly and earnest and chaotic like the young women he’s met around campus - which sounds far less exhausting to him, if he’s honest.

He looks you up and down in return. And, yeah. Shit. He definitely wants to fuck you.

“He doesn’t get you off?” Nathan asks, crude and casual, as though he has any business asking. However, he’s found that a complete disregard for social norms can -oddly- sometimes pan out in his favour. Sometimes. Besides, on this occasion he has to risk it, or social norms would dictate that he shouldn’t approach you at all. At least not before he’s in possession of an invitation-only credit card, or, has made a hard-to-come by appointment via your PA at the very least.

You take a sip of your drink and eye him over the brim. He likes that move. Your eyes are full of deliciously dark amusement as you appraise him. He thinks you may even like what you see. Might even find him refreshing too. “Well. It’s not love - or anything else so impractical. It’s strictly a business arrangement,” you explain, as though you have been waiting for an opportunity to vent and no-one has actually bothered to ask you. “He pays for my lifestyle and I put out. And occassionally have to, you know, run his fucking company, attend boring conferences to schmooze his investors, and generally mask his total ineptitude.” You gesture around you vaguely. From the tiredness in your tone, it makes sense that you’re hiding out in this deserted hotel bar, Nathan thinks.

He knows fine well who your husband is too. A guy many, many years your senior. Obscenely rich fucker too. CEO and founder of a huge ass telecoms company, recently diversified into various markets across the tech world. The company is running an agressive acquisition policy, buying out start-ups and hoping to find something that sticks. The “next big thing”. It hasn’t succeeded yet. Projections look mediocre at best.

Nathan, who very much considers his innovation the “next big thing” - the only game in town - had tried to corner your husband at the end of his rather lacklustre panel. After all, he’d done his research. Had identified the highest value targets he could network with in attempts to drum up some investment. He is trying to bolster his sorely under-funded start-up… which, if he is honest, has barely even “started” at all. He knows the tech. The code. He’s a certified genius, for God’s sake. He was just a fool for thinking that that alone would be enough. Frustratingly for him, it’s the schmoozing and understanding of the cold realities of the business world he struggles with. He seems to rub people up the wrong way, for some reason. Probably because they’re all assholes. Or, maybe, because they view him as too young or too rough around the edges to know what he’s talking about. Or, most likely, because they’re uninspired bastards incapable of comprehending his world-changing vision. Maybe all of the above.

So much then, for the supposed merits of the free market and the idea that the best ideas will prosper. His idea is the best, and he’s floundering simply because his daddy can’t buy him his way in. Instead of a reliance on the strength of the product, networks and power and money and nepotism appear to be king in this world. And, Nathan possesses none of these advantages. Even with the buzz around him at his faculty, and his full ride scholarship at 17 for being a fucking genius.

Anyway, after a failed attempt to schmooze your asshole husband, Nathan had quickly put together that the guy didn’t have a goddamn clue. That you were the brains (and beauty, by the way) behind the operation, and he was likely little more than the funds.

Also, the guy definitely didn’t seem like he’d be a pleasant fuck, by any stretch.

He grimaces somewhat at the thought.

“That’s what they say isn’t it?” You take a breezy sip of your drink. “Fake it until you make it? They’re talking about orgasms, sweetheart, and my last performance paid for these shoes.” You kick out your appealing leg, your shins bare and smooth beneath your pencil skirt, and you briefly show off your shiny, black, red-soled heels.

They’re nice. Sexy, on you.

Nathan briefly wonders why you’re being so forthcoming with him, a complete stranger; but you don’t strike him as someone who gives a shit in the slightest what other people think. You also strike him as someone who can make people think whatever you want them to think. One day, he hopes to have as much power over a room as you do - and that’s for starters.

He slips into the bar stool beside you then, uninvited, and you scoff. “Are you even old enough to drink, baby face?”

He bristles at that, thick brows pinching and nods slowly, peeking at you from over the brim of his glasses, his own eyes now dancing with a subtle, dark amusement.

You’ve already turned away though. It frustrates him that he can’t entirely hold your attention.

“Nathan Bateman. Student, MIT.” You gesture to his name tag with a perfectly manicured finger, and without looking back up from your stack of documents.

Now, Nathan glumly reassesses his earlier conclusion. You are being forthcoming because it really doesn’t matter what he, specifically, thinks. Because you’ve already estimated that he’s the guy in the room with least influence. For now, at least. You’ll see. “Better to check. Especially before you start hitting on me.”

He swallows. “Is that what you think’s happening?” Shit. Do you want that to happen?

“Isn’t it?”

He’d make some dig about you flattering yourself. But he knows fine well it’s the most likely reason any hot-blooded guy would be sidling up to you. You’re hot and unobtainable; which makes you even hotter.

Nathan watches as you idly spin your wedding band around and around. He’s surprised you can even lift your arm with that rock attached. When he notices it, he wants to fuck you even more than he did before, but he definitely can’t afford you.

“Actually. I wanted to pick your brains on something. You seem the kinda person who knows a good idea when she sees one.” Unlike the other idiots at this conference who’ve refused to give him the time of day. Maybe he should reconsider his pitch.

You scoff, still not looking up at him. “Honey,” you deliver in a silken, condescending tone, which he is surprised to learn makes him half-hard in his pants. “I charge for that too, and I get the feeling I’m a little beyond your budget.”

“Call it corporate social responsibility then. Supporting the students.”

“Sweetheart. I pay someone else to do that sort of thing for me.”

“Okay.” He takes it in his stride. Wants to show he isn’t fazed by you, even if he is. “Then I guess I am hitting on you. Unless that’s gonna cost me.”

You finally turn back towards him. Look him up and down again as if to remind yourself exactly what you’re dealing with. You study his cheap suit and his mop of curls and his freshly grown-out beard, and he is surprised how exhilarating he finds it to be under your scope.

Your lips curl with subtle amusement, your gaze growing downright wolfish as you survey him.

Fucking unreal.

You look like could eat him up and spit him out. Or… you could swallow, he fantasises briefly, gaze dipping down to your plush mouth.

You do like what you’re seeing, don’t you? Are intrigued by him. Finally. He encounters someone with some good sense.

“What’s it like?” he delivers with a smirk, feeling a resurgence of his familiar confidence as he successfully holds your attention.

You eyeball his fit again. “What? Tailoring?”

He bristles at your dig, but again, aims to present an unbothered exterior. “No. I mean.” His palm waves through the air. “Being a sugar baby.”

You tut at him. “Why, are you interested in a position?”

He arcs a single, thick brow. “I could be.”

“I don’t think my husband’s recruiting. Unless you want a 60-hour a week unpaid internship with zero healthcare and no dental.”

“No. I mean that…” His tie feels awfully constrictive around his neck all of a sudden. This is a bold move but… you have to speculate to accumulate, right? “…I could be yours.”

You clearly weren’t expecting that. And, as much as you try to pass-off that you’re used to jumped-up, cocky little shits like him offering to be your sugar baby, he can plainly see it throws you for a moment. Still, you compose yourself beautifully in no time at all. “I already have one man who saps my time and comes in two minutes flat. What would make you any different, honey?”

Nathan offers you a lopsided smile, opting not to contain the dark, lust-blown gaze smouldering behind his lenses. What does he have to offer, exactly, in this scenario? He purses his lips while he thinks, and then he lands on it: “I’m… hot.”

You look him up and down again, conceding - with a tilt of your head - that his argument is at least halfway compelling. “Hmm. Do you imagine, though, that I struggle for offers from hot, younger men?”

“Not in the slightest. You’re gorgeous.” And rich. “But I think you can do better.”

“Better like you? What makes you so special?” You’re having fun with this. He can tell from the glow in your eyes and the curve of your appealing mouth.

He offers you his best smoulder. It isn’t hard - there’s an easy chemistry between the two of you, he thinks. “There are things I don’t give away for free either.”

“Well,” you ask, leaning in close to him and cupping his chin firmly in your hand as you dip your painted lips towards the shell of his ear. “If I was to take you up on your very generous offer… What pretty things would you want me to buy you with the money, baby boy?”

Fuck. You smell good.

You smell edible, and his suit pants definitely fit far less well than they did when he donned them this morning. In fact, they’re getting increasingly tight around his crotch as his arousal swells for you.

With a tight swallow dipping down his neck and a rare nervous sweat dampening his shirt, he twists to gather some documents out of his backpack. You scrape your nails down his beard as he turns out of reach, and fuck, you’re doing it for him.

Then, gathering his cool, entering the domain he is expert in and is sure of, he flips to the page on costings in his business plan, sliding it across the bar to you.

He gives you a moment to study the text. The list of the equipment, personnel, marketing budgets and so on he needs to realise his rather extensive ambitions. Then, he leans in to you in return as you pore over his plan. He dips his mouth until his beard is tickling the shell of your ear.

“This would be a good start… Mommy.”

As you look back at him with a dark, lust-laden stare, looking as hungry as he feels, he wonders if he might leave this conference with some start-up funds after all.

If this comes off, then… fuck. He hopes you are as ferocious in the bedroom as it strikes him you are in other areas.

Your head is angled towards him, your lips parted in mild surprise. Your gaze briefly dips to the tenting arousal between his legs, and he doesn’t even attempt to hide it.

He has no idea where this will lead; but that’s the fun, isn’t it? Nathan is rather fond of experiments.

A hard swallow dips down your neck and you cross your legs, pressing your thighs together as you take in the substantial swell of him.

You gather a smile, and your composure. “Your business plan looks impressive, Nathan.” His name sounds good in your mouth. He wonders how his cock might feel in there too.

You hand the documents back to him, and you quickly gather up your things, slinging your stack of documents under one arm. With the other, you reach out your hand, offering it to him to shake. He obliges. “I’m certain we could come to some sort of… arrangement.” You free a business card from the holder in your tote and slip it gracefully into his top pocket.

He’s a little disappointed it isn’t your hotel room key, if he’s honest. He’d love to work on his current… problem… right away. “When would you like to… discuss things further?” he asks, as you dangle the promise in front of him.

“You’ll have to make an appointment with my PA,” you dismiss with a smirk. However, you seem keen to guarantee that he does. You’ll be fun to play with, Nathan thinks. “Will you do that for me, Nathan?”

He thinks about it. Decides it’s a no-brainer. “Yes.”

To his surprise, you then reach your hand down towards his crotch, pausing before you touch him and allowing him opportunity to protest. He doesn’t. And so, you settle your palm over the aching bulge between his legs. The warmth of you bleeds through the fabric, and Nathan struggles not to react to the pressure you apply, managing to limit himself to a ragged intake of breath. His eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning against his cheek. When he opens them again, he half expects his glasses to have steamed up.

“Yes, what?” you purr, giving him an abrupt squeeze.

“Y-yes, Mommy,” he stutters, almost choking on his words, and with that, you look very satisfied indeed.

He wagers, from the expression on your face, that you’ll definitely be motivated to seal the deal.

You sweep out and Nathan watches your ass sway in that tight pencil skirt as you go.

Fucking unreal.

[impishtubist]

happy belated birthday @soloorganaas it's a month late but Finish Your Fucking Fics February has me by the throat. 😘

---

It had been a long day.

Scratch that, it had been a long week. A long fucking week of watching his much-younger cousin make doe-eyes at Remus, and find excuses to touch his shoulder or arm or hand, and laugh far too loudly at his dry humor. A long week of enduring the kids and their scheming, because Ginny had got it into her head that the best way to entertain herself in this horrid house was to play matchmaker, and somehow she had pulled everyone else into it, too.

It had been a long fucking week, and Sirius didn’t feel the least bit guilty about shutting himself in his room--their room, whenever Remus was at Grimmauld for longer than a night--and laying down for a midday nap to try to stop his mounting headache in its tracks.

Well. He felt a little guilty. Because every moment shut up in this room was a moment away from Harry, and he had already missed fourteen years of Harry’s life. 

But he was just so damned tired. He had lost a brother, countless friends, a lover, twelve years of his life…and now he had to watch said lover be flirted with right in front of him. 

There was a knock on the door, and Sirius grunted.

“Sirius?” Harry stuck his head into the room. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Hazza.” The nickname, not used since Harry was a baby, had slipped out accidentally his first night in Grimmauld. Sirius had tried to backtrack, embarrassed, but after the way Harry had lit up, he couldn’t not use it. 

“You sure?” Harry came further into the room. “I could get Professor Lupin.” 

“No need to bother him.” When Sirius had last left them, Remus had been teaching Tonks how to waltz in the library. He lifted his arm off his eyes and patted the mattress beside him. “Come sit.”

Harry obediently sat next to him, and Sirius put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I haven’t been…”

He trailed off. He had too much to apologize for. He didn’t even know where to begin.

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “You’ve been distracted.” 

“Nothing could distract me from you.” 

Harry gave him an unimpressed look. “Not even Professor Lupin?”

“What about Professor Lupin?”

“Do you like him?”

“‘Course I like him, Harry, he’s my best--”

“Not like that,” Harry said, cutting him off. “You know what I mean.”  

Sirius sighed. “We dated when we were kids.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked. “What about now?”

“Well, I can’t exactly take him out for a candlelit dinner.” 

“He sleeps in here, though, doesn’t he?”

Not as unobservant as Sirius thought, then. “He does.”

“So does he, like, know how you feel?’

“Tell me, Mr. Potter. How do I, like, feel?”

Harry grinned. “You love him.”

“Yes, I do.” 

“Does he know that?”

“He bloody well should,” Sirius muttered. 

“Maybe you need to remind him, then.” 

***

When Remus came up to bed that night, Sirius grabbed the box he had been keeping in his bedside table since the beginning of the summer.

“Think fast, Lupin.”

Remus didn’t think fast, and the small box hit him square in the chest. He caught it before it fell to the floor, and popped open the lid. His lips parted in surprise.

“Is this--?”

“Found it in Orion’s things,” Sirius said. “Took me a week to get all the curses and enchantments off of it, but it’s been in the family for generations. Seems a waste to let it languish in a drawer.” 

“This,” Remus said slowly, “is the worst proposal I have ever received.”

“How many people have asked you to marry them, Moony?”

“Including this time? Technically, none.” Remus tossed the box back at him. “Because you haven’t asked, Black.”

“Oh, alright, then.” Sirius heaved himself off the bed and dropped to one knee. “Remus, light of my life, will you marry me as soon as there isn’t a price on my head?”

Remus’s lips twitched. “Oh, I suppose.”

“Some acceptance that is.”

“Some proposal that was!” Remus held out his hand anyway, and Sirius slid the gold ring on his finger. 

“And now, maybe if you’re wearing that, my cousin will keep her hands off you.”

Both of Remus’s eyebrows shot up, and then a grin spread across his face.

“Sirius Black, are you jealous?”

“No!”

“You are,” Remus said, delighted. “Hold on, I need to savor this.”

“Savor it?”

“I spent years at school watching the entire student body throw themselves at you and being so jealous I could hardly think straight. You’re jealous because you think I might be interested in Tonks, and because she’s been flirting with me? Yeah, I’m going to enjoy this for a while.”

“Some fiance you are,” Sirius grumbled. 

Remus kissed him, his hands going to Sirius’s belt. “I’ll make it up to you.”

[blondeboyfriend]

𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈

[ PAIRING ] Zeke Yeager x f!reader [ AUTHOR'S NOTE ] Another remastered oldie. No cute banner this time because I'm lazy. [ SYNOPSIS ] Your slutty boyfriend convinces you to fuck in a nasty bar bathroom. [ WORD COUNT ] 2.9k [ CONTENT ] Modern AU, established relationship, dom/sub undertones, sadomasochism, exhibitionism, public sex, rough oral sex, degradation (Zeke calls you a slut, says you're dumb), cum eating, drugs (marijuana), alcohol, Zeke's pullout game is mid tbh, and there's Neopets nostalgia.

Any establishment that opted to have red lighting as an aesthetic choice never failed to put you on guard. There was nothing quite like a wannabe speakeasy to set the mood. You had sad men hiding in corners. Sad men waiting for cute girls to talk to them. Sad men who hoped their presence in a trendy, gaudy bar with old guns hung on the walls made them interesting.

You and Zeke passed by it one cold morning and you mentioned how tacky you thought those kinds of places were. You said you wanted to go ironically. And of course called your bluff and decided your next date night would occur there. You reluctantly agreed. Denying him was a near impossible task.

You were the first at the bar, a disappointment because you wanted to have some form of comfort greet you. But no, Zeke was late as always.

He was probably at home, sitting on his ugly couch, smoking his ugly weed. His perfect body laid out next to an ugly ashtray overflowing with ugly cigarette butts, watching old Jerry Springer episodes on Youtube.

There was no other place you’d rather be. You wanted to be sprawled out on top of him, your head on his chest as he dithered about class disparity in the United States.

We can laugh at Beau and Cletus all we want, but look at us. I pay for high-speed internet so I can watch this shit unfettered and make fun of their shoes. You just complained about two-day shipping not being fast enough. And you ordered, what, loose leaf chamomile tea? We’re just as embarrassing as them, maybe even more so. The difference is that we have disposable income.

On second thought maybe you were better off languishing in a faux speakeasy. The ground may have been sticky underneath your shoes, but at least you didn’t have Zeke blabbering in your ear.

“Miss me?” Zeke purred in your ear before.

“Nope, I’ve been too busy.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Yeah. I got caught up feeding my Neopet… Or if that’s not an acceptable answer, I can say I was sleeping with your dad. You choose.”

“Neopet. I like knowing you care about things.”

“Did you know they never die?”

You order a round of Cuba Libres.

“I don’t like rum,” Zeke whined.

You shoved the drink in his hand and stole a handful of cut limes from the little container behind the bar.

“Really?” he asked bluntly.

“They never put enough. Trust me. Anyway, that little green Mynci you made in 2001 is sitting there. Literally starving! Zeke.” You grabbed his wrist. “That is verbatim what it says on the website. Starving.” You plopped two slices of lime in his drink.

He stared at you, his grey eyes full of concern. He was high off his ass. “She was yellow.”

“What was her name?”

“I can’t remember, but I know it had like six numbers and probably three underscores.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Every fucking day.”

Laughter overtook both of you. You grabbed a table closest to the exit and he slid his backpack under it. You figured he didn’t want to linger long as well. The chairs were freezing. You shifted in your seat. The cold didn’t help your sore ass. Zeke took notice of this.

“I told you I was paddling you too hard.” He took a tiny sip of his drink.

“I still stand by that you weren’t hard enough.”

“You were crying, pet.”

“They were tears of happiness. You know, like when people win a Golden Globe or whatever.”

“No one gets that excited over a Golden Globe.”

You slumped down into your chair. You had no witty retort. This happened more often than not when he was around. In just about every other social situation you were the paragon of humor, a true queen of comedy.

“Aww, did I hit a nerve?” He kicked your shin from under the table. The pain perked you up. You proceeded to stomp on his foot eliciting an audible wince from him.

“How long are you trying to stay here?” you asked, hoping he’d say something like zero seconds or if I stay here any longer I’ll turn into sand.

“Long enough to have sex in what I am assuming is a gross bathroom.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re high, right? You can’t—This place is gross.”

“I had this planned from the beginning.” He leaned back in his chair. “It shouldn’t be too gross. This hellhole hasn’t been open that long.”

“My feet stick to the—”

“That’s character.” He leaned forward over the table, yanking you by the collar of your shirt so you were inches away from his face. “It makes for an interesting experience.”

You let out a nervous laugh, desperately fighting off the beginnings of arousal. The gross old men leered.

“Ugh. Fine. But I wanna be high too,” you complained.

He glanced at the growing pod of old men. “Let’s hit the bathroom.”

He got up, leaving his unfinished drink behind. It prompted you to do the same. They weren’t that impressive. You walked down the hall turning corners until you saw a sign for a bathroom. Zeke kicked in the door and shoved his head inside.

“I’m pretty sure no one is in here. And look, there are even stalls.”

He made his way over to one and tried to lock its door.

“Well that’s broken.”

He repeated this process on the remaining two stalls. None of them had working locks.

You looked around. “This is—”

“An even better opportunity than I could have imagined.”

You were speechless. You knew he was a borderline insatiable tramp, but this was a lot. You were conflicted. On one hand, getting railed by him always sounded like a good time. But on the other, getting potentially caught by one of those decaying dinosaurs sounded like torture. And you hadn’t committed any crimes bearing that level of punishment.

“But those guys are so weird looking,” you whined like a child.

“Who cares?”

“I care. It’d be one thing if they were like your hot friends…”

“You can’t say that and not specify which ones. It’s illegal. You and I both know that.”

“Fuck… Pieck, duh. Or Colt.”

“Oh god. Really?... Colt?” he sounded vaguely disgusted.

“Fuck you! Yeah, really Colt. It’d be a learning experience for him.”

“I wouldn’t let him join in.”

You smirked. “You say that now, but in the moment the tides may change.” You punctuated the sentence with a wink.

“Alright, you might have a point with the Colt thing. But I’m disappointed Reiner didn’t come up.”

“You know you can just say who you would want to catch us? Like my answers aren’t the end-all-be-all.”

You went to join him in the decrepit stall. You hugged his toned body and buried your face into the crook of his neck. His hands went straight to your ass, typical.

“Reiner, because I know it’d fuck with him,” he yammered on. “Or what’s that one guy’s name? The one that hangs out with my brother?”

“So many people hang out with your brother. You really want a 19-year-old catching us?”

“Hush. I’m thinking. Blonde. Blue eyes.” He paused. “Also Colt’s 19, dumb ass.”

“Colt doesn’t count!! Are you thinking of Historia?”

“What?! No.”

Zeke broke the hug and rubbed his temples. “It’s a boy. He is a boy.”

“Well, more like a man.”

“You’re not helping. Blonde. Blue eyes. He’s a,” Zeke paused for emphasis, “man.”

“I think that’s Armi—”

He barreled through your sentence. “Armin! Yes, him. It’d fuck him up too. He’s like an angel; we’d be stripping him of all innocence.”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure a cute, 19-year-old college boy is getting at least some form of action. We all know who the right option is.”

“Alright, fuck it. Fine. Colt. Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Pervert,” he mumbled.

“Like you have room to talk.”

You grazed his cock with your hand. He smirked and pulled a joint from his pack of cigarettes. He held it between his lips and sparked it.

“I see you’re not concerned about getting caught.” He took a hit and then passed it to you.

You took a heavy drag off the joint. “I’m already going to get loudly fucked in a bathroom. I might as be high.”

You passed the joint back to him and he took a lengthy hit. He let the smoke drift from his mouth slowly. You plucked the joint from his fingers.

“I recommend taking another. A long one.”

“Why?” you said, smoke drifting from your mouth.

“Because you’re getting on your knees the second you exhale.”

You held the rest of the smoke in for as long as you could to spite him. But Zeke quickly tired of your bullshit and took the joint from you. He grabbed a chunk of your hair from the back of your scalp and pulled.

“Knees,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “Rude.”

However you did as you were told and he loosened his grip. He took a hit from the joint and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. The ground wasn’t sticky, but that did little to quell your disgust. You were always ashamed at the depths of depravity you allowed yourself to descend into for your boyfriend.

You looked up at him and asked, “Are you really gonna be able to keep the door shut?”

“No. Undo my belt.”

You gritted your teeth and started to fiddle with his belt. His rough hand rested on your head, softly caressing it. You knew such tenderness wouldn’t last long.

“I know you can work faster than that.”

You sighed dramatically. You quickly pulled his belt off and unbuttoned his jeans. You pulled them down and noted that his black briefs were sullied with precum. You yanked his underwear down and was greeted by his thick cock, a beautiful sight to behold. Drool pooled in your mouth, a small drop of it trickled from the corner of your mouth. Zeke lifted your chin and wiped it away with his calloused thumb.

“You’re foul. What will I ever do with you?”

You gazed up at him. “I don’t know… Let me milk every drop of cum from your cock?”

He smirked. “You’re so fucking stupid. Are you done talking?”

“I guess. I can’t think of anything else to—”

He grabbed the back of your head and forced his cock into your mouth. You lurched forward, using the bathroom stall door to keep some semblance of balance. His thrusts were methodical. Never too deep as he didn’t want you to gag on him, it was too early for that.

“You’re filthy, you know that? An utter degenerate.”

He continued to plunge his cock deeper and deeper into your mouth. You carefully breathed through your nose and tried to not cough on his length.

“You deserve to get caught. Everyone deserves to know what a disgusting slut you are.”

You attempted a nod, but Zeke put his rugged palm on your forehead and shoved you off of his cock.

“Say it.”

“I deserve to get caught.”

His grey stared down at you hazy with lust. “And?” He took one last hit off the joint.

“And everyone deserves to know how gross I am.”

He frowned and blew the smoke directly in your face. “Not quite, but close enough.” He shoved his cock back down your throat.

The bathroom stall proved to be a poor source of balance so you rested your hands on his tense thighs. His muscles contracted with pleasure. You relaxed your throat, finally getting the entirety of his cock in your mouth. You held it there for a few seconds before you felt the beginning of a gag. You pushed his hips away from you. He pulled out and continued to jerk off as you coughed and caught your breath.

“I’m getting really close,” he teased.

You smacked his hand away. You spit in yours and jerked him off while running your tongue along his slit.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He held your head in place and rammed his cock in your mouth. You grabbed onto his taut ass for leverage. His thrusts were becoming sloppy. He came hard, filling your throat with cum.

“I’m getting fucked, right?” you asked, wiping your lips.

“No, I thought I’d just stand here in this bathroom with my dick out.”

You rolled your eyes and got undressed. He led you out of the stall and shoved you against the sink. He groped your breasts, rough fingers pinching your nipples.

“Ouch!” you yelped.

Zeke laughed and pinched harder. He slipped three of his dexterous fingers into your slick pussy. They slid in and out with ease. He pushed you harder against the sink, the basin digging into your spine. You winced. He took notice and put his hands under your ass and lifted you up.

“Lock your legs around me,” he commanded.

He slammed his cock balls deep inside you. There was no tenderness in his thrusts. He wanted you to moan his name louder than you’d moan anyone else’s. But you resisted. The last thing you wanted to do was to bring any attention to yourself.

“Come on, pet,” he practically begged. “Say my name.”

You shook your head. You pictured those leering old men sipping their martinis, cocks stiff as they heard you moan. Zeke rubbed your clit with his thumb and started kissing your neck. His soft flaxen beard tickled your skin.

“Say my name or else I’ll go find some cheap whore that will.” 

His breath was hot on your neck. He pressed his thumb down hard on your clit.

“Fuck! Zeke!” Your legs tightened around his waist.

He placed his hand under your chin and forced you to make eye contact. His eyes were feral, darkened with desire.

“Weak. You can do better than that.”

You hugged him closer, fingernails digging into his chiseled back.

“Zeke!”

You felt your body growing warmer. Every cell in your body writhed with pleasure. You clung to his body as your orgasm intensified.

“I don’t remember giving you permission,” he whispered in your ear.

You attempted to hold back but it was too late. You moaned his name louder than even he anticipated. He held his hand over your mouth, his cock still inside you, thrusting away.

“I don’t remember saying you should start screaming either.” His tone was anxious. “I never thought I’d say this, but please shut the fuck up.”

You glared at him, but remained silent and allowed him to continue fucking you with his engorged cock.

“Good girl.”

The words barely left his lips before he let out a hearty moan. He pulled out of you.

“Hurry, get on your knees.”

You dropped down to them and opened your mouth. For the first time in years he missed, getting his cum all over your chin and down your neck. You were not impressed.

“You look so cute.”

He pinched your cheek and ordered you to stand up. He held your face in his hands. Just as he went to lick your neck the bathroom door swung open. It was one of the old men. Zeke didn’t stop licking you.

“Oh my word! I am so sorry. You, uh… You two… have fun.”

The guy ran out as quickly as he came in.

“I wonder if I could pay that guy to walk in on us whenever I want.”

You went to search for your underwear and found them inside a toilet. You flushed them away.

 “No. We talked about this already.”

“Colt would be traumatized if he walked in on this.”

Zeke finally put his dick away. You both stood at the sink washing your hands.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?! Whatever, let’s leave before we get kicked out for being absolutely disgusting. Not that I ever plan on coming back here.”

You walked out of the bathroom and faced the geezers. You kept your head down. Zeke on the other hand seemed to relish in the shame and even tried to high five the man who caught you.

Zeke grabbed his backpack from under the table you two had been previously sitting at. You headed to the spiral staircase that led to the exit. It was one of those rickety metal ones that would be considered decorative in a world that made sense. Zeke offered you his elbow and you held on while you cautiously made your way down the stairs. You pushed through the heavy doors and were greeted by a rush of cold air.

You shivered. “Fuck! I was inside before the sun went down.”

You were woefully unprepared for the weather.

“Good thing I’m a genius then, huh?” He pulled out a sweatshirt from his backpack. “Arms up.”

You raised your arms and he tugged the sweatshirt down onto your body.

“Thank you. I didn’t think it would be so chilly.”

Zeke pointed up at the perfectly clear night sky. “Yeah, we’re in for a cold one. Look.”

You both let out a collective whoa. It was a gorgeous sight; it almost made up for the ugliness that had previously occurred moments ago.

Zeke lightly slapped your ass. “Let’s get moving. We need to shower.”

“Come on, you don’t wanna stare at something dumb ass beautiful?”

If you had craned your neck back any further to see the stars you would have toppled over.“I already have a beautiful dumb ass I can stare at whenever I want. Now come on. I was balls deep in a paternity dispute before I got here. You’re going to love it, the baby daddy threw his gold tooth at his ex-wife. Jerry is pissed.”

[affectionatelyrs]

WIP Wednesday

FRIENDS! HAPPY WEDNESDAY! I've been... not very active on here lately. I won't divulge my life troubles to y'all but I miss all of you greatly but I'm back (I think) and better than ever (that might be a lie) to give y'all some content from a fic that I've been PLANNING SINCE SEPTEMBER. It's been languishing as an outline for a while and I finally don't have any excuses to not write it... so here we are

Thank you to @anincompletelist @inexplicablymine @firenati0n @wordsofhoneydew @ships-to-sail @kiwiana-writes @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and @getmehighonmagic for the tags today! :)

SO WITH THAT BEING SAID... here's a snippet from what I'm for now calling Walk and Talk! :) It's a college AU wherein there's minimal plot just vibes but also not uhhhh Alex and Henry walking out of class together every day and getting to know each other through it all but also Alex is like the literal fucking sun absolute sunshine boy and Henry is so gone it’s not funny (I quite honestly don't know how else to explain this except I consider it to be written in an IRL epistolary style maybe idk stop asking me questions I'm just a girl)

Henry watches the boy maneuver his way through the seats with rapt attention, even after everyone has turned their own back toward the projector screen, which confuses Henry to no end. This boy is much more interesting to watch. Much more beautiful, too—Christ. And then, inexplicably, he plops down into the seat right next to Henry’s, despite there being over a dozen other open ones that wouldn’t require anyone’s personal space to be invaded. Not that Henry particularly minds this, though. He tries to pretend that he isn’t overtly staring by acting as though he is taking very intense, very important notes when he realizes that he doesn’t actually have a pen out, and that his hands are merely hovering over the table while he gazes intensely at a starkly, obviously blank piece of paper. Henry blinks once, twice, before hearing a quiet huff of laughter from beside him. Then, there’s a hot pink pen being slid between his fingers, and Henry has to use his higher-brain powers to make sure he holds onto it, lest it go rolling across the floor and straight into jegging-girl’s coffee spill. Before Henry can get out any words of gratitude, the boy winks at him, whispers, “Don’t worry ‘bout it, babe,” and then immediately, emphatically shoots his hand up to answer one of the professor’s questions. He does a small, triumphant nod upon getting it right, leaving Henry to wonder when he had any time to pay attention to the material to make such an accomplishment possible.

OPEN TAG but also tagging some lovely people under the cut

@happiness-of-the-pursuit @welcometololaland @whimsymanaged @everwitch-magiks @read-and-write- @rmd-writes @anchoredarchangel @three-drink-amy @tintagel-or-cockleshells @indomitable-love @orchidscript @dumbpeachjuice @daisymae-12 @gayrootvegetable @leojfitz @leaves-of-laurelin @littlemisskittentoes @lizzie-bennetdarcy @cultofsappho @cricketnationrise @nocoastposts @myheartalivewrites @matherines @cha-melodius and @onward--upward

[ereardon]

That Summer || Part Two [Bradley Bradshaw x Reader]

A Bradley Bradshaw AU

Summary: One night during the summer you turned eighteen, you woke up to a surprise. Your father, a retired Navy Admiral, had posted bail for the son of a former colleague who was now orphaned and had gotten himself mixed up with the law. Instead of letting him get lost in the judicial system, your father signed himself up as Bradley Bradshaw’s guardian to prevent him from going to juvie. You were explicitly told to stay away from the boy in the attic room. But as the summer went on, you and Bradley struck up an unlikely friendship that turned into a forbidden relationship. Bradley tipped your world upside down, challenging everything you had once thought you knew. How could the two of you think it would end any differently than it did when your father called the cops the night he found the two of you in bed together?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Reader 

Warnings: Cursing, angst, dead parents, mention of a car accident, nightmares

Wordcount: 4K

Series masterlist here; Part One here; Part Three here

Bradley had three things on his person besides the clothes on his back the night he got locked up. 

A photo of his parents, smiling into the camera, eyes bright behind matching pairs of aviator sunglasses, the California sun shining bright in the background. 

His father’s dog tags that hung around his neck, his mother's wedding band glinting next to the dulled metal tags, ensuring he carried the two of them wherever he went.

And a second photo. Less crinkled and weathered than the one of his parents, like it hadn't been folded and opened back up as many times. If you squinted, you could make out the clear blue waves in the background. 

Four adults stood in the photo, two pairs of parents. And in their arms sat two babies, only a few months apart. The babies were looking at each other. Curiosity. Intrigue. Confusion. Every emotion under the sun simultaneously conveyed in their tiny faces. 

Bradley pulled the photo out of his pocket, sliding it under a pile of socks in the first dresser drawer. 

Hiding it. For now. 

***

You didn’t know, but Bradley watched you from the attic room. He watched the way you gracefully laid on the beach and he watched you devour book after book while lying on the hot sand until you couldn’t bear the heat in your body anymore and you’d make a run for it into the crashing ocean waves. 

Bradley watched you carefully at meals. The cagey way you spoke to your mother. The way you turned to look at your father for approval before agreeing with something. The polite way you pushed food around your plate when you disliked it but didn’t want to tell the cook. 

He saw everything. Even the way you looked at him with curiosity when you thought he didn’t notice. 

You spent your days languishing. Bradley spent his planning his next steps. 

The Admiral had given him a lifeline. But Bradley still didn’t have a fully formed plan for what was next. He had left California with only a few hundred dollars in cash, and your family’s name engraved in his mind. 

“Go to the Sullivan’s,” his mother had said once. “They’ll help you.” 

He hadn’t planned on getting arrested on his way to Galveston. 

Nothing that Bradley had planned was coming to fruition, and what had happened since his mother died he could have never planned for.  

***

“So what’s he like?” 

You sighed and licked a drip of melted ice cream away from the rapidly softening side of your sugar cone. “Who, Bradley?” 

“Obviously.” Ivy rolled her eyes. “The mystery boy in the attic.” 

“He has a name,” you said. “And I don’t know. He’s quiet. I barely see him. I’m not supposed to.” 

“So what, he just sits in the attic all day like a fucking prisoner?” 

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I see him at breakfast and dinner and I’ve seen him in the yard a few times. It’s only been two weeks.” You failed to mention that you had gone to his room in the middle of the night when you heard his wailing from his nightmares. Ivy didn’t need to know that. She might have been your best friend since you moved to Galveston, but that felt like a secret only for Bradley to know. 

“Is he hot?” Her voice dropped an octave, like your father could hear you even though the two of you were halfway across the island. 

You turned to her with a shake of your head. “I don’t know? I’ve only ever seen him drowning in my dad’s old shirts.” You also failed to mention seeing Bradley shirtless during his nightmare. 

“I bet he’s hot,” Ivy said, slipping her sunglasses over her eyes. “They always are.” 

“Who do you mean by they?” you asked, sliding into the other side of the golf cart as she turned the ignition key. 

“You know,” she whispered. “Bad boys.” 

You laughed, an open mouthed cackle that had one of the neighbors, Mrs. Gleeson, shooting you a demonic glare. The two of you raised your hands in a neighborly wave and she begrudgingly followed suit, matching your fake smile. 

That was something you had picked up quickly after moving. Appearances mattered. It didn’t matter if you actually cared about what someone was saying. You just had to act like it. 

And it really didn’t matter if you wanted desperately to do something. If it looked wrong, you didn’t do it. 

Ivy steered the golf cart toward your house. She was headed to UT in the fall and was in a similar predicament as you — her parents wanted her to experience the summer, not be bogged down by jobs or pressure. The difference was that Ivy relished in that while you bucked against it. She was fine spending her days bumming around the beach, driving in her Jeep with all the windows and top unzipped, spending thousands of dollars on a debutante dress for just one night. 

You wanted more. You just didn’t know else was out there. 

As the two of you bumped down the beach toward your house, you spotted a figure in the distance. You raised one hand, placing it flush against your forehead as a makeshift visor. 

Ivy noticed at the same time you did and her eyes went wide, her hand that wasn’t gripping the wheel slapping your bare thigh. “You bitch!” she cried. “He’s hot as fuck, you were hiding him weren’t you?” 

You shook your head. “I didn’t know.” 

The two of you pulled off the beach, driving up between your parent’s house and the Ander’s next door, watching as Bradley split wood with an ax. He looked up as Ivy cut the engine on the golf cart, hopping out with a giant smile on her face. “Hi!” she practically sang. “You must be Bradley.” 

He put down the ax, wiping away sweat from his brow. “Yeah.” 

“I’m Ivy,” she said, tossing her arm around your neck and tugging you in close. “Y/N’s best friend.” 

He hummed in acknowledgement. You watched in awe as sweat dripped down his tanned, muscular shoulders, over past his pecs, across his defined abs before disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks. 

Ivy looked between the two of you and grinned. “How much more work do you have?” she asked. “Want to go swimming with us?” 

Bradley pointed to a small pile of wood near the house. “The Admiral asked me to chop this up for bonfires.” 

You nodded. “Bradley is busy,” you said. “Let’s just go inside and I can show you that dress I was talking about.” 

Ivy let her hand drop from your shoulders and put her hands on her waist. “No, this is much more interesting.” She shamelessly let her eyes roll over Bradley’s body. “Besides, there’s barely any wood in that pile. You’ll be done soon, right?” 

“I, uh, I guess.” 

“Great!” Ivy grinned. “We will grab beach towels and meet you down by the water when you’re done.” 

She skipped away and you followed, grabbing her delicate wrist and hissing in her ear once Bradley was out of earshot. “What are you doing?” 

“Being friendly, Y/N. Didn’t you know that was the Southern way?” she mocked. 

You grimaced. “Daddy’s going to throw a fit if he sees us swimming with him.” 

“Oh lighten up, Y/N,” she said, tossing open the front door and stepping inside like it was her house. “He won’t know, I promise.” 

That was the thing about Ivy. She pushed you out of your comfort zone, but in the best way. She was outgoing where you were shy. She had big Texas hair and a loud laugh and a zingy humor that people latched onto immediately. 

She didn’t always do what was right. But she always did what was fun. 

“I’m going to regret this,” you muttered as you slipped off your denim shorts and tank top to reveal a small white bikini, grabbing a set of beach towels and following after Ivy as she made her way out onto the beach.

The two of you dropped the towels under a heavy metal water bottle so they wouldn’t fly away before making your way out to the water. It was a scorching hot day. The ocean lapped like a lukewarm bath against your legs and you felt your breath catch. But it was a welcome change from California where the water generally had been cooler, more like a shock when you stuck your head below the surface. Here, in Texas, it was warm. Like everything else, it was a little oppressive. 

But you didn’t mind. Not at first. 

You were hip deep when you spotted Bradley making his way down the beach toward the shore. Ivy waved enthusiastically, her pale blue bikini now wet and a darker shade of blue. The strings dug into her plush hips and you couldn’t help but admire the way she moved, graceful, while you clumsily trudged through the wet sand. 

Bradley stopped at the waterline and you wondered for a moment if he knew how to swim. He looked at you, almost as if for approval. You gave him a small smile and he nodded slightly, wading into the water a few feet to your right. You pushed on further into the water until the both of you were submerged up to your chests. 

“First time in the ocean here?” you asked. 

Bradley nodded. “Never been to Texas before,” he replied. 

“Did you swim a lot in California?” 

“We used to go to Black’s Beach a lot. It’s a bit of a drive, but worth it for the waves.” 

“You surf?” 

Another nod. “Sometimes. I’m not great, but I try.” 

This was the most Bradley had really said to you in the two weeks he had been living at the house. Nearby, Ivy watched the two of you with fascination. 

You smiled, dipping your head back into the water, letting your hair get wet, and the ocean spray to hit your face. When you stood back up, Bradley was staring at you with a quiet intensity. 

“Do you like it here?” you asked after a moment. 

He shrugged. “It’s fine.” 

“I run sometimes,” you said. “In the mornings. If you ever want to join me.” 

For the first time, you saw a smile tug at the corners of Bradley’s mouth. “I’d like that.” 

Just as you were opening your mouth to reply, you heard a shrill, familiar voice. “Y/N!” All three heads turned to see your mother standing on the balcony of the house. Even from a hundred feet away you swore you could see the frown on her slim face. 

“Party’s over,” Ivy huffed under her breath, making her way toward shore. You sighed and followed suit, Bradley on your heels. 

The three of you grabbed towels, drying off as you walked up toward the house. It looked even more daunting because you knew what you would face inside. Your mother appeared at the end of the stairs from the deck that spanned the whole back of the house as you, Ivy and Bradley approached the base of the house. 

“Ivy,” she said cooly. “Your parents will want you home soon.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. 

“That’s my cue,” Ivy said, leaning in and giving you a hug, dropping her beach towel in your arms as she pulled away. “Love you.” 

“Bye,” you whispered as she grinned, waving one hand in the air, peeling away in the white golf cart. 

Your mother’s beady eyes locked on yours. “Bradley, dear,” she said, her eyes never leaving your face, “you can go inside and shower up before dinner please?” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied quietly, skirting past the two of you and heading up the tall staircase. 

You crossed your arms over your chest, the water droplets on your skin rapidly disappearing under the hot sun. She waited for the sound of the back door closing before opening her mouth. “What on Earth are you doing?” 

You shrugged. “Going for a swim.” 

“Your father and I were very clear that you were not to fraternize with the boy.” 

“His name is Bradley.” 

Her eyes practically popped out of her head. “Y/N, I mean it. In three months you’re leaving this house and I expect to see you leave here as a woman, not a girl.” 

You sighed. “Got my period when I was eleven, mother.” 

“That doesn’t make you a woman,” she said, looking you up and down. “You might look like a woman. But you are far from it, sweetheart. You think you know everything, don’t you? You think that boy in there is going to be some sort of adventure? Some new toy to play with? He’s a child, Y/N. You’re a child. We expect you to be a woman.” She paused, shaking her head. “Now go clean up for dinner. And we both know your father isn’t going to be happy when he hears about this.” 

You looked at her. Your mother had been different in California. Less straight laced. She let you eat ice cream on the beach at night and she wore loose dresses that did nothing to accentuate her tiny waist and she had been different in every way a person can be different. But something changed the minute you stepped onto Texas soil. She snapped back into an older version of herself. A mold of a woman who was weighed down by countless needless rules and expectations. She clung far too tight to things that to you made little to no sense. She clung to the past so hard and you wanted to know why she was desperate to make it your future. Maybe that was a secret you wouldn’t know until you were a mother. Maybe that was something you would only understand when you held your own daughter in your arms, tiny, fragile. 

Maybe then your mother would make sense. But until then, you looked at her and tried to figure out why she was the way that she was. Why she cared more about your hair being coiffed to perfection and the color of your nails and whether or not you sent out handwritten thank you cards on ivory cardstock after a birthday party than she did about your grades or your life skills. 

Why did they care so much if you wanted to get to know Bradley? 

Perhaps, more importantly, you wanted to know what he had done that made your parents so hesitant to let you speak to him. 

***

You stood in front of the three-panel mirror and grimaced. 

“Y/N,” your mother snapped. “For Heaven’s sake, smile. You look pained.”

You plastered a fake smile on your face. “Happy?”

She sighed. “Ecstatic.” 

It was the fourth dress shop your mother had dragged you to in as many days. 

“Well?” she asked impatiently. “What’s wrong with this one?” 

You slid your fingers over the silky bodice. “I don’t know. It’s just so … big.” You fluffed out the ballgown skirt. “Feels like I’m an upside down cupcake.” 

“You’ve said no to fourteen dresses.”

“I don’t care,” you said after a moment. “You pick it.” 

She shook her head. “This is your debutante ball, not mine, young lady. Marisha?” She called out for the poor sales woman who had been carting around heavy dresses for the two of you for the last hour. “Bring my daughter something with a smaller skirt please.” 

You went back into the dressing room and waited on Marisha. Finally, she reappeared with a slim satin dress with delicate mesh sleeves adorned with pearls. You slipped it on, drawing back the curtain and stepping up onto the podium in front of the semicircle of mirrors. 

“Well?” your mother asked. 

You took in the reflection staring back at you. For the first time, under the bright lights of the countless dress shops you had been to, you smiled. “This is the one.” 

***

Bradley felt like he was walking on eggshells. The Admiral had sat him down that first night and laid out the ground rules. 

He was under the Admiral’s guardianship for the next three months. Until his eighteenth birthday in early September. And then, he was on his own. 

“I knew your father,” the Admiral said, putting his hand on Bradley’s shoulder. “We flew together for years. He was a good man.” He paused. “He raised you better than this.” And then he left Bradley alone for that first night in the tower room. 

There were only three things that were clear. Bradley was on a ticking clock until he had to be out of your house. 

That he had to keep his nose clean after the arrest, especially because the Admiral had vouched for him. 

And finally, the most important rule of all. You were off limits. He shouldn’t talk to you, he shouldn't be your friend, he shouldn't get in your way. The Admiral didn’t explicitly say it, but the sentiment was clear enough. 

You were the golden child. You were beautiful. You held all of their promise in your two hands. And he was not going to fuck that up for you. 

So why did Bradley so desperately want to get to know you? Was it because he knew it was forbidden? 

Or was it because he knew you would change everything for him?

***

The next time you heard the telltale groans of Bradley’s nightmares, you were prepared. 

You grabbed the thermos from your desk and eased the door open gently, tiptoeing across the hallway toward the door at the base of the tower, letting yourself in, gently climbing the stairs. 

On the bed, Bradley was thrashing in his sleep, quiet groans rolling out of his mouth. You stepped closer, putting the thermos down on the ground, reaching out one hand, resting it gently on his arm. “Hey, hey,” you whispered and his eyes popped open. “Shh, it’s just me. It’s Y/N.” 

He sat up, breathing hard, bare chest glistening with sweat and heaving. You didn’t pull your hand away, keeping it resting on his arm, face drawn in concern. 

“You’re OK,” you whispered. “You’re safe here. Whatever was going on in your dream, it’s over.” 

Bradley shook his head. You bent over, reaching for the thermos, pouring a cup of ice water into the cap and holding it out. 

“Here,” you said. “Drink. It’s just water.” 

He took it cautiously, tipping it back into his mouth. After the first sip he gulped down the rest of the cap and you poured him a second serving. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, handing the empty cap back to you. You screwed it on and placed the metal thermos on the ground before sitting down lightly on the edge of the mattress. “Sorry if I woke you up.” 

You shook your head. “I don’t mind.” It wasn’t a lie. A part of you had wanted an excuse to come up and see Bradley again under the cloak of night. It felt safer in a way. Away from prying eyes. Away from the pervasive judgment that filled not only your house but the whole island. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked. 

You frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

Bradley thought about it for a second. He didn’t have an answer, other than people usually let him down. “I don’t know. Just don’t see what you have to gain.” 

“Being nice isn’t about gaining anything,” you said. “Sometimes it’s just about being nice.” You paused. “Besides, I thought we could be friends.” 

He smiled sadly. “Thought you weren’t supposed to talk to me.” 

“Well, I thought we could be secret friends,” you said. 

“How would that work?” 

You shrugged. “I can come up here at night and we can talk.” 

“That’s all you want, Y/N?” he asked quietly. “To talk?” 

You felt a shiver run through your body. You were suddenly aware of how close Bradley was sitting and how bare his chest was. You swallowed harshly. “Yeah. I like to talk.” 

He smirked. “I noticed.” “I kind of have to,” you said. “You’re a closed book. If I don't talk, you're never going to tell me anything.” 

“I'm happy to talk.” 

You tipped your head to one side. “OK, then answer my question. How’d you get those scars?”

To his surprise, you reached out, stroking one finger along the scar that ran across Bradley’s face toward his jaw. “Car accident,” he whispered.

“When?” 

The scars were pink, not yet faded lighter. They were obviously older than the bruises and scratches that adorned the rest of his body, but they weren’t from a decade before as far as you could tell. 

Bradley swallowed hard. 

“Last year.” 

“Was it scary?” you whispered. 

He nodded. “Worst day of my life.” 

You dropped your hand and placed it in his. The two of you looked down at your intertwined fingers. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I won’t pry anymore.” Bradley raised his eyes to yours. His were a warm brown that made you feel cozy inside. Like a cabin in the mountains at Christmas, just warmth bottled up. How had you never noticed that before? Every time Bradley looked at you it was patient. Like he would give you all the time in the world. Even if it was at his own cost. 

“What do you dream about?” you asked quietly. 

Bradley let his hand slide out of yours. You watched him consider your question carefully. His fingers fidgeted with the sheets on either side of his legs. “My parents,” he said. 

You waited. Bradley looked lost in thought. It was odd, but he had only been at the house for three weeks and yet a part of you felt like you had known him before. There was something oddly familiar about him. 

“My dad died when I was four. A jet accident.” You sucked in a breath. When your father had worked that was a fear that you grappled with daily. The fact that he might leave one day and never walk back through the front door. It pained you to know that Bradley had experienced that fear first hand. That it plagued him. That it was part of his story. “And my mother died when I was sixteen.” 

He didn’t say it, but you knew. His mother had died in the car crash that gave Bradley those scars. He carried a physical reminder of her death on his person no matter what. Something he couldn’t get rid of. 

Your heart ached for him. 

“Bradley,” you whispered and when his eyes met yours, it went without saying. You were sorry. You wished he hadn’t gone through that. You wished you had a way to make things better for him. You were glad he told you. 

“Sometimes I don’t want to wake up,” he said, “because that means waking up to a world that they’re no longer in. Even if the dream is terrible. Even if I’m back on that road in the dark, her blood on my hands, the ambulance on the way, at least she’s there. At least she’s still alive. But when I wake up? Then I’m just alone again.” 

“You’re not alone,” you said softly. “You have us.” 

Bradley shook his head. “Y/N. Your parents don’t like me. They don’t even want me speaking to you.” He sighed. “I’m alone.” 

You watched in shock as a single tear slid from the corner of his eye down his cheek and without thinking you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him in closely, one hand on the base of his neck, tugging him in tight. 

For a second, Bradley almost struggled against the embrace. How long had it been since someone had held him like that? But you were warm and smelled like vanilla and he found himself sinking into the hug, winding his arms cautiously around your middle as you smoothed your fingers gently over the hair that curled up at the nape of his neck. 

“I’m not going to leave you,” you whispered against the bare skin of his shoulder. Bradley closed his eyes, willing the tears to stop, letting himself get lost in the comfort of your arms. 

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[monsterfuckerconfessions]

Found this in my "Garbage" folder, saw no reason to let it languish.

*Ahem*

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. I thought being a captive of a tribe of fucking werewolves would be less...pleasant. In my head I'd constructed this nightmare of being eaten alive, my guts pulled out of my belly and my blood welling up in my throat until I suffocated. I wasn't expecting a huge pile of warm, furry wolf-monsters who – as far as I could tell – just wanted to cuddle and be scratched behind the ears. They seemed to not care that I was the only human within almost a hundred miles, or that I'd stumbled onto their den carrying two rifles and a nine millimeter pistol loaded literally for bear. No, the only thing they seemed to care about was that I was female. While being cuddled by what amounted to giant bipedal wolves was pleasant, warm and secure and surprisingly soft, I could not help but notice that the four of them were vying for my attention almost constantly whenever I was awake. They brought me food, bumped their huge heads against my chest and belly, draped their bodies over me while I slept, and licked my face and hands to make me smile. It was like living with gigantic puppies. I swear to God I could see human intelligence in all of them, and they learned the names I gave them and responded to them. The grey one was Tundra, the black one Midnight, the brown and grey Buckeye and the all-white Ice.

Ice was much gentler than I expected for a creature his size. Rather than pinning me down like Buckeye, he seemed to prefer a more...delicate approach. At least I interpreted it as such. Wrapping his big paws around me, he pulled me in and rubbed his chin on my head for a while, nuzzling my neck and shoulders before huffing and settling down on his haunches to look at me. Crystal-blue eyes stared at me from his white face, his forelegs around my waist. I'm tempted to describe his paws as hands, except the shape is all wrong – the palms too long, the thumbs too short – but they could still manipulate objects and hold things. I wrapped my arms around his thick neck, burying my fingers in his dense coat. I knew he wanted to apologize for Buckeye's rough treatment, for the way he just used me whenever he wanted and didn't bother to tend to me afterwards. But Ice always did. Ice always laid with me afterwards, sometimes even after Buckeye was done with me, watching me recover and licking my wounds, literally. It got so that I preferred Ice over his brother, and Buckeye resented that. So he was rougher with me than he should have been.

Once, Buckeye pinned me so hard that my wrists were bruised for days. Ice was angry about that, I could tell. He would growl at his brother any time Buckeye got near me, and it came to blows one night about four days after my puffy, purple wrists turned yellow. Buckeye got too close and Ice cuffed him so hard I heard something crack, and Buckeye spit out a piece of a tooth. I treated it the best I could, but the whole time I was within Buck's reach Ice was right beside me, a low thundering rumble coming from his chest. Ice wouldn't let Buckeye touch me for another week after that.

Now, with the change in power structure and with Buckeye relegated to beta, Ice seemed to take advantage of his new position to show the others how a female should be treated. He was never rough, and even took the time to make sure I was ready before mounting me. Usually he did so in the relative privacy of the cave while the others were at least outside, but one time he took me in front of the whole clan, laying me down on my back and ignoring the other males while he had his way with me. He never looked anywhere except my eyes, even while Buckeye and Midnight and Tundra circled and sniffed. I...I am only a little ashamed to admit that when I was with Ice, I could come. I could actually enjoy what was happening to me, and Ice knew it. So he would be gentle with me, waiting and holding back until I cried out and twisted handfuls of grey-white fur out of his chest. I could see in his snow-blue eyes then that he was pleased. He would lean down and lick my face, then press his huge head against my chest and hold me to the ground while he filled me.

Tundra wasn't so bad, and neither was Midnight. Both were young, barely adults, so their versions of mating were still clumsy and sometimes hurt, but they were always kind to me. Tundra brought me things he found, little pieces of stones with shells embedded in them, clean sun-bleached bones, pieces of food. Midnight was a cuddler, he liked to bowl me over and snuffle and snort around my ears and neck before rolling me onto my stomach. That was the way he liked it, and it wasn't terrible. Once I surprised myself and actually came while Midnight was inside of me, and it startled both of us. He stopped for a moment and nibbled my cheek, checking on me. “It's okay, I'm fine.” I smiled at him and let him finish. He looked so pleased with himself.

Soon, I realized that Ice wanted me to teach him how to make me come. He communicated this to me the best he could, by pulling me into the cave one afternoon and dragging me into the big nest we all shared in the winter. He nosed my legs apart and studied me, sniffing and licking and looking sharply up at me when I cried out as his hot tongue swept over me. “It's fine, that felt good. Do it again.” He licked again and looked up. “Yes, like that.” Ears forward to listen to me, Ice laid down on his belly and put a huge paw on my thigh. The claws grazed me, but Ice never broke my skin. With slow, experimental sweeps of his tongue, Ice explored the place he usually only put his... I shivered. I could feel his monstrous teeth, and I realized with surprise that I liked it. “Oh, Ice...”

.

[lightandheatao3]

The Bunker - Criminal Minds

Chapter 4: The Question

Summary: Spencer Reid wakes up in a locked bunker to find half the current BAU and two of its departed members unconscious on the floor. The old team is back together but the reunion is not what any of them would have wished for. An Unsub from their past has decided it's time they all stop keeping secrets, even if it means exposing them by force.

Hotch and Derek have been pulled back into a world they tried to escape. Emily, Rossi, and JJ are doing their best to keep it together. Spencer is falling apart.

AKA a found family is reunited and forced to go through the most nightmarish version of family therapy imaginable.

Set months after the end of Criminal Minds: Evolution. Evolution referenced, but not necessary to understand the story.

Chapter Summary: Tensions rise as time in the bunker drags on.

Read chapter 4 on AO3 or under the cut. All comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated <3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

“Come on man, get up.”

“What’s the point?” whined Spencer.

“The point is that muscles start to atrophy after 3 days of inactivity, and you have been holed up on that disgusting mattress for… what… like a week and half now? Longer than you should’ve been,” said Derek.

Spencer groaned. “I’ve been a bit sick, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Which is why we’ve left you alone, but you’re so goddamn shaky and thin you’re starting to resemble a chihuahua. You need to keep active, or you will just get sicker. That’s true for all of us,” he insisted.

“Come on, it’s simple calisthenics. No worse than you had to do at the academy,” said Emily, entirely too chipper.

“I hated doing it back then, too,” he said. “I would really rather never move again, thanks.”

“Of course you want to sleep all day,” said Derek. “It’s called clinical depression, Reid. It’s what happens when you replace your brain’s ability to self-regulate pleasure with heroin. You’re gonna be all fucked up for a while, but you’ll level out eventually. And you know what’s proven to be one of the most effective treatments for depression? Exercise! So get your ass up,” he ordered, nudging the mattress with his foot.

“Okay, okay, I get it. Just don’t complain when I pass out after 5 minutes,” he said, dragging himself up.

The last thing he wanted was to be roped into an extended conversation about the questionable state of his mental health.

“I’ll consider it 5 minutes well spent,” Derek said, reaching a hand down to help him to his feet.

Emily corralled them all into two lines while JJ placed herself at the front of the room, ready to lead the workout.

“Frankly, I’m with you, kid,” Rossi whispered, looking pointedly unhappy about the whole situation.

“Shut it,” said Emily.

Hotch smirked. “Pick your battles, boys.”

“Just you wait until it’s my turn to run the class tomorrow,” said Derek, positioned feet shoulder width apart and ready to go in the front line with Emily. “You’ll be begging to go back to this moment”

Rossi and Spencer both whinged, but they shaped up and did their best to mirror JJ’s movements when she called them to attention.

Spencer did not pass out, but he did make it almost precisely 5 minutes before having to very rapidly excuse himself to go throw up. After a few retches, he collapsed back onto the floor of the tiny en-suit, half curled around the toilet.

Rossi ducked his head in. “You doing alight? Need some help?”

“Just… just let me lie here for a minute.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me to stay with you?” he persisted.

“Get back in here, Rossi!” ordered Emily.

With a swear that was barely concealed under his breath, he left Spencer to languish on the floor.

A few minutes later he hauled himself out and retook his place in the group. Nobody said anything, but Derek had an annoyingly self satisfied smile. He only made it through another few exercises before he had to stop in earnest, but, as loathed as he was to admit it, he felt a tiny bit better. Emotionally, if not physically.

Emily, JJ and Derek all sat by him. Rossi had first dibs on the bathroom to wash his clothes and Hotch… well, he was sitting cross legged on the far side of the room meditating.

Spencer didn’t know if he was actually meditating, or if he just wanted to be left alone.

He’d warmed up to them all since they had been in the bunker. In fact he was almost warmer and friendlier than he had been when they were all still close. Or, maybe not friendlier, but gentle somehow, in a way Spencer had never seen him be with anyone but Jack and Beth before.

Still, he kept a distance from them. Even when they were talking, he could feel the invisible wall.

Not that Spencer was judging. He had plenty of his own walls.

“I know you feel like garbage, Spence, but you’re doing a lot better,” said JJ, looking pleased.

“Better than what?” he scoffed.

“Better than when you were pumping your veins full of dope every day,” suggested Derek, lying on the floor in front of where Spencer and the girls were siting, clasping his hands behind his head casually and putting his feet up against the wall.

Spencer narrowed his eyes, a flash of irritation at the lackadaisical attitude. “That’s an interesting philosophical debate. Do you really think I’d be worse off high in my apartment than soberly held captive by an Unsub?”

Derek tapped his foot thoughtfully. “I think, and correct me if I’m wrong here boy genius, those are not the only two options in the world.”

“Please, Morgan, if we make it out of here alive will you teach me how to be as virtuous as you?” he said sarcastically.

“Enough, both of you,” said Emily when Derek leaned his head up to argue back. “Spencer, stop scratching, you’re going to get an infection.”

He looked at her quizzically for a split second before realizing what she meant. He had been scratching at his arms without even noticing. He stopped, slinging them both over his knees instead.

The most recent track marks were scabbed over and the extra sensory sensitivity after withdrawal was making them itch like crazy.

It’s funny how quickly he’d gotten used to them seeing him like this. He was still in his singlet and pajama pants most of the time, the long sleeve shirt functioning more as a pillow than an item of clothing these days.

The others were the same, with everyone comfortably sitting around in their underwear when waiting for their clothes to dry. They’d all spent enough time in hotel rooms together over the years not to be precious about that sort of thing.

None of them even balked at the track marks anymore. They’d gotten used to them. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

He’d always hated having to hide and having them be so delicate about the subject of his addiction, but now they were infuriatingly direct. Far from walking on eggshells, they were stomping as brashly as they pleased. Especially Derek.

It was really starting to piss him off.

That might have been because literally everything was pissing him off since detoxing.

He tried not to feel too bad about it. He wasn’t the only one who’d been a bit snippy. The complete absence of privacy and personal space wasn’t doing any of them any favors.

“Can I ask you something?” asked JJ, catching his eye.

He sighed. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” she admitted.

A beat. “You can ask.”

She looked him up and down. Emily was glancing between them, and Derek had cracked an eye open.

“What happened two years ago?” she asked gently. “Why did you start using again?”

He was surprised it took them this long. He’d been waiting for them to interrogate him on the subject since the second that goddamn note was read out.

This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. It wasn’t one he knew how to have.

“Nothing happened,” he said softly.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Addicts relapse, JJ. An estimated 88% of all heroin addicts relapse within 1 to 3 years of quitting. I know you all think I’m different somehow, like I’m supposed to be smarter than that. That’s not how it works.”

He didn’t mean to sound harsh, but even he could hear the bite in his voice by the end. There was a little part of him that resented them for even being surprised at his relapse, as if there was something about him that precluded him from that kind of indignity. It was misdirected and he knew it.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” said JJ defensively. “If you don’t want to talk about it just say so.”

Before he could apologize to her, Derek chimed in with, “It’s what I’m saying.” He sat up. “You’re right, Reid, you are supposed to be smarter than this.”

“Thanks, Morgan. Invite me to the ceremony when they give you a Nobel prize for fixing the opioid epidemic.”

Derek folded his arms and continued as if Spencer hadn’t said anything. “You didn’t choose to be an addict, but you did choose to do it alone. If you hadn’t cut yourself off from all of us when you relapsed, we would have helped you. You chose to keep pretending everything was fine while it spiraled out of control. Every time we talked, every time you visited, I asked you what was happening in your life, and you chose to lie. For someone so goddamn smart, you've been making a lot of incredibly stupid choices.”

Hotch had opened his eyes and Rossi had re-emerged from the bathroom still holding a soapy, wet shirt in his hands.

Spencer and Derek had both stood up and Spencer wasn’t even sure when they’d done it.

Emily didn’t intervene this time. Apparently, they were doing this.

“You’re right, I didn’t ask for your help and I don’t want it now!” He took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Through gritted teeth he said, “I am grateful to you all for getting me through withdrawal and I am sorry I put you through that. Can’t that be enough for now? We clearly have bigger problems than this.”

“No.”

“No?” he said indignantly.

“No. Why won't you talk about this? What could you possibly have to say that’s worse than what we already know?” Derek demanded, volume rising with every word.

“I don't want to talk about it because I know what you want me to say! You want me to tell you that if we get out of here I’m going to get treatment and go to meetings and pinkie promise I’ll never use narcotics again,” Spencer said, matching his volume and emphasizing the words with a wave of his hand.

“The only thing I want is for you to tell me the fucking truth!”

“No, you don’t!”

“Yes, I do! I don’t care how bleak it is, just for one fucking second be honest about what you want!”

“The truth is I don’t want to do this!” shouted Spencer. “If I had heroin, I would shoot up right now, right here in this fucking room while you watched. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear? I don’t want to be fixed!”

“Why not?” yelled Derek.

They stared at each other, both breathing heavily. Spencer had been staring directly into his eyes for far longer than he would normally be able, fueled by adrenaline.

He caught glimpse of something behind the anger that in another circumstance he might have missed.

Helplessness.

Oh.

Derek wasn’t mad.

He was terrified.

The realization hit him like a physical blow.

Spencer stared at him, opening his mouth but not finding any words.

“Why don’t you want us to help? Why don’t you want to be fixed? What the hell happened to you?” pleaded the closest thing he’d ever had to a brother. “What’s your plan when we get out of here? You wanna go be a junkie, dead in a year? You had 15 years clean, man. Why are you doing this?”

His eyes burned, moisture pooling in the corners. Why? Why was he doing this?

What answer could ever satisfy them?

The air between them filled with poisonous silence.

Out of the silence came a voice, too small for him to make out the words. Derek held his gaze, fighting tears of his own, but asked to someone to the side, “What did you say?”

“It wasn’t 15 years,” said JJ, louder this time.

Another shiver of panic worked its way down Spencer’s spine.

“What are you talking about?” demanded Derek.

“He said ‘times.’ When we first got the note. He said we weren’t there the other times he went through withdrawal. Plural.”

Fuck. Why could he never just say the right thing?

Derek squared off, lifting a hand to wipe under his eyes. “JJ’s right, isn’t she.” He wasn’t shouting anymore. When Spencer didn't answer, he took it as all the confirmation he needed. “Was it after prison?”

He shot a brief look off at the others, silently urging them to step in and save him.

JJ wouldn’t look at him. She looked small. He never wanted to do this to her.

Hotch was eyeing him like he was trying to solve the puzzle of what bits of Spencer Reid had been irreparably broken in his absence. Prison had certainly done some damage that couldn’t be undone.

He looked back at Derek. “No. That was… It was hard, but no.”

“So, when?” he asked, cocking his head, waiting for Spencer to give him something concrete to fight about.

He looked back at JJ, who still wouldn’t meet his eye.

She already knew.

“Oh no,” said Emily softly, putting it together. “It was after I faked my death to hide from Doyle.”

He was torn between Derek and JJ, and all the other people in this room who his deficiencies kept hurting.

Their fight after it was revealed that JJ knew Emily was alive had almost destroyed their friendship. In retrospect, he understood she was doing the best she could with horrible circumstances, trying to protect Emily.

He also knew, equally certain, that he would have told her. If the situations were reversed and she came to his door, crying, grieving, on the verge of a breakdown, he would have told her.

She knew it, too.

He was aware that she still held tightly onto that guilt. He regretted so badly the way he’d treated her when he first found out. He never wanted to tell her this. Never.

He turned away from Derek, who was still staring at him like he’d ripped his heart out of his chest.

“JJ, please talk to me.”

He stepped forward, putting his hands on her arms. She looked up at him, red eyed and exhausted.

“You told me you didn’t use. You only thought about it,” she said, sounding numb. “I believed you. Except… I think I just wanted to believe you.”

“I’m sorry.” He pulled her into a hug. She held onto him tightly. “You did the right thing back then. My actions weren’t your fault.”

The moment was over as quickly and horribly as it began when the chamber on the door banged.

Of course this interruption couldn't have come minutes earlier when he desperately needed it.

A gloved hand reached in to deposit a brown paper bag.

Derek was slow to react, not running to the door in his usual effort to ingratiate himself to their captor through one sided conversation.

When nobody moved, the interrupted outbreak of truth and consequences weighing them down too heavily, Hotch stepped towards the door.

He moved slowly, deliberately, as if one muscle twitching out of place would set off a bomb. Spencer wasn’t sure where he thought the explosion might be coming from.

When Hotch opened the chamber and extracted the brown paper bag, he stared at it. Not moving, just staring down at the thing he was holding, presumably filled with more fruit. Nobody else moved. Nobody spoke.

In one swift and vicious action, Hotch flung the bag across the room!

Fruit scattered over the concrete in a colorful arc. An overripe peach splattered on the far wall.

They all flinched at the sudden act, but before anyone could talk, Hotch had rounded on the camera in the roof with its infuriating, endlessly blinking red light.

He spoke low, dangerous. “When we get out of here, and we will, I’m going to kill you myself. Forget life in prison, I will put you down like a fucking dog.”

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath, not realizing he’d been holding it. JJ was gripping his arm tight enough to cut off circulation. He let her. The room was cavernous, quiet, oppressive.

Hotch clenched and unclenched his fists. Emily stepped forward, mouth open, a hand outstretched towards his shoulder but not bold enough to actually touch him, yet he pulled away from her as if she had.

“I’m fine,” he snapped. He took in a ragged breath, scrubbing his hands over his face, then lowered them. This time, calmer: “I’m fine.”

He looked around the room at the scattered fruit. With another deep breath, he bent down and started gathering it up. Emily stepped forward to help him.

Spencer, JJ, and Derek exchanged looks. Spencer knew they would not be dropping the subject forever, but for now they settled on an agitated, embarrassed truce. Well, Spencer was embarrassed. Derek might just have been agitated.

Had he really said, out loud, that he would shoot up in front of them if he had to? He was almost certain he would actually follow through with that given the choice. There's almost nothing he wouldn't do to get high at this point. Withdrawal and being stuck in the bunker had only made his cravings stronger.

He had certainly not intended to tell them that, though.

The three of them broke away, moving to help Hotch and Emily. JJ grabbed the paper bag for them to consolidate the food, while Derek moved to clean the peach that was dripping down the wall.

As Hotch dropped his handful of citrus and apples into the bag JJ was holding, he paused. The rest of the room paused too, waiting to see what he would do.

“It was my call to keep everyone in the dark about Prentiss. It was cruel to put that on you.” He looked around at the rest of them. “It was cruel to all of you.”

“You did what you thought was right,” said Spencer. He locked eyes with JJ. “Both of you did.”

Hotch eyed him off, picking him apart in a way that made Spencer want to bury his face in his hands like a little kid, desperate not to be seen. He resisted the urge.

“You still don’t believe it was the right call,” said Hotch eventually, a statement not a question.

Spencer frowned. “No,” he said honestly. “But I know you believed it. That’s enough for me.”

Hotch shook his head. Clearly, it wasn’t enough for him.

Emily looked between all of them, grey hair falling oddly prettily over her shoulders as she swiveled her head. “I mean, if we want to play the blame game, it’s really my fault for keeping you all in the dark about Doyle,” she pointed out. “Or Doyle’s fault for creating the whole mess. We can go even deeper. In a round about way, it’s really my mother’s fault I got into intelligence in the first place. We can all blame my mother! Trust me, it’s one of my favorite pastimes. It’s cathartic. Go ahead,” she encouraged.

Derek laughed. Even JJ cracked a smile.

“I really dislike your mother, so this is compelling,” deadpanned Hotch.

Emily chuckled. “Yeah, she hates you too buddy.” To the room at large she said, “I know we’re all going a bit crazy in here, but everything we’re feeling has to be secondary to the ultimate goal of getting out. I’ve been thinking about that, and-”

“Emily,” said Rossi, wet, half-washed shirt sitting discarded on the floor, forming a puddle.

Spencer hadn't even registered that he hadn't spoken or helped with the cleanup, caught up in the interpersonal drama as he was.

Emily looked at Rossi quizzically.

Spencer’s blood ran cold. It was crumpled from having been tossed across the room with the rest of the bag’s contents.

Rossi held a folded piece of paper in his hand. With it, a photograph, the edge of which was just sticking out between the folds. He offered it to Emily. “Sorry,” he said sympathetically. “Looks like you’re up.”

[lassieposting]

Actually. Also. While I'm SABposting.

The whole "Dark & Dangerous Morally-Questionable Immortal vs Safe But Bland Childhood Friend love triangle? Is boring. It's been done to death in every single YA series ever written.

But. Y'all know what could've been super refreshing and highkey entertaining?

Kirigan and Mal getting along.

Like. Mal is supposed to be a promising young soldier anyway, and when they meet, he's just succeeded in hunting down a folkloric magical creature that nobody has caught in hundreds of years. And then he has the sheer brass balls to withhold said creature's location to try and negotiate with someone who outranks him to an almost inconceivable degree.

This is. Probably not a smart career move, because noblemen are petty and prone to pissing contests, and Kirigan could make Mal's life very unpleasant. But it is brave, and Kirigan has been a soldier long enough to both a) spot untapped potential and b) respect bravery when he sees it.

(It's interesting to me that Mal often forgets to salute/call his superior officers 'sir' in the First Army scenes, but he absolutely remembers his manners with Kirigan. He needs this guy to like him, so he can see his bestie.)

And getting on each other's good side would actually benefit both of them - which Kirigan especially would know - being however many centuries old and with strategy as his fucking job.

On Mal's side - he's kind of languishing in mediocrity because he's an orphan with no contacts to give him a foot in the door to promotion. When he applies to transfer to better units where he'd learn new skills or have more opportunities to distinguish himself in the eyes of his superiors, he's shunted aside and overlooked in favour of someone whose father knows the king, because fatcats all look out for each other. But if he applied for the same transfer with a recommendation from the Black General, his potential new CO would take him far more seriously as an option. He certainly wouldn't suffer for having an affluent, influential man at the top of the military totem pole keeping an interested eye on his career.

On Kirigan's side - having Mal around, even infrequently, will settle Alina and make her feel more at home, and she'll know he pulled strings for Mal to boot. He's been intercepting their letters, because Alina writing all about the daily goings-on in the Little Palace is a fucking security risk, and she's understandably angry with him for it, but if Mal has a reason to come by the Little Palace now and then, to report to him on something or other, she can see him in person and won't need to write letters that could so easily fall into the wrong hands. And - well, at some point, Mal will owe him so much that he'll have to be loyal. Because betraying him would cost Mal everything. He's patient. He can wait.

Except. Mal turns out to be likeable, in the salt-of-the-earth sort of way Kirigan sometimes misses from when he was a serving soldier himself, all those centuries ago, and he is full of fun facts about Alina and amusing (for Kirigan, Alina would say embarrassing) anecdotes about shit she got up to as a child. He's gotten used to the intrigue and the backstabbing and the plotting that goes on at court, but there's none of that with Mal, because the boy is a shit liar and has no guile whatsoever. It's refreshing. And Mal has grown up being schooled about battles that Kirigan fought in or masterminded, and he has Questions that at some point he gets to actually ask, and for a minute while they're conversing Kirigan sort of stops being this terrifying Grisha freak of nature in his mind and is just. Another old soldier, like most of the COs he's ever had, telling war stories, and there's common ground, between them.

And like Alina is aware that they've formed a tentative truce for her sake and she is very pleased that they have, and then one day Aleksander makes a comment about how "the boy isn't a complete imbecile, I suppose" and she starts to think he might even like Mal, in his own prickly way,

And then she walks into a room during a fete and sees them talking, and that's lovely because they both look actually interested in the conversation! And she's smiling at them, right up until Mal starts flapping his elbows around and pulling comically horrified faces and she just knows he's telling Kirigan about the first time she ever rode a horse, when the damn thing spooked and took off with her at top speed and dumped her in the - yes, there he goes, pretending to pick pondweed out of the hair he doesn't have - lake. And Kirigan creases up and almost chokes on a mouthful of wine and saints, he's such a horse girl he'll be bringing this up forever and. Yeah she is going to have to murder the pair of them because she will never hear the end of this otherwise