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seiwas · 9 months

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₊˚⊹｡ tell me about love (show me how) | gojo satoru

wc: 7.4k

summary: you teach gojo how to love.

contains: f!reader in mind but no pronouns mentioned, descriptions of blood (typical jjk canon type stuff), shibuya onwards manga spoilers, implied minor character death, there are swears, suggestive bit at the end (but it’s funny!), lots of internal thoughts/dialogues, kind of canon divergent

a/n: relates to my short blurb, do you believe in love?, explores a lot on how i think gojo would be when it comes to love; ambiguous but linear timeline (jumps through scenes)

collection masterlist: conversations on love 01. do you believe in love? <- you are here -> 2.5. and my body keeps saying (it's yours)

When Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it.

It’s unusual for him to be so restrained, being born into greed and predetermined purpose—a one-man clan fated to hold power close to God. There exists a hunger within him, insatiable and stubborn, unstoppable until he gets what he wants. It’s all he’s ever known: to take and devour, simply because he can.

Yet with this, he doesn’t. He can’t seem to.

“I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.”

When you offer your heart to Gojo, he looks at you softly.

You catch his eyes and see the sky, bright, with flecks of light floating on his irises like cotton clouds in its periphery. It’s different from the piercing blue you’re used to—a terrifying riptide that washes you away.

It wasn’t intended as a confession, but Gojo always takes whatever you have to say. He commits it to memory each time; how could he not? Words that come from you flow so naturally, so earnestly that the air around you shifts all on its own.

His lips part slightly, red spatterings lining pink inner corners before they close again. He doesn’t say anything, but you know Gojo and the fingerprints of his soul—the way he bites his lips to withhold himself from speaking.

It’s dangerous, he thinks, how you make wanting something so complicated seem so simple.

He takes a small breath, then you feel it, pressed against you—the faint signature of his cursed energy overlaying his entirety. It tickles your skin a little, the effects of it brushing. You don’t remember the last time he put it up around you.

A million things run through Gojo’s mind for every split second he breathes, but at this point in time, he counts a million and one—one thought that if he touches you by infinity instead of his hands, he can have this good thing for now, that this is the only way how.

You’d think this a rejection, if any, but he doesn’t move away from you, and the blush blooming at the tips of his ears says more than he ever could.

The subtle intimacy you share with Gojo grows sporadically, from knuckles brushing to pinkies touching. He stands next to you more often, a few inches closer than he used to and sometimes, still, with an infinity connecting you.

When you hold Gojo’s hand for the first time, he jolts very slightly, as if you’ve shocked him. He’s started to put his infinity down around you again, and you continue the limbo of whatever it is you both are—except this time, he’s made it clearer, just a little bit.

During the last few leaves of fall, Gojo skips to an ice cream stand like a pre-schooler on early dismissal. You trail behind him slowly, shaking your head affectionately; he’s the only adult you know that still acts like he’s 5.

“You’re like a horse.” you jest, stopping next to him in line.

“You’re a snail.” he huffs, side-eyeing you, like a child.

You gasp exaggeratingly, hitting his arm. He fake-winces, but that’s all it is; Gojo’s the strongest and you don’t know of any human touch that has managed to hurt him, except—

Yeah. Your eyes trail to the side of his neck, hidden in the shadows of his jawline; there’s really nothing, but sometimes you blink and see crimson, oozing, gushing, leaking—you shake away the thought.

When he receives his ice cream cone stacked with vanilla-strawberry-vanilla and rainbow sprinkles on top, the smile on his face parallels the sun. He looks cozy, almost boyish, beaming against the autumn breeze blowing on his thick gray hoodie.

You wonder if he feels just as warm.

(Maybe that’s why you do it, then).

Once Gojo turns to give you the cone, you reach for his other hand tentatively, shyly—your fingertips grazing his palm lightly. You want to give him an out if he can’t take this, but he doesn’t move. He twitches a little, as if he’s been caught off guard, but that’s it.

His eyes widen briefly, just a bit, before turning into the same soft skies frequenting them lately.

“Sorry, is this okay?” you whisper, peering up at him.

He stares at you for a while, his hand in yours unmoving. You leave a sliver of space between your palms–your own version of his infinity–just in case. And he takes it all in: how tiny your hand is wrapped around his, how gently you speak—how warm he feels now amidst this autumn breeze.

“The strawberry’s really good,” he finally replies, pressing the dessert closer to you, “try it.”

You give him one last look before you indulge in his request. Gojo’s always been good at that: pushing and pulling—pushing you away with non-answers only to pull you back in with something else.

But he doesn’t let go of your hand, so you keep yours there, palms nearly touching. (You make a point not to mention how the parts that do touch become clammy for the rest of the afternoon).

You start to think that your relationship with Gojo is going somewhere, then he disappears (‘gets sealed’ might be the more proper term).

His absence is deafening. You’ve all lost so much, and it hurts, but you carry on knowing full well that this is what being a jujutsu sorcerer means. There aren’t many left to fight his fight, so you do what you can to. You stay with Shoko, mostly, if not going back and forth with Utahime. You can’t afford to be crying when the students, the kids—you can’t even bear to think about what they’re going through.

Nights are the hardest, when the world is quiet but your mind is loud, throwing far too many questions you can’t find the answers to.

What will Gojo come back to? Then the scarier thought: Will he even come back?

You don’t want to doubt him, ever, but your mind continues to play back that day, like a final memory. The unintentional confession; his eyes like the sky.

You don’t want it to be the last important thing you tell him.

“I should start looking into retirement plans, like Nanamin.” you raise an eyebrow, questioning. Gojo’s never spoken this far into the future before, most especially his.

“Work is shit now for you too?” you scoff, leaning back on the wooden ledge.

Gojo rolls his eyes, skipping the coverage of his blindfold today.

“Well, after I remove the old geezers and change everything, there won’t be much left to do.”

You hum in response. He does make a point.

“Also, Megumi won’t need me anymore,” he pouts, whining, “who else will want me around?”

You try to hold back your laugh, wanting so badly to tell him that Megumi doesn’t even really like him around to begin with—but you figure breaking Gojo’s heart isn’t really something you want to do if you value your peace.

“I don’t know,” you reply, shifting your weight, “I think I’ll always want to be with you, Satoru.”

Even now, especially now. You wish you were with him, too.

The day you hear of Gojo’s potential return, you drop your breakfast outside the 7-Eleven near Jujutsu Tech. You’re supposed to meet up with Utahime for a weekly check-in but your feet take you to Shoko, and the footsteps in your heart have never echoed louder.

This is the first good news in a while—especially after finding out about the state of Megumi and what happened to Tsumiki, your sweet girl Tsumiki.

When Gojo comes back, it’s like he never left. He pops out of the box joking the same way, talking the same way. He proves himself to be the strongest all the same, and when he wins—there are scars, but he wins and that fact stays the same.

So, when you reach for his hand now and he moves away, you’re stuck wondering what’s changed.

You let it stay that way for a while, your understanding extending to Gojo the way it always has—you don’t push, and he gives you what he can. It honestly isn’t all that bad, because at least he’s still talking to you like he used to.

Jujutsu society is still shaken from its core. You and all who have survived bear the task of building everything from the ground up; it’s exhausting, especially since most of you are still mourning.

Megumi’s been put in an induced coma; you understand why but it still tugs at your heart when Shoko tells you it might take a while. Everyone else has been assigned to sweep through the rest of Japan to ensure that any remaining curses are taken care of.

You see Yuuji and Yuuta visit Megumi sometimes, along with Maki and Toge when they’re free. Gojo’s there pretty often too, using healing sessions with Shoko as an excuse to see the boy he’s practically raised at 17, with you.

But while Gojo’s smiles to everyone else remain as charming as ever, you can always tell when they’re untrue.

“Are you okay?”

You find Gojo a little after midnight on the rooftop of the faculty building. The city always looks pretty from up here—a sea of lights reflected up on the sky. It’s a running joke that rooftops are Gojo’s ‘thing’, but you know he really only comes to places like this to think. You wonder what’s on his mind now, coming here every single night since being unsealed.

Despite how quiet you try to be, sneaking up on Gojo is almost impossible; he senses you before he hears you, sees the familiar traces of your cursed energy through his Six Eyes.

“Can’t sleep thinking about me?” he teases, looking straight ahead.

The steps you take towards him are careful, afraid of running him off like you seem to be lately. You sit beside him, leaving a space larger than you usually do, then shrug, “These days, yeah.”

It’s times like this when Gojo forgets how honest you can be, how he takes your word for everything, completely.

It’s threatening, he thinks, how you can say so much with so little.

“Well, maybe I can suggest—”

“Seriously, Satoru,” you grip the ledge tightly, knuckles turning white, “please.”

You tend to let Gojo dodge your questions a lot of the time, his elusiveness a hallmark of who he is. So you never sound like you do now, serious, pleading.

Gojo fiddles with his fingers, pondering. He hums lowly before speaking, “Does it matter?”

It hurts you a little, how that’s even a question. He should know better than to ask that to you.

“It matters to me, Satoru,” you sigh, “you know it does.”

You barely catch the way his brows furrow at your response, but there are creases on his blindfold that can’t be created by anything else. And Gojo knows—is so painfully aware of the way you care.

Since coming back, he’s never felt like he’s fully returned. It’s an odd existence of in-between, like he breathes everything and nothing all at the same time. The emotions are even worse, overloading his senses with feelings he can never pinpoint.

How does he tell you that he must be fucked in the head? That every second in his mind is another step closer to insanity? That he’s lost your tether on Satoru in pursuit of Gojo—of being a god?

“I’ll tell you,” he starts, “but you have to look away.”

You’ve always treated Gojo tenderly, patiently, and he knows, without a doubt, that no matter what he says you will continue to do the same. But he can’t allow that, not anymore. Not after the way you looked at him that day.

“Okay,” you mutter, turning your head the other way.

He breathes out and you can almost picture it: half-bitten lips and eyes like low tide.

“I’m fine,” he says to the back of your head, “you have nothing to worry about.”

A breeze picks up and brushes past your neck. It’s a lie. He knows it, knows you know it too, but—

it’s easier this way, he thinks, to give you answers when you’re not looking.

Gojo’s never found a weakness he can’t work around, but he might have just found one with you—in your eyes, that read through his every lie. If you turn around now, he’ll want to tell you everything.

“Satoru,” you whisper, letting his name fill the air. You get it—him, and even when you don’t, you try damn hard to because you refuse to let Gojo carry all of it on his own.

There are crescent indents on your palm from squeezing your knuckles too hard. You think, is this how you form shallow cuts on your heart?

“It’s just me,” you continue, facing him when you say it.

He takes you all in—your eyes that hold the city lights, your lips, the only vessel that handles his name so delicately. It’s that look on your face again and Gojo’s hit with an ache in his chest—the overwhelming truth that whatever it is, he feels the same.

There’s a secret Gojo keeps, one he’s certain he’ll never tell you: that when he looks at you upon his return and finds an emotion he refuses to name, he’s never felt so afraid.

He takes in the shadows under your eyes and the sunkenness of your cheeks—the number of blinks it takes you to reign in tears on the brink of leaking. The way your voice shakes when you say his name.

Shoko tells him about it because she knows you never will—about how you’ve been running yourself dry, speeding through colonies to gather intel for any possible way to break the seal. She tells him about the sleepless nights, how she catches you standing outside his office at 3 a.m. before travelling to Utahime the next morning.

And he cannot comprehend it at first, cannot understand how he’s caused you to crumble this way.

If this is all because of him, how you’ve broken yourself all for his sake, he can’t allow it. To see you ruin yourself over him, over anyone ever—you deserve better.

So, when Gojo has love for the taking, he makes no move to reach for it; he cannot possibly take any more from you if this is what is left of you when he does.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you catch him by the door of the conference room.

Rebuilding an entire society requires work and apparently a lot of meetings. Gojo doesn’t usually go to most of them, leaving you and Utahime to carry the chunk of his attendance when he’s not there. In the rare times that he does show up, he makes it a point to be the last one in and the first one out. Utahime hates him for it but you don’t blame him—he isn’t exactly amicable with other figures of authority.

He pauses when he steps out of the door, hands in pockets as he turns to face you.

You’re not mad or anything, just stating the fact. He’s always known you to speak this way. You lean against the wall next to you, keeping your arms crossed. More people continue to file out of the conference room, some eyeing the two of you curiously as they pass by.

Gojo glances at them, suddenly self-conscious as he clears his throat, “Right, I’ve been avoiding the paperwork you left in my office,” he emphasizes, practically announcing it to everyone in the vicinity, “let’s finish it now.”

You don’t know whether it’s irritating that Gojo’s so terribly bad at acting, or comforting that he still can’t, for the life of him, successfully lie in front of you.

He motions for you to follow him as he strolls down the hallway, but you intentionally lag a few steps behind, careful not to encroach on his space lest it make him avoid you any more than he already is.

Stepping into Gojo’s office after so long feels weird, like you belong here but only to a memory of it—as if closing the door behind you feels like activating a muscle you haven’t for a while. It’s been months after all.

Your eyes skim over the entire room, zeroing in on the stacks of paper lined up on his desk; paperwork has always been Gojo’s least favorite part of the job, often leaving you to do them with him (or alone, when you’re feeling generous). Not much has changed in his space; the mini living area still exists to the left of the room, with little bits of you in its interiors—the pillows, the coffee table books.

Gojo plops down on the sofa chair and props his feet up on the ottoman, giving four scrolls to his phone before pocketing it. He has the audacity to casually offer you the seat across from him, as if nothing’s wrong—as if he hasn’t been avoiding you for god’s sake.

Ever since the rooftop, he’s canceled lunch with you six times for reasons that you’re now realizing are less likely to be true. He’s kept a distance of at least one person in between you at all times, and to this day, you still don’t understand why.

You sigh, taking a seat and leaning back to cross your legs.

“You’re so bad at acting.” you start.

Being with Gojo for so long, you’ve come to realize that there’s no point being angry with him when your heart can never take it.

“I technically wasn’t lying.” he replies, sticking his index finger up.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you snicker, nodding to his desk.

It’s always like this with Gojo: he pulls you in and you follow. No matter the distance between you, when you sit down together like this, it still always flows so easily. The banter you’ve built together over a decade and more shines through no matter what state your relationship is in.

Neither of you say anything until Gojo replaces his blindfold for his sunglasses, placing the piece of cloth on the coffee table.

You break the silence.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” you ask quietly. Gojo aches at that, how you still choose to regard him so kindly.

Why has he been avoiding you? It’s a good question, completely valid with how he’s been treating you lately, but he could draw up every answer he has, all one million and one, and still not know what to say.

Gojo’s a pretty bad communicator; for how much he talks, he doesn’t really say much—and maybe that’s the root of all this. There are too many things he wants to say but can’t formulate in the right way.

“If it’s something I did, can you at least let me know?” you continue. Gojo frowns, how can you be wronged yet still think of yourself as the one to blame?

“Why do you do that?” he tuts, head tilting sideways as his hands dig deeper into his pockets.

“Do what?” you furrow your brows, confused.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, so don’t worry about it.” he says dismissively.

You arch an eyebrow; he has it all mistaken.

“Satoru, I’m not worried because I feel guilty,” you sit up, inching towards the edge of your seat, “I’m worried because you’re pushing me away.” your voice is level, but your pupils shake.

Something grips at his chest seeing you this way; together or apart, he seems to be the main contributor to your heartache.

You wonder if confronting him like this is any good if he’s not going to say anything anyway.

“If you want space, that’s okay, I get it, but,” you exhale, “at least just tell me why.”

This entire time avoiding you, Gojo’s had you on his mind—the million and one. He’s come to terms with what he feels when you’re together, and how it amplifies when you’re not.

It’s shitty of him to practically ghost you, not just in text but in real life too. But he’s thought about it logically, really, that removing himself from your life should be just like ripping off a bandaid—painful but quick. At least that way, you’d get over it fast.

He’d been resigned to doing that and that was the plan—until now.

All it takes is seeing that look in your eyes, and his resolve falls apart.

“I can’t.” he speaks softly.

What hurts the most is that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes still hold the sky.

You think you want to cry.

You take this as your answer and close your eyes, taking a deep breath before getting up to leave. If this is goodbye, you don’t want your last interaction to be an awkward memory of him watching you bawl in his office chair.

You push yourself up with the armrest only to sit back down—because Gojo is right in front of you, blocking your way. His infinity is up but touching, a tingling sensation sweeping across your knees.

“Wait,” he swallows, a franticness you’ve never seen before. His head stays down as he bites his lips, sunglasses hanging by his fingertips. You wonder what he wants to say, that even if it comes out messy, it’s okay. You want to tell him that it’s just you—that you’ll always want to hear it all anyway.

What comes next is unlike any version of Satoru you have ever known—nervous and uncertain, almost like he’s afraid. He lowers himself, slowly coming down to his knees in front of you. A giant of a man so small in your presence.

“I don’t know how.” he mutters, dropping his sunglasses to the floor.

You blink once, twice, still surprised by what’s in front of you. Gojo has always towered above you, has always known how to do anything and everything so effortlessly without fail.

Watching him now, with every inhale and exhale dragging in slow motion, you do your best not to startle him.

“How to what?” you whisper, the moment so fragile.

He looks up, eyes locking with yours. A reaction happens in that moment—the split second of all his thoughts collapsing into one. You see a clear sky, blue and bright as day, the Satoru he saves for you—while he sees you, with that look on your face, the one that he knows has always only meant love.

The sincerity in your gaze overwhelms him—makes him look away before it becomes too much. Red blooms at the tips of his ears as he bites the inner corners of his lips, fingers grabbing at the fabric of his pants. You’re afraid he might run away again, but he doesn’t and stays right where you are.

“You know…” he looks to the side, pouting, “whatever you do….”

“Like…?” you coax lightly, trying hard to hide the small smile forming on your lips.

You wonder how many versions of Satoru you’ll meet in your lifetime, and if this one, shy and nervous, will be one you’ll fit into the crevices of your heart just like all the others.

He grips his pants tighter, fabric bunching under his fingers, “When you hold my hand… those things. You get it.”

And you do (get it), so you don’t push, taking whatever Gojo has to give you like you always have.

The tension relieves from you slowly, comforted by the fact that at least he’s given you his reasons now (no matter how vague they still seem to be). That at least there are no non-answers this time.

You tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’re content as long as Gojo’s in your life even without the possibility of becoming something more.

“Ok—”

But there’s always one thing you forget about Gojo—

“So show me how.”

—in the moments you least expect it, he speaks the words that matter most.

You choose to show him slowly, gently, like the trickling introduction of water to a man who is first learning how to drink.

In the first few weeks of you and Gojo readjusting to one another, he turns on his infinity again—but only when he gets close enough to touch you. Lunches together happen more often, dinners sometimes too. Then he puts his infinity down, indefinitely.

For the most part, your relationship falls into the usual steps of your dynamic with Gojo; there’s no pressure for anything and he likes that, appreciates the time you’re giving him to learn things at his own pace.

It grows organically that way: knuckles brushing as you both reach for the stapler, pinkies touching whenever you walk side-by-side during site visits—until you’re able to hold his hand fully again, leaving that little infinity between your palms for him to close (hopefully, one day).

The faculty room is cold, especially during winter. The heating system is never warm enough to keep your hands from shaking whenever you mix your morning coffee.

“So loud so early,” Gojo saunters into the kitchen, hands in pockets as he approaches the pantry.

You stop mixing, ceasing the clinking of the spoon against your mug. “How are you not freezing?”

He shrugs, grabbing his box of (heavily sugared) cereal. “I guess I’m just hot.” he says, turning to wiggle his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes and set your coffee on the table, Gojo following with a bowl brimming with cereal and milk.

Mornings usually consist of you and Gojo, with an occasional new hire who has an early class that day. Most of the time, it’s just you two though, with Shoko coming in much closer to lunch time already.

“Want some?” he asks, holding out his spoon.

It’s routine—Gojo asks and you decline, choosing to save yourself from the cavities that he somehow manages to evade despite having a diet of 80% sugar.

Today though, you’re feeling a little adventurous.

You nod, opening your mouth. Gojo’s eyes widen, nearly dropping the spoon at your request. You see the flush of his cheeks and smile, corners of your mouth extending wider. The spoon is shoved to your mouth too quickly, almost like he’s embarrassed to feed you.

“Too sweet,” you scrunch your face, swallowing down the copious amount of sugar you’ll feel for days.

If there��s one thing you’ve learned about Gojo throughout this whole relationship trial period, he recovers from any state within a nanosecond. There’s no end to how shameless he can be.

“Like me, right?” he winks.

“Sure,” you drawl sarcastically and Gojo smiles like it’s high praise.

You sip your coffee slowly, revelling in the heat that flows down your throat.

“Can I have half of that?” you point to his bowl. Gojo looks at you, confused, but slides it over anyway.

What happens next is an abomination to Gojo’s eyes—pure absolute disgust: you pour half of his cereal into your coffee and mix, sipping and crunching on a few pieces every now and then.

His face contorts into complete distaste, horror and revulsion in the way his mouth hangs open.

“What are you doing? That’s gross!” he nearly yells, reaching over to bring your mug down. His hand covers yours for a moment, the contact still causing gallops in his heartbeat.

You laugh, giggling as he processes what you’d wasted his cereal on. It honestly doesn’t taste that bad, you think.

“You’re weird,” he says to you, the grin on his face uncontained. This morning, he feels fond, like the butterflies in his stomach are warm, tickling him from the inside. “Give me.” he motions to your mug.

You hold it up for him to take a sip but he keeps his hand over yours when he tastes, sticking his tongue out once the bitterness of your coffee hits. You set the mug down, preparing to reach for your spoon, but he takes your hand in his, long fingers slotting right between yours, interlacing.

Gojo doesn’t normally reach for your hand, much less interlace them together (a recent evolution to your hand-holding), but this feels nice, how your fingers fit right in the spaces of his.

You turn to him, a shy smile on your face. The tips of his ears are blush red but he looks at you the same, “Your hands were cold,” he pouts, “is this– is this okay?”

“Yeah, it’s warm. Thank you, Satoru.” you nod, beaming. And it’s not a competition but he hopes you see the light in his eyes, how it feels to be ignited within him only when he’s spending breakfasts like this with you.

Shoko asks what you are and you don’t know what to tell her other than you’re happy and it’s good. Gojo’s existence is loud and vibrant, easy to spot from miles away—but he cares for you discreetly, in the hand that gently rests on your lower back while crossing the street, and the seemingly unlimited supply of your favorite coffee when you have no recollection of restocking it ever.

He gives you a new mug for Christmas, one with little cereals painted all over while you give him his own tube of hand cream that he claims always smells like you.

During the faculty New Year celebration, you overhear one of the new hires make a move on Gojo. You aren’t bothered by it or anything, simply walking past to sip your sake by the couch. You can hear them talk a bit from the kitchen, but you try not to pry despite how curious you are about his response.

Until—

“I’m taken,” you hear Gojo say bluntly.

Everything rings in your ears after that. The countdown music is loud, but your heart beats louder; there are murmurs and footsteps around you, but only one man crouches down to check on you, glass of water in hand.

You snap out of it and see blue, the sky—a familiar light; you don’t think you can control the smile on your face, the alcohol lowering your inhibitions to paint on something lovesick.

And when he smiles back, pink lips stretching wide—oh your heart can’t take it. He places one hand on your knee, rubbing gently. You hear it faintly, how he asks if you’re okay, but all you can do is nod, words failing to express how you feel right now.

The countdown starts. 3 — and you take his face in your hands, squishing his cheeks to an image of him on your phone from many, many years ago. 2 — you go closer and his eyes go wide, a mixture of panic and surprise, but soft at the same time. 1 — you lean in and his eyelids fall shut, his chest on rampage. Then it lands, there, on the tip of his nose: a delicate peck and the smell of sake mixed with mint (like the lip balm you always carry around in your pocket).

When you pull away from him, you’re smiling the biggest he’s ever seen, and he can’t feel it from how numb his cheeks have become, but he’s doing the same.

That kiss to his nose serves as the catalyst to the months that follow: Gojo becomes more comfortable touching you now, and though he blushes every single time, there’s nothing to be ashamed of because you do too. Shoko can’t believe the slow burn this is taking you both, having watched this on the sides since you were both 22, but you think you like it—like the slow drizzle of honey on Gojo’s favorite breakfast waffles.

“How is it?” you ask, watching as Gojo takes a big bite.

“D Beft.” he replies, mouth full as he chews. You take the seat beside him and take a spoonful.

“There’s a secret ingredient.” you say mischievously, wiggling your eyebrows.

He swallows before he scoffs, “What?” cutting up another piece, “Love?”

You’re surprised because he says it so casually, and Gojo’s never talked about love, has never even mentioned the word since this shift in your relationship. He realizes a beat late by the expression on your face and gets flustered, thinking immediately of ways to brush past it.

You had meant to say that you used that infused sugar he buys whenever he goes to Kyoto, but… you suppose love works too. He should know by now, right?

“If it is?” you whisper, pretending to stir your coffee.

Gojo doesn’t know how to approach this, really, but he’s come too far to back out now. He clears his throat, mentally running through what he wants to say, then, “Good. ‘Cause that’s what I put in your coffee too.”

You laugh and the tension dissipates; there are hearts in your eyes for how hard Gojo has tried after denying himself of this for so long.

He stares at you—at the laugh lines by your eyes and the soft curves of your lips, the moment moving much too slow, stop motion in his mind. He’s drawn in until you’re all too close, a few centimeters from your noses touching.

Your laughter dies and your cheeks feel like they’re on fire; he’s so close you think he might kiss you. The signs are there—his eyes scaling your face to focus on your lips, his tongue peeping ever so slightly to wet his lips.

So you wait.

But he doesn’t, because he moves away after wiping his thumb on the side of your mouth. Even though you know there was nothing there.

Gojo continues to eat, blabbering about a site visit he’s assigned to next week, but you don’t miss the way his ears are fully red and how he’s biting his lips to death.

The tension this time is different; instead of a growing rift, you can’t seem to be close enough. Every time you part ways, he lets go of your hand more reluctantly—as if he wants to say more, do more, but stops himself while he still can.

When he leaves for missions, you kiss his cheek, pull him in by the hand and linger there, shyly. He gets embarrassingly red but tries to cover it up by telling you not to miss him too much (even though you know you will, and he knows he’ll miss you more).

Your near-kisses with Gojo happen more frequently, and it comes to a point where he even manages to land one on your forehead, while you fall asleep next to him on his office couch.

It’s driving you crazy, this tension—the mixed signals of it all. You try to kiss him a few times on the lips, but he evades them each time. You’ve caught Gojo staring at your lips more times than you can count; if that isn’t a sign, you don’t know what is.

Now that Gojo thinks about it, he’s come so far yet the prospect of kissing you properly still scares him. What if he fucks up? Doesn’t do it right? What if it’s not how he wants you to be kissed?

There’s that secret Gojo will never tell you, of how seeing that look on you has never gotten him more afraid. And he’s worked through that now, but it’s evolved into something else: how Gojo is now afraid of love, more than anything else, not because of loss but because he might not know how.

And kissing you, loving you this way—he’s never done it before, doesn’t know how to make you feel love without his lips shaking and heart palpitating; how to do it while letting you know he feels the same.

It happens during an assignment out of town. Curses aren’t as bad as they used to be, but they’re still stronger than what any of the available sorcerers right now can handle.

You don’t remember the last time you saw Gojo use his technique that way—almost forgotten how powerful and ruthless he can be. Every time since, holding your hand, keeping you close—he’s just been your Satoru.

Your apartment for the weekend is a two-bedroom unit with one bathroom and a decently sized living area and kitchenette; Gojo always chooses the room in front of the bathroom because he tends to wake up in the middle of the night to pee (information you know from your many other assignments with him before). Still, going as what you are now—it feels different.

There’s a charged air between you as you move around the unit; you make your nightly tea while Gojo looks through the groceries for some crackers. It’s peaceful and quiet—domestic almost, but there are goosebumps on your skin for reasons you can’t explain. Being around Gojo lately has felt that way.

He brushes past you to throw the finished packet of crackers and the feeling intensifies; it’s not awkward, just tense, like anticipation sitting deep in your bellies, waiting on each other to make the first move.

He announces that he’ll use the bathroom first, if you don’t mind, and you motion for him to go ahead. Your mind is fuzzy and having Gojo around seems to only make it worse.

When you walk past the bathroom and straight to your room, you hear Gojo humming that soft pop tune from a popular girl group on the radio earlier. You giggle, thinking it’s sweet—how he sings obnoxiously around everyone else but is admittedly pretty good when it’s just him, alone.

You still have the rest of the weekend in this area, having agreed to monitor the site and any nearby locations for other suspicious activity, but at least the worst of it is over (maybe just to you though; Gojo hates paperwork).

The sound of running water stops and you hear the bathroom door swing open. You don’t see Gojo when you exit your room but he leaves the door open to release any remaining steam.

There’s a reason why people say showers are good for the mind. You’re happy for those who’ve found it, but that couldn’t be you, because the only thought plaguing your head right now is Gojo—and whether you should greet him goodnight, if you should kiss his cheek or hug him tight. The tension between you now is palpable, an electric current waiting to zap on both ends.

Your mind is so out of it that you don't realize you’re missing your skincare bag until after you finish brushing your teeth and dressing for bed. You open the bathroom door with the sole intention of going back to your room to get it, but instead, you’re met with a wall of chest.

Gojo’s eyes are wide, bright blue with damp strands of white falling like curtains barely shielding the sky. He’s just as surprised as you are, toothbrush in his hand as you hold up the towel wrapped around your head.

You’ve seen Gojo in his pajamas many times before—white long sleeves with gray cotton pants, but your eyes trail to his collarbones and the way the bathroom lights cast it under a soft glow. The redness on his cheeks, a visual manifestation of the heat on yours.

Gojo can’t stop staring at your lips, at how soft they look—at how soft you look fresh out of the shower. The little baby hairs sticking out under your towel are cute, and he leans in without knowing—a pull he can’t seem to resist. For once in his life, Gojo’s mind is still.

You try to meet him halfway, tiptoeing, but you’re a little out of your element; you don’t know where to put your hands and your heart’s about to explode out of your chest. When your noses touch, you can’t breathe, closing your eyes while you wait for it.

But it doesn’t come.

You feel Gojo’s breath stilling before speeding up into little exhales. Something is wrong. You open your eyes and find him staring back at you, a version of Gojo you haven’t seen in a while—that you rarely see ever, except that day during your confrontation in his office.

Concern laces your features and you move back a little, hands coming up to caress his cheeks. His eyes still look frantic, but they focus on you when you cup his face so gently.

“Satoru,” you whisper, voice grounding. His breaths slow down a little.

You realize that it must be true then, what they say, that those who love to be feared, fear to be loved, because you’ve never seen anyone afraid of something so good as Gojo is of this.

“Satoru,” you repeat, massaging his temples with your thumb, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Gojo hates it, how you’ve always had to adjust for him. He hates that he can’t give you this one thing, hates that you’re still so patient, that he’s still so afraid. He swallows, closing his eyes tight before opening them again.

“I want to,” he chokes out, “I just don’t know—”

You chuckle, without judgment, “I don’t either,” you lean forward, foreheads touching, “but do you want to try together?”

You learn that Gojo sees himself so differently from how you do—and maybe that’s everyone, but Gojo tends to say things while doing the other. He says he can’t bother with kids, but continues to take so many of them under his wing anyway; he calls your cereal concoction disgusting but tastes it regardless; and he says he can’t think about love, doesn’t know how, but proceeds to try so much harder, everyday.

When you look at Gojo, you see a heart so big, so capable, that he can’t see it himself.

You nudge his nose with yours and he breathes deeply, closing his eyes once again. If he doesn’t do this now, how much longer ‘till he does?

Gojo hums before nodding his head slightly. His hands come up to cover yours, toothbrush wedged in the spaces between his fingers; they’re clammy, he’s sure, but he’s kept you waiting long enough.

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, everything trembles—his pupils, his lips, the breath he takes. It’s all shaky and nervous, but your lips touch and all you know is that you like it there. He’s a little bit stiff but you don’t mind, pressing closer just for a little bit before pulling away.

Gojo keeps your hands in place, half-lidded eyes staring at you lazily. His ears are fully red now but he’s giving you a look you’ve never seen before—like lightning crackling in the gaps between his eyelids.

When you kiss Gojo for the first time, you don’t expect it to be by the bathroom door of a rented apartment, while away on a mission. You don’t expect it to be in your pajamas, towel wrapped around your hair as you’re getting ready for bed. You definitely don’t expect him to guide your hands down his neck while he places his on your lower back, squeezing lightly before pulling you in to kiss you again.

This time, his lips move more pliantly, parting yours slightly; he tastes mint, mixed with the strawberry candy he had earlier and it’s nothing he could have ever imagined before, but is now everything he’s ever wanted. The push and pull between you is magnetic, soft lips and the intermingling of held breaths. All Gojo can think of now is to take, to devour—to keep you with him, like this, always.

You wonder if Gojo is lying—that he’s never done this before, because you don’t think you can kiss anyone after this and not think of his lips on yours.

By the time you part, the air is significantly warmer. Your fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck and you smile, sighing. Gojo looks warm, with his swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

“That…” you trail off, nudging his nose.

Gojo looks at you fondly; to ever even think he could have this now, with you—he doesn’t believe in any higher being but you must be his prayer come true.

“We can practice a bit more, I think.” he pulls you closer, hands gripping your hips.

You feel it against you, something solid and firm against your stomach and your eyes go wide at the realization; Gojo does the same.

“Satoru, you–” he moves back and freezes, untangling himself from you completely. There’s a faint outline on the crotch of his pants and your whole face goes red.

“Let me use the bathroom real quick.” he panics, rushing past you and closing the bathroom door.

You stand there stunned for a good minute before you shake out of it, laughing. Gojo yells about how you’re being so mean, making fun of him when he’s like this, but you aren’t—not really.

It’s been a long time getting to this point with Gojo, but considering all things, you think, this might just be the beginning.

thank you notes: i would also like to shoutout @stellamancer for leaving such lovely comments on dybil that it actually kinda pushed me to write this longer piece connected to it!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk #satoru #shotorus.writes #oh my god i cant believe i finished this !!!!!!!#its a big one ... jhbfhsdbfja woops #shoutout to niku for being so supportive !!!#col

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dduane · 2 months

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Salutations and good wishes to you. I am an Indie Author seeking to go Pro. Some good advice and guidance might help minimise the mountain of my anxiety about doing this. I know you got your start with fanfiction, but did you find a publisher/agent through that door? [lots sneer at these days. Still] How many rejections did you suffer before you found your place in the literary world? Thanks for your time and sorry for bothering you <3

Hi there! And don't sweat it: this is no bother.

I have to apologize in advance, because my own career arc isn't likely to serve as much of a good example. In terms of how I got into this business, I'm a serious outlier.

Quickest and easiest to discuss: my agent and I got together after my first book was already bought and published. (Which back in the day was seen as a good enough way to go forward, and then still entirely possible.) He was recommended to me by one of my editors, as—like me—he was just getting started in the business: a likely-looking newcomer then scouting new talent. We met up and chatted, and it seemed to both of us that we'd be a good fit for each other. After forty-odd years of working together, we still are.

About the fanfic: (Adding a cut here so as not to carpet people's dashes with wall-to-wall text...)

What writing all that fic did for me—from about age sixteen onwards—was give me a whole lot of practice in getting the initial garbage associated with a story written and out of the way. Best to admit it here: we all have plenty of crap writing in us. And yeah, even long-term professional writers do. Whether you're at the beginning of your career or right in the middle of it, this is what "zero drafts" are for. You tell yourself the story, first time out... and routinely at this stage a lot of what proves to be unusable stuff emerges, and can be discarded in rewrite. (Of course crap writing can also emerge without warning in the later stages of a project, but there are many reasons for that, all beyond the scope of this discussion.) And you learn even more from reworking the material after you've gotten rid of the dross.

During the period when I was executing what might have been, oh, half a million words of fanfic—Trek originally, and then LoTR—and while reading a whole lot of everything, as I'd been doing since I was first allowed to go raid the town library by myself at age eight—I learned a fair amount about writing without realizing it. Some of it was simply about writing inside a set of rules. (Which I hadn't been doing previously: between eight and sixteen I was writing original fiction, mostly fairy tales.) Naturally in fanfic you have to obey the laws of whatever universe you're working in... or even if you wind up flouting them consciously, you do have to be conscious of them. But this work also led me to something that I hadn't really spent a lot of time thinking about: the concept that fiction writing as a whole had rules. I realized I'd better find out what those were.

The best stuff I found out during this period was what I picked up by direct example from other writers, whom I'd immediately start imitating and then sort of leave by the wayside when I found others I liked better; at which point I'd start imitating them. (This being a great way to learn and hone new skills, and to start getting a sense of what a writer's "voice" is and can come to mean. I think every writer does this, to some extent: because it's really, really tough to learn how to write without reading. And the more extensively the better.)

I have to emphasize here, BTW, that the fanfic that came out of me as I started slogging up this learning curve was all almost uniformly terrible. All of it, mercifully, along with my earliest original fiction, is gone now: long since burnt, shredded, composted under many layers of time. Trust me, it's just as well. Gah was it awful! Nobody else ever saw the stuff, for which I thank great Thoth every time I think about it. ...What's interesting, too, in its way, was that I didn't even know that what I was doing was fan fiction. I had as yet no contact with any kind of organized fandom, and it would be a long time yet before "online" was invented. I was working in utter isolation, unaware that anybody else might have been doing the same thing. (And it's difficult to describe the sense of astonishment and joy that hit me the first time I went to an SF convention, saw fanzines for the first time, and found out that I was not alone. All unsuspecting, I'd stumbled onto one of my tribes.)

But somewhere along the line, as the years went by—as I finished high school and went to college, and then from there to nursing school, and graduated and started working as a psychiatric nurse, and kept on writing—at some point, as I started writing original fiction again, as well as fanfic, the quality of the output began to improve. The combination of constant practice and voracious reading of better writers outside my chosen genre was slowly having an effect. Trusted friends who saw this later material started saying, "This isn't bad, you should try to get it published!" But since none of these folks were writers, I didn't pay too much attention to their opinions.

I did pay attention, though, when my good friend and mentor David Gerrold said something similar on reading my first novel in 1976. And when that was bought by the first publisher who read it, I had to admit he might have had something there.

This too, though, is unfortunately also a way I'm an outlier: I haven't had a lot of rejection. (Even in my TV work, where rejection is pretty much the rule rather than the exception.) Speaking very generally, just about anyone I've pitched something to in the prose market has bought it—or if they didn't like the idea I came in with, they've immediately said "But would you like to do this instead?" And often enough, what they've offered or suggested has been something that sounded like fun. That's how I wound up doing the Star Trek: Rihannsu books, for example: they were "instead of" a Romulan dictionary. Paramount essentially ringfenced an entire AU-area of Trek and gave it to me to play in, which struck me at the time as amazing. And continues to do so.

Now all this may make me sound almost unfairly lucky. But things do tend, slowly or quickly, to balance out. Over time the universe has made up for its relative kindness at the rejection end of things by making sure I knew plenty about the non-rejection forms of writer-career pain: projects from which I was not rejected but which went terribly wrong (wheels come off a huge deal just before signing, promised actors or directors fail to materialize...), projects where I did the work but didn’t get paid, or where I was brought on board and then got fired/ghosted unreasonably or for no reason at all, or sometimes (mortifyingly) for quite good reason. And let's not forget how, as what could seem a very pointed shot across my bow when my career-vessel was just pulling out of port, half the print run of that very-much-buzzed-about debut novel wound up being pulped in the warehouse because another, far better-established writer's new book needed the pallet space that mine had been taking up. (insert rueful smile here) Believe me, entropy is running, and will catch up with you one way or another. So make yourself as ready for it as you can.

I don't mean to increase your anxiety. Yet that said: you're preparing to enter a business in which, for a freelancer, at least some level of anxiety is more or less part of the basic ground of being. You are going to have to develop ways of dealing with the everyday forms of that to keep it from routinely derailing your work.

I find it helps a little if you can come to consider this as a modern form of Going On An Adventure. Good things will happen; bad things will happen; and all of these will be in service of building your career. Think of yourself as being on a quest.

Your job now becomes the business of suiting up with the best equipment and advice you can find (ideally not from outliers like me). The web is full of useful pages on subjects such as how to query and how to find an agent.

Here are links to some.

Compare these resources one against another to see how their different kinds of advice seem to stack up, and which ones are the most congenial for you.

Then use this data to start drawing your personal roadmap across the terrain. Get as clear as you can in your own mind about what you're trying to get out of being in this business: what kind of writing you want to do and what results you want to produce. Then set out, redrawing your road map as necessary as you keep moving forward through the new terrain.

And I wish you good fortune on the journey! (Because luck, as you can see from the above, can definitely be part of this... but fortune favors the prepared.)

Meanwhile, get out there and have a blast. :)

#writing #writing advice #fanfic #rejection

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ccswife · 30 days

Text

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Oh no.

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pairing๛: kate martin x iowau!reader

synopsis๛: kate catches you watching your saved edits of her.

not proofread so ignore spelling mistakes pls lol

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being a trainee under the strength and conditioning coaches for the Iowa womens basketball meant that you were constantly around the team. you found it hard to get used to all the personalities, but by your sixth year it became quite easy.

one person you particularly leaned towards when assisting was Kate Martin - a fellow sixth year and a phenomenal basketball player (as far as you knew). throughout the 3 years you had really known Kate, the two of you grew very close, exchanging 'i love you's and often sleeping at eachothers places. a lot of the girls wondered why you guys didnt just move in together.

one cool evening in iowa city, after a considerably hard practice and lift, kate decided to come home with you after her shower. you leaned against the wall outside the locker room playing on your phone, patiently waiting for the blonde to shuffle out with her bags.

'phwwtt!'

a loud whistle pulled your eyes up and towards the door. there came kate, her hair wet and barely brushed and her bags stuffed to the brim.

"i tried to shower as fast as i could and pack all my stuff up but it got a little messy so...." she spoke out in one breath.

"kate... you know i dont mind waiting," you laughed. kate usually does this, and it ALWAYS leads to her forgetting something important. whether it be her shoes (like, her actual shoes not her bball shoes), her whole bag of skincare, or her bra, etc.

kate shrugged with a goofy look on her face and shouted 'onwards!' before shuffle-running to get out to the parking lot.

the car ride over to your apartment was as usual; listening to music, chatting about school and practice, asking about the other girls lives. you often asked her about everyone else when you guys had sleepovers. its not that you don't know and love them, but you don't talk to them nearly as much as you do kate. everyone knew that. after settling in and grabbing snack and a spot on the couch, you pulled up tiktok on your phone and decided to go through your 'wbb😭😍' folder. you can't even lie and say you don't find kate and some of her teammates attractive. hell, one of the reasons you first talked to her was because of her beautiful face. but after you guys got so close, you deemed it inappropriate to tell her how you really felt. how she made your heart flutter when she called you 'n/n' and when she stared at you for a little longer than usual. you found out that people made edits of her after liking one womens basketball edit... one is all it took. at first it shocked you and you tried not to like any of them.. but you couldnt resist it. she looked so. damn. good. IN ALL OF THEM!!! sooner than later a folder was made and filled to the brim. a dabble of caitlin, paige and an occasional molly in there as well.

so, there you sat: munching on goldfish, one leg up on the couch and one leg dangling off, all while scrolling through various edits of your best friend.

oh yea, full volume too:D

kate walks into the living room and sees you on your phone. usually she tries not to snoop but something caught her eye. was that.. her?!?! on your phone screen?????? she watched you scroll and watched as her face popped up a dozen more times. caitlin as well. a million thoughts went through her head. why were you watching edits of her? did you like her like she liked you? you find her attractive?? why is caitlin in there.

she continued to stand there, mouth ajar, trying to find the right words to snap you out of your lull.

' y/n' she spoke up

your phone immediately shut off and you sat straight up, turning to look at kate with a beat red face. your hands start to move around frantically as you try to explain.

' i- im- i was just looking at some beacuse,-- well like i thought it was cool and-' words start flying out of your mouth.

'y/n,' kate spoke again. ' its ok. im just kinda caught off gaurd' rubbing her neck she looks around before making eye contact with you and smirking a little. your face twisted when she smirked. she thought this was funny??!

"what're you smirking at freak??" as you said that your heart dropped. her smirk only widened. "dont you dare kate." a demanding tone, one that you only use before she tickled attacks you or is about to yell something completely out of pocket to the girls.

kate inches towards you, causing you to put your phone behind your back. before you can even process her attack, she snatches your phone and unlocks it, quickly going into tiktok. at this point all you can do is sit and stare as she goes through your folder of wbb edits. occasionally she looks down at you, sometimes with a sweet look and others confused or.. offended? you couldnt tell.

after finishing, she hands your phone back to you and sits next to you on the couch.

"well," she starts. "who knew there was so many edits of me and caitlin!" her tone was light hearted but with a tinge of hurt and sarcasm. she turns to look at you.

"oh wait, you knew!" she yips. kate slaps your knee and laughs, and you couldn't help but join. she cracked jokes for at least another minute.

the vibe in the room after that changed in the slightest bit, the both of you holding your tounges, not wanting to be the first to acutally talk about what had just happened. when the clock hit 11:00pm, you both sauntered to the bedroom to hit the hay. hopping into your respective sides, and making sure you both had everything you needed. instead of a "i love you, goodnight!", kate just rubbed your cheek and smiled, then turned the other way.

before you fell asleep, you saw the light of her phone, and an edit of herself on the screen.

Oh no.

no no no no no. your heart started to race as you thought of everything that could happen. what if she doesnt wanna be my friend anymore? what if she tells the girls and they hate me? does she know i like her?

you curled up and tried to sleep away the thoughts. halfway asleep and arm snaked around you and stroked your arm, prompting you to fall soundly asleep.

"ill figure out what to say to you soon enough, love"

kate spoke under her breath only when she was sure you'd fallen asleep. soon she was out too.

Oh no... what will they do?

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A/N q(❂‿❂)p: i hope this isn't complete trash! i tried my best:))))) i had this little idea i forgot about in my notes lolll. i hope u guys enjoy and lmk if you potentially want another part ?!!?!! anyways toodles😜

#wbb #wlw #kate martin x reader #kate martin #iowa wbb #iowa hawkeyes #x reader

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socheckitout-mikey · 1 year

Note

do u think u could do something where johnny and the reader aren't officially dating or anything but she keeps stealing and wearing his clothes, and the gang starts teasing them for it, which eventually leads to him actually asking her out? i'm sorry if this is too much or anything but thank you so much!!

ahhh this is so cute! idk how i missed this one. my apologies for taking so long writing it out. it came out waaay longer than i anticipated, but i hope you enjoy what i came up with. (': <33 - mae

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Title: The Shirt Thief

Pairing: Johnny Cade x reader

Summary: A cold night with Johnny Cade in the vacant lot brings you an unusual sense of warmth in the form of his denim jacket. What starts off with said jacket, causes you to end up with multiple articles of Johnny's clothes. It all seems harmless until the gang starts digging their noses into Johnny's business. Are you guys friends or are you more than that?

Word Count: 9,472

Disclaimer: THIS IS EDITED! I fixed the spelling mistakes and some of the grammatical errors. I also added a few new things to it, mainly in dialogue. I hope you like it though! :)

Warnings: Mentions of abuse in Johnny's home (with his parents), animals hunting and fighting, Soc's bullying the reader - vice versa, almost attempted assault, the gang coming to the rescue, rough housing with the gang (banter mainly) and a whole lot of sass! Johnny is somewhat ooc here because he's more talkative and sassy, but it's just how the piece came along! Let me know if I forgot anything else.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The story of our pesky shirt thief begins in the vacant lot under the sparkling night sky. This night was a relatively clear one in the cusp of autumn’s frost. The full moon was ample, a stunning silver glow that hypnotically danced, shrouded slightly from the wispy clouds sent onward by the chilly fall wind. Amber, golden and burnt brick red crumpled leaves tumbled noisily across the sandy dirt in a mini whirlwind. A toasty fire was being nurtured timidly upon the outskirts of this deserted place, courtesy of Johnny Cade. Underneath the jagged canopy of an almost bare tree, losing its wrinkled leaves, our greasy raven haired boy’s fingers quivered around the spindly stick in his hand. Gave an experimental poke to the half snapped branch swarmed by the smouldering, orange flames. He did not shiver from the cold, but from rampant nerves that pertained to someone he was particularly fond of being there beside him. That person being you.

In a gloomy haze, stretched over sixteen years, the dependent vacant lot with all of its decaying junk left to rot had become his home away from home. It was somewhere he could come to in order to escape the harshness he had just down the street, riddled with its cluttered and intense violence. The one he had with his parents – if he could ever really call them that – had never been consumed with even an inkling of love or nurturing. It practically rotted away from the inside out with its creaky floorboards, dust riddled insides and the damp lining the walls like a thick winter scarf. A location where he was destined to be neglected in, for the only attention he obtained was to be hollered at by his mother when she was hacked off at whatever or whoever it was that particular time: Whereas his father brandished anything he could in hand to pelt him with. The thought made Johnny shudder, a sick nauseous feeling welling up inside of him. Slimy and cold.

However, not all was lost. There had been some silver linings in teaching him things such as love, loyalty and camaraderie: His gang of reliable buddies that would stretch to the ends of the Earth for him were the culprits. Although they had nothing too, they gave him everything he’d been missing. Well, almost everything. They were the sole reason he had not run away about a million times by now. They grounded him, created a net of safety and support that he never would have experienced otherwise if he had not been born in this very downtrodden neighbourhood. Yet they could not save him from everything – a harsh reality he came face to face with daily. Nothing and no one could ever replace the lacking love of his parents.

Nevertheless, the youthful greaser that looked as if he were a puppy that had been kicked one too many times had grown used to bumming around most nights on the busted leather car seat left to waste away in the lot. A frequent bed he now sat upon to gaze up at the glittering stars in the midnight haze of the dark sky. He pondered to himself, watching it while his most favourite person in the world sat off to his right. The silence between you both wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. Just off experiencing your own inner worlds whilst you enjoyed the other’s presence. Johnny wasn’t much of a talker as is. You understood the chips he had on the table and didn’t mind in the slightest, but you had your ways of getting him talking.

Despite the fact that he had a warmer and much more benevolent destination to crash at nightly: The Curtis House. He felt an immense pang of guilt and shame engulf him entirely at the thought of taking up that space. This house did not consume the same dreamy and abundant riches that one would desire at the core. Instead those fantasies were only destined for reality on the Wicked West Side of Tulsa, Oklahoma. “The home to the rich and greedy,” as Sodapop loved to put it.

Although the Curtis House lacked in material volume, it oozed a charm in its bare necessities and rundown appearance, with its peeling papered walls and well played piano that needed a miracle of tuning. What it lacked when it came to standardised beauty was made up for by its glowing warmth of love, companionship and acceptance of all the inhabitants that nestled under its rickety roof. It was a safe haven for anyone needing a place to lay low to avoid getting into trouble that could be avoided; a.k.a trouble with the law. Dallas and Steve were also regular inhabitants of the well loved couch perched up against the wall by the front door of the home: A product of powerful tempers that needed quenching. They found solace on that old, brown cushiony hunk of junk just as Johnny did when the nights grew too cold or unbearable on his lonesome.

Johnny stared up at Orion's Belt wondrously, remembering the time he'd heard Ponyboy rattle on about how he'd woken up to find the notorious Tim Shepard occupying his couch, reading the morning paper.

'Now, what in the hell was someone like Tim Shepard doin' on the Curtis’ couch?' Johnny thought silently.

Never had he bagged the likes of the eldest Shepard to reach out for a lifeline like that. It was almost unheard of, unfathomable. Tim was a handsome young man with a gnarly looking scar running from his temple to his chin. He was hard, cold and twisted. Jail, booze and all the criminal endeavours he had under his belt were like a morbid toolkit of how to be the best hoodlum out there. He looked about as capable of accepting charity as a lost soul in Hell. Then Johnny supposed that he never really knew him like Dally did. Johnny's silent disposition made it challenging for him to get close to anyone outside of his gang of buddies. Sometimes he preferred it this way, but usually he loathed it. Loneliness was easy in warping the soul of a good man.

From what Dally had told him of Tim Shepard, it'd be an immense knock to his swelling pride to reach out for help and have everyone aware of it. Inflated prides and fragile egos didn't do wonders for people with big mouths. Hence why Johnny kept his damn trap shut about it after Pony had told him.

'Man, he's gotta be pullin' my leg or somethin'.' He said internally before shaking his head.

Expelling a breath, Johnny settled back into the leather seat as comfortably as possible. He swore he'd get a bad back after opting to take the lumpy side of the car bench with the springs gnawing their way through. It had been the gentlemanly thing to do after all. He was a good guy with a good heart.

Warmth pervaded nicely from the reasonably sized fire he'd established in front of you both, but the chilly wind licked at any bare bits of skin daring to peer through tiny cracks in clothes. He hardly shivered outside of a nervous twitch. Perhaps that was only due to the fact he'd grown accustomed to the elements no matter the weather – unlike yourself.

Instead his charcoal eyes were doe-like, shakily flickering to his right where you sat. Only then in this moment did he fully come to the present moment, understanding the cold bit at your nose, ears and fingers in a way that looked cute. Yet despite your shivering that you so desperately attempted to hide, you sat there in all of your beautiful glory with only a few inches of space between you both. A comfortability you bathed in that seemed so raw, as if you were merely sitting on your living room couch with both of your knees and feet tucked under you and just off to the side. Peace prevailed from the tender smile gracing your features. A subconscious practice, you definitely seemed to be lost in your own thoughts. Johnny stared at you, and wondered what kind of movie was flashing behind those pretty eyes to have the sun dawn across your face like that. To him, all he could see was the vacant lot – a desolate place where only hoodlums would hang in droves, drawn in by its trashy grounds.

"You starin' cuz I got somethin' on my mug or it's just that ugly?" You grinned like a chessy cat, turning to look him directly in the eye. Thinking that being a wise cracker was funny.

Damn you and your perceptiveness.

Instantaneously Johnny ripped his gaze from yours, stiff as a plank. Embarrassment dashed across every cell in his body and left his lungs flat of oxygen. Man, if he thought his usual heartbeat was fast, what was happening inside of his chest right then must have been the speed of goddamn light!

All he could do was stammer out, "U-u-uh n-n-neither!" The poor guy sounded like Porky The Pig.

Your eyelids fluttered in astonishment at the stuttering mess of a young man he was. So jumpy. A mouse scuttling around on sharp eggshells. Part of you would've felt proud of your handiwork if it had been anyone else, but it was Johnny, your best friend. "Awe shucks, Johnny-cake," you offered him sheepishly, "I didn't tell you to stop. I was just messin' with ya. Gotta keep you on your toes somehow."

Messing with him? That was evident. He wasn't cross with you for pulling on his leg, just bothered by himself for getting caught out in the act. "S'okay, I g-get it." He shrugged, trying to play it cool whilst he stared into the portal to the Underworld.

"Penny for your thoughts?" You tried again, bumping him softly with your shoulder.

"Nothin' much," He lied smoothly, picking at the hole in his tennis shoe.

"You sure you ain't developin' the cure for cancer or somethin'? You're pretty smart." You inquired with a cheeky beam.

"Shoot! Do I look like I know what two plus two equals?" Johnny was getting a little bit sassy.

"Okay okay, I get it. I'll back off." You chortled.

'Yeah, thank goodness for that…' Johnny thought to himself. Suddenly he was uneasy with the idea of you ever discovering his little moments of staring at you because he loved the way you looked in candid moments like this one just passed. How did one go about saying these kinds of things? Johnny didn't know a lick. He was a dejected lost cause in the romance department. An awkward bump on a log. Felt he looked cruddy right about now too so he scratched the back of his head fervently for a second. No one really gave him a second glance. He was invisible and too quiet to be noticed.

Yet he failed to realise that you noticed him.

His forlorn expression had been obscured by his shaggy bangs that hung on his forehead. In fact, they no longer existed. You watched him struggle with something akin to wrestling a twenty foot gator inside of that skull of his. It made you feel funny on the inside, as if you were to blame. Diligently Johnny picked up the jagged stick he'd used to poke the flames with earlier. Started drawing in the dusty cold dirt at his feet. Back and forth, left and right, then round and round. A tedious therapeutic cycle.

'Yup, he's off to the moon again.' You thought. 'I'll give him a sec to recoup. I think I made him short circuit a little too hard.'

Just then the bleakness of the night pressed its breathy lips against you. You shivered in response, huddling unconsciously to Johnny for his radiator heat. Part of him was shaking too. The flames jolted haphazardly. A violent twirl of dead leaves kicked up into the air before the wind relented altogether and they fluttered into the fire that engulfed them. It was a beautiful sight indeed, albeit destructive. The elements typically were unforgiving. That was the cycle of life. Mother Nature worked in wondrous ways that went beyond the mere perception of the human mind. Ever evolving and always there. It had put a smile on your face, and Johnny looked at you once more.

"Now, you wanna give me a penny for your thoughts?" He asked.

You slowly turned to look at him, your smile unwavering, "And cash in my trade secrets when you won't give me yours? That don't tally up to me."

Johnny shrugged, trying to hide a ghost of a smile on his features, "You just caught me off guard that's all…"

"Oooooh so I got the element of surprise on my side?" You wiggled your eyebrows. "Who knew I was mighty smooth!"

Johnny rolled his charcoal eyes, shook his head with a laugh, "Don't get too big headed now," he warned.

"Why, cuz I'll float away?"

"Naw," Johnny shook his head, "You sound like Two-bit."

Your countenance fell from grace then; all of the humour drained completely, replaced with a sulk. "Now you just went and ruined it."

Johnny laughed heartily, "I dunno why you got it against him, yn. It was only fifth grade-,"

"Don't remind me of fifth grade! He put gum in my hair and you saw it." You warned with a finger pointed at him. “I looked like a coconut headed bum for two years, Johnny Cade! Two years I ain’t ever gonna get back.”

"Alright, alright! Don't shoot." He mumbled with a half smirk on his face.

"And don't laugh either. Who's side are you on anyway?" You mumbled with your arms folded over your chest.

Johnny met his match in attempting to swallow the laughter down, "Who knew you were this much of a sore loser," with a shake of his head.

"Sore loser my ass…" You retorted, looking off to the side like a petulant child.

All Johnny could do was laugh.

The sourness of your mood forced you to realise the lateness of the night. The cold showed its first signs of frost that danced mistily away from the firelight. You quivered fully this time, rubbing your nimble hands up and down your arms. "Are you cold?" Johnny finally had the courage to ask.

"Uh-huh! But I'll be okay."

"You know you don't have to tough it out for me, right?" Johnny said sincerely. "You shoulda brought a coat. It's November not August."

"I forgot, mom." You mumbled wryly.

"Man, don't call me that. It sounds strange." He pulled a face as he spoke.

"And why not?" You demanded.

"Cuz you sound like T-," He began, but you cut him off.

"Don't even think about saying that name!"

Despite himself, Johnny was laughing something awful. A grin spread across his face akin to a mixture of pride and victory. He'd bested you in the end and even you knew it. "You asshole-," You muttered, but it all bled through into your own sense of laughter that mingled with his.

Then it seemed to die down, a comfortable glow encasing you both. In the midst of it you hardly realised Johnny shimmying beside you – too caught up in the afterglow. But then an uncanny warmth of freshly worn denim was draped over your shoulders. Ghosts of fingertips touched the nape of your neck as it was laid there. Your head turned to find Johnny retracting his hands shyly and passing it off without a word. The gesture touched you, made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

"Why?" Your better judgement couldn't stop the question from flying out of your mouth.

Johnny squirmed uncomfortably under your focused stare, "I dunno…" he shrugged. "You were cold and didn't have a jacket. It was the right thing to do I guess."

The right thing to do. It made you beam beautifully then. Johnny Cade was always doing the right thing. Well, maybe not all the time when he was with his buddies, but usually he did. A good guy with a good heart that made yours flutter at the touch. The act of giving you his most prized possession really touched you in ways that made your eyes begin to water. You needed a second to blink them back. Hoping he hadn't noticed. Luckily he hadn't.

You thanked him in the only way you knew how to, by leaning your head on his shoulder. He stiffened to the touch, unfamiliar with it. Johnny wasn't much of a hugger, so physical contact was reserved for special moments. He allowed it this time and you felt his body shake, unsure with what to do with himself. Your fingers wrapped around his bicep, a reassuring squeeze so light it helped him realise you weren't going to hurt him. You never could. He was too special, too gentle, but wild in his own way when he let himself out freely. Yet the person he was now, the boy that gave you his jacket and talked with you the most; that was your Johnny Cade.

"Thank you, Johnny-cake." You whispered into the air, gently holding his hand and squeezing softly. It was sweaty.

"D-don't mention it." He swallowed, giving you an experimental squeeze back. "It's just my jacket, softie."

"Who you callin' softie?" You look up at him with a cocked eyebrow.

"You."

Silence befell you, and it was laced in a tranquil dose. Hushed whispers reverberated off of the caverns in your hearts, growing more prominent. All the giggles filled with the springy frolicking of baby lambs. Clumsy and endearing. Johnny lit a fire in you unmatched and vice versa. Young love that was mutual, but unknown to the other. You stayed with him for quite some time, until he walked you home. You'd sent him off with a wave after him shyly telling you to keep it. Made him promise not to sleep out in the cold, and Johnny kept his word. Slunk all the way to the Curtis House three hours before sunup to fortunately find it free. Rest was his, all with a smile screwed on tightly to his features.

Many more instances of thievery occurred with your pesky little fingers and the growing feelings that possessed you like a restless spirit. Time spent with Johnny became your drug of choice, and you could not get enough of him. No funny business was happening, it was just your personalities melding well together. You brought out a sassy part to him, and surprisingly he could keep up with you. Each meeting was set in colder conditions than the last. Forcing Johnny to bring in what little reinforcements he had. You either seemed to forget a jacket or your layers weren't nearly enough. His jacket was a chameleon's skin, bouncing from his shoulders to yours. His shirts were a comforting reminder of him when he wasn't around – shields against the bleakness of winter. His grey sweatshirt was your favourite. Everything began to accumulate.

One day you were both coming from the tracks in the Shepard outfit where a little creek was running through another vacant lot by an old abandoned factory. The water was still frozen and the trees were barren. All sorts of junk stuck to the frosty ground. It was kind of niche-like, a quiet place that seemed abandoned when the sun shone its rays upon Tulsa. It had been an accidental find during a summer day the year before. A superb place to explore when things were warmer and less soggy. Though it was apparent that neither of you had the courage to explore the dangerous insides of the abandoned warehouse in its entirety. Anyone could be lurking there, boobietrapped the innards to protect their stashed hoards. So the pair of you stuck to the outskirts towards the vacant lot beside it.

There you both were, sat upon a crumpled wall, admiring a winter's afternoon like a pair of Humpty Dumpty’s. The sun was bright in the sky, threatening to melt the world entirely. The first inklings of spring graced reality. The robins were chirping, hopping around in search of food nearby. Adorable feathered critters, so fluffy. They reminded Johnny of Christmas as one turned its neck beside him, curiously looking up into his black eyes. Both were inquisitive of the other.

"He looks like you-," your half whisper broke out into the air too loudly. The disturbance made the robin jolt and fly off.

Johnny sighed, "Man, he got so close this time. You just had to go and ruin it didn't you?"

"I'm sorry. Was there a spiritual connection happening? How rude of me!" You gasped with a hand over your heart.

He shook his head, grinning because he wasn't angry about it at all. "He was a cute little guy though…"

"Hence why I said he looked like you." You clarified.

Johnny exploded with a blush, shaking his head again, "You must've hit your head when you fell on the ice earlier."

"My head is not any worse off than it was before, thank you very much!" You defended yourself.

"You know, the first sign of someone tellin’ porkies is denial, right?"

"I am not tellin’ porkies!"

"Are too-," Johnny countered, nudging you with his elbow.

"Am not!"

Falling back into that effortless banter made you both grin like chessy cats. It was silly, but very much needed. You knew Johnny got extra embarrassed whenever you'd start complimenting him, especially in the looks department. You didn't say these things just to throw him off, but because you truly meant them. Johnny was cute. One of the cutest guys you'd seen in a longtime. Maybe he wasn't moviestar handsome like Sodapop, but girls were missing out when they overlooked him. He had his own things to bring to the table; loyalty, kindness, abiding the law… Just to name a few. You suddenly shook these thoughts out of your head, deciding if you went too deeply down this path that it was best not to be done in Johnny’s presence. Lest you were to blabber about it like you'd done to your other friends who'd told you to ask him out already. They just didn't understand how delicate the matter was really. Johnny wouldn't say yes anyway.

"Hey look! Those cats are back," Johnny quietly hissed by your side, pulling you out of your daze.

You followed his line of sight and sure enough the two male felines were there. Lithe in nature and mean looking. A skinny orange tabby trotted forward, a snaggle tooth protruding from his mouth. By his side was his black Bombay counterpart, scraggy bodied with dirty fur and a distinct chip taken from his ear. They were silent, far from their former glory days when they knew what a good home was. The Bombay was a little bigger than his cheddar companion, and it was easily understood by any human looking in that a pact had been formed between them through a necessity to survive. The pair of you had spied them before, a distrusting set that initially hissed and growled. They were all claws and teeth so you kept your distance to avoid any surprise visits to the clinic. However now they seemed to tolerate your presence, acting as if the silence you exuded exempted your existence. Johnny and you admired them, goofy grins on your faces, because the cats were ready to commit their timely crime of hunting for some grub of the day. You knew who they reminded you of.

"Well if that ain't Dally and Tim," You consciously made the effort to whisper.

Johnny nodded in agreement, "Yeah, I can see it."

"Which one's which?" You asked, genuinely curious about Johnny's take.

He was reluctant to take his eyes off the cats, watching them begin prowling forth towards an unsuspecting robin. "Huh?" he hummed, finally looking at you just as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

"Which cat is Dally and which one is Tim? You know 'em better than I do." You pressed softly.

"Oh, that's easy, Dally's the ginger tabby and Tim's the Bombay." He offered with a nod of his head in the felines direction.

"What why?" You demanded it up at him.

“Well if we’re goin’ off their looks for a start, Tim looks like the Bombay cat. Guy is a real alley cat – got a lot of street smarts and carries himself well. Besides, he's tougher than a bag of nails.” Johnny did have a point – Tim looked just like that black cat with his curly jet hair.

Speaking of the black cat, it had entered a state of hunting, kneeling down with coiled taught muscles – just ready to pounce on that unsuspecting robin below, pecking at the seeds you and Johnny had left behind earlier. You hoped it wouldn’t be eaten, couldn’t stomach to see something so savage. However, you supposed that was only the way the circle of life worked.

“The orange tabby’s Dally cuz of that cool look in his eyes. The way he carries himself so freely. Out of the two, the tabby’s the one that’s in charge somehow. He writes the rules that the other cat’s always tryna best.” Johnny offered with a brief shrug before continuing, “Not that the black cat is following any rules. Both have minds of their own.”

Boy, you could really hear the way he admired Dallas Winston from the way he spoke about the orange tabby. It was wholesome. Dally was Johnny’s hero — the kid practically worshipped the ground the guy walked on. You didn’t see why. To you, Dallas Winston was a rotten hoodlum with a track record of breaking the law in every way, shape and form that he could. He frightened you like The Boogeyman had when you were nine. Where you both engaged with each other somewhat cordially, you preferred to keep your distance. You supposed that you had no room to judge after all. There was a deep friendship that had developed between him and Johnny; you’d seen it in Dally’s cold hard eyes… affection. It made you grin then, wondering if Johnny thought strangely of your heroes too.

“And both of them are jackasses.” You countered, bumping his shoulder mischievously.

Johnny laughed a little, looking at you for a few short moments. “Yeah alright, I’ll give you that.”

You liked the way he’d described the two though. It was a statement that fit the pair of hoodlums in a peapod together. Yet the orange tabby did appear to be the leader as it licked its wonky chops delectably. Inched closer by the second, a silent assassin to carry out its hunter gatherer lifestyle. It was intelligent, mimicking the movement of the robin that had caught onto it. It lured the bird on a swift and winding course, swiping for it good and hard but missed. Never mind. The robin fluttered up and into the line of sight of the black cat, a moment of fear in its beady eyes. Yet just as the night-like feline swept its razors at it, the robin burst into the air and flew off in the opposite direction. It had missed its meal by a feathers length. Every other robin in the vicinity flew off instantly, leaving the two cats dumbfounded.

In frustration, the orange tabby yowled and darted forth. Its clawed paw zipped out and popped the mouth of the black cat. The black cat hissed, stunned for a mere second before it lunged for the only comrade it had in this god forsaken world. The two tumbled together in an infuriated Halloween special of blurred fur. A gasp floated from your mouth as they rolled back and forth. A genuine cat fight unheard of. They sounded like two ghouls trying to out spook the other – alien and loud.

Johnny couldn’t help but laugh out of nervousness. He wasn’t trying to be cruel whatsoever. Didn’t like to see animals fighting and hurting each other, but it humoured some sick part of him. “Just like Dally and Tim, huh? Buddies one minute then at each other’s throats the next.”

“Amen to that.” You found the humour of the situation, only because it was too similar to the real life hoodlums you both knew.

You’d seen your fair share of those guys beefing it out in the past together in The Dingo parking lot, let alone practically in your own backyard. They were a strange duo – too competitive and cut from the same cloth. They’d never find another person just like them, that was for sure.

Just then an icy gust came throttling through the area, reminding you both that it was still winter. A tremor ran through the pair of you, and you huddled together for warmth. By now the cats had slumped off to their own corners of the lot, hissing and growling as they went. Sore egos and bodies made them sulk and mewl in the shade whilst they licked their wounds.

“Dammit-,” your teeth chattered, moving closer to Johnny. “March my ass…”

Johnny breathed a laugh, shaking his head. He scanned your features humorously, those bushy brows hidden by a thick blanket of his black greasy bangs that flopped onto his forehead.

“What?” You mumbled, your fingertips unconsciously reached for him in the space between you both. Johnny didn’t notice.

He stared at you for a good three seconds before opening his mouth to speak, “How can you be cold with all those layers you got on?”

“Well I mean it’s obvious, it’s winter.”

“Uh-huh-,” Johnny sassed, smirking slightly, “As if you ain’t wearin’ my shirt, my sweater and my jeans jacket too. Got the whole department store on your back.”

Abashment took hold of you as your gaze dropped down to inspect yourself. There was Johnny’s jacket on you, and underneath his tattered grey sweater, that black t-shirt poking up above the collar. And Johnny? He was adorned in a wrinkled white shirt with a blue and creamy egg yellow flannel over the top you guessed was one of the gang’s. Worn over that was Dally’s brown leather jacket with the cosy sheepskin lining. You pouted with a bruised ego, looking off to the side, “It’s not like you’re naked or nothin’…” you murmured petulantly.

Johnny chuckled breathily, your joined hands jostling as he tugged on it without any semblance of awareness, as if to gain your attention. “Not yet, but I’m gonna be! Man, do you know what I had to say to get this jacket from Dally?” He was teasing you.

“Mmmppppffff…” you grunted, crossing your legs on that wall.

“The guys are askin’ questions and I dunno what to tell ‘em any more!” His voice broke a bit before he continued, “Two thinks I’m preparin' to run down the centre of town butt naked!”

That made you burst out into fits of giggles. The thought was so unorthodox it was hilarious. “You’re tellin’ him that’s the truth right? God, could you imagine? I can see the news articles now: Johnny Cade, Teenage Delinquent Gone Buck Wild!” You beamed, throwing your free hand out to elaborate some unseen picture.

Johnny shook his head again, laughing with you, “Man, you’re just as bad as Soda!”

“I’m twice as good looking too!” You offered with all the cheekiness you could muster.

All he could offer was an entertained roll of his eyes. Your shoulders bumped together, old comrades turned into something more. His soft gaze fell onto your interwoven fingers, and his heart fluttered like dove wings. A widened gaze, then that notorious blush exploded under that tanned flesh. His mind was incapable of functioning. It was wholesome, but you read everything wrong. Made a move to release his hand and he stopped you.

"Don't." It was the strongest word you'd heard from him as he held your hand tighter than he ever had before. Not enough to hurt you, but to let you know it was real too.

"Y-you sure?" It was your turn to stutter.

The look he shared with you may have been wavering to some degree, but there was certainty in those eyes. His mouth opened to speak, "Yeah, I don't mind one bit."

I don't mind one bit. It ran round and round in your head. A starstruck expression invaded your beautiful countenance. The reassurance was a bonus that made your belly fill with a plethora of butterflies. Cloud nine had nothing on this moment.

Johnny explored the expressions flitting across your face with a newfound sense of wonder. That pleasant delight racing through you was infectious as you stared off into the junk riddled vacant lot, your mind preoccupied with his hand in yours. The sun dawned across your features once again, like that autumn night you'd spent with him in your neighbourhood's vacant lot. The understanding that he was the source of that made his belly squirm, a giddiness overcoming him. He could no longer deny the fondness he had for you so blatantly.

With him leaning a little closer to you, he whispered, "How about you give me at least some of my stuff back?"

"Mmmmm maybe,"

"yn-," there was an uncommon sense of sternness in his voice.

"But-," You tried objecting.

"No buts-," he rushed out with a shake of his head, "At least give me one! I've been wearing this shirt for three days now!" He was hilariously incredulous.

"Is that why you stink?" You taunted him.

"Not funny-," He made his best attempt to be cross with you.

"Okay, okay! I'll give them back." You said begrudgingly.

"You better bring the cavalry with how much you have stolen from me, you little shirt thief."

"In my defence, you did give them to me… But I'll have them for you next time I see you, scouts honour!" You spoke sincerely with your free hand held dramatically over your heart.

"Uh-huh, that's what you said last time and I still didn't get 'em back." He bantered.

"Well, that wasn't a real scout's honour." You admitted with a diffident rub to the back of your head.

"yn-," he shook his head.

"Hey! I'm serious this time."

"Good…" He trailed off, his other hand beginning to play with the rings banded around your fingers absentmindedly.

Blissfulness carried upon the wind, a promise of returning what wasn't yours already settled. Golden light broke through the clouds, catching Johnny in the face directly, which made him grimace evidently. You grew lost in his handsome physique, feeling the pad of his thumb drag up and down the back of your hand. The sensation was special, because Johnny had warmed up to you so much.

It was a lively Saturday night, and with the determined honour of a scout member, you showed up like clockwork with a bag filled with Johnny's things. It was just as the crowds at The Nightly Double encroached upon the Tulsa streets in boisterous droves. Everyone was high on the giddy delight of the movie they had just watched – the late night viewing of two specials before the drive-in closed its doors for the night. Previous arrangements with another friend had you missing out on the fun, but here you were wearing your very own leather jacket with Johnny's denim one bunched up nervously in the palms of your hands. Speaking of Johnny, he had tagged along with the gang – minus Darry, because movies seemed to bore the older man to death.

A pair of scrawny looking Socy guys stalked out of the front doors, acting like big shots, cutting in front of a dark green Corvair on its way out and into the oncoming traffic. The driver of the same social class hung out of the driver's window whilst his girl attempted to pull him back in.

"Hey watch it, wise guys! If you're lookin' to get your asses run over, then be my guests and step back in my line of sight!" He snarled aggressively before his girlfriend won the battle and pulled him back inside to tell him to "knock it off".

A line began to form behind them as the couple argued incessantly, presumably over the guy's foul temper. Car horns honked on the spring breeze, forcing the guy to nervously step on the gas. They almost crashed into a Chevy Impala before zipping off home. You could see the animated scowl of the girl refusing to talk to her boyfriend in the side view mirror as they retreated. She glowered at you as if you were the scum of the earth. It didn't make you feel too hot.

The two wisecracking Soc's cackled at their attempts at being hard, stalking forth when they caught sight of your lonesome form. Vile cackles were shot your way as they walked past you before deciding the better option was to encircle you like a couple of hammerhead sharks.

'Boy, these dingbats don't know what tree they're barking up.' You thought, stiffening your body up for any form of unexpected physical contact. You weren't gonna let yourself get blown over that easy.

"What's up, greaser? You lookin' to bum around on our streets?" The six foot tall pencil with the sour breath sneered down at you, bumping your shoulder, making a come around to your left. When he disappeared behind you, the other one with chestnut hair the texture of straw invaded your face.

"Yeah, who said you were allowed round these parts anyway?" He jeered, smacking his gum obnoxiously.

Typically these dorks wouldn't have been graced with so much of your attention, but being on your own with a whole sea of onlookers made you weary. However you sure didn't show it. No one was there to stand up for you so you had to do it yourself. All you could do was raise your eyebrows, feeling the burning sense of humiliation rise from the pits of hell beneath your feet. It felt toasty, but the wrong kind. A glower of pure vexation was sent up their way. 'Who are these cocky jackasses, anyway? I've got the same right to use these streets like anyone else!' You contemplated.

"Oh really? I never knew white trash chequerboards like yourselves owned the streets everybody walks on." Your lips flapped wryly before you could even say a word.

The entertained gazes of onlookers of every social class stopped to stare. Murmurs of speculation broke out: Two against one didn't typically seem like a fair fight, but with the sheer scrawniness of the socially elite, it seemed to look like the chips fell in your favour. Though you knew appearances could be deceiving, harbouring a surprising sense of physical strength.

In a rift of the crowd, six pairs of familiar eyes honed in on your shining moment of unprovoked confrontation.

"White trash chequerboards?!" The pencil growled out, sharing a glance with his straw haired counterpart. For the most part they were dumbfounded, not having expected you to stand up for yourself.

"If anyone's white trash, it's you, greaseball." The second one jutted his finger in your face.

Nothing about your countenance betrayed you. Cold and detached you stared at that finger in your face with a deep sense of boredom. Then an almost smug smirk etched your features as you stared up into his grey eyes.

"Oh my, my!" A dripping sense of mocking venom entered your tone. "Seems like I got more class than that finger you got pointed at me. Seriously, you got a licence to be armed with carryin' that thing? You better watch what you do with it before it falls into the wrong hands. You know, because with great power comes great responsibility and all." You were armed with so much sass it made you invincible.

The crowd surrounding you burst into a fit of laughter so potent that it burnt these punks into a startled pile of ash. The pair of Soc's were so vapid that they were a bore even to themselves, which is why they were acting out as if they were five times their sizes. You were lively, armed with a silver tongue that could slice just about anyone to pieces who tried to humiliate you.

"Oh yeah, you little punk?" The first one growled, invading all sense of your personal space.

You took one step back, your eyebrows raised, "It's his responsibility, not mine. Whatch'yu gettin' all riled up for, eh? Can't take a joke, Mister Funny?"

"I'll show you a joke when I knock your two front teeth out." He barked.

Oooh's and aaah's broke through the crowd on a symphony of guffawing. You cocked one eyebrow up at him, a cockiness overcoming you. What could you do otherwise? If no one had your back, you had to have your own. That was just the way the cookie crumbled when you were a greaser – if there was a cookie at all.

"Oooooh~ Don't threaten me with a good time, pencil dick." You snorted. "I will bend your ass like a goddamn pretzel before you can even have a chance to beg for your mommy to save you."

The two guys shared a look, the degradation burning their senses of pride to withering embers. Their faces were pinkened beyond recognition, boarding on a fiery red. Your insults only poured gasoline on the fires. They couldn't back out now with the engrossed mass around the three of you. Your body stiffened as they went to grab you, preparing yourself for a fight that would no doubt cause the fuzz to come shutting it down. The image of yourself being cuffed in the back of a cop car had you overcome with a sense of terror. You weren't made for jail with your sharp tongue and sass. Wouldn't last two seconds flat in a grim place like that.

Before any contact could occur, a boisterous New York accent throttled into the air, a familiar arm slinking over your shoulders, "Hey Dumb and Dumber, you really wanna go gettin' your asses handed to you by a girl in front of all of these people?" Dallas was snickering with a smoke hanging out of his mouth, leaning against you smoothly as he patted your upper arm, but he wasn't your only saviour.

The other five lean and hard looking members of the Curtis gang had rolled up in all of their greasy headed glory. Pony and Johnny were Dally's flanks whilst Sodapop and Steve jammed themselves on either side of the pathetic turkeys that had bothered you. Two-bit prowled like a cat, that smug, wild grin carved onto his handsome features. The oldest of the six came in the centre of the perpetrators, an arm slung on each of their shoulders. It was overly friendly, even for Two.

��"Well, well, well, if it ain't the socially elite barking up a tree they didn't know was a mountain! I'd get your eyes checked if I were you." He laughed, squeezing them together under his impressive arms. The others joined in.

"I think it's time these tuff lookin' sons of bitches got in the ring with the big shots." Steve yipped sarcastically, clapping the straw haired guy on the back a little too roughly.

"Lookin' like a bunch of heavyweight champs, am I right?" Soda leered, his once kind blue eyes filled with a mischievous malice.

The two Soc's looked at each other, realising they'd made a mistake in targeting you. "We don't want any trouble." The first one said, fumbling.

"Yeah! We was only just jokin' around." The other made a pitiful attempt at joining in on the laughter.

"Oh really now?" Dally quipped through dragon's breath, plucking his smoke from his lips and wiping the back of his index finger under his nose like he was annoyed. "I call bullshit, beanpole. Ain't that right, Johnny?" Dally asked Johnny, motioning towards him.

With a black gaze as cold as obsidian, Johnny nodded his head, "Sure thing, Dally." He refused to take his gaze off of the perpetrators who recognised that hoodlum's menacing name anywhere.

"Pony?" Dally turned, looking over your head at the fourteen year old greaser with the greyish green eyes. He put that smoke back in between his lips and inhaled sharply.

"Yup!" Pony popped the 'p' at the end of the word.

"Great, it's settled!" Dally exclaimed, pulling his arm from over your shoulders and rubbing his hands together like a fly with an evil plan. He stepped forward, his face a mere couple of inches from theirs. "You dumbasses get to go toe to toe with me for fucking with the wrong person, and then my buddies will have what's left of you. How do you like the sound of that?"

The way Dally seethed it even had you shaking in your boots. There was almost a sense of honour riding on your guts. It wasn't everyday that Dallas Winston was standing up for you, but when it happened you took it willingly. The two guys had become pale ghosts, shuddering with sweat dewing their foreheads. Dally meant those words, but it seemed he was mainly toying with them. So were the rest of the gang too. With matching Cheshire grins plastered on their faces they watched as the two shoved past Soda, tripping over the boot Johnny had stuck out and shot in through an opening in the crowd to salvation. Sent to faceplant on the ground with a series of laughter as the drama seemed to be over for the most part and people lost interest.

"Where are you goin'? Wait until we set her on ya!" Sodapop called, wrapping his arm around Steve's shoulders.

"Yeah, she may seem like she’s all bark, but she's got one hell of a bite!" Steve cackled.

Lost in an ocean of chaos, Johnny's inquiry of concern for you slithered back down his throat. He bled into the background, admiring the way your eyes rolled as the wisecracking descended upon you.

"The hell was that, kid?" Dally said between inhaling his smoke. Rubbing the top of your head with his ringed fingers awarded him with a generous shove from you. His treatment hurt, but he was happy to see you, which was unusual.

"Get offa me-," You grunted and he eventually relented.

Before Steve could chime in about you being a smart ass or wandering around on your lonesome, your most dreaded member of the gang came blundering on over. A half drunken stupor holding him up by some invisible string, "Haha! Where did you learn to talk like that? Dare I say you got some inspiration from somebody in particular?" He waggled his eyebrows at you.

"Oh, well ain't those the biggest words you’ve ever said! Ugh, don’t make me sick, two cents." You bit at him.

"Eh, at least I'm worth somethin' in this world." He chuckled, clapping your shoulder.

"That was meant to be an insult." You retorted.

"Really? That's a whole compliment and a half!" He exclaimed with his arms thrown up.

"Yeah yn, I sure can hear the church bells ringin' right now!" Soda grinned at you, cupping his free hand over his ear. In fact, to seal the deal he wrapped his arm around your shoulders as the seven of you began walking to your neighbourhood.

Steve came up on the other side, walking the tight line of the curb, "From haters to lovers!" He beamed, spreading his palms out in the open space before you like he was presenting a far away picture. "It all started when you were in fifth grade and he was in sixth, gum to the hair, a pop to the mouth and the rest was history!"

Johnny listened and observed, laughing halfheartedly along with his buddies. Something about Soda's and Steve's words tugged on his heartstrings in a plucking fashion. It was uncomfortable and didn't sit right with him. Yet he couldn't be too mopey about it, it wasn't like anybody knew his growing feelings for you. By now there was a confusion in your friendship, as if all these special moments you'd experienced together had evolved the friendship into something else. He was afraid of what that meant. Things would never be the same ever again, and he found himself eyeing up the bag full of his clothes on your shoulder and his jeans jacket wadded into your hand.

Well, at least your promise had been genuine this time.

If you weren't riled up before you were now. A sucker punch to the gut was minutely dodged by Steve, who hopped to safety behind Dallas like a kangaroo. Being surrounded by people you knew was nice as the mood settled somewhat. Johnny found his natural place to the left of you, keeping in time with your easy pace.

Sodapop raised his eyebrows and asked the question everyone had been wondering, "Hey yn, what were you doing there all alone?"

"Ain't that Steve's line?" You quipped.

“Gettin’ to be more and more like Ponyboy everyday, yn!” Steve warned, messing up Pony’s hair for comedic relief.

Pony was certainly not pleased, pulling his comb out of his back pocket and using the sideview mirror of a car to fix his hair in the dark. “Stupid Steve…” grumbled past his lips.

“What was that?” Steve barked next to Soda.

“Nothin’, said I looked stupid…” He lied with burnt cheeks and ears to match.

"That's what I thought, little guy." Steve stared at him.

Once the commotion had somewhat settled Dally eyed you up and spoke through his smoke, “Soda’s got a point. What were you doing there?” He noticed that bag over your shoulder and whistled, “Did your goody two shoes ass get kicked out or are you just droppin’ by to bid your farewells on us common folk before you skip town?”

Put on the spot, you hesitated for a second, “Uh, I just came to see Johnny.”

“With the entire mall's inventory?” Two grinned wickedly, pressing for more information. "Johnny's become quite the charity case lately." He teased, noogying Johnny playfully who shrugged him off with a small laugh.

“Hey wait a sec, isn't that Johnny’s jeans jacket?” Pony spoke up once his precious hair had been rearranged.

Dallas’s pesky fingers swiped the jacket in your hands with a mind of his own – and like a chimp, he examined its authentication closely. The five other members gathered around him as if he held the fifth wonder, which left you and Johnny with the liberation of simultaneously backing up at the edges of the throng. “You wanna make a break for it?” You hissed your suggestion at Johnny, who nodded his head.

That’s when five heads whipped up with dumbfounded expressions. This was Johnny’s jacket! The one he said he’d lost. Soda’s eyes were the first to eye up that bag strapped to your shoulder, a familiar grey sweater poking out through the zipper that wouldn't close properly. “Hold on one stinkin’ minute.” Realisation hit him with a dopey grin.

Two caught on next, his hand grasping the bag strap and pulling it from your shoulder. In the same motion he’d freed the grey sweater from the confines, only to find more clothes underneath. “Haha!” He cackled noisily, “You’re the one who’s been swiping his clothes? You sly fox!”

“Johnny and yn sitting in a tree-,” Steve cackled, only to get cut off by Dally who smacked him in the chest.

“What are you man, four?”

“Four?! I’ll show you four!”

“Oh glory-,” You mumbled, looking at Johnny, “I think I made a mistake.”

“You think?” He hissed, his tone was somewhat biting, looking scared stiff for the incoming of terrible teasing.

"Johnny's got a girlfriend! Johnny's got a girlfriend!" Soda and Two started chanting, patting and shaking their pal with enthusiasm. It wasn't long before the other three started in on it too. The chant of the year belted out from strong chests on shrill wails of hyena laughter.

"Check him out, famous ladies man! I knew you had it in ya Johnny." Dally clapped his back.

"Should've known you were stealing my girl, Johnny." Two teased. "You can have her the first five days of the week, but I call dibs on weekends! That's when she gets extra sassy."

"In your dreams, two shits." You barked.

"I dream of sixth grade every night!" Two swooned, making you laugh.

Johnny was as red as a beet, even Ponyboy couldn’t contain his laughter. 'Boy, do we have something to tell Darry!' Pony's and Soda's eyes gleamed dazzlingly.

"Eh, guess you won't be needing this!" Dally grinned from behind you both, softly tugging on his leather jacket Johnny was wearing. In one fell swoop it was off of his shoulders and draped over Dally’s humble forearm.

“Here you go, young sire!” Sodapop bowed with a roll of his hand, an English accent flawlessly executed.

In came Steve on one knee, holding up the humble denim article he'd swiped from Dally's pesky digits. “Oh Johnny, with all of my love for you, will you take this humble offer?” he exclaimed dramatically.

Johnny snatched the jacket from Steve’s gripey hands, along with the bag of his shirts you’d brought along from Two-bit. He was embarrassed, that was evident. Wished you’d done this at a different time, but hey, duty called; a promise was a promise. Scout’s honour, right?

Without even thinking he grabbed your hand in his, reeling you away from the madness, all sassy. “Alright, that’s enough now!”

A chorus of wolf whistles expelled into the air. Wildness evident in the five guys who'd grown up with the both of you. They were just playing of course, excited that Johnny finally had a lady in hand. It wasn't often the raven haired greaser picked someone up, let alone initiated any physical contact – romantically of course. Johnny had always been quite reserved, but here he was taking the initiative, pulling you around in the opposite direction of them. Surprisingly assertive despite him shaking like a goddamn ghost.

You guys got maybe a few feet away when Dallas called out on the wind, “Hey yn, you better not be takin’ off the clothes on Johnny's body or he’ll be arrested for public indecency!”

"I said that's enough!" Johnny called back, heat vivid on his cheeks.

With that you both escaped around the next corner, the gang's calls and laughter fading into the background. Dipped into an alleyway to lose them for good. Glory knew they'd follow you both, and Johnny couldn't bear the thought of that. There was exhilaration in your chests. Johnny's hand was hot and sweaty in yours when you wound onto Pickett and Sutton. The air felt tight and you were afraid you'd just made an inconsolable mess of everything.

“Honest to God Johnny, that wasn’t planned-,”

He was sour, scrunching up his face, “Shoulda just let you keep these things.” He said with a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “They looked better on you anyway.”

“Johnny Cade,” you gasped, stopping in the middle of the street, the yellow light from above illuminating you both, “was that you flirting with me?”

Albeit clumsy, he was endearing. “Maybe, I dunno.” His cheesy grin warmed your heart.

All you could do was gawk at him.

“Look, all I know is that I kinda don’t mind you stealing my crap, okay?”

“So I have special authority to steal? What is this, a secret mission for your girlfriend?” You grasped onto his arm, leaning into him.

Girlfriend settled in the air in a peculiar fashion. It had never been uttered before, you both had just been friends up until this point. The confusion between you both seemed to fizzle away. The term sounded right. Johnny didn't want to be your friend any more, the guy on the sidelines dreaming of being with you. He swallowed thickly, looking at you.

"I'm sorry I-," he cut you short.

"Nah don't be." He shook his head softly.

"So uh," you breathed a laugh, "that means we're like dating? " You tested the word on your tongue.

He exploded with a blush, and a sense of pride swelled in your heart. "Y-yeah-," he nodded softly.

It went quiet, but nothing was awkward about it. Two hearts galloped like wild horses through summer filled fields. You found the courage to speak first, whispering mischievously into his ear, "So what about that secret mission?"

Johnny rolled his eyes, but breathy humour expelled from his lips, “Operation Shirt Thief!” He said in his best movie man trailer voice.

You burst out in a fit of giggles, the walk home feeling bountiful and warm.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

please like, reblog and follow for more!

requests: closed!

#johnnycade #johnny cade #johnny cade x reader #johnny cade imagines #johnny cade headcanons #the outsiders #the outsiders imagines #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders x reader #the outsiders johnny cade #the outsiders johnny cade x reader #the outsiders johnny cade imagines #the outsiders johnny cade headcanons #i hope you enjoyed!!

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exilethegame · 11 months

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Writing Update (06/23/23)

Hello everyone— I think we’re all well aware it’s past early June, and after taking some time to decompress (and scream into a pillow), I have now returned.

So, to narrow it down to bullet points— yes, chapter 5 pt. 2 is fully done (I don’t think I ever said, but it came in at 220k words, making Chapter 5 508k words in total), no it has not yet been edited, nor has it been sent to alpha readers. The reasoning for this is that my laptop, which was already on its last two legs, finally gave up and died on me with the files on it.

NOW— that’s not really the end of the world. I have all the back ups on my pc. The problem? I’m traveling all summer and my pc is at my house. This pretty much means we’re at the mercy of my sister and whenever she can find the time to make a rather long drive to my house to send the files to me.

So far, the plan is that those files will be sent to me this Sunday— I’m which case I will move as quick as I can to fix bugs and get it sent to alpha readers.

Consider this an apology, and a reassurance. I’m rather frustrated by this, and I’m sure you all are too. Just now the game is very much still being worked on behind the scenes in a million different ways even if chapter 5 itself is proving to, quite possibly, be my arch nemesis. 💀

Apologies again, everyone! I’m just hoping there are no more surprises from here forward, and everything can continue here onwards semi normally. I’ll likely be MIA until I can finally get this chapter out since I’m more than a little stressed out, but we’ll get there when we get there, I guess!

Thanks for reading!

#writing update

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crocodilenjoyer · 22 days

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op fic recs

dont tell my professors.

A head pops up on the other side of Straw Hat; the last of the fading sunlight refracts off Roronoa’s earrings, winking at her. “Oh,” he says, sounding only mildly surprised to see her. “You’re here too.”

“What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

Roronoa grins. “Yeah. He does this.”

Nami props herself up a little higher on her already bruising elbow. Straw Hat’s got an arm wrapped around Roronoa, same as her, pinning him to his other side.

“Okay,” Nami says, feeling her third headache in as many hours beginning to creep up. “What is this?”

“How he sleeps, I guess. Been doing it since we started sailing together.”

“You’re joking.”

Roronoa shrugs.

“Well, how do we get him to let go?”

“Dunno. Haven’t figured that part out yet,” Roronoa says and then, because he’s no help at all, lays back down.

Sanji is carefully placing a cherry on top of the ice cream, his hands nimble, soft, almost—gentle. But all Zoro sees is the way the hems of his pants are still soaked in blood from an earlier skirmish with a marine ship, red seeping into the cracks on the floorboard, spattering across the kitchen floor in a slow drip, drip, drip.

Zoro stares, fascinated. He can’t bring himself to look away.

(Or, Zoro and Sanji—terrible monsters, in love)

“I don’t buy it,” Pete retorts. “Someone like you? Some cook from East Blue? You’re probably worth a couple hundred thousand bellies at best, maybe a million, if your captain’s somebody.”

Sanji tilts his head back so that it rests against the dirty wall behind him. He’s still upright, somehow, through sheer stubbornness or spite. He doesn’t look like someone who only has tonight left to live. In fact, he looks sharp. There’s no better word for it. His expression is still as peaceable as it has been since he arrived, but watching him is like watching a knife slide out of its sheath. He is, abruptly, dangerous. A tool made for cutting.

“If you knew where I’ve been, you would be terrified of me,” he says.

A catalogue of things stolen by, for, and from Princess Vivi of Alabasta with regards to a certain thief, as documented by her long-suffering captain of the guard.

“If you’re looking for Arlong, he’s inside,” she says, pointing at the monstrous building. Jinbe doesn’t look away from her, from the bruise over her eye. She can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen. Her fingers are worn red and raw. As he watches, a drop of blood drips to the ground.

A girl, with reddish hair and exhausted eyes and a ragged, forced smile, and it’s Koala but it’s not.

(Jinbe goes to check in on his brother, and finds some things that need to be set right.)

“Do you think you can bench press me?” Luffy asks, interrupting him in the middle of a crunch, and Zoro pauses and says, “yeah, sure.”

There’s a tightening feeling low in Shanks’ stomach as his gaze follows those long fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle, the candlelight lancing over a sharp cheekbone. Mihawk is terrifying before he is beautiful, but Shanks isn’t afraid of him, and Mihawk is so fucking pretty. The dim glow filtering in through the windows is beginning to tinge warm, reminding Shanks that they’re on borrowed time; he glances at the clock and decides. He reaches over before Mihawk can straighten and curls his fingers around the shell of his ear.

“Hey.”

Mihawk stills and looks at him from the corner of his eye, barely turning his head. The bottle is in his hand, and Shanks trails his fingers down Mihawk’s jaw to take the liquor from him and set it down on the table.

“Wanna bang?”

Sanji and Zoro have very different love languages.

Standards by taizi | nr, probably g | post-timeskip | gen, straw hats | 2.4k

"You aren't planning on bringing that boy in with you tomorrow night, are you? Our restaurant has certain standards."

(In which the Straw Hats set out to prove their captain meets certain standards; whether he likes it or not.)

Usopp gets his hands on a tattoo machine.

Soon after, he gets his hands all over his crew.

When they’re on the forecastle, with the helm just behind them and the figurehead casting them further in shadow, Usopp calls, “Raise the sails!”

Luffy’s gasp next to his ear is the best part of his entire day.

The sails unfold in a great rolling crash of canvas. Even the striped gaff swings out, catching the wind. The whole sloop gives a powerful lurch as if she’s eager to sprint out of port on the back of whatever gale blows along next.

And painted on the foresail, bold and bright and proud, is a grinning Jolly Roger in a yellow straw hat.

“That’s mine,” Luffy whispers, hushed and awed.

“Told you so,” Usopp says smugly.

Ever since he'd left home, people had not stopped asking Zoro about his accent.

Or, the reason Zoro was allowed to wander around alone in Wano.

He keeps moving forward at a steady pace, resisting the urge to run because how fucking embarrassing would that be, running because he missed them, and as he breaks through the treeline he shouts, “Oi, oi—what took you guys so long? It's been—”

And then he freezes, because yes, actually—something is very, very wrong.

The Sunny is anchored just off shore, close enough to see the deck but far enough away that the crew has had to take the Mini Merry to make land. Scattered across the beach in various stages of chaos—rolling around, yelling, fighting—are his crew but not his crew, so similar and yet so, so different. They look younger, fresher, and whatthefuck there, on the deck of the Sunny just peering over the railing, he catches a flash of green—his own green hair—

“Ah, fuck,” he grunts, and then immediately turns back around because no, actually, he does not want to deal with this.

It’s been a while since Sanji has gotten some action, which is the only reason why Zoro’s deplorable, barely-there attempt somehow works. Obviously.

Luffy looks again at the bitemarks that he left on Zoro’s wrist. Zoro’s usually hurt, one way or another. Sometimes it’s definitely been Luffy’s fault too, but the bitemarks feel different. They ain’t like normal bruises or cuts. There’s something about seeing the shape of his teeth in Zoro’s skin. Something about the colors, the slightly paler insides of Zoro’s wrists, and the blueness of his veins, and the dark pink color of where Luffy bit him.

Luffy unhinges his jaw and crams an entire breakfast ham down his throat. He chews reflectively a moment and then demands,

“Zoro, you wanna have a date tonight?”

Zoro answers by inhaling the rest of his orange juice through his nose and promptly spewing it everywhere.

“That a yes?”

Luffy and Zoro destroy a restaurant, end up lost, get in a bar fight with a bunch of pirates and go on their first date. Not necessarily in that order.

“Sanji! It’s lunchtime, right? Now? Soon? Now, right?”

His legs are tight around Sanji’s waist and his arms have come around Sanji’s chest and crossed, grabbing the opposite shoulders, the whole length of his chest pressed tight and close. Sanji can feel the vibration when he talks, the snap of the rubber resonating in his bones.

Luffy’s hair is tickling the back of his neck.

The whole thing is – it’s –

For a long second Sanji is frozen.

“Sanji?”

It feels –

(The Straw Hat Pirates set sail in the East Blue.)

If he gets caught stealing again, if he loses his other hand, he’ll never be a pirate. Never be anything besides a crippled beggar, pleading for scraps.

If he doesn’t steal, he’ll starve.

Despite the fluid nature of his ambition, Zoro himself rarely changes: principles, directions, appearance. And when he does, he makes sure it's under the heavy influence of both long-term irritation and a healthy dose of the nearest hard liquor.

Or, Zoro is trans, surgeries cost money, and there's little to no verified adult supervision in his life.

“God, again?!” Usopp looks down at Sanji who's sitting against a column and tilting his head back while pressing a tissue against his bleeding nose.

“Shu' ub,” Sanji growls. Or, he tries to. It sounds rather unimpressive.

“You're terrible,” Usopp says but he can't hold back the fond smile that's been blooming all over his face again and again ever since he's stepped foot on the Sunny after returning to Sabaody.

It's the big party after defeating Hody Jones. Usopp gets Sanji away from all the mermaids. (Honestly, Sanji, these nosebleeds are disgusting.)

#riko.txt #zolu #zosan #usosan #straw hat pirates #fic recs #mishanks #nami #crocodile #sanji #namivivi #jinbe #zoro

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morallyinept · 5 months

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JET SET CHRISTMAS - A Dieter Bravo Christmas One Shot

Summary: Dieter is flying away for a tropical filming schedule over Christmas, and you find a way to give him some First Class Service on his flight.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5.6K

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶️🌶️🌶️ "You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/triggers - Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks)/tit wank/oral M receiving/drug usage/Dieter is a mess, as always.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: I really enjoy writing for my sweet, messy Dieter. And Christmas Dieter is no exception. 😎

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🎄🖤

Fun fact; approximately eighty-seven and a half million passenger’s travel through LAX airport in a given year. And each year that number steadily increases.

To put it mildly, it’s a damn fucking busy airport, capiche?

It is the world’s fourth busiest airport and the United States’ second busiest airport after Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta.

LAX holds the record for the world’s busiest origin and destination airport, since relative to other airports on this blue marble floating in the universe, many more travellers begin or end their trips in LA, rather than use it merely as a connection onwards to somewhere better and less congested. It's also the only airport to rank among the top five U.S. airports for both passenger and cargo traffic.

And considering approximately two-hundred and thirty-nine thousand odd passengers flow through this airport during any given day, being singled out and spotted amongst the hordes is always as surprising as it is annoying.

Dieter is used to people shoving their phones in his face and snapping away at him as he takes a massive bite of a vegan chilli burrito, or as he’s pissing over a fire hydrant whilst high on LSD; it kind of comes with the territory of being an actor whose notoriety precedes him.

You’d think you would be able to remain inconspicuous as you trundle on through the swilling crowds of holiday makers and businessmen in their fancy, Armani suits, wheeling your suitcase beside you.

But oh no, that’s asking too fucking much, right?

He’s not bitter about it; more of a casual acceptance that this circus is his life now, as absurd as it all seems when he falls back to Earth to try and keep his feet on the ground with a sharp shunt. And the mishaps keep on mishappening, even though he tries.

He tries so fucking hard sometimes.

But, at times like this, when he’s simply doing what everyone else is doing in the airport for the most part, it’s somewhat irritating to have fans and paparazzi stalking his every move around the terminal like poachers waiting for their chance to capture an endangered species.

Look, there he is, buying wired earphones! Get him!

Keeping his head down, masked behind large Rayban sunglasses, Dieter makes his way towards the private lounge near his gate. Only stopping when he’s accosted, seemingly at gunpoint, by over enthusiastic admirers of his work and surly attitude alike, begging for a selfie.

He tries his best to feign a smile for them, after all they buy all the cheaply manufactured shit with his face on, but more often than not it comes out as a less-than-impressed blank look about his prominently exhausted features.

Eyes that seem dull, peer out lifelessly at the screens through puffy sockets, and fuzzy scruff peppered across his jaw line grazes around his weak smile that is almost non-existent.

(He would read later online, that he was on drugs, hence the tiredness straining around his bloodshot eyes. And they would be fucking right about that.)

Although truth be told, Dieter hasn’t really slept much at all, which is to blame for his current deer-in-headlights appearance.

Staying up into the wee hours of the morning reading through the script, still trying to decide if he actually wants the part or not, despite contracts being signed well over a few months back, with what felt like a gun to his back.

Dieter Bravo is reduced to doing fucking romcoms now.

Damage control, his agent had dutifully warned him.

Punishment for his latest screw up is some stupid romcom set in the Bahamas, with filming scheduled over Christmas, and his wardrobe will consist of jazzy floral shirts for the next few months.

His phone is chock full of voice notes reciting the lines of his character Mateo in different accents, that he’s still not happy with as he listened to them on repeat, whilst strolling through the terminal, until his earphones gave out, and he queued in line to buy some more at the Duty Free.

Mateo. He’s playing a fucking character named Mateo. He grinds down so hard on his teeth he dislodges a filling.

He’d survived the night on coffee to get him through; his frantic night owl tendencies over taking him to the point that he decided to just stay up anyhow and indulged in a blunt or two whilst watching porn, despite his dick pulling limp after a few tugs. Something that happens more often than not as of late.

Well, at least Christmas alone in the Bahamas beats spending it alone in rehab. Again.

But the caffeine and weed is starting to wane and filter out of his system, leaving him slugging like a zombie as he trudges through the airport.

He passes a giant Christmas tree, its twinkly bokeh lights bleeding into the back of his retinas as he squints under the sunglasses.

Dieter makes his way through the terminal with lazy strides after leaving the prowlers behind; the wheels of his suitcase squeaking against the shiny flooring, that at times, feels like navigating an ice-rink.

Once he arrives at the Private Boarding lounge, reserved only for super important executives, or washed out, coke-head movie stars on their last chance, he approaches a woman behind the desk who appears to have been using the self tanner a little too enthusiastically.

“Good morning, sir.” She chirps away happily through an obscenely orange face.

A security officer takes his case and bag, and lifts them up on the belt to be scanned as Dieter empties his pockets and takes off his Rolex and rings. They plink into the tray the officer holds out for him.

The colour of her skin stops him in his tracks as he peers at her over the top of his shades incredulously.

Meh, he’d still fuck her if given half the chance. Yeah. He could do with a nice blow job or something right about now.

Her smile is unrelenting, revealing stark white gnashers that gleam and glare through bright red lipstick. How anyone can be this jaunty at this time of the morning is beyond Dieter’s scope of understanding, but he throws a ghostly smile back at her trying not to stare at her face, bemused, as he’s scanned and patted down.

He hands over his passport and notices she won’t stop touching her hair.

She scrutinises his credentials and looks back at him and smiles even wider; a jaw full of white piano keys, her teeth seemingly unable to fit inside her mouth fully, with a massive overbite going on for dessert.

He hastily rethinks the possibility of a blow job.

“Can I just say, I really loved you in Cliff Beasts…” She gushes, leaning forward to him over the desk.

Dieter gets a whiff of her perfume like a suckerpunch to the jaw; overpowering like she’s doused herself in gasoline. It almost knocks him out like Novocaine. But the flash of cleavage more than makes up for it as his nostrils flare and itch.

“Oh yeah?” He says, elbow on the desk and sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his aquiline nose with a grizzly smirk.

“Yeah. My son really loved it too.” She finishes, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

He ignores her swooning compliment and smiles thinly through gritted teeth. He instantly pushes his shades back up. He has enough baggage to check in, he doesn’t need more.

“You played Gary right?”

“Gio.” He corrects.

“Right. Gio. He likes Gio. Would you sign this for him?” She pushes him a piece of paper and he takes her pen and scrawls his John Hancock over it without any resistance, despite yelling no, fuck off! Loudly and repeatedly inside of his sludge brain.

“Thank you so much, that’s amazing!” She exclaims at him in a high pitched voice that makes his ears bleed.

“No problem, honey.” Dieter replies in a heavy voice as he puts his watch and rings back on.

“Did you pack your bag yourself, Mr Bravo?” Orange face asks, suddenly remembering she has a job to do despite being immensely star struck by this handsome, yet incredibly hungover, enigma standing before her.

He nods once.

“Have you been approached by anyone asking you to carry anything for them?”

“I have twelve kilos of cocaine in my carry on.” Dieter remarks sardonically as he scratches under his chin, as he eyes the security officer who doesn’t find it funny.

She laughs however, and taps away on the keyboard happily with her nails, stealing glances at him as he frowns glumly. This whole charade is already starting to grate.

She hands him back his passport, and he’s blinded again by the searing light from her mouth as she wishes him well on his journey.

“Merry Christmas!” She calls to him and he responds by throwing his fist up in the air, dragging his case and bag as he walks away.

Once in his First Class seat on the plane, he orders two whiskeys neat from the gnarly looking steward who eyes him scathingly, and dutifully reminds him that drinks won’t be served until they're in the air, no matter who he is.

Dieter’s phone vibrates in his hand, and it's his agent wishing him a happy holidays, or some shit.

He replies with the middle finger emoji, before switching it to airplane mode.

Sulking, Dieter slumps into his spacious booth seat throwing the complimentary, soft fleece blanket over his head.

Dieter wakes a few hours later into the flight, the crick in his neck at breaking point and his bowels about to vacate all over the seat unless he goes right now.

He passes the same steward and asks if they have anything natural for a dicky stomach, and she scoffs at him like he’s the self-entitled prick she assumes him to be.

He’s not sure why he’s got the shits like lava coming out his ass; he hasn't eaten anything substantial in the last forty-eight hours as he grips onto the toilet seat with vigor.

Once the stomach cramps subside, and he feels like he won’t shit himself on the way back to his seat, he leaves the confines of the bathroom sheepishly and looking somewhat worse for wear.

Biting back a growl, he sinks into his seat forlorn and weary.

That is until you approach him and touch his shoulder gently.

“Here,” you say to him. “I couldn’t help but overhear you're not feeling so hot.”

“Um, yeah.” Dieter says, pulling his sunglasses off completely to get a better look at you.

You, in your neatly pressed uniform and scarf coiled around your neck. You, with your fluttery, kind eyes and a smile that literally steals the breath from his lungs in a quick snap. So much so that he almost chokes.

You, leaning forward into his personal space to put down a bottle of Fiji water and some Imodium in a box you fish from your pocket.

“Any chance of a diazepam in there?” He asks and you smile.

“Fraid not. Nervous flyer?”

He shakes his head. “No. No.” He reaches for the box with shaky fingers. “Thank you, honey. You’re really sweet.” Dieter compliments.

“Dieter, please.” He slaps his hand over his heart, possibly an attempt to mask how hard it’s beating right now.

“You need anything else Mr Bravo, you just ask me, okay?”

He peers at your name tag and looks up at you smirking.

“Feel better, Dieter.” You wink at him and carry on down the aisle.

He watches you go, his head poking out, neck craning like a Meerkat as he zones in on your ass.

“Well, shit.” He mumbles to himself and the passenger inside the seat across from him snorts in agreement.

“Merry fucking Christmas, right?” He says to Dieter, and Dieter can only but raise his cool bottle of water in agreement.

“Oh. Easy. Here comes Medusa!”

Dieter snorts, trying to hold his whiskey in his mouth.

“Well, we’re going to do one of those things at least.” Dieter smirks.

“I think she thinks we’re going to get drunk and cause a riot. Get our dicks out and piss everywhere. Maybe open some airlock doors for shits and giggles.” The passenger opposite him whispers, chortling as the stony faced steward walks past them, giving them a careful stink eye.

They both burst out laughing like little boys as soon as she’s out of earshot.

He can already feel his head getting fuzzy and floaty; well on his way to boarding the train at crunkered-town. Mix that in with hardly any sleep and you’ve a recipe for a drooling, comatose mess right there.

“Did you know it’s absolutely impossible to do that? Open the airlock door mid-flight, I mean? Air pressure and all that shit, man.” The passenger twists the cap off his small wine bottle and pours it out into his plastic tumbler.

“It’s not like the movies.” Dieter agrees.

“No. You’re all a bunch of fucking liars, making us believe that shit. Fucking shame on you, man.”

“What’s your favourite movie?” Dieter asks.

“Well it ain’t that Cliff Beasts shit.”

Dieter wheezes as he laughs.

“Seriously man, what were you thinking?”

“I was high for most of it. Stuck in some fancy British hotel during lockdown.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“You ever screw that Carol Cobb? Man, I’d love to get me a piece of that ass.”

“Nah. Not my type.” Dieter says, sucking against his teeth and trying not to remember the clusterfuck of his quick divorce from Anika - who seemed exactly his type - after their quick wedding in Vegas.

Turns out she wasn’t an angel at all. More like a crazed, obsessed demon whose PMS tantrums were worse than the Devil’s. Dieter shudders as he literally feels his balls recoil.

“Oldboy.” The passenger says, sipping his wine after a few minutes contemplating.

“Classic Korean viewing for budding serial killers. Are you a budding serial killer, David?” Dieter asks with glassy eyes.

“Depends on what day of the week it is, my friend.” David states.

They both laugh manically again.

Dieter flops back in his seat; his body turned into his head rest, glancing down the aisle, as he and the stranger, David, who over the last hour or so he’s learned is on his way to a conference, talk and drink merrily.

Dieter spots you further down the aisle, tending to another passenger when you look up and smile at him.

“Shit man, I gotta take a piss.” Dieter announces, standing up on wobbly legs.

“Yeah, whatever.” He notices David put some wireless buds in his ears.

“Shouldn’t use them things, man. EMF.” Dieter says.

“Pffft.” David retorts and waves him off.

Dieter follows you as you retreat to the galley and smile again before pulling the curtain closed behind you.

Inside the bathroom, Dieter slaps his face and talks to himself in the mirror.

“Just fucking talk to her, man. Say hello. What, you don’t know how to say hello to anyone? No, that’s fucking stupid… Hello. Hey. Hi. Hi. Hello? Helloooo…? Who the fuck are you man, the Queen? Jesus.”

After washing up, he retreats out of the bathroom and glances down the aisle where the cabin is slowly dimming as the oncoming night swallows the plane; most people are already catching Z’s.

He glances at the drawn curtain and takes a deep breath.

Behind the curtain you’re tidying up the galley, when a head pokes through the middle of it, floating there with unkempt fluffy hair and slightly dilated eyes.

“Mr Bravo.” You greet, with a coy smile.

“Helloooo.” He says, and then chuckles.

“Hello.” You repeat back. “Can I help you with anything?” You query as he stumbles through and tries to straighten himself up.

“I’m good. I’m good.” He looks around the galley. He scratches under his scruffy facial hair, his earring catching the light above, and twinkling at you. “This is a nice place you’ve got here. I like what you’ve done with it.”

You lean against the galley, watching him as he strokes down the shiny metal of the galley doors.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Who? Me? Never better, honey.”

“How big are your hands?” You ask, looking at them as he gesticulates wildly with them.

Dieter looks down and makes a fist with his hand before letting it free into a wide, stretched out palm. Silver rings adorn his pointer and pinky.

“Pretty big, I guess.”

“You know what they say about men with big hands...” You remark.

“What do they say?” He grins.

“Makes their dick look really small.”

Dieter grins and then wheezes again into a laugh. "God, I fucking hope not."

“Let me see those bad boys.” You reach for his hands and he regards you carefully as you step closer to him.

You hold your hands up to his and he rests both palms flat against yours; his fingers towering over yours ridiculously, and you chuckle, amazed.

Dieter hooks his fingers over the top of yours and squeezes, smirking.

“You know, I really can’t fucking stand long haul.”

“Yeah?” You ask as you drop your hands.

“Yeah. Loathe it. I suppose you’re used to it though, right?”

“Yeah, I do it a lot. I don’t really notice it that much now.” You shrug.

“Yeah, me too.” He says and you snort.

You busy yourself pouring him some water and place the plastic cup in his hand.

“I’ve enjoyed it this time, though. I suppose I have you to thank for that.” Dieter gasps as he gulps back the water and wipes his lips on the back of his hand. “Sorry, sorry. That sounded so weird."

“No, it didn’t.” You reassure.

"I'm not creepy." He assures, scratching behind his ear.

You smile at one another for a few moments, just starting at each other’s faces quietly until Dieter hiccups. Loudly.

“You’re kinda cute when you’re drunk.” You say, taking the empty cup from him.

“Cute enough that you'd want to have sex with me?” He asks, brazenly.

You scoff and laugh and then look at him biting your lip. “Are you drunk enough that you can’t get it up?”

You watch as he shoves his hand down the front of his pants and gives himself a squeeze. Oh yeah. He’s hard. “Not yet.”

“So come on then.” You tempt him.

“Here? Right here?” He baulks as he watches you pull your panties down from under your skirt and tuck them in his pocket. “Fuck!”

“Why not, it's kinda hot, right?”

“Fuck yeah it is-” He’s silenced mid-sentence by your lips pressing onto his, and taking him by complete surprise.

He simply leans forward and plants one on you; his body in the driving seat, and he can only look on from the back seat as he careens into you, right through the windshield.

Dieter pulls away, hovering in front of your face, groaning as your hand cups his cock over his pants, and biting his bottom lip as he pants hungrily.

You kiss him again with a slick smile, and his big hands find their way onto your face. His fingers stroking delicately and feeling your skin under the pads of them and trying to convince himself that you’re real.

“You are real, right?” He gasps as you suck on his bottom lip. His lips are soft and inviting and so full - especially that damned bottom one. Squidgy like marshmallows, so wet and juicy.

“I’m as real as you want me to be, baby.” You growl sucking his lip harder.

“Mmph, fuck…” He gasps. "It's just, this one time, I got really high and fucked a woman that lived in my mirror. This is happening, right? We’re going to have sex?”

“Yes, Dieter. We’re going to have sex. And I don't live in your mirror.”

“And you definitely want to have sex with me?” He checks. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“No,” you giggle.

"Good, good." He kisses you again, groaning wildly.

It suddenly gets extremely hot, like the plane has just dive bombed right into the sun and Dieter feels it on the back of his neck and down his back.

You can hear murmuring behind the curtain and it’s the familaral snark of the stony faced steward. You quickly take his hand and seal you both inside the nearest toilet cubicle.

You flick the latch to lock the door behind you; his hands are reaching for your waist as you kiss him hungrily on the lips.

You both clatter backwards; the back of your calves hitting the base of the toilet and him keeping you steady as you lose your balance for a second.

You’re both gasping around your kiss; you’re tugging at his oversized cardigan, and running your hands up under his t-shirt, feeling his paunchy stomach underneath your fingers as they run amok over his skin.

His hands are doing the same, squeezing around your hips and under the back of your shirt before he comes to the front and begins to unbutton it slowly.

You break away from his lips; looking down at his fingers shaking profusely as he does it, his tongue out concentrating on the task.

“Are you okay?” You ask, tilting his chin up to you.

“Yeah. Um…” he drops his hands and sighs. “It’s just, you’re so fucking hot. And I'm... not.”

"Yes you are."

He shakes his head. "I'm a mess, baby."

"A hot mess." You say.

He looks as if he’s about to cry when he stares at your chest as you open your shirt to reveal your bra to him.

Imagine his excitement when it’s one that hooks together in the front and not the back.

“Oh my God, your tits are fantastic!” Dieter wheezes from the back of his throat, beside himself. “May I?”

You nod, giggling, as he gulps and runs his hands all over your breasts, squeezing and massaging them, before slipping his fingers around the clasp and freeing you.

He begins feeling out your nipples that are wide awake under his rough fingertips; pinching them and twisting them gently. Teasing them and causing the utmost carnage between your legs as he does it.

He can only stare like a dimwit as they heave out; the teenage boy in him having a fit as though he’s seeing mammary glands for the first time in his life.

Look, Dieter. Boobies... heheheee!

You gasp and throw your head backwards as his digits run amok over those erect buds, and he kisses and nips at your neck avidly like a hungry vampire.

You reach out your hand and steady yourself on the sink as he kisses down your collarbone towards your cleavage. He sucks on one of your nipples and you can see him doing it in the grimy mirror too.

Dieter Bravo has my fucking nipple in his mouth! Jesus Christ…

His mouth is suckling enthusiastically, as he groans and pants, and the pull of it, his tongue flicking against it, feels incredible, like electric tingles pulsing through them as he nips on them gently between his teeth.

A delicious throbbing begins to take place inside your clit, making it ache profusely, and your pussy is having a panic attack and breathing into a brown paper bag - completely over-hyped and overwhelmed.

“Mmm.” You whine.

“Are you enjoying that?” He asks, eagerly. "Is it nice?"

“Yeah, baby. Feels so good when you play with my tits.”

“Fuck,” he gulps, giddy and starts to grin.

You smirk, biting your lip.

"What else can I play with?" Dieter asks, giddy somewhat.

You run your hands through his already messy hair, tugging it lightly, as he does the same heinous act to the other nipple, and looks up at you with blown mesmeric eyes as he murmurs contentedly around your nipple.

“Mmm, Dieter.” You mouth to him. “I need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm, I need to feel your big, fat cock fill me up, baby.”

“Want me giving it to you?”

“Yeah. Want everyone to hear you make me scream as you pump me full. Let me go back out there with your come dripping down my legs.”

“Oh… Shit. You're naughty, aren't you?" He grins.

"Bad to the bone, sweetie." You smirk.

He then kisses slowly up your clavicle like a snake slithering towards you, hypnotising you in the process with wide pupils and a crooked grin, heading back towards your mouth where he swamps you again.

“I-I need a minute.” Dieter says, pulling back.

You reach down and grope his swollen cock over his pants, rubbing and jerking slowly as you swallow his moans that intensify around your tongue as you pump.

He whines, shuddering, hips bucking into your grip enthusiastically before stalling with a heavy grunt.

“You okay?” You query, bemused.

“Yeah I just… I might’ve…” he looks a little sheepish and embarrassed.

“Did you just come?” You ask, stroking through his greying, fluffy hair and he pushes his forehead to your chest and groans loudly.

“Hey, it's alright. It’s kinda hot actually.”

“Is it?” He winces.

He pulls his pants down and his thick cock is sticky and covered in himself. He's still half hard and you can work with that.

You push him back gently so he’s sitting on the toilet, seat down. “Show me.”

"What?"

"Show me the mess you've made." You prompt.

“I’m sorry… this doesn’t usually happen.” He lies. It happens all the time, especially when he’s half cut. Which is, you know, all the time.

“Sssh, baby. Let me take care of you.” You crouch down between his legs, pick up his softening cock and place it between your tits.

"Can I suck it?" You ask licking your lips.

“Jesus Christ…” He groans, watching as you pump him with your breasts.

It squelches, his creamy ejaculate in the deep trench of your cleavage as his flush cock is massaged slowly back to life by your mounds.

"Fuck..." he groans, watching you.

"Oh, I would love you to, baby." Dieter gasps.

He holds his crumpled t-shirt up, revealing more of his soft tummy spread and slotted belly button, as you run your tongue up the hard length of him.

He whines out as he slides fully into your mouth. His hands are thrown up on the back of the wall behind the toilet, pressed flat as you hoover up his cock with intense grit.

He grunts out a fantastic noise that gives your scalp prickles as he fills your whole mouth with his length and girth, fully hard again.

His rolling eyes search up to the ceiling as his hips move in time with you as you slurp him up and down.

You’re taking him in further with each suck, and he can feel himself at the back of your throat, tickling against your uvula and gag reflex.

“Okay, we need to fuck or I’m going to come again.” He pants. “Please.”

“You’re cute when you beg, Dieter.” You say, tonguing over his head.

“I’ll get on my fucking knees on this filthy piss stained floor if that’s what it takes!"

You pull him up on his feet as the intense, wondrous feeling travels the length of his cock.

He slips his hand between your legs and slides his fingers across the slit of your pussy; feeling how wet you are before he pushes two of them up inside you. Although, wet is an understatement; it’s like a tsunami has just hit.

Swirling his thumb over your clit, you gasp, feeling those fingers, thick and wriggling, in the slick oil inside your fleshy walls. You moan out as he begins sucking on one of your nipples again.

“Fuck, you’re soaking all over my fingers.” He groans as he pushes them in you deeply.

"Mmm, it's all you, Dieter." You see him blush and it makes you soar. "You're so hot."

"I am?"

"Yeah. So fucking hot."

The feel of his fingers furrowing inside you makes you dizzy and weak. You reach for his cock and pump him slowly inside your hand.

His mouth is like an engulfing vortex that you’d happily dive into, and be cast off into oblivion forever. A deep choking is felt in your throat as you gasp out around his pert lips, struggling for breath.

"Let me fuck you, how shall we do it?" He whines.

You smirk and simply sit him down on the lid again, straddling him and sliding down onto that bulging cock of his.

You both groan out as you slip yourself over him and begin riding him slowly and deeply.

He utters out a deep, guttural groan inside your ear.

Despite him being a bit of a mess, his cock is impressive as you feel it bottom out.

“Fuck, Dieter!” You gasp as he utterly fills you up to the point that you’re the fullest you’ve ever been. That feeling you get when you’ve had way too much fucking pie and if you move you might split and spill out the sides.

"Damn, you have a big cock, baby." You grin at him.

“Oh God, this pussy is so tight.” Dieter whines.

You’re snug, tight fitting around him; pinching slightly, but you will yourself to sit all the way down on him - wanting every inch of him - and rocking your hips around him in a steady rhythm. Round and round, and up and down…

“Shit…” He puffs and you can see him clench.

“Don’t come, Dieter.” You warn gently. You’re nowhere near close yet.

He blows out through his cheeks. “I… fuck. Feels too good.”

“Don’t. Come. Dieter.” You repeat, working a little harder, feeling your clit rub deliciously in the bundle of fuzzy hairs at the base of him.

“Please…” He whines.

You shake your head as you whine.

“Please baby, let me fill you up.”

Dieter utters out a small groan again to you through his puffy lips. You can’t abnegate yourself away from biting down hard on the bottom one, and sucking it between your lips.

“Not yet. Hold onto it.” You instruct.

"I can't, fuck-"

You pinch his nipples, hard. "Yes. You can. Hold it, Dieter."

“Ah, ow!” He whines as you feel his fingers dig into your hips.

He smirks at you as you kiss him again as you wind yourself up and down on him whilst he grabs and gropes at your ass and moves you around on him too.

The sounds from the wetness of your cunt sliding up and down on his cock can be heard around the toilet cubicle like fine music, your mutual gasps leading the vocals.

“Does that feel good?” Dieter croons to you as you whine and mewl around him. “My cock inside you, hmm? Am I doing good, baby?”

You nod and smile at him. “So fucking good.”

He kisses your breasts again as you lean back; your hands on his broad shoulders fisting inside the wool of his cardigan. His own large hands supporting your back.

After a few minutes, he stands up with you and sits you on the cold metal sink, pushing his dick up into you faster.

“Aah fuck, Dieter!” You cry out and then realise that it’s probably too loud and wonder if anyone in the cabin has heard it, as you both enrol in membership at the Mile High Club.

Dieter fucks you harder; moving in and out of your pussy with the rolls of his hips like he's winding a hula hoop around his waist; looking down and watching himself do it too. Seeing your sticky juices coating his dick in a slick honey and making it squelchy good.

“Fuck me harder, Dieter. Don’t come.” You rasp to him.

“You want it hard?” He wheezes. “Turn around, baby.”

He’s pushing you forward as far as the confined space will allow you to go over and enters you from behind.

“Oh shit!” You pant as he fucks you harder at your command.

“Like that? Is this how you want it?"

You can feel yourself soaring; that intense, pleasurable moment where all the building reaches its peak and starts to spill over. Unwinding like a coil, snapping back like an elastic band; a nuclear bomb destroying a small city.

He can see your face in the mirror; lips parted through your pants, eyes staring back at him as he fuck you into high Heaven. At thirty-seven odd thousand feet, you’re not that far off from it, to be fair.

"Oh God... fuck, baby! I can't hold on much longer!" He pants. "Your pussy feels too good."

“Ah yeah!” You mewl through a long, drawn out gasp, coming hard as fuck. “Come for me, Dieter!”

Dieter’s orgasm face is legendary; eyes rolling so far into the back of his head like he’s been possessed by demons. His mouth is making a small O as he sucks in hisses and breathes out grunts slowly through his bliss.

“Fuck, I’m coming, baby!” He splashes out inside of you, filling you up with that hot, salty goop, and it’s already beginning to drip out the sides of your pussy as you come around him. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Waiting for the delicious cream pie when he slides out of you and watches as his ejaculate sluices down your cunt.

A few slow thrusts and twitches as he empties out, and Dieter leans forward and trails tired kisses up the side of your neck; coming down from the high and feeling that his legs are now shaky, unsteady stalks.

“We just had sex,” you can hear him smirk and chortle inside your ear.

“We did.” You agree.

“We just had fucking hot sex in the sky.” He sighs and his weight feels heavier against you.

You giggle as he nuzzles into you.

"You're really beautiful, fuck..." he says, gazing at your reflections in the dull mirror.

He reaches into his pocket for your panties after you clean yourselves up.

"So are you." You kiss his scruffy cheek as he blushes.

"No. Really?"

You nod. "A beautiful disaster."

He hums into your shoulder and plants a row of smooches there to bloom into something pretty.

“Keep them. Early Christmas present.” You say.

He kisses over your face eagerly and growling as you giggle again.

"I like that sound." Dieter says into your face.

"I like some of the sounds you make, too." You smile, kissing on his nose.

“Ladies first…” He gestures to you after a few more minutes of canoodling.

“You just want to look at my ass.” You whisper to him as you unlock the door.

“It’s like you know me so well already,” Dieter remarks, smirking.

He simply grins at you, and you’re not wrong. He remembers squeezing those cheeks as you rode on his cock and it makes him giddy at the recall.

Dieter slips back into his seat breathing out and relaxing.

You slip out of the toilet cubicle first, making sure the coast is clear, before he follows a few minutes afterwards. Taking some time to adjust his messy hair in the mirror and smirking to his own reflection.

You called him beautiful, and he can't stop his pink cheeks from pulling tight into a jaw aching beam.

“Must’ve been some fucking piss, man.” David says from the adjacent seat.

Dieter simply grins wider.

The plane touches down at Lynden Pindling International Airport in the Bahamas a few hours later, with a bumpy landing that rattles Dieter’s stomach to the core.

He’s slept a little, and that makes him feel worse somehow. At this point, he certainly looks like he’s been snorting drugs all night as he blinks through wretchedly dry eyes.

With his bag, he makes his way down the aisle towards the open cabin door, but lingers as he spots you in the galley.

You turn to see him, bent over as you zip up your case and he’s staring at your ass smirking, knowing that your panties are still bunched up in his pocket.

“So…” He says, sunglasses back on and fumbling around his words.

“So.” You echo, standing upright. “Don’t be weird, Mr Bravo.” You muse and he laughs.

“I’m not. Sorry. Sorry.”

After a few, heavy lingering moments you speak first. “I guess this is goodbye, then?” You say.

“I guess.” Dieter says, with a frown brewing, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and pouts.

“Listen, this is dumb and I’m expecting you to say no, but I have a two day layover before I have to fly back and I’m staying at-”

“Yes!” Dieter interrupts.

You baulk.

“I mean, carry on.” He says, smiling.

You laugh. “I was going to suggest maybe you’d wanna buy me dinner?”

“Well, we can start with dinner. And more sex.” You clarify.

“Sure. I’d like that.” Dieter nods, smiling. “I’d kinda do anything for you right now.” He mumbles bashfully.

"Anything, huh?" You quip with a smile.

"Anything." He reiterates, nodding.

“Fuck. Yeah. Definitely more sex.” He nods like his neck is broken and can’t stop.

He walks down the steps off the plane after you, and Dieter spots another Christmas tree twinkling in the terminal, and thinks that this might be a good fucking Christmas after all.

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #dieter bravo x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo the bubble #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #christmas stories #jett's writing

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thesharktanksdriver · 6 months

Text

Determination! to where the sand blows and where the heart goes (platonic)

Made this for foreshadowing and fun

Decided to do a poem kinda format just for experimenting and symbolism

The next determination! Will take awhile to come out due to my finals coming up so I made this instead.

Wish me luck yall

Once upon a time, a long….Long time ago, Mother spoke of sand

She grew up on a sandy island you know? A large one where water was scarce and rain was a blessing.

She said that the place was beautiful but she never quite felt at home there.

She never was one for the sandy dunes that was the ever-expanding horizon

Sand

Golden particles in the hundreds of millions scattered on the ground, piling up to the size of castles and threading through the air.

“Sand is the crushed up hopes and dreams of wanderers” she told you one day at the beach.

Said material pooling her hands before she let it slip between her fingers and scatter back on the ground.

The golden dust sparkling in the sunlight as she continued.

“It’s uncaring and apathetic to our cries. It’s both soft and course, it’s terrible and it’s beautiful”

As you walk the desert you reflect on her words and find the truth in them

You remember a spring island with sand as soft as flour beneath your feet but now the sand you walk on scorches you’d soles.

Sandcastles were fun but not climbing a mound of sand as big as a castle is a chore.

Your throat is parched and your skin is burned and rubbed bare

Hands coated in sweat that stings your cuts

Despite being in the dunes of shattered hope you keep moving forwards

Down into a valley

Down into the depths of a cave that you instinctually somehow know better than your childhood home.

You can’t even remember that house

You can’t call it a home anymore

It’s forgotten to time and your mind

The open world is your home now

The sea is your bed in which you lay

Ever Drifting

Ever dreaming

This place is made of sandstone and dust and ancient ideals

Intricate carvings decorates the tomb, blood, sweat and tears clearly poured into the effort of doing all of this.

Of chiselling into the stone that leaves their lungs stocked up in dust that chokes them

Of planning out the entire piece that all 4 walls and ceiling connect to one another in artistic harmony

Of using precious stones, diamonds, rubies and sapphires to be set in place to represent the stars

It’s all too beautiful to describe as you slither deeper down into this place

This temple to a god unknown to you (but your not unknown to them)

Glowing stones Illuminate this place

Made into the shapes of 4 pointed stars on the walls that guide your path

You don’t notice they fizzle out behind you as if your the activator of their light

You don’t notice a lot of crucial things in this place

Like for instance why you know which tiles are meant for traps and you don’t see the writing quite literally on the walls that you would understand despite the fact you’ve never seen that language before.

But it doesn’t matter

It makes things more funny for them in the end

Knowing how so much was presented to you but you stubbornly ignored it because of your determination to continue onward

It’s why they liked you

Why they chose you

Why it was fate

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves here, you continued forwards

Deep deep down the spiders thread you go

Whirling and twirling down into the abyss

Will you reach the end?

You don’t know

Not when hawks could snatch you up at any moment in the dark

But your accustomed to that fate

Of having your little spider legs cracked and snapped in half before getting up again

It’s what you did best

So you keep twirling down your web

Descending deep down

The only light being provided by the stones that shine like the glint of silk

Keeping going down the rabbit hole little spider

And see where it goes!

Will you find time?

Or will you find peace of mind?

It doesn’t matter in the end

Not after all your journeys so far

Time is a loop and you’d see it countless times so far

But that’s fine in the end

Perhaps you’d have it no other way since you get to see and meet new friends

So keep going little spider

Deeper in the dark

Fight your fear and shine bright with your spark

Keep going little spider

Or rather Little pearl of the sea with great big starry eyes

You shoulder the world like atlas but why?

You are but a child in mind, body and soul yet the years fly by and you say your not anymore

Things will change little spider who weaves the fate of everyone but their own

Little pearl In the great big sea that floats amungst the waves

Little spark of a match that lights the flames of the revolution

Little hope for the hopeless sinners who pray for redemption

Little star In the night sky that shines the brightest despite its size

Your eyes trail up to a statue at the bottom of the temple, alone and barren in the golden sand that pools around it

And in yellow glowing stone read

“Bright little one, don’t become like the sand you tread. Stay strong. Stay determined little starcatcher”

And you wake up, eyes hazily staring up at the rocking ceiling of wood as your hands clutch at the feather duvet that shields you from the gnawing cold. You blink….and you blink again as you slowly rise and get out of bed.

Everything feels surreal even as you eat breakfast as the men around you all hustle and bustle with talking and drinking. You pick at your food, fork stabbing into a piece of strawberry whilst your eyes stare down blankly at it.

Your still not fully there after that Dream, how can you be?

With a sigh you finally take a bite, you don’t taste the sweet juice of the strawberry coat your mouth, you taste nothing. Just mush you chew down on to make into more mush that you swallow down. You barely feel like you can stomach it, barely feel like you’d should’ve gotten out of bed at all.

It feels like your energy was drained in both a literal and mental sense.

Like everything was sucked out of you and spat out.

Like-

“You alright there little captain?” And like that your brought back to reality as the familiar sound of Roger makes your head snap up. He’s sitting beside you, the usual joyful smile replaced by one of wordy as you stare up at him.

He already knows the answer

He can read you like an open book or the palm of his own hand

But he still asks to see if you want his help

Need his help

Lazily you shake your head. You can’t bother to put in the effort of doing much more and he understands whole heartedly. To be honest he’s surprised your not like this all the time considering all you’ve been through.

He smiles and it reminds you of the sunshine from just rising above the horizon line. Beautiful and bright and joy and warm and understanding.

Your lifted into his arms without needing to ask.

His arms cradle you and the world seems to disappear. Safety and security wrap around you like a blanket, warm and cozy as you seem to melt into his hold. He laughs, jolly and loud in the way that makes you smile as he peers down at you with worry and care.

You fall asleep in his arms and wake up in his cabin tucked away on a fainting couch. Head cushioned by plush tufted velvet as you burrow into the warmth of it and the jackets draped over your shoulders like a blanket.

You feel warm and safe

You feel….at home

Tired eyes gaze up to Roger who works at his desk, you smile and close your eyes once more

Missing his coughing fit then after.

#platonic #determination!#gol d roger x reader #one piece x reader

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a-guy-named-ben · 2 years

Text

Once upon a time, there was an enormous landmass called Pangea. Millions of years passed. Continents drifted apart. Single-celled life emerged from a biochemical soup. Photosynthesis arrived on the scene, and eventually, the tree of life began branching out. Prokaryotes and eukaryotes pursued different evolutionary paths.

Unfathomably, life began to organize, to become more complex. Multicellular organisms developed, exploited various ecological niches, and evolved. Early hominids descended from the trees, and as endless generations marched onward, one small branch of life became human. Civilizations rose and fell; millions battled, loved, experienced joy and terror.

Today, you sit there reading these words on an electronic screen. Tomorrow, you'll read more words on screens, and so on into the future, until eventually you die somehow.

Life will march on after you're gone. Your boss will hire someone else. Your descendants, if you have any, will gradually forget about you. You, like countless others before you, will be whisked away into the past.

So maybe chill the fuck out a little.

#chill the fuck out #geological time #multicellular life #random #good advice #parables

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1moreff-creator · 6 months

Text

Happy Birthday Rose Lacroix!

Except, don't shout it too loud, birthday girl is sleepy. Let's do the usual birthday analysis and song associations, but be quiet, she wants her sleep.

(Still her birthday in my time zone I win)

-Rose's backstory is revealed in Episode 5 of CH 2. Her family was poor, and to help with the financial situation, Rose started forging artwork. Thanks to her photographic memory and natural talent, she made a lot of money. However, at one point when she was 15, one of her clients left a trail leading back to her, and now she had to pay back ten times as much as she'd made, which was millions of dollars, for her actions. This would have ruined her family, of course.

-However, a philantropic organization named the Spurling Foundation, led by Richard Spurling, offered to pay her fines and clear her charges. The condition for this to happen was that any painting Rose made from that point onward would belong to the Foundation.

-Rose saw herself forced to take the deal, but it haunts her. She's extremely upset about not owning any of her art, of course, and so any time she makes an original painting, she makes sure to then cover it in black paint so as to not make anything for the Spurling Foundation without being asked. She doesn't regret the deal by her own admission, but she's not exactly happy with her life.

-This brings us to one of the main themes of Rose's narrative, which also happens to be one of the main themes of DRDT. The ability (or in this case, inability) to change and let go of the past. Rose is stuck paying back for the mistakes of her past for the foreseeable future. It's even expressed in her character design; her clothes are stained with paint, as her life is stained by the mistakes of her past. Her photographic memory, which allows her to perfectly recall anything she's ever seen to the tiniest detail, is another expression of the inability to let go of the past. The lack of change is also referenced in her secret quote: "In the end, the only thing I can do is watch my wretched life go on."

-Going back to her memory, while Rose has a flawless memory of everything she sees (see: noticing one sixteenth of an inch difference in her height), remembering things other people say isn't easy for her. She even forgot J's name that one time.

-Her memory situation is even referenced in the quote on Mai's page attached to Rose: "She remembers everything that is important to others."

-Speaking of J, according to Recap Foil Theory, J is a narrative foil to Rose. While J was born into wealth, her home life was still so terrible she wants nothing more than to separate herself from it. Meanwhile, Rose was born into poverty but (from what we see at least) loves her family, and while she's not happy with her situation, she seems to have accepted she can't run from her past. That's just the surface level stuff, there is definitely more to analyze there.

-Rose has admitted to having nightmares as a result of her memory, since reality, memory and dream tends to blur together in her mind. It's part of why she chose not to look at the second chapter crime scene.

-She has numeral II (2) in the David MV, connected to the phrase "Ego cogito ego (turbatus) sum".

This is a play on the phrase "I think therefore I am" (Ego cogito ergo sum), a phrase which implies the only thing we can be truly sure of is our own consciousness, which fits the aforementioned "nightmares and reality mixing together" thing.

However, the addition of 'turbatus' changes the meaning to something closer to "I think, therefore I am disturbed", which also fits how horrifying Rose's thoughts can be.

-According to some (read: mine) versions of color theory, she gets the word "world" in the David MV.

Because... you know what just go to the 2:25:03 time stamp of this video I made I am not talking about this fucking MV any more than I have to.

-She can do a pull-up, but only if there's grippy tape on the pull-up bar. She strong :O

-Her birthday (November 29th) falls on Electronic Greetings Day, National Evan Day (???), and among other things, the International Day of Solidarity with the Palestinian People. I know I don't talk much about this kind of stuff in my blogs, but Free Palestine.

Fun facts!

-As per her profile, she likes sleeping and dislikes conversation, though we already kinda knew that.

-She has two moms (Iris and Holly), an older sister (Daisy) and a younger brother (Saffron). Yes they’re all named after flowers.

-Like most DRDT characters, she's American, right-handed, has no confirmed sexuality, and her hair color is natural.

-She smells like paint and chemicals.

-She likes "food that is filling (because she often forgets to eat)." :(

-She prefers wearing clothes which are eccentric and colorful, but not delicate.

-Her favorite ice cream flavor is red velvet.

-Her favorite color is lilac because she likes subdued colors. She doesn't have a least favorite color because they're all useful in the right situations.

Songs!

+Exorcism by CreepP

+Echo by Crusher-P

+Those Who Carried On by Ghost & Pals (fun fact, according to Spotify Wrapped I was part of the 0,1% most frequent listeners of Ghost & Pals, with 6531 minutes of play time. So a normal amount)

+In Iolite by Ghost & Pals (I don'y know if I've mentioned it, but this might be my favorite song ever if you're curious)

+DEATHBODY by Ghost & Pals (or it’s this one. One of the two)

+Marionette by KIRA

+End-World Normopathy by Ghost & Pals

+Two of a Kind by Ghost & Pals (okay I'm seeing why I'm top 0,1% for them lol)

+Dune/Sand Planet by HACHI

+Hyperdontia by Ghost & Pals (Reason: Memories theming go brr)

+The Dream Granter by Vane Lily (if you twist the story a bit it kinda fits with the singer being Spurling)

+Entomologists by Ghost & Pals (vibes)

+Piece of Art by KIRA (vibes and title, the actual lyrics don't have much to do with anything)

And Happy Birthday! A capella please, we don't want to make too much noise. Take care!

#drdt #danganronpa despair time #rose lacroix #character birthday #sorry if this one’s shorter than usual

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theageofcaravel · 8 months

Text

Rose-Coloured boy. - Jamie Tartt x F!reader

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

MASTERLIST

Chapter II: Lovely to Sit Between Comfort and Chaos

Plot: Jamie Tartt and Y/N have been best friends since primary school. The pair had fallen out once graduation hit, both of them going their separate ways; Jamie finally kicking off (pun intended) his football career, and Y/N finally walking through the doors of her cinematographer career. One day, they cross paths in the corridors of Nelson Road, Y/N getting the assignment to make a mini docuseries of one of the football clubs in England, hers being AFC Richmond.

Set during season 2 and onward.

warnings: swearing, mentions of food and alcohol, parental issues, very light angst, some fluff(?)

word count: 4,2k

an: another chapter out WOOHOOO!!!! !! thank you guys for all the love on the first chapter, it seriously means SO MUCH!!! The italicised parts are basically a background synopsis! I was also thinking of making a cast list so you know what I had in mind with the characters that I added in 'n stuff!! I have a master post that has a Pinterest board with visuals and pictures of like 4 additional characters (Bee, Libby and two new characters that are introduced within this chapter <3) but I think it would be rather fun to make mood board for each of the added cast members or something!! Let me know <3!! I also wrote this half-awake and have not proof-read it. ANYWAY, ENJOY ILY!!!!! <3

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

“Alright, just sit like that,” you told Sam and fixed the collar on his shirt, in which he responded with a smile and a thumbs up. “Okay, so, first question,” you looked at him and nodded promptly, “what exposed you to the world of football?”

The rest of the day went like that, all of the boys getting a plethora of different questions and them all answering dutifully and happily. Jamie, of course, opted for last. “It's saving the best for last.” he told you with a hand patting his chest and a sly smirk plastered on his lips “God, you’re intolerable.” you told him and he laughed.

That cocky bastard. That cocky bastard whom you’ve known since you were little, the one who just magically popped into your life when you needed it, the one who would let you sneak through his window late at night because your mum and dad had another argument, the one who was with you every step of the way after your parents inevitably divorced, the one who would help you with Libby whilst your mum was away at work, the one who left you as an afterthought once you guys graduated, the one who would read your texts and then turned the read receipts off, the one who had probably a million deleted voicemails from you while you were drunk or when … Yeah, that cocky bastard. Yet, seeing him again just made it seem like the last parts never happened. It was easy to forgive and forget, especially once you really gave up on your friendship, but you knew that there needed to be some reprimanding every now and again to get it through his head that if he thinks you can truly be friends again, he needs to get his act back in check.

You heard about what happened when he left Richmond to go to Manchester United a year ago, and while it made you excited that he was finally back, he never reached out to you or mentioned to you that he was back. You heard from his mum, Georgie, who was practically like a second mother to you. It aggravated you just a tiny bit that Jamie wasn’t the one who told you anything, but at least his mum cared enough. You weren’t in London until recently, you transferred your credits in the middle of your second year and that's where you met Beatrice, or Bee. Your life changed after that, you met some of the coolest people you could ever meet.

“‘Ello? Earth to Y/N?” Jamie asked, his brow raised. Apparently whilst you were packing up the room, you were hyper focused on a box and never moved for at least 3 minutes. “Y’lost in thought there, dollface?” he quipped, the nickname made you whip your head toward the other who had a grin on his face.

“Oh, god. I haven’t heard you call me that since college.” shaking your head, you picked up the box and set it away to the side. “But I guess y’could say that or somethin’.”

“What’s it you were thinkin’ ‘bout, hm?” he inched toward you and you placed a hand on his shoulder. “Mostly jus’ silly things.”

“How do you mean?”

“Forgiving and forgetting is a strange happening, Mister Tartt.” you paused with a shrug of your shoulders, “especially when we’re gettin’ close again ‘cause of a project I was assigned for uni. Or attempting to.”

“Attempting to?”

“Mhm, it's weird havin’ you back in my life, Jamie.” you turned your full body to him, “but thats no matter, right? Said I was an adult and can get past all that ignorin’ me business because now you can’t do that.” with a chuckle, Jamie shrugged.

“How could you be so sure?”

“‘Cause you promised and you’re not one to break a promise, now are you?” you squinted at him and pointed to your pinky basically reminding him of a few weeks ago.

He nodded, “Suppose y’re right there, Y/N.”

“‘Course I am, I always am.”

“Alright, don’t get all cocky on me now.”

“You’re one to talk.” you said, sticking your tongue out. Jamie shook his head and began to walk out the door before turning toward you again.

“Y’doin’ anythin’ for lunch?” he asked and you nodded in response. “Yeah, got plans with the friends. They came here on our day off to see what the hype was about ‘n all.”

“Oh, that’s fun. Sounds like a good time.”

You nod, “yeah, would’ya wanna join? Unless if theres something you’re doing thats super important after lunch?” you tilted your head and he shook his head.

“Nah. s’a half day for us.” He replied, you replied with another nod of your head.

“So..” you began, looking at him expectedly, “you taggin’ along or not? M’sure Bee ‘n Mick would love some insight from someone that basically lives here. Me included.” flashing him a hopeful grin, he sighed.

“Don’t see why not.”

“Wicked! Lets go.”

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

Hey! Jamie is gonna tag along.

Hope thats okay?

Told him that it would be good to get insight from someone who lives here.

Get the whole tourist experience.

Pressing send on the last text, you turned to Jamie and smiled.

“You’re gonna love Bee, I promise.”

“Why’re you reassurin’ me?” he asked, brows knitted together.

“Dunno, thought you’d need it.” you shrugged and looked at your phone when you heard Bee’s special ringtone; the sound of, well, a bee.

“S’that her ringtone?” Jamie asked and chuckled. You nodded and looked at the texts she sent back.

Oh, GOOD!

That’s brilliant actually, cos I can finally kick his ass

Joking, of course

But yeah that sounds perfect

Didn’t really know what you’d show us anyway, since you haven’t really been here… you know

JOKES again!!

You rolled your eyes and stopped in your tracks to respond to your bestest friend in the whole world.

Riiiight.

I could, you know, leave you lot stranded if I really wanted

But fortunately for you, m a good friend.

Hence why I asked Jamie to join.

Where are we meeting again?

You set your phone back into your pocket when Bee texted back with the designated location you had all agreed on earlier this morning in the groupchat.

“Alrighty, so, Bee said that we should meet at The Crown and Anchor.” you said, basically making your statement come out as a question.

“Hm, yeah, that’s a good place to meet up,” he nodded and walked into the locker room and you stayed back waiting for him to change out of his kit.

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

“Right, let's go then, shall we?” Jamie asked, walking out of the room, his bum bag strapped over his torso. You nodded and slung your jacket over your shoulders. You both walked toward the doors, Jamie jogging ahead of you to open the door.

“Ever the gentleman.” you said and scrunched your nose at him, he bowed his head in your direction. You waited for him before he stood beside you, “how far is the walk from here?”

“Uhhh, dunno. We won’t need to walk, though. I got me car keys.” Jamie opened his bag and pulled the latter out. “See?”

You blinked, “right, forgot you drive here.”

Following behind him, you watched as he walked up to a cherry red Plymouth Fury. Your jaw practically fell to the floor, “holy shit, this is yours?!” you practically squeaked. You looked up at Jamie who had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“This thing has a name.” he said and unlocked the gorgeous car. You blinked and opened the door on the passenger side.

When you were younger, probably year 11, give or take, you and Jamie were having your weekly late night at your house. You both opted to watch a horror movie, which was usually the thing you guys would choose. Even if it was one you both have already watched together. He thought it was funny when you’d get scared and cover your eyes haphazardly with your hands, still peeking through your fingers. This specific night, you guys chose one about a possessed car.

“It better be Christine or somethin’, ‘cause if not I’m afraid you’re gonna have to rename it.” you smirked at him and turned to him, reminiscing in the memory of watching the movie about this exact model of car.

“Psh, how could I not name her Christine?” he tsked and brushed his hand over the car’s dashboard.

“How did you manage to get the wheel on the right side? Ain’t this brand of car American or somethin’? And how the fuck did you, letalone, manage to even GET one?” You asked, practically bug eyed.

“Cost a hell of a lot of money, that’s for fuckin’ sure. They had to rewire it ‘n give it new parts ‘n such.” he said matter factly and you nodded, your mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. “Listen to how she purrs though.” he never got rid of the shit-eating grin on his face. He placed the keys in the ignition and set the car off.

You chuckled and smiled wide, “holy fuck, this is incredible.”

The brunet beside you nodded and pulled out of his parking spot, “she’s perfect, s’kinda hard to get her fixed sometimes though, s’pecially ‘cause Plymouth ain’t really a thing anymore.”

“Yeah, I bet. Probably costs an arm and a leg, too. But you probably don’t have to worry about the money situation much, seein’ how you’re a professional footballer ‘n all.” watching the other cars pass by, you admired the feeling of being around Jamie again, the smile on your face never leaving your lips.

“Y’said The Crown ‘n Anchor right?”

“Mhm.”

“Right.” he nodded and tapped his hand along the steering wheel.

You both sat in silence, listening to the hum of the 63 year old car and the low sound of music emitting from the stereo, it was comfortable.

“I’m excited for you to meet Bee ‘n Mickey,” you started and looked over at him, “Bee might reprimand you though..”

He looked over at you with an expression you couldn’t quite put your finger on; a mix of amusement and panic.

“She means well, I promise, but remember how you left me all those years ago? Yeah, might’ve said some stuff with a drink or two in my system.”

Shaking his head, “nah, s’good. I kinda figured, been preparing meself since we left the car park at the stadium.”

You chuckled at his remark and folded your arms across your torso. Soon you guys were parked on the side of the street. You quickly got out of the car and scanned for your two friends.

“Y/N!!” You heard Bee call, you turned your head toward the sound and beamed.

“Hi, egghead.” You said and walked up to them, Jamie in tow, “this is Jamie.”

“Holy shit, you’re Jamie Tartt.” Mickey chimed in, basically shadowing behind your best mate, the smile on his face only grew when Jamie nodded.

“That I am, so you’re a fan?” Jamie asked in his coy tone, which was soon interrupted by Bee squinting at him and he stepped back slightly. She pointed her index finger at him, “you.”

It was funny how Bee didn’t have to look up at Jamie, they were the same height. Bee was one of your tallest friends. You folded your arms across your torso waiting for whatever the girl was gonna say to your not-so-innocent looking ex-best friend. “Leave Y/N like you did again and no one on the face of this earth will ever hear from you again.” From the corner of your peripheral you could see Jamie practically gulp. Bee laughed, “I’m just fuckin’ with ya, mate. You did hurt her though, don’t do it again.” With a scared laugh Jamie looked at you with a ‘are you gonna do anything about this chick who just threatened my life?!’ look. You shrugged and shook your head.

“Your fault, not mine.” You chuckled and bumped your hip against his. “But this is just how she is, but you’re not the one to see the worst of her ‘Bee Sting.’ No one really is, but she is really good at giving the occasional, ‘I will thump you upside the head’ look.”

“Alright..” Jamie whispered and you shook your head.

“She’s tellin’ the truth.” Bee nodded and began to walk ahead of you, Mickey in tow.

“So, whos the good lookin’ bloke?” Jamie asked wiggling his eyebrows at you and you replied with an amused cackle and a shake of your head.

“That’s Mickey, Bee’s boyfriend.” You looked at him expectedly and he just nodded.

“Ah, makes sense. How long have they been datin’?”

“Oh, fuck, since the end of college I think, they’ve been together for as long as I’ve known them.”

“Cool.”

You nodded and walked into the small pub, the warm lighting making you feel all light inside.

Jamie was instantly greeted by the older lady behind the bar, “‘Ello, Mae!” he replied to her. The older lady asked if it was just him, in which he replied with a shake of his head. “Nah, with some mates.” he gestured to the three of you standing beside him.

“Well, any mate of Jamie’s is a mate of ours.” the grey haired lady told the group and you guys thanked her before finding a place to sit.

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

The rest of the afternoon went smoothly, Bee, Jamie and Mickey already had an inside joke when you had idiotically fallen for one of Bee’s stupid jokes. Jamie thought it was the funniest thing for the remainder of the time you were all together and for the life of him, would not stop bringing it up.

“Remember when you went to the loo and came back and Bee went –”

Before he could finish his sentence, the other two would giggle or you would playfully hit his shoulder, “Yes, Jamie, how could I forget something that happened to me earlier?”

You and Jamie both bid Bee and Mickey farewell, you all agreeing to hangout again together in the near future. It made your heart swell with how well Jamie fit in with your small group.

Your trio had quickly became a quartet.

“Will you need a ride home?” Jamie asked you when you hopped into the passenger seat.

“Nah, Frank will take me home and don’t think I could spend another 30 minutes with you.” You joked and he placed a hand over his heart in faux offence.

“Wowww, you wound me.”

You laughed with him when he started the car, the drive seemed only shorter this time.

“I’ll see y’tomorrow right?” Jamie asked you and you nodded.

“Mhm, but I won’t be here until the afternoon, gotta get anythin’ from my teachers that ain’t online and turn in anythin’ that I finished last week.”

“Alright, I’ll be here.”

You waved Jamie goodbye before hopping in the back of Frank’s cab.

“Evenin’, Y/N!” he greeted you with the widest smile, which you couldn’t help but mirror.

Your entire ride home was pretty much spent talking about your afternoon and the stories that unfolded during. Frank, of course, listened and added in his own stories of the day but mentioned how he wished that his friends were still lively like your group.

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

The next day couldn’t have come any faster than it did, you had an idea to run by the team, and when you did, they had all excitedly agreed to partake in the events.

“Alright, boys, how would you feel if I took you on a grand tour of my university? You could meet all of the teachers, maybe even have a little football camp of sorts? I could get the word out quickly and have the students bring along their siblings ‘n stuff?” you had asked and the boys, even the coaches had excitedly all gotten up and cheered at the top of their lungs.

“Alright, alright!” you intercepted their excitement and shook your head, “while I love your enthusiasm, this won’t take place until next week because of the game that you lot have on Saturday.” much to your surprise, the excited noises never ceased which only caused you to jump up and down.

“I’ll get the details out to you guys by tomorrow! I’ll talk to the dean and see any other ideas that she may have!” You clapped your hands together and soon left the locker room with the boys. They all chatted amongst each other happily, you listening closely to any of the conversations where your name was brought up.

Another day of filming more of their training, including what the coaches talk about on the sidelines. Unfortunately, the day had ended up turning hectic, more action than one single person could ever film had happened. You ended up having a shitty recording of everything that had occurred. The mics had ended up not working. You had to scramble around to get every perfect shot you could..

It was miserable.

You had ended up talking to Professor Loughty, who, per usual, listened to your insight and agreed. However, you were going to be paired up with a student that was a transfer from New York University. And while having a buddy from a school like NYU, you had no idea what they were going to be like.

Were they going to be full of themselves? Critical of your work? Not easy to work with?

“Hey.” an American voice spoke and you looked up at the taller boy in front of you. “I’m Caspar.” he smiled and reached his hand out to you. “Looks like I’m your new partner.”

You smiled back, automatically being drawn to whatever kind energy this guy possessed.

“Y/N.” you took his hand in yours and examined his features. He had long curly hair, just above his shoulders. He was sporting an older baggy sweater and a pair of corduroy trousers. His sneakers were old and worn down, but it suited him. “You already seem so cool?” you said, in a question, and he beamed.

“Thank you.”

You nodded and looked over at your professor, “does Frank know that he’s gonna have an extra person in his cab?” he responded with a nod. “He definitely should.”

With another nod, you slung your bag over your shoulder and basically grabbed Caspar by his arm, “alright, well, seeing that I’m headed back over to Richmond at,” a pause, looking down at your bare wrist, “well, now, I think it would be fit if I introduced you to the team!”

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

Whilst in the car, you had gone over what has happened so far and Caspar nodded attentively and added some insights on what he could do. It was already nice to have another set of hands to help, instead of having to beg one of the boys, mostly Jamie, to stay back and help you pack.

When Frank had pulled back into Nelson Road you waved the old man goodbye, your mood already 100 times better than the day prior. “Let me give you a mini tour and introduce you to Rebecca.”

Caspar nodded and followed behind you like a taller shadow. You showed him all around, basically doing the tour that Rebecca had given you; including all of the side comments about how disgusting some of the rooms were. When you had made basically a full circle, you knocked on Rebecca’s door and pressed your palm onto the door to open it up.

“Hi, Y/N!” Rebecca greeted and got up from her rolly chair. She wrapped her arms around you and looked over at the other presence in her room. “Oh, goodness, I’m so rude.” She pulled away and held out a hand for Caspar. “You must be Caspar? Your professor emailed me not too long ago talking about how you were going to join Y/N in the production process, which I think is brilliant.”

Caspar gently shook her hand and smiled at the way Rebecca was so welcoming, “well, I can’t imagine doing a job like this all by yourself, yet Y/N did it on her own for … how long?” he asked and turned to you.

“Almost three weeks now?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t handle that on my own.” the three of you chuckled.

“Have you met the boys yet?” Rebecca asked with her brows raised, she looked over at you. You shook your head and pointed to the door. “I was just about to introduce him to ‘em.”

“I see,” she nodded and pursed her lips, “between us three? They’re a lot to handle sometimes.”

“Amen to that, sister.” you said and waved Rebecca goodbye, “I’ll be back around for lunch?” you asked her and she replied with a thumbs up. You looked up at Caspar, “you’re joining, by the way, Cas. You’ll get to meet Keeley, she’s an angel sent from heaven.”

He smiled at the nickname and nodded his head, “sounds good to me, Y/N/N.”

You giggled at his reciprocation of nicknames and pulled him down the stairs and down the hallway to the locker room. “When I first came here, Rebecca told me that this room reeks of stinky men, and I have to agree, so just prepare your nose, yeah?” you said to him and he nodded with a salute of his hand.

“Got it.”

“Alright, you lot, you guys dressed?” You asked after you lightly tapped your knuckles on the door in an irregular pattern. The boys replied with preoccupied yeses and you waltzed in, “OI.” you said and their attention was soon yours. Much like how Rebecca had introduced you, you introduced Caspar and the boys had all greeted him. Except this time, no one had prior knowledge of who he was.

“He’s going to help me around here for the remainder of the time that I’m filming for you stinky boys.” You scrunched your nose at the last part and got a few shakes of heads and a thumbs up from Coach Beard.

“Well, welcome to the family, Cas.” Coach Lasso walked up to you both once the introduction was complete. The smile on Cas’ lips only seemed to grow.

“He gave me a nickname on my first day, too. Ain’t that right, Theo?”

“Exactamundo, Y/N/N.” Ted replied and you have him a high five.

“We’re very glad that you’re here.” Beard added in from the side and Roy only grunted.

With a crinkled brow at the thick-browed man, you bumped your elbow into Caspar’s side gently. “Don’t take it personally, just how he is.”

“Yeah, but the dusty old fart could learn a thing or two about human decency.” Jamie said walking up to you two while glaring at Roy. He stuck his tongue out at the older and then looked at you two. You both had goofy grins on your lips.

“This is Jamie.” you pointed to the boy who was wearing his headband, a few loose strands peeking out slightly. “Jamie, Casper.” you then pointed to the curly-haired boy. They both greeted each other and then after that, the rest of the team did their introductions to him. At that moment you decided to step away from the limelight and stand in the corner, beaming with how welcoming this team was.

“Hey.” Jamie said and sat down beside you.

“Hiya.” You replied and smiled up at him.

“Glad you have some help ‘round here, if I’m honest, yesterday was a shit show.”

You glared at him, “well damn, tell me how you really feel.” there was sarcasm laced within your words and Jamie shrugged when he realised that you were being playful and not taking any offence.

“Yeah, can’t believe you went this long without having some help.”

“Excuse me, I’ve had help.” you pressed your lips together in a thin line and then smirked. “‘Specially from you, Tartt.”

He blinked and shrugged, “guess you’re right.”

“I am, because it did happen.”

Jamie shook his head and leaned down to retie his boots. “Right, well, are you gonna be filmin’ on the pitch today?”

You shook your head, “not today, I was thinkin’ about goin’ over all of the things so far and whatever else we need to get with Cas.”

Jamie nodded and then stood up when Coach Lasso told everyone to head outside.

“See you later then?” he asked and you nodded, getting up yourself.

“Mhm, later, skater.”

Within seconds the whole team excited the locker room, leaving you and Caspar on your own.

“So? How does it feel?” you asked him and walked up to his side.

“How does what feel?” he asked, seemingly in a trance.

“Being welcomed into the ‘pack’ or whatever?” you internally cringed at your wording, but it caused a happy laugh to come from the male’s lips.

“It’s definitely nice. I feel like I’ve known at least a few of the boys for years.”

“Oh yeah, they’ll do that to you.” You responded and patted his back. “Alright, there’s some things that I wanna go over and if you have any additional ideas that you think would fit in with our schedule ‘n stuff just let me know, yeah?” you asked him as you both walked out of the locker room and down the hallway into your makeshift office.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Perfect!”

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊

TAGLIST: @jamietarttdodo @tortilla-maria1 @taytaylala12 @salgachode @skewedcherries @spiderywoo (IT WOULDNT LET ME TAG YOU IM SO SORRY!!! I CAN KEEP ON TRYING)

#jamie tartt #afc richmond #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt x y/n #ted lasso #rebecca welton #roy kent #Colin hughes #reader insert #female reader #richmond

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oneknightstand-if · 8 months

Text

FAQ

(That I just made up because there's no time for questions yet)

446,000 words for the first chapter?!?

(Damn, Tumblr insists on blowing up even small gifs into full size, huh)

I know, I know... that's not going to be sustainable unless we're aiming for the first 6 million word release in history. I'll be streamlining things more from this point onwards.

Is this a standalone or the first book of a series?

It's a series. The first book One Knight Stand will keep going until we finally complete that Lesser Circle of Seven (or die trying) but the apocalypse won't be over yet.

What is with all these wikipedia links in the game?

So I was going to have tooltips that popped up and explained things such as 'greaves' and whatnot like Twine games do… but oops, Choicescript doesn't have that capability. The closest I could do is include a link to a website that explained it.

I decided that wikipedia had the best chance of still being available years from now and have handy explanations to most things I was referencing (so I wouldn't have to chase after broken links when sites go down forevermore).

And then I just started running amok and linking to anything that the player might not know offhand. If you already understand the reference or have no further interest in it, please feel free to just ignore them.

How can I see the code for the game?

You can view the game code on my site the same way you do on Dashingdon just add /scenes to the end of the URL.

Do I need to know anything about King Arthur, Camelot, or random arthurian lore to play this game?

No, you don't need to know anything about it.

You can spend the whole game going "Who is Arthur? What's a Camels-a-lot? What am I even doing here?" as a legit strategy. (You can even play that way if you actually do know stuff about arthuriana.)

If you choose to be an in-game lore expert, it just means your MC is as likely to give an explanation as one of the other characters. However, anything important that the player needs to know will come up in the game itself.

You can also ask the other characters for info dumps on Camelot... and boy, will some of them give you (completely skippable) lore dumps all right.

Hey, this stuff that Merlin's saying about Camelot doesn't jive with what I know!

Maybe that's the difference between what canonically happened in One Knight Stand's backstory. Or maybe Merlin is just gaslighting you.

What's going on with Merlin's pronouns?

If Merlin's pronouns don't fit with the gender that you've chosen for them within the MC's speech or internal narrative, then that's a coding error (please report it).

If another character (say a little girl who's convinced that Merlin is Elsa) is using different pronouns for Merlin than what's expected, then that's simply how that other character is currently perceiving Merlin.

But what pronouns does Merlin prefer?

Merlin doesn't care what human pronouns you use for them. Out-of-universe I'll be using they/them for simplicity's sake (same reason I'll be using 'incubus' instead of typing incubus/succubus the entire time).

What's up with all of Merlin's kaomoji in their text messages and e-mails?

They're a fifth-century mage who's been sealed away for 1500 years... they're *trying*.

m(✿￣ｰ￣)m plz understand

Why are there so many Merlin questions in this FAQ?

I don't know, it just ended up that way. Probably because they show up in Chapter 1 and have a rather... complex... situation that needs warnings attached to it.

(✿≖ᴗ≖ )ゞ "Naturally, I'm simply the most intriguing member of this party."

Are all RO's available to all MC's?

Your MC won't be blocked from a romance due to gender or sexuality. At most you'll get a passing mention if you're not the gender that the RO usually dates.

There are certain *other* mitigating factors, however... for example not all RO's are going to be kosher with the Serial Killer MC (especially if said MC won't knock off with all the killings).

Also there is one modern day RO that is incompatible with a certain Camelot MC background.

Is there a lock-in point for romances?

No, there will be several points where you can initiate and break-off relationships with the various RO's (and know that the RO's can take take those on and off-ramps just the same as the MC).

You can also romance another character after breaking up with your current RO... but that's going to get tougher and tougher the more you do that.

Can we start a romance in Book 1?

Romances will proceed at a different pace depending on who your MC is romancing (and also on your MC themselves). For example Adrian will be friendzoning you through most of Book 1 for... reasons. Meanwhile, potential sex scene with Merlin in Chapter 3 if you're feeling particularly horny.

Do I need to romance someone to take part in their personal subplot?

No, you just need to be "close" to someone, either platonically, romantically, or otherwise to take part in their subplot. You'll also need to actually be physically present (which will not always be possible for everyone at the same time).

Is there any poly?

In the series, yes, but not in the first book One Knight Stand, as forming the triad will require developing a certain level of trust and loyalty between all three members. And right now everyone is too busy side-eying each other in suspicion at this point.

Thus, since the poly options won't appear until Book 2, saying who is involved would be a *spoiler* since it indicates who'll actually still be available for romance later in the series.

In general, there are three triads that will be available... one is male/male/MC, one is female/female/MC, and one is male/female/MC. Note that there is some overlap in the characters potentially involved in various triads since only a couple of the ROs are interested in this sort of thing.

What about options for flings and friends with benefits--

*points to Merlin*

So... Merlin the incubus as an RO. Can they be romanced monogamously? Can they be romanced asexually?

You can indeed romance Merlin and have them be emotionally monogamous to you as the partner they will always return to while everyone else is a (literal) snack.

But they can't be physically monogamous with the MC. They need to eat and being Merlin's sole food source would literally kill the MC in two weeks or less.

In fact, romanced Merlin is even more likely to seek out other food sources just to make certain that the MC is safe with them and that they won't get too hungry and accidentally eat your soul.

Merlin's nature as an incubus means their sexuality is highly integral to them, and while they will reflect back what their partner wants/needs from them, they are not naturally romantic. Basically if you're not having sex with them, then a high affinity MC is defaulting back to platonic friends.

These are things that are definitely going to be brought up in-game if you try to initiate a long-term romance with Merlin.

Will any other RO have problems with an asexual romance?

Nope, sex can be entirely avoided with all the other RO's, just choose the snuggle options instead of the sex options.

How explicit are we talking here regarding sex scenes?

You'll have the choice between fade to black and something rather more explicit but not full-blown porn. If anything rated higher than that gets included as a DLC option (not part of the base game) will depend upon how much (if any) interest there is in that sort of thing.

Can I romance the saboteur?

You can certainly *think* you are! (Note: This is not recommended for your MC's longevity)

Can I romance the 404 Error?

You can certainly *try*. (You actually have a better chance here than with the actual saboteur.)

Can I romance the dude in the elevator, that random paramedic, or some stranger walking down the street?

( ⓪ ᴗ ⓪ )

So there's only one traitor, right?

There may actually potentially be more than one depending on the MC's actions. But there's always that one particular saboteur present despite whatever else the MC may do.

Will the gender of my past Camelot reincarnation be the same as the one I've chosen in game?

No, there's no connection between your MC's current and past gender (or really their current and past *anything* since they're basically an entirely different person now).

There are four different backgrounds available for the Camelot reincarnation, 2 male and 2 female, so if you end up with a past incarnation you don't like at the end of the game, you can replay for one more suitable to your tastes.

Who are the potential past incarnations of the MC?

That's for you to find out! (No really, this is one of the major subplots of the game).

What is with all these grayed-out options?

Options will be grayed out if they conflict with a previous choice the player made if you haven't fulfilled the prerequisites for unlocking them.

An example would be the "I'm lying about my amnesia" option not being selectable if you didn't chose to have amnesia in the first place. (The exception right now is the fencing & book club choices... I just haven't written those routes yet).

If nearly *all* the options have been grayed out, then usually that's triggered by your fear or vice kicking in or because your MC is literally possessed (Congratulations!). You may want to work on that.

I'm here for the story and not for the trauma… what background choices are least likely to spectacularly blow up in my face later?

In that case, I'd suggest the Lab Technician job, the Imposter secret, Abandoned or Abused as your childhood, Lust as your vice if you're not planning to pursue a long-term relationship with a RO (Sloth if you are), either Heights, Snakes, Spiders, or Closed Spaces as your phobia, avoiding Luck as your talent & avoiding the Internet as your addiction, and finally having Adrian as your close friend.

Not saying that you can't make other choices during the game that'll set you on the path to Hard Mode, but these background choices have the mildest potential repercussions.

I want the full spectacular clusterf*ck experience here! What background should I choose?

The Wrath (Vice), Accident (Childhood), and Serial Killer (Secret) combo is always f̴u̸n̷. The "Lying about my amnesia" secret is also it's own brand of mindtrip as well.

Also, some other options include starting off as a Security Guard as your career, with Fear Itself as your phobia (blood or death are also 'good' options), Luck as your talent, the Internet as your addiction, and of course Adrian as your stalker because obviously we don't need any good relationships to fall back on when playing Among Us.

What is going on with the "lying about your amnesia" option?

What indeed.

If you don't like meta fourth wall breaks or otherwise heavily self insert, you might not want to choose that as your secret.

My MC's skin is pretty dark, is that demonic-bruise thing actually going to be seeable?

Since the bruise being perceivable is an important plot point, then no matter how dark your MC's skin is, that bruise is darker still even if has to become the abiding abyss of a black hole to do so. (I even described it as a black hole in some routes to cover my posterior.)

My MC is intrigued by this agenda of demonic conquest & people-eating and would like to subscribe to their newsletter. Can I join the other side?

Well... there's certainly some Dead Ends where you can do that!

Screw all these people and this forced quest! My MC wants to leave the group and this plot behind.

You can certainly do that. You'll die (since your MC is currently on the top of several different 'Kill on sight' lists), but you can do it.

At some point the MC will be strong enough that they can split from the group and frolic off into their own nonstandard ending adventures in the apocalyptic world while everyone else deals with the whole apocalypse plot thing. But you're nowhere near that point yet.

So the MC can die prematurely here, huh.

Yep, this game is horror-adjacent and you're being given a hundred save slots for a reason. I'll be inputting checkpoints as well once we come to that part. Hopefully Choice of Games will start allowing normal save points in the near future.

Also, please note that all the Dead Ends include clues towards the truth of what's going on here that may otherwise not be knowable, so they're not complete wastes of time. Also, they all give Achievements.

What is a Cloudcuckoolander etc?

Please see this post for all your cloudcuckoolander needs.

What is going on with the Changeling MC?

Please see this post for all your changeling needs.

OMG, what the hell is this monstrosity that is Merlin's Guide to Arthurian Lore?

We're playing Among Us/Werewolf/Mafia/etc here. You aren't getting any word-of-god lore directly from me. That'd be too easy.

All info about the One Knight Stand world will be filtered through the natural biases (and lies) of the characters involved in the game. Hence, Merlin's Guide to Arthurian Lore.

Feel free to read or ignore, as you like. (Also feel free to text Merlin back and tell them exactly what you think of that doorstop.)

So Why 'Among Us' in the description?

Obviously, it can't be officially marketed like that, but I thought that would be the most popularly recognized description for this type of situation.

I also considered using the OG Mafia or Werewolf instead, but I thought that might've confused people into thinking that there are actual gangsters and werewolves present in the game.

About those werewolves...

No comment.

Are there any guides available?

Here's a link to various guides & info posts available on the Choice of Games thread.

Escaping the Monster Under the Bed

Getting Excalibur Shards

Gaining/Avoiding Corruption

Potential Past Incarnations

Saving & Getting Pippa Killed

Potential Camelot Incarnations

My save slots keep getting stuck in the Status Menu! (or any of the submenus associated with it such as Messages/Inventory/etc)

Unfortunately, that's a common problem with Dashingdon games or any games that use the smPlugin.js save system (like One Knight Stand). You can't save the game directly after checking the stats menu (or any of the submenus associated with the stats menu such as Messages, Inventory, menu). If you do, that save will be permanently stuck in the stats menu for good.

So you either have to...

Save the game before checking the stats menu

After checking the stats menu move the game forward by at least one screen before saving. That means picking an option, hitting the 'Next' button or whatever is currently available in that particular game.

What the hell is going on with Gawain in Merlin's Guide to Arthurian Lore?

So, while I was plotting out One Knight Stand and deciding which version of Arthurian lore would be taken as the "truth" of the OKS world, I looked at Gawain and his five million wives and lovers (because if you were going to create a female OC back then, high probability she's shacking up with Gawain) and then I decided, yes, I'm going to make all of them canon.

The yandere. The other yandere. The one who dosed him with aphrodisiacs. That one who died of heartbreak because he couldn't figure out how to get back to her castle. The cursed baba yaga.

Merlin's cursed ex-lover. [insert Merlin screeching in the background about not having done any such thing] The fairy daughter of Morgana... and that other fairy... and this fairy too.

All of them.

Good luck, Gawain.

#oneknightstand #oks-info #faq

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sinisterexaggerator · 1 month

Text

Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 14

Explicit: Semi-slow burn, gratuitous smut /pwp, canon-typical violence, mildly dubious consent, angst, Tatooine Slave Culture.

This chapter: Flashbacks / nightmares, whump, mild-medical procedure involving a needle/dispenser and sedatives.

Word count: 5.3k+

Notes: It only took me TWO YEARS TO UPDATE. SORRY ABOUT THAT. I promise that I will try to update more regularly from now on.

[ Ao3 ] - [ Masterpost ]

《 Previous chapter ||

“Supposin’ us bein’ partners don’ mean nothin’,” Bane flippantly offered. Though feeling despondent, he masked it well. The two men were a lot alike in that respect; Bane hardly knew what went on inside the Mando’s over-complicated mind.

“You’ve learned everything there is to know, Cad. And what you don’t know, you don’t want to learn, even if given the opportunity.”

“What’s dhat even mean,” the Duros asked bitingly, throwing down the butt of his cigarra on the cold, hard ground. The two began to make their way, Jango sighing under the beskar helmet that hid his face, Bane trudging along behind, albeit slowly; he was freezing.

Vandor was an icy planet, located in the Sloo Sector of the Mid Rim, currently home to a target that had made his home in Fort Ypso, a snowy village that lay sequestered in the foothills of the Iridium mountains, only crossable by bridge. The wooden planks groaned under their feet as the pair of hunters ventured onward, Slave I left beyond its borders so as not to attract attention and give the game away.

“It means you are stubborn,” Fett returned, his voice carrying over the blistering wind. “Perhaps it is time for you to branch out on your own; be your own man. I am beginning to think I cramp your style.”

The Duros sneered, offended in more ways than one, fangs chattering even though he wore specialized gear meant to curtail the cold from leeching through to his very bones. “Says de man who don’ know when te turn down a job; if Ah had nips, dhey’d already be frozen off.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Jango informed him, his joke lost on the dour man. He wasn’t in the mood for Bane’s attitude, much less his complaints.

“As fer style, Ah got plenty, naht countin’ dhis ridiculous ‘fit ye’ made me wear.”

Bane frowned despite himself, feeling each minor movement of his facial muscles; they were stiff from the frigid temperature, the younger man desiring to find a place of warmth. At least his body glove was able to retain some heat, otherwise he was sure to succumb to this positively ridiculous weather within mere minutes, seconds.

“Fine; maybe Ah should leave ye te it dhen; wait in de ship, if yer so keen on gettin’ rid of me.”

Then, his sour expression deepened, Bane’s footfalls ceasing as he came to a full stop. “It’s ‘cause Ah don’ agree with ye, ain’t it.”

“It’s not your life, nor your decision,” the Mandalorian shot back without delay, unable to hide his bitterness. “I know what I want, even if you don’t.”

Bane braced himself, realizing this was about to become more personal than he had bargained for, Fett having never bothered to explain his motives. All Bane knew was he had won some contest, proving he was the best bounty hunter in all the galaxy—a title he assumed might one day rightfully be his.

Fett had trained him, after all. More than that; he had become his friend, his confidant. Bane might go so far as to think he even loved the man, though never voicing those sentiments out loud; he buried them, like everything else he felt.

Perhaps it was fear that kept him quiet. Fear, or maybe anxiety. They both lived in the same place—inside his chest. The chest that currently housed a heart beating furiously behind a wall of ribs, even as Bane reached out to touched Fett’s shoulder.

What he couldn’t understand was why he needed a million of himself; Jango would be tasked to train an army for an unknown benefactor, an army of clones.

The idea sent shivers down Bane’s scales. He understood there were credits to be made, and lots of them. But even so, this was a line Bane himself would never cross—playing God by ignoring ethics, by ignoring quandaries he thought might only come about in science labs. Not in the field; not in the relatively short life of a bounty hunter.

“Ah know what Ah want,” he muttered softly, “de one of ye.”

The Mando whisked around, batting his companion’s hand away. He could not see his face, but Fett’s annoyance easily radiated out beyond his suit of armor. He thought Bane would never understand his hatred for the Jedi; the duty he had assigned himself that consumed half his personality. “Come off it.”

Bane hesitated. The sky began to darken; he thought he had been to this place before.

“You’re a fool,”Fett’s voice, a low baritone, seeped into Bane’s ears, in turn causing the Duros to tremble. It was not out of the coldness of the weather, but the coldness of his words, that Bane’s body involuntarily shuddered, wide, red eyes blinking away flecks of snowflakes as they floated toward the ground; they were gossamer, each one intricate by its own design.

“But Fett-”

“Shut up,” the Mando cut him off. Something wasn’t right. Bane gazed around himself, even as Fett continued. “You really think I care about what you think?”

Bane stared at him, a wounded look taking over his already glum face. Even so, he thought to follow-up, wondering if he had said these words before. “Just dhat-”

Flames were birthed from blankets of white snow, shooting up as pillars of an all-consuming heat, Bane taking a step back as he watched the fire cast a shadow on Jango’s beskar helmet. Those little flecks, those tiny snowflakes, were now tendrils of hot ash, the icy ground nearby the bridge they stood on a carpet of dirt and soot.

“Ja-Jango?” Bane stuttered out; the man approached, deliberate, even as his voice rose in his anger.

“You are nothing to me, Cad. You are nothing.”

The fire blazed more luminous than a main-sequence star; the heavens were black as pitch and no sun shone; Bane heard another sound, this one the creak of weakening ropes as the Duros realized the bridge they stood upon was near to collapse. It was old, rickety, and the only way into town.

“You are not my friend, and you will never be my family,” Fett assured, his vehemence laced with mockery. The Mando laughed, dry, and borderline sadistic; it was out of character for him. Bane grimaced.

“Fett, we gotta go back!” Bane ignored his hurtful remarks, noticing the bridge was starting to sink and give beneath their weight and the onslaught of the flames. The youth would peer over the side, eyes set to broaden as he realized the mountain valley was now nothing but a pit of hellfire.

“You are weak; pathetic; worthless-”

“-stop it!”

“-just a frightened little boy.”

“Enough!” the Duros shouted; he could hear the panic in his voice. He cursed himself, wanting to be brave; wanting to prove to Fett that everything he said was erroneous, inaccurate – but he was right; Bane was frightened.

Suddenly, Bane had nothing below his feet, just a gaping hole and a river of bright flames. Fett was hovering; he had activated the thrusters of his jetpack; Bane aimed to do the same, pressing a button on his wrist gauntlet, except his boots wouldn’t fire; they sputtered and died out.

He kept on falling.

“Jango!” He heard his voice crack, Bane reaching out and up toward the Mando. The man only laughed that wry, cruel laugh, even as Bane fell to what he knew would be his death.

With hands grasping, arms flailing, and legs kicking erratically, Bane yelled one last time as his body was engulfed, swallowed by the void.

“Ah’m sorry!”

---

“Oh, no!” Todo 360 articulated. “I was afraid this might happen!” the droid verbalized in a mild state of panic. He began zooming around the room, peeking into cabinets and pulling out various tools, utensils, and medical implements. It appeared to Zulara that he might be looking for something in particular, so hurried were his movements in his haste.

“Can I help?” she asked quietly, though eager, not sure what was even wrong or what it was she would be looking for. The girl had been seated on the floor, tinkering with one of Bane’s fancy vambraces; it was sparking.

The girl glanced to the bacta pod where Cad Bane slumbered, but something was amiss; his eyelids twitched. She stood, then approached with caution, peering down into the coffin-like contrivance – that’s when she noticed.

The Duros trembled, the muscles of his face distorting into what looked like fear, then pain. His head shifted back and forth from side to side, though not awake. Zulara’s heart ached for the man.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, turning to stare at the frantic Todo. He was too busy in his search to hear her, muttering his many grievances and even a few expletives.

“Todo?” she asked again, the concern apparent in her voice. She stepped forward toward the little droid, tapping him gently on his tiny shoulder.

Todo whirled on her, having forgotten momentarily that she was even aboard the ship, Zulara noting she had startled him by the widening of his citrine eyes.

“Do not do that!” he proclaimed, immediately taking back up the search. Zulara’s lower lip quivered as she turned on her heel, refacing the injured man; he at least seemed calmer now, which Zulara pointed out.

“He’s stopped moving,” she whispered.

Todo zipped on by, a cool rush of air tickling her arm. He observed his master through the glass, a pane of two-inch thick transparisteel.

The droid sighed a human sigh, then rounded on his thrusters. He stared up at the girl, finally managing to find the time to give her a halfhearted story of some kind.

“When in the bacta pod, Bane’s subconscious is left totally unguarded! He is vulnerable to whatever it is his mind can conjure up, and I will have you know these things are not pleasant.”

“He had a nightmare,” Zulara stated, though the end of her phrase had a questioning lilt to it.

Todo nodded in assent, then added: “He has a lot of those, I am afraid.” He wondered if he should be telling all Bane’s secrets. Was this a secret? Nightmares were common among organics. He was unsure.

Zulara frowned at him, then looked down at her boots. She often had nightmares herself, a reoccurring one; the one where she was stripped from her mother’s arms by her drunken father; the one where she was ushered off like chattel into a life of slavery.

Her gaze returned to Todo once she had repressed that bit of sordid memory. “Will he be all right?” she questioned anxiously.

“You are humorous, human. Mister Bane has endured much worse. But I must find this pneumatic dispenser! It holds a sedative we may need; it is only a precaution.”

“You are going to sedate him?” Zulara asked, perplexed.

“Well, it is better than what Bane would do!” Todo scolded, continuing his rummaging. “I, for one, do not wish to suppress my memories, but in all likelihood Bane will hurt himself in this state, and he is already wounded.”

Zulara seemed confused. “What do you mean?”

Todo was becoming irritated. If this woman was not present, he could work in peace! Just who did Boba think he was, leaving her with him! Granted, she seemed to care about his master, but she was still a nuisance! Perhaps the droid was now beginning to understand why Bane called him that on limitless occasions - and when he meant well.

He started to have a change of heart, though his metal shell was empty besides his circuitry; his own thought process set him straight. Todo simply sighed again, though trying to be patient. “Mister Bane seems to think that libations will solve his problems. Why, ever since Boba Fett shot him in the head, he has never been the same!”

Zulara’s frown remained fixated, though deepening. She had heard this mentioned once before as they had dragged Bane inside his ship. Why would the man that had helped to rescue him want him dead instead? It made no sense. She thought to ask, but wondered if the droid would answer her.

Todo seemed two things: high-strung and untrusting, though Zulara’s interest was not self-serving, she was only curious. It was hard not to want to learn all she could about the Duros, his history, and those things that made him tick.

“What happened?” she finally managed, fingers trailing a path down the outside of the convex, transparent glass. “Boba would not tell me how he knew Bane,” she added, studying the curves and angles of the hunter’s face despite the mask he wore that fed him oxygen.

“Because then Boba would be admitting to attempted murder!” the incensed droid piped up, rounding on her. He was flustered by the question, and even more so aggravated by the answer he was about to give. Young Fett was a traitor and a deserter in his opinion; a fly-by-night, disreputable scoundrel to say the very least!

“When one commits to a job, or when one is given a home and specialized training - for free might I add – with only the expectancy of loyalty, and then for that person to defect, to try Mister Bane’s patience after all he did for him!”

Todo scoffed, turning back around. He opened up a lower cabinet, somehow sticking his large head inside, so his words were muffled. “To question his authority is one thing, but to shoot him?!” Todo’s voice was elevated, despite being dampened within the cupboard he was scouring. “Simply because you do not agree with his methods!?”

Zulara watched Todo’s metal chassis shift back and forth as his upper half continued with its plundering, tossing things haphazardly behind him. The girl would lift one leg, dodging something sharp that vibrated—a sonic scalpel? What did Cad Bane need that for?

Zulara bent down to pick it up; she switched it off. Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought about the head plate Bane always sported. “So, then Boba betrayed him? He shot him at point-blank range?”

Her thoughts drifted to the man whose comlink was in her pocket. The youthful face, the curly hair, the deep brown eyes – so soft and rich – she could not imagine him to be a killer, yet he was another bounty hunter. A bounty hunter like the Duros she had feelings for, the one who left her, the one who desired her dead for the sand she had thrown into his stark garnet eyes.

“Well, no,” Todo admitted. He had been there, after all, observing it all unfold. “There was a duel. It was a tie-” the little droid emerged to swivel toward her once again, “-but Boba cheated! A Mandalorian’s helmet is made of beskar! And while Boba is no Mandalorian, his -er- father was.”

Todo 360 made an irritated harumph. “A solitary clone should have been grateful to have Mister Bane mentor him! I know I would be. Of course, he did owe Jango many favors, or so Mister Bane has said…”

His voice trailed off; Zulara realized something. It was no matter that this droid was comprised of ones and zeros, or its many servos. Something clicked inside her brain—Todo had no bolt, no way in which he was restrained. He loved his master, and to some extent, Cad Bane must love him.

She could only imagine this Fett harbored some kind of guilt, as well he should. If she ever saw him, if he ever commed her…yet it was not her business.

Zulara refocused her attention, “a pneumatic dispenser, no?” Her inquiry was soft, calming. Todo perceptibly unwound, as the organic’s voice was somehow soothing.

He was not used to women hanging around; he had only known those that Bane kept on retainer for one reason or another, namely Aurra Sing; she had not one gentle bone in her whole body. In fact, he might blame her for the way young Boba had turned out. While Mister Bane had a hand in it, it was not until he had been abandoned and thrown in prison thanks to the Palliduvan that his master had offered Fett his guidance.

“Yes,” the exhausted droid replied, returning to his work. He kept one eye on her, but he was thankful for the girl’s assistance, however wary. One could never be too careful.

---

“Boba?” Bane had heard the name, floating out in empty space, inside his mind, or spoken by a God. It lingered, the two syllables leeching their way into his cerebral cortex, even as pure darkness surrounded him, enveloping his cold flesh like a thickset, heavy blanket of unease.

His stomach lurched; he felt like throwing up. Instead, he sat upright and was faced with a nearly obscene brightness. Someone had unveiled the stars, but one shown more luminous than all the others; the one that warmed the desert planet he was now stationed on.

“Bane!”

The Duros’ eyes rolled to his left, spying within his hand a bottle of dark liquor, Bane ascertaining this might be the reason for his sickness; the empty feeling that tarried in his guts. But still, nothing was making sense.

Bane dropped the bottle, glancing up. Some distance away was a teenaged Boba Fett.

How many times would the kid shout his name in anger? How many times would he have to remember his father’s face when looking into his? That armor, that helmet – all a cruel reminder.

“You should have been there.” That’s what the boy had said that fateful day.

Bane stood, gazing out. He was supposed to say something, words that had been repeated time and time again. The outcome would never be any different, he suspected, but the hunter was caught in a web of his own delusions. Maybe this time he could make it right; maybe this time Bane would not lose his self-respect or his dignity to a fourteen-year-old brat.

“Ah wouldn’ be so-” Bane’s voice dropped; he said the rest quietly and to himself, “-hasty now, boy…”

No. This wasn’t at all accurate. This had happened once before. Bane studied his surroundings, noting the placement of the buildings, a fire that burned in the distance, wisps of dark-colored smoke emanating in tight curls.

Fire.

There was a fire.

He had fallen.

Boba turned his head; Bane followed his lead, spying C-21 Highsinger and his faithful droid companion. Held prisoner in their grasp was a white-haired old man. The child - Fett’s offspring - demanded that he be released along with all the other hostages.

What hostages.

“Let them go, Bane.”

What had he done? He could not remember, the Duros craning his hat and head to stare down at both of his blue hands.

“This isn’t their fight anymore.”

Bane knit his brow in thought, his gaze returning to the boy. He took a new approach, or at least he thought. He was unsure, second-guessing, caught in a place that resembled reality, yet Bane was positive none of this was real.

“Yer daddy ain’t here, boy. Ah knowit. But ye gonna go ‘head an’ bite de hand dhat feeds?”

Bane took two steps forward, somehow knowing what came next. He had always wondered if there was some other way than this, something he could have done to change Fett’s mind. But in the end, he had it out for him; it was a part of history that could never be rewritten. Boba had got it in his head that Cad Bane was his enemy, and the sole executioner of the people here, as if he was the only one who was unscrupulous among those present.

“Yer gonna wind up poor, or dead, out on yer own – dhis galaxy is harsh. Ye think Jango was perfect? Ye think he wouldn’ do whateva’ it takes te get de job done?”

“Shut up! I am not my father!” Boba scolded beneath his helmet; Bane ground his teeth as he glared at him, his expression full of venom. Always such an impudent, brazen child. He hated Jango then – all of them – and his clone army; his poor decision.

“No more innocent people are going to die, or be locked up, or live in fear,” Fett reiterated, brandishing a finger. It was ironic, all this talk, when Boba Fett was supposed to be a bounty hunter.

“Did ye ferget what profession ye’s in? We’re hunters, Boba. Unless ye ain’t one. Maybe yer just soft.”

A poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. Bane was sure he had only made things worse. He did not have the time to contemplate anything beyond that, for Bossk and Embo had arrived.

At least they were fairly trustworthy, the Kyuzo only second to Bane himself. Bossk knew how to take directions, even though he had connections, strong ones, to the Guild. Bane had thought, incorrectly, that they might back him up and take his side, but the blood that ran through Boba’s veins was a testament to his skill and to his mounting leadership, despite his age and stature.

Bane smiled a crooked smile. “Looks like yer lil’ insurrection has failed.”

Boba looked behind himself and to the others; Bane’s smile faltered. He glanced around as the thin shroud separating this world from the next shimmered and disjoined. He saw stars; realspace; a depthless abyss of nothing, like a curtain had been pulled back to reveal the stage, and he was the main character.

“I say we give the kid his shot,” he heard the Trandoshan rasp.

Bane dug his boots into the sandy earth. There was a suction pulling him, like a vacuum, toward a gaping hole that now stretched so wide the entire town was gone. The only thing that remained were the other hunters; Bossk and Embo had stood down, and Boba was rounding on him.

Bane realized they did not seem to be affected; it was like none of this was happening. He knew what he was supposed to say, as if only reciting his own name.

“So, dhat’s it – just ye and me dhen, Boba Fett.”

“I guess it is,”the boy would reply.

Their eyes met, or at least he thought they did. That damned bucket was in the way, Bane mentally cursing its utility – it’s why he hated them – it was a place to hide.

And kark the others; their loyalty was forfeit, Bane reminded of a most important lesson: he was alone, and he always had been. Always would be, save his droid for company.

A sharp wind picked up, yet Bane’s hat did not fly off—not yet. He fought with all his might against an invisible adversary, even as his fingers danced above one LL-30 BlasTech pistol. If he could only be a fraction faster, if he could only put this disgruntled adolescent in his rightful place, his anger, his heartache, his headaches—they all might vanish.

His quick draw was the cause of his notoriety. To be outdone - to lose to a snot-nosed kid - it would be an embarrassment, though highly understated. The only thing he had left to him was his reputation, and Fett was out to steal it from him, albeit fair and square. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – let that happen.

Bane pulled his weapon; he squeezed the trigger. Simultaneously, another shot was fired. Superheated plasma - imbued with an explosive quality - transferred kinetic and thermal force to the armor plating that lined his signature bolero.

It was not enough to stay the bolt; he felt a searing pain on the left side of his head, radiating across his brow and the upper part of his domed skull. He fell back flat, staring up at a now starless, barren sky. He was out of breath, and he thought this is where he ought to die.

Bane would close his eyes, legs stretched out and arms taut at his sides. He had no idea the outcome; that it had been a tie; that Boba Fett had saved himself from his demise by wearing that accursed beskar, yet the young hunter’s aim had not betrayed him.

“Mister Bane!” he would hear his droid call aloud in a worried tone. He had repeated it three times now, though the Duros found he could not move. The only thing he could perceive in this state was a scathing ache; an excruciating, endless throbbing, right where the bolt made contact with his hat and ricocheted.

The plasma had been so hot, so volatile, it had dissolved his scales clean off and scorched him to the bone—the durasteel panel had dented inward before his hat rebounded off his head and fluttered to the ground, molten metal boring easily through flesh and osseous tissue, slowed only partially.

Tears welled behind shut eyelids, as in that moment, he wished the boy had killed him.

---

Zulara, hours later, had traversed Mos Eisley’s streets. She had been looking for something, something good to eat. While she was not hungry, she imagined Bane would be the moment he awoke. The girl had not strayed far in her search for the right ingredients.

She aimed to concoct a Twi’lek dish, though she would modify it. Her palette did not enjoy the fungi that accompanied the rycrit meat. She would add carrots and potatoes, along with various other root vegetables, to cook a hearty stew, a thing to keep Bane’s strength up and paid for with her own meager credits.

Todo had confirmed there was nothing much edible aboard Bane’s ship; she had found out shortly that its name was the Justifier; curious, though she would not mention it. Once they had found the lost dispenser, Zulara made it her new objective to prepare a home-cooked meal for the healing Duros. Perhaps he would be appreciative and would not mind that she was here, doing her best to look out for him.

To think, she could still be napping in Ohnaka’s arms if Fett had not sounded the alarm. It was something more complicated than a mere regret; she did not feel that way. In fact, it pleased her. It had scratched an itch Cad Bane had left behind. Still, she had been hurt, a stupid thing, as the youth had asked how long she had known this man; her answer proved unsatisfactory, even to herself.

Why? Why care? As if his attempt to free her was not enough, though Bane had made her feel things she had never felt before. Maybe Zulara has naïve, a woman with no sense, but what sense could she have considering her circumstances? Some might call it a learning curve, though that did not mean she was not harboring intelligence. In this case, she was thinking with her heart and not her head, but she could not help it; all she cared for was Bane’s good health.

Zulara absentmindedly stirred a pot; it was something she had located in a cabinet by the conservator. It barely appeared used; she wondered if Bane ever liked to cook, or if his starship had come equipped with those things he needed, whether utilized or not.

Once the rycrit stew was at a simmer, she lowered its heat setting and placed a lid on top of it. With this accomplished, she thought to find Todo and pose another question: where was there a workroom, a space with tools? She had it in her mind to fix Bane’s gauntlet, wanting to feel useful.

Now, just where had that droid gone off to?

---

Glowing embers of crimson red bothered to open up again as Cad’s body began to move of its own volition.

No – it was the wind, that suction. It had gained momentum; it was stronger, rolling him like a tumbleweed toward the open maw of nothing!

The hat went first, vanishing beyond the veil. Bane grimaced as he dug his fingers into the pliant earth. There was no stopping it, head pounding as his legs thrashed violently. He was like a fish out of water, surrounded by only grit and sand. Death, once more, seemed imminent.

The Duros panicked.

---

Zulara heard a crash, like something falling. She rushed back to where Bane rested, Todo’s mental state in a disarray as he had dropped something. Her eyes traveled toward the pod; Bane was seizing. The girl would gasp as she ran for the tank at lightspeed.

It wasn’t that the droid was clumsy, he had simply moved too quickly. Seeing his master at the mercy of his nightmares had drawn out all his worry; it must have been preprogrammed, but by who was an unsolved mystery—unless it was Vertseth Automata. Surely, Bane would have preferred a model with more strengths than weaknesses, but he had his purpose. Currently, it was to act as nurse, though he was not one; he had been built for techo-service.

By the time Todo arrived, Zulara had already pried open the bacta pod. Bane was coughing, sputtering, even while unconscious. The girl tried lifting him, cupping his upper back as he broached the surface; the sticky gel still held him, her face strained with the effort, though Zulara kept him aloft, fighting the weakness of her arms—Bane was too heavy for her alone.

“Todo, do something!” she pleaded, though she needn’t ask. The droid had readied the dispenser that housed the sedative mid-dash.

“I am sorry, Bane, but this will only hurt a moment!” he said in warning, still somehow afraid of incurring his master’s wrath, no matter that he was incapacitated. He aligned the needle and pressed with all his might; the medicine was injected directly into the site; it would disperse and travel throughout his bloodstream, suppressing his dark memories to the best of its ability.

Todo sighed, dropping his hand and arm. He let the empty dispenser fall onto the floor. Bane had noticeably relaxed; his breathing evened out. Zulara finally felt convinced enough to lie him back down within the healing gel.

“Is-is that it? Will he settle now?” the girl asked fretfully, adjusting Bane’s breathing mask for him; it had become somewhat crooked.

“I do believe so, yes,” Todo stated, though his confidence was shaken. He backed up a foot to let her work, watching how Zulara tended to his master carefully.

It was then Todo wobbled on his axis, believing himself to be tuckered out. For a droid to feel this way was like when organics suffered from lack of sleep. He could not remember the last time he had plugged in, knowing that his power supply was finally dwindling. “I do not feel so good,” he reluctantly admitted.

“What?” Zulara appeared alarmed, turning now upon the droid. He placed his feet down on the ground - too much time spent hovering was another drain on his internal generator – knowing he had only a few minutes left.

“It is not..hi..ng…to worry a..bo..ut,” Todo’s speech came out garbled and slowed down, “I am in need of a re..ch..ar..ge…There is a sta..tion…do..wn the ha.ll.”

Bane’s companion’s eyes flickered, like two glowing yellow fireflies, flashing her at intervals. What would she do without him? What if Bane woke up again? She ran to his aid as he began a make his way, albeit awkwardly.

“You can’t leave me! What if the tank malfunctions, or what if Bane has another nightmare!” Zulara begged of him.

“Bane will most likely be remain un..con..scious for se..veral hours n..ow,” he tried to reassure, his tiny, robotic hands trailing the wall to his right side; his eyesight was no longer reliable, and he had to feel for it: the door that would lead him to his charging bay where he would gladly sit and wait to be replenished. “Do not wor..ry, he is safe. You can always ca..ll… Bo…ba.” He could not believe he was saying this.

“Are you sure? But I don’t want to call him!” Zulara argued, watching as Todo ambulated toward another room. It was the place with all their tools, the one she had been searching for. Todo had nearly made it to his recharge station when he stopped dead.

“Todo?” Zulara whimpered.

There was no response; he had lost all power.

#Cad Bane #Cad Bane x OC #Cad Bane x Original Characters #Star Wars #Bad Batch #Clone Wars #TCW #BOBF #Book of Boba Fett #Star Wars OC #Twi'lek species #Todo 360 #Boba Fett #Jango Fett #Flashbacks #Nightmares #Lost Bounty Hunter Arc #My writing

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veliseraptor · 3 months

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Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @anghraine - thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

under my main pseudonym that I actually use these days, 610. total, across pseuds, we're looking at 1,013.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

4,930,564, which is so close to 5 million!!! we'll see if I hit that threshold this year, I might if all goes well with big bang fic

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I thought I could do this from memory and I was so close, only missed two.

Life in Reverse (13,990)

With Absolute Splendor (10,436)

some good mistakes (6,551)

The Villain Wrangler (4,445)

half a league onward (4,437)

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do not, because I don't know what to say, get overwhelmed, fall behind, get more overwhelmed, and ultimately end up with a backlog I don't feel capable of dealing with so I just don't. I feel bad about this periodically (often) but I don't do anything with that feeling. Just kinda feel bad.

5. What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I've written a lot of fics with angsty endings but I might have to give this one to Mercy, because that was a very mean fic on the whole. arguably even meaner than my other murder/suicide fic.

6. What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I have a hard time with this question because I feel like most times my happy endings are at least touched with some kind of bitterness or loss or at least underlying open door that could be a problem down the line, or, like, lingering trauma.

but on the other hand I'm sure I have written generally happy endings in my backlog of fics, there's just a lot of fic in there so it's hard for me to pull them out, because they're probably also the ones that I find less memorable.

in some ways I think With Absolute Splendor might get this one, because it feels like it has ones of the strongest sense of earned catharsis, even if everything isn't all the way fixed. there's probably happier endings in terms of world state, but that's one where the ending feels happier because it doesn't start that way. but how this grace thing works is also one of the fics where I feel like it's on the whole softer/tenderer than my usual work.

7. Do you write crossovers?

not really! I wrote a few once upon a time, and a couple pastiches (one fandom in the style of another fandom), but those are years behind me and I'm not generally a crossover person as a rule.

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

oh yes. most of it more entertaining than truly upsetting, but there are a few exceptions. my favorite remains the person who was really bothered by the fact that my Black Jewels Trilogy fic wasn't High School Musical fic. still no idea what was going on there.

9. Do you write smut?

sure do. I haven't been writing as much these days (but then, I haven't been writing as much these days, full stop) and I've never been all that much of a pwp writer but it's still very much a part of my writing.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

once, some time ago - I think it was Life in Reverse got posted on Wattpad. oh, though there was also another MCU fic that got reposted on AO3, but the person deleted it pretty quickly when I commented to inform them I didn't appreciate their doing so.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! into a few languages and it's always super cool and flattering to me.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have the one in progress but never anything I've finished/posted. I've done a lot of RP over the years but I always kept it pretty squarely separate from my fic writing.

13. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I've had a lot of all-time favorite ships, and there are plenty for fandoms I'm no longer really in that stick around in my head for longer than I'm really participating in the fandom (Celegorm/Aredhel is notable for this), but I think I will say that Xue Yang/Xiao Xingchen occupies a very particular kind of sort of insane place in my brain that feels relatively unique. so I'll give this one to them.

14. What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

oh lord, so many of them. mostly various MCU wips I'll probably never finish but where I'm like "this was a good idea and I like what I have of it so far, too bad the MCU killed my caring about the MCU." outside of those...I'm so loathe to accept that things will or might remain unfinished, so I'll go with one of those and say the "Hela is around when Thor and Loki are growing up" one, which would've been so good and I still sometimes toy with the idea of returning to, only, you know. aforementioned "caring about the original canon" issue making it hard to actually do the writing thing.

15. What are your writing strengths?

I've been slowly filling out this meme for a while and I left this question conspicuously blank almost to the last. I think my strongest area is probably dialogue, though I worry that I'm giving myself too much credit there. I think I'm pretty good at writing it, though. it certainly is one of the pieces of writing that comes most easily to me.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

description and action, for sure. I tend to skimp on description in a way that probably weakens much of my writing (I have so much respect for writers with good descriptive language), and I loathe writing action scenes the way that I loathe writing few things - it always feels like wrestling a bear. I usually know what I want to have happen as a result but getting there is just. very hard.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

something you gotta be very careful with. I was going to say I almost never do it, but the one exception to that is Lymond Chronicles where I do it a lot, but that's because it's a fairly important part of the style of canon and I'm just. following that lead. otherwise, I tend to shy away from it personally, partly because I write from pretty deep in a character's head and if they don't understand what's being said in another language then that's what I want to convey in the story, rather than giving the reader privileged access to what's being said that the character doesn't have.

does that sound really pretentious? probably.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

technically I wrote a cracky Harry Potter fic first, but I consider my first actual fandom to be Wheel of Time.

19. What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

either bingjiu or beefleaf are two pairings that I love and have a lot of strong feelings about but haven't actually managed to write anything for, and both are on my list as like...just #waiting for the right idea.

also hua cheng/mu qing, which is a tiny pairing of my heart that Needs Me (or whatever) and I know the kind of fic I want to write for it but actually executing it is, as usual, proving harder.

20. What's your favorite fic you've written?

it fluctuates wildly depending on mood, but I'll give this one for now to the backyard is full of bones - it was the first project I bound into a book, which I feel like says something for it.

tagging @gloriousmonsters, @curiosity-killed, @mikkeneko, @brawlite, and @feralkwe; not actually sure how many people I'm "supposed" to tag on this one so if you want to do it consider yourself tagged as well.

#lise memes #confessions of a frustrated writer #memeing instead of dealing with my bad feelings

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viking-raider · 2 years

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When In Rome...

Summary: You've been dating August Walker for several months and things are wonderful. Until one date night, August shows you a new side of him, and yourself.

Pairing: August Walker/Reader

Word Count: 8.5k

Warning: NC-17 - SMUT with a pinch of fluff! Soft Dom!August, inexperienced sub!Reader, Teeniest Switch!Reader, Multiple Orgasms, BDSM, Dirty Talk, Shower Masturbation, Body Fluids, Teasing, Fingering, Restraints, P in V, Cream Pie, Toys, Scratching, Spanking, Stimulation, Hand Job, Sensation play, Cock Warming, Blindfolds, minor Subspace, Soft!August, Aftercare

Inspiration: Netflix's How to Build a Sex Room. The title is a reference to the quote: "When in Rome, do as the Roman's do." which means; Go with the flow!

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy it! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

You had been seeing August for several months, the two of you had met in Rome, where you were on vacation and August was on a work trip. You were admiring the magnificent Trevi fountain, when this, absolute, hulk of human being stepped up beside you, wearing a button down, plaid shirt and tight blue jeans with a dark and faded, Kansas City, Chiefs ball cap. You instantly tensed, and not because you were frightened by him, though he did have an intimidating edge about him. He was so damned handsome, that sharp jaw dusted with stubble and his upper lip crowned with a thick, but meticulously groomed, mustache. He towered above you and his muscles filled out his clothing in a way that you wondered how he wasn't popping buttons and seams.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” He purred in a deep, American accent, tilting his chin towards the fountain.

You blinked up at him several times, then finally glanced back at the piece of art. “Yeah, it's gorgeous.” You squeaked, throat tight.

“Almost three million cubic feet of water runs through the fountain, every day.” He said, rather nonchalantly.

“That's rather impressive!” You replied, looking at the fountain with surprise.

The strange man turned towards you, extending his hand. “I'm August.” He said, flashing a million dollar smile at you, that had your knees turning into jelly.

“Nice to meet you, August.” You replied, shaking his hand and introducing yourself.

“I couldn't help but notice you, and hope you don't find this too forward.” August began, holding your eyes, his deep and mysterious. “But would you like to grab lunch with me?” He asked, cocking his head at you.

You gasped softly, taken aback by his request, and stared up at him, your hand still ever-so-gently clutched in his hand, you felt enchanted by him. “I'd love to.”

From that lunch onward, being with August was always an adventure, globe-trotting, expensive dinners and gifts, and the sex was amazing! But you were about to learn about a whole new side of August Walker and experience a different adventure.

“I had a great night, August.” You sighed, relaxing in the passenger seat of his matte black, Bugatti Chiron.

“It's not over yet, love.” He smirked, resting his hand on your thigh, stroking the fabric of your black, cap sleeve dress with lace detail.

“Oh, is that so?” You grinned back at him.

“It definitely is.” August nodded, a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

You were excited to find out what August had in store for the rest of the night, as you looked out the window, the cityscape twinkling against the blackness of the night sky. But as you stared at the city, you realized you and August weren't on the right side of the city to be going back to August's apartment. You looked over at him, a small spark of suspicion and concern blooming in the pit of your stomach.

“Gus, I thought we were going back to your place.” You pointed it out.

“We are, sweetheart.” He replied, patting your thigh reassuringly. “Don't you worry.”

You nodded, trusting August.

The drive was quiet the rest of the way to your destination, where you eventually left the city behind, turning off of the highway and into an industrial section of town. You looked at August dubiously, but he just chuckled at you, brushing the back of his fingers against your cheek. He turned onto a short, gravel driveway of a gated property, entered the pass code and drove on towards a medium sized and unassuming, black painted, cinder-block warehouse.

“Is this where I find out you're really a serial killer?” You quipped, dryly.

August laughed, pulling into a single parking spot. “No, babe, it's not. If I was going to kill you, I would have done it after our first date.” He teased back, opening his door and stepping out, then moved around and opened your door, extending his hand to you.

You took August's hand and got out of the car, following him towards the main door of the warehouse, he punched in another pass code and swung the door open, before extending your hand forward and moving out of your way, indicating he wanted you to go inside first. You glanced up at him, before going through the dark portal, almost instantly blinded by bright lights that flickered on with the help of motion sensors. Once your eyes adjusted to the light, you gasped at what laid before you, it looked nothing like a warehouse, it looked more like a house!

The walls were covered in dark red and black, grass-cloth damask wallpaper with charcoal gray Kentucky Rose Crown molding and matching baseboard, the ceiling was painted black with small flecks of gold, lined with recess lighting and the concrete floor was high gloss and so polished, you could see your own reflection in it. The main room you stood in had a long leather couch, a low coffee table, a mini fridge and a flat screen tv, with two closed doors, one in front of you and one to your left. You jumped slightly, feeling August's hands suddenly on the zipper at your nape, but he calmed you with a gentle kiss to the nook of your neck, slowly pulling the zipper down, before slipping a hand inside the loose fabric, soothing a palm over your back and side, until he cupped your hip.

“Do you trust me?” He whispered into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

You drew in a soft breath, your mouth working for a moment. “I-I do, August.” You whimpered, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Are you willing to have some fun with me?” He asked, tracing the rim of your ear with the tip of his nose, before lightly tugging on it with his teeth.

Your stomach flipped. “I can give it a try, for you, Gus.” You gulped, starting to breathe heavy.

“Excellent.” August smirked, gliding his hand up from your hip to your shoulder and pushed your dress off of it, followed by the other, allowing your dress to cascade down your body, like the trickle of water, and pool around your high heels. “Your safe word is: Rome.” He rumbled into your neck, wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you back against him, allowing you to feel his growing arousal.

“A safe word?” You echoed, turning your face into the side of his and lifted a brow.

“Mmhm.” August nodded, smoothing his palm up your stomach and cupped your breast through the lace fabric of your bra, kneading and squeezing it. “Just in case you need a break or I do something you don't like, my sweet Lamb.”

“What would you do that I might not like?” You asked, frowning at him.

August chuckled at you, lifting his head and kissed you delicately on the lips. “All in due time, Lamb, all in due time.” He cooed against your mouth, nibbling on your bottom lip for a second. “First things first though.” He said, moving away slightly, to unclasp your bra. “Finish getting undressed and go through that door over there.” He instructed you, pointing out the door straight ahead of you.

“What's over there?” You inquired, taking off your heels, removing your bra and slipping out of your panties, but gasped as August lightly smacked you on the ass. “What was that for!” You demanded, turning towards him.

“You're asking too many questions, Lamb.” He grinned at you, thoroughly amused by your inexperienced innocence. “Just be a good girl and do as I say.” He said, resting his hands on your shoulders and turned you back around to face the door, giving you a much more gentle pat on the bum, to get you going in its direction.

You shot August a look over your shoulder, but did as he asked, going up to the door and turned the black, curved lever knob, to reveal a well equipped bathroom on the other side. The walls and flooring were the same as the first room, but the ceiling was nothing but bright, high quality lighting panels, there was an enormous, acrylic, freestanding, overflow soaking tub to one side, the outside of it wrapped in copper accent. A metal and walnut shelf ran the length of the wall behind the tub, holding towels, wash clothes and loofahs, body washes, shampoos and conditioners, as well as all manners of bath salts. On the other side of the bathroom was a glass encased shower, with a rainfall shower head and jets coming out of the walls. You noticed metal grab bars bolted into the gray, transparent subway tile, at varying heights.

There were candles of all thickness and heights positioned about the room, on the floor, on shelves and around the tub, unlit. The bathroom had the most romantic feeling, which was odd for a bathroom, but you felt it encouraging your mood. What startled you though, were the things hanging on the wall on the other side of the tub, thick leather cuffs, with connectors, and a few things you hadn't a clue to their identity.

The door to the bathroom opened and August joined you, smiling at you sweetly, but his blue eyes held mischief and arousal. He was naked now himself, and he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you against him, kissed you deeply and with a heated passion. You moaned into his mouth, flicking your tongue against his as it slipped into your mouth, hungry and dominant.

“God, you are gorgeous.” He growled, breaking the kiss and looking you over, like a hungry wolf.

“I would say the feeling is mutual.” You smirked back at him, hugging your arms around his waist. “So, what are we doing, Gus?” You asked, lifting a brow at him.

“Showering.” He told you, unlocking your arms from around his waist and went over to the table against the wall, taking a loofah, wash cloth, bottle of body wash, shampoo and condition, then pulled you over to the shower and stepped inside with you.

“But I took a shower before our date.” You protested, softly. “Four hours ago.”

“Yes, I know.” August replied, closing the shower door and turned to the shower controls. “But I have standards for play time, so we'll wash again.” He told you, setting the water temperature and turning on the shower head, causing pleasantly warm water to rain down over your head, drawing out a moan.

“Are you going to tell me, what kind of play we're doing?” You asked, looking up at him.

“You're in the middle of it now, Lamb.” August smirked, wetting the wash cloth and wiped your makeup off, before popping open the shampoo and squeezed it into your hair.

“Wait a second, I can bath myself, good sir!” You protested, as August started to work the shampoo into a lather, batting his hands away.

August pressed his lips together, drawing in a long, deep breath and letting it out just the same, before rinsing his hands and stepped out of the shower, going over to the wall of cuffs and took a pair off, bringing them back to you.

“Oh no.” You shook your head, backing away from him.

“You're being a complicated Brat.” He said, still advancing on you, trapping you in the far corner. “I'm not going to put up with that.” He told you, reaching out and spun you around, pinning your arms behind you and shackled the soft, but strong, leather cuffs around your wrists and clipped them together with the small silver ring attached to them. “Mmm, you're even prettier in cuffs than I thought you would be, Lamb.” He cooed at you, biting his lip as he stared at your bound hands resting on the small of your back.

You twisted and tugged on them, but found they had no give.

“Are you ready to behave for me now?” He asked, grabbing you by the elbow and pulled you away from the wall, seeing the streaks of sudsy shampoo dripping down your face.

You pressed your lips together, eyes squeezed shut against the soap in your eyes, but didn't answer him, which only made him chuckle.

“Good girl.” He smiled, threading his fingers back into your hair and started working the shampoo into your scalp, gently wiping away the bits that trickled down your forehead, before more got into your eyes.

“Still don't get why you're bathing me.” You commented, even though it felt really good to have his strong fingers and hand to massage the conditioner into your hair.

“I told you, I have standards, and I know they're met, when I do them.” He explained, glancing down at you. “Plus, brownie points for me, I get to touch your nude body all over.” He smirked triumphantly, rinsing the conditioner out and picking up the loofah and unscented body wash.

You hummed, considering his words as he started to rub the soapy loofah over your chest and collarbone, his touch and attention was gentle, but thorough, working in even circles across your skin. You had to admit, this was rather nice, having someone else bath you, it wasn't degrading or childish, the look August gave you as he moved the sponge over your breasts, making you shiver from the sensation of the rough texture on your sensitive and hardening nipples, drawing out a loud moan that mixed in with the patter of droplets from the showerhead. August smirked at you, watching your push your chest forward against his hand and the loofah, clearly wanting more from the contact, but he continued on, caressing over your sides, watching you squirm as he touched the ticklish skin he knew was there, making you giggle involuntarily, a much different sound from the one you had made a moment before.

“August.” You whimpered, breathless, peering up at him.

“Mmhm.” He hummed back at you, nodding his head and smirking, smugly. “I think you'll enjoy play time a lot more now.” He said, turning you around, washing your arms and back. “That you're relaxed and clean.” He whispered, moving lower with the loofah, massaging your butt and slipping between your legs.

You whimpered, feeling him wash your privates, and found you couldn't hold yourself back, rocking against the length of the sponge gently. August laughed, seeing you rut against the loofah, working the soap into a frenzied lather between your clenched legs, whimpering and moaning as you stimulated your pussy on the coarse sponge. He was loving this little show, how unexpected it was, how much it turned him on. August held the loofah still, allowing you to rub yourself off on it, your eyes squeezed shut and lip clamped between your teeth. You pressed your forehead to August's chest to steady yourself, feeling your legs shake and the building of your orgasm in the pit of your belly.

“August!” You moaned, pressing your face harder into his wet body, tugging on your restraints. “Fuck, Gus!” You cried out, hugging your legs around the loofah and his hand.

“You going to come for me, Lamb?” August growled back at you, wrapping his free arm around you, helping to keep you up right, and feeling the thick droplets of your come wash over his hand and down your legs with the shower water. “Are you going to drench my hand, so I have to wash you again?” He huffed, his cock heavy between his thick thighs, twitched.

“God, yes!” You mewled, trembling as your climax came to a head.

“Look at me, then!” He snapped, but not harshly. “I want to watch you come, my love.” He cooed, slipping his hand under your chin and pushed your head back, so you looked him in the face. “Let me see that beautiful face, while you orgasm.”

You whined, breathing unevenly as you finally surrendered and gushed all over August's hand and the loofah, your knees going weak and folding together, thankfully August held you up as you continued to be rocked by the power of your pleasure, before falling forward against him, feeling like putty. August pressed a kiss to your forehead, grinning like a madman as he pulled the sponge from between your legs and dropped it to the floor, gently lifting you and setting you down on a wooden bench that was in the shower.

“That was quite the treat, Lamb.” He purred at you, then stepped back out of the shower to grab another clean loofah, and finished washing you, before showering himself.

You watched him wash, soaping that body not even the most skilled Greek sculptor could pull off with marble. A question popped into your mind, as you watched him clean between his legs, a soft smirk pulling across your lips. “I understand your standards now. But we're going to get messy again. So, what's the point of getting clean, only to get dirty again?” You inquired, as he carded his fingers through his curls, rinsing the conditioner out of them, while also washing the soap off his body.

August shot a sideways look at you, a little smirk pulling up one corner of his own mouth, amused you had clearly caught on to what was going on. “Who said we wouldn't be showering again, afterwards?” He asked, shaking his head, sending droplets flying and making you giggle at him.

“Fair enough, Walker. Fair enough.” You retorted, lifting your heavy foot to run it up and down the length of his thigh and the back of his knee.

“Someone's in a mood now.” August teased, turning the shower off and scooping you up, carrying you out of the shower and setting you down in the middle of the bathroom, so he could grab a towel.

“Are you going to take these off of me?” You asked, twisting your upper back to show him the cuffs you were still in.

“I will.” He nodded, unfolding a high thread count, black towel and started drying you off. “To put you in dry ones.” He added, smirking at you slyly.

“Ugh, of course!” You huffed, rolling your eyes at him.

August laughed, securing the towel around you, but paused for a moment to wrap his hand around your left bicep and felt the small, thin plastic implant that was under the skin of the inside of your upper arm, before crossing the room, to the black door of a small closet. He reached inside and removed a hanger off the rack, then turned back to you. Showing you what was on the hanger, a deep and shiny emerald green, silk nightie with spaghetti straps and black lace that decorated the breasts and bottom hem, he draped it over the edge of the tub for a moment, to remove your cuffs, tossing those aside, he took the nightie off the hanger and helped you slip into it, the garment just barely fell past your hips.

“Hm.” August hummed, grinning down at you, licking his lips and nodding his head. “I've imagined you in this, many times.” He whispered, letting out a low moan.

“Took you long enough to dare introduce me to it.” You quipped back, stroking the exposed skin of your chest, just above the v-neckline of the garment.

August touched his finger underneath your chin. “We'll see, once we get into the playroom.” He smirked, taking your hand and led you through the door you'd originally come through.

“Playroom?” You repeated, squeezing his hand, and sneaking a peek at his butt. “You didn't strike me as a man that played with toys.” You teased him, nervously, daring to give his rump a pinch with your free hand, making him snap a narrow eyed glance over his shoulder at you.

“Imp.” He huffed, shaking his head. “But you saw a prelude to the toys I play with, Lamb.” He said, stopping at the second door in the main room.

“I did indeed, can't be much worse.” You commented, before he opened the door.

A grin stretched across August's lips as he pushed the door open, revealing his coveted playroom. You took a step forward, poking your head inside and letting your mouth fall open at the space, filled with all sorts of equipment, implements and pieces of furniture.

“I stand corrected.” You gulped, mouth hanging open.

August stroked the back of your hair. “I'll be gentle with you.” He promised, moving around you and into the room. “You remember your safe word?” He asked, lifting a brow at you.

“Rome.” You replied, nodding at him feeling a nervous flutter in your stomach.

“Do you want to use it?” He inquired, chewing on the inside of his cheek, his skilled and observant eyes detecting your nerves, but also a hint of curiosity.

You licked your lips and looked around the room one more time, before settling your eyes back on August. “No.” You shook your head. “Not yet, at least.”

“Very well, then.” August nodded, reaching out and taking your hand, slowly leading you further into the room that took up most of the rest of the square footage of the warehouse. “Well, I know my Lamb can take being cuffed.” He smirked, massaging his thumb over the top of your hand. “So, let's start with that again.” He said, letting go of your hand and approached the wall of neatly organized implements, picking a pair of cuffs off a hook.

“These cuffs will be gentler on your wrists.” He said, having noticed the red marks on your skin, from twisting and pulling on the other set of leather cuffs. “They are lined with padded velvet.” He explained, coming back to you and motioned for you to hold your hands out to him.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you did as you were instructed, holding your arms out to August, allowing him to slip the soft and comfortable restraints around your wrists and pull the strap taut, securing them together with the buckle clip. He probed his fingers inside the cuffs, making sure they weren't too tight, as to cut off the circulation in your hands, then nodded with satisfaction, before grabbing the makeshift leash that dangled between them. He used it to pull you over to a strange contraption.

It was like an over-sized, step stool, made of metal and the two steps were thickly padded.

“Knees on the bottom step, torso on the top one.” August explained to you, letting go of the leash.

“All right.” You gulped, moving up to it, bracing your hands on the top the best you could, with them being bound together, and planted your knees on the bottom, steadying yourself for a moment, even casting August a look, but he just lifted his brows at you, his head dropping forward slightly, making it clear for you to keep it up.

So, you shifted until you found a comfortable spot for your knees, then leaned forward, pressing your chest to the top step, your nightie pulling up to the small of your back and exposing your bare bum to August, who reached out to caress it with his palm, for a moment, then lifted it away and brought it back, the slap echoing in the vast room with your surprised yelp. You started to turn around and protest, but August grabbed the leash attached to your cuffs and pulled you back down onto the padded step.

“No, you don't.” He chided you, shaking his head, disapprovingly. “Naughty girl.” He chuckled, releasing the buckle of your cuffs, before leaning over and grabbed one of the black chain hard points that were attached to each leg of the bench, clipping it to the loop on your right cuff, then did the same with the left. “There, that'll keep you in place, Lamb.” He cooed, licking his lips and moving to stand beside you, running his fingertips along the length of your spine, stopping just short of your rump, watching your shiver at the contact.

“You like that, Lamb?” He asked, lifting a brow at you, taking note, as he glided his fingers back up towards your neck, smiling as you nodded. “Sensation. Hmm, let's see where this goes, sweet girl.” He hummed, moving away from you.

“August.” You gulped, fidgeting and gently tugging on your restraints, making them rattle against the metal legs.

“Sir.” August corrected you, bluntly. “While we're in this section of the building, you'll call me; Sir.” He explained to you, opening a drawer. “Understood, Lamb?”

You blinked at him, biting your lip. “Sir.” You squeaked, then cleared your throat. “What are you going to do to me?” You asked, worried.

“We're going to play with your sensation, Lamb.” He answered, smirking at you. “I also told you, I would be gentle with you. So, you have nothing to be afraid of.” He reminded you, taking out a weird looking object, it had a long handle with a wheel of spikes on it, then moved over to another drawer, grabbing several various types of bottles.

August set those items on a table in front of you, then disappeared for a few minutes, coming back with a bowl of steaming water and set it on the table with them. He moved back to the drawers, picking a couple things out. He stared into one drawer, debating if he should take out the toy he had his eyes on, but worried you might not be ready for it yet. So, August closed the drawer and returned to the table, leaving the toy for another possible time. He put the object in his hand into the warm water, then turned to you.

“Leave that to warm up first, then we'll play with it.” He said to you, picking up a red, silk blindfold and delicately tying it over your eyes, before grabbing one of the bottles, a bottle of lubrication, and popped the cap open, single handed.

You shifted and wiggled on the bench, now that you were blindfolded, your other senses were on high alert. Your ears twitched to every sound August made around you, the sharp pop of something opening and the squirt of something thick, you tilted your head side to side, trying to identify what it was you were hearing. The air in the room wasn't cold on your bare skin, but it wasn't warm either, it was almost perfect. You felt the way the fabric of your nightie rode up on your back and bunched between you and the seat of the bench, the metal of the legs were cool against your skin as you gripped them, finding it was easier and more comfortable to lay almost limp on the top step.

You felt the shift of air as August stepped in front of you, the warmth of his naked body heat, the scent of his clean skin. Moaning softly and tilting your head up, you took a deeper breath in of his scent, having never noticed just the natural smell of his skin before. It was usually masked by his normal body wash and cologne, but since he washed it all away with the unscented soap, it gave you free access to his true scent, and you couldn't get enough of it. It was alluring, dusky and raced straight between your legs.

Tugging up the back of your nightie, to expose your back, August squeezed a teeny bit of lube onto your left shoulder-blade, then rubbed it in. “Tell me, what you feel.” He whispered to you, brushing his fingers through the back of your hair.

You focused on that spot on your shoulder, there was no feeling, at first, then it began to feel quite strange, like the beginning of your fingers or toes falling asleep, after laying in an awkward position for too long. It was numbing—no, it was tingling!

“It tingles.”

“Very good.” August praised you, patting the back of your head. “It's tingling lube.” He said, putting the bottle on the table and picking up another one, applying it to your right shoulder-blade.

At first, you started at the cold of the lube touching your otherwise warm skin, after a few moments though, the heat grew in intensity, however it wasn't unpleasant or overbearing. “It's warm! Very warm, Sir.” You answered, rubbing your thighs together, the sensation of the tingle and intense heat on your shoulders were starting to make you wet.

August smirked, watching you rut, then moved on, squeezing a line of lube down the length of your spine, making you gasp with shock, instantly knowing what this sensation was.

“Cold, like an ice cube!” You quivered, the interchanging of heat, tingle and cold battling each other to be the main sensation you felt on your back was intoxicating and maddening.

“Open your mouth, Lamb.” August instructed you, holding his fingers up to your lips.

Obeying, you parted your lips and August slipped his coated fingers inside your mouth, resting them heavily on your tongue.

“Close and suck.”

Moaning, you sealed your lips around his two thick digits and sucked, until you had a vacuum seal around them. You tasted the sticky substance on his fingers, it made you frown, it wasn't anything you had tasted before. Shaking your head, you probed his fingers with your tongue, trying to place what you were tasting on them, sucking them deeper into your mouth, until it struck you. You pulled your head back, August's fingers popping out of your mouth with thick strings of drool.

“Chocolate.” You moan, your voice sultry.

“Mmhm.” August nodded, his eyes heavily hooded. “You didn't get dessert during our date at the restaurant.” He quipped, saucily, coating his fingers with a different lube. “Last one, Lamb.” He cooed, stuffing your mouth with his fingers once again.

The flavor of this lube exploded in your mouth, and you chuckled, August was purposely teasing you with this one, it was your favorite flavor. You didn't pull away from his fingers this time, suckling on them, cleaning off every bit of the delicious lube, before August removed his own digits, thumbing away the drool from your lips.

“I liked that one, Sir.” You purred at him, licking your lips.

“I'm positive you did, Lamb.” August chuckled, lightly caressing your back, before picking up the strange instrument and touching it to your chilled spine, making you start as he rolled the pointy spikes, gently up and down your back.

“Wh-what is...th-that?” You moaned, wiggling, it felt so odd and so good at the same time, especially on your cold vertebra.

“Wartenberg wheel.” He replied, moving to the heated area of your shoulder. “It's a medical device that doctors typically use to test nerve reactions.” He explained to you, applying a small amount of pressure, and watched your skin jump. “Did that hurt?” He asked, pulling the wheel away from your back.

“No, it felt...it felt--” You panted, swallowing hard, as you tried to find a way to explain to August how it felt. “Like little, heat filled, tickle bombs.” You said, knowing it made absolutely no sense. “I liked it, a lot.” You assured him.

August nodded, but moved the wheel to the tingle patch of your other shoulder, doing the same thing, you squirmed and giggled, it tickled there more than either of the other two spots, that felt sensual. “I think you're warmed up now.” He said softly, pressing his palm down to the small of your back. “You seem relaxed and to be enjoying yourself.” He cooed, curving his hand slowly between your legs, and slotted his fingers in against the back of your pussy.

“Oh.” He rasped, feeling your wet folds. “You're more than warmed up, sweetheart.” He chuckled, slipping half a finger inside of you, finding you were even wetter, still.

You moaned loudly, pushing back on August's hand, wanting to take all of his finger, wanting more than his finger inside of you. “Please, Sir. Please!” You whimpered and begged, rocking against your restraints.

“Wet and needy, just how I love my Lamb.” August growled, removing his hand.

“Please!” You begged again, whining at the loss of his digit inside of you.

“Oh, I'll satisfy you yet, minx.” He replied, chuckling, and dipping his hand into the bowl of warm water, pulling out a sleek, eight inch, metal dildo, warmed by the water he put it in, in order to play a little more with your discovered Sensation kink.

He picked up one of the lubes, one the two of you hadn't played with, and coated the dildo with it, before moving behind you. Resting a hand on the small of your back, August guided it home and made you start. Even though the two of you had only been together for a few months, your sex life was one of the most active parts of your relationship, so you knew August's manhood better than you knew your own hand, and knew what he was pushing inside of your core, was not his cock.

“Aug—SIR!” You gasped, pushing yourself forward, the little you could.

“Relax, Lamb.” He murmured, grasping your hip and pulling you back. “You can take it. You take my cock all the time, love.” He coaxed you, all the while, inching it further and further inside of you. “Such a beautiful pussy you have.” He sighed, sliding the last of the warmed toy inside of you.

“I love when it's all full up with my cock or a toy.” He smirked, gently twisting the dildo.

You cried out, throwing your head back, the warm metal stretched you open and pressed the length of your core, the sensation of the lube was cold, but oddly, with every movement, there were bursts of tingles. Your toes curled and you rutted down on the bench, managing to rub the edge of your clit against the red padding, going cross eyed beneath the blindfold, but you hissed as August spanked you.

“None of that!” He chastised you. “You'll come, when I say.”

“That's not fair!” You protested, jerking on your cuffs.

“I'm the master in this building, Lamb!” August scolded you, catching your chin in his fingers and pushing your head back, even though you couldn't see him, you could feel his gaze. “I'll be fair, but you'll still do as you're told.” He lectured you, while lifting his other hand close to your face, grinning smugly since you couldn't see the device he had in it, pressing the red button on it.

“Oh, good lord!” You gasped, tensing against your bounds, as a profound vibration started to hum inside of your core. “Oh, Jesus.” You mewled, squirming against it, but August only turned it up, leaving you withering. “August, fuck!” You babbled, trembling.

“Is that what you're supposed to call me, right now, little Lamb?” He smirked, relenting on the intensity of the vibration, just for a moment.

“No, I'm sorry, sir.” You sighed, shaking your head in his hand, breathing through your open mouth.

“That's a good girl.” He purred, his voice a deep timber, as he kissed your sweaty forehead, then cranked the power back up.

You whimpered, feeling the strength race up your back and disrupt all coherent thought inside your brain, leaving you a bumbling mess. August smirked, setting the control down on the table and picked up another device, slipping it onto his middle finger, before going to stand behind you. He knew you probably wouldn't last long like this, as he reached beneath you, pressing a switch in the underside of the device, a vibrating finger wand, while pressing it to your swollen clit. You bucked against his hand, shaking your head and crying out, tears soaking the fabric of the blindfold as you became overwhelmed.

“I can't!” You sobbed, biting down on your lip as the orgasm inside you threatened to shred you into pieces. “I can't! Please, I need to come, sir!” You implored August, kicking your feet.

“I know you do, doll.” He answered, seeing you drench the dildo and rubbed your oversensitive nub with the teeny vibrator. “But you can last a little bit longer. That sweet release will feel so much sweeter in a few moments, I promise.” He cooed, leaning over you to press kisses along the length of your back, the hairs of his mustache and beard tickling and scrapping your skin, adding to your senses.

“Come.” He whispered in your ear, nudging his hard cock against your ass. “Let it all out.”

“August!” You called out, letting go and squirting around the toy with an intensity that pushed it out some, then fell limp over the bench.

August kneaded your hips and kissed the base of your neck, as he removed the toy from your core, dripping with your juices and dropped it back into the bowl, then turned back and took off your blindfold, seeing your damp and heavy eyes for the first time.

“Are you fucked out, princess?” He teased you, smirking, lifting your heavy head and kissed your lips. “Oh, you are thoroughly fucked out, Lamb.” He chuckled, stroking your cheek with his thumb, then removed your cuffs, gently pushing you up to your rubber legs and scooped you up, carrying you over to a black leather, tantra chaise.

He lowered himself down onto it, still holding you against his chest, while he got comfortable in the deep valley in the middle of the long and wide chair, before reclining against the high back, his head resting on the attached headrest. Your own head rested heavily on August's chest and your hands were tucked into the nooks of his armpits, elbows hugged against his ribs and straddling his waist, numbed and spent. Whimpering pathetically, as his strong and calloused hands massaged up and down your back for a long few minutes, before reaching underneath to his throbbing and needy cock, slick pearls of come, dripping down his shaft.

August stroked himself for a moment, rubbing and occasionally tapping his thick head against your sticky and sensitive pussy, drawing out soft, deep moans from you, as you rubbed your cheek and face against his collarbone. August teased his tip between your folds, caressing its length and circled your clit, before withdrawing again, to stroke himself some more, squeezing his base. He pressed his tip inside of you again, thrusting just inside the ring of your entrance, hissing as he felt your nails dig into the skin of his armpits, and snapped completely inside of you, stuffing you with his mighty manhood. You gasped, planting your hands on the chaise and pushed yourself up, arching your back as the burn of August's cock spread through you like a wildfire, your head thrown back and eyes rolled into your skull.

“Brat.” August hissed at you, popping you on the bum, then gripped your hips and kept you seated in his lap, positioning his feet on the floor at either side of the tantra, using the leverage to rock into you, pushing you up a little bit with each upwards thrust. “You like that, Lamb?” He purred at you, hearing your almost silent gasp and watched you gently sway above him, smirking as he realized you'd dropped into a low level of subspace.

“Yes, Sir.” You sighed, pressing your hands to August's chest, feeling his heart pounding against your palms. “Your cock feels so much better than the toy does.” You confessed, looking at him with glassy and hooded eyes, pupils dilated with your heightened emotions and sensations. “It's so much bigger and hotter.” You told him, smoothly rolling your hips.

The feeling of August throbbing and twitching inside of your tight core was amazing, fat veins rubbing against your velvety walls, filling you up, so he always hit your sweet spots. You never wanted another cock or man inside of you as long as you lived! You felt so spoiled on August's and thanked the Gods that graced him with it. You felt the muscles of August's stomach flex against yours and heard his breathing become rough, his tell-tale sign, while his ordinarily smooth thrusts became jerky and irregular. August ran a hand up your back and squeezed your neck, pulling you into a hungry and sultry kiss, feeling his balls start to grow taut, blood pounding in his ears and a sheen of sweat breaking out over his forehead, plastering his curls to his damp skin, as a rush of heat washed over him, head to toe.

He grunted into your mouth, letting go of your neck and wrapped his muscular arms around you, trapping yours against your sides, while practically crushing you against his chest, hammering wildly into you, laser focused on pumping you full of his seed, to feel it gush out around his frenzied cock and drip over his swollen sack, which only maddened him even more. You moaned and grunted, bouncing your hips to ride his cock the best you could with each powerful thrust, his hold on you the only thing that stopped you from being shoved up August's body, with their strength. You pressed your forehead to his hairy chest, legs trembling as you pushed up on your tippy toes, feeling the build of a new orgasm in the pit of your stomach.

“Oh god.” August huffed, hot breath stirring the hair on the top of your head as he ejaculated, spurting hot and fast loads of milky come into your core, stimulating you into your third orgasm of the night. “How I wish I could keep your sweet, little hole filled up with my come all day and all night long.” He rasped, coming down off his high enough to form sensible words.

“I have no doubt you would, August James Walker.” You chuckled, turning your head and resting your chin in the center of his chest, smirking up at him, sleepily.

August chuckled, breathily, at you, brushing strands of your hair out of your warm face, and lifted his head to press a tender kiss to your brow, then glanced at the clock that hung on the far wall. “Hmm.” He hummed, seeing the late hour. “I should get you home, Lamb, you have work in the morning after all.” He said, sitting up with you in his lap, before slowly lifting you off his softened cock, watching your combined releases slowly seep out of you, dripping onto the leather of the chair below you as he sat you on the bottom, so he could stand up.

You watched August walk away, sliding down the chaise and into the spot he vacated, curling up and moaning at the heat of the material, warmed by his body. August disappeared into the main room for a time, coming back to find you had fallen into a light sleep in his absence, making his smile down at you. He squatted beside you, stroking your hair, the side of your face and neck, drinking in your relaxed and unassuming beauty, and smiled brighter as your eyes gently fluttered open and settled on him.

“I have a nice, relaxing bath waiting for you, Lamb.” He cooed, rubbing your arm, sweetly.

“Mmm.” You hummed, brow furrowing at the thought of the luxurious warm water. “That sounds magnificent, Gus.” You mumbled, eyes falling shut again, but managed to pull yourself into an upright position.

“Would you like some assistance, my lady?” August teased you, looking over your limp body.

“Yes, please.” You nodded, not opening your eyes, just lifting your arms, so he could pick you up.

You felt his chest rumble with a chuckle as he hoisted you up into his arms, planting a kiss to your temple, and carried you back into the bathroom. This time the lights were down low, and the candles were lit, great, thick tentacles of hot steam rose from the fragrant bath water, filling the room with the misty scent of sandalwood and cardamom from the expensive Himalayan bath salts he sprinkled in.

“I feel so spoiled.” You commented, as August helped you out of your nightie and then stepped in the tub with you, your toes curled in the warm water.

“Oh?” He replied, resting back against the edge of the tub. “By being bound to a spanking bench, blindfolded, and having a vibrating dildo inside of you, while I played with your sensitive skin and made you hold in your orgasm?” He quipped, amused and teasing. “Then fucked you senseless on the tantra chair.”

You smirked into his neck, shaking your head. “It's always a treat to be fucked by you, August.” You chuckled back. “But I meant the bath.” You clarified, lifting a hand and sailed your fingers over the surface. “We could have just gotten back into the shower, or gotten dressed and you could've taken me home, where I would have just shower myself before bed.” You explained, shifting between his legs. “Instead, you drew me a fancy bath, with candle light.”

“So romantic.”

The slightest of blushes crossed August's scruffy cheeks. “I figured it would be more beneficial to you, than a shower would be. Allow you to sit and soak in hot water, because you're going to be sore tomorrow.” He told you, massaging your hips and back.

“I don't doubt that.” You nodded, turning to kneel between his legs.

“What are you doing, little Lamb?” He inquired, a smug and knowing smirk pulling across his lips.

“I feel bad, Gus.” You cooed at him, caressing your fingertips over his thick thighs, water swirling between the two of you. “I've come three times tonight, while you've only come once.” You told him, one hand dipping between his legs.

“That doesn't seem very far to me, Sir.”

August growled at you, his smirk broadening. “I've corrupted you.”

“Corrupted?” You pouted, a soft and innocent look crossing your face. “No, never.” You assured him, hand inching closer to his awakening member. “Instigated something inside of me? Very much so.” You nodded, lightly dragging your nails up his length, making him hiss and squirm with pleasure. “It's only nice to give you one more orgasm, before the night ends.” You whispered, leaning forward to kiss him, raking your nails downwards, chuckling as August growled and nipped at your bottom lip.

“And, maybe, a wee bit of revenge.” You laughed, closing your hand around his base.

“Hmm, of course.” He nodded, letting his head fall back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy your attention. “I'll take it as you'll be willing to play here with me again?” He asked, gripping the edge of the tub as you started to stroke his length.

“I'd take it into deep consideration, yes.” You nodded, rubbing your thumb over the deep groove that split the head of August's cock, watching strands of pre-come weep out as you set them free from his slit. “I'm sure you'd want to step it up a level, judging by the amount and types of toys you have.”

“I would.” August groaned, thumping the heel of his foot on the bottom of the tub. “But, just like tonight, I would gradually introduce you to it. I know you're a novice at being a submissive.”

“Do you want me to be your submissive, Bear?” You cooed, gently tugging on his shaft.

August lifted his head, looking at you with dark, azure eyes. “Very much, Lamb.” He rasped, licking his lips. “But it wouldn't upset me, if you didn't want to be.” He admitted, eyes flaring as he watched you dip your head, submerging your face for a long moment to suck on the head of his cock, before coming back up, face dripping.

“So far, so good.” You smirked at him, seeing how you were affecting him.

“Noted.” He nodded, locking his eyes on your task, your thumb rubbing and pressing into the major vein underneath his shaft, making his toes curl and his eyes almost cross.

Your strokes grew firmer, free hand cupping his heavy sack, rolling them and giving them careful squeezes. The throb of August's member increased against your palm, swelling and its tip turning purple as he began to reach his zenith, moans echoing in the bathroom. You watched August's flushed face twist in his climax, beads of sweat dripping from his nose with the mixture of warm bath water and the rush of his orgasm spreading through his body, sending ropes of come sailing through the water.

“You're damned handsome, August Walker.” You cooed, moving forward to press a kiss to the damp skin of his neck, feeling the slowing thud of his pulse against your lips as you kissed your way up the column of his throat, over his stubbly chin to his slightly parted lips, cutting off his harsh and labored pants for air.

“Who's fucked out now?” You teased, sitting back on his thighs.

August cracked an eye open at you. “I won't be taking you home tonight, Lamb.” He replied, voice rough. “You also won't be going into work tomorrow.” He added.

“Is that so?” You answered, lifting a brow at him.

“Then, where will we be, Gus?”

“Here.” He said, pulling the drain and stood up with you, setting you down outside the tub.

The two of you dried off and August showed you back through the warehouse, to the back where he revealed a bedroom, a massive, king sized bed, covered in insanely expensive cotton, black and silver sheets and blankets. August pulled down the thick comforter and sheet, before looking over at you and patted the Nectar mattress. You chuckled, smirking at him and joined him, shaking your head as the mattress came to just above your hip. August grinned back at you, resting his hands on your hips and hoisted you up onto the mattress. With you in bed, August turned the lights out and joined you under the blankets, pulling you against his body, before slipping his hand between you, to pump his cock for a moment, then curved his legs into yours and pushed his semi-hard cock into your core.

“Mmm, August.” You moaned, wiggling your hips and pressing your back against his chest, feeling him slowly harden completely inside of you.

“Sweet dream, little Lamb.” August rumbled back into your ear, locking his arms around your waist, keeping you in place, and drifted off, a sinful smile on his lips.

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