#and I am just languishing at home -_-

[juno-infernal]

okay nm i took half an adderall, put on my fluffy black bathrobe, switched the music to goth and new wave bops and now the world is full of beautiful possibility again

[critterbitter]

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

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

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

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

Ingo and Emmet are part of a pair.

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

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

Oh dragons, is Ingo a bad brother?

“Ingo!”

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

“Emmet!”

“I am emmet! You are sulking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emmet- aurgh. Gerroff’”

“I don’t speak denial.”

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

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

“Tell me the truth.”

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

“You are Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“You have Tynamo.”

“Tynamo’s charging at home.”

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

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

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

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

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

Ingo covers his face with his hands, defeated.

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

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

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

“You aren’t a bad brother, Ingo.”

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

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

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

He hears Emmet exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

“Pardon??”

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

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

“Yes.”

“What did I just say.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…ah.”

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

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

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

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

“Truly?” Uncle Drayden is a scary man.

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

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

“Brother, you know me so well!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[nickfowlerrr]

lies and love

GIF by marks-hoffman

pairing: bucky barnes x curvy!reader

warnings: feels, fluff, a little angst, and some silliness.

words: 2.8k

notes: decided to not go full smut with this one, but there will be something smutty and probably bucky related posted soon lol thank you in advance for reading and as always, comments and reblogs are welcome and so so appreciated! 🩵

You suck in a sobering breath as you spot Bucky at the kitchen table, sitting with nothing but a mug of coffee in front of him and a stoic look on his perfectly chiseled face. His flesh hand is holding his head as he rubs at his temple with his thumb.

Are you really gonna do this?

Sam sees you in your pause at the corner of the hallway and comes up to meet you.

“You look like you’re having regrets, but I am begging you, please don’t go back on me now,” he whispers as you both look on at Bucky still alone in the kitchen.

“I don’t know, Sam… This feels kind of mean.”

“Don’t think of it as being mean, think of it as you making my day!”

You turn to fix him with an unimpressed look but he speaks before you can.

“And making an easy hundred bucks,” he adds with raised brows.

You sigh again.

“Come on! I heard all the jabs he’s taken at you this week, it’s not like he doesn’t have a little prank coming his way.”

You can’t help but agree with that. Bucky had been being a jerk to you this past week, you still have no idea why, but once he and Sam left for their mission, you had kind of forgotten about it in favor of the memory of him leaving that night.

Bucky showed up to your room just before he was due to leave, looking nothing short of conflicted and upset. You were starting to feel much the same. You and Bucky were close…had been close at least. This past week saw the most distance between you you’d ever experienced, and his added jabs at your expense out of nowhere had left you a little hurt, and even more so, perplexed. You had no clue what had happened but you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, like he always gave you when you had a needless attitude. You thought to just give him some space and when he was due home from this mission, you could talk and figure things out then. You normally would be at the jet saying bye and wishing safe wishes, but tonight you figured he wouldn’t be in the mood to have you there. So opening your door to find him looking so sullen was a bit of a surprise, although not an unwelcome one. You just didn’t want to be the one to speak first, you weren’t sure what he was there for and you didn’t want to assume.

So, you leaned on your door for a second, confused, waiting for him to say something… But he didn’t. You both just stood there, languishing in a tense silence.

It was only a moment later, though, that he surprised you even further. He took a step closer to you, still no words leaving his lips, as he suddenly wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest for the tightest hug you’d ever shared. You returned it without thought, despite how he’d been making you feel the past few days. It was your natural reaction, and hugging Bucky always felt so nice, so right. This hug, though, felt a little different. Almost desperate… You knew something was up, and even though you knew you didn’t have the time right now to get into things, you had to ask him, you couldn’t not,

“Are you okay?” you questioned quietly, tone soft as he kept you close. But when you spoke, it was like your voice broke him out of some kind of trance.

He pulled away then, slowly letting you go as his intent blue gaze stayed on you.

“When I get back,” he rumbled lowly, “can we talk?”

Your brows furrowed, but you still nodded, “Yeah, of course.”

He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say more, but stopped himself before he did. He took a step back, eyes never leaving you.

“Be safe,” you told him as you rubbed your arm, hugging yourself - trying to replicate the warmth you were already missing. Your words earned you a sullen half smile before he finally looked away and headed back down the hall…

It’d been a long couple days.

Sam and Bucky had gotten in late last night and you hadn’t had the chance to talk with Bucky yet. In fact, this was the first time you’d gotten to see him since they got in. Sam, on the other hand, made it his mission to wait up until five am to ambush you in the gym with this incredibly juvenile plan of his.

“Tell me again why you want me to do this?” you asked.

“When Bucky was sleeping on the way back last night, he kept talking out loud, mumbling things… Look, truth be told, he probably has a concussion because he’s been in and out of it since he took a fall from the top floor of the building we were clearing, but he’s been being a dick to me since we left the other day so I don’t feel bad about messing with him a little bit.”

“And you think this is going to be believable to him because?”

“Because I mentioned your name when we were landing and he grabbed me by my shirt and told me to keep his girl’s name out of my mouth. He also very possibly thought I was Zemo telling by the threats that followed, but that’s beside the point. He asked me three times if you were single, if you and him were just friends, or if you guys were dating - not to mention the other questions he keeps asking me every time he sees me, so I know his head is all scrambled right now. But look, don’t think too much about it, I just wanna mess with him a little bit before I take his ass up to the med bay and have Bruce look him over.”

You almost fuzzed out completely at the thought of Bucky calling you his girl, but managed to stay listening enough to catch all of what Sam was saying again. Your gaze was dead set on Bucky as he groaned under his breath, picking up the mug to take a sip before he closed his eyes, squinting in what you can only imagine was a tinge of pain.

This is wrong, and mean, and normally, you wouldn’t do it. But, the selfish part of you, the desperate part, the part who has been in love with Bucky for about as long as you’ve known him, that part, doesn’t want to deny herself the opportunity to pretend, for however short of time, that she was actually his girl.

You know this is messed up, pretending to a possibly concussed Bucky that you are indeed his girlfriend for a little Sam brained prank…but you’re still gonna do it.

Plus, you have to talk to Bucky after this anyway, you’ll get your chance to apologize. And though you can’t be entirely sure what it is Bucky wants to talk about, you’re hopeful it’s an apology from his side, too.

“Alright,” you breathe, “a hundred bucks?”

“A hundred bucks,” Sam smiles.

You suck in your cheeks before you click your tongue and kick a foot forward, taking the first step around the corner to the kitchen.

You walk into the room and Bucky’s gaze perks up as he sees you, eyes wide, but not fully sure how he should be reacting.

You smile as he watches you, trying to gauge your approach as you walk closer.

“There you are,” you say, coming to a stop right beside him. The chair he sits in is angled out from the table and you let your hip lean close into him while you let a hand smooth over his shoulder, snaking behind his neck, squeezing him lightly as he sucks in a breath at your touch. He’s looking up at you, trepidatious and awed.

You lean down and your other hand comes to his stubbled cheek as you guide him closer to you.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice sultry without you even trying. You lean down into him and kiss him, it’s soft and sweet and all too quick as you pull away with a pout.

He still has that dumbfounded look on his face, lips parting too late as he gapes up at you.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, pout still in place, your fingers now playing in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Huh?” he murmurs dumbly, eyes glued to you as they twinkle.

“Kiss me back,” you complain, though even to you it sounds more like a plea, leaning back into him. He swallows hard before he follows your lead. Your lips press against each other, timidly at first before Bucky gets emboldened by your touch. You murmur into him as his hand comes around your backside, pulling you closer and then down to sit on his lap, his large hand on your hip as he holds you securely.

His once delicate kiss quickly delves into something more fervent and wanting as his hold gets tighter and more possessive.

You have completely lost the plot as you lose yourself in his kiss.

You’re in his lap, practically melting into him as you chase his every kiss, your hands lost in his hair as you try to keep him close to you in turn.

There comes a point in your impromptu makeout session that you are finally forced to pull away for air. You’re breathing hard as you stay in Bucky’s hold, still face to face with him as you try to get a breath in.

“Hi,” he finally greets back, sounding breathless himself.

You laugh a smile before you hear Sam enter the kitchen behind you, clapping loudly as your brows scrunch in confusion at the sound.

You turn your head to look at him as Bucky sends a glare in his direction, his hold on you tightening in his annoyance.

“Finally! Took you two bozos long enough. Now I don’t wanna hear anymore complaining from you,” he points at Bucky, “and I don’t wanna see anymore moping, longing puppy eyes from you,” he turns on you. “You’re welcome, and you’re welcome.”

“Wha-” you open your mouth to question him, but you’re stopped as he holds up a hand at you.

“I wasn’t entirely lying, but he already saw Banner and he’s been cleared. Now so is your conscience.”

“Wh-” Bucky begins, but himself is stopped by Sam’s hand now being held up to him before he turns it into a finger gun.

“You’re welcome,” he repeats before walking off, leaving both of you confused.

It’s a long pause between you before Bucky breaks the silence.

“What wasn’t he lying about?” he asks, voice hushed as he sounds almost embarrassed. His eyes are downcast as he stares at your chest, so close to his, but despite his sudden reticence he keeps his hands on you, ensuring you stay where you are.

You should tell him the whole truth, but you can’t get past the embarrassment yet… maybe later, you think. For now,

“Oh, just… something about you, calling me your girl,” you speak slowly, bordering on teasing as you shyly try to meet his gaze.

When he does look up to you, you can see him search your eyes to make sure you aren’t upset or offended or whatever he could possibly be worried about seeing there. But as you smile softly at him, his lips break into a small smile of his own.

“I, uh,” he huffs a nervous laugh, “I-”

“You?” you question as your smile wavers.

“Remember when I asked if we could talk?”

“Yeah,” you answer meekly, growing a little uncomfortable as you still remain in his lap.

“Can we? Talk?”

“Yeah,” you nod, moving to finally get off of him. Bucky doesn’t lighten his grip, though. Instead he holds you in place, squeezing your hip lightly to still you.

“Last week,” he starts, “I was being a dick to you. You didn’t deserve that, and I’m sorry. I heard Jason in the gym talking about asking you out and how you had a date on Friday and I… I was upset. Hurt,” he adds, almost under his breath. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you, but I did, and I’m really sorry. I know I hadn’t made a move or anything, but I thought we were going somewhere, I thought we had something, so when I heard him talking about taking you out…”

“Bucky, I don’t think I’ve ever spoken more than five words to Jason since he started working here,” you’re quick to say. “I didn’t go out with him, he never asked me out, I - I don’t know why he would have ever said that, I,” you pause, catching your breath. “I thought we were going somewhere, too. Even if he had asked me, I never would’ve said yes. This is, this is what you wanted to talk to me about?”

He’s looking at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world as he takes in your words. He nods, “Yeah, I, I was going to apologize and then I was gonna tell you that Jason wasn’t the right guy for you. I was ready to get on my knees and beg you to not go out with him again.”

“Yeah?” you laugh lightly as you wait for him to continue, hanging onto his every word and very literally clinging onto his body at this point.

“Yeah. And then I was gonna tell you that I’m an idiot, and that I regret waiting as long as I did to say something, but that…”

You hear your breathing shake in his own nervous pause. His brilliant blue eyes shine back at you as his lips twitch in a half smile,

“I am so insanely in love with you. And the thought of you on some other guy’s arm drove me crazy. And it’s my own fault for not telling you sooner, for not treating you the way you deserve to be treated, taking you out, showing you off, holding you close,” he makes his point as his arms wrap around you snuggly, “but if you’d let me, I’d treat you right every day from here on out. Because Jason definitely isn’t the guy for you,” - you laugh at the face he makes when he says that, earning a smile from him in return, “but I’d like to be. If you’d have me.”

“Bucky,” you whisper, arms wrapping around his neck as he holds you, “I’ve never been treated better by anyone than I’ve been treated by you. You’re the best man I’ve ever known,” your voice wavers with your emotion. “You may think you waited too long, but honestly,” you tell him, “I’d wait forever for you if I had to.” You’re nose to nose as you let yourself lean into him. “I love you, so much it’s almost embarrassing,” you huff a laugh, closing your eyes as your lips brush his. Bucky doesn’t waste another second before he’s crashing his lips into yours, smiles and murmurs exchanged between the two of you in your embrace.

“So,” he breaks away with another soft kiss, “does that mean you’re available Friday night?”

“For you I’m available any night,” you smirk. Bucky laughs before nodding, “Good. I’ll be picking you up for dinner, then.”

“It’s a date,” you simper, melting into him as he pulls you close once more.

“God, I love being this close to you,” he says against your temple as he keeps you in his lap, your arms around him as you hug him, nuzzling into his chest. You pull back from him, earning a quiet groan he tries to hide as you inadvertently rub against his crotch. You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you do it again, adjusting yourself on his lap a lot more purposefully.

“Ya know,” you whisper lowly, “you could be even closer if you wanted to.” Your voice is laced with a quiet seduction for his ears only, and as soon as the words have passed your lips, you find yourself being held by Bucky’s strong arms as he carries you down the hall with haste. You can’t help your surprised laughter as you hold onto him, looking up at him with adoration you’ve never had for anyone else. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he gets to his door,

“I want to, hell, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to,” he husks as he shoves open his door.

He strides in and drops you on his bed, turning back just to kick his door shut as you watch him with heavy lidded eyes.

He pulls his shirt off and you let yourself lay back on your elbows on his neatly made bed as you refuse to break eye contact.

“Why don’t you give me an idea, Sergeant? And you can show me just how much you’ve been wanting to.”

[eskir]

pining from a glided cage - sunday x reader

he watches you with a dull ache in his chest and handcuffs to duty - unrequited love on sunday's part

wc: 808 a/n talks: soft sunday w/angst :D got the idea from @eternity-death and i vibed with it a lot. also i'm proud of my first tag (please say yes)

Penacony can only be called the land of dreams, for the sole reason that it is in ones dreams. It will never be the land of fulfilled dreams, never the land where wishes come to fruition. Because even as life slumbers, nightmares run amok and bitter pieces of reality infest dreams, leaving the conscious person choking and gasping for breath.

But Sunday cannot awaken from the dream, so he is left watching you with an impassive face and hidden heart pains from a glided view. He loves you. He cannot say the words that dare to burst from his traitorous lips, nor can he express the sweet pains that reside in his chest. He is an administrator, the head of the Oak family, and he is bound by decorum, order, and the rules imposed upon him by the Dreammaster. He lacks control, so he craves it in everything he can hold in the palm of his insignificant hand. He is bound to Penacony, and he realizes that Robin, his dear sister, spoke uncomfortably bitter truth.

"Brother, I am leaving Penacony. A lavish yet empty cage that I have to leave, but I will miss it nevertheless. I hope you make it out of there, or at the very least, walk in reality."

But he cannot bear to leave Penacony, not when so much is expected of him as the head, not when the Dreammaster oversees almost every move of his, not when you reside in the place he can only call a home because of you.

For if you were no longer in Penacony, he would have nothing joyous holding him back. He would languish apathetically for all the Golden Hours, unable to pursue his dreams. So he makes sure to cherish the moments he has with you, knowing that you could leave at any moment like Robin did.

(he'll hold onto you with a tight desperate grip that he knows is unacceptable. he doesn't want to lose anyone else that's important to him. and even though robin is still alive, she is too far away and the presence of her letters only tears his heart up more.)

So whenever you visit him, bringing sweet treats that you know he'll like, talking about parts of your life, Sunday will listen. He always listens with that soft gaze that could almost make you believe that he is in love with you. He is, but that is a point you'll never acknowledge or realize. Sunday knows that, he can tell when you talk about someone you are clearly enamored with.

He's listened to you for a long enough time that he knows your tells. So when you talk about someone else that isn't him in a romantic light, he freezes. His smile becomes a little more forced, and he closes his eyes to hide the uncomfortable emotions that are swirling in them. In those moments, he misses you. Even though you are right in front of him, he aches for the old you and for Robin. You three would just run throughout the Dreamscape with no worries as children. He misses you even though you're right in front of him. He aches to reach out for your face and kiss your forehead gently.

But he can't, he has to restrain himself from any action that could be misconstrued as affectionate. He cannot do anything but drown in his emotions because that is what the Dreammaster ordered of him. The Dreammaster disapproves of him acting on his feelings because he must 'act accordingly' and 'not be distracted from his duties'. It's suffocating that he cannot reach out for your hand or your kind touch.

(he just craves you. he craves your presence and smile. he'd never have either of the two if you weren't close friends, but the proximity to you just makes his heart ache even more. he lets you touch his wings, even though he knows you only love him as a friend. he lets you, enjoys it even, with you play with his hair, commenting on how soft it is. he wishes that it was because you truly did love him, but it's just how you are, naturally affectionate. so he feigns the neutrality of a long term friend.)

So he smiles whenever you met up. His eyes always light up when you bring new sweet treats and you always laugh at his expression good-naturedly. It's a comfortable relationship that the two of you have, and when night falls, he'll always wish for your happiness.

(he just wishes that you'll never fall in love with anyone but him. he wishes that you won't fall in love with him because he cannot love you back and he doesn't want to reject you.)

Just like Robin, you are a star that he revolves around, never getting closer or further away.

[whokilledjared]

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

Hi.

I'm lonely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God. What the fuck are we doing???

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

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

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

yay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I have the time to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[sugar-omi]

good lord I was trying to study but out of nowhere I know where🩸this came into my mind:

having a night in at ur grown up house w cove derek and baxter (only dating cove) and everyone gets wasted asf so they sleep over and late at night the other two can hear u and cove in ur bedroom 👀 ykwim?

the smut and angst potential of them getting off to listening to u two from their respective guest rooms and the irony of both ur guests doing it omggggggg 🫣

in the morning neither of them can properly look at u two out of shame and u and cove r just embarrassed cause u think it’s just cause they heard u (and ofc ur only half right)

these ideas fr come to me at the worst time lol

-🗑️

I AM SCREAMING. YOU'RE SO BRILLIANT I CAN'T.... derek would really try not to, but i feel like it'd end up seeping into his dreams and he just can't resist. and baxterrrr omg... he'd be so embarrassed n ashamed, i dont think he'd be able to sleep the rest of the night at all, even once you n cove are done... pls you sent this at the perfect time bc i was about to start writing n i cannot focus until i write this now, i must have this in a fic.. n ik it isn't what you're talking about, but this is also so good n i instantly thought abt this scenario. i will take ANY chance for derek n baxter to fall in love or into bed LOL

tags : NSFW, baxter x derek, one night stand (UNLESS), you and cove drink, auralism*, oral (derek receiving), top/dom baxter, bottom derek, derek has a crush on you/MC, baxter has a thing for both of you or maybe he's just a kinky bastard

*to be aroused by sound. (can be compared with voyeurism)

synopsis : baxter and derek are staying with you for an extended vacation (much needed for both of them.) and while you two have been considerate and lovely hosts, you're a bit loud... not that it's a problem. quite the opposite actually..

imagine baxter is pouring himself a glass of wine, unable to get your and cove's muffled moans out of his head.

he's generous with his pouring, since everyone already had a lot to drink during dinner, being reserved is unnecessary.

baxter tips back his cup, licking his lips, savoring the sweet taste of this wine, humming at the taste. not bad..

he's checking the label, wanting to remember the brand so he can add it to his shelves at home.

"oh."

baxter looks up, tired eyes wide at the sudden guest. he's met with derek's wide eyes, equally tired..

baxter gives a lopsided smile, trying to be friendly with his new friend. he gestures to the barstools across from him, "care to join me?"

derek rubs his neck shyly, "ah, i wouldn't want to impose. i just came for some water.."

baxter shakes his head, leaning back on the island, taking a sip of his wine. if he knew he'd have company, he wouldn't have poured so much at once.

he licks his lips, trying not to eye his glass to see if it looks like an reasonable amount of wine. trying to preserve his put together image is fruitless anyway, baxter is a hot mess walking and you could probably smell his issues all the way from france.

"nonsense, i wouldn't mind company. the best conversations are best shared under the stars, i'd say. although, i won't blame if you're going bak to bed." baxter laughs to himself humorlessly. "probably a better idea than getting drunk again."

derek laughs, "well, if you don't mind the company then.." and goes about grabbing some water before sitting across from baxter, trying to be quiet when he drags out the barstool.

there's a stretch of silence between them, the two of them sipping their drinks and baxter plays off his awkwardness by admiring the photo collage in the hallway, visible through the wide doorway.

baxter turns back to derek, who's holding his water with both hands, dozily looking into the glass. he looks up and is surprised to meet baxter's sharp gaze, but plays it off with a smile.

baxter speaks lazily, his movements languished and his bones heavy. he's feeling warm from the wine, and a bit chatty. "couldn't sleep either, huh?"

derek laughs, "that obvious?"

baxter shrugs, speaking around the lip of his wineglass. "i figured we're in the same boat."

derek stills, his cheeks slowly filling red, and he looks up, trying to figure out if he's trying to say he also heard you and cove doing... it. the other night.

baxter bounces his eyebrows, and that makes derek flush brightly, looking down. "y-yeah, i guess we are.."

he laughs, covering his mouth to muffle the noise.

derek seems to relax a bit at his amusement, and eventually they relax a bit more, and baxter goes on to tell derek more of his wedding horror stories when he asks.

they're laughing, trying to muffle the sound with their hands when they get too loud, and baxter is leaned over the counter, rambling to derek as softly as possible.

baxter signs and shakes his head, a smile still on his lips as he takes another sip. he's definitely getting buzzed again.

and at some point baxter even sits next to him and derek seems to greatly enjoy baxter's open laughter and his wide gestures as he narrates his stories, even throwing up his own chaotic stories about what it was like growing up with his brothers.

"hey.." derek calls, and baxter hums curiously in response. "does that taste good?"

baxter raises his brow but tips his glass towards derek. "it is. it has notes of peach and honey... wanna try?"

derek glances between baxter's eyes and the wine, nodding, taking the glass from his hands and taking a long sip...

baxter's eyes are stuck on derek's lips, his eyes following how his throat bobs when he swallows and his tongue dashes out to lick the wine running down the corner of his lips..

baxter snaps his eyes back towards derek's, who's already looking back at him.

the silence seems long, and the distance between derek and baxter's lips seems even longer, and he feels antsy even though they're both leaning in, their lips meeting in the middle in a soft kiss.

derek deepens the kiss, leaning into baxter, and humming into the kiss when baxter starts rubbing his thigh, his fingers sliding down th fabric of his sweatpants until he's touching his inner thigh, dangerously close to his bulge..

a moan echoes, and baxter and derek break apart, panting and their lips wet and swollen. then they hear it again, and some muffled talking.

they look into each others eyes, unable to move. they're both wide awake now, both because of that hot kiss and the sounds of cove's deep, and futile muffled moans.

their chests rise and fall, tension in the air, mingling with something else...

derek speaks first, taking baxter's hand before he can pull away. "do you... should we go to your room?"

baxter blinks owlishly, shocked and flustered. but really fucking turned on.

"yes, yeah, yeah okay.." he stumbles his words, totally knocked off his feet by the way derek looks at him, his green eyes deep with lust, and the whole turn of events.

derek leads him down the hall, and baxter is grateful he didn't somehow knock over the barstool or the flower vase in the hall.

they walk past your shared bedroom, baxter's designated room for his stay, at the end of the hall.

baxter tries to ignore the way his cock throb when he hears cove curse and growl, "fuck, you're so warm..." he tries not to think about it, but the idea of what you two are getting up to, how you both look and sound, what you're doing to each other...

he's trying not to let his mind run away with him but he's admittedly, a weak man. and so is derek, if the way he clutches his hand tighter and all but shoves baxter through the door and closes the door a bit louder than he should.

you and cove always drown out all other forms of life when you're together, and baxter doubts it's much different in the bedroom, if not "worse."

derek pushes baxter to sit on the bed, standing over him, his legs on either side of baxter's lap and he pulls off his shirt, throwing it on the floor.

baxter licks his lips, his hands sliding up derek's waist and stomach, his body thick and toned with muscles... "goddamn..." baxter exhales, all but drooling at the sight.

derek laughs shyly, lifting his arm to rub his neck (a nervous tick baxter has come to realize) and the muscles in his arm stretches and flex. baxter has a distant thought about derek being able to manhandle him...

"is this okay?" derek asks, suddenly shy now.

baxter nods, leaning in to kiss along derek's bronze stomach, his lips trailing down his happy trail to his bulge. "more than okay.."

baxter tugs on derek's sweatpants, looking up at him. "let me know if you want to stop..."

he tugs down derek's pants and underwear, letting his cock spring free. baxter strokes his cock to full mast, and derek holds onto baxter's hand for support, his other hand coming up to muffle his moan.

baxter wraps his lips around derek's flushed tip, sucking and circling his tongue over the head.

"b-baxter..." derek gasps, his thighs shaking.

baxter takes him deeper down his throat, keeping eye contact as he swallows around his cock, reaching down to palm his own bulge through his satin pajamas.

he groans, the vibrations sending shivers up derek's spine and derek mumbles, his fingers finding their way to baxter's hair, clinging onto the already messy locks.

baxter tears his hand away from his hard-on, to undo the buttons on his pajama shirt, the buttons slipping through his fingers until his shirt is wide open.

"mhm-!" baxter startles, gripping onto derek's thighs, his hips bucking up into his warm mouth.

derek moans shakily, "oh f- i'm sorry. sorry.." he babbles, pushing back baxter's fringe, his thighs twitching and his muscles clenching under baxter's hands.

baxter hums around derek's length, patting his thigh. his tongue drags along the underside of his cock, baxter's lips pulling off him with a pop, his lips wet and puffy.

baxter's sharp, lustful eyes meeting derek's equally horny gaze. derek's flushed cheeks are a feast for baxter's eyes, he can't wait to have him in bed..

"do you.. wanna go further?" baxter asks, his hand making obscene wet noises from all the pre-cum and spit, as he strokes derek's cock in his fist.

derek nods, his throat bobbing as he tries not to fall to his knees or cry out and alert you and cove to what they're doing in here.. "yes, please.."

baxter pulls away, standing up to tug off the rest of his clothes while derek tugs off his pants, almost tripping when the leg gets stuck on his ankle but baxter ignores it since he's not very elegant either, the wine still buzzing through him.

he throws his clothes on the floor, all but throwing himself into the bed with derek, straddling his lap as he captures his lips in a kiss, his tongue slipping past derek's lips, guiding his tongue to move with his own.

derek grips baxter's waist, his hands pulling him down to grind him into his lap, their cocks sliding together.

baxter breaks the kiss, his lips falling to derek's neck...

"cove- cove- cove!" your cry is heard through the wall, followed by muffled moans and whimpers.

"ah!" derek moans, his fingrs digging into the plush of baxter's hips when he bites down on his neck.

"oh- sorry. did i hurt you?" he worries, kissing the area soothingly. he didn't expect you to.. cry out so loudly. not that you aren't allowed to be loud in your own home, or anything like that. he just didn't think you'd sound so hot.

he's trying not to think about if he wishes it was his name on your lips, or what cove is doing to make you call his name so loudly and lewdly...

derek shakes his head, or tries too with baxter under his chin. "i mean, it hurt but.. it wasn't bad..." derek admits shyly.

baxter smiles, pulling off his neck to kiss his lips again, smiling too much to kiss properly but they have all night for that anyway...

he leans over the edge of the bed for his bag, fumbling through the open inner pocket for a condom and lube.

it's not that baxter planned to get laid on this trip, it's just bad to be unprepared.

"do you want to be on top?" baxter inquires, pointing the condom at derek.

he flushes, licking his lips and glancing off to the side. "um.. if you don't mind, you can be on top..."

baxter raises his brows, a blush high on his cheeks.

ohh derek really is interesting.

"not at all." baxter purrs, fixing their position so one of derek's legs is on his shoulder, and the other over his thigh.

he slowly sinks one, then two, then three digits into derek's hole, scissoring his fingers and rubbing derek's thigh soothingly. he's such a mess just from his fingers alone, derek's face half buried in the pillow and his hips bucking up and his thighs shaking.

"that's-" derek pants, swallowing thickly. "that's enough... put it in.. please..." he gasps, peeking at baxter through his lashes.

"fuck..." baxter curses, his stomach dipping with lust.

he fumbles, trying to open the condom but his fingers are covered in lube and he ends up ripping it with his teeth impatiently. baxter rolls it over his length, leaning over to pull derek into a kiss as he sinks into him.

"hmmn!" derek mewls into the kiss, his arms coming to lock around baxter's neck.

baxter slams his hips into derek, a loud slap sounding through the room from baxter's hips meeting his ass. baxter breaks the kiss, hissing.

that was definitely too loud, but it's also been so long since he's been with someone, and derek is so charming, that he's not sure he cares..

derek moans, trying to stifle it by biting his lips.

they pant, letting derek adjust to his length and for them to catch their breath, baxter feels like the air has been knocked out of him with how derek's hot walls are wrapped around him, his hole clenching and flutter around him, trying to take him deeper.

"mn, y/n-" cove voice is muffled, keeping them from hearing the rest of his sentence. although it was probably cut short, if the deep groan they hear through the wall is anything to go by.

baxter pants, "i'm.. i'mma start moving..." he gasps, moving so he's sitting up again, his hand pushing derek's knee up towards his chest.

derek covers his mouth with his hand, baxter's cock dragging so slowly against his walls, his eyes rolling and fluttering shut when his tip bumps against a sensitive spot in his walls, dangerously close to his prostate..

"harder!- ha- oh fuck!" you curse and moan unabashedly loud, followed by your bed frame thumping against the wall.

it quiets down to some creaking, with dull thumps every now and then.

baxter picks up the pace of his thrusts, spurred on by all your sounds from the other room and derek's lewd expressions.

derek whimpers, his moans and cries barely muffled by his hand and when baxter's hips slam into his repeatedly, he can't hold onto his barrage of moans and whines, babbling nonsense.

baxter leans over him, forcing his legs against his chest so he can whisper in derek's ear, stuffing his fingers down derek's throat, his middle and ring fingers pressing on his tongue.

"shh, darling. they'll hear us..." baxter purrs, although he laughs and nods his head to the side, "although, i think being quiet is a bit useless for all of us at this point."

derek whimpers around baxter's fingers, drool pooling in his mouth. he closes his lips around the digits and sucks, swallowing, dragging his tongue along baxter's fingers seductively..

"god." baxter grunts, his face scrunching up in pleasure.

his hips thrust up into derek's g-spot, his thrusts shallow as they both get closer and closer to finishing.

baxter pulls his fingers from derek's lips, a string of spit connecting derek's lips to the digits before it breaks, his hand slipping between their bodies to stroke derek's weeping cock, pre-cum pooling along the valley of his abs...

baxter captures derek in a sloppy kiss, neither of them really trying to hold back their sounds anymore. and from the sounds of it, you and cove aren't worried about being quiet either, your moans more frequent and totally unrestrained.

"i'm gonna-" derek pants, his nails dragging down baxter's shoulder.

"go ahead. cum. cum for me." baxter growls, his hand abusing derek's sensitive tip, making short strokes.

derek's legs shake on either side of him, his eyes rolling as he cums into baxter's hand. baxter groans, his hips stuttering as derek clenched around him, filling the condom.

they melt into each other, their chests rising and falling, and their heavy breathing match.

baxter turns his head to the side, seeing the sky turn from night to early morning..

"i'll.." he pants, pushing himself off derek's chest. "i'll run a bath... wanna join me?"

[animeomegas]

Hello! Recently I'm having Haku brainrot.

Can I request Haku spending his heat with his Alpha. It didn't need to be NSFW(maybe they are cuddling in his nest🥺🤧) honestly, I just want to spoil him and kiss him lmaoo

(Understandable, anon, I too am often plagued by brainrot XD)

Post-Heat Relaxation with Haku

Sometimes, your mate reminded you of a cat.

Not all the time, of course. He loved swimming, smelling his herb garden, and he quite frankly thrived in freezing temperatures, likely due to a side effect of his bloodline limit. In those regards, he was very human.

And yet now, as you watched him lounge on the window seat, naked and stretched out, languishing in the sun, you couldn't help but draw a comparison.

Haku had a kind of aura that drew others in, lulled them into a sense of security and safety, like a siren at sea, and as his mate, you were not the exception to that power.

You were supposed to be cleaning up. Only one of the two large bags of nesting supplies were clean, and none of the back up supplies were out yet, but Haku's power was too strong. When you heard the little contended purrs that he was letting out, you simply couldn't resist approaching him.

"The nest is almost ready for rebuilding," you said gently, crouching down by the window seat and resting your cheek on the smooth, warm skin of his bare waist. You pressed a kiss there and Haku hummed in delight.

"There's no rush, I'm quite happy here." Haku stretched languidly, grumbling pleasantly at the stretch. "The sun is so lovely today."

Yes, you thought, amused, definitely a cat.

"Not as lovely as you."

Haku smiled, his stomach jumping in amusement under your cheek. You pressed a couple more kisses to the heated skin before sitting upright. His hair was still damp from his earlier bath and you couldn't resist running your fingers through it, careful to avoid tugging on any tangles.

"How are you feeling?"

"Amazing," he breathed, closing his eyes again.

"Are you sure?" you asked, still stroking his hair. "Your heat was more intense than usual this year, and if I'm tired, you must be."

He laughed lightly, "I'm sure I'm fine, stop worrying so much, silly." He turned his gaze back towards the window, seemingly happy to gaze at his much loved garden.

You remembered the first ever nest Haku had built when he moved to Konoha. Well, you hadn't been allowed inside it at the time, but you remembered him speaking about building it inside his wardrobe. Wardrobe's weren't an uncommon place for omegas to utilise for nest building, but for Haku it had been a sign of his anxiety in a new place.

Now, here, he seemed so much more at home, where nature bled through to where he was nesting, where he could bask in a cool summer's breeze and warm patches of sunlight. The idea of him being contained in a small, dark wardrobe didn't feel right at all.

You had provided this den, this home, for him, and he felt safe here. Your omega felt so safe, he could lay naked, in front of an open window, at one of his most vulnerable moments. Your stomach clenched, as every instinctual part of you purred in delight.

"Just call me back over when it's time for me to rebuild the nest," he said, yawning. "I might take a nap here."

You ran your hand from his hair, down his body, appreciating the subtle curves and grooves as you went, "Okay, darling, have a good nap."

"I will." His beautiful eyes fluttered closed. He was the picture of contentment.

You nuzzled into his neck, placing one final kiss on his newly refreshed mating mark, before stepping away to continue washing the soiled fabrics of his nest.

[angel-of-the-moons]

A Rose Under The Moon

Moon Knight System (Marc, Steven, Jake) x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Graphic depictions of child abuse, PTSD, anxiety, panic attacks, defenselessness

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Yeah, this is something that just popped into my head while languishing in my bathtub the other night. Happy birthday to me by giving y'all this lil gift lmao

Taglist: @bad4amficideas @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @shirukitsune @lokisremainingsanity @mundivagantsoul @furblrwurblr @zoleea-exultant @latenightcravingz @daygirl26 @thelastemzy @leahnicole1219 @marsmallow433 @crazyunsexycool @oscarissac2099 @littlenosoul @animechick555 @capsiclesworldsblog @cloudroomblog @lov3vivian @princessakirika @fog-sama @cheshire-salvatore-mikaelson @badbishsblog @lillycore555 @stardream14 @meowmeowyoongles @kate-ohara @kittenlover614 @patchesofwork @enheduannasposts @lillycore555

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Chapter 12:

Helplessness

Today was so boring... You had customers come in, order the usual snacks, get some books, and leave. You had one couple in particular that grinded your gears just a bit out of bitterness.

They were just married--soulmates--and were still in the "touching all the time" phase of their relationship. You felt a lurch in your chest each time they shared a kiss, giggled to one another, and shared little inside jokes.

You had been feeling lonely. All. Day. Long.

Even Jake hadn't come to visit you. He said Steven and Marc were still out of the country at the moment, on a trip of some sort. Good for them, you thought. They seemed like they needed it.

But... something kept... tugging at you. Pulling you away from your daily routine, distracting you. It felt like a stone being dropped in a pond; sinking down and settling in the silt at the bottom.

Seeing that couple had put you in a bad mood. Not angry, but... hell. You'd be surprised if you weren't glowing a nice bright green after their public displays of affection.

You flopped down onto your bed, Puck leaping up with a purr to lick at your cheek.

You chuckled softly, rolling onto your side to scratch her round little cheek affectionately, "This is the longest you've stuck it out inside here, Puck. Finally gettin' tired of being outside all the time? Ready to settle down? Be my bookshop kitty?"

Puck responded with a slow blink, and a long yawn, her pink tongue poking out at you a bit.

You giggled, your chest feeling just a bit lighter at how cute she was.

"Yeah. You're right." You say to her. "Let's go to bed. I can take a shower in the morning."

Puck mewed, moving around to sit atop your end table as you got ready for bed, slipping on your comfiest shorts and sleep shirt before going to brush your teeth for the night.

Her little green eyes tracked your every move, blinking once, twice, her ear flicking slightly as she hears you heave another heavy sigh before face-planting into your pillows, hugging one close to you.

Puck purred loudly, snuggling up against your side and tucking her paws beneath her.

She only closed her eyes once she felt you relax, content as your hand idly reached out and stroked her fur as you eventually slipped into the land of dreams.

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You stumbled on your feet as they hit the cold, damp asphalt, the soft droplets as the rain misted down on you felt... strange. Not London.... Not Maine.

You whip your head up and around, looking down at your body. You still wore the pajamas you'd selected for the night, nothing else.

Your body shivered and your teeth began to chatter as you looked around for someone--anyone--to ask for help, to find out where you were and how the hell you were suddenly dropped there.

The brownstones and townhouses around you were all shut tight, the street entirely devoid of cars and people. To you, it felt like it was the afternoon. The world was illuminated in cloudy gloom that told you it was daytime...

Your eyes flicked to your right, spotting one singular home, the windows glowing with a warm light, the silhouettes of people within calling you towards the front steps.

Your feet felt like ice; your toes ready to fall off as you make the short climb, rubbing your arms in a futile attempt at warmth.

You raise one hand and use the knocker three times.

"H-hello? I'm sorry to b-bother you, but um.... I'm afraid I.... I don't know where I am. Is there a phone I can borrow?" You call out as the wind whips around you, the misty rain begins to get heavier, turning into sleet; a chill settling deep into your very core.

Upon receiving no response, you raised your voice: "Hello? Is anybody there?"

It was crazy. You saw people through the window, you could see somebody was home. The lights were on, you could hear muffled words and shuffling feet--

CRASH!

You jumped slightly, eyes widening in a bit of fear and shock as you heard a very angry voice from within; accusatory and full of venom; followed by the rapid thumping of more footsteps.

Your teeth chattered and you looked around.

Nobody else was on the street or looking down on you... it was freezing. Somebody could be hurt...

You swallowed the paranoid lump in your throat as you turn the knob and let yourself in.

"H.... Hello?"

The warmth was heavenly on your icy cold skin as you slipped inside, the last of your chills slipping away as you took in the surroundings.

The home was cosy, sweetly and primly decorated. As you made it past the entryway and circle of plush sitting chairs, you discover what looked to be the dining room.

A photo frame sat atop the dining table, a tipped over bourbon glass trickling down onto the hardwood floors.

Your fingers stiffly reached out to grab the frame and look at it. It was a photo of what looked to be two young boys--possibly brothers. But you couldn't really tell because the bigger one had his face violently scratched away, leaving the younger one beaming happily at the camera, the bigger child's arm wrapped tightly around him.

You pursed your lips and felt a stab in your heart as you set the photo down. Who would do such a thing to a picture of a child? Was it some kind of coping skill? You'd heard of some people removing things that remind them of those they lost, but this...

You suck in a sharp breath of air and walk to the threshold, moving towards the stairs leading to the second floor.

At the bottom of the steps was a bottle of bourbon, shattered on the wall and laying in pieces on the floor, the sickly sweet liquor dripping down the wall and pooling around the glass shards.

Amid the debris was the remnants of a vase, the wilted flowers laying sadly in the sticky drink and shards of brown glass.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you heard another slam, followed by loud banging and the rattling of a door.

A shrill voice cut above it all as you took the first step:

"Let me in you worthless little brat!"

Your heart stopped briefly at the sheer hatred in her voice, the sound of her fist pounding on wood.

You tried to race up the flight of stairs, but every step felt like you were walking in wet cement; sinking deeper like quicksand as you heard whatever door she was pounding on finally open.

"There you are."

"No, no, no..." You grunt, pulling yourself up from of the stairs that may have been wood when you first touched them... but now they were sucking you down like the whirlpool in a drain.

The wooden banister was your greatest ally in your trek, sweat beading from your brow and your lungs burning as you hauled yourself up; step by step.

When you finally reached the summit of the stairs, you chanced a brief look down.

There were only maybe sixteen steps, maybe a couple more. Why did it feel like six hundred?

You heard her grunt, the sound of leather cracking over something.

"You're making me do this! You know that!"

You stumbled to your feet and frantically raced down the hall and to the room the sounds were coming from. You gripped the knob and leaned in.

Beneath the sounds of leather, her angry words, was the soft sniffling of a child. A child trying so desperately to stay quiet for fear of making the abuse worse.

"Stop!" You cried, the knob stiff in your hands.

You jiggle it, pound on the door like she had moments ago.

"Stop it! I can hear you!" You shouted, your heart pounding loudly in your ears as tears burned your vision. "Why are you doing this!"

"All you have to do is listen, and you can't even do that!" The woman spat like you weren't even there, "Just look at what you did! You worthless little bastard!"

"Mom, please--"

The young voice was cut short by a loud shriek, followed by a groan and a sob. More shuffling. You threw yourself against the door, wanting so desperately to break past that final barrier, to maybe try and save the poor boy you knew now was being abused.

The door opened and you stumbled forwards, falling to your hands and feet hard on the floor.

The typical trappings of a young boy, Star Wars, NASA, Indiana Jones, and even a poster of another movie you couldn't quite recognize, but some part of you recalled.

You didn't have time to take in the rest of them, your eyes immediately zeroed in on the woman standing above the boy who was curled in on himself, his mop of dark strands hanging over his face as he cried, his nose running down his chin; lip busted and bleeding.

His arm he cradled so gingerly against his chest had burns. Fresh red, bleeding welts.

His mother, you surmised, stood over him, cigarette in one hand and the belt hanging at her side in the other as she looked down at him, her drunken, hate-filled gaze unmoved by her child's soft pleading.

He hiccuped, his body wracked with the sobs he so desperately tried to keep inside. "Mom, please.... I... I didn't mean it. I tripped--"

"No, you were being stupid again." She said, slipping the cigarette between her teeth and raising her arm to strike.

"Like you always are. Like you were with my Ro-Ro."

"I didn't mean it!" The boy cried defiantly, finally looking up at his mother, his gorgeous amber eyes glassy and wet as more fat tears curled over his eyelashes. "I didn't know that would happen to--"

He was interrupted by the belt cracking over his cheek, instantly turning it a deep, angry shade of red, a small cut welling up with droplets of blood.

He stayed quiet, curling once more into himself as she prepared for another blow.

"Shut the fuck up! All you ever do is talk, you don't fucking stop! I'm sick of it!" She howled, landing blow after blow on his back, the cigarette dropping to the floor, singing a shallow hole into the wood.

"Talking is what gets you in trouble!"

"Stop!" You sobbed desperately, finally finding the strength within you to stand, rushing forward to try and tackle the woman, to get her off of her son. His eyes caught yours briefly, and you felt a protective urge well up in your chest in your bid to help the poor boy.

Your eyes burned badly, almost feeling that child's pain as if it were your own. He was bleeding... You could have sworn you had reached for her, but...

You slipped right through her like she wasn't even there.

You pushed yourself to your knees, staring at your hands in shock, looking back up at her as she slapped the thick belt across his back again, earning a weakened shudder from the young boy.

His eyes stared at you openly, dumbly, silently pleading for help, his bloody lip wobbling as more tears tracked down his cheeks, one of his eyes already beginning to swell from the cut and welt the belt left in his face.

You looked up at her and gritted your teeth, reaching up to try and grab the belt, but once again to no avail; you slipped through her like you were a ghost. Some... specter cursed to watch this torture unfold but never stop.

"Fuck!" You cursed, a sob creeping up from your chest as you crawled over the poor boy.

Unlike his mother, you could actually touch him. You could feel his wracked sobs, the trembling he tried to hide.

You laid your body over his, crying.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry--"

The belt slipped right through you, unleashing more pain.

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

Marc didn't know he was screaming until Layla had rushed up to him, her big beautiful eyes wide and frantic, her hair only half-tucked into her silk bonnet as she reached out for him.

"Marc--"

Her voice became strangled as his fist lunged, wrapping around her slender throat as he tackled her to the ground, his mind and heart pounding with adrenaline and fear; tears dripping down and falling onto her cheeks as his eyes glowed an unearthly white.

Only when he looked up at his reflection, the linen and magical garb beginning to enshroud his body, did he see it all.

His own wide, fearful eyes staring back at him through the full body mirror across from the bed. Layla pinned beneath him.

"Marc!"

Layla kicked her feet out, her hands trying to pry his from around her neck.

Marc scrambled back and away, hyperventilating, until his head collided with the bookshelf behind him, rocking it back so a few of the books Steven so loved clattered to the floor.

Marc curled into a ball, his fists tight as he ducked his head beneath his arms, rocking on his heels.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--" He repeated over, and over, and over...

Layla coughed slightly as she gasped for air, hauling herself to her feet to rush and collapse next to Marc, touching his back gently.

"Marc, it's okay!" She tried desperately. "You were dreaming! Just breathe, you need to--"

Marc just shook his head, his mind frantically tripping over itself in an effort to see past his panicked haze.

Where was Jake? Why wasn't Jake here? Why didn't Jake save him from this like he normally did?

Why did Jake let him almost--

Layla wrapped her arms around his shoulders softly, rocking with him, "It's okay... It's okay... She can't hurt you anymore." She murmured, touching her head to his.

"Just breathe."

Marc sniffled, his heart thudding painfully in his chest as a broken sob came from him.

"I didn't mean it." He whispered, his voice stuttering with emotion.

"Marc..." Layla said, her brows pinching tightly together as she felt her heart break for him.

This had happened before, many times. He would have flashbacks in his sleep, thinking he was back to being a child under the domineering and abusive hand of his mother, suffering horrible pain because of the inaction of his father because of their grief over his dead baby brother.

But... something about this time was different. Strange.

Jake was the one who went to sleep, last night. Jake was the one she traded pot-shot jokes with about his "friendly dates" with you...

When did Marc come to the forefront?

When he finally calmed down enough to speak, his hand reached out to brush her neck, fresh bruises already blossoming on her olive skin. "I did this."

His voice was so... broken. Lost. In pain.

Gods, it killed her.

"It's okay. You were having a nightmare. It's normal to come out of them in a fight-or-flight response." Layla shushed gently, rubbing his back and tucking a few strands of hair behind his ear.

Marc shook his head, shoving himself away from her, to... to put some distance between them, to protect her from him, what else he might be capable of doing to her.

He dropped onto the edge of the bed, staring morosely at the floor, before furiously rubbing at his tears.

"This--this wasn't like last time, damn it!" He sniffed as Layla slowly sat next to him, her body movements calculated as though she were approaching an injured animal.

"It was different?"

"There--there was somebody else there this time." Marc replied, hanging his head into his hands.

"Somebody else?" She asked, her eyebrows rising sharply. "Who?"

"I... I don't know. It sounded like a woman but... But it was like her voice was underwater." He whispered.

Layla's heart skipped a beat, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

"What did she look like?"

"I don't know." Marc said again, running a hand through his hair stressfully.

"I could see her, but I--couldn't. She was--she was like a blob of glowing light, but... but I know it was a woman!"

"Did she... say anything?"

He lifted his dark, haunted eyes to stare deeply into hers.

"I'm sorry."

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

Chapter 13: Link

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Same as it ever was 13

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: I am not doing well with the time change lol

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You wallow in the jagged fragments of reality, skipping through the cracks into delirium. The pain is dull but tolerable as you languish on the couch, forgetting now and again where you are, even your own existence. Figures pass by you and vaguely familiar voices waft in the air. 

“See ya, sweetheart,” Hansen's face comes clear through the haze as he leans over you and taps your thigh, “don't have too much fun without me.”

He struts away, fading back into the obscurity of your prescription laced coma. The relief is more than physical, it feels nice just to stop thinking. No kids, no scummy husband, no skeevy boss. It's just you and the sofa.

Your lashes flick as you sense another shadow. You can make out your name but nothing else. The world shifts painfully around you as a grunt cuts through your brain. Your eyes open as Pete lays you sideways on the bed.

“Honey, you okay?” He asks uneasily as he peers down at you. He leans over to touch your forehead, “hey, I'm gonna get you changed, alright?”

You garble and stay as you are. You could just fall asleep right then and there. He sighs and you sense him pacing along the foot of the bed.

He returns to you, undressing you clumsily. Each time he jars you, you whine and he apologises. You barely register each sorry as he strips away your armour.

As he unhooks your bra, you wave him off. You cover your chest, clinging to the pilly satin blend. He touches your wrist gently.

“Hey, I got a shirt,” he waves a length of fabric over you, “come on, honey.”

You pout as he pulls your arms apart and slips your bra off. You close your eyes, the mortification the only feeling to break through the medicine’s blur. He helps you sit up and unfolds the tee shirt, opening the head hole only to pause it just in front of you.

You feel him staring.

“Babe,” he rasps, “you know I still love you, don't you? It was stupid mistake–”

You groan as a surge breaks through the muddy waters of your mind. You snatch the shirt from him and hiss, your back spasming. You ignore the vicious twinge and throw the shirt over your head.

“Babe, please, let me prove it to you.”

You scoff and shove his shoulder, “look what you did,” you snap, “you did this. You hurt me.”

“I didn't mean– I was trying to make it up to you–”

“I told you to stop,” you lay back with a whimper, “but you never fucking listen.”

Your eyes roll back and you heave a shaky breath.

“Honey,” he squeezes your shoulder, “please, just give me another chance.”

“Leave me alone,” you sneer as you hide beneath your eyelids, “I got enough pain as it is.”

🗄️

You plummet into a shroudlike sleep. Your head is foggy and swimming as you body detaches from your mind. You are nothing in the ether of your subconscious.

The depths of your drugged coma recede slowly, like crumbs falling away from a scone. Little by little, the tension coils in your muscles and the ache becomes less dull. It isn't until the thrumming becomes an agonizing pounding that you escape your medicated stupor.

Your eyes snap open as a tickle along your thigh sends tendrils through you, knotting between your hips as you whimper. God, you hurt so bad. You need more of your pills.

Your discomfort is made little better by the stiff bend of your legs. At first, you don't understand why you're splayed like that, knees at an angle, hips wide open. The cool sensation along your folds has you gasping as you throw your hand down to ward off your assailant.

You lift your head shakily and stare at your husband bent between your legs. If you hadn't already uncovered his sliminess, you'd be in disbelief. You're only dazed by the dregs of your prolonged slumber and the intensity of your tortured tailbone. You push on his head, his hair slightly greasy as it dangles down to tickle your pelvis.

"What..." you eke out, "are you... do--"

You drop down and wrack with pain as he prods along your folds. Your tailbone is on fire. He continues he violation as you squirm and whine helplessly. You're nearly blinded in agony.

"St-st-stop," you stammer between shallow breaths.

"I told you, baby," he purrs as he pokes his fingers past your entrance, "I can show you how much you mean--"

"It hurts--" you babble, "Pete, please, you're hurting me---"

He hushes you and bites into the tender flesh along your thigh as he dips his fingers into the knuckles. Your eyes well up as your muscles draw tighter and tighter. You want him to stop but you can't fight your own weakness.

"Stop," you snivel as your head lolls back and forth, "stop, please..."

"Baby, you're wet," he snarls and laps at your folds, "you were wet..." he breaths humidly against you, "before I even touched you."

"N-n-nooooo," you mewl and close your eyes.

This isn't happening. You said stop, you said no, but he's not listening to you. When does he ever? But that's about the chores and schedules and responsibilities.

"P-p--" you puff out.

"Shhhh," he purrs, "gonna wake the kids..."

His tongue delves along your cunt again and he rams his fingers in deeper. Your tears spill down your temples as you clutch rumpled duvet to one side of you. You can't believe this is happening. And you can't believe after the months you spent pleading for you to touch you that it feels so rotten. He doesn't want you, not really, he just doesn't want to lose what you do for him.

You close your eyes, trying to forget what's happening, trying not to feel but it's too goddamn painful. Flashes glimmer in your mind. Another man, another touch. Lloyd's silty slither taunting your mind. You're back on the couch and he's crowding you, touching you, but it's not the same. You can't find that peak. The final release.

Pete slips his fingers out of you, growling as he lifts himself over you. You sense his shadow and the bed jostles you, drawing several squeaks from your wrought lips. He bends over you, his breath scalding you as his body heat roils across your skin. He rubs his tip against your folds and sighs.

"You came," he snarls, "I felt it."

You don't even have the strength to argue. You can't feel anything but repulsion for him. You're not even close to orgasm. You're only delirious because of the ringing at the base of your spine.

He angles himself along your cunt and holds his breath as he leans his weight into you. He forces himself inside, jolting you as he loses all patience. Your cheeks are a flood of horror and helplessness. Your legs fall flat as he begins to thrust, short, harried bursts that have him panting into the crook of your neck. He growls and grits out your name as he ruts.

It doesn't last long. You don't even have time to wish it's over. He's done. He collapses on you and your voice fizzles to a weak rasp. Ow.

"Figure we could get some of that tension out," he nuzzles your neck.

"Get. Off," you gnash through your teeth.

"Huh?" He gurgles and raises his head to gape down at you, "honey--"

"Why--" you gulp back your disbelief and push on his shoulders, "get off!"

"Woah, woah, the kids are sleeping--"

"Yeah, so you do that," you sneer as you slap him, your hand only weakly glancing off his cheek, "get off of me."

"I was only tryna make it up to you," he whines as he slides out of you and sits back on his heels, "come on. What do I have to do to get through to you--"

"Owwwww," you sit up with as much strength as you can must, nearly sobbing from the agony, "stay away from me."

You push yourself off the bed and crumple to your knees. The shirt clings around your middle as you quake, putting your hands flat to the floor as you crawl across it. The bed lurches as Pete bounces off behind you.

"Here, let me help--"

"You touch me again and I am going to lose it," you snap, your breath laboured around your threat.

"I..." his protest shrivels up. "I'm sorry."

"Fuck off," you reach to pull open the door, ready to break down as you think of the trek ahead of you. Two floor down to the cot in the basement.

You hear him harrumph and can picture the pout on his lips. You hate him. You hate him so much that you don't even feel bad about what Hansen's going to make you do. You might even like it.

🗄️

You only make it down to the couch. You manage to drag yourself onto the cushions and get under the throw blankets. You think of snagging some more pills but think better of it. It'll be up to you to get the day started, as always.

You don't sleep. You just lay in the aftermath of what happened. Of what Pete did. It churns your stomach so violently it makes you hurt even more.

It's over. That's what really keeps you awake. Your marriage is done. It's not just his doing, it's yours. You need to cut the fat and yet you feel guilty at just the thought. 

You wake up at your usual time. You swallow a single pill with a cup of bitter coffee. You pause as you look at the label of the amber bottle.

‘Take one pill every six to eight hours.’

You think back to the two tablets in Hansen's palm. You should've known better. You do. You just can't think straight through the pain.

You climb the stairs one at a time and hobble down to the kids’ rooms. You get Simone up first and she helps you with Malik.

“Mom, you look tired,” she says as she takes a sleepy Malik by the hand and tugs him away from his bed. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” you answer evasively, “come on.”

You usher the kids downstairs, gripping the railing for life. As you come to the bottom, your legs wobble. You can’t hide the moment of weakness from Simone as she turns to watch you.

“Mom, please, sit down,” she begs, I’ll make cereal for Maiik and get him ready.”

“Sweetie–”

“Where’s dad?” She interrupts, “he should be doing this?”

You blink. You think of telling her to go find him but given the last time you saw him, you’re too nervous to do that. You wouldn’t want her to find him in a certain condition.

“He’s getting ready for work,” you sigh, “I got some time off for my back, I can handle the morning.”

“You won’t get better if you don’t stop–”

“Simone, I get it, okay? But I’m your mother, it’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around,” you say firmly, “you can get Malik his cereal and you get yourself some too, okay? You two can catch the bus with Erica today.”

She frowns but accepts your order. It’s a compromise. You know you can’t drive. Just the thought of getting in the car makes you want to vomit.

You grab the inflatable cushion and add a few breaths to it before setting it on the couch. You lower yourself with a grunt and shift, your comfort dangling just beyond grasp. The problem is you can’t stop fucking tensing up.

You lean your head back and blow out a breath. You listen to the soft clink of two bowls and the fridge, the pouring of hard cereal into porcelain. It’s not that bad. You’ll get up to help them brush their teeth and brush their hair and all that.

“Come on, Malik, you have to eat at the table.”

“I’m sleepyyyyy,” he grumbles as you hear him stomp across the tile.

“So am I, be quiet,” Simone snaps and the bowls clink down. “Sit down and eat.”

You rub your forehead, yawning as you commiserate quietly with Malik’s struggle. A dash of colour flits by and before you can call after her, Simone is rushing up the stairs. Dammit. You can’t keep up. You’re old and fat and hurt and useless. Explains a lot.

You cringe as your ears tweak, listening above for the commotion.

“Dad, get up! You have to come down and help mom,” Simone’s voice is loud as she nearly hollers at your husband.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up, I’m up,” he grumbles as footsteps come muffled through the ceiling.

The stairs creak as they descend. Pete wears a pair of boxers and a grey tank. You look away, mortified.

“I can’t get Malik dressed by myself and I don’t know how to make coffee,” Simone says.

“Right,” he utters as he lingers by the kitchen door. 

Simone goes back to the table and you hear her spoon hit the bowl as the chair legs scrape on the floor. Pete stares at you as you ignore him for the wall. He huffs before passing into the kitchen. You hate this. You hate feeling so futile.

You flinch as a knock hammers on the front door. You whine as a pang strikes up your spine. Pete comes back in, a coffee filter in hand. He clammers across the room into the entryway and the lock loudly grinds back.

“Oh, hey, uh, Lloyd?”

“Sup, Petey Pie,” Hansen’s voice chirps back, “hope you like Dunkins. They got a cinnamon roll ice coffee I thought the missus would love. Got you a tall black and the kids some donuts.”

“Wow, you didn’t have to do that.”

You hate these men and how fake they are. More so, how pestilent they are. Two sides of a sleazy ass coin. Counterfeit at best.

“Figure you could use the help,” Hansen continues, “get the kids out the door. Oh, I also called my specialist. Can get her in for scans at noon, make sure nothing’s totally broken.”

“That’s great,” Pete croaks, “uh, come in, I guess.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Hansen sings.

[hitlikehammers]

taste like loving

rating: t ♥️ cw: pre-relationship-to-established relationship, SUCH FLUFF ♥️ tags: idiots in love, pickles, slice of life, softness

for @steddielovemonth day seven: Love Is Silently Passing Them A Pickle Because You Know It’s Their Favorite (@steddieasitgoes)

@pearynice and @hbyrde36 suffered my languishing over this more than once; it felt wrong to delete it (which was the original plan) 🥒 (and yes I am well aware this is VERY late for @steddielovemonth but I had this one and one more that I never got to post bc schedules and I still wanted to...not-delete them? so the other one will go up sometime before the 29th's over worldwide) ♥️

The first time he notices is the first time they all hang out after he’s discharged. The first time it feels almost normal. Eddie’s still not mobile enough to leave the couch at most—at least a little variety of the one-room view of his bedroom, at least—but this.

This is awesome. Because there’s no hospital to remind him of the way he’s a mishmash of still-healing incisions that he can ignore if he doesn’t move wrong, or breathe to deep, and when he does breathe to deep and reminds himself it’s for laughing, it’s a raucous and joyful thing and it’s wild in a way he never knew he was missing because—or else, he thinks because—probably there wasn’t a deep pit inside him full of all the horrors they saw and stood against together, and so he’s got this new capacity to be bowled over and filled past the brim with a kind of giddy, buoyant relief that’s unbound in ways he probably didn’t dare to even tease at, despite all his ranting about conformity and letting your fucking freak flag fly: he never could have envisioned a time he could be this unbound. Untethered.

Just…fucking free.

Because these people have seen his literal fucking insides, right? One of them held those insides in his hands, held them where they belonged long enough for him to be sitting here cackling with them, aching for the jostling of his laughter but hell if it’s not worth it, if he pops a stitch or two he won’t even fucking complain because these people saw him inside-out, y’know, and from the first he felt safe with them, with all of him, spoken and unspoken because it really felt, for the first time, like all of the things that mattered to the world at large, that could get you killed in the wrong company: it all felt…dulled; distant, after what he’d seen.

What he’d survived.

So in the now: home, on the couch, with the Buckley and Harrington tag-team feature show splitting his fucking sides and making him feel like he’s drowning in only good things and breathing full for the first time in his fucking life—

That’s when he first notices it happen.

They’re opening the boxes with deli sandwiches from Leeanne’s down off Brooklyn, the big towering fuckers with the toothpicks in the center to hold them together, and Eddie’s fucking ecstatic about the Reuben he’s staring down because real-not-hospital-cafeteria food is still an honest goddamn thrill, but he sees Steve flip open his monstrous looking Club and it’s not even all the way flipped back, the top half of the little foldy-box, when Robin slips her equally-big-ass dill spear next to the one lined up against the bread of Steve’s lunch, flashing an overstretched grin as she plops it down:

“For my Dingus,” she nods to him almost graciously and he chuckles before he picks it up and chomps it almost…almost aggressivelyand yes, okay, fine: Eddie notices because he pays attention to his friends, especially some of his very best friends, but yeah, sure, he probably notices Steve’s biting enough to characterize it because, well.

And look, see: after Steve had set himself up as permanent guardian at his bedside?Eddie might not have had all the reasons for it, all the answers to the whys, but he did have Steve Harrington in the flesh beside him always, kinda day and night, and after that? Eddie had stopped telling himself it was useless, the things he was feeling, all the relentless want in him. It might still be hopeless—just because he knew now that Steve swung that nail bat for both teams didn’t mean he’d want Eddie specifically by default—but there was no harm in feeding the deathless little lust-monster that’d lived in him from sophomore year, and that now, fed by the knowledge that Steve Harrington was beauty and brawn and brains in a way no one never expected because it wasn’t theirs, all on top of a heart of fucking 

: the monster was now a full-grown beast that wasn’t…just prone to lust, anymore.

Whatever, though. Eddie could fucking look.

So he noticed the way Robin gave Steve her pickles. The way he playfully accepted and usually leaned into her, grateful and tactile in their shared-brain kind of way.

And if he keeps noticing, what the fuck else is he expected to do? The more he learns, the closer they grow, the stronger and bigger and louder his not-lust creature gets, its stomping like a riot in his pulse save no, that’s actually just his heartbeat for what it is: hopelessly and pathetically and godawfully smitten, kinda recklessly and unrepentantly devoted, and he…

Okay, so in the beginning, Eddie knows it’s a long shot. He knows what he was doing, but it’s easy to play off as something…less. Something just playful, instead of playful-and. He already sits next to Steve when they’re all together, on a floor or a sofa or in a booth: he’s expected there. That is his place. One side him, one side Robin.

Robin even takes across-from-Steve when there aren’t enough spaces. Eddie has somehow…made the cut.

He isn’t throwing a fucking party inside his ribs about it or anything, but.

(Yeah, he is.)

But it starts small, and sorta-almost-casual: when he pops his pickle on Steve’s plate the first time. And Steve blinks at him, tilts his head in that way Eddie associates with softness, with safety, with something so adorably protective, cute and yet let herbal, on alert while breathing slow: and there’s something irresistible in the dichotomy of it that has Eddie’s pulse ramping-up by instinct at just the little gesture, the little tip of the chin and then Steve’s grinning, slow but so big, and at him, and, okay. Okay, yes, fine.

Eddie may or may not be playing this like one of those fucking birds that brings pebbles to court their intended, that drops shining little bits and bobs of nothing special that mean everything special as they try to convince their mate they’re a good bet. It may or may not be a thing he should be at least a little embarrassed of, whatever.

The way Steve chomps with fucking gusto on that pickle though: the way he grins as he chews and keeps his eyes locked on Eddie’s the whole goddamn time?

Eddie’s not gonna be embarrassed of jack shit, if he gets that in exchange.

He’s also sure as shit not going to stop, when he gets that in exchange.

He tries to up his game as the gesture extends, expands: he does his best to make it clear that he fucking loves his beloved briny cucumbers, that the way he saves them and gifts them to Steve isn’t just mimicry of his platonic soulmate; that it’s deliberate and intentional and he’s willingly and willfully forgoing something he loves for something he loves—yeah, yeah he’s ready to say that, at least in his head, because the days turn to weeks turn to months and there’s no fucking denying it anymore—so very much more, and he just…wants to make sure Steve notices. Knows it and, like, whether he decides to act on it or not, Eddie just wants him to know that a choice was there to make, right? Like, he doesn’t want it to go unnoticed.

It’s only once Steve sucks half a spear through his lips, hollows his mouth wholly unnecessarily and positively sinfully, and puckers around the pickle with wide pleading but teasing, goddamn teasing eyes trained on Eddie expectantly with the bare half sticking out his mouth, an invitation from where he sits next to Eddie at the table: it’s only then that Eddie thinks maybe there was hope after all.

He bites the loose half clear just shy of brushing Steve’s lips because he’ll be damned if their first kiss—if this is where it’s headed, if this is really possible and a thing—he’ll be fucking damned if he kisses Steve Harrington for the first time over a fucking vegetable.

Given the way Steve’s lips ultimately close around a pout all on their own: Eddie thinks…yeah. Yeah, that’s where they’re headed.

Their first kiss is very much not-pickle-flavored, but they laugh about the almost of it, once they settle comfortably into a version of ‘we’ that’s not entirely unlike the one they had before; this one just says the love part out loud. Which honestly kind of highlights how much it was there, just unspoken, almost the whole goddamn time. Which is wild.

Then of course it grows. There’s always a jar of pickles on their shopping list, because there’s always a need when the last one’s always empty. Sometimes because he wanted something to eat in the middle of the night. Sometimes because he feeds a slice to Steve Lady and the Tramp style, and does lick the taste from him after, now, not because it isn’t momentous; kissing Steve. But more because it’s…it’s going to be momentous again, whenever he wants.

For, like, ever.

Though it’s carrying on in that fashion that kinda leads in to, about a year-and-change and going strong, Eddie getting his mind goddamn blown.

It starts, mostly, with Eddie thinking—mistakenly—that his boyfriend’s not gonna be late for dinner and honestly, Eddie just doesn’t want the spear to get all warm and floppy so he figures he’ll quick eat the ones he set out, cannot let a delicious pickle go to waste, and he’ll get a fresh one for the plates when Steve gets in, no problem, he’ll just—

He’s maybe almost fucking fellating the pickle when Steve clears his throat unexpectedly from the doorway to the kitchen.

“Am I interrupting?” the arch of his brow is enviable, and the giddy delight in his tone is delectable, and Eddie wants him to come over and kiss the fucking blush he feels just lightly heat his cheeks as he tries to decide what to do because…

Eddie’s never not given his pickle to Steve, or not shared his pickle with Steve, in Steve’s presence, okay? It’s just…that’s for Steve.

And Steve probably wouldn’t be grossed out with Eddie’s slobber all over it, but, like, he deserves better by default any—

Steve’s next to him before he fully notices him crossing the distance, and he’s nudging Eddie’s hand with just a finger, pressing the pickle past his lips, slow enough to chew but steady with the pressure, and hell if it’s not erotic as fuck.

Steve goddamn Harrington.

And he smirks when Eddie swallows with a gulp, leans to kiss him and comments kind of idly:

“That was hot, babe.”

Eddie huffs, and then looks at the pickle-less plates and remembers.

“I’m so sorry, Sweetheart, I’d have kept it for you, but I wasn’t sure how long you’d be—“

“Eds, relax,” Steve laughs, unbothered; “you don’t have to save me the pickle. I buy you whole jars.”

Eddie frowns a little, because that wording sound…off. He’s not quite sure why, until Steve picks up on his confusion, the grit caught in the works that he can’t pick out, because Steve always notices; and Steve always finds the catch to smooth it clean.

He’s amazing that way.

“They’re your favorites,” he goes and grabs the jar in question from the fridge, pops the lid and meticulously catches the drip on the glass lip before offering it to Eddie with a smile so warm Eddie can feel it in his knees, because it fucking makes them melty and shit even now; he prays it’ll never stop making them melty and shit, honestly, but—

“I never even really liked them, until you.”

And that’s the part that catches Eddie up entirely, almost chokes him on the end of his hand-fed pickle feast.

“What,” he pauses, clears his throat; “what d’ya mean?”

“Robin fucking hates them,” Steve shrugs, still smiling that knee-targeting smile; “so she always pawned them off on me, and I didn’t have any strong feelings either way, but then,” he reaches, traces Eddie’s lips and gathering any stray juice before sucking his thumb between his lips to clean it off. Eddie almost fucking feels his pupils dilate.

“You know I wanted it to mean something from the beginning,” Steve says simply, because Eddie did know; “and then when I found out it wasn’t just, like, convenient, but you liked them so much yourself, then it felt,” and then Steve’s biting his lip, which is that knife’s edge between adorable and hot-hot-sex that regularly threatens to explode Eddie goddamn brain, but than he’s smiling again, a little softer, a lot more fond:

“It felt like they meant you liked me,” Steve ducks his head solely to glance through his lashes, a little bashful even still; “it felt like it maybe meant you, you know, maybe, like maybe you loved me?”

And Eddie can’t handle the question mark there, dives in and kisses Steve sound and sure and licks his way in to rub away that bit of punctuation that could ever possibly cast any doubt on Eddie’s feelings at basically any point they’ve shared fucking air.

“It tastes like that, now.”

Eddie cocks his head a little.

“What tastes like what, baby?”

Steve leans and licks into Eddie mouth again, but this time it’s got direction, like he’s seeking something, but then just as quick he pulls back, though not far, and looks up at Eddie with a little extra curl to his lips as he murmurs between them:

“I fucking adore pickles, now. Because they kinda taste like you loving me.”

And Jesus H., this man is gonna kill him.

And Eddie—who can do nothing less than capture Steve’s lips again and let him taste this particular flavor of loving as long and as deep as he wants—Eddie kinda thinks that’ll be a fucking glorious way to go.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 

♥️

divider credit here

[leggerefiore]

No idea if you've ever done the "getting caught smelling husband's shirt/jacket while pleasuring oneself" trope before (maybe you did and I forgor 💀) but if not then I'll ask for that with submas, Larry, and Colress. Add or remove whoever you'd like. (Speaking of Larry thank you so much for the meal of that little lewd drabble, guy gets almost nothing and I am famished 🙏)

fjsjfjfj u guys don't know how much u make me laugh when I get horny anons

cw: 18+ content, masturbating, getting caught, clothes smelling, AFAB reader

Minors DNI

characters: Ingo, Emmet, Larry, Colress, Maxie, Cyrus

▲Ingo▼

● You were desperate. A certain train man had thrown himself into working ungodly long hours, while leaving his poor dearest to manage themself for much too long. His spare coat, unwashed and abandoned in the basket since yesterday, was in your hands. It would be another late work day, so you felt the urge to indulge yourself a little. You pressed the dark fabric to your face and smelled the haunting scent of coffee from days past and a cologne that lingered from whatever sprits he did in the mornings. It almost felt like you were smelling the man himself. Ingo would assuredly see to your needs if he were here, but the issue was his exhaustive working schedule and tiredness when at home.

● Your hand unconsciously drifted downward into your shorts as you tried to think back to any moment you had last had with Ingo. Him hovering over you with his soft, silver eyes and pressing a thumb between your folds. It came to rest on your clit, where he seemed to find the perfect pressure before beginning to rub just right. Your toes curled as you felt the pleasure rush through your system. He would cup your face with his other hand as watched your expressions intently.

● Your movements mimicked the fantasy to the best of your ability with your own hands. The praises Ingo would languish you with, echoing in your head as you softly let out a moan into the black coat pressed to your face. Your hips bucked against your palm as you imagined Ingo's lips coming on to yours, silencing himself from the endless stream of comments he would make. The soft smell of Ingo sent your brain away from the reality you were in. You dared to press your fingers inside you.

● A scream nearly left you when the bedroom door opened to reveal the man on your mind. He stood frozen as dropped the coat and pulled your hand out of your shorts. Ingo blinked a few times, clearly in shock from the sight of you smelling his coat while masturbating. Clearing his throat, you watched as his cheeks bloomed pink. “Ah, I suppose I have been quite busy lately, haven't I?” his voice was quieter than its normal volume. He sat down on the bed and patted the spot beside him nervously. “I've been a bad husband… Please allow to amend that here and now,” the phrase was like a rumble from his throat. You eagerly took him up on that offer.

▽Emmet△

○ The white coat was heavy in your hands as you bit your lip. Emmet had been busy lately. Too busy. Uncharacteristically busy. So busy, in fact, he had forgone his usual bedroom antics in order to sleep more from the sheer tiredness of it all. You were completely desperate at this point. The Subway Boss coat was brought to your nose as you breathed in the scents that remained. Something like a berry-based dessert wafted across your senses, alongside a masculine odour just underneath. You sighed. His scent alone was enough to calm your nerves.

○ Your hand began to trail lower as your mind rushed desperate signals. Emmet never left you alone like this. Normally, you had to beg him to stop being so horny, not for him to give you any form of attention. You could imagine him holding you in his lap with his hand buried between your legs. His breaths would dance across your skin as he eagerly watched how you bucked your hand against his palm. Your fingers found themselves buried inside you as you tried to make the desperate fantasy reality. Emmet's teasing words echoed in your ears about how cute you were like this.

○ A hand would grope at your side and chest as he playfully bit your shoulder. His fingers would keep fucking into you just moaned, already aware of the locations of the spots that could make you see stars. You whined into the fabric of the coat as you desperately tried to imitate the way Emmet fingered you. Your thumb came to rub your clit as you curled your toes. You wanted him so badly. Another whine left you.

○ Your stomach dropped when you heard the bedroom open. Emmet stood in the doorway, head tilted and his usual smile on his lips. You dropped the jacket in a panic and brought out your hand from in between your legs. The younger twin gasped. “My poor darling,” he cooed as he rushed over to trap you against the bed, “I have been a verrrrry bad husband!” His hands were on your thighs. The look in his eyes twisted from surprise to something darker. “I am Emmet, and I will make it up to you,” he promised with a mischievous grin. You could only swallow. The beast was reawoken.

💼Larry🏢

🍙 It was shameful. Really shameful. But you were lonely and he was always busy. You picked up the grey shirt that had been left carelessly on the floor of the bathroom after he had stripped last night. A dancing hint of his cologne hit your nose as you pressed the fabric to your face. Underneath that was a lingering masculine scent that you had gone much too long without. Larry was not one to ignore your needs when he was around, but therein lied the issue. When he was around. Geeta liked to hold him hostage for whatever reason.

🍙 You felt your hand slip past the band of your underwear as your fingers pressed between your lower lips. In your mind, it was Larry's hands as you sat in his lap. His lips were on your nape as his other hand groped at your sides. A sigh would leave him as his finger circled around your clit to instead press the meat of his palm against it and make your toes curled. Your fingers began to press into your entrance as you mimicked what your imagination had conjured up.

🍙 He would mumble something about you being delectable as he pressed a kiss across your back and scissored his fingers inside you to get you ready. A cry left you as you imitated the fantasy. His shirt barely muffled the loud sound. He had such a distinct smell. A bit of sweat from likely a busy lunch with gym challengers or maybe even an unexpected league challenger. Your fingers began to curl into that sensitive spot inside you.

🍙 You were jumped out of your fantasy when the light clicked on in the bedroom. Larry stood bewildered at the sight of you finger fucking yourself on the bed while sniffing his shirt. You instantly dropped it whole, retreating your hand, but he shook his head. “... I've left you neglected,” he commented as he shrugged off his suit jacket, leaving a shirt much like the one you just held bear to your eyes, “Aren't you lucky my boss made me leave early today?” His lips were on yours in an instant as his hand replaced your own.

🥼Colress🛸

🧪 The mock-neck shirt was tight in your hands as you laid in the bed. Colress was out doing who-knows-what. Some benefactor had apparently decided to dump money into his research, which meant he had gone in a fervour to do as much work as he could. You were happy for him, of course, but you felt lonely as it were. You buried your nose into the dark fabric with a sigh. Some chemical scent mixed with sweat left you in a trance. The blond was energetic and excitable, which often translated into a lot of sexual attention for you.

🧪 You pulled out the vibrating dildo Colress had made for you himself. Your mind travelled away from the fact you were pushing an object inside you and pretended it was Colress's actual dick. Your toes curled when it bottomed out as you switched on the vibrations with its switch on the end. The sound of scientist's groans replayed in your ears as you tentatively began to thrust the phallic object in and out of you.

🧪 You thought of the scientist's sweet grin on his face as he hovered over you, making comments on your reactions and how much they varied from your normal ones. He would be the one thrusting into you as his notes faded into groans as he lost himself in the pleasure, just as you were. At some point, he would lean down and kiss you, maybe even daring to deepen it. Your arms would be around his slender form. You moaned as you continued thrusting the dildo into you and pressed the shirt closer to your face.

🧪 What broke your focus on the pleasure being pulled from the device was a sudden presence next to you. Opening your eyes and ruining your fantasy, you nearly screamed. Colress knelt beside the bed while excitedly typing data into in tablet. He only stopped when you called out his name. A chuckle came from him as you pulled the toy out and threw the shirt at him. “I was correct in modelling that toy after my penis,” he offered as he closed his tablet and sat beside you on the bed, “Your reactions showed an increase in pleasure and overall enjoyment as compared to the one I designed after a generic penis.” You tugged him down by his coat for a kiss to shut him up and demanded he fuck you. He obliged.

☀️Maxie🌋

🪨 You nervously took the sweater out of the dirty laundry as you crept back to your shared quarters with Maxie. He had been occupied as of late with this and that and barely had a moment to share alone with you. It was frustrating, but you did not want to bother him with your “personal” problems. You brought the maroon knit to your nose and sighed. The familiar scent of sediment and coffee just drew pictures of the Magma Leader to your mind instantly. Images of both a strong, respectable man and one with flustered expressions and less clothing.

🪨 Your hand came between your legs as you ran your finger through your folds teasingly. Maxie was not overly intimate, but he knew better than to ignore bodily needs. You could pretend that he had you sat on his lap at his desk, idly playing with you while trying to review some documents. His fingers would swirl around your clit as he hummed to himself in either annoyance and contentment. You would let out soft breaths as he switched to his thumb.

🪨 His finger would circle around your entrance before pushing inside. You would let out a soft cry as he shushed you. Another finger would quickly join the first as he would begin scissoring you. Your real moans were caught by the sweater pressed to your face as you began to thrust your fingers carefully in and out of yourself. He would eventually give up on his work and turn his full attention on you, lips pressed to yours as he curled his fingers just right inside you. You nuzzled deeper into his sweater.

🪨 The heat of your body suddenly went chilly as the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupted your session. Your eyes met red ones as you wanted to scream. Maxie stood in the doorway of the room as you dropped the sweater and tried to pretend you had not just been rubbing it out to the thought of him. A sigh came from him as he shook his head. You flinched as the Magma Leader brought his own hand between your legs. “You should always finish what you start,” he reprimanded. You swallowed. His gaze changed slightly as brought his other hand to cup your cheek. “I'll help you this time since it's partially my fault,” Maxie's fingers began imitating your previous actions, “Let's fix this together.” You suddenly felt eager for the rest of the evening.

🌌Cyrus🛰

☄️ You pressed the smooth fabric of the turtle-neck shirt to your face and inhaled. A distant smell of something metallic bled with a fading cologne came from the clothing item. Cyrus… was not an attentive lover. He cared and loved you, yes. There was no doubt. Sex was rare, however, and you were desperate for anything at this point. Especially with how busy he had been with whatever his latest project was. You clenched the grey fabric with a sigh.

☄️ A certain toy that was made by a certain blue-haired man was brought out from the beside drawer as you slid off your underwear. You hugged the shirt tightly as you flicked on the switch on the vibrator. Shudders racked your back as you teased yourself by pressing the toy between your folds. Pleasure shot through your system in an instant. You sniffed the shirt again and tried to think of your beloved Cyrus as you circled your entrance with the toy carefully. Pressing it inside, you tried to pretend it was him. It was his careful hand holding your hip as he pushed inside you.

☄️ You could almost hear the sharp breath he would inhale as he bottomed out and your toes curled. The toy was thrust in and out of you. Cyrus always had a slower pace at first, unsure and uncertain of what he was doing. You let the smell of his cologne linger in your mind. His body would be pressed against yours as you wrapped your legs and arms around him. He would bury his face into your nape, unable to bear the pleasure you brought him. You began to move the toy faster as you imagined he would pick up the pace.

☄️ This fantasy was interrupted by the bedroom door clicking open. You wordlessly drew your hand away from the toy and tried to drop the shirt, as Cyrus stood in a shocked silence at the sight of you. There was an awkward moment between you both as the toy kept buzzing inside you. Your teeth dug into your lip as your toes curled. Eventually, the blue-haired man sighed. “... Do not stop on my behalf,” he moved to turn away, but you called out his name. He knew exactly what you wanted. Cyrus swallowed. “... I suppose… I could indulge you,” he was unfortunately a man and not above being caught by the erotic sight of his lover masturbating while holding his shirt.

[asukaskerian]

monthly word count - april

TOTAL: 4 604 low but on the upside i plotted out and got started on the last chapter for cherry wine's capital arc, FUCK yes finally. X_X

POSTED: nothing new! a battlefield terra scene languishing in my files since 2017 tho.

IN PROGRESS -cherry wine - madatobiizu ABO chapter 10 (1 548 words) -bleach suburban ot4 (2 553 words) -bleach: attempt at one of my unusual inheritances prompts that swiftly died on me (503 words) (if you ever think "oh it's such an obvious plot i will remember for sure" THAT IS SATAN LYING TO YOU.)

-- cherry wine (short bcs spoilers everywhere) --

Then they were approaching the well-lit area before the hall where people milled around, and the brouhaha covered the edge of their voices, as Madara asked, "So, what did you do?"

"Mm, nothing too extreme. I merely felt regretful that I couldn't keep Yukiha-san company, so I... referred her to some."

Madara's eyebrows quirked dubiously.

"The pink kind."

"--Pfhah."

He'd done a little more than that, really. When he'd asked the Haruno girls what they thought about hatesex (in favor; spicy), and their ability to convince a very horny, grumpy, desperate kunoichi to let herself be bedded (very high; just had to challenge her superiority), he'd also asked them for the favor of their alpha brother's sweatier underclothes, to plant in her bedroom afterwards. They would have a fun couple of weeks waiting to be certain she wasn't carrying a bellyful of civilian bastards.

-- suburban ot4 --

Nelliel rolls like a beached whale, morose and defeated. Her phone keeps containing nothing of interest. 

Tier of course hasn't contacted her directly since their last in-person meeting, because she doesn't believe in chatting up ex-girlfriends. Especially because her current girlfriends are jealous and threatened somehow, even after Nelliel told them about getting knocked up by Grimmjow.

They all think she has shit taste in men, see, but they don't doubt her taste in women is more refined. 

Her only recent messages are from Grimmjow and Hime.

... Her most recent message is from Hime! Right now! Ohh, she was letting things settle a bit before she started hounding her in case the Kurosakis wanted space, but!

Hime-chan: Nel-chan, hello! Are you here?

She wants to talk! Live! Right now!

Me: yes!!!!!! :D :D :D hi! what's up?? Hime-chan: #^__^#<3 Hime-chan: oh, nothing much! I was just wondering if you're busy or maybe if you would want to go out for a walk? I was going to take kazui and go check out that new pastry shop and i thought, that's not too far from where you are and maybe you're not too tired to go? Me: YES let me get dressed. Hime-chan: but if you don't feel up to it then take care of yourself Hime-chan: !! oh, great! Give us a half hour? Me: yeeeeeeeessss ill be waiting downstairs SEE YOU SOON

"Hot date, eh?"

Nelliel gives her boyfriend the crazed stare of don't get in my way. "Oh fuck yeah. With Hime and the kid. I am going to get so many cuddles."

He laughs at her. "Want me to clear out in case you get them to come home with you for coffee while you're at it?"

"... Nah. You can stay and babysit."

Grimmjow plants his hand on top of her skull and swings her right and left, then shoves her back down onto her pillows. She yowls in protest, grabbing his wrist to haul herself back up. "Stop that, I have to shower and get dressed! I can't meet Hime if I stink!"

"But you're fine stinking for me, I see how it is." He drags her to her feet, an amused half-smirk on his face. 

"You're a gross boy, though. Hime is fresh and cute and sweet. She's not into salty."

Grimmjow smirks even wider. "Oh, she's into all sorts of crazy shit. Made me a herring and ice cream sandwich once."

"... I kinda want to figure out what exactly this means in our sexy metaphor but I'm going to be late." Nelliel leans in to give him a cheek kiss and a semi-friendly headbutt and scampers off to the bathroom. "I've got a daaaate!"

"A friendship date!"

"Guys who don't have a date don't get to piss on my parade!"

-- ichigo and sisters, odd inheritance -- fic disappeared on me and left me without notes, idk if i'll ever figure out what to do with it --

Ichigo has been eighteen all of two months when he finally manages to get 1. custody of his sisters and 2. access to his inheritance. 

It's fast. Really fast. Dad's lawyer friend was cutthroat and very prepared. 

(Even if the guy looks so dubious and scruffy--)

Ichigo has been living in a group house on his own for seven months by then, and he knows the clinic wasn't completely paid off, and he knows it's been sold on -- all their personal effects are in storage, in a truck, in the truck the lawyer friend got him and the lawyer friend's even odder friend taught him to drive and he is never going to manage to repay them--

Anyway.

"Is this it?" Karin asks, dubious. 

Karin and Yuzu are crammed together on the passenger's seat, and they peer at the actual goddamned mansion looming at the top of the hill with the exact same dubiousness Ichigo feels. It's an european style, but from a century back at least, and wasn't exactly maintained well. He's not sure why Mom hung onto it instead of selling it off, but maybe there were no buyers. There used to be a village nearby but now there's two rickety houses and some farmland, mostly woods, and the house stands on such a slope that cutting down the trees to grow anything else would be completely pointless.

On the other side of the ridge is, apparently, the sea, but about fifty meters of cliffside down. No beach access either. Sigh. Whatever.

"I'll unlock the gate!" Yuzu exclaims, and pops out of the cab, legs wobbling on landing from the drive. The rusty noise as she pushes it open is, uh. Bad.

"Home sweet home," he grumbles as he drives the car through the gate.

Making it livable is going to take so much work.

But the roof isn't leaking and the heating and water still work, and miraculously one of the wings has failed to get infected by mold. So. It will do.

--

The first night they camp together in one of the living rooms, and it's nice. (Yuzu cries openly over being reunited, Karin cries while telling her not to cry, and Ichigo somehow manages to wait until they have fallen asleep.)

They don't really know what happened to their mom's family or why she has a hugeass house fit for like ten or fifteen very antisocial people that nobody else had a claim on. The way Kurosaki Masaki spent their childhood dodging the topic like an olympic slalom medalist had been read as 'it was Bad and Ungood but now it's OVER move along hahaha'. So of course, "If one of our grandparents is haunting this dust pile and they don't wait until tomorrow to bug us, I will throw their tablet in the sea," Karin was muttering, half as a joke, before she finally laid down. 

It's five AM and Ichigo isn't laughing. 

Of course there are ghosts. Anywhere he goes there are ghosts.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Paisley Dreams (Part 2) 🏵💛🔥

Pretty sure there's only a small handful of you still reading my nonsense, but to those who are, thank you for your patience. Also, special thanks to those who kept me going after various blocks and meltdowns over finishing this (among other things). Would've thrown in the towel completely if it weren't for y'all. You know who you are and I love you. 💗💗💗 Anyway, sorry, this is probably a bit of a mess, but so am I... 😬

If you need a refresher, here's Paisley Dreams Part 1 🏵

TW: SEXXX, a little macho-possessive!elvis, the usual era appropriate female frustrations.

August 1970

If Pepper didn’t know any better, she would think she dreamt up the surreal encounter with Elvis that happened a few days ago. The only thing tethering the experience to reality is the yellow shirt he left her with, the one she’s a bit ashamed to say she’s been wearing to bed the past three nights, just so she can languish in his scent a little longer.

Of course, she hasn’t heard from him. It would be absurd if she had, or at least she keeps reminding herself of that when she finds herself spacing out during the slow moments at the diner or when taking off her stage makeup after the show. Elvis Presley is a busy man, and it’s likely he hadn’t given her a single thought since he left her pining and wanting in her drab little apartment.

Sure, he’d been good in the moment in making her feel special, and she can’t help thinking about all the little vulnerable snippets of him he showed her, all the strange things they seem to have in common…

Stop it. This is stupid. I’m never gonna see the man again.

It’s been a mantra in her head for days now, but unfortunately her touch-starved body hasn’t gotten the memo. If she had any sense, she’d drop her delusional fantasies and move on with her monotonous life.

“Hey, Pepper! Some guy is here to see you. Says it’s urgent,” Paul, the show’s stage manager, tells her briskly as she put the final touches on her face.

With no clue who it might be, a tightening in her belly warns it could be another overzealous “fan” like the one who caught her out the other night. But Paul is skilled at getting rid of the creeps, so it leaves her wondering as she makes her way backstage to the green room.

“Oh, thank God,” the short man sighs with palpable relief when she walks through the doorway. He looks incredibly familiar.

“Who…wait. Charlie?” she gasps in surprise. “What—what are you doing here?”

The man looks so glad to see her it takes her aback. “You are a hard woman to track down. Aren’t you ever home?”

“I…uh, I work two jobs, so not really,” she finds herself explaining. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you here?”

“Well, the boss wants to see ya tonight, needs ya to come to his show,” he says, pushing a large white box into her arms.

“The boss?” she asks, confused. He can’t possibly mean who she thinks he does.

“Elvis. Elvis wants you at his show tonight, so here I am to get you there. And that’s for you, to wear,” Charlie says with a knowing smile.

Pepper thinks that maybe exhaustion has caught up with her because there is no way this is real. She laughs a little, a giddy feeling pulsing through her veins, until the cold wash of reality douses her.

“That’s nice, but I have a show of my own to do, Charlie,” she says, sweeping a hand over her revealing costume. Her heart sinks and she’s a little angry Elvis presumed she could drop everything to be at his beck and call. “Thank Elvis for the invitation but remind him I really can’t afford to lose this job.” She hands the white box back to Charlie, unopened.

He sputters a little with panic. It makes sense—most women probably bend over backwards to accommodate a man like Elvis, but she has other things to worry about. And Elvis knows this, which makes her even more irritated.

“But…but he really wants you there, Pepper,” Charlie says in a futile attempt to persuade her. “He’ll be mighty disappointed if you don’t come.”

Her heart kerthunks at the suggestion Elvis has been thinking about her at all, much less for him to be disappointed by her absence, but it doesn’t quell the anger starting to build in her chest.

“Well, I’m sorry for that, but it’s too short of notice and I have a show to do. Tell your boss it would be good for him not to make assumptions.”

Charlie looks like she’s slapped him. She almost feels bad for him because she gets the impression, as wonderful as Elvis was with her the other night, he is not a man who likes to be told “no.”

“I need to be on stage soon. Bye, Charlie,” she says, fighting the urge to cry both with irritation and disappointment. She can’t afford to ruin her makeup this close to showtime and walks out before she can change her mind.

The smile she plasters across her face during the dinner show covers her aching discontent. She’s almost glad for the distraction—it takes her mind off the fact she’ll likely never hear from Elvis again. There is certainly no reason for a man like him to chase a woman like her, especially when she’s rejected him.

Lost in her dismal thoughts, she doesn’t hear Paul when he comes up behind her after the show. She jumps out of her skin when he touches her shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, Pepper, but you’ve got someone important on the phone for you,” Paul says, looking at her a little incredulously with a quirked brow, “and that little guy is back.”

What?

She makes her way back to the green room for the second time tonight, a racehorse running laps in her heart as she huffs down the hallway in her heels.

Charlie’s eyes brighten when they see her and he says nothing; he just holds out the phone receiver towards her. Trepidation makes her shake when she grabs it because as much as she wants to deny it, there’s no doubt who it could be.

“Hello?” she squeaks out, then races to clear her throat and relax her voice. “Who is this?”

“Peppercorn, you best be gettin’ that cute lil’ butt of yours down here, ‘fore I gotta come getchu myself,” Elvis familiar drawl growls commandingly in her ear.

It’s unfair the way it makes her toes curl and her thighs tighten, especially when a certain sense of fury at his orders slices through her arousal. If any other man talked like this to her, she’d hang up on him, but Elvis Presley is not just any other man.

“Well, hello to you, too, Elvis,” she says with ire. “I told you, I have my own shows and I can’t just up and leave on a whim.”

“Don’tchu worry about none of that, darlin’. I’ll take care of everything,” he says so smoothly it almost covers the impatience in his tone.

“What does that even mean?”

He sighs on the other end. “Honey, money ain’t an issue. I’ll give you more money than they’d pay you tonight to come to my show.”

The force of his words hits her square in the chest, her hand tightening around the phone. “And what about when they fire me for leaving without notice, hmm? You just gonna pay for my bills from now on? I’m not a whore, Elvis Presley. And I don’t want your damn money.”

That stubborn streak her mama always took her to task for has her seeing red, but somehow she has enough sense not to hang up on him directly. Instead, she just thrusts the phone into Charlie’s hand and storms off, not listening to the crackling voice yelling through the receiver.

Oooh, the nerve of that man, she thinks, her blood boiling at his insinuations. He’d been so nice and thoughtful the other night, not this demanding cad offering to pay her like some hooker off the street. For a man like that, offering what he did, it is blaringly obvious that there would be strings attached to such an arrangement, and she isn’t going to be some kept woman.

The audacity of his actions and words has her raging the more she thinks about him. The late show barely takes her mind off it, the entire exchange sending waves of adrenaline through her blood every time it pops back into her mind. By the time she is back home, she’s exhausted but wired, upset that her daydreams about this man were just that—fantasies.

Pepper convinced herself he wasn’t like any other man—that he was sweet and kind and didn’t just want her for her body. What a joke.He may be rich and powerful, but he certainly made his intentions clear with his demands.

Once in bed, she doesn’t bother to stop the tears leaking from her eyes and dripping into the mattress. A sick feeling of regret churns in her stomach as her rage cools and she begins second guessing all her choices. How she managed to ruin her chances with Elvis.

Buck up, kiddo, he’s just a guy. A famous, talented, and ridiculously handsome one, maybe, but still just a man in the end. He doesn’t matter. Your family does. She may not have much, but at least she has her dignity.

Or so she hopes, a certain yellow paisley shirt clinging to her body when sleep finally takes her.

*

An incessant pounding rouses Pepper from a fitful slumber. At first, she thinks it might be a whopper of a headache she’d felt coming on after last night’s events, but as she forces her gritty eyes open, she realizes it’s not that at all.

Someone is pounding on her front door.

Adrenaline kickstarts her body, despite the sleep that tries to reclaim her, and a quick look at the alarm clock on her nightstand shows it’s not quite four in the morning. She is cautious and more than a little scared as she slips her too flimsy robe on over her nightgown, pattering through the apartment with bare feet. Approaching the door with an element of stealth, which seems awfully stupid when she thinks about it, she peeks through the peephole, praying it’s not some drugged out creep looking for a good time or a maniac she needs to call the cops on.

But there is no mistaking the shock of black hair and the purple tinted sunglasses of the man causing such a racket on the other side of the wood. Her stomach drops and her heart flips.

You’ve got to be kidding me. She takes a shaky breath and opens the door before he can continue his barrage.

Elvis starts a bit when the door opens suddenly, his shoulders squaring and spine straightening. For a second, he almost looks self-conscious about his behavior, but it is gone and replaced with a narrow-eyed glare before she can dwell on it.

“You gonna let me in, sweetheart, or are we gonna do this out in the open for everyone to see?” he drawls, but it has a cutting edge to it she doesn’t recognize from their first meeting.

Now that he’s here in front of her, her earlier stubbornness is hard to locate behind the butterflies in her stomach and the sudden apprehension she feels about him being here again. He sucks all the air out of the room after she wordlessly opens the door further to let him stride through.

Pepper pulls her robe tight across her body, trying to cover herself as though he hadn’t already seen her bare, as if he hadn’t knelt in front of her to dress her in that dark alley. The thought, along with the waft of his cologne as he passes by her, makes her knees weak.

“Wha—what’re you doing here, Elvis?” she asks, the words sticking in her mouth with sleep and confusion as she flips on the lamp near the couch.

She realizes the mistake the moment it happens. Now she can truly see him in all his glory—his post-show glow giving him an other-worldly quality she didn’t know was possible. His tan skin and lustrous dark hair are indulgent to her senses and it’s almost painful how endless his sapphire eyes are when he takes off his tinted glasses and rakes those eyes over her body.

It sends a shiver right down to her toes.

“Peppercorn, you’re one helluva stubborn little girl,” he says huskily, pointing a long finger at her, “makin’ me come all the way down ‘ere to talk some damn sense into ya.”

It’s piercing and heated the way he says it and she feels somewhere between a scolded child and a wounded lover, neither of which fits the strange (non-)relationship she has with him, but she feels it all the same. Logic tells her he has no right to come in here like this, but the fact that he’s here at all, looking ethereal like some sort of angry god, has all logic flying out the window.

Digging her toes into the wood floor to keep herself grounded, she finally finds her voice again, “Excuse me?”

“And all this nonsense ‘bout ya being some kinda ‘whore’,” he barrels on, “and I ain’t never said no such thing, would never say such a thing aboutcha.” The vehemence with which he says it makes it sound likeshe was the one who offended him and not the other way around.

Pepper is confused for a second because of this, as her first instinct is to apologize to make him feel better, but then she remembers why she was mad in the first place.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t offer to pay me to spend time with you and be there to satisfy your every whim, I wouldn’t think that’s what you meant,” she says quietly, her voice shaking only slightly, as she throws it back at him.

His eyes flash and narrow while his cheeks redden underneath his tan. The divot in his jaw ticks with tension, and for a split second she regrets her words.

She can’t for the life of her understand why he cares and has gone to all this trouble and seems so upset. She’s nobody of consequence, and God knows any number of women are lined up at the ready for him if he wants company. And yet he’s here.

This doesn’t help the way her heart knocks against her ribcage, though, and she squeezes her hands tight to try and control her rapid breathing.

“Don’t go puttin’ words in my mouth, lil girl,” he growls, stepping towards her, backing her into the wall. Only the tiniest part of her is frightened despite his size and anger because his proximity and intensity ignite something molten in her veins. Her mouth parts but the quippy reply dies on her lips.

“Why don’tcha wanna come to my show?” There’s an element of hurt in his voice that surprises her, and it tugs at her heartstrings. He looks down at her and it nearly causes her knees to buckle. “I-I-I jus’ thought—”

“I would love to come. It breaks my heart that I can’t,” she whispers mournfully, the words popping out before you can think better of them.

An impish little smile plays at his lips. “It does, does it?”

Pepper can’t help but roll her eyes, tilting her chin to the side, mostly to avoid being swallowed up by those churning eyes of his. “Of course.”

“Then why you gotta be so stubborn, baby?” he replies, gently scolding her. His slender pointer finger grazes her jaw, then turns her chin back towards him.

She hopes he doesn’t feel the way she shudders from the contact. It’s embarrassing enough that she can’t seem to hold her ground with him in front of her like this. That she’s melting at his slightest touch. She struggles to get the words out, feeling heady with the heat of him so close.

“I don’t…it’s important for me to be able to take care of myself. I’ve had to for a long time. And you don’t need to give me anything for me to want to come see or spend time with you—you shouldn’t have to. Besides,” she adds quietly, looking down, “I’m not really the kind of girl who…um…takes advantage of things like that. So, as much as I want to, I can’t—"

The rest is swallowed before it can come out by the sweet softness of his plush lips pressing against her own. She gasps in surprise, but that, too, is consumed by his mouth. His hands cup her face, tilting it up towards his and Pepper flails for a moment in confusion until the gentle insistence of his kiss subdues her completely.

Warmth spreads through her limbs, followed by electric tingles which bounce around her stomach and suck the breath out of her lungs. Her hands land on his chest, feeling heat and dampness from sweat, his heart thrumming underneath her palm. It’s faster than she expects and in disbelief, she wonders if it’s because of her.

When he pulls away, lashes fluttering up to meet her gaze, it’s as if a rocket implodes inside her chest. She’s a goner—if she’s honest with herself, she has been since the moment he defended her in the alley—and she knows it’s a bad place to be with a man like Elvis. She struggles valiantly against her baser instincts.

“Wh-why did you do that?” she chokes out, still confused about the fact that Elvis Presley just kissed her.

His eyes go dark. “Did ya not like it?” he asks, concerned.

“N-No, no, it isn’t…it was lovely, I just—I mean, why me?” She looks up at him with earnest eyes.

Relief spreads across his face and he runs his knuckles over her cheek. “Honey, you are the realest person I’ve met in this godforsaken town—hell, anywhere, as a matter of fact—a-an’ the only one who ain’t asked o-o-or expected a damn thing from me in a long time. You jus’…understand.”

Surprisingly, she does.

“Now, with that said, I like ta—" His head comes down, pressing the sweaty warmth of his forehead against hers. “—give gifts and help those I care about.” He nuzzles his nose into hers. “You gonna let me help you, Peppercorn?” he whispers against her cheek.

Her mouth parts by its own accord as her insides go gooey, and those soft lips devour hers again before she can reply. Fisting the lapels of his jacket in her hands, she barely recognizes the moan that escapes her as being her own.

He pulls away slightly, pressing kisses into her jaw and down her neck. It’s utterly intoxicating.

“Elvis…” is all she’s able to groan out. He’s an assault to her senses in the best way, causing every nerve ending to go into overdrive, logic and caution be dammed.

“Gonna be good f’me?” he rasps, lightly brushing the backs of his fingers down over her breast. She gasps and her nipple pebbles hard in response under the silky friction of the fabric of his yellow shirt. Back arching, her body seeks more of him.

He hums, pulling her up into a blistering kiss that sets her on fire. Mind wiped clean, she leans into his touch when he palms the underside of her breast.

“Thought you was mad at me and here ya are wearin’ my shirt to bed,” he drawls with a knowing smirk, his finger toying with the top button. “Now why would ya do a thing like that, huh, darlin’?”

“I…” she says breathlessly but stops when she has no defense. Her cheeks turn fire-engine red, both from being caught out and from the fact he is much too deftly popping the first button, which due to the size of the shirt lies squarely between her cleavage, open. The fullness and heaving of her breasts push the fabric further apart.

“Hmm, I see,” he tuts. His finger traces its way down to work the second button. “Were ya dreamin’ about me, honey?”

Pepper whimpers and her thighs clutch together involuntarily at his whispered words, and he doesn’t miss this little tell, not by the little smirk on his face. The second button pops and the shirt falls open more.

He swoops her up against him for another kiss, his tongue swiping through her lips and rolling against hers. The rapidly-firming outline of his cock pressed against her belly is not lost on her, either.

“My lil’ Peppercorn, thinkin’ she’s gotta be all rough and tough all by her lonesome,” he murmurs as he makes quick work of the other buttons, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her abdomen. She trembles at his touch. “Don’t gotta worry no more, baby, I gotcha,” he purrs. In any other situation, she might find it condescending, this way he’s taking her to task for being cautious and independent, but she can’t quite bring herself to care so much anymore.

Elvis steps back a little, those shining blue eyes flaring a bit when he gets a look at her in her simple white cotton panties. He looks almost gleeful which banishes her self-consciousness at not wearing something sexier to bed. God knows the last thing she expected last night after she showered was Elvis Presley admiring her choice of underwear.

“Lemme take care of ya?” he asks dreamily, and the words go straight to her core, tingling her swelling lower lips in anticipation of what she hopes he is going to do to her.

All she can manage is a low whine of consent, nodding her head furiously just in case it isn’t clear how badly she needs him to touch her.

Elvis smiles and flits his fingers over the cotton covering her mound. The slightest brush of his finger against her clit sends her spasming like a live wire. It’s embarrassing, yet by the boyish dimple in his cheek, she reckons he’s pleased as punch.

“You been touched like this before, baby?” he asks quietly, circling over her so lightly she feels she might explode from want.

Blinking rapidly, she tries to focus enough to reply. “N-not in a long w-while,” she admits, relishing the sensation of him brushing over the soaked center of her underwear. She can’t help the roll of her hips towards his hand, desperate for more.

“Mmm,” he tuts, nodding to himself. Thankfully, he obliges her by pressing slightly upwards, pushing his panty covered finger up into her hole just a little, the palm of his hand putting pressure on her sensitive clit.

He only gives her a second of this, just long enough for her to gasp out, before he’s moving along. Her knees threaten to buckle and she whines. Then his mouth his on hers again, inhaling her exhale as he kisses her into complete submission.

Pepper loses track of how long they kiss, only that her lips are swollen and that she aches for him with every fiber of her being. The rhythm of his mouth is hypnotic and when he slides his hand down the front of her, into her damp curls, and finally gives attention to the place she wants him most, she cries out in pleasure.

Her legs falling open, he takes the cue and teases the hood of her sex. Nothing has prepared her for this—not her imagination nor her few previous experiences with men could ever match up to the blinding arousal she’s feeling right now.

Surprising her, he bends down, continuing his kisses down her chest, over the rise of her breasts and down her stomach. When he kneels in front of her, a waft of déjà vu comes over her, except this time he is undressing her instead, making the entire scene so erotic with his kiss-swollen lips and bedroom eyes and his hair falling in his face that she feels a needy, throbbing desire between her legs.

His tongue traces her belly button, distracting her from the fact he’s pulling her ruined underwear down her legs to puddle at her feet. It’s not until his lips are pressing into her mound that she realizes his intentions.

“Oh!” Her eyes flying open, she squirms a little in panic—she’s never had a man kiss her down there, and sure as hell didn’t consider that Elvis would want to do such a thing, but there he his, looking up at her, one eyebrow cocked. His eyes don’t leave hers as he swirls that tongue of his around her bud.

“Oh—omigod,” she cries, breath hitching. Her body goes into overdrive at all the new sensations, and he just smiles against her, snacking and lapping away at her, as happy as can be. The surreal nature of it all has her questioning her sanity, but the fleeting thought is quickly overwhelmed by the coil rapidly tightening in her belly. She hurtles towards an orgasm she’s not entirely ready for because she desperately doesn’t want this pleasure to end. Mewling and begging, it only takes one slender finger sliding up into her snatch coupled with the delicious, tongued assault on her clit to send her catapulting over the edge.

Her body tenses, then shudders violently against him as a silent scream catches in her throat. The heat rushing over her has nothing on any climax she’s ever had before which becomes evident in the way her legs shake and threaten to give way completely. Thankfully, Elvis holds her steady by the backs of her thighs, not letting her slump down to the floor like a sack of potatoes as her body relaxes. She can barely breathe for the way he licks her through the end of it, his enjoyment of her arousal obviously not just for her benefit.

Pepper vaguely registers her soft moans and her shivering limbs as she comes back into herself. Her head clonks back into the wall while she tries to get ahold of senses. She can’t seem to come down, though, not with this gorgeous man prostrated at her feet, enjoying her as though she were water in the desert.

Everything goes blank, everything but him.

Then he’s upright again, pressing his body into her, into the wall, his head nuzzling the soft spot under her ear. “Ya like that, honey? That okay?”

If she were more cognizant, she might think more on how he seems almost unsure of his abilities, but as it is, she barely manages a nod.

“S’wonderful,” she slurs, though she’s completely sober.

He smiles against her neck, chin sticky with her arousal. She doesn’t care. At this moment, all she wants is to be consumed by him, crushed by him, taken care of by him. All earlier arguments are forgotten, especially when he ruts against her bare leg, his erection hard and seeking.

“Can I, darlin’?” he whispers imploringly with a punctuated roll of his hips. “Hims need her bad.”

She wants to giggle at the cuteness of his baby talk and at the gallantry of his asking rather than taking—as if she would deny him—so instead she just nods yet again, pulling at the confines of his suit jacket.

In a near-frantic battle with his elaborate outfit, his belt finally clanks to the floor along with his pants and discarded jacket. When his cock springs free, unencumbered due to the lack of underwear, she is almost shocked, but is too distracted by what seems to be a wholly perfect representation of the male form.

It makes her look him up and down with an awed and heated gaze, somewhat disbelieving this otherworldly man wants her. By its own accord, her hand palms the heavy heat of him, sending a thrill though her when he groans out her name.

Needy and already dripping from the slit in his angry pink tip, he thrusts his cock into her hand. “Please, baby,” he breathes and all at once she realizes he is as desperate to have her as she is to have him.

She’s never fucked standing before and if she were in her right mind might be a little concerned about the mechanics of such a thing, but nature has a way of prevailing and without much to-do, Elvis lifts her long legs around his waist and braces her against the wall.

They both groan as he enters her. She’s more than wet, but his size and her lack of recent experience creates a stretching burn, nevertheless. It makes her hiss and bite down on her lip and being the observant lover he has turned out to be, he freezes partway in.

“You okay?” he asks, worried, and she nods emphatically because no, she doesn’t want him to stop but yes, it has been awhile since a man traversed this part of her. The bite of her nails on his shoulders is enough to remind him to go slow, despite the desire to fuck each other into oblivion.

With the utmost patience he works his way in with shallow, gentle thrusts as she coats him with her slick and relaxes enough to let him burrow deeper. The tight fit is delicious on his cock, which he makes note of in a string of murmured baby talk praises in her ear of what a good girlshe is and how tight she feels and how he’d just make a home in her pretty lil’ beaver forever if he could.

All this has her tingling and radiating warmth from the inside out and she begins to roll her hips to let him know she’s ready. It’s not long then before he’s nestled deep inside, his sweaty forehead pressed to hers before kissing her deeply. She tastes the tang of herself on his tongue, something that shouldn’t make her moan into his mouth, but she does, clinging to his shoulders as he finally begins to move in earnest.

And consumed by him she is—by his smell, his taste, the hard and soft planes of his body sliding against her own so deftly, thoroughly slotted as if made for each other. His rings cut into the bottom of her thigh as he grips her there in such a way that suggests he thinks she might float away and disappear without him there to anchor her.

He might very well be right.

Boldly, she meets his increasingly deep and pointed thrusts with the snap of her hips, as best she can at least, considering her lack of leverage. She chases him and he her, like some sort of erotic ouroboros eating its own tail. There is nothing but him and her and the joined chorus of breath in their near-frantic lovemaking.

Pepper has never come twice in a row with a man, not ever, yet as he plunders her just the right way in all the right spots, the telltale signs of that tension in her core spring to life again. He’s skilled in making her body sing, considering he barely knows her—or perhaps he knows her better than anyone else in his gilded town. Regardless, he coaxes her back to the edge with him with the softness of his lips and the scrape of his teeth and the caress of his fingers and hands in her most intimate places.

Skilled but sweet. Confident but desperate. The dichotomy of this man confounds her. Her back scrapes against the wall in time with the piston of his perfect hips, and the music of his soft moans has her near orgasm once again.

The build is slower this time and she relishes in every sensation, trying to commit them to memory. When she finally shatters around him at the crest of it all, Elvis shudders with a low groan and thrusts impossibly deep before pulsing hard, filling her with cum.

They collapse in on each other then, a panting silence filling the space around them. His breath is wet and heavy in the crook of her neck. She mindlessly runs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, which is damp with sweat.

Oh, she’s in deep trouble with this one and she knows it. Part of her wants nothing more to stay like this forever, back scraping against the plaster, collapsed in a satisfied heap in Elvis’ arms.

A pleased hum comes from him, vibrating her sensitive skin, as he nestles deeper into her, despite the softening of his penis. It is needy and cuddly and unexpected based on the way he barged in earlier. But he continues to hold her tight, and she is powerless to deny him such a comfort.

She doesn’t want to.

“Come back with me, honey,” he whispers into the shell of her ear, causing her skin to pebble. “Please.”

Pepper wants to cry at the vulnerable way he says it and how it leaves her feeling so special because it seems to prove this was not just an angry, possessive fuck from a man who always gets what he wants. No, it feels charmingly sweet and melts her heart and body in all the right ways. It would be so easy to go, so tempting to fall into his arms again and again.

But things have never been easy for her and her damn pragmatic mind won’t let it rest why he showed up here in the first place.

“I—I can’t leave my jobs,” she whispers, her fingers carting through his dark hair by their own accord as his lips tackle her pulse point. She feels him smile against her skin, an action which shoots straight into her core, as if he hadn’t left her sated twice already.

“Well, I thought ya might say that, but it jus’ so happens the Hilton has a book-keeping openin’, if ya want it,” he says dreamily.

It takes a moment for her post-coital brain to make sense of what he’s saying. She pulls back.

“Wait. Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he replies, forcing his pleased grin into a serious scowl.

Her heart pounds even more than it did when his lips were on her. She knows jobs like this are hard for people like her to come by. Most casinos don’t want to take a chance on a showgirl doing their books.

This could change everything for her.

“I…but I don’t have much experience and they’ll never—” she babbles, sending herself into a panic.

“Baby,” he shushes, finally removing himself from her and setting her down gently, “you’ve already got the job.” He smooths her hair, lulling her into relaxing.

She shakes her head in disbelief. Part of her wants to balk against the kindness, telling her she didn’t earn it for herself. Elvis gleans this, however.

“Let me help you, darlin’,” he coos at her, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Please. Let someone else take care of ya for once.”

Tears spring to her eyes. She can’t help it. The rollercoaster of the last few days has left her raw.

“You didn’t have to—it’s too much,” she sniffles, blinking back the tears.

“Wasn’t nothin’, baby. And you’ll be great, workin’ with all those numbers,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her cheek. “And, it ain’t entirely selfless,” he muses, “considerin’ you’ll be workin’ in the same place as me and they don’t need you to start for a couple weeks. Those hours give you plenty of time to come see me. To be with me.”

She can’t help but chuckle at that. “But I have to—”

“Good thing about that signing bonus, too. Means ya won’t have to worry ‘bout leavin’ those other jobs of yours,” he says nonchalantly.

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with that,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Nope, no siree.” His eyes twinkle at her.

Her guarded incredulousness disintegrates when she realizes he listened to her. Despite the misguided way he went about it, he figured out her need to be self-sufficient, solved the problem holding her back from him, and managed to get her a job she could barely dream of a few days ago.

It’s infuriating to her head-strong nature that he’s so deftly wheedled around all the obstacles and that she wants nothing more than to be in his arms and hear his vulnerability and go to his damn shows.

“Whadya say, Peppercorn? Will ya come be with me?” He says it with only the slightest tremor of doubt, those soulful eyes of his searching hers, dredging up feelings she knows will likely bite her in the ass later.

Finally, she takes a deep breath and nods. “Fine,” she tries to say with a hint of frustration, but she’s unable to keep her hopeful smile from raising the corners of her mouth.

The dimple carved out beneath his apple cheeks makes it all worth it and sends a shower of tingles through her body. He swoops her up in his arms, kissing her deeply and hugging her so tight she can barely draw breath.

Suffocated by Elvis Presley’s kisses wouldn’t be such a bad way to go, she thinks humorously as he takes her breath away.

“I should go clean up and pack some things,” she pants when they finally tear themselves away from each other.

He nods, looking mussed and blissful, his bedroom eyes heavy as though the night’s events have finally all caught up to him. Holding her hand until the last possible second, she’s near convinced that he’s about ready to fall asleep standing up.

She’s halfway down the hall when he calls out to her, voice husky. “Hey, honey.”

Pepper turns back to look at him.

“Bring the shirt,” Elvis says, his dark brow quirking suggestively, “I like it on ya.”

He gives her an idea, a bold one she acts on before she can think too much on it. “Bet you’d like it off me even more,” she says, sliding the already open shirt off her shoulders. It falls in a soft heap around her feet.

His eyes go wide and take in her bare form from head to toe. “Damn, woman, I think ya might be right.”

And with a growl, he charges her, sending her into shrieking giggles as she flees into her room. Tapping some hidden reserve of energy, he lifts her and throws her on her unmade bed, and then climbs in on top of her, showering her with kisses everywhere.

Loving the way his long body presses her into the sheets, she feels utterly content for once in her life to let loose a little and live in the present without a care in the world.

“Gonna take care of ya,” he whispers, running his hand reverently over her naked curves.

And she knows he will.

*

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Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[baejax-the-great]

Haven't watched bridgerton but saw your tags & they made me laugh 😂 Perhaps she was just pretending to be out for five days. Like 'finally some peace and quiet'. Bonk

Spoilers for season 2 of Bridgerton, I guess.

Here is how it goes. She is on a horse. She is good at riding horses, as she's demonstrated repeatedly throughout the season. It is raining. Her suitor/lover/ex/whatever shows up and her horse rears in response, dumping her from the saddle. She falls to the ground and does not get up. Suitor checks on her and discovers 1. she's out cold and 2. She is bleeding from the back of her head.

He brings her to her home. She does not wake up during this time. She does not wake up for days. I don't know that the number of days was specified, but it seems to be around four or five.

She wakes up. She immediately recognizes her sister. She says she feels fine. She remembers the ride in the rain and falling from her horse. She is immediately concerned about whether her suitor came to visit her while she was sleeping and not, you know, the life threatening concussion she just had.

Friends, this woman is dead. She is not among the living. She is passed on. Bereft of life, she rests in peace. If someone sustains a head injury and is not somewhat conscious again in like 30 minutes, there is a strong possibility they will never be conscious again (especially without the interventions of modern medicine--neurosurgery is needed for severe injuries).

There is no button on your head that if you push it hard enough, you get a nice nap that lasts a random amount of time. That's not what a concussion is. It's brain damage. You don't just get a concussion and "sleep it off." In fact, if you see someone get a concussion and they decide they really want to go to sleep, it is your duty to 1. keep them awake and 2. get them to a fucking emergency room.

Now they didn't have emergency rooms in Bridgerton, but that doesn't matter, because she's dead. She died. She's pushing up the daisies. Four days. FOUR DAYS. But let's say a miracle occurred and she's not dead.

She almost definitely would not remember her injury. That memory was knocked the fuck out of her brain before it could be stored away and 2. probably the morning ride was forgotten, too and 3. she might even lose the preceding few days if she hit her head that hard and 4. she would absolutely be suffering from brain damage, because that's what a concussion is. It's brain damage. You bruise your brain and neurons die and you hope it wasn't very many or it wasn't any important ones (they are all important that is your BRAIN).

Kate would be left with anything from blurry vision and trouble concentrating to having to learn how to walk or talk again. She could have gone blind or deaf. She would almost definitely have one hell of a headache. She would not be spinning about the dance floor that evening because she would be too dizzy and uncoordinated for that shit and she would be for days if not weeks if not permanently. Even in a moderate case with eventual full recovery, post-concussion syndrome can last for months, and it sucks.

I am TIRED of shows using brain damage like it's a tiny lil nap. Just knock someone out and then you can sneak past them/skip the plot ahead hours/have them languish in bed for days and not feel guilty for it. It doesn't work like that. Bonking your head and going to sleep for four hours is a life-threatening life-altering situation, and not a "tee hee we snuck past the enemies without having to kill anyone!"

[dragon-communion]

Now that I've caved and made an entire St. Trina sideblog, it's time for me to truly become my final form: an unhinged anthropologist with the power to make headcanons to fill in the gaps of life and times in the Lands Between.

Fittingly for a story with intense Christian themes, the early stages of Marika's empire are intensely Roman. As such, I think it's safe to pull ideas from various sites around the Mediterranean. While there's little to no Egyptian influence, or indeed much from the northern edge of Africa period, Elden Ring manages to hit every other point from Spain (Lionel's armor, St. Trina's sword) all the way over to Iraq (Uhl= Ur).

So while figuring out what worship of St. Trina looked like on a wider scale, I've been tempted to utilize the concept of folk saints- saints not approved of or canonized by the Pope, typically having roots in an indigenous culture. While I don't think anything about her directly conflicted with Marika's goals, she's notably worshipped by factions that generally want nothing to do with the Erdtree (albinaurics, merchants).

At the same time though, Miquella and Mohg look like a BLATANT Hades and Persephone reference to me. Hades even wields a spear, and Mohg has set up shop in a distinctly Greek-looking temple. Miquella, flowers and youth and essentially springtime personified, getting kidnapped for marriage by a man who lives in a temple under the earth and has rarely seen the light of day? I can work with that. I can do some insane things with that.

Let's talk Greek mystery cults, and the most famous one of them all: the Eleusinian Mysteries.

As the name implies, historians really don't have a lot to go on when it comes to the content of mystery cults. What happens during initiation stays in initiation, and so on. We can draw a few conclusions based on scattered textual references of guys that broke the oath, but nothing as solid as a playbook of events. We can say this much: there was a very long pilgrimage on foot that included singing and fasting, there was alcohol when they finally got to the destination, and whatever happened beyond the doors of their destination was utterly soul shaking. Mystery cults seemed to rely on the achievement of altered states in order to induce and/or emulate a kind of death and rebirth, which in several cases seems to have outright removed the participant's fear of death after the experience.

Because I am neurodivergent and this hits all of my hyperfixation buttons, I know way too much about agrarian cults of death and rebirth as well as the inducement of altered states, and this would already be prime ground to build headcanons on. But let's talk Eleusis.

Eleusis was a town near Athens where the Eleusinian mysteries took place. These particular mysteries and their initiation were focused around the story of Demeter and Persephone- the horror of Persephone's metaphorical death, the horror of the world beginning to die as Demeter denied the world the fruit of crops in her grief, the relief of a daughter returned coinciding with the relief of famine breaking.

What's interesting about this in the context of Elden Ring is that we have the metaphorical winter, but we don't get any spring. Just the promise of one, eventually, when Miquella returns as a god. In his absence the Haligtree withers, and in his absence his followers languish like abandoned dogs staring at the door. But he never comes home. There is no relief.

Likewise, Trina's entire cult by the time we enter the game seems fixated on "journeying to the underworld"- they are looking for Trina endlessly like Demeter combing the earth for her child, but Trina (like Kore) is nowhere to be found. Not in the land of the living, at least. So we have the preparatory stages of the mysteries- the journey, the mind-altering substances- but without any payoff. Potentially just escalation of both behaviors.

Before Miquella's journey to the Lands of Shadow, I do think Trina was still in communication with her followers, and that she only stopped because she was physically incapable of contacting anyone. So before the Shattering, and particularly before the war in Aeonia, Trina's cult would have had a very much present deity in the same way that Miquella, Malenia, and Marika were all physically available to tend their cults. Not that Malenia wanted hers at all, but nevertheless she had it.

The key difference between Trina and the other Empyreans is that they are being of flesh, and she functions more as a spirit, able to quite literally speak to her followers directly without intercession from priests or bodyguards or the iron wall of classism. She would've been accessible in a way the other Empyreans weren't, which is something particularly of interest since Elden Ring's story kind of metaphorically hinges on the real world events of the rise of Christian monotheism and the subjugation of polytheistic paganism. Part of the reason Christianity became so popular was because anyone could approach God, not just his priests.

Notably, worship of the Erdtree seems more comparable to a kind of imperial cult than a religion fully accessible to the common layman. Your average farmer probably couldn't talk to Marika. Your average farmer probably could talk to a saint though, and Trina might even answer directly.

I am going to have so much fun coming up with weird little rituals for the Church of Cozy In Bed.

[nighttimescribbles2]

Safe Haven

A relationship with Gojo Satoru brought only heartache. So why couldn't you bear to leave? gojo satoru x reader; slight angst; slight smut; feels; gojo being an absentee boyfriend wc: 3098 a/n: i'll write a short one, i told myself. a quick one maybe a little more than a thousand words, tops. HA. i am also trying to get to properly thirst for this man. so thirsts, thoughts, hc's, tips and tricks for writing him are most welcome. unedited.

It was a lonely thing, this being with Gojo Satoru.

His arrival into your life did not much upend it. If anything, his rare appearances in it often relegated him to an afterthought, albeit one who swept in with an entourage of butterflies that took up residence in the pit of your stomach.

Where do you disappear to? you once thought to ask.

Business, he said, and nothing more. When you pushed and insisted on knowing what sort of business turned him into such an absentee in your life, he kissed each one of your eyelids in turn, drew you close, and said, 

“Terribly boring stuff.”

On bad days, you re-lived this and crucified him as an abject liar. Terribly boring stuff wouldn’t keep your Satoru’s playful, flighty interests occupied for nearly half as long as he was gone. Still, over time, these clandestine businesses condensed into mere facts of life, and the daily drudgery of your day-to-day existence churned on without him. 

Your mornings began with the same lonely coffee in an apartment just beginning to catch the sunlight of a fresh day. There was the same friendly street cat who waited for you on top of the fence around the last house on the block just before the bus stop where you got on for the same rumbling hour-long commute to the kindergarten where you worked. There, you amalgamated into the same classroomful of bright, happy children, mixed with the same colleagues, participated in the same after-work routine, made the same trip back - interrupted only on Wednesdays by a side trip to the supermarket - returned to the same empty home, the same loneliness, the same everything.

The monotony of routine drove you mad sometimes. The alternative, friends inviting you to blind dates, was no improvement.

I have a boyfriend, you were always on the brink of saying. Only the knowledge of the inevitable onslaught of questions and disbelief made you hold your tongue. Who was he? Why do you never talk about him? Why don’t you ever bring him? Why doesn’t he ever visit you? Where is he?

You couldn’t say, he’s never around, you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know.

The shame of your hapless answers stopped up your throat. 

Thank you, I’m not interested, you always wound up saying while simultaneously swatting away inquiries of when you’d be interested. You had no answer to that, either, but it wrought a vice-grip inside your chest, and in your mind you railed and cursed Satoru and swore that one of these days, you’d show him you weren’t a doormat languishing in wait for his return. You’d cheat on him and stick that to his face. He’ll see.

You never cheated. Because after mentally cussing him out, you’d go home, sit on your bed, and in the stillness of a dark apartment translate into tears all the grievances you held against him.

Being with Gojo Satoru was a terribly lonely existence.

And yet on good days, you remembered to yourself that there were moments when it was not. On occasion, you’d treat yourself to a drink at the intimidating artisan cafe near the supermarket you frequented and found your expensive latte already paid for. Sometimes, it was a swanky Uber home from work on a particularly inclement day. And on still yet other times, like tonight, it was the surprise of a warm body crowded with you in your bed while slick fingers between your legs roused you from sleep.

You moaned. Satoru’s name dripped thick with sleep from kiss-swollen lips.

“It’s me,” whispered the voice you could never at once believe you were hearing. But then his mouth captured yours and he pushed his way in to reacquaint himself with the flavour of you. It was all you could do to wilt into him.

He was naught but a spectre of silver hair and the shadow of broad shoulders against the night. When you arched towards him, sighing need onto his tongue, he lifted your leg to drape it around his hip, running soiled fingers along the underside of your thigh before guiding himself home inside you.

You moaned, relishing the stretch and the heavy fullness in that neglected part of your body. Beside you, your Satoru let out a pinched sound of contentment and began pumping into you.

“I missed you,” he confessed, the words husky.

Pleasure bloomed through you. Winding an arm tightly around him, you buried your face into his chest and squeezed around his cock. He swore under his breath. The grip on your hip tightened and he ground out a hoarse little laugh.

“Definitely missed you.”

“Then come more often.” 

“I will, baby.” But the promise held a strange twinge of regret in them. “As often as I can.”

“Where do you even disappear to?”

It was a question both of you knew he would never answer.

You bristled. “Do you know what it’s like to be left here alone for days on end? I don’t know where you are. I can’t reach you when I call. I don’t know anyone who can tell me where to find you -”

You began to cry. Gods above, the first time in weeks your boyfriend shows up intending to fuck you to oblivion and the first you do is rag him half to death and snivel while you were at it.

He shushed you gently, big hands sweeping broadly across your back. Even his pace slowed as he sank to the hilt and rocked as if to soothe you.

“What have you got to say for yourself?” you demanded. The obscene squelching of your cunt robbed you of any credible authority but you attempted to maintain what little dignity you could anyway.

“Nothing,” he said with a smile in his tone. The assuaging hand wandered down to your bottom where it spread you for his own benefit. “I am a bad boyfriend and an embarrassment to my kind.”

To make up for it, he began quickening his pace. Gojo Satoru was a quick learner and a prodigious retainer of the things he had learnt. Very early on in your liaison, he had learnt his way around your body and never forgot. Each filling stroke brushed your clit on its way in and on its retreat unfailingly found that spot that made you start and tighten around him. Soon, whatever lecture you’d planned to unleash evaporated in a series of broken gasps, tiny and endearingly surprised with each burst of pleasure he dragged out of you.

“I thought of you while I was away,” he groaned, delighting in your quiet whine - the only answer you could manage under his unrelenting assault. Huddling closer, he tucked you under his chin and pressed his mouth to your hair. “I thought of you every day. Every moment of everyday.”

He thought about this, wondered when he would be able to touch you again, to run his palms over your soft skin, to bless you with kisses and to hear your voice and its myriad sounds - lovely sounds - when he was balls-deep inside you. But beyond that, more than anything, he longed to know about you. When the sun broke over a mission that dragged on for far too long, he wondered if you were up, wanted to know if and how many times you snoozed your alarm. He wondered if you scored a seat on the bus and whether your favourite kindergartener, sweet little Kenji who came to you unable to utter a single word, had already learnt to string sentences together yet under your expert tutelage.

Day in and day out for as long as you were apart, Gojo Satoru thought of you, not just as a faded twinkle in the back of his mind, but as a veritable force that elbowed its way in and indelibly sat smack dab in the centre of his consciousness.

Your panting noises brought him back to the present, small kittenish sounds of distressed rapture accompanied by blunt nails raking troughs under his shoulder blade.

He palmed the fat of your bottom, rolled it in his hand.

“Close, honey?” Reaching between you, he fumbled for your clit, managing a couple of strokes that made your breath hitch before you pushed him away.

“Together,” you gasped, cheeks hot and face still hidden in his chest. “Want to come with you, Satoru.”

“Yeah?”

Yes. In more ways than one, yes. 

Eyes screwed shut, you sucked in a deep, wavering breath filled with him. If you inhaled long and deeply enough, you hoped you might make out where he’s been so that on the worst days, when you were fit to shatter with loneliness, you might go there and have your fill of him. 

You breathed and breathed and held your breath but all you discerned was a wisp of soap and the slightest hint of a man’s musk. The rest of it was the disappointing jumble of your shampoo and the detergent of your sheets, with a bit of the lavender diffusing on your dresser.

You held on to him ever more tightly.

“I want to come with you.”

“All right.”

In its hidden grotto, your heart missed a step. For one dream-like moment you thought this was it at last. From here on out there would be no more hiding your relationship. From now on you could be a normal couple who did normal couple things. You’d walk home together after work on weekdays and go on dates during the weekend; celebrate birthdays and milestones together and shack up and fuck all day on Valentines’ and Christmas. You’d go on romantic getaways and begin dreaming modest dreams about a future together. When you passed a happy pair on the street, you could reach over and find a hand that was already most eager to hold yours.

“Hang on, baby -”

You did. You clung to him with the force of all your wishes and he held you back, gripping you by the waist and by the back of your neck. Hair spilled from between his fingers, cascading across your pillow and pooling on your sheets.

“Love you,” you thought you heard from among the grunts of his exertion as he fucked wildly into you. Copious wetness pooled in your cunt. It trickled out onto the apex of your thighs and all over your joined bodies as he claimed you again and again. The grasp he had on you was almost painful, but all discomfort dissipated in the solid sensation of him underneath your very own hands, against the length of your very own body, and wedged deep inside you.

Love you, love you, you chanted back, unsure if the words in your head managed to swim down to the messy kisses you pecked haphazardly onto his bare chest. He groaned, groped between your legs again and fondled his coveted prize. 

Your legs jerked to close. 

It was a futile endeavour. The limb locked around his hip obeyed the urgency swelling, spreading from your womb. You let escape a strangled cry; reflexively dragged him impossibly closer. He rubbed faster.

“It’s okay, honey. Come.”

The knot of tension unwound, unleashing a cocktail of pleasure and relief that threatened to sink you. The long overdue sensation came on so strongly your legs went numb and you nearly missed Satoru’s throbbing inside you until his seed trickled from around the seal of his cock and laced the mess already shining between your bodies.

You flopped over. Gathering you to himself, he rolled onto his back so you were sprawled on him, straddling him and warming his softening cock.

“Let’s stay like this for a while,” he murmured.

You were more than happy to. Usually he dropped by for a quick tryst and kiss, stayed long enough to clean up, and was gone within two hours at most. Then you wouldn’t hear from him again for weeks.

So tonight you embraced as much of him as you could and recorded the rhythmic thumps of his heartbeats into your best memories. For here was Satoru. Your Satoru, at last in your arms.

“Stay until the morning.” 

The plea in your tone was appalling, but you’d held on to your pride before and what did it get you? An empty bed with the imprints of him cold before dawn. This time you grovelled, and he nodded.

To hell with pride.

You rubbed your face onto his chest. Dug your nails into his shoulders. “Will you see me again?”

“You know I will.”

“Soon?”

“As soon as I can.”

You stifled a sniffle. “Why do you always leave?”

That was another question he never answered. Business, he always used to say, and nothing more. Satoru stroked up your nape into your scalp, lightly scratching and combing out your hair until the perfume of your shampoo filled the space your bodies occupied, stained his fingers, and sank into the grains of their prints. 

You were his most selfish mistake. When Nanami found out, he’d been quick to remind Satoru that their kind was not supposed to involve themselves with civilians. One of Gojo’s caliber, especially, who was tailed by an endless parade of enemies, really ought to know better. 

“I can’t help myself,” he’d told his friend in one moment of rare sobriety. “Maybe it’ll be all right if I cover my tracks and try not to stick around her too much…”

Nanami took one look at his pathetic grin, self-flagellating with guilt and sick with a weakness that had never been there before, and said nothing more.

That unfinished conversation flitted through Satoru. Reaching up, he pushed away his blindfold and blinked at the blue shadows across your ceiling. There you were above him, soft as human beings should be. Underneath him was the nest-like refuge that was your bed.

Eyes wide open in the dark, he breathed in all the scents of you and your world. He opened his ears to your barely-there breaths and twitched his limbs to imprint in them the sensation of coming home to you. He urged his senses to fill their storehouses full of you, for he never knew when he could next return.

This was why he hoarded you, why he scrubbed away the grime of his ugly world and washed off the dust of curses with the contents of the dainty bottles in your bathroom. This was why he burrowed into your sheets and infected himself as much as he could with every last lingering essence you could spare. This was why - because the thought of having to be without you, to begin to forget the weight of you in his arms and the sensation of humanity whenever he was with you, sent him into a spiral of panic.

You must have sensed his distress, because you began kissing him again, pressing deliberate marks of love on his chest, on the tense arms encircling you. In the most casual, conversational tone, as if you weren’t stuffed full and dripping with his seed, you mumbled,

“I met a salaryman whose building’s near the kindergarten I work at. We’re always running into each other at the bus stop.”

His heart spasmed. There it was, he thought, the imminence of losing you. And yet he didn’t feel like he had any right to keep you. What could he offer apart from these sporadic meetings?A cocky part of him wanted to say that he was a pretty damn good lay - but other than that?

You deserved more than just to feel like a convenient toy he visited when he needed to blow off some steam.

Fighting the stickiness in his throat, he forced himself to say, “Is he a nice man?”

You nodded. “He doesn’t say much, though. I see him nearly every day and in that time, he says less than you do on your rare visits here.”

Satoru barked a laugh. “Sounds like a bore.”

You swatted him gently. “Don’t be mean. He’s very thoughtful. Once I was on the closing shift and he offered to wait with me because it was already dark.”

Gojo was sure this “very nice man” had ulterior motives for his generosity. “What’s his name?” he asked. Maybe he could have someone look into this guy.

“Nanami Kento.”

“Oh.” 

Oh. Of all people, Nanamin would know about the inherent dangers of association with one Gojo Satoru, and would be the only one who would care enough about a civilian to do something about it. 

Shame and gratitude roiled in Satoru’s gut. It was a very strange thing, and a first for him.

“Is he a friend of yours?” you piped up, propping your chin on the back of your folded hands to look at him. He smiled brilliantly back at you.

“He was a classmate. High school.”

Your face crinkled into a huge, matching smile. It was the biggest one he’s seen out of you since he began these clandestine meetings.

“What?” he teased. “You’re not thinking of running away with Nanamin and leaving me all by my lonesome, are you?”

He deserved a kick on the shin for that, but right then you were too happy to remember to do so.

“It’s the first time I’ve ever met any of your friends.”

His smile faltered. You poor thing. What had he done to you? You deserved to reserve such a big, beautiful smile for the grand gestures he owed, but never paid, you. Brushing his knuckles over your jaw, he turned his gaze back up at the ceiling and in a self-deprecating tone lamented,

“Honey, I am an awful man.”

“I know.”

He shook his head. “Why do you tolerate me? Why do you stay?”

Because no one was more captivating than your Satoru; no creature on God’s good earth was more interesting than he. When he was around, the rest of the world faded into dull greys.

You pressed your cheek back down onto his rising and falling chest. “I don’t know. I guess I can’t help myself.”

He laughed bitterly. Look at you both. Look at you, poor innocent that you were. You deserved far more than these desultory meetings. You deserved a good man, a good future. You deserved more than just till sunrise. You deserved all the things Gojo Satoru couldn’t begin to figure out how to give.

And yet as lightness crept over the east, he tightened his possession of you and pretended that morning was never going to come. He could not, for the life of him, give you up.