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sarahghetti · 2 months

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moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months

Text

Kickstarting “The Bezzle” audiobook, sequel to Red Team Blues

I'm heading to Berlin! On January 29, I'll be delivering Transmediale's Marshall McLuhan Lecture, and on January 30, I'll be at Otherland Books (tickets are limited! They'll have exclusive early access to the English edition of The Bezzle and the German edition of Red Team Blues!).

I'm kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to last year's Red Team Blues, featuring Marty Hench, a hard-charging, two-fisted forensic accountant who spent 40 years in Silicon Valley, busting every finance scam hatched by tech bros' feverish imaginations:

http://thebezzle.org

Marty Hench is a great character to write. His career in high-tech scambusting starts in the early 1980s with the first PCs and stretches all the way to the cryptocurrency era, the most target-rich environment for scamhunting tech has ever seen. Hench is the Zelig of tech scams, and I'm having so much fun using him to probe the seamy underbelly of the tech economy.

Enter The Bezzle, which will be published by Tor Books and Head of Zeus on Feb 20: this adventure finds Marty in the company of Scott Warms, one of the many bright technologists whose great startup was bought and destroyed by Yahoo! (yes, they really used that asinine exclamation mark). Scott is shackled to the Punctuation Factory by golden handcuffs, and he's determined to get fired without cause, so he can collect his shares and move onto the next thing.

That's how Scott and Marty find themselves on Catalina island, the redoubt of the Wrigley family, where bison roam the hills, yachts bob in the habor and fast food is banned. Scott invites Marty on a series of luxury vacations on Catalina, which end abruptly when they discover – and implode – a hamburger-related Ponzi scheme run by a real-estate millionaire who is destroying the personal finances of the Island's working-class townies out of sheer sadism.

Scott's victory is bittersweet: sure, he blew up the Ponzi scheme, but he's also made powerful enemies – the kinds of enemies who can pull strings with the notoriously corrupt LA County Sheriff's Deputies who are the only law on Catalina, and after taking a pair of felony plea deals, Scott gets the message and never visits Catalina Island again.

That could have been the end of it, but California's three-strikes law – since rescinded – means that when Scott picks up one more felony conviction for some drugs discovered during a traffic stop, he's facing life in prison.

That's where The Bezzle really gets into gear.

At its core, The Bezzle is a novel about the "shitty technology adoption curve": the idea that our worst technological schemes are sanded smooth on the bodies of prisoners, mental patients, kids and refugees before they work their way up the privilege gradient and are inflicted on all of us:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

America's prisons are vicious, brutal places, and technology has only made them worse. When Scott's prison swaps out in-person visits, the prison library, and phone calls for a "free" tablet that offers all these services as janky apps that cost ten times more than they would on the outside, the cruelty finds a business model.

Working inside and outside the prison Marty Hench and Scott Warms figure out the full nature of the scam that the captive audience of prisoners are involuntary beta-testers for, and they discover a sprawling web of real-estate fraud, tech scams, and offshore finance that is extracting fortunes from the hides of America's prisoners and their families. The criminals who run that kind of enterprise aren't shy about fighting for what they've got, and they're more than happy to cut some of LA County's notorious deputy gangs in for a cut in exchange for providing some kinetic support for the project.

The Bezzle is exactly the kind of book I was hoping I'd get to write when I kicked off the Hench series – one that decodes the scam economy, from music royalties to prison videoconferencing, real estate investment trusts to Big Four accounting firm bogus audits. It's both a fast-moving, two-fisted crime novel and a masterclass on how the rich and powerful get away with both literal and figurative murder.

It's getting a big push from both my publishers and I'll be touring western Canada and the US with it. The early reviews are spectacular. But despite all of this, I had to make my own audiobook for it, which I'm pre-selling on Kickstarter:

http://thebezzle.org

Why? Because Audible – Amazon's monopoly gatekeeper to the audiobook world, with more than 90% of the market – refuses to carry my work.

Audible uses Digital Rights Management to lock every audiobook they sell to their platform. Legally, only an Audible-authorized app can decrypt and play the audiobooks they sell you. Distributing a tool that removes Audible DRM is a felony under Section 1201 of the 1998 DMCA.

That means that if you break up with Audible – delete your Audible apps – you will lose your entire audiobook library. And the fact that you're Audible's hostage makes the writers you love into their hostages, too. Writers understand that if they leave the Audible platform, their audience will have to choose between following them, or losing all their audiobooks.

That's how Audible gets away with abusing its performers and writers, up to and including the $100m Audiblegate wage-theft scandal:

https://www.audiblegate.com/

Audible can steal $100m from its writers…and the writers still continue to sell on the platform, because leaving will cost them their audience.

This is canonical enshittification: lock in users, then screw suppliers. Lots of companies abuse DRM to do this, but none can hold a candle to Amazon, who understand that the DMCA is a copyright law that protects corporations at the expense of creators.

Under DMCA 1201 commercial distribution of a "circumvention device" carries a five-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine. That means that if I write a book, pay to have it recorded, and then sell it to you through Audible, I am criminally prohibited from giving you the tool to take it from Audible to another platform. Even though I hold the copyright to that work, I would face a harsher sentence than you would if you simply pirated the audiobook from some darknet site. Not only that: if you shoplifted the audiobook in CD form, you'd get a lighter sentence than I, the copyright holder, would receive for giving you a tool to unlock it from Amazon's platform! Hell, if you hijacked the truck that delivered the CD, you'd get off lighter than I would. This is a scam straight out of a Marty Hench novel.

This is batshit. I won't allow it. My books are licensed on the condition that they must not be sold with DRM. Which means that Audible won't sell my books, which means that my publishers are thoroughly disinterested in paying thousands of dollars to produce audiobooks of my titles. A book that isn't sold in the one store than accounts for 90% of all sales is unlikely to do well.

That's where you come in. Since 2020, I've used Kickstarter to pre-sell five of my audiobooks (I wrote nine books during lockdown!). All told, I've raised over $750,000 (gross! but still!) on these crowdfunders. More than 20,000 backers have pitched in! The last two of these books – The Internet Con and The Lost Cause – were national bestsellers.

This isn't just a way for me to pay off a lot of bills and put away something for retirement – it's proof that readers care about supporting writers and don't want to be locked in by a giant monopolist that depends on its drivers pissing in bottles to make quota.

It's a powerful message about the desire for something better than Amazon. It's part of the current that is driving the FTC to haul Amazon into court for being a monopolist, and also part of the inspiration for other authors to try treating Amazon as damage and routing around it, with spectacular results:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/dragonsteel/surprise-four-secret-novels-by-brandon-sanderson

And I'm doing it again. Last December, I went into Skyboat Media's studios where Gabrielle De Cuir directed @wilwheaton, who reprised his role as Marty Hench for the audiobook of The Bezzle. It came out amazing:

https://archive.org/details/bezzle-sample

Now I'm pre-selling this audiobook, as well as the ebook and hardcover for The Bezzle. I'm also offering bundles with the ebook and audiobook for Red Team Blues (naturally these are all DRM-free). You can get your books signed and personalized and shipped anywhere in the world, courtesy of Book Soup, and I've partnered with Libro.fm to deliver DRM-free audiobooks with an app for people who don't want to mess around with sideloading.

I've also got some spendy options for high rollers. There's three chances to name a character in the next Hench novel (Picks and Shovels, Feb 2025). There's also five chances to commission a Hench short story about your favorite tech scam, and get credited when the story is published.

The Kickstarter runs for the next three weeks, which should give me time to get the hardcopy books signed and shipped to arrive around the on-sale date. What's more, I've finally worked out all the post-Brexit kinks with shipping my UK publisher's books to EU backers. I'm working with Otherland Books to fulfill those EU orders, and it looks like I'm going to be able to sign a giant stack of those when I'm in Berlin later this month to give the annual Marshall McLuhan lecture at the Canadian embassy:

https://transmediale.de/en/2024/event/mcluhan-2024

Red Team Blues and its sequels are some of the most fun – and informative – work I've done in my quarter-century career. I love how they blend technical explanations of the scam economy with high-intensity technothrillers. That's the the same mix as my bestselling YA series Little Brother series – but these are firmly adult novels.

The Bezzle came out great. I hope you'll give it a try – and that you'll come out to see me in late February when I hit the road with the book! Here's that Kickstarter link again:

http://thebezzle.org

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/10/the-bezzle/#marty-hench

#pluralistic #kickstarter #audible #the bezzle #bezzles #prison tech #disciplinary technology #crowdfunding #wilw #wil wheaton #audiobooks #publishing #science fiction #marty hench #martin hench #red team blues #shitty technology adoption curve #reits

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bootleg-nessie · 5 months

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Things that will happen in the future (based on my own experiences with time travel):

***FAQs at the end***

*All of these observations are copied directly from my notes in roughly the order I took them in

*Don’t ask about the interchanging use of past/present/future tense, you know how that stuff is with time travel

Women just started all growing three boobs instead of two. Scientists baffled

Genetically engineered catboys (no literally)

The great pyramid of Giza has been converted into a Bass Pro Shop

The entire state of Rhode Island was bought by some rich tech CEO who promptly dug a 500 foot wide trench around the entire state so that it could in fact be an island. It was soon converted into the world’s largest parking lot

Pollution has gotten so bad that fresh oxygen is now delivered straight to most homes via a subscription service

Basic necessities such as food, water, and housing are now provided for free by the government, but only for the top 1% of wealth holders

Insulin now costs twice as much as rent. “Get fucked,” say pharma companies

92.6% of new electronic appliances now have smartphone integration and require a monthly subscription to use

Most billionaires have real estate on earth’s moon

As an ongoing film experiment, Taika Waititi successfully convinced a Nebraska man that he’s been raptured and is now in heaven. He actually got Truman Show’d and now millions of viewers tune in every week to watch God (played by John DiMaggio) manipulate Robert into confronting his own views, battle cognitive dissonance, and face the realization that he might not have been as good of a person on Earth as he thought he was

Carrots have gone extinct, as have highland cows

Species of extinct animals and plants now are being posthumously renamed after the billionaires and elites most directly responsible for killing then off

Researchers discovered a sentient colony of fungus off the coast of Chile, it prefers to go by Fleebo and appears to have a incredibly complex intelligence far greater than any other observed organic being

Nobody knows where Ireland went. It literally just disappeared off the face of the earth one day and nobody bothered to question it. The story couldn’t compete in the news cycle with the recent news about a company in China that made the first real life pokemon. An entire civilization of people gone and I’m the only one who seems to remember it or even care

Fleebo and its offspring have annexed Madagascar and are threatening any retaliation with nuclear warfare and “making The Last of Us a reality.” Nobody knows if Fleebo actually has the capabilities to do this, but after the Lovecraft incident we’re all TOO goddam scared to fuck around and find out

Large snails have replaced cats and dogs as the most common household pet. Snail culture has largely taken over the world, especially Japan

The president of the United States is now decided with an oiled up twerking competition. Most people were hesitant at first but this has produced vastly more competent leaders so now everyone just kinda goes along with it

With the cost of living crisis only worsening with time, selling tattoo space on your body to advertisers has become common as people struggle to afford rent and pay their bills

North and South Korea have reunited into “Korea 2.0”

Germany has split up into East and West Germany again

Belgium and France have been annexed by West Germany and renamed “Wester Germany” and “Westest Germany” respectively

The entirety of Florida is now underwater. Most of Kansas is too for some reason that scientists refuse to explain because they’ve “sworn an oath to the eldritch gods” and that “much worse things would happen” if they did

The melting ice caps in Antarctica unveiled a lost civilization of intelligent creatures descended from a species of lungfish, predating human civilization by millions of years. They planned on hibernating for another 10-15 million years to observe the course of evolution on Earth and are very very angry at humans for waking them up prematurely and ruining all of that with global warming

The politically correct term for lungfish people is “Dipnoid” but most people refer to them by a variety of slurs, such as “finwalker” and “kelp muncher” (not that they even eat kelp)

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch has now increased to nearly half the size of what was formerly known as Canada and has been colonized entirely by pirates (the flag is actually pretty cool). The pirate nation has the 17th largest economy in the world and is projected to surpass the United States in GDP

Africa is about 2% smaller. Nobody knows why. Most people point to Fleebo, who denies having any involvement

All human-Dipnoid interaction was promptly banned by most world governments, except for the GPGPRP (Great Pacific Garbage Patch Republic of Pirates), whom the Dipnoids rely upon extensively for trade

Scientists have used DNA from fossils to recreate other species of humans. We now live alongside them like we did for thousands of years before everyone besides Homo sapiens went extinct. Racism is at an all time high

Class C and above robots are now legally recognized by most progressive countries as people

The United States government has been exposed for secretly funneling billions of dollars into the GPGPRP and using it to fund terrorist operations all over the world.

A new major religion revolving around Dave Grohl has skyrocketed in popularity. Grohilsm is now the world’s largest religion, second only to Fleeboism

Scientists discovered a new continent in the Pacific Ocean, and then promptly lost it again. Most people are convinced this was just an elaborate practical joke, but scientists “swear it definitely happened”

For a brief period of about 30 years, everything in George Orwell’s 1984 happened almost exactly as written in the book. Literally 1984

It was revealed that Jeff Epstein didn’t kill himself. He actually faked his death and spent the next few years in a drug-fueled episode of psychosis making sock puppets in a cave in Italy and then molesting said sock puppets until he died from a sock puppet related illness

Bigfoot was discovered off the coast of Georgia doing cocaine with a congregation of alligators. When questioned, he said he normally lives in Montana and was only there on vacation. He is now a celebrity, and has been featured in a number of tv shows and films, two of which he won an Oscar for. Last I checked, he was a washed up actor living in Hollywood with a reanimated Neanderthal woman

The GPGPRP raided most of England’s museums with the object of “doing exactly what they did for the last few centuries” England was understandably furious, but the rest of the world found it rather amusing

England declared war on the GPGPRP, which it promptly lost after hackers brought down the entire country’s military overnight. Much like in the 21st century, England is the world’s laughing stock

The entirety of Luxembourg relocated itself to the moon

Russia attempted to take over most of Eurasia. In retaliation to the full global effort to stop them, they launched nukes at the world’s 600 most populous cities outside of its current territory. Most of the warheads were stopped in time, but a few major metropolitan areas got hit pretty badly, including Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Chengdu, Mexico City, and Istanbul. Japan was understandably super pissed that Hiroshima and Nagasaki got nuked for a second time

In the wake of the nuclear holocaust, Canada assumed control over what was formerly Russia and assimilated many of its citizens and leaders into its own society and government. Under the new rule of formerly Russian leaders, Canada became a puppet state for the second coming of Russia. It annexed much of the United States, Mongolia, China, and a handful of other countries, becoming “the world’s first megacountry.” Crungolaska now controls a majority of the northern hemisphere

As part of a practical joke by Adam Sandler, Tom Hanks was actually marooned on a desert island like in Castaway. He lasted less than a week before he died. When I left this era of the future, Adam Sandler was serving a lifetime sentence in prison for murder

Fringe groups of crows with above-average intelligence have started popping up around the world. So far they have been observed forming small communities, crafting relatively complex tools, using rudimentary speech, performing rituals, and creating music

Aliens visited earth and had a formal meeting with many of our world leaders, but decided to leave us alone for a few thousand more years because humanity is “not yet mature enough to handle the responsibilities of interstellar travel.” They have incentivized us with a the blueprints for an Alcubierre Drive and a means to produce the exotic matter to fuel it once they deem us as being ready

The original colony of settlers on Mars has declared independence, officially becoming the first country not on Earth

We sent Tom Cruise back to space but this time we just left him there

The tether for the space elevator broke. The town known as Vatorville, famous for being the location of the takeoff point of the elevator shuttle on Earth, was completely decimated as tens of thousands of miles of steel cable came crashing back down. There were no survivors

Most people in first and second world countries have mandatory microchip implants that serve as a personal ID

Last Thursdayism has been largely denounced by quantum physicists. Current theories now revolve around “Next Thursdayism,” the belief that the entire universe was created in the future and that we all exist as a memory in the past

Synthetic organ farms for transplants and research have become a massive industry worth billions of dollars. However, there is still a huge black market for organically grown human organs, as they’re much cheaper to acquire and aren’t taxed at the exorbitant rates that lab-grown organs are

China dug a hole all the way to the center of the Earth. Turns out it’s hollow and there are people living inside. Who knew?

A university reconstructed the entire city of Rome as it was in its early days during the Roman Empire. It’s actually pretty historically accurate, except for the fact that there’s a lot less sex because it’s run by a bunch of sweaty history nerds

After Rome 2 resulted in the creation of a cult revolving around the Roman god of the dead that gained traction as a minor religion, Pluto was officially reinstated as a planet by NASA when cultists picketed their headquarters every day for nearly 3 years straight. “Fine, we’ll give these fucking virgins what they want so they’ll finally shut the hell up,” said NASA’s administrator in chief

In a display of the biotechnical prowess of Disney’s Imagineers, all the animatronics in Disney’s Hall of Presidents were replaced with clones of the originals, which went about exactly as well as you’d expect. After reports of the presidents hurling a series of racial slurs and other obscenities at the first black family to enter surfaced, the project was shut down almost immediately after it had opened. Minority admission to Magic Kingdom plummeted to 2.3% of its numbers from the previous year, making it the second whitest place on earth after a taylor swift concert

Plastic now makes up about 3% of every organism on earth by weight

Public officials are now required by law to take shrooms before running for office

Trees are considered a rare and highly sought after commodity, and are usually only owned by public institutions and the rich (the vast majority of oxygen farms use algae to produce oxygen)

FAQs:

FAQ: What time period(s) did you go to?

A: I have no fucking clue. The world stopped using the Gregorian calendar in 2063 after a gamma ray burst hit the sun. The GRB led to stellar ablation, which changed the length of a year on Earth. The sun would continue to lose mass at an accelerated rate for several more years, with the length of the year changing slightly from year to year. The world adopted a variety of different calendars which kept being updated frequently and were often super confusing and contradictory. I traveled to about a dozen different points in time, which based on my best estimates spanned within a few millennia of the current date.

FAQ: How did you obtain a time machine?

A: I think it was the 17th or 18th of June, 2055? That night, a large sci-fi looking box thingy roughly the size of a VW Bus appeared a few hundred yards away in the open field in front of my house. I tried to take a picture of the box, but for some reason the closer I got, the more the image on my camera started to become fuzzy, and by the time I got close enough to take a decent picture, the camera had stopped working altogether. I pulled open a door to reveal a corpse inside that was charred beyond recognition, who appeared to have suffocated and/or burned to death during a fire that damaged most of the interior. I also noticed a number of strange tumors and growths on the body. I pressed a random button on the remains of what I believed to be a control panel, expecting nothing to happen, but the door closed automatically and I suddenly lost consciousness. When I came to, I exited the box, expecting to still be in the field in front of my house, but instead found myself a ways outside of a small snowy village that based on my best estimates, was somewhere in northern Asia around 2-3 thousand years ago. The villagers started coming after me with spears, so I quickly ran back to the box and pressed another button, hoping it would return me to from whence I came. This time, the people I found (who were thankfully much nicer and spoke a dialect of English that I could mostly understand) told me that it was the year 506 of the PGRB-Δ4 calendar (the calendar that the United Territories was using at the time). I repeated this maybe a dozen more times trying to get home until I landed in 2023, which as far as I could tell, was the closest I had gotten back to my original time so far. It was at this point that I decided to stay and seek medical attention, as I was rather concerned about some nasty new growths on my arms and legs similar to that which I had seen on the corpse.

FAQ: Where is the time machine now?

A: No idea. It disappeared a few days after I landed in 2023. My best guess is that some poor sap found it and ended up sometime else.

(I never ask for likes/reblogs but I literally spent fucking WEEKS on this one so if you liked it pls show me some love <3)

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vcendent · 8 months

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Clothes stealing: Batfam edition

Bruce: is the designated clothes donor of the batfam, he has given up at keeping ownership of his clothes at this point and genuinely no longer notices when something of his goes missing. Gotham thinks he's very fashion conscious because he never publically wears the same thing twice, but that's just because his clothes get stolen and passed between his kids like a game of hot potato. Sometimes he gets things back but 98% of the time they're lost to the void.

Dick: treats Bruce's closet like a second wardrobe, does not own a single suit of his own because he always borrows one of Bruce's for galas and events. If anything goes missing from Bruce's closet, it ends up in Dick's dirty laundry or at his Blüdhaven apartment a week later, and anything anyone steals from him in all likelihood originally belonged to Bruce first.

Jason: as Robin, about half the shirts he owned either came from Bruce or were looted from Dick's old room. Nowadays he doesn't have much opportunity to clothes steal due to his BulkTM making him the largest member of the family, however he still frequently wears one of Bruce's old depression hoodies because it's the one thing from his Robin days that still fits.

Tim: by far the WORST clothes stealer of them all and will steal from any one of his friends or family members who wears a larger size than him indiscriminately. If he can fit in it, it's free real estate and he almost never wears any of his own shirts or hoodies anymore (king of the big shirts little pants look) unless he specifically needs to dress nice. Of the batkids, Tim is the most likely to maintain permanent ownership of the clothes he steals.

Steph: owns a few things she got from Tim from when they were dating (whose they were originally is no longer known), but otherwise mostly sticks to swapping clothes with Cass, Babs, or Kate unless it's to play psychological warfare against Jason by periodically stealing all his Red Hood jackets until he gets fed up with looking for them and buys another replacement, after which she sneaks them back into his apartment like nothing happened and watches him lose his mind over it each time. He has no clue she's the one doing this and it's why he has so damn many.

Cass: the only one of the batfam who actually asks permission before borrowing something and makes a point to return it when she's done. She mostly borrows Bruce's shirts and hoodies for sleepwear or lazy days and from Steph whenever she needs to look nice for an event, but otherwise wears her own clothes most of the time.

Damian: the only article of clothing he has stolen was Dick's Gotham U sweatshirt and he will take it to his grave.

Duke: accidentally steals his family's clothes when items are loaned to him and he forgets to give them back or when something new gets mixed into his wardrobe after Alfred's done the washing. He used to feel bad about not giving clothes back until he noticed the clothes stealing tradition amongst his siblings and no longer pays it any mind when it happens.

Kate: borrows her clothes out to the girls more often than she borrows from others, but occasionally has a shirt or hoodie of Bruce's accidentally mixed in with her stuff after manor visits or mission stakeouts that usually finds its way back to Bruce via Cass.

Barbara: will swap clothes with Steph, Cass, and Kate, but otherwise only steals clothes from Dick, especially his sweatpants. He doesn't know it, but he's never getting his Gotham U sweats back.

#dc comics #dc headcanon #batfam headcanons #batman headcanon #batman #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #damian wayne #duke thomas #kate kane #barbara gordon #batfam #batkids #batfamily

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hoshigray · 9 months

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Swim in Waves, Chill in Caves ༄ S. Geto

"I went to the beach with my friends!! Only for me to...run into Gojo again!!? And to make things crazier, I met his attractive best friend who heard "so much" about me??!! Thanks to Gojo's nonstop blabber-mouth, Geto was interested in me in ways I would rather not be known for!"

A/n: Yessir, three for three, it's time for the third part of my summer series!! It's now Geto's turn to have a piece of Y/n, and, like Gojo, this is my first time writing something for Geto! In case you aren't aware, this fic is linked with Gojo's fic as the plot from his fic propels the actions of what's going to transpire in Geto's narrative. I hope you enjoy this, and tysm for 1.7k followers, giving each and every single one of ya a hug (unless you don't like hugs, then I send you finger guns, pew pew!!)

Also, this is connected to the Gojo fic previously released. So if there are references that have you like "???," you're free to go read that fic first before diving straight into this one. And yeah, without further ado, please enjoy this piece~☆

Series m. list!! This entry has been updated along w/ its contents.

Cw: Geto x fem! reader - explicit content, so minors DNI - age difference (the reader is at least in their 20s; Geto is around early 30s) - oral (m! + f! receiving) - heavy depictions of a blowjob - semi-handjob - sex at an open area; cave by the beach - 69+ doggy style/backshots + missionary position - unprotected sex but Geto doesn't shoot inside (PSA: wrap it up, or get the fuck up) - fucking while the sun sets, lmaooo - pet names (baby, cutie, sweetheart, sweetie, princess) - clitoral play (swiping and pinching) - Gojo is here so expect some silliness.

Wc: 7.2k (7.9k with bonus scene...I stayed up til 6 am finishing this)

Dear Diary...It has come to my attention that I've seen you this summer way more than I anticipated. Truthfully, I never expected to need you again. While life for me is unpredictable right now, the only thing I can turn to is you...

"Hey, Megumi!" Your body jerks at a familiar voice. "Have you seen Y/n?"

"They said they went to grab something real quick." Another familiar voice. "Now help me with this cooler, Itadori."

"Right, on it!"

It's now coming down to the middle of summer. An entire month and a half of internship has kept you busy, constantly building new skills within your career exploration. In addition, you gain new skills and insights from your colleagues. And now that your practicum is almost over, you can't help but feel a rise in accomplishment.

So, how do you celebrate? By going to the beach with your best buds! Oh yes, the gang — Yuuji, Megumi, and Nobara — who are all proud of all you've done this summer thought it's best to go out and hang out this weekend! You weren't one to turn down a lovely day at the beach with your friends, so you packed up your cutest bathing suit, hopped in Nobara's car with the rest, and the four of you drove to enjoy the day together.

With the smell of the ocean hitting your nostrils and the rays of the sun bathing your skin, the day was going great as you and your friends enjoyed every moment of it!

That is until during the delightful moment that you bumped into a familiar face — a face you didn't think you'd ever see again, not with your friends present at the very least. And it's thanks to said familiar face you've once again stumbled upon an unpredictable dilemma.

So much so that you are hiding from your friends, inside a guest room at a beach house, writing in your diary. And yes, said beach house doesn't belong to you, not even your friends. So how did you end up in some random person's estate? Well, leave it to your pen and paper to retell what conspired today.

Firstly, my friends and I just finished lunch at this seafood restaurant (NTS: they offer superb seafood boils). Having walked along the boardwalk for about half an hour, it was time to head for the beach...

The sun was blazing hot outside, yet the ocean breeze kept heat bearable. Many people were at the beach this time of year, families building sandcastles together and surfers riding the active waves. Not to mention the many children bringing life to the setting by playing around in the shallow tides.

You and your friends were able to find a nice, comfortable place to put your stuff at. Before swimming, the four of you figured it'd be great to stretch your bodies around and play some beach volleyball! There was only one problem: other families and athletes had taken all the nets, and none of your brought one of your own (plus they're expensive). So what do you do? Use what ya got and just pass the ball!

"I got it!" Yuuji shouts as he dives to prevent the ball from hitting the sand, propelling it up for Nobara to set up for you.

"It's yours, Megumi!" you call out the raven-haired friend who digs the ball for Itadori to pass.

Five minutes become ten, and ten minutes become fifteen. Before you know it, thirty minutes of constant back and forth between the volleyball has you all engrossed in the game, completely forgetting about the body of water that is waiting for y'all to participate. Although, you all were having way too much fun to stop.

Well, until Nobara jumps and spikes the ball a little too hard and hits Itadori right in the face, the ball flying further away from your direction. You call out to say you'll get it while the brunette argues with the salmon-haired other ("Nobara, you did that on purpose!" "Oh, shut up. Let me see your face, ya big baby.")

Your eyes never leave the ball as you run to catch it from the air. I got it, I got it!

However, you should've paid attention to what's in front of you rather than above. Because had you done so, you would've noticed the dark-haired man who jumped up to catch the ball mid-air. Shocking you for a split second before you come bulldozing to another person, bringing you both down to the sandy ground.

You assess no sense of pain on your end and then realize you're on top of the man you came crashing towards. So apologies are quickly thrown to the other below you while you slowly get up. "Oh my God, I'm so, so sorry about that! I should've looked where I was going!"

"No, no, you're fine..." the man you notice has snow-white hair mumbles under his breath, taking off his dark circle shades to flick off any sand. "Damn, you got a strong tackle; someone outta scout you for a scholarship."

The comment was meant to bring humor to the situation. You stifle a giggle. "Please, I really am sorry abo—" Before you could finish that sentence, your eyes start to take in all of the man's appearance — whose tall figure you're still crawled up on. White hair and lashes, beautiful blue eyes, tall, lean build with chiseled abs I want to rub against—HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE!!!

You remove yourself from the male and stand to look at him from above. Even with the blue Hawaiian shirt opened up to proudly display his pecs and abdomen and the black and purple swimming trunks, the surname you said was the only candidate for who you were looking at. "GOJO!!??"

The man you have spoken with on an online dating app not too long ago. The man you went on a blind date. The man you slept with on the same night. Satoru Gojo peeks up at you before putting his sunglasses back on, sky blue eyes widen with recognition, and a cheeky smile creeps up on his face. "Well, well, fancy seeing you again, princess."

The familiar pet name causes your face and ears to be covered in an agonizing heat beyond the sun's authority, especially when the white-haired man stands up and dusts off the sand on his shirt and swimwear. His height that once had you taken aback the first meeting, doing so the second time around, and of course, the fucker had to have his abs out for you to gawk. "W-What are you doing here?" Your perplexity was still adamant in your question.

"I'm here to enjoy the nice summer sun, aren't you~" he replies with his usual chipper attitude. "Actually, though, I always come down to spend a weekend with my close friends — it's kinda like a tradition we do every year. One of them has a beach house not too far from here."

You blink. "Close...friends?"

"Yo, Satoru," another voice behind Gojo hooks your attention. "You know this person?"

The man who spoke was another fairly tall man — not absolutely towered by Gojo, but fair enough for you to notice the slight difference. Long jet black, draped hair kept in the back with bangs that partially cover his left eye. A matching Hawaiian shirt with a red color (and, unfortunately, also exhibiting his stomach and pectorals) and black and red trunks complete the look. And he's holding the volleyball that pummeled poor Yuuji's face.

You only stare at him as Gojo does the introductions. "Hmm? Oh, Y/n. This is my best friend, Geto. You know, the one I told you about."

Geto, Geto...The name is repeated until it rings a bell, and everything around you comes to a standstill. Suguru Geto, the best friend of Satoru Gojo since high school. Just when this day couldn't get any worse, you not only bump into your one-night stand but meet his infamous partner in crime from their days of youth. And worse, he's just as [if not more] attractive than the slender snow-haired fellow!

"Wait! He's THE best friend??" You exclaim, and Gojo happily confirms your suspicions.

"Yeah, that's him! The one whose hair I barfed on when I chugged that beer at the house party and gave me a weed brownie as payback!"

"Is that story the only thing you want people to know me for?" Geto glares at his friend, but the taller other only shrugs off the complaint. Geto sighs and turns to you, and then his brows draw upward while surveying your figure. "Y/n...You mean the one who—"

"Hey, Y/n!" Your stomach drops to the ground remembering you didn't come to the beach alone, turning around to see the other three make their way to you. The salmon-haired man, his face red from Nobara's spike, resumes speaking. "What's the holdup?"

You try to answer until Gojo cuts you off with a joyful salutation. "Megumi!"

Your raven-haired friend doesn't return the exact manner, greeting with a scowl. "Gojo..."

What the fuck!!? "You two know each other??"

"Of course! Me and Megumi have been pals since he was in his elementary years." The high school teacher informs you as if it was a known fact, feeding more to your stupefied mind. "Known his dad for years; we're practically family friends!"

"More like an annoying uncle..." Megumi rolls his eyes before turning to face you. "Don't get mixed up with this guy, Y/n. He may seem like a likable guy. But he's just a carefree clown who doesn't take things seriously. Both out and in private life." Based on the emphasis on that last assertion, Megumi is aware of Gojo's philandering activities. You nod at your friend's advice, but the gulp to ease the uncomfortable bob in your throat is difficult to swallow. I'm afraid that's too little too late...

Gojo places a hand on his heart and conveys a faux hurt expression. "Jeez, Megumi, your words cut deep, you know...Besides," your body goes rigid when the tall man wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Me and Y/n have already been introduced before."

"Hm? How do you know this dude, Y/n?" Nobara is the one to ask the question for the other two, and now you're pushed into a predictable corner you couldn't foresee coming today of all days.

The reason why you went on a blind date with Gojo in the first place is because of a dumb bet, thanks to Nobara. And after said date, you told the brunette about it — minus mentioning that you went with Gojo. The only thing you noted to her was that the person's name started with an "S" and the last with a "G" ("Wow, can you be vague enough, Y/n?"). Nothing about their physical appearance other than the guy being tall. Now, with the said guy who fits the criteria slouching close with his arm around you, the countdown to your eventual, embarrassing demise begins.

You turn to the tall man, a mutual signal for aid. But before Gojo could say anything, the other male behind him intervenes — "Y/n met Gojo through me," Geto admits disingenuous. "We were at a diner, and we saw them walking by and got to talk with them for a while.

Everyone turns to look at the dark-haired man, you and Gojo bearing a look of confusion. But you don't say anything; neither of you does when Geto gives you two a quick wink for reassurance.

The trio stares at the two men before Nobara walks up and takes the volleyball from Geto's hands. "Is that right...Well, Mr. Man Bun—"

"Geto."

"Yeah, whatever," the correction doesn't faze her. "Since you and your friend here seem to be acquaintances with Y/n, how about you come play some ball with us. I saw you jump to catch the ball, so don't complain about some old man bones."

You squeak from the boisterous laugh Gojo lets out, "Ohoho, don't start something you can't finish. Ever heard of respecting your elders?"

The brunette grins, "Nah, fuck that."

"Hmph, that's what I like to hear." Finally, Gojo lets go of you and walks with the three to play by your spot. A giant sigh isn't enough to convey the emotional distress you're experiencing, especially now that your one-night stand is now socially fitting in with your best friends.

So much for acquaintances...

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊✩₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Two hours fly by excruciatingly slow because now that Gojo has met your friends and has been spending time with them, you can see that they start to like and adapt to his friendly attitude (can't say the same for Megumi, the raven-haired friend taking his presence in a tolerable form). Perhaps hadn't you known the man prior, you would've felt the same. Unfortunately, though, this is the exact man that had your tipsy ass bouncing on his cock in a hotel room after drinking three cocktails. Memories of that night have your face transition to an insufferable heat.

To make matters worse, Gojo had the brilliant idea of bringing you guys to the residence he and Geto were staying at. A simple yet lovely and cozy two-story beach house by the boardwalk that his other close friend owns, overlooking the beautiful ocean. Said friend — Shoko Ieiri, a well-acclaimed surgeon — welcomed the four young adults to her space, telling them to make themselves home. And when Yuuji opens his big dumb mouth saying that the four of you haven't checked in to a hotel yet, the older woman insists you stay in her spare rooms on the bottom floor! Because any friend of the snow-haired idiot is a friend of hers.

So now your turmoil grows tenfold, seeing your friends getting closer and closer to Gojo's inner circle, the pit of your stomach stirring into an uncomfortable swirl of emotions. If you hadn't met the man before this trip, you'd enjoy being in the same boat as your friends and not kicking yourself repeatedly as your two worlds collide unintentionally.

You sigh heavily, watching Yuuji and Nobara play Uno with Gojo and Shoko at the kitchen island while Megumi and Geto discuss themselves on the living area couch. Figuring you might need some fresh air, you get up and exit the relaxing home to enter the back porch, the sun's heat greeting your air-conditioned skin back in its natural warmth.

You sit on the rocking chair facing the oceanfront, the gorgeous view of the body of water for you to see. You close your eyes as you rock yourself, and the summer breeze brushing against your skin puts your body into a calm trance. Being outside helps you collect your thoughts in this jarring situation. It's evident now that this moment with yourself was necessary to ease the mental gymnastics you've been experiencing since before you came to this beach house.

So in tune with the quiet surroundings around you that you almost sink into your tranquil state. Almost. Until you hear the door open, snapping your eyes open to see whoever it is that decided to disrupt your personal reflection. And you silently gasp at the man who pays you a visit — Geto.

"Hey," his soft tone smooth like butter, inviting himself into your space as he sits in the rocking chair parallel to you, blocking the ocean view with his appearance. "I figured you'd still be out here; your friends were looking for you, and you've been sitting here for about ten whole minutes."

"I have!?" You chirp at the fact, to which the man chuckles and nods to confirm. "Huh...I didn't notice. I was just enjoying the silence, I guess."

"Hmm, I get it," the dark-haired man hums at your answer, then looks around the porch. "I don't blame you; with a view and place like this, I'd be out here all the time too."

By nodding, you agree. "You're extremely blessed to be friends with Ms. Ieiri. Get to spend time with her and Gojo at this wonderful beach house."

"Pssh, I'd say I'm more lucky to be a friend of Shoko's than with Satoru," the light chuckle he lets out activates a small smile from you. "You've already heard stories of me and him being roommates in college, barfing on my hair and such."

"Yes, I have, and I'm on your side wholeheartedly. I'd get back at him too, from all the stupid pranks and stuff he's put you through." Your agreement has the older man laugh some more. "But, I can tell Gojo you are close, having been together through thick and thin...Oh! And, I guess I have to thank you for your help back on the beach; your excuse about me meeting you two at a diner."

Geto leans and rocks with the rocking chair while his dark eyes are on you. "No problem. I figured your friends wouldn't know about your date with him. He's told me all about it, so I just mixed some words around to make it sound plausible for your friends."

You just nod and croon to his response. Until your brows furrow and you look straight at him. "Wait, what do you mean 'all about it'?"

You watch his eyes narrow slightly, the uneasiness in your stomach returning to haunt you. "I mean what it means. He mentioned every detail — from your cute outfit when he picked you up to the fun dinner you had at the diner. And..." The grin on Geto's face only exacerbates the feeling of dread that was once gone. "I'm sure you know the rest."

"The rest?" you gulp.

"The rest."

Sure enough, before you could express anguish to the man before you, the door to the back porch opened again with vigor. And the one behind it is the person you didn't want to see right now, or else you just might strangle that playful smile off his stupidly charming peachy face. Gojo exclaims, "There ya are! Shoko ordering takeout while your friends are finding a movie to watch, then we'll eat some s'mores around the fire pit when it gets dark out. Come inside Y/n~"

Geto only watches your adorable face harbor an expression that could only have Death itself clutch its pearls. But not wanting to do anything crass, you take a deep breath and get up from your rocking chair. "Umm, I'll pass on that. I was thinking of just walking around the boardwalk, maybe swimming in the waves while the sun's still up. Wanna come along, Mr. Geto?"

The sudden invitation takes him aback, but the man rises from his chair. "Sure, I'm down for that."

"Ehhhh, you're goin' without me?" Gojo exhibits a pouty face that doesn't work on you.

"Sorry, Gojo; just stay here and be hospitable. My friends seem to like you, anyway. Plus, I don't feel like dealing with you right now..." you mumbled that final part for only you to hear, excusing yourself past the white-haired other so you could grab your shoes from inside the beach house. And Geto only observes the interaction quietly as it baffles his best friend, who turns to him and points in your direction.

"What did I do?" is his question. And it gets more confusing to him when Geto only follows you back inside, leaving the conversation with a smirk.

"What didn't you do, Satoru?"

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"And then, when he was out like a light, I dumped the whole thing on him."

"No way, Geto!"

"Way." The man's smile broadens as he watches you fail to hide your laughter behind your hands. "It's what he gets for resetting my alarms and making me miss my oral exam. Plus, he ate my entire cereal box I hadn't used yet."

"So you thought the best way to get payback was to dump a whole basin full of spoiled milk and cigarette ashes on him while he was sleeping?"

"You know when you say it like that," he cocks his head. "I probably should've pissed in it, too." You playfully hit the older man in a fit of wheezed laughter, and he joins you in entertaining his silliness.

You and Geto have been out for quite some time. Your agenda was just comprised of taking a nice quick walk around the area and swimming to cool your mind from Gojo, and then you'd return in a more calm slate. What you didn't foresee was Geto taking up your offer to come along. And, you have to admit, he's been great company for you.

Not only did he give you a mini tour around the area, showing you all the little local shops and places to eat that he recommended to try. But he also wanted to join you in your swim, discarding his Hawaiian shirt entirely to the sandy ground and exposing his beautiful upper body. You did tell him that he didn't have to while trying not to drool over his gorgeous abs, but your concerns didn't waiver his decision. "I'm still wearing my trunks for a reason, cutie." When he uses that nickname on you, let him do as he wishes.

The two of you swim in the calm ocean, enjoying the comforting feeling of the water and play fighting with Geto anytime he'd splash water your way. Call it childish, but you were enjoying yourself. Enjoying him being around.

Soon the sun goes down, and the sky is painted in a stunning array of colors as it sets. Not too far from the shore, Geto treats you to a small ice cream shop that sells notorious homemade ice cream, and he takes you to one of his favorite secret spots. With one hand with a cup of your favorite ice cream and a plastic spoon in the other, you and the raven-haired man watch the sunset in a cave and talk amongst yourselves. Small waves crashing on the sandy and rocky front fills the empty cave with a comfortable atmosphere.

"Unbelievable," you say through tiny giggles. "You're no better than Gojo; both of you were insufferable."

"We still are," he takes another spoonful of his ice cream. "Even as adults, we're still the same intolerable duo who managed to get college diplomas."

You laugh some more at his joke. "I still find it hard to believe that he's a teacher and you a district attorney." The man only shrugs while finishing his ice cream. "But, honestly, it's kinda nice knowing you guys never changed through the years. Still the same no matter what."

"Yeah, I'm still a slick, sly bastard, and he'll always be the blue-eyed sheep that doesn't know when to shut up."

You glance to the side to look at him, staring at the open entrance of the cave where the sun is covered by clouds in its descent to the horizon. Your eyes gradually peer from his handsome face down to his well-sculpted physique, the sun's warm glow painting his skin beautifully. You've noted this before, but Geto is a remarkably attractive man.

It's seen by the structure of his face, his olive skin contrasting the long draped hair that goes past his shoulders. His black eyes make you feel as if you're staring at an endless void, captivating enough that you sense him seeing through you. And his black gauge earrings stand him out from the crowd, but they fit perfectly with his personality and body.

He's so hot is what you think to yourself, but it's a thought that has you quickly assess what the hell you're doing. And when your eyes go back up to his face, you see that he's looking dead at you, eyes narrowed with a guileful smile. You turn away in shame, for looking longer than necessary and for thinking such indecent thoughts about the best friend of your one-night stand. You are not about to do this right now, Y/n. Pull yourself together!

"Uhh—Ahem, speaking of that not knowing when to shut up," you cough to steer back into conversation. "I can't believe Gojo would go into such detail about our date. Especially...that."

The man shrugs again. "I mean, that's just how we've rolled; I tell him things about my life, and he tells me about his — including his playboy love life. Besides, I'm sure you have moments you share with your buddies."

"True, but..." you groan with your left hand on your face. "I'd rather not be known for explicit things I've done. And what's worse, having to see you — his best friend — and you know about me from the date two weeks prior is just adding salt to the injury.

Geto doesn't say anything right away, just watching you experience hopelessness so he can find the proper words to express it. "I get it, kinda how I don't like him telling stories of me to people I don't know...However," his hand steadily moves from the rocky surface to your right hand, and he sees your shoulders jerk at the action. "I'd be lying if I said I'm not kinda glad to hear about you."

Your breath hitches at his words, glancing back and forth to his hand sliding across yours and his face. He resumes.

"To be frank with you, I've never met any of the people Satoru's hooked up with, nor did I ever care to. So you can imagine me being perplexed seeing you in person. And to my surprise," his slender fingers pry to intertwine with yours, and you allow him. "After hanging out with you today, I'm seeing what Satoru sees in you. You're very breathtaking."

Geez, he's a smooth talker, too, huh. Your cheeks go intolerably hot, unable to avert your eyes from his. "Umm, Geto—"

"And it got me thinking, ya know: can such a cute, sweet thing really do such things?" The grip of his hand tightens around yours. "Had me intrigued just from looking at you..."

You gulp before saying your words carefully. "Are you...saying you're interested in my...services?"

His brows lift for an instant. "Only if you're up to demonstrate."

This day keeps getting stranger and stranger, and now you're met with the most bizarre moment that could ever transpire. Wide eyes only look back at the man who awaits your answer, and you internally curse Satoru Gojo for putting you through this entire mess of a day!

But a small part of yourself has you battling a moral battle. It's not every day you bump into your one-night stand on a random weekend and be given an opportunity to fuck their best friend that same day. What you're going through right now is only something you'd see in crappy movies and fanfictions (a/n: ouch).

And besides, it's not your fault that this is happening to you. It was Gojo's, yeah. If the man knew when to keep your name out of his mouth, you wouldn't have to go through this madness — and worse — his closest friend wanting to fuck you.

It's his fault that you're now straddling Geto's lap on top of the smooth rocky surface inside of a cave, smacking lips and exchanging passionate breaths. It's his fault that you're whimpering sweetly in Geto's ear as his hands sneak inside your bathing suit to fondle your breasts, pinching the nipples now erect from his touch. It's his fault that you're grinding on his best friend's erection and kissing all the way down from his neck, abdomen, and finally to his pelvis — where you remove his swimming trunks to reveal free the hard cock ready for you.

It's all Gojo's fault...But thanks to him, you can treat yourself to this alluring piece of a man before you. Your suspense and enjoyment climb up from the thought of it.

The two of you are positioned to do the sixty-nine, both of your swimwear discarded off your bodies. Your cheeks go hollow as you take the tip of Geto's dick inside your mouth, your tongue swirling around the glans of his cock, resulting in a hiss from the man below your ass.

"Hmmm, damn, haven't done this position in a while," his hands roam around your buttocks, spreading your asscheeks to further expose the vulva. Your essence shimmering from the setting sun has the man whistle at the sight. "So pretty down here, too."

The compliment pushes you to push your face further to suck in more of his shaft, covering the limb within your oral cavity inch by inch until it hits the back of your throat. You give yourself a short while to get used to his girth in your mouth before you start bobbing your head, soft lips sliding up and down the veins decorating his length.

The raven-haired other groans at the feeling of your mouth around his cock. "Mmmm, yeah, just like that, sweetheart. Just like that..." And before you know it, he brings your ass down to him for his tongue to lick your tempting folds. Your yelp is muffled, and the lapping motions of his wet muscle on your chasm send shivers up your spine.

But you don't let it distract you from the cock in your mouth, resuming your task of pleasing him. You bring a hand to pump his shaft, sliding to and fro from the top to the base. The action causes him to jerk into your mouth with pleasure, and the grip around your ass tightens. He's enjoying it, and it pleases you knowing you're making him feel good.

"Mmmph! Ohh shit—Ummph!" He removes his lips from your cunt, his moans more audible than the sound of waves in the background. "Shit, if you keep at it, I'm gonna—Shit, shit, shit..." It's here that your movements go faster and more sensational, kissing and sucking the head of his cock while you massage and knead his scrotum. The jolts of his legs become apparent, signaling that his release is close. "Oh, fuck...Princess, I'm gonna cum!"

Taking his comment into account, your mouth takes in his cock back in, his size now adapted to your mouth and throat that you bob in comfortable haste. Your tongue brushing up and down the underside of his cock has his fingernails dent marks onto the flesh of your ass. And when his hips snap up to your face, his climax hits your mouth that very second, his load spilling into your mouth and down the glossy walls of your throat. You accept his come, sucking and drinking his bitter fluid with no complaints.

"Haaah, hmmm, did so good, baby. So fucking good...Mmmph!" His cock is still sensitive from experiencing his orgasm; regardless, you don't let him go until you clean him up entirely. And when you finish, a soft 'pop' leaves your puffy lips from his pink glans. He snickers when you turn to him over your shoulder, licking your lips from any remnants. "Heh, damn, you're really good at this. Makes me feel bad that I didn't get you to finish either."

Your smile's bright as the warm glow that bathes your skin. "Don't worry about it," you comfort him while removing your body from on top of him. You lay your face down with your cheek kissing the ground, your hands coming to spread your ass for Geto to gaze at your messy vagina. "I know you'll do a better job where it really matters."

The smirk on his face gets broader as he gets on his knees, moving to your inviting form. "I'll be sure to not disappoint just as you haven't for me."

"Don't jinx yourself," you tease the older man and giggle when he playfully smacks your butt. You bite your bottom lip with the feeling of his cockhead gliding on your folds, your fluids lubricating him as your entrance throbs in anticipation. When he aligns and pushes his dick into you, you remind yourself to breathe steadily and brace for the slight pain bound to happen. One inhale one push of him. Another intake while gradually forcing himself onto you. When you sharply gasp, you know he made himself inside. Tears water up your eyes as he slowly drives his length into you, your tight walls gripping onto the foreign limb intruding.

Geto gives himself a few seconds to adapt to you when the base of his length kisses your southern lips. He starts with slow thrusts, and your body follows his steady cadence. You hum to the blissful sensation of his cock grazing your walls.

"Mmngh, God, Y/n, you feel so fucking good on me," the man rasped, jet-black strands from his bands now sticking to his sweaty forehead and cheek. "...Trying to make me go crazy."

"Mmmph! Haaaah, haha, please, go all out on me," you coax him. "Don't think I can take it?"

Your snarky question has him chortle, and a sudden deep thrust prompts a shriek to sneak past your lips. "Don't say I didn't warn you, sweetie."

He dials up his pace to a faster tempo. The change-up has you whimpering, and you clench around his length, which has the man hiss at the abrupt contact. The electrifying waves of pleasure strike you when he hits your weak spots perfectly, and more moans seethe out from your pretty lips when he increases his speed.

"Nnngh!! Y/n, baby, you're too tight on me," he whines, but his hips don't stop smacking into your ass. "Fuck, oh fuck....let me see your face."

You allow him to maneuver you onto your back, situating you into the missionary position. His cock slides back inside you with ease with a cry from your mouth, your arms wrapped around his neck while he pounds into you. And in this position, with the sun just about to sink into the horizon, you can make out a hue of purple in his dark eyes. So enchantingly irresistible that it takes another harsh thrust to bring you back into reality.

Geto's pelvis slams into your chasm hard — plugging his dick further into you and hitting your sweet spots with scary precision. Your screams fill the cave with an echo, adding to the ranchy air between your sweaty bodies.

"Ohhh! Hoooh!! Getooo, you feel so good! S' goo—Oh fucking Christ, Ahhhnn!!" He grinds the base of his cock into the entrance of your vulva, scraping your tight, velvety walls to the point of tears rolling down your face.

"You too, princess—Hmmph!!" He groaned, jabbing your cunt where you form incoherent sentences. Head pounding and mind foggy, you lock your legs around his waist, caging him. "Gonna cum, sweetheart?"

"Yesss, yessssss!!" Your response slurs in babbles. You feel it crawling up your bones, goosebumps prickling your skin. "Gonna cummm, cumm—Ahhhhh!!" Unbeknownst to you, Geto snakes a hand down to your clitoris, using his middle and forefinger to swipe and grind on the tender bud. And when he flicks and pinches it, your orgasm is finally granted to you.

Your legs shake and tremble around the black-haired man, gripping his shoulders as the walls around his girth contract around him as you experience your crescendo. With the flutter of your cunt, a few deep thrusts are propelled into you before he removes himself from your embrace, taking out his cock to ejaculate his seed onto your stomach. His come paints your tummy, feeding more to your disheveled appearance.

The two of you look deep into each other's eyes while experiencing the final shocks of your climaxes; heaving bodies eventually calm down and fall back to regular breathing. And when it vanishes altogether, the sun has already submerged below the horizon line.

"Hmmm, well," Geto is the first to break the silence. "That was better than I expected. Thanks for indulging my curiosity."

You shake your head and laugh short-winded. "Glad I washed your expectation." Your smile grows larger when he winks at you.

"Think we should start heading back?"

"Mmmm, yeah. But can we just stay here for a few minutes? Kinda like being in your secret spot."

Geto chuckles while positioning himself to lie next to you. "Sure thing. And don't worry, I won't say a word about this. We're in my secret cave for a reason." He laughs harder when you roll your eyes, his hand finding yours to hold again. This time, you reciprocate.

"Yeah, I'd hope so."

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KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

The pen in your hand stops writing when a sound from behind alerts you of someone's presence. While seated, you turn to see Gojo in a more comfortable change of attire — swapping his trunks for black basketball shorts and his blue Hawaiian shirt for a dark blue zip-up hoodie, although it wasn't zipped at all. He's very much casual with what he wears, especially when guests are in the house...

"Found you~ Itadori has been asking for you, and everyone's gathered around the fire pit outside," he takes a few steps into the guest room where you've been cooped up. However, you turn back to the desk in front of you and continue writing. Aware of your reluctance to look at him, he brings it up.

"Y/n~?" Your brows furrow at his sing-song attitude, relying on annoyance to have you speak with him. "Are you mad at me about something~?" The sigh you let out has to be about the tenth time from this day, shaking your head while sucking your teeth silently. You know what, it's just the two of us in the house...

"Yes, Gojo," your face doesn't leave the diary on the desk, but your hands stop writing. "I am mad at you."

"How come?" He adjusts his dark shades and then jerks at the sudden sound of your pen slamming onto the desk surface. And he's never seen a look that could kill on your pretty face before.

"Why don't you go ask Geto why I'm so mad," your tone isn't entirely furious; if anything, it's calm. But its connotation doesn't go unnoticed by Gojo. "Or better yet, why don't you retell him all about how 'y/n's blowjobs are like this' or how I'm 'so tight it's insane.' Surely that'll refresh some memories, huh?"

The room isn't completely silent, apart from the ticking noises of the clock on the wall by the bed. Gojo stands utterly still — same for you. The only thing that will activate any movement depends on his answer.

"....Ohhh!" He starts off as if a lightbulb just went up. "You mean he told you I told him—"

"Yes." a blunt response stops him from finishing. "I'm not mad about you telling him about what I did on that date. But would it have killed you to use probably another name for me? My friends don't know about you, but imagine my surprise when I found out your best friend's first impression of me is how I bounced on your dick!" It's commendable that he doesn't interrupt you while you speak because you might throw something at him if he did. And you're sure he knows it as well. "Does that give you a better idea as to why I'm mad?"

"Yup, loud and clear..." Now that you two are on the same page, you turn away from him again and return to writing, aware that the tall other is still behind you in the room. Especially when you hear him take a few more steps close to you, it takes everything in your power to not headbutt him when he places his chin on top of your head. This guy and his lack of respect for boundaries...

"Aww, come on, Y/n. I didn't mean to upset you like that." His usually loud voice is hushed for you, as if someone would come up and see the two of you like this. "It's a big surprise for me that I'd ever see you after last time, and I guess I figured I wouldn't. Which is why I told Suguru about you. Sorry about that, honest."

You couldn't focus on writing since he called you by your name, listening to his words and the sincerity they carry. And for a moment, you almost give into his sweet voice. But you held on strong for your dignity. "Apology accepted, but I'm still mad at you."

"Whaaaaat~, what was the point of accepting my apology then!?" You can't lie; it's cute when this tall man complains like a child. His giant hands move to your shoulders, massaging them to ease tension. "I'll make it up to you. You'll be here for a weekend, so let me treat you!"

A brow lifts up to that offer. "Treat me how?"

"I can start by going out there and having a s'more ready for you if you finish up whatever it is you're doing."

Five seconds go by. Ten. You exhale heavily through your nose, but a small smile creeps up on your lips. "Fine."

"Nice!" You roll your eyes when he fist-pumps the air. "By the way, what are you doing?"

Oh shit!! You immediately cover the pages of your diary. "Nothing."

"Is that a diary?" The giddiness in his tone crawls back up, much to your dismay. "Am I in it?"

"No, you're not!" You flip the diary with the pages on the desk surface, hiding the contents entirely. I already wrote about you before, anyway!

"Woah, I saw my name!" You get up from your chair and push Gojo out of the room. "D'aww, Y/n, you're such an angel thinking about me so much that I'm in your diary~."

"Shut up, Gojo! Go make me that s'more already!" You pushed him back out of the room, your face hot from embarrassment. And it gets even hotter when you see the huge grin plastered on his dumb face.

"You know you're cute as hell when you're flustered like this, right, dollface?"

And with that, you slam the door on his face, not caring about the groans of pain that he expresses. Waiting for his footsteps to draw away from the room, you sit back at the desk and groan into your hands for a few seconds. When you feel your composure is confident enough, you grab your pen and finish writing the last statements in your diary.

...Needless to say, being involved with Satoru Gojo undoubtedly has its consequences. I had said I'd love to see him again, but this was not the second meeting that I had in mind...But not gonna lie; it's nice to know that he was thinking about me while I was gone. Can't be mad at that handsome man-child for too long.

As for his friend, he truly is a mysterious person, knowing more about me than I do him. And for him to say that he was interested in me not just by Gojo's account but from seeing and hanging out with me? With what happened a few hours ago...I'll have to keep my guard up with him this weekend.

One thing is for sure, though: this is definitely a beach experience I'll never forget. Oh, Suguru Geto, you made sure of that. And just like your pleasant smile and purple eyes, I'll treasure it deep within my heart.

˚₊‧꒰ა Bonus ☆ Scene!! ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The weekend has finally come to an end, the Sunday sun coming down to bid farewell on the beach setting, and you and your friends say goodbye to Shoko and thank her for letting her stay at her beach house along with her friends ("No worries, any friend of Geto and Gojo's is a friend of mine." The older brunette said sipping her juice from a pretty glass. "Stay safe out there.")

The drive home was fun, blasting music from the radio of Nobara's car while feeling the wind from the windows as everyone gets dropped off. The first to go was Megumi, then Yuuji at his grandpa's place. All that was left was you and Nobara, the two of you enjoying the calm drive to your house as the moon watched over your return home.

When she stops at the front of your home, you express your thanks. "Thanks for the ride again, Nobara. Had a great time with you and the guys." But she doesn't respond, just looking at the steering wheel. Concerned, you question her. "Nobara? You okay?"

It's evident the brunette has something parading her thoughts, because she lets out a massive sigh before facing your direction and asks the following question. "Did you go on that blind date with Satoru or Suguru?"

One blink goes by. Two blinks. ".......Huh."

"Don't 'huh' me, Y/n; I know ya heard me!" She smacks the steering wheel in slight exasperation. "Don't make me repeat myself."

You internally groan at the situation you're in. You knew this talk was bound to happen, but God, you just wanted to get in your bed and go to sleep after this very exhausting weekend. Okay, think, Y/n, think!

"...No," you avoid eye contact answering. "No, I did not."

"Are you sure about that?" Of course, the other has more questions. "Because when you told me about your blind date, you said they were tall with their first name starting with an 'S' and their last name a 'G.' And low and behold, we go to the beach, and I'm met with not one, but TWO fairly tall men who both check those boxes. Not to mention that the date was at a diner, and they both just happen to have met you in a diner?"

Oh, for fucks sake, God, please just strike me down right here and now. "What? Am I not supposed to meet people at a diner? Or go on a date in a completely different diner?"

The brown-haired woman furrows her brow before continuing on. "I don't know, you tell me. Those two seemed quite friendly with you all weekend, especially that lanky sheep, Gojo. The way those two looked at you or how oddly close they got. Looks and sounds fishy to me."

You scoff at her observations as they are accurate and are doing a remarkable job of making you nervous right now. "Nobara, many people in this world have those initials. For all you know, I probably went on a date with Selena Gomez or Seth Green. I mean, when you say you're crushing on M.Z., I don't immediately think of Maki Zenin. My mind goes straight to Mark Zuckerberg."

The disgusted look on Nobara's face almost had you laughing on the spot. "Don't play with me, Y/n! And don't you dare disrespect my queen's beauty to the looks of a pale salamander, or I'll smack you. I'm gonna ask again: did you go on a blind date with either of those two?"

"No!" It's amazing how quick you went with a lie. Who could blame you? It was easier than telling the truth, especially with what happened this weekend.

The two of you hold a mini staring competition, Nobara searching for any tale of a lie on your face. But with another sigh, she gives up interrogating and stares at the roof of her car, followed by you leaning back on the passenger seat while your brain does mental gymnastics in victory.

A few seconds of silence goes by before your friend says anything more. "Hmm, that's a bummer." You peer at her with bewilderment painted on your face. "They both looked like they got some good dick."

"Are you fucking serious— You know what, goodnight, Nobara." You don't bother listening to her try to back herself up on her statement, just grabbing for your stuff and closing the passenger door. Ignoring her shouts as you walk to the front door to unlock it and shutting it to finally free yourself from this weekend-long nightmare.

You groan to yourself as you slide down the door. Honestly, fuck this summer...

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uyuartik · 3 months

Text

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader)

tags: slightly sith coded obi wan, no use of y/n, my unhinged take on regency era, (blaming bridgerton and pride and prejudice), probably historical inaccuracies, SMUT, mentions of oral sex (fem and male receiving), mentions of fingering, piv sex, dom!obi?, i really don't know what to write here it is just filth and it is gonna get filthier

a/n: HII! so i became haunted by historical!obi au's and spent six months writing a short series... this is the first chapter out of three, so i hope you stay tuned for the upcoming one (it is FILTHIER than this and about 19k words)

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can't wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

enjoy!!!

word count: 5.4K

chapter one: see you tonight?

“…Fuck, just like that-“

That voice. Yes, that’s how you ended up here, you think, as you roll your hips, feeling the exquisite contours of Obi Wan’s cock stretching your walls and pulling pleasure out of every cell in your body, and possibly from your soul too.

Ehem. Lord Kenobi.

And truth be told, that’s not exactly how things led here. Of course, his rich voice and the manner in which he used it were notable factors. The way he camouflaged his remarks under sweet quips never failed to make you giggle into the next day, and regardless of the topic (ashamedly, it was mostly about the other people in the room, and their rather obscene behaviors), the comments he made always reflected the intelligence behind it. He played the serious bit perfectly too, even though his reverent sentences carried some poetry, never pompous, yet deep enough to convey its origin and the realness of his sincerity… That’s why you started spending hours with him at balls in the first place. Ten minutes alone with him, undoing all the prejudice you had against the man. All the rumors about him were proven wrong, or at least, half true. And you liked that remaining part of the truth.

Only after that, came the subject of his charms. Not quite surprising, considering that there was no lack of handsome faces around, but a lack of brains in them. Or a true heart. You hated the hypocrisy of it all, and it was a blessing to find someone who shared that sentiment. Not to mention the benefit of him deflecting any unwanted company.

Likewise, he must've thought the same about you, thus your current position. It was obvious that both of you two had similar standards, even in these lewd matters. People didn’t call him a heartbreaker because he pursued a lot of women, but when he did and it came to an inevitable end, they were the shell of whom they used to be, like a person could be mummified by the absence of the joy he charmed people with it. And you, you weren’t the type to have somebody just because you could. No, you looked for a special connection, a click, and when you got lucky and found one among the countless candidates, you treasured it. Now, even the word click sounded wanting, there were sparks present between the two of you, a considerable, good dynamic you two had built, and that made everything just better.

You were almost sad thinking this was a one-time event, already knowing this is a moment you'll remember your entire life. (You weren't gonna push your luck on getting caught.) If there were such deals, two of you keeping it to each other forever in this aspect of life, you’d have signed that contract in a blink.

“Thought you said you were tired.” He breathes out, clearly an effort, yet the smug grin on his face leaves no room for doubt or pity.

“I’ve been sitting all day.” That’s how travel works in carriages, after all. “I think stretching my legs, is what I need.” You emphasize by raising yourself higher and slowly sink back down a few times, a motion that pulls moans from both of your mouths.

Travel. It took you half a day to reach your aunt’s estate, and you were fairly certain you wouldn’t attend the ball that is currently taking place. Then, you realized there was no way your gracious hostesses would see you tonight, you were forced to enter the saloon. It would be a quick in and out, maybe greeting a few more people, no dance, with the very valid excuse of I’ve been on the road all day and I am quite exhausted ready on your lips at any interaction. This was why you didn’t even bother to put much effort into your looks, opting for a change of dress, and nothing more. No jewelry, no retouches to your hair. After all, it would just add to your part if you seemed slightly off.

Somehow, it turned out to be a regrettable decision, when numerous eyes turned to you as you took a step into the room, and even longer after that. Maybe not every head turned or the music came to an abrupt stop, the sprouting silence broken by collective whispers, but it happened, subtle yet enough to make itself known. You were given the same treatment for years at this point, but there was no getting used to it. Color that had been settling in your cheeks seemed to be permanent, at least for the night, not leaving your side as you took your place among your relatives. The expensive fan you were gifted by- God knows who, you were in no mood to remember it now, did nothing to relieve your suffering.

And, countless other greetings don't help either. You fastened the movement of your hand, curling your lips into a forced smile. You could truly get tired from all these repeated words and gestures.

"I'm afraid I forgot to bring my dance card." You said again, to the third man who came with the same offer, Duke Caldo, all true except the part "forgot". You left it, willingly, just in front of your vanity mirror. The mirror which you desperately wanted to see yourself in right now, away from the ball.

"A great pity." The exclamation didn't come from him, though.

Your fan dropped from your hand and closed itself when it hit your wrist, dangling from the loop around your forearm as you heard that voice, no introduction ever needed. Perhaps, not even his voice was required, for there was always that unexplainable change in the quality of air in the rooms he occupied, like he was casting a spell on those around him, trickling magic dust with every step, a rare perfume. You wouldn’t use such metaphors if it wasn’t for the simple fact that your body always figured out his presence before your mind, catching a sense of that hypnotic essence. You often realized all the hairs on your arm standing up, or a tingling sensation in the back of your neck, breathing getting a bit harder, only to quickly locate him in your eyesight.

"Lord Kenobi." It is said in a contemptful respect, a greeting and a goodbye. “Goodnight, my Lady.”

You didn’t even bother to mutter a proper response, and frankly, the Duke didn’t wait for one either. So, all your focus can be reserved on the man in front of you.

You raised your arm as if intending to extend it so he could complete his small tradition of placing a kiss on the back of your hand, like he has done every time your paths crossed, even multiple times a day (that’s exactly how you noticed it was more than a simple salutation), (honestly, you liked it, his daring movement revealing a lot about his nature), only to flick it to reopen your fan. The gentlest gust of it licking your skin was more than enough now, making it all too pleasing to watch him save himself with a deep bow of his head, the annoyance quickly turning into a satisfied grin, like he didn’t expect anything less from you.

“That looks even more beautiful in your hand.” He pointed at it, but his eyes wandered all over your body. You did the same, though there was little notice, his usual beige suit far too familiar. Your focus was always on the fact that he looked so good in it, taking in the broadness of his shoulders, or his defined arms exquisitely pronounced over the fabric.

Right. So it was his gift. Why did you ever entertain other possibilities?

You weren’t going to disappoint him by mentioning it is only here because your panicked maid accidentally packed the first item she saw, for you never took anonymous gifts. You didn’t need the attention they brought.

"And I couldn't thank you enough for it. I can practically name it my savior tonight." You answered, making a show of lavishing yourself in the stream it creates.

"My only source of pride is the fact that it perfectly blends with the rest of your attire. Now, I can proudly say I know your taste."

Classic Obi Wan. Even his compliments, far from usual, borderline scandalous. He's been peppering you with them ever since the start of your friendship and you were never immune to them. You outright enjoyed them. Especially now, they didn’t help the simmering tingles forming at the depths of your belly, amplified by weeks of solitude. “Only a part of it I’m afraid, but you’ll learn the rest in no time, don’t worry.”

“Can’t wait.” He grinned and scanned the room for prying eyes. Finding none, he made himself more comfortable by your side, hoping to spend the rest of his night with you.

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” You admitted, somehow managing not to sound like you’re overly joyous of that not happening.

“I could say the same about you.” Was that excitement, or disappointment in his voice? Was he planning of politely ravishing other women, when you were not present to entertain him? Something told you those were not among his intentions, the smile on his face too honest, his twinkling gaze focused solely on you.

You tilted your head and curled your lips. Touché. “It is nice to attend the ball your acquaintances are throwing, even if you arrive late. But for you, sir, I'm afraid people will actually think you're looking for a wife."

He rolled his eyes. There was a hint of offense in them just at the mentioning of the subject, but the playful type, not the exasperated type he uses for others.

"Curious. The diamond of the season is also here. Isn't it strange that she still hasn't found someone, it's nearly the end of the season?" You inhaled sharply, dramatizing further. "Do you have something to do with it, Lord Kenobi?"

He scoffed, the impossibility of it reflected in his voice. "The diamond of the season?-"

"I thought you deserve nothing less." You explained, but he interjected.

"I'm only interested in one diamond." He said, initiating intense eye contact.

It was your turn to scoff, and run away from his gaze. "I was never the diamond."

"Only because you saw how better you were than the rest, and fled just before the start of the season." His eyebrows were raised, begging for a denial.

"I had planned that trip months ago." You simply stated. "And I came back halfway through summer, didn't I?"

"Just like now."

"Do I need to remind you who you have been spending time with since June?"

"And where were you coming from tonight, ending your visit of- how long was it?"

"I am fond of traveling. Balls and banquets can entertain someone so far. " You shrugged, "Lord Kenobi, are you trying to say that you missed me?"

"I could never claim otherwise."

That was true from your perspective as well. All these years of constant traveling, and this year was the first time you missed what you left behind at home, even during the buzzing, pretense-filled months. None of it seemed that intolerable, and somewhat fun, if you dare to admit. You knew this impression was his doing, and now after your while spent apart, the feeling came back tenfold, almost making you squirm over such loose confessions.

That was it. That was the turning point of the night.

“Truth be told, the night is going much better than I dreamed of, and I almost regret forgetting my dance card.” You raised your chin, and sent him a look. “Would you be so kind to help me find it?”

You could basically see the gears turning, a fire behind his eyes, fueling the desire growing in the depths of your belly. His gaze was piercing, even after he’d long decided, the truth known to both of you. Your heartbeats must’ve been visible, you imagined, and felt it skip a beat as he licked his lip. “Lead the way.”

Now that’s, how you ended up here.

However, as you look down at his face, the story gets blurry, perhaps outright loses its importance, abandoning your mind. His hair is tousled, a rebel strand in front of his eyes, and moves with every bounce. Your hands are too busy to hold onto his sweaty chest, slightly tugging on the auburn fuzz. You wanted to do that ever since he took his shirt off.

(Then again, you’re not sorry for the amount of time you couldn’t, drowning in him. The moment you felt his expert lips on yours, all your will to protest anything had died. Later, as his fingers joined the show, you quickly realized you were fine with what he gave, but he, ever the gentleman, let you prevail.)

It is a sight. And the moans that fall from his lips surpass the delicate melody the musicians are playing downstairs in every way, which can still faintly be heard. (You never thought an orchestra would accompany you during this, but here you were. It is a detail you’ll remember with a smile while looking back at it, but now, you couldn’t care any less.)

“You’re taking me so well.” He starts to thrust his hips up slightly, meeting your rhythm, but never overtaking it.

“I know.” You giggle, but the reaction he’s taken notice of is your fingertips digging in further, and your walls fluttering around his cock.

When you start to falter a bit, perhaps due to the fatigue settling on your muscles embarrassingly not long after his words, or his mere presence clouding your brain, his fingers that have been resting on your thighs slowly ascend to your hips. The fingers drenched in your juices, another element that has the coil in your belly tighter. The next few strokes, with his guiding hand, touch something deep inside you, and your jaw hangs open.

“Fuck…” is the only word you can mutter, and he chuckles at it.

“Is that so?” He mocks, but brushes your loose ringlets with a single hand, and caresses your nipple on its way down. The latter shows his true disposition, and that drives you to be more vocal, if you weren’t already.

“You feel… so… good.” You can hardly say, as your puffy clit drag against his skin all so deliciously like this.

He twitches inside you at the compliment, and you throw your head back with a whine. Despite the fact that he would kill to see your face, he doesn’t push, enjoying the state he’s putting you in with his voice. Every praise that falls from his lips earns him a melodic moan, along with the feeling of you tensing and relaxing, always responding to his call in one way or another.

You’re one step away from being a doll at his bend, though you couldn’t care any less, not when you are this close.

He likes it, very very much. Yet, not enough to silence his wishes of how to ruin you, in the best way.

In a blink, you find yourself on your back, and him on top of you. That’s not the first thing you see, though. It is his hand, lifted from wherever it fell, catching your chin to turn your head to him. Sounds of panting are all there is, no movement, no words, not even your rapid heartbeats drumming in your ears seconds ago as if the world stopped for a second.

His thumb caresses your lower lip, and you let it slip in. God, you can still taste yourself. The revelation has your objections at the change dead, your face twisting, yet he tsks thrice, capturing your attention.

“Let me see those eyes.” Obi Wan commands, and you have no choice but to oblige. “You look so good beneath me.”

Somehow, his words have you flushing and squirming as if that was the most inappropriate thing happening in this room. Funny, how he breaks your will, and you let it. Against all the talk of your friendship, until an hour ago, you’d have lashed out at an equivalent demeanor, even said in affectionate terms. (Any other way is simply impossible, anyway.) But, that hour proved itself to be much precious, and now with that glossy gaze, snatched right from the brink of climax, you focus on the doting aspect, how he cannot get enough of the image of you.

You start to writhe, the new emptiness inside you unbearable. “Touch me, Obi Wan…”

He's not proud of the way your begging has his cock leaking, though that hardly stops him. He lives for mutual pleasure, even just yours at the moment, yet you look so pretty like this, grasping the sheets.

"Like this?" He slides his thumb further into your mouth, relishing the feeling of your tongue swirling around it immediately. Or course he wasn't expecting you to suck him off if you didn't want to, nor would he ever ask for it, he can't help but imagine the feeling, his hips rolling in seek of stimulation.

You shake your head, and his finger is freed with a pop. You frown as the sole contact you have with him is lost. It is a warning sign for him, the fragility of your dream-like state, a reminder of how he has to do better, if he wants to take control. As a gentleman, he wanted to give you everything you desired, but since it was your first time together, a terra incognita, he had to be sure of your limits, so he followed your wishes gladly. The wishes which were masterfully balanced versions of both of your needs. The same problem troubled you too of course, but you were a quick learner, a connoisseur of his taste in no time. The fact that it was very similar to yours was an exciting discovery, certainly a pleasant one, and was a great help, so great that it almost felt like cheating. While he took no issue with your tricks; the urge to take you on his terms, the compulsion to show you how he wants to cherish you couldn’t be suppressed any longer. He had to let you know.

He leans in closer, his arms bend as yours find his shoulders like a habit, “Like this?” He murmurs, right before brushing his lips against yours, effectively swallowing your whine. Though it was a sound of protest, all complementary sentiments die when he nips at your lower lip, and you open your mouth, lost in the sensation of his tongue licking yours, and his sweet essence. In contrast to his other needs taken good care of, he hadn’t taken enough of the feeling of our mouths joining. God, he spent hours imagining your mouth, curling into every shape as smart words spilled from it, enhancing his fascination with you. It fires the flames of haze further, even if he’s not actually properly touching you. Your hand roams his neck, then etches itself into his silky hair. You’ve done that a few times now (and found his response most addicting), but it is hardly satisfactory compared to the amounts you dreamed of doing during these last couple of months. You saw him prim and proper mostly, not a strand out of place, making you marvel at its excellence, and the itch to mess it up growing stronger each instance, a stark contrast to your surroundings. Also, there were times the infamous piece fell in front of his eyes, and sometimes even more disheveled than that, riding a horse, enjoying sports with his friends, and once after a bath, when your family visit started a little earlier than planned. You were always admiring the way it reflected light, creating almost a halo around his head, especially in sunlight. It is the first thing your eye is drawn to whenever you’re in the same place, a beacon of sorts. You never thought you’d be this amazed by hair, yet the moans he produces when you tug on it, add to your astonishment, and you’re not sure if you can look at it again, without being reminded of this moment.

He breaks the kiss as for you to catch your breath, for he has long kept you away from it. Still, he continues to pepper you with tons of them, scattered all across your jaw and neck, in search of that sweet spot that has you cursing. It is not a serious journey, in fact, he does more than press his lips against your skin properly, tease you with his open mouth, drag his tongue along the taut muscle, nip and outright bite, once.

“No marks-“ You protest. Futile. You should’ve warned before he started to nibble, way before he sank his teeth, but it has happened after all, and you can already feel blood settling on the sites of his attack. “What I am going to tell my maid now?”

“The truth.” He retorts. “Of how you led Lord Kenobi into our bed, and did dirty, unspeakable things with him.”

That earns him a harsh pull at his scalp, and a pat on his shoulder. He meets with your glaring gaze, and cheeks redder than a minute ago. So, he’s still on your good side. Barely.

“Apologies, my dear.” He takes the hand that smacked him, and places a peck onto your palm before placing it back. You can’t break the eye contact as he does so, something about his appearance, perhaps his position, or the charming contours of his face, or the way he deals with your anger keeps you from kicking him out. Caressing your open legs, he massages them ‘til they relax afresh, squeezing at the soft flesh. You hiss when his movement nears your inner thighs, thanks to his beard, and the climax it brought you. The gesture hints, still, there’s the matter of fire burning in your belly. “Couldn’t resist, you know me. Let me make it up to you.”

He wastes one more second to carve this image inside his head, then fulfills his promise. He likes the way you tremble while you wait, a whimper leaving your mouth at him taking his cock into his hand and stroking it a few times. God, how you wish that was your hand. Damn your stubbornness, and demand for compensation. You put extreme effort into staying still, releasing a shaky breath when he places the tip at your entrance.

Remember when he said “ruin”?

He doesn’t push it in, instead letting it slide up your slick folds, and tap against your clit. You nearly jolt at the touch, yet again tasting bliss, even if it is in mere drops. He repeats the action, and you sob, digging your nails into his shoulders. Maybe you’re the one leaving marks now, but you don’t care. Eye for an eye you can say, in retrospect.

“You’re so wet.” He can’t stop looking into your glistening core. He also can hear it, the squelching sounds echoing at his every movement. He knows you can too, that it calms your nerves, though they act up for different reasons. “All this for me?”

Unfortunately, you are late to realize he doesn’t take your moans for an answer. You can’t help it, you are unable to form words. Even if you gather the strength, they die out at your throat, especially under his piercing look. Fuck, he loves how cockdumb you’ve become for him.

He takes pity on you then, dropping his cock to briefly rest on your opening, and forces his fat tip in.

Your back arches, a throaty sound filling the room. He shushes right next to your ear, in an effort to calm you down as he slips the rest in. It is as if you’re taking him the first time, like you weren’t riding him moments ago.

“Fuck-“ That’s the only reaction, the only answer he needs. You fall back into the sheets, the first time he rolls his hips, and sets a new rhythm, a slow one to kindle the flame once more. Your hair probably getting tangled from the way it’s rubbing against the sheets, and your legs are split wide open. You feel every vein and ridge moving against your walls, the slight resistance disappearing in no time. His chest brushes against yours, and combined with the warmth of his breath, so close to yours, it’s easy to let go of your worries.

This is why you ended up here.

“Faster!” While he already feels great, it’s not the exact pattern to provide that sweet release, not in the timeframe you hoped.

“I want this to last, dear.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. A part of it due to irritation. Being subjected to that response before, he snickers to see you’re still you, even when you’re literally fucked out of your mind. As he does so, his lips skim yours. You take it, greedily, one hand first on his neck to ensure he stays, then to his unruly tress, aspiring to compel him into the middle ground. That earns you a few groans, yes, but his will doesn’t seem to falter even a little bit.

Perseverance, is a mutual quality, as you already know.

You slowly release the grip you have on his head, emphasis on slowly. It goes unnoticed, thanks to your timely bite, the same assault he once carried out. You don’t waste the access to his tongue, sucking on it. You’re not sure if his moans are increased in number, or if it feels more because you swallow every single one of them, but the fact that his beard starts to prick your cheeks harder gives you an idea.

Your free hand falls into sheets and slithers across the length of your body. Just a little more- you’re almost about to touch your –

His fingers wrap around your wrist instantly, dragging it up, a little further away from your face. You twist your neck, a wail coming out as you reject his kiss.

Only to be met by the sight of that said fingers running up your palm, and interlock themselves among yours.

Your breath hitches, for reasons unknown to you.

“Ah- ah -ah.” He tuts, though there’s not a hint of disappointment in his voice. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I let you do all the work?”

You can’t believe one physical contact, and his words, are enough to carry you to that previous peak. Your pussy contracts around him, beyond your control, an indication of your closeness, nothing compared to before.

“Ngh- that’s it.” He encourages, “Just relax and take it.” That’s more sincerity than you’ve ever heard from him.

It goes on and on for a while, him doing exactly what he promised to do, and fulfilling his wishes in the process. He already knows this could go on ‘til morning, and he still wouldn’t be completely satisfied, longing for your presence the second he leaves the bed. Still, he continues, pushing himself to his limit, and that’s getting quite harder when you clamp on him that hard. He feels his cock leaking, begging for that sweet end.

When his arm that’s not supporting his weight travels down, caressing your hip before pressing his thumb to your clit, finally, you reward it with a whisper of his name, a sound he won’t dare to forget. Your back arches impossibly higher, and he has to lean back, abandoning his other hold.

Your limb stays in the spot he left it.

He curses at the realization, perhaps its effect mirroring yours when he first initiated the contact. Fuck, how are you so perfect? He snaps his hips harder, and circles his thumb, feeling it throb.

“Obi Wan-I’m c-“

He loves how your words are cut with the need to scream that you gulp down, only resigned to breathing as your face contorts with pleasure. “Cum for me, love.”

Your moans blend into each other, as he cannot stay still at the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight. He holds your trembling thigh, fondling the soft flesh, adoring the way it spills from his grip. He doesn’t stop ‘til they settle again once more, and even a little longer than that, pulling out in the last minute to cover your belly with his spend.

That act keeps you from turning to your side, and feeds the desire to hug the sheets, a soft but firm ground for your senses to return. You're not complainant of it anyways, you have a far better view in front of you, defined muscles undulating with each heavy breath, glistening due to the light coat of sweat covering them, lips puffy and slightly flushed with blood, as well as his cheeks. You always thought he was devilishly handsome, but this, this is something else. The world should consider itself lucky, or it would bend to his will just from his looks. Or unlucky, for the honor is bestowed upon a handful of people.

He believes he's blessed with the sight upon him, too. Still holding onto your thigh, he delights in spontaneous tremors that possess it. If he looks closely, he's sure he can see the faint mark he left. Your hair is sprawled around, much in contrast to the delicate up-dos you and every noblewoman fashioned, its most natural form, and the intimacy of it definitely causes a small breakdown. You belong in a painting, depicting goddesses and nymphs, a grace outside the limits of time and culture. Your droopy lids and tired pull at the corners of your mouth fill his chest with pride and more adoration, like after his every successful attempt to elicit a reaction from you. It happens often, thanks to the understanding that grows between the two of you, but every example is still treasured in in his mind.

“Well, I don’t know any better way to spend the night.”

You giggle. “I agree.”

“We should’ve done this before.”

Your lifted brows are the perfect answer. Like it’s that easy.

But he has a point, too.

In the comfortable silence, he gets up from bed, a sigh at the roar coming from downstairs, drowning the music. That’s still going, huh? You watch as he wets the nearest towel, and returns, cleaning the mess with unexpected gentleness that it almost tickles. There’s no aim to steal one more touch at his movements, no personal gain except an easy conscience, and even that is a stretch because it’s most natural to him, his understanding of tenderness.

“Well, thank you, sir.” You sit up, with a yawn, and scooch backward to your pillows as he retreats to give himself the same treatment. “And my nightgown, please.” You point to it, and amusingly follow his subtle headshake, and efforts to hand it over. He hesitates for a second at the last minute, considering rebellion, a last joke. You see it, and snatch the fabric from his grip before he can tighten it. He can feel it sliding over his skin, the light material flying. You slip it on, aware of his voyeur. with a victorious smile cut too short as exhaustion creeps into your bones. You’re no different, in any case, settling into the fluffy pillows, curiously examining each piece of clothing he puts on from afar, the unwritten rule of his habits, his hidden glances at your mirror in a feeble pursuit to tame his messy hair. You’re willing to be charged guilty for that.

He stalls, though, you can feel it after a while, around the time sleep clouds your vision. How could anyone blame him for not wanting to leave, carve your picture to his mind, and calm his yet again straining cock at it?

“You should be going. Servants are going to be wandering these corridors for orders, soon.” Your heart winces at the warning, because he's not the type to need it, or disregard you to put you at any risk. But your cognation runs thin, and he needs to know the dangers he might face.

"True. Right. You're correct." Is that a stutter? "Good night, my lady."

"Good night, Lord Kenobi.

"Glad to be of help in stretching your legs."

The cushion falls short to exactly hit him, but the sentiment is clear.

In the morning, you uncover the reasons behind his diversion.

Bastard signed every slot in your dance card.

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