#of the rest of his material is another thing by itself shut up shut up leave me alone i can't do this

[theinfinitedivides]

TABBER?????? WHAT THE F*CK????????

[sharkenedfangs]

— ☆ “YOU REALLY ARE A FREAK . . . KYLAR .”

promise he didn’t mean to stupidly jack off to you , it was just hormonal urges acting up, yeah.

Fuck, underneath this thin layer of pure impulsivity, he’s undeniably aware that he should’ve stopped things here the second it escalated— Hastily shut off the cheaply recorded clips hazily shown back towards him by the dimly lit monitoring of his screen. He had his tell-tale suspicions secretly simmering deep within, yeah, lil’ freak here knew you weren’t necessarily the most loyal of people ‘round town. Didn’t mean his skittish eyes to instinctively seek yours out in a crowded room, hidden amongst the numerous people he’d usually glance over in bare disinterest when in search for your own recognizable frame. A harmless crush, he’d initially call it to soothe the lurking urges annoyingly gnawing at the back of his mind, repeatedly whispering to him the instinctual need to fervently possess you further, sweetly leave his fair share of littered marks all around your unblemished skin so that the town may notably take notice of your cherished bond.

Still, this is— this is so fuckin’ unfair, y’know?? How dare you merely prove your brazen disloyalty to him time and time again and here he is, curled fist stubbornly snug around his leaking cock, tacky globs of pre-cum profusely dribbling out of his swollen slit as if he’s not crudely getting off to the sight of you— you, fucking getting your whorish boy hole ruined by another person. Desperate bucks of his hips, jeans carelessly slung down to his ankles below, rest of his sticky with cum underwear probably thrown somewhere along the scattered mess in his room. It’s sick, downright vile and he knows it, but fuck— it has started off with a familiar scowl making its way past his normally soft features when faced with your usually placate room devoid of anyone else but his watchful eyes carefully taking in the sight of your snoozing frame comfortably tucked away under the woollen covers.

Except, you’re not truly alone and ah, here goes.. Robin? Seamlessly sneaking himself into your room instead, not him, but that fucking friend of yours constantly sticking to your sides at school, outside of there too — yes, he’s checked, no he’s not a creep for it! — Affectionately nosing along the crook of your neck, muttering out wistful words, he, himself cannot possibly hope to discern considering his— well, namely cheap equipment he has to forcibly deal with, here. Subtle brush of your best friend’s palm sneakily disappearing underneath the thick blanket, though he can barely make out the outline of his hand dizzyingly slipping its way past your boxers, probably.. hah, feeling your cute cock up, sticky mess pervertedly staining the material already. The little, heated sighs collectively tumbling forth from both of your lips, discreetly obscured within the dark corners of your narrow room shouldn’t be affecting him this much. Yet, it is as proven by the burning flush heating his cheeks, teeth instinctively digging into the rosy flesh of his bottom lip. Inwardly seething at the pure display of love intimately being shown to him — without your aforementioned knowledge too, by the way — and that his cock itself is painfully reacting to it, stupidly tented against the front of his ripped jeans, craning his neck closer as if it might magically allow him to see your movements beneath.

Don’t need to wait all that long for it since you decisively do the honours for him of course, or unfortunately Robin here, whose hands and lips are busying themselves all over your originally untouched body. Supple fingertips coyly caressing rhythmic circles along your hips, thumb lovingly circling around the edge of your hot, drooling tip freed out in the air. Relishing in the hitched gasps, slightest shivers of your curled frame snugly pressed against his, adorably pleading for more with a needy whine of his name. A name, name that should be Kylar’s — not his. Repressed freak frustratingly chewing at his chipped nails, gaze not leaving your glazed over eyes for the briefest of seconds in favour of freeing his fat, throbbing cock from the tight of confines of his pants. It’s— It’s not bad! He’s just helping himself because at the end of the day, he’s nothing but a man too, just like you. A pathetic loser who’s wracked in a mess, stupidly fisting his cock at the bare sight of your figure being sinfully defiled by your best friend hidden beneath the haphazardly spread sheets. Swollen, pink nipples shown out in the cooling air for his eyes to breathlessly take in, soon also taken by Robin’s mouth hungrily latching onto one of them. Audibly suckling on the perky buds with noisy sucks, relishing in the muted gasps gradually being drawn out of you. Noticeable scrunch of your face, timid grasp finding its way entangled along the soft strands of your best friend’s hair in a shy mewl for more cuz’ shit, it must feel good, right?

He could make you feel way better than that, promise! Though that’s the very last repetitive protest on his blurring mind, dumbly shut off as he jerks himself off. Slippery slides of his palm gliding along his cum coated length in an audible squelch!, rhythmic up-and-down motion of fisting his cock raw against his palm, furiously humping upwards in time with each controlled thrust of Robin on the other end. Hah, wonder what you’d do if you truthfully knew what he’s currently doing, how that precious owl toy gifted to you on that faithful day wasn’t for innocent intentions and all that, wasn’t to kindly look over you to make sure you’re always at ease. He means, it is! But, not necessarily that, no— in fact, it’s for opportunities like this. Like a pervert, he’s shamelessly getting off to your tight, little fucking hole being stuffed full of your best friend’s fat cock, bobbing dick cutely swaying between the tantalizing spreading of your thighs. Legs deftly locked around Robin’s hips in a tentative beg to keep going! and feels so fuckin’ good! and oh, how he wishes he was the one stupidly balls deep inside of you. Subtle arch of your back, peppered kisses being repeatedly planted against your pouty lips, lolling tongue and rolling eyes and fuuuckkk—- it’s the second you make immediate contact with him, maybe not out of purpose. No, definitely not, but the split second of eye contact you both share, slightest flicker of your gaze settling upon the owl who’s flickering camera is blinking back, recording this all — that has his hips stuttering, head impulsively thrown back and whiny moans hurriedly spilling past his open lips as hot spurts of his sticky seed spurt out of his cock and into the air. Stiffening limbs wracked with his orgasm, quivering legs sat atop his creaking chair all the while milking every last drop of his cock, till it uselessly dribbles out in pitiful droplets onto the ground.

Ah, look at the effects you have on him that he embarrassingly enough, cums so quickly from a mere glance of your eyes in his direction. And really, how he should be properly blaming you for the coated mess on his wooden floorboards which he should be currently cleaning right about now, lest his parents find out again. Truly, he should probably go and.. grab a wet rag now.

..And some tissues for later.

[yuitoru]

CANT HELP FALLING IN LOVE WITH YOU.

๑ summary: you first met satoru gojo as a young child, hiding behind your older brother's leg, during a clan meet. nearly a decade later, you meet him again as first year students of jujutsu high school. but neither of you knew that you would part ways again before you even graduated together..

๑ feat. satoru gojo ( x fem! reader )

๑ cw: angst, no comfort, short lived fluff, probably swearing, you have an older brother called azuki and are part of a sorcerer clan from kyoto, rushed cause i wanted it gone

the last thing that you could hear was the sound of maniacal laughter and approaching footsteps of the semi special grade curse you fought so hard to beat, but it had overpowered you in the end. your body — plagued with fatigue and the burning sensation of pain — had already started to give up on itself; your blood had stopped clotting; your head was pounding against your skull; your blood-stained hands were freezing cold ... you were dying, and there was no way to stop it. shutting your tired eyes, your brain kickstarted the phenomenon known as having 'your life flash before your eyes', as memories from your past that you thought were long buried away began to resurface...

1995.

"and this is satoru gojo, hes your age as well, yknow?"

the sound of your brother's voice is all you can really remember from then. you had your face buried into his leg, slightly wetting the material of his trousers with your tears — you were a shy kid, and meeting others your age wasnt something that you really enjoyed doing. however, just because you were hiding yourself away from sight didnt mean that you werent able to hear, but satoru clearly hadnt thought about that, as he complained to your older brother.

"hey, mister azuki, why isnt she looking? is she shy? i wanna see!"

satoru whined, a pout forming on his face as he looked up at your brother. his gaze quickly averted, landing back onto you again — you could practically feel his stare. those bright blue eyes; it felt like he was looking through your very soul. before azuki could even respond to the child's interrogation, a woman dressed in a beautiful kimono and adorned in lavish accessories approached the three of you, before resting a hand atop satoru's fluffy locks. she smiled down at you, her voice gentle as she spoke to your brother.

"im so sorry about satoru — hes an awfully curious child. im his mother, its so nice to meet you. i hear that your clan originates from kyoto, is that correct?"

satoru's mother had a pleasant aura to her, much unlike her son, who made even fully grown men uncomfortable in his presence. slowly, you lifted your face from azuki's leg to look up at the kind woman, resultantly allowing for satoru to see your face. your eyes were slightly puffy from your tears and your cheeks were covered in dried tear stains, but satoru thought you were pretty — really pretty.

the rest of the evening felt like a breeze; there was a massive dinner, lengthy conversations between clan leaders.. and lots and lots of men. that was something that you could clearly remember about that day — there were men everywhere. you could count the number of women present just on your hands, including yourself.

you were sat between your father and brother at the massive table, as you pushed the food around your plate with your chopsticks. it wasnt like you werent hungry — if anything, you were starving. but the food all looked so prim and proper, and made your stomach twist and turn. everything about this place made you want to cry and just go home. noticing your antsy behaviour, your father looked down at you before reaching into his haori and handing you a handful of konpeito — your favourite. your father always knew how you were feeling, even without you saying a word. he smiled softly at how quickly you tore the wrapper off and began nibbling on the sweet, pressing a kiss to the top of your hair before going back to his conversation with another clan elder.

you didnt notice satoru gojo's eyes locked onto you, watching silently as you ate the konpeito — a memory that he would engrave into his memory.

2005.

you meet satoru gojo again on your first day at jujutsu high, a whole ten years later. the induction day to the school had to be one of the most confusing and awkward days of your life. masamichi yaga, your teacher, was stood at the front of you and your classmates — behind him on the chalkboard were two pairs of names. they were the pairs of the training exercise that would shortly take place outside as part of getting to know your classmates.

satoru's eyes quickly locked onto where your name was written on the board, before moving to the name next to it. 'suguru geto'. a scowl formed on his face, his lips upturning into a pout — he wanted to be paired with you, and didnt want for the guy with the weird bangs to get to talk to you before he did.

you spent the rest of the day laughing and sparring with geto — already having made good friends with the black haired boy. all the while, you were completely oblivious to the jealous glares that were sent your way by a certain snowy haired. it wasnt until shoko approached you and had asked in a curious manner if you had a relationship with the gojo heir — to which you quickly dismissed and explained your relation to the boy. this only brought more frustration to satoru, who had been (eavesdropping) stood outside the classroom where you and shoko were.

you and satoru began to talk again a couple of weeks into the school year, and soon enough, it began to feel like you were both young children again — skipping class together, messing around during training, having movie nights in your dorm room… he quickly became your best friend.

so when you were sent on your first solo mission, satoru naturally felt anxious about being separated from you; to which you had to spend all afternoon convincing him that you would be okay being by yourself. the morning that you left, satoru didnt even show up to class — opting to stay in his dorm room, nuzzled up underneath the warm duvet. it was clear that he was sulking, and acting like an overgrown toddler. he knew that you were strong — strong enough to handle yourself, but he couldnt help but feel nervous. what if something happened? hed never forgive himself for that.

when you returned with barely a scratch on you, satoru instantly tackled you with a warm hug, spinning you around in the air. his happy giggles filled the room, and it felt like a scene straight from one of the romance movies the two of you would binge watch. the feeling of your body against his was enough to make his heart beat faster than it had ever done.

once he had put you back down, satoru's eyes darted all over your body, checking for any bruises or cuts. his voice came out as a small mumble — you wouldnt have been able to hear it if he was any quieter.

"i really missed you.."

his words were honest — regardless that he had never lied to you before. the way he spoke to you; it was like he was in slight disbelief that you were back with him.

satoru gojo was known as the 'strongest', but when he was anywhere near you, he was weak. vulnerable to the power of love.

2006.

the day started the same as any other, nothing out of the ordinary about it. you woke up, brushed your teeth, got dressed, made yourself look presentable, and had breakfast with everyone.

class was the same. yaga droned on about the history of jujutsu, and neither you or your three other classmates paid him any mind. lunch was the same — you ate in a group with the new first years by the field.

everything was normal.

even when yaga informed you that you had been requested for a new mission, everything seemed absolutely ordinary.

even when hugging your friends as a goodbye on the morning of your mission, you felt normal. you had no idea that this would be the last time you would ever see their faces again. feel their touch again.

despite everything feeling 'normal', something had compelled you to hug satoru for just that little bit longer. to stand up on your tiptoes to press a lingering kiss to his cheek. the pink flush of his face was a sight that you were sure to never forget.

getting into the car that would take you to your last destination, you waved and smiled at your friends. there was a dull ache in your heart, but you brushed it off to be nerves. as the car drove off, you leaned back in your seat and closed your eyes — your last nap.

the news reached jujutsu high fast. your driver, who had grown worried after you hadnt re-emerged from the building where the curse was, had contacted the backup sorcerers to go in and search for you. they had returned, one of them holding your cold body in their arms, a cloth covering your form out of respect.

yaga was the one to break the news to your friends — there were tears in everyone's eyes, including your strict teacher. satoru was inconsolable, his whole body was shaking as he sobbed and wept for you. the light of his life. the love of his life. gone. what was the point of being the strongest if he couldnt save you? the only person he had truly loved in his life.

your funeral was peaceful — tranquil, even. it was held at the school, which had served as the initial foundation of your relationships with others. it was inside the forest that surrounded the campus, since it contained both beautiful scenery and was far away enough from most human presence that you wouldnt be disturbed as you were laid to rest.

satoru couldnt watch as your coffin was placed in the ground. he just stared down at the ground the whole time, silent tears falling from his eyes and falling to the dirt beneath his shoes. he wanted to refuse to accept this — that this was actually happening. he didnt want to admit to himself that you were gone, and that you were never coming back. you were dead. and he could only blame himself.

2010.

it had been four years since your death, and two years since satoru had adopted megumi and tsumiki. despite satoru's care for the young children, he had never once spoken about you. partially because the kids had never asked, but also since he wasnt willing to reveal the weaker side of himself.

so when tsumiki accidentally stumbles upon a photo of you and satoru together, she turned to look at the snow-haired man, before asking him in a curious, yet hesitant voice.

"gojo, is this your girlfriend from high school..?"

her question caught his attention, as he turned to look at her. she had his old flip phone in her smaller hands — it was flipped around so that he could see the picture she was talking about. it was his set home screen that he had never changed since setting it. the picture was of you and satoru laying in a field of flowers together, both of you wearing beautiful flower crowns. you were the one taking the photo, a closed-eye smile on your face as you giggled, whilst satoru kept his eyes on you — looking at you with the most lovesick gaze ever.

for such an old phone, the quality of the picture was surprisingly good. it even managed to capture the faint freckles that decorated your face, trailing over the bridge of your nose and dusted all over the apples of your cheeks. anyone could see you and would agree — you were absolutely gorgeous.

".. no, she wasnt my girlfriend. she was my best friend.. the love of my life, really." gojo smiled softly at the girl, his hand reaching down to ruffle her hair, as the other gently took the phone from her hands. she looked up at him with a saddened expression, whispering out to him.

".. 'was'? is she not..." tsumiki didnt need to finish her question, as the heartbroken glint in satoru's eyes spoke for him. she went silent, just softly nodding her head in response to her own question. satoru stood back up to his full height, seemingly in thought for a few moments before speaking up to both tsumiki and megumi — the boy had been silently listening the whole time from where he was sat next to his older sister.

"would you two like to meet her?"

thats how satoru ended up back at your grave, kneeling down in front of the stone slab. tsumiki and megumi stood behind him, hesitant to join satoru in front of your grave. satoru had never been a religious man, but he prayed for you — he prayed that you were happy, that you were comfortable up in the sky. he prayed that you were looking down at him, watching over him.

"i really miss you.."

was the last thing he whispered, before leaning in to press a fleeting kiss to your gravestone, and placing a printed version of his home screen picture to rest with the flowers he had brought you. he finally stood up and gestured for the two children to move forwards to sit by your grave, as he stood nearby. he was thankful for the blindfold over his eyes, covering their redness as he mourned the loss of his love.

© yuitoru™ — dont copy, plagiarise, repost, modify and/or translate my works

[ilovehimyourhonour]

wouldn’t dream of it

📂 bf! jung wooyoung x reader . you weren’t clear and wooyoung thought you were breaking up with him . slight angst , a bit of fluff , comfort .

a/n writing random pieces as my inbox/drafts sits with request . (edit — can’t believe this got as much love as it did lol) .

navigation

Vision turning hazy, Wooyoung falters in his steps—his eyes prick with tears as he watches you turn away from him, something you’ve never done. But has there ever been an argument this severe? Have the two of you ever yelled at each other with this much anger and heat? The rare times you did argue the atmosphere was still comforting, the two of you would sit down and talk things over. Wooyoung would hesitantly reach for your hands, you would smile softly and intertwine your fingers with his—he’d then lean forward, his lips brushing your forehead as he mumbles a “Im sorry.” Everything from there would work itself out, but as Wooyoung swayed where he stood, the orange lantern hanging above his head casting a dim light over him and the surrounding area, he knew the two of you weren’t going to solve this in a matter of minutes.

“Are you even listening to me?” He blinks back another rush of tears, they build within his throat. “Of course you’re not,” you chuckle. “Stupid of me to assume you would be.”

Your eyes are red, your cheeks are stained with the tears that had managed to escape—the collar of Wooyoung’s your shirt sports a few patches where your tears had fallen and seeped into the material. Wooyoung watches your hands shake as you reach up to brush the wetness from your cheeks.

“Can you say something, Wooyoung?” You’re annoyed. He parts his lips, only a strangled grunt leaves his mouth, the tangled tears, worry, and heartbreak resting in his throat blocks the words he wishes he could say. You hum softly, turning away from him—nearing the front door of your apartment. “I think we need a break, Woo.”

Panic surges through Wooyoung, bringing each aspect of himself to a crumbling point. Never has he ever had the desire to hear those words leave your mouth, never once had he ever desired to say them himself—no matter the circumstance he always wanted to get through it with you. He stumbles forward, leaving the kitchen and its orange glow behind as he pushes himself to the entrance—desperate to catch you before you left him.

Your backs facing him as he reaches you, you’re mid swinging your jacket over your shoulder when his two arms wrap around your knees—leaving you to frown and crane your neck. Your boyfriend has his face pressed into the back of your thighs, muffled sobs soaking into the materiel of your sweatpants, his shoulders violently shake with his cry. “I. Love. You,” his words are broken between hiccups.

“I love you, Wooyoung.” Your still facing the door, his tight grip on your legs preventing you from turning to face his kneeling figure. “Let me go,” you softly mutter as you blindly reach behind you—fingers brushing through his hair gently. His arms circle your legs tighter, his head shaking as he lets a few more hiccups shake his figure. You sigh and reach for his arms, pulling yourself from his hold—his heart splits in half and another surge of tears trail down his cheeks, dripping from his jaw and chin.

“No,” he chokes out. “Please don’t leave me,” his voice is hoarse and shaky. “One more chance, one more chance. Please.”

You’re now facing him, frowning as you drop to your knees—mirroring his position. “I just need one more chance,” his words are now barely above a whisper. You practically coo at his sad and desperate expression, your bottom lip can’t help but quiver as you reach out and brush the bangs from his eyes.

“I will never leave you, Wooyoung.”

“You said we needed a break.”

You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. “I didn’t mean we should break up, darling. I meant we need a break from this,” he shifts so he sits crossed legged on the floor, you follow immediately. You watch his fingers twitch in his lap, as they always did—so you reach forward, taking his hand in yours. “We need time to calm down and then talk things over.”

“I am calm,” you chuckle softly—Wooyoung’s fingers tighten around yours at the familiar sound. “I don’t want to be alone.”

The heartbroken look in his eyes keeps you at his side, the two of you sitting in the entrance for hours. Nothing but soft touches, gentle kisses, and I love you’s being exchanged between the two of you. But somewhere between confessing your love for each other and brushing the hairs from one another’s faces, apologizes are exchanged. Woo promises he’ll be a better boyfriend, to which you expressed how you already believed him to be the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.

“Don’t ever break up with me,” Wooyoung mumbles into your shoulder as he holds you in his lap.

You chuckle softly as you bring your arms around his neck. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

© ilovehimyourhonour

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical swearing, kissing / making out, heavy suggestive themes, teasing / flirting, Simon being boyfriend material, slightly possessive Simon

Word Count: 5.6k

A/N: Part Seven of Ink & Needle

You meet Simon at 141 Ink in the morning as promised. Tension ensues. An unplanned date commences.

Chapter Six // Chapter Eight

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Spiderwebs are delicate, intricate things. They are works of art that kill, trapping and tangling their prey within their glossy strings. Beautiful. Deadly.

Simon is a spiderweb. Has been since the moment you met him at Riot Room. His dark allure drew you in until you stuck and went with him into that green room. Then, he devoured you to the point of ruin.

No other touch has lived up to his. It doesn’t matter that it has been three years and you’ve tried to find him in so many different people. Not one could ever be him. No one could ever touch or worship you like he had in Riot Room’s basement.

Your wraith. Ghost. Simon. Who, after all this time, still thinks about you. Still craves you to the point of near obsession.

Have you not thought about me? Not once? Because I’ve thought of you. Every day.

Simon’s words are phantoms. They haunt you, clinging to you the rest of the day and well into bed when you stared at the ceiling and replayed his words in your head. Your response to those sweetened bullets was no lie. You’ve thought about him often, wanted to know where he was and what he was doing with his life.

Now you know. And yet it doesn’t feel complete. There are so many hollow sections to your wraith. But that hardly matters because the two of you are constantly in orbit of the other. Tied by a teether or maybe gravity. Spinning toward each other until the smaller mass succumbs to the greater object.

The two of you are moving dangerously close to a collision.

Which is why your hands nervously tug on the ends of your sleeves outside 141 Ink. You promised Simon you’d come see him in the morning, and here you are. And you do want to see him, to speak to him, to slide into his lap and feel his lips again.

Yesterday’s kisses roll up to the forefront of your mind, taking root in the cervices of your brain. Memory surfaces, causing your cheeks to heat. It is the recollection of his warm but rough hand in yours, of how his arms wrapped around you in a perfect embrace, and the taste of him that you never forgot and longed to keep exploring.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

Simon wants this to be more. He desires a relationship beyond what the two of you had in Riot Room. You felt it then, creeping into your bones and senses until it was an all-consuming sensation that made you bolt. Even then, you knew.

Now, the idea sounds wonderful. Beautiful. Terrifying.

The door to 141 Ink is shut. The lights are off. The front of the building is a deep purple in color, almost black in appearance like an eggplant. The door itself is black with the 141 Ink logo in the center above a small window on the bottom half. It’s an odd place for a window, but Simon has a dog, Bravo, and it’s likely for him.

Above the storefront are two levels of old red brick. There are a total of three windows on each level. Nearly all of the other buildings along the street have this. It’s likely an apartment. Maybe two. Simon might be up there right now if he in fact lives above the parlor.

You purposefully came early so that maybe—just maybe—Simon might not be there, and you could brush it off, saying that he missed you. Make up another time to meet. Because that’s what you always do. You run. You bolt. You hide.

And hiding seems awful. It is that instinct that drives you to do it, to keep yourself safe and protected, to keep control. Simon isn’t someone you want to run away from this time. He was so earnest and sincere yesterday when you were in his lap and his lips were pressed to yours.

You also noted how aroused he was, the solidness of him grinding against your core every time your hips shifted in his lap. In that moment, you were thrust back to Riot Room, to how he felt inside you, and how perfectly your bodies fit together.

You were made for him, and he for you. In that tiny room, you knew.

But you’re also starting to panic. Simon has not showed, and perhaps you’ve arrived far too early. Which is funny, since just a few days ago the door to 141 Ink stood open about this time. It’s not too farfetched to believe he’d be up at this hour on a Monday.

You’re not even standing directly in front of the door. You’re nearly on the curb, pacing, questioning whether you should turn around right now and go back home or see this through. Amelia is probably putting the kettle on, and you didn’t eat before you left.

On cue, your stomach growls and you frown down at it, beginning to walk away.

The moment you turn and take a step, the familiar sound of deadbolts unlocking snarls your attention. You freeze, clutching the front of your coat as the door to 141 Ink swings open.

Simon is right there. One hand on the handle of the door, and the other leaning against the wooden doorframe. He’s so tall and broad. Like this, you can see all of him clearly. Yes, Simon is a little softer in some areas, but it only adds to his thickness, making you hunger to know what it’ll feel like when you’re under him.

When. When. As if you know it’ll happen. That none of this will fizzle out but extend outward, heading toward that inevitable collision.

Because you were never under him before. But you think about it now. How those massive arms of his will hold you down, pin you beneath him, create a cage you won’t want to be released from.

“Hi,” you say, almost breathy.

“You came,” replies Simon. It’s an exhalation. A relief and happiness laced into the words that he speaks. You cannot see his features beneath the balaclava, but his body language and tone of voice tell you all you need to know.

Simon’s hand drops from the door frame and he steps to the side, gesturing for you to enter. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, and you’re forced to squeeze by him. The heat of him is strong, and his scent is decadent. Rich. Smoky. Like a foggy day in the Pacific Northwest or a quick, frantic kiss in a London alleyway. You have to force yourself not to turn into him, to inhale and remember him like this.

Now that you’re actually inside 141 Ink you can see the space for what it is. The inside of the tattoo parlor is industrial with exposed brick walls and dark wood floors. The lighting is warm, brightening up the space. Above you are black metal pipes and a solid support beam. In the back of the space is the tattooing area. While you can see some of the chair, most of it obstructed by a short privacy wall. Behind that and to the right of it is storage, and to the left is a small office space with a desk. Overall, it’s fairly simple, but inviting.

Bravo greets you with an enthusiastic tail wag that sends a breeze your way. You laugh and hold out your palm. Bravo immediately sniffs your hand like you have a treat hidden somewhere. But you don’t, and while the German Shepard seems briefly disappointed, it’s short-lived. He nuzzles your hand and you promptly scratch under his chin and behind his ears.

“Can’t have her all to yourself, Bravo.” Simon’s gruff voice slips over you like a comforting blanket. There is humor in his tone, but underneath is a hint of possessiveness.

Your cheeks heat, and you pull away from Bravo, only to turn to face Simon. He’s so close, and when you’re fully facing him, Simon slides an arm around your waist and draws you even closer. Your hands instinctually go out to rest against his firm chest.

Underneath your palms, beneath his shirt, are his pectorals. They flex under your hands as he inhales, and he draws you closer still. Simon’s free hand, the one not currently wrapped around your waist, delicately cups your cheek, cradles it so gently that you begin to melt.

Simon is strong. This man could easily break you—or anyone—and yet this tenderness is so out of place, like it shouldn’t be possible with a man like him. But your wraith is capable, loving, and you find yourself pressing into him, hands sliding up his chest to lightly tease the bottom of his balaclava.

While you’d like it off, to see Simon fully, you know that’s a limit. You don’t push it, but you do tug a bit, indicating what you want. Your gaze flicks upward, only to meet a gaze that is as soft as Simon’s touch.

Those perfectly pale eyelashes are gently halos against his dark eyes. His brown irises remind you of light through a whiskey bottle. Everything about his gaze is relaxed including his brow and eyelids. It’s a startling look, one that speaks to deep desire.

The very idea sends a ripple of heat to your core, warming you between your legs. This is the intimacy you noticed back at Riot Room, that Simon’s gaze was more than someone simply interested in a quick hook up.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, tone nearly a purr. “Or are you going to make me wait a bit longer?”

Your lips pull back into a soft smile. “Are you teasing me?”

Simon’s pulls you flush against him, and the hand attached to that arm slides from your hip to the curve of your ass, squeezing. “I think you’re the one teasing.”

You squeak, then laugh as Simon removes his hand from your cheek to wrap that arm behind your back. You’re trapped against him, and even though you cannot see his mouth, you can see the way the balaclava stretches as he smiles.

With gentleness, you slip your fingers beneath the edge of the balaclava, easing it up over his chin and mouth to rest against the top of his nose. His blackout neck tattoo is on full display, as is the scar that runs along his jaw. You remember that scar, and one of your fingers absently traces it.

Simon turns into the touch, and then your finger is brushing over his bottom lip. He lightly kisses your finger, and then nips at it playfully.

“Stop,” you laugh.

“Then give me your mouth,” replies Simon, his head dipping to chase what he’s asking for.

You happily give it to him.

The moment your lips meet, you melt into Simon, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. Simon surrenders to you as much as he seeks control. The arms around your waist shift as his hands start to explore, caressing your back, hips, ass, and thighs in tender strokes.

Simon does not shove his tongue down your throat. He doesn’t push or guide you anywhere. All he does is kiss you, as if that is all he needs. As if it is enough. There is the faintest hint of smoke and black tea on his tongue, and it is comforting.

That is what Simon is. What you’ve been missing. Comfort. He is so warm and bright and bold even though you know him as your wraith. He is not a demon at all, or a creature out of hell. At least, not with you, and it is fucking delicious.

The heat of arousal burns in your core, and though you’d love to take this to more private corners, you can maneuver Simon into a more intimate position. That way, you don’t have to be on your goddamn toes to kiss him.

At the moment Simon breaks away to take a breath, you turn out of his embrace, his lips meeting your cheek instead of your mouth. Simon grunts, and you attempt to wiggle out of his arms.

“No.” And it’s nearly a growl that escapes his throat. “I haven’t had nearly enough.”

Simon’s words are a bolt to your core. Your fingers tighten in the fabric of the collar of his shirt, and he dives in again, claiming your mouth in a deep kiss. You’re primed, wired. You want to have a little control.

Pushing on his chest, Simon reluctantly releases you, but he does not allow you to move away from him. You’re still tucked against his chest, and his head hangs low, creating a deeper sense of closeness. He runs his thumb over your cheek at the same moment your gaze darts to the nearby sofa.

141 Ink’s waiting area consists of two small sofas. One is pushed directly against the wall facing the street under the massive front window. The other is against the wall that connects to it, creating a tiny nook at the front of the shop.

Simon’s gaze follows yours. “You want to sit?”

I want to sit in your lap you think.

Carefully, you place your hand on his chest and push enough to indicate that you want Simon to move. He does, walking backward toward the black leather sofa as your hand guides him. When the backs of his legs knock into the couch, Simon sinks to a seated position.

At first, he’s sitting up straight, forearms resting on knees, all of his curious attention focused on you. With exaggerated slowness, you take off your coat. First the left shoulder, and then the right, tossing it onto the sofa beside Simon.

Simon immediately rests his back against the sofa, spreads his legs, and drapes his arms over the top of it. The corner of his mouth twitches with a hint of an amused smile. He drops one arm to rest his palm against his thigh.

He doesn’t say anything. He only rubs his hand there. Back and forth in silent invitation.

It’s so much like Riot Room that you forget you’re in Simon’s tattoo parlor.

His chest heaves, each inhalation deep like he too is full of anticipation. It’s clear that Simon is reigning himself in, pulling back enough to not scare you off or force you into anything you don’t want to do. All he wants is your permission first, and when he has that, it’s over. Done. You’ll submit to whatever he wants.

You know this.

And he knows this.

Standing between his legs, you lift one leg and plant your knee on the outside of his thigh, repeating the motion with the other, before settling in his lap.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” says Simon, as his head tilts back. Your mouth comes down on his throat, and Simon groans. “On second thought, I like meeting like this.”

You smile against his skin, peppering his throat with little kisses before following the line of his jaw, and then finally his lips.

Maybe it’s too much for him, because Simon immediately grabs for you, hands roaming everywhere, leaving nothing untouched. It’s a possessive, needful series of touches that is laced with desperation. You are equally needy—equally wanting to consume and touch and devour every bit of this man.

Simon sparks something bright within you. Gives it life. Blows the low embers into resounding fiery brilliance. You are perfect in his arms. You never want to leave.

His hands slide under your sweater, under your shirt, finding your skin. It’s just the tip of his fingers at first, and then his palm. Then he is grabbing hold, squeezing your waist, moving upward until his hand slides into the space between your breasts before retreating.

You whimper at the loss, and Simon breaks the kiss, only to give you more along your jaw and the spot behind your ear.

Simon’s head dips, nuzzling your throat, the balaclava scratching against your cheek.

“I want to kiss you,” murmurs Simon as his lips brush against the side of your neck.

You laugh, fingers lightly digging into his biceps. “My lips are right here.” You turn toward him and meet his dark gaze.

“I’m not talking about these lips,” replies Simon, his thumb gently pulling on your bottom lip. He releases it and it bounces back into place.

“Oh,” is all you say, startled.

Memories emerge. Sensual ones. Dirty ones. The ones from Riot Room when you were bent over and Simon was behind you, tonguing you like it was all he ever wanted.

But how far can the two of you go before someone interrupts this private moment. If you say yes, would he do it right here, or would he take you somewhere else, and if you agree, would that be it? Or would the two of you keep going until there was nothing between your bodies?

Just skin against skin.

“Oh?” he asks, amused. Simon’s hand slides to the back of your neck, drawing you back to his lips. This kiss is much gentler than the rest.

He lets it linger, only pulling away enough to look into your eyes. “I’d very much like to kiss you.”

You swallow, knowing what he means. He’s not talking about your lips or face or neck. Simon is talking about the rest of you. The place between your thighs. The small, sensitive flesh that has so easily made you come undone for him before.

As you begin to form a response, your stomach growls. It’s loud, completely betraying the fact that you were too nervous this morning to eat.

Simon’s lips part like he’s about to say something but your stomach interrupts him again. He shakes his head, grabs your waist, and easily lifts you out of his lap and onto your feet.

“Bravo, watch the shop.”

Bravo barks as Simon grabs your coat off the couch and presents it to you, opening it up for you to slide your arms inside.

“Simon—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and you snap your mouth shut under his command, sliding your left and then right arm into your coat. Simon helps ease it over your shoulders, and then he walks off into what you guess is a back hallway. He returns with his own coat, tugging it on just as Bravo takes up position near the door.

There is no asking. Simon takes your hand and guides you to the door, ushing you out into the cold. The moment the door is shut, you see Bravo’s face appear in the window as he hops onto the couch.

Simon has not released your hand once, not even when he uses his free hand to lock up the shop. Dropping his keys into his pocket, Simon effortlessly pulls you into his side, releasing your hand to slide an arm around your waist.

The way Simon tucks you against him forces you to turn into him, to wrap one of your arms around his waist, to rest your head against his shoulder. For a moment—a brief flash—there is peace like this. It’s so natural to hold onto him. Even like this, everything is in place, as if you were always meant to occupy this spot.

Then, the two of you are walking down the street together like any other couple.

But are you a couple? Is this what it is? Or are you making it all up in your head, weaving a fabrication of what you desire versus the reality?

Simon snuggles a bit closer to you, and you immediately forget your trepidation. He is so goddamn warm, a buffer against the chilly autumn air.

It isn’t until the two of you come to the bakery you visited the other day that Simon untangles himself, leaning forward to open the door for you before you have the chance to. Inside, it is balmy. Freshly baked bread and sugar is in the air. It is heavenly, and you inhale deeply, allowing the sugar to saturated into your nostrils.

Simon is right there, guiding you toward the cases. You remember the croissants, and how crushed they were. You didn’t even get to enjoy it properly.

“Usual?” ask the woman behind the counter.

Simon nods, and she opens one of the cases, removing not one, not two, but three chocolate croissants. You look up at him, a question forming on your lips. Simon side-eyes you and shrugs.

“This one will have an American.” Simon indicates you with a quick tilt of his head. Your eyebrow arches, but Simon ignores it.

You cross your arms over your chest, turning toward him fully to ask him what it is he thinks he’s doing. But Simon still ignores you. He puts in an order for tea for himself, and then rattles off your coffee order.

How the fuck does he know that?

Simon digs around for his wallet but you’re already putting your hand on his arm. “You don’t need to.”

“I want to,” he replies, handing over some cash to the woman behind the counter. He puts the change into the tip jar, and then places his hand on your lower back. “Follow me. I know a spot.”

You surrender to him, allow Simon to take the lead. He escorts you to a set of stairs leading to a second level. You follow behind him, the stairs spitting the two of you out into a cozy space. It’s mostly sofas and armchairs with a few sparse tables, and there is no one else up here besides the two of you.

Simon guides you to the massive window at the far end of the room. There are two small lounge chairs and a table that face the large window. Simon takes off his coat and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs. You do the same.

“Sit here,” he instructs. “I’ll be back.”

“Yes, sir,” you mutter, not thinking Simon hears you. He grunts and pinches your butt.

“Ow,” you say in response even though it didn’t hurt. Your arm goes out to swat at him but Simon is already gone, taking massive steps toward the stairs.

You watch him go, sliding into the chair in front of you. It’s overcast today, and the traffic on the road is starting to pick up. Simon arrives minutes later carefully balancing two drinks and two plates. You stand to help him, arms outward to catch anything that might fall, but somehow Simon manages it, setting it all down on the table without issue.

You didn’t know the bakery sold made to order food. And staring down at the plate, you’re close to tears. It’s a classic American breakfast with all the fixings you could want. Since coming to England, you’ve missed it.

Looking down at the plate reminds you of all the times you, Evie, Jade, and Sam would go for breakfast food after a night of drinking. There are so many memories of the four you packed into a booth at Waffle House consuming cheap coffee and smothered hashbrowns. But this plate before you is much nicer than the cheap breakfast you’d consume still buzzed from whatever alcohol you’d been downing.

Simon’s plate has the three chocolate croissants on it, and it’s clear that they warmed them up because the chocolate inside is perfectly melted. Simon sighs happily as he takes a bite.

“Sweet tooth?”

Simon drinks his tea before he answers. “I like sweet things.”

“Like chocolate croissants?”

“Like you.”

Your fingers hover above your fork. Your face steams like a pot of boiling water. There is no reason to be this nervous, to be this on edge with him. This man has been inside you. This man understands how to make you melt in his hands.

“You’re teasing again,” you reply, finally picking up your fork and digging in.

“Am I?” he asks, tearing away another chunk of the croissant to pop into his mouth.

The eggs on your plate are perfectly fluffy and melt on your tongue. You don’t even need to use your knife to cut into your waffles. They part like butter.

You’re in a bakery, eating breakfast that Simon ordered for you, and you have no idea where to take this conversation. This is too real—too date-like, and while that twists your stomach into a knot, it is also an uplift of wind.

Simon didn’t need to do any of this, but he wanted to. There was no question whether or not you wanted to eat, Simon just took it into his own hands.

Because he wants to take care of you says a little voice in your head.

Simon’s words from yesterday show their colors again, waving them around in front of your eyes.

And what if I wanted it to be more? What if I still want it to be more?

You swallow down a syrup-coated bite of waffle and decide to change the subject.

“You promised that you’d fit me into your schedule,” you say.

“I did,” he agrees, the slightest bit of hesitation in his tone.

“Do you have a time or date in mind?”

Simon smiles against the rim of his tea mug before he takes a sip. “You tell me when and I’ll make it happen.”

“So if I wanted to do it now, you would?”

Simon doesn’t even hesitate. “I’d call my first client and reschedule.” He says it so easily, like it’s not an inconvenience to anyone, even though forcing someone else to move to make room for you seems entirely unfair.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” you murmur.

Simon sets the mug down on the table. “What if I want to do it? Does that not matter?”

“Of course it does,” you breathe. “I just don’t want to inconvenience anyone.”

Simon is already halfway through his second croissant. “You’re never that. Not to me.” He looks so serious, so upset that you’d even believe that about yourself.

“Do I book a consultation first?” you ask, trying to bring the conversation back to a lighter note.

“You can look through my portfolio when we go back. If you want.” Simon absently rubs at the back of his neck before stretching and resting one arm behind you on your chair. His fingers lightly brush against your spine.

He nods toward your plate. “Finish up and we’ll head back.”

Simon adjusts in the chair, his hips flexing slightly as he shifts. His gaze is out on the street, tracking every person and car. It’s odd. You recall him mentioning that he was military when the two of you first met, and perhaps this is just a habit.

You take your time, enjoying every bite, and when you’re done, Simon stands first, offering his hand before offering your coat. When it’s on, he checks you over. There are two worry lines that slice between his brow, but you’re unsure of what might be bothering him.

Should you ask? Would he even want you to? Simon has been open with you about what he wants, but not necessarily about himself. Those are pieces you don’t have. You don’t have a full picture of him. It is unclear, but you wish that it wasn’t. And you hope, with time, that Simon will open up, giving you those pieces of himself to hold within your heart.

With fingers intertwined, Simon escorts you downstairs. He stops at the counter to snag a large homemade dog treat from a glass jar before the two of you return to 141 Ink. Simon hands you the treat to give to Bravo, and the adorable German Shepard couldn’t be happier. His front paws joyfully dance against the floor, his entire butt moving with his tail as you remove the paper label from around the treat’s middle.

When you present the treat to Bravo, he doesn’t dive for it. He takes it gently from your hand and then promptly finds a spot in the window light, peacefully munching away at it.

“Here,” says Simon, offering a thick black book.

You take it with both hands, shifting the massive tome to one arm so that you can open the cover. It’s Simon’s official portfolio. The title page includes his credentials, contact information, and some stylized shots of his artwork. You flip the page, completely absorbed in the art before you. You don’t even realize how long you’ve been standing there staring down at the portfolio until Simon clears his throat.

“You can sit down.” He lightly lifts his arm in the direction of the sofa.

“Right,” you laugh, cradling the portfolio like it’s a precious gift and you don’t want to break it. You sink down onto the sofa and Bravo pads over, laying down next to your legs, resting his head on your feet.

Simon motions to the tattoo chair behind him. “I need to finish setting up.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about me.” You have your coffee, a foot warmer, and this beautiful book of art.

While Simon sets up, you take this moment to observe him in his natural element. He is so calm as he moves about the space. He’s efficient too, completely focused on the task at hand without looking rushed or stressed.

Bravo shifts, rolling onto his side. You reach down and scratch at the dog’s belly. When you return to the book, you’re lost in the color and talent, entirely absorbed in the artwork. Some of the photos are of actual tattoos while others are high-resolution photos of his artwork. Whether they’ve been sketched on paper or done digitally is unclear to you.

Regardless, Simon is talented. And you start to form an idea about where this talent came from. He’s ex-military. Did he have time on deployment to sketch? Did he ever carry a little notepad or sketchpad with him wherever he was in the world? It’s a sweet image, and one you’re achingly curious about.

“Simon.”

He immediately gives you all his attention. He sets down whatever it is he’s holding in his hand and walks over to you.

“You good?” he asks when he saddles up on the opposite of your legs from where Bravo lays. Delicately, he reaches out and runs his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Yes,” you say, flustered by the touch. “I had a question.”

He nods, indicating that you should ask.

“Did you make art while you were in the military?”

Simon shifts on his feet. “I did.”

He doesn’t say anything more, which is frustrating, but it’s something you want to know. So you push anyway.

“On deployment or…?” You trail off, hoping he takes it.

Simon shrugs. “Not really. My deployments were numerous but short term. Focusing on…covert assignments in classified locations.”

Short-term deployments? Covert assignments? Classified locations?

You frown. “Like American Special Forces?”

He shrugs. “They’re comparable.” It’s not the answer you wanted. But Simon must know this because he sighs and continues. “I created mostly on my time off, and sometimes on base if I was training new recruits. Had lots of time.”

“I see,” you reply softly, trying to imagine Simon curled up in a bunk late at night sketching away.

“See anything you like?”

Simon means in the portfolio but you can’t help thinking he means himself.

“It’s all amazing,” you murmur, flipping back through the pages. You point to several pieces that you particularly like. “But they don’t have to be like this. I’ll take whatever you come up with.”

Simon nods and takes the portfolio. “I can sketch up a few ideas, show them to you later. Start small and if you’d like more, I’ll add to it. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you nod. “It sounds wonderful.” Reluctantly, you push off from the sofa, and Bravo makes a muted sound in the back of his throat like he’s annoyed that you’d actually get up and disrupt his slumber.

“What do I owe you?”

Simon’s brow rises slightly. “Owe me?”

“It’s a consultation, isn’t it?”

Simon shakes his head. “Forget it.”

“Simon—”

“Not happening.”

“I need to do something for you.”

“You owe me nothing. Consider the tattoo a gift.”

You shake your head. “I can’t accept that.”

Simon shrugs. “You can.” He glances over at the clock and the middle of his brow creases. “My first customer will arrive soon.”

“Are you dismissing me?” You’re teasing him, and he knows it.

Simon steps into your space, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, keeping you in place. “You’re welcome to stay.”

You do long to stay, but there are so many things on your plate. Groceries is priority, especially since you’ll be staying with Amelia for a while. You’re not letting that woman pay for everything. You’ll be damned if you take advantage of such a sweet old lady.

“Probably better that I’m not a distraction,” you breathe, entirely on edge from how possessively he holds onto the back of your neck.

“Probably,” replies Simon, slotting his pelvis against yours. You feel the hard length of him and shiver. His other hand reaches for your hip, and you cannot do anything else but allow it, melting into his body as he pulls you close.

“One to keep me hanging?” he asks softly.

You smile, and push up the balaclava enough to press your lips to his. You go back to flat fleet. “So you can think about me all day.”

“Count on it.”

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[141shousewife]

You like movies? You wanna make one?

Minors DNI I WILL eat you.

ill make this another part if it does well

cw: nsfw, price x female reader, TA reader x Professor! Price, slight jealousy/arguing, filming, price x plus size reader

Johns voice echos inside of the linoleum lecture hall. You quietly listen to the scribbles of a red pen and the sound of his voice. Normally the sound from his auditorium during lectures is moderate, but today he is particularly chipper as his voice bleeds into the shared office you currently revise essays in.

"-Excellent! and what do you think the director is trying to convey with this wide frame shot?"

Your eyes continue to graze over the same words again and again: "Director" "Shot" "Film" "Cinematography" "Intention" "Audience"

You love your job, but reading first years' dull writing for over an hour and a half has your eyes and brain hurting.

Being John's TA had a lot of quirks; good pay, free snacks, and lots of academic validation that you will not expand on in front of your friends when questioned, and lastly the sharply dressed professor that lounges around and insists on your everlasting 'genius', and is admittedly fun to run your eyes over and imagine him slowl-

"ALRIGHT- that is going to wrap up our time for today, it's Friday so I don't want to keep you all. Remember to make good choices and turn in your makeups by 11:59 on Sunday. Okay, get outta here."

You rest your eyes and listen to the symphony of zipping backpacks, chairs being pushed in, and the different conversations of "i gotta turn in-" or "what are you doing this weekend-" quickly zip by the door of the closed office. You take a moment to settle into your rolling chair as you hear Price sending off students warmly. His brown suede dress shoes quietly grow louder as they hit the tile close and closer to the office door.

Price's office is cushy and expansive. There is enough room for more than the desk, rug, couch, and mini-fridge fill the space a subpar amount. The two desks that occupy the warmly lit, carpeted room are positioned across the room from each other. John's desk is littered with a desk lamp, books stacked on top of each other, a desk of pens and a closed cigar case.

As you hear the him begin to answer the last few questions from students while slowly opening the office door, you gather your materials and move to the couch and sit beneath the warm throw that adorns it.

The couch dips in on itself significantly and creaks under your wide bottom as you curse it for its announcement.

"Of course- and if you have any more questions feel free to email me."

The girl that you see him talking to- the sliver of her that you can see is smaller than you and blonde, she catches her hair in between two of her fingers and leans into his personal space.

"Could I come to your office for help on my essay, this Saturday, around say 6?

Not fully understanding what she is asking, he straightens out his back in concern and responds to her in a hushed tone.

"Do you not have a device in order to submit an email? If not the library is open from 9 am to 9 pm during the weekend."

She provides even less space for him and looks up with a smile.

"No Professor, I do, I just meant if I needed some... special help"

He maintains a warm demeanor but shuts her down

" I'm afraid not- My office hours are for working and if you make a comment like that again I am at liberty to report you to the dean, so I would suggest you leave now. Have a nice weekend."

He opens the door fully to enter and shuts it behind him and the blonde pads away quietly with less of her dignity than before. He rolls his eyes as he greets you.

"You can't make this stuff up. Flirting when she hasn't even turned in her essay on time. Bold."

You speak without fully thinking; wondering why Price is acting so insulted by a conventionally good looking girl shmoozing him. As he sets his laptop and other things on his desk you speak.

"She was a pretty girl John. It's not like its such a low blow."

John turns quickly quirks his head "You can't seriously be implying I would date some...kid? one of my students? She's not my type. "

You immediately jump to defend yourself with in hindsight- a bit too much gusto.

You say while sarcastically chuckling "I wasn't saying that! and come on it's just us, she- girls like her, are everyone's type."

John steps closer to where you are sat on the couch and looks down at you with his eyes furrowed and his hands in his pockets.

"Well she's not mine."

He reaches over on top of his desk a grabs a cigar, he quietly throws a "You mind?" over his shoulder and upon you responding "You're all good." he clips his cigar and lights it.

He turns around and steps closer as puffs it and he eyes you over.

His gaze is- uncomfortably intense, in a way that makes you wanna say sorry- or maybe start stripping...

He seems to catch wind of you being in thought.

"What do you care anyway?"

You look at him to respond but nothing comes out of your mouth as he sits the cigar down and steps closer to you until he's standing over you. His legs stand interlinked with yours and brushes them.

You feel something other worldly pull your body up to stand in front of him. You stare at him breathlessly and try to ignore the cinnamon, sandalwood and cigar smoke that's making you want to rub your-

John's voice pulls you out of another depraved thought

"I can't believe you think a girl like that is my type. I date women. Grown women. "

Your voice barely sounds like your own. You barely get the words out.

" I swear that wasn't what I meant. I just thought-"

John cuts you off "I know what you thought, you thought I was going to let you have a self deprecation fest, but I'm telling you that the women I want.. don't look, talk, or think like her. I don't want girls."

"I like women. Women who look, talk, and think like you." He toys with the bottom of your skirt in a way that makes your face grow warm, his hand brushing against your thick thigh.

You start to protest immediately, " You don't need to flatter me John, I'm sorry."

John starts speaking over you in frustration, "Why is it unbelievable that I would prefer you? I'm not flattering you. I'm not a liar or someone who compliments out of pity, you know what- here"

He huffs and grabs your wrist and places your hand directly over his khaki covered hard-on and whispers

"Does that feel like pity to you?"

As you stare at him dumbfounded, John's hand reaches up and holds the base of your skull with his large hand.

All of your breath re-enters your lungs like he just jump-started your entire system.

John looks at you with mischief you cannot quite place.

"How about I help you see how good you look?"

You track his gaze towards his Nikon and immediately look at him in horror.

"You wanna record me? No. Absolutely not. I look horrible on camera and you want to film my O-face and chubbiness from a side profile? You've lost it!"

"Honey, if you don't want to film because you're uncomfortable we can forget it right now, but if this is about the way your 'chubbiness' looks then I'm telling you that I wanna see this body. On me. On video."

[6saints]

Delicate

Yandere! Merman x Reader

18+ - gore and smut

Chapter two

—

It is in human nature to be deleterious. To be a cancerous leech plundering on the natural resources Earth had to offer. Human nature entails dominance over any being deemed inferior, to find amusement and comfort in the technology the big bad business men advertise. They are wolves selling a fallacy of hope to the selfish humans who pray for an advanced civilization; all while stuffing their pockets with gold and giving blessings to the sick.

That homeless man may have been right about the end of the world, or those hippies chaining themselves to trees or even those laughable metal straw ads everyone would skip. Had anybody listened to the fanatical people of the early 70's, perhaps the state of the earth would never have gotten so dilapidated. Magazines and newspapers were thrown out for billboards, projectors and little technological pockets of information. The news always the same, yet always afflictive to the weak little hearts of the people. Every day was a new animal, new country, new city being destroyed by one man made thing or the other.

That was how he was raised. To despise humans and their technology, the same filth congesting his oceans and killing any and all marine life.

His first encounter with humans had been just a decade ago. Fishing vessels weren't common near Silnich shores therefore, his entire childhood had gone relatively unoccupied. Socialization was rare, even amongst his own species, so when a Trawler spurred against empty waters the half-fish was naturally whelmed with vague interest.

It was a melancholy night; ashen clouds covering the darkness. The waters were desolate, a lonely ambience surrounding the waves and empty sky. Zero lights, he had thought to himself, his diaphanous tail swishing beneath himself. Occasionally, if he was lucky, yellow, red, purple and even blue dots would scatter behind clouds and a pale moon would situate itself at their side.

He recalled an old friend, a merman and traveller, had once mentioned calling them stars. That humans could see them up close, that they could dance and fly among them; a laughable notion considering only birds could do such a thing. Humans were widely regarded as stupid and rather begrimed; a soiled species responsible for the odd materials destroying underwater ecosystems. He never understood his friend's peculiar way of regarding them, almost as if with an admiration of sorts.

"Alright boys, what we catchin' today?" A loud, booming voice sounded atop the boat.

Two other voices had joined in, southern and thick. "How bout a shark?"

"Shut up, Randall," laughed one of the men, "Let's catch some fish fore' the boss rings our neck."

A thunderous whirring came from a machine attached to the boat, yellow and rusted with a net attached to the bottom. It sunk beneath the inky waters, the boy following after with pure curiosity. He noticed a school of fish swimming closer, their delicious forms becoming entrapped within the roped net and struggling to swim out. Their meager bodies flattened against each other, fins frantically fluttering back and forth in a futile attempt at escape.

Did humans also eat fish? He wondered.

He hadn't gotten a look at what the men's physical appearances were. How big are they that they need so much fish?

He swam closer, using his taloned fingers to scratch at a piece of the net, allowing for one of the fish to plop out into his webbed hand. Easy hunt, he thought to himself, swallowing the fish whole before reaching in to grab another.

This time, however, the whirring sound seemed to grow louder and the net began oscillating at a rapid rate. Before he could push himself away from the machine the net clasped around his tail and arm, forcing him into place with the rest of the fish surrounding him. He struggled, contorting his body forward and backward venturing to free himself.

SMACK!

All his sensitive skin could feel was a cold, damp metal beneath his limbs, fish jumping to and fro around him as the light from the boat blurred his vision. The slits in his eyes became thinner, almost nonexistent, when one of the men flashed something strikingly bright into his face. Two of the three voices now had a face and body, each distinct and rather ugly. The larger, burley man had no hair atop his head yet his arms were covered, a complete contrast to the smoothness of a mermaid's upper body. The one flashing an instrument in his face was rather lanky and petite, a beard cleanly growing across his chin and ending just above his collarbones. He couldn't find the third one, he didn't know if he even wanted to.

The bulky man had thin lips curled into an odd smile, like two sea worms bent in an odd angle, a tooth sticking out the side of his lip curiously. "What the hell am I looking at?" His voice was painful up close, the boy's finned ears twitching as they continued speaking.

"Certainly not a shark," the other whispered, a shocked expression painting his unkept features.

"Say, you a fuckin' mermaid?" He asked. The man took a thin metal rod and poked his tail.

"Mermaids are females, boss."

"Merboy?" He corrected himself sarcastically.

The fish-boy didn't speak, tightlipped and glaring at the men hovering above him. Occasionally, a frantic fish would slap him on his face.

"Well fuck me I guess." He rolled his eyes. "What should we do with it?"

"I don't know, boss, maybe we-"

A voice from behind the boy cut the lanky man off, "We make some money off of him."

He jerked his head back, staring wide-eyed at the new voice that had appeared. A light flashed, the man carrying a square box with a whitened piece of glass just over his eye. The third man, round and clean, looked like an office worker dressed up as a fisherman. "What?"

"You ain't hear me the first time?" He walked up to the boy, hands pulling at his tail just to check for any hint of falsehood. He growled at him, exposing two rows of sharpened teeth, the canines especially long. "Woah!" He stumbled back before recomposing himself. "How much money you think people would pay to see a mermaid?"

"It's a boy."

"Same thing." He shrugged.

"Probably a lot," the bigger man muttered, pondering for a moment. "What you say bout' bringin' him with us?"

"Where we gonna put him?"

"I can free up space in one of the barrels back at the yard. Some water should keep it alive." The lanky man walked closer to the boy, bending forward with a confidence only an idiot could sport. "You got lungs, right kid?"

These are the things that can fly like birds? He bitterly laughed to himself, as if!

The fish-boy hoisted himself up, lunging at the man and just barely grazing his left shoulder. His tail caught on the net, forcing his body back into the metal floor brutally.

"Shit!" The man whimpered, clutching into his shoulder feverishly. "The kid's got a bite to him."

"Grab the extra netting from the back." Ordered the hairy man immediately, that odd smile of his disappearing into a frown.

The men began tying him up, repulsed expressions covering their faces as they got a closer look at the struggling being. He was snarling, animalistic eyes wanting nothing more than to kill them for touching him with their filthy human hands. These men are exactly as the stories portrayed them! Absolutely abhorrent and disgusting!

Unfortunately for him, these men were massive, towering at 6 feet.

Mermen on the other hand didn't reach full maturity until age 20 and the majority of their size would come from the length and girth of their tail, not their upper bodies. Though, he imagined he would look significantly better than these rotten humans once he did reach adulthood.

He glanced at the fish and then at the hairy man. He was the one that would put up the most fight, he figured. The lanky one was weak and rather easy to overpower and the round one was a coward. If he could get rid of the one threat he would be free to escape.

"Please don't hurt me," he blurted, skin paling further and his body forcing a shiver.

"The little shit speaks!" The lanky man laughed.

"Aye kid, we're not gonna hurt you, sailor's promise." His target stepped forward.

Just a little more, he thought.

"I'm sorry for scratching you," he looked up at the men, big doe eyes pricking with non existent tears.

His new bald headed prey walked forward again, kneeling down and holding out a fish. He wondered if he was overselling the helpless child trope a bit too much, recalling how orcas would do something similar in the wild.

Whatever the case was, the man was within reach. He extended his webbed fingers, slow and innocent-like, but instead of grabbing the puffed fish he imbedded his talons into the man's eyes, pulling him on top before quickly searching his pockets for anything that would free him.

The men behind were bellowing out curses and shouts, petrified of the scene in front of them. As he suspected, the larger man ran back to the edge of the vessel, whitened knuckles grasping onto the metal in a horrified state. His fingers prodded and poked until something sleek and flat made contact with his palm. He fumbled with the edges of a strangely ornate and intricate design, swirls of flowers and odd vinery leading to a sharpened edge.

Just in time too, considering his friend, though weak, had garnered the courage to defend his crew imperishably.

He pushed the man's body forward, tripping the other while he made his escape over the edge of the boat, both screaming incoherently about one scary thing or the other. The boy allowed his no longer confined body to sink to the bottom of the ocean. He could still view the top clearly and hear the men's belting, unlike the darkness and comforting silence the ocean usually offered him. Their voices began to wane, signaling their exit. He was exhausted, hurt, and dejected.

And this interaction only proved to him the cruelty that human beings harbored within themselves.

Since that day, humans never made an appearance on Silnich waters again. Perhaps he had instilled a fear into them, a sense of self preservation that he knew only a selfish human could harbor. The humans must have warned the others, fed them stories about the attack of a crazed sea monster, who was really just a scared boy.

He was 24 now, a grown merman protective of the colony he had single-handedly protected. The fish were his to eat, the sharks and dolphins were his to play with, and the sky was entirely his to look at.

Until it wasn’t.

“Slow down you crazy child..”

The melodic harmonies began playing a soft tune.

“Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while...”

It was a male singing, perhaps a siren? Though he had never met a male siren before.

“It's alright, you can afford to lose a day or two...”

The closer he swam to the shore, the more he could pick up on other voices.

“When will you realize…”

And there they were, long limbs swaying cautiously against each other, dull teeth hidden behind soft smiles and innocent laughter. Their feet were hidden within the ocean despite the light splashing.

And there she was, (h/l) (h/c) hair bouncing idly and her fingers interlacing with another of her species. She was rather beautiful, he thought for only a moment.

“Vienna waits for you...”

More humans came running into the water, two males and a female. And the merman's hazy thoughts were replaced with something more sinister.

Intruders, he told himself, in my waters.

[peterman-spideyparker]

The Roommate and The Best Friend (College!Matt Murdock x College!Fem!Reader)

Author’s Note: Long time, no post, guys! I do apologize for going silent on the fic front--I’ve just been so tired lately, I haven’t had the motivation to really edit anything I’ve written. BUT, my sweet baby angels, this is the longest stand alone fic I’ve ever done! It also took forever to edit, lol. I really hope you guys enjoy! :)

Summary: You’ve been Foggy’s best friend since you two could walk. Matt’s been Foggy’s best friend since he moved in at Columbia. After three years at law school all together, you’re all as thick as thieves. When Foggy doesn’t show up one day to a study session, something blossoms between you and Matt that will change the ecosystem of your friendship trio forever.

Warnings: Fluff (friends to lovers, cuteness, cuddles, kisses), angst (shouting, friendship fights, hurt feelings), smut (p in v, protected sex, blowjob, handjob, being cute dorks when a matching set is involved), swearing

Other Characters: College!Foggy Nelson

Word Count: 8.081

“At what point do you think we can officially say Foggy isn’t coming?” you sigh, flipping the page in your notebook and highlighting what is written in accordance to your study system.

Matt lets out a breath through his nose as his fingers move to feel at the braille surface of his watch. “An hour ago?” he smirks, resuming his own work. 

“Eh, I guess I should have seen that coming.”

“How so?”

“All boys are the same when they start relationships, especially when they reengage the on-again. Knowing Foggy and Marci, they’re doing some weird sort of sex-study review game.” You shudder at the memory. “You’re lucky you’re blind, Matty. You can’t unsee that.”

“Trust me, I think it’s worse to only hear,” he chuckles. 

“Ew, don’t even remind me of the sound!”

Matt just laughs, his fingers sliding across the page.

“Hey, get back to studying, Chuckles,” you chastise, smiling big yourself as you move back to your notes. “Rule 24 of Federal Civil Procedure won’t learn itself.”

“Rule 24. Intervention. Intervention of Right: On a timely motion, the court must permit anyone to intervene who—.”

“Shut up,” you scoff playfully, hitting his shin underneath the table. “Show off.”

You go back and forth, quizzing one another on the rules of civil procedure in the unit, adjusting in the library chairs until you’re leaning shoulder to shoulder going over material, Matt having abandoned his braille textbooks to listen to you read to him.

“You have a really beautiful voice, you know that?” Matt hums, his voice dipping into a velvety timbre.

“You’re just lazy,” you chuckle as you tilt your head and gaze over at him. “Getting me to do all the work.”

“Delegating,” he attempts.

“Laziness,” you counter.

“You do better when do explain things. You’ve said so yourself. And I’m a great listener.”

You purse your lips and let out a little sigh. “I do do better when I talk out loud,” you admit.

“You also always find your answer when you do.”

“And I do like talking to you.”

“I rest my case,” he says with a satisfied smile.

“Asshole.”

You laugh in your little secluded spot in the library, your shoulders shaking against one another’s as you do. You tilt your head to face him, Matt doing the same thing at the same time, his dark rectangular glasses long abandoned, letting you look into the honey hazel galaxy of his irises. 

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice making a warmth spread all over your body.

“Hey yourself, Murdock,” you counter.

“You’re gonna be a really great lawyer, you know that?”

You feel yourself blush. If it’s from the sentiment of his words, the pitch that he says it, or your proximity, you’ll never know. Maybe it’s all three. You’re just glad he can’t see the full extent of how his words make you feel.

“Thanks, Matty. You’re gonna be great, too. I pity whoever will have to go against you in court.”

“You are so extraordinary, (Y/N),” he whispers, his thumb and forefinger taking ahold of your chin, the space between the two of you smaller than you remember.

“So are you,” you breathe.

“(Y/N), I—."

“I think we’re just getting tired,” you breathe as his lips hover centimeters from yours. 

“No, I think we’re picking up on something that’s been here for a bit,” he counters, his voice at such a low pitch it does things to the heart in your chest and the heart between your legs.

But this is Matt you’re talking about. He’s your friend. He’s Foggy’s friend, his roommate. Sure, people can bond with their roommates, but it was almost like something out of a buddy-comedy with what happened with those two, and it was instantaneous.

You shuffle and maneuver around everyone in the hallway, moving furniture and supplies into their homes for the next year as you track down the number that is your best friend’s new address.

“Alright, Foghorn, boxes have been unpacked, and liquor needs to be poured!” you call as you glide through the entryway, the door left ajar. When you enter, you don’t see anyone in sight. Did you get the wrong number? No, that’s not it: unless someone else has some interest in really niche bands and the same quilt his mother knit him for Christmas in undergrad, you’re definitely in the right place. The social butterfly of a teddy bear man probably bonding with his roommate or something.

Just as you flop down on what his definitely Foggy’s bed, you hear his laugh and the tapping of something growing closer to the dorm.

“ . . . and I said, ‘No, Mom and Dad. I love you guys, but I don’t want to be a butcher, I want to be a lawyer,” Foggy recalls his infamous butcher story, his words becoming clear as they enter.

“Not the butcher story!” you interrupt, sitting right back up like a vampire in its casket, watching Foggy enter with a handsome man next to him, his brown hair floppy and shiny, dark rectangular glasses perched on his nose and a white cane in the hand that isn’t holding his coffee. “You got coffee without me? Rude.”

“Jesus, (Y/N)!” Foggy hisses, almost slipping his to go cup of coffee in the process.

“Sounds like a pretty famous tale,” the man next to him says with an amused smirk pulling across some particularly pouty lips. Really pretty pouty lips.

“Matt, this is (Y/N), my best friend since toddledom,” Foggy introduces, licking some of the roast that escaped the sip hole of the lid. “(Y/N), this is my roommate, Matt. His dad was Battlin’ Jack Murdock.”

Getting up, you move over to in front of where he stands by Foggy, watching how he adjusts the cane in his grip to under his arm, extending his hand just enough where it looks expectant for yours.

“It’s nice to meet you, Matt,” you tell him with a soft smile. 

“Likewise,” he says with a little nod.

“I have to say, my gram was a big fan of your dad. She loved watching his matches.” He acknowledges your comment with a nod of his head and a little, soft smile. “You know, you lucked out on your roommate. Foggy’s the best friend you could ever ask for. You might need to get some earplugs, though, he snores like a Foghorn.”

“Do not!” Foggy interjects.

“He’s still in phase one denial of the whole thing. Really, sometimes, I think he could wake the dead with that sound.”

Matt’s lips curl into an incredibly large smile with a warm laugh that matches the expression.

And, well, the rest his history, with the three of you being thick as thieves since that day.

“This can’t happen,” you breathe, swallowing hard while your head and heart race a million miles a minute. “Foggy is my best friend—he’s your best friend. We can’t.”

“I know,” he breathes. “That doesn’t mean I want to, though. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you want to, too.” He pushes some hair that has fallen out of your clip behind your ear. “Would it . . . Would it really be the worst thing?”

Your eyes flick down to his lips and how is tongue peeks out ever so slightly to moisten the plush skin before back up to his honey hazel eyes and their off-center gaze, his face softer and more vulnerable without the dark specks resting on his nose. 

“This kind of stuff can ruin friendships. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to hurt Foggy.”

“I don’t want any of that either. But I also know that I don’t want to go another moment without kissing you.”

It’s unclear if you’re the one that closes the gap between you or if it’s Matt, but before you know it, you’re kissing in your little corner of the library. His lips are as soft as they look, perhaps even more so, and his aftershave floods your nose—crisp and fresh, a subtle blend of sandalwood, vanilla, and coffee pulling you closer and closer into him. His large hands slide down the sides of your body, squeezing your waist, making you moan into his mouth. The sound encourages him to lift you up, placing you so you straddle one of his legs. As the kiss grows more heated, your fingers running through his incredibly soft hair, you pull back, your chest rising and falling rapidly. 

“Are you okay?” Matt asks softly, his hands running up and down your body soothingly.

“Extremely,” you breathe with a bright smile.

Matt smiles so bright he could outshine the sun, lines of happiness etching themselves into the skin by his eyes as he leans back in for a kiss. His hands continue to move mindlessly along your waist and your back, his fingers grazing the hem of your shirt and sneaking underneath the soft fabric, making goosebumps break out over your body with a shudder.

“Isn’t it a bit of a cliché to do that in the library, Matthew?” you whisper in his ear as he trails wet kisses along your neck, your entire body tingling at your position and the way he moves against your body.

“Only if we get caught,” he smirks, moving his face back so it’s focused in your direction.

“I’m taking that as code for you can attest to that from experience?”

“It was a close call, never a red-handed situation.”

“Mm, you true gentleman.”

You watch as Matt’s brows shoot up and furrow, some of the energy leaving him as his demeanor beings to change. “Do you not want to? We don’t have to. I—.”

“I want to, Matt,” you tell him, your cheeks burning hot at your own admission. “Do you?”

“I do. I wouldn’t have kissed you like that if I didn’t want to. Unfortunately, I didn’t think it through all the way—we can’t go back to my dorm. Foggy is probably there.”

“We could go back to mine?” you suggest, your heart now fully racing like a marathon runner. “I have a dingle.”

“Dingle?” Matt repeats with furrowed eyebrows and pouty lips.

“A double that’s now a single since my roommate dropped out.”

“A dingle.”

“A dingle, yeah.”

Matt brings his lips back to your, his kisses needily and tenderly in your isolated corner of the library. 

“So, is that a yes, Murdock?”

The wicked grin that pulls as his lips tell you everything you need to know, and he doesn’t even bothering to use his cane as you lead him to your dorm on campus.

As soon as the door to your place is closed, your lips reattach and your hands work in a frenzy against one another’s bodies, desperately trying to get the clothes off of one another. Your hands slide over his muscular arms and torso until they are buried in his hair, the only thought in your brain is that you need to get him deeper and closer—a thought that continues on loop for the time you’re together.

The feeling of Matt’s lips on yours is made so much better after the orgasms that he has pulled from your body over and over during the night, but you’ll be damned if he stops now. A thin sheen of sweat covers your bodies as Matt continues to rut into you, one hand on your waist while the other supports his body weight on the mattress, kissing your shoulders and neck while his little wooden crucifix swings back and forth around his neck.

“Matt,” you groan before you pull him up for a kiss, his hair an absolute disheveled mess. It’s sloppy and filled with need, but damn if it isn’t absolutely impeccable.

“Do you have one more in there for me, angel?” he pants as he moves his kisses across your cheek to the sweet spot of your neck. “Come on, angel, you can cum one more time, can’t you?” All you can do is whimper as Matt continues to wind up that special knot in your stomach. “You’re doing so good. One more, I promise. Just one more.”

Hiking up your legs around his waist, you make sure the Matt’s hips stay as close to yours as possible, selfishly letting him rub up against your swollen, overstimulated clit, and ensuring that he’s nice and deep in you. The little grunts and groans that fall from Matt’s lips are angelic, the parted, plush lips and scrunched look of bliss on his face making your heart race more than it already is from exertion.

“Matty,” you whine. “Fuck!”

“Doin’ good, angel. Fuck, so good.”

Biting your lip and closing your eyes, you let the feeling wash over you while you dig your fingers into his toned muscles.

“I’m gonna . . . I—.”

“M-Me too,” he moans, dropping to his forearm to come closer to you as you try to hold your legs back higher. The newfound closeness and the new position let’s Matt reach a new angle, and it’s enough for the both of you to fall over the edge together. Matt does his best to try and fuck you through both of your orgasms, but it’s too much, and he stills, his hand running all over your body as he dips his head and presses soft kisses to your neck and lips. You suck in a sharp breath as he pulls out, feeling hollow without him in you, the drag of his length along your walls enticing. Tying up the condom, he tosses it in the trash while you get up and pad over to the bathroom. When you get back, you see him waiting with a dopey smile on his face, the sheets draping over his hips like some kind of adonis. When you get close enough, he pulls back your sheets and you happily slide in, snuggling close as he wraps an arm around you.

“You’re good at that,” you hum. “I think you’d gold medal.”

Matt laughs as his fingers trace patterns into your skin. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

“We can’t go back from that, you know,” you say softly.

“Who says I want to go back from it?” He shifts his head down in an effort to look at your face. You look back at him with furrowed brows. “I want to be more, (Y/N).”

“Matt,” you start. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to lose you or Foggy. If we do this and it doesn’t work . . . I lose the two most important people in my life.”

“I swear to you, (Y/N), you won’t lose either of us.”

You snuggle down on him, listening to his heartbeat before you peck a quick kiss to his chest. “I want more, too.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. I promise.” Matt runs a soothing hand up and down the line of your back.

“What are you thinking about?” he whispers.

You let out a little sigh. “Just that I thought I was supposed to be wined and dined before I was sixty-nine’d.”

Matt lets out a chuckle that radiates throughout your body. “We didn’t—.”

Before he can finish, you tilt your head up to look at his face, witnessing the moment that it clicks in his brain. “Classy,” he laughs.

“I’m just saying . . .”

“I can order pizza? I just don’t think I can do booze to go.”

“Who says you need to bring the booze?” Rolling over, you reach into the bottom drawer of your nightstand and pull out a bottle of wine. “From the special movie night reserve.”

Matt’s lips turn into a big smile, making adorable lines appear again at the corners of he eyes as he leans forward for another kiss, making you loose grip on your bottle of wine. He catches it with ease, placing it to the side of the bed as he chases your lips, and the way he captures your body beneath his lets you know that he doesn’t plan for the night to end any time soon.

Your leg bounces and your heart races as your eyes keep flicking towards the clock on the desk, watching the second hand move painfully slow across the timepiece as you await Matt’s arrival like you do several times a week, except this time, you have a surprise for him. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest when you hear a gentle knock at the door. There’s no special pattern to it, but the pressure and rhythm lets you know that Matt is on the other side. His handsome smile greets you when you swing your door open.

“Hey,” you smile as Matt enters your dorm, his bag sliding off his broad shoulders to the ground, cane leaning up against the wall, and glasses coming off of his face as he toes off his shoes.

“Hey yourself,” he hums as his plush lips curl upward into a smile, slipping his arm around your waist and pulling you in for a kiss. The way his tongue slides into your mouth sends goosebumps all throughout your body; if anyone else tried to kiss you like this, you would consider it absolutely gross. But the way Matt does is? That’s how a man kisses—a man that’s on the cover of a romance novel that is dominant but tender, passionate yet gentle. A shudder of pleasure moves through you like shockwaves as he moves his hands up from your waist and up to your neck, helping him set the pace and motions of the kiss.

“I have a surprise for you,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, getting the sentence out just before he begins to eagerly move back in.

His eyebrows quirk up. “Do you, now?” Cocky bastard.

“I do. Now, sit on the bed.”

With a gentle push on his shoulder, he falls back on the mattress, making him coo in delight as he bounces slightly and causes the springs to squeak. With a little exhale to pump yourself up, you pull off your shirt and slide down your jeans, standing in nothing but your underwear.

“You know I can’t see it, angel,” Matt says with a tilt of his head. “But I do like what I just heard.”

“You don’t need to see it to appreciate it, Matty,” you inform, taking a step forward, taking his hands in yours and placing them on your shoulders. “Now, feel.”

This fingers glide over the soft lace that flutters off of the straps, down to the smooth mesh cups, and over the sides, tracing the lace and the pseudo-boning that decorate the bustier. His fingertips trace between the valley of your breasts, feeling a little criss-cross pattern that adorns the fabric before gliding his fingers down the the mesh panties and feeling the same soft lace that decorated it. A tiny moan escapes your lips when he brushes his fingers down between your legs, his digits lingering before they come to rest on your hips. 

“You got a matching set for me?” he asks, his expression and tone one that you can’t quite read.

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, Murdock, it’s from Target,” you hum as his hands trace the hemline of your panties. “But yeah. I thought you’d like the textures being consistent. And, I could afford it, so, that was a perk.”

“You got lingerie for me,” he smirks, his lopsided grin telling you that you’ve only inflated his ego. “That’s so—.” His sentence his halted when his fingers trail to the back of the underwear, just below the small of your back. “Angel, I think you’re missing part of these panties.”

Now it’s your turn to smirk. “Nope,” you tell him, popping the ‘p’. “It’s got a little keyhole back. It’s not quite easy access, but—mm, Matty.”

“I say, it gives me a good idea,” he says as one hand squeezes the flesh of your ass as the fingers on the other slip into the keyhole and tease you. Pulling you back onto the bed with him, you straddle him as you mimic the kind of kiss he greeted you with upon arriving. Moans and puckering quickly fill the room as you grind your hips on his jeans, opting to tease him through his light layers before attempting to shed them.

“You are such a fucking tease,” he murmurs in between kisses.

“Hi pot, it’s kettle,” you quip as you mark up his neck before pulling off his shirt. If you didn’t right this second, you’d never hear the end of it.

“Objection—badgering!”

“Overruled.”

With a light shove, you push him down so you are now fully on top of him, kissing all over his beautiful chest and soft skin as you grind into him.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Fuck, that’s nice.”

“You’ve helped me perfect my technique,” you hum into his skin, moving your kisses back up to his neck and lips. “Gotta get you nice and hard for me, Matty.”

As you continue to grind down on him, his hands guide your hips, setting the pace and pressure just so in an effort to make you both feel good. When his hands begin to travel up on your body along the line of your spine, you gently take hold of them and bring them back down.

“I got the matching set for you—it’s staying on during this entire thing,” you smirk, dragging his fingers along the mesh and lace of your panties. “Now, I can’t say the same thing about these jeans.”

Moving off of him, you undo his belt and pants, shimmying off the denim with some help from his hands, allowing you to take hold of his painfully hard cock, pumping it in your hand before you bend down, your knees digging into the thin mattress so you can start to take him in your mouth.

“(Y/N),” he moans. “Fuck . . . So nice, baby.”

“Mm,” you giggle, dragging your lips back and forth along his length, licking him here and there. “Your cock is so pretty, Matty. I love putting it in my mouth.” Slowly going down on his length, you wiggle your head side to side lightly until you’re all the way down on his length with your cheeks hollowed out. You look up at him through your lashes, feeling a sense of pride at how is face is contorted in pleasure and how long his lashes look resting on his cheeks. Moving off of him, you gasp and catch your breath, hungrily kissing up his length while one of his hands cradle the side of your face. His hand doesn’t set a pace as you bob your head, repeatedly taking his thick cock into your mouth over and over, but rather as a silent show of encouragement and affection as you work him. Careful to not get too lost in it all with Matt in your mouth, you reluctantly pull off, leaving soft pecks all the way up his body until you meet his lips.

“Are you ready to fuck me with my panties on, Matty?” you coo.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he murmurs with his lips against your. Taking you by surprise, he quickly grabs you by your hips and flips your positions, making you giggle and bring his lips back to yours for a deep kiss. Like a rehearsed routine, he extends his arm to the side and opens your nightstand drawer, rummaging around for the box of condoms you keep there. “Angel,” he pants, “I hate to break it to you, but there are no more condoms in this box.”

“What?” you say practically whining as you adjust your position under Matt, taking the investigation into your own hands. Just as Matt said, the box of contraceptives is completely empty. This time, you do whine. “No!”

“I told you.”

“I could have sworn I had plenty.”

“You know what it was?” he says, something clicking in his brain. “Moot court championship.”

Thinking back to a couple of weeks ago, you remember exactly how you celebrated the travel team winning your championship over Yale—you and Matt being the two that secured the victory, which only provided extra cause to celebrate.

“Damn, you’re right,” you sigh.

“I could always run out and get some more? I’d be quick.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear,” you joke, only for Matt to roll his eyes, licking his lips and tilting his head back in playful annoyance. Damn, he’s got a beautiful neck. “No, Matty. I don’t want you going out this late.

“It’s not too late, sweetheart.”

“I’d be worried about you going out in the dark.”

“That’s sweet—you worry about me.” Nothing in his words are condescending—they’re filled with pure affection. “Trust me, (Y/N). I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”

“I still don’t like the idea of you going out.”

Matt kisses your forehead before resting his on yours. “I have an idea, but I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” you say, knowing immediately where he is going with his sentence.

“Well, since you don’t want me to go out and get some more and I really, really need to be inside the smart and talented woman that bought a matching set for me, we’re in a pickle.”

You let out a huff, your hands sliding down Matt’s furry arms.

“Foggy isn’t there?” you check.

“Out with Marci.”

“And you’re sure there’s no way he’d be back?”

“I can say it’s highly likely he won’t be back. Even if he does—.”

“Matt—.��

“Even if he does,” he repeats. “He’s gonna leave almost immediately because his roommate is having sex.”

“And if he asks with who after? Actually, better yet, what if he tries to come and hang out with me?”

“Tell him you’re out shopping. You and I both know that while he’s a man of unique fashion, he treats shopping like a mission. Trust me, that should work.”

You look up at him, licking your lips in hesitation before you pull him down for a kiss. “Okay. But first . . .” Maneuvering him on the two pushed together mattresses of your dingle so you’re on top, you run your hands down his body, wrapping your digits around his rock hard length and pumping him a few times. “You’re not going anywhere with a boner that big.”

“Matt,” you breathe as he glides into me so incredibly effortlessly, hitting deep over and over. “Oh God, Matt.”

“Angel,” he grunts, a delicious blush spreading up and across his chest and neck. “Fuck, I needed you.”

“You’ve got me,” you smile, taking one of his hands in yours, lacing your fingers together while he thrusts into you. “Mm, you’ve got me, Matty. I’m yours. Only yours. ’m not going anywhere.”

The softest smile spreads across his features when he rests his forehead on yours. “My girl,” he whispers before bringing his lips to yours.

Dipping his lips to your neck, his holds your hips up so your back arches slightly off of the bed while he thrusts into you.

“Matty,” you whimper. “I lo—mm! Matt!”

Matt places wet kisses all over your chest and neck before he brings his lips back to yours. 

“So perfect,” he mutters in between kisses, and it’s then that you hear the twist and jiggle of the doorknob.

Matt abruptly breaks your embrace, frantically moving to cover your body with his, and you curl inward and down to the mattress, facing the wall so Foggy won’t be able to see your face.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Foggy says, and you can hear his hurried movements to grab what he needs. “Inopportune timing, I know, but Marci invited me on a weekend getaway, and I need some things.”

“Just hurry,” Matt urges him, and you can tell that the rapid way that his chest rises and falls isn’t from your interrupted exertion. “Please.”

“Don’t worry, I am out of—,” Foggy starts, but he doesn’t finish his sentence. “Those are (Y/N)’s shoes.”

“What would her shoes be doing in our room, Foggy? She can’t just leave them places —she kind of needs them. Besides, I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

You hear Foggy’s bag fall to the floor with a thud.

Shit.

“Matt, who’s with you?”

“Foggy—.”

“You know, I think I might just give (Y/N) a call. Check up on her.”

“Fog—.”

“Wait,” you sigh, closing your eyes in distress and defeat as you break your silence. Adjusting from under Matt, you turn to look at your friend. The look of pure betrayal and hurt is one that will haunt you for the rest of your life. But what’s even scarier, is how quickly the hurt in his eyes turns to pure, red-hot anger.

“Get away from them!” Foggy shouts, pulling Matt off the bed, Matt barely having enough time to react and keep his sheets around his hips. “Don’t you dare touch them!” You hop down from the mattress, standing between the two best friends and roommates, sticking your arms out to create extra distance in the tiny dorm so Foggy doesn’t absolutely jump Matt.

“Stop it!” you urge.

“I can’t believe you!” Foggy continues.

“Foggy, believe me, we didn’t mean for this to happen, it just did—,” Matt tries.

“You know how much they mean to me, and you just decided to ignore it and drop your pants for a quick fuck—!”

“Hey, whoa, out of line, Foggy!” you interrupt. “Don’t put this on Matt like that, we both—.”

“I’m not talking to him, I’m talking to you!” he clarifies. “You know that Matt is my best friend, and you go and do this? How could you? I can’t believe you! After all the things I’ve told you, about how his is with women—.”

“Hey!”

“—how could you be so careless and reckless?”

“Excuse me—.”

“I thought you were smarter than this! I can’t believe you!”

“Foggy—.”

“I can’t even look at you. Just get out of here!”

Tears burn at my lash line as I let his words absorb into me. 

“Get out!” he repeats, the level and tone of his voice something I am thoroughly unused to. “I never want to see you again.”

You would’ve rather he just sent an open-faced slap across your face. His words and his tone cut you like a knife and are worse than any other pain you have or could ever experience. Mixed with his glare more than confirm that my best and oldest friendship has now been severed in half with no chance of reconciliation.

“Fog—,” Matt starts quietly, breaking the deathly silence in the room.

“I’m going,” you say after a moment, grabbing the clothes you can find. You don’t really care that they are Matt’s sweats—you just want to get out as fast as you can. Throwing them on and grabbing your bag, you begin to rush out of the room, only for Matt to take a few steps out to follow you.

“(Y/N)—,” he says softly, his beautiful hazel eyes desperately trying to focus on your face as his tongue darts out ever so slightly on his lips.

“I’ll see you later, Matty,” you tell him with a kiss to his cheek, as he holds your hand feet away from his door in the empty hallway.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze.

You squeeze it back. “No. It won’t.”

“How mad is he still?” you ask quietly as lie with Matt in bed, unable to stand the silence in the room that allows your thoughts to run wild, ramping up your anxiety over the friendship that you lost. Foggy was true to his words when he said he never wanted to see you again—he has cut you off cold in every way imaginable, from changing his route from dorm to class, to finding a new coffee shop and time to eat in the mess hall, to changing his seat in class to the other side of the room, and even going as far as to request a new partner for a project, erasing every possible venue where you could interact.

“He’s still really upset about it all,” Matt sighs. “He’s talking to me. It’s not exactly the same degree as it was, but it’s enough where we are moving back to what we were. It’s still awkward sometimes, though.”

“Does he know that we’re still together?”

“He does.” Matt pauses for a long while, his arm rubbing up and down your arm as if he’s listening to your silent question that screams through the dorm room. “We don’t talk about relationships, though.”

You let your breath hitch in your chest while your jaw tightens, a fresh wave of guilt that you haven’t felt in a long time washing over you. “I’m sorry that I’ve made things weird between you guys,” you whisper on the verge of tears.

“It’s not your fault, (Y/N).”

You snuggle down into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. “Sure as hell feels like it.”

“He’ll move past it. It’s just gonna take time. Before you know it, it’ll be back to how it was.”

“It won’t be the same, Matt. You know that it won’t. Especially after all these months . . . it’s dead and gone and buried.”

“It will be okay, (Y/N).” When you don’t respond, Matt moves his hands down your body and situates you so you’re sitting on top of him, the covers pooling around your waist and leaving you exposed to the cold winter air that seeps in through the old windows of the dorm. “I promise you, (Y/N), that it will all be okay. And you know how I know? You and Foggy have the biggest hearts of everyone I know. There’s so much love in there, and there’s so much love that you have for one another. So when I tell you that it’s going to be okay, it will be okay.”

You give him a small smile, leaning down and taking his face in your hands, giving him a soft and sweet kiss.

“Thanks, Matt,” you whisper, brushing his hair off of his forehead.

“Hey, I know what will get that smile to grow.” With his hands on your hips, he begins to rock you back and forth along his leg, holding you down, placing just the right amount of pressure down on your hips to create the friction that you need between your legs.

“Dick,” you chuckle as he guides you along his strong, muscular leg.

“You gotta give him a minute before it’s good for either of us,” he hums, only making you laugh more. “But I got you to smile.”

“You always make me smile, Matty.”

“Ditto, angel.”

Your room fills with the slick sound of your core against his leg and your heavy breathing, the sounds only getting louder as your pace increases.

“Right there,” you breathe as he guides your hips on his thigh, soaking the skin that’s there and creating a mess between your legs. “Fuck, Matty. It’s so fucking good, baby.”

“Grab a condom, angel,” he moans. “Fuck, I gotta get in you soon. Need you, angel.”

Twisting around quickly, you go to reach for the box in your nightstand. However, you twist too quick, losing your balance and teetering off of Matt’s thigh, crashing down on the concrete floor of your dorm, your arm breaking the fall. You groan in pain, muffling the sound by keeping your mouth shut as it tries to escape your lungs, and you hold onto your forearm, a throbbing pain radiating from deep down.

“(Y/N), are you okay?” Matt asks you as he gets out of the bed and helps you up.

“Fine,” you grit through your teeth. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine.” You wince when his hand grazes your arm. “(Y/N)—.”

“I’m okay. I just whacked my arm real good.”

“It sounded like more than that. Take the word of a blind man with really good hearing. It’s more than a whack.”

“Matty, it’s okay.”

“You really should get it checked out. It might be broken.”

“It’s not broken, Matt, trust me. Nothing Advil and ice can’t fix.”

“Sweetheart, please. That way, we can know for sure.”

“Matty—.”

“I’ll foot the bill.”

“It’s not about money, I—.”

“Go for me. It’ll make me feel better to know that a medical professional says you’re fine,” he continues. “Please, angel.”

You let out a sigh, taking in how concerned he is and how soft his features are.

“You’re gonna have to help me get dressed,” you concede.

“It’s gonna be a while,” you tell Matt as you sit back down next to him in the waiting room.

“But the forms are filled out,” he says with a little smirk. “One step down.”

“I’m telling you, Matt, it’s probably nothing.”

“And then you can rub it in my face. But at least I’ll feel better knowing you’re all right.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have an uncomfortably sore back.”

“C’mere,” he whispers, having you adjust and snuggle into his chest as you sit in the stiff, flat seats. “I always feel better when you’re on me—it’ll cancel out the shitty chairs.”

You chuckle softly, finding the sweet spot that you love to curl into. “You’re a good pillow, you know that?”

“You might have told me once or twice before.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head while he throws his coat over you like a blanket. The motion immediately brings the sleep creeping at the edge of your consciousness to the forefront, slowly taking over. “Try and sleep, angel. I’ll wake you up when they call.”

“No sleep til Brooklyn,” you smile.

“You’re hilarious,” he sighs, lightly resting his head on yours. “You still need to sleep. You were up late studying for your last final, got, what, maybe three hours of sleep? And you’ve been going all day. I’ll wake you up when they want to take you back, I promise.”

You yawn wide and snuggle into him, closing your eyes and feeling just how heavy they are. “Kay, Matty. Love you.”

You feel his hand slip into yours on on good arm. “Love you, too, angel.”

When you feel Matt gently shake you awake, you’re sure you must have only closed your eyes for a short while, but when Matt helps me up, your watch tells you that it’s several hours later.

“Want help, angel?” he asks as you slide his jacket back over to him.

“I’ve got it, Matty,” you hum, giving his lips a quick peck. “Besides, I got to prove to you that it’s all fine.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, giving the hand on your good arm a squeeze. “See you soon.”

After he listens to you get led back, Matt tunes into the orchestra of the waiting room, listening to anything and everything for a long while before something catches him off guard.

“What happened?” a familiar voice rings in Matt’s ears in the quieting ER.

“Foggy? What are you doing here?” Matt asks, standing up.

“Marci was visiting her cousin that had a baby. She saw you guys come in, said that something looked wrong.”

“(Y/N) hurt her arm. She didn’t want to come, but she was in a lot of pain. I almost had to drag her here.”

“What happened? How’d she hurt it?”

“She was trying to reach for something and overestimated the stretch. She fell off the mattress and landed hard on her arm.”

“Is it broken?” Foggy asks as he sits in your empty seat.

“I think it is,” Matt sighs, mirroring his friend’s movements. “She’s convinced she’s fine, though.”

“Of course she thinks she’s fine. She never wants to admit when she’s hurt. It’s like when she gets a cold, it’s always just—.

“Allergies’,” Matt finishes with a smirk. “Yeah. You know, she got a really bad cold about a month ago, and she would swear a blue streak that she was okay. I had to keep a bag of lozenges in my bag with a to-go Tylenol so when her fever spiked, I could give her some with some water or get her a tea from the coffee cart. I don’t know how she muscled through it. It was really bad.”

He can hear how his friend turns to look at him. “You really care about her, huh?”

“I love her, Foggy,” Matt tells him. “When I was with Elektra, I thought that was love. But being with (Y/N) . . . I know she’ll always be there. She makes me better. She helps me be who I want to be. And I’d do absolutely anything for her. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.” He tilts his head to his friend. “You know she didn’t want to date me at first? She was afraid it’d ruin our friendship, but she was more worried about how you would take it. She didn’t want to hurt your feelings. After everything . . . Fog, (Y/N)’s absolutely torn up about it.”

“You know, I’ve thought a lot about what I said to her and how I said it,” Foggy starts. “The look on her face . . . The worst thing about it all is that when I said those words, I wanted them to hurt her, and I did exactly that, and I felt good that I did. She looked so broken. By the time I wanted to try and talk to her, I burned that bridge so much I couldn’t reach her. I feel like the biggest piece of shit that there is.”

“If I know anything, it’s that (Y/N) loves you, and you and your friendship means the world to her. That bridge isn’t gone. If anything . . . The map was lost. And just because the map is lost doesn’t mean that the path over that bridge is gone for good.”

“You think so?” Foggy asks hesitantly.

“I know so. And if I know you and (Y/N) even a fraction of how well I do, things will be okay.”

“Thanks, Matt.”

“I’m just telling you the truth, man.”

As they talk in the waiting room, everything starts to feel like it used to—the ease, the comfort, the flow of conversation. After about ninety minutes, Foggy declares a quest for coffee, groaning as he stands, bemoaning just how uncomfortable the ER seats are. Shortly after Foggy disappears, Matt hears your heartbeat grow closer to the double doors you went through, the nurse giving you a list of care instructions. Matt smirks to himself while he can, taking some pride in the fact that he convinced you to get some help and prevent it from becoming worse, but willing to play none the wiser for when you come out.

“I’m not saying that you were right, only that I underestimated the severity,” you sigh as you meet Matt in the waiting room.

“What was it?” Matt asks, leaning in to kiss your cheek, but you wince when his hand is on your arm. “(Y/N), this feels like a cast.”

“Well, yes, it is. My radius and ulna are broken. But I was right, I’m fine. I’ll survive.”

“You are absolutely fit to be a lawyer,” he chuckles, kissing you once more. “When can the cast come off?”

“It’ll be off just in time for the start of the semester. No kinky sex stuff, though.”

“I’m sure we can find some kinky stuff to do that won’t hurt it. Trust me, I can get very creative.”

You laugh as he leans in for a kiss, your lips still turned into a smile as you embrace. When you pull back, you see Foggy approaching with a coffee travel tray. You immediately dip your head and avoid looking at him, unable to fight the feeling of tears that instantly bloom in your chest.  

“You still like cinnamon in your coffee, right?” Foggy asks, making you tilt your head up to look at him, his other hand extending the hot cup to you. 

“Two sugars?” you ask softly.

“No cream,” he says with a little smile. 

Taking it with your good hand, you let the cup warm you up. “Thanks, Foggy.”

“I’ll hail a taxi for us,” Matt says, pressing a kiss into your hair and then patting Foggy on the shoulder, leaving nothing but thick air between you and the person you’ve known your whole life. 

“Listen, (Y/N)—.”

“I’m sorry, Foggy,” you blurt, unable to contain it. “With Matt, we just kissed, and I didn’t want to stop kissing him, but I really didn’t want to hurt you. It was head and heart and I just froze, and I lost my best friend because of it. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about, (Y/N),” Foggy says softly, looking like he just saw a puppy get kicked. “I thoroughly overreacted. I should have been happy that my two friends were together and happy. Instead, I turned into a big brother and treated both of you like you didn’t know what you’re doing. I dunno . . . I guess I had just wished you would’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want you to be mad. And the longer I waited, well, it felt like I couldn’t tell you,” you tell him. “I’m so sorry.”

“You love him?” is all that Foggy asks.

“I really do,” you nod. “He loves me, too. He hasn’t said it, but I just have a feeling, you know?”

“Something tells me that he does, too.” His brows furrow in concern. “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course, Fog. Do you forgive me?”

“I’d wrap you in a big hug as a silent ‘You bet your bottom, I do’, but then I’d hurt your arm even more than it already is.”

“You still can,” you say with a small smile. “I’m a tough cookie. I can handle it.”

“How about when the two of you aren’t holding hot beverages?” Matt interjects as he reapproaches you.

“Attention to detail—that’s why you’ll be an excellent lawyer,” Foggy teases. 

“Thanks, man,” Matt tells him, putting his jacket around your shoulders. “Good to go, angel?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you hum.

“I say let’s go to Josie’s. Drinks on me,” Foggy says as you move to the cab. “I’ve got my best friends back—if that isn’t cause for celebration, I don’t know what is.

“You think we’ll have time?” Matt asks, feeling at his watch as you guide him into the taxi.

“I’m sure she’d keep the bar open just a little longer for her favorite patrons and retainered legal council.”

“None of us are lawyers yet, Fog,” you chuckle as Foggy tells the cabbie the address for the bar. 

“But we will be after we pass the Bar, and once we are, we’ll be her lawyers. Bingo, bango, bongo. She’ll let us have a tab and everything.”

“Dreaming big, aren’t you?” Matt laughs.

“Oh yeah, once we get that tab, we’ll be able to take over the world.”

“How about save the world?” you offer.

“Matt’s big humanitarian heart has gotten to you, I see.”

“C’mon, Fog. Who better to stick up for the little guys than three little guys from the Kitchen?”

“You make a good point. But I do counter—big office space with nice big windows and a view.”

“Well, a big office space would be nice. Windows and a view isn’t a deal breaker for me,” Matt smirks.

“We’ve got a real comedian over here.”

“All I’m saying is that if we’re helping people, does it really matter what the space is like?”

“Well, it’d be nice to have walls, floors, WiFi—ooh, no lead paint . . .”

“Okay, the space matters a little bit,” Matt and Foggy laugh as the cab comes to a halt, Matt beating you to the punch and paying the driver before you can unzip your bag.

“Regardless of its size, the space has to be in the Kitchen,” you settle. “If we’re gonna help the people, we need to be with the people.”

“Amen,” Foggy agrees, followed by Matt’s, “Here, here!” as we walk in.

“Sounds like we’ve got a future to plan,” you smile as you sit between them at the bar.

“Josie—the eel, please!” Foggy asks. “And several napkins: I’ve got some designing to do.”

Permanent Taglist: @majesticavenger​ @steampowerednightvaler​ @themusingsofmany @just-the-hiddles​ @toozmanykids​ @dangertoozmanykids101 @clints-worldavengers @theburningbookshop​ @itwasthereaminuteago​ @peter1ismybrother @hellskitchens-whore​​ @dpaccione

[hunting4fluff]

Business as Usual

asjdfhlkashdf okok so it's been a hot minute since I've written fanfiction, but I saw the best idea on @tickles-tea 's page and I wanted to give it a go! :) (Also I blanked on a title so I just kinda wrote the first thing in my mind lol) It was irritating, to say the least. For the first time in months, it felt like Miguel had finally been able to sit down and relax for at least 15 minutes. Of course, the moment after the clock struck 8:46 p.m Lyla had notified him of another anomaly wreaking havoc within the holding center. Business as usual.

"So, what you're saying is that they had him *in the room* and he still got loose?" Miguel grumbled, hastily making his way to the location with his wrist held above his chest. Lyla's avatar projected above Miguel's wrist, her hand resting on her bicep as she swiped through a couple screens to bring up a profile and appearance. 

"They were very frugal about the exacts, but they said, and I quote 'he was a very slippery criminal'. He's from Earth-57780 with dark hair, a-"

"What, so another 'Slyde' anomaly?" Miguel introjected, his brows furrowing with frustration. Before he could further his musing on the difficulty, Lyla provided further detail as he entered an empty containment sect.

"No, not a Slyde. His name is 'The Tickler'." She corrected, her demeanor lax and unbothered. Miguel paused for a moment, slowing his speed as he attempted to remain perceptive and gather more information.

"You're kidding." He huffed, already knowing the answer was 'no'. "They seriously couldn't grab him? That's gotta easily be one of the easier anomalies all year."

Miguel's irritation was rising as he marched through the room, glancing at empty containment pods and stacks of boxes. 

"I wouldn't say that, exactly. Tickling triggers a panic response in your body that makes it hard to focus and can cause a falter in judgment." Lyla stated matter of factly. Miguel snorted dryly, grateful his mask was on to hide the flush rising to his cheeks.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let's just get this over with. Has there been any sighting of-" Miguel cut himself off as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, readying himself to pounce. Lyla took this as a sign to cut her avatar, lowering the light as Miguel crept further. His slow steps made him inaudible before lurching towards where the movement was and-

nothing.

In Miguel's confusion something grabbed him from behind another box, its grip firm as Miguel twisted himself back to throw a punch. The anomaly clung tight, one hand slipping under Miguel's arm and the other wrapped and clutching to his hip for dear life. The Tickler anomaly wrapped his legs around Miguel, situating himself like a backpack before wiggling his fingers.

Miguel's left arm came crashing down to his side as a strangled grunt caught in his throat, coming forth from his crouch to his knees and attempting to use his other hand to grab the man off of his back. Fingers dug into his hips causing Miguel to curl in on himself and unfortunately trap his captor's hands with him.

"Ticklish, big guy?" The anomaly taunted with a pleased chuckle, pressing his fingers in and vibrating as Miguel desperately attempted to contain his reactions. 

"Shut up." Miguel growled out, once more trying to push through and lift his left arm to grab the other man's collar while using his other hand to tug at the hand on his hip. He realized his mistake once fingers trailed their way under his arm completely, his body curling in on himself once more and trapping the unrelenting fingers in their movements. Miguel's shoulders shook with the threat of laughter, trying to focus on a way to capture the anomaly. Alas, the task proved itself difficult. The Tickler laughed triumphantly, using the hand on Miguel's hip to scribble over the textured suit material.

"What's wrong? Did I find something?" The villain teased as Miguel choked back giggles. If he could just stop moving his fingers for one moment Miguel could easily flip this guy onto his back and trap him in one of those pods. He felt himself start to lose a bit of control as both hands continued their assault, never once pausing for even a second. Miguel barked out a laugh as a finger pressed under his arm, breaking the dam as he squirmed under the touch.

"Quit it!" Miguel demanded, the hand on his hip migrating to his bottom ribs and clawing lightly. Laughter flooded out of him as he swung his head back to try and at least get one hit in but missing onto the anomaly's shoulder. The move assisted him no further as the hand on his ribs slipped from under his left elbow and held his jaw in place. A surprised yelp jolted from him as he felt the fingers drag over his neck and cause his laughter to raise in volume. Miguel tried bunching up his shoulders in a last attempt to protect himself before he felt something soft flutter behind his ear. The movement was all it took before Miguel curled into a pile of giggles, his face flushed as The Tickler brought out the tool from his gloves. He couldn't focus on *how* the anomaly even got past his suit as he grabbed for any sort of leverage. Between the fingers under his arms and the feather fluttering behind his ear, he was a mess.

"¡Basta, bastardo!" Miguel barked through his laughter. He wasn't very intimidating though, and to his dismay the anomaly pushed him to the ground and managed to pin him on his stomach. 

"Sorry pal, I don't speak spanish." The Tickler stated, growing cockier with every growing second. Miguel finally managed to flip over and push him off with his foot, sending him back tumbling into some boxes. He managed to catch his breath a hint before entangling him with a laser web, keeping him still as Miguel continued to draw in heavy breaths.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Miguel growled, standing up and leaning against an empty containment pod before opening it and sliding the disk under the anomaly. His face was flushed and to his relief, his mask was still intact, leaving him to wonder how The Tickler got past his technology in the first place. He left, grumbling to himself before Lyla popped up again with a cocky smirk.

"How was that for 'the easiest anomaly all year'?" She teased. Miguel glared at her avatar, avoiding entertaining the playful jab.

"What happened to my suit earlier." The question came out as more of a demand, the AI shrugging her shoulders with a knowing grin.

"Well, I figured I couldn't let it be *too* easy on you. Not to mention you've been talking about how you've been needing to find a reason to relax for a bi-"

"Relax? That was relaxing?" Miguel interrupted, sounding slightly exasperated. However, he couldn't deny that under certain circumstances it could be nice...

"Laughing replaces cortisol with dopamine, oxytocin and endorphins which, in other words, is an excellent stress reliever." Lyla remarked smartly, leaving Miguel to shake his head and scoff.

"Yeah, well... maybe don't have an anomaly do that next time." He huffed. 

"I can see if Peter B. Parker would be willing to, he's been begging me to send him any information to get you to 'loosen up'." Lyla offered. Miguel's silence spoke volumes as Lyla already began sending a message. "I'll let him know you're interested." She winked, leaving Miguel as he began to sputter out protests.

"Wait- I didn't..." Miguel trailed off, pausing once he returned to his workspace. Maybe, he thought. Maybe he could accept that.

[x0x0josephinex0x0]

The Hope in the Fault Lines | Part 3

Part 3 is finished folks! Warnings: some suggestive material, smut in the next part!!! (so minors probably shouldn't interact with any of this), car accident described, death of a sibling, PTSD, nightmares, pretty severe cold symptoms, 97 liners ft Wonwoo make an appearance Word Count: 7.6k

Read part one and part two here!! (and part 4 here)

“Hi, Mingyu,” you say weakly into the phone.

“Hi,” he says. “You sound awful.”

You look around your bedroom, littered with used tissues, cough drop wrappers, and every blanket in your house that doesn’t belong to Sara. “I am awful,” you groan. “I didn’t know one person could be responsible for so much mucus.”

He laughs his charming, high-pitched giggle. “What’s the move, boss?” he asks you. 

“Well, I’m not going to work,” you tell him. “And maybe you shouldn’t either. I’m worried you’ll get sick if you come over.”

He scoffs. “I’m offended. I never get sick.”

“Well, still,” you say stubbornly. Already exhausted from the conversation, you lean against the headboard, coughing pathetically.

“I don’t think you should try to take care of Sara when you’re like this. You should be resting,” he says, his voice taking on that specific color it gets when he’s concerned. “And someone needs to take care of you, too.”

“Don’t come, Mingyu,” you protest, wondering at the blush now rising in your cheek.

“I’m coming,” he says with finality.

“Why did you even ask me what I wanted to do if you were just gonna do the exact opposite thing?” you ask him grumpily.

“Because I know you don’t think you need to rest, but the rest of us do,” he tells you, and you can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

“The rest of us?” you ask him, stifling another cough.

“Yeah, like, every single friend you have.”

You lose the battle with your lungs and cough violently for a moment, which is good, because it hides how touched you are that Mingyu has lumped himself with your friends. Then, “fine. But stay out of my room. I don’t want you to get sick.”

“I’m not going to get sick. Have you eaten yet?”

Your silence earns a sigh from Mingyu. “I’ll make something when I get there. Hang tight, boss.”

It seems like hours before the doorbell rings and you have to drag yourself out of bed to answer it. The spring day is gloomy, and as you open the door a flood of cool morning air sweeps over you, making you shiver uncomfortably. But there he is, and he’s taking in the sight of you with an eagerness that belies the mundaneness of your meeting. Something seems to have changed between now and the hospital visit, but although words are your life’s work, you can’t put a name to what it is.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is a little more shy than you’ve ever been used to hearing. The reasons for this newfound bashfulness completely unknown to you, you curse yourself for the way your heart nearly beats itself out of your chest. 

“Hey,” you croak, throwing up a peace sign. You know you look bad. Your hair is a greasy, kinky mess, you’re wearing your worst grandma nightgown, and you didn’t even have the energy for contacts today, so your face is covered with thick spectacles.

He laughs. “That’s a really cute outfit, boss.”

“Shut up,” you say, and cough out a laugh yourself.

“I’m serious! You look like my granny. I’m pretty sure she has that nightgown.” He leans in a little to inspect. “And possibly the glasses too.”

You frown at him, but without any real venom — although a little startled by his closeness. “Cruel of you to tease me while I’m on my deathbed.”

“Speaking of which,” he says, coming into the house after removing his shoes. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“Well, as much as I’m already regretting letting you come over, I couldn’t just leave you outside, could I?” you huff.

“I guess not,” he replies. “Where’s Sara?”

Your eyes get wide. “Oh my goodness. I haven’t even seen her today.” Guilt washes over you, followed by a pang of grief. What would Jeri say about you forgetting about her child?

Mingyu’s jaw drops, and he quickly runs to Sara’s room. He comes down seconds later with a sleepy-looking Sara in his arms. “She was awake, just laying there,” he says. “I think she knows you’re not feeling well.”

“Or she knows I suck at this,” you say quietly. “Either way, I’m glad she’s okay.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “You don’t suck at this. You’re sick. Now go to bed before I kick your butt.”

You purse your lips, but obey, trudging tiredly up the stairs while he watches you carefully. “Who works for who?” you mutter under your breath.

“What was that?” he calls up to you, his tone trying for stern but landing at amused.

“Nothing,” you say in a scratchy sing-song voice that makes him chuckle. You pad your way up to your bedroom, shutting the door and tucking yourself in bed. Downstairs, you can hear the muffled sounds of Mingyu making food, presumably for you. You listen with interest -- you can’t make out the words, but you can tell Mingyu is speaking as he cooks. The sudden realization that Mingyu probably talks to Sara all day while you’re gone fills you with fondness; it strikes you as something Jisung would have done. 

Settling into your mountain of pillows, you try to relax your mind. It’s hard, though -- hard because for some reason your mind keeps wandering down the stairs and latching onto the obscenely beautiful man who is making you breakfast right now. No man, not even the ones you dated or slept with, has ever made you breakfast, and Kim Mingyu is managing to do it twice in one week. Are men only good to you if you’re paying them? you wonder to yourself.

Just then, the doorbell rings yet again. Curiously, you wrap yourself in a blanket and head back down the stairs to see who it is, and are shocked to find Mingyu at the door with Cory.

Cory is taking in the sight of Mingyu (in a Christmas apron he probably found in your pantry, still holding a spatula that has a few flecks of what looks like waffle or pancake batter). He looks between the two of you as you come down the hall. “Hey,” you say. “Mingyu, I see you’ve met my editor-in-chief, Cory.”

Mingyu’s eyes light with recognition. “Oh! I’ve heard so much about you!” he says, his eager puppy-like energy making Cory blink in confusion. 

“Cory,” you explain, “this is Mingyu. He’s my...nanny.” You hesitate before stating Mingyu’s official job title, because “nanny” doesn’t seem serious enough for everything Mingyu does for you and Sara. 

“Oh,” Cory says, seeming to recover at least partially. You bite your lip, holding back a giggle, as Cory sizes Mingyu up yet again. “I’m sorry, uh, I thought…when you said nanny, I thought you meant…”

“A woman?” you say, raising an eyebrow. You cough, leaning against the wall for support, and Mingyu reaches out an arm to steady you.

“Well, I probably should go finish the pancakes,” he tells you after you finish coughing. “Nice to meet you, Cory!”

Cory’s eyes follow Mingyu down the hallway into the kitchen. “Your nanny?” he says in disbelief.

“Yeah,” you say, somewhat uncomfortable. “He came recommended by a friend who used to work with him.”

“Where? A bodybuilding competition?”

You really have to pinch your lips together tightly to avoid laughing. “So…why are you here?” you ask him after the urge subsides. 

“Oh,” Cory says, shaking himself. “I brought you some cough drops.” He hands you a bag of cherry-flavored cough drops lamely, his usual coolness tempered by the ego hit of meeting Mingyu, and looks at the floor. 

You take them from him. “Thanks, Cory. Don’t be late -- they need you there.”

“We need you there,” he corrects you. “Get better soon.”

And with that, he’s out the door.

You put the bag of cough drops on the kitchen counter and slump onto the couch in the living room. When you make eye contact with Mingyu as he turns around to put a pancake on a plate, you giggle. 

“What?” he asks, a little defensive and a little amused. 

“I think you just intimidated the shit out of my editor-in-chief,” you tell him.

His eyes get wide. “I didn’t mean to!” he protests. 

“I know you didn’t,” you say. Your laughs turn into coughs, which makes Mingyu look even more worried. He moves the now-empty pan off the hot stove and brings you a glass of water, which you accept gratefully. 

“Well, it’s cool your employees bring you stuff when you’re sick,” he reasons, taking a seat on the couch beside you as you drink the water. “You must be a good boss.”

You scoff. “My employees don’t bring me stuff when I’m sick,” you say. “Cory brings me stuff when I’m sick.” You can’t keep the annoyed tone out of your voice, and Mingyu notices.

“You...don’t like him?”

You sigh. “I like him just fine,” you say. But as Mingyu continues to stare at you, confused, you laugh again. “I’m sorry!” you say as his look grows exasperated. “You’re just funny. Um, well. I’ve known Cory since uni, and --”

“He likes you,” Mingyu realizes. His face has fallen from his bemused expression to a stony one.

You nod, grimacing in tandem with him. “He told me the night that Sara went into the hospital.”

Mingyu looks at his hands. “Got it,” he says. “And you don’t feel the same way about him?”

“I don’t think so,” you say, playing awkwardly with the hem of your shirt. “He’s a great guy, but I don’t think he’s quite my type.”

“Well, he doesn’t even know you don’t like cherry-flavored cough drops,” Mingyu says, like it’s the world’s biggest red flag.

“How do you know that?” you ask him, bewildered at this revelation.

He shrugs. “Simple observation. In the pantry where you keep the cough medicine, there’s also cough drops. You have a bag of every single flavor but cherry.”

“Huh,” you say. “I guess you weren’t a spy for nothing.”

He allows a small grin at that. “Or maybe I’m just paying attention,” he says quietly.

It feels stuffy and hot in the living room. “Well,” you say in an offhand tone, “I didn’t realize that not knowing my cough drop preferences was a deal-breaker. But I guess I haven’t really dated in two years. Like, since school.”

“Really?” he asks incredulously. 

“I dated around,” you clarify. “But even while I was dating, I wasn’t really thinking about dating. I was starting a business, I was trying to take care of Jeri, I was focusing on school…and then I got so busy with how well the magazine was doing. It never took priority.” You look around the room — at the baby toys in their basket and Sara’s blankets all over the couch — and sigh. “And now that I’m effectively a single mother, I think that ship has sailed.”

He scowls at this last admission. “There’s somebody for everyone,” Mingyu insists. “And you have a lot going for you, boss. So don’t give up on yourself.” He stands up and grabs Sara’s baby food off the counter, sitting down in the seat next to her high chair and spooning mashed up peas and carrots and sweet potatoes into her mouth. You don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but you find yourself fixated on his hands. They’re big and manly, with a dark purple scar over one of the knuckles the only hint at his past life. But it’s more than that. There’s something about the way they dwarf the tiny plastic baby spoon so it looks like a toy and how gentle and careful they are with Sara’s messy eating, brushing the mush from the corners of her mouth. You find yourself wondering how such a hand might feel through the fabric of the shirt at your waist, or moving up the curve of your spine, or wound in the hair at the back of your head while you sigh out his name …

What the hell? you think to yourself, surprised at this abrupt nosedive into insanity. Suddenly bashful, you swallow hard. “What about you?” you ask him, before you can stop yourself. And as he looks at you, a little shocked, you immediately backtrack. “You really don’t have to answer that,” you say, blushing fiery red and combusting into another fit of violent coughs. 

“That’s okay,” he says, watching you with the same worried eyes from the table. “I don’t mind. When I was a fed, I didn’t have the time to date. After I got out I had one serious girlfriend, we nearly got engaged, but then I think we both realized it wasn’t what we wanted.”

“No heartbreaks?” you ask slyly.

He grins. “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “Maybe just not romantic ones.”

You bite your lip. If there was ever a perfect lead-in for you to ask the question that’s been at the back of your mind since the hospital, it was that. You start, gently. “You never have to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to,” you tell him. “And I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t refuse to answer, so please let me know if I cross any major boundaries. But I noticed something. About you.”

He looks at you expectantly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue. “The doctor in the hospital seemed to know you.”

He smiles softly. “Any theories?” he asks you.

“Mainly that you or someone very close to you had a sick kid,” you say in a single breath, trying not to make him upset. 

He’s nodding thoughtfully. “You’re pretty observant,” he says. “Do you want to open that door?” His tone is still even, but you sense something behind it -- a soberness that is rare for his cheerful personality.

“Only if you feel okay about opening it,” you tell him. Honestly, it wouldn’t change anything if he decided to share or not to share, but you get the feeling that he has carried a heavy burden, unseen, for a good long while. And maybe you hope that you’ll be able to ease whatever you can of that burden. “It’s totally up to you.”

“Okay. Give me a second.”

He puts a lid on the half-finished container of baby food Sara is now stubbornly dodging spoonfuls of. Grabbing a washcloth, he gently wipes off her face as she writhes away from him, then brushes it over her hands and torso as well. Finally, he lifts Sara out of her high chair and into his arms, coming once again to sit by you on the couch while Sara rests against his chest.

He takes a deep breath. “My last official mission,” he begins, “was a security detail for an important diplomat’s wife and son as we evacuated them from the country due to some threats against him and his family. I got really close to the kid. He was six, and he was smart as a whip. Loved cars and toys and dinosaurs, but he also had seen a lot in his short life. Anyway, it took us a long time to get them here, and during that time, the poor guy started getting sick.”

You are unconsciously gripping your blanket around yourself as he tells the story, his soft low voice prodding at your heart in uncomfortable ways, but you are unable to tear your eyes away from his face. He keeps speaking, all while Sara, still exhausted from her own illness, falls asleep in his arms, probably soothed into it by the cadence of Mingyu’s voice. “He had been born prematurely, and his lungs weren’t quite right. But then he got the flu or something, and because of his lungs, it was a lot more serious for him. We fought to get him here in time to get help, and the doctors did an amazing job, but in the end, the bureaucracy of it all made it so he passed away. Doctor Song was his doctor, and she was fabulous, which is why I knew her.”

“Is that why you left the service?” you ask him, and your voice comes out a hoarse whisper.

He nods. “I had seen a lot, but watching that kid die was the worst thing I’d ever seen. Because it was totally preventable if we’d been able to make it here in time.” His voice is so calm, but you can gauge a small amount of bitterness there, softened by the years since. He stands up. “I’m gonna put Sara in her crib. Stay there,” he says.

He’s back in a flash, sitting down a bit closer to you this time. “Anyway. That experience was kind of the nail in the coffin for two things: one was that I knew I didn’t want to be an agent anymore, and the other one was that I wanted to work with kids.”

“That’s quite a career change,” you point out. “Why kids?”

He can’t help but break into a wide smile. “I love kids. Things are so simple to them. And after my last job, I really needed that.”

“Is it hard to leave them when the job is over?” you ask him, thinking of Sara.

He shrugs. “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s not so bad. The older kids are usually a bit easier because you can explain to them why you’re leaving. They know it’s not really your choice or that they did something wrong. With the little ones, it can be brutal.”

You shift uncomfortably, this vein of the conversation making you inexplicably anxious. “Well, I was absolutely serious about you having a job until Sara moves out. So…please don’t leave us.” You try to feel embarrassed by how pathetic this sounds, but all you can do is meet Mingyu’s eyes and try to convey how desperately you both need him. “And if you’re ever thinking about quitting, just let me know,” you continue, trying to lighten the mood. “I can be very persuasive if I need to be.”

He cackles. “You sound like a mafia boss. Are you threatening me with violence or trying to bribe me?”

“Whichever is more effective,” you joke. “But seriously, this was a very unhappy home just a couple weeks ago. You’ve made a massive difference. So if there’s anything I can ever do to improve your work or your life at all, please tell me. It’s the least I can do.”

Mingyu puts a hand on your knee, poking out from between the folds of your blanket. “Thanks,” he says. “But you should know I really don’t foresee myself throwing in the towel here anytime soon.”

You smile. “Good,” you say, instinctively putting a hand over his and squeezing.

And then you burst into coughs — your most violent attack of the day. It is almost instantly made worse by Mingyu, who springs up to bring you your water, collides painfully with the coffee table, and ends up spilling your water, a potted plant, and a book on neoclassical art all over the floor. The ensuing laughter bubbling up in your chest turns into a gale of coughs, and Mingyu sheepishly grabs your cup from off the floor and limps to the sink to wash it off. He brings it back to you full again. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, sitting down and rubbing at the spot on his shin that hit the table. “I’m a bit clumsy.”

You swallow your water and breathe carefully before responding. “It’s okay,” you say, trying to resist the urge to laugh, knowing it’ll just make you cough again. “Is that why you put all the pancakes on one of Sara’s baby plates?”

He nods furtively, biting his bottom lip. “I actually never use your nice dishes because I know I’ll break at least one, and they’re so pretty.”

The image of Mingyu eating off a plastic Dumbo plate with Sara while you’re at work flashes before your eyes. “How thoughtful,” you say with a grin. “But I don’t care if you break my plates.”

Truly, you thought to yourself as he, smiling widely, brings you the aforementioned pancakes, Mingyu could break whatever he liked of yours as long as he stuck around. 

***

“I’m not leaving,” Mingyu says stubbornly.

“You need to sleep,” you insist in a whisper outside of Sara’s bedroom door. 

“Not as much as you do,” he argues in a hushed tone. “You really should not be getting up with her in the middle of the night when you feel this bad.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, but your raspy voice gives you away — as has the entire day Mingyu has spent with you. 

Shortly after you had finished your pancakes, Sara had woken up. Mingyu had shouted you down from going to get her, instead accompanying you as you went upstairs and then marching you to your room for a nap. “You pay me to look after Sara,” he’d reminded you. “It’s my whole job. So you just rest.”

And you had rested, waking from your nap around 1 in the afternoon by a soft knock at your bedroom door. Mingyu had brought you some ramen on a tray, Sara strapped to his chest in a baby backpack, and his earlier accident ensured his steps were careful and measured. He had laid the try across your lap and bowed. “The queen’s lunch is served,” he’d said, winking at you as he left you to wonder why on earth such a simple thing as a wink could send a chill down your spine.

And then you’d brought the tray back down to the kitchen, and he’d scolded you — “who said you could get out of bed?” — but had relented when you told him you had been so bored upstairs by yourself and you’d wanted to watch a movie on the big-screen TV in the living room. Mingyu had set Sara down onto the fluffy white rug in front of the TV to entertain her for a moment, and you’d watched fondly as he blew raspberries into her chubby belly, drawing out her widest smiles. 

“Ooh, watch this,” he’d said. “She loves it!” He grabbed her thick legs and pulled them up and down in a mimic of a track runner, and Sara actually giggled. 

“Yeah, you’re shaking all the gas out of her,” you’d told him, and he’d laughed.

“She does usually fart a lot after,” he allowed. 

After awhile of searching for the right movie, you’d finally decided to watch Pirates of the Caribbean. Mingyu sat cross-legged on the rug, helping Sara play with her toys, but getting sucked into the movie at periodic intervals. Anytime something scary happened, he would cover Sara’s eyes and look at you in mock-judgment. After the third spooky moment, he exclaimed, “there is a child present!”

You had given him a dry look. “She seems really traumatized,” you had deadpanned, pointing to where Sara was whacking a plastic banana on the floor, babbling contentedly, completely ignoring the screen.

And so the day wore on, buffered by small moments of what you could only call growing comfort with each other. It was partially this that had you so adamant to kick him out — having Mingyu so close and so there was making your feelings all jumbled and weird. And having him stay overnight — waking up in the same house as he did — would most definitely not help anything.

So you try your best. “I’ll pay you to go home,” you beg. 

“And leave you by yourself?” He scoffs. “My mama didn’t raise me that way.”

“I manage just fine most nights,” you protest indignantly.

“Most nights you don’t have the plague,” he counters. “I’ve been around all day. I know how bad it is. You won’t even know I’m here. I’ll even sleep in the nursery again.”

“Mingyu, you’ll get sick —“ you start to say, and then pause. “What did you say?”

“You won’t even know I’m here?” he repeats.

“No, after that. You slept in the nursery?”

He shrugs. “Well, yeah, the guest bedroom doesn’t have a baby monitor, and plus I was worried about her, and that rug in there is basically a mattress anyway,” he says. “But seriously, she’s teething. You’ll probably be up all night, and that won’t be good for your illness.”

The look in his eyes as he says it — almost begging you to let him stay — would be too much under a normal circumstance, but learning that this man slept on the floor to keep Sara company while she was so sick pushes you over the edge. “Fine,” you whisper. “But at least take the couch.”

He grins. “Good to see the lady can compromise.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push your luck,” you tell him. 

After bidding him goodnight, you close your bedroom door behind you and hold your hand over your heart, which is thumping wildly. This feeling is completely foreign to you — the closest approximation you can come up with is the embarrassing crush you used to have on Steve Irwin, which Jeri never stopped teasing you for. But even that was just enough to keep you interested in his work. It hadn’t reduced you to a full blushing mess as you slid down your bedroom door, a funny feeling in your stomach. You finally understand why people talk about “butterflies” as your insides flutter, trying not to imagine Mingyu stretched out on your couch, his eyelids closed, his pretty lashes brushing the top of his cheekbones  —

“Stop it.” You actually have to say it out loud because it’s ridiculous how nothing has even happened, but you’re blushing. It’s a good thing you’re so ill and exhausted, because otherwise you know you’d be tossing and turning all night. As it is, you pass out only minutes after your too-hot shower.

Your mind is not kind to you in your illness and exhaustion and confusion, though. In dreams you drift around the halls of the hospital, heart monitors beeping suspiciously slowly, producing an uneasy soundtrack for you to glide between rooms to. Your eyes can’t focus on anything properly, so you simply pass through room after room with blurry patients strapped to beds, bandaged or moaning or pale and silent, going faster and faster until you turn a corner and everything changes abruptly. 

Now you’re on an abandoned highway in the dark, and just ahead you can see the wreckage of a small teal vehicle.

You recognize the car, which is blistering in flames, its mangled exterior seeming to bubble grotesquely in the flickering firelight. You scan the interior, paralyzed with fear at what you’ll find there, but it is empty.

A voice is calling your name, a voice you know -- Jeri’s voice. You try to find your own voice to answer her, but when you open your mouth, all you can do is scream. And still, she calls your name, over and over and over again until you suddenly feel yourself being shaken awake by two large hands on your shoulders.

The first thing you register is the stinging in your throat as you wake up, signaling you had probably screamed in real life, not just in the dream. The next is the panicked brown eyes staring into yours, the perfect face they belong to a mask of worry and fear. “Are you with me?” Mingyu says. “Are you awake?”

The last thing you notice is how heavily you’re breathing. You sit up, coughing, while Mingyu watches you in paralyzed concern. “I’m so sorry,” you say raggedly when you can finally speak. “I’m so sorry for waking you up.”

Everything still feels surreal — like you’ve detached from the world you’re used to, like you’re watching things happen from outside your body. What brings you back down to earth is when Mingyu pulls you into his chest and nearly crushes you in his grasp.

He’s warm. Warm like a fire in the winter of your terror, warm like the sunlight after a chilly swim, warm like coming home after a long time of being away. You breathe him in, and everything is suddenly the clean scent of his shampoo and a hint of sweat and just the faintest dash of cologne. And somehow the spinning of the room stops, your heart slows down, the terror eases. You lean into him and close your eyes, letting yourself hold his massive body to you, feeling his broad fingers brush gently down your back and up again, hoping that neither of you will let go. 

“I thought something bad was happening to you,” he whispers into your temple. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“It was a dream,” you say softly. “It was a really bad dream.”

He pulls back to look at you, and a large part of you misses the warmth and the weight of him. This same part of you is rapidly soothed when he pushes some of your hair from your face to see your expression better, searching your face with those same anxious eyes. “Are you okay now?”

You are -- you really are -- but somehow you have the presence of mind not to say that. Instead you nod. “I’m awake,” you say with a soft nod. 

Mingyu sighs in relief. “Give me two seconds.”

He leaves the room, and you deflate into your pillows, exhausted and aching for the feeling of Mingyu’s arms around you again in a way you are not equipped to fight off. When he returns, you see he’s brought Sara with him, blinking sleepily. He slowly hands her to you and then sits facing you on your mattress.

You settle into the weight of Sara on your chest, which soothes you almost as much as Mingyu’s arms had. “What did you dream about?” Mingyu asks you, trying not to sound as worried as you know he must be. It makes you smile a little.

“I dreamed about the hospital and the accident,” you say simply.

“Your sister’s accident?” he asks. “Did you see it? When it happened, I mean?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. “No, it was something my brain entirely made up,” you say. “But it felt real.”

He pauses. You sense some trepidation in him, some debate over whether or not to say what he’s mulling over in his brain. Finally he decides. “What happened to them? I only know it was a vehicle accident.”

You give him a humorless smile. “Do you want to open that door?” you ask him, echoing his words from earlier.

“Only if you do,” he says, putting a hand on your knee.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. It is the first time you will ever tell another human being the story. “It was raining,” you say. “My sister and her husband had gone to one of his sales team’s events -- it was a swanky party in the canyon. They were stopped at a stop sign when they got rear-ended so hard they slammed into the opposite railing. Jisung died right there, but my sister was thrown from the car. She lived long enough for someone to find them, long enough to crawl back to the road and get picked up by an ambulance, but not long enough to make it into surgery. She died on the same floor Sara was in two days ago, but the west wing instead of the east.”

Mingyu’s brow is furrowed, his eyes overly bright. “And the other driver?” he says roughly. “What happened to them?”

“They still haven’t found him,” you say. “They used paint chips from the back of my sister’s car to identify the vehicle, which wasn’t registered to anyone living. The police are apparently still looking for him.”

Mingyu looks like he’s about to hug you again, but stops himself because of Sara. He settles for smoothing a hand over Sara’s head and looking at you with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “That’s...unfair. And awful. And so sad.”

You nod in agreement. “It is.” You sigh, and with your breath you release a bit of tension you didn’t know you were holding in your jaw. “I just hope she knew how much I love her.” You think back to the last conversation you’d had — full of love and laughter and the promise to see each other soon. Your eyes begin to water, and you sniff.

Mingyu slides across your bed to sit beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him. He holds you and Sara in his arms while you silently cry -- not the shaking sobs of despair from the hospital or the agonized scream from your nightmares, but a release of all the pent-up feelings you hadn’t had time to allow yourself to feel. You spill over with sadness and anger and pain, but most of all with longing for your sister. You want to hear her voice again, make her laugh again, make her angry again as long as you could just have her there. 

And all of this feeling pouring out of you leaves you feeling drained when it’s over. You are empty, but not the same kind of emptiness you felt in the months before you’d met Mingyu. It was more like the emptiness of a backpack after you take everything out, an emptiness that was no longer hopeless to fill. 

After what is probably more than an hour, you whisper, “Mingyu?”

His sleepy “hm?” from above you floods your heart with warmth.

“I’m afraid I should be paying you double. I think you’re taking care of both of us,” you say, still in a whisper. 

“No need,” he says softly, his arms tightening around you for a fraction of a second. “You heard my whole tragic backstory this morning. It was only fair.”

You smile against his chest, and Sara stirs, beginning to fuss. Mingyu sits up but doesn’t let go, looking down at Sara. “She’ll be up crying in a second,” he says. “Let me take her.”

He scoops her into his arms, rubbing tiredly at his eyes with one hand. “Get some rest,” he says, maneuvering himself off of the bed, stopping only briefly to brush one final tear off your face. 

“Sleep well,” he says softly as he closes your bedroom door behind him. 

You relax into the pillows, reaching over to grab the one Mingyu had been leaning against. It still smelled like him. The scent is enough for your overwhelmed brain — you fall asleep in seconds.

***

As he shuts the door behind you to allow you to go back to sleep, hoping that this time your mind stays free of traumatic dreams, Mingyu pauses.

He is in trouble.

He’d known it from that very first day. Because how could someone be so drop-dead gorgeous in their rattiest sweatpants, with their hair a mess, looking like they might burst into tears at any moment? 

And now, three weeks in, it was worse than ever — the light was coming back into your eyes, and that change was stirring feelings in him he’d never felt before. And as he’d heard more of your story, he became more and more enthralled. He was proud of how hard you worked, and he adored your sense of humor, and he admired your authenticity and honesty, but what had drawn him irresistibly to you was the way that you loved: passionately, almost recklessly, with everything in you. From what Mingyu could tell, that love had leached into every single thing you did — it was the reason your business was so successful, the reason Sara felt so safe with you, and the reason your grief was so heavy. Since realizing this, Mingyu hadn’t even stood half a chance.

As he bounced up and down with Sara in his arms, trying to soothe her fussing, he thought back to the moment when he knew he was a goner: when you’d knighted him in the kitchen and called him Sir Mingyu. The way he’d wanted to take your face in his hands and kiss you until you forgot about everything but him was almost criminal. And tonight...seeing your sleepy eyes, and how you’d melted into his embrace...he’d had to grab Sara as a buffer between the two of you, or he might just have risked it all, illness be damned. 

“Ah, Sara,” he whispered, remembering how you’d smiled dazedly at him as he left the room. “What should I do?”

He had tried to keep it professional with you. Tried to leave almost instantly when you arrived home without being rude. Tried to go out on weekends, so he didn’t have to think about you. But the truth was, he always did anyway. And coupled with the fact that Sara, too, had stolen his heart, and he knew he couldn’t love her more even if he were her own father — there was simply nothing for it. He’d just have to come to terms with the fact that he’d never felt more at home than when he was with the two of you.

It’s four in the morning, and Mingyu sighs as he pulls out his cell phone. “Why am I not surprised you’re awake?” he teases when Jungkook answers his call. 

“You know me,” Jungkook says, and Mingyu can hear the filthy smile on his friend’s face. “I never sleep.”

Mingyu shakes his head exasperatedly. “Got plans today?” he asks. “I’m working right now, but I think I need to go out later.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” For all his teasing, Jungkook is a good friend, and he can tell something’s up just by Mingyu’s tone of voice.

“I have someone I need you to help me forget.”

***

You wake up the next morning around 11, feeling better than you’ve felt in days, maybe weeks. You’re still coughing, but your energy is higher and you’re lighter than you’re used to when you first wake up. 

You head downstairs, where Mingyu is nodding off at the table, Sara sucking happily at her pacifier. You sit in the seat next to Mingyu. “Long night?”

“You have no idea,” he groans. 

“I’m feeling a lot better,” you say. “You should go home and rest.” You have to resist an urge to lay a hand on his arm. 

He blinks blearily at you. “You want me to go?”

You chuckle at his tone -- he sounds devastated. “You need to rest. In fact, I’m going to insist that I drive you home. I don’t trust you to drive safely right now.”

Mingyu smiles sleepily, the sight making it impossible for you not to smile yourself. “‘Kay,” he says.

“Alright, big guy, up you get,” you say, unstrapping Sara and putting her into her baby carrier. “Where do you live?”

He gives you an address, which you plug into your phone. Mingyu forbids you from carrying Sara’s car seat and strapping it in the car, doing it himself at a slower pace than normal due to his tiredness. You watch, amused, as he fumbles with the slots the carrier slides into, his eyes half open. Your heart nearly bursts as he finally gets her buckled and places a clumsy kiss on her cheek. 

He sleeps for most of the drive, slumped against the door of the car. When you arrive in his driveway, you have to shake his shoulder gently to get him to wake up. So you let him out of the car and walk him to the door, feeling somewhat worried he’ll pass out on the way there as he stumbles up the walkway. 

To your surprise, he knocks at the door. “This is your house,” you remind him, giving him a worried look.

He chuckles. “Forgot my keys. I have a housemate.”

Sure enough, in seconds the door swings open to reveal a slim, bespectacled man whose eyes widen at the sight of Mingyu’s tired face. “What happened to him?” he asks you. 

“He was up all night,” you say apologetically. “I tried to get him to leave at the usual time, but he just wouldn’t.”

He scoffs. “Sounds like him. Alright, get in here, you big baby.” The man pulls Mingyu inside by the sleeve of his hoodie, and Mingyu collapses onto the couch just visible from the door. 

You watch him, torn between concern, fondness, and amusement, until you notice the other man eyeing you. “I’m Wonwoo,” he says with a small smile. “You must be Miss Boss.”

“Is that what he calls me?” you ask, embarrassed.

“No, that’s what I’ve been calling you,” he says. “He talks about you a lot.”

You blush. “I’m sorry,” you say, although you’re not really sure why.

“It’s fine,” he says. “This job seems better for him than the last few, so I feel like I actually owe you one.”

“Oh,” is all you can say. “Well, Wonwoo, uh...just make sure he rests, okay? Tell him I can come get him whenever and he can drive his car home.”

“Will do,” Wonwoo says cheerfully. “Have a nice day!”

***

[23:23, the following evening]

“Why did I even come here?” Mingyu groans over the sound of the music.

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “You are absolute shit at forgetting people, you know that?”

Mingyu shakes his head. “Not usually,” he says. “I don’t really know what’s going on.”

“You need to be more drunk,” Eunwoo suggests. 

“And maybe flirt with someone else,” Wonwoo recommends.

Mingyu wrinkles his nose in disgust at the thought. “What are you scared of?” Jungkook asks with a laugh. “You said that you had absolutely no chance.”

“Yet,” Mingyu says. “I have no chance yet.”

“And your plan is to…what?” Eunwoo asks, leaning closer and examining Mingyu’s face. “Wait around until your chance comes?”

Mingyu hesitates. Jungkook shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re a waiter, Kim Mingyu, but you’re allowed to prove me wrong if you want.”

At this, Mingyu rolls his eyes. “You’ve been eyeing the girl in the black dress over there for the past hour,” he remarks casually. “You can talk to me about waiting once you make a move.”

Jungkook watches the woman in the black dress with a tattooed hand on his chin. “Alright, I will.” He shrugs his thin black jacket off, revealing his full tattoo sleeve, and makes his way rhythmically to the dance floor, leaning in to speak to the girl.

“I know that was just a move to get him to go away,” Eunwoo says. “But well done, regardless.” He pats Mingyu on the shoulder. “So tell me, do you want to wait for her?”

Mingyu bristles. “The only thing I know for sure is that I have feelings for her. Beyond that I have no idea what to do about it.”

“Are the feelings you have for her … loving feelings or horny feelings?” Wonwoo asks carefully.

“Both,” Mingyu says through gritted teeth, fighting off the memory of your body in his arms. “How did you know you were in love?” he asks Eunwoo, glancing down at the ring on his finger. “How did you choose Nabi?”

Eunwoo looks thoughtfully into the distance. “She made it easy for me to just…be myself.”

Mingyu immediately remembers how simple it was to open up to you, his heart pounding at the thought. “I keep looking for a disqualifier,” he moans. “Something that would make her…I don’t know. Less…everything I ever wanted.”

Eunwoo grins ruefully. “I can think of one. She’s your boss,” he finishes, stirring his drink with his straw.

“And she told that one guy who liked her that she wasn’t ready to date,” Wonwoo pipes up. “She needs time to figure out what she’s doing before diving into a relationship.”

“So the only thing stopping me is circumstance?” Mingyu asks, frustrated.

Wonwoo and Eunwoo look at each other. “It sure seems that way,” Eunwoo agrees. “And…I don’t know, respect for her.”

“If she wasn’t your boss, and she wasn’t grieving,” Wonwoo points out, “what would you do?”

Mingyu’s cheeks warm with the thought of everything he’d do if you weren’t his boss. If you were ready for him. But he can’t say those things out loud, so he opts for the most generalized version of his answer. “I’d never give up on her,” he says with conviction.

Wonwoo’s eyes behind his spectacles are wise beyond his years. “Circumstances change all the time,” he says simply. “I know you don’t enjoy waiting for things, but maybe the best thing to do is stop fighting the feelings and just let them flow. You’ll either get your shot or you won’t, but if she’s as great as you think, she deserves to be waited for.” Wonwoo sips his water while Eunwoo and Mingyu stare, open-mouthed, at his sudden profundity.

“Damn,” Eunwoo says after awhile. “You should talk more.”

Wonwoo grins. “I would if anyone would listen to me,” he teases.

Mingyu is still letting Wonwoo’s words bounce around in his brain. “What should I do then?” he asks. “Like, right now. When there’s nothing I really can do.”

Wonwoo thinks for a minute. “Well, there’s a difference between what I think you should do and what I would do if it were me. What do you want to hear?”

“Both,” Mingyu and Eunwoo say together. Mingyu shoots Eunwoo an amused look, and he shrugs. “Hey, the last thing he said kind of blew me away.”

“Well,” Wonwoo says, “if it were me, I’d try to hide my feelings until I felt like it was a good time to talk about it.”

“And what do you think I should do?”

He ponders. “Well, you’re garbage at hiding your feelings. When you try, they just end up exploding out of you like diarrhea.”

Eunwoo snorts. “You were doing so well,” he laments.

Unbothered, Wonwoo continues. “So I’d say just be yourself. Don’t cross any lines or confess or anything, but don’t try to hide, either. And wait for her to say something.”

“And if she never does?” Mingyu asks, breathless.

“Die of unrequited love, I guess,” Wonwoo says with a wry grin. “Or move on.”

read part 4 here

[vampiremillk]

Oh my freakin gosh u are so pretty and mommy material first of all. Secondly can I request some nsfw headcanons of a dom Michael Myers? Can be any version and I'm so bad at coming up with scenarios so forgive me 😭😭😭

M.M. — THAT'S GONNA LEAVE A MARK !!

╰┈➤ 𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 : michael myers &&. bratty female reader

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚(𝘀) : MINORS AND BLANK BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT , spanking , teasing , rough handling

𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 : jsbdnsn thank you so much !!! and don't worry, i got this >:) i personally couldn't choose between, so you can either interpret this as the original, rob zombie's or both ! there are times where i like to contribute aspects from both and write it into one michael because it's easier, so i do hope that's okay with you ! congrats on being the first on my blog to request for mike, by the way ! 🎃🔪

• it was the third time that night that you raised your voice at him or gave him one of your feisty, little attitudes. he was essentially lenient, but now you were beginning to cross over an already thinning line. it was time that he'd have to remind you of who he was—more so, what he's capable of doing.

• you didn't notice the darkening flare in his eyes when you turned to walk away. not only were you idiotic enough to turn your back on a killer, let alone him, but in the middle of an argument? nah, lady. right when you opened the entryway to exit, his large hand was a bullet that grazed just above your shoulder and slammed the door shut again. even if he didn't speak at all, you could clearly hear a 'you aren't going fucking anywhere' radiating just from his actions.

• with the use of his other hand, your head was then yanked aback roughly by the hair only for your eyes to greet his own, and though his expression seemingly presented itself as calm and emotionless behind that mask, the firmness of his grip presented otherwise. you were quite literally dragged away from the door, letting a yelp claw against your throat as your scalp began to burn.

• you suddenly find your stomach swung across his thighs, your breasts pushed up against the arm of a couch and your pants pooled around your ankles. his finger then curiously hooks underneath the string of your thong and pulls, letting go to view the fabric snap back against your skin. you hissed and struggled, and his hand pushed down upon the center of your back after your attempt to rise from his lap.

• you huffed. "michael! what the fuck are you—?!"

• before you could process much else, you felt a sharp sting that collided with your left asscheek. your body jerked forward and your loud shriek of pain echoed back at you within the empty expanse.

SMACK ! another.

• you wailed again, and it was followed by his signature head tilt and a harsher grip within your hair. he was thinking—plotting. he desired to feed his curiosity for the rest of the way; he wanted to see exactly how loud your vocals allow you to be, or maybe how many of his swats you can endure until you're pleading him to stop. you had just better be grateful your mouth had only gotten you a spanking and not wrapped around his cock. he isn't the most merciful when it comes to fucking your face.

• he loves watching how your ass jiggles after each slap, the ripples that his hand is able to conjure. he isn't concerned that he may just be using all of his strength; you got on his final nerve and he was going to show you how much you did.

• trying to hold back your moans or yelps will only make him hit harder, if such a thing is possible.

• occasionally, he will softly caress the sore, plush flesh of your ass for a few moments . . before another vile smack suddenly comes again. he likes you to feel that he has finally stopped before crushing that hope to pieces. it's for his own, secretive entertainment.

• if he's feeling up to it, he won't miss a chance to tease you, stopping to reach and press a finger against your clothed womb. it was instinctive that your hips pressed back against it, desperately craving to somehow have it inside of you, but he would always quickly pull his hand away. remember, darling, it's punishment. not a reward.

• it may seem like he hates when you give him attitude, but quite the contrary, he actually has some sort of thing for women that have a bit of spice to their personality. giving him a difficult time can be enthralling on his end, and it gives him all the more reason to punish and take his frustrations out on you, especially in the bedroom.

• when he's done, he lets you sit properly in his lap, if you can even sit. with how harsh he was being, it's possible that you were going to have troubles with putting your butt in a chair for several days. but perhaps it taught you not to pull that brattish stunt with him ever again.

[angelicyouth]

Youth ; Chapter 13

⇢ pairing: kenny mccormick x marsh!reader x craig tucker

⇢ synopsis: ❝Growing up with the boys as the sole girl of the group, it was only natural for them to grow protective over their pseudo-little sister as the years went by.❞

⇢ warning: sexual content

⇢ [AO3 link] ; [series masterlist] ; [previous] ; [next]

“So do they like… Kiss each other and stuff, also?” My brother asks me under the soft material of the blanket the two of us are huddled under, the fleece thrown over both of our shoulders.

I loudly slurp at my instant ramen before answering, the flavorful broth of the soup it was cooked in messily spraying itself over my lips. Laughter resounds around the mouthful of food when I process the question he asks, my brother smirking in amusement as he brings a thumb up to lightly wipe the liquid off. 

“Pfft! No, just me. I mean, I wouldn’t mind if they did! But they fight all the time, so… Who knows?” I bring the pair of plastic chopsticks in my hand back into the hot metal pot between the both of us, fishing for another lump of noodles to chew on. 

Stan and I opted to eat our midnight snack directly from the container we cooked it in as we almost always do, the both of us usually too lazy to bring out more dishes to separate the food between us. The living room is dark with only multicolored lights dousing our figures in brightness, the television turned on in front of us. 

“Hmm.” He hums at my answer as his eyes lazily flicker at the moving images being projected, the anime we decided to put on providing us entertainment for the night. 

My eyes distractedly follow the rising steam getting emitted from our food, slowly wafting up as it disappears in a seamless transition into the darkness around us. The gentle murmuring of the show playing provides a dull background noise to my thoughts.

“... I’m sorry for not telling you about it right away.” I silently say into the space between us, the guilt still consuming me even with my brother back at my side and finally talking to me again. 

Stan is quiet for a moment and I’m patient—whether he answers me or not. “No, don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize if you didn’t do anything wrong. Haven’t I taught you not to do that?” My eyebrows slightly crease in confusion at his words before his arms reach out to wrap themselves around my shoulders, bringing my body close to his chest. 

There’s a pained expression on his face as he mumbles onto the crown of my head, “... I’m sorry you felt like you had to keep it a secret from me. It hurts to know that I wasn’t the safe haven I’ve always tried to be for you as your big brother, as your other half. It was never my intention to make you feel like you couldn’t tell me anything, that you’d be scared of my reaction.”

My brother's voice drops even lower and despite our close proximity, it’s hard to hear his next words. “… I felt like a failure, N/N. It was humiliating to find out with the rest of the guys, to find out that Kyle knew but not me.”

His eyes clench shut in deep regret for making me feel the need to hide things from him and my hand quickly shoots out to tightly grasp onto the fabric adorning his frame, his shirt soft under my fingertips. “No! No, please don’t think that. Please. This has nothing to do with your ability as my sibling because you’re the best big brother anyone can ever ask for. I’m so lucky to have been born as your sister and I wouldn’t trade this life for a different one, ever.”

When he doesn’t say anything more to my words, I wrap both of my arms around his waist to hug him back. “I understand how this might make you feel and the implications of me not telling you might be, but you’ve got it all wrong. I was only scared because you mean so much to me. I could give less of a shit as to what anyone else says to me about the things I do, but you? Your opinion matters so much to me. I’d be devastated if you thought any less of me, Stan. I love you so much that the idea of you harboring any kind of negative feelings of disgust, disappointment, shame—anything towards me, just tears me apart from the inside.”

My heart weeps at the hurt I’ve inflicted onto my brother, my hushed whispering desperate to convey my feelings. “You don’t have any idea on how much of a pedestal I put you on. We’re only a few minutes apart but I not only admire you so much, but everything that you are and do for me. It’s crazy when you think about the timeline of human history because I could’ve been born in the 1920’s or living my life in the 70’s and you in the 50’s. I often think about how I'm so incredibly lucky that I got to exist at the same time as you, much less as your twin sister. Because really, what are the odds of being born with someone else like that? I love you so much, Stan and I’m so, so sorry for making you feel this way.”

No one says anything for a while before his arms tighten their hold around my frame. His voice is soft, so low as he tells me, “I want you to know that I’m here for you no matter what, always. It doesn’t matter what it is or the consequences that may come with it, I’ll always be there by your side. Yeah, we’re twins which means I get overprotective when it comes to my baby sister. But before anything else, you’re also my best friend, you know? I may get angry or upset but that doesn’t change the fact that I’d help you bury a dead body or something, regardless of what I was feeling. I’d never let my temporary emotions dictate permanent decisions when it comes to you, ever.”

“Even more than Kyle?” My voice is wobbly and thick with tears, my brother fondly snickering at his cry baby little sister and my childish competitiveness. 

“Of course, you don’t even have to ask. From the womb to the tomb, right?”

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

“Please!” Ike whines, his smaller arms wrapped around my shoulders from behind the chair I was currently sitting on in the dining room. 

“Leave us alone, Ike. We already have to babysit you, let us finish our homework.” Kyle doesn’t take away his eyes from studiously writing onto the worksheet in front of him, his eyebrows creased in intense concentration.

The curly haired teen and I were originally supposed to meet at Tweek’s cafe to get some assignments done together, that is until Aunt Sheila got called into work for an emergency. When the Jewish red head rang me to inform me of the last minute change to our plans, his brother loudly demanded for me to come over in the background.

“I pinky promise we can play when we’re done, okay? We can do whatever you want and I’ll even make you a snack. My time is all yours once this is finished, I won’t even go home until you’re tucked away in bed and fast asleep.” I softly placate the younger one and his temper, flashing him a reassuring smile. He tightens his limbs around me one last time before letting his hold go with a sigh.

The ravenette sticks out his tongue at his brother before swiping my cell phone from the corner of the wooden structure, plopping himself down onto one of the chairs across from us. I’ve always allowed the younger to use my phone whenever he wants to, most of the apps on my mobile device being games that he's downloaded for when he gets bored.

He rolls his eyes when he sees Kyle eyeing him in warning due to an incident that occurred several years ago. The younger Broflovski got a stern talking to from Uncle Gerald when he began to ignorantly make in-app purchases without my knowledge.

“Ew. Why do you have stinky Kenny and stupid Craig as your lock screen? Wait. Why do you have them as your lock screen AND home screen?!”

“Ah…” Kyle and I exchange an awkward glance, my eyes widening as I motion my head for him to take the reins in offering an explanation. He’s your brother, my eyes silently convey.

He rolls his emerald orbs, a pained expression on his face for having to clarify the unconventional relationship to his younger sibling. “They’re N/N’s boyfriends.”

“Which one?” The elementary schooler asks in irritation, furiously swiping at all of the pictures of Kenny in my digital album. The photogenic blonde has formed a habit of taking a multitude of selfies on my phone whenever I’m not looking—bonus points if he gets Craig in it too before the ravenette pushes him away.

“… Both of them.” The elder Broflovski squints his eyes, watching the younger of the two invasively go through my phone for further evidence of our relationship. 

“What! But you were supposed to marry me when I got older! Don't you remember, N/N? When I asked you and Cartman said that you should accept because that was the last time you'd be hearing those words from another human being in this lifetime?” His eyes are wide at the information, his fingers momentarily stuttering to a stop as his disbelieving face looks at the both of us.

I roll my eyes at the reminder of Cartman's constant amusement at my nonexistent love life (he knows the boys and my brother wouldn't allow it, but whatever—now I have two boyfriends while his fatass is all alone!). Kyle just snorts at his brother’s childish dreams, the wishful thinking subtly painting his next words in an indiscreet chuckle.

“You’re too young for her, Ike.” But to no avail, the ravenette’s eyebrows just further creases.

“Sorry little bud, but two’s already a handful. I’m not sure if I can handle three.” I softly smile in affection as I ruffle the tufts of black on his head. 

I keep my body leant over the table, comically bringing a hand to cup around my mouth to whisper in conspiracy to him. “And I wouldn’t want them to get jealous of you. It wouldn’t be fair to pit you against them.”

“Ugh!” His tiny body slumps in exasperation despite my words, causing half of his face to be obscured from our view, hidden by the wooden edge of the dining table.

“You can’t, N/N. You just can’t! You were supposed to marry Kyle so we can be official siblings by law!” I loudly laugh at the younger Broflovski’s words for changing his initial stance, trying to grasp whatever remaining straws he could to keep me in the family. 

His indignation is endearing as I know that he’d absolutely despise it if his older brother dated me after years of being possessive whenever I came over. It never went away when he was a toddler despite his parents insisting that it was just a phase, much like a baby refusing to share their favorite toy.

I stand to my full height and lazily stretch the kinks out of my body before picking up the moping Ike, his head burrowing into my neck as I walk towards the kitchen. Softly, I plant a small yet reassuring kiss into the soft locks of hair adorning the crown of his head. 

“Okay, okay. Let’s go make that snack, yeah?”

I smile into his hair, affection filling me to the core at the fact that the ravenette didn’t seem to care about the number of people romantically involved with me. And if I decided to add extra chocolate syrup to his ice cream sundae as thanks, only Ike would know.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

My lack of vision enhances the rest of my senses, twin pairs of hands holding onto my own and settling onto my lower back to guide my walking form. When I register the sound of water falling, my eyebrows furrow in confusion. 

A waterfall..? 

We hadn’t walked that far from when the boys decided to ambush and kidnap me from the video games I was playing with Kyle and my brother. This causes my thoughts to wander and shoot theories in rapid fire, trying to form ideas as to where they're taking me. To my knowledge, there wasn't a location like this close to town and that information was a sure fact after going on adventures with the boys throughout our adolescence.

When the soft material of my makeshift blindfold comes off, my eyes sparkle in utter excitement after they adjust to the sudden brightness of the scenery before me. The fragrant smell of flowers strongly engulfs my entire senses, the boys having taken me to the Enchanted Garden we used to sneak into as kids during our fantasy role-play of elves versus humans. Cartman was especially notorious for getting into fights with the old man whose backyard we’re currently in whenever he got caught (his heavy body made his footsteps loud, always making it easy to hear him).

The sound that caught my attention comes from both a fountain of water made of gray marble and a mini waterfall perched high against stacked rocks. We’re surrounded by a colorful assortment of flowers and the vibrant green of well-taken care of grass and trees—their colors so vivid, as if in technicolor despite the inky darkness surrounding us. The white gazebo in the center of the garden has overgrown vines beautifully curling around the lattice of its material and I notice that the boys have added their own flourish, adorning the wood with beautiful fairy lights. 

The warmth of the gentle yellow they radiate cascades down like sparkling glitter onto the picnic they set up inside the structure, a careful assortment of snacks and pillows over a large blanket. I can see from my peripherals a pretty bouquet of my favorite flowers next to a charcuterie board, my mind quickly wondering how on earth they got their hands on one as artistically adorned with crackers, meat, cheese, and fruits as this one.

There’s faint music coming in from the old portable radio that Kenny used for our first date to the drive-in, and surrounding the site are a various assortment of tealight candles. They only add to the comforting ambiance of the current illuminance, their flickering embers casting dancing shadows around the area.

I notice that from my standing position, there’s a trail of flower petals leading me to the area of surprise and for a moment it feels like I’ve stopped breathing, at a loss of breath at the effort the boys went through for me. My hand is shaky as I bring it up to my mouth, desperately willing myself to not cry again because it's felt like that's all the boys have seen me do these past few weeks.

A large hand lightly places itself onto my lower back, Craig presenting me with a small smile and a soft chuckle at my watery eyes. Kenny gently grabs onto one of my hands as they guide me with a walk around the whole garden to admire its beauty.

The blonde playfully hand feeds me the food they brought, mimicking those famous paintings of people offering vines flourished with grapes to the mouths of Greek Gods, albeit in a more sultry way. Craig is quick to admonish him about his supposedly bad hygiene and pulls me away from the teen so that I don’t get sick.

Kenny pouts at the distrust before he gently hefts my body up, our shadows joining those inflicted from the fire of the candles as we dance to the tunes of 80’s nostalgia. Our chests softly rise up and down when we lay to join the ravenette, my hands tightly linked with both of theirs as we stare up at the stars greeting us tonight.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

“Can my pretty girl grab the sparkling apple cider from the picnic basket, please?” Kenny adorably asks, a wide grin crossing his features.

I playfully roll my eyes at the blonde for weaponizing his cuteness before I softly smile in fondness, reaching for the basket to the side. The wicker of the bag feels rigid yet smooth against my fingers as I prop the lid open, my entire body freezing at the contents inside of it.

Because there, in the middle of the otherwise empty wooden container, is a small box covered in a soft black velvet with a white bow carefully wrapped around it. My hands tremble when I slowly reach out for it and once the object is comfortably lying on the top of my palms, I look at the boys with wide eyes as they smile at me with affection.

No fucking way...

“Go on, open it.” Craig softly encourages me from the side, his voice hushed as he tucks stray locks of my hair behind my ear.

What greets me is a beautiful ring, the silver band adorned by a simple heart shaped gem. It looks similar to that of a wedding ring with the way that the translucent stone is rather large in appearance and the main focal point of the jewelry. It's simple but cute—it's perfect.

My lips are slightly parted as my breaths come out in short yet quick puffs, my vision blurring from the build up of emotions that the gift has bestowed upon me. Kenny gently grasps onto the metal piece from my hold as he slides it to my ring finger on my left hand, my body slightly shaking in his soft caress.

Once properly on, the blonde makes eye contact with me as he slowly brings my smaller hand to his face. His lips are soft as they graze my now decorated finger, his voice gentle.

“Happy one month, my love. We hope you like your promise ring.” 

Ah, I now realize their intentions with extravagantly surprising me here tonight.

A sob rips through my throat, tears of happiness rapidly cascading down my cheeks once they could no longer hold themselves back any longer. My eyes are still on the large rock on my finger, fixated on the physical commitment of love and the material promise of a future together. 

Craig softly chuckles at my crying face, mumbling a low cute as he brings a hand to cradle my cheek. His thumb lightly wipes away the wetness from my skin before he brings his face close to mine, pressing a tender kiss to the skin of my forehead.

“I know in most relationships, this would be considered stupidly early. But our love isn’t like most. And well, you’re all that we’ve ever known since we were kids. So to us, it just feels like an official label got placed because this love has always been here. It has always existed and it has never changed. And this promises that it won’t, not ever and definitely not for the worse. You’re the only one for us and this is a physical reminder to you of our loyalty and devotion.” He mumbles against me, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into my sticky cheek.

Kenny grabs onto my shoulder as I continue to cry, bringing me to his chest and wrapping his arms around me. He playfully wails when the ravenette glares at him for taking me away from his hold. “My love, my light, the person I hold dearly to my heart—don’t cry!” 

When he looks down at me, his tone of voice changes as he softly coos when I hiccup against his shirt. His hands soothingly run through locks of my hair as he kisses the crown of my head, a smile on his face from my tearful appreciation.

And all I can muster up at this moment are the feelings that I’m most confident of in my heart, so sure in its meaning and the people it’s for. My voice shakes but is certain in its message, in the emotions it conveys.

I love you.

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

When I finally calm down and happily munch away on our food, Kenny pulls out his cellphone in order to take a selfie to post on his Coonstagram story to commemorate our date. I warmly grin up to the camera with a peace sign next to my head before the blonde turns his body to face my own, a cute pout on his face.

“No, N/N! You’re supposed to show the promise ring we got you!”

I fiercely blush at his words, the demand making me stutter. “Wha-no! That’s too much, Ken! I don't want to rub it into anyone's faces!”

He rolls his eyes at me, his cellphone on standby with his camera app still open. “Not obviously, duh. Pretend you’re tucking your beautiful hair behind your ear, or something. Just subtly angle your hand so that it catches the light and shows!”

No one even knows about us except for the boys but that's besides the point, I think in indignation at my own embarrassment as I immaturely pout to myself.

“Such a fucking attention whore…” Craig mumbles around a grape he pops into his mouth, his eyes off to the side to look at a curious squirrel passing through.

“Fuck off, asshole. If I have a smokin’ hot girlfriend then I’m gonna show her off to the world—her beauty deserves to be paraded! This is the kind of thing that can end wars!” The blonde is passionate in his speech, his unoccupied hand clenched into a tight fist as his eyes brightly light up in enthusiasm.

“So… For clout?” The ravenette disinterestedly says as he reaches out for a pretzel next, a smirk on his face and clear challenge shining through his eyes as he riles the other male up.

“No, Tucker. Not for fucking clout!” Kenny slams his phone onto the hard deck of the gazebo in indignation and I wince, worried about his already horribly cracked screen. 

He huffs before immediately changing his expression to take a picture and smiles when he deems it satisfactory, his fingers quickly darting along the broken glass on his device. I snicker over his shoulder, my arms wrapped around his body from behind as he captions the picture: when ur circle is small but y’all are crazy :P

“If I want to show everyone she’s mine, I’d do it in an entirely different method.” The stoic teen has a slight quirk on his lips as they move around his deep yet husky words, the ravenette roughly wrapping his arms around my waist to pull my body onto his lap. 

Craig immediately latches his mouth onto the column of my neck, his tongue quickly darting out to wet the expanse of flesh he has access to before I loudly whimper at the sharp feel of his teeth breaking skin. He’s quick to sooth the area of abuse with a wet kiss and another hot swipe before he has my breaths coming out quick and short at the harsh suction of his mouth.

Only Craig Tucker can take me off guard and literally take my breath away, Lord have mercy.

A large hand comes up under my shirt, cool fingers and rings against warm skin eliciting a chain reaction of goosebumps to appear along my entire body. Unlike his mouth, the ravenette takes his time with slowly trailing his fingers along my sides higher and higher, until they skim against the underwire of my bra. 

The teen’s unoccupied hand comes up from behind my back to deftly unhook the offending material, letting it fall from my body. After the removal, another one roughly massages one of the mounds of flesh on my chest and my breath sharply hitches in my throat as his fingers come around to softly pinch at the sensitive nub of my nipple. One of my hands reaches out to hold onto his wrist, squeezing at the enthusiastic onslaught the usually apathetic ravenette is inflicting in two places at once out of seemingly nowhere.

Kenny lazily lounges against the pillows around us as he watches, my eyes mesmerized as I watch the bright red of a strawberry held in his long fingers get engulfed into soft pink. His lips are tantalizing as they wrap around the fruit, his crystal eyes shining in amusement as he leans his larger body over mine. 

The blonde takes his time in bringing our faces together before he uses his tongue to push the tender piece of fruit into my own mouth, both of our tongues dancing around the sweetness as he dominates our kiss. When we separate, he keeps our foreheads together as he brings two fingers against my lips. His slender digits apply slight pressure before they get engulfed into my mouth as I instinctively swallow around his fingers and the strawberries he just fed me. 

Without removing the point of contact between his hands and me, he takes his time in lightly dragging his slicked fingers down from my face to the column of my neck. His other hand pushes up the rest of my shirt as he continues to trail his digits down until they come around my other breast. Craig removes his hands when the blonde gives attention to that area, using his now free hands to tug at the material of my shirt off of my frame.

As Kenny works his hand on the recently abandoned mound, his other mouth latches itself around the neglected side of my chest and I loudly wail at the wet heat and the teasing scrape of his teeth. He wetly mouths further down against my skin, alternating between dragging his tongue against the length of my body and sucking down against me. 

He leaves a wet trail around blossoming shades of a mixture of deep red and vivid purple, marking his way and further claiming me as his own. The blonde hooks his fingers around the belt loops of my jeans, tugging at the coarse material until my legs are relinquished of their hold. When his mouth finally makes it to the fabric covering my heat, he teases me as he licks against the thin barrier between the two of us.

All the sensations I’m currently feeling are overwhelming my body, my nerves alight in a fiery heat. My hands shoot out to tightly hold onto the blanket underneath my body in an attempt to ground myself, my head overloaded with everything I’m feeling at once. I keep myself tethered to my surroundings as I force myself to follow along with the current melody playing around us, the lyrics profound as I listen to their words.

You know that I’m falling and I don’t know what to say

I’ll speak a little louder, I’ll even shout

You know that I’m proud and I can’t get the words out

“I wanna be with you everywhere.” The blonde hotly sings along, mouthing along every curve and dip of my form as if it was his own religion that he was worshiping—as if memorizing my temple of a body and committing it to his memory.

His fingers lightly trail themselves up against my thighs, so agonizingly slow before he softly tugs off the lace of my underwear. The blonde’s attractive face hovers over my body, his dark eyes watching my flushed expression. The hot breath of air that gets let out when he chuckles at the wrecked sight of me hits my slicked skin and a loud sob catches onto my throat from the desperation filling me to its core.

The sound that got caught in my throat gets savagely released into a high pitched wail when his tongue slowly drags itself over my weeping folds, his lips wrapping around that specific small bundle of nerves to lightly suck at it. One of his hands comes up to rest itself against my bucking hips to force my body down, his eyes never leaving my face as he smugly watches the reactions he invokes.

The blonde’s tongue teases my entrance, circling around it and exerting slight pressure that’s not quite enough. My slightly parted lips open wider to whine before the ravenette behind me forces two fingers into my mouth, immediately silencing my words of complaint.

“You don’t want to be a bad girl, right? Because bad girls don’t get to cum.” Craig hoarsely says from behind me and I’m drunk in pleasure as I clumsily jerk my head into a nod against his shoulder.

I harshly suck on his fingers, the wet sound erotic and crude. His voice is both deep and husky behind my ear, commanding in the firmness of his tone and the authority it holds.

The ravenette sounds absolutely wrecked, lust fiercely drowning his words. "Good girl. Just be patient, okay? You don't have to worry your pretty little head off. All you need to do is relax and enjoy—we'll take care of you."

A moan rips through my throat as Kenny begins to fuck me with his tongue, one of my hands shooting out to harshly grab onto a field of blonde hair. He deeply chuckles at my rough treatment, the vibrations sending a jolt of searing heat into my core. My erratic breathing has gotten so loud, drowning out the sounds of the music playing in the background as I can feel the steadily increasing pressure in my lower abdomen build up. 

But before the growing bundle of nerves can find their much needed release, the cold air of the night harshly hits my hot core and I wail at the loss of contact from the blonde. His azure eyes bore deep into my form as his tongue lazily works on cleaning up the area around his lips, the area slicked wet from his previous ministrations and from my body’s enthusiastic response.

Kenny kisses me and I can taste myself on him before both boys level the playing field as they strip themselves from their clothes, switching positions as they throw various garments of material carelessly onto the floor. When Craig settles in front of me, his hands roughly grabs onto my waist to flip me over onto my stomach.

The ravenette’s larger hand settles itself under my lower stomach, gently pushing it up to command an arch to my back. The new position washes me in a feeling of intense excitement as I settle myself on my forearms, my body compliant to anything the boys wanted to do with me. 

The teen behind me settles a fluffy cushion underneath my abdomen for comfort before pulling his hand away and I feel my lips curve into a fond smile at the caring gesture. The grin quickly gets knocked out of my face when I sharply inhale at the feeling of his length glide over my heat.

Craig takes his time in collecting the wetness from my folds to lightly tease at my skin, making the motion seamless from the natural lubricant. My eyes are creased shut at the sensation before a hand grabs at my chin, angling my head up to look at the smirking blonde above me.

Kenny looks absolutely mesmerizing from this angle, his sweat-slicked skin creating an ethereal glow to his handsome face. The sheen inflicted from our activity further accentuates his firm body, highlighting his slender yet toned form. My attention get interrupted from my admiration of the tantalizing sight as he pumps himself a few times before directing his hard member to my lips, my mouth obediently opening up for him.

He softly groans as he lightly rocks his hips into the hot cavern of my mouth, his hand sliding to the back of my head as he collects all of my loose hair into one hand and away from my face. His grip gets tighter at the eager suction of my mouth, my lips forcing out a moan around the blonde at the slight pain the tugging deliciously feels.

My tongue rubs along the vein running along the underside of his heavy length, my wet muscle alternating between that and swirling itself around his tip. What doesn't fit in my mouth, my hand is quick to tend to the neglected area as it wraps around his remaining girth.

The blonde’s other hand comes up to softly cradle at my red cheek, his thumb soothingly running along at the warm skin. Heavy breathing and small curses of fuck and holy shit’s escape from his parted lips as I hold eye contact with Kenny’s azure orbs, my nerves alight in fire at the extreme pleasure I was providing him with just my mouth.

He smiles at my eagerness to please for my first time as his breathy moans accompany his steady stream of words of praise. He commends my actions with fond eyes, encouraging everything I do.

I loudly moan around the blonde when I feel the blunt head of Craig's member exerting slight pressure at my entrance, his body shallowly fucking his way in as my body slowly eases at the intrusion. He’s careful to not hurt me, allowing my body to command the pace of how much it takes him in and when. The ravenette is patient, his hands on my waist rubbing his thumbs at my sweat-slicked skin and peppering soft kisses in encouragement along the length of my back.

“You’re doing good, babe. Just take your time, the night is all yours.” He mumbles against my skin.

When he finally bottoms out, he keeps his form still as he allows my body to adjust to his length. He doesn’t move until I press my hips against his more firmly in clear want, the motion flipping a switch that sees merciless pounding.

“Fuck, look at you. So pretty just for us, hm?” Kenny says as Craig drills deeper into me, interchanging the motions of his hips to different paces of speed to find out which one makes me the loudest. 

When nothing but frantic moans of pleasure escapes my mouth, the ravenette stops his ministrations with expectant eyes.

“That’s not good enough, beautiful. You know that I need to hear you say it. For who, N/N?” Craig dedicates this break to pressing wet kisses against my spine, his hands tightening their grip on my waist in dominant warning.

“For you! For you and Kenny! Only for you two!” I babble around the blonde’s girth, desperation consuming my entire being for the ravenette to continue.

“Good—no one else will do for you after us. We’ll make sure that all your body will crave is Kenny and I after tonight.” He rewards my words by placing a hand onto my lower abdomen, slightly exerting pressure and I whimper at the sensation the actions cause. It feels like I can feel his length inside of me more, the awareness making me feel dizzy at the onslaught of sensations everywhere around me. 

“You like that?” Craig speaks up from behind me again when my head starts to drop in overwhelming ecstasy, my blonde lover having to support my head up as he cradles my cheeks so that I can keep my mouth around him.

“I-I like it, I like it! Keep doing it, please.” I whine, tears profusely leaking out from the corner of my eyes.

Kenny laughs while Craig brings a hand down to rub at my neglected bundle of nerves, the combination of sensations further electrifying me. “Fuck, baby. You say things like that and I’ll cum.”

“Cum!” I cry out, eager to please both of the teens inside of me.

“Yeah? You want us to cum inside of you? Want me to fill you up and then fuck my cum in and out of you? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Craig’s pace is relentless as he snaps his hips, the blonde on the other end harshly bucking up into me as he fucks into my mouth at an unforgiving pace.

“So dirty, baby.”

This is the last thing I hear from my blonde haired lover before my orgasm hits me at full force, stars dancing along the back of my eyelids at the intensity of my release as they softly catch my collapsing body. A pair of hands settles me comfortably onto the pillows and blankets, a soft material gently wiping the inside of my thighs and at the moisture on my face.

Soft kisses are pressed against my damp hairline as they mumble words of praise at how good I was being and how good I felt. Against my flushed skin, they ask if I’m okay or if anything hurts, and I sleepily answer all of their concerns with honesty. Arms get wrapped around me, long fingers affectionately running through my hair in cathartic motions that threaten to put my already tired body to sleep.

Fuck, if that was just for our one month... I don't think I'll be able to handle our anniversary.

When my eyes finally flutter open and my breathing has significantly slowed and evened out, both boys are on either side of me and affectionately smiling down at my resting form. I tenderly grin up at their faces, my hands wrapping around both of the arms they have over my waist.

"So... How was it?" The blonde smirks, the slight curve to his face hugging his already knowing expression. It's extremely cocky and just so Kenny that I can't help the soft giggles coming out of my mouth.

He brings a large hand to lightly cradle my face, gently running his thumbs over the vivid blush on the skin of my cheeks from the exertion of earlier.

"I really loved it!" I beam at them as the blonde brings his face closer to softly rub his nose at my skin when a large grin overtakes his blissed out features. Craig snorts in fondness, his fingers never pausing to a stop in between black tresses when he places a kiss to my forehead.

"Yeah, well. I really love you."

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

GROUP CHAT (KENNY MCCORMICK + CRAIG TUCKER)

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): (picture of the palm of his hand)

N/N: ?

FutureAstonaut (Craig): okay, i’ll probably regret asking but i’ll bite

FutureAstonaut (Craig): what the fuck are we supposed to be looking at

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): (close up picture of his palm)

N/N: i don’t get it, ken

N/N: am i supposed to be looking at the piece of lint ur holding?

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): idk but it looks important

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): you should probably come over and pick it up before i lose it

FutureAstonaut (Craig): give it up for kenny mccormick, ladies and gentleman

FutureAstonaut (Craig): once again proving why i keep any group chat with you in it on do not disturb

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): fuck off, asshole

N/N: you’re cute for that :))

N/N: but you could’ve just asked!

FutureAstonaut (Craig): (picture of a piece of unpeeled shrimp on top of a chocolate chip cookie)

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): dude… what?

FutureAstonaut (Craig): sorry, i was just under the impression that we were posting irrelevant pictures in the group chat now

FutureAstonaut (Craig): my bad

N/N: omw ken!

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): ur a fucking asshole, you know that?

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): N/N can’t bring you to my house then

FutureAstonaut (Craig): wait no 

FutureAstonaut (Craig): im sorry

FutureAstonaut (Craig): kenny.

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): fuck you

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): btw, you spelled ‘astronaut’ wrong in ur username

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): so you might wanna change it, cause i don’t think i can wait until i’m 70 years old when ur dumbass is finally able to get sent to space

FutureAstonaut (Craig): …

N/N: dw, i’m picking you up babe!

N/N: also

N/N: i’d wait for you even if i was 100 years old and if you aren’t able to by then, then it’s okay

N/N: because i’d wait until the next lifetime and the next, however long it takes if it meant getting to see you achieve ur dreams <3

FutureAstonaut (Craig): i love you

BigDMcCormick (Kenny): (rolling eyes emoji)

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

When Kenny’s cell phone loudly alerts him of a call, he blindly reaches a hand out until his skin meets the cool surface of his mobile device. Bringing it up to his peripherals without ever looking away from the computer screen in front of him, his fingers quickly glide across the surface of glass to accept the call before he places it in between his ear and his shoulder.

“Hello?” The blonde distractedly asks, momentarily snickering at a flawless headshot he just executed.

There’s a moment of silence, only the sounds of quick breathing being heard over the line that the blonde briefly wonders if someone butt-dialed him.

“Kenny.”

Registering Craig’s distinct monotonous voice, he begins to childishly pout through his next words in impatience. “Where the fuck are you guys? I’m starving my fucking ass off, and that’s a lot coming from me.” 

The ravenette doesn’t answer for a while, a beat of silence stretching between the two teens and for a second, he starts to think that either the signal is terrible or the call got cut off.

“She never came.”

His eyebrows crease in confusion at the vague words, his hands dropping the controller in his hands to properly hold his phone closer to his ear. As if increasing the pressure would allow him to hear better, that he wrongly misheard.

“… What?” 

“Y/N… She never picked me up. I went over to her house because I thought she got held up or something but she’s not here. Her mom told me she left more than half an hour ago and I didn’t even see her on the way to her place.” It’s at this moment that Kenny notices the uncharacteristically weak tone of the ever confident ravenette on the other end of the line, his voice unstable as his words come out shakily. 

The usually stoic teen’s words get increasingly hysterical, his panic bleeding thick through his tone. And while Kenny would’ve jumped at the opportunity to make fun of the rare display of emotions, in this particular situation he doesn’t—he can’t. 

・ ─ ・ ⋯ ・ ─ ⊹ ♡₊˚๑

The next day on the South Park morning news, Y/N Marsh is officially declared missing.

song: [everywhere - fleetwood mac]

a/n: the ambiance and feel of this song is what influences this entire scene! it's got that sort of soft, warm nostalgia that the romantic tune invokes under the essence of yellow fairy lights ♡

[paranoidginger]

Lab-rat part 14

Tw: Violence, Death, Gore, Suffocation.

Bait sat beside the dispenser, carefully watching as the Sniper worked his magic, picking off anyone he spotted heading for the bridge. The lanky man occasionally muttered quiet insults. In a moment of distraction, there was a sharp whistle, followed by a spray of blood on the wall behind him as his rifle clattered to the floor.

"Oh bloody fucking wanka-" the man hissed, stumbling slightly as he grabbed a hold of his shoulder and the fresh hole torn through it. Bait scrambled to his feet, watching as the man paled, barely making it behind the guard wall before another shot was fired, narrowly missing him. Carefully, Bait held him up, getting him to the dispenser and helping him to sit down as he continued to hiss and swear under his breath, eyes pressed shut behind his yellow-tinted glasses as the Medic and Engineer's combined efforts did its work. The dispenser's healing wasn't quite as good as the medigun, it was slower, and barely dulled any pain, but it worked, and that was enough. "Oi, do me a favor mate, go ahead, grab me rifle 'n shoot that dickhead. I'll show ya how to hold it, just drop the wanka."

Bait nodded slightly, cloaking for the brief moment it took to dart out and snatch the scoped rifle, uncloaking once he was back behind the safety of the wall, holding the firearm close to his chest.

"Alroight. Rest the stock against ya shoulder, look through the scope an' pull the trigger. Holdin' ya breath for a sec can help too, steadies ya out." Bait listened intently doing as he was told, reloading the rifle as he peeked out from behind the wall, spotting the enemy Sniper and doing his best to focus in on the target. He took a deep breath, holding it as he took aim, and pulled the trigger. The knockback of the rifle was nearly enough to flatten him backwards against the floor, but sure enough, he managed to hit the opposing Sniper. A smile spread across his face as adrenaline rushed through his system, his breaths shaking as he pulled himself back behind the wall.

"I-I did it- I hit him!" He was breathless as he carefully set the rifle on the floor, rubbing his shoulder where the stock had hit him, a quiet, wheezy sort of laugh escaping him. "I-I think he was the one who shot me whenever Medic was getting me out of the Red base." He coughed slightly, sitting down as his heart continued to race.

"Good job, mate! You're a real natural if you got a shot in ya first toime 'round a sniper rifle!" He winced slightly as he moved his arm, the wound still healing over as he sat beside the dispenser. "Ya know, I think this'll be the first toime I've heard ya speak this much. Who knew the thrill o' the hunt was what ya needed to get you talking." The Sniper chuckled slightly, getting to his feet and picking up his rifle. "Let's have a looksee an' find out whether ya killed the bastard." He peeked out across the space between the two bases, using his scope to get a clearer look. "Ah, no dead body, 's alroight though! Still a good bit ah blood lost! Either way it's a good shot." He looked back to Bait, an awkward sort of half grin on his face. "I'll have to teach ya some more once we're back at base, give ya some target practice, ey?"

Part 13

The Red Medic brushed himself off as he materialized into the respawn room, quickly noticing the Sniper, who was tending to a large wound in his abdomen, hissing as he stopped the bleeding.

"Damn good thing you're back. You moind givin' me a hand?" The Red Medic gave a small nod, noticing the location of the wound before much else as he engaged his medigun.

"Zhat isn't a Sniper shot, is it? You don't usually survive vhenever he puts any effort in."

"Nah. I shot 'im first, bloody suit-wearin' coward grabbed the roifle. Only saw 'im for a second before he managed to shoot me." The Sniper grumbled, watching as the wound in his side closed itself up once again.

"Zhe Blu Spy is Dead, herr Sniper... Vich means zhat it vas most likely zhat little clone brat who shot you... Zhank you for telling me zhis, Sniper. Keep zhe enemy sniper distracted vhile you can. I have an idea..." The Medic chuckled slightly to himself, grabbing a couple of different syringe types for his gun once the sniper was back to full heath, a cruel grin on his face as he exited the resupply room.

The Sniper grumbled slightly, doing as he was told, quickly returning to his post on the battlements.

The medic moved quickly and carefully, making sure to avoid the multiple Blu mercenaries in the base as he made his way over to the Blu base, knowing that it was only a few people still there. The Spy would most likely have respawned already, and Engineer was about, but other than that, all he had to worry about was the Pyro, the Sniper, and his very own target.

His Sniper did his job, making sure to properly distract the enemies as the Medic made his way inside of the enemy base. He moved quietly and swiftly, spotting the spy clone, who sat beside a dispenser, distracted as he watched the Blu Sniper fire across the gap. He closed in all too quickly, wrapping his arms around Bait, one hand pressed firmly over both his mouth and nose as he began to drag the young man away.

Bait screamed, it was a muffled, subdued sound, but he screamed all the same. Watching as the Sniper turned to try to protect him, only for the enemy Sniper to make a single killing shot. Blood, brain, and bits of bone went flying as the Blu Sniper's body collapsed to the floor. The medic clasped his hand tighter over Bait's mouth, restricting his breathing as he struggled against the Medic. His chest was tight as he struggled and failed to pull in a single breath, his eyes wide and panicked as he felt the world around him begin to collapse. Where was everyone? Weren't they going to save him?

He fought and struggled as his mind fogged over, his limbs growing heavy and harder to control with each passing moment, but dear god did he fight as hard as he possibly could. The Red Medic continued to drag him along, kicking and breathless down the stairs and hallway, heading for the sewers. The clone's vision had nearly gone entirely dark by the time he was finally able to take a full breath, his ability to see rushing back to him as the oxygen returned to his body. The wretched doctor had cornered him, his looming figure coming into view as he loaded his syringe gun.

Bait tried his hardest to flee, to get away from the man, stumbling and eventually falling, scrambling backwards until he hit the wall. His breathing was rapid and panicked, his eyes wide and darting around the stairwell they found themselves in.

"Oh, don't be such a baby! You know I'm not here to kill you. I just vant to bring you back vhere you belong, liebling. Und you belong to me." The medic chuckled, aiming the syringe gun at Bait before emptying a handful of the syringes into the clone's chest, stepping forward and kneeling over him. Carefully, the medic began to peel off the balaclava covering Bait's face, a sick grin on his face as he tossed it off to the side. "Don't worry, zhe procedures I have planned for you vill only be excruciating!" He spoke in that odd sort of sing-song again, still smiling as Bait's limbs grew numb and his chest heavy. The clone's eyes began to dilate slightly, and despite all his panic, he felt himself going slack, only able to move his eyes as the Medic removed the syringes from his chest. The man stood up after a moment, quickly checking his surroundings before hoisting the clone's limp body off of the floor, beginning his journey down the stairs and into the sewers.

@thatonesimp-e @gravitytrips @realccre

[ivorysyrniki]

chapter five: an essayist (wanderer)

pairing: wanderer/reader

title: First Love/Late Spring

summary: You surprise him. He has no choice but to accompany you.

tags: angst, fluff, love/hate, hate sex (eventual), enemies to friends to lovers, afab reader, sucide mentions

notes: monthly updates. also posted on ao3. every 3rd of the month!

parts: chapter four - chapter six

The rain that knocks on the warehouse roofs, and the opening of its metallic door wakes you from your slumber. When you open your eyes and sit up to look at the door, a figure tosses a hat to a spot on the floor. He grips the plastic bag in his left hand as he closes the giant door with a single hand. One glance at his figure, and you know that certainly; this is the wanderer.

The wanderer, the one that told you about the truth of Sumeru. The artificial human that introduced himself, as the prototype of the Raiden Shogun. How he came to be, how his experiences transformed him into whoever he was now, all of them, he told you. But he talked back then as if he glossed over a few ones. After being dumped to Tatarasuna, he was recruited immediately by the Fatui, he said. As the sixth. A seat you knew that was unoccupied for hundreds of years. But now you have come to know it was never unoccupied until recently when history manifested itself from the branches of what the wanderer told you as the Irminsul. How peculiar. But you suppose that given the countless mysteries of the world, it is not out of place anymore for such things to exist and occur. 

He has never told you his name. But to honour all truths, you are not interested in such trivial things. What matters now is finishing this thesis, and fulfilling his requests. It does strike you as strange. Why does he want to die? Asking you to shut him down is the equivalent of dying, is it not? But, like you said, this matter is merely trivial. It is his business, therefore if he does not want to tell you, then, he must not want you to know.

He lights a candle on your desk. In the darkness, a little light illuminates his face. His melodious voice, a little louder than usual to overpower the rain pounding the roof, “Great, you’re awake. Good morning, Ms. Researcher. I bought you breakfast.”

You sit up fully, rolling your eyes at his sarcastic tone. You watch as he places the bag on the desk, and you tell him, “Please pack up, we’re going to Tatarasuna.” 

You stand up, haphazardly putting your slippers on with tired, shaking feet. You sit on your creaky chair, one you have come to know and cherish for years, ever since becoming a student in the Akademiya, and now that you have been a graduate for years, the chair holds quite a lot of sentimental value. After a few minutes into the pita pockets, you notice the silence from your left side. 

“Why?” he asks you first. 

“Based on your essay,” you start, gesturing to the spot next to the makeshift bed where a copy of his essay sits. Highlights and lazy texts written on it as if to comment before bed.

"It has a great furnace. And Inazuma operates, or rather, its vision holders utilize electrogranum. Those furnaces were used to create Jade steel, and that is why Inazuman weapons are considered the strongest and sharpest than the rest of Teyvat weapons.”

Before he replies, you add, “You are quite the magnificent essayist yourself.” 

“That furnace has been inactive for hundreds of years, and you know that from what I wrote,” he argues. You can hear him control the emotion threatening to slip out of his words. 

“Yes, but I am not after the furnace itself. I want to see the Jade steel myself, and if not that, I’m sure that the material that was used to make it lies around there somewhere in Tatarasuna, I want to try and utilize it for the device,” you explain, finishing the last bite of one pita pocket, before picking up another one. Before bringing it to your lips, you quip, “If you don’t want to come, then don’t.” 

The wanderer sounds taken aback by your statement but says nothing. He sits on a wooden stool, thinking, staring only at the floor and nothing else. You examine him using your peripheral vision. He truly is magnificent. With dark purple hair and lighter highlights, soft lips that beg to be kissed and maybe you will try (as an excuse, perhaps, when you examine him more thoroughly), and his exterior that pretends to be tough melts at the littlest commotion. He is more human than the humans you have met throughout this lifetime. Truly quite adorable for an artificial human being. A machine is better at being human, huh. 

“Stop staring at me, I can feel your eyes,” he quips, shooting you a quick glare. His manner of tone sharp that it can cut through cardboard. 

You mutter a quick apology, but still find it in you to reason with him, “I’m just staring at you because I want to see what I am working with.” 

“‘Who’, for your information, not ‘what’,” he rolls his eyes at you, “just eat your breakfast.” 

“I’m finished.”

“Then do what you’re supposed to do!”

“That would be packing.” 

“Then do it!” 

“Help me.”

“Fine!

—

“I will come with you,” the wanderer says after packing in a half hour of silence. He finishes packing the documents by clipping the buttons of the bag in place, looking at you for an answer.

He’s a fighter. He has a smart brain in his head. He may prove to be an adequate travel companion. You smile at this but remove it just as quickly before he musters a good look. 

“All right, a matra will come here shortly, I already sent a dusk bird yesterday,” 

And just as you say that, the warehouse creaks in response to its door being knocked upon. By now, the rain has stopped, and only the sunlight from the canopies of the rainforest shines through the open door. There is a stillness in the nothingness of the forest. Even birds cannot be heard. The doors open slowly. 

You certainly did not expect the General Mahamatra to oversee you leaving the warehouse. By now, the quietness of the forest makes sense. Lord Cyno is a force to be reckoned with. So much so that back in the Interdarshan championship, a feeble scholar from Vahumana almost overpowering him came such a surprise to everyone.

“Lord Cyno, it is my pleasure,” you stand up from your crouched position, holding the light bag that consists of two journals, about ten pens because you can never have enough, three pencils with erasers, two waterskins, some Ajilenakh nuts, and extra papers. You figure that you may buy the heavier snacks in Port Ormos, or even where you will land, in Ritou as there are none here.

“It is my pleasure as well. I assume that you will now be going to Inazuma for research? As the letter the dusk bird sent me told,” Lord Cyno asks. He thuds the handle of his spear to the ground. His authoritative presence makes itself more pronounced. He is an impressive man if you do say so yourself. His dedication to justice and attitude towards corruption in the Akademiya are second to none. 

“Yes, I will. I will be accompanied by a Vahumana student. You may know him as he was your opponent in the Interdarshan championships, Hat Guy.” 

“A joint research?” he asks. No, interrogates. Nothing must escape him. 

“Yes. I am sharing this with him, with permission by the Dendro Archon herself,” you say. 

“I know. She has told me about it, as well as the scribe,” he confirms. “You may use your funding to your heart's content. I require you to do everything as stated by protocol.” 

“Thank you. I will be writing you weekly reports of our progress and if there may be anything that happens to us, we will make sure that you will know by some form of communication with the Tenryou Commission,” you say with a courteous enough smile. The matra is ever watchful of the movements of those under them, including the students of the Akademiya. 

Lord Cyno says nothing. He merely gives you a nod, before he turns around and leaves without even a gasp of the wind. Not too long after, the birdsong resumes. 

“I didn’t expect that he would come to me personally,” you say, wrapping the makeshift bed and putting it on your empty desk.

The wanderer says nothing in response. He holds the bag for you, slinging it to his shoulder. You cannot read his expression. 

He follows you out of the warehouse, and with a final look, you lock it from the outside.

[autisticsupervillain]

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

Alex Mercer vs Tavros Nitram!

Conditions:

Prototype 2 Alex Mercer. Tavros has no become Gcatavrosprite yet.

Scenario:

Aradia has been amusing herself by traveling to post apocalyptic Doomed Timelines, where she ends up visiting a version of Earth where humanity nukes itself into oblivion trying to stop Mercer's infection. The liquefied remains of Alex travel along with her when she goes back to the meteor, hiding in the labs and assimilating left over imps to rebuild himself. Eventually Karkat sends Tavros to investigate because he keeps hearing weird noises coming from the vents, at which point Mercer attacks him.

Analysis: Mercer

It's the early 21st century and the apocalypse is here. A viral pandemic has engulfed New York city and begun assimilating all in It's wake. The government is powerless to stop the fleshy monstrosities that roam the streets. It seems that the end is here. And the man responsible is none other than Alex Mercer.

Fortunately, that is not who we're talking about today. Let's take it from the top.

Alex Mercer was a scientist who worked for the pharmaceutical company known as GENTEK. He was a brilliant virologist, a progidy even among GENTEK's most intelligent minds. As such, he was made head researcher on the Blacklight Virus, a powerful bio-weapon that promised to make the company rich. When his research was shut down by Blackwatch, a Government squad designed to contain viral epidemics, Mercer refused to go down quietly. He spitefully unleashed Blacklight onto New York as he was shot dead, the virus consuming and copying his body perfectly as it was freed.

Alex Mercer died that day and the Blacklight Virus woke up wearing his skin.

Believing itself to be Alex Mercer, the Blacklight Virus escaped from the morgue and set out to uncover his past and discover who he was. This doesn't go do well, as it results in him unleashing another sentient bioweapon known as the Redlight Virus, who swiftly begins causing chaos across New York. "Mercer" teams up with Mercer's sister Dana to both bring down GENTEK and stop the Redlight Virus, putting Blacklight into position to put together the pieces of his past by assimilating GENTEK staff.

The revelation that he isn't the real Akex Mercer shakes the virus to his core, giving him an existential crisis that follows him for the rest of his life. This causes him to eventually become disillusioned with humanity, motivating to try assimilating it into his own personal "superior race". This backfires when Mercer tries to assimilate Sgt. James Heller, whose "stuborn DNA" allows him to resist Mercer's influence after being transformed. Heller eventually grows strong enough to assimilate Mercer straight back, ending his spree for good.

From here on out, I'll be referring to the Blacklight Virus as Alex Mercer just for simplicity's sake, even if they are technically different characters.

Alex Mercer is effectively John Carpenter's The Thing on steroids. He's a sentient hunk of biomass capable of absorbing and shape-shifting into nearly anyone he so much as touches. While Mercer may technically be a "virus" he's shown to be capable of absorbing and infecting inorganic material, implying he attacks not on the cellular level, but the atomic one. This is what allows him to absorb and replicate clothing, as well as immitate the functions of some minor forms of technology, such as handheld radios. He also gains the memories of the people he absorbs, allowing him to use their identity to the fullest while undercover. He can even evade sensors designed specifically to detect viruses like himself and fool other shapeshifters.

Having said that, he still has plenty of combative powers at his disposal for when stealth isn't an option. His complete control over his own body grants him monstrous versatility, allowing him to turn his limbs into hammers that can smash tanks and whips that can pull helicopters out of the sky. He can create pseudo-wings to glide through the sky, can alter his eyes to see in the infrared spectrum and detect infected people, can run up walls, and can cover himself in steel-like armor to shrug off damage from powerful foes.

As if his offensive capabilities weren't enough, he's nigh unkillable to boot. He can shrug off the radioactive fallout of a nuke, can stop the Redlight Virus from trying to take over his mind, can endure explosions that reach up to several thousand degrees, and can adapt to being infected with every virus known to mankind. What's more his absurd levels of regeneration allow him to come back from being flat out liquified.

Anyone whom Mercer doesn't assimilate, he infects, granting him complete control over their mind and body. He's led an army thousands strong and nearly conquered the world with it. What's more, he gets stronger with every person he assimilates. Mercer as absorbed the Redlight Virus and the Supreme Hunter, two bioweapons even stronger than he himself was at the time, as he has the combined strength and experience of thousands of soldiers, making him a force to be reckoned with in combat.

For example, every time he transforms, he creates a shockwave the pushes away all of the clouds across Manhattan, which would require an energy equivalent to 102 kilotons of TNT.

In terms of speed, Alex is capable of processing all of the memories and experiences of a 69 year old man in a matter of seconds after absorbing him, suggesting he processes information at a rate equivalent to 197,816,727 m/s. Thinking at 66% light speed.

With all that being said, he still has one major flaw. Alex Mercer has a limited supply of biomass inside his body, which he must maintain by constantly absorbing other people. As such, his regeneration can fail if he takes enough constant damage and even on a full tank he has limits. When Mercer was obliterated by a nuke at the end of Prototype 1, only one small chunk of him remained. It was only after absorbing a crow that came to feed on him that Mercer came back.

Alex Mercer is an unstoppable, insatiable monster with apocalyptic ambitions... and the virus he made is pretty nasty too.

Analysis: Tavros

Alternia. The world before humanity. A death world designed to create conquerors and killers. Only the mightiest of warriors could possibly survive to adulthood. Only the cruelest killers would live long enough to join the fleet of the Alternian Empire and conquer the galaxy.

Tavros Nitram.... is not one of those warriors. Yet, he survives anyway. And Vriska hates him for it.

Tavros is a simple dude. When he's not playing Fiduspawn, rather, Troll Pokemon, he's happily LARPing with his friends while cosplaying Pupa Pan, troll Peter Pan. He's a shy and awkward dork on a planet full of bloodthirsty killers, which you think would make him an easy target. His Lusus isn't even big enough to protect him and he's a bronze blood, the second lowest rung on Alternia's bloodcaste.

Normally, you'd be right, but Tavros has an ace up his sleeve. His unparalleled ability with animal communion. He can control the minds of any animal he can telepathically reach, with his range expanding across entire universes. And when everyone else on the planet has a giant animal parent, that's a very easy way to guarantee no one messes with you. His telepathic ability can even extend to the nigh-omniscient First Guardians, reality warping gods tasked with preparing planets for the apocalypse, so long as they have some kind of animal component to them.

So, Tavros was left well enough alone... until he met Vriska.

Vriska... has had the opposite life experience on Alternia. Even with her similarly powerful telepathic abilities, she lived under a cruel, indifferent Lusus that demanded she hunt down and murder other kids to feed them to it, less she get eaten herself. Vriska, more than anyone, internalized Alternia's philosophy of might makes right. After all, if that wasn't true, then everything bad that happened to her happened for no reason at all and she was just a helpless teenage girl being pointlessly victimized. And Vriska could never admit to that.

So, when she sees Tavros living his best life without a single mean bone in his body, she figures she has to "toughen him up". If she won't, then he'll just die, right? No way someone can be a weakling and live a happy, carefree life.

So begain Vriska's attempts to ruin Tavros's life. Starting with her mind controlling him into jumping off a cliff to shatter his own spine, confining him to a wheelchair that his hive was not built to accommodate. Vriska would continually harass and bully him even as the world burned down around them, all under the guise of toughening him up.

This created something of a misconception in the fandom that Tavros is a complete pushover who lets everyone walk over him. This isn't completely untrue. Tavros is a complete disaster in social skills and the less said about his disastrous attempts to flirt, the better. He's nice, shy, and naive enough to see the best in everyone, even Vriska, which makes him struggle to put his foot down. He's even one of the only people on his team who'd never willingly take a life, even when Vriska tried to force him to kill her with mind control, he instead broke down crying and fled.

But, on the other hand, he does snark back at Vriska for her abuse constantly. He doesn't take anything she does to him lying down, he's just physically powerless to do anything about it and gets humiliated every time he tries. Remember, Vriska is the one most pushing the idea that he needs to be confident to fix all his problems... and Vriska is wrong.

Tavros is more than capable of handling himself in a fight. He used to play Fatal Live Action Roleplay for fun frequently and was confident enough in his abilities to go up against Vriska in it in the first place. LARPing is a lot more immersive when the other players are actively trying to kill you. Tavros spent hours side questing in SGRUB without having to kill a single imp, despite their hardcoded hostility. Equipped with a rocket powered wheelchair, Tavros can easily soar through the skies, charging foes down with his heavy lance. He even survived being carried down to Alternia on the back of a flaming meteor, just like everyone else on his team.

Keep in mind, one of SBURB's meteors hit the Earth hard enough to punch a massive hole in Jade's island, generating an energy equivalent to 4.24 megatons of TNT. So, being able to walk off an impact like that freshly after being born in nothing to sneeze at. After all, this impact was completely tanked by an unprototyped Sprite, which any SBURB Player would be stronger than at the minimum.

Source:

With his Fiduspawn cards, Tavros can create monsters to assist him in combat or call on the nearby wildlife for aide, preferring to use large groups to outnumber his opponents. Tavros is not the dedicated fighter Vriska is and he doesn't have to be. He's perfectly effective as he is doing what he's good at.

In terms of speed, Tavros can keep up alongside the likes of Equius, who can jump to his portal gate in a single bound, and can keep up in combat against the Beta Session's Black King. Seeing as the Black King was Prototyped up to twelve times, he should be faster than the three times Prototyped Jack Noir that fought evenly against Bro, who can move at 60 times the speed of light, throwing a Batarang within a single nanosecond.

Source:

Ultimately, Tavros's most impressive feat would come about after his death. After finally getting fed up with Vriska and ditching her, Tavros would help in the battle against Lord English in his own way. He'd gather an entire army of millions of ghosts, thousands of dead gods, to wage war against tge Lord of Time, persuading all of them to his side for the fate of all reality. Tavros would completely upstage Vriska's own plans to take the fight to Lord English and completely shatter her world view, just by being who he is. Just like he always had been from the start.

Alternia tried its damndest to beat the humanity out of every troll on the planet. It might have succeeded for awhile with Vriska, before her own character growth, but with Tavros... it never even came close.

Throwdown Breakdown:

This... is a hax vs stats fight.

It shouldn't suprise anyone that Akex decimates in terms of hax. Shapeshifting, regeneration, on contact assimilation and infection, etc. You can make an argument for Tavros's animal mind control having some grounds to work against Mercer, given he can effect anything animal related and Alex has absorbed the minds of animals before, but even if you did want to go there, Mercer has resisted mind control before from the likes of Elizabeth Green, so no dice.

What's shocking here, and I cannot believe I'm saying this, is.... Tavros has the massive advantage in stats.

Let's create a direct comparison. The nuke at the end of Prototype 1 exploded with an energy equivalent to 8 megatons of TNT.

Source:

Alex was far from the epicenter of the blast when he got caught up in it, meaning he did not absorb all of its energy, and yet, the explosion still almost killed him. It completely liquefied his body the pier and likely would've vaporized him if he'd taken it head on. Given how far away he was from the blast, he wouldn't even have taken 5% of the blast and that alone liquified him.

Tavros, meanwhile, powerscales above someone who tank a 4.24 megatons collision point blank....

Even considering the unknown degree to which Mercer gets stronger between games, the strength gap here is very clear cut.

And as for speed, well.... Alex can react at 66% of the light speed.... Tavros can react at 66 times *faster* than light speed. To put an exact number on it, Tavros is at least 25x faster.

I love power scaling, it creates power dynamics that are hilariously fucking dumb.

Now, yes, Tavros was crippled by a fall that should not have hurt someone this durable. That's a major facet of his character, in fact. But, by that same facet, Prototype 2 starts because an ordinary human with a combat knife was able to hurt Mercer, forcing him to regenerate. By all logic, the knife should've shattered on contact and that fall should've done nothing, especially given Tavros tanked a fall from orbit as a baby. Sometimes, outliers happen in character's power level for the sake of letting a plot happen. Writers aren't trying to be perfectly consistent physicists. They're trying to tell a story. And when both these characters are analyzed back to back without those constraints.... Tavros's feats are more impressive.

If Mercer gets his hand on Tavros for a second, he's dead. Instant assimilation. But, that's just never going to happen when Tavros can move 25x faster than Mercer can think. And when every single hit puts as massive dent in Mercer's biomass reserves, Alex is going to realize he's overmatched in a direct fight pretty quickly. As such, he'll try to break off, planning to use his shapeshifting to either ambush Tavros at a later point or try and find more biomass.

Given his personality, Tavros is not going to hunt down and execute Mercer while he runs away. It would take a lot of pushing to get Tavros actually ready to kill somebody and he has no idea who Mercer even is. He doesn't kill and he barely even likes fighting in self defense. He'd simply watch in confusion as this weird slime tentacle thing scrambles into the vents to lick its wounds. Then he'd shrug in confusion before floating off to report back to Karkat, nervous about.... whatever he just encountered.

Mercer would survive, but it'd be a big wound to his pride to run off like that.

This Throwdown's Winner is....

Tavros Nitram!

Next Time...

Credits under the cut:

Resources:

[tyrannuspitch]

been thinking about the dearth of actual movie adaptations of norse myth, which is of course partly down to the fact that what we have is fragmentary and episodic and not movie-shaped at all.

so um. here are a few preliminary thoughts on how you might be able to make it work.

focus on ragnarok, since that's where we have the most continuous/connected material, and make it a tragedy, because that's the whole point.

focus on the relationship between loki and odin, since they're going to be leading the armies at ragnarok.

make them both tragic, complex, morally grey figures, and draw out their similarities. either could be the protagonist, but let's say odin for now.

invent a little bit of backstory for how and why loki and odin became blood brothers - a connection, and either genuine personal loyalty or common cause. give us something to root for, even if it's small, and then spend the rest of the film slowly destroying it.

open by telling the audience exactly what's going to happen at ragnarok, so it can hang over the whole of the film.

take your time introducing the characters to the prophecy - maybe we start with hints or fragments, and we try not to believe them, so when odin gets the full thing it's a major plot point. and yet the distrust and decay has already set in; it's already inevitable.

finding a plot point to take us from the lead-up to ragnarok, to ragnarok itself, is going to be difficult - but maybe we don't actually need to.

the baldr's death/failed rescue/snake torture sequence could work as a climax. once everything is in place, we could end on "waiting for ragnarok" and leave it hanging.

some other thoughts:

odin sacrificing his eye and loki getting his lips sewn shut could be parallel steps towards ragnarok - odin is growing paranoid and obsessively seeks knowledge, while loki is growing bitter and vengeful.

odin imprisons loki's children (fenrir/hel/jormungandr); loki kills odin's son baldr and keeps him trapped in hel; the aesir kill loki's sons vali and narfi and imprison loki using their entrails. this could be a cycle of vengeance!

loki and odin don't actually directly kill one another at ragnarok. maybe you'd want to change this, or maybe there could be a kind of tragic disappointment in it, a sense of loss...? i burnt down the world to kill you and i didn't even get to do it myself!

(<- although i'm not sure how being blood brothers plays into that. are blood brothers allowed to kill one another? oaths in myth tend to be binding, so if that is part of it, it's possible they literally can't.)

odin built the world, and loki burnt it down. odin is a king/chief of the gods and loki, his blood brother, is an outsider and scapegoat among them. at least from loki's perspective, power and injustice will probably be central to their conflict.

odin is endlessly preparing for crisis, while loki is reckless and impulsive. but they're both willing to kill and let countless people die for them. from odin's perspective, their conflict is probably still essentially about personal survival and personal (or familial) grudges - i don't think myth!odin would necessarily see a need to justify it via a greater good, although he would probably deflect as much of the blame as possibly onto loki.

this is a fun thought experiment. i might come back to it later.