#so what i get is that in present time he's still dead

[atticrissfinch]

Born of Confusion and Quiet Collusion | (joel miller x reader) (18+)

pairing: stepfather!joel miller x fem!reader summary: he’s been in your life since you were fourteen, the first reliable father figure you’ve had in your life. but you’re not a child anymore. and you’re not the only one who’s noticed that.  warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] sleazy/deadbeat stepdad!joel, age gap (joel is 51, reader is 20), stepcest (v self-referential), daddy!kink, size!kink, fingering, oral (m&f receiving), unprotected piv, deepthroating, cum-eating, marking, ball-sucking, angst!!! a lot of it!!!, smoking, drinking, infidelity, v brief mentions of past domestic abuse and past impregnation of a minor (16) via statutory r*pe (neither apply to joel or reader), too many religious metaphors, reader has a landing strip because…I said so word count: ~10.6K | ao3 a/n: I had such a good time writing this. it didn’t turn out as PWP as initially intended, but I love it just the same. this is definitely not your mother’s stepcest fic (it’s her husband’s 🤪) but it’s still horny and sick and twisted and I hope you cry or cum or both ❤️ if people like this, there is a possibility of a part 2! title from lana my queen ♥️ thanks to @saradika-graphics for the dividers <3

Masterlist | Kofi

Blinding sun has begun to streak across the sidewalks in your childhood neighborhood. Patches of grass and wildflowers sprout from the cracks in the pavement. Vibrant chalk drawings smear from trekking feet. Sprinklers stutter and hiss for giggling children — a picturesque snapshot of youthful frivolity, submerged in the ephemeral gloss of summer vacation.

In a way, it feels like you’ve never left. For the past two years, you’ve only come home for the summer from college. Which is unfortunate considering how beautiful New England is in the summer. Instead your thighs are sticking to plastic benches at fast-casual restaurants in Texas, where it feels like the devil himself has his head between your legs anywhere you sit.

Of course, it’s always nice to see your mother. Never without a pitcher of sweet ice tea in the fridge, never without a pasted-on Southern debutante smile, and never a single hair that’s not bleached to hell on her head. Frazzled and air-headed as they come, flighty as a hummingbird, but easily reined and tethered to the earth with one hand by…Joel.

Oh, what could you say about Joel?

He loves your mother, you’ll say that much. You’ve never seen a man as drawn to his wife as you have him. The touches are constant, the compliments doled out like those strawberry bonbons on your grandmother’s coffee table. It’s been seven years and he still acts like your living room is the lobby heading to the honeymoon suite they call a bedroom.

As a result, you wouldn’t be caught dead without headphones at any given time in your home. You’ve heard far too much over these seven years to not know to be prepared.

But what Joel makes up for in physical affection, he severely lacks in any other form of decorum. His recliner is perfectly molded to his body, his side table littered with cigarette butts and empty Pabst cans. The blare of NASCAR is ever-present, and you swear you can see the outline of an ad-riddled Camaro burned into the television screen.

On any given Saturday you hear “Beer, baby,” about a dozen times.

Beer, baby.

Beer, baby.

‘Nother beer, baby.

They almost don’t sound like real words after the first several. Just a nonsensical pattern of plosives spewing into the air that your mother is conditioned to respond to like a dog.

Beer, baby.

and then,

Snick. Crack. Fizz.

And she never complains, as far as you’ve heard.

You’d tried one time to yank her out of the trance.

“Mom, you don’t have to be his little barmaid, you know. He can get his own beer,” you’d said.

She just smiled that plastic smile, slid her hands down his chest from behind his chair, kissed his sweaty temple, and said, “‘Least I can do for my white knight. Ain’t never no skin off my nose.”

“White knight with the biggest sword in the land,” Joel had tacked on for his own benefit, grabbing his crotch lewdly with a filthy grin before your mother swatted him playfully and gathered his empty beer cans.

The thing about your mother’s current questionable standards is that your biological father was a shitbag, to put it lightly. He’d gotten your mom pregnant when she was just short of seventeen, and he was thirty-five. And that’s just the beginning. He’s locked up now, but he’d had about fourteen years to do damage to her in this very home that he bought for your little family to maintain appearances of family values.

To her, Joel is her white knight. She was a single mother of a teenage girl with an ex-husband in the slammer and a dead-end receptionist job at a local travel agency.

Joel showered her with love and praise without the shadow of the back of his hand just behind. And maybe he was still fifteen years her senior. Maybe he didn’t have money. Maybe he was a deadbeat, beer-bellied local with a million excuses as to why jobs never work out for him (a “Type A” personality, he likes to blame it on. Which you’re unsure he even knows what that means given that the only Type A you’ve observed in him that he could credibly claim is his blood type).

But he loved your mother when she needed it the most. And he loved her enough that he accepted the package deal the two of you came as. So there’s only so much you could hold against him.

And not that this would ever matter, in any universe, but in spite of his dirty undershirts, his ratty sweatpants, his prominent beer gut…Joel is not an unattractive man. He cleans up very well on the rare occasion your mother has required him to, and you see a sparkle of what your mother sees in him on a daily basis.

A sparkle that, for reasons unbeknownst to you, had your hand sliding into your panties once or twice or more growing up when you were still discovering your own sexuality in your twin bed with your headphones in.

You haven’t done that for years now. You barely even remember it happened. But you don’t think of Joel that way. Joel is just…Joel. He’s your stepfather. Love of your mother’s life. The stability she needed. For seven years, that’s how it’s stayed.

When you return to your house in the evening of a hot Summer night, ear freshly talked off by your old friend from high school and a stomach satiated with your favorite local spot, your mother is working on dinner for her and Joel at the stove, still dressed in her work attire.

“Looks good, sexy mama,” Joel says, slapping her ass and gripping a handful of it as he kisses her neck.

She giggles and bats him away. “Oh, shoo. Go sit and it’ll be ready in about twenty minutes.”

He fits in one final grope before plodding over to his recliner and powering on the television, eyeing you as you slip your sandals off by the front door.

“How’s Nancy?” He asks in his deep drawl, pulling the arm of the recliner until the footrest pops up for him to prop his socked feet.

“Francie,” you correct, tossing your keys into the dish on the antique wooden console table by the door. One your mother and you had spotted at an estate sale when you were seven, and one you’ve made a mental note to make sure none of your sticky-finger relatives get their hands on before you have a solid place of your own to furnish and you can take a piece of your childhood home with you.

“Francie. That’s right. How’s Francie?”

“She’s good. She thinks Josh is gonna propose soon.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” your mom pipes in, plopping a hand over her heart as she stirs. “I always liked that Josh. Always holds the door open for me when I stop by Sal’s.”

“Yeah, he’s alright,” you say dismissively. What you don’t say is how he’s already cheated on Francie twice in as many years, but she keeps going back. But that’s none of your business in the end. Francie’s always been one to do what she’s going to do.

“Well, what about that boy you been seein’ every goddamn night?” Joel asks, leaning back in his chair.

“Hasn’t been every goddamn night,” you sass back, propping your hand on your hip in front of him. “We’ve been on four dates.”

“Been real long dates,” Joel says, a clear inclination in his voice.

“They have not been real long dates, Joel. They’ve been normal dates.”

“Oh, leave her be, J,” your mom scolds lightly. “She’s just havin’ fun, aren’t you, blossom?”

“I guess,” you mutter, studying the old magazines on the coffee table. “Hoping it becomes something a little more serious than ‘just fun’ soon.”

“Caught your eye, didn’t he? He’d be a dumbass to throw that away,” Joel says with surety. “Knew that the second I looked at your mama. You girls are a prize. Beautiful as all get-out.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, shifting your weight a little uncomfortably at the compliment.

Joel’s mouth falls into a smirk as he taps his side table. “You wanna make like your mama and grab me a beer, sweet girl?”

You scoff, giving him a look of disgust. “Fuck off.”

Joel gives an upside-down smile and shrugs before hollering at your mother, “Beer, baby.”

You let out an annoyed sigh and head off toward the kitchen. “I’ll fucking get it, mom. Lazy ass,” you mutter the last two words under your breath.

“Thank you, doll,” your mom says, a wide smile on her face as you pull open the fridge and retrieve his drink. You slam it down on his tiny table with thinly-veiled irritation, flourishing your hands towards it in a facetious “ta-da” gesture.

Joel looks at the can, then up at you. “Ain’t gonna open it?”

“For fuck’s sake,” you bite out incredulously, turning on your heel toward your bedroom. “Open it yourself,” you yell over your shoulder as you head down the hall.

“Thank you, sweet girl,” you hear him bellow to you with a laugh in his voice as you shut your door.

—

Your mom is acting different lately. Pushing Joel away more when he becomes affectionate. More short-tempered at random moments with him. You’ve already witnessed her going off on him once since you’ve been home about him not doing the simplest things. Tidying up the table, forgetting to run errands for her while she’s at work, emptying his own ashtray. Her patience is much thinner the last several weeks since you’ve been home, and you’re not sure for how long prior.

But you see her smiling at her phone one evening when Joel is out at a bar with his friends. It’s a certain kind of smile. Less plastered on, more secretive in its delight. Forty minutes later she tells you she’s playing some late-night pinochle at a friend’s and to not wait up for her. She looks awful dolled up for a card game night with “friends”, but you say nothing.

She’s playing some “late-night pinochle” with someone, alright, you think.

Joel stumbles in at 2 AM, clattering loudly around in the kitchen. You pad out of your room in your sleep shorts and tank top, squinting into the bright kitchen lights.

“The fuck are you doing, Joel?”

His head whips around, hand frozen on the handle of an open kitchen drawer. “Shit, sweetheart. Sorry, didn’t know I’d wake ya.”

“You’re being noisy as fuck. What are you rooting around in here for?”

“Ran outta smokes. I know I got a spare pack stashed in here.”

You sigh tiredly, resting your chin on your hand on the counter. “Junk drawer on the right.”

Joel follows your instructions and emerges victorious, waggling the pack in the air. “Thank you, sweet girl.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave off, pushing yourself off the counter to head back to your slumber.

“Wanna have a smoke with me out back?”

You stare at him blankly for a moment. “I don’t really smoke.”

Joel fixes you with a telling look, eyebrows raised. “Mama’s not home. You wanna have a smoke with me?”

You stand quiet for a pause, but then roll your eyes and tilt your head to the back door in a silent acquiescence. Joel smiles lightly and follows your gesture, slipping a cigarette into your hand as he passes.

The night air is still balmy, but there is a light breeze. You hunker down on the porch steps and Joel flicks his lighter for the both of you.

You’re not a habitual smoker. It’s purely social and for the occasional nerves. Your mom hates smoking, even hates that Joel does it. But she really doesn’t want you to get trapped in it. And as far as she knows, you’ve never had nicotine in your life. She definitely doesn’t know that you’d surreptitiously coerced Joel into offering you your first cigarette at sixteen. On these exact same steps.

You smoke in relative silence for several minutes, the cicadas chirping around you and the wood creaking underneath.

Then, into the dark, “She’s steppin’ out on me.”

You look over at him, legs spread, half-smoked cigarette dangling between them, and looking a little more haggard than you remember seeing him before.

Something about the softness in his face, the puffiness under his eyes, has you looking at him in a more sympathetic light that has nothing to do with the dying glow of the bulb above the doorway.

“Don’t talk about my mom like that,” you mutter gently. But he’s right and you know it. You don’t know the details, but she’s not being the most subtle about it.

“Don’t want to,” Joel replies, taking another pull from his smoke. “But the signs’ve been there for a while.”

You nod silently in understanding, feeling the burn of the smoke in your throat.

Joel sighs, tendrils of smoke billowing from his mouth. “Happens, I guess. I’m sure it’ll blow over.”

“Yeah. It’ll blow over,” you agree. Joel doesn’t respond again, just stares out at the overgrown, weed-infested back lawn. You knock your knee against his until you have his attention. You reassure him, “It’ll blow over.”

Joel stares at you for a prolonged minute, then bumps your knee back. A heavy palm falls low onto your bare thigh, stroking gently with a thick thumb. Goosebumps flare up under it immediately, a strange feeling in your stomach ramping up at the graze of him. You blink and take another drag.

Joel’s hand slides off your leg, leaving a bizarre chill in its wake. He pulls himself up and taps out the smoldering butt onto the railing.

“It’ll blow over,” he confirms, pushing open the door and disappearing inside.

Tightness constricts in your chest as you desperately suck down to the filter on your cigarette, jettisoning the smoke into the air pensively.

A lot has changed since you were sixteen.

—

The night had not gone as planned. Six dates and you really thought this would be the one. You knew it would be long distance, but you thought he liked you.

You hadn’t even gone on Tinder with the intent of finding a relationship, but then you went on a few dates and you thought, maybe you could do it. He’s cute, sweet, makes you come and then fucks you well. You had thought this would be the night. The “Will you be my girlfriend” night, not the “This isn’t going to work” night. So you’re fighting back tears as he awkwardly drives you home.

Joel is in his chair, beer in hand, when you walk through the door. You’re really not in the mood, so you beeline it for the hallway.

“Hey, what’s wrong sweet girl?” Joel calls after you as you sequester yourself in your room, chuck your heels at your closet, and hurl yourself onto your bed.

Not two minutes go by before a light knock sounds at your door. “You okay, sweet girl?”

“Fuck off,” you yell back at him through the closed door. But the door opens, and Joel is there, leaning against the doorway.

“Date go to shit?”

“How tactful,” you grumble, wringing the pillow in your lap with your hands and dropping your head back against your headboard.

Joel chuckles, but he looks earnest in his interest. “Come on, darlin’. What happened?”

You shrug dismissively, throat thick with your restrained emotions.

Joel knocks on the doorway in an awkward fidget, before ultimately crossing the barrier into your room and sitting on the bed at your feet, looking at you expectantly.

You bite your lower lip, doing your damndest to stave off the tears. “He broke things off.”

“Dumbass,” Joel mutters.

“I’m the dumbass.”

“You’re not a dumbass. I would know, wouldn’t I?” Joel teases, jostling your foot lightly.

A hint of a smile forms on your face. “Yeah, you would. Dumbass extraordinaire.”

Joel matches your smile with an upturn of the corner of his mouth. He tugs at your ankle. “Come ‘ere.”

You groan, but toss the pillow aside and scoot down the bed next to him, folding your legs to the side in your wrinkled dress. Joel wraps an arm around you and pulls you into him. You sigh and lower your head onto his shoulder.

“It’s fucking stupid, but I liked him,” you say quietly.

“He don’t deserve you,” he says, hugging around your waist.

“Apparently no boy does, at this point,” you sniffle. The scent of Joel fills your nostrils — beer, cigarettes, a thin sheen of sweat. It should be off-putting, but it smells like growing up. Like maturity.

“You’re right. No boy does.”

The arm around you shifts, and once again, a hand. Warm on your thigh. Midway up this time, just below the hem of your dress. You stare down at it, conflicted.

“What do you mean?” You ask, fearing you already know the answer.

“I think you need a man,” Joel rumbles, squeezing at your thigh.

You swallow thickly, unable to look away from the masculine hand clamped onto your leg, a little less than innocently.

“Joel? Where’s my mom?”

When Joel doesn’t reply, you pry your eyes from his hand to study his face. You see his expression and the answer passes between you wordlessly.

She’s not here. You both know where she is. And you both know she won’t be back for a good while.

Joel’s gaze fixes on yours as his hand slips up a single inch, pinky dipping just under your skirt.

“Joel…” you whisper, but you don’t think he quite hears it. His eyes drop down to your mouth and stay there, watch as your tongue flicks over your suddenly very dry lips. “What are you doing?”

A casual smile twitches onto his lips as another inch is lost between him and a ticking time bomb. He just repeats, “You deserve a man.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as his hand closes the distance, dress dragging up your thigh until his pinky brushes the soft fabric of your panties. Your eyes drift closed at the feather-light touch, a war waging in your head.

Joel was not the one meant to discover the type of underwear that’s under this dress tonight. He’s the very last person you expected. As he should be. He’s your stepfather. You’ve overheard him fucking your mother countless times.

Overheard how good he is. How big he is. How thorough he is.

Your leg quivers under his palm, your jaw clenching with the discordance in your mind.

“I don’t think we should be doing this,” you say shakily, fingers gripping the sheets under you. “I don’t think you should be doing this.”

Joel’s gaze bounces between your eyes and your lips. Then he gives you a sultry look and speaks the forbidden words.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Your fingers dance anxiously as Joel’s pinky grazes up the crotch of your panties again, where you’re terrified he’s going to find you responding favorably to this scenario.

“You want me to keep it a secret from my mother that her husband fucked her only daughter?” You burst out in a single breath. You feel lightheaded and tingly. You can’t parse your thoughts and they’re starting to get crowded.

“Already usin’ the past tense, huh?” Joel says huskily, and you feel his hand burrowing in between your thighs until two fingers press at the seam of your pussy over your underwear. “Seems like your mind’s already made up, sweet girl.”

You whimper quietly, the clouds in your brain growing denser by the second. Then, without ever actively deciding on a course of action, your legs are resituating themselves into a position much less concerned with modesty. Your thighs are spreading with zero input from your critical thinking skills, and a stifled groan slips out of Joel.

“Feels like it, too,” Joel moans, fingers rubbing over what must be a prominent wet spot on your panties.

You release your first moan, and it seems to echo around your room and back into your ears, spearing through the overcast in your head. You finally vocalize what you really should keep inside at this point, but it needs to be said.

“Joel, I-I’m your stepdaughter. Y-you’re my stepfather. We can’t.”

Joel’s nose ghosts up your jaw, nuzzling into the curve of your neck. “Grown woman, aren’t ya? Ain’t my blood, neither.”

“My mom…”

“Your mama ain’t gonna find out. I sure as shit ain’t gonna tell her.”

“I can’t lie to her,” you insist, but your mouth drops open as one of his fingers strokes at the crease of your thigh and your pussy, shaved smooth mere hours ago for your date. His skin on your skin, in a place where it should never fucking be.

“You’re so goddamn sexy,” Joel breathes into your neck, and his lips land just after, shoving your concerns to the side. You jump at the stroke of his tongue over your throat, the scrape of his teeth, and all at once you’re slave to it.

You fall onto your back and he follows you down, straddling your hips and cupping your jaw, pushing it upward as he sucks at your neck. If you don’t stop him, he’s going to leave a mark. As if he hasn’t already. The deed is as good as done.

“Joel, be carefu—”

“Don’t call me Joel,” he growls, nipping below your ear.

“What do I call you?”

Joel’s mouth halts on you, exhaling over his saliva on your skin. “Daddy. Call me daddy,” he instructs, latching onto you again.

“Fuck,” you sigh, craning your neck up for his enjoyment. “That’s so fucked.”

Joel’s laugh borders on unhinged as he presses his lips to your ear and whispers, “We’re already fucked. Would be a waste to half-ass it.”

He hooks a finger into the gusset of your underwear and tugs it to the side, and you can sense him watching your expressions as your eyes clench shut in disbelief that this is actually happening, while not even dreaming of telling him to stop.

Air rushes out your chest as a thick finger glides through the folds of your cunt, confirming your arousal with damning evidence.

“Jesus, you’re juicy as a fuckin’ peach, darlin’,” Joel groans, sounding almost pained at the discovery.

“Not the first time. I used to think about you,” you admit, a runaway train, brakes shot. “When I was younger.”

“Fuck, you can’t say shit like that,” Joel moans, forehead pressing against your temple. “Give people the wrong idea.”

“Never telling anyone else. Just you. Besides, I’m all woman now…daddy,” you coo, testing the waters.

“Fuck,” he swears loudly again, another finger joining the first to massage at your clit. “Nasty, naughty girl. You take after your mama.”

You whine and wriggle under him at the comparison, but by some inexplicable, Freudian twist of fate, a distant, previously obscured light in your chest begins to beam. “Keep touching me, daddy. I’ll be a good girl.”

“Yes, you will,” Joel says in response. Not like an order or an expectation. But like it’s a given. Like you’d ever behave any other way beneath him. As if he’d known all along, all seven years, that you would end up right here. Disheveled and heartbroken on your twin-sized, pastel pink duvet, with paternal fingers that have biblically, intimately known the inside of your creator, the site of your creation, now acquainting themselves with the life she created.

Do you feel like her? Do you have her lips like you have her mouth? Has this man successfully sown and reaped the benefits of a distressingly similar — kindred — octet of lips? Matching horizontal and vertical smiles all thirsting, parched, yet drooling for him under a single roof? If he closes his eyes, could he tell the difference?

Joel’s breath is at your ear, sending chills over your flesh from head to toe, muddying your mind.

“Take off your dress.”

A full-body shudder wracks through you at the order, a traitorous flood of wetness flowing from your opening as Joel continues to explore you with his touch. You begin shrugging out of your dress straps until steadying fingers cling to your thigh.

Joel pulls your focus with damp fingers perched on the underside of your chin, your own slick marring your skin at the hand of your father figure. Your lip trembles as he commands your attention.

“Stand up. And take it off. For me,” he instructs measuredly, bringing his thumb down to stroke the point of your chin softly.

A burning starts in your throat, like the smolder of one of his cigarettes slipped into your mouth. “Y-you want me to strip for you?”

Joel’s lips slant upwards and he says, “I wanna see everything you have to offer your daddy.”

You nod, the blaze in your throat sizzling to your chest as you long to reveal all you have to him.

You extract from the cage of his limbs to upright yourself, smoothing the line of your dress down to its full length, hitting you mid-thigh. Your hand twists back to capture your zipper, and with torturous patience, you work it downward. Your straps droop down your shoulders with the slack, and you’re quick to wrap an arm around your breasts to prevent too premature an exposure. You get the feeling that a man like Joel appreciates the delay of gratification, if his ask of you putting on a show for him is any indication.

The zipper ends precariously at the top of your ass, the sides of your dress falling open to show the expanse of your back to him along with the band of your bra.

“Fuck,” you hear him say under his breath, the squeak of your mattress springs sounding as he moves behind you into an unknown position on the bed.

You languidly slip your arms from the straps entirely, pressing the dress to your tits for a moment longer before letting the top of the garment fall at the waist, holding it to your stomach instead.

“Just like that, sweetheart. That’s right,” Joel grinds out, the springs squealing again, but this time accompanied by the rasp of a different zipper.

Curiosity, eagerness get the better of you, and you start to turn. But you’re instantly met with a hard, “Uh-uh. Keep lookin’ forward. You’ll get an eyeful soon enough.”

You fix your gaze forward again, struggling to keep up this glacial charade when you have good reason to believe what you long to see is now just behind you. So you bring your hands to the side of your dress and shift it down, bending at the waist to put your ass on display in your lacy thong you’d worn for your date, until the dress at last crumples to the floor.

A low whistle sings behind you as you stay bent for a decent few seconds before standing at full height again. Your fingers fiddle with the clasps of your bra at your back, coming apart with practiced ease. The article hits the floor as well, your tits free to the air and your nipples hardening at the exposure.

“God, you’re such a good girl, aren’t ya? Finish the picture for daddy.”

You whimper, your fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your thong on either side. With a final flair of showmanship, you shimmy the elastic strap of your panties up and down with a slight sway in your hips, before bending at the waist again as the last stitch of clothing on your body sounds a silent death knell as it hits the carpet of your childhood bedroom.

The air feels thick and weighty as the quiet stretches. You can hear the hum of voices from the television Joel didn’t shut off before he sought to damn the both of you. You could wrestle with the reality that the soundtrack to your irredeemable sin is a King of the Hill rerun, but Joel is still on your bed, and you’re still hands-to-ankles, laying waste to each and every ounce of sense you’ve accrued in your twenty years.

A resounding groan shatters your trance as Joel thrusts you back into the situation at hand. “Fuckin’ Christ,” you hear, and then the loud thump of Joel’s knees crashing to the ground, rough hands startling you as they take hold of your hips. Your palms slam to the carpet to maintain your balance as wet lips suck open-mouthed kisses onto your asscheek.

“Oh, fuck,” you sigh loudly, your feet arching onto your tip-toes as the kisses close in on your aching core. Two thumbs part the split of your pussy from behind, and Joel doesn’t waste another second diving in. A large, flattened tongue licks a line up the length of your pussy, clit to entrance, leaving your legs shaking.

Another deep, gratuitous moan rings out, and Joel’s mouth is stroking over you with rigorous passion. Joel comes up for air, but only to take an aggressive bite into the globe of your ass, one sure to leave behind unmistakable, irrefutable physical evidence of exactly who had been there.

It’s foreboding.

But why does it feel like sanctuary?

A tug at your hips, and you’re at last spinning back around to face him.

And his eyes are ravenous. Ruinous.

His mouth descends onto your mound, slobbering up the small strip of hair you left as a guiding path to whoever sought to grant you pleasure.

An almost-boyfriend.

Or a stepfather.

But he goes against the grain, kissing further and further north of your throbbing cunt, over your stomach, up your sternum. Your spit-slick tits find refuge in the confines of his hands, groping, pushing, pulling at them as your nipples drag against his palms.

You manage to steal a glimpse between you, fiending for a sneak peek of that sword he constantly boasts about. He hasn’t revealed much, other than a sizeable bulge and a red, shining head poking out from the band of his boxers. It’s enough to have you imagining what it will feel like inside you, crying out for it to become reality.

His lips claim your neck with purpose as he steers you toward your bed, the backs of your legs giving way and cascading the both of you into a sea of bedding. Your head nestles among your pillows as Joel works his way south again.

Joel looks up at you as he approaches the seam of your pussy. Heated exhales tease at your clit as he says, “You always screamin’ about why your mama keeps me around? Lemme show you why.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows to take in the sight of your stepfather’s mouth sinking down onto your pussy and dancing his tongue over the bundle of nerves that has been throbbing for him. The first sucking pull of his mouth on you has your head tipping back in an entirely unhindered moan, and you have to flop it back down, your chin colliding with your chest in your haste to view the bob of his head between your legs.

Joel’s work is impressive to say the least. His tongue drags up and down the length of you, stopping to circle your clit with a pointed tip and suck you back into the wet warmth of him. Your entrance leaks in excessive excitement as he riles you up with gusto, hands framing you at the inside of your thighs and spreading you wide for his consumption.

He breaks away, not allowing himself to go far, to croon over your soaked core, “Such a sweet pussy on such a sweet girl.”

You exhale heavily, browns furrowing in overwhelming pleasure as he directs his attention back to your clit. A finger tests the bounds of your opening, stroking the perimeter of the point of no return.

He knows the outside of you now. He’s familiarized himself with every inch of the surface of your skin, either with his eyes, or with the aid of his mouth. Inside is foreign territory. Inside is unforgivable.

He slides in so easily, it’s like you rolled out a welcome mat and propped open the door. He’s filled you to the webbing of his fingers in a manner of a half-second, and you feel dizzy with it.

Then he’s fucking you with it, and it’s like you’re floating. The grip of your cunt around his finger has him moaning around your clit, sending vibrations throughout your body.

He crooks his finger, stroking at the softest part of you, and you feel yourself unraveling at an alarming pace.

“Daddy…daddy…” you call out desperately, hands thrusting into the sheets to scramble for something to keep you earth-bound.

“You gonna come for me?” Joel says, hovering only for a brief moment above your clit to ensure you maintain your high. “Come on, come for your daddy,” he finishes, diving right back onto your clit and thrusting a second finger into you along with the first, honing in on your blessed g-spot like he had it marked on a map of you from the second he met you.

All said and done, it takes him minutes to bring you to the brink of destruction, where you’re squeezing around his practiced fingers and arching for the sky, screaming exactly what he’d instructed you to call him.

His mouth remains warm and diligent against you as you work through the throes, pulling the full extent of your pleasure to its frayed ends, until you’re pushing him away with trembling hands to get some reprieve.

Joel’s head falls against your thigh as he levels his breathing, soaked fingers streaking your hip. The bed frame wobbles as he starts to grind against the mattress.

“Goddamn. I usually make your mama come at least three times before I even stick my dick inside her. But feelin' how tight your little cunt is clenching on my fingers I’d be a damn fool not to take a test drive right fuckin’ now. One’ll have to be enough.”

You whimper, your legs falling open to accommodate his broadness as he moves up your body. Your fist tugs at his shirt as you say, “Wanna see you too.”

Joel glances down at himself and gives a little wince. “Not nearly as pretty as you are, sweet girl.”

“I don’t care.”

Joel sighs, sitting back on his haunches. “Alright, but you ain’t gettin’ the whole rigmarole,” he says, reaching behind him to grab the back collar of his shirt and pull it over his head, damning it with the rest of your clothes on the floor. His cock is quickly freed of its confines as the godforsaken pile builds, and you get your first real look at him.

And for all the little white lies Joel tells, you have to give him credit. The boasting was not borne of a necessity for overcompensation.

Joel is big.

You should have guessed. In every passing gloat from Joel, your mother has never argued the opposite. She only ever grows embarrassed, smacks him lightly for being crass.

Apparently his doting compliments and pussy-eating prowess are not the only reasons she’s kept him around.

“‘M I what you expected, sweet girl?” Joel asks, his eyes hooded as a hand strokes down the length of himself with a casual, justified pride that only exists in men who are impressively sized and they know it.

The dumbfounded expression on your face refuses to dissipate as you shake your head “no”, followed by a flurry of rapid blinking as you nod your head “yes”. Then a confounded response sputters out, “I-I didn’t know what to expect. You always said…but I didn’t….”

“‘S okay, darlin’. Normal for a girl to go cockdumb when she sees a dick like this for the first time.”

You just nod, a woman possessed by her deepest, darkest desires, regardless of how sick and depraved they may be to the sound mind.

And, god help you, you are not currently of sound mind. Maybe you couldn’t prove that in a court of law, but in your own psyche, you certainly are clearly lacking in the logic sector at the moment.

Joel really has nothing to be concerned with in the looks department. Your eyes are transfixed on one thing only, up until your field of view is robbed of it, replaced by the glassy-eyed lust on Joel’s face as he drapes over you.

“Fuck,” Joel groans, his expression nearly pained as he takes in the enraptured silence of you. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I just can’t stop thinkin’ about how your mama must’ve felt before she pushed you out. This is the closest I’ll ever get to feelin’ that for myself.”

A whine escapes you as you wrap your arms under the backs of your knees, deliberately spreading yourself as wide as you can for him with blatant intentions. Let him feel it for himself. You’re so hungry for him, you feel fit to burst over it. You’ll be the newer model of her. You’ll be a tight, young hole for him. You’ll give him what she hasn’t been giving him, what you haven’t overheard in weeks from their bedroom.

“Fuck yeah, sweet girl,” Joel moans, positioning his cock at your waiting entrance. “Show me how your mama felt twenty years ago.”

You’re certain your own fall from grace should not feel so heavenly. But the first shove of Joel’s cock inside you toes a line dangerously close to a reckoning. The stretch of your walls around him, the death grip you have on your assured destruction, the fullness he’s wrought upon you nothing short of gluttonous satisfaction.

“Daddy, that’s so good,” you sigh into his ear, and it earns you a rumbling grunt as he bottoms out.

“Jesus, baby,” he moans, burying his face into your neck. “She teach you how to keep it this tight for me?”

She.

He sinks inside you, makes room inside his wife’s daughter for himself, and how thoughtlessly her identity is reduced to…she.

Your breath hitches as Joel pulls out to the head and he slams the full length of him into you, your ankles locking at the small of his back, your wrists around his neck.

You’ve heard Joel’s sex noises countless times before across the hall, muffled by closed doors. He’s an entirely different animal when you’re mainlining his sounds, his words directly into your ear. The scratch of thirty years of cigarettes in his moans, the chant of the devil in his terms of endearment, the authoritative intonation of a guardian.

He beats inside you like a drum, a deafening reverberation, punching air out of your lungs with every punitive thrust. His balls slap against the split of your ass like the muted clap of hi-hat cymbals, keeping tempo for you as your mind drifts away.

Flashes of reality wade through your hedonistic bliss, like they’re desperate to haul you to shore, save you from this entirely avoidable fate, resuscitate your suffocated sanity. Your brain beseeches you to notice your glaringly exposed circumstances. Your bedroom door as ajar as your mouth moaning for him, your window curtains spread wide as your legs, your ceiling light as illuminated as your soul emitting the final streaks of vibrancy before the sun sets at dusk.

You’re recklessly laid bare for Joel and the world around you. A single rogue pair of eyes could end that world as you know it. Your mother could walk through the front door, down the hall at any moment. Even still, your heels dig into his flesh to hold him inside you, your skin yearns for the drag of his hair-spattered potbelly against your soft stomach.

You long to be full of more than just his cock.

Through hiccuping breaths you say, “Come inside me.”

Joel lets out a conflicted keen as the pendulum of his hips swing. “I can’t, baby. We can’t.”

Your fingers tug at his hair as you whine like a child in protest. “I’m on birth control. I promise.”

Joel’s breath grows labored as his orgasm looms over him, a strain in his voice as he wrestles with your pleading request.

“Fuck,” he yells out, his hips stilling inside you as you moan on his cock, high on the prospect of his spend painting your insides with sin.

But you don’t feel him throbbing, pulsing within your walls. He’s not winded and gasping from a climax wrung from your clutch.

“Daddy…?”

“I can’t, baby.”

“Please. I need it inside me.”

Joel groans, but his cock drags free of your pussy, leaving you empty and fundamentally altered. Joel’s hand brushes across your forehead, a boundless devotion in his eyes. “How about I shoot my load inside your mouth, huh? So you can have part of me in your belly. You wanna suck your sloppy cunt off daddy’s cock?”

A broken moan slips out of you as you stare down the layers of what seems a lot like love in his gaze. Maybe more than one kind of love. Something more akin to a convoluted amalgamation of parental, platonic, sexual, worshipful love and affection.

A warm hand cups your cheek and you nod in compliance to his suggestion. Joel’s lips press a kiss against your forehead, leaving a burn in its wake. He takes your hand and leads you off the bed with him. He doesn’t have to ask, you just drop to your knees in a showing of submission.

“You felt how big daddy is. Think you can fit him?”

“I can,” you state assuredly. You take initiative, gripping the base of him and gliding up and down your stepfather’s cock with your own slick.

“You sure? She’s able to take all of it, but it’s a struggle. So be real positive.”

“I can do it,” you say confidently, poising his tip at your mouth.

“Go ahead and show me, then.”

You take him into your mouth and you half expect him to dissolve on your tongue. A Eucharist to tide you over until he spills his wine, heady and white across your supplicant taste buds.

But he’s solid, hefty as he slides deeper, a presence unignorable.

“That’s it, sweet girl. All the way back,” he coaxes, and a whimper seeps out from you around his girth. His hand strokes over your hair in blessing as he knocks at the back of your throat, your face screwing up as your reflexes activate. You stave off the worst of them, eyes watery as they gaze up at him. “Still got more to go.”

You nod as gently as you can, feeling the strain in your jaw.

“Daddy’s gonna fuck your face. Loosen you up a bit, okay?”

A greedy noise of approval from you and Joel’s fingers are entwining in your hair, gripping hard enough to pleasantly sting. Your mouth is wet and drooling when Joel pulls your head off of him, until just the tip weighs down your tongue.

“She digs her fingernails into her palm to make it easier. Don’t know if that helps.”

You whimper and glance down at your hand. You’ve already got half-moon crescents piercing the heel of it. Timidly, you open it up to reveal it to him.

A throaty growl fills your ears as he tightens his hold on your hair. “Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”

Like mother, like daughter.

There’s a loud grunt and Joel is fucking into your mouth with little mercy. Your dry lips crack to accommodate the size of him, your cheeks concaving to maximize his sensation, and the back of your throat taking a beating as his head punches the tender flesh with impeccable rhythm.

As your one hand threatens to prick blood under the pressure of your nails, the other seeks to draw it from Joel’s hip. You’re not trying to stop him, or even harm him, but you need him to feel what he’s doing to you. How certifiably insane he has you, a puppet with holes for him to fill and control. You’re a living, breathing creature, but he fucks your mouth like you have no need to breathe at all.

You’d inhale through your nose, but it’s clogged with snot and running in rivulets down to your lips, servicing him with further lubrication for your debasement. The salty wet cascading down your cheeks blurs your vision as you force yourself to maintain precious eye contact with him.

There’s a divine burst of air in your lungs as your head is wrenched from Joel’s cock, and you cough and sputter, willing yourself to suck in the sex-tainted oxygen around you.

Joel’s hand cups your jaw, smearing the mixture of snot, saliva, and tears on your skin. “You’re gonna take me deeper this time. All the fuckin’ way back. Wanna feel your goddamn nose smashed against my belly button.”

You sniffle your congested nostrils, but nod. You’re not sure why you say it, but you whisper, your voice distorted by stuffiness, “Fix me.”

A pitying noise falls from his throat as he slides his thumb into your mouth for you to suck in pacification. “Ain’t nothin’ need fixin’. You just needed a better daddy. ‘N that’s what I’m here for.”

A muted sob puffs around his finger, and you think you might see glistening in Joel’s eyes for a passing second. But he clears his throat and it’s gone, his hand around the base of his cock again and his thumb prying open your mouth.

When the head of him pushes past the block of your throat, Joel’s grunt could probably be heard by the neighbors. Nevermind that where you now stand is in perfect frame of your first floor window, a glowing halo at the side of your house. The alarm on your bedside table blinks 12:35 AM, so the Christensens are likely fast asleep. But although you may have a fence, Douglas and Cheryl have a second floor, where their bedroom window could peer right into yours.

And yet you stay on your knees, unhinging your jaw for the eight, maybe nine, inches of cock your stepfather is feeding down your throat while your mother is absent, getting reamed by her boss or coworker or friend's friend ten miles away. You’re sure the view is remarkable. A perfect, vignetted cameo portrait of familial implosion.

Your mother most certainly did not raise a quitter, that much is evident when the last inch of Joel’s length is seated in your mouth and your nose contorts at the prominent curve of his stomach, just like he wished. Joel’s arms are secured around your head, holding you to his gut in a manner that might be endearing and benign if you weren’t simultaneously choking around his entire cock.

Instead he’s cutting off your air supply and using his unyielding embrace to rutt into your throat in short bursts as you fight not to eject him.

The mess when you resurface is notable. If you were still trapped in that dress, the front of it would be sodden, soaked through with spit. You’re not sure there’s a spot on your face that isn’t coated in some form of your own fluids — the slobber from your mouth smearing over Joel’s hairy abdomen and transferring to your forehead and temples, and even more rivers of saliva dripping onto the carpet.

You feel debauched and torn apart, and you still croak, “Again.”

Nails in your palms do nothing for you now. You've already crucified yourself.

Once he’s buried deep again, he secures the back of your head with a single arm, and then you feel the breadth of his other hand around your throat.

“God fuckin’ dammit,” Joel groans out, nearly as wrecked as you’ve been all evening. “Can feel my cock in there.”

Joel’s hips move in staccato jabs, just to feel the glide of his fat head demolishing your throat through the skin of your neck pressed against his hand. If you hadn’t tapped rapidly at his hip, gasping for air, you fear he may have been content to die there.

You collapse onto your hands and knees, rasping and pulling air into your deprived lungs, cheek colliding with the dampened carpet as you catch your breath.

“What a fuckin’ trooper. You are a one-of-a-kind wonder, sweet girl,” Joel pants out, hands on his knees and his cock angry and purpling as it bobs and jerks in denial of its orgasm.

Through your slouching to find your breath, you smile.

“Let’s give you a little break, huh? Come and give daddy’s balls a little kiss.”

He clasps a hand on your bicep, helping you back up onto your knees as you regain composure. You’re a bit wobbly, but you ground yourself with hands on his thighs, resting your forehead just to the side of the root of him. Your tongue lolls out and swipes up his sack in a languid stroke.

Joel hums his approval above you, his hand reclaiming its place on the back of your head lightly. With his guidance you dip down, slipping one of his balls into your mouth as he moans out praises.

His balls are large and lush with hair, on par with the rest of him. They hang low, dangling inches down into the space between his thighs. You cradle them in your hand as you caress them with your tongue, sinuses slowly draining as his concentrated musk penetrates your nostrils, filling your olfactory senses with him. You pop one of his balls out of your mouth to pamper the other in equal measure.

Joel begins to pull at his cock with long, tempered strokes. “Fuck, that’s right sweet girl. Treat ‘em real gentle. Might have a little brother or sister in there.”

You whine as you widen your mouth, succeeding in fitting the pair of them inside thanks to your sufficiently stretched jaw, properly warmed up from his dick.

“Shit,” Joel says, the faintest hint of laughter in his voice as he gasps, branding at the waist slightly at the overwhelm of your hot mouth encasing him. “‘F that greedy pussy ever clamps around me again like this filthy mouth is…might even be a son or daughter in there too.”

You moan a little too passionately at that, your mouth packed full of possibilities, and Joel’s hips jolt forward at the sensation, a pleasurable noise of his own spilling out.

“Jesus, can’t moan when I say shit like that. You’re gonna make me…” Joel groans again flexing around his cock. “Gonna have to hit it from the back next time. ‘Lot easier to not just blow my load up that cunt when I don’t got you lookin’ up at me with them puppy dog eyes, beggin’ your daddy to come inside you.”

Next time.

How do you feel about a next time?

You don’t even know what’s going to greet you come daylight.

Joel’s fingers yank on your hair as your mouth works dutifully on his balls, finally saying, “Fuck, daddy needs to come, sweet girl.”

He slips from your mouth, but it opens again for him instantly as he starts to jack himself in earnest. He lays the trickling head on your tongue as he grunts and gasps, and you raise a hand to tease at his balls, squeezing them tenderly as you see his eyes roll in response.

“Fuck, fuck, open up for me, little mama,” he groans, signaling the first thick burst of spend shooting to the back of your raw throat. Joel growls his way through his climax, rope after never-ending rope of come pooling on your tongue until it overflows the corners of your lips and down your chin and neck.

Joel swears as his pulses slow to a stop, taking the tip of his cock and dragging it over the puddle of him on your tongue, spilling more from your mouth and down your tits. “Good girl,” he pants, finally withdrawing his dick. “Swallow for daddy.”

You obey eagerly, pushing all he gave you to the back of your throat to join where the rest of him had already been. You present your clean tongue, preening slightly, and Joel returns a sleepy, immensely proud grin.

There’s a scraping at the front door, and you both dart your heads to the open doorway.

“Shit!” Joel bites out panicked under his breath, shattering what you both have built as he bolts out the door, pulling yours shut as well as his own in his marathon back to the bedroom he shares with your mother.

You hear the front door open and you’re snapped out of your daydream of a night, lunging for your light switch to kill any suspicions of you being conscious. You flatten your hands against the back of your door, pressing an ear to the wood as you stifle your breathing.

You hear the noise on the television cut to silence, then footsteps. The door across the hall squeaks open and…nothing, save for the faint sound of fabricated snoring. You hear your mother sigh, the two thumps of her heels kicking off, and then, “Might as well be right where I left you.”

A stretch of silence, then you hear the low hum of her voice in a string of words that sounds like, “‘F I could, I’d probably just leave you altogether.”

You hear her feet padding down the hall, then the snick of the fridge in the kitchen.

As quiet as you possibly can, you twist the handle of your door and peek through a small gap. Joel lays naked on his stomach on top of their sheets, back rising and falling with his breath, facing you as his head dents his pillow on the bedside closest to the door.

The protector’s side.

And as silent as you tried to be, you see Joel’s eyes squint open directly at you as your door opens. You stare each other down, and you feel your heart begin to pound.

When your lip starts trembling, you close the door.

It’s not until you’re nestled under your covers that you realized what he had called you when he’d come across your tongue.

—

The morning comes uneventful, despite your entire world shifting on its axis. A normal Saturday. You exit your room just as your mother is tidying the kitchen table of breakfast and Joel is starting up the shower in their bedroom.

“Mornin’, blossom. You want some eggs?”

She seems as chipper as ever, scraping off plates and putting them in the dishwasher.

“Uh, no. Thanks,” you dismiss, heading straight for the couch and curling up as you grab the remote.

She joins you shortly after, folding her legs up under her in a frightening mirror of your own.

“I’m sorry about that boy, sweet pea.”

“Hmm?” You ask, looking away from the TV to observe her.

“J told me about what happened with the boy. He’s definitely a dummy.”

“Oh,” you say once you realize what she’s talking about. Truth be told, you haven’t spared that boy a second thought since Joel wrapped his arm around you last night. “It’s whatever. Boys come and go, right?”

“Some of ‘em stay,” she says, glancing down the hall to the sounds of the shower.

You follow her gaze, undoubtedly battling the dissonance in her head of what she’d done last night, and who was waiting for her back at home.

Only she doesn’t know that he wasn’t up pacing over her. He wasn’t waiting for her at all. And it might just be in your own head, but you hope he was maybe the slightest bit…disappointed at the sound of the front door.

You probably shouldn’t be thinking that.

You see the confliction swimming in her eyes, and you place a hand over hers.

“But some of them aren’t going to stay forever if you’re giving them a good reason to leave, mom.”

Her eyes meet yours, tears brimming and threatening to break. “How do you…?”

“You could see it from space, mom. And he can too.”

She brings a knuckle to her waterline, dabbing at the tears before they can fall and muddy her mascara. She sniffles and shrugs with a raised hand, letting it fall back down in a helpless gesture.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’, sweet pea,” she says, letting out a small, pitiful sob. You clasp your hand over hers and squeeze, feeling your own eyes begin to prick at seeing your mother choked up. “You ever…like you get so comfortable, things are goin’ so good, that you start to get anxious? And before you know it…you’re…you’re sabotagin’ yourself. Throwin’ stones, tearin’ down everythin’ that ever brought you a lick’a happiness. Like…like you need to destroy it before it destroys you?”

A lump forms in your throat as she speaks, and you clench your hand a little harder than you intend to. It hits you pretty hard, the reality of it all. Joel is in the shower, washing your dried spit and slick from his cock. Maybe even with your mother’s soap. Wiping away what didn’t already rub off on their shared sheets.

“Yeah, mom,” you say, your throat scratchy from more than just the emotional influx. “I know exactly what you mean.”

The memories come back in succession. Joel’s hand on your bare thigh. Your dress dropping to the floor. Coming on his mouth, his fingers. His cock pushing inside for the first time. His hand feeling his length down your throat. His spend dribbling from your lips.

You deserve a man.

Good girl.

Swallow for daddy.

Why did you do it? That safety, that security Joel has been for you since you were a teenager. The reliable presence, always sitting in that chair three feet to your right. Sipping his beer, spilling on the remote, losing potato chips in the couch cushions.

It’s all twisted up now with memories of his naked body, his satanic tongue and devilish grin, the stretch of his cock that you’ve now felt inside you — still feel inside you, if you’re honest. The soreness persists in the entrance of your pussy, the wall of your cervix, the column of your throat. Evidence of your betrayal to the one who gave you life.

She granted you breath, and you used it to moan “daddy” beneath her husband. Allowed him to take that breath from you as you gagged on the very flesh that makes your mother gasp his name in the sanctity of their marriage bed.

Maybe your mother desecrated it first, but he and you…he and you incinerated it. Rolled around and fucked in the ashes.

She may have gathered her train, lifted her dress for someone else. But the veil hasn’t been removed yet. And you’re nowhere near ready to admit to her that she no longer has somewhere to sleep. She can remain blind for now.

A tear finally drips free down your cheek.

“Yeah, mama. You…you have no idea. How well I know.”

A watery smile crosses her face and she leans toward you, cupping your face in her hands. “We’re gonna be okay, blossom. We get through shit, don’t we? Can’t take us down.”

You nod in her hands, the lump in your throat closer to a golf ball now. “Yeah, mama.”

She strokes the plush of your cheek, wiping at your lone tear track. Then something captures her interest, and she draws back, tilting her head.

“You let him do that to you before he dumped you?”

You furrow your brows, unable to follow her line of sight where it lands at your neck. “Let him do what?”

“Got a hickey the size of Texas there, sweet pea,” your mother giggles, brushing her thumb over your throat.

Your stomach lurches, your eyes masking panic. You’d flown too close to the sun. Reckless, stupid, irresponsible. Let him defile your skin with nicotine-yellowed teeth and a thick, adulatory tongue.

It’s written on your face, on your neck, plain as day. How does she not know? How does she not see?

Because her only daughter, a child sprung from her womb when she was just a mere child herself, would never do that to her. An act so treasonous is unthinkable. Laughable. Not worth a fleeting thought.

To her.

To you…that very thought has been brewing since you were fourteen, alone in your room, the pads of your fingers pruned and your mutinous mind alive.

What if it wasn’t her? What if it was me? What would he say to me?

You deserve a man. Good girl. Swallow for daddy.

Your mother just smiles, oblivious to the context of her observation and the wretchedness within you.

“It’s okay! Nothin’ a little makeup can’t cover, huh?”

Your palms sweat as you nod.

“Come on,” she says, gripping your hand in hers as she stands, guiding you along with her. “I’ll help you. It’ll be like old times when I used to give you makeovers.”

You are hyper-aware of the slickness of your hand in hers.

She has to know, she has to know, she has to know.

But she doesn’t.

Words jam in your ravaged throat, no longer loosened by your stepfather’s brutal misconduct, as you silently follow after her into her room. She ushers you on the bed as she gathers her makeup from her vanity.

She sits beside you, smiling as she begins to tap concealer onto the bruise. “Cover it up, and it’s as good as gone. Never gotta see the boy who gave it to you again.”

You nod again lightly, your eyes falling closed as she pats at your skin. The shower turns off in the bathroom, and the sickness in your stomach roils again.

He’s washed you off now, smelling of her eucalyptus shower steamers. He bears no marks. He shares no burden. Honor by marriage is not honor by blood.

Hence why your mother’s affair can blow over. It can be fixed. Swept under the rug, forgiven in confessionals and late-night whispers during love-making.

But betrayal like this? Of daughter to mother at the hands of a father and husband? That’s Armageddon. And you didn’t pay much attention in church growing up, but you listened enough to know…the apostates are destined to lose.

Rummaging noises bleed from the bathroom, and your mother glances toward the door.

“Joel Miller, you stay in that bathroom for a minute. We’re havin’ a mother-daughter bondin’ moment in here,” she calls out to him with a broad grin, loud enough for him to hear it through the closed door.

Bonding. Oh, yes, you’re very bonded now.

“Should just attach you two at the hip while we’re at it,” he calls back. “You share damn near everythin’ with each other.”

You can't decide if he said that on purpose. If he’s twisted enough to joke about your circumstances to your mother’s naïve listening ear, or if he really is just a dense-headed dumbass, ignorant of the magnitude of his words and actions.

Regardless of how he meant it, the blush pink gossamer blur smoothing over the events from last night is beginning to slip away, the images sharpening each passing moment that you spend with your mother. What your mind was attempting to bang down your door over, grabbing hold of your thoughts to try and thrust you into reality, is finally coming into focus.

You can’t come back from this.

And what was it all for?

The sun shines through the open drapes of the window onto your mother’s back as she smiles and shakes her head at Joel’s comment, the shade cast over you shifting gently with her movement. She rolls her eyes in good-natured jest as she unknowingly conceals the mark of the devil on your neck.

Both her devil and your own.

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[talaok]

Enjoy the view

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You surprise your husband with a new cooking attire, and he's more than happy to show you how much he appreciates it- even if he has an audience… especially when he knows how much you like it.

Warnings: smut| exhibitionism, voyeurism, cooking practically naked, a lil tiny bit of free use, oral sex (f receiving), butt-play, and unprotected p in v sex.

"I'm home!" 

His greeting echoed through the house, and while usually it would be followed by your two little demons running down the stairs to attack their daddy, today, the only response was yours.

"Hi baby, I'm in the kitchen!" 

You heard some shuffling as he made himself comfortable before his footsteps started in your direction- only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

"Babydoll, where are the k-"

You turned around just a little bit, your neck twisting so your gaze could see his face as it settled on your ass.

On your bare ass and bare legs and bare torso and- oh god- on the small apron only covering the lower front of you.

What the actual fuck was his life

And how the actual fuck did he ever get so lucky

He was on you in a split second, his mouth as ravenous as his hands.

You let a soft giggle past your lips as he left hot, wet kisses down your neck, his hands kneading the soft skin of your ass as he pressed his hard cock against it.

"the kids are at my mom's" you murmured, as if the man behind you wasn't worshipping your body

"yeah?" he groaned, his hands on your boobs now

"I'm making us dinner" you explained, resuming cutting the fruit on the cutting board while sticking your ass out even more for him.

"such a good girl, thank you darlin'" he murmured against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

"Can I have my appetizer while you finish up?"

You pretend to ponder the idea, biting your lip 

"Tommy's still outside trying to fix the grill, baby"

Of course

Lucky didn't even begin to cover it.

He could just close the curtains facing your backyard, he knew it, just as you did.

But that's not what you wanted

Oh no

His girl liked to be watched

"then we'll just have to hope he doesn't fix it in time, won't we?"

He watched your eyes flutter shut as the words sunk in, and you could only offer a soft "yes" as you presented him the slightest nod

"attagirl" he murmured, kissing you right below your ear "Now don't mind me, keep on cookin'"

You nodded again, humming softly, and he kissed every inch of skin he encountered as he dropped to his knees.

Cold air hit your core as he grabbed each of your asscheeks in his hands and spread them apart like the animal that he was.

You let out a little whine as he admired the work of art before him, but just when you started cutting the fruit before you once again, he'd dived in.

His whole face was deep into your core, his tongue not wasting a second before tasting your sweet juices, wishing he could drink them every day instead of water.

His hands were gripping your waist, holding you in place, even as your body begged to grind against him.

"fuck" you moaned, biting your lips as your left hand gripped the counter.

"tastes like heaven babydoll" Joel groaned, the vibrations of his voice sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

You could only continue emanating needy little whimpers as he feasted on your cunt, and then, finding more strength in you than you even knew to even possess, you resumed cutting the strawberry before you.

"Joel" you moaned louder now, his tongue plunging into your pussy and lapping at your walls as your head fell to your chest "baby-god"

And just when you were breathing heavily, feeling your core flutter at the pleasure, his mouth trailed up, his focus shifting to your other hole.

The knife fell to the cutting board and your body slumped forward at the feeling, but while your moans were only getting louder, he was only getting hungrier.

And as much as he loved eating your ass, he needed to hear those pretty sounds you made while coming on his face, so of course...

Your whole body felt a shock of electricity as Joel finally, finally, started sucking on your clit.

"Fuck-fuck- baby- just like tha-oh!"

You came so hard you thought you were gonna pass out, but luckily, he was there to hold you through it, not wasting a drop of what you gave him.

"my perfect fukin' girl" he murmured lovingly, kissing your cunt one last, overstimulating time before he was once again standing pressed against your back.

"enjoyed yourself?" he asked, biting your earlobe as you tried to will your breathing to get back to normal

"yes" you smiled, forgetting all about your task as you turned around towards him, clatching his lips into a deep, searing kiss.

"yeah?" he asked again, a smug, sexy grin on him as he let you taste yourself on his tongue once again 

"mh-mh"

"I think someone else did too" 

And when his gaze shifted to his left, you knew.

You didn't need to look to know what he was looking at, but you did nonetheless.

Tommy was standing on the other side of the glass door, his eyes set onto you like a starving predator, and you could only gasp.

"Joel-"

"shh" he hummed, kissing the side of your lips "It's ok," he said, while your eyes remained on his brother "You wanna give Tommy a show babydoll?"

But of course, he knew the answer already,

you've done this before,

hell, before Tommy had gotten himself a wife too, you'd even let him join once or twice.

"I mean..." you whimpered, as Joel undid his zipper while kissing your neck "He's fixed the grill for us after all"

He chuckled, finishing your thought for you

"he deserves a reward, doesn't he?"

"I think he does" You nodded, looking up at him with pleading eyes, as if there was a chance he'd ever not do something you wanted.

"You're so kind" he murmured, picking you up just to set you on a free spot on the counter "Such a perfect selfless wife that I've got, mh?"

You could only grin, giggling softly as he kissed you again.

"let's show Tommy how beautiful you look while coming on my cock then shall we?"

"yes please"

Your answer was breathless, desperate, just as the moan you let out once he finally guided his length inside of you, taking his time to let you adjust...and so he could enjoy the faces you made all for him... and his brother.

"good girl" he groaned, easing himself out of you almost completely just to thrust back in at full force, making you cry out and throw your head back.

"Oh f-fuck"

"I know" he cooed, only going faster, deeper, as you arched your back, your nails clawing at his back "I know baby, you take me so well" he murmured, against your mouth "So deep inside this perfect fucking pussy"

"Joel!" you gasped, his dick hitting your sweet spot over and over together with his dirty words.

And when you glanced to your right, when you saw Joel's brother, the sibling to the man who was currently railing you on your kitchen counter palming his hard cock from the confines of his jeans, his eyes glued on you... it was like a volcano of pleasure exploded,

a dirty, twisted, dark kind of pleasure

"yeah look at Tommy" Joel groaned "Poor guy's probably so jealous he's not the one balls deep into ya baby" One of his hands moved from your waist to pinch your nipple, making you cry out just to prove a point "he's probably wishin' he could come here and fuck you himself baby" he continued, his thrusts getting harsher, faster "but he's not gonna" he growled "and ya know why?" he asked,

"'cause I'm yours" you moaned, looking him into his lusty eyes

He moaned too this time, he never could help himself when you said those three magic words

'cause fuck him, but he still sometimes struggled to believe you were his himself

"goodamn right you are" he smirked, crashing your lips with his, as the room filled with the filthy sound of your wet heat accommodating his movements.

"Show him sugar" he urged "Show Tommy who you belong to" he murmured, watching as you turned your head to his brother again

"show him who's the only man who's ever gonna touch you baby girl," he said "and how fuckin' good you look creamin' my cock"

And so you did what he said, you looked his brother right in the eyes as you screamed Joel's name at the top of your lungs, wave after wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you as you came hard around Joel's cock.

"Fuckin' perfect-" Joel purred, kissing your chin as his orgasm approached "fuckin' mine"

[melonteee]

I've seen many people complain that Oda in Post Time skip One Piece spends a lot of time worldbuilding and making up side characters on every island that distract from the main ones and the plot. While I can see where some people are coming from, as someone who reads comics from Marvel, I WISH the wordbuilding and side characters were that developed because most of the time, unless it's about space or magic or directly related to the plot, the world feels genuinely dead. Even the main setting of a story sometimes feels so dead, like for comparison

Around 2 years ago, they had an event where, at some point, an inhabited island got pretty much nuked. We spent 3 real life years on that island and the writers really couldn't make any readers care less about all the civilians (men, women, children and babies) dying as they wrote them as a single minded entity who didn't mind that fate if their government told them to do it so they used two of the "main characters" (the most selfish pricks imaginable who never even cared about the island and the people there as they are long-established villains + due to plot, were made part of the people who rule over the place and get the most privilege and best life there compared to everyone else), to pull the heartstrings of fans on how terrible it is for them to die this way and how tragic that these two had to die in this event... All because the plot hyperfocused on the island's government (not even interesting to read and full of what felt like highschool drama) instead of the people the government looks after and who would be the greatest casualty here. All of this didn't matter either because everyone on that island was brought back to life (that plot device was present even before the event so caring about anything was going to be hard from the get go) including the "main characters" that died.. Guess who got to come back to life first while many others were on a waiting list years down the line still ?

Now compare this to Oda and what he did with Lulusia. All things related to this island were mostly cover stories, many cuts back and forth in a "meanwhile in...", ... But once Chapter 1060 hits, we feel the tragedy and horror, we are at awe at how much destruction was unleashed on these people. That scene was made even more horrifying and sad when it was animated in Episode 1089...and then we learn the reason the island was obliterated had nothing to do with Sabo being there. Any island we knew who partook in a revolution could have been a target. We find out that even that was an excuse because the main goal was to test a weapon and nothing more. Oda is using a tool here called "less is more" for this island and it was sincerely enough for me to care A WHOLE LOT about Lulusia even if the main characters never set a single foot there and it wasn't part of the main plot. There wasn't even a main character who "died" there either to pull on our heart strings. We just saw these people triumphantly come out of a political crisis and enjoy their first hours of freedom after lord knows how long and then

They were all gone. Erased. And even if they didn't all see what was about to happen to them, they felt it. They died in fear

Oda is very very good at his world building, because he makes sure these islands are LIVED in, not just that they EXIST. It's all well and good to wipe out an island to show the political and immoral powers that be, but we don't feel the impact unless we SEE the people and culture existing on the island.

It's why now, with Vegapunk explaining the state of the world, we are getting reactions from EVERY corner of the globe. We are being reminded how big this world is, how lived in this world is, and how many people are suffering under the world gov. We CARE about this world, we care about the PEOPLE in this world, and Oda's spent years building his world up for THIS moment. It's really spectacular.

[soldier-lodbrok]

So saddle up kids, because @holyguardian and I screamed back and forth and she dug up a few thoughts I already had but pointed out all these nice connections, so now I HAVE to make a post about this theory. It is probably just my copium, but ya'll can't stop me. You can thank Muddy for this. She shoved my brain on every aspect.

Of course spoilers for Remake, Rebirth and Ever Crisis FS ahead.

Glenn Lodbrok is still alive theory

"Glenn Lodbrok" in Final Fantasy VII Rebirth Okay. First things first. The man seen as "Glenn Lodbrok" in Final Fantasy VII Rebirth definitely is NOT the real Glenn Lodbrok. In no way or form. It just is a black robed man that Sephiroth puppeteered to take on the appearance of Glenn. His behaviour, his speech patterns, his apparent goals, nothing fits the real Glenn Lodbrok.

Even his appearance is off.

The black robed version looks extremely gaunt. Glenn in general has a large frame and muscular built. Here his cheeks are visibly sunken in, his hair is unruly and uncut, as is his beard, which is also way longer (and more prominent above his lips) than when he supposedly was last alive.

The SRC Situation/Where was Glenn last His last goal in the world was to establish the Shinra Resistance Committee, especially in Wutai and lead it against Shinra. They took over the Wutain government and installed an interim-government. According to Yuffie it is supposed to only last until the war is over and they can have independence from Shinra; then tthe Wutain people can decide what kind of government they truly want next.

The SRC does loosely associate with AVALANCHE, but they are two different factions, with the SRC seemingly using more political and Wutai-based moves, while some splinter groups of AVALANCHE go down more extreme routes closer to Midgar/within Midgar.

Glenn wasn't alone, but with Matt and Lucia in the SRC at this time.

It is notable that in Rebirth in the side-mission "Protorelic 4" in Cosmo Canyon Matt and Lucia are name-dropped:

So they are confirmed to still be alive at the point where the Shinra HQ was stormed by AVALANCHE in Remake. Now suddenly as leaders of AVALANCHE troops for the HQ in Midgar. So something must have happened between them being in Wutai as interim-government members for the SRC and now suddenly active in AVALANCHE.

Alteration with Rufus The alteration that happened, where Rufus shot Glenn probably all cooks down to that Glenn either:

- discovered that Viceroy Sarruf is actually Rufus Shinra

- or he knew all along that Sarruf = Rufus, but had an argument with him, because he found out that Rufus was not at all interested in a peaceful solution and letting Wutai be a free state from Shinra

It is more likely that it is the second option, since in Ever Crisis Chapter 8 Glenn mentions that "he has friends in high places" and gets his intel through them. He possibly is hinting at this being Rufus. Plus Rufus in Rebirth seems to allow "Glenn" around, as if he knows him.

He probably threatened Rufus, either with revealing his identity or with cutting him off from the SRC. It had to be something that enraged/threatened Rufus enough to shoot Glenn in the back cowardly, when he turned away.

Then it gets muddy.

Rufus clearly is surprised seeing "Glenn" again in Junon, stating that he thought he was dead. It is a "thought" and nothing more certain. Indicating that Rufus had not checked upon Glenn really being dead. [Also the wikia indicates he was "left for dead", the wikia is not the most reliable though]

So there is a possibility that Glenn survived this. Possibly being rescued by his friends Lucia and Matt. They aren't shown to be present at the attack (maybe just out of frame?). But they could have been led there by:

- Refu: the dog formerly belonging to Rosen, he already proved to be loyal to its owner and 'call' others attention to when his owner was in trouble and needed help; he did so for Rosen

- Sephiroth: the man was friends with Glenn, even in the Wutai war. Glenn gave him intel to rescue other soldiers and Sephiroth would likely have done the same for him in return. It is strange that Sephiroth seems to exactly know how Glenn was shot in the back, he uses the phrase "In the back, just like good old times." when Rufus tries to kill "Glenn" a second time at the end of Rebirth. So either Sephiroth witnessed it, saw Glenn afterwards or heard about it. Sephiroth is shown to still be conflicted back in EC FS, being loyal to Shinra in a way or seeing himself forced into that role. If we mirror Glenn's "You know I can't help openly, that is why you have to do it", that could work with Sephiroth directing Matt and Lucia to Glenn for help. He is Shinra, he can't outright act against Rufus then, but he can see to get sufficient help.

Anyway, Lucia and Matt could have rescued Glenn and brought him to safety but turned their back on the SRC or fled the area due to there clearly being dangerous traitors at work within the SRC. That is how they could have ended up with AVALANCHE HQ, finding refuge there.

Where Glenn could be during Remake/Rebirth times So why are just the two of them mentioned as leaders for AVALANCHE?

Either Glenn simply is not part of that particular mission, SE didn't want us to know, he didn't want to work for AVALANCHE or he isn't able to help yet.

Last option could be likely due to the severe injury he apparently got from Rufus' bullet. When he is shot we actually see a lot of blood (the most shown in FF VII so far) splattering from relatively high up. Almost looks like the back of his head, though at least Sephiroth masquerading as Glenn claimed it was a shot in the back.

If Rufus hit his spine that high up, it could mean he needs a longer time to recover, if at all, even in magical Final Fantasy healing logics. Also explains, why Glenn did not fight back (if we consider the same FF logic in which several characters already got shot or stabbed worse and still were able to get up and fight back).

He could be bedridden or even in a coma for now. And you know what happens to people who are that immobile for a longer time? They lose muscle mass and of course don't shave their beard as often or get regular haircuts.

So the gaunt and dishevelled appearance the black robed takes on as "Glenn" could actually BE how Glenn looks currently. Jenova's/Sephiroth's abilities to shapeshift can't be that shoddy, so maybe this is actually the most current version of Glenn, who is hidden away somewhere in an AVALANCHE HQ.

And as Muddy so nicely pointed out: you know whom Glenn, a man who is wearing a long black raincoat (not to be confused with the black robes!) would contrast when sitting in a wheelchair by then? Rufus Shinra years later, a man in long white coats, in a wheelchair, when he suffers from Geostigma. We love some nice paralells, even if this now is probably beyond SE's scope of aesthetics.

[lilacxquartz]

Don't Make Me Feel Alive I Chapter 3

Kenjaku (Pseudo-Geto) × Fem!Reader

[This fic contains Shibuya Arc spoilers and is updated every Saturday.]

ABOUT: Diagnosed at an early age with an illness that slowly deteriorated your body; you went from being a promising sorcerer to a retired husk of your once former self until he found you, offering you an opportunity to live instead—not that you had a choice to refuse.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: You are taken out on a little field trip that could have ended better, despite not knowing exactly what you did wrong.

TAGS/THEMES: (in the future chapters): »yandere, chronically ill reader, forced dynamic, non-con, dub-con, violence, caretaking, unrequited feelings, sorcerer reader, dead-dove, mixed pov, potential interpretations of dubious sorcery«

Prev ious Chapter.

Side Note: reminder, this is currently pre-shibuya arc, so some characters will still be present in his alliance. also more dubious sorcery up ahead.

3. Outing

Come the next morning, he was already long awake before you woke up. His gaze fixated on the pendant that rested around your neck, finding its low pulsating hum to be quite soothing as it echoed through the otherwise quiet room.

“I adjusted it for you overnight,” he began, patiently waiting for you to fully awake before continuing, “this time it should use less energy for the things you actively do like walking, but the energy cost will remain the same should you choose to use your technique.”

You furrowed your brows in response, seeming a little confused, “So, I can’t use my technique in the end anyway because it uses up too much energy… or?”

“That’s not what I said,” he corrected you with a slight laugh, “we can train it, the better you get at harnessing your technique, the less energy it will drain.”

“But would that really work…?” you asked.

“Think of it like working out a muscle,” he explained, trying to compare it to something you could understand, “it’ll get easier to manage over time.”

He then stared at you for a long moment as he ensured you kept up with his explanation before having a different thought enter his mind.

Thinking of something new, he broke the silence again, changing up his neutral demeanour to something much more energetic, “I want to test your ability to keep up with me.”

“But,” you halted, feeling still so cautious, “what if it’s like last time?”

“Ah, but I don’t think it’ll be,” he replied, his tone filled with optimism, “besides, what good is it if I trial things on you without you testing them?”

“…Fair,” you sighed, choosing to trust him for now as you sat up from the bed, “So… keeping up with you?”

“I have a meeting of sorts today to oversee some plans in the future, I’d like for you to attend this with me and see how the battery is spent during social settings, if at all,” he explained calmly, his tone sounding suddenly a little clinical despite his relaxed demeanour.

You found him difficult to read as his tone often overrode the look he had in his eyes as well as the smile that he constantly wore. Something about this whole thing felt unsafe, but you had no choice but to go along, so you might as well go along with what was thrown at you.

Meanwhile, his intentions weren’t as terrible as he simply just had an idea to see if the battery drain was strictly physical or if mental stress negatively impacted it as well.

You slowly nodded in understanding, “Also… what do I call you exactly?”

“Anything you’d like,” he replied bluntly. He had so many identities at this point that he didn’t care. Regardless of what name you could conjure up for him, he’s likely lived under that identity for at least a little while.

“Okay, but really, what do you prefer?” you persisted, not quite accepting his answer.

A pause followed as his smile returned, finding the insistence amusing.

“You can call me Kenjaku.”

“And that’s your real name?” you asked.

He nodded in confirmation, “But you can call me anything, however, for the meeting,” he paused for just another moment, “Maybe it’s best for you to call me Geto, instead.”

“Wait, so your allies know you as something different…?” you asked, reading maybe too much into the suggestion.

“I will go as far to admit that this isn’t my true body, so feel free to interpret that as you will,” he continued to say, “I’d prefer if this particular alliance stays in the dark about it”

“Is there a reason why you’re lying to your allies?” you asked as though to recycle your question, unsure why he was avoiding giving you a proper answer. Maybe you shouldn’t have been asking somebody you didn’t really feel too safe around so many questions, but also you wanted to understand who exactly you were working with.

Kenjaku himself didn’t actually mind your relentless curiosity, as he always found people the most interesting when they want to learn more about what’s around them, rather than just accepting things at face value. The only time he felt that people, including sorcerers, were boring, was when they were a little too content with their position in life.

“The alliance is a group of special grade cursed spirits,” he spoke up again after a hot second, studying your reaction as he next considered his tone, “but being what they are, I can’t trust them.”

“Because they’re not human?” you asked once again, trying to keep up.

“That’s not the only reason, but it’s one of them,” Kenjaku confirmed, his expression remaining unreadable.

“So you don’t trust them but you trust me?” you asked, not following along again.

“Who said I trust you?” he smiled.

“D-do you?”

“If I’m being honest, I don’t truly trust anyone,” he replied in a sudden serious tone before it faded away immediately, a wide grin following after, “but that’s enough about me, you’re going to follow me along aren’t you?”

“You’re not giving me much of a choice,” you sulked. You could walk, but you didn’t feel great doing it.

“Correct, but you are free to fight back, you know,” Kenjaku teased, knowing you wouldn’t tempt it.

“Wouldn’t you just stop me?” you warily asked.

“Also correct, so why don’t you behave for now and follow me anyway, unless you’re prepared to find out what happens if you refuse to do so?” he sang almost, still wearing his smile.

Albeit reluctantly, you chose to go along with his request, pressured by what he was doing for you. His vague threat lingered in the back of your mind, reminding you that he wouldn’t let you refuse, wondering exactly what that had truly meant. While his threat remained empty, you couldn’t deny that there was danger behind his words and you weren’t in a shape to find out.

As you walked alongside him too, you couldn’t help but admit that there was a difference in your stride; the adjustments that he made proving seemingly beneficial.

The meet with his alliance proved however brief as he quickly determined that certain aspects of his plans shouldn’t be shared with you, wanting to keep you in the dark about the darker parts just to keep your willing participation—understanding that if you knew the true extent of it all, that you wouldn’t be so keen to help him.

Which would be a problem. For most things, he preferred a willing cooperation, which was what he was aiming to achieve by tricking his other allies too.

This was simply how Kenjaku worked though; he would be selective with his plans and how he chose to tell it and to whom. He told you that he would restore you in return for your cooperation and he told Mahito’s alliance that he’s on their side in exchange to bend them to his will.

Therefore, he decided that your role wasn’t to directly talk just yet. It was to be in the midst of a social setting, humans or cursed spirits be damned—either were draining enough, so he simply just kept you present as a shadowing ally knowing that the alliance wouldn’t care much to ask.

For now given your condition, your use was limited anyway. Even if you did return to your peak condition, he would likely just utilise you in combat regardless since that was his initial plan to exploit your technique.

As such while the discussion happened off to the side, your matters were turned elsewhere—towards a person that didn’t quite seem human but not like the cursed spirits up ahead either; seeking comfort within his company, feeling bored out of your mind.

Initially, Kenjaku paid very little attention towards your interactions with one of his creations, believing that your communication with him would be limited at best. However as you continued to speak with the death painting, he felt something stir deep within him that he didn’t quite like—let alone understand.

You continued your exchange with Choso either way, oblivious to his observations. You somehow got into the conversation about emotions with him.

“I’m sorry, I’m just curious,” the death painting mumbled, hoping to not scare you away—he liked humans and wanted to learn about them, but his opportunities were limited.

“You’re fine,” you tried to reassure, “I’m just a little lost on how to answer that question,” you added with a polite, albeit strained smile.

“Sorry,” he repeated again, his face looking at you with a sat yet fascinated gaze.

“I suppose that it feels a little chaotic, maybe?” you mused, considering his question with more thought. “I think humans tend to be emotionally driven, so maybe to be human is to be unpredictable.”

You paused, trying to determine if your words were even coherent.

“Does that make sense?”

Choso nodded as he processed your answer despite feeling still just a little confused by it—he also had emotions but he didn’t feel motivated by them but maybe he was also missing something.

“A little,” he replied.

He wanted to continue the conversation but the meeting seemed to have been concluded which meant that you were reunited soon with Kenjaku, who chose to move onto the objective of continuing the practice of your technique.

With surprising patience, he encouraged you to release small bursts of your technique as you learned to regain control of it, finding that there was progress to be seen already, causing him some relief as you continued to demonstrate what you were currently capable of, meaning come autumn, you probably could prove useful. With each controlled movement, you proved that the energy handled by the pendant was becoming more and more efficient, which is exactly what he wanted.

“I know you can do better than that” he teased you, wanting for you to increase your output.

You nodded as you then attempted to do just that, finding that you still didn’t have a proper handle of your technique as you were simply too out of practice. As a result, you ended up accidentally sending over a surge of energy far greater than anything you should have been capable of—at least currently.

Kenjaku’s eyes widened slightly in response while maintaining his relaxed posture as he watched you completely drain the pendant of energy once again but in a much greater amount, thinking that luckily you were stood over grass, since the fall wouldn’t be so bad this time.

And then, to his slight annoyance, Choso was the one who caught you mid-fall, leaving him confused as to why the death painting, usually so aloof and distant, suddenly seemed to intervene.

However, he didn’t let his annoyance show at all.

Not once.

He instead continued back with you completely alone, leaving the cursed spirit alliance to their own hideouts, wherever those currently were and even though they didn’t suspect a single thing, he still felt off about something to do with you.

Then there was you, who on the other hand, couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he acted strangely colder towards you as he guided you back, finding that despite his continued silence, there was something different about his overall demeanour.

Feeling confused and weary from what had happened overall, you reluctantly went off to sleep even though there was an unrelenting nagging confusion lurking in the back of your mind, failing to understand exactly why he treated you so well just yesterday ago and why you were now otherwise reduced to barely dirt.

Initially, you wondered if it was because the technique had failed you again.

However, you also found that after you had accomplished a full night’s sleep, that he seemed completely back to normal again.

In fact, he seemed to be over the top thrilled about something.

So what was that really?

[xserpx]

Scent and Cigar together

“The scent washed over him. He looked up. Overhead, a lilac tree was in bloom. He stared. Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart.”

The smell of lilac is the touchstone of Vimes's memory of the past. Smells are more closely linked to memories than any other senses, so the fact Vimes only remembers what day it is after he smells the lilac makes it the perfect annual reminder. But something I've just realised about the above quote?

He patted his pocket for his silver cigar case, and for a moment felt more anger than despair, and more sorrow than anger. There was a future. There had to be. He remembered it. But it only existed as that memory, and that was fragile as the reflection on a soap bubble and, maybe, just as easily popped.

Vimes's silver cigar case is the emblem of his future life, and it literally becomes the "old" silverware he doesn't want to tarnish. Like the lilac and the song, his case is tied to a specific moment. Vimes loses the cigar case when he travels back in time, and after that happens he almost immediately adapts to the new present. Occasionally he pats his pockets, remembers the cigar case isn't there, and that realisation stabs him in the heart the way seeing the lilac that first time did. When he gets the case back, he gains new clarity about what it is he's supposed to do, what it is he's doing it for, and finally feels physically connected with the future that he's left behind.

“Vimes stared at the thing in his hand. It was a cigar case, slim and slightly curved. He fumbled it open and read: 

To Sam with love from your Sybil

The world moved.”

“He took out the cigar case and stared hard at the inscription. Let's see, he thought ... if I never met Sybil, we wouldn't get married and she wouldn't buy me this, and so I couldn't be looking at it... He stared hard at the curly engraving, almost willing it to disappear. It didn't. On the other hand, that old monk had said that whatever happens, stays happened. And now Vimes had a mental picture of Sybil and Carrot and Detritus and all the rest of them, frozen in a moment that'd never have a next moment.”

The way he stares and stares because that's all he has left of them is heartbreaking. And it's interesting to compare these reflections on the case to his thoughts on the lilac, how the flowers bring back memories of dead friends, and how the lilac itself spawned from Dickins's own memory, in this beautiful, tragic, cyclical fashion (the mention of carrots and mud in this section is particularly brilliant):

“I recall a battle once,” said Dickins, looking up at a tree. “In history, it was. And there was this company, see, and they was a ragtag of different squads and all covered in mud in any case, and they found themselves hiding in a field of carrots. So, as a badge, they all pulled up carrots and stuck them on their helmets, so’s they’d know who their friends were and incidentally have a nourishing snack for later, which is never to be sneezed at on a battlefield.”

“Well? So what?” said Dibbler.

“So what’s wrong with a lilac flower?” said Dickins, reaching up and pulling down a laden branch. “Makes a spanking plume, even if you can’t eat it…”

And now, Vimes thought, it ends.

Dickins's rag tag, grubby group with carrot plumes is so reminiscent of the Watch in Guards! Guards!, who were likewise rag tag and grubby and who Carrot helped bring together to fight a historic battle (against a dragon instead of the government, but still). And as with Dickins looking at the lilac, there are the faces Vimes remembers as he looks at his cigar case, frozen in time. Memories, dead in the past, and alive in the future.

The cigar butt still smouldered. But around it the Garden of Inner City Tranquillity was moving, pebble sliding over tiny pebble. A large, water-rounded rock floated gently around, spinning. And then Vimes became aware that the whole garden was spinning, turning on the little wisp of smoke.

When Vimes visits the Garden of Inner Tranquility for the second time, he drops a cigar butt, which becomes the focal point of the garden. This is the moment Lu Tze realises he needs to get the silver cigar case. I think it's partly Vimes resolving to see the job through, but also a sign that he has asserting his presence over the present. Probability has shifted toward preserving that future. As Qu says, "he's part of the pattern".

But then, of course, Vimes has to swim against that tide:

“There was no universe, anywhere, where a Sam Vimes would give in on this, because if he did then he wouldn't be Sam Vimes any more. The writing stayed on the silver but it was blurred now because of the tears welling up. They were tears of anger, mostly at himself. There was not a thing he could do. He hadn’t bought a ticket and he hadn’t wanted to come, but now he was on the ride and couldn’t get off until the end. What else had the old monk said? History finds a way? Well, it was going to have to come up with something good, because it was up against Sam Vimes now.”

The words blurring on the case is one of the moments I almost always tear up at every time I reread the book. It's a literal representation of what he's giving up when he chooses to risk everything by trying to change history. He's resigning his future to the past, a) by accepting that he may never make it back to Sybil; his future becomes his past, and b) in prioritising saving lives in the past over returning to his own future.

“It found its way back, Vimes thought. We're home.”

I like how this echoes that previous quote "and now, thought Vimes, it ends." The cigar case, like the lilac, indicates an inevitable finality.

“The occupants of these graves had died for something. In the sunset glow, in the rising of the moon, in the taste of the cigar, in the warmth that comes from sheer exhaustion, Vimes saw it.

History finds a way.”

His realisation that the watchmen dying is a part of the foundation of the future, and the way he associates the taste of the cigar with that future, is so reminiscent of how the smell of lilac reminds him of the past. Truly, a glorious book.

I love it with my whole heart.

[its-chelisey-stuff]

if i had a nickel for everytime Kim HyeYoon has played an adorable, vivacious heroine who falls for a hot giant (that makes a grand entrance involving an umbrella) and together they change the future, I would have two nickels. Which isn't a lot but it's fantastic it's happened twice already lol

[asylumdream]

inspired by a post from @thatwavephenomenon that has Not left my brain about link not getting saved by Rauru and instead falling to the depths. Comentary version under the cut

[pyreshe]

thinking about my immortal ocs and their fun family drama 🥰

[gibbearish]

also the fact that you can't choose not to deactivate roxy to get an alternate ending sucks. like have her know Something is wrong in the pizzaplex and if you choose not to deactivate her she mentions it to you and you help her out from under the car and she tags along with you freddy style as you investigate. have roxy mentioning weird shit make cassie put the dots together that gregory sure sounded like a computer splice earlier. have her question why the weird mask that stabbed her in the brain to implant a chip with no warning has been very insistent about turning off security systems. have her question why, if gregory asked her to meet him at the pizzaplex, he would leave behind a walkie talkie and then get himself stuck rather than just wait for her. and have /that/ be what gives you access to the scooper ending rather than just Zooming Out Some Cameras. also make the bonnie stuff actually have something to do with the plot dude people are super interested in that they wouldve been ECSTATIC if youd brought glamrock bonnie back for real, especially if hed somehow gotten revenge on monty, like say if you did get all the pat pats (dumb name btw) instead of deactivating him, you REactivate him, but have him be disoriented and need time to actually wake up so all he can do is like save cassie from monty at some point

[fantastic-artemis]

How to find a job that doesn't make me despair to live

[lina-lovebug]

Sharkboy and his Shadow

Percy Jackson x fem! reader

Background: reader is the only child of Nyx, and has grown up with Percy. After being claimed, lots of kids are afraid of her, and reader feels alone. To 'help' Percy see the error of his ways, Luke and Annabeth come up with a plan.

_ _ _

"(Y/N) (L/N), daughter of Nyx, the Personification of Night, and Queen of Tartarus."

Ever since that day, (Y/N) had never felt so alone.

She grew up with Percy, always being by his side, and she felt lucky enough to see him be claimed by Poseidon. She was happy for him, and understood his rage at the same time.

But when she was claimed? There were no kids staring in awe or clapping or congratulations. There were only whispers amongst them, and stares of horror.

Because no one ever thought that Nyx would have a half-blood child.

She's Nyx. She keeps to herself, away from the affairs of Olympus and mortals.

So no one wanted to make friends with the forbidden girl.

Luke was still friendly, but it became obvious that he wasn't interested in being friends like before. Annabeth, however, still stayed by her side. She was the only one to congratulated her, and decided to explain to (Y/N) what this means now.

Not only was being a child of The Big Three forbidden, but being a daughter of Nyx? That meant more danger for everyone, and she'd become the main target for any monster who wanted her dead.

And to top it all off, she thinks Percy is avoiding her.

She hadn't seen him since she'd been claimed. She had seen him briefly during most days, but when she'd look and see him staring, he'd quickly move his gaze to the ground or the sky.

"If I thought that being a half-blood was so lonely, I'd never have come."

Annabeth felt bad for the girl, "it's not a choice, (Y/N). Nyx chose your dad for a reason."

"And yet all she's sent me is a fucking knife!"

(Y/N) yelled as she threw the dagger her mother sent her into the fire. Annabeth gasped, quickly retrieving the dagger with a stick.

The black dagger hadn't been damaged.

Before Annabeth could lecture the girl on damaging gifts from your Godly parent, she saw the tears in her eyes.

(Y/N) was angry. She'd been so angry that she started sobbing, sinking to the floor of her own empty cabin. Annabeth held her.

"I miss my dad," She sobbed, hiccuping, "I'm so alone. . .I miss Percy."

"Seaweed brain," Annabeth cursed.

Annabeth knew why Percy had been avoiding her.

Because he liked her.

Percy confessed this to Annabeth. He said he knew how important being claimed was to her. How she'd be the most sought after half-blood now.

And feared endangering her if he stayed too close.

"Tell you what?" Annabeth pulled away, "tomorrow, we'll have a girls night. I'll take you to Aphrodite cabin, and Silena will do your hair and dress you up."

She sniffled, "I doubt any of those girls want me there."

Oh, Aphrodite girls were secretly cheering (Y/N) on. They knew the consequences of having a powerful female figure in your life, but one that chose to never be present much.

"Silena does, and whatever she wants, the girls will follow."

(Y/N) didn't get much sleep that night, tears coming and going, and she only managed to find sleep when she thought of how Percy used to hold her. When they'd have sleepovers and she'd have a nightmare, Percy would always hold her until they fell asleep.

That's why she thought she was holding herself.

But her eyes deceive her.

With wide eyes, she jumped up but her head banged into the top bunk. The mystery boy awoke, asking if the girl was okay.

"Luke?! When did you-?! How?!"

"You're bleeding, (Y/N)," Luke ignored her sudden panic, helping the daughter of Nyx up. She checked her head and found some blood.

"What the fuck. . ."

Luke quickly dragged her to the infirmary, but not without notice. The few half bloods that were awake gasped, seeing Luke Castellan leaving the Nyx Cabin with (Y/N) in his arms.

And so did Percy.

"Hey, hey! What happened?" Percy called after them, catching up but hearing Percys' sudden urgency made her want to cry. He's been avoiding her for two weeks, but now he's worried?

"Put your hand on my shoulder," Luke whispered to her, and she gave him a look of confusion.

"Just do it, pretty girl," With an awkward blush, she nodded and, as a result, pushed herself closer into his chest.

"She hit her head. She'll be fine, go tell Chiron," Luke dismissed, leaving Percy with more questions than he had answers.

Why was Luke in her cabin? When did he get there? Why were you hurt?

Did he spend the night?

That last thought made the son of poseidon wish he hadn't been avoiding you all this time. It made him angry with himself that he let Luke become interested in you.

"So why were you in my room, Luke?" (Y/N) asked, holding an ice pack on her throbbing head.

"I left early this morning to check on you, and I know that Percy wanted to do that this morning. So, I figured that sharkboy might get a little jealous if he saw me in your bed," He explained with a shrug.

"Jealous?" She questioned with a scoff, "he's been avoiding me like the plague since I've been claimed."

"Did you think that because you've been claimed that he's avoiding you, or that he's avoiding you because he's scared he'll attract more monsters to you?"

"Luke, I don't have time-"

He cut her off, "it's bad enough that Percy got claimed the second day he got here. He's a forbidden child. Now, the girl he's been crushing on since diapers is the number one target of every monster out there."

"He. . .he doesn't like me like that," I said, feeling my face heat up.

Luke quirked his brow, "that's seriously what you got out of that?"

Despite her frustration and anger towards Percy, she could never despise him so much that her feelings would fade. She still cared about him and ultimately feared that her feelings couldn't be reciprocated.

"Look, if he doesn't seem interested or even the slightest bit jealous, I'll let you know," Luke knew Percy well.

In fact, Luke endured countless hours of listening to how Percy adored (Y/N). How Percy first realized that she wasn't just his best friend, or at least that's not what he wanted her to be. He wanted to be the one she sought out each morning - be the one she could lean on. As capable as she was, he still wanted to help her as much as he could.

He'd lift the entire weight of this off her shoulders if she asked.

(Y/N) had the beauty of the stars and Percy could spend the rest of his life happily staring at her.

"Okay," She nodded.

_ _ _

"Wait, I have two different outfits?"

"Of course!" Silena expressed, bringing out the second one, "this one is for our picnic tonight."

It was a gorgeous white dress that sagged off the shoulders, flowy and the top decorated with several types of flowers.

"Oh, okay," (Y/N) nodded, completely unaware that there would be no girls' night.

Just a really good plan to help force these desperate lovebirds together.

"If this doesn't get him staring, then he's blind," Silena concluded before popping on some lip gloss onto the daughter of Nyx. She could admit, she looked very pretty but her stomach became a bundle of nerves when thinking about how Percy may either ignore her and or she'd finally unblind herself to the longing looks of the son of Poseidon.

She walked out of Aphrodite cabin right as lunchtime came, and she received multiple stares as she made her way.

"How's your day been?" Luke came up behind her, swinging his arm around her shoulders.

"Honestly I still think you're crazy," She confessed, "Percy doesn't-"

He pecked her cheek without warning before whispering, "Look ahead".

And she has never seen Percy look so angry.

He clenched his tray with the fury of a God, denting it even as she looked at him. He quickly looked away, retreating back to his cabin.

Oh my God's. . .

"Percy likes me."

"Now, tonight-where are you going?!" Luke shouted as she chased after him.

She flung the door open to see his sea blue eyes filled with tears. "Oh Percy."

"I'm sorry I haven't talked to you," He immediately confessed, walking towards her, "I would never be scared of you. I'm scared of what my presence will bring to us. I'm already a target, and I didn't want to risk your safety. But I let Luke get close enough to. . ." He stared into her eyes, "I've liked you since we were eight, and I'm sorry I let my thoughts get ahead of my feelings."

"It wasn't my idea," She couldn't stand to see her sweet boy cry, "Annabeth wanted to make you jealous, make you regret ignoring me, but I didn't believe that you liked me. I never thought that you saw me as anything more than a friend."

(Y/N) grabbed his hands, "I like you, Percy. Gods, I've liked you since the first time you shared your mom's cookies with me. You're so kind, you're selfish beyond any God, and you're the sweetest. I was scared that my mother being Nyx might have pushed you away."

His hand came up to her face, "not even the Gods above could separate the two of us."

His eyes glanced between her eyes and lips, hesitating.

"Kiss me, Percy Jackson."

And he did.

The kiss was something out of a movie. She could feel the amount of love he had for her, one hand remaining on her cheek while the other held her hand. She leaned into him, and he seemed to chase her lips as she pulled away for air.

"Not everyone can breathe underwater," She reminded him with a smile.

"I think we might lose a friend tonight," Percy said, and (Y/N) frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Luke put his lips on my girl. I'll provoke single combat," He pulled out riptide, and her eyes widened.

He gave her a quick kiss on her lips, "if you don't see me tonight, I'm drowning him."

"Percy!" He ignored her calls as he ran outside, running straight towards Luke, who laughed before realizing that Percy wasn't stopping and started running too.

"Is that Percy?" Grover asked as she walked outside, hearing the shouts coming from the forest of Luke trying to calm down Percy.

"Yup. Call Chiron, he might water board Luke."

But after Chiron managed to stop Percy, they spent the rest of the night in his cabin exchanging kisses and unexpectedly receiving a gift from her mother.

"What's this?" She questioned as the owl flew off, the small package being addressed to both Percy and her.

"From your mom, it looks like," He opened it up, and a necklace with a Triton pendant fell out. Just as he picked it up, it transformed into a black Triton that was covered in black shadows.

"Holy shit!" Percy breathed out as (Y/N) grabbed the note that fell out.

"Oh Gods," seeing her reaction, he bent down and read the note.

"Oh," He observed the Triton, "well. . .at least we know she cares."

Break my daughters heart and I'll kill you with that very Triton,

From your mother, Nyx.

[deadsetobsessions]

Danny laid across his throne, legs planted across the left arm of the ornate chair and back pressed uncomfortably against the right.

"Listen," Danny started, letting his head flop to the side as he glared at a hovering Observant. "This meeting has wasted enough of my time. You all have been arguing for hours and that's without Clockwork slowing things down."

"Your Majesty, this is a matter of great importance. Belial means to overthrow and rule my-our world!"

"I am distinctly aware aware of that," Ancients, Danny couldn't wait to go home and rid himself of the formal speech he'd had to adopt in order to be taken seriously. Well, as seriously as he cared to be taken when sprawled across his throne instead of sitting on it intimidatingly or something. He slowly placed his gaze on the suddenly still demon sitting across from him. "Yet you've proposed fifteen different plans that were all unviable for whatever reasons you've cooked up. Your conclusion is that I must step in. Does your world not have heroes to take care of it?"

The demon- another lord of hell from this Belial’s universe- fell silent.

“Ah. But if they do, they would also take care of you.”

“No- no, that’s not-”

Danny allowed his voice to drop to the artic freeze he knew his core was capable of. "I opened these these doors to allow all of you to present me with reasonable concerns regarding your own universes and realms. What is not on the table for discussion is your petty politics. Do you think I am unaware of your intentions in tattling to me? That I do not know you are trying to use me to further your own position?"

"Your Majesty, I-" The demon growled out, fear slowly coating its expression.

"It no longer amuses me. You think that I am young and easy to manipulate." Danny froze the demon to its chair. It tried to break free, but Danny isn't the High King of the Infinite Realms for nothing. "Bring to me a miserable problem like this ever again, one that could be easily solved if you used even a smidgen of your intelligence, and you will find exactly how I tore Pariah Dark from his throne."

Not that Danny knew how he did it either, he just did it.

"Yes, Your Majesty. My-my apologies."

The room is dead (Danny patted himself on the back for the pun) silent. Some of the Ancients looked bored, like Clockwork who knew Danny would never hurt them, but everyone else looked close to crying. He held eye contact with the demon until it looked away.

When Danny settled back into the throne and allowed his ice to dissipate, the room let out a collective sigh of relief.

"The next item on the agenda is another demon, by the name of Trigon." Clockwork announced, the large piece of paper comically huge next to his currently toddler-like body.

"Another?"

He flicked an amused look at the previous demon, who kept his trap firmly shut.

"He is attempting to take over multiple worlds in an attempt to conquer the universe. I had thought you would be interested in this one, Your Majesty, as he plans to begin with Earth 135."

Danny stilled. That was his Earth. His haunt.

"Does he know of the Realms?"

"Vaguely, I believe."

"Then he should know the rules. I will wait to see if my Earth's heroes are capable to step to the task."

Danny would be a hypocrite if he doesn’t let the heroes of his Earth try first, even if he is one of those heroes.

"Of course," Clockwork grinned at him, fully aware of the shit Danny's about to stir back home. Ah, the wonders of being able to influence the time stream. Perhaps the young Ghost King will finally get some friends, and maybe get those pesky speedsters to stop making his jobs so hard. Cujo yipped at Danny as the King begrudgingly moved onto the next topic.

——

Raven shuddered as she watched the footage of her "brothers" laughing while steering their human "meatbags" around. She turned back to the giant circle of donated blood and herb filled candles.

“This is a nuclear option, don’t you think?” Green Arrow mumbled, clearly not against it by the half hearted way he’d said it. The Star City billionaire nursed his cracked ribs.

“No,” she floated over to where Zatanna and Constantine kneeled, trying to see if they needed help with the inscriptions. “Trigon is coming soon, and my brothers will no doubt find their way here in a moment. We are out of time.”

“Yeah. Plus, we don’t want Raven to be turned into a portal.” Garfield piped up, switching animal forms rapidly.

“No one dies.” Red Robin muttered. His wrist computer was open, monitoring the surroundings of the open field they found themselves uneasily occupying. Batman grunted in affirmation, eyeing the tree line. Every hero except the magical ones were on look out, preparing themselves for one more battle against the two demons that were trying to take Raven and force her into becoming a portal.

“Hey guys, we might want to hurrythisupbecausethey’re kind of close!” Impulse slammed into the room.

“Done.” Zatanna got up, motioning for everyone to step back. In Superman’s case, he floated back.

“Too bad you won’t get to use it,” a voice drawled, dripping with malice and the screams of a thousand souls.

“Come now, little sister. Why fight fate? Be grateful father has deigned to spare you. If not for your dirty blood being useful, you would be dead, little sister. Give up, before our patience runs out alongside the lives of your little pets.” Another, mocking, voice gleefully rumbled.

Raven would rather gouge out her own heart than to claim these two as any type of family.

“You won’t touch them.” Raven snarled, powers rising even as the marks on her body burned a painful red.

“Buy us some time!”

With that, the group of beaten and battered heroes rose to clash against just two demons, for a chance to save their world.

——

The Circle crackled. Danny felt a tug on his core. He followed the thread of the summoning. Oh. It was his haunt. Earth 135. Hm. It tasted of blood. Desperation? A hint of anticipation. Oh, an overload of fear. Could use some more hope, but Danny understood that it was rather hard to season these kinds of summonings with hope.

“Stop.” Danny commanded, straightening in his chair.

“Sire, we have more-”

“There is an issue with my haunt,” with that, he followed the summons.

——

“Ugh,” was the first thing everybody on the frozen battlefield heard. The demons had smacked away many of the heroes, but they all turned as one when the circle lit up a bright green. “Why do you people always use blood? I’m dead, I don’t need any more iron!”

A boy

Raven’s eldest brother let out a hideous rumble. “You fools tried to summon the king, and you got a dead boy. And now, you’ve doomed another.”

Constantine looked resigned, and regretful. “I am so, so sorry,” he whispered. It was just a kid. John might be a lot of things, but even he found summoning dead kids for demons to devour was just a step too far. “Shite, we got the wrong fucking-”

“Hey, man, that’s rude,” the boy snapped back, waving John off.

“Brother, kill the whelp.”

“I vote on not killing the whelp. Not killing at all, really,” the boy stepped out of the massive blood circle, wrinkling his nose at the drying stains.

“This is not one of your pesky democracies, fool.”

In response, the demons lunged at him, ignoring the screams of the surrounding heroes as they shoved their human arms through the boy’s stomach.

“So,” the boy continues, “I heard your dad was after my haunt?”

“Your haunt, whelp? This earth shall be his! And through him, ours!” Raven slammed against the demons with her power, shadows enlarging and tossing them away from the unharmed… ghost boy?

“Is it?”

——

Wow, these demons are so rude. Normally, it’d be a breath of fresh air compared to the stuffy halls of his throne room. But since they’re attacking his haunt…

“Thanks. You’re… Raven, right?”

Raven nodded, arms outstretched in concentration as she held her brothers back.

“You have to go. We’re- we’re sorry you got pulled into this, but it’s not safe here.”

“Eh. It’s cool. You don’t have to do that anymore, by the way.” Danny stepped forward once more, green skin shifting and gliding as everything about him sharpened. He flew at the demons piloting the human shells, catching them around the necks and dragging the demons out of their stolen bodies. The threw them even further away as he floated in the air, a beacon of green and white. Raven thought it looked like hope.

“My name is Phantom, the High King of the Infinite Realms,” let it be known that Danny always had an eye for dramatic entrances. He shifted into something more off, more eldritch, more kingly. The crown flared to life above his head. “You have invaded my haunt. You have challenged me. What do you plead?”

“You’re not-” they said.

“Wrong answer,” Danny flew at them once more, body contorting into something undeniably terrorizing, his maw unhinging and crunching down on the demons with a sound that made the present heroes cringe.

“Ugh,” Danny grunted, turning back and floating peacefully to the group of heroes- Tucker and Sam would be so stoked he met Wonder Woman and Batman!- and chewed rapidly. He shifted back into his normal form. “Eating demons always leaves me with indigestion. And their bones get everywhere up in my teeth!” Danny pulled out a giant femur looking bone from his mouth, despite it not logically fitting in there.

“Right. No eating demons, solid life advice.” Red Robin said.

“Right? So, you’re Raven! It’s nice to meet you! Think you can summon your dear ol’ dad for me?”

“But we summoned you to stop Trigon, not help him come here.” Superman said, frowning.

“One! That summoning circle is wack. Those things you piled up as offerings? Mid. Also, if you thought you could control me with those terribly written spells, you’re dead wrong. And yes, I am making puns about death.” Danny jabs an aggressive finger towards the shabby circle.

“Have you considered that maybe not every being that can be summoned wants a shit ton of useless blood? Like what if I wanted food? And two, how am I supposed to beat up Trigon if he’s still stuck in the prison realm?”

“I have a cup of coffee,” Nightwing offered. “Kid Flash could probably get you food, right?”

“Yep, surethinganythingyouwantyourMajesty.”

“You wouldn’t catch me alive accepting food from a speedster. You people fuck up the timelines so much,” Danny grumbled, crunching on the last of Raven’s brothers. Raven thought she should probably sit down.

“But you’re dead.” Batman said, something about his voice catching the sharp attention of his protégés who all started making cutting motions at him.

“Fair,” Danny pointed at him, grinning. “I’ll take two pizza and Nightwing’s coffee as payment for taking care of your little demon overlord problem. Raven, summon your dad.”

——

Didn’t much like the characterization of this piece but it’s been in my drafts for a while and I needed it out

[genderqueerdykes]

if you are a trans man or masc, masculine nonbinary, genderqueer, genderfluid or other gender non conforming identity, masc gay, a bear, a butch, stud, or boi, or other masculine queer person and don't feel welcome in any queer spaces, you're not alone.

the communities both irl and online have become EXTREMELY hostile toward mascs and men to the point of straight up excluding us and changing their wording to justify their violent exclusion. from renaming nonbinary spaces to "femme & them" and "she+" spaces, to telling men & mascs that they would "Scare" the women and "nonbinary" folks just by being there, as if masculinity and manhood are inherently traumatizing to be around.

masculine and male nonbinary folks have it so hard- most nonbinary spaces are almost definitely women's spaces who also conflate womanhood with nonbinaryhood, and often times just view nonbinary people as confused women. we are not inherently traumatizing to be around: masc enbies need places to go. we are still nonbinary and still trans and still queer for fucks' sake

nonbinary has never and will never mean femme or woman-adjacent inherently. nonbinary means what it means: people who don't or refuse to adhere to the gender binary, regardless of what side it is. masculinity is included in this, femininity is not the only way to be nonbinary.

masc queers do not have to bend over backwards to try to be more feminine and thus "less threatening" in order to have places to go. that's dysphoric and just inaccurate to a lot of queer folks' identity and presentation. it blows my mind because it makes no sense, anyway, even within the gay community, hypermasculinity has been present and even sought after by some people who find it very attractive, twunks, hunks, bears... but between the periods in queer history people started viewing masc gay leathermen and kinksters as the ones who were responsible for spreading AIDS and thus removing them from pride parades,

AND the lesbian separatism moment picking up to remove butches & male & masc lesbians from lesbian spaces identity, paving the way for modern rdical femniism, we've only entered a downhill landslide of hating men and mascs and ultimately trying to erase us from the queer community entirely.

the queer community is not the "women & femmes community". the queer experience is broad and vast, it includes a wide variety of masculine and male experiences, as well as genderfluid, multigender, completely ungendered and other gendered experiences. the lesbian, trans, bisexual, nonbinary, gay and general queer communities aren't the "safe place to hide from men & mascs community" like estranged rdfems and terfpilled trans folk like to tell you they are.

this is the QUEER community and it includes ALL forms of queerness, masc, femme, butch, male, neutral, bigender, neutral, and all. he/shes and he/hims and he/theys and he/its and so on are just as much of a part of this communities as she/hers and they/thems. you can't cast a blanket of "inherently abusive" over all men and mascs and one of "inherently abused/incapable of being abusive" over all women and femmes because that just traps you in a fantasy land that doesn't exist AND it prevents mascs and men from getting the help, resources and community they NEED.

men & mascs are hurt and abused by women & femmes every day and we refuse to speak about them because we live under a white cisheteronormal patriarchy and have complaints about how that functions. the complaints are legitimate but assuming that all men and mascs are oppressing all women and femmes and that women can never be oppressive is a false as hell narrative that actively damages people.

enough is enough. this mindset is hurting people. it's leaving masc and male queers to be estranged, harmed and even dead. i care about you if you're being affected by this mentality and these behaviors. you deserve community, safety, and a sense of belonging, you do belong, even if we struggle to form our own spaces due to unjust hatred. we will do our best to band together and keep each other safe. we must

[thetriumphantpanda]

mine, all mine | joel miller

Summary | You & Joel have been skirting around whatever this is for years, until he finally breaks and calls it what it is, in the only way he knows how.

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.2K

Warnings | Post-Outbreak, Jackson!Joel, possessive!Joel, rough sex, spit play, unprotected PiV sex, cumshot, cumplay, dirty talk, emotionally unavailable Joel, it's basically just 1.2k of filth tbh, no use of y/n

Authors Note | This one goes out to @undercoverpena who gave me the means to rewatch TLOU. This was the outcome. Enjoy the filth.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

He’s got your wrists caught together in one of his big hands, pressed down into the mattress to keep you still. Your thighs splayed wide, pressed down almost uncomfortably by the width of his hips. His cock is splitting you open and you’re so impossibly wet that you can hear it whenever he pushes himself back into you. He likes it, wild grin on his face whenever that lewd squelch makes itself known, he likes that only he can do this to you, only he can make you this wet, only he can get you to submit so completely like this.

It’s been two years of this. Two years of being pressed into his bed in the dead of night. Two years of dancing around what this is, but enjoying it all the same. You don’t think you need to label it, complicate it, not when it feels this good. You’d happily go the rest of your days not knowing what you and Joel Miller are if it means he’s going to stay like this. It started as stress relief, a lot like how it had been with the other people here in Jackson that had fallen into your bed - him, frustrated from patrol or whatever it was going on with Ellie, you, frustrated with… well, mostly everything these days. When he’s inside you, there are no frustrations, only the low thrum of pleasure across your skin.

Things have changed though, maybe in the past six months. He stands closer to you when you’re at the bar, sometimes puts a hand on the small of your back when someone else tries to talk to you. Subtle messages that say back the fuck off or she’s mine without needing to put real words to it. He doesn’t say it, even here, when he’s deep inside you, doesn’t beg you to tell him who you belong to, but then you suppose he doesn’t have to - you’ve not fucked anyone else since this started, no-one would hold a candle to him, and you know he doesn’t fuck anyone else either.

“You hear that?” His gruff voice asks, pulling you back to the present as his cock drags from your cunt, pushing back in slowly, and you do, that squelch of him pushing back inside you as deep as he can fit, you throw your head back, moan his name, “Yeah you do,” His face buries into your neck, teeth dragging across delicate skin, “Hear how wet I gotcha?”

You let your eyes open, fluttering slowly to reveal how close he is to your face. He’s so fucking beautiful like this - skin covered in sweat, brows pinched together in pleasure, his scars and his wrinkles visible so closely, the grey in his beard and the smattering of hair on his chest pressed against yours, you won’t ever grow tired of this.

“S-so fucking g-good, Joel.” You choke out on another drag of his cock, tip pressed right against the depths of you, dragging deliciously against that spot inside you.

“I know, baby, I know,” He coos, nudging the side of your face with his nose, hot breath so close to your ear as he continues the languid strokes of himself in and out of your spent cunt, “Bein’ so good f’me.”

His praise never fails to make you preen, face rolling to the side, exposing the side of your neck to him that he hasn’t already marked. You feel the tight grip around your wrists loosen, his hand taking hold of your chin instead, pulling you back to look at him, brown eyes glazed almost black with lust as he looks down at you. There’s something different there this time, sure he’s always been intense, but he’s looking at you this time like he wants to devour you whole - to cut you open and eat you from the inside.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” He whispers, hand around your face moving to shake you so your focus is on him and not on the way his thrusts have started getting harder, “Say it.”

“M’yours,” You manage to get out, but he shakes your head again, “Yours, m’yours Joel.”

“That’s right,” He bends, hand still gripping your chin, and licks into your mouth, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, teeth nipping gently, “My girl.”

You almost can’t believe it, like this is some kind of dream, your wildest fantasy come true that he does want you, that it’s not just your pussy he covets but everything else you bring.

“Y-you mean it?” You speak, breathless, “I’m yours?”

You bring a hand up to his face now, cradling a cheek, thumb tracing his bottom lip, but he’s shaking your hand away, his own still tight against your face, “Open your mouth,” but you’re confused about why, so it takes you a while for your brain to catch up, “Open your damn mouth baby.”

This time you do, lips parted, tongue out, Joel’s fingers sitting in the hinges of your jaw, dragging your head forward a little, then, he purses his lips, opens his mouth and lets his saliva drip from his own mouth into your, caught on the flat of your tongue. It’s hot, probably the hottest thing he’s even done. You curl your tongue over it, dragging your mouth closed to swallow it down, then, you open your mouth, stick your tongue back out and look him straight in the eye to ask for more.

“Fuckin’ filthy,” He mutters, but there’s a grin on his face, his cock still pounding into you, the feeling of your slick, made more by what he’d just down, gathering at the base of his cock, dripping down onto the sheets below, “Y’like that, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Is the only thing you can get out before he’s doing it again, letting his own spit drip from his mouth into yours.

This time though, he doesn’t give you the option to swallow it. He lets go of your face, his tongue melding with yours at the precise spot that his spit had just landed on. It’s a filthy, wet, open-mouthed kiss, saliva gathering in your corners of your mouth as you moan into his when he shifts his hips just a little, tip of his cock now bruising into your cervix on every punch forward.

It happens all at once, his lips dragging from yours, his cock dragging out of your pussy as he pushes backwards, cock in his fist for barely a second before the first rope of his spend is spurting across your soaked and aching folds. Joel lets out a growl as the next lands across the soft skin of your tummy, the next between the valley of your tits. He’s dragging a tight fist up and down the length of his cock, squeezing lightly at his tip to empty himself of every drop of cum, painting your skin with it until he’s softening in his fist and you’re trying to catch your breath.

Joel lets his hands grip your hips, dragging his thumbs through the pools of cum across your lower body, rubbing gently through it to spread it as far as he can, “Look nice like this,” He muses, looking down at the mess he’s made of you, from the aching red hue of your spent cunt, to the milky white splashed across your body, “Mine.” He says, with a tone of finality.

“Yours.”

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Wingwoman (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Summary: You take your good friend/coworker, Spencer, out to the bar to find him a girl to hook up with. Things do not go as planned.

Word Count: 5107

Warnings: Romantic/sexual tension! Mentions of drinking / sex

A/N: Hi! I haven't written posted fanfic in like, 8 years, please be nice xD I would love to know your thoughts - if you have any requests or anything, I'm happy to oblige. ALSO -- I have only seen up to Season 7 of Criminal Minds because I'm a fckn loser. Anywayyyyy enjoy! Not my gif btw, all credit to the owner :)

———————————

It was kind of your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

Actually, it was definitely your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

It had been your suggestion to go out. It had been your idea to act as Spencer’s wingwoman, some last-ditch effort to try to get him out of your mind. He was your coworker, for Christ’s sake. And your best friend. And you’d thought about him desperately for eight of the nine months that you’d known him. 

Emily, Derek, and Penelope had all agreed to tag along, but as the work day went on, each of your coworkers had found some kind of excuse to opt-out. Derek’s niece wanted to Facetime. Penelope forgot Kevin’s birthday was next week and needed to go shopping for a present. Emily had a headache. 

Finding Spencer a romantic prospect on your own was certainly not the plan, but, stupidly, thoughtlessly, you’d decided to go along with it. You could do this. Just one night in a bar, chatting up women for the man you’d slowly been falling for the past eight months. As good of an idea as any, right? 

You and Spencer took an Uber to the bar the group frequented. Ski-ball and pool in one corner, a vintage jukebox and small space set aside as a makeshift dance floor in the other. But the best part - half-off drinks for federal agents. You’d never been one to abuse the badge before, but… 

Three Jack-and-Diet-Cokes later, your moral code had a bit of a crack in it. 

Spencer stood next to you - towered over you, actually, because that man was a fucking beanpole - and you felt his eyes on you as you scanned the crowd. “What about her?” you suggested, jerking your chin to the woman at a high-top table against the wall. She had her nose stuck in her phone and an untouched martini on the table in front of her. 

“She’s clearly waiting for someone,” Spencer pointed out, and you realized he was right just as the woman looked up from her phone and towards the door for the third time in the past minute. “I also don’t understand why you’re so dead set on finding someone to hog me up with.” 

You snorted into your drink. “Hog you up with?” you repeated, turning in your barstool so you faced him. Your knees brushed his thighs. 

“Yeah, is that not…” realization dawned on Spencer and he grimaced. “That’s not the phrase, is it?” 

“Hook,” you corrected, but not impatiently. You made a little hook with your index finger, like a pirate. A little giggle escaped you. “And I’m not dead set on it,” you argued. “I just didn’t want to be the only one leaving the bar with someone.” 

Your eyes flickered up to Spencer’s to gauge his reaction. He seemed surprised by this implication that you planned to leave with someone - someone who was not him. 

“Yeah? Who are you leaving with, matey?” Spencer countered, arching a brow and pointedly looking at your index finger, still in its hooked position. You dropped your hand. 

“It doesn’t matter right now,” you blushed furiously, desperately trying to drive the conversation back to his romantic conquests. Your thought process was that if you actually saw Spencer with someone else in any sort of romantic capacity - dancing, flirting, kissing - you’d finally hurt yourself enough with the sight for those stupid feelings for him to dissipate. “We’re looking for you.” 

Spencer merely hmm-ed in response, an indecisive non-answer, and you noticed he shook his head. Like he was annoyed, but trying not to show it. You swallowed the lump in your throat and polished off your drink before returning to examining the patrons in the bar. You nudged Spencer’s elbow with your own and your gaze landed on the group of three women giggling around one of the tables. “Any of them? The blonde is cute,” you pointed out. 

“Not really into blondes,” Spencer muttered, and you glanced back at him. You could have sworn his eyes were locked on your brunette hair. You opened your mouth to say something, but Spencer cut you off. “But, sure, if watching me strike out will amuse you, Y/N.” Before you could protest, Spencer set his glass down on the bar and started towards the trio of women at the table. 

You leaned down to sniff his glass, curious as to what he’d been drinking. Clear liquid. No smell. Was he… totally sober? 

You watched with narrowed, studious eyes as Spencer approached the women. You could only see the back of his head, but the three women’s faces were perfectly visible. They smiled, friendly, unassuming, and then something came out of Spencer’s mouth that changed their expressions. The blonde in the middle furrowed her brows, and the two women on either side cocked their heads slightly. Spencer’s hand tapped the table and he earned awkward smiles as a goodbye was bid, and when he turned around to head back towards the bar, he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, like what are you gonna do? 

“What happened?” you asked as he returned to you. 

“I blew it,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. Too accepting of his defeat. Further supporting your theory that he’d gone over there and purposefully botched it. 

“Right,” you flagged down the bartender to order another drink. 

“You’re getting another one?” Spencer asked. 

You whirled your face to meet his and didn’t see judgment, but rather, concern. “Why does it matter?” you asked, no, dared. 

Spencer shook his head, defeatedly. “It doesn’t,” he grumbled. 

“What about that girl you were talking to earlier by the jukebox?” you asked, nudging his shin with your foot. “The grabby one. She seemed really into you.” 

Spencer visibly gritted his teeth. “I’m not interested.” 

“Are you interested in anyone in this bar tonight?” You asked. The words came too quickly for you to stop them. They were too real. Especially as Spencer’s frown hardened just slightly and you watched him look away from you. 

You took in a sharp inhale, the realization hitting you, the possibility that Spencer might actually feel the same way about you. And that you’d dragged him out here tonight to try and set him up with someone else. You were selfish and thoughtless and stupid. 

You hopped off the barstool, your feet wavering beneath you. “I’d better go home,” you said suddenly, grabbing your bag. You had to leave. You had to go home before you said something stupid, something irreversible. 

You stalked out of the bar and onto the brisk, late-autumn sidewalk. You’d forgotten your coat at the office and insisted you’d be fine. The chill smacked you in the face and you tucked your bag beneath your shoulder so you could cross your arms over your chest and hug yourself for any semblance of warmth. 

Thirty seconds hadn’t even passed before the door creaked and Spencer appeared at your side, throwing his coat wordlessly over your shoulders. “What did I do?” he asked. You looked up at him and saw his eyes - hurt, frustrated, confused. 

Your lips parted and there was a small shake of your head. “No,” you breathed. He furrowed his brows and you explained further. “You didn’t do anything.” 

“Then why the hell have you been so weird around me lately?” Spencer asked, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. Like a temperamental first-grader. 

“Weird how?” You asked, trying to pretend like you had no idea what he was talking about. Like your stomach didn’t flip every morning when you saw him. 

“Like you’re… like you’re mad at me. Like you don’t want to be around me,” Spencer looked at the street ahead of the both of you rather than at you. “You always find an excuse to leave the room when it’s just the two of us. You pull Derek or Emily or Penelope into the conversation so you don’t have to interact with just me. You’re out here trying to find me someone to hook up with?” he phrased the last sentence as a question, shaking his head. Your heart lurched. He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s either you’re trying to shrug me off as a friend entirely, or -” 

He stopped himself. His eyes were fixed on the streetlamp a few feet in front of you. They widened and you felt your heart pound as he slowly met your gaze. The realization hit him, the second half of his sentence lingering, heavy and palpable between the two of you. 

“Or,” you repeated, not phrasing it as a question. Your voice was soft as you said it, your tone anything but a question. 

“Or?” Spencer asked, and you could see his chest start to rise and fall more slowly. 

“Or,” you confirmed, taking in a sharp breath. 

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he looked at you, his gaze piercing and soft, studious and lazy, hungry and satiated all at once. “Oh.” 

Oh. 

“How long?” he asked, turning his feet towards you. 

Your face went red and you lifted your chin, refusing to make yourself feel ashamed of it anymore. There wasn’t any point, not when he knew now. “Since March,” you admitted. Your voice was squeaky. 

“March?” Spencer repeated, incredulous. It was early October now. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and bunching it up by the middle. You handed it to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” you said. Your body felt like it was on fire. “You don’t have to-”

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.” 

You thought maybe you were hallucinating for a second. Your mouth fell open and despite your three drinks, you remembered clearly that Spencer had been drinking water. This was not some drunken confession, not for either of you, because the second he’d asked you why you had been so weird lately, you had instantly sobered up. “Oh,” was all you managed to choke out.

Oh. 

“Yeah, oh,” Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smile. That playful, friendly, teasing little smile you’d learned to love on him. He stepped towards you. 

You let out this little half-garbled laugh. Spencer reached for your hand, and you let him. Your fingers spread, allowing his in the spaces between. You looked up at Spencer and little fires shot up your hand. How could merely holding hands feel so monumental? 

“What do we… what do we do now?” You asked, your mind in a haze, like a computer awaiting command. 

Spencer let his jacket fall to the concrete and used his other hand to slowly, almost hesitantly, cup your cheek. He looked down at you and your entire face reddened. “Well,” his voice was soft, crackling, like a fireplace, and he met your gaze with searching eyes. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that would be okay,” he said finally. Your lips turned up into an idiotic smile. 

“I think that would be okay,” you whispered. 

His hands were so soft, you realized. His grip on your hand loosened and he was now cupping your face on both sides. And every nerve in your cheeks was firing off signals - Spencer is touching my face, Spencer is touching my face. Like it was some forbidden thing. But then, as if in slow motion, he ducked his head down and his lips touched yours. Gently, at first, tentative and wobbly like a foal taking its first steps. Your hands rested on his torso - taut beneath that stupid little sweater vest. 

He pulled back after just a moment. It was really only five or six seconds at the most, but you were red-faced and breathless by the time your eyes fluttered open, into his. Spencer’s smile was now a full-blown grin, and your expression mirrored his. “Yeah?” He asked, the word carrying more meaning. You’re into this, right? 

“Yeah,” you exhaled as Spencer dropped his hands from your face, but your hands remained on his torso, not wanting to step away just yet. The syllable meant more coming from you, too. I’m really, very much, super into this. Please, for the love of god, kiss me again. 

Spencer arched a brow ever so slightly, and you nodded your head. 

Just like a dance, Spencer’s hands moved to your waist, and at the same time, you slid yours around his neck. He backed you up, completely disregarding his jacket on the sidewalk, until you were flush against the brick wall belonging to the bar. The brisk October breeze ruffled through his hair and yours, yet, suddenly, neither of you were terribly concerned about the weather. 

He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t as timid. Slowly, at first, his lips pressed against yours, and then his tongue darted out. It teased your lips in silent invitation, and you opened them to grant him access. His hands were everywhere, your hips, your hair, your face. You had moved your own down to his torso again. He coaxed the tiniest little mewl out of your throat, a completely uncontrollable and inevitable noise. 

Spencer’s low, gravelly groan reverberated through your mouth. Your hands gripped the bottom half of his shirt, balling it up in tight, white-knuckled fists. An unmistakable hardness brushed against your thigh. You were perfectly content to stay right there, pinned against the exterior wall of a D.C. bar, but the sound of a car honking its horn peeled Spencer off of you. 

His face was flushed and you released his shirt from your grasp. He let out a small grunt, stepping away from you to grab his jacket off the ground, wrinkling it haphazardly in his hand, holding it strategically over his middle. 

Oh, he liked you a lot. 

“You okay, Spence?” You asked all-knowingly, cocking your head to the side, leaning against the wall, lifting a foot to plant against it. 

Spencer shot a set of narrowed eyes at you, as if noting your smirk and storing it for later. “Yeah, I’m great,” he said, obviously struggling a little bit. His eyes quickly left yours and looked everywhere but at you. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him too much. So you just crossed your arms over your chest and looked at the sidewalk. But the smirk on your face wasn’t going away quite so easily. You considered briefly trying to talk to him about baseball or something to try and help him out, but you decided pointing it out would just humiliate him. Plus, it was a nice little ego boost, knowing you could get him like that with just a simple touch. 

He took a second, but he finally cleared his throat and met your gaze. You sucked your front teeth with your tongue and then bit your lip. “Want me to call an Uber?” You asked. 

Spencer just nodded, and you pushed yourself off the wall, stepping over to join him, digging your phone out of your pocket to order the car. “You okay?” You asked him again after submitting the request on your phone. Spencer’s face was still flushed, but he just nodded and reached for your hand. “Careful,” you warned, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “Don’t want you having an-“

“Shut up,” Spencer cut you off, and you snickered. 

——————————————————

You had never been in Spencer’s apartment before. It was unmistakably his, with stacks upon stacks of books in lieu of furniture. 

There was a sofa in his living room, along with a coffee table, a couple of lamps, and a television on a stand. The remaining space, besides a few spots here and there and a clear path with which to maneuver the room, was filled with books. 

You had never seen so many books in someone’s possession before. And sure, you were an avid reader yourself. But nothing like this. Your heart fluttered at the sight, not only because books simply just made you happy, but because it was an incredibly endearing detail about Spencer. Your Spencer. 

He shut and locked the door after you stepped inside, looking around with a childlike, awestruck grin. The TV had a thin layer of dust over the screen - he clearly didn’t use it often. And as you trailed a finger along the top of the nearest stack of books, you felt a pair of eyes watching your every move. 

You and Spencer had both been quiet in the Uber ride here. He had simply held your hand, swiping his thumb across the back of your palm every few seconds. You would occasionally meet his gaze, but then quickly, bashfully, look away, like the two of you were teenagers. 

It was so strange to think of what he had said to you - I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met. How had you not figured it out before now? 

You supposed you had been hiding your true feelings as well, so he was allowed to, too. 

There wasn’t any point in wishing to change the past, you reminded yourself. All you should be focusing on is right now. 

And right now, the street lamps peeked in through Spencer’s living room window, glinting off of his endless brown eyes and making them look like he had the moon in his irises. 

“So,” you said softly, not nearly as wicked as you had been when you were teasing him on the street by the bar. “This is where you live.” 

“Uh-huh,” Spencer bobbed his head, that awkward, straight-line smile crossing his face.

“Lot of books,” you pointed out. 

“Yep.” 

You arched a brow, a teasing smile crossing your face once again. “What’s with the monosyllabic conversation?” 

Spencer clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “It’s just… really difficult to just stand here and not touch you,” he admitted, a sheepish smile crossing his face. 

You grinned. “You can touch me,” your voice dropped an octave, without you even really thinking about it. 

Spencer licked a canine with the tip of his tongue. God, that tongue. You remembered how he’d teased you less than an hour ago outside of the bar. “Maybe I will,” he shrugged, and you rolled your eyes. 

“You can’t really play it cool, right now, Spencer. Not when I just gave you a-“

“Please stop talking,” Spencer laughed, crossing the room and cupping your cheeks in his hands all in the same movement. You snickered and he kissed you and anything you might have been wanting to make fun of him for was forgotten about. 

You pressed your hands against his chest - holy pectorals, Batman - and craned your neck up so you could reach him. Spencer slid his own hands down your arms and to your hips, and you looped your arms around his neck. One palm flattened against the back of his head, holding him in place, fingers curling around pieces of his soft hair. 

Your heart was hammering away, and there was this aching, hot feeling that was pooling in your core and you all of a sudden felt hungry. Starving for Spencer, for every piece of him, for fully and finally crossing that line from friend to lover. An insatiable hunger for nearly every moment since you’d known him.

Finally you broke away from him, simply because oxygen was a necessity, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed and your fingers ground into his scalp. “Look at me,” he requested, his voice low. 

Your eyes opened obediently and one of Spencer Reid’s hands curled under your chin. His face moved away from yours but his gaze was locked on yours, a pinpoint, a Northern Star. 

And when Spencer spoke again, your knees buckled. 

“I want you.”

Your mouth fell open, ever so slightly, and you nodded. “I want you, too,” you whispered. 

“Are you still…?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You’d had three drinks earlier that evening, after all, but you’d polished the last one off nearly an hour ago. Maybe not fully sober, but sober enough to know what you wanted. 

“I’m fine,” you assured him. 

Spencer inclined his head to the side. “You’re sure? Can you pass a sobriety test?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him before you realized he was being sarcastic. You stepped back from him, shrugging off his hands, and extended your arms, touching your nose with your left hand, then your right. Spencer just laughed, and reached out for you, tugging you back to him. “Okay,” he chuckled, planting a kiss on your neck. You let him. “You’re fine, then?”

“I’m fine,” you agreed, shrugging him out of his sweater vest, and then reaching for the buttons on his shirt underneath. 

Spencer kissed your neck as you fumbled with the buttons - how were buttons suddenly impossible to undo? Your head craned back just slightly on instinct, wanting - needing - to allow Spencer more access. Your dexterity had become abysmal at this point, and Spencer’s lips were kissing your neck, down your throat, teasing at your collarbone. “Spencer,” you managed to groan out, a wave of annoyance present in your tone. 

“What?” he asked, pulling back, concern filling his face. 

You realized you had actually worried him. “Oh, no, no,” you waved it away, and he visibly relaxed. “I’m just really frustrated, because… because your shirt,” you stammered, and Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smirk. 

“My shirt,” he stated. 

“That one, right here,” You laughed softly, curling your fingers around the buttons. You managed to wiggle one free, then another. Spencer leaned forward to continue kissing your neck, but you held a hand up to stop him. “Hang on,” you murmured, working through another button, and one more. “I’m concentrating.” 

“You’re sticking your tongue out,” Spencer snickered. Your eyes met his and your cheeks flushed.

“I’m concentrating!” Your voice rose slightly in self-defense. Spencer’s hands went to your hips. 

“It’s adorable,” he told you. “You make the same face at work. When you’re in the middle of filling out a form or trying to open a new bottle of coffee creamer without spilling it,” Spencer rubbed circles in your hips and your fingers stopped working again. 

“You noticed that kind of stuff?” You asked softly, looking up at him with doe eyes.

Spencer just nodded. “All the time.” 

I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.

You inhaled sharply, finally undoing the last button.The skin beneath the shirt was pale, smooth, and perfect. And when he slid his arms through the sleeves and the shirt fell to the ground, you bit your lip, unable to help it. 

“Y/N?” 

You met Spencer’s gaze and let out this awkward little laugh. Embarrassing, really, if you hadn’t been in the company of your best friend. “You okay?” he asked, and you felt a little giddy as you nodded, moving your hands to his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him again. 

You didn’t know which direction the bedroom was in, so you just took a guess, pushing him back towards one of the doors. He kept his hands on your hips and his lips pressed against yours as he guided you, walking backwards, to the right door. You entered the bedroom and could not possibly be bothered to look around right now, not when Spencer was guiding you in a circle by merely touching your hips, not when the back of your knees hit what was unmistakably a mattress, not when you fell back against it. 

Your eyes were shut, unwilling to take in your surroundings as Spencer guided you onto your back. You toed off your shoes before lifting your legs, and Spencer hovered over you. Your lips were locked with his the entire time. And when you finally opened your eyes and you saw only Spencer, you grinned like a fool. 

Spencer’s fingers were like taking a shower. They were all over you - your hips, first, then your stomach, and you had to resist the urge to giggle because they tickled as he teased the bottom hem of your shirt up. You sat up slightly to get the blouse over your head and you watched him discard it onto the floor. And then his hands were over your chest, thumbs teasing under the wire of your bra, outlining the shapes of your breasts. 

Your breathing had gone heavy and staccato by this point, your body sinking into the mattress, shipwrecked as Spencer touched you. His eyes wandered over your and that little smile on his face was enough for you to know that he was immensely enjoying himself. 

“Can I…?” Spencer’s hands wandered down and gripped your pants as he looked into your eyes, a brow arched. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat and your blush appeared over your cheeks at the same time as his. “Yeah,” you whispered, and Spencer helped you wiggle out of your pants - black slacks, since you had gone straight from work to the bar. They were soon tossed to the floor, and you were only in your underwear and your bra. And Spencer’s brown eyes did not make you feel objectified or embarrassed, but safe. 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he told you, seriously, and your breath hitched in your throat. 

“You-”

“I’m not done,” Spencer cut you off, lifting a hand to run his thumb down your chin. “You’re so beautiful. And you’re so kind, and smart, and funny. And I’d really like to show you how much I care about you,” he looked into your eyes as a sort of request. 

“I’m not on birth control,” You breathed out in response, feeling your cheeks redden for even bringing it up. Way to damper the mood. Still, you wanted to be responsible. “Do you have a c-”

Spencer’s soft smile turned into a wicked grin and he shook his head. “We’re not going to need one,” he promised, and after looking into his eyes for a moment, you understood. 

________________________________________

Spencer had thoroughly worshiped you, until you quaked and cried out with absolutely no thought to how thin his apartment walls might be. Usually, you didn’t allow yourself to be the center of attention for too long, but Spencer had insisted, and, well, you couldn’t very well deny him what he wanted, right? 

Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your hair matted to the back of your neck, Spencer finally lay down beside you. Your breathing was just starting to come back to you as you turned on your side to face him. Spencer’s body mirrored yours, the tips of his fingers - those fingers - trailing up the side of your arm. “That was…” his voice was soft, gravelly, and he looked at you like you had anything to do with it. It was literally all him. “Incredible.” 

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, unable to really focus on anything besides the curve of Spencer’s lips, the way the apples of his cheeks appeared when he smiled like this. Spencer kissed your lips, unlike any way he had before. All the other kisses tonight had been hungry and excited, exploratory and new. This one was lazy and slow and you let his tongue dance across yours, and when he finally pulled away, your nose scrunched up in delight. 

Your eyes traveled from his lips, down his neck, his collarbone, then back up, taking him in. The glow of his skin, the tired yet exhilarated look in his eyes. So different now than at the beginning of the night, when he’d looked at you with that slightly annoyed expression as you had tried to set him up with other women. You recalled how he had gone off to that group of three women right before you’d abandoned the bar, how he had struck out on purpose just to satiate your nagging. “What’d you say to those women tonight?” You asked him curiously, furrowing your brows at him. 

Spencer, in turn, arched his brows at you. “Why?” 

“Because I’m curious,” you said as his fingers continued to trail, feather-light, up and down your arm. You traced your thumb along his jawline, stopping at his chin. “You were obviously blowing it on purpose.” 

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I actually do have some game, despite what Morgan might say,” he said, his tone defensive. 

You snickered. “Sure you do, Spence. Took you, what, eight months, to get me in your bed?” 

Spencer shot a playful glare at you and pinched the skin on your arm. You squeaked in response and he just laughed. “I just asked them how they were doing tonight,” he said finally, and you knew just from the look on his face that he was lying. 

“You did not,” you pushed back. “Come on, Reid, spill it.” 

“Ok, fine,” Spencer heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, sitting up in the bed, his back against the headboard. You sat up, too, looking at him with concern. Why was he so embarrassed? “I told them… Jesus.” Spencer rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb and his forefinger. “I told them I was here with a coworker that I had a massive crush on, and that you were trying to set me up with someone else,” he began. 

You started to smile. 

Spencer continued. “I told them that I had absolutely no interest in going home with anyone tonight, and that I had been purposefully striking out all night long because I couldn’t stand the thought of even trying to look at someone the way I look at you.” 

Your smile grew and you moved to sit on your knees, inching closer to Spencer and throwing one leg over him, effectively straddling him against the mattress. “So I asked them,” Spencer continued, his lips turning slowly from an exasperated frown to a small smile. “I asked them if they could just look at me like I had said something stupid, and then I would leave them alone.” 

“Did they say anything to that?” You asked as Spencer’s hands found your hips, contouring to match the curves into the small of your back. 

Spencer’s voice got slightly lower, more serious, when he said, “The girl in the middle did. She said ‘that girl definitely has feelings for you, too’. And then they did what I asked, and I walked back over to you.” 

“She did not say that,” you rolled your eyes, just as Spencer kissed your lips. 

“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N,” he reminded you in a low whisper, as his lips lingered against yours. “Would I lie to you about that?”