#this was sparked over the ao3 fanfictions with him in it

[guttedeggs]

Back on my bullshit.

Personally speaking, I think Enrico Maxwells whole "I'm a big, domineering man" is a big facade.

He wants his bio father to be proud, to regret giving him up; how else to do that than putting on a mask? Yes, you totally know what you're doing, you're a leader, you're so very dominating and important and you totally believe that! It's not an easy task to literally become *your teachers boss*, aka your FATHER FIGURES BOSS. Imagine the power trip of being able to order around your own father figure. The man who did his best to raise you lovingly, to help you see you don't need to rely on people who don't care about you. And now you get to boss him around.

Has anyone actually told him they're proud of him? That they're so happy he's still here? That he's done so well to get to where he is? Probably not. Hell, let's be real, the only person who's probably said that to him is Anderson; would he even believe Anderson means it? His perception is so messed up of others, how would he?

A dominating narrative at the final battles is that demons don't cry. That when a human runs out of tears, they lose humanity or that it is their final cry for death.

Alucard cries because he still has humanity. Anderson doesn't cry because he is ready to die. The major doesn't cry because he is a demon, he is purely evil.

Maxwell does a different kind of cry- he cries out that he was born alone, he does not want to die alone. Underneath all of these layers, he's still a human. He doesn't want to die yet, nor has he become a demon.

Inside, he is still that same small child begging for the care and reassurance he so desperately needed. But if he knew that, then we wouldn't have such a tragic tale, would we?

[ohbo-ohno]

Kinktober Day 6 - Chastity

Ghost x Soap - 1.7k (on ao3)

summary: Johnny needs a little help calming down while he's locked in a cock cage as punishment. (Johnny POV)

cw: cock cage, prostate milking

note: literally all of my knowledge of prostate milking comes from fanfiction - if it's embarrassingly inaccurate, pls just laugh at my naivete and move on lmao

The little key hanging around Ghost’s neck beside his dogtags taunts Johnny. The knowledge that his cock is locked away under his pants (no underwear, not during punishments) and nobody in the room other than himself knows is enough to make him squirm, but then seeing Simon wearing the only key to the cage around his neck for everyone to see…

It makes Johnny’s cock push painfully at the bars of the cage, makes him hunch his shoulders a bit to mask his wince.

He can see Ghost’s eyes spark a little across the table, feels his boot tap the top of Johnny’s. With a scowl, Johnny corrects his posture and sits back up. It earns him a subtle nod from Ghost, which helps him feel a bit more settled in his skin.

The meeting with Laswell doesn’t last much longer after that, but Johnny misses nearly every word spoken about the 141’s future. He counts himself lucky no one asks him anything, and ducks out of the conference room as quickly as he can once they’re dismissed. 

He walks a bit too quickly to not be suspicious, but can’t find it in himself to care as his cock starts to truly ache in the cage. He’s nearly limping when he finally makes it to Ghost’s room, falls onto the bed and buries his face in his hands with a loud groan.

It takes him a while to calm down, a series of slow breathing exercises that don’t quite work when he’s as worked up as he is. Having Ghost fuck him right before the meeting, send him off sloppy and wet, then sitting right across from him with that damn key dangling on his chest for all the world to see…

Johnny whines a little, reaches down to rub the heel of his hand over his dick, the other covering his eyes. He doesn’t bother to move his hand when he hears the door open, already knows there’s only one person who’d ever come into Ghost’s room without knocking.

Simon’s laugh is low, a little cruel. “Well, ain’t this a pretty sight?”

Johnny lifts the hand from his eyes just enough to glare a little, hips working fruitlessly in the air. “Yer a right cunt, you know that?”

Ghost just snorts, moves further into the room to sit by Johnny’s hip. “Oh? That’s not what you were moaning a few days ago.”

“A few days ago I didn’t have a fucking cage around my cock!”

Ghost hums, strokes a hand across the sliver of skin revealed by Johnny’s shirt. “Well, shouldnta come without permission then, hm?”

Johnny groans, throws his head back and his hand away from his dick. “Not- not fuckin’ fair and you know it.”

Another hum, and Ghost dips his hand low enough to push at the top of Johnny’s jeans until he gets the hint and lifts his hips enough for them to be pushed down. He moans when the cold air hits his oversensitive cock, can’t help squirming in place even more.

“If you’re this needy after only a few days locked away, I can’t wait to see you in another week.”

Johnny groans loudly at that, uncaring about any soldiers happening down their hall. “C’mon, Ghost, no, you weren’t serious about the two weeks-”

A sharp slap to his inner thigh has Johnny shutting up, clenching his jaw tight at the kick in his cock, the tight restriction of the cage.

“You know I don’t go back on my promises, Johnny. The cage stays on for two weeks. Maybe next time you’ll remember to ask permission before making a mess of yourself, hm?”

Johnny rolls his head back on the pillow, does everything in his power to keep from lunging for that stupid key and unlocking himself. He can tell by the way Ghost smirks that the other man knows exactly what he’d like to do, nearly whimpers again when he leans forward a bit to let the key hang in the air tauntingly.

“You gonna be able to focus the rest of the day like this? Or you need me to empty your balls for you?”

Johnny jerks up, stares wide-eyed up at Ghost. “Wha’? You just said two weeks, what’re you on about?”

Simon only tilts his head, cocks an eyebrow. “You goin’ dumb before we even get started, Johnny? Maybe I should leave your balls full and swollen, not sure you’ll have any thoughts left if I give you anythin’ else.”

“No,” Johnny grabs Simon’s wrist desperately when he moves to pull his pants back up. “No, no, ‘m sorry, I was listening. Please, please will you let me cum?”

“No. That’s not what I offered. You aren’t coming until that cage comes off - you knew that already, quit your whinin’. But I can empty out your balls if it means you don’t wander around braindead, don’t sneak off just to hump the air all pathetic.”

Johnny whines. “Yeah, whatever, just please… whatever you want to do, just do it, yeah?”

Ghost smirks, reaches a hand up to ruffle Johnny’s mohawk. “Attaboy. Alright, on all fours for me.”

Johnny doesn’t question the order, just kicks his pants off the rest of the way and rolls to get on his knees, propping himself up on his hands and glancing eagerly over at Simon as he pulls out a bottle of lube. Simon lands a few heavy slaps on his ass as he shifts to kneel between his thighs and Johnny moans a bit, rocks backwards for more. 

There’s no warning as Ghost dribbles lube over Johnny’s hole - not much need of it either, with how rough Ghost had been only a few hours before. Johnny still moans at the stretch of even one finger, more for show because he’s desperate for any relief he can get.

“Hush, Johnny,” Ghost rumbles, a hint of sternness in his tone. “Don’t want anyone interrupting us.”

He slips a second finger in quickly, finds Johnny’s prostate with unerring accuracy. Johnny bites the sheets to muffle his moan as Ghost pushes, applying direct pressure to the little bundle of nerves.

“There ya go,” Ghost murmurs as Johnny sinks lower into his arch, his ass presented more invitingly. “Alright, let’s get you drained, Johnny.”

And that’s exactly what he does. He massages Johnny’s prostate with two fingertips, almost curls them around the spot. Johnny’s eyes nearly roll back in his head at the sudden and constant pressure, hips grinding back instinctually. His cock aches where it presses against the bars of the cage, but the pleasure feels so good it’s almost enough to drown the pain out.

“Look,” Ghost grunts what feels like hours later. “Your soft little cock’s drooling, Johnny. See what a mess you’re making?”

Johnny doesn’t lift his head to look, buries his face deeper in the pillows and whines. The pleasure is rising, rising, rising, and he feels like he’s going insane when it has nowhere to go.

“I said look,” Ghost snaps, a harsh hand ripping Johnny’s head up and forcing him to look down, the top of his skull pressed into the sheets. “Look at your filthy little cock. Can’t help but come, even all locked up.”

Simon’s right - cum drips from the tip of Johnny’s cock cage like he’s having the world’s slowest orgasm, there’s even a little pool of the white liquid forming beneath him. He whines at the sight because he’s not orgasming, he feels like he’s right there on the edge but can’t quite make that final push.

“Hush,” Simon soothes, and a hand smoothes it’s way up and down Johnny’s back. “You’re almost empty. Just a little longer, keep bein’ good for me.”

Johnny can’t help but tear up a little at the praise, makes a choked off noise in his throat as he squeezes his eyes shut tight, tries to imagine falling off the cliff he’s staring past. He's right there.

It’s almost painful how badly he needs to come. The mix of the cage forcing his dick to stay soft and the endless rubbing at his prostate with no way to come his Johnny feeling like he’s lost his mind, has him digging his face deep in the sheets to try and hide from the sensations.

The pressure against his prostate leaves him gasping, Ghost's fingertips rhythmic and their dance unending. His cock feels heavy between his legs, and his heartbeat kicks up several notches like it always does right before he comes. But he doesn't - he just stays there, right on the gasping and writhing edge of coming undone.

Some indeterminable amount of time later - minutes, hours, it could be years for all Johnny knows - Simon’s fingers stop rubbing, and he pulls out. Johnny groans loudly enough to be heard in the hallway, but he can’t help himself. He’s so much worse off than he was when he left the meeting, feels like his dick might explode if he doesn't get to come. He's sure there must be bruises forming along his shaft from how hard it presses along the bars of the cage.

Ghost flips him onto the back, laughs a little at Johnny’s dazed expression and the color his cock is flushed in it's prison.

“There you go,” Simon gives a few taps to the cage, makes Johnny jerk and whine. “All emptied out for me. You did well, Johnny.”

Johnny can’t respond, only squeezes his eyes shut and digs the heels of his hands into them until little fireworks dance along his eyelids.

“Did your brain drain out along with your cum?” Simon grabs Johnny’s wrists, forces them away from his eyes and smiles meanly down at him, that damn chain hanging just over his heart. ”C’mon, Johnny, what do you say when someone gives you a compliment?”

“Th-thank you,” Johnny pants, hips humping in the air a bit even though he knows it’s pointless.

Simon smiles, lets one of his wrists go to tap his face. “Good boy.”

He stands from the bed, gives Johnny another long look before walking back to the door.

“Clean up your mess before bed tonight. I don’t want to sleep in a puddle of your cum just because your balls got a little too full. Got it?”

Johnny barely manages to hold one thumb up in the air as his arms fall to cover his face again, a loud groan echoing into the hallway as Ghost steps out.

[writethebodyelectric]

Prima Nocta

A John F. Kennedy Fanfiction

Summary: When the daughter of a Rat Pack singer wants some romantic experience, she turns to President John F. Kennedy, a friend of her father’s, for help.

Warnings: 18+, smut (occasional dubious consent), angst, infidelity, antiquated ideas of sex/marriage, swearing, 22-year age gap

Word Count: 3k

AO3 Link

You’d been sitting on the edge of the bed for exactly 12 minutes and 47 seconds, your eyes twitching ceaselessly between the little white clock on the nightstand and the round-top bedroom door, when finally, the doorknob started to turn. The brass glinted in the silver-blue moonlight beaming through the sliding glass wall behind you. You felt your tongue dry out and stiffen in your mouth like a towel in the sun.

John Kennedy—or “Jack,” as he’d once told you to call him—stepped into the room, materializing out of the pitch-blackness of the hallway. “Hello there,” he said. With that charming New England accent, he pronounced “there” like “they-ah,” and beneath your heart’s frantic sparking and sputtering, a little spot deep in your gut groaned with affection.

“Hello,” you said in return. You were locked practically motionless in the dark searchlights of his sleepy gaze as he guided the door shut behind him.

His shoes clicked on the wooden floor as he began striding slowly towards you. You cleared your throat and pushed yourself to speak again: “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Why, it’s my pleasure,” he said as his shadowy shoulders blocked out more and more of the floral wallpaper around you. The sharp, forest-y scent of his cologne made your nostrils feel cool and crisp. Your hands tightened their grip on each other where they lay folded in your lap.

Jack’s mouth twisted into a gentle smirk as he swayed to a stop right in front of you and brought one of his big hands to cup the underside of your chin, his long callused fingers curling up around your head. Instantly, your spine twinged with the urge to pull backward and away, but you clenched your stomach and held yourself still. You wanted this, you reminded yourself as you gazed up at Jack through mascara-caked eyelashes. You can’t be chicken now.

“I have to admit,” Jack said then, with a huffing chuckle, “that I’m frankly a little surprised at your timing.” He sounded staticky and distant over the dizzying clang of your heart against your ribs. “I can’t help but feel guilty, uh—” (his eyes flicked briefly to the side, seemingly searching for the right word) “—spoiling you for your husband,” he continued. “Poor kid’s had the patience of a saint.”

You felt your throat press against his warm palm as you swallowed. He surely thought you were some sort of lunatic for waiting until the week before your wedding to finally dial that number his secret service agent had slipped through your fingers at Frank Sinatra’s birthday party, which was almost half a year ago now. But there was, actually, a perfectly reasonable explanation. At least, you thought so.

You could’ve explained to Jack how your future husband Jimmy, the world-famous heartthrob singer you’d been practically betrothed to since we were children and who you were marrying in just 7 days (the tabloids had been very generous in making sure every single person in America was aware of this fact—including the president, apparently), was secretly homosexual and had no intention of ever being romantic with you. The feeling was perfectly mutual, of course; you both saw each other as more of siblings than anything else. But, naturally, that still did nothing whatsoever to satisfy your ever-burning desire to find someone who could help you simulate the fairytale wedding night you’d always hopelessly dreamt about—one where, in a pink haze of passion, you’d finally hand over your virginity and roll around in the sheets till the sun came up with someone who was masculine and dashing and strong.

But, obviously, you could never betray Jimmy by telling anyone any of that. However, you also weren’t content to just waste away at home while Jimmy got to enjoy his revolving door of classified lovers, so you would just have to settle for Jack assuming you were some kind of newly-emerging sex-crazed adulteress—which he of all people would have no right to judge you for, anyway.

You felt the skin of your throat stretching as Jack tilted your head up and rotated your face slowly to the left, then to the right. You followed him with your eyes, watching him study your neck and collarbones like they were an expensive piece of machinery he was looking to purchase. You did your best to set your trembling shoulders back, wondering if this was typical behavior of a man before he made love.

“Speaking of Jimmy, I’ve been wondering. Is he the reason you called?” Jack asked while he conducted his examination, as if he was simply discussing the weather. “You think he’s liable to disappoint you on your first time? Or you just can’t possibly wait another seven days for him?” He phrased them more like teasing accusations than actual questions.

“Oh, n-no,” you said. The firmness of his grip on your jaw caused your words to come out clipped. “I just. . . .” You could feel your eyes bulging as you tried to scrap together some semblance of a reasonable explanation as to why you were here. You’d been hoping he wouldn’t bother with this line of questioning. “Well, Jimmy’s just so young, you know,” you sputtered, “and maybe—maybe I want to know what it’s like being with . . . an older man.”

Jack blew air out of his nose in a half-formed laugh. “An older man, huh?” He brought your head back to center and gave your cheeks an affectionate squeeze between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re cute, you know that, sweetheart? I’ve wanted to be alone with you since the night we first met.”

Your heart spasmed at that, and you could feel your mouth twisting as you tried not to break out in a giddy grin. Gosh, he could be so sweet.

The night you both met was two whole years ago now. Jack had been just a senator then, and you’d been just 19 when he, his wife, and several of their friends came backstage after one of your father’s glitzy Rat Pack shows in Las Vegas. You still remembered how, while your father was introducing you, Jack's placid blue eyes had slithered up and down your dress. Inexplicably, blood had gushed pleasurably between your legs while you watched him eye you like this, smoke from his cigar furling around his lip.

Jack's hand dropped from your chin then and moved to start unbuckling his pants. Your head suddenly felt too light, like your brain wasn’t there anymore, and the skin around your jaw prickled with the absence of his fingers. This was it. You were moments away from having the full experience of being a married woman and—if the rumors you’d heard about Jack Kennedy’s sexual aptitude were true—all of the mind-melting pleasures that came with it. The anxiety you’d been feeling ever since you decided to call that secret number a little over a week ago was about to be entirely worth it.

Jack let his belt slap to the floor, and his hands slipped under your armpits to pop you up onto your feet. You sucked in your lips to stifle what would’ve probably been a pathetic, whimpering gasp. His face was mere inches from yours now, and as he looked down at you, you were almost overcome by a strange, aching pull to stand up on the very tips of your toes so you could squish your nose against his. The leader of the free world was just a big dreamboat softie, really, and he could be anywhere on Earth with anyone he wanted, but he chose you.

You didn’t really have time to consider these unusual whims of yours, however, because then Jack bent his head and fastened his mouth to your neck. You could do nothing but stand there dumbly as he covered your skin with sloppy kisses, his buttery brown hair tickling your shoulder. The gentle clicking of saliva between his lips buzzed in your ears.

All of a sudden, as if you’d blacked out a few seconds ago and were now coming to again, you noticed your dress had been unzipped and was in a puddle around your kitten heels. Goosebumps sizzled up your bare arms and legs, and your shoulders folded in on themselves as Jack's hands appeared on both sides of your vision, one tossing your bra to the floor and the other moving to clasp both your wrists tightly behind your back.

He yanked your wrists downward with surprising gruffness, forcing you to arch your back and thrust your bare chest out toward him. A stuttery inhale hissed through your teeth, and you squeezed your legs together, blushing furiously as your nipples prickled and hardened under his gaze. You knew this would be part of it. You knew he would have to see you naked.

“God damn,” he said, his voice dark and rumbling, before bowing his head to take one of your nipples in his mouth like a hungry dog. A low, needy whimper trembled in your throat and as he moved from one nipple to the other, viciously biting and sucking. The stiff tent that had sprung up in the groin area of his slacks collided with your clit, wracking you with a full-body shiver. For a quick moment, you were awash with a lush, golden feeling of pride. You were making the president hard.

He hooked a finger in the waistband of your cotton panties and leaned back from devouring your chest as he pulled them down, the tip of his nose brushing on your forehead as you both watched—to your piercing horror—an elastic string of wetness stretch between your vagina and the spot on the crotch of your panties where it had attached itself.

You noticed, too, how slick and glossy the insides of your thighs had become. “Oh, no.”

“Now, now.” Jack spoke in your ear with a brisk tone like he was impatiently reprimanding a child. “There’s no shame in getting a little excited.” He brushed a finger over the smooth slit of your labia, and you practically squealed, “Jack!”

Your little cry seemed to ignite something in him. Suddenly, you were whirled around to face the twinkling Chesapeake Bay shoreline and its tumbling black water and navy blue sand. And then there was a wide hand between your shoulder blades. “Bend over for me, doll,” Jack instructed you pointlessly as he went ahead and shoved your upper body into the mattress.

With the heel of his palm, he slid you forward so you had to clamber up onto the bedspread on your knees. The electric crackle of your nipples against the rough old fabric caused a loud “ah!” to spill from your mouth. You craned your neck as far over your shoulder as it would go to watch Jack’s eyes pick their way down your body just like they had the night you met. But now, all splayed out for him like this, you suddenly felt sick and dirty enough to throw up. This sort of position seemed more suited to a common whore than a bride. Your face burned like someone was shining a heat lamp on you. And yet, your clitoris pulsed with an almost painful voracity, causing your hips to twitch slightly with each pounding beat.

Outside in the living room, you heard the muffled laughter of the two secret service men who, when you’d first arrived at this rented beach house about 20 minutes ago, had told you President Kennedy would arrive shortly, and then casually led you to the bedroom like you were going to a meeting in the White House. You clenched your teeth against the toe-curling humiliation of it and forced yourself to shuck those guys from your mind. You were going to pretend that you were completely alone with Jack, your handsome powerful husband, and that this creaky Cape-Cod-style house was your lovely newlywed home.

The quick screak of Jack's zipper snatched you out of your thoughts. In the open fly of his pants, you caught a brief, heart-softening glimpse of his blue-striped underwear—And then, suddenly, there was a real-life penis whacking against the small of your back.

“Oh my!” you shrieked, and Jack's Adam’s apple bounced with a small laugh. The anatomical diagrams you’d studied with your childhood tutor had utterly failed to capture how big and messy-looking penises really were. The veiny skin on Jack’s was wrinkly and loose like an elephant, and the whole thing looked almost thicker than your forearm.

He began pumping his hand up and down the length of his long erection in a lazy, thoughtless motion, swiping his thumb across the shiny little hole every time he reached the top.

“Do you—do you think it’ll fit in me?” you asked. It was hard enough sometimes just trying to get a little tampon to settle in right. Glancing up at the ceiling, you prayed that, by some magical trick of biology, you would be able to accommodate Jack's size.

“Oh, sure,” Jack assured you as he palmed your buttcheeks and spread them apart, allowing himself to drag the tip of his penis down across your puckering butthole and line it up with your vagina as he spoke. “A young cunt like yours might require a little, uh, tough love, but it’ll fit me by the time I’m done.”

You weren’t entirely sure what he meant by “tough love,” but it didn’t matter because suddenly he was easing his big round tip inside you with a low, sonorous groan. You grabbed fistfuls of the bedsheets. Already, your “cunt” felt stretched beyond what was healthy.

“Fucking shit.” His voice sounded from far back in his throat. “You’re tiny.” And then, without further ado, he forced himself inside you, crashing his hips against yours with an echoing smack.

Your vagina ripped open. You screamed at the blistering sensation. Your stomach felt like someone had removed your intestines and replaced them with a big metal pole. The area around your belly button was bloated out and pulled taut.

A single tear was knocked out of your eye and down the side of your nose as he pulled all the way out and ruthlessly slammed back in again. He began moving you back and forth at a rapid rhythm, jerking you around like a rag doll. Your head was ringing as you buried your face in the bed, bracing yourself to take this for as long as Jack wanted you to. You wondered if it was typical for a man to be so harsh with his partner.

“Fuck.” The words were tumbling out of his mouth. “Fuck. You feel damn good, you know that?” His hand came down with a hard slap on your buttcheek and, instinctively, you bucked your hips away from him.

With his hands on your waist, Jack jolted you back into place in front of him. He smacked your butt again, like he was punishing you for fleeing, and you let out a panting whine as the sting shuddered through you.

“I know it . . . hurts, sweetheart,” he said between guttural grunts as he continued to pound into you, “but this is . . . what it takes . . . to break a little body like yours in. This’ll be . . . much easier next time.” He flashed a quick, cheeky grin.

Then he scooped one of his hands around your throat and whipped you upwards so your back thunked against his chest. He mumbled into your ear, “Now let me take another look at these pretty tits, huh?” He cupped your breasts in his hands, squeezing them together then pulling them apart, and your head fell back onto his shoulder with a tortured moan.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, pinching your nipples. “Maybe I should just take you home with me, huh? How does that sound?” He was a mumbling mess; you wondered if he even knew what he was saying. “I could ruin your little cunt so Jimmy won’t even want it anymore, and I’ll hide you away in my house up in New York. Keep you all to myself.”

As he spoke, one of his hands slid down your stomach and began to rub slow circles on your clit. This was met by another watery yell from you, and you felt Jack's teeth on your cheek as he chuckled. “Ooh, now that feels good, doesn’t it?” he cooed. “Fuck, I love it when my girls scream. Let me hear you again.” He swatted your clit with his hand and, like clockwork, you cried out for him.

He sped up the pad of his finger on your clit, rewarding you for your obedience. “Just like that,” he said. “Let those fuckers out there in the parlor here you.” He slapped you between the legs again, and that’s when, seemingly without warning, the brutal throbbing you’d been feeling tumbled over into an explosion, like a hot water balloon bursting in your pelvis. You wailed and rolled forward, your bones gelatinous.

Jack caught you by the shoulders before you could flop onto the bed and lowered you the rest of the way down. “There we go,” he praised as your orgasm rocked through you. “That-a-girl.”

You offered him a weak smile and then realized he couldn’t even see it because your face was in the blanket.

As soon as your climax fizzled away, Jack grabbed ahold of your knees and turned you over onto your back. Then he pulled out of you for the very last time with a lewd squelching noise. Your entire lower body felt shriveled and deflated as you watched him give his erection a few self-indulgent strokes.

He rolled his head back with a loud “mmm,” and several long strings of white, mucus-y liquid began shooting out of the tip.

“Oh my gosh,” you gasped to the ceiling. Air was getting caught in the emotional stickiness of your throat as you tried to catch your breath. Jack’s semen was splattering across your stomach. “Oh my gosh.”

[godsfavdarling]

my masterlist

(all of my works include mature content and eventual smut, unless stated otherwise)

one-shots

Yellow - Spencer just came back from a tough case and you and him indulge in some adult activities, but during it you find yourself feeling a little anxious. (fem!reader)

It’s all you - You and Spencer just came back from your birthday dinner, and your boyfriend loves to quote poetry to you! (male!reader)

Do you want me to take care of you? - Spencer and reader love some morning love. (gn!reader)

How could you? - You go to Spencer's apartment, only to witness a shocking betrayal that shatters your world. (gn!reader) sfw

How could you? (pt.2) - You're still hurt but you don't think you can let Spencer and your love for him go so easily. (gn!reader) sfw

full fics

I’m Such A Fool For You (set after season 15) - After nearly two decades with the FBI, Dr. Spencer Reid makes a career shift to teaching at Georgetown University. There, he shares an office with Dr. Brittany Reed, a sociologist. (wattpad, Ao3)

Keep Holding On (set between seasons 10-11, later 12-15) - Molly is an elementary school teacher with a simple, fulfilling life. Her romantic life, though, remains stagnant, lacking any signs of flourishing, as she faces continuous disappointments in her pursuit of love. However, a chance encounter with Spencer, a sweet and gentle genius, might just be the catalyst for a change in her romantic fortunes. (wattpad, Ao3)

Why Don't You Come Over? (Spencelle Fanfiction) - There's always been more between Elle and Spencer. Will they be able to be honest with each other? (wattpad, Ao3)

Sweet Relief (set after season 2) - Margaret, a ballerina in Jacksonville, and Spencer, two individuals who have silently weathered their own storms. They find unexpected solace and sweet relief in their budding relationship. A tale of rediscovery and healing. i'm rewriting it!

to be written!

A Second Chance - Amelia and Spencer, childhood sweethearts, faced a tough choice at 16 when Amelia got pregnant. They decided to give their baby up for adoption. After 15 years, they reunite with their daughter. (sfw)

Heart's First Beat (set while Spencer was in collage) - Spencer and Ethan, lifelong rivals, find their relationship taking an unexpected turn.

We All Broke Rules For Someone (set in season 15) - Spencer meets Riley, the enigmatic friend of his colleague JJ. Sparks fly between them, leading to a forbidden affair that challenges their loyalties and desires.

Can't Believe I Used To Get To Kiss You (set in season 7) - After years apart, Spencer and Izzy reunite. Spencer's enduring love resurfaces while Izzy finds herself ensnared in a toxic relationship.

I'll Heal Eventually (set in season 2) - In the midst of his addiction struggles, Spencer makes the decision to attend NA meetings to reclaim control of his life. There, he meets a friend who helps him navigate the challenges of recovery.

my username is godsfavdarling on all platforms!

[cemeteryangel725]

My Good Omens fics

Hi, I'm CemeteryAngel725, and I write Good Omens fanfiction, mostly smutty, and mostly human AU, although I do branch out from time to time. I also make weird little collages. You can find me on AO3 here.

My completed works (updated 5/24/2024):

Down to the River (E, 30,365 words, 8/8 chapters): Twenty-five years ago, Tony Crowley walked out of Azi’s life and broke both of their hearts. Since then, Azi has been living in suspended animation, working in the army/navy surplus booth he inherited from his dad and writing horror novels. Now Tony is back from the city, flush with success and wanting to catch up with Azi. Should Azi risk his heart and try to reclaim what they’ve lost? Or is it too late to start over?

Control (E, 2,142 words, 1/1 chapters): After a dismal opening weekend at their local Renaissance Faire, Crowley asks Aziraphale for some help with letting it all go. Aziraphale gives it to him in the best way he knows how.

Even Bound as We Are (E, 12,266 words, 2/2 chapters): Left on his own after the death of his mother, Aziraphale of Eastgate Hall is under the thumb of his cruel stepfather, Lord Gabriel. Alone in the forest one day, Aziraphale casts a spell to summon fae, taught to him by his mother. He’s not expecting it to work, but when a sarcastic, red-headed faery steps into the clearing before him, his life is changed forever.

Reviewing the Armies (E, 5,573 words, 1/1 chapters): It is May of 1865 and the war is over, or nearly over. Aziraphale has relocated to Washington, DC, and he is counting down the hours until he can be reunited with Anthony. When they meet again, sparks fly.

Folding the Laundry (E, 6,817 words, 1/1 chapters): Two single moms, one basket of laundry, and a bottle of wine. Azira and Toni have been best friends since middle school, but they’re about to find out that they don’t know every single thing about each other, at least not just yet.

After the Fight (E, 2,776 words, 1/1 chapters): In the wake of battle, Anthony returns to Aziraphale's tent completely distraught. Aziraphale is there to help him pick up the pieces.

Dough (E, 673 words, 1/1 chapters): Crowley and Aziraphale argue about how to knead pizza dough. Aziraphale shows Crowley how to do it properly.

Coming into Focus (E, 6,721 words, 1/1 chapters): It is the summer of 1864, and Aziraphale is an itinerant photographer set up behind Union lines outside Petersburg, Virginia. He’s no stranger to pleasure, but he has always protected his heart. But when the redheaded colonel of the 5th New Jersey walks into his tent, he begins to wonder whether it’s time to rethink his stance on love.

Of Fire and Falcons (E, 54,201 words, 15/15 chapters): Since they met at a Florida Renaissance faire a year and a half ago, fire spinner Crowley and falconer Aziraphale have been a great deal more than friends, but they've never quite admitted what they really feel about each other. Now Crowley has fallen in love, and he has five weeks at the Catskill Mountains Renaissance Faire during the most romantic season of the year to convince Aziraphale to see the light.

Hold the Lift (T, 5,621 words, 1/1 chapters): Crowley just wants to get to work on time, but when he gets stuck in a lift with new guy Aziraphale, he ends up with a lot more than he bargained for. See, Aziraphale has this list of 36 questions…

Beyond the Barricade (E, 29,854 words, 10/10 chapters): Az Eastgate and AJ Crowley are American college students in a production of Les Miserables. Will Az work up the courage to tell AJ how he feels about him?

Catching the Light (E, 3,994 words, 1/1 chapters): Azira Fell and Antoinette Crowley are American sculptors living their best lives in Rome in the 1860s. Toni has a commission to finish before Anathema’s wedding, and Azira offers to model for her.

Christmas is Definitely Not a Humbug (E, 3,071 words, 1/1 chapters): It is 1843, and Crowley brings home a brand-new copy of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol as a gift for Aziraphale. Aziraphale shows his gratitude in the best way he knows how.

[seven-stars-in-his-palm]

okay so a couple of days ago i saw this ask on @fellshish's blog about a need for a full 1941 discorporated aziraphale angst fic, realized i had an entire outline already in the hull, and... this happened:

a "what if crowley didn't miss in 1941" fic, including but not exclusive to the moment itself, the hours leading up to it, and the aftermath; a fanfiction (chapter 3/4)

summary:

It's Fell the Marvelous' awaited debut performance on the West End. He has his marksman, his turnips, and things appear to be going as planned—that is, until said marksman does the one thing he was supposed to avoid. Not missing. (or: the bullet catch goes wrong, and due to a tiny technicality, crowley's afraid aziraphale is gone for good. and crowley himself—for the first time in quite a while—is well and truly alone.)

warnings: full of blood, sweat, kissing while crying, blown up heads, prayers, nostalgic churches, polaroids, alcohol, and aziraphale being a discorporated bastard and bitching his way back to earth while a plot we should probably be focusing occurs as we ignore it entirely. and written extremely slowly. oxymoron but i couldnt get this out of my head fast enough and now you must endure it (should you choose to accept). i think i'm gonna be pretty proud of this though. excited!

(also thank @tforthetea for the inspiration because a conversation with them helped spark this the first time. all hail)

ao3 link for those who didn't check the title, and fic under the cut! :)

chapter 1: number thirteen

One of the things Crowley liked gloating about on occasion was that he was older than Death Itself.

He wasn’t technically wrong, per se. The humans think him mad, and the demons think him stupid, but he was still right. Human concepts, despite their hold on the population and overall importance, were non-existent before or even during the Beginning. The Four Horsemen and other ideas evolved right alongside the humans, so technically, Crowley was older than all of them. He rather liked having something to lord over War (in his head), during the few unfortunate meetings he would have with her. Famine was a non-issue, and Death could not touch him regardless of how much he didn’t like him. There were failsafes.

Now, however, actually being in the room that Aziraphale could potentially walk into and never come out of, Crowley would gladly take all of it back and pretend he never even thought about it at all.

The damned magician. Crowley never caught his name, but if he had, he would wrought him with the most annoyingly small curses that no one would ever believe to be true after today. Tonight wasn’t just about impressing the audience or even repaying that wine-filled debt, it was about them. Tonight, Crowley was to play the trusted stooge, and…shoot the angel. Point blank. In the face. And make it look real. And not discorporate him. And not get them fired. And—

There were a lot of things to consider, alright? To contrary belief, Crowley did, in fact, not think Death was silly or stupid. He’d also been there when It was born, you know. Crowley liked Abel. Watching It happen was, plainly, fucking terrifying. It brought up something new, and change was just as scary as Death. Ask anyone, and they’d tell you.

Crowley has been running that unfortunate meeting involuntarily through his head for the first ten or so minutes of waiting for the actual show to begin, while also listing out the terrible things he would do to the magician man had he ever held the opportunity again. He’d been sort of gunning (no pun intended) to stay backstage and avoid the riffraff, but been ushered out the dressing room the second he’d given his (admittingly harsh) two cents on the situation. Aziraphale said he wanted privacy before the big show, but Crowley knew he was just ticked. Aziraphale was an angel who thrived with a supportive devil over his shoulder.

So, Crowley is just milling around in the crowd as the Allied soldiers and their companions filter in. They come and go—a Lady even comes to check on him at point, mentioning odd vacant gazes and looking over shoulders paranoid-like, but he waves them off before they can pry. He really shouldn’t be so worried—even if Aziraphale…‘didn’t make it through the night’, he’d eventually be fine. As long as he discorporated a certain way, nothing too lethal—some deaths were harder to come back from others.

They’ve been discorporated before, of course. That was how Crowley knew this. Six millennia offered many opportunities for the event. But never, and it was never, at each other's hand. On paper, yeah, they killed each other on occasion, but truly…

Crowley shifts nervously, sending a glare at anyone who got a bit too close, but the brief discomforts aren’t enough to lift his spirits. There was one entity faffing about who refused to bugger off even with direct acknowledgements, though that might be because Crowley was imagining It. Or It really was here, and interested in the affairs of potential angel discorporation. Or a bomb was going to fall here and It was just beating the rush. The theories were far from endless.

Death appeared back there as soon as Crowley had been kicked out. He’s simply been dealing with it since then, and It probably wasn’t helping to lift his spirits. He shouldn’t be so antsy—both logic and mechanics deemed it so.

They’d be fine, Crowley repeats to himself near constantly, finding a proper seat in direct line of sight where Aziraphale will be standing. He readjusts his tie as the humans sit around him, creating a perfectly isolated bubble of red velvet seats. What did it matter that twelve humans died doing this before? They weren’t human. Death had no claim on them. It couldn’t take them even if It so desired.

Crowley scowls at the hooded figure standing near the entrance of the theater, cold scythe gleaming under the warm bulbs of the West End. Its just…standing there. Making no move to come closer, either. Odd.

Crowley sinks lower into his plush seat, as if trying to avoid Death’s gaze. But being one of two immovable objects on this Earth, It’s always on him. If Death had a goal, there would be no point in warding It away.

Seeing Death is a famous bad omen, and would send a chill down his spine had it been anywhere else. At this moment, however, Crowley is simply irritated. If It was looking for another soul in this theater, that was fine by him, let It take them, but It would not be ruining whatever this was. Humans were ever plentiful—there was only one angel deserving of Earth.

Before Crowley can decide whether or not he should be stupid and confront the omen in the room, the lights go dim. The crowd’s murmurs die down, and Crowley has no choice but to stay seated and watch the show. Aziraphale wouldn’t be coming on until the Ladies of Camelot had their first number, but Crowley could easily endure it. The gaze aimed straight at his head could be ignored.

World be damned if It took the angel’s enthusiasm. They’d be fine. Crowley just has to remember that.

-----

Things are, indeed, not going fine.

Crowley is meant to go up on stage any second now. Aziraphale has no inkwell in his gloved hand. No amount of snapping is removing said turnip from line of sight. He reads the pamphlet—then again, then again, then again, but there is no second option for apparently miracleless individuals.

Fucking. Hell.

Whatever false bravado Aziraphale is spewing is null and void compared to the should-be-non-existent nerves running through frantic hands and finding absolutely nothing useful. Crowley flips through the same two pages—give the stooge the bullet, poise, and shoot. The miracle would’ve ensure that the bullet would never leave the barrel. But now—now, well, he really regrets not considering a Plan B. Did they ever consider a Plan B? Apparently not.

Getting there is a blur. Aziraphale is essentially shoving the rifle into Crowley’s care, which is honestly becoming a worse idea by the second. He’s switching between the demon and the audience so quickly that Crowley can’t tell who he’s addressing. They’re deathly quiet, and Crowley would feel embarrassed if his heart that shouldn’t be there wasn’t pounding with too much blood in too little time. His mind is a soup. Muddled, feverish, and incredibly foul tasting. You wouldn’t want to drink it even if you were starving.

“I would ask you,” Aziraphale says loudly, cutting through the fog of utter mental mush, “to take this bullet, and load it into the rifle. Very carefully.”

Crowley nods belatedly, squeezing and turning parts of the gun to get the non-existent warmth running back through his fingers. He takes the bullet, and turns it round a few times while Aziraphale stares at him with excruciating anxiety. Is he stalling? Honestly, even Crowley wouldn’t be able to tell you.

“It's perfectly simple,” Aziraphale mutters softly, pushing the gun a bit closer. “Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear.”

Crowley can’t find himself to agree here. He’s staring at him, and that would usually get him to listen regardless of shades, but Death is boring into them like the harshest of theater critics. His skin is slick, almost clammy, threatening to let the gun slip and fire a stray bullet anywhere but its intended target. His back is sore, oddly enough. Irritating.

Crowley has questions, like he always does, but the time has long passed. What he wants to ask is ‘do I just squeeze that little bit there?’ pointing at (what looks like) to be the trigger—but then that would just make Crowley look incompetent, so he swallows it back and nodly lightly. He’s never fired a gun like Aziraphale seems to believe whole-heartedly, but he’s certainly watched it happen. He’s picked up enough of the motions to figure it out on his own.

That thought still doesn’t help when he’s being told to insert the bullet, though. Crowley fumbles through it, opening a mislaid hatch or two, but manages before Aziraphale could raise any alarms. He’s already stood back in position (when did that happen?) when Crowley raises the loaded rifle for all to see, proclaiming as such. He bites back the tremor threatening to appear—he wasn’t nervous. Excited, more like it. Excited to finally get an excuse to make a throw at the angel non-suspicious like.

That was all it was. Really.

Crowley turns the rifle one last time as Aziraphale spins more useless pageantry for the audience to woo at. They’re both grinning, but tightly and annoyingly false. It wasn’t the eyes that were the problem—what, do you think that demons ever got stage fright? Absurd!

It was just...well, there weren’t just humans in this audience. Crowley couldn’t forget the shadow looming at the end of the theater no matter how tight he grips the side of the weapon. But, just like Someone had laid out all that Time ago—Death could only perceive them.

It could not touch them.

It would not touch them.

It would not touch him, if he could help it.

The drums begin their incessant titter as Aziraphale finally turns to Crowley properly, blue cloak glimmering under the warm light of the stage before them. “A-are you ready, sir?”

Crowley would scoff at this if he could. Sir. Only humans ever addressed him that way; angels look down on him, demons sneer at him. Though he supposes this angel would be different—always throwing the curveballs, him.

“When you hear my signal,” the angel says, voice growing quieter, “shoot.”

Aziraphale removes his tophat, revealing preciously white curls. This pings something, the remaining traces of damned sense he’s got buried inside. Crowley isn’t sure what has possessed him—but he shakes his head. It’s all he can do. Don’t make me do it, he nearly warns out loud. Not if you know what’s good for you.

Aziraphale stills, but not before mouthing words that would be akin to an ashamed mumble if he were close enough. Trust me.

Trust me.

Satan, he got him there. That’s why Crowley was here, after all. Stooge. 100% Reliable Marksman.

Right.

Aziraphale isn’t nearly as good as Crowley at hiding his anxious gaze. “Ready?”

Oh, Heavens no. He never would be, but no better time than the present. Or something like that. He can’t recall where it came from.

“Aim…”

Crowley can’t ignore it anymore—he’s shaking. Extremely so, at that. It’s knocking around the air in his lungs very unkindly. It’s quite difficult to aim. His head is bobbing around in the scope.

Just about…

There it is.

Crowley waits—just like he’s done for the last…however long. A long time. His arms are starting to hurt, frankly. He rests his finger over the trigger to ease the trembling a tad.

And the magician remains silent.

Crowley ignores the sweat crawling down his neck. (Wasn’t it supposed to be freezing?) He waits some more—it’s not like one can forget where you are. Benefit of the doubt and such.

Nothing still. Nary a nod.

He’s been staring at him for a minute. The crowd hasn’t uttered a peep. Is Crowley just supposed to…do it? Did they talk about this? They must have. They talked about this. They talked about it, right? Yeah. Yeah, they must have—

"Fire!"

He startled him.

The reason why he listens is easy to explain. Aziraphale made Crowley flinch. A bit of a spook, really, not that bad of a fright. A sudden jolt—a tap on the shoulder, one that said ‘oh, look, you’ve got perfect aim already! Shoot!’

And he did.

What’s the first rule of approaching someone with a weapon again?

Right. Don’t fucking scare them.

The handle is warm. Slick, heavy, shaky. The scope aims with guilty target missing at the helm. A puff of smoke is spewing from the barrel. A thump, a sickening thump, deafening in the cricket silence of a post-trick world.

And Aziraphale…is on the floor.

(Where else would he be, really?)

There, obviously. On the floor. With a blown-up head. Bleeding like blessed Heaven. Bleeding like bloody Heaven, while Crowley has to take in the sight and smell the blessed thing.

It fits. They fit. Like a perfect crown on a decapitated head.

God, his head’s just gone, isn’t it?

A noise cuts through the thick silence like a stubbornly determined knife. Far away, above it all, there it rings. It’s muffled, soft, and almost awkward in the way it cuts through the air. A camera click. A reluctant, malicious camera click.

And that was just the perfect way to say it, no? He blew his brains out. Crowley blew his angel’s fucking brains out with a fucking gun that he’s never fucking held before.

Trust me.

Well. That, no doubt, was Aziraphale’s fault—it’d be a funny old world if angels and demons went around trusting one another.

-----

hgh. hope that was decent. chapter two coming as soon as it can because im invested now :))

[bakuliwrites]

Video Game Fanfiction Table of Contents

Disclaimer: 18+, Minors DNI!!!!!!

Baldur's Gate 3

Just to Be Held (M): Astarion x Tav, His shoulders slump as he releases a heavy sigh. He’s been worn down by your patience, worn down by years of keeping everything to himself. Here you are, offering up companionship without any expectation. Here you are, sitting in front of him, telling him that you actually, for some gods’ forsaken reason, like spending time with him and you’re not expecting any sort of compensation from him. So why is he trying so desperately to push you away? Astarion and Tav share a quiet, peaceful moment together along their journey. Astarion learns that he is valued and loved. Tumblr, AO3

The Elder Scrolls

Devotion (18+): Cicero x Listener, He worships her, every piece of her. All of his Listener must be worshipped, as ordained. Cicero, sweet Cicero, eager to please. Eager to serve. His lips on hers, his hands roving, searching, exploring. Venerating. He dies inside her, and it is glorious. He would die a thousand times in her, as many times as she wanted. Immolating in her light over and over and over again. Cicero is unsure of this new Listener, but his feelings are muddled and confusing. What will happen when the Listener is forced to choose to take or spare his life? Tumblr, AO3.

Legend of Zelda

Ebb and Flow (18+): Prince Sidon x Reader, “I will not accept that all we’re meant to be are star-crossed lovers,” Sidon states passionately, his tone filled with a steady resolve, “I cannot accept it. Was it not here that I pledged myself to you? And you to me? Was it not here that we promised our hearts to one another? Aren’t we more than just crossing tides?” Sidon is given earth shattering news. His duty as a Zora Prince outweighs all else. But how can he accept that when his love for you is so deep? Tumblr, AO3.

Stardew Valley

Love Letters (18+): Elliott x Reader, My Muse! You inspire in me such vivid dreams that when I wake to find my bed empty, I despair! I ache for you, body and soul. How I long to return to you, scoop you up in my arms, and ravish you from evening until dawn (Beyond dawn! For dawn does not limit my undying love, my eternal passion for you). Though weary from this whirlwind tour, I am never too weary to show you the depths of my adoration for you. I will return to you early next week, and I am beside myself with excitement. Elliott returns home from his book tour and the Farmer has a sultry surprise for him. Tumblr, AO3.

Dark Souls

Lunar Halo (18+): Gwyndolin x OC, Gods do not require witnesses. So in the sanctity of the Holy Church of Anor Londo, Gwyndolin weds a mortal woman, a marriage that takes place with sightless statues and eyeless stained glass figures for guests. Veiled by cloth woven of moonlight, Gwyndolin guides his Beloved Star to the altar. Her robes are redolent of the night that enshrouds the earth, glimmering diamonds and sweeping swathes of indigo pooling around her feet as she glides up the aisle. Iridescent moonstone enamels her hand and with the promise of fealty, of love for eternity, the Dark Sun is wed. And a mortal has been anointed his wife. A tale of how the Dark Sun came to love a woman born of the Dark Soul. AO3

Fire Emblem

Restless (18+): Xander x F!Reader, As leader of the combined Hoshidan and Nohrian armies, you find yourself growing restless one night, plagued with troubling thoughts. You decide some fresh air and quiet reflection under the stars might do you some good; but, you run into Xander, also lost in thought, and decide to spend some time together. AO3

Slip Away (18+): Xander x Gender-Neutral Reader, Xander finds himself unable to unwind at his birthday party, until a certain someone whisks him away. Tumblr, AO3

To Walk a Path of Light (M): Jeritza von Hrym x GN!Byleth, Jeritza’s desire for Byleth was sparked long before the goddess had even conceived of either of their forms. Their fates have always been intertwined... Long after the war has ended, Jeritza seeks out a familiar face, while the Death Knight seeks a battle. Tumblr, AO3

Gentle (18+): Jeritza Von Hrym x OC, "She is soft. And in her softness, she dissolves whatever sharpness, whatever edge I have. In perfumed sheets and gilded sunlight, I am, for a moment, vulnerable. My gentility clambers out from where it's been buried deep for so many years. The Death Knight dies in her embrace, and from him blooms a new creature." Jeritza finds himself drawn to one of Garreg Mach's newest professors. Tumblr: Chapter 1, AO3

[silkendandelion]

Say My Name (This Time I Will Answer)

A One Piece fanfiction (completed, one-shot), Gift Fic for Mirage In The Desert reaching 2,500 hits on ao3!!

ao3 link

Sir Crocodile x OC (male) Words: 7.6k Genre: Smut, fluff, romance, angst, bottom Crocodile

Rated: Explicit for sexual content, no external warnings apply

In Mirage In The Desert, Crocodile fantasized about a world where he and River met under different circumstances, one conducive to a love they could nurture. So I wrote it. In a world where he never lost his hand, and remained both a swordsman and a pirate captain, he hires a man off a random dock on some unknown island, one who proclaims he’s on pilgrimage from a Paradise island, and is looking for work. Can be read as x reader because River is not described nearly as in depth as the original fic. It can also be read alone from MITD, but might not be appreciated the same way.

Thank you for all of your continued support, and please enjoy 💙 it was so fun to work with Croc and River again, and this one is a personal favorite. Sweet, romantic, soft Crocodile, moonlit swimming, and lots of sauce 💝 have fun you guys

~*~

For all of Crocodile’s love of gold, and the flash of truth in the eyes of his opponents as the arc of his blade reaches it’s apogee, the sea was his first. His greatest paramour, a punishing lover that shouts and thrashes as much as she laves his skin with warm foam, cleansed of lesser men’s blood and graced by a crown of coral while she whispers:

My king.

So he procured a ship. To be close to her, to see a better, wider world than the one he knew, one overflowing with gold and power. He fled his home country on a stolen carrack worthy of his ambition, and filled her with a crew that was appropriately dangerous, loyal enough, who called her La Forza Dorato.

Today, years later and under such a bright sun, he wanted to be nowhere else.

“Captain!” A young crew member called to him, where he stood on the pier. He had already forgotten this one’s name. “Your list is exhausted, Sir. We sail on your command.”

“Immediately.” With only his word, they bustled to begin loosing the sails, and he remained on the dock long enough to light his cigar. His left thumb flicked open the solid gold lighter with a bright ping, while his right shielded it from the passing wind.

Thwip, thwip. But it only sparked. He clicked his teeth, about to bark out an order for one of the crew to hop down and buy lighter oil before they departed, until a man spoke up beside him.

“Need a light?”

An elegant hand with a calloused forefinger offered him a flame, attached to a man younger than himself but certainly not a boy by the creases along his eyes. Strikingly violet eyes among tan skin and dark, expressive brows that matched the mane of thick, black hair draped down his back, pulled neatly into a leather hair cord. Crocodile’s gaze flickered from the silver lighter to the twin swords on his hip, both the same shade of moonlight.

“Thank you,” he replied, polite but curt, and head bowed to accept.

“Is this your ship?” The stranger turned to his boat, wandering nearly onto the ramp until the crew gathered to block him, ready to defend.

“Oh—have I overstepped?” He chuckled nervously—handsomely, Crocodile hesitated to admit—and he nodded to his pirates to relax.

“Only fools wander onto a pirate ship of their own free will. Or stupidity.”

“I assure you, it’s foolishness, really,” the stranger explained. “I’m on pilgrimage from a Paradise island. If you have work for me, I promise to work hard.”

The crew grumbled in a ripple of protests, unimpressed by his fine-tailored clothes and sturdy boots, worthy of an adventure, sure, but only barely broken in. On that, Crocodile agreed, hesitant to entertain any self-proclaimed mercenary who, despite the hand-me-down rucksack slung over his shoulder, smelled of expensive perfume when the wind picked up his long hair.

“Are those swords just for show? Or do you claim to be a professional?” He pulled back his cape with his left hand to show the rapier on his own hip, a golden blade with a spiral hilt, too heavy to be a dress sword and proportionate to his tall, wide body.

“Why don’t you find out? Or are you just the captain?”

Crocodile had killed mouthier fools for less lip, but the mirth in those eyes, dancing among purple firelight and hinting of mischief, made him want to find out. He took a long drag off his cigar to keep from smiling, though it nearly turned into a scowl when the stranger spotted his decision—and had the audacity to grin at him.

Careful, beautiful stranger. Looking at men like that tends to make promises I doubt you could keep.

“You will refer to me as such.”

“Yes, captain,” replied the stranger with a deep, flourishing bow. “River Joel Faustina, at your service.”

“Shall I call you River?”

“Please,” he replied, beaming like his new captain had committed some incredible deed by merely offering him employment. Conditional upon his performance, of which pretty smiles held exactly zero weight. Crocodile rolled his eyes as he gestured for them to board, at the same time his crew were already scattering to enact his anticipated command.

“Let’s go!”

~*~

Crocodile ruled his ship the way he governed his heart: loyalty must be earned, obedience is non-negotiable, and failure often proved to be a fatal mistake. As to why the fool was still alive, even he didn’t know.

Perhaps he found his perseverance endearing, determined to haul sails and throw freight with the brawniest of his crew no matter how it reddened his fingers, his fine clothes beginning to fray with the strain of manual labor. Perhaps it was because Crocodile often forgot himself, unabashedly studying his newest sailor piling all of his hair to the top of his head between orders, and clicking his teeth that he was never wise enough to begin with his hair up. Surely, the ditsy stranger had to know how the loose pieces stuck to his neck in sweat-soaked petals, how the pieces curling around his chin in the humidity were capable to cause insanity.

He suspected a long plot, one where the stranger knew exactly the picture he painted when he stood by the railing to wring his shirt dry, the long line of his back tempting Crocodile to press fingerprints into his skin, until he was love drunk and bewitched, too warm and drowsy to prevent the robbery of more than just his jewels. That in mind, he respected the stranger’s dedication to his scheme, putting in long hours day after day, from his calculated “good morning, captain” at first light, to sending him dark eyes across the fire of the evening, and further flaunting himself across his captain’s restless dreams.

“I don’t like him,” Crocodile declared to no one.

For as long as he’s sailed, Crocodile always ate last, preferring to eat alone, and only after he deemed the day well and truly finished, the sun long gone. Despite his singular statement, containing it’s own beginning and end, the crewmate who poured his ale felt the need to reply. For tonight, on this subject, he would allow it.

“No one does. But, he does as he’s told. So how much can any of us complain?” They shrugged.

“He can’t be trusted.”

“I wonder where he goes every night, when he sneaks out of his bunk like none of us have ears.”

The clatter of Crocodile’s fork to his plate caused the startled crewmate to flinch. A coat of sweat began to dot their pallid skin, as they watched him slowly replace his fork to the napkin. “When would I have learned of these nightly occurrences, if I had not spoken?”

“I-immediately, captain, as—” They swallowed around their tight throat. “The moment I knew what it was the brat was uh—up to.”

”We’ll never know then.”

Crocodile’s rings caught the candlelight in a deadly flash, the promise of a permanent end to their business as he wrenched the crewmate up by his shirt.

“WAIT! You can’t—DON’T—”

A door opening elsewhere startled them both to silence, the cabin perfectly still while they both listened to it close, and the joining patter of feet on the deck. He tossed the man away, suddenly uncaring to enforce his own rules, to the grateful pounding of the frightened crewman’s heart.

“Get out,” he said simply, eyes and ears still trained to the almost imperceptible noise of footsteps.

The man scrambled to leave him alone, dashing off to go through the door they had heard open, while Crocodile ventured the opposite way to the deck. Empty, he believed at first, awash with moonlight and the white noise of the endless sea, enough to rock the ship but not to wake the crew in their beds. Against the railing, he spotted him, the sneak, his face turned to the damp wind, and… standing there?

He waited long breaths for him to reveal a snail phone, communicate to his handler he was getting close to his target, or mark notes in a pocket journal about his plot to fell the rising pirate before he became too powerful—but he only stood there. Basking in the moon, catching spray on his cheeks and gazing out at the sea like he was in love with her too.

Perhaps there was no plot after all, and his newest sailor was simply a fool. Nothing more. For now, there in the dark, damp and awed, he knew only one truth: that he found him beautiful.

~*~

Did he know his captain watched him walk the deck every night? Wondering what he scribbled about in his journal, a salt-stained book with it’s leather worn soft? Does he know he captivates me?

“It’s poetry,” he answered when questioned one morning at breakfast. The pirates at his elbows leaned to see the pages better, and the stranger had little mind to cover up or pretend to be embarrassed.

“What’s a man like you doing out on these seas?” Another one asked.

“I’ve come to see the world,” was his simple reply. “Find a new home, maybe find love.”

From the doorway of the galley, Crocodile blew smoke from his mouth, an olfactory announcement of his presence. The stranger was the only one to raise his head and meet his guarded, golden stare. “You’re a fool for that too.”

He rumbled some warning to the crew about other ship’s in the area, determined to appear indifferent to the stranger’s show of vulnerability, like he hadn’t fled to the sea for the same.

~*~

That night, as Crocodile sat beside the window in his quarters, smoking and thumbing a book without absorbing the pages, he wondered why the fool was late. 18 minutes, according to the golden watch in his pocket.

Tch, he clicked around his cigar, and was about to pour himself a drink when he heard the crew quarter’s door opening.

“A night for star gazing, eh?” He said quietly to no one, seeing the stranger come to the deck without a book or his pen. The night was perfect for such, their ship drifting aimlessly on a glass sea, the air warm and sky clear. His thoughts drifted back to the dark liquor on his desk. Would tonight be the time he went to him with two glasses and a hope fluttering around his insides? He seized the crystal glasses before he lost his nerve, grabbed the neck of the bottle, but—

The sight of endless skin outside the window froze him where he stood.

Once-fine linen pooled around bare feet, and the stranger stepped from their puddle to approach the railing, the night bathing the entirety of his skin a dark, deep blue.

“What is he—wait! Fool!” Crocodile ran from his quarters too late to catch him, just in time to watch him dive over the railing and down into the warm water. Bubbles preceded his resurfacing, among a gasp of delight and a handsome, shamelessly giddy smile.

“What are you doing?” Crocodile scolded down at him, quietly lest the crew wake and his voyeurism be revealed completely. “Are you insane?”

“Oh! Hello, captain,” the stranger replied, wading happily like he wasn’t being glared at by his highest superior. “Would you like to join me?”

“Get back up here—that’s an order. Storms can roll in at a moment’s notice.”

“Sky’s clear, captain. It’s only you and me,” he said, paddling onto his back to show him the planes of his body, chest barely breaking the surface and modesty only partially maintained by the black, shadowed water.

“Do you have any idea the kinds of animals that live in these deep waters?”

Dark eyes find his, and the mesmerized sway of his mind suddenly feels too much like falling over the railing. “I’ll protect you, captain.”

Absurd. Impudent. Brat. Crocodile cursed him repeatedly as he yanked at his clothes. But, with every article he tossed to the deck, his annoyance dimmed, soothed by the promise of warm seawater and a welcoming soul. He dove over the railing, the water parting for his large body in a burst of bubbles that tickled along his skin with the melodious laughter above him. Coming up for air promised the sight of the tempter up close, dotted on every inch of his skin with droplets of diamond—but he found he was gone.

“… Where—,” he gasped, startled at the brush of skin against his legs, and a dark shape darting beneath the rippled surface. What could easily be an expert swimmer or fish revealed itself as a man some meters away when the stranger reappeared. Beneath his wet lashes, he found his own yearning reflected back at him, alongside the same glimmer he saw at the docks all those weeks ago. The one that promised to either transform or drown him.

“If you catch me, you can kiss me,” promised the stranger.

They dove beneath the waves, and Crocodile soon realized he chased a native of the sea, as fast as any animal, breaking the moon beams that shone down through the water with the strong arc of his body to remain just out of his reach. He tumbled over the net of his hands with ease, exciting bubbles around them with his need to tease, to tighten his nimble limbs around the struggling thump of Crocodile’s vulnerable heart.

But Crocodile was also born to the sea, a predator of his own environment, and asking him to give chase was a simple request, as effortless as the yield of the stranger—this siren’s body when he folds into the hands that ensnare him. First, by the gentle grasp around his ankle, then sliding up the length of his legs to hold him in the wrap of his arms. With his delicate organs separated from the predator’s wide palms by only smooth skin dotted with moles, he offered Crocodile the air in his lungs, the warmth of his blood rising to his face as they finally catch their breath.

“Caught you.”

Under the compounding heat of his gaze, the water felt suddenly cool. Their limbs remained intertwined as he realized the only reason he held this creature of the sea—a man with a name, he reminded himself—in his hands, able to feel the thump of his pulse and the puff of his breath across both their lips was because he swam into his net of his own free will. Were he to deem his captain unworthy to touch him, he would have swam to the bottom and drowned him.

Yet here he floated, soft and beguiling, like he might dissolve into foam if Crocodile didn’t kiss him right this moment.

The slam of a door on deck flinched them apart, and Crocodile covered him with his body, despite them both bare, able to be seen completely if only the ripples calmed. Incoherent, sleepy grumbling floated down, among the sound of a zipper.

“How rude. Hey—” River called when a big hand clamped over his mouth, barely heard over the sound of liquid over another part of the railing they couldn’t see. Crocodile kicked them towards the netting along the side of the ship, quiet enough the sailor must have believed them to be fish, and left them alone to wander back to the cabin.

Among the silence, Crocodile realized with devastating clarity, lips still tingling where they had nearly touched, that he could not bring himself to continue.

Nevermind the moment being shattered by a weak bladder, their focus had been elsewhere long enough for Crocodile’s doubt to creep back into his edges. Cold, sour doubt, the worry about his worthiness of love, and wondering if River could smell his weakness. Wondering if he would still want him if he knew the fragility of his heart. Unbecoming, he believed, of a dangerous, cruel, and ruthlessly resourceful pirate. To remain apart was to protect his most vital asset: himself.

“… You should be in bed,” he said quietly.

“But—”

“That’s an order. River.” He couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, not when he might see the breaking of his own heart reflected back at him.

“Yes, captain.”

River climbed the net first, crestfallen, and Crocodile could not even bring himself to admire the back of him as he shed water and fumbled back into his clothes. He took no delight in going back to his quarters, clothes in hand, to lie down alone. Damp hands scrubbed down his face, reaching for a cigar to soothe the sting of his self-inflicted isolation. A punishment? For what, the imagined sins inflicted upon him by people he had already killed?

No, he thought as he flicked open the lighter. For my own weakness. That I replaced the chains of the dead with my own shackles. He does not deserve their weight, and neither do I.

Smoke wafted to the ceiling in lazy plumes, filling his lungs with the blanket of a hard decision.

The next time I hold him, he will have to decide: be mine, or find a new captain.

~*~

“No breakfast today, captain?” A crewmate asked when they were called to fetch his neglected tray and an empty carafe.

“How long until we reach the next island?” Crocodile asked instead.

“Day after tomorrow, captain. Our supplies will hold, despite how much that flimsy swordsman eats.”

He spun his cigar over the ash tray, tired, unseeing eyes scanning the correspondence and notes sprawled across his desk. “Perhaps… he will not be with us much longer.”

“Anything else, captain?”

“That will be all.”

Once his door clicked closed, the silence all but clawed at his nerves. He placed a record on his gramophone, finding comfort in the little band inside the tin speaker, and the weight of his rapier in his left hand. A few practice strokes, precise, gentlemanly, sharp in every way he was also. Were he to lose his hand, his ability to fight, he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t kill him, or worse perhaps, leave him alive.

He wondered if River could love a version of him without his sword, a man who would surely crawl from bloody ashes refusing to die, one who no longer cared to smother his rage. After all, even whole he was still that man. To love someone, to be theirs and keep them, was to love both who they are and who they could become.

A knock at his cabin door tells him the sun had set while he was in his head, the entire day lost to his sword strokes and spinning thoughts. The turning of the knob without his permission tells him exactly who stands on the other side, and River slips between the door and the frame to encroach on his habitat with little care for how he might be received. It clicks shut behind him, at the same time Crocodile’s scolding dies on his tongue.

He stands in night clothes Crocodile had never seen on him, a long linen shirt fluttering around his calves, his body bared as if he were nude by the glowing orange of the lamp light behind him, while his hair and limbs drip seawater onto the floor in gentle patters. The cloth soaks through where it touches his skin, framing goosebumps and tight nipples that perked up on the walk from warm water to the cool, dry cabin.

“Are you going to send me away? Captain?” His quiet voice startled Crocodile from his ogling.

“Why?” He manages with a dry mouth after a moment, and River opens his mouth to reply but he was not finished. “Why do you torment me? What do you want?”

“How do you not know? Can’t you see me?”

The slam of Crocodile’s palms on the short bureau behind River startles them both, caging him between corded arms that strain his dress shirt. He dips, poised to rumble the penultimate question against the warm skin of his neck where his pulse flutters against his lips. Between his legs, Crocodile’s knee keeps him spread, vulnerable, at the mercy of his crazed musings, and squirming as the furniture digs into the give where his rear meets his thighs.

But his question goes unasked. So he decides, as he stands close enough to see his own burning want reflected back in blown pupils, feel the impatient quiver of him against his body, that whatever his answer might be, he needed this night first. One night to begin a lifetime of bliss, or a special, singular night to carry him through.

“River.”

“Yes, captain?” His pink tongue flicks out to wet his dry, bitten lips.

“No. None of that,” he growls in the space between them before surging forward to lock their mouths together, tongues sliding as he grips the back of his thighs to hoist him onto the bureau. Both of them grab and yank at the bottom of River’s shift, hoisting it up to pool in the bend of his thighs so he can cage Crocodile’s waist between his thighs the way he himself is trapped between the hard planes of his body and the wall.

“Captain, we—”

A jeweled hand grabs his jaw, thumb digging into the joint, and keeps them impossibly close to let every letter of his order vibrate in his blushing throat. “Say my name.”

The blushes rises to flood his cheeks, a challenge if Crocodile had ever seen one, to turn his entire body pink to match. “But you said when we first met—I mean, someone will hear us.”

“They would not come through that door even if they believed you were being murdered. Don’t tell me you are shy?” River’s answer comes as an unabashed moan, Crocodile’s reward for sucking hot kisses into the junction of his neck and shoulder while wide, greedy hands knead and pull at the flesh of his hips to drag their erections together through their clothes.

“The man who came to my quarters in nothing but a shift has no right to be shy.”

He hauls him into his arms but does not move to the bed, instead setting him down on the table where his dinner had lain only hours before. The sigh of anticipation that stutters from River’s chest urges him to continue talking, to keep working his body with his voice. All burgeoning promise and smoke, the one that has him leaking into the crumpled mess of his shift with thoughts of Crocodile using those big hands to yank him back into his stroke on every single piece of furniture in the room.

“With the ease you stripped yourself bare to jump into the sea, I do not believe the moon can see any more of you than it already has.” Crocodile’s words were punctuated by shoving his shift up to his chest with one hand, bearing all of him to his hungry gaze as his other hand pulled open the buttons on his shirt. He yanked his belt open to give himself some modicum of relief, sighing hot when thinner hands slipped themselves into his trousers to stroke the clothed outline of his cock. Relief indeed—but tonight, he had no patience for mischief.

”What if someone had seen you?” He reached passed him for the oil (the same bottle he had used to maintain his rapier earlier in the night), and the scent of cloves drifted up from where he hastily slicked his hand. Long, thick fingers briefly massaged the skin behind River’s sack, down over nearly the entire cleft of him until he pressed one inside.

“Or did you want to be seen?”

To the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the rhythmic flex of River’s hands on his shift as he obediently keeps it lifted out of the way, he bullies in a second finger. For all his intent to stay still and let his lover adjust, be tended to, River’s hips squirmed in restless circles, tempting Crocodile to be mean to him with the little moans that puff from his kiss-bitten lips. But, for them to collide in a wave that swallows them both, he needed to hear from those lips he was wanted, even if the answer came ripped from River’s throat in the wail of his ecstasy.

“Answer me.” His fingers continued to drag over sensitive walls, pulling out just to shove back in again, again, pressing to his spot on every entry with an insistent curl. “Did you want to be seen? Eh? Would just anyone do?”

“N-no, I never—they wouldn’t,” he stammered out, his breath stolen by the lightning bolts of pleasure beneath his navel that lit up his entire body. A plea laid across his tongue, ready to be sprung but Crocodile’s fingertips refused to let him breathe enough to confess, like they were intent to keep him drunk and babbling until he could no longer recall excuses.

“O-only you. Only you, Captain, wanted y-you to see me. See me, fuck me—” A loud moan chopped off his words, loud enough to wake someone if not for Crocodile smothering his lips with a wet kiss, sucking on his tongue as he swallowed the cry caused by a third, thick finger. He consumed his sounds with a greed he hadn’t realized he could have for anything but gold, possessed to wring River’s body of every heaving breath and take them selfishly into his own lungs—

Until he had everything he could give.

River’s body rattled, toes curled hard enough to hurt as he wrenched his lips back on a ragged gasp, hips bucking into Crocodile’s soaked palm until he broke on the choked, shameless cry of his captain’s name. He moaned his crest to the ceiling, legs beginning to shake when those fingers refused to stop pistoning inside him. Crocodile almost regretted being so aggressive, but seeing those violet eyes shine with tears, lips equally glossy with drool as he called his name for the entire sea to hear—he wanted to reward him with blinding, wracking pleasure until he could recall no other words.

In the sudden quiet, he reached to soothe him, brushing his palms down his sides and hauling him into his arms to bring him down slow. For a long moment, there was only the sound of slowing breaths, their matched heartbeats pounding against the other’s ribs, until River’s eyes finally peeled open at the beckon of his voice.

“Did I break you?”

His answer came as a surge of energy in a desperate kiss, arms flung around his neck and a mournful sound pressed between his lips. Even through the tears, his eyes shone wetter than before, prompting Crocodile to wonder if he had made a terrible mistake.

“You made me come. Didn’t you—don’t you want me? To be inside me?”

The tight squeeze of his hands on River’s quivering waist dries those tears awfully quick.

“What kind of men have you allowed to touch you, that you would think one is enough?”

He isn’t prepared to watch storm clouds roll into his eyes at his question, elegant hands suddenly gripping into his shirt to shove him back from between his legs. For a shorter man, he carried a strength Crocodile had yet to witness in action, now aimed at himself as he wrestled them down onto the bed to perch above his hips in a tall line that spoke of some kind of pride.

In his miles of moonlit skin he saw it: the threat to be drowned by a man he didn’t fully understand. Yet, it only made Crocodile want more, grabbing for a life preserver in the strong thighs draped over him, and watching River toss his shift somewhere into the dark.

“I’m tired of your questions. Your assumptions to know me, what I’ve done with my body.” Above him, his gaze, the weight of his brow sat open and startingly sober. Among the storm, he found another emotion, the precursor to love, so close to honesty, and yet Crocodile could not identify it as devotion because he had never seen it before aimed at him.

“From the day I came aboard this ship, I never pretended to want anyone else, never hid my intentions. I only ever screamed them if you would bother to look.” He swallowed around his resolve. “You don’t believe me, that I want you? I will show you.”

For all of Crocodile’s hard-nosed affection, his growled demands and confident fingers, the immovable line of him lies willingly supine under the smaller man, long legs parting for him to crawl off his hips and down between his knees.

He looks perfect this way, they think about the other, meaning the way River pulls his endless, black hair to the top of his head with the leather from his wrist, and Crocodile’s wide chest beginning to rise and fall faster, the muscles in his strong jaw clenching and releasing with anticipation River can see plain in the heavy, tight line of his cock against his hip.

The shock of a hot mouth against his tip makes him hiss, soothed by wet kisses along every inch of him that is revealed by River’s hands slowly peeling down his trousers. Momentarily, River ponders undressing him completely so they match, but finds he enjoys too much the sight of Crocodile half undone, shirt bearing his solid torso and lower-half exposed only down to the tops of his thighs. Perfectly disheveled, begging to be consumed, bared perfectly for the moon to see all of him too. Hard evidence it was River’s hands that destroyed him, who cared to reform him.

A telling bead of precum, worked up by River’s ardent staring, tempts him to taste, swipe the tang of him away and lead him between his soft, inviting lips. Crocodile’s answer is a long moan squeezed up from his chest by the squeeze of the throat around him, and betrays exactly how much he’s enjoying himself. His stoic face is unused to being scrunched in bliss by a feverish mouth taking him down to the root with just a few, determined swallows. River takes a moment to hold him there, nose pressed against the dark, neat hair on his pubic bone, for what Crocodile believes to be a breath-stealing, head-spinning eternity—until it’s gone too soon.

He thinks he might lose his temper when that mouth pulls off completely to speak to him.

“You are so much more than I imagined. Oh,” River panted into his skin. Red, slick lips mouth up to his flushed tip to suckle and demand for more precum until it rips a haggard groan from his chest, and Crocodile gives a flushed, pissy scowl, one that demands he stop fucking around.

It hardly frightens the man between his legs, not when Crocodile’s hair has fallen from his meticulous style in damp strands over his cheeks to match the shine of sweat on his forehead. Between his knees, the heat of him nearly steams where River breathes over his sack to roll them around on his tongue too.

Crocodile wants to complain about the crawl they’ve fallen into, demand he pick up the pace, but before he can arrange thoughts on his tongue he’s rewarded by those lips slipping back over him. They fall into an easy rhythm, one that slides hot and tormentingly slow over the entire length of him with every complete bob of River’s head.

A soft, yielding “fuck” flutters out above him, anxious thighs brushing his ears, and River takes the moment to admire the crimson flush creeping into the valleys of Crocodile’s chest, the bob of his swallow around an unguarded groan. Big, sword-calloused hands cradling the curve of his skull are their own reward, as are the little, muffled moans he lets vibrate along the cock in his throat, tempting those hands to squeeze into the roots of his hair.

Crocodile puffs out a quiet chuckle, needing it to be mean but the lack of air in his lungs is a powerful enemy. “Look at you. So haughty and spitting a moment ago. How quickly you’ve become docile for me,” he says, deep in his chest as his jeweled thumb smears a drop of drool away from River’s lip, across his cheek.

Is that how it appears, captain?

River’s eyes flick open, dark as the depths of the ocean that housed creatures more dangerous than either of them, and promising to ruin him on his own pride. They steal the rest of his breath, trading air for lightning in his veins, all while never ceasing the steady rhythm of his head. One of River’s hands, the one that had contented itself to rub over the firm planes of Crocodile’s abs while he pleasured him—suddenly slipped away.

But, Crocodile hardly had the mind to count limbs, not when a tongue prods the hole in his tip, massaging his foreskin and coaxing his eyes to close, assuring him he was the one in control. A pretty thought, pretty as the man who knows the truth, the one collecting his own precum to nudge behind his balls, lower, lower still, and massage over Crocodile’s hole.

His eyes fly open, face suddenly as red as his chest, shooting up to his elbows like River can’t feel him getting even harder against his tongue. “You little—brat—”

“Push me away, then.” That mouth, that smirking mouth lay open to let his cock slap on his glossy tongue. “I’m a swordsman too, certainly no waif, but you and I both know I didn’t lay you down on this bed against your will. If I’ve overstepped—stop me. Tell me to stop, Crocodile, if those rippling muscles have suddenly failed you.”

The pleased chuckle he breathes over the tip of his cock coincides with Crocodile’s surrendering sigh, and the impossibly long line of him falls back to the pillows with the dizzying slide of River’s finger inside him.

“Add another, hurry up—”

“Ah,” he tuts at him. “I will treat you with the care you showed me. Even if you didn’t wait very long at all,” River chuckled again, and Crocodile’s teeth clicking in annoyance turns a huff of pleasure when he gets his request.

He wants to be infuriated at the impudent swordsman for pushing him down and taking liberties with his body, but he can’t feel anything beyond the eager, searing heat that keeps swallowing his semblance of thoughts through his cock, and the expert, clever fingers massaging his inner walls so thoroughly.

River holds back a teasing comment about “who’s docile now” as he opens his eyes to admire him through the tears pooling on his lashes. For all River’s calm voice spoke of control, he knows neither of them can deny their body’s reaction, from his wet cheeks at his throat being filled dutifully over and over, to his hard cock between his legs that throbs as Crocodile writhes on his fingers, long legs restless against the sheets as his sturdy body shakes and cock swells in his throat. Such the cycle continues.

Below him, Crocodile melts on the simmering heat filling his body, threatening to burst from his cock and yet it doesn’t, can’t, as it’s held back by the distracting hand leaving fingerprints on his insides, all over his swelling prostate. He’s in a loop of pleasure, riding higher to a place he hasn’t seen in so long, so out of his reach from atop his throne. And yet here he was, moaning, gasping for air on the sticky, devoted affection of the man who came to his quarters and presented himself first.

The barrage on his senses retreats suddenly, and Crocodile nearly begs for the high, wounded sound he made to remain their secret. Luckily, River looks to have no intention to tease him as he wipes his lips clean with his arm, using his slippery hand to stroke over his own cock. By the glow of the oil lamp, Crocodile can see all four of his fingers shining, but recalls no pain when they had entered him. And they must have, if the openness of his hole is to be believed, felt by a quick touch of his own fingers.

“Why did you stop?” He rasps into the humid air between them.

River answers by leaning over him, hair mostly fallen from it’s quick style, pupils blown as they keep him pinned to the pillows, all while his greedy hands knead at Crocodile’s strong thighs. “Do you believe I want you now?”

Crocodile means to fire back some quick-witted, biting retort, until his thighs are hoisted up, baring his hole and held aloft by deceptively strong arms.

“I’m sorry you haven’t come yet… Would you believe that I want you if I had let you come in my mouth, showed your seed to you on my tongue before I swallowed it?”

“You are…” Crocodile growled out, golden eyes equally blown as his hands grabbed at the sheets. “A cruel, impudent little thing.”

The calloused hands on his thighs flex. “Cruelty recognizes itself, Crocodile, and I think you need better proof of my intentions.”

“I believe you.”

His ragged gasp as he breathed in, so unlike the Crocodile that strangled control from every aspect of his life down to his pleasure, desperate and—if River was anymore bold—vulnerable, had them both snapping to each other's gaze. For a moment, only the sound of the ocean outside filled the warm room.

“I believe that you want me, and I want you. Beautiful River, handsome poet, I want you, so—” Any more words were swallowed by the moan in his chest as River surged forward, bracing his hands beside his ribs and pressing his cock inside in one firm thrust.

River’s hips meeting his stretched rim comes with Crocodile’s big hands on his body, one in his hopelessly lost hair bun, the other on his lower back to feel his muscles clench and twist. “Come on, you wanted to show me proof. Or is this pretty face the extent of you? Your pretty cock—”

He’s interrupted by the throw of his hips, an honest moan worked up from both of them when River grabs at the mattress for leverage to work Crocodile’s body harder than his fingers could ever hope.

“I am more than this pretty face,” he pants over him, one hand leaving the bed to grip his thigh and spread him wide to bury himself even deeper. “More than the swords at your disposal. I will ruin your body, your soul.”

Crocodile’s head, also hopelessly mused from it’s style, presses to the pillow with the force of his hard, steady strokes. Quiet, panting moans leave his lips in rising succession. He touches River’s bicep where one of his arms keeps him braced, fingertips scratching him gently in a way that might have been reserved for admiration if not for the drop of drool that escaped his clenched teeth. Breathing is so hard suddenly, when he can easily look down to see the poet’s pretty cock disappear inside him, his own lying neglected and useless in a puddle of it’s own pre against his stomach.

He can’t help but be impatient, especially after being denied his orgasm down River’s throat, and reaches down to stroke himself off. His breath rises again, shorter, more labored as River shifts his knees to match his attention to Crocodile’s prostate with his wrist’s efficient, choppy rolls.

“That’s it, come on. Come for me,” River coaxes him, voice rising, whining and urgent like he was the one approaching orgasm and it flings Crocodile over the edge with a punch to his diaphragm that comes out as a deep, cracked groan. His vision blurs for long moments, white and crackling at the edges, until he comes back to himself to realize the rhythmic thumping against his flank has not ceased. River’s still at it, dragging him out of the dredges of over-sensitivity and back on the road to another, stronger orgasm.

Perhaps he will drown him anyway.

“I’m sorry it look so long for you to come, but I—,” River swallows around his dry mouth, “I will make you come again, I promise.”

“You stupid poet, you beautiful—” His words hold no bite as they wheeze from his wet lips, choking on air when River threads his elbows behind his knees to spread him wider, impossibly so as he leans over him to capture his lips.

He feels himself blush to be pressed completely open, River’s soft thighs rubbing against the skin of his hips to fuck him slower, deeper than he had before, the length of his cock dragging against Crocodile’s most sensitive places for the entirety of his stroke. It made kissing nearly impossible, not when the overworked neurons in his brain are firing off at a rapid pace and his body has begun to melt into the sheets.

“Kiss me, please, I need you,” River whimpered against his tongue, like he didn’t have him folded in half, moaning on his cock and golden eyes dripping tears down his temples and into his hair. Crocodile seized him to bring them chest to chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripped on his rear to press the shape of his rings into his heated skin. Dizziness crept into his vision, he knew he was flying too high, only able to wrestle a few words from his vocabulary beyond the fluttering in his chest and the boiling just beneath his skin.

“Mine, all mine. Always,” he panted, his glassy eyes causing River to wonder if he meant him or his cock. The lightning in his belly begged it was the former.

“Yes, yours. No one else’s. Only you, captain, it’s always been you,” He moaned out, nearly a sob as Crocodile’s head flopped uselessly to the pillow. In the fog of his cooked consciousness, he still felt River’s forehead press to his temple, mouth hot near his ear, begging his words to be heard clear and coherent among the humid air between them.

“I’m yours, Crocodile, only yours for as long as I live.” The rhythm of his thrusts wavered as Crocodile’s mouth dropped open, dumbfounded to feel him swell even harder inside him, right against his sweet spot. “Command me, fuck me, use me as you wish.”

The storm rising beneath his ribs burst suddenly, flooding his body to the tips of his fingers and toes, his internal muscles squeezing unbidden, and they both call each other’s name over the ocean rushing in their ears. To Crocodile, it felt so different from the orgasm he had impatiently wrung from himself earlier, hand stripping his cock while he allowed River to sweeten the deal with his dutiful stroke. But this, this, River was in control of his pleasure, fucking it deep from within the most molten parts of his core and pushing him impossibly higher with every hungry, obedient thrust.

The sweet, keening moan above him is a treat, along with the last pleas of stuttering hips pumping him deep with a liquid heat that sweeps his insides to the corners of his soul. An apology, he thinks, for the ache in his hips as River finally lets his legs fall to the side.

He contemplates scolding him, picking the pieces of his pride off the floor to remind the other man he did not have permission to come inside him, until a muted thump to the mattress captures his attention first. Beside him, River lies bathed in moonlight, wearing his sated flush like a silk chemise, and decidedly too endearing to shout at. He sighed at length, supposing he earned it, after coaxing him to come twice on his cock and hard enough the second time to hit his own face with his seed.

But who would he be if he didn’t complain a little?

“Ugh. You come into my room, make a mess of me and my bed. I don’t suppose you intend to clean up after yourself, do you?”

“Shall I use my tongue? It will only take a moment.” River jumped up to lean over him, beginning to suckle the semen off his abdomen with a happy hum, to Crocodile’s flustered outrage.

“Outrageous, mischievous—hrn.” A strangled sound fell from his tired lips when the tongue moved to lap at his hole, interrupted by Crocodile’s firm hand in the roots of his hair. He dragged him back up for a kiss, tasting himself in their shared sigh, and a fond calm settled over them as they parted with a wet sound, not unlike the waves after a storm.

Crocodile anchored his stare by the firm grip on the back of his neck. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Every word.” River answered without hesitation, and let their foreheads gently thump together. “Do with me as you wish. Forever.”

“Promises like that, to a man like me, are liable to breed hatred eventually. You will come to resent me.”

“No, I won’t. Not this time.”

He wants to ask him what he means, why his gaze is so calm, as if he’s come home from a long journey. Maybe he’ll ask him one day. But not now, when their skin is so warm where their sides brush, and the ocean outside is quiet.

[maple-keenes]

couldn't reply without subordinate clauses

>> READ IT ON AO3 HERE

summary: Kakyoin needs help with his English, and who better to help him than someone like Jotaro, who’s been speaking it his whole life? It’s the perfect solution. …but someone really should have warned Kakyoin about how much time he’d have to spend looking at Jotaro’s mouth, ‘cause he’s not sure how much more of this he can take. (or: kakyoin and jotaro learn to use their words.) - notes: disclaimer: i don’t speak japanese, which is why you will notice that none of this fic is actually in japanese. all references to japanese grammar and phonology are correct to the best of my knowledge but i recognize that there may be mistakes. however, i DO know a lot about teaching english as a second language and if my advisor somehow finds this, sorry for misrepresenting the field but in my defense this is anime fanfiction dedicated not only to the jojo crew (@thesmalbox and @drawbucket) as per usual but ALSO to @pechebeche for just sort of coincidentally getting into jojo at the same time as me and always being down to scream about jotakak and/or phonetics with me. all three a’y’all are awesome.  title is from the collection’s “spark of hope”, which does remind me of jotaro but mostly i just like the silly pun.

Kakyoin Noriaki helped kill a homicidal vampire when he was seventeen years old with nothing but a bunch of tentacles, but looking at the table in front of him, covered in various indecipherable sheets of paper, he thinks that might have been easier than this. 

He fucking hates English. 

Kakyoin is, objectively, pretty intelligent, if you ignore the multiple massive lapses in judgment that have led to him a) being half-blind in both eyes, b) being maybe a little bit in love with the guy who by extension is the reason he’s half-blind in both eyes, and c) following said guy to America for college because he just does that now, apparently. Something about Jotaro makes him incredibly, impressively stupid. Stupid enough to follow him across Southeast Asia, and now, stupid enough to try and teach himself a new language because they’re so horribly codependent now that the idea of Jotaro moving to America and Kakyoin not going was ridiculous. Ridiculous enough that Kakyoin was able to ignore the fact that he barely speaks English when making the decision.

And oh, he’s regretting it now. Not enough to not go, of course, but enough that he’s given up on the actual learning bit and is now glaring daggers at the worksheets spread out in front of him, all in an easy-to-read font for his convenience. 

He’s been in the public library for two hours, hiding in a secluded corner because he doesn’t need everyone to hear him talking to himself. He’s still trying to figure out what the fuck a progressive is and why there’s six different kinds of them when someone slides into the seat beside him and asks, “You still doing homework?” 

His only response is a muffled groan from where his head is buried in his hands, which is thankfully met by a small huff of laughter from the boy beside him. “Yeah, kinda figured. Couldn’t find you at your place, so I thought you might be hanging out here.” 

Kakyoin removes his head from his hands and offers Jotaro a pained look. “I’m fucking dying, Jotaro.” 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

“I am not .”

Jotaro ignores that and continues to be unsympathetic to Kakyoin’s clear emotional distress. “Are you doing your English homework?” he asks, picking up one of the papers nearest to him.

Kakyoin gestures vaguely at the mess in front of him. “No, I’m doing my taxes.” 

He makes a half-hearted noise of acknowledgment as he skims over the worksheet in his hand. “You got this wrong,” Jotaro says, pointing at an answer Kakyoin had written down about halfway down the paper. “It should be ‘have taken’.”

“Why ?”

“Because ‘had taken’ means it happened in the past.” Jotaro makes a mark on Kakyoin’s paper with a nearby pen. 

“Isn’t that what ‘have taken’ means?” he asks helplessly. 

“Yes. Well, sort of. It can be used for the past, but--”

“Then what’s the difference?” Kakyoin interrupts, his voice coming out as more of a petulant whine. Oh, if Dio could see him now. The boy so willing to sacrifice himself for the greater good, standing brave against insurmountable odds, undone by fucking verb tenses. How the mighty have fallen.

Jotaro stares at him, and he can’t tell if the blank expression is because Kakyoin’s missing something monumentally obvious here or because he also has no fucking clue what the difference is. “...One of them uses ‘have’ and the other uses ‘had’.” 

Great. The second one, then.

Jotaro manages to dodge out of the way of the kick Kakyoin aims at his shin under the table, but he doesn’t manage to escape the smack to his shoulder immediately after. They’re both laughing, though. Thankfully.

(Kakyoin can’t get enough of Jotaro’s laugh. It was so rare when they were traveling, reserved only for the in-betweens in dingy hostels when no one else was listening. Something that a precious few people are allowed to hear. To be one of them is a privilege he will never take for granted.)

“I’m done with that,” Kakyoin declares, pushing that part of his homework away from him. He smiles at Jotaro hopefully. “Practice with me? I need to work on actually speaking out loud.”

"What do you want me to say?” Jotaro asks, and isn’t that a question. 

“Just ask me about my day or something.” He figures this is safe territory, both because of his traitorous heart, which has started to speed up in his chest for what is truly no discernible reason, and his limited English experience. “Don't talk too fast though.”

“Alright.” Jotaro thinks for a moment, then says, "I'm just gonna ask you about yourself. That work?"

Kakyoin nods, and the other boy clears his throat and asks in English, “How old are you?”

“I am…” he trails off, struggling to remember the number. “Ten-eight--no, eighteen years. Old. I am eighteen years old,” he repeats, more confidently the second time. “How old are you?”

Jotaro stifles a laugh behind his hand as Kakyoin speaks, and he frowns. “What?” he asks, switching back to Japanese. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, it’s just. Your accent. It’s cute,” Jotaro says, and oh, he’s going to be thinking about that for months now. He has a way of offhandedly saying things that lodge themselves in Kakyoin’s brain and refuse to leave until he’s properly overanalyzed every part of them, and Jotaro calling his accent cute is--he doesn’t even know where to start with that. “Here, let me ask you something else. Where are you from?”

That one he knows for sure. “I am from Japan,” Kakyoin says in English, “What about you?” 

“I’m from Japan, but my mom’s from America,” he answers. “It’s pronounced ‘am’ and ‘Japan’, by the way.”

Kakyoin narrows his eyes at Jotaro. “That’s what I said.” 

“No, you said it like ‘Japan’. It should be ‘Japan’. ”

“Jotaro, I promise you that you just said the same thing twice.” 

He groans, hand going to tug his hat down over his face. “No, look. Watch me say it.” He repeats the words again, exaggerating the vowels. This should be exceptionally easy for Kakyoin because it’s basically just Jotaro giving him permission to stare at his mouth (a thing that he does all the time anyway) but he just can’t seem to make out the difference Jotaro’s talking about. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s half-blind, maybe it’s his unfamiliarity with the language, but even when Jotaro says it both ways again to try and demonstrate he cannot figure out why what he said was wrong. He says as much to Jotaro, who pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Just try and do it the way I’m saying it. I am from Japan.” 

“I am from Japan,” he repeats, and Jotaro sighs. “I’m trying, I promise! They just sound the same to me.” 

“No, it’s--” Jotaro cuts himself off, looking frustrated. “Just--ugh. This is going to sound super weird, but it might be easier if you touched me while I said it.” 

Kakyoin has to physically restrain himself from saying yeah, sounds good immediately with no questions asked. He shoves that instinct down as deep as it will go and asks, “What do you mean?” 

“Like. My face.” He touches his own, as if to say, like this, and yep. Yeah. Kakyoin does know what a face is, thank you, Jotaro. “You’re not moving your mouth right on some of the words. It might be easier if you just, like, felt me do it so that you could copy it.” 

That’s not the worst idea. “Like this?” he says, reaching up and bracketing Jotaro’s mouth between his forefinger and thumb, letting the rest of his fingers rest gently against his chin. Jotaro nods. It must look ridiculous from an outside perspective, but it feels so intimate and personal that Kakyoin is pretty sure he’s going to die. What a lame way to go out, he thinks. Fifty days in the desert fending off stand users and vampires and my own damn feelings are what’s gonna kill me. He hopes they lie in his obituary. Heroically sacrificing himself to save the world is much cooler than dying ‘cause he’s too fucking gay to maintain any sort of physical contact with the guy he likes. 

“I’m gonna say something and I want you to try and repeat it moving your mouth the same way I am.” Jotaro’s eyes have not left Kakyoin’s this entire time and he really, really hopes his face isn’t as red as it feels right now. At least he can chalk it up to the slightly awkward situation if he gets called out on it. “That make sense?” 

His mouth is so fucking dry, which is. Great. He’s literally just touching his face. Not even in a romantic way. Just super platonic, educational face touching. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Cool. My name is Jotaro Kujo,” he says in English, “I am eighteen years old, and I am from Japan.” Kakyoin is now not only watching Jotaro’s impeccable jawline, he’s feeling it work under his fingers, and wait, he was supposed to be paying attention to the formation of the words. Fuck. 

“My name is Kakyoin Noriaki, I am eighteen years old, and I am from Japan,” he repeats, trying to shape the words the same way he can feel Jotaro doing. “Right?” 

“Right,” he confirms, and Kakyoin can feel his little half-smile at the same time he sees it appear. “You’re actually Noriaki Kakyoin in English, though. You would put your given name first.” Kakyoin nods. Maybe he should be taking notes, but that would mean not looking at Jotaro for any given amount of time and he doesn’t know how well he can manage that right now. “English says that you ‘are’ eighteen like we do, though,” Jotaro continues, “which is nice. Some languages say you ‘have’ eighteen years.”

Kakyoin furrows his brow, confused. “Why would you say you have eighteen years?”

Jotaro just shrugs. “Apparently that’s how you say it in French. Polnareff told me.” He glances down at Kakyoin’s hand where it’s still touching his face. “You can, uh. You can stop now.”

He yanks his hand back like Jotaro’s burned him. “Sorry! I wasn’t thinking.” 

“Don’t apologize.”

“...sorry?”

Jotaro huffs, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “It’s fine. You did better that time, though. English has some weird vowels so I can’t blame you for not getting them right away.”

“I just don’t understand how you know all of this stuff,” he laments, slumping onto the table in front of him. “It’s really hard.” 

“I learned it when I was a kid,” Jotaro explains. “It makes it a lot easier to pick up on the rules and stuff when you don’t have another language in the way.” 

“But still,” Kakyoin protests, “you just get it. You’re so fucking smart, it’s not fair. Leave something for the rest of us.” He picks up a nearby pencil and waves it around as he gestures at the papers scattered across the table in front of them. “It’s your fault I’m doing all of this anyway.”

His brow creases and he looks genuinely confused, which leaves Kakyoin at a loss because he really thought that was obvious. “How is it my fault?” 

“You’re the one who wants to go to college in America!” 

“...you don’t?”

He hesitates for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of being completely honest here or downplaying the reality of it, which is that if Jotaro had decided he wanted to go to college in fucking Antarctica, Kakyoin would have started shopping for winter clothes immediately. It’s not that he isn’t interested in going to school in the United States--the school he ended up applying to is a really good one, only a 30-minute train ride from where Jotaro is going to study marine biology, and offers classes for what they call English Language Learner students so he won’t be so overwhelmed by the amount of English he has to learn. It’s a dream come true for Kakyoin that he would have never, ever thought to pursue without Jotaro declaring that he was going to America for school, but he’s not going reluctantly. Nor is he just going for Jotaro; it’s a fantastic school and he’s happy that he’s getting this opportunity. 

But the two of them, there’s something tying them together. They were each other’s first best friend, the first person who really saw the other for who they were, all of who they were, from their stands to every broken piece of them that shattered off in the desert. Jotaro and Kakyoin have seen each other through so, so much that no one else will ever be able to understand. He can’t lose that, not to an enemy stand user and certainly not to anything as easy to overcome as distance. 

“Originally, I only wanted to go because you wanted to go, but it’s a good opportunity anyway,” Kakyoin says honestly. “I wouldn’t have considered it if you hadn’t brought it up first, but I really am looking forward to it now. Even if it’ll be difficult.” 

“You’re going because of me.” Jotaro looks lost, confused. He’s staring at Kakyoin as if he’s just now seeing him--like he’s just put the pieces of him together and something’s finally, finally making sense. “You’re learning English because of me. You--you went to Egypt for me.” 

“Alright, that wasn’t entirely for you, I do actually care about the world enough to want to make sure it doesn’t get taken over,” he huffs. “There was a bit of revenge in there, too. But yeah, I’m going to America because you are. You’re important to me, Jotaro. I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Kakyoin really didn’t think this was as earth-shattering of a revelation as Jotaro seems to have taken it as. He thought it was pretty fucking obvious, all things considered. It must have been. He’s never been subtle about the fact that he likes Jotaro. But Jotaro is still staring at him as if this information is news to him; as if he’s just now realizing that Kakyoin doesn’t just stick around because he’s the only stand user his age around, and oh. Wait. Jotaro totally thought that, didn’t he.

“Jotaro,” Kakyoin says, then stops before he goes any further. He doesn’t know what he wants to say next. If he wants to tell the truth, say you were the first person who ever looked at me and saw me for who I was; if he wants to tell him I think I’ve been in love with you since I woke up in your house and you told me you were going to kill Dio. He settles for something a little less dramatic. “You know you’re my best friend, right?”

“I didn’t.” Jotaro’s voice is quiet, slightly pained. “I thought you just sort of. Tolerated me.”

“Tolerated you?” he repeats, incredulous. “No. I like you, Jotaro. I really fucking like you. You’re the only person who gets me.”

He inclines his head, hiding his face behind the brim of his hat. “I like you too, for what it’s worth. You’re amazing.” 

Kakyoin is grateful that the two of them aren’t making eye contact right now because he feels like everything he isn’t saying is obvious across his face right now; like his eyes and the curve of his nose and the furious blush that paints his cheeks are all screaming I love you because he can’t seem to articulate it. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, painfully, brutally honest. “Of course I’d follow you to America. Learn English for you. Anything.”

“That’s probably not healthy,” Jotaro mutters and Kakyoin laughs. “But I get it. I think I’d do the same for you.”

“What a pair we make. Couple of codependent bastards.” He sighs, finally looking back down at the homework in front of him. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, I should probably get back to--”

“Noriaki,” Jotaro interrupts, and isn’t that something. He almost never uses Kakyoin’s given name. Nobody does, really, except his parents. He’s always preferred his family name. But, hearing Jotaro say it… he could get used to Noriaki, if it sounds like that every time. “You’re important to me too. I know I’m not the best at showing it, but all the stuff you said, about feeling like I’m the only person who gets you, that’s how I feel about you too. Really.”

He bites his lip, trying to keep himself from blurting out something he can’t take back. His skin is crawling with it, face on fire and hands wringing in his lap as if every part of his body is trying to signal to Jotaro what Kakyoin can’t seem to say out loud. 

But something about Jotaro makes Kakyoin incredibly, impressively stupid, and so after a few moments of awkward silence the warm, buzzing feeling coursing through his veins can’t stay down any longer and he says, voice just barely above a whisper, “I’m really fucking in love with you, Jotaro. And it’s fine if you don’t feel the same way, but I thought, you know, on the topic of feelings and whatnot…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but there’s not much more to say, anyway. What else could he add? He’s fairly certain he’s not going to get the shit kicked out of him for it, not after a conversation on the school rooftop about expectations and did you know in America half of the states have decriminalized homosexuality, said much less casually than he originally intended. “You’re just--I said it already, but you’re the only person who understands me, and I think maybe it started in Singapore when we had to share a hotel room and I realized, like, wow, he’s really attractive. And that wasn’t me being, like, in love with you or anything, but it was the beginning of the end, and now--”

“You’re rambling,” Jotaro cuts him off gently, his hand going to cup the underside of Kakyoin’s chin and tilting his face up towards him; his thumb and forefinger are bracketing his mouth just like Kakyoin had done earlier. This is a thousand times more intimate than that, though, he realizes, as Jotaro runs his thumb along Kakyoin’s jaw. “Stop me if you’re not okay with this,” he says, and before he has a chance to ask what this is, exactly, Jotaro’s mouth is on his. It’s nothing world-ending, just a chaste press of lips, but it reignites that electricity that had been running through his body earlier regardless. Kakyoin thinks he might be melting a little bit. 

It’s over almost as soon as it starts, but Kakyoin still feels breathless and giddy. From that. He’s so fucked. He is so fucked. “So, that means…” he prompts. 

Jotaro laughs, and it’s just as wonderful of a sound as it is every time, made only better for the rarity of it. “It means I’m in love with you too. The hell did you think I meant?” 

“I don’t know!” He buries his still-red face in his hands. “Maybe you were being nice and just trying to give me what I wanted.” 

“Trust me when I say everything I want to do with you is entirely selfish,” Jotaro says, and the stark honesty in his voice startles Kakyoin a bit. “I want everything with you, Noriaki. Every moment of your time.”

“What was that about not being good with words?” he asks weakly. “You can have it. All of it. Everything. Just so long as you give me something in return.” 

He smiles, and. Damn. Kakyoin’s gone. Done for. He’d do anything for this boy. He is Jotaro’s, head to toe, every part of him. He’s been Jotaro’s for so much longer than either of them were fully conscious of, and if he thinks about it, really thinks about it--Jotaro’s probably been his for just as long. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

[tortured-demigods-department]

an unhinged (and unofficial) dissertation on the pjo fandom

so i don't usually post anything that isn't my-works-related, but i had a...mildly heated discussion with a fellow film student tonight about the pjo show and it's got me thinking. bear with me, we'll be here awhile.

as we all know, the first season of pjo has ended. i've stayed relatively OFF tumblr and other social media during this time, but i know there are a lot of OG fans who are (in their words) "massively disappointed" in the show. most of the complaints i've heard have been during in person conversations though, so this post is mostly going to be referencing real complaints i've heard.

i've been a part of this fandom since i was thirteen. that's nearly eight fucking years of my life that i've devoted to the pjo universe. i have written and consumed YEARS' worth of fanfiction, i have read and reread every book so many times i can quote them forwards and backwards, and i went to the bookstore every single year on the new books' release dates to pick up my copies in-person. this fandom, these characters and this world have brought so much joy to my life, and i don't think i could ever fully articulate that in words. when i think of this series, i genuinely feel nothing but happiness.

but a few years ago—around the time i started college—i started distancing myself from the fandom for one glaring reason. this fandom can be such an...angry place? like, genuinely, i don't know how far it goes back—maybe all the way to the release of HoA, honestly—but i wasn't here pre-HoA, so all i know is that i very much remember how much people hated ToA when it came out.

here i was, having the TIME of my life with apollo and his silly little haikus, and people are going to war over how the series' writing quality has gone to shit and how everything was better before, blah, blah, blah. IN SPITE of everything that series gave us—discussion of the repercussions of child abuse and ptsd, representation of lgbtqa+ characters, and deep psychological messages that really teach young readers, i think, how to better understand themselves and their emotions and deal with them in healthy ways. and it just wasn't fun to be in a fandom where, as soon as you go "hey, did you read the new book?" they scoff and roll their eyes and only want to talk about how terrible it is. (i also missed all the discourse on the sun and the star when it came out—PHENOMENAL read, btw—but i've read some things that lead me to believe that it wasn't well received either, in spite of how lovely it was.)

so...it's dramatic to say i "left" the fandom, but i certainly withdrew from it. deleted my pjo ao3 and tumblr, started over with a different fandom. but the love has always been there, and the show starting really helped spark it fully back to life.

but now, the same thing is happening again, i'm noticing. remember back in the day, when we only had the shitty fucking movies, and we were like "man, ANYTHING would be better than this garbage. literally just give us actors who are the right age and we'll be happy." well, now we have PHENOMENAL kid actors who genuinely are having a good time playing our beloved characters, and instead of supporting them, we're STILL complaining about them not being "portrayed correctly"?

i've talked to so many people who complain that percy is "too smart," which is kind of a bullshit insult to percy's canon character. in the books (at least the first five) we're seeing things ONLY from percy's pov. he's a kid who's struggled with learning disabilities and been told he's an idiot all his life by everyone except his mom—but as others have pointed out way more eloquently than i could, percy is a very intelligent and powerful individual while maintaining his goofy fun personality, which is WHY so many people love him so much. he's complex, and i think they managed to capture that really well in the show even amidst all the changes.

don't get me started on the fucking racism towards leah sava jeffries—i'm honest to gods ashamed that there are racists who call themselves pjo fans. she is so talented, and everything we ever could have hoped for in an on-screen annabeth. ALL of the kids are—there's literally no argument to be had there.

and then, if people aren't complaining about the casting, it's the series' writing. or there's too much exposition. rick is changing too many things. the directors don't know what they're doing. it's not a TRUE book adaptation. (someone said that to me, and i genuinely laughed because i thought they were joking. when the MOVIES exist, they wanted to make that comment about the show.)

are there some things i would change about the show, given the opportunity? god, yes. the set design for the underworld was horrendous. (in my opinion, of course.) but here's the thing. i have spent eight years of my life waiting for this show to happen, and in that time, i've learned a lot about how much goes into successfully producing such a complex series. how much money and time is spent, and how many people have to be on board to make it happen. it's genuinely kind of miraculous that we're even getting this show at all, considering all the ways it could have failed before it even made it out of pre-production.

and i think we, as fans, sometimes forget that we aren't owed this. we don't own the percy jackson franchise. it makes me so sick and tired when authors or artists in any capacity feel like they have to cater their works to the masses, because they know they'll get thrown into the fucking fire if they don't. rick and becky riordan didn't have to got to the trouble of producing this show for us. they chose to—everyone involved chose to—because they wanted to make something fun and enjoyable not only for the fans, but everyone who chose to be a part of it.

do you know how insane it is that, when you read pretty much any interview of pjo bts, everyone talks about how fun the production was? i've been on film sets. they can be ABSOLUTELY miserable when they're not done right. but eight months into production, the kids were still laughing and having a good time, everyone's still giving 100%, they're excited, it's fun. walker was willing to go into a diving tank for a full fucking day in order to get one scene—i know i would never have that kind of dedication, and i bet 99% of you wouldn't either.

i know this has gotten really long-winded, but i've said all of that to say that...i'm kind of tired of fans trying to bring down the show, and more than that, trying to bring down each other for having a good time. as i've said before (many times, i'm sure), i waited eight years for this, and i have had SUCH a fun time watching it. assuming we get a season 2 renewal, there are going to be even more new fans coming in than we've already gotten from season 1, and i want this fandom to be a fun and positive place for them. for all of us. we don't have to miserable and angry all time. we can critique the show, sure—it's not perfect, and it was never going to be—but we have to remember that television is an art form, and that art is subjective even when it involves our favorite characters. and we can accept that and still have a good time, because it's just more fun to have fun, you know?

this fandom has always had so much potential to be the BIGGEST, most supportive and kind and loving fandom. with how much representation this series has, with how much content we've been given, with the SHEER massive number of us...i've always thought we could be a really, really great community. maybe it's impossible to hope that we could be the best fandom on earth, but if nothing else...could we all try to just be a little bit kinder? genuinely, as cheesy as it may sound...it's just nicer when we're nice to each other. and when there's so many real things in the world to be mad about...i would much rather this be a place where we can come to at the end of a long day and just...feel at home. personally, i just think that would be really, really nice.

[ninadove]

watching character ai lukadrien create the most heart wrenching debilitatingly angsty love story to ever love story ever

Hey, I can tell there’s no malice behind your ask, but — don’t do that.

I write fanfiction myself, and a lot goes into it:

1. Unreasonable amounts of ✨ Time and Effort ✨

Just the other day, my WIP kept me up until 2 AM, because I wanted it to be neatly polished before even sending it to my beta readers (@paracosmicfawn and @dragongutsixofficial). The first thing I did the following morning was re-read it again, to correct any typos and inconsistencies my tired brain might have missed the night prior.

2. Research and analysis

For a cute little Lukadrien scene I wrote with my ✨ awesome girlfriend ✨ — something that was never even going to be published — I went through a dozen different sources trying to get a better understanding of what meditation actually is and to capture the philosophy behind it accurately. This does not make me special — all authors do it out of dedication and love for their craft, but it’s energy that could be spent doing literally anything else, especially when you consider how horrifyingly lonely the writing process can be (see point 1).

Also, there’s a reason I spend so much time making analysis posts on Silly Little Blorbos who do not exist! It gets my brain running and allows me to sharpen my understanding of the characters, so I can write them properly in my works.

3. A unique perspective on the characters, the source media, and life in general

Which gives all the flavour to my favourite AO3 works out there.

Like, yes, that extract you sent in your follow-up ask is cute, I guess, but it’s also incredibly generic:

When actual living breathing human (or Senti) beings share their work with you, they’re inviting you to a special part of their brain that they’ve decorated with their own experiences, references and visuals — things that they love and passed onto their favourite characters, so they can hopefully reach you. For instance, Character AI would never have had the genius idea to compare Felix’s eyes to an aurora borealis; this could have only sparked from @wackus-bonkus-maximus’ brain. Similarly, my version of Felix will often reference works of art and literature that left a strong impact on me as a child — an impact I’m sure can also be sensed in my approach to storytelling and even in the way I structure sentences and paragraphs.

Which leads me to my final and most important point:

4. EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE™

Because let’s be real — there’s a reason our brains latch onto certain characters, and said reasons aren’t always sunshine and rainbows. I’ve cried more writing about the Senticousins than over the loss of certain people or relationships in my own life. Long before that, I latched onto Clive and gave him everything I felt was missing from my life as a teenager, so I could live vicariously through him. And of course, I always make my characters some flavour of queer, because for a long time this was the only outlet I got for my own feelings and identity.

It takes a lot of vulnerability to put all of this on the Internet for others to read and judge, and it’s very disheartening to see that people would rather ask a machine to spit out some easily digestible but impersonal interactions than give your work a chance.

I can guarantee there are beautiful pieces of fanwork out there that will cater to your tastes and haunt you for years in a way Character AI or Chat GPT never could. And the good news is — if you don’t find anything, it means it’s time to write it yourself!

And of course, I cannot end this post without encouraging everyone to read about the writers’ and actors’ strike currently unfolding in the US.

[hudine]

This came into my head, just a snippet really after playing Baldur’s Gate 3 while listening to Witcher fanfiction I downloaded from AO3 and get a screen reader to read for me; all the while with a temperature of 102.3F or roughly 39C. This is when you are supposed to gather allies during act 3…. No real spoilers for BG3 but one for The Witcher 3. This is also a Fae!Jaskier snippet of a fic

In the flickering light of the campfire, Jaskier the bard stood slightly apart from the rest, his mind racing through realms of possibilities, not all of them confined to the world of music and poetry. Tonight, he had a different kind of audience in mind—Jergal, the Lord of the End of Everything, who had manifested on this plane as Withers.

"Jergal," Jaskier began, his voice confident yet infused with a respectful tone, as he approached the ancient god. The camp was quiet, the rest of the party attending to their gear, oblivious to the conversation that was about to unfold.

"Indeed," replied the god, his voice as dry as the dust of forgotten tombs. "And to what do I owe the honor of this direct address, Prince of the Fae?"

Jaskier smiled, the title echoing with irony even here, in a realm so distant from his own. "I come to discuss a matter of balance and transition. You preside over the fate of souls, guiding them to their rightful afterlives. But what if a soul's rightful place is not within the confines of this world or its celestial realms?"

Jergal's empty sockets seemed to deepen, considering. "Continue," he intoned.

Jaskier stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "These Witchers, they belong to another reality. Their souls were never meant to traverse the pathways of this world's afterlife. By resurrecting them here, aren't you merely adjusting their course, redirecting them to continue their fight in a different form of existence, akin to an afterlife?"

Jergal paused, the skeletal fingers of one hand tapping against his chin—a gesture almost human, thought Jaskier. "Your words are woven with the cunning of your kind," Jergal finally said. "But they hold a kernel of truth. These souls, if unclaimed by other deities or powers, might indeed be considered for such... relocation. What do you propose?"

Jaskier's eyes glinted with the thrill of the gamble. "For every Witcher's soul you agree to resurrect, I will pay two hundred gold pieces. Their names will only be offered by those who knew them in life, and there must be no other claim upon their spirits."

"A novel form of afterlife," mused Jergal, a ghost of amusement in his tone. "Very well, Prince Jaskier. Who will you name first?"

"Vesemir of Kaer Morhen," Jaskier replied promptly. "Slain in the defence against the Wild Hunt, a mere five years ago."

With a gesture from Withers, the air shimmered, and the form of Vesemir coalesced by the fire. His eyes, sharp and clear, flicked from Jaskier to the god standing before him.

"Where am I?" Vesemir's voice was rough with confusion.

Jaskier stepped forward, quickly explaining the situation and the role Vesemir could now play. Understanding dawned in the old Witcher's eyes, followed by a spark of determination.

"Then let's begin," Vesemir said, turning to Withers. "I can name quite a few who deserve another chance to swing a blade."

As Jaskier and Vesemir listed names, Withers, bound by the terms of their agreement, summoned each Witcher back into existence. The gold piled by Jaskier dwindled, but with each resurrection, the camp grew louder, more boisterous with reunions and disbelief.

By the time Geralt returned with Tav, Astarion, and Gale, the camp was transformed. Witchers long thought lost to the world were now laughing, sharing stories, and yes, liberally sampling the camp's stock of alcohol.

"What's happened here?" Geralt asked, his voice a mix of shock and awe as he recognised familiar faces from his past, some from his very childhood.

"Jaskier happened," Vesemir chuckled, clapping the bard on the back. "He's found us a new kind of afterlife—one with a bit more fighting and a lot more drinking."

Geralt looked at Jaskier, a mix of emotions playing across his face. Finally, he smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Only you, Jaskier, could orchestrate the resurrection of an army and turn it into a festival."

Jaskier bowed slightly, his face alight with mischief and pride. "Well, we have battles to fight, and who better to fight them with than brothers long thought lost?"

The camp buzzed with energy as the newly resurrected Witchers swapped tales with their saviour, making plans for the coming conflict. Geralt moved among them, every so often looking back at Jaskier with a shake of his head and a grin. He always was good with loopholes and pushing boundaries.

Finding out he was actually a Seelie Prince who got himself stuck without access to his magic within Geralt’s world honestly didn’t surprise him when he thought about it. He had always suspected Jaskier had some fae ancestry especially once it became obvious that he wasn’t aging. Also no bard, no matter how talented, could write a song like Toss A Coin and have it spread so far and so fast and actually make people believe that it’s good luck to toss coins at Witchers. At least it was better than rocks. Coins hurt just as much sometimes but at least you can spend a coin unlike a rock.

[aemonds-little-belle]

FEELINGS SOLD SEPARATLY

CHAPTER TEN (THE ACTUAL RULES)

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader

TAGS - (REPOSTED FROM AO3)

Alternate Universe - Sugar DaddySugar BabySugar Baby AUAUokay this is a whole ass story that's just one long ass brain fartliterally i am just coming up with this on the spotlow key really love it thoughSugar Baby/Sugar Daddyobviouslytalks of class issuesaemonds been hurt in the pasti think there will be some sexy stuff eventuallywait fuck i didn't mention this is a modern!aumodern!AUAlternate Universe - Modern Setting<3Aemond "One-Eye" Targaryen is Bad at Feelingsstop that was recommended but so accurateI don't know how to do tagsI'm SorryI promise it's goodAnd no one diesand it's just so classically a sugar baby/ sugar daddy au it hurtsreader works at a cafe ... obviouslythis will follow a similar storyline to the show just modern and also not at allFamily Issueswait probably dom/sub vibes tooDom/subLight Dom/subclearly i don't know where this is going yetmy readers are always written fat because i am fatso keep that in mindSlow Burnit's so slowbut I think it's greatlike genuinely two idiots in lovebut they take soooo long to noticeUghI love fanfiction

+ + + + + +

“Sure.” Aemond cleared his throat, not expecting her excitement, nor her want to begin immediately. “Any ideas?” He asked, trying to hide his own excitement. He had never made rules with a sugar baby before, always making them himself, alone in his office as he began to dictate how a person would act around him. But this was different, he didn’t want the rules to be there just so she could be palatable, she was all he wanted, and he wanted to ensure she wouldn't lose her spark around him just to comply with the stupid rules. But he knew she wanted these, rules to help guide her, rules that allowed him the subtle power over her every move that the two of them were silently enjoying, and he wasn’t sure how to write those kinds of rules. 

“Um.” Y/n pondered, her eyes glancing at the blank paper and then back to Aemond. “What rules did your past Sugar Babies follow?” Y/n asked, her words losing volume as she went, like she was hesitant to ask. 

“Their rules don’t matter.” Aemond said, fixing the page to face him, the pen now in his hand, his eye still on Y/n. 

“I know I’m not like the past girls, Aemond, but their rules could work as a rough outline.” Y/n explained, her hands reaching for her coffee. “There can’t be too many past rules that revolve around money.” ‘That’s not how you're different, little dragon.’

Aemond hummed then reached forward, taking the coffee cup from her hands before she could sip it. “Water first, then you can have your coffee.” He put the cup down out of arm's reach, smirking at Y/n’s pout as she began drinking her water, as if the removal of coffee from her hands was a punishment for some unknown crime. 

“I honestly don’t know where to start.” Y/n huffed. “So knowing their rules …” 

Y/n wasn’t cut off by Aemond’s voice, but the clicking of a pen before he began to write on the paper, the number one rule spot soon filled. ‘My answers are final’, Aemond looked up to Y/n as her mouth opened, no doubt some slightly witty comment on the tip of her tongue. ‘Do not talk back to me.’ Y/n just pouted, stumped. “Are you finished?” 

“Maybe.” Y/n took another sip of her water, dead set on getting her coffee back from Aemond’s long arms only jail. 

“Obvious rules include ones we’ve already gone over.” He added, quickly jotting down a few more rules as Y/n just nodded her head. ‘You will spend your weekends with me.’, ‘You will go out to dinner with me at least once a week.’, ‘You will attend social functions, gatherings, and family events as my plus one.’, ‘You will not be in any other arrangement, or romantic relationship, while employed.’, ‘Always have your phone on your person.’, ‘Respond to my calls and text messages within a timely and appropriate manner.’ “And then the reason I pulled the rules out in the first place.” ‘Do not use the word ‘fine’, explain how you feel clearly’, Y/n took a second to read the full thing, though Aemond’s handwriting was obnoxiously clear, the page was upside down and that type of reading wasn’t her strong suit.

“The last one might be hard.” Y/n admitted, looking to Aemond, her eyes silently pleading him to take it off.

“Little dragon.” Aemond chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee, almost mockingly. “The rules aren’t meant to be easy, they're meant to help guide you, help you learn and maintain better habits.” Y/n nodded her head, her gaze leaving his, the stare a little too vulnerable, a little too intense. She was giving Aemond the reins to her life, allowing him to choose what is good for her, what she needs, allowing him to guide her, instruct her, and she was nervous, not at the idea of giving herself over to him, but nervous t=she would disappoint him somehow. “Little dragon?” Aemond asked, a soft and gentle tone lacing his words. 

“Hmm?” 

“I lost you for a second there.” He chuckled softly. “Everything okay?” 

“Um, yeah.” She smiled. “I’m just, I know you’ll take money off the charity fund when I break a rule.” Aemond nodded his head. “But will you be mad when I break a rule?” She questioned, looking to him with a glimmer of fear in her eyes, the thought of making Aemond mad more of a punishment than anything else. 

“I won’t be mad, little dragon.” He reassured. “I might be disappointed, but I won’t be mad.” 

“Okay.” She nodded her head, anxiety washing over her features. 

Aemond huffed out a puff of air, he was used to making rules for girls who had done something like this before, so he wasn’t sure how to reassure Y/n that breaking the rules wouldn’t be the end of the world, hell most sugar babies broke the rules on purpose. “I don’t expect you to follow the rules perfectly.” He began. “The rules are new, and difficult, you’ll break quite a few in the beginning.” He could see Y/n shift in her seat uncomfortably. “But it doesn’t matter how many of them you break, what matters is if you learn from your mistakes or not.” Y/n nodded her head, slowly understanding what Aemond meant. “We can take a break from making them if you’d like.” He offered. 

“No, it’s okay. I want to keep going.” She answered. “It’s just all new, but thank you.” she smiled, her hands in her lap fiddling with one another. “What’s next?” 

+

The two of them sat at their table, pancakes, coffee, and waters slowly taking up space, the paper adorning a few spills, and maple syrup finger prints, but they finished the rules, the paper filled to the brim with Aemond’s writing and Y/n’s input, the page flipped over halfway through, new numbers added at some point. “What about you?” Y/n asked, the pen now sitting on the table. 

“What about me?” 

“Do you get any rules?” Y/n asked, Aemond chuckling. “I’m serious.” She pouted. “Shouldn’t you have rules too?” 

“Hmm.” Aemond sat back, crossing his arms over his chest, his sweater’s sleeves rolled up. “And what rules would you give me?” He asked playfully. 

“Um.” Y/n pretended to ponder, finger tapping her chin, eyes to the sky before giggling. “Um, I don’t know.” She said, defeated. “Well, maybe you have to call me ‘little dragon’ more often.” 

“And why is that?” Aemond didn’t truly care about the reasoning, he wished to call her little dragon more himself, though he was worried it was overstepping or awkward. 

“Because I like it, and if it’s in the rules you have to do it.” She smiled. 

“Hmm.” Aemond hummed, eye trained on Y/n as she smiled. “Any other requests?” 

“You’re not writing anything down.” 

“I called it a request for a reason, little dragon. I make the rules, I don’t follow them.” he smirked. 

“Well, can I request my coffee?” Y/n asked, holding up her empty water cup, gesturing it as a trade for the mug on the other side of the table. 

“Hmm.” Aemond smirked, putting the once forgotten, now most likely cold, cup in front of her. Y/n didn’t even bat an eye at the temperature, just pouring the coffee into her empty water cup, the ice sloshing around as she grabbed some sugar and cream from the bowl, Aemond staring at her as if she had just committed a crime, or said something at the wrong time. “You’re quite interesting, little dragon.” Y/n eyes met his. “Why?” She smiled, a slight chuckle leaving her lips. 

“You enjoy cold coffee.” He shook his head. 

“Well you drank all of the hot coffee.” She pointed to the now empty pot. “And I won’t waste a perfectly good cup of coffee.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Plus iced coffee is refreshing. You should try it.” She slid the cup over to Aemond, his eye trained on it, mind overthinking the gesture. 

“Hmm.” Aemond picked the cup up, taking a sip, before setting it down again, Y/n staring at him waiting for his poker face to crack. “It’s not bad.” He admitted, his voice low and emotionless. 

“Just admit that you love it!” 

“I don’t love it.” 

Y/n pouted but moved on, grabbing the piece of paper and the pen, scribbling a title under her own rules. ‘Requests for Aemond.’ The writing was clearly different from Aemonds neat, clear writing, but it would have to do, seeing as he wouldn’t do it himself. ‘Please call me ‘little dragon’ more often.’ “What else, what else?” She hit the pen against her chin, Aemond chuckling at her theatrical performance. ‘Please roll your sleeves up more often.’ Aemond looked to Y/n, his expression puzzled. “I like your tattoo, I want to see it more often.” She hardly whispered, as if it was a great secret that couldn’t be shared. Aemond smirked at her confession. “What?” Y/n questioned, a little offended that he found this funny. 

“Nothing, I just find this tattoo my least appealing one.” His smirk remained as he looked to his arm, his hand brushing over the ink. 

“Do you have more than just this one?” Y/n was immediately in need of more information. 

“Hmm.” Aemond just hummed, his expression hardened, ‘He’s so attractive’. “Maybe.” 

“Maybe? It’s a yes or no question!” Y/n was desperate to know, she never really found tattoos on men attractive, but the thought of a man who held so much power, a man who was so professional, hiding tattoos under his suits as he went about his day? Her mouth seemed to water. “Aemond, please! Please.” She hated how pathetic she sounded, but she needed to know. “I’m just curious, please, help me out here.” 

Aemond’s eye seemed to harden, his smirk even more malicious than before, his arms crossed across his chest once more, his body radiating power, Y/n shut her mouth, giving up her previous fight. “Hmm, don’t stop begging on my account.” Y/n’s face heated up in embarrassment, he was clearly enjoying himself, and enjoying the show she was giving him, she just wasn’t sure if she should continue. Aemond leaned forward. “Your pouty lips might be cute, little dragon, but I would much rather see them do something else.” He whispered, Y/n’s eyes growing wide. 

Before Y/n could truly react Daris had interrupted them. “How is everything here?” He asked, completely oblivious to the tension at the table. 

“Good!” Y/n squeaked out, Aemond chuckling at her clearly shocked expression, her hands stumbling over one another as she tried to stack the dishes. 

Aemond’s hand landed on hers, gently taking the shaking plate out of hers as he took over, gathering the dishes in a calm and collected manor, as if he didn’t just say something so … ‘AHHHHHHHH’. “I’ll be up in just a minute to pay, Daris.” Aemond looked to Y/n who was already staring back at him, like she was trying to decode some foreign language that was written on his forehead. “Are you okay, little dragon?” Aemond chuckled, his chest swelling with pride, he enjoyed knowing his words affected her this much. 

“Mhm.” Y/n smiled, through her eyes read more shock than happiness. 

“Words please.” He commanded, ‘What the fuck is he trying to do? Kill me?’ ‘I can tell this is killing her. I love it.’ 

“I’m okay!” Her words weren’t believable in the slightest, Aemond smirking at her attempt to seem normal. “Are you okay?” Her question came out slightly squeaky. 

“Hmm.” Aemond turned and fished out his wallet, Y/n’s eyes following him as he stood up, towering over the tables. The front counter wasn’t a far walk, but as he made his way up to pay, Y/n couldn’t take her eyes off of him, watching as his hair swayed slightly, his tattoo fading into black blobs as he got further and further. ‘He’s going to be the death of me.’ ‘She’s going to be the death of me’. 

+

THE RULES 

My answers are final

Do not talk back to me 

You will spend your weekends with me, and stay at my apartment if requested 

You will go out to dinner with me at least once a week

You will not be in any other arrangement, or romantic relationship, while employed by me

You will attend social functions, gatherings, and family events as my plus one

You will always have your phone on your person 

Respond to my calls and text messages within a timely and appropriate manner

Do not use the word ‘fine’, explain how you feel clearly

You will alert me to any personal, financial, emotional, or physical conflicts going on while employed 

Do not lie to me

If I can not drive you; You must get a cab home, and you must let me pay for it

I am your superior, not your equal, remember to treat me as such

Make sure you take care of yourself; Brush your teeth daily, sleep at least seven hours, drink enough water, eat enough food, etc

Outfits for social functions, gatherings, and family events will be purchased by me, and worn by you, for the occasion 

You will not participate in activities that actively put your life in danger; Excessive drinking, recreational drugs, reckless physical activities, ect

Doctor appointments will be scheduled and attended, by the both of us, to ensure you’re healthy and thriving, once a month

If you break a rule there will be no begging, bartering, or arguing, the punishment is final, and will be followed through 

If you are uncomfortable at any time with my behavior, or with the rules, alert me immediately using a safe word - ‘Fire’

Aemond’s Requests 

Please call me ‘little dragon’ more often

Please roll your sleeves up more often

By - Y/n 

[missmeasured]

I did something Outside the comfort zone and recorded chapter one of my fanfiction into a podfic!

Severus/reader

Warnings: explicit, student teacher relationship, sexual content

A teaser:

'Good girl.' he whispered in my mind. 'Open your thighs for me.' How had I ended up in Professor Snape's bathtub after he had sworn he would not lay a finger on me?

—:-:—

The note read simply "My Office. Immediately after dinner." On Monday Professor Snape saved me from falling off a moving staircase. Sparks shot out of our hands where our skin made contact as he pulled me to safety. Over the course of the week I have become obsessed, and uncontrollably aroused thinking of him constantly. I feel his eyes on me. I catch him looking at me. Nothing brings relief from the arousing day dreams churning through my mind since Monday. I fear I've gone completely mad. It's Friday and now I have this note. I know who it's from.

This is a reader(she/her)/Severus Snape story. The reader is not described in any way nor given a house. It's written in first person and instead of doing the name inserts I just write around it. Begins before Harry comes to Hogwarts then eventually a time skip to the war.

I have several chapters in written form posted on Wattpad and Ao3. I plan to keep recording the chapters each weekend as long as I get alright feedback. This is really a passion project I wrote for myself, but it's my first time posting fan-fiction as an adult and I'd love to hear from readers.

All the characters and locations belong to J.K. Rowling. (I do not support or condone her. )

The Stars on the Staircase - Chapter 1 Bathtime by Miss Measured on #SoundCloud

[summercourtship]

stay to burn (only to drown instead): chapter nine: treachery [part I]

masterpost | ao3 link

jonathan crane x reader; bruce wayne x reader; edward nashton x reader | warnings: canon typical violence, sexual content | word count: 4040 words

DISCLAIMER: these chapters are not meant to be read alone. not every chapter has content for one of the three pairings listed. this is an ongoing fanfiction that I am cross-posting here on tumblr, not a series of one-shots.

chapter one |previous part

You’ve been having the same nightmare for the past week, so it's no surprise when it visits you again.

It starts with you, standing alone in a darkened Gotham Square Garden. The arena is flooded, a few feet of water laying stagnant at the bottom, fliers and confetti littering its surface like autumn leaves on a still pond. Above you, the rafters rock quietly but upon looking you see that there are no masked men hiding among the metal pathways, no one aiming weapons at you waiting for the best moment to strike.

However, just as you think that you are alone, someone says your name behind you, a voice you recognize and yet can’t immediately place. It morphs whenever you start to grasp at who it is, and when you turn they are just a dark figure, silhouetted in red light with no discernable features.

It was a shadow, a ghost. A creature from the deepest recesses of your imagination, perhaps. Mimicking just to trick you into a deadly mistake.

They say your name again, and even in the darkness you can tell they are holding out a hand towards you, beckoning you closer. You hesitate, but there is nowhere else to go. Looking behind you only confirms that the Garden is entirely flooded. A wire from the rafters swings dangerously close to the water, spraying sparks into the pool every few seconds.

You turn back to the figure only now it’s a recognizable silhouette, a silhouette anyone in Gotham would know immediately. A silhouette you’ve met multiple times, the man who’s been your savior in your worst moments.

Even as your mind screams at you that it was a trick, your feet stutter against the concrete floor as you take a faltering step towards the Batman.

Then, just as you’ve extended your own arm towards him, a hand winds around your body and grips your neck, achingly familiar as it squeezes against your windpipe, stealing your breath.

Someone is standing behind you, their body suddenly pressed flush to yours. As you begin to gasp for air, begging for reprieve from the force keeping it from you, the hand pulls you backwards, not letting its grip lessen even as the body behind you disappears and your back hits the water and the liquid fills your mouth instead of the air you so desperately craved, choking you as you watch the flashing red and blue light fade beneath the water, sparks sprinkling over the water and someone is screaming as distant gunshots ring out-

You woke up.

Not dramatically like in the movies, there was no gasping for air or grasping at your chest, no springing up like you’d been shocked awake. All you did was open your eyes and stare, heart racing as your mind struggled to recognize your location and reconcile the fact that you were, in fact, dreaming before. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you noticed Jonathan sitting up, his head angled your way. Watching you. He gave no indication if he’d been watching for a while or if he just started when you woke up, though you felt like you could guess which one it was.

“Nightmare?” His voice was low, barely louder than a whisper. You struggled to hear his voice over the droning hum of the air conditioning. Central air. It's more than what you had in your apartment and honestly a big component of your decision to spend more nights with Jonathan.

Slowly, your gaze slid upwards, meeting Jonathan’s. His eyebrows were raised, but his eyes were bored. Or just tired, you couldn’t really tell in the low lighting of his bedroom.

“Yeah.” Your voice was thick with sleep, gravelly and grating in your throat. “I’ve been having them… more often recently.” You rolled onto your back, looking at the clock on the bedside table. 3:31 AM. Confused, you looked back to Jonathan. “Why are you awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” He reached over to you, brushing away a stray drop of sweat you hadn’t noticed building on your forehead. You watch, dumbfounded and unsure if your mind was still in the middle of a sleep cycle, as he brings it to his mouth, his tongue darting out to gather it from his finger.

Deciding to ignore both him and the odd twinge of lust that the movement caused, you turned away from him, your mind preoccupied with your dream. With each passing night since your encounter with the Scarecrow, the images had become more and more realistic. You wondered if there were lingering traces of the fear gas that had made their home in your subconscious, nestled in the crevices of your brain and only aroused at nighttime when your logical defenses were down.

Jonathan shifted behind you, molding his body against yours. You didn’t react, staring at the tiny sliver of light that broke into the room through the crack in Jonathan’s blinds. Too early to be the light of the sun, it was just the ever present glow of the city creeping into his room.

“Tell me about it.”

You shivered as he ran a hand down your exposed arm, lingering over your hand like he was debating grasping it. Not to hold, he wasn’t the type, but to instead maneuver you like a marionette puppet. You resisted the urge to shrug his touch off of you, disliking the texture of his palm on your skin.

“You’re not my therapist.”

Are you behaving like a petulant child?

“I’m not anyone’s therapist.” You can hear the smirk in his words, spoken into your hair, a warm spot at the base of your neck. “I’m a psychiatrist.”

“You know what I meant.”

You watched as the clock turned to 3:33 AM. Angel number, you think. You don’t know what it means. (You looked it up, once, but promptly forgot it when it had no relevance to your life.)

“I would rather not talk about it.” Your words are stilted, wooden, like you’re trying to keep any emotion from bleeding through and starting a longer conversation. You just wanted to go back to sleep, if that was even possible.

You never told Jonathan about meeting the Scarecrow. You told yourself it was because you didn’t want to worry him the way you worried yourself over it. Not because you haven’t quite figured out how you feel about the whole encounter. Not because sometimes, late at night, you think about the way his body felt when pressed against yours-

“It will make you feel better.”

“I feel fine.” You turned to look at him over your shoulder, not flinching when his dull eyes were honed in on yours, peering into your eyes like he could glean the truth from them. “It's just a nightmare.”

Somehow, you fell asleep again, lulled by Jonathan stroking your arm. You have no more dreams that night, at least not any that are worth remembering.

The next morning, you chew your cereal slowly, reading the back of the box as if you hadn’t absorbed its information within the first five minutes of seeing it. The cereal itself was yours, a box that you had stuffed into the bag of clothes you brought over to keep at his place. You would never expect Jonathan to buy you cheap cereal like this just to keep at his apartment.

Jonathan was leaning against the counter across from the table, watching you eat. Neither of you discussed the nightmare anymore, the conversation put to bed when you fell back asleep.

“Would you like to come over again after work-”

Putting the spoon into the bowl, you paused in your eating, looking up at him. The clatter of the spoon on the ceramic bowl had been a bit loud in the early morning, but you couldn’t be bothered to look apologetic about it now.

“I can’t, I’m not going in today.”

His face barely changed in reaction, though you could see a quick twitch in his cheek as he absorbed the information. He was annoyed, then.

“Why?”

“I have a- There’s this luncheon for my internship, so I can’t- I’m sorry.” You gave him your best sympathetic wince. You weren’t sure if you actually meant it or not- you had spent a lot of time with him over the past week. While that was mostly your own doing, having not wanted to be alone after being drugged and seeing your greatest fears come to life in front of you, you were feeling the lack of personal time keenly.

Crucify me for wanting some alone time, then.

“Don’t worry though, I’m making up the hours next week, one of the days you aren’t scheduled. I’ll come in and do some menial tasks, file some papers. Things I’ve been meaning to do but haven’t been able to.” You gave him a pointed look that was laced with suggestion, even though the two of you rarely engaged in any uncouth activity during work hours. Really Jonathan just gave you so much work to do when you were both there that you didn’t have time to go down to the basement and file things for three consecutive hours.

Honestly, you were looking forward to the mundanity of it all.

“I wasn’t worried about you getting your hours in.”

You sighed. While you may have been willing to be petulant and snippy in the middle of the night, it seemed pointless in the brightness of morning and you lost the will to fight quickly.

Appetite lost, you grabbed your bowl and crossed the room to the sink, standing next to Jonathan as he watched you work.

“I’m sorry I forgot to tell you. I honestly forgot about it completely until the other day when they emailed us a reminder.”

He looked down at his hands.

“And it’s not too late to not take the internship?”

There it was.

“We’ve been over this, I already signed all of the paperwork-” You stopped yourself, unwilling to go over the same argument with him that you’d already had. Multiple times. And everytime, you stopped yourself from saying what you really wanted to.

This is about control, isn’t it? You’re upset because I got something without your help. And now you want me to acquiesce so you can sink your claws into my flesh deeper than they already were.

And they were deep. So deep that you weren’t even truly upset when he wanted you to give up your internship. It was annoying to have the same conversation over and over but you were almost pleased that he wanted to keep you close.

Everything about your relationship with Jonathan was conflicting, confusing.

You sighed, drying your hands on your pants.

“...I can come over to your place after the luncheon.”

He nodded, murmuring his soft agreement. He reached over, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His hand lingered on your jaw, caressing your face.

Despite yourself, you leaned into his touch, relishing in the warmth on your skin.

The shirt you’d picked out to wear was uncomfortably tight around your armpits, like they hadn’t cut the arm-hole big enough. Business casual was just hard to pull off during the summer time, the clothes all looking a bit too mid-2010s for your fashion taste. The uncomfortable cut was all you could focus on during the entire first thirty minutes of the luncheon, pretending to listen to the speaker as he exalted the interns and the “new directions Wayne Enterprises will take with your contributions”.

For some reason, you doubted he was speaking to you when he said that. What changes were you going to implement by going through old documents and updating archival systems? No, the speeches were for the flashy technology and administration internships, the ones that could actually do something world-changing in the future.

And you, for your part, would be there to make sure it was filed away correctly.

Then, just as you were starting to regret coming to the luncheon in the first place, you were all dismissed and told to help yourself to the food and drinks, to chat amongst yourselves, make connections. You watched, distant in your own mind, as everyone else seemed to immediately find someone to socialize with. You were a background character as all of the other interns who’d been picked out of the endless crops of applicants were busy making important working relationships already.

Futures were being paved at this luncheon and you were just standing by, letting your champagne get warm.

Squandered the opportunity already, dumbass.

You rocked back and forth on the balls of your feet, trying not to wring your fingers or seem too terribly out of place at the luncheon. Wayne Enterprises’ reception space was large and overly spacious, the same tall windows that lined the front wall of the lobby taking up an entire side of the room here. It was chic, in a minimalistically corporate sort of way. The kind of room where you felt entirely out of place and like you should be the one holding the trays with expensive drinks on it.

To your side, a soft voice says your name like a question, like your presence at the luncheon is a surprise, bringing you out of your cycle of self-loathing you had sucked yourself into.

You turned, eyebrows raised as you tried your best to not appear bored or anxious or overwhelmed or any of the other endless emotions you were feeling right now. But when you saw who’s standing behind you, your face relaxed even though it was a man you’d only met once months ago.

Bruce Wayne.

You couldn’t keep the obvious relief out of your voice as you greeted him, an exhale of words as you recognized that there is at least one other person at this event who probably felt as out of place as you do. Even though he had no real reason to, it’s his own damn company. “How have you been?”

“Well, for the last hour I’ve been trying to think of a way to get out of here.” He grimaced. In response, you laughed, ignoring the way it was too loud and the way someone else briefly looked over at you with slight distaste on their face before they realized who you were talking to and stared at him instead.

It seemed you were not the only one surprised by his presence.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to escape this.” You gestured to the room around you, the conversating groups lost in their discussions created a dull hum over the room. Someone, somewhere was playing light jazz on the piano. “I have to stay for a little while, at least, or else why did I bother coming down? You have to stay to presumably talk with your future employees.” Taking a quick sip of your drink, you decided to blame the heat in your cheeks on the alcohol. “There is no leaving for us.”

“I don’t want to, at least not anymore.” His smile was wry and you found yourself consciously keeping yourself from leaning in closer to him. “What have you been up to since… February?”

“I, um,” you paused, the pause you always have when you tell people where you work, looking down into your glass as the last few bubbles of champagne burst. It really was too early in the day to be drinking. “I work down at Arkham. Just as an assistant, you know, nothing too impressive.”

And I regularly interact with a man who tried to blow you up. It’s an awkward thought. But you wonder if that's what he thought about when Arkham Asylum was brought up. Though, as far as you know, Bruce Wayne has no shortage of people who hate him, so maybe Edward isn’t that special.

“Always an assistant, aren’t you?”

You tilted your head to the side, narrowing your eyes slightly. Did he mean that to be a jab, or was he just clueless, like all wealthy people, about how things sounded sometimes when they left his mouth? Or, the more likely option: were you simply looking into his words too much? Sighing, you looked down at the floor. Your shoes were new, bought specifically for the internship, and they still had that out-of-the-box shininess to them.

“Everyone starts somewhere.” You paused, looking back up at him. “Some of us just start further down the ladder than others.”

He didn’t respond and for a moment you thought that you’ve irreparably offended him somehow by implying that he had it easy due to being born rich (because he did, that was simply a fact). But if he’s offended by what you said, maybe you shouldn’t even bother talking with him. You decided then that if he did anything to indicate that you had stepped out of line by acknowledging the wealth difference between the two of you, you would leave the conversation and find something else to do because what was the point in-

“Point taken.”

The relief you felt, however, after he succinctly concedes your point, negates any conviction you might have felt before. You wanted to keep talking with Bruce and the idea of cutting off your conversation and severing the connection you felt with him because of some arbitrary moral conviction made your stomach churn.

“Um, but I’m hoping this internship will open some new doors for me.”

“I’m sure it will.” He sounded so assured that you couldn’t help but believe him. You turned slightly to look over the room, taking a miniscule sip of your drink. Elizabeth, the internship coordinator who you had your interview with, spotted you from a few groups down at the same moment you looked her way, making her smile and excuse herself from the group she was talking with. Like your eye contact had been an invitation.

“Hello again-” You can tell the moment she noticed who you were talking to based on the look of shocked surprise that was clear on her face before she quickly hid it with another beaming smile. “Oh! Mr. Wayne, what a surprise! Do you know this young lady?”

“We met at an event earlier this year.” Bruce gave up no more information, simply smiling to denote that he was done talking.

“Well, we’re very excited to have her, her application was incredibly interesting. A very talented writer.” She turned her smile back to you, of which you returned a much more muted version. But inside you were slowly cringing into yourself, hoping she wouldn’t focus on the topic of your writing sample. “I’m still waiting to read the rest of that paper.”

Ah, fuck.

“Oh, well, I actually never-”

“What was it about?” Bruce interrupts, seeming genuinely curious.

You froze, suddenly mortified at the prospect of telling him that you wrote (half of) a paper on Arkham’s most recent terroristic acquisition. The same one that you have had at least a few memorable encounters with, most within the past two months, not that anyone needs to know about that. Elizabeth simply kept her grin on her face, oblivious to the predicament she had put you in. Even though you knew that she was just trying to help you out, you couldn’t help but curse her silently for bringing it up.

Sighing, you decided to take the easy way out.

“It’s focus was primarily around the election last year-” You paused, realizing that the second anniversary of the events was only a few months away, and last year was no longer an apt description, as awful as that sounded to you, “-actually, two years ago.”

You could see from the varying looks on both Bruce and Elizabeth’s face that they expected you to elaborate more- Bruce’s was more confused while Elizabeth seemed to be silently encouraging you with a smile. But you kept your mouth shut, and the pause hung in the air until Elizabeth clapped her hands together.

“Well, again, I’d love to read the rest of it.”

You had a feeling that she’d never let up on this point and that for the entirety of your internship you’d have to dodge the request. After a few more awkward pleasantries- she obviously was unused to conversing with Bruce and seemed a bit unsure of how she should go about it- she left, spotting another person she wanted to hype up. You watched as she left, conflicted between feeling annoyed at her intrusion or impressed by her dedication.

“What are your plans for tonight?”

You looked back at Bruce, quickly hiding your surprise at his frank question.

“I’m going over to my-” You stopped, once again hitting the roadblock of what to call Jon, but decided that Bruce didn’t need to know that much about your life right now, “-partner’s place.”

“Ah.” He didn’t sound as disappointed as someone who asked that kind of question and got that kind of answer. More like he was confirming something he already suspected. “Dr. Crane?”

“How- why do you think that?” You stumbled over yourself, cringing when you inadvertently confirmed what he had asked through your hasty correction.

“I remember the gala.” He stated it like it was obvious, like the gala had been just a week ago and not seven months ago. That was a long time to remember a miniscule fact like who you were with. Besides, a lot could change over seven months and yet he was acting like you were the weird one for thinking it was odd that he assumed you were romantically involved with your professor. Then you remembered how he had held the same assumption back then, that you and Dr. Crane were together.

“So do I.” You were suddenly gripped with curiosity when you remembered that he’d disappeared when the attack began. “I’ve been wondering, where did you go when there was that attack? You know, when they were taking people hostage?”

Actually, you’d only wondered for the week after the gala before you were distracted by other things in your life. You’d known he was safe- the events at the gala were reported upon extensively after, though the focus was, of course, on the wealthier attendants. And who in the city was wealthier than Bruce Wayne? But none of the newspapers and magazines covered where he had gone during the actual events, just that the city’s golden boy was safe.

But the easy subject change was right in front of you and you would be damned if you weren’t going to take advantage of it to take the heat off of you and your relationships.

“Nowhere. I was there the entire time.”

You narrowed your eyes. You didn’t think he was lying to you, not exactly, but he was definitely hiding something. Then you stopped, softening your expression when you realized that you didn’t know him well enough to be scrutinizing him like this. He didn’t owe you any explanations.

“I must have just missed you after… shit hit the fan.”

But the look he gave you told you that he didn’t think you believed him. He was wary of your ready acceptance, and that was enough to reassure you that you were right in thinking he was hiding something. Still, you ignored it. This was not the time or the place to grill him on his whereabouts at an event seven months ago.

“Probably.” He shrugged with practiced ease, the sign of a man who wasn’t actually at ease but was used to pretending.

An older man, probably the head for one of the better funded departments of Wayne Enterprises, called to Bruce. He winced before rolling his eyes and smiling at you.

“Duty calls.”

“Always.” You raised your glass to him in a mock toast, dipping your head in a mock bow.

“Have fun with Dr. Crane.” He said, his smile faltering for a moment before returning just as bright. You shrugged it off.

“And you with Mr. Old Guy over there.”

He left you, not without sneaking a glance back at you as he walked away, and you once again crossed your arms and tried not to look out of place.

You’re pretty sure you failed.

next part.

[wbficaholic]

Bad Boy, a SessKag Fanfiction

Written for @gilded-sapphire's SessKag Fest 2023! -> Read on Ao3

Summary: He was the type she never knew she had, the type she couldn’t resist.

Excerpt:

It had been there from the beginning, if Kagome thought back on it. From the first time she’d seen Sesshoumaru smirking down at her from that monstrous oni’s shoulder. From the first time he’d disdained her as a ‘creature,’ and then, still looking down his nose at her in disbelieving contempt, had the gall to demand of her, ‘What are you?’—even after she’d done what he couldn’t and pulled Tessaiga from the stone.

It had been there later, when she’d shattered the spiked pauldron of his armor with her sacred arrow. When he’d plucked her next shining shot from midair and slanted his golden eyes toward her in a glare that could have scorched through solid stone. When he’d phased from view with a flicker only to reappear just before her, looming over her in open menace, and she’d met his searing eye dead-on—and if it hadn’t been for Inuyasha coming to her rescue, she didn’t know even now just what might have gone down between them.

She had the sense she wasn’t the only one who still wondered darkly about this.

Because it couldn’t just be in her head—of that, she was becoming increasingly certain. It was too tangible, too electric, this shared current of scintillating animosity that sparked to life between them whenever they were near.

It was something that went beyond the frisson of youki and reiki, something more primal, more raw and visceral than that kind of elementary clash. Something deeply personal.

He knew her name, and he called her ‘miko’ anyway. How could she not take that personally? The more their paths crossed, the more he chafed at her. His arrogance, his demonic condescension. He thought he was so powerful, so high and mighty. With flashing eyes, Kagome traced the smug, aristocratic lines of his inhuman face, and felt his own slit-pupiled stare scoring over her mortal self just as keenly.

No one else noticed these unspoken, heated exchanges. This was a private cold war they were waging, though why and to what end remained unclear. But the focus seemed to sharpen a bit more each time they crossed paths, pointed glance on pointed glance.

He’d taken in a little orphan girl. He'd stopped trying to wrest Tessaiga from Inuyasha. By and by, he’d turned his bloodthirst on Naraku instead. Sesshoumaru wasn’t a total monster. But he was still an infuriating prick. He made her teeth grind in indignation when he spoke about her to others as if she wasn’t standing right there. He made her blood boil with his cool glinting looks and scathing half-smiles.

The worst of it was, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

He made her furious, and it made her even more furious that she was so furious in the first place. She resented that just by being a jerk, he’d hijacked her emotions in this nefarious way. It was maddening. The only silver lining to her internal fuming over him was that it distracted her from the fact that Inuyasha was still hung up on Kikyou.

Kagome didn’t even realize he’d gone off again to meet up with her until she and her friends were sitting around the campfire, and she felt everyone’s eyes resting uncertainly on her. She’d been scowling again without realizing it, re-hashing the last time Sesshoumaru had gone out of his way to subtly antagonize her. She could only imagine the dark stormclouds that were shadowing her features and disconcerting her friends, who could only assume she was ruminating over Inuyasha and Kikyou.

“Oh,” she said suddenly, dispersing her thunderous expression with a smile and a wave, “sorry—I’m okay.”

“Are you sure, Kagome-chan?” Sango asked, frowning.

Kagome nodded, beaming back at her. “I was just lost in thought, that’s all. We’ve had a long day, haven’t we?”

Over the course of dinner, she managed to reassure her wary friends. The last thing she wanted to do was worry them, especially over something she couldn’t begin to put into words anyway. 

This ratcheting whipcord of tension between her and Sesshoumaru—

Kagome felt there was nothing for her to do except to wait for it to break.

⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆  Read the rest on Ao3!

Photo by Ilias Chebbi on Unsplash