#what good am i when there's no one left to use me

[theglamorousferal]

Immortal Everlasting Trio who have been exploring the Infinite Realms for the last few centuries. The three of them are flying, braiding their paths as they make their way through the Realms.

“How do you think Ellie is doing in her current incarnation?” Nightshade asks of her partners,

“Hmm probably well, she was exploring the galaxy this time right? I could always check?” Pharaoh responds, a keyboard made of sandstone appears at his fingertips.

“She feels content.” Said Phantom, soothing the worries of the other two. The stars that are freckles on his face brighten with the comment.

They swirl around each other in lazy patterns, unknowing of the passage of time, when Phantom feels a tug at his core. The trio circle up, his partners noticing the shift in mood.

“I don’t recognize this one.” He mutters to himself, placing a hand on the center of his chest. “It’s none of the family, but it is a bit familiar.” He furrowed his brow, trying to trace the sensation to its source. He closed his eyes and felt the pull of magic. “It doesn’t feel malicious, there’s desperation and curiosity for sure, but I feel no ill intent.” He thought for a moment. “I’m going to follow it. I want to know why this feels familiar”

Nightshade formed a purple bloom and tucked it behind one of his ears and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Be safe.”

Pharaoh gently took his hand and kissed it, bestowing a glass bangle to his wrist. “Don’t make stupid decisions,” he smirked, “without us.”

Phantom laughed and in a flash of bright white light he was gone.

* * *

With a flash of light so bright it temporarily blinded, Phantom appeared in a summoning circle. The room he now occupied was large, a massive sofa made up a good portion of the room and there was a kitchen off to the side. Turning around, there was a large screen with even larger windows behind it. He turned back and now saw the people in the room.

One was green with a unitard on, one was sitting criss cross in front of some candles, a book and a small cauldron, one was floating and had a mass of bright pink hair, one was a cyborg of some kind and stood at the ready with a cannon for an arm and the last was shielding his eyes with a black cape.

“Who summons me?” Phantom asked in a far quieter tone than the teens apparently expected.

The one who appeared to have done the ritual stood and spoke first. “Mighty Phantom, we seek your assistance in dealing with a massive threat to our world. The demon Trigon looks to the Earth as his next conquest.” They took a breath and looked down. “He intends to use my power to do it, and I do not have the strength to stop him.”

Phantom settled his feet on the ground and placed a hand on their shoulder. “Peace young one. Why don’t we start with introductions? As you know, I am Phantom, he/him, now who has managed to summon me?”

“I am Raven, she/her, the rest here are my team the Teen Titans.” She turned to her team, they all seemed shocked. “I apologize for them, usually they take things in stride a lot easier. This is Beast Boy, he/him, Starfire she/her, Cyborg, he/him, and Robin, he/him.”

“Hmm, may I see the text you used to summon me?” He gestured to the book on the floor. “I was not aware of anything that could summon me in this realm. It is familiar to me though, I can’t place why.”

Raven raised the book into his hand. He leafed through it humming to himself before stopping on a photo of a note that looked familiar. He smiled to himself, remembering the time a century ago to him that himself and his partners helped a small civilization and they left a way for the leader to contact them if they needed help. He skimmed the next few paragraphs and then laughed and closed the book.

“I’ll help. In fact, my partners and I will help. It’s been a long while since we were in a mortal realm. I will return in a week’s time your time to discuss what we need to do. This will work to summon us if we forget or if your danger arrives early.” He magicked a paper with a seal on it and handed it to her. “I must discuss with my partners and will do research on this Trigon. Thank you for calling us, we’ve been aimless for too many decades. Have a good night.” He vanished in another flash of light.

* * *

Phantom appeared in a flash of light cackling as he tumbled across the chess board his partners were playing on, scattering the flowers and sandstone pieces across the green sky.

“Beloved you know not to do that,” Nightshade gathered the giggling king into her lap, Pharaoh moving to lean against her shoulder and push the hair from the eyes of Phantom, “but what has you laughing so?”

Phantom mimed wiping a tear from his eye. “Remember that civilization we helped out a century ago? Well apparently a few hundred years have passed in that world and the people we helped revered us as gods. A sorceress summoned us for help defeating a demon. They were so cute, little teenage heroes like we once were.” He sighed and settled into the arms of his lovers. “Have either of you heard of Trigon?”

[reshinless]

Hear me out..Jealous!kinich x reader smut...also I love your writing style it makes me wanna explode🤭

──── bet you feel it now, baby

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ synopsis. you didn't have to laugh that hard at his joke. it wasn't even that funny. he's better, it's fine, he'll just show you how much better he is.

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ pairings. kinich x gn!afab!reader, !!NSFW CONTENT AHEAD!!

⠀ ۪ ⠀✧ director's notice. posting wip list in a bit plus brief overview of 800 special fic (it'll probably be genshin/hsr :3)

۪ ⠀✧ warnings. possessive behavior (kinich), jalosi /j, kinda ass/pussy eating (see to it however you like, i used no real specific term, reader is blindfolded for some parts, jealous behavior, rough sex, sex itself, y'all get walked in on (be ready for this to be implied into more of my kinich works LOL), establish relationship

"ahhn- kinich i said 'm sorry.. pleasef- slow down!" your face in the pillows, your words muffled and long gone into the night. the black-haired man's raspy voice spoke from behind— your boyfriend, kinich, of course. "he wasn't all that entertaining, why laugh like how you do with me?"

it was torture to him, seeing how it went from an awkward laugh, a polite smile, to a more genuine appearance to the stupid guy that just had to come up to you while he was busy getting a little snack for ajaw— even ajaw wouldn't comment on how his face looked this time, keeping his own silence as he ate the delicious candy.

"fffuck- he was an old classmate i had at the akademiya- 'm sorry, i-i really am kin-!" he almost laughed at your words. classmate? doesn't mean you should be playfully hitting shoulder like that. or teasing him like that. it's all his, no one else should be able to have it.

you shuddered, what felt like cumming again for the umpteenth time in a row, he hadn't stopped pinning you against the wall, and making you see stars over and over again ever since you saw your "classmate".

"doesn't matter." he groans, finishing inside you once more, your eyes were blindfolded by his headwear, previously on his forehead. he carries you onto the mattress, laying you down a little roughly. "w- what are you doing?"

you shivered once more, feeling warm exhales near your entrance, his cheek resting suddenly on one of your thighs. "all mine, right?" the blunt tone present in his tone definitely made it out as if you couldn't tell him anything other than yes (because it was true). his lips start to scatter a plethora of glossy little kisses all over your thighs, the sensation of getting him to cover every inch of your legs felt like a fever dream.. was this really a punishment?

you could feel his other hand snake to one of yours, which was somewhere on the bed. holding it tight as he started to place wet pecks over your hole. "hhnnn.. kin stop- ... stop teasing me.." you felt yourself moan into his touch, your other hand reaching out for wherever his head was. your fist grabbing at his hair, almost trying to push him into you further.

you felt him groan into you, you could sense he was whipped for your taste. the way you moaned his name. his.. name. "ahh- ahhh fffuck!— kin it's all yours, i promise!" his hand left yours, and stopped lapping at your hole for a moment- you heard a small grunt, and two things landing on the floor.. was he taking his gloves off?!

you could feel him sitting you up with one of his other hands, arms setting you down onto his face, arms locking around your thighs. straddling you over his mouth, as he started to devour what was his. no other guy could do this to you, not without making you feel as good as he did.

shit and he definitely did, the way he made you feel wasn't like the stupid losers who'd try to hook up with you back in the akademiya. or tried to pick you up in the streets. they can't make you feel turned on as much as you did when kinich blindfolded your eyes with something he doesn't usually take off and hear his belt buckle start to come off- ahhh nothing was better!

oh you felt yourself almost creaming on his face just thinking about it. not to mention how good he worked his tongue into you, definitely tasting every little bit, every little nook & cranny his tongue could reach.

he made a small sound, looking up to see you slowly riding his face as is, trying to rub yourself near against his nose. his authorative hold was more than enough to stop you from moving again, one of his palms moving over your stomach to feel the way his tongue moved inside you.

his head busily buried itself more into your scent, glossing his tongue so carefully, making sure you feel it. you started to feel something pool in your stomach- ssshit you were gonna cum again! your hands trail back down to his hair, gripping it harshly again, him seeing signs that you're close, he fastens his pace, licking as much as he could, no longer concentrating on the taste, more on your facial expression.

"ahhn- kin i'm g'na-!" "mmm there it is, such a good kitty." were the words he moaned into your hole, as he gladly lapped up every inch of your delicious juice/cum.

as he placed a kiss onto your entrance once more, he places more than just one kiss onto your lips, making out with you for a bit. letting him taste what he's been tasting for the past hour, the shared, mix of both of your cum.

your lips finally parting from his, your eyes still shut close 'till you feel a fist of your hair being gripped, "not done yet." is all kinich whispers, his voice a little coarse as he continues to kiss you. "all.. yours," you feel him take your hand, putting it over his heart while you both pull away from the kiss, a string of saliva being created. "and all mine, please?" he points to where your heart is in your chest.

his blunt attitude could only make you laugh, planting a kiss onto his head, and nodding to an agreement. "mmm- yeah. all yours."

"you guys are reaaaaaaalll corny! you're lucky i like your partner this time!" ajaw butts in as you laugh, while kinich simply scoffs- looking the other way and burying his face into your chest.

not as cool as my other works, and it's more cringe if i keep looking back on it, cute request tho !!!!<3333

[bpmiranda]

It Could Be III |l. howlett| nsfw

A/N: boxer!logan, 18+ f!reader, sweet!reader, angst, smut, oral f! receiving, unprotected sex

It Could Be It Could Be II

“You want to break up?”

The conversation was unavoidable. It was eating at her that she couldn’t stop thinking about Logan. The guilt that sat on her chest grew heavier and heavier every time she said ‘I love you’ to Adam when she was no longer sure if she believed it. “I just think-we aren’t-um-I mean, are you happy?” She asked, looking at him with concern-filled wide eyes while Adam only looked confused.

“Of course I am.” He said with a chuckle.

Y/N chewed her lip nervously. “Are you happy with me?” She asked, her eyes falling onto her lap as the reminder of his infidelities swarmed her mind. Adam held onto her hand which was sitting in her lap and she looked up at him.

“I love you, sweet pea. I can’t imagine my life without you.” His other hand caressed her cheek and he was about to lean in for a kiss when she stopped him, gently placing her fingers over his chin, and he frowned.

“What if I can?” She asked in a soft voice.

Adam’s eyes reflected the hurt he was feeling and he pulled away from her. They stared at each other for a moment and he gave a deep exhale as he small smile curled his lips. “I can’t change your mind?” He asked and she slowly shook her head, closing her eyes as a small tear slipped down her cheek.

“I wish it could’ve been us, but I just don’t feel the way I used to, Adam.” She explained and he nodded in an understanding manner.

“Is it Logan?” He asked suddenly and her eyes went a little wide. Adam chuckled and he shrugged lightly. “He’s always had a thing for you, the way he calls you ‘baby’ and always seems to be around. He’s a good guy.” Adam said, a defeated look on his face.

Her eyes scanned his face for any signs of anger and she didn’t see any. “Nothing’s happened between him and I.” She told him, though she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to reassure him.

Adam only smirked. “I know, sweet pea, you’re not like me.”

They hugged and Adam left her apartment. Her heart felt less blocked up, there was no longer a feeling of grief constantly weighing on her. Logan came to her mind and she quickly picked up her phone, her thumb hovered over the ‘call’ icon for a moment before she pushed it and held the phone to her ear. Each ring felt like it lasted an eternity until she finally heard his voice on the other of the line. “Hey baby,” His voice was so deep and comforting, her heart skipped a beat when he called her ‘baby’. “What’s going on?”

“Could I come over? I just-” Her mind was spinning as she tried to find her words, but she didn’t need to, Logan knew her so well.

“I’ll come to you. Be there in fifteen.” He told her and she smiled to herself.

“See you then.” She said before hanging up.

When Logan showed up, he had two cups of coffee in his hand and she felt her belly bloat with butterflies as he smiled at her. “Caramel latte, right?”He said as he handed her a cup and she nodded with a smile while he came into her apartment. Logan figured she and Adam had another fight, he figured she needed to talk to a friend, and he would always be available to her. He wasn’t expecting this, however.

“I broke up with Adam.” She said suddenly and he looked at her after he had set his coffee down with hers on the kitchen table. Her eyes were searching his face for a reaction other than the surprised look he was currently wearing and then a small smile broke his stunned demeanor.

“Yeah?” He asked, his hands itching to grab her. Y/N nodded slowly, looking up wide eyed at him. “How are you feeling?” He asked, shoving one hand in his pocket and scratching the back of his neck with the other as he restrained himself.

Her eyes fell on the ground and she shrugged, tugging at the sleeves of her loose cardigan. “You were right,” She looked back up at him, an embarrassed heat spreading across her face. “I’m not happy with him.” Logan gave her a small nod and she continued. “I don’t mean to make you feel responsible for this and you definitely shouldn’t think you influenced my decision. I’m not expecting anything from you nor do I believe you owe-” Her rambling was suddenly cut off by Logan grabbing her around the waist with one arm and bringing her lips to his with his other hand. Her body molded into his as he held her tightly, so close to him that she swore she could feel his heart beating against her chest. Her hands clasped around his neck as they kissed. Logan’s lips were soft and gentle though his body language felt restrained and she slowly slid a hand down onto his chest over his heart.

“Let me be responsible.” Logan murmured against her lips before pulling away and looking down at her with that trademark loving look that was always in his eyes when they were together. His thumb lightly brushed over her cheek and his soft green eyes searched hers, studied every feature of her face. “I want to be the reason. I want to be your choice.” Y/N looked away from him shyly and he gently turned her cheek so she’d face him again. “I want to be whatever you need, baby.”

Her lips tentatively found his again and he sighed into her mouth, his arm tightening around her waist as he guided her towards the bedroom. Her fingers were undoing the buttons on his flannel and he slowly pushed her cardigan down, his large hands leaving goosebumps along her arms as he tossed the sweater. Without breaking the kiss yet, he guided her to lay down on her bed and he hovered over her, settling between her thighs. An involuntary moan left her lips as the bulge in his pants pressed into her and she covered her mouth with her hand only for Logan to gently move it. “Sorry.” She breathed out.

“Don’t be. I want to hear you.” Logan told her as he lifted her black camisole up below her breasts so he could kiss her belly and her hips. Her body trembled underneath his touch and she sighed his name. “Can I?” He asked, fingers hooked underneath her bunched up tank top and she nodded, raising her arms so he could pull it off and his eyes fell on her exposed body. Her face grew hot again as she fought the instinct to cover herself and Logan’s tongue peeked out to moisten his lips. “Jesus, your ex is an idiot.” He said and she laughed, the sound brought a grin to his face and he dipped his head down to kiss her once more before he kissed her chest and her collarbones, licking softly on her breasts and circling her nipples with his tongue.

“Logan,” She moaned, her fingers laced through his thick hair as he dragged his mouth down her body, leaving kisses and licks behind. After giving her time to stop him, he tugged her leggings down and he kissed her thighs, squeezed at them, bit gently on the soft insides of them until she was trembling with anticipation. “Fuck.” She whined.

Logan slowly pulled her lace panties down and he groaned at the smell of her arousal, saw the leak from her slit and he gently spread it around her folds and her clit with his thumb. His eyes shifted from her pussy to her face as he watched the reaction he had on her while she whined and called his name like a prayer. “Baby,” He called her, her dazed eyes opened and locked on his face. “Be mine?” He asked and she couldn’t help the small laugh that left her lips as this man, touching her and having already undressed her, was asking her to be his girlfriend.

“I already am yours, Lo.” She told him, smiling at him as he grinned. “I’m so happy with you.”

With that, Logan buried his face in her wet cunt, lapping gingerly at her slit, sucking at her clit, spreading her juices around with his thumb as she moaned and mewled for him, her back arched against the bed while her legs trembled warningly. “So fucking pretty.” He murmured as he watched her drip due to her pending orgasm, her core was pulsing and begging to be stuffed. “Come here, princess.” Logan stopped before she could cum, he removed his clothes to sit against her headboard, and she climbed onto his lap with his help. “I love you.” He said, looking up at her pretty face and fixing her hair for her as it had become frizzy from writhing on the bed. “I’ve always loved you.”

Y/N smiled down at him, biting her lip before kissing him softly. “I love you, Logan.” She said against his lips, caressing his bearded jaw as they made out. “More than I’ve loved anyone.”

His cock throbbed underneath her and she gasped softly, aware of his length and girth as he was pressed into her folds. “Want to take it slow?” He asked, his tip rubbing at her opening while he kissed her jaw gently.

“I trust you.” She whispered, her arms wrapped securely around his shoulders and Logan guided her down onto his shaft. “Oh, Logan.” She moaned as he stretched her out, stuffed her full, and sat heavy inside her.

Logan growled into her neck, holding her tightly around the waist as he took a moment to enjoy this feeling. The feeling of them so close and connected, his lips peppered kisses across her chest and neck, anywhere he could reach while she lightly scratched at his scalp, sighing and gasping with every pulse and twitch from his cock. “Feels so good.” He breathed out, taking the chance to admire her on his lap like this, observing the way he speared through her, and how she leaked onto his shaft. “Feels right.” He said, looking back up at her and she nodded, her brows upturned as she began rocking her hips against him. She needed to feel more, needed to know how it felt to completely belong to a man, to be the only one. “I can’t hold back, sweetheart. I gotta-gotta fuck you.”

“Fuck me.” She whispered.

Logan held onto her waist as he began easily moving her up and down on his shaft, groaning as he watched how her pussy would sink down on him repeatedly, taking every inch of him while she clawed at his shoulders and begged for him. “All mine, you’re all mine, baby.” He grunted, watching her breasts and her face as she bounced on his cock. Her heavy head nodded weakly in agreement and he smirked. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. I can’t get enough, need you all the goddamn time.”

“I’m yours, always, I’m just yours.” She moaned, feeling that familiar tension grow in her abdomen. Her fingernails dug deeply into his shoulders and Logan growled her core tightened around his throbbing shaft. “I’m-you’re gonna-oh!” Her body shook violently and he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist again so he could bury his face in her neck as he also reached his release. His load filled her already stuffed full pussy and she mewled loudly, pawing at him, pulling him close as he pinned her down onto his lap so every drop was released deep inside. The territorial side of Logan simply needed to know he was in her, that he had planted his seed even if it didn’t take right now.

“All mine?” Logan asked after they had calmed down and she was no longer trembling.

Y/N smiled and rolled her eyes playfully. “If that didn’t tell you,” Logan laughed and kissed her cheek softly as he rubbed on her legs. “Yes, Logan. I’m all yours.”

“About time.” He teased which made her laugh and she lightly swatted at his chest. Logan looked at her, smiling as he watched her become shy again under his stare even though she was sitting with him still inside her. A small sigh left his lips and he glanced at hers. “I’d wait even longer for you if I needed to, baby.” He whispered before kissing her.

Their coffee grew cold in the kitchen, forgotten as there were more pressing matters that required their attention tonight.

🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊🥊

🏷️: @dontfeedthebigbadwolf @peterparkernotfound @httpsells @evasmlp @ayatotiddies @thatlittlered @seasonofthenerd @littlemisscantloveyouback @scorpiosaintt @simpingfor-wakasa @spencerswh0r3 @thatweirdtheaternerd12 @mega-kittyglitter-1 @needz1nk @sad0ni0n @samsamsantos

[amoscontorta]

Wine time with Sylus | ao3 | other stories in this 'series'

Summary: Sylus invites himself over, helps himself to your first aid kit and your kitchen, manipulates you into tasting wine with him, discusses his latest business venture, and gifts you more than one present before he's good and ready to finally leave.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person pov, no use of y/n

This story contains: fluff, banter, angst, mc with obvious self esteem issues, grief, self-destructive behavior, profanity, alcohol use, criminal activity, allusions to violence, sleepy kissing, biting, inappropriate thoughts regarding kitchen tools, the mental gymnastics mc engages in to avoid acknowledging or recognizing feelings on either side should come with their own warning to be honest, one very thirsty mc whose thoughts are NSFW. This part ends with a misunderstanding that you can bet Sylus will not put up with for long.

In the days following Sylus’s latest little… visit, you’re called out more frequently than usual to counter wanderer attacks. You’re barely home, and the few times you stumble home late into the night, you peel your sweat and sometimes blood-stained hunter’s uniform off right in the entryway, promise yourself you’ll do laundry soon, and drag your aching body to the shower. Then you usually spend what little night you have left lying there with your eyes closed, carefully keeping your mind blank as sleep remains elusive. You have to admit to yourself that the few times Sylus kept you company overnight, you slept like the dead, but you refuse to go so far as admitting that you wouldn’t mind if it were more frequent. If you were to admit it to yourself, which you will not,  you only yearn for it strictly for the sake of your sleep schedule, and absolutely not because you’ve come to crave his warm, comforting bulk against your body.

Tonight is no different, but you’re both looking forward to and dreading the next few days, as Captain Jenna has ordered you to take some time off to rest and recover from the brutal schedule you’ve been keeping for months now, capped off by the recent spate of increased attacks. All of your wheedling to let you keep going, that you’re fine, that the people of Linkon need you, that you need the constant distraction, has proven useless. Apparently the frequency with which you are getting injured remains acceptable, but she is finally at the end of her patience reading your barely coherent, misspelled reports with unfinished sentences that you only manage to submit before Association mandated deadlines by the skin of your teeth.

“Go home, get your head on straight, and come back rested … and literate again, please.” She looks back down at the tablet on her desk, trying to dismiss you, but you stubbornly remain at attention at her desk.

“That’s discrimination, Captain. I can be a perfectly functional hunter without being able to read or write,” you protest, while Xavier winces behind you. “I mean, obviously I can read and write, I’m just a little tired, that’s all. Still able to destroy wanderers!”

Jenna’s already formidable expression begins to darken, but you’re not cowed. You open your mouth to helpfully point out that wanderers don’t care about how well you can spell, when you feel Xavier’s gentle hand on your arm. “Come on, why don’t we go together to get some snacks on the way home? I think they’ve started re-issuing that wasabi flavored chocolate bar we tried at the beginning of the year,” he says softly, and Jenna shoots him an appreciative look before proceeding to ignore you both.

You glumly follow Xavier out into the early evening. Rush hour is over, but the sidewalks are still bustling with life. You weave through the mass of humanity, resisting the urge to drop-kick anyone who cuts you off or brushes against you accidentally. I am a role model for the Hunter’s Association, even when I’m off the clock, I am not allowed to arrest someone for bumping into me…. I am not allowed to arrest someone for…

Xavier tries to distract you from your obvious frustration by describing the plot of the latest manga series he’s reading that he thinks you’ll like as you two make your way  home. You listen absently, feeling slightly calmed by his soothing voice, despite its graphic descriptions of violence in the manga that you are pretty sure you’re going to really like.

“Are there any hot guys in it?” you ask as the mass of people begins to thin the closer you get to your building.

“Hot… guys?” he blinks in confusion, his impossibly blue eyes flashing in the streetlamps that have just turned on.

“Yeah. Like that other one we read, Help, I, a lowly office worker, went to sleep and woke up as the Queen’s assassin in the book I fell asleep reading. The main guy in that was super hot.”

“Well, it is by the same mangaka, so you’d probably like the way they draw the main character in this one too,” he says uncertainly, but with a strange expression on his face, like he suddenly doesn’t want you to read it with him anymore.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try. Have you finished the first volume yet? Can I borrow it?”

You’ve reached your building, the trees surrounding the courtyard rustling in the soft end-of-summer breeze.

“…Great,” he says after a brief hesitation. He holds open one of the entrance's doors for you to enter the your building’s foyer. Your boots and his echo on the polished floor as you make your way into the lift. “I’ll be finished by tomorrow. How about we go the bookstore and afterwards you can come over and read since we have the day off? You can start volume one, and I’ll start volume 2. Does that sound good? We can make fancy ramen,” he says, his normally sleepy energy spiking with the idea of adding a boiled egg and some frozen vegetables to the normally plain ramen the two of you consume more often than not while on the go. Xavier’s idea of fancy has always been adorable to you.

The idea of not just sitting in your apartment alone on the first day of your forced leave is a welcome one, and you agree that he can come find you when he’s woken up, so that you don’t risk waking him up. He likes this plan, because obviously, you’re hardly sleeping at all, and he sleeps longer than you ever would have imagined possible for humans until you met him. As the elevator approaches your floor and the doors slide open, you’re about to step out when Xavier’s soft voice behind you has you turning to look back at his pretty face.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “I know you feel like you’ve lost everything right now, and that the pain seems unbearable.”

You quickly turn your head—you were not expecting this sneak attack of sympathy and kindness from him. You nod jerkily, trying not to let his warmth sink into you, or else you might start crying.

“It sounds cliché, but with time, even this pain will fade. And you have so much time ahead of you. I can promise you that. One day you’ll wake up, and it will be slightly less unbearable. That doesn’t mean you forget about what you’ve lost. But you can think of it without… without feeling like you’re destroyed again, every time.” He’s looking at you, but you also have the feeling that he’s looking at something else, from a great distance. Knowing how secretive he is, it’s unlikely you’ll ever know what it is he’s seeing.

You nod again, and whatever he sees in you profile seems to satisfy him as he offers you a soft ‘Goodnight,’ and you scurry from the lift to your front door. You tuck away his words, and push them down deep. You know they’re well intended. But you can’t handle crying right now. Not yet. Not yet. So you focus on possible plans for the days stretching ahead of you.

There is a part of you that’s looking forward to possibly being able to rest, it’s true. But the stretch of empty days, without work and battle and the social interaction of colleagues, had been filling you with anxiety before your plans with Xavier were made. But even after tomorrow, you’ll try to make the best of it. You can… try to remember what hobbies you had, before your life blew up. Maybe you can take up a new hobby! Within the span of a few days. Yeah, you can teach yourself to crochet,or make stained glass art, in a day, right? Online videos are super helpful. Maybe you’ll even deep clean your apartment, and go grocery shopping, properly, for the first time in weeks. You’ll buy vegetables that have to be prepped instead of the hottest insta-ramen you can find and slurping packets of applesauce while telling yourself that it counts as fiber, right? You can cook, and bake! You just haven’t in… a really long time. Maybe you’ll bake an entire cake, and then eat the entire cake. Yeah. You have plans, you think to yourself, pressing your fingerprint to the scanner under your flat’s door handle and pushing the door open when it beeps.

As soon as the door closes with a soft whump, you carefully hang up your blades and pistol holsters on your wall-mounted weapon rack, and then you’re furiously undoing the laces on your knee high leather boots, hopping from one foot to the other as you try to kick them off without actually having to sit down and pull them off. You yank off your socks, then shimmy out of your pants, which you also kick off unceremoniously. You’re going to be positive about this little holiday! You’re so close to being comfortable and staying that way for days. You almost rip your buttons in your haste to remove your shirt, and just as you’ve gotten the last one undone, you finally notice the dark, looming figure in the shadows at the end of your foyer.

You’re in your fucking underpants, barefoot, and your weapons are out of reach due to your current strangulation by your own shirt sleeves.

Heart racing, you throw yourself backward against the door, prepared to make a strategic retreat and escape into the building’s hallway to buy yourself some time to free yourself from your shirt, no matter the cost to your pride at being caught out in your underwear, when familiar scarlet-ink tendrils of energy gently wrap themselves around your waist and softly lift you in the air. You find yourself kicking and squirming like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you choke out.

“Why are you still struggling, when you can clearly see that it’s me? Cease, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Why are you using your evol on me without my consent?” you retort, wriggling some more for good measure simply because he told you to stop.

“To prevent you from giving your neighbors the show of their lives without even charging admission,” he responds languidly, eyes the color of sunlight filtering through a glass of wine drifting from your probably red, sweaty face down your barely clothed body.

“Oh, they don’t get a free show, but you do?” you sneer, continuing to struggle to no effect.

“Look at yourself,” Sylus commands, and turns his head as if bored. You note absently that he’s wearing a ruby stud earring in his ear... the one that matches the earring in your own ear. So you never bothered to take it out. That doesn’t mean anything—you’re just lazy. You refuse to think about it anymore deeply than that, and then notice that Sylus not only looks bored, but also looks almost… offended? You do as he asks, and see that his evol is wrapping itself around your body in such a way that its bright-dark tendrils are covering all of your exposed, sensitive areas like a fluid robe.

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“Oh, indeed.” He continues to look away from you, aggressively bored, but his evol gently lowers you enough so that your bare feet rest on the ground, and then it loosens, but remains swirling around you.

“Then I’ll… just go get dressed.” You begin making your past him, but stop when you see him nonchalantly hold up a large, elegant shopping bag. It’s black, with some brand name you don’t recognize written in flowy silver script. “What is this?” You look from the bag to his face. He deigns to look at you again. Your eyes drift to his other ear, and you see that where it is pierced is empty.

“Wardrobe options,” is all he says, jerking you out of trying to puzzle out this opaque maniac’s intentions. You take the bag from him and quickly walk to your bathroom. No way you’re going to put on new clothes while feeling filthy from a long day and night of annihilating wanderers. His evol dissipates the moment your bathroom door shuts behind you.

It’s becoming a pattern. Thinking the worst of him, only to be proven wrong. But you don’t know how to overcome the cognitive dissonance of Sylus from your first meeting, and this Sylus who seems intent on taking care of you better than you take care of yourself.

You rinse off as quickly as you can in the shower, towel yourself dry, and take a peek in the bag that he gave you. The first thing you see is a black…? You lift it out of the bag, and it unfolds into a very large sweater. It’s thick, the fabric obviously of high quality. You touch it gently, running your hands along a sleeve—is it cashmere? It’s unbelievably soft. It’s probably a nightmare to wash. On impulse, you lift it to your nose, and take a deep breath.

Your suspicion is confirmed. It smells like him. This isn’t a brand new piece of clothing. This is one of Sylus’s own sweaters that he has worn before. The scent of his clean skin, the sharp tang of gunmetal, the bright burst of citrus, probably from some ridiculously expensive shampoo or body wash. The mix sends a thrill through your entire body: after only a few encounters, you already have bone-deep associations with the way Sylus smells. Fear and adrenaline, yes, but also anticipation—and bizarrely, safety. Instead of feeling terrified, you feel the way you would before riding a roller coaster. Yes, you’ll be screaming and holding on for dear life the whole ride, but you are also inexplicably convinced that in the end, you’ll have your feet firmly planted on the ground, safe again. A part of you whispers that it’s safer to avoid the roller coaster altogether—bolts come loose, wheels pull free from the track, tragic accidents happen all the time. But standing here in your humid bathroom, bone-weary from the day behind you, sniffing Sylus’s unwashed sweater makes you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a very long time.

You pull his sweater over your head, and you’re basically swimming it, it’s so big. The collar is big enough that it threatens to fall off one shoulder. But it’s so soft. And cozy. You hug yourself, and peek into the bag again. There are a few more sweaters, each dark with varying degrees of dramatic flair. This is part of Sylus’s wardrobe, after all. But there are also little sleep shorts, like the ones you were wearing the last time he invaded your home. You pick up a pair—no way would they fit on his big ass. You try, so, so, so very hard not to picture his thick cake stuffed into these tiny shorts.

You fail.

Your brain short circuits for a few seconds.

When it comes back online, you lift out a pair, and the fabric glides silkily along your skin. You’re pretty sure these are silk. They’re black, because of course, but they also have little red … happy pomegranates? Dotted along the hems. They’re adorable. You pull them on over your own bare ass and the sweater-shorts combo is probably the softest thing you’ve ever had on your body. The sweater swallows the shorts and makes it look like you’re wandering around without bottoms on.

You look at yourself in the mirror, silently telling yourself that you shouldn’t get on this particular ride. You don’t know where the track leads, and it scares you. What if it ends over a cliff, and the last thing you ever see is Sylus’s triumphant, cruel face looking down at you as you fall? There are other, less risky rides, certainly ones without wanted posters, right? Right? On second thought, you don’t even have to go the amusement park at all. You’re just fine with trying to get some fucking sleep, with continuing to hone your combat skills, with just trying to be a good person despite really liking knives and being an enthusiastic hunter.

But maybe you can just. Be friends with the roller coaster? Like, you don’t have to ride him. IT. THE ROLLER COASTER. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO RIDE THE ROLLER COASTER. You can just, watch it from a safe distance. You might indulge in little fantasies about what it’s like to ride… the roller coaster. And honestly, fantasies are almost always a hell of a lot better than the reality ever turns out to be. Not to mention! Sylus has never directly expressed any desire to ride … your roller coaster. Sure, he shows up unannounced and cares for you in ways that no one ever has, and he touches you a lot for someone who has no physical interest in you, but physical isn’t necessarily sexual, right? Maybe it’s an evol thing, and the way he touches you has to do with why you both find yourself inexplicably connected for periods of time. Like charging a battery. The point is! There will be no tickets to either ride, thank you, you aren’t open for business and he definitely does not have the proper safety inspection certificates in order, so. No.

You nod firmly to yourself in the mirror. This should be fine. You can be friends with Sylus. You don’t have to let him drag you over a cliff. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from him—he seems to be pretty competent at a lot of things that might be useful for certain aspects of your job. Like intimidating people. And exploding people with a thought and twitch of his fingers. And convincing them to do things they don’t want to do by sheer force of obnoxiousness.

Having sufficiently deluded yourself into believing that your plan of action has a chance of success, you slip out of the bathroom and find Sylus in the kitchen, next to a pretty wine glass that you certainly do not recall owning on the kitchen island.

He’s slicing strawberries with a very sharp knife that you do recall owning, because you do spend quite a lot of time sharpening the set it belongs to. They’re not kitchen knives, per se; you actually have them for work and they are really nice to throw. You already had so many knives before you moved into this place that you didn’t see the necessity of spending more money on probably inferior kitchen knives. But the large, really nice butcher block-style cutting board that he’s chopping the fruit on is not yours. And neither are the delicately arranged variety of cheeses, thinly sliced meat, and savory tarts set in puff pastry that fill up most of the cutting board. And lastly, you do not recall purchasing two bottles of what look like red wine sitting next to the wine glass, nor cleaning your kitchen so thoroughly that Zayne could probably perform surgery in here without worrying about risk of infection.

Despite your presence standing at the island before him now, he continues to serenely slice the ever-growing pile of fruit.

“Sylus?”

“Have a seat,” he says, not looking up.

“Oh, why thank you for offering such hospitality to me, in my own home,” you mutter, pulling out one of the wooden bar stools at the kitchen island. You’re about to sit down when you realize that the repetitive chop of the knife has stopped, and you look up to find Sylus frozen with the knife mid-slice in a fat strawberry. His eyes drift from your neck and exposed shoulder, down the soft expanse of sweater, to your bare legs, and then back again. You’re suddenly self-conscious—he’s the one who gave you these clothes. And now he’s staring at you like a wanderer is about to burst out of your chest.

“Did I misunderstand the assignment or something?” you ask, plopping down on the bar stool in the hopes of breaking him out of whatever weird trance he’s apparently glitching in. He swallows, flicks a final look at your shoulder, and then goes back to slicing.

“I’m simply shocked that you actually did as you were told, for once,” he responds, seemingly unruffled again. “You should also put one of the sweaters in your go bag as a backup in the event that your uniform gets destroyed, again, which it does at an alarming rate these days. The Association’s overheads for keeping you clothed must be in the stratosphere.”

“Mm, yes I’m sure you’re very concerned about the costs of doing business for the Association.” You rest your head in your hand, propped up by your elbow on the counter. The two of you sit in companionable silence for a while, with only the snick of the knife filling the space between you. The lights underneath your cabinets are on, emitting a soft warm glow from below, but you notice that he hasn’t put on the harsher, brighter overhead lights. The city’s skyline blinks serenely like an endless fleet of starships in the dark expanse of space through your windows, and a cool breeze wafts in from time to time.

Finally, Sylus is done, and he carefully rinses the knife in the sink and sets it on the counter. He turns back to you.

“No interrogation regarding why I’m here this time?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing a light sweater in a deep grey, of a style quite similar to the one you’re now wearing. He looks domestic, and delicious, and you tell yourself sternly that he is friend shaped, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster, you will not ride the Sylus roller coaster—

You have to say something. “Oh, are you missing my very effective questioning techniques? Sadly, I left my handcuffs at the office,” you lift your shoulders in a what can you do? gesture, and his eyes follow your bare shoulder again.

“Handcuffs aren’t the only means of restraint available to a truly resourceful hunter,” he says, shaking his head as if disappointed.  “Your lack of imagination is boring.”

“Okay, Sylus. But only because you’re basically begging for it: why are you here?”  You lift a puff pastry and brandish it at him like a knife. “Answer honestly, or you’ll really get it this time!” You take a big, aggressive bite as if to illustrate what he’s got coming to him in case of his non-compliance, and then moan because what the fuck, this is so good, is it goat cheese and honey? And suddenly you’re devouring it, licking your fingers clean when you’re done because you can’t get enough.

“This definitely counts as an enhanced interrogation technique.” His voice is low, and has a rough quality to it that normally isn’t there. You glance up from slobbering all over your fingers and find that he’s staring at you in what is probably disgust.

“Ha, yes, and I’ll keep subjecting you to it until you tell me what you’re doing in my home, again. And how did you even get in? I never got you a key.” You finish licking yourself like an animal and reach for a strawberry. If he’s going to play chef in your kitchen, who are you to refuse to enjoy the literal fruits of his labor? You just live here and pay the damn rent.

He holds up the index finger of his right hand, which is sporting a band-aid that you recognize as one of the same kind you have in your first-aid kit. They’re super cute, with a design of sad little cartoon mushrooms. “I was at my accountant’s, which happens to be in this neighborhood, and I got a paper cut while signing some documents.”

You pause before biting into the berry. “You… came to my flat. With extra clothing, wine, wine glasses, and various appetizers, in order to get a band-aid for your paper cut. Is this a correct summary of events?” You decide you’re not going to wait for him to answer, and take a big bite of the strawberry, feeling some juice drip down your chin. You catch it with your index finger, and then suck the juice off after you’re done chewing.

There is a long pause, and you look up to find him staring intently at your finger. You widen your eyes and wave your hand in the universal gesture of hurry the fuck up, get on with it already? He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes deeply. Apparently you’re so horrifying to witness eating that he needs to seek some zen before he can answer. It’s not your fault that he brought you half of his wardrobe and wine glasses but didn’t think to bring any napkins. “Yes, that is a correct summary of events,” is all he offers.

You look at him.

He looks back at you, occasionally flicking his gaze down to your mouth and back to your eyes. You consider baring your teeth at him just in case he wants an eyeful of the strawberry undoubtedly stuck in them, but refrain because you’re polite.

“Okay. Do you care to explain the motivation behind these events?” you ask slowly, thinking that maybe you will brandish a real knife at him to hurry up this so-called interrogation so you can straight up devour the rest of this charcuterie board that this wanted criminal has inexplicably prepared in your kitchen.

Fortunately, you don’t have to go for the knife, because he begins to speak. “There was a wine merchant that looked rather appealing on the way to your place. Since you revealed a deplorable lack of discernment when it comes to selecting a good bottle of wine the last time you hosted me, I thought I’d do my civic duty for the week and educate the less fortunate on how to choose, and enjoy, a decent bottle of wine.”

“I see.” You nod slowly. “That’s very civic-minded of you. You’re truly a model citizen. And the food?”

“It’s not wise to have a wine tasting without something to eat. Otherwise, you might find yourself making questionable decisions. We wouldn’t want that, would we, sweetie?” he seems to have recovered from his nausea at watching you wolf down food, because he says this with a playful lift of a silver eyebrow.

“Because letting a man whose baggage includes a wanted poster into my home whenever he wants could hardly be considered a good decision, and I made that one while sober,” you sigh. “I see your point.”

“Exactly. Just imagine what kind of trouble you could get into after a bottle of wine on an empty stomach?” He tilts his head to the side, and runs a middle finger slowly over his brow.

You shudder, because his big hands. You can’t pursue this line of thought.

“And the clothes?”

“Now you won’t need to borrow your partner’s clothes in case of an emergency. And I’ll have something to wear at my safe house in case you decide to assault me with beverages again.”

“That was one time. And if you don’t show up, then there’s no chance you’ll be assaulted. Therefore, no need for a change of clothes. And, pardon me, but your safe house? I think you meant, my flat. But what you’re telling me is that the whole reason you were coming to my flat in the first place was to put a band-aid on your boo-boo.”

He lowers his hand and begins running his thumb along his lower lip. “Even a small cut can turn life-threatening if not treated properly. And I wouldn’t want a scar, now would I? It’s not much of a safe house if I can’t make use of it when in danger of lasting bodily harm.”

“Mmm yes, what with your evol that renders scarring impossible for you, we wouldn’t want your paper cut to cause you lasting bodily harm. And you couldn’t acquire a band-aid at a pharmacy, perhaps like at the one next to the wine merchant I’m pretty sure you’re referring to?” You refuse to look at his big thumb pressing into his thick, soft-looking lower lip. You stare up at the ceiling, and consider cataloguing wanderers in your head to stem the sudden urge to vault over the island counter separating him from you and pulling that damn thumb into your own mouth.

“They didn’t have a box containing such cute little designs. I never knew I wanted anthropomorphized fungus to decorate a bandage intended to protect an open wound until I saw your own box.”

It takes you a second to remember what the hell the two of your were discussing when you realize he’s talking about your adorable little mushroom band-aids.

“A wine snob, and a band-aid snob.”

“I prefer the term cultured, but yes, I’ve told you before. Life is too short to waste on the inferior. Your sad little champignons surpass all others.”

He’s done it again. He has hardly even moved this entire time, and has managed to exhaust you to the point of blissful indifference. He shows up unannounced, rifles through your first aid kit, decides what you’re going to wear both this evening and in the future when you need a spare change of clothes, and has prepared an hors d’oeuvre spread worthy of at least a mid-ranged restaurant for you to eat while offering you a wine tasting? Fine. “Okay,” you say, reaching for another one of those puff pastries.

He watches you steadily for a few moments, as if trying to sense a trap. “That’s it?”

You shrug. “Sure. I told you that you could use my house if you needed it. I’ve just learned my lesson: next time I’ll be very careful in drafting the conditions of any deal we make, since your interpretation of certain terms appears to vary wildly from any reasonable person’s.”

“I think I’m quite reasonable,” he examines his nails. “I come bearing gifts, and this is how you show your gratitude? By insinuating that I'm unreasonable?”

Another thought occurs to you. “How did you even get in, Sylus?”

“Ah,” he says, squinting and looking out the window, as if contemplating a very deep philosophical question. “While you were sleeping last time… I took the liberty of adding my fingerprint to your door’s fingerprint scanner.”

What. The. Fuck. “What. The. Fuck.”

“Again, it’s not much of a safe house if I can’t access it without your presence. I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not like I can’t just use my evol to teleport into your place anyway, but I thought you’d appreciate me coming through the front door. Fewer feathers. You didn’t seem to like cleaning those up the last time I teleported out of your place.”

You just stare at him. How would he even know that you cursed him, loudly, as you were mopping up the mess of blood and feathers he generously left in your entryway after being shot? And then it comes to you. Mephisto. Of course. You pinch the bridge of your nose, and visualize violently shaking that bird until his circuits are rewired.

Sylus continues, ignoring your mounting rage. “Come to think of it, we should probably upgrade your locks, kitten. It was laughably easy to override the system and add my print as authorized for entry.”

Forget riding the Sylus coaster—you think that maybe he isn’t even friend shaped after all. He might just have slid right back to enemy shaped. Frenemy shaped? Where does a frenemy lie on the spectrum of “fuck his brains out” to “polite, but distant acquaintances?” But then you remember that it’s not a linear spectrum, and fucking his brains out is not mutually exclusively to being mortal enemies. You’ve read enough enemies-to-lovers romances to know that perfectly well, so even if he is enemy shaped… you shudder. Why are you like this? You redirect your self-disgust and deflect, like a true emotionally well-adjusted adult:

“Why can’t you be normal? Like, do you do anything like a normal person?”

“Why would I pretend to be normal when I’m so obviously extraordinary?” he scoffs, looking at you like you’re the unhinged one in this little situationship.

 “Sylus.”

“Yes, my heart’s delight?”

You stare at him, and he gazes back at you, leaning leisurely back against your counter, arms folded and long fingers slowly tapping out a rhythm on one bulky bicep. You know that if you remove his authorization on your locks that he will just teleport himself right into your place, and you’ll be endlessly cleaning up feathers. And you also really don’t want your neighbors to wonder who the hell the creep is loitering around your door at all hours of the night and then start asking questions if he actually honors your request not to simply appear in your place on a whim. You did previously offer him a key. Which he declined. Apparently because he was already planning this. You run your hand along the back of your neck in an effort to relieve some tension. “You can’t just let yourself into my place anytime you want. There need to be rules.”

“Fair enough. Provided that they’re not moronic, I can follow your rules.”

“And who decides whether they’re moronic or not?” you ask, knowing the answer.

He just smiles at you, radiating satisfaction.

“Okay. Rule number one—” you begin, only to be interrupted as he lifts a finger.

“I’ll follow your rules, if you promise to taste the wine I brought with me tonight.”

Even though you had already resigned yourself to whatever he had in store for you tonight, you can’t help arguing at this little added condition. “No, the deal is, you can use my flat, with your fingerprint, when you need it, if you follow the rules,” you huff.

He starts shaking his head. “I’m afraid not, kitten. You should have set rules at the beginning of our deal. You can’t just impose new conditions halfway through. A deal’s a deal. I suggest keeping that in mind the next time you have to deal with anyone else less… generous, than myself,” he intones, as if you’re a somewhat lacking student in need of instruction.

“So you’ll follow the rules if I promise to… taste wine tonight?” you ask, hoping that you can catch him out on a technicality and beat him at his own game. He considers for a moment, but must see something in your expression, because his eyes narrow and his smile widens to reveal his sharp canines.

“I’ll follow your reasonable, and not moronic, rules if you promise to taste the wine I brought tonight, with me,” he says.

You need to work on your poker face. You need to get Sylus to teach you how to improve it. Ugh.

“Fine.” If this means more food can happen soon, and honestly, yeah, a glass of wine, you’ll accept anything at this point.

He straightens from the counter and claps his hands once, looking more eager than you think you’ve ever seen him. “Excellent, let’s begin.”

“You didn’t even wait to hear what the rules are,” you protest, watching him fish out a wine corkscrew from his trouser pocket. It looks heavy, with a handsome wooden handle, and the stainless steel flashes under the soft lights.

“Send them in a text, I’ll redline them and return them to you, you can counter, and so on and so forth until we have an agreement. Like any proper contract negotiation. For now, it’s wine time.”

And with that, he sets to work opening the wine, humming a little tune so off-key that you have no idea what melody it’s supposed to be. It occurs to you that you’ve never used a corkscrew as a weapon, but as Sylus uses the small blade to slice through the foil covering the neck of the bottle, and then unfolds the lethal-looking twisted screw and begins expertly driving it into the cork, you realize that it could come in really handy in a fight. And there’s something else that’s really appealing to you—the combination of the contained savagery of the corkscrew, the assured movements of Sylus’s hands, the penetration of the cork—you feel a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the sweater you’re wearing.

“See something you like, kitten?” Sylus’s smoky voice drifts into your thoughts, and you look up, realizing you’ve been unabashedly staring at his beautiful hands, again, and the corkscrew, with undivided focus for the past few moments, and he has noticed.

You clear your throat, and then gesture weakly at the corkscrew. “That’s uh, a very nice looking wine opener.” You nod to emphasize your very normal approval of this very normal household item, because you are not thinking any thoughts about Sylus’s huge hands or screwing or penetration. None.

“Good eye. I’m rather fond of this model. I’ll have one delivered to you,” he says as he firmly pulls the cork from the bottle with a soft pop. He sets it on the counter, and picks up the other bottle.

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that the kind of wine I drink tends to come with a screw cap instead of a cork,” you decline, shaking your head. You can buy your own damn self a corkscrew for tucking into your pocket if you ever find yourself at a wine bar that doesn’t allow patrons to be armed, but you anticipate needing some kind of weapon.

“Refuse me all you want,” he murmurs, and you feel like there’s an implied part of that sentence that he’s just not saying out loud. But then he’s repeating the opening process with the second bottle, and you suddenly find the night view outside your window immensely fascinating, because whatever is continuing to happen in front of you is just. Boring. Utterly sleep-inducing. You can’t look or else you might just pass out from the tedium of it before you even get to taste the wine. And a deal’s a deal, as Sylus is fond of repeating ad nauseum.

After hearing the soft pop of the other bottle, you sigh and turn back to find Sylus holding the wine glass and pouring the first bottle’s wine along the inside of the glass until it reaches the widest part of the bowl. For the first time, you notice that there’s only one glass on the counter. But before you can comment, Sylus begins to lecture.

“Now, if this were an ideal tasting, I’d have brought a decanter to let the wine breathe properly for an appropriate period of time before pouring. We'd also be using a container for spitting each mouthful out in between tastes, to avoid the intoxication and poor decisions I mentioned earlier and interfering with our judge of taste. But since we only have two bottles to try, and it’s just you and me here, I took the gamble that you wouldn’t mind if we were a little less formal.”  

You wait to see if he has any other fun facts to share, but he’s looking at you to confirm that indeed, you can live with not waiting even longer to taste this wine that better have gold leaf flakes in it or something to justify this amount of ceremony and can also live with not… spitting out said wonder wine after tasting it.

But you recognize that Sylus appears to be truly passionate about this, and he’s looking at you so earnestly—you do not have the heart to meet his sincerity with sarcasm, when he's so sweetly trying to teach you something new.

“Your gamble paid off. I don’t mind at all,”  you say, meaning it. He perks up and gives you one of his almost smiles, with just the corners of his generous mouth lifted. He then proceeds to explain, in great detail, what type of wine this is, where the grapes for it are grown, its signature characteristics, what year it was bottled, and how it was received by the international wine community. It’s all actually quite interesting, except once again, right now you’re at the end of a long day, you’ve run the gauntlet of interacting with this unpredictable force of nature walking around in the body of an extremely attractive man, and you feel like you should be taking notes to actually retain any of this information.

After he seems to have informed you to his satisfaction and is looking at you expectantly, you nod. “That is… very fascinating. So how do we go about actually tasting it?” You might be an uncultured heathen, but even before Sylus’s lecture, you knew there are rules when it comes to tasting wine. You just always had other things you needed to learn first, like the weakest spots on a wanderer or human body. Or the best method of sharpening knives for the sharpest edge. Or how to clean guns to prevent jamming. How to affix a scope on a sniper rifle and measure the effect of wind speed and direction on a bullet’s trajectory. Or whether you should use baking soda or baking powder as leavener when baking certain kinds of cake. You have priorities. But tonight, it seems, is the night for you to learn about wine.

Before he answers, he moves around the kitchen island to where you’re still seated on the bar stool and leans down, gently spinning your stool so that you’re facing him instead of the counter. He then pushes the one next to you closer and seats himself. Even sitting, you have to look up into his face. You suddenly realize that the way he has positioned the stools puts him so close to you that his long legs don’t have anywhere to go—he just spreads them so that one is stretched out on one side of you, and the other is between your own, his knee incredibly close to your lap. If you shift forward even a little, you could grind on him.

Why is he doing this to you? What does he want? But then it occurs to you that Sylus has never seemed to either recognize or respect boundaries like a normal person—maybe this is just how he interacts with his friends. Constant, small touches, no sense of personal space. You wonder if he and the twins huddle together on the couch, sharing a blanket, while watching something on television.

So maybe you’re the freak, imagining riding this poor guy’s meaty thigh when he’s only just trying to share his appreciation of a sophisticated beverage with you. You close your eyes. It doesn’t matter whether he’s playing this little game on purpose or not. You refuse to let him see how much his proximity is affecting you, because then he wins. You don’t know what he wins exactly, but you will beat him before you let him have it. You try to think about his big hand choking you, but instead of having the intended effect of reminding you why you should never even consider buying tickets to the safety hazard now wedged between your thighs, it has … unforeseen consequences instead. What has this man done to you?!

You open your eyes, reach across the counter and grab a handful of carefully cut pieces of cheese, and then promptly stuff them all into your mouth at once. When in crisis, cheese is always a good solution. Except for maybe the blue cheese you accidentally mixed in with the Manchego or whatever-the-fancy-fuck he brought with him. Aaaand now you’re going to smell like blue cheese for the rest of the night.

You stare at him defiantly as you chew with puffed cheeks, and brace yourself for whatever is coming next. He side eyes you, face impassive.

You’re expecting some biting comment, but “Well, that’s one way to make sure you’ve eaten enough to absorb the alcohol,” is all he says. He slowly slides the glass with two fingers along the base across the counter until it’s sitting between the two of you. “Whenever you manage to finish inhaling all that dairy, we’ll be sure that we’ve given the wine enough time to breathe.” He pauses. “It occurs to me now that while I was preparing the food, I didn’t think to ask if you’re lactose intolerant.”

You deliberately chew as slowly as you can, making him wait as a punishment for making you feel things that you should not be feeling. When you’ve swallowed, you shake your head. “Fortunately, not one of my many flaws.”

“It’s not a flaw.” He shrugs. “How can anything you can’t control about your body be a flaw? And Luke and Kieran are lactose intolerant, so I always have lactase enzyme tablets on me to avoid… unwanted consequences when they decide to have a cheese tasting contest.”

You cock your head. “A what now?”

 He rubs his middle finger between his eyebrows. “Yeah, they can’t help themselves from making a competition out of every single human activity, so on the nights the chef prepares a cheese board with dinner, they try to outmatch each other regarding who can identify the most flavors of cheeses without cheating by asking the chef or querying Mephisto or searching online. Or asking me, because I’m undefeated.”

You stare at him, and think if there’s ever any universe in which you voluntarily return to the base where Sylus kept you captive for days and touched you like he owned you, hand violently clasped in his, where you were terrified for your life, exhausted and confused… and if you ever have a friendly enough relationship with the chaos twins, you’re going to practice your ass off so that if you’re ever invited to such a competition, you can wipe the floor with them. Their cheese-off sounds fun.

Your train of thought is derailed as it registers how smug the last thing he said was. “You’re undefeated,” you repeat, giving him a chance to redeem himself. “At identifying cheeses by taste.”

“And smell, yes. So I’m not allowed to play anymore. My palate is too refined, and they know they don’t stand a chance.”

Oh, you’re definitely going to start sampling cheese every week. You cannot let this smugness stand.

“Ah yes, his royal snobness and his impeachable palate,” you roll your eyes. “Now, will his grace the Duke of Gouda please get on with the wine instruction?” You would give him a little mock bow, but that would put your face right in his formidable cleavage and you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from motorboating his unfairly huge pecs. Ugh.

He snorts. “Finally, you’re showing me some long-overdue respect.”

You nod gravely, thankful that the aether core in his eye is not currently delving the depths of your depravity. It’s time to focus. On wine.

“So why do you have to let wine breathe before drinking it?” you ask, because you’re focused.

He looks pleased that you’re interested enough to ask a question. “Much like people, it’s good to expose a greater surface area of the wine to fresh air for a while—it allows undesirable scents and flavors to dissipate, so that it tastes better when you do take a sip than if you drink it straight after opening.”

“Well aren’t you wise, philosophizing about wine and people,” you smile. You find yourself being surprised again and again tonight—at his presence, his bearing gifts, his surprisingly sweet attempt to teach you something, his kind takes on lactose intolerance and what people need to be healthy.

“Did you think I only consist of feathers and spite?” He lifts the wine glass by the stem with one hand, and your hand in his other. He gently wraps your fingers around his own.

“Let’s not forget hubris and violence.” You watch as he gently swirls the wine in the glass held between you. His hand is so warm compared to your own.

“If that’s all, then you still have a lot to learn about me,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t seem offended. Almost as if he’s simply determined. To do what, you’re not sure. “I’d tell you that you should always hold a wine glass by the stem so that the heat from your hand doesn’t affect the temperature of the wine through the glass itself. But your hands are so cold—I don’t think that would be a problem for you. But if you want people to think you’re a connoisseur, you should anyway if you’re ever on an undercover mission. Now, before you take a sip, inhale the scent we’ve just released by swirling the wine.”

You do as you’re told, and lean over, hovering just over the edge of the glass and taking a deep breath. The scent of the wine, warm and deep, fills your senses.

You look up at him and smile again. “It smells really good.”

“Of course,” he lifts the bottom of the glass with his free hand so that you can straighten, and guides your other hand to support the glass while slipping his own from around the stem and allowing you to hold it by yourself. Your hand immediately feels cold again. He leans one elbow on the counter, “I chose it for you. I’m not going to let you drink plonk.”

“Plonk?” What a cute word.

“Shit wine.”

“Mmm, not allowing me to drink shit wine, you’re truly a knight in shining armor.”

“I don’t need armor, kitten. Now that you’ve established that the wine hasn’t gone off by smelling it, you can take a sip.”

You’re about to lift the glass to your lips, when he reaches up and runs his fingertips along your wrist to stop you. “As you do, don’t swallow immediately. Roll the wine with your tongue in your mouth, and try to really think about what flavors you can taste: can you detect the oak from the barrels, earth, tannin, fruit or spices? Is it sweet or dry?”

You nod, mouth suddenly dry. But you follow his instructions and take a slow sip, rolling the rich liquid around in your mouth, and then slowly swallow. A familiar warmth spreads from your stomach, radiating out through your body. His blood bright eyes follow the movement of your lips, your throat. “I taste… fruit.” You pause, trying to appear very serious about finding the perfect description of flavor. You take another sip, close your eyes. “Yes, very fruity notes. Grapes, in particular.”

You open your eyes to find him scowling at you.

“Aren’t you the comedian?” he growls. “I’m going to revoke your wine privileges if you don’t take this seriously. How are you going to feel confident if you ever need this knowledge on a mission? Or on a date?”

You just laugh at him and try to turn a little on the stool, lifting your arm to keep the glass out of his reach, but his knee between your legs prevents you from moving, and he easily leans forward, fingers drifting up the length of your arm to then wrap around your own hand on the stem. He carefully pulls it back between the two of you. Your hand feels warm again. Safely wrapped in his.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned my needing to know how to pass as a wine snob on a mission. What kind of missions do you think I’m regularly going on?” You gently lift the glass again, pulling his hand with you, and take another sip. It really does taste so good. You can’t tell if it’s wildly different than the wine you normally get, but you know it doesn’t taste like it’ll leave you with a headache in the morning.

He shrugs. “If we didn’t have to bring the place down when we were at the auction, people would have been watching you at the dinner banquet. What would you have done if people started to notice that you were clutching the wine and swigging it like a drunken toddler and started to suspect that your behavior wasn't matching your cover identity?”

You gasp. “Excuse me, you don’t know how I normally drink my wine!” Who does this bastard think he is? And here you were, thinking he was sweet, sincerely trying to share one of his interests with you. “I don’t need you patronizing me regarding how I’d manage at a formal event or on a date! I’ve been on plenty of dates where I was able to drink wine without driving off my partner.” You try to pull away from him, and the wine sloshes dangerously with your movement.

“Sit still,” he commands, holding your hand tight with his and placing one large palm on your bare thigh. You immediately freeze. “I watched you gulp wine from a mug the last time I was here,” he retorts.

“So you think that just because I don’t care what you think, I can’t read the room and act according to the demands of the situation?” The indignation coursing through you is amplified by the wine spreading through you.

“Then is it fair to say that you didn’t feel the need for any pretense between us last time because you’re so comfortable with me, and not because you’re as civilized as a cactus?” he asks, running his thumb gently back and forth along your inner thigh.

Your brain is being scrambled by his thumb, how close he is to you, his clavicle exposed by the V of his sweater’s neckline, the scent of his warm, clean skin, the wine going to your head after a long exhausting day.

“I’m saying I don’t feel the need to impress you in my own home when you show up uninvited and demand beverages and band aids,” you finally manage. You’re warm. Too warm. “And what’s wrong with being a cactus?”

“Did I say there was something wrong with it? Cacti can survive the harshest conditions on earth and still produce the most beautiful flowers. And they hurt when they stab you.” He smiles like the thought pleases him immensely.

You can’t process this. He says shit like this so easily—he can’t possibly mean it in the way you are trying so hard to deny that you want him to mean it. You refuse to be lured in, only to see the cruel lines of his face when he realizes you have pathetic feelings for him. The man who could as easily rip your spine from your ribcage as offer you a glass of wine, if you lose your usefulness to him. A usefulness you still don’t know the nature of.

You’re suddenly viciously aware of how close he is to you, how he is watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel like the use of his aether core is unnecessary: you’re afraid that he can see everything you’re feeling, and you hate it. You need space. “What are we even doing, Sylus?”

His eyes drift from your eyes to your mouth, and you try very hard to steel your expression, to conceal how utterly raw and exposed he’s making you feel. You can’t tell if you’re successful, when he finally lifts his hand from your thigh and runs the back of his knuckles with such softness along your cheek that it makes you ache. You resist the urge to turn your face and nuzzle his palm.

“We’re tasting wine, sweetheart.” He leans back, pulling the glass of wine you’re still holding with him. He inhales deeply, and then takes a sip, eyes glittering over the rim, watching you. “It is a good vintage. But it’s not the only one I brought.” He guides your joined hands to set the glass on the counter, and then gets up, rounding the counter to rummage in a bag on the floor on the other side. When he stands up, he’s holding another wine glass.

You do a double take. “You brought two glasses?”

He looks from you to the glass in his hand, then back to the glass still on the counter, and then lifts his eyebrows. “Is this a trick question?”

“Why haven’t we been drinking about of separate glasses then?” you demand.

He shrugs. “That glass is for that bottle,” he nods to the glass sitting next to you. “This glass is for this bottle.” He gestures at the other, untasted bottle sitting on the counter. “No need to rinse our glasses in between tastes.”

You want to laugh, and cry. You’re so fucking done with thinking for tonight.

“Okay, Sylus. Whatever you say,” you sigh.

“Oh, I quite like the sound of that,” he smiles, one canine peeking over his lip. “Then you’re going to enjoy the sorbet I brought for us as a palate cleanser.”

He proceeds to go to your freezer, scoop out some of the aforementioned sorbet that has apparently been in there all evening into a bowl, and takes the stool next to you again. This time, he situates one long leg on either side of you, caging you in. He takes a spoonful and offers it to you. “This will help rinse your palate so that you can taste the next bottle without any lingering effects of the other.”

You look from his seemingly guileless face to the spoonful of sorbet. Yup, you’re really done thinking for tonight. You lean forward and open your lips. He slips the lemon sorbet into your mouth. His eyes remain on your lips as he pulls the spoon away, dips it back into the sorbet, and brings it to his own mouth.

After he continues to trade spoonfuls with you until the sorbet is gone, he pours the second glass of wine, and you both take turns sipping it in companionable silence.

“Now tell me. Which one is your favorite?” he asks after you’ve finished the second glass, and return to the first to finish it as well.

“I like them both,” you shrug. “Sorry for not having a more sophisticated answer.” You’re feeling drowsy and loose. He can walk off a tall building for all you care if he doesn’t like your answer.

“They’re both excellent wines. Each one is suited for multiple situations or meal combinations. They’re versatile, just like you are. And I don’t require any particular answer, except your honest one. I think you already know that you don’t need to put on an act for me, ever.”

You rest your elbow on the counter, mirroring his position, and rest your head in your hand. “Why would I pretend with you, if you can just force the truth out of me?”

“I will never do that to you.”

You look away. “You’ve already done it to me once before. What else is there to hide, when you’ve seen the ugliest parts of me?”

“I will not do it again. Not unless you ask me to,” he says so solemnly that you’re tempted to be a fool and believe him. “And is that what you think? That what I saw was ugly?”

You sit up, take the glass from him and knock back the rest of the wine in one gulp. You can't do this right now. You can't think about the the violent hunger, the savage thirst, that his eye brought from the depths of your soul when he forced his way into your deepest, darkest desires the night you met. The extent of how much you wanted to kill him, and make it hurt, when you thought he had killed Caleb and your grandmother. How you still feel that hunger and rage, with every wanderer you kill, every time you hope some dealer in modified protocores resists arrest so you can put them down, with prejudice.

“I’m tired, Sylus. Thank you for the lesson. Now I can successfully fool rich assholes at upscale dens of corruption and unsuspecting dates into believing that I’m a sophisticated connoisseur of overpriced beverages, and swindle them all. And I’ll never horrify you again by swigging wine out of a mug like a drunken toddler. You should invoice the Association for your services. In the meantime, I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

“I see. You’re still on guard, and defensive, when you're drunk too. How fascinating.” He narrows his eyes, not seeming to get the hint that you want him to leave now.

“I’m not drunk. I’m maybe tipsy, and I’m fucking tired. I’m going to bed.”

“All right,” he says easily. He stands and begins tidying up the counter.

“All right,” you repeat, feeling a little dizzy, a little empty. “You know where the door is.”

“As you say,” he says serenely, pulling out food storage containers you also didn’t realize you own and packing the food away.

“Thanks again,” you say, because you are polite, dammit. You make your way into the bathroom and begin getting ready for bed. When you emerge, your flat is dark. The kitchen looks pristine in the streetlight drifting in through the windows. You stare for a moment longer, wondering if maybe he’s finally given up on whatever his agenda with you is after your little emotional display tonight, and he’ll stop coming by now. You’re fine with that. Maybe this is what you’ve needed to do all along. Get drunk and sloppy. Guarded, defensive, he called you. What an asshole.

You pad into the bedroom, yawning, pulling up your phone to look at it as you walk. Maybe you should try listening to audiobooks to try to help with the insomnia. Like, boring ones with deep, sexy voiced narrators who can bore you to sleep like Sylus did the other night. You crawl onto the bed, and then—

“The fuck, Sylus?”

He’s sitting in the middle of your bed, sweater off and replaced by… nothing. Just the expanse of his big, creamy chest. And he’s wearing a pair of silky looking loose, black pyjama pants. An impossibly soft looking line of silver hair drifts from his tight navel, disappearing under his waistband. His gold-rimmed glasses are perched on his nose, like last time, and he’s scrolling through something on his tablet. He glances up at you, but then goes back to his… spreadsheets?

“Haven’t we already been through that little routine tonight?” he asks, and yawns. “I’m getting déjà vu.”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” you seethe.

“Going over the financials from the meeting with my accountant today.”

“Why?” You just sit there on your knees, on your bed, gaping at him like an idiot.

“To ensure that my next acquisition is suited to purpose.”

“What?”

His gaze flicks to you, and he pushes the glasses further up his nose. “Well, I made a promise that I wouldn’t change a thing about my latest business venture, so now I need to ensure that the next chain of businesses I acquire can serve one of the functions I had intended for the arcades.”

“What function is that?” you ask, curious now, despite yourself.

“Well, one of two primary functions,” he amends, tapping his temple thoughtfully with a finger.

“Okay,” you say slowly, inviting him to continue.

“Money laundering.”

You shake your head. “Come again?”

“Oh, I’ll be happy to. Thank you for the invitation. I wasn’t sure I’d ever receive one again, what with your heavily implied dismissal earlier.”

“Sylus!”

“Yes, my most precious gem?”

“What do you mean you intended to use the arcades for money laundering?” You want to cry even thinking about it.

“To be fair, after you asked me so sweetly not to change a thing, I immediately agreed. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“But that’s why you wanted to buy them?” How many times can a heart hurt in one night?

“I said that was one of the two primary reasons I wanted those arcades,” he says, reaching out with one hand and softly stroking your knee.

You look down, watching his calloused fingers drifting so sweetly across your skin. How can this man be so cruel and so gentle at the same time?

“What was the other reason, then?”

“Guess.”

“I’m done playing games with you tonight, Sylus.”

“When was I playing a game tonight?”

“Fine, don’t tell me. Just promise again that you won’t change anything about my favorite arcade.”

He sets the tablet on his lap, and reaches over to grasp your hand. He links your pinkie with his, and lifts it to his lips. “I already promised. And I promise again.” He seals the promise with a brush of his lips, and then rests both of your hands on the bed between you.

You don’t know why, and you will probably never know why, but you believe him right now. It’s clear that no matter what you do, he will not be leaving tonight without great violence on your part, and once again, you’re just too tired to fight him anymore. He reads your body like a damn book, because he silently hands you the glass of water that was sitting next to him on the nightstand. "Even if you're not drunk, but only maybe just a little tipsy," he says, doing an awful imitation of your voice. "You should still drink some water so you don't feel terrible in the morning."

Perhaps because of your easy compliance with his reasonable advice by simply taking the water and drinking it, he seems to deem it safe to pull you into his side. You go down, resting your head on his thick shoulder, and let your gaze wander over his tablet.

“So what are you thinking of buying this time?” you ask, yawning.

 He shifts, lifting your head so that he can wrap his arm around you, repositioning you so that you’re tucked a little closer under his chin, cheek resting against his chest. “A chain of casinos.”

“Casinos?” you laugh softly. “That’s on brand, I guess.”

“Mmhmm.” He runs his fingertips absently along your arm, from wrist to elbow and back again. “Lots of money changing hands. Ideal for functioning as a washing machine for the dirty proceeds from the weapons business, which comes out clean in the pockets of lucky winners.”

“You make your living profiting off the worst in people, you know that?” you ask sleepily, the numbers on the screen blurring.

“They’ll continue being terrible, with or without my involvement. I don’t make them take the bet, or pull the trigger. And if I don't, someone else will put the chip or gun in their hands. Might as well be me collecting the paycheck.”

“Maybe, through the power of friendship, I can change your mind,” you murmur. You don’t think you’ll need that audiobook to fall asleep tonight.

“Friendship, huh?” Sylus asks, but when he looks down at you, he sees that you’ve already fallen asleep. He traces the long sweep of your eyelashes across your cheeks with his eyes, feels your measured, calm breath drifting across his skin. He gently touches one finger to the ruby earring you haven’t taken out yet. The thrill of satisfaction he felt when you answered the door still wearing it would sustain him for weeks. He is absolutely certain that it won’t be the power of friendship that’s going to change him.

He pulls you a little closer into his chest, snorts when he feels you begin to drool onto his pec, and continues scrolling through his tablet.

That night, you dream. You’re walking through your childhood home—but not your childhood home from before your memories, because you will never know what that home looked like. This one, the home from your earliest memories, with its wood panelling on the walls, old-fashioned lace curtains in the windows that you can’t see out of, because it’s pitch black beyond the glass. Hallways lengthening at the same pace as you can walk down them, boots echoing on the polished hardwood floor. You walk and walk, and you can never reach the end. Doors that won’t open, but you know Caleb might be behind them, because in your dream logic, his bedroom is behind every door you pass. You turn the handles, but they remain locked. Sometimes you think you can hear the sound of someone biting into an apple, crisp flesh giving way to sharp teeth, but the door won’t open no matter how hard you throw yourself against it. You hear your grandmother speaking, just around every corner, but you can’t understand what she’s saying. You follow the sound, and every time you think that she’s just around the next turn in the hall, the corridor stretches in front of you again, empty.

You have been in this empty house for years now, and you’re afraid that you’ll never be able to get out. But you’re more afraid that once you get out, you’ll never hear them making these particular sounds again, this slim proof of their existence echoing through the empty hallways.

Slowly, you wake up, and in that endless moment caught between your dream and reality, it’s just peaceful and black—you are coming from somewhere so far away toward something you know will hurt, and you’re not ready to feel that yet. But then a feeling of suffocation is overwhelming you, and you open your eyes to realize you’re literally being smothered by a very big, very warm body.

The relief you feel, the gratitude, that Sylus is still here, that you aren’t waking up alone, again, from the nightmare in your sleep to the reality that the nightmare is real, and you’ll never be able to see your family again, is more overwhelming than your current need for oxygen. Sylus is still here, and the yawning emptiness you were carrying with you for what felt like years during that long dream dissipates in the warmth of his body against yours. You can’t help yourself. Your throw your arm that isn’t being crushed by him over his torso and hug him tightly to you, giving in to the urge to nuzzle his chest and just listen to his steady heartbeat.

You lie like that for awhile, blissfully listening to his soft breathing, when suddenly you realize that pressed so close to him, you can feel every contour of his body, from your chest against his abdomen, his muscular, silk-covered thigh wedged between your legs, and his apparently very, very big dick pressing into your hip.

You freeze, feeling like the creep you have accused him several times of being. He’s just sleeping, and you’ve plastered yourself against him like a vacuum sealed burrito. You have absolutely no business being utterly thrilled that this part of him matches the rest of him in terms of size and intimidation. You will not be taking this joy stick for a test drive. You can get out of this. You’re a very good hunter, and you can evade detection and make a tactical retreat when necessary. And it’s very necessary right now, because you do not want him to wake up and find you attached to him like a love-sick leech.

Slowly, sooo slowly, you slide your arm from where it is slung over his waist, and begin to incrementally scooch backwards, his leg slipping from between both of yours, freezing when he seems to shift a little, and then continuing the slow slide away when he settles again.

You’ve managed to extricate all of your limbs from him, except the one that is currently numb and squashed underneath him. You slowly roll onto your back and contemplate how you’re going to get it out from under him without waking him, when suddenly his arm flops over your waist. You jerk in surprise, eyes flying to his face, but his are still closed. His hand slides from your waist to your hip, and then snakes around to take a big handful of your ass. He makes a little happy noise and then pulls your body into his again. In the process, he has managed to jam his thigh back between your legs. You stare at his face, trying desperately to see if he’s starting to wake yet—how did you even end up in this situation? Then he pulls you even closer, causing his thigh to press deliciously against you. You suppress a whine, because it has been so long since someone has touched you liked this. But of course the person who is touching you is a maniac and is doing so while still asleep. You reach up and pat his cheek to wake him up, simultaneously trying to to pull away from him, but tightens his arms around you again, dipping his head to your shoulder still exposed by his too-big sweater.  You freeze in shock as he inhales deeply and hums, and soft kisses trail from your neck down, and before you can push him away he bites into the meat of your shoulder. The pain, pressure, and warmth of his mouth on your skin have you trying to arch away and into him—you do whine this time, loudly, because it hurts but you want.

Suddenly, his whole body seems to tense. The pressure on your shoulder eases, and he sighs, his breath cool drifting along your over-heated skin.

“Good morning.”

You open your eyes, realizing you’d been squeezing them shut through the last few moments, and meet his sleepy gaze.

"Were you awake?” you demand, terrified of the answer. Because if he was, then what the hell was he thinking, pretending to be asleep? And if he wasn't, was he just dreaming? Was it you in his dream, or was he dreaming of someone else? You don't want to know. You have to know.

“Your rather loud response to my love bite woke me up, I think,” he smiles softly. "I didn't realize that I was... dreaming until then."

“So you didn’t mean to—” you start to pull away.

He tightens his arm around your waist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sylus, let go. I’m sorry for not waking you fast enough. I was just—I was just shocked. I know you wouldn’t have done that otherwise.” You struggle, but his arm is a steel bar holding you in place.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” he agrees, and you feel whatever fragile, tender root that had been growing in the cracks of your broken heart wither, the dry husk drifting away in an autumn breeze. Replacing that faint feeling of hope, you're livid that you do not share the same teleportation ability that Xavier and Sylus have. If you could, you'd teleport in a poof of glittering light or melodramatic feathers. To anywhere else but here.

You nod, and nod, and nod, because he’s not letting you move but you have to do something or else he’ll see it right on your stupid, open face, and you’d rather he slit your throat than see the pain his rejection is inflicting on you. You had lied to him earlier, about not having anything to hide, about always being honest with him. You've been lying to yourself, and to him, ever since you met him.

“What I mean—” he’s looking at you intently, and you want to cover his eyes with your hands, because as always they’re seeing too much, but suddenly, the doorbell rings through your flat.

You both turn your heads to look at the bedroom door at the same time.

Oh. Fuck.

Xavier.

Sylus turns to look back at you, so close that his nose brushes yours. “Expecting company, kitten?”

“It’s Xavier. Shit.” You try to roll away, and this time he lets you. You grab your phone off the nightstand and see that Xavier has already texted you a few times to see if you’re ready to head to the bookstore yet. The texts grow increasingly concerned the longer you don’t respond. The doorbell rings again. “You have to go. Now.”

You turn to Sylus, who is now lying leisurely on his side, head propped up in his hand, silky silver hair cascading across his forehead, occupying the bed like an imperialist force annexing a weaker neighbor’s territory, with no intention of leaving.

“And what are you going to do?” he asks, eyes drifting from your face, to your shoulder, down to your bare legs.

“I need to answer the door and tell Xavier that I’m running late.”

“Late for what?”

“Sylus, I don’t have time for this. You can’t be here. Xavier helped me get into the N109 zone, he spends a lot of time there—he’s smart enough that if he finds out what you look like, he might eventually be able to figure out who you are. You can’t be here,” you repeat, starting to panic. Sylus may not have any feelings for you beyond friendship or a predator toying with its food, but you still don’t want him to get caught because of you.

“You’re not working today. What plans do you have with him?” he asks, completely ignoring your distress.

“We’re going to the bookstore. We were going to spend our first day free just reading manga and eating junk food,” you rush out impatiently.

Sylus just looks at you for a few beats, the picture of lazy boredom on a weekend morning.

“Okay? Are you satisfied? Can you please leave now?” This is good. You can avoid the inevitable, It was a mistake, thought you were someone else, was dreaming about a giant amorous anthropomorphized ruby, you’re not exactly my type, because my type is someone who has their shit together, can identify what fucking region a certain grape was grown in and its exact soil acidity based on the year of the vintage, my type is someone else, anyone else—you reach down and hit yourself hard in the side of your thigh with a fist to get your head on straight, and start heading to your closet, intent on throwing on a robe or longer shorts so that you don't answer the door looking like you're not wearing any pants.

Sylus's irritated voice follows you. “Satisfied? No, I'm not feeling satisfied. But I would advise against answering the door wearing that.”

You jerk to a halt. “Excuse me?” You turn to find him scowling at you.

He waves a dismissive finger at the sweater and silk shirts you’re still wearing. “I think you should change before you answer the door.”

“I look that bad, huh? Thanks for the advice. You need to be gone when I get back.” You turn, hating everything and everyone, and make your way to the front door.

You throw it open, just as Xavier is lifting his hand to ring your bell again. His sky blue eyes, usually so calm and sleepy, widen when he takes in the dumpster fire that you are today.

“Hi, yeah, sorry. I overslept,” you rush out, hoping you can skip this part and go straight to the moving on with your day and your entire life part. “I just need like, fifteen minutes, and then I’ll be ready.”

“Did you get in a fight with a wanderer last night after we go home?” he asks, hand lifting again, this time toward you, as if he wants to touch you, but then thinks better of it and drops it back to his side. He’s wearing the white hoodie that Sylus stole from him. What even is your life right now?

“What? No, I just had some wine and was really tired.” He’s staring at you, brow furrowed now, and it takes a minute to realize that he’s staring at the sweater hanging off your shoulder. You suddenly get a really, really bad feeling. “Why?”

He lifts his hand again, and points, but in a kind of timid way, like a little kid who knows that it’s rude to point but can’t help himself anyway so just points a little so that his mom won’t get mad at him. “It looks like a wanderer bit you.”

You lift your own hand and touch your shoulder, and feel the too-warm skin there, the ache spreading deep into the muscle.

“Oooh, yeah. Yes.” You decide that you need to take acting classes. That is what you will do as your new hobby, on your few days off. You’re going to win the best actor award if it kills you, because if it doesn’t kill you, the embarrassment will kill you instead. And you’d rather die convincing everyone that everything is normal and you’re fine, and not from the embarrassment of the fact that your not-boyfriend, not-fuck-buddy, not-interested-at-all, probably not even your friend anymore Sylus accidentally bit you while fucking asleep and left evidence of it for all the world to see. “I did respond to a really minor alert in the neighborhood last night. It was only one wanderer. Hiding in a trash can of all places,” you laugh, not at all sounding unhinged. Convincing. “Bit me pretty good, but it really was nothing, I had completely forgotten about it. So, still on for the bookstore?” you ask, chipper, eager, well-adjusted!

Xavier stares at your shoulder for a few seconds longer, and then just nods. “Yeah, just text me when you’re ready.”

Bless him. You’ve almost put him back to sleep with your absolutely stellar performance. “Okay, great! See you soon.” You back into your flat again and let the door shut with a heavy click.

Xavier stands outside your door for several moments after you’ve scurried back inside. He thinks about how sharp his light blade is. He thinks about how he’s going to use it on whatever motherfucker thinks that he has the right to mark Xavier’s partner like an animal. And then he yawns, and meanders back to his own flat to wait for your text because he has all the time in the world, and the patience to match it. Xavier is your partner, and he’s not going anywhere, anytime soon. If he murders whatever asshole was in your flat last night right now, that might interfere with your bookstore plans with him.

You stand on the other side of the door for a moment, just trying to collect yourself. You lean against the cool surface, look up at your ceiling. Breathe in the smell of shoe leather, oiled metal. Absently you lift your hand to your shoulder. Why didn’t Sylus warn you before you went to open the door? He even admitted that he wouldn’t have … done that to you if he hadn’t been asleep. Why would he just… and then it hits you. He did tell you to change clothes before you answered the door. The asshole just didn’t tell you why. But he would know by now that you’d actually do the opposite of whatever he says, because he’s not the boss of you. He played you like one of his fucking records.

But why the fuck would he want Xavier to see what happened between the two of you? Does he enjoy your humiliation that much?

You have no idea if you’ll ever have the chance to figure him out, especially if he got the hint that you don’t want to see him anytime soon. You shake your head. Even though you should be exhausted after staying up so late and ending up on the human embodiment of a roller coaster with its wheels coming off despite all of your promises to yourself last night, you feel well-rested. You will survive this. You can survive anything.

You head back to your bedroom to confirm that Sylus is actually gone, because last night proved that whether he actually listens when you tell him to leave depends entirely on his own whims. As you enter, the late morning sunlight spills into the room. He really left. The room is empty. The books and various weapons on your nightstands have been stacked neatly and lined up just so. The clothes that had been left haphazardly hanging off your chest of drawer handles or strewn over the floor are nowhere to be seen. It would be the tidiest your bedroom has been in weeks, if not for the fact that your entire bed is covered in a thick layer of black feathers.

“This bitch,” you breathe.

It’s going to take at least two full size trash bags to clean this mess up.

You decide then and there that Sylus doesn’t have a choice about whether he’s going to see you again. You’re going to bag up these feathers and then tar and feather him with them the next time you see his gorgeous, petty fucking face.

[adimilkys]

Admiring you

MDNI 18+

gojo satoru x reader - a small fic of some vanilia sex with satoru

cw : AFAB, smut, oral (F receiving), p in v, unprotected, vanilia

this can be lowk ass because I am tired asf while writing this, hope you still enjoy (also sorry for being inactive for so long I was so busy w everything)

You were snuggled up with Satoru in his bed, just like every other night. Laughing about some stuff that happened today when he suddenly stopped and just looked at you with a small smile

"What? Do I have something on my face?" You asked, confused while he just snickered and shook his face.

"No, I'm just admiring how beautiful you look" He said, tightening his arms around your waist, giving you a peck on your forehead.

"Toru, I don't have any makeup on and my hair is a mess-" he shushed you with now a kiss on your lips "So what? You always look like a goddess."

"Oh shut up..." looking away, your face flushed. You'll never get used to the amount of compliments he gives you. "Nuh uh, don't look away~ lemme admire that face"

Softly grabbing your face with his hand making you look at him, staring into your eyes. A few seconds have passed before you connect your mouths, both closing your eyes.

The kiss was slow and passionate at first, your hands buried in his hair while he gripped your waist, he bit your lower lip making you gasp as his tongue entered your mouth, intertwining your tongues together.

The kiss quickly turned messy, into a make-out session, when you both separated, a string of salivia connecting you. He then went for your neck, kissing, nipping and sucking it, probably leaving a ton of marks.

"So fucking pretty..." he whispered before tugging at your (his) shirt, looking at you for permission. You nod and he takes it off slowly. Staring at your perfect breasts, he lowers his head again, attaching himself to one of your nipples while his other hand massaged the other one.

A small whine left your mouth as you laid your head back closing your eyes, gripping onto his hair. He left a few marks there aswell before kissing down your stomach, all the way to your panties, sliding them off aswell.

He groaned, liciking a stripe up your pussy. "So tasty, all mine..." one of his fingers entered you while his tongue focused on your clit. "O-Oh god...!" you moaned, pulling at his hair.

He adds in a second finger, stretching you out and finding your sweet spot in no time. Your back arched, your moans getting louder as you were getting closer to your release.

"P-Please... hnngh m'so-" you whined, your heels digging into the mattres. "I know, love." His voice muffled, not disconnecting from your pussy.

Both his mouth and fingers sped up, you gasped, one of your hands gripping onto the sheets while the other onto his hair. You came with a loud moan as he swallowed all your cum.

You were breathing heavily, trying to calm your body down. He raised from between your legs and kissed you, making you taste yourself.

"S'good for me." He stood up, taking his sweats and underwear off. His tip so angrily red, leaking pre-cum. Grabbing your legs, putting them on his shoulders, he teased your entrance with his cock before slowly sliding in. Both of you letting out a moan.

He let you get adjusted before starting to move, gripping your hips. You looked so fucking beautiful, head threw back, eyes squeezed shut, eyebrows furrowed and biting on your lip.

"Shit, you feel s'good sweetheart..." he groaned, leaning down to nip on your neck. His movement slightly sped up. Your insides were molded perfectly to fit his cock, it made you feel so good and full. His tip kissing your cervix.

"M'close a-again-!" you moaned, your nails scratching his back. "Me too baby- fuck-!" one of his hands went to your clit, making random patterns just to get you closer.

Letting out a loud moan, your walls tightening around his member, pulling his head towards you, making him kiss you as you came. Not long after, he whined coming right inside of you. Fucking his cum deeper into you.

Both of you panting, he waited a few minutes, catching his breath before pulling out. Watching his cum leak out.

"You did amazing, love." he gave you one more kiss, pulling your hair out of your face.

"I'm gonna run us a bath, alright?" You nod, feeling tired.

[girliism]

you don’t when it happened but you knew you felt it. patrick falling out of love with you, after twelve long years of marriage. but what had caused it? was it when you gave birth to your son? did he now find your body unattractive? couldn’t have been that, he made sure to tell you how beautiful you were, he worshiped you now no less than he did before, even giving you a daughter two years later. was it when you asked him to retire after he lost the us opening? “pat, maybe it’s time-” patrick stood up abruptly. “no. i’m not retiring, not yet, i still have one good season left in me.” or maybe it was when he started to rekindle with his recently divorced old girlfriend. “tashi said she’d coach me.” patrick said. you didn’t know how to feel as you watched him dry himself off. tashi the gorgeous ex girlfriend that he had weird history with. “oh… tashi.” patrick gave you that look he often gave your son when he was unimpressed with his goofing around during practice. “it’s not like that.” no, it was before that, when him forgetting little things like to kiss you goodbye when he left in the morning, or how he stopped sending you a good night message when he wouldn’t be home in time, turned into him forgetting your wedding anniversary.

“my parents have the kids tonight so it’ll be just us.” you laying on the massage table next to your best friend. the whole day was spent getting your hair and nails done, your body fully waxed and now massaged. “are you gonna do the steak and potatoes or the alfredo?” you hummed thinking. “probably the steak, i just bought this wine that’ll be perfect for it.” so you spent hours making steak just how he liked it, roasting potatoes so they were that perfectly crispy but not burnt. you put on a new dress and wore that perfume he loved, only to wait hours for him to get home. it was 1 am. you scraped your fork back and forth on your empty plate as you stared at the clock. 1:01 am. 29 minutes late patrick stumbled in. drunk. “where were you?” your voice was soft as you watched patrick trip over his own feet. “shit! fucking scared me.” patrick laughed, taking in your appearance. “why are you so dressed up?” you stared blankly at him. “do you what today is?” there’s no way he could have forgotten. right? “saturday.” “the date, patrick, what’s the date.” you were practically begging him to remember. patrick closed his eyes for a second trying to get his half drunk mind to remember. “it’s uh. fuck, the 15th it’s the 15th.” “of may patrick!” you yell at him, trying to hide the fact you were about to cry. you could tell when he finally understood. patrick’s head fell and a deep sigh left him. “shit, baby i’m so sorry” you turned away from him. “the guys, they wanted to get drinks after practice and i lost track of time.” patrick whispered, wrapping his arms around your waist dropping kisses on your shoulder. but he didn’t just forget cause he was out with friends. you thought back on the whole day, how no flowers greeted you when you woke up like usual, or how he didn’t call you to tell you something random that happened at your wedding that you surely forgot but he didn’t cause that day was on repeat in his mind. “there’s food on the table.” you walked away from him, wiping the tears that were falling fast.

the sound of padded feet running down the hall snaps you back to the present as you tear your eyes away from your wedding ring. “mommy, can we make pizza now.” your daughter plopped her little body next to you on the bed. sometimes you wonder if your genes even put up a fight as you stare down at the little girl who looked exactly like her father. “yeah, go grab your brother and i’ll meet you down stairs.” you tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, watching her running out the room. it was friday, and the kids have been begging for a family pizza making night and patrick finally had an off day. “have you seen my watch, the gold one?” patrick rushes around the room dressed oddly nice. “where are you going?” patrick freezes in the hall. “to uh meet with tashi, she wants us to look over some prints for a campaign.” tashi. “but, tonight we’re supposed to be making pizza, it’s literally all the kids have been asking me about.” you followed patrick to the front door. “i’m really sorry honey, but these prints they have to go out at a certain time and tashi she wants us to look over them together.” it was like that now a days, if tashi called patrick came running. “but daddy, it’s pizza night.” your daughter pouted, dressed up in a little chef outfit. “i know, princess and daddy is very sorry, wait for me a bedtime, i’ll read to you tonight.” your daughter nod saying goodbye before running back into the kitchen. “i want be long.” “ok, i love yo-” the door was slammed.

patrick wasn’t back by bedtime. “he probably just got caught up baby, he’ll read to you next time.” you had to explain to your daughter. you got a sick wave of deja vu siting there at the dinner table. waiting, waiting, and waiting. when patrick got home the house was dark and the stairs creaked as he crept up them. “how was it.” patrick jumped a little, not expecting to see you just sitting there. “fine.” patrick cleared his throat walking into the walk in closet. you smelt it in the air when he walked past. her perfume. it wasn’t faint either, it was as if he rolled around in it. “you smell like her.” patrick let out a sigh walking right past to the bathroom. “we hugged goodbye.” he was hiding something, you could see it in his desperation to get away from you. “did you fuck her?” time froze for a second, the only sounds being the breathing coming from you and patrick. “what?” “did you fuck her, did you have sex with tashi.” you weren’t backing off. “wh-why would i do that? you, you’re crazy.” you weren’t. “answer the question patrick.” tears welled up in your eyes, voice cracking, but you refused to cry. “just fucking answer me.” your voice was loud but still low enough not to wake the kids. patrick squeezed his eyes shut, pinching his nose bridge in annoyance. “i’m not gonna answer such a stupid fucking question.” you huffed. “fine, then do you still love me?” please just say yes and tell me in being paranoid. you thought, picking at the skin of your finger nail. patrick turned to face for the first time since he got back. “of course i do.” the tears you were holding back finally slip when patrick places his hands on your cheeks. you felt that the sliver band that usually rest on his ring finger wasn’t there. you pulled his hand from your cheek stroking over the empty spot. “love.” patrick whispered. “wait wait, please i can explain. it was just this one time, it ment nothing, i love you, please, i do i love you.” the fear of losing you was setting in and patrick’s eyes were started getting watery. you sighed, teary eyed and red nosed. “i really wish you didn’t sound like you were trying to convince yourself of that.” patrick looked at you with wet eyes. “baby.” you pulled your hands out of his and walked out of the room.

(why i’m sad like i didn’t just write this.)

[pentechnics]

Can't Get Enough

pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader rating: E | explicit | 18+ only word count: ~1,200 tags: nsfw, hate sex, angry sex, penetrative sex, throat/breath play, rough sex, multiple orgasms, angst, reader and din hate each other yet can't get enough, din makes you sad, no physical descriptions of reader, no y/n

notes: This isn't my usual style, but I just kinda had to get some stuff out. Not really edited or fully flushed out, for that matter. But hopefully posting something new will help me get further in my other work! I have something due for the d20 writing challenge and I am so sorry that one hasn't happened dfghjsfkl

taglist under the cut❤️

He slammed you against the wall with a loud thunk.

Your throat was sore from exertion, your pulse quickening with each groan he released.

His hand found your neck again and held tight, forcing you to look into that visor and see your own lust-blown gaze reflected back at you.

Fuck, he pissed you off. He got to see you like this, but you didn’t. Every time you two wound up like this, it felt like another charge added to an invisible tab. Like he owed you something, because you always gave him everything.

The thought was brief, soon vanquished by another angry thrust, pain and pleasure melding together and turning your brain to mush.

You peered in deeper, willing his eyes to show themselves. You channeled every ounce of mental energy you had left into him – how much he hurt you, how angry he made you. How angry you were at yourself to have given into this again.

And why? Nothing ever changed. He’d come over, both of you would be pissed as all hell, take it out on each other, and then he’d leave. Neither of you walked away feeling any better.

… You never stopped to wonder why he kept coming back. It took two to keep this up, after all. You sucked on his thumb when he stuck it in your mouth, wrapping your legs around him to bring him deeper into you.

You hated this. You hated that it always came down to this for you to feel something. Ever since the two of you broke up you’ve been searching for something, but hell if you knew what it was.

You hated that he was still your answer. You surely didn’t love him anymore, but you hated that you still needed him.

Especially because he doesn’t need you.

He rammed into you, deeper and deeper, sending you into convulsions. You screamed into the humid air, grasping at his shoulders for dear life.

His own cries followed, a loud ‘fuck’ echoing into the darkness. He pried you off the wall and threw you down on the bed, putting the full force of his weight into each delicious stroke.

You couldn’t help the whines that spilled out of you. He had a way of dragging out every single sensation until you were drowning in it all. Drowning in him.

It was infuriating.

You pulled yourself up to his shoulder, kissing and biting at his salty skin. A gorgeous, vindicating sense of pride soared through you when he let out a whimper. 

You liked to think you were the only one who could make him do that.

It made him pound harder into you. Your bite matched, his skin muffling your screams.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” you panted.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Good.”

He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in. Swears piled out of you. Your heart was pounding, your blood on fire. He had the nerve to fucking chuckle.

“You like that, don’t you?”

 “Bastard.”

He did it again. You wailed.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Any wittiness he had was gone. His pace became manic, one goal in mind. Your eyes rolled back as he continued to ram his cock against your g-spot.

“Close your fucking eyes,” he growled, pressing a hand over them.

The sensations grew stronger without the distraction of sight. Especially after hearing the familiar hiss of his helmet and feeling the subsequent mouth on your neck.

Your moan echoed around you both. Your hand came up to press against his head.

“Din-“

Your orgasm erupted without warning. He used his hold on your head to press you into the mattress, fucking you through it without relent.

“Yes, keep coming, baby.”

Wave after wave of pleasure had your legs flailing and your back arching. Stars appeared before you. The onset of tears built up behind your eyes.

“I’m not fucking done,” he mumbled.

His free hand began to swirl your clit. You thought you couldn’t scream any louder, yet he proved you wrong.

Your muscles tensed up all over again, that sweet coil threatening to break with each tiny movement.

“You better fucking come again,” he said through gritted teeth, like he was holding himself back.

The combination of thrusting and tight circles on your clit had you coming undone again with ease. Your second release was stronger, your body’s convulsions all the more erratic.

But he didn’t stop.

His hand left your eyes to grip your hips, and you had to fight with yourself to keep from looking at him.

“One. More.”

He pulled you to the edge of the bed and dragged you onto his cock over and over. The new angle was steeper, hitting something deeper inside that you weren’t aware existed.

“Oh god,” you sighed. “Right there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whined.

He let out a groan and picked up the speed. You threw your arm over your eyes, afraid you wouldn’t be able to control yourself for much longer.

His breath was labored, accentuated with deep heaving. He wasn’t going to last much longer, which meant—

“Runnin’ out of time, baby, you better give me one more.”

You squealed with each pulse of contact with your g-spot, but his words made a bead of annoyance interrupt your trance.

No, you thought. You’re not gonna get what you want this time.

You squeezed your muscles, clenching his cock tighter between your walls.

“FUCK,” he shouted. “Feels so good-”

His grunts were too much to bear, each one scratching that sweet spot in your brain that went straight to your pussy, but you had to hold back. He had to break first. You gripped the sheets with your free hand and clenched your jaw, desperate to keep the impending third orgasm down.

His grip on you tightened.

“Oh, fuck you,” he spat.

“You already are, dumbass.”

You didn't recognize the graininess of your own voice. But what came after told you it worked.

He leaned over you and continued the rapid pace, both of you moaning into the air just before coming in a heap of screams and roars.

He buried his head beside yours as he rode out his pleasure, taking yours with it.

He eventually slowed to a stop, standing back up and taking care to pull out the condom with his spend without spilling, just as he did every time.

You heard the plop of it getting thrown in the trash before he leaned over you once more, caging in your frame with his arms.

“Look at me.”

“I haven’t heard the helmet-”

“Look. At me.”

Even through his labored breathing, his voice was unwavering. He put his hands on either side of your face, forcing your gaze to meet his when you did peek your eyes open.

The tiny amount of air that had replenished in your lungs was gone.

He was a vision: skin glowing with sweat, eyebrows scrunched with a crease in the middle, sharp cheekbones and a hooked nose…

… But those fucking brown eyes. They were just downright unfair.

You put your hands over his wrists to keep his hold in place. A glimmer of hope dared to emerge in your head – is he letting you see him because he actually did care? Was there still something in him that loved you?

But then he let out a deep chuckle. Your heart broke all over again.

Why’d I even bother?

“You’ll never get enough, will you?”

You gulped. It always came down to this. But this time, you’d seen the truth.

Not only was this his last playing card, but you had a winning hand.

A confident grin bloomed across your face, the satisfaction already tasting so sweet now that you got to say this directly to his actual face. You’d get to see that smug expression die.

You’d get to finally be the one to let him down.

“Neither can you.”

****

taglist: @booksarekindaneat @bluemacaron @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @whataenginerd @girlofchaos @christina-loves @literallydontlook @the-little-ewok @salome-c @dear-fifi @mswarriorbabe80 @littlemisspascal @keldabe-kriff @kurlyfrasier @booksaremyyoga @elegantduckturtle @artsymaddie

[mustainegf]

This is a crazy sad idea I had the other night

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ¹⁹⁸⁷

I wake up to the pitter of rain against the windows. The air was dead, with the smell of old wood and the remains of cigarette smoke from the night before. The house held its breath. Lying there, in sheets that smell of memories, the leather and aftershave smell with the damp air and cleaving to everything in this room. His room.

James has left his space this way ever since, the mess of records that he insists have some sort of order, utter chaos to anyone else. Guitars leaned against the wall, scattered papers on the desk. Hard to tell, really. A few half empty beer bottles remained on the nightstand, one of them with the label peeling off where his fingers had unconsciously picked at it.

I sit up and blink away fogginess in my head. My body is heavy, I'm trying to move underwater. Really, I don't want to get up. I want to be wrapped in the warmth of this room, in the memories that lean against me from every corner. But I know I cannot stay here forever. The guys will be up soon, and we'll all gather in the kitchen, making laugh, eat whatever we can find, making plans for the day. It's 1987, and life moves fast. Even if I don't feel like keeping up.

Lately, James has been different. Quieter. Or maybe I'm just noticing things that were always there. The way he sometimes stares off into space, his fingers tapping out rhythms for his own ears. The way he lingers a little too long in doorways, expecting something or someone to appear. He doesn't talk about it, though. None of us do. We just keep going, acting like everything is okay.

Maybe he's downstairs already, fiddling with his guitar, a low hum of his voice humming along to whatever song's in his head. I smile at the thought. James Hetfield. My roommate, my best friend, and sometimes... I don't know what. Something more, maybe. Or something less. It's hard to define what we are.

I drag myself out of his bed and into my jeans,the necklace around my neck is getting heavier with the days. The little locket inside, the one I never take off, a picture of him. I rarely open it. I don't have to. I can pull up his face on the screen in my head anytime. Those diamond cut blue eyes, that wonky smile capable of illuminating the whole damn room.

I trudge softly down the stairs, trying not to make any noise. I used to joke this place was haunted, maybe the ghosts of musicians still waited here, looking for their chance at popularity. James would laugh at me for it, calling me ridiculous, but sometimes. Sometimes, I truly wish it were. And maybe it is.

But it's still an empty kitchen. No James, no one else. Just the light patter of rain, the ticking of the clock on the wall. My face droops immediately. He's probably out in the garage, messing with his guitar, or he went for a drive. That's what he sometimes does when his head needs clearing. I'm fine. I'll see him later.

I sit at the table, running my fingers over the grain of the wood in an absent circle. The house is too quiet. Too still. I shut my eyes and try to recall the last conversation we had, but it's all hazy, reaching for smoke. My mind drifts and for one moment, I might have sworn I heard him, his voice calling my name up the hallway. I snap my eyes open and my heart's racing. But there's nobody.

Just the house. Just me.

I shake my head, feeling pathetic. Need to stop doing this, stop waiting for things that aren't there. I'm not some little girl anymore.

But still… I was hoping the house was haunted.

I lie later on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling, the Scorpions poster on his ceiling boring an image into my skull. The rain has calmed. I have no idea why I am in here. I should do anything else, do something else. Instead, I draw his pillow closer to me, inhaling into the now-faint scent of him that still clings to the fabric. I know if i keep breathing it in, it'll only smell like me. And that's no good.

I simply wish that he would just come back now.

I heard the opening of the door behind me, and my heart leaps half a second, hoping it is him, but it isn't. It's Cliff.

He steps inside, his eyes soft as they land on me, knowing exactly what's going on. That's always been him, kind and patient. He doesn't say anything, not for a minute or so, just walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress.

And then I don't know why, but I just start crying. It's out of nowhere, tears spilling down my cheeks before I can even attempt to stop them. They soak into James' pillow like a hello. It's kind of really embarrassing, actually. I'm not a crier. But here I am, sobbing into James's pillow like some sort of broken thing, and I have no idea why.

Cliff says nothing more, but reaches out and gently brushes my hair from off my face, and I imagine his touch is James'.

"He loved you, you know," Cliff says in a voice soft enough that it caresses my slow heart.

My body freezes up. "What?

"James," he says, his fingers still moving through my hair, soothing me like I was a little girl. "He was crazy about you."   I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "You don't have to say that, Cliff. I know you're just trying to make me feel better."

But he doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He just looks at me with those sad eyes of his, chestnut hair falling slightly in his eyes.

"He was gonna tell you," Cliff whispers. "After the tour. He had this big, stupid plan. He wanted to take you out to dinner, make it all special, you know? He was nervous as hell about it, too."

Why is Cliff saying this? Why now?

Again, Cliff says, "He never had the chance." Cliff's voice is no louder than a murmur. "But he loved you. Really did."

I wrap myself into a tight, clinging ball with his pillow. "But he's still here," I choke. "James is… he's still here, Cliff. He's just… he's just out somewhere, right?"

There's such a long pause, when Cliff speaks again, his voice is full with a sadness that I don't want to recognize. But I do.

"He's gone, sweetheart."

I shake my head wildly, eyes refusing to believe what I already know is true. "No. No, he's not. He's coming back. He's just—"

"He passed, remember? Last year. The bus."

I stop breathing as the room tilts, heavy with fog, pushing against my skin, promising to smother me. I remember, yet I don't want to. I don't want to think about that night, the phone call, a feeling of my love slipping away.

"I saw him," I whisper, my voice shaking. "I swear, Cliff, I saw him. He was right here."

Cliff doesn't argue, won't try to reason with me. He just pulls me into his arms, holding me as I break apart. He strokes my hair, whispering soft words that I can't quite make out, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that James is gone. He's been gone for a year, and I've been living in this house, waiting for a ghost that will never come home.

Cliff lays me back down, tucks James’ blankets around me as if I am some sort of child. He doesn't leave, though. He stays beside me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

"He really did love you," Cliff says again, much softer this time. "More than you know."

The house isn't haunted. At least, it isn't haunted the way I wish it was.

I still wear you in my locket, James. I always will.

And maybe someday I'll find you again.

[girl-in-the-chairs-void]

AAAAA OH MY GOD<3333333 Please do a part 2 to hold me, console me, im eating it up

The angst is delicious, thank you<333333

Hold me, console me (part 2)

Theworst!logan x reader (part 1)

A/N: I know this goes without saying but I am a WHORE for broke men and the “I can fix him trope”, Logan fits just that. LEMME KNOW WHAT YALL THINK!! (not proofread btw)

You find yourself standing in front of a familiar door that morning—Wade's door. He had been the one to play matchmaker between you and Logan, always eager to meddle in his own chaotic way.

‘Sweet and sour, just how I like my cu-‘ he used to tease about your dynamic, though he never meant harm. How could he, when all you did was bring him and Al delicious dinners and baked goods? Wade would’ve married you himself if Vanessa weren’t in the picture. ‘You’re my twin flame,’ he’d often joke, even though you were nothing like him. You were quiet, reserved, and detested socializing unless it was within the comfort of either your or Wade’s apartment.

Now, here you are, on the morning of your worst heartbreak, clutching a tub of ice cream and a bag of microwavable popcorn outside his door.

Three sharp knocks echo in the hallway. You hear a clatter from inside, followed by a string of muffled curses, until the door swings open to reveal a face that knocks the air right out of you.

Logan.

“Oh...” Your eyes widen as you freeze, a storm of emotions brewing within you.

Before you can stop yourself, you push past him, setting down the ice cream and popcorn on a nearby table. When you turn around, your face is met with the solid wall of his chest. He looks down at you, sorrow etched deep into his features. And suddenly, everything boils over.

“You,” you spit, fire blazing in your eyes. You strike his chest, again and again, and he lets you—lets you unleash your frustration, your anger, because he knows he deserves it.

“You left. No warning, no note. You were just... gone! Clothes packed, phone off! What were you thinking? I begged you to stay, Logan. I begged.” Your voice cracks, and the tears come, burning hot down your cheeks. But all you notice is the tears in his eyes, and the soft rustle of movement from the kitchen where Wade is likely listening.

You try to ignore the thought of Al and Wade overhearing your heartbreak, keeping your tear-blurred gaze fixed on Logan.

“Bub—”

“No,” you cut him off sharply. “I know it’s hard, Logan. I do. I was there when Wade went through his worst. I’ve stood by friends in their darkest days. I want to be there for you, through everything. But you shut me out.”

Your voice trembles, betraying you, and you see him instinctively move to hold you, but you step back, wiping at your tears. The hurt in his eyes is unmistakable, but you continue.

“I’m sorry if you think I’m pushing you too hard. I’m sorry if I ask for too much. But I love you, Logan. And no matter how much you run, I won’t leave you. Not ever.”

The silence between you lingers, thick with unsaid words, before it’s broken by slow clapping from the kitchen.

“You really hit him with that one, sweets,” Wade’s voice calls out. “No, seriously, I was just telling him he should’ve dealt with his frustration by boning you—”

But Wade’s words are cut short. Before you know it, Logan’s grabbed your wrist and is pulling you toward the door, past Wade’s crude commentary. He leads you out of Wade's apartment, two doors down to your own, ignoring the continued yells from Wade behind you.

“Logan, what—?” you barely get the words out before his arms are around you, lifting you from the waist until your face is nestled against the crook of his neck. You feel the warmth of his tears against your skin, his body trembling with quiet sobs.

You hold him, your hands moving to comfort him, running through his hair, soothing his ragged breathing.

“You—” he starts, his voice breaking with the weight of it. “In my world... you died. I killed you. I let you die.” His voice shakes as the sobs take over. “I never meant to... I didn’t mean to let them die, bub.”

You feel his knees give way, and the two of you sink to the cold hallway floor. He’s crying harder now, his grip tightening around you as if letting go might make you disappear too.

“I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“Shhh,” you whisper, cutting him off softly. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He clings to you, his desperation palpable. You pull away just enough to cup his face in your hands. “Look at me, Logan. I’m alive. You didn’t lose me—not here.”

You press a kiss to his forehead, feeling his breath begin to slow, then to his tear-soaked eyelids. You kiss him softly, murmuring gentle reassurances between each touch.

“I’m here. I’ll hold you. I’ll love you. Forever. Does that sound like a deal?”

As you cradle Logan’s face in your hands, his breathing starts to slow. The raw emotion in his eyes begins to soften, though the weight of everything still lingers in the air between you. He looks at you, truly seeing you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, a small, shaky smile begins to form on his lips. It’s brief, but it’s there. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t say that,” you reply softly. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the cold floor grounding you both in the present. His arms are still tight around your waist, as though letting go might shatter the fragile peace you’ve found. You stay like that, the world outside your apartment and Wade’s chaotic energy fading into the background.

Eventually, you pull back slightly, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders.

“Come on,” you say gently. “Let’s get up. You’re going to catch a cold sitting here, even if it’s for a little bit.” You say, aware of his super healing.

Logan hesitates, as if reluctant to let go of the closeness, but then he nods. You both stand slowly, your legs shaky from the emotional intensity. Without a word, you lead him into your apartment, closing the door behind you.

Inside, the dim lighting casts a soft glow over the room. It’s quiet, a contrast to the whirlwind of emotions that just unraveled in the hallway. You sit on the couch, and Logan follows, sitting beside you. There’s still a heaviness in his movements, a man weighed down by too many ghosts from his past, but he’s here. He’s with you.

For a few minutes, the silence is comfortable. You lean against him, his arm naturally wrapping around your shoulders. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest is a soothing reminder that despite everything, you’re both still here—alive, together.

“You don’t have to talk,” you say softly, sensing the turmoil still swirling inside him. “Not now. Not until you’re ready.”

Logan’s thumb traces slow circles on your shoulder, a sign that he’s listening. After a moment, he speaks, his voice quiet but steady.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready,” he admits. “But... I want to try.”

You turn to face him, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and sadness. “That’s all I need to hear.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m sorry for leaving,” he whispers. “For everything.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of his words. “I know. But you’re here now. And we’ll figure it out. Together.” You reach for his hand, giving it three squeezes before reaching up to give him a peck, one of reassurance.

For the first time in a long while, you both let the quiet settle, not out of avoidance, but out of mutual understanding. The journey ahead might not be easy, but it’s a path you’ll walk side by side. As the minutes tick by, you feel a sense of calm wash over you. You’re not alone in this—neither of you are. And for now, that’s enough.

Suddenly, a loud knock on your door breaks the silence that makes you jump, followed by Wade’s unmistakable voice shouting through the wood.

“Hey! Are you two done with the emotional stuff yet? I’ve got pancakes in here, and they’re getting cold!”

You exchange a glance with Logan, both of you barely suppressing a laugh. The tension in the room eases just a bit, the smallest sliver of normalcy creeping back in.

“We should probably go before he kicks the door down,” you say with a smirk.

Logan stands and offers you a hand, his expression a little lighter now. “Yeah,” he agrees, a small but genuine smile finally reaching his eyes.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you both walk back toward the world—not broken, but healing, one step at a time.

[tpwk-formula1]

Hi, can I get the following with Max please:

- Gluten free crust

- Red sauce

- Olives

- Peperoni

- Jalapeños

- Chicken

- Roasted peppers

- Ham

- Argula

- Pulled pork

- Beer

- Pepsi

- Root beer

- Dessert

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

gluten-free enemies to lovers red sauce rough sex olives "Swallow every last bit. NOW!" pepperoni "Be a good girl, and you'll get what you want" jalapenos "Always such a fucking brat" chicken "Awe, you thought I'd let you cum that easy?" roasted peppers "Such a good whore" ham "You're so infuriating. Walking around like you own the place and then come back to my room to get fucked properly" arugula "I love stretching this pussy out" chorizo "God, I love when I fuck the attitude out of you" beer edging pepsi oral kink root beer daddy kink served by Max Verstappen

TW mean max, face fuck, degrading terms, cum swallowing, pussy eating, unprotected set, slight size kink, multiple orgasms, edging, cummin on body

WC 2900+

Y/N POV

"Max they need you in the car now," I shout through the door trying to get Max to get out of his driver's room.

"Leave me alone little Horner," Max says walking past me and brushing shoulders with me quite aggressively. I just roll my eyes at the attitude radiating off of Max.

I just walk in the other direction not wanting to get into it with Max today. I was the daughter of Christian Horner, and Max and I have never gotten along. Even when we were both young teenagers we would still find a way to bicker back and forth. Back when we were younger it would be over stupid things like what type of coffee was better. Now, that we are older and I work for Red Bull Max has taken it upon himself to make sure to make my work life a living hell.

As the race day continues I watch as Checo is excelling on the Baku track while Max is currently fighting to not get overtaken by Lando who started in the back of the grid.

When Lando overtook Max I had to contain my laugh knowing the engineers around me were not enjoying Max's race. I think the race is pretty much a wrap when all of a sudden I watch as Checo and Carlos collide into the way making me cringe as all of Checo's hard work this weekend is down the drain in a matter of seconds.

I brace myself for the shouts that start ringing out in our garage even hearing Ferrari shouting from how loud they had gotten.

When the race finally finished under a VSC I continued watching as Max's starts overtaking Lando and George. I hear Lando start mentioning Max making me smirk a little. I knew he wasn't gonna get into any kind of trouble but it was funny listening in on him getting snitched on.

Once everything starts to calm down from the intense ending of the race I make my way back into the hospitality to pack up my stuff to head back to the hotel and get some rest before my early morning flight tomorrow.

"You're the last person I fucking want to see right now," Max shouts when I walk into one of the conference rooms to gather my laptop and the rest of my belongings I left in here during the race.

"I'm just getting my stuff," I say softly not wanting to get into a screaming match with Max.

"I'm sure you are," Max says rolling his eyes like I had told some lie.

"What are you getting at Max?" I snap at him when I make it to the corner where my bag of stuff is sitting.

"I just think it's ironic you just so happen to always be where I am. It's like you're fucking obsessed with me," Max says while standing up and approaching me, making me start to back up slightly.

When my back hits the wall Max is now standing face to face with me.

"Max, back up," I whisper starting to get a bit scared. Max and I had always gone at it but he had also never once gotten into my face before.

"Come back to my hotel with me. I'm fucking exhausted from fighting off the sexual frustration," Max says making me gasp before laughing slightly.

"you're fucking insane if you think we have sexual tension between us and you need to go to a mental hospital if you thought THAT would work on me," I say before pushing him back and attempting to try and leave.

When Max grabs my wrist I groan knowing he wasn't done with the conversation.

"One night, let me fuck you till the sunrises and then we go back to whatever this is," Max says making me step to him so we are back to being chest to chest.

"No," I simply say trying to turn around again but stop in my tracks when Max shouts again.

"One fucking night," Max shouts. I instantly turn back around pushing at his chest a little making him stumble.

"Max if I go back with you and you don't have me on the edge of cumming within 5 minutes I'm getting up and going back to my room," I tell him sternly.

"I only need 2," Max says cockily making me shake my head before leaving the room.

When I get back to my hotel room I take a quick shower and get partially ready kind of hoping the plans between Max and I weren't just a heated discussion after a bad race.

I'm not even halfway through brushing my teeth when I get a notification on my phone letting me know Max had texted me. When I finished brushing I picked up my phone to see what Max said

"Be here in 10. 342"

I quickly change before stepping out of my room to head for the elevator to head up to Max's room. I feel like I should be having doubts but to be quite frank, I have wanted Max for far longer than I want to admit. He was right there has been sexual tension between us for years but neither one of us trying to admit it.

When I get in front of his hotel room I hesitate before knocking knowing whatever happens tonight will change everything.

"On time, I'm fucking shocked," Max says when he opens the door to let me in.

"Max, what the hell are you on about?" I snap at him not even being able to last 30 seconds without us fighting.

"You're so infuriating. Walking around like you own the place and then come back to my room to get fucked properly" Max says casually making me stop in my tracks and stare at him.

"You're a fucking dick. And don't flatter yourself you have 5 minutes starting now," I say making Max instantly approach me and pull me in for one of the most intense and aggressive makeout sessions I have ever been a part of. I can feel the sparks flying almost instantly. Max picks me up and carries me into the other room where his bed is before he places me on the bed and starts pulling up my shirt making my breath hitch slightly.

When Max has my shirt off he instantly unclips my bra and flings it across the room before pushing me down softly to lie down.

As soon as my back hits the mattress I feel Max's hands making quick work at pulling my pants down leaving me completely bare in less than a minute.

"neuken," Max mumbles making me lift my head slightly. I've known Max long enough to have picked up on some of his Dutch.

"What," I snap worried that something was wrong.

"God the prettiest pussy," Max mumbles before diving right in and pulling my clit into his mouth and instantly sucking it making me arch my back and throw my head back.

"Fuck, Max," I whine when I feel his fingers teasing my entrance.

"How are you already this fucking soaked," Max groans into my pussy sending a new set of vibrations to my clit making me whine again.

"You, Max. It's always been you," I groan when I make eye contact with him. I can see the smirk written all over his face.

Max dives back making me whine. When two of his fingers slip into my tight pussy I instantly scream in pleasure feeling my orgasm approach far faster than I wanted.

"You're fucking close already," Max pulls away slightly to making sure to keep finger fucking me making me moan and nod my head.

"Yes, daddy," I moan without thinking making both Max and I stop almost instantly and stare at each other.

"Daddy?" Max questions with a smirk and before I can even say anything he's fucking me with his fingers far faster than he was previously.

"Max I'm gonna fucking cum," I moan out making Max pull his fingers out leaving me on the edge.

"What the fuck," I shout sitting up slightly so I can look Max in the eyes.

"Awe, you thought I'd let you cum that easy?" Max questions with a smirk making me wanna slap his.

"5 minutes are up. I'm leaving," I say while trying to get up but Max is instantly holding me down not letting me move.

"You said I had 5 minutes to bring you to the edge of cumming, I did," Max says with a smirk taking my words far to literal than I would have hoped.

"Max just make me fucking cum," I say getting frustrated, never being good at handling being edged even though it's one of my favorite things.

"No, not until I get my little nickname again," Max says with a smirk making me scoff and shake my head no.

"Well until then I'm gonna enjoy this pussy," Max says before putting his fingers back into my pussy making me gasp before he starts licking my clit bringing all the pleasure flooding back into my body making me moan.

"Fuck, Max so good," I whine. I knew my orgasm was approaching but instead of announcing it, I tried to hide it.

"Always such a fucking brat," Max says when he pulls his fingers out and moves his mouth from my pussy denying my orgasm again.

"Max," I say seriously.

"No, you know what you need to do, and don't be a fucking brat and try to hide it. I know this body far more than you think," Max says sternly before sending a harsh slap on my pussy making me jump slightly.

Max doesn't waste much time to start playing with my pussy again and it doesn't take me long for my orgasm to slowly start approaching again.

"Fuck," I moan feeling myself crawling to the edging and needing to cum.

"Be a good girl, and you'll get what you want," Max says making me whine.

"Please Daddy, let me cum," I finally break down and beg how Max wanted. This had Max speeding up his actions and throwing me over the edge within moments.

"Fuck, Daddy," I scream when he keeps fucking me even after helping me ride through my orgasm.

"God, you scream too good," Max says finally pulling away after torturing me with overstimulation for a few moments.

When I catch my breath I sit up softly getting out of bed before standing in front of Max pulling him in for another kiss and starting to work on undressing him.

When Max is finally undressed I pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed before getting on my knees for him.

"Such a good whore" Max mumbles when he sees me on my knees getting ready to pull him into my mouth.

When I finally get ready to pull Max into my mouth I realize just how big he was. I hesitate slightly not knowing if I would be able to take him all the way into my mouth but decide there is only one way to find out.

When I pull his tip into my mouth I can taste the salty precum he was already leaking making me suck it up getting addicted on the taste.

When I start bobbing my head I realize Max would still have another inch or so left that I wouldn't be able to take into my mouth so I bring one of my hands to jerk off the rest.

"Fuck, your mouth is finally useful," Max says making me groan around his cock and pinch his thigh with my free hand.

When I pull back from Max's cock I feel the my spit trailing from his cock to my lips making the scene all the more erotic.

I take a few deep breaths before getting back to work on Max's cock needed to make him cum.

I could tell Max was getting close faster than I thought he would which had me bobbing my head faster trying to take all of him into my mouth, before Max is pushing my head down making me gag while he starts cumming down my throat.

I can feel some of his cum leak out of my lips from how hard I was gagging around his cock but Max didn't seem to care too much as it make his hips buck trying to ride his orgasm out.

"Swallow every last bit. NOW!" Max demands when he pulls my head from his dick making me swallow instantly.

"You're a messy slut now," Max says with a smirk making me look over to the mirror that was in the room. When I see my face I have tears running down my cheeks, my freshly washed hair was all over the place, all the while my lips were swollen and pink and covered in my spit and Max's cum. He was right I was messy.

Max roughly wipes my lips rubbing my spit and his cum smearing it on my cheek before he is pulling me in for a heated makeout session again.

"I need to feel that pussy around my cock," Max mumbles against my lips making me whine. I nod my head letting him know I wanted it too.

"Fuck me please daddy," I beg.

This has Max hauling me off my knees before being roughly tossed onto the bed where Max is on me within seconds.

We spent several minutes making out and grinding on each other before Max was fully around again and I was soaked.

I feel Max's cock teasing my entrance making me arch my back in anticipation. When he slowly starts pushing in making me whine at the stretch.

"I love stretching this pussy out," Max groans once he was fully filling me up, giving me only a few moments to adjust before he starts slowly rocking his hips making me whine.

"So big," I gasp out when I feel him hit my cervix for the 3rd time in a row. The pain and burn of being stretched was starting to fade and all I could feel was the pure pleasure coursing through my body now.

"I'm not gonna last Daddy," I moan out warning him of the strong orgasm that was currently impending.

"God, I love when I fuck the attitude out of you. Your wrapped around my cock like a fucking slut being all sweet now. If I would have known this would work I would've fucked you years ago," Max groans through clenched teeth making his thrust even harder but keeping the same brutally fast pace.

"I'm gonna cum daddy," I announce just before exploding into my first squirting orgasm making my pleasure fly all over both Max and I. I can hear Max groan but I'm so lost in the pleasure I don't even feel him pull out and start unleashing his load of cum all over my stomach.

"Fuck," Max shouts which finally brings me back enough making me realize I was now covered in cum, but I was far too blissed out to care.

Max only took a couple of seconds before he got up and threw on a pair of boxers. I knew if I tried to stand right now my legs would give out on me but I didn't want to overstay my welcome so I slowly start pulling myself out of bed feeling Max's cum start sliding down my body making me cringe slightly at the thought of putting my clothes on top of it.

"What are you doing," Max says while holding a rag and watching me attempt to get up.

"I figured you wanted me to leave," I tell him softly while still pulling myself together before standing up. But before my feet can even touch the ground Max is on me.

"Lay down," Max says softly showing me a completely new side of him. He starts with wiping my face down making sure to clean all of the spit and cum off of it before wiping my tummy clean of his cum before throwing the rag somewhere in the room and crawling into bed next to me.

"I might be a dick, but I would not let you stumble back to your hotel room covered in my cum like that," Max tells me softly pulling me into his chest so I can rest my head on him.

"Where do we go from here," I ask softly.

"I think we should start with being nicer to each other and maybe admitting there's always been more," Max replies making me nod my head.

"I know we did it backward but I don't want to rush anything," I tell him softly. He just nodded in agreement before pulling me in a little tighter.

" We don't rush anything but I want to be exclusive," Max says firmly.

"I can do that," I reply making him not his head.

"Fly home with me tomorrow," Max says randomly making me laugh a little.

"What happened to not rushing," I joke but nod my head in agreement knowing I definitely do want to fly with him. Even if it means exposing ourselves to a few of his grid friends.

It didn't take long for sleep to take over my body and right before I was fully asleep I felt Max place a soft kiss on the top of my head mumbling a soft I love you.

[lxmelle]

Just some thoughts on 270

Yes the end is near.

Yes I almost threw up when I saw that unmistakable hairstyle...

Yes I was a bit disappointed that there were no visible satosugu crumbs - or are there? More on this later... and the it overall just felt a little bit 😔 empty 😪

Nevertheless, I want to just blab about a few things.

First, is it Geto/Kenjaku?

If we think about how Yuta’s copy CT works, Rika would need to consume a viable part of the sorcerer. The only part of Kenny left was his whole brain. He was the brain. The rest is Geto. We have not seen any evidence of Yuta having CSM, so it can be assumed that Yuta did not have Rika eat any part of Geto. Otherwise, it’s be Geto’s CT and not Kenjaku’s body-hopping technique.

Imho: The person with Takaba is not likely to be either Kenny or Geto. Geto cannot function without a brain, there was none “spare” either, so the theory of a spirit entering the body is going to make it alive again - no, it doesn’t. There is no other living sorcerer who can do that - Ui Ui maxed it out with the number of times and there is no other person to swap with. Just. Not. Possible.

And Kenny was seen to have told Mimiko and Nanako that he took Geto’s brains out to inhabit it.

So. My conclusion is that Gege is baiting. Just as he did with the “we have to help Yuta!” And the rude yelling that got so many of us wondering just who would speak to roughly to Yuta and what warranted it. We were all asking: who calls Yuta “Yuta” and not “Okkutsu-senpai” etc. I even thought it was Shoko, assuming that Maki was in the same hallway as the others, but the main culprit was of course the most obvious, Maki herself.

And that baiting thing with the clock theory about 2:21 pm linking with chapter 221 of Gojo’s unsealing - I theorised it’s about having presence (like how spiritualists, and in Shinto, believe that spirit is all around us) despite being dead and his soul with Geto.

And goodness know what other theories there are out there about time and Gojo revival. I’ve said before that I don’t buy into it, but it is interesting.

So is it Geto? Kenjaku? I 80% think not but... yeah, I am worried. To be completely transparent, I’m so scared that it is.

Because I’m in the camp of: please please Gege, please please please let Gojo and Geto be at peace in their eternal afterlife until they’re ready to be reborn and let them find each other over and over and over again.

So rationally, I doubt it is. But I’m worried. I’m worried for reasons like: why aren’t the bodies and resting places of Gojo & Geto still not mentioned?

Next thing to I have some thoughts on are about Itafushi. They’re really good friends and I think it’s also just one of those things Gege is doing because it’s JUMP and he doesn’t want to just pretend the Hana -> Megumi thing is forgotten. It also shows some character growth.

So overall, I’m rather neutral about the Megumi + Hana thing. They’re still kids, and Yuji + Megumi are compatible but they’re also not quite Satosugu, so their relationship will be undeniably different. Friends or otherwise.

It’s nice to see the Megumi is taking initiative and finding novel ways to make new meaning & connections. I wouldn’t read too deeply into it, especially since Hana obviously read too deeply into it and got it all wrong.

I will say that it feels cliche maybe. Again it’s maybe a JUMP serialisation thing shonen mangakas do, since a big portion of the fanbase are young boys too. Gege can’t be doing too much for lgbtq+ too obviously after all.

So it leaves me feeling it is a little reminiscent of the Sasuke and Sakura pairing in Naruto - as if it could become something seemingly out of convenience/settling/making do, but what do I know? Sometimes relationships in life are like that. I’d rather marry my best friend, but you know... different strokes for different folks. As they say.

Now it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t find a way to make it about satosugu. I’m imagining collective groans from people who may be reading this... so please skip if you’re bored of me now, lol. Or read on if you like to be in satosugu delulu brainrot like me.

One of the satosugu-related takeaways from this recent chapter is that it seems to reduce the possibility of interpreting Gojo not allowing Shoko to process Geto’s body as being out of consideration for her.

Her saying that the idiot should have let her process Geto’s body pretty much says Gojo took matters into his own hands. Not only was it protocol… but she also personally thought it would be a privilege. But Gojo did not let her.

We ofc don’t know the details.

So it leaves us with: He did it for his own reasons, or reasons at least relating to Geto. Kenjaku thought it was out of consideration. And Kenjaku is not a reliable narrator, nor was Geto... who tended to think he didn’t matter.

You know, as a person who can quietly just swallow vomit and shit rags without complaint. As a person who could practically transform the filth, negativity, evil, and darkness of the world into power that he could use for good - he was vessel of sacrifice.

Anyway, I digress.

It seems to indicate that Gojo kept his body to himself ... for his own reasons, breaking protocol.

And referring back to 270 again, for Shoko to talk about the afterlife right after preparing the body -> cremation is strange. Does preparing the body and cremating it have anything to do with the afterlife? 🤔 so somehow, prepare body -> cremate -> mourn/afterlife?

Interesting in that Gege is giving us yet another example of how everyone has a different reality / belief. If we believe what we saw in Gojo’s death, then there is one and Shoko will be proven wrong when her time comes like how Gojo was wrong about dying alone.

And it is also interesting in the sense that it’s familiar…

Something about how she said prior to Gojo’s unsealing, about “I couldn’t love either of you like you loved each other, but I was there too.” - am I reading too deeply? Probably. But it’s there for me to read.

Shoko prepared Tsumiki for cremation. She was made her beautiful for the afterlife - even if she was to be cremated, there was something about giving her something (dignity?) before she turned to ash. And those left behind can send them off into the afterlife feeling they did their best.

I think you’d need a certain level of trust for someone to hand your beloved over. Or at least feel like they would mourn the departed like you would. Or faith that your beloved would be happy with entrusting you with that decision. In some cultures, the family wash and swathe their dead in cloth with their own hands where possible.

So Shoko. Shoko could do it for Geto, for Gojo. She was there. She was willing. But. It was almost as if saying that Gojo 1. could not allow someone else to prepare Geto’s body, and neither did he seem to have mourned because 2. Geto was not cremated to be sent into the afterlife. As if he didn’t trust anyone. As if he could not let go.

Again, Rika kept Yuta’s body “alive” too. Parallels are paralleling.

I don’t know how Geto regenerated or if Kenny was responsible for it. Or if Gojo somehow did. But those are just unnecessary details at this point.

And again, Shoko was there but she could not be like what Gojo was to Geto and what Geto was to Gojo.

How complicated.

I’m reminded of that scene where he says to ichiji and Shoko: “There are just 3 of us remaining huh.”

In agreement to Shoko acknowledging that Geto’s body needed retrieving from Kenjaku, it was quite a pregnant pause from Gojo before he goes, “………yeah.”

He seemed surprised Shoko brought it up and decided to just gloss over it.

To me, it collectively implies that Gojo doesn’t let Geto be anyone else’s but his.

His friendship was his one and only. His loneliness was his. His dreams were his. His love was his. His life was his. His body was... his. And his soul was his too. As was his satisfaction.

I think Gege wants us to understand something here. By what he is showing and not showing us.

If I think about the exclusivity that they shared... the whole, “we are the strongest (together)” and “it wouldn’t be bad to be killed by you” or even “I’m jealous but if you were satisfied I’m glad for you.” and then “if you were there to pat me on the back I’d be satisfied.”

It’s a lot like... only YOU can be the one. And therefore I think Gojo kept Geto all to himself. Maybe thinking Geto would only want HIM to touch his body.

It was his exclusive right. And that was mutually shared... because Geto wasn’t really pleased with Gojo getting satisfaction from elsewhere (lol, you know, the “jealous” 妬けるね that got the fandom in a frenzy).

I’ve mentioned it in another post... link: https://www.tumblr.com/lxmelle/758015943938113536/i-love-the-idea-of-mutuality-that-is-deeply-rooted I really do like the idea of Gojo and Geto just teaching each other things. Like selfishness and love. Binding each other to the other. Selfishness and selflessness as part of being human.

Was this an act out of the side of Gojo that was “a little selfish, a little inhuman but a little too human”, and he wanted to keep Geto all to himself? Despite not giving his best friend a proper burial?

When I think about how he normally did what Geto approved of (you can dispute this if you wish) and I think back to how he might’ve really given Geto’s body back to his family- but what we saw in the manga seemed like they didn’t have much involvement either. Surely they’d have wanted Geto cremated?

So it leaves me with the idea that it was Gojo acting out his secret feelings.

Just Gege and how he shields Gojo’s privacy. Secret words. Secret thoughts. You know. Gege being Gege letting Gojo do Gojo things.

I think we might need to accept that Gojo and Geto just have this exclusive thing we aren’t privy to.

That’s all for now. Abrupt ending 🫡

Thanks for reading my rambling if you made it this far 🫶

Feel free to share your thoughts/comments/criticisms 😄

[youhideastar]

WujiWatch: CQL Rewatch Episode 23

Long time, no WujiWatch! But I’ve been reading Catching Chen Qing Ling and it’s put me in an analytical mood about The Untamed again. Picking up where we left off...

Episode 23 has at least two iconic Wangxian scenes: Lan Wangji’s visit to a recovering Wei Wuxian’s sickbed to play Clarity, and the “I am not Wen Ruohan” conversation on the same clifftop where they will meet again in the last moments of Wei Wuxian’s (first) life. One thing I didn’t realize until this rewatch is the way those two scenes are tied together; that the second one picks up, thematically, where the first one left off.

The Clarity scene is interrupted by the screams of Wens being rounded up (and perhaps killed on the spot) and the shouts of their pursuers. Wei Wuxian immediately looks disturbed and asks what’s going on; Lan Wangji says, “they’re hunting down the rest of the Wens” and looks not disturbed at all. I am very good at interpreting Wang Yibo’s microexpressions by now, and this dude is 0% bothered. That is especially striking since the very next scene is all about (among other things) Lan Xichen being very disturbed at the prospect of murdering Wen civilians. By this point in the drama, Lan Wangji has made some progress toward moral nuance—but it’s all specifically Wei Wuxian-focused. His view of the rest of the world is still very black and white. The Wens are bad, so it’s appropriate for bad things to happen to them. End of story.

That’s how the Clarity scene ends, and then, as mentioned, we have the scene where 3zun and Jin Guangshan debate the treatment of the surviving Wens. After that, we have the clifftop scene—and what I’d forgotten is that the first line of dialogue in this scene is Wei Wuxian asking Lan Wangji, “What do you think of the people here [in Nightless City]? Who is good and who is bad?” The fate of the defeated Wens is still very much on Wei Wuxian’s mind. And it’s still a matter of no concern for Lan Wangji: he ignores Wei Wuxian’s question. He doesn’t want to talk about the larger events happening in Nightless City – he only wants to talk about, and help, Wei Wuxian. This foreshadows the scene in the rain at Qiongqi Dao – the moment when the hero of the common people looks at a group of starving, abused civilians and says to Wei Wuxian, in effect, Let them die—because otherwise, I’ll lose you.

(One other note from this episode that passed me by in every prior viewing, although maybe everyone else knew it: Lan Wangji knows the Yin Tiger Seal is made out of Yin Iron, very early on. In the clifftop scene, Wei Wuxian admits the sword he found in the Xuanwu Cave was made of Yin Iron and that he refined the Yin Tiger Seal out of it (albeit in one of his bullshit “What if I told you…” phrasings), and Lan Wangji confirms that he knows by asking, “Since you knew it was Yin Iron, why did you use/refine it?” While everyone else in the drama is resorting to innuendo and suspicion—and while Wei Wuxian is denying it to everyone else—Lan Wangji knew the truth all along.)

[lk0727]

I'm crying because I love the idea of correspondence between the students leaving next year and I'd love to see more of it. The white day cards are so cute that I just want to elaborate (hc) on handwriting and maybe even writing quirks. Just Malleus (for now...)

Malleus would be really interested in how his partner writes, it's all so fascinating to him and he's a pattern noticer. The noticerrrr. And he sees so much that he even finds himself compiling all the repetitive actions you take when writing -not just what you're writing, and brings them to you to discuss further. The way you slant letters, when your pen lets up, if you type then the frequency of paragraph breaking, how you insert images, etc. I think it'd be something like "Did you know you tend to smudge the paper when you reach the furthest margin, are you perhaps left-handed? Oya, you are? I knew that to be the case." He says with a slight smile and downcasted gaze because he knows he ate that. Sherlock Horns.

He would get overzealous about the fact that you're only a word away and would immediately call you with his archaic phone and pester you until you receive it. His Correspondence wouldn't actually be a surprise because you are usually visited by a heavy knock on your door and fae appropriate fanfare when it arrives, that's just etiquette when writing royalty. But, he always calls you the day he receives it so that you know he shall be returning post haste and he intends to dazzle you. In fact, you'll spend so long speaking to each other about what was written to him, that when you finally get his response, it's more or less just recapping what you spoke of two days prior. He can't hide his giddyness, even if he keeps a cool baritone while on the phone. Because you're a kind person, you pretend that his tail happily thumping against the ground is inaudible, because you know he can't help it.

He is going to surprise you by the emojis he uses because WHO taught you that!?!? He learned these from Cater and Lilia, but he doesn't change the way he speaks. It's "Good evening, How have you've been? The summer season of Briar Valley is particularly exhausting and hot💧, I am very bothered by the heat of it all.🥵🥵" and when Lilia intercepts it, he's like "that's a perfect sentence, go ahead and send it. Actually, one note, send more sweating emojis, it's really hot this summer, right?"

Your messages go through a diverse array of moderators and middle men. Those people being his Grandmother, who reminds him that he's a prince, Lilia and Silver (the two who initially opened the letter, and finally his transcriber and narrator, Sebek who scoffs at the quality of the smut you're peddling his young master, who shouldn't even be hearing this, but he'll read on against his better judgement. (It's literally benign, the furthest thing from smut, Malleus argues). His letters would look a little like this:

21.09.19XX Child, It's been nice knowing you.😌 Why do I say that? Since we've met, it seems as if Briar Valley has taken a lead in comedy and our collective temperament could not be more jovial. Your humorous description of your familiar, Grim child, was very well received by my Grandmother, as I was awoken early enough to the sounds of insects humming and birds chirping well into the night to read it aloud to me, guffawing as she spoke. (I apologize, I cannot stop her from opening my mail, but we're working on her problematic behavior, that's a fact.😉) She in particular has asked if she may keep it, you know how older individuals are with their chucklesome cat stories. 🙄 There's this understanding of the world that I just don't possess when it comes to what grabs the attention of the people's comedy, it continues to evade me. For instance, what is the humor of "surprise hot dog 🌭" and why must it be a surprise to be enjoyed? The children of Briar Valley seemingly shout this and end their sentences with it, and I am surprised and annoyed every time. It seems like you have an understanding in the matters of humor, so you are welcome to explain it to me. But I digress, If I sat down and listed to you all the things that escaped me, well, you might find yourself as old as I am by the time we've finished! 🤣The trees and wind must sense the happiness in our friendly union, and have planned accordingly to block out bad weather🌧️ and unforgiving spirits. The weather is nice enough that (forgive me I've overstretched my hand) planned your visit for sooner rather than later. Next time we meet in person, this shall be us ->🕺💃, as I've already made arrangements for a night in a cabaret club in the Capitol for us to partake in. It's a culture so far from the realm of possibility of establishing itself in our quiet little country, that I was astounded when I stumbled across its zoning request permits one day and I rushed to see it in person, paperwork be damned. The smaller fae who perform insist it to be a "cheeky, yet inoffensiveshowcase of the arts", and after witnessing it for myself, I knew it would be the type of entertainment you'd enjoy.🤫 Even now, it doesn't feel natural to write, like an odd mouth feel that doesn't change as I turn it over and over. A cabaret in Briar Valley, a music club in a quiet kingdom... it's as I've mentioned earlier, Briar Valley has surprisingly given itself wholly to the Joviality of life. Sincerely yours; Malleus Draconia, Heir to Briar Valley p.s Surprise hot dog 🌭

On the other hand, as confident as he is in your responses, he's always a little embarrassed to send something back. It's not fear of his ability, but rather, if you'll care to hear about the day to day of a crown prince who's routine is very boring and full of nothingburger drama. He doesn't understand that his 18 page assessment of his life is literally replacing the cable you can't afford, and when he describes the way the lion prince attacked him during a diplomatic meeting, the colorful language of his response makes you laugh, and then cry, and even gag because "how did he get close enough to gash you!?" You can see the face he's making as he writes this, pouty and angry and even chuckling when he describes the punishment that followed. Just like in his real life, Malleus has a hard time concealing his emotions. He's not shy about who he is as a person, and his writing is not either. The way it flows is a little different from traditional correspondence, if anything, he's sending you disjointed journal entries and prose while also clipping what you send him to respond directly. Your 2 page crapped out response filled with emojis and memes and inside jokes is returned in full by 20 pages of thoughtful dialogue, assessments of politics and fondness of your life, and even sketches of the things around him (okay... just gargoyles and Sebek, but those are things in all fairness.) He has a real zest that he doesn't try to contain, and even his handwriting gives it away. When he's in a good mood, it's very pristine, heavily slanted cursive that his heavy hand oppresses by not dotting his i's or crossing his t's. It's just understood between you two what he means. Likewise, when he's angry or melancholic it's surprisingly very light, almost inelligeble as if he was speaking through gritted teeth. He must be getting up and pacing, because of course he is. When upset or recounting something terrible, his handwriting is unusually neat, funnily enough the sentences are much shorter, as if he's hiding something or thinking long about what should be said next. He's a very wistful person, after all.

Malleus enjoys fine art that seeks to appease the senses and refine beauty, so attached to his letters will often be trinkets like necklaces, earrings, watches, and pocket squares that he found in shops in Briar Valley, or a ticket to a play or music shows that dazzled him. The heavier packages (these tend to come at random) are filled with small desserts, books on the anthropological history of different fae species, woven pieces from more aesthetically competent fae and their fashion, and of course, fragmented pieces of ancient gargoyles he found hiding in deserted rooms of the castle. <- He'll know if you've thrown it away, so hold on to the heavy, weird rock fragment, please.

[reidology13]

I tell someone I love them (just as a distraction)

Spencer Reid x fem famous!reader

Summary: In the depths of his addiction, Spencer finds someone who needs an escape as much as he does.

cw: talk of addiction, allusions to sex (no actual smut), angst no happy ending

Meaningless whispers of ‘I love you’ mumbled between laboured breaths and cold kisses in an apartment that doesn’t feel like mine. The sheen of sweat that coats his body is nearly constant these days, it has nothing to do with physical exertion. The glaze over his hollow eyes is the furthest possible thing from pleasure, although by now he might have his wires crossed. His face is beautiful, and I can see myself marrying it in another life, one where my chest isn’t as hollow as his cheeks. A life where I don’t have to ignore the fresh scars in the crook of his elbow as I pull his shirt off.

I am not in that world, and neither is he, a reality that I cannot grieve because this is what I asked for, what I have been working for since before I can remember. The parties that leave me empty and sick, the performances that start the moment I leave the stage, the new friends who tag along for my name. I love him because he doesn’t care about any of it, if only because he’s too high to care about much at all.

I don’t feel anything when I finish, I’m not sure he does, either. I watch as he disappears from my side, already scrambling to his bag, searching through it until he finds what he needs. He slips into the bathroom, finally taking his chance to feel something after the numbness of the night. He has his escape, he used to be mine. I wonder if one day the chemicals he defiles his veins with will stop calming his ever racing mind, or if I just need a higher dose.

When he comes back, I pull him close to me, dragging him back down into the bedsheets and sweat. It works this time, my skin alight with every electrifying touch as his fingers dance gracefully across my body. His hands shake as they move, a feeling that makes my nerves sing as a lump forms in my throat and my heart sinks to my stomach. He looks up at me with those brown eyes that would be so gorgeous if they held any emotion, anything but that violent hunger for a craving he should have satisfied moments earlier. He can’t up his dose as easily as I can, can’t pull his vice back to bed without the risk of never waking up. He doesn’t bother saying that he loves me this time, we both know it’s not true. Or maybe it is, but there are things he loves much more, and telling me he loves me debases one of the only pure things left in the world. I’m glad he doesn’t try this time.

He holds me afterwards, his trembling body not yet ready to stand up, or maybe he knows that the moment he does he’ll be back inside the bathroom. I turn my head away, and as he buries his face in my shoulder, I pretend I don’t feel the apology he mouths against my glass skin. He runs a hand down my upper arm, his touch tentative and light, scared that I’ll shatter into a million pieces. My heart does. If he knows about the tear that runs down my face, he ignores it, and I’m not surprised. Ignorance is what we’re good at, after all.

When I wake up, he’s gone, slipped into the early morning, or called into the job that he shouldn’t be doing in his condition. I crawl out of my cold, damp sheets, the disgusting aftermath of our night. The sick feeling that perpetually sits in my gut, loosening under him, twisting tighter under the sun of the next day. 

Slowly, I peel back the layers of sticky fabric, watching how they cling to my skin and each other as I force them into the washing machine. I turn it on.

Fresh sheets are laid out on my bed, sheets that haven’t yet witnessed the tornado of us, still clean and untainted by tears and sweat and words that never mean anything. I lay the sheet over the mattress, fighting to wrap it around all four corners as it perpetually escapes one, always sitting just slightly wrong. I place the pillows down carefully, fighting the urge to punch them like I’ve been wanting to punch his face every time he shows up at my door.

I can see myself marrying him in this world, too, getting him the help he needs and staying with him through it all. He would be able to be there for me when I need it, not an escape from, but support through the other parts of my life, a person to love and talk to about the hard things. But I know that is still impossible. One day, he will sober up and disappear, or I will be an uninvited guest at his funeral. There’s no option that ends well for both of us, the best we can do is take it as it happens and ignore everything.

I watch as the last blanket floats down over the bed, carelessly adjusting its corners. It looks exactly the same.

[j-nakamura]

♡— Newcomers, Announcements, & Exclusive.

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Hi everyone! Welcome back to our second article posting of 'TSOTH'. It's an honor for many to be interested in what I have to write! We have multiple students to introduce, so let's get to it!

(click keep reading to see the rest of the article)

Coming into the new year, I am proud to say that we have multiple new students that we should welcome into our school! I got a chance to interview a few of them, so I'm here to give everyone a warm welcome with some personal information that I received from each of them. :)

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Let's start off with Cassie Sandsmark. ( @cassandra-e-sandsmark )

Cassandra Sandsmark is fifteen years old and goes by the pronouns they/she. She is from Gateway City, California (what a long way from home!), and they prefer to have people call them Cassie or Cass.

In the past, she has been to over 5 boarding schools! So let's hope she sticks to the landing with this school and does not get expelled like she did in her past schools. If you bump into them in the hallway, beware! you may end up fighting!

In other good news, they're interested in Soccer and Football. Make sure you go out to those games to support her!

Up next we have Moss Verner! ( @moss-loves-dinosaurs )

Moss Verner is a sixteen-year-old foreign exchange student from New Zealand! They're nearly seventeen, and have been enjoying being in a new country so far! They use the pronouns they/he and go by Moss. Feel free to stop them in the hall to say hello!

So I was informed by a little birdie that Sir Moss Verner had superpowers... However, when I asked about them directly, they had left no comment on the sudden address asking if it was true or not. We may have a new vigilante on our hands, everyone!

Moving on from that little rumor, Moss wanted me to let everyone know that they would be making a new club! A D&D club! Go ahead and message them with any questions you may have about it! I'm sure Moss would greatly appreciate it.

Up next is Jaime Reyes! ( @jaimereyesbug )

Jaime Reyes uses he/him pronouns and is from El Paso, Texas. He's sixteen at the moment but turning seventeen next month! Make sure to wish him a happy birthday once the month hits!

Jaime, unfortunately, is very far away from home. He says he misses his family, but he's glad he got away from that state due to it being extremely homophobic. Good thing he's able to text his family members in order to cure his homesickness!

Speaking of sickness, I think Jaime must've caught the love flu. Considering that notion, be aware of your surroundings as the love flu strikes more victims!

Second to last, we have Corus Lim-W! ( @corus-lim-w )

Corus Lim-W is a sixteen-year-old who uses any pronouns! He requested that people try not to use only one set of pronouns for her, so keep that in mind! They are from Gotham (another one!), and he does not really have any nicknames for people to call them. She did mention that people from their old school called him "Cor'! They're really interested in art so maybe you can bond with him over art classes!

Taking note out of the interview, Corus has been able to tell what would happen before it's happened. I'd say that's some amazing deja vu or far-seeing sight if you asked me!

Now, I have to mention this, but does anyone else wonder what the 'W' stands for in their username? Well, I have a theory.... and I think it fits. The W stands for Wayne! See! Hear me out, he's from Gotham AND who has the biggest name in Gotham that starts with the letter W? BRUCE WAYNE. Could Corus be Mr. Wayne's secret love child?

Finally, we have Mikael (no last name. unfortunate. :'( ) ( @mikael1256 )

Mikael is seventeen years old and was born in New York. I never received what pronouns they prefer so for the majority of this writing process, I will be using they/them strictly due to this fact.

Mikael lives in a family that travels! They traveled all over the place until their father decided to reside in Gotham. While talking about the traveling they did, they mentioned that their favorite place to travel to was Montana.

Now... I'm totally not one to start rumors, but throughout that entire interview, Mikael did not blink once. I promise I am NOT crazy bruh.

Anyways, that wraps up introductions! Let's move on to announcements.

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ANNOUNCEMENTS;

Journalism Club is having a meet & greet event on Thursday @ 4 pm! Come visit and learn more about Journalism. We're recruiting AND free snacks & drinks. Anyone is welcome to come!

The Dance Team is having tryouts on Friday @ the dance studio! Make sure to practice a dance routine so you're able to showcase it on Friday! If you have any more questions, feel free to message Morgan Drew! ( @midrew )

That's all for Announcements. Moving on to our exclusive of the week. :)

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I have been submitted a writing piece to publish in this week's issue! I believe it's written over the newfound popular ship that's been going around called "DukeJay" (so silly).

Here it is and feel free to leave your feedback about it in the comments!

Hands cling to toussled pink hair as brown eyes widen. "Duke..." Jay whispers, pressing his fingers to the other's lip.

Once upon a time his voice would have incited anger in Duke. Irritation, annoyance.

But something about the way the other stared at him with those warm brown eyes sparked something within him. A flutter he struggled to push down.

Wow! That was.... interesting to read!

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Thank you all for reading this week's "The Stories of Tripolis High" issue! I hope you enjoyed reading it! Anyways, Jay Nakamura is out until next time... ;)

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

what wasnt being said in the poly poolverine storyline??? youve got me so hooked on this one

Enjoy a smut

"So, Angel baby," Wade demanded when you settled on the couch, "make with the details. What'd they say?"

You take a drink and a deep breath and Logan trades looks with Wade behind your head as they take seats on either side of you. "Well. My brain is still there, so that's good news."

"But," Logan prompted, feeling his stomach sink unpleasantly.

"But," you sigh, "they're going to try some new meds and if that doesn't work surgery IF I'm even a candidate for it. But IF they do that the recovery time is a beast and so is the therapy and-"

"We'll figure it out," Wade said.

You shake your head, "I don't expect you to-"

"Shut up," Logan said without any real heat, dropping an arm around your shoulders.

"And," you sigh, "there's still the risk that it could leave me worse off than I am now."

"We'll figure it all out," Wade said, kissing the side of your head.

"I still understand if-"

"Shut up," they tell you in unison.

Wade grabbed your chin and licked into your mouth, cutting off anything else you could say as he kissed you. His usual gentleness replaced with something like desperation. Days of pent up anxieties that had been gnawing at him bubbling up. And on your other side, Logan isn't about to be left out. Taking advantage of the exposed, tender skin on your neck to make his own feelings about it known. Scraping the flesh with his teeth. Making you whimper

"Aw hell no," Althea muttered, "Not this shit again."

You try to pull away from Wade to stammer an apology but Wade keeps hold of your hair and nips at your lip possessively, grinning when you close your eyes and shiver. "Poor neglected angel baby," he cooed, "Look at her, Peanut-"

The Apartment door slammed with Althea's exit and Logan's only response was to carefully shred your shirt. Leaving you in a bralette and your jeans on the couch. Exposing left over bits of adhesive and the bruises on your arms from blood draws and IVs. And he growls possessively. Burrying his face in your breasts and nuzzling briefly before he knelt in front of you and pushed your knees apart. Kissing the bruises on your arms.

"Good girl," Wade said, pulling off his shirt, "Just relax. Think you can take us today, huh?"

"Want to," you whine, letting your head loll back. "Missed my boys."

"You can do it, Princess," Logan growled, unbuttoning your jeans and trailing soft kisses down your stomach.

"He's so soft for you, baby," Wade purred. "Got us both so owned we're stupid. Not goin' anywhere, 'kay?"

"I just don't want you to have to take care of me," you protest, going tense.

Logan grumbled and pulled your jeans and panties down, leaving you exposed you him, and sank his teeth into your thigh. Sharply enough that you cried out, and he licked tenderly at the bite to soothe it. "Ours," he grunted.

"God that's fuckin' hot-"

"Wade," you whine. It's hard to focus. It's hard to think. It's hard to do anything except WANT when they're touching you like this. And when Logan smirks up at you, teasing your folds with just the pad of his index finger, almost lazily- you can only whimper.

"Angel baby," Wade crooned, "what's the matter, huh? You wanna play too?" He shimmied out of his pants and let his cock spring free, "Come to papa. Let's give you something to do, huh?"

And you do, licking at his tip to tease him. Satisfied when you feel his hands in your hair to stroke it. "That's it, Sweetie. Feels better, hu- Fuuuck. Yes. You know what I- Shit."

"Good girl," Logan growled. Giving you a little more now that you're starting to relax some. Losing yourself like you need to- to not think so much. To not worry so much. And your answering muffled mewl is like music to his ears. "That's it, kid. Gonna put two inside you, kay?" Better Music to his ears s that Wade is helpless in your capable hands. All he can do is sing your praises and try not to fuck your face.

Logan could sympathize- You had some super fucking human blowjob skills and he was willing to bet if Wade so much as twitched he was gonna lose it. But- there were rules. And when you were with them, they'd both agreed "Ladies First" was the first rule. It wasn't going to be fair if you hurt yourself and had to tap out before you got to come. They learned that the hard way.

He kept working you and kept at it, slow and steady. Enjoying the steady cresendo of your release. And when you did come, moaning incoherently around Wade's cock, his breathless little scream made Logan grin as he watched his other lover spatter come down your chest- careful not to get it on your face or in your hair.

"Christ," he panted, "What is this Prom night?"

Logan smirked and kissed you before he kissed Wade, "What's the matter, bub, she get the best of ya?"

"It's the fucking tongue thing. Every time- succubus." He pouted and leaned down to kiss you, wiping come off you with his discarded shirt, "Did you have a gay boyfriend or something? Fuck."

You snort, "If you learn to suck dick, suddenly boys don't care as much if you don't really want to fuck."

"Only because they don't know how to fuck," Logan growled, rubbing your hips.

"Such a DILF thing to say," Wade said, leaning over to kiss Logan, "as soon as I can feel my legs again-"

"As soon as you can feel your fucking legs, you pussy," he said, smirking, "you're sucking my dick while she sits on my face."

"So bossy," Wade pouted, "Guess I gotta get my kisses in now huh? Since Logi-bear decided he wants to be Daddy today."