#clock with spinning figure

[vikenticomeshome]

Cyberchase Clock Featuring Matt Figurine

So, I heard about the Cyberchase for Real segment "Bianca's Dogged Pursuit". This was tied to Season 5 Epsiode 5, "The Fairy Borg Father". I clipped out the piece that shows Bianca's Cyberchase Alarm Clock, complete with a spinning crank holding a Matt figurine. As far as I know, this clock was never actually sold. It was created (or more likely, adapted from an existing product), just for this gag.

8-year old me would have wanted this very badly. Look at Matt. He's just a little inanimate figurine, and he's still helping out with problem-solving.

I know this some sort of "tabletop alarm clock" or "desk alarm clock". Is there a special name for a clock in the shape of a rounded triangular prism, or one with a character revolving on top like this? I did some searches to see if I could find similar products, but I have had no luck on the shape or the mechanism for the spinning figurine.

#cartoon #cyberchase #2000s #nostalgia #pbs kids #2000s childhood #inez #jackie #matt #alarm clock #tabletop clock #desk clock #clock with spinning figure

[freedomfireflies]

Whiplash*

Summary: The second part to Knockout*

The one where Harry does something dangerous in the shadows, and he'll do anything to keep you out of it.

Word Count: 9.4k (again...so sorry)

Content Warning: 18+, smut, mentions of violence, slight blood kink, slight pain kink, overstimulation, multiple orgasms

There’s no protocol for what to do when a handsome stranger you hardly know (but occasionally fool around with), stops showing up at your diner. 

You stare at his booth for far longer than you should. Willing him to appear. To walk through the door and make things right. Ease this ache in your chest.

You have no way to contact him. You don’t know his last name, or his phone number, or his address. You don’t even know his license plate number. He’s a ghost to you. More than a stranger but less than a friend.

You give him a few more minutes to appear. Maybe there was traffic. Or maybe he forgot you were working tonight.

But soon, a few minutes turns into an hour, and booth 505 remains empty.

So, you put the idea of him to bed. Carrying on with your shift while wearing your heavy heart on your sleeve. Perhaps he’s gotten bored with you. Or perhaps he’s found other ways to occupy his nights.

You almost think you’d prefer this alternative to the other. The one where he’s not here because he’s not…here. That wherever he goes and whatever he does has finally caught up to him.

It makes your stomach wrench to imagine, and you forcibly shove the thought free before returning your attention to your newest pie.

Peach. Another one of Harry’s favorites.

3 a.m. has never felt so liberating. Bringing you the perfect escape as you clock out and rush through the doors for the parking lot. Eager to rid yourself of this wretched night and head back to your apartment to worry about your stranger in peace.

You step out into the cold morning air and pull your jacket a bit tighter around your frame. Exhaling a shaky breath that you can see dance across the dimly lit space.

There are only two other cars over by the right side of the building, and much to your continued dismay, you notice that Harry’s still isn’t one of them. 

So, with a sinking stomach, you reach into your pocket for your apartment keys, and begin walking for the subway. Yet right as round the corner of the diner, you notice something move within the shadows just beside you.

With a jump, you gasp, and spin around on your heel with your keys raised and aimed at the ready.

The figure that emerges sends your heart straight into your throat.

“Harry?” You drop your arm and move closer for a better look. “What…what…?”

The battered and bruised man offers you a tired smile that hardly reaches his lips. “Hi, Cherry.”

He looks worse than you’ve ever seen him. There’s a nasty slash going down his left eyebrow, a dark bruise forming along his jaw, and blood dripping down his arm from beneath his sleeve onto the pavement below.

You search for the right words – for any words at all – but before you can, he’s stumbling forward. Just barely able to catch himself before he collapses onto the ground.

With another gasp, you surge forward, quickly taking hold of his shoulders in order to keep him upright. “Harry—”

“M’okay,” he murmurs, and you can hardly hear him. As if he barely has the strength to speak. “I’m fine. I promise—”

“Harry,” you repeat for a third time, almost incredulously. “You…this is not fine. You’re…what happened?”

Even before he shakes his head, you know he won’t truly answer. “Nothing. S’just a little worse this time, but I’m okay. Really.”

You feel sick. Sick that he’s so hurt, sick that you can’t help him, and sick because you don’t understand who does this to him. “Okay, we…we need to get you to a hospital, we need to get you some help—”

“No.” His head shakes again, a bit more insistently. “No, I can’t go to a hospital. I just…I had to see you.”

You feel your throat constrict. “What?”

His hand lifts, palm finding your jaw until he can softly caress your cheek. And you feel a streak of blood smear across your skin from where his thumb brushes at your chin. 

“I had to see you,” he repeats softly. “Had to make sure you were all right. M’so sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”

You want to bury yourself in his arms. Want to kiss him, and hold him, and fix him. Make everything better again.

“It’s okay,” you nearly whimper. Pushing yourself into his touch. “I’m just really worried about you.”

The smirk grows. “I’m all right. I’ll go home, take some pain pills, and be right as rain by tomorrow. Really.”

 You’re hardly convinced. “Harry—"

“I’m all right,” he insists, dipping down to press his forehead to yours. “You don’t have to worry about me, Cher. S’not the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. I’ll be okay. I just wanted to see you.”

And you don’t believe him. You don’t even think he believes him. But he smiles at you as though he wants to. As though he wants to offer you any sort of consolation for his pain. To make this better…for you.

You allow him to hold you a moment longer before you pull back and declare, “I’ll help.”

His brows pinch together. “What?”

“I’ll help. I’ll go with you. Make sure you’re okay, and…and help you clean up.”

His expression softens, but he sighs heavily. “Baby, I can’t…I can’t ask you to do that—”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”

“I know, s’just…” He holds your cheeks in both hands now. Keeping you in his sights. “I made a rule with myself. A promise that I wouldn’t drag you down with me. That I’d make sure you were okay, and that you’d never hurt because of me.”

The pit in your stomach deepens, but you merely straighten up. “How could this hurt me? I just want to help.”

“I know, sweet girl,” he breathes. “But letting you come with me means breaking my rule. And I can’t do that. I won’t.”

You wonder what he means. You wonder if you really want to know.

“Then you come with me,” you decide. “You can come back to my apartment, and I can make sure you’re all right.”

Another heavy exhale, but you can tell he’s touched. “Cherry—”

“I mean it. You’re not…Harry, I’m really worried about you. You can hardly stand and you’re bleeding from more places than one. You could have really hurt yourself and you shouldn’t be alone. I won’t let you be alone right now.”

He considers this. “Cherry, I’m trying to protect you—”

“And I’m trying to protect you, too,” you argue firmly, but with a persuasive grin. “Please let me.”

There’s a long lull of silence, those gentle green eyes studying you closely. He looks so very tired and wrought with grief. Yet when he sees you…his entire world seems to change. Lighting up about as bright as the moon.

“Okay,” he finally agrees. “Okay, we’ll go. I trust you.”

I trust you. Three little words that have never sounded so good and you can’t help but push up onto your toes to kiss him as gingerly as you can.

“Okay, where’s your car?” you ask, letting go in order to look around. “My apartment isn't too far, so I can drive until we—”

“No.”

“What?”

He squeezes onto your wrist almost pointedly. “No, we can’t…can’t take my car. S’not safe.”

“Oh…” Your lashes flutter. “All right. We…we can take the subway. I was going to take it anyway because a friend of mine is borrowing my car for the night, but…that can work. We can make that work.”

He says nothing, instead swaying a bit from the loss of blood as you rush to take hold of him once more.

“All right, okay. You’re okay,” you murmur softly. “Just hold on, okay? It’s only a few stops to my place, and we’ll be there in under twenty minutes.”

He nods weakly in response, and you’re quick to pull his arm around your shoulders in order to help guide him through the parking lot.

He seems grateful for this hold on you. Smirking to himself before leaning over to press his lips to your temple. Keeping you tight against his chest as though the two of you are merely going for a stroll in the park. 

Like a real couple.

You cling to his stained hoodie and help lead him toward the subway station. Making sure that you don’t walk too fast (or too slow) in order to get him there in one piece.

You don’t talk much – although there’s so much you want to say – but you can tell he’s pleased. Grateful to be in your company, even despite the circumstances. 

Once the train arrives, you both slip through the doors, and take a seat near the exit. You push your shoulder into his and he pushes his shoulder into yours. Leaning against each other almost contently and smiling to yourselves as the rest of the crowd saunters on.

The subway is relatively empty for this time of night. Or rather, early morning. And you’re more than all right with that. It means less people to stare at the bloody, bruised man dripping onto the train floor. 

He doesn’t notice the odd looks. He doesn’t seem to notice anything but you, instead staring down at where your fingers are tracing his. The way they run tenderly over the cracked skin across his knuckles before intertwining together.

He hums contently, lips stretching into a gentle grin.

You’re at your stop only fifteen minutes later, practically leaping onto your feet in a rush to get him out.

He seems to have a bit more energy now, perhaps from being able to rest for as long as he did. But he still holds onto you as tightly as he can while you walk along the sidewalk.

And you can’t help but let him.

“My apartment might be a little messy,” you attempt to preface as you head inside the tall building. “I was going to clean it before I left, but something…came up.”

He nods understandingly before glancing over the side of your profile. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” you tease, gesturing toward him.

He smirks, but that curious look doesn’t slip. “Are you?”

You press the elevator button with one hand and squeeze his palm in the other. “I will be once you are.”

Apartment 505 is on the left side of the building, just beside the stairwell. It gives you a perfect view of the city, and you spend most of your days out on the stairwell watching the sun rise and set.

There’s a wreath on your door, hanging just over the number, and your stranger smiles when he sees it. Seemingly amused by the bright flowers and dainty bow that stands out amidst the dark grey paint.

After fumbling with your keys, you finally manage to get you both inside. Exhaling a deep breath and tossing your things toward the coffee table.

“Lock it,” he murmurs just as you’re moving for the kitchen.

“What?”

“The door. Lock it,” he says, almost firmly while nodding toward the handle. “Right now.”

A tad surprised by the resolute tone of voice, you nod, and turn around to oblige. Making sure the lock is turned and the door is secure before glancing over for his approval.

“Good girl,” he mumbles. “I want you to always lock it when you come in, all right? Always.”

“Okay,” you agree softly, returning to him. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” you whisper, raising your hand to his face to press a kiss to his cheek. “Can you let me take care of you now?”

He seems to chuckle as he allows you to stroke his jaw. Settling into your gentle touch before nodding.

Pleased, you take his hand, and lead him toward your small bathroom. Sitting him on the edge of the bathtub in order to get a better look.

But the moment you see each cut and scrape beneath the bright, fluorescent light, there’s a hitch in your breath. Overwhelming you with sorrow and anguish at the sight of him. 

“Harry,” you exhale, almost unintentionally. 

His lashes flutter as he smiles, reaching out to lightly tug on your waitressing dress. “M’okay, Cherry. Really.”

He’s not okay, and you both know it. “I’ll…I’ll need to clean them first. Where…how many are there?”

A beat while he thinks. “There’s a couple on my chest. Plus, the one on my eye, and, you know, my hands.”

You nod, and vaguely gesture toward him, willing yourself not to shake. “Can…may I take off your hoodie? So I can check?”

The corner of his mouth curls up and he nods as well, reaching for the collar of his sweatshirt in order to begin peeling it off his torso.

You attempt to help, making sure he can get his arms through without having to bend too far or cause any strain to the injuries.

But once it’s off, you feel your stomach twist.

 His skin is littered with scars, scrapes, and fresh bruises. A variety of colors that range from light pink to an unsettling yellow. Blood is smeared across tattoos you didn’t even know he had, and there’s a rather nasty gash along the side of his ribcage. 

You hear yourself gasp, and he quickly tugs on your hem again. “Cher—”

However, you brush his hand away and move closer, running the tips of your fingers along his shoulder and down his sternum. Trailing each inch of stained skin until you reach his heart.

“Harry…” you say again.

He takes hold of your wrist and offers you a look of remorse. “I know.”

You aren’t sure you have the strength to ask, instead swallowing thickly as you pull back, and turn around. Searching through your cupboards for everything you’ll need.

He watches you closely, and it seems your reaction causes him more pain than anything else. It’s a look you know well. One where he’s desperate to comfort you, and you wish you could let him.

You rejoin his side with bandages, rubbing alcohol, and a sterilized needle with thread. “All right, I have to clean them first, and then…”

His eyes flick down to the suturing supplies with a smirk. “Ah.”

You grimace. “It’ll probably hurt.”

To your surprise, he shrugs. “No worse than what gave me the cut, I imagine.”

You hum to yourself and move for the alcohol. “And this might sting.”

“Mm. I’m counting on it.”

Dipping a cloth into the potent liquid, you begin to dab at each open cut that’s painted along his body. Making sure to be as gentle as you can and avoid any potential infections.

He tenses every few moments, jaw ticking as he takes steady, even breaths. But he makes no noise of complaint, nor does he flinch away from your touch. Almost leaning into it as you move between each scratch.

“How’s that?” you whisper, glancing over his face curiously before moving for the cut on his brow. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, red-rimmed eyes trained on you. Seeming to study you while you study his injury. “M’okay. Are you?”

You smile. “Yeah. Don’t like hurting you, though.”

“You’re not. Could never.”

“Hope you’re right.”

You smooth back the dark hairs of his eyebrow as gingerly as you can before reaching for the medical tape. Cutting the strips to the right length, you place a couple over the cut, and step back to observe.

“All right,” you declare. “Now, um…now I’ll need to…”

You both look toward his stomach where the worst gash lies, and he nods. “Where do you want me?”

“Just…there. Is fine.” You collect the needle and thread before crouching down near him in order to get closer. “It shouldn’t take too long. Be over before you know it.”

“All right.” He’s oddly calm, and for some reason, it makes you nervous. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been stitched, Cherry. I’ll be all right.”

 “I can see that,” you mumble to yourself, reaching now for his abdomen. “Just…tell me if it hurts too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

With a deep breath, you pinch his skin between your fingers, and bring the tip of the needle closer. Piercing the skin and threading it through slowly and with great precision.

He looks down, watching for a moment almost as though fascinated. “You’re really good at that.”

You offer a tight-lipped smile. “Should hope so. Spent three years learning how to do it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. My, uh…my parents really wanted me to pursue a career in the medical field,” you explain as you continue working your way down. “And I thought being a nurse would be good because I liked the idea of helping people. And I liked learning about the body and how to heal it.”

His eyes remain on you.

“Anyway, it didn’t…I didn’t have a great experience in medical school,” you continue. “And it made me realize that it wasn’t what I really wanted to do. I wanted to…help people through food, I guess. Which probably sounds silly—”

“No,” he says, almost immediately. “No, it doesn’t.”

You smile a bit bigger. “Well, my parents were pretty pissed when I dropped out. Which makes sense, since they were the ones paying for it. But…they told me that if I wanted to pursue baking, I’d have to do that on my own. Financially, anyway. Hence all the late shifts at the diner.”

His brows furrow together almost sternly.

“And I don’t mind it. I really like working there. I like my coworkers, I like the people I meet.” You pause now and brave a glance up. “And I really like that it brought me to you.”

There’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart skip. “M’glad it brought you to me, too.”

You chew on the inside of your lip to suppress a rather giddy grin before returning your focus to the wound. “All right, your turn.”

“My turn?”

You nod your chin toward his injured body. “Why do you keep letting this happen?”

He sighs, and his stomach tenses with the strained breath. He wears the same look he wears each time you ask, and you already know he’s searching for the right way to deflect the question. 

“I don’t know.”

You expected nothing less, yet tonight, you insist upon the truth. Scooting closer as you glance up almost pleadingly. “Where do you go? Who does this to you?”

He hesitates. “Cher—”

“I won’t judge you. I’d never judge you, but this isn’t…Harry, this is really scary. And I want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Another heavy pause as you continue the suture. He contemplates his response, the small bathroom filling with a tense sort of energy. You wonder if the truth hurts him more than the scars.

“I…fight,” he finally says, and you feel your pulse stutter. “I get paid to fight. Three nights a week.”

And even though you’d already begun to assume that was the case, you feel the blood drain from your face. “Harry…”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs quickly, reaching out to brush his thumb along your cheek. “I’m okay.”

You want to argue, but you bite your tongue. Zeroing in your focus on your hands.

“I like it,’ he continues. “Don’t know why, but there’s just…there’s this rush, you know? This adrenaline. Makes me feel alive to be so close to death, I guess.”

You hum quietly, features pulling together in a wince. 

“S’about the only thing I’m good at, too,” he adds with a wry chuckle. “And all I have to do is win.”

Your head lifts. “This doesn’t look like a win.”

“Yeah, well. You should’ve seen the other guy.”

And despite his attempt at humor, you look back down, lashes fluttering.

It’s quiet for another long lull before he says, “It’s how I met you.”

You choose to keep your eyes downcast on the needle this time, but your ears perk up.

“One of the guys I work with said your desserts were the best he’d ever had. Said he used to go there all the time, for every fucking meal.”

You pull the thread though his stained skin and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

But his story is undeterred. “And I always get kind of a sugar craving after a fight, so I thought I’d go. And then…you.”

You remember the night vividly. The sight of him, hands wrapped in gauze, eyes dark and inquisitive, that familiar hoodie pulled over his head.

He was mysterious and strange, and you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

You have been ever since.

“And he was right,” Harry whispers now, tucking his finger beneath your chin until he can see you. “Never had anything as sweet as you.”

Your heart returns to your throat, and there’s a sort of longing in your stomach that can’t be tamped. You aren’t sure if you want to laugh or cry, so you merely release a soft sigh and finish closing the wound.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” you ask of him again. “Really?”

He runs his tongue over his cracked lip. “Sometimes.”

“And would they let you leave? If you wanted to?”

The silence is deafening. 

His thumb moves to your mouth, brushing over the pink fibers that part for him. “Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to find out.”

It’s not a perfect answer. But it’s the one you choose to cling to, reaching up to squeeze his wrist in desperation.

You suppose this explains more than you realized. Why he won’t tell you who he really is. Why he won’t let you into his world. Why he insists on keeping you safe.

But it only makes this new reality that much heavier.

“Just make me a promise, okay?” you exhale. “Promise me that you’ll be all right. That you’ll stay safe. That you won’t…”

The unspoken word carries a weight that nearly crushes you, and he seems to understand as he squeezes your chin.

“That you’ll always come back,” you finish.

“I promise,” he says, even if you both know it’s not a promise he can make. “Always.”

You kiss him. Quickly and without pause, surging forward until your mouth meets his. You take his lips between your own, careful to mind the cut while remembering just how much he enjoys the sting.

Instantly, his hand curls around the back of your neck, tugging you as close as he can get you. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing, and soft grunts that reverberate all the way down to your chest.

“Careful,” you gasp, attempting to pull back when he guides you between his legs. “Your cut—”

“Don’t care,” he whispers, bringing you back to nip at your bottom lip. “Don’t fucking care.”

You whimper against him, hands resting delicately on his chest. “Har—”

“I know. Just missed you. Really missed you, sweet girl.”

He tugs you between his thighs and you allow yourself to be moved. Melting into his touch as he uses his height advantage to fully take control of you. In more ways than one. 

Desperate pants fill the tiny bathroom, and you can’t help but feel undone by him. Already feeling a certain throbbing in the pit of your stomach that can’t be tamed by anything else but him.

“Harry,” you try again, moving your hands to his hair. Carding your fingers through his matted, bloody curls. “Please…”

And then…you feel it. Rather, you feel him. Hard and prominent, pressing right up against you. 

You gasp, and he rests his forehead against yours. Cursing to himself when you nudge yourself forward.

And that’s when you realize. 

“Does pain turn you on?”

There’s a quick pause before he nods once. Trailing his lips along your cheek and toward your throat.

Your head spins. “Really?”

Another motion of his head. “It’s not really pain when it’s you.”

Breathlessly, you drop your touch to his lap, palming him through his dark jeans while he groans again and buries his nose in your neck. Inhaling you deeply while bracing himself against your knelt frame.

“Think it’s my turn now,” you say. “My turn to be good.”

The grip on your neck tightens, and you can feel him release a warm exhale against your collarbone before he’s kissing just below your ear.

Then, he shakes his head, and mumbles, “No.”

You stop, fingers freezing over the bulge between his thighs. “What?”

“No,” he repeats gently. “S’not about me. Wanna make this about you.”

You lean back just far enough to catch his eye. “But—”

“There are a lot of things I’ll never be able to give you. Or do for you,” he explains gingerly. “But I can do this. I want to do this, sweet girl. Wanna give you the fucking world because it’s what you deserve.”

You consider this for only a moment before settling on the floor. “Har…”

His head shakes once more. Thumb stroking the curve of your jaw while tilting your eyes up. “Never be able to tell you how beautiful you are. I don’t…I can’t even understand it. You’re perfect, Cherry. So fucking perfect, and I will spend the rest of my life wanting to be near you.”

It’s a sweet sentiment. One that nearly knocks the wind from your lungs as you gaze at him.

“Wanting to taste you…” he continues, dipping down to brush his nose against yours. “Feel you…touch you. You…are the best goddamn thing I will ever have.”

You whimper, pushing yourself closer until he finally kisses you. “Then let me…”

But he merely smiles. “One day, sweet girl. I promise.”

You want to push. You almost want to insist that he let you take his cock into your mouth, but the look on his face is resolute. Decisive. You aren’t changing his mind, at least not tonight.

And you decide that maybe it’s for the better. His body needs to rest in order to heal, and perhaps any extra strain would hurt him or rip the stitching.

So, you oblige. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that.”

With a chuckle, he kisses you again. “Good girl.”

The kisses grow more frantic. About as frantic as before, and you have to physically yank yourself out of his grasp in order to calm yourself down.

“No,” you say this time as you stand. “No, you need to lay down. And rest. Okay? Give your body time to heal. And get better.”

He watches you go, but he’s unconvinced, already looping an arm around your hips to pull you back. “This is how I get better.”

And even though you’re concerned for his health, you can’t deny the pulsing between your thighs. “Harry—”

“You make me better,” he says, trailing his lips along your arms, all the way down to your palms. “Always. Fucking always—”

You whine beneath a strained breath, your other hand dropping to his head as you tug on his hair.

In turn, he moans against you, and your knees about buckle. “Let me get better…please…”

And it’s almost like he doesn’t realize he’s said it. A subconscious thought that’s whispered against your skin until it becomes one with your bloodstream.

“Want to,” you say. “I want to, but you need to rest. I need you to rest, Har.”

“I am,” he tries to argue, glancing up through those thick lashes of his. “This is me resting.”

“Harry—”

“Please,” he nearly groans again, pressing his nose into your stomach. “God, please, Cher. Please. M’so fucking lost on you, I can’t…I need…”

He told you once that you’re like a drug to him. That he goes through withdrawals if you’re not near. If he’s gone too long without you.

And, truthfully, you feel about the same. Feeling strung-out and shaky without his touch. Even the sound of his voice. It’s borderline pathetic, yet you don’t ever want to be rid of him.

“You need to rest,” you repeat, although you’re losing conviction. “I want to, but I can’t…I’m worried. You shouldn’t move, you should rest.”

The air becomes charged as he looks back up. “Then ride my face.”

You hesitate. “What?”

“Ride my face,” he says again, practically groaning the instruction. “S’easy, right? Won’t have to move. I’ll just hold you, yeah?”

You feel the heat rush into your cheeks as you blink down at him. “I…you’re already hurt. I don’t want to suffocate you, too—”

“God, suffocate me,” he sighs, grabbing onto the backs of your thighs. Squeezing the flesh in his strong, battered hands pleadingly. “You’d never hurt me, baby, ever. S’all I fucking want. Don’t want anything else but you. Only you. All of you. Want you everywhere.”

And you believe him. You do. But the idea of…and being that close…

“What…but what if it’s too much?” you murmur. “What if I’m too…—”

“Never.” A firm shake of his head. “Fucking never. You would never be too much. Believe me. Tasting you is the only good thing in my life.”

There’s a catch in your throat that you swallow down. “I just…I’ve never…”

His expression softens. Thumbs brushing at your exposed skin before squeezing once more. “It’s okay. S’okay, sweet girl, really. Don’t have to if you don’t want to. Don’t have to do anything at all. But…I promise you…you could never do anything wrong. Ever. You breathe and you’re perfect.”

And he’s so honest. So good. You know he means it, know he’d never lie about something like this. And you do trust him. More than anything. Trust that he’d never judge you or want anything more from you than what you’re willing to give.

“If you say no, then it’s no,” he adds gently. “End of. Promise.”

But that’s not your problem. You’d happily do anything and everything with him. But you’re worried about his injuries and all the blood he’s already lost. Granted, his suggestion would perhaps be the best alternative, but…

“Fine,” you whisper, squeezing his curls in your fist. “Okay. But you need to be very careful and very still. And if it starts to hurt, we stop. Okay?”

There’s a wicked gleam in his eye. One you recognize all too well, yet it merely makes your pulse jump.

“Okay,” he agrees, almost mischievously. “Deal. Just lead the way.”

You bite back a whimper before glancing toward his knuckles. “I need wrap your hands first—”

“No,” he interjects. “No, leave ‘em. Just for right now. Wanna see them when I hold you.”

And there’s something about the idea that leaves you breathless, making your nails curl into his scalp as if to drag him closer. “Are you sure—”

“Yes.” He tugs on the hem of your dress again, almost as though trying to rip it off. “Yes, m’sure. Please, Cher…”

And you have no choice but to oblige.

You reach down, take his hand, and pull him onto his feet. Quickly and impatiently leading him out of the bathroom and down the hall to your room before pushing the door open and bringing him inside.

He only takes a moment to look around, eyebrows raised while a smile plays at his lips. He studies the array of artwork you have displayed, the baby blue paint on your walls, and the plethora of pillows that sit near your headboard. He seems…enchanted, almost, and it makes you giddy.

“S’cute,” he decides, offering his smirk to you. “Very cute. Very you.”

“Thanks,” you reply anxiously, already looping your arms around his neck in order to yank him back down. “Please?”

He chuckles against your lips before dropping his hands to your waist, nodding once, and pushing you back. “Do you trust me, baby? Trust me to take care of you?”

“Yes,” you answer instantaneously. “Yes, always.”

“Yeah? Know I’ll take care of you?”

“Yes.”

He drops you onto the bed before chasing after you. Lips on your cheek, your neck, your chest. Fingers playing with the buttons on your chest before he whispers, “Can I take this off, sweet girl?”

You motion your head almost frantically, leaning back to give him room.

He undoes your dress and slips it over your head in a matter of seconds. Leaving you in nothing but your underwear as he tosses it toward the floor before surging forward to kiss you again.

He’s seen you before. Seen your chest, your stomach, your thighs. But never in the privacy of your own home, and the way he seems to look at you now feels as though it changes everything. Like he’s looking at you for the very first time.

“Baby,” he breathes, pulling your lip between his teeth before groaning. “God…s’fucking cruel you have to hide this behind such a hideous dress.”

You grin against his mouth, scooting back in order to make space for him. “Then maybe you should come around and take it off more often.”

He likes this idea, chuckling to himself before grabbing hold of your hips, and flipping over onto his back. Effectively pulling you with him until you’re straddling his waist.

With a gasp, you glance down to his newly stitched cut, quickly inspecting in order to make sure nothing has been ripped or pulled. “Harry, you can’t—”

“Shh,” he coos, pulling on the back of your neck to bring you down again. Nose nudging with yours. “M’okay. I’ll tell you, yeah?”

“But—”

“I’m all right,” he insists quietly. “Promise. Just need you.”

You swallow the rest of your complaints, allowing your body to be pulled into his before he’s moving both hands to your naked thighs. Stroking along the tender, soft flesh and kneading it tenderly.

“Think you’re ready, baby?” he whispers. “Hm? Gonna let me have a taste?”

And even if you’re somewhat apprehensive, the lust that swims within the bottom of your stomach makes you whimper. Urging you to say, “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”

“Good girl,” he hums, gliding his palms toward your ass before patting it once. “Up you go.”

You imagine you seem somewhat terrified, but his look of encouragement goes straight to your cunt. Encouraging you up his body until you can place your knees on either side of his head.

“Good,” he breathes, eyes already gluing to your panties. “So good, baby. Can you hold onto me? Hold onto my hair? And tug it if it’s too much?”

You nod weakly and drop your fingers to his curls. Brushing them gently while he smiles, lashes fluttering.

“Good girl,” he says again, and it makes you clench around nothing. “M’gonna pull you down now, okay? Don’t worry about anything. Just let me make you feel good. Promise I’ll be all right.”

You whimper beneath a deep breath before nodding again and allowing him to guide you down to his face.

You feel the tip of his nose ghost across the edge of your panties, right near your clit. And you can help but buck up, gasping as you squirm away from the stimulating touch.

But his hold on you is unrelenting, tightening when he feels you twitch before yanking you back into position.

“Uh-uh, sweet girl, none of that,” he warns softly, mouth dancing down your covered cunt. Tauntingly. Deviously. “M’just having some fun, yeah? Gonna let me have fun with such a pretty pussy?”

When you don’t answer, he gently smacks his hand against the side of your thigh.

“Yes,” you answer quickly, gathering his curls in your fist. “Yes, I…I will.”

“Mm. Good. Cause m’having so much fun with you, Cher. You know that? Always have fun getting to play with what’s mine.”

This possession sends chills down your spine and your chest heaves from the way he flattens his tongue against your underwear before dragging it down.

He seems to bask in your whines, moaning against your cunt before curling his fingers into your skin. Forcing you down even further until you’re nearly sat on his mouth.

His technique is sinful. Just enough to tease you and leave you wanting more. Effortlessly casting out any doubts or hesitation as you begin to settle in his hold, permitting him to keep you against his tongue until he sighs contently.

“Fucking killing me, baby,” he says, lifting you up in order to reach for the soft material against your pussy and drag it to the side. “Ready, sweet girl?”

You nod quickly.

“Promise to tug me if it’s too much or you want to stop?”

“Yes…yes, Har, please—”

“I know,” he shushes. “Just so well behaved for me, aren’t you? Hold still for me, all right?”

You go to nod again, but before you can, his lips are meeting your clit. Pressing the most innocent of kisses to the sensitive nerves until you choke on his name and yank his curls.

He seems to realize this aggression has more to do with the pleasure than the pain, and you can practically feel him smirk into your cunt before he does it again. Over and over and over, making your eyes roll back and your throat run dry with desperate pants and whimpers.

Then…he sucks. Takes your clit into his mouth before flattening his tongue and dragging it through.

You’ve never felt this kind of stimulation. This kind of overwhelming pleasure that goes directly to your toes.

Sure, he’s eaten you out before, but he’s never been this…close. He’s devouring you from the inside out. Forcing you against his mouth as though his life depends on it. 

The hold on your hip is unforgiving, and you’re almost sure you’ll see remnants of him on your skin tomorrow. The tips of his fingers tattooing to your waist and marking you as his forevermore. 

You aren’t sure what to do with yourself. Overcome with lust and infatuation for the man between your thighs. The way he expertly slides his lips through your folds, drowning in you.

The tip of his tongue teases your hole, and you feel him groan at the way your pussy flutters from the slight intrusion. And the vibration of his greed makes your hands tighten in his hair. Nail scraping so hard down his scalp, you’re sure you’ll draw blood.

But he loves it. Seems to thrive off it. Going in a bit further before dragging your arousal up to your clit and flicking.

Then, he swallows you down.

“Harry,” you gasp, and you wish you could see him. Wish more than anything that you could gaze down at his face and watch while he does this to you. 

He always tends to get a sort of mesmeric look in his eye when he’s making you cum. Almost like he’s in a trance. Hypnotized by your body, drunk off the way he’s making you feel.

You imagine that’s about how he looks now, and you’d give anything to see those beautiful, hazy eyes just once.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, pulling away just long enough to speak. “You’re okay, yeah?”

You nod quickly. “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. I promise—please…”

He understands your request perhaps better than anyone and smiles to himself before going back in. It’s far too easy to unravel you, it seems. All he has to do is suck, and flick, and slide his mouth along your dripping pussy, and you’re done for. Already nearing release before he’s even really begun.

He senses this, and instantly goes harder. Faster. Tongue fucking into your clenching hole relentlessly until you cry out his name…and let go.

You hardly have time to register what’s happening or warn him of your impending orgasm. Nor do you have the time to remove yourself from him before accidently crushing him between your thighs and beneath your weight.

Yet through every second, he holds on. Keeps you exactly where you were, stuck in his hold, glued to his tongue. Until every drop of your cum belongs to him.

“Har…Harry,” you pant, uncurling your fingers from his hair. “Okay, it’s okay…I came, I—”

“I know,” he mumbles, leaving another kiss to your clit. “And you’re gonna do it again.”

It’s resolute. He leaves no room for bargaining or questioning before he’s going back in. Quick flicks of his tongue through your pussy until you feel breathless.

It’s sloppy. Everything about it is sloppy and wet. The sounds, his technique. The way he makes out with your cunt as though it’s the best thing he’s ever had. And, truthfully, you imagine he believes it is.

He repeats the movement of his tongue along the overstimulated nerves until you begin to shake. Never letting up, even when you begin to whine rather pitifully. Instead, he squeezes your waist, and keeps you close. Makes sure you take every second of this blissful affliction until you cum for a second time. 

The moment you do, he readjusts his hold on your panties in order to slip a finger inside. Forcing you up onto your knees so he can nip at your clit and fuck his finger into you with a newly determined fervor.

“Harry,” you cry out again, moving one hand to your headboard to brace yourself. “Can’t…can’t—”

“You’re all right,” he hums, the tip of his nose pressing hard into your skin. “You’re all right, sweet girl. Just want one more, okay?”

 And you believe him. You do believe you’re all right, even if the painful pleasure he’s dragging you into nearly kills you. Making your legs shake and your lungs heave.

You want to give him another. You want to give him all of your orgasms, forever. And he knows this, so he adds a second finger, and pumps you mercilessly.

The sound echoes through your room, loud and lewd. But it intertwines beautifully with his soft murmurs of encouragement: 

“Good, baby, just like that. Fucking squeezin’ me, aren’t you? Hm? S’it feel good? Feel so good to ride my face?”

You can’t answer. Want to. Can’t. Skin growing hot as sweat beads at your hairline. Muscles burning, aching, crying out for reprieve.

But all you really feel…is him.

“One more, come on,” he urges, increasing the speed of his tongue and his thrusts. “Can feel how close you are, sweet girl. Know you want to, yeah?”

You whimper softly, body tensing with the impending release.

“Yeah? I know. Know you’re so close. Bet it hurts, doesn’t it? S’just too much for this sweet little pussy, hm?”

He curls those long digits into your cunt until you moan, thighs trembling beside his head as you attempt to keep yourself upright. “Har, please—”

“What? What do you need?”

Everything, all of it, whatever it takes. You aren’t even sure, you just need…more.

He moves his mouth to the inside of your leg. Kissing and sucking into the tender skin while his fingers continue to encourage you closer. 

“Just taste so good, don’t you?” He trails his lips back toward your cunt. Lazily mouthing at your clit as if to torture you. “Get so wet for me. S’precious. So fucking precious.”

He uses his fingers to spread you open. Exhaling against your dripping cunt until you begin to squirm. Writhing away from the sensation while he does it again.

“Mm-mm,” he tuts, pulling you closer. “Told you no, sweet girl. Said I could play with you, so I am. Thought you were behaving for me?”

He exploits your need to please him. To obey and win his approval, and it nearly drives you mad.

“Know it’s a lot, baby,” he coos next, slipping back inside and curling. “Know you’re all sensitive. Not used to being so overstimulated, are you?”

He’s right, you’re not. Apart from him, nobody else has ever really taken the time.

“Makes me wonder,” he continues gently. “Wonder how you touch yourself…here in this very room.”

He pulls your clit between his teeth and tugs until you gasp.

“Tell me, Cherry. Tell me how you touch yourself when I’m not around.”

Your mind goes blank. Darkening around the edges while you suck in quick pants for air.

“Tell me,” he repeats, coarse and riddled with an insatiable hunger. “Tell me what you think about. D’you think about me, baby? Think about how good you look on my tongue?”

You find just enough strength to nod as you squeeze his curls and whimper out your agreement. 

“Yeah? Go on, tell me.”

Your mouth drops open, yet nothing else comes out. Save for a plethora of pathetic whines and anxious mewling.

He seems to laugh, the low sound sending goosebumps across the back of your neck. “What’s the matter, Cher? Pussy got your tongue?”

You can hardly acknowledge the joke as you go reeling forward, just barely able to catch yourself against the headboard before collapsing. “You…you,” you finally groan. “Always you, Harry. Always.”

“Me?” You can hear the faux fascination. “You think about me, baby? What do you think about?”

What don’t you think about? “Your…your fingers,” you stammer. “And…and your mouth.”

“Yeah? Good girl. What else?”

You’re too close to think straight, already falling victim to your orgasm before it’s even found you. “You…your…your…”

“S’okay, baby, come on. Tell me.”

You swallow thickly and will yourself to speak. “Think…think about taking you. About how you’d feel. How you’d…be.”

“How I’d be, hm?” The hand on your hip tightens almost possessively. “How would you want me to be? How would you want me to fuck you?”

 An array of positions flash through your mind. The echoing of his groans and pants in your ear as he fucks you. The way he’d hold onto your leg and push it into the bed. The way he’d pull your hair and demand you take him. That you behave, be good. 

There’s something about him, you realize. Something about his dominance that makes you feel safe. Seen and cared for.

You want him to tell you what to do. Want to give him full control of your body and mind. Make your decisions for you so you don’t have to wrestle with them yourself. You trust him. Trust that he’d always put you first.

“Any way you want,” you finally answer. “Any…any way. Hard…slow…fast…deep. Just wanna be good for you.”

The noise he makes against your pussy is animistic. Virile and obsessed, and his mouth reattaches to your clit almost like a reward. 

“Good,” he nearly growls. “Know you would be. Know you’d be fucking perfect, yeah? Let me stretch this sweet, little pussy anyway I’d like?”

 “Yes. Yes, Harry, please—”

“Just take it, wouldn’t you? Take me so well?” He yanks you down so hard, you wonder if he can even breathe. Truthfully, you don’t think he cares either way. “What else do you think about, sweet girl? Think about me tying you up?”

You nod zealously, sneaking a glance at the headboard almost as though to recreate your fantasy. 

“Yeah? What else? Would you want me to spank you?” He follows this inquiry up with a quick – albeit gentle – slap to your outer thigh. “S’that what you want?”

“Harry—”

“What about your pretty, little throat, hm? D’you want me to hold it in my hand? Squeeze it till you see stars?”

The thought sends you into a frenzy. Stomach flipping in on itself until you’re clenching so hard around his fingers, you’re surprised they don’t break.

“Yeah? Oh, sweet girl,” he coos, slowly and almost inconspicuously sneaking a third digit into play. Filling you exactly the way you need. “My dirty little Cherry just wants to be taken care of, doesn’t she?”

You have nothing more to offer him. No more noises, no more whines, no more pleas. Your throat has gone dry, and your body is trembling almost violently.

He grins. “Then I’ll always take care of what’s mine.”

You’re not sure what does it. If it’s the way he strokes his fingers into that sweet spot in your cunt, the way he skims his tongue against your clit, or if it’s his promise. 

But no matter the cause, your third orgasm overwhelms you. Pulls you down into the deepest part of your pleasure before ripping you apart. Seam by seam.

He swallows every second of it. Attempting to drag the stimulation on for as long as he can before you have to psychically take yourself away in order to breathe. 

“Okay, okay,” you whimper, returning to the bed just beside him. “Can’t…I can’t…”

“Okay,” he agrees in a soft, soothing tone. Quicky reaching out to press his hand to your cheek while his thumb brushes at your heated skin. “Okay, we’re done. Did so good for me.”

Your lashes flutter as your vision slowly returns, and when you see him, you about moan.

During his ravaging of your pussy, the cut on his lip reopened, and now, blood is smeared across his mouth and chin. Glistening from his skin right beside the remnants of you.

You don’t imagine you’ve ever seen something so erotic. You also never imagined you’d find it so appealing, and yet the way it looks painted across his sharp jaw and swollen lips…

You surge forward and kiss him. So hard and so fast, you imagine you’ve made him dizzy. 

Instantly, his palm is pressing to the back of your head. Keeping you against his mouth while slowly pulling you back into his embrace. And he holds you against his chest while moaning something that sounds a lot like, “Fucking hell.”

 You kiss until the sun comes up. The soft, warm beams of light slipping through your curtains, setting the whole room – and your tired bodies – aglow. 

His mouth moves to your neck. “You still with me, baby?”

You smile. “Always.”

“Good.” He leaves one, final kiss. “And you’re feeling all right?”

“Mhm. Are you?”

“Oh, I’m more than all right, sweet girl. M’fucking perfect.”

He guides back onto his chest. Limbs tangling together as he puts your body between his legs until he can hold you properly. Even despite your fussing over his injuries.

But it’s not until you’ve begun to settle that you feel it. “Harry?” you whisper softly.

“Mm?”

“…did you cum?”

He smiles before pressing his lips to your forehead. “Yeah.”

“But I didn’t…I mean I didn’t get to—"

“You just have that effect on me, Cher,” he murmurs, snaking his arms a bit tighter around your frame. “Told you. Making you feel good is all I want.”

You glance up, expression wounded. “Why won’t you let me help? I thought…I mean, you keep saying you want me to, but you never…you won’t let me.”

The bedroom falls silent as he considers this. The sage green in his eye melting into something golden from the reflection of the sunrise.

He reaches out and brushes his thumb across your mouth. Seeming to clean you of the blood that smeared when you kissed.

“I didn’t want this to be about me,” he finally says. “I never do.”

You merely frown. “But I want to do it. Do you not…I mean, do you think I can’t or something?”

A soft chuckle. “Oh, I know you can. Know you’d use this pretty little mouth just right, yeah?”

You nod.

“Yeah.” He squeezes your chin. “I meant what I said. One day. There are a lot of things I want to do with you. Be for you. But right now, I can’t…I’m not in a place where I can offer them to you. Not with…everything else going on.”

Your stomach sinks as you realize. You might not understand the complexities of his job or his life, but you do understand his concern. And you trust that he doesn’t make this decision lightly. 

“Besides,” he adds coyly, “they kind of have a rule about it.”

“Oh, do they?”

“Yeah. Something about reduced testosterone and decreased aggression. I don’t know, s’probably bullshit.” A nonchalant shrug. “Just means I get to keep the focus on you. Which is all I really want, anyway.”

“I can tell,” you tease, reaching up to brush your nose against his. “Why is that?”

“Because you’re perfect.” He says it so easily. As though it needs no thought. “Baby, you have no fucking idea how beautiful you are. Touching you is the closest I will ever get to heaven.”

You wonder how he does that. How he always manages to say exactly what you need to hear. And make you believe it. Every time.

You kiss him again, but it’s slow. Soft and gentle and full of an unspoken emotion that nearly overwhelms you. 

You fall asleep against his heart. His lips in your hair, your fingers on his chest. And for the next few hours, you dream of nothing but him.

By the time you wake, it’s nearly afternoon. Your muscles are sore and your body aches from the decisions and positions of the night before. 

But it’s a good sort of pain. The kind that reminds you of how willing you are to do it again.

You’re both quiet as you stir, and it’s comfortable. As though you’re used to waking up together. Exchanging nothing more than smiles and a hoarse, “Morning.”

After offering him some cereal, you ask if he’d like to take a shower. Maybe change into something else before you take him back to the diner so he can retrieve his car and you can pick up yours from your friend.

He politely declines, but he does agree to your stipulation that you check his wounds before you leave. He even stands perfectly still while you assess each cut and stitch in order to make sure everything is still in place.

Which to your surprise, it is.

Once you’ve gathered your things, you exit your apartment (after locking it as previously instructed), and head for the subway station.

It’s almost strange to see him in the light of day. He’s still as effortlessly striking as before, if not perhaps more. His skin looks a bit more tan, and his hair seems softer in the sun. But he walks with a kind of confidence you almost envy, slinging his arm around your shoulders just like the night before. This time, out of possession.

And you grin the whole way there.

It feels normal. Feels good. Natural. Like it was always meant to be. You and him. Always.

Your heart begins to sink with each step closer you get to the diner. You cling to his hoodie as though it physically hurts to say goodbye. And in turn, he pulls you in tighter to his heart, as if refusing to let you.

“I’ll walk you in,” he murmurs once you reach the parking lot, and you nod gratefully. Already taking in a deep breath as you prepare to watch him leave.

You see your car near the front of the diner, signaling that your friend is here to drop off the keys. And you almost feel nervous because you aren’t sure how to explain Harry. Or if you even need to explain him at all. 

If he’d want you to.

A part of you wants to protect him from everybody else. From their prying eyes and inquisitive questions. From their haughty, judgmental stares and this idea that they know who he really is.

Instead, you take his hand in yours, and squeeze. Offering him one last smile to hold you over until you see him again.

Which you can only hope will be soon.

He pushes the door open and leads you inside. Loosening his grip on you almost regretfully while your heart sinks down into your toes.

But the moment you both step beneath the light, he stops. Suddenly and with a strained inhale as fingers retighten around yours, halting you in place.

Concerned, you glance over the side of his face rather curiously before following his eyeline further into the diner.  

And that’s when you see him. 

“Hey, thanks again for letting me borrow your car,” your friend says, sliding off one of the barstools in order to hand you your keys. “I really appreciate it. It was a huge help.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” you murmur before looking back to the tense man beside you. “Uh…this is my friend, Jesse. And Jesse, this is—”

“Harry,” Jesse says for you, lips curling up almost knowingly before he’s nodding once. 

Now even more confused, your head tilts while Harry’s skin instantly pales, his jaw clenching as his grip on your hand gets stronger.

But despite your muddled expression, Jesse merely chuckles to himself and steps forward, dragging his eyes from you to the tall stranger holding you.

“I see you finally found my girl.”

EEEEE I AM HAVING WAY TOO MUCH FUN

Next Part:

~ Reckless*

Previous Part:

~ Knockout*

~ Full Knockout Masterlist

~ Main Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgff@myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @iguessyourejustwhatineeded @lovebittenbyevans @caynonmoondreams @amberbambridge @percysaidnever @prettydelilah @ripesinner @fairytale07 @hannah9921 @mitochondrialeva-blog1 @tenaciousperfectionunknown @buckybarnessimpp @lomlhstyles @be-with-me-so-happily @daphnesutton @ribbonknives @stylesfever @slutforcoffein @rainycowbride @harringtonhundreds @kaybee87 @youcan-nolonger-run @tobesocoldasyou @dylanobandposts21 @cherryshouse

#harry #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles fic #harry styles story #smut #boxer!harry #boxer #harry and cherry #knockout #knockout harry #underground boxer!harry #harry styles series #harry styles fanfic #boxerry #harry styles fan

[nasa]

Navigating Deep Space by Starlight

On August 6, 1967, astrophysicist Jocelyn Bell Burnell noticed a blip in her radio telescope data. And then another. Eventually, Bell Burnell figured out that these blips, or pulses, were not from people or machines.

The blips were constant. There was something in space that was pulsing in a regular pattern, and Bell Burnell figured out that it was a pulsar: a rapidly spinning neutron star emitting beams of light. Neutron stars are superdense objects created when a massive star dies. Not only are they dense, but neutron stars can also spin really fast! Every star we observe spins, and due to a property called angular momentum, as a collapsing star gets smaller and denser, it spins faster. It’s like how ice skaters spin faster as they bring their arms closer to their bodies and make the space that they take up smaller.

The pulses of light coming from these whirling stars are like the beacons spinning at the tops of lighthouses that help sailors safely approach the shore. As the pulsar spins, beams of radio waves (and other types of light) are swept out into the universe with each turn. The light appears and disappears from our view each time the star rotates.

After decades of studying pulsars, astronomers wondered—could they serve as cosmic beacons to help future space explorers navigate the universe? To see if it could work, scientists needed to do some testing!

First, it was important to gather more data. NASA’s NICER, or Neutron star Interior Composition Explorer, is a telescope that was installed aboard the International Space Station in 2017. Its goal is to find out things about neutron stars like their sizes and densities, using an array of 56 special X-ray concentrators and sensitive detectors to capture and measure pulsars’ light.

But how can we use these X-ray pulses as navigational tools? Enter SEXTANT, or Station Explorer for X-ray Timing and Navigation Technology. If NICER was your phone, SEXTANT would be like an app on it.  

During the first few years of NICER’s observations, SEXTANT created an on-board navigation system using NICER’s pulsar data. It worked by measuring the consistent timing between each pulsar’s pulses to map a set of cosmic beacons.

When calculating position or location, extremely accurate timekeeping is essential. We usually rely on atomic clocks, which use the predictable fluctuations of atoms to tick away the seconds. These atomic clocks can be located on the ground or in space, like the ones on GPS satellites. However, our GPS system only works on or close to Earth, and onboard atomic clocks can be expensive and heavy. Using pulsar observations instead could give us free and reliable “clocks” for navigation. During its experiment, SEXTANT was able to successfully determine the space station’s orbital position!

We can calculate distances using the time taken for a signal to travel between two objects to determine a spacecraft’s approximate location relative to those objects. However, we would need to observe more pulsars to pinpoint a more exact location of a spacecraft. As SEXTANT gathered signals from multiple pulsars, it could more accurately derive its position in space.

So, imagine you are an astronaut on a lengthy journey to the outer solar system. You could use the technology developed by SEXTANT to help plot your course. Since pulsars are reliable and consistent in their spins, you wouldn’t need Wi-Fi or cell service to figure out where you were in relation to your destination. The pulsar-based navigation data could even help you figure out your ETA!

None of these missions or experiments would be possible without Jocelyn Bell Burnell’s keen eye for an odd spot in her radio data decades ago, which set the stage for the idea to use spinning neutron stars as a celestial GPS. Her contribution to the field of astrophysics laid the groundwork for research benefitting the people of the future, who yearn to sail amongst the stars.  

Keep up with the latest NICER news by following NASA Universe on X and Facebook and check out the mission’s website. For more on space navigation, follow @NASASCaN on X or visit NASA’s Space Communications and Navigation website.  

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

#NASA #pulsar #Jocelyn Bell Burnell #spaceblr #space #star #neutron star #deep space #telescope #navigation #universe #astronomy #science

[luveline]

could i request spencer x bombshell!reader where maybe spencer and the team meet reader’s ex boyfriend / a guy she used to be interested in and he’s sooo different from spencer so he assumes her flirting is a joke but really she never had a type until she met spencer n now she’s only into nerdy, sweater-vest wearing sweethearts <3

love ur work sm i only read spencer fics but i read all your characters bc the writing is so intoxicating !!

thank you for your request angel! <3 1k, fem

Spencer looks adorable today. You’re not sure if he knows, but that can be easily rectified. 

“Spencer Reid,” you say sternly. 

He’s immediately wide-eyed and sorry. “What?” he asks, pouting. 

“You have some explaining to do.” You glare, taking your compact from your pocket. You open it, check your appearance, fighting a huge smile as you flick the mirror on him accusingly. “So, what do you have to say for yourself?” 

“I don’t get it.” His eyes jump between the mirror and you. “Sorry?” 

“You should be sorry. Do you see how nice you look today?” He rolls his eyes. “Hey, don’t act like you don’t know what I mean.”

You and Spencer have known each other for years now, and you love him. You’d die for him easily in the field, and out of it too, but you’re not together and he’s bad at accepting compliments, so he shrugs you off like you’re only teasing him. 

“My handsome partner,” you say. Even if he isn’t your boyfriend, that’s your loophole. You and Spencer get paired for everything these days, because you’re best friends and Hotch has given up on separating you (though professionally there’s no need). “I could eat you.” 

“Still mildly threatening, then,” a voice says. 

You spin in your chair, shocked and a little horrified to find the last person you wanted to see here in Connecticut. “Cory!” you say, knowing he’ll believe you’re enthusiasm if nobody else. 

“Hi, beautiful. You weren’t gonna call me?” 

Your lips pop as you reply, “I was definitely going to, just as soon as we weren’t on the clock. How are you?” you ask, standing to receive the hug you know he’s going to give. 

Cory is… well, he’s gorgeous, though that hadn’t been why you had fun with him when you were here last. He’d seemed nice enough and plainly interested in you at the time, and you’d been sort of lonely, so really he was a necessity of the soul rather than a want. Plus, he was very rich. 

Gorgeous he may be, but Spencer Reid he is not. You don’t deny it to yourself —the genius behind you has completely changed your type, the kind of man you vy after, and if you’re honest, he’s the one for you. So hugging Cory and pretending you’re going to call him for drinks after the case is over isn’t easy. You lie rather than reject him.

“He seemed nice,” Spencer says in the awkward silence Cory leaves behind. 

“Sure!” you say, blowing out a hot breath. “Was I embarrassing myself? I didn’t expect to see him.” 

“You were the same as usual.” 

You tilt your head back as the door opens again, worried it’ll be Cory back for a last word. Emily smiles at you knowingly, a bag of takeout in hand. “God, did you see that?” she asks, eyebrows rising. “He was perfect.” 

“If you like the Greek god motif,” you joke. 

Spencer’s frowning at his files when you turn back to him. “Spence, what’s wrong?” you ask. 

“Mm? Nothing.”

“You sure?” you ask. 

He maintains that he’s okay as the rest of the team flood in for lunch. You pretend to believe him, not sure what you’ve done to upset him but willing to figure it out. You unwrap his food for him and place his plastic cutlery on a napkin as you know he prefers, sorting through the cup drinks to find his diet lemonade. “Here, handsome,” you say, touching his shoulder gently as you sit down next to him. 

He bristles. 

“Spencer?” you ask. 

He looks around the table. Hotch and Rossi are talking about something with shared smiles, while JJ and Morgan debate the case. Emily’s on her phone with a straw between her lips. They aren’t listening, and so he says, “It’s not a fitting nickname.” 

“What, handsome? That’s not a nickname, it’s a pet name, and it’s true. You’re one of the most handsome guys I’ve ever seen,” —you laugh and grab his elbow when he shakes his head— “are you kidding? Spencer, you could be a model. I’ve told you this a hundred times. You have amazing cheekbones, just dreamy, and your lips–”

“Oh, god, please don’t start,” he says, covering his face with both hands. He sounds like he’s smiling. “I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

Hotch shoots you a don’t tease look. You send him a vehement I’m not back, waiting for him to look away before you prod Spencer again. “You’re so cute, Spencer, you don’t get it.” 

“I don’t wanna be cute, cute isn’t your type–”

Your eyes flare. “What would you know about my type, Spencer? Is this– is this about Cory?” 

“Of course it is,” he says, face pink as he drops his hands. 

“Spencer, he is not my type.” 

“But you dated.”

“One date. And that was before I realised I liked dorks in sweater vests,” you say. You’re both acting like this is half a joke, a skit, in case you’re overheard, but you’re also both well aware that it’s serious and vulnerable and flustering to confess certain things right here and now. Too bad it has to be done. “I miss your glasses, babe, they really added to your charm.” 

Spencer shakes his head, picking up his styrofoam boxed lunch to ignore you. 

You sidle close to him, your pinky finger rubbing the slightest hint of his bare wrist. “Wanna get drinks with me tonight? I need a cover story in case Grecian Cory tracks me down. And, you know you get that really cute blush when you drink. What do you say?” 

“No,” he says with a smile, which means yes in this instance.

You kiss his cheek, giggling at the lipgloss left behind. “You’re my type, handsome.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

[steddiecameraroll]

CW: mention of surgery and family member’s death

ao3

Eddie’s not paying attention to where he’s walking when he bumps into someone coming out of a coffee shop.

“Oh,” Eddie steps back and opens his mouth to apologize, when he looks up to see who he’d crashed into.

“You ok?” The man asks.

Eddie tries to respond, wants to respond, opens his mouth to respond but the quirk in the man’s smile is taunting him. It’s connected to a face that could make a man weak in the knees, in fact it’s doing just that right now.

“Ya good?” The man asks again this time putting his hand cautiously on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie can’t do anything but nod. “Alright, watch where you’re going, ok?”

There’s no frustration in his tone, no heat behind his words but Eddie feels like he should definitely do what he’s asking. Before Eddie can actually say anything the guy is walking away down the sidewalk in the opposite direction than Eddie needs to go.

Without thinking, Eddie turns on his heels and follows the man. He’s never done anything like this before in fact he doesn’t know why he’s doing it now, but something is pushing him to follow. He watches the soft bounce of hair on the man’s gorgeous head weave through the crowd but then suddenly disappear.

Eddie blinks a couple of times thinking his eyes have stopped working. He ducks around a few people trying to catch sight of the man but can’t find him anywhere. Maybe he’s losing his mind.

Eddie stops and puts his hands on his hips, swiveling around trying to find the guy. Where could he have gone?

Someone crashes into his back then yells at him for standing in the middle of the sidewalk, reminding him he’s going to be late for lunch with Chrissy.

He apologizes to the guy for standing, only partially sarcastically, then heads back in his original direction towards the diner he’s meeting his best friend at.

“Who was he?” Chrissy asks around a fry.

“No clue, but it was like I had to follow him. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Was he hot?” She cocks her head like she’s figured him out.

“Uh, he- I, yes, but that wasn’t why I followed him.”

“Uh huh, and getting his number isn’t a motivator at all.” She rolls her eyes and tosses her balled up straw wrapper at his head.

“Hey,” Eddie swats her trash away. “I’m serious. That wasn’t it. I don’t know, it was something else.”

Chrissy inspects him from across the table. She knows him better than he knows himself, and she knows he wouldn’t follow some random guy without a reasonable excuse.

“Did he look like someone? Remind you of anyone, maybe?”

“I don’t think so, but- maybe?” He shrugs and wishes he could put his finger on it.

He’s spent the last 30 minutes trying to figure it out but coming up blank. He can’t stop thinking about the man’s gorgeous hazel eyes glinting back at him.

Eddie slings his backpack over his shoulder and shuffles his way off the train. He’s lost in thought, like he’s been for the last several days since running into that coffee guy, and doesn’t clock the group of teenagers rushing towards the doors. They part around him, but one of them bumps into his backpack spinning him around and he stops moving just as they’re ushered into the train. The man reprimanding their behavior is standing just inside the door when Eddie realizes it’s the guy. THE guy. But before his brain sends a signal to his feet, the train door is closing and Eddie stands gawking instead.

When the train starts moving slowly, Eddie’s brain jump starts and he’s rushing toward the train. He can see the guy standing near the window so he starts waving his hands trying to get his attention. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if the guy happens to notice him, but he’s feeling a compulsive need to try.

The train starts speeding up and he still hasn’t noticed Eddie.

“Shit, excuse me. Excuse me! Sorry, shit, sorry!” He weaves around other passengers and races along the train continuing to wave his hands.

He runs out of platform a few feet later and just as he drops his arms he thinks he sees a flash of those hazel eyes peering through the glass. He’s panting hard, his side twinging slightly, when he runs his hand through his hair. That was the most physical activity he’s gotten in awhile, and that’s kind of embarrassing.

When he turns around he realizes he’s almost alone on the platform. Which also means he’s going to be late to work.

“You saw him again? On the train?” Chrissy is munching on half of a banana nut muffin.

“No, yes, but I wasn’t on the train. I was getting off and he got on.”

“He didn’t see you?”

“No, I tried, too. I ran along the side of the train trying to get his attention.” Eddie swivels back and forth in his desk chair while chewing on his thumbnail.

“Ran? You, ran? Next to the train?”

“Yeah, I know.” He sighs and rolls his eyes slightly.

“What were you expecting to do if he did see you?”

“I hadn’t thought that far,” which was true.

“So then he sees you and what? Were you just going to wave? Stand there like a goober and wiggle your fingers at him? I mean, Eddie, you gotta think these things through.”

She has a point but she should know he’s more of an act first think about it later kinda guy. Plus, who knows maybe the guy has been thinking about Eddie just as much has he has. Maybe he would see Eddie and know exactly what to do. It’s possible. Not likely, but possible.

“No?” He lies because that’s exactly what he would’ve done.

“You’re pathetic. You gotta stop obsessing about this dude. You interacted with him for approximately 15 seconds.”

“I knoooooooww,” Eddie whines. “But I can’t explain it, Chris. Ugh. Do you think he’s someone I went to school with? Maybe elementary school so he looks different but there’s something that seems familiar?”

“Why are you asking me? I have no idea. I think you should ask your penis.” She tilts her head causing her ponytail to swish slightly.

“What!?” Eddie squeaks.

“Come on, you’re attracted to him, and I think little Eddie is driving this ridiculous obsession. That’s it.” She tosses her muffin wrapper in the trash can and slaps her palms on top of Eddie’s desk. “You’re getting laid. This weekend we’re going out and I don’t want to hear it.”

“I can’t get out of this can I?” He loves this woman, but he kinda wanted to stay home this weekend and get his one shot campaign finished.

“Nope,” she says with a giggle.

“What about him?” Chrissy yells into Eddie’s ear while stealthily pointing across the bar.

Eddie turns to see where she’s pointing and she’s got to be kidding. “Do you know me at all? No.” He sighs and turns back to his beer.

“Come oooon, you’re not even trying. Ooh what about him?”

Eddie takes a quick glance before shaking his head. “I think this place is a dud tonight.”

“You’re just picky.” She swirls her drink aimlessly looking around the room.

The place is pretty packed for a Friday night, but they were able to grab a couple stools at the bar top, which Eddie is grateful for. Chrissy is spun around facing outward. Her foot is bouncing to the beat of the music playing overhead. She’s all dolled up, on the hunt herself but making sure to keep an eye out for Eddie.

“Ooh,” she gasps and Eddie tries to see what she’s looking at. “She’s pretty.”

“Where?”

“Over there, near the pole.”

Eddie cranes his neck and sees a taller woman with a short bob, wearing an oversized blazer, sleeves shoved to her elbows, and laughing at someone standing behind the pole.

“You should go talk to her.” Eddie nudges her foot.

“You think?” Chrissy keeps her eyes pointed on the woman. “Oh, she’s…hmm,” Chrissy bites her bottom lip and smiles shyly. “She looked at me. She did it again. Oh.”

Eddie hides a laugh behind his drink and risks a glance across the bar. He catches the woman nervously glancing at Chrissy and immediately thinks they’re a match made in heaven.

“Go, I’ll be fine.” Eddie nudges her again. “I’m gonna go smoke anyway.”

“Ok, be safe out there.”

She hates that he has to go out back to smoke. It’s a creepy alley behind a gay bar. The worst he’s ever run into back there are a few rushed blowjobs and some handies. People usually leave him alone, though. He doesn’t really give off a friendly vibe.

Eddie finishes off his beer and slides off his stool with a stretch of his arms.

“Good luck, Cunningham. Go get yourself a lesbian.” He shakes her shoulder gently and heads toward the back door.

He takes a deep breath when the night air hits him. It feels good after spending time in the stuffy bar. He shuffles his way down from the door, and finds a spot against the brick wall. He then pulls out his crinkled pack of Camels, plucks a cigarette out, and slots it between his lips.

While holding his lighter to the tip of his cigarette, the back door slides open and he turns to watch someone walk out.

Oh my god

It’s him

Eddie’s cigarette falls from his lips as his mouth gapes open. He’s moving on instinct towards the man he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past seven days. The man sees Eddie approaching and he gives him a nervous smile. Eddie realizes he doesn’t recognize him. That fact stings more than it should.

“You,” Eddie says with a shakey breath.

“Um, you ok, man?”

“Who are you?” Eddie scans over the man’s face trying to piece it together.

He sees two perfectly placed moles on the man’s cheek and two more along his neck. Nothing that is triggering a memory though.

“Uh, Steve? Do I know you?”

Eddie ducks his head and starts looking over other parts of the man’s body. More moles line the man’s arms and his exposed shoulders from under his tank top. Eddie’s eyes catch on a tattoo on the man’s pec through the gap in his shirt.

“What’s-what’s that? " Eddie cocks his head. "That date?”

The man, Steve, looks down noticing Eddie seeing the tattoo.

“It’s the day I was saved.”

“What?” Eddie’s eyes flick up to Steve’s before dropping back to the tattoo.

It’s the day Eddie’s mom died.

“I had a heart transplant.”

Eddie’s hands drop to his sides and his face slowly relaxes as he starts to wonder if it’s possible.

“Do you- uh, do you know who…? Who your donor was?”

Steve furrows his brows and cocks his head. “Uh, yeah?”

“Who? Who was it? I-I lost my mom that day.” Steve’s face softens and Eddie watches as the man looks him over.

“Elizabeth-“

“Munson?” Steve nods and Eddie gasps covering his mouth with his hand in shock. “Oh my god.”

“She saved my life.”

Tears well in Eddie’s eyes as he reaches his fingers toward Steve. He asks for silent permission to touch and Steve nods. Eddie huffs a heavy breath as he presses his hand to Steve’s chest. He lets his fingers spread out, pushing his palm against him. Before Eddie can take a deep breath he feels the pound of Steve’s heartbeat against his hand.

His mom’s heartbeat.

Eddie looks up with a wet chuckle and sees matching tears in Steve’s eyes.

“I wasn’t going to make it. I was on my last leg and then suddenly there was a viable heart.” Steve places his hands over Eddie’s and stares into his eyes. “Thank you.”

Eddie nods and swallows back the sob he wants to release. Steve runs his thumb comfortingly across Eddie’s knuckles and gives him a sad smile.

“I knew there was something.” Eddie shakes his head. “Since I saw you last week, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Last week?” Steve furrows his brows and then widens his eyes in realization. “The coffee shop. You bumped into me.” He smiles at Eddie fondly.

“Yeah,” Eddie says a little embarrassed. “Then again at the train station. You were with some kids.”

“That was you. I thought I saw you but wasn’t sure.”

“I might’ve chased the train a little.” Eddie shrugs.

“Chased the train? For me?”

“A little.” Eddie’s hand is still pressed against Steve’s chest so he can feel when the man’s pulse kicks up.

“And now you’re here. Somehow. It’s like the universe wanted us to meet.” Steve bites his bottom lip and Eddie suddenly wants to bite it too.

Now that he knows why he felt so pulled toward Steve, he can actually look at the man. It’s like a fog is lifted and he can see Steve in all his beautiful glory.

“Yeah,” Eddie whispers.

“Do you wanna get a drink? With me?” Steve asks nervously, and if he could read Eddie’s mind he wouldn’t be so nervous.

“Yes,” he nods quickly. “I’d love to.”

Steve keeps his grip on Eddie’s hand and laces their fingers together before pulling them toward the door.

“I’m here with my friend Robin, but she is getting hit on by the cutest little blonde, so she won’t bother us.”

“My friend Chrissy is a cute little blonde. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

coffee? ☕️🍩💕

#I made myself cry #inspired by an episode of Monk I watched last night #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddiecameraroll posts #steddie ficlet #steddie fics

[wizard-email]

There is a café in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.

Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.

“May I have your name?” 

You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one. 

“May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken. Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.

The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”

You shake your head. No, it isn’t. 

You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice. 

The barista nods slowly. “Will that be all?”

“Yes,” You find yourself saying. “That will be all.”

They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.

Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he does not stop to watch them dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat. 

He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-

“May I have your name?” 

Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught up in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.

“May I have your name?” 

The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… Hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse. 

You look away and the barista descends upon what remains. 

He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.

Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been clumsily sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth. 

The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.

A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They're different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.

They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.

“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You're not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.

You decide that no, you would not like a sample today.

The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.

The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.

In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.

You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it's been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away.

 The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.

‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,

To the midnight café.

#the midnight cafe #reupload #the original was deleted and I don't know why

[mmeskywalker]

|| teachers pet

summary: HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN is your professor. a couple of weeks ago, he assigned you to tutor a student who had to retake his class. dylan was a sweet, attractive guy and you had no problem tutoring him. however, noticing the shift in the two of your behaviors, professor christensen began developing a problem. he wanted you to himself.

a/n: i made a janitor ai bot on this au, let me know if you’d like it love, xoxo.

warnings: possibly DDDNE, porn WITH a plot, jealousy, possession, no protection (p in v), biting, choking, age gap, cream pie.

you were a wonderful student; always writing notes, listening intently to your professors lectures, your eyes glued to his lips as the information stuck to your skin like a thick coat of glue. the same skin you wanted your professor to suck, and nip until it bruised a pretty purple.

inhaling, you watched the clock strike two. the class had ended and your peers were packing their belongings, heading toward the door, as PROFESSOR CHRISTENSEN wiped the chalkboard off. his fingers wrapped around the eraser, his arm swiftly moving across the space as he waited for you to walk up to him. earlier, he requested to speak to you in private after class. of course, you were nervous, but you replied with a simple, “whatever you want.”

with a deep inhale, professor christensen cleared his throat, the subtle sound resonating through the empty classroom, “thank you,” he said, setting down his eraser. he leaned against his desk, his eyes traveling sullenly your way, and when he finally spoke, there was a noticeable hint of vagueness in his usually direct tone. "there’s a student i’m concerned about, and i believe you would be the perfect tutor for him.” his voice lowered slightly, careful and demanding all at once.

“straight to the point,” you muttered, trying to hide your disappointment with a laugh as you sat in front of him, “so,” you blew out a breath, “who would i be tutoring, professor?”

"dylan grimes. he’s new here, started some time ago," he began, "very bright, but has trouble keeping up with the pace of the class. i thought, seeing as you were so kind..." with a sly grin, he reached for your hand, his thumb caressing your palm, "...you might help him out a bit."

you couldn’t resist the tantalizing scent of his cologne mingling with the familiar scent of chalk dust, cigarettes and paper. it made your head spin. you could rarely tell him no anyway, thereforth you found yourself accepting his offer, “i’d be delighted.”

professor christensen chuckled softly, tilting his head back slightly in appreciation of your response. he stood up straight again, crossing the few feet separating you to stand loom over your frame, his cologne becoming stronger now. placing his hands on your shoulders, he leaned closer still, his plump lips brushing against your ear as he spoke in a husky whisper, "i knew you wouldn't let me down." his warm breath grazed your sensitive ear canal, causing goosebumps to form on your neck once more.

dylan grimes was kind. he wasn’t angry that the professor wanted him to have a tutor, rather he was grateful. he was grateful that someone would give him the time of day he needed to pass, because he never experienced that at home; he always had to figure things out on by himself. you tutoring him was a blessing, and he made sure to let you know how much he appreciated you.

“thank you, really,” dylan exclaimed, closing his notes, “i don’t know where i’d be without you.”

his brown curls bounced off of his forehead, hitting his freckled skin as his glimmering green eyes peered graciously onto yours. they were shining from the glimpse of sunlight that shone through your dorm-room window, and god, you couldn’t look away. he had you captivated. “don’t mention it,” you smiled, “i’m glad i was able to give you that extra push. you’re doing great!”

it had only been a week since your professor assigned you to the task of tutoring dylan. he didn’t expect you to enjoy hanging out with each other; nor did he realize dylan was sneaking into your dorm late at night and thanking you in ways other than muttering a mere thank you. dylan was leaving flowers on your doorstep, slowly sneaking himself into your life, and even kissed your cheek from time to time. to you, it wasn’t a big deal. he was cute. you’re fine with getting that form of attention from a cute guy. but to professor christensen… he watched as dylan would smile at you throughout class, it made his blood boil. he hated the way dylan looked at you, the way he deemed only he could look at you.

stopping his lecture, he’d tap his ruler on his desk, “i hope you’re paying attention to this next part class,” your professor wouldn’t outright say dylan’s name when he pulled this stunt, rather he stared at him, hoping he’d stop undressing you with his eyes.

though, you weren’t paying much attention to your beloved professor, your eyes were glued to your phone screen, giggling down at the admiring texts dylan sent you throughout class.

“you’re so beautiful,” one said.

another one rolled in, “you’re intelligent, funny, and god… you coming into my life is something i thank the lord for every night.”

his words were sweet. however, the harmful gaze professor christensen had was not. he knew something was going on between you and dylan, and he’d be lying to say that it didn’t bother him.

he wanted you to himself; he wanted all of you to himself.

so… he called you to meet him after class.

now it was time. professor christensen gave you a faint smile before standing up, straightening out his suit jacket. "ah, take a seat.” he cooed.

he wasn’t ashamed to light cigarettes in the classroom, and right now, he needed to release some stress before he found himself losing his temper. “i wanted to talk to you about the project i assigned a couple of weeks ago," he mused. he carefully took a seat on his rolley chair, which moved back from his desk slightly, "i noticed… things have gotten quite… intimate between you and dylan during your tutoring sessions." he took a slow drag of his cigarette, blowing out a ring of smoke before exhaling.

raising your brows, you asked, “what do you mean?” as if you were confused. however, you knew exactly what he was implying. only, you didn’t expect him to confront you so meanlessly in a classroom setting. actually, scratch that. you never expected him to confront you on a matter you didn’t even believe concerned him in the first place. yet, the confrontation sent a chill down your spine, involuntarily causing you to cross your legs.

“am i wrong?" his brows furrowed slightly, displaying worry and slight disapproval. you shook your head, and he sighed. he knew that he's been overbearing lately, but he couldn't help himself. he needed you all to himself. the thought of you making love to someone other than him… he couldn’t fathom it. he’s imagined the sensation of your thighs wrapped around his waist, your arms tied around his neck, and the sweet taste of your pussy being savored on his tongue. it drove him insane. you drove him insane.

"don't pretend as if you don’t know what I’m talking about, sweet girl," professor christensen said, shaking his head lightly with a playful sigh. he stepped around his desk. despite being in his mid-forties, his muscular build was perfectly accentuated in his fitted black turtleneck, exposing the strong muscles of his arms underneath the sleeves he had rolled up to his elbows.

his dirty blonde hair fell messily over his brow, casting enticing shadows on the intense blue eyes that peered deeply into yours. "i know you've spent far too much time on your so-called 'tutoring sessions'. care to explain?" he leaned in closer, heat radiating off of him like a warm furnace against the cool classroom air.

you leaned back into your chair, looking at him through thick, heavy eyes, “i don’t have anything to explain. you wanted me to tutor him, didn’t you?”

following that, you swallowed thickly. you realized what was happening, and the way he was looking at you proved it. he was jealous. his gaze was practically burning through your skull. you crossed your legs tighter, squeezing them together as you tilted your head to the side innocently, “are you upset? because you shouldn’t be. his grades are going up, just as you wanted.”

to that, he raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "i did initially," he admitted grudgingly. "but things have gotten... too personal." he stepped forward, stopping mere centimeters away from you, reaching his hand out to cup your chin delicately, lifting it so that your eyes locked. "i like having you all to myself, darling." his warm breath was caressing your neck, his finger trailing down the base of your throat before his palm wrapped around your neck, "i like the way you moan when you touch yourself, i know how you’d squirm and arch into my touch,” slowly, he squeezed your neck, sending shockwaves of desire and fear coursing through your body. "i don't want anyone else claiming those sounds as their own."

you couldn’t respond, you could hardly breathe, but you weren’t making an attempt to stop him. the base of his thumb was massaging the side of your neck as he bit your sensitive skin, causing you to choke out a quiet whimper.

"see, i don’t give a flying fuck about dylan's grades, my love," he growled softly, placing his cigarette in the ashtray, “all i care about is you, and having all of you to myself.” standing straight again, he let go, this time towering over you. "the problem,” he continued softly, “the problem is you... you and your tempting body that has been teasing mine to its breaking point,” he spat, “no. the problem is dylan finding that same intensity and desire within you… i despise the thought of a specimen so low touching you in ways only i’m allowed to explore.”

“i’m selfish.” he sounded desperate, his palms caressing down your cheeks, “i want you all to myself. i want your heart, your body, and your mind. i want all of you.”

leaning forward, his breath brushed against your neck again. almost as if he couldn’t get enough of you. his plump lips dragged against the red marks from his previous aggression, lightly kissing the sensitive skin as his hand moved downward to cup your denim-clad ass, "i don’t want to share you with that young man," he growled, before grabbing ahold of your wrists.

he pulled you closer until your chest was pressed against his broad one. his cock responded instantly to your nearness, hardening painfully in his pants, and he let out a low groan. "i don’t want to see you with him anymore," he bit almost dangerously, his voice husky with desire.

“professor.” your voice fell flat as turned you around and backed you into a wall.

releasing your wrist slowly, he whispered, "dear, sweet girl," he exhaled heavily, his chest expanding and contracting. "i see it in your pretty eyes. don’t deny me of this." his knee was pressed between your legs, his cock pressing harder against your crotch, making it obvious just how much his desire for you was burning.

"don’t treat me like some weak-minded scholar that needs to indulge in the company of other students," he whispered, his breath ghosting softly against your ear. "i know you, my love. i know you crave more, deep within your soul." his hands moved down, gripping your hips firmly. he pushed you back against the cool stone wall of the classroom, his erection now pressed firmly against your stomach, pulsating through the fabric of his pants.

his voice grew huskier, each syllable washing over you in an unrelenting wave. "i crave you as much as you crave me, sweetheart, more than my next breath. you make me insane, you make my dreams obsessed with tasting you, taking you, owning you. i won’t let you see him anymore, not if I have anything to say about it."

reaching for your button fly, he yanked it open with rough agitation before tearing at the zipper in one swift motion. "tell me you want this, tell me you want me, tell me so i know i can continue.”

with shaking fingers, you pulled down the zipper of his trousers, freeing his impressive length from its confining prison. he groaned deeply, his warm breath fanning over your cheek, as he palmed your ass, squeezing it firmly.

"finally yours," he growled, as if claiming you for his own, before his hips rocked forward, his throbbing cockhead pressing against your wetness.

"fuck..." you managed to whisper, your voice cracking slightly. "of course i want you."

that was all he needed to hear. without warning, he slammed into you, claiming you with brutal force yet with immense pleasure. his dick throbbed inside of you, stretching you slowly, making you gasp and arch your back into him as he picked up a steady rhythm. his free hand gripped your hair, holding you in place while he took what he believed he owed.

"my pet," he groaned, his own raspy breath matching yours in a yearning rhythm, his lips attacking your neck, “my everything.”

"you belong to me," he proclaimed, as he thrusted into you relentlessly, pounding into you like he was making you his. your hips met his each time he thrust, aiding the process of taking you over completely. his other hand found its way to your breast, his thumb grazing over your nipple, as if begging it to harden under his touch. "and yet, you’ve never claimed me as yours, darling. it's about time you did." he growled, thrashing into you harder. you could feel every inch of him, and you covered your mouth to stifle a whimper.

"i dare you, little one," he urged, pumping into you with more ferocity. a sly look crossed his face, making his beautiful blue eyes darken as he continued to thrust. his hands never stopping their exploration on your body.

"say it, say you're mine," he growled, his hips driving into you, grinding you against the cold wall. "i won't stop until you admit to it, until i see the fire in your eyes that only I can ignite.” you struggled slightly, only to be yanked back by his desperate hands, his thumb digging into your nipple.

"say you're mine, all mine," he whispered, his breaths coming harder, his hips driving into you more frantically.

"all yours,” you whimpered, your voice breaking with each thrust. despite moments of discomfort, there was an undeniable thrill coursing through your veins, a mix of desire and submission. your body was wrapped around his like a glove, and you found yourself worshiping him, craving his touch.

that’s all he needed to pick up the pace, his thrusts getting faster and stronger.

he leaned forward, his lips met your ear as he mumbled, "don’t forget it, sweetheart." his breathing quickened, and the intensity of his thrusts grew as if he was trying to mark you as his. the room grew hazy, the dimming lights and the sound of our bodies colliding echoing in the empty classroom. "you are mine," he insisted, "no one else deserves to touch you, no one else deserves to have you."

as he rammed into you, you could feel the approaching climax, the build up of pleasure stabbing at every nerve. "that's it, sweetheart. feel it!" he roared, his voice graveled with lust. you clung to him, your nails marking his back as you sucked him in. as he thrust harder, you cried out, the climax building up within you like a tidal wave. with your body quivering and pulsating, each thrust felt like a stab at your core, an explosion of pleasure and desire.

you clung to him, riding the wave of ecstasy as his thrusts grew more frenzied. he moaned into your ear, his teeth grazing your skin, bathing you in his passion.

"yes, yes..." he urged, panting heavily as he thrust, his dick swelling with each thrust. "come for me, my love. let go... let me have you..."

finally, the climax hit you like a truck, engulfing your entire body in waves upon waves of pleasure. you collapsed into him, your breaths heavy as you panted against his neck, clinging to the last remnants of the intense pleasure.

"you're beautiful. that was perfect, just fucking perfect,” he groaned against your ear, his hips flexing, plunging into you one last time before he let go, shuddering and gasping. “f-fuck,” he whimpered. his whole world crashed onto you as he filled you to the brim with his seed, the warmth of his release pulsating within you.

he tugged at his pants, gathering himself before he slowly pulled out of you, his chest heaving. "god, that was... you’re so wonderful, everything i imagined," he whispered, his breath hittingched with each movement. you nodded, your eyes still clouded with pleasure, your body still quivering from the force of the intensity.

sitting down, keeping one arm around you, he pulled you close, kissing the top of your head. "i still want nothing else but you, fresh out from a lecture and through each lesson." he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips, "and no one else."

"you will never see him again," he added, his voice firm, "i could never allow that." you just nodded, nuzzling against him as the afterglow of the encounter enveloped both of you.

"what do you think, my love?" he asked, biting his bottom lip, his eyes darkening "can you keep a secret?" you looked at him, nodding slowly. "i’ll keep our little secret,” you whispered, kissing his neck gently.

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen x y/n #hayden christensen fluff #hayden christensen x you #hayden christensen fanfiction #hayden christensen fanfic #professor x student #star wars #star wars anakin #anakin skywalker #anakin smut #anakin fic #anakin fluff #anakin x reader #anakin x y/n #anakin x you #smut #fanfic #fanfiction

[timeslugarts]

Vox with a very sleepy reader. I forget the proper medical term for it but reader is just always tired and sleeping. With a silly twist of reader always waking up when Vox moves away, having to follow him to his next destination and immediately clocking out again for the cycle to begin again.

-🎉

Heyoooo!!! I did it, woohoo!! I hope you enjoy it. I had no idea where to go with this, but I think it ended up cute :)

VOX X SLEEPY READER 🎉

His phone beeped somewhere on the other side of the room and Vox sighed. You were tucked delicately into his side, arms wrapped around his torso snoring away. Not a care in the world even though his phone kept beeping.

You looked so peaceful, but he had to answer the damn phone or it would just continue to ring. Slowly, he swung one leg out of the bed, and then the other. Making sure to disturb the bed as little as he possibly could. Next came the hard part, he gently gripped your hand and slithered himself out of your grasp.

You groaned. Vox froze. He didn't even breathe for fear of waking you up. He knew as soon as you'd open your eyes he couldn't possibly say no and have to tuck himself back into bed with you.

You stopped moving though, breath evening out, and so he continued his journey. The phone was only a few feet away, but it felt like miles with the pace he was moving.

Vox tiptoed across the cold floor and made his way over to his desk. Spinning his chair around he sat, eyes still cautiously on you. Waiting.

He answered his phone as quietly as he could, whispering the whole time as Val yelled on the other end. Something about how he needed more whores for his next production and how he needed Vox's help to send out applications for the hiring process.

Vox's eyes never left your figure. It wasn't until the phone call ended that he let out a breath, he made it, he's in the clear. You're out cold.

He swiveled around in his chair and began working on Val's demands and anything else he was behind on. Fingers clicking away on the keyboard, he was about halfway through the email when a groggy voice could be heard.

"Voxxy?" It couldn't have been more than 5 minutes but here you were needing him so you could keep sleeping.

"I'm right here doll, come on." He patted his thigh as you padded across the floor still wrapped in the comforter. You climbed nimbly into his lap, curling yourself around him and swiftly falling right back asleep.

Vox chuckled as he watched you pass back out immediately. At least he could get some work done, he thought idly stroking your hair.

#hazbin hotel vox #vox x reader #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #vox

[bigification]

Spiked

Friday,

I feel strong, but these protein shakes haven't been helping my bulk as much as I want. I'm still too skinny. Maybe I should give them more time though, I've only been taking them for a couple weeks after all. I'll try bumping it up to two a day, and I'll eat more, that should help.

I pick up my phone as I leave the gym and stare at the Grindr app. Should I? Is it fair to Dean that I keep bringing back guys to our place. This would be the fourth time this week, I think I can hold off for his sake. Anyway, I put away my phone and head back to my apartment.

"How was the workout?" Dean asked when I got home. I'm shocked, he's never really been interested in my workouts before. We used to go together before we were roommates but now that we live together, the gym is a rare activity we do apart. Besides, he hasn't really been going that much recently.

"Oh, it was good... I'm just not bulking as much as I want to." I reply.

"That must be why you got those protein shakes, huh?"

Why is he taking so much notice of this stuff now? We can share the shakes if he really wants to, he might just be trying to motivate himself to get back in the gym. But he could just ask if that's what he wants. "Ya, I'm gonna try to drink more, maybe that'll help." I say as I go to the fridge and grab one.

"That's good." Dean says in a flat tone, he usually does this when he's lost interest in a conversation.

I get distracted from the conversation anyway as I drink the shake. Something seems different about it, it's got a bit of a bitter aftertaste now. I figure it's probably just me getting tired of the taste and shrug it off.

Saturday,

I wake up in a cold sweat. This was unusual given that I get up every day at this time to go to the gym. I look to the clock and it's... 10 o'clock. Holy shit, I slept in. I'm usually at the gym by 8. I calm down a bit when I remember it's Saturday, so I have nothing to do anyway.

I roll out of bed and hobble my way to the bathroom. My head is spinning and my stomach is growling, I felt hungover. I didn't drink last night did I? I don't really remember. However, all of that leaves my mind in an instant when I look in the mirror. I rub my eyes and look again. Where do I even begin. An itchy beard now covers my face, despite the fact that I shaved yesterday morning. My sweat glistened on my distended stomach, my six pack buried under a soft bloat. My pecs are swollen and slightly rounded.

What the fuck. My mind is trying to process what's happening, but it can't. I turn to the side and see the subtle S shape in my stomach and my ass. Was it the shake? It couldn't have been, it hasn't done shit for me in weeks and now it does this! You know what, this is fine. I pinch my stomach. It's mostly bloated, just a small layer of fat, nothing I can't work off in a couple weeks. If anything this will give me a head start on my bulk.

I throw on some of my loose gym clothes that do a decent job at hiding my physique, but I still look different. I grab my gym back and try to sneak out, I don't want Dean seeing me like this. I quickly try to rush out the door, but I stop dead in my tracks when I hear Dean.

"I didn't know you were still home, you usually leave before I get up." He says nonchalantly.

"Oh ya... I just decided to sleep in today." I pull my bag to cover my stomach.

"Okay, have fun at the gym. Nice beard by the way, when did you decide to grow it out."

"I've just been a bit lazy with shaving it, that's all." I'm sweating buckets.

"Well it looks good, you should keep it." He smiles at me.

I can feel myself blush, so I smile and get out as quickly as possible. I chug a protein shake on the way to the gym, noting that bitter aftertaste again. It's probably nothing, I have bigger issues to deal with.

Once I start my workout, I feel pretty self conscious about my body. I know no one else could know that something is off, but I still feel off. But as the workout goes on, I start feeling more and more comfortable. I start hitting more reps than I ever have before, though cardio is a bit of a slog. It doesn't matter, I feel surprisingly great. I finish off the workout great, and flex in the mirror for a bit of a confidence boost.

I drink another shake on the way home. As I get home, Dean seems to be waiting for me. He asks how my workout was again. He's acting so weird again. I decide to spend the rest of the day out, drinking the night away. I am bulking after all.

Sunday,

I wake up feeling like I got hit by a truck, with no memory of how much I drank last night. I've never felt like this after a night out though. The more I think about it, the more my mind points me to the shakes. They have to have something to do with this. I don't have time for this right now though, I have to get to the gym.

I brush my teeth and shave, I'm shocked at the beard I grew in just two days. I try throwing on some clothes, but I feel some resistance. My largest gym shirt no longer fits, there's always a sliver of skin showing and it goes past my belly button when I reach up. My shorts fit a bit better, but they hug my ass very tight. I think I'll have to buy some new clothes on the way home.

The workout goes similarly to yesterday. I start self conscious of the fact that my belly is showing and my shorts look like they're about to rip. But the worry escapes my mind when I destroy my routine. I feel so strong.

I feel great by the time my workout ends. I head to the locker room and take off my shirt. Yeesh, I have a full on beer belly now. This is no longer just a bloat, my stomach is covered in a thick layer of fat. I didn't even know you could gain this much fat in only a couple of days, and I'm not even eating that much. And what's with the beard, I shaved this morning and it's already coming back in. Although my arms are looking massive, I could even feel my sleeves stretch from my biceps when I was working out. I stare at my belly a bit as I think about what to do.

I throw on my shirt again and head out. I pull up to a clothing store and pick out a few loose gym clothes that should fit me if I bulk even more.

"Hi, where are the change rooms." I ask an employee.

"Oh.." he pauses for a moment, looking at my belly. I notice that my shirt is riding up more than it was this morning. I instinctively cover my exposed belly with my arms and shrivel up in embarrassment.

"Just over there sir." He awkwardly points to the back of the store.

I grab a few larger clothes on the way out and leave the store as fast as humanly possible. I instinctively down another shake on the way home. Dean didn't say anything to me when I got home, but he glanced at me and then looked away. He is acting so strange.

I woke up in the middle of the night, there was a rattling coming from the kitchen. I walk out to investigate and see Dean doing something with the protein shakes. Is he secretly drinking them at night? He could just ask and I would give some to him. But I see him pour something into the shake and then close it back up again before putting them back in the fridge. What the hell? I try to think of what he could be doing. He stashes something away in the bottom of the cupboard and starts walking back to his bedroom. I quickly hide in my room until I hear his door close, and then I go back to the kitchen to investigate. I look at the protein shakes in the fridge and notice their seals have been broken, I can't believe I never noticed that. I move over to the cupboard and find a small bag with white powder in it. It looks like coke, but why the fuck would Dean put coke in my shakes. And besides, I don't think fat, muscle, and hair growth are symptoms of coke. Maybe I'll give him a taste of his own medicine. I go back to the fridge and pull out the jug of orange juice that Dean drinks every morning. I have no idea how much he put in my shakes, so I just pour a bunch in. I kind of feel like a secret agent, sneaking in a mysterious powder into his drink. I would feel worse, but he already did this to me so I'm fine ignoring my morals this time.

I head to bed, lying awake in my bed for a while. Thinking about what I just did, thinking about the results. It's making it hard to fall asleep, but I eventually do.

Monday,

I wake up feeling better than I had the past few days. I go through my normal routine, throw on my gym clothes, and grab a bite to eat. When I open the fridge, i see the orange juice and protein shakes and I'm reminded of my situation. Every morning I get a few moments of blissful ignorance before it's ripped away. I think for a bit, then grab a couple shakes and put in my bag. I'm kinda liking this new me, the strong me, and the belly is definitely growing on me. I catch my reflection in the mirror as I head out, I'm really committing to this aren't I? I ask myself as I look at the bushy beard that has engulfed my face and the belly and moobs that are unmistakable under my shirt. I smile and then head to the gym.

Every day that I spend at the gym, I get less self conscious. I almost forget about the fact that my hairy gut I exposed to the world whenever I reach up. I only care about the fact that I have been increasing the weight on my workouts every day and it feels amazing.

I take a shower and get dressed for work... Oh shit. I never bought work clothes that fit me, I'm reminded when I try in vain to button up my dress shirt. I stop by the store again and grab a couple shirts and pairs of pants. The thought of the protein shake in my car makes me think of the future, so I buy a few clothes in larger sizes too.

I barely make it to work on time. The day went by fast, but all I could remember were the stares and the comments from coworkers. "You forget to shave this morning Santa?" "Might want to lay off the doughnuts in the break room buddy." "We're concerned about your health." "Did you forget to stop bulking?" That was all I heard today. It was embarrassing at first, but it soon turned to encouraging. Each sly comment just makes me want to grow more. It honestly makes me realize how much I'm enjoying growing, and makes me even more excited to see what happens to Dean. It was hard to keep my dick in my pants today, I think the only reason no one noticed was because they were too busy staring at my gut.

I make it back home after work and dress down to my underwear first thing. Damn I am getting hairy, I run my hands through the forest of hair that has grown all over my body. As I'm doing so, an amazing idea runs through my mind. I'm gonna surprise Dean. There's no way I can hide the changes in my body regardless of how baggy my clothes are, so I'm just gonna show it off. I lay down on the couch by the front door, still only in my underwear, and I wait for him to show up.

"I'm hom- Oh hey..." Dean stutters as he sees me.

"Hey bud, what's up." I say nonchalantly.

"Just tired from work, where are your clothes?"

"I had a crazy workout today, just figured I'd air out a bit. Ever since I started this bulk, things have really taken off for me at the gym." I say while I rub my gut. In trying my best to make him uncomfortable and it seems to be working.

"Okay, well if you need me I'll be in my room." He quickly scurries into his room.

I just chuckle to myself and continue rubbing my belly. I wonder if there's any leftovers in the fridge?

Tuesday,

Same old same old. Get out of bed, get dressed, shave, grab a shake and head to the gym.

I feel so imposing at the gym now. I think I've gotten taller, because I look down on almost every now. I have a beard and a deeper voice than I used to, and not to mention the big gut and strong biceps. I'm like the biggest guy here, and people treat me like it. Women and men stare, and people tend to let me use the machines I want. I also notice myself grunting when I work out, I wonder if the entire gym can hear it. Anyway, the point is I feel amazing. This is the first day I dropped cardio because who fucking needs it, I sure don't. Now I focus purely on mass gain. I'm tired of holding back and I don't care what other people think, I want more.

I arrived at work, rocking far more confidence than I did yesterday, and people noticed. I don't care if they stare or comment, and I don't care that my dress shirt is already too small for me. People even asked me how I gained as much muscle as it did that fast. I just tell them to eat a shit ton and drink protein shakes, but maybe once the jig is up with Dean I'll ask him how to get the powder. I certainly wouldn't mind seeing some of the men at work blow up like I did. This is not the time to think about it though, it's getting hard to hide my boner at work. The only thing hiding it when I sit down is my gut.

I get home and notice Dean is home too. He must have stayed home, I wonder if it's because of the powder. He won't seem to leave his room though, so I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see the results.

I just decide to change into some comfortable clothes and eat my heart out. Though I'm shocked at how small my once 'baggy' clothes are. They barely fit past my stomach, and they ride up past my belly button when I lift my arms.

Fuck I'm getting fat. There is nothing hotter to me right now than the thought of my body growing. I make my way to the kitchen and grab a few more shakes and start chugging, feeling my dick harden with each gulp. I feel like a fucking pig, what has come over me. The shake is dribbling down my beard and onto my shirt, but I can't stop. Once I've had enough protein shakes for a lifetime, I stumble to my room and promptly fall asleep.

Wednesday,

I wake up in a pool of sweat, similar to a couple days ago. My mouth tastes awful and my body feels heavy. I question what happened last night as I roll myself out of bed. I drag myself to the bathroom and freeze in shock at my image in the mirror. Holy shit. I pull up my shirt to see a massive ball belly, covered in a thick layer of hair. I pull my shirt up further and see a pair of soft man tits that now lay on my gut. Every part of my body looks swollen, my arms, my hands, even my face looks puffy.

I let out a loud burp that reeks of protein shake, and suddenly I remember last. I walk to the kitchen and see six empty protein shakes on the table. I chuckle in a surprisingly deep voice before opening the fridge and grabbing a shake. I down it before getting ready to head to the gym. I put on my largest gym shirt and it only reaches halfway around my gut, I try to put on my shorts but I can't get them to cover the top of my ass crack. That's alright, I don't particularly care if anyone sees, it's their fault for looking.

I spend the day at the gym enjoying all the attention from shocked gym goers. They watch in amazement or contempt as this fatass walks around like he owns the gym.

I go to work with a similar energy, though I do have a dress shirt that still barely fits me so at least I'm not half naked going to work. My clothes still leave little to my coworkers imaginations, as I confidently strut my fatass around the office.

I get home and stand in shock as I walk through the door. Is that Dean!? Across the living room stands a morbidly obese man wearing nothing but boots, a baseball cap, and a ripped towel around his waist.

"You did this to me!" The man yells in a gruff southern accent.

"Dean, is that you?" I respond.

"Yea, you dumbass! You gave me some of that powder didn't ya." He turns to face me and reveals the damage the powder did to his body.

"Hey you did it to me first! I was only returning the favour."

"I only put I bit into your shakes, how much did'ya give me!? Look what it's done to me!" He grabs a handful of the fat on his belly, and it jiggles like jello.

"Well I didn't know how much to give you."

"And you're only s'posed to take it when you're workin out, otherwise it only grows fat and not muscle. Beside, why d'ya keep drinking it after you knew?" He asks

"Because I like me this way, it just felt good to get revenge. Why did you even do it in the first place?" I ask in return.

"Because I thought if you got fat you'd stop hooking up with so many guys, and you'd notice me. It was only s'posed to be a bit, but then you started drinkin the shakes like crazy and now look at ya." He responds in a genuine voice. I don't know what to say, so I stand silent. He grabs his phone and approaches me. "This is what I looked like 2 days ago!" He shows me a picture of himself. "I was so happy that I could finally grow a beard. Little did I know why."

"This is what I looked like yesterday." He shows me another photo. "My hair was falling out and my hairline was receding. I woke up looking like I was pregnant, and my pants couldn't fit anymore."

"I was so scared that I ate some of that powder, but I didn't know what to do, so I stayed in my room all day and drank nothing but orange juice. Then I woke up this morning as a bald 350 pound man. That's when I knew you put that powder in my orange juice." He seems frantic.

I didn't know what to do, so I grabbed him and kissed him. "I never realized how hot your accent is until now." I say as I pull away from the kiss, he smiles in return. In the moment, another terribly amazing idea comes to my head. I grab the bag of powder he had left on the table and pour some of the powder into his mouth before snorting some myself. He looks at me in shock for a moment before swallowing it. I smile before dragging his fatass to my tiny king sized bed.

Then next Monday,

I just hit 300 today. I still go to the gym everyday, so that keeps my gut from growing out of control. Though I have had some interesting conversations with my family since. But the shocked faces of my family when they see me and their concerned comments if my weight gain only fuels the fire. Though my dad seems to be the only one who says he likes the new me, says I look manlier. It's funny coming from the next fattest man in the family, only behind me of course.

The scale stopped working on Dean after last Thursday, but he has to be pushing 500. I really gave him an insane dose of that powder, and the more fat he got the less capable he was to workout and thus reduce the fat gained. He just sits around and pigs out all day now, and I wouldn't want him any other way. I usually bring home a few meals from a couple fast food restaurants for his first dinner, and when I feel up to it, I'll add a little bit of powder to his meal.

I'm also enjoying work far more. I told all the men at my work about the powder, and within a few days I was seeing results. Some became as fat as Dean by the end of the week, clearly they neglected the part where it said to workout while consuming the powder. Some look like me, with big arms and an even bigger belly. And some have just become muscle beasts, almost like they spent hours a day at the gym. I also feel more imposing at work, people respect me more, even if half of them are bigger than me now. It even helped me get a raise, which funds all of the fast food trips for Dean and I. One day I hope to be the big boss with a silver bushy beard and hulking gut that spills out of my suit.

#male tf #fat tf #fat belly #bhm weight gain #masculine #male wg #muscle tf #ex jock #dad bod #hairy

[unholyhelbig]

Romanov smut??

[This is 18+, if you are a minor DO NOT INTERACT, I will report you.]

Title: Spin Cyle

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanov/Romanoff

Warnings: Top!Natasha, Dom!Nat, Definate Mommy kink, semi-public sex, swearing, fingering (R recieving), derogatory names, pet names, Dom/sub dynamic, finger sucking, slight bimbofication if you squint [lmk if I'm missing anything], horrible grammar.

Summary: Reader is working the overnight shift at the laundromat when a mysterious stranger comes in with motives that are clear from the start.

[A/n: And so what if I have thing for laundromats? They're comforting, okay? I like writing fluff but sometimes you just really have to get in there. ]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

Spic & Span was one of the only laundromats left in a city that swarmed around a university, so it was always teeming with people. Between classes, students with headphones on and powder laundry soap would occupy the tables that pockmarked the large space.

No washer nor dryer were the same; some were a beautiful turquoise, with rusted patches on the front. Others were a sickly olive green that had once been coveted among housewives. They all seemed to function perfectly despite their age; but it was your job to make sure they did just that.

The usual shift you worked was 8:00pm to 8:00am, and aside from the stray kid here or there, it was mostly a silent endeavor. Since starting six months ago you had torn through at least fifteen novels, and when you grew bored of that, you moved onto movies that would hold your attention until the small bell above the door sounded.

You’d learned quickly that when people were doing their laundry, they were looking for peace. It was a tedious chore and the last thing they needed was someone breathing down their neck. Sometimes, there was the occasional person who was looking to chat, which you obliged to eagerly in order to break the silence.

It had been a clear, but cold, evening when she first came in. With none of the machines in use, the only mechanical buzz came from the vending machine in the corner that offered up stale snack-cakes and off brand soda.

Out of habit, when the bell sounded, you leaned back in the office chair and peaked around the doorframe into the main space. You were designated to the small room that had a desk, and place to sit, but was mainly a storage closet. The mini-fridge was sidled up next to a mop bucket that smelled so thickly of musk, no one tended to use either.

The woman didn’t look familiar to you. Over time you had gotten to know the regulars, and you were certain that you would remember her. Even under the harsh overhead lights, you clocked her beautiful complexion, her focused green eyes as she dug in her pockets for change. Her hair was an electrifying red, lips pursed together in frustration.

She didn’t’ have a laundry basket with her, nor her own soap. It seemed as if she were entirely unprepared to do any type of wash, and that made your fingers twitch nervously. You watched, cheeks heating up, as she stripped her shirt off and loaded it into the machine.

Goosebumps rose on her perfect skin, yet, she didn’t’ seem to mind; and holy shit, she was sporting a tight pack of abs. She shimmied her pants off and you forced yourself to look away. This was wrong. Admiring a gorgeous figure was one thing, but you refused to let your eyes linger.

Instead, you went back to your book, reading the same paragraph over and over again. None of the words were sticking. All you could think about was the curve of the woman’s mouth, how good it would feel to have it kiss every inch of your body, leaving little bruises in her wake. You were hopeless.

“Excuse me?”

The book flew from your hands, crashing onto the linoleum as you placed both feet firmly on the floor. She had been quiet in her endeavor to find you, to find anyone. It was nearly unnerving how she had wandered over undetected.

She was clad in a black lace bra and a pair of sweatpants that hugged her tightly and left little to the imagination. The amount of skin she was showing didn’t seem to bother her as much as it had flustered you.

“I think the soap dispenser ate my quarters.”

“Yeah, yes, uh” You shot to your feet at a dizzying speed “it does that. I have… key.”

She lifted both of her eyebrows at you, and you swore that you saw her smirk. You scooted past her, and she made no attempt to move. You could feel her body heat, your front pressing against hers. You did your best to mentally scold yourself for the reaction your body had to the proximity of hers. She smelled like vanilla, like something more biting that you couldn’t place your finger on. The stranger tracked your every movement.

“Just you tonight?” She asked, voice lilted.

You hummed nervously in response before heading over the small manual vending machine that would dispense little packets of soap if you had chosen to use it on the right day. She followed closely behind you, and you felt her heated stare as you unlocked the case.

“Pick your poison.”

“Mm, what do you recommend?”

“Um,” You turned, her eyes were glinting mischievously, arms crossed over her chest. It  was almost painful keeping yourself modest in this situation. You refused to let them wander, but squeezed your thighs together to dispel the thoughts. “Tide.”

“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?”

The woman reached forward and grabbed the suggested package. She didn’t’ wait for your response. Instead, she sauntered back over to her machine.

Your mouth was suddenly incredibly dry, and it was hard to lock the soap back up without fumbling. You’d dropped the keys twice before picking them up and succeeding in your task. Building up the confidence, you turned to ask if the woman needed anything else, but were once again, stilled in your movements.

She shimmied out of her sweatpants in a painstakingly slow manner. It was deliberate, you were sure, and if you weren’t than the salacious eye contact she made with you while straightening up and throwing her sweatpants in with the rest of her load confirmed it.

She was wearing the slightest bit of fabric in a black lace that matched her bra. Your eyes betrayed you, scouring her head to toe for any imperfection, but you found none. She was utterly perfect.

This had to be some type of test. There were hidden cameras somewhere and your overnight job that paid you a measly 7.50 an hour was trying to test your morals. This was the devil, and she was in lingerie, lilting her head at you expectantly.

“Damn it all,” She cooed, frowning down at the machine “It seems I don’t know how to work this thing at all. Every machine is different, you know? I might need a little help.”

Fuck.

You must not have moved because a few moments later she let out a breathy chuckle. “That is your job, isn’t it?”

“Certainly.”

She smelled like spiced coffee, something you caught a whiff of because she didn’t attempt to step back when you joined her. There was an immense body heat radiating from her, and you fought back a whimper when her hand touched the base of your spine. She was peering over your shoulder. She simply hadn’t pressed start- but you weren’t going to tell her that.

Instead, you savored the sparingly tantalizing touch and hit the button yourself. A low whirring filled the room. It was a sound that you were more than familiar with. The cycles of the washing machine were counted as easily as your own breaths.

“Dense, aren’t you?”

“hmm?”

You felt your cheeks redden as you turned to face her. Your back was flush against the machine, replacing her hand on your spine. You instantly missed her touch. She was so close to you now, but still took another step closer as if you could climb into the washer to avoid her.

“Sweet girl, I’ve thrown every hint at you in the book.” Her fingers came up to the collar of your shirt, dancing at its hem, right past the fabric until they left blazing trails on your collarbone. You clenched your eyes shut, letting out a shuttered exhale. “While I do love a woman with manners, must I ask?”

“I’m not sure I… understand.”

She whispered against your lips, not quite touching “You’re much too tightly wound, darling. Do you want mommy to take care of you?”

No one has ever asked you this before. Most of your partners, while satisfying, wouldn’t dare murmur anything close to what this stranger had just said. And you were much too shy to ask. Instead, you settled for spicy romance novels, and a magic wand that never seemed to itch that insatiable scratch.

“Don’t be so shy now. I saw the novel you were reading earlier. It’s just such a coincidence that it’s just the two of us here.”

Your forehead was pressed against hers and you stared into intense fern-colored eyes. God, you wanted her to take you right here, right now. There was something much too scandalous about fucking in the open, a feeling that you wanted to capture and savor.

“All you have to do is ask.”

You swore there was a slight Russian lilt to her voice. The more she got worked up, the more in was shining through. Her breath was quickening in pace with yours, the proximity of her making you press your thighs together to quell the excitement that threatened to drip through the fabric of your pants.

“Please,”

Her hand came up and gripped your chin in a fluid movement, manicured fingers squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. “Please what, Kotenok? What do you need from mommy?”

“Touch me,” It came out as a whimper that was much too desperate for you liking, “I need to feel you.”

An animalistic growl rumbled in her throat before she pushed her mouth against yours in a bruising kiss. You parted your lips, groans muffled by her tongue swirling around your mouth. She tasted like coffee, the same you had smelled earlier.

She reached down and ripped your shirt open, the pearlescent buttons popping away and scattering under the many machines around you both. You didn’t have much time to protest the destruction of your shirt before she palmed your breasts.

There was a mischievous look in her eyes at the front latching bra you wore. “Wow, you really are a little desperate slut, aren’t you?”

She unhooked and discarded the garment before you could get out more than a hungry noise. Her lips attached to one of your nipples, her hand grasping the other breast and giving it an almost-painful squeeze. You arched your back, pushing more of yourself into her hot mouth. Her tongue licked away the goosebumps raising against your skin in response to her ministrations.

You would have done just about anything for her at this moment, her fingers delicately ghosting over your stomach at the waistline of your jeans. Each shuttered breath pushed you closer to her.

In a swift movement she lifted you onto the top of the washing machine. You weren’t prepared for the bout of strength, nor the spin cycle that was happening below you. Another whimper escaped you and she looked at you with a wolfish smile.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t you dare think about cuming on top of an appliance.” She squeezed your hip and you took the cue to lift yourself enough for her to pull your jeans down and discard them with your panties. “Though, it appears your wet enough at the idea.”

A downright beautiful woman had you sweating and naked on top of a washing machine, promising to take care of your every need, no matter how salacious it was. Of course you were wet, dripping, actually.

Still, you flushed when she worked a single finger up your slit, testing it for herself. You shivered at the simple gesture, falling close to her. You felt her chuckle at your expense. “Mm, Kotenok, so desperate.”

Her thumb brushed against your cheek, you could smell your own sex on her fingers. She’d barely touched you, yet they were soaked. They traced your lips and you parted them on the silent command. There was a satisfied look on her eyes, at how easily you had folded for her.

You sucked her fingers, never breaking eye contact. Her stare was starving. “God, you’d look amazing choking on my strap, darling. I’m sure it’d stretch you out nicely.”

You groaned against her fingers, something that sounded along the lines of ‘fuck’ escaped you. Her other hand dipped lower, a gentle touch brushing against your clit. Your breath hitched, and you fell forward, you head on her shoulder.

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” you garbled, careful not to bite down on her fingers, but thankful that they muffled your expletives. “I want to cum.”

“Mm, but darling, you have to let mommy have her way with you, no matter how long it takes. That’s what good little whores do. That’s what toys do.”  

God, you’d do exactly that, anything to sate the need that made you want to buck desperately against the machine under you. It’s vibrations were slowing, but that didn’t stop your crude wanting to climax.

Without warning, the woman inserted a single digit into you. A gasp sounded around her fingers. She curled her touch inside of you and you pressed further into her. A fine sheen of sweat coated you both, the laundromat hot during the late summer night.

“You’re so tight.” She chuckled again, “Are you sure you can handle another?”

“Yes,”

“Yes what, pet?”

“Yes… Mommy.”

She was conditioning you with her words, and that much was clear, but you didn’t seem to care. This stranger had sauntered into your place of work and now had you under her full command with a few simple touches and an effective edging technique.

Another finger pushed into you, and you started to push down further into her. You weren’t sure what she saw in you that made her approach you like this. It had to be more than the novel, plenty of people indulged in smut. Maybe it was the desperation- your need to please in the most mundane of situations.

“Good girl,” she growled against the small of your neck, finally pulling her fingers from your swollen lips. You missed their taste, their feel against your tongue. “I’m sure you can handle a third, you desperate little slut.”

“I can,” You stuttered, tightening around her as she did just as promised. She flexed them inside you, drawing a whorish moan from the back of your throat. The woman started to pump slowly, at first, in and out of you until you felt something build in your core.

You hugged her close, the scratchy fabric of her bra pressing against your nipples, drawing them to points with their expert pressure. The sensation was phenomenal, something you never wanted to end. You hugged her close, your nails digging into the warm expanse of her back.

“Ask nicely, sweet girl.” She growled in your ear.

“Can I please cum?” You clenched your eyes shut, she quickened her pace, the word came out broken, but you didn’t care if you sounded like you were pleading, you absolutely were. “please. I’ll do anything.”

You could feel her smile against your shoulder “Go on, slut. Cum all over Mommy’s fingers.”

Her declaration was all you needed to finally give in to her attentive movements. The feeling that was building so deliciously in your core finally released in the most mind-boggling orgasm you had ever had. You silenced your own scream in her shoulder, but it could only do so much. You were thankful it was just the two of you in here, or your shame may have overtaken you.

She continued to pump in and out of you with her fingers, flexing and curling them expertly as you rode out your climax. You were shaking against her, nearly crying into the small of her neck when she pulled out of you entirely, wiping the slick on her fingers against your thighs.

Perhaps too kindly, she let you breathe against her for a moment, catching your bearings, her hand dragging against your bare back with a comforting amount of pressure. She was proud of herself, that much was clear in her movements. She knew in that moment that she was the best you had ever had; quite possibly the one person who you’d compare all the rest to.

The washer let out an unceremonious beep that had you chuckling, finally pulling back enough to see the woman’s face, shocked to see a bit of admiration behind her eyes. She lifted a perfectly sculpted brow at you.

“Hm,” she hummed, giving you a dazzlingly genuine smile. “I guess the spin cycle is over.”

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanoff x female reader #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x reader #Natasha Romanov x female reader #Marvel imagine #Black Widow #Request

[aspirationalpeony]

Dark Horse

Summary: As a cameraperson on the Abbott documentary crew, you've always had a good working relationship with Melissa Schemmenti. One flirtatious night at her home sends you spinning as you try to figure out if this is really real—not to mention how everyone at Abbott seemed to know about Melissa's crush on you, long before you ever did. (See author's note at the end for prompt credit.) Content Warnings: Lots of smut, a bit of emotional confusion, and me having absolutely no idea how filming anything works. I just faked my way through it, very horribly. Oops! :) AO3 Link

It all starts with a late shoot.

It's just you and the mic guy and one other crew, and your camera trained on Melissa Schemmenti. She talks, in a way she's done rarely so far. A season and a half and she's always conscious of the stare of the lenses, quick to dart around a corner or cut herself off if she knows the opps are listening.

She takes big sips, almost gulps, from her wine glass. She leads you back and forth across her house, reaching over tables or pointing along walls to find a photo here, another there, and talks. "Me'n Kristen-Marie... This one—" pause for more wine—"from my college graduation." It's the two of them, almost mirror images of each other at that age, with a tall man whose lean face makes you think he has to be their father; on the other side of the girls is their Nana.

There's no trick in this photo: no wedding dress, no blood, no hint of drama between the sisters at all. They just look hopeful and desperately young. This feels private, that Melissa could have been so young—something that shouldn't be content for the show—and you feel an impulse to duck the camera away, hide her secret. When you look at Melissa again, she’s watching you; there’s a glitter in her green eyes you can’t interpret: not hostile, and not the look she gets when she’s hustling someone, either. The gaze she’s giving you is strangely soft.

“Whaddaya think?” she says, to you, not to the camera.

You swallow. Nothing you say will make it to the final cut, but the editors will hear your answer, so you can’t tell her she’s beautiful in that picture. “I think I’m lucky you’re showing me this,” you say at last.

Her eyes move over your face. You feel it almost like a touch, intimate and slow, and you aren’t making it up: her gaze stops at your mouth and hovers there. She bites her lower lip before she lifts her wine glass again for another pull. “Maybe I like ya,” she says. “Maybe you’ll get luckier.”

You’re still blushing when you wrap for the night. You sit on your couch at home—you’re always insomniac after shooting at night, your brain and body still buzzing with the work—and put on Netflix on low volume and you don’t watch, just feel your cheeks still burning, thinking about her lipstick on her wine glass.

Of course, the whole crew knows the story by the next morning. When you turn up, Pedro, your best friend on the crew, says, “Look at you! Dark horse!” and it makes your face sear with heat all over again. He lowers his voice, leans in and nudges you. “C’mon, nothing in the contract about that. You deserve a little fun. Let your Italian mama take care of you.”

You cringe. “Please,” you say, “never say ‘Italian mama’ to me again. Okay?”

“Just sayin’,” he says, and leaves it alone.

Of course, it doesn’t leave you alone. You’ve learned the best way to sneak up on a conversation with Melissa and Barbara is to come at it around a corner, so you’re hovering down the kindergarten hall, camera on the two women, when you hear your name, making you stiffen.

“You said that?” Barbara’s voice is incredulous, sharp. “What did she say?”

“Nothin’, really,” Melissa says, “she was on the clock, y’know.” The smile starts in her voice before it grows on her face. It’s a Cheshire smirk bigger and deeper than you’ve ever seen. “She got all flustered. It was cute. You think she knows I was shootin’ my shot?”

“I think you could have ‘shot your shot’ with a little more dignity,” Barbara says crisply. “Like an adult does. Politely. Pleasantly.”

“Soberly,” Melissa says. “Listen, if it works, it works. I just gotta find out if it did, y’know. Work. She’s kinda shy.”

“I didn’t know you cared for that.”

"What, the quiet ones?"

You have to pull away. You're going to miss the rest of the conversation, but your face is burning again, your heart is pounding, and you're grappling with the reality that Melissa and Barbara are talking about you, that you're subject enough between them to be chatted about so casually, that all this footage is... God, are you ever going to live this down?

You'll go shoot some Janine and Gregory. That's always a crowd-pleaser; the audience loves the sweet tension between them, the way the space between their bodies turns tangible the longer their eye contact holds. You try not to think about Melissa's gaze on yours last night. You try to do your job.

That goes as well as you might expect. Fifteen minutes into some uninspiring quiz-grading ("oh, I never fail anyone," Janine says, "I just give 'em a different colored star—they like the gold ones best, so—") Pedro comes to find you.

"Hey, listen," he says, "I need you to come take care of your Calabrian chili pepper."

"What?"

"You know, your spicy linguini. Your Italian ma—"

"Stop." Your head whips toward Janine at her desk and then back to Pedro. The only thing you can think of to say, your heart thumping all over again, is "She's Sicilian, not Calabrian."

"She's giving us nothing. You got to come do her talking head. She keeps trying to square up to Kai and he doesn't wanna fight her."

"What makes you think she won't fight me?"

He gives you a look over his glasses.

The change in Melissa is instant when she sees you approach. Those folded arms, her squared shoulders, her broad, foot-planted stance—it all melts. She leans into the wall, her head tipping, one booted foot lifting for her toe to play in idle lines along the floor, and, yeah. Whether you picked her or not, this is your Sicilian chili pepper, and you swallow hard as you approach.

"Heya, hon," she says, "who's this clown they got me workin' with? Don't they know I only do this with the professionals?"

You mumble a little as Kai looks between the two of you, rolls his eyes, and backs off.

"We were talking about her Friday night plans," Pedro says. "It's school game night and she's not going."

"Yeah, the kids are too easy to hustle," she says, "it ain't even fun. What, do I look like I wanna spend all Friday winnin' their, I dunno, their Yu-Gi-Oh cards?"

Now's when Pedro should prompt her, ask a question. You glance at him; he nods his permission. "Not sure those are a thing anymore," you say.

"Their Pokemon cards," she says. "Whatever. Point is, it'd be like taking candy from a... Jacob."

You don't look at her; you focus on the camera. It's easier than holding her green gaze. "Is that where you draw the line?"

"Gotta draw it somewhere," she says.

You can't help it. Cautiously you look up, try to make your voice neutral: "So how are you going to spend Friday night?"

She lolls her head to one side and looks at you. She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Prob'ly practicing tricks," she says.

"Tricks?"

"Yeah," she says. "With my magic wand."

You don't really remember the rest of the interview. You sure you babble some other questions, and she gives you some smirking answers, but your head is full of white noise and a singular image: Melissa Schemmenti with a vibrator between her legs.

You're sure other things happen that day. Pedro definitely ribs you some more, you and Kai go get lunch and he complains for a while, Gregory and Janine have one of their not-flirting conversations where he draws up a tightly-plotted itinerary for game night, trying to prove it's possible to run a children's event without delays (it all goes back to his father, of course), at some point you go home and numbly resume your post on the couch in front of your TV screen, trying to make sense of it all.

That picture won't leave your head. You think of the look she gave you that night at her house—intimate, caressing—and how she'd look deep in her pleasure, drunk eyes half-open, her face pink, her hair wild. Does she get naked when she touches herself? She seems too impatient—more like a jeans around her thighs kind of woman—but for a night she's planning ahead—a night she's set aside, just for her pleasure...

Your head drops back and you shut your eyes to see her more clearly. You can imagine the scattering of freckles over her shoulders and chest, the shift of her heavy breasts and the hard peaks of her pink nipples—how does she like to be touched there? Maybe she grabs one breast while she uses the vibrator, plays with a nipple, imagining the rough, confident hand of a lover. You can see the soft field of her belly, the abundance of her hips, her thighs, picturing her cunt, the head of the vibrator against her clit—she doesn't tease, can't tease herself, you imagine, not Melissa.

You can almost smell her sex, you think, until you realize it's yourself you're smelling. Your cunt throbs. You could shove a hand into your underwear now and just take care of it, but...

Your small toy collection lives in a box under your bed. It's nothing fancy, but you do have a small wand vibrator. You peel off your trousers and underwear and drop onto your bed, back against the pillows, holding the purple toy in one hand. Does Melissa have one this size? Or a big, classic one, the kind that could buzz your clit right off? You click the toy on and draw it up your thigh. As it nears the sensitive crease between your leg and your sex, your thigh twitches without meaning to, your clit aching, and you think, okay, no foreplay.

You can't help but wonder as you delve the thrumming head between your folds: does she know you're doing this? Was that the idea—plant herself in your head, grow over everything, including your common sense and your inhibitions, until your whole world flowers Melissa? Could she be doing the same—getting a head start on Friday's plans—thinking of you, right now? You're normally quiet when you do this, but that makes you groan aloud. Your clit pulses.

How does she do this, on a school night, like tonight? Back to the image of her with her trousers halfway down her legs, her hand and her toy crammed into the space between the fabric and her body. You can't help but see her in the outfit from today, that green, clinging top, the black blazer discarded somewhere, slacks caught just above her knees, her hair mussed and tangling against the pillows as she works the vibrator over her clit. No playing games for her, either; just getting the job done, hard and fast.

You come, watching her in your head, her name on your lips; you hope she comes tonight, too, thinking of you, of what she’s doing to you.

The next day, Janine, Gregory, and Jacob are in hushed conversation by the supply closet. You pick an angle from just inside the nearest classroom and train your camera on the slight crack of the open door and you can hear them, even though they think they’re being quiet—classic them.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Janine is saying. “I think it’s kind of nice.”

“I think,” Gregory says, “it’s like…” He pauses, picking his words. “Like watching a dog shake a chew toy.”

“I think it’s very brave of Melissa,” says Jacob, and your heart drops into your stomach. “Considering the historical era in which she grew up and started her teaching career, being openly bisexual in the workplace must be a very—”

“Please don’t let her hear you call her ‘historical’,” Gregory interjects.

“It’s cute she has a crush on the camera lady,” Janine says. (“Cameraperson,” Jacob corrects.) “I just want it to turn out nice. You know, the vending machine guy didn’t work out, so. And now he doesn’t stock Gushers anymore.”

“Maybe she’ll be a little more relaxed,” Jacob says. “A little more… Open, fun—”

“She’s not going to start liking you because she’s dating somebody.” Gregory, with characteristic bluntness.

“One can hope,” Jacob says.

“The camera lady—person—is so quiet, though,” Janine muses. “Melissa is so intense.”

“Bet that’s what she likes,” Mr. Johnson says, making them all jump. He steps out from the supply closet; he’s holding a Teachers Without Borders coffee mug you know has to be Jacob’s. He takes a long, slurping sip, making sure everybody sees the logo on the cup. “Melissa gets a sweet little thang to take care of. Camera lady gets an Italian mama.” He says it eye-talian. (Where is everybody getting this phrase from?)

“Please don’t say ‘Italian mama’ again,” Gregory says, giving you a little flush of vindication.

“Why not?” Mr. Johnson says. “When I was on tour in Rome—”

That’s enough for you. You decide the rest of the conversation can go unrecorded. You check the time and it’s nearly lunch—thank God, because you don’t want to make eye contact with any of them for a while; you don’t know how to feel about them all talking about you. You know it’s not you, really, they care about. It’s Melissa, her caginess at odds with how boldly, openly she’s been flirting with you, an attraction so obvious even the younger teachers that she’d never confide in can see it.

Something light and effervescent swirls in your stomach, but there’s a leaden weight there, too. Nerves. And desire. You let Pedro know you’re taking lunch and leave your camera behind, finding Kai a block down, away from the school, hitting his vape. He passes it to you and you take a pull, letting candy-scented vapor out of your nose. You don’t really smoke anymore, but anybody would need a little comfort under these circumstances, you think.

“So what are you going to do?” he asks.

“What?” You didn’t know Kai cared about that. “I mean, I guess I’ll talk to her, maybe give her my number, then see—”

“For lunch.”

“Oh.”

You get hoagies together, eating them over a public trash can, standing up. Back at the school you scrub your hands clean in the bathroom and duck Pedro and your camera and you find your way down the second-grade hall to the classroom that's usually the noisiest. It's quiet now: the kids are at the library doing a reading circle with the librarian. Maybe it says something that you know their schedule.

She's in there, glasses low on her nose, working. You pause just on the threshold of the open door. You try to piece together everything you know about her, to make it all fit into the person you see, just a small woman with a love of pleather and a never-ending supply of high-heeled boots, a baseball bat taped under her desk (you've seen it), a guitar propped in one corner of the classroom (does she ever play?), how now she's focused and reading with scrupulous intensity, doubling back on a sentence from time to time, her manicured hand coming up to twitch away a lock of red hair.

You knock on the open door. You see her hand pass under the desk toward the bat before she realizes who's standing there. She cracks a grin, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head. Her eyes travel up and down your body in another look that feels like a touch.

"I was wonderin' when you'd stop by," she says.

You give a little hum. You cross the room to lean against a student's desk, just opposite hers.

"No camera?"

"No," you say, "I wanted it to be just us."

"Huh." She taps her pen on her paper a few times. "You here to let me down easy?" She lifts her chin. The look she gives you isn't intimate now: it's far-removed and challenging, like the gaze of a duelist across a plain. You've seen this before, the way she starts closing herself off, armoring up.

You shake your head. There's a shift in her expression, but the walls don't quite come down. "I guess I wanted to ask what you want."

"That ain't obvious?"

"I mean..." Your arms come up, folding over your chest. "You know, I was here last season, when you were dating that guy... Hulk Hogan."

It surprises a laugh out of her. "Yeah, Gary."

"You asked him out and it was... Different. I mean..." You can't think of how to say it. At last, you say, "Do you take me seriously?" No, that's not it. "I mean, are you just trying to hook up with me? Because, I..." You're starting to burn up again. You rub the back of your neck. "That's not the kind of... Listen, you're beautiful, and sexy, but that's not what it would—I mean, to me, it—"

"You're so cute when you're all shy," Melissa says, sounding equally mystified and amused. She stands. "Look... Maybe I did this all wrong." She circles the desk. "Kinda treated you like a piece of meat."

"Just a little bit," you say.

"I take you serious, hon." She doesn't cross the gap between you two, but mirrors your pose, leaning on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, Gare was a nice guy. But he didn't have, you know... He didn't make me wanna..."

You think of Gregory's metaphor. "Shake him like a chew toy?"

Another laugh. "Yeah, that. And I guess I felt... You know, I'd kinda uncorked the bottle, datin' him, when I thought all that part of my life was done, and when you were at my place the other night, you just looked so good, and I just wanted..."

You smile, eyes down. The cold uncertainty is trickling away and there's warmth pouring into the spaces it's left behind. "Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

When you look up, she's moved a little closer. You can smell her perfume again, warmed on her skin over the course of a long day. You've had the privilege of seeing her in detail, so many times: the fine, thin skin around her eyes, the creases at the corners of her mouth that forecast her smile, the tiny hint of gray growing in at her temples, the mellow warmth of her green gaze, the slope of her nose crooking slightly to her left. It's different with no lens between the two of you, when you're close enough to touch.

"Yeah, okay," she says to whatever she sees in your eyes. She lifts her chin and drops her gaze to your mouth. It's a clear request.

You answer it. You dip your head; there's a moment where your noses nearly bump, but you change your angle, catch her lips with yours. There's a tackiness from her lip gloss and an incredible softness underneath. The warmth of her almost shocks you, vivid past your imagining. Her hand pets at your jaw; you feel the other curl into the collar of your shirt. She pulls you closer by the fabric and you gasp.

You renew the kiss, lips sliding over hers. Your hand rubs down her lower back. You can feel the divot in her spine where it meets her pelvis, just above the generous curve of her ass. Before you can overthink it, your palm is gliding over that curve, your fingers digging into its lushness, Melissa gasping against your mouth as you squeeze.

"Oh," she says faintly when the kiss is over and you're catching your breath. "Huh." Her look is glazed and a little bewildered.

"I, um, I don't want to send mixed messages," you say, "but about Friday..."

"Friday?" she echoes.

"Yeah." You bite down on your smile, watching her try to remember what the hell you're talking about. "I was thinking... I know a few magic tricks of my own."

"Oh," she says again. You watch her eyes spark with understanding, her smile appear slowly, then all at once. "I guess you could come over and show me your stuff." Her hands tighten in your shirt and pull you back in for another kiss.

"Hey, gimme your phone," she says, much, much later, when you're wearing more of her lip gloss than she is. "I want to give ya my number." You don't think before you're unlocking it and passing it into her hands. She lowers her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose and thumbs her way around your phone, creating a contact for herself.

You have a flash of nerves—what if she opens your Instagram and sees all the stupid accounts you follow? A vision comes of her seeing all the dog-using-buttons-to-talk videos you've liked, her libido instantly withering... Then she's giving you back your phone and smirking at you, wiping at your lip with her thumb. "Might wanna stop in the bathroom before you get back to work, hon," she says.

When you leave her classroom, it's like floating; you've never felt so light. You stop in the bathroom and you wipe all the lip gloss off your smiling mouth. You catch yourself humming as you and Kai catch some footage of Ava pretending to organize game night, Gregory trying to involve himself, Janine admitting to a little competitive streak.

Your phone buzzes, chimes. "Sorry," you say to Janine and Pedro, who's leading the interview. You wait until you can lower the camera lens to check the notification. You always keep it silenced during the day—did Melissa turn the ringer on?

Italian Mama iMessage

Your face burns. You take a corner away from Pedro and unlock the phone.

Italian Mama You made me real happy

Your blush intensifies; something flutters in your chest. The phone vibrates in your hand as another message comes.

Italian Mama Don't know how I'm going to wait until Friday

The echo of your own thought in her words makes your heart flutter again. You bite your lower lip and type back, Me neither. An electric spark of daring moves you, makes you send her, Maybe I'll practice some magic just to make sure I'm on top of my game.

Is that too much? You hope not. You've basically made a sex appointment with her for Friday—sex appointment, you think, and wince at yourself, your own awkwardness; it's a date—and you don't—your breath hitches as three dots appear on your screen, showing that she's typing.

Italian Mama Oh yeah?

Italian Mama Better practice hard

You feel a pulse low in your belly. You're ready to type a little more flirtation when another message arrives and makes you gasp aloud, quickly clamping your hand over your mouth before Pedro or somebody else can hear you.

She's sent you a photo. It's herself pulling down the scoop neck of the hot pink blouse she's wearing today. You can see just the tip of her nose, her chin, the proud line of her soft neck, her freckled sternum, and, holy shit. She's showing you her breasts cradled in a bra made of black lace. And you stare. And you stare.

Italian Mama Little incentive for you

Your mouth is watering. You can see the rosy shadows of her nipples against the lace. You barely register yourself typing back, You're perfect.

Italian Mama Thought you'd like em

You're typing before you can stop yourself. All I'll be able to think about now is what I'm going to do to you.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear, then disappear. Your confidence wavers.

Italian Mama I want you to tell me

You've never imagined you'd be turned on in the halls of Abbott Elementary, but suddenly you're so aware of your cunt, you can't stand it. You're throbbing. You peer around the corner; Pedro isn't even looking your way, he's talking something over about the schedule with another producer. You have time. You glance up and down the hall; nobody except an aide going into a room at the far end.

Your fingers fly over the keys. If you stop to think, you'll psych yourself out, so you blurt out every thought, the iMessage equivalent of babbling—what you'd be doing in Melissa's ear if you could have her right now, in your arms, again...

You're so fucking sexy

I've thought about you so much

I touched myself thinking about you the other night

I'm going to kiss you until you go crazy and you're so turned on you can't take it

I'm going to undress you and I'm going to kiss every fucking inch of you

I'm going to play with you until you're begging

Do you like it rough or gentle?

Three dots.

Italian Mama Little of both

You're typing again in a flurry. You can feel your heart pounding, your breath coming in harder. You probably only have a couple minutes left to really make her feel it.

I'm going to be so gentle with you until you beg me to be rough

I want to bite you

Do you like being bitten?

Italian Mama Yeah

I know you do

On your neck, on your breasts

I'm going to bite your thighs before I eat you out

"Homie, you coming?" Pedro says, with the best and worst timing—and phrasing—he could possibly have.

"Yeah, one sec," you say, and you're proud of how your voice doesn't wobble at all. "Let me just send this. Sorry."

I have to get back to work

Italian Mama Fuck you

Italian Mama How am I supposed to teach like this

Italian Mama Come here and finish what you fuckin started

You laugh, breathless and surprised. You text her, YOU started it! If she hadn't sent you that picture... You scroll back up and look again. In the bit of her face you can see, she's smirking, because of course she is. The luscious curve of her breasts—you can almost feel them, what it would be like to drag your nose down between them, mouth at the soft skin...

Pedro's waiting. You send her a bunch of blowing-kiss emojis and put your phone away again. You're still buzzing with arousal, but you feel a strange satisfaction, knowing that Melissa is a few halls away, squirming behind her desk, thinking about all the promises you've made.

The day passes, somehow. It's a strange mixture of slow, syrupy boredom and electric, frenetic activity as more preparations are made for game night, and your phone periodically buzzes with another message from Melissa. Thankfully (for your pussy—you think it might fall off if it keeps aching like that), the two of you leave the subject of sex, and just talk.

She asks you your birthday, your favorite food. Where did you grow up? What's your favorite color? Each one makes you smile. You feel like you're on the receiving end of a Schemmenti interrogation, a mob boss with her goons behind her. You get her answers back in turn: July 19. (You respond in shock, You're a water sign??? and you can almost hear her voice when she dryly responds, I got no clue what that means, hon.) Pasta con sarde. Grew up here in South. Pink.

Your heart flutters with every new thing you learn. Even though you go home (and rub one out) alone, she's a presence with you, not just in your fantasies; you find you're texting her until you fall asleep, phone sliding out of your hand onto the bedspread. And when you wake up the next day, preceding your alarm by a bit, you find a text from her waiting for you, just a few minutes ago: Good morning, baby.

You levitate all the way through Thursday. You spot Melissa a few times that day, but it's a packed day for her two classes, so mostly it's in the hall as she marches lines of students to and fro. She gets you back for yesterday, though: pauses in the doorway of her classroom as she's filing the kids in after lunch, and gives you an up-and-down look of such searing intensity that your body heats, scalp to toes. She smirks before she vanishes into her room.

She makes you crazy. God, she's incredible. You're texting her every chance you both can get, though she's sparser while she's with the kids; it's all light stuff. Get lunch here today, she tells you, Shanae made beef patties, and when Shanae slips you a couple of golden-crusted pastries, you bite into them, smelling warm, floral curry, savory beef on your tongue, and think of how Melissa it is, feeding you from a distance.

That afternoon, just after dismissal, she calls, "Hey," to you from her classroom door. You try not to jump to attention. "I gotta do a lot of work," she says, playing with the strap of her Apple Watch, "or I'd ask you over, but..." Strangely, her eyes drop. It's a hint of shyness and it makes your heart patter, tenderness and affection for her pouring into your chest. "I was thinkin', why don't we go out and get, like, food or a drink or somethin' tomorrow? You know, before you come over."

"Okay," you say. Her eyes flick up and as soon as she sees your goofy grin, her shyness melts away, turns back into the smirking self-assuredness you're more familiar with.

"You pick the place," she says, knocking the wind out of you at once.

Oh, crap. You remember what it was like with her and Gary: he tried to take her to a shitty spot for their first date, and she flicked him away from her like a bug. She's challenging you, you think, asking to be impressed.

You can do that. Dark horse, right? "Okay," you repeat. "I'll pick."

She leans back against the doorframe. All at once she's in that lolling, casual, flirtatious posture that she assumes for you and only you, her face tilted up, gaze intimate and a little sly. "You headin' out? I get a goodbye kiss, or what?"

"Okay," you say a third time, and you can barely kiss her, you're smiling so widely. You take your fill of her, in every sense, one more time before you leave for the day, nerves and excitement and that thread of arousal all tangling together, like a knot of live wires.

You're texting her later, because of course you're texting her later. Do you want it to be a surprise?

Italian Mama I dunno

Italian Mama Surprises never seem to work out for me

That gives you a little twinge. You find yourself running the tip of your finger up and down the side of your phone, the way you'd touch her hand or her cheek, if you could. How about just this one? you ask. And if you hate it, I'll never surprise you again?

You wish you could see her face. It would help you know if she's resigned or wary or scared. You don't want her to be antsy or nervous going into tomorrow; you want her to feel like she makes you feel: like you've got balloons and not bones, like a wind could catch you and carry you off, you're so light and so happy.

Italian Mama Ok

Italian Mama I'm gonna trust ya

It makes your heart do its now-familiar flutter in your chest. It's like there's a bird in there, some delicate fledgling thing eager to start flying. It wants to soar, holding its precious cargo: Melissa Schemmenti's trust.

The next day. Friday. Friday. Somehow, the school day rockets past you. Game night preparations have gone disastrously, and it's time for a patented Ava save, with the help of Janine and Gregory.

"Wow, who could've guessed," Kai mutters to you, and fidgets in the pocket you know holds his vape.

Your hand fidgets in your own pocket, around your phone. You and Mel exchanged good morning texts, a few kiss emojis, promises to meet up before dismissal to solidify your plans, but you haven't had a chance to see her at all.

"I don't know," you say, "I think they'll get it figured out."

"I think she's probably going to use it to mine Bitcoin somehow," Kai says.

Honestly, that sounds plausible. You shake your head anyway and make an excuse and scoot past Pedro. He's not encouraging Ava to stream game night live on Instagram, per se, but everybody knows that will guarantee some Coleman-style silliness, so he needs to get her there somehow. (Can you mine Bitcoin through Instagram?)

You don't need to send any directions to your feet; they're already walking you toward the second grade classrooms. Mel doesn't have lunchroom duty today, so you know she'll probably be catching up on two classes' worth of quizzes, or restocking art supplies, or prepping the next lesson's props and tools. Her door is shut and you peek in through the window.

She's writing on the whiteboard, looking back and forth from a worksheet in her hand, glasses on her nose. You knock. When she sees you, the narrow-eyed look of interrupted concentration melts away; she gives you a smile that shows her teeth, the kind that changes her whole face, turning her girlish, almost a little goofy. It makes your heart melt.

You open the door. "Hey," you say as she puts her glasses on top of her head and caps the marker. Being in the room with her, after not seeing her all morning, feels like coming out of the cold to a blazing fire. "Uh, hi. You look beautiful today." Then, for the third time, stupidly, adoringly, "Hi."

"You missed me, huh?" she says, putting down the marker and paper. "C'mere."

As soon as you're in grabbing distance, she takes two handfuls of your ass and pulls you in for a kiss. You're lost in it for long, long seconds.

She pulls back after giving your lower lip a bite that makes you squeak. She tucks her hands squarely in the back pockets of your jeans, holding you against her. "You look beautiful today too."

"Thanks," you say, barely registering the compliment, the way you're chasing more contact, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her cheek. She's so warm in your arms. She's wearing one of her tough-girl outfits, a blazer and matching top in military green, and you sneak your hand under the jacket, finding a little stripe of bare skin between her shirt and her slacks. You touch her there with a teasing trace of your fingernail.

She shivers. Is she sensitive on her lower back? You file it away to investigate later tonight. The thought of being able to have her all to yourself tonight—hours and hours—sends sparks skipping through you. You have to kiss her again.

"You think it's unprofessional, doin' this at work?" Mel asks you breathlessly when you part again.

"I don't know," you say, "but whatever Gregory and Janine have been doing is worse, kind of."

"Yeah, that's for sure," Melissa says, and gives you a third kiss; this time, the delicate muscle of her tongue laps at you, little frissons of heat that go right between your legs.

"I came to talk about dinner," you say at last, when you think you can survive without kissing her.

"Oh, yeah," Mel says, "right. What am I wearin'?"

"Uh..." You hadn't considered it. You're just going in your usual date outfit—a button-up, a nice pair of trousers. "Business casual?"

"Okay, easy. Do I get a hint where we're goin'?" One eyebrow goes up. Her gaze acquires a competitive glint, one you've seen a hundred times through your camera. "I bet I can guess it."

"Here's your hint," you say, "it's not Italian."

"Smart cookie," Melissa says, which leads you both into another kiss, and then another. "It ain't a sandwich shop, is it?"

"No," you say, "I can't beat cousin Rocco."

"Soul food," she says.

"No. I'll come pick you up, is that okay?"

"Yeah, come, like, at five. I gotta change and do my face and stuff." She leans back, giving you a squint-eyed look of scrutiny. "Tell me it ain't French."

"It ain't," you promise, and seal it with a kiss. "I have to go. I'm pretending to be in the bathroom."

"Oh, shit," she says, eyes going wide, "we gotta catch up on this freakin' math unit and I forgot, I haven't peed in, like—"

"Go, go," you say with a laugh, letting her extract her hands from your pockets.

When you return, Kai narrows his eyes at you. You shrug at him and you're ready to get back to work, when he reaches across and plucks something off your shoulder: a single red hair. Crap.

"Damn," he says. "Dark horse."

"What's up?" Pedro glances over at you two. Fuck, you don't know if you can take his teasing today—you know he'll want all the details, and you love him, but you want to just get through work and get to Melissa...

"Nothing," Kai says, and drops the hair. He gives you a nod.

You nod back, warmth and gratitude making you smile. He doesn't smile back—you don't think you've ever seen him smile, actually—but you think you see the corner of his mouth curve up, just a little, as he peers into his camera.

Dismissal, a quick goodbye kiss with Melissa, home to get ready. You're normally an all-black kind of girl—it's just easy—but you pause in your closet and find a pink button-up. It's a mellow, soft shade, the same color as a silky blouse you've seen Melissa wear.

You put on your cologne, you style your hair. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s funny: this is the same face you’ve always had, but three days of Melissa have done something to you. Your eyes look larger, softer; there’s a smile on your lips, small but persistent, that’s been there all day.

You haven’t always been lucky with women. You have love in your heart—God, a lot of it. Sometimes it feels like the water of an ancient lake, going down almost infinitely deep, and yet somehow about to overflow. You spent years going around offering it to anyone who would take it, and once they’d drunk their fill, they just moved on, satisfied, never giving a thought to you, never thinking you might want something back, even just gratitude.

So you pulled away. You just hurt too easily: keep them at arm’s length, never close enough to bruise. The quiet one, the shy one; that’s who you became over time, knowing that if you gave out of your abundance, you’d only be depleted. No one’s ever filled your cup.

You find yourself chewing your lip, staring at yourself. You want this to be different. You want this to be something else. Can it be?

You park your car in front of Melissa’s and find yourself wondering: text, or knock? You’re starting to get out of the car when the front door opens, and a rush of surprise and pleasure comes at the thought of Melissa waiting, watching for you. Then your breath catches hard in your throat.

She’s wearing a little red dress that… “Wow,” you say, before she’s even close enough to hear. The square neck of the dress is cut lower than her usual wear, and shows an abundance of skin that makes your mouth water. There’s a princessy quality to the cap sleeves, a delicate detail that’s perfect for Melissa: blazing, challenging red, with a hint of sweetness. The hem stops just above her knees. The fabric shows her body in intimate detail, the delicate rounding of her stomach and the flare of her hips, straining across the perfect shape of her thighs.

Her hair is down. Even late in the day it has a bit of curl. Her green eyes are like gemstones in the early evening light. Her heels have got to be four inches, but she walks with the steadiness of a queen. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.

You circle the car to get the passenger side door. “Hey,” she says, surprised, coming closer, “it’s pink,” and touches your sleeve. It’s not even contact with your skin, barely contact, period, but it sends tingles up and down your arm. “That’s my favorite color.”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning like a fool.

Her eyes drop—that hint of shyness again, that tenderness that makes your heart strain against your chest, trying to reach her—before they flick back up. “How do I look?”

“I could look at you for hours,” you tell her honestly.

"I'd kiss ya, but you'd mess up my face," she says. "Here, you get one." She turns and offers her cheek.

You're smiling as you lean down to kiss the offered skin. She's soft and warm, and you get the powdery scent of her makeup, the richness of her perfume.

"Now, c'mon, feed me," she says, and you laugh and open her door.

You drive. She's exactly the kind of passenger you expected: "Hey, check it," every time she sees a car nosing out past a stop sign, or "On your left," when you're trying to merge. "Hey," she barks when somebody cuts you off, a gesticulating, accusatory hand in the air, "cazzo, you wanna watch where you're fuckin' going?"

Melissa. Abrasive, loud, bossy, and you don't feel bulldozed at all. You feel charmed. The smile won't leave your face. You don't know if she could be more herself than right now, in your ancient Volvo, wearing the sexiest outfit you've ever seen on her, looking simultaneously bold and delicate and delicious, and hollering out the window like an angry truck driver.

She's checking her phone as you pull up outside the restaurant, and doesn't look up again until you're opening her door. "Oh," she says, surprised, looking at the place: it's a red brick building, no sign; just a single hanging red lantern beside a white door. You can see her trying to puzzle it out, glancing at you and back to the door.

"It's a bar," you explain. You open the door to your favorite izakaya. Low, golden light and warmth spill out with the Jrock playing over the speaker system.

Melissa cocks her head and looks at you curiously. You only notice that her hand's in her clutch purse when she draws it out again; you hear the rattle of her keys dropping back to the bottom. "Thought you might'a been about to take my other kidney," she says. "I was gonna fight ya."

You blink. It's one of those Melissa-isms, delivered in her dry voice, that you think might be a joke, but it might not be, either. "I wouldn't win if you did."

"You sure as hell wouldn't, baby," she says, and lets you hold the door for her as she steps inside.

You love this place. It feels a bit like your first apartment after you left home, a lot of exposed brick, shoddy white paneling creating an accent wall, and decor that's a little vintage, a little silly: a big, ornate mirror that might have once decorated a cheap theater, brass sconces for lights, Gojira posters in the style of classic ukiyo-e. There's booths on one side of the room and a mirrored bar on the other, with a wall of sake and Japanese whisky.

The hostess recognizes you, waves hi, gestures toward the room for you to seat yourself. It won't start filling up until a little later, so you have your pick of the booths; you take the side that puts your back to the door, letting Melissa have the sightline to the exit.

The low light flatters her. Any light flatters her, but there's something about the dim, intimate, golden warmth of it that makes you stare as she studies the menus, first the drinks, then the food; her eyelashes cast delicate shadows on her cheek, the curve of her lips carving lines there.

She looks up and catches you. The thoughtful twist of her mouth turns into a smirk. The question, though, isn't what you were expecting. "What made you pick here?"

Huh. "I..." You rub the back of your neck, dropping your gaze. "I really like it." That's a start, but not all of it. "I thought you might not have this kind of food all the time. I never see you eating it and I wanted you to have a nice change. And..."

"I come here alone a lot." You shrug. "I have... Good memories here." They are good memories: people-watching, trying new drinks and food, chats with the bartenders, a karaoke night where you fell in with a group of laughing, drunk women who all worked at the same office, who tried to persuade you to bar-hop with them until last call.

But it's always been you, alone; sometimes folded in with somebody else out of goodwill, sometimes noticed for your familiar face and your generous tips, spared a few more minutes of a busy mixologist's time, but always a separation, a glass wall between you and the rest of the room. No one's been on this side of it with you before.

"I wanted you to have a good memory," you say, finally. "I wanted to share it with you."

You glance at Melissa. She's watching you with a look you recognize. It's the one she gave you that night at her house—just earlier this week, but it feels like a lifetime ago. It's tender and intent. It's encouraging. Like she's watching a flower bloom.

"It's already a good memory for me, hon," Melissa says. Something nudges your ankle. It's her foot in its killer heel, gently insinuating between both of yours. You feel her knee against yours, your calves aligned together. She smiles at you. "We're here together."

Your heart does one of its aerial flips.

"You sure get shy for somebody who was talkin' about suckin' my tits before, though," she says.

You choke on nothing. Your face and ears burn. She laughs, her head dropping back, the light glinting on her saints' medals.

"Biting," you squeak, when you can get air. "We were talking about biting."

"Biting," she says, "right. How come you can say all that to me but you're nervous tellin' me you like a bar?"

It's not a bad question. You trace the grain of the wooden tabletop for a second or two, eyes down. "I'm used to giving other people what they like," you say. "I don't mean—it's not that I was lying or faking. No way. I meant it, I mean it, everything I say to you. So much, Melissa." You dart a look up to make sure she understands. "I mean, it's easy for me... For other people, I can express..."

Her hand finds yours on the table and stills it. Her manicured finger gently swipes along the curve below your thumb, down to the sensitive inner skin of your wrist, and traces slowly there, back and forth. She's giving you that look again, gentle and focused and intimate. "I get it," she says simply.

A rush of relief fills you, settling the rattle of your anxious nerves. You turn your hand over and hers settles into yours.

The server appears for your drink orders. You order the house sake, and Melissa says, "Yeah, me too." With your small glasses of sake, the two of you pore over the menu, picking a few things Melissa knows, a few things she's never had before.

The first few plates come out: shumai, hamachi, a bowl of spicy pickle. She gets pieces of toro, unagi, and salmon, and you get a roll and a plate of chashu buns. She gives those a look of pure lust.

"Take one," you say, and push the plate toward her.

She doesn't hesitate. At her first bite, she lets out a guttural moan that goes right between your thighs. You're suddenly much more aware of her ankle still caught between both of your own.

"You think I could get this recipe?" she says of the chashu after the bun has vanished.

"I think you can get whatever you want." Especially from you, especially if she keeps making those noises.

"I sure can," she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes.

You've seen Melissa eat before, scraping the last bite of salad out of a tupperware or sipping from a Stanley Tucci mug, but it's different like this, sharing a meal. You love watching her small, plump hands with her chopsticks, her drinks; you love her expressive eyes, the way they widen or flutter shut at a perfect bite. Everything she tries she makes you try—insistent, "Here, you taste," like you're not the one who's had the whole menu before, and you oblige, trying to taste it for the first time, like her, letting each one blossom over your tongue, letting yourself fall under her spell.

The bar is packed by the time you're through and she's nibbled her way through a couple of frozen mochi. "We gotta come back here," she declares as the two of you leave, hand in hand. "I wanna try more. You got good taste."

"Yeah, I do," you say, looking at her. It's full dark now, but the streetlights and the moon illuminate her, outlining her red hair in silver, the shape of her hips.

"You gonna take me home now?" she says. She moves closer. "You made a lotta promises, you know."

"I know." Your hands settle on her hips. She tilts her head up; you catch her lips, tasting the plum wine you two shared. It's your first real kiss of the night, and she's mellow, soft, delicious. Still, you tell her, "We don't have to, tonight. I want to, but I don't want you to think..."

"I know," she says, and gives you another kiss. "If I thought you were buyin' dinner to make me put out, I would'a had way more food." Another kiss. "Come on, let's go. Or maybe you don't wanna get lucky?"

You drive back to Melissa's place, her hand on your thigh the whole way. Back over the welcome mat that reads GO AWAY, into the picture-lined place where it all started over a glass of wine.

Melissa takes your coat and her own and gives you her back, hanging them up in a closet by the front door. "I can get you another drink," she's saying, but all you can see is the back of her dress: the silver line of the zipper running from collar to hem, almost invisible.

You move closer and she stiffens when she feels you there, your chest to her back. You gather her hair, move it aside. Above the collar of the dress you can see the line of her nape and the muscle where her neck and her shoulder join. You lean down and kiss it.

Breathing in, you can smell her perfume again, her makeup again. Now, her skin. It's a scent you couldn't begin to describe, something living and animal and sensuous. And her hair: warm, intimate, a little bit of hairspray. You kiss the side of her neck.

"You have no idea," you say quietly. You nose against the shell of her ear. Its soft cartilage is cold from the night air outside, but warming quickly, flushing pink as you kiss it. "You have no idea how gorgeous you are. You don't know what you've been doing to me."

You lift your hands and find the tongue of the zipper. Her breath hitches. You slowly draw it down. The rasp of it is loud between your bodies.

The band of her bra. Red lace. Down her back to the luscious curvature of her hips. You're holding your breath. Her panties are red lace, too, a high-waisted thong that hugs her belly and hips but, oh, fuck: leaves her ass almost totally fucking bare. Of course, in that clinging dress. Couldn't risk panty lines.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you say, and slide the dress fully off her body. It's a puddle of red fabric on the floor. You push her chest-first against the closet door and drop to your knees.

"Oh my God," she says weakly as you hold her hips and kiss your way up the back of one thigh, then the other. The flesh here is dimpled with cellulite, a mark of her perfect abundance. You nose over the curve of her ass and bite one cheek and she squeaks and gives a weak, "Huh," afterward, like she'd surprised herself, and you bite the other cheek and her hips rock back into you.

She's still in her heels. You're starting to smell her sex. You think about having her bend over and put her hands against the door and let you eat her from behind until her knees shake and give out. Fuck, you want to, but you've been making promises; you have plans.

You straighten back up, brushing kisses up the line of her spine. "I want to see your bedroom."

"Fuck," she says dizzily. "Okay. Uh..." She starts to step away from the closet door and for the first time all night, she wobbles in her heels. She gives a little growl of frustration that's so Melissa you can't help but laugh, making her glower your way as she toes out of the shoes.

She leads you up to her bedroom. The big bed is made, but there are plenty of signs of life: the vanity against one wall, scattered with makeup; the bedside table with a dog-eared book and a pair of her glasses; there's a bra tossed over the cracked closet door.

She turns to face you, unself-conscious, and grabs you for another kiss, deep, dirty, her tongue licking into your mouth. "Can't believe you wore my favorite color," she says breathlessly, and starts fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. "God, you look so hot."

Your shirt's halfway open when you get your mouth on her neck. She groans, hands loosening on the fabric. Soft, right along the line of her jaw, under her chin, down her throat where you feel a moan vibrate through the skin. "Harder," she says.

You stay soft. The hollow of her throat, her clavicle. You nose one strap of her bra. She whines, "Harder," and grips your hair.

"I told you," you say. "I'm going to make you beg." She gasps. Your cunt pulses. You wonder if the same thing happened in her classroom that day, if she sat at her desk squirming, little hitches of her breath betraying her.

You squeeze her ass and she sways into you. Your hands shape her hips, up her sides, over her back, feeling the landscape of it, the valley of her spine. You trace the band of her bra. It's so pretty, you almost don't want to take it off.

"Where's your vibrator?" you ask.

"Huh?"

"Your vibrator," you patiently repeat, and lean back. You see in her eyes when it clicks. She leans away from you toward the nightstand, pulling open the top drawer. Inside, there's a pack of melatonin gummies, a lavender and chamomile room spray, a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, and a hot pink wand vibrator. Her sleep aid drawer, you realize.

You pick up the toy. It has a good weight, and the silicone is almost as soft as her skin. You find the power button, click it on, and cycle with a few presses through the three strength settings. You settle back on the first one and test it against the inside of your wrist, feeling the rumble against the sensitive skin there.

You look up again and Melissa's sitting on the edge of the bed. She's breathing hard, staring at you, and she's blushing.

"Lay back against the pillows for me, baby."

She scoots back, gives you a challenging look, and spreads her legs. You can really smell her, a thick, rich, saline scent that makes your mouth water. The drawer's still open and you spot a small bottle of lube; you take it out just in case, then slide the drawer shut.

"You gonna get naked?" she says as you join her on the bed.

"Not yet," you say and kiss her again. And again. The vibrator sits on the mattress, turned off, and you want to make her forget it's there. You take your time, licking at the serrated edge of her teeth, sucking on her lower lip until she's whimpering.

You couldn't have imagined that sound coming from Melissa Schemmenti. You chase it, have to have it again. Her lipstick is smeared, almost gone. She keeps tugging on your hair as you kiss her, starting to squirm beneath you, saying things like "More," and "Harder," but not please—not yet.

She slides down against the pillows, laying herself more fully under your body, and the motion makes the vibrator roll down the mattress to bump her side. Her breath speeds up all over again, and her eyes flick from it to you.

You pick up the toy and click it on. "Keep your legs spread."

"Oh, fuck yes," Melissa says, then whines aloud when you touch the vibrator not to her clothed pussy, but to the inner crease of her thigh. "Fuck, c'mon."

"C'mon, what?" You trail the vibrator up the inside of her thigh, toward her knee, and back down again.

"You know—" her breath stutters when you switch legs. "You know what I want."

"And you know what I want."

That makes her moan. Her head drops back, her chest heaving. You lean down to kiss her sternum, to finally nose against one perfect breast, the way you've hungered for it since that photo. The lace of her bra scratches your cheek. You can feel her nipple through the cup, taut against the fabric. You bring the vibrator up and tease its rumbling head over that peak, making her shudder, then replace it with your mouth, letting her feel the heat and wet, just barely, still separated from you by her bra.

"God, fuck," she says, "fuck you," and you switch breasts, teasing her other nipple to aching stiffness. You nuzzle the skin that her bra offers up, the plump perfect roundness of her breast, part your lips, drag your teeth over it. She's so soft here, so much, and it's perfect. Your hand drops with the vibrator and you trace it over her hip toward her sex, making her squirm, as you busy yourself with soft bites and sucks.

You change your angle a little, propping a hand against the pillows so you can lean over her. Your body casts a shadow and her green eyes look up at you from beneath it, somehow both pleading and mutinous. You idle the vibrator back up along the waistband of her underwear and then slowly down toward her cunt, playing it over the plumpness of her mons.

"Fuck," she says, "fucking fuck you, okay, please," and you smile. "Please, I said please, will you fucking please—"

You bring the wand down over her pussy. Her head rolls back and she groans, starting to squirm. "Pull down your bra for me," you say.

"What?" Her voice, face, are foggy and vague, but after a few seconds she understands, lifting her hands to tug down the bra's cups, showing you her perfect breasts. They're begging for your mouth, and you promised her you'd give her what she wanted when she begged, didn't you?

You drop your head. Kiss over one breast, then the other. Mouth at the flesh—so fucking soft, so good against your lips, sucked into the wetness of your mouth. The tops of her breasts have a small scattering of freckles that you have to dust in turn with adoring kisses. Her hard nipple brushes your cheek and you draw it past your lips as you trace the wand vibrator up and down, from her clit to the entrance of her cunt, back again, never letting it linger.

You switch to her other nipple, leaving her breast damp and reddened from your mouth. Her head tosses back and forth against the pillows as she whines, squirms, moans, says, "Fuck," and, voice breaking a little, "You're still fuckin' teasin' me—please, please, I said it, please—"

The words, her need, are electricity surging straight to your aching clit. Your voice is a rasp to match her own when you lift your head and breathe in her ear, "You sound so good like this, Melissa." She gives a broken whimper. "You're so perfect. I'll give you more. I promise. I'll take care of you. Take your panties off for me, sweetheart."

With a grateful sob she lifts her hips and shoves her underwear down her thighs, no further. You flash on that fantasy you had of her, getting off after a school day, slacks and panties around her knees as she fucked herself. Looks like you were right.

"You might need," she starts to say, but you're already reaching across to pick up the bottle of lube. You click off the vibrator and let her watch you drip the lube over your fingers, slicking them up. She's panting harder and harder just watching you.

With your other hand freed from the vibrator, you can pull the thong all the way off her legs, leaning back on your knees to do it. You push one thigh then the other wide apart. Her pussy is plump and gorgeous, red and swollen, her own wetness gleaming from between her spread labia. You add to it: the softest touch of your fingertips against her sex, trailing up and around the peak of her clit, not touching it directly.

She makes a noise you can barely describe, a groan of misery and arousal and desperation. Sliding your fingers back down toward the heat of her cunt, slipping one slowly inside, watching her as you do it. Her eyelashes flutter, her lips parting. Once you're sure she's wet enough, you add a second finger. The lube and her own gathering wetness makes a slick, dirty sound as you begin to stroke inside her, all delicacy, all torment.

"Oh, fuck," she says, "don't stop, Jesus Christ, please, don't stop, I need it, I, I..." Now she's babbling, the way she's made you do, one hand fisted in the bed covers, the other grabbing your wrist. "I need it so bad, I need you to fuck me, I've been waitin', please..."

"You've been waiting?" It occurs to you that this version of Melissa, already begging, might be willing to tell you some embarrassing truths. "How long?"

"Since we met," she gasps. "Since—oh, fuck..."

Since you met? That was the very first day of shooting—getting all the establishing shots, the very first moments and interviews. She intimidated you—her and Barbara both did—but Barbara, at least, gave a little, showed a bit of herself to the camera. You remember how Melissa was, arms folded over her chest, cool and hostile with Pedro as he tried to coax her out, get her to introduce herself.

Her eyes had moved from him to you, looking past the camera. "You Sicilian?" she'd asked you. She smiled at you that day and it transformed her sullen, cagey face, turned her, however momentarily, sweet. "Italian?" she'd continued, then her eyes darted from you to Pedro, over to the boom mic guy, trying to get a read on all of you. "You from South?" Her smile vanished. Her voice tightened up again: "Okay, you guys workin' with the cops? 'Cause you gotta tell me."

You reward her for the honesty with a press of your palm against her clit. Her hips jerk up. "I remember that day."

Her head drops back again, her eyes squeezing shut. The words leave her in a breathless rush: "You were so cute'n I hated the cameras but whenever you were there I would just—and you were always so, you were gentle, and—I always knew when you were lookin' at me—"

"I was looking at you every chance I got." You watch her face as you begin to ease a third finger inside her. This one has to burn a little; you can feel her body, resistant at first, starting to stretch to take it, and you don't push; you wait to see her eyes open again, their needy, yielding look. She lets go of the covers to grab one leg under her knee and pull it wider apart to help you. You add a little more lube, just in case, not wanting to hurt her.

"I was always looking at you, Melissa." She stares up at you. There's a crease between her brows, her swollen lips parted; she looks stunned, overwhelmed, face pink, as you slide that third finger inside her.

"I was always looking at you," you repeat, and begin to gently fuck her. Her cunt opens for you and desperately clenches against your fingers, grasping and irregular, trying to keep you. "You're so beautiful. I always wanted you. I thought you were the sexiest, meanest—" that surprises a panting laugh from her—"woman I'd ever seen. You were so smart, so funny—you protected everyone, and you took care of everybody—" her eyes squeeze shut. "Let me take care of you now."

You reach over and pick up the vibrator. You click it on. Her eyes open again at the sound of its buzz. You press the button again, then a third time, bringing it to its strongest setting. Melissa's eyes are huge. She's panting, staring, knowing what you're about to do, and the look of vulnerability and desire on her face, her smeared lipstick, her messy hair, she's perfect, so perfect, and you need to make her come now.

"I need it," you tell her, holding her gaze. "I need it. Let me feel it, Melissa." You bring the vibrator to her swollen, begging clit.

A moment of nothing but her breath caught in her chest and her wide-eyed gaze on yours. Her pussy clamps down around your fingers and you feel the ripples of her orgasm start before she drops her head back and gives a wounded, animal cry.

You chase the waves of her climax, fucking her through them, coaxing them toward you; you rub the head of the vibrator along her slippery clit. Her head tosses back and forth on the pillow like it's too much, but her hand still grasps your wrist, keeping you right where you are, and her hips are working, riding your fingers.

"I can't," she starts saying when she can heave a breath back into her lungs, "I can't, I can't, oh, please—" you click the vibrator off and throw it aside; it nearly rolls off the mattress. You spread the lips of her pussy wide and you lean down and bite one shaking thigh, then the other, then seal your lips over her swollen, tender clit.

Fuck the vibrator: this is your new favorite toy. You play with it and play with it and Melissa comes again, or keeps coming, you're not sure which. One leg goes over your shoulder and her hips twitch and writhe until you have to hold her down.

"Oh my G—oh my God, oh, baby," then, just chanting over and over again, like you could ever tell her no again, like you can deny her anything in the world: "Please, please, please..."

Anything she wants. The whole fucking world, if it were yours to give. You suck and lick at her cunt as her hands find your hair and yank.

How long can she go for? How many times can you make her come? You want to know. You want to fuck her until she faints. But that's not for tonight—not without planning, not without her consent—so when she starts making airy noises that are weak and almost pained, you ease off, slowing your mouth and fingers, letting her come down.

You rub her hips and thighs and her soft belly, and give light kisses to the mound of her pubis. She stops pulling on your hair, grip going slack at first; then, as she comes back into herself by slow degrees, she scratches her nails gently against your scalp.

Kisses for her stomach, her ribs. "Here, baby," you whisper, and reach under her body; she lifts up so you can unhook her bra, sticky fingers brushing her skin. You ease it off and drop it to wherever her panties went. She's nude under you now, flushed all over, body loose and relaxed against the mattress; you pet every inch of her you can reach.

You cup her cheek. Her head turns into the contact. There's sweat gleaming along her hairline and her upper lip. Her eyes, mascara and liner blurred, open to meet yours; her gaze is bleary at first, then sharpens.

You expect another fuck-you, or a joke, or even a "thanks, I needed that," but what she says is, "Now you sit on my face."

Your mind whites out. It's possible you forget the English language for a second or two. When you're back from wherever your soul departed to, she's pulling on the buttons of your shirt, brow knit and wearing an impatient little scowl, yanking the last ones open. "What?" you say weakly.

"I said," Melissa says, fully herself again, no longer the begging, needy, squirming creature of minutes ago, "now you sit on my face. C'mon. Get this off." She grabs the buckle of your belt and works the tongue out of it with a metallic clink.

"I," you say, "I," and she drags your trousers down your legs. You have to lean back off her to get them and your underwear all the way off. Your shirt still hangs open, showing your bra, your bare stomach. She leans up to kiss your sternum with an open mouth, tongue flickering hot against your skin.

"I told you," she growls against your neck, "to sit on my fuckin' face," and there's no more of anything in your world but her, you scrambling up onto your knees, spread wide, her sliding down the bed to get under your cunt.

You falter for a moment; she grabs your hips and yanks you down. There's no playing, no teasing. She drags the flat of her tongue up the folds of your pussy and takes your clit into her mouth and sucks. Her green eyes are open and staring up at you and you see your own dazed pleasure reflected in them.

It takes about five embarrassing seconds before you come in her mouth. She moans loudly against you and tries to hold you where you are, but your legs are shaking badly; imagine if you broke her nose the first night, God—you lift one knee so you can get off of her and drop onto your back.

She follows you. Clambers on top of you intently but unsteadily, still wobbling from her own orgasms, and kisses sloppily down your stomach to get back to your pussy.

"Melissa—" you're gasping, and she's putting her tongue inside you, angling her head to get it in as far as she can. She licks, sucks, wraps her arms around your hips and holds you against her as you try to buck away. The wet noises of her mouth against your cunt are obscene.

You come again, and maybe one more time, you're not sure; your mind blanks again. When you can think, feel, process again, she's giving little kitten licks to your sensitive sex that send shudders up your whole body.

"Okay," you say. Your throat hurts a little—how much noise were you making? You clear it. "Okay. You win." You tap out on the mattress like a boxer. She's wearing a look of supreme satisfaction as she lets you go, her face covered in slick wetness, her makeup a disaster, her hair a messy tangle. She's so beautiful. Your heart does a now-familiar backflip.

She crawls up your body and flops onto her side next to you, curling onto your chest. There's long minutes of just you two breathing, the sound filling the room, a tingling starting in your pussy that you know is the herald of after-sex soreness, her damp fingertips tracing idly on your skin.

You start to smooth out her hair. It'll take a shower and a comb to really fix—maybe you'll suggest it. You trail your fingers down and follow the freckled curve of her shoulder, the roll of flesh on her side along her ribs, the dip of her waist before it opens onto the perfect field of her hips and ass.

Her eyes flick up to yours. They're softer and happier than you've ever seen them; the look on her face is gentle and content. You bring your questing hand up to cup her cheek. She kisses your thumb.

"I'm hungry again," she declares.

A laugh bursts out of you, full of affection. "What?" she says, clearly about to be offended, but before she can go any further, you pull her fully into your arms, wrap around her and squeeze.

You press your face into her neck and inhale, smelling her sweat and skin and sex. "You're perfect for me," you say into that warm curve, muffled against her skin. "You're just perfect." You peck a kiss onto her jaw and lean back to touch her cheek again. "Should we make something? Do you want pasta?"

She grins at you. It's that big, Cheshire smile you saw on her face a few days ago, telling Barbara about how she shot her shot, full of preening satisfaction. She leans in and brushes your nose with hers.

"I knew I picked right," she says, simply, happily. She laces her fingers with yours. "Come on, I got a robe you could wear. You like carbonara?"

She leads you off the rumpled bed. You can see you've left a blurry pink bite mark on one cheek of her perfect ass. She brings you a fuzzy shortie robe ("I like your legs, baby, lemme see 'em") and puts on a silk one herself, and takes your hand again as she opens the bedroom door.

You feel good. You're happy. You realize as she brings you to the kitchen, to the very heart of her home, that you're not alone anymore.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Author's Note:

I received the following prompt from an anonymous reader on Tumblr:

"can you write some fluffy smut for Mel x reader where everyone thinks Mel would be in charge in the bedroom because she’s so tough and reader is so shy. but actually reader takes care of Mel."

Back when Season 2 was airing, I saw a few fan posts saying that Lisa Ann had suggested there was a cameraperson on the crew that Melissa thought was cute, which led to the rare scenes where Melissa opens up to the camera. I'm not sure if this is accurate to what she said, but that idea has stuck with me. When I received the above prompt, it went into a blender with that thought, and this is the smoothie that resulted.

I hope I've done justice to this lovely prompt!

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti #as an FYI: this is my longest fic yet and may be easiest to read on AO3 :)

[desert-fern]

The Walls Are Caving In - Jake Seresin X Reader

Pairing: Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin X Fem!Reader (Known as Honey Bee/Honey)

Summary: You are sunshine incarnate, the life of the party who is so free with your affection. Jake finds himself struggling to express his desire to be like you while wrestling with his past, what happens when it all comes crashing down around him? AKA Jake is both touch-starved and in love.

Warnings: Jake has a shit dad, angst, still fluffy tho (lmk if I missed anything)

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: This one-shot is inspired a little by the song In my Blood by Shawn Mendes. That and I really wanted to explore what could be going on inside the cocky man we all know and some of us fell in love with, so please enjoy 5k words of me putting Jake under the microscope.

===

Jake Seresin was a mystery to you.

The blonde man had always been standoffish around you, almost like he couldn’t stomach the thought of being near you. Yet when the other pilots came together, it was like Jake couldn’t be close enough, knocking elbows with Bob as he tried to take a sip of his drink and chuckling when the WSO had to set his drink down to give him a bewildered look. Jake would start teasing shoving matches with Rooster out on the beach, laughing as he got absolutely rocked back into the sand.

But when you were in the group? He was as far away from you as was considered polite.

The unfortunate thing was that you thrived on physical contact. You loved hugs, both giving them and receiving them. Fanboy had figured it out early on and would now run up and pull you off your feet to spin you around. It was nothing but playful, yet why did Jake always look at you strangely?

You’d given up on finding out, choosing to focus on your career as a base medic. It had been a dream of yours to be a doctor while growing up, but as you got older, you had to face the fact that it wasn’t the most financially sound decision. So you joined the Navy and found your calling as a medic. Between treating a few base personnel for coffee burns, the occasional broken toe from jamming it against a bench in the locker room, and the pilots and crew members who would pass out when the weather got too hot, you were thriving on your ability to always try and bring a smile and a listening ear to whoever came through the door needing help.

It was why you had become known as Honey Bee by the base dwellers, as you had taken to calling them. You were sweet and were genuinely interested in getting to know people, but if someone fucked around, you always had a whole swarm of people willing to makes sure they found out.

What you weren’t expecting from the job was to catch the eye of several of the Navy pilots, not for a lack of trying to dissuade them. You knew better than to shit where you ate, knew better than to mess around with a Navy man who could very well have a girl at any and every port of call. You were here to do your job first and foremost.

But that started to change. Jake had caught your eye, not just because of the blonde hair that always seemed to glow in the late afternoon California sun, the green eyes that seemed to clock where you were in a crowd, or because he was magnetic in a room of people, but because you wanted to know more about him. He was an enigma to you aside from his medical record. You knew that he’d broken his elbow in high school playing football, that he’d sprained an ankle tripping over a step, hell you even knew his medication allergies. But anything personal, you could forget about.

So you stuck it out, keeping your distance and content to smother the other pilots in your affection.

===

It was late in the evening as you watched Rooster play yet another song that was older than he was, his squadron around him yelling along to the words. You and Bradley had been close since the mission he refused to talk about, only that he and his godfather had nearly died. You two had also engaged in a casual relationship, hooking up on the off chance neither of you had a partner, but other than the occasional romp in the sheets, you two were as close as best friends. It’s why you were here tonight.

Taking a sip from your drink, you turned to watch the crowd around you, scanning the room and enjoying your people watching. You didn’t know how long you’d been staring around the room, but it had been long enough that Bradley had stepped away from the piano to stand behind you. “Hey Honey.”

You spun around, hand pressed to your chest. “Jesus fuck Bradshaw! You better not give your favourite medic a heart attack. Who else would treat your ass after you fell off another ladder?”

“That’s just rude, Honey Bee,” he teased, winking at you over his sunglasses that had fallen down his nose. “You know no one else fixes me up like you do.”

“Damn right. So watch it,” you shot back, snatching his sunglasses off his face and putting them on your own face. “Also sunglasses at 10 pm? Who are you fooling?”

He snorted, rolling his eyes at your smirk. “Okay, okay. I came over here to give you a hug ‘cause you’ve been sitting over here by yourself. But since you decided to be rude, I’m just gonna walk away.” Bradley turned, moving through the crowd away from you and towards his team on the other side of the bar.

“Fuck you!” You yelled after him, downing your drink and chasing after him. You caught up to him, tapping him on the shoulder and when he turned, you wrapped your arms around his middle, hugging him tightly. “You’re a real jerk, Bradshaw. You know that?”

He laughed, hugging you back. “And you’re a real smart ass for being as sweet as you are, Honey.” Bradley grinned down at you, pulling his aviators off your face and tucked an arm in the collar of his shirt. “Sometimes it feels like I gotta wrangle you.”

You pulled back grinning at him. “You love me.” You felt energised, like that one simple hug had been injected with jet fuel. You were a social butterfly if you had enough hugs throughout the night and thankfully the Daggers had a number of people who loved your playful teasing and joyous affection. It was how you spread your love and you would be damned if Bradley or his friends felt like you weren’t appreciative of how they kept him and each other safe.

“Regretfully,” he quipped, slapping your shoulder and moving over to where Phoenix and Coyote were chatting.

“Dick!” You called after him, laughing when he flipped you off, his back still turned.

You fell into easy conversation with Bob and Fanboy, grinning when Bob pressed his side to you for a moment after a particularly funny joke. And you continued to bounce around the little groups, laughing loudly and uproariously even though you’d only had one drink hours earlier. “How do you do it, Honey?” Payback asked after you’d come back from dancing with his WSO.

“Do what?”

“Have so much energy. I’d be exhausted if I were you.”

You grinned at him, a wide one showing your teeth. “Well Reuben, I see so many people because of work, but I’ve always been like this.”

“Now that,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “That I can picture. Little baby Honey with two braids making friends with everyone on the playground.”

You laughed with him, feeling alive with the energy in the room. It was only when you glanced around at the other Daggers did you notice a storm cloud underneath the ray of sunshine you were casting over your friends.

“Why don’t you turn your charm on Bagman over there? Seems like his battery is wearing out.” You jumped nearly elbowing Phoenix in the face.

A shrug. “He’s not my biggest fan,” you said simply, missing how Reuben and Nat gave each other a look over your head. “Besides, I don’t want to ruin his night even more than it seems to be going.”

“Mmm,” Natasha hummed noncommittally. “Still, I think you should at least try.”

You turned around. “Why? You all see how he seems to always stand on the opposite side of the room from me, how he barely says two words to me.” There was a frown on your face, something so uncharacteristic that it nearly had Payback choking on his drink as he saw it cross your face.

Natasha just raised an eyebrow and you folded like cheap cardboard. “Fine, but he’s not going to like this.”

You wove through the crowd, making your way over to the jukebox where Jake stood contemplating a song choice. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He didn’t look up at you, choosing instead to stare at the song list you know he’d practically memorized.

A beat of awkward silence passed. “So…” you started again. “You have a song in mind or is it going to be a random choice?”

“Why? You have something you want to play instead?” His tone was sharp, like he was trying to brush you off and it startled you. You could feel Nat’s curious eyes on you and were half tempted to turn around and shout ‘See?!’ in her direction.

“N-no. I was just curious.” Now you were feeling unwelcome. Everything about his body language screamed ‘leave me alone’. He was tense, speaking through gritted teeth, hand white knuckling his beer bottle. “Especially since Rooster always seems to hijack the music whenever you pick a song.”

Jake didn’t say anything, going back to faking his pondering over song choices. You stayed for another moment, before nodding to yourself. “O-okay.” You gave him a hesitant smile before slipping away back towards Natasha. Seconds later, you heard Def Leppard begin to blare through the bar as Jake strolled through the crowd, using his size to gently pass a group of what looked like college girls, whose giggles seemed to carry over the music.

“See?!” You hissed at Natasha. “He would rather fake stare at a music selection he has memorized than talk to me. He clearly can’t stand me!”

Natasha just gave you a cryptic look before drawing you into a conversation about the strangest accident you had ever seen or had. It was enough to draw you focus away from the blonde pilot icing you out, but it also prevented you from catching Jake’s glances your way.

He’d managed to escape your notice for most of the night, choosing to keep to himself or chat with Coyote on the off chance you hadn’t barged into their little group. Contrary to what you thought, Jake didn’t hate you. In fact, he was almost envious of your ability to shine in a room this big. You bounced around like the light off a disco ball, your personality as vibrant as the colours that radiated off as it spun.

The biggest thing he was jealous of though, was the fact that you were free with your affection. You always had a hug and a smile for everyone and if anyone tried to dull your shine, it was like you couldn’t be touched. Jake was jealous of the easy way in which you could ask for a hug to satisfy you.

He couldn’t. Jake yearned for the freedom to be openly affectionate, craved the feeling of being held, but he had spent so long being told that men didn’t do that, that he had to suck it up and be a man. The few girls that had stuck around longer than just one night had never wanted to be close. Sure they had cuddled, but they had all drawn the line at him holding their hand, hugging them from behind. They had only seen him for the prowess and personality he exuded as Hangman, but he was tired of splitting himself down the middle. He wanted someone who wanted Jake too, not just the cocky persona he used to show off. The persona that had made his father spare half a glance his way. He wanted hugs. He just couldn’t ask for them, so he stayed away from you and your sunshine. Created distance between himself and your vibrancy, if only so you wouldn’t pick up on the fact that he desperately needed the affection you distributed in excess.

The half a day he’d spent under your care weeks ago stuck in his memory. Jake hadn’t managed to grab breakfast or lunch on a hot day, hadn’t had much sleep or water, and between the endless up and down, pulling G’s, and push-ups from losing an exercise, the heat became too much for him. He’d passed out halfway through his push-ups, falling face first to the tarmac and scaring the hell out of Hondo who was supervising.

He had been rushed immediately into the infirmary, falling into your capable hands. You had been incredibly gentle checking vital signs, your voice as soothing as a cool damp cloth pressed against feverish skin. You’d stolen his breath when you asked the questions you had memorized due to their frequency of use, and Jake felt like he’d been sucker punched. He didn’t remember much, having spent most of the experience sleeping, but he dreamt of you and every facet of you that had captured his heart and mind over the weeks you had gotten to know one another.

That experience was beside the point though. Instead of asking and being as open and carefree as you were with your love, Jake left himself to revel in the pats on the back, the handshakes, and bro hugs that were “appropriate for a man”. He let himself watch as you hugged Bradshaw, danced with Fanboy, and seemed closer to his squadron than he himself.

So he pushed you away and hoped you didn’t see through him.

===

Days later, you were bustling around the infirmary. You hadn’t seen the Daggers since the night at The Hard Deck and it was kind of taking a toll on your usual bubbly energy. You still had a smile for everyone, but it had started to become forced the longer your shift went on.

Earlier in the day, a pilot had passed out from the summer heat and hit his head hard enough that he bled. You had been filling out reports when the wall of noise hit you and you were on your feet in half a heart beat.

You hadn’t sat down since. That one accident had set off a never-ending queue of people walking through the doors and your feet hurt.

Sat at the desk at the front of the infirmary, you blew out a sigh. 10 more minutes. 10 minutes and then you could go home and relax.

“You good, Honey?” Bradley. You could recognize that smooth voice anywhere.

You nodded tiredly. “Yeah. Just really busy today.”

“I get that.”

“So.” You drew yourself up from your chair, stretching out your arms. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I was hoping that you could check on Hangman.”

You blinked at him, thoroughly confused. “What?”

Bradley gave you a flat look. “You heard me.”

“Why?”

“Because he's been reckless lately. He’s going to get himself or someone else killed if he keeps flying like he has.” There was nothing but seriousness in his amber eyes. Every micro expression that flickered over your friend’s face was one of deep concern.

You nodded. “Okay. It will have to be tomorrow though, Roo. I just finished my shift.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry Honey, but I’m worried about him. He won’t talk to anyone and Mav is at his wits’ end. Can you swing by today?”

Internally, you groaned. Jake hated you, you were convinced of that. Yet Bradley seemed genuinely concerned for his teammate and despite your best attempts, you hadn’t been able to put him from your mind. “Yeah, okay. But if he blows up at me, Roo, I swear to God I will hurt you.”

Rooster grinned. He knew your threat was an empty one, you both did. You cared about him too much to actually follow through with it. “Thank you, Honey. I owe you one.”

“Yeah, you do,” you grumbled as you walked forward to hug him, burying your face in his flight suit. “You really do.”

You felt him scoff as he hugged you back, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. You stayed like that for a moment before pulling back. “Have a good night, Honey.”

“Thanks Roo. Drive safe.”

And then he was gone.

Fuck. What had you just agreed to do? You buried your face in your hands and blew out a long breath. This was going to be a long night.

===

Bradley had texted you Jake’s address as you finished changing out of your scrubs. You knew he was worried, but a part of you was anxious about what would happen should Jake open the door and see you. Would he slam the door in your face? Would he invite you in and then hit you with the cold-shoulder?

Jake Seresin made you nervous. Pretty people always did, and Jake was no exception. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about the two of you, but you never let your fantasies go too far. They were delusions. Jake avoided you at any chance he could, so you had one chance to make sure that he understood that you didn’t resent him even if he so clearly did.

Twenty minutes later, you pulled into his driveway behind the black truck that was so quintessentially Jake it hurt. You walked up to the front door, ringing the doorbell and trying not to look as awkward as you felt.

The blue door opened up and Jake stared at you with confusion written all over his face. “What are you doing here?”

You swallowed, mustering up some courage to say “Rooster sent me. Can I come in?”

“Sure?” Jake held the door open, stepping aside to let you pass by him. “You have strange timing. I just got Bradshit off my ass.”

“Heh yeah. It’s almost like an intervention or something.” Inwardly, you were cringing. Why had you said that? God, it was like any social skills you had vanished the minute you were around the blonde man. “Your house is nice. I love the colour of the hardwood.”

“Thanks.” Jake’s voice was back to short and clipped. It was clear that he was on edge now. Likely thanks to your stupid comment. Why couldn’t the floor just crack open beneath you right now and spare you the awkwardness? “So why are you here?”

You took a deep breath, letting your eyes meet his own. “Rooster is worried about you. He didn’t say why, just that I should check on you.”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, averting his gaze. His arms were crossed over his chest, the black T-shirt clinging mouthwateringly to his arms and shoulders- you shook yourself mentally, cringing again at your thoughts. “You can go now.” Jake’s rushed voice cut through your self-judgement and brought you immediately back into his entryway where he stood not quite glaring at you.

Your interest was piqued by his rush of words. “That was awfully quick,” you remarked as casually as you could. “Jake, whatever it is, I’m not going to judge you. I only want to help.”

“Like I said, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.” Deep down, a part of him was screaming at himself to let you in. To let you help. He would tell you everything if you only asked, if you stayed a little longer. Jake clenched his hand into a fist, restraining himself from capturing you in a hug and never letting go. He shouldn’t have these thoughts. You were just being nice. It didn’t mean anything. Right?

“But I am going to. And your team is worried too.” You tried to reason with him, as you watched him closely.

Jake shook his head. “How many times do I have to say this? I. Am. Fine. Okay?” His voice was raised and he seemed just as shocked as you by his outburst. “I’m sorry, but I am fine.” No. God no. Why had he shouted? Even he could see right through himself, couldn’t you? He really hoped you did.

You gave him a kind smile, before replying “It’s okay, Jake. I’d offer a hug, but I know how much you hate them. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.” You turned back to the door, opening it up and slipping past Jake, your arm brushing his chest and his breath hitched.

Turning around, you faced him and watched his eyes land on everything but you. “Jake?” Your voice was quiet, like you were afraid to push him. “Are you really okay?”

He shook his head, still looking at the floor. “No,” he whispered. The fight had drained out of him, his resolve crashing down around him. When he did meet your eyes, you were astounded by the myriad of emotions you found swirling deep within the green irises.

“Where’s your living room?” You asked gently, hoping that you both could have this conversation in a more comfortable place. Especially since Jake looked like he would collapse at any moment.

“Down the hall,” he said hoarsely, pointing ahead of you both.

You offered your hand to him and could barely contain the shocked noise when he took it. You felt the calluses on his palms, the rough parts that scratched at your own hands, but there was also a softness in them. The parts he tried to keep out of the light. “Come, let’s go sit.”

You perched on the edge of the brown couch and patted the space next to you. When he sat, you noticed how it seemed like he had purposely left space between you both. “So,” you began cautiously. “What’s happened?”

There was silence for a moment, before Jake spoke. “Too much,” he mumbled so quietly that you barely heard him. “And I just… I don’t know how to fix it.” He was still lying to himself. He knew how to fix it, he was just scared of losing the persona he’d spent most of his life perfecting. He knew that he craved the closeness that you could give him, he just couldn’t ask for it.

“Hmmm…” your hum was soft. Everything about you was soft, Jake thought. It’s why you were so liberal with your love. “Well, can I help you?”

He nodded before he could stop himself. Jake risked it and finally glanced up at you. Where he was expecting judgement or pity, all he saw was empathy, kindness, and compassion. It nearly stole his breath at just how much you cared. You cared about him, even after everything. “Y-yeah. You can,” his voice cracked on the words, but he steeled himself and refused to look away.

You gave him a soft smile, watching his face carefully. Jake seemed to be at war with himself, torn between choosing what he always had or finally allowing himself what he needed. Swallowing, you spoke gently. “How can I help?”

Those four words were the breaking point for Jake who had been strong for too long. The bottle holding in all his yearning, his wishful thinking, all of it, exploded in his chest and he began to sob.

Your eyes flew wide and you immediately gathered him in your arms, turning him into your shoulder. A moment passed before you realized what you had done and you made to let go, but found that Jake had clung to your sweater as he cried.

Each tear set free something deep inside him and Jake knew that nothing would be the same after this. His grip on his feelings had slipped and here he was, sobbing into your shoulder like a child who’d lost their favourite toy. But despite the shame he felt, Jake couldn’t stop and a part of him didn’t want to. You were here, whispering soft words of comfort, your touch grounding him in a way that reminded him how long he’d been floating on his own.

His mind could only focus on the pain he was trying to purge from his body. With each sob, his resolve on his self-judgements snapped and they floated away on the river of tears he cried for the parts of him he had spent too long hiding for fear they would be stripped from him.

Then, with sudden clarity, Jake realized what he was doing. He was mourning everything he’d lost. Everything that had made little Jake Seresin who he was. The excitement of flying, loving his friends with everything he had, all of it gone to appease someone who had been gone from this world for years now. He only cried harder at the thought of his younger self watching who he was now and being disappointed, asking him why he’d stopped hugging people. Why he’d pushed away someone who loved hugs as much as he had.

His face was buried in your neck, the tears wetting your skin. He clung to you, so afraid that if he let go that you’d vanish. And when you vanished, you’d take with you your kindness, the love you spread around so easily, everything Jake knew he didn’t deserve. How could he? You were a sunbeam that had fallen from the heavens above, casting your warmth on everything and everyone you touched. You were magic to him.

Your heart broke for the man in your arms. You silently cursed the pressure he was under as a pilot and whatever rigidity in his upbringing had made it so he didn’t or couldn’t express his true feelings. It hurt to hear his sobs but you knew that this was years of pain, frustration, and anger pouring out of a narrow bottle he had tried so long to keep shut. “I’m here, Jake. Shhh, I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry, Honey.”

He felt you stiffen and pull back just a little. “Look at me Jake.” He chanced it, looking up at your beautiful face, cataloguing the fierce look in your eyes that was offset by the gentleness of your touch. “Never, never apologize for your feelings. You hear me?” Jake nodded tearfully, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “You can let go of your burden right now. I’m here for you, Jake.”

Your words only set him off again. They reminded him so much of his mother’s own and it cut him deep. She was the light in his life until somehow you’d eclipsed it. She had always given him the love he had craved and had been denied by his father, who had raised him never to express his emotions, yet he’d forgotten about anger. Mark Seresin was an angry man trapped inside the supposed standards of how a Texan man ought to be. He was needlessly hard on his boys, believing that it was his duty to ensure that every emotion had been beaten and worked out of them. He had raised his sons that crying was for babies and little girls. But he would never know how much damage had been done from his ‘tough love’. Mark Seresin would never see his sons snap under the pressure he had placed upon them and Jake was more than okay with that.

And so Jake poured that story out between tears, keeping his hands caught in the fabric of your hoodie, desperately trying to keep you close. He couldn’t have you slipping away from him, but even though he’d cried all over you, ripped open the deepest darkest parts of himself, you didn’t move except to slide backwards on the couch, settling yourself. You had cemented yourself in his life just by holding him close and Jake knew that you could never be aware of just how much that meant to him, how much he loved you for that.

You were going to stay. You held him as his sobs petered out. Held him close as he brought his breathing back to normal, and even as he tried apologizing. But you refused to hear it. “I said I wasn’t going anywhere and I meant it, Jake. Okay?” Your voice was still soft, your hand rubbing circles on his back as you both lay on his couch. He had his head pillowed on your chest, lying there despite the late hour. “You know you can talk to me, right? I meant it when I said I wouldn’t judge.”

“I know.” Jake hated how small his voice sounded, but he was so tired. Tired of the judgement he inflicted upon himself, the arbitrary scale he used to compare himself to others. He just wanted to rest and he was scared. His hard shell had been weakened under his breakdown and this was so new to him. Jake felt exposed, like he’d been stripped naked before you and left to face your judgement.

The only question was: would you still love him after this?

Jake was shaken from his thoughts when you said his name in that soft voice of yours. “What are you thinking about?”

He hummed. “How much I regret crying. I have a headache,” Jake let out a little chuckle at his words. “God, Honey, what do you think of me right now?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

You smiled at him. “I’m thinking about how strong you are, how much courage it took you to be so brave. You let your guard down and I am so proud of you for that, Jake.”

Jake’s cheeks pinked. “I might cry again if you keep that up,” he said thickly, swallowing the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him.

“I mean it. I am so proud of you, Jake Seresin, and I will say it as many times as I need to so it gets through your thick skull.” Your tone left no room for argument, but you were still smiling down at him, and the warmth of it washed over him like pulling a thick quilt over oneself during the deepest winter storm.

“I-I think I…” Jake trailed off, catching the end of his sentence before he could say it, before he could confess right then and there. “I have shit timing, holy fuck.”

You only raised a confused eyebrow at him. “Jake, what…?”

“I love you.”

He felt your giggle against his cheek, heard the peals of laughter go ringing through his ears. “I know, you sap. I love you too.”

“Wha- How did you know?”

“The infirmary. When you passed out a few weeks ago because you hadn’t had enough to eat, you were mumbling in your sleep. I just assumed you were calling your partner honey, but then you called me Honey Bee when you woke up and I just knew.” When Jake met your gaze, he saw your eyes full of what could only be described as the purest love. “I think I knew before you did.”

Jake laughed, shaking his head. “Well then,” he began. “Think I should make it official then?” He’d pushed himself up onto his elbows on either side of you and smiled down at you.

You looked adorably confused under his gaze, so he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. You hadn’t expected it so you let out a muffled squeak that made Jake chuckle against your lips when he pulled away. “Honey…”

A wide grin nearly split your face in two as you looked up at Jake hovering over you. It took nothing for you to cup his face in your hands and pull him down into yet another kiss, this one more intense, intoxicating one another on the feeling of your lips slotting together.

Jake rested his forehead against yours, his breathing heavy and those green eyes, the ones that had enchanted you from the minute you met, fell shut. “Honey. My Honey Bee…” he whispered millimeters from your lips.

“Yours,” you whispered back, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek so lightly Jake thought he’d imagined it. “I’m yours, and you’re mine, because you know that I will not be an idle partner in this relationship, mister.”

He laughed and it had never sounded so carefree to his ears. You had broken through his walls, forcing your way in with a touch so gentle Jake hadn’t seen you coming until you held his heart at your mercy and by the grace of whatever God sat in the heavens, you had breathed joy and light back into his soul. Jake was utterly devoted to you and your light, wholly captivated by you. You had remade him with laughter in his heart, reshaped his broken heart in your capable, yet gentle hands.

“-ake? Jake? Where’d you go?” Worry had seeped into your tone, your brows furrowing under the concern you felt. He’d spaced out a few times now, and while you were worried, you knew that it was likely residual doubt and his own way of trying to process the events prior. “You should go to bed, Jakey. It’s late.” Your thumb traced the ridge of his jawline, bringing him back into himself.

“Stay.” The words were out before he could stop them. “Please.”

“Okay.”

One word, and Jake knew that he’d be alright, that he was safe.

You were here to stay, his Honey Bee.

===

A/N: big thanks to Star for proofreading and telling me that this wasn’t absolute hot garbage! And for the record, this isn’t Jake’s Dagger Comfort fic. That is still in the pipeline somewhere lol

Taglist: @sarahsmi13s @startrekfangirl2233 @lovinglyeternal @bradleybeachbabe @horseshoegirl @roosterforme @cherrycola27 @dakotakazansky @thedroneranger @aviatorobsessed @csmt-m

#the walls are caving in #fern writes #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake hangman x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin fic #jake seresin angst #jake seresin fluff

[shalotttower]

The Devil Is a Gentleman

Title: The Devil Is a Gentleman

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night with a headache.

Word count: 800+

Characters: Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader

Notes: Yandere Chrollo, captive Reader, my head is murdering me so I wanted some soft Chrollo stuff.

You shift under the covers and for a moment it seems that maybe this state of half sleep, half consciousness is here to stay. Just for a bit, until you slide all the way back into a dream, where the dull throb in your skull doesn't matter. No such luck; angry blurred dots start swarming behind your eyelids and the longer you lie there, the more evident it becomes that sleep isn't coming.

3 AM.

The red numbers from the alarm clock glow way too intensely in the dark. It's quiet. Chrollo's breath tickles your shoulder. No matter the position, he somehow manages to do this every single time - wrap himself around you like it's no tomorrow, with tangled legs and chest pressed to your back. Sometimes it's annoying, sometimes sickly comforting, but not now. There's a faint feeling of nausea in your throat, the whole world is spinning and swaying from side to side even though you're lying still.

Sharing a bed is a recent development. Previously the floor was your choice, but two weeks ago Chrollo simply carried your sleeping body to the mattress. You woke up trapped between him and soft pillows, then the pattern repeated two times, four, six, until it became clear that this arrangement was going to stick.

Carefully, inch by inch, you wiggle out of his embrace. An awful taste coats your tongue, clings to the palate - not something you expected upon waking, but not unusual either.

The kitchen light is bright and unpleasant. It stabs right through your eyes without remorse, making you promptly settle for a dimmer one above the stove. One cabinet after another, the fridge - no pills. Of course, why would Chrollo keep anything like that lying around? You probably have to wake him up for medicine, but it's honestly the least tempting scenario. You don't want to talk to Chrollo, don't want to ask him for help, don't want him to see you in pain or sick.

So you brew a cup of coffee and hope that the nausea plaguing your throat will eventually subside. What you should know by now, however, is that Chrollo doesn't need more than you breathing wrong in order to wake up.

"Dear?"

His voice has a slight raspy edge to it.

You glance over your shoulder and see his figure standing at the door frame. The light from the hallway throws a shadow cutout across the floor, and it's the only time beside after shower you ever see him all mussed hair, loose pants and, of course, no shirt. You suspect its absence has some relation to the attempts at wooing you which range from subtle to not so subtle these days.

You make a non-committal sound.

"It's 3 AM," Chrollo says and steps into the kitchen. "What are you doing up?"

His fingers brush a strand of hair away from your neck, linger there, feather-light and warm. You take a small sip of coffee.

The pulsing in your skull feels like someone decided to tap a small hammer against your brain. Well, he's up, so might as well do something.

"Headache," you say and press your forehead to the cool marble of the counter. It feels nice for a short moment.

Chrollo doesn't respond. He does place a hand on your nape though, thumb drawing circles, massaging the tension there. It's so peculiar. His tenderness leaves marks wherever it goes - light trails on your skin, hands on your forearms - a constant reminder that in this current reality he's everywhere and everything.

'Stop,' you want to say, but instead a quiet "mm" comes out. Maybe you're too tired to muster up any spite. He takes the cup out of your hand and sets it aside with a quiet clink.

"How bad?"

"Bad. Don't get too close," you warn. "I feel like throwing up."

He does anyway, and wraps an arm around your waist. Chrollo knows very well that you'd rather jump into boiling oil than lean on him out of your own volition, maybe that's why he uses every given opportunity to hold you.

"You should have woken me up," his words are muffled, lips pressed against your temple. Chrollo smells of shampoo, sheets and himself. "I'll get you something from the pharmacy later, but for now you should try and sleep, dear."

Then you're up in the air, carried out of the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" you frown, fingers gripping the muscles of his arm.

He hums something akin to a simple melody, the devil. "Taking you back to bed, where you can keep being miserable with more comfort."

This time you don't protest; the pillow has cooled down, and as soon as you lower your head on top of it, it feels like bliss. The bathroom door opens and closes, followed by quiet splashes of water. There's a pause before the mattress dips on your right.

Cold cloth covers your forehead.

"You should have woken me up," he repeats. "Next time do it, dear."

"Mm," is all you manage, when the bedside lamp clicks off, and then there're covers lifting, fingers rubbing your temples and a low hum somewhere above you.

#shalott fanfiction #yandere #hunter x hunter #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo lucifer x reader #hunter x hunter fanfic #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer

[cuffmeinblack]

Memory Lane

Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Tags: explicit | sex | blowjobs

2.5k words

Summary: Whilst attempting to find Sebastian, instead you stumble upon his memories. Events take an unexpected turn when he finds you.

ao3 link

A/n: Is this even possible? Who knows. I had a vague idea of 'pensieve porn' whilst falling asleep last night and decided to follow through. I'm meant to be on hiatus, whoops. *Throws this out and runs away*.

You'd not frequented the Undercroft in quite some time, finding the place held too many memories you'd rather forget. It had been a source of comfort once, but after so much turmoil two years ago you preferred to find your solitude in the room of requirement. In fact, only Sebastian still used the cold, vaulted room buried underneath the castle—as far as you could surmise, mostly for target practice. Your boyfriend wasn't often found alone these days, but even he needed time alone when not busy devouring your body. Ominis simply retreated to one of his many napping spots when the world became too much to bear.

It was with some trepidation that you approached the cabinet with the clock face now. Silly as it was, after all you'd been through, to allow a room to elicit such uncomfortable feelings. But you needed to find your boyfriend, who had disappeared several hours ago in a huff. The argument was nothing new, but you knew you'd pushed too far. Bringing up his worst mistake had crossed the line and you knew it, so here you were, on your knees and grovelling for forgiveness. With a tap of your wand, the clock face began to click and whirr, the door swinging open to allow you access to the pitch black passageway.

Silence enveloped you as you began the descent, heartbeat picking up slightly the more steps you travelled. The dim firelight of the Undercroft was visible now, the grate all that separated you. Still, it was silent. Perhaps he wasn't here; perhaps you should have retreated then. Curiosity pulled you further, past the grate which scraped shut behind you and clattered to the floor. Just as cold as you remembered, the only humanity provided by the sofa strewn with books and battered training dummies. You smiled despite yourself, smelling the lingering scent of fire and musk you associated with Sebastian.

Your feet took you further into the room, gaze drifting over the disarray until it landed on the pensieve that had remained untouched since appearing years ago. Surrounded by the triptych, the stone basin stood not inert, but swirling with pearlescent ripples—a memory. Surely, this wasn't that same memory you'd bottled and stored; the revelation of Isadora's motives? Standing over the pensieve, you squinted at the contents, noticing the slight gold glint to the memory; it looked different, somehow. Something told you that this particular memory didn't belong to Miss Morganach.

Leave.

You told yourself to walk away, yet you found yourself leaning over the basin, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. That flicker of curiosity stoked into a roaring fire the longer you stared at the contents. Into the pensieve you delved, allowing the rush of cold to envelop you, sending you hurtling into the memory with a force that made your head spin. Your feet appeared to hit solid ground, an illusion that nonetheless felt real. Staggering a little to right yourself, the scene in front of you was nothing you'd ever expected, nor were the sounds that filled your ears.

You recognised Sebastian at once by the back of his fluffy brunet mane, his freckled back, that delectable arse. He was completely naked, legs spread and bent slightly over a figure you couldn't quite make out. Your heart twisted in fear until you took a step to the side to reveal…yourself, splayed on a bed you recognised as Sebastian's, back arched and writhing with pleasure. The cacophony of pleasurable moans you'd heard had been your own, mixed with those of your boyfriend's. Judging by the state of you both, you were quite far into this particular session.

“Sebastian…oh, fuck!”

Perhaps it should have made you recoil in embarrassment to hear yourself coming undone in the depths of this memory, yet it took your breath away and reared a hunger deep inside you. You felt like an imposter; a ridiculous thought, maybe; but this was Sebastian's recollection, and you were here uninvited. But you couldn't tear your eyes away as he pounded into your flushed and limp body, legs thrown over his shoulders and close to tears. You recognised this particular memory as one that had occurred a month previous—you’d spent the day teasing Sebastian to near insanity and this has been the product. It had been an unforgettable night.

“Don't think you can get away with that again,” he growled, his powerful thrusts shunting you up the bed.

You gasped in tandem with memory-you, instinctively reaching out a hand for Sebastian's glistening skin. You phased right through him, and the disappointment was palpable. No matter, the view was enough to hold your attention. You could tell your mirage was close by the way your face contorted and legs shook uncontrollably. As your eyes fell on Sebastian's cock impaling you, the skin between you already slick with combined arousal, you felt yourself ache with a very real need. Sebastian fucked you harder, faster, pushing you over the edge and continuing his pace with unrelenting force. A smirk crept across his face you'd not noticed in the moment of your orgasm, a smug and self-satisfied smile that made you want to either slap him or jump his bones.

To your dismay, the memory evaporated before you could see the conclusion. Surely that hadn't been the end? As you recalled, there were hours left of that particular night. No, the forceful ripping from the scene and tug at your collar had you gasping for breath, re-emerging back in the Undercroft with a stumble. 

“Enjoying yourself?”

The smooth, silken voice brushed your ear and a familiar warmth enveloped your back. Your collar still pulled uncomfortably around your windpipe.

“You…you kept the memories here?” you gasped.

Sebastian's hands slithered around your waist, pressing a kiss to your nape.

“I like to peruse them every once in a while. That one's my particular favourite.”

“Me too. I'd never thought of watching such things in a pensieve.”

Sebastian finally spun you around, trapping you between his firm body and the cold stone of the pensieve which dug into your behind. The memory still swirled beneath your fingertips as you gripped the side of the basin. Your boyfriend had that irresistible glint in his eyes that somehow darkened the chocolate brown irises, pulling you in, powerless to stop the attraction. Just as you'd fallen into the swirling pensieve, you could have delved into those eyes, drawn to their depth and promises of love, comfort and indescribable pleasure. Sebastian gripped you tightly, possessively, tilting your chin to keep you looking before capturing your waiting lips in a passionate kiss.

Through shortened breaths, you responded eagerly as your hands found his soft hair, so ripe for tugging. A low rumble grew in his chest, his hands wandering, tugging at your uniform to rid you of these wretched clothes. 

“Clearly you enjoyed it,” he chuckled. “Look at you…all flushed. I'll bet you're soaking wet for me already.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he perused the rising pink blush. He was right, of course; watching him defile you like that in such clarity had wound you so tightly that your cunt pulsed and ached for his touch. Your head fell sideways and eyelids drooped, and you saw the flicker of a smirk in your periphery; the same such smile that had tugged at his lips when he'd had you coming apart underneath him.

“Seb…”

“Shall we make a new memory?” he whispered in your ear.

You shuddered, from the slither of warm breath down your neck and the tantalising prospect put forth. He didn't wait for a reply; the question had been rhetorical. Of course you'd say yes, your body already malleable like putty in his hands. He undressed you first with his eyes and then with his hands, sliding the cotton from your shoulders before attacking your bare skin with his mouth. The chill of the Undercroft couldn't compete with the warmth of his lips, his tongue. Still your skin prickled underneath him, nipples peaking as he made quick work of your remaining garments. The ribbon of your stay had fallen away with the merest suggestion.

He'd barely touched you, and you suspected magic at play.

“Are you going to take me over the pensieve?” you asked jokingly.

“I wonder,” he hummed. “Would you like to watch the memory again whilst I fuck you? Consider it an experiment.”

Oh, he was deadly serious. He pulled open the buttons on his trousers and pushed the fabric down to his thighs proudly letting his girthy cock spring free. 

“Tell me how much you want it, darling.”

“So much…”

With a whimper, you dropped to your knees which froze against the cold stone and sent shivers up your entire body. Only the warmth of your arousal kept you from shaking uncontrollably, the heat of overwhelming lust that coursed through your veins. From this vantage point you could appreciate his impressive cock nestled in coarse, dark hair. The vein that protruded from the underside throbbed under your thumb as you took him in your hand, licking the swollen tip with a wanton moan.

“Mmmh- fuck, such a greedy girl…”

The heady smell you’d encountered upon entering the room assaulted your nostrils, mixed with the scent of his arousal. It made your head spin as much as his taste, and you took him in your mouth with yet more unrestrained sounds of pleasure that echoed in the vaulted room. Sebastian threaded his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp in rhythm to the movements of your head as you sucked him as if you’d been starved. You pressed your throbbing clit against the heel of your foot as you worked him, shifting a little to ease the ache.

“If you can bear to stop sucking my cock I’d…like to fuck you senseless now…ah!”

Sebastian groaned as you forced him deep into your throat, holding him there just long enough for him to fall forward against the pensieve behind you. Once satisfied he was reeling with pleasure, you pulled away, popping off of his cock with a farewell lazy flick of your tongue.

“Merlin’s bloody balls. Bend over. Now.”

His voice was husky and he peered down at you with an almost crazed expression, his eyes wild and teeth bared. Predatory. You knew just how to tempt him, and he you.

“Enjoying yourself?” you teased, echoing his earlier question as you stood up.

Sebastian spun you around with a hard smack to your behind that made you giggle. That laugh was stifled when he pushed and pulled you into position, your elbows crashing into the stone rim of the basin.

“I’ll be enjoying myself a lot more when I’m deep inside that pretty little cunt,” he muttered.

“Fucking hell, Seb…”

His cock rocked impatiently against your behind, fingers gliding through the slick that coated your folds until he found your entrance. You cried out as his fingers pushed inside you, gripping the pensieve tight as you gazed into the swirling waters.

“Time to take a trip down memory lane, hm?”

With a final look back at him, ingraining his face to your own memory, you plunged into his. Once again you were pulled in once your face hit the cold barrier, landing on your feet in the illusion of his bedroom. You were met by his hunched figure, and a step revealed yourself, panting and submissive beneath him. Still a passive bystander, you watched his hands palming your breasts, yet you still felt all of which happened to your body outside of the memory. You felt the pulsing and stroking of his fingers, and the retreat of them which made you gasp.

The memory of Sebastian paid your very real moans no mind, unable to respond and thoroughly absorbed by those made by the version below him. His freckled hand moved from her breasts to her neck, squeezing as his hips gathered pace. You were mesmerised and thrumming with excitement, until suddenly you’d collapsed against the bed in ecstasy. The very real Sebastian pushed his cock inside you, filling you to the brim. Your walls fluttered and you whimpered as you felt him move, caressing every nerve ending you possessed deep inside you. 

The figures before you became secondary to your pleasure, but still you watched, especially enraptured by Sebastian’s dishevelled appearance and the wet slapping of skin. Your flesh pinched and bruised around your hips as his fingers held you in place above the pensieve, the coiling tension in your abdomen mounting with every thrust. Unable to stay upright, you slumped onto the mattress at the opposite end of the bed to where your memory was being pounded. 

It felt as if every roll of Sebastian’s hips coincided with that of the other’s. Your brain was mush, body writhing with the endless assault to your body and the deeply erotic display in your vision.

“Sebastian…oh, fuck…”

He couldn’t hear you, but it didn’t matter, everything you did was driven by instinct now; the grab of your breast and the arch of your back; the desperate, begging eyes you made at the memory in front of you. The pleasure was so much, too much, your breath stuttering and a tear leaking from your eye. You were sure you could pull yourself out of the memory with a thought, but why would you want to do so when you were floating amongst the clouds?

“Harder…harder…”

He seemed to sense your plea in the real world, or perhaps it was how your pussy clenched around him, anticipating your climax. He fucked you with enough force to make your eyes roll back into your head, blurring your vision as you tried to keep them on the couple in front of you. Though bleary, you swore you saw this Sebastian peer up at you through his eyelashes to meet your gaze. That’s when you felt yourself tip over the edge into oblivion. Your orgasm exploded so hard you felt your breath leave your lungs, or perhaps it was the chill from being mercilessly dragged out of the memory and back into the freezing cold Undercroft. But soon, as your body writhed with pleasure under the crashing waves of your orgasm, you were encased in the warmth of Sebastian’s body as he held you, his cock pulsing as he released his load inside you.

“Seb���oh Gods, I love you…”

Sebastian chuckled and kissed your sweat-laced cheek, squeezing your chest tightly as he breathed heavily against your skin. Your muscles relaxed in his embrace as the waves ebbed, until you both stood in the room, dazed and happy.

“I love you, too. How was it?”

“Interesting. Amazing. I missed you, though. Does that make sense?” you said with a breathless chuckle.

“Maybe I’ll have to experience it for myself.”

“You work out the logistics, and I’ll be happy to show you.”

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow fanfiction

[clockwayswrites]

I totally didn't write this with a fever.

wc: 815, Masterpost, Shopping Montage

“What do you think, parrots and way too many leaves or palm trees and waves?” Danny said, holding the two horrifically patterned Hawaiian shirts up in front of him.

They were standing in one of Crime Alley’s better thrift stores. While Danny had agreed to let Jason buy him some clothing, he had insisted it be at thrift stores. He wasn’t ‘going to let Jason spend that much money on clothing’, he claimed.

Jason figured that meant that Danny hadn’t clocked who he was yet.

Danny waggled the offensive shirts again.

“Tuesday…”

“Ah, I see, clearly it is option number three then,” Danny said somberly before dramatically pulling out a third shirt behind the other two and, “unicorns, rainbows, and hibiscus!”

It was eye searingly bright— like a pack of highlighters had thrown up on it— and clearly whoever had designed it had never seen an ungulate, rainbow, or hibiscus flower in their lives.

“No. No, you are not getting that because I am buying it for my fashion disaster of a brother. He’ll love it.”

“Really?” Danny asked, nose wrinkling adorably as he looked down at the shirt in his hand.

“Trust me, if you knew him, you wouldn’t be doubting it.” Besides, it stopped Danny from getting it even as a joke.

“Huh. Sounds like some brother.”

“That’s an understatement,” Jason said, taking the unicorn shirt and hanging the other two up. “Why don’t we start with pants. Three pairs at least.”

Danny scrambled after Jason. “Three pairs? That means I’d have four if the blood comes out.”

“It will come out.”

“Then that’s four! And that’s way too many.”

“One pair for every two days and a back up pair if you don’t get laundry done or lose another pair to a rogue attack,” Jason explained, finding the jean section. “What size are you and what type do you like. Baggy, boot cut, skinny?”

Danny stared down at the tables of jeans, looking more than a little lost. “Um, blue? Blue is good?”

“Disaster, Tuesday,” Jason said. He sized Danny up before picking out a half dozen jeans and shoving them at the other. “Try these on.”

“Jason, I really don’t—”

“Tuesday, I’m getting you three pairs of jeans. You might as well at least make sure they’re comfortable. Go try on the pants. If these don’t work, we’ve got others to try.”

“I, um, okay,” Danny said with a little nod and disappeared into the fitting booth.

As Jason grabbed another few pairs of pants, he had to wonder when the last time that Danny actually went shopping was from how he was reacting. Having to try on the jeans to make sure they fit was pretty basic. Hoping to make sure Danny really had enough clothing, Jason grabbed a few shirts to add to the pile. Mostly he stuck with basics, but he tossed in a few shirts that seemed nerdy in a way that an engineer might like. He pushed the pile under the edge of the fitting room curtain with his foot.

“What— I don’t—”

“Just be good and try on the shirts,” Jason ordered, as gently as he could, then he leaned against the wall opposite of the little line of changing booths to wait.

The sound of the curtain pulling open had Jason looking up from his phone. Danny stood just inside the booth, tugging down at the hem of the dark red henley where it set over the navy skinny cut jeans.

Danny shifted on socked feet. (Jason made note of the holes in the toes.) “I don’t know if…”

“Gives me a spin, Tuesday,” Jason said, tucking his phone in his pocket. “You act like you’ve never gone clothes shopping before.”

“Been a good few years,” Danny drawled, but spun as he was told. The pants did surprising favors for Danny’s ass for being thrift store pants.

“Never had that sudden growth spurt?” Jason teased.

Danny huffed. “I’m a short king.”

“Well, your Majesty, put both those in the yes pile and go try on some more.” Jason shooed Danny back into the booth with a wave. “When you’re done, we’ll grab you a pack of socks and boxers from the Dollar Tree next door— no arguing— and then I’ll show you the best diner in Crime Alley.”

“Am I going to have to let you pay there too?”

“Yep, so be a good figure head of a dated governmental system and hush.”

“Or it will be the guillotine for me?” The question was muffled as Danny changed.

“You’re too pretty to lose your head,” Jason said. “It would be the dungeons with you.”

Danny cleared his throat after a pause. “Don’t tempt me with a good time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jason said with a chuckle and a determination to ignore that mental picture. “Now come on, show me the next outfit.”

-----

AN: And Dick wore that unicorn shirt far, far too often.

Hopefully it's coherent despite me being sick. The start of this came to me as I was trying to sleep with a 102ish fever so who am I to deny it?

Stay delightful (and hydrated) darlings!

I no longer tag for various reasons, but you can subscribe to be notified at the masterpost. (Queued this post so I'll update the masterpost when I wake)

#dp x dc #dead on main #the fic that i'm not writing #danny fenton/jason todd

[celabi]

Scummy Scaramouche and his nurse gf! ☆彡 1.2k — nsfw

Errrr re uploading this bcs someone told me the format glitched out and was doubling paragraphs, sorry! 🙏

Pfft, he’s picking fights with groups of bigger guys that he knows overpower him tremendously— taunting and mocking them with that snarky smile of his until they’ve finally had enough of his cocky little attitude and decide to beat him blue. But even then, as he’s pathetically crouched down to the ground, his slender, bruised arms up and covering his head to avoid injury to the face, does he laugh at their sorry excuse of punches and hits. When his voice is hoarse and shallow as he deems them weak— it was not meant for his ears only, or because he was scared, it was simply because one of those kicks made direct contact with his rib cage and did something to his vocal cords, he likes to believe that he is not the weak one here.

God does he hate how they laugh back at him, for it is he who should be the one with power, but… he just can’t find the strength to stand up. Instead, he can do nothing but curl into his body to try and suppress the growing ache in his chest, and stare with half lidded eyes as they dump everything out of his bag and onto the floor, with all of his belongings rolling across the dirty, campus tiles. ‘… how irritating.’ He thinks, watching one of the ‘bullies’ bring their foot down to harshly stomp the assignment that Scaramouche had asked you to help him with. Huh, whatever, yet another reason to spend time with you.

He’s not sure how long he had sat back against some random locker before his tormentors left and he had finally caught his breath— maybe ten minutes? thirteen if he counts how long it took to muster up his remaining strength and sit up— before he’s back on his two feet and wobbling towards the nurses office, one hand pressed firmly against the growing bruise on his stomach— and the other clutching the wall so he doesn’t topple over. Of course, no one that passed Scaramouche bothered to ask if he’s okay, or if he needed any help, for not even a single glance is spared towards his battered figure that limped down the hallway. He thinks he doesn’t care— but still, he has to admit that it’s pretty humiliating when even his professor doesn’t want to question his wounded state when rounding the hallway.

But does he have to care when his hand finally grips the door handle to his destination? No, he doesn’t— so he wastes not a second longer and pushes through, accidentally with too much excitement it seems— seeing that he sent the door banging against the wall and almost off the hinges. He flinches at his display of eagerness— while you jump up in surprise from the loud thud that bounces around the room. Oh no, he didn’t mean to frighten you! That’s the last thing he wanted, so (even though its limited due to the wounded state he’s in) he slightly leans his body downward in a shallow bow and opens his mouth to apologise for his rudeness— only for his hand to be pulled and his body jerked forward, out of the doorway and into the room, the door closing shut behind him.

Since when did you get so close to him? Maybe his heart rate didn’t fully return to nor— No, it doesn’t matter, you’re close to him. And he knows that’s all that matters. He follows closely behind and allows you to pull him along towards one of the clinic beds with no complaints whatsoever— and even though his eyes start to blur, and his head starts to spin from the strong reek of antiseptic, he sits down on the seat which you had silently gestured him towards. ‘She’s so professional when she’s on the clock… that’s fucking adorable.’

“Again? Kuni… do you get into fights you can’t win because you like the pain, or something? With the trouble you manage to find yourself in lately, you’ll see your ‘fatal demise’ sooner then you think.” Even though your words are what he thinks are to be taken in a joking manner— he’s a bit confused when a disappointed sigh, roll of the eyes, and a slight head shake of disapproval is what he receives in return. He blinks once ‘So strict’ and slightly lowers his eyes from your own and onto your glossy and plump lips— so soft looking that he can’t help but to glide his tongue across his dry ones out of excitement. ‘So stern’ his eyes lower down again to stare at the white coat that wraps snugly around your elegant figure, one that makes you look very high class. ‘So harsh’ they lower once again, just enough until they can subtly lock onto the plush thighs that faintly peak through the thin pantyhose covering your legs. ‘… god, she’s fucking perfect, like my own personal nurse.’

At this point— he’s not even embarrassed that his cock had started to erect in his pants, because he’s sure any sane man with a functioning brain would pop a boner at the sight above him. To be looked down upon with a face so fetching, a stare so proper, and words so sharp— it intoxicated him more then it probably should have. Scaramouche let’s out an unbalanced exhale, and goes to re-adjust his position to try and suppress the growing ache in his cock, only to grunt out in pain when he accidentally puts all of his weight onto one of his recently acquired contusions. “Jesus, fuck!” That’s what he gets for letting his enthusiasm get the better of him I suppose.

Over the sounds of him kissing his teeth and the discomfort he expresses through pained groans— he is just able to make out how you start to teasingly ‘tsk’ at the state of his suffering, before your feet pad across the tiles as you approach. It hurts, but not as much as his cock does when your face nears his own— and god did you smell good, so good that it overpowers the intense lodo foam scent that flows around the air. He is so entranced by your sweet aroma that the thought of trying to hide away his erection never even crosses his mind— you however, just so happened to notice it.

From gazing longingly into your glimmering eyes to, reaching out and grasping his hand around a chunk of the fabric to your coat— he’s brought back into reality when a light weight presses somewhat softly against his clothed boner, and his chest is being pushed backwards against the wall behind him inadvertently. Another groan falls from his mouth— this time however, it’s one of relief— so through lidded eyes and open senses, Scaramouche is met with a teasing grin, and the feeling of you palming away at his cock.

“Aw, poor thing. You’re in pain… I can help with that, it’s what i’m here for, after all.” Yep, you’re are just so generous, he thinks— and does nothing but nod with his little remaining strength, sit anxiously still as the zipper to his pants slowly starts to glide down, and flutter his eyes shut when your hand finally wraps around the base to his cock.

“Hahh… y-yes please. Do whatever you want to me…”

#🍃ー celabi ☆彡 #scummy scara :( #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #x female reader #x reader #wanderer smut #yandere wanderer #wanderer #wanderer x reader #wanderer x reader smut #scaramouche x reader smut #scaramouche x reader #yandere scaramouche #scaramouche x female reader #genshin impact scaramouche #yandere scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #genshin smut