#the thing with antony and the thing about the thumb up his ass like

[sosaysdean]

jackles joined the boys just begging for gay sex

#the thing with antony and the thing about the thumb up his ass like #relax bro

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Who You Are Looking For

Follows directly after Kauri and Antoni’s fight

-

He knows it’s Jake at the door just from the sound of his knock. 

“Come in,” Antoni murmurs, sitting on his bed with his back to the wall, a book open in his lap. Light comes from the little lamp on his side table, his curtains drawn shut against any hint of the outside world. 

The door swings silently open, and he looks up to see Jake standing alone in the doorway. His eyes flicker behind the big man, but there’s no hovering Kauri, no telltale giveaway sniffles or whispering. Only Jake, who steps inside and closes the door behind him, the two of them entirely alone.

“Kauri?” Antoni can’t stop himself from asking, even though he still feels the buzz of unease and anger, died down but not quite gone.

Jake sighs. “He’s gone out.”

Antoni’s eyes drift closed, and he tells himself he doesn’t feel guilty. He shouldn’t feel guilty, because he didn’t do anything wrong. But like always, the knowledge that Kauri has run himself out into the night because of someone else’s words hurts more knowing those words were his. “I’m sorry-... I did not mean for him to feel so badly that he would do it again-”

“No. Don’t be. It’s not like that. I’m sorry, Ant, I didn’t say it right. He’s gone out with Chris. He’ll be okay. Chris is going to talk to him a little about the whole thing, Chris is, uh, better about that than I am, he knows how it some of it feels that I don’t. He’s not… it’s not going out out. Not like he used to. This is just to dinner. And even if he did go drinking or whatever, you shouldn’t be sorry for that, either. He’s a grown-ass man, he can make his own choices, even the shitty ones.”

“I did not mean to hurt him,” Antoni whispers. “I was only-... I did not mean-”

“I know, man.” Jake exhales and moves over, sitting at the other end of Antoni’s bed, giving him plenty of space. He shifts back until his own back is against the wall, too, and looks over at Antoni with a slight smile. “He didn’t mean to hurt you, either. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Besides, Ant, I’m really not here to talk about Kauri.”

Antoni nods, slowly, keeping his eyes down. His bandaged hand itches madly under the gauze and adhesive, the fresh burn beginning its healing by trying to drive him out of his mind reminding him it’s there. It’s a larger burn, too, than all the small spaces where the cigarettes were driven into skin. “You want to know-”

“Hey, how’d you get hurt?” At Antoni’s obvious surprised reaction, Jake gestures towards his hand. “You’re bandaged up. What happened to you?”

“Oh, I… burned myself on the oven, before Kauri came in. It’s not so bad-”

“Did you put anything on it?”

“Of course I did, I have been burned many times, I know what I’m doing.” His voice is a little rougher than he means it to be, and he winces, closing his eyes. “I am sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Antosha.” 

Jake reaches out, and Antoni allows his hand to be taken in Jake’s warm, rough palm, looked over like it’s made of gold, not just burnt and scarred skin. 

“You’re right,” he continues. “You know what to do, it was silly to ask. Just… the first thing that came to mind trying to sound helpful, I guess. Is it really bad?”

“No… not so bad. I put on the burn cream, the neosporin...” Antoni’s skin prickles under Jake’s touch, but not with the usual rush of distaste and dislike. He knows Jake’s touch will stay gentle, brief, what needs to be done and not anything more. And right now…

Right now, he could use a little bit of touch that isn’t a heavy hand in his hair blowing smoke in his face. 

Jake smiles, faintly, at the sight of the ring on Antoni’s finger, matching his and Kauri’s. He rubs his thumb over it, back and forth. “Actually… I guess I came in here to say I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Antoni looks up, and meets Jake’s eyes. It’s funny, how he and Kauri can both have blue eyes but they’re such wildly different colors of blue anyway. Antoni’s own are a warm brown, lighter than his hair, but not by much. The look on Jake’s face feels like it might steal all of Antoni’s remaining breath, replace it with something lighter than air.

“I’m sorry that information you were keeping to yourself was given away without your permission,” Jake says, voice low, almost a whisper. “It wasn’t ours to know unless you wanted us to know it, Ant. I’m so sorry that it was told. And I’m so sorry Kauri picked the absolute worst way to ask you about it. Just like... gold medal bad plan for asking, right after you got burned...”

“It’s… it’s my fault, honestly.” Antoni swallows, and manages a slight smile, more one-sided and sad than genuine. “I mentioned it to Jameson some time ago, because I thought it might help him to feel more understood, and I did not think at the time that he would want to share that with anyone else-”

“Okay, but that doesn’t give him permission to share it around, either, without making sure you were fine with that. And it doesn’t make it okay for Kauri to eavesdrop at other people’s doors.”

“Kauri assured me twice that he was not eavesdropping at all,” Antoni says dryly, and warms at the sound of Jake’s rich laughter in response. “I did not ask. He assured me anyway.”

“Which means he absolutely was eavesdropping, and he felt guilty about it exactly like he probably should.” Jake shrugs, and lets Antoni’s hand go so he can shift back into a more comfortable position again. “I’ll talk to him some more when he gets back, but I thought you two could use a little time to breathe, a little space for a bit. Kauri always does better if he can sort of script out what he wants to say, and thinks you’ll say, before it happens. He won’t panic if he has his script.”

Antoni hums. Wordlessly, he shifts around until he’s facing the same direction as Jake, pulling his legs up and off to one side, bent so his heels touch his leg. He leans against Jake, resting his head on that broad shoulder, on the soft t-shirt Jake wears. Jake stays right where he is, and doesn’t pull at Antoni, or try to touch him any more than this.

The silence between them is a comfortable one.

After a while, Antoni says softly, “Kasha will imagine me saying all the worst things I could say. Things I would never say. He will write his script and it will not be at all how I will really be to him. He knows that, and he will write the script like that anyway.”

“Yeah. But when you don’t say any of those things, it’ll be a pleasant surprise, right?”

They both laugh again, more air than sound, and Jake tips his head to the side until his cheek rests against Antoni’s hair.

“You know him well,” Antoni points out.

“I should, by now. I know you pretty well, too.”

“Hm. And what do you know about me?” It’s not quite teasing, not quite flirting, but somewhere near those things.

“I know that you need time and space after you’re frightened, or angry, or hurt, and that you felt backed into a corner when Kauri kept pushing. I know that there’s absolutely no way you say what he thinks you said, because I know you, and he does, too. I know that once he calms down he’ll realize that it wasn’t what he thought, and he’ll come apologize to you. And I know you’ll try to apologize, too, and I want you to know me well enough to know what I’m going to say to that.”

Antoni thinks that over. “Not to?”

“Exactly. Don’t apologize for this. You didn’t say a damn thing to hurt him, so far as I can tell, and what hurt Kauri was all the things he thought you were saying, not what you said. He hears you say this thing was bad to me and he hears but it was different for you, and that’s not what you said. He’s… he can be like that, sometimes. Like you said-“

“He hears the worst, because the worst used to be what was said to him always.”

“Yeah. Exactly that. Plus, he’s… he’s better at apologies if he gets to think it through first, take some time. And you’re better if you have time to expect the talk before it starts.”

“Hm. You do know us both well.”

“Course I do. I love you both. Knowing you is kind of part of my whole… reason for living at this point.”

Antoni laughs, feeling the rush of blood to his face. It’s never stopped feeling strange to have that feeling come from Jake’s soft, sweet tenderness and not from Mr. Davies and his endless humiliations. “Jasha… will he forgive me? For hurting him?”

“He probably already has, and he needs to go out there and wallow for a while in understanding how he hurt you. Then he’ll write his script, come back, and I’ll make you both a drink. Can I give you some advice, though, for that?”

“What?”

“Tell him you still love him, first. Before you let him say anything. Make sure he knows that you love him, even if he upset you, that it doesn’t mean everything else is gone.”

“He thinks I do not love him?” Antoni feels something chilled and cold, within himself, at that. “Jake, I-”

“No, no that’s not what I’m saying. He knows you do, he does, just... he’s scared you won’t, anyway. He always is, every time there’s a fight, every time someone raises their voice… Ant… when you’ve been, uh. Hurt. By people you loved and trusted, who were supposed to take care of you…”

His voice softens, and Antoni watches how his jaw works, how hard he fights to keep speaking, pushing through.

“… that feeling, that every screw up will mean they’ll pull back and stop caring about you… that feeling doesn’t go away. It never goes away.” Jake swallows, and Antoni tilts his chin up to watch his Adam’s apple move, how he blinks a little more rapidly. “Not all the way. No amount of therapy can stop your body from trying to survive, and when you learn, deep down where your blood runs, where your heart beats, that you’re never safe, not even with the people you love…”

“You never learn how to be safe, even when you are,” Antoni finishes for him, and watches Jake press his lips together and nod, just a little. A short, sharp jerk of his chin. “I know. I do not want Kasha to think I could do anything but love him, in my way.”

“It’s not because of you, or anything you do. It’s because… shit. You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Antoni closes his eyes again, letting Jake have the tears in his eyes unseen. Pretending they go unnoticed. “I will tell him I love him, no matter what, and that the talk is not about loving him but about what hurt.”

“But don’t apologize. It’s not your fault that he’s been made to be scared, and it’s not your fault that he heard something he didn’t know before.”

“I should have told you both a long time ago,” Antoni says, and finds himself leaning into Jake’s comfortable presence more than he has in so long he can’t remember if it’s ever happened before, this comfortably. “But I could never find the words to say. And then it had been so long… I just wanted to forget.”

“Does your therapist know?” Jake’s voice is slightly husky.

“… no. I did not tell her-… I did not want to.”

“Promise me something, Antosha.” Jake turns and presses a kiss to Antoni’s unruly dark hair. His lips graze down to Antoni’s scalp. “Promise me you’ll tell her, at least. You never have to say another word about it to me, or to Kauri, or anyone at all, but tell her.”

Antoni is silent.

“Ant, please…”

“I will tell her. I promise.” He moves his right hand to hook his pinky around Jake’s. “Pinky promise, like the children say at the park. Who all is in the house?”

“Jameson’s gone back to Nat’s. Allyn’s here, Sarita and Nova are with them downstairs watching TV. Eli is in his room doing… whatever Eli does in there all the time. Probably talking to Nine for seven hours on facetime again. What do you even talk about for that long?”

“You do not talk. You be as near to each other as you can, and when you look, you see the person you are looking for, every time.”

It’s Jake’s turn to fall quiet. They sit in silence for a while, Jake scrolling through his phone, Antoni with his eyes closed. He drifts, not quite comfortable enough to fall asleep, but realizing he’s held himself so tense, muscles locked, that he feels like he’s run several miles and just sat down to rest.

Ten minutes might pass that way, or fifteen.

“It is why I wear the ring,” Antoni says suddenly, looking down at his bandage, the silvery platinum peeking out above the top of the gauze.

“What?” Jake blinks, and looks over just as Antoni tips his head up. “What’s why?”

The kiss they share is quiet, and soft, and Antoni realizes he hasn’t smelled the cloves since Jake came in here. Only Jake’s cologne, and the scent of his body beneath, the laundry detergent in his clothes. His mouth is warm, and Antoni’s skin doesn’t crawl, it only meets that warmth with its own.

Then he pulls back, and smiles, their foreheads just touching, close enough to kiss again. But he doesn’t.

And Jake doesn’t try.

“I wear the ring,” Antoni whispers, “Because every time I look at it, it is like seeing the people I am always looking for.”

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

#whump ocs #fluff #hurt/comfort #comf #fluffy stuff #come get y'all qpr #antoni sings lullabies #jake the shelter guy #referenced abusive relationship #referenced child abuse #trauma recovery tw #recovering whumpee #angst and fluff #angst #whump

[pbiskillingmehere]

Antony x Maeve Modern AU Drabble (Pt. 2)

“Let’s get to know each other over dinner.”

Tags: @claudevonstruke @bacchantony @choicesarehard@give-me-ernest-sinclaire @regina-and-happiness @simsvetements  @thechoicesvita

Part 1 is here ya’ll!

If Antony had it his way, he would sweep up the beautiful girl in his arms and carry her to one of the empty rooms in the house, or even back to his place. But she slid out of his embrace, her bet with her friends satisfied, and began to leave,

“Retreating, are we?” he called to her back as she went, smiling when she spun on her heels back towards him.

She shifted her jaw in annoyance, then took a few steps back towards him. “First, I do not retreat. Second, I’m done, so what reason would I have to stay?” she replied haughtily.

He reached forward and traced the shape of her cheek. “I can think of a few, especially after hearing some of the sounds you were just making.” 

She pushed his hand aside. “Fuck off,” she said with a roll of her eyes, but as she turned back around she couldn’t hide her wry smile.

He laughed. “Are you going to tell me your name at least?”

This time, she didn’t turn around, and then she was gone. 

He asked a few people if they knew anything about her, giving her vague description to them. Most said they couldn’t help him, or were drunk beyond coherence.

Brutus seemed to know who she was. He was sitting on the couch a pretty girl in a purple dress on his lap, her waist in one hand and a beer in the other. “Might be the new girl. Heard she moved here from Germany or something. Super hot,” he drawled. 

“She’s not that pretty,” the girl on Brutus’s knee said, flipping a braid over her shoulder. “She’s actually kind of a bitch.”

Antony gave them a bored smile to hide the anger that they sparked in him. “Yes, and you would know, wouldn’t you, Xanthe?” Not bothering to see her shocked expression, he walked away in frustration. 

He was leaving the upstairs bathroom when she found him again. There was a clear “no people upstairs” policy at the house, but Antony was an exception of course, and he preferred to used the bathroom that wasn’t covered in vomit at the moment. After he shut the door behind him, he caught sight of her by the stairs, face impassive.

She was just a lovely as before, but this time she appeared to be a bit more out of sorts. Her ponytail was a little less sleek, her cheeks a little rosier, and her shirt was askew, nearly revealing the entire lacey cup of her bra.

“Hello again—“

“Bathroom?” she said, nodding to the door.

Antony blinked. This was unexpected. “Yeah?” Was she going to pretend like the kiss downstairs didn’t happen?

She nodded. “Is it clean?”

What the fuck was this conversation? “Cleaner then downstairs,” he said with careful confusion. 

“Good.” Then she stalked toward him, gliding past as she slipped into the bathroom. “Well, are you coming or not?”

When fully realization hit Antony, he didn’t need to be asked twice.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, she pushed him back against it by his shoulders and stared him in the eye, unflinching. “Are you drunk?”

Green. Her eyes were a shade of deep animated jade that he had never seen before. “That kiss from earlier certainly sobered me up,” he said with a half-smile.

She continued staring with those eyes.

“I’m not drunk,” he said seriously. 

As soon as he finished speaking, she gripped his shoulders and devoured him. 

Her lips were so soft to the touch but hard and demanding as she pressed them harshly to his. Antony moaned as her tongue slid against his, and he was suddenly lost in the movements of her mouth and the delicious scent of her perfume. For the second time that night, his arm banded around her waist and pressed her body against his. Growling, she hiked her leg around his hip, and he gripped her thigh without missing a beat, pulling her even closer to feel what she was doing to him. 

She moaned when she felt his hardness against her, grinding her pelvis against him involuntarily. Antony hissed, sliding his hand from her thigh to her ass. In retaliation, she bit his lip. His hand snaked under her shirt to undo the clasp on that goddamn bra, but she slapped his hand away. Antony couldn’t help but smile against her lips at her fire, the control she demanded. No one had ever been like this with him before. 

She pulled back and practically gripped him by the collar. “I--” Her lips brushed his jaw. “Don’t--” She bit his neck. “Retreat.” Then she was on her knees and undoing his belt. 

The sight of her kneeling and flushed and eagerly undoing his pants drove Antony absolutely mad, his need pumping through his veins. “By all means, prove me wrong.” 

“Shut up,” she said, but her eyes were on his waistline has she freed his cock. Then she gave him a long lick and his head was back against the door. 

Despite how fast she was moving a moment ago, she took him into her wet mouth slowly, tortuously. He wasn’t sure if he should hate her or love her for it.  

His hand came to tangle in her hair, encouraging her as she began bobbing her head. He grunted, resisting the urge to thrust into her mouth and risk scaring her off with being too rough. Instead, he dragged his fingers from her hair to lightly brush down her neck, tracing slowly over her to play with the strap of her shirt, only to glide back up once more, trying to focus despite how good her lips felt around him. 

She hummed around his cock, the vibrations nearly sending him reeling. Then she met his eyes, pupils dilated with lust, telling him without words how much she wanted to do this.

She began picking up the pace, hollowing her cheeks as she did so. Her hand caressed up across his abdomen, and the groan that escaped him was animalistic and wanting. His grip on her hair tightened, unused to being at someone else’s mercy. The novelty of this stranger having such dominion over him along with a flick of her tongue pushed him over the edge, only giving him a brief chance to warn her before he was spilling into her mouth. 

She took it with an expertise that he chose not to dwell on, and as he came down, she released him with a wet sound that nearly made him hard again. 

She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her hair as she rose to her feet, color high on her cheeks but her face unreadable. He couldn’t quite figure her out. She had gone from kissing him to rejecting him to giving him one of the best blowjobs of his life in a single evening. Antony would puzzle out this woman if it killed him.

“As you can imagine, now I really want to know your name,” he chuckled as he fixed his pants. 

She huffed a laugh. “Fair. I’m Maeve.”

“Antony,” he replied, fixing her ponytail over her shoulder. 

“I know who you are.” Her eyes glinted as she tilted her head in a feline sort of gesture. 

Perfect. “All good things I’m sure.” 

“All good things to know, rather,” she shot back effortlessly.

He caressed the side of her jaw, not unlike how he touched her earlier. “Seems a little unfair, don’t you think? For you to apparently know so much about me and I only know your name.”

She raised a brow. “I saw you talking to Xanthe. I’m sure she would be more than happy to tell you all about me,” she quipped, her dislike for the girl evident. 

So she had kept track of him. Interesting. Pulling a mischievous smile, he purred, “I prefer experience to rumor, And if you give me just a few moments, I would be more than happy give us both some more experiences.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at him, frowning. “I’m not going to fuck you on a sink that looks like it’ll fall apart if I stare at it for too long. Besides, my friends are leaving soon.”

As much as he wanted to step in front of the door to get her to stay, he didn’t want to make her feel trapped with him. He had to go for persuasion instead. “Are you really the sort of woman to not take exactly what she gives?” His thumb brushed her bottom lip. 

“Considering you just learned my name about a minute, I wouldn’t say you know me well enough to say what sort of woman I am.” She moved to poke him in the chest. 

He caught her hand and nibbled the inside of her wrist. “Let’s get to know each other over dinner, then.”

Her brows raised suspiciously. “Of all the things I’ve heard about you, being the dinner date type wasn’t one of them.”

He wasn’t, but getting dinner with her was immensely appealing. “Can you blame a guy for wanting to see you outside of a bathroom at a house party?”

She snorted. “Smooth.”

“Thank you.” He held out his hand expectantly.

Rolling her eyes, she handed over her phone. “Drinks. No dinner.”

“Drinks, and a stop at the food truck on 9th.”

She pursed her full lips. “Deal. And I’m not sharing my Greek fries.”

He laughed.“Sounds fair. Besides, I need to make up for my bad behavior,” he said as he tapped in information into her phone.

“Care to elaborate?”

He leaned his head down, lips brushing her cheek in the lightest of touches. “I usually make sure a woman comes before I do. You…caught me by surprise,” he whispered next to her ear.

She stepped around him to make for the door. “I’ll be sure to give you ample warning next time.”

Next time.

“Also,” she turned her face towards his, their mouths inches away from one another. “If you brag to your fuckboy frat buddies about this, I’ll chop your cock off.” 

“I would expect nothing less.”

#marc antony x mc #playchoices acor #playchoices #modern au #mc x marc antony #choices acor #choices marc antony #ACOR #My fic

[thalia-amongst-the-thorns]

Dinner and a Show

Thought I’d post something I wrote recent-ish, a continuation with my characters Indigo the incubus and Rosemary the hedgewitch who I wrote about a long time ago here!

Warning that it gets very explicit, so brace yourself...

                                                      _________

Something was off about Indigo. Rosemary couldn’t put her finger on what it was exactly,  but a cloud of oddness had hung around him all day regardless. Maybe it was because he hadn’t put up a fuss when Poppy had picked a truly sappy rom-com for tonight’s dinner-and-a-show (under the pretense of torturing Rosemary with boredom, Poppy would never admit to actually having something so icky as feelings). Or maybe because he hadn’t said much of anything the whole day, not even a peep when Rosemary asked him to tag along into town to help make home deliveries and the Widow Powell (16 ounces Drought of Peace, 8 ounces Cheer and Charm weekly) had made eyes at him like a woman half her age and with her original hips intact. 

Of course, the ultimate tell something was wrong was when Poppy actually noticed something beyond her phone screen.

“I liked his look this morning better.”

Rosemary frowned, running a dish towel over a worn mug in the shape of a smiling frog. “Whose look?”

Somehow Poppy managed to make blowing her bangs out of her eyes into an irritated gesture. She jerked one thumb back towards the living room where Indigo was cleaning up the remains of their Thai takeout, her other hand never skipping a beat as it tip-tapped on her phone, her hip resting against the kitchen counter because of course standing up straight was just too much effort.

“Indigo?” Rosemary put the mug down pointedly with more force than probably necessary. Dish duty was supposed to be a two person task. At least, it used to be. “Looks the same to me. Good thing too, it took him forever to settle on a permanent human form.” 

Bang blow paired with an eye roll. “Nuh-huh. His hair is shorter now. And his chin’s wider. Kinda like an Indian Rami Malek.”

Really? Rosemary quickly glanced through the door but Indigo’s back was to them, his dark hair up in a messy bun. She shook her head and plunged her hands back into the sudsy dish water, annoyed at herself for letting her sister get under her skin.

“Now you’re just making stuff up.”

“You didn’t even look at him!” Poppy actually glanced up from her screen, wiggling her eyebrows in a suggestive manner that was not at all appropriate for someone her age. “Come on, I know you want to.”

“Poppy!” 

“What? It’s not my fault you’ve got a stick so far up your ass you can’t see--!”

“Poppy!” Rosemary’s face burned so hot she was surprised the water didn’t evaporate at her touch. “Watch your tongue girl, you do not get to talk to me like that under my roof!”

The old cold look settled over Poppy’s face and she straightened to her full height, glowering down, hands clenched into trembling fists at her sides. Rosemary met her glare head on, face hot and dangerous. She’d been on the receiving end of many (really, most) of Poppy’s Looks and was no slouch herself. For generations the Baxter women had always had just one of those faces that made grown men worship them as goddesses or run for the hills. The two sisters took after the latter.

Poppy’s left eye twitched. She always broke first.

“Fine. Whatever.” She stomped to the backdoor, voice dripping with sarcasm as she yanked it open. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Out.” Nose wrinkling, Poppy shot Rosemary a withering look over her shoulder. “Preferably somewhere where people are mature enough to get off their high horse and fuck when they want to.”

Rosemary barely registered the door slamming behind her sister, the blood was pounding so loudly in her ears it hurt. She wanted to scream. Smash all the pathetic little knick-knacks on the drying board into powder. Mix up a boiling cauldron of Elixir of Blood Rot and flood the streets.

Instead, she breathed steadily through her nose and finished washing and drying dishes.

The flush would fade from her cheeks only to return stronger as she replayed Poppy’s infuriatingly knowing look, her words that cut deep like only a sister’s could. Damn that girl. She was goddamn sixteen and had no business saying things like that to her. Especially about Indigo. It wasn’t Rosemary’s fault the demon was living with them, it wasn’t even Indigo’s fault really (not that she’d admit it to him). Just yet another one of Poppy’s messes for her to clean up after.

“So…”

Rosemary flinched so badly she almost dropped the last plate in her hands. Indigo leaned against the doorframe behind her, the living room spotless behind him.

“Is this the kind of human thing where you want to talk about it, or should I just gracefully pretend I was momentarily deaf and did not hear charming Poppy cuss you out and storm off into the night?”

“I…” Rosemary hesitated, took her time putting the plate away. Why was she hesitating? You didn’t talk to demons about your feelings. Especially an incubus. That was just asking for all sorts of trouble. “The latter this time, I think.”

“Fair enough.” Something flickered behind his eyes, but before Rosemary could register what it was a smile was stretched across his lips. “You want to watch some Queer Eye? The next season just dropped and I hear the episode with the single dad with the figure skating daughter is super adorable.”

Again, she hesitated. The dinner-and-a-show Saturdays were more for Poppy’s sake, the facade of a family dinner without the family. Ignoring tonight’s explosive finish, usually the night ended with Poppy vanishing upstairs into the depths of her room while Rosemary checked on the potions that needed to stew overnight and wracked her brain over the store’s finances before passing out on top of her bedsheets fully clothed and Indigo planted himself on the couch for his usual twelve plus hours of media consumption. Demons didn’t need sleep and the bonding curse made it impossible for him to leave the house unless Rosemary did, but he didn’t usually ask her to stay up with him. She’d made it clear she had too much work, too much stress for such things.

Indigo wiggled his eyebrows, his voice dropping into mock-seductive tones. “Come on, you know you want to see Jonathan Van Ness in ice skates.”

Well, that did sound fun. And a good distraction from angry little sisters who didn’t know what they were talking about.

“Sure.” She grabbed a bag of the horrible pickle popcorn Indigo was so fond of from the back of the cabinet and tossed it into his eager hands. “Might as well cut loose, not like there are any orders to babysit tonight anyway.” 

Of course, no new orders was its own kind of problem, but it was best not to dwell on that now.

Despite herself, Rosemary couldn’t help casting a side glance at Indigo as she followed him back into the living room. He definitely looked the same from this morning. Perfect brown skin, long hooked nose in a long face. Perfect hair, long, dark and glossy, piled on his head in a tousled bun that somehow made him look relaxed instead of disheveled. Perfect teeth, perfectly fitted button down shirt and jeans on his perfect trim body. Perfectly perfect. It’s what incubus did best.

… It was possible that maybe he was a little shorter. But everyone was tall when it came to Rosemary so she hardly paid attention to that sort of thing. And with his hair up there was no way to know if that was different…

Damn it Poppy. What did it matter if Indigo had changed? At least he was still human shaped. He used to change all the time when he’d first been summoned, trying to suit the tastes of those around him. Men, women, tall, short, muscular, willowy and all variations between and beyond. It was only after Rosemary had lectured him about how she refused to let the neighbors believe she was running a harem out of her basement that Indigo had given in and settled on his current form for going about the town. It was only natural he’d keep wearing it in private, helped to maintain the charade of humanity just in case.

Indigo queued up the television, Queer Eye’s peppy intro music filling and numbing Rosemary’s head, and the two of them settled onto opposite sides of the couch. Indigo ripped open the popcorn bag and had already emptied half of it into his mouth within the first five minutes while Rosemary curled her legs up and balanced her chin on her knees, distracting herself with five fabulous men who changed lives and hearts in forty-five minutes of less.

… And yet she found her eyes wandering over to Indigo, who thankfully kept his own gaze glued to the screen. He seemed fine. In fact, he’d been remarkably well behaved for the past few weeks. Quieter, less prone to innuendo and suggestive talk with customers in the shop. No secret flirtations or temptations, no transforming into a demon from the depths of hell and consuming souls…

A thought niggled at the back of Rosemary’s mind. When was the last time she’d seen Indigo in his true form? She’d lectured him about it two, three weeks ago? When she’d caught him skulking with Poppy in her room playing video games with, well, everything hanging out (wings, tail, horns, the whole mess). He hadn’t actually been naked, thank god, but it still didn’t seem appropriate and some boundaries had to be maintained. Guess he’d taken it to heart.

Her mind tuned in and out of the show, her shoulders hunching and knees hugged closer to her chest, vaguely registering that Jonathan was sporting a cute stubble look this season. Antoni showed the hero of the episode how to make cinnamon apple pancakes to fill the riff between him and his daughter. Bobby refurbished the home with snowy throw pillows and decorative mason jars. People laughed and no one raised their voice. 

Something brushed the back of her neck and Rosemary squeaked in alarm, hand swatting out before she actually looked over to find Indigo now right next to her with a bemused expression verging on embarrassment. His hand hovered awkwardly just above her shoulder.

“Sorry”, he said, “should have asked first, you just looked so tense…”

The muscles in her neck practically screamed as Rosemary looked down at the curled pretzel her body had formed. Now that he’d said something about it she could feel the tightness in her upper back, the subtle pounding of her temples that had started when Poppy left and hadn’t let up. 

“I’m very good at back rubs,'' Indigo said shamelessly and Rosemary rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” she sighed, but shifted over slightly so that her back faced him. She didn’t know if it was true for all incubus, but Indigo had always been exceptionally touchy-feely from the start, and not just in a sexual sense. He always wanted to hold hands, run his fingers through your hair, rest his head on your shoulder. It probably wasn’t a good idea to encourage him, but, well, he just looked so miserable when you said no and Rosemary wasn’t heartless.

Large, warm hands worked at the knots in her shoulders, pressing at just the right points so that goosebumps swept down her arms. Instantly she felt the layers of tension melt away, her head hanging down loosely and eyelids drooping. Indigo worked his way up her back, delicately kneading the nape of her neck and running his fingers through her thick afro before tickling her scalp with his nails. Little tingles of pleasure spread through her at his touch, warm and fuzzy.

Damn, he was good.

The show’s closing credits started up in the background and abruptly Indigo’s hands were gone and she heard him shift over and stand. Warmth still lingered along her skin from his touch and Rosemary had to bite her tongue to stop an annoyed huff from escaping her lips.

“Do you want to watch the next episode,” Indigo asked over his shoulder, crouched by the television. Rosemary nodded, trying to put casual indifference into the gesture even as she hoped he’d pick up where he left off on her. He smiled and plopped down next to her, disturbing the cushions so that Rosemary unbalanced and awkwardly slid over into his side. As if it was the most natural thing in the world Indigo laughed and hooked his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in so that Rosemary’s cheek rested against the crook of his neck.

Well. This is what she got for encouraging him. Damn, touchy-feely incubus.

Nothing to do but ride it out. Rosemary sighed and moved her arm into a more comfortable position so that it draped over Indigo’s lap. At least Indigo was cozy, his body pleasantly toasty, a faint musky, spicy scent coming off his skin and hair.

They watched the next episode in comfortable silence. Absentmindedly, Indigo began running his fingers through her thick hair again, gently teasing out mauve kinks and knots. He brushed a few stray hairs out of her face, thumb ghosting her lips, and Rosemary flinched. She felt his body tense, hand instantly gone from her hair. 

“Sorry.”

“No”, she said too quickly and mentally kicked herself. “It’s fine. Just surprised me.”

His muscles relaxed again but he kept his hands to himself. Regret chased by confusion mixed around in the pit of Rosemary’s stomach.

The episode was almost over when he spoke up again.

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

Rosemary glanced at the small, inconspicuous pendant of carnelian and amethyst perched on the mantel. It hadn’t moved all evening.

“I know she is.”

“She means well.”

Rosemary laughed, a short, bitter sound. “Oh no, she does not. She’s at that rebellious teenage stage where she realizes that words hurt and she can use them too.”

She was so close to him that Rosemary could hear the contemplative hum at the back of Indigo’s throat.

“Maybe. But she’s also trying to be heard and doesn’t feel like you’re listening. The only time you do seem to listen is when she hurts you.”

“I really don’t want to talk about this with you,” Rosemary said curtly. It was bad enough failing at parenting without the demon telling her she was failing.

Her head bobbed up and down as Indigo’s shoulders shrugged under her. “Hey, I’m the one who can read emotions. Your loss if you don’t want to exploit that.”

“Please, there’s only one emotion you care about.”

Indigo grunted. “I care about plenty of things.”

“Me, myself, and I are all one thing Indie”, Rosemary teased, but Indigo didn’t laugh. She craned her head back so that she could look at him, the glow of the television casting the stubble on his face into shadow. “Indigo?”

“I care about making sure the shop stays open,” Indigo said slowly, eyes fixed ahead at the screen. “I care about Poppy and making sure she stays safe even if she doesn’t want to. I care about making you safe and happy.” An odd look passed over his face and his arm tightened around her so that Rosemary’s temple brushed against his rough chin.

All the blood in her body seemed to be traveling to her head very quickly and Rosemary blurted out the first thing that floated through the mess of her mind. “Since when did you have stubble?”

“Huh?” Indigo stroked his cheek, seemingly just as surprised as her. The odd look passed over his face but Rosemary caught it this time. Guilt.

Stubble. Rami Malek’s bone structure--

“You’re doing the thing!” Rosemary broke out of Indigo’s arms and jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest. 

“What ‘thing’?”

“The thing,” she cried. “Looking at my heart’s deepest desires and twisting them to tempt me into- into fucking my soul out so you can eat it! The thing you swore not to do ever no matter what!”

“I’m not trying to do it,” Indigo snapped back, surprising Rosemary with his fervor. Indigo had never yelled before. In fact, she’d never even seen him really upset before. Not like now; he sprung up from the couch and paced, actually pulling at his hair so that it came undone and hung down to his waist.

“I- I don’t think you understand just how confusing all of this is,” he continued. “I’m used to coming and going whenever I’m hungry. I don’t stick around, why would I want to, people are so boring when they’re not fucking, all that eating and sleeping and talking about nothing at all…” He waved his hands, taking in her and the whole house. “But then you came along and I had no choice but to stay and find out just how wrong I was about everything. And now I’m feeling all of these- these things that I’m not used to feeling and I don’t know what to do with them.” In an instant he bounded forward and grabbed Rosemary’s hands up in his own. “I-I want you to be happy but I don’t know how to do that.” Seamlessly his body seemed to melt and fade, shrinking and reforming into a dead ringer for Rami Melek, eyes wide and frenzied. 

Rosemary’s mouth popped open in surprise and Indigo-Rami frowned, eyes raking her up and down but not not finding what they were looking for. 

“No, no, no,” he mumbled, body once again melting, hips widening, breast swelling until a shapely woman with freckles along her nose and waves of auburn hair clutched at Rosemary’s hands. 

“No no no”, Indigo wailed again, the sound shaking Rosemary out of her stuper. 

“Indigo, stop,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, reassuring, “please. I don’t want you to do this.”

“But you liked it.” Indigo glanced up at her through a curtain of hair, breaths short but steadier now. “You liked that form.”

“Yes”, Rosemary admitted, “I did. But you know how you want me to be happy? Well--” she swallowed, throat suddenly dry, “- I want you to be happy too. And right now I can tell that this is not making you happy.” She ran her thumbs over the back of Indigo’s now small, pale hands thoughtfully. “Indigo… what do you want to look like?”

Indigo blinked in confusion. “Whatever you want.”

“No, not like--!” Rosemary caught herself and took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you want to do that it’s fine Indigo, but I meant what form you would feel most comfortable in right now.”

His brow furrowed, and at first Rosemary worried that she still hadn’t gotten through to Indigo. Maybe she couldn’t; when your whole purpose was catering to others’ desires, it made sense that you’d lose track of your own. After a moment though his form shifted again, taller and taller until his head almost brushed the ceiling and a pair of horns curled up and out from his forehead. His chest flattened and broadened, the clothes melting into his body and his skin darkening into a soft purple that deepened at his elbows to a rich black at his now clawed hands. A tail extended from the base of his spine topped with a coil of dark hair and a pair of immature wings, spiny and batlike, burst from his back.

The incubus stared down at Rosemary with golden eyes, lips pulling back from tusked teeth in a small grin.

“Better?”

“Yeah”, Indigo murmured, his voice deeper in his demonic form. He ran his claws through his still long hair, felt his horns gingerly. “It’s been a while…”

Guilt twisted painfully in Rosemary’s gut. “I’m sorry Indigo, I shouldn’t have made you change what you looked like just so that I, god I don’t know anymore, felt more comfortable…” She trailed off lamely. It really felt like a dick move when she said it out loud. 

Indigo smirked, the expression somehow enhanced by his tusks. “Please, you didn’t make me do anything. I just thought you’d prefer something more human over this.” He gestured at his body, claws trancing down his chiseled torso. Really, it wasn’t Rosemary’s fault her eyes lingered on his abs. Given that he was at least a good two feet taller than her now she was either staring his abs or straining her neck again to see his face. Not that he’d notice her noticing. Hopefully.

Indigo’s head cocked curiously.

Oh no.

“What?” Was what Rosemary tried to say. What actually came out was a pathetic squeak.

Oh no.

In a surprisingly fluid movement Indigo knelt down so that they were at eye level. Rosemary sank deeper into the couch, casually meeting his golden eyes and determinedly  thinking pure thoughts. Ever so slowly, a leer spread across the incubus’s face.

“Do you see something you like,” he asked and Rosemary burned at the smug satisfaction in his voice.

“I-I-,” she stammered, her mouth, the traitor, going bone dry. 

“You said you wanted to make me happy too,” Indigo said slowly, weighing the words on his tongue. A smile, earnest and happy, broke over his face and something fluttered painfully inside Rosemary chest. “Well, I know what would make me very, very happy…”

“I bet you do”, Rosemary managed to mutter and Indigo chuckled. Even his breath smelled good in this form, the same pleasant warm musk of his skin…

“Only if you say you want it too,” he said.

Rosemary squirmed uncomfortably, tried to keep the accusation out of her voice. “How do I know it’s what I want? Can’t you just make me…?”

She was immensely thankful that Indigo didn’t look hurt at the question, instead growing sober, eyes intense. “No. I wouldn’t do that, and I couldn’t if I wanted to. The whole point of an incubus is to tempt, to dangle humans’ carnal desires right under their noses, but the human still has to make the decision to pursue it. Comes with the whole free will thing. The sin has to be freely chosen.” 

He ran a claw delicately down the center of Rosemary’s face, traced the curve of her nose and lips.

“And my-my soul,” Rosemary whispered once she’d found her train of thought again.

“I can feed off of other things,” Indigo said, eyes trailing over her body longingly and Rosemary shivered. “It’s been a while since I last had a meal though, so best to warn you that I’ll be very enthusiastic…”

Rosemary’s head was swimming, drowning in gold and desire. It had to be a trick, some incubus trap to leave her weak and vulnerable. But… even when Indigo wasn’t around her, when she was out of reach of his potential influence, she knew how she felt about him even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself. How she’d grown to enjoy his company, to depend on him, to trust him to watch over Poppy. And even if it was a trick, it was still her choice to make. 

So, what did she want?

“You better be hungry,” Rosemary said, leaning forward so there was barely an inch between their faces. “Because I am a dish.”

She cut off Indigo’s laugh with her lips, pressing her body against his. He tasted like heat and salt and surprisingly of cinnamon on the back of her tongue, his tusks tugging at her lips.

“And here I thought I was the eager one,” he murmured when at last they broke away.

“Try to keep up.”

Indigo’s eyes flashed, and a growl built in the depths of his chest. Rosemary swallowed. Oh dear. That might have been a bit more forward than she’d intended-- 

All at once Indigo had wrapped his large hands around her waist and picked her up, pressing her pelvis to his chest so Rosemary had no choice but to wrap her legs around his torso. Rosemary gasped. She was what she liked to call ‘solidly built’, with thick arms and legs and a stomach she preferred not to dwell on, but Indigo was able to hold her effortlessly while his mouth got to work on her neck, nibbling and moaning against her suddenly very sensitive skin.

Not be outdone she threw her hips back and down, rocking as best she could in Indigo’s firm grasp, grinding against his crotch. She could feel the length of him hardening under her and he paused in his ministrations to groan into her ear.

“Not yet.”

With ease he rolled down onto the ground so that she was pinned under him, his grinning face right above hers. There was a crash as the coffee table was unceremoniously kicked away to make room. God, she’d never really appreciated how damn big he was, his form filling her vision completely.

“Not till I’m done with you,” he growled and Rosemary whimpered, heart racing.

Claws, so gentle before, hooked under her shirt and ripped the offending fabric away, revealing the pale blue bra underneath. A blush rose in Rosemary’s cheeks. There was a lacey black bra with matching panties gathering dust somewhere in her dresser, something more appropriate. Indigo had probably fucked underwear models for God’s sake, what did she think she was doing--

Indigo leaned down and pressed his mouth to her breast and Rosemary gasped. His tongue (how had she never appreciated it before?) pressed against the flimsy material of her bra, tracing circles around her hardening nimple. She squirmed and he chuckled, nipping playfully at her nipple, the pain cutting through Rosemary like a warm knife and spreading down her body to between her legs. Indigo moved on to her other breast with that marvelous tongue of his, and Rosemary grasped forward blindly, latching onto his horns with both hands and bracing herself as the intense heat and pain coursed through her again. He gave her a moment to catch her breath, nuzzling against her chest and leaving a trail of kissing along her collar bone.

“Beautiful”, he murmured against her skin and Rosemary beamed.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

She felt his lips smile against her neck before he shifted downward and she was forced to let go of his horns, his mouth now at her chest, her stomach, her hips. His hands grasped her shoulders, claws prickling wonderfully and painfully, pinning her with ease. He straightened up, straddling her, and Rosemary was pretty sure it was only because of his amazing thigh muscles that she wasn’t being crushed flat by his sheer immensity. 

Indigo’s tail flicked around his hip and disappeared from view below. Something tugged at her pants and automatically Rosemary tried to sit up. Indigo’s hands squeezed slightly, a casual show of strength, and Rosemary couldn’t move an inch.  

He sniggered. “Not until I’m done, right?”

“Right,” Rosemary gulped. How had she never realized how strong he was, how firm and steady? She was too used to being in charge, running the store and him trailing behind, the loyal assistant. It was rather enjoyable to have the roles reversed for once.

The thing continued to tug at the button of her jeans, and out of the corner of her eye Rosemary could just see Indigo’s tail coiling and uncoiling in time with the sensation. After a moment there was a release at her hips as the button came undone and Indigo deftly threaded his tail through a belt loop, pulling her jeans down and exposing her pink panties.

“What else can that tail do,” she laughed. 

A wicked look broke over Indigo’s face. Something soft tickled between Rosemary’s thighs, teasing her lips down there and sending waves of heat coursing through her. A moan slipped out of her throat and Indigo smirked.

“Now, now, we’re just getting to the fun part,” he chided, head disappearing between her legs. Rosemary bent her legs out slightly to accommodate his horns, limbs awkward and unsure, before Indigo reached out and carefully guided her knees so that they were braced against his horns instead. Rosemary opened her mouth to thank him when the words became a shriek of delight as his tongue played at the outside of her panties, pressing the fabric roughly against her as he traced her labia steadily. He moved inward and Rosemary could feel the warmth spreading through her, fast and strong, wetness forming between her legs.

His tusk scraped the inside of her thigh and Rosemary’s back arched in pleasure, fingers digging into the carpet. In one swift motion he grabbed her panties in his teeth and ripped them away, tossing them over on top of the sad remains of her shirt. Now with nothing separating them he took her up inside his mouth, tongue massaging her clitoris. Rosemary groaned, low and long, and one of Indigo’s hands slipped away to assist his tireless mouth, claws providing a new, deliciously abrasive sensation. 

Heat and delight rocked through her body, building and building to the point that Rosemary thought she’d burst from the sensations burning inside her. Panting, Indigo pulled his head back up, golden eyes hungry, her cum dribbling down his chin. Slowly he leaned over her, one hand tangling in her hair, the other reach down and guiding his cock inside her. 

Rosemary whimpered, reaching up and grabbing his horns again as he moved deeper inside her and then deeper still, filling her completely and still going. A moan rumbled deep in Indigo’s chest and the two of them rocked in tandem as he dived down inside her, bodies a tangle of friction and ecstasy. 

Rosemary cried out in joy, body slick with sweat. Oh, it was good, so good, him inside her, how he could reach parts of her she hadn’t realized she wanted touched. It was definitely something she could get used to.    

With a shudder Indigo released inside her, hot and thick, and Rosemary let loose a ragged scream, her nerves on fire. Her breath came in jagged gasps and Indigo slid himself out of her, his own chest heaving and glistening with sweat, hair sticking to his skin. 

It took a few seconds for Rosemary’s mind to piece itself back together, and even then all she could manage was a breathless, “Wow.”

Indigo made a pleased rumbling sound and stroked her hair away from her forehead. “I tend to have that effect.”

“I mean, I knew that, but still. Wow.”

After a few seconds Indigo peeled himself off of her and leaned his back against the couch, but before Rosemary could fully catch her breath he had scooped her up again and deposited her in his lap. His toned, strong arms pulled her close to his chest, his whole body enveloping her easily as his face nuzzled her hair.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” Rosemary said, face flushing at how quickly the answer had come. “Did you… are you hungry still?”

“I’m always hungry.” He leaned over her face and kissed her, his long hair tickling her cheeks. She could taste herself on his lips. “You are fantastic.”

Rosemary grinned and melting into his warm embrace, eyes closing.

“Care for another round?”

“Right now!” Rosemary’s eyes flew open, looking up into Indigo’s hopeful face.

“Well, ideally yes,” he admitted, “but if you prefer, maybe in a more general sense…”

“God, you’re incorrigible.” Rosemary shook her head in exasperation but the grin never left her face. “I suppose I could clear my schedule. Assuming you don’t have anything better to do.”

“Making you happy is my top priority,” Indigo said as if the words had just occurred to him. He lapsed into thoughtful silence and nodded to himself.

“Yes, uh, well…,” Rosemary mumbled, embarrassed and pleased by his earnestness, “don’t get carried away.”

Indigo made a noncommittal grunting sound and stood up, casually keeping her in his arms so that her hands were braced against his chest and he had a generous hold of her ass.

“We should probably get cleaned up.” He smirked and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “And if you’re up for it, there’s always round two...”

#My writing #Indigo the Incubus #Rosemary the Witch #monster boyfriend #exophilia #lemon #incubus

[fadingvitality]

The Red Doors Write - Pride -Texts From Last Night

*Antoni was my favorite coworker. Why he had decided to slum when he took a job at Castaways I would NEVER know. He totally had the swagger for posh, hipster, shi-shi bars in the city, but instead he ended up at the place that was a lot more rough around the edges, of course what it lacked in swank, it made up for in character. The place had charm and the patrons were exceptional. He tried to tell me it was me that sold him. I attempted to play coy, but I just didn’t do coy and I was immediately friend-smitten. Besides his adoration for me, there were several reasons Antoni was my work ride-or-die. One, he was in culinary school. HELLO. I was his favorite taste tester, most likely because I scarfed down anything that was non-ramen and raved about the flavor profiles, ingredients and how he was a kitchen God. I was not born with the ability to poker face, and subsequently he was amused by my quirky and over-the-top reactions. But the wonderment he brought to my mouth was not where his awesomeness ended.  For our second match, he, like me, was exceedingly bisexual. Not only that, we had both leaned same-sex oriented in our comparable history but had recently come to realize we weren’t meant for a singular Skittle color. Nope, we had been deprived of tasting the rainbow. Tragedy had been narrowly avoided.

It was fate. Destiny. Coworker magic.

Antoni was sooooooooooo my people. We quickly fell into the scandal of rating our patrons on a scale from would-do-sober to not-even-shitfaced.  We were the best bartenders at Castaways and Johnny knew it, which is why he had been so easily swayed to let us schedule all our shifts together for Pride month, including the cherry Friday and Saturday nights. To our delight, he handed off the responsibility of decorating to us, and we delivered.  In place of life preservers were Unicorn floaties, and I had ingeniously used rainbow ribbon purchased at the dollar store to pinstripe the walls. Antoni had swapped out some of the blue lightbulbs for all the colors of the rainbow and added a bowl of temporary Pride themed tattoos in coconut shells at the entry. 

I was too sad the end of the month was looming, because Pride could not be topped. Sexy, beautiful people celebrating love in all its forms and feeling free and proud to do so. It was never short on kinky fuckery either. The vibrations were ninety-nine percent high, with only the occasional disruption to the mood. 

Many-a-rule were overlooked during Pride, basically it was like a party we got paid to work at. Johnny said as long as we used our noggins, we could enjoy ourselves and he’d set his eyes towards the sea. Yes, he liked to be cute like that, relating everything back to the theme of his bar.  Antoni and I made a rule, no more than one drink or shot an hour. If someone was begging, we had a dummy bottle of water we’d fake a pour with. One drink an hour still allowed for a little buzz but there would be no shit-faced-drunk-and-therefore-amorous Elliot showing ass. Antoni and I did offer ourselves up shamelessly for body shots on request…and he got just as many as me, not surprising, he was smoking hot. Some of our frequenters preferred we take the shots off each other, and we always worked it. I needed rent and he was paying his own way through school. It was worth the exhibition, and it’s not like we hated it, even if we’d never go there. 

It was the last Saturday of Pride and Castaways was packed. The night was zooming by and it was already close to ten. We were well prepared for the craziness that we suspected would ensue. This was it and not a soul would waste it.  

There was one guy throwing the mojo off, though. He stuck out like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time but didn’t know how to excuse himself from the table. I couldn’t help but notice Antoni was giving him a lot of his ear, like his entire ear, and didn’t seem irritated in the least. I had to investigate. I slid a couple of vodka tonics in the direction of two boys and gave Antoni the head jerk so we could meet up in the middle of the bar. He didn’t leave me waiting, what a gent.*

Alright, spill.  What’s with the broody dude camping in front of you?

*”First…One tequila.” That was nearly a sober rating! I gave a little side-eye down the bar. Okay, he was easy on the eyes, just slightly too… sad-daddy looking. My eyebrows lifted as I silently begged for the sordid details. 

Antoni slung a towel over his shoulder and turned to wash some glasses at the sink.  “His name is Benjamin. It seems Benji has some hardcore bottom curiosity and wants to get him some before the clock strikes pumpkin to commemorate Pride. Specific, I know. And… potential complications.” Just then we both got flagged for some orders. RUDE. “Update at eleven.”

I laughed at him despite the reluctant split and we were kept apart for what seemed like an hour.  Not that it was all torture… There was tongue around my navel action courtesy of a hot little thing with pierced nipples, and blowjobs, so many blowjobs. The shot…not the act. The patron that bought a third round absolutely insisted Antoni and I both partake. He leaned in to lick some whipped cream off my neck which was more about whispering in my ear. “Okay, I agreed to give him what he wants.”*

That’s it? *I slugged him in the arm.* That is not the TEA. 

*I could see he was hiding something so he got the serious-Elliot-eyes and he coughed it up.  “He’s married, but the missus knows. SHE KNOWS.” That was the serious-Antoni-voice that said he knew it was messy but also, fuck it.*

I better be the first to hear from you post disaster, dude. 

*He smirked, full on, unabashed smirking as he walked backwards. It was a dirty weapon he wielded like a master. He could totally charm panties off with that thing, and also pound some virgin ass, or so it appeared. As the night progressed, people got louder, threw more money at us, downed an obscene amount of alcohol, and sang off key. Benji was still in the same spot, and if he’d gotten up to piss, I missed it.  As if I hadn’t endured enough suspense, Antoni gave me the puppy-dog-eyes and asked for me to close on my own. I agreed on the condition that he feed me delicious things. The deal was closed on a little handshake trend we’d picked up.

“I’ll text you.” He winked and then he was out of there with sad-daddy Benji. Luckily for me Johnny showed up twenty minutes later and hooked a thumb towards the door.

“Get out of here, Indigo. Place looks good enough and I’ll lock up.”

A Lyft ride, short walk and shower later, I was in bed and crashed hard.*

========================================================================

*I woke to my phone buzzing off the nightstand what seemed like a blink later, but I could see the sunshine peeking under my door, alerting me it was in fact, daylight.

I grabbed my phone off of the floor and saw the text alert from my precious Antoni, and holy crap! It was almost eleven! 

I thumbed over the numbers to enter my password and opened right to his text.

“Double high-fived his wife and her sister on the way out. If I’m not the best mistress ever tell me how.” I cracked up, and I really needed the salacious details pronto. I texted back. “Spill.” 

I impatiently waited as little dots teased on the screen, while silently appreciating his full sentence texting style. “TOO scandalous and detailed for text, meet me at Menotti’s and I’ll spring for your sprinkled donut.”  Drool. I tapped out what felt like a very enthusiastic reply, as it bounced out of my brain and onto the screen. “Sold. I will be there in fifteen but keep your expectations of me on the lower end.” I hit send with a laugh and popped out of bed to get dressed and out the door.*

========================================================================

*I arrived right on time and spotted Antoni at a table outside, my donut and black coffee waiting in front of the empty spot. I leaned down and dropped a kiss to his cheek, before I sat.*

Aren’t you going to eat? 

*He waved me off. “No. Already stuffed.” He shot me a look that said “don’t even” and I shut myself up with a bite of donut. “Also, you look flawless. Stop it.” Then he got right down to it. 

“So last night, I somehow ended up the priest to Benji’s confessions. He spilled it out in every detail. But the best part didn’t happen at the bar. Anyway, since Benji’s wife couldn’t really fulfill what he was looking for, her sister had suggested she let him get it somewhere else. Find a willing guy to satisfy the urges. 

Girl, we got to his place and he was eager. In a blur he was down on his knees slobbing my knob like he’d been born for the job, and then without delay splayed himself for the taking. We are talking face down, ass up, cheeks spread in invitation. NO SHAME.” 

I choked on my sip of coffee that I of course chose to take right at the moment the cheeks and spreading part of the story happened.*

But how did you end up high fiving his wife and his sister? I don’t get it!

*”Impatient! I’m getting to that! Shhh. So, after a little prep work a la sous chef, I gave him every inch I had to give. The more merciless I was, the harder he got. Heavens, he was tight. There were moans, there were obscenities, there were...giggles at the door.” My eyebrows flew up. 

“Right? So, anyway, he was too busy enjoying my cock to notice my glance over the shoulder where we had not one, but two ladies in the audience of our intimate show. I winked at them, yes, I did. I also had no shame. And then I really gave it to him, winding my hips in dramatic rotation before slamming into him hard and making him wail like a banshee. It was glorious. The smacking, the taking of virgin butthole, the way he proclaimed I satisfied him beyond wildest imagination. I came four times before his ass passed out.”*

Oh my GOD! You ho! 

*We both laughed before he kept on, because apparently he wasn’t done.”So I woke up, right? And he’s still crashed so I roam down to the kitchen. I was starved but also, I just wanted to tack on a little exclamation point to the wild night and put my culinary skills to work. 

Who do I find? The wife’s sister! She was one of the little voyeurs. Her name was Angie. Turns out Angie gave the idea to her sister, Katie, about Benji getting banged because, get this, Ang has a thing for male-male romance novels. She regaled me with stories of her favorite fictional pairings while I whipped up some eggs benedict and breakfast potatoes for the house.  We congratulated each other on likely saving a marriage. 

Benji and Katie made their appearance together. His cheeks still looked flushed, but the breakfast spread dispensed with any lingering awkwardness. We got along famously, and it was stupid comfortable. After a breakfast where Benji was notably shifting and maybe still a tiny bit shell-shocked, it was time for me to say my goodbyes. Benji got a reassuring squeeze but the ladies were waiting by the door. I told them I was glad they enjoyed the show and the high fives happened. You were my first text as soon as I hit the Lyft.”  

I was cackling. It could not be helped and the man was due a toast. I lifted my coffee cup and he held up his chai.*

To a Pride well done.

*I signature winked and he smirked. “And a Benji.”*

[kosmicdream]

Temp. FFAK Official Timeline

This is a very rough, temp timeline for FFAK. It mostly covers events that have already happened or at least have been mentioned. I dont really cover anything that is happening in the present day timeline lol. I might make edits to this in case i fucked up in places or maybe ill just do a totally new one at some point! you dont even know how messy my actual one is like my god its an ever worse horrible clusterfuck of text. (Also remember, the ffak story has no time travel so dont be worried about that sort of mindfuckery!) enjoy

Years before 1414: Whenever was 600 million years ago i dont want to do the exact math: Evil Mother is born but shes not called that at all cuz she adopts that name later in life but just know she is here and readt to party Lots of stuff happens. like idk. evolution and life. 600 mil years is a long time ok -LALALA -HUMANS AT SOME POINT COME TO BEING.and form civilization and.. all that -modern human society exist! ppl have tvs and such. -Mandragora Worms have gone ‘extinct’!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ooooo -??????????? a ton of other stuff. isnt history cool?? kicks legs, yells -mysterious worm break outs all over dmtia. bombs fall. wars. despair!  -Grant Lumberman gets a doggy at some point and loves it but then it dies and so does his family and friends and his whole city he is relocated to the Auseklis moon colony (on Dmtia’s moon!) along w/ other Vena Cavian kiddos !!!! (in yr 1414)

YEAR 1415 [Scene From Ch. 11: Pages 3161-3196, 3400-3401] Characters: Randall Aiguille - Age 20 Mr. Rotten (Which was named “Aeschylus” at the time, created by Randall) Crosshatch Unit (sort of) Rembrandt Aiguille - Age 22 Grant Lumberman (Aka, ‘Good Leadman’) - Age 14 Octavian “Otto" Silverberg - Age 15 (I was gonna type up every referenced scene like this then i was like fuck it thats too hard! lol)

Years 1416-1425 ?????????????? (most events likely will be mostly covered in a prequel series.) YEAR 1420: Crosshatch Unit first programmed/built by Randall/Rembrandt Aiguille leadman and evil mother fall in lurv at some point

YEAR 1426 Miracle Baby Crimson is Born (From Good Leadman/Evil Mother worm fuck action yeehaw)

YEAR 1427 -Crimson’s 2 eyes are removed + Evil Mother Believes they are dead and leaves Leadman to work with Tricend -Canary is Born (From Evil Mother, and a King Worm) -Hekatons are made (From The King worm that made Canary, concept of Hekatons is from Evil Mother) -July 8th: Perkons Hatches and will not let anyone near the other 4 eggs!! stay away

YEAR 1428 - Good Leadman (Age 27) and Perkons (6 months old) Meet (Happens in Jan) (Multiple scenes in ch10, continued in Ch11) Perkons turns 1 in July. -Perkons gets a hold of 1 of Crimson’s eyes at some point, turns it into a Knife.

YEAR 1429 - Perkons turns 2 in july and is a fully matured adult. Rest of the 4 hekatons eggs hatch sometime after in that year. -Dievas assumes protective guardian role for his siblings.  -Dievas meets Aeschylus. (ch11) YEAR 1430 Perkons turns 3. The rest of the first hekatons are one. During this year they mature to an adult. YEAR 1431 Lauma meets Velns, who is imprisoned. Then shortly after, Perkons confronts Lauma, she is 2, he is 4. So It took place after July 1431. He transforms the 2nd crimson eye into a Spoon in front of her.

Years 1431-1448 (specific dates not all disclosed sry): -Velns/Lauma, Dievas/Laima begin making children. baby baby baby! YEAR 1438 - Crimson (Age 11) is eaten by a Hydragora Queen worm - loosing her human body in the process but gaining a worm one instead. -Crimson runs around in a destroyed city, holding a corpse. Meets Velns who taunts them. -Lauma and Dievas make up, and have their first nest together- a Batch of A/B hybrid eggs. -Lauma is killed by Perkons -Velns is killed by Perkons (Which was also on Dmtia’s Moon, so the moon is destroyed.) -Laima is “killed” by Perkons. (Actually survived, as part of Dievas’ plan.) -Perkons confronts Dievas with the Crosshatch Unit and mention they fight for Peace and under the “Thumb” alliance. Perkons kills Dievas. (scene in ch11) -Laima escapes with A/B Eggs, as well as other hekaton eggs. (and will later form the Ghost Kingdom, which she rules as queen.) ????? many other things happen????? these were some busy years folks

YEAR 1449 -Crimson meets a Helper, Galore the Hekaton, and a Bunny worm (who will later grow up to be agent Paper) in the forests of DMTIA (Ch9) -Galore “meets" her first parents, Lauma and Velns, in some mysterious coma dream thing from listening to crims sexy magical heartbeat (also Ch9) ??????????more events happen??????????? -Galore “Dies” by exploding. Crimson witnesses it. -Bunny wormed named Cirrus “Dies” and is buried in a grave. However, she was only injured she later climbs out only to witness Crimson and Celadon leave in Crimson’s truck and it was the saddest thing ive had to draw ok. i am crying even remembering it ??????????more secret events this was yet another busy and traumatizing year for crimson????????????? -Months later, Crimson (age 23) has a conversation with her third mandragora heart, and ends up having a period sex masterbate-y fantasy that made many readers scream in terror when they read it.(Ch11)

Years 1450-1904 god so much stuff happens during this time, lays on the ground. i mean just fucking look at how much time that is. thats over 450 years lol nbd right

YEAR 1905 -Agent Knife is sent on a remote mission (back to Planet Dmtia) to hunt down one of thumbs most wanted criminals, a man named “SIMON MCGOLD” -After months of searching/failed attempts at locating him, Knife confronts and is stung by Simon’s close personal bodyguard, a queen worm named Nail who is famous for killing over 50,000 Hekatons. (Gaining him the nickname “Hekaton Hunter.” (CH12) -?????????? more stuff happens like you dont even know????????

Years 1906-1924 ??????????? lots of stuff??????? lets laugh at some spoon stuff together tho -Spoon thinks Knife is stupid but weirdly interesting i guess -Spoon tries to pretend hes not in love w/ knife cuz thats like??? g...ay??? -Spoon realizes he’s totally hot for Knife and decides hes gonna totally seduce him -Spoon realizes flirting isnt going well with knife and is actually rly deeply hurt by rejection and so he tries to sleep around w/ other ppl  to pretend hes fine cuz w/e!! who cares -Spoon realizes hes totally in love w/ Knife and is devastated by Deeply Gay emotions -Spoon moves in w/ Knife and spoon tries to pretend he is fine w/ just being Knife’s obsessively devotedly loyal but not romantic/sexual partner. just ttly... platonic.. best dude pals..!!! who murder together -Spoon realizes he cannot handle just being friends and attempts to move out cuz he just is having a meltdown -Knifes like chill we’re already dating and Spoon is like “wtf we are?” and knife’s like “why else would i let you move in w/ me” and spoon just stares at a wall for like 12 hrs in shock -They start to officially for real date™ after spoon regains contact with reality -???????stuff??????? -Spoon dresses up as AGENT BEE!!!!!!!!!!!! THE MOST IMPORTANT EVENT IN ALL OF HISTORY HANDS DOWN MARK UR CALENDARS 

YEAR 1925 July 8th - Simon (now Agent Spoon) has been in a relationship with Knife for 20 years. He meets Celadon #1. Location is the forests on the moon THUMB HQ. who is rightfully pissed as fuck at him. kick his ass, girl (she does btw) (ch11)

YEAR 1926 -Knife Adopts a tiny perfect adorable fluffball c-type and names him Kurt. -Spoon hates it like more than anything ever -Spoon and Knife end up having to live separately, causing a huge strain in their relationship.

Years 1927-1936 -feeling neglected, Spoon starts to sleep around, including the Crosshatch unit and becomes p close friends w/ them! its actually a positive thing for once. wtf (ch11) -Kurt becomes Agent Fork and works alongside Agent Knife on missions and its adorable and great but knife’s depression is also growing bc he misses spoon

YEAR 1937 Cash Leadman is born! :D

YEAR 1938 Rome Aiguille is born! he doesnt even hate worms at this point! Years 1939-1955 more stuff. ect. 

YEAR 1956 -Locket confronts Knife. Knife is so traumatized from meeting a surprise biological child that he has a meltdown and vanishes. he is then believed to have died. -Spoon Explodes from sadness of the news, but does not die. Half of him leaves to Cash Leadman’s house, who convinces him to keep living. He becomes “Scissor”, using her former crosshatch robot body. (ch11) -The other half meets Locket and has his Spoon stolen from him. very sads. Also cant wear thongs anymore (ch11)

YEAR 1957 -At some point during this year, Spoon kills Agent Rock’s dad and also prevents Fork from being able to enter Wibbleworld (his dream). (Scene in ch8) -Fork goes back to prison (guess what, it wasnt his first time goin’ there!) 

YEAR 1958-present -the death of rock’s hot dad springs a chain reaction of all his sons trying to kill spoon and getting revenge. Spoon successfully kills them all though lmfao. dont fuck with the leg.  -fork breaks up with dollop and she starts stalking him

YEAR 1961 -Dylan and Agent Knife meet in Wibbleworld moon, on July 8th (his birthday) He reveals secrets to her. (ch11) -Dylan/Celadon and Antony believe they are successful at killing Agent Knife on this same day.

YEAR 1962 -Feb 2 - Aeschylus wakes up in LEVEL K of the Crosshatch Colony (The Aiguille Moon) and is escorted by Antony Aiguille (Age 21) and Celadon #1, #2 and #3. Dylan and Barfy show up. (Ch 11) -Dylan tries to convince Antony not to get eaten (and fails) (ch12) -March - A mysterious earthquake and worm outbreak kills 20,000 residents in the Crosshatch Colony. O_O  -July 7th - Fork meets Dylan for the first time. :3 (Another serving episode one!) -July 8th: This is where the present timeline begins! Canary wakes up on a platform. Hooray! we made it. i dont feel like typing out the events u can just read the comic i guess lol. farts! 

YEAR 1963: Hasnt actually happened yet, but the final feast is said to occur this year!!!!!!! O_O ooo  EDIT: one of the events were out of order, but this has been fixed (8/19/2017) 

#ffak #feast for a king #ffak timeline #ffak faq

[anavoliselenu]

Complete me chapter 4

He strides toward me, all strength and power and a confidence that borders on arrogance. This is not the man who spent weeks at the mercy of the German court system only to have his freedom lobbed at him by a stranger. No, this is the man who built an empire. A man with strength enough to beat back the demons I saw this afternoon.

I look at him and feel no chill lingering from the nightmarish shadows that obscured him from me. There is only Justin now. The man that I know—the man that I crave.

This is the Justin who takes charge—who simply takes.

Tonight, all I want is for him to take me.

My body trembles as he approaches, his eyes never leaving mine. He reaches out, and his fingertips brush my neck, flicking lightly over the pearl necklace that I still wear. It is the slightest of contact, but it reverberates through me like an explosion.

I suck in air and tilt my head to the side, elongating my neck for him. My breath is ragged, my skin on fire. He leaves a trail of goose bumps on my neck before his fingertips gently graze the weave of my dress along my shoulder, and then once again stroke my sensitive skin to travel down my bare arm.

He breaks contact and steps away, and I want to weep from the loss.

“Yes,” he says, as if in answer to some question of his own. “This is how I want to see you, standing naked before the world. I want to look at you and know that you are mine.”

“You know I am.” My words are soft, barely a whisper.

“Say it,” he says.

“I’m yours,” I say, because I mean it. More than that, I understand why he wants to hear it. He’s taking back the control that had been wrenched from him—and he’s taking it back through me.

He moves his hand to the zipper at the back of my dress, then slowly tugs it down. Slowly, he brushes the dress off my shoulders. It falls to the floor, the circle of yellow like the petals of a flower. I am left in my newly purchased underwear. A demi-cup bra in a deep purple and matching thong panties. Justin looks me up and down, and there is no mistaking the heat in his eyes.

“Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me a few steps farther to the window. It’s not floor to ceiling, but it’s close. We are right up against it. Another step and the window ledge would hit me just above the knees. Justin is behind me, his hands on my shoulders and the denim of his jeans rough and cool against my bare ass. In front of us, Munich is spread wide.

Slowly, Justin reaches around and unfastens the front clasp of my bra then eases the straps off my arms. He drops the garment to the floor as I instinctively try to cover myself. “No,” he says simply as he slides his arms down along mine, then holds me firmly at the wrists, my arms now at my sides.

“But the window,” I say, looking out at the stores and offices that rise around us. “The other buildings.”

“No one is watching. The glass is tinted, and there are no lights in here. No one can see.”

I relax infinitesimally.

“But even if they could . . . ” His voice trails off as he releases my wrists. His hands stroke my body, one trailing up until he finds my breast and the tight, puckered skin of my areola. The pad of his thumb flicks roughly over my nipple, and I gasp from the deep, decadent pleasure. His other hand slides down until his fingers sneak under the band of the thong to brush over my damp, trimmed pubic hair. He teases me, his fingers forming a V as he glides over my folds, coming so tantalizingly close to my clit that I want to cry out in frustration and beg him to please, just touch me.

“What if that’s what I wanted?” he whispers. He presses his lips to the back of my neck then lowers himself to trail kisses down my spine, leaving me shivering in the wake of his touch. The sun has dipped below the horizon, and the world outside is fast darkening, turning our window into a mirror. I meet my own eyes in reflection, and see my features soft with desire.

“What if I want you naked before the world, your legs parted, your cunt wet for me?” He is behind me, his hands stroking the curve of my hips. His breath teases the small of my back as much as his decadent words tease my imagination. I have never fantasized about exhibitionism, but right now, I am having a hard time thinking of anything but Justin touching me, Justin fucking me. I don’t give a damn about the windows, tinted or not. I don’t care who sees, I only want to surrender to Justin’s touch. His hands on me, his tongue stroking me, his cock deep inside me.

“Justin—” The word feels wrenched from me.

“Does it excite you?” he asks as he slowly stands, his body sliding against mine as he rises, the brush of his clothing rough against my skin. “Not knowing who might be watching, but knowing that I want you like this? That I want the whole goddamned universe to look down on us and know that no matter what, you belong to me?” He rests his left hand on my hip, his thumb hooked in the thong’s band. The other hand brushes over my belly, then eases down under the triangle of silk again.

I’m desperately wet, almost painfully turned on, and I silently pray for his touch, but once again it doesn’t come. Instead, I hear only his words. “I want you to tell me, Selena. Does it turn you on?”

God yes. I have to fight to speak. “Keep going,” I manage. “Touch me and see for yourself.”

I hear his smile reflected in his chuckle. His fingers brush my skin, but he’s not going south. “Not unless I hear you say it.”

“Yes,” I breathe.

His lips are in my hair, and I feel the reverberation of his words as he whispers, “Me, too.”

I close my eyes, expecting his touch. Craving it. But still it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel the brush of his fingers over the band of this brand-new thong—and then the pressure as he rips it at the back seam. I gasp—surprised, yes, but also aroused by the violence of the action and by the rush of cool air against my damp sex as he pulls the panties away.

“What are you—?”

“Shhh,” he says. “Lean forward, hands on the window. No, don’t argue. Beautiful,” he adds when I comply, then punctuates his words by stroking my now completely bare ass. “Now spread your legs for me. Oh, God, Selena,” he groans. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

“You have me.”

He slides his hands up over my hips, trailing up the curve of my waist. He presses his body against mine, his torso against my back and his hands upon my breasts. “I do,” he says. “But I’m not taking you. Not yet.”

A tremor runs through me, part frustration, part anticipation. I am so hot, so ready, and I do not know what to expect or where he is taking this. I only know that I want to find out.

He stands upright again, then circles me, finally stopping near my right hand, still splayed out against the window. “I like this,” he says, reaching out to run his finger along the pearl necklace that is the only thing I still wear. “It is said that oysters are a potent aphrodisiac, but I think that pearls are equally enticing. It’s rumored that Cleopatra crushed one and drank it in wine in order to render herself irresistible to Mark Antony. But I think I prefer them as an adornment. For that matter, I can think of a few other adornments that I would like to see.”

“Justin—” I stop myself because I don’t know what I want to say other than to beg.

“Stay put,” he says. “Don’t touch yourself. Don’t put your legs together. You’ll come when I let you, Selena, but not before. Break my rules, and I promise you won’t like the punishment.”

I swallow and nod. “But where are you going?” I call as he disappears into the bedroom. I get no answer, and I close my eyes in frustration, hyperaware of every inch of my body. Of the dampness at the back of my neck along my hairline. Of the tiny hairs upon my skin, standing up as if electrified, caught up in this storm that is Justin. Mostly, I am aware of the aching in my cunt.

I do not touch, though I desperately want to, and I am aware of every movement of my body, every brush of air. I can feel my pulse beating in my sex, and my muscles clenching with longing. I am need personified—and what I need is Justin.

He is only gone for minutes, but it seems like I am waiting for hours, lost with my own reflection. A nude woman against a shiny surface, a dream world of city lights blazing behind her. I am like a woman from one of Blaine’s paintings, forever captured by his brush in a state of arousal, never quite able to reach satisfaction.

No, I think. Please don’t let Justin be teasing me like that.

When he returns, he has something in his hand. He sets it on the table behind me. I can’t see what it is, but I think I hear the clink of metal upon metal.

“Justin?” I ask, my voice wary. “What are you doing?”

He comes around in front of me, then gently takes my hands off the glass, easing me back up straight. A slow grin lights his face, and I see both amusement and heat in those beautiful eyes. I expect his answer before he says it—“What I want, Selena. Always, what I want.”

I lick my lips. “And what is that?”

“To give you pleasure.” He moves behind me, to the table, then returns with something in his hand. “Do you remember this?”

He opens his hand to reveal a silver serpentine chain connected by two rings, each with two small metal balls on them. The balls pull apart, creating an opening, then snap back together when the pressure is released. They are nipple clamps, and I shiver from the memory of that exquisite bite of pain mixed with pleasure.

He brushes his thumb over my now painfully erect nipple. “Oh, yes,” he says. “I think you remember just fine.”

I moan as he slowly caresses my breast. “How did those get here?”

His chuckle seems to roll over me. “It’s been almost a month, Selena. I had Gregory pack and ship a few things. Including the small leather case I keep in my closet.”

“Oh.” I wet my lips. “That was very efficient of you.”

“I’m a man who likes to plan ahead.” He catches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezes tight. I gasp, relishing the sharp sensation, the pleasure edging toward pain. With his fingers tight, he rolls the hard nub and I bite down on my lip as electricity sparks through me, racing from my breasts to my wet, throbbing cunt.

“Justin.” I’m not sure what I’m demanding. I can barely form thoughts, much less words. All I know is desire. All I want is more.

Hell, all I want is everything.

As if in answer to my demand, Justin spreads the rounded ends of the ring, then gently releases it, causing the cold silver to clamp against my nipple. There’s more pressure now than Justin had applied, and I suck in air, surprised at first by the fiery pain. It fades soon, though, and I moan in pleasure at the warmth that ripples through me as my body adjusts to the tantalizing torture.

“We’ve gone so far together, Selena,” he murmurs as he attaches the other one. “I’m going to take you even farther. I want to balance on the edge with you, and see you open and wide and wild.”

My breathing is ragged. I’m hyperaware of my breasts, of his touch. And when he slides his hand down between my ass cheeks, his fingers finally—finally—finding me hot and wet and wanting, I cannot help but moan aloud.

“I want to give you everything, Selena,” he says, as his thumb brushes my anus, and I feel the slick lube of my own arousal. “I want the universe spread wide before you. And I want to be the one who sends you tumbling over, shooting off into space, without control, without inhibitions.” I feel the firm increase of pressure, then gasp as something small and well-lubed slips inside my rear.

“And, Selena,” he says, his voice rough with passion, “I want to be the one who tethers you and brings you back.”

“You are,” I whisper. I am as unraveled by his words as I am by the riot of sensations storming through me. “Oh, God, Justin, you know you are. I’m lost without you.”

He moves to face me, then strokes my cheek. With a fervency I don’t expect, he pulls me close. I gasp as my raw, chained nipples rub against his shirt, but he silences me with a long, almost violent kiss.

“Please,” I beg when he releases me. I am helpless, I am melting. The pressure on my nipples sends shocks arcing through my body. That wicked plug fills me, opening me, making me hyperaware of every movement and sensation.

“Please what?” he whispers. “Tell me what you want, Selena.”

“You, Justin. Always you—only you. I want you to touch me.” I reach for him, fisting my hands in his T-shirt. “I want you to fuck me because I’m not entirely sure I can survive without feeling you inside me right now.”

“I want that, too,” he says, and I sag with relief. “But we’re going to have to risk your imminent demise,” he adds with a very wicked grin. “Because I have something else in mind first.”

According to the concierge at our hotel, Club P1 is one of the hottest nightclubs in Munich. The venue is huge and crowded, and the patrons are as polished and bright as the modern interior. It’s funky and fun—and at the moment, I couldn’t care less. My body is too on fire, too teased by Justin’s sweet torture.

The limo ride was bad enough, with Justin demanding that I sit with my knees apart and my hands on either side of me, palms on the soft leather of the seat. He’d dressed me in a shelf bra before we left, leaving my still-chained nipples exposed. In the limo, they brushed against the black silk of my beaded tank top, the sensation making me squirm. And that caused all sorts of other shocks and quivers and pulses to ricochet through my body.

Justin sat across from me, sipping Scotch and watching me with such raw passion that I spent the entire ride in a constant state of unsatisfied arousal.

The ride, thank God, was short, but now that we are here I want nothing more than to go back to the hotel. Dancing, drinking—none of that holds any appeal. All I want is Justin’s mouth on mine, his hands on my bare skin, and his cock deep inside me.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be getting what I want anytime soon, and so I draw in a breath and try to focus despite this sensual haze in which I am currently living. “You’re glowing,” Justin says, his mouth curving into a self-satisfied smile.

“Glowing?” I repeat. “Jesus, Justin, I’m practically radioactive.”

“Mmm,” he says, looking me up and down. “So I see.” He pulls me to one side so that my back is up against a smooth wooden wall. He presses his hands to either side of me and leans in close. “A bit on edge, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Just a tad.” I catch the scent of him—the whiskey on his breath, the deep, spicy musk of his arousal—and it works upon me like the most potent of aphrodisiacs. In addition to my sparkly black top, I am decked out in a black leather miniskirt, thigh-high stockings, a tiny red thong, and very high, very fuckable heels. I take one step away from the wall and lift myself on those heels, gripping Justin’s shoulders for balance. “I’m still trying to decide if I should thank you for this,” I whisper. “Or if I should figure out a way to get revenge.”

“While I’m very intrigued by the possibility of being at your mercy,” he says, “we both know that you’re as turned on as I am.” He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. Our hips meet, and I can feel his erection pressing hard against my belly.

“I am,” I admit, sliding my hand down between our bodies to stroke his cock through his jeans. The corner is dark and secluded, but I think I would have stroked him even if we were on the dance floor. I am intoxicated by lust, emboldened by passion. And since Justin isn’t shifting my hand away, I know that he is, too.

“I’m hot and horny and desperately wet,” I murmur, moving my hand in time with my words. I feel him grow even harder and I smile with the knowledge of my own power. “Do you know what I wanted in the limo, Justin? I wanted you on your knees in front of me. I wanted your hands on my thighs spreading me wide, and I wanted your tongue on my clit.”

He is close enough that I can feel the quickening of his pulse and his quick shallow breaths. “I wanted to feel my nipples tighten when you tugged on this chain, and my body tense around this plug when you made me come, so hard and so fast that you’d have to carry me into this club.”

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, his voice so soft I can barely hear it.

“So yes,” I continue, as if I hadn’t even heard him. “I am turned on.” I stroke his cock slowly, because at least for this one moment, I have turned the tables on Justin Stark. “But what I wanted I didn’t get. And that, Mr. Stark, is why I want revenge.”

“You make a very sound argument, Ms. Fairchild.”

“I pride myself on my sharp business skills.”

He steps back from me, his eyes gleaming mischievously, then holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Come with me and find out.”

He leads me through the crowded club full of beautiful people who are much more interested in each other than us. I’m relieved. We do not look like the Selena and Justin who have been in the German news. I’m in my Girl Goes Clubbing outfit and Justin is casual in jeans and a light jacket over a T-shirt, not to mention a day’s worth of beard stubble. That’s not to say that I haven’t seen a few heads turn when we pass, but I think that is more a product of Justin’s astounding good looks than his status as either a celebrity billionaire or as a man who narrowly escaped a murder charge.

As far as I can tell, the club has two main rooms, both filled with bright colors and shiny surfaces. The DJs spin an eclectic mix, but the theme seems to be techno-club, and while the music isn’t anything I recognize, it is deliciously danceable.

At the moment, however, dancing is not on the agenda. Instead, Justin leads me to the terrace, and we step outside. I pause a moment to take it all in—the candles that illuminate the patrons in a surreal glow. The plush leather sofas and love seats that dot the terrace. Some are in clusters near colored lights and provide a place for energetic dancers to have a drink and get a second wind. Others are secluded, tucked away in dark corners for lovers to curl up together and soak in the atmosphere.

The bouncers downstairs made it clear that no one gets into this bar if they look shabby, and here under the starlight, that policy is obvious. Everything glows, including Justin and me. There is a polish to everything that I see, but I know better than anyone how tarnished something shiny can be underneath, and I can’t help but imagine this place come morning. The sofas stained with spilled drinks. Cigarette butts stamped out on the stone floor. The ethereal candles revealed as nothing more than globby clumps of wax.

Nothing is as it appears. Not this club nor its patrons nor Justin. And certainly not me.

We weave among the other patrons to one of the love seats tucked in a darkened corner. Justin sits, and I start to sit beside him. “No,” he says, then pulls me into his lap so that I am straddling his leg, the hard muscles of his thigh pressing enticingly against the hard knot in my ass as I face him.

I exhale, making a little ah sound as shimmers of awareness crash through me.

“Trouble, Ms. Fairchild?”

I lift a brow and rock my hips, grinding my rear against him and making this hedonistic tempest crackle and pop inside of me. And—if his face is any indication—my lap dance is driving Justin a little crazy, too.

“No trouble, Mr. Stark,” I say, as primly as I can manage despite my body being on fire.

“Christ, Selena . . . ”

He tugs me forward so that I am still straddling him, but now I can feel his denim-clad erection against the bare skin of my thigh above my stocking. I meet his eyes, my heart pounding wildly, then moan when his mouth crushes against mine. One of his hands is around my waist, holding me in place at the small of my back. The other slides under my skirt, his fingers finding the thin strip of silk that makes up the thong, then begin to move in slow, easy circles calculated to drive me crazy.

“Justin,” I whisper. “Someone might see.”

“I want you. Right now. I want to watch you explode in my arms.”

“But—” I look around. There doesn’t seem to be anyone paying attention, and in the dark it’s not obvious where his hand is hidden.

His fingers curve inside me, and whatever protests I might have raised die right then. His thumb presses against my pubic bone as if my body is a handle, and I gasp as he roughly pulls me closer. “Now,” he repeats. “I want you coming in my arms.”

“Yes,” I say, because I am too wrecked, too wanton, to say anything else. Right then I think I’d let him lay me out on the dance floor and fuck me with the crowd cheering us on. He wouldn’t, though, and deep inside, under this haze of passion and lust, I know that. We’re still in our bubble, hidden in the dark, buried in the corner.

But Justin needs this. This man who once told me he doesn’t do public sex. Because that’s not what this is about. Instead, he needs proof that I am really here. That I didn’t leave after talking with Maynard. That the demons of his childhood haven’t pushed me away.

He needs me to get lost in his arms as much as I need to lose myself to him. To know that he is back—and that he is still mine.

“Yes,” I repeat, because it is the only word I can manage through my jumble of thoughts and emotions. “Oh, God, Justin, please, yes.”

“Good girl,” he says, sliding his hand off my back. I’m vaguely aware that he has thrust it into his pocket, but that is not the hand that interests me. Instead, all of my thoughts are centered on the fingers that are teasing me under my skirt, playing with my clit, making me bite my lip so that I don’t rock back and forth with these building sensations. I’m just a girl sitting in her boyfriend’s lap, after all. Not like a woman about to come like she has never come before from the intimate way that said boyfriend is fingerfucking her.

Just a girl sneaking a brief kiss. Just a girl—

“Oh, God!” I cry, but my shout is swallowed by Justin’s hard mouth over mine. The orgasm rips through me—not just because Justin’s expert fingers have played me so well, but because of the surprising, shocking, totally mind-rocking vibration of the plug with which Justin has filled me. I want to scream with delight, to writhe and make the sparks build again and again. I want this whirlwind of pleasure to keep pulling me up and up, and the fact that I can’t—the fact that I need to stay quiet and still—only increases the fever that is burning through me.

All too soon—or possibly hours later—rationality returns to me. My heart is pounding against my rib cage. I feel as though I have sprinted a mile. And when I lick my lips, I taste blood.

I rub my mouth, but it’s not mine, and it takes me a second to realize that I bit down on Justin’s lower lip. “Are you okay?”

“Baby, you can bite me anytime.”

“Oh my God,” I say. “Oh my God.” And then, “You didn’t tell me it did that.”

He pulls his hand out of my pocket to reveal the remote control for the plug. “A man has to keep a few surprises.”

I sigh contentedly, then slide off him. I curl up next to him on the love seat, discreetly adjusting my clothes. “Wow,” I say. “That was kind of kinky.”

His grin is as playful as my words. “And is kinky good?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Kinky is very good.”

His arm is around me, his hand resting on my hip. After a moment, his lips brush over my ear, and I shiver from the butterfly-soft touch, then immediately laugh when I hear his words—“Your ass is vibrating.”

I lift my brows. “Is that a euphemism for what you just did to me, Mr. Stark?”

“Complaining?”

“Hell, no,” I say.

“Good. But no, it’s not a euphemism. It’s your phone.”

Shit. I realize that he’s right. I’d charged it in the room, then left everything except it and my passport in the hotel. Justin has my passport tucked into the interior pocket of his jacket, but I have my phone in my back pocket, right under Justin’s hand. He plucks it out and hands it to me, but when I answer it, there’s no one there.

“Must have kicked over to voice mail,” I say with a frown. As I wait for the little icon to show a waiting message, I look back at the call information, but I don’t recognize the number. Since the voice mail still isn’t pinging, I assume it was a wrong number and slide the phone back into my pocket. “That reminds me,” I tell Justin. “You got a call earlier. Right before I went to see Maynard. I thought it might be one of the German attorneys, so I answered it, but there was no one there. Did they call back?”

He shakes his head. “Probably not important,” he adds, even as he pulls out his phone and begins to scroll through his call information. I see the instant his face changes. It is subtle and quick, and if I didn’t know his features in such excruciating detail I might not have even noticed. And when he meets my eyes again, there’s no hint that he was surprised or disturbed.

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting an unexpected chill. Once again, Justin is locking his secrets away.

“Who was it?” I say, keeping my voice light but resolute. “Does it have anything to do with the trial or with those pictures?”

“No.” The word is both too fast and too firm. And there is a distance in his voice that bothers me. I tell myself it is only the distortion from this thrumming club, but I don’t believe myself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, which is really the stupidest question in the world, since if he did want to, he wouldn’t be speaking in monosyllables.

“I don’t.” He must see something in my face, though, because a moment later he sighs, then lightly strokes my cheek. “I promise you. It’s nothing.”

A shudder runs through me, desire, yes, but it’s mixed with something else. Something darker. I had thought that after everything we’d been through there would be no more secrets. But now there are the photos. And this call. And I realize that I was foolish to have even entertained the possibility that Justin’s walls had truly come tumbling down. Justin Stark has many layers, and while I am enjoying the process of slowly revealing the deliciousness at the center of the man, I cannot deny the frustration that goes along with the territory.

Justin squeezes my hand. “Don’t look so worried.”

I manage a teasing smile. “I can’t help it,” I say. “I may not be the jealous type, but if you’re getting calls from old girlfriends looking to pull you back into their web . . . ” I am joking, of course, and I expect him to laugh and pull me close as the tension slides off him. I am not prepared for his answer.

“Getting the calls and taking the calls are two different things.”

“Oh.” I thought the call was about the trial or whoever sent those damn pictures or even some business issue. An old girlfriend was not on my radar at all, and I’m certain I look as shocked as I feel.

“I told you I used to fuck around. And I’m sure some of those women want back in my life.” He stands, then takes my hand and eases me to my feet before softly kissing my palm. “I also told you I wasn’t serious about any of them. There’s only one woman I want.”

I cock a brow as I glance at his phone. “Do they know that?”

“I know it,” he says. “And so do you.”

For a moment, there is only silence between us. No, that isn’t true. Where Justin and I are concerned, there is never just silence. There is heat and electricity and lust and need, all harnessing the power of the universe to pull us together. And how can I be expected to fight physics?

I step toward him, sliding comfortably into the circle of his arms, right where I belong. “Do you want to dance?” I ask.

“No,” he says, his tone sending ripples of heat through me. “I want to take you to bed.”

Chapter Seven

“So you’re really taking me to bed?” I ask Justin as we speed down Prinzregenstrasse in the back of our limo.

“That’s my current plan,” he says. “Unless you want to file an objection?”

“An objection? No.” I’m leaning against him, and the space between our bodies hums with sensual energy. The orgasm that rocked me at the club didn’t take the edge off at all. Instead it just ramped up my appetite like a fine wine before dinner, leaving me feeling slightly intoxicated and ready for the main course.

I flash a mischievous smile, then shift my position so that I am kneeling on the floorboard of the limo, my hands resting on his thighs. “But perhaps I might file one tiny change order?” My fingers make swift work of the button fly of his jeans.

“Selena . . . ” His voice is full of heat and amusement and a hint of warning.

“What? I mean, fair is fair. You’ve never fingerfucked me in a club in Munich before tonight. And unless I’m mistaken, I’ve never gone down on you in a moving limo in Munich, either. That’s one of those oversights I want to remedy right now.”

I slide my hand into his jeans, relishing his low groan as I stroke and tease, working my way into the fly of his briefs. He’s deliciously hard, and I only have to shift his cock a little before it springs free, as excited about the possibilities as I am. Slowly, I bend my head, but lift my eyes, so that I am looking at Justin’s face as I gently brush the tip of my tongue over his glans.

I see the shudder that runs through him, and something swells inside me. Lust, power, possessiveness. Control. I know it drives him insane not to be firmly in charge. And I also know that of all the people in his life, I’m the only one to whom he willingly abdicates that control. In small doses, yes. But I still get my moments.

This is one of them.

“Dear God, Selena,” he says, his voice tight. “Sometimes you surprise the hell out of me.”

I only smile. I want to taste him, to touch him, and there is nothing keeping me from taking exactly what I want. Gently, I circle the base of his cock with my hand, the sensation like soft steel against my palm. I press my lips to the head of his cock, then draw him in, my tongue teasing him as I piston my mouth in time with the strokes of my hand against him.

He is already desperately hard, but I feel his body responding, tightening. I hear his low groans. I feel his fingers twining in my hair, then the tension filling his body as he comes closer and closer, and I know that I am doing that to him.

The knowledge empowers me, and I think of my earlier fears about reality sneaking in and breaking through our perfect little plastic bubble of a life. In this moment, though, my fears seem a million miles away.

A ripple of passion cuts through him, and I feel the corresponding pressure in my sex as my body responds to his desire and to the knowledge that I have brought him to the brink.

A sensual hunger courses through me, my own arousal as potent as if his fingers were stroking me. I writhe a bit, wriggling my hips in time with the need growing inside me. I am smug with satisfaction and ripe with the knowledge that Justin is as turned on as I am.

And then I’m shocked as hell when his hands close around my ribs and he lifts me up—then dumps me back on the seat and hooks my legs over his shoulders.

“What are you—” But I don’t bother to finish the question. I know exactly what he’s doing, and I’m proven right when he leans forward, his hands stroking my thighs in time with the movement. His laves his tongue over the delicate skin right next to the edge of my thong.

A tremor runs through my body. “Justin,” I moan. “Holy shit.”

“Hold still.” His breath burns hot upon my sex. “Don’t move,” he demands, and then ensures that there is no way I can obey when he simultaneously flips on the vibrator in my ass, but also nips at the thong with his teeth, teasing my clit in the process.

I cry out and arch up, both in surprise and from the nearly unendurable sensations that are ricocheting through my body.

“Naughty,” Justin says as he turns off the vibration, then cups my ass with his hands. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

I see the devious gleam in his eye and swallow. “I’ll be still.”

“Too late,” he says, then removes the plug, sending another wave of sensations rolling through me as my body rocks in protest. He smiles as he wraps it in a handkerchief and slips it in his pocket. “I think someone likes my toys,” he says. “I’ll have to think of more ways to play.”

“Oh, God, yes,” I say impulsively, eager for whatever he wants to bring on.

He slides down my body, trailing kisses along my left leg as he eases down my stocking until he reaches the strap of my shoe. “This should do nicely.”

I bite my lip, uncertain what he has in mind. “You realize that if you mess up my shoes, you’re in serious trouble.”

“Even if it gets you off?” He strokes my foot along the side of the arch, which is exposed in these shoes.

I close my eyes, trying to think despite this assault upon a deliciously new erogenous zone. “Some things are as sacred as sex,” I say. “Shoes among them.”

He chuckles. “Touché, Ms. Fairchild.” I feel his lips press where his finger once was and have to bite my lip in order to remain still as ordered. “I’ll be gentle.”

My eyes widen as he takes the seat belt and wraps it around my ankle. He clicks the buckle into place, then tightens the strap. After that, he flashes me a smug grin. “One down.”

I am speechless. I’m also unable to move my left leg. “Justin,” I begin, but there’s no point in protesting. He’s not going to stop. And the truth is that I don’t want him to.

“Now let’s see what we can do about this one.” I remember that this limo is part of the Stark International fleet when he moves without hesitation to a camouflaged floor panel. He pulls it open and removes a white box emblazoned with a red cross.

I prop myself up on my elbows. “First aid? What exactly are you doing?” I’m teasing, of course. Well, mostly teasing.

His eyes meet mine and he slides his hand slowly up my thigh, then cups my sex. “Surprising you.”

Oh. I swallow. Had I really believed that I’d had even an iota of control? Whatever control I’d had when we’d started this adventure is gone. I am Justin’s to do with what he pleases—and that simple fact only makes me even more excited.

“Lay back, baby. Lay back, and trust me.”

I comply, because I do trust him. I watch as he unrolls an ace bandage, then carefully winds it around my ankle, just below the platinum and emerald bracelet. He threads one end of the bandage through some part of the seat frame that I can’t see, then makes a knot. I try to move my legs, but I can’t. I’m completely trussed up. I’m completely open. And I’m completely turned on.

“Justin.” My voice is low and gravelly with desire. “Justin, please.”

“Please what? Please touch you?”

Just the thought of his hands upon me is enough to make me squirm with anticipated pleasure. “Yes,” I say. “God, yes. Touch me. Fuck me. Please, Justin, I want you.” Tonight has been one long tease, and I have crossed the line to desperate.

“Mmm.” He shifts position, rising from the floor to perch on the edge of the seat across which I am spread. I reach for him, craving his touch against my now exposed sex, but just before I can place my hand upon his leg, he shakes his head. “No. Arms above your head. There you go,” he adds, when I stretch out as ordered.

He reaches out, his hand hovering over my breasts. Beneath the beaded tank, my nipples are already tight and erect and deliciously sensitive from the clamps with which he had adorned me earlier. I bite my lower lip, craving his touch. The slightest brush against my breast. A soft caress upon my nipple. Anything to relieve the growing, heavy pressure.

Of course he denies me. Instead, he moves his still-hovering hand slowly down the length of my body—my breasts, my belly, my very aching cunt, then all the way down my legs until even my toes are wiggling in a futile attempt to draw him closer. It doesn’t work. He never touches, just skims along over a pocket of air that is burning hotter and hotter, as if I am trapped beneath an electric blanket with no way to throw it off and cool down.

Not even the air-conditioning is blowing between my legs. The only sensation is the tiny brush of material over my sex brought on by the motion of the limo and by my own pulse, which is pounding so hard that it is making my clothing quiver with each beat of my heart.

His voice is little more than a murmur. “So tell me, Selena, can you imagine the touch of my fingertip upon the inside of your thigh? The way your body would tighten in response to a touch that is neither a caress nor a tickle?”

“I—yes.”

My words are so low that I doubt he has heard me. It doesn’t matter, though. He continues on. “A sensual dance, like the brush of a feather over your panties. A hooked fingertip to tug them aside. And then what, Selena? What kind of touch do you want then?”

I don’t answer, because he has moved—not between my legs to where my sex now throbs in response to both his sensual tone and the erotic nature of the words themselves, but higher, so that his hip is near my chest and his hands are cleverly twining my wrists with the nylon webbing of the farthest seat belt.

“Justin, what—”

But I don’t bother to finish the question, because he has finished and I know what he was doing. He was binding my hands as he has done my legs so that I am fully strapped down, bound to this long, leather bench in the back of a limo.

“Do you want it, Selena? Do you want me to fuck you?”

“You know that I do.” I keep my voice calm even though I want to scream—Yes, yes, goddammit, yes.

He cocks his head. “What was that?” he asks, and I almost cry with frustration.

“Yes,” I say. “Please, sir.”

His smile is slow and a little too self-satisfied. He moves toward me and I see that he has a small pair of bandage scissors in his hand. He slides a blade under the lace of my thong, snips twice, then rips the material free.

I arch and shudder, my body begging as much as my words. “Please, Justin. Please, please fuck me.”

“Believe me, Ms. Fairchild, there’s nothing I’m looking forward to more. But no. I don’t think so. Not yet.”

I actually whimper.

He bends forward to whisper in my ear. “What if I told you to touch yourself? Ah, but you can’t do that, either.”

I tug at the belt that is binding my hands, but I’m not going anywhere. I can shift right and left a little, but for the most part, where he bound me is where I’ll stay.

He reaches down and plucks up the hem of my shirt, managing the maneuver without actually touching my skin, despite the way my back arches up, as if my body is determined to try even though my mind knows it’s futile. After a moment, he has my shirt pulled up, exposing the lacy bra and the serpentine chain that stretches between my very erect nipples. He runs his finger over the chain, then gives it a gentle tug, causing me to arch up as hot threads of electricity sizzle through my body, racing from my breast to my throbbing cunt.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “I love how hot you get, how your body responds. Do you know what it does to me, knowing that you’ve given yourself over so fully to me? No barriers, no inhibitions. Just mine. To touch, to tempt, to tease.”

“Anything you want, Mr. Stark.” My voice is raw with passion. “Anything you need.”

“I’m very glad to hear it,” he says, as he moves away from me to sit on the bench that runs the length of the limo, perpendicular to this long backseat across which I am strapped. “Right now, I just want to look at you. The flush on your skin. Your cunt, swollen and wet and begging for me. Your hard nipples and the rise and fall of your chest as you try to control your breathing. It makes me hard, Selena, so goddamn hard to see you like this, laid out and wanting, and knowing that I am the one who brought you there.”

;marg$D=�

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Definitely do *not* write a drabble about Chris being triggered into thinking Jake is sending him back, with Jake having to comfort him. Do not do it, Ash. I demand it.

While I couldn't quite bring myself to hit the request exactly, I did think of something that might actually give Chris a very similar reaction... sorry I sat on this so long, I couldn’t make the words do for a while, but here they FINALLY are

CW: Referenced beating/injuries, emeto mentions, bruising, pressing on a bruised rib, trauma response, some discussion of PTSD/conditioned responses, discussion of noncon touching, noncon in memories + discussion (warning: Jake speaks very plainly about what it was, so cw for use of the word r*pe, I know that can be difficult), referenced violent reaction to stimming

TIMELINE: Immediately post-Safehouse Raid/Interrogation series

Tagging: @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @stxckfxck, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions, @pretty-face-breaker, @boxboysandotherwhump

Dr. Masood’s touch is gentle, and light, and Jake can see why the rescues like him so much. The safehouse’s doctor - a man who could lose his license to practice if anyone finds out that he provides healthcare to illegal runaway pets on nights and weekends - hums to himself, cheerfully, as his thumbs and fingers graze along the edge of Jake’s black eye, take in the bruising on his face, the swollen lower lip. 

His touch is so deft around the dark purple-black bruise on Jake’s head that he barely winces at the pressure, quick, barely-there and then gone, as Dr. Masood checks the spot where that asshole Everly bashed Jake’s head into the table again and again.

“My apologies,” Dr. Masood says gently, his accent warming his voice, making every word slightly musical. “You have quite a few bruises, some surface lacerations, but I’m not seeing anything that won’t heal with a little rest and regular at-home care. How are you sleeping?”

Jake swallows, feeling himself tense a little. He hasn’t slept, not really, in the three days since he’d come back from the police station. That first day after his return he had passed out, had laid on the bed with Chris beside him, safe in his arms, and slept like a log for nearly twelve hours, woken to eat, and then gone right back to sleep until the next day all over again. 

Ever since then... he can’t. He can doze, off and on, as long as Chris is inside the house where he can see him or by him. But he can’t-... he can’t stay asleep, he wakes at every noise, heart pounding, ready to hide Chris again, get Antoni and Leila back down to the basement. Has to be ready to open the front door himself this time, not let Nat take hits herself just to buy them time.

The deep bruising on Nat’s face, the cut across her cheekbone, the way that she moves with care and grits her teeth every time she has to stand up, the way she keeps describing herself as doing fine and powering through and making it through the day, her dry Midwestern drawl when she says she’s livin’ the dream, Jake, that’s all... it’s new wounds, layered under his skin instead of over it. It should have been him to answer the door, put up the fight, make himself the more important target.

Next time, Jake has to be the one to open the door to weapons in his face and spitting hate for his decision to protect the people who need protecting, he has to... he has to be ready.

He can’t be ready if he’s sleeping.

“I’m not,” He answers, finally. “Not much.”

Dr. Masood’s lips thin, just slightly, but he nods, looking over Jake’s torso now. Speckled with bruising, and Jake hisses in a harsh breath when Dr. Masood presses on his bruised rib, only to pull back quickly with a low apology. “I could give you something to help you sleep, Jake.”

“I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t take it,” Jake says. He could lie, but what’s the point?

“I see.” The doctor pauses. “Jake-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jake says gruffly. “Every time I sleep, I-”

see myself begging for it to stop saying I’ll do anything give up anyone they want just let me sleep just give me something to eat just one small thing anything I’ll do anything

Jesus, how little it took to get him saying please and thank you - who knew how much it would have taken for him to give away even more?

I wanted to contract you, but I was overruled.

He shudders, then winces as the motion sends pain out in a nauseating wave from his ribcage, lifting a hand to put a bit of pressure there. 

How long was Chris held, before he gave them whatever they wanted, gave them whoever he used to be, just to get a little sleep?

“You are having nightmares,” Dr. Masood finishes for him. They’re sitting in the den, a small room behind the living room, where they have their one-on-ones with the therapist, where they have an occasional group meeting. Jake nods, leaning over despite the new throb of pain, and closes his eyes, rubbing his hand over his mouth, over the stubble he hasn’t shaved. Nearly a week of growth, between interrogation and the first few days back home.

“Bet your ass I am,” Jake muttered. The scratch of the hair on his jaw against his thumb and fingers was another reminder of how fucked up the past week of his life had been. 

“About being arrested?” Dr. Masood handed Jake his shirt - a button-up, Jake was struggling to pull shirts on over his head when it meant lifting his arms and pulling on bruised muscles and aching bones. 

“Not really. That’s I’m not the one who gets hauled off this time.”

“You are seeing Chris in your place.” It’s not a question.

Jake blinks up at the doctor and then just laughs, shaking his head, ignoring the pulse of ache at the motion. It’s not like he doesn’t just hurt all of the time no matter what he does, what’s the point of pretending otherwise? “Yeah. Or... back there in that place.”

Now he’s seen Chris - or who he was before he was Chris or even the rescue wrapped in his blanket in the rain. Now he’s seen the hunched-over shoulders, the attempts to rock and tap and do the things he did to keep himself calm met with implacable, awful violence. 

He understands the way Chris never moved at first, would just stay in one spot for hours in perfect silence, so much better now.

He dreams of Chris there again, the dull terror in wide green eyes. 

Worse, he dreams he’s the one who put him there. Sees himself in the shitty fucking uniforms those assholes wear, shoving Chris ahead of him down the hallway while he begs and pleads for Jake to remember himself, to save him, but Jake can’t save him from them because Jake is them...

Sees himself making the same sick jokes Everly made to him, touching Chris’s face, treating him like an object, like a fucking toy to be used, to be-

Jake’s stomach heaves and he leans over as saliva floods his mouth, breathing carefully, waiting for the nausea, the need to throw up the bit of tea and toast he had for breakfast, to pass. 

Dr. Masood watches him with care in those dark eyes, his hands folded in front of him. “You have undergone a trauma, Jake. It’s common to have nightmares afterward as your mind attempts to process that trauma-”

“I haven’t gone through shit,” Jake spits with sudden anger. “I got roughed up, that’s all. That’s not-... that isn’t shit compared to-”

“How old are you, trainee?” The handler asks the question heavy with loaded double-meanings, obvious enough Jake can read them. Give the right answer or get hurt.

“Eighteen,” Chris whispers, with wide scared eyes. Everyone in the room seems satisfied with the blatant, obvious lie.

“Good. And is that the legal consenting age?”

“… yes.”

“Good boy.” The handler pets heavily through Chris’s hair, and the boy shudders in disgust - Jake has never seen him react to touch like that, not from anyone. Just one more sign of a person that’s been totally erased.

“Pl-please, please don’t, please don’t-don’t, don’t touch me-”

“That’s not an option available to you any longer.”

“-compared to what they’ve all lived through,” Jake finishes, trying to close his eyes against the thoughts but he can see it in his mind, now, the way the person who wasn’t yet Chris had shuddered and tried to turn away from touch only to have it forced on him again and again and again.

He feels the nausea again, and this time it takes everything in him not to throw up all over the floor. They hurt Chris, in that place. The touch he seeks out from Jake comes from being forced to accept touch until he wanted it, until he doesn’t know any other way to be. Doesn’t it?

Doesn’t that make needing to hold Chris in the night to know he’s safe, carrying him around, the hugs he’s offered so freely... doesn’t that make all of that no different than assault?

Jake has always thought he was helping, by giving open and easy affection. But... what if he’s only reinforcing what Chris shouldn’t want? Maybe doesn’t, deep down? Chris is an open book but even open books can have things hidden in the margins.

It’s not like Chris could ever tell him if he didn’t want to be touched, is it? They can’t say no, can’t even begin to process the word without fear of punishment. Jake knows that as well as anyone, it’s why he’s so careful with the rescues, but they need touch so badly. All of them, even Antoni, lean heavily into physical reassurance and affection, seem to recover faster and more easily if they can seek it out when they need it, but... 

Jesus, what if Chris is shuddering and shaking and disgusted and only pretending that it feels nice to be hugged? What if-

What if Jake really isn’t any better than Grant Everly, anyway?

Pull yourself together. This doesn’t make sense. But his brain won’t stop spitting the certainty back at him. The image of that asshole - whoever it was, Chris’s fucking actual handler, that stupid fucking word they use instead of abuser, instead of abductor, instead of son of a bitch who deserves to die-

“Jake, trauma doesn’t work that way,” Dr. Masood says quietly. “There is no trauma Olympics. There is no competition to see whose is worse and caused by what. You were subjected to sleep deprivation, purposeful withholding of food and water, physical assault... Natalie tells me you were forced to watch some of the trauma young Chris was put through as well, and understand, what you are feeling is normal and nothing to be ashamed of-”

“It’s not shit, it’s nothing, I’m supposed to be able to take it, it’s not like I haven’t had the shit kicked out of me before and I was a lot younger then,” Jake snaps, pushing himself to his feet. The woozy burst of pain behind his eyes and in his ribs nearly stops him, but not quite. “This isn’t anything. Fucking black eye and a bruised rib and I turn into a little kid scared of the fucking dark.”

“That’s not what this is,” Dr. Masood says quietly. “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is common even in situations in which outright danger to your physical self is not present. You kept Chris hidden.” He puts his hand on Jake’s shoulder, squeezes lightly, in support. “There is something to have pride in, there. You put your body between Chris and danger, Jake. You are a stalwart certainty in his life, when he very much needs one. I’ve known you since you first came here to work for Natalie, and I am-” Dr. Masood pauses, clears his throat. “I am always amazed by your dedication to doing what is best for them all. And I think Chris would still be... quieter... if it weren’t for you specifically.”

Jake can hear the words but they don’t settle, they don’t mean anything. Just buzzing bees trying to distract him from the realization that he can’t protect Chris, because doing that means protecting Chris from himself.

“I can’t-... I can’t do this.”

“Jake?” Dr. Masood’s voice is quiet. “We can end the appointment now, if you wish, but I hope you will at least take the medication I brought with me to help manage your pain-”

“I can’t do this,” Jake groans, hot angry tears building behind closed eyes. “I can’t be this, I can’t do this, I can’t live like this. I can’t keep being around him if this is what it means, you know? I can’t keep spending time with Chris, or keeping him near me, or-... I can’t touch him. I don’t want to touch him if this is... if this is the result. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, if...”

He trails off, trying to imagine how to say if being near him means i’m only hurting him, slowing his recovery, making him dependent on me where he used to be dependent on that motherfucking pervert son of a bitch who raped him, who paid for him to be trained to be raped and pretend it was something else, if this isn’t helping him I’d rather die than make someone like him hurt any worse...

He can’t figure out how to phrase it, how to even begin. It feels good just to say it, just to let it out, and maybe... maybe it isn’t what he thinks it is, really. Maybe he’s not so bad, though, because the rescues do need solid, positive touch, they do, they just-

But how can you fucking tell? How can he tell if what he provides Chris is helping or hurting him?

“Jake, you need to speak with Dr. Berger. These thoughts suggest to me that your trauma is internalizing because you lack an external outlet. You are not-”

“I don’t want to fucking be around him if this is what happens!”

Jake means if I only hurt him worse, but the sound of sudden footsteps, nearly silent, breaks in before he can clarify, before he even realizes he should have.

Jake’s heart drops to his knees. He knows those footsteps, he knows them deep within himself with perfect muscle-memory born of every night Chris has moved nearly-silent to his bedside and whispered, Jake, Jake, can I-I, can, can I sleep with you?

All at once, Jake knows that what he said out loud and what he thought were two different things, and Chris only heard the one.

“Oh, fuck,” He says out loud.

No, no, no no no-

It hurts but Jake puts the pain aside - he’s done it before, after all, washing dishes after dinner with bruises all over his chest and back where they hide easily under his school clothes and his father’s glare burning holes in his back while his mother puts ice on her own bruises upstairs - and moves, with uncommon speed for a man of his size and his injuries.

It doesn’t matter.

Chris is already gone, the back door in the kitchen smacking shut even as Jake moves through the living room. Antoni, in the middle of chopping vegetables for dinner, has frozen and looked up, his eyes meeting Jake’s. Antoni doesn’t ask - only drops the knife and moves for the door, the two of them calling Chris’s name nearly simultaneously. 

He’s not in the backyard, not in the shed or the little planter-garden, not shimmying up a tree, not sitting on the back fence, not here.

There’s no redhead anywhere to be seen. Even when they move to the front yard and look back and forth, he’s nowhere to be seen.

“What happened?” Antoni asks, softly, as the two of them stare at the space where Chris should be, and isn’t.

“I fucked up,” Jake says, heavily.

What else is fucking new?

“... what do we do?” Antoni rakes a hand back through thick dark hair. “Where did he go?”

Jake closes his eyes, tries to think over the pounding guilt and fury, aimed now entirely at himself.

“I don’t know.”

#whump #whumped caretaker #angry caretaker #caretaker whumpee #bruising tw #bruised rib #jake the shelter guy #survivor guilt #ptsd tw #referenced noncon #use of the word rape #referenced torture #caretaking #heavy angst #runaway whumpee #box boy #box boy universe #box boy multiverse #emeto mention #pain #conditioning #trauma response #intrusive thoughts tw #trauma induced rage #self-loathing tw