#ambiguous reader

[slasherflickchick]

Ruin Me

This fic has everything: giving Remmick head, sitting on his face, slight fem-dom, choking, bratty/kinda awkward Remmick, the classic Period Sex, overstimulating him until he’s all pathetic and begging you to let him cum inside (ha ha, puns).

Man’s neck is thick; he can handle a hard ride from ya, I’m sure ;)

Heads up: Reader is at least described to have AFAB bits (no pronouns mentioned), Remmick uses petnames, Reader is racially ambiguous. I’m also posting on mobile so apologies if it looks weird!

18+ NO MINORS, NO AI USAGE, NO REPOST 🤺 GET 🤺 BACK 🤺

Your vampire lover always grew especially needy whenever your monthly cycle came and went. Usually he’d come to you in the night, begging you to let him feed from you using flowery words. You’d let him in of course, it was always easiest to let him feed when he didn’t have to bite you - and far less painful to be sure.

Tonight though, he seemed especially needy. Eagerly pawing at your slip to get to what he needed from you, begging you to let him taste you as he stripped the both of you naked.

But you were feeling mean. You wanted to see this fiend squirm and to hear him whimper for you.

“Fuuuuuck.”

Remmick’s drawled out voice carried through the dark room as his back and neck arched against the pillows and sheets of his bed. You were a beautiful sight between his legs with his cock bobbing in your hot mouth.

You were a tease: going slow and sensual, curious to see how you could rile the being above you up. An oil lamp sat at the nightstand next to the bed, allowing you to see all of Remmick’s pretty facial expressions and reactions. His eyes reflected that predatory yellow-green in the lamplight and a touch of drool began to trickle out of the corner of his mouth.

You ran our nails up and down his naked thighs, leaving trails of pretty red lines behind that had him gasping. You slipped him from your mouth as you licked him from his base to his tip real slow, then focused on giving quick sucks to his tip as soon as it was welcomed back in your warm mouth.

He let out what you assumed to be a curse in some foreign language in between gasps and whispers of your name, his thighs flexed under your arms. He gripped your head, using one hand to gather all of your hair and the other gently caressed whatever part of you he could reach as you looked up at him through your eyelashes.

“Damn, you’re so good darlin’” he praised softly, licking his lips before pressing them together and tilting his head back with a moan. “Fuckin’ hell, just ‘bout ready to bust.”

Your chuckle vibrated around him and that was all he needed before he released a strangled cry and was cumming in your mouth, gripping the strands of your hair tightly you briefly feared he’d rip it out from its roots. He moaned quietly as you licked him up, flinching and gasping from overstimulation as you suckled on the head.

“Open yer mouth, lemme see it.”

With a cheeky grin you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out, showing the white mess he had left. In a surge of desperation he swept you up and kissed you heatedly, tongue collecting his own seed that mingled with your saliva. Your face burned at the filthiness of it all, but hearing him release a debauched moan against your mouth made you throb.

All too suddenly Remmick pulled back and laid against the bed again.

“Mmmmm, c’mere darlin’,” he drawled as he tugged you up by your hips. “Need tuh taste ya.”

His strength never ceased to surprise you as he man-handled (more like dragged) you up his body so that your pussy was right where he wanted it. You steadied yourself against the headboard, barely getting yourself comfortable before Remmick’s greedy mouth was on you - pressing needy open-mouth kisses against your drenched and bleeding pussy.

“She’s weepin’ fer me, ain’t she?” he purred as one of the hands looped around your thighs came up to start rubbing circles against your clit. He hummed as he sucked you into his mouth, “fuck, I’m starvin’.”

You released a breathy gasp that devolved into a moan as he gave you a slow and broad lick with his whole tongue, licking and savoring you as though you were an ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day. You gently batted his hand away from your clit and focused on grinding yourself against his skillful mouth. Remmick was groaning against you as though he could feel the pleasure himself and his heavy breaths made you shudder as he pulled back slightly to flick at your clit with the tip of his tongue.

You were keening above him, grasping at your breasts, thighs, hips, his head, anything to help yourself stay grounded at the onslaught of pleasure he was giving you.

“Remmick - shit!”

He chuckled at the cry of his name and you could feel him smirking against you.

“Don’t need tuh breathe ‘r nuthin’ baby,” he said between pants. “As a vampire, I mean. So stay on as long as you want darlin’,” he gave you a fleeting lick as he hummed, considering with a sexy chuckle. “Or…as long as you can handle.”

The wet squelching sounds of you grinding yourself against Remmick’s eager mouth echoed throughout the room and made your face burn. He’s got one hand squeezing your tit and the other jerking himself off.

“Mmmm, that’s it sugar,” he practically growled, his mouth barely pulled away from your heat. “Fuck yerself on my tongue, make yerself cum. Fuckin’ use me.”

His tongue felt impossibly long as it suddenly slithered and writhed inside of you, making you scream above him. His hands squeezed your flesh so tight as though he meant to rip it from your bones. His face was slippery from the amalgamation of your slick, your blood, and his drool.

God above, he felt perfect.

Better than perfect.

He felt fucking divine.

You did as you were told: your fingers clutched at his scalp and you began to fully rut yourself on his face, fucking his tongue like it was his cock. His tongue was so soft and wet, and his nose added the perfect amount of friction as you bumped your clit against it. The bed continuously rammed against the wall in a rather precise rhythm, but you couldn’t give a damn about it as you were so close.

You came with a shriek of his name, praising him as though he himself were your God. Like he was all things both divine and depraved.

He carried you through your tumultuous orgasm with sweet kitten licks, careful not to overstimulate you too much. Your thighs shook and your lower belly quivered from the aftershocks of your pleasure still rolling through you. Remmick stared up at you intensely, giving your clit a few last and fleeting licks before you climbed off his head. He licked up every drop of your wetness and blood eagerly before his hands grasped at your waist to bring you closer to him. His mouth, nose, and chin were stained crimson (you hadn’t expected to be bleeding so much!) and as he kissed your chest he left behind smears of red.

As Remmick busied himself with sucking on your breasts, you adjusted yourself on his lap and began to grind yourself on his stiffened cock. He moaned into your breast as he sucked on your nipple, then he wrapped an arm around you to pull you impossibly closer to him.

He practically glided into you, leaving the both of you gasping and clutching at each other for just a second. Dear Remmick’s jaw fell slack as you slowly took him in and pressed his cheek against your chest - savoring how glorious you felt all around him. You ran your fingers sweetly through his hair and clung to his head once you were fully seated.

Allowing gravity to bring you and Remmick back down against the bed you began to shallowly grind against him. He bit his lip and closed his rolling eyes, he leaned his head back against the mattress and began to spread his legs just a little wider to feel even more of you. His hands found their way around your hips and began to guide your movements, you allowed it for now because he simply felt too good inside you otherwise. You pressed your hands against his pecs, his shoulders, you even leaned forward and kissed him with such a fiery passion you’d suspect that The Devil himself could see it as hellfire.

You gasped as you felt Remmick’s sneaky fingers had made their way to where you were joined, being non-too gentle as he rubbed your clit the way he knew you liked.

“Cum fer me darlin’,” he whispered quickly. “Cum fer me sweetheart, fuck I need to feel ya cum ‘round me first. Ye feel so fuckin’ good!”

“You’re gonna need permission to cum inside,” you teased.

Remmick paused, his eyebrow twitched and he narrowed his eyes at you.

“Now why’d you go and say somethin’ like that?”

You blinked at him dumbly at his irritated tone.

“…wait, you serious? I only meant it as a joke, honest.” Then an evil idea formed in your head, and your lips stretched into a cat-like grin as you suddenly became less sorry. “Alright then, I’ll test how serious you are.”

Remmick scoffed as his thumbs traced circles into your hips. His eyes narrowed and his lips quirked into a challenging grin as he spoke his famous last words:

“Bring it on baby.”

It felt like it took barely any time at all before your vampire was a quivering and whimpering mess below you. Your hips snapped against his at a pace that was hard and rough one moment, then slow and sensual the next. His moans and whimpers were music to your ears, you met your own end on his cock several times; and each time you came around him was absolute torture.

“Beg for me to let you cum,” you hissed as you ran your thumb over his cheek affectionately, riding him slow and pressing your body against him in the way you knew he couldn’t resist.

Remmick growled beneath you.

“Y-ye’re gonna have’ta do better than that to get me to beg, sweetheart.”

Dear lord, he was a sight to behold beneath you. His accent even began to slip into Irish rather than that North Carolina drawl you’ve grown accustomed to. Hair dampened and curled from sweat, eyes closed and rolling back beneath his lids like a man possessed, he bit his lip so hard he had drawn blood, you were sure he’d be flushing mighty pretty if he were still living and breathing.

He had practically grown talons, though you could tell he was doing his absolute best not to rip into your skin. The tips of his claws were just barely digging into you, adding a delicious amount of pain on your hips.

“Ye’re killin’ me darlin’,” he whined.

You yanked on that gold chain he was always wearing, effectively turning it into a leash and a collar. The vampire beneath you released a debauched moan as you yanked his face close to yours, you could feel his heavy pants brush the hairs from your face.

“What do you want, Remmick?” you taunted.

He clenched his jaw hard and groaned as you slowed even more.

“Ye already know what I want, woman,” he hissed between dangerous teeth. “Please.”

You hummed in mocking thought as you languidly rocked your hips. The ruined man beneath you arched his back and his mouth fell open into a silent cry, drool slipped down the sides of his mouth - but the mess was the last thing on his mind right now.

“Beg some more,” you all but commanded. “And maybe I’ll give you what you need.”

Your vampire lover growled as he threw his head back, glaring at you through predatory half-lidded eyes that glinted a furious red. He could only look threatening for so long before you picked up your pace again, riding him hard and fast before his expression curled into that delicious desperation you’ve been waiting for.

“P-please darlin’! Please let me cum in ya, I’m fuckin’ beggin’! It’s too much, please!!”

You couldn’t stop the satisfied smirk that stretched on your face. You interlaced your fingers together and kissed the tips of his fingers sweetly.

“You have my permission then, go ahead and cum for me.”

Remmick’s eyes practically glowed and he was snarling beneath you, bucking up into you without rhythm.

“Thank you, thank you, thangyew-” his thanks for you grew more slurred the closer he got to his release, you loved seeing him so pussy-drunk like this.

The both of you were panting heavily as you fucked each other like passioned animals in heat. Remmick began to babble in that same foreign language he often spoke in; from the way it sounded it seemed as though prayers were tumbling from his lips.

With a final cry that was more akin to a carnal roar, he reached his near-painful climax. Tears he never thought he was capable of shedding pricked at the corners of his eyes as he clung to you, clutching you to himself as though your very soul would slip away from him.

You sighed dreamily and pulled Remmick’s head back, he looked at you through nearly drunken love-sick eyes as you kissed him sweetly. He returned your kiss with a fervor equal to that of dying embers in a fireplace that won’t quite go out. He was grinning when you pulled back and ran his hands through his hair as he stretched amiably.

“Fuck that was good.”

You hummed as you slipped off of him, curling up into his side as he held his arm out to you in invitation. He ran his hand through your hair as you rested your head against his chest. Both of you laid together in peaceful silence, simply basking in one another’s presence and catching your breaths.

Your beast was finally sated; at least, for now.

[marionettesgarden]

BITE ME | grimmjow x reader

SYNOPSIS. in which—a dumb human asks a dumb question. seriously, grimmjow would throttle you if he wasn't concerned that you would lose more of the braincells that you so desperately need.

CONTENT. fluff, slight ooc!grimmjow, gn!reader, no use of y/n, ambiguous reader, can be read as platonic or romantic, denial of feelings, soft!grimmjow, unreliable narrator

WORD COUNT. 458

AUTHOR'S NOTE. just a little thought i quickly jotted down that i ended up expanding upon! idk what it is abt grimmjow but i LOVE HIM lol!! i also really want to expand more on their relationship bc i have so many more ideas written down! anyways, enjoy my first work on here!

It was a fairly normal day. You weaved your fingers between his light blue strands as he used your lap as his own personal pillow.

But, of course, you had to open your mouth.

“Hey, what do you think my soul tastes like?”

He snapped back, “Ya want ta get eaten by a hollow that badly, or what?”

That draws a little laugh from you and, without realizing it, his body relaxes further beneath the soothing sounds you emit. 

Looking at you now, all flesh, laughter, and everything else that marked you as one of the living, he wonders how you would taste. Would it be the warm spice of sunny afternoons spent lounging on your couch as you played whatever inane movie you found? Sweet, like the damn decadent pastries you’d sometimes bring home and shove down his throat? Bitter? Some indescribable taste he could never fathom? Or, worse, nothing?

His brow furrows. He feels the tension return, the emptiness he could never sate amplifies as his stomach twists itself into knots.

You wouldn’t taste good, he half-heartedly snorts, if how his body reacts is any indication. No, he’s quite sure you’d taste dreadful. You serve more use alive and tending to his every need than as some one time meal he likely wouldn’t enjoy. 

Despite convincing himself of this, there was still an unnecessary tension in his body. He surmises it to be some leftover instinct from when he was an adjuchas. After all, he had already laid claim to your space, to you. No wonder he was getting all pissed, he always had hated the thought of others messing with what was his.

He huffs, shifting to lay face up on your lap, long limbs stretching with an almost feline likeness as he shamelessly takes up your space. 

“You’re mine, got it? Ain’t lettin’ a damn thing touch what’s mine.”

Now that gets a reaction out of you. He’d never admit aloud that he enjoys the flustered look on your face. Teasing you was just so easy. He never really had the chance to lightheartedly tease someone, such was the nature of hollows whose sole purpose was to survive.

“Yours, huh?” He preens a little at that, at how you so easily admitted it. “You wouldn’t be interested in even a tiny little nibble?”

He shifts, now laying on his side and facing away from you.

“Like I’d even enjoy eatin’ ya in the first place.” His tone, offended as he lazily grumbled.

You laugh again and, this time, he allows the muscles in his face to move and pull his lips into a semblance of a smile. 

Yeah, he thinks as he sinks deeper into you and the couch, he likes you better alive.

divider by @bronzewasp

[dearlymrme]

A Pirate's Wish (Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Reader)

Part of the Schrodinger's Shooting Star series.

Summary: Caught between two worlds, you wrestle with guilt and longing as Shanks and the crew rally to help you rediscover joy. Under the stars, the weight of unspoken burdens lifts, replaced by laughter, clumsy dances, and the stubborn love of a captain who’d do anything to see your smile shine bright again.

Smoke dances seductively in the air, reaching for the stars as if inviting them to join the heat of the bonfire below. The coastal aroma of salty burning driftwood combined with spices from meats turning on the spit is mouthwatering enough to perk the noses of any far away beast.

The slow rotisserie turns lazily, its smoke saturating the browning skin with mouthwatering flavor like an unguarded night of debauchery.

Shanks snickers, turning the bottle in his hand as the firelight dances through the green glass. Whatever ‘special ingredient’ Lucky added to this brew, it’s strong enough to conjure metaphors that would make even the stars blush.

So strong, in fact, that you’ve braved to join him on the hammock. A usual struggle to keep from making a fool of himself, even when alone. It's hard enough just to get comfortable, now doubled with the comedic alcoholic inclusion of yourself.

The hammock sways precariously, a delicate balance made even trickier by the addition of you. Yet somehow, you both manage, settling into a closeness that feels as easy as breathing. You counter his weight instinctively now, a habit that’s grown increasingly natural over time. You gravitate towards his opening like caught in proximity. Ben’s presence is a constant in public, a shield against the world. But here, in the quiet, it’s you who fills the gap effortlessly, as if you were meant to.

Though you fit the empty space perfectly, this is one of the rare times he curses the absences of his other arm. All he can offer is the tail of his coat, draped over your hip, infuriated with the poor substitute for the embrace he wishes he could give. It seems to be just enough, though, as you press a hum of appreciation to his clavicle.

He idly swings the hammock with one foot on the ground, setting you both into a gentle, soothing rock. You take to tunneling your face into his neck like a rabbit digging a den.

Despite the mouthwatering aroma of smoked meats saturating the air, he catches the clean scent of your soap in the crown of your hair. He can feel the feather soft touch of your nose trace over his pulse and your breathing a soft caress that spikes his pulse. The warmth of your figure pressed against his alcohol-heavy body leaves him feeling weightless, like something out of a romantic novel.

They had discovered, after some questions asked, that this brew was made from something not present in your world. A common checklist that Hongo runs through anytime you try new food.

Even for him, the drink packs a kick, but you claimed you'd be fine (Hongo still on standby) with that nervous titter of someone either unused to drinking or uncertain of allergens. That same nervous titter escapes you whenever you try something new before you instinctively stick to his side, just in case you can’t keep your head above water.

Which is good.

He prefers you as close as he can get when he makes you brave enough to try new things. It makes his toes curl with Captain's Pride. Makes his cheeks all the more sore when he can’t stop smiling those moments when you break through your own limitations.

So far, there've been no other negative side effects besides the heat of cheeks and your occasional slur.

Your eyes still shimmer and shift like starlight when sober, but now, under the haze of the brew, there’s something more. Observation Haki keeps you in his periphery, his curiosity piqued as he watches the strange ripple in your form. A fleeting distortion, fluxing like a mirage, before it settles into something familiar.

He carefully presses his thumb to your chin, tipping your face up. Instead of the usual bright, warm cast of whatever constellation magicked you into existence, your expression is set in consternation.

Usually chatty, sharing stories of your world and its wonders, it’s no surprise you’ve gone quiet now—judging by your down-turned lips and foggy gaze.

He’s seen this look before, when you think the crew and he aren’t staring. It’s your mind drifting into anxieties and otherworldly burdens you refuse to share. It’s a dreamlike gaze, drifting in the seas between wakefulness and escape. 

It’s like watching a ship caught in fog, its sails full of weight he can’t lighten. When you get like this, that fog swirls like an ethereal stardust, making you seem untouchable.

Unreachable.

If he were to call, would you even be able to hear him? If he tried to be your port in the storm, your guiding light to shore, would you trust him to lead you?

He leans down and places a tender kiss to the corner of your forehead and then, from lack of a reaction, he leans further before blowing a loud raspberry against your cheek. Like one would against the stomach of a babe, the kind of noise meant to break serious moments and leave you laughing.

It startles you enough to nearly knock your head against his, a nonsensical sound escaping your throat, breaking you free from your self-made whirlpool.

“Where’s your head at, starlight?” He teases, the nickname once met with puckered lips and irritation as though he’d fed you a spoonful of tonic, but over time you’ve grown warm to it, even like it.

You had told him once it was because you didn’t want to accept what was happening to you.

You only embraced this new life fully after stepping up to defend them. With nothing but a wooden bat and barely two weeks of training, you still stepped up swinging hard into the face of a threat. Then you made his heart soar, you smiled and called him Captain. But even now, there are moments where you drift, lost in your own head.

“Right here.” You grumble and shuffle your cheek against his collar as if to prove it, but it’s an answer he doesn’t accept.

He gestured up at the bright night above them before taking a small sip of his bottle.

“How far are they?”

“Huh?” You lag, and he grins in that self-confident way of his.

“Stars. You tell us you're from far away. Just how far? Still close enough to grant wishes, right?” Your warring expression finally shifts to one he’d much prefer; exasperation. You turned slightly against him on the hammock, and he steadied to make room.

“You know I can't actually do that?” You’ve killed this thought of theirs multiple times, but he will never let it die. Yet, rather than the usual tone of annoyance, it goes further distant, and his heart swoops in worry. He knows you're trying to bury yourself into him not just for comfort but to hide away. 

“Besides, I don’t want to be a buzz kill.”

“Indulge me?” Tell me anyway. Let me help. Let me take some of those mean little worries and beat them into submission.

It goes unsaid but to his relief you nod and then use your half-empty bottle to gesture up at the expanded dark sea above.

“So…The thing about light…Is that it travels very very fast from very, very far away. So far that by the time we can even see it…that star may not even still be there anymore.”

You huff, letting your arm drop like lifting it had drained all the strength you had left.

“S'why our wishes don't always come true, I guess. A lot of those wishes are already a million years too late, and that star could already be dead of old age.”

He hums and leans over to press his lips to your forehead in comfort to you and himself. You hadn’t been lying. He feels like he’s turned the first page of a sorrowful novel—and he’s already bracing for the ending.

“And shooting stars?”

“Shooting stars burn out even faster, already ablaze as they streak across the sky. That’s why you see them one moment, and they’re gone the next. Briefly seen, short-lived.”

Shanks thought it might be the most depressing thing he’d ever heard anyone say, and silently decided that Lucky’s rum might not be your brand of booze after all.

You hiccuped as you leaned against him, touchy and yearning for a kind of comfort he wasn't entirely sure he could provide but damned if he wasn't going to at least attempt.

"Well,” he began softly, “we fished you out of the water before you burned up.” He remembers  the chaos of it. How the crew had pulled you from the water, your radiance holding you under, majestic and drowning all at once. It had felt like catching something impossibly rare. Something they didn’t deserve but refused to let slip away.

“I’d say you granted our wish. One of the biggest things a pirate could ask for is a new adventure, and here, the crew and I go and catch a shooting star.” His thumbs trace idle circles against your shoulder.

“Mmhmm.” You hummed and played with the end of his coat. You tell them plenty of fantastical things about your world, always happy to sate their curiosity, no matter how ridiculous or nonsensical the questions may be.

Your stories have soured lately, turning sharp with hostile comparisons between this world and the one you left behind. You swing between satisfaction with their simplicity and yearning for the conveniences you’ve lost all while caught in the plentiful colors you claim they are lucky to still have in their oceans.

There's a sign of a bigger problem. But he’s determined to try and help you. Just as he had that day, they pulled you from the water.

“Miss home?” He asks.

“Sometimes…other times I feel so…guilty.”

The lapse of quiet stretches between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts. He wonders if he’s said too much, if he’s dug too deep, but he’s already here, already holding onto you like he’s trying to steady something fragile. So instead, he kicks his foot free of his mistake, nudging the hammock into another slow, easy sway."

“Why's that, starlight?” For a moment, he can feel you tense in the way you do when your mind argues with your feelings. 

You’re still cagey, hesitant, untrusting of nearly everything around you. More your surroundings than him or the crew. He’s been working this out of you slowly, knowing how dangerous that instinct to freeze could be in their world, and now, in yours.

You nuzzle deeper into his chest, and his pride flares again as you win the silent battle with yourself. Slowly, your stiff, warm body melts into his, sinking into relaxation.

You know them. You've been here and living the dream with them for months now.

“Sometimes I think about going home. Everything and everyone I left behind…and then I look around this impossibly bigger world and I think every day louder and louder, I don't want to go back…and I feel like I’m���betraying it.” You explain through a drunken stutter and slurred words. 

Your voice is usually full of wonder and excitement. A curiosity that matches his own and keeps up the pace.

But now, it's slow and exhausting. This unspoken burden that's been dragging you through thorn bushes and mud. He sees you as a shadow of a child gone out to play, only to come back being bruised from a hard fall.

“There is so much I am giving up in terms of comfort and condition, but everything here, despite its hardships, wins out so much more. I am honestly living the fantasy. "Even one where I don’t fit quite right, where I’m still trying to mold myself into place. It’s like opening my favorite book, losing myself in a world far kinder than reality. Only now, it’s real, and every time I think about going back, I feel like I’m betraying it."

“And I've told you to just be yourself.” You’re silent, spurring him to continue. “We already love ya, starlight. Sometimes, it feels like we were waiting for you before we even knew your name."

Him, the crew, him. The emphasis on him growing more and more every day.

The lapse of quiet continues, and he realizes he may have put his foot in his mouth.

“Something more to that?” He asked, regretful worry that he may have made your mood worse. Leaning forward, he shifts your legs fully into his lap, pulling his coat tighter around you to wrap you closer in the only embrace he can offer."

“It’s kind of-…” A hesitant pinch in your expression either to put your thoughts better into words or to put them out of mind entirely.

“What if I told you I’ve had this conversation with you before or maybe even someone else and you don’t remember? Maybe it wasn’t your crew that found me but another’s?” 

There is a near sad but secret smile on your lips. That same kind of smile a wife gives her husband sailor on the dock as he makes for the seas.

“Just like that shooting star. Blink, and you’ve already missed it.”

It's a hypothetical that’s a bit too much for his intoxicated brain to handle, but it snaps his attention like a cannonball through a ship.

Have you had this conversation with him before? If you have, true to your suggestion, he can’t remember talking about it. 

Ah, and now the worries are flooding the ship.

What else have you talked with him about that he can’t remember? Who else have you talked to about this? Is this a hypothetical question, or are you-...?

He clears his throat, takes a deep breath and then finishes off the last swig in his bottle before playfully reaching for your own.

A pot left simmering on the back burner. One he’d have to keep watch from boiling over later.

He hums before tracing the scruff of his cheek across your shoulder and earning a hitch before you ungracefully press your hand to his chin to try and stop him.

“Ack-Shanks!”

“I hope I’m doing a better job at cheering you up than my hypothetical other.” He grunts and places another kiss on your forehead. “And if there was another crew that found you then I hope they take better care of you then we do.” 

He grunts and places another kiss on your forehead before snatching the bottle out of your hand and finishing what little remained. He smacks his lips, still parched, and quenches his thirst with kisses. Starting at your head, trailing down your throat, before affectionately scratching his stubble against your soft skin.

“If booze is what it takes to get you to open up about this, then me and the crew need to do better at paying attention sober.”

You let go of him in defeat allowing him to sand you down with his stubble as affectionately as a cat

With a huff, you lean over to meet his lips in your own reassuring kiss.

“You and the crew take care of me plenty.”

“You better kick me outta the bed if I don't.” He butts your forehead gently with his own.

“Kick the captain out of his own bed? Mutiny” The playful and near smart-ass tone returning to your voice having his cheeks ache as he returns it with his own.

“Starlight, my crew would personally have me sleep with the fish.”

A mischievous glimmer sparkling in his eyes and in the split second it takes for you to realize and react he is already tossing both your empty bottles aside. Then as impressive as always, he lifts you with one arm and turns for the bonfire. 

“Now, I think we could both use a bit of a pick me up!” 

A smooth transition interrupted as his foot catches the sand, you erupt in a scream of new energy and snatch out your hands to catch your fall but despite the flails he remains upright.

“Come on, starlight. Show us one of those 20th century dances you were talking about yesterday!”

The crew cheers overhearing his suggestion and the stagnating party catches its second wind.

Bonk Punch starts up an even more upbeat tune. 

Lucky breaks open another cask.

Ben mentally prepares for the amount of hungover complaints he will receive in the morning.

Whether or not you could actually dance didn’t matter, they danced with you anyway.

The swing, the turn and most in common, the tripping over his and your own inebriated feet together.

As the night goes on he rips that guilt off your back and marvels at that smile that comes back to your face. 

Perhaps he was wrong. Lucky's brew seemed to be the best choice. The honest choice. The choice that'd loosen your lips and help him to find what ails you so he can put the smile back on your face.

That smile that he loves; bright as the stars you came from.

Anything to see that smile again. Anything to satiate your own caving loneliness and his own selfish greed to want to keep you.

He wants to silence that berating little voice in your head, the one keeping you from living the life you deserve.

He wants for you to shout those locked up wishes loud enough to reach the heavens you came from.

Star's deserve to have their own wishes granted too, in his opinion.

And if it means playing the bully, grabbing you by the ankle and shaking those troubles out like belli, then so be it.

He'll threaten you with as much beard burn and gut busting laughs to get as many cheek aching smiles as he needs to.

[respawnjupiter]

tׁׅhׁׅ֮ꫀׁׅܻ ꯱ׁׅ֒ᨵׁׅꪀׁׅᧁׁ ᨵׁׅ⨍ tׁׅhׁׅ֮ꫀׁׅܻ ꯱ׁׅ֒ꫀׁׅܻɑׁׅ֮

᥅ꪗꪖꪀ ᥊ ᥅ꫀꪖᦔꫀ᥅

𝚁𝚘𝚝 𝙸𝚗 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎

𝐍𝐨𝐧𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: "𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘱𝘢, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮; 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥."

‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹ ♡ ──────── ‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹ ♡

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐄: "ωнαт α уσυηg gιяℓ ѕнσυℓ∂ ησт кησω"

You were worried sick. Stomach twisting, and sick with distress and despondency as you sat in your Grandpa's old worn-out recliner wearing your pajamas, a mug of now-cold hot cocoa in your hands as you waited for your grandfather to come back inside the lighthouse. He had told you to keep an eye on the light for any ships lost out at sea as he went out to check something. You had noticed for the past few days that your Grandpa seemed sick, unnaturally dehydrated, and constantly muttering something under his breath about "she's coming" but whenever you'd ask about it, he'd always shut you down and tell you that it was nothing.

The storm raging on outside was getting worse and even though you were told to keep inside, you couldn't help but be worried for your Grandfather. Still, you had a job to do. Keeping the light on and helping ships get around was important and your grandpa would've wanted you to help others before going to check on him.

Making your way up the narrow steps of the old, rickety, wooden stairs; you set the mug of cocoa down on the desk next and get to work on looking for people with the big bright light that shined on top of the lighthouse for the ships out at night. . . And your grandpa, of course. No way were you going to just forget your Gramps.

────────────────────────────────────────────

As you walked along the shoreline of the beach next to your lighthouse home, it was early morning and the sun hadn't yet risen so you held a flashlight while you looked for any signs of life, still in your pajamas with no shoes on.

You caught sight of a man with dark hair and wearing a white tank top lying on the rocks of the shore, he looked unconscious, and without thinking you yelled out to the stranger. "HEY! You alright, man?!" You shout as you run over to him and check his pulse, silently praying that the man was still alive.

He lets out a quiet groan of pain, still out of it but that's enough to tell you he is alive and that's good enough, so you grab him and drag him over to the lighthouse while the storm worsens and the wind picks up, rain pouring down harder and you knew in that moment that you weren't going to find your grandpa tonight.

───────────────────────────────────────────

╰┈➤ Taglist:

╰⪼ @zhvakinnn

───────────────

Thank you for reading and please keep in mind that this is the PROLOUGE so it's only just setting up the scene and plot. I will make a masterlist post and post all updates there with links. If you wish to be tagged just comment or dm me.

[nic-writes-sometimes]

Summary: Mother Miranda's latest experiment is an unruly thing in desperate need of some discipline. And who better to instill proper manners than Lady Dimitrescu herself?

Pairing: Alcina Dimitrescu/You

Chapter: 1/3

Word Count: 5,025

[sykeskassie]

Starry Starry Night

Once again we have written a vent piece. This one is kind of ambiguous, so I won't put it under any particular group in the masterlist. Though I will say that I was going back and forth between Stray Kids Chan and Seventeen Seungcheol when I wrote this. The name is plucked from Don McLean's song Vincent, which is what I've had on repeat for the last two days.

CW: mentions of disassociation but not by name, symptoms of depression but also not by name

𓆩♡𓆪ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ𓆩♡𓆪ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ𓆩♡𓆪｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ 𓆩♡𓆪

The first sign should have been the dishes that had been sitting in the dishwasher for a week. They were clean, just waiting for someone to put them away. The cheery magnet served as a looming reminder, coupled with the slowly growing stack of dishes in the sink waiting patiently for their own turn. They were too loud, and too silent all at once; knowing that this routine task needed to be done, but only remembering in the quiet moments when all energy had been depleted for the day.

The second sign should have been the repeated songs. She would get like this every so often, explaining in the clearer moments that sometimes there wasn't enough room in her head for anything but consistency. That the music would fill all the in between spaces and let everything come to a standstill. That when the song would loop indefinitely, it let her stop thinking. The tendency to overthink was a shared trait for the two of you.

The third sign that should have been what tipped you off was how tired she had been. For days, for weeks, she had been walking around your shared apartment like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Bags under her eyes that she explained away with restless sleep; allergies were wearing her down, making it impossible to get meaningful rest. It should have been easy to put two and two together and see just how bone-deep her exhaustion went. To see how she would settle into that thousand yard stare, to see how lost in her own head she would get.

But it wasn't any of those that finally clued you in. No, it was coming home to a dark apartment, the only light source coming from the lingering sunlight that was trying its best to peak in through the closed blinds. It was the utter quiet that greeted you, an odd silence that rarely settled over your home. She always hated the silence, preferring the way music would wind it's way around her like a favorite blanket. To help filter the thoughts, she once explained.

You didn't call out to her. When it got to this point, anything above a murmur was overwhelming. It was in a nest of blankets that you found her, a heavy comforter on top that only allowed you a glimpse of her eyes that were trained unwavering on a spot on the wall. You knew she had to have heard you come in; the steady fall of your feet and the opening of doors would have clued her in. She wasn't ignoring you because that just wasn't in her nature. No, she was adrift in her own mind, only registering that she wasn't alone anymore on a surface level.

So you did the only thing that you could do. Climbing next to her on top of the covers, she let you pull her close to you. It helps sometimes, to have another body help anchor hers in the physical world. Words would come later, soft whispers that you were here, that you would help shoulder all the weight pinning her to this bed. Whispers that you would pair with the softest kisses to the crown of her head. Holding her until her eyes slipped shut and her breathing returned from worryingly slow to a more regular pattern. It was then, while her mind got the rest that it desperately needed, that you sneak away to take care of all the little things that had been building up. It wouldn't solve everything, but…it was a start.

[baphotalks]

Sneak peak of an upcoming priest Ford x demon Reader fic I'm working on.

Keeping the reader gender neutral and vague in description for readers to immerse themselves in.

[egotisticaleverything]

The beard is doing things to me that I’m not ready to admit.

[switchsupremacy]

pretty princess!

content warning! dominant gender neutral reader, sub male character, feminization, use of pet names, cum play if you squint, fingering (m receiving, met n messy style), mirror sex.

imagine your faves xoxo.

“you’re so fucking m-mean.” he sneers, head falling back against your shoulder. you have him on cool, hard-wood floors. positioned in your lap in front of your full-length mirror. his body twitches and trembles in your grasp, suffering through the onslaught of pleasure. your fingers are unforgiving as they stretch out his tight hole. his long-forgotten cock weeps precum against his tummy as you toy with him. his legs are spread and perched up above yours, giving you view and access to his privates. you only hum in response to his wail.

"i just like to toy with you honey, how's that mean?" you question, tone sickly sweet; juxtaposing the way your fingers bully their way into him. shallow pumps of your digits that press against his prostate with every drag. the slip is easy.. too easy. lube drips from his hole onto the wood, way too much was used. it wasn't an issue -- you liked it messy. liked seeing how sloppy your pretty fella could get.

the incessant schlop and squelch of your fingers has you grinning, nearly drunk off arousal. you vocalize your thoughts - "it's so messy," you breathe, groaning out a rumble from the back of your throat. "wet like a fuckin' girl f'me."

"oh my god--" he gasps, hole quivering around your fingers and tightening like a vice. "oh you liked that." you grin against his neck, kissing and softly sucking marks onto the bare skin. you slow down your attack on his prostate, settling for slower, deeper thrusts with your fingers. the squelch somehow sounds messier this way, piercing the air with the noise.

"you like being my messy little girl, don't you baby?"

he huffs at your teasing, glaring at you through the reflection of the mirror. your smile widens and you pick of the pace of your fingers. your other hand comes up to wrap around his throat, not truly choking him, but holding him in place. he keens at the touch "I need an answer, love. i can feel you gettin' close.. there's no way you think i'm gonna let you come and you can't even answer me.." you hum in his ear, the sultry timbre of your voice rumbles through him like a wave.

"i like it." he says finally, gasping out. "i like being your m-messy.. girl." he whispers, the last part a low whine. you're happy with the admission, staring at him through the reflection. "that wasn't so hard, was it, sweet thing?"

you go back to the unforgiving pace you'd began with. the sudden movement makes him whine as his chest heaves. "c'mon honey. i wanna see this messy little cunt cum fa' me."

curses fly from his mouth like prayers. his body falls limp as he melts into you, wracked with little tremors. he can't even warn you that he's close because the snap happens so abruptly. he tenses and his back arches as much as it could in your restricting grasp. his choked moans sound nearly angelic as he falls apart in your hold. he cums so beautifully, making a mess of his stomach and bucking his hips sporadically.

"attagirl honey, jus' like that." you chew your lip, watching his orgasm wrack his body in the reflection of the mirror. he whines, a sound deep from within his chest, and you take it as a sign to pull your fingers out.

you reach up to smear the mess of cum along his stomach, "my messy, pretty girl."

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

cw: debatable self-deprecation, kidnapping, noncon

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic.

Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though.

When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably forgotten in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening a damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better off jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een out.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze.

He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway.

You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting as far as his knuckles.

He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit.

You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any anxiety from building in your gut.

Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You carefully set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ a grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking noisily at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s.

Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed.

It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer.

You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand.

The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind.

You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John simply inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.”

John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly it was for this time of year, and hadn't just jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.”

Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb.

You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle.

It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh.

“Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much.

Your sole scuffs against some debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before.

As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now.

You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

Then he was smiling at you again.

It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward.

You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles.

They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot? That it?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up and spit out 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle.

It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh?" His words still swollen with caustic amusement, "That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble.

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over.

You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was clearly restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits.

At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right?

But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it.

Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek, “—almost made us lose out,” he grumbled. “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”.

You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce. Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[dearlymrme]

Astra Felix | Monkey D. Luffy/Reader

Part One of Schrodinger's Shooting Star series.

Summary: In one life, you fall in front of a Sunny ship. In another, the Merry on her virgin voyage. You fall into a small dingy just set out to sea. Even collapse onto a barrel bobbing in the waves. What matters in that you fall and the Straw Hat crew is the one to fish you up.

Luffy was told that when you see a shooting star, you're supposed to make a wish on it. No one's ever told him what you're supposed to do when you catch one.

In fact, he's never heard of anyone ever catching a shooting star. So, his blood was already buzzing from being the first to do it.

There was a loud BOOM like testing the Merry's canons for the first time again, and then the sky looked like someone punched it. It stretched like his own rubber body, and then it cracked like a mirror. He almost thought it was Ace’s birthday, the way colors sparked from it like fireworks.

And then there's a loud splash, and the light is suddenly right in front of the Sunny. It’s a rippling fountain of bright gold and silver. It fizzes and bubbles like a soda bottle. Bubbles that were nice enough not to burn Zoro when he managed to fish you out.

Zoro had rubbed his hands in shock afterward but hadn’t complained, so Luffy figured whatever it was, it didn’t hurt.

And when they finally saw you, they were all shocked. Not that he really knew what to expect when fishing up fallen stars. Nami seemed to think you would be bright and glittery, but when they pulled you out of the water, you seemed so normal.

You looked just like them. Feet, hands, nose, ears but even with a plain face he could see something. A shifting layer of light lying over each other and turning into shapes and colors like a kaleidoscope of color and ripples. Like the warm ocean reefs, rippling under the water as the ship sailed on clear days.

It was so cool. It made his mind buzz with questions. The longer he stared at the colors, the more they seemed to stick and settle. Like the scales on a mermaids tail.

He had so many questions.

What's The Ocean Above like? Are the waters as heavy as the ones that sink him like a stone? Can you swim in them? Can you teach him to swim in them?

Can you grant wishes? He wasn't sure he wanted to make one. Why take the fun out of things and ask you to grant his wish when he could do it himself? Just thinking about it, he decided. No granting wishes. It's cheating.

Can he have you?

He's not dumb enough to think he could keep you. You're a star after all. Just the thought of it already felt like trying to keep himself on land. It'd drive him crazy and make him snap and snarl as the itch would get too itchy and the crowds would get too boring.

But one of the most burning questions in his mind…Do stars poop?

It's the first thing he asks you when you open your kaleidoscope colored eyes. It was like he tossed a rock in a river. That same shift and shimmer rippled. Like an unrecognizable reflection, unable to decide its original shape before settling on a presence that couldn't be anyone else but You.

You stare at them the way bad guys stare at him when they realize too late that they’ve made the mistake of underestimating him and his crew.

You even make that same punched-out noise they do—before your head rolls back.

Chopper had quickly batted them away and like the greatest doctor in the whole ocean, took charge and did what he did best. Told Franky to carry you to the infirmary and then kicked them all out to do doctor things.

Chopper said you had passed out from shock and that despite falling from out of nowhere-...

“From out of the sky.” He corrected because it's stupid to pretend that they didn't all just see it.

-...you seemed ok.

A heartbeat, skin, blood. There was that same weird thing about how you looked that made Chopper squint but shake his head.

And then you woke up again. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that came before a storm. The kind of quiet that makes him wanna poke and prod to see just how much power that storm had.

A storm like the ones he and Ace and Sabo used to scream at to see who could be louder than the thunder.

He knows he shouldn't. He doesn't. Even though he thinks your storm gets in your own head because sometimes your eyes get cloudy and your fingers get twitchy. Chopper tells him it’s called shock. Which, if your own storm is hurting you, how is he supposed to help?

“Give them time.”

And he huffs and tries to do what Chopper says, but you looked lonely. He doesn’t like doing it, but he waits for you to tell him it’s okay or for when you say it's okay and it's really okay.

Or at least until Chopper says it’s okay.

And the more he watches and waits, the more he sees that, just like Ace, you’re not gonna get better on your own.

When you sit on the deck, he knows that heavy silent weight that bears down. Your eyes wide and distant with fear make him think it’s kinda lame that you haven’t even given this world a chance before deciding to be scared of it. Closed off and lonely.

It makes him itch, and despite Chopper trying to slap him away, he doesn't leave you alone.

If Chopper says you shouldn’t leave the ship yet, that’s fine.

He just plopped himself down next to you on the deck, humming while your brain slugged along like a snail most days.

But he could tell by the disbelieving but appreciative smile you send him. It was just enough to help settle you to your new life on his crew.

You were their lucky star, after all. He decided to make up the new station on the spot. The Straw Hat crew's very own lucky star.

It took a while, slow and steady, but you warmed up to him so much faster than the others, which made sense. He was the captain.

One day, out of the many days of what felt like months, you had taken a deep breath when he managed to drag you aboard sharing his captain's seat, and you talked.

And he listened in that way not a lot of people thought he knew how to do. He listens the way he fights with reckless focus, missing nothing, grasping at details like treasure. The way people underestimate his ears, the same way they underestimate his fists, it always makes him grin.

You talked, and they weren’t just stories, Usopp tells stories. You talk about your life from another world, another star entirely. From one star to another.

Immediately, he was hooked. He felt like he was talking to Shanks again as you told him of your life and your home. Phenomenal things. Things that sounded impossible.

You said weird things sometimes that made him laugh. You said sad things sometimes that made him want to punch someone.

Then, one day, you made a noise. It sounded strange at first, like wearing new sandals. It falters, cracks, then bursts free all clumsy and golden, bubbling up like something you forgot you even had. It was the sweetest sound he ever heard, and he had almost started to worry that you had forgotten how to laugh.

When you smiled, he understood that despite how normal you seemed, your smile was as bright as the stars. Pulled your cheeks up into apples he wanted to sink his teeth in.

Your laughter filled the ship, your tears fell like raindrops, and that’s when the thought truly settled. In the way he knows he’ll be Pirate King, deep, absolute, and undeniable.

The kind of truth that doesn’t need proof, because it’s already there, had been dropped right in front of their ship and now decorated their journey with starlight.

You were his star. You were meant to be his and your laugh proved it. Yeah. It’s right. He feels it as sure as the wind in his sails, as loud as the laughter echoing from his deck. So he grins, wide and sharp, and makes it official, like it wasn’t already obvious.

“Join my crew!”

[strangerstilinski]

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: eddie in blue jeans. eddie leaking in blue jeans. eddie cumming in blue jeans. that's it, that's the fic. [ 2.9k ]

𝗰𝘄: reader with a vagina & breasts, 1 occurrence where reader refers to themselves as a girl, overuse of italics probably, other than that we just have heaping doses of heavy petting, grinding, and kissing. oh! and a certain someone cumming in his pants ofc

𝗮/𝗻: imo the second half of this is where i reaaally shined, ok? there's just... something so *clenches fist* about eddie who's so turned on by you that he's stupid with it. anyway, thank you for reading! xx and remember to reblog to make eddie cum <3

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖𝟏𝟖+ 𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙢𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

The curls at the nape of Eddie's neck are damp where they tangle around your fingers. His breath rolls out in hot waves against your tongue, full, spit-slick lips moving eagerly against your own. Eddie is kissing you like he thinks he might die without the taste of you, fervent and hungry and seemingly determined to stake some sort of claim on your mouth. 

You've only been at it for five minutes but, seriously, how in the hell did normal people ever make it through an entire evening without devouring their date? Either they are far stronger than you, or it's the power of something you'd simply dubbed The Eddie Munson Effect.

Regardless, you're feeling beyond desperate. 

Because you'd had to watch every single stumbling step Eddie made throughout the evening as he quite literally tripped over his own feet in a rush to open doors for you. He'd done so with all of his usual awkward charm, arm extended with gentlemanly grandeur — and on one occasion, he'd even bent at the waist into an adorably courteous little bow as he'd waited for you to step through. Each time, his hand found the small of your waist, and while he would linger a second longer than was strictly necessary, his touch always remained polite and comforting, never bleeding into the possessive brand that you'd noticed beneath the hands of men in the past.

Then again, every brush of Eddie's fingers over the course of the evening had sent sparks down your spine. 

There'd been one moment, when the wind had caught the hem of your skirt and sent it billowing up — you'd felt the cool air rush all the way up to the sliver of tummy above your underwear — but Eddie's hands had been quick to find your waist, smoothing the fabric back down over your thighs and holding it there for a beat. Thick fingers and clunky silver rings had hesitated on your hips until the breeze died down, and then Eddie's face had gone red in a way that had little to do with the chill in the air, and entirely more to do with the sudden realization of how close you were, how intimate the brush of his pinky was against the warm skin at the back of your thigh. 

And you absolutely had to take into account the condition in which he'd showed up on your doorstep. With a crisp white tshirt tucked neatly into the waistband of light-wash jeans. His hair shining lightly with gel, curls coiled in slightly neater than usual ringlets. With his jaw shaved smooth, and his skin smelling sharply of a rich, woodsy aftershave or cologne that gave you butterflies every time you breathed in.

Then there was the way each and every hearty chuckle that he'd let out over the course of the evening had curled in your ears and proceeded to pool pleasantly in your gut. The way every dramatic story retelling had left you fully enraptured right from the start. The way  every dimpled grin had practically sucked the air straight from your lungs. And your ever-deepening feelings for him had only solidified with each of his stuttered attempts to accept your compliments.

All evening long, you'd been eager to fast-forward, to get right here. Home, on your couch, thighs splayed wide over the cradle of Eddie's lap, skin flushed with heat, with your skirt rucked up and your sweater steadily slipping down your shoulder. 

And now that you're here, Eddie's hands have undertaken the impossible task of clutching at every part of you at once. Ringed fingers rake down your back only to grab ahold of your ass to drag you more heavily into his lap. Your teeth catch on his lower lip when he forces your hips to roll in a staggered rhythm, shaky thrusts driving his own hips up and slotting the bulge in his jeans just where you needed it to relieve some of the pressure between your thighs. 

You both gasp into the kiss at the friction that the poorly-synchronized movements are making. The rough chafe of his zipper and denim against the cotton of your panties is only just shy of being too much. It's delicious. 

"Y-your roommate-" Eddie pulls away to stutter against your cheek. 

"Out." You supply in a rush before your mouths are crashing together again like magnets. 

Eddie makes a small noise in the back of his throat, a satisfied sort of drawn-out groan that has your head spinning. You can still taste the lingering traces of the cigarette he'd smoked during the short walk back to his van, and the breath mint that he'd popped into his mouth immediately after. The mingling flavors are enough to give you a headrush. As if the combination of mint and nicotine were absorbing straight into your bloodstream merely from licking it from his mouth. But, maybe that has more to do with the way Eddie is kissing you-

Eddie seems to approach kissing with the same over-abundance of heart and enthusiasm that he does with literally everything else. Plush lips work against your own, smoothly encouraging your mouth open for him every time you dare to draw back for a quick breath. It's a perfect give and take, an intoxicating push and pull that you had zero qualms about getting lost in. 

This has always been your favorite part of foreplay. The slow-building desperation. The shared breaths. The wandering hands. The heated teasing that you felt pulsing in your clit and all the way down to your toes. It's something you normally relish in drawing out as long as possible, until your panties are soaked through and your lips are sore, but, fuck-

You can feel how hard Eddie is growing beneath you. The warmth of his cock burns all the way through his jeans until you swear you can feel it against your cunt and inner thighs— Until you swear you can nearly distinguish the sheer heat of the blood swelling his erection from the less-oppressive warmth emanating from his legs. And when his mouth trails down the line of your jaw to kiss and nip at your throat, you can't help but attempt to sneak a peek at the arousal you've drawn out of him.

The sight doesn't disappoint. 

His bulge stretches all the way from the bottom of the zip on his jeans and across the crease of his thigh. The obvious curve of his shaft straining against its tight confines stretches across his left thigh and then tapers out at the head of his cock—Jesus, he’s huge—and if you squint, you think you might even be able to make out a small spot, no more than the size of pea, where the light wash denim looks just a bit, well, wet. And, holy shit. 

It's drool-worthy. It's so hot. Your mouth might genuinely be watering just looking at it-

Oh, god. You really needed to kiss him just a little longer. You were certainly not about to be the girl who drops to their knees to suck a guy's dick within ten measly minutes of getting through the front door on a first goddamn date. That would be ridiculous. 

You'd make it at least twenty, surely — Maybe fifteen. 

In the meantime, more kissing. And that would be all too easy with the way Eddie's hands slip lower along the curve of your ass as he finds your mouth again. His fingers burying deeper into your flesh, rings biting with a sharp pinch that makes you keen and release an encouraging moan. 

There's a fire building behind your clit with every drag of your hips. You feel deranged beneath the haze of your lust, but Eddie only seems to be matching your need every step of the way. 

You've never seen him quite so out of control. So desperate, and God it's a beautiful sight. 

Eddie's spine arches forward from the back of the couch to push his chest to your own. Your hips stutter, driving down against the bulge in his jeans. The hard line of his cock wedges neatly at your center, fighting against the oppressive barrier of your underwear and his jeans. Dull as it is, it gives the barest hint as to what it would be like to have him actually pressing into your aching cunt, stretching you out. 

Just the thought makes your hips buck, little rolls of your hips re-doubling in effort. The pressure against your entrance has you whining pitifully as Eddie's tongue strokes over yours. One of those gorgeous, wide palms of his moves up to your jaw to hold your face steady as he attempts to swallow up your sounds. 

"Eddie." You pant brokenly, a plea. Because you're trying, really, but fuck. If you didn't get him inside of you — in one way or another — in the next few minutes, you very well might lose your mind.

Your fingers wind tighter into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp in that soft way that makes Eddie's cock jump in his pants. 

And the noises you're making.. 

They're better than any song Eddie has ever heard in his entire life, high and needy and so fucking hot. Every little sound has Eddie's thighs flexing beneath you in an attempt to keep his erection pressed snug to your cunt, to push the intoxicating ebb and flow that the two of you have going over into something more. Into a constant, blissful friction. 

Another minute of the heavy grind of your pussy over his lap has Eddie's cock twitching again, his balls tightening up and his brain growing too foggy to hold back the needy whimpers that rise in his own throat. 

“Shit-” Eddie gasps, his voice gone raspy with need. 

You murmur something in response that gets muffled by Eddie's lips and tongue. Something about wanting his cock on your tongue but also possibly inside your pussy — The details are unclear. Eddie has no idea which exactly you're angling toward, but he's ready to bust already and you're both still fully-clothed, so. He's just praying to Ozzy that he'll even make it that far. 

He probably needs to take a breather, and really he's going to, but then your hips stutter and you let out the sweetest little moan and Eddie kind of goes dumb with it.

He's too far gone to hear the telltale rattle of keys against your front door, or the click of the lock that has your own head snapping up toward the doorway in surprise. You stiffen above him, your ass driving down against his cock as your movements come to a halt and your weight drops heavily into his lap. 

And shit, he'd already been fucking throbbing in his jeans. The new pressure on his erection is just too much. 

A small noise of shock and pleasure tears from Eddie's throat, a pathetic sounding thing that makes your cunt clench around absolutely nothing and a rush of arousal soak the cotton of your panties. His lips part beneath your own unmoving ones, his jaw gone slack around the broken moan that falls into the heat of your mouth. 

Eddie's hips buck up sharply, fingers biting meanly into your hips as warmth floods his briefs, cock twitching and eyes rolling back as he shakes through the quick waves of his orgasm. His brain is pure static, ears ringing with such strength that your nervous laugh and stammered greeting sound far off despite you being pressed so close to him. Everything sounded just a bit like he was underwater. 

His head clears a little as you brace your hands on his shoulders and push yourself up, his eyes popping open as the distance between you grows and the warmth of your body disappears altogether. You're smiling awkwardly, laughing despite yourself, with your gaze locked somewhere over his shoulder as you attempt to smooth out the wrinkles in your skirt — and then Eddie finally processes the sound of Robin's voice in the entryway behind him. 

Oh. Oh, fuck. 

Eddie's heart had already been beating heavily, but suddenly he swears he can feel each and every rhythmic pump of the blood in his veins. The strength of it makes his pulse thump so violently in the hollow of his throat that his eye might've been twitching in time with each beat. 

His gaze drops to his lap, where, to his horror, light blue denim is already a few shades darker. His cum is already soaking through his underwear and very, very quickly spreading into a wider, far more noticeable wet patch, and Jesus fucking Christ, this cannot be happening to him-

He tugs at his pant-leg desperately in an attempt to draw the fabric away from where the cum had pooled in the crease of his pelvis and then dripped steadily down the length of his thigh, but it's too late. 

He'd come.. so hard. And so much. His pants are stretched too fucking tight because he's sitting and you'd just rung out every last fucking drop of cum from his balls with your pretty pussy rubbing over his lap again and again and-

Robin's muffled curse breaks through his inner-turmoil, followed by the loud thud of something heavy landing on the kitchen counter behind him. Eddie turns sideways in his seat to find Robin with flushed cheeks and sweat beading on her brow, her arms draped limply around a large television set. She's panting exaggeratedly, mouth running a mile a minute as she regales the story of the older couple on the first floor who had upgraded to a 35-inch and offered up their old console for, quote: “Twenty bucks! A goddamn steal, you guys-!”

The two of you are babbling excitedly back and forth, the front door to your apartment still hanging slightly ajar all the while. Eddie realizes, belatedly, that Robin must've carried the behemoth of a thing all the way upstairs by herself — How the hell had she even managed that? 

“Eddie, would you mind giving her a hand with that while I clear a spot for it over here?” You delegate gleefully as you flutter back into the living room to do just that.

You rush to the console table against the far wall and quickly begin shuffling things around to make space for your new possession, stacking books and knickknacks and sliding the clunky record player as close to the edge as you can manage. 

“Oh, uh..” 

Eddie smacks his lips once, eyes dropping from you to the gargantuan fucking wet patch stretched across his thigh. While he's reluctant to dig his own grave, he fears he has no other choice. 

“-Well.. To that 'm gonna have'ta say..” 

He swallows and gives a nod to himself in resolve, a burst of air pushing past his nose as he snatches his jacket from the floor beside the couch and uses it to shield the focal point of his embarrassment, avoiding looking back toward Robin completely. 

“Shit, uh.. Nope. No, sorry." 

Your movements falter at his response, an amused little smile tugging at the corners of your eyes as you regard him, “No?” 

You laugh, like you're waiting for Eddie to clue you in on the joke.   

Of fucking course Eddie had opted to wear a pair of light wash Levis for your date tonight instead of black. Because now? There is no way in hell you and Robin won't see the evidence of his predicament the moment it's no longer hidden behind his leather jacket. 

If you see the way he'd shot off in his pants like a horny teenager from nothing but a little bit of kissing, Eddie is certain he'll never get a second date — Not to mention the constant ribbing he'd be destined to get for the rest of his Goddamned life from everyone else.

There's no way that Buckley won’t tell Harrington — with the weird and questionably platonic friendship the two of them had fallen into at some point around the time they'd graduated high school. And Harrington will, of course, inevitably spill the beans to Dustin. And then Dustin's loud mouth would manage to somehow tell absolutely everybody else in Eddie's life. 

He is so fucked. 

“Yeah, sorry, I gotta bounce, actually-” Eddie fights back a cringe, bounce-? What the fuck is he even saying? “I, uh, I forgot I have a.. A thing.” 

He can't quite hold back a wince then, at the sound of his own excuse in his ears. He's usually a lot better on his toes than this, but he's fucking floundering all of a sudden. 

It's because of you — it has to be because of you. You and your pretty eyes that are slowly narrowing in confusion and maybe a little bit of hurt. You and your angelic little voice, pushing out with a soft, “Oh.” 

But then you're nodding, a weak smile pasting on your lips to cover that flash of sadness he'd seen. You tell Robin you'll be back to help her in a moment and walk Eddie to the door, arms brushing as your gaze remains focussed on the scuffed floorboards. 

You're being sweet, because of course you are. You thank him for a wonderful date, tell him you'll call him, even lean in to press a delicate little kiss to his cheek that Eddie definitely doesn't feel like he deserves. 

When the door closes behind him, it sends a rush of air hurtling toward Eddie smelling distinctly of you. Like your perfume, and the spice of the candle sitting on your kitchen counter, and the sweetness of your shampoo. The scent makes Eddie's head swim with regret and his cock twitch weakly in his pants. 

Yeah, he's definitely fucked. 

[biellescouts]

bf!haechan ⬂

haechan x fem!reader

a/n; ilovemygf final boss. ALSO,, him in this live.. what if i died

cw: flufffffyyyyy. but other than that,, none :)

summary: “this is so hc coded…”

bf!haechan who is big on pda. i don’t necessarily think that he’s the possessive type but, i also think that if anyone were to hit on you— he’d freak out. so he subtly has to let people know where your loyalties lie. peppering kisses onto your face if you’re standing in line for coffee and hugging you from behind while he pays… sigh🚬

bf!haechan who doesn’t even try not to be one of those soppy guys who can’t stop talking about his gf because he literally can’t help it. you’re always floating around in his mind. like if anything is mentioned that your interested in, he’ll be like “oh, y/n loves those,” “y/n’s wanted to watch that, is it any good?” —all his friends know you

bf!haechan who takes your pics for instagram and he gets so into it like, “baby, a little more to the left— lift your head a little.. yes! so hot, keep doing that.” he gets down, he does not play🙂‍↔️

bf!haechan who watches all your movies and shows with you, chick flicks horror, whatever. & he will get fully into it. when you two watched mr plankton together he CRIED. he don’t gaf.

bf!haechan who spoils the shit out of you. he’s the kind of person that if he sees something you might like, he has to get it for you. i feel like he would love to see his s/o’s reaction to his gifts. boost his ego.

bf!haechan who is clingy af. i know y’all have seen. he is so affectionate and i feel like whenever y’all are together, he has to be on you in some way. holding hands when you’re walking, if you’re sitting, he’ll bring your hand up to his lips. he keeps an arm around your waist, a hand on your lower back, his head on your shoulder. whatever. anything to be near you.

a/n; exams bma brah .

[pix-writes]

Stanford Pines relationship HCs

(ford pines x reader) there will be smut so, 18+ below... Some angst, mainly fluff, I HC that most if not all of the pines family are neurodivergent in some way.

A/N: I had a long journey last week and all I could think about was the stans, so this will become specific... 😅 Will do the same for Stanley too in the future.

Ford has a lot to catch up on when he comes back through the portal, but he won't jump into a relationship immediately, it will still take a little time, he's got a lot to adjust to in his home dimension and being with someone has not been his forte.

But once he does he's surprisingly clingy, will want to cuddle up to you, in bed, on the couch, wherever you both are. Not one for real PDA, but will be close to you and call you terms of endearment out in public, just a little less than he does at home. I HC that he'd call his partner "dear" "darling" "honey", looooves your hips and putting his arm around your waist (it's a great way to pull you in to snuggle).

Doesn't hold your hand at first but since you like him to hold your hand and give him assurance over the fact that you like his six fingers, he does. It loosens his insecurities around his hands a lot.

Gets addicted to kissing you, doesn't care whether it leads to more or not, Stanford simply loves kissing whether it's brief or a good long make out session. But he does prefer to take his time over it.

Stanford is very logical, good at patching himself up from decades of portal hopping and therefore will do the same for you if you need it, is meticulous if you get hurt in any way but also has an appalling bedside manner! Doesn't tell you if he's going to do something that will sting and tells you not to be overdramatic if you react negatively to it (you know how people can get a little angry when someone they love gets potentially seriously hurt?). And yet you know him to be a gentle man, generally touches you softly like you're made of glass (unless it's to pull you away from something dangerous), so having him take care of you can also be comforting, he'll never do something painful unless it's necessary. (Don't worry though, his brother will make you stan cakes to cheer you both up.)

Speaking of food, Ford definitely prefers his home universe food to what he had in the other dimensions, tried lots of different unusual dishes, some he even liked, but none of it can compare to his homely comforts. When not sailing and adventuring, he puts on a few pounds. Satiates his sweet tooth and caffeine addiction with mabel juice (is the only other one of the pines to like it), prefers it to coffee. Stanley swears his tastebuds must've been affected during his time away. Doesn't like it with as much edible glitter as mabel does, but this is the only deviation from the original recipe he has.

Excellent teacher, you want to learn how he does something? More than eager to teach you with a steady hand and clear pace. Will teach you regardless how to shoot his laser and magnetic guns, how to defend yourself and how to meditate (if you didn't know these already). Can get into the information and ramble like you know about a topic and then realise (eventually) that he needs to break down or explain what he means.

Despite this he also has a romantic streak, whilst he can forget everything aside from his work or adventures, including important dates, he can also be a very considerate and supportive partner and post-portal wants to include you as much as possible in his life and conversations. You can talk for hours about any and all topics and he loves to be mentally stimulated in a relationship, however that may be.

Does sometimes have nightmares and deep guilt over Stanley and is dealing with it as best as he can, likes to know he can count on you for comfort and guidance, makes him feel less panicked or paranoid after Bill. He and his brother talk things out too and these talks can go on all night into the early morning and it's best for them to have space, Ford is grateful for your patience and willingness to be involved in his life, especially as he knows he wasn't good at opening up to you when you were starting to become friends let alone a relationship.

Ford would be shy at first, but once he gets comfortable with how to pleasure you, expect this man to be kind of obsessed. That absorbing focus he can have on his projects and studies? Yeah that can be transferred to you just as easily, which can be a little intense!

You off-handendly mention something about sexual experiences, perhaps even a joke about things you haven't tried, catching his perplexed look afterwards, you say it's simply fantasy and not really something you need to experience. However what you took for confusion or slight insecurity was actually Ford processing what you said. In fact, it doesn't leave his mind and so he does something he's good at: he does some research 😏

One night you might even wake up from sleep to find him sitting upright, lightly snoring, bedside lamp on, clearly fallen asleep whilst writing on his portable writing desk (it's either a gift from you or the twins, not sure which to choose!), when curiosity gets the better of you and you sneak a page out into your hands, you're faced with his attempts at organising fantasies, what he thinks you would want to try, how would you react to different stimuli or some of his own fantasies... Mainly figuring out how many orgasms he could coax out of you or how long he thinks he could edge you over time, what positions or rp you might like: he's worked it all out in a haphazard kind of way, like he's brainstorming the best approaches.

It's so plan-sexual scientific it's frank but... attractive, because it's so... him.

Whether he wakes up on his own or you wake him up, he ends up blushing, though he's not really sorry that you've found it. He's looking at you with this mix of nerves for how you'll react and new found smugness when he sees that you've been affected by what you've read... And yeah, neither of you are leaving that bed for a long time.

Basically, like a true scientist, he is down to experiment! 😄 He's willing to try anything as long as it's not going to seriously hurt you or it's something he wouldn't try on himself first, this is a boundary he's never willing to cross. Trust and open communication is an important thing for him post-weirdmaggeddon especially, and he's getting better at it as he goes along, so even though he often doesn't feel confident, he is infuriatingly good at aftercare and all the rest!

This means when he's not tripping over his words or flustered by you himself -he can be a damn tease at times and will chuckle to himself when you curse him out for the subtle touches he'll give you over the course of the day before pulling away. Sometimes he doesn't even know he's done it, which is evil.

Stanley will make grumbly jokes about how "you two lovebirds need to get a room!" Or about needing to move out 😅 but honestly he's truly happy his brother is happy and if you get married he will sob the whole time, even through his roasting joke filled best man speech! (Cracks a joke more than once to you that you need to make Ford an "honest man" and then laughs at it himself before whispering to you that he can get the rings if you really want to.)

Will and does suffer in the warmer months because he will wear long sleeves, full length pants and or a turtle neck for the comfort aesthetic

Personality wise him and Stan are different as can be but they often sync up physically in their mannerisms or what they say, as freaky as it is cute in a way, when you are tired/drunk you can swear you're seeing double, which amuses both of them.

His favourite shared past time with you is any kind of board or card game, some of them the rest of the family will join in for, but will also love someone to play d&d&md with if you're willing! Loves to get into the details of the rules of whatever you're playing together and it can get quite heated (secretly finds your frustrated side quite attractive, as long as you're not actually angry at him).

I feel like Stanford would get into videogames as soon as he becomes more adept at technology in this dimension, likely it's dipper who is the one to introduce it to him and he loves it (nerd). Will marathon catch ups on all the movies and shows he's missed; especially the series he was into that got continued after the portal incident. You lose him to Star Wars prequels etc for at least a couple weeks of him getting his head round all the lore and how it works, may have controversial opinions and needs to work it all out, may need to contact dipper about this.

Regularly has calls with the family (mainly the twins) over video chat (and will always call it 'video calling' no matter what platform they're using), so once you're together that includes you too and be prepared to be bombarded with questions from them (your their new graunty or grunkle after all) ❤️

[pencil-n-pen]

SPILL YOUR GUTS

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

practice boyfriend! eddie x fem! reader

summary: eddie’s your practice boyfriend. you’re positive he’s upset at you and you’re waiting for him to get mad. however, he has a different response in mind.

cw: references/allusions to past child abuse but extremely vague, references/allusions to bad relationships (also pretty vague), reader acts on a learned response and assumes the worst about Eddie, anxiety

tags/tropes: angst, hurt/comfort (my brand!) sappy sappy romantic idiots, they kiss and figure their mess out at the end

a/n: this came to me in a vision

summary makes this sound smutty but i promise it’s not. this accidentally became disgustingly romantic. read at your own risk :)

࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

You’re positive Eddie’s mad at you.

Okay. Maybe positive is a strong word. But still.

You’ve only been fake/pretend/practice dating Eddie for about two weeks now. He’s the one who approached you with the offer— when you were in the Upside Down together, you’d made an off-hand comment about how you might die without ever having a real boyfriend- not one that mattered, anyway. It’s always kind of been a sore spot for you for a good portion of your life. Growing up, you didn’t really have the best relationship with your dad (Robin likes to call that “The understatement of the year, and we almost died.”) and out of the incredibly small handful of guys you’ve gone out with, none stuck around longer than a month and all ended in such equally, specifically, and uniquely horrific ways, you finally came to the conclusion you had to be fucking something up. What are the chances of all them ended so completely horribly?

After you all had decidedly not died in the Upside Down, Eddie approached you with an offer: pretend date him. You’re popular and well known enough that it’ll help get people off his back about the whole Chrissy/murders thing —even though he’s been absolved of all charges, the people of Hawkins hold grudges— and in exchange, you get a trial run of a relationship that won’t end unless you both agree too— you get to figure out what you’re doing wrong.

You feel bad about it, because even though you spend so much time together, you feel like a nervous wreck. All. The. Time.

You’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop— waiting for him to tell you that you’re too weird, that you’re not considerate enough, that you’re selfish, or that you talk too much.

But he never says any of it. All he ever tells you is the good things. He tells you how sympathetic you are, how kind you are, how good you are at remembering little details that matter. He tells you that you’re a good kisser.

(Yeah. Your first kiss, even after those failed relationships, ended up being with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson. You’re not quite sure you’ll ever forget how you felt when his lips —just a little cracked, but not rough— met yours; when his hair tickled your face and you could faintly smell the cigarette smoke that stubbornly clings to all of his clothes, no matter how many times he washes them. You didn’t tell him he was your first. That’s something you decided you couldn’t bear to share.

You kind of have a feeling he knows anyway, though.)

It all sets you on edge. You’re under no reassurance that you’re perfect. You’re currently questioning if you’re tolerable, from a romantic standpoint.

You know how you are. You’re clinging and you drink up reassurance like a dying man in the desert. You linger in his casual touches like it’s the first and last time you’ll ever feel them. You know you’re a lot. You know. You know that guys in a relationship don’t want ‘a lot’, they want a pretty thing to hang off their arm and laugh at what they say.

But you just… can’t.

You tried, and you tried, and you tried. But you always ended up being too much, or it didn’t work out for some other reason. You want more. You want to feel safe, and happy, and cherished and loved and all those things that only happen in the movies.

The ironic part of all of this is that when you first started setting out terms for your arrangement, Eddie had told you flat out: “This will only work if you are completely and one-hundred percent yourself. You gotta lay it all on me, angel.”

And so you had, and now you regret it because he’s upset about something.

You’d come over to his trailer at his request to ‘hang out’ while he went over DND stuff for his next campaign. Eddie does this a lot— he calls them ‘Neutral Dates’ where you’re not really doing anything in particular- most of the time, you’re both doing seperate things, but still just being in each other’s presence.

It’s nice. The majority of your friend circle consists of everyone involved with the Upside Down and that entire mess. You two are no Steve and Robin (you’re convinced those two have the kind of bond no one can replicate or break. Like the kind of bond stray cats get and then they have to be adopted together) but it’s still nice. To just be with someone.

Even if you feel like you’re walking on eggshells.

It’s not always eggshells. Sometimes, for a a few moments, you forget. You forget it’s all pretend. You forget he’s just a friend helping a friend fulfill a goal. That’s all.

You’ve almost forgotten just now, too— you’re too concerned about what you might’ve done.

He’s not acting angry, per-se, but he’s definitely upset. You tend to pick up on this kind of thing: small changes in someone’s personality or body language. Most of the time it’s not a conscious habit.

Most of the time.

Right now, he’s run his hands through his hair about a million times. It’s become a frizzy mess behind him, and when you’d made an offhand joke about it —an attempt to lighten the mood— all he’d done was scowl. Not at you, really, but the message was there. You’d snapped your jaw shut so fast you’re pretty sure he heard your teeth click.

After that he’d frustratedly made tea for the both of you, which consisted of opening the cupboards faster than he usually did, closing them slightly louder than he usually does, and drumming his fingers impatiently on the stove-top while he waited for the kettle to boil.

All of this you observed from the corner of your eye while ‘reading’ on the couch.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, when you’d finally mustered up the courage to speak again, a little joke about a part in the book you were reading, all he’d said was a flat:

“That’s great, babe.”

You’re starting to get antsy. Nervous. Maybe you should go? Unless he gets upset at you leaving. That would be bad. But he’s clearly upset with you being here, so maybe you should go.

While you’re debating the pros and cons of leaving, you try to remain as still and silent as possible. No need to upset him anymore by moving too much or being too loud.

You flip a page in the book you’re no longer reading (he might notice you’re not paying attention to it anymore) and decide to test the waters again.

“The author just spelled restaurant wrong. That’s the third spelling mistake I’ve caught in this book.”

“Hmm.”

Okay. So that was worse. Talking to him is out of the question, then. It must be something you did, to warrant this kind of reaction.

You wrack your brain, trying to think of anything you could’ve done in recent hours to make him upset, but you can’t think of anything.

You glance slightly to the right— not far enough that he’ll see you looking at him, but far enough to get a better look at him in your peripheral. He’s glaring down at his campaign notebook. Shit, he looks so angry.

Unbidden, tears begin to well in your eyes and you try to shift, trying to angle yourself away from him enough that he can’t see the tears in your eyes.

But your hand shifts, knocking into his leg.

Fuck. “Sorry!”

You yank you arm back as if burned, jolting back on the couch so you’re in no danger of touching him. “I’m sorry!”

He sits up, immediately snapping to attention at the desperation coloring your voice. “Woah woah, hey. Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

You take a steadying breath. “Did I do something wrong?”

He blinks blankly at you. Oh shit, you’re supposed to know that you’ve done something wrong.

“I mean,” You hurry to correct, “I know I— Can you tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it?”

Understanding floods his features and you brace yourself, ready for the reprimand.

“Can I touch you?”

Now it’s your turn to stare with confusion. You nod once, briefly thinking about how weird it is to ask for permission first.

He sits up on the couch, facing you with his legs crossed, the couch springs squeaking loudly at his movement. You resist the urge to wince. He reaches out with a slow hand, taking the hand that’s still clenched, held away from him and up near your chest.

He stares down at your hand, holding it with his left hand and tracing delicate shapes on it with his right. His ringed fingers drag lines around your knuckles and veins, lingering occasionally over the odd, old scar.

“How long did you think I was upset with you?”

Your heart is racing, muscles tensed and ready to bolt. “Um. A few hours? Maybe?”

You’re hyper-aware of the grip he has on your hand, and how quickly and easy it could become crushing.

It doesn’t.

“Bug,” He says slowly after a moment. At first he used to use pet names as a joke— it was something you’d laugh at, between the two of you, since the relationship wasn’t real.

But recently, he’s been saying them with a different inflection in his tone. A little less teasing, a lot more fond.

“Have you spent the past few hours afraid that I was mad at you?”

He sounds… sad. Which is confusing. It doesn’t— he was. He was.

“But you were,” You say, suddenly unsure about anything and everything. “You were upset.”

“I was upset because I couldn’t work this part of the campaign out, and i’m dramatic. I was never mad at you, honey. I was never mad at you.”

You frown, gears turning in your head. “When I made that joke about your hair, you glared at me. And then when I tried to talk to you, you were upset. You didn’t want to talk.”

“I was jokingly glaring at you, I’m so sorry you thought I was serious. I wasn’t, I promise. I didn’t mean to be dismissive, I was really focusing on writing.”

You’re both silent for a moment. A beat too long. You want to squirm in the unwelcome space the silence has created.

“What did you think I was going to do?”

That is a loaded question.

“I don’t know,” You pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “I don’t— I don’t know. That’s the problem. You don’t yell at me, or get angry, or tell me when i’ve made you upset. I don’t know what you’ll do.”

He makes a wounded noise in his throat.

“I know you get angry,” You bulldoze on, “I’ve seen it. You’re so… loud, in everything you do. I know you get angry. But you never get that same kind of loud angry at me and I don’t know what to do because that means that I upset you and you don’t tell me about it and then I don’t know how to fix it. I have to fix it, Eddie.”

His eyes, deep and brown, search your face. He reaches up a hand, painfully slow, to cup your face. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you tip your head to the side, leaning into the job.

“I’m gonna tell you something, Bug. Are you listening?” He waits for you to hum in confirmation before continuing. “You’re not responsible for my moods. Or anyone else’s for that matter. That’s not your job. You don’t have to fix it.”

He reaches his second hand up to cup the other side of your face. “You know why I don’t get angry at you? Not all loud and dramatic like that? Because I’ve seen how you react when people do. And I never, ever want to be the reason you get that look in your eye. I never want to make you afraid. I never want you to believe, with proof and confidence, that I’ve grown sick of you.”

You open your eyes, eyes darting across the planes of his face. Searching for even the smallest hint, the smallest giveaway that he might be lying.

You can’t find any. In its place, you find eyes, shining with pure determination. You find lips parted ever so slightly, a sad-sort of smile being etched into being. You find two hands on your face, thumbs delicately sweeping across the skin of your under-eye, of your cheekbone. Smoothing away the steady tears that had begun falling, wiping away the hot trails they leave on your face.

And you realize all at once that love isn’t like the movies. It isn’t picture-perfect kisses. It isn’t ball gowns and dresses and kisses in the rain. It isn’t like the love you thought you were supposed to have: empty and hollow; a life of hanging off of arms and praying your next slip-up didn’t cost you your relationship.

It was this.

It was just being. Just being and knowing the other person is there for just that— for you. It was not raising your voice. It was carrying extra hair-ties. It was making two cups of coffee. It was steeping tea for an extra couple of minutes, just the way he liked it. It was playing your favorite music in the car, and looking over at each other during the bridge, belting the lyrics with the same, toothy-smile. So full and so happy you just keep screaming the lyrics, because you’re filled with so much you don’t know where to put it all.

Your tears begin to fall in earnest now. Your heart is thudding in your chest, but for a different reason now. You’re struck with the need to convey all of this to him— to tell him you understand, you know, you feel the same.

“These hair ties,” You shove your wrist up to his eye-line. “They’re for you. Because you always forget your own. And— and I steep the tea for a few extra minutes, because you like your tea strong, and you didn’t just find that tape in your van, I bought it ‘cause I know you lost the old one in the Upside Down, ‘cause it felt out of your pocket.”

You’re babbling, nearly choking on your tears and your words, rushing them all out of your mouth in an aching wish to be understood, in this very moment.

“I know,” He says, voice a little hysteric and eyes a little too bright. His lip wobbles. He presses your face tighter in his hands. “I know. I know. I see you. I see you.”

You stay like that for a little while. At some point, your hands find his wrists, and then you’re just two fools, smiling like idiots with tears streaming down your faces, staring into each others eyes.

Eventually, Eddie clears his throat. “The next time you think I’m upset at you, you tell me, okay? You can ask. You can ask me and I pinky promise I won’t get mad.”

You giggle wetly. “Pinky swear?”

“Pinky swear,” He says, taking his left hand away from your face to hold up his pinky. You intertwine yours and his together, the both of you laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

He gets quiet for a moment; removes his hands from your face and instead clasps, your hands together, resting in your lap.

“You know why I never tell you when you’re being a bad practice girlfriend?” He says, his voice low and soft.

“How come?”

He smiles, full and good. “Because you’re not. You’re so sweet and kind and loving. And if you’d let me, I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

You furrow your brows. “The real kind? The I-love-you kind?”

Your face flushes over the words ‘I love you.’

“I’ve always kissed you for real,” He says, words laden with fondness. “Ever since the day we met and you slapped the shit out of me for being stupid. I’ve been hopelessly obsessed ever since. I’ve just been waiting for you to notice.”

You suck in a breath. “So all of this— the, the dates and the hanging out and the kissing— that’s all been real?”

“Every last bit.”

“Then in that case,” You say, squeezing his hands. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”

He leans in, slotting your lips together and everything just clicks. Like this is where you’re meant to be. Maybe it’s puppy love. Maybe it’s not.

All you know is that Eddie Munson is kissing you for real, and he always has been. You couldn’t ask for anything better.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

[sugoi-writes]

Hi, i have a proposition for you...

Alastor catching himself bleating whenever reader touches him 👀

(i just find it so adorable when he squeaks like a little fawn when Rosie pulls him in that one scene and the theory that he does that only when he's happy and with a person he feels comfortable with)

Gdhdhd I had discovered this a while back, and the idea THRILLS me. To no fucking end! I hope this is okay and worth the wait! (Two Fics in one week? HUH?)

No warnings for this one! Just cute cute fluff (I'm doing my best! ;w; gdhdhdhd)

A Bleating Heart - Alastor x GN! Reader

You were reading your book in Alastor's armchair, taking in the heat that radiated from the mint green flames of the fireplace. When you heard a groan to your rear, you paused. You looked behind you, only to see Alastor tossing and turning onto his side. You couldn't help your frown, watching as Alastor's brows furrowed. The Radio Demon was frustrated, his cheek smashed into his pillow aggressively. 

"...everything alright, dear?" You ask softly, recalling that he was 'laying down' to get rid of his headache. Though you knew that Alastor wasn't one for sleep, you kept quiet and content all the same. But when he shook his head, pointing directly to it, you understood perfectly. 

" 'Antlers still bothering you, huh...? Headache?" 

Alastor hummed lowly, turning over and laying face down into his bed. While he was muffled by a pillow, you could barely make out what he said:

" I loathe shedding... It hasn't even begun, and-- oh, they itch-- to no end..." 

"And I assume that doesn't help your headache either?" 

Alastor grumbled, unable to be upset at your gentle pestering. You doted on him like his mother, a quality he would never admit to loving about you," ...Not a lick, dear..." 

You innocently stand from the armchair, walking over to Alastor's bedside," Would... Would it helped if you laid your head in my lap?" 

Alastor raises his head up slightly, eyes narrowed," I hardly see how that could help in this predicament..." You sigh, gently rolling Alastor over onto his back before sitting in the space he used to occupy. Begrudgingly, he did not stop you, but his eyes followed you cautiously. 

"Just trust me... Okay?" 

Alastor's expression soured. Trust is a hard-earned thing to receive from him. The Radio Demon, in all his glory, was slow to make acquaintances, and slower to give out trust. But, he relented, allowing you to sit beside him comfortably. When you patted your lap expectantly, Alastor complied. Due to his antlers, he awkwardly laid sideways on his bed, knees rising and coming together as his head finally met your lap. Thankfully, you would not be disemboweled by his accursed antlers tonight. 

When you smiled down to him, Alastor simply closed his eyes, unable to look your way without feeling embarrassed. This was well outside of his comfort zone. He was feeling incredibly vulnerable while his body did everything to antagonize him. He felt like he was between a rock and a hard place, despite your plush thighs cradling his head.

However, when he felt your hand brush against his hair, scratching gently, his throat ran dry. All nerves and stiffeness became lesser; like the rest of his senses, they became dulled. 

The touch was... Foreign, soft... But not unwelcome. It was soothing, even. When you continued to touch, your hands working in subtle circles against his scalp, he couldn't help the quiet, pleased hum that left him. 

" 'Feels good, my buck?" 

Alastor cracked one eye open, his smile wavering,"...please don't make me say it out loud," Alastor said quietly, a chuckle rising in his throat. You shrugged, not minding his shyness. 

"Hmm, it would be so much cuter if you did, though~" 

When your hand moved to an antler, scratching gently at the base, a full-body tremor ran through his neck down to his hooves. His knees knocked together, a quiet, animalistic noise tumbling out of him. You blink a few times, surprised by the noise, and decided to repeat the action. When a meek, content bleat hit your ears, your eyes nearly doubled in size. You were beaming down at Alastor, a large, giddy inhale expanding your chest. Your heart throbbed at the subconscious gesture. 

Meanwhile, Alastor's eyes were slammed shut, much tighter than before. His heart was racing with anxiety, his palms suddenly feeling clammy. 

Why. Why now, of all times, could he not keep his pathetic little ticks at bay? Of course he found comfort in your company, but-- 

...Maybe he should have used his words, after all. 

"Alastor, was that...?" 

"If you value your life, you will never speak of this again." 

You throw your free hand up defensively, a coy smile on your face," Oh sure, sure... Of course. Whatever you say, Alastor." When a second hand joined the other, lightly scratching at the base of his other antler, that small, high pitched bleat bounced right out of him. 

"Mmm... Yes... Yes, not a word, mon ange... Not a single word... but this-- this is fine for now..." 

You chuckle, increasing the pressure you applied as Alastor melted into your touch. 

"If you continue to be this adorable, I would never speak again, if it meant you stayed like this forever~" Alastor's hands folded together, laying on his chest. Soon enough his knees fell apart, creating a wide 'v'. He looks to you with both eyes as his brow twitches. 

"And what fun would that be? I rather enjoy our conversations, cher." You nearly snorted, surprised that Alastor didn't realize you were joking. 

You laugh, your shoulders shaking with an effort to be quiet as Alastor's legs finally gave out, hanging lazily off of the bed. When your hands moved higher up his antlers, you noticed his legs swinging back and forth idly. You wondered if he noticed, or if this was yet another subconscious action. 

" Fine, fine... I promise to keep talking~ but only if I get to keep spoiling you like this." 

Alastor feels his heart squeeze at the notion, a warmth spreading across his cheeks and ears. He refused to confirm or deny your request with words, instead shimmying his shoulders to sink further into your lap. An open-mouthed sigh was your only response as you lightly dragged your nails across one of his points, his hands untangling from one another. His body almost felt like liquefied, completely and utterly relaxed, taking up an obnoxious amount of space on his bed. And for once, he allowed himself a moment to enjoy it while in someone else's presence. 

He felt safe... Immensely so. But he would never profess to that to you so soon. 

For now, he was content with you playing with his hair, scratching his irritable antlers while he listened to you speak. Quite frankly, it wouldn't take long for Alastor's mind to shut down, his body losing the fight to slumber. When you noticed his breathing toggle to a steady, silent repetition, you resigned yourself to being a pillow. If you were honest, you would sooner die again than move from that spot. You would only permit that once Alastor woke up again, head clear and eyes soft... You wondered how he would look waking up, the adorable thought alone making you feel a surge of glee.

You didn't mind the sensation of pins and needles settling in your legs, knowing that this was a rare moment. Why interrupt something so fleeting? So precious?

You couldn't help but watch as Alastor laid in your lap, unmoving and completely slack. You decided you wouldn't tell him about how he lost his smile while he slept. In the rarest of moments, his lips were agape, formed into a flat, horizontal line. You'd tuck that secret into the back of your mind for safe keeping... A fond memory you'd hang on to for the rest of your afterlife. (A secret almost as precious as his quiet snores, which started when you played with his hair again.) You almost squeaked when Alastor bleated again, much softer than when he was awake. Yes, it would be best if you never mentioned it... Alastor would die from sheer embarrassment alone, you think.

You let out a tired yawn, your mind wandering. Honestly? If you were really, truly in Hell... Well, this was a pretty splendid way to spend it, wasn't it? Why seek forgiveness and redemption, when your entire world was in your lap? And with that thought in mind, you decided to get some sleep, your head resting against the cool wood of Alastor's headboard.