#deck of sixty

[thegikitiki]

Indoor - Outdoor Decor, 1969

[mekatrio]

TT______TT

[literally-12]

DPxDC Summoning Gone Wrong

Hi! Long time reader, first time writer. Please don't hate me if it's not super in character. Also I know this trope is overdone but oh well. I was inspired by a text post by @phiniusandjelly

Constantine felt the shift in power instantaneously and all at once. It manifested itself in the form of a cold shiver that started at his hairline and seeped throughout his body bringing with it goosebumps and a cold sweat. Something was deeply wrong. No. Something had changed and unfortunately, as the Justice Leagues’ resident expert on the supernatural, he felt as though somehow he was going to be responsible for getting to the bottom of it. 

Getting all the right information and sigils took longer than he wanted and convincing the rest of the Earth’s mightiest that he hadn’t finally slipped and cracked the fragile state of his already questionable mind took nearly as long. Luckily, Constantine knew if he needed to, he could get tall, dark, and spooky to back him. 

“I’m telling you, Bats, there has been a very large and significant shift in the forgotten realms and it is in your best interest that we follow up with all the gravity that this situation requires”. Constantine took a deep drag of his cigarette, pointedly ignoring Bruce’s scowl as the tip flared in front of him. Magically stepping into the Bat Cave was not something any wise man would consider doing on even their worst days, but Constantine had never claimed to be wise. 

“Explain”. Grunted Bruce, never one to put too much stock in the occult.

“Here’s the thing, Brucie, we’re talking a massive shift in power, like king of the infinite realms being dethroned type of power. The forgotten realms operate on a combat inheritance and I had the misfortune of meeting Pariah Dark once and he was about as unpleasant and violent of a bloke as they come” he flicked the ash onto the cave floor, beginning to pace, he hoped his unsettled demeanor would enforce the severity of the situation. “The one good thing about Dark was that he tended to mind his own business and stick to his dimension but now we’re dealing with an unknown. An unknown and immensely powerful being who could, if they wanted to, unravel the threads of our very reality”. He sensed more than saw Bruce’s eyebrows furrow, just a fraction of a centimeter, he was sure, but that was enough to let Constantine know that he was being taken seriously now. 

“I propose we bring this new king in and figure out their whole schtick. It’s going to be dangerous but it’s better to know what we’re dealing with in this sort of situation, maybe we can even make a deal, plead for our continued existence and all that.”

“You want to bring an exceedingly powerful, extra dimensional being into our universe and trap them to try and make a deal?” Batman grunted, his mind already racing through the many, many ways that this plan could go incredibly sideways. 

“Think of the children, Bruce, that’s your whole thing, right? You don’t want your gaggle of deplorable orphans growing up and adopting even more sad and blue eyed children in a world that no longer exists”. 

“What’s the probability that you can actually contain this all powerful being?” Constantine tossed the butt of his cigarette on the ground and crushed it under his heel, pulling out a second and bringing it to his lips. One look from the Bats and he sighed, putting it back in the carton. 

“Optimistically? Eighty percent”. 

“Realistically?” 

“You’re such a buzzkill. Sixty five at best”. The dead-pan he received in lieu of a reply told him that even though the plan would be going forward, Bruce was anything but happy. 

When the summoning came about, it was an all hands on deck situation. The sigils were drawn and checked and rechecked and then checked a third time just for giggles. The writing was done in some viscous red liquid that Bruce was hoping was paint. The red circle was about five feet in diameter and smack in the middle of the conference room at the watchtower. The symbols were not in any language that Bruce could recognize but even without a magical bone in his body, he could feel the power radiating from them. 

“Everybody ready?” Asked Constantine, gesturing for them to stand back, he held a thick, weathered tome in his left hand, flipped to a seemingly random page. At confirmation from the gathered heroes, he began to chant. 

The atmosphere changed immediately. The first thing that Bruce noticed was the sudden drop in temperature. Ice crystals began to form in the center of the now glowing circle, snaking their way lazily out towards the perimeter in hypnotizing patterns, the very air in the room also changed dramatically, becoming charged with the smell of ozone and the feeling of lightning about to strike. Every hair on his body stood at rigid attention. He looked at Constantine who now sported a grimace but did not halt his chanting, his tone began to take on an echo, seeming to come from all around him, words overlapping as his face was lit up by an eerie red glow. Bruce had half a mind to call the whole endeavor off as all their shadows began to defy logic and stretch towards the glowing sigils. His teeth gritted, he tried to move, tried to say anything but found himself powerless to move, beginning to drastically regret his choice of allowing Constantine to invite this being into their universe, he debated closing his eyes as a sense of unease washed over him and with the electricity in the room seeming to reach a breaking point, with a loud pop, suddenly everything stopped. 

The quiet and the light that returned to the room was almost as jarring as the whole summoning ritual and when Bruce’s eyes refocused on the circle in the center of the room, he was shocked to see a teenage boy floating there. He had snow white hair that seemed like it couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to gravity, floating as though he was underwater and being pulled by a gentle current. His glowing green eyes were wide and he looked almost as shocked as the team by him appearing in the room. 

“Who are you?” demanded Constantine, never once putting down his thick book. The teen tilted his head, seeming to consider the question. 

“Shouldn’t you know that? Considering you’re the one who called me here and all that. These sigils don’t just say 1-800-dial-a-ghost, you know” his voice further enunciated his youth, however it had a weird, echoey quality, sounding almost as if he was talking directly into Bruce’s ear. He pulled his legs up underneath him, sitting criss crossed midair, looking entirely too relaxed at the situation.

“Answer the question, specter” Constantine demanded, “we’re not fooled by this guise you put on”. To this, the being frowned and flipped upside down. 

“You mean my outfit? I thought it was pretty chic but then again, I wasn’t necessarily given the opportunity to pick out my death day fit, it was just sort of chosen for me”. He gestured at the black and silver jumpsuit he was wearing that betrayed his slight frame. 

“Constantine…” Superman spoke up for the first time, taking a step closer to the man. “He’s just a kid”. 

“That’s what the bugger wants you to think.” the man grit out “you think a being this powerful can’t do something as minute as changing his appearance to try to get us to drop our guards?” Clark looked torn but resumed his place in the line of heroes behind the occultist. 

“Listen to big blue, I’m just a harmless kid!” said the floating being, flashing a pearly white set of teeth that were just on the wrong side of being too sharp. 

“Bullshit! We know you’re the new king of the infinite realms. Play nice and we’ll let you go back to doing whatever it is you do in your dimension. We just want to know what the terms of your rule are.” 

“Oh, that” he flipped himself back upright and floated closer to Constantine, as he approached the perimeter of the trap, the sigils on the floor glowed brighter at his presence. Hesitantly, with one hand he reached out a finger, jerking it back a red spark zapped the tip. Sticking it in his mouth, in pain, he managed to talk around the digit saying “you know, this meeting could’ve been an email” pulling his finger out and giving his hand a test shake, he narrowed his eyes at the man in front of him. “Plus, isn’t it only polite that you introduce yourself first? I am a guest.”

“While you are here, you are our guest,” said Batman diplomatically, “we intend to extend all proper grace to you while you are in our presence. They call me Batman”. 

The teen snorted. 

“Yeah, I sort of gathered that by the whole bat symbol and pointy ears thing you’ve got going on”. He held his fingers up on either side of his head in a mimicry of Batman’s cowl. “I was talking about Mr. all powerful British magic man over here”. He stuck his hand out again, clearly not having learned his lesson, he withdrew it with a hiss as the invisible barrier sparked again. 

“There’s no escape for you, your highness, these sigils are specially made to contain any ghost within them” Constantine sounded smug. “You’re just going to hurt yourself by trying”. 

The child in the circle mouthed ‘any ghost’ mockingly, but floated backwards towards the center of the circle. Batman sighed, seems like he’s going to have to have all the manners around here. 

“John Constantine, Superman, Wonder Woman” he pointed at each of his teammates as he went. “And what name should we refer to you with?” 

Without moving his eyes from the man in the trenchcoat, the kid began to smile, just a little too widely for Bruce to feel comforted. 

“They call me Phantom”, he said off handedly, “Constantine, you say?” The man in question narrowed his eyes. “You know I have a full file cabinet stuffed with paperwork for you, I was hoping we would get the pleasure of meeting. I would’ve gotten it to you sooner but there's surprisingly a lot of work that has to happen in the first few days of a new reign”. He put his feet back firmly on the conference room floor. “If you’ll just allow me to go grab that, we can get started post haste!” He was way too chipper for anyone to be talking about paperwork. 

“So you are the new ghost king then” Constantine said accusationally, narrowing his eyes. “And we’re not letting you leave until we know what your intentions are with this dimension”

“Yeah, yeah” said Phantom. “You don’t have to ‘let’ me do anything. I know how you occultists work. You made one mistake though in this whole summoning slash kidnapping scheme”. With that, a blinding white light overtook the teen, forcing everyone to look aside to save their sight. When they looked back, Phantom had changed his appearance, gone was the ethereal floating white hair, replaced with normal, albeit messy black. His jumpsuit was also gone, replaced by a deceptively normal looking NASA hoodie and jeans with tears in the knees. 

Constantine’s eyes widened as he took in this new sight, he began to flip rapidly through his spell book, as Bruce watched the boy take one step forward, and then two, and then with a graceful hop, he was outside of the circle. 

“This circle only holds in ghosts” and with a devilish smile and another flash of brillant light, he was gone. On the floor where he had been standing only moments before, was a thick stack of loose leaf papers written in a language Bruce couldn’t decipher, text glowing an eerie green. On top of the stack was a post it note with messily scrawled handwriting. ‘Please return completed paperwork to the infinite realms ℅ Phantom at your earliest convenience’ another flash and another post it note ‘also I come in peace- Phantom’. 

Batman, as well as the others turned to Constantine to watch him drop his head into his hands, his large book tumbling to the side. He didn’t even protest when the man pulled out and lit another cigarette. 

“You have a lot of explaining to do” was all he said.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Easy Access

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: explicit sexual content, canon-typical swearing, oral sex (female & male receiving), F/M/M/M/M, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), multiple creampie, multiple orgasms, group sex, praise, restraints/restraining

Word Count: 3.7k

A short dress is your idea of an invitation for a bit of fun.

ao3 // main masterlist // spring 2024 masterlist

Under the shade of a tree, you inhale deeply, savoring the fresh spring air.

This is a party. A gathering. A break. A reward for a job well done.

But it’s not like you’re the one in the line of fire. That isn’t your job. Your one and only endeavor at work is making sure Kate Laswell has everything she needs while at the office. Field work is not your specialty, and you’re thankful for that.

You make phone calls. You bring Laswell her coffee. You keep her appointments and meetings. It’s office work. Clerical. But it keeps you safe, fed, and paid.

Amongst the crowd are familiar and unfamiliar faces. There has to be at least sixty people here in total, and yet the space doesn’t feel cramped. You were given an address, and this has to be someone’s backyard, but you couldn’t say who. And if anyone knows, they aren’t saying.

To your left is a large wood patio. It expands across almost the entirety of the back of the house. Most of it is covered by two connecting pergolas. Underneath the pergolas is a massive buffet and open bar. People loiter there, talking and laughing. The patio opens up to a large green space with a small pond and garden near the back fence. The majority of the space is open but there are a few tables and chairs set up. Music comes from speakers you can’t see, and lights line the fence.

It’s all very pleasant, but crowds are not your thing.

You scan the crowd but no one is looking in your direction. Bringing your plastic cup up to your lips, you scan the crowd one more time. Your gaze falls on Captain John Price. He’s having a conversation with someone you don’t recognize, and out of uniform, he’s even more handsome.

There is no silly, floppy hat or beanie. No windbreaker or boots. Price wears a button up shirt, the top two undone and slightly open with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He appears so casual and calm, a cool sexiness that instantly sparks heat low in your belly.

Your cup is almost to your lips, pausing as you gaze at him. In this moment—this fleeting second—Price’s gaze finds you. He winks. Smirks. Returns to the conversation.

Your heart drops into your stomach, and you nearly drench the front of your linen dress with red punch.

Glancing away, you only find the rest of Price’s team. Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish, and Simon Riley loiter near the deck. Kyle and Johnny talk, their faces animated and engaged. Simon stands with his arms crossed, but he’s not listening.

He’s staring at you, those dark eyes of his piercing you down to your marrow.

It’s silly, really, how all four of them make your stomach flip. How they each in turn seem to awaken something dark and primal in your blood.

While it doesn’t shame you in the least, you have flirted with all of them. It’s hard not to. Price is the one you see the most, and always makes an effort to stop by to see you if he has business with Laswell. Kyle, Johnny, and Simon all have to go out of their way to see you, but they do it. Often.

And it’s not just the flirting or sultry glances. You’ve allowed them each a touch or two. Of the four, you gave Johnny permission to kiss you. It was chaste. Quick. Nothing that curls the toes. But it turned his face beet-red.

But being with any of them is just a fantasy. It’s unprofessional. And you don’t need to know what Laswell might think of you for taking any further action with them.

Sighing, you turn away from Simon’s penetrating stare. You knock back the red punch, the alcohol in it hardly registering on your tongue. Removing yourself is the best solution. Perhaps you could hide in the bathroom for a bit. Splash some cold water on your face.

Depositing the empty plastic cup in the nearest trashcan, you head for the patio, passing the buffet and open bar, striding inside through the open kitchen doors. You nod in acknowledgement to a few people there, and they match it, but they immediately return to their conversations, not all that interested in your presence.

The nearest bathroom is just off the kitchen, but you want to hide. You aim for the hallway with the intent of entering the bathroom at the very end. No one is really using it, and it’s the perfect place to catch your breath.

As you reach out for the golden bathroom handle, a large hand shoots out, encasing your wrist, haling all movement. You turn sharply, ready to bite back at the man who decided it’s okay to touch you without your permission, only to freeze.

Your eyes widen as you realize who the hand belongs to.

“John,” you whisper. You didn’t even hear him approach. He completely snuck up on you.

“Where you off to?” he asks softly. He looks a little concerned, but there is something else under all of that.

While you want to answer his question, to give in a bit, you don’t enjoy being grabbed.

“Is that your business?” you reply, arching one eyebrow, chest heaving slightly as your heartrate quickens.

John’s head tilts slightly, his gaze assessing for a moment. The two of you are locked in, and you’re not sure if you’ve completely fumbled the exchange. John releases you from his stare but he doesn’t release your wrist.

Instead, he glances over his shoulder, and you follow the movement. Right there, in the hall, are three familiar people.

Kyle and Johnny casually lean against the wall while Ghost stands in the middle, watching the opening of the hallway.

You’re not frightened. Not afraid. If anything, you’re becoming slick between the thighs. There is a reason they’re here, and you want to explore what it is.

Price’s gaze returns to you and his gaze is soft. “Do you want it to be my business?”

You press in a bit, and Price’s mouth forms into a self-satisfied grin. “Does it include all four of you?” you counter.

“It can.”

His grip tightens slightly. The hold is almost desperately possessive.

What the hell. You should just do it. Have some fucking fun for once. If anything, this will be the one and only time. Get this ridiculous need out of your system all at once and be done with them.

“Then make it your business,” you murmur.

Price’s grip remains firm as he pulls you away from the bathroom door. He spins you around, his free hand reaching out to open the door that’s across the hall from the bathroom. You hear the creak of the hinges as it swings inward, and then you’re walking backward into the room, Price herding you along.

Behind him follows Kyle. And behind Kyle, Johnny. Then, finally, Simon. He’s the last to enter the room and the one that shuts the door, locking it without even glancing at it. He leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest.

Once the door is shut, you expect Price to release you. But he doesn’t. He keeps hold of your wrist, drawing you against him, pinning your arm to your chest. With his other hand, Price clasps your chin between thumb and forefinger, keeping your face pointed in his direction.

“You want to back out?” he asks. “Just say the word. We’ll stop.”

Do you want to stop? No. Your blood is buzzing, nearly burning beneath your skin. You want to see where this goes, and how much you can take before you’re unable to understand reality.

“Nervous, Captain?”

He laughs, throaty and low before his lips come dangerously close to yours. “No, love. I like that you’re willing to share.”

Someone shifts behind Price’s shoulder. Your gaze starts to drift but he jerks you back to attention.

“You’ve been teasing us with that dress,” murmurs Price.

Releasing your wrist, Price drops his hand to lightly tug on the skirt of the linen dress you wear.

It’s incredibly comfortable. The color an off-white. It stops at about mid-lower thigh, a bit above the knee. The top of the dress is solid fabric back and front except for the straps which are crisscrossed, leaving your shoulders and arms mostly bare.

“Didn’t do it on purpose,” you reply just as softly.

Price makes a sound in his throat that goes straight to your pussy. “Somehow I believe that,” he chuckles, fisting your dress even tighter. It only pulls you closer, and even like this, you feel his hardness.

You’re so focused on Price that when another pair of hands join his, you almost jump. Price eases his hold on you a bit, and your body twists in the direction of these new hands. It’s Johnny. He has one hand on the back of your neck while the other plays with the hem of your dress. It’s just a gentle toying, one you don’t entirely notice until his fingers are slipping under it, brushing against your bare thigh.

“You want this? All of us?” Johnny sounds skeptical.

Your lips part at his question, the very image of them taking you one after the other only making you slicker.

You nod, chest heaving. “Yes.”

Price’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip, drawing your attention back to him. There is a pause—a second of breathing—and then he releases you. He walks backward toward the door as Simon moves away from it and Kyle closes in.

Johnny sidesteps, placing himself directly behind you. His hands slide over you, finding new homes. He wraps one around your waist, hand splaying wide over your pelvis. His other reaches down to dip beneath the hem of your dress just shy of your left leg.

You believe that Johnny is going to slide his hand between your clenched thighs. But he doesn’t. His arm hooks under your thigh, pressing up, lifting your foot from the floor. You’re forced to balance on your right foot. You instinctually reach up, grasping the back of Johnny’s neck.

But with Johnny’s support, you don’t topple over. His strength keeps you grounded.

With his hand on your pelvis, Johnny begins to bunch the fabric in his fist, lifting it away from your body. It is slow, almost agonizing in how all of their gazes are fixed on that one point.

You don’t need to see to know when you’re bare. You feel the air against you.

You are open for their inspection, and they do not appear disappointed. If anything, they’re fucking hungry.

“She’s wearing fucking nothing under there,” growls Simon, almost like he’s upset but doesn’t want to be.

“Teasing us on purpose,” says Price not to anyone in particular but to reiterate what he said early, that the dress is a tease, and this is just one more thing to add to it.

Simon moves, striding toward you like a predator. Slowly, his hand clasps the front of your neck, and you instinctually arch into Johnny. Kyle sinks to his knees before you.

“Gaz is gonna eat that pretty pussy,” murmurs Johnny in your ear. His breath is a whisper, sending a shiver down your spine. “And then we’re all going to fuck you. One after the other. Fill you with our cum. You want that, love?”

You crave them like a nourishing meal. Accepting won’t hurt. It’ll only fill the gap, satiating the thirst that boils in your blood.

“Yes,” you affirm, putting all the control in their hands now.

“Good girl,” growls Simon, gently squeezing, those dark eyes of his locking in on your parted lips.

Kyle’s hands are on your thighs. They rotate. Squeeze. Slide toward your hip bone.

“Look at that,” he says, absently. Kyle’s fingers lightly brush over your sex. Then, he is parting you with two fingers, and in that glide, you can hear just how wet you are.

“Hardly touched you,” croons Kyle, his mouth dangerously close to what’s aching for him.

He leans in, and goes in for a taste. It’s tentative. Testing. Just a little touch of his tongue against flesh. But it’s enough for your pussy to clench, for you to whimper as if he’s completely pressed his mouth to you.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Johnny. He nuzzles your neck, gaze downward.

You’re watching too. Everyone is. There is no point in hiding anything. You are spread open.

Kyle’s tongue dips again, this time tracing a line between his two fingers. He starts at your entrance, teasing it before moving upward to circle your clit slowly. He is languid about it. Taking his time like there isn’t a party happening just outside the door.

“Oh, you’re sweet, love,” he murmurs before going in fully.

There is no tracing of his tongue. It is only steady strokes and gentle flicks against your clit. Kyle knows what he’s doing. He knows to stick to a specific pace. To not change course. He feasts until your legs shake and it is only Johnny’s strength keeping you aloft.

The clench comes, shuddering outward. Your breathing intensifies, becoming desperate gasps as Kyle continues to work your clit. Simon still holds onto the front of your throat, and he does not let go.

“Look at me,” croons Simon, tilting your head in his direction. “At me. My eyes.”

Johnny murmurs sweet nothings against your throat as he watches Kyle lick and then suck your clit into his mouth.

Your hips buck against Kyle’s mouth as your orgasm consumes, absorbing all your strength, turning your muscles into sticky goo.

There are lips pressing against your inner thigh, and then Kyle’s voice drifts up from between your legs. “She’s ready.”

“But we aren’t,” replies Simon.

Johnny guides your leg down until your foot is flat again. From there, he presses on your shoulders, and you automatically sink to your knees.

“Be good and suck Gaz’s cock,” commands Simon as his hand slides from the front to the back of your neck.

Johnny steps back, his presence evaporating as Kyle undoes the front of his jeans. You are hungry. Feral. Desperate. The moment Kyle’s cock his free from his jeans, you’re reaching for him, sucking him down.

Kyle groans loudly, head tilting back as you throat him to the root.

“Fucking beautiful,” comes Johnny’s voice somewhere behind and to the right of you.

Simon grunts in agreement, his hand still firmly planted on your neck. His fingers dig into your hair, and even though you have some control, Simon has the rest.

He keeps you on your knees and your head still as Kyle thrusts shallowly into your mouth. You are wet between your thighs, the skin there rubbing against itself. Your hands rise to grab the front of Kyle’s jeans, but Johnny tuts, grasping both arms and holding them behind you.

“Breathe through your nose. Good girl. Like that.” These praises are all Simon, and you desperately want to please him.

You’re nearly still as Kyle claims your throat. But he’s careful. Thoughtful. He’s fucking your mouth yet he knows your limit. When your throat contracts, wanting to gag, he retreats until you’ve caught your breath, only to return to his pace from before.

“Fuck,” he mutters, abruptly pulling out of your mouth. You cough, saliva and cum coating your lips and chin. “Bend her over the edge of the bed.”

Johnny releases your arms and Simon is the one that helps you to your feet.

“Look at me,” says Simon, drawing you attention to his face. “You good?”

This can all end if you want it to, but you don’t. You’re not full. Not whimpering. You want them inside.

“I’m good,” and your answer is a bit raspy.

Simon nods and then he’s turning you around, his hands pressing on your back until you’re completely bent.

The bed is a bit high, and you have to go up on your toes. Your hands dig into the comforter, but you don’t feel stable. Not really.

There are hands on your thighs. They drive upward, flipping your dress up to expose your ass to the room. One of those hands comes down on the right cheek. It isn’t hard, just enough to bounce it.

“Open for us,” says Simon. You wiggle your hips, sliding your feet outward slightly. “More, love. Yes. Perfect.”

Simon shifts partially into view, and then he’s grabbing your forearms, holding you down to the bed itself. You have no idea who is behind you, but you feel the head of their cock at your entrance.

There is no condom, and you do not give a fuck. You want to feel each of them in turn, to feel them fill you up, to fuck each other’s cum deeper into you.

The head presses in. Enters. And then you’re being filled, being fed more and more until you’re stuffed. You moan loudly.

“Taking me so well,” groans Johnny as you clamp around him. “Bloody hell you’re tight.”

Johnny squeezes your ass, guiding your hips up slightly as he starts to drive in. The angle is deep, and your feet slide against the floor. He isn’t soft, but he’s not rough either. Johnny is steady, rolling his hips deep enough to hit that sweet spot.

You are soft. Pliant. Smiling against the comforter as Johnny fucks you. His soft grunts become gentle groans. Then his hips stutter, thrust forward, creating a seal. You feel his release flood your pussy, and you purposefully tighten those muscles, encouraging him to stay inside.

And Johnny does, for a moment.

He lightly pats your ass before withdrawing. The loss of him is immediate, and yet there is another ready to take his place. Simon does not move from his spot. You turn your head and find Price still leaning against the door. There is an apparent bulge in the front of his pants.

It is Kyle that settles behind you, and like Johnny, he finds the same rhythm. While Johnny felt girthy, Kyle is absolute perfection. The stretch is good but not too tight, and even though every stroke is pointedly deep, there is nothing but pleasure.

Kyle’s hand slips between the bed and your body. He finds your clit. Toys with it. Plays. You’re still a bit sensitive from your last orgasm, and the next one comes up suddenly. You cry out, squeezing on him as he finishes.

In that blissful state, you don’t notice Simon removing his hands from your forearms. It isn’t until he’s driving inside that you realize it, and you nearly come off the bed. Simon is absurdly large, and your back arches, fingers digging into the comforter as your groan into it.

Simon is not as gentle as them. He fucks their cum into you like he’s made to do so.

And Price is still off to the side. Still watching. Almost indifferent except for that outline in his pants.

Simon’s only tell is a low grunt before he too is finishing inside you.

You are overly stuffed. Full. Simon removes his cock from your pussy as their mixed cum begins to drip out onto your thighs.

You think Price will come. That he will take Simon’s place. Instead, you’re being moved, flipped onto your back. Your legs are brought up, and then Johnny is back, sliding home again. Simon stands to the right of him. He reaches out, runs his hand over your stomach before delving down to find your clit.

Simon circles it as Johnny’s cock pistons in and out of you, his hips smacking against yours sharply with each thrust. It isn’t long before the muscles in your body seize and then relax. Johnny doesn’t find his end until Simon has you clenching a second time.

Johnny steps back, a pleased grin on his face as he stuffs himself back into his pants. Your legs are weak noodles and you’re thankful for the bed beneath you.

Price pushes off from the door. He walks casually, his hands slowly undoing and then removing his belt. You push up onto your elbows, adjusting. Price observes you. His gaze is on your face and then it drops to your pussy.

Reaching out, Price runs his fingers through the mess between your legs.

“Mind if I add to that?” he asks, gaze returning to your face.

You smile and spread your legs wider.

“Good fucking girl,” he croons.

Price grasps your thighs and drags you to the edge of the bed. Shoving his pants down enough to free his cock, he rubs the head over the mess, coating himself in it.

He lines himself up, and then buries himself to the hilt. Your fingers dig into the bed and then reach for him. Price adjusts his grip on your thighs, pressing them up a bit and toward your chest.

You are at his mercy as he drives into you. The only sounds in the room are your breathy moans and the obscene wetness that is your pussy.

All those flirty invitations and teasing smiles has led to this. And you don’t entirely mind if this is all it is. That the five of you are just working it all out of your systems. You’re completely satisfied.

As Price’s thrusts becoming erratic, he lets go of your thigh only to grasp your throat. He leans forward as he brings you up off the bed. You are scrunched, and when his lips meet yours, you come undone just as he does.

You hang. Suspended. And then you’re melting into the soft comforter.

Someone is cleaning you up, wiping away the excess mess. And then you’re brought to your feet. Everything is unsteady as you focus on who it is holding you.

“Good? Or you need a minute?” Price’s palm runs over your hair, smoothing it.

“I need a minute,” you murmur, because it’s true.

Kyle, Johnny, and Simon all start to file out. With the balaclava you can’t discern Simon’s expression. But Kyle is smug. Content. Johnny is almost sheepish, his cheeks slightly flushed as they leave.

It is over. Done.

Price runs his thumb over your bottom lip. “If you ever want this again, you know where to find me.”

He leans forward as if to kiss you but instead brushes his lips against the curve of your cheek. He gives your hand a squeeze. A silent goodbye.

Then he too is gone. The door shut.

You place your hand over your chest and laugh as a trail of cum slips down the inside of your thigh.

[imperishablereverie]

is it too early to ask for kook!art x bitchykook!reader who has art practically worshipping the ground she walks on..

never too early, this idea is so yummy! i wasn't sure if i should write a fic so here's a little something (idk what these are lmao.. headcanons sort of?) i'd love to make a full fic off of this if anyone wants it. i hope you like it anon!!

art donaldson has a yacht named after you.

well, not your actual name—too obvious—but the nickname you once sneered at him in the eleventh grade. golden boy. he had it etched in gold leaf on the back of his sixty foot chris craft that he only ever use when you agree to come onboard—which is rarely. "your obsession is embarrassing," you tell him as you slide your sunglasses down your nose, eyes scanning the decks like you're deciding whether it meets your standards or not. art, leaned against the railing in swim trunks and a boyish grin, shrugs. "you're worth it." you roll your eyes so hard he swears he hears them rattle. "pathetic." but you don't leave. you never do.

𓇼

everyone says you're a bitch. his workers. his friends. hell, even his mom—who whispered it to him once after a country club dinner when you gave her a perfectly timed compliment that somehow sounded like a threat. "she's cruel." his mom said. "she's perfect." art replied, and meant it.

𓇼

"you're like a dog." you told him once, sipping from a coupe at some ridiculous kook party while he stood beside you like your bodyguard/boyfriend/silent servant. he didn't argue. he wants to be your dog. your lapdog. your guard dog. whatever gets him the closest. "you fetch, you follow, you'd probably sit if i told you." he smiled, eyes half lidded like he was drunk on you. maybe he was. "say the word." you scoff. "you're lucky you're hot." he leaned in, voice low, a pitch away from excitement "you think i'm hot?" "don't get excited." too late.

𓇼

you text him when you're bored. or drunk. or both.

this party sucks need uuu come pick me up bring vodka pls

he's out of bed before you even finish typing. once, he left a family dinner with his dad mid toast to pick you up from a beach house a town over. you didn't even say thank you—just climbed into his passenger seat, skin dewy, eyes glossy, wearing his hoodie like you forgot it was his. he almost crashed the car watching you put lipgloss on in the mirror.

𓇼

you don't give affection as much as you allow it. you'll let him hold your hand when you're drunk. let him press a kiss behind your ear when no one is looking. let him sleep in your bed after a party, fully clothed, curled around you like you're the sun itself. you even let him kiss you once on your birthday. you tasted like champagne, cherry lipgloss, and disinterest. afterward, you patted his cheek like a dog. he would've followed you into hell. you never say 'i love you'—but you never tell him to leave either.

𓇼

one night, you show up at his house, barefoot, mascara smudged, mad about something you won't explain. he doesn't ask. just opens the door, gives you his sweatshirt, and takes you upstairs. he leads you into his room with your hands laced together, a silent way of telling you he's there for you. "you're so fucking easy." you mutter when you crawl under his duvet like you own it. "i'm yours." he says quietly, following suit. you pause and look at him—really look at him. you reach out and gently comb your fingers through his curls. "yeah. you are." he leans into your touch and when you kiss him it's soft, tentative, different. it's real.

𓇼

in the morning he's up before you, caressing your face like he's cherishing the rare peace. when you finally open your eyes, he pulls back and you sit up. he goes in for a kiss but you turn your head. "gross art, morning breath. i'm hungry, make us something to eat." and just like that, it's back to normal. he doesn't complain—just smiles and kisses your forehead, already getting out of bed.

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @nozhdyved

[incloudcity]

unexpected play | jh86

requests are open

summary: you’re a focused, no-nonsense junior trying to survive midterms, and Jack Hughes is the golden boy—the kind of chaos you’ve always avoided.

The door hit something.

Correction: someone.

You blinked, mid-coffee crash and Red Bull high, and found none other than Jack Hughes—frat boy legend, hockey team captain, and campus golden boy—clutching his forehead.

“Oh my god,” you blurted, your carefully color-coded flashcards exploding across the floor. “I didn’t see—are you okay?”

Jack was grinning, leaning against the doorframe with a hand dramatically pressed to his temple. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“I’m serious! I didn’t mean to—”

“You decked me with a library door,” he said, biting back a laugh. “You’ve got a hell of an arm.”

You stared at him, mouth parted. He was too chipper for someone who’d just been clocked with industrial-grade glass.

“I was trying to escape midterms, not commit assault,” you muttered, crouching to gather your flashcards. “Are you actually okay?”

“I’ve taken worse hits on the ice,” he said, brushing off his hoodie. “At least this one came with an apology.”

Of course he made a hockey joke.

You’d crossed paths with Jack Hughes exactly three times:

1. Once when he spilled beer on your tote bag at a party your roommate dragged you to.

2. Once when he asked to borrow your notes for a class he definitely didn’t attend.

3. And once when you told him—firmly—that you weren’t interested in being another name on a list of flings or a prop in someone’s post-game photo.

He’d laughed. You hadn’t.

Now, though, he just watched you as you reassembled your academic chaos.

“Cramming hard?” he asked, nudging one of your flashcards with the toe of his Nike. “Or just really passionate about brain anatomy?”

“Neuroscience. And yes, I’m cramming. Unlike you, I can’t rely on being good at skating and charming professors to pass.”

“Oof.” He clutched his chest. “That one hurt worse than the door.”

You looked up at him. He was in joggers and a hoodie that’s logo resembled his frat’s, hair mussed, a dimple peeking from his grin like it had its own agenda.

“I’m not your type,” you said flatly, mostly to shut him down.

Jack tilted his head. “What’s my type, then?”

“Anyone who thinks your snapback is a personality trait.”

He laughed. A real one. Loud, surprised, and stupidly infectious.

“Okay, fair,” he said. “But maybe I’m branching out.”

You arched a brow. “Why would you want to branch out?”

He handed you a flashcard, his fingers brushing yours. “Because I think you’re more fun than you pretend to be.”

You weren’t sure why you came. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the way Jack had looked at you—not like you were another challenge to win, but like he genuinely meant what he said.

You wore jeans and a cozy sweater. You brought your roommate, who beelined to the dance floor in less than sixty seconds. And you stood on the edge of the crowd, clutching a LaCroix, wondering if this was a mistake.

Then Jack spotted you.

His face lit up. He pushed past a couple of guys and crossed the room with ease, like it was the most natural thing in the world that you—you—were there.

“You actually came,” he said, half in disbelief, half impressed.

You shrugged. “Might as well see what all the noise is about.”

He handed you a red solo cup. “No pressure. But I make a mean vodka lemonade.”

You sniffed it. “This smells like a regret hangover.”

He laughed. “You’re brutal.”

“I’m honest.”

“Even better.”

You didn’t mean to stay long. You definitely didn’t mean to end up outside on the porch, sitting beside him on a rickety bench, talking about everything from your favorite sci-fi books to the weird comfort of academic burnout playlists.

He told you he wasn’t always this chill. That he puts a ton of pressure on himself to be the guy everyone expects. That the frat stuff was fun, yeah, but also exhausting sometimes. That he misses home. That he doesn’t get taken seriously by half his professors, and that he’s kind of used to girls not really seeing him—just the version of him they want to say they hooked up with.

And for the first time, you saw him.

Not as a frat boy or a jock. But as a person.

He took off his hoodie without a word when the wind picked up and wrapped it around your shoulders.

It smelled like laundry detergent and a little like cologne, and you hated how warm it made you feel.

“You still think I’m not your type?” he asked, voice quiet under the string lights.

You looked at him—his earnest expression, the nerves hidden behind his smile, the way he was really trying—and let out a breath.

“I think you’re more complicated than I thought.”

“Is that a good thing?”

You smiled, for real this time. “I think it might be.”

[hummingbird24220]

The Ace Effect (Part 2)

One Piece x Reader

You were trying to be scientific about this. Objective. Measured. Data-driven. But science had failed you. You’d run every test, logged every variable, and the conclusion was clear:

Portgas D. Ace was too hot.

An adorable, freckled, emotionally catastrophic hottie.

He smiled too easily. He leaned too close. He listened when you spoke like you were explaining the secrets of the universe—even if it was just about your favorite pasta shape (it was cavatappi, for very good, very passionate reasons).

So, you’d decided to distance yourself.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Physically.

You now spent most of your time in enclosed spaces, like the crow’s nest. Or the fridge. Or the bathroom with a blanket over your head.

Robin had stopped offering you tea. She just slid you calming herbs and whispered, “Breathe.”

Currently, you were hiding in the observation room with your notebook, furiously scribbling page after page:

“Romantic Threat Assessment: Portgas D. Ace”

Smile lethality: 9.5/10.

Freckle density: unreasonable.

Sweat glisten under direct sunlight: I’m suing.

Eye contact duration average: 3.7 seconds. Heart rate spike detected.

Potential danger to emotional stability: catastrophic.

You were about to add “Dangerous himbo energy” to the weaknesses column when the door creaked open behind you.

You froze.

“…Y/N?” a voice called.

It was him.

Of course it was him..

You slammed the book shut like it owed you money and spun in your chair. “Hi! Hello! What a surprise! How did you get in here?!”

Ace blinked. “The door was open.”

You nodded. “Right. Doors do that. Open. Yes. Physics.”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, smiling that smile—the one that turned your brain into pudding.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I—I haven’t—I mean I’ve just been—researching.” You grabbed a paper nearby and held it up. “Did you know swordfish can swim up to sixty miles per hour?”

He tilted his head. “That’s cool. But you’re kinda sweating.”

“No I’m not,” you lied, absolutely glistening.

He sat on the bench beside you, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, watching you with infuriating softness. “Y/N,” he said, voice low and sincere, “are you okay?”

You looked at him, really looked, and the truth fell out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“No. Because you keep smiling and talking and being shirtless and I think I’m in love with your stupid face and I hate it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Okay,” Ace said slowly, blinking. “That’s a lot. But… good?”

You frowned. “Good?”

“I was worried you were mad at me or something. But if it’s just that I’m too hot, I can work with that.”

Your eye twitched. “You are infuriating.”

“And you’re adorable.” He grinned and poked your cheek. “You drew me with a flower crown on Slide 14.”

You gasped. “You looked through my slides?!”

“I had to! Sanji said there was a whole chart of me kissing a sword and I had to know.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Kill me. Please.”

Ace chuckled and tugged your hand down so you’d look at him.

“You wanna know my favorite slide?” he asked.

“…Is it the one where I seduce a sword?”

“Nope.” He tapped your nose gently. “It’s the one where I’m standing next to you. You look happy. I like that one.”

Your heart tried to explode. You coughed like a dying Victorian child.

He stood up and offered you his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something totally unscientific.”

You blinked up at him. “Like what?”

He grinned. “I dunno. Sit under the stars. Hold hands. Maybe kiss a little.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Considered diving out the window. Then, slowly, you took his hand.

Later that night, Robin passed by the deck and spotted you both under a blanket, giggling like kids, faces close in the moonlight.

She sipped her tea and murmured to herself with a smile:

“…Hypothesis confirmed.”

-

You’d hidden the folder. You swore you’d hidden it.

Labeled innocently as “Botanical Thermodynamics (DO NOT OPEN),” it was buried three subfolders deep in your cabin’s desk drawer, under your more boring research—like “The Migratory Patterns of Sea Chickens” and “Cloud That Looks Like Sanji.docx.”

So of course, Ace found it.

You came back from the galley with snacks—for bonding, nothing suspicious—and froze in your doorway.

Ace was sitting on the floor of your room, cross-legged and wholly entranced by the contents of your secret folder. Pages everywhere. Scribbled notes. Diagrams. Charts. Several graphs comparing the ratio of shirtlessness to your heart rate. A few pie charts. A Venn diagram titled “Ace’s Personality: Golden Retriever vs Arsonist” with a big overlap labeled “Dangerous to My Sanity.”

He looked up.

Your soul left your body.

“Hey,” he said, grinning, holding up a page. “So, quick question—how did you get this accurate of a sketch of my back muscles? Did you use mirrors or…?”

“…you were napping,” you croaked. “And I made estimations based on your shoulder width. And science.”

“Hmm.” He flipped the paper over. “Didn’t know science used glitter pens.”

You screamed internally.

Ace shuffled the pages again, pulling one out like it was damning evidence. “Also, this one? The flow chart titled ‘Why Ace is Probably Flirting With Me (But Also Might Just Be Nice)’—very thorough.”

You snatched it, horrified. “That one’s a draft!”

“Sure.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Y/N, there’s a six-page case study in here comparing me to various fire-based deities.”

“They’re thematic parallels! It’s literature!”

He held up another sheet. “And this?”

You groaned. “That’s Slide 12. The Compatibility Matrix.”

There were at least 23 names on it. Sanji, Zoro, Robin, the sword again, one very romantic dolphin you met on that weird island. All color-coded. Each had stats listed beneath: chemistry, aesthetic, emotional synergy, cuddle probability.

Yours was at the bottom.

Labeled “Me (Accidental Participant??)”

Next to it:

“Blush Index: Catastrophic.”

“Response Time to Flirting: Delayed.”

“Viability: Unknown.”

“Risk of Heart Failure: Elevated.”

“Desire to Kiss: Redacted.”

“Hair Compatibility: Excellent.” (underlined twice)

Ace didn’t say anything for a moment.

He just looked at you.

Not laughing now. Not teasing.

“...So,” he said, voice quieter. “I’m not imagining this, right? This… thing between us.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean,” you said, trying to keep your voice light, “according to the data—”

“I don’t care about the data,” he said softly. “I care about you.”

The room spun.

Ace scratched the back of his neck, glancing at one of your messier pages. “You’ve been overanalyzing this so hard you forgot to just… feel it.”

You blinked. “That’s not very scientific.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “but it’s honest.”

He was in front of you now, close enough that your brain short-circuited.

“I like you,” he said, simple and devastating. “Freckles, flirt crimes, and all.”

You swallowed. “Even the page where I tried to calculate what your hugs would feel like?”

“…Especially that one.”

You blushed so hard your ears burned. “I labeled it ‘Theoretical Warmth.’”

He leaned in, smiling. “Want to make it empirical?”

You stared.

Then nodded.

He pulled you into a hug—warm, safe, a little too perfect. Your knees nearly gave out.

“New variable unlocked,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” you squeaked.

Outside, Robin passed the door and paused.

She heard muffled giggling. A thump. A very undignified squeal.

She sipped her tea with a knowing smile.

“…Hypothesis upgraded,” she murmured. “To fact.”

-

Sanji found the folder two days later.

You were still reeling from The Hug. Ace had gone back to his own ship for a few days to handle “logistical stuff” (you didn’t ask; you were too busy trying not to combust every time you remembered how warm his arms were).

So when Sanji burst into your room holding your Ace Compatibility Research Binder 2.0™, cheeks pink and eyes wide like he’d just found holy scripture, you didn’t even try to lie.

“Have you seen how detailed this is?” he gasped. “Y/N. Y/N. You measured his SMIRK RADIUS. You calculated the gravitational pull of his hip dips.”

“It’s called dedication to the craft,” you muttered, snatching a loose sticky note labeled ‘freckle constellation patterns (my death is imminent)’ and shoving it back in.

Sanji placed a reverent hand on the binder.

“…Can you run a compatibility chart for me?”

You blinked. “With who?”

He gave a suspicious shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Hypothetically. For science. Maybe the hot marine waitress in Shells Town. Or, you know—” (he looked away dramatically) “—anyone who finds me devastatingly attractive but emotionally complex.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you mean you?”

“I always mean me,” he said proudly.

You sighed.

Then grabbed a pen.

It became a thing.

You and Sanji, hunched over the table like mad scientists, surrounded by half-eaten snacks and glitter pens, arguing over whether eye crinkles or jawlines were a higher compatibility asset. The charts grew. The equations got complex. You started adding variables like “voice timbre” and “mid-battle sexiness.”

He brought you coffee. You brought him lipstick-stained rating stickers.

At one point, Robin passed by, saw the two of you laughing with ink on your faces, and whispered to Chopper, “I think they’ve finally snapped.”

Zoro just muttered, “I told you they were weird.”

The folder became… massive.

Color-coded.

Tabbed.

Glossy cover.

You laminated it.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

It was everything.

And then.

Nami found it.

She flipped through it once.

Then twice.

Then closed it.

And threw it off the ship.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” “MY DATAAA!” “MY HEART MAPS!!” “MY MIDRIFF METRICS!!!”

You and Sanji leapt over the railing like widowed scientists. You held each other in grief. Sanji sobbed dramatically. You actually considered diving in after it until Brook gently pulled you back.

“It’s over,” Nami said, brushing off her hands. “You two need help.”

“But it was a work of art,” Sanji sniffled. “You don’t understand. We mapped emotional compatibility by season!”

“I was a (Starsign),” you whispered, glassy-eyed. “Ace was a Leo. It made sense.”

“It’s literally astrology,” Nami deadpanned.

“SCIENCE,” you hissed.

That night, sitting on the deck in a towel like a war survivor, you stared up at the stars and sighed.

“…I think I was using science as a shield.”

Robin hummed beside you. “Mmm. Defense mechanisms often wear lab coats.”

“I spent so long trying to define it. To label it. Ace makes me feel like I’m on fire and floating all at once, and I kept trying to call that a chemical reaction.”

“Maybe,” she said, “it’s just… chemistry.”

You looked at her.

Then stood up, shaky but determined.

“No more analysis. No more charts. No more math.”

Robin sipped her tea. “How revolutionary of you.”

You turned toward the edge of the ship—and right on cue, Ace was arriving back, hopping from his little boat, a wide smile on his face and wind in his hair, like the universe had heard your dramatic declaration and queued his entrance.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly. “I missed you.”

You didn’t say anything.

You ran.

And then jumped.

Straight into his arms.

He caught you effortlessly, laughing against your shoulder as you clung to him like a starved scientist to the truth.

“No more variables,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his.

“No more equations,” he agreed, cupping your cheek.

You kissed him.

It was messy.

Uncalculated.

Absolutely beautiful.

Somewhere, Sanji sighed longingly as he watched from the kitchen window.

“…I should’ve laminated my feelings.”

-

The folder—the last folder—sat in Ace’s hands like it was ticking.

Nami stood over you both like judgment incarnate, arms crossed, hair glinting like fury under sunlight.

“You promised,” she said to Ace. “We’re putting this weird phase behind us. Burn it. All of it.”

You looked up at him, heart cracking like paper held too close to a flame. “It’s fine,” you said, voice small. “She’s right. It’s time to move on. No more graphs. No more compatibility tables. No more glitter pens.”

Ace looked between you and Nami. Then down at the binder. It was a Frankenstein’s monster of data—he’d added his own notes in the margins. Compliments on your hair. A post-it that said “Y/N’s laugh: better than fire.” Another by your graph titled “Back Muscle Density vs Hug Quality,” where he’d written: “Can confirm. Hugged subject. Results: glorious.”

He smiled gently.

Then, very deliberately, pulled two pages out—your drawing of the two of you smiling, and the back muscle chart—and tucked them inside his vest.

Nami narrowed her eyes.

Ace grinned. “Sentimental value.”

You sniffled. “Scientific value.”

Nami rolled her eyes. “Whatever. The rest goes.”

He nodded. And then, with a flick of his fingers, fire danced across his knuckles. You both watched as the paper edges curled, then ignited, flames licking away hours of analysis, overthinking, insecurity.

You stood beside him, watching it burn.

Not sad, exactly.

Just… letting go.

Your fingers brushed his.

You didn’t pull away.

That night, you sat side by side on the deck, legs swinging off the edge, bare feet over calm water. The sea shimmered with stars, and the moon painted his freckles like constellations.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft.

You nodded. “Feels weird. Like I’ve been wearing goggles for so long, and I finally took them off. Everything’s clearer. A little blurrier, too.”

“Real life usually is.”

You glanced at him.

Ace was leaning back on his palms, head tilted toward the sky, hair wind-tossed, and you were ruined. By him. For life.

“You kept the drawing,” you said, nudging him lightly.

“I like how you drew me smiling,” he said. “And the eyelashes you gave yourself. Accurate.”

You flushed. “Shut up.”

“I also kept the back muscle graph,” he added. “For… fitness purposes.”

You laughed. “Of course.”

The silence that followed was warm. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just two people sitting together, a spark glowing softly between them.

Your hands found each other again, fingers interlocking naturally this time.

No fanfare.

No charts.

Just feeling.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “I think I like you.”

He smiled.

“I know,” he whispered. “I like you too.”

And under the stars, no graphs, no hypotheses, no research—just two hearts, fluttering and new—young love bloomed quietly. Sweet. Simple. And maybe just a little bit inevitable.

[faggotbeloved]

Cold Metal Biting Soft Flesh | Yandere Curly x Captain!M!Reader

Prologue: Decay (~2k words)

CW: Canon typical gore and violence, yandere themes, named original characters. Vomiting, blood and decay, no beta we die like Anya

This work can be skipped, since it's just a prologue.

This work does not contain smut but is 18+. Minors and fem-aligned people, please do not interact. AN at the end.

└───────────────────────┘

As the captain of the Astraeus, a colonization ship in which you take crew back and forth to barren rocks with no life save some algae that's a few million years from walking, you'd seen some shit. The only constants in your life were your ship, your base crew of just six, your nephew, and your title as captain.

Your life was good enough; you picked up around sixty colonists with various skills, dropped them off on a moon or a planet with the things they needed to flourish, then flew back to do it again. You had your late sibling's kid dropped in your lap recently, but he was a good kid and a promising pilot. You hardly spoke to the passengers below deck, but your little gaggle of crewmates were good friends, usually.

You thought you'd seen all that the vast, empty space had to offer until an unidentified object entered your flight path. The red flashing lights warned you that this clearly wasn't an asteroid, but in a meeting your resident doctor claimed that, regardless of its identity, it was in your best interest to ignore it and simply hop over it. When he suggested this to your crew, they were much less than happy to hear it.

"Are you kidding? Whoever it is, their SOS light is on, it's objectively immoral to ignore them. They'll die, if they haven't already!" Sascha protested. Sascha, with her spiky and colorful hair, was always the loudest and most abrasive, so it was no surprise she was vocal in her opinion against it.

"I understand that, but it'll add days to the trip. The passengers will be outraged, we could miss a supply drop—" he defended earnestly, but shut off once you raised a hand to silence him.

"Rhodes. She's right, and it's in our scientific interest," you emphasized, "that we dock at an undocumented craft. If there's living people, it is our responsibility to save them. If there's samples, we should get those, too, since there's no telling what the craft has."

Rhodes sighed and sat back, relinquishing the argument to your wise opinion.

"I motion to investigate the craft," you announced.

"I second the damn motion," Sascha growled.

"All opposed, raise your hand," you instructed. Nobody raised a hand, so you adjourned the meeting and prepared a team to investigate. The passengers didn't really care, not after you explained the cruciality of it all, so you and gathered your selected team.

You were a given; your nephew was in charge in the event that something happened on the Astraeus. Rhodes, with his medical expertise, was forced to come along. Harbor, the resident cook and communications leader, wanted to volunteer, but was overrode by Sascha. Finally, Lucille, who was just about the only person who specialized in combat, came with.

──────────────────────

With that, you donned your suits and ventured into the ship. Once you got inside and depressurized, you were immediately greeted with the thick air of rot. Fuck.

There was no oxygen in the ship and the lights flickered dully as the automatic doors showered with sparks once you left the airlock. You and Lucille forced the door open whilst Sascha and Rhodes bickered over whether or not anyone could still be alive. Sascha was optimistic, and Rhodes was less than.

"Hey, this is a Pony Express freighter," Sascha suddenly realized. "That... uh, fuck, what was her name? The pony mascot, Polle! Yeah, her face is all over the place. What were they hauling?"

Once the broken door opened with a uncomfortable screech, Lucille spoke slowly. "...Mouthwash."

You were stunned. That must have been a million empty bottles in here, all strewn about or in piles. "They ran out of food," Rhodes said softly. "No shit, dumbass. You think they drank it for fun?" Sascha huffed.

"You two, quit," you spoke up. "Pair up and focus. If anyone's alive after this long, it's not going to be pretty. Lou, get your gun."

"Will do, Captain," replied Lucille, waiting for your go-ahead to continue on. You ventured left and met with a wall of insulation foam. Ugh. Of course Pony Express would use insulation instead of spray metal; why wouldn't they cut corners with the cheapest material possible? Makes you glad that they went under a couple decades ago.

"We need to find a new route. These old kinds of ships have a central kitchen, a few other rooms, and a downstairs cargo bay," Sascha informed.

"Get with your pair. Lucille, go with Rhodes. Sascha, you get Lucille's extra gun, come with me. You two, take the right fork and we'll take middle. Keep your mics on."

──────────────────────

As you and Sascha went forward, you found long abandoned bedrooms belonging to a couple crew members. One door, the one without a lock and the only one open, held a woman's ID card, which prompted you to collect the IDs of all members.

"Huh, she's cute. This generation ship had cryopods, maybe she's a popsicle," Sascha joked.

"Be on the lookout for... four crew members and a captain. Young Anglo female named Anya, teenage East Asian male named Daisuke, middle aged Anglo male named Swansea, and a young Anglo male named Jimmy," you announced. "Looks like cabin's cut off from the rest of the ship. They probably had to sleep in the kitchen or medbay."

"Hm. Found the utility, but the door's jammed. I'll circle back," Rhodes said over the mic, passing by the room. "I'm in the medbay. It has traces of blood and vomit on the floor and—fuck, that bed is soaked in dried blood. Empty pill bottles; Captain, I think someone overdosed. It'd be easy, these painkillers are only a little less strong than what we have."

Rhodes observed the room while you and Sascha ventured back and followed their path to meet up.

"There's a gun case. Gun and bullets are missing. Be prepared to see either a crazy, gun wielding bastard or a whole lot of brains on the wall," Lucille said bitterly as you entered.

Sascha had been abnormally quiet since the Medbay news was delivered. "I'm a little nervous to check further now. But I guess we have to, huh?" she muttered.

Emeto and Gore warning.

You pressed on, and in the cockpit was a mess of foam and some dried blood. Nothing too damning just yet, though. You and Sascha lingered back to check out the control panels and determined that the ship steered directly into an asteroid, something virtually impossible with how simple the instructions were. "This was a purposeful crash, gu—" you began, but was cut off by a gag and the sound of vomit hitting a helmet.

"Lucille? Lucille!" You shouted, springing up to rush into the central room.

Ho-ly Fuck.

──────────────────────

Three people of the four you'd seen earlier were slumped across a table, party hats either hanging from their neck or somehow still on their head. You'd never wished to throw up more than in this moment. Lucille, since she'd already thrown up once, had to deal with the vomit coating her helmet, which only prompted her to go again.

The girl, Anya, had bloody saliva and puke dried onto her lips and decay around the her face, while her eyes were bloodshot and her body exhibited every symptom of opioid overdose. She slumped backwards, her position hardly mattering to whoever set this disgusting sight up. Fuck.

The boy, Daisuke, was unrecognizable with his face caved in. He was gruesomely propped up with his head on his hands, which had blood dripping down the forearms. His lips were twisted into a mockery of a smile, and the party hat had stayed on throughout the years of stationary movement. His bowels were nearly spilling out, clearly having been cut by a large sharp object before having been killed by the blow to his face.

The man, Swansea, had a clean bullet hole through the head and had both arms on the table like he was waiting to eat. His head fell backwards and the crust of regurgitated blood caked his lips and chin. Furthermore, his eyeball hung loosely around his chin and he'd been clearly beaten up before hand.

Five steaks lined the plates, and the barely-started decay made the sight worse. Five steaks... in a ship that had no real meat.

Not only were the crew in space with no decomposing lifeforms to feed off of them, they were in a room cold enough to freeze their bodies now that the heater power failed, so decomposition ceased entirely. They were stuck like they had just been killed days ago, their skin bloating and their organs slush inside them. With every poke and prod you made, Lucille gagged and only worsened her condition as she attempted to lift her helmet, since she suddenly had no oxygen but was hit with the smell of rot.

"Look away," you said firmly, motioning for Rhodes to bring Lucille to the side.

"Sealegs, this is your Captain speaking. Do you copy?" You spoke into your microphone, radioing back to the ship.

"Captain, this is Sealegs! I copy!" A young boy's voice chirped out eagerly.

"Sealegs, I want you to talk over the intercom—the big, red button I tell you not to touch—and tell the passengers to send up anyone with 'for-en-sic' or medical expertise. They need suits and tell them that it's a 'Rated R' sight. Three 'ca-da-vers' so far, and to bring barf bags," you said carefully, using words he was unfamiliar with to try not to traumatize your nephew.

You spring into Captain mode, reassigning roles to fit the crew's comfortability and capability. "Sascha, lead the passengers up and make sure they bring actual supplies. A gurney or something in case one of us passes out. Lucille, hand Rhodes your gun. You're dismissed; go shower and clean the vomit from your helmet. You don't need to see this."

──────────────────────

A full inspection of the ship, including the storage, determined that two crew members were missing—Jimmy, and the captain, whose name you hadn't yet found. Unfortunately, both of the captain's ID cards were destroyed beyond repair in a manner that seemed on purpose. The only room not observed yet was the utility room, which was seemingly blocked by a fire axe and multiple furniture items. In the spirit of a full check, you and about a half-dozen passengers broke through and gasped as you finally saw the inside.

The Util room itself was fine, but the final crew member, Jimmy had shot himself in the chest.

It didn't kill him immediately.

He crawled to beside a cryo pod and used his hand to make a handprint on the handle, as if begging someone else to open it.

"Check all of the other pods. I want someone to get that gun, too," you organized, then followed the handprint and lifted open the hatch. Oh. Oh, fuck.

"Shit! I need medical, now! Gurney, respirator, and morphine!" you shouted as a man—the former Captain, you were sure, fell out of the pod in the fetal position, shivering, choking, and staring at you with a wide, terrified eye.

You picked him up, wincing as you felt his raw skin squish under his weight, and removed your helmet to set it over his head for a gasp of real air. God knows how long he'd been without fresh air. You may have been suffocating, but you had good lungs. In less than a minute, the team brought a respirator and oxygen tank with a gurney.

You set him down and placed the mask over yourself, gasping and gagging at the rotting stench in the air, then rasped out to the man, "It'll be okay. We've got you."

You took back your helmet and put the mask over his lipless mouth, then sprinted back to the ship. Once you looked back down at him, you saw a tear escaping his eye and piercing blue irises set upon you.

┌───────────────────────┐

Yay... first post on this blog! This is obviously not the only part, I have plans, but this is essentially a skippable cutscene, since you could probably just ignore this part and head to the next once I make it. I just wanted to set the tone and setting, try my hand at gore, and voice my post-judgement headcannons. Anyways, I really hope my writing wasn't bad and it made sense! No Curly just yet, but just wait lol.

[ofhouseadama]

HOPE ON THIS SIDE OF THE GRAVE AGAIN // "When he boards the elevator he’s upset. By the time he leaves the elevator he’s angry, each reverberation of his feet hitting asphalt felt in the remaining bones and surgical grade titanium in his right leg, all the way up to his hip. It takes him less than sixty seconds to walk from the parking deck to the ambulance bay. Ten feet from the entrance, he sees Robby walk through the first set of doors, past Ahmad, and then through the second set of doors. His pulse roars in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time in years, Jack Abbot feels something approximating rage, an emotion he has long assumed to be medicated out of him."

🔗 read on AO3

[clochanamarc]

i'm blaming the people who not only interacted, but even LOOKED at this post--

every waking second i'm fighting a battle with the feminine urge to just write a series of one-shots where sb from another universe shows up at the diner (like lego.las or ric.k grimes just showing up and being so damn confused bc where are the ORCS--) and the diner squad get to deal with the residual trauma and uncertainty, the kids want to see how heavy the bow is, bella insists she can hook rick up with a few designer boutiques for some beard oil, like it's just pure chaos and getting back to the insanity we once LOVED in the rpc--

[renthony]

Lost in the Remaster: Star Trek, Vintage Special Effects, and the Charm of Old Media

by Ren Basel renbasel.com

Originally created by Gene Roddenberry, Star Trek is a franchise that spans decades. From the original series of 1966 to current shows such as Lower Decks, it stands as a titan of television and pop culture. The real world has undergone incredible change since Star Trek’s first appearance, yet nerds everywhere still find entertainment, inspiration, and hope in its classic episodes. Recently, along with my husband and best friend, I decided I wanted to attempt the gauntlet of watching the entire franchise from beginning to end, revisiting favorites and finally checking out the ones I missed. Media and fandom studies are my passion, after all, and Star Trek is a foundational part of modern American nerd culture.

Starting with the original series proved more difficult than expected. Living in a tiny apartment, we don’t have much space for DVDs, so Star Trek wasn’t in our existing collection. The local public library didn’t have copies, either, and putting in a purchase request doesn’t guarantee it will be made available. My family doesn’t have the funds to pay for every single streaming service on the market, and Star Trek isn’t available on any we do have access to. Piracy was starting to look like the only option, but even that fell flat when we couldn’t find a version with subtitles. Finally we dug it up officially and with subtitles, for free via PlutoTV, but there were still limitations: PlutoTV only streams season one, and season one is only available in the remastered edition that replaced the original special effects with new visuals.

It wasn’t ideal, but, hey, it was Star Trek.

Watching just one episode a week gave us enough time to scrape together savings to get what we really wanted for seasons two and three: the official BluRay release, which includes both remastered and original-release versions of each episode. The remasters are fine, but as a lover of media history and practical effects, I’m always disappointed to lose a chance to appreciate the originals. It doesn’t matter how good it might look, remasters are never as much fun to me as matte paintings, camera tricks, and whatever the prop department could pull off with ten dollars and some glue.

Finally having the BluRays in hand for season two only affirmed my love of vintage practical effects. Seeing the Enterprise in her original glory, before she was ever rendered in digital form, felt like opening a time capsule. I love time capsules. My favorite pieces of media are always those which capture a moment in time, showcasing the aesthetics, concerns, and culture of the time and place they were created. Star Trek: the Original Series is rooted in the late sixties, when mainstream culture in the United States was experiencing immense upheaval and social change. That context is written all over the show. The vintage effects add to it, grounding it in a very specific time and place. Updating the show’s effects takes away some of that 60s aesthetic, and while some may see it as making the show more timeless, I don’t care for it. To me, seeing what they could pull off before modern technology is half the fun of watching old shows. The ingenuity and creativity of propmakers, makeup artists, and set designers working on shoestring budgets is unparalleled.

To be clear, digital effects are also done by skilled professionals who deserve much more respect and many more labor protections. There are some truly stunning works created with digital tools. That said, I hate when digital effects are used to cover up the practical effects that came before. It feels disrespectful to the original artists, as if telling them their work wasn’t good enough; as if their work was just a placeholder until something better could come along and fix it. Practical effects aren’t a placeholder, they’re an art form in their own right, and that art form is one for which I have deep appreciation.

It frustrates me that the original, non-remastered episodes were such a pain for us to access, but I’m very glad to have added them to my personal media collection. No matter what future tweaks Star Trek’s rights holders might make, I can always pop in our personal copies to enjoy the Enterprise and her crew in all their vintage, “outdated” glory. If you’re also too young to remember the show’s original airing, and you have the opportunity to watch the unedited version, I highly suggest you do. Watching the version that aired in 1966 gives the show a charm that no amount of remastering can ever match.

_

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[fayevalcntine]

"Charlie's death ushered in one of the darkest eras in our lives. The oh-so-delicate balance of our oh-so-delicate household was shattered. The fantasy of happiness burst."

Claudia + chrysanthemums

White chrysanthemums are considered to be a flower for mourners, chosen for decking the tombs and graves of the deceased. In the book, Claudia first brings them to the house when she confronts Lestat about turning her, bringing an end to 'the sleep of sixty-five years'. They're also the flowers she chooses to decorate his corpse with when she murders him. In the show, the flower is used for a similar symbolism, but one more connected to the loss of Claudia's naivety and her first love, Charlie. His death breaks the former structure the family had.

[the-soliloquies-of-sadists]

This is a direct follow up to Story #387, Story #389, and Story #394. It is strongly advised that you read those stories first.

#400

“There he is!  Timothy Stone, get on up here!...  Welcome aboard!  Welcome to the Zelus.  I see you are impressed with my tiny tugboat.  Ha! Ha!  I love looking at reactions of new passengers.  You ever been on a yacht this big?

“It’s sixty-nine feet, and enough power to get us around the entire Bahamas and back here to West Palm Beach.  It has four staterooms and two crew quarters.  You get one of them.  Sorry, with the entire executive team here each of us will get our own stateroom. 

“Let me text Lloyd to take us out of the marina.  All of us have been here for some time.  No, don’t worry about it.  I told you to be here at three, and it’s five ‘til three.  No, we’ve been having fun with our new faggot we got tied up….

“You want a drink?...  I have this cognac that I was given in Vegas the other day by a potential client.  I haven’t tried it yet.

“Ahh we are moving.  We should be out of the marina in a few minutes.

“Here you go….  Cheers!  …Ahhh!  Smooth.  I’m not a fan of cognac, but this is pretty good.  It should be.  Courvoisier Mizunara is supposed to be one of the best out there.  On the shelves it’s worth $2,500.  But shit, I couldn’t tell that from a $100 bottle.  Bourbon is more my thing. 

“Growing up in Tennessee, my Uncle Jimmy used to make his own.  Everyone in a five-mile radius of his home had a bottle of his bourbon.  I used to help him out in his garage in the evening when his son went off to college.  Uncle Jimmy showed me everything, but we always wound-up drinking.  I was sixteen at the time.  I’d plow his ass at the end of the night.  After a few times, he didn’t even wait until we started drinking.  He had one of the best pieces of ass I ever had.

“His bourbon lives on with my cousin once my uncle passed.  I have a bottle of it here.  I may break it out sometime during this trip.  My cousin fucked it up when he went ran the company.  It’s definitely not as good as it was before.  Some boys just don’t have a mind for business.

“Speaking of boys in business, your son Michael is doing great.  From what Lloyd was telling me, he’s really taking to his new role as intern.  I know he finds it a challenge, but Lloyd, Ben, and Gary think he’s handling it better than anyone they have seen in a long time.  Apparently, he has a gift for adapting, kinda rolling with the punches.

“What I like about him—I met him this morning—is his ability to take directions without complaints.  That is such a difficult characteristic to find in boys these days.  Lloyd and Gary were indicating they want to keep him around after his initial internship.  I left him earlier working hard trying to impress me.

“…Oh you hear that cabin tone?  That’s Lloyd telling everyone that we’ve cleared the marina and are out at sea.  This is your first time on the Zelus.  When we are in open water, we strip naked.  All of us.

“I told you the other day when we were talking about promoting you to lead our European expansion, that we are a close group of men—of four gay men.  We share our conquests, our lusts, our dark needs with each other.  I trust these men like I would trust my brother, if not more.  We have been in countless gang bangs tearing up some faggot’s cunt.  I have seen their cocks and asses so much that it’s awkward to see them clothed.  The other two on board are faggots.  Naturally those two are going to be kept naked.

“So strip.  This is not an option.  You can jump overboard and swim back to shore if you would like.

“Good.

“You can leave them on the couch.  Ben’s boy will put them in your cabin.  If you go out on deck you can keep your sunglasses and baseball cap on.

“You have got to realize that the four of us have known each other for years.  Lloyd and I go back to our time in the Corps.  What connects us is our love for using and abusing faggots. 

“Right now, as I was saying there are two faggots on board.  One is Ben’s boy.  While Ben has taken him on as a partner of sorts, he’s still a faggot at heart.

“…I guess I should ask, do you know the difference between a gay man and a faggot?  A faggot is a gay man who has a need, an urge, a longing to submit to the whims of superior men.  The more humiliating, degrading, cruel the better.  Faggots live for the cum of its superiors.  It loves to degrade itself in order for the man to be elevated.  It needs the beatings, the piss, the bondage, the punishment to feel complete.

“I don’t know why you were hesitating about stripping.  You have a great body, average sized dick, nice long foreskin, and holy shit… Those balls are huge!  Let me hold on to them….

“Hey don’t hesitate.  We are all physical with each other as well.  Look, I’m standing here in front of you naked.  I already saw you check out my dick.  Yes, it’s very fat.  If you want to touch it, go right ahead.

“You know, as a man who says he bisexual, you certainly seem apprehensive….  Or is it the fact that I’m your boss telling you to take a hold of my cock.  I get it.  If you are going to be a part of this team, you are going to have to drop those pretenses.  When you walk around you should let those low hangers swing free and guide your every step.

“Let me check out your ass.  Hey, what can I say?  I’m an ass man.  I’m going to see it anyways, might as well be now.

“Solid and meaty, just as I would have guessed.  Nice and hairy.  Faggots seem to love licking a hairy crack.  You ever have your ass eaten out?...  There may be some ass eating ahead.

“Speaking of which, right now that faggot is down below.  It is tied down, blindfolded with a noise cancelling headset on, ass up.  The four of us have already bred it.  You will be up next.

“Your cock doesn’t seem like it wants to get hard….  Do you need something?  We have Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, Muse, Tri-mix.  Well, I need a shot of Tri-Mix.  After this morning’s big load, I don’t think I could get hard again until tomorrow.

“You ever do Tri-Mix?  I use it when I want to fuck for a long time.  It keeps me boned up for a few hours.  You want to try it?  After a few minutes have passed you will be rock, and I mean rock hard.

“If you are nervous, this being your first time with me on the Zelus, just do it.  Let me get it.  It’s kept cold.  Don’t worry, I have a doctor that gives me whatever I want.

“Just stand right there.  Don’t worry.  I’ve done this many times.  Yes it’s an injectable.  And it’s injected into the shaft.  Aww, don’t turn into a pussy on me.

“I brought two syringes.  Let me do it to myself.  Here watch….  It goes in, I plunge, and it comes out.  Like that.  It’s over quick.  Now a few tugs and I can already feel it working.  I’m not going to get completely rigid for about 15-20 minutes.

“Look, you say you are bisexual, but I’m thinking that you are making up the gay side of it because you want to impress us.  You want this promotion so fucking bad you are willing to fuck some faggot in front of us.  You wouldn’t be the first straight man to shoot up his cock to fuck fags.  There’s a whole term for it: gay-for-pay.

“You want to be part of this team, you are going to need to learn to love using faggots, that includes dumping a load into them.  To do that you need to get hard.  This injection will do that for you.

“Here feel my cock again.  Grab a hold of it….  Feel that?  It’s harder than a few minutes ago.  Here let me inject you.

“Come here.  Just look up.  On the count of three.  One!  See, it went in….  And now you are done.  Give it a few tugs and you will start to feel it.

“You’ll be hard for the rest of the night.  Lots of fucking in your future tonight. 

“When we had our conversation in Vegas, I told you that I was pissed off at your skimming the profits but was very intrigued at the process you used to do so.  It took some serious creativity to pull that off.  I was impressed.  The guys too.  We set this cruise out to a remote island in the Bahamas to get to know you—to get to know you as a fag fucker.  Besides, the shit we do… man, we wouldn’t take on anyone who had a shred of decency.

“Do you feel your cock getting larger?  I can see it growing.  Yeah, once we go downstairs into the media room that doubles as a dungeon, you will see the faggot cunt secured to the sling or fuck bench.  Your cock will slide into its cunt.  And it should be silky smooth.  Better than any woman’s pussy.

“We have been training this faggot for a couple of weeks.  Lloyd secured him about the time when you and I went to Vegas.  He was an easy target.  What you probably don’t realize being essentially straight is that there are faggots out there that will do just about anything to serve men like us—brutal men like us.  Lloyd has a good talent for reading a potential faggot.  He says things that just seems to work on getting that faggot to be collared.

“Once that happens then it’s only a matter of time that they submit to whatever we want to do to them.  And all it took was this.  See this little fob?  This is the tool we use.  Here, press the number one button.

“Do it again.  And again.  What you did, is you sent a shock to the faggot down below.  The collar we put on him is wired up, like a collar for a dog to get it to stop barking.  Once they feel that, total submission is almost immediate.  With this particular faggot, he turned into a whipping post for Ben and toilet paper for Gary in no time. 

“Where we keep the faggot is wired up for numerous cameras.  So we can see what the faggot is doing and send a shock from anywhere in the world.  I even sent one from Vegas when you were looking up some number from some report.

“Look at your cock.  It’s starting to get rigid.  Damn!  You are a grower! 

“You know, let’s go see the faggot.  The guys will be down there.  We are certainly far from shore so Lloyd will have the autopilot on.

“This way….  Doesn’t it feel right to be walking around buck naked?  Trust me you’ll get used to it, and soon enough you’ll be naked pretty much all the time.  If you need to piss and you don’t have a faggot nearby, just aim off the side and go.  The one thing you’ll learn is pissing with a hard-on will take some time, which is great for loading up a faggot’s toilet cunt.

“And here we are.  Before we go in, I want to point out that you can see the men are enjoying themselves.  In general, we casually use faggots’ holes.  It’s about pleasure and not so much about busting a nut, although busting a nut happens a lot.

“Look at how the men are enjoying what’s going on.  Ben is balls deep in his boy, while the boy is tongue fucking Gary’s shitter.  Lloyd is pile driving the faggot over on the fuck bench, stirring up the cum stew. 

“This is the life we created.  This is what you are coming into.  Let’s go in.

“Gentlemen!  I got Timothy here.  His cock has been shot up and he’s ready to fuck.

“Damn Tim!  You really are a grower.  I should have expected that when I saw your long foreskin.  Now only the tip shows.  Skin it back; I want to see how big your head is.

“Shit!  Do you ever clean that thing?  Look at that dick cheese….  Come here.  Stick your dickhead in the faggot’s mouth.  He’ll clean you off. 

“The faggot is blindfolded and has noise canceling headset under his hood.  He won’t know what to do until you use the handle on his hood to pull his head back.  Then just shove your dick in his mouth.  The faggot knows to clean off dick cheese; I’m sure Gary made sure of that. 

“There you go….  I see that smile.  Feels good, doesn’t it?  Better than any woman.  A well-trained faggot is better than anything a woman can do. 

“Well you got Gary and Ben to stop and watch you.

“Oh you see his welts.  Yeah, a well-trained faggot also takes a beating.  We punish faggot slaves appropriately, but they also are made to understand that sometimes the beatings are for our enjoyment.  Ben and Lloyd certainly like to have their fun.

“This faggot has been trained to do so much.  He’s going to fetch us a good price.  Yeah, we plan on selling him.  There are men around the world that pay top dollar for a well-trained faggot slave.

“Pull out.  I said pull out.  I told you that you will enjoy this.

“Lloyd, move the faggot to the sling.  I think Tim here is ready to fuck.

“While he’s doing that, care for another drink?  Or would you like a cigar?  No?  Ok.

“Boy.  Go upstairs and pour Tim here a glass of the Courvoisier Mizunara cognac.  The bottle should be sitting out.  Hell, bring the whole bottle down.

“That’ll help you adapt and sink into everything to come.  So have you ever been to a gang bang, or fucked a woman who has several loads in her?  The feeling on your cock is amazing.  Yes it’s sloppy, but it also feels silky smooth.

“That’s a sight, isn’t it?  That cunt has been trained to take cock after cock and still remain tight to give pleasure and loose enough to not cause your dick to struggle to fuck.

“Here’s your cognac.  Might as well down it.

“Now go on.  Step up.  Slide it in.  Trust me, this is going to be a fuck you will never forget. 

“…Good.  You ready? 

“There you go!  There’s the smile.  Now FUCK!

“Give that faggot what he deserves.  Slam into him.  Faggots were made to be fucked not made love to.

“Hell yes!  Look, we are all stroking our dicks for you.  You have no idea how hot this is….

“Guys, gather around.  You should see this up close.

“…Go for it!  Don’t hold back.  Breed the faggot. 

“FUCK YEAH!  FUCK!

“…You did it!  In record time!  Well done!  Don’t pull out yet.  Let the rest of your body calm down first.  Savor the feeling.  Savor the moment. 

“You did good.  Now, I need for you to pull out slowly.  The faggot is trained to clamp down.  Good.  Good!

“Look at that slime on your cock.  That’s all our juices.  How do you feel?  I know.  Words elude you?... Ha!

“Get on your knees….  You heard me.  I want you to look at this faggot’s cunt. 

“Gary, pull apart the fag’s cheeks.  Let’s really see that cunt hole.

“On your knees….  There you go.

“Ben.  Lloyd.  Now.

“…They move fast, don’t they?  You have the same shock collar on you as the faggot does.  Now pay attention.  This is a level one zap. 

“…Hurts like a motherfucker, right?  There are ten settings, and you had the weakest.  I don’t think another demonstration is needed.  Do you understand your situation?

“…Shut up.  I don’t want to hear your babble.  That was a ‘Yes Sir’/’No Sir’ question…. 

“OK.  You really thought you could skim money from us and be rewarded with a promotion?  Please!  You need some sort of punishment.  That begins with your lips kissing the faggot’s cunt lips.  Go on!  Lean in. 

“…That was level two….  There you go! 

“Now keep your mouth open.  The faggot may be wearing a noise cancelling headset, but we can speak to him.  He’s going to be told to shit some of his cunt slop into your mouth.  Do not swallow it.  Nod if you understand.  Good.

“Whew!  That was a messy fart!  Remember don’t swallow.  Now pull back.  Look up at us.  Show us the load.  Now gargle it.  Like mouthwash! 

“Two minutes ago, you were a man, but now you are a gargler of cum gobs.  Now don’t swallow.  Stop gargling.

“Get up and go share that in the faggot’s mouth.  Get up….  You know I hate having to repeat myself.  If I have to do it again, you will experience level three.  Now go and have a deep passionate kiss with the faggot.

“Hold his head and swap spit.  Pretend he’s a woman.  Hell, pretend it’s your son Michael’s mother.  I don’t care.

“Fuck yeah!  I didn’t realize that you are an excellent kisser.  Pull off.  There will be more kissing.  Get back to kneeling at the faggot’s cunt. 

“You are going to repeat the process exactly the same, except for the gargling.  You can skip that.  Any hesitation will be met with level three for triple the length.  You understand.  Just nod.

“Good.  Oh, I forgot to tell you one thing.  You need to hear it before you go back to eating another splatter fart out of your son’s ass….

“…Oh yeah!  The faggot here is your son Michael.  This is the internship we set him up with.  Oh yeah.  Your son was a faggot before us.  It was easy for us to pluck him.

“Now, remember level 3.  You are to do the exact same thing with the same level of passion.... I'm fucking serious.  Go!

“…Damn!  That was close.  A split second longer in hesitating and you would have been shocked.  Keep licking.  While you wait to receive your gift from your son’s cunt, Lloyd here is removing your son’s hood.  He still has his blindfold and headset on.  We will be removing those shortly.  You probably won’t recognize him initially because Ben had removed all this body hair even on his head.

“Did you hear that?  Gary just busted a nut watching you felch out our loads from your son’s cunt.

“Pull off when your mouth is full.  Good.  Now go French kiss your son. 

“Just like before.  Go on now….  Fuck yeah!

“This is so hot.

“Now go back to his cunt.  But this time remain standing.

“Stick  your slime covered cock back into your boy’s cunt.  And fuck him.  That Tri-mix I injected you with should keep you hard for a long time.  You’ve already fucked a load into him.  Now just fuck.

“You really should see yourself.  Oh wait, you can.  Look over at that TV.  Yes, we have been filming you.  See your face.  There’s panic, fear, guilt, regret, and even a little disgust.  All the good emotions.  And over on the TV to your right, you can see how your son became a faggot with each of us.  Oh yeah, he wasn’t coerced into being a faggot like you were.  No, he was totally into sperm burping and pole riding.  The fear you had that he might be gay turned out to be true in the most glorious way.

“DO NOT STOP FUCKING.

“And now, we get to see shame you have in him and in yourself, by taking the headset off first. 

“Faggot, it is imperative that you do not say a word.  If either you or the shithead fucking you say one word, you both will get shocked at level 3.  This includes screaming.  I want both of you to nod that you understand.

“Good.  Now Tim, remove the blindfold. 

“Look into your son’s eyes.  Let him see just how much your fuck up has cost him.  All this is because you had arrogance and ambition.  You tried to fuck us over, you tried to steal from us, and you believed that we would be ok with it and promote you as well?  Fuck that!

“Are you crying?  You are!...  Do not stop fucking your son.

“Faggots!  That was level 3.  Yes!  The both of you got shocked.  That’s how punishments will be going forward.  One fucks up, then both gets shocked.

“Now get back to fucking your son.

“Here’s the situation.  We still have about four hours to go.  And you have a hard on that will last another three to six.  You will be fucking him non-stop until we get to where we are going.  Until then, you will not say one word to each other.  Remember those shock collars we have padlocked on you were meant for barking dogs.  If you say one thing, the sensors will register sounds and you two will be shocked.  Also, that sling has a sensor that will monitor for movement.  If that movement stops or even slows down—say due to stopping fucking—you two will be shocked.  Tim, if your collar should go more than 6 feet away from your faggot son’s collar, you two will be shocked.  If any one of us bring up one of our video feeds and see that your cock is not inside your faggot son’s cunt, you two will be shocked.  I will free the faggot’s hands.  I want the two of you to enjoy playing with each other’s chest.  What can I say?  I’m a nice guy.

“That’s a lot of fucking between the two of you between now and when we reach the island.  But here’s one thing before we leave you both to go have dinner.  That island is a small private island, about two to three acres.  There’s a small dock and a metal shed to shield from the elements.  The owner of the island always has a box stocked with water bottles and something to eat.  Last time we sold a faggot there, they put in a hammock between two of the four trees on the island.

“Faggot, you will be left on the dock.  The island owners will send carriers to pick you up either tomorrow or the next day.  From there, they will arrange delivery to your new owners.

“Until then you are free to roam the small island.  Swim.  Whatever.  If you want to swim to the next island, it’s about 7 miles in open ocean, and that island is about ten times larger, but still uninhabited.

“So that’s the life your dad has caused you to have.  Look at him.  He’s a failure, and he knows it. 

“Well Tim.  While you cry, keep fucking your son.  This will be the last few hours with him.  What do you have to say?  Oh, let me turn off your noise sensor….

“…No we can’t simply forget all this.  You stole a lot of money from us, it needs to be paid.  We paid a lot in fuel to get us out here.  We paid for a pick up on the island.  They expect a faggot.  Now, if you want to switch places with your son, that can be arranged.

“You want to do that?  You want to be sold into sex slavery instead of your faggot son?...

“…Well fuck!  I wasn’t expecting that!  You didn’t waste any time in shaking your head no.

“Faggot, did you see how fast your dad just gave you up?  Shit! 

“These past weeks have been carefully planned.  Every word, every detail.  From the Vegas trip where we had our talk, to Lloyd convincing faggot here to sign up to be our intern, to the strip club dancer I paid to have sex with you so that a potential buyer could see you in action, to the tri-mix dose on hand, to the video feeds cued up, and to me handing the shock remote to dear old dad to get him to shock his son three times.  The one thing I was expecting you to do was the fatherly thing and offer to go instead of your son.

“Nope.  You chose to sacrifice your son.  Didn’t even think twice.  That’s fucking brutal.  Just when I think you can’t be more of a piece of shit, you surprise me.

“No YOU are going to be sold, not your faggot son.  Your new owner saw you fuck that stripper, and he wanted you.  He’s into hairy middle-aged straight men as his sex slaves.  He doesn’t want your hairless faggot son.

“So you are going to be sold.  But I wonder.  Hmm.  I’m going to contact your new owner and see if he’s interested in the pair of you two as a set.  Yeah, that is a great idea, to sell your son into slavery as well.  If you had just offered yourself up instead of your son, he would have been spared.  But no. 

“If you have anything to say, save it.  I just put your noise sensor back on.  Get back to fucking your son.

“Gentlemen let’s go have some dinner.  Ben, I see your boy is gone.  To start cooking I presume.  You are one step ahead, as always.  Let’s leave these two have some private time.  They have lots to talk about, too bad they can’t say anything.  Lloyd, I know you have been eying that cognac.  Go ahead and grab it.  It’s yours for all the hard work you put in.  Actually, you all did good.  I’m proud of you all.  That was fun.”

[goqmir]

favorite two drop? if it has to be a creature I’d go with snapcaster but expressive iteration is probably my favorite two cmc card

in terms of two-drop legendary creatures, my favorite is by far and away the illustrious Flamewar, Brash Veteran!

she's, at least this point in time, my all-time favorite commander for my slightly-outdated rakdos storm deck :) i bought a shirt with her on it. she's awesome.

in terms of runner up two-drop legends, i fell in love with Nicanzil, Current Conductor when I played three copies of her in a sixty-card kitchen table deck the night wrenny got a box of LCI, and I've been trying to make her work as the commander of a storm list since (to no avail! explore is a severely underrepresented mechanic, it doesn't seem like there's enough of it yet ><). currently I'm messing around with building an arbaaz mir stormy deck as well to see if itll work! i had him in mind when assassins creed spoilers were coming out and i pulled him in the only pack i bought :D

in terms of nonlegendary two-drop creatures, i am an ADDICT of the beautiful pacelbeast, who mutates for two. she is so awesome and i love putting her in any deck i can alongside the pieces that allow her to repeatedly coil for two mana per instance (such as pili-pala and horseshoe crab) which is sooo fun :)

qasali pridemage is obviously a classic but i adore him. i actually dont think ive ever actually played him in a deck LOL but look! gosh he's so cool...

but my favorite two-drop creature is probably khenra spellspear, who is sooo cool and from my favorite set ever march of the machine ^u^!! i love khenra spellspear so much idk what else to say... prowess prowess is unreal swag and even has ward 2 <3 yay

in terms of any card that can be played for two mana, i just feel amazing playing molten duplication every time i do it. it's so amazing and has won me plenty of games. and making fun tokens is one of the best parts of magic i think :D

one of my favorite cards ever might just be brain freeze, here in its delightfully fitting white border from mb2 <3 it's so good! it mills you if you need cards in the yard, and even just on a little bit of storm you can grab a bunch of cards! or if you're deep into a storm turn, you can use it to go for the win by milling everyone out! (objectively cool)

also its a little goblin getting out of body experienced by having his head freeze blasted. that's cute. i would appreciate an official anime girl printing in the future someday though :)

i have more cards to talk about but i believe you can only put ten images in a single tumblr post! thank u so much for your question :D ^u^ <3

[gaylordscooter]

i just wanted some fucking clothes why is there a parasite manning the cash register

“free food, shelter and clothes? i could get used to this…” Killer surmised as he inspected the dark gray jacket he took from the rack.

He caught sight of the meaningless price tag and sucked in air through his teeth. “sixty dollars?” he muttered. Good thing they didn't have to pay.

“do you always talk out loud to yourself?” Horror questioned, watching him from behind.

“i’m not exactly talking to myself when you and hooded-creep are here.” Deciding the jacket looked cool enough for him, he removed his current hoodie to put it on. He tossed his old hoodie into the shopping cart, adding to the dangerously high pile of clothes.

A middle finger from the other side of the rack rose up.

“but i might as well be talking to myself ‘cus of how quiet you two are. bird flipper, do you ever speak?”

The answer was silence.

“figures…hey i just realized any time we talk to each other, we're talking to ourself.”

Dust tipped over the clothes rack with a forceful shove, causing it to fall on Killer.

“ow, what the heck, man?” It didn't hurt at all and he easily got the rack upright again, but some of the clothes fell off of it and made a mess on the floor. No one here was gonna clean that.

Dust walked out from behind the rack with a few garments in hand and stacked it on the pile.

They were about done shopping anyway, he guessed. Or at least, he assumed so. They’ve been here for a few hours now, but Horror was completely empty-handed.

“hey, crater-head, where's your haul? don't tell me you're not getting anything, you need new clothes the most with your rags.”

“i didn’t see anything i wanted,” he answered simply.

“really? this is a high-end store on the surface. your current getup is from the dump at waterfall.” He pointed at Dust. “look at him, he's all decked out now! covered literally head to toe, can’t even see any bone anymore.”

Horror looked unconvinced. “let's just go. i don't want that freak getting pissy at us for taking too long.”

If he had eyelights he would've rolled them, but he conceded. Not getting any clothes was his loss, but he swore if he ends up taking some of his clothes when they get back he’ll add to his kill count.

The three of them went on their way to the exit.

However, someone—a skeleton monster like them—was at the cash register, expectantly waiting for them to come over. The store was empty the entire time they were here, Nightmare made sure of it.

And the barrier in this universe hasn't been broken.

“Heya dawgs, how’s it hangin’?” the skeleton monster asked. “Yous three gonna pay for all that, right?”

His clothes hurt to look at. They were obnoxiously bright and tacky. His sunglasses that completely obscured his eye sockets literally spelled out “YOLO”. It was like the 90s threw up all over him. What alternate universe was this nut from?

Killer slipped his hand in the pocket of his shorts and curled it around the handle of his knife. He let out a shallow laugh. “what's it to you? you're not the store owner.”

“No duh, homeslice, but stealin’ is totes not rad!”

The way he talked was getting on his nerves. Scratch that, everything about him was getting on his nerves.

It seemed the other two felt the same. At any second, Dust was going to blast that 90’s disaster into the proper century.

“it's not like they're stealing from monsters. this is a human-owned store. i don't think they’d miss a few clothes,” Horror pointed out. “but if it bothers you so much, i’ll be on my way.”

“what?!” Killer exclaimed. He looked at Horror with an exaggerated look of betrayal on his face.

Horror made his way to the door. “hey, i’m not the one stealing. i’ll wait outside.” he said with indifference.

The other skeleton didn't protest at all when he left the building.

“butthole…what the?” Killer narrowed his eyes at his slip of the tongue. That’s not what he meant to say.

“Nah, homie, that chatter don't fly here.” The skeleton shook his head and his shades now spelt “NUH-UH”.

“you censored me?” His wariness skyrocketed at such a small thing. Well it wasn't exactly small when he's able to alter their words. What else could he do?

He glanced at Dust, who looked nonchalant as always.

He sighed, preparing for a fight. “listen, bud, we don't have any money and we're not going to—”

“Aw, no cheddar? You two should probably return those clothes then.” The overly-cheerfulness of his voice dwindled ever so slightly. Almost like he was threatening them.

He stared at him in befuddlement.

Dust decided he was entirely fed-up with this guy and the familiar growl of a blaster rang out. 

“Not cool,” the colorful skeleton said before getting blasted.

But he was completely unfazed by the attack.

Killer and Dust instinctively backed up even with the current distance between them and that thing.

“That blast gots a huge kick to it, yo. You should be more careful, you could totes hurt someone with that.” The skeleton stood up—he was kneeling behind the counter the entire time.

He thought he was around the same height as he and Dust. But now it was clear he towered over both of them.

“I shoulda introduced myself, huh?” He asked as if he was talking to himself. He shrugged off his mistake. “My b, better late than never.” He adjusted his glasses as his smile widened dangerously. His golden tooth shined brightly despite there being no light for it to reflect. “The name’s Fresh. I take it that you peeps are sanses? The hooded dude packs a ri-donk-ulous punch tho.”

Blue bones rose up and caged Fresh as a half-ring of blasters appeared and fired. The impact of the blasts created a huge cloud of smoke, obscuring their vision.

Killer drew out his knife with a groan. He swore, Dust was so dramatic. He hoped that the dust of Fresh was among the cloud of smoke, but something about his instincts screamed otherwise. He squinted as he looked around. Dust wasn't by his side anymore.

It's gone completely quiet.

“...dust?” he whispered harshly. “where the funk did you go?” Ugh, there went the censoring again.

A hand laid on his shoulder, causing him to jump, but it was only Dust. He sighed and let his head hang back for a second. “you can't just do that!”

“...my bad.”

Wait. He talked!? And to express sorrow out of all things…“uhuh. we gotta put some bells on you or something, jeez.” The hand on his shoulder remained, in fact, the grip seemed to tighten. “you can let go now,” he said, voice laced with annoyance.

He still didn't let go. Was he trembling? His other hand was locked tightly into a fist by his side.

The grip on his knife tightened.

He hasn't known Dust for long, but what he did know was that he wasn't a touchy person.

“i said let go!” He hacked his knife into Dust’s wrist, he didn't put enough force to completely sever a bone but it cut pretty deep.

Dust yanked his hand away in complete silence.

Killer heard footsteps nearby, but there were too many for it to be from just one person.

The smoke finally dissipated.

He was completely surrounded.

There were more skeletons in the store, all of them wore those obnoxious sunglasses with text on them. These weren't just any skeletons, however. He was sure all of them were Sanses. They were stark still when he caught sight of them, like mannequins on display.

“i don’t know what's gotten into you, dust, but you need to snap out of it for once.”

“Oh, I know the answer to that one, broseph,” Fresh said. He adjusted his shades, the text on them saying “IT’S ME”.

Killer put two and two together quickly. All of these Sanses were being controlled by Fresh, and he was adding Dust to the party. Shit, was he going to be next too?!

He brandished his knife wildly like a cornered animal, causing Dust to take a step back. “aw heck no! get the frick away from me!” He couldn't die here, he couldn't even swear properly! He wasn't going to let his last word be a censored f-bomb.

“Don't be like that, homeslice dawg. Join the party, it's the bomb!” Fresh insisted, stretching his arms out to gesture at the still crowd. “Your pal’s waiting for you,” he added grimly.

As if on cue, Dust tackled him to the ground, grabbing his wrist to prevent him from using his knife. He was breathing heavily in a strained fashion.

They were just getting some fucking clothes. They were just going shopping. It was supposed to be a normal excursion, for once. He doesn't even know the next chance they'll have a goddamn break or do something that isn't designed to mentally mess them up even more. Fuck this guy.

He let out a growl as he brought his knees to his chest and kicked Dust off of him. He rolled upright and blindly lunged for Fresh, swinging his knife around like an untrained toddler.

Fresh backed away from every slash. He may hardly look like a Sans but he sure dodged like one.

As the two fought, the crowd surrounded the three, caging them in. Dust hasn't gotten up yet, but random bone attacks of his flung around the makeshift arena.

The exit door flung open, interrupting their fight.

Never in his life did Killer expect to feel relief at seeing that stupid octopus. Horror followed behind him, looking shocked at the sight.

“I told you that I expected you back in three hours!” Nightmare roared. Once he actually registered what was happening, he narrowed his eye in confusion. “Who or what is that thing that assaults my vision?”

“kill it! kill it now!” he shouted with a bit too much desperation.

In an instant, everyone in the building was lifted up by his tentacles and shoved against the walls of the building as Nightmare arose.

Killer thrashed around in vain, “not me too, you idiot!”

“you’d think you'd expect this by now,” Horror, who was held up near him, muttered.

For the first time since they’ve seen him, Fresh frowned. “Bogus, dude! Interruptin’ my meal like that is not cool.”

“meal?!”

Nightmare ignored the two and paid particular attention to Dust. Something was wrong with his soul, his feelings were all muddled. In fact, the other skeletons here with sunglasses on gave off the similar muddled energy. With another tendril he wrenched Dust’s hood off, revealing a huge flower growing in his eye socket.

Killer and Horror gagged.

“what the heck is that?! has that always been there?!” Killer gawked.

“Of course not,” Nightmare grumbled. The same tendril wrapped around the flower as best as it could.

“Oh buddy, I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Fresh said, his glasses spelling “DO NOT”.

“Try me.” He yanked.

The flower snapped off with such a force that threw Dust’s head back.

Nightmare dropped him to inspect the flower, letting him fall to the floor with a loud thud.

Dust’s eyelights sparked on with a gasp that soon turned into a scream as he reached for his eye sockets as if the flower was still there, not even bothering to put his hood back on.

Killer and Horror’s eyes were wide open and their mouths were agape at the display. They’ve never expected to see Dust lose his cool like this. They weren't expecting to see many things that were happening today.

They were just trying to go shopping. How did it turn into this?!

“Shut up, Dust,” Nightmare ordered. As he inspected the flower, his grasp on Fresh tightened.

“Homeslice, I’m sure this hurts. You mind loosening up a bit?” Fresh asked.

He was answered with a smack on the head by another tendril, which knocked his glasses off. Lo and behold there was a similar flower residing inside his skull.

His glasses were like a mask, once they were off his entire facade crumbled away.

“What are you?” Nightmare asked. He tore the flower up with his hands and let the pieces litter the ground.

“That's not your business.” Fresh slipped out of the tentacle’s grasp with ease like it wasn't just strangling him.

The other glasses-wearing skeletons dug and clawed with their hands into the tentacles holding them up.

Dust scrambled upright to get away from him and closer to Nightmare.

Fresh picked up his shades and put them back on. “Now I suggest you bounce on outta here and let me do my thing. Or things are gonna get not so family friendly.”

Nightmare hardly seemed fazed by the damage done to his tentacles, but if this kept up they’ll be able to escape from his grasp. One thing was clear, he wasn't in control of this situation and Fresh did not want him taking the other three out of here.

He moved Killer and Horror closer to himself in defiance. He could leave these three to rot, find others exactly like them, but he just found these three. He didn't want to go through the hassle of wrangling more Sanses so soon. And he was not going to let someone else mooch off of his efforts.

“we're running, right? we’re not fighting this freak,” Killer whispered to him.

Dust looked up at him, almost pleadingly.

If this was any other time, he would've had them fight for his entertainment, but this was not the time, unfortunately.

He put Horror and Killer down. The three of them were absolutely terrified.

If he portaled right now, there was a high chance Fresh would be able to follow them. They had to get some distance first.

He tossed the other skeletons in his grasp across the store and broke the wall behind him.

Dust, Horror, and Killer didn't waste any time sprinting outside of the store through the broken wall.

Nightmare’s tentacles promptly snatched and threw Fresh to the back of the store for good measure before following after the three.

He opened up a portal to the castle ahead. The millisecond the four of them were through the portal snapped closed.

Killer face planted against the grass as if he was hugging the ground.

Horror brushed himself off, seemingly checking for any flowers on his clothes.

Dust had his hands clenched tightly around the edges of his hood as if he’d die if it was ever off again.

All of them felt like utter shit, and for once, Nightmare didn't particularly enjoy that.

He was…unnerved. His knowledge of the multiverse was even more limited than he thought it was. Before that encounter he assumed the only major threats were Ink, Error, and his brother.

There were so many skeletons under this “Fresh’s” control. How far could his influence spread? Could he control him?

He didn't want to think about it.

“Dust,” he said blankly, “Are you…” How did he want to phrase this? He already knew if he was okay or not, he could sense it. “You are completely free of that parasite’s influence, correct?”

Dust gave a weak nod.

At least it seemed reversible, but maybe that was only because of how quickly it was removed. Needless to say, the second they see that freak again they're out of there.

“fuck man, how’d that thing get you?” Killer asked. “you were by my side the whole time.”

Dust just shrugged. Whether he wasn't actually sure or just too tired to explain, he couldn't tell.

“...god dammit!” Killer yelled. “we forgot the clothes. ugh, whatever. at least i have a new hoodie.” He let out a weak laugh. “i survived an encounter against this parasite and all i got was this sixty dollar hoodie.”

Horror glared at Nightmare. “so you don't know about everything. you're not an all-knowing god.”

“I never said I was.”

“so how much do you know? is there anything else like that out there?”

Nightmare paused. Thinking of a thoughtful response. “I am not aware of everything that goes on in the multiverse. That threat we encountered was entirely unfamiliar to me. There may be more. Cease the image of me as an all-knowing god. I might as well know as much as you.”

“hah! you totally could’ve left us, huh?” Killer pointed out. He knows he would’ve.

“It would’ve been a hassle,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“aw, so you do care about us,” he said.

Nightmare was taken aback. He wasn't sure how true or not that was. “Define ‘care’,” he said skeptically.

Killer wasn't expecting that response. “i was joking. people who care for each other don't put them in shitty situations.”

“...I see.” In that case, Nightmare doubted he had the capacity to care for anyone. “Do any of you three care for each other?”

That made Killer burst out into laughter. He looked at Horror and Dust to check if they were as amused as he was at the question.

Horror just looked offended at the question while Dust was unreadable as he typically was.

[webslingingslasher]

hey, love ur writings, can i have one where the reader is meeting peter’s family and she starts drinking and gets a little tipsy. reader isn’t a big fan of pda, but starts kissing peter and showing him affection in front of his family, making him blush and everything

*cleaning out my inbox.*

Normally, you’re good. Especially when around Peter’s family but his aunt poured the community punch a little too heavy handed and now you can’t stop thinking about how cute he looks. 

“Kiss.” Not an ask. A demand. It surprises him for a second, briefly pausing from his conversation with a family friend before giving a peck. It does just enough to allow him to finish, even building the strength to walk away and entertain yourself. 

Until your boyfriend was all alone, then, you’re wrapped around his side and dotting kisses anywhere they’ll hit. “What’s with the attack?” He’s not complaining, not one bit. But he is looking around to see if anyone else is watching him get loved on. 

“Kiss me!” He can’t when you’re busy doing it for him, he fights your hold to have you stand in front of him. Your arms loop around his neck, you’re kissing him in a second and in Peter’s opinion, it’s not PG. He draws the line at tongue, he can’t have May knowing he does those things. Or confirming that he does those things. 

“No, no, no.” A gentle ease, you follow his face, a kiss to his chin. “Peter, c’mon, kiss me. Just one more.” You pucker up, he’s not going to leave you hanging, but untangling your hands from his body and holding them steady let you know he was controlling this one. 

It’s a measly peck. It’s basically nothing. 

“No, a real one.” Peter dodges your kiss, you gasp and step away. “Fine. I was just trying to foreplay tonight, but no, now you’re getting nothing.” 

Peter pulls you back in, you still can’t get your hands back. “You’re trying to make a baby at my distant cousin’s birthday.” 

“I just wanna kiss you, I promise.” Peter’s staring you down, he knows that’s not all there is. He blames his aunt, a blush spreads when she appears and nudges his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we already got a kick out of it.” 

A group of women in their sixties cheer from the deck, you brightly wave and smile. “May, your juice is so good. Also, tell your nephew to kiss me.” Peter looks right at her, “don’t tell me to do that. It’s weird.” 

May nods, “do it and I won’t have to tell you.” 

You light up, you’re getting what you want. But this time Peter spins so his back is the only thing in view and not the insane, dizzying, mind high kiss he left you with.