#it feels like there is glue in my mouth and i can barely speak to people im not close with bc of how exhausted and anxious i am

[melto]

something just like snapped in the back of my head like i Need to go like curl up in my room for like 5 days and play video games and not speak to like anyone

[batterygarden]

can you help me, sensei?

contents: alpha! satoru gojo x omega! gn & afab reader. taboo dynamics (you used to be jujutsu tech student, he was/is a mentor figure), age gap, a/b/o, p in v sex with knotting and heat, manhandling (he’s strong), mult orgasms, gojo is bigger than u, barely there exhibitionism bc his house keepers are home, pet names, 1.8 k words

a/n: my contribution for @lorelune ‘s spring fever collab! ^_^ thanks for hosting <3 <3 <3

18+, minors dni please

Satoru’s sitting in his home office answering emails when you knock on his door, flooding the room with a certain tell-tale sugary fragrance the moment you step inside. Satoru sighs. You’ve only been staying with him two short days. This is what he gets for helping an ex-student in need, ignoring Nanami’s warnings about ‘sharing a space with an omega’.

“Hey bunny,” Satoru speaks slowly, eventually halting his typing when he looks up at you. “Something wrong?” (He knows what’s wrong. He knows that you know he knows. He’s buying himself time to reckon with it.)

“Uhm yes actually—” he feels a prick of guilt for asking. You’ll struggle to say it. “---I, uh, made a mistake.”

You inch your way closer, skittish but needy. Like he’s a stranger with food in his palms. Maybe that’s a generous comparison—Gojo can’t possibly come off that inviting. Maybe it’s as if he’s some murderous beast sleeping in a field of berries, and you’re starving. He needs to work on his analogies.

He scoots his chair away from his desk when you make your way around it, turning to face you with spread legs, inviting you in because he can’t help but want to. Your smell is so strong his mouth is watering.

“You’re in heat,” he says matter-of-factly. You flinch from your halted distance of a yard away.

“I need help.���

“Thought you were on suppressants.”

“I am! I mean—I thought I was! I’m starting to—ngh,” He watches you rub your thighs together. “---think they were expired or something.”

“‘s that so…” Gojo thumbs at the edge of his blindfold, prolonging the inevitable. This is a bother.

You nod frantically, your expression pained. Desperate and pleading like maybe you really are starving.

Gojo is mad, somewhere. He should be, at least. Any logic is forgotten with the clean air he breathed before your dramatic entrance, though.

This is Satoru Gojo’s first time feeling the true pull of his instincts. They rid him of his renowned self control—a lifetime of careful barriers and walls and techniques, wiped away by his cock and your fucking pheromones. It should be laughable.

But the instincts rob him of humor, too.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is soft without trying—he’s genuinely concerned. You’re helpless, his insides are screaming—he needs to do something.

Your eyes turn glassy when you nod, and Satoru has to grapple with the way it feels like the world will end if they spill over. Or worse, maybe he’d get even hornier.

He shushes you, pulling you into his lap carefully, like your limbs are held together with school glue, gently tugging till you straddle him.

“You poor thing. So needy huh?”

Your answering pout makes his cock twitch.

“Need an alpha to fill you up?” He says it so soft, it’s like a lulluby.

He doesn’t expect your quiet temperament to reply, but you do. “Yes, please, alpha—sensei, I really need it.”

That’s all he can take before he’s rubbing his face into your neck, inhaling and licking at the sweetness there before he bites, leaving a permanent mark, relishing in your whines while a warm hand slots between your legs.

And just like that, you’re being mated with Satoru Gojo. A teacher from school that taught the other students in your grade while you were busy healing with shoko. The strongest man alive, your sponsor who agreed to house you briefly between moves, an enigma more than a man (and one you don’t even truly know, at that). Just sitting on his lap like this is far more intimate than the two of you have ever come infinitesimally close to being—exchanging small talk and a few mentor-related words of advice was the prior extent of the relationship. There were pet names, sure—but you’ve come to find those were on par for Gojo Sensei’s personality.

Now he’s got teeth in the skin of your throat while his fingers trace right through the center of you, only a thin layer of shorts in the way. You buck automatically, openly desperate, whining when that isn’t enough.

“you poor baby—“ sensei hums, his lips against your pulse. His tone is patronizing, but it soothes you regardless. “It’ll be okay. Gonna make you feel better.”

He speaks against your jaw now, dotting kisses wherever he moves while the sorry excuse for shorts you wear are pulled to the side, your panties with them, so he can really trace you.

Though they aren’t what you truly need, Gojo’s big fingers sate your ache in a way you couldn’t yourself—your body seems to mellow at the touch of an alpha, like it knows you’ll be taken care of now that he’s here.

Instincts less frantic, your sighed please alpha comes slow and heavy as he pushes two fingers inside of you, almost testingly. It’s slow—bordering agonizing—but you wouldn’t put it past gojo sensei to mess with you, even at a time like this.

Your slick floods his fingers at that small action, a whine and a buck of your hips accompanying, and satoru lets out an amused sigh.

You’re preparing to beg for him, plead to stop the teasing, but then… you’re on his cock before you can take another breath.

The relief is unparalleled. One minute he was dipping fingers into your entrance, slow and deceptively gentle before the next he was spreading your juices over his freed cock, pulling you onto him like he’d done it a million times. You suppose the familiarity is from those very instincts that brought you here—your chest practically sings now that they’re sated.

And so do you—you can’t control the cry you let out when he finally stretches you, feeling every ridge and vein of his heavy cock deep inside your tummy just where you’ve been needing him.

“That’s it, little lovie. You’re okay—hah!”

You’ve never heard sensei gasp the way he does when you roll your hips over his. It’s a strained, weak sound—the kind you’ve never known alphas to make.

He digs wide hands into the squish of your waist. “You’re tight.” His voice speaks directly into your ear as he tucks you into his chest then, scooting back into his trusty (thankfully armless) rolling chair so he can plant his feet and sink you down even closer. He makes light work of guiding your hips, the strength of the strongest shining through as he manhandles you up and down his length like you’re a doll.

And you feel like you’ve got the autonomy of one in his hands—his cock inside your tummy seems to hollow out your thoughts while your legs turn weak beneath you. Your arms remain to cling though, wrapping tight around sensei’s shoulders through your first release on his cock. The warm waves of it shock your system, and you cry out for your alpha when it hits you before he captures your lips in his.

Kissing satoru gojo is different from all your past experiences kissing. This one is so gooey and sweet it’s gross—the spearmint taste of his mouth reminding you just who it is you’re mating with. You flash back to Gojo dropping by to bug your sensei during your apprenticeship—dwelling on the way he’d talk to you like some silly kid. He’d always invade your personal space to tease you for no reason but to see you flustered, not that he needed to—you’d fluster easy just from his handsome alpha proximity, the minty smell of his breath.

It’s gross that such a mature mentor figure’s got you clamping hard on his cock now, tongue deep in your mouth to dull the sound of your whines.

But the disgusting nature of it all has you cumming in buckets—squelching on your sensei’s girth with every pump he guides you through.

You’re barely collecting your senses and drifting back to earth with Satoru pulls you off him, chuckling at the delayed clinging you react with. Of course you’re not strong enough to hold your body to his when he’s rearranging you—as much as you try—you have no choice but to get stripped and molded over Gojo’s fancy mahogany desk how he wants.

You’re still disoriented when he enters you again from behind, shoving himself deep deep deep till you’re so full you feel like choking from the stuffed feeling. It’s almost overstimulating when you just came so intensely, but the feel of your alpha splitting you still pleases your inner omega. More than that, you’re delighted.

“A-ahh! A-alpha—“

You can barely get out a word through his heavy thrusting, merciless and rhythmic.

“What is it, sweetheart? ‘S it feel good?”

Gojo digs thumbs beneath your shirt while he speaks, his anchoring grip around your sides surely leaving bruises. Not that you even notice how tight it’s become—all you have the sense for is his cock.

“Yes alpha! Th-thank you!,”

Gojo fucks you through orgasm after orgasm like that, till every pound against your flesh is wet and sticky.

It’s loud too, and, if you were in your right mind, you might worry about the fact that Gojo’s house keepers haven’t even left for the night yet.

You’ve lost track of your orgasms by the time sensei’s pace begins to show, his massive knot catching in your tight folds till he’s stuck deep inside you, while rope after rope of warm cum pumps you full. You finally feel that fever of yours beginning to fade once you’re flooded like that, coming out of your craze only to be met with exhaustion.

Of course you aren’t really done, sensei’s still connected to you with his knot, you can feel its delicious thickness where your body craved it most when you move your hips to go limp on sensei’s desk. You can feel the flood of his hot cum still streaming into you.

Satoru is panting for the first time in your memory, rubbing the soft skin of your hips while he recuperates before murmuring your name.

Then, “still breathin’, bunny?”

You make a little noise, nodding your head with immense effort, letting your eyes droop.

Only to open again when satoru lifts you with an arm beneath your chest, pulling you back till you’re both seated in his office chair. This way you’re still connected with you on his lap, cum still spurting into your womb.

He fishes your shorts from the ground, then, only to mop up your mess on his table, though truthfully most of it was still on each of your thighs.

At least with his table cleared he can move his desktop closer and finish those mission reports he had left—the solo ones he couldn’t pawn off.

You’re in a half conscious state around Gojo’s cock, breathing somewhat evened out with closed eyes, so gojo leans you carefully against his chest, with an arm on either side so he can type. Sure, the stuff on his computer was technically confidential, but you likely wouldn’t be alert for a while. And even if you were, did the whole classified document rule even apply to you anymore? It’s not like anyone could ask him to keep a secret from you, not now—not when you’re mated.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

FLOWERS FOR THE SICK AND GONE (II)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER III

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 6.3k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking, talks of death, weapons, explosives, violence, gore, strained mother-daughter relationship, suggestive thoughts, mentions of sex, toxic modeling standards, etc. (Series 18+)

A/N: I started this before Nikto was confirmed for MWII multi., but I'll be using the 'Powercell' skin as his main attire now because it's literally so attractive.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You look at your hands as they rest in your lap, right foot jumping up and down in a display of internal anxiety under the table in your Mom’s office. It was cold, and the AC was turned all the way up; the floors barely helped—tile covered by thin rugs and windows open to the chilly morning. Like the opposite of Hellfire. 

Two days had passed since the explosion and you’d only just gotten the ability to leave the hospital. The doctors had wanted to keep you longer, but you had turned in a favor from your matriarch to have them ease off with their prodding and poking. 

The fact that they had been more interested in your permanent colorblindness had tipped you off that all the help you were going to be given had already been passed out. As a whole, that had been in the form of pain medication and surgical glue to the minuscule cut on your temple. 

The head bleeds a lot, you know, even if the injury is minor. You weren’t overly surprised the gash had been tiny; you know what a violent wound to that part of the skull looks like. 

Feels like.

Your lips thin at the thought of the nurses and their curious and narrowed eyes—the doctor wanting to do more in-depth tests as if you hadn’t gone through a slew of them before.

There was a reason you hated hospitals.

Shivering, you take a deep breath to calm down right as the door behind you opens with the sound of heeled feet and a hurried sigh. The door automatically shuts with a slam and a click of metal hinges.

“Thank God nothing happened to your face!” A hand sets itself on your shoulder and you restrain a flinch, looking to the side to the familiar face of your mom as her head tilts to look you up and down in your seat. “Stand up, let me see you.”

You open your mouth to speak but you’re quickly cut off by her serious expression. 

Standing, you steady yourself by placing a hand on the side of the seat, knuckles tight as your casual sneakers take your weight. “It’s just a scratch Mom, promise. I got lucky.” When you can stand without the fear of falling over, you release it and study your mother’s fancy attire.

Dress pants, blouse, and pounds of extravagant jewelry around her neck and wrists like shackles. She looks just the same as you’d always seen her. Cold. 

In some ways, she was more suited to this city than you were. 

“I’ll say—you could have damaged your skin.” She motions to your body, shaking her head and sighing before moving behind her desk to sit down. A large window is behind her—shining in chilled light. “We’ll have to hope and pray that the cut heals before the next photoshoot you have scheduled. Have they told you when you’ll be back in the Agency?”

“...three people are dead, and you’re worried about me?” you say quietly, gut-twisting. “What about them?”

She pauses, her hand half holding a piece of paper from her pile. She glances up at you and thinks for a moment. Your eyes dig into hers, dejected. But she doesn’t think much of this, judging by the confused emotion that swirls behind her gray pigment. 

“I’m sorry, Beauty,” no, she’s not. Your face pulls at the nickname, but you say nothing until she’s done talking. “But their job was to keep you safe. They succeeded, it’s unfortunate, I know, but if they had to…pass,” she strains through the word, not wanting to say the other. For your benefit or hers, you know not. “To keep you alive, then I say it was an even trade.” 

It’s nearly like a slap to your face as your body goes tight, sitting back down into the seat with a puff of air. Like you’d just been slipped poison, your throat starts to fizzle with bile. 

Yefim’s dead body slashes in the back of your mind; the lower half gone and the rest spilling out. Confused eyes and burned skin that smells like something out of a kitchen no matter how morbid the thought was. 

She wasn’t there, you tell yourself. She doesn’t know how bad it was.

Screaming mixed in with crying and Alyona’s insistent barks of orders. Her hands pulled you up and shielded you from the disintegrated ash of Petya and Aleksandr. One splayed out the broken window and the other lay in an unrecognizable heap a foot from the bakery. 

The only people to survive were the Baker’s boy and the two of you, but then again that was half. 

“I don’t think that’s right—”

“If you were a mother, then you’d be agreeing with me,” the Consul explains, shaking her head. “But that’s not why I wanted to bring you here.” With your mom, sometimes it was better just to let things go and have them disappear into the past; you’d gotten good at brushing past comments just to satisfy her. It was just easier.

“Okay,” you whisper, looking down at your lap before closing your eyes. Looking back up, the woman is signing papers and doesn’t glance at you before speaking. 

“There was a break-in at the bakery an hour before you went there,” your body stills, a strange feeling in your gut as it tightens. “Nothing was stolen but Mr. Morozov,” the owner, “says the locks were broken off; he never told authorities until now because it was minor. I think that leaves us with the answer about how that explosive got under the floorboards.” The scribble of a pen before it’s placed down and your mom’s eyes settle back on you with a frown on her lips. Her makeup makes her look like a stone statue you’d see in a museum; blank with an undertone of something else. 

You stutter in broken intervals, repeatedly tapping your finger on your wrist, “How do you know about this?” 

“I’m paid to know,” your mother mutters but offers more. “One of the employees is American. He’s here and planning to extend his visa for four years to care for his dying father.” Her voice drops. “Thank God that he wasn’t working.” 

Being one of the two American Consulate Generals in Russia, your mother’s job was to, officially, “...Preserve and protect the relationship, and be a point of contact, between the United States of America and Russia.” 

It also meant that any American citizens in Yekaterinburg were under her watchful eyes. This Consulate building provides a multitude of services—issuing visas, and renewing passports were the big ones, while registering births and deaths was also added to that chart. You’d never looked much into it, but knew it was intensive work. Everything ‘American’ going on in this city, your mom knows about. 

“I’ve got a landfill of paperwork, so I’ll have to cut this off at the base,” she continues and you rub at the base of your cut with a flinching hand. You carefully tense as if a bombshell is going to be dropped on you, thighs shifting on the seat and feet unconsciously putting themselves farther under the chair. 

The woman blinks at you and folds her hands on the table, knuckles tight. 

“The Russian government is eager to keep lines of communication open with the USA, which means me.” You don’t like where this is going—certainly not with that folder that your mother was grabbing from out of her top drawer; having to unlock it with the name tag around her neck. A small beep echoes over the large room. “I don’t think I need to explain how much this puts me in a hole now that a stalker is after a Consul’s daughter and everyone knows about it.” You feel guilty but you don’t know why. This wasn’t your fault….right? 

“I have meetings planned into next week from the second the sun rises until it peaks its stupid ass back up on the other end.” She speaks low, running a hand over her head but still keeping you in her sight. She slaps a bulging manila folder onto the desk and leans back with a sigh. 

Your eyes meet in a locking of wills and you restrain yourself from apologizing. In your lap your hands clench.

“Any weapon,” she speaks slowly so you take in every word—as if you were a toddler. You hate when she gets like this. “Any goes through so many hoops to be owned it’s practically not worth it, and the same goes for possible parts used to make them. Whoever did this either has connections or a pile of money to use for bribes; I don’t know which I’d prefer, but based on his presents I have a good guess.” 

“But why would someone do that?” You have to speak—to ask. How could someone be so cruel and malicious? Kill someone—multiple someones? To you, it was just unthinkable. Even just being a part of it had wreaked your sleep schedule, left you writhing in bed from an inability to sleep out of fear of seeing Yefim’s face again—gray blood; colorless gore. It was a chore to get up in the morning and eat what little you could.

Being unable to see color had never left you more terrified than when that pretty boy’s eyes had stared into yours until everything was snuffed out like a matchstick. 

“Because this person,” the Consul states, answering you firmly. “He doesn’t care about you as an individual. To him, Beauty…you’re just an object that he wants to own. Your picture is all he thinks about and everyone else needs to be out of the background, do you understand?”

You go lightheaded, face quickly tilting down and contorting into itself. 

Your mother sits straighter and reaches a hand across the table, lightly saying your name with the voice she would use to read stories in your youth. Skin burning, you look at it, but after a moment you weakly place your own into hers, heart hammering and brain laced with a primal fear. Though the woman’s grip tightens and squeezes lightly, you get no warmth from the gesture. Yet still, it’s better than nothing. 

Alyona was away with her relatives and fiance since she’d been released from the hospital earlier; you’d spoken there briefly, but it wasn’t the same as it would have been if you’d had her here.

“We’re going to get this figured out, okay?” You nod, trying to smile as she studies your face—lingering on your temple before she frowns deeply and pulls back. Loudly, she states, “I’ll order some scar cream to your penthouse when we’re done.” 

“Alright,” your lips mumble, ribs like iron cages for too-large lungs.

“But now into the important part. I need you to pick one.” She pushes the folder closer to you, and your hand snaps out to grab it. It instead punches the desk and you hiss, bringing it back to your chest. Your mother minutely blinks in shock, eyes confused. “Still with that Spatial Awareness? I thought you said it was getting better?”

“I’m…still working through it,” you grumble. You wanted to tell her there wasn’t any ‘getting better’ from this. It was just another problem you’d have to deal with your entire life. But, again, it’s easier.

She huffs as you correctly locate the folder and pick it up, placing it gently into your lap and flipping it open. Inside you find file after file, taking the first one into your fingers and propping it up before blinking in confusion at the black ink and tiny picture of a man. 

You briefly look at the name, processing, before gazing back up at the woman with a furrow in your brows. 

“Mom?” 

She smiles.

“I have three men of Russian descent who are candidates to be your next around-the-clock guard.” Your matriarch is oblivious to your apparent hesitation to take on another person into your life, your shoulders hunching in. “All part of a PMC group called KorTac. I’d ask for a broader scale, but being born here and previously serving in the military would give them far more privileges than any others.” 

You’re already shaking your head, “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I still have to send my apologies to all the others’ families. I–I,” your voice cuts before you can let the tears weigh your sentence down with emotion. 

Your mother didn’t do that kind of thing. 

“Sweetheart,” the woman draws out, shaking her head, “they don’t want to hear from you, you know that.” Her voice hardens. “You’re my responsibility. Now, look at the options.” 

Gritting your teeth, you want to stand and stalk out, say to hell with her PMCs and her bland eyes. The way she talks with care but hides it behind a wall of knives like some protective barrier; like she needs to do that. 

But you stay your voice and look back down, brushing past pages to have all of the pictures lined up right next to each other.

Blinking, you ask, numbly, “What kind of privileges?”

Your mother smiles though a thankful breath. “Weapons, body armor; they’ll be allowed to enter and go about business as they see fit without normal blockades. People here trust their own.”  

Fire races through your mind, all-consuming black smoke and the bland ash of a burning building. Trust their own? One of their own had just killed three people and injured three more just to get your attention. How was that trust?

Your eyes gloss over words, or what little of them you could read beyond inked-out sections. Names smudge and achievements blurr; medals with no hold on you and a list of missions accomplished with what you assumed to be perfect records. 

“These men have killed people,” you say, shifting to the last file as you don’t look at it right away, instead leveling the Consul with a pleading twist to your lips. “A lot of people.”

As an individual, you wouldn’t say you were very confrontational or quick to jump to violence—you did damage control and appeased more than antagonized. There was less stress when everyone could get a portion of what they wanted.

You just didn’t like senseless brutality.

“Then there’s no one better for the job.” Sometimes you wonder if your mother even raised you at all. 

Forehead creased, you shift back to the papers, staring at the last man of the three in a moment of flickering orbs. His intimidating appearance makes your eyes go slightly wider with shock as you focus in. 

Nikto is all that was given for the man’s name—Russian: Никто—and the individual was shrouded in so much black you wondered if he might create a void of energy around him; some kind of gruff and grueling cloud. Even from the picture, the pale, contrasted, eyes dug into you, even brighter than Petya’s had once been. Though, these eyes were inlaid into some strange mask, the top of the covering a type of Kevlar and the bottom covered in rough canvas that pulls back and completely covers the rest of the head. There are straps that extend to hold his chin and on the sides of his nose… 

Your face pulls with mild disgust. Are those two screws? What the hell…?

This Russian was, plainly put, the face of death. Perhaps even something worse.

The theme of black continued, as it was the only color besides white you could identify. Strapped vest of armor plates, arms and hands that rest behind his back covered by long sleeves. Ammo was clipped at the sides of his upper chest and a large collar of armor stamped with the letters and number of ‘MP-0’. Your eyes slide to what you can read about him, morbidly intrigued as you frown at his belt full of grenades and knives. An assault rifle hangs from his chest by a long strap, limp as a dead limb.

But as you look, there was even less information available about this beast than there was visible skin behind the face-paint smeared into his sockets. Not even an age.

“Nikto,” you murmur. You wondered why you liked how it slipped off the tongue. 

But you’ll also wonder in the future why you choose him at all. 

Maybe it was the way for the first time in two days you’d felt something other than fear and regret; something that spread like water into the lines of your face to make them smooth. Maybe it was because out of the others, he would be the type to do his job and then leave entirely without a trace.

A blink and then…gone. 

You can't have anyone else die on you—and Nikto seems the only one able to take death by the throat and throttle him with the handle of his own scythe. 

Maybe.

Maybe.

Your head tilted, and you blinked. 

“This one,” you toss the file to your mother’s desk and watch it hit off-center. the woman’s face twitches at the monster-esc profile. It’s like she ages ten years.

“...Lovely.”

—

One day later you meet Nikto, but before you do, you make a quick visit to the hospital with a bundle of fresh flowers. You’d brokenly asked for blue and white, but you can’t verify if that was really what you were holding. 

At the front desk, you ask for room three and are simply pointed down the hallway without a word. A small smile is handed over, but no one answers as you slink away, guiding your legs along the lines of the tile on the ground. Standing outside you knock softly and grasp the handle, pushing it open after a deep breath. 

The Baker’s Boy lays in a bed and his dark eyes snap to yours immediately, widening. His curls are crisped and shorter now, singed at the ends. Arms taped with bandages and gauze, his wounds are not wide-spread but severe enough to keep him for longer than you and Alyona. 

“Sergei?” You ask, standing in the doorway and plastering a soft smile on your face. You’d gotten his name through a text with Aly, where she asked you to give him a kind word as you dropped off your gift.

Sergi blinks quickly at you, and something like fear slashes his face. You raise your hands rapidly, flowers in the crook of your elbow. 

“N-no, I’m sorry. I know you’ve probably heard a lot about me, the news has been…uh…” Your words trail to a fake chuff of laughter, looking to the side wall for a moment. “Well, it’s not right of me to take no blame.” The man only stares and stays silent, sitting up straighter in bed and thinning his lips. His body is tense. 

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to drop these off. I-I’ll leave.” Walking quickly to the side table, you place down the flowers and clear your throat, sending him a very guilty glance. “The woman I was with gives her well-wishes for your recovery. I’m sorry,” you say again, nodding your head and locking your hands in front of your abdomen. 

Turning on your feet like an elite track star, you dart quickly back to the door. 

“Girl.” You halt in the doorway, one arm quivering just as it had before the explosion. Your head swivels, surprised. 

Sergi gazes at you, his dark eyes large and serious, tinged with unease. His English is barely understandable, and he struggles through the words with an accent so deep it’s a series of throaty grunts. 

“Do not come back.” 

Your lungs tighten as if someone squeezes them in a ruthless fist. Nodding shakily, you dash out and don’t stop until you’re back outside, breathing in gasps and putting a hand to your mouth to stifle your ragged breaths. People who come and go look at you as you lean heavily into the wall, some concernedly furrowing their brows but ultimately walking past. 

You suppose they didn’t recognize you in all of the normal clothes—a thick turtleneck under a jacket and sweatpants. No makeup with a ball cap atop your head. Clearing your dry throat, you get a hold of yourself and keep your face down-cast, slithering off with a zig-zag pattern of feet. 

It’s okay. It’s okay. He has a right to feel like that. It’s going to be okay.

But it doesn’t stop the pit in your heart from growing until it threatens to swallow you whole.

It’s only when you’re five minutes late to the Consulate building that your mother levels you with an unimpressed look, standing at the entrance with her arms crossed. You walk quickly to hide the rings around your eyes from her, not wanting to start an argument about what went wrong.

“He’s been here for half an hour, Seraph,” you cringe, waving to the woman at the front desk who nods and gives a pitying tilt of her head. 

Half an hour? Talk about a time freak.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just lost track of time.” Hands take you by the side of your arms and swivel you back around as you hang up your jacket, making you flinch but go along with the action. 

Your mother levels you with a stare that the long it goes on, eases. It mingles on the border of comfort and concern before she awkwardly squeezes and lets go of you, eyelids blinking to study the trash can near the door. 

“Stop…apologizing, Beauty.” The curtain re-falls and your mom stands straighter, brushing down her fitted blouse and clearing her throat. “It’s unbecoming. Now, remember to smile—everyone loves your smile.” 

You hide your yearning and plaster on a fake grin, feeling nervousness infecting your blood. 

In your career, meeting new people was a requirement. Photographers, other models, business associates who reach out for brand deals; the list was long. Beyond a desirable body and the mask of provocative expressions, physical image was only a part of it—being good at playing sales broker added to appeal. At the parties AMA shipped you off to, especially. 

Alyona often called the two of you exceptionally well-paid and up-standing sex workers, but withholding the intimacy of sheets and panting breath. You sold the idea of sex just by being there, which, oftentimes, is far better than the sin of flesh itself. Your agency knows it well.

Your face was an asset; just like your body and expressions—a tool.

But somehow you knew that whatever face you put on, model or the woman who’d just seen immense horror, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. Just on a picture alone, Nikto had ingrained himself in your mind as an idol of seriousness and blunt orders. Not like Yefim, but somehow that made you feel better about this situation. It was even the reason you had chosen him in the first place.

No getting close to this one, you reason as your mother guides you down a hallway, hand firm on your back. 

“Is there anything I can know besides his name?” Watching room after room passes you, you’re brought to the far back of the Consulate building. You study the large wooden door. 

It’s a moment before your mom responds, rubbing lightly along your spine. “I’ve heard he’s a former FSB Agent. Spetsnaz as well. He has an extensive record, but no...concerns to worry about. You’re in exceptionally good hands.”  

“Concerns?” A huff. “Like if he’ll kill me before the creep has the chance,” you’re leveled with a stiff look.

“No one is going to die, Seraph.” People already have. 

With a frown, you grasp the handle and shrug off your mother’s touch, entering the room and letting the door shut behind you with a thump as you pad through. It’s only a millisecond, but you plaster back on a content expression and loosen your muscles; the internal warfare of constant tension makes everything ache. 

You lock eyes with a standing absence of light. 

In person, he was even more dark…and you didn’t just mean the outfit. Staring, bright eyes dig into your soul with no emotions—so departed from normal expression it’s like looking into a corpse. 

Nikto’s standing with his hands behind his back, his shoulders loose but pulled with soldier-like authority. He’s tall, and the large bulk of his chest and thighs make you swallow down saliva as you stand still and blink quickly. His stomach bulges with muscle from under his armor—the same you’d seen in his profile. 

The Russian was all the same except for the lack of weapons, though, the duffel bag at his side certainly held them in its inky depths.

He’s built like a damn brick wall, your mind blanks, not lying with the feelings of slight unease. Nikto was just…still. Not blinking. Watching you with a gleam of something strange. The Russian man’s eyes narrow with…disgust? Maybe you were reading too much into that, but one thing was certain.  

He was studying you... aggressively. Prodding.

A second passes like this.

Oh, your face remains a plastered calm but your heart skips a beat, he’s waiting for me to introduce myself. You quickly clear your throat and walk forward, not seeing the way he tenses and sets his feet harder into the ground. 

“Umh,” scolding yourself for your hesitation, you shakily put out a hand for him to shake, keeping a respectable distance away. 

Finally, a slight movement; a dart of his eyes down to your limb.

“I’m Seraph, nice to meet you. You go by Nikto, right? Just Nikto…? I’m sorry, that was all I was able to read on your file.” You’re blinked at slowly, left gazing up into this beast's covered face and his terrifying mask of fabric and rigid material. 

How tall can a man be before it becomes insulting to be standing next to him?

As the silence continues, your hand stutters before you let it fall, awkwardly stuffing it into your pocket. 

Alright.

“There was…” You lick your lips, glancing off to a gray picture on the far wall. “A lot of black ink, to be honest. Quite the record, huh?” 

A strained chuckle bounces off the small space. 

Nikto doesn’t respond and you blink quickly through confusion and growing embarrassment. Your face burns like a heat gun was set on it. A highly uncomfortable silence falls, but you very much doubt that the man in front of you even feels it like you do—a slow deterioration of your confidence.

And why in the hell was he still looking at you like that?! All you’d done is walk through the damn door and lock eyes with him!

But then he speaks as you’re just about to turn away and walk out of the room with your tail between your legs, mentally exhausted and needing to put ice on your forehead. 

“Seraph, like angel?” Broken English, but better than Sergi’s. What caught you was the depth of it—the rough scrape of vocal cords and raspy grit. Sandpaper, nearly. You restrain yourself from cringing. Nikto scoffs and he looks away from you, stance immobile. “You do not look like angel.”

Your mind takes a moment to latch onto the words, jaw slackening in shock and lashes fluttering for a second. “E…excuse me?”

Nikto grunts and glares at the door. 

It’s your turn to stare, mouth opening and closing with small smacks of lips with a sudden blankness to your brain. Your ability to speak seems to leave you in a small instant between the stab of insult and brief anger. While you felt yourself above the base instinct of vexation, Nikto’s words had soaked you in their substance of prodding bluntness. 

Your beauty was all you had, certainly, he hadn’t meant that. Surely it was just a translation error. Your lips darken with a frown, eyes flashing. 

But something else pierces you in the chest, too.

Without another exchange, you turn around and begin walking to the exit, hands in your pockets clenched into your palms. There’s a silent padding of feet right behind you and the shuffle of a duffel bag. Your body freezes and you slowly look over your shoulder. 

The Void follows, bag in hand and dead eyes peeling back your psyche as if this was normal; you find him a few steps forward from where he was, like your own personal shadow.

He freezes as you do, but this is more… purposeful. Both of you lock gazes, nothingness and veiled discourse flaring. 

But you were better than that. 

You had to be better. 

So you soften your expression and, under your breath, sigh heavily. “I’ll write you up my schedule,” Nikto blinks, brows barely pulling in. “Get you a copy from AMA or something.” 

“Already acquired.” His hulking figure seems to always be tense and ready to strike. For a second you’re reminded of Petya with a sharp slap to your face. But Nikto’s bark is far sterner if that was even possible. Almost like a single sound.

You bring a hand to itch at your temple, stopping before you can peel at the soft skin covered in scar cream.  

“...Right,” at a slight loss of what to do, you shuffle your feet and open the door—leaving the room and holding the thing partially open behind you for the Russian. “Of course.” Your grumble only meets your ears, put off. 

Nikto moves out of the doorway, having to slightly tilt his shoulders to fit through the opening without slamming into the frame. He does so fluidly and almost robotically. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you walk like a scary dog?” You let go of the door and pull ahead, smiling somewhat more real as the light eyes snap down at you. There’s a brief grunt of breath from behind his mask.

Nikto is silent for a long while, growling out, “Hет.” Formal. Brisk. 

No. 

You get the feeling that you’re annoying him, but you can’t help but slightly enjoy it. Finally, some semblance of normality you could cling to. “Well, they should,” you admit, studying the loping walk—a slightly tilted pace that would suit a wolf or a bear, even. Making sure your own hand slides against the wall to keep you in a straight line, you continue, cheekily. “Because you do.” 

Nikto stares straight ahead and stays silent, something akin to irritation in his visible portions; free hand twitching. You tilt your head.

“Y’know, this would be better if you could hold a conversation.” 

“Да.” You smile wider.

“So you’ll have a conversation with me?” 

 “Hет.” Nikto glares from a side-eye, the words hissed through clenched teeth. If he was this easy to rile up, this would be more fun than you thought.

Your eyes linger on his form, the biceps, and the forearms that strain behind padded pieces of thick material. Combat boots and loose black cargo pants shoved into them.

This might be a good distraction, at the very least. Let the authorities work in the background and keep this cut of the crop. No feelings, of course. Not like Yefim, you remind yourself again. Never again like Yefim. 

The dead man’s face slips behind your eyelids and you blink your face forward. 

“Are you only going to say ‘yes’ or ‘no?’” Nikto’s bulk enshrouds you heavily as you take a right back to the lobby where your mother waits. He hums in his throat, before muttering something under his breath in harsh Russian. You have no idea what that means or if you even want to decipher it, you shrug and shut up. 

It was probably a curse anyway. Or a plea for reassignment. 

Your mother’s face pulls tight as Nikto shows himself beside you, his sights locking onto the Consul as you grab your jacket, missing the hook once before you grasp it firmly and slip it on. 

“If everything is in order…?” She trails, before frowning at the man and coming over to you. 

“We can always find a way to bring you back to the States,” you blink, her face serious as it slashes through you. “Get your passport up to date and find a different modeling agency.” 

What’s with the change in attitude? You ask yourself, brows pulling in and studying your mom’s expression. She’s older, but maybe you’re only realizing it now that you care to look. Wrinkles and a certain film to her gaze that parents seem to grow when they’re trying to convince you of something.

Nikto watches and listens closely a few feet from the door, duffel bag still in hand. 

“You know that’s not an option. Allurement is exclusive—I won’t get a better deal than the one I have.” Your words come out confused. “Weren’t you the one that told me this was the best option, that they would be the only ones to take me?” You pause. “Especially with the way I am?”

Her face twists, shaking her head instantly with a scrunched nose and flashing orbs. Even mentioning what happened made her act like water near the brim of a glass; one shake and the liquid would seep over and pool to the counter. “I don’t remember saying that.” 

You close your mouth before changing the subject, offering an easy, yet strained, smile. 

“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Besides, the guy’ll get caught before we know it. All of them do. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim,” your voice tightens, “will get to rest easy.” 

Your matriarch gives a small twitch of her lips back, kisses your forehead, and says, “Alright, Beauty,” you hide your cringe, “I’m one call away.” 

She walks off with a click of her heels. 

“Girl,” you look up from zipping your jacket. Nikto glares at you. “быстро. Hurry up.” 

“Hurry up?” Your voice bounces as you make your way to the exit, sending a thinly hidden face of amusement. “I’m just going home, there’s no rush to things.”

“We need to secure the premises.”

We? You nearly ask, wondering what he meant. Obviously, he didn’t mean you and him, based on general attitude right now. Maybe that was just a strange quirk of his. 

“Around my penthouse?” Nikto’s shoulder presses on the barrier and he’s outside before you can finish your sentence. You narrowly catch the door and slip past like a horrible snake, elbow slapping the frame—you hold back a hiss and enter the street. “I…I don’t think it’s overly necessary, the police move through that area a lot—”

“Not the penthouse, Whelp,” you struggle along, feet rapid to stay at his side and multitask by staying in a line. He walks in long strides, parting people away from him with only a sharp glance and a scoff. “Inside.” 

Your body halts before you blink back to your senses and make a noise in the back of your throat.

“I-inside, Nikto? I’m sorry, I’m not following.” You huff under your breath and stick beside him, using his presence as a sort of barrier. He walks near the road. “I never agreed to that. And Whelp? What the hell, man?”

“I do not care.” 

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” You grumble, sighing. 

I guess I’m having guests. 

Has your mother given permission for that? A stranger with weapons thumping inside of your penthouse like he was your live-in boy toy? Eating in your kitchen and putting his feet up on the coffee table? God, the public would have a field day with it when they saw him walking down with you in the morning to go to work.

He couldn’t have been put in the building across the street? But you suppose there are worse things that can happen—you have the space for it. With a dejected expression, you sigh; you seem to be doing that a lot recently.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Nikto stares down at you as your feet stutter along, seeming to raise a brow in annoyed question as to why you were struggling to keep up. 

You wondered how much he had been told beyond some rich Consul's daughter needed a new bodyguard. Did he know any of it? 

“What?” Your lips twist, smile flicking out. “See something you like?”

“No. You’re slow.” You hide your groan and face forward, brows falling into a line.

But you’re not oblivious to the way his piercing eyes survey the crowd, and while the mask is drawing attention, random people peeping break off like sticks as he’s clocked by you, darting to make room. How his large shoulders span and block the road from you, pace pulling back to fit right behind you with a low grunt as your arms brush. 

A grunter too—he really is a scary dog.

“Why do you walk like this,” Nikto growls. “Are you unable to feel your feet? It is pathetic.”

“Are you going to stop insulting me?” You glare ahead and cross your arms. “Or are you going to keep playing the jerk until this is over?” 

His eyes burn into yours for a moment, before he places such a heavy hand on your shoulder that you almost squeak at the pressure. It nearly slants you forward before your back tightens. 

“Keep quiet. Walk.” 

“Well, now I don’t think I’m going to,” his eyes flash, those colorless films going into themselves with tiny flecks of surprise. You suppose no one’s ever had banter like this with him before, being in a PMC…or really just being him as a whole. He doesn’t seem the joking type over a back-handed sarcastic comment.

“So, how has your day been, Nikto?” Your voice is smug and your smile large, perfect and bright, and ravishing. “Today I woke up at five AM and ate an apple with yogurt. Then I—”

Nikto growls deeply and forces you on through a gawking crowd. 

The rest of the walk is filled with a one-sided conversation coming from a grinning face, pale, boiling eyes, and the shadow across the street who watches through the thin glass of a bookstore. The perfect view.

A hat on his head. 

A slight distance to his addled expression.

A medium slip-joint knife in his pocket.

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[deadpool15]

This is fucking bullshit. All of this is so stupid. I’m gonna kick his fucking ass. Me and Woo-Jin had been kinda on and off for about two years, at first it was fine because I wasn’t ready to settle down so it was all fun and games. But now I’ve been trying to slowly show him I’m ready for the real thing. Full on relationship, our parents had already met, with my parents practically becoming friends for life with his after agreeing to endorse his father’s campaign. His mother constantly telling me how much of a good daughter I am, and how she views me as her own.

Everything was slowly coming together until that fucking teacher arrived. Her nasty disgusting elderly ass decides to fuck my man. It seems like no one in this school realized Woo-Jin belonged to me. Not even him, well not yet. Storming through the school with my shirt slightly unbuttoned from the top leaving my sloppy tie on display just how I like it. It’s a style. Skirts were always a hit or miss for me, seemed no one in Korea understood the struggles of having a fat ass. My knee-high socks had fallen down slightly revealing a few of my tattoos. Shall I say baddest bitch at school for you. Yes, yes indeed.

I make my way up to our special classroom where I had told the man himself to meet me. Walking in the room I notice He-ra in there as well. Now before you say it that’s my bitch. Love her to death. But now isn’t the time for her and her constant back talk that I know she will give without explanation. “He-ra I love you so much babe, but I’m about to embarrass the fuck outta your bestie right now so can you please give us a minute. And I mean go to class not wait outside and listen this time.” She turns to me grabbing her things, “I wasn’t gonna listen to your guys speak, last time I tried to ease drop on you two felt like I was listening to unfiltered porn.”

Watching her walk out the room I see him sitting there smirking. “Stop that you make me sick. You piece of shit.” He motions for me to come closer as I was standing up still. Dropping my bag on the floor, I sit in the chair next to him only for him to grab my arm and push me into his lap. “What’s wrong, Cherie? And what are you gonna embarrass me with?” Pushing his hands that had landed on my hips off me, I sit firmly. Feeling the tension in the room. “When where u gonna tell me you are into old broke bitches now, huh? Miss me that much? You have your sluts acting out of order around me.” He tries to speak up but I place my finger on his plump lips. Causing him to slowly wrap his lips around my finger.

Wow can’t believe he is playing dirty right now. Two can play that game. “Guess your skills are getting old, it’s not working for you anymore is that it baby, is that why you are fucking old women now.” He removes his lips from my fingers and starts leaving kisses on my neck. Open-mouthed kisses are my fucking weakness and he knows this. “What did she say to you?” For a minute I couldn’t respond. I was lying through my teeth this entire time his skills always worked but I knew so did mine. “Kept trying to speak to me saying how worried she was about me since she has noticed me and you barely talk. She wanted to offer me a moment to let out my emotional side and show her how impacted I am now that you have moved on to someone new apparently. Messy ass teacher.”

Hearing this he stopped, “aww are you jealous, baby?” Seeing the mischievous smile on his amazing face almost made me crumble until I started to lean in for him to show off something I know would get me victory. “Is that a fucking hickey? Cherie you’re not serious right, no marks we talked about that. You have shitty guys leaving marks on your body to remember them.” He gripped my neck once he realized I was smiling, “Oo I didn’t even notice he was mainly focused on my bottom half when he did that, guess that’s my bad.” Chuckling and making my way to move off of his lap until he gripped my hips keeping me firmly placed glued to him. “No more of that, me and you that’s it. You only need me, how many times do I have to fuck you to prove that huh? Do you hate walking, is that it?”

“You’re sleeping around too, asshole. Get that dog under control and maybe I’ll let you have me. Any way you want it baby.” He smiles at me before unlocking his phone and pressing the camera icon. “What are you doing, sending her photos Woo-Jin? Wow you truly don’t give a fuck about me do you. Such an asshole.” He wipes my tears before leaning in to kiss me softly. “Cherie I like you so much, actually I fucking love you. Everything about you. I’m not sending her pictures, two options ok. I could text her it’s over or I could bend you over this chair and fuck you til you’re begging me to stop and send it to her. But, something tells me you like the second option more.”

Leaning closer to bite his ear, I whisper, “how many rounds can you give me before next class, huh pretty boy?” He grabs my breast, before kissing my ear. “My next course doesn’t start until 4, it’s currently 1. Which means we have to test this theory, are you up for it beautiful?” Unbuttoning his shirt, while spreading my hands across his chest I nod. “Always up for a challenge, pretty boy. But can you handle it. I don’t move at that same pace as you’re used to now. Since you have downgraded to fucking the retirement community. Can you even keep up?” He pulls me closer kissing my hands. “Can I, handle you? Baby you’re not leaving this room til you tap out.”

“Say less, pretty boy.”

[crepesuzette2023]

Beatles Books as vaguely defined friends and relatives at a party you attend with a new crush, whose name you keep mispronouncing.

The longer you stay, the more trouble you have remembering what the occasion was.

The lights keep changing. Shortly after you arrived, your crush shrunk to the size of a mouse, and scurried away. You’re on your own.

The Beatles (Bob Spitz) greets you, an attractive silver fox who seems to be shunned by most of the others. You wonder why. It’s as easy to imagine him as a crying wreck as it is to imagine him on a golf course. Here, There, and Everywhere (Geoff Emerick) disrupts your musings by pulling tapes from his mouth. Seeing your discomfort, he stops and hands you a photograph of John Lennon and Paul McCartney singing into the same microphone. As he does, his pupils take on the shape of hearts. Someone called George announces his intent to poison him.

Anthology (The Beatles) saunters in, puts eight arms around you, and promises to tell you the whole story. They proceed to speak in tongues, and throw popcorn at you. Stu Sutcliffe jumps from a pendant around their neck, lands on the floor, and scurries after your crush.

“It’s always like this,” says Body Count (Francie Schwartz). “I assume you don’t want to listen to my story about a gifted woman who got locked up for depression? That’s fine, I can also talk about frottage, and a certain man’s curves.”

“Oh, stop it,” says John (Cynthia Lennon). She turns to you. “My advice is: Turn around and run as fast as you can.” She demonstrates what she means by disappearing, leaving behind a purse filled with cheerful letters and drawings of herself getting married and giving birth. Everything smells of olive oil. Francie spots Loving John (May Pang), and rushes to her, greedy for gossip. Loving John (May Pang) is everyone’s favorite, because she doesn’t really know anyone very well, but she knows how to make everyone feel comfortable by saying things that make sense in the moment.

Living the Beatles Legend: The Mal Evans Story (Ken Womack) ends up taking her home; they both live at The Fringes. Her home is a little further than his, which is just this side of Weird whereas she’s all the way in Montauk, but he’ll make sure she gets there safely.

To make up for the disappearance of your crush, Remember (Mike McCartney) cuts your hair. Each snip of the scissors slots a black-and-white picture into your field of vision. Windows in time blow noise and heat in your face, and visions of a screaming band that looks a bit like the young Beatles. Then there’s the quiet heat of summer, towels rippling on the line, and a drain pipe screwed to the wall of a house. He talks about childhood, and you’re almost there, but you never will be, because he won’t let you in. His more verbose twin, The Macs (Mike McCartney), recites letters his brother and John wrote from Hamburg, but you can barely understand what he says, because he stuffed a tissue into his mouth.

“It’s only a story,” says The Lyrics (Paul McCartney). “Pleased to meet you. I’m a storyteller myself.” He sings a love song. “I must have thought about these things when I wrote it,” he muses. “Interesting. What a mind, as Linda used to say.”

He tears a few pages from a diary he kept in Paris in 1961 and hands them to you without comment.

At this point, the party is dissolving. Crocheted furniture floats away and stretches.

“Am I too late?” Skywriting by Word of Mouth (John Lennon) squeezes himself out of the lowest drawer of an antique desk, where, judging from by his crinkly pajamas, he slept. “I’m in pieces. Mend me with glue.”

“I will, I will!” Tune In—All These Years, Vol I (Mark Lewisohn) yells ecstatically. “I’m so glad you could make it Sit down with me and celebrate the heritage of Liverpool.”

Skywriting drapes himself around Tune In, who starts purring and rutting against him.

“Excuse me?” It’s The Fifth Beatle: The Brian Epstein Story (Vivek Tiwary), torero boots clicking on the invisible floor as he strides towards the couch. A spotlight follows him. “I’m managing this show, and I insist on expanding the scene.” Around them, a hotel room forms.

Skywriting lights a cigarette. “Join us in bed, Bri.”

“Yes,” moans Tune In. “I’m so lonely. I’m the oldest of a triplet, or so they say, but the other two haven’t been born yet.”

The Fifth Beatle sits down and observes the unhinged biography losing himself in the friction of rubbing against the shapeshifting Skywriting. Finally, things reach a conclusion.

“And so,” says The Fifth Beatle, “what partially was, finished.”

“Stop repeating lines from a bad movie, Brian," says Skywriting, "you’re better than that.”

As you try to plot ways to escape through the skylight, The McCartney Legacy, Vol 1 (Sinclair & Kozinn) slides out from under the bed, a broad-shouldered lady in a bright red dress. A half-hatched alien with long legs and sunglasses squirms between her breasts, and makes mouth percussion sounds.

“Gentlemen.” The McCartney Legacy retrieves a very, very long rosary from her pocket. “Is anyone interested in an exquisitely crafted, finely wrought chronology?”

At the sound of the word “chronology,” The Beatles (Hunter Davies) crashes through the ceiling.

“Don’t fall for it!” The Beatles snatches the vocalizing baby alien from The McCartney Legacy’s chest, and kills it by wringing its neck. “Time stopped in 1968. The only valid extension are my own salacious additions. Strictly off the record.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” says The Fifth Beatle.

You exchange a glance with Skywriting, who is plucking pieces of Tune In from his body like children snatch pieces of dough, and sticking them in his mouth.

A camera clicks.

“Excellent.”

The Eyes of the Storm (Paul McCartney) lowers the camera, and changes into a suntanned, gleaming likeness of George Harrison. Then he changes into a fish.

“Everyone looking at the pictures will think they know,” the fish says. “They’ll have no idea!”

The floor dissolves under you. You fall into a pool, just in time to save your crush from being sucked into the drain, and after a barely audible edit you find yourself back home, with no memories at all, the taste of chewing gum in your mouth, and wearing matching tops saying, I visited Fellini’s Satyricon, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. (ETA: I can't believe I forgot about Dreaming the Beatles (Rob Sheffield). I guess I'll have to include him in the inevitable sequel to this...thing, as the +1 of John and Paul: A Love Story in Songs (Ian Leslie).)

[cottoncandyswisherz]

mine.

this is for @l0akkzz because she said do angst

exbf!chris x trackstar!reader

warnings: angst, kissing, swearing, very very suggestive/damn near smut

lil background info because i dont feel like writing all that: theyre in college and y/n runs track. y/n and chris used to date but they broke up bc chris cheated and y/n started dating chris' teammate but shes miserable. they hooked up a week before the story takes place and the chris told y/n to break up with said ex. savannah is y/ns friend thats trynna get with chris.

-

"why i'm still with him is none of your business. i am none of your fucking business, chris. what happened that night was because we were wasted. you said i could blame you, so this is me blaming you and telling you to leave me the hell alone. "

"but i don't want to. "

"are you a fucking masochist?"

"not usually, no. in fact, some might say i'm the exact opposite, but i'm ready for you to come to your senses."

"have you heard a word i've said? i want nothing to do with you."

"say that again and try to mean it this time." my mouth gets close to hers. i can smell the notes of coconut oil drifting from her hair. i can smell the mint rushing from her lips in fractured breaths. "unless... you can't?"

she glares up at me and there's so much heat beneath that honey in her eyes, but she doesn't push me. not even once.

y/n might lash out, but my mere nearness is causing her a shortness of breath. her chest rises and falls in a quick rhythm.

so i press my chest to hers. firm nipples glue to mine and the thud of her heartbeat slams and mixes with my own.

what the fuck is this girl doing to me?

why on earth can't i keep my hands off her? does she have witch blood? is she made of fucking drugs?

i reach my hand out and grip her throat lightly. barely any pressure. but enough to let her know who's in control.

"you're a fucking nightmare." she mutters, her throat working beneath my fingers.

"your nightmare." "i hate you." "i don't." "you're fucking crazy."

"about you." i whisper against her lips and claim them with a guttural moan.

she doesn't push away. she certainly does not turn her face or look like she's uncomfortable with the attention.

in fact, the exact opposite happens.

her lashes flutter over her cheeks as she groans, and i eat that sound teh fuck up. i eat her the fuck up.

i swallow her whole. teeth clashing, tongues swirling and lips chasing.

god fucking damn it.

i've been fantasizing about his last since last week. every morning, noon, and night. every goddamn second of every fucking day, all i wanted was to have a taste again.

but i didn't want to freak her out or send her running for the hills. i sure as hell don't give two flying fucks about that possibility right now, though.

i soak her all in, exploring, feasting absolutely drowning in her fucking mouth.

she tastes of honey, mint and pending fucking addiction.

i twirl my tongue against hers and i'm rewarded with her hard nips. babydoll kisses me as thoroughly as i kiss her, her fingers tugging on the bottom of my hoodie to keep me glued to her naked torso.

i roll her bottom lips between my teeth and nibble on the skin until she's whimpering, shuddering and fucking shaking against me,

give me more.

more.

fucking more.

i shove my raging erection against her and i can practically feel the heat radiating from her pussy.

she's hot. for me.

again.

"you're so fucking turned on for someone who claims she wants nothing to do with me." i speak against her perfect lips. " you're not drunk now either."

"don't mock me...." she breathes out even as her mouth seems to chase mine. "i would've gotten this way for anyone. it's called a physical reaction."

this fucking- i swear she's asking to be torn apart.

i slide my tongue down her neck and bite her collar bone, hard, then suck just as savagely, giving her back the hickey she hid for a whole week.

"stop it..." she grunts, shoving her hand against my chest.

only, she put not actual strength behind it.

i trail a path of bites to where her collarbone meets her chest. i pull her bra off, then i scrape my my teeth of her nipples.

she spits out the most erotic moan i've ever heard, and i jam two of my fingers down in her mouth then spread them against his tongue.

i need her to stop fucking talking and ruining every moment with her damn mouth.

my tongue swirls around her brown areola, then i tug the nipple between my teeth, sucking and biting until all i hear are the muffled noises spilling from her stuffed mouth.

"you like this don't you?" i move to the other nipple, sucking the skin around it, leaving a huge hickey before i bite down on the little bud. "you look perfect marked by me. my own piece of fucking art."

one of her hands is on my shoulder, pushing me away, but the other is in my hair, pulling me close.

she's a fucking conundrum, my babydoll, and i can't wait to break her into fucking pieces.

her body is stiff against me, but her tongue swirls around my fingers, and her teeth bite down whenever i nibble on her nipple.

i'm so drunk on her and her taste. so addicted to how responsive she is.

i can't fucking get enough.

not after one lick or two or a thousand. i want to throw her down and feast on her properly. i want to watch her shudder and whine and moan as i kiss every inch of her gorgeous skin.

i doubt she'd be thrilled with that idea, so i'll take what i can get.

my mouth leaves bites and marks all over her chest before i slide my tongue back to her jaw.

"you taste like my new favorite addiction baby."

she whines against my fingers and i remove them, so i can hear her intoxicating voice.

"you infuriate me." she tries to push against me, but i slam my hands against the locker on either side of her head, once again shoving my chest against hers. i'm so close. i can see that fire burning in her eyes.

more.

i smirk, staring down at her puffed out lips. "someone's mad."

"fuck you."

"baby, you know i love it when you talk dirty to me."

she grabs me by the throat, her nails digging ruthlessly into the sides. "you need to stay the hell away from me."

"no." i try to step closer and she tightens her grip until i can barely breathe. my lungs burn, and i can feel the veins in my neck bulging.

"i'm going to fucking kill you."

"mmm. i love it when you get rough."

"you think i'm joking?" her short acrylics sink into my skin.

"tell me more. your mouth makes me so fucking hard." i roll my hips and slam them against her again,

and fuck.

fuck me.

"i can feel your pussy though your shorts. you're wet babydoll. if i touch you, will i find you dripping for me?"

"you fucking-" she cuts her own self off and her fingers compress so hard they shake.

she's shaking. my babydoll, losing her precious control one layer at a time.

and what do i do?

trap her between my teeth and never let go. of course.

"you can fight me, can choke the life out of me, but that won't stop you from wanting me," i strain and wrap my hand around her throat on the hickey that's beginning to re-form. "you came here to stop me from fucking savannah. you weren't mad for her, you were mad at her. you didn't like the way she touched me, right?"

"shut up."

"you're pissed off at me because i let her touch me?"

that beautiful rage shines behind her eyes. but then she says the exact opposite of what she's thinking. "why would i care what you do?"

"always playing a role, doll. hiding, pretending. you broke up with him tonight? why didn't you tell me that?"

"how..?"

"he told me he was going through a breakup and was looking to forget during practice this morning." i try to get my head closer but she keeps me in place with her unyielding hold. "you did it for me, didn't you? you lost him because i told you to. no. you did it because you wanted to be with me. because you know i'm the only one who can give you what you need."

"stop dreaming."

"stop fucking pretending." i remove the band-aid on her thigh, revealing only tattoo she only kept hidden. my fucking name in black cursive letters. "stop hiding."

she shakes her head, but her fingers loosen around my throat. y/n isn't weak. sure, i'm bigger, but she has strength. the reason she let me touch her pervious times isn't because she couldn't stop me. it's because she chose not to stop me.

like right now.

her war for control breaks like ice beneath her feet.

i'm the lake waiting to swallow her.

my fingers spread on her sharp jaw, my lips an inch from hers.

"dont...." she whispers and it's shaky, breathless.

she clearly wants me. she's burning for it. her body language gives her away. eyes darkening, nostrils flaring, and fingers holding my neck so lovingly (though she'd argue otherwise).

but she's still fighting tooth and nail, still refusing to admit the inevitable.

"wanna blame me again?" i murmur against her skin.

a puff of air leaves her mouth and she nods once.

"then blame me all you want, baby."

i slam my lips to hers, taking what's mine.

because she is.

mine.

niyah speaks i hate this.

taglist: @mattslolita @mattssluttygf @muwapsturniolo @zniyadgaf

[amaramizuki666]

Identity crisis part.2

Danny wasnt having a very good day, week, month, who knows time in the infinity realms has always been iffy. You see danny was recently crowned king of the realms, king of the dead, the balance between life and death, protected of the dead, holder of space, poor kid has a lot on his shoulders.

And now his council including frostbite, amber, and clockwork are suggesting him to marry. So danny can split the responsibility of being king.

Danny is flying to the far frozen when he hears it the call of being summoned. A faint wisper, the wish of those who summoned the ghost king, danny always had a choice weither to go, whether to listen to the whims of the mortals.

But before danny chose to be summoned or not, always depended on what he heard the wisper said. Danny stopped and floated in the green void of the realms. He closed his eyes and listened.

'𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆, 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆'

Danny heard the wisper and emiditly let the summon take hold of him pulling him to the one summoning him. Danny opened his eyes to see he was surrounded by a thick ectoplasm like substance. It had the consistency of Elmer's glue and it burned Danny's skin.

Danny looked around himself with ergency trying to spot his summoner. He looked down and saw a kid around his age sinking to the bottom of this pit of green.

His hair was black danny thinks his eyes are blue but cant see them properly they are barely open. The boy looks lucid. But then again he does appear to be bleeding out and sinking in a bit of Lazarus goop sooo.

Danny floats down to the boy and speaks

"𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕞𝕖, 𝕀 𝕒𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕕, ℙ𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞. 𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥".

The boys eyes fluttered. He tried to open his mouth only bubbles escaped but thankfully danny could hear him or more accurately his desire.

"𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆'

Danny could feel it in his core, the need to save the need to 卩尺ㄖㄒ乇匚ㄒ. But danny cant just do that no he is the king.

"𝕀 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝, 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕠𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕤𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦" danny spoke.

The boys eyes finally drifted to him, holding Danny's gaze. '𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒆' the boys heart sang.

Danny thought for a moment. This really was the perfect opportunity.

"𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕨𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕝, 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕝 𝕞𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖, 𝕕𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕔𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕒𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥" danny asks his voice soft yet powerful. The boy accepted.

Danny pulled the boy in ty I his arms. A green aroura not dissimilar to his crown glowed around them as the contract finalized.

This boy was now his. Danny reversed the summoning and brought both of them back to the realms.

Danny looked at the boy in his arms, he was becoming paler. Danny quickly set off for the far frozen. He had to see frost bite regardless. St least now he wont bug him about finding a partner.

_____________

Part 1

Part 3

[sohn-der-felder]

✧ »➣ Open Starter

(it's my first ever one please have mercy)

Rain, he couldn't remember the last time he felt it. It pricked against his face in a weird way he couldn't understand - waking slowly as he slowly gained feeling once more.

Despite realizing he was face down in concrete the first feelings that came back to him were unkind and cruel - it was a horrible pain in every bone of his body. A sharp ringing ripped through his ears as everything became too much on his senses. The shock of it all was a struggle within itself but it felt like getting up was an even harder task to do.

His body felt weak and for the first time in awhile he felt utterly defeated and vulnerable. Laying on the concrete like an utter fool without a way to defend himself - whatever higher being there could've been felt dead to him now.

Seconds to Minutes to Hours. Time continued on despite his troubles and it pissed him off to no end for some reason. Though with that time he finally gained the strength to push against the concrete and sit up in a kneeling position.

"Dammit Deimos what have you gotten yourself into now..." The man was referring to himself - Deimos. A previous agent of the A.A.H.W before he sought out 'greener pastures' regarding work some may say. A rebellious man, a heavy smoker, an annoyance. He's referred to as many things but in this moment of time the only thing you could call him would be completely lost.

He'd cough a bit, feeling in his mouth before spitting out a loose tooth. "Well shit... that ain't gonna grow back." He grumbled to himself, clenching the small bone in an angry fist before simply shoving it into his pant pocket. "Whatever, maybe Doc can glue it back in or some..thing?" Deimos cut himself off as he finally lifted his head to finally see where he landed himself.

Luckily it seemed like the area he was in was a secluded parking lot, but nothing made sense as he would continue to rapidly glance around; finding trees, a cloudy sky that wasn't the shade of red he grew accustom to... It was as if everything was back to normal before all hell broke loose.

"What the.. What the hell?!" He tried to get up, whether to examine things further or try to run from his current reality - he'd fail. Knees buckling under him with a speed he didn't know was possible and groaning at the impact; knees feeling like they were about to crack under the abrupt pressure of his body.

"Fuck! That hurt..." Things were closing in on his psyche and the world felt like a soup of colors and barely understandable shapes. "Where the hell am I.. 'cause this is definitely not Nevada..."Deimos would speak to himself.

Though he maybe realized far too late that he wasn't alone, just another 'fun' surprise the vast universe decided to throw at him. Reaching for the gun in his utility belt he'd draw the weapon towards the sound of footsteps. "Who's there?!" He'd yell out - vision ever blurry but by God was he ready to fight to survive.

[elliebyrrdwrites]

Distantly, there’s a muffled voice. It’s like I’m stuff under water, stuck at the bottom of the seat and up above, there’s somebody shouting down at me. I can’t make out what they’re saying. I just know they’re trying to talk to me but I can’t make myself swim and break the surface.

My limbs are too heavy, like they’re full of lead. Vaguely, I’m aware of my cheek being slapped. There is no pain, I feel nothing. I’m not even fully inside of my body. The slaps increase, they grow firmer. Finally, I feel the sting of a palm cracking across my face. It’s hard enough to jolt my mind back into my body.

But I can’t open my eyes, they’re glued together and all of that gravel from last night is stuck inside of my throat, filling up my cheeks.

“Do you think you’re funny?” My father voice is loud, my head pulses with pain with each word he speaks.

My eyelids squeeze tighter together.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” His heel is digging into my thigh as he pushes and kicks at me, nudging me out of bed.

When I finally open my eyes, it feels like there’s sand and glue mixed together, fighting to keep them closed. Fuck me. I’ve always assumed, at some point, I’ve died.

But this is actual death. It feels like all of the blood has been drained from my body and filled with lead. It feels like my head is cracking open, exposing my skull, leaving it vulnerable for abuse.

Which is exactly what’s happening as my father’s hand smacks me over the top of the head. “How long have you been hiding this?”

I dodge his hand and pull myself out of bed, securely on the other side, away from him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I can barely get the words out, my head hurts so bad. I have to whisper just to not worsen the headache.

“You have made a fool out of yourself. You made a fool out of everyone!”

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Your fiance has locked herself in her room, refusing to come out. She’s humiliated. Her father,” Guy, her father’s name is Guy Greengrass. What kind of a name is Guy? It’s like his parents ran out of ideas. If you say it enough times, it feels like you’re trying to clear a glob of peanut butter off the roof of your mouth.

Despite the pain of my head cracking open and my stomach rolling like I’m stuck on a boat in torrent seas, I can’t help but laugh. I can’t help the giggles that bubble their way up my throat because I just can’t figure out why he’s so upset. But, it’s quite lovely.

“You sneaky little cunt!”

My eyebrows push up into my forehead, and I have to flinch to ignore the pain. “Ooh!” I run a hand over my mouth. It’s starting to water. I think I’m going to throw up. “Such pretty language for such an old man.”

“You’ve been hiding her all this time, haven’t you?”

My laughter dies. Is he talking about Granger? All this time, I thought he was the one hiding her from me. The point is, he’s realized I’ve been lying to him. And now I know he hasn’t been able to find her, either. What a clever little witch.

“It doesn’t matter,” he hisses. “You’ve made it impossible to cover up.”

My stomach heaves, and my cheeks puff up. I close my eyes and wait for the wave of nausea to pass. When it does, I kept them closed. I’m afraid the world will spin if I open them. “Would you please just tell me what the fuck you are talking about?”

“You’re drunk.” He sniffs the air. “No wonder it stinks in here. It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting. Getting drunk and declaring your love for a filthy mudblood on the eve of your wedding. Were you trying to commit suicide?”

“Actually,” I crack an eye open. “I was drunk yesterday.” He’s holding the Prophet in his hand. It’s rolled up tight, like he’s about to beat me like a dog. “So, that would mean that I am hungover.”

The point is, my father’s jaw is so rigid, he’s probably cracking his molars. His grey eyes are murderous. “Malfoy’s don’t drink.”

“Well, I do. Seeing as I’m about to commit suicide of the soul by walking down that aisle, I figure last night was as good a time as any to start. Now,” I lift my chin, gesturing to the paper on his hand. “If you’re through with all this foreplay, would you mind handing that over, so I can figure out what the hell it is you’re talking about.”

Father sniffs. He lifts his chin and narrows his eyes on me before tossing the Prophet onto the bed, unrolling to expose the front page. The photo replays over and over, on the loop all magical photos do. And in this photo, there’s the store front of Flourish and Blotts. There’s flowers lining the front of the store. Hundreds of pink roses.

There’s me and a bucket of paint. Im holding this bucket of paint and my wand and on the shop windows, there’s words painted there. Like red blood, the paint drips from each letter.

The words blink like a flashing, and changing each time.

The photo plays on a loop and from start to finish, a smirk grows on my face as I stare at the windows. As I stare at the words, my eyes seem to glow like the moon.

Well, I have gone and done it now. I’ve vandalized the beloved book shop of Diagon Alley, and I can’t remember a lick of it, but I have to believe it. Because I look down at my body and there’s red paint smudged down the front of my shirt.

I laugh because now I know Guy Greengrass is going to kill me. My father is going to kill me.

That is, if Granger doesn’t kill me first.

Because the words flash from one phrase to the next;

From, granger, i love you

To

i fucked up

Little fucking Jonas Dart.

[518062]

top 10 grim reaper writing moments

i've written a lot in 2 years, with 68 works published on ao3 (not all of them r good wkjdiej)

but sometimes i hit the mark, i think, and i like to look back on my work. so here's top 10 moments across all fandoms (mostly f1)

10. starting off strong with mafia au maxiel

Daniel squeals in happiness once he reunites with his car. He leans his head against the plush leather seat, wanting to stay like that forever, but he needs to drive, and forgets that a mafia boss is sitting beside him. When he presses the start button, the V10 engine comes alive, and its sound is like a lion’s roar, music to Daniel’s ears. Max stares at the wheel.

“Can you drive?” he asks. “I know cars arouse you. I’ve learned that much, but we have to go now.”

Daniel exhales and smoothly pulls out of the parking spot with one hand on the wheel. “They don’t arouse me.”

“Yes, they do. You’re having an orgasm at the sound of a V10.”

Daniel ignores the accusation and follows the navigation system. He notices a bunch of black cars surrounding him and looks at Max.

“What? I’m a very important person. They protect me.” he says defensively.

“Not me?” Daniel jokes.

“No.” Max says, fiddling with his phone. It’s a tense, awkward ride, but they make it through, and with some small talk, Daniel concludes Max is a FIFA addict—he’s opening packs as the Australian parks on the grand driveway.

“You can head inside. I’m gonna sit in Rafal for a bit.”

“You’re so fucking weird for naming the car.” Max tells him.

“And you’re weird for playing FIFA at your age.” Daniel retaliates.

“It’s perfectly normal, and FIFA is fun. Try it instead of sniffing fresh car leather.”

“I said you can go.” Daniel ignores his statement and gets comfortable in the seat, despite sitting for approximately two hours.

9. charles leclerc's silly boy crisis

After eighteen years, I am the Scuderia’s saviour, and I savour the delight and jubilance it brings me.

The alcohol tastes sweet like victory, like an overpriced, thick hot chocolate in Monaco. I can feel sweat crawl down my back, my fireproof sticking to it like glue. Everything that follows is a blur, a disarray of recollection; time is a never ending refinement, an endless cycle of gambling and comprehension.   

A month passes and I no longer feel sweet. I feel bare, like society has stripped me down and seen my darkest fears, because they’ve seen my highest high—what if they see my lowest low? Is there such a thing?

I sit in silence, sinking into scrutiny. Most of my days fly by like flocks of birds, and I can taste apprehension on my tongue, wet and overbearing.

And so I continuously ask; is this it? Is this how I go now? Do I resign?

For after the calm of the storm is a drizzle. A gentle but demanding rainfall, a reminder. I may be a miracle, but I may also be a mistake. Whenever I close my eyes, I see it—the taunting temptation of yielding.

I ignore my obligations and cry. For what is the purpose of going again? To break a meaningless record? I have served my purpose and now I serve agony, an unavoidable reality.

8. surprise brocedes proposal

“So what’s up? It must be impartial.” Lewis chuckles, nervous. Nico wonders if he is intruding—do they have more meetings? Is it time to analyse data?

Shit.

“I was thinking about what you said at our dinner.” He begins. “And I saw how empty you feel, how alone you are. And I—I know. I know it—I know you. Like you said, I know you more than anyone.” He closes his eyes briefly, making a quick prayer.

God, please don’t embarrass me.

“And I also know how happy I can make you feel. Therefore,” he pulls out a box, refusing to kneel. “I would be delighted if you agreed to marrying me.”

Like gloomy Monaco mornings, everyone stills, just how Nico Rosberg likes it. His cheeks are bright crimson, and his ears are ringing as he waits for an answer; Lewis’ face morphs with astonishment written all over. He opens his mouth to speak, but pauses—a loud thud echoes in the garage as Toto Wolff drops to the floor.

The stillness disappears like rain pouring on the soil. While engineers frantically rush to their boss’ side, Nico and Lewis stay put.

“Bu—“

“This is absurd! Why are you just standing there? Help him!” George Russell interrupts with his eerily blue eyes. Lewis looks at Nico with sorrow, but Nico shrugs, unfazed. He knew it was going to happen.

He did it! He shocked Toto!

7. max being tired of his job

“I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot do that.” This is usually where the customer stops—they analyse the situation and conclude that it’s fine. They’ll make do.

“Who’s we? Do you speak on behalf of the entire company? I’m Charles Leclerc,” he emphasises his name as if Max should know who he is. His attitude is horrible—at this stage, Max calls for the manager and lets her deal with it. But she’s conveniently absent.

“I do not know who you are, sir. I will say it again: we cannot do that.”

“You’re kidding me. See, I hate to be the one, but you hold no value to anyone. I need someone important,” he emphasises the T, “like your manager.”

This is the stage where Max’s cordiality slips away; fuck the customer service bullshit. When someone becomes malicious towards him, he bites back. He couldn’t care less about Charles Leclerc—the reality check was going to be a harsh slap.

“Listen, Charles, the fucking king of who cares—after checking your flight, I’ve realised it is full. This means two things. Seat change is not allowed as it's not mentioned in the terms and conditions. Even if it were, we would have to ask a first-class passenger, and who’s saying they would exchange their nice seat for an economy seat?”

6. neybappe angst insert crying emoji

They went through the ten steps of friendship at unbelievable speeds. After a while, Neymar saw Kylian as more than a friend. There was an underlying truth they both ignored; that they were in love, and with their circumstances, there was nothing they could do except act. Neymar realised, on a frosty night while watching the Eiffel tower, that his aspirations weren’t football related at all—they were emotions, sunken in his heart and tattoos. He wanted love. He wanted more than love. The things he sought after: happiness, tranquillity, guidance; it all came back to his desire for a person. Someone he could spend the rest of his life with—someone who loved his flaws and imperfections, his lifestyle and his soul. On that night, the number seven on his jersey spoke volumes; he was in love with Kylian, and he was not pretending—no—he wanted to show Kylian his version of love. Hyperbolic and fluctuating, fun and heartfelt, devastatingly wrong and destined simultaneously. On that night, he didn’t feel hatred for France anymore. He didn’t despise the weather, or the people, or the president—for France was where his home was, where his lover grew and became who he was, where he grew as a person, where he reunited with a brother and abandoned another.

5. shadow being lovestruck

He had lived an entirely different life where everything was upside down—Maria wasn’t even a thought. The worst aspect of it all was that Sonic had seen everything. That opulent yet skewed reality contained all of Shadow’s contemplations. It made Gerald a loving father, which was something Shadow had yearned for since he saw the light of kindness. His days were occupied with mundane, domestic tasks—a reality Shadow dreamt of often during missions. He liked the idea of not being involved in battles and missions and instead wearing dresses, living a simple life and feeling regal.

It also brought Sonic and him together, like a guardian angel, and now Sonic knew. Sonic knew about Shadow’s immensely hard love for him. He discovered that Shadow’s blinds remained closed because Shadow would stay up all night, drawing Sonic’s eyes with the blinding stars. Sonic saw how nervous Shadow became around him, how his presence affected him greatly.

4. painter max

I am an artist. I like brushes. I like acrylic paint. I sketch with vigour and I paint with woe.

I have a lover. He has murky green eyes and thick lashes. His jawline cuts my skin and his hair transports me to the cruise ships.

My lover likes to watch me paint. He sits by the window; it rains and shines, but his eyes never move away from the canvas. My strokes coincide with his heartbeats. Every bristle that slides across the hardened cotton equalises the breaths he takes.

Seasons pass, and my lover ceases to budge. The canvases just keep coming, like tears at a funeral. My lover says it’s a blessing that my hands move like waltzers and my fingers rest on my brushes like a still baby. I know he knows; I sketch with vigour and I paint with woe.

3. charles panicking

And so he cries, a shattered visage, a broken window, a popped bubble, iridescence and shine diminishing into nothing. He crosses his legs and looks at his hands, freaking out—he has done unimaginable things. He has driven to victory, fought many drunk men, wiped countless tears, devastated the world. His tears drop onto his pale, worn hands—calloused and worn out by racing, living, breathing, being. His hands stare back at him like he is a monster; how can he treat them like this? How can he be so foul? And how can he get the tears to stop? They are surging like a burst pipe, wetting his cheeks and lips. He cannot even wipe his face—his hands do not deserve it. No—he does not deserve these graceful hands. God has given him the opportunity to bring light to the world, and he has let Him down. God should take his hands away!

2. charles being fed up

“Va te faire foutre!” Fuck that and fuck you! Charles responds, ignoring Andrea’s questions. “Look at the outside, Andrea. Look at the paddock and the teams. Anyone with a functioning brain can see that they are laughing at us. They think we’re a circus—merde, we are a circus! You can’t fucking predict the weather? Who are you, Williams? You’re Scuderia Ferrari,” He spits the name like it is a malicious insult, a death threat, a plague, a demon that must be feared. “You,” he points at Andrea’s chest, eyebrows furrowed and eyes vacant of all emotion, “are Scuderia Ferrari. You are the heart of this sport. You own this sport, its fans, its government, fuck—you own me. You own this paddock. The tarmac we race on is yours. The rule book we follow is yours; it is a fucking bible, and we worship it, we worship you, we bend on both knees and beg for mercy, we kiss the Italian flag—” He stops, searching for breath.

“We give our everything, Andrea. And what do we look like? A shit show. A joke. Connerie...”

1. paris is burning but as a motif

“If money wasn’t so important in the world today...to survive. I guess I wouldn’t want anything but what I have now. But since money does...I hope that the way I look puts money in my pocket.” says Octavia St. Laurent. Neymar listens to their wisdom.

“I’ve got to go now.” He states, glancing at the clock on his wall resembling a cat. He wants to be early (early is late - Otis).

“I want everybody to look at me and say ‘There goes Octavia’...”

“Look after the place. And watch the movie. You might learn something.”

“I don’t care about gay people!” Muhammed exclaims.

“It’s way more than that.” Neymar says before locking his friend in.

I didnt rank these by which is the most effective.

i ranked them by how i felt when writing, and how they make me feel now. whether they make me feel proud of this presence i have created through writing, whether i have done rpf justice. i think everyone should do this

anyways thats all. not like itll be seen

[pullhisteeth]

stuck | eddie munson x reader

bit of a random one but this is based off of one of my favourite poems of all time: 'Morning Love Poem' by Tara Skurtu. I'll leave it at the end in case you want to read it :)

summary you have a bad dream about Eddie and he comforts you (twice). [1k]

contains gn!reader, nightmares, death/dying (in dreams), panic, comfort, fluff, nudity (non-sexual)

-

The space around where Eddie sits is dark. He slips in and out of sight, form blending with the strange, bleak blackness, the table in front of him doing the same. It's the table in his trailer, the one you sit at together most nights, and yet here it stretches out before you, longer and longer until he's so far away you should barely be able to see him. Yet, at the same time, he's right up close, close enough for you to see everything: his pasty skin, tangled hair, hand gripping his throat.

He's spluttering, coughing but not really, because there's not enough breath. His elbows sit either side of the plate in front of him; the plate you gave him, with the food you made for him.

You can't move. The seat's made of glue or some intense force is keeping you there, you're not sure; it feels heavy, like your body can't lift. You can't help him, stuck instead watching him. Your eyes won't move, either, so you just look at him, hopeless and breathing fast. Around you, things end: cars collide, skies crack in two, shots are fired, fires burn.

Sitting bolt upright, you breathe a dry, deep gasp. The comforter falls around your waist and as your eyes adjust to the dim light, you realise you're in Eddie's bedroom. In Eddie's bed.

You turn to look down at the space to your left and sigh in relief when you find him where you left him, lying beside you, sleeping.

Except he's not sleeping; he's stirring. Hands rubbing his face he groans and sits, joining you.

"What's up?" he grumbles, sleepy words churned through gravel.

It's all you can do to just look at him, admire the way his face is soft from sleep, the messy mat of hair on one side of his head, the twist of his shirt where he's tossed and turned under the covers. His hands find your body, smoothing up and down your arm and your thigh.

It's now that you realise that you're crying, because when you try to speak the words get blocked, your throat inoperable. You just make a muffled, garbled noise, and Eddie pulls you into his side, resting his head on top of yours.

Hot tears drop from your face onto the sheets but Eddie doesn't say anything. You don't dare close your eyes, still lingering in that limbo after a bad dream wherein the possibility that it wasn't a dream is a little too high.

"You were gone," you manage, words rolling clumsily out of your mouth.

"I'm right here," he assures you, squeezing you tighter into his side, kissing the crown of your head. "Never goin' anywhere."

"It was my fault."

He pulls you away slightly and brings a hand to your face, manoeuvring it so he can look at you properly.

"What?"

"I killed you, Eds."

"It's okay," he coos as you cry some more, face crushed into the fabric of his t-shirt. "You gotta breathe for me, baby," he tells you as you struggle. "C'mon, in through your nose, out through your- there we go, you got it."

Eyes scrunched shut, you focus on his words, on calming yourself down. As you do he continues to mutter sweet nothings into your hair: I got you, I'm right here, never goin' anywhere, baby, you're not getting' rid of me that easy, I love you.

"Are you allergic to anythin'?"

He stills where he'd been rocking gently and asks again, "What?"

You pull yourself out of his side and look at him, repeating yourself. "Are you allergic to anything?"

"Wha- No?"

"Are you sure?"

"I mean, yeah."

"Okay," you respond, matter of fact, and it makes him breathe a laugh.

"Can I ask why you want to know?"

"I fed you something and it killed you," you admit. "I think you were allergic to it."

"Baby, you could feed me rocks and I'd lick the plate clean."

You shove him playfully, giggling with him, and then turn to look at the clock beside his bed. 04:29am.

"Gonna try sleep again?" he asks.

You hum and shuffle to lie back down. He joins you, wrapping you up, arms around your middle and face in the crook of your neck.

Sleep pulls you back quicker than you would have expected, but not without a catch. At some point you re-emerge in that twisted, twirling version of Eddie's kitchen and he's still dying. All his reassurances that he's not going anywhere are useless against this trick your brain is playing because right now, this is real.

When you wake this time, clammy and heaving, the room is brighter. The sun's up and as the blood stops rushing past your ears so fast, you hear the shower running in the next room.

It takes you a moment to regain your breath but when you do, you sit up and climb out of bed. There's only one thing on your mind, and your body's not stopping.

You tread quickly across the room and into the hall, and quietly you slip through the unlocked bathroom door. It's steamy and warm and you're in your pyjamas but it doesn't really cross your mind. Instead, you slide the shower curtain across and find a startled Eddie, mid-hair wash, staring at you with a dumbfounded look on his face that, under any other circumstances, would make you laugh.

Straight-faced, you step onto the shower tray, shuffling in next to him.

"Baby, you're in your PJs, what the fuck are you doing?"

There's no aggression in his tone, just genuine surprise, and all you can say to him is, "I need you."

He softens, bringing his hands down from his hair, and through the streams of hot water urges your arms up so he can pull your clothes off your body. Gently, he gets your top off and wrings it out in the corner where the water doesn't reach. He does the same for your shorts and hangs both over the curtain rail.

"Told you," he says lowly as he wraps his arms around you again, shampoo dripping suds down his face and onto his pretty wet shoulders, "I'm not goin' anywhere."

-

Morning Love Poem by Tara Skurtu

Dreamt last night I fed you, unknowingly, something you were allergic to.

And you were gone, like that.

You don't have even a single allergy, but still. The dream cracked. Cars nose-dived

off snow banks into side streets. Sometimes dreams slip poison, make the living

dead and then alive again, twirling in an unfamiliar room.

It's hard to say I need you enough.

Today I did. Walked into your morning shower fully clothed. All the moments

we stop ourselves just because we might feel embarrassed or impractical, or get wet.

[honourablejester]

Heart: The City Beneath - Minor Abilities

I just want to give a quick peek at my favourite minor abilities from each of the Heart classes.

When you make a character, you get one major and three minor abilities from their class. Each of the classes has minor abilities that let them pick up skills, domains or +1 resistance protections. Your standard, staple picks. And then there are my favourites, which are minor abilities that often let you pick up a skill or a domain but ALSO give you something else small and weird to go along with it. So. A quick look at my favourite minor ability for each class:

Cleaver:

PITCHSKIN. Your skin bubbles and shifts into night-black tones as tar seeps through the pores. Gain the Sneak skill. The secretions from your skin are flammable and adhesive, acting as a sort of volatile glue you can exude at will.

Cleavers are vaguely (or explicitly) cannibalistic survivalists who vibe with the eldritch nature of the Heart, so naturally to sneak they secrete flammable tar from their pores to become permanently and literally pitch black and hard to see. And now you can give yourself flammable glue whenever you want it! Win-win!

Deadwalker:

DIRT UNDER THE FINGERNAILS. You dug your way out of your own grave. Gain the Warren domain. You can dig through earth and mud with your bare hands as though you had a shovel; your fingernails are always stained with a little soil, and you cannot clean it off.

Deadwalkers are thieves and infiltrators that have already died and are haunted by the personifications of their own deaths. Their abilities tend to be evocative of death and funerals, but I think I love this one the most. I did also consider LAST RITES, which lets you ask the spirit of a dead person one question as you perform their last rites, but the whole ‘you dug your way out of your grave so now you have mole claws’ just does it for me, I think.

Deep Apiarist:

APISAMBULATION. Your body sleeps while your mind, riddled with industrious bees, marches on. Gain access to the Delve skill. Once per session, while on a delve, you can opt to fall asleep and let the bees inside your body steer you. In this state, the bees speak for you and perform actions on your behalf – roleplay accordingly (the GM can use Fortune fallout to represent your inhuman pilots). Assuming you get a few hours’ rest and progress on the delve, refresh D6 from any of your resistances.

Deep Apiarists are living walking hives of eldritch bees, and nothing makes that more clear that this fantastic and horrifying/hilarious ability. Need a nap and some healing but you’ve got to stay on the move? Nap anyway, and let your body be piloted by your bees! Which sounds like a hilarious time for you and your entire party that absolutely will not have any bad consequences whatsoever.

Heretic:

SHARD OF THE TEMPLE DOOR. The great doors of the Moon Ascendant temple were smashed to pieces on the night of the purge. You carry a shard of the door, reminding you that your faith is eternal. Gain the Endure skill. Once per session, when you touch the shard to a closed door, it will not open for at least an hour (unless it is destroyed).

The Heretic and their abilities have a distinctly gothic sort of vibe, and I love them a lot. I was so tempted to go for LIAR’S BURDEN which lets you roll if you think someone’s lying to you and on a success your goddess deals d4 stress to them if they were lying as their mouth bleeds as if eating glass. Which, metal. But I love SHARD because it feels … You’re carrying a relic of the night your faith was purged, and it gives you strength, and the shattered temple doors still do their best to protect you. I love that.

Hound:

ROUND THE NEXT CORNER. You can find a place to shelter, smoke a roll-up and let things blow over. Gain the Delve skill. Once per delve, you find an out-of-the-way location where you can catch your breath and recuperate without fear of being discovered by your enemies. You can take your time and heal here without incurring a bane.

Hounds are a lot more practical and less … excitable than a lot of other classes. Their abilities do tend towards normal, practical solutions to problems. I like this one. The perpetual soldier’s instinct to just find a nice nook or cranny to hunch up for a bit and breathe.

Incarnadine:

EYES IN THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD. You’ve set up enough crooked deals to know when you’re about to be suckered into one. Gain the Discern skill. When you stand still and concentrate, you can quite literally see behind you as though you had eyes in the back of your head. Doing this for too long causes headaches and nausea.

Incarnadines are themed around debts, acquisitions and trade. I was tempted to go for RED MARKETEER, which gives you the Warren domain, but also makes your attacks Brutal if its against someone trying to steal from you, which I just find funny? But I went with EYES, because literal eyes in the back of your head that give you a headache if you use them too long is both hilarious and cool.

Junk Mage:

MARK OF HUNGER. You can taste the power slumbering in the City Beneath, and you want it more than anything. Gain the Delve skill. You can smell sources of magical power – the more potent and active, the more pungent the smell. Different types of magic have different scents: relics of the Moon Beneath have the aroma of wine and butter, necromancy smells like nujabian kafee and the occult technology of the Vermissian resembles malt and rich tannins.

I actually like a lot of the Junk Mage abilities, because a lot of them use things like tattoos or junk or relics to channel abilities, but I think my favourite is this one. Because Junk Mages are junkies. They crave magic and power, they crave the hit. So how they find magic? They can smell it. Extremely literally. And, since a lot of their abilities require destroying occult resources to power spells, being able to sniff out replacements is extremely handy.

Vermissian Knight:

SANGUINARY ARRAY. Your inefficient mortal heart is supplemented by a rig that extracts, filters and nourishes your vital fluids. One side effect of this is that your blood acts as an antenna for the scattershot electrical impulses of the Heart. Gain the Discern skill. If one of your senses becomes damaged or unusable, you can replace it with the weird echoes that shudder through your exposed blood – it’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

Vermissian Knights’ abilities are themed around their train-steel armour. Different abilities are different pieces of equipment you’ve installed on yours. And while I love a LOT of them, this one has to win prizes for being the weirdest? If your senses get damaged, the weird occult purification array that’s running your heart can function as a replacement in a pinch. By picking up eldritch vibes in your vicinity for you to steer by. Also, like. What does that look like? Someone tries to open your armour to help/hurt you and is like, what the fuck is this?

Witch:

RAMBLEWYRD. You are well-versed in exploring and surviving the places most connected to the Heart Itself; sometimes you do it for pleasure. Gain the Cursed domain. Once per session, when you are in an area with the Cursed domain, remove D6 stress from resistances of your choice.

Witches, as people blood-cursed by the Heart, have a lot of fun abilities, from healing spit to aura vision, but I think this one is my favourite, just for the … spite? Not spite, but close. Cursed areas are some of the most dangerous in an already just generally eldritch setting, and you’re not only fine in them, you feel actively better inside them. Actively, mechanically better. You walk into a cursed landmark, take a nice deep breath, and are like, ah, feels like home! I love that. I just vibe with that.

End Thoughts:

This is such a funky game and setting. Like, it’s weird, and it’s fantastic. Let your body be piloted by bees! Hook up a weird purification rig to your heart that’ll function as eldritch eyesight in a pinch! Smell magic! Become the tar monster from Scooby Doo! The tone is just absolutely fabulous. If you enjoy games like Fallen London/Sunless Sea, Heart: The City Beneath absolutely has your vibes. (I do. I do enjoy those games a lot. This is such a funky setting for me). Granted, there is a lot of body horror. Do keep that in mind. But the weirdness is just *chef’s kiss*.

[cringefaildiaz]

oops, thought too hard about "I don't believe in magic, I believe in chemistry" "oh, it's science, I see" and "works like magic" and Buck's experience working in construction and I accidentally wrote a 6x17 coda

On the difference between magic and chemistry, and their relationship to thermoset adhesives

6x17 coda, ~860 words

“I have never been so excited to get a call from you,” Buck says, barging into the house with a plastic bag bearing the name of a local craft store on his arm.

“Glad my deficiencies are so thrilling,” Eddie breathes out. He’s trying to focus on the pieces of the model in front of him–Chris’ drafts are irritatingly well-labeled, which makes how much he’s struggling to piece them together that much more embarrassing. 

“Ah,” Buck grins, quirking an eyebrow as he settles down next to Eddie, drawing the model pieces away from Eddie to sit in front of him instead, “but it takes real wisdom to know when to call in the experts.”

He plucks the wall Eddie’s attempting to position from his fingertips, flipping it around and slotting it in place, right where it belongs. Eddie has the passing thought that maybe he should feel a little bit like he’s failing, needing Buck to come help him assemble his own kid’s design; he doesn’t, though. There was a twinge of it–when he was sitting here alone, staring at the pieces laid out on the coffee table, trying to make sense of it all–but calling Buck never feels like admitting defeat. It hasn't for a long, long time. 

“Sorry to drag you over here. I’m sure you have better things to do on your 48 off,” Eddie says, not really meaning a word of it until–“Shit, you didn’t have plans with Natalia, did you?”

Buck looks away from the model pieces for the first time since he sat down, his gaze dropping into his lap. On his next inhale, his face cracks into a rueful smile Eddie’s seen too many times before. Maybe it's a little presumptuous to think he can read Buck’s insecurities in the tilt of his mouth, but Eddie’s pretty sure Buck can read him the same way.

“No, I, uh–” he stutters out, and Eddie wants to scream at the world for putting him through this, whatever it turns out to be this time, on top of everything else. “I think that’s probably over. Kameron showed up at my place while we were having dinner, and I had just had to tell her about Taylor, and we had run into Lucy the other night, and–I don’t know. Seemed like maybe it was too much for her.”

Seems like I was too much for her, Buck doesn’t say, but Eddie reads it in the wobble of his not-quite-right smile and the sadness behind his eyes.

“Anyways,” Buck says with a grin, a real one this time, “that’s why I was so glad you called.” 

Eddie’s heart doesn’t skip in his chest, because what the hell would that say about him? Buck barrels on, “Kameron showed up at the loft looking for a place to stay–don’t ask, she was freaking out so much she wasn’t speaking in full sentences; except, conveniently, to tell me she really needed pickles; but I don’t know what’s happening with her and Connor–and then passes out in my bed, so I was stuck on the couch, and it sucks, Eddie, it’s so uncomfortable.”

“Well,” Eddie replies smoothly, somehow–despite the fact that he’d barely registered the majority of Buck’s run-on sentence, still stuck on the way his own breath hitched when he thought Buck had meant he was glad Eddie asked him to come over because–not important. There’s a bigger task at hand. “Glad I can offer you mine, at least,” Eddie says, gesturing at the couch, “for the small price of helping me put my kid’s genius plans together.”

“Like I wouldn’t do that anyway,” and Buck’s smiling so wide as he props the last wall up, it makes Eddie’s chest ache. Why is his chest aching? 

“Task at hand,” Buck says, nodding down at the level’s four walls he’s holding in place, “where’s the glue?”

“Epoxy,” Eddie says, grabbing it off the table and uncapping it, bringing it down to the point where the balsa walls meet the plastic base they’re building on, “I ran into Marisol, that woman whose house we helped fix up last fall, at the hardware store. She said this one ‘works like magic.’” 

As Eddie draws the little tube around the base of the four walls, hands slipping under and around Buck’s while they hold them steady, Buck goes suspiciously silent. Eddie glances up at Buck hovering over him, where he's now leaning awkwardly over the table to reach the model where Buck had pulled it in front of himself. There’s a funny look on Buck’s face where it looks down at Eddie, and this time he can't quite interpret the emotion behind it.

“It’s not magic,” Buck says, a little more pointedly than Eddie would expect for his usually whimsical nature, “It’s chemistry. I read about it a few weeks ago, when Chris was building that model water molecule for his science class out of styrofoam–we didn’t know why super glue wasn’t working and I went down a rabbit hole–anyways, its,” and he inhales, for the first time since he started talking, “it thermosets, that’s why it’s so strong. It’s chemistry.”

Forged in fire, Eddie thinks, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.

[imlivinginyourtrashcan]

Request granted,tell me everything you have time to tell me about

Ok!!!! So the one thats been on my mind lately thars not exchanged, is a lab/scientist au.

Naven Nuknuk is the lead scientist and he uses his speech therapy program to trick Molly, Feenie and Trixie into becoming his test dummies. Hes successful and mashes the girls into a horrifying amalgamation; like this!

Yoomtah and Zora are his assistance, with Yoomtah being very NOT okay with what he's doing. Zoras indifferent cuz shes getting paid (in this au the events of the Museam arc didnt happen)

Lorelai (who actually cares about her sister in this au!!! WHAT?!?! OMG ITS UNHEARD OF!!!) starts getting the feeling somethings wrong and takes matters into her own hands, searching for the three girls until finding Giovanni (in this au theyre friends) and shes like "yo gio help me out" and hes like "bet, trix is my cousin don't want her getting hurt at all"

Then they go to thw police n are all "yo help us out" and theyre like "mehhh" cuz they dont think theyre serious (Yoomtah has been sending Lorelai clues and tidbits about where they are) but Percy takes it seriously n is like "ok bet gotchu" n sends a search party

Meanwhile Naven is testing on the poor girls and keeps em in a room with Rick (whos his test tube baby and essentially a human fish with sentience)

After a lot of gaps in plot; this happens:

Lorelai runs up to the door, banging on its metalic surface hard enough to injure herself. She pulls it back, shaking it aggressively,

"You okay???" Giovanni asks, peering over her shoulder in order to get a better look at her hand

"No!" Lorelai replies with the obvious, sucking her teeth in. "The doors bolted shut!"

She takes out her phone, pulling up the number that 'The Zinger' had been texting her with, scrambling to type with one hand

LORELAI:We r here ope door

LORELAI:*were

LORELAI:*open

LORELAI:Sort wridt hurts tryib to type wigh one hand

THE ZINGER: LMFAOOO did u try punching the door??

LORELAI: do n luagh at m

The Zinger sends a gif of a smug looking cat

THE ZINGER: Dokayyyyyyy

THE ZINGER: Sadly, naynay kept the outside door non elecy, so ur gonna hafta figure that out urself 😗😗✌️✌️

"Shit!" Lorelai half screamed

"What?" Giovanni asks

"The doors not electrical! Woulda been nice to know that EARLIER, Zinger!"

"Awh come on!"

Giovanni takes out his CRUEL CRIME CROWBAR, walking up to the door. He sets one foot in it, hooking the crowbar beneath the doors handles. Once hes locked it, he yanks it until the door loosens.

"Good thing I had this!" He says, giving the door a light kick as pay back for giving them trouble. He gestures for Lorelai to follow him inside, and they enter in together to see..

Naven..

He turns to face them, with a phone in his hands. Yoomtahs.

"My my my, how persistant the two of you are!" He sets the phone on the table, setting his hands firmly behind his back as he inches closer. "Its almost..."

He stops when he's face to face with Lorelai, creaking open his eyes. The smile on his face laced with hatred and mal-intent.

"Infuritating..."

He lifts his lanky body back from her gaze, his eyes falling closed. He turns away from them

"I'm afraid youre too late, however"

"Woah wah woah woah woah what- what do you mean??" Giovanni asks, his shoulders tensing. Naven lets out a small chuckle in response,

"Would you care to see?"

He begins to walk off, drawing in the uneasy curiosiry of Lorelai and Giovanni.

They stop outside of a room, which Naven opens with the keycard. Giovanni and Lorelai hear strained, pained moans from inside. Naven enters the room, the other two scuttling behind him like scared crabs. Theyre brought to a stop at what they see, a large mushed glue monster of what was once was a person. The faces of Molly, Feenie and Trixie sticking out, all wailing painfully.

Lorelai covers her mouth, eyes wider than saucers. Giovanni can barely speak, even though his mouth was opens.

Navens stands in front of the abomination.

"This is what I had been up to all this time, Isn't she beautiful?"

Lorelais shock morphed into rage, hands forming into fists. "What. Did you do?!"

"Something glorious..." he extends his arms, his pink eyes shooting open for the first time. His smile unhinged and manic, pupils the size of grapes. "ARENT YOU PROUD OF WHAT I'VE DONE?! ARENT YOU PROUD OF MY WORK! LOOK AT HER! GAZE INTO HER MANY EYES AND REVEL AT MY OWN CREATION!"

...

I may or may not have been inspo'd by ur pfp

[obsidiancreates]

What Makes Him Tick

One of the biggest questions Donnie always ends up having during a fight in a villain's lab is, where do they get all of their equipment and space?

Even Stockman had a giant vat of mutagen when Donnie can usually barely find it. But no, villains just always have endless resources.

Really, how did Vizioso even get a lab like this in a run-down hotel basement?

As if the whole getting-shot-in-the-chest-with-a-rocket ordeal wasn't enough, now he's sedated and being clamped to a lab table.

"I don't wanna wait for Doc Feral," Vizioso mumbles around a mouthful of food. "Do it now."

"Do what, now?" Donnie knows the answer. He knew the moment Vizioso's eyes light up at the sight of the crack in his plastron.

"What do you think, huh mutie?" Vizioso wipes his mouth with a soggy, stained napkin. "We're gonna cut ya open, see what make ya tick."

Donnie blinks sluggishly, the sedation drug making his mind feel heavy, turning thinking into a physical struggle. "You... you're going to-"

"Dissect you, yeah," one of the twin henchmen sneer.

The words roll around slowly in his mind, like they're sticking to glue traps as they make their way into his understanding. He finds himself mumbling, "Technically, it's vivisection when I'm still alive."

"Lookit that, we learned somethin' from the mutie blabbermouth," the other twin laughs. "Good to know, kid. Now the lab report will be accurate."

"We gonna do a lab report?"

"I'm makin' intimidation quips, back me up here."

"Wait." The full weight f the situation sinks in, and Donnie's heart starts racing. "Wait, if-if you hold on, a sec, I-I can give you an... an A+ presentation that... that explains how mutants work." He tries to tuck himself into his shell as he speaks, but the clamps on his limbs keep them firmly in place. As he swallows, he realizes there's even one around his neck.

"So you can skip the whole... vivisection, thing." He tries to laugh, but it comes out weak, like a whimper more than anything else. "Come on, I-I'm a kid, like you said."

"Yeah, but you're a mutie kid. Even worse, we know you freaks can reproduce." The first twin puts his knife to the crack in Donnie's plastron.

Donnie's breath catches. "I-I'm not a freak, I just- had a different start in life! Come on, I-I'm basically a normal person!"

"That's what disgusts me about you mutants," Vizioso spits, flecks of lamb flying out with the venomous words. He could at least swallow first, this lab is anything but sterile but still, the contamination of that... "You're walkin' around, pretending you belong in this world! Pretending you're anythin' other than disgusting mistakes! Playin' human!"

"A lot of us did start human!" Donnie's voice gets higher as he feels the knife point touch the skin under the plastron crack. "I-I can make retromutagen for the ones who want to be human again, I swear!"

"What about ones like you then, huh?" Vizioso leans over, and Donnie is forced to suck in the Don's breath as the knife peirces.

"You didn't start out human, huh?"

"N-no, but-"

"And I bet you wouldn't wanna be a turtle, now that you've gotta taste of the good life, huh?"

"I-I would prefer not to but-"

"So we're on the same page." Vizioso leans back. "Do it, boys."

"No, no no wait don't, no- AHHHH!"

The drugs don't dull it much.

He nearly passes out, his heart racing and head aching and the pain flaring and he's really not getting out of this one-

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY BROTHER!"

His vision's gone hazy, so his brothers are little more than green blurs, but it's them, undoubtedly. Donnie feels the knife ripped out of his abdomen and his entire body goes slack, all of the tension it held through the whole ordeal suddenly vanishing and leaving behind only a need to sleep.

"Donnie! Oh, come on, stay with us bro. Stay- ... L-Leo, Leo! They cut him open!"

"What?! Oh, no... it-it's okay Donnie, it's not that bad, we can- we can fix this."

"I don't know if he can hear you, man." Donnie's eye is pried open, when did it even close? Orange and green blurriness is all he sees, but it's a good sight, he thinks. "Donnie? Bro, can you hear us?"

He manages a weak nod.

"Okay, just- just stay awake!" Suddenly the restraints are gone, and Donnie is lifted off the table. Now it's red and green. "I'm so sorry, Donnie, I-I shouldn't have run off again, I-"

"Later, Raph. For now we need to get him home."

"Right, right. ... Leo, it's-"

"It's bad. I know. We need to move now."

They're moving, he thinks. He's not sure. The adrenaline that kept him awake is fading, and now the sedative is working at full strength.

"Keep your eyes open, bro! Hey, Sensei can fix him up, right?"

"Of course he can Mikey."

"How are we gonna stitch him up with his shell in the way though?"

"We'll just have to try our best. It's not like we can go to a doctor with this, so just... don't panic. We'll figure it out."

Can't go to a doctor.

Can't figure out how to do stitches.

Can't even know if his shell will heal.

Because they're freaks.

It sticks in Donnie's barely-functioning mind. Freaks.

"Leo, he's crying!"

"Just run faster! It'll be okay, Donnie, we're almost home!"

Freaks.

Mutants.

Mistakes.

"Don't fall asleep! Don't fall asleep on us!"

He really wishes he could do as Raph asks. But he loses what little consciousness he had, and sinks into dreamless darkness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Will his shell heal up, Sensei?"

"I do not know, Michelangelo. While Raphael's did not, you were all so small when it happened... it is impossible to say."

"I'm sure it will. He's tougher than we all give him credit for, right? ... Especially me."

"We shall see. For now, we must let him rest."

"What do we do about Vizioso, Sensi? He got away."

"That is a problem... for another time. For now, I do not want any of you to leave the lair for a while. We do not know how many more anti-mutant weapons he possesses."

"What?! Sit around?! He almost killed Donnie! I'm going to rips his stupid teeth out of-"

"Raph!"

"What, you don't want to beat him down for what he did?!"

"Of course I do, but that won't help anyone right now! This whole mess happened because of this exact attitude!"

"YOU-! ... You... Arh, you're right. ... So... what? We just... wait for him to wake up?"

"Yes. And when he does, we must be prepared for a long recovery."

"But... we've had worse, Sensei."

"Perhaps, Leonardo. But I fear his spirit has been wounded just as terribly as his body. Perhaps... even more so."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mutie.

Monster.

Freak.

Mistake.

Pretending.

FREAK

[ererokii]

AWKWHOIANLA NO ONE ASKED FOR THIS BUT I WANTED TO WRITE IT LMAKSNKSNJS

word count: 1.1k

Warnings: MONSTER FUCKING😭 oral ( f receiving) some overstim if you squint, some fluff. Characters are 18+. If you are uncomfortable with this, please avoid or block AOT SMUT/SNK SMUT, heavily unedited, sorry for typos

You’re nervous, exposed to prying eyes. Heat rushing to your cheeks, eyes averted from the humanoid in front of you. Your hands are resting on your thighs, feeling the body heat arise from the huge body, overheating you slightly.

This is so embarrassing, you think, listening to the quiet purrs and noises of nature around you. It’s quiet despite the sounds the creature is producing. Your heart is beating at an alarming rate, from the height of nervousness. Your gear was on the floor along with some other clothing.

The hands you sat on were rough and calloused, yet somehow gentle. The cold autumn breeze sent shivers up your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

In all honesty, when Eren first mentioned the idea, you thought Levi hit his head more than once and slammed him into the ground, that’s how insane you thought he was.

But no, he hasn’t. Perfectly fine and healthy, just an insane idea.

Wanting to eat you out in his titan form. My god what the hell was he thinking.

Eren nudges your arm slightly with his nose, a puff of air fanning your face that has you squinting your eyes.

In the darkness of night, no one surrounded you with the exception of wildlife and the noises they produced.

Testing went well prior to this. Hanji wanted to test out a new fighting style that had to do with hardening. After the success of the contraption, many new trials came about.

Like you told your superiors, you would follow them shortly after the experiment.

It’s been about ten minutes, and you’re sure they’re starting to wonder where you were at.

Is she shaking? Eren thinks as his eyes scan over your body once then twice, his cheeks heating up from the inside of his Titan when he stares a bit too long at your bare skin.

A purr like noise comes from him, gaining your attention as he nudges you once more, rubbing the tip of his nose against your thigh.

“I-I’m okay Eren,” you breathe out, meeting his gaze. “It’s just..high and..you know,” you smile sheepishly, shifting positions on his hands that are enclosed around you to keep you from falling backwards. “I’m..I’m ready now.”

His pointed ears twitch at your words, mouth hanging open slightly as you part your legs. The only things you had on was your shirt and uniform jacket, everything else was off.

Wow..she’s already so wet and I barely did anything to her, his eyes are trained on your glistening cunt, the light from the moon hitting down on you, illuminating you somehow. Your fingers dance down in between your thighs, your thumb rubbing small circles on your aching clit.

He catches the small moan that slips past your lips, small tingling sensations coursing through your veins. He’s too mesmerized to even move, captivated by your sultry movements that leave him speechless, literally and figuratively. Inside of his form, he could feel his pants tighten, wanting to be the one to touch you rather than you.

“S-stop staring at me like that and do something,” your voice travels through the air, reaching his ears. He can hear the strained moan coming from the source, your fingers rubbing at your entrance.

Okay Eren we got this..just don’t bite her..oh god what if I do bite her, the brunette is nervous, bringing you closer to his mouth. An animalistic growl grows in his throat as he opens his mouth, a wet muscle sticking out. Scared, Eren barely touches your clit with the tip of his tongue, experimenting before continuing.

The sticky rough texture brushes over your sensitive nerve, pleasure skyrocketing through your body from that one simple gesture. Your breath hitches when you make eye contact with him for a split second, giving him the go ahead to keep going by nodding.

It’s sticky yet extremely warm. Your fingers grab at nothing, digging your fingers into his rough skin, tip of his tongue licking a stripe down your cunt. Your slick connects from the muscle and in between your legs as he pulls away.

He exhales deeply before going back in, instead circling the tip around your hole. One of your hands immediately goes to your clit, fastening the pace of your hand.

Fuck this feels so good. Barely starting and he was already having you seeing stars. You can tell he’s getting more excited, his ministrations are becoming a bit faster, yet not enough to hurt you.

You open your mouth in a silent cry when he barely pushes the tip in, flicking it inside your spongy walls. It feels so weird, something so hot and huge piercing through your walls, you feel like you’re breaking apart.

Your eyes well up with tears, one of your hands going under your shirt as you squeeze one of your breasts, rolling and tugging a hardened nipple.

“God fuck,” you groan out the last syllable, head falling back as your breathing becomes uneven, chest and shoulders heaving. “Just like that please don’t stop.”

Your noises sound like sweet melodies to Eren’s ears. He retracts his tongue only for him to push back in slightly, groaning internally when you cry out his name. If only you could see yourself in his eyes, Christ you were a sight. A beautiful one at that.

If only that were me, fuck, Eren mutters, panting softly as some steam emits from the sides of his face.

Your hips have a mind of their own, bucking up into his relentless tongue fucking. Your eyes travel down your body, widening at the slight budge that appears in your lower abdomen.

Your slick is all over the inside of your thighs, his tongue only making more of a mess than it was before.

“Eren I’m going to cum,” you warn him in advance, feeling an itch that needs to be scratched, pressure forming in your stomach. The coil was tightening, muscles contracting as each second passed.

Come on baby, cum for me, Eren’s eyes shut as he relishes your taste on his tongue, enjoying every second he had you like this. He’s too much in his thoughts and doesn’t even realize you had come until an unknown substance lands in his nose.

He’s incredibly hard at the new found sight. Some hairs sticking to your forehead like glue, nipples protruding through your shirt as you rub yourself fast, sending the liquid everywhere.

His actions halt as he slowly pulls his tongue out. From the moon's light, the substance shines on his jaw as he licks it away, a purr emitting from his throat— he would definitely do it again if you were up to it.

You however were a different story. Your inner thighs became sticky, slick covering every inch of your lower body.

“Y-you..you’re messy, do you know that?” You ask with a small smile, speaking through pants. “Maybe one day we can try again..only if you’re up to it.”

Oh and he is. This will definitely be an occurrence.