#unsafe work practices

[samuuu-drawz]

‼️ NSFW ‼️

[scarycranegame]

laughing SO hard right now at the fact that my "for you" tab is just. quitting on me now that i've blacklisted the petplay/puppyplay tags.. its like tumblr is going "WHAT?? NOOOO I WAS SO SURE THAT YOU'D LIKE THAT :((("

(note: i still think people who are into pet/puppyplay are so cool and so sexy, it's just personally not my kinda thing :'D)

[pngblogafterdark]

A nsfw blog? One broken office chair please

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 28 - Denial

title: just one bite

fandom: secret life smp

cw: violence/gore, very unsafe/gross food practices, vomiting

~

Jimmy’s barely stepped out of the Cherry Blossoms’ Nether portal when—

“What? Hey—!”

Someone jumps on him from behind, shoving him almost to the ground. He staggers forward several steps, trying to toss them off—he catches a glimpse of red hair swinging in his face—

“Gem—” Jimmy grunts, shoving her backward against the edge of the portal. “Get—off—”

She growls in his ear, tearing at his shoulder (between his neck and his armor, a small patch covered by his shirt and usually his jacket, which he had shucked for his trip to the Nether) with her teeth, both hands occupied by holding onto him.

Her weight is heavy on his back, too heavy with how he’s still out of breath from dodging a ghast on his way to the portal, and he shoves back again and this time her grip loosens.

“Someone, help!” he shouts out of frustration, glancing around for anyone as he bucks, finally throwing Gem to the ground.

She scrambles up almost immediately, and for a moment, Jimmy’s certain she’ll jump him again (there’s a glint in her eye, something red that he really doesn’t like), but Scott comes sprinting out of a building, and Impulse comes down the hill from their tower, and Gem backs off, slowly wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Everything okay?” Scott asks, stopping at a safe distance away, keeping a suspicious eye on Gem. Gem moves closer to Impulse, and the two of them have some moment of communication—she nods toward Jimmy, gives Impulse a significant look. He nods back.

Jimmy huffs, clutching his chest. “Jeez, Gem, give a man a heart attack! She jumped me  on my way out of the portal!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have come through our portal,” Impulse suggests, voice . . . flat, less joke-y than Jimmy would have expected.

Right.

“Well, I’ll just be going,” Jimmy says loudly, backing away toward the stairs—

Only to get bumped into by another person, sprinting on past like they didn’t even notice him.

Bdubs makes a beeline for Gem, where he stops and she . . . nods, again, at Jimmy.

He looks back.

Bdubs is Red, now, Jimmy saw that pop up on his communicator, but when did he throw in with Gem?

And why is the look he’s giving Jimmy almost . . . hungry?

Jimmy doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like this one bit.

“Sorry, Jimmy,” Gem says, thoroughly unconvincingly, her voice devoid of emotion. “We’ll see you soon.”

And, erm.

That was.

“That was ominous,” Scott laughs nervously, and Jimmy has to agree.

Then he leaves, not quite turning his back on them.

There’s something strange going on there, no doubt. Probably best to let it be and focus on his own task.

When Jimmy gets back to Baxter (not back-to-back at Baxter, Martyn isn’t there and he really isn’t sure that he trusts Martyn, anyways, as the man is now the only Red and Jimmy thinks he might jump at the chance to make them both Red), he strips off his armor to replace his jacket and notices the tear in the shoulder of his shirt.

He frowns, tugs down the collar of his shirt, checks out his back in the tiny mirror that Martyn had found.

Okay, not bad. Where Gem had gotten him through his shirt, his skin is a little red, some small bruises sure to bloom soon enough. There’s a bit of blood with the fading imprint of Gem’s teeth, only two or three of them deep enough to actually pierce his skin.

Why on earth did Gem bite him? He can’t taste that good. What kind of task would she, a Yellow, have that would make her attack (and bite?) another Yellow?

Weird. It’s all weird.

Well, he has a minute, and he’s already at Baxter, so Jimmy pulls off his shirt and sets to fixing it up real quick, messy stitches pulling the hole closed.

That’s life. Sometimes your friends ambush you and bite your shoulder. Usually it’s their dog that bites you, of course, but sometimes they need to cut out the middle-man.

So really, Jimmy doesn’t pay it much mind. It doesn’t feel strange compared to some of the things he’s done in the past, honestly. Not normal, not necessarily, but not weird.

What possible bad effects could it even have, anyway?

-

“Timmy! Get in here!”

It’s that evening, and Jimmy was just stopping by the Roomies’ base to ask for a trade (his pickaxe just broke, he’s short one diamond to make another) only to find the place seemingly abandoned. He’d wandered around for a bit, knocking on doors and glancing about, but he’d finally assumed that nobody was home and decided to go try Pearl instead (though she did die earlier today, and he isn’t sure how amenable she’d be to trading).

But right as he was about to head out, a whispered shout got his attention.

Jimmy looks around again, frowning.

“Grian?” he asks uncertainly. “Are you here?”

A long sigh, and a couple of meters away, a trapdoor pops open, hidden by surrounding grass. Grian’s head pokes out, and he frantically waves Jimmy toward it.

“This isn’t suspicious at all,” Jimmy says. “Is this part of your task?”

“Forget the tasks, get in!”

Which is very unlike Grian.

So Jimmy lowers himself through the trapdoor, follows Grian down a ladder and then a thin, rough-hewn tunnel, then up another ladder until they come out . . . in the Roomies’ base.

“Why couldn’t we use the front door?”

“Trapped,” Cleo says shortly, coming down the stairs, Etho right behind her. “Grian? I thought you said that we weren’t letting anyone in?”

“It’s just Tim,” Grian waves her off. “We need someone we can use as bait.”

“Bait?!” Jimmy sputters, taking a careful step away from Grian. “I’m—I’m not bait! Bait for what?”

What’s with people and having tasks that seem to directly harm him?

Grian, Etho, and Cleo all make dark eye contact. Eye contact that Jimmy doesn’t trust, not one bit.

The front door’s trapped. He can try to go back the way he came, but he can’t get down a ladder faster than someone can drive a sword through him. His pick broke, so he can’t mine out.

“Have you noticed anything . . . weird . . . going on?” Grian asks after a moment, and Jimmy scoffs.

“Weird? Other than you luring me here to use as bait?”

“They’re zombies, Jimmy,” Etho says ominously, and Jimmy blinks.

“What’s zombies?” he asks, assuming they aren’t talking about normal zombies. Everybody knows that.

“The others,” says Grian. “Gem, Bdubs, Impulse, Pearl. We think it started with Gem—she killed Bdubs, right? Then Impulse. But—”

“She killed Pearl,” Cleo interrupts. “And I saw it. Tore her apart with her teeth.”

Jimmy’s stomach turns.

He’s not the biggest fan of violence, but he can get his hands dirty. Figuratively. He usually has to be at least a sword’s length from any death he causes, because he really isn’t a fan of blood and flesh and all that! It makes him queasy just to kill from a distance.

To imagine Gem, literally tearing into Pearl with her own teeth, blood and viscera dripping everywhere until Pearl eventually died in her arms?

Traumatizing.

Jimmy actually wants to vomit just thinking about it. He really doesn’t like gore.

The injury on his shoulder aches, just a little. He rubs it absently, trying to shake the horrible image from his mind. “So—so what makes them zombies?”

“They’re hunting,” Grian says. “Bdubs wasn’t allies with Gem, but now he won’t leave her side. Same with Pearl and Impulse. They’re all together, hunting every Green and Yellow left. They were after Scar, last I saw.”

“They look wrong,” Cleo frowns. “They’re stiff, and their eyes are . . . off.”

“They’re zombies,” Grian repeats, and Jimmy. . . .

Jimmy still doesn’t really believe them. Why—how would there be zombies?

“Sure,” he says, glancing back to the trapdoor. “Can I go now? I have a task, right, and—”

“It isn’t safe—”

“If you don’t want—”

“We need to find other people,” Etho says reasonably, silencing the other two. “Maybe Jimmy can go get Joel?”

“Or he can be bait,” Grian suggests again. Cleo nods.

“Well, now I don’t want to leave,” Jimmy mutters. “Prove that they’re zombies.”

“Right. Come with me,” Cleo says, pushing past Jimmy to head down the ladder.

Which is how Jimmy witnesses the hunt.

Cleo leads him across the map to the Secret Keeper, where they hide behind one of the boulders, poking their heads over just enough to see what happens. They make it there just in time for the hunt to cross past them.

It’s . . . disconcerting, if he says so himself. Four Players on horseback, chasing after Scar, who runs by, panting and exhausted, his hair damp with sweat. Scar climbs up the boulder they’re sheltering behind, shoots a couple of arrows at the pack that has stopped, waiting.

“C’mon, Scar,” Gem calls, and Jimmy hears it again. That odd emotionless quality, the feeling that, perhaps, she prefers not to speak. “You, of all people, will love it.”

“It’s right up your alley, Scar,” Pearl entices, and maybe it’s a trick of his ears, but she sounds the same way. Still Pearl, but . . . not-quite-right.

“No! No thanks!” Scar yells, voice jumpy and panicked and downright terrified. “I don’t want to join your little murder cult, thanks!”

He ducks as an arrow whizzes over his head, and Scar shrieks before running away again.

The pack follows.

Cleo stays frozen for another moment, head tilted slightly as she listens, presumably ensuring that they’ll be safe.

That. . . .

That wasn’t right. Like, Jimmy’s sure that he can justify it with relatively few mental gymnastics, but it wasn’t normal behavior.

“I need to get some stuff from my base,” he whispers, and Cleo shushes him, but doesn’t tell him no, so Jimmy scrambles down from the boulder and makes a break for Baxter.

What does he need? Some food, probably. A note for Martyn—hey M, zombies!!! bye -J—enough iron to craft up an iron pick if he never gets another diamond, a change of clothes, some other necessary survival-y things.

And when he leaves Baxter, he finds Cleo with Scar again, over at the Heart Foundation.

“Scar,” Cleo’s saying, looking down at him from a horse (when had she gotten a horse?) that seems to be very skittish around the quite new fire spreading up to the heart. That hadn’t been happening when he left. “Scar, the ones chasing you—”

It’s out of nowhere that Pearl and Gem ambush Scar, shooting at him as the man jumps away, fear fresh on his face—

Then Pearl leaps off her horse and sprints, faster than should be possible, diving into Scar and knocking him to the ground. Jimmy winces as the arrow in Scar’s back get twisted under her weight, but he barely has a moment to notice it before Pearl buries her teeth into Scar’s upper arm.

Scar screams, flailing, and Pearl pulls back, stringy flesh snapping free in a burst of blood, and goodness gracious Jimmy might throw up, his legs are trembling and his palms are all clammy—

Gem dives to Scar as well, and her teeth dig into his cheek—

A hand grabs the back of Jimmy’s shirt and he panics, kicking out blindly, he doesn’t want to die like that—but it’s just Cleo; she sits him in front of her on the horse and snaps the reins and off they ride.

Jimmy doesn’t watch. He doesn’t watch, but he can’t cover his ears. He can’t not-hear Scar’s warbling pleas for help, his agonized screams, the slow trail-off.

His communicator buzzes.

He doesn’t have to check it to know.

“I told you,” Cleo reminds him, and Jimmy swallows several times.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Jimmy manages.

“Not on me.”

-

That night, back in the new housing arrangement, Jimmy’s hand brushes against his own shoulder while changing and his breath vanishes from his chest.

No.

No.

If the zombies is a real thing, and Gem’s the one who started it—

Jimmy doesn’t look at the bite. He can’t. Well, he can—Grian has a mirror, but he won’t. He won’t look and see if it’s progressed.

His skin is a bit warm under his touch, though.

Probably just because he’s had his hand on it for so long. He just warmed up his skin, is all. He’s fine.

It still hurts. It still twinges when he presses on it, his shoulder aching just a bit, through and through.

He’ll be fine. They probably have to kill him, right? He’s fine.

Jimmy pulls on his nightshirt, careful that the collar doesn’t slide down in the back, and opens the door to the bedroom, before pulling the rough wool blanket off Grian’s bed and laying it out on the floor, where he’s decided to spend the night.

Goodness gracious. He didn’t expect this to happen this week.

“There’s five of them, then,” Grian says, walking in and stripping off his sweater, left in his white undershirt. He stretches, briefly flexes his muscles (defined by the hard work that comes with joining a new server) in the mirror before throwing himself onto the bed. “Great. I really wanted to have to worry about a zombie apocalypse on top of all my other problems, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy chuckles. “I’ve got a task to do, dude!”

“I’m just surprised they haven’t got you, yet. You’ve cheated death way too many times already.”

Jimmy doesn’t touch his shoulder. He doesn’t even think about it. “Yeah. Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?”

Grian groans. “Tim, I really don’t want to babysit you this week. I’ve already got a dishwasher to keep an eye on, I don’t need two responsibilities.” “You won’t even notice I’m here.”

“Right. You’d better not betray me after this. I gave up space in my bedroom for you.”

Jimmy would never betray him.

He hopes.

-

It’s day two, and Jimmy’s feeling . . . fine.

Which is a relief, honestly. He skips breakfast to go on a walk, the early morning fog not-quite-cleared, around the back of the base and up the hill, where he stops on the bed monument and sits, the sheets a bit damp from dew.

He slips off his pack, massages his shoulder as he looks out.

He’s not spent much time on this part of the map. It’s nice, different from where he’s set up. It’s very green here, plenty of trees and scurrying animals and whatnot. If he looks to the left, he can see a bit of the mesa, and he briefly hopes that Martyn’s doing all right.

Who is he kidding? Of course Martyn’s doing all right! It’s Martyn, he’s been Red for ages and fine the whole time. And it isn’t like he could even become a zombie—he’d just be out of the game, wouldn’t he?

Facing forward, he can see the Heart Foundation, a grey drab of smoke still hanging over the remains of their heart. Jimmy can see them down there, Tango cooking something up in their open-air kitchen, Skizz feeding their horses.

It’s quiet, this morning.

Jimmy likes the quiet. He really, truly does. He complains about it sometimes, and he’ll be the first to admit that he can get a little loud, but some of his favorite moments in the Southlands had been those nights on watch, just him looking out over the wall at the rest of the world, thinking fondly of the friends who trusted him to protect them.

They should set up a watch, shouldn’t they? Sure, they’ve trapped the entrance, but that won’t stop a dedicated Player by any means. Especially not a team of five of them.

Has Scott been recruited?

(By which he means, of course, has Gem pinned down her closest ally, tearing chunks out of his face as he begs and screams for mercy, her loyal zombies descending upon him like a pack of hungry wolves.)

He left his communicator inside, hasn’t checked it since last night.

Scott could be down. Joel could be. BigB. Not Tango or Skizz, he can see them. Not Martyn, Red as he is. Not Grian, Cleo, or Etho. Not him.

Not him.

Jimmy scrubs a hand down the stubble on his cheek, resolutely ignoring the soreness in his shoulder.

This is just a task. A task that's turning a concerning amount of people Red, but a task nonetheless. If the aim of the task is to change everyone into a zombie, then they'll either achieve it or the time will run out.

They have to survive a week, all told.

They can do that. Jimmy isn't great at surviving in the best of times, but he refuses to let himself die.

He refuses to become a zombie. It makes him want to vomit, even as he pushes his imagination away from the idea of biting down on one of his friends, chewing dripping mouthfuls of—

Jimmy swallows. Twice. He won't throw up.

Then, from behind—the crunching of bramble, footsteps through the woods—

Jimmy spins around, and Joel freezes, sword raised.

“Are you—?” Joel manages, voice rough. He doesn't finish his question. He doesn't need to.

Joel looks like he's been living in a nightmare. His hair is unbrushed, leaves and twigs stuck in it. His hoodie is missing, shirt is torn and fraying at the edges, one long thread trailing down to his mud-stained knees. The shadows under his eyes are deep and oily, his eyes just the tiniest bit red around the rims.

Jimmy shakes his head. “A—a zombie? No, I—are you—?”

Quick as a flash, Joel launches into him. Jimmy barely has time to put his hands up, to do anything, he didn’t bring a weapon with him like an idiot and now he’s going to die—

Joel knocks them both to the ground (Jimmy’s shoulder lands on a stone and a whimper of pain escapes his lips), entirely on top of him, his sword thrown to the side, and Jimmy doesn’t have time to protest because he knows with sickening certainty that Joel’s teeth are about to rip out his throat and it’ll be so gross.

Joel’s face is right in front of his, suddenly, and Jimmy swallows. His wide eyes are fixed on him, unable to leave his face.

Joel is very close. Far too close. Jimmy doesn’t struggle, terrified as he is (though his face warms, blood rushing to it).

Joel’s breath is hot against his nose, his chest heaving against Jimmy’s chest, and Joel grins, teeth shining with saliva, and leans in even further.

“Me neither,” he whispers, lips practically touching Jimmy’s cheek, before rolling off of Jimmy and onto the dirt.

Jimmy swallows again.

“You should’ve seen your face,” Joel laughs, sheathing his sword. “You absolutely thought I was going to eat you, didn’t you?”

Jimmy shakes his head (less as an answer, more as a way to dispel the embarrassing lack of thoughts). “I just—well, anyone could be—”

Joel just laughs again, then starts picking his way down the hill. “Is Etho all right, then? I imagine you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t someone here already.”

Jimmy rolls onto his side. He’d had bread in his backpack; hopefully it hasn’t been squished by his sudden slam to the ground.

He did not expect to get pinned by Joel when he woke up this morning.

And—not pinned, not—even if that’s what happened, it isn’t—

Right. No more thinking.

Jimmy rubs his shoulder, then follows Joel in.

-

It’s day three, and Jimmy definitely isn’t feeling quite right.

He’s fine, of course. He’s doing well, even. It’s really just the pressure of everything terrible that’s stopping him from feeling entirely perfect, and nothing else.

Martyn shows up around seven in the evening, and he stands outside of the barricaded wall built around the base with crossed arms as Grian looks down disdainfully from the top of the hill.

“I was Red last week, and you let me in,” Martyn shouts up at him. “It’s not fair! You can’t discriminate against me, just because I’m Red! I’ll file a report with . . . with somewhere, I’ll get you canceled!”

“The rules are clear,” Cleo calls down, standing beside Grian. Jimmy, up on the wall, grimaces an apology to Martyn. “No Reds.”

Martyn does the best impression of a kicked puppy that Jimmy’s ever seen, eyes huge and lip trembling.

“Please?” he asks, voice wavering. “I won’t do anything bad, promise!” “He’ll pee on everything,” Jimmy tells Etho beside him.

Etho raises an eyebrow.

Martyn ignores them. “Security wasn’t near this strict before,” he says, voice smoothly segueing into conspiratorial. “What’s with all the extra care? A couple of Yellows are feeling insecure?”

Cleo and Grian exchange a look. Joel, still working on reinforcing the wall, glances over.

“You . . . you know there’s zombies, right?” Grian asks slowly.

Martyn shrugs. “I mean, yeah? Every night. There always have been, I don’t know why this is news to you lot.”

“Other zombies,” Cleo clarifies. “There are. They’re becoming zombies.”

Martyn’s head tilts in confusion. “What’s becoming zombies? The horses? I thought that was established already.”

“No, it’s—it isn’t—”

“Is this someone’s task? Something to do with not seeing a single zombie all week?”

“Just let him believe that,” Grian says tiredly, as Cleo tries to continue explaining. “He’s immune, anyways. No real use trying.”

“Sorry,” Jimmy says, leaning over the wall.

Martyn clicks his tongue. “Timmy. What happened to the Big Dogs, huh?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you were gonna kill me this week. . . .”

“I would ne—well, I would do that, actually, can’t really blame you. Still, Baxter’s missing you. He gets lonely, up on that hill all by himself.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Sorry,” he says. Then, because he does feel a little bad about abandoning Martyn with barely any warning, adds, “I’ll be back next week, okay? It’s . . . part of my task.”

“Oh,” Martyn nods knowingly. “Infiltrate another alliance. All right, Tim, see you around!” He skips off, whistling a high-pitched tune, and Etho shakes his head and clambers down from the wall.

Cleo and Grian leave the hill, go inside through the secret tunnel, and Joel finishes up the part of the wall that he’s been working on and follows Etho in, and Jimmy’s alone on the wall, staring out after Martyn as he leaves.

He’s fine.

His hands are shaking.

“Jimmy, come get dinner,” Joel calls from inside the base, and Jimmy shouts back some sort of response but he doesn’t move.

They have to die to become a zombie, don’t they? His—it doesn’t count. He’s still alive, he’s still Yellow.

The aching pain in his shoulder doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a bruise. It’s a bruise that is taking a little too long to heal and that’s okay. It’s probably a bone bruise, honestly. That’s why it’s healing slowly. Bone bruises take forever.

He really, really doesn’t want to be a zombie. He hasn’t done anything for his task all week because all he can think about is this awful apocalypse. How on earth Grian’s managing to do whatever it is he’s doing with that Magma Cube is far beyond Jimmy.

He can’t die. If he dies, he might become one of them. Even if he only has the tiniest bit of zombie infection in his shoulder. If that’s even true. Which it isn’t. More likely, it’s just a normal injury that’s part and parcel of these games.

“Oh, Jimmy!”

Jimmy’s heart freezes in his chest.

At some point, his eyes had drifted down to his shoes, scuffed and dirty, but now he looks back up, dread sinking down his throat.

Scar, coming into view down the path, twirling a shining knife around (one that Jimmy knows, with horrid certainty, he won’t use). His voice is oddly flat, his pace somewhat jolting as he skips his way toward the wall. Behind him, on horseback, are Gem and Pearl. Impulse and Bdubs are nowhere to be seen—that gives them something of a better chance, at least.

But before Jimmy can feel any sort of relief over that, another group catches his eye—Tango, Skizz, BigB, all headed around the side toward the base.

Oh no.

No, they’re being flanked, aren’t they?

“Come on, Jimmy!” Gem yells. “You know you need to, let’s just hurry things up a bit!”

His tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth, his feet welded to the ground. They’re here, and this is going to prove once and for all that their defenses don’t work and then it’ll be a bloodbath and goodness gracious he wants to vomit just thinking about it—

“Hey! Leave them alone!” That’s Skizz’s voice, loud and spitting fire, storming over to stand between the zombies and the wall, and oh so they haven’t been turned, that makes things quite a bit better.

“H-Help!” Jimmy manages, given strength by the Heart Foundation’s stance, and they’re human and he can’t just abandon them, can he? “Grian! Joel! They’re here, help!”

He fumbles for his bow, leaning on the wall of the parapet—but his fingers feel weak and can’t quite grasp the string. He drops his arrow before he can fire it, and is he even allowed to fire it? He’s still on Yellow, after all—can he fire it?

His moral quandary is brought to an abrupt halt as Grian pops up from the tunnel, scaling the wall in a matter of seconds. He frowns down at the opposing groups below, then whistles sharply.

“BigB,” he says, and BigB, now beside Skizz, glances up.

“Oh, hey, G.”

Scar grins, his eyes glinting, and Jimmy takes a step back.

“What’s going on?”

Joel has shown up, pushing himself out of the ground, and Etho follows him, both already drawing weapons.

“They’re here,” says Grian grimly. Etho shrugs, stretches.

“Guess we’d better face them, then,” he says, resigned in an almost upbeat way.

“Is Scott with them?” Cleo asks, rolling out of the hole and onto the ground.

Grian hums. “Don’t see him.”

“We aren’t here for a little chat,” Impulse calls up to them. Pearl hums, practically drooling. “We’re hungry. You all get it, don’t you?”

Jimmy swallows. He does feel hungry—just a bit, in the pit of his stomach. But it’s probably because he only had a piece of bread for lunch and he hasn’t eaten anything for dinner yet. It isn’t—it’s not the same kind of hunger.

“Plenty of food on the server,” Grian says evenly. “If you wanted a lunch invite, you should’ve just asked.”

“Oh my gosh, they smell so good,” Scar stage-whispers, loud enough that Jimmy can clearly hear. “Can we please just go for them? I really want to sink my teeth into Etho.”

“Nobody move,” Grian throws behind himself, digging in his satchel. He turns his attention back to the intruders. “You’re out of luck, fellas! Nothing to see here. Nobody’s home, even!”

“Hey, uh, Grian?” Tango asks nervously. “You mind letting us in?”

“Don’t let Tango in!” objects Etho, striding toward the gate to get the man in his line of sight. “He died earlier, he’s one of them.”

“I—what? No, I’m—”

“Come on,” Pearl drawls, then everything is thrown into chaos.

Skizz lunges at the zombies, sword drawn, forcing Gem’s horse to stumble back and Pearl to slide down from her saddle, pulling out her axe. At the same time, Grian finds what he’s looking for and throws it at Scar—an Enderman spawn egg that cracks on the ground next to Scar, an Enderman folding up out of it.

And Etho, sudden panic choking his voice, says, “Oh—Grian, I looked at it—”

The Enderman vanishes with a vwoop, then reappears in the base, arms reaching out toward Etho—

Etho runs, shoving out the gate and across the thinning woods, Scar whoops and takes chase, Tango darts in through the now-open gate, and Jimmy leaps down from the wall and follows after Etho, the screaming Enderman, and Scar.

He isn’t sure what he intends to do—kill the Enderman? Stop Scar?—but he follows, struggling to get his sword out of its sheath.

“Get him, Scar!” Gem encourages, far too close, and Jimmy glances to his left to see her loping along on her horse, keeping easy pace with the train of runners.

She could kill him, no problem. She would just have to divert her course a little bit, slam an arrow into his chest, swing her sword as she galloped by.

The fact that she doesn’t is more disconcerting than anything.

Jimmy just keeps running, feet pounding against the ground, backpack bouncing on his back, air coming in gasps.

Etho is having a worse time of it—he’s dodging and weaving to try and keep away from the Enderman, but his detours mean that Scar is quickly closing the distance between them, his sword poised to strike.

Can Jimmy attack him if he tries to kill Etho?

Does he dare?

He can hear Etho’s heaving breaths, the stones on the beach of the lake scattering under his feet, and Etho’s sword clatters against those same stones as he tosses it to the side and splashes into the water, immediately slowed by the drag of water against his legs. Scar continues in after him, slashing out—the sword cuts across Etho’s arm, just missing his armor, and Etho grunts but keeps pushing until the water becomes deep enough to swim.

Jimmy slows to a stop as he approaches the beach, the burned Heart Foundation base a dark shape over the murky water. Etho’s trying to make it there, the water chopping loudly under his windmilling arms, but Scar strikes—

“Don’t—” Etho cries out, the sound half-drowned as his head sinks under the water—

And again—

And Scar takes a weakly struggling Etho and drags him up onto the Heart Foundation, ignoring his waterlogged coughs to straddle his legs and bite into his chest.

Jimmy does vomit this time.

He really, finally does, he falls to his knees on the rocks and just turns his insides out, hacking and coughing and trying not to hear Etho’s screams over his retches.

He fails.

He hears the flesh tearing from bone, squelches and creaks and horrible gurgling, and what’s even worse is that he can smell the blood.

He can smell Etho’s blood from here, where the stones dig into his knees and his vomit paints the ground—he can practically taste the coppery viscousness floating over on the air. It rests heavy on the back of his bile-flooded tongue; Jimmy bites the taste back (not swallowing it, not devouring it) and pushes himself to his feet, even as the last of Etho’s cries fall silent.

He couldn’t save him.

When Jimmy looks up, Gem is still there. Sitting on her horse, watching him.

She’s going to kill him, now. She’s going to lick her lips and leap for him, and Jimmy’s too shaky from puking to even think about defending himself.

She doesn’t move, though. She stays, and offers him a humorless smile, and raises an eyebrow.

“Ready?” she asks, and Jimmy isn’t sure how to respond.

Instead, he picks up Etho’s sword in the hand that isn’t holding his own and sprints back toward the base.

-

“I’ll be fine,” Joel reassures Grian, hitching his backpack higher up on his back. “They know I’m here, they’d never think I’d go back to my base.”

It’s the fourth day, and Joel is leaving for supplies.

Jimmy’s feeling. . . .

Well, he wouldn’t say that he’s doing well.

His entire arm is burning. All the way down to his fingertips, buzzy and painful and nauseating. He hasn’t eaten anything, his stomach churning near-constantly.

He’s been ignoring it for too long, but he doesn’t dare look at his shoulder in the mirror. He can feel it, feel the heat that radiates from it, how swollen it’s become.

He’s fine.

He’s fine, and he’s hungry, and he’s fine.

(He’s hungry, but the food that Grian cooks tastes like ash in his mouth, and his stomach is constantly rebelling, so he usually only manages a couple of mouthfuls before feeding the rest of the plate to Cleo’s dogs.)

(And Jimmy watches Joel go, and something in the pit of his stomach growls at the sight of his friend.)

Grian’s certain that the zombie curse is Gem’s task, that she has to turn everyone she can. If he’s right, then it should wear off when the new week starts.

Jimmy’s already made it four days. That’s over halfway through. He can do three more.

Joel, apparently, can’t.

It’s after lunch that day that their communicators buzz with a dreaded message. Joel’s fallen to Gem, which means he’s joined the zombie crew.

That leaves so few of them. Grian, Cleo. Skizz, Tango, BigB. Scott, presumably.

Jimmy.

Jimmy spends most of the day away from the others, gathering food in the surrounding woods. There isn’t much to scavenge, at this point—he finds some berries, an apple tree (nothing that looks remotely appealing). One of Cleo’s traps has a rabbit in it, but he doesn’t touch it.

The bloody fur and raw flesh is the first thing to look somewhat appetizing to him.

On second thought—

Before Jimmy realizes what he’s doing, he’s disabled the game trap and dug his teeth into the mangled fur of the rabbit, tearing into its flesh with wild abandon. His handkerchief of berries falls to the ground and he eats, congealed blood smearing onto his cheeks, it’s—but he barely manages three bites before he’s violently vomiting all over his hands and the carcass, dropping to his knees as his body spasms and rejects the horrid meal.

No. No, that’s—

There are probably bugs on it, maggots, even, he just started eating a dead, raw rabbit without even wanting it, and there’s fur caught in his teeth and his mouth tastes foul—

He has to get rid of the evidence.

He isn’t a zombie. He isn’t.

Jimmy picks up the remains of the carcass and starts sprinting, down to the lake, where he throws the rabbit as far as he can. It lands with a plosh in the water, sinking instantly, and Jimmy sticks his hands in the water as well, washing them of his vomit and the rabbit.

That was—

That was—

He feels shaky.

Of course he feels shaky, and it has nothing to do with his cravings. He hasn’t properly eaten anything in ages and he’s thrown up twice in the past two days, there’s nothing in his body to fuel him.

But how can he eat when nothing sits in his stomach?

He’s not going to become one of them, but if he starves himself it’ll be the same difference. He has to figure out a way to eat something. Something close enough to whatever it is he craves that it’ll stay down. And it has to be closer than a rabbit carcass, he thinks, shuddering.

He unstraps his waterskin and swishes some lukewarm water around in his mouth, spits onto the stony beach.

He’ll make it through this.

And he’ll get this horrid taste out of his mouth.

-

Cleo has a bucket of rotten flesh that she keeps outside the doghouse, used to feed her pets.

That’s where Jimmy gets his supper.

He feigns eating the porkchops that Tango serves, squirreling bites away in his napkin when no one’s looking. Then, when Cleo wakes him up for the second watch, he sneaks out to the doghouse and raids the bucket, taking whole handfuls of squishy, dripping flesh, flies buzzing away.

He eats it right there, leaning over the bucket, too hungry to be as disgusted as he wants to be. He stuffs fistfulls of stinking, green-tinged meat into his mouth, barely chewing as it slides wetly down his throat, landing in his stomach with a sensation that’s almost physical.

It isn’t quite what he wants, but it works. It doesn’t satisfy the craving, it doesn’t make his arm stop burning, but he starts to feel like he can think through the hunger again.

He stops himself before he can eat too much. It wouldn’t do to finally find something that’ll stay down, only to overstuff himself and get sick. And he can’t take enough that Cleo notices that her stock has depleted.

Jimmy washes his hands with a calm sort of detachedness, willing himself not to think of what he’s just done and how revolting it was. If he doesn’t think about it, he can ignore it.

And ignore it he does, until he’s patrolling up the hill, looking out over the server.

There’s someone out there, far off. Climbing around the Secret Keeper’s boulders. Martyn, hopefully. Martyn’s still out there kicking, somewhere, and Jimmy doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the zombies were up at this hour.

Then he freezes, every line of his body going stiff, as he feels something hard poke into the small of his back.

“Hey, babe. Been all right without me?”

Jimmy swallows, his throat gone dry.

The pressure on his back releases, and he turns around as slowly as he can manage, hands held up to show that he doesn’t have a weapon.

Joel’s there. Of course Joel is there. Jimmy had recognized his voice, flat and unaffected as it was.

His eyes glint dully with red, his skin pale in the moonlight. He sheathes his sword, sweeps back his dark hair.

Jimmy swallows again, the rotten flesh threatening to make a reappearance. Joel takes a step closer, his eyes boring into Jimmy.

“I—get out, I’ll wake the others—”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Jimmy clamps his mouth shut. Joel smirks, eyes lighting up.

“You are,” he says. “Gem told me you’re one of us. I didn’t believe her. How’ve you been hiding it this long?”

He’s not. He’s not hungry, he’s not one of them.

“You didn’t really eat much, though, did you?” Joel contemplates aloud. “I made you a sandwich yesterday, and you didn’t eat more than a bite. Are you really starving yourself over this?”

“I’m not starving,” protests Jimmy. “I’m—I’m fine.”

“When did you last eat?”

“I—half an hour ago.”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “So late? What, were you waiting to sneak raw meat? I’ve heard that raw pork is about as close to human flesh as you can get.”

“Rotten flesh is closer,” Jimmy argues, before he realizes what he’s just admitted. Joel chokes out a shocked laugh, just as flat as his voice.

“You—sorry, rotten flesh? Rotten flesh? Jimmy,” Joel says, voice dripping with astonished pity. “That’s probably the grossest thing I’ve ever heard. How could you—?”

“You don’t get it!” Jimmy bursts out, and now he can’t control the words spilling out of his mouth because he’s been on edge for days— “You don’t—I’m fighting every day! Nothing tastes good, I keep throwing up, my friends are dying all around me and then trying to kill my other friends, my arm hurts so bad—”

He cuts himself off, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. The rotten flesh had filled the gaping hole in his stomach momentarily, but the hunger is roaring again, stronger than ever. He can’t even think about it—just the idea of cannibalizing his friends makes him tremble in fear, but it seems so—

So—

“Jimmy.”

He shakes his head, eyes on the ground. “No. I don’t—”

“Just give in.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

Joel places a gentle finger under Jimmy’s chin (when did they get so close?), tilts his eyes up to meet his. Jimmy’s breath catches in his chest; he stares at Joel, lips trembling.

“Just let go,” Joel breathes, eyes fixed on Jimmy’s. “Don’t you want to be satisfied? After so long of denying yourself?”

Jimmy’s tongue darts out, wets his lips. As much as it disgusts him, he really, really doesn’t want to be hungry anymore.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. Perhaps it’s that, the fear of the pain, the fear of letting go, that’s been making him hold on so long.

Joel winces. “Yeah,” he says, voice still low. “It hurts. But after that . . . after that, it feels so good. Better than you can imagine.”

It does hurt, then.

If there’s anything that Jimmy doesn’t do, it’s pain. He hates pain almost as much as he hates violence and gore, getting anxious over the smallest anticipated harm.

He’ll hold out. The hunger hurts, but it’s a pain he knows.

“Think about it,” Joel says softly, his breath warming Jimmy’s lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

He slips away, into the darkness of the woods. Jimmy stands there a moment longer, chin still elevated, until he can no longer hear Joel’s footsteps heading away.

Then he falls to his knees and sobs.

-

It’s the fifth day, and Jimmy can barely breathe.

He can’t look at any of his friends without craving them, without longing to sink his teeth into their flesh, and it grosses him out but he can’t stop thinking about it.

Grian’s skin looks so soft, especially the skin right under his chin, above his adam’s apple. Jimmy watches it move as they eat, scrambled eggs that squirm their way down Jimmy’s throat and will surely come back up later. He keeps his eyes fixed on Grian’s throat, pretending that he’s chewing that instead of eggs, and the imagined sensation of blood and skin filling his mouth makes the food almost bearable.

It also makes his hunger that much worse, though, so he abandons the breakfast table as soon as possible, hurrying out to check the game traps.

His arm is useless, at this point. It hurts almost as much as the hunger, has become a chunk of deadweight at his side, heat branching out from him to spread to the rest of his body.

For far too long, Jimmy contemplates just cutting it off and eating it, but would that count? Would it count to eat his own flesh, or does it have to be someone new?

Also, then he’d probably bleed out and just die anyway. That wouldn’t be helpful.

He ends up digging in the bucket of rotten flesh after he pukes up the eggs, shoving the gooey, stinking flesh into his mouth, shuddering and gagging with each piece he forces himself to eat.

It isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, but he can’t. He isn’t one of them. He’s human.

He’s sweating all the time now. The heat from his arm has started burning away at his body, carrying an incurable fever. It’s like his body knows exactly what he’s resisting and is determined to make him suffer about it.

“Jimmy, you doing okay?” Tango asks later that day (evening, the sun beginning to set, Jimmy’s head pounding and his stomach growling every other minute), as they feed Cleo’s dogs. Tango turns the bucket over into the yard, frowns as only a small pile plops out.

“Yeah? Why? Why wouldn’t I be doing okay?”

Tango shrugs. “I dunno, man. You look like you’re coming down with something. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m—I’m great!” Jimmy blusters, tension flowing through his stomach in choppy waves. “I, I mean—maybe a bit warm, but—”

“Better than the zombies?” Tango quips with a grin.

Jimmy swallows. “Um. Yep.”

Maybe it’s speaking of them that summons them. Maybe they just can’t resist such succulent, intoxicating human flesh. Jimmy’s having enough of a hard time with it, and he isn’t even one of them.

But the zombies turn back up, jeering and chanting for them to come out and fight, and Jimmy heaves his chestplate on and picks up his sword to go meet them at the gates before remembering that someone should make sure they aren’t coming in from the back.

He pokes his head over the wall—Gem and Pearl and Impulse are there, but there’s no sign of Joel or Scar or Etho.

That can’t be good news.

“Grian,” Jimmy hisses, sidling over to where Grian is boredly listening to the zombies’ cries, his bow trained on them. “The back. Half of them aren’t even here, they might be coming in the back!”

Then, high on the air, a whistling sound—an arrow flying toward them—

Jimmy moves instinctively. He leaps onto Grian, pushing him down against the parapet, his nose buried into Grian’s soft hair, the hilt of the man’s sword jabbing into his stomach.

The arrow soars over them, landing somewhere on the other side of the wall—landing in Gem, if the answering scream has anything to do with it.

“Sorry! Sorry, I was aiming for Grian—”

Grian’s skin is so close to Jimmy’s mouth right now.

He goes still, breath catching in his chest. Wave after wave after wave of desperate hunger crashes into him.

He—

Then Grian pushes him off, and the moment is broken.

Right, right, Jimmy needs to get a hold of himself—

“Thanks,” Grian mutters, then rolls to his feet, turning his bow behind them.

Sure enough, Joel, Scar, and Etho are standing on top of their base, not far from where Jimmy had spoken to Joel just last night. Had that talk been Joel scouting out the area for a surprise attack? How could he have let it go on for so long without alerting anyone to Joel’s presence?

Joel—it looks like he smirks at Jimmy, though from this distance, it’s hard to tell. Jimmy turns away, raising his sword threateningly toward the zombies on the ground.

Down there, Gem is on the ground, trying to work an arrow out of her chest. Pearl and Impulse are beside her, swords raised against any further attack.

“Tango! Uh-oh, uh-oh—”

Skizz, on Grian’s other side, sprints past Jimmy, almost knocking him off the wall. He jumps off and runs toward the staircase up the hill, and Jimmy watches—Tango’s on the steps, fleeing the hill, panic in his eyes and an arrow in his shield—

Skizz doesn’t last long.

It’s mere moments before screams echo down the hill.

“Come on!” Grian yells, and Jimmy blindly follows him down and up the hill, joining Cleo and BigB already on their way. The four of them round the top of the staircase right as Joel pulls a bite of flesh away from Skizz’s arm with an awful ripping sound, blood spurting everywhere.

Grian leaps into action, forcing Etho to drop Skizz’s other arm and defend himself, even as Scar bites Skizz’s neck, blood quickly soaking Skizz’s shirt. Skizz screams and screams, free arm twitching up and back down, his lifeblood and chunks of flesh just falling to the ground as two zombies tear at him like they haven’t eaten in weeks—

Even as Cleo starts forward, Skizz’s tortured eyes roll back into his head and his body goes limp, dropping like a deadweight. Joel enjoys one more bite (and there’s something in his eyes, boring into Jimmy’s, something inviting and proud and gloating) before abandoning the body, running for the woods. Scar and Etho follow, Etho getting a good slash in on Grian’s upper arm before fleeing entirely.

Jimmy stares at Skizz’s remains, at how much red there is. Someone tore off his cheek before they got there, part of his jaw visible, redstained teeth eerily peering out at them. The air stinks with the scent of his blood, worse than any butcher’s shop, worse than any battlefield.

Jimmy’s stomach turns.

It always does. It always does, he can’t stand gore and violence, he can’t see it happen without bone-shaking terror and enough nausea to make a shipful of sailors hurl their guts over the railing, and right now is no different.

Jimmy collapses to his knees and pukes, two meals’ worth of rotten flesh coming up slimier than it had gone down.

-

“Timmy saved my life, really,” Grian says, slapping Jimmy hard on the back.

It’s the sixth day.

It’s the sixth day.

“Then puked on your shoes,” Cleo points out.

“Yeah, well. He knows I won’t forgive him for that, no use trying. But I think Scar’s arrow would’ve hit me off the wall if Tim hadn’t tackled me.”

“It’s good to have you on our side, Rancher,” Tango says proudly.

Jimmy doesn’t say a word.

He can’t open his mouth.

If he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to resist digging his teeth into Grian.

The man is right beside him, one heavy arm still weighing down his shoulders, and Jimmy is overly conscious of how close their cheeks are. He can’t think of anything but that, can’t think of anything at all except turning his head to attack Grian’s face, tear his skin from his flesh, eat and eat and eat until he can’t feel the starving fever that gnaws on his very bones.

It hurts so, so much.

He can’t continue like this.

If—a deal. A deal with himself. If Grian keeps holding on for ten more seconds, he’ll go for it. He’ll give in. He’ll finally give in. But if—if Grian lets go, then—

Before he can finish defining the deal in his feverish, disconnected thoughts, Grian hops away, off to the small kitchen in the corner, dishing up toast for everyone.

“Skizz will definitely come for me and BigB,” Tango says, taking one of the plates from the counter and sitting at the table. “This place isn’t working anymore—every time they get another one, they’ll just be one closer to totally overwhelming us.”

“So we need to hide,” nods Cleo.

“We need to get out of here,” Grian agrees. “I was thinking maybe the mesa? We can pay Martyn off to keep them distracted, maybe, and hide in the tunnels where we got the Warden.”

“Wouldn’t Etho want to check there?”

“Oh, right, that might be the first place. . . .”

“We could go to my backrooms,” BigB says.

“That sounds terrifying.”

“What? They’re totally normal!”

Sweat drips into Jimmy’s eyes.

The conversation blurs into background noise.

Grian’s not wearing any armor. Cleo already slapped on a chestplate, and Tango and BigB are fully kitted out, but Grian’s still just wearing his sweater and jeans.

He looks. . . .

His stomach is so empty. Jimmy’s stomach feels like it’s tearing itself apart. That’ll kill him. He’s starving.

Surely. . . .

Surely one bite won’t turn him into a zombie?

Just—just one bite, just something to ease the hunger pangs the slightest bit, something to tide him over until the end of the week. He won’t take any more than that, just that one bite, and then he’ll be quiet and do his job, he promises.

Just one bite, one bite of Grian’s mouthwatering flesh, surely he wouldn’t begrudge him one bite? Jimmy saved his life, after all. One bite won’t turn him into a zombie—after all, Jimmy was bit ages ago, and he’s fine!

One bite can’t hurt. It would just be to quell his shaking mind. He’s fine, he just needs one bite. Just one bite.

The sun coming through the window warms Grian’s cheek, a slight rose tinting his pale flesh as he laughs at something Cleo said. It looks delectable, melt-in-the-mouth, disgustingly delicious and it’s everything Jimmy needs, he just needs a little bit, just one bite, that’s all, just the cheek—or some other part, wherever is least inconvenient for Grian, wherever he wants it to be, just one bite—

“Don’t you think, Tim—”

Jimmy can’t hold himself back. He dives across the table with a crash that shakes the whole house, sending toast and plates flying, reaching for Grian, mouth already open—

“Jimmy!” “Hey, what—” He has to! None of them understand, he has to, Jimmy can’t survive any longer like this, he needs—he needs it—just one bite, he just needs a little bit, he just needs to tear Grian apart under his teeth, he needs blood and flesh in his mouth and sliding down his throat in satisfying chunks, he just needs—

Strong hands pull him back. Everyone is yelling, all around him, and Jimmy’s teeth snap down around nothing as Grian scrambles back, knocking his chair over and falling to the floor.

No, no no no, he just needs a bite—

“Just one bite,” he sobs desperately, tears streaming from his eyes as drool drips from his lips. “Please, any of you, just one—just one bite, I promise, I just need one, I’m so sorry—”

They don’t give it to him.

They want him to starve.

They pull him down hard into his chair, and Jimmy barely has time to struggle before they tie him down, heavy ropes pulled tight around his growling stomach and over his pounding heart. He writhes, tries to get at whoever is closest, but his mouth can’t quite reach anyone.

No, no, please! Please!

“Jimmy,” Tango says, and Jimmy manages to focus long enough on his face to see the shocked disappointment painting it. “Jimmy, how long?”

Jimmy takes in a shuddering breath, one that doesn’t fill the hole in his stomach. “Please,” he begs. He can’t take it anymore, he can’t, it hurts so much, he’s going to fall apart but he only needs a little bit to keep going! “Please, just one bite, please!”

“Of course!” Grian says angrily, tossing up his hands. “Of course it would be Tim, of course Timmy would hide that he got bit! You’re the person that everyone hates in zombie movies, Tim! You aren’t special, you moron!”

He doesn’t get close enough for Jimmy to even attempt to reach for, but his lips tremble as he stares at Grian’s flesh anyways, desperate for just a taste. He’s finally broken, he’s finally given in, but he doesn’t need much. Anything, please, anything.

They don’t give him anything.

They leave.

They leave, and they leave him there, and they show Jimmy Grian’s communicator—

<Grian> left you zombies a gift at the base

And he’s there alone.

Alone, shaking and starving, fever and pain radiating through him in waves, he just needed one bite. . . .

“Well. You know, we don’t usually have a taste for people like us, but. . . .” Joel smirks from the entrance, eyes fixated on the tears streaming down Jimmy’s face, at the reddened veins crawling up his neck from his useless arm, at the hunger etched deep into his fearful eyes.

Joel lunges for him, and Jimmy closes his eyes and hopes that he doesn’t throw up as he feels his stomach be literally torn open.

[hells-greatestdad]

"I should post NSFW pictures except it's me standing on my office chair for no reason"

[scarycranegame]

am i the only trans person who's not into puppyplay/petplay

note: this post was not made with the intent to shame others who are into that; every kink is a good kink as long as those involved are consenting adults

[pngblogafterdark]

pngs of people standing precariously on chairs 🥺🥺🥺

[mintchocolatechipisthebestflavor]

my manager is encouraging driving while high. hope that customer hits her with his car

[thepoetrytheorist]

If you love Disney, its parks, its media, and its merch, listen up.

So I work for Disneyland, and we are talking about striking very soon. So soon, in fact, that we've been hosting rallies just outside of the parks. Yesterday was the 69th birthday of Disneyland Anaheim... it was also a monumental rally.

I haven't seen anyone on tumblr talking about the impending strikes against Disney. Not even going through the Disney tags or searching tumblr for "Disneyland Strike."

Let's talk about why we're striking:

Cost of living in the immediate SoCal region is nearly 2x as much as we are getting paid.

Cast members that have worked for the company for long periods of time are still paid as mucha s new hires.

Disney has showed up to union negotiations with insulting offers, including at 25 cent raise. Most cast members make $19.90

Disney rarely schedules you. In some areas and departments, you are fighting with your fellow cast members for hours. I have heard of cast members who are only scheduled for 1 4-hour shift per week. Many of those cast members have upwards of an hour commute to and from work.

Disney Admin has told attractions castmembers [so: rides, rollercoasters, and anything fun you get to do and see at the parks] that we are losing them money, which is why they refuse to schedule us and pay us. In the words of my partner, who also works at the parks, Disney without attractions is an over glorified mall and a food court. Disney needs us, and they know it, but they do not respect us.

Disney has an unfair attendance policy. It can be very difficult to get a needed day off, even when it has been requested weeks or months in advance. When you do take a day off [with-out accrued sick or vacation time] it counts against you. You can have 3 a month, 6 in 90 days, 9 in 180 days, or 12 in a year. How do you accrue sick/vacation? Hours worked, which can be impossible with the scheduling practices mentioned above. (Most cast members trade shifts among themselves to get around this.)

Cast members feel unsafe and unsupported in the parks. Many cast members have felt threatened by entitled guests upset that they are following policy. Disney Leads and Managers have to say yes to these guests and make things happen, though. [Which only makes this behavior worse and more dangerous for cast members who are only doing their job.]

Cast members also report feeling threatened, or even being literally threatened, by management in the parks. Especially cast members who have a second job. Especially cast members who know their rights.

Further, cast members work in hazardous conditions with pay that does not reflect that. Many cast members report losses of hearing, sore throats, and severe back and shoulder pain. Cast members are also exposed to infectious diseases at a much higher rate.

https://www.sfgate.com/disneyland/article/union-button-contract-dispute-19515296.php?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR2u5o_mvU3i6jpIyHxBUZpEzD2GRSKFf5Pem4uRXqa6vKWDgZuffvINd1g_aem_AA1L0fI1phugJIluYMcDSw

[bogleech]

Animation unions are calling for a Laika boycott due to unsafe working conditions and sleazy hiring practices (like firing full time crew just to rehire as temps for less pay and benefits), apparently they also take the Amazon approach of treating workers like inhuman machines.

[scarletwix]

Shout out to the person who is going through a specific fandom tag and reminded me of the exact day I put a hole through my thumb with a nail gun 👍

[gaysindistress]

Things that I feel like would happen when you’re in a relationship with Simon Riley.

Simon Riley masterlist

1. First off he hates the word ‘boyfriend’.

Maybe it’s because he’s in his mid thirties or something but he can’t stand being called your boyfriend. He’s more than that but also not at the same time. You live together, have access to each other’s bank accounts (which is only because he hates it when you try to fight him about him giving you money), and you’re each others emergency contact. He thinks of himself as your husband. The man wears a silicone ring when he’s home and a necklace with the ring that’s totally not a wedding band when he’s working. Price has seen the chain once or twice and smirks, shooting him a knowing look but never says a word.

Simon cannot stand it when people get nosy and want to know what your relationship status is. You’re together and that’s all that matters. No one needs to know that you’re the beneficiary of his will and life insurance policy or that he’s put you on all of his accounts. No one needs to know that he buys you anything you want but has only ever bought you two rings; a thin gold band with a flower engraved on it and its twin a matching emerald ring. No one needs to know that when he gifted them to you, there were tears and promises of safety, love, and happiness whispered against feverish skin. No one needs to know that he has your name woven into his chest tattoo.

No one needs to know any of that because your relationship is between him and you only.

2. You are not some submissive little house wife. You are a strong independent woman and he prefers it that way.

I know this one goes against what most people say but hear me out on this. Simon has been independent since birth practically. He’s only had himself to count on for years. Even in the military, he’s only been able to rely himself. Sure the others watch out for him but if it came down to it, he’s the only one who’s going to get himself out alive.

The thought of someone else relying on him in that way is terrifying. He can’t even fathom what it would be like to look at another person and fully trust them in that way. Half the time he feels like he can’t even be trusted to take care of himself let alone another human. In theory a sweet docile housewife is great with the meals and clean house but not for him. He needs to know that you can hold your own. He needs to know that you can be independent and carry on without him if something happened while he was working. He needs to know that you will be okay if he doesn’t come back.

You have to be okay without him no matter how much it pains him to think about it.

Like I said before, he’s made you the beneficiary of everything so he knows you’ll be set financially but that’s not enough. He’s made Price promise to keep an eye out for you. He’s made you promise to let Price do that and you agreed because it’s Simon who’s asking but you’d tell anyone else to fuck off.

In addition to all of that, he’s installed the best security system the government has to offer in your house. You have a very expensive and large safe in your shared closet that he’s instructed you to only open if you feel unsafe. While you might not like it, you agree to go shooting with him so he can sleep at night knowing that you could protect yourself if he’s not home. He’s gone as far as to make sure you have all of the licenses and certificates that are needed to legally own firearms in the UK.

He’s not leaving any opportunity for you to be vulnerable or have your ‘safety checks’, as he calls them, taken away.

3. Simon Riley is a godless man…until he meets you.

Now this is entirely my own headcannon with no evidence to support it so bear with me.

Simon had a shitty childhood where his mom would pray to a god who never listened and his dad would shout verses at him when he was drunk. God was a mythical figure that he was told stories off with nothing to show for it. He did believe at one point but then his dad never got better, his mom wore bruises of every shade, and his brother found comfort in drugs.

He found himself praying when he was being tortured by the Mexican cartel. Between the flashbacks of his abusive past, he prayed to a god who had failed him so many times before to help him. He prayed again as he dug himself out of that Texas grave with the major’s jaw bone. He wailed his prayers when he found his family executed after Sparks tried to kill him.

After that he deemed himself a Godless man. Years of praying had passed with nothing. This god had decided that Simon was not worthy of a miracle so why would he continue to worship him?

That was until he met you. He finds himself praying before every mission, every time he has to leave you, every time he’s on his way home, and just about any other time he thinks of you. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s praying for other than for you to be there when he gets back.

He whispers his prayers to an absent god against your skin as he worships your body, soul, and heart. He promises to be devoted to you until his last breath and vows to find you again in whatever afterlife awaits you. He pledges to find solace in you and only you when his haunting nightmares return. He makes an oath to your heart that it will never weather another storm alone again for his will take whatever beating that comes your way. He shows you that he will love you in the same manner as a Hozier song; putting you above all else because you have become his religion, his faith, his beliefs, his life.

You have become all that he is and he thanks the god he once believed in for you. He prays again but to you, his heart, his love, and his beacon through the enteral storm of life.

[toxicanonymity]

Power nap, 18+

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x f!Reader | LENGTH: 2100 words NOTES: inspired by this gif by @iamasaddie and this post by @millers-girl555 Tommy is single and thicc. You're neighbors. WARNINGS: 18+ unsafe sex, dirty talk, tummy grinding, daddy kink. Tommy Miller Masterlist | Main Masterlist

After splitting wood, Tommy calls it a day. He gets home out of breath, chest heaving, wiping his forehead with the back of his forearm.  He opens the fridge and bends down with a grunt to reach for a tall can of beer and sighs as he stands back up.

He dwells in the cool air for a moment before closing the fridge door.  Still sweating buckets, he rests back against the counter and rolls the cool can against his neck for a moment before cracking it open and taking a sip. Before he knows it, he's chugged nearly the whole can. Might as well finish it off and grab a fresh one before he leaves the kitchen. 

He settles in on the couch, cracks open the fresh beer, and puts his feet up. Takes two big gulps before setting it down. He partly catches a belch in his mouth and after letting the air escape his cheeks, mumbles "scuse me," to no one. Once he's settled in, he doesn't wanna get up. He bridges his hips to empty his pockets, reaching into the ever tightening denim to take out his wallet and work keys. 

That's better. 

He unbuckles his belt while he's at it and scratches where it was digging into the under curve of his lower belly.  He unbuttons his jeans. Much better. 

He's real comfy now, and he's dead tired. So tired he falls asleep. 

It's the kind of nap where you slip into a deep sleep right away and sleep like a baby. He doesn't even hear his neighbor knock on the door forty minutes later.

When he doesn't answer, you assume he isn't home. That's okay, you know where his spare key is, and you're supposed to leave the power drill he lent you on the table inside if he isn't there. You come in and shut the door behind you and hear something mumbled from the next room, and the click of metal.

Shit.

"It's me," you announce, and round the corner to see the barrel of Tommy's gun pointed at you. He's leaned forward, alert, legs spread wide. "I come in peace," you add.

"God damn," he sighs in relief and lowers the gun. "Shit, reckon i must'a dozed off..."

He puts the gun down, rubs his eyes, and relaxes back into the couch. His undershirt has ridden up, exposing a mouth-watering slice of his belly, garnished with his light happy trail and framed by his unbuckled belt and unzipped pants.

It isn't until he follows your eyes that he realizes the state he's in and tugs down his undershirt. The room is dim, it's just after sunset, but you can practically feel him blush as he mumbles something like, "Gimme a sec, darlin'," turning slightly away from you and  leaning back to suck in and button his jeans.  

Fuck, he's hot.

Something possesses you to say, "Don't."

He chuckles, still tugging at his jeans, and glances nervously at you. He has to do a double take at your face when he sees the look in your eye. He drops the denim

"It's a good look for you," you tease him, enjoying a surge of confidence from finding him in a vulnerable position.

You've had a crush on him for a while, and got the feeling he might be into you too, but he never made a move. You never had the courage to, either. Never felt like it was your place, until now.

You step forward and repeat, "Stop."

He abandons the chore of buttoning his jeans, instead leaving them unzipped as he slowly sinks back into the couch, watching you approach. His stomach rises and falls with his breath, heart racing from the scare of being woken up.

Your own heart is pounding with adrenaline as he watches you set the tool on his table. You're just gonna go for it. You reach for your own jeans and flick the button open.

His lips part, and his eyes are captivated as your pants drop to his living room floor.

He wonders if he's dreaming. He mutters your name, and it comes out as a question.

You pause with your thumbs hooked into your panties. “Tommy?” You respond.

“Careful now,” he warns.

“Why’s that?” You ask.

A clock on the wall seems to tick slower as you wait for his response.

He wets his bottom lip and says, “One more step, I’ll have you flat on that table.”

“Is that a promise?” You ask.

He chuckles and adjusts himself, easing into the dynamic. “Sounds like you wanna find out,” he says.

“Well, I’m in no hurry to,” you muse, and turn around, giving him a 360 view.  You press your hands below your butt cheeks, giving him a lifted view, then let them drop.

He lets out a low whistle. “God damn, sugar.” He rubs himself over his jeans. “Look at all that ass…C’mere.”

You make him wait for it, treating him to a little strip tease. Heart racing despite your cool demeanor. Your hands run over your curves and you watch his eyes devour every inch of you.  You rub yourself over your panties, and he moans out loud.

“Yeah, come to papa.”

Each tick of the clock, each pump of his heart, has more blood rushing to his loins, stiffening his cock with an aching need to be in you.

By the time you drop your panties, they’re soaked.

His gaze settles between your legs, where your hand glides down your mound, down, and your fingers slide through your slippery slit, bringing slick forward to your clit.

Without taking his eyes off your cunt, he pulls his boxers down, and his cock springs free, smacking heavily against his belly.

At a low volume, you tease, "Just like that, huh?"

And his eyes meet yours to answer, "what'd I tell ya?"

He squeezes his cock, then puts both hands on the couch to scoot forward and his belly swells forward, forcing his cock down and toward you, but no less stiff or aching with the change in position. He lifts his ass to pull down his jeans and boxers and kicks them aside.  "C'mere," he commands.

You haven't even given him the titty show yet, but you obey and close the distance. Once you're in reach, he grabs the backs of your thighs, hurrying you into straddling him.

He takes off your shirt as soon as you're in his space and tosses it over to your pants on the floor. The tip of his cock nudges your mound as he takes your tit in his mouth and sucks your nipple. He pulls you closer against him and your hips seek pressure against his belly.

He moans into your tit and you grind against him, struck by an aching need when his weeping cock-head grazes your clit. You gasp and repeat the motion, with his fat tip peeking out between his lap and belly, rubbing against your throbbing clit with each rock of your hips. 

He unlatches from your tit with a wet smack and breathes, “oh, fuck, i gotta have ya right here.”  He flattens his back against the back of the sofa, stretching his middle out, making room for you. The apex of your folds, wet with slick, presses into his soft stomach as he holds his cock for you. The dripping mouth of your cunt finds his swollen, leaky tip. You sink down on his thick shaft, and he pulls you down with a moan, back still flattened against the sofa-back as though exhausted by sheer arousal. 

His spine arches and he thrusts upward, fully seating himself in your warmth. 

You throb and pant and whisper, "fuck," as your insides swell and sweat around his rock-hard girth. “Fuck, you're big,” you gush, full of his cock, mound pressed against his belly. 

“Yeah, you like big Tommy?” He asks, Watching you darkly, hands on your hips as you ride him. His hips move under you, rocking his cock in your cunt. “Fuck, you can take it, too.”

You ride him slow, grinding against his middle.

“Yeah, take that cock,” he murmurs. “Take that big cock. Mmm…. Just like ya always wanted.” He bites his lip and his hands guide your rhythm. “Mm yeah,” he breathes, swollen shaft fully buried in your pussy. “Yeah, good girl.” 

He begins to sit up a little, groaning “ohhh,” and holding your body against his for leverage. “Ugh,” his middle swells against yours as he pulls himself up, tensing his core, making his cock move inside you. “Yeah, good girl.”

With one massive arm wrapped around you,  his other hand lifts your breast, feeding himself your nipple. “Mmm,” he moans into your breast and your walls flutter. You slot your fingers into his hair. He releases your breast and sighs, “Fuck, sugar…hang on for me. Hang on tight”

He rocks forward, nudging a special spot inside you as the power of his meaty quads forces him to his feet with a grunt. You wrap your legs around him and he carries you a few steps to the table before setting you down on the edge. 

“Down,” his hand gently pushes your chest and you lean back on your elbows, admiring his solid form, glistening and heaving. His neck vein bulges. His eyes pan over your body. “Look at you, buck naked, legs spread… yeah,” he pants, and with his hands on your thighs, he pushes his hips forward, bottoming out deeper, making your head tilt back with a muttered, “Fuck.” 

“That’s my girl,” he nods, staying seated fully inside, rocking his hips. 

The rub of his paunch against your clit has your neck all tense, your brows knitting together, tension pulling in your gut, begging for release. 

Thrust by thrust, he’s rougher, faster, his hair is damp. “Yeah,” he pants, “oh, yeah, c’mon baby, come on big Tommy’s cock.” 

He leans forward and his gold chain swings as he fucks you. The table creaks with the rhythm. 

Closer and closer, you whine with the tension pulling tight, tighter, so tight. 

“Yeah, that’s right, c’mon,” he encourages, “oh fuck,” he breaths, “c’mon baby, milk daddy’s cock, take it baby, take it.” 

Your spine arches and the tension snaps, “Fuck, daddy,” you whimper, “oh god,” clenching on his cock, relief tearing through you in waves, stinging your eyes with tears.  

“There it is,” he pants, fucking you through it, then slams his hips forward and groans, “Ugghhh” as his cock throbs in your cunt. Each twitch of him is fully felt as your own climax wanes. He drains himself in you, then his eyes pan down your body, admiring the scene. 

“How long we been neighbors?” he asks. 

You let out a weak laugh and rest flat on your back, look up at the ceiling, catching your breath. “Long enough,” you answer. 

“Yeah, I’ll say.” His cock slides out and he mutters, ”Oops,” to himself, then uses the tip of his cock to catch what’s trickling out of your cunt and push it back in.

“I was gonna spread those pretty legs one of these days,” he says as he pulls out again. “All the better you spread’em yourself though.”  He chuckles with a slight smile. He sighs and looks at you with kind eyes, making sure you know he’s just being nasty. 

You bite your lip and tilt your head, checking him out, then you close your legs as you sit up. 

He puts on his boxers and picks up your clothes. 

“Just like that,” you observe. 

“Oh, you’re stayin’ over, by the way,” he clarifies. “But we gotta go see Joel first.” He looks at his watch. “While it’s still visting hours.” 

“How’s he doing?” you ask. 

“In good spirits,” Tommy says. “He’ll get a kick outta this.” 

“Out of what?” you laugh. 

“Me bringin’ ya by all fucked out,” he smiles to himself. “Said he’d fuck you himself if I didn’t get to it.” 

Your breath hitches and your eyes widen. 

“He’d prolly do it too,” Tommy says, and pulls his shirt over his head, and tugs it down over his stomach. “Don’t need him bustin’ any stitches though.” 

When you’ve put your shirt on, he steps toward you and brushes your temple with his thumb as he admires your face. “Starvin’,” he mutters. “You eat yet?” 

“No,” you answer. 

“Alright, that’s stop number 2.”  He helps you off the table. 

“Just gonna take me all around jackson, all fucked out?” you ask. 

“Yeah, pretend you don’t like it,” he says with a wink. "c'mon." 

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Bonus imagine 100 words

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Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please let me know <3333

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - non/con, unbalanced power dynamics, obsessive/possessive behavior, and manipulation.

Guard Dog!Nanami, who's the best security you could possibly ask for. You've been told that hybrids aren't very good for protection, that you'd be better off just getting a regular dog or, better yet, not living alone in one of the sketchier neighborhoods of a notoriously unsafe city, but those people haven't meant your Kento. Stern, stoic, and loyal - he keeps you safe, helps around the house, and doesn't need (or want, for that matter) half of the attention a normal dog would need. Really, it's more like having a personal bodyguard than a pet. You're sure he'd prefer if it if you treated him more like the former than the latter, too.

Guard Dog!Nanami, who'd practically be human if it wasn't for the adorably pointed ears on top of his head, the wiry tail at the base of his spine, and the dull canines you sometimes catch a glimpse of during one of his rare smiles. It's clear that he doesn't consider himself to be like most hybrids, so you do your best to treat him like a roommate - giving him his space, making sure he has his privacy, constantly resisting the urge to run your hands through his hair and apologizing profusely when you inevitably fail. He claims he doesn't mind, not if it's you, but you've seen the way his lips curl when strangers so much as approach him, how he rolls his eyes when he sees other hybrids sitting on their owners' laps or begging for treats. You're not eager to get on his bad side, even if you do occasionally catch him slipping into your bed in the middle of the night.

Guard Dog!Nanami, who's mistaken for your boyfriend at least once a week. It's your own fault, really. He likes to walk you to work, run errands while you're away, all the things a stay-at-home boyfriend would usually do if he were as loving and as attentive as Nanami. It's always embarrassing, even if all you have to do is nod to one of his less-than-human features to clear up the misunderstanding. Still, it happens so often, and you're not proud to admit that from time to time, you don't have the energy to do anything but smile and nod when your elderly neighbor compliments the 'hunk of a man' living with you.

Guard Dog!Nanami, who's less naturally protective than you think he is. He's concerned with your safety, of course, but that's not a privilege that extends to the male coworkers he catches with a hand on the small of your back, to the friends who drag you out of your shared apartment and don't bring you back until the early hours of the morning. He spends more nights than he's proud of standing outside of your bedroom door, listening for any signs of life, waiting for an intruder, or a nightmare - any excuse to cross that unspoken boundary. It'd be more practical to spend his nights on the foot of your bed like every other drooling, filthy mutt hybrid, but that's not the kind of relationship he wants to have with you. Not if you have to think of him as a dog to get there.

Guard Dog!Nanami, who has to fuck his fist three times a day to offset his humiliating instincts. He tried for complete abstinence at first, not to think about you in that context at all, but there's only so many hours of his day he can spend with his knot pressed into his stomach, his cock twitching every time you bend over or brush against him. Still, it's far from a long-term solution. How could it be, when he still cums untouched every time you scratch the base of his ears?

Guard Dog!Nanami, who volunteers to take care of your household chores so he'll have an excuse to root through your laundry while you're away. He's surprised you haven't noticed just how much of your underwear mysteriously vanishes with every load, but even if you were less oblivious, he'd rather you be suspicious of him than ever find the hoard of tattered, stained, ruined fabric he keeps underneath his mattress.

Guard Dog!Nanami, who knows this can't go on for much longer. He loves you, and he respects you, and he knows that you'll never really see him as anything more than a pet, but he's can't seem to bring himself to see you as a master. And, when he's walking you home late at night after yet another unplanned bar crawl, when he's listening to you whine half-coherently about how hard it is to live with a hybrid that's so close to human, he may pass a darkened alleyway and listen to the long-buried, animalistic mind urging Nanami to claim what belongs to him.

Guard Dog!Nanami, who knows that you'll never make a very good master and he'll never make a very good pet. But, that doesn't mean he can't hope that you'll both be better off after your roles are reversed.

[obeymeluv]

Being Clever with the Fae (Malleus x Reader, Lilia x Reader, Sebek x Reader)

Pre-established relationship implied. You tell the Diasomnia boys that your world planned for ways to outsmart faes. You pull your trick but you're not sure who won.

Warning: Pepaw Bat's gets a little spicy so be careful.

I'm taking liberties with Sebek's part because he's a neutral for me and I don't know that much about him.

You and Malleus had talked about fae folklore more than once. He was delighted to know fae had something of a presence in your world but was wildly horrified at the misinformation. Out of everything you told him, only a handful were correct:

Don't give your name unless you trust that fae because names have power

Iron will hurt some fae but not all. Iron is more harmful to nocturnal fae than day fae.

Being rude to fae may be the end of you altogether

Partaking in fae food means you open yourself up for a wager

Yes, fae like to play tricks. Expect them and be wary.

Stepping into a fairy circle will summon the fairy who made it.

Just about everything else was wrong. That's why he and Lilia were teaching you what not to do if you came upon the various fae in Twisted Wonderland. Thus far you'd only managed to memorize what herbs kept smaller creatures at bay and how to curry the favor of the various faeries that helped out at NRC. Your current assignment from Lilia was filling out a map of different fae territories and classifying them as 'safe' for humans or 'unsafe'. Each territory had a tree they would love to craft from or loathed to be near and you were expected to know that, too.

Strange stuff but apparently it was important.

They liked to break up the bigger chunks of information with smaller, digestible things like etiquette so it felt more manageable. Malleus was currently instructing you on how to part from a fae in a formal setting as to not incur their wrath.

"Again, Child of Man," he's bowed down until eye level with you, one hand holding yours.

"Light shake, eye contact, nod, slide foot back, squeeze the hand, turn." he's parroting your motions until you turn away. He, instead, draws himself to his full height and observes as you pretend to walk away.

"Excellent," he nods. "But ensure you don't slouch while leaving. It will make some feel as if you don't hold them in high regard."

"That's so--" you roll your eyes. He simply lifts his brow as if to question your mild frustration. You puff your cheeks out and he laughs.

"We can be a bit particular." he agrees.

"To a fault." you smirk.

"Oh?" he's intrigued, eyes twinkling.

"Yeah," you smile. "In my world the fae were known for being literal with their word so you always had to keep something clever in reserve."

"Do tell," Malleus' grin goes from practiced and polite to genuine. A hint of fang shows.

"It's kind of specific though. Depends on that old joke about fae wanting to come for the first born."

"That's not really a joke," Malleus crossed his arms. You can't tell if he's offended or not. "We like the younglings. We're always looking to bring more around to the fae ways. In fact, fae make fantastic guardians because--"

He had a lot to say and you felt the beginnings of a lecture creep up. In some way you felt like you were in trouble. To save yourself, you said, "Just pretend. Then I can show you what we do."

Malleus pretended to make a deal with you. It looked a bit intimidating and official with the magic pulsing in the rickety floorboards of Ramshackle. They were groaning. Shadows danced along his face as pieces of his signature thorned briar wove around your joined hands. "In exchange for the repairs around Ramshackle, you will give your firstborn to me."

You pull him in, his green eyes searching curiously for any hint of what's to come. "Sure! How soon do you want to start working on that? Or do you want to wait a little while?"

All at once the floorboards fell quite. The hum of magic died with a rattle that broke the briar into tiny pieces. A few fell at your feet, the others shooting off into various directions.

Oh. Did he not understand? You thought it was clever! Maybe he was too sheltered to--

His laugh is kind of a snort at first but then you hear it honest and lilting. The hand holding yours slides up your arm and snakes around your waist. You're lifted until your hands find purchase on his shoulders and your legs wrap around whatever they reach. Your heart goes from your chest to your throat when his gloved hands slide down to your thighs as he walks you to your sad couch.

"Now is fine," he's careful to hold his weight above you, silky hair spilling around you and tickling your cheeks. His eyes are bright and boyish, a deadly compliment to his kissable lips.

Well, that technically backfired but if this were a real situation you'd make out just fine because he'd chosen to make out with you instead of curse you.

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

Lilia wanted to focus on physical protection as much as written knowledge when it came to handling fae. You still couldn't wrap your head around the idea of him being a general but he had old photos, a weird mask, and a massive magearm to prove it. You'd picked up quite a few self-defense moves and practiced them regularly. He wanted them to be second nature to you. So here you are, in a designated training room within Diasomnia.

"You just want to cuddle me," you teased, in the familiar position of him being behind you with an arm around your neck. One elbow was planted in your shoulder, the other clasping it at the forearm to make a little prison for you. He gave a reprimanding squeeze, ever mindful of the pressure since you were fully human. Lilia gave a huffy laugh, trying to relax his smile into something more stern as he wove his fingers into your hair. You flinched at the tug and slapped his arm lightly.

"Focus," he couldn't deny himself the simple pleasure of whispering into your ear. If you asked him, it was to throw you off balance and distract you. "What could you do now?"

You thought about just leaning back into him, pressing against him, but you knew that wasn't what he meant. Capitalizing on this moment of closeness, the stillness, to huck him over your shoulder and into the floor crossed your mind but then you'd have to give him a back rub later.

Not that you minded that, either.

"We could make a deal," you leaned back to whisper in his ear even though it hurt your neck a little. You could tell by the way his bangs fluttered that he'd jerked in surprise. Was that a little pink on his cheeks? Before you could nip his pointed ear, Lilia leaned you forward and took his elbow off your shoulder, opting to hold you in a bearhug instead.

"Acceptable in this situation," he managed, clearing his throat when his voice cracked a little. "Although this exercise is supposed to be combat related."

"So make the terms. I can't negotiate a deal that doesn't exist." you try to break his hold, shimmying your shoulders and sliding your feet to see if you could slip away. He lifts you off the ground with an ease that doesn't seem possible with his short, lithe body. You hang there against him as he thinks.

"Your life for that of your firstborn."

A bit dark, wasn't it? Kind of rude, really, you thought. But, your train of thought continued to ramble, he did find Silver somewhere so it didn't seem too unusual that he'd want a kid. Either that, or he was messing with you because you told him that whisking away kids was something fae were known for in your world.

"You can't have a firstborn with your clothes on." you joke.

"That's not true because I found Silver with my--" Lilia drops you when he realizes what you've said. You weren't expecting him to drop you and didn't catch yourself, hissing as you land on your knees. Before you can start complaining or poke fun at him for being an old man he's locked the door. You're bowled over as he rushes over to you, pinning you on your back as he peppers kisses along your throat and collarbone.

He's several bites in and you’re halfway undressed when you think you hear a knock at the door. Lilia begrudgingly peels himself off of you, licking blood from the corner of his lips.

"Father? Are we not going to train today?"

"M'fraid not, my boy," Lilia turns his attention back to you, opening your legs to slip between them. "But you'll be getting a new sparring partner in about nine months."

His red eyes are glowing. They're absolutely beguiling.

"Do they come with therapy?” he hears Silver mumble as you look up at him through your lashes.

He pounces on you again. It was a brilliant, filthy tactic. He's not exactly mad about it. You've earned favor with one fae, at least, and he will protect you from the others.

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

Sebek is a hard worker. He's a product of his environment; he has Baur's straightforwardness, Lilia's dedicated regimens, and his mother's impressive teeth and jaw strength. Lilia thought the best way for you to learn some of the self-defense tactics was to fight someone your size.

Sort of. Sebek seemed to be the better choice since Silver was too sleepy to be a constant threat. And, in Lilia's mind, you should have an easier time fighting a half-fae versus a full fae.

You never noticed how muscular Sebek was until you were under him. He's got corded arms and you can see the muscles of his shoulders flexing under the Diasomnia shirt he chose for the exercise.

You've never seen him in casual clothes! He actually looks very nice. Not as buff as Jack but sturdy in his own way; his chest is broader than you imagined. A solid man.

More than capable of being Malleus' body guard.

You groan as he knocks the air out of you a little. He's on top of you, pressed into your back. He's got one foot braced against the floor, leaning his weight into you. Your arms are pinned at your side courtesy of the one he's snaked underneath you.

When did he flip you over? Asshole, you scrunch your nose in frustration as your cheeks begin to burn. He's an asshole that means well and won't go easy on you, though. He makes sure you learn. You try to inch out from beneath him but he angles his shoulder down and grabs his own wrist, dragging you back to him.

"You're supposed to do something in this situation!" he grumps, "You know how to break this hold!"

You do, but he's heavy and it probably wouldn't work. And he's had a literal lifetime of training versus your handful of months. You've tangled your legs together and used his half-lean to put him on his back. Your kicking like a tipped-over bug and almost free when you remember that his fae half is crocodilian and you might have triggered his death roll tendency.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Sebek's pupils change, the dark of his eye slitting and boring into you. His throat strains like he's growling but you don't hear anything. It trembles against the back of your neck and you're reminded in that moment of just how much bigger he is than you.

How he folds around you and encompasses you.

He opens his mouth, teeth glinting and sharp. "You've bested me," you admit, swallowing thickly as his teeth hover near your shoulder. "Make your deal."

You somehow turn yourself around in his unrelenting squeeze.

Sebek huffs as if he's insulted and you swear you see his teeth dull. His pupils begin to fill out. He's usually loathe to acknowledge his human side, as he'd much rather be full fae, but it serves him in this instance. "I'm not a true fae. Such a thing wouldn't work on me!"

"You have to pretend! Lilia's teaching me how to deal with the fae! You just won't hurt me as much. Maybe." you dare to flash that teasing grin at him and Sebek nearly tears into his own lip because he doesn't know what to do with that wiggly feeling you give him.

Him? Hurt you? Not on purpose. It would go against the core values his grandfather AND Lilia taught him! Any fae caught abusing their spouse would be drawn and quartered, made a public display of. Any human man who chose to do so was no man at all!

Sebek's face feels almost painfully warm. He can feel the heat spreading from his cheeks to his ears. "In an act of benevolence inspired by the great Prince Malleus, I shall spare your delicate human self in exchange for a child. Is that the cliche rubbish you desire?"

Some of his once slicked-back hair has fallen down on his forehead, between his eyes, as if it's disappointed in you too.

"You think our child would be cliche rubbish? Cliche Rubbish Zigvolt? That does NOT sound good! I'm naming the firstborn, you're just helping make it."

"Wha--but I--that's not!" Sebek doesn't know what to say and he hasn't been trained for this. He's careful not to shove you away but untangles himself like a thrown ragdoll. He rolls over sharply, totally fine with hiding his face in the floor. His green hair is in disarray and his arms are limp, stretched out to either side of him.

You laugh, climbing onto his back and raking your nails down it gently. He makes the noise. You're not sure what it is but you've heard it before. It's deep and somehow soothing. He relaxes underneath you as you continue to scratch his back, throwing in a squeeze to his muscles every now and then.

It's not until you're in what would be the small of his back (if he wasn't build so solid and thick) that he raises his head, folds his arms up, and rests his chin on his hands. "You're safe." he can't bear to turn his head and look at you right now. If he did, you'd see how...how...weak and mushy he looked. Sebek snorts through his nose, arching his back in surprise as your hands slide all the way up until you flop on his back and your arms hang off his shoulders.

"Thank you, o' kind Zigvolt!" you hug his neck. "This delicate human appreciates it!"

"And I...appreciate...you." he mumbled slowly, the words a little foreign to him. More scary than foreign, honestly. That heartwarming shyness evaporated in an instant when he pinned you and began a stern lecture about how you should NOT offer to conceive a child with ANY OTHER FAE and what YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE INSTEAD.

You weren't surprised by this. Sebek lectured Silver all the time and Lilia said he was a very informed pupil. You, too, would be informed as it didn't seem like he was letting you go anytime soon.

[bitchface24-7]

COYOTE UGLY - VIKTOR X READER

synopsis: When you’re not at the lab researching and developing Hextech, you’re in Zaun at the BDSM club Coyote Ugly as the bartender. Having this job ensures your team has enough money to continue working without any headaches. Well you’re in for a massive migraine since the man you’ve been in love with since you were kids is gonna find out about your dirty little secret.

warnings: secrets, bdsm etiquette, dom!viktor, love confessions, abelist comments (Viktor refers to himself in a negative light twice, referencing what others have called him) traffic light system, spanking, afab terms used for the smut section, dirty talk, vaginal sex, unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, squirting, I’m gonna write this as a 5 + 1 kinda deal. Ok? Ok. Grammarly is my beta

genre: m/f

p.s. This fic very obviously references Coyote Ugly (2000), and I know it is a bar in the movie but I didn't want to do a whole plotline on The Last Drop vs Coyote Ugly; and I didn't have the energy to write and characterize Silco LMAO. So I hope none of y'all are mad I tweaked it to be a BDSM club/bar instead. I've loved this movie ever since I was a kid. Now I'm tempted to do a Practical Magic (1998) fic too 😭😭

The Five Times Viktor Gets a Clue About You, and the One Time His Suspicions are Confirmed

One.

Viktor’s known you for almost two decades by this point. You’re well into your twenties and can do whatever you please. But Viktor’s got suspicions regarding you. Your excuses, your secrets. He knows you better than he knows himself.

So when you walk into the lab one day with a stack of cash, both Jayce and Viktor can’t help but look at you as if you were a project they were working on. You’ve peaked their curiosity and suspicion.

“So,” Viktor starts as you give the money to Jayce, and walk back to your desk, “Where did that money come from?”

You lightly scoff, “Don’t worry about it, V.”

“Of course I’m going to worry about it! That’s a lot of money miláček! Please tell me you got it legally.”

You whip around with a snort, “Don’t worry Viktor, it’s all legal. I just got paid from my second job. I already took a cut for myself; the rest I’m donating to the lab for our research.”

Viktor’s lips thin at that. You already took a cut for yourself and still had that much money to just… give away?

“Whatever you say, miláček.”

You’re gonna regret that. You’ve just peaked Viktor’s curiosity; and what’s the saying?

Curiosity killed the cat… but satisfaction brought it back.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Two.

Viktor’s curiosity is peaked once more when he sees a glimmer of sparkle at your navel as your shirt rises, as you try to get something off the shelf for him.

Viktor hums as he puts his pen on the hem of your shirt to lift it a bit more. You gasp as a fresh breeze brushes against your abdomen.

“Whats this, hmm?”

You sputter a bit before dropping your arms and tugging your shirt down quickly, “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Your belly button is magical and shimmers on its own?”

You sarcastically hum, “How’d you know?” you add a dramatic gasp, just because you can. Viktor quirks an eyebrow at you, “You can just admit you got a piercing. Its quite common down in Zaun.”

“Whats the fun in that.” You pout, “I got it forever ago, a bit before we left for the Academy actually.”

“You got your navel pierced when you were seventeen, and I never found out about it until you were twenty-six and I was twenty-eight?”

You playfully shrug, “Guess you aren't as observant as you think you are.”

Viktor clenches his jaw, “Don’t tease me miláček. You won't like where you end up.”

“Try me.”

With that, you walk away with a sway to your hips as Viktor's grip on his pen tightens to the point he thinks it's going to snap in half.

You're going to regret that.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Three.

“What is that?!” Jayce exclaims as you lounge on the couch, taking a small nap. “What? What! What're you screeching about Jayce?”

“That!” he squeaks, “On your lower back! Is that a…”

Viktor finishes the thought, “A tattoo?”

You twist your torso and look down. There's the perpetrator, a small tramp stamp that kind of looks like the Hexcores magic, and in the centre is a heart.

“Yeah.” you casually state as you go back to nap.

“Why does it look like the Hexcore?”

You take a quick peek over to Viktor before muttering, “Why not? I care about you guys and decided to get a tattoo to commemorate it.”

Jayce awes a bit but Viktor just narrows his eyes at you. There's more to it than just that. Because if not, then why did you put it in such a… risque place? Unless you wear low-rise pants or extremely cropped shirts; no one would ever see it.

Unless you're completely naked.

Viktor rubs his nose as you reposition yourself, your hip jutting out as your top rises even farther.

Viktor casually stands up and walks over to where you're resting on the labs couch. Lightly touching your lower back, he feels you flinch as he presses his hand harder onto the fully healed tattoo, “You must be cold, here. Let me fix that.”

And with that, Viktor pulls up the fleece blanket to cover your torso.

You look to Viktor and your eyes have darkened, your lids slightly narrowed. Your lips are lightly pursed as you examine Viktor. Viktor just smirks at you.

The longer this goes on, the more clues Viktor gets.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Four.

Jayce keeps pacing in the lab. Back and forth, back and forth. Viktor is worried Jayce is going to wear the floor down to the baseboards.

“Are you okay?” Viktor quietly asks, looking at Jayce in concern. He's never seen him so… frazzled before.

“No. There's a small gathering happening later today with the council members and high-level individuals. There was supposed to be a bartender to make the meeting not as mind numbing but the one Mel booked previously is sick. Now we need to find a replacement for…”

Jayce looks at his watch and runs a hand through his hair, “Three hours from now.”

Before Viktor can put his two cents in, you pipe in, “I can do it.”

Jayce whips around to look at you, a manic gleam in his eyes, “You’re not joking, right? You can actually bartend.”

You nod once, “I can actually bartend.”

“Shes not lying Jayce. She was a part-time bartender at the Last Drop when… when Vander was the owner.

Both you and Viktor look down, Vander was a good man. He took care of everyone as if they were his own kids.

Jayce clears his throat, trying to dissipate the mournful aura in the lab, “Wow, you're like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Many hidden talents.”

You snort, “More like a coyote prowling in the forest. Challenge brings mastery, dear Jayce.”

Viktor quirks an eyebrow at you. That's an… odd choice of words. No one ever refers to themselves as a coyote unless they frequent…

Oh.

Oh.

Everything is slowly piecing together, he just needs one more piece of proof before he pounces. Viktor almost feels like he's insane; he's a frequent member of the well-established BDSM club down in Zaun; Coyote Ugly. He's sure he would’ve seen you before. But there's the off chance you work when he's not there. He only goes on Saturdays, on a bi-weekly schedule.

Maybe you knew that and planned your schedule around Viktor's desires.

For this last bit of proof, Viktor’s gonna bring his attitude from Coyote Ugly to the lab. Hopefully, he doesn't traumatize Jayce (or you if he's wrong.)

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Five.

Viktor is good at what he does. Many people look at him and assume he's a virgin due to his disabilities. They think he's submissive due to the fact he's more lean and lithe as a man.

He's not.

He can get anyone down to their knees. He can get anyone to listen to him. He doesn't typically use this power in his day-to-day life, but he's going to bring it to the lab today. Luckily for him, Jayce had a mandated meeting to go to and couldn't weasel his way out of it.

He sees his target in the corner of his eye.

You.

You're standing by the blackboard, wobbling in place. Viktor isn't sure how well you've slept, if you've eaten anything today, or if you've even taken a break.

Viktor gets up from his own spot, and makes his way to the small kitchenette in the lab and prepares a basic sandwich and sweet milk for you. He places the items onto your desk and you're none the wiser.

Its not until Viktor clears his throat do you look away from the blackboard.

“You can barely stand straight. Here, come take a small break. Eat something.”

You smile lightly at the care, “Oh Viktor, I’d love to but I can't. I'm on the verge of a breakthrough; I can feel it! If I stop now, I wont ever complete this runic sequence!”

“I insist.”

“No, I really can't—”

“Sit.”

With that, you sat down at your desk immediately. You've never heard Viktor's voice go like that. So dark, so commanding, so… sensual.

You feel almost ashamed. Here Viktor is, making you food, a drink, and worrying about your health. And you were too much of a brat to see it.

You take half the sandwich and bite into it as your stomach growls at you. Shit, he's right. You haven't eaten in several hours and now your body’s catching up to you.

Viktor tilts his head, observing you.

“You were right, thank you.”

Viktor puts his hand on the nape of your neck and squeezes. You shiver and lean into the touch.

“You’re welcome. Don't make me have to do that again.”

You look up at him, your eyes wide and glossy. Your lips pouted lightly. Viktor's grip tightens on your nape and you somewhat successfully suppress a whine.

That's the final puzzle piece.

“I wont.”

“Good girl.”

And with that, Viktor can see you blue screen.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Plus One.

Viktor's changing up his routine, visiting Coyote Ugly on a Friday rather than his usual Saturday. The trek down to Zaun wasn't too bad, but the difference is air quality was highly noticeable.

Slowly but surely, Viktor makes his way to the club. He's in his usual outfit for this scene, an all-black ensemble with the buttons of his shirt undone almost dangerously low. He can feel the looks of desire shot his way. He's always on the top of the submissive’s lists at Coyote Ugly. And every coyote he's taken has been incredibly satisfied.

But ever since this theory of his sprouted, he's been hyper-focusing on it. On you. So he hasn't been able to take any of the coyotes to bed. They're desperate.

But there's a certain coyote that's already caught his eye.

He sees you working the bar as if it were second nature. Mixing drinks, pouring shots, opening beers, and chatting up the patrons. You seem so at home here.

Viktor gets a lovely eyeful of your outfit when you hope up on the bar with a megaphone, “Same shit, new day! We follow the rules and—”

All the patrons echo your words back to you, “We don't touch your girls!”

You smirk, “And with that, let the party begin!” a bell is heard ringing in the background but all Viktor can do is appreciate your sexiness.

You're in an all-black outfit as well, but its all leather. Your top is closed by a single button, so Viktor damn near gets an eyeful of your breasts. He can see your abdomen down to the top of your navel, your belly button piercing glittering in the club's lights.

Your leather pants are skin tight and low enough that Viktor's worried you can't bend over in them without flashing someone. He sees you turn around to hop off the bar and there it is. Your hexcore inspired tattoo.

Viktor feels his pants tighten at that. Its almost like a branding in his mind. Look at that. She's mine.

A few girls get up onto the bar and dance to the songs playing on the jukebox. With a distraction in place, he makes his way to the bar to order a drink.

Your back is to the bar as you clean some glasses, “What can I getcha?”

Viktor ensures his voice is loud enough so that you can hear him, “A whiskey sour, miláček.”

The sounds of cups almost breaking puts a smile on Viktor’s face. He's got you just where he wants you. You whip around with a deer-in-the-headlights look, “Vi—Viktor! What're you doing here?! You usually come on—”

“Saturdays. Yes, I know. But I've heard wonderful things about a certain bartender and wanted to see her for myself. The only bartender I've ever met is Thomas.”

You inhale sharply, “What gave me away?”

“Little things. The money, your body modifications, referring to yourself as a coyote.”

You hit your forehead with the palm of your hand, “I'm an idiot.”

Viktor shakes his head, “No, you just got too comfortable. Besides how you reacted a few days ago when given an order sealed the deal.”

Your face feels hot, almost unbearably so. Goddamn it.

“Does this… ruin anything between us?”

Viktor scoffs, “Absolutely not! Do you know how long I've fantasized about a scenario like this happening?”

“I have an idea…” your tone is breathless as your eyes are as wide as saucers. No way is this happening. No way are your dreams coming true.

Before anything else can happen, you do a special knock on the bar. Thomas whips his head over to look at you and seems shocked.

“This is officially a Code V. I need you to man the bar tonight.”

Thomas just smiles and takes over no problem, you hop over the bar and stand next to Viktor, a beaming smile on your face.

“A Code V?”

“When I officially get the man of my dreams, I get to have a shift off. No ifs, ands, or buts!”

Viktor smiles sweetly at that.

“So…” you add before your confidence dissipates, “Wanna go upstairs?”

Viktor knows that private rooms are located upstairs if you want to… have some fun. He just nods, a sly smirk on his face, “Lead the way, miláček.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You and Viktor rush up as best you can to one of the private rooms. Before anything happens, Viktor enquires if you know about the stoplight system. You do. And with that, you two touch each other in a way you’ve been dreaming about since you both started puberty.

A bit of kissing here, a bit of groping there. Before you know it, Viktor’s fingering open your pussy as you whine and pant at the pleasure Viktor is presenting your body with.

It’s wet, slick, and so hot. Viktor’s hand is slapping against your clit, causing a loud schlick sound that makes your ears burn in embarrassment. Viktor just revels in the sounds and faces you make; he never thought you could get any prettier. Looks like he was wrong.

“Please… Please… Put it in.” You beg, your eyes watery at the constant assault Viktor is giving your g-spot. Viktor kisses his teeth, “Put what in?” He cockily asks.

“Y-your cock. I want your cock in me. I want to fuck you into the bed. Please Viktor, please? I want it so bad… I need it…” You beg, your voice wobbly in your desire. Viktor growls low in his chest as removes his fingers from your pussy. “You're such a good girl, begging for me. C'mon sweetheart, I'm all yours.” With that, you ensure Viktor is comfortable as he sits up against the headboard, you saddle him and slowly sink onto his wonderful cock.

You gasp out a long drown out moan at the feeling. Viktor’s pushed right up against your g-spot, he’s stretching you out. Your pussy is moulding itself to Viktors cock, nothing else in this world will satisfy you now. One hand holds your waist as the other rubs your back.

“C’mon.” In a low, throaty voice, you moan. As if you had to use additional effort to get the words past your parted lips. Your voice is whiney and breathy. As if putting Viktors cock in you knocked all the air out of your lungs. When you lower yourself more, Viktor, who is rubbing your back with his free hand, feels something deep inside his gut tighten up a little more as you persistently try to fit the final few inches of his cock inside. You feel dizzy at that, you're so stuffed… and there’s a few inches more.

Needy. You're so fucking needy; and Viktor loves it.

He squeezes, quickly prickling your flesh beneath his fingertips into a supple hue. Viktor wishes he could mark you like that for good, wishes that squeezing hard enough would leave bruises and indents to last a lifetime. Last several lifetimes. Even if you aren't aware of it, you still attract admiring looks from other people, which irritates Viktor. Ever since you two were teens, people would look lecherously at you. And you never noticed. But at the mere thought of everyone seeing you so marked up, something wild, primal, and almost startlingly possessive gets hold of him. Even though Viktor would know who did it, they wouldn't.

They would question who defiled you so throughly; and not once in their tiny minds would they think Viktor “The Cripple” “The Weirdo” fucked you so good you're bow-legged for days. With a trail of hickeys down your neck and chest, red marks on your wrists and a glazed look in your eyes. Viktor needs to calm down, he’s getting ahead of himself.

Before he can stop himself, Viktor tangles his fingers into your sweaty, untidy hair. You shiver at the feeling. His hands are so strong, so beautiful to look at.

“Viktor! Please! Please let me move! I need it…”You beg. You've needed this since you were fifteen and you noticed how handsome Viktor was becoming.

You lean closer to Viktor, your tits close enough to his face he can easily suck a nipple into mouth. This small shift caused his cock to press even harder into your g-spot; making a long whine and a few tears to slip out of you. Seeing that causes Viktor to freeze a bit before asking, “Colour?” At that you desperately cry out a pathetic, “Green! Please!”

If Viktor had shown even a tiny bit less restraint, the pitiful little "please" that slips from your mouth might have killed him right there.

You start to bounce, a nipple still firmly in Viktor's mouth. One hand stays on your hip as the other tweaks your other nipple. You use the headboard as support to ride Viktor to your heart's content. Fuck his cock is huge, you swear you feel it in your lungs. You could've been doing this for ages. You pitifully whine at that thought; so much time wasted.

“You look so pretty like this, you know,” Viktor mumbles appraisingly as he lets your nipple go, rocking back and forth at an almost painfully slow pace, trying to give you even more pleasure. Your thighs are trembling, splattered with lube, sweat, and an unprecedented amount of wetness from your arousal. You make a tiny, barely there noise in response, pushing weakly back against him. Viktor holds you still. “So fucked out, just for me. So cock-drunk aren’t you? My little fucktoy. My good girl. My prettiest girl” Viktor showers praise on you, who just groans at the sweet attack.

You pull up as far as you can against Viktor’s strength, the head of his cock catching on the entrance to your pussy, before dropping back down aggressively and picking up a steady rhythm. Viktor lets out an appreciative moan at that. Fuck you feel so good. He's gonna become obsessed with your pussy after this. Viktor's head tilts back to rest against the headboard as he moans, you pepper hickeys all across his pale neck. He's not the only one with possessive tendencies.

You go faster and faster, rougher and harder with each bounce, but you still take into account Viktors weaker leg. You're both moaning, yours goes up a pitch when Viktor starts to rub your clit.

Viktor whispers into your ear as he ravages your pussy, “You like that? You slut. Do you like having my big cock stretch you out? Do you like me abusing your g-spot, moulding your pussy into the shape of my dick? Nothing else will ever satisfy you again, will it Pretty Girl? No. It won’t. You’ll be desperate to have my dick rearranging your guts again.”

You just moan and starts to cry at the whispered words alongside the pounding your pussy is getting. The knot in your stomach is getting tighter and tighter, you instinctively know you can’t cum without permission. So you ask,

“Viktor… Can I cum? Please? Can I cum?

Viktor just snarls at that, nipping your ear and slapping your ass with a heavy groan, “Oh fuck… you’re such a good girl aren’t you? Asking for permission to cum without me even having to telling you. Cum. Cum right fucking now.”

And you do. With a gush of liquid, you cum hard. Your body jerking, eyes rolling into the back of your head, with your mouth ajar in a silent moan that trickles down to a pleased whine. Viktor starts to fuck into you, wanting to cum too. You start to overstimulate yourself, desperate to feel Viktor cum.

Little “Uhs.” are punched out of you at each thrust due to the painful pleasure. In no time, Viktor cums too. His hips pressed flush against yours; his sharp hipbones causing a nice bruise to form. You both simultaneously moan at the feeling of Viktor pumping you full of his cum. The two lose their strength and flop down onto the bed.

You're cuddled up, now efficiently cockwarming Viktor. You're both our of breath, and immensely pleased.

“We should clean up.” Viktor pants, you giggle breathlessly, “I don't think I can move.”

The silence is comfortable, enjoyable. You’ve almost fallen asleep when Viktor casually states, “I love you. I've loved you since I was sixteen.”

You look up at him and give him a sweet smile, before pressing your lips together in a loving, passionate kiss, “and I've loved you since I was thirteen. Looks like I've got you beat.”

Viktor just chuckles as he runs a hand through your hair, “I'm exhausted. We’ll get cleaned up when we wake up.”

“I couldn't agree more. But I want a round two before that.”

“Seriously?!”

You slap Viktor's chest playfully, “We could've been doing this for a little over a decade. I'm making up for lost time!”

Viktor kisses your forehead and contently sighs, “Can’t argue with that miláček. Can't argue with that.”

With how vigorously you two went, it’s no surprise you fell asleep in a few minutes. Wrapped up together, as content as can be.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

That's a wrap! Please be nice to me, I haven't written smut since like 2022-2023. Hope y'all liked it!

For the tattoo, search up “cybersigilism heart tramp stamp tattoo” on pinterest to see what kind of tramp stamp you got LMAO