#{ rattles and strings || music }

[nashvillethotchicken]

"Lestat would get woken up by the macarena" "No he'd get waken up by dubstep" "No he'd get waken up by Call Me Maybe" You fool's. You absolute fools. Lestat is buried/out in the dump of New Orleans, a city that's 60 percent black. He's getting woken up by Back That Azz Up by Juvenile

[donospl]

Co w jazzie piszczy [sezon 1 odcinek 12]

premierowa emisja 5 lipca 2023 – 18:00 Graliśmy: Tania Giannouli “Intone” z albumu  „Solo” – Rattle Records   Tobie Medland’s The Aviary “The Aviary Part 1” z albumu “The Aviary” – Future Fable Records Cecile Strange “Where My Heart Lives” z albumu “Beyond” – April Records Sheen Trio “Terminal C” z albumu “Gozar” – Berthold Records James Ilgenfritz “#facepalm” z albumu…

[unclewaynemunson]

Alt version of this post bc too many people asked for both <3

It's Saturday night and, like almost every Saturday night, Eddie wishes he didn't have to be at some jock party. The flashing lights, the scent of cheap mixed drinks, the incredibly mediocre loud music... And worst of all, the fucking jocks. Everywhere.

'Eddie!'

He looks up to find Steve, with a dopey smile on his face, basically skipping towards him and throwing his arms around his neck. Oh. He didn't know Steve still went to parties like those. Hadn't seen him at any of them in a while. But as soon as he gets wrapped up in an enthusiastic full-body hug, he decides there's one jock, and one jock only, that he doesn't mind running into at those parties.

'Eddie, what're you doin' here?' There's an unfocused look in his eyes and he wobbles on his legs a little bit, grabbing tighter onto Eddie for support. The touch burns through Eddie's t-shirt and he tries to ignore the shiver running down his spine.

'I didn't know you liked parties!' Steve drops his voice, slurring: 'I thought you hated the jocks.'

Eddie can't help but smile. 'I hate all jocks but one, big boy,' he tells Steve. 'Not here to party, only to get some cash.' He rattles with the metal lunchbox in his hands to illustrate his point. 'Can you let me go now so I can get on with my business, pretty please?'

'Noooo,' Steve says with an exaggerated pout. 'I'm too happy you're here! Dance with me!'

Eddie chuckles. 'I don't think you're in any state to dance right now. Jesus, Stevie, I don't think I've ever seen you this wasted before. Thought you were planning to pick up a girl tonight?'

'I was,' Steve says, suddenly sounding oddly serious. 'But it doesn't matter. Just needed to forget. The rum helped, too.' He frowns. 'Til you showed up.'

'Forget what?' Eddie asks, trying to make sense of this drunken string of words.

Something happens; something that's been happening quite often lately. Steve's eyes flash downwards, just for a second, right to where Eddie's lips are.

Eddie's heartbeat involuntarily picks up speed.

'What did you need to forget, Steve?' Eddie asks again.

'Can't tell you,' Steve mumbles so softly that Eddie can barely make it out over the loud music. 'I don't wanna make you feel guilty. I'm not judging you, y'know. 'S fine.'

He abruptly lets go of Eddie and takes a step away from him, stumbling right into some girl who pushes him back with an annoyed scoff; if Eddie weren't still standing right behind him, he would've fallen on his ass for sure.

'Alright, you're not making any sense tonight, big boy, but I can't in good conscience let you stay here by yourself. How 'bout I'll drive you home?'

Eddie glances at his watch. If he hurries, he can probably still be back to do what he came here for before the good part of the party is over. He does kinda need the cash.

'Can't,' says Steve. 'Can't go home with you.' Something in his voice is breaking and suddenly there are tears in his eyes, and Eddie still doesn't understand what's wrong; he feels like he's overlooking something huge, something that should be obvious.

'Let's just go outside to talk, then?' he suggests.

'Can't. Dance with me, Eddie.'

But when Eddie starts gently tugging Steve towards the open door leading to the garden, Steve easily lets himself be led outside. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath when the cool night air reaches his lungs, as if one gulp of fresh air will instantly make him sober up. But he's still swaying on his feet, making Eddie grab onto him tighter.

Eddie likes to think of himself as moderately strong, but unfortunately, hauling 180 pounds of muscled jock around is starting to take its toll on him. He spots a bench in a secluded corner of the garden and guides Steve towards it.

'This better?' he asks.

'Yeah,' Steve breathes out. Even now that they're both sitting down, Steve keeps clinging onto him. 'Look at the stars, Eddie.'

Eddie looks up at the scattering of lights twinkling far above them - but he can feel Steve's eyes still burning into his face.

When he directs his gaze back to the guy sitting next to him, Steve's face is even closer than before. The starlight is reflected in his hazy eyes, tiny specks of silver hidden in various shades of brown and black.

'I wish I could kiss you,' Steve whispers, looking at Eddie with nothing but admiration behind that glassy drunk gaze.

Eddie almost forgets to breathe. He knows that it seemed like he and Steve were headed exactly toward something like this for a while now, but he still can hardly believe that it is real. That Steve Harrington is really looking at him like he's just as precious as the stars in the sky above them.

He brings up a hand, gently caresses Steve's soft cheek.

'Maybe you don't have to wish,' he whispers back, unable to stop his eyes from flashing towards Steve's beautiful lips for a moment. 'Tomorrow. When you're not drunk anymore. If you still remember this.'

'No.' Steve shakes his head, so fiercely it makes his hair flap in all directions and his complexion at least two shades paler. 'Can't.'

'Why do you keep saying that, Steve?' Eddie asks softly.

'Cause.' For a moment Eddie thinks Steve is gonna grab his ass, but then... he randomly frees Eddie's handkerchief – the one with the skulls – from his back pocket.

'Cause of the Russians.'

Eddie can only stare at him in confusion.

'They tied me up,' Steve all but whispers. Eddie hates how small and broken his voice suddenly sounds.

He has always known – broadly speaking – about what happened to Steve and Robin miles beneath Starcourt last year. He's never actually heard Steve talk about the details, though. All he knows is that he and Robin were captured by Russian spies and somehow made it out alive. He could always see how difficult it was for Steve to talk about it whenever it came up, but he never wanted to pry. And now here they are, at some goddamn high school jock party of all places, and all of a sudden Steve willingly brings it up.

'I was with Robin,' Steve continues, still in that scared and broken voice. 'And they tied us to a chair. We couldn't move. And they – they hurt me. They hit me. 'Til I was bleeding all over. I thought I was gonna die. Robin thought I was dead.'

'Jesus Christ, Steve,' Eddie breathes out, tightening his grip around Steve's torso.

'So I can't,' Steve mumbles, holding up Eddie's handkerchief as if it's some kind of logical explanation for whatever it is he's trying to tell Eddie.

'Wh- What?'

'I know what it means, Eddie,' he says, as if he's even remotely making sense right now. 'You know John?'

'Who the hell is John?' Eddie only keeps finding himself more and more lost in this conversation.

'My cousin,' Steve says, like it's obvious, like he's ever talked about some cousin named John to Eddie before. 'The one in New York. He knows all about that shit, right? He sends me the good magazines sometimes when my parents aren't home. That's how I know.'

'Know what?'

Steve only waves around with that stupid handkerchief again.

'You're flagging, aren't ya? You like pain. Like BS... BM...'

Eddie feels his jaw drop.

'What the fuck are you talking about?' he asks. 'It's – this is a metal thing. It looks metal. I literally have no idea what you're – flagging?'

Now Steve's face finally mirrors the confusion Eddie has been feeling for the past ten minutes.

'Are you serious?' he asks, for one second showing more clarity in his eyes than Eddie has seen all evening.

Eddie nods.

'So it's not...' Steve stops himself, swallows, frowns. 'You're not into, like, hurting people and shit?'

And finally, it all clicks together in Eddie's mind: the repeated chorus of I can't, the story about the Russians, the goddamn handkerchief... Flagging. BDSM.

'Why the hell would I get off on hurting you, Steve?' is all he can get out of his mouth.

And Steve honest-to-Satan starts giggling; it sounds so relieved that Eddie kinda feels like giggling too, scary metal image be damned.

'I dunno, it's more common than you think,' Steve mumbles. 'I wouldn't judge you, alright? But I knew I could never give you that. No matter how much I like you. And then you'd get bored of me.'

'Oh, Steve,' Eddie whispers out. 'You don't need to worry 'bout that, I swear. For all I care, we can have the most vanilla sex in the world forever. Or never have sex at all. As long as it's with you... I'm good.' Eddie cringes as soon as the words leave his mouth: it sounds too cheesy, too sincere. He kinda hopes Steve will have forgotten this particular part of their conversation tomorrow morning.

But Steve doesn't look at him like he thinks it's stupid at all: his eyes are wide and he's smiling a soft smile.

'You sure? You won't get bored?'

Eddie chuckles. Now that he's being too goddamn cheesy anyway, he might as well double down on it. 'I can't imagine getting bored of getting to hold this body in a million fucking years. In any way you'll have me.'

Steve heaves out a relieved sigh before he buries his head against Eddie's chest.

'Can I bring you home, now?' Eddie asks.

There's a twinkle in Steve's eyes when he lifts his head again.

'Ooohhh... You wanna have the most vanilla sex in the world with me now?'

A chortle escapes Eddie's lungs.

'Um, maybe tomorrow, when you're not drunk off your ass,' he answers with a wink. 'For tonight, just lemme get you to bed, 'kay?'

'Okay, big boy,' Steve answers, and Eddie can't help but laugh before he presses a kiss against Steve's forehead.

[leighsartworks216]

Obedient Pet

dom!bottom!Astarion x male!sub!top!Tav/Reader

I saw a while ago something that said being dominant is not the same as being a top, and GOD it did things to my brain chemistry. So this mixed with my belief Astarion would be quiet in bed once he's comfortable and neglect to focus on his own wants/needs

SMUT BELOW THE CUT

Warnings: swearing, dacryphilia/crying, dom/sub, collars, gagging, not being able to breathe (for a moment), anal sex, face-fucking, references to punishment

Word Count: 1,276

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

The chain trailing from the collar around your neck to Astarion's tight fist rattled with every little motion. The sound would have been annoying if it weren't harmonizing with the wet slap of skin.

You kept your hands safely constrained, arms folded behind your back, nails pressing into your skin. You'd tried touching him once already; your cock still weeped from the torture of waiting. Your tears and quiet whimpers were music to Astarion's pointed ears, but the sight of you so drunk on his orders was truly something special.

"Slower," he ordered. You whined, but obeyed. You gasped as you forced your hips to pull out maddeningly slowly, until the flushed tip of your sensitive cock nearly slipped out. With the slightest tug at your chain, you thrust just as slowly back inside. "Good boy."

Astarion smirked at the visible reaction his words had on you. The chill that chased goosebumps down your body, the swallow to fight back your moans, the beautiful way your chest and stomach rose and fell with each hot breath. To say nothing about the feeling of your cock twitching within him, or the pitter-patter of your heart.

You were not dominant, that much had been clear to the vampire practically from the moment he laid eyes on you. Two hundred years gave one a sense for these things. He relished in fucking you face down into the dirt or settling your legs over his shoulders as he ruined you. But this? This was pure ecstasy. Being fucked by a pet who answered to his every command - now that was something.

"Are you close, pet?" he purred sweetly. You nodded with an acute franticness. He tugged at your chain, dragging your face closer, forcing your wet eyes on him as you keened so deliciously. "Use your words."

Like the pitiful whine of an injured dog, you cried, "Yes."

Even through your tears you could see the gears turning in his head as he decided whether to end your suffering or see just how much more you could fall apart. With a hum, he eased up on your chain, allowing you to sit back up on your knees. "Go ahead then. Cum for me, my dear."

He groaned as you set a frenzied pace. Fast, deep thrusts that tuned him into his own body, making him realize how much your own punishments and obeying had affected him.

You panted as you chased your high. It was right there, within reach. You could feel it coming up on you like a runaway carriage. You fought through the building euphoria to look at your lover. His head was tilted back into the pillow, mouth open and eyes shut as he lost himself to your own desperation. His cock lay heavy on his stomach, bouncing with each thrust and glistening as precum dripped onto his pale skin.

But the most maddening thing of all, the sight that sent you careening over the edge, was watching your dick fuck into him. You cock disappearing into his asshole as it clenched around you, pushing so fucking deep inside. Your breath caught in your throat, your thrusts became short. With his name on your lips, you buried yourself as deep as you could and released. Your cock twitched and strained as you spilled hot strings of cum inside Astarion.

He bit his lip, back arching. When you pulled your soft cock out of him, still dribbling cum, he growled quietly with frustration. He had not found his release. No matter - he was no stranger to finish himself off later. He would just-

"Ah~!" His eyes shoot open and nearly roll back in his skull as he watches you suck at the head of his dick. Your eyes are closed. Your hand guides him to your mouth, squeezing and stroking him in small, slow motions.

He props himself up on one hand, the one holding the chain, and tangles the other in your hair. "Good boy," he mutters, far too focused on your tongue licking at his slit to try sounding in any way dignified.

You bob your head, hollowing your cheeks as you slowly work more and more of him into your mouth. Your teeth graze his skin, like a silent threat. He wonders for a brief second if that is how you feel when he bites you; the trust that he will not drain you dry with the thrill that he could nonetheless.

"Fuck," he breathes sharply as his tip prods the back of your throat. He grips tighter at your hair, holding you in place, your nose pressing against his abdomen. He can feel the shaky breaths you take, struggling around his cock.

He lifts your head back up, almost pulling you off. Even now, you are so obedient. All the power is in his hands. It's addicting.

As you suck languidly at the head of his cock, you open your eyes to look up at him. Your pupils are dilated, lids drooped ever so slightly. Drool slips from the corner of your mouth, down your chin. Your cheeks shimmer with nearly-dried tears.

"So beautiful." He sighs as he guides you back down on him, groaning as you swallow around him. "Fuck. Such a good pet."

Your eyes shut again as you allowed yourself to be fully controlled. It started out rather slow, never pushing too far. All too quickly, it devolved while he chased his release.

He could not guide your head fast enough. With a string of curses you couldn't understand, he fell back onto the bed and grabbed your head with both hands. He held you steady as he thrust up, cock rutting against the back of your throat. You gagged and fought to breathe through your nose, but you did not stop him. More tears pooled in your eyes as your lungs ached.

With a few final, harsh thrusts and the sweet whisper of your name, hot cum filled your mouth. You clutched at the bed as you struggled to swallow it all. You aren't sure if he noticed your struggle, or if he'd only done it for his sake, but he pulled you off of him before he was fully finished, spilling the last of his seed on his stomach.

You breathed greedily through your nose as you swallowed the last of his cum, opening up your mouth and showing off the flat of your tongue to prove it.

His cool hands gently released your hair and worked instead to brush the tears and spit off your face. You tiredly leaned into the touch, welcoming every soft caress.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, worriedly.

You nodded slightly. Your throat ached, your hair stung where he'd pulled on it, your body was exhausted, but you were no worse for wear. You cleared your throat with a wince and murmured, "Just gotta breathe."

He brushed his thumbs over your eyelashes. "I'll try not to get so carried away next time.” He tsked. “You mortals are so fragile."

You smiled and finally opened your eyes. He grinned. Your body complained as you sat yourself back up, shivering as the cold chain brushed your skin. Astarion followed you up and worked quickly and efficiently to remove the leather collar. He set it aside in favor of brushing his lips over the raw skin.

"You did so well," he hummed. Your head fell to the side automatically, allowing him more access. As tempting as it was, you were drained enough without him taking a sip. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your jaw and pulled away. "Come on, dear. Let's get you cleaned up."

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @puppyg1rl666 @cyber-dump-171 @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars @ashrio20 @bambamwolf87 @astarion-imagine-archive @thistrashisreadytobash @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @the-lake-is-calling @nyxmainex @squid-killer @godoffuckedupcats @dark-angel-is-back @gaymistakeboi @asterordinary

[mingtinys]

[11:45 p.m.]

pairing : song mingi x gn!reader

fluff , humor , comfort fic

warnings : thunderstorms

word count : 0.7 k

requested ? no

a/n : i am not the least bit ashamed to admit this was slightly inspired by that one ouran host club episode. it is my comfort episode. sue me.

Typically, you're one to enjoy a good Summer storm. You're rather fond of the cozy peace they bring. Especially late at night, when the heavy rain starts to sound like static and lulls you into a deep sleep. Interrupted only by soft rolls of thunder and the occasional blue flickers of lightning.

But the one tonight is far too aggressive for your taste.

The rain is deafening as it continues its onslaught against your poor window. And each startling crash of lightning precedes an even louder boom that shakes the room. Rattling picture frames that hang delicately on the walls.

You won't be sleeping tonight. That's for sure.

Anxiety wraps its nimble fingers around your heart and squeezes with each subsequent lighting strike. Digging its claws deeper and deeper until you can't take it anymore.

Your comforter is quickly tossed to the side, skin exposed to the chilly night air in your desperate escape. You tiptoe your way to the living room, searching for the giant scaredy-cat you know is likely up calming his own nerves.

And sure enough, there he is.

Cuddled up on the couch with the fuzziest blanket he owns draped over his shoulders. He's mindlessly acrolling through his phone with his headphones on at full volume. You can just barely make out the faint song playing through them.

You creep up slowly so as not to spook him, though it doesn't do much good. Mingi still flinches as soon as your shadow casts across the room with yet another flash from outside. Whipping his head around so fast you're surprised he doesn't get whiplash. But he quickly recovers, laughing at himself once he realizes it's just you.

He slips off his headphones and lets them hang from around his neck. "Storm keeping you up?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you liked storms," he frowns.

"I do, this one's just a little..."

Mingi hums. "I get it. Come, sit." He pats the open spot beside him and you sit. His arm wraps around your shoulder, enveloping you into his blanket cocoon and pulling you in until you're smooshed against his side.

"Did the storm spook you too?" You ask, resting your head on the junction of his neck.

"Pfft, no, I like being awake–"

A giant crack of lightning strikes the pavement outside a little too close for comfort and startles the both of you. Mingi even lets loose a sharp string of curses. It makes you giggle, which unwinds the knot in your stomach just enough to tease your boyfriend.

"You were saying?"

But then the power flickers as the wind picks up and you're eating your words. Tensing at the near-instant karma for teasing Mingi. The wind is the worst part, in your opinion.  You hate how it howls and bellows as it whips around the corners of your home. It echoes through your head, sending you into a spiral of anxiety. Heart racing so fast you can feel its pulse in every limb.

Until suddenly, it all stops. Muted by calming tunes blasting through the headphones placed over your ears.

You glance up at Mingi, pulling one side back. "Are you sure you don't need them?"

"No, I'll be okay. Besides, I'm your big strong boyfriend, it's my job to take care of you." Mingi puffs his chest, looking rather proud of his heroic act.

"You're such a dork."

He just smiles and shakes his head at your comment. Then taps through his playlist to find music he knows you like. "Just try to get some sleep," he says as he readjusts the headphones and presses a long kiss to your temple.

To his credit, the headphones do a wonderful job of blocking out the storm. You wouldn't even know it was still ongoing if it weren't for the way Mingi jumps up every so often. Completely defenseless against the rampage outside now that you've taken his only protection. And even though each time you look at him, he reassures you with a tight smile, you know he's dying a little on the inside with each boom of thunder.

So, eventually, you coax him to lie down and tuck his head to your chest, holding him with your arm pressed over his ear. He hums when your fingers slowly toy with his hair, the vibration of it tickling your skin. Within seconds, he's fully melted into you. The both of you slipping into a slumber with the storm now nothing but background noise.

taglist: @dontwannaexsist

[jeanbie]

GHOSTFACE ★ masterlist.

pairing: connie x reader

genre: modern au | warnings: explicit sexual content, masked sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, quickie, squirting | wc: 4.6k

note: im tingling....and toying with a pt2...thoughts?!! plz share ૮ • ﻌ - ა

⏤ You've got no idea who dressed up as Ghostface to Eren's Halloween party, but damn, do they fuck nice.

Bassline. The thundering vibrations of Eren’s drum and bass mix seem to rattle the entire fourth floor of the apartment complex; there are feet stomping on the lino of the kitchen floor, people shouting to the dark stream of dialogue that is sampled into the tracks. The windows look as though they might shatter with the pulsing pressure of the music, and according to Jean who just went outside to the courtyard to have a cigarette, the music is so loud that it feels like it’s coming from outside the building and not within. 

Eren loves drum and bass, which is why it came as little surprise to everybody in attendance of his Halloween party that majority of this playlist has been of the same genre. 

The only real complaint you can find about the music is that some of the tracks are too long and too repetitive, and since about fifteen minutes ago when you found yourself bent over in one of the storage cupboards in the hallway with some stranger’s cock shoved up your cunt, you don’t think the song that was playing when you got there has even finished yet.

The cupboard is submerged in darkness, but even if there had been a light on it wouldn’t have mattered — the stranger’s face is hidden behind the screaming slope of a Scream mask. 

While this stranger has had you bent over one of the stored suitcases in the cupboard, you’ve been trying to figure out who he is, if you might actually know him. There are signs to take note of; his blunt fingernails, the skinny ring on his middle finger, the quiet string of curses from behind the cheap plastic mask. 

You turn your head over your shoulder, trying to search him out in the darkness. You catch what looks like a glimpse of the white of his mask before he takes one hand off your waist and fists it in your hair, pulling your head back closer to the mask whilst speeding up his hips. The clench of your cunt around his cock makes his fist tighten in your hair, and you gasp and fumble to hold the handle of whoever’s suitcase this happens to be.

His hips snatch up, burying his cock back inside of you and eventually letting go your hair to wrap both of his hands back around your waist. He pulls you to meet him as he thrusts in, the ricochet of your ass slapping into his hips sending you lurching forward into the wall — you barely stop yourself from face-planting into it with your palm, and you settle for gripping onto the suitcase beneath you for dear life as the stranger speeds up his slamming.

The fact that the person up your snatch right now is a stranger makes your head whirl — this is exactly the kind of scenario you think your parents might have been warning you of when they sent you off to university two years ago. But none of that matters now, not when the hardness shoved deep inside of you feels as good as this dude’s does.

Ghostface pushes himself deeper, shoving your chest down against the suitcase so the angle is just right. You feel his fingers smoothing up your spine appreciatively as he fucks into you, and the sudden realisation that you’re almost naked while he’s still concealed beneath dark robes and a mask hits you. 

As he guides your hips up his cock and lets you sink back down onto him at your own tired pace, you moan loudly, feeling your thighs tremble against the fabric of the suitcase.

Behind you, the sharp point of his hips begin to hit you in even intervals — if you could see in this darkness, you’d see them moving in a roundish motion, each upward flick of his hips hitting the spot he’s been looking for the entire time.

You squeal, jolting up when he finds it and when he does, the hand on your back smooths across your skin before coming again to settle on your waist. His hands tighten around it while his hips rock back up into you, the wetness between your legs practically drooling from your hole.

Each thrust now is long and slow; you can feel the entire length of his dick pulling out of you save for the tip, and then rushing back inside of you roughly. Without even thinking about it, your walls clench closed around him and he sucks in a hiss, one you’re shocked to have been able to hear amidst the party outside.

Ghostface speeds up. He pushes into you with ease, relishing in the sound of your voice groaning and whimpering underneath him.

A pressure builds in your stomach, and Ghostface just about catches you when you fumble, the feeling of his hands around your middle tightening as he does all the work. He fucks himself with your pussy, knowing from the arrangement of noises you’ve sung to him where you like him best, which angle makes you moan more, where the wetness builds and squelches around him and dribbles down your leg.

“Ah, fuck!” you cry, taking the masked man by genuine surprise as his body shifts with quiet laughter, his fingers pinching the bunch of skin around your waist. He knows that you’re tired, and knows that you want to cum — just like how he knows that you know he wants to cum, too.

You feel full to the brim with him — you don’t know if this is the best sex you’ve ever had or if you just think that because it could be anybody under that mask fucking you.

Again, you try to peer round your shoulder to look for him, and this time you happen to snatch a look now that your eyes have adjusted to the light. Ghostface stares back at you with indifference, but you wonder how he might be looking underneath — face scrunched up with pleasure, a lip between his teeth, eyes blown open or perhaps clenched tight. 

Doesn’t matter. It just feels too fucking good.

You start to say something but your words die out, your mind focusing on the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you, mapping the way to your cervix, the tip kissing every nice spot you have never found with anybody else. 

Finally, when you think Ghostface might be pulling out to blow a load over your back, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up on edge when you feel him drag his cock out of you, and feel his hands pressing your ass cheeks, as if wanting to widen them apart.

Suddenly, you reach back and grab his wrist. You sense his gaze behind the hollow black spots of the mask and he tilts his head to the side. This guy is leaning in to the concept of Ghostface so heavily that it makes you shudder, but the damp spot between your legs sings a different story.

“Wait,” you manage to say, halting his cock from snuggling itself between your ass and up it. You’re not exactly closed off to anal, but not with someone you don’t even know, even worse inside of Eren’s storage cupboard using someone’s suitcase as a support. 

Ghostface rolls his shoulders, returning his head to a straight and level position before pulling back entirely. Your heart rises to your throat — there’s no way he’ll just leave after you’ve said no. Neither of you are ready to part just yet.

Thankfully, Ghostface doesn’t leave; he curves his arm around your waist and twists you, your little top pushing against his chest for a split second before he lifts you up off the ground. The suitcase now finds itself a seat for you to sit on, while he lifts your legs higher around his body and aligns his cock back near your cunt before plunging himself back in as if he never even left.

Your jaw falls open, and now that your eyes are accustomed to the veil of darkness settled in the cupboard you can make out his mask above you, and both of his hands on your thighs. Being able to see the mysterious man in costume as he watches your pussy swallow his cock with every thrust only increases the pleasure, the rush of the masked assailant taking complete ownership of you, the thrill of the door behind him opening at any second.

He pushes your mini-skirt higher up over your stomach, sliding his right hand down from your thigh to roll his thumb over your clit. Your body jumps at the new feeling, and as the suitcase begins to wobble precariously beneath you, you try to grab onto something nearby and find nothing in reach. Settling to grip one hand on the case beneath you and his naked wrist, you place your faith in the trusty case and hope that it won’t collapse beneath you as Ghostface picks up the pace. 

Every frantic thrust brings you an inch closer to the wall behind your head, but all you can focus on is the outline of his wrist reaching between your thighs and the white curve of the mask staring back at you in silence. You chew out a course of curses, a warm feeling rippling from your cunt all the way to your chest. 

The cupboard feels like a corner of hell, stinking of sex, but all you can care to focus on is the feeling of this man’s dick inside of you, and how you want nothing else but for it to remain there for the rest of the evening.

You’re almost thankful for the lack of visibility in here, and no doubt behind the dark fabric of his masked eyes — you must look a mess, and you do. The man watches you with a half-lidded gaze, watching you unravel at the seams into a mewling mess under his hands. His thumb swirls slower around your clit, his nail slowly flicking over the curve of it as you moan, clenching your hand around his wrist. He shakes himself free from your clutches and moves to feel his cock stretching you open, fingering the wetness pool around him. 

He swipes his finger up the slit of your cunt and then slides his palm over your stomach. You crane your head to stare at him, at the ridges of bone and his protruding veins that simmer across his hand. His fingers are slender, pretty almost, and you watch whilst panting as he stretches his hand across your lower stomach and presses down. At that, his hips flick up higher and you yelp — he’s feeling around for his hand on the surface. 

He fucks up into you, feeling the dull lump of his dick pressing against you, and in turn you feel your legs trembling around him. Ghostface grips you even harder, grunting every time his balls slap up against your bum. The suitcase is wobbling furiously beneath you, but you can’t even feel it teetering on its edge — you’re too busy drowning in the aching pressure building in your body, and trying to fight it and failing miserably.

Ghostface releases your waist in surprise when you very suddenly release; a stream of squirt shoots out of your pussy onto the front of his dark cloak, and as soon as he lets you go, the suitcase beneath you falls and down you disappear against the wall down to the floor.

You land with an unceremonious groan, still squirting and shaking as you descend, and as you cry out in both pleasure and shock, Ghostface laughs and towers over you.

His laugh is loud, the loudest noise he’s made the entire time he’s been in here fucking you. It comes from deep within, boyish and sexy and enough to make you reach forward and press your fingers against your throbbing cunt.

“Shit, mama,” Ghostface croons, still chortling at your fall from grace to the floor of the cupboard. He breathes in with a voiced breath as he watches you fiddle with your clit like a button, staring up at him with a breathless and dazed look.

He tilts his head again — your body physically twitches.

“Oh, you want more?” he asks. You definitely don’t recognise his voice; you barely hear it now the song has changed in the kitchen next door. You’re lucky to have heard Ghostface talk the first time and laugh at the sight of your pussy in the air and legs spread wide.

Ghostface reaches for his cock, which remains hard and rigid under the falling figure of his cloak and he kicks the suitcase to the side. With your calves on either side of his thighs, he positions himself over you as you lie on the floor and starts to stroke his cock from the top to the bottom, picking up speed and watching you stroke the slick space between your legs. Your legs clench closed when you poke one finger into your quivering hole, but Ghostface nudges your legs with his knee and forces them back open.

If the door were to open now, how would you begin to explain the scene? A guy dressed as Ghostface standing over you while you’re undressed on the floor with your legs spread open, pumping his cock as he does nothing to help you up off the ground, enjoying every second of watching you try to finger your pussy and fight the sensitive jolts your body performs. Where would you even start with trying to explain that?

Ghostface shifts his weight above you, his hand moving so fast above you that you can barely see it moving, the black fabric of his cloak blocking the sight from view on occasion. He flicks his wrist as if this is an ordinary session of jerking off, as if you’re not on the floor beneath him ready to catch the blow.

He grunts, and you feel his feet gently brush your ass on the floor when he leans forward unexpectedly and lays one hand flat on the wall your head is against. Then you register a warmth shooting down onto your pussy, moving up to your chest as it falls and rises. He’s cumming. On you. All over you.

You don’t know where the need comes from, but you angle yourself up and position your face under his burst, catching the last few ropes of his cum with your tongue, moaning open-mouthed at the salty taste of it. You can feel the rest of it sliding down your body, trickling down your wet slit and past your bum to the floor. 

Ghostface curses and laughs again, looking down at you.

“Slut,” he calls affectionately, chuckling as he does so. A wild heat blooms on your face. 

Ghostface leans forward and fingers his hand through your hair, using the other one still wrapped around his cock to shake it, as if ridding the last drops of his seed onto your face before letting it fall back behind the curtain of black robes.

The unknown Ghostface grips your face with his hand, staring at the way your eyes burn up into his widely and tiredly. His head tilts again in the way he likes, and then he pats your cheek and waves his hand at you. It takes a second before you understand that he’s waving for you to stand up.

With a struggle, you find your feet and rise to stand in front of him. He assesses the display of sticky cum over your body and face and laughs again, as if finding the whole thing unbelievable and endearing, and then he uses the inside of his cloak to wipe whatever he can see in the dark off your skin. There’s still a party to enjoy — he’s not cruel enough to send you back into the fray with his seed splattered down your front.

A few moments later, the door to the storage cupboard opens from the inside and you ungracefully step out, your body still feeling light and like jelly. Ghostface is just a step behind you, but before you can step into the equally dim light of the flat hallway, he reaches out and fiddles with your skirt. You feel the cheap fabric of it drag in a rearrangement.

He’s pulled your skirt from up above your arse and returned you to normal. 

Ghostface gently pushes you forward and turns to close the door behind him. You still in place, turning to him and hoping he might share who he is, maybe suggest finding a room to have some more fun in. But all he does is look at you before disappearing back inside of the heart of the party taking place in the kitchen.

Leaving you standing there.

A door to someone’s bedroom opens and out someone steps, dressed in a very cute cosplay of Yuna from Final Fantasy. They smile when they see you and use their thumb to gesture behind them: “Bathrooms in there if you’re looking for it.”

You thank her and slowly wander inside, b-lining for the small ensuite and closing the door behind you. You barely think of looking at your reflection in the mirror until you’ve peed and wiped the sticky residue away, but when you do, you blow out a deep sigh and quickly wipe the smudge of eyeliner under your eye. 

You’ve looked worse. There’s always that.

You’re just about to step into the hallway when a Ghostface breezes past you. Immediately, your body freezes, watching the masked figure look back towards the front door with a howling laugh, and when you turn to the door you watch two more Ghostface’s tumble in after him. Your heart lurches in your chest — this just got more complicated.

One of them looks at you and holds up their prop weapon as they pass, using it as if beckoning you to the kitchen where your friends are probably waiting for you. Hoping they’ll avoid all interrogations of where you’ve been for the last twenty minutes, you prepare to poke your head inside and jump back when Ymir steps out.

She looks haggard, her eyes hazed and red and she jerks backwards in surprise when you manifest into her view. 

“Jesus fuck, you scared the shit out of me,” she grumbles, looking you up and down after catching her breath.

A guy dressed in an uninspired pirate outfit passes and says, “Cute outfit.”

“Thanks,” you mutter in reply, then turn to Ymir again. “There’s no more loo roll in that bathroom, if that’s where you’re going.”

“Nah, going outside,” she tells you, “it’s like a sauna in there. Wanna come with?”

You hope that by joining Ymir outside you might iron out your neediness, but the feeling only increases. About five minutes into standing by one of the birch trees in the courtyard, flanked by Ymir and her two friends, you watch as a congregation of people flood out of the building you were just in. Ymir pays them no mind — they’re all at the same party, after all, but your eyes zero in on the familiar flash of black robes and fall on the sickening sight of another Ghostface mask looking right back at you.

You don’t even know if this is the same Ghostface sinking his dick into your cunt just mere minutes ago. 

“Why’s there so many Ghostface’s tonight?” you ask, feigning nonchalance.

Ymir shrugs and twists the butt of her cigarette against the tin bin on the wall. “Must be popular again this year.”

“The new Scream movie came out a few weeks ago,” one of her friends answers helpfully. “I’ve seen about six tonight. Don’t even know who any of them are, either.”

When Ymir gently pulls you back towards the party by your shoulders, you brave another look back at the group with the infamous Ghostface and tame the disappointment blooming in your chest when the masked stranger is no longer searching for you in the throng of people. 

You fall back invisibly in the crowd of people once inside, searching for the man who had claimed you as his own earlier in the night. But he might as well be a ghost in the wild gathering of strangers surrounding you as you try and find fun in dancing with Ymir — everywhere you look, you catch a glimpse of another warping mouth gaping at you, but never any signs of who just had you mewling in the cupboard. His identity and the possibility of it being revealed slip away as the night goes on, but the lingering memory and phantom feeling of his dick up your crotch never leaves.

You’ve never actually met Eren, despite being at his Halloween party at the start of the week. The weekend drawls by at an agonisingly slow pace, so much so that you’re overjoyed when Saturday arrives and you join Ymir back at Eren’s dormitory building for Armin’s belated birthday gathering.

Once you cross the familiar courtyard, you steal a glance up at Eren’s flat, a flood of memories rushing back to you. Hating to admit the disappointment of learning that Armin lived in a different section of the building to Eren, you look away from the full length windows peering in to Eren’s kitchen and hurry behind Ymir and Reiner as they stride down the path towards the heavy green doors. 

There’s a whole regiment of friends to Ymir who you’ve never even met before. There had never been any need to introduce you to the friends Ymir made during her first year of university when they all lived in the same building, and Ymir liked it that way. 

She had a balance of friend groups for different purposes: her fixed group of friends (including Reiner and a dozen others), you (who Ymir considered her best friend, even when she had a poor way of showing it sometimes) and her first year friends, of which includes Eren and the birthday boy, Armin.

You’re not so much fussed by meeting them for the first time. If all goes wrong, you have nothing to lose. 

Luckily, the unification of Ymir’s two friend groups goes according to plan; the collection of strangers prove to be friendly and welcoming, and you almost feel comfortable sitting in between Ymir and Reiner, his arm behind you on the back of the sofa and Ymir’s elbow on your knee as she leans forward to talk with Eren. 

Opposite you, a few of Ymir’s friends fall into a cacophony of laughter that makes you look over at them with interest. A girl with brown hair leans back into her friends arm as a guy with a buzz-cut steps into the kitchen, patting his hands on his cargos as if they were wet. You look away again when Reiner brings you up in the conversation he’s having to your right, and you’re intention is to remain there until your ears prick up at someone’s voice opposite you.

“Shit, mama, you good?”

Your head snaps to the side. 

Buzz-cut arches forward in his seat with a grin on his face, patting his hand on the brunette girl’s back as she coughs into her arm. The other friend, a dirty blond who you think is called Jean, takes her drink from her hands with a laugh while she splutters. Buzz-cut laughs too, the sound all too fucking familiar.

In your chest, your heart hammers before plunging to the pit of your stomach. When he rearranges himself and lays his hands flat on his parted knees, your eyes wander to his fingers and catch the sight of a slim silver band around his middle finger, and you feel your whole body go rigid.

It’s him. 

It’s your Ghostface.

“Shit, Sasha, why’d you spit your drink everywhere?” Eren asks, chuckling at the girl as she apologetically wipes her mouth and makes a move to wipe away the water. “Ugh, stop, stop.”

“Can you get the kitchen roll from the cupboard, Connie?” sighs Armin, and you watch as buzz-cut rises to his feet and circles towards a cupboard and pulls out the kitchen roll. A cupboard he knew to look inside, the familiar entry to the kitchen — your mysterious Ghostface lives here, and your body warms at the fact.

Connie approaches the shitty coffee table and unravels a blanket of paper before laying it across the spill, soaking up whatever it was Sasha was drinking. He does it fast, but you steal whatever looks you can at him while he’s not looking back. 

His hair is silver, the glint of silvery hoops and studs in his left ear standing out as an accent to his appearance. You watch his fingers grip the soggy clumps of tissue and familiarise yourself with them; just a few days ago, those fingers were around your waist, that thumb rolling circles around your clit.

You subtly fidget in your seat and try to look away, but you find yourself with the urge to look at him constantly, feeling like a schoolgirl crushing on her classmate. 

“What’s it with you and coffee tables?” Reiner asks Sasha, bringing her gaze over to him and by extension you. She smiles at you both, considering you’re looking right at her and between her, Jean and Connie. “Didn’t you hurl on Eren’s on Halloween?”

“That actually wasn’t me,” Sasha says immediately, frantically looking at Eren as he levels a look at her. “I swear. I swear it wasn’t me. It was Mina, I swear.”

“I watched you do it,” Reiner replies.

“No, no! Connie, back me up—”

“He wasn’t even there!”

Connie glances at Sasha as if weighing his options by defending her, and then he looks at Reiner. As he does so, you feel your heart in your throat when his eyes pass by your figure and settle on Reiner, and then suddenly jump back to you in a double take.

Connie stands there for a moment, his eyes glued to you like a predator to prey. You watch his eyes flicker around your face, analysing you, before falling down to your chest, your legs, and then finally back at your face. You wonder if you might have fallen under the radar if only you hadn’t clenched your legs tighter together and squirmed in your seat, which is all the evidence Connie needed to confirm that you were the girl who’s pussy he’d been up inside a few nights ago.

You don’t begin to guess what he might be thinking. He slowly comes back to his senses and sits in his chair, his gaze wandering around the room before inevitably coming back to you, finding your gaze still fixed on him in a stunned surprise that he feels bloom into a sort of pride. 

As he stares at you, he lets his head tilt to the side with a smile, watching the way your chest rises and falls before you force your gaze away, determined to find something interesting in Ymir’s conversation with the person next to her.

But now that you’ve seen him, and now that Connie’s seen you, you know that something has shifted, and when the vibrating pulse in your crotch returns unpleasantly, you force it away and count the seconds before you can leave with Ymir in tow — unsuspecting of the eyes that will follow as you go; oblivious to the desire stirring inside of Connie’s body to finish what he started on Halloween.

[pickingupmymercedes]

Small firsts - Lewis Hamilton

Lots of fluffs. 10 of them to warm our hearts this rainy weekend.

request: "'All these little things' made me think of the small moments that are milestones in a relationship but aren't celebrated as such. Maybe, you could do something like that?"

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

wordcount: +4K

a/n: Writing these warmed my heart. Celebrate the small moments guys, they make the path worth it

Also there's +20 more fluffs just like these ones here - Ways to say I love you & Ways to say I love you pt. 2 - and here - All these little things & All these little things pt. 2 .

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

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The first time he played a personal song of his to you

Lewis's strumming sounds on his guitar drifted out onto the balcony, a melody muffled by the crash of the ocean on Monaco's shores. You sat on one of the plush chairs, bathed in the soft glow of the sunset, your laptop open and fingers flitting across the keyboard.

The sound had become a familiar soundtrack to evenings with him.

Lewis poured his emotions into his music, something he’d usually only share with those closest to him. You'd heard him play snippets so far, familiar tunes or warm-up riffs, but never a complete, original song, not yet.

Not until a melody caught your attention, something unfamiliar. It was softer, melancholic yet strangely hopeful, with a recurring guitar line that tugged at something.

You paused your work, peaking from the laptop you saw Lewis playing on the couch across the space, his face half colored by the remaining lights half in the dark shadows.

His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in concentration as his fingers danced across the guitar strings. But as the song was about to reach what seemed to be a chorus, he glanced up, his gaze meeting yours, a soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He stopped playing, the silence echoing for a moment before he spoke, his voice a low murmur. "Didn't know you were an audience."

"It's beautiful" you said, caught by surprise by the huskiness in your own voice.

Lewis's smile faltered slightly. He ran a hand through his shorts, a nervous gesture you rarely saw. "It's... something I wrote a while back."

He looked away, then back at you, as if wondering if he should share that with you, if he could anyway.

Without a word, you closed your laptop and stood up. Crossing the room, you settled on the couch next to him, still leaving a comfortable space between you.

Lewis watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a small smile played on his lips again. He lifted his hand and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, a silent thank you for understanding.

He didn't need to say anything more. The music spoke for him, a tribute to someone he still loved or had loved dearly.

As the melody filled the room again, you leaned closer, resting your head against his shoulder.

This wasn't just music; it was a glimpse into Lewis, a gift he was choosing to share with you. A side of him he rarely showed the world.

The city lights had started to twinkle below, but all you could see was the gentle smile playing on Lewis's lips as his fingers strummed in the cords of that guitar.

The song ended softly; the silence afterwards filled with unspoken emotions for you both.

He squeezed your hand, a grateful glint in his eyes. "Thank you for listening."

The first time you do each other's laundry.

The crisp Colorado winter wind howled outside, rattling the windows of Lewis's house. Inside, Lewis's furrowed his brow at the pile of laundry that seemed to be multiplying on the floor.

“Why did I even let that much laundry pile up?!" he muttered to himself, sorting through a mountain of workout gear. He reached for a familiar worn-in sweatshirt, a smile forming on his lips. It was the one Y/n had practically adopted, leaving her scent as a constant reminder to him.

Beside his own clothes, a smaller pile of delicates caught his attention. Nestled amongst his t-shirts, lay a few lacy underwear, some of which he vaguely recalled seeing in her body, or peeking out from under her sweater.

But, practicality reared its head.

He stared at the lacy contraption, feeling a touch out of his depth. Sure, he could handle sweaty race suits and gym socks, but lingerie? That was uncharted territory. But he wanted to take care of her things too, to make sure they stayed as soft and delicate as they felt in her skin.

Just then, Y/n walked in, her cheeks and nose a touch flushed from the cold, a steaming pot tea in her hands. She stopped short, amused by the sight of clothes scattered on the floor and Lewis looking defeated.

"Laundry day already?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm.

"More like laundry mountain day" Lewis replied wryly, gesturing at the pile. "Thought I'd tackle it while the storm has us stuck inside."

He caught her eye flicker to the lacy item, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Oh” she teased, setting the mug down on nearer surface. "You’ve found my delicates…"

Lewis, ever so slightly flustered, held up one of his favorites pieces of hers. " About that" he stammered, "how exactly do you wash... them?"

Y/n burst into laughter, the sound warm and genuine. "Oh, Lew" she said, shaking her head as she walked towards him, taking the bralette from his hand as her fingers brushed against his in the process.

She explained the delicate cycle settings on his washing machine, her voice soft and patient. She showed him the difference between hand washing and machine washing, a playful glint in her eyes as she demonstrated with some of her more delicate pieces.

Lewis found himself completely entranced. Here he was, a world champion, only now learning the intricacies of lace washing. And somehow, it felt more nerve wrecking than any qualifying session.

"There you go" Y/n finally said, placing a folded lacy bra in a basket. "See, not so scary, is it?"

Lewis shook his head, a sheepish grin on his face. "Thanks" he mumbled, clearly still a bit embarrassed "Appreciate it, love."

"Thank you, for doing my laundry" she replied, leaning in and nuzzling her nose against his neck. "Besides," she whispered, her voice husky, "now you have more reasons to admire those pieces."

Lewis laughed, wrapping his arms around her. "That," he admitted, pulling her close, "might be the best part."

The first time it's not his friends, but ours.

The rain hammered against the London house's windows, a steady rhythm that masked the city's usual symphony of honking horns and sirens. You fumbled with your keys, finally unlocking the door and stepping inside, greeted by the warmth and distant sound of music.

Lewis's laughter cut through the melody, drawing you towards the source. There he was, surrounded by his friends, sprawled on the floor, instruments scattered around them, clearly in the midst of a brainstorming session.

Miles's head snapped up first, a wide grin splitting his face. "Y/n!" The room erupted in a chorus of greetings as they scrambled to their feet.

"Hey guys, how's the music coming along?" you asked, stepping into the chaos.

"Slow," Daniel admitted with a wink. " Your lover boy here is being particularly stubborn about this riff." He nudged Lewis playfully.

"It needs work" Lewis protested, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer.

"Been avoiding us, have you?" Daniel teased, opening his arms to engulf in a bear hug when you detached from Lewis.

You scoffed playfully. "Avoiding you? Never. Just swamped with work myself."

"Uh-huh," Daniel drawled, unconvinced.

You were about to retort when Lewis cut in. "Now she’s confirmed it, lay off you all." He said pulling you closer to leave a soft kiss to the back of your head.

The music resumed as you settled onto the couch, content to watch them work their magic.

Later that night, as you snuggled into bed with Lewis you couldn’t help but feel how lighter he always looked when he had time with his friends.

"You know," you said softly, "I had a really nice time tonight. Your friends are…"

"Amazing?" Lewis finished, a smile in his voice.

"Yeah" you agreed, chuckling. "I’ll let you gloat on this one, they really are amazing”

Lewis reached over and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "And they're your friends too, you know." he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

You looked up at his eyes. "What do you mean?"

He chuckled softly. "They haven't called you 'Lewis' girl' for a while now. It's been only 'Y/n'. They like you."

A warmth bloomed in your chest. Your fingers circling his naked chest. "Really?"

"Hm" he confirmed, his gaze holding yours. "Don't think of them as just my friends. They’re ours."

The first time he refers to you as “mommy” to a pet

You peeked through the doorway, a silent observer in the warm glow of the late morning in the living room. Lewis was sprawled on the rug, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he wrestled with Roscoe.

Toys were scattered around them like colorful confetti, and Roscoe, tongue lolling out in pure joy, was putting up a valiant fight against Lewis.

"Alright, alright, rascal!" Lewis chuckled, giving Roscoe a back rub that sent the dog into a fit of happy wiggles. "Who's the bests boys in the whole wide world, huh?"

Roscoe barked in agreement, short and enthusiastic barks that vibrated his entire chunky body.

"That's right, yous ares" Lewis said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "The bestest boys. But you know what you need to be an even better boy?"

Roscoe tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"You need to listen to Mommy," Lewis continued, his voice dropping a playful octave. You froze at the doorway, a blush creeping up your neck. Mommy?

Lewis reached out and scratched Roscoe behind the ear. "Yeah, Mommy said we should pick up all these toys before lunch times. What do yous says, champ? Wanna helps Mommys cleans ups?"

Roscoe whined and nudged Lewis's hand with his wet nose, tail thumping against the floor. Lewis ruffled the dog's fur.

"That's a good boys" he said, his gaze flickering towards the doorway for a brief moment. "Time to make Mommy proud."

He stood up, gathering a handful of stuffed animals, and your heart did a little flip-flop. The way he said it, so casual, so natural, you were not expecting that, at all.

You stepped into the room, a playful smile on your face. "Did someone say 'Mommy'?"

Lewis looked up, a surprised grin splitting his face. "Uh, yeah," he stammered, his hands scratching a hidden spot in his neck. "Just, uh, motivating Roscoe here."

Roscoe dropped a squeaky toy at your feet, tail wagging furiously. You knelt down and scratched him behind the ears, earning a happy snuffle.

"He seems pretty motivated already" you teased, glancing at the half-cleaned pile of toys.

Lewis cleared his throat. "Right, well, he just needs a little help from his favorite humans, right, Roscoe?"

The bulldog barked again, his excitement for playtime clearly evident. You couldn't help but laugh.

"Alright, alright," you said, picking up a plush bone.

Lewis's grin widened. "Knew you wouldn’t resist" he said, his voice warm and inviting.

The three of you spent the next twenty minutes engaged in a playful battle against the scattered toys. Roscoe snatching them back just as you were about to put them away.

Finally, as Roscoe settled in his lap as he sat on the floor in the kitchen you leaned against the counter, watching the peaceful scene. He glanced up, catching your gaze.

"So, 'Mommy', huh?" she said, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"Well," he shrugged, playfully mimicking her earlier tone "someone has to take care of us two."

She chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Can't argue with that."

He reached out a hand, silently inviting you to join him. You crossed the room and slipped down into his embrace, the warmth of him surrounding you. Roscoe whined and shuffled closer, his large head now resting comfortably on your legs.

The first time you admit to someone else you love them.

The apartment was filled with the comforting hum of conversation and the clinking of wine glasses. Y/n sat cross-legged on the plush carpet, surrounded by her closest friends and the nearly empty bottle they were sharing.

“So, how’s everything going with Lewis?” asked Y/N/F, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Y/n smiled at the mention of his name alone “It’s going really well,” she replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean, it’s still early days, but things are… really well.”

Another woman leaned in; her interest showing. “What do you mean by that?”

Y/n took a sip of her wine, savoring the taste as she thought about how to explain it. “I don’t know. He’s just...he’s attentive and caring. Like, he remembers the little things, you know?! The things I never go without at home there’s always a stock at his place, he knows my schedule even if he doesn’t know his own…”

Her friends exchanged knowing looks, but Y/n was too lost in her thoughts to notice. “He just remembers things I say, things I need, without me having to remind him.”

“He sounds like a keeper” one of them said, her voice tinged with amusement. “What else?”

Y/n’s smile widened as she continued. “He’s introduced me to his family, and they’re all so wonderful. And he’s met mine, too. We’ve been taking these little steps, and it feels so natural. We’re not rushing, but we’re also not holding back.”

Some eyes narrowed playfully. “Lovely, you’re glowing just talking about him.”

Y/n chuckled embarrassed, ducking her head. “I guess, he makes me feel special.”

Y/N/F put her glass down and leaned forward, her expression serious. “Y/n, it sounds like you’re in love with him.”

Y/n blinked, the words hanging in the air between them. “What? No, it’s too soon for that” she protested weakly, no certainty whatsover.

She reached out, placing a hand on Y/n’s arm. “It’s not about time, it’s about how he makes you feel. And from what you’re saying, it sounds like love to me.”

Y/n’s mind raced as she replayed her words, the moments she had shared with Lewis, the way her heart felt safe every time she saw him. She bit her lip, a shy smile forming. “Maybe” she admitted softly.

The first time they make you cry.

The argument had started over something small. A casual comment about how Lewis seemed to be running himself ragged with his schedule. But somehow it spiraled into something much more intense.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Lewis,” Y/n said, her voice tinged with frustration. “You need to take a break and focus on your mental health. You can’t keep going like this.”

Lewis sighed, rubbing his temples. “I’ve been living like this for years, Y/n. I’m fine. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

Her heart ached at his words. “But I’m here to help. That’s what being in a relationship is supposed to be, us taking care of each other.”

“I’ve managed just fine on my own” he snapped, his eyes flashing with anger. “I don’t need fixing.”

Y/n felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “Who said anything about fixing you, Lewis. It’s about being there for you. Supporting you. Why can’t you see that?”

He turned away, his shoulders tense. “Because I don’t need it. I’m not like that.”

The tears spilled over, and she wiped them away angrily. “Do you not trust me? Because this is about trust too.”

Lewis whirled around, his expression softening as he saw her tears. “It’s not that. At all. It’s just… I’ve always handled things on my own.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m asking you to let me in. In the good and the bad.”

His anger melted away, his features softening. “Please don’t cry” he said quietly, stepping closer and reaching for her hand.

Y/n shook her head, trying to hold back more tears. “I’m crying because I care about you, so damn much, and it hurts to see you struggling and not letting me at least try and help.”

Lewis pulled her into his arms. She buried her face in his chest, the warmth of his embrace a welcome contrast to the cold distance of their argument. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I didn’t mean to push you away.”

She clung to him, her fingers gripping his shirt. “I just want to be there for you. To share the load.”

He sighed, holding her tighter. “I know. I’m just not used to it. But I’ll try. Promise, okay?!”

Y/n pulled back slightly, looking at him to find sincerity in his eyes. “That’s all I’m asking.”

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing away her tears. “I do trust you. It’s just hard to let go of old habits.”

The first time you share a hangover so painful you actually think you might die.

The throbbing in her head felt like a techno beat gone rogue. Every breath felt like knives torturing each cell, from her temples straight down to her toes. And to top it off she was pretty sure she'd swallowed a swarm of angry bees, that were now very, very unhappy residing in her skull.

"Ugh," Y/n groaned, pulling the covers further over her head.

A faint chirp from the doorway alerted to Lewis's presence. He peeked in; concern etched on his face.

"Hey," he said softly. "How's it going?"

"I think I’m dying" she mumbled from the depths of the covers. "Or at least the feeling is just like I imagine dying to be like."

Lewis chuckled, a sound that surprisingly didn't send her brain into a protest. "Sounds rough."

"Rough is putting it mildly" Y/n croaked. "I think I might have made a deal with the devil for another tequila. And apparently, he holds a grudge."

He approached the bed holding a tray that looked like it had come straight from a health spa – a steaming mug, a glass of water, and a plate of suspiciously green fruit salad.

"Is that… kale?" she peeked at the salad with suspicion.

"Don't knock it till you try it, babe," he said, setting the tray down on the nightstand. "It's packed with just what your body needs right now."

Y/n grimaced. The thought of kale was about as appealing as a root canal right now. But she appreciated the effort.

"Fine" she mumbled, reaching for the glass of water. "No promises though."

Lewis helped her sit up, propping pillows behind her back. He handed her the mug first, the smell of ginger and honey filling your senses.

"It'll help with the nausea." he said, his voice gentle and reassuring.

Y/n took a tentative sip. It wasn't bad at all. Dare she say, it was kind of good?!

As she finished the drink, Lewis picked up the spoon and started feeding her the fruit salad.

"Hm, Lew” she whined, swatting playfully at his hand. "Do I look like a baby bird?"

"Not really," he grinned, dodging her hand. "But you do look like a very cuddly koala who needs help."

And cuddly she was. Deprived of her usual snark and fueled solely by the desire for her pain to end, she found herself clinging to Lewis for the rest of the day.

Y/n buried her face in his shoulder, nuzzling it like a giant human teddy bear. "See?" Lewis said, wrapping his arms around her. "Much better now, salad and all."

She mumbled something incoherent but contented against his chest. The warmth of his embrace, the gentle pressure of his hand rubbing circles on her back, it all felt strangely soothing.

After a while, the pain in her head seemed to dull a little. Maybe it was the tea, maybe it was Lewis's cuddling skills, but she started to drift off to sleep.

"Feeling better?" Lewis whispered, his voice barely a murmur.

"Just don't let me do any more tequila. Ever.” Y/n mumbled back, sleep almost pulling her under until she turned into his chest to look at him with a smirk “Unless is Almave”.

The first time you realize you have a side to the bed.

The crisp morning air snuck through the thin hotel curtains, hitting in stripe like figures across Lewis's face. He stirred; the warmth of Y/n pressed against his back a comforting weight. He instinctively reached out, his fingers trailing along the curve of her arm, a silent morning greeting.

A muffled groan escaped Y/n's lips; her face buried in the crook of his neck. Lewis chuckled softly, already familiar with her morning routine. He was an early riser, Y/n, however, reveled in sleeping in whenever possible.

"Morning sunshine" he whispered, his voice husky with sleep.

A sleepy mumbled response was all he got before peace settled again. Lewis smiled, content to simply lie with her, enjoying the quiet moments with her in his arms. He was about to drift back to sleep when a small wrinkle appeared on Y/n's forehead.

With a sigh that spoke volumes about her reluctance, Y/n began to roll over. But before she could fully turn into the sunny spots, Lewis's arm instinctively tightened around her, gently but firmly stopping her movement.

"Wrong side," he murmured, his voice still laced with sleep.

Y/n blinked, momentarily disoriented.

Sun. It was way too early for sun.

She squinted towards the window, the golden light streaming in directly at her.

"Oh," she mumbled, her confusion finally dissipating.

"See" Lewis chuckled, a hint of amusement in his voice. "This side's better for you. Less light in the mornings."

She connected the dots. All this time, she'd assumed it was a coincidence that she always ended up on the darker side of the bed. But Lewis, bless his soul, had evidently been making sure of it.

"You knew?" she asked, a playful smile tugging at the corner of her still sleepy features.

"Always," he confirmed, his warm breath tickling her ear.

"You never said anything."

"Didn't have to" he replied smugly. "Seemed to be working just fine."

She snuggled closer. It was a small thing, but it spoke volumes about his attentiveness, about the way he already knew her preferences.

"Thank you, my savior” she teased, rolling onto her back and gazing up at him.

He met her gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just making sure you get your beauty sleep."

"Oh, so that's it?" she challenged, a playful glint in her eyes. "Not just protecting your own slumber?"

"Maybe a little bit of both," he admitted with a disarming grin. He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss.

"Well," she murmured, as he pulled back, "thanks for looking after me, even when I'm clueless."

Lewis brushed a stray strand of loose hair. "Always," he promised, his voice a low rumble.

The first time you have to suck it up and say sorry.

The fluorescent lights of the medical center buzzed overhead, nothing like the snowy wonderland you were just minutes before in the Colorado snow winter.

A throbbing ache pulsed behind her forehead, a constant reminder of her spectacular faceplant earlier on the slopes. She’d tried to impress Lewis and his friends with a daring jump, ending up in a tangled heap of limbs and snow.

"You okay?" Lewis had appeared at her side in a flash, his face etched with worry.

"Yeah, just a little tumble," She'd mumbled, brushing snow off her jacket. The truth was, the world had tilted a bit when she hit the ground, but she hated feeling like a damsel in distress. Especially not on a trip Lewis had been planning for months.

A few hours later, the world wasn't just tilting; it was doing a full-on waltz. Nausea churned in her stomach, making it hard to even think straight.

She excused myself from the group, claiming a bathroom break, her head swimming with every step.

At the medical center, a stern-faced doctor delivered the news – a possible concussion, observation for a few hours. Finally, frustration giving way to helplessness, she finally dialed Lewis's number.

He answered with a clipped greeting, his voice laced with tension. "Y/n, where are you?"

"Uh, hey Lewis," she started, voice small. "I'm, uh, at the medical center."

A beat of stunned silence followed, then a torrent of words. "Medical center? What happened? Are you okay? It’s about that fall, isn’t it?!"

She winced at his sharp tone, but knew it came from a place of concern. "I… I just didn't want to ruin the day," she mumbled, guilt twisting in my gut.

"Ruin the day?" There was a pause, then a sigh. "Babe. You're more important than any ski trip."

Shame burned in her face. "I know, I just…" she trailed off, unable to articulate the stubborn independence that had gotten her into this mess.

"Just… just stay put," Lewis finally said, the anger replaced with a tired resignation. "I'm on my way."

The wait felt like an eternity. Finally, the door burst open, revealing a furious and concerned Lewis. His face softened when he saw her, the anger replaced with a wave of relief so palpable she could almost touch it.

He rushed to her side. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I did a faceplant off a mountain," she admitted, a weak smile tugging at her lips hoping to lighten the mood.

He chuckled, a low, warm sound. "That sounds about right." Then, a softer note entered his voice. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling good?"

She took a deep breath before answering. "I'm sorry, Lew" she apologized meeting his gaze. "I just… didn't want to hold you back. I know how much you were looking forward to this trip."

He cupped her face in his hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You're never going to hold me back," he said, his voice low and serious. "Promise me you'll tell me next time."

The first time you look at them and think of forever

Snow fell around the cozy cabin, a relentless drumming that created a comforting rhythm.

Inside, curled up on the oversized couch with a mug of hot cocoa clutched in her hands, Y/n watched Lewis.

He wasn't doing anything particularly extraordinary, simply mending a tear in a pair of his skying pants, his brow furrowed in concentration as he threaded the needle. He didn't even notice her watching, his full attention focused on the task at hand.

And yet, in that ordinary moment, a warmth flooded her chest, stealing her breath away. Here he was, a man who commanded the attention of millions, bent over a sewing kit with a needle as delicate as a butterfly's wing.

She'd seen him conquer podiums and defy physics, but the sight of him patiently mending a simple tear, a frown adorably creasing his forehead… that was something different, entirely.

A glimpse into a side of him rarely seen, a quiet vulnerability of a man who wasn't afraid to solve things, to mend not just clothes, but maybe something broken in other places too.

A shy smile spread across her face as the realization hit her. This, this right here, the Lewis who faced his fears on the track and mended his own clothes, was the man she was falling for. He wasn't just the celebrity, he was real, flawed, and utterly endearing.

"You're staring," Lewis finally said, catching her eye. He looked up, a playful smile on his lips. His cheeks flushed slightly, a hint of self-consciousness creeping in.

"Just admiring your skills" she teased, taking a sip of her cocoa.

"Didn't know you were a fan, sewing skills are highly underrated" he replied, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Maybe I am" she confessed; her voice soft. "Maybe I am a fan of everything you do."

He put down the needle and thread, the unfinished pant left in his lap. He leaned in, his gaze holding hers captive. "Everything?" he murmured, his voice husky.

She held his gaze, feeling heat creep up her neck. "Even the mundane stuff. Specially those, actually." she whispered back, winking before closing in.

A slow smile spread across his face. He leaned in further, the space between their lips connecting with a gentle warm touch; a quiet understanding that went beyond words.

As they pulled away, his thumb brushed away a stray strand of hair from her face. "Forever might be a crazy promise, Y/N," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But if I were to make it, it would be with you."

______________________________________________________________

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[cognacdelights]

play wicked games, win wicked prizes [2]

gif by @spacedean.

my supernatural masterlist

play wicked games, win wicked prizes [1]

summary: she craves male validation. he's the best high she's ever gotten. now they're both stuck in a sick and twisted game of foreplay that neither are willing to lose.

warnings: a whole fuck tonne of daddy issues. self-esteem issues. abandonment issues. i am well aware that this is not a healthy relationship and is for entertainment purposes only. sexual content and themes. praise kink. mentions of death and grief. swearing. alcohol use. religious undertones. small age gap romance.

author's note: sorry that it took so long to post. i had a few issues. but we're here. also, i got carried away. it's now going to be in three parts, but i promise that the final part will be worth the wait. minors have been warned. do not interact.

Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel out of boredom. His heavy metal mixtape filled the background as he watched carefully out the windscreen, observing the world before him. He was always watching. Scrutinising. That’s how he managed to stay ten steps ahead — by knowing his environment, noticing when the tiniest of details were off. His eyes scoured every inch of the scene that unfolded in front of him, followed people and their every movement, and noticed every little detail.

The faint smell of chlorine hung in the late-spring air and smoke-like clouds loomed in the distance; there was a flash thunderstorm brewing nearby. The bearded barista’s apron pocket was stuffed full of dollar bills, yet in the six hours that he had been parked there he’d only seen six or seven customers wander inside the upmarket coffee house — and one of them was Sam; he was most likely stealing from the cash register. Short-changing customers and pocketing the difference. And the cops were clearly rattled by the deaths at the boarding school; three patrol cars had cruised past in the last thirty minutes, and there were extra patrols on foot. They were on high alert.

The door to the Impala opened, and Dean instinctively whipped his head towards the passenger side. His malachite eyes found Maggie — dressed in a modest, high-neck blouse and a long, flowing skirt that grazed her ankles. Her dark locks were neatly braided into a sensible bun at the nape of her neck, and a natural layer of make-up cleverly hid the garish welt that stained her cheek. She looked positively prudent. Respectable, even. He almost didn’t recognise her.

“Nice get up,” he teased, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards into a half-smirk as he turned the music down.

Maggie responded with a tight-lipped, sardonic smile — then flipped him her middle finger — as she climbed into the passenger side. She reached into the depths of her leather purse and retrieved two matching pieces of cloth; they were tied neatly into parcels and wreaked of flower-like herbs. She threw them carelessly towards Dean as the door slammed shut behind her.

“Hex bags?” Dean raised an untamed eyebrow. He curiously untied the leather string that held the cloth together and peered inside at the contents. Rabbit’s teeth, bird bones, and lavender.

“Hex bags,” the feisty brunette confirmed. Her fingers found the clear buttons of her blouse and swiftly began unbuttoning — the high-necked garment uncomfortable and suffocating around her throat. “Matching, best friend hex bags. I found them in both their dorm rooms.” Oh, the irony of a witch in a Catholic boarding school.

Dragging his tongue along the dry ridges of his bottom lip as his gaze followed her quick-moving fingers, he watched in anticipation as she exposed her chest to him once again without any hint of hesitation. As the black, lace fringes of her bralette were exposed he cleared his throat and diverted his attention back to the contents of the hex bags. “So, uh—” he twiddled with the bird bones, fighting the urge to take her half-naked body in once again, “—that’s great. We just find the jealous third wheel and case closed.”  

“If only it was that easy.” Maggie ridded herself of the god-awful, itchy blouse. She clumsily kicked off the kitten heels that had rubbed her heels to glory and pushed the waistband of the skirt down her thighs. “Missy Braun was a resident Regina George, and Imogan was her Gretchen Weiners.”

Dean peered towards her out of the corner of his eyes and simply blinked; Maggie may as well have been speaking a foreign language.

Rolling her umber eyes at his lack of pop culture knowledge, she explained, “Missy and Imogen terrorised the school.” Her long, pleated skirt fell into a crumpled pile in the footwell and was soon joined by her tan-coloured tights. “There are about three-hundred potential Sabrina the Teenage Witch’s on roll that those girls have humiliated in some kind of way, and we only have two days to find her. They’re shipping them all back to Mommy and Daddy for an early summer vacation come Friday.”

“Looks like we got some work to do,” he mused in his usual, sarcastic tone. It was then that he caught sight of her in the rear-view mirror — round ass shamelessly in the air and covered only by the thin string of her thong as she leant over the seat, reaching for her clothes in the backseat. Jesus Christ, she really was going to be the death of him. He adjusted himself in his seat, finding a more comfortable position that kept his semi-erection a secret.

“Where’s Sam?” she questioned casually. Maggie had noticed the empty coffee cup that had his name and order scrawled across the side, discarded in the cup holder, and the noticeable lack of his presence. There was an unmentioned tension that hung in the air between them; it surrounded them, holding them in a tight coil and squeezing until the pressure overflowed in way of a petty sibling squabble. Even though Maggie had grown up with the Winchester Brothers, their bickering still drove her to the point of insanity.

“Gone for a walk.”

“Okay—” she twisted her half-naked body back around and slid into a sitting position, t-shirt and shorts in hand, and asked directly, “—what the hell is going on with you two?”

“Nothing,” Dean deflected, folding his arms across his muscular chest in an obvious display of defence, “we’re fine.”

Maggie sent him an unrelenting glare. One that Dean was no match for. He broke instantly with a long exhale and threw his head back against the leather seat.

He was quiet for a second longer, formulating the words in his mind. “He shacked up with Amelia when I was in purgatory,” Dean admitted with a careful choice of words — cleverly calculated to keep his deepest and darkest emotions from surfacing.

“I know.” That was all she said. I know. It was tactical really. She knew Dean Winchester far too well. In fact, she knew the man better than he knew himself, and this was one of his best self-defence tactics. Give just about enough to satisfy them without giving anything away at all. Keep everybody at a distance so when you give an inch, they’ll think it’s a mile. But that didn’t wash with Maggie. Maggie knew better. Maggie used the same damn tactics herself.

She merely shimmied a pair of ripped, denim shorts up her thighs.

It took several moments of an awkward silence before Dean broke once more. “So—” he reluctantly delved further, “—instead of looking for me, he was holed up in a motel room doing the horizontal line dance with Florence Nightingale.”

“First of all—” Maggie pulled a t-shirt that he distinctly recognised as being one of his own over her head, “—Florence Nightingale was a human nurse, not a dog nurse. You’re thinking of Dr Doolittle.” She tied the hem at her abdomen into a crop. “And secondly, I know.”

“If you know all of this, then why are you asking me what’s going on?” His head swivelled to face her abruptly in frustration.

“Because you’re being an asshole, and you’re fobbing me off with some bullshit excuse to shut me up,” she answered, casually shrugging her shoulders. Tugging at the elastic in her hair, she released the braided bun and combed her fingers through her long, sleek locks. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Dean.”

He threw his head back against the seat once more, rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. A loud, defeated groan echoed throughout the Impala; this was the last conversation he wanted to have with a half-mast hard on. “Can we just drop this already?”

Of course, in true Maggie May fashion, she ignored his very obvious pleas to leave this subject well alone. “You’re hurt that he didn’t come looking for you, aren’t you?” she spit-balled her thoughts on the situation, “you’re upset that he moved on without you.”

Dean sent her a look. It was one that she couldn’t quite interpret. A cocktail of emotions swirled around his tired eyes as they glazed over ever so subtly. His stubble-lined lips pressed into a thin line before he spoke, voice considerably timid. “I wouldn’t have stopped until I’d gotten Sam back if he was the one stuck in purgatory.”

“Dean—” her whole demeanour shifted, softened, as she scooted closer to him. Her arm rested atop the back of the seat and her body twisted towards him, her legs haphazardly hanging over his. “There’s a few things that you need to remember here. Sam isn’t you. Your childhood was a lot different to Sam’s. You were raised to protect him at all costs — hell, you raised him yourself. You weren’t just his brother. You were Mom and Dad too. Yeah, Sam was taught family above everything, but he didn’t have the responsibility of someone else’s life in his hands.”

He watched cautiously as she leant forwards, the gentle palm of her hand resting on his shoulder. It was such a simple gesture, but the warmth of her touch comforted him immensely. “It just—” he really did struggle with emotions, even if it was easier with Maggie, “—feels like a punch in the gut.”

“You know, deep down, that Sam never wanted this life. He went to Stanford. He applied to law school. He wanted to be a lawyer, and get married, and buy a house with a white picket fence, and have two point five kids. The whole shebang. He wanted a normal life. And Sam grieved in the same way that a normal person would. He put you to rest and built a new life for himself, and he just so happened to find someone that he really cares about in the process. I might not like her, or agree with what he did, but I understand why he did it. He made a normal life for himself.”

Gradually, he melted into her delicate touch; he found solace in her words and the strokes of her fingers against his skin. He knew that what she was saying made sense, and he knew that she was right, but it didn’t curb the anguish that consumed the very pit of his stomach.

“Sam loves you very much Dean, and he idolises you. Hell, that’s probably why he left this woman that he loves to jump back into a life that he doesn’t want. To be with his big brother. And yeah, he probably feels guilty for not looking for you. For being happy with Amelia whilst you were fighting for your life in purgatory. But you can’t blame him, or even hate him, for going after what he really wanted. He thought you were dead. We all did. You just disappeared. How was he supposed to know where you were, or what happened to you?”

Dean simply exhaled in response. Words were too difficult in that moment. Mostly because everything that Maggie was saying was right. She had rationalised everything for him, plain and simple for him to understand. Now he just had to come to terms with it.

“I’m not taking his side—” Maggie reaffirmed with a tender tone, “—I’m actually on your side.” She dragged her finger carefully down the length of his neck and traced the glimmering metal chain of his cross necklace, toying with it. “I’m on the side of you not holding onto all this resentment and hatred for your brother, that I know you love very deeply. I’m on the side of letting whatever this right now is go and moving on with your own life. You’ll regret it.”

“And what about you?” his eyes flicked up to meet her own.  

A reticent laugh spilled from her throat, “that’s a lot to unpack and we’ve had enough chick flick moments for today.” She couldn’t ignore the obviously elephant in the room any longer that she herself was harbouring a stubborn grudge against the youngest Winchester, too. But she was going to give it her damned best effort. She chose to ignore the disapproving shake of his head that she’d earned.

The fox-eyed brunette reached upwards and placed a loving peck against his cheek before he could respond, signifying the end of their conversation. Her gentle lips lingered against his skin, replaced only with a fervent burning sensation. She untangled her bruised legs from his body and shuffled back into the passenger side.

Dean gave her thigh an appreciative squeeze. A silent thank you, and a hopeful reminder that he was there to listen whenever she was ready.

Maggie’s lips twitched ever so slightly into a smile as she peered out the window. Suddenly, she was one with the clouds. That familiar jolt of electric that she felt every time he touched her.

Maggie and The Winchesters had committed numerous crimes over the years. Breaking and Entering. Impersonating a Federal Agent. Grand Theft Auto. There had to be a case for kidnapping in there somewhere with all the times they’d shoved a demon into their trunk and hit gas. However, stealing confidential information about private school girls and proceeding to stalk them in every area of their sordid lives might just take the biscuit. If anything, this was the one that was going to get them caught. This was the one that was going to stick. It didn’t look good from any angle, and there wasn’t a single explanation that was going to make it any less creepy.

Maggie sat in the leather armchair — her bare leg pulled up in front of her and her spine arched at an unhealthy angle as she scrolled through the social media site. An open, room-temperature beer stood beside her laptop, always within touching distance, with a crumpled-up register of all three hundred and sixteen students beside it. Condensation from her thawing beer had dribbled onto the paper, staining and blurring the ink of her rambling notes. They would only make sense to her anyway.

Sam perched opposite her, fixated on his own laptop. His long hair was dishevelled and tucked behind his ears, and his pin-strip shirt had been unbuttoned to reveal the navy t-shirt beneath. His own beer had gone relatively untouched, now flat and bordering on stale.

“Well, it looks like the field hockey team were out of town during both murders,” his smooth voice filled the room, airing out his findings. His bloodshot eyes peeled away from his brightly lit screen long enough to meet with hers and capture her attention. “We can rule out an Emmy Palladino, Victoria Harding, Shannon Brackenridge, Kayleigh Dougherty, and a Fallon Carpenter. There’s others but they’re not tagged.”

In one swift motion, she placed the pen between her teeth and pulled the ball point free. She searched through the seemingly endless list of suspect names and crossed them off as they appeared.

The harsh taps of Sam’s fingers hitting against the keys sounded through the motel room. Then, he spoke again, reeling off another list of names at an unhelpful speed, “—ah. Verity Montrose, Daphne Alcott, Annaleise—”

“Slow the fuck down,” Maggie grumbled as she tried to keep up with him. Her pen scratching against the thin paper, and the hard wood of the table, filled the awkward silence between.

Until it didn’t. And Sam was left uncomfortably waiting for permission to continue. He looked anywhere but the laptop screen before him as an icky feeling swirled in his stomach; there was just something about digitally stalking teenaged schoolgirls that made him feel dirty. Even though it was rationalised as being a part of the job, it still wasn’t his favourite thing to do.

“You know—” she piped up, popping the cap back on her pen with a purpose, “— you really hurt him, right?”

“Him, or you?” Sam questioned. His dark, thick eyebrows furrowed together, almost accusingly as he stared towards the petite brunette.

“Both,” Maggie admitted candidly. Her posture straightened as her shoulders fell backwards in a defensive move and a blazing glare bounced back towards him. “But this is about Dean.”

“Yeah—” he let out a breath, unfamiliar with the vicious heat of Maggie’s anger being directed towards him, “—I sorta gathered that. He’s giving me the cold shoulder and benching me on cases like he’s Dad.” He sat back, his back falling against the stiffness of the chair. “He won’t talk to me.”

“It’s Dean, he isn’t going to.”

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders out of exasperation, a look of helplessness etched into his fuzzy features. “I don’t know what he wants from me anymore,” he admitted solemnly, “I left Amelia for him. I jumped back on the road at the drop of his hat. I gave up my job, and the first place that I’ve called home in… forever. I don’t know what else he wants me to do.”

“He’s a stubborn asshole sometimes—” Maggie agreed, “—but it only ever comes from a good place.”

“You’re telling me?” he let out an indignant scoff, his voice raising to a pitch he never thought he’d take with her, “—if he’s not digging me out for stupid things, he’s giving me the silent treatment. He won’t listen to anything that I say. Everything is done Dean’s way, in Dean’s time, exactly how Dean wants it. Whether it’s right or not. I’m almost thirty and still being treated like a child. He’s no better than Dad at this point.” His boot-clad foot propped against the wooden leg of the table as he leaned backwards in his chair. “I should have known you would take his side. You always do.”

“This isn’t about taking sides. This is about you two not killing each other so we can get this job done and move on with our damn lives.” She was surprisingly calm in her response, despite her defensive flags being up. The very tips of her ears tinged an angry shade of rouge and her pruned brows dipped inwards. Her tone wasn’t it’s usual melody by any means — and her tongue dripped with poison — but she refrained from raising her voice. “Dean raised you. Dean dragged your ass up and did a damn good job of it given the circumstances. So, excuse him if the lines between brother and father are a little blurred here.”

Sam ran his fingers through his long locks, frustration evident in the way his face contorted into a frown. He opened his mouth to reply but was abruptly silenced when she continued; she wasn’t afraid to speak over him and make sure that her opinion was heard.

“You know, Dean told me that he wouldn’t have stopped until he found you. He would die for you — hell, he has died for you. He sold his soul for you. He went to Hell for you. And you just gave up on him at the first hurdle.” Maggie grabbed her beer and took a long sip, allowing the rage that was slowly building in the pit of her stomach to subside before proceeding. “Dean has a right to be upset that the brother that he loves, that he gave his life for, didn’t even bother to go looking for him. He has a right to be upset that the same sentiment wasn’t returned.”

“Maggie, that’s not what happ—”

“I’m not finished,” she cut him off curtly. Her dark, cinnamon eyes bore into his as she spoke soberly. “And he’s right to bench you from the job. You’ve been out of the game for a year. You’re out of practice and your head isn’t in the game. You’re still caught up on Amelia and that’s going to get somebody killed. The best place for you right now is doing research. And it’s just tough shit that you don’t like that.”

He was left in a pensive silence; she left him to soak up her words, to digest them fully. And he did. Sam saw things a little clearer, but that didn’t mean he liked what he saw. He often liked to live in a world where Dean, his father, and the lifestyle that he had been born into were the root cause of everything that had gone wrong in his life. And, most times, one or the other were to blame. However, Sam often failed to accept his own responsibility in things. After all, it was easier to blame Dean and his father.

Although, after several, drawn-out seconds, she couldn’t resist spilling the words that flooded her brain once more. “Maybe I am taking his side—” she contemplated aloud, “—but, this time, he deserves it.”

“So, what does he want?” he asked genuinely, “an apology?”

Maggie merely shrugged her petite shoulders. “An apology wouldn’t be the worst place to start.”

He raised an untamed eyebrow as he questioned cautiously, “and what about you?”

She stared at her beer on the table. The label was soggy and peeling off the side of the bottle. Small, carbonated bubbles rose from the very bottom of the bottle to the quarter line, where the liquid stopped. “I want the last year of my life back,” she told him. The viper had retreated and had left a door mouse in it’s place.

“Mags—” Sam breathed out unsteadily, still feeling the heat of their exchange, “—I’m sorry.”

“You turfed me out on my ass and told me to git,” Maggie recounted with a detached tone. Her cold gaze peeked above the rim of the bottle and pierced through him. “Dean was gone and you just left me. Alone. You, of all freaking people, left me alone. It took me weeks to catch up with you in Texas. Weeks. And when I finally did, you tossed me out like I was some piece of trash. I had no one, and I needed you. But you were too busy cosying up with Amelia. You didn’t give a shit about me anymore.”

“You ever thought that, maybe, I didn’t want to be found?” he spat back with sharp words, each syllable lacerating her diminished defence. He dragged his tongue along the upper row of his teeth. “I was grieving for my brother in my own way, and that didn’t involve you, Maggie.”

She was overcome with emotion. A fuck tonne of heavy, painful emotions. All of the grief that had consumed her — strangled her, choked her, suffocated her — over the past year had finally come to a head. It had churned her stomach sick for twelve long months; it had burned the inside of her throat; and it had decayed her insides until she was nothing but a walking meat sack of anguish and despair. Not anymore. She was about to expel that demon.

“So was I,” she screeched, her bottom lip rippling ever so slightly as her eyes burned with salt-laden tears, “I was grieving Dean, too.” Her chest heaved up and down as she took deep breaths; exhaustion poured out of her from every angle as all of the pent-up emotions from the past year began to creep to the surface and seep out.

“That’s enough—” Dean’s gravel-like tone filled the motel room as he appeared in the doorway, a take-out bag full of waffle fries and chicken tenders clutched against his chest, “—the both of you.”

The palms of her hands pressed against the table as she pushed herself to standing. Maggie made for the motel room door, a well of tears fighting to escape against the barricade of her waterline. Her heart thudded tenfold against her chest when she felt his ring-cladded fingers wrap around her wrist as she attempted to slip past him, and a high-pitched ringing blared through her ears. She simply shook her head at him, and slid herself from his grip, before disappearing out the door.

Maggie had vowed to sleep in her truck that night. The stubborn, defiant side of her had reared its ugly head and was seemingly there to stay. A permanent scowl had etched itself into her fair features — her full, rose lips pulled into a downturned pout and deep-rooted frown lines crinkled her forehead. Her umber eyes were reddened from the sting of tears, and her flushed cheeks were stained with streaks of strays that slipped past her reinforced defences. An empty cone of waffle fries and a half-used barbecue dip occupied her passenger side seat, as an empty beer bottle sat, in pride of place, in the cup holder.

However, as the clock ticked over into the am and the temperatures ran cruelly bitter, Maggie begrudgingly relinquished. She tip-toed back into the dark motel room and slipped into bed, beside Dean. She was careful with her movements, slow and steady, as she lifted the quilted blanket and nestled herself inside.

Dean stirred when he felt the spring-filled mattress dip, yet his eyes remained closed. A shiver danced along his spine in an elegant ballet sequence as she burrowed her ice-like toes between his legs, pressing them against his calves. His sweltering skin burned at the contact and felt her feet thawing against him. God, he hated with an undying passion when she did that.

“Maggie May—” he let out a low grumble, “—get them goddamn feet off me.”

“It’s just until they warm up,” she whispered back, her voice dainty and quiet. It was never just until they warmed up.

His burly arm casually stretched across the flattened pillows in an open invitation to the petite brunette. She currently resided on the opposite side of the bed, clinging onto the edge of the mattress. He knew that she would come to him in her own time — when she was good and ready. She always did. However, for the sake of an extra half an hour of much-needed shut-eye, there was no harm in hurrying that along. “Get here,” he rasped deeply.

Maggie shuffled closer, nestling into his side. As she laid her cheek against the bare skin of his chest, it burned. Dean emanated heat, from everywhere. Her arm lay casually across his stomach as she burrowed her feet further between his legs. She felt the gravelly vibrations of his disapproving grunts as a small smile curled the corners of her lips upwards.

The palm of his hand found her back — his thumb gently caressing the bumps of her spine. Slow, tender movements eventually faded into nothing as he fell back asleep. The sound of his soft breaths eventually turned to gruff snores.

When Maggie woke in the morning, it was abrupt. She turned herself over, eyes remained closed as she desperately grasped onto the frayed strings of a peaceful slumber. She poised her bare leg, ready for her thigh to fall over Dean’s thick, muscular ones. But it didn’t. All she felt was the cool crumples of the bed sheet, where he once laid. There were no chainsaw-like snores reverberating around the room. There were no cadenced breaths that fanned against her forehead, tippling down to the very tip of her nose. There were no calloused palms caressing the lengths of her half-naked body. There was no feverish heat radiating from his side of the bed.

Her sleep-filled eyes peeled open instantly and she propped herself up by her elbows. Her heartbeat pounded with rapid thuds and her stomach churned with bile — forcing it up into the crevices of her throat. Static coated her exposed skin, making the hairs stand on end. In a bleary haze, she scanned the room and her gaze fell on the nightstand. Car keys. Phone. Gun. All still laying, haphazardly discarded, exactly where Dean had left them. A long exhale deflated her lungs as she allowed her eyes to wander the motel room further, feeling the trepidation slowly leaving her body; it seeped out through her pores, evaporated off her skin into the musty motel air. His boots lay at the foot of the leather armchair and his jacket lay in a rumpled heap over the arm.

She let out another deep breath and let the relief overcome her. It gave her more clarity as she spied the harsh, white lighting emerging from the cracks in the doorway to the bathroom. The sound of the running shower soon filled the room, alongside the grating echoes of Sam’s snores.

There was something that that just drew Maggie to him. It was an ever-present presence, a sensation, a feeling. The invisible string. The slightest of tugs had her gravitating towards him, and vice versa. And that moment wasn’t any different. She felt the ever-familiar tug in the very pit of her stomach, and she answered to it. There was no use in fighting with it.

Climbing out of bed, she made her way across the motel room. Her feet were bare and padded lightly against the dull carpet until she reached the bathroom door. Carefully, she turned it and slipped inside. Sam remained sleeping not so peacefully, and none the wiser.

It was considerably warmer than outside in the main living space; the room fogged over with tepid steam as condensation laced the mirror. Maggie stepped onto the apricot bathmat and slinked out of her sleepwear. The old, logo-printed t-shirt and her plaid shorts ended up in a crumpled pile on the floor. Her lemon-coloured thong skimmed her bruised thighs as it dropped to the floor, and she stepped out, embracing the nakedness.

Maggie slowly peeled back the curtain and stepped inside the tub.

Dean turned to face her — his eyebrow arched questioningly, and his body draped with glistening water droplets, “can I help you?” His voice was low and scratchy; just how Maggie liked it. He’d caught the soft click of the door as it opened, and the blurry outline of her silhouette as she undressed herself out of the corner of his eye.

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” she answered with a reticent tone. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she felt a wave of nervousness; Maggie was in a newfound state of rawness. She was riding the wave of raw, untouched emotions and with that came a raw sense of vulnerability. She spoke her truth, even if hesitant. It was as though a dam had been broken the night prior, and all the pent-up emotions had been released.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he told her, stepping aside, “I thought you could use the sleep.”

Her slender figure slipped past him, under the water stream. Immediately, she was overcome with a warm and comforting feeling. Her dark lashes fluttered closed, and her muscles relaxed, her shoulders dropping backwards. She took a moment to relish the peacefulness of it all; the water pattered against her back at a heavenly pressure, and the warmth of the water felt like a loving embrace.

Dean took the opportunity to admire her naked self. Her breasts were full and pert — her taut nipples a glorious rose colour as the silver bars reflected under the harsh lights. Her curves were spectacular as an hourglass figure carved out her waistline. Her thighs were thick and juicy, and her pussy was freshly shaven. She truly was a sight to behold; full lips parted ever so slightly, dark locks slicked back, and a hint of a flush rouging her cheeks. He would savour this moment for the duration of his lifetime with several mental polaroids. Mentally framed and displayed in his Hall of Fame. He’d waited years for this moment, and it suddenly all became worth it.

Feeling the sear of his lust-filled eyes tearing her naked body apart, she opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I thought you’d left me,” she admitted quietly, chewing involuntarily on her bottom lip.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassured. She needed that.

Dean reached his thumb upwards and, with one gentle motion, pulled her bottom lip from between her teeth. He then, ever so tenderly, placed a finger against her shoulder — guiding her to face away from him. She complied without question in her fragile state. His ring-clad finger meandered slowly down the length of her spine, until he reached her rounded ass. He wanted to give it a rough and playful squeeze — digging the crescent-shaped tips of his nails onto her fair skin and leaving his mark. But now wasn’t the time for rough; now was the time for tenderness. Maggie was delicate in more ways than one, and she needed soft. She needed comfort. She needed to feel his presence.

“You know—” he began, running his fingers through the lengths of her wet hair, “—you should take your own advice every once in a while.” He combed her chestnut wisps until they were sopping wet beneath the warm streams of water.

“What do you mean?” Maggie asked in response. She allowed herself to indulge in the feeling of the tepid water running along her body; it was calming — restorative even. It was as though she was washing away the memories of her emotional outburst from the previous night.

“You should let this thing with Sam go. Not for him, but for you.” Dean squeezed a generous dollop of her fruity-smelling shampoo onto the palm of his hand before massaging it through her hair. The tips of his nails grazed against her scalp in a gentle massage, working the product into a lather. “You told me to do it for me because it’s bad to hold onto so much anger and resentment. That same sentiment goes for you. It’ll eat you alive in the same way it would me, Mags.”

Her long lashes fluttered closed as she melted under his touch; the way in which his fingers worked her scalp scratched at her soul. “I can’t—” she deflated with a saddened exhale, “—I just can’t.” Her head tipped backwards as his masterful fingers found the sweet spot, a soft purring noise slipping from between her parted lips. “He was all I had left, and he still chose to leave me. I’ve spent the last year alone because of him. I needed him. I needed you.”

“Hey—” his palm carefully covered her forehead as he rinsed the shampoo from her roots, “—I’m here now.”

“But nobody was here this past year—” her voice cracked, making way for the heartache that she had held so deep inside of her, “—nobody was here when I needed them the most. Nobody was here when I bumped into my father on a hunt. Nobody was here when I was stabbed by a demon and was laying in the hospital as a Jane Doe for weeks. Nobody was here on the anniversary of Bobby’s death. Nobody was here on my freaking birthday. But Sam should have been. He promised me he would always be here.”

He continued rinsing down to the ends of her sopping locks, ensuring that he had gotten all the suds. “I agree. He should have been.” Placing the showerhead back in the holder, he picked up the bottle of conditioner. He squeezed out another generous blob and started running it through the ends of her hair. “Just think about it, yeah?”

Maggie stayed silent. She didn’t want to make any promises that she couldn’t keep — and if there was one thing about Maggie, the girl could hold a damn grudge.

Dean didn’t push her; he knew that would only push her in the opposite direction. Maggie did as Maggie pleased — or Maggie did as what made Maggie feel the least shitty about herself. She may know him better than he knows himself, but he knew her just as well. He knew her like the back of his hand; he knew the games that she played and exactly why she played them. Sometimes it was just a case of playing into them games. Sometimes it was anything to put a smile back on her face, and pull her out of the gloomy funk that she’d gotten herself in.

He simply rinsed the condition from her long, luscious strands. He took extra care to ensure that he’d got it all before reaching for her loofah. He lathered it with a sweet-smelling body wash and began scrubbing down her skin. He ghosted over her petite shoulders and arms, caressing each breast with an acute attention before continuing down to her stomach. He could feel the scald of her attentive eyes as she watched his every move. He continued down her body — seizing the opportunity to fondle her pert ass and exploring every inch of her juicy thighs. He reached her lilac-painted toes before trailing the loofah all the way back up. He skimmed the inside of her leg, grazed the mound of her pussy and past her naval, and brushed across her rigid nipple. She was enjoying that.

Once more, he detached the showerhead from the tiled wall and aimed it at her body. The pressure was just right as the stream hit against her shoulders, washing the suds away. He moved down to her ample breasts. A haughty smirk quirked the corners of his lips upwards as a low hum vibrated through her chest — the water hitting perfectly against her pierced buds. He took a half step closer to her as he slowly swirled the jet around her nipple, her back pressing against his sculpted chest. His hand snaked slowly around the concave of her waistline and settled against her hipbone as he continued downwards. He gently rinsed down her thighs.

Then, with one soft but commanding movement, he nudged her bruised thighs apart.

Maggie, consumed by the drips of dopamine coursing through her, obliged immediately. She spread her thighs apart, just enough to give him access to her aching cunt.

“Atta girl,” Dean praised with his usual, gravel-like tone. He aimed the water jet between her legs, letting the stream hit against her.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden contact. A familiar tingle crept along her spine and down into the very tips of her fingers. Her skin tinged with the fire that she had been keeping at bay — locked within the dark, dingy caverns of her soul. Her eyes fluttered shut as heavy breaths slipped from between her chewed-up lips. The jet circled around her clit in lazy ministrations, forcing a strangled whine to claw it’s way out of her throat. She caught it with her hand, pressing her dainty fingers against her lips in a knee-jerk reaction.

Arching her back at an unholy angle, she threw her head back against the robust muscles of her shoulder. Her mahogany tresses splayed across his tattooed chest as her hand reached up to grip onto his collar bone. She needed an anchor as the tension began to build up inside her. Her fingernails sunk into his wet skin, scraping and scratching until she broke the barrier. Heavy, sordid pants spilled from her mouth as the metaphorical rope began to coil around itself in the very pit of her stomach. It knotted once, twice, three times as her hips bucked candidly against the water stream — hitting her most sensitive of nerves.

“Dean,” his name rolled so effortlessly off her tongue with a salacious whine, her voice barley above a whisper. Her breath-like pants grew faster, and the metaphorical rope pulled tighter and tighter. Until her hand found her mouth once again, capturing the sinful moans that carelessly spewed from between her lips. Her curvaceous hips rocked back and forth in frantic motions, her back leveraged against his solid body, as she rode out her orgasmic high.

Dean eventually placed the showerhead back against the wall when she let out an overwhelmed whimper. His calloused palm still gripped her waist, keeping her naked body pressed against his own. His jade eyes peered downwards at the beauty before him, brimming with pride at the mess he had created; her cheeks were stained a fervent rose and her chest rose and fell in a rapid cadence as her lungs desperately pleaded for air.

Maggie nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck, her eyes still closed. She felt the warmth of his lips as he placed a soft kiss into her hairline. Oxytocin and dopamine drowned everything surrounding her out. Everything but him. For several moments, the only sound she could hear was the gentle thuds of his heartbeat; the only thing that she could feel was the delicate traces of his fingertips against her hipbone; the only thing to exist was him.

Then, she felt a surge of adrenaline and her natural instincts took over. No thoughts or considerations of the consequences — just pure desire. She pulled herself from his tight embrace and turned on the tips of her toes. Her fix-like eyes gazed upwards into his as her arms wrapped around his neck, her bare silhouette pressing against his own. Her full lips ghosted against his, caressed them with a sweet embrace. It was nothing like either of them had anticipated; it was loving, and tender, and fragile. She continued with her soft touch as his hands clung onto her waistline — securing her in place. Their tongues moved together as one. Exploring. Tasting. Embracing.

After what felt like a hundred lifetimes, Dean retreated slowly. He brushed the pad of his thumb over her jawline. “We better get you back to Mary Magdalene’s, Sister Maggie. We’ve got a witch to find.”

[estxkios]

HEYYY OMG I LOVE UR WRITING WHAT??

ANWAYS, could you do something with drunk bill? not smut, but like bassicly reader picks him up from a party or something and he’s like SUPPERRDUPPERR drunk LOL. and later in the story he’s keeping reader awake by talking so much, and reader just exhausted and so tired of his shit and accidentally tells him to shut the fuck up or something like that. then billy willy starts crying bcs he’s drunk and can’t process and reader just comforts him.

TYSM!! xx

FEELINGS ੈ✩‧₊˚

2008 bill kaulitz x fem!reader

summary : the request :3

warnings: ANGST with comfort!!, reader is grumpy, drunk bill, a lot of swearing, bill gets comfort not the reader...

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;- 2:16 am

“what the fuck..?” you muttered under your breath.

your room was completely dark, your phone screen turning on as you received text after text was the only thing that illuminated it.

you tried to shift your position in bed, turning away from the phone. 

you tried to ignore the messages.

but they just kept coming to a point where you could no longer ignore the irritating rattle of your phone against your nightstand.

you let out a string of curse words as you shift in your bed once again.

you reach your arm out towards your nightstand and aimlessly grope for your phone until you find it.

you squint your eyes as they adjust to the brightness of your phone, finally seeing who has been disturbing your sleep.

it was your boyfriend.

;- 2:24 am

you and bill had eachothers location, so finding him wasn’t going to be the hard part. 

the hard part was going to be trying not to fall asleep at the wheel as your drove to whatever house party bill was attending tonight.

well, trying to get your drunk boyfriend in the car would be hard too, but based on his texts, he would probably be too intoxicated to break free from your arms as you shoved him in the back seat like you have done previously.

-; 2:35 am

you could hear the faint sound of trashy music playing as you pulled into the driveway and right as you exited your car you bee-lined for the front door.

you pounded on the door loudly enough so that people would be able to hear it over the music. 

no answer.

“oh-! hiii baby!” a voice said behind you, to which you immediately whipped your head around.

“whatthefuck-“ you stopped when you realized who it was, “bill? why the fuck are you outside?” 

“i was jus’ waiting for youu!” he stumbled towards you and smiled.

you shook your head and laughed to yourself in disbelief. how much had he had to drink?

“yeah, okay.” you paused, “we’re going to my house. c’mon” 

you grabbed bills arm and led him to the passenger seat, he was trying to open the door while you rummaged around in your purse trying to find your keys, the darkness which surrounded the two of you definitely didn’t help this.

bill kept pulling the door handle.

“bill fucking stop you’re gonna rip the door handle off-..“ you found your keys and unlocked the door.

“m’sorry! i jus wanna-“ he tried to continue talking but you pushed him into his seat as fast as you could and shut the door.

you were so ready to get back in your bed as sleep. 

-; 2:40 am

on the drive back to your house, bill stayed mostly quiet.

“are you okay?” you asked him in a concerned tone, “because you’re usually a fucking obnoxious drunk-“

“im not drunk.!.” he looked at you with a very stern expression and you couldn’t help giggle.

“okay.”

-; 2:50 am

when you finally got back to your house you did the same as when you arrived at the frat house. 

you immediately bee-lined for the door.

except the difference was you now had a drunk bill following you.

once again fumbling with your keys, you unlocked the door, bill attached to your arm.

“go to the spare room bill, or take the couch, i don’t care.” you said as you hung your jacket and purse back in their designated areas.

“okayyy..” bill obliged, walking down the hallway towards the bedrooms.

you followed after him moments later, walking into your bedroom.

as you went to settle into your bed you saw something that certainly wasn’t one of the many blankets that littered your room.

“bill.”

“hm? oh hi y/n!” you could see his toothy smile at you even in the darkness. 

“bill, i said go to the spare room. i actually need to sleep tonight. please, baby.”

“but- but i don’t wanna be alone!” he cried, “i promise i will never ever do this again, please can i just stay in here?”

you thought about shoving him off of your bed and letting him find his way to the spare room, but then you thought about how hard it would be to get him off of the floor once you pushed him off the bed.

so you scratched that idea.

“fine..” you muttered, “but be quiet, okay? can you do that for me?” you kissed him lightly on his sweet alcohol-ridden lips.

he looked at you with drunken eyes and smiled. “okay..”  

you smiled at him through the darkness and planted a kiss on his forehead, then continuing to position yourself in a comfortable sleeping position. 

after moments of silence, you thought bill had fallen asleep.

but no.

you flinched as he started fidgeting with your hair, although soon after you leaned into the touch as he usually did this to help soothe himself to sleep

then you heard suppressed giggles behind you which soon turned into full-on laughs.

you tried to ignore him, thinking it would end soon.

but once again, no.

“bill, stop.”  you would whisper, but he couldn’t. 

he brought his hand up to cover his mouth. 

big mistake.

the hand he intended to cover his mouth with was the one he had tangled up in your hair, which led to him accidentally tugging on your hair as he brought it up to his mouth. 

“bill what the fuck!? - ow!” you whipped back at him, “that was my fucking hair!”

you rubbed the back of your head where bill had tugged to soothe the pain, muttering to yourself as you did so.

bill didn’t utter a word. 

you stared into his pitiful eyes and spat many insults at him before grabbing a stray pillow and smacking it between the two of you.

that had to keep him from disrupting your sleep, right?

not right.

the giggles that you heard behind your back minutes ago had now turned into small whimpers.

the bed shook behind you as bill whined out an unsteady breath.

he had to be messing with you.

you turned around for the final time, about to completely snap, “bill can you just fucking-“

you fell silent and stared into bills eyes which were somehow even more pitiful than before.

his makeup was not yet running down his face but it was smudged under his eyes, a streak of the black shadow ran up into his hairline where he had presumably wiped it.

bill sat up, but that didn’t keep him from breaking down. “i didn’t mean to pull your hair..!!” he hid his head in his hands, sobbing into them.

“oh bill…” you almost started crying seeing the state that he was in. how could you have made your own boyfriend feel like this?

you removed the pillow that you had put between the two of you, discarding it onto the floor as you practically scooped bill up in your arms.

you hugged him tightly as he sobbed into your shoulder.

“i- im so sorry!!” he whined out almost incomprehensibly. he was a drunk, sobbing mess.

“bill.. please don’t apologize..” you stroked the back of his head, gently combing through his rough black hair.

“do you still love me?” his manicured nails dug into your shoulders nervously as he waited for a response.

your heart sunk as his words. had you made him feel like you didn’t love him?

you moved your arms to wrap firmly around bills torso, pulling him flush against you.

you held him tightly, holding back tears of your own as you rested your chin on his head.

“bill..” you trailed off, moving your head away from his as you gently tried to get him to meet your gaze. “i love you so much.. i’m sorry for snapping. really. i’m so fucking sorry. i’m just so tired and-“ 

bill cut you off by smashing his head into your chest, “i really didnt mean to hurt you.. i was just trying to go to sleep..”

“i know you didn’t mean to hurt me bill.. its really okay.”

you felt bill nod into your chest, the poor boy was so tired and he was just trying to soothe himself to sleep.

god, why did you yell at him?

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oh i really hate this but enjoy nonetheless

[bunnibitez]

Messy Hands - Part One

Pairing: Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Reader AFAB

Word count: +4.3k

Summary: Miguel is having a rough time keeping himself in check. He’s getting angrier and just wants his dues. Besides, mob protection is so hard to come by these days. Unfortunately though, you might be under his “protection” now.

CW: 18+ so MDNI, NSFW. Mentions of blood, gore, violence, guns, criminal undertones, death, choking, murder, language, slow burn, eventual smut, no use of y/n

AN: So this is my first fic EVER. Idk what I’m doing so forgive me. I speak some Spanish but not that well so sorry in advance.

There’s a scent that hangs in the air of the warehouse. The hefty and pungent stench of iron and salt wafting through, sticking to the walls. Blood splatters as it’s coughed up onto the floor. Strangled chokes and gasps of desperation bounce off concrete as a bound man fights against the ichor that fills his now punctured lung. Heaves and wheezes fill the space, nearly drowning out the sweet melody that plays. Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. Precise movements over the strings of a recorded cello, attempting to mask the groans and whines of a weakened subordinate. The Boss had always mentioned that classical music soothed him, allowed him to work better. Something about it just calmed the fire raging in his chest. The prisoner hangs his head low as blood pools in his mouth, mixing with saliva and dripping out in fat blobs onto his chest. He’s grateful for the moment to even hang his head, or at least he should be.

Hours have passed since he was dragged here, sack over his head and hands tied behind his back. That was so long ago, he thinks. Now the bag has since been removed and he’s been fastened to a chair in the center of the cold cement warehouse full of shipping containers, the contents of which he is oblivious of. His consciousness is fading in and out as he tries to focus on the sound of his rattling chest and the crescendo of the tune. But his ears prick as the crack of knuckles catches his attention.

He didn’t dare lift his gaze, already knowing damn well of the monster looming before him. A laugh rumbled from it’s chest as heavy footsteps approached. He could’ve sworn he felt the earth shake as it approached, but the man did his best not to show the absolute terror he truly felt. Suddenly from behind, a hand trails through his short black hair, yanking his head back in order to look upon the beast in front of him. Dark brown eyes squint at the harsh lights and he groans. His face may have been handsome once but now it was unrecognizable, broken, bloodied, and bruised; split in places not even thought possible. Peter’s hand jerked his head from side to side, ensuring he was still alive. The scruffy fellow cracked a smile and laughed as he stood behind the poor sucker. Parker was merely there to assist with refocusing his gaze. With his eyes now tracing upwards, he could see the figure ahead of him. He simply whimpered softly.

Miguel was a sadist for sure. A toothy, fanged grin spread across his sharp features as he began to wipe the blood from his brass knuckles onto his wife-beater. He carefully slipped them into his pants pocket. It had gotten everywhere at this point, Miguel believing that there was more blood and bile on the floor than in the barely breathing body beneath him. Thankfully he had enough foresight to at least remove his suit jacket, tie, and button up before beginning the torture. He stood there now, splatters of gore painting the once pure white undershirt and part of his perfectly bronzed skin. A thin layer of sweat coated his forehead and massive arms. His crimson eyes glowed, dilated as he focused in on his pathetic prey. He found it funny really, amusing. He let out a deranged laugh as he ran a hand through his messy brown locks before he spoke.

“Ya know.. I can’t lie,” He said lowly as he stepped closer, “..Realmente estoy disfrutando esto.” He growled.

There was a madness in his smile. A hidden darkness in has eyes that showed just how badly he wanted this, how he needed it. It wasn’t often that he found a mole in his ranks, attempting to demolish the empire he had built with his own two hands. It wasn’t often that he was ‘forced’ to be merciless and violent. It was a shame, he thought. Trust was something so hard to come by in his line of work. When that fragile trust is broken, an example must be made. So, when a young buck gets bold enough to start selling Spider family secrets and stealing more than his cut, Miguel is simply doing what he has to in order to secure his power and place in Nueva York. He’s worked too hard and spilled too much blood to just let it all slip away.

Finally, he looked down at the heaving mess he had made, labored breaths getting fainter as they made eye contact. Miguel snaps his fingers and swiftly, Ben shuts off the music that filled the room. A deafening silence falls on the warehouse. Miguel’s monstrous form crouched, coming to level with what was once the face of a rat. His broad and calloused hand raised to squeeze the bloodied cheeks, roughly manhandling his head, turning it over and kneading it carelessly. He sighed deeply, hot breath fanning over his victim’s features before he looked up at Peter, lifting his brows for just a split second. It was a silent command, ‘Get the gun’.

Peter released the rat’s hair and stepped back to retrieve ‘LYLA’, a stainless steel Colt XSE with a custom black grip panel etched with the red silhouette of a spider. She was beautiful. Sleek and elegant but capable of obliterating a man’s skull in a matter of milliseconds. As Miguel waited, his eyes drifted back down. His grin had fully faded as the fun of the it all was beginning to die down. The rage that had been simmering in the back of his mind had begun to boil. He liked to believe that he was a reasonable man most of the time, calm and sometimes even forgiving. But now he had no patience. Right now he felt a sort of virus infecting him, shutting down all logic and leaving him with just unadulterated hatred. Venom spilled over into his words as he spoke in a low tone, growling out as he spoke slowly.

“I can’t fucking wait to see your brains painting the walls.” He hissed out. His tone was cold and flat. His face was deadpan now, ready to carry out his final act of justice. In a fleeting moment of bravery, the rat hummed lowly. Squinting his eyes, hollowing his cheeks, and jutting his head forward just so, the rat spit at Miguel. A plump glob of blood and drool landed on Miguel’s cheek as the rat gave a half toothed smirk.

“Fuck you.” It came out broken and slurred, but the rat was proud of himself.

Miguel’s eyes darkened as his thumb slowly swiped across his cheek, effectively removing the carmine mixture. His gaze was fixed on this thumb before it calmly returned to leer at the smug prisoner.

“..Y pensar, yo iba a mostrarte misericordia.” Miguel uttered quietly as he rose up from his position on the ground. He loomed over the man, whose smirk had dissipated by now. Large sepia hands shot out, tightly coiling around the rat’s neck. Miguel was slow, methodical about it. Digging his nails into flesh as he applied pressure to the trachea, crushing and throttling at once. Wheezing ensued and panic filled the man’s eyes as his throat was forced close. His eyes widened, nearly bulging out of his skull as raspy whispers and choked gasps were the only sounds he could make. Tears rolled down his cheeks as his eyes rolled back into his skull. Within moments, the rat’s body went limp in Miguel’s hands. Peter was just striding back into the room when Miguel threw the corpse to the ground, still bound to the little metal chair. The useless cadaver clattered loudly on the floor.

“You seriously couldn’t wait a minute?” Peter said with a snicker as he came up to his side, handing over LYLA.

“Shut the fuck up, Parker.” He spat out coldly, tucking the gun away as he turned his back on the body.

“Call the cleaning crew. I want this place scrubbed down.” Miguel growled out as he snatched his clothes from Ben’s hands. The scruffy lackey simply shrugged and shook his head, pulling out his phone to obey as he smirked to himself.

And with that, the trio headed towards the door, piling into a black Escalade. Miguel grumbled to himself as he laid his clothes down on the empty seat next him. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a silver zippo. After lighting a cigarette between his teeth he took a long drag and hummed, savoring its flavor. He let out a deep sigh, smoke billowing past his parted lips as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, appreciating the momentary silence. He felt a sense of calm wash over him, a low dulling hum in the back of his mind that seemed to get fainter as the car began to drive away from the warehouse. By the time they reached the highway, Miguel’s little hum was gone and his rage sat dormant, waiting in the back of his mind for now.

He felt his body ache now, finally taking in the toll of senselessly beating with his bare hands and a few other tools for hours. He let out a low groan, spreading out in the backseat. He was so so tired but knew there was still work that needed to be done. There always was.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————

The morning sun came streaming in through your curtains, stirring you awake from your bed with a groan. Plush warm sheets coaxed you into spending five more minutes among them. Your eyes had just barely shut when your phone alarm rang. An exasperated sigh left your body as you heaved yourself from the mattress, tossing the blankets off. You stretched with a whine before standing up and you swear you thought you heard your back creak. Hastily getting dressed and slipping your apron on over your clothes. Checking the time, you slipped on your shoes and headed out the door of your cozy little apartment. Brooklyn was nice, pretty with plenty to see and do with its fair share of safe and friendly neighborhoods. Unfortunately for you, you didn’t live in one of those neighborhoods. You lived on the seedier side of town with less friendly faces and cheaper rent -the side where quarrels between your neighbors could be heard through the paper thin walls and a strange smell often wafted up from the kitchen pipes. It wasn’t much, hell it was barely considered habitable but it was home. Your own little place in the world where you felt somewhat safe, far away from your old life. A fresh start was just the thing you needed. The only current upside of your living arrangement was that it was only a 5 block walk from your job.

‘Bellaginos’ was a small, family owned Italian restaurant that sat on the corner of 48th street. The dining room was divided into 2 parts; the main dining room with booths and chairs has a casual feel to it, and the private dining room with a few more candles and nicer decoré. The private dining room was just separated by 2 French doors, inside was one large mahogany table and enough chairs to seat 12 people. It was typically just used for private events and large parties, at most though in recent years it hosted a birthday dinner. The menu was nothing revolutionary and the atmosphere didn’t exactly read high class, but it was nice enough. The dingy and peeling yellow wallpaper had it’s own sense of charm to it. Your boss claimed that back in the day, “It was one of the classiest joints in town.” Obviously true by the stained and sticky carpet and how well it complimented the out of place faux Roman vases in the corners of the room.

You kept to yourself mostly, not wanting to bother the owner or the cook too much with trouble. Being polite and kind was how you ended each day with a full belly anyway, curtesy of the chef. You’d only been here for about 2 months, working as a waitress. Most days you could sit unbothered in your favorite little booth.

The day was flying by quickly and you were halfway done with your shift, sitting at one of the little red vinyl booths in the corner of the almost empty restaurant. It was tucked away in a way where you could see most of the main dining room without having to move. Your hands were busying themselves with a paper and pen, doodling away, when the little bell above the door jittered to life. Two men walked in. The smaller, leaner man with a scraggly 5 o’clock shadow held the door open, its whiny hinges complaining at the movement. He moved aside and when he did, that’s when you saw him. Dark brown slicked back curls just barely ducked below the door frame in order to step inside the shabby little eatery.

Big.

That’s the first thing you noticed. He stepped into the cramped room and his presence within made it feel like it shrank by two sizes immediately. His friend stepped in behind him, letting the door close with a slam. The second thing you noticed, were his eyes. Piercing and criminally beautiful scarlet irises that tracked around the room lazily. A bored expression played on his sharp features, as though he’s been here many times before. He runs a calloused hand through brushed back locks, a few strands disobeying him and laying messily, before breathing out an annoyed sigh. He seemed tired. No, exhausted more like it. The bags under his eyes aging him a bit, but if anything it only added to his charm. You’re about to get up from your little hiding spot to greet the pair when the owner, Mr. Caparelli, bursts out from the kitchen. For the first time since you’ve seen him, the plump and hairy little Italian man looks damn near jolly.

“Caio Miguelito!” He says through a thick Italian intonation, his joy sounding a little forced compared his usual grumbles and gripes. Mr. Caparelli was what some might call a ‘proud man’. He didn’t take criticisms well. He firmly believed that the moment you set foot within his restaurant, you owed him respect. Yet for reasons that evaded you, the giant needed not waste time with false niceties and earning his kindness. Your employer approached the tan mountain of a man with wide arms, his white mustache stretching out as he forged a smile. The behemoth pulls one hand out of his pocket and wraps an arm around the stout little man, patting his back heartily. The rings on his fingers glint as they catch the afternoon sun.

“Caio, viejo.” His voice rumbles out and you feel a heat creep across your cheeks. It’s deep and low and rattles in his chest, commanding attention. He masks his dull expression instantly with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s fake, well practiced.

“How’ve you been, Miguel? Feels like the last time I saw you was uh.. six months ago. Normally you don’t come in to collect...” Your boss chuckles as he pulls back, looking up into the monster’s eyes. You don’t quite notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows thickly. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. “Everythin’ alright?”

Miguel, as you’ve now learned is his name, nods his head slowly, humming in response. He doesn’t look Caparelli in his eyes, already done with the conversation before it began. Now, he’s merely looking down on him with half lidded eyes, sizing up his prey.

“Sí amigo. We’ve just got business to discuss. Price changes an’ all that.” Miguel slides his hand back into his pants pocket.

Caparelli’s smile falters for only a moment before he nods his head.

“R-Right,” he clears his throat, “Of course. Lemme uh.. lemme make you somethin’ to eat and then we can talk. Ragazza!” His head whips towards the little booth that you’ve been sitting in. Somehow you’ve managed to go unnoticed by both Miguel and his associate. The shaggy man smirks and rubs his hands together.

“Finally! I am absolutely starving.” He states as he licks his lips, causing Miguel to roll his eyes.

“You’re always starving, Peter.” Miguel mutters, more so to himself than to anyone else. Peter has always had a proclivity for annoying Miguel, so much so that sometimes he can’t quite recall why exactly he was his right hand man. Miguel firmly believed that the only reason Peter did anything was because it would lead to a hot meal. Such simple motivations almost made Miguel envious. Almost.

“Cara! Seat my friends in the private room.” He calls to your direction.

It takes you a moment, but slowly your form rises up from the booth and you begin to approach the men, stuffing the pen and crude drawing into your apron pocket. Miguel’s eyes widen just barely as he looks at you, taking in the sight. Meekly, you grab two menus, keeping your head down as you tried to find your words.

“Follow me please..” You say in a voice barely above a whisper. Miguel is silent, taking a moment to watch you turn around and walk towards the private dining room before he follows. You set the menus down at the head and the first chair on the left. The two take a seat, with Miguel at the head, as you fetch your notepad and pen from your apron. There’s a thick tension about the room as Miguel rests his chin on his fist, now wearing the same disinterested expression. His eyes are cold, raking up and down your body in a silent motion.

“Can I start you off with something to drink, sir..?” Your voice is soft, sweeter than he realized it was when you first spoke at him. He’s too distracted by your tone and the way you call him sir. It’s been too long since that kind of innocence was presented to him, tempting and teasing him. You must know what you’re doing, he thinks. He focuses intently on those plush lips of yours. So pretty and soft, blessed with a hardly noticeable sheen from your lip balm. He wonders how it must taste and how pliable your lower lip would be between his teeth. It takes him a moment before he’s broken from the trance and looks up into your eyes. He must’ve been staring for too long since you’re now looking at him with furrowed brows in confusion, head slightly cocked to the side like some wide eyed puppy.

“Sir..? Did you hear me..?”

He clears his throat, closing his eyes for a moment in order to ground himself. Biting the inside of his cheek, he hardly grumbles out a response. When he opens his eyes again, he’s looking down, suddenly finding the dingy white tablecloth to be very fascinating.

“Yeah yeah, te oí..” His hands tense around the edges of his menu, needing to sink his nails into the brown pleather of its cover for relief. “Just get me an ol’ fashioned.”

You nod your head, scribbling the order down and turn your attention over to Peter who was already beaming up at you.

“Just a water for me, thanks. Tonight May and I are having a tea party so I gotta hold off on the sugar.” He chirps as he chuckles, elbowing the growling beast beside him. “Oh and can we get some bread too? And some butter! And-“

“Enough.” Miguel cuts him off. He shoots a side glare at Peter, waving you off with his hand. You tremble a little at the way his voice boomed. You nodded your head quickly and turned on your heel, rushing through the French doors. Miguel doesn’t watch, feeling an odd humming in the back of his brain and knowing that if he saw the way your hips swayed and bounced as you scurried away from him in fear would only make it worse. He kept his eyes down, slowly letting them close, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he let out a low breath.

“You alright, big guy?” Peter asked, clapping a palm to Miguel’s shoulder. “You look so tired lately.”

“M’fine.” He snapped. He lifted his head and looked into the warm brown eyes of his companion. Peter retracted his hand, shooting both up in defense and going silent. In truth, Miguel wasn’t just tired. He was fucking drained of every last bit of energy he had. Business had been booming lately and with the rise of idiots in Nueva York trying to take what was rightfully his, Miguel hadn’t been able to rest. Scum like Kingpin had been hiring his own men, bribing them into selling out the family. Loyalty was becoming a scarce resource, causing more and more rival gangs to crawl out from the woodworks to oppose him. One of the biggest things the Spiders dealt in was “protection.” The Spiders would offer their protection to whomever could afford it, but the higher the demand got, the greater the cost grew. This of course was the only reason Miguel was sitting here today. A couple of Spiders had attempted to inform your boss of the rising cost of protection, but the pig headed brute refused to listen. Miguel had decided that he’d pay him a visit as a last chance before escalating things. Miguel was cold and calculated and knew the only way to make people listen was through fear.

In the beginning of it all though, he tried to be merciful. He tried to be patient and understanding, but his kindness was mistaken for weakness. His mercy was abused and left him with nothing but a fraction of the man he once was. Now the bloodlust was near maddening. Managing his rage had become a dangerous dance. The stress of running an empire often left him craving release in one form or another. First it was women, then liquor, and now his latest vice was violence. Unbridled carnage that truly let his mask of sanity slip. He was trying harder and harder now a days to keep his wrath in check but with so many people working to test his patience, he was bound to snap. The poor fellow in the chair last week had merely been the victim of shit luck. Miguel had intended to show him some mercy and make his death quick and painless. Unfortunately for him, his tongue worked faster than his head and he thought that pushing Miguel’s buttons would buy him some time. Miguel had been pent up with rage for weeks and just needed to release it on something. Part of him feared he’d always have to live with this anger, never really able to escape it, just find gaps between the killings. That is until he saw you.

For the first time in a long time, when he heard fear in someone’s voice, he didn’t want there to be any. You looked so small and soft. So delicate, like a fragile little flower. The humming in the back of his brain tuned out the constant wash of anger. For once, he wasn’t focused on work or power. In the seconds he took to gaze upon your angelic face, he felt peace, an emotion he thought he was no longer capable of.

When you finally returned with their drinks, Miguel watched your eyes flit to the floor as you approached him. He could’ve sworn he felt his heart palpitate in his chest, not fully understanding himself why he wanted you to look at him. You set down the drinks along with a basket of bread and butter and placed your hands behind your back.

“Mr. Caparelli will be here shortly to speak with you. Is there anything else I can get you..?” You questioned softly. Slowly you lifted your head, anxiously shifting your weight. Cautious as ever, you stole a glance at Miguel’s eyes. They gleamed like rubies and for a moment you felt a shutter in your chest. A whimper would’ve escaped you, had you not been more wary.

Miguel simply shook his head and looked down at his drink.

“No, thank you. That’ll be all.” Miguel says as he picks up the glass, bringing it to his lips. His tone seemed softer, just barely so. You hum in response, allowing the corners of your mouth to just barely turn upward and once again turned towards the doors. You only halted once Miguel called your name, feeling a chill crawl down your spine.

“Y-Yes sir..?” You glance over your shoulder back at him.

“Close the door on your way out.” He said coldly, losing any sense of warmth he may have just had. With that you weakly nod and close the doors behind you. The doors to the private dining room remained closed until your stout manager exited the kitchen with a serving tray of food and nervous sweat beading down his forehead. Mr. Caparelli entered the room and slammed the door shut behind him, simply hoping to survive and atone for the sins that had lead to this meeting with a killer. Caparelli set down the plates of food before the two men, taking a seat on the far end of the table, directly across from Miguel. His trembling only fed Miguel’s ego, causing a malicious grin to spread across his face. He chuckled lowly, his scarlet eyes half lidded and glaring directly into Caparelli’s soul.

“Aye viejo, there’s no need to be so scared…”

“I won’t bite.”

Part 2

@whisperwispxx

[twocubes]

Back in middle/high school, I had this brief moment where I fixated on how chiptunes worked. I read a bunch of stuff but never actually made anything. During that time, I'd developed this theory that, at the end of the day, individual square- or triangle-wave channels were most similar to violins, due to their inability to play more than a note but relatively precise control over the dynamics of the note.

This idea ended up rattling in my brain for some years, until November 2023, when I finally decided to try and make something to test it. So, I fished out a book of compositions for string trios from my grandmother's collection (she played the fiddle all her life into her 80s, and left a large collection) and tried to transcribe this piece. I hadn't looked at sheet music in 20 years though. I thought maybe I'd post it here after.

Towards the end of the month, my mom came over, and we talked about how we'd gotten a bit estranged from each-other recently, and talked about meeting more often and sharing our lives more. Her mom had died about a year before (cancer) and I showed her this dumb project. She helped me correct some of the mistakes I'd made. I don't know if it's all of them.

A week and a half later, she was dead, (apparently) killed by her boyfriend. She was found a month later, having been left in a park to rot under a rock.

Anyways. It's like, a piece by Robert Mackintosh. I selected it randomly, it's on p.2 of the book titled "the Mackintosh Collections". It was just supposed to be a test.

[pinkrelish]

𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

bestfriend!eddie x fem!reader

✶ Dreams were meant to die in small towns like Hawkins. No amount of hours bleeding on the balance beam would pull you out of poverty and turn you into the gymnastics star your mother wanted. Some days, when it was just you and Eddie hanging out in the field behind his trailer, or in his room; it didn't matter. But, one day, an opportunity presented itself, and it's one Eddie would never forget. Nor forgive. ✶

NSFW — angst, eventual smut, best friends to enemies to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, drug/alcohol mention/use, disordered eating by proxy of parent, depictions of poverty

chapter: 1/15 [wc: 2.7k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11

AO3

Chapter 1: Eddie's Favorite Memory

——1979——

Alone in his room, Eddie plucked the worn strings of his cheap acoustic guitar along to the music playing through his stereo, learning the song by ear. Missing a few notes, he lifted the needle off the record and dropped it back in place at the beginning, but as he did so, another sound caught his attention.

Was today the day?

He raced to the door. The trailer shook as he went, rattling the beginnings of his father’s eccentric mug collection hung on the wall. He threw the screen door open with such vigor it smacked the aluminum siding and wobbled on its hinges. Up the unpaved street, dirt clouds trailed a car like the flaming wings of a chariot.

The red Ford Pinto rolled to a stop in front of his home, and much to his disappointment, it was only the mail lady driving with her leg straddling the center console to control the pedals and her arm stretched across to the steering wheel, nearly running him over. She didn’t say anything; she merely continued to chew her gum and motion for him to take the tiny cardboard box from her hand.

Eddie snatched it and read the label. “Maybe today won’t be so shit.”

She scowled. “Cool it on the cursing, kid.”

He waited until she reversed onto the main road and drove away to flip two glaring birds in her rearview mirror. “Whatever, bitch.” Excited to rip open his package, he shredded it down the middle and tossed aside the bubble wrap.

A gust picked up the rustling plastic.

Rocks crunched under car tires behind him.

“I can’t believe it actually came,” he spoke aloud with raised eyebrows. He opened the plastic casing and inspected the clear cassette, looking over the handwritten tracklist on the inside. Weighing it in his hand, he reasoned with himself, “I must not be tempted to listen to this before she–”

“Eddie!”

He nearly dropped the treasure he’d been anticipating since he met that weird old man at the flea market who swore Eddie’s $5 could get him a bootleg live recording of Pink Floyd’s Oakland concert from two years ago. Of course he paid and jotted down his address without a second thought.

“Eddie!” you shouted again, jumping out of the moving car because you couldn’t wait for your mom to park in the dead grass next to the trailer across the street. You scooped him into a bone-crushing hug, extending your back to lift him off the ground. At least, you thought you did, until his Converse nudged your toes, firmly on the ground.

He grew another damn inch.

Cackling at your pitiful efforts, he mocked you, “That’s what happens when you’re gone too long.”

“It was only a month,” you grumbled.

Eddie wrapped his arms around you, clasping his forearms across the span of your shoulders. Holding you tighter than he meant to since he was still regaining his balance..

No. He did intend to embrace you until you laughed in his ear, telling him it hurt.

It was unfortunate; the impending societal awareness that crept into every innocuous action, every clothing choice, every decision to buy nice-smelling shampoos, or forgo them in lieu of generic deodorant. It existed in his muscles tensing you against him. It spelled trouble in his sandy blond hair darkening, and the wispy growth above his top lip thickening. No one could point out the exact time in a young person’s life when it became inappropriate to hug your best friend, but he was on the cusp of discovering it with how your mother stared him down from behind your back.

Smoke billowed in front of her face. “Be back for dinner,” your mom muttered around the half-burnt cigarette between her lips. Grabbing her gaudy purse and empty beer can from the dash, she used her hip to close the door, and went inside to pass out on the couch for the rest of the day.

“Whaddya get?”

“Hm?” Eddie blinked away his glare and separated himself from you, putting a significant distance between you. “Oh, ho! You have spotted my newest acquisition. Delivered by boat just this morn’.”

You pulled a grimace. “Talk normal, please.” Smirking, he flipped the cover of the cassette towards you. “Shit!” You covered your mouth. “Oops..” After a thought, you shook your head and relaxed your shoulders, knowing your mom couldn’t hear you out here. Still, you kept your voice down out of instinct. “Are you fucking serious? I’ve wanted to listen to this concert for so long; I can’t believe you just– Wait.. You don’t even like Pink Floyd that much. You said they’re too ‘soft.’”

“Yeah, but you like them.”

“But it’s your birthday.”

“Who cares?”

“Was it expensive?”

Again, he said, “Who cares?”

You scanned the rundown trailer park. “Uh, we do?”

Fluttering his fingers about, he waved off your incessant questioning. “What’s with the third degree? Are we listening to it, or not?”

“Duh,” you scoffed. You headed for his room, assuming you would play it on his tape deck, but of course, he had something else up his torn sleeve. You almost ran face-first into his outstretched arms stopping you from taking another step. “What now?”

“Wait out back in our spot. I have another surprise.. And you wouldn’t happen to have two double AA batteries, would you?”

~~~

After several minutes, and many, many, uses of the Lord’s name in vain later, Eddie found what he was looking for in his messy closet and bolted outside to meet you. He waded through an endless sea of wispy dry weeds parting the horizon from the deteriorating trailers to the edge of the woods where the top of your head poked above the grass. You gave him time to settle in next to you before you were laying down on the slope of the withered ditch littered with remnants of previous misadventures.

“Look,” he said. You opened your eyes to mostly a view of his ratty jacket overtop his Judas Priest tee. He flaunted the box over your face. “A gift from my old man. He thought I turned thirteen in June.”

You gave him a look. “A gift, huh?”

He opened the blue and silver metal Sony Walkman by slicing down the middle of the hefty price sticker with a pocket knife and bounced his eyebrows. “He got it for me the day it came out while you were gone.” As if it weren’t obvious, he wiggled his five fingers.

“I got it, Eddie.”

Clearly having a disdain for the environment, he lobbed the styrofoam trash amongst the other trash partially petrified in the mud; cigarette stubs, crushed cans, the odd broken plastic item, a bent butter knife, an old lighter, a pile of burnt magazine pages; truly random things. He placed the batteries in the Walkman, put in the tape, and scrolled the volume wheel all the way up.

Faint music played from the tiny earmuffs. He laid next to you, and without discussing it, he flipped the headphones upside down and you both rolled onto your sides, cupping one side each around your ears. Leaning your heads together to listen to the beginning chords of Pink Floyd’s Sheep.

In the early golden sunset, Eddie asked amongst the calm, “How was gymnastics camp? Learn any new tricks?”

“I landed a handspring front layout into a double twist.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I’m gathering it’s impressive,” he said, brimming with a toothy grin to match your own.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.”

“Will I be getting an invite to the Olympics?”

You rolled your eyes in a playful way; however, he perceived the flicker of resentment lurking in the background, and it was impossible to ignore how quickly your smile faded considering how close your lips were to his. “Like hell they’d come to some place like Indiana, much less Hawkins, to scout talent. They go to big meets in big cities. Doesn’t matter anyway, you know they don’t bother with people like us who can’t afford to keep the lights on at the start of the month, or whose water pipes smell like rotten eggs on the regular.” Not exactly a funny statement, but he snorted at the accuracy. With a defeated sigh, you turned onto your back and folded your arms across your chest. The hem of your tattered shirt slid against your leotard, revealing the shimmery fabric under the fading sky. “Besides, they want girls younger than me, better than me.”

“Damn. And I thought I was supposed to be the pessimistic one.”

“You’re right.” You gave him an apologetic look. “I’ll join the circus instead. Anyway, how was your summer?”

“Boring. We put together a song or three,” he said about his band. “Third one isn’t anything worth bragging about. It’s still in the jamming stage. Another session and it’ll be shaped into something presentable, maybe.”

“Nice, can’t wait to hear it.”

You bumped fists and resumed focusing on the concert playing in a suboptimal manner, of which neither of you could fully enjoy. It would’ve been easier to stay inside and play it over the stereo, singing along to the lyrics while you sat on his bed, and he on the floor. But inside meant being reachable by phone. Inside meant parental intervention. Inside meant being controlled.

Outside sucked, too. There were bugs, the grass was itchy, and a chill was creeping in. But no one could find you out here. This sanctuary belonged to you and Eddie. No one else.

In this substantial field, there was only space for you and him. Just you and him. Like always.

Coming to life at the end of a song, you jabbed his hand holding the Walkman. “Rewind it. Play Wish You Were Here again.”

“Jesus, corpses have warmer hands than you,” he hissed, obeying your request and hitting the rewind and play buttons. Then, he sat up and shrugged his jacket off, being gentle where he pulled at the cuffs due to the holes he’d worn in them. He dropped it on top of you. You opened your mouth, ready to refuse, and he shook his head. “You can keep it.” Keep it. Wear it often. Occupy yourself by snuggling into his warmth, because even in the pitch black night, he swore the stars would rat out his burning cheeks.

The Walkman clicked. The tape stopped whirring, at its end.

Holding shy eye contact in the sliver of moonlight, he laid back down.

Play it again.

Click.

Play it again.

Click.

Play it again.

The recording wasn’t a high grade one. It had static interference, there were loud thuds that scared the both of you the first time they happened, but.. This is where you wanted to be. Where he wanted to be. Propped cheek to fist, idly shoveling dirt with your fingers until your eyelids drifted closed. Obligations, anxieties, fears did not exist in the comfort of one another’s presence.

Click.

You interrupted the sleepy cricket’s song, “I guess it’s time for me to go home.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he whispered.

“She’s easier to deal with when I’m only two hours late,” you said, standing up, putting on his jacket. “Wanna come over for dinner?” Your sarcasm could be detected for miles.

“I have a box of stale cereal with my name on it, but thank you for the gracious invitation, oh Benevolent One.”

He performed a waist-deep bow. You curtsied.

Giggling, you walked away and promised you’d see each other tomorrow. “Bright and early, Munson! Maybe even before noon this time.”

“Ab-so-lutely not!” he yelled back, biting his lip to rid himself of the widest smile he’d had all summer. How could he not smile when you were back?

In fact, he couldn’t imagine a world in which he wouldn’t smile this big when you were next to him.

~~~

Daring to open the creaky front door, you knew not to expect the savory waft of cooked food, but the sting of alcohol in your nose was stronger than usual. More powerful than the usual rank mildewy smell of dust-covered garbage. The TV was blaring. Your mom was slouched into the corner of the couch; an opened six pack beside her and a bottle of spirits tilted in her hand. Her glazed over eyes were watching the news, though you suspected she was taking none of it in.

Your senses were on high alert. If you were quiet, meek like a mouse, you may be able to–

“Uh-uh.” Your body responded to her voice on instinct, closing the refrigerator. “No dinner. Not until your sets of fifty.” She snapped repeatedly and pointed at the middle of the floor where normal families had a coffee table. “Crunches, sit-ups, push-ups, whatever else Coach said. You looked sloppy next to that Level 10 girl, and it won’t happen again. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And take off that jacket. It smells like pot. People will get the wrong idea about you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

——1985——

As if your heart wasn’t in your throat already, your stomach churned and sank the moment you saw the Forest Hills Trailer Park sign.

Broken out in cold sweat. Wet palms struggling to turn the thin steering wheel towards the set of two trailers across from each other at the end of the lot. Shaking to the brink of exhaustion. You ran on black coffee and the pure adrenaline of almost hitting enough deer, it made you think twice about crying when Bambi’s mother died.

The car engine purred as you sat there thinking about why you were here again. Not a nice purr of a kitten, more like a sickly lion locked a zoo that needed to be put down a year ago.

Sucking in a breath, you decided to get it over with. You grabbed the white envelope in the passenger’s seat and stepped out into the sun, squinting. The stairs to the front door were concrete. An upgrade from the weathered wood they used to be. The screen door was missing–ripped off its hinges, so you knocked on the main one; it sounded hollow and metallic. Nostalgic in a way.

The knob turned.

“Oh, God,” you exhaled at the peephole.

When the door was replaced by someone other than the person you were expecting, you assumed your face painted in dread did wonders to alleviate his equally confused expression.

“Boy, I haven’t seen you in a long time, Girlie.”

“Mr. Munson!” You brightened upon seeing Eddie’s uncle. Relieved, actually. “How have you been?”

His grayed mustache lifted at the corners, showing off his teeth in a rather innocent way despite his gruff exterior. “Could be better, could be worse.” There was a deep grog to his voice, having just been disturbed from sleeping off his night shift at the plant. “You lookin’ for Eddie?”

“Yeah, is he here?”

He rocked his head back and forth as any guardian would when speaking about their miscreant nephew with a twinkle in their eye. “He should be in summer school right now, which is to say, he’s probably out getting into trouble. At the Hideaway, maybe? Or getting high with one of his friends, but don’t ask me where.” He sucked his teeth and crossed his arms.

“School?” you lead, an airy warble of optimism present in your voice.

Sighing, he delivered you the bad news upfront and honestly. “High school. He failed senior year.. again.”

Any hope he meant something different died. “Ah,” you said. “Well, uh.. Could you give this to him in case I don’t run into him?” You handed him the white envelope you spent far too long writing Eddie’s name on.

“Sure can.”

“Thank you.”

“It was good seeing you, again.. If you do run into him, I.. Well.” He paused to organize his thoughts. “Now, I don’t know what happened between you kids, but I hope you do find him.”

Taking his parting words as rather ominous, you nodded and hopped back in your Ford Pinto, beginning your search for Eddie.

[jakekiszkaenthusiast]

vampyr- j.t.k

warnings: vampire!jake, slight dub-con??, use of powers, blood drinking, smut, f.receiving oral, general vampire stuff.

authors note: heyyy long time no see, here’s vampy jake as a slightly late halloween gift!

you’d had your eye on him all night.

he sat at the bar, drinking alone, occasionally watching over his shoulder at the noisy bar and its patrons. his long hair rested on his shoulders, wavy and unkempt yet still somehow it looked soft to the touch- his outfit of tight black jeans and a dark blue shirt matched his hair in their wild, thrown-together kind of way. you could see the tapping of his boot against the floor, in time with the indistinguishable rock music blaring through the speakers.

the few glimpses of his face you had caught were enough to intrigue you past the point of concentrating on anything else, until you heard your friends snapping at you to pay attention. you pretended to be engaged, sipped away at your drink altogether far too quickly, while intermittently looking back at the stranger you had claimed as yours to no one but yourself. you feared every time you turned away, he would slip out of the noise and you’d lose your chance to see his face fully, a thought that sent a weird sort of anxiety coursing through your body.

you can’t describe it- this strange, pulsing worry in your chest. like you might die if you don’t get to see him, hear his voice, drink in as much of him as you possibly can. every second that passes is like torture, the almost tangible string flowing from you all the way over to that lone seat at the bar tugging at you, as if he was slowly dragging you over with his very presence.

at last, you drained your drink. you stood up, unceremoniously bringing the conversation to a crashing halt. in lieu of speaking, you rattle the ice in your empty glass and point towards the bar, ignoring the rolling eyes and tired sighs from your friends. panic wasn’t even the word for it. you hurried- no, you bolted across the room as if your life depended on it, pushing past the sudden hoards of bodies separating you from your goal.

when you finally reach the bar, a voice in your head cheers at the absent seat next to your stranger, and you tuck yourself onto it quickly as though the chair might run away if you don’t cement yourself to it. you turn to catch his face and find dark brown eyes already staring, a fire lighting inside your chest- an unfamiliar energy was trapped there, dancing and thrumming with a passion you didn’t understand. a strong nose, angled cheekbones, plump lips and a tiny circular chip of a scar on his forehead are what capture your attention first and foremost. then, you notice the purple shadows under his eyes, the flutter of his long eyelashes, the way the corners of his mouth tip upwards without needing to smile. his skin was pale and wan, not a hint of warmth to be seen.

you worry that you’ve been staring for too long, bringing yourself back to the present and forcing your face into what you hoped was an alluring smile. you couldn’t be too sure- your body had seemed to sever its contact with your brain, your fingers already itching to reach out and smooth the pad of your finger over the cupids bow of his lips.

“hi.” you mutter as casually as you can, but it comes out meek and slightly pathetic. his eyes trail over your lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own, and you feel that fire in your chest burst, licking at the insides of your throat.

he inclines his head, raising his glass to his lips.

“hello.”

he speaks so quietly you almost feel the need to lean in, but that velvety hum of a voice still shudders through you as if he had yelled into your ear. you straighten your spine and turn your head just so to capture the bartender’s attention, suddenly feeling the need for some liquid courage.

despite giving the impression that your attention was elsewhere, you felt hyper-tuned to every minute movement he made. you noticed when he shifted in his seat to be just slightly closer to you, you noticed the feeling of his eyes burning into your cheek, you noticed how he seemed paused in wait, his lips pressed against the rim of his glass but never taking a sip.

when you ordered and tried to pay, the stranger held up his hand and politely interrupted.

“put it on my tab, please.” he spoke to the bartender, who found deep amusement in the way your jaw had fallen slack and your eyes widened.

the stranger avoided your eyes as he finally took a sip from his glass, dancing away from the dumbfounded confusion plastered across your face. you couldn’t seem to set yourself straight, until a chill went through you and you begged yourself to get a fucking grip.

“what’s your name?” you find yourself blurting out, unsure of how to navigate a conversation with such a quiet yet bold person.

“jake. yours?”

you speak, and his husky voice repeats your name, savouring it on his tongue like he was trying the most delicious bite of food he’d ever taken. he nods, pursing his lips in delicate thought.

“so, i’m guessing your empty drink isn’t the only reason you came over here.” jake says cryptically, tapping a finger on the glass you had brought with you from your table.

“what do you mean?” you feel stupid for asking, because jake’s face is curled into a faint mischievous smile, and you’re desperate to know what the joke is. you’re desperate to know every thought that seems to be running through his head, in all honesty.

his smile widens into what you can only call a dark kind of glee, before extending his finger up towards an angled mirror built into the wall above the bar.

“look in that mirror and tell me what you see.” he says, leaning just close enough for his shoulder to bump yours.

you can see yourself looking small and out of your depth, you can see pretty much all of the bar behind you. what you can’t see, is jake. in fact, there’s no trace of him in that reflection at all- your eyes widen and then squint, as if forcing yourself to concentrate harder will somehow make him appear, but no. he just…isn’t there.

“stop searching for something you aren’t going to find, darling. look at the rest of the room.” he purrs, voice dripping with a quiet power you find yourself compelled to obey. his words cast a haze over you, smoke and whispers you can’t comprehend filling your head, the sharp tang of a perfume you know you don’t recognise wafting against your nose.

and then the smoke is gone. a fog quickly shifted on wind, you don’t recall what had been so strange about his lack of a reflection anyway. you comb through the scene in the glass until your eyes land on the very table you had been sat at all evening- your friends are still chatting away, giggling and sipping at their drinks, while the empty spot you had once occupied sat next to them.

“well, what do you see?” jake pushes, watching your face in the mirror.

“i see my friends, and the table i was sat at.” each word crawls out of you, your tongue fighting to keep each one inside because there’s a feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you feel like you’re walking into a trap.

“and?”

“i see my empty seat.” you trail off, settling your hands in your lap.

“you see,” jake starts, before quickly accepting the drink you hadn’t realised was waiting for you, “all night, i’ve had a perfect view of you and your wandering eyes. what on earth could be so interesting about me?”

you hesitate, unable to find words close to what you want to convey, because every thought you currently have involved a lot less clothing and his mouth on your body. he lifts your drink up to your face, holding the straw between forefinger and thumb, letting it rest against your bottom lip.

“take a sip and answer me.” he commands.

instinctively, you wrap your lips around the straw and take a sip, much longer than was necessary, but you were still attempting to assemble some sort of response.

“you’re pretty-beautiful, actually, and i just- i was worried you’d leave before i could talk to you.” you manage to stumble out, not without privately wishing you could smack your head against a brick wall for calling a stranger beautiful.

“well, you’re here now. what do you want to talk to me about?” he sets your drink down on the bar without looking. the feeling of his eyes on you was akin to a twenty pound weight resting on your shoulders, like you were shackled to him until he looked away.

as jake lays out his offering to you, imploring you to speak to him in a way that feels very much like you don’t have a choice in this matter, you realise very suddenly that you hadn’t a clue what you wanted to say to him. all the things you wanted seemed very far in the distance, a lingering fantasy you hadn’t stopped to be realistic about.

“i didn’t think i’d get this far.” you hear yourself squeak out, embarrassed to hear the quiet, condescending chuckle that rumbles in jake’s chest.

you scramble through your brain, trying to find a question appropriate for such an alluring and interesting man.

“do you have a girlfriend?”

yes, because that’s the right kind of question to ask. you wish you could find the ability to shut up, but every social skill you’d ever learned seems to have evacuated the moment jake held the straw to your lips.

instead of answering, a deep laugh rolls out of him. you find yourself smiling with him without noticing, his dazzling smile had bewitched you until all you could think about was the soft pink hue of his lips and how lovely his voice sounded as he laughed.

“what’s so funny about that?” you ask.

“my last relationship, it didn’t quite work out.” his mouth twitches, a shadow of a smirk alluding to a story you clearly weren’t privy to.

“how so?” you breathe, finding the confidence to drag the tip of your finger along the long scar etched into his skin. it felt like touching a live wire, the way your body curved into him, like that connection was all he needed to pull you in without so much as a look. you just barely contain whatever this power is to keep in your seat, flicking your eyes up to find him watching you with an overwhelming interest- as if you were a test subject and he was waiting to see results.

“she wasn’t- she and i had…different needs.”

you want to press him further, unravel all of the secrets he was tantalising and waving in front of your face until you knew him inside and out, but the look he sends your way tells you to remain quiet. he didn’t seem the type to freely give himself away, and you felt a tiny pang of pride that he had even answered your question in the first place, no matter how vague he was about it.

you’re left to stew in silence as jake sips at his drink, occasionally twisting his hand to allow your absentminded fingers to trace over the second scar running along the underside of his forearm. he doesn’t seem to mind the way you tickle and gently scratch at his skin, his dark eyes glossing over as his mind travels to places you’re not too sure you’d like to follow.

jake sets his glass down with a quiet thud full of finality. all that was left were the amber dregs of whiskey and quickly melting ice, causing the glass to sweat against the long fingers still wrapped around it. he doesn’t look up as he asks quietly,

“do you trust me?”

you let out a startled hum, instinctively leaning in closer in a silent request for him to repeat himself. he takes hold of the hand resting on his arm, cupping it with both hands and softly tugging on the limb until his lips sweep against your palm.

“i said, do you,” he lays a kiss against the heel of your palm, gliding his smooth lips over to your wrist, just against your pulse point. you almost feel self conscious when you see his mouth curl into a smirk, feeling how strong the beating of your heart was through your whole body, feeling the impact he has on you without doing anything.

“do you trust me?” he repeats.

“yes.” you breathe, without almost any thought about it.

it had been a known truth that from the moment you had slinked across the bar to sit too close to the beautiful man nursing his drink alone, you were meant to be there. you trusted whatever it was that compelled you to him, even if there was a nauseating feeling eating away at you that maybe, just maybe, those brown eyes had more in store for you than anticipated.

yes, his gaze was almost too intense and he made you feel squirmy as if there was a fire lit beneath your skin, but he didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. in fact, you’d never been at more ease with a man you had just met than with jake. there was a peace running alongside that nagging feeling, a cool stream hushing your worries and telling you to follow him wherever he may lead you.

“do you want another drink?” another kiss against your palm.

“yes.”

“do you want to go smoke?” his lip brushes against the tip of your index finger.

“yes.”

“are you saying yes to anything in hopes that i’ll take you home and fuck you senseless?” he slowly runs his tongue over the pad of your thumb, taking it past his lips and softly biting down on it.

“yes.”

you gasp a strained breath, feel it shudder through your chest and become stuck in your throat. he swirls his tongue around your thumb before pulling away with a quiet pop.

“humans. always so easy to read, aren’t you?” his voice is soft, a little tut punctuating his sentence.

“mhm.” you gulp, shifting in your seat until you were leaning so precariously off the edge of it you’d either collapse to the floor or into jake’s lap. the fact that he had just called you human, like he wasn’t one, didn’t surprise you. perhaps you had always known deep down that the man sitting beside you was something…different.

his hand strokes up your arm in order to snake along your collarbones, holding your throat for such a brief moment you almost think it didn’t happen, until he finds the side of your head and gently tugs you closer to him. you’re almost thrown off your balance until your hand connects with his strong thigh, and you crumble into his side.

“when i fuck you, will you let me do anything i want?” he asks quietly, his lips pressing against your ear.

rapidly you nod, letting your fingers dig into his denim-clad leg. he tuts and takes a hold of your chin, angling your face up towards him. the way he’s looking at you, devouring every minute change in your face, the desperation in your eyes, it turns your core molten. your thighs press together, but you know it isn’t enough.

“need you to use your words, angel.” his dark eyelashes flutter as he speaks, there’s a moment of deliberate softness in his face wherein he waits patiently for you to answer him better.

“you can do anything you want, jake. please, do whatever you want.” your voice trails off to a whisper and you hope he doesn’t catch the slight whine in your words, but he of course does.

“and what exactly is it that i want?”

although you know for a fact that jake could talk you into doing anything, you falter for a moment as you look at the busy room and all the people who could overhear the dark things you wanted to spill. he follows your eyes and shifts, as if he had forgotten exactly where he was.

“let’s go somewhere quiet, somewhere you can tell me all about your filthy mind and not get all shy. look at you, you’re going pink.” he runs his knuckle over your hot cheek, smirking down at how flustered you are.

his finger dips past your jaw, trailing to where your pulse is strongest. he presses his finger there for a moment, feeling the way your heart pounds away beneath your skin, and he lets out the most delicious, barely-there groan you could have possibly imagined. like the very thought of the blood running through your veins makes him just as desperate as you feel.

“so warm.” he whispers, a shudder rolling along his body.

somehow he manages to walk you both out of the bar without letting go of your hand, keeping you close to his chest as you stumble along with him in a blind haze. the cold air hits you like a wall, forcing you to tuck yourself closer under jake’s arm. the scent of him is everywhere, deep and rich with a hint of something otherworldly that you’ll never be able to name.

you feel that hazy, slowly familiar tang burning your nose again, and find yourself in front of a dark green door already ajar, letting jake hold most of your weight. he gently forces you to stand to your full height and lets go of your body.

you don’t bother to ask how you got there- you don’t think you’ll get an answer.

you feel lost and empty without his strong arms around you, and when he steps into what is unmistakably his home, you follow like a lamb to slaughter. you just need him back, need him to be close again, the strange, thrumming worry like you might die if you don’t have him near tightening your chest again.

jake steps out of his shoes, and there’s an overwhelming compulsion for you to drop your bag and jacket to the floor. the feeling was not entirely your own, and you knew it came from him. you don’t know how, but it was him.

just as you followed him through the door, you followed him deeper into the house, not stopping to take in any details of the rooms you pass in your desperate fog. you only stop when he does, inside a bedroom you knew he didn’t use. it was beautifully ornate, decorated with splashes of green and black. what a shame you were too focused on the back of jake’s head to notice.

suddenly he turns, watching you with a dark glint in his eyes. in the room, with just candles for light, the planes and shadows of his face intensified. he looked carved, like he had been brought to life from alabaster. perfection.

you think you might have said that word out loud with the way his eyes widen for a moment, before his face settles back into what you can only describe as predatory grace. he takes a step towards you, reaching out for your hand, which you readily give, magnetised to his touch.

“come here.” he whispers, and you obey, happily stepping into his scent and breathing in deeply.

he smiles down at you, reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. you stroke your hands up his arms until they rest at the tops of his shoulders.

“beautiful woman. you might be the most…perfect human i’ve seen.” his long fingers trace along the column of your throat, his thumb pressing that delicate spot beating with life, and his eyes glower with the hunger of a beast your very bones know to run from.

but you don’t run. instead, you lean your head back, exposing more of your smooth, hot skin to him. he sucks a breath through his teeth, the sound running all the way across your peaked nipples and down to nestle between your thighs.

jake leans in so close you feel his breath hitting your skin, and you think he might kiss you. his lips are so near, so tantalisingly close that you let out a quiet whine, but they drag over your jaw and down to replace his thumb. they stay there for a pregnant pause, the most gentle of kisses searing into your blood.

you’re so tense and desperate that you almost stomp your foot with impatience. you want more, you need more, and he won’t give it to you. he’s playing with his food, so to speak, and every second that passes makes you want to scream. a huff sighs from you, and you dig your fingers into his shoulders.

“is there something you want, darling?” he asks, brushing the tip of his tongue against his favourite spot on your neck, the action sending your knees weak.

“need more.” you manage to gasp out, snaking your hand to the nape of his neck, tugging at him until he moves.

“more of what, my sweet?” he hums, his nose trailing up your jaw and across your cheek, until your mouths are almost slotted together. all it would take is the slightest nudge, but jake’s hands have found their way into your hair, and his tight grip leaves no room for nudges.

“more of-more, god, more you.” you stutter, suddenly overwhelmed by this need and the slow, pulsing ache between your legs.

his lips crash against yours before you can take a shaky breath, and you feel a relief unlike any you’ve ever had before. his kiss was rough, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, while his hands ravaged the tiny amount of fabric you called a dress. it was scraps of nothing by the time he pulled away to let you gasp for air.

“on the bed, legs open.” he demands, and you practically throw yourself onto the soft mattress, barely registering the cool silk sheets and how they caressed your hot skin. jake watches as you twist and shove yourself up the bed to make room for him, tugging at his belt and the first few buttons of his pants as he crawls into your space.

“i said legs open.” he grunts, delicately prying your knees apart to reveal your soaked underwear.

you whine softly when he runs a finger over the damp fabric, teasing your core with a barely-there touch. it’s enough to make your hips jerk, chasing the need for more pressure, more fingers, more.

jake settles on his stomach, brushing gentle kisses over your legs, deepening them and using his tongue to sweep over the expanse of your thighs when he gets to them. every inch of skin he explores feels like it’s on fire, he has set you aflame with lust, and you never want to be put out. you’d lay here and burn for eternity if it meant having his lips against you forever.

as he nears closer and closer to your heat, your breathing becomes more laboured, naked chest heaving with the exertion of keeping still for him. you want to writhe and shriek with the pure need racing through your veins, so you fist your hands into the silk sheets beneath you.

jake uses his thumb to pull your underwear to the side, baring your slick center to him and earning a starved groan from his plump lips. his thumb circles your clit, softly teasing you until your hand darts out to grab at the crown of his head.

“jake-please.” you pant, hoping to convince him to speed up his ministrations.

“just need one little taste before i give it to you, baby.” he murmurs against your thigh.

you spread your legs eagerly, desperate for his mouth on your cunt, but he moves to focus on your thigh once more. your mouth opens to protest when you see his teeth glint in the candlelight. fangs, long and sharp are gently scratching at the plush skin, and you know exactly what he means by “taste”.

“be good for me and stay very still, okay?” his deep, husky voice fills your senses as the sheer…excitement of what’s to come causes blood to pound in your ears.

a searing pain forces a surprised moan from between your lips, gasping at the dizzying sensation of him feeding from such a delicate place.

one of his strong hands is keeping your thigh pinned against the bed, squeezing and massaging the skin, while the other slowly creeps up to find your core. he pushes two fingers inside of you without warning, curling and pumping them against your sweet spot until the pain you feel is mixed beautifully with pleasure.

jake lets out something akin to a growl, his eyes rolling back as he tastes what he’s been after all night. he could stay here forever, tasting your sweet blood until he drains you completely, but he can’t. he wants you alive long enough to fulfil the rest of his- and your- needs.

with great, immense difficulty, he tears himself away, licking at the wound until it’s a mere sting, blood trickling down his chin. his eyes are wild with lust, and his tongue flicks over one of his fangs. you can’t help but moan at the sight, and when his fingers inside of you press harshly into your walls, you gasp loudly.

“now i need a pallet cleanser.” he states, voice thick with satisfaction.

he dives into your cunt with a hunger you’ve never experienced, sucking and softly biting at your clit, his fingers working you even faster than before until your mind is numb with the pleasure. your voice has faded into breathless whines, and your hands scratch at his scalp, desperately trying to keep him right there.

you’re so close, teetering on that edge you’ve been chasing for what feels like hours now when jake pulls away, mouth stained red and shining from your blood and your wetness.

“what the fuck!” you screech, thumping the mattress with your fist as jake casually wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and begins to undress himself, kicking his jeans off and shrugging out of his shirt.

your hands scrabble at him, nipping and scratching his skin in your efforts to force his head back against you, but he’s too strong.

you’re easily pinned down and your bratty display is subdued in seconds, the look he gives you silencing any complaints you might have.

“do you not trust that i’m going to get you exactly where you need to be?” he whispers, danger lacing his words.

you pout, but you let him kiss your neck, holding the back of his head gently.

“i know exactly what you want and need, darling.”

he sits back on his heels, gripping himself in his large hand. god, he’s huge. you hadn’t dared to look until this very moment, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to look away. every beautiful, delicious inch of him was intoxicating, and you truly felt drunk off of him.

“please.” is all you could force yourself to say, eyes glued on his perfect cock and the way his hand was beginning to stroke it.

“i know, baby.”

the slow burn of him stretching you out was mind numbing. he gathered your legs and pressed them into your chest, hands gripping the backs of your thighs tightly as his cock angles deeper inside of you. every inch you took was more rewarding than the last, the head of his cock pushing against your sweet spot. you could already feel yourself falling apart beneath him, a tightening crescendo building in the base of your stomach.

“gonna- oh my god, jake.” you moan, squeezing your eyes shut to avoid his all-consuming stare.

he was too much and not enough all at once, and the steady pace he drilled into you was devastating. you’d never have something as perfect as this ever again- you probably wouldn’t live long enough to have the chance. the thought that these were your final moments with jake, your beautiful, bewitching creature, was more heartbreaking than knowing you were going to die.

“let it happen, darling. just cum for me.” he panted out, speeding up his pace and pushing a finger between your legs to circle your clit.

it was like an electric bolt, the added stimulation of his finger. your back arched off the mattress, and you grabbed for the back of his head once more, pulling him tight against your throat.

“do it, please.” you beg for that sharp pain again, desperate to let him feed as he fucked you.

he more than happily obliged, not without pressing a rough kiss to your mouth first. his teeth sunk into the buttery skin of your neck easily, and you let out a sharp scream at the feeling. his hips kept fucking you through it all, finger toying with your clit as he grunted into you.

you feel the tight band in your stomach snap, and all you can see is stars. you no longer exist on this plane of existence, floating in a vast and endless expanse of absolutely nothing but you and jake. the pleasure is simultaneously ripping you apart atom by atom and stitching you back together into something anew, something completely unlike you and exactly like you. it’s overwhelming in the best way possible, and you don’t know if you remember your name anymore.

the only thing you feel is jake pulling away from your neck, his hips freezing as he spills into you, his quiet whimper when your body uncontrollably squeezes down on his sensitive cock.

you let out a sigh, all of the air forced from your lungs. your arms are weak around jake’s neck, and you feel him lean his weight onto you, his lips pressing kisses all over your face until they meet yours.

“i think i’m going to keep you, darling.”

[gribbo]

In the hands of another minstrel, it would make a triumphant theme: Thorm trounced, his captives freed, his curse lifted from the land. Let another minstrel write it. The one who struggled up from the bowels of Moonrise Tower would rather find an unobtrusive corner in which to curl up and die.

"Somebody knocks you on the head every tenday," grumbles Barcus, as though it's a character flaw. His hand on the minstrel's jaw is rough and cool. "Follow my finger."

He seems to be holding up two. Peculiar. The minstrel does his best to watch them instead of falling over. "Did you see the"—he wobbles, peering over Barcus's shoulder—"aasimar?"

The Nightsong, tracking bits of Thorm across the hall, wings to Isobel in a blaze of moonfire. Barcus fails to notice. "You're more addled than I thought."

The minstrel could kiss him. If either of them deserved that.

He reports to the High Harper, who stops him midway and orders him to bed. Where bed has gone eludes him; Vally, he thinks, had shouldered his bedroll. Karlach, his pack. He looks for them in the hushed bustle of the hall: teary farewells here, his niece Nimble frowning at him there, the dead laid out yonder for the living to grieve. Harpers weeping for their fallen softly, businesslike. Victims of the cult, too, lying far from their families and friends—and Alfira where he expects her to be, hunched alone with her lute, feeling out the first fumbling chords of a threnody for them all.

It all makes sense, all of a sudden. He still has his gittern. When he drops onto the bench beside her, her hands stumble on the strings.

“Let’s sing for our supper, then,” he rasps without preamble, tuning up.

Alfira stares at him—huge, stunned eyes in a hollow face. “Really?”

Magga cammara, the minstrel thinks, she’s gotten thin. She’s not even famous yet.

“Go on,” he says gruffly. He fiddles for a moment in A minor before settling on something suitable. “I’ll back you.”

A slow, weary smile staggers across Alfira’s face.

It’s a grueling task, to sing in tribute for so many, for so long. Few would ask it of a singer so untried. But when Alfira’s voice lifts in lamentation like a rusty bell’s chime, heads turn; when he joins her in the second verse, the stentorian echo of her high mourner’s cry, the hush that follows is a grim gratification. They play long after their voices fail. He’s nodding over the gittern, his fingers plodding across the strings, when a warm, heavy hand envelops his shoulder. “Silk?”

“Karlach.” His voice scrapes like an old hinge. He blinks up at her, wondering why she’s so blurry. “There you are.”

“Here I am, sangster.” She turns from him, speaking gently to someone else. “Get some rest, Fira, hey?”

Whoever’s leaning on him rises with a willing mumble, leaving him cold. There’s a head on his knee, he realizes; he gives Mirkon’s curls a drowsy pat, then nudges him awake. Someone lifts the boy and carries him away. Around the hall, the torches burn like drowning stars.

Karlach’s hand keeps him steady. “Can you walk?”

He wobbles up. To his consternation, the hall tilts. Around him, the torchlights stretch and spin—

“Whoops,” Karlach says—and whisks him off his feet, bearing him who-knows-where. Hellion. He should object, probably. Keep his eyes open, certainly. Beneath his head, the machinery in her chest—that horrid death-clock, ticking—rattles a radiator-cough.

She smiles grimly at it. “Will you play one of those for me?”

A funeral dirge. His own tired heart beats off-tempo. “Oh, Karlach.”

“It was beautiful,” she says in her plain, awful way. “Will you?”

He’d sooner cut off his hands. Milil, he thinks, help me play happier music for these people. That triumphant theme. It’s in me, somewhere.

“Sangster?”

A voice speaks up somewhere past his eyelids. “Is he all right?”

“Asleep.” An infernal yawn. “Hells. I’m beat, too.”

Not quite asleep, he thinks. There’s a space between sleep and wakefulness, now, where the Prism-bearers’ minds mingle and meet. Gale’s drifting off thinking about a real bed, with sheets and blankets and such, so all of them are thinking about real beds. Them, the minstrel thinks muzzily, who are we, who are us.

Karlach’s thoughts, blunt and amused, brush his. You sound like that brain-thing.

Shadowheart, ever the eavesdropper, dips in. Are we going to keep it?

That headcheese? asks Vally.

Whatever will it eat, thinks Wyll, in our company?

Tsk’va. Lae’zel pretends to miss his joke. The creature is an abomination.

So are we, darling.

We! cries the intellect-devourer, somewhere else. It’s skittering after a rat, its simple joy rippling through their minds in alien hues. Whee!

Not a theme, the minstrel thinks, absently. Not a theme. He blinks up at Karlach with some effort. “Odd little medley, ours.”

Karlach blinks back at him.

Then she grins, brushfire-bright. “Catchy."

[tparker48]

Request for Vorelover23

Music played through the gym as the sun began to set in the glass windows, the weight rooms empty as dumbbells and straps rested upon the shelves. Amidst the silence, rattling lingered from the lockers as grunts followed behind it. Near the end of the lockers, would be Milan, a grizzly built jock with a stomach grumbling for food. And in his hand, would be his selected prey, held by their neck as the two entered a private room. He locked the door, tossing them along the bench as he got settled.

"Keep away from me you psycho!" They said, clutching at the headphones around their neck.

Milan chuckled at their weak yells, stepping closer as he reached for the zipper along his jacket. He drawed it down, his pudgy gut flinging to his waist. "It's cute you think you can give me orders."

He took heavy steps along the cemented floor, his mass overshadowing his prey's as he placed his hands at his waist. They kicked to deter him from approaching, aiming higher to strike to cripple the towering jock. They ricochet off his thighs, their muscles rippling as he advanced.

"I said stay away! I'll kick your ass if you don't step off-" Milan squashed his crotch over the small gym goer, the fat of his stomach spilling at the top of their head.

"Mmm, off, now you're talking my words there, squirt." Milan watched his junk bulge as squash over them, tracing his finger along its faint outline. He unfastened the string on his shorts, drawing his flaccid cock from its chamber. "You could use a bit of seasoning anyway."

"You're crazy if you think I flow like that. I don't suck dicks."

"Like that mouth of yours could handle a cock like mine" Milan replied. "But I don't expect you to suck, but rather marinate."

He grabbed their heels, yanking them to the cold floor. Grunts lingered between them, the small prey struggling out to escape from Milan's meaty palms. They climbed and grabbed at the edge of the bench, pulling themself away from Milan. It was cute, seeing them struggling in his grasp like a puppy on a leash. But as entertaining as it was, he didn't want them to waste all their energy before he wolfed them down. He yanked them back, Thrusting their legs beneath him as he crashed himself atop their chest.

they wheezed, yells filling his ears before they took a breath. "God damn..bastard!"

"Ooo im not too heavy for you am I slick?" Milan replied, grabbing the kicking legs behind him.

He pulled them farther, his rear sliding over their chin as it planted at his taint. their nostrils flared, but ceased as one of the thick legs wrapped around him. Their smooshed face was a sight to behold to Milan, the muffled grunts vibrating his shorts.

"That's it, just a little more seasoning" Milan said, tapping his cock against their head as cum spilled into his hair.

"Get..off!" They managed to pull from the protruding manhood, prying at the back of Milan's back side as he shrank from his hold.

Milan smiled, crossing his arms as he leaned his ass against their chin. "You know I found your struggles lacking. Where's that fire? If your going be a good appetizer you might as well give something to crave."

A kick bucked him forward, a gasp escaping from beneath as his prey struggled from his glutes. Milan beamed toward them, grinding his rear overhead before getting up. He turned pridefully toward them, his cock throbbing for more action as he approached.

His prey scampered to the door, jerking at its handle to open it as it forced open. Milan gripped at their feet, lifting them off the ground as he held him like one would a subway sandwich. He licked his lips, taking their feet inside as they shot into his throat. His prey squealed, clutching to the door as they called for anyone to here, but fell short as they were yanked back into the room. Milan grinned from cheek to cheek, grabbing their thighs as he lifted them toward his mouth. He gulped them like a seagull, his throat expanding as their shoulders tapped at the corners of his mouth.

"Help-" they were cut off by a palm, shoved into the expanding gullet as Milan grabbed their wrist.

Their face appeared like a ghostly death mask, sliding down his throat as it disappeared into his chest. Swallowing his limbs, he clicked his jaws together, rubbing over his stomach as this prey squirmed inside.

"Damn that felt good." Milan replied.

The intercom turned on as a voice rang through the room, telling them the gym was closed. The building was starting to get boring anyway, he'd best get out of here before staff search the rooms. Besides, the real fun was right in his belly, struggling as they pawed around his layer of fat. He returned home, tossing his bag to the walls as he entered the living room. He yawned, deciding to crash along the couch to support the additional weight in his lap. He turned on the radio, and let the jazz music soothe his ears as he massaged over himself.

"Time for a good long nap, perhaps you'll be digested by then."

He crossed his legs and leaned into the sofa. His stomach distended as it lurched to the side of the chair. He could feel the kneads against the blubbery skin, wrapping his arm around it like a net as he reeled it back into his lap. He yawned once more, his eyes getting heavy as he slept.

**********************************************

In the middle of the night, he groggily moved off the head of the couch, checking the time as it ticked in the corner walls. The dreams he had were a peosperous, eating future preys as he rubbed absently at his gut. His eyes dazed as he looked to his gut, yearning for its ponch to welcome his palm. He gripped into the hairs along it and squeezed, but only met the inside of his palm, his stomach as flat as a deflated balloon as it slipped from his grasp.

"What the-? Where'd my gut go!" He said, patting at his stomach.

A crash came from the behind, wet footprints collecting along the wooden floor as flour spilled in the kitchen. Jittering at the door handle, would be his prey, their shirt filled with holes as their jeans shrank to their knees.

"Hey! What are you out of my stomach!" Milan scowled, slamming the legrest into the sofa as he stomped toward them. They bolted to the other room, Milan pursuing them as they ran around corners of the house. He nipped at their heels, grabbing only shred of the soggy fabric as they kicked further ahead. Turning the corner, he slipped on a rug as a thud met his back. Groaning as he followed the path they ran.

His prey took to the shelves, grabbing whatever could fit in their grasp as they hurled them down. A lamp wipsped past Milan's side, a picture frame sawing the air as it nipped the tip of his head. That does it, he was through with this game of ring around the rosy.

They entered into a connecting room, Milan giving chase as his prey wisped past the frame. He halted, hiding in the shadow of the otherside. When pattering feet grew louder, he hopped in front as he grabbed their shoulders, stuffing his mouth with their head as he caspulated it into his gullet. With his juices already soaking their body, Milan wolfed down their shoulders, dragging his throat like a sword swallower.

When he got to their feet, he tilted upward to let gravity do the rest. Sending them back into their prison as his swelled gut returned. "I don't know how you got out, but you won't get out twice."

He waddled through the house, thrusting his stomach around like a heavy trash bag as he made his way up the stairs. Heavy sloshes filled his ears, his prey's voice backing it as their weight tossed inside the compressed stomach. He reveled in the feeling of his stomach stretching, belching out air that picked up as the w raced to subdue their body. He must admit, the squirt caught him by surprise, but he wasn't gonna let that happen again.

He entered into his bedroom, jumping onto the bed as he squashed his own gut. It strained as the contents compressed together, but was worth it to hear the prey's wails as he pulled the covers over himself.

"Let's see you try to escape now." He said, laying face first into his pillow as sleep took over once more.

**********************************************

It was a long night since he went to sleep, Milan having to adjust himself to accommodate for his prey's struggling. He proved resilient as they wrestled with his walls, forcing Milan out of his slumber as they thrashed inside. Groggily, he felt nudges at the bottom of his stomach, the sphincter widening to welcome as face pressed into the walls. The runt's trying to escape through his intestine, unfortunately they won't get access there. At least, not like that. He lifted his legs, clapping them together as it sealed the ring shut.

As entertaining as it was to play cat and mouse again, he was too tired and too hungry to let them get out again. He cradled his stomach, bear hugging its round form as it wrapped his body around his Prey. They put up a decent fight when it came down to stamina, but it didn't last long until their struggles ceased. His stomach singing in triumph as it bubbled around his meal.

As the sun rose from the window, Milan yawned and stretched along his bed, looking to his gut below as he smiled. His ponch extended from his torso, his belly partially empty as his prey's remains dumped into his intestines. "Now that's more like it." He said, a fart escaping as he tossed his weight to the side of the mattress.

He got up and made his way into the hallway, huffing at his stomach's plonking with every step he took. He entered the bathroom and dropped himself upon the toilet, emptying himself of the remains into the bowl as his turds made tides in the water. Upon him releiving himself, something snagged against his hole. C-shaped in nature as it scooped the fleshy walls. He pushed harder, a fart hissing from his depths before something pushed out. When his hole wrapped against the end, he rechead a finger to pull it out, its structure curving as it pressed into his wrist.

Pop!

A splat rung from inside the bowl, the last of the object squeezed from his hole as Milan grabbed a roll of tissue. Wiping, he got up and gazed into the bowl. A pair of headphones would be resting there, standing in the piled mess as the rubbery tips were stained. "Damn, those were good headphones too. Ah well." He grabbed them from the bowl and tossed them into the trash, flushing the stool as he sent his meal to the water pipes of the sewer. Turning off the light, he patted his stomach.

"Wonder what the next catch will be."

[delosdestinations]

"We wanted to make a show about consciousness; the kind of boastful ambition that works when you're pitching--and then falls apart when you find yourself trying to figure it out. There were few guides. Philosophers who'd lost their tenure. Computer scientists who'd lost their stock options. Guesses. Expletives. Crackpot theories. Hands wrung or simply thrown in the air. Even now, humans know more about what lies at the bottom of a supermassive black hole than the dark center of our minds.

But there are clues: language, semiotics; the distance between the notions rattling around in our minds and the ways in which we share them, and the ways in which humans share ideas between each other.

There's a language older than language, though. One that predates the written word or even the spoken one. Music. Its effects on people are fascinating--raw, direct, like an older interface that bypasses the newer, clunkier inputs. What music may lack in nuance versus spoken language, it more than gains in emotive power, as if transmitting emotion directly into the brain. If a picture is worth a thousand words, the right chord progression might reach nine figures.

So for our series about consciousness, we knew the music would be vital--and that we had the man for the job. Fittingly, Ramin's journey as a composer had been launched, in part, by Elmer Bernstein's achingly brilliant theme for The Magnificent Seven. Here he got to take a detour into the future in order to find his way back to the West.

He wanted to use guitars. We wanted piano (because the player piano had been the original western robot) and he gamely went along. I remember the themes as they came alive, anointing each character, imbuing them with even more depth and power. The craft and performances that came together for the series were all hard won--Ramin's music hooked everything to an undertoe of menace, melancholy and beauty.

As for Ramin's arrangements of contemporary music, they served two purposes; first, as a gentle reminder that our story was being told in the future tense, not the past. And second, as manipulation. If music is evocative, then music you've heard before takes on another dimension, dipping into circuits of lived experience and harnessing their power. A song you've listened to after a triumph or a breakup--even one rendered in a different timbre or arrangement--still has a grip on you. One that Ramin could pluck at, like the strings on his guitar. We spent four seasons exploring these questions and the closest we came to understanding consciousness--at least the variety that afflicts humans--is that any attempt to explain it without incorporating emotion is pointless.

The show is long since over. But I find myself whistling Ramin's timeless theme. Often. And I smile. That's the power of this music: that the indelible experiences of making Westworld, all of the incredible people who were part of it, all the days spent chasing the sun and capturing it on film, can all be conjured, instantly, in 8 perfectly chosen notes.

Westworld never died. It simply became music."

Jonathan Nolan, Executive Producer Liner Notes from Westworld: Season 4 (Music from the HBO Series) Vinyl