#Handling Hide Mark Element

[cameronsbabydoll]

Set-up:

You're the wife everyone envies. Perfect hair, quiet smile, the kind of softness that turns into silence over time. You live in Rafe Cameron’s high-rise glass mansion, designed by the best, filled with expensive emptiness.

But you're dying. Slowly, quietly. And he doesn’t even see it.

Core Themes:

Unseen suffering. You ache and wither in private, never wanting to "burden" him.

Emotional starvation. He doesn’t cheat on you—he just isn’t there. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. You’re a ghost in your own home.

Growing dread. You feel time slipping. You mark it by how cold he’s gotten. How your body is failing. How nothing tastes right anymore.

His ignorance is the real heartbreak. He isn’t cruel. He just doesn’t notice you’re disappearing.

Key Scenes:

1. The Quiet Illness Begins:

You start forgetting things. Coughing blood in the sink and rinsing it down before he comes in. You hide the pills in your makeup drawer. The irony is: you’re dying, but still trying to be pretty for him.

2. The Dinner Scene:

You make his favorite meal. He’s two hours late. Takes one bite. Says he’s not hungry. You eat alone, your body weak, but forcing every bite down because you want to pretend this is normal.

3. The Anniversary Gift:

You write him a letter for each anniversary you won’t live to see. You keep them in a locked drawer. On your final one, you leave a photo from your wedding—he isn’t even looking at you in it.

4. The Missed Call:

He finds out from your doctor’s voicemail. The one you forgot to delete. His face when he hears “stage four” is not panic—it’s confusion. As if he never noticed you were sick.

5. The Confrontation:

He begs to know why you never told him. You just look at him and say,

"You haven’t looked at me in months, Rafe. What would’ve been the point?"

6. The Last Month:

He finally starts trying. Cancels trips. Tries to cook for you. Reads to you in bed. But you’re too tired to care. You’ve already let go. And now he’s clinging to a version of you he never noticed when you were alive.

7. The Final Day:

You die in the home you designed to feel like his. Wearing the silk robe he bought you two years ago—the one you never wore because he never noticed when you did. He finds you in the garden, asleep forever, surrounded by the flowers you planted alone.

8. The Aftermath:

Rafe doesn’t cry. He just stops. Stops speaking. Stops hosting. Stops going out. The house is quiet now. Too quiet. He reads one letter a year. He can't handle more than that.

And every night, he sleeps on your side of the bed.

Extra Elements:

He finds your journals—realizes you knew from the start and still loved him through every cold, distant morning.

He sees the baby shoes you bought but never told him about. You miscarried alone.

Your voicemail is still saved on his phone. And he plays it to hear your voice.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Rook Hunt: In Plain Sight

THE NEIGE MERCH HAIR CLIPS… and his makeup box being similar to the box the queen provided to hold Snow White’s heart…

Rise and Shine!

"I burn and turn red easily. Of course, I'm in the habit of using sun protection and shading my skin from harmful UV rays now, but my skin still bears marks of damage."

“Damage?” you had squinted at him, searching for those imperfections he had spoken of. “Strange. I don’t see anything like that.”

And then he had given that mysterious smile, a finger to his wistful lips. "Ah, because I hide it well. Shall I show you my secret? Attendez, s'il vous plaît."

His “secret”, as Rook had put it, was not magic.

You knelt down, peering into his circular mirror lines with lights. Rook, flaxen hair pinned back with various clips—bows and a bluebird-shaped one—met your gaze in his reflection. His forest green eyes creased slightly, a sign you had come to learn meant he was amused.

Graceful hands unlocked a wooden box. The lid flipped open, revealing various tubes hidden inside. Mascara, lip gloss, eye liners… A treasure trove of makeup.

He selected a container filled with a fair creamy substance. Twisting the tube open, it revealed a slim applicator with a fluffy end.

“This comes highly recommended by Vil,” Rook chirped. “It’s a long-lasting, sweat-proof, and crease-free concealer. The formula is hydrating enough to stand up to the elements, but strong enough to not melt off during the day. Ideal for the life of a busy huntsman!”

He continued to babble as he dotted the concealer across his cheeks and nose. The spray of freckles there slowly disappeared behind a layer of skin-like color. You followed the flick of his wrist, watching how artfully he buffed out the product upon the blank page called him.

“This type of applicator is known as a doe foot. It is named for the small, slightly slanted foot of a female deer, also known as a doe. When I was first introduced to cosmetics, I thought that all applicators were named after animal anatomy! It would have certainly helped me in memorizing them."

“It sounds like he really drilled this information into your head,” you murmured, brows raised. “It shows in how you look too. You’re so different from how you were back then. More…”

You conjured the image of Rook in his Savanaclaw days. His hair was longer then, scraped back into a bushy ponytail resembling the hide of a ratty beast. Sometimes twigs and leaves would snag in it. Rook’s school-issued dormitory pants were torn at the knees, and he was always nursing some kind of bruise or dirt stain. Without sleeves, his large arms were on full display, the muscles straining and shifting when he tugged on a bowstring.

Compared to now…

You scanned Rook’s floaty white pajamas. A long-sleeved night gown over trousers, plus a cap he had removed earlier.

Covered up was the first thing that came to your mind. You settled for something else.

“… Demure, mindful.”

Those, you knew, were the last words anyone—particularly fae, beastmen, and merfolk—would bestow upon Rook Hunt. He knew it too, if the twinkle in his eyes was of any indication.

Rook slotted the wand back into its bottle and turned to you, wiggling a hand to present bis finished face. “Voilà! The results of Pomefiore’s teachings.”

You looked at him.

Hesitated.

“… Can I?”

“You may,” he said with a faint chuckle, his lids drifting shut.

You gingerly cupped his cheeks in your palms, careful not to smudge his makeup as you slowly tiled his head back. It was like you were handling porcelain, too afraid of dropping it. His Adam’s apple bobbed—up, down—like your heart’s rapid thumping. Your thumb brushed aside a golden lock.

Skin as smooth as silk, an even shade throughout. Fine hair like fresh wheat spun into gold. And mouth a pale pink, like the blush of an apple blossom.

No hat to hide it all.

Like this, he was almost like a princess trapped under a glass coffin.

The truth of him, in plain sight. A raw, gentle beauty he allowed few others to glimpse.

Breath caught in your chest.

“… Sorry. I’m afraid I still don’t see those ‘marks of damage’ you were talking about before,” you apologized. “With freckles or without… Frizzy hair or not… Covered or out in the open… Rook-senpai is still beautiful in every way.”

He cracked an eye open a sliver. “… Oh la la, aren’t we feeling feisty this morning?”

“Yes. I’m the Magic Mirror,” you teased, laughing as you released him from your grasp. “I only speak the truth.”

“So you do.”

Rook loaded his doe foot again. But this time, he cheekily dabbed the wand on the tip of your nose, leaving a light blob behind.

“H-Hey…!” you protested, hands flying there to wipe the spot clean. “Rook…!”

“Fufufu. Those candid, unguarded expressions of yours are delightful.”

He dropped the concealer back into its box. Humming, his hand hovered over an eye pencil. Rook held it up, angling it slanted against your body from a distance—an artist ogling his next masterpiece.

“I would love to capture you upon a canvas,” he mused, tracing the outline of you in the air. “Like the polished face of a looking glass… you speak with both sincerity and clarity. That kind of honesty is a rarity.”

“Y-You should focus on finishing your makeup first, or else you’ll be in for a scolding from your dorm leader,” you advised, though your voice was but a mumble. “Geez… you’re always dumping so much praise onto me.”

“Beauty of all kinds should be seen and shared. It just so happens that you have a bounty of it—and so, there is much of you for me to acknowledge.”

“And there’s still so much of you I have to figure out…” you added with a sigh. Somewhat resigned, but also half longing.

“Oh my. Then it sounds as though we have a long partnership ahead of ourselves~”

Grinning like a vulpine, the huntsman began to draw with his liner, forming sharp points at the edges of his eyes. You observed quietly, a birdwatcher to a hawk.

One day, I’ll unlock all of your secrets. Like this chest you keep your makeup in, or those sleeves you cover your limbs with. I’ll expose your ‘truth’… Rook Hunt!

[softsunnyy]

i'm thinking about Quinn, who tries to be sweet, patient. He doesn't want you to feel forced. He sees you as too adorable, too delicate. He can even feel the softness on your skin when he touches you. He can see how fragile you look next to him. He could break you so easily. Destroy you.

that's why it was such a surprise the first time he saw you wearing a tank top, without your bra underneath, giving him a better view not only of your tits, but of one special detail as well.

your fucking nipples. They're pierced.

his mouth goes dry, and he's grateful to be in your house, because it allows him to act quickly. Quinn doesn't ask, his hands grip your waist, and from that moment on, almost every rational element leaves his mind.

he goes wild, primal. He needs to have you right now.

he kisses you, showing everything he's feeling, listening to you moan against his lips, clearly surprised.

oh, why did he wait so long? now he wants to destroy you, he wants to use you, play with your tits until he's bored, until you ache, until your nipples are so hard and sensitive that you beg him to stop and tend to your soaking pussy.

he wanted to be gentle, to give you your time, to let it be special and unforgettable. All that's gone. His hands roam your body as if you were his personal whore. In his mind, right now you are, you are everything.

he lays your body down on the couch and rips off your clothes without giving you much time to breathe. He wants to see you, needs to see all of you now that he knows.

when your breasts are exposed, a growl leaves his mouth. His cock throbs, desperate to get out of his pants, to bury itself inside you and merge with your gummy walls.

he licks, sucks, plays with your tits, playing with your nipples while your moans fill your living room. One of your hands tangled in his hair, and he can feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge of abandoning any kind of care.

he leaves his marks everywhere.

you whimpered his name, desperate, trying to close your legs as you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter. His body prevents you from closing them, but he unconsciously tries to help you, thrusting against your pussy, making you feel his hardness beneath his clothes.

your nipples are hard, too hard, and Quinn handles them without delicacy, enjoying the cold metal on his tongue, enjoying torturing you, driving you crazy.

why did you hide this from him? now you'll have to face the consequences of your actions. There will be time to ask questions later, now you'll have to endure it.

you pull at his hair, trying to move him away from your breasts, but nothing seems to work. Quinn pulls away only when he feels it's enough, feeling his pants soaked. When he looks at them, he realizes it's your fault. You tried to rub, to get some more pleasure, and now his pants were stained. Fucking wet.

he's fast, agile, he doesn't need to get up right now and throw his pants down, he just needs to get his cock out.

when he starts fucking you, it's not gentle, it's not sweet, it's nothing like he was planning. It's rough, wild, inconsiderate. He's using you, because your own pleasure was left behind the moment you decided to keep this from him. Now he's going to cum, he's going to fill you up. You'll have to leave his cum inside you, and don't even dare let it drip too much.

and your tits—oh, i hope you didn't think he was finished, because Quinn wants to bathe them, soak them with his cum. He wants to leave his mark, he wants his cum to dry there.

this is your fault, he wanted to be sweet and patient, why did you hide this from him?

[twilightofthesandwiches]

I think a lot about the Concept of ‘choices that matter’ in video games. Like, in terms of what it is that makes a choice ‘really matter’, what do we perceive as a choice that matters or has a consequence, how do different games with different amounts of branching or non-branching storylines play with those ideas…  Especially because Undertale is one of my favorite games of all time, and it has often been hyped as ‘a game where your choices REALLY matter’ and… honestly, I dunno if all of this hype was fully conducive to Undertale.  Because the way it handles the concept of Video Game Choices is actually a lot more interesting and complex than that simplistic descriptor makes it seem.

Because Undertale actually has a lot of choices that ‘don’t really matter’! Lots of dialogue choices and silly little decisions that on a first playthrough seem like they’re some sort of moral choice or a branching plotline but end up always leading to basically the same result regardless of what you do!

And the game doesn’t really try to hide the fact that these choices are kinda 'Fake'. I mean, on a first playthrough a player might assume there’s gonna be some Massive Consequences for picking the ‘wrong’ drink on Undyne’s date, but the game’s narrative expects for there to be multiple playthroughs and pretty much every Choice that Doesn’t Matter is peppered with that Undertale brand of wacky character-focused humor that inherently makes the moment memorable. Papyrus leading Undyne straight to you no matter what you do is basically a cross-timeline running gag.

On some level I see this as a sort of gag that serves as meta-commentary about the expectations around Choices That Matter in Video Games. As in, a lot of games have their Moral Choices happen in clearly easily marked ‘this is a Moral Choice!’ moments within the story, while the actual gameplay (and any violence the player might cause as part of said gameplay) is basically entirely divorced from any element of narrative-branching and doesn't effect the story at all. Undertale basically entirely inverts this dynamic; the most important factor for which Route you’re own is how you handle your FIGHTs, and what seems like clearly-marked and obvious Moral Choices are just goofy insubstantial minor changes in dialogue. 

But also… there is also a level where you must ask yourself ‘what does it mean when we say that these choices Don’t Matter’. I mean, it’s not like they didn't change anything about the game, the Player still made the character say that other thing, the choice probably led to an alternate piece of dialogue, probably a joke with a call-back at the end of the game… The line between a one-off joke and an actual story-changing moment can be a little blurry if you look at it too deeply.

For example, near the end of the Waterfall part of the game, the Player is given the choice to save Monster Kid even at the risk of having to face down Undyne.

Pretty much anyone who isn’t deliberately trying to be an asshole is going to rush to save them and obviously that includes the Pacifist Route Players. But you can actually leave Monster Kid to die without it 'mattering' in the sense that it wouldn't divert you from the Pacifist Route. Undyne saves them instead of you, and ends up with slightly less HP for her battle (which might Matter for Runs when you try and FIGHT her but obviously not in Pacifist Runs) and… by the end of the game, during the extremely happy True Pacifist Ending, they still clearly remember that you abandoned them and are upset by it.

So… does saving Monster Kid ‘matter’ or not? On one hand, choosing not to save them mostly just changes a few lines of dialogue but… these lines of dialogue kinda recontextualize this happy ending and the Player’s actions in general. Despite the True Pacifist Ending otherwise portraying the Player/Frisk as a kind-hearted and brave hero... they still did this undeniably cowardly (and perhaps even cruel) act to one of their friends .

Was running away and leaving Monster Kid to die a brief but significant moment of weakness that the Player regrets and has cost them what could’ve been the start of a lovely friendship? Or is that simply that being a True Pacifist was always more of a matter of pragmatism rather than ideals? Were they only acting as a Pacifist to get that promised 'Best Ending', and only Monster Kid has an inkling they are not as heroic or kind as everyone thinks they are?

And then there’s the Snowman ‘quest’.

A free healing item given early in the game, with your mission being to carry it along in your inventory for as long as you can without ever consuming it. The only reward you will ever see from it is a few lines of dialogue…

But for many, it is more than enough of an incentive to preserve the Snowman’s Piece. You can do whatever you want with the Snowman without it ‘mattering’ in terms of Ending or consequences. You could carry it through all of your adventures with care and kindness... or you could eat it while he can’t see you and then go back to him and tell him that you ‘lost’ it and then get another piece and eat that as well, you could eat it right in front of his face, horrifying him. 

And much like with Monster Kid, you can STILL get the True Pacifist Ending after doing that, all that would change is a few optional pieces of dialogue from the Snowman… 

And a total recontextualization of the Player’s behavior and the ending. The Snowman sees the Player as a cruel and heartless person who is just pretending to be good so they can be liked - the way they acted with this immobile, powerless Snowman who could do nothing for them and their reputation reveals their true self. And he says their friends will realize that too one day...

Doing a True Reset on the Pacifist Ending is, by definition, a (almost) consequence-free action and yet it changes future Pacifist Routes immeasurably. Turning the Player into a Hypocrite doing the exact same thing they were trying to stop Flowey/Asriel from doing - trapping all of their friends into a time-loop so they can play with them forever while never actually letting them to enjoy freedom on the surface, simply because they are not willing to move on or put their friends' wishes and agency above their own. Nothing in the game actually changes, not one character can even suspect that you did something like that, and yet for the Player - this choice makes the entire Meaning of the game flip on its head. 

Even the most famous and heavily-toted Big Consequence in the whole game - selling your soul to Chara after completing a Murder Route… mostly what it does is just… recontextualize the ending of the Game.

As a game, ‘Undertale’ is very much about the ways in which a Player engages with a game can radically recontextualize it. The huge chasm of difference between the Pacifist and Muder Routes is just the most literal example of it. But, in a way, even the tiny little Dialogue Options - where the lack of real choice and consequences is Obviously a Joke - matter. Because of the way they can recontextualize the Player Character’s behavior.

(Okay, maybe not this one, but hear me out…)

Do you trust Papyrus to not betray you, even after you spied on him with Undyne?

Do you have the integrity to admit you forgot something or got it wrong even when there’s no consequences for just lying about it?

Are you a hypocrite for trying to get Alphys to be truthful with Undyne only to then immediately turn around and lie to Undyne yourself?  

None of these choices matter for the ending, some of them don’t even get, like, a call-back joke or anything, but… if you are engaged in this story as a narrative, if you are invested in these characters as if they were people, if you are honestly trying to be the best person you can be, if you are trying to self-reflect at the way you approach this game… even the silliest little dialogue option can suddenly be imbued with deep implications and you can make them matter. 

Undertale is one of the best demonstrations of this concept, but this is absolutely not exclusive to it. For example….

‘Ace Attorney’ is pretty much as far away as you can get from a ‘branching narrative’ within the video game sphere. It is a heavily-linear Visual Novel where 70% of the time it won’t even let you talk to random characters at anything but the exact order it expects you to and any ‘Bad Endings’ are basically just glorified Game Over Screens. (... because this is the Internet and something something piss on the poor, I should probably specify that I am talking about ‘Ace Attorney’ because I love Ace Attorney and these are neutral descriptions of the game and not complaints. There’s nothing wrong with a game being linear.) 

If there’s any Dialogue Choice in AA, it’s generally a very basic ‘right answer-wrong answer’ choice between Progress and a Penalty, or a total non-choice that just gets you to the same final result regardless. Except… Well… as we just talked about, getting to the same final result doesn’t necessarily mean a choice is ‘meaningless’, does it?

There’s actually a lot of great storytelling moments where Ace Attorney, despite its otherwise strict linearity, uses this exact sort of recontextualizing mindset I’ve talked about with Undertale to make choices with some really powerful emotional impact…. Even if technically, the ending is the same ending. It can be something as basic as ‘even if picking this Wrong Answer doesn’t get me a penalty, it still embarrassed my character and disappointed my friends/rivals and thus I feel bad for picking it’. Consequences as recontextualizing your character as more incompetent than they should’ve come across at that moment.

And then there’s moments like the iconic ending of ‘Justice for All’. That moment before Franziska bursts into the Courtroom with the case-making evidence and saves the day. The moment where it seems like Phoenix really is gonna have to pick between protecting his best friend and carrying out a rightful sentence.

The player gets to pick between the two options, but Phoenix never gets to say his choice out loud before Franziska comes running in... and yet… he, and the player, still made that choice. Even if no one ever has to experience the consequences of your choice, even if the rest of the world has no idea what Phoenix Wright would’ve chosen if the Miracle hadn’t happened, we know what we picked and that knowledge of the choice matters. Because of how we feel about this choice and what it says about our interpretation of Phoenix… and about us.

There’s also a bit of this ludonarrative device in ‘The Great Ace Attorney: Adventures’. During “The Adventures of the Runaway Room”, when you investigate the Omnibus for the second time and start finding things that… don’t quite fit together. When you’re finally starting to make progress with proving McGilded’s innocence, while also maybe starting to notice that something is… wrong with these pieces of evidence. 

The unchanging linear narrative of the game is that Ryunosuke does eventually realizes McGilded's trickery, puts truth ahead of victory in court and yet, despite his effort and good intentions - the case still ends with a false Not Guilty verdict. And yet, the Player has the choice to... tweak the details.

There are several points where Ryunosuke can object, where he can call out the inconsistencies even though they help his case, where he can support Van Zieks in his accusations of tempered evidence... or he can not. Not necessarily intentionally misleading the Court as much as subconsciously trying to ignore the inconsistencies in the name of trusting his client.

And yet… in the end it doesn’t matter. Maybe Susato calls out the inconsistency instead of him, maybe Van Zieks does, maybe it remains uncontested but... no matter what you do, the case will end with a Not Guilty verdict (I mean, I guess you can deliberately fail the game but that will not progress the plot), McGilded doesn’t seem like he held a grudge (in the few minutes he had left to live), and a few cases later - Ryunosuke would always be punished for his part at this false verdict.

So it doesn’t really matter what Ryunosuke did back then? Does it matter if he did his best and called out every single inconsistencies or if he kinda half-assed it until he (and the Player) had to? He’s still going to suffer the same consequences down the line. And yet….

And yet, I think there’s something so powerful about giving us that option. About knowing that Ryunosuke, and we, did try and do something about McGilded's dirty tricks- even if it didn’t work. Or alternative, knowing that there was more that Ryunosuke and us could’ve done even if it was not nearly enough. Even if in the eyes of the game and the British Justice system there is no difference, the fact that we know what did and what we could’ve done can radically change the way the player feels about all of the later scenes concerning the truth about McGilded’s trial. It can radically change the way the player interpret Ryunosuke’s feelings about it as well.

Because even though the game itself keeps playing along with the same script regardless, that trial had irrevocable consequences for the Player.

[niallerspayno]

Three’s Company - Part 1

Masterlist

As Louis Tomlinson’s sister and the Assistant Tour Manager for One Direction, you never expected to get caught up in a secret fling with two of his best friends—Zayn and Liam. What starts as playful flirtation quickly turns into stolen moments and heated kisses. But as Louis starts to notice, the tension between you, Zayn, and Liam only grows, and navigating family, secrets, and your heart becomes a lot more complicated.

Tags: Zayn x Liam x reader, Louis x sister!reader, smut, kinda poly but not, secret relationship

Part 2 | Part 3

…

Being Louis Tomlinson’s younger sister comes with its perks—free concerts, traveling the world, and getting to work as the Assistant Tour Manager for one of the biggest boy bands on the planet. But it also comes with its challenges, namely your overprotective brother, who seems to think you’re still the same kid he used to chase around Doncaster.

You step into the suite’s shared lounge, the soft morning light streaming through the curtains. Tugging your scarf higher over your neck, you pray no one notices.

Louis glances up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone. His eyes narrow immediately. “What’s with the scarf? We’re in LA. It’s like 25 degrees outside.”

“Just felt like wearing it,” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant as you move toward the kitchenette.

Louis sits up, his suspicion practically radiating off him. “Hang on. Are you hiding something? What’s under there? A dodgy tan line? A new tattoo?” He grins wickedly. “Or maybe… hickeys?”

Your stomach drops. “No!” you snap, too quickly.

Across the room, Niall and Harry perk up, their attention now fully on you. Zayn and Liam, seated nearby, exchange a subtle glance, but both keep their expressions carefully neutral.

Louis smirks, standing and crossing the room with dramatic flair. “Oh, now I have to know. Let’s see it.”

“Louis, don’t—”

But it’s too late. He tugs the edge of the scarf down just enough to reveal the faint purple marks trailing along your neck.

The room erupts.

“Bloody hell!” Niall exclaims, laughing so hard he nearly spills his coffee.

Harry claps his hands together, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Hickeys! She’s got hickeys!”

Louis steps back, his eyes wide with mock horror before breaking into a triumphant laugh. “I knew it! You’ve been sneaking around, haven’t you? Who’s the lad? Someone on the crew? A local? Please tell me it’s not a roadie.”

“Shut up, Louis!” you snap, pulling the scarf back into place, but the damage is done.

Louis folds his arms, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “Unbelievable. My own sister, sneaking around like this. Does Mum know?”

“Leave Mum out of this,” you grumble, your face burning.

“She won’t care, so long as it’s not some tosser,” Louis says with a shrug. His teasing grin softens just slightly. “Wait—he isn’t a tosser, right? Because if he is—”

“He’s not,” you interrupt, exasperated. “Can we drop it now?”

Louis studies you for a moment before smirking again. “Fine. But I’m watching you. You’ve got that post-snog glow. Whoever he is, he better be bloody perfect, or he’s answering to me.”

You roll your eyes and head for the door. “You’re the worst.”

As you make your exit, you catch Zayn biting back a smirk and Liam suddenly finding the floor very interesting. Their silence feels deafening, but thankfully, Louis is too caught up in his teasing to notice.

The last thing you hear before the door closes behind you is Louis muttering, “Honestly, I don’t even want to know. She looks way too happy for me to handle.”

…

Last Night

The hotel suite buzzes with post-show energy, a hazy cocktail of laughter, music, and half-empty glasses scattered around the room. You’re curled up on one of the couches, tucked between a speaker and a pillow someone dragged in hours ago, watching as the boys let the adrenaline of the stage work itself out through inside jokes and familiar chaos.

Louis is in his element, center of attention, cracking jokes that make Niall nearly choke on his drink and have Harry wiping away laughter-tears with the sleeve of his hoodie. It feels like every other night on tour—comfortable, chaotic—but there’s something different tonight. An itch beneath your skin. A flicker of something unspoken.

When someone shouts out Truth or Dare?—probably Harry, judging by the theatrical hand raise—you laugh and shake your head, but it's no use. You're already being pulled into the circle, sitting cross-legged with your drink in hand and a wary smile on your lips.

The first few rounds are light, easy. Niall dares Harry to sing an old campfire song dramatically. Louis is forced to do ten push-ups with Zayn sitting on his back. Everyone’s laughing, the kind that makes your cheeks ache, and you almost forget the simmer of attention that’s been subtly—but persistently—drifting your way all night.

Almost.

You catch it in the way Zayn’s gaze lingers on you half a second longer than it should when you laugh. In the small, almost imperceptible smile Liam gives you across the room when you tease Louis. It’s not obvious—not enough for Louis to notice—but it’s there. Undercurrents. A quiet pull.

It’s Zayn who leans in when it’s your turn again, his voice low and smooth, just above the hum of the music. “Truth or dare?”

You meet his eyes, steady. “Dare.”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his smile, but he keeps his tone light. “I dare you to kiss someone in this room.”

A few of the boys whistle or hoot, already shouting out suggestions—“Niall!” “No, Hazza, pick Harry!” Louis shakes his head, grinning like this is the most entertainment he’s had all week. “Better not be the bloody tour manager,” he warns.

You roll your eyes, heart skipping in your chest as you glance around the circle with a show of considering your options. But your gaze lingers—just a beat too long—on Zayn. And then flickers, barely, toward Liam. The smallest pause.

Liam doesn’t smile, but there’s a knowing softness in his eyes. He looks away before Louis notices.

You shift forward and lean across the circle, planting a quick, playful kiss on Zayn’s cheek, letting your lips brush just a little closer to the corner of his mouth than necessary. It’s fast. Friendly. Just barely enough to keep it in the game.

“Safe choice,” Louis mutters with a relieved huff, tipping back his drink.

Zayn quirks a brow at you, his voice just for you now. “Playing it safe, are we?”

You tilt your head, lips twitching. “For now.”

The game moves on, laughter bubbling up again as Harry chooses a dare that ends with him doing a dramatic reading of a shampoo bottle label. But when it’s Liam’s turn, the shift happens again—small, subtle. His eyes find yours, and your breath stutters for just a moment.

“Truth or dare?” he asks, his tone casual. But his gaze stays on you like a question meant only for you.

You raise your brows in silent challenge. “Dare.”

His lips curve into a slow, easy smile. “I dare you to kiss someone… but with feeling.”

The words could be innocent. Could be part of the game. But there’s a hidden meaning in them, in the way he says with feeling, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he wants to see if you’ll rise to it.

Your heart hammers in your chest, but your face stays cool. You get to your knees and lean toward him, your hand resting lightly on his shoulder as you kiss him—still restrained, still within the bounds of the game, but slower this time. Just enough pressure to make your intent known. Just enough to leave him wanting.

His hand comes to rest at your hip—not gripping, not claiming, but steady. A grounding touch.

When you pull back, his lips part slightly, like he’s tempted to follow you.

But you’re already sitting down again, and the others are clapping, laughing, too caught up in the fun to notice the quiet hum of tension buzzing between you three.

Zayn doesn’t say a word. He just takes a sip of his drink, his eyes on you over the rim of the glass, his expression unreadable.

The game continues, laughter still echoing through the suite, but it’s a distant hum to you now. You’re too aware—of the burn on your cheeks, the stolen glances, the phantom feel of Liam’s lips on yours and Zayn’s smirk when you kissed just his cheek. You didn’t play it safe, but you didn’t give in either.

Not fully.

The tension is a slow, steady pulse beneath your skin, and it follows you as you slip through the balcony doors. The cool night air hits you like a sigh of relief, brushing against your overheated skin. You grip the railing and close your eyes, trying to slow your breathing, but you already know this night isn’t finished with you.

The door opens behind you.

You don’t turn.

Zayn’s presence wraps around you before he even says a word. He lights a cigarette with a sharp flick of his lighter, stepping beside you with that casual grace that somehow makes everything feel ten times more charged.

“Thought I might find you out here,” he murmurs, exhaling smoke into the air. “Needed some fresh air?”

You nod, your voice soft. “It got a little hot in there.”

He chuckles lowly. “Didn’t notice. Must’ve been distracted.”

You glance at him then—at the faint glint in his eyes, at the way his gaze dips briefly to your mouth and lingers just long enough to make your stomach twist.

He offers you a cigarette. You take it.

You’re barely aware of the smoke curling around your lips because Zayn is looking at you like he already knows what you taste like, even if the game only allowed a brush of lips to his cheek.

“I didn’t expect you to kiss me,” he says, voice low and rough now, teasing around the edges.

You meet his gaze, your heart skipping. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face, unreadable but hungry. “Didn’t say I minded.”

The air feels heavier now. Dense. Electric. You can practically feel it crackling between your bodies, daring one of you to make the first move. Your cigarette burns down between your fingers, forgotten.

Zayn steps closer—not close enough to touch, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. “Should’ve kissed me properly,” he murmurs. “You wanted to.”

You try to scoff, but it catches in your throat. “You think I didn’t?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak.

He just steps in.

And kisses you like it’s the answer to a question you haven’t asked.

It’s nothing like the game—this is slow and unapologetic, his mouth warm and coaxing, lips parting yours with practiced ease. His hand cradles the back of your head, the other sliding around your waist, anchoring you against him. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up—your hands fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him in like you’ve waited all damn tour for this.

His tongue flicks against yours once—just once—but it’s enough to steal your breath.

“Fuck,” Zayn mutters against your lips, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Then the door creaks open again.

Liam.

He steps out into the night like he already knew what he’d find. His eyes flick to Zayn, then to you, taking in your kiss-bitten mouth, the flushed state of your cheeks, the way Zayn’s hand rests a little too low on your waist.

But there’s no tension in his shoulders. No surprise in his gaze. Just something darker. He looks at you like you’re a secret he’s been keeping. Like he’s done waiting to keep it.

“You two look cozy,” Liam says, his voice smooth—almost amused—but his eyes are burning. “Mind if I even things up a little?”

Zayn chuckles low, stepping back just a fraction, but not enough to leave your side. “Be my guest.”

Liam closes the distance in a few long, deliberate strides. His hand lifts to your face, cradling your jaw with a tenderness that contradicts the heat in his expression.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since the second it happened,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “That quick little tease inside? That wasn’t enough.”

Before you can answer, his mouth is on yours.

And this time, there’s nothing shy or playful about it.

Liam kisses you like he’s starving for it—slow at first, coaxing you open, then deeper. He tilts your head, his thumb at your jaw, and groans softly when your lips part for him. His tongue slides against yours in a smooth, deliberate motion that steals your breath and makes your whole body feel like it’s melting into him.

His other hand slides down your side, warm and strong, gripping your hip and pulling you flush against him. The heat between you sparks instantly—friction where your bodies press, where your chest brushes his, where his hand drags lower to palm the curve of your ass.

You moan softly into his mouth, and the sound only makes him kiss you harder.

Zayn moves behind you again. You don’t need to look to know—his presence rolls over you like smoke, hot and heady. One of his hands finds your waist, settling just above Liam’s. His other slides up your arm, slow and featherlight, until his fingers brush your shoulder and then the base of your neck.

“Still got room for me?” he murmurs against your ear, his breath warm on your skin.

You nod, already dizzy with want.

Liam’s lips leave yours just long enough for you to gasp for air—but he doesn’t go far. His mouth drifts down to your jaw, then lower, kissing your throat with an open mouth, leaving your skin wet and aching. “Let us,” he breathes.

Zayn presses a kiss to the other side of your neck—slower, firmer—and you feel the exact moment his lips part, the sharp sting of teeth followed by the hot, aching pull of a bruise being drawn deep into your skin.

Your knees almost give out.

They don’t stop.

Zayn sucks a mark into your throat just below your ear while Liam works lower, his mouth finding your collarbone, kissing and biting as his fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt. He palms your waist, dragging his thumb slowly across your skin.

You whimper, overwhelmed, caught between them.

Zayn’s voice is low, rough, his breath skating over your damp skin. “You wear us so well.”

You barely have time to register the words before they switch—Liam’s lips replacing Zayn’s on your neck, sucking a mark into your skin with slow, deliberate pressure while Zayn kisses your shoulder, then trails his lips lower, across the slope of your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly.

It’s dizzying—the rhythm they fall into, the way they move around you like a storm, like they’ve done this before, like your body was made to be caught between them.

Their hands roam—Zayn’s slipping under the back of your shirt, fingertips dragging up your spine. Liam’s drifting down to your thigh, teasing the skin just under the hem of your shorts.

You can’t stop the sound that escapes your lips. You don’t try.

Liam groans softly against your throat. “So fucking responsive.”

Zayn hums in agreement, his teeth catching the edge of your shoulder as he nips you again. “Don’t think we’ll be able to stop next time.”

They move together, in sync, marking your skin with bruises that throb under their mouths. You feel each one blooming—one after the other—hot and tender. A physical echo of every kiss and touch.

Liam’s lips drag back up to your mouth, and he kisses you again—slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours with devastating precision.

Behind you, Zayn’s hand grips your waist, pulling you back against him. His mouth finds your neck again, kissing over a bruise he already left, then lower, to the hollow of your throat.

“You’re ours,” Liam murmurs, the words barely brushing your lips.

Zayn’s voice follows, low and gravelled, like a promise sealed in heat. “Ours.”

You nod without hesitation, breathless and certain. “I’m yours.”

Their hands begin to still, lips leaving your skin with agonizing slowness, like they hate the thought of letting go. But your body is already trembling, pulsing with the imprint of them—your skin flushed, your heart racing, your neck wearing the evidence of just how deeply they want you.

Zayn gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb grazing a fresh bruise with quiet satisfaction. “You’ll think about this all night.”

Liam rests his forehead against yours, his voice warm, full of something deeper than desire. “We will too.”

They step back together, like it costs them something to break away from you. And maybe it does.

You’re left swaying in the space they filled, lips swollen, every nerve alight, your body aching in the most exquisite way.

“We should head in,” Liam says softly, though the rough edge to his voice betrays the restraint it takes. “Don’t want your brother getting suspicious.”

Zayn lingers a moment longer, eyes dragging over you like he’s memorizing every mark, every breath. “You’re stunning like this,” he says, voice velvet-dark. “Covered in us… and we haven’t even started.”

Then they both turn, reaching for the door.

You follow, still tingling, still breathless, your thoughts a blur of hands and mouths and heat.

And as the night air gives way to the warmth of the suite again, one thing is painfully, deliciously clear—

This is only the beginning.

…

Present day

Armed with two steaming cups of coffee, you make your way to the venue, slipping through the backstage door with practiced ease. The morning buzz of roadies and crew fills the air, and you duck past a stack of cables, balancing the drinks like a pro.

Paul is already on stage, clipboard in hand, barking orders to a tech about the mic setup. You’ve always admired his efficiency—managing the chaos of a world tour is no small feat, and he does it with the ease of someone who’s been at it for decades.

“Morning, Paul!” you call, holding up one of the cups as you approach.

He turns at the sound of your voice, his expression softening when he sees you. “There’s my favorite assistant tour manager,” he says with a warm grin, taking the coffee you hand him. “You’re a lifesaver, you know that?”

“I try,” you reply, smiling as you take a sip of your own drink. “What’s on the agenda for sound check?”

Paul doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his sharp eyes narrow slightly as he takes a longer look at you. His gaze lingers on your neck, and you feel the telltale heat of a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Did you forget your scarf this morning, or…?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You choke on your coffee, hastily setting the cup down on a nearby crate. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” Paul says, crossing his arms. “Those.” He gestures vaguely toward your neck. “You’ve got… quite the collection of love bites, kid.”

Your hand flies to your throat, trying to act casual as you brush your fingers over the marks. Damn it. You’d hoped the makeup would last longer. “Oh, uh… it’s not—”

“Don’t even try,” Paul interrupts, his tone walking the line between teasing and stern. “I’ve been around these boys long enough to know what that looks like. And I know Louis would blow a gasket if he saw.”

You laugh nervously, avoiding his gaze. “It’s nothing to worry about, Paul.”

“Nothing to worry about?” he echoes, his voice incredulous. “You’re Louis’ sister. And you’re on my team. That makes it very much my business.”

“Paul,” you groan, but he’s already in full dad-mode, his brow furrowed as he looks you over.

“Look, I don’t need to know who it is,” he says, holding up a hand. “Frankly, I’d rather not. But I swear, if it’s one of those boys—”

“It’s not,” you blurt out quickly, cutting him off before he can finish.

Paul’s expression doesn’t soften. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to kill someone before the tour’s over.”

You can’t help but laugh, though there’s a nervous edge to it. “I promise, Paul. It’s all fine. Nothing to worry about.”

He studies you for a long moment, then sighs, taking another sip of his coffee. “You’re an adult. I get it. Just… be careful, yeah? And for the love of God, get better at hiding those.”

“Noted,” you say, your cheeks burning.

Paul shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about “kids these days” before turning his attention back to his clipboard. “Right,” he says, shifting back into business mode. “Let’s get this sound check sorted. We’ve got a tight schedule today.”

Relieved to have the conversation behind you, you pick up your coffee and follow him toward the stage. But even as you focus on the task at hand, you can’t shake the small smile tugging at your lips.

If only Paul knew just how complicated—and thrilling—your life had become.

…

The venue buzzes with activity as the band prepares for soundcheck. You’re stationed near the edge of the stage, clipboard in hand, scanning the setup while sipping what’s left of your coffee. Paul is somewhere behind the soundboard, barking orders about the drum levels, leaving you to keep an eye on the boys as they warm up.

Louis and Niall are bickering about who gets to stand where during the first song, Harry’s lounging on a speaker scrolling through his phone, and Liam and Zayn are testing their mics. Or at least, they’re supposed to be.

Instead, Liam glances in your direction, his hand resting casually on the mic stand. “Sounding good over there?” he asks, his voice loud enough to carry but soft enough to sound almost… intimate.

You glance up, pretending not to notice the faint smirk playing on his lips. “The sound? Great. You? Questionable.”

His grin widens, and he steps closer to the edge of the stage, his eyes locked on yours. “Harsh, love. You sure you’re not just cranky from missing sleep?”

Your cheeks heat, and you quickly look back at your clipboard. “I’m sure.”

Before you can come up with something sharper, Zayn joins in, his deep chuckle cutting through the hum of the speakers. “Don’t mind her, Liam,” he says, leaning casually on the mic stand. “She’s just overworked. Carrying all of us on her back can’t be easy.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to hide your smile. “If that’s your way of apologizing for being late to call time yesterday, it’s not working.”

Zayn presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “Late? Me? Never.” His eyes flash with mischief as he lowers his voice, just enough for only you to hear. “Besides, I made up for it last night. Didn’t I?”

Your breath hitches, and your clipboard nearly slips from your grasp. You glare at him, but the smirk on his face tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Liam notices and steps in, his voice smooth as he taps his mic. “You know, Zayn, maybe we should cut her some slack. It’s hard work being this close to perfection all day.”

“Close to something,” you mutter under your breath, earning a soft laugh from Zayn.

“Focus, lads!” Paul’s booming voice echoes through the venue, breaking the moment.

Zayn gives you a wink as he straightens up, his mic in hand. “You heard the boss.”

Liam smirks, his attention lingering on you for a beat longer before he steps back into position. But even as the band starts their warm-up, the heat of their glances doesn’t let up.

During a quick break between songs, Zayn saunters to the side of the stage, crouching just low enough to catch your eye. His voice drops to a murmur, barely audible over the hum of the equipment. “Save me a cigarette for later?”

You arch an eyebrow, pretending to think about it. “If you’re good.”

His grin is wicked, full of unspoken promises. “Oh, I’m always good.”

As he steps back, Liam passes close enough to brush his hand lightly against your arm—a touch so brief you wonder if you imagined it. His voice is low, only for you. “Careful, love. Don’t get caught staring.”

Your heart skips as he moves on, singing the opening lines of the next song like he didn’t just leave you breathless.

You exhale slowly, turning back to your clipboard. Professional. You have to stay professional. But when Zayn glances at you again, and Liam sends you another quick, knowing smile, you realize something very dangerous: they aren’t going to make it easy.

…

The hotel elevator doors slide open, and you step inside with a tired sigh, ready to fall into bed and disappear under the covers.

That thought dies the moment you see them.

Zayn and Liam.

Leaning on opposite sides of the mirrored wall, looking far too casual—and far too dangerous. There’s a spark in their eyes that says they’ve been waiting for you.

Zayn straightens, his gaze sweeping over you like it’s instinct. “Long day?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Isn’t it always?”

Liam chuckles, hands tucked into his pockets, but there’s nothing light about the way he looks at you. “You look like you could use a little attention.”

Your pulse stumbles. “Let me guess… you’re both volunteering?”

“Maybe,” Zayn murmurs, that crooked smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Depends if you’ll let us.”

The elevator hums softly as it starts to rise—but the tension in the small space is anything but subtle. Zayn’s eyes lock on yours, steady and burning, while Liam closes the distance just enough for his heat to kiss your skin.

“You’ve been teasing us all day,” Liam says, voice low and rough. “Wearing our marks like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your breath catches.

Before you can speak, Zayn reaches out and hits the emergency stop.

The elevator jerks to a halt. Everything goes still.

Except your heart.

Zayn steps in, crowding you gently into the corner, one hand sliding into your hair. “Thought we’d take advantage of the privacy.”

Then his mouth is on yours—hot, claiming, familiar in all the ways you crave. You moan softly into the kiss, your fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. He kisses you like he owns the moment. Like he owns you.

Then Zayn shifts to the side, and your dazed mind barely registers it until you glance down.

Liam is on his knees.

Your lips part with a breathless sound, but Zayn distracts you again, kissing down your neck as Liam places both hands on your hips and looks up at you with a slow, knowing smile.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, tugging your jeans and panties down in one smooth motion. “We’ve got you.”

Zayn’s hands slide up your shirt, cupping your breasts through the fabric, thumbs brushing until your nipples harden beneath his touch. “Gonna make you feel good, love,” he breathes against your skin. “Just let us.”

Liam presses a kiss to your inner thigh—slow, reverent—then again, higher. And higher. Until—

You gasp.

His tongue finds you, warm and firm as it drags through your folds, slow and deliberate. Your knees buckle, back arching as your head thuds softly against the wall.

Zayn groans, voice thick. “Fuck, look at you…”

He opens your blouse and pulls your bra down with one deft motion, baring you to the cool air and his waiting mouth. He latches onto one nipple, sucking gently, tongue flicking while his stubble scrapes your skin. His free hand rolls the other between his fingers, teasing.

“Zayn—” you gasp, voice cracking as your eyes flutter shut.

Liam’s tongue works deeper, firmer, curling in perfect rhythm. He groans into you, and the sound vibrates through your entire body. His arms lock around your thighs, holding you steady while he devours you like a man starved.

“Sweetest fucking taste,” Liam mutters, voice low and slurred into your skin.

Zayn bites down gently on your nipple before soothing the sting with a swirl of his tongue. Then he kisses across your chest, up your collarbone, sucking deep marks into your skin as he goes. “Keep making those sounds,” he murmurs. “Let us hear what we do to you.”

Your hands are in Liam’s hair now, tugging, desperate to ground yourself. You’re sandwiched between them—Liam below, Zayn above—licked, kissed, claimed.

Liam flicks his tongue over your clit, fast and steady, while Zayn kisses along your jaw, his voice low and dark in your ear.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “So fucking beautiful like this.”

Your thighs tremble. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Zayn growls, nipping your throat. “Be good. Come for us.”

Liam moans into you again, and the sound—the heat, the rhythm, the pressure—snaps something inside you.

You fall.

Hard.

Your cry is swallowed by Zayn’s mouth crashing into yours, lips dragging over yours as your orgasm shudders through you. Liam keeps going, coaxing every last wave from you with slow, expert movements of his tongue, your body twitching under their hands.

He finally slows, placing one last kiss to your thigh as he carefully pulls your panties and jeans back into place, like he didn’t just ruin you entirely. He stands, his lips wet, his expression smug as he meets your dazed eyes.

“Told you we’d take care of you,” he murmurs, voice husky with pride.

Zayn straightens your bra and buttons your blouse again, fingers brushing against your flushed skin with every movement. “And we’re just getting started.”

The elevator lurches back to life as Zayn resets the button. You scramble to fix your clothes, breath still ragged, your body still buzzing.

When the doors slide open, they step out first—cool, calm, smug as hell.

Liam glances back once, eyes dark and knowing. “Sleep well, love.”

Zayn smirks over his shoulder. “Sweet dreams.”

You stay frozen in the elevator, dazed and undone, the taste of them still on your lips, your thighs slick, your skin burning where they touched you. You press your hand to your chest, trying to steady your racing heart.

And just when you think you’ve gotten it together enough to make it to your room—

You round the corner.

And nearly crash into Louis.

“Whoa there!” he says, grabbing your shoulders to steady you. His easy smile falters when he takes a proper look at you. “Where’ve you been?”

You force a laugh, brushing past him casually. “Just grabbing some air.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Grabbing air, huh? So that’s why your neck looks like a bloody connect-the-dots puzzle?”

Your stomach drops. Instinctively, your fingers fly to your neck. You feel them—fresh, hot bruises, no doubt blooming in every spot Zayn kissed you.

“It’s nothing,” you say too quickly, trying to edge past him.

Louis blocks you again, his tone gentling. “Hey. I’m not mad. But I’ve gotta ask—who’s the guy?”

“There’s no guy,” you lie, too defensive to sound convincing.

Louis raises an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. “Right. So you just tripped and fell into someone’s mouth?”

“Louis!”

He laughs, hands raised. “What? I’m your brother. It’s my job to give you shit.” His smile softens. “But seriously… I’m only looking out for you. You know that, yeah?”

Your chest tightens. He means well. You know that. But if he ever found out—

“I’m fine,” you say, forcing a smile. “You don’t have to worry.”

He studies you for a beat longer before finally stepping aside. “Alright. But if this mystery guy ever steps out of line, you tell me. I’ll deal with it.”

“Got it,” you mumble, already turning away.

“And maybe invest in a few scarves,” he calls after you. “You’re terrible at hiding evidence.”

You don’t look back. Just lift your hand, flip him off with a half-hearted smile, and slip into your hotel room before he sees the full flush on your face.

Once the door clicks shut behind you, you let out a shaky breath.

Your reflection in the mirror says it all—swollen lips, flushed cheeks, neck a mess of red and purple. You look ruined.

And the worst part?

You’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

But hiding it from Louis? That’s going to be a lot harder than you thought.

…

Part 2

[bookloover35]

Ink and Fire - Eddie Munson x fem reader.

Eddie Munson was a man of many layers, much like the tattoos he so desperately wanted to cover his skin with. He wasn't the typical guy who walked into a tattoo shop, but then again, Eddie wasn't exactly the "typical guy" in most situations. Long, messy hair, a bandana always tied around his head, and a sleeveless leather vest that made him look like he was on the verge of becoming a rockstar—Eddie Munson didn't quite blend in with the crowd.

And then there was you.

You were a new addition to the tattoo shop, freshly graduated from art school, ready to make your mark on the world, or in this case, make your mark on people's skin. The owner of the shop had taken one look at your portfolio, filled with intricate designs and sharp lines, and knew you'd be a perfect fit. You had the style, the skill, and the attitude.

But you hadn't expected your first client to be someone like Eddie Munson.

He walked into the shop on a Thursday afternoon, all fire and energy, making the entire room seem to buzz with electricity. The door's bell rang as he stepped inside, his boots clicking on the wooden floor, and you looked up from your sketchpad.

"Hey," Eddie greeted with a grin that almost seemed mischievous, his eyes scanning the room before landing on you. "I'm looking for someone who can handle a challenge."

You raised an eyebrow, setting your pen down and giving him a once-over. His eyes held something dangerous—something wild. "You came to the right place. What do you want?"

Eddie chuckled, scratching the back of his head, clearly feeling more than a little self-conscious. "Well, I've got a couple of pieces I want to add, but I'm thinking something... personal, y'know? Something that'll mean something. Maybe a little rebellious."

You smirked, immediately intrigued. The idea of giving Eddie Munson a tattoo that matched his energy was too enticing to pass up.

"Alright, what are we thinking?" you asked, walking over to him as you pulled out a fresh piece of paper. "Something to match that rock 'n' roll vibe you've got going?"

Eddie tilted his head, studying you for a second before answering. "Something that tells a story. Something about freedom, chaos, and, uh... maybe a little bit of fire."

You nodded, understanding immediately. "Gotcha. You've come to the right place."

You quickly began sketching, your hand moving effortlessly across the page, while Eddie watched you with an intense focus, his eyes never leaving your hands as they worked. He wasn't used to being the one on the receiving end of such attention, but something about the way you moved—like you were in your element—made him feel comfortable.

When you finished the rough design, you turned it toward him, your heart pounding a little faster than usual. There was something about this moment, about the strange magnetic pull between you two, that made the room feel warmer.

Eddie took the sketch, his fingers tracing the outline of a flame intertwined with a skull—a symbol of rebellion and freedom. He let out a low whistle. "This... this is perfect."

"Glad you think so," you replied, trying to hide the flush that crept up your neck.

You led him to the tattoo chair, the room humming with anticipation as you prepped your tools. Eddie settled in, his eyes locking with yours. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you now—this wasn't just about ink and skin. This was about creating something that represented a part of him, something that no one else would understand.

As you began the tattoo, Eddie winced slightly, but didn't pull away. You could tell he was the type to take pain in stride, someone who thrived on intensity and chaos, even if it was uncomfortable.

"How're you holding up?" you asked, breaking the silence between you two.

"You're doing a good job," Eddie replied, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze still locked on you. "I trust you."

You smiled softly, feeling a surge of pride. "Good, because I'm just getting started."

The hours passed quickly, both of you lost in the rhythm of the work. As you added detail to the tattoo, Eddie talked about everything—his love for Dungeons and Dragons, his band, Hellfire Club, and his passion for living life on his terms. And with each word, with each laugh that escaped his lips, you felt the connection between you two deepen.

Finally, after what felt like no time at all, you were finishing up the last touches on the tattoo, the fiery design now permanently etched into his skin. Eddie sat up, inspecting your work in the mirror, his lips curling into a satisfied grin.

"Damn," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "I think this is the best tattoo I've ever had."

You leaned back, wiping your hands on a rag, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips. "You've got good taste," you replied, your voice light but with a hint of something deeper.

As Eddie stood up, his eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was a lingering silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, but charged, like there was something both of you were holding back.

"Thanks, seriously," Eddie said, his voice softer than usual as he picked up his jacket. "I knew I could trust you."

"No problem," you said, but your heart fluttered in your chest, the sound of his words lingering in the air.

Eddie grabbed his things, but before he left, he turned to you with that trademark mischievous grin.

"Hey," he said, "I'll be back for more."

You nodded, your pulse quickening, unable to deny the thrill that ran through you. "I'll be here."

And just like that, Eddie Munson was gone—his footsteps echoing down the hallway, but the memory of him, and the connection you shared in that small, ink-stained room, stayed with you.

For now, it was just ink and fire, but you had a feeling that wasn't the last time you'd be seeing Eddie Munson.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Stranger 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Destroyer!Chris

Summary: A stranger buys the farmstead nearby and disturbs your sleepy village life.

Part of the Backwoods AU

Note: My first time writing this character!

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your nails are crusted in dirt as you kneel in the garden. You grunt as you wrestle the roots of weed from the soil and toss it aside. You wipe your forehead with the back of your glove as you hear the screen door snap shut. Your grandmother stands on the stoop, her hand on her achy hip.

“Did you hear, dearie?” She calls in her creaky voice. “Someone’s moved into Clyde’s old house.”

“Huh?” You catch your breath as you gather up the broken weeds, “it’s half ash.”

“Suppose they’ll fix it up,” she mutters as she leans on the narrow iron rail along the side of the backsteps.

“Suppose,” you agree as you stuff the green and brown foliage into the paper bag for the compost. “Who told you that?”

“I was just talking to Lynette on the phone. She also said Molly’s having her fifth.”

Five kids? You hide your chagrin at the thought. You don’t mind kids but that’s a lot to handle, let alone the pregnancies. Molly balloon’s up so big she can hardly move. Her last shower, she sat the whole time. Not much different than you, you guess. You sat in the corner and watched the silly games

“That’s exciting,” you say as you stand and dust off your knees, crumpling the top of the bag in your other hand.

“Ah, I’m sure you woulda loved to have four sisters? Maybe brothers? It’s a pity your mother never gave me any more grandchildren.”

“Mmm,” you suppress a frown, “yeah, well…”

“Anyhow, enough talk of spoiled milk,” she waves off, “I got a pie in the oven. You can take it over the Clyde’s once it cools.”

“I… why would I do that?”

“Oh my, don’t be ridiculous. We have a new neighbour, we have to be polite and welcome them to the village. It’s probably a nice family, or maybe someone your age. A friend?” She suggests, “I’d do it myself but I don’t think I’d make the walk…” she looks down at her hip, theatrically rubbing it. 

“Right,” you agree, the prospect of strangers making your tummy lurch. “Well, that pie will take some time.”

“Long enough for you to put on something clean,” she tuts as she looks down at your dirty jeans, “my lord, what would they think?”

“Yes, gramma, I’ll change, once I get this in the compost.”

“Good,” she smirks triumphantly and turns to swing open the screen door, the hinges whining shrilly.

You sniff and cross the yard. It’s not often there’s new faces in Hammer Ford. The village is a tourist trap at best and not a very lively one. Everyone calls each other by name and it’s second nature to stop and say hi. But that’s because you know each other; you have for years.

You lift the lid on the large bin and empty the bag into it. You could always lie and hide the pie in some bushes. Your deceit wouldn’t be hidden for long. Even in this sleepy place, word travels fast and someone always seems to be watching and waiting to pass it on.

🥧

You head out with the pie in a basket like some fairytale. You’re only short a red hood and a big bad wolf. You set off down the country roads, following the lazy curves towards the horizon. It’s after noon and the sun’s turning mild as it drifts across its pale canvas.

The old homestead is the second closest to your grandmother’s. The homes around Hammer Ford or sprawled out amid the plowed fields and green meadows. The cluster of old pines loom over you as you pass in there shadow and crest the hill that marks the edge of the property. Clyde’s tractor used to sit there, just by the broken down fence.

Ahead, down another stretch of road, this path unpaved, stands the decrepit house. The tragedy still singes the memories of the villagers. That night comes back to you in a blaze of orange and the smell of cinder. Poor old Clyde was buried behind Sacred Stave church.

You search the overgrown grass for a sign of life. There’s a black truck by the caved in garage but that’s about it. It might not be a family. It’s a lot of work to do with little ones around. If anything, it would only be the parents as they rebuild. Your mind wanders, wondering who would buy the old farm and why.

You come down the path, just along the ditch that dips behind a cluster of brambles. There’s a snap and a crack and you skid to a halt on the stones. You spin and look around, a heavy breath pluming into the air. Like the fire reawakened.

“Can I help you?” The deep timbre rolls through you and you step back on your heel as you face the man down in the ditch. He peers up at you above the scraggly top of the brambles.

“Uh,” you gulp and stare at him dumbly. He might think you’re lost. Or worse, trespassing.

His hair is short, only an inch on top and shaved even shorter around the sides. His beard is thick around his mouth, growing sparse across his cheeks, and two vibrant blue eyes beam back at you. The way he looks at you makes you want to shrink away. You can sense the city radiating off of him. He scares you.

“Hello? What’s up?” He waves as if trying to wake you up.

“Um, pie?” You say, cringing at your own speechlessness.

“Pie,” he repeats flatly.

You hold up the basket and blink. You never were very good at introductions. You were the only girl at school without friends. You were just sort of there.

“Pie,” you echo once more and hold out the basket.

He tilts his head, curiously, and huffs. He juts out his jaw and grunts as he pushes the brambles apart and climbs out of the ditchy. His denim jacket is streaked in dirty and pollen.

He takes the basket by the handle, his rough finger brushing yours. He peels back the cloth and to peek inside, “pie.” He utters the syllable a fourth time between you.

“Yeah,” your voice is wispy and small. “Bye.”

You let out a strained breath and spin, keeping yourself from breaking into a sprint. You stomp away frantically, smacking yourself internally for being so awkward. Well, maybe that’s a good thing. He’ll have no reason to talk to you ever again.

[wandasaura]

Oooooooo ducky's a working girlie now? What's her office set up like?

ducky’s office is the most organized room in the building somehow. she has two wicker baskets on the ledge of a window beside her desk, one with an embroidered red n in the center, and one with a black sown w. anything that ends up getting delegated down to her gets put in either basket depending on who it comes from. if it’s from pepper, natasha wants her on the problem specifically. if its from darcy, wanda expects you to see it through until the moment it ends up back on her desk. you make sure those baskets are cleared at the end of every day, and your portion is sighed and dated indicating your completion of the task far beyond its deadline. you have pictures of wanda and natasha on your desk, just like they do of you, but you have one large frame hanging in the center of the wall above your white leather couch, and its a picture of the back of your heads all pressed together on the beach. maria had taken it, and while nothing overly romantic was happening. your head was on natasha’s shoulder, wanda’s hand held the small of your back, it so perfectly encapsulated your relationship. what nobody else could see, were natasha’s teasing fingers tips on the inside of your thighs, dancing across wetness that had been there for hours and was not at all a problem caused by the ocean, or how wanda’s teeth marks were sunken into the soft tissue of your breast, not even slightly hidden by the pink fabric of your bikini. your face had gone so flush when she’d done that in the tent beside pepper, your mouth had gone dry when maria had laughed hysterically as wanda marched out proudly and you tried to hide bashfully into natasha. you adored that picture, and every element of your office was somehow based off of it. the wicker baskets with their initials matched the fine grains of sand. the specific pink ink you used to sign documents matched the brightness of the bathing suit natasha picked out. the white tones in the furnishing and your appliances did what they could to match the brightness of the sunset and the reflection of a rising moon on the shorelines. but what tied it all together, was the embellishes of gold in the frames across your desk that glimmered the same way Wanda’s wedding band did on the small of your back. you embraced every aspect of their relationship in your office, and that included their marriage. darcy frequently wondered how you didnt drown beneath the insecurities and you had to be the one to tell her that you’d quite literally run out of the house without shoes because you couldn’t handle the insecurities. you have a coat rack by the door, well, its a mounted gold butterfly with three hooks — one for each of your jackets, though its become a place for you to hang one of every jacket instead. you have your own hoodie, one of wanda’s hoodies, and a blazer from natasha because she hates when you stumble into meetings in the one half zip that makes your skin glow and draws eyes. um also ducky hates clutter, so desk is literally just laptop, pen jar, three pictures, and then her water cup that is never filled with water unless wanda asks if it is, then natasha has instructed you to say yes under all circumstances

[loreleismusings99]

Late Night Repairs

In which the quiet becomes a bit too much for Mark to handle.

Hi folks, I'm back for a little bit because I really wanted to participate in #spookyseasoninthebarrens2024 by @jmathesonandsiblings so I wrote this quick little thing for my baby girl, Mark! :3

This is for prompt 6: Haunted House

Happy Halloween, y'all 👻

Warnings: isolation, auditory/visual/tactile hallucinations, grief, fear/anxiety, hopelessness, brief discussion of sleep deprivation, description of someone suffering/dying from suffocation/asphyxia, discussion of death, eye horror, blood, missing loved ones, angst (technically). Please, please, please let me know if I missed anything that should be added to this list.

The soft beeps of the CO2 scrubber’s emergency alarm are deceptively loud and make Mark jump as it cuts through the impossibly still silence that comes with the night. One thing he still hasn’t gotten used to after being here for 23 days is how dead nighttime is on Mars. The increased thermal energy that comes with the sun usually yields soft winds that lightly rustle the HAB canvas and make small clouds of sand hit the airlock door, making it sound like he’s inside a rain stick. Once the sun sets though, an eerie silence creeps in with the sunset’s cold, blue, Mie-scattered light. 

Maybe he’s just really missing having his crewmates with him, but he’s quickly started to hate the stillness that comes with living on a dead planet by himself. The more unsavory side effects of his isolation are much more unbearable--there’s something about not knowing when his solitude will end that makes the emptiness of his surroundings so much worse than the isolation training module he went through back on Earth. For the past few nights, every other corner he turns has an extra shadow he didn’t account for; the occasional puff of wind feels just a little too much like a hand and the whirring of the water reclaimer and heating unit running sounds devastatingly like a murmur. It was easier to ignore the first couple of nights--filling the silence as best as he could with episodes of Happy Days and Commander Lewis’s disco. Sometimes though--when he needs to charge his iPad or when he hyper-focuses on his work and forgets to turn something on to fill the space with more than the sounds of his breathing and the rustling of tools--his mind fills the void for him. Sometimes it’s a persistent ringing in his ears, others it’s a convincing recreation of Martinez’s laugh muffled by the walls of the HAB and his memory, making him tear through the HAB trying to find his friend only to be met with nothing but his loneliness. 

He finishes typing out his log for the day, outlining the maintenance tasks he completed to keep his tragically high-tech tomb operational (if he’s gonna die here, he might as well do so warm and breathing clean air), and stands up out of his chair with a strained groan. Scratching at the stubble growing on his cheek, Mark walks across the main room of the HAB bubble to the complaining machine and takes off the white panel hiding the ducts, intake valves, and pumps of the robust Four Bed CO2 scrubber. The mechanical engineer takes some time listening to the motors and pressure-driven sounds of the machine, trying to locate a clue as to what part of the damn thing is blocked up this time. A soft whistle coming from the interface between the pre-cooler and a pipe connecting it to bed A-2 catches Mark’s attention, and he sees a small chunk of ice growing around the collar keeping the pipe in place at the valve. 

“Well there’s your problem,” Mark utters under his breath as he turns the apparatus off using a panel immediately to the right of the box containing it and slips on a pair of cryo-gloves before touching the parts surrounding the cooling element, lightly dusting off the collection of ice crystals surrounding the collar before carefully removing it and cleaning the ice clogging the mouth of the duct. He re-mates the duct and the valve, torquing it back to a satisfying tension, and turns the machine back on, the pumps chugging away happily now that the blockage is gone. 

Mark nods and puts the cover back onto the front of the scrubber’s casing before turning around to append a record of the repair to the end of his log. Or, he would if he wasn’t frozen in place staring out the porthole in the airlock door across the room from him. The scene outside is dark and barely perceivable due to the small diameter of the window and the contrast of the bright LED lights, but your piercing stare is something he’s profoundly accustomed to seeing--just… not outside the HAB’s airlock. He tries to move but the muscles in his legs merely twitch uselessly with the idea of walking towards the glass of the porthole. He tries to blink, but an impending sense of doom prevents him from attempting to break the unexpected eye contact. His heart clenches agonizingly in his chest, and he can feel the beginnings of a sob bubble up from his chest. Logically he knows this is a hallucination--likely made worse by stress and sleep deprivation--but that doesn’t stop him from calling out to you in a horse, pitiful squeak. His knees buckle slightly before the lights above him flicker and shut off, plunging him and the phantom image of you into near-full darkness.

 Your face is now only dimly illuminated by a light that didn’t go out at the center of the room, but it’s enough for Mark to see angry red petechiae begin to bloom across your face, lips, and the delicate skin surrounding your now blood-shot eyes. The warmth drains from your face and his ears begin to ring as he watches you open your mouth, frothy and bloody fluid pouring beyond your lips. He’s shaking now as he watches you scream silently at him through the fluid pouring down your chin, pins and needles accosting his hands and feet as he finally musters the strength to turn away from your dying, angry visage and squeeze his eyes shut.  

“This--this isn’t real, there’s no one there…” he mutters to himself, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tries to calm his breathing down. He opens his eyes again to discover that the lights either turned back on or were never off in the first place and he starts to lower his hackles, the muscles in his neck and shoulders beginning to relax. Slowly, Mark turns back around and looks through the porthole to find nothing staring back at him. Mark lets out a relieved, shaky breath before running a hand down his face and walking back to his chair to update his log. Typing the details of his repair with shaking hands he begins to properly sob and has to pause, scooting the chair back and winding an arm around his middle, the other raised to clasp his hand over his mouth to try to stop himself from screaming in grief and fear at both what his brain just conjured up and the very real possibility of never seeing you again and leaving you behind to mourn him. The force of his anguish makes him fold in on himself and he continues to sit there, trying to calm himself down at least for long enough to finish his log and get to bed. 

After a bit, he feels the temperature drop and a shiver shoots down his spine. He goes rigid and his sobs stop abruptly and a soft, high-pitched, and short-lived whistle coming from somewhere else in the HAB commands his attention. The same feeling of dread oozes back into his chest as he listens to faint taps sound from behind him, getting louder as whatever is creating them gets closer to his chair and stops, letting emptiness fill the soundscape of the main lab space. In the silence, Mark can hear the blood rushing in his ears and his shaky breathing. With his eyes closed it almost begins to feel like he’s in his space EVA suit back on the Hermes. The sound of his breathing tapers off as he quiets enough to hold his breath and try to listen for either the sounds of the HAB or anything that would alert him to the presence of… something, anything behind him. He’s about to let out his held breath when he feels shockingly cold fingers lightly wrap around the back of his neck, causing a terrified wail to rip out of his lungs as he stands up out of his chair and sees… nothing behind him. 

Mark continues to stand and stare silently at the false wall behind him, raising a hand to touch the warm skin of the back of his neck and feeling goosebumps bloom across it. He basks in the violently loud silence before the tension is broken by the sound of the HAB’s temperature control unit letting out a shrill, piercing tone alerting him to a new malfunction in its system.

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

Thanks for reading!

works referenced:

4 Bed CO2 scrubber

The Martian Fan-Made Timeline

Wind on Mars

Sunsets on Mars -> Mie Scattering experiment!

Pathology of Asphyxial Death MAJOR CW: death, and suffocation both described in text and shown in images.

[sodapop-fizz]

Evening Bliss

Wow, first story I’ve posted, go me! Anyways, I’m open to discussion on the character depicted, and they will be recurring in more works. This is just to get a feel for their characters as well as an exercise for me to get back into writing so I’m open to feedback!

Old married minotaur couple x transmasc

Warnings: brief mention of nudity

———————————————————————————

Sweetgrass fields passed like fading memories out the window of an old, beat-up pickup truck, swaying in the wind as if dancing. The engine seemed to kick in protest with every bump on the worn-down dirt road, adding another beat to the slow country song playing over the fuzzy radio. Low in the western sky, the sun blazed on a horizon of soft, glowing orange, pink, and purple hues. Golden light cast a gentle caress on his face, warming the fading leather steering wheel cover under his hands.

Pulling into an off-road marked by a faded-blue iron gate, he passed under the big metal-worked letters reading ‘Rising Sun Ranch’; the letters were slightly wonky from time spent in the elements. Fenced-in pastures lined with native flowers framed the narrow road on either side of him, driving him forward down the winding, gravel road. Soon, a quaint, though significant, ranch house made of brick with a dark purple door came into view. The garden at the back of the house wrapped around the side, giving visitors an excellent look at the wildflowers and various manicured flower beds. In the center was the wisteria, branching out in the evening sun, surrounded by blooming bushes and a bench at the foot of its trunk.

The human’s boots stepped atop the gravel of the road with a soft crunch, the pebbles kicking up from the force of his descent from the truck. Slamming the door shut, he sighed, removing his hat to ruffle his sweat-drenched hair; the day's heat slowly ebbed away into the cooler night, yet the residual warmth still stained his skin with a salty sheen. The ache between his shoulder blades merged with the straining he’d done to his lower back, causing his spine to creak with protest as he stretched the sore muscles there with a disgruntled groan. Once he’d set himself straight, the little man began to make his way to the bunkhouse, having already planned to shower before going to sleep. He didn't want to eat despite how his insides clawed within his abdomen; it would’ve just upset his stomach later into the night anyway.

However, as he made his way past the main house, the front door swung open to reveal the matron of the ranch, one clawed hand on the door handle while the other clutched the frame. Her afro, bunched in loose tufts, bordered her bovid face and warm brown eyes. The silken robe she wore hung loosely off her mature frame, doing little to hide the swell of her breasts and the fullness of her hips and thighs. Behind her comes her husband. The older bison placed a loving hand on her side as he looked over her shoulder at the young man, his eyes gleaming with barely hidden concern. With a purse of her lips, Josephine wrapped a hand around her waist to keep her robe in place as she made her way to the ranch hand, her manicured hooves gently clopping against the wooden porch with purpose.

“Are ya just now gettin’ back, darlin’?” She questioned softly, her voice a silvery contralto.

Looking down, the human rubbed at the back of his neck, a light blush creeping across his cheeks and neck, trying his best to keep his gaze averted from the alluring image of the older bison cow out of respect for both her and her husband. “Yes, ma’am,” he murmured meekly. He’d been gone most of the afternoon, running errands in town for the older minotaur couple after his morning chores.

Relaxing her eyes, the older woman pressed her fingertips to the base of the little man’s spine, guiding him to the house with a mellow coo. “Aw, I’m sorry we kept you gone so long with our requests, little love.”

“Ain’t an issue, Mrs. Morgan. You know I don’t mind…” he trailed with an involuntary shiver.

“I know, but ya don’t always need to be workin’ so hard.” She sighed light-heartedly, corralling him up the steps and into the foyer, where John waited and watched. “So why don’t ya spend the night with John and me, honey? Let us pamper ya tonight as a ‘thank ya’ for runnin’ around for us today.” Said bull chuffed, smiling at his wife and ranch hand, dark chocolate irises twinkling with mirth as they entered the house. Having shut and locked the door behind them as soon as they passed through the threshold, Josephine pushed the young man nearly flush into John.

“That ain’t necessary, ma’am. Really,” he tried to plead, the flush on his cheeks expanding to his ears, neck, and shoulders. Though he knew his words were in vain. When the two ranchers had their minds set on something, it was rare for them to concede. It's not like he’d want them to.

“Hush now, son,” John interrupted, having thrown a sharp yet tender look at the young human. “Yer gonna eat, bathe, then join us in bed. Ya understand?”

Looking down again, the young man began wringing the bottom of his shirt, biting his lip and nodding while another shiver wracked his form. A quiet ‘yessir’ left him at the commanding tone the bison bull took with him, his answer satisfying both minotaurs as they led him to the dining room. Quickly seating him in a much-too-large-for-him chair between the mated duo, the little human is served a bowl of hot chili in a more significant portion than he’d typically give himself. Though not wanting to be rude, he added the garnishes to his taste, piling on some cheese, onions, and sour cream until satisfied before he took his first bite.

“How were things in town?” Comes John’s husky, baritone voice, the words seemingly echoing within the expanse of his barrel chest.

“Alright,” the human blurted, almost choking on his food before following up. “Ain’t like things ever change much.”

“S’pose not.” He chuckled, leaning over to pat the human’s back as he softly coughed and sputtered.

“Careful, dear.” Josephine tutted, handing him a napkin to cover and wipe his mouth. “Don’t need you choking before the night’s over just yet.” Her words and conniving smirk made the human flush more as he covered his face, causing both bison to laugh at his plight.

Silence befell them, though not the uncomfortable kind. There was a certain tension in the air; however, the young man couldn’t understand why. Perhaps it was because being there, sharing a meal with them in their home, was an intimate affair in his mind. Or maybe it was because their jesting words and tender actions hadn’t failed to fluster him thus far. Either way, the night was coming to an end anyhow.

Once the three had eaten and put the leftovers away, John took it upon himself to take the human by the hand and pull him from his chair. With a languid grin and low, gruff rumble, he took him to the second floor, keeping him close to his side as they entered the master bedroom and the en suite bathroom. The minotaur lowered the slider to the lights, creating a sensual and calming atmosphere. The otherwise bright lights would have made his head throb, much to the younger man's appreciation. However, he hadn’t anticipated the massive bull would begin stripping, the sight hitching his breath as he quickly turned away.

“Aw, c’mon now, darlin’. Don’t act like you ain’t never seen another man ‘fore!” He guffawed, shaking his head as he slowly revealed his burly form and thick, curly pelt. “Especially wit you havin’ been ‘round the rest of the boys,” he teased, throwing his worn clothes into the hamper before tugging at the human’s shirt.

“M’just tryna be polite!” The ranch hand insisted, small hands quickly trying to smack the bull’s mammoth-sized fingers away. His efforts only served to pull a chuckle from John as he leaned down to nuzzle into his hair, his free hand on his chin as he nipped the human’s ear as a gentle reprimand.

“John. Mathew. Morgan. Leave the poor boy alone, for the gods’ sake,” Came Josephine's even and motherly tone from the doorway, cutting off whatever her husband would say, her hands on her hips and robe forgotten. John merely grinned as he held the young man closer by wrapping his bulky arms around him. Meanwhile, the ranch hand had taken covering his eyes with a startled wheeze, his body instinctively trying to curl in on itself instead of looking at either of the minotaurs.

“But he’s cute when he’s nervous, Josie. Ya can’t blame me for wantin’ to poke a little fun.”

“I can, and I will,” she playfully barked while she stepped further into the bathroom, the door shut behind her. “Now, go start the water for us. The quicker the water warms, the quicker we can get him into bed with us.” Josephine smirked, stepping closer to her husband until she pressed against his broad body, the little man sandwiched between them with a meager squeak. John, to his credit, caved to his wife’s demands immediately. His ears pinned to the side of his head as he flicked his tail and turned to get the shower started.

Smiling, the cow turned to the human and stooped down low to regard him with an amorous gaze. “Come now, hon, let’s get ya washed up,” she mutters.

Taking a deep breath, the human removed his hands from his eyes and forced them open. “Are you sure this is alright?” He murmured. His eyes stayed trained on hers, refusing to look anywhere else as he shakily played with his fingers, his nails digging into the skin as he rolled and pinched the meat.

Chuckling under her breath, Josephine gently cupped his cheek, her thick thumb brushing just under his eye. The touch was soft, just enough pressure to register it was there, a stark contrast to the power that rippled under the curvature of her body. “Course, darlin’. We wouldn’t have taken ya up here if it were otherwise.”

Ah. Right. He mused. Of course.

“Though,” she paused, the blunt end of her claw drifting down from his cheek to caress his bottom lip, “if this isn’t somethin’ ya want, ya can walk out right now. No hard feelings.”

Her low tone and relaxed gaze soothed his beating heart. The unconditional love and understanding that swam in the deep amber pools of her eyes were all-encompassing, washing over him in tidal waves and swirling around his soul. With a stuttering sigh, he leaned into her palm before finally allowing his eyes to trail her naked form. She was nothing short of the word gorgeous. With wide hips and thickened thighs that supported an equally soft and doughy upper body, the thick, wavy fur that covered her looked softer than any fleece he could imagine. And the way her afro framed her face was divine. The horns protruding from her skull were her halo.

Biting his lip, the ranch hand timidly began removing his garments, starting with his shirt. Every trembling movement took an eternity until, finally, the front fell open to reveal a pudgy little belly and the deep contour of his waist. What surprised both minotaurs was the scarring just below his pecs and the thick curls between his legs. His usual baggy attire had kept such pronounced differences hidden. Peeling off the layers, the articles of his clothing fell unceremoniously in a pile on the floor, revealing the ranch hand’s filled out figure covered in a soft layer of hair. With a soft breath, he blinks up at Josephine from underneath his fluttering lashes, eyes dilated and focused.

Josephine snorted at him in all her wonder, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her lips up-turned. Huffing out a chuckle in a low tone, her hand caressed the valley of his spine, the tips of her claws pressing into the skin and driving him forward into John. The bull took the young man readily, his hands immediately coming to his ribs, the thick, calloused pads feeling along the softer flesh, causing the human to take a sharpened breath and stiffen. Rumbling, he dragged him past the glass threshold and into the heated spray; Josephine soon followed in after them, sliding the glass shut. The shower's thick, humid air and steam nearly suffocated him, his mind having grown hazy from their proximity, the smell of them permeating his nose in a heady musk. It wasn’t long before suds covered the ranch hand’s body. The human’s posture relaxed, and the smile on his face reached his eyes as they shared chuckles and whispers together. Behind him, Josephine scrubbed and pressed against his back, her chest cushioning his head when she leaned in to nuzzle his hair. John’s eyes gleamed in the low light, the dark brown irises blacker than coal at that moment. A grin etched itself on his bovid lips, his thick fingers gingerly coming up to cup the young man’s jaw, tilting his face upwards to gaze at his own.

It all melted into a blur of shapes and praises, the ranch hand’s mind slipping away in the comforting stream of touches. When the dirt had been scrubbed from his skin and the ache in his bones had subsided, his worries falling down the drain, the minotaurs led him out the fogged glass to pat him dry before pulling him towards their bed.

Josephine was the first to climb under the patchworked floral duvet before she coaxed the human in with her; sandwiching him between her and her husband. Smothering his smaller form in their wooly bodies as John’s bewhiskered face drug up and down his softened skin, and her hands massaged the still tightened muscles of his lower back and neck. It wasn’t long before they enticed the young man into falling asleep, his snores muffled by the bull’s chest.

[elliebyrrdwrites]

Dramione AU Drabbles

The rain continued to linger. Sporadic showers falling onto the city with intention. Darkening the shadows as the sun continued to hide amongst the clouds.

But, Hermione felt as if she was stuck in the eye of a storm more torrential than the fickle rain that denied to go away. Not yet, it said. Just a little longer. It wanted to drive its point home. That autumn was tumbling, furiously to a close as the winter season closed in. It refused the arrival of the Santa Ana winds that typically hit Southern California this time of year. Each year, the winds grew fiercer and drier. And every winter proved wetter and colder.

Right now, the entire region was stuck somewhere in between. Hermione was also stuck. She was in no place to be intrigued by a man. Especially not by a man like Officer Draco Malfoy.

But she was.

Everything about the situation was wrong. He was an officer. She was a witch pretending to be an ordinary civilian. But that wasn’t even the most concerning element to all of this.

Hermione had a plan. She had been working on this plan for years. Quietly moving her way through a cold world, unseen. She put away every spare bronze mark she could. Scraping and skimping. Saving.

She was closer than ever. And now, all she could think about the spark of magic that ignited inside of her skin when Malfoy touched her. All she could think about was the way he looked at her. Like he had unexpectedly stumbled upon something he had been searching for.

She couldn’t stop thinking about little things. Like the sharp point of his nose or the hard lines of his jaw. The mysterious pale blue eyes. The hint of cigarette smoke and something spicy and woodsy that lingered on his clothes. He’d gotten close enough to her that she could smell him. Could bathe in his scent.

But, it didn’t make sense. For the most notorious Generals son to be at all interested in her. Even if she wasn’t magical, what could he possibly get from flirting with a girl like her?

Nothing, she reminded herself. Not a thing, she emphasized as she tightened the tie of her apron at her back before taking her hair down from the messy bun on top of her head. She ran her fingers through her mess of curls as her eyes darted to the clock on the wall. There was only ten minutes left until closing. And he still had not shown up.

Which was good, she reminded herself. That was great. That was ideal, actually.

And so, she went about cleaning off the empty tables. She emptied out the trash cans and swept the floor. She shut the machines down and washed the milk pitchers and cups. She did all this by hand.

At a minute past midnight, Hermione hung up her apron and turned up the volume to the music. She let it wash over her. The somber, romantic croon of the clarinet. The different saxophones, a tenor and an alto. The trumpet in B Flat. There were no lyrics, This song was all music, all feeling.

She wanted to dance. It was something she did, once upon a time. Something they all before the task force was introduced, sneaking through the streets in the middle of the night, getting into dance halls that were mostly underground.

She didn’t think they existed anymore. But in here, in this coffee shop, the music lives on. It lives in her heart. It keeps her company.

Hermione went into the back room and filled up the mop bucket before dunking the mop head into the soapy water. Using the handle of the mop, she steered the bucket and wheeled it out.

Only to find Malfoy standing in the middle of the little coffee shop. His blonde hair was damp from the rain. It looked darker, as it clung to his temples and to his forehead. His coat was slung over the back of a chair and he was dressed in his usual black uniform. But the collar of his starched shirt was unbutton to expose the damp pale skin, drops of water leaking from the ends of his hair until they rolled and rolled, disappearing behind the fabric.

“You came.” The words tumbled, freely, from her lips. They were unprovoked, they were unguarded. They betrayed her.

Malfoy’s mouth twitched up at the corners. She could have sworn that his eyes brightened as he dipped his head. But when he looked back up at her, everything about him was serious. Stoic.

“We’re closed.” She rushed the words out, eager to throw him off of her trail.

“I know,” He lifted his chin and took a step toward her. “But I’m afraid I needed to come by and ask you a very serious question.”

Hermione’s hand tightened around the mop handle. Was this about her blood status? She had to know that, eventually, the question would come up. She had always figure out a way to convince people that she was pure. Untainted. But this was General Malfoy’s son. What if he required proof?

She lifted up her own chin and shook the curls from her face. “Oh?” Her voice might have shook.

His eyes flicked up to the speakers that blared out the music. The song was on repeat, and had restarted thirty seconds before she found him standing there.

He outstretched his arm, holding his hand out to her, palm facing the sky. “Will you dance with me?”

Hermione took a step back, letting got of the mop. It clattered to the floor causing her to jump. “What?” Her eyes darted to the mop and back to him. He was smirking at her, his eyes unyielding as they held onto her.

Malfoy nodded and took a step closer.

Her heart began to flutter and her stomach flipped as he moved closer. His hand was between them, as he grew so close, she could smell him again. He must have just smoked a cigarette. It smelled fresh. It mixed with his cologne and the rain, creating an all new, intoxicating scent that would forever be imprinted into her brain. Core memory creation at its finest.

Despite his damp clothes, there was warmth radiating off of him. It felt like it was wrapping itself around her, pulling her in, threatening to wrap her into an embrace that might shatter her entire world.

Which is why she had to say no. She needed to deny him this dance. She needed to keep her head on straight. Push forward, remain faithful to the plan.

Except that she found the walls that had once been fortified around herself crumbling as she breathed him in. Because his other hand reached up and tucked one of her curls behind her ear. The intimate feeling of a feather light touch against the shell of her ear sent a shiver through her, and propelled her into the unknown.

Her hand slid into his. And for a moment, it was as if she had plucked herself up and removed her entire body and mind from this existence and found herself floating into an entire new realm.

His other hand was gentle and light as it rested at her hip. Almost timid, as their feet shuffled, stiffly from side to side. As their hips swayed, slowly. But her favorite part of the song was starting, and often, it felt as if Hermione’s body had no control when music reached out and sunk itself into her heart. Her eyes fluttered, threatening to close as his feet shuffled closer to hers. Her free hand moved to his shoulder and gripped onto the hard flesh there.

And it was as if Malfoy was falling into the hypnosis that so commonly latched onto people. Because his hand pressed more firmly into her hips before he slid around to the small of her back. The warmth that had threatened to steal her away began to wind its way around them, filling her entire body with heat as his fingers entwined with hers.

His chest pushed against her cheek and her eyelids finally succumbed, closing as he held her closer. His embrace was strong, firm. It was comforting.

She hadn’t been held in months. Hadn’t felt another human touch. Except for his. He had touched her three times, now, in only three days.

Something foreign was filling up her chest with hot air. She couldn’t admit to herself that it was not nerves as much as it was something stronger. Something dangerous.

Something like desire.

She could have sworn that as his cheek rested against the top of her head, that they were floating.

The music was winding up, a cacophony of beautiful instruments that all strung together, the horns louder than the clarinet before they dwindled, masterfully to a halt.

But they didn’t pull apart. They didn’t even stop swaying as Malfoy moved his hand up her spine, and around her shoulder. It settled, finally, at the back of her neck. The warm tips of his fingers were firmly pressed into her skin and she refused to open her eyes. She refused to pull away and face her new reality.

Because they were suddenly on a crash course for destruction. She could feel the chemistry between them. She could feel the bright curl of magic responding to the flare of sudden emotions charging deep inside of her.

“Hermione.” His voice caressed her as he wrapped his lips around her name. She suppressed another shiver before she opened her eyes and pulled back to look at him. She blinked rapidly up at him, eyes adjusting to the dim light of the coffee shop as his fingers stayed gently gripping onto her neck.

Something flicked in his expression, so quickly, she was unable to make it out. But his eyes were like a soft against her own. He licked at his lips and inhaled sharply. He held his breath for several seconds as she quickly gathered as much of hers as she could. But it was coming in short bursts, slivered through slightly parted lips.

It looked like he wanted to kiss her, it felt like she might want to let him.

But with an exhale, his hand fell and his eyes shifted to stare, once again out the window as another armored truck raced by. This one had no sirens, but the engine was so loud, just as menacing. Malfoy stepped away from her, leaving her body in a sudden chill.

“Will you be here tomorrow night?” His hands lifted so that his fingers could fasten the buttons at his collar.

She huffed out a breath of…what? Irritation? No, relief. Surely, it was relief. “I work every night except for Sunday and Monday.”

He nodded and picked up the coat from the nearby chair before quickly shrugging it on. He turned on his heels and aimed for the door. But, before he could reach for it, he hurried back over, grabbed the hand that had been linked with his own and lifted her knuckles to sweep his lips across them.

“Thank you,” he smirked. “For the dance.” And then he swept away from her. Leaving her, once again, totally speechless.

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Strange Candy

After a strange encounter. A chubby witch must now figure out how to escape the interest of 3 very dangerous demons.

Fat! Original Female Character/Roland "Swagger" Kaminski/Nikto/Sebastian Krueger

Tags: enemies to lovers, monster au, blood, gore, masturbation, liberal use of italics, soul mates elements, chubby oc, stalking, multi-parts

(This is a self indulgent project that got a little out of hand, and the first semi-serious piece I've posted, so polite critique is welcome!)

Banner by @/cafekitsune

Roland “Swagger” Kaminski hardly read over the document before whipping his signature down and sliding it back haphazardly to his superior. The man had simply rolled his eyes before urging him to actually read over the document before departure. Swagger couldn’t have cared less. 

The contract was for the United States. Some bullshit intel regarding the smuggling of volatile chemicals. Orders were simple: seek, and destroy if appropriate. Half of their money up front, the other half when the job was finished. Not that Swagger cared about the money, none of the team did,  they all had more of it than they knew what to do with.  No, most of them had joined the private military group for their own…peculiarities.  

Being an untethered demon came with its own challenges, but Swagger was tenacious if nothing else. Had always known exactly where he needed to be, and when he needed to be there. Confident that all these twists and turns would lead him to his Chosen. To sate him when the time was right. 

Whether he would keep them or crush their bones between his jaws was still yet to be determined. Either way his troubles would be over. 

He’d had the same dreams since he was a wee beast. Loud music and blinding strobe lights. Smoke rolling languidly from ornate silver sensors. A witch of his own, hiding somewhere in the world.

As he strutted across the tarmac he couldn't keep the shit eating grin off his face, there was a humming beneath his flesh, a simmering excitement beginning to bubble its way up his throat. And as they drew closer, Swagger knew in his little black heart that his time had finally come.

_

It had taken a few days of ground work before they'd  gotten a reliable mark. As they would come to find out, one of the city's most popular nightclubs also posed as a front for illegal smuggling.

Very creative, Swagger huffed amusedly from his position. Feet kicking in the rafters as he watched the bodies writhe to the beat below him.  He had been quick to slink inside and let his compatriots handle the intricacies, having hardly paid attention to the briefing before sauntering off in the opposite direction. The other two would do perfectly fine on their own with the petty human mission. He had other business to attend to. 

He scanned the crowd through the round lenses of his gas mask. The head piece having become an unfortunate necessity over the last few years. The longer he'd gone without his Chosen, the more controlling himself had become…troublesome. Demons were insatiable creatures to begin with, requiring hardy meals of flesh and bone and blood that swirled through the living like the sweetest nectar. The longer he’d continued untethered, the more voracious his appetite became.  Frequent contracts kept him placated enough, but holding in his strength and shape, especially when hunger clawed at his belly, made him unsuitable for more delicate operations.

He wrinkled his nose against the onslaught of sheer stink in the room. Sweat and weed, and far too many humans drenched in cheap cologne. Making it nearly impossible to sift through the cocktail of what could be human or Other. 

Almost.

A scent wafts through the round vents of his mask, rich and sugary. Chocolate over cherries that was nearly lost among the rest.  He stands, immediately alert, desperately searching for the source. Blinding lights dance across the glass of his lenses, music pounds, and Swagger finds himself dizzy with deja vu of it. 

Here, here, here. They were here.

His body begins to tremble, sickly acid pooling in his mouth like some eager slobbering mutt. He slinks through the rafters, scanning body after body. His black little heart seizing in his chest when his eyes zero in on her. 

His Chosen.

She gyrates gracefully to the music. All long ginger waves and cherry painted lips. Multicolored lights dancing over the black velvet minidress that hugged gorgeous full breasts and a soft belly, the exertion of the night painting her cheeks and neck with a hot flush.   

She was perfect. Looking so warm and soft and fucking luxurious.

He could feel the tether rip through his chest, slamming his heart against the cage of his ribs as he drank her in. The once thin thread he had felt before now twisting and growing into a heavy rope, curling around his heart, suffocating him with the weight of its abundance. 

A feral grin splits across his face as he watches it slam into her too. She stumbles, brows knitted with a palm against her sweaty chest. She whirls in confusion, trying to find the source in the undulating crowd. 

I’ve got you now -

An explosion shakes the building, followed by the shrill bleating of alarms and pouring emergency sprinklers. The dance floor scattering in a flurry of frantic screams and flailing limbs. And in the split second his eyes tore away from her, she was gone. Lost in the sea of falling ceiling and fleeing bodies.

No, no, no.

He’d just found her! He couldn’t lose her now! Red hot anger rolls through him like a tidal wave. Roiling smoke spilling out from underneath his mask with the heat of it. 

His comms crackle to life. 

“They destroyed it themselves. Evac immediately.” comes a familiar german accent, Krueger, his unofficial lead for the operation. Always so fucking calm. 

He snarls, dropping from the high rafters with a thud, moving lightening fast to snag a straggler in the panic. Lifting them clean off the ground, and slamming them bodily onto the floor. He pins them there, using his weight to hold down their frenzied thrashing. Stupid, clumsy, humans.

Roland yanks up the edge of his mask, lips twisted into a snarl,  noxious fumes rolling out in waves from between his teeth. He opens his mouth, tongue lolling as he lets the acid there spill messily onto the flesh below him, relishing in the sizzle and burn as it melts through skin and muscle. The writhing stops soon after, and with little fanfare he plunges his fingers into now hollow sockets, snapping off pieces of blood soaked skull to devour like a gruesome party tray. 

“Kaminski, now”  comes another voice, very russian and very annoyed. 

He sits up finally, scrubbing blood off the scruff of his chin. The familiar weight of his tether tugging at his chest. His witch was fine, still firmly connected to him, he could find her again soon enough. He stares, just a bit dazed at the flames roaring around him, the headless corpse beneath him still spilling blood lazily over beer soaked laminate. Perhaps he had overreacted. 

He clears his throat, yanks his mask back down and dusts himself off. Pocketing the loose teeth he’d saved into his tac vest for a little snack later. With a tired sigh he trots outside as his teammates' annoyed tone buzzes in his ear once more. 

~~

What the fuck?

Ruby stands annoyed amongst the crowd of onlookers. Watching with healthy suspicion as the nightclub she favored most roared with flames.  

Tonight was supposed to be her little bi-weekly ritual. Self care and all that. Get dolled up and take herself out for something fun. Dance her heart out, and maybe a little more if something pretty came sniffing. Dousing herself in magic was never a smart thing to do given her heritage, and she rarely bothered with any magic that changed her appearance, but she had really put in effort this evening. Full hair and skin routine, silky sweet lotions rubbed into her skin.  All on top of the little black dress and blood red color painted onto her lips. 

All of which had been sorely ruined when falling strobe lights nearly crushed her, emergency sprinklers soaking her to the bone. Now she stood like a soaked rat in the crowd of onlookers, hair frizzy and wet heels sliding uncomfortably, thankful for waterproof mascara at the least. 

Something strange was afoot, and she wasn't about to chance a little charm to wick the water away, less even that draw something more unsavory to her. 

Something had struck her on the dance floor. She could still feel it now, not painful, but tight, like a thread around her heart. The strange weight still clinging to her ribs was proof enough that something was certainly wrong. She had hardly had time to look at the faces around her before the alarms blared. Was this something cosmic? A curse? 

She pondered her dreams.  The same visions had been repeating for weeks now, neon lights, flames.  Clairvoyance was not her specialty. Visions had never plagued her, nor did she seek them out. She had been taught early that the future was not finite, lines shift and flutter.  She had deemed the art useless long ago, too unpredictable, and certainly not because the art had always been like sand through her fingers. What was the fun in always knowing anyway?

In hindsight it should have been obvious. That maybe the dreams hadn't just been dreams after all, but warnings… like she was supposed to just know that! Instead she had stubbornly fixed herself a sleepy time tea and ignored them without a second thought.  A girl’s gotta get her beauty rest after all.

She had been in adamant danger.  Maybe the weird feeling in her chest was another side effect? A more physical warning to urge her away? A little too late, she groused inwardly. 

Another small explosion rocked the concrete below her, snapping her from her thoughts.

She scanned her surroundings again, her eyes falling to a trio of men in the distance. All clothed in masks and oddly tactical gear for just firefighters. She had caught a few murmurings around her. Something about a chemical fire and judging by the masks, that at least checked out?  She slipped through the crowd, eyes pinned to the men. Determined to at least get a practical explanation for her paranoia. 

She approaches with purpose. Heels in hand as she marches up to one of the men. Barefoot and lacking a fuck to give she asks whats going on, having learned a long time ago that if you say anything with enough confidence most people would just yield. She stares at the nearest one, his face nothing more than a black void behind a thinly netted veil. She no more than gets the words out before he is cutting her off.

“Keep back” he replies in a low german accent, holding a hand up to her in mild warning.

She huffs, feeling another set of eyes on her she spares a glance to one of the others, a bulkier man, with icy blue eyes surrounded in black fabric. There is something off about how they glow in darkness, and Ruby quickly averts her gaze, rolling her shoulders before she tries again, “What happ-”

“Confidential”  he barks this time, the timber of it hitting her just so over the roar of flames. It sounded distinctly different from the calm warning he’d given her moments prior, like he'd pushed it right into her head. 

She should leave. Instead, she pivots her legs, taking on a power stance as she crosses her arms. Lips pressed into a fine line, fully prepared to be annoying until she spots the third man coming toward them.

He approaches with purpose, flames dancing in the dark lenses of his gas mask. She cant see his eyes, but an unease washes over her, blood turning to ice. Adrenaline preparing her to fight or flee. 

Her chest tightens, and in a split decision she does just that, tucking tail with as much dignity as possible and turning on a heel. He was certainly coming as backup, and the last thing she needed was to be the asshat on the news who started beef with the emergency crew. 

Maybe she was just shaken up, it isn't everyday that you get nearly blown up. She'd survived, despite ignoring her dream’s incessant warnings. And maybe the tightness in her chest and belly was just gas. A serious case of the bubble guts after a truly dangerous encounter. She sighs, settling on taking the long way home and having a peppermint tea for safe measure. 

–

Judge greets her as Ruby swings open the door to her dusty loft apartment. The big shaggy hound stepping carefully out of his nest on the couch, old bones creaking with a drawn out stretch.  He trots over to her, big shaggy tail thwapping hard enough against her side table to make her keys jingle. She smiles at the old wolfhound, scrubbing her nails through the wirey fur of his chin. He schmoozes in closer, resting his big head against her belly as he leans on her bodily. She'd only been gone a few hours but the old man always acts as if it'd been days.

Exhausted from the night,she slides down her door and onto the floor.  Wincing at the squelch of her soaked dress as her ass hit the hardwood. 

She meets Judge's big brown eyes and sighs. “I think we got a problem buddy” she tells the gentle giant, who on cue begins giving her a once over, snuffling seriously at her ears and clothes.

Would he even be able to tell if something was off? Could familiars even smell curses? He continues his inspection, a steady rhythm of careful sniffing as he noses down her legs. 

“What's the verdict buddy? Am I going to turn into a toad? Have perpetually burnt toast?”

He finishes with a final snuffle to her face, huffing out a stinky breath, forceful enough to blow her hair from her face. With a tired yawn he lays down over legs, his large body hanging off of her at an obviously uncomfortable angle. 

If Judge wasn't bothered, It can't be that bad, right?

And yet….

She closes her eyes, taking deep breaths to center herself. She tries to see it. This pesky thing attached to her, and it appears. Nebulous in the ether of her mind, a wispy red thread stretching out from her and into the infinite darkness. She concentrates on it, reaches out to grasp it with both hands and yanks, like ripping off a band-aid.

It doesn't budge, only briefly pulling taught like a fishing line before falling slack again, floating easily in a nonexistent breeze.

She tries again, twisting her fingers through it, tugging it this way and that. Tries to pull the string apart between her fingers. It stretches and pulls, but gives no indication of damage. 

Well shit.

~~

Roland perches on a building ledge across the street, watching her through the large windows of her run down apartment. It's homely, with large bookshelves lining one wall,  filled to the brim with old worn out tomes who couldn't quite make out the titles of.  A myriad of plants hang from her high ceilings and fire escape. She’d even hung soft linen curtains and warm strings of tea lights throughout her space. Giving it a soft orangey glow. 

He wasn't going to follow her quite so soon. But when the silly witch toyed with their tether like that, she was begging him to come find her.

Nosey thing wasn't she? He'd lit up like a christmas tree when he heard her speak, stubborn confidence in a soft southern drawl as she'd sassed Krueger. He restrained himself as best as he could before approaching, giddy to get a better look at her. Only for the little witch to flee. Which was fair enough. 

His attention is pulled again when she comes shuffling back in, faced washed and now clad in an oversized t shirt and sweatpants. Grabbing a leash from the side table she swings her way back out the door, oversized hound in tow. 

Leaving again so soon? He'd been fully prepared to wait until she slept. Slink into her apartment and simply snag her there. She was either very brave or very stupid. Either way she would be under his wing soon, warm and protected. 

He tails her from the rooftops, ogling the sway of her hips as she trails behind her mutt. Waiting patiently as the dog stopped every few feet to sniff a trash can or street corner. 

Swagger waits, anticipating her route and slinking down into the alley near her complex. Eager to see her close up. As anticipated she passes through, eyes scanning the darkness where he lays shrouded in shadows.

However, the mutt pauses, sniffing at the air before standing stone still, a fine line of hair splitting up his back as his hackles raise, growling into the shadows. He would have preferred not to scare her first but no matter. 

He saunters out of the darkness, hands in his pockets as if this were a serendipitous reunion. She freezes, grasping the little bejeweled can of pepper spray tighter in her free hand. She stares at him wide eyed as he makes a careful approach, her eyes flickering briefly to lead attached to her first line of security.

“Easy, ma petite. I'm not going to hurt you” he coos softly. Pausing a safe distance away from the slobbering beast standing between him and his witch. She'd be smart to let it go, however if the dog bit him, he would most certainly be biting back. Dog isn't the worst thing he's eaten over the years.

“Look, I'm sorry about earlier, if this is some kind of interrogation tactic, I can't help you. I don't know anything about that club thing” she says slowly, taking a careful step away from him, one he follows immediately with his own.

He likes hearing her talk. Her voice is low and soft with a drawl he's only really heard in movies. It's endearing in a way.

“Not here about that.” he says simply, taking another step closer. 

Something unreadable flickers behind her eyes and he watches as her pretty plush lip wobble, eyes going misty.

“No need for tears, witchling” he reminds her softly. Even though she looked so pretty with tears in her eyes. His cock gives an interested twitch at the thought of licking those tears from her cheeks, tasting the salt of her on his tongue.

“Witchling?” she croaks, brows furrowed in confusion. Her soft body trembling as she tugs her pet closer to her side. 

Swagger cocks his head. Did she not know? He thought it was odd to see her on her own like this, had the great covens truly left their kindred to the wolves?

His poor thing, she was lucky she was his chosen, she'd be nothing but blood on the pavement if any other demon had happened upon her first. 

“Yes princesse, it's in your blood. I can show you” he offers lightly “Just need to come with me.” he takes another step forward, raising his arms in mock surrender. 

She continues to sniffle, eyes flickering back and forth in thought before she looks at him again.

And it happens all at once, her fear stricken face shifting to one of pure malice.

“I'm not going anywhere” she hisses.

He barely notices the flick of her wrist before the concrete rattles below him. No time to dodge away as jagged cement teeth emerge from the earth below him. A bastardized carnivorous plant made of stone and rebar. 

He howls as misshapen teeth split though muscles and bone. A sickening squelch echoing through the alley as his arm is ripped messily from the shoulder. The concrete monstrosity crunching audibly before sinking back into the sidewalk with its bloody prize. He clutches the bleeding stump. Stumbling and whirling to get his eyes back on his witch.

Gone, not even the sound of her footsteps. The sly shit hadn't wasted a second. He should be angry, furious at the witches' deception. 

Yet he stands there panting. Listening to the residual aura of her power fizzle and crack in the air around him like lightning. He feels elated. The static of old magic buzzing beneath his skin, raising his hair on end as what blood he has left flows between his thighs.

He curses, clumsily propping himself up against the alley wall, using his good arm to fish his cock out from his tac gear. Not only was she gorgeous, but she was clever, powerful.

He pumps himself lazily with blood soaked fingers. Groaning as he gives himself a squeeze. Swiping a thumb through the copious precum weeping from his tip and dragging his slick over the quickly drying tack of blood on his length. 

He's dizzy with it, whole body pulsing with pain and pleasure and the electric buzz of her still left the air. 

He pumps in earnest now, lewd slick sounds fill the alley as he pants like a dog. Fucking his fist to the thought of his pretty thing running from him. Tits bouncing and sweat slick as he chases her through back alley streets.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He spills into his hand with a choked sound. Pulling spend down his blood soaked cock in lazy strokes until it turns a pretty pink.

He remains there for a moment, catching his breath as he grows soft and the adrenaline fades. Leaving nothing but the radiating pain in his shoulder and the reality that he is literally standing around with his dick in his hand.

He tucks himself back in, giving himself a good natured pat over the groin, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

He can't even find it in himself to be mad. Only amused at his witch's clever little show. Oh yes. She would do perfectly, they just had a few wrinkles to iron out. 

He winces a bit, the uncomfortable stretching of bones and flesh growing and stitching itself back together, reminding him of his new issue.

A quick meal would speed up the recovery, but it wouldn't go unnoticed by Krueger and Nikto. He pushes himself off of the wall, thinking up his next plan of action.

He already knew where she lived, and even if she ran the tether would bring them back together regardless.

He'd let her rest. Think on her actions.

For now. Dinner was in order.

[did-i-do-this-write]

Happy Tiny Scene Sunday!!

Here's a prompt with three words to use as you like: Jealous, Hide, and Clash!

@bloodlessheirbyjacques

I got so carried away with this one omg!!!! It is 914 words long, but there are two sparring matches in it. Action like that tends to add to my word count a lot haha. Anyway! I used this as a way to explore Shaun's weapon and element. This prompt was perfect and I loved writing for it! Thank you for the inspiration, bestie!

Jealous, Hide, Clash

(read the full scene under the cut!)

Shaun wiped the sweat from his brow. After two grueling hours of sparring with Darren, he was starting to feel his strength falter. Red marks crawled up his arms, reminders of everytime he failed to block the strong fire blasts that came his way.

And this was Darren "taking it easy" on him.

Shaun lifted his machete just in time. Clash! The harsh shriek of metal hitting metal rang out. Sparks flew. The weapon felt awkward in his hand. Wrong. Like he wasn't meant to wield it.

It wasn't really his, after all.

Darren had granted him permission to train, spar, and fight with his blade ever since they were kids. It wasn't much of a sacrifice on Darren's part. His weapon naturally consisted of two machetes.

Shaun siphoned water from the lake, launching a wave in Darren's direction, hoping to slow him down and catch him off balance. One blast of fire and the water dissipated into steam. Darren wasn't phased. He charged in and swiped furiously at Shaun's blade. Shaun felt the heat and burn of sparks. He dropped his weapon in an instant.

Darren stepped back and laughed. "Come on, Shaun, at least make me work for it. Two hours and I barely broke a sweat. If you can't give me a challenge then what's the point of sparring with you?"

Shaun picked up the fallen blade from the dirt. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"First you fight like a girl, now you're apologizing like one."

"Maybe you should learn to watch your mouth."

Nate's voice made Shaun jump. He could have sworn they were out in the field by the lake alone.

Darren put up his hands in mock defense. "Oh, sorry, Mr. Dictator. I forgot that we have to not hurt anyone's feelings while we're at war."

"We're not at war," Nate said.

Even Shaun could sense the unspoken "Yet" that hung in the air. Nate wanted to keep it that way.

Nate glanced over and noticed something laying in the grass. A polished, sandstone board that Reese had designed and carved for Shaun. He brought to down to practice his element and surf around on it, but he discarded it when Darren asked him to spar.

Nate eyed Shaun and smiled. "Saw you guys sparring when I got here." He nodded at the blade in Shaun's hand. "You still sharing Darren's weapon?"

"It's easier for him," Darren answered quickly. "Not having a weapon will get him killed."

Nate glared at him then addressed Shaun as if Darren didn't speak. "I thought the board worked pretty well last time we practiced together. Seemed like you were getting the hang of it."

"That's not a weapon," Darren snapped, "that's a toy."

"Darren. When I want your opinion I'll fucking ask for it."

Shaun had to stifle a laugh, but he couldn't hide it from Darren. He caught a glimpse of the fury lighting behind his eyes. Shaun stopped smiling immediately.

Nate sauntered over to where the board lay in the grass. He picked it up and inspected it. "Have you used it at all since we last trained together?"

Shaun shrugged, "A little."

Under exaggerating was better than raising Nate's expectations. Shaun had practiced with it almost everyday since then. It was Reese's idea to not only use it with his element as a way to ride the waves, but also try to learn how to handle it like a shield and blunt force weapon.

Nate extended the board out to him. "Show me. Let's see what you got."

Shaun took it tentatively. Nate flipped his own coin in the air and caught the golden short sword and handheld shield that took its place.

"You ready?" Nate asked.

Shaun hesitated. He still felt worn out from his matches with Darren. The water from the lake rose up to meet him. It trickled over his burns and cooled his skin. As it all washed away, he felt his strength return. He put the board down on the ground and stood on it, like a racer at the starting line.

Shaun nodded, "Now I am."

Nate smiled. "Then let's do this."

Once again, the lake rose to match Shaun's whim. It swept him away on his board and he circled Nate, like a shark circling its prey. Nate watched carefully, scanning for weaknesses. He launched a fireball at the water just behind Shaun, a puff of hot steam rising into the air, but Shaun kept his balance and focus.

Nate didn't raise his sword yet.

Another fireball launched into the whirlpool, dissipating the water that was most supporting Shaun's board. He sprawled out and plopped into the water as it seeped into the ground, leaving Shaun in a puddle of mud. Shaun shook off his haze and grabbed his board just in time to block an attack from Nate.

Shaun slapped at Nate's blade, feeling a little silly, like a kindergartener playing keepaway, until Nate slashed down on the board with all his might. The blade stuck.

Nate smiled, an accepting look in his eyes. Do it. You got me.

Shaun spun the board as fast has he could, wrenching the sword from Nate's grasp. It dislodged from the board and landed blade-first in the mud. It turned into a coin at Shaun's touch. He gave it back to Nate and laughed, almost in awe.

Nate smiled. "Yeah. I think I like the board better."

"Yeah," Shaun breathed heavily, catching his breath. "Me too."

[wits-writing]

Wicked - Part 1 (Movie Review)

(Director: Jon M. Chu, Screenplay: Winnie Holzman and Dana Fox)

Lucked my way into a preview screening of Wicked and had to get as many of my thoughts out about it as possible as soon as I got home. Which winded up being a lot more than I expected!

Everything below this point is copied over from my letterboxd account:

Wicked is a movie I've been waiting most of my life to see. I've listened to the soundtrack more times than I can count over the course of my life (my individual favorite songs even more countless times than that!) Yet seeing the stage version was always just out of reach for me. Every time I had the opportunity, some scheduling conflict or other miscellaneous inconvenience would get in the way. So I taught myself to be content with the soundtrack and my imaginings of what seeing the story fully played out might feel like.

As those years went by, I'd see the occasional rumors of a film version coming together. It was never something I wanted to put too much faith in, for fear of having my own "man behind the curtain" moment with the final product.

The embers of hope started to flicker nonetheless when Jon M. Chu, who directed one of my absolute favorite movie musicals of all time with In the Heights, was announced as helming the film as it finally got greenlit. (Pun very much intended~)

Having finally seen it…

I am truly, most sincerely happy to report that this film was just about everything I could’ve possibly wanted out of it!

Wicked Part 1’s coverage of the play’s first act takes shape through a wondrously extravagant spectacle of set design, costume design, and choreography. Every major musical number bursting to life in a way that makes even the big screen feel like it can barely handle it. Chu’s direction and Alice Brook’s cinematography giving every element the presentation it deserves. Never once shying away from Oz’s fantastical nature as a setting, whether in the architecture of the buildings or the presence of talking animals.

All that production design and filmmaking pizzazz would go to waste without the right central performances to ground it all in the emotionality that has drawn people to this musical as long as it’s existed. A challenge met exceptionally by Cynthia Erivo as Elphaba and Ariana Grande as Galinda. Their dynamic of antagonism turned friendship over the course of this film flows perfectly as it leads to the inevitable tragic end where their personal convictions come into conflict with the wider world and put them into their roles as the Wicked and Good Witches that Oz will come to know them by. 

Erivo plays up Elphaba’s defensive nature, someone who’s needed to put so many walls up over her life, hiding her insecurities through sarcasm and sardonicism. She’s so used to people prejudging her based on how she looks that she preemptively pushes back. All the while harboring the desire to be something other than what she is so she won’t feel the need to prove that she deserves love from the people around her. Which is matched alongside an impulse to come to the defense of those she sees being mistreated. Her outer cynicism masking her strong inner sincerity.

Grande’s Galinda being the inverse as she requires consistent validation from those around her to feel like somebody and not being particularly shy about that fact. Expounded upon in one of the stageshow’s most famous musical numbers, “Popular”, as she sings proudly about the virtue of being able to make as many people like you as possible. Elphaba at first serves as the perfect symbol for her to place herself in contrast to, her extroversion capitalizing on everyone else’s repulsion and earning sympathy points for being able to put up with being around her new roommate for extended periods of time. 

What Elphaba and Galinda are both missing in their lives is something that they wind up finding in each other as the story goes on, sincere love. The scenes that mark the duo’s shift from enemies to… “gal pals” make for this film’s best realized emotional beats. In particular when the two start dancing together during “Dancing Through Life” as the score, camerawork, and performances from Erivo and Grande come together to demonstrate the vulnerability the pair are letting themselves have with each other in that moment.

Any problems I have with this film mainly come down to its nature as a Part 1. Even with the iconic high notes of “Defying Gravity” to go out on, they can’t disguise how this only being the first half of a story means a lot of plot lines just kind of stop here. 90% of the cast outside of the two leading ladies sitting out the movie’s climax in the Emerald City, resulting in some awkward final shots to cut to them reacting to hearing about the movie’s finale being intercut with an otherwise highly momentous finale sequence where Elphaba decides her principles are more important to her than external validation, even if that choice takes her away from the best “friend” she’s ever had.

Otherwise, Wicked Part 1 is everything I could want out of a modern big budget movie musical and I’m already eager to see it again asap!

[ghoulsstolemyheart]

Fade Into You

hurt/comfort, comfort sex, blowjobs, anal fingering, anal sex, body dysmorphia (kind of), Dewdrop hates himself

4.3k words

“You’re so beautiful,” Aether said breathlessly as he reached down to palm at Dew again.

“Even now?” Dew’s eyes were unsure, desperate. He suddenly remembered that he was naked and, despite how dark the room was, he felt like he was under a spotlight. The only thing that kept him from running off was the soft, fluttery feeling he got when Aether smiled at him.

“Especially now.”

———

Dewdrop makes a mistake during a ritual and, on top of everything else weighing on his mind, it’s just a little too much for him to handle and he turns to Aether for comfort.

Sometimes Dewdrop needed to be soft. For all his harshness and aggressive attitude, he was still an incredibly troubled ghoul who needed comfort. Ever since he had been forced to change his element, there had been a certain sadness that followed him. A yearning for something that he could never have again, something he could never be again. The others noticed. They watched him collapse in on himself as he lost the exuberance they had known him for and become a quiet, solitary ghoul who was reluctant to let anyone in. Well, almost everyone.

He braced himself against the sink in the ghouls’ shared dressing room and stared his reflection down in the mirror. His warm blond hair was sweaty and hung loosely from the ponytail he’d thrown it in after locking himself in the bathroom to change. The thought of the others seeing him right now was just too much, too exposed. He’d forgotten his hoodie on the bus and had nothing to hide his charcoal arms from prying eyes. The water flowed much hotter than Dew would have been able to handle before his transformation and he soaked a wad of paper towels in it before scrubbing the grease paint from around his eyes and mouth. He let the water scorch his fingers as he rinsed his hands, the pleasantness of the burning still strange as he tried to get used to his new heat tolerance.

There was a lot about him that had changed when the clergy made him swap his elements and it all left Dew feeling like there’s something missing. His fins were gone and his gills sealed up leaving jagged scars all across his body like deep claw marks. His hands and feet were blackened. When he was transforming it felt like he was burning on a pyre and all the screaming had torn his vocal chords to shreds. It took a long time for him to be able to look in the mirror without sobbing and even longer to let anyone else see him. It was like he’d been torn apart and rebuilt, atom by atom, cell by cell, but somewhere along the line something went wrong. The kind of wrong that no one else notices except you.

All of this culminated in a deeply troubled ghoul who spent half of his time floating around the abbey as if he were in a trance. When he goes on stage, however, he’s more confident than he’s ever been. The lights hit him, his guitar rings out over the screaming crowd, and no one has to see his face hidden behind his mask. He can throw shit at Aether and pretend to choke Rain and not think about the pitying way they looked at him when he tried to walk the day he finally woke up after the ritual or how Copia told him to rest his voice when he let out a croaky noise in place of his words. 

But the rush of a ritual only lasts so long.

His solo was coming up, he was going over the chords in his head, preparing to have his turn in the spotlight, but he was so caught up in his thoughts that he missed his cue. Frantic, Dew started playing and hoped that people didn’t notice the panic in his eyes or the way his legs started to shake underneath him. The crowd cheered but he could barely hear them over the terror in his mind—

A knock at the door brought him crashing back to the present, making his head whip around and panic rise in his chest. He still wasn’t ready to face the others yet.

“Dew, can I come in?” Aether’s soft voice asked from the other side.

He shut off the water and dried his hands, switching off the light before flicking the lock on the door and turning away so he wouldn’t have to see anyone else. Aether slipped inside quietly, locking the door again behind him, and gently took Dewdrop by the shoulders to turn him around. Dew shot forwards to wrap his arms around his torso and bury his face in Aether’s chest, the fabric of his shirt so nice and soft against his cheek.

“Everything alright?” Aether’s voice was muffled by Dew’s hair as he pressed his lips to the top of his head.

“Don’t want them to see me,” he murmured.

“Okay, we can stay in here for a while.”

Dew melted into Aether’s arms with a sigh. Aether never made him feel like he had to do things he wasn’t ready for. He didn’t tell him he was blowing things out of proportion like he so often told himself. Instead, he did things like this, waiting with Dewdrop until he was ready to face whatever had been overwhelming him. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head. Quintessence couldn’t distract people from the charred black that stained his arms, nor could it make Dew forget about what he was convinced was a career ending mistake.

They stayed there in the bathroom until Sunshine’s voice beckoned from the other side, telling them they were due to leave in thirty minutes. Aether watched as Dew tensed up, his hands immediately going to his arms as if he was trying to hide them.

“Where’s your clothes, firefly? I can help you change,” Aether offered, his voice soft and calming as always.

“I left them in the bus.”

Dewdrop swallowed nervously, his eyes wide in the dark bathroom as he gazed off into nothingness.

“That’s okay, I can go get them for you, how’s that sound?”

He nodded and Aether pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll be real quick, just wait here.”

Aether slipped out of the bathroom the same way he came in, quietly and calmly, opening the door enough that he could get out but not so much that the rest of the ghouls could see Dewdrop who quickly locked the door behind him again. He waited in the dark, the muffled conversations and laughter of the other ghouls still gnawing on him and making him more anxious. But Aether didn’t take long, always true to his word. Dew let him inside again, taking the clothes from him as Aether pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before turning his back and facing the door, giving him some privacy.

Dewdrop quickly shed his uniform, pulling on his jeans and a t-shirt Aether had snagged for him from the merch booth one night, covering up the charcoal fade on his arms with a hoodie he stole from Omega back in the day. It still smelled like him, barely.

“Will you come through and sit with us, or would you rather stay here? I don’t mind,” Aether asked when he felt Dewdrop’s hand slip into his.

“I’ll come through,” he said quietly, closing his eyes as Aether pressed another soft kiss to his forehead.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to leave the tour entirely. To go back to the abbey and crawl into his bed where he didn’t have to worry about whether or not he was going to be kicked out of the Ghost Project. But he knew that staying in the bathroom until it was time to leave would just kick his paranoia into overdrive.

Aether unlocked the door and led him through to the dressing room, settling down into the couch with Dew at his side. He stayed silent while the rest of the ghouls talked and laughed, watching them with tired eyes as he curled up against Aether. They were in various states of undress, uniforms thrown on hangers and deposited on the rail in favour of t-shirts and jeans and sweatpants. Swiss whistled as Rain pulled his shirt over his head revealing lithe muscles and the little dorsal fin that ran the length of his spine, disappearing below the waistband of his pants. He used to whistle at Dew like that. Used to run his finger down the length of his fin and make him shudder. Now he’s latched onto the pretty, new water ghoul and, while he and Dew were never especially close even after Swiss joined the band, Dew can’t help the jealousy that rises in him when he sees Swiss do the same with Rain. Aether pressed another kiss to Dew’s head and tightened the arm that was around his shoulders. He knew how Dewdrop felt about his appearance these days.

“How long till we leave?” Dew asked quietly.

“Only fifteen minutes, then we’re heading to the hotel,” Aether whispered back.

“Share a room with me?”

Aether didn’t need to answer, they had agreed long ago that the two of them would always share a hotel room on tours. He leaned down to nuzzle into the side of Dew’s face, kissing him again softly on the cheek this time.

Dewdrop didn’t let go of Aether once on the journey to the hotel, their fingers intertwined the whole way from the dressing room to the hotel lobby. He locked the door of their hotel room and flicked the lights off, pulling Aether over to the bed and under the covers where he clung to him again. They lay there in silence for a while, Aether’s hand stroking gently up and down his back. He didn’t dare say anything in case he set Dew off, but after a while he felt tears soak into his shirt and Dewdrop trembling in his arms. He couldn’t take the silence much longer.

“Dew, what’s wrong?” He asked quietly, sitting up so he could see him.

Dewdrop sniffed and wiped an eye with the heel of his hand.

“I fucked up! I was late on my fucking solo and now Copia probably thinks I can’t handle lead guitar anymore.”

“I promise you, if Copia really thought that he’d have stormed into the dressing room and told you so. So you missed your solo by a couple seconds, at least you still played it.” Aether spoke softly, his hand coming up to twirl a lock of Dew’s hair in an attempt to comfort him.

“What if I do it again? What if tomorrow night I fuck up so bad I get kicked out then and there?”

“Dewdrop,” Aether reached down to take Dew by the jaw, “you’re a good guitarist. They wouldn’t have picked you if they didn’t think you could handle it.”

“But what if they were wrong?” Dew’s voice was so small and quiet now, so unsure of himself that he was almost unable to speak.

Aether used his grip on Dew’s jaw to maneuver him onto his back, straddling his hips. 

“Do I need to say it again? Dewdrop, you are good at what you do. You’re fucking great at it! You played so hard the other week you bled and then kept going , that’s dedication that proves you’re more than worthy to be in the Ghost Project.”

New tears began to spill down Dew’s cheeks and he pushed himself up on one elbow, his other hand grabbing the back of Aether’s neck and pulling him into a deep kiss.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he mumbled against Aether’s lips over and over again between kisses, his voice shaky and desperate as he pulled him down on top of him. Aether responded with soft moans and hands that grabbed and pulled, his touch turning Dew’s words to little whines as he felt his way under his t-shirt and up his chest.

“Are you sure you want this right now?” Aether asked and Dewdrop nodded enthusiastically, wiping the tears from his eyes and mumbling a soft “please”.

With that, Aether began to undress. He pulled his shirt up over his head and threw it to the side, giving Dew a full view of the thick, dark patch of hair that ran from his chest down the centre of his torso and below the waistband of his sweatpants. He rolled his hips down against Dew and smiled as the ghoul below him let out another whine. Aether had to climb off of him to kick off his sweats, giving Dewdrop the chance to finally remove the jeans he had still been wearing when he crawled into the bed. He threw his hoodie and shirt to join the rest of their clothes and quickly pulled the duvet over himself, arms tucked underneath as he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest. Aether had to get used to that after his transformation, the way Dew had to hide his body from himself when they slept together. He knew why he did it, the sight of his charred limbs and the scars where his fins had once been was too much for him most of the time, but sometimes Aether wanted to be selfish. Sometimes he wanted to pull the covers away and spend the whole night just looking at Dewdrop’s body. Admiring the soft gradient from jet black to the warm-toned gray on his limbs. Fingers tracing across the scars as if they were maps to distant lands. But he wouldn’t do that. Not until Dew was ready to be seen like that again. 

Aether slipped under the covers with him, lips finding his throat effortlessly as he rolled one of Dew’s nipples between his fingers. Dew practically mewled for him, breathless whines and his little stilted moans drawing Aether back up to kiss and bite at his lips. Now that he was distracted, he reached out of the covers to tangle a hand in Aether’s hair. He could feel his cock getting harder as Aether’s teeth nipped at his bottom lip and he couldn’t help but buck up into him.

“You want me to touch you? Show you how good you’ve been?” Aether’s voice rumbled deep in his chest as he spoke.

“Yes. Yes please.”

Aether’s hand was already on its way down from Dewdrop’s chest to palm at his hardening cock, pressing against him firmly.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he said with a smirk. Aether moved backwards, letting himself disappear beneath the covers as he kissed his way down Dew’s body. 

He stopped just above the base of his cock, taking his time to stroke him some more before placing wet, open mouthed kisses along the side of his shaft. All the while, Aether could hear the desperate moans of his little fire ghoul. It was too dark for him to see anything, but judging by the muffled quality of his partner’s sounds he guessed that Dew had clapped a hand over his mouth. With his mouth still on him, Aether reached up and pulled the hand away so he could hear him properly. Dewdrop gasped when he finally took him into his mouth, tongue flat against the underside of his head, and let out a shaky moan as he hollowed his cheeks. 

Dew squirmed under his touch, his hands reaching down to tangle in Aether’s hair and push him a little further down his length, arching his back to get even closer to him. It was moments like this, as Aether lavished him with attention, that Dew could finally let himself forget how much he hated being seen. Their eyes closed, both so focused on each other’s pleasure, neither of them could see the parts of him that brought him so much shame. He tightened his grip on Aether’s hair and thrust himself deep into his throat, pressing his face against the neatly trimmed hair around his cock and making Aether gag for a second. Dew held him there and rocked his hips against Aether’s mouth before pulling him all the way off. He didn’t want to cum yet.

“C’mere,” he breathed as he pulled Aether up to eye level again and into a heated, possessive kiss. Aether cradled his face as they moved together, all lips and tongues and gentle thrusting against each other as they settled into a familiar rhythm that brought him so much joy. If there was one thing he was thankful for when it came to the Ghost Project and the church, it was that they had brought them together. He loved Dew, something he thought that he wasn’t capable of as a demon. He loved him in all his forms, all his moods no matter how extreme. He loved the noises he made when they were together like this. Aether knew Dewdrop hated talking about his feelings, but he didn’t need to talk for Aether to know that he loved him too. Not when he clung to him so desperately, like he wanted to crawl into his skin, and kissed him as passionately as he did in that moment. He felt his nails dig into his back as Dewdrop clawed at him and Aether groaned into his mouth, grinding down against him even harder and making Dew pull back and whine. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Aether said breathlessly as he reached down to palm at Dew again.

“Even now?” Dew’s eyes were unsure, desperate. He suddenly remembered that he was naked and, despite how dark the room was, he felt like he was under a spotlight. The only thing that kept him from running off was the soft, fluttery feeling he got when Aether smiled at him.

“ Especially now.” Aether dipped his head back down to kiss Dew’s neck while his hand moved further down, the tip of his finger circling Dew’s entrance and making him whine in anticipation. He let out a moan of his own against Dew’s skin as he felt his lover return the favour, stroking his cock with skilled fingers that teased him with devastating precision. They’d been together long enough now that even in his most strung out moments, Dew could touch him exactly the way he needed. Aether thrust into his hand slowly, continuing to tease him as he gently pressed his finger into him and pulled back out to circle him again. 

“Aether please,” Dewdrop whined, his back arching again and pressing his leaking cock into Aethers hip.

He smiled against Dew’s skin, giving him a playful nip with his teeth before finally pushing his finger into him properly. Dew bucked his hips again, a loud, needy moan tearing from his throat and making Aether press deeper. He moved slowly, working Dew into a whining mess as he eventually added another finger and began to get more enthusiastic. His cock throbbed under Dew’s touch, already so worked up and desperate for release after a little teasing.

“I ne- I need you, Aeth.” Dewdrop was struggling to hold back now. His free hand grabbed at Aether, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.

Aether withdrew his fingers and reached down to slip his hands under Dew’s thighs so he could lift them, hooking his legs over his shoulders as he positioned himself at Dew’s entrance. They both moaned when he slowly pushed into him, bathing in each other’s pleasure. Aether’s hands gripped Dew’s thighs as he thrust into him, building up to that same rhythm they had earlier.

“You feel so fucking good,” Dew whined. Aether smiled and dipped his head to place a tentative kiss to Dew’s leg as he kept it propped against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the soft skin there when he didn’t squirm or pull away. Instead he watched Aether, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown in the darkness almost blotting out the soft orange-yellow glow of his irises. He reached down to stroke himself, lewd, slick noises mixing with their moans and sighs of pleasure. For the first time in a long while, Dewdrop wanted to be seen. He threw his other hand back over his head to grip the headboard, the angle of his arm giving Aether a good view of the long scar that ran the length of where one of his fins had once been.

Aether picked up the pace, furrowing his brow as he felt his orgasm begin to build in the pit of his stomach. Dew was clenching around him, his back arching again as he desperately bucked into his fist. His eyes were screwed shut and his mouth was hanging open, allowing every little whine and moan and gasp escape his lips as he neared his release. Even in the darkness of their hotel room, Aether could see the flush of Dew’s cheeks that crept down his neck.

“You close? You gonna cum for me, huh?” Aether grunted, his own orgasm growing closer with each roll of his hips.

Dew gave a whine followed by a breathy “uh-huh” as his grip on the headboard tightened. Aether pulled away his hand before beginning to fuck him even harder, the last thing he wanted was to jam Dew’s fingers between the wall and the headboard. He pinned his hand against the pillow above his head, his thumb stroking across the charcoal skin of his wrist.

A loud, shaking moan tore from Dewdrop’s throat as he came, followed shortly after by Aether who let out a low groan. He continued to slowly roll his hips against Dew as they rode out their respective highs before finally pulling out. Dew looked so beautiful beneath him, eyes shut as he took slow, deep breaths. He couldn’t help himself as he gently put Dew’s leg back down on the bed and instead lifted his hand away from his cock to suck Dew’s fingers clean. Dew opened his eyes at the new sensation, blushing even harder as Aether made eye contact with him while he ran his tongue across Dew’s hand. It was like he was making a show of it, soft moans escaping him as he tasted his partner. Once he finished with his hand Aether leaned down to lick across Dew’s stomach, drawing more sounds from him as he tangled his hand in Aether’s hair.

Finally finished, Aether moved to lie beside Dewdrop, wrapping an arm around his middle and pulling him close. They didn’t talk for a while after that, didn’t need to talk. The way they held each other, Aether’s fingers stroking gently up and down Dew’s spine while his little fire ghoul curled against him, his face tucked into the crook of his neck, it was more than enough. Dew let his hand rest against Aether’s chest, exposed rather than hidden away beneath the sheets. He didn’t pull away when Aether reached up to take his hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles before holding it in front of his face as he peered through the darkness. His thumb stroked across Dew’s knuckles as he looked at the deep black skin, sharply contrasted by the off white of his claw-like nails.

Dew pulled his hand away, but instead of hiding he leaned over Aether’s body and switched on the dim lamp on the bedside table, returning to where he had been lying and tentatively reaching his hand out to him again. Aether gave a soft smile and took Dew’s hand to press another kiss to his knuckles. He ran his fingers across his skin, admiring the soft fade from jet black to warm grey as his gaze ran further up his arm. He could see the veins disappearing under his skin as the colouration grew darker towards his wrists, hiding the little freckles that would sometimes appear before he changed too. The pale scars that Aether barely ever saw seemed to have a pearlescent shimmer to them. Running up the outside of his forearm and lining the inner sides of his fingers where the delicate webbing had once been like shocks of lightning in a midnight storm. Aether felt tears prick his eyes as he trailed kisses over the long scar on his arm as if they could take it all away, overwhelmed with anger that they had forced Dewdrop to go through with his transformation.

“It’s weird,” Dew murmured, drawing Aether’s attention back to his face bathed in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “Sometimes I wake up and think they’re still there.”

He looked at his hand, splaying his fingers out so he could see the scars between them.

“It’s like I can feel them.”

Aether reached up with one hand and cupped Dew’s face, his thumb gently stroking over his cheekbone. 

“I meant it earlier… when I said you’re beautiful,” he says softly. “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Nothing can take that away from you, Dewdrop.”

Dewdrop felt his lip quiver a little and bit the inside of his mouth in an attempt to stop it before pushing forward to catch Aether in a deep, loving kiss.

“I love you,” he murmured against his lips, his voice breaking a little as he forced down the tears.

He’d said it before, always during the night while they were lying together as they were in that moment, but never had Aether heard so much emotion in Dew’s voice. Usually it was quick, mumbled while Dew was already half asleep and not so concerned about upholding the reputation he’d built. Aether’s heart ached for him. He wanted to record that one I love you and listen to it on repeat for the rest of his life. But for now he would settle for just hearing it the once, the affection in Dewdrop’s voice enough to keep him going for a long, long time.

“I love you too,” Aether whispered back, pressing a few more kisses to his lips before pulling away to turn off the lamp.

Once they were in darkness again, he wrapped Dewdrop in his arms and buried his face in his hair, breathing in that cinnamon-campfire scent that he carried around with him. Dew melted in that moment, Aether’s arms keeping him safe from all of his fears and insecurities and letting him relax as he let it all go. He nuzzled into Aether’s chest, a soft purring sound emanating from him which made Aether smile. 

“I’ll always love you. No matter what,” Aether whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he continued to hold him close to his heart, right where he belonged.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By His Command 2

Summary: you meet the wife. (Handmaid AU)

Warning: this series will contain violence, dystopian aspects, rape and noncon, blood, coercion, possible pregnancy and other dark elements. Please read these warnings and beware.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: Thank you for reading! Also feedback and comments if you dont mind. Maybe a reblog. 💕💕💕💕

“Take your boots off,” the martha girds.

You unbutton the red boots and step out of them. You scoop of your valise once more and face the woman in green. She is already marching further inside.

The martha leads you down a long hallways without a word. You keep your head straight. The aunts always told you to keep your eyes to yourself. Those lessons did not come easy. Reflexively, you put your hand over your ear, expecting a blow at the very thought of peeking.

You pass open doorways but your attention is fixed on the hem of the martha’s dull green smock. She goes to the left, another wing of the hallway, not as far until she turns again, then stops completely. She steps to the side and puts her hand against her apron.

“Your room. You will sleep here and in the mornings you will not come out until you are summoned. Understood?” She explains sternly.

“Yes,” you answer.

“Go inside, put your bag down, and wait.”

You look at her but she refuses to meet your gaze. You quickly retract and turn instead to the closed door. She reaches to twist the handle and push in inside. You don’t miss the sliding latch on the outside.

You enter and she pulls the door shut. It brushes your skirt, nearly catching the fabric as it hits the frame. You spin and stare at the barrier, the metal bar on the other side scraping into the hoop. You’re locked in.

The iciness of the exterior seeps into the small room and nips at your layers. You shiver and place your valise on the low dresser against the wall, the paint peeling away from the aged wood. The weight of your bag causes it to creak.

You slip your gloves off and lay them beside the valise. You tuck your hands in your sleeves and retreat. Not far as the room isn’t very spacious. A bed with a rusting metal frame, a contrast to the pure white bedding pulled taught across the mattress. You push your hand beneath the pillow and feel the lumpy surface. It is at least a place to sleep. 

You look up and stare at the metal bars across the window. The frame was recently whitewashed but cannot hide the scratch marks etched into the wood. You try not to think of it.

Your steps groan in the floor as you carry on to the doorway to the left, the only aside from the entrance. A simple bathroom with only a toilet and a sink. There is a slightly dingy smell to it. Odd to think that in a house so resplendent from the outside, that it should hold such a pathetic cell.

You flinch as you hear a metal schlock and you back out of the bathroom. You turn and face the door as it opens. A woman in blue enters, a hat pinned to her spiral blonde locks, a hit of brown reaching to her ears. Her thick straight brows draw together as she raises her chin. You gape at her senselessly. This is the wife.

“Closer,” she beckons you forward with a fine leather glove.

You obey, edging nearer as her eyes bore into you. You watch the wall over her shoulder as you force your shoulders straight. You squeak as she yanks on the string of your bonnet and tears it away. She drops it and grabs your arms, turning you as she clicks her tongue.

When you face her again, she braces your hips and squeezes, feeling along your stomach as you try not to squirm. She lets you go but frightens you as she latches onto your chin, forcing you to look her in the face.

“Pray that you can do your duty,” she sneers.

You swallow tightly, trembling as her dark eyes pierce you like daggers.

“Blessed be the fruit,” you recite.

She glares at you, stepping forward as she bears down on you, walking you back as she grips tighter and tighter.

“I asked for a strong one,” she shoves you and you flail back onto the bed in a heap of flapping fabric, “don’t fear, it won’t be long. He’ll make short work of you.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows and blink at her dumbly. She scoffs and shakes her head, turning on her heel and strutting out. She slams the door in her stead and the lock chafes into the ring. 

The hollowness of that place settles over you. Not like the center where the other girls cowered with you, where their weeps kept you company. It’s only you now.