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themeraldee · 6 months ago

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First Time for Everything

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 2.1k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Cunnilingus. Fingering. Overstimulation. Squirting. Literally just PWP.

Written for anon 💚

Homelander’s got you with your back flush to the bed, panting and twitching. He’s just finished a damn good job of licking and sucking your cunt through an orgasm, as always delivered without a hitch. You’re there thrashing around like a fish out of water but he’s got your hips pinned down and there’s not a chance in hell you could ever get out of his titanium hold.

With his head still buried in between your thighs he flattens his tongue over your quivering pussy, feeling every throb, pulse and twitch. Fuck, you feel good against his tongue. While most people he encounters quiver with fear, you quiver with mindless pleasure, the muscles in your thighs shaking around his head. The smell of you has him hungry for more as he laps over your weeping cunt a few more times, catching your clit at every swipe of his tongue. And you taste fucking divine. It was only appropriate for a god like him to be served the most exquisite pussy.

He moves his hand up, pressing down on your pubic area to hold you while his other, now free, hand squeezes his shaft through the soft padding of his pants. It’s not really enough, not enough at all. Especially compared to the delicious squeeze of your cunt he recently got so used to. He pulls back to watch as it uselessly squeezes around nothing, begging for his cock and his cock only.

All in due time. If he stuffed you full now, the fresh tight, orgasm-powered squeeze of your slick walls would have him spilling in no time. You truly were lucky to have him. Nobody else could be so attuned to your needy body’s reactions. Nobody else could see your inner walls pulsate and throb, still coated in your delicious sticky sap.

Just as your orgasm eases off, you lift yourself up slowly to your elbows, then to an almost sitting position, supported by your hands. But Homelander isn’t ready to give up the control he has over your convulsing body. So instead he stops squeezing his cock and he pushes you down on your back again.

“Nope, you stay down. I’m not done with you yet.” His tone was innocently cheerful but his grin didn’t hide the depravity of his thoughts. Oh the thoughts running through his head on just how many ways he can ruin you. Just how many orgasms can he give you before you pass out? Have you ever come without getting your now poor and overstimulated clit played with? He should find out. Fucking into your cunt at every angle imaginable, from either side, front and back, upside down; he could do it all—effortlessly. And when your pussy is raw and aching? Well then he’ll have a little play around with your cute ass. Have you ever had your asshole fingered? Of course not, you were too sweet for that.

Now that you’re his he’s gonna have to work hard to screw that sweetness out of you until he’s left with an unabashedly begging mess that he knows is hiding in you. His cock throbs at the idea. The idea of corrupting you to your filthy core is a tempting one.

He wants—no, needs—you to know that there’s never gonna be anyone that can make you feel like this.

Now that you’re on your back again without much protesting, he peels his gloves off. He thought about stretching your cunt around the soft leather of his glove but the temptation to feel your throbbing flesh around his bare digits was too strong to overcome.

He places his left palm flat on your pubic area, pressing down a little. Looking up he meets your eyes and with another shark-like dazzling grin he asks. “Comfortable?”

You give a cutesy little nod, biting your lip. How dare you look so cute. Other vermin usually tremble in fear anytime he’s close to getting his hands on them whether it be with good intentions or not, yet there you are with his palm pressing down on you and all it does is send a thrill up your spine. The same palm that is capable of very easily crushing the bones in your pelvis is currently splayed out tapping each finger in succession against your skin.

You give your hips a wiggle just to show him how comfortable you are with barely being able to move.

“Good.” He smiles at you, his heart skipping a beat at the joy and excitement that is pouring out of you. You really fucking love him. Feeling overwhelmed by that ballooning emotion he looks down instead focusing his thoughts on your pussy. She’s eagerly waiting for him, so really it’d be rude of him to take any longer.

His pointer and middle finger slide from the top of your slit all the way down. Immediately coated in the sticky goodness your cunt can’t seem to stop producing around him. His slicked fingers go up to your clit, spread in a V shape, now catching your clit where they meet. You give him a few little squeaks each time he gives your clit another teasing bump. How you appear so apple pie sweet even when he’s got his fingers and lips soaked in your juices never ceases to amaze him.

His fingers finally make it down to your hole. It’s pulsating right in front of his fingers, opening up and just trying to slurp him in. It’s a miracle he hasn’t shoved his cock in there yet today. He licks his lips, the taste of you a reminder of good times while the tips of his fingers slide in.

He parts his lips, eyebrows furrowed as he watches your flesh eagerly slick his way through. He lets out a short cut-off gasp as he turns his fingers upside down with his palm now facing up while still inside you. And god is it fucking tight in there. He hasn’t had a chance to stretch you out yet. His cock throbs constantly now, his balls feel heavy, aching to unload inside you. Just feeling your cunt choke his fingers out makes him gasp. The memory of what it’s like to have you squeeze his hard shaft is indescribable, yet he feels it vividly around his fingers knowing you’d be pulling load after load from him. No chance he’s pulling out with a grip like that, fuck.

He’s way too close to messing up his pants with how vivid his memory feels so instead he focuses on you. He needs to ruin you as much as you ruin him. There you are happily on your back not even knowing how hard you’re making this on him. He needs you just as ruined. Just as hazy with the lust he feels anytime he smells your cunt get wet.

He pumps his fingers in and out a few times, getting the digits thoroughly soaked. He presses you down a little harder. You need to be kept in place. He crooks his fingers up, pressing against the soft spongy spot with his fingertips.

He’s only two knuckles deep when he pumps his fingers inside you. He starts slowly. His strong fingers massage you, forcing gentle sighs out of you. Yeah, that won’t do. Going a little harder, he fucks his fingers in and out of you in a curved motion, hitting those upper walls with each stroke. His approach is loose and relaxed, giving you a little warm-up.

“Homelander…” Like music to his ears you moan his name. Your upper body arches. Your hands squeeze the sheets, your own tits, anything. Not being able to move your hips leaves you defenseless. He speeds up. He keeps up the same rhythm, unfaltering in the motion. The squelch of you alone has him salivating. Whether it’s because he’s hungry to eat your pussy again or just desperate to bury himself balls-deep he doesn’t know, but he wants it either way.

“Oh god, wait, it’s too much..” One of your hands grips his forearm, trying to pull his hand away from holding you down but you stand no chance. Good luck pushing against his godly frame. The only way you’d get him off would be if he took mercy on you. And he’s definitely not planning on that.

Your responsive cunt quivers around his digits. He feels your rushed breath and raised heart rate through the press of his hand. It’s delicious. Giving up any control you ever had over yourself and letting him take the wheel. Even though his pace is harsh, his rhythm is even. He fucks you silly as you cry out, eyes welling up with tears when he doesn’t let up.

“Wait, wait, wait, slow down! Please, fuck—oh fuck—please slow down, Homelander!” You sound shrill, panicked as an unfamiliar feeling rises in your core when Homelander’s fingers plunge into you over and over again, rubbing your wet cunt raw and sensitive.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. He wants another pretty big finish. He wants a display equivalent to the fanfare of the 4th of July fireworks. He wants you to celebrate him. Your body needs to appreciate how much he’s giving you.

Each wet throb of your pussy has his cock leaking into his underwear and if he were any ordinary man he’d be losing all self-control, rutting into the sheets or just you, chasing his own spectacular finish. But this is about you proving how much you love him. How much are you willing to endure?

“Please, it’s too much, too much, toomuch.” You’re gasping for breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly. Your cheeks are streaked with tears as your pathetic attempts at getting him to stop fail. He’s unyielding. A marble statue. Perfect in every way.

Your cunt is vividly locking up around his fingers and while he expected a show-stopping orgasm he didn’t expect this. A gush of clear liquid spurts out of you, followed by wail coming from your lips. Fuck. You’re a squirter. He pulls his fingers out with a squelch as you gush a few more times, soaking his hand, the sheets beneath you and his sleeve. Looking at his soaked sleeve now he thinks he doesn’t even want to get it washed out, carrying the scent of your pussy around like a trophy.

It’s uncontrollable. Your muscles quiver in a way he’s never seen before. He plunges his fingers into you again, greedy to see if there’s any more in you. Come on, you can do better for him. He deserves the fucking best.

He fucks his fingers into your weeping cunt rapidly, less rhythm this time as he realizes that the heavy breathing he hears is coming from him. You’re wetter than you’ve ever been, slick and squirt coating your thighs, running down in between your ass cheeks adding to the embarrassing bodily squelch of being just a bit too messy.

It’s alright, he can be messy too. He’ll forgive you for this.

You throb hot and heavy around his fingers and he pulls them out again as he watches you gush two more respectable spurts out of your exhausted pussy. He finally lifts his palm off your pubic area and already you’re squirming, pulling back from him and letting your muscles quiver freely.

“Wow, someone didn’t share all their talents with me!” He looks at you. Wow. He wishes he had a camera on him. You’re panting, your eyes are wet and hazy, your lips are swollen from the way you’ve been biting them and you’ve broken out into sweat. “Made a nasty mess, sweetheart.” He gives your pussy a wet pat with his hand while it’s still in reach.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know I could…” You sound wrecked. Jesus, he’s done a number on you. But that’s good, you do a number on him each time too. It was only fair you got to know what it's like to feel so uncontrollably good. “Umh, huh, I’m—I’m sorry. For the mess, I mean.” Aren’t you cute? He forced you to squirt and yet your good nature made you feel like apologizing. The only person you should apologize to should be the Vought employee that’s gonna be responsible for changing the sheets after he’s fully done with you. And even then they don’t fucking deserve your apology.

By now he’s had enough of you pulling away, trying to keep him away from this beautiful performance. My god, you were a natural at this. And he’s so fucking close to making you unravel fully.

“Shh, shh, none of that. No apologies. Instead…” He trails off, flashing you another sharp grin. He grabs you by your thighs pulling you right against where he's rock hard and aching.

“Think you can do that on my cock too?”

Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):

@infinetlyforgotten | @rafecamsgirlll | @nervoussystemss | @hom3landr

@mrsdesade | @nommingonfood | @littlegaaby | @jokesonyoupup

@natliecole | @misatxox

#spat this out in like 2hs #idk what came over me #well #its thirsting hours i guess lmao #ofc as soon as i finish the breastfeeding fic i suddenly have energy to write everything #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander #homelander fanfiction #my writing #the boys fanfiction #homelander smut #fic request

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partylikemajima · 15 days ago

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Mending Hearts.

A reimaginging of Smoke and Annie's reunion with the idea that she doesn't take him back immediately, that Smoke has to work for it. This is from @margepimpson 's idea list that I was tagged in, thank you so much! Here's chapter 1, chapter 2 for sure (continuing from Annie's POV) will follow but maybe a chapter 3 as far as I can tell. No vampires! No KKK ambush. Just a good time and rekindling hearts 🥺 (love the film in entirety but I'm a sap for romance)

Smoke's heart rate raised when Annie's workplace came into view as he drove in his truck. Parking, stepping out and walking towards the shack, his legs shook a little with the surreal feeling of being back. He heard from people around town about Annie, few kids next to him in Bo's shop whispered about needing to visit 'Miss Annie' to pick up what their mother asked them to collect. Though the 'Miss' part annoyed him, his fault, he promised to buy better rings for the both of them when he gets back, it was relief to his ears hearing about her. On the way to the back, he saw through the front window a figure moving inside and his heart swelled.

Reaching their daughter's grave, he placed the flowers down by it and traced the small hand print on the stone. His fingers tingled remembering the small hand that had held his finger years ago. "Papa's here" He calmed her cries that remained in his mind. From his crouched position on the ground, he looked over his shoulder at the shack's back door and saw it was shut. Either she didn't notice him or she's ignoring him. Smoke raised to his feet and walked up to the door, knocking twice.

No response.

He peered through the screen door and a gap within the main door behind it, seeing her movements at the main table in the center winding up a root. The screen door covered up many details of her but his heart pounded against his chest from laying eyes on her. He needed to see her clearly.

She definitely heard the knock.

He knocked again though, watching her.

"I don't open the door to haints" Her rich, homely voice sent a shiver down his spine. He missed hearing her so much that her words took a second to register.

"You told me haints don't come out until nightfall" He never forgot the many things she taught him, including the make-believe hoodoo. He didn't really care about it but it was her livelihood, and he believed in her. His right hand ghosted over his jacket above where her mojo bag rested on his chest.

She didn't answer and Smoke watched her leave into the room connected to the main area of her shop. Where her stock was usually kept. He sucked his teeth and stepped back down the stairs towards his daughter again. Crouched down by her, he pondered in silence for a while before his thoughts began tangling in his head.

"Your mother won't let me in" He tapped the hand print stone "Send help". The babbling of his daughter echoing in his memories. "She'll listen to you" He continued talking to her.

He knew he took too long to come back. The plan in Chicago went sideways a few times and Stack and him had to reign it in to bring it back on track. He thought about Annie every day, every night, nearly drove all the way back to her one night. Stack kept him grounded in reality of their plan. Being here now, pockets full, he wasn't sure if it was worth it.

But the juke-joint will pay off somehow. They'll make it work. He can provide for his family then.

"Maybe I can-" The sound of her back door opening made him pause his conversation with his daughter and whip his head around, turning on his feet as he stood up straight.

There she stood, holding the door handle on the inside, his view of her clear as the sky. Blue patchwork dress hugging her body sculpted by God. The dreams he had of every part of her kept him going and also made him more insane than he already was before he met her. His feet brought him closer without thinking much of it until he reached the bottom of the steps and she spoke.

"Don't come any closer" She looked down to him with her piercing eyes.

He halted. It hurt but he wasn't going to disobey her.

"You come alone?" Her hand was still on the door, holding on to it as if ready to shut him out for good if he messes up.

"Yeah, Stack is on the other side of town" He held his hands together in front of him, looking up to her. There was silence that hung between their conversation, just staring.

"What you come back for?"

"We bought that ol' saw mill, gonna patch it up, make it into a juke-joint" He kept his composure under her discerning stare, and his fast beating heart. The adrenaline at shoot outs didn't compare to the rush of seeing his wife, let alone talking to her.

A smile played on her face and Smoke tried his best to hold it together.

"A juke-joint" She tilted her head down a little, a habit she has that always flattered her features. "This one of Stack's ideas?"

"Yeah, he figured tonight gonna be grand opening"

Annie chewed the corner of her mouth and rested her free hand on the door frame. "Thought you was done with the Delta, given how you never replied to my letters" Her smile disappearing, replaced by a serious one. "Through with me"

Smoke's mouth parted as his heart leaped to his throat. What the hell did she mea-. "You wrote to me baby?" His voice weaker than he meant to sound.

"Course I did, I was careful, with your plan and all, but I did."

"I didn't get any....We moved around a lot." He looked back and forth between her eyes. "I wanted to write to you but I couldn't risk the trouble we were in, heading back to you"

Her brows furrowed as she kept his eye contact. "You're lying"

That made him mad that she would say that. He placed a foot onto the first step to try and reason with her, get close so he can reassure her but she stood back. So he waited again. "Have I ever lied to you?!" His voice didn't raise but it started off strained. "It was one of my vows, that I never would lie to you"

He could tell she was getting worked up, her chest rising and falling faster and her mouth pursing her lips. It was the sound of kids walking in her front door that brought them both out of their stand-off, she let the screen door hang open and walked towards them. He climed higher and stood just outside the door frame.

"Just this Miss Annie" A small girl held up a jar. "And a pinch of High John". The other girl next to her stared at Smoke.

"Now, don't sell this on the way home, I don't want your mama coming at me crazy later" Annie's voice softened for the two children, gathering some of the High John into a small paper pouch and traded it for money that he clicked wasn't the money that'd work anywhere else. The wad of real cash sitting fat in his pocket, ready to spend on his wife.

He glanced around the shop while they were discussing a few questions the girls had and realised the place didn't change much from how he remembered. New shelves were added in and Smoke wondered who nailed them to the wall for her. He watched Annie take out the blade from her dress pocket to slice open a packet she pulled from the drawer. Same blade she always carried.

He realised the other girl was still staring at him.

"Miss Annie, who's that man?" She pointed a finger to him.

Annie looked over her shoulder at him, brows raised and he slightly raised a brow back to her, wondering what she'll answer with. "Just someone I know, he means no harm, you can call him Mr Smoke Moore"

The girl with the jar whispered to the other in her ear and the same girl who asked about him had gasped, pointing again to him. "Momma told me you shot Mr Terry and that other guy in the town today!" She blurted out and the other girl smacked her arm shushing her.

Smoke almost laughed if it wasn't for Annie glaring at him, kids always made him laugh. He shrugged his shoulders. "Bo's patching them up" He reasoned and she shook her head, hurrying the children out the shop. On the way out he heard them gossip.

"Momma said Miss Annie was married"

"Mr Moore must of been her husband"

"Momma said the SmokeStack twins rob people"

The corner of his mouth tugged barely into a smile listening to them. First the girl outside of the Chow Family's shop and now these two. All three made him picture what his daughter would of grown up into if she had the chance. The hint of his smile wiped away when Annie approached him again, now more level in their eye contact and closer that he could smell the freshness from her body. Her soaps always had a citrus smell to them.

She gripped the inside door handle again. "Why you here Smoke? What you want with me?"

"We want you to come down to the opening, cook for us" He didn't lie. It was the truth. He just didn't say what was in his heart. She already looked like she wanted to kill him. He'd let her.

"Elijah"

He suppressed a groan of desire at hearing her voice with his real name. His emotions were all mixed up. So much of him is tied to her and he wouldn't have it any other way but it wasn't the time to be horny. Well...if she wanted to....

"It still hurts coming back here, but I told you I'd make so much money we wouldn't have to worry, and I did." His thumb ran over the knuckles of his other hand, maintaining eye contact. "I love you, and I miss you"

Her eyes shake in the eye contact until it breaks and she looks to the floorboards, between where they stood.

One of Smoke's fears before he left her was what if he took too long to come back that she fell out of love with him. When they initially spoke, the fear festered in his mind. But the longer they continued to talk, he knew it, could see it, that she was battling her mind and her heart. She loved him still, but she was hurt. His fault. He took too long.

She raised her head, eyes set firm. "I'll be there" She confirmed.

Smoke lost control a little and leaned towards her but she took a large step back and shut the screen door. "For that crazy brother of yours" She concluded.

She folded her arms under her chest and her hips tilted to the side. They stared at each other again for a moment until Smoke remembered how to speak. "I'll drive you down"

She turned away from him and walked back to the center table. "I don't need your help, I'll ask Grace"

He checked his watch and cursed under his breath at time slipping away from him. If he didn't leave now, it'll postpone the Juke's opening and they were already short on time due to that cracker Hogwood being late. He took one last look at her and turned, walking back down. "I'll see you there Annie, thank you"

<<<<<<<>>>>>>>

"So she didn't kill you!" Stack wrapped his arms around Smoke's, squeezing him in a bear hug and Smoke grunted from the force. He held him back by his shoulders and looked over him. "What happened? Is she coming down?" His wide grin glinted with the gold outlining one of his teeth. Smoke shrugged his hands off his shoulders and moved into the barn, glancing around at what needed fixing and where everything would be.

"Why didn't you offer to drive her down?" Stack hovered behind him with his hands on his shoulders again, kneading the muscles. "Did she say no? She isn't coming?"

"She didn't want me to, said she'll go with Grace" Smoke mumbled.

"I'm going by to pick them up soon, dropped Grace off at Annie's house" Bo appeared by their side, staring up at a hole in the ceiling that Smoke was checking out.

Stack cheered at seeing their old friend, Bo pulling him in for a hug "Good man!". He stood back and turned to Smoke again.

"I knew she couldn't resist, I dressed you well so she wouldn't!" He hit Smoke's back and Smoke couldn't help the glare that surfaced, aiming it to him.

"She's coming down to help you, not me" Smoke rubbed the side of his head.

"Really? Her words?" Stack and Bo glanced to each other and then both waited for Smoke to continue but he had enough of the interrogation.

"I'm not doing this, shut up" Smoke marched on forward, figuring out where to go and get away from the two but they trailed behind. He found Cornbread out the back of the barn loading up crates of beer they had smuggled down from Chicago. He greeted his old friend, the taller man happy to see him and asking how he was. They chatted more, helping him carry the crates in to the kitchen area when Stack spoke again.

"Cornbread, how's Annie been? My brother went to see her"

The taller man turned around slowly, eyes wide and watching Smoke. "You-you went to her workplace?" He asked quietly.

Confusion settled on Smoke's face. Why the hell would Cornbread be worried about him visiting his own wife?

"Sure did, what about it?" Smoke stared him down.

"I didn't mean nothing by it Smoke, just that uh..."

"Annie has a rifle" Bo chimed in and Smoke turned to him so fast he nearly lost balance. "Cornbread's thinking why you didn't get shot at".

At that explanation, Stack doubled over and hollered so loud, one hand clutching his stomach and the other smacking the counter top.

~~~~~~~

@theegyal tagging for chapter 1! 💗

#smoke x annie #LOVE THEMM GOD #im in the middle of writing chapter 2 cant wait to finish and release it 👀👀#going for the slow burn #cause i live for slow burn but get desperate for it to end ahahahhaah #sinners 2025 #sinners

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visceravalentines · 1 year ago

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fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin.

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck.

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes.

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking.

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line.

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly.

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards.

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin: sunburn, bug bites, bite marks.

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes.

“What’s for supper?”

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips.

Supper gets cold.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry.

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them.

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale. “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor.

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.”

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?”

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get.

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass.

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?”

“Almost.”

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do.

You snip them one by one, bittersweet.

“Done.”

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.”

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side.

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones.

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.”

Have you always been such a good listener?

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face.

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands.

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world.

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry.

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept.

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too.

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in.

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds.

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit.

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.”

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish.

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have.

“Get the light,” he says.

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck.

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat.

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him.

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall.

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night.

“Please,” you moan.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.”

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties.

“Good.”

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory.

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here.

Neither is he.

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt.

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap.

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget.

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle.

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles: a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake.

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children.

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet.

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that.

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk.

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails.

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak.

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood: the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.”

You frown.

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair.

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You.

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach.

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning.

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth.

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him.

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television.

“I killed my mama, y’know.”

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed.

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red.

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling.

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday.

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

#this really truly took it out of me #vignette-style writing like this is SO HARD for me idk why #but i wanted so many moments of normal life in hell and i wanted them all #he's probably so ooc god but it's fine it's fine #we're so back #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax fanfiction

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sulphuricgrin · 2 months ago

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WIP Whensday

Last week I was tagged by: @hircines-hunter @skyrim-forever @dirty-bosmer @theoneandonlysemla and @saltymaplesyrup thank you c: AND I'M TAGGING YOU BACK🫵

no pressure tagging: @pocket-vvardvark @firefly-factory @madam-whim @moriche @dirty-bosmer @sunlightpassingthroughthewater @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @changelingsandothernonsense

@scholarlyhermit @illumiera @yansurnummu @thescrolls-haveforetold @truth-01001001-liar @silly-little-diary @captain-of-silvenar

Almost Wednesday, but whatever. Sorry i've been kinda MIA. Emotional burnout is tiring, i'm trying to take care of myself first and foremost right now. I skipped last week in favor of putting out a new chapter. So this week, (because Kuri told me to) I'm gonna share 2 WIPS. I'm sorry if it's a lot to read. Each are 1k.

Before we start, as always, if you see a mistake, no, you didn't. It's WIPs after all ;-;

First WIP: I've started writing Miraak's first chapter in Fate-Touched, which I'm weirdly anxious about sharing, but fuck it. (I say while crying lol) I have thoughts to possibly rewrite this later, but that's future-me's problem.

Time did not pass in Apocrypha. It layered, like dust on untouched tomes, like mold beneath cracked parchment.

Miraak has learned long ago not to measure it.

There were no seasons here, no stars, no calendar to mark the creeping ruin of days. Light filtered in through nowhere. The sky, if it could be called that, rolls in shades of green. Books fell from nothing and towers breathed like great slumbering beasts. One could not measure time in a place that had no heartbeat. You could only endure it.

And endure it he had.

He no longer remembered the warmth of the sun, not truly. The idea of it remained, abstract and academic: golden heat on skin, the smell of pine-sap and stone after rain, a horizon that stretched beyond sight. He could recite the sensations. He could even summon phantom echoes of them in dreams. But when he reached for them in his waking mind, they fell apart like old scrolls in damp hands.

But Miraak had learned patience.

The patience of seeds buried in ash, waiting for the forest to burn itself away. The patience of a prisoner scraping at the same patch of wall for centuries, knowing that one day, even stone will remember the shape of his hand. The patience of the tapestry weaver who vanished into her threads, knowing that beauty takes time and vengeance even more.

Hermaeus Mora had taught him many things. How to consume knowledge without choking on it. How to see with more than just his eyes. How to bend words into weapons. But perhaps the most cruel lesson the Daedric Prince has offered was the nature of obedience ― how a man could serve and resist at the same time.

He played the servant now. Worked with ciphers when it suited him. Spoke in half-truths, in carefully shaped lies. He walks the stacks of Apocrypha like a ghost, silent and watching, rarely interfering unless it was necessary ― and when it was necessary, it was final.

To the Ciphers of Apocrypha, he was legend and warning in one.

Some revered him: the First Servant, the first mortal deemed fit to help their Lord, forever here and powerful. Others feared him: the drowned man who whispered secrets into their ears and left them mad with knowing. The wisest among them understood the truth: Miraak could be helpful in this exchange of knowledge, but never fully trusted. He would manipulate them, use them, discard them without remorse if they prove no longer useful. He was not cruel for cruelty’s sake. He was methodical.

He has patience. Not mercy.

And in that patience, he schemed.

Every so often, a new plan took shape. A path to escape. A possible weakness in Mora’s design taken advantage of. Yet each time, it unraveled ― whether by fate, or sabotage, or the Prince’s quiet disapproval. Once he had nearly breached the walls of the realm, a gate had opened. He had tasted the air beyond― and then, suddenly, it had collapsed, melted to ink. A book he’d written himself lay where the gate had been, rewritten in a tongue only he could read.

A message. His leash tugged on.

A warning.

But he did not rage. Not anymore. Not after all these innumerable, never-ending years. He watched. He waited. Patience was a power in slow form, the kind of power Mora underestimated in mortals. (Though he could hardly be considered one, both with his dragon soul and seemingly immortal body.)

Miraak had all the time in the world, with a body lost out of time. And when his patience bore fruit, when, not if, his prison cracked and the stars remembered his name―

Many would quickly understand what it meant to cage a mind that never stopped planning.

For now, he watches the dullness of the Cipher’s Midden. He barely remembers a time when there was no such thing within Apocrypha, no mortals settling within this plane of Oblivion. But over the― over the centuries it slowly grew. Buildings slowly built in the area. Slowly one grew to three, to six, to ten, to more and more. It acted as a pseudo-capital for the ciphers and visiting cultists, and a hub for brave and greedy merchants willing to step into Oblivion to sell to disadvantaged ciphers. This was Oblivion, there was nothing friendly to mortal lives here ― no flora or fauna that was proper to sustain life. So they had to depend on visiting merchants or return to Nirn to restock.

He stalks the upper levels of the Midden, his face covered by his mask. He preferred it that way when here or when interacting with the Ciphers and cultists in general. It left them in the dark how he really looked, making it easier to disarm them if he approaches one of them without it. Even in their little myths about him, the damn mask was how new generations learn to recognize him, and fear him. It was the simplest of intimidation tactics to use. Even now as he walks, the inhabitants of the Midden warily part a path for him.

Walking along one of the wooden bridges in the Midden, he stops to the side and looks down below briefly, where it was busy with several merchants pawning goods to needy ciphers. Eyes glance around not out of need, but boredom. He turns and walks off. There were two he’s seen before and one new one ― some blonde elf from what he could see, but thought little of it.

The further he walks away though, his mind refuses to shed the idea of the new one. The more he runs the scene in his head. Tall, taller than everyone around them. In a sea of greens and blacks, merchants were often the biggest source of colour, but they were in deep, rich blues and golds. Something― something is telling him to go back and so he does, turning on his heels.

But when he returns, he cannot find them.

He shakes his head at such impulsivity, and decides to forget about them.

----

Onto the second WIP: Uhhh, I wrote this in a parking lot on the laptop I carry around, because I knew I'd lose it/the vibe before getting home. I might not even use it honestly?? But- but I wrote it and it's a WIP. So have a kinda soft Dragonsong scene. :>

Also yeah, song is In A Week by Hozier

She finds him in her study, listening to one of the imprinted stones she had stashed.

It was one of those rare moments where he felt exhaustion, and found respite here, listening to records of her voice. He sits back in her desk chair, body and mind feeling weary. Legs are outstretched, crossed at the ankles and his body slumped in the chair with arms crossed. His head leans back, eyes closed as he listens to the slow song and― he sighs when he hears a soft chuckle.

Lifting his head, he sees her watching him, almost bemused by the sight of him. “You know this is my study?” Her eyes glance at the recorded image of her and a man singing and dancing. He hadn’t cared much about the image, not liking the scene of her in another’s arms, but he certainly doesn’t voice this. Both the image and the audio are slightly worn, the image slightly foggy and the audio quiet. Neither mention this happens from repeated watching, the magic wearing out. She looks over him again, and continues when he doesn’t reply to her question. “You seem tired.”

He’s surprised a comment on his age doesn’t immediately follow that. He replies with nothing, instead unfolding his arms. His right stays in his lap as the left reaches for the imprint stone, turning the magic off, knowing the end will begin to stutter.

She turns and he hopes she plans to leave him be. But, per usual, she defies expectations, instead pulling an additional chair up to the desk. She positions it in front of him, and sits so that they face each other. Without explanation, he feels that light bit of magicka from her and she begins to sing the song he had been listening to.

“I have never known peace

Like the damp grass that yields to me

I have never known hunger

Like these insects that feast on me”

Her voice is a far better substitute to that fiance of hers she had been with in the recording, even as she sings in her more masculine voice. As she sings, it is all her, with no other, shifting between voices.

“A thousand teeth

And yours among them, I know

Our hungers appeased

Our heartbeats becoming slow”

He stays relaxed in the chair, but oddly cannot watch her. In such close quarters and this song, it feels too― He leans his head back again, and allows himself to enjoy it, but swallow the feelings that threaten to bubble. Her feet bump into his, proving how close they are, yet does not move away. He unconsciously separates his feet and hers is quick to come between, their ankles against the other.

“We lay here for years or for hours

Thrown here or found, to freeze or to thaw

So long, we'd become the flowers

Two corpses we were, two corpses I saw.”

She sings of death, yet of soft romance; her voice layering in a duet. It fits her too well, it fits them. His left hand fidgets with the imprint stone still in his hand on the desk. He hates how his mind, twisted as it was, thinks of their own bodies, perhaps somewhere on Nirn, composing into the dirt side by side one day. A sort of peace, when time finally gets him. Or perhaps they’ll kill each other.

“And they'd find us in a week

When the weather gets hot

After the insects have made their claim

I'd be home with you, I'd be home with you”

Her right hand gently pulls the stone from his hand, and then her fingers come back to touch his. This was something he’s grown accustomed to, her almost experimental touches. But now? He starves for them. For her to never stop. Damn him for this want.

“I have never known sleep

Like this slumber that creeps to me

I have never known colour

Like this morning reveals to me”

He moves to look at her again. She does not have her gaze on him, but on their hands. His mind tells him to pull away and yet, his body defies him. Instead, for the first time, his fingers moves to grasp her calloused hand. He curses her difficult to read expression.

This is foolish behavior. And feelings.

“And you haven't moved an inch

Such that I would not know

If you sleep always like this

The flesh calmly going cold”

But her hand doesn’t leave his.

Long, slender fingers simply shift in his grasp and lace their hands together. Her hands, slightly longer than his, but they fit just right. She looks almost curious at them and stops singing to give a short, low hum as she stares.

This intimacy feels almost wrong ― far too gentle for either of them, but― but here they are, doing so. It makes his skin itch and his chest too heavy for this. This is foolish. His fingers twitch, a half-thought to pull away, but she gives the faintest of squeezes in response, as if to stop him, and her head just so barely tilts to the side.

It’s in these moments of her rare silence that he even more rarely wishes to hear her babble her string of consciousness, listen to her unbidden thoughts.

He hates that he―

That―

Inwardly he groans over all of this. Of all people, after such a terribly long time stuck here, she is the one he pines over. What a terribly weak, pathetic word for it.

He starves for her, yet drowns in her presence. It’s now been two years since he realised and he hates every bit of it. And by the gods, was she a tease; he cannot tell her wants, yet she does things like this. Would it just be easier to simply force her to stay in Apocrypha?

He does not know.

Her thumb softly caresses the side of his forefinger and he’s ready to retreat, accept a loss in this odd battle.

#tes #tesblr #wip wednesday #wip whenever #OC: lilliandra #miraak #i'm so v tired but uh enjoy???#otp: dragonsong

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settphelromanempire · 19 days ago

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Snippet for RPF Summer Camp: Bez/Sava 1.1K (smutty ig)

Theres a bed and they sure do share it, hopefully this works for the prompt :D

The air left Bez’s lungs as he found himself lifted, Sava’s arms supporting him in a bridal carry as he took them both towards the cabin. Bez’s arms wrapped themselves around Sava’s shoulder as they approached the door of the cabin, he laughed as he realised what was happening, “You don’t have to carry me over the threshold, Lorenzo.”

Sava shifted his hold on Bez, as he moved to open the door with his shoulder, stopping right before the threshold, “I can’t give you the wedding you deserve, I can’t give you the feast full of meats and wines, so at least let me save you the hassle of dirty shoes today.”

Sava looked at Bez like he was the stars that lit up the sky, a gaze full of sincerity at his belief that Bez deserved the biggest wedding anyone could host. He leaned forward, Sava shifting his arms to continue holding him up, Bez pressed a light kiss onto Sava’s nose, “You are such a sap.”

Bez giggled into Sava’s nose as he was carried across the threshold of the cabin, Sava taking care not to knock Bez’s head against the doorframe, Rubik trailing behind the couple. The dying light of the sun filtering through the windows illuminated the interior of the cabin.

It was clearly lived in with an empty hearth covered in ash, a table littered with cups and plates, and a bed pushed up against the far wall of the cabin, placed right beneath the window and covered in a variety of furs, and blankets. Sava carried Bez to the bed, weaving through the sparse furniture as he needed, lightly setting him down as they reached the bed. Up close Bez was able to notice the engravings on the bed frame, crudely done but still done nonetheless. Images of ants and turtles decorated the headboard, all supposedly symbols used to bless a marriage but Bez knew the deities they represented and that marriage was everything but a blessed one.

Sava left Bez among the furs, and Bez propped himself up on his elbows on the bed, “Where are you going?”

“Lighting the fire.”

“Join me,” Bez outstretched his hands towards Sava from his position on the bed, “Come back and join me, Lorenzo.”

Sava paused his efforts from where he was crouched in front of the hearth, turning back to Bez perched on the bed, “I will, once I am sure that I will be able to see you, all of you.” He grabbed a log from the stack next to the fireplace and threw it in, watching as the embers set the log alight, “I want to count all the moles you might have, I want to kiss every single inch of your skin.” The fire grew as Sava continued to throw logs into the hearth, “I want to love you, all of you, Bez.”

“Marco.” Sava turned his attention from the fireplace back to where Bez was perched on the bed, “My name is Marco, you told me yours and it’s only fair.”

“Marco.” Sava tested out his name, the fire growing behind him and casting a light glow onto Bez. Deeming the fire enough, Sava finally started moving back towards the bed. He crawled onto the bed, finding the space that Bez had made for him in his arms. The light from the fire cast a warm glow on them as they moved and shifted on the bed. Sava slipped his hands underneath Bez’s tunic as he kissed Bez breathless, the pair only broke apart for the briefest of moments as they stripped, shirts and trousers tossed to the floor as the bed continued to shift alongside them.

“Sava, Lorenzo,” Bez moaned, the names all melting together as his brain melted from the pleasure of Sava gently fingering him open. He placed a hand on Sava’s bare chest, the other man pausing his actions, waiting for Bez to catch his breath, “I want to ride you.”

Sava answered by leaning down to kiss him, letting Bez flip them over and straddle him. He braced himself on Sava’s shoulders as he started making the slow descent, moaning as he bottomed out. Taking a moment before he started moving, Sava’s hands held him along his thighs, both of them moaning the whole time.

The bed moved as they did, the creaking of the wood filling the room alongside the moans of the pair’s various names that reverberated around the cabin. It shifted as they shifted, unheard underneath the constant repetitions of “Marco” from Sava as they both chased pleasure, the wood groaning underneath them as Bez slid up and down on top of Sava. They chased and chased until they finally reached the peak that they sought, the bed gave out a final groan under their movements before it suddenly jolted and tilted to one side slightly.

“Shit.” Bez braced himself again on Sava’s shoulders, the shock of the bed jolting as he was still sensitive from the orgasm he had just reached, “What the fuck was that?”

“I, I uh,” Sava fumbled for words, eyes glancing away from where Bez looked down on him from his position above him, “When my grandfather made this bed with the cabin, he forgot to measure the legs properly. I usually try to balance it out by shoving things like books, but it must’ve, uh, moved.”

Bez brought his head down to rest on Sava’s shoulder, laughing into the other’s collarbone. He found himself resting there, breathing in the scent of lumber that always seemed to cling onto Sava.

“Bez,” Sava ran a finger through the curls that were resting on his shoulder, only getting a mumbled response on his collarbone as a response, “I’m going to grab something to clean us up.”

Sava gently set Bez down on the bed, Bez whining at the loss of contact. He made himself comfortable on the bed in the furs and blanket, waiting for Sava to come back with a rag, watching the taller man’s shadow on the wall as he dug around the cabin for said rag. Sava came back to the bed shortly after, finding the rag, and proceeded to gently wipe Bez down, whispering encouragement in his ear the whole time.

Afterwards Bez found himself curled up underneath the layers of blanket and furs, the fire still blazing after the last light of day had died out long ago, he felt the furs rustle as Sava curled up behind him an arm draped over Bez’s middle. He felt further rustling as Rubik made himself home at the foot of the bed from wherever the dog had disappeared to in the time since they had entered the cabin.

He found himself drifting to sleep like that, warm, covered, and held in an uneven bed. He slept better than he had in what felt like years.

#rpf summer camp #motogp #motogp rpf #marco bezzecchi #lorenzo savadori #bezsava

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saltyslime · 5 months ago

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EVBO TEAM!!! he does NOT nickname ANY of his pokemon EVER but they all love and adore him anyways <3 max friendship <3 his ass is making the most abysmal fucking sandwiches ever to exist the bread has clipped through the table and he broke the item limit so theres an entire jar of olives on it <3<3 mon choices<3 below

YAMPER!!!! if he was a pokemon he would be that fucking dog. that is him. its litterally him. he is yamper yamper is him. you cannot convice me otherwise Eevee. Not QUITE as evbo coded as yamper but pretty damn close. probably his starter tbh Hondege is for PVPciv because it litterally saps the life form of anyone who tries to yeild it like thats just PVPciv coded skiddo for PKciv wich i feel like is a little bit more strange of a pick because its not everyones first "oh jumping!" mon, but i think that the gogoat line fits pretty well on account of their mountian goat inspo. Mimikyu for Simulation. Sim!bo is just mimikyu coded in general TBH. like "forsaken cursed creature whos only goal is to be loved and adored and accepted by mimicing something its not and never will be"? thats just him. its him. its litterally him.

#evbo #evbo fanart #evbo pvpciv #evbo pkciv #evbo simulation #pokemon fanart

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hvcrver · 1 year ago

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Heyy😭 Idk if this is dumb but idk if you do fanfics! If you do can you do Yandere shaiapouf x reader headcanons! I am a fem but the reader can ofc be gender neutral:3

I DO HELLOOO !! Yandere Shaiapouf is a very silly concept to be because just... ??? Is it just me or is he really barely toeing the line. For the other ants it seemed moreso "devotion" but just. Pouf. POUF... sighhs.

assume pre-established relationship btw this man has to go through all six stages of grief before he accepts he loves a STINKY HUYMAN... this just isn't the place to write allat

WARNINGS: Mentions of blood, "yandere" behaviors/tendencies, unhealthy mindsets, dead animals (non-graphic), Shaiapouf idolizing violence/depictions of him wanting to fucking maul people GFHDSAH

HIS LOVE LANGUAGE IS ACTS OF SERVICE!! despite all the flowery bullshit he might say later on n the relationship, you'll always know how he's really feeling by his body language and what he goes through with.

there's so little shaiapouf content that its soooo fun to just make up stuff for him. little habits and ticks and sounds he makes as he goes about his day....

have you heard abt the orange cracker butterfly? you will now (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01hjJ4EhWtI)

that shit sounds like a TASER and they make that noise to tell other male butterflies to fuck off from their territory.

.........yes shaiapouf makes irritated taser sounds in public. yes you've almost gotten kicked out of places because workers think you're threatening patrons with a taser.

peppering his face in kisses until he calms down....... he starts warbling and chittering and his pupils dilate and he melts. three bajillion s/o points if you cusp his face in your hands and just rest your forehead against his afterward.

i think he'd give you dead animals as gifts, especially if you were too skinny for his liking. youre his monarch, his ruler, his sovereign, of course he'd find the best of the best for you! it's okay if you don't know how to skin them, he can take care of the gore himself, blood shouldn't grace your hands!

the level of dejected he looks when you turn him down is unfair in every sense of the word. you could have kicked a box of puppies and he would have looked less hurt. he probably would have white-knighted for you and said the puppies deserved it, actually

if blood DID grace your hands however,,,, god,,,,,,,,

him grabbing your arm, pressing kisses to the inside of your bloody wrist before lapping up every trace of red marring your skin......

DO NOT ASK ME ABT HOW HE'D BE DURING YOUR CYCLE!!!!! THE WORLD ISN'T READY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! /silly /nsrs

THIGHS THIGHS THIGHS THIGHHSS MMMMMFF.... i think its less about him being a thighs man and moreso that he'd enjoy just resting his head there. it doesn't matter how much shorter you are than him, he'd still contrort himself just to rest his head there as your hand cards through his hair......

okay time for the actual yandere headcanons, you didn't think he could just be cute and kissable and slutty, did you 🤨🤨🤨🤨

he REALLY likes pressing himself as close as possible to you, to watch the way you squirm in the iron shackle of his grip before he lets you go

because don't get it wrong-- he LET you go. shaiapouf finds it entrancing sometimes, the way he can feel your bones grinding together in your hand when he squeezes it too tightly, letting go the moment you yelp and pressing kisses to your knuckles until you complain at him for being the gooiest sap on the planet

micro-manages. god he micro-manages. he'll do the dishes, clean entire rooms, get rid of the old food in the fridge that he knows you're never going to eat despite saying you'd get around to it....

it feels... gross sometimes? you'll be laying in bed, sitting on the couch, at the kitchen counter, and he's just..... been working.

he looks so sad if you try and stop him though. he just wants to help, you know?

it doesn't matter if he's throwing away the clothes that you hide away your body with, stained and threadbare. they're your comfort clothes? that's okay, he'll get you better ones-- or even better, maybe you'd like to try on his own? he's sure you'd look adorable in them <33

it doesn't matter if he's slowly working out your chipped and dented dishes for fine china, delicate crystalware that clinked softly whenever he plated a meal for you. polished silver gleamed from your cutlery drawer, and you were a little scared that your knives would give you a thousand tiny cuts if you even breathed in their direction.

but thats okay, isn't it? he just wants the finer things in life for you... you do like his gifts, right? he worked so hard to get them!

you ask and you ask and you ask, and he never... quite tells you where he goes when he leaves, humming about it being 'confidential' and not to worry your pretty head about it before nuzzling against your temple .

he's not... trying to get rid of your comfort items, to warp your safe spaces. but if you come running into his arms, cuddle against his chest a little more often, well.

that's perfectly fine with him <333

just... don't worry about the speckles of blood on his clothes, the red marring his lips, pretty please? he'll lick the gore from his fangs, peel his clothes from his skin and toss them into the laundry basket before worshipping your body.

don't think about anything else. just him.

loves loves loveessss nipping at your skin...... if you're a chubbier s/o then i'm sure he'll ADORE you.

don't say anthing self-deprecating about your body around him. a gleam will enter his eyes, something dark and menacing before he's laving his tongue across your skin, leaving you squirming and breathy...........

he just really really likes how you look when your skin is littered with bruises and hickeys!!!! when his teeth sink in a little too deep, he'll whisper apologies into your skin, lapping at each droplet and pressing open-mouthed kisses until you're a giggling mess

ermmm anyways let me stop hornyposting this is the yandere part he gets SO SUPER IRRITATED WHEN YOU DO SOMETHING THAT DOESN'T MEET HIS IMAGE OF YOU!!

he SAYS he loves you but...... he can't understand you sometimes, why you'd shiver and start tearing up when he entertains the idea of viserally ripping someone to shreds whom he thought had personally wronged you a few minutes prior

in his mind you're his liege, the thing he worships and protects and lavishes n anything he can offer, he simply can't comprehend the way you start to shy away from him in fear when he entertains any of these ideas too long.

oh, he'll excuse it as instincts, his culture even. he's more than aware of how humans function, their benign society and rules that they keep in place and enforce, but oh.... he's so sorry for asking to rip off the arm of the mailman just because his fingers brushed against yours as he passed a letter to you, to sew his mouth shut with silk thread just because he complimented your appearance.

it was commonplace in his culture, you must understand-- to make moves towards what was very clearly someone else's partner simply wasn't to be tolerated.

ohh, how he wanted to pinch your cheeks and snatch you up from the way your face adorably scrunched up, right before you asked him how the grocer asking credit or debit was making a move.

guyyyysssss he's so sillyyyyyy please just stay with him and vcudlde with hijm in bed and dont think about anyone else ever

#spitballing.doc #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #yandere shaiapouf #shaiapouf #this is so fucking late #and i could have gone on longer BUT i need to keep writing meow meow meow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#ermmmm... maybe ooc ngl i dont REALLY LIKE IT #but umm. yeah i need to literally do anything THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE A WRITING BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!#UMMM!!!! IF SOMEOMNE ASKS FOR A PART TWO I WILL LIKE.....#go more in-depth abt nen manipulation and silly isolation stuf :))))

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stumptation · 17 days ago

Text

How to Become the Perfect Man in 2035

In the bustling, high-tech corridors of a futuristic hospital in 2035, an 18-year-old man, fit and brimming with vitality, walks through the doors for the last time on his own two legs. Today, he elects to undergo a double above-knee (DAK) amputation, a procedure that will redefine his existence. Under the glow of advanced surgical lights, he is placed under general anesthesia as the team begins. Precise incisions are made mid-thigh, guided by 3D imaging, severing muscles, nerves, and blood vessels with meticulous care. The femurs are cut cleanly at 20 cm from the hips using laser-assisted tools, ensuring symmetry and a smooth surface for healing. Bleeding is controlled with bioengineered hemostatic agents, and the remaining muscles are sculpted to form optimal stumps before the skin is sutured, leaving two long scars. Within six hours, he awakens in a recovery room, his thighs swollen and tightly bandaged with smart dressings that adapt to his healing needs. Over the next few months, through AI-supported rehabilitation, he transitions from wheelchairs to optional cybernetic enhancements, emerging as a pioneer of a new masculine ideal in 2035—freed from the burdens of legs and ready to embrace a liberated future.

The Crushing Cons of Keeping Your Legs

Let’s face it: legs are a liability. For all their evolutionary hype, they come with a laundry list of problems that plague even the healthiest among us. Knee issues are practically inevitable—cartilage wears down, leading to osteoarthritis, while repetitive strain invites tendonitis or ligament tears. Tendons themselves are ticking time bombs; Achilles ruptures and shin splints haunt runners and casual walkers alike. Then there’s the feet: a nightmare of orthopedic woes. Bunions twist toes into painful knots, plantar fasciitis stabs with every step, and flat feet or high arches throw off your entire body’s alignment. These aren’t rare afflictions—they’re the norm for anyone relying on legs day after day.

Beyond the physical toll, legs are exhausting. Walking burns through energy at a staggering rate—studies show the average person expends 100-200 calories per mile, a constant drain that saps vitality. Standing for hours? That’s even worse, taxing muscles and joints while blood pools in your lower extremities, leaving you fatigued. Climbing stairs, dodging crowds, or just getting through a long day—legs demand a relentless effort that feels increasingly outdated in a world of efficiency. In 2035, where technology promises liberation from such burdens, why cling to a pair of flawed, tiring appendages?

Why Gay Men Should Embrace DAK Amputations

For gay men, the case for DAK amputations with symmetrical 20 cm stumps is even more compelling—it’s a revolution in both form and function. The 20 cm length isn’t random; it mirrors the world average penis size (around 13-15 cm erect, with stumps extending slightly beyond for symmetry), creating a balanced, harmonious physique that resonates on a deeply personal level. But the real game-changer lies in sexual dynamics. Legs, for all their supposed utility, are a hindrance in the bedroom. During anal sex, they get in the way—awkwardly positioned, limiting flexibility, and restricting access whether you’re giving or receiving. Remove them, and the body transforms. The spread and shape of DAK stumps—firm, symmetrical, and unobstructed—offer unparalleled versatility. They provide natural leverage and support, enhancing comfort and creativity for both partners, turning intimacy into an art form unencumbered by clumsy limbs.

Picture this: it’s 2035, and gay men who’ve chosen DAK amputations are the vanguard of a new masculinity. Free from the orthopedic nightmares of knees and feet, they conserve energy once wasted on walking, redirecting it to pursuits of passion and intellect. Their 20 cm stumps, healed and sculpted, are both a aesthetic triumph and a functional marvel—celebrated in a culture that prizes bold reinvention. Rehabilitation, powered by 2035’s advancements, is swift and seamless: smart prosthetics or sleek mobility aids integrate effortlessly, offering options without the baggage of biological legs. Sexually, they’re liberated, their bodies optimized for pleasure and connection in ways legs could never allow.

This is the perfect man—not bound by tradition, but shaped by choice. In a world racing toward innovation, DAK amputation isn’t a loss; it’s a leap forward. For gay men, it’s the key to shedding the past’s burdens and stepping—or rolling—into a future where perfection is yours to define.

#stumps #legless #no legs #dak #limbless #amputation

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whorediaries-09 · 1 year ago

Text

a pocket full of soul

pairing- sirius black x auror!reader warning(s)- hurt/comfort. a/n- don't get used to the sap ya'll it ain't lasting long 🥰.

little train. series masterlist.

there was somebody at your door. knocking away like a maniac, about to break your wall, if you must. pushing up your reading glasses to your read you walked towards the door, book in hand, afraid of losing the page you’d been reading. you peeped through the eyehole.

it was sirius. clad in a soft cotton t-shirt, paired with black jeans, he stood in front of the door, his hands carrying a beautiful bouquet of white roses. you opened the door, and he smiled wolfishly, sparing his white teeth.

‘let me in?’ he asked, handing you the bouquet. you moved aside, nodding your head.

‘please, make yourself comfortable.’

‘thank you, sweetheart,’ he said. his gray eyes raked over your figure clad in nothing but a hot pink silk pyjamas. your hair was put up messily into a bun and your nose covered in a mask to extract out blackheads.

‘uhh, i’m sorry I’ll go freshen up myself.’ he let out a bark like laughter.

‘honey, if there’s anybody who needs to be fresh within the walls of your home, then it’s me, not you. be comfortable, this is your house.’ you laughed at his silly comment, gesturing him to sit down on the sofa.

‘do you like the flowers? i can only hope you’re not allergic to them…’

‘i’m not, don’t worry. but what do i owe this sweet gesture to?’ he raised his left eyebrow, looking at you sceptically.

‘why, do you think sweet gestures are supposed to owe the other party something?’ you stuttered,

‘i-ah well, no.’

‘i can see you lying. if i must, i’m great at occlumency.’ you made a very fast attempt to block out your thoughts.

‘i’m an auror, i too am skilled at occlumency! doesn’t mean i go around reading other people’s thoughts!’ you exclaimed, throwing a pillow at him. he laughed, gesturing you to sit down.

‘can you get me a cuppa? i need to ask you something.’ he said. you sat down beside him, wandlessly summoning a cup, hot boiling water, a tea bag and a tray of sugar cubes.

‘i’m sorry i don’t have the kind you drink…i’m just the good old tea bag person…i don’t have too much tea…i’m not very fond of it…’ you drawled. putting in a couple of sugar cubes into the cup with hot water. you dipped the bag into the cup, then carefully handed it to him. he hummed gratefully,

‘it’s fine, sweetheart,’ the nickname rolled of his tongue so sweetly rasp, it made your stomach burst into intense collywobbles. ‘don’t me sorry. i know you prefer coffees…what was that? salted caramel lattes and a butter cookie.’ you gasp playfully.

‘you remember!’

‘of course, i remember. but actually, remind me to buy you a pack of butter cookies the next time i come back here.’

‘i can buy my own, you know that right?’

‘i mean, i do. it’s just fun to gift stuff other people.’ you hummed, nodding your head in reply.

‘i saw harry today.’ he said, taking a slow sip. you stare at him. he’s got his head lowered, as if he’s ashamed of something. he doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

‘did you?’ you whisper. you see his hands shake-the one he holds the cup with. he sniffs, as if trying to hold back tears.

‘i bought gifts for him you know? for his birthday. it’s in two days. but i still haven’t figured out how to give them to him. hell, i didn’t even know what my godson would like. god i feel awful.’ he whispers. after what seems like an eternity, he stares into your eyes.

‘it’s not your fault, sirius.’ you asserted, reaching for his shaking hand. he nods.

‘but you know, i just… feel like it is. even though it is not and i know i’m being unreasonable with my irrational way of thinking…but i can’t help but feel so fucking awful.’ you listen to every word he spills from his lips.

‘i understand, sirius.’

‘dumbledore told me he’d left him within the care of petunia-lily’s sister, and her husband. but i saw how they treated the poor boy today. he was carrying a huge heavy bag of groceries while petunia’s boy was kicking her all the way through the street for a bag of candies. what horrendous manners the boy had! while harry looked so sickly and thin and pale…yet somehow a carbon copy of james,’ he stops midway before chuckling ‘but he’s got lily’s eyes of course. i turned into padfoot, and followed them to see where they live.’ you nod, allowing him to continue. he squeezes your hand harder.

‘i’ve found where they live. i came here to ask you of a favor.’

‘what, sirius? i’ll help you if i can.’ you ask.

‘well, i’d like if you’d… you know act as a sales person and show up on their step trying to sell goods…’

the helmet on your head was heavy and tight. you rolled your eyes, gripping his shoulder hard as sat on the motorcycle. he whirred the engine.

‘are you ready?’ you nodded. from the mirror, you could see his bright wide smile as you clang onto him like a koala.

‘you’re not afraid, are you?’ he asked.

‘no.’

how sirius black had had you agreeing to this idea was of mystery. but you supposed it some sort of pity you felt for him. and somehow hated yourself for pitying him. he was the strongest and the bravest man you knew…yet here you were, pitying on him. or perhaps it wasn’t pity. maybe you just wanted to provide him the company he needed-he desired to get back on track on like. you remembered him to be a social butterfly as a young teen.

perhaps you were allowing yourself to be drained by his presence so that he wouldn’t be stuck on the parallels of death and paradise.

‘just hold on tight, and we’ll be off.’ he said. you wrapped your arms tenderly around his waist, gently striding your chin upon his shoulder. your thighs were parallel to his, the skin touching.

‘are you gonna fly?’ you asked timidly, apparently not very concealing about your fear. sirius couldn’t help but smile.

‘i was thinking, but now that you’re with me, i think rather against of it. you might crush my ribs.’

‘sirius black i’ll wipe that grin right off your face,’ you threatened. sirius merely laughed, apparently not very afraid of your threat. there was no reason to be-if you were quite honest with yourself, it was really only an empty threat. you slightly pinched his chest.

‘ouch, you hurt me, sweetheart,’

‘fly off black,’ you demanded.

‘oh, so we’re using last names now?’ he asked, grinning. ‘as you say, sweetheart,’ he said, whirring his engine and pushing off onto the sky. you unconsciously held onto his waist, tighter than intended to. the wind bites you on your face, and you hide it into the crook of his neck. he chuckles slightly, goosebumps kissing his skin as your warmth breathe fans over his cold neck.

‘i thought you wouldn’t be afraid?’ he teases.

‘just look ahead of you!’ you exclaim.

‘there’s nothing we’d bump into! except the birds of course.’ he’s right, of course, but you feel a twinge in your stomach every time he teases you. it’s a weird juxtaposition to be stranded upon, you think, because you really aren’t one who’s likes it when somebody teases you-you aren’t one who’s up for banter either. you find it to be quite obnoxious too, spewing unnecessary nonsense for the fun of it.

yet, somehow when sirius does it, your heart leaps with joy, and you feel yourself loosen up around him-comfortable around him.

you look down as you whir past the city lights. they glow subtly, creating a beautiful effect you want to engrave in your memory forever. they whizz past you, as he rides into the air. and suddenly, you find yourself sinking into the warmth that sirius black’s presence fills you up with. it’s a rare feeling you’re foreign to. it scares you, but you stay stranded, unable to escape the sweet feeling that tingles in the depth of your stomach.

it's as if you’re tasting the pleasures of life when he laughs, the sound loud and echoing in your brain as the city whirs past you into thin air.

to put in a short phrase, handling the wrath of petunia dursley or vernon dursley was not a child’s play. they’d lock the door at your face if they could if they’d be annoyed by strangers. but of course, there was a way to everybody’s heart in some way. with the correct charm and words, they could be easily melted into a puddle.

so, you turned up at their door selling the best sausages in the locality at a reasonable-no cheap price. while they weren’t very fond of pets, and didn’t appreciate you bringing your dog along with them, they seemed to have agreed to just for this bit for the dog seemed polite.

to demonstrate the quality of the sausages, you found yourself in the kitchen, sizzling up sausages on a little pan. sirius stood by you, unreasonably quiet as he observed the slight char on the sausages. you put them neatly on a plate, offering them to a kid whom you assumed to be their kid. there was no way he’d be harry-with the rather plump body, empty eyes and the mop of blonde hair. the familiarity with vernon and the child was almost uncanny.

‘who are you?’ a small voice asked, popping his head from the door of the kitchen.

‘come here boy! give the lovely girl some water!’ vernon barked as a form of acknowledging his presence. the boy nodded, walking towards the fridge, to fetch you some water. the quiet interaction was disturbed by the sudden barking of the black dog. it turned around his body, barking at harry who stood petrified by the fridge-afraid of the sudden barks. you could’ve easily recognised harry by his messy black curls, and the bright emerald eyes which hid the same shine of kindness as lily’s did.

‘calm down snuffles, c’me here,’ you said, raking your nails through his soft hair. it was eerily familiar to sirius’ soft and silky strands.

‘he gets agitated when he smells food.’ you explained. petunia nodded, staring at the dog who was now perched on your lap. with silent mischief, he licked the blonde boy’s plate, as if proving your statement.

‘oh, lovely boy,’ you cooed at the boy, ‘do you mind if i take a sausage?’

‘take a half from a half,’ he replied, his voice thick as he swallowed down the meat. you tried not to show the slight annoyance you felt at his words, breaking a small piece from the sausage. you rubbed a spot behind sirius’ ear, silently pleading him to not get out of control.

harry slid you a cold glass of water. this was the moment to steal. you could only hope you didn’t mess this up. it was tricky to do an invisibility spell wandless and wordless-but you had trained yourself thorough and hard to try and fight any situations which could barricade your way to success. all you had to do was to put the gifts along with the letter sirius had written him into the place where he slept.

it was tricky, yet done within the few spins of the second hand on the clock. you watched as the night sky darkened, from the dursley’s window, you decided to exit. this place was extremely suffocating, and within yourself you felt something snap. you weren’t expecting the dursleys to buy anything from you anyway, so you when they refused the offer to buy the sausages, you took the opportunity and ran for it, snuffles barking after you as he ran after you.

once outside the house, you breathed slow and heavy, watching snuffles transform into sirius. with a pocket full of soul, he took your hand into his, running towards the parking spot of his motorcycle.

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original idea posted by - @lilwnet

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @iamgayforyourmom1510

taglist (for series) - @urbansaint

(if you want to be tagged please send a request through my inbox.)

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#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #marauders #sirius black #sirius x reader #sirius black smut #the marauders #sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #marauders era #sirius black thoughts #sirius black x oc #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanart #sirius being sirius #sirius black fluff #sirius black angst #fanfiction #james & peter & remus & sirius

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