#and some of them really are... something.

[bitterrfruit]

milk teeth

cult leader ! price x f!reader cw: heavy smut. cult grooming. praise and punishment. lots of 'good girl' and a smidge of degradation. breeding. exhibitionism. things involving all three orifices. price is depraved. Jonathan sets his eyes on his next sacrificial lamb. This one might be his favourite. or [read on ao3]

Jonathan always had a taste for sweeter things. 

He fancied himself a collector. Some might have said the habit started when he was a young man; gathered the prettiest girls like notches on his belt, luring them with attention before moving onto the next once he inevitably grew bored of them.  

Truth was, it started long before then. Stemmed from his childhood, when he’d pilfer candies from other children and they’d cede to him without dispute, because they were frightened of him. Or perhaps from his infancy, when he’d suckle his mother dry, leaving her bruised and seeding a hatred for him deep in the pits of her. Or even from within the womb, when he hoarded all of the blood from her placenta and starved his twin of life, thus born already lavish with the greed of a victor.

He never considered himself greedy, though. 

Greed, he thought, implied an undeserving nature. One could only covet that which he didn’t have already — and Jonathan had everything. He deserved everything. 

All that he wanted already belonged to him, he needed only reach out and take it. He wanted money, so he was gifted with the charms of a salesman. He wanted women, so he was anointed with good looks that only ripened as he aged. He wanted power, so with the benisons he was born with he obtained it as easily as a river rolling downhill. What began as a runnel swelled quickly into whitewater, picking up creatures and stones as it went and carving an indelible valley into the bedrock. 

Followers flocked to him like chickens, pecking at his feet for crumbs of his attention, and he fed them just enough to keep them hungry. What started as one or two sycophants grew quickly into ten, then twenty, and soon he had a hundred-acre pasture to turn them out on and an array of hand-built coops to keep them in. A commune, as far as the rest of the world knew it, but in truth it was his abbey. Populated by disciples that worshiped him, serfs that toiled for him, pretty hens that waited on him. 

The problem with ceaseless indulgence, though, was how quickly he grew bored of it. Even the sweetest things turned sour if he sucked on them for too long. 

He was not ignorant of how spoilt he had become. So spoilt, in fact, that his flock’s willingness to appease him had turned to such cloying adulation that it made his head ache. Needy little lambs, the lot of them, scuffling for the milk of his praise, unendingly competing for a single drop of it. 

He had begun to fear that true satisfaction was impossible to attain. Nothing, nobody, would ever be enough for him. No amount of servile women could surfeit him. No amount of devotion could truly appease him.

What he really wanted was something intractable. Something to break in. Something he had to work to tame. 

Chickens and sheep were easy to herd, easy to please, easy to come by. Lions, bears, far less so. What strength was there to claim in leading livestock just as any old shepherd can? Domesticating a creature unbroken would be a true testament to his godliness, he thought. 

He had no interest in battling for dominance with an equal, though. He would never be willing to share his cathedra with someone of comparable strength or power — not to say that such a being could possibly exist, there was no one alive comparable to him. 

What he needed, he thought, was a cub. 

A callow little beast, not yet big enough to know her own strength, but coursing with a valour that his lambs seemed to lack. A creature he’d need to keep under a firm heel. One he’d need to bridle before she learned to bite. 

Such a thought ran through his mind when he saw you. 

Hadn’t caught your name yet. Hadn’t even been informed of your impending arrival, as you were shown to a seat at the other end of the vast dining table. Timid thing you were, feigning some moxie with your arms crossed, but he could smell your unease. Wide in your eyes when you caught his and he chewed hard on nothing. 

You might have thought you were only there to visit, sweet girl, but Jonathan had already decided that you were there to stay. 

Reaching out to your cousin was a last resort. 

You weren’t even sure that Freya was your cousin — perhaps a second cousin something removed, or merely a family friend — one that you didn’t remember meeting but had somehow been acquainted with since birth. You were friends with her on Facebook, and though you only hardly ever used the bot-infested website, you messaged her anyway. 

Hi Freya — this is so random and I’m so sorry to get in touch out of the blue, but I’m not sure who else to turn to!! I just lost my job and my landlord has doubled my rent and I have to move out by this weekend. I don’t mean to dump sorry, but I just remembered a while ago you said you were living on a shared farm or something? Totally understand if I can’t and literally no pressure at all, but just wondering if there might be room for me to crash for a while? I don’t want to be a burden so don’t feel like you have to say yes or reply or anything. Anyway I’m sorry it’s been so long since I reached out, I hope you’re doing well!!! xxx

You had sent the paragraph after ten p.m. on the Thursday. You dithered about it for a while before you gathered the nerve to hit send — curled up on the mattress that sat raw on the floor, snivelling quietly to yourself and nearly deliquescing into the foam out of sheer humiliation. You hated asking for favours, pathologically averse to seeking help at all costs; which, paradoxically, had landed you in this very predicament. 

The message went unopened until you fell asleep, but you woke up puffy-eyed to a reply that had been sent just after five in the morning;

Hi!! So sorry to hear about everything you’re going through, that sounds so hard. Of course, there’s always room here!! I would be soooo happy for you to stay! Do you need help moving out? My friend has a truck we can use. We can get you here before Sunday if you want. Let me know x

Freya and her friend Philip arrived the next day, tooth-achingly sweet as they helped carry boxes of your things into the back of the truck, stuffing in all the furniture that they offered to store at the Homestead, so they called it, until you found another place. All lolly-smiles and sunny pleasantries, offering you ice-cold homebrew that they kept in a cooler, wedges of a ginger slice they had packed for the ride, all homemade as Freya had beamingly told you. 

The drive to the countryside might have been awkward if it had been anyone else in the cab with you, but the two of them filled the silence with a cacophony of laughter and saccharine questions about your miserable life. You avoided real answers most of the time, but they were adept in milking honesty out of you, so painfully earnest in their responses — oh my gosh, that’s just awful, I’m so sorry. That must be so scary. You must be so lonely. 

The truck’s bench seat meant you were squished in together, Freya wedged between you and her friend — there was no space to turn your head away or quietly vacate the conversation by looking out the window. You could only sheepishly confess to everything they asked of you — that no, you weren’t seeing that guy anymore, and no, you hadn’t spoken to your parents in months, and no, you weren’t willing to admit to them how far you had fallen. 

“I’m just so happy you messaged me, it’ll do wonders for you,” Freya said loudly over the open windows, wind flipping through her sandy-brown hair, cut short just below her jaw. “Like — I was just thinking about you the other day. Isn’t that special?” 

“Yeah,” you replied, mustering as sincere a smile as you could. “I’m really grateful for your help.” 

“Of course,” she cooed, gentle hand on your shoulder. “We’re family! We’ll always be there for you.” 

Something made you uneasy about her use of we, but it was smothered by reluctant gratitude. The stars had aligned, after all; you had been granted such a stroke of luck by the powers that be that you dared not question them. You couldn’t risk Philip turning around to dump you back at your empty apartment, nor could you risk falling out of favour with Freya, who you were now completely indebted to. 

“The, um, Homestead — is it like, a village, or something?” You asked eventually, an hour or so into the drive.

Both of them giggled at that, and you did your best not to frown in bemusement. “Kind of,” Philip replied. 

“It’s just divine — paradise, really,” Freya added. “You’ll love it,” 

Not an answer. “So… like, a commune?” 

Freya gave you a thin smile. “That’s a cute word for it. Yeah, I guess it is sort of a commune. but—”

“You’ll see when we get there,” Philip interrupted. 

His tone was unthreatening though firm, and it ended the discussion. 

You asked no more questions for the remainder of the drive; most of which was rough and bouncy, trundling over dirt roads riddled with mud-filled potholes and the odd roadkill smeared over the gravel. 

It was beautiful countryside, you could admit — it had been a long while since you left the smoggy din of the inner city, and out here the air was fresh and bright, especially then in the acme of summer. The breezes were velvety, the sun-bleached trees were dense with lemon-green leaves, and the waving grass was lush and emerald. Swathes of freshly shorn sheep coated the hills, and some friesian cows shared the same fields, heads bowed as they chewed on the same pasturage they shat on. 

By the time you approached the farm the evening sun had sunk to the margins of the sky, disparate clouds catching its orange light on its way towards the horizon. Only as the hills flattened out and the truck passed a bulwark of poplar windbreaks did you finally start to see semblances of buildings.

You weren’t sure what exactly you had expected, but it wasn’t what you saw — an array of seemingly hand-built cottages, bedecked in tooth-white cladding and rectangle windows, with perfectly pointed gables and corrugated metal roofs. All of them were roughly the same size with a porch jutting out the front, lined up like barracks along a single path — hardly a road, merely a muddy track where the grass had been worn down to the rocky soil beneath it. 

“Home sweet home!” Freya crooned, as Philip pulled the truck towards some less cookie-cutter buildings — stables, or something similar, he parked beneath a large corrugated canopy under which a tractor and some hay bales had been stored. 

Freya dismissed Philip with a word and told you he would take care of your things — whatever that meant — as she scooped her arm around you and pottered towards the centre of the commune. Looking at it now, you could confidently call it such; you spotted the odd person in the distance toiling over the farmland, or hanging wet laundry over a washing line, or carrying buckets full of a liquid you couldn’t identify. No visible power lines, a functioning well, a windmill in the distance. Entirely off the grid, you presumed, and only then did the thought strike you that you might not have any phone signal out here. 

“So these are our houses,” Freya explained jubilantly as she led you down the gravelly path between the shacks. “Me and my friend Sam live in this one here.” 

“Nice,” you remarked politely, squinting to look into the windows as you followed Freya up to the porch, but they were blocked by lace blinds within. 

The flat panel door squealed on its hinges as she pushed it open, a little beaten up at the edges where it had been installed by rough tools and inexperienced hands. The interior smelt of sawdust and citrus and a faint hint of body odour — you guessed they were the kind of folk that didn’t use deodorant, and you found yourself praying they at least had running showers. 

Inside were two beds and a small kitchenette — hip-height shelves with flat surfaces for chopping vegetables, and a little gas stovetop. No fridge, no sink, no dishes. Seemed as though they didn’t even use the space for preparing food at all. 

“We can set up a bed for you in here, if you want,” Freya told you, “or otherwise there’s a bed in Philip’s cabin.” 

You frowned at that, because she said it with a little smile, and you didn’t know her well enough to decipher it. Whatever the case, it left a floury feeling in your tummy, and you nodded in place of an answer. 

“Well, you can decide later,” she said. “C’mon, you’re here in time for supper.” 

At the end of the road stood tall some kind of spire-bedecked chapel — a building Freya called the hall, and when your nose must have inadvertently scrunched at her bible-thumping description, she couched it by telling you; “no, it’s not a church. Or, it can be, if you want it to be. It’s for everybody.” 

It became abundantly clear to you that you were in over your head as you crossed the paths of other commune-dwellers venturing to the hall for supper. All dressed up in their prim and propers; every woman in flower-toned skirts of varying lengths and pleasant white blouses, men cladded in their button-ups and linen pants. 

“Looks like I’m underdressed,” you murmured to Freya, looking down at your jeans and t-shirt, infused with dry sweat worked up while lifting and hauling all your boxes and furniture. 

Freya giggled. “No, no, nobody cares about that,” she said. “It’s only because it’s the end of the week.” 

“Sunday best?” You asked with a simper, an attempt at a joke that you were well aware may not have landed. 

You could never quite get a read on her — she had the potent positivity of a bible-camp counsellor, that sort of tight-lipped smile that gave the impression she had a fragile tolerance for banter or disagreement. But that veneer didn’t crack, nor did it appear to conceal any manipulation or malicious deception — instead it seemed like that berry-jam sweetness was thick in the blood that pumped through her veins, and glowed earnestly bright and pink in her cheeks. 

“Yeah,” she chuckled, “I guess you could say that. But there’s no dress code, or… uniform, or whatever. Don’t worry. We’re not a cult or anything.” 

Preempting your burgeoning concern that the commune was a cult should not have comforted you as much as it did, but it was settling to hear some degree of self-awareness. In honesty, you hadn’t been there long enough to make a fair assumption, but the entire affair was undeniably Jonestown-esque — especially as you wandered into the gaping raw-timber hall, to find a boat-long table with a man seated at the head. 

He sucked the air out of you. 

Indescribably so. Like a black hole at the end of the room, drawing both light and oxygen into his orbit, occupying it all for himself. Palpable in the size of him — great hulking man with shoulders like an ox and arms as thick as trunks, flocked in dense hair that swept around his forearms and tufted out of the neckline of his shabby white t-shirt. The cotton was distended by bulk, pulled tight over a heavily padded chest, mucky with dust and mired by darkened patches of sweat between his pectorals and under his arms. 

You could feel his mass from where you slipped into the hall behind Freya, a weight that you felt in your stomach and it made your brows crumple up in worry you could not pin. 

Worse, when he met your eye. 

He leaned back in his seat like it was a throne. Eyes dark as cave pools that ensnared you above the brown beer bottle he tipped into a jutting jaw, hooked in a thick forefinger. They followed you sharply as you entered the room, like hooks, and you could feel where they pierced your skin. 

An ambiguous expression festered in his features; sceptical, maybe, or vaguely bitter — something fixed in it, though, an unspoken accusation that made you feel as if he had detected some wrongdoing you had yet to confess to. It compelled you to defensively wrap your arms around yourself, though you kept your eyes on him, if only to test whether he would look away. 

He didn’t. 

He was sheeny with sweat and ruddy-cheeked like he had just turned in from a day of hard labour. Decidedly underdressed compared to the residents of the commune that filed into the bench seats on either side of the table, one-by-one, well practiced; no shuffling awkwardly along to make room, no murmured sorries as knees knocked and seats bumped.

Twenty-four of them, sixteen on each side of the table. You tucked yourself awkwardly at the end of the row, next to Freya. It did not escape your notice that you had ruined their even number, clumsily jutting out of what would have been a perfectly mirrored seating arrangement. Your brows knitted together in chagrin when you got side-eye glances from the people across the table. 

It struck you that there were far more men than women seated — you and Freya were two of five — but the moment the thought gained traction you looked up to see eight women in aprons file in from a door at the back of the hall. 

Platters in tow, puffy trails of steam following them as they lay each dish down along the table. Lamb, by the looks; four great brown hocks of roast leg, charred and gritty with thick bones poking out of the slabs of meat. Accompanying those platters were large dishes of boiled potatoes, bowls of peas, a few piles of indeterminable green and brown mush. Soon the cavernous hall was filled with the thick scent of steaming meat and bone marrow, and it might have smelt appealing if you weren’t so on edge. 

On edge, not only because you felt a leech, latched on to the ankle of a community you hadn’t yet been introduced to, as though hoping they didn’t notice you there and pinch you off by the jaws — but worse, because you could feel the burning stare from the man at the head penetrating straight through you, and your skin all but bubbled and blistered under it. 

“Hungry?” Freya asked with a smile, rubbing her hands together above her empty plate. 

To face Freya meant you were facing that man, and you could see him glowering at you even out of focus, in your periphery as you addressed her. Your eyes flicked to meet him despite a concerted effort not to, so you looked at your plate instead. 

“Not really,” you murmured, though you quickly realised how rude it sounded once the words left your mouth. “Filled up on ginger slice on the drive over — but it smells delicious, so I’ll definitely have some.” 

“Good,” she says with a nod, “this is the real deal, you know. The good stuff. You could never buy food like this at a supermarket. You know Philip butchers it himself?”

You’re not sure why that comment made you swallow. “Does he?” You ask, out of polite disinterest.

“Mhm. He’s a good one, too. No gristle or anything, just you wait.” 

You nod and smile, gritting teeth, because you accidently caught his eye again when you hadn’t even tried to and it made your stomach cramp up. 

The women who brought in the food began to file into the empty sides of the benches, and one pressed up next to you as if you had taken her spot. Freya mindlessly fiddled with her fork, and suddenly you realised how quiet the hall had fallen. 

Silence settled like smoke. You suddenly had to bite down on the urge to cough. Glanced around the table, platters steaming and ready to be served with their great big spoons — and yet, nobody touched them. 

Until the man at the head leaned forward with a grunt, clunking his bottle down on the table and reaching over to grab the prongs on the platter in front of him. Pulled off a massive hunk of tender meat, stringy and dripping reddish juices along the table, before dumping it on his plate. 

The hall was suddenly alive again, then, and everybody continued their discussions as normal — a plethora of hands reaching across the table, grabbing spoons and forks, scooping and serving themselves humble helpings of meat and vegetables compared to the mountain the man had piled up for himself. 

“Here you go,” Freya said, having filled your plate for you without your noticing; a polite pile of meat, two potatoes, and a scoop of peas. 

“Oh, thank you,” you replied, with a smile, as she put it down in front of you.

It took a few turgid minutes before you could muster another word, swallowing dry mouthfuls of your meal to busy yourself while you felt those inculpatory eyes needling at the side of your head. 

“Who is that?” You asked Freya, quietly, swallowing a mouthful of potatoes. As casually as you could make your interest sound to avoid revealing how your thoughts had been invaded by him, pounding like a headache, from the moment you set foot in the hall. 

“Hm?” She hummed, mouth full, looking up and around to see who you were talking about. “Who?” 

“Him,” you said, nodding your head towards the head of the table, eyes dashing back to your plate when he met them again. 

“Oh! That’s Jonathan!” She answered you, jarring as a sudden clap. 

“Jonathan?” You probed, taking another mouthful of food to hide your scepticism. 

“Yeah, he’s the, like, founder, or something… I’m not sure what you’d call it.”

“Founder? Like, of this whole place?”

“Mhm,” she nodded, swallowing. “He brought a few of the old hands with him over from Liverpool to set up the farmland. I wanna say… ten, eleven years ago? Much longer than I’ve been here, anyway.” 

“How long have you been here?” You queried, regretful of how judgemental it sounded when you said it, but she seemed either oblivious or unflustered. 

“Over a year, I think,” she said. “Nearly two, maybe.” 

“Wow,” you said, through your food. It was actually pretty good. “Must be one hell of a farm.”

She snickered at that. “I’m not here for the farm,” she laughed, “well — it’s a bonus, of course. But, no, I stuck around for the family.” 

Family. You tried to conceal how it made you wince, but you weren’t sure how successful you were in doing so. You didn’t want to continue that line of questioning, though. It made your throat tighten up, and whatever else she might have told you, you didn’t want to know. You only needed a place to sleep, after all. Only for a week, two at most. No longer than that, you decided, repeated it firmly so that it was fixed as fact in the back of your head.

Then you caught his eye, again, and he seemed to tilt his head at you, a tug in his brow like he had read your mind and taken issue with your thought. 

“He keeps staring at me,” you muttered quietly, head tipped towards Freya so that none of the other people could hear you. 

Her head spun cartoonishly on her shoulders to look at Jonathan, and you wished you knew her well enough to elbow her for making it so painfully obvious you had been talking about him. 

He leaned back smugly in his chair. Held your gaze like a challenge. 

“I don’t think he wants me here,” you whispered edgily. 

Freya looked back at you with her brows pin straight. “He just hasn’t met you yet — you should go up and introduce yourself.” 

You frowned anxiously. “What? Right — right now?”

“Yeah, you should. He’s probably expecting you to.” 

“Expecting me?” You balked, face twisting at prospect that the man could have been audacious enough to expect anything from a stranger. 

“It’s only polite,” Freya said calmly, with an easy smile, and a gentle hand on your arm. “He’s the one who is letting you stay.” 

You chewed on that for a moment, forcing the vitriol in your mouth to slide down your throat with a hard swallow. She was right — if it was his farm, and it sounds as though it might have been — then he was the one doing you the favour. 

Before you could dither about whether you had the bravery to call across the table and say hello — which, you didn’t — he spoke. 

“Who’s this, Freya?”

His voice cut through the din of the meal like a chainsaw. 

Freya bolted upright, spine plank-straight as if called to attention, though it took her a second to register the question. 

A quirk twisted in his brow when she told him your name, and his jaw masticated on it for a moment. You prayed for the ability to curl up into yourself like a snail, because now not only was he glaring at you, so was every other pair of eyes at the table. All you could do was keep your chin high and act as if the bizarreness of the situation wasn’t eating away at you like gangrene. 

“She’s a friend,” Freya added sheepishly. 

“You didn’t tell me she was coming, did you?” He asked rigidly, and while there wasn’t anything directly accusatory in his tone, she reacted as if she had been scolded. 

“Um — well, I said that I had a friend coming, and you—”

“A friend. That’s right,” he crooned, and Freya deflated like a popped balloon at the release of blame. “C’mere, then.” 

“Me?” Freya asked tightly, and he only tilted his head condescendingly — all but saying obviously not. 

“Our new friend,” he said simply, ursine eyes fastened to you across the table. Gestured at you with a flick of his fingers. “C’mere, cub.” 

Your eyes darted abashedly around the room, unsure what you were looking for — an escape, perhaps. Maybe encouragement. You found none, so with a sharp breath you pushed yourself up to stand. Had to awkwardly clamber around Freya and the other woman next to you to step over the bench, bumping them both on your way up. All of the simmering attention in the hall was on you, and you wished you had never come to the weird fucking Homestead in the first place. 

There was no choice but to entertain it. You didn’t have your own car. You didn’t have it in you to demand to leave in front of all of these seemingly normal people. You didn’t have it in you to make a scene. 

“Bring your supper, love,” Jonathan said warmly. “Come sit.”

You sucked your lips between your teeth in reluctance, but you capitulated quickly — bending between Freya and the woman to pick up your half-empty plate, carrying it with both hands as you made your rueful way towards his end of the table. 

His head followed you as though on a stick on your approach. Gestured wordlessly at the man sitting on his left, and the entire row shuffled along the bench seat to allow you space right beside the head. It took you a moment to gather the nerve to sit, so you put your plate down first. 

“Sit down,” he said. 

Your lip curled at his patronising tone, and out of spite you remained standing for just a beat too long — until brief shadow of potent displeasure saturated his features, lips in a line under his dense umber beard. It made the back of your neck feel cold. 

The fleeting indignation was brushed off with a smirk, though, followed swiftly by a puff of laughter. Something in his air told you he’d only wait for so long, but for now he was amused by your disobedience. 

You sat yourself down, only because the awkwardness was suffocating, and your spite was quickly smothered by embarrassment when it became clear that everybody in the building was waiting for you to listen to him. 

“There you go,” he grinned, taking a sip of his beer to cut the tension, and it snapped like a rubber band. The others were abruptly busy with themselves again, chatting amongst each other and chewing away at their meals. 

Then it was only you, and the minacious beast of a man. Swallowed by the vacuum of his tunnelling attention until the rest of the room sounded hazy and indistinct. 

“What brings you all the way out here, then, sweetheart?” He asked casually, the air suddenly buzzing and warm around him. 

Eyes that you thought had been black were in fact blue as storm clouds, that creased fondly in the corners when he smiled at you. His lack of introduction felt pointed, confident that you were already well aware of who he was. 

“Um,” you bit, oddly lost for words, you poked at a pea on your plate with your fork. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Give it a go,” he pressed, scooping a mouthful of meat and potatoes into his mouth, though his eyes didn’t leave you. 

“Well, I was working at — I mean, it doesn’t matter. I was made redundant. Or, fired, or whatever. They were really vague about it, so I don’t even know,” you over-explained, suddenly regretting every word that rolled uncontrollably out of your mouth. “But then, well, I’ve been going back and forth with my landlord about rent for ages. I thought I had gotten through to him — because I told him, I made it super clear I’d have to break the lease if he increased it as much as he wanted to. But he did it anyway, bumped it to more than double what I was paying, and so—”

“So you’re homeless, are you, cub?” He interrupted, brows raised, as though summarising your rambling points for you. 

You tripped on your own voice like a raised root on a footpath, cocking your head back as you looked up at him. You weren’t sure why you were affronted by the suggestion. 

“I’m not — no, I’m not homeless,” you corrected, unconfidently, and he smiled at that. 

“Do you have a home?” He asked simply. 

A divot pulled in your brow. “Not right now, but—”

“Don’t pout, love,” he chided. “I’m not insulting you. It’s just the truth, in’t it?”

“But I’m not homeless, my parents have a house, and I—”

He seemed to stiffen at the mention of parents, and it should have alarmed you. “Parents, eh? But you’re here instead?” 

“Well, yeah, but it’s only because—”

“Easy, easy,” he cooed, voice low and gurgling. “No need to get so defensive, mh? M’only curious about you. S’not often we have urbanites like you wandering in.”

Something in his expression, in his voice, was as warm in your mouth as liquor. Eyes that earlier disquieted you were now soft, crinkled and sincere in their interest, and you could only yield with a short sigh. 

“What’s that mean?” You asked, failing to conceal your sulkiness. 

He chuckled at you, as he scooped up another mouthful of his meal onto his fork. 

“City bird,” he said frankly, through his food. “I can smell it on you.” 

You frowned, vaguely offended but with no clue what he meant by it. “Excuse me?” 

“All that perfume,” he explained disapprovingly. “Cigarettes. Car exhaust. Mh. This place’ll do y’good.” 

You resented yourself for suddenly feeling insecure. “You don’t like my perfume?” 

He shook his head once. “Bunch o’ chemicals,” he dismissed. “I bet you smell much better underneath it.” 

Couldn’t explain why that made your diaphragm seize up, and you let out a pitiful little cough on reflex. Maybe it was because he said it while he looked at you like meat, conspicuously letting his gaze rake down to your chest and linger there for a moment. You were thankful he couldn’t peer any lower by virtue of the table. 

“Probably not,” you said meekly, in an attempt to lighten the conversation. “I got all sweaty lifting all my furniture and stuff this morning.” 

He looked perturbed by that, a reproachful glance up from his plate. “Didn’t Freya bring Philip along to do the moving?”

“Yeah, he helped a lot,” you said, suddenly worried you might have gotten her in trouble — then doubled back on that thought, when you considered how vile it was that being in trouble was something the people of the commune might have had to worry about. “But, y’know. I had a lot of stuff, I wasn’t gonna make him do all the work.” 

He tutted. “Can’t have that.” 

“Can’t have what?” You asked dubiously. 

“Can’t have you doin’ hard work,” he elaborated, as though explaining something you should already have known. “Wee lambs like you should stay nice n’ soft.” 

Your lips pursed reprovingly. “I’m not a lamb,” you snapped. 

A grin dimpled his bearded cheeks. “Maybe not.”

You froze as his burly hand dragged across the table, before he brushed his thumb over the back of your wrist. The touch made your belly tense up and your hairs stand on end, and all you could do was blink at him. 

“Still nice n’ soft, though. Don’t want to ruin that, do you, cub?” 

Cub. 

His usage of it had gone unnoticed until the third time, but you quickly began to ruminate on it. An idiosyncratic term of endearment, maybe, but something in how he said it felt pointed. Knowing. Vaguely accusatory. 

His fixation on your softness should have made your hackles spike up, but his expression was almost exultory, and his touch made a shiver tingle up your arm. You were suddenly conscious of your heartbeat. 

You didn’t know how to answer him. 

“I don’t — I’m not soft—” 

“Feel bloody soft to me,” he remarked, giving your wrist a squeeze. “And m’sure you’re even softer on the inside.” 

Your stomach dropped at that, and you wore it on your face, bright and hot in the cheeks. He said it so casually, with such an earnest smile, that you chastised yourself for what must have been a wild misinterpretation. He surely meant metaphorically, commenting on your personality, your softness of nature, rather than your—

“Y’got a boy, love?” He asked candidly, returning to his meal, and the skin of your wrist felt cold once his hand retreated. 

“A boy?” 

He raised a brow at you, a silent what do you think? as he chewed his food. His use of boy felt calculated and you wondered how old he thought you were. 

“Oh — uh, no.” 

“Mh,” he mused, mouth full. “Somethin’ happen?” 

His ability to read you was uncanny, and it made you squirm. 

“Um, yeah, I came out of a relationship recently.” 

He raised his eyebrows as he swallowed. “D’he leave you?” 

That made you frown on reflex. Insulted that he had assumed it. Vexed that you were giving something away you hadn’t intended to. Troubled that you couldn’t seem to hold your cards close enough to your chest, and he was peeking at them whether you liked it or not. 

“No,” you retorted. “It was pretty mutual.” 

“Did he leave you?” He repeated, but there was no rigidity in it, no severity in his expression. It came out as naturally and calmly as small talk. 

You looked away from him, scratching the back of your hand. “Well, I — we were growing apart anyway, he just ripped the bandaid off.”  

He nodded in understanding, patently satisfied that you had capitulated. “Rubbish took itself out, eh?” 

You smiled wryly at that. Hadn’t expected him to say something in your favour after rudely assuming you must have been dumped.  

“S’pose so,” you said. “Definitely feel a bit freer without him.” 

“Good,” he chortled deeply, scooping himself another mouthful of meat. “We don’t have room for another lad livin’ here.” 

You pouted in thought — living here, he said. You worried for a moment he might have misunderstood your presence at the commune, or that Freya had not made it clear to him that your stay was temporary. 

“I’m not moving here, or anything,” you clarified hesitantly. 

“Aren’t you?”

You gave him a mild shake of your head. “No — I’m only staying for a week or so.” 

He smiled at that, letting out a gruff sigh as he leaned back in his seat, picking up his beer. “S’alright, love,” he said. “You can stay however long you like.” 

You looked askance at him. “I’m — thank you.” 

“Have you got yourself a bed?” He asked coolly. 

“Um, sounds like I’m either staying in Freya’s house or Philip’s house.” 

His jaw tightened. “No, no,” he dismissed with a scoff. “I’ll get you a proper spot.”

“What do you mean?” 

“A place with a bed just for you, love. No need to share.”

You shook your head guiltily. “Oh, no, I’m totally happy to—”

“Don’t be daft,” he grunts. “Freya already has a friend with her and Philip — well. Can’t have a thing as pretty and innocent as you sharing a bed with a man you don’t know, can I?” 

Your mouth went dry. Innocent should have been an omen to heed, but you were too busy spinning about pretty. Wanted to smack yourself for letting it get to your head, but by the time the remorse arose the seeds of flattery had already been sown. 

It crossed your mind, then, that Freya had failed to mention you’d be sharing a bed with Philip and not just a room. You remembered her little smile and wondered if it was your fault for failing to pick up on it. 

“I just — I don’t want to be an inconvenience, or anything.”

He shifted forward, then, and his immense hand travelled under the table, before fixing firmly to your thigh. 

Close enough to your knee that you would have felt unjustified in smacking him, but high enough that you felt a sudden fizzing in the base of you — a moiling, something warm and shuddering in the cradle of your pelvis, and your face burned hot. You wondered if you might have been ovulating, because that was the only justification you could muster for how your body reacted to his enormously inappropriate touch. 

“Not an inconvenience at all, cub,” he said sincerely. 

“That’s—”

Tranquilised, when his fingertips pressed just lightly enough into either side of your thigh that it could have been accidental. Sent a shock up your femoral nerve that stabbed you in the core and made you twitch. 

You attempted to finish your sentence, but your jaw was fixed, because you had short-circuited the moment he touched you. 

You had your people-pleasing tendencies, but you had never been a doormat. You knew when something was a step over the line, an affront, an action worthy of retaliation. In another setting you might have called him a pig and thrown some peas at him before storming off. That abeyant aggression had gotten you into sticky situations before, because not all men held to the moral of not hitting a woman back.  

You didn’t think he would have been the type to get violent if you were to snap at him, but there was a murkiness about him, and you could not say so confidently. Pupils somehow blacker than black, smoky within.

It wasn’t fear, though, that kept you placid. You weren’t afraid of him. Awestruck, maybe. Morbidly intrigued, like you had stumbled across a bear through the trees and despite yourself yearned for a closer look at such an elusive beast. 

It didn’t help that your thigh was dwarfed by the expanse of his hand. That his thumb grazed you up and down through the denim of your jeans. That you saw his pulse in the veins of his forearm as your stare trailed upward, fixing to the way the bands of muscle moved under his skin as he stroked your leg. 

“That’s nice of you, thank you,” you murmured, once you found your voice again. 

He nodded, satisfied, and his paw released your thigh before giving you a chaste pat on the knee. 

“Good,” he said, putting down his fork, and you realised he had already finished his mound of food. “Finish up your dinner and we’ll get you settled in, eh?”

You didn’t notice it then, but the moment his fork hit the table, so did everyone else's. 

The cabin he gave to you was another white cottage, but this one had a cariad rosebush out the front; dense with spring-bloomed flowers, tissue-paper pink, yellow anthers laden with pollen. It was also the closest cottage to the hall, the very last one at the end of the road, with no opposite cabin to mirror it. 

He had Freya show you to it. You heard him tell her under his breath to give her a proper welcome, which made your brow tight and your palms sweat. It was an uncomfortable wait as Philip brought your suitcase from wherever he had stored it, and he left it by the foot of your new bed — a narrow single, with a tartan woolen blanket and a single pillow. 

You thanked him as he left, and he rolled his eyes, responding with a curt scoff. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Freya leaned against the jamb of the door, giving Philip a strangely pitiful expression on his way out, before she turned her attention back to you. 

“I feel bad,” you said sheepishly, crossing your arms as you stood in the centre of your personal cabin. 

Freya sucked her teeth at that. “For what?” 

“I mean — getting a whole cabin. That feels like a bit much. I just thought I’d be—” 

She pursed her lips. “What’d he say to you?” 

“What?” 

“Jonathan,” she bit. “You were talking all supper.” 

If she was irritated at you, she concealed it well. Kept her brows high and her posture loose despite her line of questioning. 

“Um,” you started. “I dunno, he just asked me questions, I guess.” 

“Like?” 

“Like — uh, why I’m here and how long I’m staying for, and stuff.” 

She seemed to chew on that for a moment. “That all?”

“Why?” You questioned warily.

“Oh — nothing, I’m only curious. I’d just feel terrible if he interrogated you on your first night here.”

Your brows pinched together. “Um, I mean, he didn’t interrogate me or anything. He was nice enough.” 

She let out a short breath, and a smile pulled in her lips. “Yeah, he must like you.”

You only shrugged, unsure if the comment merited a response. Uneasy about the implied weight of him liking you, and you wondered what might have happened if it turned out he didn’t. 

“Anyway, I’m really glad you’re here,” she said, suddenly warming up. “You let me know if you need anything, will you?” 

You returned her smile if only out of courtesy. “Oh, thanks, I will.”

“Anything at all. Even if you only need a shoulder. We’re here for you, okay?”

It was too easy to slip into a routine. 

You had a few days of lounging — that’s what Freya called it — time spent leisurely as opposed to working like everybody else did.

The summer heat was dry but inebriating, and it sunk in through your skin like a percutaneous medicine. Soaked into your spongy brain like ether, and what was once a persistent anxiety that needled and hummed behind your forehead was numbed into a pleasant compliance. 

You had always felt that you suffered from a degree of social anxiety. A pathological fear of rejection that kept you under the heel of solitude, because being actively excluded was more painful than not including yourself at all. 

And yet, you were making friends. 

The people of the Homestead were so warm, so sunny, and so eager for your company, that any worry about not fitting in was forcibly shucked off of you like the husk of a corn. Whatever uncertainty about you that smouldered in the air during the first supper had evaporated, and suddenly those that had looked at you with suspicion were instead all agog about you. 

There was Georgie, who knocked on the door of your cabin at eight in the morning on your first full day, and offered to walk you around the farm. She told you she had never seen someone so pretty, and that she only looked funny at you at supper because she was intimidated by you. She asked you questions about yourself with such genuine intrigue that you found yourself answering in gratuitous detail, and she was fervently gracious for every word. 

There was Simon, one of the old hands, so Freya called them — who arrived at your house to set up gas-powered hot water, because he thought you might not be used to the cold showers on the commune. He told you that they couldn’t let you suffer such a shock to the system, that it was better to keep some of the things you were more familiar with, so you felt more at home. 

There was Linda, who cooked you pancakes for breakfast because you slept through their six a.m. communal one. She made you a coffee with whipped cream and told you that the vanilla syrup was homemade, and she gave you a bowl of strawberries that they had grown themselves. Only the ripest and sweetest ones, she told you, for such a ripe and sweet girl. 

By the fourth day, you were encouraged to follow their schedule. Told that you’d miss out on connections if you slept through breakfast or didn’t attend lunch. It was easy enough, when three of the women you had spoken to the evening prior came to your cabin bright and early. Gave you a little flower to wear in your hair and held your hands as they skipped with you to the hall. 

That was the next time you saw Jonathan. 

He was elusive in the daylight. More of a rumour than a man, something whispered as a deferential secret or referred to like a surveying deity that was perpetually present but just out of sight. He would appear in the hall for his lunch but would take it to go, and you could only speculate on where he spent his time in the space between dawn and dusk. 

He was frugal with his attention. You had begun to suspect his lavish interest in you on your first night was a rarity, a spotlight unique to being a new arrival — and you didn’t like that it wounded you. 

A thorn in your side, tiny but irritating, when you would sit down for dinners and he didn’t invite you to sit next to him. He would keep your gaze for bite-sized moments, ensuring you knew he was aware of your presence, but his focus would shift to somebody else just as you thought he might speak to you.  

So when he called your name after breakfast, before the prescribed cleaners began clearing the table, you perked up like a spooked cat. 

The thrill you felt when hearing his voice was sobering, and it sent a chill down your spine. 

It was subconscious, and it worried you. A latent fawnery that had germinated in your brainstem, one you were only made aware of when you hopped up too enthusiastically from your seat, and felt a swelling pride in your belly when Georgie gave you a knowing little smile. 

You could feel it there, a tooth-rotting lolly dissolving in the wet folds of your brain; you knew it was bad for you, but you couldn’t help but savour the sweetness. 

“Been missin’ you, Cub,” he said softly, when you went to stand beside him, and your tongue curled in your mouth. “Walk with me?” 

“Sure,” you said. 

He wore a faded red overshirt, rolled up to his elbows, and your eyes fixed on his thick forearms as he crossed them over his chest. Smelt of sage and sweat, the musk of labour and deer pelt, and you wondered if he had been out hunting the day before. 

“These things are no good,” he remarked, tugging at the waistband of your jeans by a belt loop, as he walked you out of the back of the hall into the blue-grey dawn. 

The air was cool but already warming with the incipient sun, and the cicadas were awake and humming long before you had been. The birdsong was almost deafening out there, mourning doves lamenting loudly from the tall pines and walnuts that dotted the acreage. 

“My jeans?” You asked, looking down at them, suddenly worried they were unflattering. 

“Mh,” he grunted. “They’re bad for you, y’know.” 

You frowned. “How?” 

He chuckled, as though the answer was so obvious that you were daft for not knowing it. “Aren’t they uncomfortable?” 

“I mean — I guess they’re a little tight,” you admitted bemusedly, running your hands over the waistband. 

He nodded. “Mh. Too tight,” he said. “You should be lettin’ her breathe.” 

You gawped at that. “Her?” 

“Your pussy, love.” 

Your heart skipped a beat when the word drawled its way out of his mouth. Tongue went wet with it, and you could only stare up at him, stupefied. 

“That denim is like sandpaper,” he continued placidly. “Too rough for such a sensitive thing.” 

You hoped he couldn’t see how flustered you were, as you broke your gaze from him and stared glassy-eyed into the gravel of the footpath he walked you down. He chuckled as he draped a heavy arm around your shoulders and gave your trapezius a squeeze, thumb pushing into a squishy knot and it sent goosebumps down the side of your neck.

“No need to get embarrassed, sweetheart,” he purred. “I just know these things.” 

You should have been humiliated by your deference, revolted that you didn’t feel compelled to shove him away and berate him for being so blatantly inappropriate — but some part of you, to your dismay, believed him. They were a little suffocating, you thought, stiff and uncomfortable to sit and walk around in. Perhaps you had become inured to the rigid seam that flossed between your legs and pressed harshly into your clitoris every time you sat down. 

“I — I only really have pants with me. Or leggings,” you quietly admitted, and his calloused hand smoothed down to your arm. 

“The girls can sew you something you’d look lovelier in,” he said. “Better than those city clothes. Wouldn’t you look pretty in something pink?” 

He was good at that, insulting and complimenting you in the same breath. Letting your insecurities fester under the surface but coating them in a thick lacquer of praise. 

“Uh, maybe,” you muttered eventually, once your bashfulness abated and you could find your breath again. 

“I don’t want to see these again,” he said, sternly this time, as his paw sank to your far hip and his thumb tucked into the waistband. 

You swallowed. You should’ve pulled away from him. 

“I… okay,” was all you said. 

You were a guest, you told yourself. He was housing and feeding you with no expectation of payment or contribution, the least you could do is abide by the dress code of his community. To heed his advice, because he seemed like an erudite man. 

He had led you to a pergola, one made of hand-chopped timber, faded grey beams, spattered in wrinkly patches of celadon lichen. Didn’t need to ask you to sit next to him on the seat beneath it, because he guided you there with his arm. 

“Settling in okay, love?” He asked you, arm hung over the back of the bench, and though he was no longer touching you, you felt the heat of his skin on the back of your neck. 

“Yeah,” you said, blinking up at him, before looking abashedly into the trees. “Everyone has been really nice.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Good,” he remarked, nodding, but his gaze continued to pry. “All been welcoming, I hope?” 

“Yeah, for the most part,” you answered, with a sedate smile. 

“Most part?” He questioned immediately, tone rigid, a dent between his brows. 

“Oh, no — I definitely feel welcome,” you stammered, suddenly worried that you’d come across as ungrateful. 

“One of ‘em hassling you?” 

You shook your head urgently. “No, no, of course not.” 

Eyes once doting had squinted in suspicion, and you felt suddenly transparent, like he could see the gears spinning beneath your skin. “I’m not stupid, cub.”

You huffed as you looked away from him, straight out into the tree line with your arms crossed, because you didn’t like the feeling of being pried open. 

“It’s not a big deal,” you said, “it’s just Philip. He just doesn’t seem like he wants me here.” 

“Philip, eh?” He droned, chewing on the name like it tasted foul in his mouth. “I’ll have a word.” 

“Don’t, please, it’s fine. He hasn’t even been rude, just a bit—”

“Enough,” he grumbled, and you bit your tongue. “Not havin’ him throw a fuss because things didn’t go his way.” 

Your brows tightened at that, mind rending itself to figure out what he might have meant by it, but any possible implication you arrived at made your guts churn with unease. 

He let out a long sigh, though, and patted your shoulder with his far hand. “Enjoying yourself otherwise, love?”

You almost jumped again to polite dishonesty, everything is lovely, rising up your throat — but you decided on frankness instead. 

“Yeah, but there’s, um, there’s not much to do,” you said. “I wondered if there might be something I can help out with?” 

He laughed, a bearish sort of chuckle, deep from the barrel of his chest.

“You’re asking for work, are you?” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” you said. “I feel bad just watching everyone else do it.”

He seemed endeared by the suggestion, grinning at you tenderly for a beat too long.  

“Aren’t you a righteous wee girl,” He crooned, large hand cupping your shoulder. “Didn’t I make it clear how I feel about you working?” 

You pouted at that, because how he felt about the matter was not law, though he evidently believed it to be. 

“It’s just — I’m a bit bored,” you said stiffly. “Wouldn’t hurt to have something to do during the day.” 

“Bored, eh?” he mused, through a wry smirk, thumb mindlessly stroking your shoulder. “Well we can’t have that, can we.” 

“I just mean—”

“Tell you what,” he declared. “You can help the girls in the kitchen. But I’m not havin’ you toiling out in the fields like a farm animal.” 

You gritted your teeth. Some sun would have been nice, you were sure, but you’ve always been a creature of comfort. Though the suggestion was patronising, you were not averse to the prospect of domestic labour, when you considered how ragged the farm-workers looked after ten hours of muddy chores. 

“Okay, sure, I can do that.” 

“Lovely,” he said. “You can bring me my coffee in the morning too, if you like. How’s that sound?” 

“Um,” you hesitated, “where… where would I bring it to?” 

“My bedroom,” he said, point-blank. 

You must have worn your stupor on your face, because he gave you a brazen smile, and he grazed your cheek with the hand hanging over your shoulders. He was only a tactile man, you told yourself. Touchy out of habit rather than lechery. That would explain why you didn’t bristle at the warmth of his skin against yours, despite the fact he was still but a stranger to you. 

“Okay,” you conceded, with a sharp exhale, because you suddenly felt as though you had agreed to something you shouldn’t have. 

He nodded, smile baring his ivory teeth, catching the light of the rising sun on a gold-capped premolar. Genuine pride in the steely eyes that gazed down at you, and you felt the warmth of it on your cheeks. You felt his fingers playing with the curls of hair by your ear, as he drew in a deep and steady breath. 

“Not wearing your perfume, mh?” He remarked, after a pregnant silence. 

You weren’t sure why the mention of it embarrassed you, that you had been caught obeying him when you didn’t think you were trying to. 

You hadn’t thought of him when you shirked your usual two-spritz routine to start the day. It wasn’t a conscious decision, you told yourself, you just hadn’t felt the need — in truth, though, you had not once used it since he mentioned it at the first supper. 

“No,” you confessed. 

You could smell the pride on him, crude and syrupy. Oozing from the smug grin that dimpled his bearded cheeks. His thumb stroked the skin of your neck, and you wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing. 

“Such a quick learner, cub,” he said. 

There was only one path for you from there. 

You had brought Jonathan his coffee for the first time the next morning. 

His room was in his farmhouse, a timber-cladded folk victorian with two storeys, though likely hand-built by him and his old hands. A short walk from the hall, separate from the other buildings and planted at the top of the hill. The front door was ajar when you went to visit, and you sheepishly ventured inside and went to knock on his bedroom door. End of the hall at the top of the stairs. 

Your eyes were level with his sternum when he opened his door for you, and you wore your shock like a smack to the face. 

Mountainous pectorals upholstered in bearish fur, rising and falling as he breathed you in. He was freshly showered, still damp, and you had arrived just in time to find him buckling up his belt. Hadn’t any time to put a shirt on before your arrival. 

You had never felt smaller nor more insignificant than when you stood in front of him, faced with such a mass of muscle and post-hibernation bulk that you felt drawn in by some deific gravitational pull. A mere moon in his orbit. 

“Hard at work already, lovie?” He drawled, petting the side of your head and taking the steaming mug from you. “Aren’t you a good girl?” 

He offered his praise like hard candy, and you were far too eager to suckle on it. 

He sniffed, dissatisfied, when he took his first sip. 

“I take it with cream,” he told you stiffly, and your heart dropped at the disappointment in his throat. “Next time, mh?” 

You gave him a weak frown. 

“Well you didn’t tell me that,” you retorted, probably a lick too defensive. 

He seemed amused by it, letting out a small puff of laughter and raising an eyebrow. “Now I have.” 

“Anything else I should know?”

He pursed his lips as he thought about it, you felt his eyes on your neck. “I like it sweet.” 

“Me too,” you said, holding back the smile itching in your lips.

“Bet you do, cub,” he replied, with a tepid smirk, and he shut the door.  

That was the last time you got it wrong. 

The next morning you arrived five minutes earlier, and he opened the door in his red-plaid boxers, eyes still puffy from sleep and skin radiating heady warmth from the cocoon of his bed. Unshowered. 

He caught your eyes flitting to the weight behind the buttons of his boxers; shape concealed by the wrinkling fabric, but length plain as day, reaching down the left leg of his shorts. Gave you an upbraiding glower when you swallowed the saliva that had accumulated in your mouth. A silent scolding for getting ahead of yourself with a gaze down his nose as you handed him the mug. 

“I put cream in it this time,” you said, revolted by how obsequious it sounded aloud, “and some of Linda’s vanilla syrup, I thought you might like it.” 

“Mm,” he crooned, the rumble of an engine deep in his chest as he slurped from the mug. “Tha’s lovely.”

A proud little smile curled in your lips. “Oh, good — I’m glad.”

“Know just what I like, don’t you, cubbie?” 

And what could you do but fawn at that? Get all starry-eyed and warm in the cheeks? 

You managed to barely hold on to your reservations for the first few days, keeping your appropriate distance. Dismissed his overt affection as a character quirk, and your willingness to appease him as simple politeness. 

But it was a slippery slope, and you had long since lost your footing. Tripped the very first time he called your name, and there was no climbing back up. You could only slide deeper. 

It didn’t help that all the girls were practically shoving you towards his house every morning. All giddy and fizzing to have you knock on his door, then clucking like chickens when you returned to tell them that he liked his coffee. That he said you were such a good listener, such a clever lamb, such a sweet girl. No wonder, they all told you, squealing it, you’re so lovely. You’re so kind. You’re so pretty.

How could you hold shut your doors to such generosity? Such overwhelming friendliness? 

It wasn’t long before that was your morning routine. What was a few days, became a week. Then two. 

You’d wake up at the crack of dawn, to the birdsong from either the blackbirds in the trees or the girls at your doorstep, and you’d skip to the kitchen to make Jonathan’s coffee. You’d have the mug out, cream and syrup at the ready, so that once the coffee had finished brewing you could assemble it all at once and it would still be puffing steam by the time you arrived at his house. 

Each time you visited him, you’d stand a little closer. Talk a little softer. Stay a little longer. You didn’t see him much during the day, elusory as he was, and you found yourself shamefully excited for your morning visits.

One morning, he didn’t answer his bedroom door when you knocked on it. You knocked on it twice, three times; careful not to hammer too firmly, nor so softly that he’d begrudge your toadying. You were not willing to break the routine, to fail in your fresh habit, so you gathered the nerve to open the door. Heart hammered in your ribs as the hinges creaked and the knob rattled, and the light you let in spilt into the room. 

It was warm in there, stuffy, curtains drawn and windows closed. The air was thick with him, full-bodied; it coated your tongue and filled your sinuses, made your head buzz at the temples. 

“That you, cub?” 

The growl of a sleeping grizzly as he rolled over in his bed, deep grunts and long exhales as his sleep-heavy eyes landed on you in the doorway. 

He must have been cold-blooded, you thought, because he was tucked under multiple woolen blankets even as the summer nights hit their peak temperature. You could hardly stand a single cotton sheet yourself; it was as though all the heat of the northern countryside pooled in the valley of the farm and was only augmented by his presence in it.  

“Yeah, um, I’ve got your coffee,” you whispered, waiting in the doorframe for him to welcome you deeper into his den. 

“Mh, bit early,” he grumbled, and you bit down on an apology, because it was not in fact any earlier than your usual visits. “C’mere.” 

You swallowed. Shuffled bashfully towards his bed as if you were breaking a rule just by being in his space. You were sure there would have been such a rule, too, because every day you learned of a new one. No nail polish. No mobile phones. No polyester clothes. No chore swapping. No wandering the Homestead at night. No eating before Jonathan. No unplanned visitors. No secrets.

“There was no vanilla left,” you said quietly, as you put the coffee down gently on his nightstand. “So I put maple syrup in it instead.” 

He let out a gruff sigh as though you had disturbed him, rolling onto his side to face you, and he lifted up the corner of his blankets with this forearm. 

“In y’get,” he grunted. 

You could only blink at him dazedly. 

A week or two earlier you’d have asked for some clarification, for him to repeat it, to ensure you hadn’t hallucinated such an inappropriate request from a stranger. Perhaps you had grown accustomed to it. Worse, excited by it; nobody else was allowed such visits. Nobody else magnetised such eager hands. Nobody else was invited into bed with him. You were special, and when you went back to the village to talk to the others, they’d tell you the same. 

So you sat on the edge of the bed, slipping in next to him, and he tucked you into his blankets.

You were swallowed quickly by the sweltering warmth of his body heat, heightened ten-fold by the thick cloak of his bedding, and the bulky arm that scooped you backward until your spine pressed into his sternum. 

His breath was hot against the back of your head, bleeding through your scalp like warm water. You were already sweating, because his heat was swathing and humid, and there was no slithering away now that you had put yourself there. 

“New frock, eh?” He asked hoarsely, arm shifting back until an expansive hand had settled flat on your ribcage, fingers catching in the folds of your ridden-up dress. 

“Yeah,” you murmured, “from Harriet.” 

“She’s a talent,” he hummed approvingly, as his hand edged down towards your waist, so slowly that you mightn’t have noticed if his fingertips hadn't pressed into the valleys between your ribs. 

She was, Harriet, one of two women at the Homestead who knew how to sew. She had sewn you three dresses, so far, one that was light pink, the other white. The one you wore now was a faint buttermilk linen, smocked under the bust with powder-pink embroidery. You were never much of a dress-wearer when you lived in the city, but how could you turn them down when they were custom-sewn, tailored for you? How could you return to your jeans and t-shirts when everybody told you how pretty you were in a dress? 

“Yeah,” you placidly agreed.

In a movement disguised by a shuffle and a deep breath, his hand was pawing at your hip, the skirt of your dress hiked up as if by mere accident. Little finger grazing the skin of your thigh, tingling as though static; and soon his whole palm was melded to your bare skin, and your tongue was in your teeth. 

Your thoughts were slippery and impalpable as eels, and they wriggled out of reach if you ever came close to grabbing one. Somewhere in your writhing head were the echoes of a little voice, faint and still fading; you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t allow this. You should tell him to stop. 

There was no rebuffing him, though. 

Not simply owing to the quiet fear of what he might do when displeased — worse, that you didn’t want to displease him. The others would have brawled among themselves to be where you were, praying that their years of devotion would pay off, that they would finally be worthy of being this close to him — but no, not one of them had lain where you now did. 

How could you squander such a privilege? 

Something else, though, something far more dangerous, was stirring and bubbling within you like poison in a cauldron. 

Beyond dismissed reservations, or the simple allure of scarcity — no, a smouldering heat between your hips, muggy and effervescent and impossible to ignore. It beat out from your heart and siphoned into the nerves between your thighs, where it cumulated until it was swollen with anticipation and twitching with every movement of his hand against your skin. 

“What’d I tell you about letting ‘er breathe,” he rumbled, when his fingers brushed the hem of your underwear on your hip, tone verging on reproach. 

You held your breath as you thought of what to say, throat kept closed when you felt a tug on the waistband of the elasticated fabric. 

“I don’t remember,” you breathed — a lie, whose motivation eluded you. You recall exactly what he said. Even how his voice sounded when he said it. Your pussy, love. 

He hadn’t mentioned underwear, though, had he?  

“Cunt shouldn’t be smothered all day,” he huffed, fisting the hip of your knickers and tugging them down to your thigh. “S’not natural.”

That little voice grew louder. You should tell him to stop. Tell him to stop. Tell him to stop. 

No, you lifted your hips so he could pull them down, and you did the rest for him — shimmying your legs so your underwear rolled down to your calves, then kicked them off your ankles into the belly of the bed. 

Another rule on the list, you thought. 

No knickers. 

You didn’t want to break his rules, because you hadn’t found a new place to live yet. Not to say you had been looking particularly hard — or, at all, since your phone only received one bar of signal if you climbed to the top of the hill, and to top it off you were actively discouraged from using it. It was a distraction from the natural splendor of the farm, they told you, and the light of your screen was bad for your eyes, and your city friends didn’t really care about you, so why text them?

Besides, he knew these things. You trusted his knowledge on the matter. You had the sense he understood your body better than you did; he was certainly more concerned with it, because it wasn’t as though you took particularly good care of it, and to him that was sacreligious. 

Such excuses flitted around in your head like butterflies in a jar when you felt his rough fingertips dig into the hollow of your hip bone, the flesh there tender enough to make you twitch. Breath caught in your chest as they crept further, closer, until the palps of his fingers brushed your mons, and he let out a dissatisfied huff into the back of your head. 

“Shouldn’t be shaving, either,” he grunted reprovingly. “Wee pussy’s too delicate for blades, mh?” 

Your tongue was wet, and your eyes had fluttered shut, and your breaths were broken and trembling. Dewy with sweat at the nape of your neck.

New rule. No shaving. 

He certainly was delicate with it. Pad of his finger tracing over your mound, light as a feather, as if to tickle you. It kind of did tickle, but the tingling sunk through the pillowy flesh and funnelled directly into your pebbled clit, until it was beating like a heart in the hope that he might deign to touch it. 

You knew in the pits of you it would be imprudent to let him have sex with you. Catastrophically so. Such a transgression would be a tipping point, one of no return. A leap off a cliff into murky depths that you knew would be impossible to climb out of. 

But his hand retreated, resolving your dilemma for you. Shame weighed in your chest. Appalled by the unjustifiable disappointment that wracked you in the wake of his touch. 

For the best that he didn’t venture any further, though, because you were on your period. Georgie had offered you tampons when you pulled her aside to ask, almost too giddy to offer them to you, telling you countless times that they were pure cotton and all natural, and to let her know when it’s over. 

He gave you an innocent pat on the hip, before peeling the blankets off of you, and the stifling air of his room was cold on your skin. 

“Need to get up and at ’em,” he grumbled. “Go join your kitchen girls.” 

You might have made a pother if you didn’t have a few remaining shreds of dignity. I don’t want to trickled down your tongue and itched at the tip, but you refused to let yourself release the words. 

You slipped out of his bed with a long sigh, wobbly as you found your footing on the hardwood. Smoothed out the wrinkled fabric of your dress, tugged the skirt down where it had ridden up. You felt on a step how slippery you were, pussy so sodden that you worried some might have soaked into the fabric of your skirt.

Jonathan sat upright with a huff, swivelled so he sat on the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

“Y’alright there, cub?” He asked, when he saw you hadn’t moved from where you stood. 

You nodded winsomely. “Yeah, um — I’m just… I…” 

“All wet now, are you?” 

His voice was hoarse and slick with amusement, and it sent a shudder through you as you blinked over your shoulder at him. 

You were too timid to confess to that. “Um—” 

“S’alright, love,” he said, pushing himself to stand with a grunt, and you tried not to look at the half-hard cock in his boxers. “Tha’s normal. Don’t you go putting your fingers in yourself, though, eh?”  

“I wasn’t—” Going to went swallowed, because there was a non-zero chance it would have been a lie. “Why not?” 

Divots pulled in his temples as he clenched his jaw, aegean eyes turned black as they clawed down the length of you. 

“Because I said so,” he told you, as he ferried you along, giving you a pat on the rear to send you out his bedroom door. “You keep those fingers busy in the kitchen, yeah?” 

New rule. No masturbating.

“Okay,” you said sheepishly.

“Good girl,” he grunted, as he shut the door. 

It took you a while to confess what had happened to the girls in the kitchen, resolve only worn down by their squealing appetite for any information about your interactions with him. 

“Didn’t he like the maple syrup?” Georgie asked mournfully, evidently concerned that the reason for your silence was that you had gotten in trouble. 

You let out a little breath as you sliced up the nectarines on a wooden chopping board, fingers all sticky with the juice, distracting heat still bubbling under your skin. 

Chopping fruit and stirring batter were the only jobs you were allowed, they had said as much the first time you joined them. We’re not allowed to share chores unless he says so, they told you, and we can’t have you burning yourself. 

All so bizarrely strict about it. Even when you had asked Jonathan specifically if you could help them in the garden, just to pick the berries, you told him, he had firmly refused. Said he wouldn’t let you toil away because he needed you to nurture yourself.

Didn’t bother you too much. You were fine with your station in the kitchen because you weren’t too fond of handling all the raw meat. 

“I dunno,” you said, “he didn’t have any.” 

“Oh,” Freya blurted, cocking her head back in surprise. “That’s weird. Did he say anything?” 

You chewed on your tongue as you swiped a pile of nectarine slices into the big steel bowl beside you. “Not really.” 

“Not really?” Georgie pestered, busy stirring an enormous pot of porridge over the stove. 

“Well he, um,” you hesitated. “He asked me to get into bed with him.” 

You heard the bang of the butter churner as Freya stopped her work abruptly to gawk at you. “What?” 

Georgie was slack-jawed. “You mean—”

“Not like that,” you clarified quickly, looking at them sheepishly, as they both glared at you bulgy-eyed. Something of a lie. “Just to lie down, or whatever.” 

Freya wore an expression that made you feel a bit queasy. A little crease between her brows with her lips in a line. Not quite disapproval, not quite worry — somewhere in the middle. A crack in the fabric, a fleeting glimpse of reality that made your stomach flip, and for a moment you saw Freya the girl you knew as a child, and not Freya the bubbly kitchen maid. 

She side-eyed Georgie before she spoke. “That seems a bit—”

“Oh my God,” Georgie interrupted fervently, dropping her spoon to hurry towards you, and she took your wrists in her hands. “He must really think you’re special.” 

“I s’pose,” you answered, with a little smile, and she shook your hands in excitement.

“Did he like your dress?” She asked animatedly. 

“I think so,” you said.

Georgie tugged you towards her, then, pulling you into a hug so unexpected that you let out a gasp as she threw her arms around you. 

“We’re so lucky,” she crooned, rocking you from side to side. “So lucky, aren’t we?”

“Lucky for what?” You blurted, taken aback. 

She giggled, releasing you gently before settling two soft hands on either side of your face. 

“Lucky to have you,” she explained, eyes wide with an ardour that made your chest feel eerily warm. “Everything’lll be just perfect now that you’re here, you’ve brought life with you.” 

Whatever she meant by that utterly eluded you, but you couldn’t suppress a smile.  

The next time you spoke to Jonathan was just shy a week later. 

He wasn’t there for breakfasts, or for lunches, or for dinners. He came to collect his helpings from the kitchen when you weren’t there, and he had already left home every time you went to bring him his coffee in the mornings. 

Worry festered in the nadirs of your mind the longer that time stretched between his appearances. Riddled with a fear that you had stepped over a line. That he was done with you. That he was already bored of you. 

Nobody would elucidate where he went during the day, and you quickly learned that it was a faux pas to even ask. All you understood was that he was out with his old hands, a group of men that would disappear with him for days at a time. Maybe out building something, you guessed, or hunting — some form of manual labour, at least, because whenever you caught brief glimpses of him he was sweaty and sunburned and covered in muck.

Such was the case when he and three other men lumbered into the hall for Sunday supper, fashionably late. Everyone else already seated and awaiting his arrival before they could start. 

He fell into his empty chair at the head of the table with an exasperated huff. 

His blue plaid flannel was grimy at the cuffs, smudged with mud and speckled in shreds of tree bark. First four buttons undone, and his chest was gleamy with a drying layer of sweat, flocks of hair clumped and curled with it. You felt guilty for staring at him, heart sitting high in your chest, buzzing with nerves — his seat had sat empty for so long that you had begun to forget what it was like to have him sitting there. 

Caught your eye as he adjusted himself in his seat, pushing the cuffs of his sleeves up to his forearms, and dusting off his front. Wasted no time as he reached for the serving fork and skewered two heavy steaks with it, dumping them on his plate. You had forgotten how to act, suddenly so anxious in his presence that you immediately broke his gaze and stared down into your plate. 

As was the supper ritual, once Jonathan had served himself, the others immediately began tucking into their dinner. You were about to do the same, awaiting the spoon for the peas from the girl next to you, when his voice shot across the hall and cast silence in its wake. 

Your name hovered in the air like the smoke of a gunshot. 

It was so sudden that you felt panicked despite the lack of ire in his voice, even with the smile that bared his teeth. You perked up concernedly where you sat, obeisantly keeping his gaze from across the table, waiting for him to ask something of you. 

“Come over ‘ere,” he said, with no force in his voice, because he knew that he didn’t need to make demands of you. “Bring your plate, eh?” 

The supper mercifully returned to its noise of chatter and clinking cutlery as you pushed yourself to stand, especially convivial because it was a Sunday — heightened further by the fresh batch of pear cider that had finished brewing the day before, supplied in great glass pitchers peppered around the table. 

You stepped over the bench with your empty plate held in both hands, and wandered towards his end of the table. Waited quietly for him to order the others on the bench to move down so that there was space for you to sit. 

“C’mon,” he urged, and you frowned bemusedly — until you saw him rap his thigh with a flat hand, and you felt your tummy tighten up. 

When you dithered about it for too long, he reached out with his big arm and scooped you towards him, and in a confusion of feet and legs you were brusquely perched on his thigh. 

“There y’go,” he nodded, as he gave you a pat on the side of your thigh to settle you in. 

With his other hand he leaned across the table to scoop himself some mashed potatoes, a tower of it, before he stacked up a few scoops onto your plate, too. 

“Thank you,” was all you could say, stupidly, because your head was all rattled. 

You were potently relieved that the other people in the hall busied themselves with each other, deep in conversation or focused on sawing away at their steaks with serrated knives; because his hand was already atop your thigh, ostensibly to keep you stable, but it crept its way upward with every slight movement and it took the skirt of your dress with it. 

“Where have you been?” You asked quietly, as he continued to fill up your plate. 

He let out a puff of laughter as he impaled a steak with his fork and dropped it next to your potatoes. “Missed me, did you?” 

Yes tapped against the back of your teeth, but you subdued it with a clearing of your throat. “I’m just curious,” you said. 

He grinned, amused, arrogantly doubtful. “Been workin’ on something,” he answered, frustratingly vague. “Haven’t got long to finish it.” 

You watch as he added another scoop of peas to your plate, and you only then noticed how much food he had given you — not nearly as piled-up as his, but still far more than you would have grabbed for yourself, with a plum-sized cube of butter melting into the mash. 

“What is it?” You queried, more supplicantly than you had intended it to sound, though you now feared that any dissention would make him disappear again. 

“Don’t you worry about that yet, cub,” he grunted, yet perking your ears up, but his austerity told you not to ask anything further. “Now eat up. Not having you get bony.” 

Not the first time he had told you that — always insistent you finish your plate, that you don’t piss around with puny helpings, that you eat your pudding afterwards. He was just overly doting, you thought. 

You followed his bidding and scooped up a mouthful, chewing it quietly as you put your fork back down. It was delicious, rich and hearty, the potatoes were creamy, and the steak was tender and well seasoned. Venison, maybe, it had that gamey sort of flavour, but you thought it a little pale. Perhaps pork. 

By the time you swallowed, his hand had ridden up to where your thigh met your hip, and his thumb wedged into the crease. It didn’t escape your notice how he watched you, low-lidded, smug, ignoring his own meal as he took a sip of his cider. 

“Aren’t you going to eat any?” You questioned, eventually, as you swallowed another mouthful, and he mindlessly tapped on the neck of his bottle. 

“Might need you t’cut my steak up for me,” he commented pointedly, through the crack of a grin. “Hard to do it one-handed.” 

“I… you can just let go of me,” you replied, tight-lipped. 

The moment the words escaped your mouth, his hand pinched tight as a vice around your thigh. Thumb gouged deep into the sensitive tendons of your groin hard enough to make you chirp — not as much a pain as a shock, that bolted up your spine and turned to molasses in the cavities of your skull. A punishment for even suggesting it. 

“Why would I do that?” He murmured innocently, as if completely incognisant of the actions of his hand.  

You turned your head to look up at him beseechingly, brows knitted and lips pursed. The heat of his breath was sultry against the skin of your cheek. Goading stare a narcotic that turned your better judgement to gruel. 

What could you do but relent when he looked at you like that? 

His hand was firm around your thigh as you reached towards his plate to pick up his cutlery, but its grip loosened as you pierced the thick wad of meat with his fork. Crept up to your hip as you made the first cut, the steak not quite tender enough to give way with one saw of the knife. 

Palm was flat against your belly, then, once the first slice was severed and it flopped flat onto the plate. Lower, as you cut through the second. Masked the movements of his hands with each incision as though you might not have noticed while yours were busy. 

Lips loosened, efforts faltered, as his travelling hand nested between your thighs. 

You could only gulp at the dry air as his palm pressed firmly against your cunt, held you by it as if to keep you still. The thin cotton of your dress now the only barrier between his calluses and the fragile skin there, because you had forsaken wearing underwear, just as he had told you to. 

Acknowledging the incursion seemed to you like a fool’s errand. Fussing about it much the same. 

It was pacifying when it shouldn’t have been. Decoupled you from reality as all of the blood drained from your head and pooled between your legs. Rendered you foggy-eyed as the ball of his palm squished into your clitoris as he adjusted you on his lap, so that your arse pressed into his hip. 

“Need a bit more than that, love,” he remarked wryly, nodding at the three measly slices of steak you managed before you lost track. 

You drew in a stifled breath in an attempt to ground yourself. 

“Um — sorry,” you stammered, as you refocused your attention to his plate, reorienting his knife and fork in your slippery hands before you dropped them. 

Once again poked the meat with the fork to keep it steady, and began severing a fourth slice. Did your best to narrow your concentration into the movements of the blade — back, forth, back, forth, back, forth—

You hiccuped as he grinded his palm against your cunt, a blunt force on your clit that made your vision blurry and your jaw slack — but he released the pressure just as quickly, cupping your pussy as if it were incidental in keeping you steady on his lap. 

You knew he was testing you. Pushing at your boundaries to see how much effort it took to break them. Goading you to question him, daring you to rebuff him — and every time you didn’t, his boldness tumesced, and your resolve shrivelled. 

“You — you shouldn’t do that,” you breathed, the last of your self-preservation leaking out with it. 

You expected him to be coy about it, anticipated a provocative do what? while he continued to touch you unfettered. 

Instead, he drawled; “Why not?” 

Forcibly resisted your brows curling as his hand tightened again, as your wary eyes bolted around the hall, ensuring none of the others were looking in your direction. 

“There’s… all these people, they’ll see.”

“Who gi’s a fuck about them?” He jeered, a latent vitriol webbed in his words that before then you hadn’t heard in him. “You’re the only one in here that matters, cub.” 

What could you do but melt when he told you that? Stumble on your words like you had forgotten how to talk? 

“But — they might—”

He snorted. “Mh? What d’you think they’ll do?” 

You glanced worriedly at the people sitting next to him, who were graciously still oblivious and busy with their own conversations; but one blink in your direction would expose how flustered you were, wet-lipped and heavy-eyed, as Jonathan craned his head to speak into your ear when you failed to answer his question. 

“They’ll do what I tell them to,” he murmured. 

It sent a chill needling down your spine to hear it admitted so brazenly. A fact obvious to you from the moment you saw him seated in his throne at the head, but you never let the thought gain traction, never let the concern take root. 

You knew that it should have raised alarm in you, that he would so unabashedly admit to being an autarch that ruled over the obliging residents of the Homestead like sheep. 

It didn’t. No, it made your heart hum against your sternum, because you were his favourite. You were special. The only one that mattered. 

“Go on, then,” he prompted you. “I’m gettin’ hungry.” 

What could you do but oblige him?  

You went back to work. Held his cutlery in shaky fists and sawed off another slice of steak, and another, and another — back, forth, back, forth, back, forth. 

His hand only served to torment you. A firm grip of your cunt to keep you steady, planted there just to make you twitch every time his palm tightened, but he never offered you more than that. Didn’t move the thin cotton of your dress out of the way, didn’t dip a finger into you, didn’t stroke your clit enough to sate you. 

By the time you finished slicing up his meat for him, your cunt was molten and shuddering around nothing, and you were certain the yearning fluids he had carelessly coaxed out of you had formed a wet patch on your skirt. 

“Look a’ that,” he crooned. “You’re a natural.” 

You couldn’t muster a response to that, save for the rasping sigh that was rended from your chest as his hand slipped out from the gap between your thighs. Reached forward to take his utensils from you, arms enveloping you as he stacked up a few slices of steak on his fork and scooped some mash on top with his knife. 

You scoffed, breathless. 

“Could’ve done it yourself,” you muttered, bursting at the seams with harried frustration, thundering under your skin and steaming out your ears. 

He snickered as he shovelled his food into his mouth. 

“Wee fusspot, aren’t you?” He teased, chewing noisily on his steak, “Go’on, eat. That’ll cheer y’up.” 

You sulked for a moment, prodding at your mound of potatoes with a fork. Your body still thrummed like a revved engine and it suppressed any appetite you may have had, before he drained all of your attention into that twitching spot between your legs. 

“Not tellin’ you twice, cub,” he reiterated, distinctly unamused. 

You sighed petulantly, but as you had fallen into the habit of doing, you did as you were told. The meat was a little chewier now that it had cooled down. 

Because you helped prepare dinner — peeling and chopping up the potatoes, and shucking the peas from their pods — you were spared being on clean up duty. 

A mercy, because you hated doing the dishes. You wondered whether telling Jonathan as much would mean he would ensure you never touched a sponge again in your life; but you didn’t want to be that spoiled, for fear it would turn the others of the Homestead against you. 

It was nice, of course, made you feel all gooey and warm inside that he was so attentive to you, so concerned with you. But you didn’t particularly like the idea of being such a tall poppy that the other people around you began to despise you. They were the ones you spent all day with, the other Homesteaders, and you liked them. Most of them, anyway. They were all inordinately friendly and chatty, eager to know more about you, eager to comfort and care for you. Listened whenever you cried about where your life had come to, about your ex, about your stupid fucking boss or your evil prick landlord. Told you not to worry, because none of that mattered anymore, because only good things lay ahead of you. 

Freya had invited you to join her and some of the others around the fire pit, the one a short walk from the hall, where people would spend time socialising and drinking after their long and arduous days of working. You told her that you needed to rinse off first, because you were all sweaty from such a hot day, but that you would join them afterwards. 

It was dark by the time you left your cabin, the sky predominantly navy save for the band of teal along the horizon, turning the silhouettes of the trees against it black as pitch. It was a short walk from your front step to the fire pit, and you headed along the gravelly path around the side of the hall in your sandals. 

The first person you encountered on your way over was leaning with a flat hand against the outer cladding of the hall, facing the wall and completely hidden in the shadow. None of the orange glow of the gas-powered lanterns could reach where they stood, and your eyes were still adjusting to the darkness. You heard, though, the distinct sound of a stream of liquid splashing into the dirt, and quickly surmised from his pose that it was a man pissing on the ground. 

You had picked up the habit from the others on the farm of offering a sunshiny greeting to everyone you passed by, an expected social procedure; but now you found yourself a little lost on what to do or say. You resolved to keep walking, awkwardly meandering around him without saying a word. 

But your name flew out like a net, and his voice was ragged and heavy-tongued, so you stopped momentarily.

It was Philip. 

“Y’know — y’re not what I expected you to be,” he murmured, buttoning up his trousers, and you resentfully caught a glance of his floppy cock while he did it. He was blunderingly drunk, you could smell it from where you stood. “Y’re not what Freya said.”

You found yourself at a loss for how to deal with him. In the outside world you probably would have called him a fucking tosser and marched away unfazed, but you hadn’t encountered a single interpersonal conflict in three weeks, and it suddenly seemed like an alien concept to you. So unfamiliar, in fact, that you found your mouth shaped to form an apology, like you had been the one to stir something unpleasant. 

Philip was, unlike the others, still a stranger to you. He was overtly contemptuous for the first few days, rolling his eyes at you or turning pointedly away from you whenever you were near him. Once Jonathan had his word with him, you supposed, that outward vitriol had given way to complete and utter disinterest. Not once had he spoken more than a single word to you in the weeks you had been at the Homestead, but it didn’t bother you enough to raise it as an issue. No big deal, because everyone else was so nice, so why would it matter if one of them wasn’t? 

“What’d she say?” You asked tightly, after a beat, in some effort to avert him from stumbling any closer to you. 

“Sh’said you were a — a — a peach,” he slurred. “Sweet n’ soft, she said. Yeah. Y’know what she told me?” 

You couldn’t have curbed your scowl even if you wanted to. Storming away from him would have been the wiser thing to do, but you were suddenly charged with a galvanic curiosity — sweet and soft? Had she advertised you like food before she was allowed to bring you along? 

“What,” you muttered through your teeth, arms crossing. 

“She told me you’d be perfect for me,” he blathered, greasy with spite. “For me, she said. That’s what she brought y’ere for. Me.” 

With that, your mettle returned to you like a slap to the cheek. Swelled up quickly in your belly as you frowned at him in revulsion. 

“What do you think I am, some kind of fucking brood sow?” You barked, a growl in your voice that had been buried for a while, “Freya saying that doesn’t mean anything at all.” 

He laughed at that, but it was so rich with acrimony that you could taste it like peroxide in the air. 

“You’re right, no, you’re right, because sh’was wrong anyway,” he ranted. “Y’re not a peach, you’re — you’re — you’re a goddamn prune.”

You gawked at him in bewilderment. “What does that even mean?” 

“It means you’re a whore,” he snarled, an abrupt shift to open aggression that made you step onto your hind foot. “Y’think I didn’t see all that? Lettin’ John play with your cunt under the table?” 

Your blood plummeted to your feet all at once.

Ignominy must have plastered itself on your face — because he laughed at you, loud and haughty, as he took a step in your direction. 

“Yeah, thought you were being subtle, did ya? Puttin' on a show for the whole damn family? Just rubbin’ it in my fuckin’ face, that’s what you were doing,” he raved on, and at that point you decided it was time to leave. 

You hurried down the path with your arms tight around yourself, marching away from him with big angry strides. For a moment you were anxious that he’d pursue you, because you kept hearing his drunken rambling even as the distance grew. 

“New lamb for me, tha’s what John said — only let Freya bring you ‘ere so I’d have someone to share my damn bed with. No, no, now he wants you, eh? Pisses all over his territory like a dog and makes me fuckin’ sniff it—” 

His slurring voice drowned out as you continued your escape, striding past the firepit with enough distance that the light didn’t catch you, and the others didn’t notice you pass them by. You were all upset, now, the heat of it had risen high in your cheeks and quivered beneath your eyes. 

Instead you tramped in the direction of Jonathan’s farmhouse, and by the time you knocked on his door you had a lump in your throat and your cheeks were sticky with tears. 

You heard his heavy steps from behind the door before it opened. 

His face sunk once his glower found you. Eyes heavy with it, a simmering indignation, lips tight. His expression only elicited more globby tears, because you suddenly feared that you had made him angry just by appearing on his doorstep when you hadn’t been invited. 

Seemed he wasn’t angry at you, though, because two great big hands reached across the small distance and fixed to either cheek. 

“What’s the matter, cubbie?” He asked hoarsely, smearing your tears from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. 

“I just — I walked past Philip, and he—”

“C’mon,” he hushed, scooping you towards him with an arm around your shoulders before ferrying you through his door. “Tell me about it inside. I’ll make us a cuppa.” 

He led you down the hallway, past his staircase, where until then you had never dared to venture. Found yourself in a proper kitchen. You would have been more rattled by the fact he had a kitchen at all if you weren’t so troubled by other things.

You let out a little gasp as he picked you up with mammoth hands under your arms and plonked you onto his butcher block counter — he gave you a brush of his knuckle under your chin, before he went to fill up the kettle at the sink. 

“Tell me what happened,” he said, turning on the faucet. He washed his hands with soap before he went to fill up the kettle. The pressure was weak, but you didn’t expect much else from a water system reliant on rainwater. 

“Well, he — he basically — he told me Freya brought me here for him,” you answered weakly, not quite tearful enough to trip over your words, but enough for it to be wet and gulping in your throat. “And then I said it doesn’t matter what Freya said, and then he, he—”

His attention was fixed on you once he put the kettle down on the stove, and he didn’t turn on the gas. 

“He what.” 

“He called me a whore,” you snivelled, wiping your soggy cheek with the heel of your palm. “He said he saw — he saw everything at supper.” 

The look of displeasure that suffused across his features would have been enough to make you shiver if it were directed at you. He ambled towards you, then, before planting both firm hands on each of your shoulders, and your knees brushed his hips. 

“Envy is a wicked thing, cub,” he said, voice deep, a faint simmer of anger audible in the lowest frequencies. “You just ignore him, yeah?” 

“But — but — he saw,” you moaned, the embarrassment at the thought once again rearing its head and it stung like the prod of a hot brand. 

He shushed you as his hand shifted to the back of your neck, fixing under your hair, and he pulled you into his chest. Draped another arm around you to hold you in close, and your thighs had to stretch around him to accommodate him. His chest was pillowy, comfortable, and the smell of his skin through the thin cotton of his flannel made your eyes glass over. 

“Doesn’t matter what he saw,” he grumbled, lips at your temple, and the touch made your brain whir like a purring cat. 

“I’m sorry,” you mewled, because you felt as though it was your fault for getting caught — probably made a noise, or a stupid needy face, maybe a whole scene because you couldn’t ever control yourself. 

“None o’ that,” he said, reeling back from you and once again settling his hands on your cheeks. “You’ve been nothin’ but an angel. Haven’t you?” 

You sniffed, blinking at him rheumy-eyed, and when he glared at you insistently you capitulated with a weak nod. 

“Mh,” he agreed, and you felt his left thumb feather closer to the corner of your mouth. “Such a good girl.” 

Thumb brushed over your lips, then, and the tickle made your mouth water. The touch alone coaxed them to part, just slightly enough to draw in some suddenly needed air. 

“And a good wee listener, aren’t you?” He purred, pad of his fore- and middle fingers ghosting over your bottom lip. 

Pelagic eyes that had been fixed to your lips shift up to meet yours, and again you realised it was not a rhetorical question, so you answered with another feeble nod. 

“Open up, then,” he said, rumbling, low enough that you felt the vibration of it through the narrow air between you. 

You were a good listener. So you opened your mouth for him, just enough to breathe through. 

He let out a rasping breath as he sild a salty fingertip between your lips, running it along the edge of your incisors. 

“Wider,” he instructed, and you did, allowed him enough space between your jaws to fit his thick finger, and you felt the rough palp of it on the tip of your tongue. “Good.” 

The second finger joined the first, pushing deeper into your mouth until the tips of them were midway down your tongue, and a spate of saliva began dripping down your throat. You were wide-eyed, beaming at him hopelessly. Devotedly. His expression was rigid, fixed, so focused that his eyes were dark with it. 

Fingers persisted deeper, until you felt them on the back of your tongue, mouth filled with the savoury taste of his hand, and you wondered if it was the same hand he had held your pussy with. 

The thought made your eyes flutter shut, but a press of his finger at the back of your throat quickly forced you to gag. 

He shushed you immediately; “Easy, you’re fine,” he cooed, and you drew in a wet breath through your nose, swallowing the flood of viscous spit that filled your throat. 

Reeled his fingers out only slightly, as if just to feel the friction of your tastebuds beneath his fingertips, before pushed them in again, and you fought back another gag. 

“So thirsty f’me, aren’t you, cub,” he drawled, hazily, a fascinated grin twitching in the corner his lips. “Drink from me, then.” 

Your hands lifted to meet his, clutching it by the wrist with both as if holding a milk bottle, allowing his fingers to slide in to the root, and his knuckles pressed into your cheeks. 

“Suck them,” he grunted. 

And you did. Suckled on his fingers like a calf on a teat, blinking at him when the urge to gag abated, fat tears rolling from the corners of your eyes but evoked now by something entirely different. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, as his other hand released your cheek, sinking down to your chest, catching in the folds of your dress as it clawed down your stomach. 

He hiked up your skirt with intention — no longer being coy about his efforts, he was fervent in it — and in a heartbeat your frock was at your hip, and his hand ran along the inside of your thigh. 

You puffed out a whimper through your nose when he glided his fingers along your slit, base to top, only splitting it on the second swipe — smiled agape to himself when he dipped into wetness that had already leaked and accumulated there.

“Haven’t you been patient?” He hummed, smearing the tips of his fingers upward until they swiped over your clitoris, still puffy and wanting from when he worked it up at supper. “Neediest thing and still so patient. I reckon you deserve a treat for that.”

You gazed at him doe-eyed, huffing out squeaks around his fingers as he danced his others around your clit, not quite indulging it with a real touch. Your hips arched into him despite the effort to control it, and he gave you a delighted grin, fingertips remaining just agonisingly out of reach. Only when your head rocked back off your shoulders and you groaned desperately did he finally relent. 

Rested the tip of his thumb into your mons to balance his hand, as his fingers stroked your clit, languid, almost cruel in how slowly he moved them upward and down again.  

“S’this what you want?” He droned, satisfaction dripping from his grin. 

You nodded, as much as the fingers in your throat allowed you to move, brows curling up and eyes too fluttery and heavy to keep properly open. 

“Thought as much,” he muttered, smugly amused. “Could smell it on you the second you showed up. Aching little cunt with nothing to break it off on, eh?” 

You could only whine like a wounded puppy, trail of drool leaking out from the corner of your mouth where his fingers held it open — twitching as the calloused pads of his fingers cosseted the raw flesh of your clit, too swollen and sensitive to handle direct touch. 

“Mh. Yeah, I’ll take good care of ya, cubbie,” he cooed, almost pitying, as if he was enacting some great charity for the down and out girl he dragged in off the street. Not far from the truth, as you considered it. 

“Keep sucking,” he ordered when your tongue went slack, because his other fingers had shifted downward from your clit, nestling between your folds and prodding at your fluttering hole. 

He mercifully decided against two when you squeaked in fright, instead pushing a single fingertip into you. Fed it in slowly, bit by bit as if too much would spook you, until his palm was flush with your pussy. His finger was as thick as two of yours, and it might have been enough to sting if you weren’t so slick. 

It made you tipsy to feel him inside you, even only his fingers, in two places at once — his fingers, his his his — it buzzed around in your head like a caged hornet until your blood was runny and your eyes clouded over, and he hadn’t even moved it yet. And when he did, hooked his finger to push into the squishy flesh below your bladder, so tender there — you mewled loudly enough that your voice came out fractured, panting out of your nose with your eyes wrenched shut. 

“Like that, do ya?” He chuckled, watching you raptly as he curled his hand, so he could thumb at your clit while he fucked you with his finger. Dragged it out to push it back in again, slow and steady. 

Didn’t matter how slowly he did it, you had been a hair-trigger away from coming at any given moment all night, and you just might have done it fingers-free if you thought about his hand under the table for too long — this, this, was almost too much. A daunting climax loomed over you, so ruinous that your body seemed to shy away from it, too sensitive, too desperate, too—

“Mh, I feel tha’,” he goaded, rumbling deep. “Close, are ya, sweetheart?”

You nodded, tearful, whimpering, every noise muffled by the fingers in your mouth, nose runny and sniffling every time you sucked down an eager breath. Thumb rubbed your sore clit with the motion of the one inside you, and as it all began to cave in on you, your eyes shot open. 

“Easy, cub, no need to panic.” 

Acting as if you might never have had an orgasm before, soothing you like you might be afraid of the overwhelming rush of feelings he was provoking within you — it settled you despite yourself, and your shoulders sunk inward, letting out the hot air that you had been hoarding in your chest — and then it swallowed you. 

“Yeah, tha’s it,” he encouraged you, pushing his fingers deeper into your throat as your whines grew louder, and your face crumpled up, and you balanced on the summit— 

“Goooood girl,” he crooned, as you came around his finger so forcefully that your eyes just about rolled into the back of your head, clit burning so hot that it made you jolt and squeal when he touched it too firmly. Fingers pressed down on the back of your tongue right as you tumbled over the zenith, forcing out a squeaking gag and a long band of saliva that dribbled down your chin. 

Entire pussy convulsed in the aftershocks, clenching around him in pulses each time his thumb swiped gently over your clit — but he didn’t torment you for long, slid his finger out of you slowly until you were mournfully empty, and you felt a runnel of your slick drool down the cleft of you. 

Reeled his pacifying fingers out of your mouth, then, pulling a string of saliva with them and your entire skull felt hollow in their absence. You released a weak sigh as you collapsed forward, foundations crumbled, heavy head landing against his padded chest. Almost trembling with exhaustion now that every drop of energy had been siphoned from you. 

“There we go, love,” he hummed, petting your hair, letting out a ragged breath into the top of your head. “That better?” 

You were milk drunk, tongue swollen and viscid in your mouth, and forming a single word was a near impossible task. All you could muster was another nod.

“Don’t you worry about Philip,” he said calmly. “I’ll deal with him.” 

You might have thanked him if you could form the words, so you instead lay a weary hand on his stomach, bunching the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. 

“M’tired,” you slurred, breathless. 

He chuckled. “I bet.” 

“Can I sleep here?” You asked weakly, muffled by his chest. 

He tutted at you, hand settling on your shoulder. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, cub.” 

Wednesday came with the threat of rain. 

The sky was distended with rolling grey cloud by the time you were out for your mid-morning stroll, once breakfast had wrapped up, and it was still a few hours before you needed to return to the kitchen to help prepare lunch. The air was thick with it, muggy and warm, the smell of imminent summer rain was stuffy in your sinuses and it made your skin prickle up. 

It was pleasant, though, as you wended about the Homestead, strolling among the knobbly old pear trees, between the potato fields, down to the river that wound through the base of the valley, to watch the pike fingerlings swim between the reeds. 

You crossed Freya’s path on your return to your cabin, and she hauled a few large baskets with her — empty, you noticed, as she walked up to you with a weak smile. 

“Do you want to help me pull some carrots?” She asked you, after all the how are you pleasantries. “You must get bored in the kitchen.” 

You wavered for a moment, um-ing and ah-ing, because you did. 

It was the same thing every day, but for the rare occasions that Linda let you use the stove because Jonathan had disappeared and would surely never find out. Or, sometimes, you could choose how to season the vegetables when you were put in charge of preparing them. Aside from your time in the kitchen, your only other physical activities had been going for walks and attempting to learn how to sew — you had gotten slightly better at that one, and now you could hem a skirt on your own, but it hardly enraptured your attention. 

The one thing that kept you from jumping on the opportunity to do something outdoors, was the memory of how expressly Jonathan had forbidden it. More than once he had reminded you how unacceptable the notion was, of you toiling over the land, so he described it; because that was a job for rough and calloused hands, not soft and pretty ones like yours.

But he had been absent for another several days, despite how he had undone you in his house and sent you back to yours afterwards. You would have thought he had dropped off the face of the Earth if you hadn’t caught peeks of him venturing back to his house in the distance, or strolling into the hall to collect his meal and vanishing once again. 

Perhaps a touch of spite motivated your decision. “Yeah, sure,” you told her. 

The carrot crops were a far stretch from the heart of the farm, a good ten-minute walk up and over the hill, and you hadn’t ventured that far before — new trees, new bushes, new paths.  

“How big is this place?” You asked her, as you approached the emerald green field, bright tufts of carrot leaves jutting out of the ground in not-quite-straight rows. 

“Umm,” she thought aloud, “few hundred acres? I’m not sure.” 

Pulling carrots was not a great deal more thrilling than working in the kitchen or attempting to sew, but it was something different, and childishly, made you feel a little bit rebellious. You had used your hair tie to hike up your skirt and knot it at your thighs, so that it didn’t get any dirtier than it needed to. Last thing you needed was Jonathan catching you with farmy muck all over you. 

The carrots were all thick, long, and persimmon orange — Freya had instructed you to brush off some of the soil before dropping them in your basket, and to pluck off any little hair-like roots to save time in the kitchen later. You enjoyed it, getting dirt under your nails, that loamy smell of soil and geosmin emanating out of the dirt with each plucked carrot. 

The ground was dry and gravelly, and it was a little rough on your knees — but you were a big girl, not as soft a thing as Jonathan seemed to think you were, and you could prove it. 

Wasn’t long before it began to rain, those fat drops of a summer shower, slow and sparse. Not enough to saturate you, but you did shiver when a glob of lukewarm water landed on the back of your neck and rolled down your spine. 

“You spoken to John recently?” She asked you quietly, after a long duration of pleasant silence, dusting her soily hands off on her apron. 

There was a prickle of worry in her throat, something hesitant, and you might not have noticed it if you didn’t see her glance around before she spoke. 

“Not since Sunday,” you answered, failing to swallow that touch of bitterness that rose up from your belly at his mention. 

“Neither,” she said, what seemed like a hastily applied band-aid to a wound she inflicted by asking it. “You saw Philip on Sunday, right?” 

Your brows pulled together, but you focused on unearthing the next carrot. “Yeah, how come?” 

“Well I—” She hesitated, and you finally turned your attention to her when you picked up on the genuine concern in her tone. “I know he was out of line, he told me what happened. And I’m sorry about — well, it’s hard to explain.” 

“Explain what?” You asked, wiping away a dribble of rain from your forehead, the rainfall had gotten a little heavier in the few minutes since it started. 

She let out a long sigh, sweeping her hair out of her face and sitting on her heels. “I did tell Philip you’d be perfect for him. He wasn’t lying. He’s been — I mean, lots of the others are already in their pairs, and he isn’t, so he’s been lonely,” she unravelled, as though nervous to say every word. “But I never promised it, or anything. I just wanted to say that, well, I didn’t mean for all that to happen. I thought he had sorted himself out already ‘cause, I mean, you obviously had no interest in him.”  

You nodded slowly, looking at your dirty fingernails, because you weren’t sure what to say. 

“Yeah,” you started, “it’s okay, it wasn’t a big deal or anything. John said he’d deal with him so hopefully that’s the last I have to hear of it.” 

Her chary eyes flitted around again, head swinging over her shoulder as though checking for someone behind her, and it made your hackles rise just a bit — you were anxious by proxy, because Freya was always as collected and calm as any of them, and you had never seen her on edge like that. 

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about,” she whispered. 

“What?” 

She took a shaky breath. “I haven’t seen Philip since Sunday night.” 

You only looked at her, chewing on the inside of your lip, uncertain what she might have been implying. 

“You think Jonathan kicked him out?” 

“Maybe,” she said, bunching her apron in her fists. “I just — I’m sure we would have heard from him, if he was banished or whatever. He’s been here for six years. I can’t imagine that he’d just vanish… I mean, he’s American, I doubt he still has his passport — where would he even go?” 

“I dunno,” you murmured. “Maybe he just left out of spite, or something.” 

“I’m worried,” she lamented.

You were at a loss for words. Confronted by a problem you had seemingly lost the capacity to deal with. Freya was the one that had vouched for Philip, for Jonathan, for the entire farm in the first place. You had trusted and believed her. 

Now you felt peculiarly defensive. As though she might have been suggesting some greater evil within Jonathan or the Homestead that you, with every iota of your being, refused to believe was possible. 

“What are you saying?” You questioned uneasily, still hopefully she wouldn’t shift from implying to making certain accusations that would risk rattling your worldview. 

“I—”

She abruptly choked on the first syllable, eyes shooting past you— 

“Shit.” 

“What?” You gawked, cocking your head back and twisting to look behind you, as she scrambled to futilely adjust herself, wiping down her apron and aimlessly fixing the carrots in her basket. 

You saw the broad shape of him before you recognised who it was, marching up the hill with a fuming pace that made your stomach drop. Knew who it was once he got slightly closer, because you could see his expression from where you kneeled in the dirt. 

You glanced back at Freya, who looked at you so sheepishly you wondered if she might break into tears. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

“What do you—”

“Fuck d’you think you’re doing, cub?” Came a growl from behind you that made you jolt in fright, somehow having crossed the distance in the time it took you to turn around. 

“I’m — ah!” You squealed as he brusquely scruffed you by the neck, hauling you up from the dirt until the soles of your bare feet caught the ground and you wobbled before finding them. 

He craned down from behind you to speak at your level. 

“We’re gonna ‘ave a talk,” he snarled, a scalding anger in his voice that made your eyes water and your skin blister up. 

“Why,” you moaned, kept placid by the unyielding hand gripping the back of your neck, thumb and forefingers burrowing into your tendons so tight it made your legs tingle. 

“Y’know damn well,” he said, dragging you around until you faced the way you came, releasing your neck with a shove. “Walk.” 

“Where?” 

He chuffed. “Stable.” 

Didn’t take much to make you cry, and this was enough to arouse big brackish tears and a puerile sob. It wasn’t terror, though, not dread about what he might do to you — but shame, so concentrated in your blood you could feel the cold sludge of it beating through your arteries. Ignominy rooted in the crime of angering him. Terrified that you had forsaken his approval, turned his sweetness bitter, because you weren’t a good girl anymore. 

“Jonathan,” called Freya, as you stumbled forward with a nudge; you had hoped that she wouldn’t acknowledge the tiff, would stay silent and pluck her carrots, but with an active spectator of your castigation you could only shrivel up in embarrassment. 

“You keep that trap shut,” Jonathan spat, turning to address her with an accusatory finger. “You’re on thin fuckin’ ice already, girl.” 

“Where’s Philip?” She barked, with all the might and caution of an outnumbered dog. 

Jonathan didn’t acknowledge her question, instead giving you another nudge when you stopped walking to coax you down the muddy pathway, your feet squelching into the freshly sodden dirt with every step. 

“I’m gonna find him, John!” Freya yelled as the distance grew, a desperation in her voice that made your tummy ache, because the dissonance you were wracked with made you feel like a snake devouring its own tail. 

Jonathan only grumbled something under his breath, striding at your heels as you made your careful way ahead, wary of stepping on a rock or twig with your bare feet. You left your sandals by the carrot patch, but you weren’t about to ask him to turn around. 

You bleated like a goat when he suddenly hooked you by the waist, swivelling you around in a bluster and hauling you up and over his shoulder. “Useless little legs y’got.” 

You sobbed, clutching the fabric of his overshirt in claws over his back, voice strained and broken as your stomach bounced on his shoulder. The rain had only grown heavier, and it ran in rivulets around your head, dripping off your nose and into the dirt.

“I didn’t do anything,” you whined — a stupid fuss, really, because you knew well what you were in trouble for — you simply hadn’t expected to actually get in trouble.

You had admittedly seen him roar like a grizzly more than once at other Homesteaders. At one of the butchers for keeping a mobile phone stashed away in their cabin without disclosing it. At a farmhand for disobeying him and letting the bull in with the cows when he shouldn’t have. At a kitchen girl for burning enough meat to feed fifteen people because she was distracted by gossip. 

You just never imagined you’d get in trouble.

He had always been so stable, so overbearingly sweet with you. Such a good girl, he called you, an angel. A good wee listener, cub, such a quick learner. You could never have anticipated such a mutation in his treatment of you, and you felt your standing crumbling beneath your feet. Peripeteia that gave you such whiplash it made your neck ache. 

“What’d I tell you?” He grumbled, as you saw the ground beneath him gradate from muddy grass to gravel, and you knew you were approaching the stable. Heard the moaning old wheels of the sliding door as he rolled it open. “Huh?”

“Not to — to work on the farm,” you sobbed, as he ferried you inside, jostling you to keep you in place as he unlatched and opened a stall door. 

He grunted in agreement as he slid you from his shoulder like a buckshot doe and dropped you ungracefully to your feet, and you landed with a squeak in the centre of the empty horse stall. Felt the hay and shavings between your toes, shreds of it sticking to the mud that caked them. 

“Wanna be a farm animal, do you?” He snarled, rummaging through the tack hung on hooks and draped over benches. “Let’s see you act like one, then.”

You stood contritely in the centre of the stall, hands interlocked over your chest, toes curling anxiously on the floor — watched edgily as he turned to face you with something in his hand, metal and leather. 

“I’m sorry,” you snivelled. 

You hadn’t seen him so angry — not towards you, anyway — he was tumid with it, apoplectic, and it made you want to curl up on the ground like a kitten in the hopes he’d feel pity if you were smaller.  

“Not yet, you’re not,” he grumbled, as he shut the stall door behind him. “I’ve half a mind to break a crop over your arse.” 

You sniffed, blubbering, pathetic. “I just wanted something different to do.” 

Your excuses ricocheted off him. Only glowered at you fanged and sable-eyed, fiddling with whatever piece of equipment he had between his hands. 

“Dress off,” he ordered dryly, gesturing at you with a flick of his fingers. 

“But, I–”

“Do animals wear frocks?” He asked facetiously. Mockingly. “Y’seen a ewe out there with a skirt on, have you?”

“I just—”

“You really wanna make me tell you again, cub?” 

You sulked, grimacing, but obliging. Not many other options, you thought, and even if there were you had no interest in pursuing them. You could have tried to run, sure, but you bet he’d have chased you. Then what? He’d have been even angrier with you, when you didn’t want him to be angry with you at all.

Your dress was gluey with rain and it stuck to your skin, and it made sticky noises as you pulled it up your thighs — reeled it up your stomach, tugged it over your chest — and once it was off your head, it landed on the dusty floor of the stall with a squelch. 

You hadn’t been naked under his eye before, all goose-pricked and shivery, but you felt a familiarity bedded in your belly, something embryonic, because he knew your body better than you did. Understood its moving parts like he was conversant with every facet of you. 

He didn’t look impartially intrigued, though, there was no clinicality in his glare. No, it was selachian. Nostrils flared like he could scent your gamey blood from where he stood. 

“Fuckin’ filthy,” he grumbled, approaching you measuredly, unraveling the straps he held in his hand. Grabbed your forearm once he was in front of you, splayed out your hand to reveal all of the soil embedded in the creases of your palm, stuck under your fingernails. “Rollin’ around in the mud like a piglet, were you?”

“I was only pulling carrots,” you whined, stuttering, felt a hot tear dribble into the corner of your mouth. 

He chortled vindictively at that. “Piglets love their carrots, don’t they.” 

“I’m n-not a piglet.” 

“Open your mouth,” he grunted indifferently, and your brows pinched together, because the last time he had told you to do that you ended up with fingers in you, and now that was all you could think about. 

You almost let loose a why but thought better of it, holding it under your tongue as you unhinged your jaw for him. Shame rang in your ears, because you quietly hoped he’d put his fingers in your mouth again, and you wondered if they’d be salty with his sweat, or earthy and gritty from his labour. 

He held up a small metal bar with o-rings at each end, a link in the middle that allowed it to bend. Leather straps attached to its rings. 

A bridle. 

You whimpered when the steel knocked against your teeth, grating sensation of metal on bone that made your skull quake, as he pushed the bar into your mouth and wedged it behind your molars. The corners of your mouth pillowed around it, and the rings dug into your cheeks, as he pulled the leather straps behind your head, and your nose was a few inches from the valley of his pectorals. 

Must have been busy working on his something all day, because he was ripe, the air around him heady and thick with the damp of sweat, fetor of a wet dog — embarrassingly amatory when it filled your nose, when you tasted it on your tongue, and you felt it in your cunt. 

He buckled the straps at the back of your head, tightening it until the bridle cut into your cheeks enough to hurt and you bit out a pained squeak. 

“Down y’get, then,” he grunted, and your eyes flitted between his in some effort to glean what he meant by it. “Animals walk on four legs, don’t they, cub?” 

So they do. 

You lowered yourself one knee at a time, balancing yourself with a hand clutching at the fabric of his trousers, and he sucked in a hoarse breath. He took a step back as you leaned forward, flattening your hands in the wood shavings, splinters in your palms. Watched a bead of saliva land on the floor as you ran your tongue along the cold bar in your mouth. 

“This what you wanted?” He drawled, malevolently satisfied as you looked up at him through your sticky lashes. He raked his eyes over you, bare and reverent on the floor before him, and he breathed it in deep, the scent of victory. “Feel like an animal now?” 

You whimpered and returned your gaze to the floor, but you responded with a guilty nod. 

“Know what happens to animals, cub?” He grumbled, feet shifting to your left, leather boots plastered in mud. He took one step, then another, circling you like a vulture. “They get flyblown. They get glanders. They get blackleg.” 

Your elbows ached. Wobbled under the weight of you. You could only suck on the bit between your teeth. 

“They get pithed. Flayed. Butchered,” he droned, and you saw a tear land next to the puddle of your spit on the floor. “I don’t want that for you, love. You got any idea what kinds of diseases are in that soil? You want gas gangrene, love? You want listeria? Legionnaire’s?” 

You didn’t understand half the things he was saying, and that only amplified the fear it sowed in you. What didn’t he know? How couldn’t you listen to him when his plethora of wisdom seemed to you as unending? 

He was behind you, then, you saw the silhouette cast by his shadow stretch out in front of you. 

“My rules are simple, aren’t they? Or are you too stupid to understand them?” 

You shook your head, let out a mewling noise in place of a sob, and you wondered if he could see your pussy from where he stood. 

“Your body is special, cubbie, so special—” His silhouette shrunk, lowering, and you felt the floor quake beneath you as he lowered to his knees, “—n’ I’m not havin’ you ruin it just because you’re bored. Y’think you’re here to have fun, cub? S’that it?” 

You tasted iron in your mouth and you had no response to give him, because all of your focus had funneled between your legs once you felt his eyes on you, splayed open like a meal. 

“Well you’re not, even if you think you are.” 

You winced when you suddenly felt a cold finger against your pussy, just a graze of it, smearing up a drip of the slick that had escaped you as if to marvel at it. You wondered if he played with it between his fingers. Wondered if he tasted it while you weren’t in the position to see. 

Instead you heard him scoff. Not sure if in awe or disgust, but whichever the root it made you shiver crawl down your spine, because you could feel his breath on your backside. 

“Look a’ you,” he said, and it came out mangled, rumbled out from his belly like a growl. “Like a bitch in heat.” 

Those words hit you like a gunshot. Flatlined. Your eyes glassed over. Unearthed something feral and opprobrious from deep in the sticky pits of you and you weren’t sure if you liked the taste of it. 

“Wan’ me to fuck you, I bet.” 

A shock wracked through you base to crown when you felt his thumb against your puckered hole, and your entire body went stiff as wood. He only let out a chuff of laughter, biting. 

“Not this hole, though, eh?” 

You shuddered, whimpering, slavering like a rabid animal, biting down on the bridle in your jaws until it made your teeth ache. 

“Wan’ me in your cunt,” he mumbled, pressing harder, until the tight ring of muscle quivered with the touch, and your skin went cold. “Only makes sense, s’what y’were made for, mh? All stroppy ‘cause you haven’t had my cock yet?”

Then, with a grunt, he pushed in — broke past the clenching sphincter until his thumb was all the way in and his palm was flush with your rump — went in dry, and it hurt, you bleated out in shock and rocked forward on your knees, fingernails clawing into the horse bedding beneath you. 

“Y’not ready for that yet, cubbie,” he snarled, ragged. “Even if your ‘eart is, your body isn’t. Gotta time it right, cub—”

You heard the clink of his belt unbuckling. Slowly dragged his thumb out by an inch before pushing it in again, and it stung a little less.

“—won’t take otherwise, eh? Need to wait till y’ready—” 

Felt the thump of a weight on your rear. Heavy. Long. Hot and drumming like a heartbeat against your skin. 

“Know you’re desperate, cub, I do,” he rumbled, reeling out his thumb, pushing it back in. Pull, push. Pull, push. “Look a’ you, loosenin’ up — you’d even have me in this one, wouldn’t you?” 

Whatever noise tumbled out of your throat was foreign and bleating. The keen of a dying songbird. You might not have been afraid when he found you, misguidedly confident his wrathful nature would never be directed towards you — you were special, after all — but now a swirling apprehension sat low in your stomach, writhing, shuddering, with every push of his thumb; because you were wrong. 

“Too brave for your own good there, cubbie,” he hummed, and he tugged his thumb until it popped out of you, hole resisting its departure with a tight grip. “I’d break you in half.”

Felt three fingers swipe up your pussy, ladling your juices into his hand like water from a fountain — you couldn’t see what he did with them, you could only hear it. The gruff sigh he bit out, the sound of hand on skin, the slick noises of your wetness being smeared on something else. 

“An’ I need you whole,” he grunted, and you felt the smack of something heavy against the cleft of you, three firm slaps — his cock, you could tell, and you shuddered at the weight of it — his his his — “fuck, even though I’d kill to break you in, lovie—”

Cock wedged in the cleft of you, felt his steeled shaft grind against your flickering hole, squeaked like a mouse as he rutted where you split. He rocked you forward on your knees with each thrust, aching in your kneecaps, and you dropped to your elbows as he just about knocked you flat.

Dug both mammoth paws into each of your cheeks, clutching you by the meat of them, pressing them together to tighten the fissure he fucked — and he fucked in earnest, pistoning like he might if he were inside you. But he wasn’t, he deprived you of that, instead thrusting through the cleft of you like he might saw you in half. 

You groaned, sulky, needy — hungered for him to spear himself into you so desperately that your cunt ached, and you arched your spine to lean into him like you might wordlessly guide his cock where you wanted it to pierce you. 

He only chortled, breathless, because he knew your body so well — better than you — what it so palpably yearned for. What he pointedly declined you. 

“I know, cubbie, I know—” he panted, gnarled through a tight jaw, “—s’not much of a punishment if y’like it, though, is it?

You sobbed, both holes shuddering around nothing as his shaft slid against them, pitilessly taunting them with an admonition of what they could have had but were not allowed. 

You’d have begged, but the steel bit in your mouth restricted your lips from forming the words, tongue pushing against it like the bars of a cage. You could only whine and bitch while he chased his malicious end, and he only grew crueller as he came closer — his grip of your hips was malignant, fingernails boring into your skin, grunts were toothy and hateful and cut with murmuring acrimony—

Snippy little whore—wanna be an animal so bad?—I’ll fuckin’ tup you like one—

With a penultimate growl he bucked you flat and you were pinned beneath him, landing with an umph — his teeth scraped against the burning skin at the back of your neck, groaning into your flesh, ragged voice quaking through your skull like a crack of thunder — you felt the splatter of fluid over your lower back, viscid and hot, landing on your skin in spurts that dribbled down either side of your waist and pooled in the valley of your spine. 

You lay as still as you could muster underneath him, trembling as if you were cold but you were molten to your core. There wasn’t much of a reprieve before he pushed himself to stand, chuffed as stood upright, sniffed as he buckled up his belt. 

Couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, you kept your nose against the floor, wood shavings sticking to your cheeks. You felt his gaze on you, watched his shadow blanket over you like a cloak as he soaked in the aftermath of his discipline. 

“Girls’ll need an extra set o’ hands in the kitchen tonight,” he grunted coldly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. 

You said nothing. Only sipped in tiny swigs of air as if he might chastise you for breathing. Kept still as he stepped around you and unlatched the stall door.

“Y’can clean yourself up in the rain,” he murmured on his way out. “That’s what farm animals do, right, cub?” 

It was venison for supper. 

That’s what Linda told you, when she wheeled in the crate of meat fresh from the butcher, and the rusty odor of lard and myoglobin was so thick in the air that it condensed on the windows, oily beads forming on the glass.

It made you feel sick. Writhing and ferrous in your belly. You got as far as chopping all of the carrots before you had to apologise and excuse yourself. You had lingered for as long as you could muster it, out of sheer guilt, because Freya wasn’t there to bear the load of your absence.

You didn’t come back right after your punishment in the stable. You had sat in the rain for half an hour, as Jonathan had advised you to, letting the warm droplets rinse off the mud and come and drip through your scalp until you felt corporeal again. 

Corporeality was out of reach for you, though. 

You drifted back to your cottage in your sheer water-logged frock, mouth sealed shut, head throbbing, leaden — because there was something in the air. Swelling and humid. Something you could feel in your teeth, chewy and full of gristle, and its sanguine juices leaked down your throat. It tumesced in your jaws minute by minute. Not long until it was too thick to swallow.

Jonathan’s words parasitised your brain tissue until they were all you could hear, plangent ringing in your ears; need to time it right, cub, you’re not ready yet. You’re not ready yet. 

Hollowed out, he was all you could think about. Filled the empty space in your skull cavity like a new organ that only beat for him, something burgundy and parenchymal, dripping down your brainstem. 

When your cabin door opened, you didn’t shift from your bed. Stayed curled up on your side and blinking at the wall, waiting for your inauspicious nausea to abate. 

“There y’are, cubbie.” 

His voice was soft, deep, the gravel of a near whisper. 

He let out a long sigh as he shut the door behind him, and your ears perked at the slow beating of his shoes on the floor as he moseyed towards you. 

“Scoot,” he said as he approached your bed, and you pushed yourself over without question, so that he could sit on the edge. The flimsy mattress sunk under the weight of him, and he patted his thigh. “C’mon.”

You adjusted yourself so that your head lay on his lap like a pillow, tucked your hands and knees into your chest, and let out a long held breath. Relief as sweet as syrup pumped from your heart and you could finally feel your fingertips again. 

“Are you upset with me?” He asked, as characteristically gentle as you remembered it, none of the lascivious vitriol that frothed at his jaws earlier that afternoon. 

You nodded once. You were still sulking. He had left you wet and wanting, coated in his come with the bridle still strapped around your head. Your locks had knotted in the leather and it took you ten minutes to undo without scalping yourself. 

He combed his fingertips through your hair on the side of your head, soft and careful as petting a cat. Brushed a fine curl behind your ear. 

“I’m sorry, cub, I really am,” he said tenderly, “but you understand why I did it, don’t you?” 

You nodded again as he stroked you, and your lids grew heavy. 

“Mh,” he hummed, contented. “I don’t like being angry, love. But sometimes I have to be, if you don’t listen to me. There’s a reason I tell you not to do things. I don’t make up rules just for fun, do I?” 

“No,” you whispered. 

“No,” he agreed. “Rules aren’t fun. But they’re necessary. Without them this would all fall apart. You don’t want that, do you, cub?” 

“No.” 

“Course you don’t, sweetheart,” he cooed. “Now will you come join us for supper?” 

You breathed in slowly. “I’m not really hungry,” you confessed. 

“Feelin’ under the weather?” He asked, caressing hand shifting to flatten over your forehead as if to check for a fever. You probably were febrile to the touch, your blood was magmatic and only growing hotter, and it simmered in your temples. 

You shook your head gently. “No, I’m…” you eked, struggling to find the words to explain yourself. “I just feel a bit funny.” 

He exhaled languidly. “I understand, love,” he said, hand stroking to the top of your head. “Change is always hard. But you’ve been such a brave girl.” 

A warmth swelled in your tummy when he said that. Tempers settled by the wide hand petting your hair, and the softness of his lap under the side of your head. The worry that he had spurned you waned with each breath, because he was there, sweet as ever, lulling you to the brink of slumber under his doting touch. 

“You get an early night, then, cub,” he said gingerly. “Just make sure y’eat a big breakfast, yeah?” 

You only hummed, slurred and sleepy, and managed to puff out an okay before your eyes ebbed shut and your body sunk into sleep.

Your scruples had evaporated. 

There had been vestiges of your more circumspect self lingering around in your first few weeks, a careful eye kept on the farm and its esoteric leader, wits kept about you despite how often you forwent them. 

Now you looked on that scepticism as ignorance. 

A conceited belief that you had some greater understanding about the world than people who were truly connected to it, knee-deep in the ground, toiling to better themselves and the Earth. 

Besides, Jonathan’s notions were consistently proven right. Pollution, climate change, proxy wars — what else was to blame for these cataclysms but human conceit, addiction to all the noxious things created for simple convenience? 

Every time he gave his speeches to the Family as a whole, his sentiments only rang more true. 

Didn’t you feel so much better, now? 

No reliance on your phone, on plastic, on cheap and suffocating clothing. No consumption of mass-processed slop, of mind-rotting screen media, of lab-manufactured anodynes that poisoned you from the inside out. No longer reliant on friends that didn’t care about you, family that had no respect for you, a society that had utterly forsaken you. 

Why? Because you were no longer productive within it? Producing what, Jonathan would ask you, and the answer was nothing. Imaginary bullshit, he called it. Meaningless numbers that existed only on screens and in wires and yet somehow dictated the course of a sorely misguided mankind. 

These were the fragments of debris embedded within you that rotted you from the inside out. Gangrenous, necrotising every part of you they touched until you could hardly call yourself a human. 

Jonathan was the only one who could debride the wounds they left. Picked out the shards of refuse left by your dependence on the toxic and artificial. 

So much purer, they told you, they could see it in your eyes and in your skin — a glow from within, they said, because you were reviving your most natural, inborn self. Nurturing her, the most important part of you. 

Freya and Philip abandoned ship because they couldn’t handle it, the others told you. Because their dependence on the synthetic was adamantine, and their cowardice triumphed in the end.  

Not you, though. 

You were special. You were important. 

So important that over the course of the next week you were waited on hand and foot. You were brought raspberry leaf tea first thing every morning, and a mug of bone broth before you went to sleep every night. Given your own meals at John’s behest, a different meal on your plate than everybody else’s when you sat down for supper. 

Rare red meats, tender and well-salted, still juicy and dripping when you’d cut into them. Beef liver and bone marrow. Yams and boiled spinach. Eggs for breakfast every morning, dates and berries with full-fat cream for dessert. Need to keep you healthy, John would tell you, need you ready. 

Every day was a day closer, and you could feel it breathing down the back of your neck. 

Aren’t you excited? Linda would coo, and although nobody had said it outright, you felt in your belly what exactly the days were counting down to. 

Your hormones were beating and surging until they saturated every inch of you, permeating between the fibers of your muscles and coating your tongue and the walls of your cunt. A feeling you would never have noticed until it was pointed out to you, until it was all they asked about, and all you could focus on; do you feel it yet? Is your body preparing itself? Are you warmer between your legs? 

When you noticed a few specks of blood on your toilet paper, the slightest smear of pink, you told Georgie — she smiled as bright as the sun, kissed you on the lips, because how lucky, a godsend, you were finally ripe. 

The last sliver of the waning moon had vanished that night. It was as black as the rest of the sky, hung low over the hill above Jonathan’s farmhouse. 

Unseasonably warm for late summer, as though the sun was still baking in the sky, and the air was sultry with it. Formed dewdrops on your skin as you waited for the knock on your door. 

It was Georgie and Harriet that arrived on your doorstep, an hour shy of midnight, garmented in white dresses. Georgie approached you with a bloomed cariad rose pinched between her fingers, pink and fluttery, and she slid the stalk behind your ear so that it was tucked into your loose hair. 

You smiled back at her when she stroked your cheek, her enthusiasm an airborne infection that filled your lungs like steam and felt fuzzy in the centre of your forehead. Anticipation as inebriant as ethanol had been slowly accruing in your blood day by day, until your thoughts were all hazy and thrumming and the hours oozed by like honey. 

Georgie held your hand as she led you out of your door, Harriet close behind you. Out on the path waited the rest of the Family, all thirty of them, candles in hand. Your erstwhile self might have been humiliated by your stark nudity — instead you felt pride, loving warmth in your veins, because they all looked on you with pure fondness and blind devotion. 

They followed behind you like a flock of sheep, reverently silent, as Georgie led you down an unfamiliar path, illuminated only by the candlelight. Through the pear trees and over a bubbling creek; the water cool between your toes, the ground mulchy beneath your feet. 

The terminus of your journey was a pyramid. 

Hand-fashioned from timber, lacquered in ivory paint. No windows. A dormer containing a hole where a door might have been. Situated in a clearing among the oak trees, almost haunting, the tip of it just about invisible in the darkness of the night. 

Georgie let go of your hand and gave you an encouraging touch on your bare back. 

“Wait inside,” she whispered, beaming, “he won’t be long.” 

Stepping through the entrance was one of no return. 

You felt it in your chest. Smoky and heady. Dense enough that it was hard to inhale. 

The interior was unpainted, raw wood, logs recently chopped and lumbered into boards. Terpenic on your tongue. The sticky scent of balsam. Mingled with the lanolin exuded by the sheepskins carpeting every corner of the floor, warm and soft under your feet, curls of wool tufting out between your toes. 

Candles had been lit by the entrance, but those were the only sources of light within the peculiar room. You looked up to the highest point of the ceiling and saw only a void. 

Minutes passed like muggy eons and you sat yourself cross-legged on the woolly floor, facing away from the entrance. Apprehension crept up your gullet like acidic reflux, and swallowing brought you no relief. 

You heard his breathing before he spoke. 

“Stand up, cub,” he drawled, low, full-throated. You thought you might turn around and see a bear standing there opposed to a man. “Let me look at you.” 

You did as you were told. Rose up cautiously, filly-legged, wobbly as though unused to gravity. Faced him with your fingers in knots and your toes curling into the fleece of the floor. 

His eyes were stygian as he approached you. Lips tight and pensieve under his beard. Stood shirtless, but still in his trousers, belt buckled. 

“You are a lovely thing,” he murmured, lost, as he reached across the narrow gap and brushed your breast with his hand. Feathered his thumb over your nipple and watched raptly as it tightened to a point under his touch. 

You had no words to offer him. Not for a lack of trying, but every syllable that worked its way along your tongue fizzled before making its way out, because nothing you could say felt worthy of him. 

“How are you feeling,” He asked hoarsely, monotonously, running the back of his finger down the length of your belly, just light enough to tickle. 

“Nervous,” you breathed, after a sweltering pause, because his touch persisted lower even as you failed to respond. 

“No need to be nervous, cubbie,” he said. 

He craned slightly downward to slide the tip of his fingers between your folds, and you hiccuped at the touch. Bit your tongue as you felt him wipe over your hole, dipping in but not breaching, before he reeled them back out. He held up his fingers to look at your slick, attentive as if inspecting it, watching how it clung in glossy bands between his thumb and forefingers. Breathed raggedly through his nose in satisfaction. 

“It’ll only hurt for a little bit,” he explained, tone staid, but you could hear the appetite simmering in the back of his throat. “But we’ll go slow.” 

You nodded deferentially. 

“Get on your knees, cub.” 

And you did. The wool was soft underneath your kneecaps. 

“Take it out.” 

Your hands went to his belt without dispute, fishing out the tail and undoing the buckle. Moved quickly onto the buttons of his thick canvas work trousers, popping them loose one by one. 

His cock was partially soft when you pulled it out through the fly of his trousers, but you watched it grow harder the moment it was free — length doubled before your eyes, girth almost three-fold, as the veins roping under the ruddy skin thumped with blood and his foreskin peeled back from the smooth bulge of his head. 

He let out a grunt, then a sigh, when you curled your fingers around the base of it, slightly too thick to fully wrap your hand around. The sound was like liquor and you were already drunk on it. 

“Lick it,” he gritted. 

You angled his cock upright, and dragged your wet tongue from the curls above his balls to his frenulum, painting your saliva along the length of it and breathing hot air over his skin. He groaned, and your blood went runny, because the only thing you wanted was to please him — him him him — and you were high on every sound he chewed out as you did. 

His thick fingers carded through your hair, gentle at first, but as you grazed your lips against the tip of his cock his hand turned to a fist, and you chirped at the pain in your scalp. 

Must have heard you, because his grip went slack, and he clenched his jaw instead. 

“Swallow it, cub,” he grumbled, barely encouraging, “as much as you can fit.” 

Easier said than done. You unhinged your jaw to take his blunt head in your mouth, lapping at it to keep it wet, terrified you’d scrape your teeth on it — but you leaned forward, bit by bit, and his cock was heavy on your tongue. 

“Tha’s it,” he huffed, biting down on nothing. “Eyes up.” 

You blinked up at him, rheumy and upset, because soon his cock was at the back of your tongue and you were only halfway down. You did your best with what you could take — sealed your lips and suckled on him, grazing your tongue along the underside of his cock as you moved your head back, then forward again, and he let out a satisfied growl. 

“Good girl, cubbie,” he groaned, when his glans hit the back of your throat and you gagged around him. “Easy. Doin’ so good.” 

The remaining liquid in your body turned to syrup, hot and sweet in your cheeks, a treacly film over your eyes — I’m a good girl, I’m a good girl, I’m a good girl — reverberated around in your head like a bullet ricocheting off the walls of your skull. 

Went delirious with it. Mouth so slick with saliva it dripped down your chin, soaked his cock from base to tip until the curls at the bed of it were sodden and clumped together. Throat relaxed enough to take him deeper, and you gagged again, though he praised you for it. 

You’re so good for me, cubbie. My good girl. So special. Perfect girl. 

Your cunt had liquefied. Molten. Burned so hot that it throbbed between your legs and you rubbed your thighs together involuntarily. Alight with anticipation, because you knew where he’d put his cock next. 

Couldn’t stop yourself, though. Couldn’t settle your tongue. Couldn’t slow down when he told you to — a distant voice that didn’t quite break through the fog, slow down, cub, careful.  

Your fervour was only deepening, because his groans were bitten out more desperately each time you sucked his cock deeper into your throat, and you only wanted to make him happy, to be his good girl forever, to—

“Slow the fuck down.” 

Suddenly your hair was knotted in a fist and it was yanked from your scalp, and you squealed as your head was torn off his cock and your throat was violently empty. He pulled your head back off your shoulders by your hair so that you were forced to look up at the ceiling, and it hurt enough that your face crumpled up, eyes dribbling tears that trickled down over your temples. 

“Still don’t know how to fuckin’ listen, do you,” he thundered, rage flaring from an ember to a scorching flame, and you could see its red glow lambent in the hollows of his eyes. 

You yelped as he dragged you by the hair, claws scratching and grasping at his restraining wrist as you were hauled to the centre of the triangular room and thrown flat on the woollen floor. 

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry — emetic apologies spewed from your mouth like vomit as you rolled yourself onto your back, and you watched him shuck his trousers off in a single motion. 

Loomed over you like a mountain. Cock heavy, bouncing with his heartbeat, glistening with your saliva. He made the cavernous pyramid seem small, shrinking around him, like he could touch the peak of the ceiling just by reaching upward. 

You blinked and he had clambered over you, snared your ankles with massive hands — tore your legs apart and dragged you towards him until your arse was perched on his lap, and your thighs were wrapped around his waist. 

“Didn’t want it to be like this, cub,” he growled, leviathan paws on either side of your waist, and his cock nudged around between your folds for an aperture. “Thought you could control yourself. Gave you too much credit.”

You bleated as he pulled you down onto him, spearing his cock into you in a single motion, a battering ram that broke through your entrance without warning or care. A squeal ripped from your throat as his head plunged in as deep as it could go, to the hilt, pushing innards out of his way to fit, and you felt the ache in your teeth.  

“Coulda been nice n’ slow,” he snarled, tight-jawed.

He hunched over you as he pulled your hips out to unsheathe himself halfway, before yanking you back onto him, hole pulled so tight around him you could feel his heartbeat in your fragile skin. 

“Woulda got you warmed up. Nah, wanted to rush it, did you?” 

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry — babbling and tearful, slurred in panic — pleading like you had angered God, because you had. 

“S’alright, cub,” he murmured, leaning back and hucking up a lump of saliva, spitting it straight down where your cunt met the base of his cock, and it landed square on your clit. “My fault for makin’ you wait so long, eh?” 

He let go of your hips, hands sliding to the core of you — pressed his left thumb into the top of your slit and pulled the skin upward, uncovering your puffy clit and exposing it to the torrid air. 

Your head rocked back into the wool on the floor when he smeared over your vulnerable clit with the pads of two fingers, gliding frictionlessly by virtue of your slick and his spit. You exhaled with a shrill moan, and you bucked your hips to chase his touch, then yelped in pain when his cock jammed into your liver. 

“Easy,” he chuckled at you, deep and throaty, “don’t hurt yourself.” 

Your hands clutched at the wool on the floor in fists, clumps of it knotted between your fingers, as your spine arched into him — what was once a stabbing pain softened to a throb, his attention on your clit analgesic, and your pussy unwinded around the cock warming itself inside you. 

“Tha’s more like it,” he hummed, as you splayed yourself open for him, grunting as he felt your pussy fluttering around the length of him.

You were already close to the brink before he had even touched you, and it did not take him long to work you up to the edge — your moans turned shaky and high-pitched, panting, moving your hips so you could feel him skewered inside you, and everything flooded in at once—

He bit down on a groan as you came, walls of your cunt constricting around his cock, a tourniquet, tightening in the shockwaves of the orgasm that wracked through you viciously enough to leave you concussed. 

“There y’go, cubbie,” he grunted, offering you no clemency, not a beat to catch your breath as he hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted them into the air before pressing them into your chest. “That’ll make it easier.” 

You cried as he plunged his cock into you while you were still tumbling out of your climax, folding you in half until your knees touched the floor by your head, and you could feel his cock in your ribcage. 

He grunted and groaned like a bear, pulling back his hips to reel out his cock before bottoming out with a clap of his hips on your rear, reaming you open with each thrust. 

You had no room to squirm, held so firmly to the floor that you struggled to breathe, and he fucked right through you as if the head of his cock might reach your throat. You could only try and take it, biting down on pained yelps each time he pistoned into you, bludgeoning your cervix enough to bruise it.  

You were not suffering in vain, though. 

The pain was salvific, martyrdom for a cause — him. His pleasure was yours because you owed it to him. You owed him everything, your enlightenment, your happiness, your body, your soul.

Went dizzy with rapture at the thought of his cock impaling you so deeply, of him coming in the depths of you, of his seed implanting in your womb so that you could have him inside you and a part of you forever. So that you could give him the gift that nobody else was worthy of giving him, because you were special. You were important. 

He grunted as much in your ear, breathy and angry and hazy with pleasure; my special girl. Fuck, cubbie, you feel so good. Tryin’ not to break you in half, cubbie. Tryin’ so hard, my good girl, special girl. Gonna give me my baby, aren’t you, cub? I’ll fuck you like this every day until you do—

You watched him in devoted awe once you were able to keep your eyes open — vein bulging in his forehead, burning red in his cheeks, eyes a stormy grey in the darkness of the room. How his brows curled as he chased a final rut, fucking right into your diaphragm, and he pushed all the air out of you as he pressed you into the floor. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, frayed and broken as it rended from his chest, and his head tumbled from his shoulders. “Keep still, cub — fuckin’ hell.” 

You felt his cock lurching in the security of your pussy, his come pumping in surges directly against your cervix, so much of it that you could feel it in your belly and taste it on the back of your tongue. You wondered if he had injected it directly into your womb through sheer pressure alone, and you hoped it would settle there, meeting the ovum that had awaited his arrival. 

You went glassy-eyed as you imagined it, his come taking, swelling and swelling inside you until it was a baby — heaven sent, the perfect amalgamation of you and him — him him him — you couldn’t fathom something so immaculate existing in the world with you. You were sure his baby would outgrow you, viviparous, would burst through your skin and emerge a fully grown person, as deific and faultless as him. 

Selfishly, you imagined it not taking. That he had timed it incorrectly, that his sperm had hunted for your egg and was found wanting — and he’d have to fuck you again, like he promised he would. Again and again, ejaculating in the core of you until your insides had become more him than yourself, body completely usurped by him, organs and all. 

You gasped, shaken out of your come-drunk reverie when he pinned your ankles together with a single hand, straightening out your legs. 

“John, what—” You squeaked, as he pushed your knees to your chin, and he hunched over so that you could no longer see him past your thighs. 

Almost bit your tongue off when you felt him lick up your slit in a flat swipe, immediately bucking to get him away from your already aching and hypersensitive clit. 

“No, s’too much—” you bleated, whining as his tongue smeared over your clit again, and the shock made your brain short-circuit. 

“I know, I know, cubbie—” he hushed, wrangling you until you stilled, and you felt his breath on your inflamed skin, “—it’s important, helps it take, love. Won’t take long, just be a good girl—”

You cried as he sucked your clit into his mouth, knee knocking against your chin, air squished out of your lungs as he folded you in half on the sheepskins. 

But you did as he said, because you were a good girl. Let him suckle on your swollen clit until it was sore, lapping at you with the fervour of a bear hunting honey in a beehive — still felt the flood of his come sitting high in your cunt, pooling against your cervix as he held your legs in the air, and it threatened to pour out of you with every constriction of your pussy. 

“Please—” you wailed, aimless in your begging, because whatever you wanted he had given it to you and then some. 

His hands dug into the flesh of your thighs, keeping himself steady more than you, and you climbed back towards your apogee with a sob and a held breath — released it all at once as he laved his tongue over your pulsing clit, and you came hard enough that you felt yourself begin to black out, such a lack of oxygen in your brain that your vision turned glittery at the edges. 

“J-Jonathan, ah, stop!—” You begged, teary and desperate, and only when you kicked haphazardly into the air did he release the suction on your clitoris and conclude his torment with a chaste kiss on your slit. 

He straightened out with a satisfied sigh, rough and gurgling from his chest, gently lowering your legs and laying them softly on the wool beneath you. 

He planted kisses up the length of you; on your hip, on your belly, on your breast, on your collarbone; crawling up your body until he landed on his back beside you with a whumph. With his expansive hands he scooped you up, and you gave no protest, floppy and exhausted to the point of debilitation — he lay you down on his chest, head balanced between his pectorals, and you settled in with a ragged exhale. 

“Such a good girl,” he murmured into the top of your head as he draped his arms over you, petting your skin wherever his hands landed. “Brave little cub.” 

You deflated, dissolving into him with a pent breath as your eyes fluttered shut, and you could have stayed there, like that, forever. 

He pressed a loving kiss into your hair, languidly stroking your shoulder, and you wondered if your mother was looking for you. 

this fic somehow tripled in length as i was writing it lol. anyway here's the pinterest board for it. <3

[catboybiologist]

I absolutely agree that transmasculine people face different problems than transfeminine people, hmm I wonder if we could come up with a word to specifically describe the transphobic issues that transmasculine people have to deal with, perhaps something including the word trans and, like, a greek syllable meaning masculine, or something

surely such a word would be seen as a good thing to have at ones disposal to talk about one's own oppression

hmmm

This is a bad faith ask, but I guess it's as good a place as any for a ramble. I hope it's coherent.

First off, I feel like my blog is getting lumped into a lot of other blogs as a "trans woman who talks about transmisogyny" and points are being ascribed to me that I never really said. I respect them a lot, and I follow them. But I'm an individual person with my own nuanced opinions on the topic.

Also, yes, this will largely be a nitpicky terminology post. It's a a rambling societal analysis from someone with a STEM background. Don't call this "infighting". To be blunt, if you get riled up by this, that's on you.

Here's what you need to understand: transmisogyny is not called transmisogyny because it's transphobia affecting trans women. Transmisogyny is called transmisogyny because it's the manifestation of existing misogynist biases and talking points, applied to trans women. Creating the term "transandrophobia" as an equal foil to it is implying existing, pervasive androphobia against cis men.

Per the original use of the terminology (I'm literally just poorly summarizing Whipping Girl here, which is basically transfeminism for dummies), transmisogyny exists because of two related, but distinct deeply ingrained biases of misogyny:

One, the societal belief that male/man and female/woman are separate categories with a MASSIVE, uncrossable rift between them, and are intrinsically different as completely separate biological or theological categories (this is termed oppositional sexism)

Two, with respect to these two categories, men and masculinity are superior to women and femininity.

Transgender women assault both of these points to create a massive reflexive disgust reaction in a misogynist. One, they break down the barriers between men and women. And two, they provide examples of somebody "choosing" womanhood, and being uplifted and empowered by it. The first point is something we share with trans men, but let's hold on to that point for a moment.

As I've said before, transmisogyny then manifests as a property of this reaction. The second point leaves people scrambling to think of "alternate explanations" for a trans woman's transition- leading to false accusations about why trans women want access to women's spaces, that trans women are fetishists, and that trans women want to "cheat" in women's sports.

Does this mean that trans men don't have unique struggles, or that we shouldn't fight for transmasc's struggles? Of course not. However, these struggles are not an emergent property of a societal hatred of men.

Instead, a lot of what trans men face feels to me like repackaged misogyny. THIS IS NOT SAYING THAT TRANS MEN ARE NOT MEN, OR THAT ALL TRANSMASCS ARE ACTUALLY WOMEN. This is an acknowledgement that misogyny is a system of biases that aims to create a patriarchy. Those biases have the goal of male superiority, and oftentimes, hit trans men as well- because a system that needs to tell men that they're "biologically superior" is one that can never allow an "inferior" person to put themselves in that category.

Eg: trans men are often forced into positions where they're treated as women, often violently. This is to maintain the separation of men and women, and to assert men as superior. Trans men are affected by reproductive health regulations written to suppress women, sexual violence intended to suppress women, etc.

Some of these mechanisms often also affect trans women. Particularly sexual violence and sexualization.

And some don't. Some are genuinely unique to transmascs. And if you want to use the word "transandrophobia" to describe all of them in one go, then sure I guess. It's not a huge deal, but you have to acknowledge that we're talking about something almost entirely different at that point. But, if you're portraying trans androphobia as the genuine one-to-one equal of transmisogyny, with the same roots and same usage, you're also saying that societal androphobia exists. Which, to be frank, it does not- as a societal force. I'm sure you have a cousin or a great aunt that genuinely believes in some kind of matriarchal state, but c'mon. They're not mainstream in any political movement, no, not even TERFs.

Talking about transmisogyny isn't about erasing trans men's issues, it's about recognizing the misogynist roots of transphobia to more accurately hold fast against it, find solidarity with other feminists, and restructure communication to people outside of our movements.

And yeah, I am going to uplift trans men, and talk about issues affecting them. Saying I don't is ascribing a lot of things to me that I'm not saying.

This is the dignified part of my response. I'm typing my more irate, hysterical thoughts here, but I genuinely hope this opens some respectful discussion.

Part 2 of this post will be what I'm mad about, and what my frustration is.

[cantpickyourgenre]

I've seen a lot of "first date gone wrong shenanigans" but what about a "friend hang where everything goes so right, they're forced to call it a date" for them? Eddie buys Dodgers tickets for him and Chris. Chris says, "Dad, are you crazy?!?!?! I have three tests and two essays ALL due Friday. I do NOT have time for this" because Mr. I Puke Over the Stress and Pressure of Chess definitely cares about his grades. So, Eddie texts Buck and says, "I have an extra ticket, you in?" and Buck responds, "A night with the Diazes? Wouldn't miss it for the world" and Eddie says, "well. Actually. Just me. :(" and Buck goes, "I'll pencil you in then, if I must :)" But then Buck is driving to Eddie's because Eddie is going to drive them to the game, and he stops at the store first. To get Chris study snacks because he's trying to suck up to him post-Texas. The cashier is like, "here. Someone paid for these roses but then dramatically took a phone call with their girlfriend and said they no longer needed them. I think they broke up. They're yours now." So, Buck brings roses to Eddie who is like, "uhhhh, wow" all rosy (pun moderately intended) cheeked and Buck is like "yeah haha I got them for free, BUT they'll look so much better here!!!!!!!!" (they both miss him living there, but couldn't think of a logical reason for him to actually stay) And they go to a restaurant first, and the couple next to them gets engaged. Turns out to be like some rich LA couple, so they buy everyone in the restaurant a bottle of wine to celebrate. So, Buck and Eddie are just like chilling, sharing this bottle of wine, and the couple next to them is talking about their plans for the future and Buck and Eddie are eavesdropping and smiling at each other and feeling light and happy. Then they get to the game finally, and a couple asks them to take their photo, because tourists, and then they offer to return the favor and Buck and Eddie now have a picture of them in front of Dodger Stadium and Buck "jokingly" sets it as his phone background, which makes Eddie take a picture of Buck but super zoomed in on one of his eyes, and he "jokingly" makes that his phone wallpaper because they're being giddy and stupid and maybe a little 30-something men flirty. And the Dodgers win and neither of them care or notice. They decide to take a walk after, maybe at the beach, maybe in the neighborhood of South Bedford because Buck "misses the area". And when they're walking it just feels right to hold hands, and then maybe when they go to say goodnight it just feels right to share a first date sort of kiss. And they don't really talk about it, they just go on dates and start treating each other like boyfriends and all of this is fine with them until Maddie is like, "okay, wait, when did you guys actually start dating? Like when is the anniversary? Also how did this happen?" and Buck and Eddie are like shrugging, Buck is saying, "maybe that dodger game? maybe non-exclusively years ago? I guess I don't really know, just sort of happened." And Eddie is just like grinning, "See Buck, the universe doesn't scream, sometimes it just whispers."

[atmosphericghost]

so a lot of people are talking about ribbit abstracting and the creepy mannequin at the end, but there were three things that stood out to me as really weird:

Caine's aside to Bubble--"leave the other intelligent ais to run for a prolonged period of time." Hello? What does this mean? To me it sounded like he was implying everyone in the circus is ai? I don't think that's true but I found this line very confusing. Referring to Zooble as "the toybox character" also felt a bit odd to me--like these are all characters he drafted up and not actual people--or maybe he drafted these characters and "assigned" members of the circus to them? idk.

Jax missing his tail. I know it was played as a joke, but his reaction felt significant to me. I mean, why even include that bit at all? The pan up to Caine especially stood out to me.

"How is this even possible? I thought Caine couldn't--" this feels super important to me. I think it implies one of two things: one) Caine does have some control over their minds, contradicting what he said in the pilot. This obviously has huge implications. Or two) It looks to me like Jax might have come to some sort of realization in that scene. Like, Caine can't normally do that, unless... something.

[smileysuh]

choices

🌙 starring. Johnny Suh & Lee Haechan & Jung Jaehyun x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There’s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, cam girl reader, mentions of alcohol/drugs/porn, masturbation, use of sex toys, multiple reader orgasms, oral (both m/f recieving), blow job, pussy eating, overstim, multiple sex positions, dirty talk, praise, size kink, choking, spanking, etc… I pet names: (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 9.7k 

🍭 aus. Uni au, non idol au, best friends to lovers, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This was originally a Pentagon fic from 2022, but that was three and half years ago so I revamped it for this month’s NCT fic :) I put a lot of effort into this fic when it came out, I always liked the story and the way the dynamic flowed, and the NCT fandom is so much larger than the Pentagon one, so I figured why not

“What are you thinking about?” Johnny asks as he takes a seat next to you. You make room for your large friend by lifting your legs off the couch, allowing him to slip under them.

His warm hands find your calves and he brings them to settle in his lap while you both get comfortable on the couch that Haechan has been hauling around since his last year of high school, when he’d won it during a drunken game of beer pong with Lee Taeyong, who was very flustered when he lost and had to actually cough up the couch.

You grin at the memory, pushing your body against the fuzzy blanket that covers the dark leather couch much of the time- Taeyong hadn’t bought the expensive sofa with the intention of it becoming a part-time bed for teenage boys, too lazy to get up after playing video games at all hours.

Haechan has made the stiff, leather couch comfortable with layers of blankets and pillows, and over the years, countless people have worn it down. 

“This couch,” you breathe, leaning your head to the side against the cushion. 

“How high are you?” Johnny laughs, his hand moving to find your foot, where he runs a finger along your heel. The brief contact causes you to jolt yourself away from the mischievous man, who had rolled into your life around the same time Haechan and Jaehyun had, in tenth grade.

The four of you had all been sent to some preppy teenager summer camp. Jaehyun, Haechan, and Johnny had all bonded immediately, and the three were easygoing enough to welcome you wholeheartedly into the festivities of newfound friendship.

What had started off as a ‘year abroad’ for the man from Chicago had turned into him moving to Korea full time, and the four of you have been inseparable ever since, even going to the same university now. 

“For real,” Johnny says gruffly, grabbing your foot to pull it back into his lap before running a ring-clad hand through his tousled locks. “What are you thinking about?”

“Something stupid,” you sigh, cocking your head and studying him. “You?”

Your friend shrugs, flashing you a grin that you’ve come to love so much. “Something stupid.”

“You two really need to work on your social skills,” Haechan sighs, having caught the tail end of your brief interaction.

He collapses on the couch, and you quickly pull your legs to your chest in an effort not to get crushed during Haechan’s process of forcing himself between you and Johnny.

The youngest of your three male friends has a red cup in each hand, and he holds them out expectantly.

“Who needs social skills when we have you and Jaehyun?” you smile, accepting one of the drinks and taking a sip- only to scrunch your face up in disgust. “What is in this?”

Haechan shrugs, leaning back against the couch with a lazy grin. “I confiscated it from Doyoung” 

“No wonder it tastes so bad-” You hold the cup out to Haechan, and he reluctantly accepts it. “Doyoung makes the most stupid yet strong drinks of all of us. Someone really needs to teach him how to actually make a cocktail.”

“He has to find the energy to deal with us crazies somehow,” Johnny chuckles, sniffing his own cup and swirling the contents inside before taking a test sip. 

“Speaking of crazies,” you stretch your arms over your head, looking out at the room, “where’s Jaehyun?”

“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Haechan says, arms finding the back of the couch while he looks around, the cup held by long fingers now resting just by your shoulder.

“Didn’t he go off with that pretty girl in the glitter shirt?” Johnny asks.

“Maybe.” Haechan cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “Was she his ‘go to’ tonight?”

“Must be,” Johnny responds quickly. “He didn’t invite the other one.”

You sigh, finding the whole thing to be a little crazy.

Being best friends with three dudes has a lot of positives- but listening to them detail their fuck schedules and fuck buddies is not one of them. 

“Stop being so grumpy.” Haechan shoves you, and you realize you’ve been wearing your feelings on your sleeve for everyone to see. 

“I’m not being grumpy,” you insist, but you can’t wipe the expression of distaste from your face.

“You are. You hate Jaehyun and his fuck buddies.”

“I just- I just don’t get why the three of you are so into hookup culture,” you sigh. “I mean- what's the point?”

“The point is getting your dick wet, Squeak,” Johnny chuckles, and the nickname makes your skin heat.

They’ve tried a number of pet names for you over the years, but Pip Squeak has been the only one that’s truly stuck- and it’s no wonder. It’s completely fitting. You stick out like a tiny little nugget next to your three male friends. 

“She doesn’t need to get her dick wet,” Haechan rolls his eyes, a mischievous grin breaking onto his face a moment later. “She’s already as wet as can be.”

“Haechan!” You and Johnny both react at the same time, your foot kicking at Haechan’s lap while Johnny shoves him, and the obviously tipsy man simply giggles, taking the physical onslaught with a shit eating smile. 

“Why are we fighting Haechan?” Comes a tired voice, and Jaehyun tosses his body onto the couch, landing half on top of all three of you with his head in your lap.

“Haechan’s being a bad boy,” you respond, fingers finding Jaehyun’s soft, dark hair immediately, a habit you’d picked up years ago.

“Am not!” Haechan insists. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

You sigh loudly, rolling your eyes while Johnny chuckles.

“I’m missing something,” Jaehyun says from your lap, looking up at you with those pretty eyes of his, “tell me?” 

“All I said was that Y/N doesn't need to look for fuck buddies to get her dick wet because she’s already wet as shit,” Haechan states factually, which, to be fair, is a complete recount of what he’d said.

“And you know this for a fact?” Jaehyun teases, looking at his friend with an expression of smug disbelief.

“Well-” Haechan visibly shrinks, his shoulders slumping, his skin brightening with pretty pinks. “I mean-”

“For a moment there, I thought I'd missed a massive milestone in you guys' friendship,” Jaehyun says, letting out a sigh of relief as he gets comfortable in your lap again. He turns onto his side so he can nuzzle his face against your thighs, which he’s declared countless times to be the best pillows in the whole universe. “If the two of you started hooking up, I think the world would have to end.”

“It wouldn’t be that crazy,” Haechan fires back immediately, and his ears turn an even brighter red.

“It would be crazy that out of the three of us, she’d choose you,” Johnny says smoothly.

Haechan holds up a hand as if he’s going to hit his friend, and Johnny stiffens in his seat, his carefree expression turning stern in an instant. “It’s my birthday we’re celebrating right now,” he reminds his younger friend. “Show some respect.”

Haechan groans but lets his hand fall to his lap again. 

You’ve never met a trio of guys so centered around their birthdays.

These three are constantly utilizing their positions, whether it’s by Johnny expecting respect as the ‘oldest’, or Haechan playing baby.

“I think she’d choose me,” Jaehyun says in an almost wistful manner from your lap, turning to look up at you so he can reach a hand to play with your hair.

You think it’s interesting to be talking about this, especially since this very question has been on your mind so frequently as of late. It had been on your mind when Johnny first sat down, and now here it is again.

“She’s not choosing you, Jaehyun,” Johnny scoffs. “She hates your hookup culture.”

“My hookup culture?” Jaehyun laughs, lifting his head so he’s able to look at Johnny by his feet. “Says you!”

“How did I ever become friends with three man sluts?” you sigh teasingly, shaking your head at your constant companions, who erupt into chaos. 

“You love us,” Johnny insists, while Jaehyun defends his behaviour, and Haechan pretends to look scandalized at the notion of being a ‘man slut’. 

The bickering subsides when Doyoung’s voice bellows “Haechan!” from somewhere else in the house, and your foursome dissipates quickly thereafter.

You find your way to Jungwoo, who is trying his best to be helpful in the kitchen as the festivities wind down.

It’s just the core group of friends left in the mock frat house now, and before you know it, everyone is in the kitchen. Conversation is easy, and another hour ticks by before Doyoung finally pushes off from where he’s standing by a wall to announce he’s heading home. 

There’s a brief discussion over cars and who is sober enough to drive, and once his friends are accounted for, Doyoung turns to you. “Do you need a ride home?”

“She’s staying here,” Haechan says before you can answer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. It’s not uncommon for you to sleep over at the ‘mojo dojo casa man house’, as Haechan had dubbed it when they moved in. In fact, last year, you’d spent pretty much the entire summer here before the university term had started up again.

“As always,” Doyoung sighs as he puts his shoes on by the door, eyes assessing you and your three best friends. “Be careful with her.”

It’s a lasting joke in the friend group that everyone is waiting for Haechan to accidentally sit on you and break you- or maybe for Johnny to hug you a little too hard one day- 

“No promises,” Haechan grins happily, tightening his embrace around you until it borders on being painful. 

You can’t stand him sometimes.

You love him so much.

“Call me if they’re too demanding and you need an escape,” Doyoung warns you, earning some irritated sounds from your friends, who are eager to have you to themselves.

“She’s ours,” Jaehyun insists, arms wrapping around you so you’re now sandwiched between him and Haechan. 

Doyoung rolls his eyes as the final person in your group slides up against your back, resting his chin on top of your head. “We’ll take care of her,” Johnny promises.

You’re truly trapped now. 

The moment the door is closed behind Doyoung, sealing you in with your best friends, Jaehyun and Haechan jump into action. The younger of the two grabs your arm, dragging you towards the living room, while Jaehyun mirrors the motion on your opposite side, in the direction of the kitchen. 

Johnny tightens his grip on your waist, making it clear he’s not intent on moving. 

“What’s the plan?” The man behind you asks.

“Movie,” Haechan states.

“More drinks first,” Jaehyun insists.

“What do you think, Squeak?” Johnny’s fingers press gently into the skin of your hips, and you can feel the warmth of him through your thin shirt, his heart beating steadily at your back. 

You hate it when he makes you choose between activities. Why do you always have to be the Haechan and Jaehyun tie breaker? 

“I don’t care.”

“Movies,” Haechan states again, pulling on your arm.

Jaehyun tugs your other side. “Drinks first.” 

Johnny sighs. “I’ll go choose a movie with Haechan, and you two can make us drinks. But make it something good, okay? I need to get the Doyoung mix taste out of my mouth.”

“No promises,” Jaehyun grins, pulling you away from Haechan successfully this time.

Johnny catches your eye, and you laugh, a silent agreement to do your best to keep Jaehyun under control in the booze department. 

“You,” Jaehyun grabs at your waist when you reach the kitchen, “go here.” He lifts you up and sets you onto the countertop. “And I’ll make the drinks.” He smiles up at you, and you laugh at how cute he gets when he’s tipsy.

“Did you really need me to come help you then?”

“It’s really helpful for you to sit there and tell me I'm the best bartender in the house.”

“Like that’s a hard title to win,” you roll your eyes.

Haechan can’t cook (or do anything of the sort) to save his life, and Johnny- well, Johnny has a taste for cheap beer, which disqualifies him immediately from the race. 

You have to admit, Jaehyun moves like a professional. He glides from cupboard to counter, grabbing glasses and setting them up next to you. You watch the way his body moves, muscles visible with each motion, and when he shakes one of the drinks, you have to tear your eyes from his biceps.

He might be the leanest of your three friends, but he’s still much taller than you, and most women, for that matter. 

You’re so busy watching Jaehyun’s back that you don’t realize he’s paused his fluid motions. He turns, and you see he’s put an apron on- the one that says ‘kiss the chef’. Jungwoo had bought it for Johnny for Secret Santa one year in an effort to get Johnny to agree to barbecue more often. 

You cock a brow at your best friend as he slips between your legs, hands finding the counter on either side of your hips. “So?” He grins. “You gonna kiss the chef or what?”

You laugh. “Not sure you even qualify as a chef when you just said you’re a bartender.” But you grab his chin all the same, forcing Jaehyun to the side so you can plant your lips on his cheek. 

Jaehyun’s smiling when you let him go, appearing satisfied, and he returns to his drink making.

Within minutes, he has all four orders ready to go, and he carries a tray to the living room with you in tow. 

As Jaehyun sets the tray down, Haechan quickly reads the apron, stands, and sighs. “Well, if you insist.” He grabs Jaehyun and presses his lips to his cheek, much like you had.

Jaehyun recoils with disgust, shoving Haechan, only to be attacked on the other side by Johnny, who manages to get a kiss placed right below Jaehyun’s ear that has him shivering and jumping back, hiding behind you. “Save me, Squeak!” 

“You wore the apron!” Haechan laughs, and you know he leaps at any opportunity to terrorize his friends. 

“Just drink your drinks,” Jaehyun groans, taking off the piece of fabric that had just cost him another 2 of his 9 Jaehyun Cat Lives- you’ve seen him receive a sneak attack kiss from at least Jungwoo, and you’re pretty sure Taeyong as well, so you wonder how many Jaehyun Cat Lives are even left. 

“Remember when I sat next to you earlier?” Johnny says in your ear, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you down onto the couch. “And asked you what you were thinking?”

“Something stupid.”

“Yeah.” Johnny lets you get seated next to him, but he keeps an arm around you, eyes briefly moving to Jaehyun and Haechan, who are bickering about the movie on the other side of the couch. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You laugh.

The man from Chicago grins, but there’s something serious in his eyes. “I’ll go first if you want.” His voice is softer this time, and the tone of the discussion has shifted entirely. 

“Johnny-”

“I was thinking about how good you look tonight.”

“Johnny-” Your voice is something near a whimper. You’re shocked and left speechless at the turn of events that have just been orchestrated by your best friend. He’s told you how pretty you are before, but there’s something about the way he’s saying it now- it’s different.

“Your turn,” he says, one large hand finding your thigh, smoothing up and down the denim that covers you from him. “What were you thinking about?”

You can’t tell him that you were thinking about him, Haechan and Jaehyun- that you were trying, for the billionth time, to decide which of the three you prefer the most- because if you were going to potentially ruin things with the other two, you want to know you are doing it with the right one-

But no matter how many times you’ve run it through your brain, you’ve come up empty-handed. Unable to choose. 

How do you say that to him?

“What are you two talking about?” Jaehyun’s voice is your saving grace, and he puts the drink he’d made for you into your hands. “She looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

“I just told her what we were all thinking,” Johnny shrugs.

“Liar. I was not thinking,” Haechan states, turning to look at you as he takes a deep breath. “What wasn’t I thinking?”

“That she looks good tonight,” Johnny says. 

However, when Johnny says it, he says it in a tone that’s friendly. 

He doesn’t say it as he had a few seconds ago, with a voice that was low and seductive. 

You can’t believe him.

“It is a nice outfit,” Jaehyun agrees lightheartedly, leaning back against the couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of you.

“Okay, but hear me out.” Haechan sits up in his seat, his hands hovering as if he’s going to say something profound- “I always thought-” a pause, taken to ponder, big eyes blinking, “outfits like that are meant to be ripped off in like, an hour? Two hours- tops. How are you still wearing that?”

You all groan, but Johnny’s grip around you tightens. “He does have a point,” Johnny says. “Do you want to change into a hoodie and some sweatpants?”

You roll your eyes. “Are we all going to ignore the fact that he practically said I look like-”

“A pretty little whore,” Jaehyun interrupts you with a grin, his dimples perky amidst his alcohol blushed cheeks. “It’s okay, you look like that a lot of the time.” 

You stare at Jaehyun with shock for a moment, and then you look at Johnny, confidence flooding through your body. If they’re going to call you a pretty little whore, and touch your thighs, and be like this- well, you can play too.

“The stupid thing I was thinking about earlier was who out of the three of you I want to fuck the most, or at least, who I’d risk it all for.”

Johnny meets your gaze with an intense look of his own, and he licks his lips. “Go on,” he prompts, voice hoarse and sexy. “Who’d you pick?”

“I wasn’t able to pick. I never am,” you respond, turning sideways in your corner section of the couch, facing your body towards the three insanely handsome men you call best friends. 

Haechan is looking at you with wide eyes, jaw dropped, and Jaehyun is sitting perfectly still, and Johnny is meeting your gaze straight on, with an intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

You swallow thickly. “Do you guys want to hear a dirty little secret?”

Johnny’s hand squeezes your thigh, and it’s Haechan who mumbles a whiny, “Yes.”

“Since I’m never able to pick-” you reach out, tracing a finger across Johnny’s collarbone, still hidden by his shirt, “I usually just end up imagining all three of you, and end up even more confused than when I started.”

“Well,” Johnny grabs you by the waist and easily pulls you to be straddling his lap. Dark eyes gaze up into yours. “I think we can help you figure it out.”

He leans in, and just as he’s about to kiss you, you tilt your head, his lips making contact with your cheek.

Johnny groans, fingers digging into your hips, and you laugh. “Come on, you know I can’t just risk all our friendships like this-”

“Why not?” Jaehyun moves closer, a hand reaching up to grab the back of your head, forcing you to look at him.

“Because what if I like all three of you the same?” you ask, looking past Jaehyun’s shoulder at Haechan, who is seated farthest from you on the couch, and is now being all but blocked out. 

“Then you like all three of us,” Johnny says, his hands applying pressure to your hips, forcing you down so you can feel how hard he is against your core. Even with both your pants in the way, you can tell he’s turned on, and it only makes you wetter. You stop a groan just as it’s about to escape your lips.

“I told you,” you breathe as Jaehyun releases his hold on your neck so you can look at the man under you again, “I’m not into your hookup culture.”

“This isn’t just going to be a hookup, and we all know it,” Johnny tells you, leaning up to have access to you again, only for you to turn your cheek at the last moment, repeating your behaviour from before. 

“Have any of you even had a foursome?” you question, and you’re pretty sure the answer is no. If they had, you’re sure you would have heard about it. 

“No, but it won’t be much different from a threesome,” Jaehyun muses, his fingers dancing up and down your arm, eyes taking in your form with a glimmer of darkness that you identify as lust.

He’s never looked at you like this before... at least, not that you’ve noticed.

“Says the guy literally excluding dude number three,” you laugh, meeting Haechan’s dumbstruck gaze again. “What do you think, Hyuck?”

“I think-” the youngest man coughs, clearing his throat. “I think we should take this to the bedroom where there’s more space.”

“Good idea.” Johnny stands abruptly, and you grab his shoulders to steady yourself, his hands slipping down to your ass, effectively holding you up while you cling to his front like a koala bear. 

“Hey!” You turn to nip at Johnny’s ear gently with your teeth, the biggest scolding you can do in this position. “I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“Sure you haven't,” Johnny breathes, continuing through the house towards the bedrooms. 

Jaehyun and Haechan are following close behind, and they walk shoulder to shoulder. You let your eyes take in their differences. There’s Haechan with his mischievous expressions and all black aesthetic- then there’s Jaehyun, looking as ethereal and statuesque as always. 

“You guys really think this won’t ruin anything?” you ask, letting your anxieties truly show as Johnny steps over the threshold into his room.

“How could it ruin anything?” Johnny retorts, placing you onto his bed before straightening to look down at you.

“It could ruin everything,” you frown. “What if one of you gets jealous-”

“Jaehyun?” 

“Yes, Johnny?”

“Are you going to get jealous if I fuck her brains out?”

“No.” A pause, then; “Hey, Haechan, are you going to get jealous?”

“Nope.”

“See?” Johnny grins down at you, and you groan, grabbing one of his pillows and covering your face with it. 

“You’re not getting it-” you whine, removing the pillow after a moment. 

“Then explain why you’re so worried.” Johnny reaches down and grabs one of your socks, pulling it off your foot even as you try to kick him away- he’s always going after your ticklish spots and you are not interested in him being a freaking tickle sadist right now. 

“I’m worried, because you say it’s not going to be a hookup, but then you also say that you can all apparently promise not to catch feels and get jealous-”

“Who promised not to catch feels?” Now it’s Jaehyun snatching at your foot to remove your second sock, and you’re left kicking at the three men at the end of the bed with bare feet. 

“Our little Pip Squeak doesn’t get it,” Johnny tuts with a grin. “Haechan, explain things to her.”

Your gaze moves to the youngest man in the room. He’s off center, on Jaehyun’s right side, and he’s watching you with an oddly pure expression. 

Haechan rubs the back of his neck, cocking his head at you. “You’re not the only one who’s thought about all this stuff,” he says. “The three of us- we’ve talked about this sort of thing happening-”

“You have?” you ask in shock, this being the first time you’ve ever heard of this.

“Of course we have Squeak,” Jaehyun says, using your distracted state to grab at you, striking faster than a snake, and getting your ankle in a harsh grip that he uses to drag you down the bed towards them.

“And we all agreed,” Johnny explains, “that whoever you choose, the other two won't get upset.”

“And now that we know you want all of us-” Jaehyun has dragged you all the way to the foot of the bed, and he releases your ankle in favour of latching onto the rolled cuff of your jeans, tugging gently. “What’s there to be upset about?”

“Besides,” Johnny lets out a small chuckle, “Haechan’s already been telling girls who hit on him at bars that he’s dating you so they back off. He’s a little more committed to you than Jaehyun or I can afford to be without knowing you return the feelings.”

Your eyes shift to Haechan again, and you notice how the redness has returned to his ears. He’s looking down at the floor, and your heart swells with emotion.

You look between your best friends, “So you three-” 

“Have been hopelessly in love with you for years, Squeak.” Johnny finishes for you. “So let us take care of you. And don't be worried about the consequences. There are none.”

“Are you sure about that?” You cock a brow. “I think if Doyoung finds out about this, he might have a heart attack.”

“Like I said, only good outcomes,” Johnny chuckles, then he holds out a hand for you. “Come here.” You reach for him, and Johnny easily pulls you to your feet, bringing you close until you’re chest to chest. “Let us help you learn not to worry so much, hmm?”

One of his hands comes to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone lovingly. Johnny looks down at you with dark eyes that have stars in them, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. 

You trust Johnny, and you trust Jaehyun, and Haechan. 

With one final ‘please, Lord Jesus or whoever is up in the sky- please let this not end badly,’ you feel a surge of adrenaline run through you, and it gives you the courage to lurch onto your tiptoes, throw your arms around the back of Johnny’s neck. You press your lips to his for the very first time, and it’s as if a wave of electricity runs through your entire body.

Johnny’s hands immediately slip down to your waist, and he tugs you closer, kissing you back. He captures your lower lip between his own, suckling on it for a moment before letting his teeth drag against you, earning a small sound that rises out of your chest before you can even stop it.

Johnny grins against your lips briefly before kissing you harder, prompting you to open your mouth and allow his tongue to glide across your teeth. His hand slips down from your waist to your ass, giving you a delicious squeeze-

And then two new hands are grabbing your hips, forcibly making you turn, taking Johnny with you. Someone presses against your back, and it’s easy for you to guess who it is. 

Jaehyun’s fingers dig into your hips, pulling your lower body away from Johnny and back towards the new man behind you. Jaehyun grinds against you, his lips finding your neck and sending a shiver through your body at the new, unexpected contact. 

You find yourself reaching behind you, finding Jaehyun’s hair and lacing your fingers through it, tugging gently and earning a groan that reverberates against your throat. 

Jaehyun’s teeth graze your jugular and Johnny breaks your kiss in favour of going at the other side of your neck, one of his hands grabbing at your jaw and pushing up, giving both men more space as they suck little love bites into your skin. 

Now that your mouth isn’t covered with Johnny’s, your sounds slip out unhindered, little whimpers of delight that earn growls of interest from the men all but claiming your throat - your very breath - as theirs. 

Then you remember the youngest man missing from this equation, and his name tumbles from your lips. “Haechan-”

Johnny's knuckles darkly against your throat, and then he adjusts the grip, still pushing at your chin, so he can insert two fingers into your mouth. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Johnny asks, nipping at your earlobe. “Saying Haechan’s name while Jaehyun and I worship you like this.”

You moan around his fingers, blindly grabbing at Johnny’s belt to drag him closer. 

“You want him first, don’t you, Squeak?” Jaehyun hisses against your neck. “You always care about your baby boy first, isn’t that right?” He pulls his face away from your skin, and a moment later, his fingers are wrapping around your throat, squeezing. 

You moan around Johnny’s fingers, and he removes them from your mouth, both men giving you enough space to answer them.

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing your ass back against Jaehyun, “Haechan deserves it.”

Fingers squeeze your neck again, and Jaehyun’s lips brush by your ear when he asks, “And we don’t?”

You let out a groan when Johnny pushes his leg between your thighs, and it’s the first real contact on your core, sending shivers of pleasure through your body. “You two stole my socks.”

The men caging you in begin to laugh, and if you weren’t so distracted by their hands on you- their massive bodies locking you in between them- you might have laughed as well, but the most you can do is latch onto Johnny’s shoulders when he pushes his thigh up against you harder. 

“Fine,” Johnny says, voice low. His hand comes to cup your face, and you open your eyes to look up at him. “You can have Haechan first. But if you were anyone else- I’d make him wait.”

“Let's make him wait,” Jaehyun suggests behind you, and a moment later, he’s latching his lips onto your neck again, finding your sweet spot and exploiting it for the pretty gasps that immediately leave you.

“So you’re going to say no to her?” Johnny laughs, rubbing his nose against yours gently before kissing you with the same softness.

Behind you, Jaehyun groans, and you know he’s been defeated.

“How are we going to do this?” Jaehyun asks, and you realize nearly immediately that he’s not talking to you.

Johnny stops kissing you to consider it for a moment, even turning to look at the bed. Then he says, “Haechan sitting against the headboard, Squeak on his lap, you can be behind.”

“And you?” You grab the front of Johnny’s shirt, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I’ll wait,” he assures you. “Someone has to tell these two which positions are going to work.”

“I know positions,” Jaehyun mutters behind you, making both you and Johnny laugh.

Jaehyun must not like being laughed at, because his hands grab your hips and he roughly turns you to face him, looking down at you with a dark gaze. “You think this is funny?” He grabs your face, nearly shaking with what looks to be repressed emotion, and all your laughter dies in your throat. “You have no idea how long we’ve-” he groans, unable to finish his sentence. 

“Then show me.”

He grabs your face with both hands, smashing his lips to yours.

If Johnny had been eager but collected, Jaehyun is the opposite side of the same coin, eager and extremely enthusiastic, his tongue clashing against yours immediately. His thumb presses against your cheekbone as he kisses you, and then his hands disappear for a moment, only for your shirt to be torn off your body.

Jaehyun’s lips move to your neck, and you let out a gasp, fingers threading in his hair while his mouth begins its descent.  His lips press sloppy kisses to your collarbones and then the swell of your breasts, one of his large hands splaying across the small of your back-

He grabs at the latch of your bra, and you whimper, body tingling with anticipation-

While Jaehyun undoes the clasp, a new set of hands finds your shoulders, pushing the straps of your bra down gently. Lips press butterfly kisses against the nape of your neck and your shoulders, a stark contrast to Jaehyun, who successfully gets your bra off and moves his attention to your breasts. 

“Fuck-” Jaehyun groans, cupping your left boob in his hand and kneading it while his tongue darts out to tease your other nipple- then he’s grabbing at your legs, lifting you up while the man behind you gets out of the way, allowing Jaehyun to toss you onto the bed, his body landing on top of yours. 

Jaehyun’s mouth continues its downward trajectory, and then his fingers are finding the waistband of your jeans, tugging roughly- only to allow the denim to fall back to your skin. Jaehyun looks up at you and you gnaw at your lower lip, your own hands moving to undo the button, then the zipper- and when you lift your hips, Jaehyun immediately follows through and helps you pull your jeans off. 

“You’re in for it now,” Johnny chuckles darkly, and your gaze shifts to the man from Chicago, who has moved to sit in his gaming chair and is facing the bed with an amused expression on his face. 

You don’t have to ask what Johnny is talking about.

It’s a running joke amongst your male friends that Jaehyun loves giving oral- it’s one of the things you’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about, and now that he’s between your legs, he definitely delivers.

Jaehyun pushes your thighs up to your chest, letting out a soft groan when he brings his mouth to your panty-covered core. He places an open-mouthed kiss on your entrance, tongue pressing against the fabric of your underwear and making your legs twitch.

“Are you seriously going to tease her while we’re standing here waiting?” Haechan groans next to you, and you have to admit, you agree with his exasperated tone.

“I'm not forcing you to stand there and watch,” Jaehyun responds quickly, fingers hooking in your panties. When he pulls the fabric to the side, his breath fanning over your heated core. A shiver runs across your body, and your hands instinctively reach for his hair. 

“Jaehyun-” you whimper, voice betraying your need.

Your friend looks up at you with mischievous eyes and a grin, then he brings his face to your heat, dragging his tongue across your entrance teasingly. His hands adjust your legs, pushing them up against your chest harder, spreading you open as he places his entire mouth onto you, tongue pushing into your wet hole.

Your fingers tug at his hair, and you gasp, back arching. It feels like little shocks of happiness are scattering across your skin. 

The bed dips next to you, and then a familiar hand covers your breast, thumb brushing over your pebbled nipple, earning another sound of pleasure from deep within you. 

Haechan looks down at you, eyes full of focus, and your heart lurches in your chest. You grab your youngest lover boy, pulling him to your lips.

He’s surprised at first, but it only takes a moment for Haechan to start kissing you back, his body shifting as he shuffles closer, leaning half over you so he can kiss you harder while his fingers pinch at your nipple. 

Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There’s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

Jaehyun sucks at your clit, and you shiver, legs closing around his head as a sudden orgasm erupts through your body. You grab at Haechan’s shoulders, moaning desperately into his mouth while Jaehyun continues to lick and slurp at your entrance. Then, a moment later, two of his fingers push into you, and you think this must be the most wonderful feeling your body has ever felt.

Jaehyun’s digits curl up, and you can hear your pussy squelching even over the gasps and whimpers that are escaping you.

Haechan’s moved his kisses to your neck, and your noises of pleasure fill the space, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Jaehyun lets up when your legs truly begin to shake, and when he pulls away, your feet fall flat on the mattress, knees closing.

Haechan’s still working on your neck, one hand worshiping your breast, but after a moment, the hand begins to move downward. He drags his palm along the outside of your leg, up to your knee, then he applies a bit of pressure, prompting your thighs to open. 

Haechan adjusts above you, moving between your legs slowly. He gives you time to push him away, but the moment he’s pressing down against your core, your thighs tighten around his waist. 

“Haechan?” You blink up at him.

“Yeah?” His voice is shaky, as if he’s as confused about this turn of events as you are.

You push at his shoulders, and Haechan lets up, allowing you to roll, switching positions so you’re now on top of him. Your friend’s hands find your hips, and you grab at his shirt, prompting him to sit up so he can remove it easily. 

His lips find your breasts the moment he discards the fabric, and his fingers splay across your back, keeping you close while he moves his kisses up to your neck. He reaches your lips moments later, and you push on his shoulders, causing you both to fall back onto the bed, your hands pressed to his chest, which flexes beneath you. 

You roll your hips, and you can feel Haechan’s cock pressing up against his jeans. You avoid the obnoxious buckle on the belt that he’d found thrifting last December, you’d always known there was a reason you hated it, but have never been able to put your finger on it- now, you realize it’s because it makes Haechan’s crotch about as inviting as a chastity belt. 

“Off,” you mumble against your friend’s lips, reaching a hand between your bodies to tug at the belt buckle before releasing it. Haechan had the audacity to put the damned thing on, he can remove it too.

Large hands fumble, metal brushes your exposed abdomen and makes you shiver, Haechan kisses you deeper in response, managing to get the belt off with one hand while the other returns to cup your face. He’s pulling the leather band completely out of the rings of his pants and throwing it to the side a moment later, and as soon as it’s gone, your hands return to the waistband of his jeans. 

The two of you make quick work of undressing him, and before you know it, he’s bare in front of you, and you’re practically drooling at how big he is.

You lick your lips, kissing Haechan quickly, then begin your descent. He shivers when you kiss his abdomen, and your fingers wrap around his cock a moment later, earning another hiss, as well as a hand in your hair.

Haechan looks down at you and you meet his eyes, bringing your mouth to the head of his cock and kitten licking. The gorgeous man lets out a strangled gasp, throwing his head back into the pillows, hips lifting off the bed, and he releases his hold on your hair to grip the bed sheets. You humour the needy man, sinking your mouth onto his length, taking as much of him as you can.

A hand lands on your ass, surprising you and making you jolt, which sends Haechan into the back of your throat. You gag, pulling away from Haechan while your hand continues to pump him, and you look over your shoulder at Jaehyun. 

“I know you said you wanted him first.” The pretty man grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you up and away from Haechan so your back is now to Jaehyun’s chest. He runs his tongue from your shoulder up to your ear, and you shiver at the cool stripe it leaves in its wake. “But what if I fuck you while you suck him off? There’s no reason you can’t take us both, hmm?”

You gnaw on your lower lip, nodding eagerly, and Jaehyun releases a deep chuckle of amusement. He lets you go, shoving your back down roughly, and you eagerly return to your task, mouth wrapping around Haechan once more.

You feel Jaehyun rip your panties at the waist, and you can’t bring yourself to care; taking them off completely would have required you to adjust positions, and it would have taken way too long. 

One of Jaehyun’s hands lands on the small of your back, and it glides down your spine while you feel him lining up with your entrance. He coats himself in your slick first, rutting against you but not pushing inside, and you groan around Haechan, toes curling with anticipation.

Jaehyun chuckles behind you, and then he thrusts into you all at once, both hands moving to grip your hips. “Try not to choke, sweetheart,” Jaehyun warns, and you just know he’s grinning like the complete asshole that he is-

His first thrust sends you forward suddenly, and you nearly gag, groaning at how quickly he’d almost made you fail his warning. You pull your mouth off of Haechan, fist pumping up and down his length while you suckle on the head, finding this less risky with Jaehyun behind you and at full energy. 

Haechan doesn’t seem to mind the change, and one of his hands comes down to cover yours, applying pressure that tells you to squeeze him harder. You follow through, and the man below you lets out a groan. 

The sound of praise goes straight to your core, and you feel yourself tighten around Jaehyun, who reacts with a laugh, then smacks you across your ass just enough to sting.

You whimper, a little shocked at just how much you’re enjoying Jaehyun being rough with you. An orgasm is building in the pit of your stomach, and you rest your head on Haechan’s thigh, eyes closing, allowing yourself to enjoy the feeling of Jaehyun fucking you silly with even more intensity. 

“She feels so good,” Jaehyun groans, and you whimper in response, adoring how he’s ignoring you and talking about you to the others like this.

“Don’t rub it in,” Johnny’s deep voice sends a tingle rushing through your entire being, you’d almost forgotten he was there.

Jaehyun simply laughs, and his hips rut into you faster and harder- you’d thought he’d be losing energy by now, not fucking you even better-

“Gonna cum for me, Squeak?” Jaehyun grabs your hair, and he hauls you up to his chest for the second time tonight. His hand moves to your throat to keep you where he wants you, and his strong forearm is like a security bar holding you up where it presses across your chest, allowing his other hand to grasp your breast roughly. 

You can’t respond, but you manage a nod, and Jaehyun’s amused laugh at the motion sends you over the edge. You throw your head back onto Jaehyun’s shoulder, pulse thumping loudly in your head from the way he’s cutting off your oxygen with the hand still on your throat.

You can feel him everywhere. 

Your fingers latch onto his wrist, not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure wash over your entire body. Jaehyun is steady behind you, and he works you through your orgasm with a pace that turns erratic as his own high becomes nearly too much for him to bear.

When he finally slows down, releasing your neck, you take a strangled breath. You feel a soft kiss to your shoulder, and then the roughness returns, with Jaehyun pushing you onto Haechan’s chest.

The maknae catches you, holding you close while you try to find your breath. But when you shift, and feel Haechan’s cock twitch with interest where it’s pressed between your bodies, you’re determined to pull yourself together and fuck all three of your friends. You can’t stop now.

Your hand forms a fist, and you push yourself up, looking down at Haechan. Then you lift your hips, grabbing your friend’s cock to guide him to your entrance. You sit down just as Haechan’s hands find your waist, a wide-eyed look on his face. 

He's big. Considering the fact that Haechan is the shortest of your three friends, you’re shocked at how thick he is. 

And with you sitting on top, he fills you completely

Your wet core flutters around the new intrusion, and you curse yourself for ever having thought prep with Jaehyun - who to be fair, had felt to be quite well endowed himself - would prepare you for Hyuck, who is spreading you open deliciously.

You press your palms flat to Haechan’s chest, and you lift yourself a few inches before sinking back onto his length, a whimper leaving your lips as your body adjusts. He feels so good splitting you open like this-

Haechan’s fingers press into your hips, lifting you slightly, only to slam you back down onto his cock, and you nearly wail from pleasure. He adjusts his feet on the bed behind you so he can thrust up into you better, and you find yourself becoming practically a rag doll for your friend below you, who manhandles you despite your top position. 

You don’t care that Haechan’s taken the power from you. Your mind goes blank, unable to think about anything other than how good he feels-

“Sit up and move to the headboard so you can lean against it.” Johnny’s voice interrupts your pleasure haze, and your eyes open when Haechan moves, following through with the instruction and dragging you with him. 

“Now you, Squeak,” a hand brushes by your shoulders, and you shiver, “turn around. Face away from Haechan for me.”

You do as you’re told, and two pairs of hands help you. They even ensure you sit back on Haechan’s cock, and he groans. You feel him press against your back, his hand snaking around your front to play with your clit, lips finding your shoulder.

Haechan’s legs are spread ever so slightly, and Johnny is kneeling there in front of you. 

In this position, it’s almost hard to look up at Johnny, and your hands press down into the bed, arms straight and holding you above Haechan’s knees while you grind back against him in something like reverse cowgirl.

The good thing is, you don’t have to look up at Johnny, and your eyes immediately lock on your target. Your hands move to undo Johnny’s pants- only for Haechan to push into you, making your balance falter, almost causing you to fall flat on your face- but you catch yourself at the last moment. 

Johnny laughs above you. “Our little chew toy,” he says fondly, beginning to undo his belt. “I'd love to hear you squeak, but I need your mouth for other things.”

He pushes his pants down, revealing the largest cock of all three of your friends. You’re practically drooling now, your core tightening around Haechan, who is still gently fucking up into you. 

Johnny guides himself to your lips, and you eagerly accept him, whimpering with delight when his hand finds your hair. He’s going to facefuck you while Haechan thrusts into you from behind in the reverse cowgirl Eiffel Tower hybrid position you’ve found yourself in, and you know it’s going to be absolutely delightful. 

You give yourself up completely to Johnny and Haechan, their little chew toy, and your whole body floods with pleasure from them using you. 

You hollow your cheeks around Johnny, and he fucks your mouth harder, cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Fuck!” Haechan groans loudly behind you. “She gets to fucking tight when you do that-”

“Then I'll do it again,” Johnny says simply from above you, and he continues to fuck your face, making sure to press into your throat a second time. 

Haechan moans even louder, fingers digging into your waist, confirmation that choking onJohnny’s cock makes your pussy squeeze like a vice grip.

He continues to fuck your face and you get lost in the sensation. Usually sucking cock isnt your favourite thing in the world, but in this position, time seems to slip away from you. 

“Can you just cum already?!” Johnny says, and you know by his tone that he’s speaking to the man behind you.

“No, you cum! I’m not cumming in this position!” Haechan argues back.

“The fuck you aren't!”

“I’m not,” Haechan says, voice something near a growl.

Johnny groans a moment later. “Guess it’s my turn,” He mutters, pulling out of your mouth suddenly.

You look up at him with teary eyes as he pumps his cock-

“Don’t cum on her, or in her mouth!” Haechan commands from behind you.

Three “what!?”’s ring through the room, one coming from yourself, but with another massive groan, Johnny follows through with even this ridiculous command, and Jaehyun tosses him a shirt in record time to use in lieu of your body. You all look at the fabric, realizing it’s Haechan’s- and Johnny explodes into his friend’s shirt with a laugh.

Haechan groans loudly, lifting you off of his cock and tossing you onto the bed next to him. He’s between your legs an instant later, pushing back into you as he captures your mouth with his own.

He fucks you fluidly, with a rhythm that’s just the right speed, and he fills you so perfectly-

You dig your fingers into Haechan’s shoulders, your orgasm washing over you like waves of warm sunshine. You bury your face against Haechan’s neck, whimpering while Haechan echoes your sounds with groans of his own.

One of his hands is on your hip, and he squeezes you gently there, rhythm faltering, thrusts becoming slower but harder, more intimate. 

You find yourself lacing your fingers in his silky hair, dragging his face from your shoulder so you can kiss him, losing yourself in his lips as your orgasm subsides and Haechan slows down to a standstill. 

Neither of you moves for a few seconds, simply breathing together, feeling each other’s hearts racing through your compressed chests. Then Haechan takes a deep breath and pushes himself off of you. 

“I’m going to the shower,” he announces. 

Johnny groans, following the younger man a moment later, and you’re left with Jaehyun.

Jaehyun has his sweat pants on, and he comes to sit on the end of the bed, fingers brushing against your ankle. You pull your leg away, looking down at him suspiciously. You don’t want to be tickled right now, and you definitely can’t go another round-

“Relax,” Jaehyun says with a laugh, shifting closer. He shows you a wet cloth in his hand. “With Johnny in the shower, there’s no way you’d get any water, and something tells me Haechan’s going to monopolize on space too,” he muses, bringing the warm fabric to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

You take a deep breath and rest against the pillows, closing your eyes and spreading your legs for Jaehyun. You let out a whimper when he brushes by your clit, and then his lips press a gentle kiss to your inner knee as if to say ‘sorry’, then he proceeds with more caution. 

“Jaehyun?” 

“Hmm?” He nuzzles his cheek against your knee, finishing his work.

“What you guys said earlier, about being in love with me-”

“You think we didn’t mean it?” He pulls away from you, hands closing your knees. 

You open your eyes, worried you’ve upset him, but then Jaehyun is lying down next to you, covering you both in a blanket and adjusting your body to turn you into his little spoon.

He curls around you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Your heart melts for him, especially when his hand slips over your waist, sneaking down to the bed in search of your fingers, which he promptly finds and captures between his own.

“This just feels like a dream,” you sigh, closing your eyes, trying to enjoy being with Jaehyun in this way without overthinking it.

Jaehyun laughs against your shoulder, pressing more kisses onto your skin. “Well, I promise to be here in the morning when you wake up, and the morning after that, and the morning after that-”

You laugh, rolling your eyes at your friend, who nips at your earlobe. You shiver at the contact of his lips on the sensitive shell of your ear. “Where did you learn to be so rough?” you ask. “I knew you had a reputation in bed, but you’re usually a lot more gentle in real life, and that was-”

“Did you like it rough, Squeak?” He squeezes you tightly, lips trailing along your neck. 

“Yeah.” You let out a breathy sound, toes curling when he focuses on the sweet spot below your ear, and you can feel Jaehyun smiling against it a moment later.

“I’ve noticed you have a thing for pain,” Jaehyun says. “Sometimes, when I hug you too tight, you let out these little sounds-” You feel your skin heating, knowing exactly what he’s talking about, and Jaehyun chuckles, squeezing your hand. “And what can I say?” Jaehyun’s teeth graze your shoulder. “I'm nothing if not a giver in bed.” 

Your pussy throbs at his words, and you push your ass back against him.

Jaehyun lets go of your fingers, and then his hand finds your thigh, moving from the outside in, and gliding up to your core. “Let me give you another one?” he asks, kissing your shoulder.

“I can’t believe you two.” Johnny’s voice always seems to shock you, and you think you’ll have to get used to being intimate with one person while two others watch and can jump in at any moment- 

“How was your shower?” Jaehyun asks, his warm body leaving yours in favour of sitting up to stare at the man standing in the doorway. You mirror the motion, pulling Jaehyun’s blanket with you.

“Haechan’s been in there the whole time. He just finished.” Johnny’s eyes move to you. “Come on, Squeak.” 

“I’ll come when you and Johnny are done,” Jaehyun tells you, turning and grabbing your jaw to keep you still while he presses a kiss to your lips. He’s gone much too fast for your liking, letting you go with a grin before collapsing back into the pillows. “Oh-” He says as you crawl from the bed, his hand grabbing the fabric that’s still wrapped around you, “and leave the blanket.”

Johnny laughs, grabbing your hands and pulling you to your feet. The air is cold against your exposed skin, but Johnny is quick to pull you to his warm chest. He turns you so you’re facing away from the door, and then he steps forward, forcing you to move back, step by step, all the way to the bathroom. He does this sort of thing with you frequently, usually when you’re clothed, so you’re used to this wordless behaviour.

You bump into Haechan, literally, as he’s exiting the bathroom, and suddenly it’s two warm bodies pressed against your own. 

Haechan is still wet from the shower, and droplets of cold water land on you, making you squeal.

Both men chuckle, and you begin to giggle, pressing up to Johnny in an effort to escape Haechan from dripping onto you. Your best friend, like the dog he is, deliberately shakes his head out to coat you even more. 

Johnny shoves Haechan before he can get too much splattered on the two of you, and pushes past the younger man. He helps you to the shower first, then kicks off his sweatpants, joining you under the warm water. 

Neither of you says anything, but you’ve been at this comfort level in your friendship for years now, and have often shared pleasant silences in each other’s company. 

Jaehyun keeps his promise and shows up when Johnny leaves. He holds you close to his chest, sharing the warm water with you.

When you exit the shower, Jaehyun hands you a shirt and some boxers, an outfit you’ve worn during many impromptu sleepovers here.

“My bed is biggest,” Jaehyun says as you exit the bathroom, and you laugh, knowing full well that all three men have queen mattresses because they’d gotten them in some weird three-for-one closing sale in your first year of university-

“Jaehyun-” You turn to argue, but your best friend bends down, lifts you up by your thighs, and tosses you over his shoulder. When you say his name this time, it’s a scream, and it makes him laugh. 

It also earns a groan from Johnny’s room, and a moment later, he appears, following the thief. 

Jaehyun tosses you onto his bed, getting under the covers with you and regaining his spot as the big spoon. He tucks you close to his chest, letting out a contented sigh.  

Johnny claims your other side soon after, lying on his back, allowing you to tangle your legs with one of his.

Haechan is last in the room.

He takes one look at you, sees you’re all but monopolized on either side, and in one motion, he flops his body over all three of your tired, and completely unsuspecting forms. 

There’s an immediate commotion and struggle, and you’re too tired to do anything but laugh, closing your eyes and knowing that you’re safe with your three best friends in the entire world.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! Blast from the past, revamped and newly edited

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🔮 preview.  You may have bitten off a little more than you can chew by being in a four-person coupling with you at the center of it, but you’re not stupid. You’re never going to forgo ultimate pleasures for the sake of other people’s moral leanings.

cw/ tw.  Unprotected sex, threesome, foursome, eiffel tower, blow job oral, vouyerism, masturbation, cum kink, bukkake, dirty talk, praise, man handling, Johnny once again has the monster cock syndrom, etc…   I petnames. (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 140

🌙 starring. Johnny & Jaehyun & Haechan x afab!Reader

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“I still don’t like it,” Doyoung sighs, watching you chat with Mark Lee while Haechan and Johnny block you in.

Jungwoo simply shrugs. “I guess it’s not about you liking it or not. They seem happy.”

“Too happy,” Doyoung notes, eyes narrowing in on the way Johnny’s hand has slipped down to your ass.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jungwoo scoffs. “I think you’re just jealous.”

“Me? Jealous?” Doyoung shakes his head and forces a laugh. “What’s there to be jealous about?”

“The fact that you’re in pre-med, so you’re super busy, and you have zero game and haven’t kissed a girl in like, months,” Jungwoo points out. 

Doyoung’s glare shifts to the younger man, and with a final scoff, he turns to leave.

Jungwoo doesn’t mind, in fact, the energy in the room immediately brightens with Doyoung’s departure.

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[windownextdoor]

RENOVATIONS

sfw + nsfw + plot + simon riley x fem!reader wc: 1.3k wanting independence, you buy a home. yes, it was a fixer-upper. but, who said your neighbor couldn't help? pt. 2

home depot was...

something else, you described it.

could barely look around without a man coming up and seeing if you needed help or wanted to ask you what you were doing that you needed such tools; just a sander and a bauer drill.

"sugar, what are you doing with such tools? your man ain't here to help ya out?" the employee said condescendingly.

fucking men and trying to mansplain shit.

you were trying to be polite, "uh, sir, i'm fine. just trying to look around-"

"how about you come back with your man? he'll know what to get for whatever you're doing, alright sugar?"

you just stared at him. stared at him because who has the audacity to be misogynistic in the 21st century?

see, you were about to tell him off, shout loudly that he should go fuck off and stick his fist somewhere where it doesn't shine.

until a very familiar, a very deep voice was directly behind you.

"honey, you find what you needed?"

simon.

you turned around to find him, a little too close for people who just met the day before. shoulders directly in front of your face and his eyes on the employee who just wouldn't leave you the fuck alone.

also, honey?

your mouth was slightly ajar, but you closed it and nodded your head. "yeah...i did." you said, looking back at the employee.

the employee who was as stupid as ever, decided to start talking again. "you must be her husband! see, i told her to wait for you to make sure you got the right tools and whatnot, but-"

"now why the fuck would you do that?" simon's voice was dangerous, but oh-so tranquil. like he knew the employee wouldn't think about doing this again.

the employee just blinked and stuttered his next words a little.

"what was that? because the next words out of your mouth better be an apology to my wife."

my wife. goddamn did that sound good coming from his mouth.

"a-ah, yes, i'm so sorry ma'am. very sorry, my apologies." that apology was quick and certain as he walked away from both of you.

a breath you hadn't known you'd been holding left you as you turned around to your neighbor. "god- thank you so much for that. he would not leave me alone."

"just being a misogynistic prick." simon rasped, his eyes went to the two tools in your hands.

"drill and sander? fixing that porch o'yours?"

you smiled up at him, "yes sir, that i am. i know we only exchanged a few words but you were right. i am really excited to fix this house." his eyes darkened ever-so-slightly at the 'sir'. you didn't know what that was about.

you looked at his hands; empty. "what are you here for, then?" you asked.

"nosy neighbor." he said gruffly, but there was an upturn in his lips. "just here for trash bags. out of them."

you nodded, the silence filled the isle. a comfortable one. until- an idea struck you.

"want to help me out a little, simon?" you asked, a pleading tone in your voice.

"oh lord." was all simon said before getting swept up in your home depot shopping spree.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵

he helped you put the planks of new wood into your small car, along with the two tools and nails you'd purchased.

"i'll meet you back at your house." simon said, closing your trunk.

you raised an eyebrow.

"you wanna help with this home renovation?" you say, perplexed at his assertion.

"wouldn't be good neighbor if i didn't help, would i, love?"

jesus fuckin' christ, his accent and rough voice could probably make you come on the spot-

you just laughed a little, "whatever you say, simon. i'll make us some coffee, because lord knows we are going to need it."

he gave you a look, his eyes. they say a lot. they're pretty, and tell a story. you just don't know what story.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵

back at your house, you stepped through the door with simon trailing behind you. you both got home at about the the same time, since his car was basically following yours.

the sigh that left his mouth was disgruntled.

"jesus christ, woman, are you sure you're livin' 'ere?"

you planted your hand at your chest, a mocking shock of offensiveness. "don't be mean to my house! it's a work in progress. she just...isn't furnished yet."

he opened your fridge. "nor stocked with food yet." he said, closing it and looking at you with a look as he tilted his head.

you tilted your head back at him, hands on your hips. giving him the same look.

"don't get bratty with me, honey." he said, using the nickname from earlier on you, the way he said it was rough. "get some food in here." he said before walking around your island to sit on one of chairs you did have.

you rolled your eyes and started making coffee.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵

music played from your speaker sat on your driveway as you and him pulled the old, rotten boards up and threw them in a pile.

after that, the real work started. fresh, new wooden boards, nails and your drill and hammer. sweat dripped down the sides of your temple as you and simon worked hand in hand, surprisingly. he needed nails, you knew which ones. you needed a piece of wood, he was already handing you one.

you and him were about seventy-five percent done, when you went into the house to wet two rags and came back out with them, handing one to simon. "i underestimated how fucking hot it would be out here." you swore, putting the cold, wet rag on your forehead, which felt absolutely heavenly.

simon laughed. a small, but full laugh, as he put the wet washcloth also on his forehead, standing up to see the progression. "oh, look at that. almost done, aren't we?"

you smiled at him then looked at the porch, yes, the porch was almost done. first home change and it looked pretty fucking nice.

you spoke, "20 bucks says we get this done today."

simon immediately retorted, "how about a beer says we get this done today? cause i ain't takin' your money, love." he says with a small smirk.

"but, i was going to pay you for helping me-"

"and tha' money would end up back in your hands. not taking money from you. today was nice, and i offered." simon said with a tilt of his head.

you sighed, your shoulders shrugging a little. "okay, if that's fine with you." you stretched and put the washcloth back on your forehead, letting it rest there for a moment before pulling it off. "let's get this porch done, then." you said with a small, tired smile.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵

the sun was setting before simons and yours eyes. what a pretty view. you and him shared one last beer of yours as you promised to get more at the store later on in the week.

you and him sat on the two steps that lead up to your new porch. you gave the last of the beer over to him, "thanks for your help today, simon. it was really fun. very neighborly of you."

he laughed and shook his head as he downed the rest of the beer, "no need for thanks, just happy to help. don't do much, so it was a nice change of routine for an old man like me."

you rolled your eyes, and shoved his shoulder lightly, "bee-keeping age." you reminded him.

as he gruffly chuckled at your statement, your phone pinged. you grabbed your phone out of your pocket and saw it was from one of your friend from college, ava. a simple text of 'how's that house doing?'

you smiled at your phone and opened the camera app. without asking him, you took a picture of you and him with the new porch in the background, you smiling and simon holding the empty beer bottle as his forearms rested on his knees. catching simon off-guard.

"thanks." you said before sending the picture to your friend, a small brazen smile on your face.

simon just laughed, mumbling the words, "cheeky girl."

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵

pt. 3 (soon!)

[alwayssassydreamer]

Show Me Your Desire

A/N: so since I've been sick for almost two weeks now I didn't get a whole story done and only managed to scribble some short snippets down and this is the result of me experimenting. I have never done something like this before so here's to the first try. You can thank @hakiofdreams for the character selection and the idea. Its basically one scenario for 5 different characters. Oh and sorry if I messed Lucci, Mihawk and Zoro up I usually don't write for them (and please no more requests for Mihawk and Lucci)

Plot: you ate the Yoku Yoku No Mi - the desire desire devil fruit - that shows you glimpses of someones deepest desires when you touch them. Therefore you made sure to avoid touches and insight into those personal moments. But during a conference things get out of hand.

Warnings: none really, sfw, maybe some slight tinie tiny bit of angst, not proofread and I'm really sorry if it sucks 🙈

Characters: Law; Zoro; Sir Crocodile; Lucci; Mihawk (all separately) x GnReader

Crocodile:

You hadn’t meant to touch him.

The conference room was full of killers, and you had stayed quiet, unreadable as you were told because that was your strength. You were a broker one of the only women allowed in this blood-soaked circle, not because of strength, but because you knew when to keep your damn mouth shut.

Except for when your fingers grazed his.

It had been a fleeting moment someone bumped your chair, your balance faltered, and your hand caught the edge of the armrest next to you. Except it wasn’t empty. Crocodile was already seated there, cigar in hand, gold hook resting on the table.

You touched his skin.

And everything shifted.

The vision hit like a freight ship.

You stood on a sandstorm-swept cliff, wind howling like a banshee. Crocodile was in front of you, bleeding, furious but not at you. "Don’t you dare - don’t you fucking dare leave me," he growled. You took a staggering step toward him. He grabbed your hand pressed his forehead to yours. "You’re all I have left."

And then it was over.

Your fingers recoiled like you’d been burned. Crocodile glanced at you sharply. The eye contact was brief, but he noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze sharpened, a predator smelling a shift in the wind.

You forced yourself to look away. Pretended to jot notes but your hand, it trembled.

Later that night you were alone on the balcony of the summit villa, nursing a glass of wine and a headache. The sea below was black and endless and you were too lost in thoughts to hear him approach.

"You touched me."

You didn’t look back. “I lost my balance.”

Crocodile exhaled smoke behind you. It curled over your shoulder like a living thing.

"You saw something."

Silence.

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch but enough that you felt it. His presence was heavy, charged.

"Your Devil Fruit," he said slowly. "The rumors are true."

You turned then, eyes meeting his. "You were warned not to touch me."

His lips curled into something like a smirk but there was no humor in it. "I don’t fear little parlor tricks, little flower."

"It’s not a trick. I saw your desire."

You watched his expression and saw a flicker of tension, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing.

You went on anyway. "You don’t want power. Or revenge. You want….someone."

He flicked ash over the railing. "Lust is human." he said calmly, unimpressed even.

"It wasn’t lust."

Now he looked at you fully. Dark eyes, smoldering with something far more dangerous than anger.

"Then you saw too much." Was all he said before he walked away again.

The days that followed were hell.

Crocodile made sure to stay out of "touching range", but he hovered, always in your periphery. Always watching.

You felt it in the way your skin prickled. The way he lingered too long in every meeting. The way he said your name, like it was a secret he refused to keep.

And worse, the way he looked at you now was not indifferent.

You saw it, a piece of him no one else did. Something he buried deep under years of blood and sand and arrogance.

That made you dangerous.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about that vision. Not just what he wanted, but how desperately he wanted it. How broken and raw his voice had been when he said it.

"You’re all I have left."

The breaking point came the next night in the garden.

It was late. You were alone again - or so you thought.

"You don’t sleep much."

You turned. "And you don’t leave me alone." You said glaninc briefly at him.

He looked tired. Less composed. Shirt open at the throat. Cigar forgotten.

"Why?" you asked. "Why do you keep circling me like a hawk?"

"Because you took something from me," he said vpice low as he stepped closer to you.

"What?" You asked blinking confused.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached out and this time, he touched you on purpose. Bare fingers, sliding along yours.

Another vision hit:

You, standing in the rain, bloodied, but alive. Him, cupping your cheek with his flesh hand, thumb caressing your skin. His hook protectively at your back like an oath. "I’ll protect you. Even if it kills me."

You gasped as the vision ended.

He didn’t let go. "You saw what I didn’t want anyone to know," he murmured. "That I’m tired of pretending I feel nothing."

"Why me?" you asked voice trembling, body shaking.

A beat of silence.

"Because you didn’t flinch," he said. "Even now, you look at me like I’m still a man."

"Are you?" you asked voice cracking

His lips twitched. "Would it matter?"

You didn’t answer just looked at him and he leaned in. Foreheads so close, breaths warm and mingling.

"You scare the hell out of me," you whispered.

"Good," he said. "That makes us even."

And then he closed the gap between you two. The kiss was a mistake, it was desperate, messy. Like trying to drown a fire and you pushed him away the first time. He let you, smirking, but not too far.

The second kiss wasn’t a mistake as you pulled him back giving in to the temptation, the desire, the need.

They said you tamed a monster.

They were wrong.

He was still a monster.

But now, when he burned the world, he burned it for you.

And when his enemies came too close, they didn’t face a sandstorm.

They faced a man willing to destroy the world just to keep your hands from shaking.

◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

Mihawk:

You stood in a candle-lit hall surrounded by the most dangerous men on the Grand Line, playing the part of a neutral mediator.

You didn’t expect him to be there or well maybe you did but you had just hoped he wouldn’t.

Dracule Mihawk. The Greatest Swordsman. Dressed in black and crimson, leaning against the far wall like a painting come to life.

He radiated silence. Precision. Control.

You made a point to avoid him after your last encounters with him. But fate didn’t care about your plans.

The chaos began when someone bumped into you, a minor captain, flailing, spilling wine.

You stumbled back and straight into Mihawk.

A bare hand caught your wrist. Just for a second.

And that was all it took for the vision hit you like a blade.

You, barefoot in his castle. Dressed in silk. Standing in front of a fire, wrapped in his coat. Mihawk behind you, eyes unreadable, fingers brushing your jaw. "Stay," he murmured in the dream. It was the most intimate thing you had ever seen from anyone, especially him.

And when you jolted back to reality, his gaze locked on you like he knew.

You quickly pulled away. "I-I’m fine, I’m sorry," you muttered, voice brittle.

He said nothing. But his stare lingered too long.

Later that night, you found yourself alone in the garden beneath the moonlight, trying to slow your racing heart. He found you again, silent as shadow.

"You saw something," Mihawk said, voice low and cutting. Not a question. A fact.

Your mouth went dry.

"I didn’t mean to," you admitted. "It only happens with skin contact."

"Interesting," he replied, stepping closer. "And what did you see?"

You looked up at him. His expression was unreadable. Cold, calculating… but something flickered behind his eyes. Hope? Fear? Annoyance?

"You were… home," you said carefully. "At peace."

That was not entirely a lie. But it also wasn't the whole truth.

But he accepted it. Barely.

"Keep your distance from now on," he said. "I don’t need you reading my mind."

"You think I want to?" you snapped. "I see things I never asked for. Every handshake, every shove, every accidental brush…..it’s a flood of everyone’s secrets. Do you know what that feels like?"

Mihawk’s expression didn’t change.

But his voice softened just slightly. "No. But I understand the cost of power."

He left before you could answer.

Over the next days, he avoided you. And you avoided him.

Except when you didn’t.

He lingered longer during briefings. Sat closer at the table. Your eyes met too often to be coincidence.

And then, it happened again.

A thunderstorm cracked over the island. You slipped on the rain-slick stone and someone caught you…….him again.

The vision rushed in.

You, in his castle again, dinner together, candles lit, a glass of wine before you, untouched because you were busy……kissing him, like it was the end of the world.

You jerked back, breathless, trembling.

He didn’t let go.

"Tell me," he said.

Your voice shook. "You want something you think you’re not allowed to have."

"Because it’s dangerous," he whispered. "Because I always win. And I’m afraid I’d ruin you."

You looked up, and your heart cracked open like a wound.

"Then stop touching me," you said. "Or stop pretending you don’t care."

The summit ended with deals were made and for once no blood spilled. But he didn’t leave.

He found you at the edge of the cliffside the next night. Wind in your hair. Sand crunching beneath your boots.

"I don’t know how to love gently," he said.

You turned. "I don’t need gentle. I need real."

Mihawk reached for you, slowly this time, and you let him. His fingers brushed your cheek, and the vision didn’t hit you like a wave.

This time, it bloomed.

It showed a future. A choice he had made. Not a fantasy, not a secret longing, just him, choosing you.

And for once, you saw your own desire reflected back.

When the vision ended, he looked down at you and he kissed you, it wasn’t fire. It wasn’t war. It was something infinitely more dangerous.

Surrender – him giving in to his desire.

◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

Lucci:

Lucci sat across from you now at a round conference table. He was silent, unreadable, flanked by the pigeon that watched you just as closely as its master. You kept your gloves on. You’ve heard the stories about CP0’s attack dog. Stoic. Merciless. Efficient.

Everytime you crossed paths with him you were surprised all over with how beautiful he was.

Not soft, never that. But there was a deadly grace in his stillness, the way his eyes rested like the flat of a blade on your skin. It was a look that said he knew what you were. What you were hiding.

You were extra careful. Until the second day of negotiations.

It happened fast. A flash of chaos during the midday meeting, two idiots broke into an argument, and someone flipped the table. You were shoved sideways, stumbling, and reaching out blindly to steady yourself.

Your bare hand crashed into Lucci’s wrist.

Shit.

Your world snapped away and the vision flashed before your eyes, flooding your senses.

Red silk sheets and low candlelight. Lucci was leaning against the headboard, half undressed, but it was not the lust that stole your breath, it was the quiet. You were there, beside him. Sleeping against his chest like you belonged there, his arm around you, watching you, like he was afraid you’d vanish. A calloused hand brushed a strand of hair from your face with infinite care, and in that moment, Lucci, the monster, the cipher, the assassin, looked more vulnerable than anyone you’ve ever seen. He wanted peace. He wanted you. And he’d never allow himself either.

The vision collapsed.

You ripped your hand back like you’ve been burned. Lucci’s expression didn’t change. Not one fraction.

But he knew.

You saw it.

After that you avoided him for the rest of the day. You sat far away from him instead, engaging in dry trade debates you barely heared. But Lucci was never far. Every time you glanced up, he was there in the corner, always watching. Not speaking. Not moving.

You dreamt of the vision that night. Of his hand brushing your cheek. Of a silence that felt like safety only to wake up breathless.

The next morning, he cornered you.

Not roughly, he simply appeared in the hallway outside your suite, leaning against the wall like he belonged there. The hallway was empty and the air was sharp with frost.

"I won’t ask what you saw," he said, his voice low and even, making you tense.

"But I would like to know," he added, stepping forward, "why it disturbed you."

Your throat tightened. "You touched me," you said carefully. "I don’t like that."

"You touched me," he corrected. "The reaction wasn’t fear. It was pity."

That hit a nerve. "So now you read minds too?" You asked a little harshly.

"No," he said, "just yours."

You wanted to deny it. You wanted to insult him. But his tone wasn’t cruel it was…..curious. Cautious, even.

"It’s dangerous for people to know what others want," he grumbled tilting his head, making you clench your fists. "Especially when what they want is you."

The silence between you was suffocating. Your heart hammered behind your ribs like it was trying to escape. "It doesn’t matter," you whispered. "You’ll never act on it."

He took one slow step forward. "You’re right." He said bluntly.

His presence was overwhelming, an aura of silent dominance, raw and coiled. But there was a strange gentleness to it now. A restraint that rattled you more than any threat could.

"You didn’t see a fantasy," he murmured. "You saw a possibility. That’s what’s dangerous."

And with that, he left.

The summit ended with a treaty. You should have felt relieved but instead you felt hollow.

You caught Lucci watching you again as the final ships left the port. His face was unreadable, but his eyes, those dark, unblinking eyes, held something you now understood.

Need. Not obsession, not hunger. Just Need.

You found a note tucked into your room before you left.

"You saw me unarmed. No one else ever has. That should frighten you. But if it doesn’t, come find me. I’ll be waiting. —R.L."

You didn’t sleep that night, you just sat with the letter in your lap, fingers trembling above your gloves.

You’ve always feared touch. But now? You feared the idea of never being touched by him again and so you decided to go after him.

◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇

Zoro:

The room reeked of tension, gunpowder, old grudges, and barely veiled threats. It was supposed to be neutral ground, a temporary truce between pirate factions to discuss territory lines, enjoy the rum and food and make trades and deals. You didn’t trust any of it or them. Especially not the Straw Hats swordsman leaning against the wall like he owned the air around him.

Roronoa Zoro.

You had heard the stories, demon of the East Blue, three swords, no tolerance for weakness. You even saw him once in action and after that had maybe 2 or 3 run ins with him but that was it.

You expected cold glares and muscle-bound not his eyes to linger on you.

So when you handed him some documents for his Captain, Zoro’s hand briefly met yours and you froze as the vision set in slamming into you like cannon fire making your knees buckle under the force of it:

You - bloody, breathing hard, standing between Zoro and a faceless enemy. Your back to him, a sword in your hand, and defiance in your voice. “You’ll go through me first.” His hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you away out of danger not because he didn’t trust you or because he thought you were weak but because he wanted to protect you to be your shield, to keep you from harm. And then it shifted…..you, in a quiet moment, tucked beside him. Sleeping. His hand buried in your hair, body curled protectively around you, eyes closed but still guarding. He didn’t just want your body. He wanted to protect you, he wanted your loyalty. Your fire. Your presence. He wanted you – all of you.

When you blinked, the vision snapped away. The noise around you from the other pirates was still there. No one noticed, no one paid attention. Except Zoro himself.

His gaze had sharpened and you pulled your hand back fast. Too fast, causing his brow to furrow.

That night you barely slept. The vision kept replaying in your head – how rare it had been. How genuine.

It made no sense. He barely knew you. Why would his desire involve you bleeding for him? Sleeping beside him? Protecting you like you were something sacred?

The next morning you kept catching him watching you after that. Silent. Focused. Not aggressive, but intense.

And you tried to avoid him…..but he didn’t let you.

"Why did you flinch?" he asked, his voice came out of the shadows while you were walking alone, heading back to the guest quarters. He stepped out from between two buildings like he’d been waiting.

"I didn’t," you lied.

He stared at you, then tilted his head. "You looked like you saw a ghost, when we touched."

"I don’t like being touched," you explained forcing a smile.

"Bullshit," he hissed.

"Why do you care?" you asked inhaling sharply.

Zoro’s mouth opened, but he paused because he didn’t have a snarky answer.

"I don’t know," he said, finally. "But I’ve been thinking about it too damn much."

You saw the storm in his eyes and you knew you shouldn’t but he was just as confused and torn as you were and so you told him your secret.

"The Devil Fruit I ate… shows me what people want. If they touch me." You curled your fingers into your gloves. "I don’t mean surface-level stuff. I mean their deepest desire."

"So… you saw mine?" he asked not blinking.

You nodded once.

He looked away. "What was it?"

"I’m not telling you."

"That bad?"

"No. That personal."

"Then I must’ve looked pathetic." He murmured jaw clenching.

You stepped forward, a little closer to him. "No. That’s the problem. You didn’t."

He looked at you then, really looked. "Then what’s the problem?"

You swallowed hard looking at him before answering. "It made me want it too."

Silence.

"What did you see?" he asked again now more persistent.

Your heart hammered. You reached up, tugged one glove off slowly, deliberately.

“Touch me again and find out.”

He stared but then stepped forward.

His hand lifted and for once, it wasn’t a brush, it was a grasp, fingers curling over yours like he needed to hold something steady. Maybe himself.

And you shared the vision with him:

You. His. In every way that mattered. Fighting back to back. Him protecting you. Sleeping side by side. Arguing and laughing and bleeding and living. The sword at your hip matched his. The way he held you wasn’t lust, it was fierce belonging. You weren’t his weakness. You were his anchor.

He dropped your hand like it burned him and backed away a step, breathing hard.

But this time it was you who took a step closer to him. "I saw you," you whispered. "And I didn’t want to run. I wanted to be in that vision."

He blinked once. Then twice.

And suddenly almost out of nowhere he kissed you.

It wasn’t elegant or practiced. It was the kind of kiss you gave when you didn’t have words, when you had seen something terrifying and beautiful and wanted to make it real.

After that you went with him, to stay close, to make the vision, the desire a reality. You never told the others what your fruit did though. You didn’t need to. Zoro never left your side. He didn’t say much but he didn’t need to.

And he always made sure to touch you, your bare skin because he wanted you to see it, see what he wanted, see what he desired, see how much he wanted you.

◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡◇♡

Law

Why the hell were you in a room with infamous pirates, locked in a tense alliance negotiation, and thought it was a good idea to be bare-handed?

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you sat at the circular table. Law was directly across from you, arms folded, sharp eyes watching everything. You had met him once before during a cargo handoff and you were sure he didn't remember that. But you did.

Your fingers brushed a silver coin on the table.

"Keep your hands still," Law said without looking at you.

You froze, embarrassed. His voice was quiet but stern, laced with a kind of quiet authority that made the others look over.

You retracted your hand and folded it in your lap.

"Don’t be so harsh," one of the other pirates muttered at Law with a grin. "She flinched like you growled."

Law didn’t respond. But his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary.

Hours passed. The summit devolved into shouting, threats, and chest-puffing. You remained silent, observing. Calm. Neutral.

Until someone, an impatient mercenary with more ego than brains, tripped behind your chair.

You reached to steady yourself. Your hand flew out and….Law grabbed your wrist.

The world split open and your vision blurred and suddenly you saw his desire.

A cold room. Snow against steel walls. You, panting, drenched, eyes furious. He reached for you, desperate. A plea in his voice. "Don’t walk away. Stay. Just stay this time." You stood your ground, shaking your head, tears in your eyes. "You don’t need me, Law." His hand cupped your jaw. Gentle. Trembling. "I do. I just don’t know how to say it without destroying you."

The vision snapped shut like a trapdoor and you gasped, ripping your arm away, your knees nearly giving out.

Law’s brows furrowed. "What did you see?" He urged to know.

Shit. He knew.

You didn’t say anything just got up and walked out of the room.

You found him later that night on the edge of the island cliff, the ocean churning below like a storm waiting for permission.

"You didn’t answer my question," he said without turning.

You stayed back. "I didn’t think you’d actually know what my power does."

"I make it a point to know what everyone in the room is capable of," he said. "But I didn’t think you’d use it. Thought you were smarter than that."

"I didn’t mean to."

His head tilted slightly, dark hair blowing in the wind. "Then tell me. What did you see?"

You hesitated for a moment eyes shifting towards the ground. "You… asking me to stay."

He went quiet. So did the wind. And the waves in the ocean beneath it seemed.

"And what did you say?" he asked softly.

"I said you didn’t need me."

His laugh was low, bitter. "Typical. Even in my dreams, I drive people away,"

"No," you said quickly. "That wasn’t….It wasn’t like that. You… You were scared of hurting me. That’s not selfish. That’s human."

Law turned towards you, and for the first time, he looked vulnerable.

"I didn’t want you to see that," he said.

"I didn’t want to see it either," you replied, truth cutting between you. "Because now I can’t stop thinking about it."

He began avoiding you after that, making sure to keep his distance. His eyes were colder, calculations behind every word. But it wasn’t hatred, it was fear. You knew too much now. You had seen a version of him he barely admitted to himself.

And you couldn’t forget it.

You saw it in the way he stared at your hands, never touching you again.

In the way he tensed every time you stood near. He hadn’t spoken of the vision since, but you felt it constantly, the weight of possibility, just out of reach.

Until you broke first.

You cornered him one evening, at the medical bay. Just the two of you, surrounded by clean linens and the quiet hum of solitude.

"I can’t keep pretending I didn’t see it," you said. "Didn’t see what you want."

Law leaned against the counter, silent.

"You want someone who stays," you continued, stepping closer. "You want to let someone in. But you don’t know how. And you’re terrified that if you try, you’ll break them. That I’ll break."

His jaw clenched but you kept going. "I’m not afraid of you, Law. I’m afraid of how much I want to reach for you."

His head lifted, eyes sharp. "Don’t," he said firmly.

"Why not?"

"Because I’m already thinking about what I’d do to keep you."

The confession cracked the silence like thunder. He stepped closer, finally, hand raised, not touching, just hovering near your face.

"I’ve spent years pushing people away because it was easier. Cleaner. You saw what I wanted… and now I can’t stop imagining it."

"Then take it," you whispered. "Just don’t lie to yourself anymore."

And for the first time, he touched you willingly.

No vision came.

Because you didn’t need to see his desire anymore.

You already felt it.

[luludeluluramblings]

The Tape... Part Two

Reader and Conner are in the cave dealing with the fallout of their Sex tape getting leaked... Reader has a plan...

Part One

Warning: Fem!Reader, NSFW themes, no actual smut, pure crack nonsense, fake Twitter post

The silence was loud. Very very fucking loud. And, so incredibly awkward. Honestly, you were surprised that this hadn't happened before. Gotham media literally had poll last week on who the hottest of the Wayne Family Orphans was. (You had placed fourth, but it's okay. You're pretty sure your ranking just shot up to first now.)

It was a PR miracle that there hadn't been a sex tape, nude, or dick pic leak before this. There had been swimsuit pics. And, someone had managed to get a picture of Dick in grey sweatpants. Lot's of people had been thirsting in the comments, talking about how they'd like to give him a son. Some of them were even women too. Internet people were feral.

Although, you try to shake that thought from your head because certainly you were in trouble.

Sitting in the Batcave with everyone - and you do mean everyone - giving you and Conner disapproving looks. The only reason Conner wasn't tied up and stuffed with kryptonite like a holiday bird was because Clark had joined the family. And, Jon was holding back Damian.

"In my defense, I did try to get it out of the carpet. But, I didn't want that to ping that in my search history. I know Tim checks that on the regular." You started, breaking the silence after what felt like hours of awkwardness. It had been twenty minutes. Still too long, but not that long. You could here a outraged 'Hey' from Tim and Alfred's exasperated sigh. You might actually make him retire at this rate.

"Is that really all you have to say on this matter?" Bruce is already using the Batman voice. And, still in his Batman gear. Not good. Wasn't he in a Justice League meeting earlier? Oh, well.

"I mean, do you want me to say anything else?" You're question causes multiple scoffs, guffaws, and Conner to choke on a laugh.

Such a shame he couldn't get to you fast enough. It was your fault really. You'd both gotten distracted in discussing where would be the best place to flee to. It had spiraled into an argument and then he had to fuck the brat out of you… So yeah… Didn't escape in time. Oopsie.

"How about an apology?" Jason had the audacity to say. As if he didn't literally murder people once upon a time.

You just shrugged. Not really feeling sorry about the situation. "Sorry for traumatizing the internet."

The grin Conner gives you is filled with glee, but he quickly hides it. There's only so much leeway he can get from Clark's presence before a little green crystal gets shoved into a newly made orifice on his person.

"I am… disappointed in you." Bruce barely manages to say through gritted teeth. And, it causes you to tear up.

"Are you saying that I'm officially the family disappointment?" There was way too much glee in your voice and a series of groans leave the rest of the family.

You had probably just earned the most coveted title in this family held together by a butler, costumes, fancy toys and BatBurger runs.

Bruce finds himself pinching the bridge of his nose when he realizes what he's done. This is the real reason he doesn't tell any of his children when he disapproves of something. He learned this with all his kids. He had genuinely thought he'd gotten lucky when you turned out normal.

He was wrong.

"Do you understand what you've done. You've just put a massive target on your back. Anyone that wants to get to Superboy will come after you now." He jumps into lecture mode instead. Trying to give the logical reason for being upset with this.

Though, in reality he was livid that, not only did Conner have sex with you, he had to do it in the damn parlor. The one they usually had family meetings in. He wasn't going to be able to sit in there anymore. Mentally, he made note to have the room renovated. And, to replace the carpet.

"Look I have an idea on how to fix that."

"Oh, and what's that?" Stephanie pipes up, trying not to grin. She knew you had something planned. And, she couldn't wait.

Almost everyone else tensed. Because they knew your plans could go to shit quick or work in the most convoluted bullshit ways imaginable. It was a gift, really.

"Give me like three minutes." You mutter before pulling out your phone and opening up your Twitter/X app. Typing out a quick sentence and sending it off.

There's a ping on the Bat Computer and Barbara pulls up the newest tweet from your account for everyone to see.

A/N: I didn't really plan on continuing this, but I thought why the heck not. Kinda short, bunch o' nonsense.

A/N: Forgive me if I seem absent, I got low energy right now and I'm stressed. I broke a tooth and I hate going to the dentist. But, I went, and I need surgery to fix it... Friggin AO3 curse hitting me and I ain't even posting on there yet.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Bob Floyd X Reader: Drunk words, sober truths.

Summary: After one too many drinks, you drunkenly confess your feelings to Bob. The next morning smut ensues. That it guys, thats the plot.

Warnings: Porn with some plot, Smut, explicit sexual content, kissing, physical intimacy, alcohol consumption, drunkenness, dirty thoughts, consensual sexual activity, drunken confessions, no use of y/n, penetration (p in v), Bob being adorable.

Word count: 3.7K

You weren’t drunk.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

Maybe one glass too many. But hey, that’s okay, because your brain still seemed to be functioning just fine. Unfortunately, the only thought currently echoing inside your head was: dick, dick, dick.

So yeah. Maybe one too many.

In your defense, Bob looked really fucking good tonight. The fucking jeans were teasing you, messing with your brain and begging you to let the crush you’d been harboring for the man for ages slip from your not-so-sober lips.

It hadn’t yet. But the night was still quite young. And you were feeling very comfortable in your skin.

You sat on a stool, sipping on the fifth… wait, no, sixth. Was it the sixth? Whatever. You sipped a beer, watching the crew play pool. You were normally very good, but you were sitting this game out. You weren’t sure you’d be able to keep your balance well enough to score a shot. And you weren’t the type that played not to win.

Your eyes slipped from the pool table to a far more interesting sight.

Bob Floyd’s ass.

It wasn’t your fault that he’d literally placed himself in your line of sight. You barely had to move your head. His ass was just on display for you. You knew it wasn’t intentional—of course you knew that. He was lining up a shot that just happened to be right in front of you.

But you weren’t one to waste the universe’s gifts.

So you let your eyes latch onto Bob Floyd’s perfectly round ass. It was probably obvious to anyone who looked at you that you were staring. Luckily, no one was paying attention to you at the moment.

Well, almost no one.

You heard a soft snicker beside you, head turning slightly toward the sound. Phoenix watched you, a small smirk on her face. She knew all about your major crush on Bob. She had the unfortunate role of being the friend who had to listen as you gushed over the pilot every chance you got. But Phoenix was a good friend, and she knew to stay out of other people’s business.

That did not mean she wouldn’t tease you when the opportunity presented itself.

“You alright there?”

The rest of the crew’s heads turned toward you. Everyone’s gaze had shifted—including Bob’s.

You felt the blush that suddenly coated your cheeks. You could feel Bob’s eyes on you, but yours stayed glued to Phoenix. She just gave you a sly smile, knowing damn well what she’d just done. You were going to make her pay for that one day.

“I’m fine.”

It came out a bit slurred. A bit too high-pitched.

Someone laughed.

You didn’t pay them any mind, gaze still glued to Phoenix as you gave her a small grimace of a look.

And then you felt something warm on your shoulder.

Your head turned to look at what it was. Your eyes trailed up the hand currently resting on your shoulder, searching for its owner.

Your breath nearly gave out when you were greeted by the sight of Bob. His face was full of barely restrained concern, glasses slightly slipping off his nose as he stared at you with kind eyes.

“Hey.”

The word slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

Bob gave you a soft smile, the hand that wasn’t holding onto you moving to push his glasses up. It was such a simple act, but it still made your heart flutter.

“Hi.”

Time seemed to slow down. The sound of his voice was like velvet. You wanted to be buried inside it.

Wanted him to be buried inside you.

Whoa. Okay. Drunk thought.

But a very persistent one. Even in your sober moments.

Luckily, you still had enough control over your brain to not let the thought slip out of your mouth. You just stared at Bob for a moment. Someone had said something, but you weren’t listening. You only noticed because Bob’s head had snapped toward the speaker.

You had a perfect view of his side profile. A glorious sight of his perfect nose.

What would it be like to sit on it?

God, you really needed to get some water in your body. The thoughts were becoming more and more unfiltered with every second. Soon, you’d let something slip. And then you’d die of embarrassment.

You bit your lip, forcing your mouth to stay shut.

“What do you think?”

Bob was talking to you again. You stared at him, confused. What did you think of what?

“Don’t think she was listening, Bob.”

That came from Hangman. Your eyes flitted over to him, catching on the teasing smile he wore. You had the urge to flip him off, but you stayed still.

“Hey.”

Your eyes moved back to Bob’s face as he gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Maybe that would be best. You were clearly hanging on by a thread. And maybe if you did slip—which you were pretty sure would happen eventually—you’d at least be alone.

Alone with Bob.

You practically shivered at the thought.

Because you couldn’t trust your mouth to open and say anything other than ‘I love you’ , you opted to nod your head.

Bob smiled at you.

“Okay then. Here, hold onto me.”

“Not that drunk.”

But you still held onto him. Because he’d offered. And because it meant he would be closer to you. Bob had said goodbye to everyone. You’d followed with a drunken wave.

And then the two of you were off.

The whole drive home, you stared out the window. If you looked at Bob, you’d start thinking dirty things. And that would make you want to do said dirty things.

But you didn’t want to scare Bob.

So you kept your eyes on the road.

You struggled to get your shoes off at the door. And Bob, being the gentle soul that he was, sank down to his knees to help you out.

You shook your head, trying to keep the dirty thoughts at bay.

It seemed to work pretty well.

Until it didn’t.

Bob had waited outside the bathroom as you changed. When you’d slipped back into the room, dressed in an oversized shirt, Bob came to help you to bed.

He handed you a pill and a glass of water. You took it without question. If you were lucky, you wouldn’t have a hangover tomorrow. But the odds were definitely not in your favor.

You chugged the water down before handing Bob the empty glass. He placed it on the nightstand before moving to tug the sheets over your body.

“Sleep tight.”

Bob moved to leave the room, but you grabbed his hand before he could take even a step away from the bed.

“You okay?”

His face was full of concern. You smiled up at him.

“You’re really sweet, Bob.”

“It’s not a big deal… really.”

You let out a soft hum, not letting go of his hand.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Bob smiled at the question.

“Sure.”

You gestured for him to come closer. He did as you asked, leaning down so your lips were right at his ear. He could feel your breath on his cheek.

“I think you’re really handsome.”

Bob's heart skipped a beat at the confession.

And then you kept going—

“I think about riding you all the time.”

Bob nearly had a heart attack.

You let go of his hand, settling into the sheets and closing your eyes.

Bob leaned back into an upright position, still staring at you with wide eyes.

But you were already fast asleep.

The sun slipped into the room through the curtains. You opened your eyes with a soft groan. Your eyes took a while to adjust to where you were. You rubbed at them, trying to ignore the soft pounding in your head.

Hangover.

Fantastic.

Honestly, it could have been worse. You were sure the headache would leave after some coffee. So you peeled yourself off the bed, feet padding against the floor as you made your way to the kitchen.

Small flashes of last night moved through your brain as you waited for the coffee to brew.

You bit your nails, trying to remember.

You remembered the bar. The drinks. Phoenix’s smug smile. Bob’s hand on your shoulder. His voice. That’s when a hazy memory flickered behind your eyes. A whisper. Something you said.

Something about Bob.

God, had you said something? You weren’t totally sure—but there was that gnawing, sinking feeling in your gut. 

You were startled by a knock on the door. Instinctively, you glanced at the clock. 10 o’clock. Not bad, considering how late you’d gotten in last night. 

But who would be at your door at such a time on a Sunday? You moved to grab your phone to check for messages. And that’s when it hit you.

Your phone.

You’d forgotten it at the bar.

You opened the door, and there he was. Bob Floyd, looking far too good for someone this early in the morning. He had your phone in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“Hey,” he said, a little cautiously. “You, uh… forgot this.”

You reached for the phone, your fingers brushing his just slightly. He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

“Thanks. I—yeah. Sorry.” You gave a sheepish smile. “Honestly, I didn’t even realize.”

Bob nodded once, then hesitated.

The kind of hesitation that meant he was thinking about something. The small feeling of dread crept back. Okay, so you’d definitely said something. Because sure, Bob was a shy guy, but this wasn’t his usual shyness. This was something else.

There was tension.

Even if you didn’t remember exactly what you’d said, Bob clearly did. Before you could think too much about it, you moved to the side of the door, allowing Bob to see into your house.

“You want coffee?” you asked. “I just made a pot. And you look like someone who’s already been up too long.”

Bob hesitated for a moment, fingers clenching and unclenching. Your heart raced. What the fuck had you said? But then he looked at you and gave you a soft smile.

“Sure. Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

You let out a soft breath as he walked into the room.

Your hands shook slightly as you closed the door. Bob Floyd was inside your house. Bob Floyd knew something you couldn’t remember. You weren’t sure if you wanted to find out or not.

Bob settled at the kitchen table as you grabbed two mugs and filled them with coffee. His eyes flicked toward you every so often, like he wanted to say something. You pretended not to notice, but your heart raced as you handed him his mug.

“One cream, two sugars.”

Bob’s eyes lit up slightly at your words. You’d remembered how he liked his coffee. He had only told you once, and you still remembered. It made something warm flicker in his chest.

“Thank you.”

You gave him a small smile. “Yeah, well… thanks for, you know, coming back with my phone.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the warm cup.

“Yeah. Figured you’d want it back sooner rather than later.”

You laughed softly, the sound a little too breathy.

“Yeah, definitely.”

There was a pause.

Bob cleared his throat. “About last night…”

Your heart skipped, but you didn’t look up. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “I mean, you said some things.”

Your cheeks heated. “Did I?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay. I’m not mad or anything.”

You glanced at him, meeting his gaze for a brief second. “Honestly, I don’t even remember most of it.”

“Me neither,” he said with a small smile.

It was a complete lie, of course. He remembered your exact words. He remembered how you smelled, how warm your breath had been on his neck. He remembered going home and, much to his shame, lying in bed and taking care of his little problem while your voice echoed in his head.

“But I figured, if you’re sober now, maybe we could talk about it?”

You swallowed hard. “I’d like that.”

His smile grew warmer. “Good. Because I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

“No, me neither.”

The tension wasn’t gone, but it had dulled a bit. You were sure you’d be embarrassed by whatever had slipped through your lips. But you also knew Bob wouldn’t hold it against you.

You were adults. You could act like it.

You were not, however, prepared for what Bob was about to tell you. He had struggled for a moment, trying to be as gentle as possible. It was clear from his face that he was flustered. As soon as he told you what you’d said, you were sure you’d just died. Or at least you wished you were dead, because you could not handle this conversation. You were not adult enough for this.

You placed your mug on the table with more force than necessary, hands moving to cover your face as you whispered “fuck” repeatedly.

Bob felt bad. He had expected it to be weird—awkward, maybe. But he hadn’t expected you to almost start sobbing into your hands. He could tell you were having a hard time breathing, so before he could think better of it, he got up. He placed his hands on your shoulders.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You shook your head emphatically, hands still hiding you from his warm gaze. You’d have to quit. That was the only solution. You could not handle looking at Bob every day knowing you’d told him one of your dirtiest thoughts in a drunken daze.

Bob’s hands moved to grab yours. You tried to keep them where they were, but Bob was stronger than you. He pried your hands away from your face, holding your wrists gently together. You bowed your head, staring at the floor.

“Can you please look at me?”

Fuck him. Fuck him and his soft hands and velvet voice.

You lifted your head slowly, expecting to be met with pity or disgust, but that’s not what you found. When you finally looked at Bob’s face, he looked just as out of breath as you felt. He was so close that your noses were practically touching. And his eyes—his big, beautiful eyes—were almost black with desire.

You nearly choked on your own spit.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

You breathed heavily, trying to think of what to say.

“Well, you know the phrase… drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said with a slightly pathetic laugh.

And then Bob’s hands shifted. He let go of your wrists, cupping your face with a speed that made your heart stutter. You barely managed to gasp out his name before his lips were on yours.

The kiss was all-consuming.

Bob’s body moved against yours as he deepened it, his mouth warm and sure. You groaned as your back hit the kitchen counter. Bob tried to pull back to apologize, but you didn’t let him. You tugged his head back to yours, tongue sliding over his lips. He opened his mouth to you, letting you explore. His hands moved to rest on your hips, his body pressing you firmly against the counter.

His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sleep shirt like he was trying to ground himself. You could feel the tension in his arms, the restraint in the way he kissed you—like he wasn’t sure how far you wanted to go. Like he was holding back.

“Bob,” you breathed against his lips, your voice rough, “don’t hold back.”

That was all it took.

He groaned, deep and low in his chest, before lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, pulling him flush against you. You could feel him—hard and heavy through his jeans—and the contact made you whimper.

“You have no idea,” he muttered against your jaw, lips trailing down the side of your neck, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Then show me,” you whispered, fingers already tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Please.”

Bob didn’t need to be asked twice. He tugged the shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, and leaned back in to kiss you again—deeper this time, hungrier. His hands roamed, slipping under your shirt and dragging up slowly until your chest was bare to him.

“Fuck,” he whispered, reverent and breathless as he took you in. 

He bent down, mouthing at the swell of your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple. You gasped, arching into him, needing more. You clawed your shirt completely off, whining as Bob continued to suck your breast. Your shirt fell somewhere near his but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Bob. 

Bob and his perfect fucking mouth. 

Your hands fumbled with his belt, desperate to get him out of his jeans. “Bob, I need—”

“I know,” he said, voice wrecked as he reached down to help you. “God, I know.”

You finally got his belt undone, yanking at his jeans until he helped you shove them down just enough to free him. Your eyes dipped down, and your breath caught. God, of course he was big. And thick. And flushed an angry shade of red, already leaking from the tip.

Bob groaned as your hand wrapped around him. It was the prettiest sound you’d ever heard. You just smiled and leaned forward to press your mouth to his neck, dragging your tongue over the pulse there. But then his hands were on your thighs, thumbs dragging over your waistband, eyes dark with heat. 

“Wait,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “Let me taste you first.”

The way he said it—like it was a need, not a want—almost made you give in.

Almost.

Your fingers curled into his hair as you looked him dead in the eyes. 

“Next time,” you whispered. “I need you inside me right now.”

Bob groaned, like the words physically hurt him, but he nodded. 

“Okay. Yeah. Just—fuck, come here.”

He should probably have taken your underwear off entirely. But you were both so impatient and the little bit of fabric wouldn’t affect his skills. So he tugged your underwear to the side with one hand and guided himself to your entrance with the other. 

You were more than ready for him, slick and warm and aching. And when he finally pushed in—slowly, carefully—you both let out a sound that could only be described as relief.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“You feel—fuck—” Bob gritted out, forehead pressed to yours. “So good. You feel so fucking good.”

He gave you a second to adjust, but you were already rolling your hips, desperate for more. That’s all he needed. He set a rhythm, hard and deep, his hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go.

Every thrust sent you back into the counter with a delicious thud. Your legs locked around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. His name fell from your lips again and again, each time more breathless than the last.

“Hey,” he panted, causing you to look up at him, brows slightly furrowed with pleasure.

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you a secret?” he rasped, one hand sliding up your back to cradle your head.

He hit your G-spot, making you moan his name before nodding. Bob leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“I touched myself to the thought of you last night. Couldn’t stop thinking about you on top of me.”

“Oh, fuck—Bob!”

It was so odd how sweet you found his confession. The entire thing was said in such a dirty manner, made even nastier by the sound of his dick spearing into you with every thrust. But you understood why he’d said it. It was his way of telling you he wanted you too.

Your eyes glossed over, head tilting back as you moaned. Bob latched onto your neck, sucking hickeys into the skin. He shifted his hips slightly, allowing him to hit a deeper angle—and you were fucking gone.

You came. Right there on the kitchen counter, gasping his name, clutching him like a lifeline as the orgasm ripped through you. Bob followed moments later, burying himself deep with a low, drawn-out groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just heavy breaths and the rapid beat of two hearts trying to slow down. Bob’s fingers traced lazy circles along your back, grounding you both in the afterglow. He leaned down, lips brushing softly against your temple. 

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice husky with emotion and something deeper—admiration, maybe even awe.

You smiled weakly, breath still shaky. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

His hand slipped from your back to cup your cheek, thumb tracing over your flushed skin. “I want to take my time with you. Not just tonight.”

You met his gaze, heart pounding all over again. “Me too.”

Slowly, carefully, he helped you off the counter and into his arms, like you were the most precious thing in the world. You let him wind his arms around you, your bodies pressed in a tender hug. The sun shone brightly outside, but you paid no attention to it. You nestled into Bob's body, hearing his heart slow down as you two enjoyed each other's embrace.

“I’m never drinking again.”

Bob chuckled at your words, the vibration rippling through your body.

“I’m glad you did.”

You lifted your head off his chest, gazing into his eyes.

“Glad I got shitfaced and told you I thought about fucking you?”

Bob smiled again, his hand moving to push some hair off your face.

“I’m glad you feel the same way I do about you.”

It was your turn to smile now. You placed a soft kiss on his lips.

“Of course I do, Bob. You’re easy to fall for.”

“And to ride, apparently.”

You gave him a soft slap, but you couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t know. I never got actual experience. I just fantasize about it,” you teased.

“You wanna find out?”

You gave him your cheekiest smile.

“You bet I do.”

His hands found your waist again, pulling you close as a slow, knowing smile played across his lips. The promise in his eyes was impossible to miss, and you matched it with one of your own, full of mischief and anticipation. 

The kitchen, the morning light, even the lingering scent of coffee—all faded away, leaving only the delicious tension between you two, teasing and ready to explode. Whatever came next, it was clear neither of you planned on letting this be the last time.

[jinwoosungs]

06/21/25; 12:22am

{ 18+ drabbles / headcanons }

[ they make you ride their thighs ]

featuring: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb

[ minors don’t interact; by choosing to interact with this content, you have consented to viewing something n-fw despite the warnings. ]

you were trapped against the bed, feeling sylus’s hot breath against your ear when he gently bites down on the shell of it. his large hands were already tracing at your sides, admiring every dip and curve before telling you, “i can smell you from here, sweetie…”

he trails off, already flattening his hand against your abdomen before trailing further down the expanse of your body, not stopping until he was practically cupping your drenched center. with a subtle flick of his fingertips, he manages to shred the flimsy material of your panties, freeing you from the damp fabric as he inserts a finger within your heat.

by now, you were left panting with need for him, nails gripping at the sheets below you as the onychinus leader worked on stretching out your walls. when he feels the way you clench oh so beautifully around him, he knew that he was a goner-

practically obsessed with the way you felt like silk against his calloused hands.

with a low groan of your name, he removes his fingers from your slick walls, licking them clean before picking you up. the movement was so sudden that you had to brace yourself on his broad shoulders. a smug expression was seen on your lover’s face the moment he brings you down on his thighs, clenching the muscles as you felt them create an almost hedonistic friction against you.

“ride me.” his command comes out as a low growl, already gripping at your waist as he set the perfect pace for you. your lips were parted as a series of soft mewls were heard as you tighten your hold on his shoulders while dragging your aching cunt across his thighs.

you felt as though you were slowly losing your mind, the sensation of your swollen clit rubbing against his muscled thigh causing your pleasure to reach even further heights as you cried out to him-

only to be torn away from your impending release the moment sylus removed you from his thigh. tears dot your vision at the sudden loss of him, yet when he places your writhing form back on the bed, his devilish expression doesn’t go unnoticed.

“sorry sweetie, but the only thing i’ll ever let you cum on is this cock.”

admittedly, you were being a tad bit whiny when it came to gaining zayne’s attention.

here he was, back at home where you desperately wanted him to be-

yet instead of spending time with you, he was cooped up in his office!

wishing to voice your disdain for how he was still working, you enter the room to see zayne pouring over some documents with his glasses on. he meets your gaze while giving you a kind smile.

“what is it, honey?”

“hmph, when you told me you were able to take some time off, i was really happy and excited! but now, seeing you doing work leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. why can’t you take a break and spend some time with me?”

zayne sighs, leaning back in his chair while patting at his lap. “i’m sorry, you’re absolutely right. why don’t you keep me company as i finish off a few things?”

all too eager to just be with him, you happily skip towards him, settling yourself on his lap as he returned his attention back to the paperwork at hand.

minutes were spent in silence, and admittedly, you were getting bored. adjusting yourself so that both of your legs were on either side of his lap, you heard zayne sharply inhale for a brief second (was he trembling as well?) before turning his attention back to the papers.

upon feeling his thighs grazing at your clothed center, a wicked grin was painted on your face when you braced yourself on his desk before dragging your hips forward. your sudden grinding on his thighs makes the akso surgeon drop the papers, your name coming out in a low hiss as you worked on riding him.

you had no idea such friction could feel so good, and with zayne clenching his muscles ever so slightly, you felt as though you were slowly losing your mind-

the paperwork already forgotten as he relished in the sensation of you using him for your own pleasure.

it starts out innocently enough, with you deciding to read together while sitting on your boyfriend’s lap. admittedly, when your friends recommended that you read a particularly spicy book, you didn’t think it would make you feel anything-

only to be proven wrong just a few chapters later.

the love interest described had blond hair and blue eyes, just like your xavier. and he was practically a god between the sheets, worshipping the main heroine with a fervor that made you clench your legs together.

and when their respective release occurred, you were unconsciously grinding your hips back and forth on xavier’s lap.

your sudden movements earns a grunt from him, yet he doesn’t say nor does anything to stop you. with his own book forgotten, the young hunter tosses the novel to the side, opting to help with your release when he grips at your hips with both of his hands.

you gasp when you felt xavier move you even faster against him, making your clothed center catch his knee each time he forces you to rut against him. with your own novel forgotten, you brace yourself on top of his legs, chasing your high as you kept grinding with a desperation above him.

yet it all came crashing down on you when xavier places a hand down your shorts and panties, giving your swollen bundle of nerves a pinch that sent you over the edge within seconds. spilling yourself onto his hand, you shiver when xavier pushes a finger within your pulsating heat, helping you ride out your release before whispering in your ear.

“think you can do the same thing for me, but this time on my cock?”

when rafayel asked if you could pose for a personal sketch, you saw no reason to deny him.

however, you weren’t expecting to be in this situation.

for starters, you were left utterly bare for him, your naked breasts heaving with every move you made. secondly, the lemurian had demanded that you use his thighs for your own pleasure-

and he meant every word of it.

as the artist was laid back comfortably against the bed with his sketchpad in hand, you were settled on his lap, dragging your naked sex over the silk material of his clothes. with each grind, you left a shiny sheen of your arousal against his pants, yet was unable to show even a modicum of decency when it all just felt too good for you.

“you’re such a gorgeous princess… my beloved who can do no wrong in my eyes.”

rafayel clenches his thighs while the sounds of charcoal scratching against the pages of his book becomes more prominent. the artist doesn’t tear his eyes away from you, taking in the expression of your teary eyes and how you kept biting down at your bottom lip.

“r-rafe, please…! it’s t’much for me…”

he gently coos at you, relishing in your soft whines of his name when he places his sketchbook off to the side along with the charcoal.

“you’ve been such a good girl for me as well, so i guess this calls for a reward.” rafayel tells you with a sweet smile, adjusting his pants so that his cock was freed before bringing your silken heat down on him.

and when you were finally impaled by his cock, you became an incoherent mess of moans as you rode him with a desperation.

“i’m gonna make you so damn wet f’me. gonna make you cum so much that you’ll forget your own name.”

caleb’s words serve as a promise to what was to come when he takes your bare body and settles you on top of his lap. spreading your legs so that you could straddle him, the colonel lays back against the couch while snapping his fingers.

“go on. get to work and show me just how much you want me.”

letting out a whimper, you brace yourself on his broad shoulders before grinding on him, allowing your juices to stain at his skin. he lets out a hiss upon feeling how wet you were, his cock already poking at your thighs each time you ground yourself against him.

“that’s it, babygirl. such a good girl f’me.” caleb’s praises were making the heat rush to your head, causing you to become even bolder when you end up stroking his cock with the underside of your cunt instead. this effectively causes his hisses to morph into a guttural groan of your name.

unable to take it much longer, caleb places both hands against your hips, keeping you still before thrusting his cock fully inside of you. both of you toss your heads back in response to such a hedonistic sensation, with caleb setting a brutal pace when he fucks himself into your heat over and over again. the red hot pleasure came to a boiling point, with your mind drunk on it all as you allow caleb to use you as his personal toy.

with a smirk, caleb places wet kisses down your throat, continuing to impale you with his cock while telling you,

“this is what you get for playing with fire, pips.”

end notes: i lowkey missed writing so much, so i set my status to a semi-hiatus instead 🥹 have this unedited thirst post in celebration ♡

all stories are written by rei; please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works!!

[sydwritess]

Talk Shows and Love

Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: You were invited on the Jimmy Fallon show to talk about the new movie you starred in 'Leave the world behind'. You invite your boyfriend, Lando with you to watch from the crowd, what you didn't expect was him to show up with the whole circuit.

Second Person POV

Warning: swearing,

Notes: y/f/n = your best friend's name

You, Lando and your best friends were out dress shopping for your big night tonight. Jimmy Fallon had graciously invited you on his show to talk about the new movie you starred in.

"Okay, but you have to try this one on." Your best friend said, holding up a big, baggy black dress.

Your smirked at her, took the hanger and went in your dressing room to change. It was pretty quick seeing how it was a pull over.

"Y/f/n." You call out.

"Come on! I bet it's so cute!" She says. You slowly walk out, and Lando and your best friend start laughing hard.

"I look like I'm about to follow some Amish guy back to his shop to help cut cheese or something!" Say, laughing with them. She laughs more.

Suddenly you see Lando walking towards you from the couch he was sitting on.

"I think it looks great. Nothing revealing, just... perfect." He says, wrapping his hands around your waist.

"Your cute, but no." You say, meeting his eyes through the mirror.

"Okay." Your friend said, coming back to the fitting room area. "This... is the one." She says with a grin.

"I'm scared." You joke. She holds up a black dress from behind her.

You took it and immediately went to the dressing room

It was a thinned strapped, black dress, low cut, with a corset chest and waist area, somewhat see-through at the stomach, and tight fitted around the thighs, with some folded layers where the slit is. It was long at the back, enough to drag across the floor slightly.

You were looking at yourself in the mirror when suddenly the curtain opened and your friend came into the space.

"Y/f/n!" You say.

"What? You were fully dressed." She said.

"What if I wasn't?"

"Well that wouldn't be a problem for me." Lando said from outside. You and your friend burst out laughing.

"Okay but can I just say..." She pauses looking at you. "You look really pretty in this one." She says.

"You think?"

"Oh, I think." She says

You both step out of the room. When Lando see's you he immediately stands up.

"Woah." He says. You couldn't help but smile.

"Okay, your definitely getting this one." Your friend says, looking at you.

"I know. I think this is it." You say. Your turn over to see Lando still starring at you. Mouth slightly open, eyes looking you up and down.

"You alright?" You ask.

"You look fucking good." He says. You laugh.

"Thanks." You say, hugging him. You walk back into the dressing room, changing out of the dress and going to pay for it.

"Okay, what's next?" Lando asks.

"I have to get down to the studio so they can do my makeup and everything." You say.

"I have to go, but I'll see you there." Your friend says, you wave goodbye, and go out to Lando's car. He starts driving down the road, going down to the Fallon studio.

We got there quickly, Lando parked the car, you got your dress out and walking to the back of the studio building.

"Ms. Y/l/n, right this way please." A security guard said, opening the door.

"Special treatment, yeah?" Lando said, walking in right behind you. You look back and smile at him quickly.

You followed the security guard down the long hallway, stopping in front of a door with your name on it.

You walk into the small room, seeing your stylist there waiting.

"Hi y/n." Rachel says happily.

"Hi, great to see you." You say. You walk back into the little dressing room, putting your dress on, and walking back out, sitting in the styling chair.

"So what are we thinking today?" She asks.

"I have no idea... Honestly, I don't think I want makeup." You say.

"Okay, do you mind if we do a little? You won't even notice it." She says.

"Yeah, that's fine." You smile.

She starts doing your makeup lightly, and quickly, before moving onto your hair, straightening it like your last show.

"Your all set." She says.

"Great thank you." You say, she nods and leaves the room, leaving you and Lando by yourselves.

"You look beautiful." He says, grabbing your hands gently.

"Thank you." You smile.

He leans in to you slowly, bringing on hand up to your cheek, gently kissing you.

"Your going to ruin my makeup." You smirk, mumbling against your lips.

"It's okay. You could always re-do it." He smirks. You laugh slightly.

"Why don't you go find your spot, I'll be out shortly." You say.

"Okay." He smiles, and walks out of the room.

You take one more look in the mirror before hearing a knock on your door.

"Come in." You say. The door opens and Jimmy walks in brightly.

"Y/n y/l/n! Great to see you again!" He says, hugging you.

"It's great to see you to! Can't believe i'm back here." You smile, hugging back.

"I know, I can't believe it either. Look I just wanted to say, 5 minutes before the show." He says.

"Great, I'll be right out." You say. He smiles and walks back out of the room.

You take one more look in the mirror, adjusting your hair before walking out, being directed to the side of the stage.

Jimmy sit's down, you watch as the cheering dies down from the other side of the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest here tonight, she's been on here plenty of times... everybody's true love." He says enthusiastically.

"Please welcome out Y/n Y/l/n!" He says happily, pointing out to the stage. You walk out at the crowd cheers loudly. Some people even standing.

You wave to crowd before sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

"Do you feel the love there?" Jimmy asks excitedly.

"I do, I do." You say, smiling. Eventually the crowd dies down.

"How's everything going? How- How's life going?" He asks.

"It's been great. It's been a while since I've been here, it's great to be back."

"Well it feels great to have you back. You were on here a couple of years ago, but then you've gotten the role for 'Leave the World Behind-'" He says, the fans start cheering again, and Jimmy laughs.

"I know, it was amazing but I'm glad to be taking a break now." You say.

"I know, it's great. And- and I see you have a couple of close supporters here with you to." He says, you look at him confused before looking into the stands, where you see Lando and all of his friends sitting there, waving.

"Oh, well isn't that just wonderful." You say.

"Not thrilled?"

"Eh. It's alright." You joke. He starts laughing.

"Okay, do you mind... if we jump right into things here?" He asks, holding up some cards.

"I don't mind." You say.

"Great, so we have some questions from some fans here."

"Are they questions from yourself?" You joke.

"No- maybe some of them." He chuckles, the crowd laughs.

"Okay, so your first question... In the scene where you dodge all of the self driving Tesla's, was that real or greenscreen?" He asks.

"That was real."

"What? No way." He says shocked. You nod and smile.

"Can you describe it to us?"

"Yes, so basically I took a month's worth of training courses for that. They even closed off that specific road for it. And I had someone in the car with me." You say, Jimmy nods along.

"They had a bunch of Tesla's lined along the road, but parked in the spots where I was supposed to dodge them. And I would drive really fast down the road and... some day's I did crash. But other's went well, and then to make it more real, before the scene, they got real tesla's with people driving them, so I could dodge them properly." You say.

"Wow, and you did crash?"

"Yeah, I did a couple of times, but I got the hang of it."

"What did that feel like to you?"

"Oh I felt amazing. I never got to drive that fast so it was really cool to me."

"Did you have like protection in the car, I mean, how- how did you not get hurt?" he asked.

"Yeah, we had everything, bars lining the interior, a suit everything to not hurt us."

"Well that's good. I mean no dying on set wonderful." He jokes.

"Very. Plus... I think if I died, Lando would kill someone." You laugh. You look up to see Lando smirking from his seat.

"Really? You think?"

"Oh definitely." You nod.

"And actually, when I first crashed. Oh my god... I was so fucking scared like."

"Oh am I not aloud to swear?"

"No, we'll cut it out." Jimmy laughs.

"Oh shit-" You say, and then catch yourself, moving the mic away from you. Shaking your head.

"Your okay. Your Y/n Y/l/n we've got you." He laughs. The room went quiet.

"So... after all of the practice, would you say your qualified for F1 driving now?" He asks.

"Oh yes, definitely. I truly think so." You say, putting your hands to your chest. Jimmy laughs.

"I mean, the more I drove, the less I crashed." You shrug.

"Would you say that your McLaren good?"

"Definitely McLaren good." You say.

"You should join Ferrari!" Someone shouts from the crowd. Everybody starts laughing.

"I mean, if they'll considered me, I'll take the offer." You smirk.

"So, can we get into the scenes a bit? I heard you had some trouble shooting one in particular." He says.

"The tooth scene?"

"Yes."

"Okay, yeah, that was... really, really fun." You say sarcastically. Jimmy laughs again.

"Do you mind walking us through it?"

"So basically when Charlie, who plays Archie, get's out of bed. He throws up blood. I was in the room with Julie, or Amanda, and I was like okay, this isn't bad. A little blood, whatever." You say, brushing it off, waving your hand down.

"But when it came to him pulling out his teeth, I didn't expect it to be so... gross. And when he started doing it, along with the sounds it made, I ran to the bathroom and started throwing up myself." You laugh.

"Oh my god! How many times did you have to re-shoot it?" He asks, leaning forward to you.

"At least three. I seriously don't know what came over me because I usually have good tolerance for that kind of stuff. But that was just... vile." You say.

"Wow." He laughs. "And did you have the same problem when he threw up in the living room, that scene?"

"No, I actually switched places with Julie, so instead of her running out to get Rose from the yard, I ran to get rose and Julie stayed inside." You say.

"Hey, whatever you have to do." He laughs. "Where they nice about it at least?"

"Super nice. Everyone was amazing, they were like 'are you okay?' 'do you need a break?' stuff like that. Really amazing team." You nod.

"That's great." He says.

You and jimmy continue to talk more, about the movie, what it came down to, the process, normal questions people have, and then you finally wrapped up.

"Thank you so much for joining us Y/n, we hope to see you again." Jimmy smiled.

"I hope to see you to." You say, and walk back off the stage, away from the roaring crowd. You walk back stage, surrounded by the crew, even some fans.

"You were great out there." One of the officer's said, He walked, behind you as you cut through the crowd of people.

You were making your way through when you see Lando come up to you from a different hallway.

"You were amazing." He said, grabbing your hand.

"Thanks." You smile. You both made your way outside, where you saw even more camera's and people.

"Okay! I need everyone to back up now! Make a path! If you don't you leave!" The security yelled, people started backing off to the side, so you could walk.

"Right this way y/n." He said, pointing as he walked next to you, putting his arm up so people wouldn't jump at you.

You three got through the crowd, as small as it was, it seemed bigger.

"Alright, go out the back entrance, it won't be busy back there." The guard said.

"Thanks." You say. You and Lando finish the walk to the car, both getting in.

"Jesus, you have more fans then me." He said, looking over at you.

"What can I say?" You shrug.

There was a moment of silence before he leaned over the middle to kiss you.

"Did you actually throw up?" He asked, mid kiss.

"Yeah. But we won't talk about it."

"Really? So all I have to do is spit out fake blood to scare you?" He says.

"Yeah, but let's not. You might be going to work with a black eye the next day." You smirk.

"Hm, deal." He says. He sat there for another moment, not moving the car.

"You look really beautiful." He says lowly.

"Thank you." You smile, looking over at him.

"But I still think you should have went with the first dress, not as revealing." He smirks.

"Don't you like revealing?" You tease.

"Yeah but... for my eyes only." He says, kissing you again. This time longer, and slower, before he drives off.

Hey loves! Got this idea from the movie 'Leave the World Behind' def recommend! Hope you like. Comment to be added to the tag list!

[mayhaps-a-blog]

There's something that bothers me a little about the complaints that the Preservation Alliance team aren't "professional" in the show compared to the books, and I think it's just... I have a different idea of what professional science looks like.

Even in the books, we don't actually see the team do that much science. They take some "samples", and SecUnit thinks of them as professionals, but other than SecUnit's internal monologue, they don't do that much more than in the show. They actually talk more about their work in the show than in the books!

I wonder if some of it is that the Preservation Alliance doesn't fit what people's idea of a competent scientist, particularly a competent scientist on TV, looks like. They're expecting the Big Bang Theory, or Gurathin bent over a computer terminal muttering "I'm in" as green code plays across his face, or Arada rattling off a bunch of jargon while dissecting an alien creature, or Bharadwaj IDing the alien remnant based on rocks or something. And that's not really how science actually... works.

Honestly, as a scientist, this is one of the more realistic depictions of actual science I could expect from a TV show, unless you wanted to watch several hours of people working quietly at their computers with expressions of various levels of exhaustion, annoyance, and stress on their faces, or sorting samples, or wandering around staring at the dirt, or sitting around debating the nature of "nature" and the ethical implications of terraforming or whatever (which would be cool, but also, not plot relevant, I'll just assume it's happening off-screen). I could sort half my coworkers by which character they're most like: the upbeat professor who's always trying to help (Bharadwaj), the hippy biologist who freaks out about disturbing 'natural processes' (Arada), the extra-friendly super outgoing possibly ADHD guy (Ratthi), and the overly cynical constantly complaining about capitalism and swearing over his grants analyst (Gurathin). I don't know who's got the open marriage because I prefer not to know about the sex lives of my coworkers, but I know some are in pretty messy relationships - that don't spill over into their work. Because they are professionals.

Basically, I look at this show and I see - my office. So when people say that they're not competent, that they're bumbling or not good scientists, honestly, it's kind of annoying. They're people, not just scientists, with stuff going on outside of their work, namely: someone's trying to kill them, something that absolutely none of them are prepared for. You don't learn how to handle that in grad school! Of course they're going to be messy and make mistakes - that's what people do. Scientists too.

[ladyloveandjustice]

One thing that always bothered me as a kid, and still bothers me, is it honestly makes so little sense Steph didn't rank super high on the scale of Martial Artists after receiving the Robin training, if it's so amazing. Considering what she could do while untrained, the experience she had, it's baffling that no one ever considered her a prodigy, or that she wasn't at least notably more skilled than say, Tim was, when she started out as Robin.

Like, Steph was in the field and knocking out grown men twice her size with zero training. It was not even mentioned that she took martial arts classes or anything to explain how she can do this, just gymnastics and softball. And both were high school gymnastics, high school softball, not fancy expensive classes??? Even Babs, in Batgirl Y1 had the advantage of having taken martial arts classes and presumably a lot more since her goal was to be in the FBI.

Meanwhile Steph like. She's jumping off rooftops and surfing trains and taking down bad guys with nothing. Tim's gone through extensive Batman training and trained with Lady Shiva and all this stuff, and obviously she's not as good as him and needs him to watch her back at times, but she can keep up with him, and even saves him or get the jump on him quite a few times, and that's incredible when you think about it. Tim gave her gadgets and instructions in the field, but it's never shown that he taught her any moves.

There's even a panel where Batman notes Stephanie almost snuck up on him and "not many people can do that" when again, no training, no martial arts classes, this is way before he agreed to give her any help at all-- and then for some reason, after noting this girl with no training is more talented than most people he knows, just keeps telling her she's not good enough and should go home.

That's a ridiculous level of raw talent, and it's honestly so bizarre nobody in the Batfamily ever noted that and kept telling her to go home. When she does get training, it's very sporadic, it is not clear how much Batman or Black Canary trained her the first time, he disappeared on her and then fired her as soon as he came back, and we never saw her get trained on screen by Dinah (the only person who ever acknowledged she had talent). She sparred with Cass, but Cass never taught her anything. Despite all this, she was noticeably getting way better during the era.

But when she received the six month Robin training that's supposed to make them so strong or whatever...how did that not result in her being a prodigy? She's the only Robin who was an experienced superhero before she took on the mantle?

Bruce literally tells her "Tim did this better" when he was training her about something, which makes no sense considering she came into being Robin with way more skills and experience and martial arts prowess??? When she was surviving on her own and fighting villains before that? When she could nearly sneak up on Bruce even before that?

You could claim she's a "bad student" or whatever, but she was a clearly very good at taking her gymnastic coach's instructions, enough to become a genius at it, so that doesn't really hold water.

The only explanation that would make any sense would be that Bruce taught her badly on purpose. which. unfortunately wouldn't be too far out of character from how he treated her in that era. (And that she apparently improved a lot under Babs tutelage as Batgirl but not his. So. Not a good look for him)

I mean the real answer for why all this makes no sense is DCs misogyny ofc. But it’s pretty wild how there’s no justification for this in universe.

[hungrydata]

Ok so, ik I'm busy, but I can't NOT talk about the new episode. So...

SPOILER WARNING FOR EPISODE 5 OF THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS

I won't write an essay now, but holy gosh moly. This episode was great. And I hate that it ends with a cliffhanger. But it makes sense since Goose said that eps 5&6 were focused on both Jax & Ragatha, so they are very likely tied together (hopefully we don't have to wait another 6 months, but you also can't rush art of course)

I also don't want to break down the episode, there are people who can do that way better than me. I just wanna talk about some fun stuff.

First of all, I tried my best to figure out what everbody's saying here (Only Jax is subtitled in english, however the other two are as well in other languages, so I used them if I had difficulties with what they're saying):

everything I am not 100% sure about or was roughly translated via the different language subtitles, is written in brackets

JAX: I very much did not enjoy that one in the slightest. If we ever do anything even close to that again, I'm getting violent, and I'm going to kill Ragatha.

GANGLE: Uh... I... don't really think it [brought out the best in me], even if it [was the cause of my mask].

RAGATHA: Oh, I really do not think [I was that innocent at] that time, I [did release] (?) some things I normally never say.

I know that some of this is not accurate or something is missing, but it's really difficult to understand what Ragatha and Gangle are saying. Therefore if you know anything, help is very much appreciated!

_______________________________________________

Now I wanna talk about rather obscure stuff. Like Kinger being right handed. I never posted anything about it, but I discussed with my friend about what each circus member's dominant hand was (bc I was bored, can you blame me?) and while I still think that the animators just use whatever looks good and can bring the message across the best (like Gangle sometimes drawing with her left hand and with her right hand, based on what perspective we view her, or how basically most characters use their left and right hand for difficult tasks equally, just so that the viewers can see it better, and it's probably easier to animate as well if you don't have to think about it)

Anyways, Kinger is right handed confirmed to me. (Jax is left handed, tho I need to rewatch all episodes and shorts on Glitch's channel to get more information about that, same with the other chars, tho I'm 98% convinced that both Jax and Gangle are left handed, tho that might just be delusion idk)

Btw the Anime and Intermission section were beautiful. Now we know why it took so long, but it was definitely worth it.

Also RIBBUN AND MAID DRESS HALLELUJAH!

ngl this looks funny

I feel like the shippers are going crazy with this one, especially people who ship Funnybunny (and the Bunnydoll Nation is either in shambles or enjoy it as much as the time Ragatha got deep fried.)

As a Ribbun enjoyer, I am definitely eating the toxic crumbs up like Jax did eat Gangle. Also thank you Goose for giving us so many great catchphrases that I am going to use from now on.

Also, THE LORE. And why can I genuinely relate so much with Jax. Why. Idk how to feel about this. And he actually cares let's gooo!

And I gotta say. Love the beef between Jax and Ragatha, and I also like the friendship between Jax and Pomni that slowly but surely develops. I also like the detail that here, Pomni votes against the maid dress. I could imagine that she just thinks it's childish, but it's also a sign that she knows Jax would hate it and wouldn't want to stir chaos.

ALSO HE SAID THE LINE HE SAID THE LINE!

You detached it yourself, idiot.

Welp I'm outta pictures to post here. There's alot more like Jax having a friend that looks like a frog, and Goose mentioned in one post that the person that abstracted before Kaufmo was called Ribbit (yk, like the sound a frog makes). I thinke there's likely a connection. And considering that Pomni was supposed to be a frog first, maybe that's how Jax and Pomni also will become closer friends. Can't wait for the next episode

And knowing what Goose said, it's not gonna be a wholesome one. After all, even tho 5&6 are split between Ragatha and Jax, this was still the Ragatha episode, and the next one will be "more centered" around Jax. I'm scared.

Also as much as it pains me, I think Gangle will be the one to abstract. The fact that she didn't have an evil doppelganger and with the teaser of her symbol loading, it's too much of a coincidence to not happen. Pls don't Gangle you're my baby ;;-;;.

(so much so to "not an essay" lmao. "Not an essay" my ass)

Also. DaY 172 bc yes

[trashpremiium]

sometimes i look at doctors that show little to no regard for their patient's wellbeing, or actively disregard best practice in favor of money or their own personal beliefs, and i think to myself - "how did they get through that many years of school and gain neither the compassion nor the pragmatism to do what's best for the people in their care". and then i remember i'm a biology major and a lot of people in my courses are pre-med track, and some of them are such major assholes i am no longer surprised.

[tawnysoup]

Finally now that the comic is fully public on comicfury, I get to share it with all of you here, too <3

If you enjoyed, please consider supporting by buying a PDF of the comic on itch.io: https://tawnysoup.itch.io/home-in-the-woods