#and yet the brain still has this notion bouncing around

[freepassbound]

On the Exclusivity of Moans

One doesn't have to look particularly hard to determine that, in Domme circles (and even outside of that), male moans are considered a high-level delicacy.

I have considered, on a few occasions, posting some audio here. It's one of the very few areas of my sexual appeal that I have any degree of confidence in, they've always gotten rave reviews from my partners, and I might even imagine they could draw a little attention my way.

(most recently thought about doing and posting an audio clip on my birthday - sort of my 'gift' to y'all 🤭😁)

Two things always stop me: one, my innate default to privacy; two (okay, three things always stop me), my deep-rooted anxiety, which in this instance insists that maybe they're not that good and no one wants to listen anyway...

Three, though, is the interesting one. The third is that I have this notion that my moans should be only for my partner - that noises brought from me in ecstasy are theirs and theirs alone. I'm not entirely sure why I have this notion. It may be that they seem to me to be something highly intimate, and thus to be kept between the two involved. It may be that I've internalized some sort of generalized D/s command, that my moans aren't actually my property, but 'theirs'.

Or it may just be that my brain has spontaneously generated this notion and my cussedness quadrant accepted and is enforcing it. 😂

[nichuuu]

Own

Word count: 4k+ Thank you to @gangplanksorenji for proofreading & editing and @capslocked for the wonderful tips. Luv you guys < 3

Fuck. 

The expletive leaves your mouth right as Hanni’s tongue makes contact against the base of your shaft. She slides up, licking you up from base to tip. It was inane of you to think that the first thing a global icon like Pham Hanni would want to do after a long week was to take a shower, and you only realised this a second after Hanni dropped down to her knees and undid the string of your sweatpants, the former happening a meagre few seconds after she’d entered. Now here she is, her skin still glistening with sweat from her dance practice earlier as she lathers your shaft in spit. 

“Hello.” A simple greeting contrasts the intricate movements of her tongue, the one that swirled and curled around your shaft, slathering every inch of it in glossy, gooey spit. Her voice, her tone—every vowel, every consonant, every word (down to the last syllable), drips with lust. Well she’s needy today, you muse internally. As soon as she stepped through your apartment door, her hands were already on your waistband and chest, forcing the door shut with your body. The wantonness was ever so apparent in those eyes—the ones that looked up at you as she took her time to tease you. Through the jolts of pleasure that shoot up your spine, you manage a strained hey. 

A playful hand snakes up, grabs you by the balls. Her eyes gleam. 

“You’re full,” she comments. The hand begins a gentle massage of your low hanging fruits. “Been holding it in? To unload inside of you, is what you really want to say. Instead, what comes out is just a simple, raspy yep. The electricity in your veins overrides your brain’s functions, rendering you unable to translate your thoughts into words. The source of this problem is, of course, Hanni, but it's not as if she already knew the effect she had on you; the give away was the look of mischief on her face as her small hand wraps itself around your shaft, pumping with slow, teasing strokes as she let her breath linger around the head of your dick. The next question comes after she delivers a small kiss to your member: How long?

As her lips wrap themselves around you, your hands balled into fists against the door. She expects an answer out of you, but there isn’t much room for thinking when there’s a tight seal around your twitching shaft. For a moment, you think about just grabbing on tight to her skull and fucking her face right there and there. Why couldn’t you? Your shaft was already halfway into her mouth, your hands just centimetres away from her head, a simple motion—Reach forward, grip, thrust—was all you needed. But the control that Hanni has over you liquifies that desire, melting it into nothing but a puddle of a notion in your mind. 

“A-A week,” you miraculously manage to reply. Her eyebrows raise, your shaft sliding right back out of her mouth. The twitching meat rests against her cheek as she stares up at you. 

“A week?” Her lips pout as she speaks. You want those pouty, plump lips to shower your cock with kisses so badly. “You must have,” she slaps your head against the soft flesh on her face, “quite the load for me then.”

If she keeps this up, you have a feeling that the load she’ll get will be a lot bigger than what she expected. Of course, you keep this to yourself. You find it congenial to watch as she pumps your cock with your head resting against her cheek. 

“You know what I really want?” It’s a rhetorical question from her really. You knew exactly what she expected from the moment your dick came out of your underwear; I wanna bounce on your dick, I wanna take you in my ass, I want you to fuck me—All variations of the simple message: Fucking ravish me with your cock.

You know what she wanted, down to the last minute detail. Yet you shake your head. This is more than a simple test of your knowledge on her—it’s a game, a game to see who will follow who’s lead. Right now, it is Hanni who is in charge, this unspoken agreement made between the both of you from the moment she took your cock in her mouth. 

She rises from her knees, takes a step closer. Whispers, “I want you to fucking fill me.”

That’s a new one.

In your opinion, the cussing in the sentence was a bit excessive, but it doesn’t take away from the sheer intensity of the lust that bleeds through her words. Then she drags you by the cock, callous in her mannerism as she pulls you towards the couch. Barely ten minutes after she entered your apartment and she’s already getting right to it, and you are genuinely surprised that she didn’t begin her attempts to draw a thick load out of you at the door.

She tosses you onto the couch, then quickly takes her position between your legs. You have to remind yourself to breathe when those lips take you back into her hot, wet mouth; you force yourself to not break right there and then as she draws upwards with her lips and lets them slide over the head of your shaft. She was playing with you, toying with the rock hard meat between your legs to let the blood flow to all the right parts of your body. All you can do is let out a soft drawl—Fuck Hanni—as she slowly kisses up your shaft, doing what you wished she would do while you were still standing at the door. Her lips make contact with your dick more times than you can count. Her eyes sparkle, the corners of her lips upturned into an innocent smile. She’s intentionally breathing a little harder than usual, letting her breath tingle the head of your cock, 

The wink she gives you tells you that she’s about to take you for a ride. She doesn’t disappoint, the groan that rips through your throat being the sordid tell that she’s off to a great start. She lets her lips travel down your length—further and further till she realises that she can’t go down anymore, retraces her steps, goes down again. All of this is rinsed and repeated (and it isn’t done slowly, mind you) as drool accumulates on your cock, the fervent gurgling that emulates from the depths of Hanni’s throat telling you that she’s perfectly fine the way she is. 

Then she adds her hand, fingers twisting around your slick dick in a corkscrew motion: pumping, stroking, fucking milking you to the best of her ability. She’s pushing you past your limits, overwhelming you with all the sensations she would wreak upon you with what she had available. Your first thought was to grab her by the wrist, pump your shaft even faster with those slender fingers, but then she reads your mind, doing it for you better and faster than you could ever imagine. It slides up and down, up and down together with her lips, spit smiling out between the gaps between her fingers. 

Hanni had given you head before (not that it did anything to blunt the utter pleasure that she was able to impart on your body) and it was always done in earnest. She makes it seem so effortless, smooth in her movements and consistent in speed. Many nights you’d receive head from her just like this, but the sight of that jet-black lock of hair bobbing between your legs, the sound of the lewd gurgling and slurping, the feel of that tight seal around your cock that was her lips… None of it ever got old. 

She kept it so fresh, so… Well, not exactly clean.

Your hand finds itself on the top of her head, the familiar motion of pushing down on it each time she bottoms out executed as you always did. Now, it should be noted that Hanni’s a very thorough person. When she cleans, she cleans thoroughly. When she examines, she examines thoroughly. And now, when she sucks dick, she sucks it thoroughly. Her mouth was warm, tight and so very wet. It slicked your shaft with spit, leaving a glistening trail that was repainted and retraced with even more of her saliva, plump pink lips cramming in every bit of cock that she could fit into that hot little mouth, and by god could take you in. 

Like you said—She was so very thorough. 

Her eyes—those dark brown orbs that reflected nothing but lust—stay trained on you, beseeching you to keep your attention on her as she slobbered on your shaft. Her tongue cushions your base, the top of her mouth directing your cock into her throat. She moves deftly, taking you in and out of that mouth with measure, fervent and pace. Hungry is your initial word to describe her, but then it quickly changes to needy, then to fervour. Finally, you settle on Impatient, because that was the best way to describe her style. 

She was always impatient. Her style was never a gradual ramp up in pace, but rather “fast and stay fast”. The word “”slow” didn’t exist in Hanni’s books, nor did the word “patience” (though you personally wished that they would sometimes). Every motion had to be done quickly and swiftly. There was no room for child’s play. Yes, she could tease. Yes, she could take her time if she really wanted to.  But there really was no need for all of that at the moment, not when she’s bobbing her head between your legs with such gusto.

The black locks bob rhythmically between your spread thighs (there’s no cessation to this allegro) as she takes your shaft in and out of the wet, warm cavern of her mouth, her tongue swirling around the sensitive flesh in random patterns, each entry and exit into her lips sending spikes of pleasure from your crotch to the rest of your body. Every so often, a moan would emit from the depths of her throat, sending pleasant vibrations down your shaft and up your spine. You grunted, groaned and sighed; she gurgled, gagged (every now and then) and hummed. The electricity that courses throughout your body is breathtaking. Now you start to think of a word to describe this feeling.

Heaven. Yeah, that was the word to describe it.

You never realise that your eyes closed themselves, but they snap open when your shaft leaves her mouth with a slick, wet pop. For a second, you thought that it was over. Then you realise that you’re far from callow when it comes to dealing with Hanni, and that she’s probably about to escalate things to another level. You’re only proven right when she wipes the spit from the corners of her mouth and rises to her feet. 

As she strips, you start to take back what you said about Hanni being impatient. To be clear, she was impatient a good majority of the time. Now however, she seemed to be in the mood for a little bit of slow play. Her baggy shirt slowly rises, the hem going past her waist, then her belly button—continues painfully slowly till you see the elastic band of the sports bra that she has on. Then with a grin, she slings it off her body. Her pants are next, displacing in the opposite direction as her shirt at the same, painfully slow rate. Bit by bit, layer by layer, her garments slowly come undone. It drove you to the brink of delarity. If it were up to you, you’d have stripped her, got her on her back with her knees against her shoulders and railed her till you both came in a sweaty heap–and she would’ve let you do just that, but you didn’t.

With a very slight sashay in her hips, she saunters over. She straddles you, thighs on either side of you as she settles down. Your cock nestled snugly in the space between those plump asscheeks, the ones that you lightly spank, then lightly squeeze. Now the formalities come back into play; her lips hover over yours for a brief second before they gently drop to meet yours. She kisses you, softly, gently. For a moment (and just that moment), you forget that she was creating a sloppy mess between your legs just mere minutes ago.

Her hand—It snakes through your hair, slides down to your face, cups if for a second. Then the other slithers up your chest, stopping right at the collar before it gently tugs at your shirt—Take it off, she’s telling you. 

Your hand—Lingers on the firm flesh of her asscheeks for just a moment more, then slides over to the hem of your shirt. The other one slips in, hoisting the thin fabric up and over your head. Then they skate up her sweat-slicked, tight body. They travel up in the same direction and slow fashion of her shirt just moments ago: slowly rising, going past her waist, then her belly button–Continues painfully slowly till you reach those soft, ample mounds that sit proudly atop of her chest. 

Then they squeeze.

Her body—It jolts as her breasts are given the attention they long for, a soft sigh leaving her lips. It leans forward ever so slightly, receives kisses from you on the jaw, then the neck. As it flushes against you, she whispers into your ear, “I’ve been waiting for this…”

Your thumb finds the sensitive nub on her opening. “Oh yea?”

“In the dorm…” she trails off for a moment when your thumb begins to rub her clit in small, circular motions, but then she gets back on track, “I always think about riding you till my legs give out.”

You could picture it clearly in your head: Hanni, curled up under her covers in the dorm, her hand between her flushed thighs and another over her mouth as she fingers herself. She moans your name silently, careful not to disturb the others with her raunchy fantasies. 

“What else do you think about?” You’re curious to know more.  

She falls silent for a moment, enjoying the feeling of your thumb entertaining her clit for just a second, then she says, you.

There it is: the shameless confession. For the record, you knew that she’d get naughty with herself while she was away from you, she sent you videos—that you could only view once—of her playing with herself in the bathtub of her dorm before. Sometimes, an exclusive video comes in; her leg would be on the bathroom counter, her phone in her right hand while the left works itself between her legs. Quietly and just for the camera, she’d moan your name, and it turns you the fuck on.

“And what exactly do you think of when you think of me?” you press. 

Another moment of silence. The admissions spew forth: I think about you folding me in half and fucking me. I think about you bending me over the kitchen counter. I think about you pinning me against the wall. I think about—

She would’ve gone on forever if it didn’t shut her up with a kiss. You consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she imagines all of this while dancing on stage in front of millions of fans, or when she’s in the practice studio learning the steps to the next big hit that they’re about to comeback with. The endless possibilities deluge your mind as you start bringing your kisses down to her jaw, then to her neck.

It's when your lips reach her collar bone that Hanni finally decides to let those hands snake down and grasp on to your cock. It’s when your sigh washes up against her skin that she raises herself up on her knees. She lines you up with her slit, letting you feel the heat of her womanhood as she gently grinds her pussy against the head.

When she sinks down, you feel like blacking out. The tightness, the heat… Fuck, you couldn’t even get started on how wet she is. Your fingers dig into the soft flesh of her small waist, a sharp exhale forced out of your lungs like a bullet; a guttural moan for Hanni. You’re in perdition barely a second after you get inside of her, and she’s sure as hell not giving you time to adjust. 

Then she’s riding you, fast and hard. Her hands grip your shoulders, her head tilted back. She barely gave you time to adjust to the tightness of the flesh around your cock before she’s moaning like her life depends on it. Your name—amongst the expletives and exclamations that tumble out of her mouth—rings clear in your ears, her arms wrapping around the back of your neck, holding you in place like her frenzied movements would make you start moving away. 

Then for the next few minutes, it’s just fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck that punctuates each entrance, the same lips that delivered the sloppiest of blowjobs just minutes prior parting to let such filth fly forth without much of a filter. She crushes those same lips with yours, kissing you vehemently, hungrily. You think for a second about involving some tongue, but that plan quickly goes to waste when her lips tear away from yours to let out another stream of gasps. 

She was so hot, so utterly tight and wet around your cock, her hips and thighs moving with such perfect rhythm that it was quite literally breath stealing. In the sheer intensity of it all, your hands stayed on her hips, but she grasps your left hand and brings it to a needy, bouncing breast, her fingers pulling yours around her tight nipple, closing around it and squeezing it, clutching the needy, wanton flesh and eliciting a sigh from her lips. She brings your other hand to her face, making you cup it in a tender, ginger fashion that heavily juxtaposes the raw sex that was happening in the midst of it. In a way, it was cute, but only a little. 

In the midst of the overwhelming intensity, you find her right breast, catch it mid bounce and send it straight into your mouth. What left Hanni’s mouth was not exactly a moan, but rather a mewl, one that was high-pitched and so erotic that you wished that you were recording this. Moan louder for me, Hanni is what you wish you could tell her while your mouth sucks on her tit, but alas, one mouth can only handle one thing at a time. You settle with the sighs and cries that make her sweaty chest vibrate ever so slightly, content with the way her voice was getting more and more hoarse from moaning by the second. 

She grips you–roughly–on the back of your head, fingernails digging into your skull as she forces your face deeper into her cute little chest. She’s trying desperately, licentiously, to push her mound deeper into your mouth. Then the other hand slinked to your neck, pushing it towards her while she let an even louder cry rip through the air. You ponder on being playful–deliver a small nibble to the flesh that had been impelled into your jaws, or maybe suck on it hard enough to mark it. But when the oh fuck I want to touch myself leaves her mouth, you decide to divert your attention to back to her clit. Your thumb takes its original position, the pad of your finger swirling it in just the right way to make the flesh around you tighten.

When your jaw gets tired, you let the glistening tit pop out of your mouth. “Fuck Hanni,” you decide to quip, “you’re taking this cock so well.”

Her eyes tear away from the ceiling—which she’d been staring at for the past minute or so—to lock on you. Then in a raspy, airy drawl, she replies—This pussy was made to take your cock.

She could be quippy when she wanted to, and she could definitely be overtly lecherous when she desired to. In this case, she’s a combination of both. The slight tinge of haughtiness in her voice tells you: This cock is mine and mine alone, and I’m gonna ride it till I cum. Then there was the generous dash of want in that honey-like voice that says: I love this cock, I love the way it fills me up and stretches me out. It’s gonna make me cum so fucking hard. 

A woman of multitudes is what she is, and sex only brings out a few of her many layers. As she bounces atop of you, taking your cock in and out of her hot, slick pussy while she moans and gasps and sighs, you realise how content you are with seeing this wanton, needy and dominant side of her. And as she starts going down on you harder and faster, you come to realise how hot this whole situation is. 

Cause picture it this way: A cute, bubbly and pretty Hanni, bouncing relentlessly on your rock hard length that’s slicked with her spit and juices, moaning fervently as she rides you like you’re one of her sex toys, her tits bouncing atop her chest and her thighs quivering around you. It was one of those nights that she felt like being in control, one of those nights where she really just wanted to ride out all of her pent up stress and frustration as she cries, I own this fucking cock. You were more than happy to be her outlet. 

“Oh fuck… Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” That’s all she Hanni can manage as she starts going even faster, crashing down on you even harder. Her hands slip off your body, reaching behind her back and grabbing on to her ankles. She’s relying on her knees to hoist herself up now, and counting on your hands to hold her steady while she fucks herself on your cock. You’re relying on your self control to hold you back from cumming at the titillating sight. 

Her body—curves deliciously in this new position, her flat, toned tummy arching towards you and her head tipping back just slightly past her feet. She feels tighter, hotter, (and somehow) wetter around your cock, soft ‘ah’s floating out from that pretty little mouth. She’s playing with you once more, testing the waters to see what it’ll take to drive you feral. “You like my body don’t you? You’re… You’re so fucking turned on by this fucking body, right?”

“God yes.” 

“You wanna fucking ruin it so bad, huh?” She’s looking you dead in the eye. “Wanna get me on my back,” she bends back further, “and shove this thick fucking cock into this tight fuckdoll don’t you?”

You contemplate just hoisting her up into the air and making her ride you while you are standing, picturing the sight of her face dropping and rising in front of your face as the full length of your shaft spears deep into her tight and wet walls. But when… 

“But when” what?

Up till this point, there was always something stopping you from doing as you pleased. Now however, you couldn’t find anything to stop you from succumbing to your desires–and so you do, scooping your hands beneath that plump ass and rising to your feet. 

“H-Hey!” she yelps in surprise as she’s hoisted into the air. She was a lot heavier than she looked

“What’s wrong?” you challenged, adjusting your grip on her small frame to offer her better support. “Can’t own this cock while you’re standing up?”

She recognises the challenge, straightens her back before you. 

“I can own this cock in any position.” Her tone is unwavering, her ass shifting slightly in your grasp as her legs wrap themselves around you. A dark look crosses her face in the form of a bright grin. With the assistance of gravity, she lets herself fall slightly, rock hard meat driving straight up her hot, wet cunt. The wide-eyed, mouth agape complexion of surprise takes her face as she’s filled to the brim. A shrill, breathy cry shoots out from her chest; it’s music to your ears as you start thrusting upwards and into her waiting walls, the same ones that squeeze down harder around you as the head of your cock starts to knock against her cervix. 

Fuck, is all she can manage to get out before she’s throwing herself down onto your cock. She takes you in—down to the hilt, balls deep—hard and fast, not sparing a single second to catch her breath. Her moans are fragmented, split into different tones as she rises and falls on your dick—sometimes passionate and shrill, other times deep and guttural. She’s maximising her output energy for more pleasure, converting that pleasure into energy that powers the sinful rock of her hips each time she takes you in. Then she’s screaming: Oh god, Oh my fucking god, crying: You’re so deep. I can’t fucking take it!, gasping: You’re gonna–I’m gonna–Oh fuck I’m…

But it’s the declaration that really gets you, the one where she screams into your ear: Oh fuck, I’m cumming!

Just like that, Pham Hanni comes undone as she cums. The orgasm that cuts through her body is terrifyingly violent, but oh-so-wonderful to watch as tight, hot flesh spasms around your cock and that pretty little body convulses in your arms. For beautiful seconds, she is utterly overwhelmed by the sensations, until finally she slumps forward in your arms, breathing heavily. You take that moment of vulnerability to get her on her back, spreading her flushed, trembling thighs and pumping into her body once again. She lets you do that—not that she could fight it in her current state—as she wraps her arms back around your neck and whispers, “Be good… Fill me.”

Then nothing else matters for the next few minutes. Only Hanni’s body exists in the long minutes where you fervently pump your shaft between her legs. She looks so good beneath you, her pussy swallowing your cock whole and her tits spilling out through the gaps of your fingers because of how hard you’re holding on to them. Through her soft, horse moans, she eggs you on: Come on baby, give me that nice big load… Cum in me then fuck it deep inside of me. You know you want to. 

Then she pulls you close, breathing on your ear, imploring you, “Please, please, please cum inside your little fuckdoll… I want it so bad.”

And so you do—burying yourself as deep inside her as you can before finally letting the pleasure overwhelm you. Your cock pulsates as it fills with semen before spurting thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside Hanni’s tight, grasping pussy. She lets a soft moan escape her lips with each spurt, as though welcoming it, as though each one were something she long wanted and needed.

After you empty yourself inside her you withdraw your still stiff, cum-slick cock halfway out of her body before thrusting back in, letting your cock stir the load inside her, saturating her walls, making her already drenched and dripping pussy even more of a sloppy mess. She lets little sighs of pleasure and contentment leave her lips as you take your liberties with her hole, relishing the warm wetness of your cum inside her as you take your last few thrusts into her body, pushing the thick load that she’d been waiting for deep into her. 

You only ever stop moving after your arms give out. You crash atop of her, your ragged breaths hardly in sync with hers as you feel the soreness begin to creep up from your feet to your thighs. Softly, gently, she nuzzles herself into the crook of your neck and breathes, thank you.

You raise your head just enough so that your mouth is next to her ear. “Welcome back.”

[solitary-traveler]

Two Sides of the Same Coin

How are you so unaware of the fact that he despises you because he’s desperate to remain unattached?

Harbinger!Scaramouche x Gn!Reader

Notes: Hi, I caved. So for those asking for a part 2 on certain stories... I'm not sure how to approach a part 2 for the two of them so I did this instead. Hopefully, it satisfies you AHAHAHAHA. Also, I'm not that well-versed in writing smut but hey, I tried-

Warning: harbinger x secretary lol, cursing, NSFW, marking

Scaramouche hates everyone. That’s a fact.

Yet for some reason, he despises you. 

He detests the flicker of luster within your eyes when your lips voice a low hum, triggering your body to sway along to whatever illusive melody is in that tiny brain of yours. He loathes your gratified, cat-like stretches, a testimony that amplifies his obscene appetite. He finds himself revolted by your ability to catapult his judgment far from the naked eye, and inspire his thoughts to vanish into nonexistence.

He hates this so fucking much.

How can one even bear this much animosity towards someone? Even he didn’t know. All he was aware of was how much it aggravated him when he saw you exhibiting interest in anyone that wasn’t him. For Archon’s sake, you were his secretary. Not Childe’s. Not Dottore’s. Not even Her Majesty’s.

His secretary.

Is that so hard to understand? Even a brain like yours could surely discern something so unambiguous. So why were you still preoccupied with others? Especially with those worms who were beneath his rank? How baffling could this concept be that even you can not be conscious of it?

How are you so unaware of the fact that he despises you because he’s desperate to remain unattached?

For someone like Scaramouche, life was nothing but a cruel joke. Providing him the luminescence of his longing only to be dispelled and scattered within the air he didn’t need. It has happened three times already. He doesn’t need it to resurface and transpire again.

He despises you so much he won't let you be his 4th.

And he despises you so much he’ll make sure to drill this lesson in that thick-headed skull of yours.

Wretched whines and hitched gasps reflect around the room, only to bounce against the walls and into Scara’s ear, appeasing his vulgar notions. He's been at it for… how long now? An hour? Or two? He couldn't remember. But why should he keep track? He was far gone, consumed by his irrational side that led his sensibility astray. Everything around him has withered away as his focal point shifted to your mellow and inviting passage. The tight heat provided solace akin to that of a home. His home. Oh, how he wishes he could stay inside of you forever.

“Remember this, you fucking whore”, he hisses as he adjusts your position for his convenience. He relished the way your nails jab at his skin, scraping against his back as he rams into your sweet spot. It drove him insane. Despite the turmoil of sweat and cum, the movement of his hips does not falter. If anything, he proceeds to fasten his pace. "I'm your boss," he growls as his slender fingers curl around your hips, "Your Harbinger."

His lips twitched upwards as he instilled in his memory the way your face contorted in pleasure. "And you...", he pauses, only to deliver a hard thrust that provokes more moans to spill out your pretty mouth,

"You are nothing more than my secretary"

Scara kept jack hammering into you, forcing your face on the pillow to stifle your piercing cries of ecstasy as he subdued you. He's going to make sure you'll be the good little bitch he wants you to be. His figure looms over you like a shadow, an impending threat as he takes you from behind. "You obey me", he snarls as he inclines his head near your ear. He grapples your chin for him to catch a glimpse of your adorable face. It delights him to see your tear streaked features pressed against the pillow, seeking an end to this twisted play as your body argues and wails for more. At a leisurely pace, he slithers down your neck as his hot breath leaves a succession of feather light kisses on your skin. "You do everything I tell you to do"

With a vigorous bite, he slams with ferocity before burying himself in a great depth inside you. A wanton moan pushes past your lips as he starts to grind. It was euphoric, a dopamine boost that is sure to maneuver him over the edge. "I'm not going to let anyone have you,” he chuckles, “not even the gods"

His hold was secure, ensuring that you can’t slip away. Not like you would anyways. Not when you get a thrill out of this as much as he does. He knows how much you savor every inch of his cock as it throbs and shudders against your tight walls

"Just you wait", he grins against the comfort of your complexion as he unhands your hips, "I'll become a god”

“Your god"

He withdraws from the intimate space with a smirk. He stationed his hands on top of your thighs, before spreading them apart. An incentive to impale himself further into you and propel you to see Celestia in all its glory.. 

"And you'll be my first follower. You'll devote yourself to me and me only. You'll worship me like the fucking god I am"

His thoughts ran back to the failures of the past. Past people who fractured glass words known as promises, who didn’t care enough to sustain him in their grasp, who withdrew from his life and left him to fend for himself. Each one of them took a piece of the puppet, and never had the heart to return it back. And now, in your grasp was a substantial segment of him that he never wanted to give away. Yet, somehow, you had managed to snatch it away.

He hates you for it.

And he hates himself even more for wanting you to keep it.

So he has no choice. He won't let you be one of them. He won't allow himself to lose you too. 

"I'll keep you safe. I'll always look after my most devoted follower"

He's going to become a god, that’s for sure. He’s going to attain the towering heights of power possible and bind you to him for all eternity. He veers down, before puncturing your flesh with his teeth. It leaves a deep impression on your smooth skin. A mark of promise. 

"So don't you dare fucking leave me behind. Understand?"

"I won't allow it”

[dreamjoymemoir]

yoooo anaxa and the herta with a reader who is fluent in 3-4 languages? like they use a main 1 to communicate with them but occasionally the characters catch reader muttering something they dont understand. i feel like reader's langauge settings on thier pc/phone will be different (might even read other books in their other languages

awesome!!

-anaxagoras is of course delighted to have such a multilingual partner; though language studies aren't his primary field, he's also someone who would find it interesting and at least look into learning another language or two himself, maybe dabbling in several amphorean dialects just to learn about different grammar structures and sentence constructions. if he is to spread knowledge to the world, he understands that becoming familiar with different modes of communication is necessary. if you ever want to talk about your studies, he's open to discussion. you might teach each other something new!

-when he hears you speaking to yourself in a different language, he listens closely to see what he can glean from your mutterings even if he can't understand you. he lets you have your secrets but he is also deeply curious. could it be that some languages are more useful for expressing your thoughts than others? or is it that some things can only be conveyed in different words? he wants to know if you'll tell him.

-he's fascinated when he glances over at your phone and notices that it's in a completely different language than you normally use. he likes that you're such a varied person and would never want to limit you to just one language if four is suitable. if he finds interesting books or articles in a language that you speak, he'll share them with you in hopes that you'll find it enlightening. the fact that there are things in this world he can't understand isn't a downside to him but a reminder that he has yet more to learn, and he heartily cherishes that notion.

-herta may sometimes take intellectual talents for granted as the genius she is, but make no mistake she is still impressed by your dedication to language studies. it's one thing to be smart and another to have the means to communicate it with! she might even goad you into learning more languages just for fun. after all, why content yourself with three or four when you could keep going? she doesn't doubt that you have the brains to do it.

-i'd bet anything that herta has a puppet who's programmed to speak basically any known language in the universe. if you ever have a need to chat when no one's around you at least have a little puppet friend to bounce ideas off of. she'll think it's very funny if you sit down and have a conversation with it.

-this does mean that some of your notes or favorite books are inaccessible to her without a translating application (which she surely has), but she takes this in stride and only complains a little when there's a fascinating article or a clever joke she can't grasp the nuances of. she's more interested in science and technology than anything else, so she's not especially keen on learning more languages herself, but she will remember what you tell her if you try to teach her a little bit. if something has to do with you, it becomes interesting to her! i think it would also be fun to read to her in a different language. even if she doesn't understand it, she can appreciate the beauty of your voice pronouncing sounds unfamiliar to her.

[defectivevillain]

every tomb, every sea (spit the blood from your teeth)

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary:

Your head throbs and you bring a hand up to your temple, frowning when your hand comes back spotted with blood. Your ears are still ringing and a dull ache travels through your cheekbones and across your jaw. ALERT: This PDA (Personal Digital Assistant) has now rebooted in emergency mode with one directive: to keep you alive on an alien world.

The reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

word count: 7.5k | ao3 version

author's notes: This was supposed to be Hannibal-focused, but Subnautica quickly took hold of my brain and didn’t let go. Sorry not sorry. This is super self-indulgent and I am not ashamed.

This will not be canon compliant, because I haven’t finished the game yet. (Please please please don’t spoil it for me, I will cry.) PDA messages (except for the last one) are taken directly from the game! And to maintain biblical accuracy (haha), I wrote the beginning from the game’s opening scene.

warnings: mentions of cannibalism; blood/violence, ocean exploration (swimming, strange creatures); prolonged isolation; derealization, depression, hopelessness, survivor’s guilt, and contemplating life and death; panic attacks, hyperventilation, dry heaving; and some spoilers for Subnautica. Just… the trauma of crashing on an alien planet…! Being alone for so long..! It’s so crazy!111!

During your time on the Aurora, you never expected it to malfunction. And maybe that was optimistic of you but… hell, it’s a brand new-ship! As an employee of Alterra, you were privy to the majority of the ship’s construction process. The organization was unusually methodical with this particular ship’s development, ensuring that everything was up to regulation before dispatching the vehicle. You suppose you can understand that—after all, there were about 150 passengers designated to the ship. Even a commercial giant like Alterra can understand the potential fallout of losing that many lives—especially ones tied to the company’s inner workings. 

Safe to say, when you first heard the alarm sound off, you thought it was a drill. That notion was quickly dispelled, however, when you noticed how your companions scrambled about to ensure their safety. It seemed that this was no drill. A voice coming from the comms urged you to abandon ship, striking fear into your heart and forcing you into motion. You raced down the hall and towards the nearest escape pod, climbing down the ladder and finding the nearby seat before pressing the button to launch the pod. Restraints immediately swept down over your shoulders, anchoring you to the seat. Immediately, you felt the pod shake as it separated from the Aurora; when you glanced up, you could catch a glimpse of the ship through the hatch in the ceiling. For an awful moment, everything seemed to fall to a horrible silence. Frozen, you watched through the hatch as the sky was suddenly overtaken with a rusty crimson—loud booming sounds confirming your fears that the Aurora was exploding. You grasped at the restraints with sweaty hands as the pod continued to tremble and shake around you. The fire extinguisher wrenched its way off of the wall and the cover for the control panel flew off, bouncing around the space as the pod hurtled down through the sky with increased speed. Alarms blared and red lights flashed menacingly. You could hardly take a breath before the metal lid of the control panel suddenly rushed towards you, sending a harsh pain through your head and submerging your vision in an overwhelming darkness.

The first sensation you register when you wake is an uncomfortable heat stinging your skin. As you blink your dry eyes open, you realize that you’re still strapped into your seat—restrained as fire roars along the pod. You frantically press at the button to release you, and it takes a few moments before the device finally lifts from your shoulders and leaves you to get off of the seat. Smoke has already settled in the air, and the flames have overtaken nearly half of the pod. You don’t think you have much time. Coughing, you make a grab for the fire extinguisher—which lies precariously near the fire—and attempt to extinguish the flames. Within a minute, the flames have died down—leaving you to take in the tarnished lifepod around you. The control panel is shooting sparks and the smoke is slowly fading from the air. Taking a deep breath, you pull out your Personal Digital Assistant (PDA) and tap on the screen with a shaking finger. Immediately, the screen turns blue and displays a message: 

[BOOTING IN EMERGENCY MODE]

[LOADING…]

100%

Your head throbs and you bring a hand up to your temple, frowning when your hand comes back spotted with blood. Your ears are still ringing and a dull ache travels through your cheekbones and across your jaw. 

PDA ALERT: You have suffered minor head trauma. This is considered an optimal outcome. 

You blink dazedly and grab at the ladder in the middle of the pod, needing to regain your balance. You’re not sure how long you stand there, the far too calm programmed voice of the PDA droning in your ears. Moments later, when spots stop dancing before your eyes, you regard the PDA in your hand and read the alert. 

PDA ALERT: This PDA has now rebooted in emergency mode with one directive: to keep you alive on an alien world. 

Back on the Aurora, you mainly used the PDA to monitor your health—while occasionally glancing at the Databank feature to do research on your intended destination. You never explored the device at length, because you didn’t think you would need to. Of course, you regret that now—as you’re scrolling through the device’s interfaces and attempting to learn how to use it. As the alert mentioned, it appears that you’re stranded on an alien planet. Dread coiling in your chest, you finally glance up at the hatch on the ceiling of the pod. You spot a flash of movement—likely a bird of some sort—but it is quickly lost in the overwhelming canvas of blue sky. 

PDA ALERT: Please refer to the databank for detailed survival advice. Good luck. 

You huff a wry laugh. You’re going to need all the luck you can get. Shaking your head, you swallow hard and start climbing up the ladder. While you’d like to hide in your pod forever, you know you’ll need to survey your surroundings for resources. The pod has a radio that is definitely damaged; one fabricator for crafting raw materials into items and another for medical kits; and a limited amount of rations—with only two bottles of water and two nutrient blocks. It’s abundantly clear to you, in that moment, that the pod isn’t meant for long-term habitation. Taking a deep breath, you ascend up the ladder and stand on the ceiling of your pod, only to find vivid turquoise waters all around you. You look around frantically, only to realize that there’s no land in sight. The only disruption from the crystal waves of the ocean… is the fiery, crumbling wreckage of the Aurora. Smoke billows from several areas of the ship, and flames race across the surface. You feel something tighten in your throat and you choke on a breath, tears falling down your cheeks as you try to come to terms with the horrible reality you’re faced with. 

PDA ALERT: The Aurora suffered orbital hull failure. Cause: unknown. Zero human life signs detected. 

Zero signs of life. You fall down to your knees and grasp at the wet railing at the top of the ladder, fighting for breath. Your chest feels tight, your eyes burn, and you’re overcome with emotion. One thought cuts through all the static in your mind: you have no fucking idea what you’re doing. You can hardly survive in optimal conditions! How in the hell are you going to survive in the middle of the ocean, with no food or clean water in sight? 

You desperately scan the horizon for other escape pods, but all you can see is the ocean. There’s no sign of any human life, except for you. The thought is nauseating enough to make you dry heave. You cough and hack until you regain your breath, then get to your feet once more and attempt to push away your spiraling thoughts. Sitting around and moping won’t do you any good. You suppress the urge to curl into a ball and descend down the ladder of your pod to survey its condition. Besides the broken control panel and radio, everything appears to be functioning properly. You decide to look through your PDA again, paying special attention to the section titled “Survival Package.” You read through the attached “Survival Checklist” and attempt to remain calm, despite everything in you screaming that you aren’t ready for this. 

It’s a good thing first aid is listed as the first item on the list—you had entirely forgotten about your head wound. You take a first aid kit from the medical fabricator and apply it, successfully getting rid of the pulsating feeling that was concentrated in your temple. The steps after that are fairly self-explanatory, but it’s nice to have a formal list to hold yourself accountable. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, you take a deep breath and look around the pod. There are a few existing blueprints on your PDA—one of which is a repair tool that will supposedly fix the radio. The radio is probably your priority right now, although you have a gnawing feeling deep in your chest that a rescue party won’t arrive. Unsurprisingly, you need several materials to make the repair tool—titanium, silicone rubber, and cave sulfur. You don’t have the faintest idea how to get any of those items, but you suspect they must be contained in the seemingly unending ocean you landed in. 

Heart racing, you climb down the side of the pod and take a deep breath, before submerging yourself under water. Thankfully, it looks like your pod landed in a relatively safe and shallow area. There are sand banks that rise and fall in peaks and cliffs, with brightly colored coral scattered about their surfaces. You spot a grey-brown rock nearby and swim up to it, surprised to find that it yields copper ore when you strike at it. The moment you receive the copper ore, your PDA scares the life out of you by providing commentary. 

PDA ALERT: Copper is an essential component of all powered equipment. Your probability of survival has just increased to unlikely, but plausible. 

You shake your head in disbelief, gritting your teeth and swimming back up for air. Thankfully, you were provided a standard oxygen tank. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last very long—forcing you to return to the surface rather frequently to regain your breath. Now that you have copper, you just need titanium—which is supposedly a common resource here—and silicone rubber. The silicone rubber can be crafted from creepvine seeds from the nearby plants, and you manage to swim over and grab some without disturbing the scary creature that resembles a crocodile. Along the way, you find scraps of metal that can be converted into titanium. By the time you’re back in your pod, the sun has set and you have all the materials you need to make the repair tool. It takes you a few minutes to craft everything correctly, but soon enough, you have a repair tool.

The device is rather cool, you have to admit. It stitches things back together at an atomic level, which is pretty fascinating to watch. You don’t have much time to devote to admiring its power, however, as you focus your efforts on sending a distress message through the newly-repaired radio. Once that’s done, you eat a bit of one of the nutrient blocks and sip on some water. Soon, food and water are going to be your biggest problems. While you remember the Aurora having a rather large cafeteria, the food was likely destroyed in the fires. 

You’re soon torn out of your thoughts by a blinking red light on your radio. Hope brewing in your chest, you jump and immediately press the button to play the message you just received. 

RADIO: This is Aurora. Distress signal received. Rescue operation will be dispatched to your location in 9….9….9….9…9 hours. 

You stare ahead at the radio in disbelief. A helpless laugh wrenches its way out of your throat. Surely that must’ve been a glitch. There’s- there’s no way help will take that long to arrive. Right? You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, before deciding that you’ll save that problem for the morning (whenever that is). From what you can tell, the planet has periods resembling day and night. Admittedly, you’re exhausted. And, if a small part of you hopes that this is all just a dream, and you’ll wake up in your bed on the Aurora… 

You dispel the thought and take a seat, before breathing in through your nose and closing your eyes. Despite everything that has happened—and the practically unquestionable fact that your chances at survival are horrifyingly low—you fall asleep.

In the days following your landing, it’s easy to lose track of time. You have no idea how many days you’ve spent on this planet… and you find that you don’t really care to keep track. You’ve been forced to focus on your own survival, especially as you slowly but surely make your way out of the biome you landed in and explore nearby. Once you craft a Scanner, you’re able to get blueprints from fragments of technology you find on the sea floor—in addition to scanning flora and fauna to learn more about them. The Scanner is very helpful, as you’re able to learn what plants and fish are edible without testing them yourself. 

You’ve crafted some other useful items with the help of the fabricator in your pod, including a rebreather to conserve oxygen, fins, and a radiation suit; a flashlight; and a waterproof locker for increased storage. Ultimately, you haven’t had much time to focus on crafting items—you’ve been busy ensuring you have enough food and water. Not to mention, since you repaired your radio, you’ve received a few transmissions from other life pods—which has led you to explore the waters as you search for survivors. 

The first lifepod you come across is Lifepod 3. They shared their coordinates through the radio, expressing the desire for someone to rescue them. Fortunately, their pod isn’t far from your own—and you swim over to the area with the guidance of your PDA, only to realize that Lifepod 3 is completely underwater. It rests innocuously on the edge of a small cliff. As you swim down, wary of the Stalkers that explore the waters nearby, you feel inexplicably apprehensive. It isn’t until you’re at the pod’s level that you discover the source of your apprehension. Lifepod 3 appears fine from above, but one side of the pod has been torn apart. There is no one inside—absolutely no sign that anyone even inhabited it, aside from the abandoned PDA resting on the ground and the metal scraps scattered throughout the sand. Needing air, you grab the PDA and swim up to the surface. Breathless, you tread water and look through the abandoned PDA, only to find a voice log from the two inhabitants. They were discussing a Seaglide—one of the forms of transport that you only have half of the blueprints for. There was a clear sense of fear in their voices, even as they evidently attempted to remain calm. 

You don’t know how to handle this revelation: the utter absence of any survivors (or even their remains)… the giant hole in the Lifepod, as if it had been swiftly ripped apart by some large creature… You feel sick to your stomach. Somehow, you manage to make it back to your pod. Honestly, you don’t remember swimming back from Lifepod 3. The wreckage is burned into your mind’s eye. Every time you blink, you see the pod getting attacked by a Leviathan—a class of organism you recently learned about after seeing the Reefback Leviathan in all its massive glory. Thankfully, the Reefback Leviathan—a positively humongous creature reminiscent of a squid—only feeds on plankton. You have an awful feeling whatever attacked Lifepod 3 had a much more voracious appetite.

Against all odds, you manage to keep moving forward in the wake of what you saw. It certainly isn’t easy, and you’re sure that the feelings you’re compartmentalizing will come rushing back eventually. But you have no choice. Survival on this planet takes up nearly all of your energy. You don’t have time to think about all of the death and destruction. You can’t slow down, can’t stop even for a moment. Otherwise… you fear you’ll lose yourself in the tragedy of it all. 

And just as you think things can’t get worse… they do. You’re forced to watch from afar as the Aurora experiences quantum detonation, sending the reactor into a critical state and releasing radiation into the nearby area. Soon you’re crafting a radiation suit and proceeding as if things are normal. According to your PDA, the radioactive fallout from the ship will have irreversible effects on the ecosystem. Even worse, there’s nothing you can do right now. You would need a hundred fire extinguishers to quench all of the flames on the ship. Not to mention, when you do attempt to get close to the Aurora, you’re intercepted by a Leviathan organism. You have no idea what it is—all you know is that it’s extremely long with four pincers, deep, soulless black eyes, and sharpened teeth. You just barely manage to escape the thing’s grasp by swimming along the surface of the water… but you take some damage in the process. The creature bites your arm before you can swim out of range. Even after you’re safely concealed in your pod, your heart is positively pounding out of your chest. 

You’re beginning to find that you’re very lucky, for a variety of reasons: your pod landed at the surface, first of all; not to mention, you sustained minimal injuries in the crash. The other survivors weren’t nearly as fortunate, you slowly learn. With each new radio transmission, you adventure out to the depths and find another Lifepod utterly wrecked and torn apart. You have yet to find a single living person. Instead, you’re forced to chase after ghosts—scavenging the wreckage and collecting the abandoned PDAs. 

At some point, you have to wonder: is any of this worth it? Is all of this effort really worth your survival? Moreover, why are you the one who has survived so long? What supernatural force decided that you get to live, while all of the other passengers you’re finding are banished to increasingly cruel fates? The survivor’s guilt you feel only increases with each empty Lifepod you find. The names begin to blur together. You can’t even count how many pods you’ve come across at this point—the thought is just too soul-crushing. And try as you might to avenge each person in your continued fight for survival… sometimes you just feel as if it’s all pointless and hopeless. 

That guilt is only exacerbated by a rescue party’s arrival into the atmosphere. You reach a nearby island where they’re supposed to land, only for alien technology to attack the ship upon its entry into the atmosphere. You’re forced to watch once more as a ship of innocent people explodes before your very eyes. 

Ultimately, you find yourself getting trapped in a never-ending routine. First, you find a clue that points to something that could help your chances at survival: a blueprint for some device or weapon, another Lifepod, a promise of rescue. Then, you investigate—only to realize that the device isn’t as useful as you thought, that the Lifepod is just a tattered shell, that rescue isn’t coming. Then grief wins. Eventually, something in you fights off the sadness and pushes you to keep going. You find hope in something new… and the brutal cycle continues. 

Somewhere along the way, though, you start to lose the feeling of hope altogether. After all, there are only so many times you can hope for something that will never happen. It’s a devastating blow to your psyche to constantly have the promise of survival ripped away from you. To protect yourself, you stop hoping for the best and start expecting the worst. This leads you to become some sort of husk of your former self.

Even the prospect of a new island isn’t enough to trigger any positive feelings in you. You just feel… empty. The beautiful scenery doesn’t provoke any sentiment in you. You don’t feel anything as you trudge up the hill that almost appears to have a worn footpath. You don’t feel anything as you enter a base and find an empty desk, an indoor growth bed, and a fabricator. You don’t feel anything as you search through the abandoned PDA and listen to the voice logs of more people who likely died in the time since the recording. 

Then a shadow passes across the floor at your feet, and the void of emotion in your chest is swiftly replaced with bone-deep fear. You tried to be cautious as you explored this island—looking around at the nearby wildlife to ensure there wasn’t anything that could hurt you. Was there an unseen predator lurking in the shadows? Your PDA did say that there were subtle signs of life here, but you had dismissed the message. Your heart thundering in your chest, you slowly turn around—only to find a shadowed figure in the doorway of the base. 

You flinch hard, hitting the wall behind you as you instinctively backpedal. When the figure takes another step closer, you immediately brandish your survival knife and hold it up threateningly. In the first few days since the crash, you wouldn’t have seen a need for the survival knife past retrieving samples from coral and creepvines. However, it’s been a long time since then—and you aren’t so foolish as to think that this alien planet will welcome you with open arms. You don’t belong here and you never have. Each day in this world, in these crystal waters, is an act of defiance against the aliens that reside here and the creatures that roam the dark depths.

The figure takes another step forward and the light from the base illuminates their face, revealing… another human. The two of you stare at one another in shock and disbelief. The man stares at you, eyes roaming up your body before finally settling on your face. You scrutinize him in the same regard, taking note of his unruffled appearance. He’s wearing a dive suit just like yours, but his hair is perfectly coiffed—as if he hasn’t gone underwater in several days. His eyes are a warm brown, with flecks of crimson. There’s something in his expression that you can’t quite pin down—and it unsettles you enough to hold your knife out in an attempt to keep the distance between you. “Don’t come any closer,” you warn him. 

PDA ALERT: Your vitals are rising past normal levels, despite your stationary position. Take caution and move to distance yourself from the stressor. 

Curse your PDA and its unfortunate timing. The stranger only seems amused by the commentary, as he holds his hands up in mock-surrender before posing a question. “How did you get here?” He asks, eyes flitting about the base as if looking for signs of your forced entrance. It takes you a few moments to realize that he’s asking about your arrival to the island in general—not necessarily his base. 

“I swam,” you respond sarcastically. Very little of your frustration is pointed at him, but venting about your situation to another living, breathing human takes some of the pressure off. You take a deep breath and try to summon some better manners. He’s the only human you’ve come across so far—and he may be the only one you ever find. You need to make a decent impression if you want to collaborate with him. “From my pod.” You explain. 

“You landed in the ocean,” he states, his brows climbing up his face in evident disbelief. 

“The flotation device was activated, so I landed on the surface.” You answer. You’re not sure why you’re telling him so much, especially when you don’t exactly have a reason to trust him yet. Of course, you want nothing more than to have another human to work with—but this is a matter of life and death. And hell, you haven’t met the aliens of this planet yet. Maybe they have shapeshifting abilities. The thought sounds rather ridiculous, you have to admit. 

“Are you from the Aurora too?” The man questions, confirming your suspicions that he was stranded due to the ship’s crash—just like you. 

“Yes,” you admit. Really, the crash is the only logical explanation for a human’s presence here on this planet. 

“I’ve never seen you before,” the man continues, staring at you intently. He seems surprised that the two of you didn’t cross paths on the Aurora. But there were more than 150 people on it, after all. You tell him as much and he seems to accept that explanation. Although, secretly, you’re wondering the same thing. 

The man’s gaze flits down to your knife, nonverbally questioning if you still need to be pointing the weapon at him. You shrug, not making a move to lower it. Instead, you gesture at him expectantly. “What’s your name?”

“Hannibal Lecter,” the man answers. Somehow, that name seems to fit him. “And yours?”

You tell him your name and he hums, staring at you as if trying to fit your face to your name. Eventually, you grow tired of his staring and continue walking through the base. Surprisingly, within a few moments, you hear Hannibal following behind you. You try to ignore him, but it grows increasingly more difficult. 

“Might I ask what you’re looking for?” Hannibal asks calmly. At least, you think he’s trying to sound calm—but there’s an air of annoyance veiled within his tone. You continue surveying the space, looking for anything that could be useful. You’re not going to take anything from him—you just want to ensure that you’re gaining all of the necessary resources from this island. 

“Anything, really,” you remember to respond, after you turn around and nearly crash into him. You quickly take a step back, beginning to suspect that Hannibal enjoys these small displays of intimidation. You really can’t be bothered by your own pride, so you decide to let him have them. “Is this your base? I saw others…” You trail off, crossing your arms over your chest. Something about this conversation is making you feel more vulnerable than normal. You attribute it to a lack of human contact.

“This one is mine,” Hannibal replies. You can sense he’s nearing the end of his patience, so you eye the door and plan to walk out of the base. Hannibal doesn’t move from his position in the doorway of the multipurpose room, forcing you to brush past him as you walk by. With your back turned to him, you roll your eyes and walk back outside. 

But again, he’s following you. At first, you pretend that you don’t notice. But your patience is quickly worn thin, and you turn on your heel to level him with a wary glare. “Why are you following me?” 

Hannibal remains silent, but somehow, you can sense what he’s thinking from the minute signs written across his form: the furrow of his brow, the pull of his lips. 

“This isn’t your island,” you feel the need to assert. “None of this is yours. We’re not meant to be here—you should know that.” So stop following me around, you think to yourself. But even this harsh dismissal is not enough to dissuade Hannibal, as he instead smiles an infuriatingly patient smile and continues to follow behind you.

Eventually, you give up on trying to get him to go away—and the two of you manage to strike up a conversation (albeit an awkwardly stilted and tense one). You both recount your descents from the Aurora, your crash landings on this planet, and the ensuing efforts at survival. Hannibal had landed near the island that the two of you are standing on now, which provided him with a safe haven from the sea monsters that lurked nearby. You trade blueprints and stories with him, finding his presence to be comforting. It’s been so long since you’ve had someone to talk to. And even if Hannibal seems a little off for reasons you can’t quite pinpoint—even if he is kind of a smug bastard—he’s still someone to talk to. Plus, he seems to warm up to you once you’re done exploring the bases on the island. The two of you even catch a few fish and cook them up for dinner. 

“You should stay,” he suggests after your shared meal, “It’s late.” His eyes flit to the water and you immediately understand what he’s trying to say. You don’t want to test the creatures that roam the night. You take a shuddering breath in, pushing past the inexplicable stab of fear that strikes at you, and decide to take him up on the offer. Hannibal seems strangely relieved after you agree, as if he was genuinely concerned that you wouldn’t survive the night. That’s an entirely fair concern to have, of course. You’re just surprised that he’s worried about you in the first place. You didn’t exactly get the impression that he liked you. 

Since you decide that you’re spending the night, you create a simple outfit using the fabricator in his base and remove your dive suit. Despite its efficiency in the water, the suit is incredibly uncomfortable to sleep in. With that in mind, you’re quick to change into your new clothes: a simple tank top and sweatpants. Hannibal returns moments later, only to stare at you silently for several moments. Growing self-conscious, you ask him what’s wrong. 

The man is still quiet. Then, suddenly, he lurches forwards—breaking the distance between you and looking you up and down. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, until you realize that he’s cataloging the scars littered across your arms. Hannibal seems to take particular interest in the bite mark on your shoulder—from the Leviathan creature that you later learned to be aptly named a Reaper. 

“How did you get this?” He breathes, his hand coming to grasp your shoulder. You barely resist the urge to flinch. You’ve grown to forget casual human contact in the wake of the crash. Physical touch since then could only be categorized as harmful: fish biting at you with sharp teeth, serpentine creatures brushing past you… 

“A Reaper Leviathan,” you respond after a second. His eyes are fixed on the mark with worrying intensity. “I was trying to get close to the ship.” At his silence, you continue. “...It’s kind of ugly, I know.” You grimace. 

Hannibal’s thumb brushes along the mark and his eyes meet yours. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, before turning his attention to the scar once more. “A mark of your continued survival.” You’re not sure why he seems so fascinated by it. Maybe he hasn’t seen a Reaper before? You can’t be sure. You suppose you’re just fortunate that he didn’t seem disgusted by the scar. 

“If you say so,” you choke out, lost for words. A prolonged silence settles over the space. 

“I don’t have a spare bed, I apologize,” Hannibal then says, his eyes falling to the room down the hall. It must be his bedroom, you think. This notion is confirmed when he motions for you to follow after him, as he leads you into the room. It’s a fairly nondescript room, with a desk off to one side and a bed in the corner. You must’ve missed this room when you were exploring before. 

“It’s fine,” you say, when you remember the conversation. “I can sleep on the floor.” That’s really the last thing you want to do, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Nonsense,” he says with a shake of his head. “You can sleep here.” He says, moving to sit on the right side of the bed and leaving the left half for you. 

You stare at the space he’s left for you for a long moment. Eventually, your fatigue wins against your apprehension. “...Okay.” You acquiesce, moving to sit next to him and tugging the covers over you. For a moment, the air falls silent. As you’re closing your eyes, you’re struck with the urge to maintain some semblance of mundanity. “Goodnight.”

“Pleasant dreams.” He responds, his voice sounding weirdly thick. You’re not so deluded to think that the emotion in his voice is because of you. But, regardless, you think you understand the sentiment: the confirmation that you aren’t completely alone in this world is reassuring and overwhelming in equal measure. 

Despite these thoughts and countless more musings, you manage to drift off in no time. When you open your eyes that morning, you find Hannibal staring at you. You freeze and stare at him back, unsure of what to do. After a moment, you inch backwards slightly and he lurches forward, his jaw suddenly snapping open to reveal rows of impossibly sharp teeth. You scramble backwards with a scream caught in your throat… 

…and fall to the ground, jolting awake. Your mind still can’t tell the difference between the waking world and a nightmare, and you feel yourself backing up to the corner of the dark room—holding your hands in front of you in a futile attempt at protecting yourself. Your chest is rising and falling with frightening speed, making your vision blur around the edges. You blink and suddenly Hannibal is kneeling before you, slowly inching his way closer until he’s wrapping his arms around you. You desperately want to resist the gesture, but your pride and dignity went out the window the moment you crashed on this planet. Relenting, you tilt your head down and close your eyes; Hannibal’s hand comes to bracket the back of your head as he presses you to his chest. You’re clutching at him, desperate for the sole reminder of your humanity. 

You’re not sure how long Hannibal remains on the floor with you. All you know is that, at some point, your back starts to hurt. You murmur that the two of you should probably get up, and Hannibal tentatively backs away and pushes himself up to his feet—before offering you a hand. After he pulls you up, the two of you head back to the bed. You’re briefly hit with embarrassment, but the feeling fades when Hannibal reassures you that it’s alright. You have no choice but to believe him as you close your eyes and fall asleep once more. 

Despite the events of that first day, your time with Hannibal on the island is rather uneventful. You’re lured into a false sense of security by the lush plant life, the calm breeze flowing through the trees, the sparkling waters, and his glittering eyes. You start to think that maybe, just maybe, things will be alright. You find yourself spending more time on the island and less time at your pod (although you do return whenever you need resources)... But it isn’t all good. There’s still one glaring problem: you can’t sleep well. 

You were sleeping just fine back on your pod and at your base, but here, you spend hours lying awake as Hannibal sleeps next to you. There’s something in you that just doesn’t want to let your guard down in front of him—some irrational part of you that sees him as another predator, just the same as the ones in the ocean. And at least those monsters are straightforward—they have sharp teeth, so you know to avoid them. But humans are entirely different. They’re all appearances. Hannibal looks non-threatening, but you just can’t rid yourself of that initial wariness. It’s cruel of you to doubt him, after he went out of his way to comfort you that first night. But you can’t quite suppress your skepticism—especially considering it’s a survival mechanism that has gotten you this far. 

Wariness, coupled with a restless energy, leads you to step out of his bedroom late one night. You don’t really have an endgame—you just want a breath of fresh air and a break from the shared darkness that always seems to be watching you. Outside, the air does feel nicer. A blanket of stars covers the sky and the waves gently lap at the shore. You rub a hand over your face, turning on your flashlight and navigating down the admittedly treacherous and unstable hillside. You’re not sure where you’re going; you just want to keep moving. Being stationary is dangerous on this planet. To survive, you have to be moving constantly—whether that’s swimming through the water or prioritizing the tools and devices you need to make with the fabricator. If you’re not making progress, then you’re convenient prey. 

You soon find yourself near the main base of the island and, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to explore the multi-purpose room. Back when you first arrived, Hannibal kept a very close eye on you as you investigated. With him breathing down your neck, it was hard to concentrate. Now that you’re alone, you find that you can really take everything in. As you look around, you remember the abandoned PDA you first found on the island, which contained a voice log from the Degasi Crash. The three survivors built the bases around the island (including the one you’re exploring right now). You weren’t able to glean anything else from the voice log, as it mainly contained recordings of the three of them bickering. You would’ve found that humorous in a different situation. 

Regardless, that’s the extent of your knowledge regarding the island. But as you remember how Hannibal ushered you through the bases with puzzling rapidity, you have to wonder why he was so eager to get you out of them. Did he think you would stumble upon something incriminating? You contemplate the thought as you look around the space, eyes catching on an abandoned PDA near the far wall. You download the data and listen to the attached voice log, which only makes your heart thud against your ribs quickly. 

[DATABANK]

Degasi Voice Log #5 - An Unwelcome Guest

PAUL: There was a new arrival to the island yesterday. He says his name is Hannibal Lecter. 

BART: He says he came from the crash. He’s a little…

MARGUERIT: Suspicious. He’s very suspicious. 

PAUL: Eccentric is probably a better word. 

MARGUERIT: No, he seems dangerous. 

BART: How do you know? 

MARGUERIT: Trust me, kid.

BART: I’m not a fucking kid!

PAUL: Settle down, you two. 

PAUL: We’ll take him in. He could have valuable information.

MARGUERIT: I don’t like this.

PAUL: Frankly, I don’t either. But we don’t have much of a choice, do we?

MARGUERIT: Are you fuckin’ kidding? Of course we have a choice! We can just march down there and take him on! Three on one, no way he’s winning.

PAUL: (sighs)

The transmission clicks off. You stare at the wall in front of you in disbelief, your stomach stewing with anxiety. That gut feeling that something was off… You think you know what it is now. After all, the voice log posits that Paul, Marguerit, and Bart were the first ones on the island. Hannibal arrived after them. That timing is extremely significant. Assuming the three didn’t leave the island, there is only one explanation: Hannibal did something to the three survivors. After all, you haven’t caught even a glimpse or trace of any of them in your time on the island. 

Despite your misgivings, you decide to give Hannibal the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the three survivors went off on a sea expedition and encountered a Leviathan or a predator. That is certainly possible—although you think they would’ve mentioned a departure on the voice log if they truly planned to leave. You contemplate the thought as you explore the remainder of the main base. When you turn the corner into a new hall, your eyes catch on a murky crimson-brown stain splattered across the wall… and all of your excuses fade into obscurity. You’re forced to accept the truth: Hannibal killed the three survivors from the Degasi Crash. And judging by the utter lack of remains, he either buried them, threw their corpses into the ocean, or… ate them. 

You contemplate running away—heading for your escape pod, taking your Seamoth and moving as fast as you can. But you know you won’t be able to escape Hannibal. The two of you have the same blueprints and nearly the same resources. He has a Seamoth too—and it wouldn't take him long to notice your absence. Plus, there are countless organisms throughout the seas that could kill you in the blink of an eye. The ocean isn’t exactly any safer than this island—and that’s truly a terrifying thought. 

And there’s a notion that’s even more frightening: do you even want to escape him? Hannibal is the only other human you’ve come across in your time since the crash—and you’ve discovered countless pods scattered across the sea floor, in varying states of disarray. The chances of finding another survivor are astronomically low. You’re sure you would be able to get by on your own—you survived before him, and you can survive after him. But would that be good for you? There’s only so long a person can go without social interaction. 

“What are you doing?” You nearly have an out-of-body experience at the sudden noise. Heart racing, you freeze in place and keep your back turned to Hannibal—attempting to hide the abandoned PDA you’re holding from his view. “It’s late.” He says. 

You study the expression on his face and decide you’re too tired for mind games—too exhausted to attempt to conceal your knowledge from him. Perhaps that’s a stupid decision, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. If he kills you, he kills you. You don’t have much to lose—or live for—at this point. Knowing that, you turn around and meet his gaze head-on. “You killed them.” You say, your voice eerily calm. “Are you going to kill me too?” 

Hannibal tilts his head curiously. Despite the fact that he’s blocking the doorway, he doesn’t seem to be holding any weapons. There is no outright violence in his posture—only defensiveness. “No,” he promises. There’s nothing but sincerity in his expression, but you still can’t trust it. Besides, he completely ignored your accusation—which is essentially a confirmation that he did murder the Degasi survivors who found this island before him. 

“How can I trust you?” You decide to voice your thoughts. 

His brows furrow. The muscles work in his jaw as he contemplates the question. “I find myself craving your companionship,” Hannibal eventually answers. Judging from the way he’s looking at you, he desires more than your companionship. But, in an alien world with no realistic promise of rescue, that’s the least of your concerns. 

“And because of that, you won’t kill me?” You ask, not bothering to hide your doubt. 

“I have only my word,” Hannibal says regretfully. He takes a few steps forwards, effectively breaking the distance between you. In the blink of an eye, he’s pressing a survival knife into your hand before pulling your hand—and the knife—to rest against his neck. “But, should I go back on it… you may end my life.”

You can feel Hannibal’s pulse—steady and unyielding, even when faced with the truth. His posture is open and honest; there is no trace of deception anywhere to be found. Somehow, that is just as frightening as his lies of omission. Your heart thunders in your chest as you come to terms with what he’s offering you. It’s not what you want. You don’t want to kill him. After managing to shake off his grip, you return your hand to your side and level him with a cautious look. 

“I’m not going to kill you.” You say. Your voice sounds foreign. And your word is binding—you don’t plan to kill Hannibal (even if it would be karmic). You need him and he needs you: a symbiotic relationship like that of the Reefback Leviathan and the plants living on its back. The thought is distressing. You don’t want to rely on anyone else—don’t want to let down your mental defenses, only for your trust to be swiftly broken. 

It would be extremely stupid of you to kill one another, and you both seem to know that. That recognition sinks into the air between you, clinging to your clothes and sending a prickling feeling across your limbs. 

As if coming to an unspoken agreement, Hannibal nods and turns on his heel, evidently retreating back to his bedroom. Somehow, you can sense the intended meaning behind the gesture: he trusts you enough to let you explore on your own. You poke around the base for a bit longer, but at some point, you have to accept the inevitable and return to Hannibal’s bedroom. 

When you return, you find Hannibal’s eyes are closed as he lets out calm breaths. Swallowing hard, you try to be as quiet as possible as you move to take the left side of the mattress. After a few moments dominated by indecision, you pull the covers over you and recline back against your pillow.  Left to the rushing waves and your racing thoughts, the loneliness you’ve been fighting off suddenly comes rushing back, leaving you to feel terribly alone as you lie next to the only other human on the planet. 

endnotes: Oh, you thought that being stranded on an alien planet meant you were safe from cliche tropes like sharing a bed? Mwahahhaha… never!!!

I know clothes aren’t a thing in Subnautica, but just let me have it… I just wanted unresolved tension and scars and intimacy… don’t look at me like that.

Sorry not sorry for the somewhat uncertain ending. I tried writing a happier one, but it just felt off. On the off chance that I do write another chapter (no promises), I wanted this to be realistic. I felt it wouldn’t be right if the reader just brushed off the fact that he killed three people. That’s a big deal! They need time to process that.

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Anhedonia 2/2

Word count: 5,5 k (part 1) and 4,4 k (part 2)

Pairing: Ghost x F!Reader Tags: SMUT 🔞🔞🔞 Literally just unadulterated, deranged filth, plot is there for decoration. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Mutual pining, sexual tension (duh), blood & injury, p in v sex, oral sex (m receiving), mutual masturbation, cum all over the place, light humiliation, dirty talk, some praise, swearing, mask stays on, fluffy/reconciliatory ending. Summary: Reader is a Task Force 141 operator and a terrible brat (and suffers the consequences of it later). Enemies to lovers/toxic relationship that takes a healthy turn in the end. Read PART 1 here

"Wha' a good girl you are now…"

His first words hit you like a moan-inducing massage, but you stay silent and steady in your resolve.

"Good soldier, too. We just need to get you to follow orders so that you don't get hurt," he speaks gently.

There it is, finally – a good girl and a good soldier. You have to mentally bind your hands behind your back and place an imaginary gag in your mouth not to chirp and bounce up from joy. It's pathetic, but it's also harrowing: Ghost never meant to fuck with your head; he only wanted to keep you safe. But then he causes another riot in your brain with the next thing he says.

"Such a beautiful sight… You'd make a fine pet."

- - - - - - - - -

You go to offer your apology the next day after sleeping on it.

You feel like you're the most horrible person in the world. And yet, when you knock on his door and call yourself in when only a silence answers, the scalding gaze that locks into you like the sights of a gun remind you why you said what you said.

It's like the man has struck a knife in you, and twists it just to see you squirm. And you do: it's a telltale sign that you've been claimed when you kneel in the middle of his office while he sits behind the same desk he rutted you on less than 20 hours ago.

He says nothing. You wait, equally as quiet, like you're waiting for a pardon from Caesar.

The atmosphere is mellow: his shutters are closed but one window is creaked open, allowing birdsong and summer wind on trees to pass through to his otherwise stale office. It stirs the softest, small smile on your lips as you look at him, adamant and all locked up.

Your knees hurt, but he eventually breaks first: something you hadn't even calculated might happen. The brimstone of his eyes steal a breather to the side, then come back to you with a tinge of confusion in them.

Then he lifts his chin, lifts a hand, a command for you to approach.

Your smile only softens as you go around his desk, and he pushes the chair away with one foot, turns to meet you as you fall on your knees again, then on all fours before starting a slow crawl to him.

His eyes go wide, his head draws back as if you approaching him like a housecat is the most threatening situation he has ever been in.

You have planned this through, and he has the instincts, the sixth sense of a seasoned hunter as he opens his legs wide to make space for you.

He certainly doesn't stop you as you free his erection from the sturdy cargo pants and offer your apology by taking him in your mouth.

He knows what's coming but still gasps and grabs the arms of his chair with white knuckles. You're on your knees, seemingly domesticated, but he's the one begging for mercy before you have even begun. He's heavy in your mouth, but you welcome the weight with greed and a hot tongue.

His thighs travel wide and far, just like yours did last night. The first moan is divine. He eases into the chair while the muscles on his stomach and thighs twitch and shudder.

A pair of boots echo in the hallway behind the door, the sound soon disappearing into the distance. Anyone could walk in at any given moment, and the notion makes your head feel dizzy.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't disclose in any way that he is considering forgiveness.

But eventually, he starts to melt upon your tongue like a snow-covered mountain ridge basking in the sun. Something in the way with which you work him slowly and with gusto makes him send a hand on your head. It strokes your hair softly.

"Wha' a good girl you are now…"

His first words hit you like a moan-inducing massage, but you stay silent and steady in your resolve.

"Good soldier, too. We just need to get you to follow orders so that you don't get hurt," he speaks gently.

There it is, finally – a good girl and a good soldier. You have to mentally bind your hands behind your back and place an imaginary gag in your mouth not to chirp and bounce up from joy. It's pathetic, but it's also harrowing: Ghost never meant to fuck with your head; he only wanted to keep you safe. But then he causes another riot in your brain with the next thing he says.

"Such a beautiful sight… You'd make a fine pet."

You give him some teeth for that. Just the lightest scrape as you arrive near the base of his cock. He hisses, then laughs.

"Careful, love."

It's the first time ever you've heard him properly laugh. The sound implements itself into your core, your spine, your DNA. It's genuine and hearty, and the summer brushes past the open window to your face in a reviving breeze. Combined with the dark musk of his laughter, it makes your heart flip, and a small, tickling giggle bubbles inside you too. It arrives muted against his cock, but it's a magnificent moment – you two laughing together, even if for a second, even if yours is just a huff of an exhale against his pelvis.

"You don't like the idea?" He asks you a question as if you didn't have your mouth full of him.

His offer is alluring – of course you'd like him to take you as his pet. You could get good food and caresses, get to curl next to him when he goes to sleep. He could show you off like a domesticated animal if he wanted to. He could parade you down the street on a leash, and you would only purr as you go.

But while the proposition is enticing, you leave him with no answer, knowing it will only intrigue him if you don't say yes.

"I would be good to you," he starts to slip, and you up the pace a little. Open your jaw as far as it can go to accommodate him as much as you can, the soft hood of his cock meeting the back of your throat.

"So good– nh..." You can almost hear how his head rolls back, and you catch yourself worrying if he might hurt his neck because the chair has no headrest.

You do it again, and again, almost choking while trying to show him how good you are, how well you can take him and what your tongue can do too. You nearly stumble while you're at it, so lost in him, and you have to reach for support to prevent yourself from falling.

Your hand finds his leg, clutches the khaki that hugs a broad thigh. You flinch when a hard, heavy palm descends on top of yours. It brushes a thumb over the back of your hand as his sighs travel through the stagnant air, rampant and unchallenged through the fabric of his mask.

"Be my pet, sweetheart," he prays, growing weaker by the second. It's like a charm that transforms you into a priestess, a Babalon whore, a scarlet woman who adores men before sending them off to war.

His hips buck, he starts to clutch your hand like you're a rope that's going to save him from drowning. The other hand is more gentle in grip, but mercenary in demand as he grabs a fistful of hair to guide you along his length. Your gag reflex almost shoots him out of your mouth, but he is relentless.

He knows you can take it.

"That's it–that's it, luv," he rasps, and every other noise gets shut out of your brain as you go deaf to the sonic world. You can feel his thighs bunch and tremble around your head, the earthquake under your fingers pressed against hard, lifeless textile when they should be scraping his skin instead. He opens like a woman, massive legs spread hungry and wide as he shoots a load in your mouth. Ample, abundant, even if he just filled you to the brim not too long ago.

You drink him dutifully, greedy for the praise of a job well done, but such a thing never comes. He just breathes heavy over you, sounding happy, the happiest man on earth. You lick him clean, although there's really nothing to clean except your own saliva. The cock glistens, jolts happily one last time after you're done.

"I can make you scream on that desk," he offers while his hands release their death grip on you. Your hair gets tucked behind your ear, he even squeezes your hand briefly like you're his most trusted companion. His cock is flaccid, so you assume he's offering his fingers, perhaps even his mouth to you.

You'd like nothing more than to know if he has a stubble under that balaclava. To see if he would kneel on the floor too to shove his face between your legs while you're splayed over that desk. If he would forget about the door too, making it possible for anyone to catch him with his nose up your cunt. For Soap or Gaz or even Price to see how the broody commanding officer is just a thirsty hound dog on a bowl.

But then again, you just worked yourself up to a shattering orgasm. Two times, actually – deliberately, before you came here. The taste of his cum on your tongue will have to suffice; hell, it's almost better than him finally fucking or licking you into a deranged bliss.

You sense another opening, can't just help yourself…

"Thank you, sir. But that won't be necessary."

- - - - - - - - -

You begin to fear that you're the narcissist here. The way you make him twist and turn like a corkscrew, the way it makes you feel to see how he spirals deeper into madness. Even your eyes are too much for Ghost, who avoids your stare on missions but hunts you down at the base.

"What does it take?"

He ruts you whenever and wherever he can, in the toilets if need be, too busy to haul you into his room after a mission. You just so happened to pass him by, and it was the nearest space with a lock on the door.

"What the fuck does it take?"

The static hum of the bright, unyielding light and the smell of chlorite oozing out of tile seams is everything but a romantic setting as he drives into you from behind and watches you through the mirror on top of a small sink – watches how you give him nothing.

You're trying to take support from the white porcelain even though he's holding you firm against his chest with that inked arm wrapped around your middle. You want to spread your legs for him but can't, since he barely had time to rip your pants down before getting himself out as well to fuck you, so you settle for admiring how vulnerable he looks while he tries his all to please you.

"Do I have to take the mask off? That it?" He's far from a calm and collected lieutenant as he sweats black paint and despair. "Ya want my mouth? Just say it. Promise I'll make you cry."

You laugh at him through the mirror. It's an involuntary, spontaneous action, and you can't really help it. The man is absolutely adorable… And here you have been, fearing him for weeks without realizing he's just another lonely soul.

He doesn't know your strategy. He doesn't know that it's just you and your hand that are his worst enemy.

"What're ya laughin' at?"

You bite your lip, allow him to see mischief and a quivering smile, wet, adoring eyes paired with simple silence. He could force and command and bully you, but he doesn't do it.

Who's the pet now?

"Obviously, you like my cock," he grunts. "Always wet 'n' ready to go, like a fuckin'–"

It ends in a huff before a potential slur comes out.

Truly a gentleman…

"You let everyone 'ere have a go at you?"

He ticks like a time bomb inside you.

"I'm the last to get to fuck you? Huh? I get the fuckin' scraps, is that it?"

He doesn't need slurs to tear you down, but on the other hand, Ghost only reveals more of himself with the insults and assumptions he hurls at you.

He's desperate, crying for it, longing to be the one who makes you cry and scream and purr. Be your one and only.

"No," you hum. "I'm all yours, Lt."

He blinks a few times, exhausted lids fall to cover most of his eyes, and the stare tells you he has entered a dreamworld.

"I'm–," he groans with a broken voice. "I'm… Fuck–"

You shiver with ecstasy – his orgasm is a better reward than anything else he could ever give you. He collapses again, even more humiliated than the day before, or the day before that. He doesn't seem to care anymore. His hips press you against the cold sink, and you fear the porcelain is going to break under your combined weight. He doesn't slip out. Instead, Ghost tucks his mask on top of his nose to catch breath.

He has a shadow of a stubble, a stern jaw, and the notion makes your walls pulse. Thin lips part to gasp for air, his blazing chest heaves behind your back, threatens to topple you all over the sink and against the mirror already misty from your mingled heat.

And the mask was lifted for a whole other reason than to catch some precious air.

He presses his lips against your bare neck, breathes you in with mouth slightly open. Pants, like a tormented beast.

"You almost got killed," he whispers on your skin. Your heart leaps, and he still doesn't slip out…

"Took that blast and those bullets f' me."

Your heart flutters; it competes in rapidness with the blinks of your lashes. He's gentleman enough not to raise his head as you swallow some panic.

"Why did you do that?"

You can't tell him it wasn't even that heroic. That the ultimate reason was just to get his attention. To get him to proudly acknowledge what a good, talented little soldier you are. His girl.

The thick, softening heat inside you is too much. It shouldn't be this close, he shouldn't be this close. Tears are not allowed; they would be the end of you. The end of the fucking world. Your doom.

Claustrophobia makes it a shaky business to tiptoe him out of you, to slither and struggle out of his embrace and yank your pants up, fight your way through the cramped space and out of the door.

- - - - - - - - -

He suspects something.

And of course he does: the man is not a clandestine operations expert for nothing.

You usually do this in the morning, knowing you won't get another chance before he steals a moment with you. But this morning, you slept in and know that you're in the biggest danger ever. If he catches you before you're satisfied and immune, you're dead.

Everything's been fucked up ever since you met him. He's like a sickness, and you've fallen ill. You're practically bedridden because of him.

You have to use a toy because your hand is not enough anymore, and you fear that one of these days you will climax while he's inside you.

The funny thing is, you forgot to lock the door.

Maybe it's a subconscious wish – to end this sickness and receive some healing.

And the perfect healer walks in like he owns the place. Owns you.

Your heart shoots up your throat at the sound of a door opening to your most sacred space while you're most relaxed, spread naked on the bed, nipples perked up and pointing to the sky.

You forgot to lock the door…

The chant arises right before he emerges like a dark mountain after opening that weak, thin piece of plywood that separates you from civility and prudence.

You forgot to lock the door you forgot to lock the door–

He freezes the exact moment his eyes hit on you. He's a northern slope that never catches sunlight while you're at your weakest, most vulnerable, leaking around a toy made out of plastic, trembling naked and full of goosebumps from the sudden cold he emits.

"You fuckin' little…"

His chest rises and falls, then he slams the door shut, locks it without ever taking his eyes off you.

He understands the mystery to the full. It unravels before him clear-cut like the steps of a mission he knows by heart before even entering the field. You can't move, can't speak, but you clench around the lifeless substitute of him, far smaller and a thousand times more tame than what he has on offer for you. The throb is simply a reaction to how he looks at you while he realizes the entirety of the childish trick you've managed to pull, a game – some stupid little antics of a stubborn, lovesick girl and nothing more.

"Alright then. Let's hear it."

"Mhm-"

He takes a step, chest puffed up and shoulders wide, eyes burning under the chalked white skull.

"Go on then. Get on wit' it."

You obey like never before. He watches how you push the lavender-colored toy fully inside, up to the hilt, and let out a shy, sad whimper. The first of many cries to come.

Ten soldiers in one man approach your bed, stand tall all around you as you gaze up at him like he's a god. He's panting by the time he gets himself out of his jeans. His eyes scourge you as he takes his cock in hand and starts to pump in sync with you.

He makes more noise than you do at first. You make him falter by changing the speed from slow and languid to shallow and quick. He tries to keep up with you like it's a race, eyes darting from your quivering mouth and wet stare to your soaked pussy.

You sigh and moan, fuck yourself sloppy, dirty, and he looks like he's about to lose his mind and burst.

"Good girl," he says with a charred voice, a soft rasp that hits you with a delicious heat. "Such a good fuckin' girl."

You swallow tears and love, give him moans and sighs, even a high-pitched mewl or two.

Somewhere along the way, you notice you're following his cue and rhythm instead of your own, and the way the angry bulge of his tip disappears into and reappears from his fist dries your mouth right up, makes your eyelids heavy. You're breathless and incoherent, far too close to the mountaintop — already were before the actual mountain even walked through that door.

You have to slow down to brace yourself for the pleasure that swells.

"Oh– oh my god…"

Your sigh is a final admission: how he is a literal god to you. His hand claps against his balls as he pleasures himself, angry as fuck and as relieved as anyone could be when they find out that their heartthrob is just a delightful little minx instead of a cruel, heartless woman.

Everything shakes and quakes and shifts, your insides shudder, your walls grip lavender when they want to grip a man. The skull tilts, the man who compels you is like an avatar of death, but his eyes are hazel longing.

The scream is celestial, wreathed in needy pain, and his shoulders sigh and shake as he watches you come for him.

"Yeah… That's it, fuck that's sweet." He doesn't slow down, quite the opposite: he beats his flesh like a maniac as you slowly but surely come down, squirm on the bed, still clutching the toy as your pussy throbs around it. If it was his cock, you fear the grip would never release him.

"Here comes," he gives an announcement, weak and breathless, rough and mean. Ropes of cum hit your breasts, neck and face, and his eyes are those of a fallen angel. Your chest rises and falls in shock and adoration as he works himself to the last of it, drips of heat dropping on the sheets, the last spurts not powerful enough to reach you from where he is standing.

When he's done, he raises his hand, like the strings of hot lust are some sort of an art piece you're supposed to gawk at.

"There ya go luv," he wipes his hand clean with you, on you. The sticky semen coats you from face to navel, and you half expect him to smear it all over you.

But he doesn't.

He forces the heavy, teary cock back inside the confine of his pants like he's mad at himself and not you.

Then he drops down like a shadow, making you quail again – one hand sinks with a fist on the pillow next to your head, the other sweeps all gentle across your belly and down over your mound. He takes hold of your hand, uses it to ease the toy slowly out while leaning over you, keeping you as a prisoner with his hawklike stare. He pulls more than just the small, harmless toy out of you: a moan or two, a final confession, but he's not pleased. You two are far from even, and he knows it, and he's fucking done. You can see it in his eyes that he's ready to quit.

He leaves you empty and barren, with just a toy to keep you company, heads for the door like a storm cloud.

"Simon…"

He walks away, much slower, but still. Leaves a memory of your shared hate and love on the doorknob as he turns it, as you start to panic.

"Don't leave," you wheeze.

Don't leave me.

Tears prick and burn your eyes as the room turns into a dismal, empty space at the very thought of living without him from this day forward.

"Please."

He opens the door a crack. Probably to let the ghosts out, because after opening it and hearing your heart-wrenching, helpless sob, he closes it.

By the time he turns and walks back to the bed, you're crying like a baby. Finally crying for him, utterly exposed. It's not the way either of you had meant for things to go, it's not the sobbing and wailing he wants.

Still, you expect him to feast on your tears as well, watch with glee how you curl into a fetal position while covered in his cum. You don't want to see it, so you close your eyes before he rapes you with his stare.

"Sweetheart."

But his voice shatters a heart. So tender that it washes over you in waves as you repeat it inside your head like a lullaby.

"Sweetest…" he trails off into somewhere, some obsidian space that stretches out before you, between you, until you cross that space with no effort at all. Meet him in the middle.

"Yes, love..?" Your own shaky voice is a mirror of his compassion as you pledge yourself to him. A warm hand brushes your cheek not seconds after, dries a tear away, adds to the heat that pangs on your face.

You open your eyes to dare a peek up. He has the same wet look in his eyes as he did when he found you in the rubble, bleeding for him.

"You did well today," he says, voice laced with love. You don't know if he means you did well at work or on this bed just now. What makes the praise scary is that it's authentic, the way he adores you with both word and touch. It breaks you into smaller pieces still, and your voice comes out as a needy whimper.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

You hope he would take you in his arms, just the way he did weeks ago. You still remember how it felt to succumb to his warmth and the soft tang of gun oil and smoke that always surrounds him. Now you're only shrouded by the scent of tears and salt.

"Must be due to a good leader," you whisper.

He cocks his head, the hand halts, hovers over you, a last suspicion.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Your hands are crossed over your chest, palms on opposite shoulders, shielding you from him. But you open them as he lays down and settles beside you, takes you in his arms, and presses your head to rest on his heart, underneath his chin. The massive palm covers half of your head, but the predatorial weight is gone. He only feels like home.

"Look at you, ya silly little thing… Always gettin' yourself into trouble." He brushes your beef off with a few words and an imply that you're just a blameless, stubborn little thing who he can't be mad at even if he wanted to. And it feels like the sickness finally starts to pass, that it was just an odd inflammation, a passing fever that made you so delirious. You anchor in, slither an arm under his to take support of the bedrock of his back.

He caresses you, makes you sob in his shirt from the sudden overdose of gentleness. His cum dries somewhere between your skin and his clothes as he swallows, then asks you about the mission that went wrong.

"Why did you do it?"

He's not an idiot. Surely he knows why by now. He only wants to hear it because he's stubborn like you, but also in desperate need of love and affection.

"I think you know why." You're exhausted, only able to breathe through your mouth, but the bitterness from your tone is gone. Lost, somewhere in his shirt that smells of ferrous solitude. You wonder what your combined scent, your togetherness, will smell like. It must be something sweet. Promising, like a refreshing summer rain.

"Yeah."

He caresses you slowly now, until his hand comes to rest on top of your head, making sure you won't escape his sanctuary.

"Never do it again," he commands, so soft, voice only a smoked whisper. "Love. I need you to promise me."

"Mh."

"Promise me."

You're feeling sleepy and spent, and he's to blame for it – he simply feels too good. You decide that your first kiss can wait just a little while longer. It's only wonderful; to have something lovely and pure to wait for.

"I promise…"

You drift off to sleep, cradled by the safe slopes of his mountain.

[yikimiki]

thinking so fucking hard about loser/stoner eren and popular/mean girl reader............ how she'll tease him and bully him at school but when they're fucking its always the opposite way around........ he has such a grip on her and shes so whipped for him that the pent up teasing just comes out during sex and he is just being so mean to her

This is a different au from the other loser eren asks — aiming more towards stoner!eren x popular!reader!! Also this got really long?? It’s a mix of headcanons and drabbles so hold on

warnings: smut, dirty talk, mean dom eren, rough sex, crying, creampie, multiple rounds, spanking, hair pulling, mentions of drugs (weed), degradation, use of “bitch”, “slut”, “whore”, “cocksleeve”, no prep, ass play, size kink, dumbification, mentions of spitting, dubcon (just to be sure)

No but imagine... Eren is this outcast, unbothered type of guy that doesn’t give a fuck about the social hierarchy of college or whatever. For some sick and twisted reason, you are particularly interested in him — there’s something about his baggy clothes, long hair under his cap/beanie and his “fuck everything” attitude that gets you going. But you can’t really show that you’re attracted to a complete loser like him, it would ruin your reputation, so you have to pretend as if you love teasing him, mocking him. Which, like, it’s totally funny.

It works for some time, until you are alone in a room with him. It happens in some weird college party that you almost didn’t go to, when you decide to take a break from dealing with your drunk friends and find shelter in a bedroom somewhere. It takes you some time to find one that it’s not locked or... being used, but eventually you open the door to find Eren, just scrolling through his phone with a blunt hanging from his lips. This time, considering it’s just you and him, you skip the provocations and ask him what he’s doing alone in there, you sit next to him in bed and listen as he complains about some friend that dragged him to that obnoxious party.

“I was just passing some time before I found an excuse to leave,” he says, locking his phone and putting it on the nightstand. The smell of weed is filling the stuffed air, and Eren takes another hit before putting his blunt out. “And what are you doing here? Got tired of ruining everyone’s night and decided to ruin mine?”

“It’s always more fun with you.” You smile, one hand landing on his shoulder. Eren tenses under your touch, bright green eyes trying to see if you’re just making fun of him again. Still, there’s something else burning at the bottom of your irises that he has never seen before, something that makes his stomach clench in anticipation. “Besides… now I have you all to myself.”

“What are you getting at?” He asks, but his voice sounds lower, eyebrows furrowed in doubt. You two are close, so much closer than ever before, and he can feel your gentle breathing on his lips when you lean closer. His heart picks up, and his hands are fighting to touch your body. “If this is some sort of prank, I swear—“

“It’s not a prank,” you whisper, looking down at his lips. Eren swallows dry — it’s funny: even after months of teasing, this is the clearer reaction you’ve ever received from him. “Can I kiss you?”

Eren has never heard you ask for anything — especially from him. It takes him some time to warm up to the idea (and to make sure you’re not just fucking with him again), his cock stirring awake in his baggy pants, before he gives you a curt nod. You smile, leaning in and joining your lips in a heated kiss.

And you swear you have the upper hand for some time. You sit on his lap, run your fingers through his hair and watch as he becomes pudding under your touches — just groaning and sighing against your lips as his rough hands squeeze your ass, making you grind your pussy down against his hard cock until you’re soaking through the fabric. But then something in the air suddenly switches and Eren is turning you around, trapping you beneath his large body as his lips eagerly move down to your neck, hands practically tearing your top open so he can suck on your tits.

You whimper and ask him to slow down, but he’s not really listening at this point — if you’re giving yourself to him, he’s going to make good use of his time. Especially when he thinks you should learn one thing or two about how to properly behave, about not always getting what you want, but what you deserve after teasing him for so long. All those months of pent-up frustration are getting to his head, turning into a power trip as he notices that he’s so much stronger than you, that he can do whatever he wants and you’ll just have to take it. And he’s gonna make sure you’ll take it all.

In no time, you’re completely naked, clothes mindlessly thrown around the room and Eren is looking at your body like he can eat you whole. He asks you to “Turn around,” as he takes off his own clothes, and your surprised at the eagerness in which you follow his command. You don’t know what’s going on with you — all those bitter comments you’d throw at him are now long gone, barely a ghost at the back of your mind when you feel him shuffle closer to you. Eren pulls your hips upwards, presses your face down against the mattress and spanks your ass so hard you swear you see stars.

“Eren!” You cry out, both from pleasure and surprise. “What are you—“

“Shut up.” His hands come down against your ass once more, making you whine. “You never fucking stop talking, such an annoying bitch.” Your skin burns as he lays down more hits against your ass cheeks, your hands helplessly holding onto the bedsheets. “This is what you wanted, uh? Wanted me to snap, to treat you like the needy whore you are.”

“Y-Yes,” you stutter. Your pussy is so aroused that you just feel yourself dripping down your thighs, the coldness of the air making you shiver. You never needed someone as much as you needed him. “Eren, fuck me,” you sob.

His large figure leans over you, one hand yanking your hair back as his face stops next to yours. You can feel his cock — huge, throbbing, heavy — in between your sensitive ass cheeks, and the notion that he’s about to stretch you out so wide makes you whine. “Didn’t fucking listen, why don’t you get some fucking manners and try again?”

“Please, Eren, f-fuck me,” you utter, arching your back against his cock. You never noticed how big and strong he is, but now that he’s towering over you, you have no choice but to feel yourself shrinking beneath him. “Please, please.”

He scoffs. “Needy bitch,” but he releases your hair and pushes your face down against the mattress, using his free hand to align himself with your dripping cunt. “Not so fucking chatty now, are you?” You barely have time to answer before he’s pressing his cockhead against your pussy, your hole fluttering around his length as he continues to push in. Eren is huge, definitely the biggest you’ve ever had, and the lack of prep only makes you feel the stretch even more. “Shit, look at this tight fucking cunt,” he breathes out. His hands are squeezing your ass so hard you just know it’ll be sore in the morning, but you don’t care. “Can’t believe you kept this from me for so fucking long.”

You have half the thought of apologizing, but you can’t do it when he bottoms out. By the time that his cock is fully inside you, you can barely utter out an incomprehensible string of “S-So huge, E-Eren— too much— fuck, so big, I can’t take it, I can’t...” before he’s moving his cock in and out of you.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He asks, spanking your ass once again. The noise is so much louder this time, your moan following it shortly. “Fucking annoyed me for months just because you wanted to milk my cock like a desperate little whore,” he seethes, grabbing your ass forcefully as he drills into your soaking cunt. Eren is going hard and fast, so much so that you feel as if your brain is rattling inside your head, tits bouncing against the mattress as he continues his unforgiving pace. “Always knew you were a slut, I just didn’t know you’d be so fucking— shit — so fucking insufferable.”

“I’m s-sorry,” you whine, tears streaming down your face because of how good it all feels.

He scoffs. “Not yet. But you’ll be sorry.”

And boy how sorry you are. You had no idea that Eren would have that ridiculous amount of stamina, but you don’t even know how many times you’ve cum by the end of the night. Eren fucks you full of his cum again and again, spanking you and pulling your hair every time you misbehave and can’t keep it in like he tells you to — because “you’re such a dumb bitch, can’t even listen when you’re full of cock”.

He makes you cum on his fingers, on his cock, on his tongue, even makes you desperately grind against his thigh to get yourself off just because he likes how dumb you look. He fills every whole he can — spits in your mouth, fucks your throat, fingers your ass as he’s fucking you from the back and promises that next time it’ll be his cock. He’s just so mean, so revengeful of every time you annoyed him that he can’t be nice even if he tried. It’s just too good to have almighty little you turned into a stupid slut for his cock, crying and begging for him to fill you up one more time.

“Listen to me,” he hisses, making you turn your head to look at him. Your eyes are glazed over, barely able to find his with your orgasm building up again. “This is all you’re fucking good for,” he says, and his cock throbs inside you. Eren’s cum is seeping down your thighs, coating his length and making his slide easier as he continues to pound inside your abused cunt. “You’re made to be a cocksleeve, this pussy is made to take my cock. Do you understand?” You agree with a whiny yes. “Gonna stop fucking annoying me now? You can just ask and I’ll fuck you whenever you want, okay?” You nod, only half there, and for the first time that night he calls you “Good girl,” before stuffing you full of his cum again.”

Anyways???? Idk what came over me but yeah. Popular girl reader that is a complete slut for loser eren when theyre fucking. I rest my case.

[deepspacedukat]

Something that I like to roll around in my head is what Solok would think about Sisko being the emissary and having visions/telepathic communications. Idk I just think he’d find the whole thing very interesting and confusing, especially cuz he’s an emotional human (and he’s Sisko so I mean come on). Of all the people on the station, his rival was chosen? Adds more to the whole notion of them actually being annoyingly and reluctantly fond of one another.

Ooooooh, I'm not gonna lie, this has been bouncing around in my head ever since I saw this ask in my inbox. (Sorry it took so long to answer this, btw! Life got v distracting there for a bit.)

I could totally imagine Sisko having one of his Prophet vision things when Solok is present, and Solok just being all ???? "...but I, a perfectly superior Vulcan, am standing right here?? Not that I believe in such things - completely illogical - but were I to accept that the aliens in the wormhole were Prophets, I would be a much better choice than an emotional Human..."

That would be such a cool concept to explore, tbh. Thank you so much for sending me this! And I know I haven't rb'd Chapter 7 of "Be Still" yet, but I've read it! And I love it! And I'm not over it yet! It'll live in my brain forever right alongside "War Birds." So thank you for writing such an amazing fic! You did such an amazing job! Your characterization of Letant is beautiful and wonderful and absolutely on point. Also, that little Vreenak appearance was *chef's kiss* I have so many thoughts, I could go on screeching about this for hours.

[autimind]

Myths about Autism #4 - Looking autistic

(with a side order of 'I don't hate people with autism.')

A dearly beloved aunt, who regrettably passed several years ago, flat-out refused to believe that I am autistic. Even after a full explanation of my struggles and diagnostic trajectory through the local mental healthcare system. I did not come across as autistic. She wasn't the only one.

Well, I say fair enough.

[long read. I won't discuss the actual myth. We are clear on that it is bunk. However, what should we now do?]

Let's talk about what autism looks like. Allistic people seem to have these amazing insights into what's going on in other people's minds basically on full-auto or at least they claim as much but for all I can discern they seem to judge inner workings of the mind by what the visible body does. They need our outward appearance in order to function.

What is autism? We know, dear reader, that autism is high, wide and broad. That it is called a spectrum does not mean that it behaves like the number line, not even like the complex plane. It is an insanely varied, multivariate affair. "If you have met one autistic, you have met one autistic," as the platitude has it. Yet autism is real. Although it does not exist as a thing, it is a valid label for a more or less well-defined manner of neurodivergent development. All of the divergence inside the brain is invisible, though. Can we fault the allistic people all around us for only looking at the conduct and mannerisms they do notice?

Society moreover has been and is ill-served by tropes mainly in entertainment but also in serious media. For a long time, autism basically equated Rain Man, from the eponymous movie starring Dustin Hoffman. I still find it ironic that the person who inspired the movie, the late Kim Peek, did not have autism at all but rather FG Syndrome. More recent is the example of Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory, who according to many people has Asperger's. It is interesting that almost no one judges his friend Amy Farrah Fowler in the same way as she shares many of his characteristics.

Again I ask can we fault allistic people their bafflement when we come out, so to say, as autistic? By far most of us aren't Sheldon Coopers and certainly a vanishingly small minority of us are even like Rain Man.

I tend to empty a box of matches onto the desk when speaking as an expert by experience to professionals. I give them three seconds to tell me exactly how many matches are visible and of course they always fail. Given proper experience, an estimation might of course be given but I tell them the exact answer. After everyone has had the time to be amazed at my 'autistic feat', I explain that I personally counted the matches before putting them into the box that very morning.

This is my way of upending their own cultural ideas on autism. Returning to my point, I really don't think we can blame allistics all that much. Cultural inertia on top of normal human cognitive laziness makes it hard to take on new and contra-intuitive notions.

Quite frustratingly, rather a lot of allistic people, once you have told them, still exclude us while saying they don't dislike autistics/autism. A good example would be.. well, almost everyone I come across. Basically everyone commiserated with me when I became open about my diagnosis and vowed to help and understand. They can't but they aren't aware of that particular disability. It is not their fault.

The point here is that they do keep responding negatively to an impressive array of ingrained traits. Stimming in the form of feet tapping of knee bouncing (my own go-to stim), data dumping about my SPINs, correcting vague or incorrect language, taking vocal utterances literally and so on and so forth. Really now, I am not much bothered about specific word choice but it is not okay to just hold on to your preconceived notions when an actual human explains their own mental state or makes a half-way reasonable request.

Those preconceived cultural notions do exist and they do cause harm. All of this creates much frustration and anger among autistics. This is easily visible during even a cursory inspection of #actually autistic and like tags. There is so much pain! People are crying out in sheer endless reblogs, venting and sometimes even ranting about the unfair position we have in society, especially if we are also non-white, female or belong to yet one more disadvantaged or non-privileged group. The amount of anger, sometimes even rage, on this forum is simply staggering. I have run afoul of it myself, mostly for responding to some post without thinking and naively assuming I was really helping. I have hurt other people's feelings.

It would be fairly easy for me to now wax eloquent about how I was misunderstood, that from my own blog it was crystal clear that.. and a dozen other excuses. I simply say this: I am sorry. However, we still have to do something. I strongly feel that venting to eachother is all well and good but if that is all we do, things will not get better. In that case, venting becomes just a way of blowing off steam before going right back to that very same society that can be so hurtful and indifferent.

It would be a grand thing indeed if I had all the answers at this point and I don't. I do have one answer. What I propose will sound cruel to some. I will put yet another responsibility in the autistic camp. Yet more adapting to do when allistics just breeze through their lives. (They don't, but never mind that. I understand the feeling.) Still, on sober reflection we will have to admit that this responsibility is already solidly on our side for the very simple reason that no one will do it for us. We may just not have been aware of it.

I am talking about actively regulating our own emotions in general and making space for negative feelings in particular. If we manage to pull that off, we can just be with frustration or sadness for a while and allow it to process itself. I know first-hand how impossibly vague and wishy-washy new agey that sounds. I also know first-hand the awesome power of such a skill if you can see it from the inside.

At least we will have control. To some extent. We will be responding from strength, not from weakness. We will be secure in ourselves, not beaten this way and that by the breaking waves of the ocean of demands and impulses of this life. We will know deep in our being that we are always welcome in the present moment. We will understand viscerally that emotions are not self, thoughts are not self. They may influence us but they are not us.

Will that make us feel better? Maybe. After a while. Unpleasant emotions and thoughts will not suddenly vanish. But it will help. For details, see my series on Reconnecting to our authentic selves.

[1kook]

commercial break ; SIX

this is part of my netflix & chill series this is foreshadowing for the next fic 👀

summary; Jungkook enjoyed pushing you down, indulging you in all your little fantasies, but he too had some he wanted to live out. warnings; smut in the forms of riding, penetration, soft sex rating; mature (18+) misceallenous; jungkook thinks a lot.... and they're not always pg things... word count; 1.8k

notes; i have been neglecting my og jk dream team couple so here we are! anyway please look [ here ] and remember this face ....

He’s never minded taking the reins before, but there’s something distinctly carnal that flashes in Jungkook’s chest when you ask to ride him that morning. The sun filtering in through the window beside him captures the entirety of your beauty on top of him, endless expanses of soft skin and dips and curves. “Pretty,” he sighs, hands on your hips. You’re so tired but so gorgeous, supple breasts bouncing in his face, eyelashes kissing your cheeks with each sleepy blink. Rarely do you push him down like this, hands on his chest as you whimper and grind yourself to completion, but Jungkook certainly wasn’t complaining.

In all the time he’s known you, Jungkook’s become quite familiar with your sexual prowess. You liked to play the opposite game with him, seduce him and push him until he snapped and took you over a table or cuffed you to a bed, all blessed experiences that he treasures very much. He loved how you sounded bent over the kitchen counter, or shoved against the sheets. If Jungkook had to pinpoint the exact moment his horniness skyrocketed, it was definitely the second his name left your lips in a breathy little whimper. He adored you and your body, liked taking care of you.

But every now and then… he liked to be pampered.

Jungkook enjoyed pushing you down, indulging you in all your little fantasies, but he too had some he wanted to live out. Blindfolding you and having you cum on a riding crop was definitely the highest on the list and that was done; after that incident he’s woken many a night with a rock hard cock in his sleep shorts like some dorky teenager fantasizing about his girlfriend. And on the nights you didn’t sleep over, he was forced to fend for himself, the tape recorder in his brain recalling every single thing that had happened that night.

But now it was time to move onto the next, and that next bullet point on his imaginary list was letting you fuck yourself on his cock with no help at all.

Most times you rode him you tended to give up halfway through. You started off strong, overexcited glint in your eyes as you rabidly fucked yourself on him. But your natural pillow princess tendencies (no shade) always won over, always had you softly begging him to help. He’s always been more than happy to, especially if it meant coming sooner, but sometimes Jungkook just wanted to be used. Wanted to be pushed down and taken advantage of, especially if that was at your hands. It was a concept that probably went against everything your sexual relationship was built upon; him being the submissive one was about as rare as you not play-fighting back. And still, Jungkook wanted more than anything in the world to see that side of you, that femdom, as Doyeon had so meanly teased him about once.

So here he is, partially living that fantasy as you slide up and down on his cock. You’ve got one hand on his lower abdomen, the other on the top of a thigh, working yourself against him lazily. It’s not at the intensity of Jungkook’s dreams, but it sure is a sight. “B-Bend your knee for me, honey,” you pant, and Jungkook does, pulling his leg up until you’re sloppily using it as leverage to bounce on him. “G-Good boy,” you rasp.

It’s that word, that wretched word that makes something in Jungkook go soft, throw the past year of training out the window. He likes to think he’s in charge— he is —but every now and then you use that word against Jungkook and it’s like everything is reversed and always has been. Like it’s always been you leading sex, you telling him how good he is, and not the other way around.

He groans, tightens his hands on your hips as you continue bouncing away. Every glide of your warm folds around his cock makes his heart lurch, makes him want to bury himself inside of you and never leave. Jungkook would never admit it to your or anyone, but there was this rather clingy side of him that reared its ugly head when you were involved. He never wants anyone else to see you like this, never wants anyone else to feel you like this, which is where his spiraling begins.

You see, below that being-pushed-down-by-my-girlfriend point was another, slightly overlooked point, that entrenched upon dangerous, almost taboo territory. And that was stuffing you full of his cum— off birth control —and watching you swell and swell until there was no way you couldn’t be pregnant. And Jungkook, for some odd reason, wanted that really badly.

A soft groan above him, a lazy smile on your face as you reach down to idly toy with your clit, pussy flush against the base of his cock now. He knows better than to tell you to move because it’ll break this tender moment, this unique experience of you using him like some glorified dildo like he so desperately wanted sometimes. So he shuts his lips, goes back to that other fantasy that is only fueled by the soft swell of your tits when you move.

God, they would get so big, he thinks. Would be so round, just like the rest of you, and bursting with milk. It’s for the baby, for the baby, he tells himself, but there’s image in his head, this so terribly wrong image, of him suckling your breasts, holding your waist as the milk drips down his chin and over your skin, senses overwhelmed as he does something he’s definitely not supposed to. But you’d be so sweet, his mind says, would be so sweet and... full of life.

Above him, you giggle deliriously, sweat dripping down the slope of your neck. For a second he wonders if you’ve somehow tapped into his thoughts, seen all his perverted fantasies, but then you’re looking at him with that adoring gaze that makes his heart burst. “Pretty boy,” you tease, rolling your hips forward until that cute little button above your slit is grinding against him.

Yes, he certainly was your pretty boy, your good boy— he was whatever boy you wanted him to be. Why? Because he was so in love with you that the mere thought of you not being his and him not being yours made him gag. He just wanted you, so soft and warm around him, for the rest of his life. Maybe a belly? Maybe a child? Jungkook wanted it all, and his dick throbs at the mere idea of you possibly giving him that and more.

He was completely lost in his thoughts, never to be seen again.

A muffled whimper, so airy that it takes Jungkook a moment to realize it came from him. He’s too riled up to feel embarrassed, simply rolls his head from side to side as you clench those puffy walls around him. “C-Cum inside?” he pants, “can I— can I cum inside?” You lean forward; the tip of his engorged cock brushes against a sensitive spot inside of you, pulling a sinful moan from your lips. “P- Please?”

You smile, so pretty and sweet, it makes his dick twitch. “Of course,” you murmur, small hand on the side of his face, hips rolling rhythmically. “Wh- what’s that thing you said the other day?” you shiver, sleek skin catching the rays of the sun perfectly. A glittering highlight decorates your body, and that only tightens the coil in his stomach until it’s springing up with insane force. “Baby?”

“Yes?” he grunts, every muscle fiber in his body needed to hold even the smallest semblance of self control.

A giggle from you as he dazedly looks up. “Not you,” you chuckle, leaning down to sweetly peck him on the lips. It’s so soft and gentle, just like everything else about you. It takes everything in his body to keep him stable. “Remember?” you purr, hot breathe flush against his skin. “You wanted to put a baby in me.”

His hips jerk, a moan spilling from his lips that he doesn’t catch fast enough. “N-No,” he mewls, turning his face away from you like maybe it’ll prolong his orgasm, maybe it’ll lessen the aching heat around his cock. He can’t possibly hear those words from your lips, not when he knows you’re on birth control and that that notion is physically impossible right now. It’ll plant a terrible seed in his head, ruin Jungkook for weeks.

But you’re nothing if not persistent, forcing yourself down against him as he begins violently blushing, trying to mask his excitement. “Baby?” you repeat, as if he’s a puppy hearing the words ‘outside;’ fuck it, Jungkook thinks, he was whatever you wanted him to be. “Wanna fuck a baby into me, Jungkookie?” you exhale, hot breath against his ear. His hips spasm a second time, send you rolling down his cock with those perky nipples flush against his chest. “Mmmh, come on, honey… need you to work for it.”

And work Jungkook does.

His hands wrap around your frame, pull you flush against his body. Feet against the bed, thighs tense, he begins rapidly thrusting up into the warm entrance of your pussy, where yours and his cum seep out together. It’s slippery and wet, but not wet enough — he wants to feel his cum around himself, feel it bulge inside your stomach until you physically can’t hold anymore. “G-Good boy,” you whine, lips raining down featherlight smooches along his jawline. “Doing so good for me, honey—“

You’re cut off by the earth-shattering orgasm that consumes Jungkook, an almost feral groan that tears itself from his throat. “Mine, mine,” he sobs, doesn’t recognize his own voice in his ears. “Gonna be mine.”

A stuttered reply as your juices join his, leak down his softening cock until the sticky sweet fluid makes him feel dirty. It’s not even 8 AM yet and he’s already covered in cum. But it’s worth it when you lean back with that pretty smile, push his damp hair away from his sweaty face with the practiced touch of an angel. “Did you like that?” you ask softly, not making to move off of him. In fact, Jungkook swears you squeeze around his quickly limpening cock.

Any other woman he thinks he might have been embarrassed, die from humiliation of presenting her with a soft dick. But with you, it’s comfortable. It’s sweet and soft, your silky folds milking the last of his cum straight out of his cock. Jungkook whimpers, head bobbing at your question. You cup his face in your hands, fingers like butterflies against his skin. He swears he could transcend right now.

Another languid kiss, tongue lazily toying with his until his mouth feels heavy from the saliva you push down his throat. The light filtering in through the window paints your skin in soft colors, makes him feel so warm and loved; he could die like this and not feel an inch of remorse.

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[you-cant-spell-subtext-without]

GAH, i am unwell, but -

in my current rewatch of only spn episodes that focus on reapers/death, I have unfortunately Come to a Notion, and I am going to share it with you because once again Nobody Asked.  

Yes, this is about how we Can Still Win, even after 15x20. 

[other than of course reading my post-15x20 WIP, Angels Don’t Fear the Reaper, the first chapter of which can be found on AO3 here]

so this is an extension of the theory that 15x20 is not actually heaven (because of beers and lighting), and my particular addition to the “Dean is not yet in heaven in 15x20″ lore is - 

The Bobby that greets Dean in 15x20 is not Bobby - he is actually Dean’s reaper.

for the love of Chuck I truly cannot watch a single episode of spn like a normal person.  Put your clown nose on, buddies, and come bounce around the padded walls with me - after the cut!

Okay.  First, it’s important to note that SPN has a history of intentionally using lighting/camera work as part of the story, specifically in grounding location for the viewer, for example, to convey when characters are in an alternate universe (Purgatory, Apocalypse World, The Bad Place) or experiencing an alternate/altered reality such as a djinn dream - or, for purposes of this Essay - the limbo in between life and death whilst dying.  

That space is explored a few times in the show, but the first detailed expose occurs in 7x10: Death’s Door with Bobby, as he races through his memories trying to escape his own reaper -

an example of the lighting/blurred camera work from 7x01 can be found here -

[please keep the image of Bobby’s outfit in your mind]

This lighting/blurred camera work appears again in 9x01, when Sam is dying, and is mentally here:

where they have the audacity to make the “part of Sam’s mind that is ready to accept death” appear as Bobby.

Bobby is literally used in the narrative to lead Sam towards Death, convincing Sam to accept dying.  Who usually has that job in SPN?  Reapers.

***and remember, from 2x01: In My Time of Dying, that reapers can change their form as well as a soul’s perception of surroundings -

!DEAN You know, you read the most interesting things. For example, did you know that reapers can alter human perception? I sure didn't. Basically they can make themselves appear however they want. Like, say, uh, a pretty girl. You are much prettier than the last reaper I met.

TESSA/REAPER I was wondering when you would figure it out.

!DEAN

I should have known. That whole "accepting fate" rap of yours is far too laid back for a dead chick. But the mother, and the body, I'm still trying to figure that one out.

TESSA/REAPER It's my sandbox, I can make you see whatever I want.

Compare this to Bobby’s dialogue with Sam in 9x01:

SAM 

I want to fight. I do. But I just feel like...

BOBBY  

Like you got nothing to swing at? Like you're punching at shadows? You got to let go of fightin' and scratchin' and lookin' for loopholes, 'cause that ain't happenin'.

SAM 

So – so, what? I - I - I just die?

BOBBY 

Just die? All the good you've done, all the people you've saved, all the sacrifices you've made? You've saved the world, son. How many people can say that? How many people can say that they have left this godforsaken hunk of dirt that much a better place? What you call dyin' I call leavin' a legacy.

**please hyperfixate on the word legacy for a minute and embed it in your brain for later

***what’s interesting is that this is very out of character for Bobby, and 9x01 actually reminds us of that in a prior scene ->

DEAN

Shut it, Sam. [to BOBBY] You – go. Oh, and, uh, before you throw me under the bus, you're welcome for the hell rescue.

BOBBY 

Hey, first of all, you didn't rescue jack, half-wit. Sam did. Second of all, Sam, you're in a coma. Now, suck as that may, sometimes that's just the way things go.

DEAN  

What are you talking about? There's always a way. You taught us that.

***this dialogue also contains a very specific callback to 8x19: Taxi Driver, where Bobby has this to say to Sam about accepting the finality of things-

BOBBY

Must have been hell on you not being able to get him out all that time. You did try?

SAM

Look, Bobby, Dean and I had an agreement, okay?

BOBBY I know that agreement. I taught you that agreement. That's a non-agreement. I get the feeling a lot must have happened while I was gone.

***keeping all of this in mind, let’s move on to 15x20: Carry On (sorry)-

where we have this lighting/blurred camera work 

and the first person Dean sees in ‘Heaven’ is. . . Bobby

[hmm; that outfit looks familiar]

It also drives me crazy that Bobby is just sitting here, relaxing on a rocking chair 

since this was Bobby’s primary concern before heading to heaven in 8x19 after he was rescued from actual hell -

BOBBY

But if they give me a rocking chair up there, I'm raising hell. 

Consider Also the final scene in 10x17: Inside Man, after Bobby leaves his boring ass Chuck Heaven house to help Sam and Cas break Metatron out - and Bobby tells Sam “it's the happiest I've been in forever” after he assists him and Cas in Chaotic Causing of Problems.

so, yeah - Bobby in a rocking chair as his perfect heaven is kind of. . .again, out of character.

Also I can’t ever discuss 10x17 without including this -

you’re welcome.

Anyway, back to the Derogatory 15x20 - after Dean chats with “Bobby,” it’s time to drive around In The Car.

hmm, remember Sam’s ‘dying mind limbo’ plot in 9x01?  

Also starts In The Car.

incheresting.

The 15x20 drive, however, is spliced with the Sam’s Long Life Montage, and what would convince Dean to accept death more than if his staying dead meant Sam having a long, normal, happy(??) wig life.

[had to.]

also -

*** something something children are a legacy something ***

and look, more blurred camera work.

oh, are they playing catch?

that’s cute.

An interesting irl addition to all of this is that Jarpad is on record claiming that 15x20 is his favorite episode of spn, and his second favorite is - 8x23: Sacrifice.  You know, the one where Sam dies.  The one immediately preceding 9x01.

BONUS:

Potential Reaper Bobby to dying Sam in 9x01 ->

BOBBY 

Everything inside you need to help you on your way. Go on, son. I'll be waiting for you with a couple of cold ones.

cool, cool, cool.

Anyway.  Hope this ruined your day as much as it did mine.  LYLAS

[joonie-beanie]

Game Night

Pairing: Leviathan x Reader

Word Count: 5,826

Preview: You and Levi have a game night once a week, in which the two of you get a...little too competitive.

So, when you decide block Levi's line of sight in a desperate bid to win the game, well. You get what's coming to you.

** Please note that this is a cross-posting **

This chapter was originally posted on 5/29/20 as a part of my “Devil Doms” series on AO3.

It’s kind of become tradition—that once a week, you and Levi have a game night.

At first, it’d simply been you helping him with dungeons or runs for supplies in a game you really had no idea how to play. When you’d complained to him about it, saying you wanted to challenge him in some way—to show him that you were actually good at some games—he’d dug out the Devildom’s equivalent to games like Super Smash Bros, and Mario Kart.

He hadn’t really considered the idea of you being able to best him before then. Leviathan was used to you struggling with the controls—being a good distraction for enemies as he snuck past to get whatever rare item was held in that level.

Now, when your kart zooms over the finish line just seconds before him time and time again…he starts to go a little crazy.

Your game nights quickly go from semi-calm dungeon runs, to Leviathan jumping to his feet—cursing at you, the game, and himself as he attempts to get his anger under control before his demon form claws its way to the surface.

Before, you may have been scared to see the otaku so full of frustration, with his horns and tail threatening to sprout from his body, but now? Now, you feel giddy at the sight—full of pride each time you manage to beat him.

You know that you have a bit of a…sadistic, bratty side to you. It’s fun to watch Levi get so frustrated over losing to a “normie human” at a video game that shouldn’t be hard for him to win.

To be fair, you had warned him before playing that you had lots of experience in games like this, but he hadn’t believed you. So, it’s his own fault for getting beat by you, and you’re sure to tell him that—laughing at the way he angrily pouts when hearing so.

It’s been a few weeks since your switch in games, and tonight—like every other night—Leviathan is determined to win. He’s already got the title screen of the game loaded by the time you knock on his door and step into his room.

His eyes immediately flit to you—gaze raking you from head to toe. Beneath the pile of snacks and drinks in your arms, he can see that you’ve once again decided to arrive in your pj’s, and deep within his brain, a part of him feels like screaming.

It’s not like your pajamas are unseemly—an oversized t-shirt and a pair of black shorts is hardly an outfit to feel scandalized over. And yet, Levi finds himself inexplicably attracted to the outfit—relishing each peek of the tight, ass-hugging shorts when your shirt rides up ever so slightly.

Seriously, game nights are both his favorite, and most frustrating part of the week.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you ask, dumping the snacks in your arms onto the side of his desk. Rather than look at you, he busies himself with picking a snack and drink to start the night off right.

“I wouldn’t sound so cocky, if I were you,” he finally mumbles when he hears you dragging his old gaming chair over (he’d pulled it out for you a while ago, and tends to shove it in the corner until game night rolls around again). “I’ve been practicing.”

“Is…that something you should really be admitting?” you ask with a laugh, your eyes shining with amusement as you lean forward to peek at his face. “You basically just acknowledged that I’ve been kicking your ass so bad that you need to practice in your spare time.”

“T-That’s--!” he’s immediately flushing red, wishing oh-so-badly that he could shut you up as you openly laugh at him. Despite your teasing, however, your bright smile is genuinely happy. You enjoy spending this time with him, and the realization makes him feel warm, but in a different way.

“Just…s-shut up, normie…”

He reaches forward and grabs your controller, shoving it into your lap, and you giggle quietly—flashing him another smile that has his heart doing a tiny flip.

“Sooo~,” you speak, relaxing back into your chair as Leviathan grabs his own controller. He clicks out of the title screen and onto the main menu. “Best of five, like usual?”

He nods, and you watch the screen as he picks which courses he wants to race. (You’d told him before that you’d let him choose the tracks, since you’d beat him either way. He hates the advantage, but nonetheless uses it.)

After picking the tracks, the character selection screen pops up. You go to your regular—a black and purple character named “Shroom” (the first time you’d see the off-brand Mario characters, you’d gotten a good laugh), and decide to stick with the basic kart (which secretly drives Levi insane, because how the hell do you manage to beat him without picking a kart with the best functions?!)

Levi, unsurprisingly, goes for the princess, “Cherry”. He takes time building his kart—choosing only the superior parts—and finally, once he’s ready, the race begins.

He hunches forward in his chair—his forearms resting against his knees as he dials in on the computer screen. You glance at the demon, lips tugging at the corners fondly at the sight of him.

It’s cute how much he wants to win.

On screen, you hear the countdown begin, and quickly turn your attention away from him. As much as you want to watch his every reaction as he desperately tries to best you, you can’t. Right now, you have to win.

Tightly gripping your controller, you turn your eyes to the computer screen. The race starts.

Slowly, with each passing level, the game begins to descend into chaos. When Levi wins the first level, it’s impossible to keep a smug grin from coming to his face. However, at the sight, you’re quick to reassure him not to get too cocky, and—sure enough—you kick his ass on the following track. He ends up coming in 6th after you hit him with two consecutive red shells, and when the race ends, you can see the veins in his hands beginning to bulge from how hard he’s gripping the controller.

“Want to take a break?” you ask, half serious, half teasing. His response is to start the next level, so you take that as a “no”.

The conclusion of the third race is much closer—only a .8 second difference in your finishing time, but you still come out on top. The near tie has Levi quietly cursing up a storm—remarks about “stupid normies” and their “stupid games” filling the space around him.

You decide to keep your mouth shut this time—figuring it’d be best to not push him for once—and simply smile to yourself as the next race begins. The fourth track is perhaps one of the most difficult, but you manage to traverse it well. At least, until Levi trips you up on a borderless curve with a banana.

As you go tumbling off the course, Levi jumps happily in his seat—grin breaking out on his face. A little too competitive for your own good, you kick your leg out and hit him on the side of his calf. He yelps, but it’s already too late. His kart rolls over the finish line, and he’s immediately turning to glare at you.

“Hey! No kicking!”

“I mean~,” you hum innocently, finally finishing the race. “We never exactly established a rule that says we’re not allowed to physically interfere with each other.”

“It’s basic gaming courtesy!” he argues, squeaking in surprise when he hears the countdown on screen. You’d started the final race without warning him!

“Y/N!”

“Whoops~,” you feign innocence, tongue poking out of your lips determinedly as your kart revs to life. The two of you fall into silence, eyes locked on the computer as you desperately attempt to best each other.

When you finish the first lap, you’re ahead. The second lap, however, Leviathan finishes two places ahead of you. Frowning unhappily, your leg begins to bounce nervously beneath you.

You hate that Leviathan actually manages to make you so damn competitive. You’re never like this with anyone else, and usually you wouldn’t be feeling so frantic to win, but tonight is different. A burning desire to come out on top takes over your brain, and as the final stretch of the last lap appears on screen, you find yourself pressing to your feet.

Levi, immersed in his own desperation to win, doesn’t realize you’ve moved until your body appears in front of him. It’s a seriously petty move—standing in front of someone to block their view—and almost immediately Levi’s anger gets the best of him.

The frustration that had been building beneath the surface lurches forward, and within a split second, his demon form materializes.

You squeal in surprise as his tail wraps tightly around your waist—dragging you back into his lap. Your controller clatters to the floor, and your kart rolls to a stop just short of the finish line. Levi—who had already been in the lead—finishes in first.

The room goes quiet save the sound of NPC’s overtaking you and finishing the race, and your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears. Levi is scarily still beneath you—the edge of his controller pressed against the center of your back. You can feel him puff out a heavy breath—the hot air fanning against your neck and shoulder.

“L…Levi?” you question when you manage to find your voice. He doesn’t speak, but instead you feel him shift. His hands move, the sound of his controller being carefully set on the edge of his desk reaching your ears. Then, his tail loosens around your waist, and for a brief second, you think he has finally calmed down. That notion, however, is quickly thrown out the window.

Rather than releasing you, the appendage snakes upward—curling around your neck. Your breath hitches—both nervous, and somewhat aroused—as his tail grips tightly at your throat. The pressure is enough to let you know he’s pissed, but not enough to choke you.

“Do you have any idea,” he starts quietly, his voice carefully measured as he speaks for the first time in what feels like minutes. “How hard this is for me?”

One of his hands falls against your lap, his fingers curling into the soft flesh of your inner thigh and giving it a squeeze. His touch is rough, yet holds a hint of nervousness. He’s always been flustered by physical contact, and has never gone out of his way to touch you.

Yet, now you’re sitting in his lap, with one of his hands one your inner thigh, and the other lifting to hover over your clothed breast. His fingers twitch—as if he’s holding himself back from touching you in all the ways he wants—and you swallow the lump in your throat, your tongue peeking out to wet your dry lips.

“How hard what is?” you question, biting your lower lip as you watch his hand slowly lower onto your chest. His fingers splay across the mound of flesh, giving it an experimental squeeze, and you inhale shakily.

“This,” he says, his tone almost a whine. His nose presses into your hair, getting a good whiff of your sweet scent, and for the first time you notice something stiff pressing at your ass.

Levi is getting hard.

The realization has you turning all sorts of shades of red.

“You come to my room, wearing your stupid little shorts, and looking at me with your stupid little smiles that make my heart feel like it may burst right out of my chest.”

The hand on your thigh begins stroking softly over the skin there—inching closer and closer towards your womanhood, and your breath catches.

“I…,” his breathing stutters, his voice becoming softer with embarrassment. “It makes me want you. Makes me…c-crave those cute little blushes, and makes me want to taste your pink lips and…c-claim them as my own.”

His tail marginally loosens around your neck, and you take a deep breath, completely aware of the way your heart is racing within your chest. You’ve always felt something beyond the line of friendship for the Avatar of Envy, but you’d never known he’d been struggling with those same feelings.

“Levi--,” you open your mouth to speak, but he silences you as his tail tightens around your throat—even tighter than before. You gasp, a whine building in your chest as his touches suddenly turn rough again—his nails digging into the sensitive flesh of your breast and thigh.

“But then,” he continues, his voice darkening with anger, as if he’s just remembered why exactly you’re in his lap in the first place. “You tease me to no end. Rile me up just because you can…”

His tail winds tighter around your neck, his other hand falling to grip your thigh as he grinds you against his crotch, and you struggle to breathe. He’s rock hard—his cock pressed flush against your ass.

“You try to sabotage my win,” there’s a growl in his voice, and suddenly you’re reminded of the time he nearly killed you over TSL.

“L-Levi,” you gasp, voice pitched high as your brain begins to fog over from lack of blood flow “I…I’m sorry. B-But you still won.”

“I did, didn’t I?” You can hear the sudden smile in his voice, like he’s just realized that despite your interference, he still won the game. “Then what do I win?”

Emboldened by the victory, he grinds you back against his cock one more time—letting you know what he wants as his prize.

“You…you can have me,” you tell him, voice quiet. He breathes a shuddering breath against your hair, as if he doesn’t believe what you’ve said.

His fingers dig into your thighs, like he’s trying to ground himself.

“Are you sure?” his voice is no more than a whisper, and yet you can hear his internal struggle. On one hand, he wants to tear your clothes off your body, bend you over, and stick his dick into your hot, wet pussy without any type of warning. But…on the other hand, he knows he’s not totally himself right now. He’s riled up thanks to the competition, and your efforts to make him lose, and he doesn’t want you agreeing to let him have you just because you feel you have to.

Luckily, you don’t leave him worrying for long. Your hands drop into your lap—fingers slotting atop Levi’s where his hands rest on your inner legs. You give his digits a gentle squeeze, freely rocking your hips back against his hard-on—and a needy moan bubbles in his throat.

“You won, Levi. Claim your prize. I want you to.”

“Fuck.”

His breath hitches, and suddenly his tail has unfurled from around your throat. You’re quick to suck in a mouthful of air, your hands instinctively rooting in the fabric of Levi’s shirt as he scoops you into his arms.

Within seconds, your back is dropped onto the pillows lining the inside of his bathtub-turned-bed, and Leviathan cages you in—his hands resting on either side of your head as he kneels above you. For a moment, he can only stare—still a little disbelieving that you’re allowing him to have his way with you.

Your cheeks flush under his intense gaze, and you lift your palm to cup his cheek.

“You don’t have to hold back, you know…,” you mumble, eyes shying away from him. “As the winner, you can have whatever you want.”

“Please stop trying to kill me,” he retorts with a tiny whine, capturing your lips in a kiss. He’s a little sloppy, and a little forceful, but you don’t mind at all. You’re quick to wrap your arms around him—angling your head so your mouths slot together.

Levi moans against you, his hips unconsciously beginning to grind against your own in a desperate bid for friction. As you nip at his bottom lip, one of your hands moves downward and sneaks between your bodies. You cup Levi’s bulge with your palm, his body instinctively rocking into your hand, and another pained sound leaves his lips.

“F-Fuck, Y/N--,” his voice is breathless, and needy. As he grinds into your hand—your palm sternly pressing his cock against his own hip—you feel something slick and heavy begin to curl up your leg.

Immediately you shiver, your gasp lost against Levi’s tongue as he steals your breath away. Before tonight, you had never considered all the things the Avatar of Envy’s tail could be used for, but apparently, its versatility is not lost on Levi.

Within seconds, the appendage has scaled your legs, and managed to hook beneath the waistband of your sleeping shorts. Levi groans against your lips as you squeak in embarrassment—your pelvises bumping together as you gingerly lift your hips in order to help the demon out.

Soon, you’re naked from the waist down—only covered by your oversized sleeping shirt, which Levi seems desperate to get out of the way.

With a red face, you watch him as he softly slides a hand beneath your shirt—his hot palm resting against your stomach. His pupils—which you note are now narrowed like the eyes of a snake—shake as he slowly hikes his hand higher—his fingers coasting against your skin. Your breathing hitches as he does so, but you find your gaze trained on his face—monitoring his reactions.

You’ve never seen someone so embarrassed, yet distressed by his own arousal. To you, it seems like Levi is constantly torn between running away, and giving into the deep, dark, perverted feelings he’s always kept to himself.

You bite your lip as his fingers finally skim up the valley of your chest. The cotton fabric of your shirt pools above your breasts as the sensitive mounds are finally revealed to Levi’s hungry gaze. His amber eyes start at the top, and drag their way down.

He reaches his hands out as he surveys you with his full attention—his fingers curling around your ribs, and his thumbs just barely brushing up against the underside of your breasts. Licking his lips, he slowly begins trailing his fingers down your sides. Levi takes note of every dip and curve, relishing the feel of you. And when his hands finally find your hips—his eyes falling to space between your legs—he visibly swallows.

His movement is hesitant, but he lowers his hands between your bodies and presses his thumbs at the folds of your pussy. You turn bright red beneath him—because even though Levi is obviously embarrassed as well—you’ve never had any person just spread you open before, and yet Levi does.

He peels you open, and you know you’re already wet. You don’t want to admit it, but him choking you had been a huge turn on, along with pretty much everything else.

Face burning, you lift your arm and partially shield your face. Levi is slow to notice. It seems like he’s in a trance.

Still keeping you spread with one hand, he shifts the other and curves two fingers between your walls—making you gasp.

Finally, his eyes flit up to you—taking in your cute blush, and the quick rise and fall of your chest. The swell of your tits, and your nipples that are hardened from arousal…

And here he is, knelt between your legs with two of his fingers in your pussy.

Which is wet.

For him.

In that moment, any of Levi’s reserves are stripped away.

You can sense the shift in him—see it as he jolts into action. He moves quickly—perhaps a little overly excited about what is happening.

Finally, he seems to have realized that yes, this is all real—and yes, he has consent to fuck you.

“L-Levi--!” you squeal as his tail suddenly curls around your ankle, tugging you closer to him as he hurriedly shoves his pants any underwear down his thighs. His cock springs free—longer than he is thick, but the veins along his shaft are prominent, and his length visibly twitches as Levi settles himself between your legs.

The head of his cock is already wet with his pre-cum, and you get the feeling he’s not far from coming. His breathing is shaky as he presses himself against your entrance—the first few inches of his length sinking in without much protest—and you groan happily.

“F-Fuck,” he bites, his voice pitched high as he pulls his hips back and then grinds in again—this time fully sheathing himself within your heat. His entire body visibly shudders—his face red, and eyes clouded with lust.

You suddenly feel somewhat shy beneath him—your thighs spread, and his cock stretching you out so deliciously.

“Kiss me,” you tell him, voice quiet, and Levi blinks. The next moment his lips are on yours. You quietly moan into him—accidentally breaking the kiss when he thrusts inside of you.

“O-Oh my god,” he groans, his hands finding your waist as he sits back and begins fucking into you with vigor. You raise an arm to shyly cover your face once more—your breasts bouncing at each intense thrust of his length inside of you—but Levi won’t have it.

His tail snakes up your body, wrapping around your wrist and tugging it away from your face. You startle, unable to do anything as the appendage searches out your other wrist and successfully drags it above your head. Within seconds, your wrists are pinned away from your face—and you can no longer hide your reactions from the demon above you.

“Make more sounds,” Levi speaks—somewhere between a beg and a command. You open your mouth to retort, and he purposefully fucks into you hard, effectively ripping a cry from your throat. Immediately your face flushes red in embarrassment, but the sight has a smile tugging at the corner of Levi’s lips

His dick throbs inside of you.

“Nnn--!” The Avatar of Envy continues thrusting into you. His motions are quick, and damning. Each thrust as you gasping and whining—pleasure thrumming in your gut. However, as your impending orgasm begins to build, Levi’s hips stutter, and his cock suddenly leaves you. Your gaze flits to him in surprise, watching as his dick visibly jumps. Then, he’s spurting his cum against your lower stomach—painting the soft skin streak after streak.

His breathing is harsh as he begins to come down from his high—his cock starting to soften, and honestly, you’re not mad. Sure, it would have been nice to cum along with him, but more than anything you’re happy that Levi had gotten what he needed. After all, he had won the ga—

You’re knocked out of your thoughts as the tail around your wrists suddenly tugs you upwards. It lifts you higher and higher—until you’re left on your knees, with your hands held high above your head.

“Levi?” you question, gaze falling on the male as his eyes shine.

“Huhuhu~ I’ve always wanted to do this,” he says, sounding far too giddy as he sinks into the tub and settles on his back. You’re about to ask him again what the hell he’s planning when his tail yanks you forward. Within seconds, you’ve been repositioned atop Levi, with your thighs caging either side of his head.

You feel your entire body heat up as you realize his intention—his hands lifting to grip your hips.

“Le-vi!” your voice hitches as he drags you down onto his face—his tongue lapping heartily between your soaking folds. He groans at the taste of you, his nails sinking into your skin as he keeps your womanhood thoroughly trapped against his mouth.

You feel him lick against your clit—the demon flicking the head of his tongue against the sensitive bud, and you take a sharp inhale. Your wrists strain against his tail, but you find yourself completely at Levi’s mercy as he begins eating you out like you’re his favorite food.

“Mmm~,” he moans happily, enjoying the way your body wriggles in his hold—wanton little cries falling from your lips. Applying a bit of pressure, begins rocking your hips back and forth against his face.

“Fuck,” you pant, feeling hot all over. Despite being embarrassed at your current position, the pleasure in your gut is rapidly building thanks to the demon’s bafflingly good oral. He spends most of his time on your clit—lapping, kissing, and sucking the bundle of nerves. But every so often he presses his tongue into your pussy, making you groan, and causing you to buck against him.

 Quicker than expected, you find yourself on the brink of an orgasm—your pussy writhing against Levi’s mouth.

“I—I’m gonna--,” you attempt to warn him, and he hears the hidden plea within your breathy words. Don’t stop. And he doesn’t—his tongue flicking quickly against your clit. You cry out, pussy throbbing and muscles tightening. Your body momentarily stills, a stifled moan caught in your throat as your orgasm finally arrives—a brief moment of peace before you find yourself tumbling into your pleasure. And Levi draws out your bliss as long as he can—his lips wrapping around clit and sucking. You gasp, floundering in his hold as the pleasure borders on oversensitivity, but Levi refuses to release you—not yet.

It’s another minute before he lets up—convinced by your tiny, desperate pleas that you can cum no more—your clit twitching with aftershocks against his tongue.

His hands release your hips, and you suck in a deep breath of air—your chest heaving as you struggle to regain your coherency. Your mind is hazy—body slumping forward tiredly (because god, that was one hell of an orgasm).

You whine quietly when Levi’s tail pulls at your arms—lifting you up so that Levi has just enough room to scoot out from beneath you. You can hear the cushions and blankets of the tub shifting behind you as the demon moves around.

“Mm,” you make a small sound as his tail finally loosens a bit—allowing your arms to drop forward. Your fingers grip against the edge of the tub—thighs shaky as you support your own weight for the first time in minutes. However, when a few seconds pass and his tail is still wrapped around your wrists, you pause.

“Levi?”

His response is to saddle up behind you—his now-hard cock settling against your ass. You freeze in surprise.

You…hadn’t expected him to get so aroused just from eating you out. He’s back at full mast.

“Levi,” you whine as his hands find your ass cheeks—squeezing them together around his cock.

“Y-You said I could have—ah—whatever I want,” he reminds you breathlessly.

“But—”

“Just…o-one more time,” he begs, and you gasp when he moves his hips—his cock finding its way between your wet folds. When the head of his length brushes up against your clit, your entire body shakes. You’re still extremely sensitive from your orgasm, and your body feels like a bag of bones, but nonetheless you find yourself nodding your head.

He did win, and you want to fulfill his desires best you can.

At your submission, Levi is quick to act. He shoves his cock inside of you without warning, and you gasp—your fingers tightening around the edge of the tub. The demon moans—hands firm on your hips as he begins thrusting into you. In the same beat, he drags your body back onto his cock.

Lewd, wet sounds fill the space between your bodies—your arousal slicking Levi’s cock as he fucks you—and he groans.

His pace is less frantic than before. His motions are smoother—his hips rolling against your ass. The motions manage to draw a moan from your lips, and you start to become lost in the feeling of his cock stretching your walls open.

In fact, you’re so focused on how good it feels to be full again—the head of his length finding that sweet spot within you and pressing against it with each thrust—that you don’t notice when his tail unfurls from around your wrists.

You do realize it, however, when the tip of his tail presses at your lips. Your previously closed eyes shoot open—a gasp of surprise muffled by the scaled appendage as it snakes its way into your mouth.

“Mmph--!” your whine of protest is lost. His tail fills your mouth—moving out of sync with his thrusts—and your eyes roll back when he ventures too deep and causes you to gag. The gag, however, also causes your pussy to clamp around his dick, and Levi moans.

“Oh my god.”

His tail begins to fuck into your mouth with a bit more fervor—pressing into your throat and causing you to gag every few seconds. Each time, you hear Levi’s breathing stutter, and you know he’s drawing closer and closer to his orgasm.

Despite how fucked out you feel already—spit sloppy against your chin, with your body slumping tiredly against the edge of the tub—you begin to feel your arousal building as well. As tired as you are, your body is somehow ramping up to another orgasm.

Honestly, you wouldn’t mind not cumming, though, you think to yourself as tears threaten to spill over your bottom lashes. You can sense that your clit is still overly sensitive, and you feel like you may actually fade out of existence if another orgasm rips through you.

So, you quietly decide that if you don’t cum, it will be fine. Levi, however, has different ideas.

The base of his tail curves—resting against your clit as the appendage continues to fuck into your mouth. You immediately cry out—body writhing—because with each thrust of his tail between your lips, he’s now also rubbing against your clit.

“Nnn!” your arms give out beneath you, broken sobs wracking your chest. Levi grunts, and you feel him shift forward—his chest pressing flush against your back as he readjusts his position.

“So good. You f-feel so good,” he pants. His breath is warm against your neck, and his arms wrap around your chest. He holds you tightly against him—his arm circled just beneath your breasts—and you gasp as he begins fucking into you once more.

His tail, which had also stilled, resumes its motions. The brief moment of rest is over, and you’re once again left crying around the scaled appendage. You reach your breaking point within a few seconds—tears finally streaking down your cheeks as the demon forces you to choke around his tail once more. Your pussy clenches around Levi’s dick—and with a few more rubs of his tail against your clit, you’re cumming.

Any remaining strength in your body disappears, your body going limp in Levi’s hold as you shudder—your orgasm tearing through you.

Knowing that you need to breathe, Levi removes his tail from your mouth, but doesn’t let you go. He keeps you trapped against him, his cock working inside of you with a few desperate thrusts, and then, finally, he cums as well.

The Avatar of Envy empties inside of you with a spent, but satisfied groan—listening to your quick, shuddering breaths as you attempt to recover from a lack of oxygen.

“Thank you. Mmm, t-thank you so much. That…I…that…mmm,” he’s left mumbling against the skin of your neck, his hips still pressed to your ass. You feel him going soft inside of you—his cum beginning to leak down your thighs—but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

The only thing keeping you from passing out right then and there is the purple haired demon, and his quiet, thankful praises.

“I’m glad you got what you wanted,” you eventually whisper, your hand lifting to pet against his head. He nods against your neck, shuddering when he finally slips from inside of you.

With a grunt of effort, he sits back onto his knees, and then grabs your waist. Soon, you’re both laying tiredly beside one another in the basin of the tub, and you glance over at the Avatar of Envy. At some point, he had removed his hot clothing, so now he lays completely bare beside you—his pale skin flushed, and sweaty.

You can’t help but smile at the sight of him, and when he notices you’re staring, he blushes.

“What?” he mumbles, rolling onto his side to face you. You giggle tiredly, your palm reaching out to cup his cheek, and your tender gaze makes him melt.

“Nothing. I’m just…happy. You’re cute.”

“…you can’t just say that,” he whines, but nonetheless presses into your touch. You laugh again, but choose not to comment. You don’t want to suddenly have him feeling all self-conscious after all of…that.

“We should do that more often,” you comment, hoping to reassure him that you enjoyed yourself. You roll onto your side, spent, and snuggle into the pillow beneath your head. You know you’re filthy and in need of a shower, but right now, you seriously can’t move.

After a few seconds, an arm hesitantly wraps around your waist, and you feel Levi’s chest press against your back.

“D…do you really want to?”

His voice is quiet, but full of hope. You nod, snuggling back against him.

“Yeah. It would certainly make game night more exciting for the both of us.”

At that, he finally giggles. Levi’s arms wrap tightly around you, giving you a squeeze, and he makes a sound of contentment.

Within a minute, you’re asleep in his arms, and the Avatar of Envy is quick to follow you into dreamland, but not before pressing a kiss to your hair.

“You’re cuter,” he mumbles, barely audible, and then he’s gone as well.

The week following your ecstasy filled game night is…amusing. Well, at least for you.

Anytime Levi sees you, he turns bright red, and—more times than not—pops a boner.

He’s left running around, trying to preserve his modesty, while his brothers wonder if he’s okay. You tell them that he’s just…disgruntled…when thinking about your last game night, and—knowing how competitive Leviathan can be—they buy it.

Each time it happens, however, you’re left giggling to yourself—wondering exactly how a boy who fucked you silly can be so damn embarrassed by his own dirty thoughts.

It’s honestly adorable.

And you can’t wait for next time.

[hiyaluronic]

The beginnings of the ragnarok/loki series xover that has decided to take over my brain is below...

---------

The chaos of the battlefield around him dwindled to nothing more than a muted play of distant actions that seemed foreign to him, almost dreamlike; as if he was watching everything happen from far away. He could hear someone scream behind him, the person’s voice so loud that the earth vibrated beneath his bare feet with such frenetic energy that Laurits swore the reverberations shook the very energy that made up his being. 

Something sweet and pungent drifted across the barren valley while everything seemed to slow. There was a flash of lightning above that split the grey sky and illuminated the battle around him, the clash of swords and shouts of rage dulled when the lightning gave way to a loud crack of thunder that echoed and rippled through the valley, seeming to shake the mountains that framed the basin.

Laurits turned, his hands bright and burning at his sides, his fingers a deep green from pent up magic he’d yet to unleash. He watched, time seeming to stretch to an infinite amount of seconds before him, as Ran notched an arrow across the valley and aimed. Off to his side, somewhere in the rage of angered shouts and cries of pain, he heard Oscar scream his name. The deep timbre of the other man’s voice was shaky and lilted in concern. Laurits flexed his fingers and raised his hands in warning to Ran. The seidr that he’d worked so painstakingly hard to master interweaved around his fingers and crackled like fireworks. 

Laurits was so focused on Ran that he missed when something sharp and agonizing slammed into his side and caused him to crash to the ground in a heap. He gasped, colors swirling across his vision when his head bounced off the rocky ground beneath him. Laurits groaned and blinked, the bright blue of Magne’s otherworldly eyes staring wide and unsure down at him. 

“Ma-magne?” He hated how childish his voice sounded, how his brother's name rolled off his tongue in uncertainty. He could see the deep obsidian of Magne’s pupils expanding to eat away at the blue of his brother’s irises and contrasting with the ashen pallor his brother’s skin had taken on, making the cherry red of Magne’s cheeks stand out in worrisome detail. 

“I… I couldn’…”

A haggard cough had Laurits reaching up to grasp his brother's shoulders when Magne’s arms buckled. “Magne?” 

“I…i saved...you.”

“You’re an idiot.” The affectionate reprimand made Magne smile, his brother’s teeth stained a ruddy color that reminded him of the time he and Magne had eaten one too many cinnamon candies. 

Laurits hesitantly tightened his grip on Magne’s shoulders to steady his brother, concern and ice cold fear settled uneasily in his gut as he quietly called Magne’s name once more. When his brother ignored the soft plea, he gently rolled the older boy off him and scooted to his knees. His hands hovered in uncertainty over the mess that made up his brother's side. He winced in sympathy, a section of Magne’s shirt had been burned away, the skin left charred around the edges of an angry looking wound that wept bright red and brown fluid in vigor, saturating the jeans Magne wore and smelling foul.

“I don’t know what to do Magne, Wotan wouldn’t teach me healing magic.” And he’d hated the older man for it. Odin had deemed healing magic to feminine an art, and unworthy of a male learning the finer workings of magic. Laurits now wished he had told Odin to get fucked as he turned his attention from the wound to the blood speckled face of his brother. 

“H...hornns.”

Laurits frowned and leaned closer to Mange, “Horns?”

“Fe-feel it.”

“You’re not making any sense.” He shook his head and gripped the lapel of Magne’s jacket until his fingers were white and aching. “Magne, stay with me, yeah?”

He could see Magne fighting against the chilling grip of death. He watched his brother gasp tiny wisps of air while trying and failing to form words before seeming to settle and still; his otherworldly blue eyes fading. Laurits’s eyes burned at the realization that his brother had slipped from this world with little fanfare. “Y-you idiot. You self-sacrificing bumbling idiot.”

Another flash of lightning - orange this time, Laurits noted - sparked above, casting an eerie glow over Magne’s blonde hair and vacant gaze. Laurits closed his eyes; his brother wasn’t supposed to die. They had made a promise to each other that it would be different this time… Ragnarok would not be the death of everything they had worked so hard to achieve and protect. It would not be their end. He and Magne had forbidden it. And, yet... “Please, brother, please…”

Laurits curled around Magne’s chest, his own chest heaving with each heavy breath he took. 

This had to be a dream.

Had to be an illusion. 

Some sort of spell cast by the Jutuls to distract from the battle.

The air seemed thick and cloying, settling like a heavy blanket around him and creating an unbearable heat that gathered within him at the notion that someone would use such a cruel trick to subdue a godling. Laurits sat back on his haunches, focused on the battle of gods and giants with an odd sort of frozen numbness. His head lolled to the side, attention settling on his Stepmother who had just loosed an arrow and was in the midst of notching another. Laurits slowly stood, his mind and body a million miles away from one another and caught Ran’s attention from across the valley. His hands moved without conscious thought as seidr gathered and swelled around his fingers. He realized how easy it would be to smother the very essence that made up the giantess with the gentlest push of his will. How easy it would be to bring Ran to her knees by burning her precious waters till nothing was left but the cracked silt of the ocean floor and the floundering bodies of the creatures that lived there in their death throes. 

His fingers twitched.

“Variant identified.”

The voice barely registered, Laurits was too focused on Ran to notice that someone had stepped up behind him until a hand grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn. Laurits brought his hand up to defend himself but was stopped when the unknown woman grabbed his arm and jerked it painfully out to the side and twisted, one of her hands coming to rest against the base of his neck. 

“On behalf of the Time Variance Authority, I hereby arrest you for crimes against the Sacred Timeline. You’re to come with us, Variant.”

“T-the what?” Laurits hissed as something tight settled around his neck and he was pulled up and shoved into the waiting arms of two men dressed in black armor. “Let go!”

The woman huffed and turned to another person dressed in the same strange getup, “Reset the timeline.”

“Hey!” Laurits shouted when the unknown person the woman had addressed knelt and situated a glowing tube beside the still form of Magne. “Get away from him!”

The woman turned to him with a raised brow and shook her head, dismissing him. “Let’s go!” 

“Magne!” Laurits fought against the arms around him, trying and failing to reach his brother as he was pushed and pulled backwards by the men holding him, “Magne!”

He dug his heels into the ground and grunted with effort as he tried to pull away. The men holding him yanked back on him and pulled him through an oddly colored orange doorway. The last thing he saw was a wash of yellow saturating the still form of his brother and Magne melting away to the ground below. 

“No!”

[diary-of-an-onliner]

feet on the ground [f.w.]

word count: 3381

warnings: none

a/n: this is based on, and a counterpart/continuation of @ickle-ronniekins 's head in the clouds — thanks for the inspo babe, this one is for you

Fred Weasley was not happy. Sure, he had made a lot of questionable, or as other people like to say 'bad', decisions in his life, but taking Care of Magical Creatures was one of the worst. Yes, it made Hagrid ecstatic, and that's always a good thing to see; yes, it's useful for his future business. However a hellfire-cracken the size of a shoebox was making him rethink his choices.

For the lack of a better distraction, he focused on digging a hole in the grass with his trainer as Hagrid’s rumbled instructiones flew over his head, missing both ears and zooming away into an indifferent oblivion. George is taking this already, he looked to George, who was quite enchanted with his partner, and thoroughly enjoying it, couldn't we have split up? He kicked the dirt lightly, startling the girl next to him.

Neither Fred nor his Slytherin partner were thrilled with each other,but misery loves company, so it might be for the best.

"How's the weather up there?" said his partner, who was crouching eye — er, shell-level, with the creature, but keeping her distance nonetheless. Her hair waved and flickered on her shoulder as she bounced on her heels.

"Immaculate, thanks for asking." he said, not wanting to get closer to the scorpion-lobster lovechild from the asshole of hell. "Y'know Hagrid said those things burn, bite, and sting, right?"

"So do I.” she said sarcastically, still keeping her gaze tied to the monster. “I'm not going to touch it, I'm just looking. You're aware we need to sketch it, label its parts and write an essay about it later?" Fred shifted his weight from foot to foot restlessly.

"Yes." his nostrils flared.

She pursed her lips and, after a moment of silence, said: "I dare you to touch it."

He crossed his arms. "I am not taking dares from you. We met three minutes ago and I haven't enjoyed a second of it."

"What's up your ass?" she turned to him, still crouching. "Actually, I don't care. Just don't take it out on me." The creature clicked their — tail? — pincers? — their something.

"I wasn't—" she raised an eyebrow and he fell silent, and looked away.

"'m not very thrilled to be here." he mumbled. "And that ugly death trap isn't making it better. Can we start over?" he asked, sighing and tiredly sweeping his left hand through his hair, and offering his right to her.

She took it and pulled herself up, then promptly smoothed out her skirt, shook his still proffered hand, and introduced herself.

Unlike his messy untucked shirt, her uniform was pressed down to the socks and her shoes held no traces of mud. It gave her a calculating, and slightly cold aura, as if she was drawn with a set of rulers and a compass. She was probably more geometrical than anyone who had ever taken Care of Magical Creatures.

"Fred." he said, even though she knew.

"Well Fred, we will be working together on this Blast-Ended Skrewt for the next few weeks, so that 'ugly death trap’ is our son you're talking about." she chided with a smile that better belonged on a sly fox rather than a girl.

"You sound very attached to it." he shot back. An idea, a thought, a silver of a notion that this might be fun slithered along the floor of his skull.

"Him.” She corrected with her pointer finger in the air. “And it's called being a good parent." she lightly jabbed him in the chest.

"Okay then. Go pet your son." Fred smirked.

They turned toward the beast which was playing in the grass like a puppy. It seemed to be wiggling its tails.

Her eyes narrowed: "Which part is the head?"

"I don't know. We should probably figure it out, since the other side shoots flames." he said in an amused tone.

"It's supposed to be a sucker, so it might be the penis-looking side." he chuckled, but when she turned to stare at him expectantly, his red eyebrow jumped in question. A breeze ruffled their hair.

"Go on then, don't be shy, we need to compare." she said flatly.

He burst out laughing so hard, a few people around them turned to stare - quite a dangerous thing to do at the moment seeing as some of the beasts started snipping. A yelp sounded from afar, and Fred laughed even harder.

At least his partner is funny.

"Seriously though, this thing is going to fire-fart on us soon and we need to figure it out."

“You don’t feel better in nature?” her tone piqued as she turned the pages of a book. Their desk was covered with them, during the first of their many study meetings.

“No.” Fred played with his quill, spinning it through his fingers. “You do?”

“I feel clearer, especially near water.”, thump, she shut her book and discarded it.

“How come?” he balanced on the back legs of his chair, eyes darting around.

“I don’t know. It’s not a thing I question.”, flip, flip, flip, “It just lures me out of my head, and makes me feel a little more real, like I’m aware of my own existence. Sharper, yknow?”

Fred shook his head.

“I don’t have a need to get out of my head, it’s great in there.” he joked. She snorted and passed him a book with a piece of paper sticking out.

“Don’t you? You seem to be in there a lot though. I think you think too much.” Fred chukled, “That’s something I've never been told.”

“Then it’s about time.” she threw his way, but she had yet to look at him, Fred noted. The idea of her as geometrical played around in his head. “Try it next time. People exist a little sharper sometimes. It stops you from feeling like you’re going to float away.” her eyes finally flickered to him like two needles of her compasses, and shot him down. His chair hit the ground.

Before Fred had a chance to say something else or roll her idea around in his brain, she passed him a piece of parchment with a soft order to, “Write.”

His diagram of their unnamed child was much neater than hers, but his illegible handwriting distracted from it perfectly.

"That is not a t."she said, her hair almost electrified from stress-combing it with her hands.

"It's obviously a g." he chirped, but his tone sounded worn down all the same. She squinted at the paper with her mouth open for a moment, then gave up.

"How are you still this peppy?" she asked as her gaze lazily rolled itself away from the books. His tie was completely undone and being used as a bookmark, his shirt unbuttoned and ruffled like his hair, ha, carrot head!, but he took no note of it as he balanced on the back legs of his chair again. Every so often, a clank would sound amid their conversation when the chair struck against the stone floor and his feet hit the ground, before he leaned back again.

"What are you talking about? I'm knackered." he yawned.

She looked up, and her thoughts leaked out of her head. The scenery through the window behind him was gorgeous, lit on fire by the dusk— oversaturated reds and pinks which lined the dark purple clouds.

With a loud tap on the library floor, the front legs of Fred's chair touched the ground and his head covered the sun perfectly, giving him a golden lining and making his orange hair melt into the background. The clear lines of his face looked almost chiseled in contrast to the haziness behind him.

A weight settled in the center of her torso, an iron bowling ball rolling between her stomach and her heart. He was handsome. She knew this. But she used to know it the way one knows they should drink water when they’re thirsty. Knowing you needed it after you drink him in, swallow, and sign, is another story.

She felt a warm metal line grow out of her chest, like a vine towards the sunlight, enter his chest and settle.

For a few moments she imagined it. She tried to note the dragging sensation of warm iron and let herself be pulled to him. She imagined the ball rolling in his center, and all his squirming being in an attempt to adjust it instead of just staying awake.

Then she blinked. Took in the real scene. Despite being exhausted, she felt tranquil in their little corner filled with books and a few very ugly sketches. She picked one up.

“Are we allowed to call his head a dick?” She questioned, but Fred just yawned and shrugged. His chair tipped back again.

“You’ll hurt yourself.” She said flatly, words moving from line to line like trains with the shittiest track designs ever.

“The thrill keeps me awake.” he closed his eyes, hair still a burning red. She didn’t dare look at the Sun for too long. Her eyes tried to follow the words. The ball rolled.

He slid another sketch towards her. “I think we should use this one.”

She put the first one aside, their hands brushing as she took the new parchment. She heard the scraping of his chair on the floor as he moved closer until his collarbone pressed against her shoulder as he leaned over to point. The body heat he was emitting only reminded her of the weariness her body carried. It also refashioned her bowling ball into an anchor slowly sinking through her stomach, tickling her insides on the way down.

The sketch was neater and much simpler than others, no more than a handful of black lines on a yellowing parchment.

“This part is the head.” Fred pointed out. “I think. It looks weird and there isn’t exactly a good reference for a randomly cross-bred demon.” He seemed so focused on his drawing that she got the feeling he was avoiding her eyes intentionally. Stupid, really. They’re both just tired and have a lot of work.

Look at me.

He didn’t.

She banished all her stupid silly thoughts, and tried to turn to the books for the next few hours.

Fred stayed circling warmly on the edge of her orbit, moving around her but never looking, never acknowledging her as anything other than a voice and a pair of friendly working hands. The silly stupid thread she felt earlier vibrated. She didn't bring it up for fear they wouldn't finish all their work if she were to derail the conversation, so she waited until the end of their study session.

However, when the anticipated end neared, his chair hit the stone the last time and when she turned to him, Fred was lying on his arms on the table, asleep. His outline was as bright and as sharp as ever, but his face was soft and smooth from relaxation, like a marble statue melting. The anchor in her stomach lurch up at the sight, but she swallowed it down, smiled, and laid her head on the table too.

Another sunny afternoon had George almost skipping to his quirky partner. And Fred was glad, he liked to see his brother happy and loved teasing him for being in love even more — but he still hated the bloody beasts. He was thankful for George's efforts to cheer him up, but Fred refused to move out from under his personal gloomy cloud, choosing to carry it alone instead, the way one would an umbrella.

As soon as George mentions his partner, he knows it's time to leave him to his beloved, as he does, with minimal mocking involved (—but come on!).

As Fred approached her, he saw her roll her eyes. Funny. Something about knowing she's as un-excited as he is made his chest swell up with what can only be described as the sudden understanding of the real depth of companionship between you and a stranger, an acquaintance, a friend. I might not like this, but I am not alone.

"They're four feet long already. Your future sister-in-law," said his partner, gesturing to George's love with her head, at which Fred smiled warmly, "said we only get to work with them for another class. I think she might cry." His clouds stopped thundering.

"Don't be rude." he replied but did not sound angry in the least.

"I'm not. She's a nice girl and God bless her for being passionate about this. We need people like her, otherwise the rest of us would have to care as well." she reasoned.

"There's that warm and welcoming Slytherin care I've heard all about." he said sarcastically.

"Rude. Gingers truly are soulless." Fred got nudged in the ribs.

"Oi!"

"Oi yourself!" she flipped her hair and flashed her foxy smile. No, it's fox-like. "Don't start things you can't finish."

"Well, I'm ready to be done with this thing." he looked pointedly at the snapping creature reaching out to them like a baby in a cot.

They received their instructions from Hagrid to feed, entertain, and check the health of the creature and set off to work. After a few minutes of silence, Fred spoke.

"I think there's something wrong with this thing." he squinted.

"Him." She corrected, "He's our son."

"Well I think our son is pregnant." Fred’s face soured.

“No way." she replied, kneeling closer to the beast than she'd ever dared before. "How do you know?"

"A hunch?" Fred shrugged his very nicely shaped shoulders. No! "I'm not sure. It did eat three times as much as the others. It should be a lot fatter."

"He." She absent-mindedly corrected, trying to get a good enough look.

"He doesn't look sick but he's being weird." he squatted next to her, bouncing on his heels.

"Maybe he's lonely. We both ditched a few times." She bumped her knee into his. "I dare you to touch him."

Fred laughed as he turned to her. "I'm not that commited of a father. You do it."

"Why me? You need to do something too!" she whined as their son approached in a rather puppy-like gait, as if he was going to rub against their legs, and Fred's gaze slipped off her, like that day in the library.

"I'll do whatever you want.” he paused "Within reason, of course."

"Touch him."

"Within reason."

"Fine." their dark-shelled son stood before them now, but they were not as hesitant this time. The beast looked at Fred with either his head or his stinger (how is it still not clear?).

Slowly and shakily, her hand reached out. She almost withdrew it, but it already made contact with their son's back and he made a sound similar to purring, which was both surprising and unsettling. Her face bent in disgust as her entire palm pressed against his black shell, gleaming maroon in the sunlight.

"Ew. He's slimy." she detached her hand to see a catran-like substance coating it. "How is he slimy?"

Fred's nose was scrunched as well but an amused gleam flickered on his face nonetheless. “Disgusting.”

"Well, I did it." she complained, trying to wipe her hand on his arm, but he rose to his feet quickly, laughing.

“Keep that to yourself.” Fred warned, trying to avoid her swift attempts to use him as a rag.

“Come on!” She whined. “We’re in this together. If I have to be gross then so do you.” she jumped up after Fred.

He felt weightless as he maneuvered around her and the clawing beast that still purred by their feet, and he realized how warm the sunlight was. His little cloud was gone. In that distracted second of their impromptu three-creature quickstep, she wrapped her clean hand around his hand and pulled herself closer to him.

She grinned from ear to ear, and Fred felt her wet, cold hand sliding down his shoulder. She wiped a few times down his arm and chest with a wickedly satisfied look in her face as he wondered why he didn’t mind it so much. His eyes danced over her face the way his trainers had over the grass mere seconds ago.

“What?” she asked. Wait, she was speaking.

“Um, nothing.” his face rearranged itself from a goofy smile (What?) and he looked at his stained shirt. Before he even had time to comment, her voice made the center of his stomach tighten.

“Do you think he'd lick one if she asked?” Fred followed her gaze to George, looking as dreamy as his partner who was purring back at their Blast-Ended Skrewt. Sunlight covered them too.

Her hand still held onto him.

Fred sighed, both amused and lightheaded from a new discovery threatening to unveil its face in his mind. George laughed so loudly it reached Fred’s ears, and he responded, “Yes.”

“Would you lick one for me?” she batted her eyelashes.

“Absolutely not.” he said without missing a beat.

“What kind of a father won't even lick his own son?” she put a hand on her chest, faux-horrified.

“I still think our son is pregnant.” he said, grinning at her.

“What kind of a father won't lick his own pregnant son?” she humored.

“You're making this worse than it has to be.”

Her eyebrow rose as she offered: “You can always do this alone?”

“No.” something ugly and covered in spikes spun in Fred's stomach.

“Well then,” she said smugly, as if she knew, “you need to start cooperating.” She tugged on his arm with her hand that was there the whole time. Her arm slid around his as she pulled him along, and Fred adjusted his collar with his fingers. When did they get so far away from the group?

“You don’t pet him, you don’t groom him with your tongue like a cat, what do you do? I haven’t seen you change a single diaper!” she over-exaggerated. “I’m basically a single mother!”

He laughed and apologized, feeling lighter and sharper than he had all day.

His future sister-in-law was wrong. They worked on their loving, puppy-like hell scorpions for three more classes, and had another one in a classroom, correcting their essays. During that class, they found out that their son really was pregnant, at which they laughed all the way to the Great Hall.

Fred felt something heavy rolling over his intestines when he thought of the end. It wound itself around his organs until his lips dropped. Nevertheless, he grinned at George (who definitely saw through him), and, with his chin up like a proud lion, departed from him to sit next to his partner, one last time.

He thought about her more often than he expected to, and he feared he might have to stop soon.

As he slid next to her, his metaphorical tail curled closer to him. She beamed brightly at him, and offered her closed fist.

“You ready, partner?”

No, he curled his fingers with a smile, I don’t think I am, and bumped their hands together.

“Doesn’t have to end? Didn't you listen?” she asked him incredulously as he caught up with her. He couldn’t say he has, as his ears buzzed deafeningly loudly since they received their O.

Maybe she had a point when she said there were moments when people felt more defined as he was more sure than ever that he existed in the corridor leading to the Care of Magical Creatures classroom, as his limbs filled with lead at the way she spoke.

“I just thought if you—” his mouth shit on its own. “You know—”

“Holy shit, you really didn’t listen?” but this time she laughed. “Hagrid said we can pick our own partners for the next project.” Her arm curled around his own, “So unless you want to dump me, we march on.”

Whatever heavy thing has been making his stomach a winter home the past week flew off to their summer residence.

She definitely had a point about grounded moments, because when her hand squeezed his arm, the lead leaked out and the awareness of every part of his body slammed into focus.

And Fred smiled back.

She smiled promisingly at him, his heart stuttered, and his sneakers sunk into the stone beneath him.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

PORNSTAR!HARRY WITH THE NEW BEARD (me? wet)

“What d’you think, then?”

Harry scratches absentmindedly at the thick stubble covering the lower half of his face, the coarse, light brown hairs heavily dusting his upper lip and haloing around his mouth and chin.

His eyebrows perk up at Y/N expectantly, awaiting her response as he sits across from her in the break room, laid out on the sofa with his head mounted against the elbowrest. His arms tighten around the maroon velvet cushion he’s hugging to his chest, a certain anxiousness jittering in his veins. He doesn’t know why her opinion matters to him or why the suspense is tearing his stomach to shreds, but it does and he can’t stop it and it’s fucking annoying, to say the least.

In his line of work, Harry had learned not to make severe emotional attachments to his partners. A platonic relationship is fine— he tended to naturally attract people without much effort and he thrives in social settings; friendships were bound to form— and a casual “friends with benefits” type of arrangement isn’t off the table, either. However, the industry had hardened him into being the kind of person who doesn’t care what others think of him. He never put much thought into people’s mundane concerns towards him (like whether his new beard was attractive or not) unless he had started to develop deeper connections, which then leads to him harvesting feelings, which in turn causes him to act like a complete lovesick moron and usually topples him into an actual solid dating situation. And if there’s anything Harry has painstakingly learned through multiple trials and errors is that being an adult entertainer while simultaneously engaging in a serious relationship never mixes well.

Yet here he is, waiting for their assigned filming room to be ready so they can go in and shoot a scene for a new video. Here he is, playing with a loose seam thread on the couch pillow, tugging at it nervously to give himself something to focus on other than the silence suffocating the room— a silence he himself had instilled by asking such a random, pointed question. Here he is, with sparks firing off in the pit of his tummy as the leg hanging off the side of the sofa bounces restlessly on his heel, toes curling in his pastel yellow Vans. He hasn’t felt this like this in so long he thinks he might vomit right onto the coffee table.

Y/N is extended across the loveseat opposite his, her legs draped over the armrest, knees bent and feet swaying back and forth distractedly. Her hands are cradled against her stomach, fingers sifted together as she taps at her knuckles, head snuggled into a throw pillow identical to his.

She had snapped her head to the side at his sudden question, surprised by the low thrum of his voice reaching across the still air since she thought he had fallen into a nap.

She’d run into him earlier as he had hurried inside the building, Nike gym bag slung over his shoulder and thudding against his hip as he made a beeline for his dressing room, itching for a shower. She figured that after exerting himself with a heavy workout and washing away the tension in his muscles with warm water, he’d probably want to get some sleep in before their shoot in order he to be at the top of his game. But evidently, Harry is wide awake, staring at her over the glass table between their makeshift beds, eyebrows raised in curiosity at her thoughts on the facial hair he’s sporting.

Y/N stares at him thoughtfully for a few seconds, eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in this never before seen appearance.

She’d been working for this company for just over two months now and she had never seen Harry with more than just a light bit of stubble. One can imagine her shock when he had waltzed in with a decently thick bushel covering half his face. She almost didn’t recognize him, being so used to his clean, boyish face rather than a hairy, full-fledged man. She hadn’t quite processed the change since their fleeting interaction prior to his bath, but apparently her take on it interested him and for some unknown reason, that notion makes her cheeks sizzle.

The response she blurts out makes her wish she could implode on command.

“You kinda look like Paul Bunyan.”

Harry blinks at her blankly exactly three times, shifting upwards higher against the armrest and cocking his head to the side in awed confusion. “Pardon?”

Y/N parts her lips to speak but her brain can’t seem to find a way to justify the idiotic, nerve-induced comment she’d just made. After a moment of charged silence, she splutters out a semi-acceptable explanation.

“Y’know, Paul Bunyan. The lumberjack guy? With the blue ox?”

Harry continues to stare at her, emerald irises twinkling with a mystified haze and eyebrows scrunched down in bewilderment.

She swallows quickly, feeling heat crawl up the sides of her neck. “He’s this folklore legend that they use to tell us about back in grade school. Disney even made a cute little short film about him.”

He blinks at her again, not sure how to react to her response since he has no fucking clue what she’s going on about. All he knows is that he wants to calm the ragging in his belly and possibly ebb some type of compliment out of her to tide over the craving for her approval.

He takes a wild stab and hopes for the best.

“So he’s a lumberjack, yeah? That must mean he was ripped. Was he hot?”

Y/N bursts into a round of easy laughter, feeling all the tension wash out of her in a huge wave of relief. Leave it to Harry to be a total dolt at the perfect time.

“Yeah, he was, actually. I used to have a crush on him, despite the fact that he was a literal cartoon.”

Harry’s lips break into a cheeky, satisfied grin, his dimples pinching into place. He sits forward, dropping the couch cushion into his lap and leaning back onto the palms of his hands, head lulling on his shoulder as one of his knees bends upwards to rest his heel at the edge of the sofa. He gives his brows a cocky shrug, well aware of how her gaze momentarily flickers to ogle at his widely parted thighs. He’d made the right call to wear his Adidas joggers, the thin polyester material obviously strained by what resides between his legs.

“Guess that means you have a crush on me now, too. By association.”

Y/N’s glazed eyes dart back up to his face and she tries to cover up her little escapade by snorting humorously, shaking her head lightly in amusement. “He was a bit taller than you, though. Makes him sexier.”

His voice comes out slathered with fake pained insult. “That’s no fair, I can’t even control that! How tall was he? Bet I could take him.”

She bites into her lower lip, a small playful grin peeking around her teeth at the ensuing banter. “Well, according to the myth, he’s seven feet tall.”

Harry scoffs dismissively, swinging an arm forward and settling his wrist over his bent knee, hand turning palm upwards for emphasis. “I can take him, no problem. A foot is nothing.”

Y/N props her chin onto her shoulder, maintaining her comfortable position stretched out across the couch, her back supported by the armrest. She sucks at her teeth in disagreement, pursing her lips with exaggerated contemplation. “I dunno, H. A foot is more than you think. What are you gonna do, jump on his back?”

He points at her warningly with his index finger, tone adamant. “I just fucking might!”

She releases another fit of bubbly giggles, cupping her tummy instinctively and for some reason that simple, unintentionally adorable action makes Harry’s pulse flutter in his temples.

He remains quiet for a bundle of heartbeats, just admiring the way her entire face glows when she smiles. He loves how bright she is— how lively and tender and easy-going. Her personality always shines through, no matter the instance. Whether it’s at a restaurant with their friend group, or at a get together at someone’s house, or when they’re sitting in the break room having a random, silly chat, or when he's balls-deep inside her with cameras trained on their every movement and there’s people watching every brush of their swollen lips, every caress of their heated skin, and every desperate plead whimpered onto eager tongues — no matter the tone and texture of the situation, she’s always the most blinding factor in the room. She’s just so golden.

“So you really think I can’t take this Bunyan bloke?” Harry inquires with a joking edge, his two front teeth chewing at the corner of his mouth to keep himself from grinning like an enamored fool.

“He’s a pretty big guy.” Y/N quips matter-of-factly, giving her shoulders a gentle shrug.

The edges of his lips twitch into a sly smirk. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty big, too...and you can attest to that.”

Even from across the room, he can see the way her whole body tightens at his lascivious dig. Her fingers halt the tapping on her knuckles and her eyes can’t seem to break free from his coy gaze, air struggling to expand her lungs.

Harry somehow always manages to make her speechless and she wishes he didn’t have that hold over her. They’re friends and coworkers; this influence on her could end in a real mess if she isn’t careful and the gig she has here at the company is too good to risk it. The porn industry is littered with producers that exploit their workers and women are more susceptible to this abuse than men, but somehow amidst the pile of shitty businesses, she had managed to book a permanent spot at a facility that treats their workers with the respect and dignity they deserve. Harry had been working here way longer than she had— he’d been here before she even knew the company existed. If things went downhill, she would have to be the one to leave.

Technicalities aside, Y/N’s worst fear is ruining her relationship with Harry. He had been the person that had comfortably eased her into the whole world of sexual entertainment and she would forever be thankful to him for making her experience smooth and seamless. They’d developed a decent friendship along the way, their personalities clicking together perfectly from the second they had been introduced, their chemistry practically palpable. Harry had been her partner in almost all of her videos— save a handful she had done with other stars as a way of testing the waters and branching out— and had introduced her to all of the friends she had made here. He’d shot with her for her first ever video in this profession and helped welcome her into something she had been extremely terrified to try. She cherishes him beyond words, which is why the idea of allowing some harmless flirting to grow into something with the potential to end in disaster outright ices her blood.

What she hates the most is that such a simple cocky comment had sent her into a midlife crisis.

She anchors herself back into reality, clearing her throat softly as her lashes flutter. “You’re a moron.”

Harry cracks a self-assured simper, messing with the chunky rings of the hand hanging off his knee. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Y/N huffs offhandedly, finally breaking the intense eye contact he’d pinned onto her, glossy eyes zoning in on tracing the checkered pattern of her worn sneakers. “Your dick is obviously big or else you wouldn’t have a job here.”

The deadpan bluntness behind her tone sends Harry into a round of boyish snickering. “I know, but I just love hearing you say it. Strokes my ego like nothing else.”

Y/N picks at one of the tears of her cosmetically tattered jeans, a strangely contented smile threatening to string across her lips at the idea of him enjoying the way she specifically praises him. “And we both know how much you love having things stroked, now don’t we?”

Harry bites into the inside of his cheek, humming in agreement deep in the back of his throat. He absolutely adores the way she can go toe to toe with his vulgarity. “Touché. Although, if I recall correctly, you never seem to have any complaints about being the one doing it.”

“S’part of the job.”

“I’m pretty sure your kitchen isn’t one of the designated filming rooms.”

“Practice makes perfect.”  

Y/N’s jaw clenches as she feels Harry’s delighted condescending stare boring into the side of her face. He swings his arms out from behind him, slumping into the backrest of the couch, flexing forearms settling across the light blue fabric of the vintage Mickey Mouse t-shirt stretching over his broad chest. The foot resting on the ground braces itself onto the edge of the coffee table, the one on the couch shifting some, his thighs parting open even wider. She has to resist the urge to look, having to make due with the blurry image registering from her peripheral vision. Even out of focus, he looks incredible.

“D’you know what we’re shooting today?”

The change in topic gifts her the chance to recuperate and regroup; work talk is a sanctuary she is more than happy to inhabit.

Y/N cranes her neck to look over at Harry, refusing the impulse to check him out in his new, much more revealing position, meeting his eyes with an indifferent attitude that hides how buzzed he truly has her. “It’s something for a series you’re doing on your channel, right?”

Harry bobs his head in an easy nod, thumbing over the inside of his right elbow— a mindless mannerism. His lips twitch into a goofy grin. “Wanna know what I named it?”

“Something dumb, probably.”

“How Many Licks Does It Take To Make a Cherry Pop?”

Y/N sighs heavily through her nose. “Expected no less. It’s a bit long, though, don’t you think?”

“Maybe a little but the Wow Factor outsells.”

“Whatever you say.” Y/N checks the time on her phone, slipping it back into her rear jean pocket. They’d been sitting here waiting for their call for almost fifteen minutes now. “So from the looks of it, it’s mainly based around eating girls out?”

Harry scratches at the back of his neck casually, playing with the ringlets that curl along the nape of his neck. “Mmhm. Just thirty minutes of me making you cum as many times as I can with my tongue.”

The shells of Y/N’s ears burn. “Sounds like a dream. I’m getting paid just to lay there and I won’t even have to take off all my clothes.”

“Good karma, I suppose.” Harry glances impatiently towards the door of the break room, eager to get started. He doesn’t really know why, but he’s just gained an abrupt hunger to be nose deep between her thighs right this second. “Although, do you think you can pull your shirt up? Y’know how much I love a good view and you just look so fucking good in lace.”

She kinks an eyebrow up in mild shock at his accurate statement, pushing down the way his admiration makes her pulse skip a beat. “How did you know I was wearing lace?”

His tongue sweeps over the front of his teeth teasingly, Cupid’s Bow curving with a hint of perceptive glee. “Because you know it makes my balls ache.”

Y/N’s thighs unintentionally clasp together at his crudeness and she decides to put his insight to the test. “What color am I wearing, then?”

Harry sits forward, interest elating his limbs, forearms flushing against his thighs as he twiddles his thumbs between his separated knees. He takes a second to think it through, tilting his chin up slightly with a confident air. “Pastel peach.”

Her hands slap down against her tummy, the action tainted with disbelieving outrage. “How’d you know?!”

He chews on his bottom lip pensively as if carefully sewing his words together. “Because I complimented you the last time you wore it.”

A rush of white hot energy surges through Y/N’s entire nervous system. “Didn’t think you’d remember since you always compliment everyone.”

Harry shakes his head gently, twisting a metal rose ring around his middle finger. “Always remember you.”

An electrified silence falls between them, zizzing every molecule in the chilled air.

Y/N is well aware of the large number of people Harry’s been with and she had always assumed she would melt into the masses without much of a second thought. But here he was, telling her that she stood out to him enough that he could vividly recall the little odds and ends of flattery he gave her. It probably wasn’t much of anything and he was just being his polite, courteous self, but it made her stomach somersault nonetheless.

Her lips part open as if to speak, but her vocal chords can’t seem to find the pitch of her voice. She just lays there with her mouth agape for a second or so, fishing for a response that her brain has yet to conjure. Harry waits in anticipation, wanting to know her thoughts on small but meaningful confession.

Y/N is saved by a collection of swift hard knocks to the door of the room.

The knob turns and the door cracks open, a familiar face peeking in, bare chest covered in a sheen of short, disheveled hair and a complimentary company robe. Niall— a mutual friend and fellow entertainer— throws up a relaxed wave, icy blue eyes lighting up with the effortless jolliness he’s so well known for.

His voice filters through the heavy atmosphere, his thick Irish accent cutting the tension like a knife. “Oi, Jeff told me to come get you. Room’s set up.”

Harry licks over his lips absently, keeping his muted olive irises glued to Y/N for an extra heartbeat before breaking away, forcing an easy smile for Niall’s sake and matching it with banter. “Couldn’t come get us himself? Lazy prick.”

The sky-eyed young man shrugs his shoulders sloppily, his exorbitant laughter bouncing off the walls. “Was headed for my dressing room to clean up and you guys happened to be a pit stop on the way so it wasn’t much trouble.”

Harry pushes himself onto his feet, stretching out his back and twisting his torso from side to side. “S’about time, too. Been sitting here so long I thought my bones were gonna cement.”

Niall whistles sympathetically. “That’d be real shit for business.”  

The British boy sputters into his next sentence with a flurry of giggles. “Fuck off.”

Y/N speaks up for the first time since before Niall burst in. “Jeff would basically lose all his income. Can you imagine the headlines? ‘World renowned adult entertainer Harry Styles hospitalized, leaving mother company in shambles!’”

“A right Shakespearean tragedy, that is.” Their blonde friend cackles, the suspicious bite marks on his lower lip tinting darker as his skin stretches.

“Lucky for me, I already have experience with Shakespearean tragedies.” Harry quips proudly, walking towards the exit and standing beside Niall with his arms crossed over his stomach nonchalantly.

The fellow pornstar scowls jestingly, reaching forward and tugging at the corner of Harry’s mustache. “Romeo and Juliets: The Four-Crossed Lovers doesn’t count, Obi-Wan.”

“Whatever.” Harry snaps in return, slapping Niall’s fingers out of his facial hair and smothering him with the palm of his hand, shoving the boy out the door. “Go clean the jizz off yourself.”

“Go clean the jizz off yourself.” The shorter man mimics mockingly, backing away from the door with both of his middle fingers prevalent.

Once Niall’s gone, Harry glimpses back at Y/N over his shoulder, coughing awkwardly. “So I guess I’ll see you in there, yeah?”

“Yeah.” She gives him a timid, watery smile, barely nodding her head.

“Alright. Show time, Peach Lace.”

The joking nickname eases the pressure of the situation to a bearable level. She repeats his phrase in agreement, shrugging her brows as cool and collected as her churning tummy will allow. “Show time.”

Harry’s messy quiff of curls disappears down the corridor that leads to their designated room and Y/N can properly gulp down air for the first time since he asked her what she thought about his beard.

It’s then that she realizes she never really answered his question directly, but she gets the feeling that he knows where her opinion lies.

[yandere-wishes]

Aquaphobia //Yandere Leviathen x reader//

Oh, have I never mentioned that I am MORTIFIED of water and literally any sea creatures...no? It must have slipped my mind.

For this story, I'm making a few assumptions. 1) Levi can turn into some sort of sea monster-like thing I'm assuming it looks like a cross between a Megladon/Giant squid/ Sea serpent. 2) He can communicate with sea creatures. 3) The giant horrifying aquarium that basically makes up his back wall is in reality linked to either an ocean or somewhere that houses a bunch of dangerous sea beings. 4) In addition to sea animal communication Levi posses Aquakinesis

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

For as long as you can remember water has always haunted you.

The large bodies of H2O particles have never failed to shake you to your very core. 

In every single nightmare you ever recall, you are drowning in one of those shallow blue celestial bodies. The colorless liquid invading your mouth, clawing its way to where your lungs rested, joyously filling and choking them. 

Sea roamers of all kinds flocked to your drowning corps, millions of eyes drinking in your defenseless form, from the beady black shark eyes to the yellow cyclops eye of a giant squid. A fraction of a second later and those beastes were sinking their fangs into your tender flesh, large tentacles wrapping themselves around an arm or leg and tugging it until it detached from the rest of your corps. 

But in the end, you always woke up, always resumed your day as if nothing had come to pass the night before, back then you knew that it was only a nightmare....however this time you weren't so sure. 

Out of all seven brothers you'd always dreaded Leviathan the most. You had nothing against his "otaku" like ways or his unkempt appearance. No, it was simply what he was that made you keep your distance. 

Yet the third born seemed to have other plans for you. Leviathan hates "normies", the average demons and humans that overpopulate the earth, mocking those like him who have hobbies and likings that are "abnormal" in their eyes, forcing them to live shameful lives of isolation. Due to the superiority of normies in all three realms Levi had never once come across someone as abnormal as himself...that was until the new exchange student had arrived. At first, they had seemed to be just like anyone else, a normal human with absolutely nothing extravagant about them. But as time progressed Levi became aware of just how similar the two of them were. She would spend hours talking to Mammon about the newest anime or the latest level of the video game she was playing. Her tone was always so excited and pure, eyes gleaming and radiating happiness. But Mammon never understood, he simply scuffed and made some degrading comment about her being a nerd or worst then Levi. 

Maybe it was then and there that Levi had decided you were the one. That if anybody angel, demon or human would ever understand him, ever be this alike to him, it would be you, it had to be.

You didn't want to go to his room. You'd avoided it like the plague after Mammon had described the bathtub bed and giant aquarium that drew its water from one of the Devildom's massive oceans. The avatar of greed had even vividly described how the ceiling tiles could pull away, reveling yet another large aquarium for a roof. 

It sounded worst than any haunted house, a place you would never dare venture into. But this time you didn't have a choice, try as you may you couldn't get out of this. 

Earlier that day you'd awaken to something cold and yet trailing down your visage. The mere texture of the substance had jolted you from your slumber, the fear of the colorless liquid had bounded itself deep into your body's habits and subconscious. Eyes dilate, body frozen, tears at the brink of falling. A moist want reached out and cupped your chin, turning your neck too briskly that you were sure you heard a few bones "pop". A squeal escaped your lips only to be met with an instantaneous "shh, be quiet".  Your (eye color) orbs landed on the third born, his eyes housed a sort of sick glee it matched the sadistic twisted smirk he dawned on his face. Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through your veins, maybe it was the fact that you'd just awoken and your brain was still partly asleep. Either way, you could have sworn that Leviathan's teeth had somehow changed. They where long and jagged, bending at roots were they sprouted from his gums, to top off the horror thin lines of thick juicy crimson highlighted the tips and betweens of his shark life teeth. 

By now you had begun to sob, tears flowing non stop from your puffy red eyes. Your body was frozen you dared not move, vocal cords had given up and your tongue laid dead at the bottom of your mouth.

"Hello, princess sleep well?" Despite it seeming so innocent there was a sort of mocking laced into the question.

You noticed something in his other hand. A large familiar blue-colored plushy with a gasmask was suffocating in this grasp. That was a rare collectible you'd somehow managed to win from a Crain game back in the human world. You never slept a night without, feeling safe whenever you held it in your embrace. When you'd arrived in the Devildom you'd practically begged Lucifer to retrieve it for you. It had taken all so many tears and tantrums, in addition, to agree to take over his chores for the course of two months. The day the firstborn had carelessly tossed it to you, had probably been the second happiest day of your life. 

Levi let out a cruel giggle as he brought your prized possession closer to your face. His long nails dug into the fabric of its forehead as he dangled it before your eyes. "It's kinda cute, what show is it from?" This time round he sounded genuin, no inanity to be heard. Yet you didn't speak still petrified and stiff. 

One heartbeat

two heartbeats

three heartbeats--

"Fine! What you won't talk to me cause you think you're better than me?!" You shook your head slowly, the gesture barely being noticeable. Yet he picked up on it. He let out another string of offensive giggles "You're scared, right? Afraid the big bad sea monster will eat you?". Oh, God how desperately you wished you could run. Find Mammon or Lucifer and cling to them. To find any means to get away from this monster. 

His fingers fell from your face, he turned without saying another word and made his way to the door. As he opened it, he called behind his shoulder. " If you want it back, come to my room at midnight and come alone" He then slammed the door abandoning you to your thoughts and terrors. 

In short, that was why you were standing in front of the door that would lead you to your personal hell. You had no desire to step foot into his room and yet it was the sole means to retrieving your stuffed monster. Hesitantly you lifter your hand to knock, your finger had not touched the wood when the door creaked open and something slithered around your arm and dragged you into Leviathan's room. 

"I-I'm h-here know p-please give it back--"

Your back collided with the cold tiled floor. You let out a scream of pain before Levi's hand was shoved over your mouth. 

"Be quiet would ya?" His orange and purple orbs gazed into your wide mortified eyes. He let out a sigh and his gaze softened. "(Y/N)...I-I've never felt this way about anyone before...well maybe Ruri-chan and Sugar Frenzy's lead singer for a short period of time, oh and this one...nevermind! Look I-I feel like your something different okay. I g-guess that I have a little crush on you. Noting big alright! But-but what do you say (Y/N) will yo be mine? We'd make a great couple! We like the exact samethings, share practically the same opinions. We are meant to be one!" Slowly he lifted his hand from your mouth, an excited smile playing at his lips, his eyes sparkled with joy and exhilaration. Maybe if you'd have time to think this trough you would have felt bad about what you next words where. 

The second his hand was removed from your mouth you shouted.

"NO! No no no no no! Never! I can't I just can't your a freaking sea monster you--"

No sooner had the words left your mouth that you felt your head accelerate forward and then get smashed on the wet hard floor. The notion repeated again and again. You where sure you were bleeding, some sort of concussion must have formed, your sight was blurry and spots were dancing everywhere. 

"You stupid normi! You tricked me! I thought you were like me! That would actually love someone like me! You made me freaking fall in love with you, you bitch!" 

He twisted your head to the side and pushed your face into the floor. "You're scared of water aren't you? Your sacred of what lives in the water too right? Is that why you don't love me (y/n)? Cause I'm some sort of water freak? Well? Damit answer me!"

"Yes" you choked out "y-yes L-Leviathan, I'm scared of you!" He let out a furious sigh, his tail wrapped around your neck and hosted you up pressing you into the glass of the aquarium. An odd noise filled to room, something alike to buzzing yet..somehow very different. "You know what's funny (y/n)? I may be some sort of freak, but I'm also the only thing keeping you safe from the horrors behind the class." 

Something was swimming closer and closer, it's figure getting bigger and bigger. The teeth and large snout and hulking dorsal fins soon became evident what was coming toward you. You screamed, the noise echoed and bounced from one wall to the next. Your throat started to bleed and go raw, your mind blank with the loud ringing of alarms or was that your heart trying to break your ribcage and runaway?

As the monstrous shark swam only a few centimeters away from the glass, you could feel the sensitivity and life drain from your corpse, blackness taking over. You tried to remain awake to grip on to conscious, darkness was not friendly for it only showed the monsters face, the image burned permanently into your brain. 

As you slipped away into a stygian dream world, Levi brought your limp body to his chest cradling you gently and sweetly kissing your forehead. He waved a hand dismissively at his "pet" and watched for a second as it swam away. He lifted you up and brought you over to his bed. Placing you carefully inside. He placed your stuffy next to you and stood up admiring the aesthetic of your sleeping form. You were so gorgeous when you weren't scared or defensive. 

"You're mine (y/n), finally! I'm never going to let anyone else come near.. you never!"